Tag: life

Pumpkin Time

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Hello friends! Thought I’d write a quick few words this Friday evening. How wonderful it is to get a little bit to rest, I do say! I am also eager at the moment to test out this new laptop which I’m writing on. It’s been eleven years that my previous one lasted and while it is still limping along, I felt it was time to transition to the next generation. It is kind of nice to have a laptop that boots up in mere seconds instead of a minute or two! And the keyboard is glorious. Is it weird that I particularly picked out a laptop that would have a decent keyboard? And didn’t at all consider gaming capabilities? Ah well, I guess I have aged a few years since my last laptop purchase and thus it makes a bit of sense that my priorities would have changed. Now I’m more concerned about how it will feel to type long passages of text than on how capable my graphics card is. Things change. Of course, that change comes with the hopes that I shall at some point type long passages of text that actually have a slight bit of depth or beauty. Praying for such.

And now for what do I hope? I hope for a quiet night in which I am able to truly rest. Grateful for the few minutes I’ve had now reading a lovely and inspiring book – “The Imitation of Christ” and looking forward to a yummy dinner of burritos and avocado/tomato salad. Shall I write a few words now to christen this new laptop keyboard? I’m not sure my mind is settled enough to compose anything suitable. Perhaps I shall attempt nonetheless.

she turns back from the ledge
and smiles at me
reaching out her hand that I might
join her
and then I step forward and take her hand
our eyes meet
in solemn concord
and together we bow our heads and pray
under the sun that blesses
let’s walk forward as pilgrims
bear our crosses as our joy
for nothing else
will satisfy
Christ crucified is our cry
better than life as kings and queens
why do we wail for the want of jeweled crown
when we have one that went before
from whose crown-pierced brow that blood fell
mingled with those tears for us

Mineshaft

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I wanted to dance down to the seashore and look at the moon lit path across the waves. Yet the sky was stormy and thus the moon was hid and so why bother I told myself. But sometimes it’s lovely to walk down the beach in the pouring rain. The tears from heaven testify to a greater love than one has ever known and if I cry no one needs to know. For truly in a day and age such as this sorrow seems to be written on every face and I cannot wait at a bus stop without hearing some sad tale. Is the testimony of the current moment different from all those moments that came before I wonder. Or is it just a fact that all the moments from the past have been piled up in just so a fashion and in a moment when a match has been lit and dropped the bonfire pours smoke towards heaven in living analogue for the ephemeral nature of our collective memory? I think this is close to the truth. And thus I read and write and spend far too much metaphorical ink attempting to memorialize the thoughts and dreams of a single specimen of individuality. For reading links me to the past and present cries of man in ways that pluck the heart strings of my soul and reminds me that my thoughts are not so solitary as I sometimes think. Yes I take pleasure at times in feeling unique in my mode of expressing how I feel. Reading the words of others shakes me up in a way that’s needed and show me that I am not that special after all. Well, I am special. But not at the expense of the beauty of my fellow brothers and sisters. Remember that, remember the sacred witness of my brother who walks past me on the sidewalk and that he too bears the imprint of the divine. Remember that, harken to the true nature of my sister who rings me up at the grocery store, that she too points up to heaven with the very fact of her existence on this plane. I write and I write and I write. Oh I can’t help but write as I feel I burn up when I am not and that these words that pour out of me may be silly posturing, mere leaves on the breeze, yet still they are mine and mine alone. Only one other holds my hand as I write, and his hand is a scarred one. The scars on his hand remind me of divine love. I tremble as I think that this reality we see now is only a shade of the true. Someday we will see in brighter colors and hear in more vivid tones. Someday we will sing in purer voices and as I think on this now I tremble imagining my someday home. I consider those who are my true family, not just those who bear the resemblance because we have a common creator, but those brothers and sisters true who confess the truth of life and death and our resurrected God and cling to that common hope that someday all shall be made new. Why do I sometimes break down in silent tears when I ponder what it is to cross the ford to the other side and read of those brothers and sisters who have done so before me crying in joy at what lies ahead. It is far better than anything here, as has been so often said. Not for the absence of the sorrow that is now ever present in this tainted world in which we live. That is a piece, but only a small one. Rather I look forward to a shared meal with the one who has never stopped holding my hand. One day some day soon I pray I will break bread and drink wine with the one who was broken and bled for the salvation of my soul. Imagine that! I will be with my Lord Jesus and he will hold me even as now he knows me and finally I can truly say I’m home. Some day. Until then, I’ll treasure these walks on the beach in the light of rising sun. When shall the day of consummation be? I do not know. Only one does. But for now I’ll write these words and seal them with a kiss. See how the clouds break. See how the gulls wheel across the sky.

Penelope For Your Thoughts

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I wish I was better at describing the created world. I love to imagine such things as rushing streams and whispering forests and sunlight streaming through the leaves of early autumn. Yet when my pen is lifted and I tilt my head and think about the words to use to describe the blushing sensations that cause a stillness in the air as one walks through the forest, my mind blanks. What are trees? What are rivers? How does one describe light if one has no frame of mind in which darkness plays a part? Why is my vocabulary so bankrupt that I cannot paint a picture with my words? This drives one to reading. I am stubborn, it becomes apparent. If my mind is not furnished with the proper words to pour out my thoughts, then I simply must fill it. Yet I’m afeared that my acquisition process is a bit akin to wandering through a Goodwill at times. Or maybe a comfy used bookshop is a better metaphor. I wander past many friendly paperbacks and fascinating tomes that I let my hand linger on. Yet how many of these do I pick up and take to the counter? Well, far too many, as it turns out. Yet still, I miss the bulk of what is on offer and seem to only enjoy the bookstore in the moment for the moment as my soul quiets in appreciation for the bountiful treasures all around. This metaphor has run to ground. But I think – or hope rather – you get the point that even as I attempt to feed my mind a proper diet that will enable it to pour forth streams of love-wrought beauty, it seems I am instead allowing myself to linger in the beauty of the moment as I dwell on the written word. I am not properly chewing and digesting – no, I am swallowing whole the sublime that I let my gaze gallop across. To continue with the crude, I am simply eating too fast. Of course my mind does not have the time and leisure to wander through the parlor and shake hands with the fascinating words one sees. Instead it’s a mad dash to the buffet table and a piling of the plate with all the goodies that one has learned to crave. Reading is a pleasure yes. But can it also be a discipline? This is what I seek to learn, even as I distinguish between reading that is merely entertainment and reading that is meditative and pointing ones to higher truths and sweeter climes. As I distinguish such, I do seek to alter the ratio of my consumption so that I do not consume such as would upset my stomach and cause me to get used to fouler fare. Instead, ought I not train myself to enjoy and relish the food that is grown by eternal light? I think so. I must be more deliberate about my reading, I do think. Thank you for letting me wander through my thoughts on this in this stream of consciousness pondering. It has been good to share such. Perhaps now as I shut this laptop and allow myself to pick up my book, I will slow down just a little. Perhaps I can allow myself to pick my way through the meadow appreciating the feel of the grass under my bare feet as I notice the wildflowers in my path and the butterflies fluttering past my face. Perhaps I will tilt my head appreciatively as I smell the scent of jasmine and note the changing light as the sun crosses beyond the tree line and heralds dusk to come. Perhaps I will allow my thoughts to think of heaven and of the eternal one. Perhaps I will allow myself to breathe deep and close my eyes as I stand under the darkening sky and muse on the city that rises in my dreams.

Bedrock

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Devotion to truth and beauty is admirable. But there is a potential for this devotion to sour as one notes a misperception that leads to a devotion improperly placed. In other words, something is called true that is not true. Or something is called beautiful that is not beautiful? Nonsense you may cry. Who are you to define truth or beauty? These are nebulous concepts that cannot truly be nailed down. I agree that I am not infallible and it is very possible – even probable – that my comments stand on sand at times. Yet I am not putting myself forward as the arbiter of beauty or my own poetry held high as the level of truth. No, all I am stating is the statement that there is a standard of truth and beauty and so perhaps this does point to one who may judge such. Is this too far? We may quibble on interpretations and paradigms of course. But is it wrong to posit that there may just possibly be realities that are solid in and of themselves and are far beyond our ability to alter? This is all I say, at this time. Later on, perhaps over a coffee or something more bitterly delicious, I will discuss with you my thoughts on the realities that to me are more truly beautiful than any others I can dare to imagine. And yes of course, these realities are based in the God whom I call my own, the one who is more beautifully true than my mind can truly grasp. It is difficult for the finite to grasp the eternal, yet I try. And so in what I call feeble faithfulness upheld by the infinite united to my soul I lay my head down in sweet peace that I am known by the one of whom nothing greater can be known to be.

Correspondence

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Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.

Love Unyielding

James HoganLeave a comment

A glorious morning is mine. It is but a simple Sunday morning, but already I feel the grace of the Lord this day as I have enjoyed so many fine little pleasures. Woke up at a nice and leisurely hour (comparatively to my normal) and as the sun was already peeking over the horizon, decided to get out of bed and enjoy a long pre-church time of rest and meditation. Well, I say that – but I also decided that a little errand run was important. Dashed off to bakery and got a fresh loaf of sourdough for the week and then went to grocery store for a few little items for macaroni salad contribution for tomorrow’s Monday Night dinner. Back home again, and back to reading and meditating.

How sweet have been these past few minutes. A good cup of strong black coffee. Listening to the ever lovely Beethoven’s Choral Fantasy. Reading in the Word – words of lamentation and of hope as I continue reading through Lamentations and relish the joy-streaked melancholy of Chapter 3 – surely one of the most beautiful chapters of Scripture there is. And then in Luke – onwards we march as we witness the continuing ministry of Jesus as he calls all to repentance. And then what an overwhelming story of love and compassion as he teaches in the synagogue and then notices a woman afflicted with a grievous ailment. She doesn’t say a word, she doesn’t cry out to him, she doesn’t put herself forward. Jesus looks, Jesus notices, Jesus calls to her to come. She comes to him and what does he do? Jesus places his hands on her and pronounces her free from her pain and suffering, free from the chains with which she was bound by Satan. Glory glory – hallelujah and all praise to Jesus King of kings and Lord of lords who is our Sovereign who also has the hands that heals. It is almost too much to consider this Jesus who looks to us and sees us suffering and calls us to him that we might know his healing hands. See those hands marked by the scars of mercy? Look upon Jesus, the one who calls to us to come to him and be forever free from our chains. I love to ponder and meditate on such. Balm for my soul this Sunday to consider the Jesus who has saved me from all my sins and called me into communion with God.

MKT

James HoganLeave a comment

A lovely evening is at hand! Yes, the week has been long and tiring. Yes, it is now June and Houston is just loving getting back in the swing of summer dressed in all its torrid finery. Yes, work is hectic and the stress is starting to creep up and all the drama of office life is upon me. Yet. I cannot complain for I know the God who made me and the God who sustains me and every moment I breathe in I know it’s for the glory of the God who calls me his child. Joy fills my heart as I consider that I am beloved of God. What wonder, what bliss! All the fears and trials of the week fade away as I consider what it will someday be to look into my Saviour’s face. Someday comes.

After Midnight

James HoganLeave a comment

Monday starts slowly and for that I am grateful. And while I shan’t write long, I do want to pen a few simple words of gratitude for that which I have been given. This past weekend has been simply lovely, full of quiet and uninterrupted times of rest and also yes – conversations with dear friends and simply the enjoyment of being with others whom my heart loves. Yesterday was a lovely time at church in the morning – worshipping our Lord and hearing from his word! – and then following got to go to the classic Las Locas for lunch with all the friends to see John and Emily (and little Charlotte!) who were visiting briefly! Oh how wonderful it was to see John again and though we didn’t get much time to go deep on all the things, it did my heart good to see him again and see the work of the Lord in the life of him and his family! Later on, Dani and I got a wonderful walk (even though shorter than usual – I guess we can’t walk five miles every day!) even though summer has most certainly made its arrival known and I sigh to know that it will not get any better over the course of the next few months. Alas for summer in Texas. And after the walk and a quick little dinner, me and Dani went over to Kaitlyn’s for a movie night with her and Klayton! It was such a sweet time being with them and enjoying movie and quality discussion and simply being in the presence of good friends. Oh how blessed am I!

And I could write more of the past weekend and the thankfulness in my heart as I consider all that God has done for me and all the blessings he has given this undeserving one and the little simple pleasures of this weekend that made my heart sing (such as long stretches to read, the making and subsequent eating of epic lasagna dinner, watching classic BBC Pride and Prejudice with Dani for the first time and yes, all the walking and sweating and enjoying standing on the bayou bridge looking out over the quirky beauties that Houston has to offer…), yet I fear my words can’t do justice to the joy that fills my soul. For I consider the manifold and abundant nature of the mercies and compassion of my Lord and I know that I can never fully comprehend the infinite wonders of who he is yet that which I do see now in a faint sense is enough to send me to my knees in stunned adoration.

Keep up the Pace

James HoganLeave a comment

I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.

Understory

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See back and forth swings this pendulum above this weary earth. I wish that I could write now of all the things I’ve dreamed yet for some reason – as seems common to most – my dreams are so hazy now that to write them would be fun for only one person – me. I see them still with my inner eye yet to put them to paper would just bore my readers. Is that not true? How often have you told your dream to friends and been oh so excited to share the mystical reality of your sleep state and yet their eyes glaze over for…well, for some reason dreams lose the power in the telling for the majority of their power is in the gauzy visuals which cannot easily be communicated in words. Most dreams, of course. Sometimes though, a dream is vivid enough and one’s command of language is enough to communicate in entirety the luscious richness of the realities of your mind as it trawls the depths of deep subconscious. This is rare though. I have never quite accomplished it, as much as I wish I could. Speaking of dreams. I oft wonder why it is that we so often dream the same dream again and again. Do we all have a dream unique to us yet somehow we are dense enough it must be repeated? Or is that just me? Or another question. Do you have a dream you remember from childhood, one that happened again and again and yet at some point it stopped and you now feel its absence and it makes you weep for nostalgic loss. Our minds are odd to be sure.

I remember a dream of long ago and though I can’t recall having it in oh so many years, its tracing is still fresh and I still feel the rhythm of its lilt in my mind. I am afraid to try and type the bones of this dream here for I fear it will dry up its verdant wonder, yet I will at least say a few words. This dream that haunted my childhood is one of beauty and motion, adventure and gratitude. Gratitude? Why do I use that word. It springs to my mind when I recall this dream, yet I do not know why. The dream itself is tinged in yellow. Yellow grass, the trees on the leaves tend towards yellow and even the air has a golden tint. The path that lies before me is of course made of dirt that seems less brown and more yellow. But though the predominant color of this dream is determined, the destination is not. In the dream my body is less a body and more a disembodied soul. I rush forward quickly and effortlessly, bouncing. There is such a feeling of bouncing and swaying and unstoppable forward momentum. Ever onward I go, along this path, seeing the yellowed grass bend and sway to my side as the trees laugh in my face as I cruise past. I cannot stop even if I wanted to. Onwards I go. I mentioned the leaves, I will mention again. They are yellow but not just a mass of yellow on the tree. Each leaf leaps forward distinctly, the veins bright brown atop the yellow backdrop. I see the leaves vividly even as I soar past. I suppose I don’t have legs, though if I do they must possess marvelous springs for I do bounce wonderfully. Ever on I go through this yellowed wood. There is perhaps a cabin ahead? At least that is the faint thought in my mind as I rush through this forest, but I do not see the cabin. I do hear the stream nearby and now and again catch a flash that must be the sun off the water. The sun’s light is yellow which I feel I must mention because it fits the theme, yet I cannot in honesty say I noticed the sun in this dream. I only look straight in front of me, all else is peripheral. Onward I go. Why is the light so yellow, why is the air so silent? It is a beautiful dream and though I cannot quite tell you why, I can in confidence say that. It is a beautiful dream.

I do not think I have quite captured the beauty of this dream, which hopefully my hints early on in this essay prepared you for. Alas. I suppose I have only my own lacking literary talent to blame. But I am also secretly happy – selfishly so, of course. This dream will forever be mine. It will not be shared and so diluted. The nostalgic spark that flares within me shall not die. I feel joy as I roll this dream around inside my head. But oh! How I wish I could share the beauty now. Beauty unshared tends to turn a little cold, does it not? I have changed my mind. I wish you could see what I see. I wish you could feel what I feel. I wish the truths that spring to my mind unbidden could also flame into life in your very soul. Maybe that is possible. Maybe you will also dream of spring. Tell me if you do. Or if your mind seems to be too much dry tinder and not enough bright fire, tell me that too. We must meet up over a coffee and discuss. We shall discuss the dying thoughts of winter and the yearnings of the west they stir up. And then yes. We shall talk of spring.