Red like God's quotations

I missed a spot shaving
My face reminds me that
I've missed a lot of saving
Grace as well. But it is well
With my soul. Wth my soul
Echoes in my head like boys chasing girls
Across the bass cleft of that famous hymn,
But I think that it was HIM
Who chased me through the ages,
I've read about Him through the pages
Of the Bible looking for revival.
I'm bleeding from the neck; from a knick. I feel a drip
Of my warm mortality as the cold reality
Runs red like God's quotations
On my throat that still needs saving
Because I'm wretched and I'm dying
And I just cut myself shaving

Delphina

Gary Ried's banjo has a very special place in my heart. It's an entry-level Epiphone, something a father would buy his son to humor a budding interest. Yet despite it's humble appearance, Gary's banjo has actually seen many years of use, and it shows in the thinning Remo head. It's not a particularly pretty sounding instrument, but Gary will probably always play it, simply because it has so many stories. A couple weeks ago, Gary and I were walking down the streets of Albuquerque, singing pop songs bluegrass style with his road-worn five string, looking for people who might want a song, a prayer, or just a normal conversation.

 There is a certain balance between timidity and boldness, caution and reckless abandon, that has to be observed when a few harmless musicians search the streets for the vagrants of society. We are sort of like lambs hunting for lions. As we prowled the streets armed with our voices, we came to a low-income housing area and were promptly greeted by a group of inebriated Hispanics who hooped and hollered at the sound of Gary's banjo. I separated myself from the group and ended up in a conversation with a young mother and her three children, who despite their small size and unfortunate economic situation completely made up for the general lack of grace in the neighborhood. The oldest, Delphina, was about Six or Seven, and she sat silently behind her brother on the stairs of the small apartment. Flower, the second born, was probably about five, and her vocabulary and politeness was quite superior to that of her parents. Little Shaun junior was more interested in the banjo than anything else, and he sat with his arms extended expectantly and called out, "Kitar! Kitar!", waiting for me to hand him the over-sized twang-toy.

I sat down on the sidewalk and joined the underlings. Flower welcomed me into their knee-high society by boldly introducing herself and her siblings, and I did my best to listen to her six year old Spanglish dialog above the noise of her brother's new found musical genius. I had just joined another world, three feet below the hopelessness of poverty, where things like family and friendship and exploration matter.

I was informed that Delphina suffered from Cerebral Palsy, and as a result couldn't walk. Her skinny little legs were turned in, and she hobbled neatly from aunt to uncle to father to mother for support. The family asked if we would pray for her, so we gathered around, lay our hands on the little girl, and had a little chat. As we lifted our prayers up, Delphina simply looked at us questioningly, as if she wondered why we were holding her up and touching her knees. I took her hands and helped her along the sidewalk, walking backwards and crouched as I watched her step slowly straiten out. She limped the length of the apartment and back, past the sceptical stares of relatives and friends, with her hands and eyes locked on mine. My friends and I wanted to see if she would walk on her own, but she just wouldn't let go. I would pull my hands away as I felt her strength growing and her grip loosening, but she could only go a few steps before she saw that she was on her own and grabbed for me. This went on for a while until one of my friends picked her up and put her in my arms so we could continue praying. 

I know I don't know Delphina, or her story, or why any of this had to happen to her, but as we walked together and as I held her and prayed for her, I began to understand a very small chapter in her story. I don't know if you believe that God can physically give you sympathy pain, but that's what happened. When I say that I began to understand Delphina's story, I mean that in the sense that I was holding her and praying, and God gave me her pain for a moment.

I wish I could say that she walked fine after all this, but I don't think the story is over. It's going to be a process, but I know she will be a light in her small, underprivileged community, and I just pray that God gave her His strength, peace, and joy when he took the pain out of her.

Monday Monday

So I turned 22 the other day. I usually enjoy birthdays, but this one was sort of macabre and mediocre all at once. For one thing, the terrible twos is sort of an anti-climactic milestone in one's life, especially when compared to the previous years and the implied maturity that comes when you turn 18 or 21. I suppose it's all downhill from here.

It was also a little odd to spend my birthday--a day my family and I like to make a big deal out of--in a van. I'm not saying this to complain about the lack of attention or anything, but I can't help but feel like maybe this is the beginning of the end. No more excuses. No more "Oh, I'll grow up when I turn eighteen." No more putting off the inevitable. In any case, this is definitely the end of the beginning.

I know what you're thinking. Twenty-two is by no means old. And I realize that. There is youth within me yet. There is life, there is learning to be done and love to be found. If the beginning is over, perhaps this is where the real adventure starts. The prelude has concluded and I turn the page.

 Let's see what will make a good chapter one. We need a conflict, a setting, and above all some good characters. The first two are easy and come naturally when you're trying to live life to the fullest. For some reason, life is loaded with conflict when you're trying to follow God. I suppose it has something to do with picking up a cross daily. I suppose it has something to with seeking first the kingdom. I'm saying this because I have realized that the first chapter will be hard, challenging, rich, and blessed. And no matter what valleys God writes into this story, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me, Oh God. I am in the middle of something beautiful and terribly broken, a tale of a prodigal generation. There is hope and heartbreak in the lives of a people missing and searching for their creator. This is my setting and my conflict, and the good Lord has blessed me beyond measure with the greatest cast of characters man could ask for. I know I take them for granted, but I have an all pro family. My parents and siblings have been world champions 22 years running in my book. I also haven't really appreciated my friends, and I actually feel like maybe God gave me friends that were meant for other people by mistake, because sometimes I have more than I know what to do with. I'm currently on the road, and the thing I am most thankful for is the people I meet along the way. People like Henry, the homeless man from Columbia, Missouri who just wanted a drink but got a coke, a smile, and a prayer instead. People like Chloe Lack, the nine-year-old who can play the guitar and pray the rain away. People like David, who sings like Freddy Mercury and plays soft songs about his wife and the beautiful mundane nuances of life and love, and yet can scream to hardcore music like he is a troubled, angsty teenager. It is people like this that I am blessed to know, and yet my heart hurts to know that we live in such a large world where we can make friends in places we will never be again. We were made for community, and so much movement makes it hard to stay connected. I miss my friends back home; in the church, in my community. There is a girl somewhere on the west coast that I miss.

I will be reunited with my family and friends soon, but I fear that I will be leaving other brothers and sisters behind. Maybe the fleeting time we share together is what makes these road companions so dear. Maybe knowing that our stories may not overlap again is what makes the tale so precious.

Good afternoon. Daniel here.

I remember when I was just a kid my parents made me keep a diary. They claimed it would help me recall things. Keep me young. Fountain of youth, they said.

A decade and a half and a few sluggish journal entries later, we have social networking. I get the feeling that I might not ever need help recalling anything ever again. Whether I like it or not, my life for the past four-ish years has been recorded on Facebook, and I can look back through the pages as if it were a journal--sans the honest green backing and crinkly, lined paper--and relive moments from the past. Hello fountain of youth.

I think the thing I miss most about those green diaries was their intentionality. Sometimes I really didn't want to write anything, but no matter how unwilling I was to document my life, I always did so with purpose. You could choose the things you put down as milestones in your life. You could find the small triumphs in the mundane life of a child and etch them into eternity. You could save the moments worth saving.

I don't know if anyone is interested in reading another blog, and frankly I don't care. With social networking becoming a popularity contest, I pray there are still places where we can go to record our little victories. I pray there is still space for the mundane. For things that no one will comment on or like.

This blog is a hardback green diary.

I know life is going to get a little crazy, and I want to have a place where I can store the good bits. I'll probably forget to post many of the adventures God shows me and my friends on this run, but this page is where I'll try.

This page is lined in blue.