Nora's Bible

You can find out a lot about a person by looking at his bookshelf, especially his cherished books. One such volume in my library is an old Bible which once belonged to Aunt Nora.

Aunt Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as far back as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When Nora died my grandmother saw to it that I was given her Bible.

I noticed immediately that Nora was not the type to keep her Bible safely hidden away until Sunday mornings. Virtually every page had red pencil markings, notes and dates written.

In addition, all the fore and aft blank pages had pithy comments and sayings, some of which I recognized, most of which I did not. I spent an afternoon reading what she had written and imagining what her spiritual life must have been like.

One poem in particular caught my eye. I don't know its origin, but the effect on me was dramatic. I'm a little embarrassed to tell you that it kind of choked me up.

I read the simple words, imagining myself a frightened bystander at Jesus' execution. Blood stained his hands, feet and side. A pool of it gathered at the base of the cross. Moments before he had breathed his last. The crowd dispersed but I remained, pondering the surreal image before me.

Here I sit in wonder, viewing
Mercy's streams in streams of blood;
Precious drops, my soul, believing,
Plead and claim my peace with God.

Here it is I find my heaven
While upon the Lamb I gaze.
Love I much? I'm much forgiven:
I'm a miracle of grace!

On the one hand, the scene was pathetic and horrifying. But on the other it was a picture of hope and forgiveness. For his blood was a holy stream -- a stream of mercy -- which secured peace with God.

"Love I much?" the text asked. "I'm much forgiven," it replies. "I'm a miracle of grace."

In a scene pungent with irony, Jesus was once anointed by a "sinful" woman. He was the guest of respected religious leader but had been treated with contempt. Common courtesies were omitted: no footwashing, no welcome kiss, no oil of comfort.

During the meal a woman with a reputation enters uninvited. She is overcome with love and gratitude to Jesus. His feet are washed by her tears, kissed by her lips, anointed with her oil.

The host is offended at this untoward display of affection, particularly given the woman's history. "If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is."

To his host, Jesus says, "He who has been forgiven little loves little." To his admirer he says, "Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

The longer I live the more grateful I am for mercy and forgiveness. I know it reeks of sentimentality in this forum. But in those moments -- and this is one of them -- when I am most conscious of my personal failures, I am also profoundly grateful for mercy, grace and forgiveness.

Here it is I find my heaven/While upon the Lamb I gaze/Love I much? I'm much forgiven/I'm a miracle of grace.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Koteka Comparisons

Even for adults it was a little embarrassing. When you're in church looking at missionary slides you're not too surprised to see a little exposed breast here and there. But when the guest speaker began to show the aboriginal men with their kotekas all of us guys got a little squeamish.

"These kotekas are worn by the Dani and Yali tribes as a natural part of their wardrobe," the speaker intoned. "I believe it is to accentuate their masculinity."

Maybe you've seen a man with a koteka before. It's a long gourd tied with a string around the waist. Traditionally, it is the only clothing the men wear. It is positioned directly above the male sexual organ which, as best I can tell, is inserted directly into the end of the koteka. The koteka has a variety of lengths, but I've seen pictures where they are several feet long extending upward to the shoulder. One of the tribes wear their kotekas more or less straight out from their bodies. The other tribe wears it in, well, erect position.

The other day I had an odd thought. Suppose I was flipping through television stations. I happen upon the travel channel and observe a story not too different from the missionary slides I just mentioned: men posing for pictures fully decked out in their kotekas.

"How can they live with those sticks pointing straight in their air from their private parts?" I think. "That's got to be really unsafe, or uncomfortable, or ... something!" To say the least, I don't find it erotic or impressive; if anything, I'm a little saddened by their primitive culture.

I imagine myself flipping the station only to find a story about breast implants. A woman who recently had surgery is interviewed. Her before and after pictures are shown. Perhaps there is some discreet shading but for the most part I am staring at two pairs of uncovered breasts. One of them is in its natural state; the other has been surgically enlarged.

What do you think I'm thinking when I observe that scene? Which pair of breasts attracts my attention? And what does that say about my culture? Just wondering....

White Lines

I'm one of those drivers you hate to see on the road. Now don't be too critical; you're likely just as bad as me. I know it's not a race, but still, I'd rather lead than follow. Besides, I tell myself, the faster I go, the more quickly traffic behind me can travel.

It's like the interminable traffic light. Don't you hate it when the line is so long that you only move forward once the light turns red again? Why is that? It's because of all those slowpokes at the front who are waiting 1/2 second longer than they need to to accelerate. Every car behind them is slowed down and us poor souls at the back of the line can only creep forward once the light has changed again.

I go fast; it's for your benefit. So stop swearing at me.

They're resurfacing a major road near my home. I was travelling it yesterday on a moonless night. In the absence of streetlights or starlight the only lights were headlights. The centerline was painted, but none of the white lines were put down yet.

It was an odd experience. I knew, as did most every other driver on the road, that this was normally a four lane highway. We zip next to each other at 50 to 60 mph without a second thought. (At least that that's what us "considerate" drivers do!) But on this night it felt different. There still was room for two cars side by side, but without the broken white line between us it somehow felt unsafe. And the absent solid white line to the right made the shoulder seem closer than usual.

So instead of zooming down the road two cars abreast we felt our way down it one car at a time. I waxed philosophical: "And you shall know the white lines, and the white lines shall set you free." Or something like that.

Holy Crap

He was only six years old, but the stench was unbearable. How would I manage a two hour drive without gagging myself or embarrassing him?

I'd already asked him if he had to go to the bathroom. "No, Daddy," he said. It was was true: he'd already gone -- in his pants.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, wanting to give him another chance to change his tune. "No, I'm fine." I didn't want to make him more uncomfortable by pressing him for the truth. So I did nothing and we both suffered.

At the first I thought maybe he'd just had what the preacher's family growing up had called "an escape of gasses." (Which, by the way, seemed odd to me years later when I heard the same preacher have no qualms over his own "escape of gasses" in the public toilet. For myself, I'd always wanted to make as little noise as possible; he seemed to have little self-consciousness about his business behind the door.)

Anyway, it became apparent a few miles down the road that my little trouper had had more than just an escape of gasses. Some of those gasses ... weren't. And it was pungent.

Despite the winter evening I cracked the window and reflected on my now-sleeping son's predicament. I wished he hadn't been too embarrassed to admit to me his accident. I wished he wouldn't have to live with the uncomfortability of his innocent leakage. I wondered why he'd covered up the now-obvious truth.

When we arrived home after midnight my suspicions were confirmed. I patiently helped him clean the rather small mess. I was careful to avoid an insensitive remark; I could tell he was relieved. I thought, "If only he'd had the confidence to tell me sooner. I could have put his mind (and my nose) at ease a lot earlier."

As I put down my own sleepy head a few minutes later I couldn't help but muse: what is it about human nature that causes us to hide the fact that we've crapped all over ourselves? Especially that we hide it from the ones who may very well already know, and who may also be the ones most likely to be understanding and help us clean up our mess?

I thought about my own relationship with God. How many times had I sat in my own crap, uncomfortable, ashamed, embarrassed, hiding out? I hated how it felt, but feared how God would respond if I came clean about the dirty truth.

Would God scold me? Embarrass me? Humiliate me? Lecture me? Spank me? Of course not. Wouldn't God do for me exactly what I did for my son? Wouldn't he gently clean me up, calm my fears, reassure my heart and prepare me for another day? Sure he would.

I determined then and there that I would come clean about my crap sooner rather than later -- not after hours, or days, or weeks of misery. Certainly God would be as patient with me as I was with my son. Besides, I reminded myself, "Living in crap feels like crap."

Surreptitious Surfing

Okay, I knew it would happen sometime. This post arises more from desperation than design: I write for my own sanity and sobriety. Please read with a grain of grace.

In case you haven't noticed, there's a lot of crapola on the net. Virtually any deviant behavior you might want to see can be found with a few discreet taps of the mouse. Even good, well meaning people can find themselves doing some "surreptitious surfing." I know. I'm one of them.

Ever been a "surreptitious surfer?" Most people think it's no big deal. "No harm, no foul," as Al McCoy would say. I suspect they're kidding themselves. I don't judge them. But I know for me, if I'm not careful the net can be a deep, dark hole from which there is little hope of return.

The slightest event can trigger a devastating chain reaction. Case in point: I just learned that a certain celebrity had an infamous "wardrobe malfunction." (No, it wasn't at the Super Bowl!) It's been eating at me off and on all day. I know that with a few key strokes I can see what all the fuss was about.

Innocuous? Perhaps to some. But what I know about myself is this: if I permit myself a prurient peek, chances are it will lead to a sinister evening of surreptitious surfing. A flood of other images of accidental and intentional exposure will pollute my monitor and my mind. I will be trapped and frustrated and angry and repentant -- and likely to do it all over again tomorrow.

Yes, I know it sounds like the alcoholic; maybe that's exactly what it is. Whatever it is, it is what it is. All I know is I don't like what happens to me when I get in that rut. It's an easy door to walk into and a difficult door to walk out of. Like the old Lay's commercial: "No one can eat just one." Or like the Eagles' "Hotel California": You can checkout any time you like, But you can never leave!

So I'm blogging instead. At least for the moment it occupies my mind. Perhaps at another time I'll wax philosophical. For now I'm just trying to keep my sanity. So far it's working. Thanks for listening.