Power of Failing

The Smoldering Soul

Overcast skies envelop my horizon

I enter into a stranger’s house

Comfortable enough, almost

To call my home

All the while Saints looking on

Begin to ask, “Why have you come to this house, dear friend?”

“To worship here with you, my brothers and sisters.” I reply

Hushed silence emanates from their mouths while casting wary, sideway eyes

I look around the brightened room

Wondering why the downcast

darkened faces

A war torn patriarch with hands held up

Stops me from speaking further

Your calloused heart in plain for all to see

Your soul is smoldering from

Warming your self by the fires of Hell

Listen to our tales

Of uncompromising, perseverance

The house is adorned with those who would not kneel

We have run the race and never ran from the battle

You dear boy, have yet to tie your shoes.

Whose side are you on? Where do you lay your head at night?

Your feet modeling untied shoes

Walk the fine line

Shall falter very soon.

The unmasked actor is hidden to none

In this room

Except the one playing the fool

Son your praises have fallen to the floor

The One worthy of worship

Does not adore the foul odor

Your false words store

Choose your side

Before the side chooses you

We would love to bathe you

scouring your charred remains

Cleansing you from the flames foul stench

Adorn and embrace you

With the brotherly kiss

Have you found your way home?

Or are you just paying a visit

Before you make your bed again near the infernos warmth

Can we help you tie your laces 

so you can join in the chase?

I bow my head and head out the door

Under the tempestuous skyline of rain and darkness

I wander out into the cold to warm my smoldering soul 

Next to the fire that brings no warmth

“Please dear Saints forgive and pray for my heinous heart and smoldering soul”

God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life.

Crazy Calvin

This is a conversation I had with someone last year while I was camping with my family. I thought it was interesting at the time.

For the past three mornings, I would wake while there was still darkness in the sky and stars were slowly fading to take a five minute walk over to the only McDonald’s in town and get a coffee and a coke (the flavors together are sublime). This jaunt didn’t start out as a planned event. The first morning I woke up at 4:00 am with nothing to do, parched, and struggling in and out of sleep. I couldn’t get a drink out of the cooler because my cooler was in the Bear locker, and to open and shut the bear locker would involve banging and clanging that would wake the whole camp, and the camp was already beginning to show signs of revolt against my family for Faith’s early morning tirades (but that’s another story).

The second day, I went out of sheer survival mode. The night before, I went to sleep in my clothes (levi’s, socks, bulky flannel), a mummy bag, and a thick blanket that left me with night sweats. I told Kellee that all I probably needed was the thick blanket, but the funny thing about weather is that it always changes, so the second night it dropped ten degrees while I was wearing shorts and sleeping with only one blanket. I shivered throughout the night, but refused to admit defeat. So, I was up early again this time with a mission; to move my legs, so I could get the feeling back, and to get some hot coffee in my system.

The last morning, well now it has just become tradition.

Every morning was really the same pattern, start walking around 4:50, savor the fresh air, watch as the sunrises on the Mammoth Mountain, walk and gawk at the beauty, get to McD’s a couple minutes after opening, squint at the menu (my contacts are in the Bear Locker too) order my coffee and coke, sit down to be refreshed, go do my business, return for a refill, and head back to camp. That’s my order and I enjoyed the whole experience.

However, on my last morning Calvin interrupted my schedule; I was returning from doing my business, when I notice that I’m not the only customer in the establishment. Near where I’m sitting was an older gentleman taking his medication, who looked very much like Mr. Miyogi, except that his comb over is dyed jet black.

I go back to my seat and began to sip my coffee, when I hear him mumble something at me.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Are you going fishing?” He asks.

“No.” My answer is short and to the point because his question has only aroused bad memories of epic failed fishing adventures.

Well, why are you up so early?

So, I give him the condensed version of what I have just told you, “I was cold and couldn’t sleep.”

This lead Mr. Jet black haired Miyogi to give me some pointers on sleeping bag attire and lead to thinking this guy is really a nice guy and isn’t great to sit hear and converse with a fellow traveler.

Where are you from?

I tell him and he has never heard of the place, so I simplify and tell him its near LA.

Oh, I’m from Sacramento. I had to get out of there though. There’s a lot of Assholes in Sacramento. I had to get out of there. You know what I mean? Those guys that are assholes in Jr. High and High School and you think he would stop being an asshole when left school, but he isn’t,  he’s still an asshole. There are a lot of those guys out there. Man, there are a lot of assholes!”

The conversation is steered towards occupations and in particular mine. Usually, I don’t go hand out that sort of insight to people I don’t know very well, but it was five in the morning and I still didn’t have my wits about me. Besides, it was dyed, haired- comb over Mr. Miyagi. Maybe, if I had my contacts in I would have noticed that this wasn’t wax-on, wax-off, paint the fence, let me be a peaceful instructor Mr. Miyagi. Rather, this was Cobra Kahn, strike hard strike first Mr. Miyagi.

I work in a Hotel (I tell him my real occupation, but for the story will go with hotel).

Oh, you’re a hotel manager. Then you know about assholes. You must work with a lot of assholes.

I’m not sure if he is talking about my co-workers or clients, but I go along for the ride.

Yup, I’ve been around some assholes.

Do, you like your job.

Yeah, I really enjoy it.

Really, but you work with assholes!

Now the conversation goes down a weird twisted road:

You know in Sacramento there are a lot of assholes! There was one guy, he’s black, you know what I mean? He’s a ….(N- Bomb  dropped and my head does a slight rattle from the explosion). He wanted a ride, and told me he would give me ten bucks, but he never did. So, I told everyone in the complex to watch out from him. One day, he told me “Calvin I’m going to get you! He never did, but I was going to kill him.”

There was another guy from the south…have you ever met an Oakie?

Of course I have and in fact a friend of mine is from Oklahoma. But after the first little story and the fact that another man who looks like he might be from the Appalachians wonders over to join in the conversation, I simply tell him I don’t think I have.

Oh, those guys are weird. It’s just like the movie Easy Rider, when they beat peter Fonda’s friend with a baseball bat! Man, those people are really like that! I mean their crazy. I’ve been in a few Oakie Bars, and thought I should just stick them all in the heart, burn the place down, and be done with it.

Anyways there was one Oakie living in Sacramento who I gave two dollars too, he later ended up chasing me with a butcher knife. I mean those people are crazy. I had a friend offer to hold him down while I repeatedly stuck him with a knife until he died, but I thought, you know it’s not worth it.

At this point the Appalachian fellow who was looking for some delightful conversation found us too be a little unpleasant and politely excused himself, leaving me stuck with Maniac Mr. Miyogi.  And I re-examine my first sighting of Mr. Miyogi when I came out of the restroom. I think about the moment and him knocking back his pills and it hits me…. These are not old man medications! This guy is taking his daily psych meds. Man, I really let my guard down on this one. Now, I’m freaking out inside and trying to remain calm on the outside. I start thinking to myself, “Alright buddy, you really need to leave this situation but do so in a way that’s not going to get this guy flustered anymore than he already is, and leave on good terms.” So, I concede to myself, I might be here awhile.

In the meantime, Calvin is still angrily ranting with his revile and those who had offended him. “there was a guy who lived in my apartment and we were friends, but one day I was watching the Kings game and he just kept looking at me. Finally, I said what the F@#% are you looking at and we started arguing, so I told him he better stay away from me. I told the Managers of the home…”

Home?

Yeah, I was living in an assisted living place.

Anyways, I tell them, keep this guy away from me or I’m going to hurt him. I have the right to defend myself, right? So, I went out and bought some pepper spray, just in case. He stayed away for a couple of months, but one day he was we met on a stairwell. I know he was waiting for me. He came up really close and brushed up against me. I told him, “Hey, You were told to stay away from me.” But he just laughed. He was testing me. What would you have done?

Me? I would have done  exactly what you did and kept walking.

But you work in a Hotel! I should have pepper sprayed him and then stuck him in the heart, right? That’s what you would have done. I mean you use pepper spray in your hotel, right? So, don’t you think I should have sprayed him and then killed that asshole? When I get back there I think I'm going to find him and stick him in the heart, Do you think? Isn't that what you would do?

“No. No,  I think you did the right thing,” I try to reassure him.

My brain is working overtime, trying to find my moment, the right way to politely find my exit like the Appalachian did, when at that moment Kellee’s Uncle and cousin walk into the restaurant.

Oh, there’s my family, I’m suppose to meet up to go hiking. I gotta go.”

Alright, hey remember what I said about those sleeping bags, they have some great deals right now.”

The Balance of the Sacred.

I took my family to see the Richard Andrew Band at Harvest. During the show Faith and her cousin were up and down the aisles, crawling under and over the pews, as well as jumping on them. I finally, let out a line my dad had said to me when I was Faith's age and doing the same thing, "Faith, stop jumping on the pews! This is a church; it's holy and sacred. We are...." I then stopped mid sentence and looked around at the other concert goers. "Well it's a little hard to explain at the moment."

The Midnight Pascha

I love Easter. It's my favorite holy day. Because of this fact, I often try to make it as meaningful as I can for myself and my family. In the past, we've done the Sunrise Services, pancake breakfast, passion plays, walk through Jerusalem re-enactments, climbed Mt. Rubidoux, experienced a Lutheran Tenebrae, visited a Catholic Monastery to hear monks sing in Latin, and attended Messianic Cedar Dinners. This year, with some friends becoming Eastern Orthodox and the fact that my mom has always wanted to go to a candlelight service, I decided to partake in the Midnight Pascha Service at St. Andrews in Riverside, CA.. To, which, all I can really say is it was a profound and moving experience. Every other Easter Celebration now feels mundane in comparison.


 A word of caution, this by no means indicates that I am considering becoming a catechumen of the Orthodox Church. Maybe, at some future time, but as for now, I am simply an admirer of the beauty that the OC displays. 

To my Orthodox friends, I'm sorry if I have misrepresented any part of the service. 

I hope you enjoy reading about my experience as much as I enjoyed being there.

I enter alone; isolated in a room full of strangers.  They don’t feel like strangers tonight, though we’ve never met.  I have not been greeted or returned the blessing; though I am out of place there, I don’t feel that way. Tonight is different. It’s a grand celebration, a feast. The Feast of feasts.

As I walk up to the large heavy doors leading to the nave, there is a table outside with ladies selling candles. There are other candles offered, but these are hand painted and I argue with myself, whether I should purchase one or not and then I realize just what a miser I am. I tell myself “why not, it’s not like you do this everyday or for that matter ever. You should enjoy the whole experience. “ So, I pick one out,  it’s simple and yet, elaborate with spirals dots and a picture of Jesus bearing his cross. As I’m searching for the candle I want to bare, I over hear the man next to me tell the ladies he has only been to a service four times and never has he been to a midnight paschal service. The ladies exclaimed that he was in for a very exciting celebration. I smile along with the man and then tag along behind him. I figured we were in the same boat, we’re both watchers,come-arounds, so why not stay close.

We entered the nave, ten minutes early and already it was shoulder-to-shoulder standing room only. I’m sure they wouldn’t have it any other way. Most people stand throughout most of the services, so why should tonight be any different.

The room flickers and dances with the orange and red of burning candles, strewn around the room next to saints, a heavenly cloud of witness rejoicing with his servants on the Earth. A young man is reading in a very monotone script from the scriptures, though I can’t quite make out what it is he is reading

Then the candles are blown out. We stand in darkness. There is anticipation for the moment to be over, for the darkness to subside. But there is also great reflection and symbolism in the Darkness.

Behind the Iconostases there is still a dancing of color; the only light in the building. Then suddenly the Priest pulls back the curtains. He stands there with the Holy flame, lighting the way for all to see. The congregation filters into the aisle way to have their candle lit. I hear an usher whisper to the man next to me to go on up. I’m nervous, not sure if everyone is to go, I stepped forward and then back again a couple of times. I don’t want to impose where I’m not wanted. I should be an observer not participating. But the usher, nods at me and bids me to go up as well.

I never noticed before, but standing before this Priest , he looks like an Icon of Jesus. He is tall and sleander with a scraggly brown beard that has hints of gray throughout, shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and deep brown eyes. Strange, a living replica of Christ holding the Holy flame. "Come ye and receive light from the unwaning light, and. glorify Christ, who arose from the dead"

I’m up before the people lighting my white candle with handmade decorations and my picture of Christ bearing his cross, to light from the Eternal Flame. I notice the wick is bent and broken. I’m freaked out. I’m bent and broken. What if it doesn’t light? I’m pleading with God and with my Candle “please light, please light, please light.” It takes a moment, but finally a minuscule flame unsteadily sparks forth. I walk back to where I was standing to the other observers, the other watchers, the come-arounds and light their candles from mine. I am the apostle of the come-arounds.

The church lit with candles, bursts into song. The angels in heaven, 0 Christ our Savior, sing of Thy resurrection. Make us on earth also worthy to hymn Thee with a pure heart.

The congregation files out into a procession, a crussesion,  lead by the Cross and incense and altar singers. Right outside the church, people are hitting the sematron, a wooden plank. It’s loud and noisy. It’s a call to prayer. Quietly we walk around the entire building. The symbolism is not lost on me. Christ is the light of the world; he has touched each and every one of us with his light that shines in us. We are now the light of the world to a darkened world.

The stark contrast of the world was not lost on me either. While slowly making our way around the building, on the street below was a car filled with college kids.  “I’m already drunk!” one of the passengers yelled. Then the music was bumping at ear ringing decimals “ F@#$ all these N@#$&” the song repeated and repeated.

Overlooking the street stands the church, a light on a hill: tonight a silent witness arrayed in the beauty, the glow of candlelight.

When the congregation stopped, here we stood, in front of the tall heavy doors. Mark 16, the gospel account of Resurrection Sunday, was read and then the church broke forth into a hymn. The choir leader starts off slightly above a whisper but grows with each time he sings the stanza until just under a guttural, throaty scream:

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death,

and on those in the grave bestowing life.

The Priest acts out Psalm 24 with a member of the church who is waiting inside.

Pounding on the heavy doors with his icon of the cross, he cries out,” Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.

With a deep thunderous voice, the unknown person responds, “Who is this King of glory?

Again the Priest hits the door three times and loudly cries out, “The LORD strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle.

Who is this King of Glory?

Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in.

Who is this King of glory?
The LORD of hosts, he is the King of glory!

The church opens its doors to a heavenly whiteness. There are bells clanging, the choir and church is singing. The Priest is joyful, exuberant. He is walking; No, striding up and down the aisle way, censing the people and the icons while shouting Christ has risen! The Church is joyful, laughing, and replying just as loudly, "truly, he has risen!”

The sorrow is gone, the deep contemplation is gone, only an ecstatic elation that our Savior has risen and conquered death. This is a time for rejoicing, a time for the church to celebrate.

I walk out the door sometime after two-thirty in the morning and the service is still going strong.  This has been the Easter service I’ve been longing for throughout my Christian life.

Light Humor

First off I stole this joke. 

The light turned yellow, just in front of him. He did the right thing, stopping at the crosswalk, even though he could have beaten the red light by accelerating through the intersection.

Unfortunately, tailgating, Barbara was furious and honked her horn, screaming in frustration, as Barbara missed her chance to get through the intersection, dropping her cell phone and makeup.

As she was still in mid-rant, she heard a tap on her window and looked up into the face of a very serious police officer. The officer ordered her to exit her car with her hands up.

He took her to the police station where she was searched, fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a holding cell.

After a couple of hours, a policeman approached the cell and opened the door. She was escorted back to the booking desk where the arresting officer was waiting with her personal effects.

He said, ”I’m very sorry for this mistake. You see, I pulled up behind your car while you were blowing your horn, flipping off the guy in front of you and cussing a blue streak at him. I noticed the ‘What Would Jesus Do’ bumper sticker, the ‘Choose Life’ license plate holder, the ‘Follow Me to Sunday-School’ bumper sticker, and the chrome-plated Christian fish emblem on the trunk, so naturally….. I assumed you had stolen the car.”