Fail to Modify

A noun is a person, place or a thing. An adjective is the modifier of a noun. The professional work of an adjective is to describe a noun. It adds colors to the shadows, if you will (and even if you won't). A noun by itself is pure. It is simple. I realize that "pure" and "simple" are in fact adjectives themselves. But think of a noun without an adjective. Think of a meadow without it being charming. Think of a sunrise without it being sublime. Now think of a person only as a noun. That might sound impersonal and cold at first but follow me for a bit.

My first decision of a new acquaintance must be that her or she is a noun not an adjective. Adjectives inevitably come later. But what if I see them as a human being instead of as a tall human being or a loud human being or a beautiful human being? First impressions are where we turn someone into what we think they are. Sometimes our perceptions are justified. Sometimes a mean person really is a mean person. But when we paint false descriptions onto someone based on their appearance, we immediately modify the noun and unjustly so. We turn them into something they very well might not be. It's so hard not to. But when I'm successful, I find it's easier to love them. This doesn't mean I'm to throw aside all elements of discernment. But it does mean I take slower steps in "categorizing" people who are not pieces of language.

How much easier life is when we don't have to prove ourselves!

Your PB from J for today: "The only joy she found was in her daily ride."

What'd I Say

So, I've realized the error of launching raw words into the atmosphere. They reveal all too much. And then some.

I want to spend the day talking 96% with my eyebrows. Honestly, how much of what we want to communicate actually needs to be spoken? I'm talking about what is truly necessary to say. The more loquacious folks probably talk in about three quarters dross. Most of what most people say seems to be fluff. It is small talk. And don't get me wrong, there's a great deal of charm in clever conversation. And that's what I'm talking about here. Just simple every day conversation. Not speeches, not sermons, not essays. Just how we speak to each other. But what if we amputated the "um" and the "ya know?" and the "haha, yeah" from our daily dialogues? The ornamentation of dead air is one of the strongest impediments to any meaningful confabulation. My constant tendency is to be lazy and sling my words out like mashed potatoes (let alone my poor articulation). But if my words were to stand up straight and represent a heart and a mind that wants to be heard, how much deeper could they penetrate their targets? I'm going to try and be sparing with my words. I'm going to only hold them back until I'm ready to use them. And when I use them, I'm going to paint them in all the colors of my mind and teach them to dance to my back beat.

I feel better now. The written word is a sweet getaway car.

Let's re-instate an old tradition, shall we?. Here is your PB from J for today: "There is nothing nearby. Not for miles."

Hopeless? Romantic?

I've been finding puns in every conversation. Help me please.

Sometimes my heart feels like a porcelain chin in a fist fight. I was a bit hesitant to write on matters of the heart, what with Singles Awareness Day fast approaching and all. But I can't survive another minute on auto-pilot and I must purge this gum ball machine of a mind.

I suppose I am a romantic. This has been brought to my attention recently. For a long time I was a hopeless romantic. I was in hot pursuit of the sunset every morning, chasing down that one golden girl who was the embodiment of all satisfaction. When I go in, I go all in. I'm a bit of a monomaniac that way. But Olde Man Tyme has beaten me with the big hand of experience and the sharper little hand of pain. He's an excellent disciplinarian. After a few shipwrecks and bombshells, I'm afraid I've resigned myself to be a spectator. But I'm not even an enthusiastic fan of the sport. I'm the greasy heckler in the back row who screams obscenities at the boxers. These things ought not to be this way!

Proverbs 4:23 tells us to guard our hearts above all things, for from it flow the wellsprings of life. The Bible often uses soft words loaded into strong arguments. This particular verse has been shrapnel in my mind for years but it has been slow to trickle into my heart. Due to my neglect, I've endured a good amount of pain, much like the rest of my fellow travelers. I have the feeling that most of us are walking expectations wrapped up in wishes. We are constantly pining after fulfillment and in so doing we leave our hearts back on the barb wire we had to climb over. Like Spartan infants, we expose them to whatever wind blows by. No wonder we are the walking wounded, addicts to the mighty Valentine heart. I have not been a vigilant watchman.

I think we should all stop playing with fire. We're a bunch of monkeys, knee deep in kerosene, with lighters. But you can't just outlaw dating. Certain Christian authors tried to do that. As long as you breath oxygen and crawl the earth, you have to deal with the reality that people will date. But we crave so quickly and deeply a fast happiness that we tear into each other's hearts like jackals around a fresh kill. There is no protection. There is no insurance. There is no commitment.

So right now, I'm just a tangle of smiles and clenched fists. Don't pay any mind to the cynical, bitter color of my words. It's late and I'm tired. I've just been thinking more than I should. But the sentiment remains. I am truly angry at myself and the other monkeys. There is much more I could say here. Indeed, perhaps I should stop and patch up some holes in these sentences. Maybe I should delete some of the more sour phrases. It feels uncomfortable and unfinished, like going to bed with half of your nose stopped up. But whatever I said, I said without thinking and editing would just subtract from the sincerity. That's my excuse anyway.

Today was warm as pipe smoke. I'll be better in the morning. Don't you worry 'bout a thing.

Have You Seen It This Way?

I'd like to see a prehistoric dawn. Wouldn't you? Be on the look out for one. Take your camera.

I often have to forgive the actor in me. I hope you will do the same. The actor in me is desperate for the invisible spotlight. He seeps up onto the surface and bows to the crowd passing me by on the street. Tipping his fedora, he'll recite supreme poetry out of the deepest pit of memory just to win and woo you over. Now, is this to say that I am never sincere? I hope not. If I am merely a disingenuous fake, I would never bother to spill this onto the internet. I am not possessed by an alter ego. I'm not at the mercy of some clever parasite. But the actor in me is never content to sit in the green room while the audience is shouting for the encore. The actor is me. I cheat myself into behaving how I think they would like it. These spells of madness are very subtle and increasingly infrequent. But if you think about it, perhaps you have a thespian in you as well? I think very few people have mastered such lapses of drama. We must knuckle down and lock down that tendency to be a professional. Do you know what I mean? You might have never felt it. If you haven't, maybe I'm prodding sensitive flesh that doesn't need investigation. But most of us lean towards behaving like a professional instead of being a genuine, flimsy, hilarious human being. Oh Lord, please forgive the actor in me.

Shells

I'm sick right now. It might be a little bit of the flu. Weather Dot Com informs me that Texas is dealing with a widespread flu outbreak so it makes sense that I would have it. And there's nothing better to do when you're sick than to write, right? Write.

You know what I've realized is so ridiculous? The phrase "come out of your shell". Those words are usually aimed and launched at innocent (and often unsuspecting) introverts. Apparently, the popular consent believes us to be crustaceans. I'm sure you can imagine how alarmed I was to learn this. But the vocal majority is blood earnest in thinking that we are trapped in a stifling layer of hateful reticence. In such a crusading spirit of goodwill, extroverts have been trying for millennia to extract us out of our constricting prisons of bashful hesitation. The theory behind such efforts in public education and social gatherings is the belief that what you see is not what you get. A quiet man is really just a loud man trapped in a quiet man's body. He only needs to realize his potential and shake of his laconic shackles.

I suppose, at most, I can only speak for myself. So, let me be frank. I am not bound. I am not a prisoner to my shy personality. I am not a crustacean. There is no wacky, outgoing subconscious in my inner being that is just dying to break out. What you see is what you get. I wear no taciturn exoskeleton that I maintain simply to keep up pretenses. Now, I must beg you on behalf of myself and all those beautifully quiet people out there. Don't force anyone to be someone they're not. No one is trapped.

A Missouri winter is cloudy days without snow punctuated by sunny days without warmth. Truly, it's good to live in this state of misery.

I stopped by a Starbucks late last night, on the way home from a Christmas party. It was mostly on a whim. I was too tired to drink coffee but I was sort of hoping that I'd find someone there that I knew. Happily, I was rewarded to find three friends of like minds and spirits. During one point in my conversation with them, we got on the subject of gift giving. I jokingly fended off a small impromptu gift by saying, "Oh no thank you, I'm not worthy of such a present." I didn't really mean that the value of a nice pen surpassed my own human dignity but I simply had no use for such a fine writing utensil. My friend responded by saying, "Well of course you're worthy! You were worth enough for Jesus to die for you so you're worth enough for me to give you this pen!"

Now, we were just having a good time, enjoying some early morning fellowship. I doubt anyone in the room at the that time had the sharp clarity of mind needed to discern all the theological nuances that weave themselves into conversations between human beings. My friend was merely being kind and he is impressively humble. But driving home, my mind got the better of me and I began to think about what he said. Was I really worth it for Jesus to die for me? I did a mental run through of my resumé. Average height. Average build. Lives below the poverty line. Needs eye correction to legally drive. Doesn't even have a dog.


On oh so many levels, I am nothing to brag about. This is no nose dive at my own self-esteem or sense of important. But really, I can't think of anything in myself that the God of the universe would count as "worthy". Any resemblance of charity or goodness that I can find in myself is infinitely magnified and multiplied in His own excellent character. Stand us both in front of the same mirror and only He will be found to lack nothing. So, I started thinking about God's motivation for choosing me, for loving me and for dying for me.

It's always best to go to the Scriptures. When we look at Ephesians 5:25-33, we see Paul is telling husbands to love their wives like Christ loved the church. Christ loved the church and gave Himself up for her. Church goers are told this beginning in Sunday school. But what we are rarely told is why Christ really died for us. If anything, we're told that He died for us because He loved us enough to die for us. We're taught that we are the reward for His death. He died and it's because I'm so incredibly worthy that He died. Right? But Paul says that I am for Him. I, with the rest of the church universal, am to be presented to Him in splendor. Peter says the same in 1 Pet.3:18, that Christ died for the purpose of bringing us to Him.

The goal of salvation, ultimately, has never been man's good. The goal of salvation has always God's glory.