My Dwelling Places

Rivals

2010-12-03T13:22:00.000-06:00

Jonah thought about his Biblical namesake and let loose a quiet chuckle as he watched the men approach. He mumbled to himself “This is right about the time where I get thrown overboard – and here comes the rag-tag crew that’ll do it.”

“Right on cue, I see” he announced as the men - hungry, scared and angry - closed around him in a loose but nervous circle. Jonah stood calmly in their midst, turning slowly around, looking each of them square in the eye.

“We wants t’know if yer the reason fer all this mess. Seems like we didn’t have no trouble ‘t’all ‘till you came aboard back in Lafayette.” Scum pronounced it as ‘Lay-fah-yetty’ and Jonah laughed inwardly at the man’s murderous mispronunciation of the name.

“What’s the matter, Scum? You scared about a little storm and a few angry waves?”

“T’aint scared ‘bout nut’in. We just wants t’know why we had no trouble ‘fore you came aboard – and now we gots all this trouble after yer here. Seems kinda s’picious.”

“Well, Scum, maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s God’s anger finally catching up to you. Maybe He’s finally put you under his magic microscope and found, easily enough I might add, all of your - shall we say - character deficiencies.”

Scum scowled and said to the rest of the crew, “Sees how he’s tryin’ to mock us. I tell ya, he ain’t no good. We oughta do like we said we was gonna do. Throw him overboard; that’ll fix his smart-mouth ways. Then we won’t have no more of this trouble. Are ya’s agreein’ with me?”

Jonah glanced around the circle of men. He could see they weren’t sure what they wanted to do. Some were nodding their heads, some were looking around, and others stood with hands in their pockets looking down at their feet. He gauged that they weren’t ready to take immediate action, but didn’t know how much longer they would wait, particularly with Scum stirring their emotions.

From the wheel deck above, they heard the captain’s voice. “Well, well, well – what do we have here? Did someone forget to invite me to this little lynching party?”

Immediately Jonah knew the risk was now increased ten-fold. Scum was just a dumb sailor, easily out-witted and out-maneuvered with a few well placed words. The captain, however, was a different story. He and Jonah went way back and none of it was good. They had been childhood combatants, rivals on highly competitive sports teams, attended different Ivy-league colleges, and worked for the same highly successful legal firm. Jake had been demoted to a basement office for losing a high profile case while Jonah quickly ascended to the corner office, the one with the big windows and an even bigger view. Jake always thought that Jonah had sabotaged his case. He couldn’t handle Jonah’s success and gave some made-up reason for resigning. He took up captaining a fishing boat, something he had always dreamed of as a boy growing up on the banks of the Lake Erie.

“I see you’re in a bit of a bind, Jonah. You’ve got my boys all riled up with your high falluting talk and your demeaning ways. You haven’t changed a bit, have you? I tell you, boys, he’s been like this ever since we were young – always having to have his way, doing whatever he wanted without caring a thing about anyone else. I can see you’ve finally had enough of him.”

“You haven’t changed either, Jake - always getting somebody else to do your dirty work because you’re not man enough to handle it yourself.”

The two locked eyes, neither willing to be the first to back down.

“You don’t know what real work is, Jonah. You always preferred the bright lights of the corporate office and the sterile environment of the court room. I tell you, out here – those rules don’t apply. You’re on the high seas now and this is my turf.” By this time, Jake had descended the ladder and entered the circle surrounding Jonah. He stood right next to Scum, first mate of the Hangman’s Noose, Jake’s boat.

“Cap’n, say the word and we’ll toss this bucket o’ fish guts. Won’t be no trouble and no one’ll say a thing.” Scum scooped up a coil of rope in one hand and a scaling hook in the other. “I tell ya, boys, t’aint no good reason why we’s can’t take care o’ this little problem ourselves.”

Jake smiled wickedly. “Tell me, Jonah – what fancy court-room argument is going to get you out of this one. Looks to me like you’ve lost your case and the judge is just about to pass sentence. Got any judicious remarks for the court?”

“Well, Jake. As a matter of fact, I do have a few things to say.”

“By all means; after all, the condemned man does have a right to his last words.”

copyright Dave Pingel, 2006
Excerpted from Jonah's Whale by Dave Pingel

Thy Sting, O Death

2010-11-20T08:22:00.001-06:00

Thy sting, O death, doth pierce my heart
and tears flow swiftly from my eyes -
when dear souls with life departed
settle in the dust to lie.

Parting is indeed sweet sorrow -
to see them on this earth no more.
How gloomy might appear the 'morrow
but bright their soul on heaven's shore.

Though mortal yet our bodies be -
of finite flesh and blood and bone -
at times, too soon, eternity
calls those we love forever home.

Bereaved, out hearts are heavy-weighted;
we long to hold them once again.
But death still reigns unberated
and the grave, all silent, is home to sin.

Yet flesh and blood do not inherit
what God has promised through His son.
For perish not the' Eternal Spirit,
O'er death and grave the battle's won.

Thy sting, O death, will cease to be;
the grave will one day hold no more.
And thanks to God Eternal be
Who's given Life through Christ, our Lord.

copyright Dave Pingel, November 1992

Not for Moses' Sake

2010-11-05T17:52:00.000-05:00

Friday
July 5, 2002

Dear God;

I'm back again.

Fixing the human heart is a daunting task. Were I talking about the physical heart, fixing it would be a matter of hiring the right physicians and surgeons and letting them perform their tasks. But I'm not talking about the physical heart. If I were talking about the "mental" heart (your thinking, reasonings, emotions), I could employ the finest psychologists and psychiatrists. But I'm not talking about that heart either.

I'm talking about the heart as being the spirit of a man. How does one fix that heart? And not how does just anyone do that. How do I do that?

Before I can answer that last question I must first deal with another question. Is it my calling to do so? Let me answer that question so:

"You are a deliveror, a Moses. Take up your staff and deliver a lost generation!" Such are the words that have been spoken to me. Twice. Once, several years ago, they were said to me by my brother-in-law during a family meeting. Most recently they were spoken again by the principal of our school, as she poured her heart out to those of us who would be teachers to a generation of youth teetering on the brink of destruction.

Moses - the Deliveror - I've spent some time lately thinking about Moses. We all know what a great man he was. Here's something we don't think about though. God didn't call Moses to be great. He called Moses, not for the sake of Moses, but for the sake of others. So here's the first point I have about the call to fix the human heart: It's not about me, it's about them - those who have the broken hearts.

Here are some more thoughts about Moses. Moses was 80 years old and well established in his second career as a shepherd (the first career being a rejected Egyptian prince). He had a nice family; he was wealthy; he didn't have to worry about much. He was settled. He was fixed for life. All he had to do was stay put and everything would have been ok. Gee, I could say a lot of the same things. I'm well established as a police chief. I've got a great family. I'm not wealthy by American standards (though by the standards of many countries I'm rich beyond measure). I'm settled. All I have to do is stay put.

But I can't.

It must have been the same with Moses.

Perhaps during the first of those 40 years in the desert Moses was happy and content with a beautiful wife, a quiet job and no Pharahos trying to kill him. Sounds like a nice, pleasant life in rural Midian - or Kirksville. Perhaps even during the middle years Moses enjoyed the shepherd's life and the peace that comes from loving deeply and being deeply loved.

I think, though, that during those last years things began to bounce around in his soul. Things like: "I wonder how my people are; I wonder if Pharaoh is still alive; are the people still suffering so." Other things too - like: "how can I be so content in this place when my brothers and sisters are slaves; is there anything I can do or should do. Maybe I should go back and see. But then again, maybe I shouldn't. After all, they did try to kill me. But maybe I should go. But, then again, maybe I should just stay put."

I think Moses tried to stay put, tried to blot out his thoughts and concerns. But I don;t think he was successful in doing so. Somehow, those things that once contented him so were just no longer enough. I don't think he quite knew it . . . but I think God did.

Here's the second point: when the "staying put" isn't in you anymore, put the stay away.

I think Moses heard in his heart the cries of his people as they echoed painfully from the very heart of God. Perhaps Moses didn't recognize them with his "mental" heart. But I think God was stirring his spirit. The Bible says that God heard that generation of Israelites cry out in their bondage. He looked for a deliveror, one who knew of their misery but not similarly enslaved. God looked upon Moses. Today's generation of youth are likewise in bondage, crying to be delivered . . . from emptiness, from desperation, from hopelessness, from hypocracy, from pornography and abortion and lust, from divorce, from gangs, from a future with no hope.

Here's the third point: before one can be a deliveror there must first be someone needing delivery.

And when the time was right for Moses, God sent a fire.

Why fire?

Why not a desperate plea from an escaped captive? Why not a commission from a tribal war council to rise up against a tyrannical Pharoah? Why not a contingent of fellow Israelites appealing to a former prince to lead a rebellion? Why not a deep heartfelt conviction in Moses that a hero was needed and he was that hero?

That's what I would want. Wouldn't you?

So why fire? Why did God use fire to call Moses?

I'm tired. I'm going to think on that one a while.

Dave

"The God File"

2010-10-22T18:42:00.000-05:00

(Author's note: Here is a letter from "The God File." From time to time, particularly when I'm struggling with thoughts and decisions, I write letters. The writing helps me focus. In so writing, I find a certain release and peace for which I am deeply thankful. So, if you don't mind, I'll share this one - and, from time to time, others as well.)

Thursday, July 4, 2002
Independence Day

Dear God,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what to do with the rest of my life. I’m 45 years old, almost 46, and I’ve spent the last 24 years of my life with the Kirksville Police Department in various positions, including police officer, squad sergeant, and bureau lieutenant. These last 13 years I have served faithfully as the chief of police and I firmly believe that this has been your call upon my life. I love this city and only want to see her prosper and do well.

I continue to do my work as chief, but I find that my heart longs for something else. Even with a great relationship with my boss, solid personnel at the department, the potential for a new police building, and a community that is generally supportive, I find my ability to really make a difference in the lives of individual people greatly restrained. I didn’t use to think this way. In fact, it has only been within the last year or so that this has become an increasing frustration for me.

The crux of my frustration is that I have become keenly aware of the fact that the law and police work are powerless to effect lasting change upon the hearts of people. The police protect and enforce. We keep people physically safe and we are constantly vigilant for those who break the law. These are necessary functions in our society. The problem is that the police can never keep everyone safe from harm at all times and often cannot prevent people from breaking the law if they are truly intent on doing so. Though we may be able to keep most people safe from physical harm (most, but not all, of the time), we have neither the power nor the authority to keep safe the hearts of the people. People are free to think and do as they will as long as they stay within the boundaries that our society has deemed socially acceptable.

What is socially acceptable is much too often damaging to the heart and soul.

Law enforcement is all about behavior modification. If you behave “correctly” you are free from the interest of police officers. The problem is that behavior modification is only an outward conformance to a set of rules and regulations. Most people can conform to something outwardly even if inwardly they have no desire to do so. Take away the fear of being caught and punished, though, and the outward conformance quickly succumbs to the inward wants.

Crimes are first committed in the heart before they are committed in body. “As a man thinketh in his heart, so he is.” I can catch the person who committed the crime; I can put him behind bars so he won’t commit that crime again; I can force him to modify his behavior so that he is in social conformance; I can sanction him in all sorts of ways for disobeying the rules - but as a law enforcement officer, I am powerless to change his heart.

Except that the heart is changed, it is impossible for man to truly change.

But this has been the case all throughout my career as a law enforcement officer. Why, in these last months, has this become an issue for me? Has the last 24 years of my life been time wasted?

I have no concern that I have wasted these years working as a civil servant. Serving and protecting and enforcing are right and noble things. Enforcing the law is simply, for me, no longer enough. It is a stop gap. It is sticking your thumb in a hole in the dam so the water won’t leak out. Is it a good thing to stop the leak in the dam? Most assuredly. The problem is that you can stop only that number of leaks as you have thumbs. And stopping the leaks is not the same thing as fixing the dam. It is only temporarily modifying the behavior of the water (from leaking out all over the place). The problem is also the fact that I have to keep my thumbs in place to keep the water from leaking. If I leave without the dam being repaired, I leave behind a soon and coming flood.

I do not wish to be merely a stop gap. I want to fix the dam.

But I’m fearful.

I’m fearful that my motives are selfish. I’m fearful of making mistakes. I’m fearful of missing God? I’m fearful of doing something only in my own strength. I’m fearful of having a “pie in the sky” mindset. I’m fearful of an impure heart. I’m fearful of being so comfortable that I become complacent and unwilling to take risks and thus, by my indecisiveness, others are lost. I’m fearful of staying in a job only for the money. .I’m fearful that I’m teaching my kids to be concerned only about their own selves. I’m fearful of doing only the things I want to do and not the things I’m supposed to do. I’m fearful for giving up on what could be. I’m fearful of not reaching for what my heart longs for. I’m fearful of being faithless rather than faithful. I’m fearful that I’ll stand one day before an Almighty God who will but weep over that which I did not or would not do.

I wrestle all these things, and others, in my heart. I realize how strong the fear is within me of being wrong. I don’t want to be wrong. More than that, I want to know that what I want is right. I know that the “grass is always greener on the other side.” Will I get to the other side and think that I’ve made a grievous error that cannot ever be corrected.

But will I dare to believe!

“Ok, I can understand the bit about behavior modification. But this “changing the heart stuff” - how can you do that?” I cannot answer that question by giving a list of things I will do. I wish it were that simple. Oh how my love to organize, bringing order to chaos, would leap to the task were it that simple. The human heart, is however, far too complex to be fixed by inserting a thumb in the hole or by creating a list or formula. So the short answer to the question is: I don’t know how I’m going to do it. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it.

I think I’ll stop for now, God. Thanks for helping me think this through.

With love,
Dave

If Only

2010-09-24T18:10:00.001-05:00

Atop the hill he stood
alone and yet not lonely.
Tho’ quiet all without,
within, heart-wrenched, he cried
“If only
you had known, dear ones,
the day of your visitation -
open arms and homes
you would have shown
without any,
even the slightest,
hesitation”

Atop the hill he dies,
crucified, alone and lonely.
Through stillness all about,
within, heart-wicked, we cry
“If only
we had known, dear Lord,
that you are who you said you were.”
We did.
And still we cried,
and lied,
and died -
and hid
ourselves from You.

Alas, atop our sins we topple
now dying, alone and lonely;
and yet -
‘midst the din of death I hear:
“If only
you will reach for me
with all you are inside,
the Life I live, I’ll give to you
and
in peace,
in love,
in Him
together we will abide.”

copyright: Dave Pingel, October 31, 2003

The Unemployment Chronicles

2010-09-09T21:24:00.000-05:00

(Note: A few years ago, a huge transition in my life brought me into a phase of unemployment. I decided to find at least some humor in my circumstances. Thus, this story was born. Enjoy.)

Chapter One: The Business of Being Unemployed

What an ugly word. Unemployed. It just sits there, like a fat toad on a rotten, water-soaked log. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t go anywhere. The word oozes ugliness. It conjures up all sorts of mean accusations. It used to be just a word I heard or read referring to someone else, either an old-joe acquaintance who had fallen on hard times and for whom I had only a little sympathy - or to a down-and-out, why-couldn’t-he-hold-on-to-his-last-job, he’s-surely-got-to-be-a-bum stranger whom I knew nothing about and, in reality, cared for even less. (After writing that last sentence I realize what a schmuck of a person I really am.)

Unemployed. That word now describes me. It’s still an ugly word, but in a friendlier sort of way. I’m not a fat toad (ok, at least I’m not a toad); I sure am not anybody’s “old-joe”, I did very well at my last job, thank you. I left it for very valid reasons, ones which I don’t care to expound upon here. (Yeah, sure, right! you’re smugly saying to yourself. Well . . . I can only answer that by saying I didn’t think I was an uncaring schmuck when I was an uncaring schmuck either.) And being a former, long-term chief of police turned high school vice-principal and teacher takes care of the “he’s-got-to-be-a-bum” label.

For the first couple of weeks of my unemployment I was very busy moving from one city to another and doing all the things one does when one moves. Making matters a little more complicated and because permanent housing was not yet available, I moved in with my in-laws, two sets of them to be exact. You see, my wife’s brother and his family also moved from that same one city to the same second city. And since permanent housing wasn’t available for his family either, he moved in with his parents. He’s without a job, too. So here we all are - three big happy families in one big (thankfully so) house. Did I mention my father-in-law doesn’t have a job either? (Sharing a house with a good many of my in-laws is another story, one that I’ll write about later. Back to the ugly word.)

The second couple of weeks felt more like vacation. I rested and slept and watched tv, went to a couple of movies, read a little and continued to relax. In general I took it pretty easy. My sister-in-law and mother-in-law are great cooks; they kept us overfed and under-worked. (My wife is a really good cook, too. And besides, if I didn’t write this about her - I’d be relegated to a little bitty house way behind the big house - the dog house.) I did a little housework, a little laundry (actually, a lot of laundry), chauffeured the kids around, took care of personal business, reconciled my checkbook and even learned on-line banking.

The couple of weeks after that, I really began to think about job-hunting. I found myself, though, in a catch 22. My wife and I are trying to decide if yet another move is in order - or should we stay here, hunker down and ride it out. After all, we do own a house here (from which we are waiting our renter to move- thus the temporary insanity of living with the in-laws) and my wife does have a solid job. If we are going to move away again, why should I look for a job only to leave it when we move? But why should we move if at least one of us had a good job? You see, I’m caught, yes - surely trapped, in a pure, unadulterated, bonafide catch 22.

It would be nice to move out of the in-laws and back into our house which has our own private space which the kids never seem to mind interrupting for which I often get mad but which I really wouldn’t have it any other way anyway. Did I mention my wife wants to sell the house?

Why move back in if I’m only going to move back out again? There it is, that catch 22 again.

Maybe I should call my Dad and ask for his advice. (As you can see, I’ve now slipped into another moment of second-childhood insanity.) My parents have been nicely retired for a number of years. They’re not rich by any means. They do have, though, a certain level of comfort with their living style. Of course, their investments in the stock market are of concern for them. And their health is becoming an issue as well. Mom is beginning to have some osteoporosis problems and dad’s diabetes may be worsening. They worry about old-age. They worry about old-age housing. And now they worry about me and about my unemployment.

Dad, in his 70+ years (65 of which have been spent either walking to school or to work 365 days a year, year in and year out - uphill both ways in a blinding snowstorm without any shoes), has never been unemployed. He has been a loving father, a hard worker, a servant in the community, and a good provider. I imagine a phone call to my Dad would go something like this:

“Hi Dad. It’s me.”

“Hey, how are you son? Have you found a job yet?”

“No, Dad. You see, we might move again and . . .”

“Move? Why move when your wife has a good job and leave that security?”

“I know. That makes it a lot harder. We might not move.”

“Have you been out job hunting?

“Yeah, Dad - I have. And actually one place has called me for a second interview. But I don’t know if I want it. It’s kind of a long drive. And if we’re going to move again . . . well, you know.”

“Don’t want it? It’s a good job, isn’t it? And doesn’t it pay? Now, how much did you say you were making while unemployed?”

“Well, Dad, umm . . .”

How ya gonna move if you don’t have any money? Takes a job to get money.”

“I know, Dad. Umm, I don’t know - but we’ll manage.”

“Have you moved back into your house yet?”

“No Dad, we’re thinking about selling it. It’s time, you know.”

“Where ya gonna live if you sell the house?”

“I don’t know. We’ll buy another.”

“How ya gonna buy another when you don’t have a job? Bank’s not gonna loan you any money if you don’t have a job.” (Did I mention my dad was a banker for 39 years?)

“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe we won’t sell.”

“Son, I’m worried about ya. You need to start thinking straight. You need a job. Your family needs stability. Times are tough, you know. And they’re not getting much better.”

“Yeah, Dad. I know.”

“It’s not good for your family, you being unemployed.”

“I sure know that! Good talking to you, Dad.”

“You too, son. Call when you have a job.”

“Ok. Bye.”

God bless my dad. His love is real; his concern sincere. I’d have the exact same questions and concerns were it my own son without a job and a family to support. Dad wants only the best for me. (Actually, he wants the best for his grand-kids. I’m of secondary concern. If I don’t do his grandchildren right, I’m in BIG trouble.)

Let’s see now. Let’s pause for a moment and take stock. (Of course, stocks aren’t doing well these days either.) Here I am - an eye blink from being 47 years old. I’m everything I never dreamed of being - fat, bald, and wearing tatty, used-to-be white, tank-top, old-man t-shirts. I no longer have any late night stay-awake stamina and I enjoy never being too far from a bathroom. I’m worried. My wife’s worried. My mom and dad are worried. I’m living with my in-laws and they’re worried. I may or may not move back in my house which may or may not be up for sale. Oh yes, and I’m unemployed. Did I mention that?

Gee, I’m exhausted. This unemployment business is hard work. Guess I’d better take a nap and rest up some. This may last awhile.

----------

In upcoming chronicles:

- Flexible Stability
- The Gnawing Need Within
- Analysis Paralysis
- What Do I Do With These Kids!
- Alone, Living With Nine Relatives
- Housework Horrors
- My Life With Hoby

copyright Dave Pingel, 2010

The Traveler

2010-08-01T11:12:00.001-05:00

A traveler left home on a journey one day
in search of what lay beyond.
Mysteries untold lured him their way
to explore the hither and yon.

'Twas the quest for adventure that whispered his name -
the sirens of life sang their all -
Tempted sweetly he was by fortune and fame;
Seduced by their she-devil calls.

To the East traveled he to dance with the Dawn -
the daybreak of life his pursuit -
masquerading as light, but oh, deadly wrong
was the living of life without Truth.

To the West went he next to seek out the Night
and find why there's darkness in man;
The answer he found - "He hides from the Light
in the shadows that are cast by his hand."

North now he journeyed to search for the source
from whence blew the winds of change.
Tho' withstood with great strength, this unstoppable force
is birthed in life's deserts and plains.

South he last sojourned ‘long the uncertain way
to see where life’s path really lead.
Sometimes narrow or wide; sometimes ease, sometimes strife –
Final destiny unswervingly ahead.

Well, Traveler, I must ask; it's your journey, you know -
this life that you thought was your own.
Eternity is calling - which way will you go?
Will Heaven or Hell be your home?

copyright Dave Pingel, 7-21-00
Reworked 8-1-10

Her Glorious Journey (and a Jig to Boot)

2010-07-12T19:42:00.002-05:00

Lorene McClease was a wiry, fun-loving, no-nonsense, chain-smoking tough old gal who lived life with a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her face. She loved a spirited card game, a funny joke (crude or not), a lively jig where she could kick up her heels, and a good cold beer. She lived, married and raised a family in the back-country hills of southern Missouri in a time when the luxuries of life - running water, electricity and in-door plumbing - were simply an impossible dream. While she adhered to the basic sentiments of her Catholic upbringing, she didn't place much stock in being religious. Her general philosophy of living was one of "what you see is what you get" and "if you don't like what you see, that's your problem, not mine."

Lorene's oldest daughter, my mother-in-law, married a young, friendly, spunky, telephone-repairman-turned-preacher and together they raised 6 children in an old-style holiness environment. Quite often Lorene didn't know what to think of the rigidity of the religious beliefs of her daughter and son-in-law, which were significantly different than those of the Catholic faith. She just knew that "all that religious stuff" sure wasn't for her (although she did enjoy the old-time hymns). She didn't care for all those rules: no makeup, no jewelry, the requirement to wear long dresses EVERYWHERE, the commitment to go to church EVERY Sunday - and the no alcohol EVER - mindset. While she loved her daughter and her grandkids and wanted them to choose their own paths, she was going to live her life like SHE wanted. Nobody was going to tell her what to do or how to do it. Though their love for each other was genuine, unfortunately this caused occasional strain and division between mother and daughter and daughter's children. As a result, relationships and visiting times between parents and children and grandchildren were not as free or as often as might be expected or desired.

As often happens in the older years, Lorene's husband, Earl, died and after a short while of living on her own, Lorene moved in with her daughter. By this time, the grandkids were all grown and on their own. Over the next few years, the mother and daughter grew close again, constantly sharing time and heart and a common passion for family. Grandkids (and great-grandkids), once at arm's distance, now gathered round and lived and loved and laughed with grandma on a daily basis. In the midst of this, the strain and division of the earlier years melted away. Time, once again, had done its work and the former structured mindsets and beliefs were softened by grace, maturity and love. Rather than allowing their relationship to be defined by what separated them, their lives were now joined by the things they believed in - loving each other and loving family.

After a short but difficult illness, Lorene passed away. In her last years, her family regularly prayed that Lorene would come to know the saving love of Jesus. They often shared their love for Him and Lorene would listen carefully, amazed at the sincerity of their faith and the openness with which they shared. Perhaps she had misjudged them in years gone by. And perhaps they had been too hard in their judgments as well.

Just a couple of years before her death, Lorene accepted Christ as her Savior. There was no fanfare. There was no solemn ceremony. There were no religious trappings. Being a straight-forward, no-nonsense woman, Lorraine accepted Him one evening while sitting around the kitchen table at a family gathering. Simple as can be. And that was that.

To her last days, though her body was worn out and weary, Lorene kept that all-familiar sparkle in her eye and that ever-so-slight smile on her lips. Both will do her well in Heaven. How do I know that? I know because God allowed me a brief but powerful glimpse of her journey through those Glorious Gates. I shared this with her family a few days after her death and I like to think it brought a smile to their hearts. I know it did to mine.

Upon a glittering golden road leading surely into Heaven, lined with towering, majestic angels in great rejoicing - upon that road, I saw Lorene. No more was she the stooped, gray-haired old lady with the uncertain walk. She was headed Home with a great big smile on her face, a bigger sparkle in her eyes, gleeful laughter in her voice, with one arm raised and twirling her finger in the air.

Oh - and one more thing.

She was kicking her heals and dancing a jig.

copyright Dave Pingel, 2009

Faith Is. . .

2010-06-08T20:14:00.002-05:00

Faith is a place.

It is not

some mystical,

ethereal,

or nebulous “mental state”

where one suddenly

or miraculously

finds inner peace and balance.

No,

faith is a very real place.

It is the precarious ground

upon which

the convictions of our hope

are strenuously opposed

by all assailing doubts,

our own

as well as those of others.

It is often the place

where we know not

the outcome of the battle

or if we and what we believe in

(or want to believe in)

will live

or die.

Faith is not a refusal to give in;

it is a refusal to give up.

It is the place

where there is always a way

to move

beyond the now

even though one knows not

the how,

the way

or the why.

Faith is

always fought for,

never easily gained,

continuously tested,

often uncertain,

but ever promising.

copyright: Dave Pingel, June 8, 2010

Pieces of Pete

2010-05-05T15:27:00.001-05:00

By most standards, Pete was a burden since birth. He was born in the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri in the early 1900’s, the offspring of an incestuous relationship. No one really knew his birthday. Birth certificates were a formality most mountain folk didn’t bother with in those days. Such was the way of life.

Pete never went to school. He didn’t really have the capacity. He was what most people back then would call “dumb,” or “stupid.” He was very slow, couldn’t speak well at all, never dressed in anything but overalls, and was always dirty.

Somewhere in his early life, maybe around the age of 15 or so, Pete was turned out by his family. They didn’t want him. No one really knows why. In the hills and dales of Ozark life, there just wasn’t a place for Pete – no special schools, no mental health facilities, no sheltered workshops for the disabled. Even the word “disabled” wasn’t for people like Pete. Disabled was what one became after a serious accident or when horribly wounded in war. Nope, Pete wasn’t so lucky. He was just born the way he was. And nobody in those days had much use for such a one as Pete.

It was a difficult life.

After being rejected by his family, Pete somehow found refuge with my wife’s great-grandfather, Luther Youngblood. Just before Luther died, he passed responsibility for Pete onto his son and daughter-in-law, Grover and Bonnie Youngblood. Seeing that there was no place else for Pete to go, they agreed to take on the chore of providing for him. Pete didn’t, however, live in the same house. No, he was too dirty and too backwoods for that.

There was a one-room house out back and that became Pete’s place. Bare studded walls, a few plank shelves, an old woodstove in the corner, a rusty iron-frame box springs along one wall, and a mattress that had to be thrown out on a regular basis – were just about all the furnishings Pete had. He didn’t have to cook and probably would have burned the place down if he tried. He took all his meals in the kitchen of the “big house,” where Bonnie and Grover lived.

Pete never willingly took a bath or shower. Once a year, the men in my wife’s family would empty out his little house and burn everything, clothes included. They would then manhandle Pete into a shower or tub and scrub him down real good before he got two or three new pair of overalls.

Pete’s keep was to do odd chores around the farm, mainly keeping the barn clean and working in the garden. Pete loved the garden. Beyond that, he was pretty much left to do whatever he wanted.

My wife tells the story that once, when her grandfather Grover took her and her sister into town for a soda, Pete was invited to go along. Pete absolutely loved soda. He was, however, hardly ever off the farm and wasn’t too keen on leaving it. He was finally coaxed into making the trip, but was too afraid to get out of the car when they got to town. My wife and her sister drank their soda in the store, but Pete drank his sitting alone in the car.

In fact, that was pretty much how Pete lived life – mostly just by himself.

Pete never wrote his name or read a book. He never went to a movie or a shopping mall. He never had a “real” job. He never had a checkbook or paid a bill. He never had friends, outside of my wife’s family. No one ever came just to visit Pete. No one ever sought him out to ask for his advice or help. No one really ever thought much at all about Pete. Pete was Pete and that was it. One look at him and most people chose to look right through him, as if he didn’t exist at all.

In the eyes of most, Pete was simply a fool.

It is somewhere said, however, that God uses the foolish things of the earth to confound the wise. Such is the case with Pete. Pete, of course, was no angel. Like the rest of us, he had problem areas where he was often his own worst enemy. He also had times where he knew what he was doing at the moment was wrong. In pondering his life, however, I have found pieces of Pete, moments in his life, which were significant and profound – at least to me. There are three that I would like to share.

Pete lived in his one-room house on the property of my wife’s grandparents for many, many years – longer than he lived with anyone else. With Grover and Bonnie, Pete always knew he had a place to live, meals to eat, and clothes to wear. And what little he could do, he would do it on their farm. In all her growing up years, my wife will say that she never heard her grandfather say anything harsh to or about Pete. Pete was always there every time she visited. He never said much, preferring to keep his own company. Years later, when Grover died, Pete greatly mourned his passing.

Think about that for a moment. Pete mourned.

To mourn, someone must first love. As unworthy as others found him, he found others worthy of love. Pete truly mourned because he truly loved. As incapable as Pete was in many things, he wasn’t incapable of love. It was his choice to love – even after he was rejected by his own family and most everyone else, even after many said he wasn’t good for anything, even after he lived literally in a one room place with but a few dirty overalls, even after all this – he loved.

On another occasion, my wife and I were visiting Grandma Bonnie. Grover had been gone for many years. Pete still lived in the little house and took his meals through the back door. He was getting on in years, but continued to do a few chores around the farm as well as help in the gardens. My wife and I were newlyweds and it was our first visit as such to Grandma Bonnie’s. We were saying our goodbyes on the front porch. Pete was there, sitting in the shade. He wanted us to wait a moment before we left and then he disappeared around the corner. When he returned, he was carrying an old milk carton filled with black dirt. Planted in the dirt was a fresh shoot from a crab apple tree. Apparently knowing that this was a special occasion, he wanted to give us a gift.

Think about that. It is both profound and significant. He gave. To give, one must first think of others rather than self. From the heart of one who had so little came the desire to give to others who had much more than he. From the life of one who had long ago been rejected and despised came the gift of giving something fresh and alive. Where do these things come from? Who placed them there in his heart? From nothing, he gave much.

My wife was talking to her brother Mark on the phone the other day. They were talking about Pete. Mark confessed that he and others often made fun of Pete in Pete’s younger years. He then spoke of visit he had with Pete a few years ago. I was with Mark on this particular visit to Pete’s nursing home.

Mark hadn’t seen Pete in several years. Even so, there was no possibility of not recognizing him. Would Pete, however, know Mark? Pete recognized Mark immediately. His eyes lit up and he greeted Mark from his wheelchair. We sat together for a while, mostly trading eye contact and smiles. Pete was never one to carry on a conversation; he just listened. Mark had come with purpose in mind and sincerity of heart to apologize for the times in years gone by that he made fun of Pete and did mean things to him. Pete’s response? He listened. He smiled. Even with his limited speaking abilities, one could clearly hear, “Aww, Mark. That’s okay.”

Just like that – in a moment, all was forgiven, all was okay. I had the distinct impression from Pete that none of those things Mark confessed ever really mattered to begin with. He had taken no real offense in those times. Forgiveness, if it really was needed, was given long ago and way before it was ever sought.

Think about that. From he, who was once abused, came ready forgiveness. From one who was often made fun of came no lasting offense. Even as forgiveness was sincerely sought, it was freely given. From the heart of one intended for wound came the healing balm of forgiveness.

Pete died a few years ago and I doubt many attended his funeral. By most standards, Pete’s seventy-some years of living didn’t amount to much. He could never provide for himself and was almost totally dependent on others. He was a simple child and a simple man with but few possessions. Still, if the only treasures found are those for which one searches, we should deeply explore these simple truths of his life: Pete loved. Pete gave. Pete forgave.

We would do well to be like him. If so, we’d be much the richer for it.

Reach for the Glory, Stand in the Light

2010-04-09T19:29:00.000-05:00

When principalities and powers plant their evil seeds

and demons dark and deadly perform their filth-filled deeds;

When "angels" of the darkness dance their dread delight -

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When demons are advancing, gaining hallowed ground

and arrows from their quivers are quickly raining down;

When shrieks of tortured terror fearfully fill the night -

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When fighting’s at its thickest, many falling right and left

and mighty men of valor stand surely on edge of death;

When no one but the enemy fills the field of sight;

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When Satan stands his strongest, conqueror in the land -

in a bolt of lightning flash - Jesus takes command.

Those principalities and powers flee in fear and cower -

demons dark and deadly tremble 'neath the Power.

"Angels" of the enemy dressed in the fear of night

race quickly from the Glory, defeated by the Light.

"Advance no more" the trumpet blasts, "advance no more" it sounds

How surely Satan's strongholds are fallen to the ground.

Race swiftly, men of valor, through the valley of death;

Raise up O men in victory - filled with Jesus' breath.

Lift the Sword of Majesty - gleaming sharp and bright;

Reach quickly for His Glory, stand strongly in His Light.

The Invitation

2010-03-17T19:29:00.005-05:00

It didn’t come by regular mail or email. It didn’t come by telephone. Neither was it face to face. It arrived softly in a single, solitary moment. Although eloquent, there was no special fanfare. It was an invitation delivered to the doorstep of my heart, wrapped in simplicity.

Tenderly, I held it in my thoughts, marveling at its meaning. It contained three simple words embossed in the Spirit’s glow:

You Are Invited

There were no other words. None were needed. I knew instantly what the invitation was and who it was from. The invitation was to my future, sent by the One who holds all things in his hands.

I wrestle greatly with the future, particularly with what and where that future is to be. I have strong suspicions on both, but uncertainty reins. Consequently I hold the future at bay, knowing it is days and weeks and months away. No need for decisions now. Each passing tomorrow, however, brings it that much closer. One day there will be only one tomorrow left before the future arrives. You see, I fear the future. It is full of the unknown.

A thought floated across my mind. The delivery was an invitation, not a command. Considering whom it was from, however, was there really a difference? I remembered another invitation of long ago, written about in The Book – a king’s invitation to a wedding banquet. Some of those invited guests refused. Things didn’t bode well for them thereafter.

Then another thought crashes in. There are significant differences between a command and an invitation. One commands a servant. One invites a friend. A command is issued, an invitation given. A command demands, an invitation honors.

I am in awe. He holds me as a friend. He honors me with the invitation and I am deeply touched to be his guest. He wants us to attend the special occasion of the future together. He looks forward to it. He doesn’t fear it. He celebrates it.

And although he is well aware of my uncertainty, he doesn’t fear my fear.

So how does one respond to such an invitation? Do I worry that I don’t have the proper attire? The right transportation? Is it too far to travel? What about the weather? Should I get a haircut? A makeover? What if I get sick? Should I send a written response? Should I call?

I know none of these things matter. And I know they matter not to Him.

Only one thing truly matters and it is not the fretting of an insecure mind. Be careful of the mind. It considers first one thing, then another, and then another – all in endless supply. Not so the heart. The heart does not debate as does the mind. The heart knows but two responses – yea or nay.

In the midst of fearful protests, I silence my mind. With all its issues and fears, it does not deserve to make the decision. This one belongs to the heart. Quietly, I listen for what it has to say. It struggles not and responds decisively. And the same Spirit who softly came gently accepts my heartfelt response and carries it back to the Sender.

“Yes, Lord, I am deeply honored to accept your invitation. I look forward to meeting you there on the occasion of our future. You are so kind.”

copyright Dave Pingel, March 14, 2010

Whispers On A Flimsy Bridge

2010-02-28T14:37:00.001-06:00

Frozen. Can’t move. Clinging to the rungs of a flimsy bridge stretched between the mountain of what I want so desperately to go back to - but certainly can’t – and the cliff edge ahead for which I can’t quite possibly stretch. Below is a sheer drop into the abyss of indecision. Buffeted and beaten by howling winds of doubt and confusion, any sense of confidence has long ceased to assure. Darkness looms, threatening to shroud even the imagination of light, let alone hope’s gasping glimmer. White-knuckle, strength-stealing, soul-invading terror.

The journey began quite differently. Then, there was courage, commitment, adventure, and the promise of bright tomorrows. The way was clear, the atmosphere invigorating, and the mountain-scape of the future breathtaking, though safely distant. Faith was cautious, but at least it was there. Somewhere along the trail, probably while descending into the Valley of Despair, I dropped it, the weight seemingly too hard to bear. How I wish I had it now.

The screaming wind carries voices in its folds – at least I think so. The voices come from behind, or wait; maybe they’re up ahead. I can’t tell. The wind whips them around wickedly. Was that encouragement I heard? Reassurance? Surely not. In such precarious circumstances, how can one hear anything at all? No, it is only my lying imagination deceiving my heart once again. Foolish heart; it must not be trusted. How can I trust anything but my senses; they alone testify so presently to my danger.

“Go back! Go back!” shouts my fear. The mountain from whence I came is, at least, familiar. And many remain who would gladly and safely, yet suffocatingly, receive me. They hold to structured ways and tempered truths, ones that have allure but also an incomplete destiny. What about those in their midst who dare to reach beyond? They are there, watching, waiting, dreaming. Will my frozen indecision block their way and seal their fate? No! To retreat to what was would surely end a nightmare; but to proceed may only be hallucination.

Yet the way ahead is impossible. The eyes of my heart can no longer see the way, blinded by the blizzards of dying beliefs. The path is too dangerous, made slippery by the sleet of uncertainty. What if I fail? What if I step wrongly? What if it was all wrong to begin with and the future was nothing more than artful illusion?

The warring winds whip round me, franticly. They rip away at my protective doubt-filled coat of many worries. I clutch it close; without it, I am terribly exposed. Great drifts of mashing snows of sorrow let loose from the bluffs overhead, crashing ‘round. Strangely, faintly, I hear the taunting tinkles of laughter, as they slash at me with their numbing accusations. “If only you’d never started.” “If only you wouldn’t have dared to believe.” “If only you would believe now.” “If only you would go back.” “If only you’d go forward.” “If only you’d decide something, but you can’t even do that.”

No. I can only grip tightly where I am. But even here, I cannot remain. The bridge may fall. In such a storm, its fittings may be torn loose, plunging me quickly into the depths to be smashed on the rocks of what used to be, on the one side, or dashed on the boulders of what could be, on the other.

What do I do? I don’t know. I Don’t Know. I DON’T KNOW. Let me just go to sleep, safely suspended between yesterdays and tomorrows. At least there I am kept warm by the blankets of non-decisions, not having to suffer the successes of my fears – or fear the shortcomings of my faith.

There’s that word again – faith. Why won’t it leave me alone? It calls; it’s always calling. It does not push or shove or scream or panic, as does my fear. It seems only to be a gentle whisper pulling at my heart, not loud enough to plainly hear, yet strong enough that I can’t ignore. Why do I always hear this whisper when I’m so weak and cannot determine its source? And why doesn’t it ever come from where I’ve been already? Why must it always call from somewhere up ahead, where I’ve never been?

I scrape the heavy frost of fear from my eyes. I glance back once more at the mountain of yesterday. I was safe there once; I could be again. But backward is never forward, is it. I look below. The abyss of indecision gapes wide, an ever-growing darkness swallowing all who won’t look away. I must move or soon die. I am afraid. I turn my face once more and search the uncertainty that lies ahead - looking, listening, for something, anything, that will anchor my weary heart.

There, I hear it yet again – that gentle whisper.

From Elijah's Mountain
1 Kings 19:11-12

copyright Dave Pingel Feb 29, 2010

THE NOR’EASTER

2010-02-16T21:10:00.000-06:00

Avast ye mates and lend me yer ears -
Listen up laddies, I've a word you need hear.
Hoist up your anchors - let loose the sails;
the Nor’easter is blowin' - the mightiest of gales.

Quit yer frolickin' an fussin'; stow 'way yer fun,
'Tis no time fer playin' - there's work to be done.
Head for the Deep - out away from the shore;
If not, you'll be dashed by the winds as they roar.

Captain to the deck; take up command!
the storm's fast approachin'; Make busy yer hand!
Eyes on the horizon; lash self to the wheel -
Steady yer gaze; keep us on keel.

Fear not ye mates of the storm that's abroad -
Tho’ dark clouds we see - 'tis the very face of God!
Fret not, oh sailers, of the wind; thar she blows.
‘Tis surely the way to – only He knows.

You officers - on deck! Be quick to obey;
Carry out all orders without any delay.
Be the eyes and the ears and the voice of Command;
Adventure is calling, now isn’t that grand.

Ahoy there ye mates, ‘nother word to the wise;
take not offense or be ye surprised.
Though the storm be upon us, it will be not our last -
Stand firm in your faith – Ha! In strength stand ye fast.

Hear the voice of yer Captain; he has laid in our course -
This gale provides strength with God as its source.
'Tis a mission of passion we sail in full flight -
to those wrecked on the rocks in the dark of their night.

Now ye mates, stand ye sturdy - each man to his chore;
'tis destiny that's calling - of that be ye sure.
Sail swiftly, stand surely, race on to the rescue -
at stake are the lives of the many and the few.

copyright Dave Pingel Feb. 16, 2010
Reworked from a poem originally written in 1995

My Iatrophobia or "This Explains Why Men Are Deathly Afraid of Doctors"

2010-01-12T14:43:00.000-06:00

I don’t mind doctors. I even have a few for friends. It’s GOING to the doctor that really bothers me. I went to one a few years ago with a swollen something-or-other just in front of my right ear. Now I don’t know about you, but I consider myself to be a normal, reasonable sort of fellow with normal, reasonable expectations of doctors. For a man with my complaint, it was normal and reasonable to assume that the doctor would look in my ear. Not this doc. He listlessly listened to my complaint, mindlessly glanced at my ear and mysteriously disappeared for a couple of minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two cotton swabs. These swabs, however, weren’t your normal, everyday, clean-out-your-ear swabs. These swabs were extra, Extra, EXTRA long. I couldn’t imagine what they had to do with me.

Without any normal, reasonable advance warning, this doctor put one hand on top of my head and, with the other, swiftly injected one of these pole-vault swabs waaaaay up into the sinus cavity whose initial opening was my left nostril. I was stunned! Taking advantage of my weakened state, he deftly inserted the second 20-foot swab into my right nostril. Then he did something which I have always thought extremely wise. He left the room.

Leaving was a good alternative to being blindly pursued by a screaming, unintelligible, frenzied madman with insanely murderous intentions.

There I was – completely, totally, morbidly astonished – with two walrus-like cotton swabs extending from somewhere deep inside my brain, out of my nostrils, and protruding down to somewhere near my belt line. I was too shocked to think. No one had ever violated me quite like this.

Some eons later, the doctor surreptitiously re-entered and yanked out the swabs just as quickly as he had inserted them. Thank God that was over. I was ready to swing some punches but, to my utter dismay, I had sweat completely through my t-shirt, dress shirt, tie AND sport coat. The heavy weight from all that sweat caused my clothes to become water-logged, therefore making it impossible for me to lift my arm and begin the swing.

Fiendish Doctor Death had the gall to advance his gleeful torture by next inserting long, thin, rubber-like tubes first up one highly enflamed (and now grossly enlarged) nostril and then the other, telling me there was a camera attached to the end with which he was going to “look around.” I felt like I had two, five foot long boogers drooping from my nostrils.

After about 3 weeks of mining for gold in the deepest, darkest caverns of my soul, he withdrew the torture instruments, pronounced some sort of minor lymph node infection, prescribed an antibiotic and whisked himself away, laughing and muttering something about another victim in the next examining room. I was left to towel off as best I could and proceed to patient billing to pay for “services rendered.”

My wife was shocked by my ghost-like pall when I returned to the waiting room. Using her expert observation skills, she knew immediately that I was horribly upset and terribly confused. She reached out to hug and comfort me but stopped short upon realizing I was wringing wet with cold, fear-induced sweat. Fleeing this tortuous chamber of horrors, even my Florshiem shoes screeched and squeaked, leaving lonely, wet footprints in the sandy-colored carpet.

Finally reaching safety, I spewed out my near-death experience to my wife and she had the strangest reaction. She laughed. Not your polite and sympathetic little chuckle. It was more like a monstrous, bellowing guffaw amplified by an ear-splitting, all-of-creation-can-hear, public address system.

Needless to say, I never went back to that doctor.

And it took me a long time to believe my wife’s said-to-be-sincere apologies.

You and Yours, He and His

2009-12-30T18:01:00.000-06:00

When all is won or lost,

when all is said and done,

from the ecstasy of your highest high

to the depths of your lowest low,

through the worst you can ever be

to the most you will ever be –

His love for you is

deep and rich,

passionate and never-ending,

unchanging and unaltered.

He believes in you.

He wants to be with you.

He has great plans for you.

He won’t give out when you give up;

He won’t give in when you give out.

In the end,

as it was in the beginning,

love –

His love –

remains.

God, In Christ, Draws Nigh

2009-12-19T18:34:00.001-06:00

While shepherds watched their herds that night
a light was born to men.
The angels sang with awe, delight -
a holy, heavenly anthem.

"Good news, great joy" one did proclaim,
"For Christ, the babe is born;
No more the lost, no more the lame -
Glad tidings this Christly morn'".

The angelic host appeared in praise -
"Glory to God most high.”
With arms uplift' and voices raised -
"God, in Christ, draws nigh."

The world knew not this babe, this God
born in Bethlehem manger.
"Another fool on whom to trod -
birthed of Davidic stranger."

Few they were who knew this Truth
now sleeping by candle's light.
Yet here - the promise in fleshly proof! -
to conquer man's sin-filled plight.

Christ, the babe, the Holy One -
to earth, a Savior given -
God Himself, th' Incarnate Son
given on earth from heaven.

copyright: Dave Pingel, 1993

The Key, The Way - and The Miracle

2009-12-11T16:23:00.000-06:00

Finding the Way
From Shame to Glory
Part V - Conclusion

Can the shame and embarrassment of sin ever be erased and our hearts and souls made pure? How can we exchange the blackness of our sin for the whiteness of purity? Can we ever walk together with God again?

Unlike an embarrassing moment, the shame of sin is not something we simply endure until its passing. Just as we cannot cover our sin, hide it from God, or justify it, we also cannot fix it. What is broken cannot fix itself. Only the Creator can fix the created. Only our loving Father can restore our souls to a pure and shameless state.

Our kind and merciful Father lovingly waits until we exhaust ourselves running away from our sin and from Him. He waits until we stop all the covering up, the hiding, the excusing, and the blame-shifting. He waits until we expose our wrong, until we bare our sins and our souls to ourselves and to Him, and until we admit that we are powerless to fix ourselves. He waits until we trust Him to fix that which is broken in us. 1 John 1:9 provides the key: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from unrighteousness.” Confession (both to ourselves AND to God) is the key to unlocking forgiveness, thus purifying our unrighteousness. It’s an “if-then” - a condition with a promise. IF we confess, THEN He forgives. Of course, we have to consider both sides of the if-then condition/promise: IF we don’t confess, then He WON’T forgive.

When we have turned the key (confessed the sin), the door that was blocking our way to righteousness through Jesus is opened. Jesus is the way. “Behold, the Lamb . . . who takes away the sin . . . (John 1:29). This was the exact and very reason for which Jesus came. The Bible says in 2 Co 5:21 that “He (God) made Him (Jesus) who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf . . .” In other words, Jesus suffered the shame of our sin – mine and yours - so we wouldn’t have to suffer that shame. When we believe that and act upon our belief accordingly, (Romans 10:10) something very special happens – our sin is of no account - and shame cannot blacken our souls. Then, we rejoice because “everyone who trusts in him will never be put to shame (Romans 10:11).” Finally – totally and completely – our souls are restored to shameless grace. And we are freed to walk together again with God, heart to heart, in the beautiful garden of relationship.

Oh, what a glorious miracle!

Copyright Dave Pingel, November 2009

Wounded, Cornered and Trapped

2009-12-08T18:16:00.000-06:00

Finding the Way
From Shame to Glory
Part IV

Hunters tell us that a wounded animal, trapped and backed into a corner, is the most dangerous animal to face. Adam, full of fear and seeing no place to run, did a very dangerous thing. He deflected his sin away from himself, projected it back on God, and cast as much blame as he possibly could on Eve. His self-inflicted sin was a death-wound to the heart and he was cornered with no place to run. He was hurt. He was angry. He shoved responsibility for his sin away from himself, he lashed out at God, and he accused his wife. He growled that it wasn’t his fault, it was God’s fault. If God hadn’t given Adam a defective wife, this whole thing would never have happened. It was Eve’s fault, too. She was the one who disobeyed – and she fooled Adam into doing so as well. Yes, Adam was clearly not responsible here. He was definitely the victim in this whole ugly mess.

In his trapped condition, he used the pain of his wounds to deflect responsibility for sin away from those who were most responsible – himself and Satan. We have followed this same pattern ever since, casting blame away from ourselves and on to anyone else. And thus we never see Satan’s laughing reflection in the mirror of our own hearts and souls.

Eve, following Adam’s heart-endearing example, also tried to shift the focus from her trapped and caged self, casting total blame at the feet of Satan. “The serpent deceived me, and I ate.” She was tricked, duped, deceived. It wasn’t her fault. After all, she only wanted to be like God. (Never mind the fact that she was already made in His image. Never mind the fact that she wanted to know good AND evil [Genesis 3:4]. Never mind the fact that SHE focused on what SHE wanted, not what God directed.)

God didn’t buy any of it for a minute.

The consequence? He drove them out of the most beautiful place on the face of the earth – the place where Adam and Eve and God walked together side by side. Sin does that. It drives us away from the most beautiful place we can ever be – next to the heart of God.

We all have the sin imprint of Adam and Eve. When caught in sin and shame, we all follow the pattern they birthed. We cover sin, we run from it. We deny it, justify it, and excuse it. When that doesn’t work, we blame-shift. We lash out. We do everything but take responsibility for it.

Our first parents disobeyed and were shame-facedly guilty. They couldn’t get away with it. So, too, we are guilty and without excuse. The Bible says that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). We all have shame-full souls. Our shame testifies of our guilt. Our guilt has consequences. We can no longer walk with God in the beauty of life that He designed for us.

Next: Part V - The Key, The Way and the Miracle

copyright Dave Pingel, November 2009

The Face of Fear

2009-12-06T16:35:00.000-06:00

Finding the Way
From Shame to Glory
Part III

Sin brought something else into being that had not previously existed in man or on the face of the earth. Sin brought fear. Adam feared because he knew in his heart his wrong, he knew in his heart his God, and he knew in his heart that his wrong separated him from the blessings of God and brought him under the judgment of God. He feared God’s anger.

Few things awaken the soul as does fear. Fear speaks of imminent danger. Fear testifies of One infinitely more powerful. Fear motivates. Fear drives. Fear can be a terrible task-master.

But fear, far from being a bad thing, was actually very good for Adam – and it is good for us. A very wise man once penned the words “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge and wisdom.” Adam’s fear was good because it was the tool God used (God created the emotion of fear and put it into Adam) to lead Adam to a new beginning of knowing God, knowing Him anew and afresh. The Hebrew word “beginning,” in addition to meaning the “first part,” also means “chief” and “choice part.” Adam’s fear was not only the beginning of knowing God, it was the “chief” aspect, the “choice part” of knowing God.

Since God created the emotion of fear, it follows that there are godly purposes for fear. Those purposes include causing us to recognize that a Greater One is near, convicting us of what He calls sin, and turning us toward (not away from) our source of help. When we turn to God, He helps us. When we turn away from God, He simply waits for us.

As always, Satan counterfeits the things of God – and he has a counterfeit design for fear. Satan’s purposes are opposed to those of God and he uses fear to harden our hearts and drive us away from God. When we are running away from Someone, it is very difficult to receive the help that that very Someone is offering. And, if we are running from God, who is it that we are we running to?

Next: Part IV - Wounded, Cornered and Trapped

copyright: Dave Pingel, November 2009

Shame on the Earth

2009-11-24T18:20:00.000-06:00

Finding the Way
From Shame to Glory
Part II

Just like we hurry to move beyond painful situations in life, we similarly hurry through painful moments in scripture without taking time to fully explore and understand their depth and impact. An example of this is the fall of Adam and Eve. We often read the story as: God created man, man sinned, man fell. Next story, please.

When we read this quickly and think no more before moving to the next story, we miss the up-close-and-personal vividness, the highlighted details, and the deep understandings that God wants us to see and have. Proverbs 25:2 says: “It’s the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.” Let’s put this story under the searchlight of scrutiny to search out what is not readily visible to the naked eye. Perhaps we will find the way through the darkness of our shame-filled souls into His plan for us to be glorious luminaries of His Being. After all, God promises that in our searching we will see glory.

Before Adam and Eve birthed any children on the earth, they conceived and produced sin. Their shame-filled and embarrassing moment, which was momentous for all of mankind, came when they chose to oppose God and his directive not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Their sin and shame were not just momentary, light afflictions. This horrendous error forever infected their character and all that they were and did. Like an insidious, infectious disease, it was then passed on to their children. Their children passed it on to their children and so on down to the present day. (Romans 5:12, 15b, 17-19)

Scripture tells us that the first thing that happened as a result of their disease-ridden disobedience was that their eyes were opened to their nakedness. The Hebrew word for “eyes,” aside from the physical interpretation, also means “of mental faculty.” What is less obvious in the Scripture, but still very evident, is that they knew (had a mental understanding) they were wrong. To know wrong, they first had to know right. They knew right, but knowingly chose wrong. They had never before – ever – chosen something other than God. Now they had, and they knew it.

After choosing wrongly, they knew something else they had never known before - shame.

The first reaction to their shameful state was to look for cover. Cover, we think, is necessary because we’ve exposed the impurity that’s in our hearts. We don’t want God to see our impurities, so we cover them, most often with our own justifications, excuses and reasoning. I am reminded of a small toddler who, because her eyes are covered by her own little hands, thinks that others cannot see her. When we think our sins are covered, we fool only ourselves.

Seeing that they couldn’t successfully cover their shame, Adam and Eve did the next best thing. They hid. The Bible tells us after they disobeyed, God came looking for them. They heard Him coming and hid themselves. God called to the man, “Where are you?” The problem is that then, as now, there was no place to hide from an all-seeing, all-knowing, forever-loving God.

Here’s a bit of friendly advice. When God asks a question, it’s not because He doesn’t know the answer. He asked the where-are-you-question of Adam and Eve because He wanted them to realize where THEY were - in a place they’d never been before, hiding from God. God wanted Adam and Eve to acknowledge their shameful wrong, first to themselves and then to Him. (One can’t admit something to God without first admitting it to oneself.) He wanted them to realize they couldn’t do a thing to cover, hide or excuse what they had done. He wanted them to realize that for the first time in their lives, they were covering their shame-faced souls and hiding from the only One who loved them deeply. He would not begin His redemptive work until their mouths confessed the sin of their hearts.

Thousands of years later, it is no different. When we sin, we often revert to the cover-and-hide strategy. We cover our sin and hide it from ourselves when we ignore our sin, excuse it, or justify it. Our all-knowing Father-God, from whom nothing is hidden, continues to ask the same simple but probing question, “Where are you?” Since we are hiding, we pretend we don’t hear the question. If we don’t hear it, we don’t have to answer it. If we don’t answer it, we don’t have to confront our wrongs. We must stop hiding from ourselves; we must confess our sins to ourselves before we can ever turn to God, seek His forgiveness, and plead for redemption to do its work in our hearts. If we try to “cover” our sin, we fool only ourselves and become like that little girl holding her hands over her eyes.

Next: Part III - Shame and The Face of Fear

copyright: Dave Pingel, November 2009

A Shame-Full Soul

2009-11-21T12:41:00.001-06:00

Finding the Way
FROM SHAME TO GLORY
Part I

I hate it when I blush. My face turns beet-red and those little sweat beads form on my forehead. The room suddenly grows a hundred times smaller and I KNOW everyone is gawking at me. I search for ways to cover my embarrassment and anguish. I cough. I take a drink of water. I write on a notepad. I ask a question of someone else, so others will look at someone other than me. I long to run and hide but am too often frozen by mind-melt. Besides, the time to run is at the exact moment of my faux pas. Any time after and it’s simply too late.

If I can do none of these, I resort to Plan B - spreading the blame and shame to a co-conspirator. By pulling someone else into the embarrassment of the situation, at least I won’t suffer alone. Hopefully forcing attention away from me, even for a micro-moment, gives me needed time to “de-flush” and regain composure. Sharing the shame makes me feel less guilty. As they say - misery loves company!

Lastly, I try to ignore and forget the embarrassing moment. Inevitably, the situation replays itself relentlessly, pounding my errors and stupidities deep into my memory. (Days, weeks or months later, when I least expect it, my mind defaults to flash-back and I watch my shame blatantly displayed in the theater of my mind. At times I blush even at the memory and again, I am filled with the pain of my error and am robbed of all confidence.) Ultimately the only way for me to get beyond my shame, is to acknowledge it, ask forgiveness for my blunder, suffer the consequences and move on.

Sound familiar?

Just as painful embarrassment is reflected by a beet-red blush in the face, so also is sin a reflection of shame on the soul. Obviously the soul doesn’t turn beet-red like the face. The soul is colored by sin all the same. Black! The more sin - the more shame and the blacker the soul. If white is a symbol of goodness and purity, then black is the antithesis, symbolizing wickedness and impurity. If white reflects a soul with no sin, then deepest black reflects a soul full of shame.

Next: Part II - Shame on the Earth, Up Close and Personal

copyright: Dave Pingel November 2009

Their Long Embrace

2009-09-19T12:33:00.002-05:00

Some words burst into the theater of my mind with such imagery that I don’t know if I’ve read them in a book or actually watched them on the screen. For example:

Love and faithfulness meet together;

Righteousness and peace kiss.*

My eyes read these words, but when they make it to my mind they are transformed into two lovers in intimate embrace.

Love and faithfulness – like two halves of the same heart longing for each other - find great release and total completeness as they meet and entwine one ‘round the other. In their youth, they are passionate, energetic, exciting. In their elder ways, as those cloven together for decades, they fit each other, they belong together, and one without the other is simply unimaginable.

The word-scene plays on:

Faithfulness springs forth from the earth,

and righteousness looks down from heaven.*

When Love and Faithfulness share their long embrace, the never-ending gleam in the eyes of Righteousness is forever wed to the never-fading sparkle in the smile of Peace. The kiss that follows, tasting like the golden dew of Heaven, is eternal.

And sometimes, though my mind’s eye beholds one scene, quite another unfolds upon the stage of my heart.

Faithfulness looks up from Earth, seeking, watching, waiting. Righteousness looks down from Heaven, searching, looking, longing. Two halves, one heart. Their eyes meet. They come together – lovers finally joining in intimate, inseparable embrace.

Oh the sweetness of such union.

*Psalm 85:10-11

Leaving and Going

2009-08-25T14:20:00.003-05:00

Lately, I’ve been pondering a certain scripture in Genesis, chapter 12. I do so as I’m in the process of a major life change – moving out of employment in the public sector to self-employment. It’s not an easy thing to do – leaving job security for job uncertainty, leaving a known way of life for an unknown way, leaving behind limited guarantees for unlimited potential. During this process, this scripture in Genesis 12 softly, but firmly, called to me. It won’t let me go. I’m glad. It has become for me an ark – my dwelling place as I cast off from the shoreline of what I know, letting the wind of the Spirit launch me into the deep seas of His Great Unknown.

Here is that scripture: “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Leave your country, your people, and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you.” (Gen 12:1)

It’s interesting God told him first to leave his country, then his people, then his father’s household. I suppose in so doing, it became increasingly difficult. God said first to leave country. What is one’s country? Is it just the natural, geographical boundaries of the land of one’s birth? Well, it can be. I think, too, however, that it represents the culture that surrounds those with whom one has grown accustomed to or even comfortable with. In Abram’s day, Mesopotamia certainly did not know this God who summoned Abram. Nor did they know his ways. The command to come out (Gen 12:1, KJV: “Get thee out…”) was certainly an order for Abram to depart completely from a culture that God did not want him in.

For me, yes, leaving “country” has meant leaving life (several years ago) in the Midwest for life in the South. And even in the South, it has meant leaving what I have been most familiar with these last years – my job, what I have become proficient in and comfortable with – for a new undertaking, something that is unfamiliar to me.

The second thing Abram was to leave was his people. I suspect this was perhaps harder than leaving country. “People” in this sense meant leaving “relatives or kin,” perhaps even “friends” – those most like you, those with whom you have a recognizable and real connection, those whom you grew up with, lived life with.

I would describe my “people”, in part, as those who I joined with in days gone by – those whom I grew up with who were similar to me in beliefs and with whom I had real connection - believing that life and worship was meant to be lived out a certain way, doing and not doing, being and not being. This also includes leaving “church” as I have understood it in years past for “church” as God is revealing it to me now. The two, while foundationally similar, are quite different when it comes to method, scale and purpose.

Perhaps the hardest was the last one – Abram was to leave his father’s household. He was to leave those nearest and dearest, the ones who gave him physical life, nurtured him, cared for him, raised him, loved him. I believe, too, that this meant that Abram was to leave the “ways” of his father’s household – their way of worship, their way of life, and their way of doing things. In essence, Abram was to leave the lifestyle of his father. He was to separate himself from them – not in the sense of severing relationship, but in the sense of leaving to join himself completely to and with the new (someone/something else). This was the cost of following God’s voice to leave and go.

The principal of the cost of leaving (country, people, parents, lifestyles, former days) seems to be present as well in Jesus’ words to his disciples when he tells them (often) to “follow me.” Clearly the intent was separate and leave, go and cleave. “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head. …follow me…”

For me, this means leaving family – blood, in-law, and spiritual of one day, and one way – for family in a new way and in a new day – connected by Spirit, connected by “likeness”, connected by agreement. I don’t mean divorcing blood, in-law, and old spiritual completely. I am not advocating severance. I believe in the command to love. I do not believe in this case that the leave and go command means to intentionally burn all relational bridges along your way. (There is, however, a change in those relationships in that they do not remain the same.) I am advocating separation in the sense of leaving behind God’s way of doing things in one day (the days of one’s “immaturity”) for the new ways of God in your next day (the days for increasing maturity).

Leave your country, your people, and your father’s household. Leave the familiar. Leave the comfortable. Leave what is in your past for who is in your future. Leave the known for the unknown. Leave the natural for the supernatural. Leave the ordinary for the promise of extraordinary.

How did Abram respond? We don’t have to wait long to find out; the answer is found in verse 4: “So Abram left as the Lord told him.”

Abram goes. He obeys. He leaves. Just like that. No wailing. No whining. No sad good-byes. No long looks back. No forlornness. Abram does what he knows is right. He does his part. He leaves all else to God. His business is to “go”; everything else is God’s business.

He walks to, in, and around the new place.

And that, too, is what I do. I do my part. My business is to go – and I am doing so. All else is up to God and is His business. No, I don’t know all the answers. It’s not my job to know – and I have to remind myself of that often. My comfort is in the One who does know. And this is the new day, the new way for me – trusting in Him; trusting not in a secure job, trusting not in regular paychecks, trusting not in insurance, trusting not in earthly relationships, and trusting not in what I know. I would like to say that this is an easy thing for me to do. Frankly, it is not.

There’s another scripture about Abram that has been a lighthouse of hope, my promise of comfort in the mistiness which is, to me, the unknown and the uncertainness of the new day I find myself in. It’s found in Genesis 13: 14. But first, let me set the stage.

Abram has found himself standing on the edge of another cliff of uncertainty. Lot and he are each too big to stay together; they must separate. Staying together means conflict. Better to separate and have a measure of peace than to be together and have none. To soothe things over, Abram offers Lot the choice of wherever it is Lot wants to go. If Lot goes one way, Abram will go the other. Lot chooses. He succumbs to the siren’s call of Sodom. He thinks he has chosen the best – and indeed, to the natural eye, it certainly appears that way. And Abram lets him go. But Lot makes a big mistake. He chooses what he knows, what he thinks to be the best. And he leaves – only to find disaster, heartbreak, fear, and devastation.

Abram now stands alone with God. He is left with the leftovers. All others have cast him aside. But what others cast away as not of God and not from God is the very thing God uses to bless the new day, the new way. God does not leave Abram in his aloneness. God gives him a bright beacon of hope and promise that far outshines any darkness that surrounds. And in my day, for me, it is the same. God’s response to Abram in chapter 13, verse 14 is my beacon of hope and promise shining through the darkness of my imperfect sight to lead me safely to Him, to His ways for me in my new day.

Here is that scripture. “The Lord said to Abram after Lot had parted from him, “Lift up your eyes from where you are and look north and south, east and west. All the land that you see I will give you and your offspring forever.”

As it was with Abram, so let it be with me – for this is what I’m choosing to believe. It is the voice of God I hear ringing in my heart. It’s a voice that says, “Leave it all behind. Yes, you’ve done well in the jobs you’ve had. Yes, you were successful in the things you set your hand to do. But those aren’t your security. Leave it all behind. Strike out again. Go to the land I will show you. Yes, there might be a few issues along the way. Yes, there will be days of difficulty. Hey, you may even make a mistake or two. But don’t look back. Don’t strive for the new with a longing for your old. That land – that new thing you’re doing – lift up your eyes and look full upon it. In fact, search it out – top to bottom, side to side, and all around. I’ll give it to you. It’s yours. Just like I’ve done before, I will bless you. Don’t be afraid. I’m your shield, your insurance, your back-up, your point man, your rear guard. In fact, I, the Great I AM, says ‘I am your very great reward.’ Your reward in this new day and new way is more of Me.

What better reward can there be?

copyright Dave Pingel 8-22-09

Step Softly

2009-08-09T13:34:00.003-05:00

“Step softly – a dream lies buried here.”

So read the inscription on this little one’s headstone. He was just eleven months old at his passing, perhaps the embodiment, literally, of his parents’ dreams – the dream of having a family, the dream of watching infants grow, the dream of loving, lasting, blissful relationships in a world of stark contrast. Standing now, here, at the foot of this grave, one sees the cold, harsh evidence of broken dreams and broken lives.

I think about the words on that headstone. “Step softly” – a plea to all those who walk near this gravesite, an exhortation not to mindlessly trample about, but to be considerate of that which is now buried deep below. Be cautiously deliberate of where you trod. “A dream lies buried here.” Though what remains of flesh and blood is now but dust and dirt, this grave is the aching echo, a clanging voiceless testament, the crusted shell of a dream that once held life and breath, which was at once both a purpose for and promise of the future.

“Step softly – a dream lies buried here” – a sentinel reminder of what could have been, of what once was but now is not. They are words that reflect the darkness of the long night of our despair.

And, too, they are the heralding of the dawn, for after that long darkness comes the light of day. Such is the way of things. Just as an obituary, though a statement of death, is full of those family members who live on, so too the words of our inscription, though a summary of death, are a motto for those who live on.

Consider dreams that lie buried deeply within the human heart. We should indeed step softly around them. They are the things of which our future is made. Just as seed, before springing to abundant life, must first be nurtured in the soil, so too, our dreams must be nurtured as they lie deep within while we ponder realms of realities. “Step softly” means to carry them gently and not trample them under the thoughts and cares that weigh heavy upon the day. We must be cautiously deliberate around our dreams. In the fullness of time, and with the labor of purpose, they will be birthed upon the earth, a living, breathing reality that embodies in the “present” that which was once but an infant picture in our hearts and minds.

The words “a dream lies buried here” need not be an agonizing echo, a clanging symbol, a crusty shell of what once could have been, but now will never be. No. Let them herald the certain hope that surely is to come. Your dreams are meant to be born; they are meant to live. They were given as a roadmap for destiny. You are meant to dream them, explore them, reach for them. Your present day dream is intended to be a future reality. But, too, they are meant for more than you. For the dreams that lie buried within you now, in this day, are the foundations upon which those to come shall build their own.

When future generations ponder all that was and is your life, what evidence of lofty dreams and certain hopes will be as a life-saving lighthouse casting beams of hope into the darkness that is their night?

Step softly. Dreams lie buried here.

Abused

2009-06-23T19:47:00.002-05:00

Little arms uplifted,
reaching high, above . . .
comes the blow
unexpected;
bruises, beatings
for love.

Little eyes a-lookin’;
big round world to see . . .
only
frowning mommy faces -
staring back-
angrily.

Little ears a-hearin’;
“What did daddy say?”
“Shut up, kid;
yer worthless;
Go now;
Git away!”

“What’s-a-matter, mama?
Daddy,
what’d I do so bad?
Won’t you ever love me?
Is life always
sad?”

Little hearts a-cryin’
Scared and all alone . . .
No one really loves them
in the hell
they call
their home.

Copyright Dave Pingel
June 23, 2009

DreamKeeper - The Wounded Realm

2009-06-20T19:37:00.002-05:00

(Note: A few weeks ago, I posted the initial "journal entry" of a story I've held in my heart for a number of years. The last entry was simply titled "Dream Keeper." Here is the next installment: "DreamKeeper and the Wounded Realm." Let me know what you think.)

December 9
Dear UnOnes,

Today I must tell you about the world of which I write. It is known as the Wounded Realm and it is a most unusual place. Many, unfortunately, see no reason to call our land the Wounded Realm. Sadly, it is a poor commentary on the state of affairs that we have lived in such condition so long that we no longer see our own woundedness. The Dream Keepers of Old used to say this world was once known as The Beautiful Realm – but most people believed these to be only the whimsical fairy tales of foolish men. The Dreamers also said this land would one day be known as the Glorious Realm, but most simply ignored that kind of talk as the silly, childish babble to which men often fall victim in their advanced years.

Ah, my children, this land and the hearts of men are indeed wounded – well beyond even our own recognition. But as long as the Dream lived, men saw this land, wounded though it was, in light of what it could one day be. Hope was plentiful, belief was common - and though the Naysayers were numerous even then, the future was bright with promise. Yes, when men were young and immortal, full of never-ending bravery and an undying conviction that they could change the world, Dreamers were hailed as heroes, staunch defenders of the faith and shining champions of a noble cause. The land, old as it was even then, was full of honey and fruit, ripe for the taking if we could simply believe strongly enough that we could possess it.

I, too, my little UnOnes, believed so. Yes, though I was not one of noble blood, I freely gave myself to the passion of the Dream. Eagerly I followed zealous young leaders who rallied the down-trodden to the Dream. Oh, it was not always so. In fact, in my earliest years, I was one of the Naysayers. Strangely enough, I never identified myself as a Naysayer, no - quite the opposite. I said I believed in the Dream (though I really didn’t), as most did in those days. During those rare and lonely times when I really, truly considered the Dream, it was more a far-off possibility than it was a close-up reality. Unfortunately, my un-belief in those first years was strong as were my unbelieving companions, and our chosen reality blinded us to any possibility of truly believing.

Alas, I digress. I mean to tell you of the Wounded Realm rather than prattle on in my old age.

What, however, can I say? Land is land. Climate is climate. Trees are trees. Water is water. I suppose I really meant to describe the landscape of men’s hearts more than the physical land itself. You will gaze upon the same physical geography as do I. Oh, perhaps it will change somewhat. Floods and droughts and men will have their way as they always have. Cities will be born and cities will die. New inventions will give way to newer ones yet and man will continue to think he is master of his own destiny. How easily blinded we are.

I am tired now, dear hearts. There is so much to tell, but I must rest.

Nowán N. Ani’One
Dream Keeper
The Wounded Ream

copyright 2006 Dave Pingel

For My Children

2009-06-14T18:58:00.003-05:00

(Note: Although I've posted this particular poem before [under different title], I'd like to do so again to celebrate my children and their children. I have 3 wonderful sons, a lovely daughter, a fantastic daughter-in-law, and two beautiful granddaughters. To all of this, a grandson was recently born. Welcome to the world, Joel David. This is my prayer for all of you.)

If you can keep the Faith when all about you
are forever lost and knowing not The Way;
If you can trust the Lord when all men doubt Him
and not by their doubts be led astray;
If you can serve and not grow tired of serving,
or being served, not expect too much;
Or being lord, not give way to lording
but be e'er humble 'neath the Master's touch:

If you can love those who are not lovely,
if you can give and not demand return;
If you'll befriend the lost and lonely,
be not too friendly or none too stern;
If you can stand by Truth when all it costs you
and not think twice 'bout what is lost;
If you can stand while storms blow 'round you
and face the winds yet not be tossed:

If you'll do right to those who wrong you,
treat them not with scorn, contempt;
If you'll reach out when they rail against you,
not return their words, though sorely tempt'd;
If you'll endure and be long-suffering
and with patience, keep standing on -
And so hold on when there's nothing in you
except His voice which says to you "Be strong":

If you can talk with God and be not haughty
and walk with man yet not be in his ways;
If all that's done counts as naught before thee,
yet be ye filled with Him at the end of your days;
If you can master flesh with heart, with Spirit
and keep your eyes on His Holy One,
Yours is the Kingdom and all that's in it -
and - you'll be men of God, my sons.

Lovingly,
Dad/Grandpa

copyright Dave Pingel 2009

Or So It Seems

2009-06-01T19:45:00.001-05:00

How I've longed to walk the path
that leads to my field of dreams;
but the road of life leads differently -
or so at least it seems.

I long to breathe the breath of dreams
that satisfies the soul -
to drink from streams that fill my heart
and lay in fields of gold.

But life at times is far away
from the fields and streams of dreams -
and the road I walk is a different way -
or so at least it seems.

I asked the Lord, "Why is this so -
that where I dream I cannot go?"
"Why must I but dream these things -
not live them out?" or so it seems.

And the Lord, in mercy, said to me:

"My son, I cannot fill your heart's desire
to walk on paths divine -
'till you stop longing for your dreams -
and start living life in Mine."

copyright Dave Pingel 1999

Freedom's Cry

2009-05-10T21:37:00.003-05:00

To war, to war!” the young men cried -
and with their all, they gave;
Wounded, some – and others died.
Losing flesh and soul and dreams, they saved
the very same of others.
Now in mournful, lonely, tear-stained graves -
Lie Patriot’s heroes, brothers -
Once more, a land set free by the Home of the Brave.

The price again of Liberty?
Freed men slain in death
that lost lives chained in slavery
might live with Freedom’s breath.
Once more the blood of Liberty
is spilled on distant shores
that freedmen’s hearts again will beat
in liberated lives once more.

“But Oh, the cost, too much” it’s said.
Let no one argue other.
Still, to think: “Freedom, dead?”
Liberty, fair lady, shudders.
On the families lost in mourning waves -
their own tomorrows buried -
Live on the lives that Freedom saved,
In Whom Hope’s future, married.

To them that died, to them that live -
to them ask “What cost, Freedom?”
“My blood, my heart, my life ‘twas give -
This IS the price of Freedom!”
And so “To War!” is Freedom’s cry
when Liberty lies in chains.
We dare not e’er forget, decry
what precious dead so dearly gained.

Dave Pingel
Copyright May 10, 2009

Dedicated to the brave men and women of the Unites States Armed Services

His Voice

2009-05-04T19:57:00.002-05:00

In the calm and quiet solitude
of the middle of the night,
beneath a velvet canopy
bespeckeled
with star light,
when the hurried, worried pace
of life is at a rest
and the hustle and the bustle
await
the next day yet;
when the air is cool and clean,
soothing
to the soul -
and time is somewhere sleeping,
all by itself,
alone -
‘Tis then . . .
the voice of God resounds
in crescendo’d
quietude
proclaiming ageless mysteries
to the listening,
chosen few.

His voice is like the night –
of peace,
tranquility;
like a sea of silent sound,
whispering
eternally.
He speaks not to the ear,
but gently
to the heart,
words worth more than gold,
jeweled life
He does impart.
Yet,
His ways
are not like man's,
nor are His methods
mortal;
He needs no helping hands,
no earthly wreaths
of laurel.
You see . . .
God needs not the mind of man
to receive the gifts of heaven -
no!
it's to man's heart
the heavenly gifts
are given.

And if the heart
is pliable –
just like the potter's clay,
His words
will do a miracle
that will quick outshine the day.
But,
if the heart
is hardened,
like a worry-worn,
wind-washed
stone
His words can do but nothing;
that heart will die,
alone.

Man's heart
is like the night -
dark
and oft' times hidden -
guarded,
chained,
and locked -
just like
a pauper's prison.
Yet
in this man-made
dark of night,
God's voice
can still be heard
if we will but
stop
and
listen
for His whispered word.

copyright 2009 Dave Pingel
reworked from a poem from 1988

The Lion and the Dance

2009-04-18T19:08:00.000-05:00

Have you ever danced with a lion? I have.

After getting by the absurdity of the thought, I suppose a logical question might be: “And how does one accomplish this most unusual feat?” Well, my friend, I can’t answer that for you. That’s something only you and the lion can determine. I can only tell you about my dance. Rest assured, though, that the lion and the dance are real.

Of course for there to be a dance there has to be music. What kind of music is appropriate for a dance with a lion? Does a lion prefer country music? Pop? Rock? How about Classical? Or ballet? Or perhaps a waltz? “Silly questions” you might think. But you answer them anyway with “A lion can dance to whatever music he likes!”

Exactly!

Now that I have your sincere interest (would you finish reading this if I didn’t?), let me tell you something. Everyone dances with the lion. “I’m very certain” you might say “that I’ve never danced a day in my life with a lion.” Well, my friend, let me put it this way - everyone who now is, everyone who ever was, and everyone who will ever be is either now dancing, has danced, or will dance with the lion.

Notwithstanding your thoughts of absurdity, let me say this to you very simply - and I urge you to consider it very carefully: the lion is the Lord, your life is music, and the dance is your destiny.

Let me explain.

In the natural world the lion has long been known as king. He rules the land, does what he wills, and fears no one. There is none greater.

In the spiritual realm, He who gave birth to the natural lion calls Himself “The Lion of Judah.” He rules regardless of anyone, performs as He wills, and fears no one. There is none greater.

Consider well the Lion!

In the natural world music is an organized progression of sound having some degree of rythym, melody, and harmony. Though the composer has written the score and has previously determined how these things are to relate to one another, it is the one who plays the music who weaves the rythyms, melodies, and harmonies in a certain progression. How true in life! Though the Composer has written your part (and written it to His liking!) it is you who weave together the rythym of your own will with the melody of your own beliefs and the harmony of your own choosing.

How sad when our “performance” does not match the written score - when the results of all that we are do not match all that we could, and should, have been.

Consider well your life!

In the natural world destiny is always hindsight. “I did it; it happened - therefore that is what I was meant to do. Because it did happen, it was inevitable. That was my destiny.” In this line of thinking, destiny is some greater force dictating the outcome of events, a force over which we have little, if any, influence or control.

In the realm of the Lion (the real “natural” realm, by the way), destiny is always foresight - forward seeing. It other words, destiny is the forgone conclusion that what has been pre-determined will come to pass.

Yes, destiny is inevitable, but allow me to let you in on a certain secret: Destiny is inevitable by choice never by happenstance! What you do in life - who you are and what you will become - is always by choice. Life is not happenstance, born without purpose. Neither is life lived by happenstance. Determining what you will believe, in whom you will believe, and with whom you believe is a matter of choice. Your choosings determine the dance which is your destiny.

It is your destiny that you dance with the Lion. Everyone does. This “dance” is both a natural and a spiritual conclusion according to the way you choose to “play” your life as compared to the way the score was intended.

Remember now, the Lion is King. He rules. He has written the score to his choosing. Indeed, He has chosen His dance and has extended his hand to you. He fears no one.

Whom do you fear?

Here are some tips on how one dances with a lion.

1. You cannot refuse the lion.
2. The lion leads.
3. You have only one dance.
4. You can choose to follow or not.
5. You will choose only once.

Consider well your dance!

Have You?

2009-04-11T13:04:00.001-05:00

I've never seen the ocean, but I know its waves are there;
I've never conquered Everest or breathed pure mountain air.
I've never crossed a desert, nor felt its shifting sands;
I've never seen my Father, though He holds me in his hands.

I've never seen an eagle's nest high up th’ mountainous side;
I've never watched the whale give birth ‘neath the wat’ry tide.
I've never walked the Corners Four of my earthly home;
I've never known a moment when He's left me all alone.

I've never plumbed the endless depths of a clear blue sky;
I've never flown on wings of wind, nor stood in the hurricane's eye.
I've never seen the Northern Lights reflect the Heaven's glow;
I've always had my Father's love; this I surely know.

I've never seen His Gentle Face or heard His Voice aloud;
but I'd know Him in an instant, even in the largest crowd.
Could you do the same, my friend;
would you know the Father’s touch?
Rest assured; with all He is, He loves you, oh so much.

Copyright Dave Pingel
April 2009

Dream Keeper

2009-04-07T21:05:00.005-05:00

(Note: A few years ago, a story idea for a book drifted across my mind and heart. I spent some time writing and, as too often happens, I moved on to something else before carrying the idea through to completion. I've recently re-discovered those writings.

Just for fun, I've decided to post the story's first"journal entry" on this blog. Tell me what you think. If you don't want to post your response for others to see, send me a private email at davepingel@cox.net Then again, seeing that I have no idea if more than one or two people read ANYof this blog - I may be posting for my own delusional benefit. :-) Oh well, sometimes that's ok too. There are other "journal entries" beyond this one. If you want to see more, you'll have to tell me.)

December 8
My Dearest UnOnes,

My name is Nowán N. Ani’One and I am the last of the Dream Keepers. The story I am about to reveal is my Dream. It comes to me every night when I close my eyes. It is in my heart when I awake. It is as real to me as life is to you. At one time, many shared this Dream. In fact, there was a time when our lives and the Dream were one and the same. The dream was our life. Our lives were the Dream. Today, however, I am the only one left. There are no other Dreamers, only realists. And even I struggle with keeping the Dream alive. There are many days when I think the Dream is truly dead and gone. On these days, dreariness weighs heavily upon my heart and the attacking emptiness and discouragement are hard to withstand. There are other days, though, when a spark from the Dream ignites the little flame that is my life and I burst into believing all over again.

In these last days, my children, many have endeavored to explain their remembrance of the Dream as a brief and momentary flash of youthful zeal, when passionate energy and an undying belief in The Dream were high. “But now that we are older and wiser,” they say, “our eyes more reasonably see and our hearts better understand the times in which we lived. How foolish we once were.” Indeed, they have written their stories and letters, which you can look upon with your own eyes, applying the light of their suddenly wise reasonings to interpreting the events of days gone by. Save me such triviality. It is most laborious and inglorious.

Some have said that The Dream was nothing more than vain belief that mortal man can truly see and understand the Immortal One. Much like a fun-house mirror warps the image of the person it reflects, their vanity warped their picture of The Dream. Still others will venture that we foolishly followed one man’s interpretation, allowing the force of his personality to overwhelm and deceive us. Over time, those who believed in this manner magnified the man’s errors which, in turn, eclipsed The Dream.

Since I am the very last Dream Keeper, it seemed good to me to also write of those days and of The Dream. What follows, dear hearts, is the truthful account of all that The Dream was, is and is to be.

Nowán N. Ani’One
Dream Keeper
The Wounded Realm

copyright 2006 Dave Pingel

Me, Myself and I

2009-03-29T19:49:00.001-05:00

I met myself the other day and saw a different me -
Playfully, I was musing in a misty memory.
Young and strong, immortal then - and bright my every ‘morrow -
Indeed, no match for mortal men; not weighed by wisdom’s sorrows.
I smiled at me who didn’t see the elder strolling by.
Dauntless me - how could he see the future-remembering I.

----------------

I glanced into a mirror today and saw a different me -
Scurrying, I was hurrying somewhere - mindlessly.
Older, slower - mortal now; too quickly comes the ‘morrow -
And oft’ I’m struggling mightily ‘neath life’s weights and sorrows.
Still . . . I smiled at me, amazed to see the me I had become -
the me to be and the me I am - the two all mixed as one.

----------------

I wonder if future memories - when the me of then meets me -
will there be even faint resemblance to the one I intended me to be?
And when thoughts of me aren’t mine anymore and spent my last tomorrow -
be sure of this, as am I - my friend, Heaven’s joys outweigh earth’s sorrows.
Then – as Father God smiles at me, I’ll see the me I really am -
Formed as men are meant to be – complete in the image of the Lamb.

copyright Dave Pingel February 5, 2004

Interview with a King

2009-03-21T14:41:00.002-05:00

Reporter: (Pridefully) Today I am interviewing David, King of Israel. He is the most famous of Israel’s kings, ruling first from Hebron over the province of Judah before finally ascending the throne of Israel some seven years after the death of King Saul, Israel’s first monarch. King David, thank you for being with us today.

David: My pleasure.

Reporter: (With much enthusiasm) King, I know you have been interviewed countless times during your long and storied reign. You have often repeated the stories of your boyhood, your days as a young shepherd, your battles to the death with bears and lions and giants, and your days serving King Saul as his personal musician or as captain of the palace guard. As well, you have relived for many the glory days when you and your armies defeated Israel’s numerous foes, when you danced and partied as you ushered the ark into Jerusalem, when days of peace permeated your kingdom for years. I know, King, there is not a single one of your mighty victories and great accomplishments that has not been heralded throughout the land. Which one would you like to talk about today?

David: Well, actually . . . I don’t want to talk about any of them.

Reporter: (Almost at a loss for words) Er, none of them, King?

David: That’s right.

Reporter: (Haltingly, then trying to make a joke of it.) Well, ah, King – I have to have something to write. My editor, the old grizzly, growl that he is, will most certainly rip me apart should I come back empty-handed. And he’ll definitely want my head if I blow this interview. Is there something in particular, sir, that you would like to discuss today?

David: Yes, I’d like to talk about what all you reporters are afraid to ask about.

Reporter: (Slowly) And that is . . .

David: (simply and matter-of-factly) I’d like to talk about my failures.

Reporter: (rather uncomfortably at first, but then warming to the idea because he can see the unique angle that no one else has covered – thereby scoring a great hit with his editor and his readers) Your failures? That’s a rather unKingly thing to talk about. Why would you choose to talk about failures, things that everyone else wants to hide? What good are failures?

David: (with uncommon humbleness) My failures are much more important to me than my victories. Through failure, I have learned more about who God is and how great is his love for me than I have from any of my victories. I’ve also learned more about who I am. You see, successes and accomplishments may define a man on the outside, but failures – more particularly, how he handles them - tell what the man is made of on the inside. But even more than that, when we fail, God is so faithful. When we stand up and own up to our sin, when we confess it to God – though he is right to throw the book at us, His loving mercy leads us out of the prison in which we have entombed ourselves and into his loving kindness.

Reporter: (startled by the King’s frankness and stumbling to find a flow) Well, ah, King –you’ve caught me at a loss here. I’m not well-prepared to publicly discuss the failures of a King, particularly one so successful and so well loved. In fact, I’m not aware of any of your failures. Um, is there a particular one you have in mind?

David: (quietly, but with directness and confidence) Yes, one of the most difficult ones. I’d like to talk about my adultery with Bathsheba.

Reporter: (now REALLY uncomfortable, but realizing something highly unusual is happening) Ah, King – that’s pretty personal. Are you sure you want to talk about this?

David: (with solid conviction) If I am to be well known, then let me be known well. Let me be known, not as a great success, for in that the focus is too much on me. Let my failures be known as well, for they speak of who my God is and of his great love. I fell from a great height. God reached to greater depths to lift me out of the pit. Let me not be known for great victories and successes. Let God be known for his great mercy to me. Let God be glorified, for he did not leave me in my sin and misery.

Reporter: (impacted by the King’s honesty and his testimony of God) You are the King. No one need have known about this. You could have kept quiet about it and none would have been the wiser. Why are you bringing it up here and now for all the world to see?

David: I bring it up not for others to see my sin. Heaven knows I am greatly ashamed of my actions. I bring it up to lead my people to hope. God forgave me. He forgave a king – a leader of people before God. He did not leave me trapped in my sin. If he forgave the leader of the kingdom, is He not willing to forgive the subjects of the kingdom as well? If he led the leader to freedom, will he not also lead the people to freedom?

When I stood before him in sorrow and repentance, though I feared his great judgment, I received his great mercy. I am jealous for my people, that they, too, would be freed from the things that enslave them, from their sins and their wrong-doings.

Reporter: (in amazement): You are to be honored, King, for possessing such noble thoughts and for your courage in being so open before your people.

David: No, you are wrong. There is no honor in sin. Nor is there nobility or courage in hiding sin from others, as I did when I hid it from myself, my closest friends, and my God. No, one cannot hide before an all-seeing, all-knowing God. He who hides is surely lost. Only he who confesses, repents, and pleads for the mercy of God can hope to receive his loving mercy and his kind forgiveness.

Reporter: (forgetting about the interview entirely, and getting caught up in the message) Truly, sir, you are a king. Your forthrightness, your candor, your humility is a shining example before your people.

David: I want the people of this kingdom to see the True King. I see him and love him dearly. I want the love and faithfulness of this True King to shine through to this people and across this land. If, as a king in Israel, I can play some small part in seeing the True King exalted, I’ll loudly proclaim my failures and my sins in order to magnify His mercies and His goodness.

Reporter: (with genuine disappointment) King David, that's all we have time for today. I'd like to learn more about you and this True King. Perhaps we can talk again soon.

David: Yes, perhaps we can.

copyright March 20, 2009 Dave Pingel

RageWaters

2009-03-14T14:22:00.001-05:00

(An Excerpt from "The Story of Ana")

My friend Chelsea, a missionary, long ago told us of the dangers of traveling at night in the remote mountains of Mexico. On many of her brief sojourns out of that county for respite, she sat with us at our home in the States, filling our evenings with stories of bandits, robbers and victims. Little did I know we would one day have our own dark night in Mexico.

All of these stories came back in an instant as the bus in which we and she were now traveling rounded a blind curve, unexpectedly inching to a stop behind the glowing brake lights of other vehicles. We were in the mountains of southern Mexico, slowly winding our way to the village where Chelsea and the infant Indian girl who was to become our adopted daughter made their Mexican home. Darkness, like a burdensome cloak, settled heavily just a short time ago. Why were we stopped? An accident? A robbery? Were we to become the latest victims of the night?

Our driver left to investigate. He walked around a bend, quickly swallowed by inky darkness. Visions of the worst assailed my mind. Soon, whispers of a distant conversation wafted on the night air, not quite audible enough to distinguish. It wouldn’t have helped anyway. We far-from-home gringos didn’t understand Spanish, let alone any of the many mountain dialects. Even our friend Chelsea was holding her breath, craning to hear something that might explain our delay.

The driver quietly appeared out of the darkness. He looked alright and didn’t show signs of concern. That, at least, was some relief. He spoke in rapid-fire manner, scattering words and sentences like a machine gun. Chelsea quickly translated.

Beyond the bend was a bridge crossing. The normally placid stream below was now a frothing, raging river as a result of heavy rains a few days earlier higher up the mountains. The water was above the bridge floor. Our driver wanted to wait for the level to recede before continuing.

After a few minutes, our driver left again. Upon his return, he swung into his seat and closed the bus doors. The engine grumbled to life and the gears groaned their displeasure as we slowly crawled forward. He rattled off a few words and Chelsea translated that he was impatient. We were already off schedule. He had changed his mind and wanted to make the crossing before the water rose any higher.

We rounded the bend and our headlights illuminated water up ahead. I could see where the road entered the bridge from the other side and where it came out on this side, but I could see nothing in between. As if the raging whitewater were not dangerous enough, the bridge had no side rails!

The bus crept to a standstill at water’s edge. On the other side was a large dump truck, several other vehicles behind it, and a number of people milling about. Like us, they were trying to decide what to do. We all watched nervously as the dump truck, much heavier than our bus, began its impossible crossing. Walking in front of the truck, with a great deal of uncertainty, were two men serving as guides, the ropes around their wastes securing them to the truck lest they be swept away. Busting waters at mid-thigh, arms outstretched for balance, they blindly felt their way, searching for bridge floor with their feet. I watched breathlessly. Slowly, gradually, murky water crashing and smashing against its side, the truck inched its way over to our side. Upon reaching safety, the nervous, high pitched laughter of the driver and his guides echoed off the mountainsides, like a pressure valve suddenly releasing hot, hissing steam.

Surely our driver would see the foolishness of crossing. Surely he would wait.

It was apparent, however, that he would not, as he firmly jammed the bus into gear. With the Virgin Mary statuette staring blandly at no one and everyone from the bus’s front dash, we forged ahead on the very tiptoes of my anxiety. Visions of being swept downstream, bobbing and careening off boulders, hijacked my mind. Chelsea and others lowered windows in case we needed a quick escape.

I was too far in the back of the bus to see whether or not we were driving straight or veering perilously close to the unseen edge. Looking out the side windows didn’t help. The blackness of the night shrouded the flood waters, concealing them too effectively. But I could too easily hear the roar of mighty waters. If we stalled, we were in serious trouble.

Achingly, finally, our tin-can ark rolled onto dry terra firma.

In the last two days we had come thousands of miles into the bowels of a foreign country and had experienced adventure enough to last for several years. Unsuspectingly, our adventures had just begun. It was indeed a blessing that we knew it not.

copyright 2009 Dave Pingel, The Story of Ana

The Question

2009-03-04T21:42:00.004-06:00

Frustrated, fatigued;
testy and tired,
I flung up
my question
to heaven:
Where are you?

Faithful and fast,
tested and true;
the answer:
I am here;
where are you?

Precious-ness

2009-02-25T20:02:00.003-06:00

She only lived a few days. Her time on Earth was measured not in years and decades, but in minutes and hours. Her twin sister survived and would forever be a living and mirrored reflection of another, one who had painfully slipped just beyond reach into the Great Divide. Of her funeral, her aunt wrote: “I couldn’t find it in my heart to praise God for what He had done. I wanted her to be alive. In that moment I couldn’t see the lives she’d already touched, the pain she would never know, or the bliss she was already in.”

Think about that statement for a moment. Consider the contrast. In one moment she couldn’t see something. At a later recollection of that moment, however, something very intimate was revealed to her. With the memory of the first moment (the pain of the death and funeral) connected to the moment of revelation (of the lives she touched, the pain she wouldn’t know, the bliss she is now in), the aunt was able to gently slip back the dark curtain of death and, from her place in the present, glimpse into future realms, which are now the “present” of the one who died.

Merging this experience with Scripture, we find evidence of truths which are forever undeniable, and thus of great comfort, words that do much to soothe the sting of death and the pain of loss.

Psalm 116:15 tells us that the death of His loved ones is precious in the sight of the Lord. Since God sees both the living and the dead, the fact that saints are dead cannot be that which is precious. What must be precious to God, then, is that the saints who are dead see Him clearly and fully, without the limitations or distortions of physical eyes or even earthly eyes of faith. Seeing Him in this manner is precious; seeing Him like this is eternal bliss. Knowing that the dead in Christ see Him as He really is, IS what is precious to the Lord. And knowing that is precious to those of us “left behind.”

In the reality of eternity, time has little meaning. Though it may be years and decades before we join our loved ones, to them it will be but the passing of a moment before we join them.

Here is another comforting thought. Though we cannot “see” our deceased loved ones or hear their voices, there is One who is watching and seeing and hearing both the living and the dead. To Him, there are not two realities, but one. To us, the living and the dead are separated by a Great Divide. But to Him the two are inseparable even by death. And though the living and the dead are lifetimes apart, the One who sees all weaves both the songs of the living and the songs of the departed saints into one, single, beautiful duet. We ourselves don’t see or hear the other, but the One who is watching sees and hears both.

Knowing this, we can confidently say and believe, “Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?”

copyright 2009 Dave Pingel

Fare-Thee-Well Sweet Village of the Church

2009-02-14T19:48:00.005-06:00

Fare-thee-well my Angelheart -
I'll fondly take my leave.
'Tis painful, though, this way to part -
but go I must, yet grieved.

Great thy pleasure, great thy wounds -
the years we spent together.
Each carried us deep within our wombs -
and birthed tomorrows better.

Your gifts indeed were bountiful -
families, homes and friends.
Love, so rich and beautiful -
'tis sad to think it ends.

So quick we changed, my Angelheart;
though parted just short while.
Shamefully, love fell apart -
while we sipped the wine of guile.

Alas, my dove, with Judas’ kiss-
no more are we such lovers.
Disentwined, our hearts no more in bliss -
given they are to others.

Fare-thee-well, fond Angelheart -
consigned to mem'ries, fade.
Tho' bittersweet the way we part -
perhaps,
like fine wine,
better our legacy aged.

Author's Note: Let not the reader be confused - this poem does not apply to any person. It is in memory of a certain chapter of time, a certain place in Camelot, and a certain people - all now several years removed. I have grown much since then - and so, I know, have many of its other citizens. Others have regressed. Some of us have travelled to distant places and distant lands - and we rejoice when we have even a fleeting opportunity to reconnect with old friends. For others, though no physical move resulted, our hearts moved far from those whom once we knew. How sad. I do not pine for the days of old - the days since then have been too good. What was good in those days remains in my heart; what wasn't - well, that's not so important now, is it. Why do I write? Why do I publish this poem here? Why now? I write to simply share my heart, to look back and remember in truth, to look forward and have hope in the future, Who knows - perhaps we'll meet along the way as each of us travels our roads Emmaus.

God, In Christ, Draws Nigh

2008-12-25T09:02:00.003-06:00

While shepherds watched their flocks that night
a light was born to men.
The angels sang with awe, delight -
a holy, heavenly anthem.

"Good news, great joy" one did proclaim,
"For Christ, the babe is born;
No more the lost, no more the lame -
Glad tidings this Christly morn'."

The angelic host appeared in praise -
"Glory to God most high.”
With arms uplift' and voices raised -
"God, in Christ, draws nigh."

The world knew not this babe, this God -
born in a Bethlehem manger.
"Another fool on whom to trod -
birthed of Davidic stranger."

Few they were who knew this Truth
now sleeping by candle's light.
Yet here - the promise in fleshly proof! -
to conquer man's sin-filled plight.

Christ, the babe, the Holy One -
to earth, a Savior given -
God Himself, th' Incarnate Son
given on earth from heaven.

copyright Dave Pingel 12-15-93

For the Joy Set Before Him

2008-11-29T15:39:00.003-06:00

Afflicted by our accusations.
Bruised by our brazenness.
Crushed by our criticism.
Damned by our despising.
Excommunicated by our egos.
Flogged by our frustration.
Guillotined by our guilt. Hounded by our haranguing.
Interred by our iniquities. Judged by our jealousies.
Killed with our kisses. Lamented with our lies.
Massacred by our mayhem. Nullified by our non-belief.
Oppressed by our opulence. Pilfered by our punishment.
Queried by our questions.
Riddled with our rejection.
Scourged with suffering.
Trampled by our transgressions.
Unforgiven by our unfairness.
Vilified by our vanity.
Whipped by our whispers.
(e)Xiled by our (e)Xorcism
Yoked by our yellowness.
Zeroed by our anti-Zionism.

JESUS

Slain for our salvation.
Resurrected for our redemption.
Enthroned for Eternity.

Lesson from the Oak and the Flower

2008-11-14T19:16:00.004-06:00

A flower said to an oak one day
"I wish I were more like you.
Standing sturdy and strong
all the day long -
How I wish I were just like you."

Said the oak to the flower,
"Why is that so?
Why should you want to be me?
Isn't it enough to be who you are
without wondering who else you can be?"

The flower replied with a difficult sigh
"You're so tall and so straight and so true.
With limbs opened wide you reach to the sky;
all the needy are drawn unto you."

The oak just smiled, so the flower went on:

"There are many you keep safe in your arms,
and to others you're their shelter and home.
You're protection for the fearful fleeing from harm -
And you're rest for those weary and alone."

"Yes, how I long to be like you"
said the flower again as she cried;
"to be such strength to the many, to the few -
it's my wish, it's my dream; how I've tried."

The oak, with great wisdom, spoke to the flower -
"Let's look at why you should be you.
In me they find strength, in me they find power
but they search and find beauty in you."

"To me they may come for shelter and rest -
though just for a little while -
ladened with burdens, weary at best;
but it's you who cause them to smile."

Continued the oak:

"It's you whose fragrance adds richness to life;
in your face take they deep pleasure.
Seeing you, they forget their troubles and strife,
and take you to their hearts as bright treasure."

At that, the flower saw a truth she hadn't seen before.

"You see" said the oak, "don't long to be me
when God has adorned you to be you.
Stand strong in grace given and wondrously see
ALL of His beauty that's in you.

copyright November 14, 2008 Dave Pingel

Thought For The Day

2008-11-04T18:57:00.001-06:00

When all is won or lost, when all is said and done, from the ecstasy of your highest high to the depths of your lowest pain, through the worst you can ever be to the most you will ever be – His love for you is deep and rich, passionate and never-ending, unchanging and unaltered. He believes in you. He wants to be with you. He has great plans for you. He won’t give out when you give up; He won’t give in when you give out. In the end, as it was in the beginning, love – His love – remains.

The Unsuspecting

2008-10-25T21:23:00.004-05:00

Behind the scenes
unseen
the devil plans and plots;
scheming,
convincing many he is not.
He secrets forth his ploy,
deviously designed;
temptation cloaked as choice,
voiced
in subtle tones uncaught.
Morph they into propooooosals
cooooozily,
scantily clad;
before the unsuspecting know it –
laughs the devil:
“You’ve been had.”

Dave Pingel
Copyright October 23, 2008
With much admiration for one of my favorite poets - Ruth Bell Graham.

Love Did

2008-10-11T11:43:00.002-05:00

Love kept him
There
Upon that cross.
Love stripped him
Bare
His Life, His Loss.
Love placed a crown
On thornied
Brow
‘Midst hammered
Sounds
Of taunting
vows.
Love
Pierced his flesh
With
Spear-tipped hate,
Washed wounds
Afresh
In bloodied haste.
Love
Took his breath
And spent it
Well;
Love
Lived our death,
Love spared
Our Hell.

copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

Finding The Way (Part III)

2008-10-04T19:20:00.002-05:00

From Shame to Glory

The Key, The Way, and The Miracle

Can the shame and embarrassment of sin ever be erased and our hearts and souls made pure? How can we exchange the blackness of our sin for the whiteness of purity? Can we ever walk together with God again?

Unlike an embarrassing moment, the shame of sin is not something we simply endure until its passing. Just as we cannot cover our sin, hide it from God, or justify it, we also cannot fix it. What is broken cannot fix itself. Only the Creator can fix the created. Only our loving Father can restore our souls to a pure and shameless state.

Our kind and merciful Father lovingly waits until we exhaust ourselves running away from our sin and from Him. He waits until we stop all the covering up, the hiding, the excusing, and the blame-shifting. He waits until we expose our wrong, until we bare our sins and our souls to ourselves and to Him, and until we admit that we are powerless to fix ourselves. He waits until we trust Him to fix that which is broken in us. 1 John 1:9 provides the key: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from unrighteousness.” Confession (both to ourselves AND to God) is the key to unlocking forgiveness, thus purifying our unrighteousness. It’s an “if-then” - a condition with a promise. IF we confess, THEN He forgives. Of course, we have to consider both sides of the if-then condition/promise: IF we don’t confess, then He WON’T forgive.

When we have turned the key (confessed the sin), the door that was blocking our way to righteousness through Jesus is opened. Jesus is the way. “Behold, the Lamb . . . who takes away the sin . . . (John 1:29). This was the exact and very reason for which Jesus came. The Bible says in 2 Co 5:21 that “He (God) made Him (Jesus) who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf . . .” In other words, Jesus suffered the shame of our sin – mine and yours - so we wouldn’t have to suffer that shame. When we believe that and act upon our belief accordingly (Romans 10:10) something very special happens – our sin is of no account - and shame cannot blacken our souls. Then, we rejoice because “everyone who trusts in him will never be put to shame (Romans 10:11).” Finally – totally and completely – our souls are restored to shameless grace. And we are freed to walk together again with God, heart to heart, in the beautiful garden of relationship.

Oh, what a glorious miracle!

FINDING THE WAY (Part II)

2008-09-28T09:45:00.005-05:00

From Shame to Glory

Part II
The Face of Fear

Sin brought something else into being that had not previously existed in man or on the face of the earth. Sin brought fear. Adam feared because he knew in his heart his wrong, he knew in his heart his God, and he knew in his heart that his wrong separated him from the blessings of God and brought him under the judgment of God. He feared God’s anger.

Few things awaken the soul as does fear. Fear speaks of imminent danger. Fear testifies of One infinitely more powerful. Fear motivates. Fear drives. Fear can be a terrible task-master.

But fear, far from being a bad thing, was actually very good for Adam – and it is good for us. A very wise man once penned the words “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge and wisdom.” Adam’s fear was good because it was the tool God used (God created the emotion of fear and put it into Adam) to lead Adam to a new beginning of knowing God, knowing Him anew and afresh. The Hebrew word “beginning,” in addition to meaning the “first part,” also means “chief” and “choice part.” Adam’s fear was not only the beginning of knowing God, it was the “chief” aspect, the “choice part” of knowing God.

Since God created the emotion of fear, it follows that there are godly purposes for fear. Those purposes include causing us to recognize that a Greater One is near, convicting us of what He calls sin, and turning us toward (not away from) our source of help. When we turn to God, He helps us. When we turn away from God, He simply waits for us.

As always, Satan counterfeits the things of God – and he has a counterfeit design for fear. Satan’s purposes are opposed to those of God and he uses fear to harden our hearts and drive us away from God. When we are running away from Someone, it is very difficult to receive the help that that very Someone is offering. And, if we are running from Someone, who is it that we are we running to?

Wounded, Cornered and Trapped

Hunters tell us that a wounded animal, trapped and backed into a corner, is the most dangerous animal to face. Adam, full of fear and seeing no place to run, did a very dangerous thing. He deflected his sin away from himself, projected it back on God, and cast as much blame as he possibly could on Eve. His self-inflicted sin was a death-wound to the heart and he was cornered with no place to run. He was hurt. He was angry. He shoved responsibility for his sin away from himself, he lashed out at God, and he accused his wife. He growled that it wasn’t his fault, it was God’s fault. If God hadn’t given Adam a defective wife, this whole thing would never have happened. It was Eve’s fault, too. She was the one who disobeyed – and she fooled Adam into doing so as well. Yes, Adam was clearly not responsible here. He was definitely the victim in this whole ugly mess.

In his trapped condition, he used the pain of his wounds to deflect responsibility for sin away from those who were most responsible – himself and Satan. We have followed this same pattern ever since, casting blame away from ourselves and on to anyone else. And thus we never see Satan’s laughing reflection in the mirror of our own hearts and souls.

Eve, following Adam’s heart-endearing example, also tried to shift the focus from her trapped and caged self, casting total blame at the feet of Satan. “The serpent deceived me, and I ate.” She was tricked, duped, deceived. It wasn’t her fault. After all, she only wanted to be like God. (Never mind the fact that she was already made in His image. Never mind the fact that she wanted to know good AND evil [Genesis 3:4]. Never mind the fact that SHE focused on what SHE wanted, not what God directed.)

God didn’t buy any of it for a minute.

The consequence? He drove them out of the most beautiful place on the face of the earth – the place where Adam and Eve and God walked together side by side. Sin does that. It drives us away from the most beautiful place we can ever be – next to the heart of God.

We all have the sin imprint of Adam and Eve. When caught in sin and shame, we all follow the pattern they birthed. We cover sin, we run from it. We deny it, justify it, and excuse it. When that doesn’t work, we blame-shift. We lash out. We do everything but take responsibility for it.

Our first parents disobeyed and were shame-facedly guilty. They couldn’t get away with it. So, too, we are guilty and without excuse. The Bible says that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). We all have shame-full souls. Our shame testifies of our guilt. Our guilt has consequences. We can no longer walk with God in the beauty of life that He designed for us.

Part III
The Key, The Way, and The Miracle

To be continued . . .

FINDING THE WAY (Part I)

2008-09-21T10:55:00.005-05:00

FROM SHAME TO GLORY

Part I
A Shame-Full Soul
I hate it when I blush. My face turns beet-red and those little sweat beads form on my forehead. The room suddenly grows a hundred times smaller and I KNOW everyone is gawking at me. I search for ways to cover my embarrassment and anguish. I cough. I take a drink of water. I write on a notepad. I ask a question of someone else, so others will look at someone other than me. I long to run and hide but am too often frozen by mind-melt. Besides, the time to run is at the exact moment of my faux pas. Any time after and it’s simply too late.

If I can do none of these, I resort to Plan B, spreading the blame and shame to a co-conspirator. By pulling someone else into the embarrassment of the situation, at least I won’t suffer alone. Hopefully forcing attention onto another gives me needed time to “de-flush” and regain composure. Sharing the shame makes me feel less guilty. As they say - misery loves company!

Lastly, I try to ignore and forget the embarrassing moment. Inevitably, the situation replays itself relentlessly, pounding my errors and stupidities deep into my memory. (Days, weeks or months later, when I least expect it, my mind defaults to flash-back and I watch my shame blatantly displayed in the theater of my mind. At times I blush even at the memory and again, I am filled with the pain of my error and am robbed of all confidence.) Ultimately the only way for me to get beyond my shame, is to acknowledge it, ask forgiveness for my blunder, suffer the consequences and move on.

Sound familiar?

Just as a painful embarrassment is reflected by a beet-red blush in the face, so sin is a reflection of shame on the soul. Obviously the soul doesn’t turn beet-red like the face. The soul is colored by sin all the same. Black! The more sin - the more shame and the blacker the soul. If white is a symbol of goodness and purity, then black is the antithesis, symbolizing wickedness and impurity. If white reflects a soul with no sin, then deepest black reflects a soul full of shame.

Shame on the Earth
Just like we hurry to move beyond painful situations in life, we similarly hurry through painful moments in scripture without taking time to fully explore and understand their depth and impact. An example of this is the fall of Adam and Eve. We often read the story as: God created man, man sinned, man fell. Next story, please.

When we read this quickly and think no more before moving to the next story, we miss the up-close-and-personal vividness, the highlighted details and the deep understandings that God wants us to see and have. Proverbs 25:2 says: “It’s the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.” Let’s put this story under the searchlight of scrutiny to search out what is not readily visible to the naked eye. Perhaps we will find the way through the darkness of our shame-filled souls into His plan to be glorious luminaries of His Being. After all, God promises that in our searching we will see glory.

Before Adam and Eve birthed any children on the earth, they conceived and produced sin. Their shame-filled and embarrassing moment, which was momentous for all of mankind, came when they chose to oppose God and his directive not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Their sin and shame were not just momentary, light afflictions. This horrendous error forever infected their character and all that they were and did. Like an insidious disease, it was then passed on to their children. Their children passed it on to their children and so on down to the present day. (Romans 5:12, 15b, 17-19)

Scripture tells us that the first thing that happened as a result of their disease-ridden disobedience was that their eyes were opened to their nakedness. The Hebrew word for “eyes,” aside from the physical interpretation, also means “of mental faculty.” What is less obvious in the Scripture, but still very evident, is that they knew (had a mental understanding) they were wrong. To know wrong, they first had to know right. They knew right, but knowingly chose wrong. They had never before – ever – chosen something other than God. Now they had, and they knew it.

After choosing wrongly, they knew something else they had never known before - shame.

The first reaction to their shameful state was to look for cover. Cover, we think, is necessary because we’ve exposed the impurity that’s in our hearts. We don’t want God to see our impurities, so we cover them, most often with our own justifications, excuses and reasoning. I am reminded of a little toddler who, because her eyes are covered by her own little hands, thinks that others cannot see her. When we think our sins are covered, we fool only ourselves.

Seeing that they couldn’t successfully cover their shame, Adam and Eve did the next best thing. They hid. The Bible tells us after they disobeyed, God came looking for them. They heard Him coming and hid themselves. God called to the man, “Where are you?” The problem is that then, as now, there was no place to hide from an all-seeing, all-knowing, forever-loving God.

Here’s a bit of friendly advice. When God asks a question, it’s not because He doesn’t know the answer. He asked the where-are-you-question of Adam and Eve because He wanted them to realize where THEY were - in a place they’d never been before, hiding from God. God wanted Adam and Eve to acknowledge their shameful wrong, first to themselves and then to Him. (One can’t admit something to God without first admitting it to oneself.) He wanted them to realize they couldn’t do a thing to cover, hide or excuse what they had done. He wanted them to realize that for the first time in their lives, they were covering their shame-faced souls and hiding from the only One who loved them deeply. He would not begin His redemptive work until their mouths confessed the sin of their hearts.

Thousands of years later, it is no different. When we sin, we often revert to the cover-and-hide strategy. We cover our sin and hide it from ourselves when we ignore our sin, excuse it, or justify it. Our all-knowing Father God, from whom nothing is hidden, continues to ask the same simple but probing question, “Where are you?” Since we are hiding, we pretend we don’t hear the question. If we don’t hear it, we don’t have to answer it. If we don’t answer it, we don’t have to confront our wrongs. We must stop hiding from ourselves; we must confess our sins to ourselves before we can ever turn to God, seek His forgiveness, and plead for redemption to do its work in our hearts. If we try to “cover” our sin, we fool only ourselves and become like that little girl holding her hands over her eyes.

Part II
The Face of Fear
To be continued . . .

copyright Dave Pingel 2008

This Storming Soldier-Sea

2008-09-05T18:48:00.002-05:00

Mesmerized, I watched in awe
As mighty waves assaulted shore.
Roiling seas a-boiling,
Thrashing -
Like the crashing sounds of war.

Brooding clouds, slung low, slink by -
Threat'ning malice from far-flung heights;
Wind and wave, like warring foes,
Advanced -
In a dreadful dance of might.

No earthly-born could stand against
This storming soldier-sea;
Swarming, swirling, smashing,
Pounding -
Sounding like hell-bent infantry.

Alone I stood, struck down
As Nature's furies fought;
Choreographed encrypted chaos
Raging -
Upstaging man's puny ways and thoughts.

Copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

(Note: This is for those who have naver seen the Gulf surf during a thunderstorm.)

Whispering Worries

2008-08-30T22:18:00.004-05:00

In 2003 I moved to Florida at the height of the hurricane season – and knew nothing about hurricanes. I didn’t even know there was a “season” for hurricanes. (For those of you who don’t know, the hurricane season runs from June 1st through November 30th. Not much happens in June, July or October and November. But boy, watch out for August and September.)

My first year here I was blissfully ignorant. I was from the Midwest. There we had thunderstorms and tornados. Though they could be very dangerous, they were generally here and gone in a matter of hours. They also tended to have a very narrow path of destruction. I could certainly handle a hurricane or two.

I have come to discover that hurricanes are much different.

The buildup for any particular storm starts almost a week ahead as forecasters watch the weather coming off the cost of Africa. As soon as a tropical wave develops, they’re on it. In fact, they are all over it as it builds from a tropical wave to a tropical depression to a tropical storm to a hurricane.

As the storm approaches, so does the intensity of worry. Forecasts are updated daily, and then twice daily, and then four times daily, and then hourly. The problems are the nagging unknowns. What category will it be? Where will it hit? Are we in – or out – of the cone of uncertainty (the potential “landfall” area)? We will be on the good side or the bad side? (The bad side is generally the northeast side – that’s where the spin-off tornados tend to occur.) Will it jog to the east or the west? What will the wind speeds really be? How much storm surge? How much rain? We will flood? How much devastation will there be? How long will the power be out? How long will the gas stations be out of gas?

My first experience with hurricanes was with Hurricane Ivan in 2004. I learned all about different categories of hurricanes. Just as there are F1, F2, F3 and F4 tornadoes, there are also different categories (1 through 5) for hurricanes. Categories 3 through 5 are considered “major” storms - those capable of catastrophic destruction. Ivan was a category 3 and Pensacola almost took a direct hit. We evacuated back to the Midwest. (It took me about 25 hours to make a 15 hour trip – 3 hours alone just to get from one end of Mobile, Alabama to the other. Traffic was absolutely horrible for about 300 miles.) When I came back just a few days afterward, Pensacola had been devastated. Homes close to the Gulf were severely damaged. Power was out for about a week. (Thankfully, mine was back on in just 4 few days.) For some, power was not restored for several weeks. Cable and phones were out longer.

I have two major memories of Ivan – hundreds of blue rooftops and thousands and thousands of downed trees. After the storm, homes with damaged roofs had their rooftops temporarily covered in blue tarps (provided by the Government). Though flimsy, at least they kept the rain out. One couldn't drive more than a couple of blocks without seeing blue roofs. And in some neighborhoods, every single home had the blue tarp. Blue roofs were extremely common for about a year. (It was great business for the roofers for awhile.) I still see a blue roof every now and then – 4 years later. The damaged and lost trees, however, were by far the major damage. How does a city go about picking up thousands and thousands of trees? Thousands more had to be cut down because they were so severely damaged or because they threatened to fall on homes or businesses. Tree debris was piled high for weeks and months after the storm. Pine trees 30 feet, 40 feet, 50 feet and more can cause major damage to homes when they fall. A sports complex not far from where we lived - with several baseball and football fields - was the central repisitory. Imagine about 15 or 20 football fields all bunched together and piled - no kidding - about 20 feet high with tree debris. And that was only one of the depositories.

In 2004, Hurricane Dennis came. The forecasters warned that it might be a category 4 by the time it hit land – worse than Hurricane Ivan. Again, Pensacola nearly took a direct hit. We didn’t leave town, but we did evacuate to one of the many local shelters. Dennis was a fast moving hurricane and we were in shelter and then home in about 12 hours. Shelter life was not fun - but that's another story. Power was out for days. MRE’s (meals ready to eat) and ice were in great demand. So was gasoline. The lines were long and hot. Not as many trees damaged this time. Pensacola wasn’t as devastated in Dennies, only because the storm was so fast moving. The worst part of the hurricane seemed to hit north of us.

The major memory from Dennis was the psychological assault. I couldn’t sleep much for the few days before it hit – wondering and worrying what it would be like. We had decided beforehand not to evacuate town. Evacuation is so difficult. Still, one wanders what will happen? Did we make the right decision? What will it really be like?

Perhaps the best way to “show” you what it’s like is to let you “inside” my head at the time. Here is a poem I wrote about the experience.

WHISPERING WORRIES

Waiting . . . waiting.
Fearing.
Scathing
whispers
rake my mind
finding
holes in my faith –
reminding
how tortuous is
this wait.

Knowing not –
not knowing
what
my fears will bring;
flinging
faith
from depth to deep.
Where is He!
My King,
. . . asleep?

Care not He
that we
will drown
in this –
our fear?
But wait . . .
He speaks.
We gather ‘round
to listen;
hear.

“Peace, Be Still”
to wind
and wave
and worried heart.
Yield
to Him
your little faith.
Believe.
Love lights
night’s dark.

Hurricane Katrina came along in 2005 – and you know about its devastation.

And now – Hurricane Gustav approaches, projected to be a category 4 at landfall.

Pray for the Gulf Coast.

If Ever There Was A CouldBe

2008-08-23T19:56:00.001-05:00

It's Now or Never

This is a story about three different lands, the fairy-tale Land of CouldBe, the mythic Land of EverWas, and the eternal Land of AlwaysIs. It has only ever been possible to reach any of these Lands by traveling the Highway HereAndNow.

CouldBe

Many have set out for CouldBe but never actually made it. Most don’t ever bother. Those who only think that CouldBe might be never really know for sure. To them, CouldBe is really just a fantasy. No one who has only thought it might be will ever find their way to CouldBe. Those who proclaim CouldBe can’t be can never see Couldbe, let alone visit there. Some say they might have seen a glimpse of CouldBe, but most say that simply isn’t possible.

EverWas

Many thought, at one time or another, that no one really lived in EverWas – but, then again, most never knew if EverWas really was. Lots of people say that those who claimed to be from EverWas are foolish to believe they ever lived there. They say that it was all nothing more than a myth. After all, EverWas couldn’t ever be what it only claimed it was – or so people thought. Some said that few once lived in EverWas, but those who never did simply do not believe this.

AlwayIs

Nobody ever really lives outside of AlwaysIs. Some say others do. But others say if that is so, it really isn’t AlwaysIs. Some claim AlwaysIs isn’t, but most of them are in hospitals or prisons, or dreaming. Status quo is the law in AlwaysIs. Dreamers aren’t tolerated well. Everybody lives only for the moment in AlwaysIs. Nothing in AlwaysIs is forever but people are very resistant to even the slightest change. Nobody talks about the past or the future in AlwaysIs – only the present. After all, the past never is and the future never arrives.

Traveling There

How does one travel from one to the other? Well, it’s really very easy, unless of course you think it impossible – in which case it really would be very hard – at least for you. Believe it or not, EverWas (which could never have been without first being somebody’s CouldBe) is only one hop-step back from AlwaysIs. AlwaysIs (which cannot possibly be unless someone had an EverWas) is only one tiny leap shy of CouldBe. And CouldBe, only reached by going through AlwasyIS, is always just one step of faith from anywhere.

The Moral of the Story

If you believe EverWas ever really was and that AlwaysIs doesn’t have to always be; if you believe that CouldBe is really possible – then, by all means, take to the Highway HereAndNow (which also is but one step away) and soon you’ll find that what could be is always more than ever was.

copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

In the Furnance of Affliction

2008-08-12T19:38:00.003-05:00

In the furnace of affliction,
where hearts of men are fired -
there
great moves of God are birthed -
and there is evil sired.

Fanned by human frailties,
well-stoked with whims and wants,
the souls of men are burnished,
bronzed -
in the flames of sin-soaked taunts.

'Tis there,
provoked by white-hot passions
and billowed by unbeliefs,
the battle for th' immortal soul -
plays out in human deeds.

'Tis there,
in the furnace of this fiery fray,
that man stands his utmost test:
Will heart succumb to wickedness
- or -
arise to Heaven's best?

Three Ships

2008-08-05T19:57:00.003-05:00

One day the owner of a shipping business gathered his captains. “Men, I have a mission of utmost importance that must sail at morning-tide. It is exciting and dangerous through uncharted waters. I need a sturdy ship, an able crew, and a strong-hearted captain. I fear many lives may be lost. Who will accept?”

The first captain replied “Sir, my ship and crew are inexperienced. Give me adequate time to make them seaworthy. I request recent maps to keep me abreast of where we sail. Then I will accept.”

“Captain” replied the owner, “too much is lost in the time it takes you to prepare. And maps can only tell where man has been, not where he has yet to go. The mission must begin tomorrow.”

“Then I cannot accept” responded the captain “for I will not risk ship and crew on a mission of such uncertainty.”

“Tell me more” answered another. My ship and crew are anchored safely in the harbor, but I cannot sail with such little information. What are the dangers? I must discuss them with the officers and together we will decide whether or not we sail. Surely my request is reasonable.”

The owner sighed. “I see in your heart that your own concerns are foremost, but my focus is on those who may drown for lack of expediency. It does no good to have ships anchored safely yet loose those for whom the ships are built.”

The third captain spoke. “I, my ship, and my crew are at your command.”

“There will be rough sailing and terrible storms” warned the owner. “There are dangers yet to be understood. My enemies gleefully plan destruction. It is you who will suffer their attack, but my defeat is their goal. Are you still willing?”

“I grant there will be much of the known and unknown” replied the captain. “No ship or crew, though, is proven worthy when sailing smooth waters under calm skies. Only those who sail through the mightiest of storms and under constant threat of death are worthy of this mission. It is a foolish captain who has not prepared his crew for wind and water, fight and fray, known and unknown. I say again, sir, we are at your command.”

“Captain, I promise everything you expect and more. I make a covenant with you: when storm approaches, strike not your sails and the wind of direction will blow afresh; keep crew fit and ready - they will be given more than they can handle; steer away from safe harbor and deep waters will forever be beneath your bow; yearn not for days gone by and new horizons will be yours; fear not the enemy and he will be brought within your reach; risk your all and your all will be taken. Stand strong, captain. There is no lack of those for whom we sail. What say you? Are you willing?”

“Aye, sir - with all my heart and strength and soul.”

-------------------------

Tell me, friend – upon which ship sail you?

Copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

Legend of the Rose

2008-07-31T19:20:00.008-05:00

A rose white-pure was born the day
The world took shape and form.
"No fairer flower ever was," they say,
"No finer did the earth adorn."

Robed with exquisite innocence,
Up from the ground it grew.
It shone with single brilliance,
And her fragrance - sweeter than the morning dew.

Pedals softly graced, like angel's wings,
Formed as a kiss from heaven -
Unfolded beauty in increasing rings;
A gift for earth, God-given.

With deepest eyes, most tender heart
She searched the souls of men -
Naught was found in any part,
But darkness and death and sin.

So sad, Pure Rose, with great repent,
E'er dimmed her pedals white -
Blushed shame-faced red for sinful men
In the space of one black night.

This legend of the Rose is true -
And only when men's hearts are pure
Will the Rose O' White appear anew
To shine with eternal grandeur.

copyright Dave Pingel 2008

A Brother of Mine

2008-07-24T19:26:00.001-05:00

He sank into an office chair, wearing a heavy coat of frustration over his deputy’s uniform and a resigned disinterest on his pale, forty-something face. After nearly 20 years on the job, this was simply one more call and one more report. I quickly explained the basics of my investigation: 5 month old baby with bilateral fractures of the skull of unknown origin, 18 year old parents, child remained in a local hospital. I slid a packet of materials over to him, including the original report and my notes. He let it lay, barely glancing downward. After grumbling a question or two, he declared a need to call his supervisor.

His voice hid nothing as he complained to the supervisor: “I don’t know why I need to write another report if the child’s still in the hospital and the Children and Families investigator already has his report ready for us.”

Returning to the chair with a semi-disgusted sigh, he pulled out a small notepad and prepared to write. He stopped and reached for his eyeglass case. Putting on his bifocals, he was now able to see the pad better. Noticing my patience, he reluctantly let slip a half-hearted apology. “Been in a bad mood all weekend. Nothing against you personally.”

“That’s ok; no offense taken.”

“Five months old, you say? Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout babies.”

After trading questions and answers for a minute or so, he soon had all the information he needed. No need to go after the details. He knew he was simply the report-taker on this matter. Leave the details for the slick investigator who would follow up in a few days. That’s why they get the big bucks.

He called his supervisor again to request the CSI unit take pictures of the victim. The unfavorable reply from the supervisor was evident upon his flipping the phone closed a bit too hard. An unpleasantry escaped his thoughts and dirtied the air around him.

Without looking up, his next words spilled loosely across his lips and disappeared into the empty space between us: “Had a homicide about half an hour ago.”

He wasn’t interested in a response, so my barely audible “ahh” was sufficient.

“Bet it’s prob’ly black on black.”

Again, his comment did not invite reply.

It would be easy to think his statement racist. But there was no maliciousness in his remark, no inflammatory degradation – only a frustrated weariness with a never-ending battle against a community cancer that claimed yet another victim.

He pitched his next remark, though, like a professional ball player launching a slightly out of control slider. It whizzed by me with beguiling speed, awkwardly dangerous.

“Where’s the NAACP now? If it was white on black, you bet they’d be here then.”

Again, it would be easy to brand his remarks prejudicial and unprofessional. In doing so, the entire fault and all the responsibility rest cleanly and neatly upon his shoulders . . . and none on ours. But then he was the one who said it. Right?

Again I found no maliciousness in his statement, only a sad realization thrust upon him at the thought of having to endure more accusations and judgments by those who don’t have all the facts but who do have a far from perfect understanding.

Too quickly do we judge and condemn such remarks as wrong and hateful. Too quickly do we judge the wicked words and fail to search the wounded heart. It is so easy to walk away in indignation and shake our heads in dismay. It is so easy to dust any responsibility from our own shoulders. Our hands and our conscience are clean (we think).

And if this is what we do, our hearts are as dirty and ugly as the streets he patrols.

Who stops to think: What kind of man utters such things as this deputy? Who peers through his eyes into the battlefields of the inner cities? Who among us is willing to walk among the blight of poverty and drugs and sex and robberies and murders and rapes on a daily basis? Which of us is willing to pick up broken bottles and busted bodies and smashed lives? Who else bears insight and insult and yet carries on with efforts that too many distrust and disdain? Who among us is willing to have our hearts torn and twisted day in and day out, week in and week out, year in and year out?

Who protects and defends the ones who defend and protect?

Who carries their burdens? Helps them with their problems? Heals their hurts? Soothes their frustrations? Refreshes their weariness? Washes their wounds?

A wise and compassionate man once said: “Whatever you do for the least of these brothers of mine, you do for me.”

We seldom have trouble identifying “the least.” That’s generally pretty easy. What is a lot harder is the second part – calling them “brothers of mine.”

If they remain only a “least,” they can readily be judged, executed and ignored.

When they are “a brother of mine” . . . well, who will ignore his own flesh and blood and heart?

Will you?

copyright Dave Pingel 2008

If

2008-07-16T20:32:00.001-05:00

Rudyard Kipling was a famous English writer/poet whose life spanned the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I don’t know much about his work. As a youth, however, I was uniquely captured by one of his poems: If.

The poem was written in the middle period of Kipling’s life. For years I fancied that Kipling wrote it specifically to and for his own son. The poem is full of good, sound advice – great wisdom for fathers to give sons. Doing just a small amount of research, however, reveals that the poem was written for a different audience. It was written to “deal(s) with the misunderstandings and public pressures that confront statesmen, the ability to master one’s dreams and thoughts and the capacity to take triumphs and loses in the stride without complaining.”

(. . . to statesmen?!. Hmmm, I think our modern-day politicians would do well to hold dear to their hearts, ponder softly in their minds, and carry out their campaigns and lives by this sage advice.)

Anyway . . . Google it; I think you’ll like it.

Allow me now to turn this post in a slightly different direction.

Still thinking IF to be a great example for growing sons, I began to ponder some years ago what parallel advice I would give my own sons regarding life. Here is my own sequel to Kipling’s IF. Though it reads easily - trust me, it's not so easy to live out. I hope you like it.

IF . . .

If you can keep the Faith when all about you
are forever lost and knowing not The Way;
If you can trust the Lord when all men doubt Him
and not by their doubts be led astray;
If you can serve and not grow tired of serving,
or being served, not expect too much;
Or being lord, not give way to lording
but be e'er humble 'neath the Master's touch:

If you can love those who are not lovely,
if you can give and not demand return;
If you'll befriend the lost and lonely,
be not too friendly or none too stern;
If you can stand by Truth when all it costs you
and not think twice 'bout what is lost;
If you can stand while storms blow 'round you
and face the winds yet not be tossed:

If you'll do right to those who wrong you,
treat them not with scorn, contempt;
If you'll reach out when they rail against you,
not return their words, though sorely tempt'd;
If you'll endure and be long-suffering
and with patience, keep standing on -
And so hold on when there's nothing in you
except His voice which says to you "Be strong":

If you can talk with God and be not haughty
and walk with man yet not be in his ways;
If all that's done counts as naught before thee,
yet be ye filled with Him at the end of your days;
If you can master flesh with heart, with Spirit
and keep your eyes on His Holy One,
Yours is the Kingdom and all that's in it -
and - you'll be a man of God, my sons.

Copyright Dave Pingel 2008

Bush Battles

2008-07-12T16:09:00.001-05:00

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the American Holly bush or not, but I have them in front of my house. Standing proudly at seven feet high and about 20 feet or more in circumference, these beautiful bushes grow dark green, prickly leaves so thickly that you cannot see through to the other side. They’re great as privacy hedges and air and sound barriers.

That’s the problem.

When you’re sitting on the front porch watching life fly, buzz, crawl, drive, and walk by, who wants the view blocked by a gigantic, view-monger of a privacy hedge two feet away? Additionally, when you live in Florida in the summer time, it’s nice to have some occasional fresh air tickle and tease the oppressive humidity.

We debated what to do. Should we cut and trim to a more pleasing size? Should we take them out entirely? My wife, who has the only green thumb in our branch of the family tree, decided we should trim out the lower branches and leave the tops intact – more or less creating an umbrella look.

So my sons and I set about in zest to accomplish our mission.

Did I mention these bushes have razor sharp, stab-whoever-comes-close, give-up-not-even-an-inch-without-making-them-pay-dearly, man-hating leaves? One should not trim a holly bush without a suit of armor from head to toe. Chain-mail gloves are a must. Sculpting the bushes in t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops is downright foolish. Trust me; I know.

Nevertheless, my sons and I exploded into battle with the lance-like leaves and battle-axe branches. At times, we almost bled to death from the accursed wounds of this medieval bush. We were, however, resolute in our determination to win. Armed with clippers, pruners and cloppers, we thrust and parried, parried and thrust. When one of us suffered a grievous wound, another would gladly place himself in death-defying danger to give respite.

As we battled our way deeper and deeper into the darkness of the interior, we discovered and released its captive treasures – grungy golf balls, leather-pealed baseballs, old crusty shingles and a broken hockey stick. Undaunted by danger, we pressed onward – believing that somewhere not far ahead was the other side and victory.

The bush battled back. It let loose its secret weapon – the winding, wandering, can’t-really-see-it, but-one-definitely-knows-when-one’s-grabbed-it, thorny vine. Its innumerable miniature swords constantly sliced into any and all exposed flesh. Heaven forbid, when seeking a moments R&R, one should mistakenly sit on this thorny vine or the laughing prickly leaf.

After hours and days hard fought, we won the war and vanquished the remnants of our evil enemy to the trash pile.

We turned to gaze upon what was left. The horrible holly was no more, no longer an out-of-control, heathen hedge blocking life-giving air and victor’s view. What remained was truly a work of art. I dare not inflict a mighty injustice of calling them that which we had set out to make - “umbrella trees.” No. Rather there they stood, set free to their true calling, in all their regality and elegance . . . the gigantic miniature bonsai trees.

My sons and I stood with mouths agape, humbled that we, mere servants, were in the presence of such awe and beauty.

Copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

Tempest's Master

2008-07-06T21:58:00.001-05:00

Upon the willowed walk of life,
huddled against life's storms -
she shuffled slowly along,
a lonely, languishing form.

Winds of worry whipped her soul,
while terror's thunder reigned -
she clutched her coat of cares so close,
multi-stained and maimed.

Hope? a tattered, torn umbrella,
shattered by swampy seas of sorrow -
Love? like hellish hurricanes of lust,
thrusting on her but empty tomorrows.

What of life has any use
for one accursed as she?
Accused, condemned, immersed
in a tortuous lost eternity.

Into this life of soul-fought fury
enters Love with tender steel -
Speaks one Voice with abiding passion
to storied storms "Peace, be still."

To soul assailed by churning deep,
awash in tides that never cease -
sails He who is the tempest's Master,
comes He who is thy Prince of Peace.

copyright 2008 Dave Pingel

WHISPERS OF UNKNOWN HEROES

2008-06-29T19:34:00.001-05:00

Out of Hardship - Hope

I stood on a lush, green hilltop amidst the rich beauty of surrounding valleys checkered with growing crops and blowing grass fields. A deep blue sky overhead offered no hint of a cloud to shield against the overbearing sun. Though the lazy life of summer was all about, I stood in the middle of death in a lonely, old country cemetery. Tiny and faded American flags hung limp, impaled on sticks thrust at odd angles into the ground, silently honoring some of the dead. Buried and forgotten beneath my feet were the lives and memories of those who lived, breathed and died on this land more than a hundred years before. I stood before one particular granite tombstone, my heart gripped by the brief biographies of a husband and wife etched onto its wind-worn face. Their names weren’t familiar, but I stood transfixed at two other names carved in smaller letters on the same stone. Never brothers together in life but brothers forever in death - were the names of their two sons. Though voices long silent, their births, short days on earth, and deaths nearly one year apart loudly proclaimed a lifetime of pain and aching sadness for surviving parents.

I pondered these lives, lived and lost so long ago. The dates of death for each parent indicated they lived for decades beyond their sons. How had they survived these tragedies? What were their lives like before and after such difficult days? How had they found the strength to continue? Were they ever happy again? What other hardships had they endured?

My own struggles and difficulties seemed distant compared to the hardships they experienced. Not hardship as in the absence of modern-day conveniences like housing and transportation, fast or fancy foods, nice clothes, cutting edge technology and high-paying jobs. No, not these kinds of hardships. I thought of their hardships in terms of struggling to survive an unforgiving environment, their lack of medicines and hospitals for dieing sons, the lack of easy communication for which to share grief with distant relatives, their nothing-to-fall-back-on-except-God-and-sheer-determination when dreams died and efforts failed. I thought of living for decades - not with the physical pain of a hard life, but with the heart-pain of sad remembrances and lonely if-onlys.

I thought of their hardships and admired them for making it through. I thought of their sacrifices and was proud of them for enduring loss. I thought of their lives and marveled at their will-power. I thought of their anonymity and considered them heroes whose stories would never be known.

I wondered if I could bear their crosses, make their sacrifices, endure their pain. How would I carry such a load? Could I survive? Would I want to? How could I ever again enjoy a future with so much lost in the past? Though I was having difficulty walking through my own problems, struggles and issues, they were nothing in comparison to that of these grieving parents.

I gazed again at green valleys and fertile fields around. Giant bales of hay from the first cut of summer, like dollops of liquid gold, dotted the distant landscape. Trees thick with heavy greenery almost concealed a muddy river in the far off distance. I saw not another living soul and easily imagined that this land had changed little in the last hundred years. In this moment, life and time stood still.

It was then that I heard them – whispers transcending hardships, graves and time. Though the air was still around me, distant voices echoed from a century past through the stillness in my heart. “You can make it.” “Don’t give up.” “We made it; so can you.” “Struggles bring value.” “Loss is temporal.” “Life is to be treasured.” “Death is but a door.” “Love is eternal.”

Their whispers spoke to my life, resounding loudly down the dark hallways of my mind.

In that moment, strangers though they were, I felt kinship with these parents. As I stood before their hallowed graves, the holidays of summer and fall sped through my mind and heart. It was Memorial Day as I fondly “reminisced” of their lives and loves. It was July 4th as I celebrated their independent spirits and determined souls. It was Labor Day as I recalled the hardships and labors of long ago. It was Veterans Day as I focused on the battles, victories and losses in lives no one living could remember. It was Thanksgiving as I gave thanks for lives and sacrifices that now spoke to me.

I left that cemetery a different man. Burdens were lifted, perspectives enlarged. Worries were buried. Though graves and headstones were all around, life – their lives - spoke louder than death. Though dead, their voices lived in me. And my struggles, which seemed larger than life, had died. Hope had arisen.

Copyright 2008 PFG Enterprises

Boy in the Orange Jumpsuit

2008-06-21T13:00:00.001-05:00

I first saw him standing there in his orange jumpsuit, facing the wall - which was only about two inches away from his face. As the other boys in the classroom continued their studies, I wondered what kind of trouble caused him to be disciplined in such a manner. He was about 14 or 15, of small build, short brown hair and very dark eyes. He nervously peeked around the corner, looking first one way and then the other down a very long and sterile jail hallway.

I had just finished interviewing another child at the jail and was waiting to be escorted back to the front lobby by Detention Staff. Instead, their attention - and mine - was diverted to this young, seemingly impatient, jailed juvenile.

A nurse arrived and asked the boy to step out of the classroom into the hallway. I was standing perhaps five feet away, behind the child. "What's wrong?" I heard her ask. The boy just stood there, looking down. He wouldn't - or couldn't - reply. "Are you not feeling well?" Again, he didn't answer. She asked him another question with the same result.

With a tinge of frustration in her voice, she told the young man she couldn't help him if he wouldn't tell her what was wrong. He mumbled that he wanted to go back to his room. The nurse asked yet another question and this time, in a louder, firmer voice, - but one that was scared and confused nevertheless - the child said he wanted to go back to his room.

He began to shake. Not his voice, but his body - first his arms and hands, then his shoulders, then the rest of him. He no longer requested - he demanded - that he be taken back to his room. The nurse kept asking questions. Now the child wasn't demanding, he was ordering her to take him to his room.

By this time the uniformed guard assigned to the classroom had moved up close to the child. I noted that the guard was shorter than the child. The nurse and the guard tried to engage the child in conversation. It didn't work. The child continued to shake and his voice took on an edge, an excited nervousness.

"She told me to go back to my room."

"Who told you?"

"She TOLD me to go back."

"Are you hearing voices?"

"Take me back to my f_ _ _ _ ing room."

The guard told the child to calm down. Instead, he child's voice grew loud and more aggressive. He started walking down the hall toward the double doors that lead to his room, all the while shouting "Take me back to my f _ _ _ _ ing room, take me back to my f _ _ _ ing room." He walked by a couple of tables and angrily shoved their chairs aside.

The guard chased after him and called aloud for another guard. The first guard intercepted the child just before he reached the doors. Quickly, two other guards came up beside them. The first guard was angry and threatened that he would make the boy obey. The child hesitated, still shaking.

I stole a glance down the opposite end of the hallway. Another child, dressed in a similarly colored jumpsuit, stood outside another doorway. He was watching the scene unfold with obvious delight and glee.

I turned back to find out what was to happen. Another guard arrived. Placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, he spoke calmly and briefly. His gentle voice - or perhaps it was the human touch - seemed to soften the child. His head drooped, his shoulders sagged and he turned from the doors and backed up against the wall. Then, putting his face in his hands, he slid down the wall to a squatting position. Low sobs barely escaped his cupped hands and heaving chest as the guards, the nurse - and by now a mental health practioner - all gathered 'round.

Though the outcome was still undecided, the tension was considerably less. One of the guards pulled out chairs for the child and the practioner and the two sat down.

The confrontation appeared over. One of the guards looked up and saw me standing there. Motioning for me to follow, I walked past the child and out of the double doors.

I didn't know this boy and I didn't know why he was jailed. I didn't know his struggles and troubles.

But I know OF them all too well.

I'll probably never see this child again.

But I know I'll see hundreds more just like him - angry, scared, frustrated, lonely, seeing enemies on every side, hearing voices, hopeless, helpless - surrounded by invisible bars of their own making, imprisoned by their own troubles.

Cry for the children. They are so much in need.

copyright 2008 PFG Enterprises

Sprinklers, Morning Drives, and Sunbeams

2008-06-17T20:18:00.001-05:00

I love my drive to work in the mornings. About 3 weeks ago, my family moved to a different side of town. Now, instead of driving through business districts and passing by shopping centers and strip malls, the first half of my trip to work is through residential areas. What I especially love about my drive are the sunbeams.

Yeah, you read it right – sunbeams. We don’t hear that word much anymore, do we.

I didn’t really notice them right away. At first, I was entranced by the many different lawn sprinkler systems I pass by. There are the standard (and boring) back and forth sprinklers, the rotating sprinklers that tease a 45 degree area, the four corner systems that blanket everything, the squirters, the sprayers, the misters and the guess-where-the-next-blast-is-coming-from systems. So far, my all time favorite are the twirlers – their five separate streams simultaneously twirl outward and create a very appealing water design. (My 19 year old son thought I was a wee bit strange when I took him to work one morning and pointed with delight to each of the different systems.) But I digress; let me get back to sunbeams.

I looked up the word in the dictionary; “a ray of sunlight.” That definition is about as exciting as watching mud crack.

Let me see if I can explain my joy.

I leave for work about 7:00 a.m. The air – and the day - is cooler and crisper than it will be in even another hour, undisturbed by heat, traffic, or the business of life. The neighborhoods I drive through are older and well established. Their plentiful trees are big, strong and sturdy, with solid, weighty branches outstretched and reaching ever higher, arrayed in various hues of green. The sun is not yet over the rooftops, but it is peaking through the treetops. The ground below, still cast in morning shadows, is covered with rich, deep green grass, kissed by the dew of the early morning.

Driving through these neighborhoods, I can inhale the freshness and cleanness of the day deep into my spirit.

Still, I didn’t notice them right away – or even on my first few mornings. Somehow, though, I began looking – searching for something. I didn’t know what I was looking or searching for, but I knew I’d know it when I saw it. In fact, I knew I’d already seen it, but I didn’t know what it was I’d seen. Make sense?

Only gradually did I become aware of them. At first, it was nothing but shadows and light. Then, longer shadows and shorter shadows. Then it was light and brighter light. Then it was short, brief stabs of sunlight, followed by more shadows. Then it was blinking, intermittent bursts.

Then . . . I noticed them - long-shafted, arrow-like beams of sunlight shooting through the branches and over rooftops; unstoppable, unconquerable, racing from the heavens above to the earth below; chasing away the shadows, drenching darkness with light, invigorating life with depth and color and breath. They were everywhere.

Sunbeams. Real, live, honest-to-goodness sunbeams.

I can’t explain it – but they lift my soul. I think better; I feel better. I smile at the day and it smiles back. I’m energized.

Yes, I love my drive to work in the mornings.

Copyright 2008 PFG Enterprises

2008-06-14T19:43:00.001-05:00

BENEATH THE BRANCHES
How the Wisdom of an Oak Changes Perspective on Life

Well . . . I'm finally here. Yup, right in the place that I had no clue I'd be in. Are you ready for this? This stick-in-the-mud, ultra-conservative, fat, bald, old and never-lived-outside-the-Midwest boy has moved to, of all places, Pensacola, Florida. The heat is pressing, the humidity oppressive and the rain incessant. God, you sure have a sense of humor in sending me to such a place as this. The one saving grace (imagine that . . . me telling God that He has one saving grace) about this place is the greenery. It is breathtakingly beautiful and a more-than- acceptable trade for the soft, rolling, green hills of my Missouri home. And I absolutely love the huge oak trees. They have character, lots of it. There they stand with might and power, titans of the terrain, enduring all that assails, arms outstretched forming a protective canopy above we scurrying little humans.

Have you ever noticed that there is no strain in an oak tree? Some trees reeeeeeeach and streeeeeetch and never quite get to where they're going. Not an oak tree. An oak tree never strains for anything. It just out-waits you.

While an oak tree stands . . . and stands . . . and keeps on standing, other trees get impatient. They try reaching out their wispy, finger-thin branches to entwine and endear themselves to others - only to be quickly blown away when a little wind comes along. And then, as if they have no shame at their limp-wristed ways, they move and dance whenever and wherever the wind moves them - trying to entice you with their seductive ways.

Not an oak tree. No, not ever an oak tree. An oak seduces no one. It dares everyone. It stands fixed and true, never budging and only slightly bending. It withstands all, endures all, sees all . . . and tells no one.

Have you ever noticed how some trees want to grow up around other trees? Their strength- in-numbers thinking betrays their cowardice. Like a gaggle of giggling adolescent girls they grow through life with a spin-my-head-with-the-latest-trend, I-could-care-less-about-anything-or-anyone-else-but-me (but even-the-smallest-zit-is-a-major-life-crisis) attitude. No, these trees dare not grow up alone. They have not the strength nor the wisdom nor the standing power. They would be torn apart by life's struggles, tattered by life's difficulties and tipped over by life's battles.

Not so the oak.

Oaks have no fear of growing by themselves. When an oak tree stands alone, it is a forward scout, a silent sentinel, observing and recording all that happens in order to give a straight and true report. There is no situation for which it is untrained or unworthy. When an oak DOES stand with other oaks, they are the faithful and mighty, never-yielding guardians of all who have been entrusted to their care. Singly, they are incredible; together they are invincible.

Beneath the arms of an oak tree there is comfort and security and rest. The source of its comfort, though, is not found in its great might and strength, nor in its ability to stand through the storm. No, its comfort comes from its great wisdom and its great wisdom comes from its greater ability to think all things through and through. Have you ever noticed that you can think much more thoroughly when you ponder life's difficulties beneath the shadows and shade of an oak? I don't know how it happens but the wisdom of the oak always puts things in proper perspective. Though you may not always receive the answer you want, the answer you do receive opens the way to make the impossible possible. And just knowing that there is a workable solution to my problem brings me great security. That, in turn, allows me to step out of the twisting and wrestling in my mind and rest.

Thank-you, God, for making the oak tree. And thank-you for putting something deep inside its nature that is of You.

When I settle beneath the branches of the oak, I nestle into the very arms of God.

copyright 2008 PFG Enterprises