Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Kite


In our youth, life seems to revolve around us through events.  Those events - later, often lost in the shadows of our memories - in so many ways, mold us.  They become a part of who we are, and perhaps more importantly - who we become.  Looking back on them can be of great value to our present and our future, if we search for the deeper lessons found in them.  The lessons are always there, always.


The Kite

The kite itself was quite nondescript - I really don't even remember it having any markings - I think it was red.  It was not like the high tech, acrobatic kites of today.  Even in its day, it would have been considered a simple, ordinary kite - a bossa wood cross covered with crepe paper.  It was probably bought for a quarter at Simpson's store.  Regardless, there was no way this kite was likely to go far, as kites go.

The kite was likely purchased from the proceeds we saved returning old "coke" bottles for the refund - they paid two cents apiece back then - a fortune.  We had no idea we were some of the earliest recyclers.  We just knew if you could find them they were free (and it didn't involve stealing, so it was honest work in our minds) and a single bottle could buy two pieces of bubblegum with a corny cartoon in the wrapper.  For a while the refund-bottle trade was so lucrative with us that we thought we would become wealthy bottle barons.  Sure, there were kids who "cheated" and talked their mom or a neighbor out of their empties, but we looked down on that practice - there was no adventure involved; it was much more respected and glorious to be the explorer of a previously undiscovered throw-away-zone.  You know - places like the Interstate highway median, or along an old dirt road.  

It was the kite's tail that was so different  - distinctly long and heavy - made of a worn out white bed sheet torn into strips and tied together with "granny knots".  I had no idea why such a scrawny kite needed a 10-12 foot tail (I was only ten or so at the time and completely unschooled in aerodynamics), but Charlie kept us tying on more strips, and when Charlie gave orders they were obeyed.  Charlie was probably 14 and he was the street leader, our boss.  

It was a windy day in early spring, 1966 or '67, perhaps.  In those days, small town kids in the South had run of the town - we were kings, on bicycles.  And the obvious place to fly the highest kite was only a mile or so down the road where all the piney woods had been cleared in preparation for building the new Louisiana Tech football stadium, track, and practice fields.  The site was strategic for two reasons: no trees to get tangled in; and high visibility to the general public (after all, what good was the world record kite flight unless everybody witnessed it?).

For such a flight, great lengths of twine were needed – we started with probably three or four balls.  (I am not sure now how much twine is on a ball, but it had to be at least 100 yards – just a guess of course, they probably don’t make cotton twine balls like that anymore).  Naturally, Charlie was the kite pilot, and he commanded a ready crew consisting of me, my older brother, and the two soon-to-be-infamous Causey brothers.  

It took several tries and a lot of running to get her into the air – that tail was a real problem, it was just so heavy.  But the wind was strong and steady, and giving up was not an option.  With firm and knowledgeable commands from our captain we ran our lungs out and finally set her soaring.

For a long while, Charlie remained at the helm, not allowing any of us little kids to control her.  At first he worked at it - letting her reel off line when the wind pulled, pulling back when there was too much slack, preventing a lethal dive.  It wasn't long before that little kite was flying high over the open field - and Charlie started screaming: "More string"!  Frankly, I do not remember where we got it, but somehow we put our hands on several more balls of twine.  Enough so that little kite was flying more than several hundred feet high and well past the Illinois Central railroad track which was at least a quarter mile away.  And more twine was on the way as bike wheels churned.

At some point I guess Charlie bored of holding her, because we all eventually got a chance to fly her.  When my turn came I was ready.  Even now, I can still feel the power and tremendous responsibility of holding on to that little kite.  It was like being at the helm of a great sailing ship blowing on the sea - tugging, swaying, yearning to break free - with only me to hold her steady from certain doom.

Eventually, we could not even really see her - but an occasional glint from the sun and pull on the string confirmed she was still rising.  We should have been in awe of the kite, but being boys, we were more in awe of ourselves - proud of our accomplishment of flying a kite higher than anybody had ever flown one (it must have been some kind of world record, we supposed).  At some point, we became numbed of the feat and did not know what to do with her, so we just held on because there was nothing else to do.

Then it happened, with no warning, and little fanfare: somewhere along that long length of cheap cotton twine a break occurred - the line just went slack.  We lost sight of her quickly, as though she dissolved into the sky, never to be seen again.  There was brief discussion of going to find her, but the afternoon was waning so we mounted for home. Great stories of the feat were told upon our return, but only for a day or two - we had bigger adventures to attend, summer was coming.

I think back on that little kite and wonder:  How did she fly so high and not rip apart at those altitudes?  Where did her tether break, and why?  Where did she land and what became of her?

Some things I know for certain now.  That fragile little kite did not rip apart because of that ridiculously long and heavy tail - that was her anchor against the strong winds at high altitude.  What made her so difficult to become airborne also gave her the stability to remain in tact, and to fly higher.  Surviving turbulence requires a long, heavy tail - an anchor that steadies.  Life can be full of turbulence - broken relationships, sickness, financial collapse, loss of a loved one, inner turmoil, depression, personal disappointments, etc. etc.  To survive the turbulence of life in spiritual wholeness, we need a heavy anchor.  To fly higher in life we need a long tail -  one that will take us higher than we can imagine going.  Anchors and tails should be tied with "granny knots".  (Every Boy Scout knows that granny knots are difficult to untie, which is why the "square knot" is preferred for most uses).  May we anchor our lives, and those of our children, in Heaven, tied with the granny knot of Faith.

I also know this: it was not the wind that broke the little kite's string, it was the cumulative weight of all those balls of twine.  It was her own bondage that kept her from being free, and in the end it was the weight of that bond, broken, that released her.  How often we are bound by our own self-made tethers in life.  We spend years, sadly some even lifetimes, weaving the cords of our own bondage - chains of habits and sin that keep us from being free.  My prayer is that the weight of those bonds will cause breakage and bring freedom.  Whatever it is that brings bondage to your life, break it.  John 8:36.

I do not know the answer to my final question - there is no way for me to know where that kite landed, or even the journey she took to get there.  Perhaps that is the greatest lesson to be learned: we cannot know all the answers.  If I knew where I were to land in life, I might not choose to take the journey.  And if I do not take the journey, I miss the adventure.

Kites are amazing things.










Sunday, November 27, 2011

Caught in the Middle

I am a middle child.  Actually, I am one of two "middle" children in a family of four kids.

To my older brother and "baby" sister: please know that I love you both, more than I am able to describe - you are both so different, and remarkable people that have shaped my life in so many ways.  You are well worthy to be looked to as wonderful examples of God's heavenly presence in the family here on earth.  I am honored and humbled to be your brother.

To my fellow "middle" colleague: You are a treasure, you have always been a treasure.  Maybe we share some of these thoughts.  Our lives are all voices - your voice is sweetness to my ears.  I hope you know that.

To all my other readers:

Please do not be put off by the style of this expository essay; it is written in the form of random thoughts and feelings.  Regardless of whether you are a "Middle" or not, you may learn something about yourself or someone whom you love in this post - at least that is my prayer.  And be patient, it is long.  Strangely, this piece was written for a friend and was not designed specifically for me, my brother, or sisters - but I hope they read it, and in so doing, sound the depths of my devotion for each of them.

Caught in the Middle

I have no remembrance of ever being a child alone - he was always there, first.  Since he came before me, I would never know what his young life was like before I arrived, I just know he existed on earth before me.  I can really only remember him from the age of five or six, and he was seven or eight years old by then.  I do not remember him being a nice fellow either - surely he resented me intruding in his singular love affair with Mom and Dad. How could he not?  Perhaps he was unhappy with himself or his life, or more likely, I was simply an easy and most appropriate target at which to aim his frustrations - regardless, it was only a temporary madness.  And I was occasionally the cause of my own pain, perhaps more often than not.  No regret or forgiveness is necessary between us now.

Firstborn are always prized, as they should be.  But taxes are due on receipt of great prizes - and strange as it may seem, the Firstborn must pay them.  Yet that seems just to me: with great blessings comes great responsibilities - responsibilities require toilsome times.  The gift of being Firstborn is not a free gift.  Few are found worthy of Firstborn status - he is one of those few.  How could I resent that?  How dare I not be grateful for it?  How foolish would it be for me not to look to him for leadership?

It has taken many years to learn the truth.  Looking up to him does not diminish me.  Valuing him does not make me less worthy.  In fact, as his wealth in wisdom grows, so grows mine also.  Has He not designed it so that the example of a Godly man inspires those around him?  It is rightfully so.  Yet I am heedfully reminded - he is a man nonetheless, defiled by imperfection, just as I.

The first I knew of her was that her spirit was sweeter than blooming honeysuckle on a warm and southern spring day.  Yet delicate, and like the primrose, often blooming only in the night - unseen by many, except by those of us watching.  For so many reasons, the world does not deserve such delicate beauty of the heart.  Harsh touches hurt deeply - petals dulled.  But true beauty, like gold, is not dimmed with time.  In fact, when gold is fired, it becomes more pure.  She has always been my friend.  She has always loved me.  She has always been loved.  But she has not, perhaps, always felt loved.

She and I communicate in deeper places, where words do not exist and are never heard - not because words are not of great value, but because they are unnecessary in those places.  She is my "middle" - the body's core of strength lies in the middle.  She would be greatly surprised to think of herself as strength, but she shouldn't be.  She is special, and not to me only.  Her name means "grace" or "favour" - I am graced with great favor to have her.

It took her many years to be heard above the din of her reputation - spoiled youngest child.  She is the only one I remember being born, remember Mom bringing home in a bundle.  She was a bundle, and now, in more mature ways she remains a bundle.  She is no longer "the baby", hasn't been for years, but she did mostly receive benefit of the doubt when she was young.  The rest sometimes resented her for that - we just did not know, we could not have known, could we?  When God touches a heart, He sets it on a path of true change.  This is to us His grandest gift, for no man, woman, or child alone can change another's heart, only God in his infinite grace can do that.

For many years now, she has unknowingly served as my touchstone - where I turn to seek renewal of my "better angels".  In her youth she was a talker, she could keep up with the best of them.  Now she speaks less, observes more, and sees with knowing eyes.  Life for her has taken dramatic turns, some would say tragic ones.  But she withstands the endless torrential storm of life, and with great dignity.  Who knew this "spoiled" little girl would be the one able to withstand the violence of the storm?  God knew - he picked her. The great King David of old was one of those "spoiled" youngest children.  God picked him too.

Sometimes I feel caught in the middle, invisible and surrounded by "greatness" - who wouldn't, with these people in my life?  Attempting to live up to others' expectations has always been one of my weaknesses.  In my ego, I always wanted to make them proud of me - to recognize and celebrate that I grew up to do something special too.  I asked wrong questions: what have I done, what have I accomplished that makes me worthy to be part of this family?  Why can't I be more like them - stronger, a better leader, more disciplined, more skilled, more successful, more confident of myself?  Why does my path seem less worthy?  Wrong questions, wrong assumptions.   What I was searching for was love of the purest kind.  Pride is not love - let me say that another way - Pride is not the same as love.  Pure love can exist without pride - God deemed it so.  Spoken from a father's perspective, I would add this:  I am proud of all my children, but not always proud of decisions they have made, actions they have taken, or the way they have acted.  I am proud of them because they are the fruit of my loins, because they are my children.  Nothing more.  Certainly they are all special and unique, certainly they have accomplished good things and take great pride in them, and certainly I enjoy their presence.  But none of that is essential to my loving them.  Further, their immaturity and bad decisions have disappointed me at times, yet I love them no less because of it.  Such is God's love for His children, but infinitely more pure.

I think I have learned to stop trying to live up to other's expectation of me, but it is a daily battle for most of us.  Freedom awaits those who can accomplish this feat.  Freedom to live without jealousies, without regret, without fear of disappointing others.  Love smothers fear - it literally suffocates it.  Perfect love strangles fear completely - never to rise again.  Perfect love is offered us - let us accept it through His Son.  Like a loving father, nothing further is required of me to gain His perfect love, only this: to become His child.  You must be born into His family - if you are, pride and fear vanish - all that is left is the warmth of His touch.

Life is not a Hollywood movie, it is not a Broadway play, it is not a bestselling novel.  Life is more of a history book, full of stories of great victories and bitter defeats.  Do not allow another to write your history book, take it with confidence as your own -confidence born from being an equal member of the greatest family.

I like being in the "middle" - it's a good place to be.










Tuesday, November 15, 2011

My Dad

Preface:

This is a very personal post that I hesitated to share with you, but after praying on it I have decided that it should be posted for posterity sake.  My purpose of this blog is: 1) to share my heart with others in a hope that it may touch another; and 2) to give a gift to my children and grandchildren (some day, I hope) - the gift of sharing some of my thoughts and stories.  Sharing about my Dad's influence on my life seems to meet both objectives.  In addition, and just as importantly, I write this for my Dad.  Often (and for me), we do not or cannot verbalize certain things in our hearts - that is not necessarily a bad thing, unless we fail to find a way to express them.  For many reasons, I can express the deepest of those feelings only in my writing.

My Dad

I have never experienced a single day in my life, not even a single minute, without my Dad being a huge part of my life.  Easily, and without any doubt or hesitation, I can state for the record that my Dad has been the single greatest male influence in my life.  Understand this about me (in case you have not been paying attention at all) - I adored my grandfathers and my father-in-law, they were outstanding mentors and companions.  (Yes, companions - that's what grandfathers have the luxury and joy of doing).  But their influence on who I am as a man is dwarfed by my Dad's.

Think on it - how few of my generation and youngsters today have or will have the blessing of being able to make the statements above?  Praise God from Whom all blessing flow. Yet in stating it, I am humbled beyond description, for Dad has set the bar high.

I am 54 years of age, and I still ask my Dad for advice, and even more - I still go to my Dad for encouragement.  Let me restate and explain: I still go to my Dad for encouragement - he is 81 years old today and has not been in good health for a number of years now.  In fact, it is fair to say that my Dad has been afflicted with some very difficult and sometimes very painful ailments for several years now.  He has even lost his eyesight for a time.  I cannot even imagine what that must be like.  Something seems amiss in this - I am blessed with good health for now; should not my Dad be coming to Me for encouragement?  Like I said, he has set a high standard.

My Dad is not perfect.  But that is perfectly acceptable - only our heavenly Father is the Perfect Father.  There have been times when my Dad angered me, there have been times when he embarrassed me - but there has never been a time when my Dad disappointed me.  He has always been there for me, no matter what my need.  Even when I didn't, or thought that I didn't, need him, I always knew he was there for me.  Always, every day of my life.

My Dad will not be with me in the flesh one day - I know that and I dread the deep loneliness of it.  But this also I know: my Dad will still be there for me, always, every day, until I pass into our Father's Kingdom to be with him again.

But Dad would not want me talking of this - he would tell me that we must live every day seeking God's will for our lives and not waste a single day in worry or fear.  He would not approve of me praising him either - in his wisdom, he would tell me that I should focus on praising my heavenly Father.  He would be correct, of course, but I believe I am backed up by scripture on this one, Pops: "Honor Thy Father and Mother..."

I have not always honored my Father, and for that I am truly repentant.

I honor you, Dad.  I love you.



Thursday, November 10, 2011

Autographs

I have known some of the greatest and most influential men of my time, and I have their autographs.

One of them was a highly respected entrepreneur and wealthy beyond all imagination. His earnings were so large that they have taken years to count and though he died 35 years ago, his riches are still being credited to him and his posterity.  Until the day he passed from this world, he never stopped sharing his wealth with those he loved and with every stranger he met.  Yet you would not even know his name.

 His business was people, his wealth was kindness and laughter.

Another was considered to be a "hard" man by many, but his life work was to instruct the ignorant.  His rough words of warning and lessons glued themselves to the minds of his students.  He taught survival in a harsh and bitter world.  He was known by many, understood by few.

He left deep marks, deep marks last lifetimes.

The next was a quiet hero.  He toiled many years under the harshest burdens of life, yet I never knew him to have a single dark moment.  Surely he had many, for the shackles he walked in were not removable and caused great pain.  But his countenance was always bright, cheerful, and positive.  He had one great joy and passion in life when I knew him, and he spent every waking hour protecting that jewel.  

He saved a life and in so doing, his life was saved.

Like them, while we walk on this earth we leave footprints - our autographs.  If we leave footprints on the beaches of meaninglessness, they wash away with the waves and tides of time.  If we walk firmly on young rock, they outlast our journey and leave trails for others to follow - for generations to come.  What ground do you leave your footprints in? How deep are your trails that others may follow?  Where do they lead those behind you?

Autographs of great people are prized.  I got Their autographs - signatures inscribed on my heart.  I take them out and reflect on them too rarely.  I have signed autographs too - I am humbled by the privilege and quake at the responsibility.

Cherish your autographs.  Pull them out, dust them off, and look deeply.







Sunday, November 6, 2011

The Greatest Gift


I struggled with demons one day - sin committed, with full knowledge that I had wronged my Creator, those who love me, and myself.  The fight within me lasted many rounds, and I, bloodied in battle finally could pick myself up from the mat no more.  I was defeated, the victor an ugly foe - taunting me, humiliating my soul, almost convincing me that I was lost forever.

With all my strength, I lifted my wounded head to look up.  No, my face was lifted up by unseen hands - soft, strong hands. As I opened my eyes, my adversary was nowhere to be seen - and I thanked my Comforter, and begged forgiveness through my tears...but no words of comfort were heard.

Then I looked up - and saw an unseen vision.  My Savior, hung to a cross, spoke unheard words that seared the depths of my heart:

"Dear friend, you are forgiven - I forgave you even before your match was fought.  I knew you would lose this battle - why did not you call on me?  Your battle was not a stranger me, I entered it long before you were to face it - and I was victorious.  You also can be victorious, but only with me at your side - you can never defeat this enemy alone.  After all this time, do you still not understand?  I defeated the enemy for you ages ago - you have always been forgiven, even before you made your request.  Your tortuous pain seems just to you, yet it is needless and in vain.  I forgave you because you are My son, not for your valiant but losing fight.  I love you as none other can love - just because you are My child, and for no other reason...I love My own because they are mine.  Do you not, in your own feeble way, love your children in the same manner?  Rise up, live in peace and joy, My beloved son.  Live each day with faith that the victory is won...living defeated is an offense to My sacrifice, to My victory."

The warfare continues, the battle rages on.

Father, give me strength of faith to know Your mighty hand protects, defends, and provides.

"So abideth Faith, Hope, and Love. But the greatest of these is Love."


Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Graveyard Voices

I spent some time in two cemeteries last week - two graveyards, each with different residents and different meanings to me.  Both with ancient headstones, yet one living and the other dead.  One I visited with youth at my side, the other with wisdom holding my hand.

The first was a cemetery that has been all but forgotten - maintained by the living, but deprived of new dead - she is filled with ancient memories that none remember.  Voices of the old South whisper through barely readable epitaphs as mild winds blow through her trees.  Yet life sits at her feet in the form of my niece.  Special words and moments now crown her ancient stones, bringing life where death sleeps.  Her unknown guardians smile and are comforted through giving comfort...we know them not, yet they know us and bring eternal gifts.

Multitudes of strangers travel fast by the second cemetery - unknowing, uncaring.  But her gate offers wonders as she still gives shelter to the living and the dead.  I have been in this place before with grief as my companion.  She is a history book - one can discover new faces of the ancients there, as long as you have a guide.  My guide, wandering with purpose, uncovers the stories and makes the names and dates come alive.  As my guide's mind explores the memories for me, I realize that she has been my life's guide too - ever teaching, ever nudging me along to find true life.

I have learned that graveyards are special places - for the living.



Approaching Slow Deep Waters

Growing up in Louisiana, I always had a great appreciation for fast moving water.  The only rivers I had ever known were slow, dark, and muddy - they were called "rivers", but most were simply wandering endless bodies of water more aptly described as bayous because they were not in a hurry to get anywhere fast.  My grandfather used to say a bayou is so named because it flows "by you house"...simple, and quite appropriate.

It was not until my teens years that I experienced "white water" - water moving so fast that it gurgled and belched foam as it laughingly barreled its way downstream. It was water untamed and unleashed, searching for adventure - like the old familiar callings of "Go West Young Man" or "Go Find Your Way in the World" - limitless opportunity, journeys for exploring.  Life called and its voice was high, shrill, and unavoidable - not to be denied.

My white waters were a magnificant ride - filled with adventure as they boiled over the downhill slope of life.  But there were dangerous rapids along the way - violent places where only lifeless floating things or strong swimmers survive.  As with surviving river rapids in a craft, life is all in the approach...always and eternally, it is all about the approach.  Approach the rapid poorly and you end up captain of a wreck - approach life poorly and you can wreck your craft and perhaps even the lives of those around you.  Successful white water approaches require planning and preparedness for the unexpected situation.  Your path through the turmoil must avoid the traps, the rocks, and make use of the current.  It must be planned by advanced scouting, determining the goal, and you must give yourself escape options when things do not go as planned. White waters are full of adventure and pleasures, but also fraught with turbulence and danger.  I appreciate them more now, not for their shallow pleasures, but for their lessons.

Slow deep water is rarely exciting after you go through the rush of white water.  Its lazy flow requires paddling to get through.  Its endless boredom surrounds, its silence lulls the sailor as he yearns for rest.  The quagmire of the muddy bayou offer up its own dangers: septic places, rotten stenches, sweat and toil.  

Life's river tends to get slower and deeper as the years go by - remembrances of rampaging rapids becoming stories that we tell our children.  Yet, slow deep water remains all about the approach.  Planning and preparedness remain necessities of success.  Lonely and forgotten places require work to negotiate, and dangers still abound.  Approaching the slow deep water of life takes more time and patience than the deadliest of rapids.  Strength must be gained and peace must be welcomed - not just to endure, but to enjoy the journey.  Strength requires exercise, peace requires patience and faith.  Let our exercise be spiritual discipline, allow our faith to make patience our friend.

Now I approach slow deep waters too with excitement, knowing that wonders lurk beneath.