Get a jump on your Christmas shopping. Until midnight tomorrow, Friday, November 26, autographed copies of my novel The Runaway Pastor are available at discount prices. Here's the deal: Email http://www.runawaypastor.gmail.com before midnight, Friday night with the number of books you want. Then, as soon as we receive your check for the full amount, we will mail you your autographed copies. Be sure and let us know if you want gift or personal books signed "To _______."
Price: 1 Copy ---------------------- $11.
2 Copies ------------------- $21.
3-11 Copies------------ @ $10. per copy
12 Copies or more------- Ask for quote
For US orders only.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The treasures we see. And those we miss.
We passed over the French Alps some time ago. Snow blanketed their rugged beauty as we soared high above glistening peaks. Yet now, as we reach the ocean border of France, I'm thinking of the lives of those some five and a half miles below. They are working in factories, sitting in classrooms, caring for farm animals which produce such fine cheese, and yes, they are speaking French.
Are they thinking of me and this plane load of travelers as we make our white scar in the deep blue sky? Do they wonder where we are going, or if we even notice their rural landscape? Well I, if they were able to know, am thinking not of their cheese or schools or language. I'm thinking of them.
We've seen so many incredible sites during our time in Europe, Africa and Asia. We've witnessed historical landmarks: towering basilicas, pyramids, the birthplace of Christ, and the Mediterranean glories witnessed by ancient traders, warriors and missionaries. But I think that I will never see, a photo op as amazing as...a person.
This hit home with me during a recent visit to Rome with my family. We had just seen the amazing Colosseum, walked through the ancient forum and visited many of the familiar scenes of that once world-ruling city. Our camera memory cards were bulging with shot after shot that could grace the cover of any western civilization textbook. But as we were making our way out, we witnessed a greater wonder.
An older gentleman sat at the side of the walkway. His focus, his entire world was within the beautiful music his calloused fingers charmed from his aging guitar. We stood, dumbfounded--entranced. The intensity of life vibrating from his gentle playing filled us, even encapsulated us. It wasn't the perfection of the performance, or the complication of the music which held us spellbound. It was the man, his love for the song, for the place and indeed in some strange way, for us...this is what held us in place.
I do not know how long the melody and harmony of that song danced on that street on that day. But when the song stopped sounding, and only held us still, he looked up as I dropped a pittance of appreciation into his opened guitar case. His grateful smile--grateful for our listening and our hearing--continued as his head bowed into another gift.
We saw priceless, historical treasures that afternoon. And we saw a simple musician. His worth--like that of any other human creature--was so far beyond the treasures of this earth, that words can never explain it, photographs can never capture it, and Euros or dollars in the bottom of an instrument's case will never be able to define it. And this soul, will never be able to contain it.
Are they thinking of me and this plane load of travelers as we make our white scar in the deep blue sky? Do they wonder where we are going, or if we even notice their rural landscape? Well I, if they were able to know, am thinking not of their cheese or schools or language. I'm thinking of them.
We've seen so many incredible sites during our time in Europe, Africa and Asia. We've witnessed historical landmarks: towering basilicas, pyramids, the birthplace of Christ, and the Mediterranean glories witnessed by ancient traders, warriors and missionaries. But I think that I will never see, a photo op as amazing as...a person.
This hit home with me during a recent visit to Rome with my family. We had just seen the amazing Colosseum, walked through the ancient forum and visited many of the familiar scenes of that once world-ruling city. Our camera memory cards were bulging with shot after shot that could grace the cover of any western civilization textbook. But as we were making our way out, we witnessed a greater wonder.
An older gentleman sat at the side of the walkway. His focus, his entire world was within the beautiful music his calloused fingers charmed from his aging guitar. We stood, dumbfounded--entranced. The intensity of life vibrating from his gentle playing filled us, even encapsulated us. It wasn't the perfection of the performance, or the complication of the music which held us spellbound. It was the man, his love for the song, for the place and indeed in some strange way, for us...this is what held us in place.
I do not know how long the melody and harmony of that song danced on that street on that day. But when the song stopped sounding, and only held us still, he looked up as I dropped a pittance of appreciation into his opened guitar case. His grateful smile--grateful for our listening and our hearing--continued as his head bowed into another gift.
We saw priceless, historical treasures that afternoon. And we saw a simple musician. His worth--like that of any other human creature--was so far beyond the treasures of this earth, that words can never explain it, photographs can never capture it, and Euros or dollars in the bottom of an instrument's case will never be able to define it. And this soul, will never be able to contain it.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Rough seas, my father and me
When the Apostle Paul made his famous missionary journeys, there was a stretch of sea he must have become very familiar with. The northeastern portion of the Mediterranian Sea is a dramatic flow of breathtakingly beautiful water--think tropical beach colors--which can throw a fit without much notice. We had the opportunity to see its beauty and rock with its furry during a recent visit to several Biblical sites. I will now better understand those stories in the books of Acts, as they were, set against the glory and moodiness of that sea.
Yet, deep into one of those tossing nights, it wasn't scripture I had on my mind. I was experiencing a wonderful new understanding of my father and his life. I used to love for him to tell me stories about the seas he sailed in a small liberty ship between San Francisco and the South Pacific island of Somoa. He told me of seasick sailors, and how he had somehow avoided the malady. I had proudly thought of all his years fishing in waters--waters which knew him so well, they must have chosen to treat him as a friend.
In the ink dark of one night, while experiencing the pitch and toss of the sea, I thought of my father and his stories. No, I didn't think of them, I lived them. And it seemed I lived them with him. If a night vision camara had been in the room aimed properly at my face, it would have seen me smiling warmly. I was full with thoughts of my dad, and I enjoyed him so dearly through that rough patch of sea.
In the morning, as we stopped in a port where Paul had visited, I understood a bit differently the adventures that must have been his back in those days. And I had a deeply devotional question form in my mind: Did the Apostle Paul ever get seasick traveling to Corinth? Somehow I'm guessing he was as stubborn as my father and I, and was able to avoid it while thinking of his higher agenda.
Yet, deep into one of those tossing nights, it wasn't scripture I had on my mind. I was experiencing a wonderful new understanding of my father and his life. I used to love for him to tell me stories about the seas he sailed in a small liberty ship between San Francisco and the South Pacific island of Somoa. He told me of seasick sailors, and how he had somehow avoided the malady. I had proudly thought of all his years fishing in waters--waters which knew him so well, they must have chosen to treat him as a friend.
In the ink dark of one night, while experiencing the pitch and toss of the sea, I thought of my father and his stories. No, I didn't think of them, I lived them. And it seemed I lived them with him. If a night vision camara had been in the room aimed properly at my face, it would have seen me smiling warmly. I was full with thoughts of my dad, and I enjoyed him so dearly through that rough patch of sea.
In the morning, as we stopped in a port where Paul had visited, I understood a bit differently the adventures that must have been his back in those days. And I had a deeply devotional question form in my mind: Did the Apostle Paul ever get seasick traveling to Corinth? Somehow I'm guessing he was as stubborn as my father and I, and was able to avoid it while thinking of his higher agenda.
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