God stuff – Page 11 – A Work in Progress

Let Your Glory Shine

The song “Let Your Glory Shine,” by Lincoln Brewster came on my mp3 player today, and it gave me a second or two of pause. The song begins with a short but lightning fast burst of guitar that just melts your face. Then he gets into the verse, which is pretty much straightforward blues/rock with a nice groove. Of course, then Brewster and the band go absolutely nuts after the bridge, and there’s another face melting guitar solo.

In the following video, Brewster tells the story of the song:

He talks about when he came from the secular music world (he played for Steve Perry, the original Journey singer) into playing worship music in a church, he always felt restraint, so far as his playing went. But it seemed like God was telling him to just play with what he was given to play, and in this instance, that was crazy guitar skills.

But the chorus of the song really tells the story.

“Let your glory shine, let your glory shine, let your glory shine through me.”

I’ve heard both pastors and worship leaders over the years say things like “church isn’t the time to showboat,” and maybe it isn’t. Perhaps a song like this IS more suited to a concert setting. But to me, that doesn’t meant the song doesn’t carry a valid message.

Let your glory shine through me.

Brewster also says in the “making of” video above, that “If I don’t give Lord everything, both musically and spiritually, then I’m not being obedient.”

He’s letting the talent God gave him shine (worth mentioning is that he always gives God the glory for what he’s been given).

That sounds OK to me.

Certainly, I’m no pastor, no bible scholar. Can’t sing or play.

But if there was something I could do OK, I would do it, and honor God with what he’d given me.

What that is, I’m still doing my best to discover. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe telling people about the Good News.

Maybe it’s simply my work. I would guess that’s it for a lot of people. Steven Curtis Chapman has a song where he says something like “do everything you do for the glory of the one who made you.”

Can I write and edit documents to the Glory of God? I think so—I hope that’s what I’m doing today.

But maybe it isn’t something so glamorous as typing for you, or playing ridiculously awesome guitar solos.

Maybe you drive a cab, or wash dishes.

Maybe you scoop dog poop in a park.

Or you could be a stay-at-home parent who spends a great deal of their time following children around and vacuuming Legos out of the carpet (you can do that, right?)

Try to think that in that moment, you are where God meant you to be.

Handing homeless people a meal, or stacking chairs.

Flipping burgers.

Making bouquets.

God put you there.

You can glorify him wherever you are.

I wish I could sing all the time. I’m the only one in my nuclear family who can’t, including my 4 year-old.

But that isn’t me.

Instead, I am spending my lunch trying to think, and write, and eat something from the roadrunner without getting some meat-sickness.

Then I will go back to Word, and Publisher.

I will write, and I will edit. And I will drop the mic when I am done for the day.

“If I don’t give Lord everything, then I’m not being obedient.”

Basic Human Rights 101

These two paragraphs from a New York Times article upset me so much I hardly know what to think about it:

When asked about American military policy, the spokesman for the American command in Afghanistan, Col. Brian Tribus, wrote in an email: “Generally, allegations of child sexual abuse by Afghan military or police personnel would be a matter of domestic Afghan criminal law.” He added that “there would be no express requirement that U.S. military personnel in Afghanistan report it.” An exception, he said, is when rape is being used as a weapon of war.
The American policy of nonintervention is intended to maintain good relations with the Afghan police and militia units the United States has trained to fight the Taliban. It also reflects a reluctance to impose cultural values in a country where pederasty is rife, particularly among powerful men, for whom being surrounded by young teenagers can be a mark of social status.

The article was in reference to the struggles soldiers are having with looking the other way while these Afghan chicken hawks rape and abuse young boys (occasionally girls). Domestic Afghan Criminal law? Please. This is a country that seems to encourage (or at least condones) the perpetuation of child sexual abuse as policy.

Really? These are our allies?

Isn’t not being raped a basic human right?

And while I’m thinking about it, just because these…men have always been a rapin’, does that mean they always should?

Does it really take a doctorate and a radio telescope to see when something is wrong?

If placating our “allies” requires allowing them to violate children because they’ve always done so, then we need to rethink our own military’s policy.

I spent several years witnessing first hand the terrible cost perpetrators of this “policy” exact on the victims of it (meaning rapists and victims–though domestically rather than internationally), and the closest I can come to describing how it makes me feel is rage.

And I know that makes my own faith–my own Christianity–sound feeble and hypocritical, but I could not ignore something like that. And I have nothing but respect for the soldiers who acted, and are going to lose their careers because of it.

I will just say it. It’s difficult for me to see the wrong in putting a beat down on a sack of goat crap like this Afghan commander. He’s lucky they didn’t kill him.

My response to all of this is there are some things in life that should not be compromised–one of which is the right of children to experience life at their own speed, and to not be subject to things like what our soldiers are told to ignore in Afghanistan.

Ignoring the screams of children is wrong, and the message this…policy is perpetuating is also wrong.

No, it isn’t the United States.

Yes, they should police these men in Afghanistan, in accordance with Afghan law.

They aren’t going to.

In my opinion, ignoring this crap is going to backfire big-time.

There has to be something we can do?

At the very least, the people entrusted with command of these men–as well as our commander-in-chief, should create a dialogue with our “allies.”

Because eventually, someone is going to go all “Marcellus Wallace” on these Afgan commanders.

Think it can’t get any worse? Wait a while.

The Lifeguard

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Our country has some serious problems–both domestically and abroad. These are issues the executive branch is capable of handling, but for some reason has been choosing to act and/or negotiate from a position of weakness rather than strength, in both areas.

I think there are times when that sort of approach can be affective, but in this instance, it seems the greatest country on earth is approaching the head of the soup line with our palms up in supplication, asking if we can please have some more.

Do I think we should act like the playground bully and take more control?

Of course not.

I think our current USA CEO could even be a great president under better conditions–under peacetime conditions.

Except that in our current domestic and world situations,

IT ISN’T LIKE THAT AT ALL!!

There’s a war going on, and a pestilence made up of radical Islamic thugs and murderers spreading in the middle east.

Is the answer to keeping Iran out of the fray gently petting their back like a kitty?

Maybe not.

But letting them inspect themselves to determine if they are stockpiling nuclear weapons?

Have they proven themselves to be both truthful and trustworthy? Sane, even?

And what about the Islamic State?

What about our own country, for that matter? What is going on?

It seems as if life has no meaning beyond Webster’s definition.

People kill each other almost arbitrarily in places like Chicago, and really across America.

Young African-American men are killing cops, because black lives matter.

Cops are occasionally killing African-American men because they have been conditioned to fear them, and even expect the worst.

Stupidity, AND latent and active racism have a hand in both.

Here’s the thing, in my opinion.

Life is never easy, for most of us.

But it has value. Each life has value.

Black, white, blue, born or unborn.

How do we get people to realize that?

It’s there where I usually get myself into trouble.

It isn’t by preaching wrath.

I think it’s by preaching the love of Christ.

Not Allah, or Vishnu, or Baal, or anything like that.

Christ.

It’s a shame so many people don’t know that.

It’s a shame it often seems the government is working toward criminalizing people for saying it, in one form or another.

It’s my belief that if people knew what value they had to their maker, maybe they would act, think, and feel differently.

Maybe I’m being optimistic and naïve, but I think there’s always hope. It may be that my saying that in the way I have offends you.

I’m sorry if you’re offended, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

There’s just one way to find real peace.

It may not be popular.

It may be difficult (of course it is. Morality seems more vice than virtue these days). And moral relativism is a lot easier to achieve and maintain than a relationship with Christ.

Man, I don’t know what to tell you. I only know my own pain. I only know my own hopes, dreams, and fears. I only know the sources of my own scars.

And I only know that it wasn’t until I began a relationship with Jesus that I began to find relief.

I know that with the same certainty I felt when I knew I wanted to marry my wife.

Listen, folks, you don’t have to believe me. You get to decide the route your life takes.

We are all different, in almost every way.

But we are also all the same.

We’re drowning in a deep, dark pool, and we need someone to throw us a rope. Lots of people will, but only one rope leads to rescue.

Cling to that one with all your might.

Sunflowers

I’ve been up at the front exactly twice during an invitation at church, both times at my church in San Diego. They did it a little differently than some places I’d been. People would sort of hang out on the short steps leading to the stage, and if you wanted prayer, you’d come up and have a seat. Sometimes you’d do the same in the chairs. Seemed to work pretty well.

On the day in question, it was because I was a small group leader, and the pastor called us to the front to pray for or with people that wanted prayer. Typically, it was people involved in worship or ministry in some way that would be the prayers, but there was a retreat or something going on, and the pastor needed a little help.

Honestly, it wasn’t something I was terribly comfortable with at the time, because I didn’t feel…worthy, or qualified to lift anyone else up to God. I felt broken, and sort of…held together.

But the pastor called, so up I went.

I remember the first time, I sat nervously on the step, wondering if anyone would come to me—there were quite a few people sitting around the stage. I silently prayed that if someone did end up with me, that I would have the right words to say when the time came.

I felt like the kid in left field, asking God “Please don’t let anyone hit it to me.”

Shortly after that, I saw a pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties make her way down the aisle to where I was sitting. She was tall for a woman, and very slender. She had a bandanna tied around what looked to be a very bald head, and my first thought was cancer.

What I remember most is she looked very, very tired, and from what it looked like, had been sitting alone in the sanctuary.

She stopped right before me, and I slowly stood. She took both my hands in hers, and I could see the gentle sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Hi,” I said. “How can I…”

Before I could finish my sentence, she dropped her head toward her chest and the tears began to flow.

God, I prayed. What do I say? What do I do to help her?

You do nothing, was the sense I got. You say nothing.

So I didn’t. She was a little older than me at the time, but I just reached out my arms and I hugged her.

She cried on my chest for a good five minutes, and I just prayed silently in my head for her. Mainly that she could experience Jesus through her pain, and that I not ruin any experience that might happen. I never asked for healing. I don’t know why.

She lifted her head a minute or so later, and she just smiled a gentle smile at me, and said “thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said.

She stepped back and said, “I guess I needed that.”

“Me, too.”

She looked at me for a moment, and then walked back down the aisle, and out of the sanctuary.

I stood there for a moment, and realized I didn’t feel nervous anymore. I actually felt peaceful. I could still feel the woman’s arms around me, and smell the faint scent of Sunflowers (I think that’s what it’s called) clinging to my t-shirt.

I didn’t remember anyone holding onto me like that since I was a kid. Not in a romantic way, but still loving. Comforting.

Like I was a brother.

I realized it was me who needed the prayer, and in that moment, needed her.

And it occurred to me that maybe she’d been praying for me the whole time I was praying for her. Maybe she was crying for me. I felt like I got the most of the blessing.

That was the only time I saw her.

I don’t know her name, but when I think about God meeting my needs (which he does every time I ask), I always think of her, and of Sunflowers perfume.

And I think one of the funny things about God is sometimes you just need to show up, and let him do the work.

Heroes

I keep a sword behind my bed—two, actually. A pair of sheathed Roman-style gladiuses (or is it gladii?). Not much of an edge on either, but both have relatively heavy blades and nasty points. So while I may not shoot you, if you break into my house and try to hurt someone who lives there, you will either be killed and partially consumed by a Chihuahua and a dachshund, or stabbed in the head by an angry, middle-aged bald man.

Or that’s my plan.

The issue I run into is that I am not certain I could do it. I hope I never have to find out. That’s the thing about courage. I guess you never really know if you have it until you’re tested. I think these days, home invasion is the most likely situation in which that test would ever occur.

As I said a minute ago, I hope it never does.

When I think of courage, I think of people doing what has to be done in spite of potential danger to themselves—up to and including killing to protect those in their care.

I don’t think about senior-aged men deciding they were meant to be something other than what they already are, and then going on national television and suddenly becoming heroic for talking about their issues. Identity. Whatever.

Courage, of course, does not always have to be meant in a martial or violent sense, either. I think about people like Randy Pausch, maintaining his composure, and hope, and delivering his last lecture in the face of certain and eventual death.

I don’t mean hope of death passing him by, either. Randy had something he wanted to achieve before he passed, and he did, in spite of his illness.

That’s courage.

I think of my brother-in-law, John, climbing this…electrical tower thingy and bringing a potentially suicidal guy back down to earth.

That’s courage.

Or how about those Coptic Christians being marched down that beach earlier in the year, moments from literally dying for their faith?

Most definitely courage, and I can only hope to be as brave should something similar ever happen here.

Talking about how God gave you the wrong plumbing?

Not so much.

I guess in a sense, every boy wants to be courageous when the time comes. We all want to be heroes. What am I after with all this? I’m not sure. I guess I just hope that if and when it is necessary, I come through and do what needs to be done.

Until that day, I will just do my best to raise my boys to know that I am there for them, and will protect them and their mother to the best of all the abilities God has given me.

I never served, and never had the honor of protecting my country–I wish I had, now.

What I can do is support my country however I am able, and support those who do protect it with the best of all the abilities God has given me.

And I will hold all life as sacred, because God said to (and because I read Coleridge–the Ancient Mariner had some real problems) and because all life is sacred. All lives matter.

I think if I can do those two things, even when society tells me I don’t need to, or don’t have the right, then we will be OK.

Does that make me courageous? I don’t know.

The Song You Sing

Over the past week or two, I’ve written, rewritten, and ultimately discarded a post that’s been sticking in my craw like county fair taffy. In the end, I think I only need a few syllables. 17, to be exact:

All lives are the same
Created in His beauty
All matter to God

I think about life, and then Thoreau speaks quiet words into my ear:

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

I don’t want to listen to him, because I got a “B” on my Civil Disobedience paper, and his sideburns are ridiculous.

Am I quietly desperate? I don’t know. I don’t want to be.

That doesn’t make his words any less true.

Do you really want to live the rest of your life with the song still in you? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Sing.

At my best, my voice is…not good. But in my own way, I carry a tune (even if it is in a bucket).

I just decided that it’s OK if people don’t like my melody—or don’t think I’m musical.

Maybe my music consists of letters instead of notes; bouquets of words, and sentences, and imagery.

I’m good with that.

All I want to say to you, whoever you are, is find your music.

It’s different for everyone.

It’s probably something else for you. Your music will sound different than anyone else’s.

It should–you weren’t designed the same as they were. You don’t have the same purpose, but be assured, you have one.

For my wife, it’s singing and pouring out her amazing heart for children.

Find your own song, and belt that thing like Andrea Bocelli.

Let me finish with these words from Psalm 51–about the most appropriate I can think of, given what I’m talking about:

14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,
you who are God my Savior,
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.

15 Open my lips, Lord,
and my mouth will declare your praise)

Certainly not my words, but they fit.

Listen, or How a Trip to Mexico Changed My Life

There’s a lot I can take credit for in my life.

My mistakes.

My screw ups.

Things like that.

The turn my life has taken over the past few years is not one of them.

More than ten years ago I was a believer, but I was a just-inside-the-gate-of heaven type of guy. I did as little as I could so that I felt “saved,” but had not really done much of anything with the Gospel, or myself.

I was neither financially, spiritually, or romantically viable. And probably some other viables, too.

I believe the saying now is a “hot mess.”

A former relationship had rendered me skittish about sticking out my neck in any real way, so I didn’t. I just sat back and waited for the next thing to happen.

It didn’t, even though there were a couple of opportunities with some really nice, really great women who probably would have made me happy.

Never tried.

My discipleship and spiritual life were mediocre, at best. I was part of a ministry that changed my life over around a five-year period, but that was due to God being glorious, and me at least being smart enough to stand out of the way and let God use me a few times. I almost feel like I had nothing to do with it. Maybe I didn’t.

Financially, I had a decent job that payed well enough, but I was utterly stupid about money and it amounted to naught. Plus, it was in the cellular industry and there was always a measure of uncertainty attached to it.

I made so many bad choices it makes me shudder to think of it now (not that all my choices now are perfect, but they are at least considered first).

I needed to get away, to think about things, and where my life was going. I needed to pray. I had what turned out to be a misguided feeling that if I could just meet someone, my life would be better.

Well, actually, that was true. Just not in the way I thought.

There were a couple of lame attempts at online dating that I really never expected to succeed. So they didn’t.

I considered what was wrong in my life, and why all that stuff was so hard.

I’d had a few relationships here and there, but they always went in the toilet after various periods of time.

Why?

I could not blame the women, not really. I had chosen to pursue them in most of the cases. And eventually I always just…face-planted.

I’d always had more female friends than male ones. I guess that was because of my childhood and adolescence, which I’ve written about several times. Not inclined to repeat any of that here. Anyway, it seemed to make things easier, but not really.

There was the feeling of being with someone in a “safe” way, but it also gave me the opportunity to take things in the wrong direction emotionally, which did end up happening once. Also, once physically, which was the biggest mistake of my life.

Also, it removed the risk of me meeting anyone else, because it seemed like girls weren’t all that interested in guys who hung out with girls most of the time.

Most importantly, though, it was not appropriate. I don’t believe now that God made us that way—at least not me. I copped out for a very large part of my life.

And then it came to pass that God allowed me a moment of clarity about my life, and the conclusion I came to was this one: I was never going to right my ship and my life if I kept doing the same things over and over again. It was clear I didn’t really know how to handle things—I’d never learned.

So that meant the “why” was because I had never asked what God thought about my relationships, or if I should even have one.

A day or two after that conclusion, I was fooling around online—watching YouTube clips and skimming around a couple of dating sites. I signed into MySpace to play some online game and saw I’d gotten an email from a young woman in AZ. I didn’t know her, but she was pretty so I didn’t delete it. I read it, though. I didn’t get any voice from on high telling me what to do.

So I kept skimming, and watching concert clips.

A short while later, I went to Mexico for a short vacation with two good friends (yes, they were female. No, there wasn’t any tension that way). We had a condo a few short steps from the Akumal beach.

(sorry for the gratuitous backfat shot–it’s the only pic I have that shows the view from the patio where I would sit and write)

I sat out there the first morning, and I read a little scripture and scribbled in a notebook. It became my habit over the next few days, between snorkeling, sightseeing, and drinking margaritas.

I think it was the second to last day when I wrote this:

“God, if you’re ever going to make something happen for me with someone, you have to make it really clear what you want (yes, I gave an order to the creator of all things). Because I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want this—this life—anymore. I don’t want to die, I just want it to be different.”

There were a few more things, but that’s the part that matters most for my purposes today.

Shortly after returning, I pulled up MySpace at work and wrote a reply to the Arizona woman who’d written me.

Her name was Jenny.

Everything flowed from that. From the beginning, our conversations were easy and authentic. Transparent.

It went quickly, but felt right from the very beginning. It felt like that clarity I’d asked God for.

I listened.

Jenny and I were married on May 16, 2009.

Today, we have two crazy boys, and we own a home. Things are looking up, and get better all the time. We worship and serve at First Christian Church–Yuma. We are leaders in the Prayer Ministry there.

The pastor is a Godly man named Jeff Elzey who is also a great guy. We are able to worship every week with our best friends and family, and that is wonderful.

Yes, there were quite a few bumps and a pretty significant breakdown along the way, but it feels like those things needed to happen now as part of my personal refining. And some pain was involved, but so was healing.

My life is full now, and fulfilled. Listening to God brought all of that about. Asking him to take control of that part of my life and my heart helped. Otherwise I would have discarded all the little clues he set in my path—never been great at grasping subtleties.

I love the life God has set before me.

I love my family, and all the friends I’ve made since becoming part of things at my church and in my community.

My job is better than it’s ever been.

I take no credit for any of it. I just think there are so many blessings in being faithful. Not perfect—just faithful.

Listen to God. Listen FOR God.

It will change your life.

Dysfunction, with a W

Today I read an article online about the TV show Six Feet Under. It was pretty much just a quick oral history of how the show came to be, but there was a small part of it where the actor Peter Krause, I think, was talking about how the Fisher family was dysfunctional on the show, but that cast as a family was very functional.

It got me thinking about my own family growing up. Not that we were terribly dysfunctional, really. I think we were like lots of families during that time period. My brother and sisters grew up in the 60’s and 70’s (I came along in 1968), and it was just a different time then.

My siblings dealt with the same things lots of people did during that time period—Viet Nam, drug issues (not necessarily their own), probably some politics, meeting (or not meeting) societal and parental expectation, and simply finding their own way.

And they had this baby brother come along, and they were really more like parents to me than anything else.

My mom dealt with health and alcoholism issues as long as I can remember. Then it was cancer issues, and it took her a really long and painful decade to succumb to them.

I got along with my sisters much better than my brother. They showed me the love and support my parents couldn’t, for whatever their reasons. My brother, not so much. If I had to name an individual responsible for most of my woundings and scars, it would be him. Both literally, and figuratively.

He single-handedly formed the self-image that almost completely undid me.

I didn’t get it before—not for years—but I think I understand why things played out like that a little better now.

He was a little different as a kid, from what I have been made to understand. Perhaps there could have been some mental or chemical issues, I don’t know. He wasn’t always easy to love. Still, the girls did what they could.

Then I come along, and for whatever the reason, I was treated and loved well by my sisters and was a total mama’s boy. I don’t think there was anything special about me, but the love I was shown shaped my personality as much as my brother’s hate did, I think. And I get that it upset him and probably caused a lot of his issues with me.

Plainly put, this new brother did not help his issues at all, and certainly stole a lot of the time that he used to get. It felt like he hated me for being more loved than he was. I don’t know if that’s true.

I suppose that is a dysfunction.

Yet there were also moments of kindness. He would give me things of his I wanted that he didn’t use or play with anymore. He would take me for rides on his motorcycle. One time I got sick in the middle of the night and puked all over the place. He cleaned me up and put me back to bed, and then cleaned up the mess all by himself without waking anyone else up.

Lots of things like that.

My dad seemed a little aloof, but I think that was a generational thing. Men of his time (the greatest generation) were not always the touchy-feely uber-dads you see so often these days (I try to be that kind of dad myself).

I think he did the best he could considering what he had to deal with himself. There were periods of unemployment, my mom’s alcoholism and cancer. Probably hopes and dreams he had of his own that never happened. I don’t ever remember him striking me or anything like that. But I also don’t remember encouragement coming from his direction. I don’t remember much in the way of physical affection, though I suppose he did love me after his own fashion.

He died when I was 16.

Still, I had my friends, and I had my mom and sisters. My brother was thankfully not home much that I remember, and that was good. He only seemed to come around when something bad happened, and he wanted me to feel like it was my fault.

Like when my friend shot himself about ½ mile from my house.

Like when my high school girlfriend broke up with me shortly after graduation.

Like when my mom died in 1987.

That was when my downward spiral started, and didn’t end for a really long time. There weren’t really drugs, unless you count binge-drinking. There was lots of that. There were also several empty relationships, the last of which ended in the early 2000’s. There was a short foray into occultism. Pornography. Despair.

More dysfunction, I guess. During most of those years, I was not a good brother, or probably friend. I preferred shadows, and I would walk in them.

Then God started to introduce people of faith into my life—slowly, so I didn’t notice it was happening.

And for the first time I can remember, I also had accountability.

I met a guy in college who introduced me to a Jesus I hadn’t heard much about, and he called me on it when I was doing dumb stuff. My self-image began to change. Slowly, and I didn’t notice it was happening. The Jesus he told me about loved people as they were—even in their imperfection and sin. He forgave. He changed them from the inside out.

He changed me, in the fullness of time, with many missteps along the way.

I think about all the dysfunction, and I think about the many valleys I’ve been through in my life. Lots of pain. Lots of bad things.

I would not change any of it, and I know how that sounds.

But had I not experienced that stuff, I would not be here today, literally.

There’s a line in the Pat Conroy (one of my very favorite authors) book, The Prince of Tides where the narrator says something like “There are lots of families who go their whole lives with nothing of interest happening to them—not a single thing. I’ve always envied those families.”

I like the book a lot, and used to feel that way myself.

Not anymore.

My family is interesting, and has overcome a lot. Everything I have and more.

I love them.

We are weird, and we have phobias, and predilections, and strange habits.

But strange and dysfunctional as we are, we are a family.

Wilkins in various forms, ideologies, shapes, and colors.

I have been shaped by my life experiences, and by the love I have been shown over my life. Not by the hate. Nothing good is.

I am not the person some of those experiences led me to think for so many years.

God showed me that.

So here I am today.

Arizona.

I work for the Army (indirectly), doing a job I like very much.

I have my own family, and though we might not be Wilkins-level dysfunctional, we try our best. We are loud, and crazy, and we fight, but not as much as we love.

My wife is literally the most extraordinary woman I have ever known, and I will love her until I look like this:

All that dysfunction was for a reason. It got me here, by the Grace of Jesus, my abba.

The Wilkins family is here to stay. We’ve got branches all over the country, though my main concern is the San Diego Chapter.

I am grateful beyond measure.

I love show tunes, and I love metal, the language of my people.

My wife has introduced me to country, and I like that, too.

I like mince pie, even though I seem to be the only person in Arizona who does.

I love books, and my kids, and carne asada tacos.

Life is pretty good.

Beautiful

I have spent a large majority of my life looking at paintings

Moments of time and segments of the universe captured on different shapes and sizes

of canvas

I become mesmerized by the subtle stroke of the brush

The way the artist so delicately depicts areas and aspects to scale

To the point that my heart feels a sudden rush

As if I could reach my hand out and touch every last detail

As if this was a dream

Caught up in the scene

I find my heart slipping further and further into…love

***

This is a story of my bent

I prefer shadows

***

This is not a conscious decision that I resolved to make

To be honest, images are just easier for me to take

Easily digested, I could chew all day

And eventually be able to wrap my mind around what the picture is trying to say

***

So I stare

I stare deeply into the deepest point of the portrait

Thinking that the pain of this world around me will somehow let go

Hoping that somehow this paradigm will satisfy my soul

***

But I end up empty

I end up thirsty

Longing for a drink

And once again I return, crawling to Your feet

Broken, ashamed, desperate for relief

I have chased creation to its end and wound up on my knees

Begging for forgiveness while hoping You can’t see me

Because I know the truth about me

***

I know that You have delivered for my every need

But I also know that as soon as You give me manna, I start demanding meat

I know that You have been my Protector through pain and suffering

But I also know how quickly my heart asks where You are as soon as I can’t see the

path beneath my feet

***

So don’t look at me

I can’t stand the sight of me

So how can You, in Your infinite glory, allow me to be in Your presence?

Yet You

With a voice that calms the sea of anxiety in my soul

Tell me to look up

And Your eyes

That see right through me

Tell me that You knew me

And I behold You in all Your beauty

And I’m…satisfied

A heart that has constantly tried to find its purpose in everything else in life finally

resides at rest

***

Because Your beauty is much more than infatuation

Your beauty provides my soul with satiation

Beauty that transcends to give Your children definition

For in Your presence I can clearly see that I’m not defined by my sins

My life is not marked by my bents

Because when I look into Your face the world grows strangely dim

And I fall in

***

You’re all that I see

All that I know

A son returning to his Father and a Father meeting him on the road

Welcoming me home

And before I can utter the words “I’m sorry”

You tell me that You already know

***

You know me

The real me

The me that I’ve been both chasing and running away from my entire life

So scared that if you were to cut me open with a knife

That disgust and darkness would be the color I would bleed

And that You would be embarrassed that You chose to ransom me

***

Yet that’s the me You know

That’s the me You love

***

So I give up

I give in

And I extend my broken, desperate, calloused skin to touch the edge of Your robe

And even just the fringes brings healing to my soul

For what seems like the first time in my life I see You as beautiful

Wholly, completely enough

No longer am I staring at empty promises painted on pointless portraits

But instead I’m peering into pure love

***

You are better than the things that I’ve been chasing

You are beautiful

You are my joy in the trials that I am facing

You are beautiful

Peace to my storm, stronger than my addiction

Help in my time of need, comfort in my affliction

You are beautiful

And You will forever be

***

So fix my eyes to consistently see

Cause my mind to constantly think

Give my heart a new song to sing

Fill my lungs so that they always breathe

You

For You are beautiful

–Issac Wimberly

Statistics Be Damned

For me, ideas often begin with a desire to know more. It’s probably like that for anyone that writes.

I’ve been reading for quite some time now about how white on black racism is making a comeback. Nearly to the extent of pre-Brown vs. Board of Education levels. And if the news stories are to be believed, it’s in no way more evident than in the ratio of shooting deaths of “perpetrators” by police officers, based on racial statistics. The level of outrage would indicate police officers are obtaining licensure to shoot African-American men like rednecks receiving deer tags in November.

It just didn’t sound right to me, although it’s also possible to argue racism isn’t making a comeback, it never left at all.

So I did a small amount of digging, and the information I found with only that was alarming, and not only in the way I expected it to be.

Also, I suppose another thing to consider is that controversy sells, not to mention earns ratings points. If it bleeds it leads, right? So I need to take coverage with a very large grain of salt.

The United States Federal Bureau of Investigation reported the following on their 2012 Expanded US Crime Statistics Table:

2648 African Americans were killed. 193 by white perpetrators (apparently, not all police). 2412 by other African Americans. 3128 caucasions were killed, 431 by black perpetrators, 2614 by whites.

2013 was much the same. 2491 African-Americans were killed, 2245 by other African-Americans, 189 by caucasians. 3005 white people were killed, 2509 by other whites. 409 by African-Americans.

The conclusion I drew was easy (and based ONLY on the FBI tables).

We are killing each other.

I don’t plan to make a study of crime statistics, but it’s easy to see that the violence and death going on isn’t just 1 or 2 way. We really are killing each other. Racism or not, we just are.

I don’t know how to fix that–both racism and people giving in to their base and violent instincts and just taking lives.

Better education of our kids is part of it, but not the only part.

How do we re-learn something we’ve been taught our entire lives? And not just on a family level, but also a cultural one.

People aren’t all bad–not even mostly bad–white, black or any other color.

Give them a chance.

Absent fathers are another part of it, but as before, not the only part.

Teaching kids that all lives matter is another part.

I think the largest part of all is that the United States seems to so abhor what is usually described as traditional values, we are scattering and running in all directions rather than looking inward, to our hearts.

We are becoming more Godless by the day, which is also very evident. Media confirmation is not needed for that one.

That’s another problem, and not-so-easy to solve.

Partly due to the standard-bearers for Christ not holding the banner particularly high, even on a good day.

That is not an easy-fix, but certainly a possible one.

We have to remember that He in us, is greater than he who is in the world.

And then we have to live like we believe it.

It isn’t the only thing we can do, but it’s something.

And change has to start somewhere.

We needn’t accept what the world tells us to.

Statistics be damned.