Jimbadical

A New Summer Read-Aloud For You

2026-07-21T15:20:10.998-07:00

“Are there whales in this lake?”

Zoe can’t wait to sail on Cowichan Lake, but she doesn’t know what to think of her younger brother Jackson's question. If it wasn’t a whale that he saw, what was it? Zoe and Jackson’s summer adventure at Grandpa’s waterfront house leads to new friends, a mythical island and something in the lake much stranger than a whale.

Purchase at Amazon or Brewberry Books in Lake Cowichan

Thirty days hath September,

April, June and November…

Last fall, I joined Novel in November (or NovNov), a challenge from ProWritingAid to write the first draft of a 50,000-word novel in the thirty days of November. Each day, I wrote one chapter of around 1700 words, plus the glossary. As a writer, I am a “pantser” (one who writes by the seat of his pants) more than a “plotter” (one who outlines his plot before writing), so I began with a vague idea and discovered the story as I wrote. Its path may surprise you as much as it surprised me.

I set the novel in the Cowichan Lake area, where we live ten months of the year in a house by the shore. As I sat writing in my chair by the three large windows, I could see all the places I was describing. I often paddleboard around Goat Island and back in the warmer months, or sail my 4.8 metre Bombardier Invitation, tacking my way up the lake to the area near Stin’qua Island.

Except there is no Stin’qua Island.

All other geographical features in the book are real, save that one. The only feature you will find there is a shallow spot where the deep turquoise of the lake turns a beautiful cyan. Those who know me will often find themselves thinking, “This sounds familiar!” as they read. But if you hope to spot yourself in this book, you will face disappointment. No character represents any single person known to me—again with one exception, and he is mentioned only in passing.

Summer Sailing With SALTS

2025-07-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

I sent in an application to SALTS—the Sail and Life Training Society. The few times I had chatted with skippers Dave, Tristan and John, they encouraged me to consider doing a 10-day trip as a volunteer with them in the summer. Unsure if I could manage 10 days, I opted for one of their 5-day spring break trips. But a month before, I injured my foot while hiking and had to withdraw my bid for one of those trips. I was a little surprised when they offered me the Watch Leader position on the Pacific Grace for the first 10-day trip of the summer. With some trepidation, I said yes and prepared to sail. This included many hikes with a pack and buying items I needed for the trip. But I was still unsure of myself. SALTS accepted Ben as Watch Leader on the same trip, but on the Pacific Swift.

The timing wasn’t great. We needed to move out of the house in Honeymoon Bay by the end of June, and the SALTS trips started June 28th. And June 27th was our 44th anniversary. We moved out of the house on June 26th, did a last bit of clean-up the next day and celebrated our anniversary with a nice lamb dinner together. I drove to Victoria that evening. It still felt strange to abandon Sarah for 10 days on our anniversary. Thankfully, we were house-sitters for the Honeymoon Bay Retreat for the summer, which meant we looked after everything when the staff went home in the evening. Sarah would have an entire community around her.

Here is how it went:

28-Jun - Tara gave Ben and me a ride downtown to the SALTS dock, and we met with both crews on the Grace. Ben and I gave each other a hug, and he went to the Swift. There was cleaning to do—a spot swab of the deck—and I got to know our crew. Our skipper was Dave, with whom I sailed with Kaleo the first time in 2013. I will be in Port Watch (my favourite) with watch officer Ellie. Katie is my fellow watch leader. Trainees and parents arrived, we went through the orientations, and at 2:00 we were ready to set off. We encountered wind outside the breakwater. The Swift opted to motor-sail while we motored all the way, which was just as well since the wind soon died. We saw a lone transient orca—a big fellow—off Galiano. Anchored south of Dodd’s Narrows. That evening we played a couple of… well, not exciting games, and I missed the music to help with the anchor. Before lights out, I gave the guys my five suggestions, and they were in bed and quiet quickly. But with the small noises of movement, I couldn’t sleep. I dropped off about 1:00 AM and woke again at 5:00, and dozed until 6:30. I will be tired today. A nice crew of trainees, I think. I have all their names straight, usually, and have had conversations with about half of them.

The Five Suggestions:

D - Stay out on the deck as much as possible
P - Get to know every person
E - Eat everything you’re given, even if it’s not your favourite
S - Get as much sleep as you can
V - Volunteer at every opportunity

29-Jun - I was surprisingly not tired today, despite the lost sleep. We passed through Dodd’s Narrows while my watch was washing up breakfast. Past Duke Point, we found some wind. We raised sails for the first time and sailed most of the way to Texada Island, and powered north through Malaspina Strait, past Jarvis Inlet and Powell River, and saw humpbacks for the first time. We anchored late off the southeast shore of Savory Island. The evening games and songs were tough for me, and I felt tired and disconnected, which gave me a moment of panic—can I do this for another eight days? The guys settled down quickly. I dropped off to sleep and slept well for about 6.5 hours.

30-Jun - Nice easy start to this day, then took the dories to the beautiful sandy beach. The Swift had also anchored there, so I got to catch up and compare notes with Ben for a while. Went for a “swim” in the warm, clear water. After lunch on the beach, we played “Sticks” (Capture the Flag with a pile of small logs as our flags) and got entirely schooled by the Swifties. Back on board the Grace, we motored around the reef, north to Teakerne Arm. We anchored near the provincial park dock, and the Swift soon tied up beside us. We did music together, and went off to our respective snacks and bed. Everyone is tired and cooked by the sun. But I have no sunburn yet.

01-Jul - Canada Day was only barely acknowledged by the youngest girl, who wanted to sing O Canada. A few trainees were anti-colonial enough to sway the rest, and we didn’t sing. I decided not to offer my Canada tattoos. We took the zodiac to go shower in the falls, which felt great. The trainees cheered me on as I went first into the “bathtub,” soaped up and stuck my head in the falls. We zodiacked over to the dock and walked up to the lake for a swim, which I did with my PFD. So many memories in this place. I thought lots about Korena and Val and Matia and Grady and the others—when all of them stood under the falls, or when the girls swam out to the middle of the lake and swung their swimsuits over their heads, or playing President (card game) on top of the cliff. I got to chat with Ben after lunch before both boats set out. We went south and sailed into Desolation Sound, setting anchor at the mouth of Roscoe Bay. But we found out we couldn’t stay as it was a no-discharge zone. We kept motoring into Desolation Sound—magnificent mountains rising from sea level to 10,000 feet and more. We found no open anchorage, so we made for the good holding ground in Keefer Bay on the north side of Savory Island. Had a pleasant conversation with Skipper Dave about retirement and old men of the Bible who messed up. We anchored at midnight in moderate winds. The first mate is sick, and we are lacking a bosun’s mate, so the crew is feeling it. I found it interesting and affirming when these teens included me in their community. One said to me today, “I want your life!” She noticed a peace and acceptance about me. This evening, I helped our watch win the game (no great effort, only a good idea) and became the hero. I can’t say I’m trying hard to achieve this, but it still flows (super)naturally from me after a lifetime of doing this. After singing, Dave asked me to talk with the group about my list of Five Suggestions on how to make the trip more awesome, and we evaluated how we’re doing. The group responded well and came up with some excellent additions to my list, like taking lots of photos.

02-Jul - With the wind still blowing the next morning, Skipper Dave made a run across the Salish Sea to Tribune Bay on Hornby Island. This would prove to be our longest sail of the trip in steady moderate winds. Feeling a little tired, I went out on the bowsprit (with a harness on) and laid down on it under full sail. There is no better view of the ship, and no better way to experience the sensation of sailing, with the sea running below me and the boat slicing through the water in front of me. I soon dozed off up there, which the trainees thought very amusing. We pulled into Tribune Bay and dropped anchor in time for a late dinner. The atmosphere on board is good, but as a crew we are tired of the constant profane language, which for some trainees is their native tongue. Some girls swear like sailors. It’s hard to encourage them toward more positive talk while not making it a disproportionate issue. On another note, I’m having zero difficulties with the food, and about all I miss out on are sour cream and the cookies.

03-Jul - The Swift anchored near us in the late evening after they had an amazing sail that included humpbacks breaching close by. In the morning, we all took the dories in to the beach. Though our dory was last in the water, we soon passed everyone, due to our great team of rowers (which they credited to me). We played against the Swifties again, this time with two soccer balls, two ultimate frisbees and a football (my contribution) all at the same time and with 60+ players on the beach. It was wild. After rowing back to the boats, we sailed and motored across to Jedediah Island, a provincial park on the far side of Lasqueti Island. The guys were excited to catch a small salmon there, which Heather cooked up for them. The food is amazing—every meal—so the fish was an extra.

04-Jul - In the morning, we lowered the dories to make our way to Jedidiah Island, which first mate Dave said was his favourite place in the world. Unfortunately, with the low tide his landing spot was a mud flat, which spurred some bad attitudes among some trainees. But the island was beautiful—large rock outcroppings bursting through the forest, a broad field of tall grass, and the remains of an old homestead overlooking an aqua-green bay. The crew had the trainees do some solo time for reflection on the rocks above the bay, and we asked some tourists to take a group photo of us. Back on board, we motored against a south wind to the southeast end of Gabriola, with a view of the strait and the skyscrapers of Vancouver in the distance. Dave had me talk with the group again that evening, and I had them decide as a group for each person, “If they were a part on the Pacific Grace, what part would they be?” and why. The head and the slop bucket were not options! The group did well, not always taking the first suggestion, but working out the best answer. They told me I was the knots on the boat, because I held everyone together. I thought that was cool.

05-Jul - The winds continued against us, so we motored our way south to Narvaez Bay on the south end of Saturna. Since we arrived mid-afternoon, we took the zodiac to the national park and walked to the cool rock formations at the south end. I took many photos, which was good because the trainees have lost interest in capturing the trip on their phones—not a negative! It’s interesting to see the cliques in the group merge and dissolve. Cool to see one of the girls break away from the others to spend time with Katie and Ellie.

06-Jul - Hoping to find wind in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, we motored toward Victoria. Wind came up, and we hoisted all but the topsails, but the wind died again soon after. We motored down to Cadboro Bay and anchored. All day, trainees had been seizing their last chance to climb the main and foremast shrouds, and they were so busy, I missed my chance. But I did encourage one reluctant girl almost to the top, and took many photos. The Swift anchored nearby, and we sang our grace at meals toward one another. Hard to believe this was our last full day, and I still have so much energy. There must be many prayers going up for me.

07-Jul - Our watch was on breakfast dishes, so we took the time at breakfast to have everyone say what they appreciated most about each person. It took a long time, but was so worth it. The trainees said great stuff about each other and about Ellie and me. Someone said I was the glue that held us together because I connected with everyone equally. I wish it were true—I can think of two or three who kept me at a distance the whole time for reasons of their own. But I have come to love this crew, rough and ragged as we are. I will miss them. We whipped through the dishes in record time, and went on deck to find the boat drifting around the entrance of Victoria Harbour, waiting for the go-ahead to pass under the bridge. There were many farewells and hugs, and I wondered if I would come across any of them again. The two crews had lunch together on the Grace, and we did the cleanup. I wiped down most of the mattresses, swept everything and helped move in the food for the next trip. Ellie appreciated our efforts, as this was usually all on her and took a long time. I finished before Ben, and we went to the pub on the other side of the dock for a drink (great ginger beer) and waited for Tara to pick us up. I’m sure we didn’t smell good, but she was excited to hear about our adventures. Ben said that after a week’s rest he would be ready to go on the next trip. But it’s back to life at home for both of us, though he still has a few days off and I’m teaching sailing tomorrow at Camp Imadene. Sarah was glad to have me back, but I was too tired to tell many stories. The tales will come out in time.

My Latest Writing Project

2024-01-30T11:30:00.000-08:00

Copper Island, 1986

When I was 19, I served at a camp that regularly visited an elderly man who lived on an island by himself in the middle of Barkley Sound on the west coast of Vancouver Island. We cut firewood, did some cleaning and set up a barrier to keep driftwood logs from collecting under his house, which hung over the water at high tide.

That began a friendship with Nelson Dunkin of Copper Island that spanned the next 20 years. Sarah and I were among the many visitors who were drawn, not only to the serene and gorgeous setting where Nelson lived, but to the man himself. I am sure that much of who I am today was formed by his quiet, godly example of generosity, hospitality and genuine personal interest. His legacy includes the camp that has now operated on Copper Island for the past 35 years.

My next project has been to write Nelson Dunkin's story. I interviewed many of the people who knew him well and were eager to contribute stories, photos, letters and memories. I enjoyed the conversations at least as much as the writing, if not more.

I ran a Kickstarter to pay for the first printing of the book, and backers contributed 236% of the $1500 goal. Proceeds from the sale of the book will help kids go to camp this summer who could not otherwise afford to do so.

The Island and i: Nelson Dunkin of Copper Island is now available. You can contact me to purchase your copy or buy it online at Amazon.

The Visit

2023-07-10T11:02:00.001-07:00

I visited Hell the other day by way of Fisgard Street, which I always considered as veritable an entrance as any. I hoped to gain permission to see an old friend who had been recently admitted there.

Jack was a good man. Nonetheless, the evidence of his good deeds was ruled inadmissible, made into rags, then deemed too filthy even for that purpose, and incinerated.

I had gone to the better place. I was assured that this was not on my own merit and that I was saved by the skin of my teeth; in fact, was slightly singed. Most of my good deeds were also burned up, and what was left I hardly remembered doing. But at least I was there.

Jack was delighted to see me, evidenced by a ghastly kind of grimace, and offered me tea, which I declined. I found myself at a loss for words in the presence of a man so condemned. We sat in silence for some time.

“Well, then, shall we go for a walk?” he suggested suddenly. He chuckled when I looked around at the small perimeter of his cell. “Not in here, of course, though you will see that I have already worn a path in the concrete as I do my daily rounds.” He stood and pushed the bars, which were not locked, and led me down a dark hallway to a metal door, which opened at a touch.

As we walked through, the brightness of the day outside overwhelmed my dulled senses. It took me a moment to see that we were once again on the sidewalk along Fisgard Street on a particularly raw November morning. “What? You’re permitted to wander the streets at will?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh yes, any time I like. It’s encouraged, really, though not out of benevolence, I think.” He shook his head sadly, “No, the time for that is long past.”

We walked for some blocks in the chill and clammy shadows. There were many homeless persons here, as always, and Jack greeted most of them by name. I thought I had never seen him so magnanimous. But they never looked up at his good-mornings and he received no response. I began to think that they were not aware of his presence and wondered if I too was but a shade to them. But the first person I spoke to looked up sharply, saw who I was, snarled something I won’t write down and went back to his dark thoughts.

Jack looked at me longingly as we continued. “How I would love to be cussed at again!” he lamented. “I would welcome even a punch to the head. Anything, to be seen and heard and recognized.”

“So they are not aware of you?”

“No, not one. No word I say cheers them, my smile is worthless, and anything I try to give them is immaterial.” My friend stared at an old, diseased dog lying in a box of rags beside an elderly woman, stared at it with a hunger as if to eat the creature. “Not even their dogs know me.”

“You must feel very lonely at times, Jack,” I said.

He glanced at me sharply. “Lonely? That’s not the half of it. Nor the tiniest portion.” He seemed to suddenly shrink within himself as he continued, “I am ALONE. You are my first and only visitor, all this wretched time. And why they let you in, I have no idea. Not for my benefit, I’m sure.”

“No others talk with you there?”

“My cellmates?” Jack laughed. “They are as unaware of me as these. The only one who ever takes notice of me is my keeper. But he’s an angel, and they’re a cold lot.”

We continued walking in silence, as I could think of nothing to say to comfort this man. Turning a corner, I nearly stumbled over a small shape huddled against the wall of what appeared to be some kind of medical clinic. A long row of others reached toward the front door, and the form at my feet was at the end of the line.

I crouched down on the sidewalk, and a face glanced up at me. It was young in form, but her once beautiful features were blotched with deep purple contusions and open sores. I recognized the ravages of advanced AIDS on flesh that was no longer capable of protecting itself, save by the dark glasses she wore to dull the light of day. Her head dropped back into her arms.

I was certain I had never seen this woman before, so I was surprised to know her name. “Elizabeth.” As I spoke, she slowly raised her head, looked at me and smiled in recognition. I sought to see her eyes through the dark lenses and could not, and then was startled by my reflection in the glass.

It was not me at all. I’m a balding white fellow with a bit of grey beard. The man in the glasses was tawny and young, with long, dark hair and full beard, and eyes full of delight and joy, not the sorrow I felt for this person. She reached up and touched my face with ice-cold fingers, and I told her without words that all was well and she would be with me soon. She nodded, and then the cloud settled back over her glowing face, which she once again buried in her arms.

As I stood, Jack looked at me in wonder and amazement, then in fury. “How—dare—you!” he exclaimed, clipping his words. “How the bloody hell dare you! And I believed you were my friend…” He looked ready to explode, but with great effort he regained his dignity, straightened his tie and jacket and said, “You didn’t have me fooled for a moment, you know,” and walked away.

I remained, flabbergasted for a moment, then set off to catch him up. When I did, I stood in front and stopped him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Jack!”

He looked at me slyly and replied, “Oh, look at you now—all innocence, of course. As if I wouldn’t recognize you (or Whatever has invaded your body). She certainly did!” Before I could protest, he continued, heat rising, reddening his face and neck, “It’s so like you to throw all your mercies on that wastrel of human existence. To be sure, she deserved only coal in her stocking every Christmas. While every day I worked my best for the sake of humanity!

“And on you go about faith the size of a mustard seed, as if that makes all the difference.” He was almost screaming the words now. Bits of foam flecked his beard and struck my face. “Well, you won’t catch me with any of that drivel, that fawning submission! A mustard seed is enough to poison any man, and reduce the glory of humanity to that of a slug in the dirt. She’s a fine example, is she not?” he laughed, jerking a thumb in the direction we had just come.

The unfairness was staggering, but I knew that nothing I could say would penetrate my friend’s well-reasoned hardness of heart. I found I did not even have tears for him, since mine had all been wiped away. One thing my friend had right: benevolence was long past.

We reached the door by which we had entered Fisgard Street. He opened it as if to leave without saying goodbye, but checked himself and faced me. “And don’t bother yourself to come visit again,” he said. “You’ve only made things worse by it! You always have, you know.” And with that, he walked through the dark opening and slammed the door behind him.

I stepped forward and seized the handle. But the door—which had opened at our touch on the way out—was resolutely locked on the inside. I sighed, turned away and set out for Home.

- A Reflection on CS Lewis’ words: “The doors of Hell are locked on the inside.” The Problem of Pain

Why and How to Read Aloud to Middle-School Children

2022-04-12T11:02:00.003-07:00

A Google search on the benefits of reading aloud to middle-school children generates dozens of articles from educators and parents. For middle-school children, reading has only recently moved from a social to an individual exercise. They may have gained much by launching into their personal literary pursuits, but consider all they have lost (and likely really miss):

Reading aloud builds connections. There is something irreplaceable about the bond that is formed when an adult reads a story to a child. Even listening to an audiobook together doesn’t produce the same feeling of closeness and shared experience.

Reading aloud creates a safe space. When you are listening to a story being read, there is nothing to do but respond. No need to impress, no online image to maintain, no competition. Just enjoyment and wonder and suspense. It’s cozy and comfortable, and you can’t wait for the next time.

Reading aloud cultivates engagement. Watching a movie is easy. Even reading to yourself requires little focus. Being read to engages our minds in so many ways—listening, processing, imagining. There is also the opportunity to pause where you want, to ask a question or make a comment.

Reading aloud stimulates anticipation. “Should we stop right there?” you ask, as the protagonist hears something big moving toward them in the dark woods. “Noooo!!” is the collective response. “What happens next” becomes deliciously enticing when read aloud.

Reading aloud forms lasting memories. Especially for older kids who are usually expected to read for themselves, there are few opportunities to have someone read to them. Like receiving a hand-written letter in the mail, they will not forget it very soon.

Reading aloud generates conversation. Because it is a shared experience, a story read aloud lends itself to discussion. It raises questions, and you find out that others are asking the same thing. You talk together about how you responded and what it all means.

Stories read aloud can provide all that we might hope to accomplish with a family devotional time, and can do it better. Stories were the method of choice in Jesus’ teaching, the whole point being to provoke the listeners to explore, to ask the right questions and to seek the truth.

Here are some tips on reading aloud to middle-school kids:

Choose the best place and time. I remember falling asleep while reading to our kids. There is such a thing as too comfortable and too sleepy. They will not love you for it when they miss half the story. Get them all on one couch, around a table or on a blanket on the floor.

Ask God to speak through the story. Whether you make prayer part of the experience or simply lift up a “Nehemiah Prayer” (Nehemiah 2:4), ask God to do what only he can do.

Enthusiasm is more important than skill. Do you think you’re a lousy reader? No problem, as long as you read with gusto. Laugh at your mistakes. Get excited as you read; get tense, get sad, get mad.

Practice makes perfect. Reading aloud is a performance. Practice ahead of time and expect to improve as you gain experience. With that in mind…

Don’t ask the kids to do the reading. This can stigmatize some children and will likely take away from rather than add to the experience.

Vary your reading style. Respond to the story. Speed up. Slow down. Speak loudly. Speak softly. You don’t have to give the characters different voices unless you (and your kids) enjoy it.

Don’t be afraid to stop for discussion or to answer questions. You might even have a mid-point question in mind, like about what they think will happen next or what they would have done if they were the character.

Watch for and adjust to their response. Kids can look bored or restless and still be listening. Some kids will do better with something to do with their hands, like drawing what they are hearing or hugging a stuffie. Don’t read longer than they want to listen. Ask if you should stop.

Leave room for anticipation. If the story is exciting enough, kids will never want you to stop. And they might pester you to read more. Anticipation is gold in your pocket. Spend it wisely, and not all in one place.

Convinced? Not until you try it! Choose a book. Practice on your spouse. Think about how each chapter might lead to a discussion about God and his word. Make a collection of great read-aloud stories and novels. And wonder why you never did it before.

A Few Examples:

The Camp Liverwurst Series, by Jim Badke

Yep, this is the commercial. Camp Liverwurst is like no place on earth. Imagine Noah as your cabin leader, Miriam and David as worship leaders and Queen Esther running the games! This middle-school novel series combines an intriguing story with rich biblical content. Included are questions and activities to prompt Bible discussions about faith in Jesus, overcoming fear and what it means to love God with all our heart.

The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis

Even if you find too daunting the idea of reading all seven books to your middle-school kids, some sections are pure gold and might get them reading the rest on their own. Aslan’s death and resurrection in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Edmond’s transformation from a dragon to a boy again in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Lucy following the lion through the woods when no one else will in Prince Caspian. All are rich descriptions of God and his people.

Bible Stories

Straight from the Bible, these stories may be above most kids’ reading level, but reading aloud can make them accessible. Have you read recently the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego (Daniel 3)? Its constant repetition is hilarious—and the lessons significant. Try out some of the accounts of Esther, Jonah, Daniel, Noah, David, Ruth in the Old Testament, and Jesus and the Apostles in the New.

Winnie-The-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner, by A.A. Milne

Most kids have never heard the original stories, only the Disney aberrations. Not overtly spiritual, perhaps, but these stories are rich with relationship, problem-solving and simplicity. You just need to do the work of helping kids see God in a story where he is not mentioned (which, by the way, you would also need to do with the book of Esther).

Practically anything by Dick King-Smith

You know him best for the movie Babe, about the gallant pig. Other favorites include Three Terrible Trins and The Water Horse. Again, you will need to be creative in forming discussions around these, as the characters are not always (okay, are usually not) well-behaved. But they do tend to learn from their mistakes.

Focus on the Family Kids Novels

If you want to stick to books that are overtly Christian, Focus on the Family has dozens: Adventures in Odyssey, Last Chance Detectives and many more.

Excerpt From: As The Eagle Walks

2021-04-25T16:32:00.005-07:00

Here is an excerpt from my new novel, As The Eagle Walks, available now on Amazon.

“Come! Sit!” He was not the most ruffian-looking of the men in the market, but close to it. His face was half-hidden by the hood on his shirt; his jeans were filthy. The man beckoned me with one hand while pouring the wine with the other. I felt I had no choice but to join him, and his few English words made me hopeful. “Amerikanos, yes?”

I nodded and sat down. I was not the first person to drink from the glass he offered me since it was last washed. I sipped it, hoping the alcohol had some disinfectant quality. “Do you speak English?”

He gave a characteristic island shrug. “Some. I am Antonis. What you need?”

I took the bag from my shoulder. “I’m Jason. I have fish to sell. Smoked.”

He reached in the bag and sniffed the piece he found. “Is good. Where you get?” He proceeded to nibble the bit as he inspected the rest of the bag’s contents.

“Do you know John? Lives in the south.”

He looked up at me in surprise and laughed. Not the most pleasant laugh. I was ready to go find another buyer, but he put his hand on my arm. “John? Iohannes? Only one John here. Always only one. What you do with him?” He said something in Greek that sounded disparaging and laughed again.

I felt offended. “I can sell my fish elsewhere...”

Antonis pressed my arm and prevented my getting up. “No, no. I buy. No thing wrong with fish. But the man...” He made a face that I guess meant John was a crazy man.

I pulled my arm away but hesitated, curious to know his opinion. “What do you know about John?”

He stared into my eyes like I was some idiot child. “He—John—he are... palavos. He mad! Devil!” He looked suspiciously at the bag of fish. “Maybe I no buy.” He looked a bit afraid for a moment and laughed again. “You maybe steal this, no?”

“No! Nothing like that. John gave me the fish to sell.” I stood up to go.

Antonis stood and glared at me. I felt threatened and sat down again, and his face relaxed. “Give you ten for fish, yes?”

I said nothing. The ferry passage alone was nine euros. John must have expected me to receive much more for the fish if I was to buy clothing and medicine for Manos. “Not enough. I need to buy medicine.”

He didn’t understand me, and it took some exaggerated charades to make my meaning clear. “Drugs?” he guessed finally. “For you?”

“For Manos.”

Antonis’ face darkened. “Manos. Friend to John. I hate.” I couldn’t imagine how someone could hate someone as harmless as Manos, and asked why. “He send me to jail, long time. Bad place, that.” He spat in the dirt by my feet. I felt the spray.

“Manos was a policeman?”

“No, not police man. Dikastes.” He took a hammer from a box behind him and banged it hard on the table, making both me and our glasses jump. I took from his pantomime that Manos had been a judge and had sentenced this man to jail.

I stood up again to leave. “I am sorry. I will go now.”

He waved an angry hand of dismissal. When I turned, he called in a voice husky with emotion, “You watch out, man! John no good. Manos no better—he worship him, I think! Both... crazy!”

I stopped. “What do you mean? Who does Manos worship? John?”

Antonis snapped his fingers. “Him. Many others do. All crazy.”

“But why? Why would they worship John?”

He looked at me like I was playing some game with him. “You must know. Who they say is John.” He poured the rest of my wine into his own glass and gulped it down in one shot.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

He shrugged and eased back into his chair. “You are fool. I feel sorry.” He gave another wave of dismissal.

But I would not be put off. “Tell me. What do people say about John?”

He laughed, mocking, and leaned toward me. “They say—John is Apostle. The Beloved. Very, very, very old man. Oldest.”

I felt something cold in the pit of my stomach. “John, the Apostle? Like, from the Bible?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could anyone think this? And Manos, how could he possibly believe that his friend was John from the days of Jesus? Yet, what would a man like Antonis gain from claiming so?

“You go now. Sell your fish.” He said more in Greek words that sounded less polite while waving me away with both hands. I picked up the bag and walked away.

Luke & Mary

2020-12-24T12:27:00.007-08:00

"And then…?"

Mary sighed, pondering what to say next. Luke was always kind, but also persistent in his pursuit of the Story. Some parts were pleasant to recall, like ornaments long treasured. But some places still pierced her heart after all these decades. "Not right now, my friend. I am tired." She stood, groaning under her breath at the familiar ache in her back. "Let's go back to the beginning. Please read to me again the things you have written about me. Perhaps you can twig a few more details from the corners of my mind."

Luke smiled at her, watching as she lowered herself to a new position on the cushions. The corners of her mind were precious to him, nuggets of story he would find nowhere else. He was anxious to mine them while he could, but the extraction must be done carefully, gently, respectfully. The joy and sorrow this woman had endured in her lifetime, most could not imagine. He rolled the precious scroll back to the place where Mary's story began.

Clearing his throat, Luke read, "In the sixth month of Elizabeth's pregnancy, the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town of Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, a descendant of David, and the virgin's name was Mary. The angel came to her and said, 'Greetings, favoured one, the Lord is with you!' But she was greatly troubled by his words and began to wonder about the meaning of this greeting..."

"'Greatly troubled...'! My friend, you are too charitable! Did I not tell you, I was terrified?" Mary chuckled. "Tell me, Master Luke, have you ever seen an angel?"

"No, sadly, I cannot say I ever have. Perhaps our Lord pities my pragmatic mind. I might not believe my senses if I saw such a being."

"How can I describe this to you?" Mary paused in thought. "When I was young, my brothers were sometimes coerced into taking me on their boat. I was told to sit still in the stern, as ballast, where I would not get in the way. I loved it when the wind filled the sail and the boat heeled hard over as we rushed through the water. In that moment, the whole world turned on its side, and I in my seat perceived a whole new sense of what was level."

Mary's eyes were distant as she remembered. "That is how it was with the angel. When he appeared, I realized that my old familiar world was actually askew, and that the creature before me represented the universe's true plane—what was true, what was right, what was in alignment." She looked up at him. "My fear was not about his appearance, Luke, alarming as that was. My fear came from the awareness that I was very much out of line with the cosmos. Like Isaiah, my heart cried, Woe to me! For I am ruined!"

Luke pictured the familiar scene of Isaiah and his vision in the temple. "Thank you, Mary! That makes perfect sense." His quill was poised over the parchment. "I should change my wording, then?"

"No, no," Mary waved off the notion. "It is not worth smudging your beautiful hand. Indeed, I was greatly troubled - that will do. But you do understand now?"

"I can't say that I do, Mary. In my mind, I can't imagine you ever being out of line. I am sure you had nothing to fear from an angel."

"Which is what he said as well, that I had found favour in the eyes of God. But his choice of me was all grace, not my deserving. Blessed is he!"

There was a moment's quiet as each digested these words. Then Luke continued, "So the angel said to her, 'Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God! Listen: You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give him the throne of his father David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and his kingdom will never end.' Mary said to the angel, 'How will this be, since I have not known a man?' The angel replied, 'The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called the Son of God.'

"You write beautifully."

"They are not my words, Mary."

"Well, then I love the way you weave the words of God into a story. Yes, this is exactly right. Though at the time, it seemed such a strange way for God to express his favour toward me. He upset my entire world. As if the boat had capsized. The angel's words raised so many questions, all summed up in the one I dared ask him: 'How will this be?' I did not doubt his words—they carried far too much authority—but I did want to know by what miracle I would become with child, since Joseph was in no rush to marry me."

"I know what some in the village still say about you to this day. They refer to Jesus as 'Mary's son,' never Joseph's. And they are right, as much as they intend to dishonour you." Mary shrugged at his words. She was too old to care anymore what the village thought of her. Luke touched the words on the page. "When did you first know that what the angel said had come to pass?"

"That was a journey," Mary replied. "I didn't need any evidence to know I needed an excuse to leave town. I arrived at my cousin Elizabeth's home with the realization that my womanly period had not come. But it was Elizabeth's greeting that made me accept the reality of what was happening to me."

"Blessed are you among women," Luke read, "and blessed is the child in your womb! And who am I that the mother of my Lord should come and visit me? For the instant the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that what was spoken to her by the Lord would be fulfilled."

"I had never heard my cousin speak this way before. She reminded me of King Saul, who unexpectedly found himself among the prophets." Mary shifted and winced with pain. "Her miraculous pregnancy had changed Elizabeth, and I began to see that mine would change me."

"In what way?" Luke queried.

Mary paused before answering. "I was always a good girl, the pride of my parents. But I never knew why I followed all the rules, why the thought of disobedience horrified me." She smiled at the memory. "But then my cousin confirmed that the miracle growing inside me was truly the Lord of heaven and earth. I realized for the first time that I was a creature, and that I was subject to a reliable, gracious, loving Creator. That to say yes to him was my greatest hope and joy. And those who turned their face from him did so to their harm, and the detriment of all those around them."

"Your song." Luke ran his finger along the words as he read, as his eyes were suddenly too misty to be trusted with their task.

My soul exalts the Lord,

and my spirit has begun to rejoice in God my Savior,

because he has looked upon the humble state of his servant.

For from now on all generations will call me blessed,

because he who is mighty has done great things for me,

and holy is his name;

from generation to generation

he is merciful to those who fear him.

He has demonstrated power with his arm;

he has scattered those whose pride

wells up from the sheer arrogance of their hearts.

He has brought down the mighty from their thrones,

and has lifted up those of lowly position;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and has sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,

remembering his mercy,

as he promised to our ancestors,

to Abraham and to his descendants forever.

"Amen!" Mary intoned. "I love hearing myself reflected in your voice. You too know the delight and wonder of saying yes to him." She sighed and nestled herself deeper in the cushions. "It has not proved to be an easy journey, nor a safe one, this saying yes. But good, yes, it has been good."

They remained in companionable silence for a time, and then Luke saw that, once again, Mary had drifted off to sleep. The lines of care eased from her face and she smiled in her slumber; but for the grey hair, she might have been that young girl again whom the angel once visited so long ago. Luke rolled up his scroll, carefully set his quills and ink in order, and left her in peace.

Joseph

2020-12-12T15:48:00.001-08:00

Every village needs a carpenter, and I am him. There are others, of course, with all my skills and more, but they have opted to gather as much Roman coin as they can by constructing the elegant city of Sepphoris, a few miles to the north. When local Nazareth people need a door made or a wall repaired, they must - alas - turn to me. My abilities and experience are less than adequate but they improve, though I sorely miss the mentorship of my father. I don’t take their complaints much to heart. I am young, recently married, and would be content with a simple life.

But simple it proves not to be, more like Job with his troubles. The complications with my wife Mary began when we were yet engaged. I have watched over her from a discreet distance - but with interest - all her life, knowing we were intended. Mary grew from a happy childhood to a young woman’s reputation for kindness and diligence. The thought of marrying such a one elated me, for - as the Teacher writes - a wife of noble character who can find?

That is why the rumours were so hard to believe. I had not seen Mary for a while, then heard she had gone to visit her relative Elizabeth, south of Jerusalem. News came that Elizabeth was expecting a child in her old age, which was unusual enough. But now people were entertaining a darker reason Mary had gone so suddenly to her cousin - could she also be with child? I refuted them angrily, knowing full well the impossibility. But the rumours persisted, hurting my business and my pride.

Several months later, Mary returned to Nazareth and all the rumours were confirmed - she was indeed with child. My heart broke and visions of a satisfying domestic life fled away like the mist over Mt Hermon. How could this be? When I confronted her, she gave me some wild story that simply added to my sadness. When she saw that I didn’t buy it, she broke into tears. I watched her helplessly.

Somehow, I could not find it in my heart to condemn this girl who was intended for me. I determined to break off our engagement and send her back to the safety of her extended family south of Jerusalem. Yes, I knew the Law and honoured the commandments, but I could not bear to see her disgrace in the village if she were to stay. Her journey south would cost me more than I could afford but I could not do otherwise. Then, in the midst of my difficulties, something happened that - rather than solve my dilemma - made everything that much more complex.

I was not sleeping well those days, as you can imagine. One night, I awoke - so I thought - to the brightest moon shining on my face through the window. But it was not the moon; it was a glowing man, sitting at the foot of the bed. His words seared into my heart like an iron and they burn there even now as I repeat them. “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife,” he told me, “because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

It was the Lord! Or his messenger. I could not say a word in response and must have lost consciousness. I awoke to the first crow of the rooster as usual and wondered if it was a dream. But waking, I could still feel the warmth of his presence, and those reassuring, alarming words smouldered in my heart. The message must be true, if nothing else because it was so impossible. Conceived by the Spirit! Mary had not betrayed our troth! But who would this child be? Yeshua was a common enough name, but he would be no common child.

What I was about to do was as insane as Abraham lifting his hand to slay his promised son Isaac. By command, I would go and take Mary home as my wife. Be father to this wonder child. When I told Mary this, she was overjoyed. But those next months were difficult on so many levels. It was a small and less than festive wedding celebration, just a quiet family affair. The fact that I married her satisfied the villager’s thirst for justice, but Mary suffered derision and I received more than one black eye defending her. At the same time, it was so strange for us to live in the same house as any married couple, yet without the intimacy. I had determined not to touch her until after the child was born. Mary seemed relieved.

Life in the village was trying. Mary had none of the support an expectant mother should enjoy. I was a spineless fool to some, to others an irresponsible rascal. Things became so bad for us that when the Roman proclamation was made, I could have jumped for joy. A reason to leave the village! I was required by the Romans to return to my family home for the census, and since I was in the line of King David, that meant travelling to the small village of Bethlehem. No matter that Mary’s presence there was not required, nor that her time was close. I would not leave Mary to the scorn and questionable care of our village. We would both travel to Bethlehem, even if we had to have the baby on the way.

I was thankful that we were not the only ones who needed to travel south. We caravanned with several of our extended families and others who also needed to show up in Bethlehem. Among us, we had a cart that I hoped might ease the passage for my very pregnant wife. I borrowed as many sheepskins as I could to create a nest for her. Nothing proved comfortable for long, however. Mary took the cart until she couldn’t anymore, then walked until she couldn’t anymore, then rode our little donkey until she couldn’t anymore. The closer we came to Jerusalem, the more exhausted and uncomfortable she looked, despite my every effort.

Nagging my thoughts all the way was the reality that, as much as Bethlehem was our ancestral home, we no longer had family living there. The small village would be overrun with David’s descendants. Would we find a place to stay? As we found out, Bethlehem was overrun with more than the family of David; there were Romans everywhere. The word was that they feared an insurrection, and what better place to make a statement than in the town of King David?

As soon as we arrived, our group dispersed. To my dismay, Mary was having a particularly bad time of it just at that moment and we had to find a corner for her to rest. Evening came on suddenly as it always does, the streets emptied and there we were: Mary, her inept husband and the donkey who refused to move another inch until dinner was provided. This was the nightmare I had imagined all the way here. Despairing, I lifted my heart with a wordless prayer, like Nehemiah before the king, pleading for a bit of compassion on our plight.

It did not come immediately, nor in a way I could possibly have imagined. There were few houses in the village large enough to accommodate guests and I tried them all. Full. So sorry, if only you had come an hour ago. Have you tried the Rabbi? Sorry, we have no room, no room, no room. I found myself on the very edge of town looking at an unpromising house backed into the side of the hill. Out of options, I knocked and received the old refrain. For you and your wife? Sorry, there is not an inch of room. I turned away and heard the word I was hoping for. But... let me show you what I have. It might do.

I followed him around the back of the house, wondering if he expected me to climb the hill. Instead, there was a dark opening that he lighted with the lamp he carried. It was a low cave that recessed into the hillside. Straw covered the floor, and the man’s few livestock were already resting in their wooden stalls. He looked at me and shrugged. What else could I do? He left me the lamp and a flask of oil for when I returned with Mary. I went to break the news to her.

As I approached the street where I had left Mary, my heart was frozen by a sharp, piercing cry in the dark. Mary! I rushed to her and found her breathing hard and shaking. She looked up at me with a pained smile. “He is coming.” I don’t know how I got her on the donkey, nor how she managed to stay on through two more contractions. We reached the cave and I carried her in and made a nest with straw and sheepskins and our one blanket. She laughed when she saw our “room,” but then doubled over once again in agony.

In the synagogue, men pray in thanks to God that he did not create them as women, which I always thought uncharitable. That night I discovered the true reason to be grateful: men could never endure the anguish of childbirth. I could hardly bear watching. Again and again and again, seemingly with no end, Mary laboured. It is ironic that this suffering was decreed in the Garden right after God promised that the Seed of the woman would usher in Satan’s defeat. She is the bravest of souls who bears a child.

Between contractions, Mary held me close, breathing hard. How unusual this first intimacy between us! We wept together, we laughed when we could. I wiped the sweat off her face, which looked up at me with love and gratitude. And then her face would go blank with pain and it would happen all over again. This went on and on, deep into the night; the wait seemed interminable, though the women who came to visit later would comment that Mary was fortunate to have such short-term labour.

Then, with a convulsion that I thought must rip her in two, and with a cry that did the same to my heart, Mary pushed with all her strength, and I was there for her and felt the warmth of blood and the rushing of tiny head and arms and legs into my arms. I didn’t know what to do but thankfully he did, as he burst into a healthy and welcome cry.

Something instinctive took over - I dealt with the cord that bound him to Mary, then laid him in her loving arms. She gazed at him and breathed the words spoken over her, words I had found unbelievable nine months before, “You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”

A light flickered in the doorway and a woman’s voice asked if we needed anything. “Come and see,” I invited her. When she took in the sight of Mary with the baby in her arms, the blood and the mess, she was beside herself with excitement and practicality. In moments she had gathered up the afterbirth and soiled blanket, rushed out and returned with several more delighted women, bearing warm water and clean cloths and more blankets.

I was made to get out of the way for a while. As I stepped back, bemused by the scene and wondering at the great peace I felt inside, I nearly stumbled over a small wooden box, roughly constructed, the neglected feeding manger of one of the animals. I cleaned it out as best I could, found some fresh straw to make a bed in it, and brought it to Mary. The women laughed, but took the box and made it comfortable with a sheepskin and blanket. They nestled the child there, who was now tightly wrapped in strips of cloth, and set him beside Mary. Then seeing her eyes close in exhaustion, the women whispered and tittered their way out of the cave.

We were alone again. No - never to be alone again. He would be the One who would never leave us or forsake us, who would be with us to the end of the age. But those realizations came slowly for Mary and me. For now, watching over my sleeping wife and gurgling adopted son, I was overwhelmed with love and joy and relief. He is not mine, the thought stirred in me; rather, I am his. All is well, in a cave that was meant for livestock, far, far from home.

I suppose I slept. I woke to the sound of new visitors, men’s voices this time. And such men as I normally would not want near my wife and son. I went to the entrance to confront them - shepherds, hired hands no less, ruffians - and they told me a tale that again seemed unbelievable but must be true, it was so strange. I invited them in and they gathered around Mary and the baby in the box.

Mary stirred, saw us and gasped, but I quickly reassured her and told the tale. We shared something in common with these men - they too were visited by messengers of God. The amazing part was it would be this very manger and the borrowed strips of cloth that would tell the shepherds they were in the right place. Here they would find the Saviour who was born to them, who was the Messiah, the Lord. The heavenly messengers spoke of great glory to God and peace to the people of his favour.

These rough shepherds, of the type who were likely not welcome in the town, were melted and mesmerized by the sight of this baby in a feed box. They whispered their delight in the child, looked with affectionate eyes upon the mother, thumped my back in congratulation. I think they would have stayed the rest of the night had I not pointed out that Mary’s eyes were again closed in sleep. They tiptoed out of the cave, but once outside raised their voices in excitement, not caring who they woke at that late hour.

Of course, all their noise roused Mary again. I snuggled in close beside her for warmth and protection, and we gazed at the child, hearts full of wonder and joy. Mary put it well later that morning, that he could not have come in any better way.

Disciples In Lock-Down

2020-04-11T15:00:00.009-07:00

Thomas glided along the darkest corners of the street as if he was another shadow. The homes and shops were quieter now. Since sundown, every courtyard and byway had buzzed with chattering neighbours. Now, all slunk away to their homes, repressed by a nameless apprehension. Dreadful deeds happened here yesterday. Their atmosphere hovered over the city like a miasma.

He came to a gate in a stone wall and found it locked. Three times he knocked, then three again, and three again. If it had not been so silent, he would not have heard the servant girl as she asked his name. Satisfied with Thomas' reply, she unbolted the gate and bolted it again behind him. He knew the way, so she left him to climb the steps to the upper room where all were waiting.

Thomas knocked again, three times three, but the response was much slower this time. Someone unlocked the door and dragged him inside before too much light escaped. The bolt clanged shut, and a post kept the door secure. "Easy, John," Thomas told the man. "No fear. I am not followed."

John grunted his reply, "You take too much of a risk, all the same." Thomas shrugged off his concern. "Was it worth it? What did you find out?"

"Let's join the others first. They will want to hear." Thomas followed John to where the lamps gave more light. Men sat or lounged in every corner of the room. Two at the table played some kind of game with sticks. They didn't laugh or call out, which made their game seem all the more earnest. Peter snored, mouth open wide. Most of the others sat and stared into dark corners of the room, lost in their thoughts.

They are in pain, like me, Thomas thought. A little more than twenty-four hours it was, and we are all still at a loss. Here we hide in fear, and we jump at every knock on the door, as happened moments ago. Then fear subsides to numbness, and numbness to despair.

The hardest part is that no one knows how long this will go on. Our wait already seems interminable. It would help if we knew exactly what we are waiting for. But no one knows. We wait, not knowing what will happen after this. It is hard to imagine the world going on after all that has occurred. These men can't take much more, but more is all we have.

As Thomas walked into the lamplight, all the reposing forms came to life. Andrew slapped Peter on the shoulder, who gasped awake with a cry. The men made room for Thomas and crowded in close to hear his news. "Tell us, Thomas," Peter took the lead. "What is happening out there? What have you heard?"

For a moment, Thomas enjoyed the attention, but the gravity of his news ruined the novelty. "There is much talk," he began finally. "Too much. My head spins with it. Most that I heard was mere speculation, not worth repeating. Someone has torn the veil in the temple. People are walking the streets who should be dead. I saw one, surrounded by a small crowd who demanded to know how it happened. The poor fellow blustered to the point that he might have wished he was back in his quiet tomb."

Thomas surveyed the faces around him. This was news, but not the news they sought. He wondered where to take them from here. "There is much discussion about the darkness and the earthquake..." Andrew looked as if he was about to explode, so Thomas stopped. "What do you want to know?"

Everyone burst out at once. Thomas sat back, no longer glad to be the centre of attention. It took some heated words before James and John intimidated the last of them into silence. When the storm subsided, they all turned to Peter.

"Thomas, what do they say about us? Are the authorities looking for Jesus' disciples? Are we in danger still?" Peter's eyes betrayed his fear. They were all afraid. Did Jesus not say that whatever happened to him would also happen to his disciples? If they hate me, he told them often, they will hate you. To follow him has turned out to be a death wish.

"Yes, we are in danger. Everyone was asking if anyone has seen us, or if the temple guard has captured us. Yes, they seek us still."

There was silence in the room for some time. Each man wrestled with the implications of their long-ago decision to follow Jesus. They were so confident he was the Messiah who would redeem Israel and set her free. All their hopes were set on being right there when Jesus set up his kingdom. Each had imagined his place in it: the wealth, the authority, the recognition.

Yesterday dashed all expectations as their Master hung on a Roman cross. His disciples had watched from a discreet distance. All except John and some of the women, who had the audacity to mingle with the mocking throng.

Peter sighed, deflated. "What more, Thomas?"

Startled out of his own reflections, Thomas stammered, "Um, they have... they have set a guard, at the tomb."

This surprised everyone. "Why?" John countered. "Why at the tomb?"

"They think..." Thomas glanced around, unsure of how they would take this. "They think... we plan to steal the body."

There was a moment's stunned silence, then they all broke into laughter. It felt good, having something to laugh about. "What do they imagine we will do with his body? Hide it in another tomb?" The disciples ridiculed the notion. "As if we can return life to his body! Who would believe us if we said he has risen from the dead, but sorry, we can't let you see him?" They were overloud in their enjoyment of the absurdity. It took John's booming voice and large frame to settle them down again.

When they were all still, they looked at him expectantly. "Tell us, John," Peter pleaded. "You were close in all his councils. You remember Jesus' words. Is everything lost? Is this the end? What are we to do?"

John took his time in answering. His voice was low but confident. "I do remember. He told us, only days ago, as much as it feels like an eternity." He looked at each of the men in turn. "First, he told us not to be afraid. How are we doing with that, hiding out here like children in mischief? 'Do not let your hearts be troubled.' Is this not what he told us?" The disciples glanced at one another, abashed at first. But there were glints of courage as they remembered Jesus' words.

"Then, he told us he was going away. True, he left us not in any way we could have imagined. But it should be no surprise to us. 'In this world, there will be trouble," he warned us. We should not be so alarmed or feel that the world has come to an end. It is only up-ended!" Voices murmured agreement. This is what Jesus promised.

"But he also said he would not forsake us. 'I will not leave you as orphans,' Jesus promised. 'I will come to you.' Here we sit like waifs, abandoned in the street, without hope and without a future. Not so. He has gone from us, but his work is not done. Did he not tell us? 'Greater things than these you will do.' Is that not why he went to the Father?" Heads nodded. "Did he not send us, as his Father sent him? My friends, I do not believe he is finished with us!" The tone in the room was changing. "We are not in a cage; this is a waiting room. Something… no, Someone is coming."

"You have not answered my question, John," Peter reminded him. "What are we to do?"

"We wait!" John's voice was quiet. "We wait on Jesus alone; all our expectation is from him. God has not yet written the final chapter. We watch and pray, as he told us. I cannot believe we will wait long."

Many spoke up then, spirits lifted by John's words. Courage welled up with memories of everything Jesus taught them. Thomas was glad for their enthusiasm, but he was uncertain and restless and had to return to the streets. Nathaniel followed to bolt the door and gate after him. "You will be careful, Thomas? Take no risks! Jesus will come to us!"

Thomas snorted as he slipped out into the night. "Seeing is believing!"

John Mark

2020-04-10T15:00:00.003-07:00

I march furiously. My father must be the most maddening man in Jerusalem. Our servant Rhoda had an unfortunate accident on the stairs to the banquet room on our roof. She injured her ankle, yes, but I did not think it severe enough that she should refuse to fetch the water for our noon meal.

Rhoda has intimidated me most of my life with her superior grasp of almost every topic. She may also know that I am attracted to her. So, my reprimand surprised me as much as Rhoda. She glared at me and opened her mouth to make a sharp reply, but then put her apron over her face and burst into tears. It was pure bad luck that my father walked into the room at that very moment.

Rhoda shook her head when he asked what the matter was, yet she had no choice but to answer him. My father looked at me as if I were a slave myself, or a mere worm, then held out the water jar to me. His unspoken command mortified me. He could not ask this of me. If I were a boy, it might not be so shameful a thing to carry a water jar through the streets of the city. But I am a man, son and apprentice to my father. I may as well run naked as carry a jug on my shoulder like some slave girl.

I suffer the stares of every person I pass on the street, most of whom I have known all my life. The children are the worst, following at my heels and plucking at my cloak. It is only half a Sabbath's walk to the nearest well. It feels like my ancestors' forty years in the wilderness. I try to pretend I am invisible as I draw water alongside the women, who laugh with their hands over their mouths. It does not help. I place the jar on my shoulder and turn for home.

Ahead of me are two young men who do not hide their stares. They seem familiar. What do they want of me as they look me in the eye and confer together? I hope they do not want to fight me, teaching me a lesson for my unmanly deeds with the water jar. I pass by them and cannot meet their gaze. They lay no hand on me, but I can tell they are following close behind. I walk faster; they walk faster. How will this end?

I reach the gate of our house, pass through and slam it closed behind me. Safe. I breathe a sigh of relief and set down the jar. And then there is a knock at the gate. I do not move. The knock comes again, louder, and Rhoda limps out of the inner courtyard to answer. "Rhoda! No, don't…" She scowls at me, remembering my previous offense, and opens the gate.

The two men see me standing behind Rhoda, but they give their attention to her. "The Rabbi asks: Where is my guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?" I immediately remember where I had seen them before.

A young rabbi named Yeshua fascinates my mother, much to my father’s consternation. She is an independent woman, my mother, carrying on almost as lucrative a business as my father. She is the reason we can maintain our large home, which features a banquet hall as an added second level. This is where we entertain guests of prominence and status. But for some time now, she has lost all interest in business and entertainment. She leaves home for days at a time to hear this rabbi and offer him gifts of food and drink.

She tried to bring him to our home once. He stood at the gate, with his several disciples behind him, but my father refused him admittance. I am now sure these men at our door are part of the entourage of Yeshua. Like my mother, they have left all responsibility to follow him. How dare they come here? Rhoda seems to think the same thing as she stares at them without speaking. I am happy they seem to have lost all interest in me. I am about to send them off when Rhoda invites them inside while she informs her master.

They enter, and the three of us stand there, not speaking. I realize they are only a few years older than I am, but they are dusty, ragged. Homeless, they follow their rabbi wherever the wind takes them, sleeping outdoors if no one will take them in. Their cloaks smell of sheep; their feet are filthy. They eye me warily. My father will send them packing, I have no doubt.

But he doesn't. To my surprise, he asks them questions. How many are they? Do they have wine? From where? No, no, you can't have that for Passover. I can't believe my ears. He is welcoming them into his home. Not only that, but he is giving them the banquet room, which I am pretty sure Rhoda already set for our family. Our Passover. This is ludicrous! What has got into him?

I turn and see my mother standing just out of sight of our new guests. I know that look on her face. My father is vexatious much of the time. But she loves him. She looks at him as if she could not be prouder to have such a husband. Still, she must have hounded him to bring about this miraculous conversion. I know my father. He is offering his home to these disciples of Yeshua through gritted teeth.

Yet there is no sign of reluctance as he ushers them up the stairs to show them the room. It is long and narrow, and its main feature is a long, low table with many sumptuous cushions strewn around. She has set the table with plates and goblets, all of one design, resting on a colorful tapestry draped across its length. I can hardly remember the years before we celebrated Passover in this room as a family. Not this year.

It is all arranged. The men leave for the market to gather everything they need. My father closes the gate and turns to his wife, hands raised in resignation. She runs into his arms and embraces him while I turn away, embarrassed and angry. Rhoda has such a curious look on her face, staring at the gate. She shuffles up the stairs to make sure everything is in order, though she knows she has already arranged the room upstairs to perfection.

The men soon return, laden with platters purchased from the market. Flatbreads and herbs. Apples and nuts. A basket of eggs. Flagons of wine. The herbed lamb is still steaming and makes my mouth water. My mother and Rhoda correct the disciples' errors as they place the elements of the Passover on the table. They often run down the stairs to add or replace some item as I watch in silence from a dark corner. When the women agree the table can hold no more, we leave the men there to await their rabbi.

It is early evening when they arrive. The disciples are loud, jostling, excited for the feast. Though Rhoda has taken pains to provide basins and ample water and towels, they ignore it all, sparring with one another as they ascend the stairs. Their master goes up last, to my surprise. He does not seem perturbed by his followers' crude behavior; instead, he looks deep in thought. He looks up and smiles at Rhoda and me as he passes by, and it is like the last bit of sunlight escaping before it sets behind the horizon.

We celebrate our own Passover at the table in the kitchen, much like my family must have done before our current prosperity. I find I do not mind; the table upstairs always seemed too large for us, no matter what relatives joined us. Tonight it is only the three of us, and they invite even Rhoda to sit at the table once everything is in place. My father murmurs the words of the Passover. Most of the time, it is his Roman blood that courses through his veins, but on this night, he is thoroughly Jewish. I ask the required questions with no prompting needed. We remember the blood on the doorpost many centuries ago, when we came out from among the nations and became a people devoted to God.

I am so full of lamb, I don't want to move. But it is too warm in the kitchen. I go to my favorite seat near the front gate, where the evening breeze finds its way into the courtyard. The sky is clear and full of stars. I pick out the familiar constellations with contented pleasure. I have much to be thankful for on this dark Passover night.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and I realize the rabbi and his men are still up there. It is an extended feast indeed, as it is getting late. One of his disciples passes by me so close, I can feel the wind of his cloak. But then he sees me and pauses. My blood runs cold. The eyes that gaze at me are not the eyes of a man, but of a hungry demon. In a moment frozen in time, I despair and lose all hope, casting myself into the void forever. Then he releases me, opens the gate and leaves. I am shaking, appalled at the dark thoughts that assailed my mind.

It is quiet at the top of the stairs. What makes their celebration so late? I creep silently up the passage. Rabbi Yeshua is speaking, but I cannot make out his words. There is a long pause, and I glance around the corner into the room. The men are passing something around the table. It is a cup, because each one puts it to his lips and then passes it on. I know of no such custom and wonder if it is some Galilean twist on the feast. Then the men break into song and make to leave. I stumble down to my seat by the gate. As they file out behind their rabbi, the men banter about a certain garden where they might spend the night. I am not familiar with the place.

Still etched on my mind is the image of the demon’s face. I decide it is time for bed and the forgetfulness of sleep. The small acts of undressing and readying myself are a burden. As I lay down, my body is so ponderous that it is a wonder the bed can hold me. I pass into a deep slumber.

Voices and a pounding at the gate. What is it? Can they find no place to stay, and so they are returning to the graces of my father's house? Why is no one going to the gate? I clamber out of bed. I am wearing nothing but a thin linen garment, but they are men like myself, so I am not concerned enough to get dressed. They are making a good deal of noise on the other side of the gate. Our neighbors will not be happy.

I open the gate and stand in amazement. It is not a school of disciples but an angry mob at our doorstep. They carry torches and clubs, and I see the glint of swords among them. My first thought is to slam the gate shut. But their leader, dressed as a temple guard, perceives my intention and thrusts himself forward. "The Rabbi! He is here in this house, is he not? Get him for us, or we will get him ourselves!"

My mind is reeling with sleep and astonishment. "He is not here!" I blurt out. "They left; I am not sure how long ago."

The captain shoves his torch in my face. "Where? Where did they go?"

"A garden! I do not know where it is, but they may intend to spend the night."

He stares at me as if to devour me, doubting my words. Another man steps forward, and I am amazed to see it is the demon-man, the disciple who came down the stairs alone. "I know the place. Gethsemene. We have stayed there before. Come! There will be no one else there at this time of night. We have him!" I watch as they light up the dark street with their torches until they turn a corner and are gone.

What have I done! I have no love for this rabbi and his followers, but neither should I have given them away to this armed throng! I have not a moment to hesitate. Slamming the gate behind me, I give chase to their last flicker of torchlight. If only I can get ahead of them and warn the disciples of this threat to their Master!

But I do not know the way. I cannot get ahead of them without being seen. A chill wind blows right through my thin covering, yet I am covered in a cold sweat. My limbs will not obey me, and I get further behind the harder I try to keep up. I will not get there in time; I cannot get there in time. I have condemned this man to a merciless crowd.

At the edge of town, the torches weave their way through a large grove of olive trees and up a slight slope. Ahead is a clearing, and their lights form a half-circle. I crouch behind a nearby bush and watch helplessly.

At first, their interaction seems friendly enough. The demon-man approaches the Rabbi, kisses him and, with head bowed, listens to his master's welcome. The Rabbi Yeshua looks around at the crowd and approaches them, and to my great wonder, they step back. Some fall to the ground. But a few men rush forward with an angry shout and seize him by the arms.

Most of his disciples back away, some looking for a way of escape. One raises a sword and attacks a man dressed as a temple servant. I am sure he has killed him, and I look away. But when I look back again, I see the man sustained only injuries. The Rabbi rebukes his disciple and touches the victim's head. I hear the man shout, and those around him point and stare.

In the meantime, they drag away the Rabbi Yeshua, none too gently. Others are trying to seize his disciples—to no avail, as they are quick with terror and several carry arms. The chase is moving in my direction, and I realize their torchlight could find me behind this bush. I get ready to run when one large fellow spots me. Time stands still.

I will not forget his eyes. Rage and indignation are burning there that could not be about me. No one has ever looked at me this way. This is no rascal out seeking trouble. This is a man engulfed in righteous anger, and I am the offender. He is compelled by national pride, religious conviction, moral outrage. I am the rebel he must subdue.

He charges at me with a roar. At the last possible moment, some other instinct overcomes the terror that paralyzes me. As he grabs my shoulder, I twist and back away. My linen gown comes up over my head. I turn and flee for my life. When I dare look back, he does not give chase but stands looking foolishly at my sleepwear in his hand.

It isn't until I burst from the grove of olive trees that I remember I am entirely naked. Many streets lie between here and home, and even at this late hour, they are not wholly empty. I stop in the shadow provided by the corner of a building, heart pounding. There is nothing, not one thing in sight to cover my shame. Neither the shame of my body nor the shame of my part in the arrest of an innocent rabbi.

I have had dreams like this before. I am in some familiar place—the market, the synagogue, my home—and find myself naked. Men stare and mock me. Women scream and cover their eyes. Rhoda shrieks at me. Youths chase me (I never know what they will do if they catch me). And I can find nothing to cover myself. The humiliation is overwhelming.

But reality far surpasses the nightmare.

With great difficulty and without detection (I think), I maneuver within the length of one street from my front door. But my home may as well be on the moon. My father has often complained about the noise on our street at night. No one listens to him because his own gatherings in our upper room are often much louder. Our street is a favorite place of gathering for the secular element of our city. Foreigners. Prostitutes. People who have given up trying to attain the expectations of the religious elite. People call them "the sinners."

There are twenty or thirty of them sitting around a fire because the night (how I know it!) is bitter. But they want to remain outside. Or they are not welcome inside. There is no way to our front gate save passing in full sight of them all. I am one part vexed at them and three parts terrified of them. Heaven knows what they will do.

I wait, hoping against hope that they will give off their drinking and lewd joking. But in a short time, I am shaking from the cold and overwhelmed with apprehension. As if my body is not my own, I step out from the shadows and walk in full view down the center of the street.

The reaction is a sudden silence that is pregnant with astonishment, giving birth to raucous laughter. "Yow, look at him!" "Come over here, my man! Get to know us better!" "Hey, did she steal your heart or only your clothes?" And many other things worse than that—I will not put them down on parchment. I stride as if time has slowed to the pace of an ox. My front gate was never so far away, nor so welcome to my grasp.

I pass inside and slip into my room, grateful that the household sleeps soundly. Cold no longer, flushed with embarrassment, I cast myself on my bed and weep in consternation and ignominy. I can never step outside my door again. A small part of me reaches past my self-consciousness and remembers the sight of the Rabbi jostled by the armed and angry mob. My shame engulfs me, and I remember no more until I hear the morning movements of my household.

My consciousness returns like a conversation that I left for a moment and then re-entered. Humiliation wraps itself about me like nothing else had last night. I realize with a shock that I am still naked, but someone has thrown a blanket over me during the night. Who? That question overshadows any gratitude I might feel toward the one who covered my shame. Someone saw me naked, whether it was my father (quite unlikely) or Rhoda (heaven forbid!). Never mind stepping outside my door again—I cannot leave even my bed.

Hunger overrules my wounded dignity. I dress and go out to the kitchen. Rhoda is there, but she does not greet me or even look up at me. She has been weeping. Tears course unchecked down her face, and she sniffs loudly. Rhoda must have seen me naked on the bed! I feel naked still, and the blood rushes to my face. She places food in front of me without comment; her hot teardrop falls on my hand. I must say something. "Rhoda, I…"

"They have crucified him," she intones. She sets her bowl on the table and rushes from the room.

The Washer

2020-04-09T15:00:00.002-07:00

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. During supper, when the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him.

Where does Jesus begin? The famous painting of this scene doesn't help us. Leonardo didn't know that people did not sit on chairs in that day. They reclined on one elbow, feet out, to form a fan shape around the table. John has only to lean back against Jesus' chest to ask his question. We can guess that his brother James lies on the other side, since they share the dream of becoming Jesus' right and left hand men.

James remembers the words of John the Baptizer, the greatest man to walk the earth, that even he was not worthy to untie Jesus' sandals. And now Jesus is untying his. It takes a long time, fumbling with the knots. Finally, Jesus slips James' feet into the cool water and looks up at him with deep compassion. You, my friend, will be the first of these to follow me to heaven. But when Herod's sword parts your flesh, I will be with you. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end. Jesus dries his feet with care.

Another man of ambition, Simon the Zealot, is perplexed as he watches the hands of his Hero scrubbing his feet. He appreciates the radical nature of Jesus' demonstration - he loves that about him - but struggles to understand what it means. What is he waiting for? More than once, crowds of thousands were ready to crown him, and Jesus walked away from the opportunity. Simon's king works hard at the dirt under his toenails. These hands say, trust me. I will wash all the hatred from your heart. Then you will rush out upon the Roman hoards and free them from their gods, their pride, their slavery - and lose your life for my gospel. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end.

It is Matthew who reclines beside Simon at the table. Lately, they have struck an odd friendship, despite their political differences. Matthew has always been a little self-conscious of his feet; they are very ticklish, and somehow Jesus knows this. Matthew squirms, and Jesus concentrates on his ankles, which are not ticklish but will one day be scarred by iron bands in a foreign prison. I would not wish those bands away for you, my friend, his hands assure him. They will remove the last of your fears until nothing on earth is of any value to you, only the stuff of heaven. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end.

Nathanael is conflicted as he realizes that Jesus will be at his feet next. Who is this man? Nazarene or Son of God? Servant or Master? He sighs. Jesus glances up, bemused, and keeps him guessing. Who am I? There is no more important question in all creation, and the answer is like a chest of gold hidden in a field. Seek me, push aside the dirt, put your back into it as you dig. As they chase you from house to house, you will know that what you have found is worth leaving all, selling all, putting all your eggs in this one basket. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end. Give me your other foot.

His friend Philip watches the wordless interaction and guesses at what it might mean. This is a difficult parable indeed, and he hopes for one of those rare explanations from his Rabbi. He wonders once again why Jesus sought him out that day, among all the young good-for-nothings loitering in town. Jesus takes Philip's feet in his hands and holds them for a while. He appears to be in prayer, mouthing words Philip cannot hear and could not understand anyway. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end. Jesus rises to dump the basin and refill it with fresh water from the jar in the corner. Which is what he is doing with me, Philip's eyes say as they watch him.

Andrew is distracted by his brother Peter's obvious discomfort on the other side of him. Wait your turn, man. I don't always live in your shadow. See how Jesus takes my callused feet, looks at me as if to say, when did you last wash these? The Teacher is teaching something, and I don't get it either, but have patience! I would follow him anywhere. Jesus stops and traces a spot on the top of each of his feet. Andrew feels a spasm of pain as if his feet are driven to a post. Yes, even there, Jesus, I will follow you. My heart is not troubled. You have loved me to the end.

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, do you wash my feet?" Jesus answered him, "What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand." Peter said to him, "You shall never wash my feet." Jesus answered him, "If I do not wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "The one who has bathed does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean, but not every one of you." For he knew who was to betray him; that was why he said, "Not all of you are clean." Do not let your heart be troubled, Peter. I have loved you to the end.

Thomas is a private person, and not happy to have anyone - even Jesus - touch his feet. He plunges his feet into the basin like a man throwing himself in front of a cart. He splashes both Peter and Jesus. They all laugh, Peter a little wryly, and Thomas relaxes into Jesus' capable hands. You will travel far on these feet, my friend, to a land you have only heard about, a land with more gods than people to worship them. You will be a small lamp in a world of darkness, a darkness that will pierce your soul. But do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end. I will go there with you, and there I will stay.

James the Smaller, Little James, not a Son of Thunder but more inclined to quiet meditation, is not overlooked by Jesus. The friendship between them is evident, and with him, Jesus is gentle but intentional. James grows in stature by the very presence of his Master. I am a bruised reed, and you have not broken me. I am a smoldering wick, but you have never smothered me. I believe in you, Jesus, because you first believed in me, which was the kind of love I needed most. I wish that I could dare ask to wash your feet, as you have mine, but I know my place and cannot match your servitude. My heart is untroubled. You have loved me to the end.

I should have sat next to the Zealot, Jude muses. The suspense is killing me. What is that smell? My namesake beside me is sweating like a horse and shaking. He smells like fear, the strange little man; I have never understood him. Jesus seeks Jude's attention, finds it and loses it again. He hums a tuneless melody as he works on his feet, and Jude listens, drawn to the sound. It is not flattery to call you one of my sheep, the melody says. Hear my voice, know my voice, follow no other, seek no other, worship no other. Jude is focused now, as if memorizing Jesus' face, his melody, his presence. Do not let your heart be troubled, because I have loved you to the end. Don't forget.

The distress of Judas is apparent to those near him. He trembles as the basin is set in front of him, and Jesus waits, looking troubled himself. As he takes Judas' feet in his hands, Jesus begins to weep, his shoulders heaving and tears falling into the basin. Judas stops trembling and pulls his feet from Jesus' grasp, tucking them still wet under his cloak. There is an appeal in Jesus' face that rips Judas apart and assaults his resolve. But Judas' heart remains frozen, cold and hard as the thirty pieces of silver in his pouch. Fear turns to anger as bitter as myrrh. Jesus sighs. I know why your heart is troubled, Judas. I have loved you to the end. I will miss you always.

I know why you choose to be beside me this evening, John, the disciple whom I love. The water swirls around John's feet. Jesus takes his time. You will find it hardest tomorrow when you see me suspended between earth and heaven, and watch my life-giving blood flow down for you. I want you to grow to be an old man, John. Your children will be as the stars in the sky, and you will be a father to sons and daughters from every nation. You have heard me, you have seen me with your eyes, you have looked upon me and touched me with your hands. You will tell of me, again and again and again, long after your days. Do not let your heart be troubled. I have loved you to the end. I am love.

When he had washed their feet and put on his outer garments and resumed his place, he said to them, "Do you understand what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.

Enough

2015-04-11T21:38:00.002-07:00

How much is enough? The question has been rolling around in my head since teaching a book study to our students a few weeks ago. The book is More or Less: Choosing a Lifestyle of Excessive Generosity by Jeff Shinabarger.

Here is the idea: Ask yourself, how much is "enough" in each area of my life? And what do I have that is in excess of "enough"? The issue that everyone thinks of first is their excess of clothing, and it is not a bad example (though it is the easiest). There are clothes in my closet and in my drawers I just never use anymore. I can bag them up, and determine that what remains is reasonably "enough" for me.

Next, what will I do with the excess? Easy! Drop off the bag of clothes off at the local thrift store. Someone will want the clothes I don't need, right? But who will actually get them? Did you know that only 10 to 30% of the clothing you drop off is sold over the counter in that store? Most of the rest is shipped back overseas to less developed countries and sold there - sometimes to the very people who made them in the first place. Think about the livelihood of the local garment makers in those countries who can't compete with our cheap cast-offs. The solution is not so simple.

However, you get the idea: Decide in each area of life what is enough for you, then take a look at the excess and decide how to bless other people with it. You can live more simply, you will avoid accumulation, and (if done wisely) you can help correct some of the inequalities in our world.

Here are some areas of life addressed in the book:

Money - Obviously. How do you define "disposable income"? A myth? Do you really need everything you buy? What could you do with that "extra" instead of spending it on yourself?
Food - How long could you go, using only the food that is currently in your house? Having more storage space = food sitting unused for a long time.
Social image - You will never have enough if you don't think you are enough. How real and how important to you is the personal image you portray?
Clothing - The easy one. The global definition of wealth is the ability to wake up and choose what you will wear that day.
Gifts - A gift is not really a gift if you expect a gift in return. You and your family and friends really don't need those "gifts of obligation." Millions of others in the world do.
Transportation - Too often our view of convenience determines what we think is enough, or even necessary.
Time - We all know that social media is robbing us of the present, as we exist in the Neverland of the personal screen. What could you do with the extra time if you drew a line of "enough media"?
Access - What excess opportunities do you have that you could open up to people with less options?
Gift cards - Given as an example of an "Enough Experiment," the author started a charity that asks people for their unused gift cards ($10-20 billion dollars worth are never used each year) which he turns over to other charities.

But what to do with our excess? It is tricky, because people are naturally greedy and it is hard to know if our donations really go to people in need. The other day, I realized that one of the best ways for me to use my excess is to reduce it.

What did I just say? Work out this riddle with me - I think you will find it worthwhile. Reduce my excess? How would I do that? Well, by spending more of course! Huh? Doesn't that miss the whole point of Jeff's book?

I don't think so. One of the primary ways that I daily perpetuate a system of inequality and unfairness in the world is my constant quest for a bargain. Cheapest price. Big sale. Best deal.

Did you know that stores like Walmart place excessive pressure on their suppliers to provide them with the same product for a lower and lower cost each year? How do suppliers respond? They find ways of producing more cheaply. Move production offshore. Pay workers less and demand more of them. Move production to an even cheaper country. Reduce quality and the safety of equipment and materials.

My quest to "Save money, live better" means that someone down the line is getting less and living worse.

What it means is that the first way for me to use my excess is to spend more money and make other people's lives better.

Will that really work? Does democracy work? Not perfectly, but better than most systems we have come up with. The right to vote for our choice of representative is considered an amazing privilege. So think about this: Every time you buy an item at a store or online or at a farmers market, you place a vote in the economic ballot box. Companies may ignore nasty letters and protests, but they will always pay attention to the votes of their customers. Or loss thereof.

Spend more money. Use some of your excess - that part of your income that is more than what you have determined is "enough" - to buy products that cost more but are ethically sourced. Direct fair trade. Local markets. Products that advertise a benefit to those in need rather than those that exploit them. The guy in your neighborhood who charges more but with whom you can develop a relationship. Avoid the stores that have a bad reputation for the way they treat employees, suppliers and the little girl who will sew the same line of stitches on the same garment for the next miserable 30 years of her life. Tip your waitress lavishly. When you bag up your clothes to give away, include at least one item that you actually like. Give wisely, and as directly as you can.

Jesus told a parable about a guy who did that sort of thing. He was about to lose his job, so he used his master's money to buy off a few friends for himself who might take care of him later. And his boss commended him for his shrewdness! What's the point? Jesus explained, "I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings" (‭Luke‬ ‭16‬:‭9‬ NIV).

I need to spend more money. Reduce my excess to do it.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it for a while. Your comments are welcome.

Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act. - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Sins of Omission

2015-03-26T20:10:00.000-07:00

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Whatever may be your view of hell, we would all agree that even the best of intentions are rather useless without action.

This week I taught a short course on Sustainable Lifestyle. It has been an extra challenge because I have been sick for a month and this week it took a turn for the worse. But what I found most challenging is the question brought to us by a documentary we just watched, Living On One Dollar. After 56 days of living on a dollar a day in rural Guatemala, four young guys were left with the question: What can I do to help?

I have many good intentions, and I don't mind telling people about them. I have been intending to post something on this blog for the past year or so. I started a young adult novel that I hope to finish some day. I have some quality ideas for improving the House or getting some more art on the walls. I feel a burden to connect a great ministry with the opportunities at a local Christian retreat centre. I have a book on camp leadership that I want to see go somewhere.

But it's mostly intention, very little action. These things have been sitting on my "do" list for so long they are gathering digital dust. Should I simply delete them? Will I ever get around to doing something about them?

"So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin" (‭James‬ ‭4‬:‭17‬). I am not a spectacular sinner in the things that I do; my speciality is the sin of omission. I know the good things I ought to do. I regularly watch opportunity drift by. But often, I do nothing.

Those who know me might find that a little extreme. We live with a dozen students and an assistant in Auxano House and are daily involved in their development and discipleship. You might say that this alone is sufficient, and that we can't be expected to do everything. True enough. So should I simply delete everything else on my "Do Good" list and forget about them? That doesn't seem to be an option in James' statement.

I think what I need is better discernment. Paul prayed for the church "that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God" (Philippians 1:9-11).

Love will motivate me to act, but love needs to be informed and insightful or it may prove to not be love after all. For example, billions of dollars are poured annually into foreign aid, but some of it does more harm than good. The intentions are great, but sometimes the results are questionable. Greater discernment is needed.

The same is true with me. It has been a frustrating week because I have been sick, and there is much more I want to do than I am able. But maybe my desire to pour into these students lacks discernment. My intentions are good, but the results can be disappointing. I need to rethink what love looks like. I need more knowledge and depth of insight in my love.

I can't do everything, but by the grace of God I can learn to do the right thing.

And that is definitely better than feeling overwhelmed and doing nothing.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" - Edmund Burke

Holiness

2014-04-07T21:36:00.001-07:00

Hey, can I make you a smoothie?

Many smoothies are made at our house. On a typical morning, the Magic Bullet blender sounds more like a Magic Machinegun, spitting out concoctions purple and green. There are mild arguments over the best (and worst) ingredients. Some think anything goes, from spinach to yesterday’s leftovers; others follow a strict regimen of favorite fixings.

I like to create my smoothies as the spirit leads – my spirit, not God’s, though the results might be considered inspired. I would gladly make one for you. How about frozen blackberries, almond milk, half a banana, crushed ice, dash of ice cream, swig of maple syrup, dollop of french vanilla yogurt – and my special secret ingredient! Ready for it?

Just a little bit of dog poo.

Don’t worry. It was collected fresh this morning from the friendliest of pooches. And it is so very tiny a fragment of feces. You won’t even taste it, I guarantee. What do you think? Should I get started?

Of course not! Who do you think I am? The thing is revolting, even if the poo can’t be tasted. It would make you sick, if not physically then at least by the very thought of it.

“Holy” is a word misplaced in our vocabulary. How did you or I last use it? “Holy cow!” perhaps. I recently watched an amazing clip of some orcas chasing a pod of sea lions, and all the people in the boat could say was “holy shit!” over and over. What an odd oxymoron.

I think we are losing sight of the holiness of God. John says, “This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all.” None, not even the tiniest little bit. To God, darkness is as disgusting as any quantity of dog poo in a smoothie. He will tolerate none of it, not even the smallest hint.

God does not shrink from sin; it is sin that cringes and crawls and finds a shady spot - if it can - in the blinding, blazing light of his glory. Darkness flees, powers concede defeat, and one day every knee will bow – willing or no – at the feet of the Holy One.

“Be holy, as I am holy.”

Seriously, God? Do you see where we live? Who can help getting their feet dirty as we walk about in a fallen world? Staying perfectly clean is a lost cause.

Granted. But that is not the point. Holiness is not something we can do perfectly; however, it is what we must be. Here is the difference: Be holy, and when you act less than holy you will know it and feel it – deeply. You will not put up with it long; you will do business with God and be made clean again.

John goes on to say, “If we claim to have fellowship with him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live out the truth. But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.”

Light is holiness. When we walk with God in the light, though we inevitably stumble, our sin is quickly exposed for what it is and can be quickly confessed.

Our holy God is compassionate toward the worst of sinners. He does not bear a “holier than thou” attitude, even though that is what he is. Walk with him in the light and you will find yourself in the darkest places on earth, among people who can’t find their way.

God does not shrink from sinners; they flee from him until his love overwhelms and conquers them. Like Paul, to whom Jesus later said, “I am sending you to them to open their eyes and turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me.”

So holiness neither makes us perfect nor sets us above our fellow man. But neither can holiness tolerate sin, any more than you can tolerate poo in your smoothie.

We have become accustomed to the taste of poo. Have grown to rather like it really, though it sickens and weakens us and corrodes our resolve until our concessions and compromises make us not very unlike the cesspool in which we live. The world has very many convincing arguments for the taste of poo, the rightness of poo, the right to poo, that poo should be acceptable to any lover of mankind. And we are listening.

But light and darkness are not two sides of the same coin. The room I am sitting in has a light switch, but no darkness switch. I can bring the light of Jesus into the darkest places, but I cannot walk in darkness and find myself in the light.

If that was confusing, here is an example. Your generation of believers has fewer scruples than mine about entering the dark places – the pub, the club, the party of a friend, your cousin’s gay wedding. Good on you! But when you are there, remember why you are there. If it is not to be light – holy, different, wholly other, redeeming, exposing, full of grace – you are probably simply walking in darkness.

Another example: You are better than my generation at dialogue with those who don’t share your Christian worldview – the atheist, the amoralist, the secular humanist. Well done! But what fellowship can light have with darkness? Be respectful, take interest, ask good questions, but stand for truth and expose the lies and evil scheming of your real adversary, who is not flesh and blood.

Be holy, as he is holy. Be so other than the world around you that they can’t help but feel a bit exposed by your presence, though you have uttered not a word of judgment or condemnation, and on the contrary have exuded grace and compassion and interest. Be so other that they see you as they saw Jesus, “a friend of sinners,” but no friend of sin.

That is holiness.

Can you add that word back into your vocabulary?

Warp Speed, Mr. Sulu (reprint from 23-Nov-09)

2013-12-02T20:24:00.001-08:00

This is for all those who, like myself, are frustrated with time. Like the famous rabbit of Alice's tale, I seem to be endlessly running, always late for some very important date. If I'm not late, I am waiting for someone who is, until we are both late. There is never enough time.

Quite on my own, I came up with a theory: Not only does it feel like time is going faster, but it actually is going faster. I later found some scientific backup for my hypothesis. Edwin Hubble, who later had a telescope named after him, discovered by observing galaxies moving away from us that the universe is expanding, and since space is the measuring stick of time, time itself is accelerating. Einstein's theory of relativity included the idea that the expansion of the universe should slow down at a constant rate, though he was unable to account for some factors in his theory. Then in 1998, researchers discovered that the expansion of the universe is actually speeding up, not slowing down.

What does that mean? The fact that the expansion of the universe is accelerating means that time itself is speeding up at a greater rate than previously thought. The problem is that our means of measuring time is also expanding. It's like trying to measure your height with a tape measure that is growing at the same rate as you - it always reads the same, though you have a strong suspicion that you are taller than you were before. Likewise, time is speeding up, and the only way we can tell is that it feels faster every year.

Whether you like my speculation or not, you likely share my frustration with time.

I have wondered what it was like for Jesus, who stepped out of eternity into the thing called Time that his Father created. He had a first breath, and a last. He experienced "waiting," and learned patience. His carpentry jobs had a deadline; he was perhaps often late for lunch. He could not be everywhere at once, nor did he have the time to do everything he wanted. His appointed time had no cars, cell phones or dishwashers; everything he did, from traveling to working, required a good deal of time. After 33 long years, Jesus could finally say, "Father, the time has come. Glorify your Son, that your Son may glorify you."

In the world that God made,

Yet God placed in our hearts something that tells us that time is not all there is. This morning as Kristie and I prayed with a student, Kristie said something in her prayer that got me thinking about time (again) this evening. She said that our frustration with time points to the fact that we were made for timelessness.

Solomon in Ecclesiastes 3 continues, "I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end." C.S. Lewis put it this way: "If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

So my frustration with time is understandable, yet not excusable. Jesus entered time, yet he seemed to have all the time in the world. Though the world swirled around him, demanding signs, seeking healing, requiring answers, he seemed to march to the beat of a different Drummer. When told that everyone was looking for him, he could say, "Let's go somewhere else." As important people waited on his verdict, he could draw in the sand with his finger. I am told that by faith I can walk in this world as Jesus walked.

And there will be an end to time. Jesus said repeatedly that certain things would take place, and then the end of the age will come. Maybe sooner than science supposes: "If dark energy density rises rather than falls, the universe will eventually undergo a 'hyper speedup' that would tear apart galaxies, solar systems, planets and atomic nuclei, in that order" (Scientific American, September 23, 2008). Or as Peter pictured it,

Hang on a minute! Rewind! "...as you look forward to the day of God and speed its coming..." What on earth? We can speed up time? We can make the end of time arrive sooner? How? Peter tells us in this same chapter.

We can live holy and godly lives. The Jewish nation has always understood that repentance - turning from sin and turning to God in their attitudes and actions - would precede the coming of the Messiah.

We can join God in bringing people to repentance. "But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance." This is what he is waiting for, if it can be said that God waits.

We can anticipate and long for the Day of the Lord. One of the early prayers of the church was "Marana tha," which means, "Our Lord, come!" Jesus' model prayer for his disciples also started this way, "Your kingdom come!" There would be no reason to pray this way if it had no effect on the timing of his coming.

"So then, dear friends, since you are looking forward to this, make every effort to be found spotless, blameless and at peace with him. Bear in mind that our Lord's patience means salvation..." Oh, he knows patience. He knows waiting. He has experienced time, wrestled with it and won. Time is now all on his side. And one final day, we will stand with him and watch Father Time squeeze the sun like an orange.

May you speed his coming. Marana Tha!

Great Concessions

2013-11-04T22:25:00.000-08:00

I took our students to a great one-day conference last week. Main attraction: Shane Claiborne, who is almost cool enough for his accent alone but also delivered a high vision of believers living in intentional community where suffering is the greatest. Great stuff and much food for thought.

I went to a seminar which really troubled me, though, and I was less troubled by the seminar than by the fact it it seemed to trouble few others who were there with me.

Let me start by saying that I do not hate people who identify themselves as gay. I have known quite a few in my lifetime and I love them dearly, though I know they are often less than comfortable with me. I am in turn not afraid of them, though I have briefly felt that kind of fear with some gay people - something like what women might feel about some men whose glances, attitudes and touch make them uncomfortable.

However, I was told in this seminar that I also should not seek to help people who identify themselves as gay. I have big questions about that stance. In a PowerPoint cartoon shown on the screen, a fellow says to Jesus, "I just can't help having these feelings," and Jesus replies, "Who says you need help?"

That cartoon is not representative of my Jesus. Sorry.

To explain why, let's take the theory of evolution as an analogy. Everyone knows that the earth has been around for billions of years and that there has been plenty of time for life to develop from the simplest beginnings to become the complexity it is today. Since this is common knowledge, followers of Jesus concede to the general consensus with some explanation of creation that allows for the evolution of life over billions of years. If they don't do this, they were likely home-schooled and haven't really thought it through for themselves.

But evolution is only a theory - an assumption by the masses, yes - but we may all be wrong.

There is also the theory of sexual orientation. Everyone knows that some people are born with a sexuality that is different than the heterosexual majority, so that being lesbian, gay, bisexual or transsexual is simply who they are. Since this is common knowledge, followers of Jesus concede to the general consensus with some explanation of why we should receive people of any sexual orientation and practice into our fellowship without any expectation of change. Those who don't do this are homophobic and probably live on a farm with cows and chickens.

But genetically-based sexual orientation is only a theory - an assumption by the masses, yes - but we may all be wrong. That admission was the only breath of fresh air for me in that seminar.

Can we stretch our minds for a moment, and imagine that God really did create the world and all the wonders in it through his spoken word, and that he did not require billions of years to do it? Even if that is too far a reach, can we stretch in another direction and imagine that there are other explanations for the growing prevalence of variant sexual orientation?

If so, we may discover tragic consequences to our strongly-held assumptions.

Though there is no conclusive evidence of a genetic link to homosexual orientation, there is a great body of evidence for developmental causes (I'm no big fan of Wikipedia, but if interested compare http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biology_and_sexual_orientation and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Environment_and_sexual_orientation, or just Google though it may take you places you do not want to go). These developmental causes - whether environmental or circumstantial - are largely ignored, just as evidences for creation are largely ignored.

Does it not seem possible that we have been duped into refusing help to a group of people who are in desperate need of it?

What if "gay" is not who a person is, but what he or she has become, how they have responded to developmental issues in their lives? What if the root causes include deep layers of pain, loss and injustice that will never be addressed because we assume this person was born this way? What if we close the door to Jesus' redeeming grace in these areas of his or her life because the general population considers it demeaning to offer them help, bigoted to to be bearers of the grace of God? This would indeed be gross negligence on the part of Christ's body, the church.

But it is too unpopular and perhaps even dangerous to entertain such possibilities. Instead, we are told to do everything possible to make our gay brothers and sisters as welcome and comfortable - even celebrated - as possible. We would not want to make them feel ill at ease by offering them help for who they are.

Recognizing that I have placed a loaded gun in your hand with this post, I welcome your best shot.

Set My Face

2012-10-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me today that my mom and dad are no longer on this planet. No matter how far I travel, there is no way of getting to the place where they are, save one.

Of course, it makes me miss them. My parents have come to mind often lately: looking through a little book of stories my aunt wrote for my mom's 50th birthday; wondering what my dad would say about the current housing market; seeing my mom's calendar on our wall and knowing that within those pages there is a day when she left us.

But I am also learning to number my days better on this planet. Not only the Scrooge's in the world should listen to the warning of the Ghost of Christmas Past: "They sought to intervene for good, in human matters, and had lost the power forever." This is it - our one shot at making a difference in a fallen world. One day we will leave this planet and not return until its transformation into "a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells."

Is it just me, or does our whole western society engage in avoidance behavior around the topic of our mortality? There have been eras and places in the world where death has been a familiar companion, readily talked about and mitigated by traditional rites and long-established ceremony. Here, we save death for the TV screen and newsreel, as far removed from our personal experience as possible. Death only happens to other people. When it touches us personally, it is as much of a surprise as if we made it on the TV screen ourselves.

Surely that attitude is not appropriate for the follower of Jesus. I see him walking with his disciples toward City, and his disciples cannot get his attention. Luke tells us, "When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem." Isaiah predicted this attitude, that he would confront death resolutely:

I gave my back to those who strike,
and my cheeks to those who pull out the beard;
I hid not my face
from disgrace and spitting.

But the Lord God helps me;
therefore I have not been disgraced;

therefore I have set my face like a flint,
and I know that I shall not be put to shame.

What in life matters to me so much that I cannot be distracted from this one purpose, though it takes me toward the completion of my days on earth? The writer of Hebrews, after enumerating many saints whose faith meant death, says, "And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

Toward what have I set my face?

The sentence stares at me, and though I attempt to improve its grammar I cannot escape its grip. This evening I told the students that I have a hard time reading what they really care about. That I want them to care about something that lines up with what God cares about. Pretty bold, when I have a hard time reading what I care about, really care about.

So I leave you with the question. Please tell me what you are planning/dreaming/doing with your one shot at life on Planet Earth. Where your face is set. Feel free to comment below.

Waiting Is Sweet

2012-09-17T08:26:00.001-07:00

This morning I woke up and the house was full of wonderful young adults. God is good.

There was a time when I thought that this would never happen again, especially when people asked in kind tones if I was going to retire. I wondered too if my time was done and I was out to pasture - a horse old and achy before its time. I was broken, body and soul, and did not think I had the heart or hope to recover.

"Listen to me, you descendants of Jacob,
all the remnant of the people of Israel,
you whom I have upheld since your birth,
and have carried since you were born. Even to your old age and gray hairs
I am he, I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you" (Isaiah 46:3, 4 NIV).

This morning the small sounds of movement started at 7:00 am. I am not cruel - I just told them that we need to have breakfast eaten and cleaned up by the time for prayer and worship at 8:30. Someone had their radio on just before 7:00, and will need a gentle reminder about earbuds. We have ahead of us a day of challenge course and rappelling down a 210 foot cliff, followed by a dip in the lake. But I most look forward to chilling with these guys this evening in this enormous house overlooking the Cowichan Valley far below.

He made me, and he will carry me. He shaped and formed me, so it is his responsibility to get me from Point A to Point B, birth to grave. He is not done with me, and when he is I will know it, because I will be falling at his feet.

It is an interesting combination of people - average age 19.75, and most already know one another and each other's friends. Twelve would have been great, but eight students is a nice number and I am content. I wonder what Jesus will accomplish with them in this year, and shiver a bit in anticipation.

Can I encourage you today who are waiting on God for something: the waiting - the expectation and hope - make the thing you are waiting for all the sweeter, and make you all the more ready to receive it.

"Wait for the Lord;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the Lord" (Psalm 27:14 NIV).

I Am Done With Stuff

2012-07-27T16:08:00.002-07:00

For the past fourteen months, the majority of our stuff has been in storage. Furniture, tools, kitchenware, books, sports equipment and most of our clothing are in a 10 X 10 X 20 foot space that costs us almost as much to rent as our first home.

I don’t miss it. In fact, I am embarrassed about it.

When I visit it occasionally to pick something up or drop something off, I always hope that someone came in the night and stole it all. I don’t know why anyone would do that, but that is where my mind goes.

For the past fourteen months we have worn the same two suitcases of clothes and dragged around a small box of books and odds and ends and a Rubbermaid of food. I think I would like to get rid of the small box, and the Rubbermaid is currently half full.

I am done with stuff.

Of course, right now we are in a situation where our accommodation and meals are provided. We expect that things will change this fall, not back to “normal” because we will be doing life in a large house with a dozen or so young adults, which may be crazy. The house will need to be full of stuff, I guess, and I wonder if we will still feel the same way about it. Here is what happened this year:

1. We became very appreciative of the stuff we have. It’s like it has to last forever, or at least until we get back from the most recent adventure, so we make sure it is put away, well-cleaned, kept track of. It is a little upsetting to lose things, and we usually pray hard to find them again.

2. We downsized at every opportunity. When you are in motion, everything has to come with you, so you regularly look it over and if it isn’t necessary, it goes. We recycled, gave it away or if we had to, chucked it. It felt as good as crossing something off our to-do list.

3. We wore it out and made it do. It’s the old Amish proverb, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” Sometimes our experience reminded me of what God pointed out to the Israelites, “During the forty years that I led you through the wilderness, your clothes did not wear out, nor did the sandals on your feet” (Deuteronomy 29:5). As I write I am wearing sandals that I must have bought four years ago. I took them through two summers in a row in both hemispheres and they don’t even smell bad.

4. We looked and said no. We are not very good tourists, but we did sometimes end up in those places with curious things for sale. We appreciated them and were often tempted, but in the end we said no. Sarah brought back a few clothes from New Zealand; I have a hat she bought for me and some cool jade stones I found on the beach.

5. We always had enough to be generous. That was King David’s lifelong observation: “I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread. They are always generous and lend freely; their children will be a blessing.” Actually, our children are more generous than we are.

6. We enjoyed the simplicity. It has been fun to live in a place with no electricity, and you may have heard how I feel above my “cannute” across the water to work. Our dog Barkley is spoiled to death by the lake outside his front door and we find every opportunity to sit by the water. Sure, it is temporary but it is such a gift.

A few years ago a Vancouver couple, troubled by the stuff that cluttered up their lives, took on an interesting project: “For one year we will not buy any material goods. We will buy only consumables, and everything we buy must come in recyclable or compostable packaging” (see The Clean Bin Project). They weren’t even hippies.

I’m not sure if I am ready for that kind of commitment, but I like the spirit of it. I hope we will remain careful in our buying, simple in our living, open with what we have.

I invite you to join us.

Camps, Cannutes and Flying Leaps

2012-07-08T23:08:00.002-07:00

First: Where did my novel go, you may ask? After a couple of months of posting it here one chapter at a time, it has disappeared and will resurface in some format in the coming months. If you were reading it and just didn’t finish in time, comment below and I may have mercy. My plan is to attempt to get it published (realizing that the chances are about the same as winning the lottery), and failing that, to publish it myself.

Second: What are we up to now, you may wonder? We wonder too how this will all turn out, but for now we are volunteering at Camp Imadene, to which I “cannute” each morning (that is commuting by canoe) from our little cabin in the woods across the lake.

We wake up, sit up and see calm water through the trees and eagles in the sky. Barkley has learned to take flying leaps into the water off our dock, so we are all quite happy.

What I am doing at Camp Imadene is preparing and developing a discipleship program for young adults that will run from September through April. Sound a little familiar? The Auxano program will have some elements like Kaléo, but is not connected to a Bible college and focuses on biblical training and service. That fits the 86-year tradition of Imadene very well, as the word of God is central here and this ministry produces some of the most amazing servants of God I have ever met.

As I get to know this camp (I will be a Dean this week, the equivalent of a Head Counselor), I find that there are great benefits in long-established loyalty. I am the newbie, and find myself drawn by the attitude that service without personal compensation for the benefit of all is good in itself, and needs no special recognition. I cannot say I am even a novice at it yet, but I am learning slowly to unchain my self-protectiveness and constraints. Any LIT here is better at it than I. Most have been at it from childhood.

Our hope for the fall is to have twelve students and two Resident Assistants (RA’s) living in town with us in a fairly new eight-bedroom house with four full bathrooms and three living rooms. Yes, it sounds crazy, but we are quite excited about the prospect. We have talked and dreamed of this for years. Students will spend most weekdays at the camp and will have (actually, make) most meals there, but will be around the House most evenings and weekends.

So much opportunity. We plan to start each weekday with an hour of prayer together, and I anticipate some significant evening conversations in various corners of the house throughout the year. Though classes are not accredited, there will be more actual class time than Kaléo, though very few assignments beyond some reading, and no grades. The service that comes so naturally to the Imadene crowd will fill up the rest of the time, with a few adventures thrown into the mix.

Like the rest of this year, things are unfolding slowly. Though much of the presentation and planning is done, we still have just one application so far and I am still trying to locate one more 22+ year old (female) to join me in leadership. Everyone here is confident that this will happen over the summer, and that is our hope. But again we are waiting on God.

So, if you know of someone who is 17-22 years of age and in need of “long obedience in the same direction,” send them our way! auxano.imadene.com. Or a young leader who should join us in this work. In the meantime we will watch and pray and see what God does next.

And enjoy the cannute.

Listening For God In All The Wrong Places

2012-03-25T17:23:00.001-07:00

Some stories are worth retelling. Sarah and I were in a small New Zealand town, looking for a church on a rainy Sunday morning. We were told that there was only one, a tiny Anglican congregation where we found ourselves to be mere children in comparison to the rest.

When a small and elderly lady slowly took her seat in the narrow pew directly in front of us, I have to admit I was a little annoyed. There were plenty of seats - why couldn't she sit someplace else? And then the service began. It was High Anglican, very dry, with much standing and sitting and no warning. I found myself thinking about the mountain I wanted to climb the next day, wondering if today church was just a waste of time.

You have been there. The woman who has the seat next to you on a long flight and is glad to discover that you can't sleep either. The guest speaker who is as boring as a stack of gardening magazines. The philosophy book assigned to you that puts you to sleep again every second page.

The small elderly lady sat there with all eyes on her, oblivious to the unspoken fact that it was the time in the service when she was to read a prayer from the book. "Gladys," the minister intoned with her face all condescension, "time to..." Gladys stood up from the pew in front of us and began to read. I am sure that there were some in the room who were embarrassed with her prayer. She read slowly, with strong enunciation and melodrama - or so many people might take it. To me, she read with passion and devotion; it was like listening to Jesus pray.

Then it was time for everyone to get up and say, “Peace be with you." She stood, turned around, looked straight at me and said, “The best is yet to come!” I was rather astonished, because it was the very thing God has said to me all through the year, and I think I had forgotten. It was precisely what I needed to hear in that moment.

We talked with her for a while later – 87 years old, a widow for 12, and very much looking forward to heaven. “It is so good to be a believer, isn’t it?” she said. She took us across the street to the hall where everyone had gathered for tea. Several people wanted to talk with us, and I heard stories about that mountain I wanted to climb, stories I would not have heard anywhere else.

Have you ever stopped at a garage sale on a whim and found the very thing you have wanted for years, and for a song? Sighed as you clicked on yet another link your friend posted for you, and it turned out to change your whole day?

I think God likes to work like that.

"The Lord said, 'Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.' Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper" (1 Kings 19:11, 12 NIV).

And there was God.

Someone asked me the other day how to listen for the voice of God. I thought for a moment, and then told him that I am learning to listen for God in the unlikely places. The voice of the guy who is subbing for the great preacher I was hoping to hear. Random conversations that don't interest me at all. The places I would rather not be, with people I find hard to like. That is where God shows up.

If I am listening for him. Otherwise I might miss him altogether. In fact, these days when my boredom meter is reading, "This sucks!" I find myself watching for God like a camp counselor who gave his kids all the leftover water balloons.

You just know it's coming.

NZ: The Slideshow

2012-03-03T15:03:00.000-08:00

Finlay Park to Cape Reinga

2012-02-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

The four-hour prayer session at Taraunga HOP was very different than the morning before. Just two people gave leadership: a young woman led for the first half on the piano, singing her prayers and worship to God. It was quite beautiful, and many of her words were used of God to speak to my heart. I appreciated that her worship led us through some very specific and pertinent themes. The second half was led by a young man, who was very skillful on the guitar but his words were very general in nature, and I found his sampled guitar rhythms distracting after a short time. But we both still appreciated our time there, and wonder how to incorporate this idea into whatever ministry we next find ourselves.

We had an invitation from Quintin, who served at Qwanoes several years ago, to come and visit him at the camp where he has served for the past six years, Finlay Park Adventure Camp. We are so glad we did. On the way we passed through Matamata, and passed up the opportunity to visit the movie site of Hobbiton, for $66 per person. Quintin’s camp is nearby, and was quite enough for us. When we arrived he was still at work, getting ready for a weekend group, so we wandered around and got ourselves settled into the great little house he renovated on site.

When Quintin came home we caught up a bit, and then he made the suggestion that we go for a ski! He didn’t have to ask twice, and though I was a little nervous since I haven’t skied since I wrecked my shoulder, I was excited about the opportunity to get on the water. He has his own boat, a nice Mailbou built for skiers, though he has a wedge for the wakeboarders too. How did it go? Something like this…

So fun, and though it was a bit harder for me to get up, I was fine after that. Then I drove for Quintin, and though the last time I drove a ski boat goes much further back, that was fine too. I squeezed out one more ski before my energy was gone. We went back to his house, where Sarah and I made dinner while Quintin met his guests, and then we had a good couple of hours to chat and hear one another’s stories.

That night, he was taking a group on a glowworm tour and invited us along. This was not a cave tour but a boat tour up a narrow gorge. The stars were brilliant, the air warm, and we passed up a wide creek, under a bridge and into the gorge. The canyon walls were high above us and the stream narrow, so that we bumped the edges occasionally. For about half a kilometer the walls were just covered with the tiny but bright pinpricks of light that are glowworms. It was so beautiful. What I liked best was that the tiny glowworms and the massive stars above them looked just the same. What a wonderful world God has made!

The next morning we made a late start while Quintin worked with his group, and then had lunch together and caught up some more. God is opening doors and giving dreams to this young man, and he is coming to Canada in June for an indefinite time. It was great to hear, and I hope we can reconnect back at home. Then we were on the road again and on our way to Waihi Beach.

If you have been following this blog you might remember the family who hosted us and helped us get organized after we bought the van in Auckland. Mike, Helen and their 10-year-old son David had invited us to join them in February at their “bach” (cabin) at Waihi Beach on our way back up. Waihi Beach is a great little community on a fantastic surf beach, and their bach is WW2 army housing and very comfortable, just a hundred meters from the surf. The first thing we did when we arrived was to join them on a trip to the beach to dig for tuatuas (small clams) and go boogie-boarding. So fun. We found a whole bag of clams, and I discovered that though my shoulder won’t let me surf yet (can’t reach high enough to paddle), boogie-boarding is still really cool. And better suited to the smaller waves we would have over the next few days.

We stayed with them for four wonderful days! The weather was pretty mixed, but didn’t stop us from a pleasant flow of opportunities and just chilling at the bach: walks on the beach under amazing sunsets; a hike to another beach on slippery paths; a small church service with a great preacher; fantastic meals (Mike is a chef and Helen insists on good food and lots of it); more boogie-boarding with David and his cousin Luke; a trip to a huge open-pit gold mine and a series of historic tunnels; another trip to Cathedral Cove where the children enter Narnia in the Prince Caspian movie; a sidetrip to Hotwater Beach where you can dig your own hot tub right in the sand; Valentine’s dinner at a super roast beef buffet; games and long conversations about past memories and future dreams and church life and home life; more boogie-boarding; and many long walks on the beach. Mike and Helen and David blessed us over and over, and we so appreciate their friendship. It was very hard to leave.

But it was time to head north. The end of this journey is drawing near. We decided to make the trek back up to Kerikeri in just one day, which anyone living in Auckland just wouldn’t understand. But hey, we are simply not city people. We crawled through the City on State Highway 1, enjoyed the view and kept on going. Actually, we made one stop: we spent a pleasant hour at a white sand beach just south of Whangarei, soaking in the sun and the views of brilliant blue water.

We arrived in Kerikeri like we promised, in time for dinner, and spent the evening telling stories with John and Michelle, Josh and Ellie, Daniel and Lana, of all our adventures over these seven weeks that we have been gone. It is good to be with them again – it felt like coming home. So now we are catching up on correspondence, writing (finished the first draft of my novel!), photos, visits with friends, laundry and getting the van ready to sell, all before we leave for Canada on Friday. But I am still restless for adventure and beaches, I think. The day after we got back, I did a 10 km trek into a favourite beach from the last time we were here, and the next day we took the girls to another favourite surf beach where we went boogie-boarding. I was going back in the water for one more ride when I saw the dark shapes of two large stingrays in the waves, so with Steve Irwin in mind I went a little way down the beach to catch my last wave.

We decided on one last adventure, so on Sunday after pulling ourselves away from all the questions of friends at church, we left for Cape Reinga at the very top of New Zealand. We had a beautiful day to drive and decided to do most of our sightseeing on the way back, so we got up there by about 4:00 PM. I had forgotten how very beautiful it was up north. And so different from the other times we had visited in the winter. There was no wind, and it was warm and sunny, unlike the hurricane winds and chill we experienced before. This is where the blue Pacific Ocean meets the aqua-green Tasman Sea, and it was incredible to watch huge waves meet one another and burst straight up in the air. I wouldn’t want to take a boat through them!

Sarah managed to walk all the way down to the lighthouse, though she paid for it the next day. It was nice to know that we are only 11,222 km from home, and that we will be making the journey soon.

We drove down to a campsite nearby, which was nearly full but we found a nice spot near the beach. Great waves – I was sorely tempted to go in but didn’t. Should have. Instead I walked down the beach and up a hill and took photos, then came back and made a fabulous beef stew – from scratch – which we enjoyed very much as we watched the waves. That small white dot on the far right is us.

Unfortunately, we didn’t find out until we went to bed that while we were making dinner, about 200 mosquitos (no exaggeration) had entered the van and hidden under the bed. As we tried to go to sleep, out they came a few at a time. At first we just squished them thinking there were only a few, but about 1:00 AM and a hundred kills later, I abandoned ship, grabbed the spare blanket and slept outside, leaving Sarah to the battle. Sounds mean, but somebody had to drive the next day. It goes without saying that we both slept badly.

So the next day, though it was still mostly sunny, we didn’t feel up to much. We slept as long as we could, hung out at the beach for a while, then returned to Cape Reinga.

I walked down the craggy trail toward the long beach we had walked six years ago, and then we drove to the sand dunes, wondering of we dared to drive Ninety-Mile Beach in our little van (we didn’t), and instead found another beach of fine, pure white sand to have lunch. It was all we could do to visit a couple shops we enjoyed before, sustain ourselves with marvelous NZ ice cream, and head back home.

Home! Where is home? Well, we don’t really know yet. Kinda expected to by this point, and there are some opportunities possibly opening up. But God’s word to us is still to wait and expect great things from him before we attempt great things for him. I guess that is the next chapter. See you there.

Wellington to Mount Maunganui

2012-02-09T00:56:00.001-08:00

Our ferry ride this time was grey, and I spent much less time on deck – I even watched a bit of each of the movies being played – Mr. Bean’s Holiday and Charlotte’s Web. The two most expensive movies I have ever watched! I think we are tired of sight-seeing. We went to Hannah’s house (she was home this time!) to find that the family would be out for the evening. They felt badly about it, but really it was nice just to be in a home and sit on couches again, after two weeks of camping.

The next day, Hannah was working until mid-afternoon, so we went into Wellington to do the tourist thing. We only made it to the Te Papa museum, but on the way the streets were filled with people dressed up in all kinds of costumes for The Sevens – a world rugby championship taking place in the city with seven players on each team playing two seven minute halfs. It seemed the thing to do to go as a group all dressed the same way, and some of them were pretty amazing. We didn’t do the thing to do. The museum was very good, though we saw only a quarter of it or so, just the natural science, which very appropriately focused on things like earthquakes and volcanoes. One of my favorites was a small house set up to simulate an earthquake, almost enough to knock you off your feet. During the one in Christchurch, people couldn’t even stand.

We spent the evening catching up with Hannah, then having dinner with the family and watching the rugby. Canada did quite well, getting to the quarter-finals for the cup, and I am curious now as to how far they got. New Zealand, of course, always beats everyone.

We decided the next day to continue north, aiming for the volcanoes in Tongariro National Park. Hannah’s dad had recommended that I consider doing the Tongariro Crossing, which is supposed to be the best one-day “tramp” in New Zealand. Upon arrival, we checked at the info centre and the weather looked like it would improve the next day, and found that the shuttle bus left at 7:30 am. So we went to a small campsite and I got ready to hike while drizzle kept us mostly in the van. The next morning the drizzle was still going, so I decided to not go but wait to see what the weather would do. It also gave us the chance to go to church, which turned out to be a good thing.

There seemed to be only one church having a service that morning, a small Anglican one that slowly gathered a handful of friendly seniors. An elderly lady sat right in front of us, and I remember wondering why she would choose that spot when there were so many others. It was a very Anglican service, and at one point it was the little old lady’s role to read a rather long prayer. But she read it with such passion and conviction it was quite beautiful. One of the passages read was the end of Isaiah 40, about rising up with wings like eagles. I wondered what God was saying to me.

Then there was a time for everyone to get up and say, “Peace be with you” to one another. The little lady in front of us turned around, looked straight at me and said, “The best is yet to come!” I was rather astonished, because it was the very thing God has said to me all through the year, and I think I had forgotten. We talked with her for a while later – 87 years old, a widow for 12, and very much looking forward to heaven. “It is so good to be a believer, isn’t it?” she said.

Thinking about it later, I realized that God was reminding me about the “waiting” part of Isaiah 40 – “those who wait on the Lord.” Waiting is what I am doing right now, but it is not purposeless. Through it, God will renew my strength. It is intended that I not wait impatiently, or become pre-occupied with other things as I wait. It is waiting with anticipation, expectation. I think my anticipation has waned, like when someone says they are going to go off a jump or something and it is taking too long. I think my expectations are reduced, to the point that sometimes I feel I could just retire, or get a job selling insurance like I dreamed recently. God, fill me with anticipation, and may I dream big again!

Well, I am going to try the mountain again tomorrow, hoping that the weather will clear. Bus leaves at 7:00 am. Better get some sleep.

So this is tomorrow, and I have now done something that Sam and Frodo never did – I climbed to the top of Mount Doom. The shuttle dropped me and several others off at 7:30 AM, and I had in mind that if I was going to be sure of catching the last pick-up on the other side of the Tongariro Crossing at 5:00 PM, I would need to be at the Saddle at 9:00 AM and at the top of Mount Ngauruhoe at 10:30 AM, which I wasn’t sure was possible. A good hundred or so people were leaving the parking lot about the same time as me, but the numbers dwindled as each found their pace, and mine was pretty quick.

The first section is deceptively easy – wide trail, boardwalk, just a few rises, with good views of Mount Ruepehu. Then suddenly it climbs steeply up to the saddle between the two volcanoes, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. It was cold when I started, but I was getting warm by the time I reached the saddle – at 9:00 AM! I noticed that a few people were taking the side-trip up Ngauruhoe, which really is Mount Doom in The Lord of the Rings movie, and I decided to go for it.

For those who have done the hike up Mount Albert-Edward in Strathcona Park, think about that last section up the steep slope to the top, multiply it by five or six, and make it steeper, and that was the climb up Ngauruhoe. No wonder Frodo had such trouble! Not only steep, but very unstable, as this mountain has blown its top several times in the past fifty years or so, and in places it was step up one, slide down two. About halfway up, there is a ridge that is better footing, but now you are dealing with very large rocks that move, so you have to be very careful. Many times you would hear people yelling “Rock!” above you and you watched until you were sure it wasn’t coming your way.

It got tough at the top (2287 meters or 7500 feet) with less oxygen and ridges that were not really the top at all. But suddenly there it was – a rim of about 3 meters wide, circling a crater about 200 meters across and at least that deep, with snow at the bottom. It was red and black and very scorched, and steam rose from the ground in various places. There are signs at the start of the trail telling you what to do if it starts erupting. I think there is little that one could do if they were standing where I was. I spent about an hour at the top, taking lots of photos and walking all the way around the rim. Pretty spectacular. For perspective, the tiny dots on the far rim are people.

The trip down was more hazardous that the one up, as it consisted of plunging straight down the very steep scree, like walking down the longest escalator you have ever seen. Usually it was quite manageable, because your feet sank so deep in the rocky soil, but occasionally the bones of the mountain were suddenly near the surface, and if you were moving too fast you found yourself sliding rapidly, as if on marbles on steep pavement. But I got to the bottom safely, found a place to sit and had my lunch (after emptying my boots of half the mountain).

I have to say, that was the best part of the Tongariro Crossing. The rest was cool though, with big, wide craters to walk through, vivid green lakes and vents of steam all over. I put my hand on the ground once, and it was hot. But the walk out was long, down a fairly easy slope but the trail meandered back and forth without losing much elevation so it took a long while. Just before 3:00 PM I reached a shelter that our driver said was two hours from the parking lot and that a sign said was 1.5 hours. I decided suddenly that I really wanted to catch the 4:00 PM shuttle, so off I went! And a few others with me. We reached the shuttle right at 4:00 PM, and it left a few minutes after we got there. Not that I saw nothing on the way down – good views of Lake Taupo and area, and a huge vent of steam where there are some hot springs.

I decided I really needed a shower, so we sprung for our most expensive campground so far ($38, or about $30 Canadian) and it was a wonderful one. We both had a shower that evening and another in the morning just because we could. Sarah had spent the day checking out the exhibits about volcanoes at the visitor centre and doing the walks she was able to manage. That evening we drove up Ruepehu (the tallest one at 2797 meters or 9200 feet, but not as cone-shaped) and watched the sun setting on Ngauruhoe and the surrounding area. Very tired feet, but a very good day.

We had some general idea of going to Lake Taupo and possibly on to Rotarua the next day. Lake Taupo is very beautiful, and made me wish we had a boat. We stopped on the shores for a while, which are lined with pebbles and rocks of pumice! It was kinda fun to throw rocks in the water and watch them float away from you. We enjoyed the view all morning, and then decided to head for a campground near Rotarua and see what thermal activity we could find on the way, as this is the Thermal Highway. That part was a bit disappointing, as all of the places have pretty steep entrance fees. So we saw what we could for free and went to the campsite, a nice one by a lake. It filled up quickly after we got there, and many vans came in and had to leave again. Wonderful to sit by the lake in the sun and just enjoy it. Wonderful not to drive any further. We are at 6400 km and still have a way to go!

That night I had an interesting dream. We plan to go to the International House of Prayer soon in Taraunga, and I dreamt that we were there, and a man was at the front leading a discussion. He asked someone to give him a word that they were given by God, so they could discuss it, and a young girl gave the word, “Leader.” It was very vivid, but as dreams go, suddenly I was the one at the front, and I took the word “leader” and began teaching for about twenty minutes from the Bible, focusing on calling others to become disciples of Christ. I woke up and remembered the dream clearly, and realized that this is what I want to do. Maybe not in Tauranga, but somewhere. I want to have the freedom to teach young adults in a setting like that. Interesting, because the day before I had asked God again what I am to be anticipating.

Next day we took things pretty easy, with a walk in an unusual city park in Rotarua – pools of boiling water steaming up in various spots, a massive museum building straight from the 30’s, bowling and croquet greens everywhere, and the constant smell of rotten eggs from all the thermal activity. Then we carried on to the coast and arrived at our campsite at noon, which proved to be next to a gorgeous surf beach on the east coast, where we sat and watched the waves (looking directly toward Canada) and the plume of smoke pouring out of White Island offshore, and walked and read all afternoon, plus the better part of the evening. I can’t figure out DOC sites though. The one last night didn’t even have running water and it was $16.20. This one was $12.00 and it had a hot shower! Go figure.

Today, we were up at 6:15 AM and away by 7:00, hoping to reach the IHOP in Tauranga by 8:00 AM. Nope, not for pancakes – the International House of Prayer. Danny had told us about it, and we arrived right at 8:00, not knowing what to expect. For the first two hours, a fellow who was one of Danny’s teachers at YWAM led in worship, which in this case meant that he sang and played guitar, very skillfully, and wove together songs of worship along with teaching and some instrumental, for two hours without stopping. It was amazing how God spoke to us both in that time, reaffirming words he has said before and taking us further.

Then a worship team took his place and led in intercessory prayer through mostly music and some spoken participation by others. Most of the prayer had to do with New Zealand and revival, and especially the Tauranga area, but there was also prayer for healing and other things, and it was good just to devote time to our own intercession. We spent the afternoon on the beach at Mount Maunganui – very famous NZ spot – and decided to stay and go back to IHOP tomorrow morning as well.

I feel anticipation growing as to what God has next for us. Wait on him with us. And enjoy the sunset over Tauranga Harbour.

Pancake Rocks to Picton

2012-02-02T14:17:00.001-08:00

One of our favorite spots so far is the area around Pancake Rocks. Except for the pancakes, it is not so very different than the rest of the West Coast, but it has a campground we enjoy and a marvelous beach. With YWAM plans changed, we decided to return that way and spend a couple of nights there. As we passed by Pancake Rocks, we asked about the best time to see the blowhole in action, which was at high tide after 2:00 PM.

It was good to relax, good to walk the beach, and I spent a fair bit of time writing as there is power in the little kitchen area. I have written the ending to my novel and have just two sections to finish up, both of which require a little Internet research. But I am within about 1500 words of being done, plus all the adjusting and editing that will be necessary. My brother, who is also a writer (he has six books published, I believe), has told me that getting it published by a publishing company is pretty tough these days, and I would likely need an agent. We’ll see. If not, there are lots of other means these days, and I have some plans. If you want to read it, check back here sometime in the next few months and I will let you know how.

We spent a relaxing morning, not needing to go anywhere. Because the wind was strong from the southwest and the waves huge, the conditions were perfect for the blowhole, and we went there early. Enough wind to take your skin off, but we found a great spot out of the spray that was drenching most other people, and our raingear took care of the wind. At first there was only the occasional gusher, but around 2:00 the blowhole let loose a number of times, which was spectacular. We also enjoyed the “Chimney Pot” nearby, and a “Sudden Sound” that was like the earth breathing.

We took a drive after dinner and sat in the van with a good view of the setting sun and the beach. Maybe you are getting tired of my sunset shots, but this one is pretty good.

Imagine, God is painting scenes like this, not once a day but 24 hours a day, seven days a week, somewhere in the world. Obviously he likes sunsets too.

We were a little uncertain where to go the next day. We have a few more days than we really need for getting to the ferry on time. So we set off for Westport for gas and groceries, stopping at Cape Foulwind on the way. Maybe we have seen too much, because in spite of its wild name we found it quite tame, though the baby seals were cute. Unfortunately too far away for my zoom lens.

Then we headed east through the Buller Gorge (think Lord of the Rings) and camped in a big grassy field with misty mountains all around. There is a wall that they built here right over the fault line, to see if it would move. It hasn’t, in 47 years, so they are expecting a Big One like we are on the West Coast of Canada. Still, I was taking a nap in the van and was awakened by a gentle swaying that lasted about a minute. Probably not the fault line we were sitting on, but poor Christchurch again, a hundred km away.

It was Sunday morning, and we set off to see if we could find a church in Hanmer Springs, another tourist destination nearby. We came in a little late to a Presbyterian service (the equivalent of a typical Baptist service in Canada, which was friendly and nice but I think we have enjoyed the slightly-more-alive services at the Baptist and New Life churches here. We also have found that we are not much interested in tourist destinations. A pretty area, but the main attraction is the hot springs, at $18 a person. We stopped at one the day before just to look, and if I had gone for any of them it would be that one – a Japanese one with rock pools and gardens, for $19. In any case, Sarah was not up to going in, and I didn’t feel like going by myself at that price.

So we carried on that afternoon, through mountains and hills and twisty roads and over blue rivers, arriving at Kaikoura on the east coast. We felt it was time for showers and the chance to make dinner out of the misty rain, so we found a private campsite, a little more than we wanted to pay but clean and on a nice beach. After dinner and dishes, we pulled out the computer and watched a movie for the first time in ages, Letters to Juliet, and then went to bed with the roar of surf on one side of us and the occasional roar of the highway on the other.

We really didn’t have far to go the next day, so we took our time, and I watched surfers as I ate breakfast, wishing I was one of them. The stretch of highway to the south of us looked interesting, so we took it, even though it was the opposite way to where we needed to go. So worth it – rocky headlands with very narrow tunnels to go through, rocks with seals on them everywhere. It was a good warm-up to the highway we eventually took north, which was more of the same. We stopped for lunch and I went to take a photo of a seal on a rock, and found as I walked through the grass that there were seals everywhere, who sleepily made sounds at me as I passed.

Our destination was another DOC site on a beach near Cape Campbell. All the Kiwi’s were as usual all stacked together in one section near the washrooms, so we camped down a ways where we had the view to ourselves. I went for a hike, finding a good view of the big lighthouse at the Cape, and when I came back there was another van parked a little way from us. The few sentences we heard and the fact that they too wanted a more secluded spot made us think that they might be Canadians, so after dinner and walk we introduced ourselves. Canadians. From the West Coast. Vancouver Island. Cobble Hill.

They are here for almost the same time frame as us, but they explored the North Island first. We had a good talk, sharing favorite spots we had seen and best campground locations. We found out that our kids are about the same age and probably went to school together. And we exchanged addresses and phone numbers for when we get back. Very cool. As we talked, the color came into the sky and we could see bits of the North Island in the distance.

We had a lazy morning, then debated back and forth whether we should stay there another night or move on a little closer to Picton. In the end we decided to go, but it may have better to stay. First, we stopped at the McDonald’s in Blenheim to check email and stuff (the ONLY reason we ever go to McDonald’s!), and I managed to do something that only happens to other people: overwrite a file with an older version and delete three days worth of writing and editing on my novel. It was hard to take, but I have a sense that it was used as discipline from God and that it will be okay. But I know there are bits of the book that will simply never be the same.

We arrived at our next campsite, and found that it didn’t really compare with the last one. I think we are getting very picky about our campsites, because this really was nice – beautiful calm beach and cool places to explore – but we couldn’t park with a beach view. Anyway, we ended up liking it after a while, and in the morning Sarah even managed a longer walk out on some rocks to a rock arch, which she really enjoyed. Sheesh, we are spoiled!

Then we drove to Picton, found a campground with showers (yeah!) and a used book store with decent books and not-crazy prices. Got a one-volume version of Lord of the Rings that should last me until Canada. Our last day on the South Island – hard to believe!