Head-dibs

Pics taken on the campus of Columbia International University , November 28, 2016

Ok, I wasn’t going to say anything, but now must. Some might think that I’m a conspiracy theorist, but I’m not. Nor am I looney. At least, I don’t think I am--a conspiracy theorist, that is. Just bear with me and make your own decision. The other day, I was minding my own business out in my yard like I always do, like anyone does--and everyone should do--mind their own business. Anyway, I was out in the yard (I said that already, didn’t I?) watching my grass turn brown as it always does when Summer gives way to Fall. I was thinking about how my neighbor across the street sowed Winter grass seed into his yard and how it always stays green. And I was thinking about how quickly all the leaves in my little tree seemed to fall off so quickly, all at once. So I hear this crunching sound, of someone walking up behind me. “The little girl from next door must be coming over to say ‘hello’” I thought to myself. I tried to come up with some fun way to greet her when suddenly the crunching noi

Pics taken over the Summer of 2016

10. "Well, well, well, now, there's a gift!" 9. "No, with all the hostile takeovers this year, I missed the big Ronco/K-Tel/Ginsu merger. Would you just look at that! What will they think of next?!" 8. "Hey, as long as I don't have to feed it, or clean up after it, or put batteries in it, I'm happy!" 7. "No, really, I didn't know that there was a Chia Pet tie! Oh, wow! It's a clip-on too!" 6. "You know, I always wanted one of these! Jog my memory -- what's it called again?" 5. "You know what? -- I'm going to find a special place to put this!" 4. "Boy, you don't see craftsmanship like that every day!" 3. "And it's such an interesting color too!" 2. "You say that was the last one? Am I ever glad that you snapped that baby up!" And the number one thing to say about the Christmas gifts you didn't like is . . . "You shouldn'

by Charles Wesley Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King, Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinner reconcil’d. Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King. Joyful all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies, With the angelic host proclaim, Christ is born in Bethlehem. Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King. Christ by highest Heaven ador’d, Christ the everlasting Lord! Late in time behold him come, Offspring of a virgin’s womb. Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, Hail, the incarnate Deity, Pleased as Man with man to dwell, Jesus our Immanuel! Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King. Hail the Heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of Righteousness! Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings. Hark! the herald Angels sing, Glory to the new-born King. Mild he lays his glory by, Born that man n

As shadows cast by cloud and sun Flit o’er the summer grass, So, in Thy sight, Almighty One, Earth’s generations pass. And as the years, an endless host, Come swiftly pressing on, The brightest names that earth can boast Just glisten and are gone. Yet doth the star of Bethlehem shed A luster pure and sweet; And still it leads, as once it led, To the Messiah’s feet. O Father, may that holy star Grow every year more bright, And send its glorious beams afar To fill the world with light.

This brings up a question: where did the practice of putting candles on birthday cakes come from, anyway? Well, here's an intriguing answer.   Happy Birthday, Dear!

The bus-stop sign, no further. The man petrified in the middle of the sidewalk. People pushed by until some command from the bridge of his mind made him turn his head.  Unseeing eyes found the bench against the coffee shop wall.  Another command shuffled his feet, rotated his body, bent his legs at the knees then floated him down onto the icy concrete, missing the bench. His son once described the tiny people who lived inside his body, moving all the parts . . . His son. Ache consumed his body. Pain grew under the ribs and crept across his chest. He choked. Winter waited impatiently outside his jacket as if jealous of the affliction that squatted into his bones. Open-mouthed breath clouded the frigid air. The only sign of life. Unliving. The bus slid to the curb, spilling black exhaust across the sidewalk. Passengers disembarked, covering their noses. The man gazed through the cloud, through the open doors, through the building on the opposite side and clear across the

"Christmas is about generosity and charity and giving, right? And so it is that tightwad Ebenezer Scrooge is the villain in Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Is that really fair, though? In 2004, Steven Landsburg explained why misers are actually very generous. In the spirit of the season, the article is reprinted below. Here's what I like about Ebenezer Scrooge: His meager lodgings were dark because darkness is cheap, and barely heated because coal is not free. His dinner was gruel, which he prepared himself. Scrooge paid no man to wait on him. Scrooge has been called ungenerous. I say that's a bum rap. What could be more generous than keeping your lamps unlit and your plate unfilled, leaving more fuel for others to burn and more food for others to eat? Who is a more benevolent neighbor than the man who employs no servants, freeing them to wait on someone else?" Read the rest of this intriguing article here .  Curious to know your thoughts. Please post them,

Join us for the story of Christmas at Crossings Community Church on Saturday, December 17 or Sunday December 18 at 6:00 p.m. Live music includes arrangements from Nickel Creek, Audrey Assad, Sandra McCracken, Bethel Music, The Modern Post and others.

I've always enjoyed science and when I was growing up, thought that maybe some day I would be a scientist. My parents bought me microscopes and telescopes and chemistry sets, so I was always studying something. I think what tipped them off was my inventive mind. See, when I was small, I invented. Here are a few I remember: MONSTER KICKER My parents made me go to bed when it got dark and in the winter time, that time came pretty darned early. Of course, I had to keep the light off and the door closed, and I recall the only night light came from the hallway--if it was on. Nights got pretty scary for a small boy who was not quite ready for bed. So while protected from evil by the invincible covers and blankets on my bed, I determined something had to be done, so I devised "The Monster Kicker." I envisioned a long stick with a boot on the end that, when mounted on a hinge by the door, would "kick" any monster that opened the door in hopes of eating my face.

My mother-in-law doesn’t like me much, but that did not stop her from walking over to the house. When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was that the rubber chicken she was carrying under her arm was missing a foot. Curious, I asked, “How’s that cut on your arm? Healing alright?” “It’s fine,” she said not looking at the bandage. Silence swelled between us like a shriveled sponge grows when soaking up water. “Anything I can do for ya?” I asked, holding the door firmly with my left hand, ready to slam it shut in an instant. “Just wanted to get to know you better,” she squinted. “Tryin’ to see what my daughter saw in you.” I looked over her shoulder trying to ignore the remaining chicken foot moving in the breeze. “Maybe the other one fell off on the sidewalk . . .” my eyes wondered to themselves, wandering up the street. Trying to help her along. As if feet simply fall off rubber chickens. My suspicion of her grew in the rich fertile soil of the pervasiv

Sitting here thinking about my favorite recipe and the first thing that pops into my mind are these chocolate cookies my wife makes. They are like little brownie bites covered in powered sugar. Not sure what they're called, but they are Crack. You can't eat just four. And milk is required. So what is my favorite recipe? Hmmm. Seems we have our favorite dishes that find their way to the table, such as "Italian Steak" or Poached Eggs (yes, that's a recipe!). But my favorite? Is that like "comfort food?" Like chocolate? Or Ice Cream? I think my favorite is the kind I "own." When you no longer have to look at the card or in the book. You just get ingredients, add a heaping helping of "creativity" and see what happens. Like my Cabbage recipe. May not sound like much but I sure hear a lot of "yum" around the table. Left-overs are rare.

I must have been between 6 and 10 when it happened. I can't recall exactly. But I'll never forget the moment the boy disappeared right before my eyes. And the blood. We were upstairs, in the hay loft. Moving hay from one side to the other. We were small enough that we could not move the bales by ourselves, so I pushed from one side and he pulled from the other. I don't know why we were moving bales, but that's what we were doing. And it was hot already. Summer was coming.  The barn was on a campground outside of Marble Falls, Texas and if memory serves, we were there doing service work, preparing for the campers that were to arrive later in the summer. I was too young to attend camp (I did go later), but it seems we made a few trips to help get ready.  Anyway, this other kid (I don't remember his name) and I were up in the barn moving hay bales. I pushed, he pulled. Then suddenly, he was gone. Vanished. I heard someone slam a stable door downstairs--I

A few tasks I hope to accomplish this month: 1. MUSIC.  Elizabeth (my cello) and I will be playing in two performances of "Child of Glory" on December 17 and 18 at Crossings Community Church . Guitar has become my primary instrument over the past few years, but it's been incredible to return to my first love, the cello. We've had some loud  awesome rehearsals and so much fun working on this. Fantastic group of musicians. Hope you can make it! 2. WRITE.  I've got some exciting ideas that will hopefully find their way online for your reading pleasure. It's been a while since I've done some serious writing, so the the proverbial pen is dusted off and ready to go! 3. READ. A small pile of books have found their way to my night-stand, so during the holidays I hope to knock a few of them out (some are re-reads). Titles include:  Hawking, " Brief History of Time " and " The Universe In A Nutshell " Browning and Gerassi,

Some folks are morning folks. Others are "owls," the night-time folks. I'd like to think I'm a morning person because the evening comes on real fast for me nowadays. If I make it past 10:30 p.m., something's wrong. Know what I mean? Don't get me wrong--I don't exactly bounce out of bed first thing, but the morning seems to be the best part of the day for me. As long as I have one or more of the following (I really don't care "when" during the day), I'll be fine: Coffee Eggs Bacon and/or Sausage Tortillas and/or Biscuits Cheese (optional) So for me, the best part of the day is when breakfast is served. Does that make me a morning person? Not necessarily. Just give me breakfast and everything'll be alright.  I blame the Burrito Lady. If you don't know who the Burrito Lady is (we dubbed her "Mother Chorizo") then you ain't lived. Every day these local vendors would stop by the store selling fresh, hot

Asked Gollum to Bilbo, playing the guessing game that ultimately changed the fate of the world. "What has it got in it's pocketses?" What one carries in his or her pockets may tell much about a person--or not. I learned this while working security--and believe me when I say that people carry the strangest things. Like fist-fulls of change. A gazillion coins. Or wads of cash. For Pete's sake, use a bank! But I don't have change in my pockets. But I do keep a quarter in the overhead bin of my car for the grocery store cart. LEFT POCKET (front): Keys Cleaning cloth for my glasses or phone.  Life-saver mint or three. RIGHT POCKET (front): Knife. I always carry a knife.  Chap Stick.  LEFT POCKET (rear): Handkerchief or Bandanna RIGHT POCKET (rear): Wallet I ain't skeered to say where my wallet is or what's in there--'cause there ain't nothing in there but my: Driver's licence Insurance card Library card (which I nev

My favorite poem is "The Man In The Moon Stayed Up Too Late" by J.R.R. Tolkien, found in his legendary work, "The Fellowship Of The Ring (Chapter 9). Frodo sings "a ridiculous song" during a festive moment while staying at the Inn in Bree. I have no clue why in the extended version of the movie version of "The Hobbit" it is Bofur who sings the song in Rivendell. I'm glad the scene became an out-take. But I digress . . . If we follow Tolkien's fantasy, in present time we are able to recite a simplified, forgotten version. "Here it is in full," said Tolkien. "Only a few words of it are now, as a rule, remembered." There is an inn, a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill, And there they brew a beer so brown That the Man in the Moon himself came down One night to drink his fill. The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle; And up and down he runs his bow, Now squeaking high, now purring low, Now s

We've not heard much about explorers in our day because it seems as if everything worth exploring has already been, well, explored. Have you ever wondered what it must be like, to be an explorer? I'm not talking about the months or years on board ships or crossing vast open plains or crossing mountains. I mean, have you ever wondered what it must have been like to be the first person to see, for the very first time, something that nobody else has ever seen? Been somewhere never visited by another human being? A few weeks back while watching the latest Tarzan movie with my family, I remembered my frequent visits to my grandparents in East Texas. I spent months of hours playing on the small acreages of my grandparent's house. My aunts could probably attest that there was never a danger of me getting lost somewhere in the Big Thicket (though I heard many-a warning from my grandmother) because of that Tarzan yell. I ran around the yard and woods in my pith helmet and with m

Carols everywhere . . .

I keep a small book in my desk drawer, a tiny little thing. It's a green composition book measuring 4.5 inches x 3.25 inches. Four lines on the cover stand blank, waiting for a title, a name, a label. Inside this tiny book are 80 sheets blank sheets, 160 pages of blue lines, front and back, all neatly glued together into stiff black spine that, over time, will crumble and release page after page into the wild. I should write in the book, but I'm not going to. I'm not going to write in the book for a few reasons, the first being that nobody's going to read what I write. I'll be the only one to read it; but then again, I never really go back and read anything I write. If I do want to put something out there for someone to read I'll post it here, on my blog. Otherwise, what I write will get lost. In a book. In the drawer in my desk. So why do I keep the book, then? I suppose I could use the book to jot little things in: to do-lists, ideas, questions, note

My coffee pot. No, its my stress ball. Wait, no, it's my coffee pot. And my stress ball.

" . . . dangerous enemies of the Third Reich. They had a great joy the last days because the . . . " (from  Schindler's Legacy: True Stories Of The List Survivors )