Man of War

Living in 21^st century America, we stand on the doorstep of political correctness. We worship at the altar of being non-confrontational. We drink, for some deeply, from the cup filled with the poison that does not allow offense. That said, if we, as men in particular, as humans in general and as believers most highly, are not so incensed – no, too tame. If we are not so pissed off by what the enemy is doing to our nation, our communities, our churches, our brothers, our families and ourselves, if we are not enraged, then we find ourselves accustomed to the theft, murder and destruction of every good thing given and every perfect gift from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with Whom there is no variation or shifting of shadow. Is the loss of completion in Him who is the head of all principalities and powers more common, more accepted and, most frighteningly, more comfortable than fighting back? Are we willing to forfeit our victory in the name of rest, in the name of peace, in the name of an easy life? I AM NOT!!! Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. I am not willing to stand idly by while those I love suffer under the guise of peace. Peace must be fought for! Rest must be attained! I will stand against every attack that I’m able to, for God has not given me a spirit of fear, but of love and of power and of a sound mind. Your servant has killed both the lion and the bear; and this uncircumcised Philistine will be like one of them, since he has taunted the armies of the living God. The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, He will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine. What is your Philistine? Where is your army? Who is your deliverer and God? Are YOU a MAN OF WAR?

The Legacy

As I begin to get a bit older, I'm finding myself looking more and more at what I'll leave behind someday. My view is becoming less and less of what I have and do in the here and now and more and more of creating a lasting legacy and what I need to do to get there.
Legacy. Every man conjures the word at some point. We roll it around and it brings to mind buildings with our name on them, records set and goals achieved or standing room only at our funeral. At some point, we look at life and try to find some point to it. Even beyond the will of God for one's life, for not all of us are believers, we want to know we've made a difference, had an impact, will be remembered. As a builder, you would think leaving a legacy would be an easy thing to find; the Roach's master suite addition so they could adopt Destini and Julian, the Miller's garage-mahal that's more a monument than a garage, or even finishing my brother's basement so my mom, just getting out of the hospital, could move in with him. All very satisfying jobs and in their eyes, a legacy of sorts perhaps, but... a fire, it's gone, the house is sold, it's gone, a remodel, it's gone. I'm finding myself, more often, taking myself out of the rat race. What is the necessity for me to work 40 or 50 hours a week for 50 weeks a year? Is it just so I can buy all the cool things I see on TV (including a new TV) and then I can retire to a rocking chair when I'm 60? Where does that leave those that I work FOR? Where does my family stand when I only see them a few hours in the evenings and on weekends (and only then if we don't have "something else going on")? Here's how I'm beginning to see it: If I'm still building in 7 years, when Evan turns 13, he'll start working with me, especially when it's nice out or on inside jobs. In 10 years, when Chloe turns 13, she'll start working with me, too. We'll see where they are physically so I don't overwork them. When they each turn 18, having worked on and off with me for 5 years, they'll be given the opportunity to partner into the business. If they do, we'll all, along with Bree, become Monde Family Home Improvement. If they don't, I'll have given THEM my all as they've grown up and I'll support whatever choices they make. That's when I'll start working toward retirement. I'll be 52. In the meantime, it's about as much time with my family as possible. I'll work for what we need because what we need is to be together. My children are my legacy and I intend to leave an indelible mark of time, love and importance on them. The new TV can wait, the old one still works just fine.

The Sting of Cold

His feet crunch loudly in the snow. Even with the softest boot-skins, silence seems impossible. Occasionally, off what passed for a trail, his steps are quieter, but the crusted snow makes him sound like an army on the move. At times the noise is a blessing, for his quarry is a master of disguise and he drives it to flight and begins his pursuit anew. It is when capture seems sure that a grating footfall alerts his prey and stirs it to flee.
But, oh, in this barren wasteland, what a treasure to pursue. A butterfly, each wing as big and full as a man's hand but of purest white, and thin as the frost that forms on the coldest window pane. One would imagine it a large flake unless happened upon closely. A Glacier Butterfly. Able to thrive where little else does. It's wings cold, but to touch them would burn like fire. Legend says that those who can survive it's burn for a full day and night will never feel the sting of cold again.

Endless Pursuit

Long have I lived in the darkness. My enemies, one by one, cut down, in word or deed. They flee, decimated, their weakness lay open for all to see and ridicule. My friends kept distant, lest I am crossed and enemies they become. My loves too, distant but within reach. The destruction ultimately becomes mine as I see my own aloneness. Those who know me berth wide as I pass, should my arrows pierce them. Save One. He walks in my shadow, always pursuing. His words gentle, yet full of power. His gaze does not condemn, but beckons. He reaches for me and, though my heart longs for His embrace, I pursue other pleasures. In my pursuit, I am left pleasure-less and wanton. Nothing satisfies; food and drink become dust, laughter is as mourning, touch burns like ice. Even the scents of my pursuits are tainted by decay. But there He is, still, in my shadow. As I bed with swine, He too beds near me. As I run, He keeps pace. The further I flee, the more intent He becomes. I stop to face Him. He smiles, His peace drowning me in a flood. Silently, He embraces me. I find home. Thank You, Father, for Your endless pursuit.



I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit, He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit. You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you. Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me, he is thrown away as a branch and dries up; and they gather them, and cast them into the fire and they are burned. If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples. Just as the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you; abide in My love. If you keep My commandments, you will abide in My love; just as I have kept My Father's commandments and abide in His love. These things I have spoken to you so that My joy may be in you, and that your joy may be made full. This is My commandment, that you love one another, just as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. You are My friends if you do what I command you. No longer do I call you slaves, for the slave does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I have heard from My Father I have made known to you. You did not choose Me but I chose you, and appointed you that you would go and bear fruit, and that your fruit would remain, so that whatever you ask of the Father in My name He may give to you. This I command you, that you love one another. John 15:1-17

Mark 12:30-31

As I walked around the block with Evan last week, I was all but cursing the "lazy pigs" who haven't shoveled their sidewalks. "I should take my snow blower around the block and blow all their sidewalk snow into their clean driveways." As Bree seemed on the same wavelength (a reactionary emotion birthed in her husband, to be sure), Evan called her (and me, it would seem) on the carpet. "Mom, Jesus wouldn't want us to be mean like that." Wow!
How great the Revelation of God can be. And yet, when It's spoken into one's life concerning a shortcoming, you could run from the voice of God, or give Him the cold shoulder. Sunday in church, we began a new series called "40 Days of Love." I've been, for some time, sort of proud that I like dogs more than people! I come across as, "I am a man. I'm tough. People are morons. Sure, I love people, I just don't like them." When Pastor was preaching, he asked what our goals were, what was important to us, what drove our drive. Financial success, friendships, winning... he went on with a litany of things that really rank low on my list of importance. Then he said something along the lines of writing a book. "Are you doing it for the notoriety, the success?" He mentioned writing a book specifically 4 or 5 times! Only days after I said I think this is where God is leading me. (Coincidence? Yeah, right.) It got me thinking or praying or some combination of both. Why would I be writing this book? What is it born of? Thoughts/prayers. Is it only because society's screwed up and these are things to fix it? Slap a few verses and say God enough and it's a Christian bestseller, right? Without giving away too much (right now) about the direction God's taking me, this would NOT have been a ministry born out of love! Yes, it's helpful and yes, it would encourage others to love, but the source, the point A, the epicenter would not be love. We're starting these 40 Days of love small groups. "I don't need to be involved in one of these love-focused small groups. It's not my thing." God has called me to task. He has shown me step one. That snow blower thought from before should have ended "and blow all their sidewalk snow." Period. That's love. Doing what's best for the other person at that given time. That's love. Maybe they're old, infirm or handicapped. Love them. Maybe they're young and strong, but they're working their tail off to provide a better life for their teenage daughter. Love them. Maybe they are lazy and just don't care. Love them. It's a lot for me to swallow. It goes against years of practice being better than these lazy pig morons. James 4:6 God is opposed (resists, reigns in opposition) to the proud, but gives grace (favor) to the humble.
Finally, a quote from John Eldredge in his book The Sacred Romance:

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. (Ezek. 36:26–27)

This we now know: the heart is central. It matters—deeply. When we see with the eyes of the heart, which is to say, when we see mythically, we begin to awaken, and what we discover is that things are not what they seem. We are at war. We must fight for the life God intends for us, which is to say, we must fight for our heart, for it is the wellspring of that life within us.

I think I am starting to live out of my heart. It would seem that I'm filling it with enough of God and HIS love that I'm starting to leak. I've got a lot to learn.
Jason and Liz, I'll be there in 2 weeks.

The Dripping

The sound that greets my consciousness is dripping. I've heard it longer, I think, than I've ever heard anything. I couldn't stop it, the walls themselves seep, and where it doesn't run down in thin, silent rivulets, it drips. And drips. And drips. The rough, wet stone walls reflect the light from the bare light bulb hung outside my door. The thin, crisscrossed lines of the tiny opening, a shadow in that reflection. The dripping. How many tons of rock hang over my head? Am I in a mountain? A cave? I may never know. The dripping. Sometimes I hear voices. I'm not sure if they're real or not. Regardless, I latch onto them, understood or not, so I can hear something - anything - else besides the dripping. I used to talk to myself. I stopped, though, when I heard laughing. I'm not sure if that was me or not, either. Even when they bring me food, they never talk. I used to plead with them to say something, but I was answered only by the dripping. I used to be cold. The little clothing I have left is always wet and the stone floor that is my bed gives no relief. I think I'm numb now. I'm not sure. I can only be sure of one thing.

Howard M. Nuber Sr. Feb. 28, 1919 - Nov. 9, 1984

Somehow, I received my Grandpa's military funeral flag after my Grandma died. I look at it and think that, before he was my Grandpa, he must've been a hero. He fought for a better life for me before there was a me. The stories these men must've experienced! To them, war was hell, but to me, the hell they endured will forever be remembered as valor. I wonder what that life must've been like. Imagine the dirt, the sweat, the mud. Imagine the camaraderie, the closeness, the oneness. Imagine the sacrifice, the pain, the death. I remember a little of my Grandpa. I was only 13 when he died, but what I remember most was the TIME with him, always doing something. Do we have men like him anymore? Is the Greatest Generation a lost generation? After all he gave, all his life, for others, he spent one of his last nights before he died with me, playing cards I think. He was sick, but it didn't bother him, for the love of his grandson. Thank you, Grandpa, for being a hero, a role-model and MY Grandpa.

Haven

Haven - the word conjures images of security, safety and peace. And, oh, how this city has earned it's name. It's walls, soaring high to prevent a successful attack, are thicker than a man is tall even at it's narrowest point and maintains soundness even in the face of the strongest catapult. There isn't a man who could count the archers manning the ramparts, for even if the time was taken to try, the guard would change and a fresh man would replace each you've already counted - again, then again and again. The spires of the homes of the wealthy and the palace rise hundreds of feet into the air, casting their shadows for miles. Those too, are protected, by strong magic, lest they tempt the gods with their opulence.
The inside of Haven, though, is where one meets security face to face. Upon entering the outer gate, each visitor to this monumental city is relieved of all their weapons, forcibly if necessary, which are stored, each for his man, in locked quarters. No one enters Haven with so much as a dagger in their boot - only the guard is armed. And what a guard!
Dressed head to toe in gleaming mithril chain mail so finely woven it appears as silk, each guard is indistinguishable from the others behind his mithril mask. Only the commanders bear one color or another to show their rank. Their weapons vary little among each man and you can quickly discern where one's mastery lies. Proficient with all guard weapons yet especially skilled with one; swords of all sizes, some with axes or bows and a few with halberds or pikes. Those most respected, though, carry no weapons at all, for their hands are deadlier than any blade or arrow. These are the GuardMasters.

What Lies Within me...

When I look at my children, I see so many things I have forgotten; wonder, excitement, innocence, discovery, joy, activity.
Where is that time in our lives when we surrender these things? I no longer wonder. I question, and to each question there belongs an answer. "I must find it."
Look at the word 'question.' Where has the quest gone in question? Society, TV and the internet have stifled any need for a quest, for discovery, for adventure. When was the last time I searched for something? I mean searched - not for my wallet, or one of the kids' toys, but something worth searching for. When have I last searched MYSELF? What lies within me, undiscovered, ready for it's revealing? God, take me on THAT quest.

What'll it be?

The door closed, allowing a thin sliver of sunlight to penetrate the dimly lit room. The smell of whiskey hung thick in the air along with dust and smoke. Saloons don't usually have windows; barkeeps like their patrons to come early and stay late. "Drink 'til they've had their fill," they say. "Not when the sun tells 'em it's time to leave." This saloon was no different. The few oil lamps hung high on the walls cast a yellowish, sickly glow on everyone in the room. A glance around the room showed a single thread among the gathered - weariness. Life in these parts was hard, especially during a summer as hot as this one. Even the easiest chore brought sweat to the brow and a grimace to even the jolliest of fellows. As he strode forward, small clouds of dust rose around his feet, half fell off, half stirred up from the floor. The hard heels of his boots resounded in the quiet hovel. He was tall, but thick enough so he wasn't lanky. His hat, shirt and pants all had the same dusty hue, their true colors long ago faded by the sun. His face was rugged and hands rough, weathered by long days on his horse, out where the stray tree offered only fleeting, welcome relief. Approaching the bar, the barkeep met his eyes, his towel wiping at a spot long dried.
"What'll it be?" the keep offered, bored but jovial.