Today is May 2. I am in the second day of a "post-a-day" challenge.
Shaunta Grimes, a writer and Facebook friend of mine, is passionate about encouraging other writers to write. She blogs here and offers material to help other writers learn to write well.
Her challenge this month to her "ninja writers", as she calls us, is to write a post a month and post it at Medium, a free blogging platform.
I've fallen down on my own writing lately, partly because of a busy schedule, partly because of allowing myself to be paralyzed by perfectionism. I'm in the process of revising a novel, and I'm finding myself freezing up because I'm worried that it won't be "good enough".
Sometimes, my writing just plain sucks. If that's your opinion about your own writing, or whatever it is you think you suck at, Shaunta's latest blog post should encourage you. It's entitled, "You Don't Suck. You Just Haven't Practiced Enough." She reminds us, "It's ridiculous to judge how good you are at something without taking into consideration the amount of practice you have doing it."
So this month, I am going to put some of Shaunta's tools to work for me, put butt in chair, fingers on keyboard, and WRITE.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
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Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Monday, May 1, 2017
Twenty-two people
On Saturday, I went to the funeral of a 34-year-old man who had cerebral palsy. His name was Justin, and he and his family attend my church.
I got to the funeral home right before the service started, and as a result, I ended up standing in the back. I wasn't the only one. About 25-30 people stood along with me. This was in addition to about 150 or so others seated. It may have been more; I'm not very good at estimating.
Our minister spoke about Justin and his family. Then his parents came up and told Justin's story: how he'd been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at eight months, how he couldn't speak, how at 11, he'd gone into the hospital for what was intended to be an overnight stay and wound up being there for over 10 months, and how a dear doctor saved his life multiple times, allowing the family to have Justin for two decades longer. His mother read a beautiful letter she'd written to him. She described their bedtime routine, of how she'd blow kisses to him, and then how she'd come to check on him and find him still awake, maybe waiting for one last kiss.
After his parents spoke, our minister gave other people who'd known Justin a chance to share some favorite memories of him.
Twenty-two people took advantage of that opportunity. They ranged from a little boy who described Justin as his "best friend", to his teachers, to a nurse, to those who knew him from church.
They painted a picture of someone who knew how to love people. He had a beautiful smile and an uninhibited laugh. He could be a prankster. He loved dollar bills. His parents made sure that he was included in life in every possible way he could be, through school, through church, through vacations spent with his family.
He loved game shows. And he loved Disney characters.
Towards the end of the funeral, his sister said that not only did she love Justin, but she liked being with him. That's not always true of brothers and sisters.
I saw Justin at church in his wheelchair, and whenever I heard a grunt during services, I knew that that was Justin trying to communicate.
Justin didn't know it, but he influenced my life as well.
Not very long after my son was diagnosed with autism, his mother and I met at a Waffle House for breakfast. We talked for nearly three hours. I no longer remember what she said or what I said. I just remember that his mom tried to communicate to me that everything was going to be okay--not, "Oh, it'll be all right," said with a condescending pat on the head, but with the wisdom of someone who had been there and was still there. More than once since, she's come to me and said, I remember our talk and I'm so proud of you for sticking it out.
We live in a world where perfection is not only expected, but demanded. We airbrush and Photoshop our pictures to make them perfect. We talk about people's looks behind their backs. We gossip about people's private lives. We constantly strive for better, better, better, and while searching for ways to improve is a good thing, too often, I think it's because we try to live up to impossible standards.
Justin, in the eyes of some people, was not "perfect". He used a wheelchair. He grunted. He had uncontrolled movements because of his cerebral palsy. He drooled. He required constant nursing care.
At the end of the service, our minister left us with a question: How do you decide who to love well?
Twenty-two people, besides Justin's family, painted the picture of a person who "loved well" all who came across his path. He didn't care who they were. He just loved them. Because Justin loved them, those he loved learned how to "love well".
That is quite a legacy for someone to leave: that he taught people how to love well.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
I got to the funeral home right before the service started, and as a result, I ended up standing in the back. I wasn't the only one. About 25-30 people stood along with me. This was in addition to about 150 or so others seated. It may have been more; I'm not very good at estimating.
Our minister spoke about Justin and his family. Then his parents came up and told Justin's story: how he'd been diagnosed with cerebral palsy at eight months, how he couldn't speak, how at 11, he'd gone into the hospital for what was intended to be an overnight stay and wound up being there for over 10 months, and how a dear doctor saved his life multiple times, allowing the family to have Justin for two decades longer. His mother read a beautiful letter she'd written to him. She described their bedtime routine, of how she'd blow kisses to him, and then how she'd come to check on him and find him still awake, maybe waiting for one last kiss.
After his parents spoke, our minister gave other people who'd known Justin a chance to share some favorite memories of him.
Twenty-two people took advantage of that opportunity. They ranged from a little boy who described Justin as his "best friend", to his teachers, to a nurse, to those who knew him from church.
They painted a picture of someone who knew how to love people. He had a beautiful smile and an uninhibited laugh. He could be a prankster. He loved dollar bills. His parents made sure that he was included in life in every possible way he could be, through school, through church, through vacations spent with his family.
He loved game shows. And he loved Disney characters.
Towards the end of the funeral, his sister said that not only did she love Justin, but she liked being with him. That's not always true of brothers and sisters.
I saw Justin at church in his wheelchair, and whenever I heard a grunt during services, I knew that that was Justin trying to communicate.
Justin didn't know it, but he influenced my life as well.
Not very long after my son was diagnosed with autism, his mother and I met at a Waffle House for breakfast. We talked for nearly three hours. I no longer remember what she said or what I said. I just remember that his mom tried to communicate to me that everything was going to be okay--not, "Oh, it'll be all right," said with a condescending pat on the head, but with the wisdom of someone who had been there and was still there. More than once since, she's come to me and said, I remember our talk and I'm so proud of you for sticking it out.
We live in a world where perfection is not only expected, but demanded. We airbrush and Photoshop our pictures to make them perfect. We talk about people's looks behind their backs. We gossip about people's private lives. We constantly strive for better, better, better, and while searching for ways to improve is a good thing, too often, I think it's because we try to live up to impossible standards.
Justin, in the eyes of some people, was not "perfect". He used a wheelchair. He grunted. He had uncontrolled movements because of his cerebral palsy. He drooled. He required constant nursing care.
At the end of the service, our minister left us with a question: How do you decide who to love well?
Twenty-two people, besides Justin's family, painted the picture of a person who "loved well" all who came across his path. He didn't care who they were. He just loved them. Because Justin loved them, those he loved learned how to "love well".
That is quite a legacy for someone to leave: that he taught people how to love well.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Monday, April 17, 2017
B-I-N-G-O, Atlanta traffic style
Someone posted this on Facebook today, and I'm afraid it sums up Atlanta traffic perfectly (except it leaves out "debris in the roadway".)
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
When God got the last laugh (repost)
(This is a repost of this blog entry, from April 5, 2015.)
Today, God got the last laugh.
The laughter began before dawn, when a dead body regained consciousness in a cold tomb.
Or perhaps it began with an earthquake, which rolled a stone away and scared guards so that they became "like dead men".
I'm not sure if Jesus strode out boldly with a swagger, or if he just peeked out from the tomb, thinking, "Hello? Where is everybody?" and then walked out.
The party in hell was over. The party in hell had broken up with screams of horror and shouts of anger. How dare he? How dare he get the last laugh on us?
The first person he revealed himself to was a woman, Mary of Magdala, the Mary that wept because they had taken her Lord away and she didn't know where he was.
It was when he said to her, "Mary," that she knew who he was.
I wonder if, when she turned towards him, Jesus was smiling.
I wonder if he smiled when he appeared to the two on the road to Emmaus.
And I wonder if he smiled when he first appeared to the apostles who were hiding in the upper room. We know he said, "Peace be with you!" and showed him his hands and feet. But I wonder if the expression on his face said, "Look! It's me! I'm here! Isn't that great! I told you it was going to happen, and it did!"
This is Easter Sunday.
Easter is a holiday associated with bunnies (chocolate and otherwise), baskets, eggs dyed in different colors, new clothes, parades, and white shoes. It's also associated with large dinners--usually with ham as the main course--with family visits and perhaps a surprise from the Easter Bunny. (One year, a gift from the Easter Bunny came with a note and a carrot with teeth marks in it. I told everyone who would listen that those teeth marks were proof that there really was an Easter Bunny. It was years before I realized that my dad had written the note and probably had bitten into that carrot as well!)
This is the holiday where people and Easter lilies will crowd churches, and many will repeat as part of a liturgy, "He is risen." "He is risen indeed."
But do we really understand that, on this day, God got the last laugh?
If man had created God in his own image, as is sometimes alleged, hope would have died at the cross. The apostle Paul, in I Corinthians 15:12-19, says:
"But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. More than that, we are then found to be false witnesses about God, for we have testified about God that he raised Christ from the dead. But he did not raise him if in fact the dead are not raised. For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied." (emphasis mine, TAS)
The cross would have been proof that God was created in the image of man, for the cross meant death--physical death of a man, the death of hope, the death of dreams the death of everything.
But God got the last laugh.
Jesus said he would rise from the dead . . . and he did.
The witness of men, the witness of Scripture speaks--indeed, it shouts--that "Christ has indeed been risen from the dead!" as I Corinthians 15:20 says.
When we speak today that "Christ is risen indeed," it is not merely a recitation of a liturgy that has been passed down for two thousand years. Instead, it is a testament to a God that got the last laugh--over Satan, over sin, over death.
I wonder, if when the disciples saw Jesus, he looked like this, as painted by artist Jack Jewell:
This is the day when God got the last laugh.
He is risen.
He is risen indeed!
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Today, God got the last laugh.
The laughter began before dawn, when a dead body regained consciousness in a cold tomb.
Or perhaps it began with an earthquake, which rolled a stone away and scared guards so that they became "like dead men".
I'm not sure if Jesus strode out boldly with a swagger, or if he just peeked out from the tomb, thinking, "Hello? Where is everybody?" and then walked out.
The party in hell was over. The party in hell had broken up with screams of horror and shouts of anger. How dare he? How dare he get the last laugh on us?
The first person he revealed himself to was a woman, Mary of Magdala, the Mary that wept because they had taken her Lord away and she didn't know where he was.
It was when he said to her, "Mary," that she knew who he was.
I wonder if, when she turned towards him, Jesus was smiling.
I wonder if he smiled when he appeared to the two on the road to Emmaus.
And I wonder if he smiled when he first appeared to the apostles who were hiding in the upper room. We know he said, "Peace be with you!" and showed him his hands and feet. But I wonder if the expression on his face said, "Look! It's me! I'm here! Isn't that great! I told you it was going to happen, and it did!"
This is Easter Sunday.
Easter is a holiday associated with bunnies (chocolate and otherwise), baskets, eggs dyed in different colors, new clothes, parades, and white shoes. It's also associated with large dinners--usually with ham as the main course--with family visits and perhaps a surprise from the Easter Bunny. (One year, a gift from the Easter Bunny came with a note and a carrot with teeth marks in it. I told everyone who would listen that those teeth marks were proof that there really was an Easter Bunny. It was years before I realized that my dad had written the note and probably had bitten into that carrot as well!)
This is the holiday where people and Easter lilies will crowd churches, and many will repeat as part of a liturgy, "He is risen." "He is risen indeed."
But do we really understand that, on this day, God got the last laugh?
If man had created God in his own image, as is sometimes alleged, hope would have died at the cross. The apostle Paul, in I Corinthians 15:12-19, says:
"But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. More than that, we are then found to be false witnesses about God, for we have testified about God that he raised Christ from the dead. But he did not raise him if in fact the dead are not raised. For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied." (emphasis mine, TAS)
The cross would have been proof that God was created in the image of man, for the cross meant death--physical death of a man, the death of hope, the death of dreams the death of everything.
But God got the last laugh.
Jesus said he would rise from the dead . . . and he did.
The witness of men, the witness of Scripture speaks--indeed, it shouts--that "Christ has indeed been risen from the dead!" as I Corinthians 15:20 says.
When we speak today that "Christ is risen indeed," it is not merely a recitation of a liturgy that has been passed down for two thousand years. Instead, it is a testament to a God that got the last laugh--over Satan, over sin, over death.
I wonder, if when the disciples saw Jesus, he looked like this, as painted by artist Jack Jewell:
This is the day when God got the last laugh.
He is risen.
He is risen indeed!
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
When Satan threw a party (repost)
(This is a repost of this blog entry from April 4, 2015.)
Today, the party in hell that started when Jesus died on the cross continued.
Satan laughed and the demons rejoiced. Because what they wanted had been accomplished, the death of God. As Nietzsche would write nearly 1800 years later, "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him."
They had won.
On earth, the body of Judas had been discovered, broken, with his bowels spilling out.
The rest of the disciples hid behind locked doors, afraid that they would be next. Peter drowned in shame, hearing the words in his head, "I don't know the man!" and starting every time he heard a rooster crow.
Mary? Where was Mary? Overcome with grief and pain and heartbroken.
Death had come and killed God, and Satan was in the middle of throwing a party.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Satan laughed and the demons rejoiced. Because what they wanted had been accomplished, the death of God. As Nietzsche would write nearly 1800 years later, "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him."
They had won.
On earth, the body of Judas had been discovered, broken, with his bowels spilling out.
The rest of the disciples hid behind locked doors, afraid that they would be next. Peter drowned in shame, hearing the words in his head, "I don't know the man!" and starting every time he heard a rooster crow.
Mary? Where was Mary? Overcome with grief and pain and heartbroken.
Death had come and killed God, and Satan was in the middle of throwing a party.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Friday, April 14, 2017
When man killed God (repost)
(This is a reposting, with some minor changes, of this blog entry from Good Friday of 2015.)
Today is Good Friday.
Man killed God today.
Man, in the guise of a Roman ruler, his centurions, and people who screamed, "Crucify him!" killed God.
Man stripped him, beat him, mocked him, "hailed" him as "king".
And then man led him out to a cross.
Man watched while he stumbled along the Via Dolorosa. Some jeered him, some wept, some wailed, some didn't pay attention.
Man, in the guise of trained centurions, picked up nails--long, cruel nails--and, using a mallet, drove them, blow by blow, into skin and muscle and bone and blood vessel.
They did it three times. One for each arm, and one for both feet, crossed together.
And then they sat back and gambled while God gasped for breath, slowly suffocated, bled, and died.
And if that wasn't enough, someone rammed a spear into his side.
Then the broken body of God was picked up and carried to a borrowed tomb, wrapped in linen, and laid to rest.
The last act was the sound of a stone rolled over the entrance, then the final thud as it landed in its place.
This was the day that man killed God.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Man killed God today.
Man, in the guise of a Roman ruler, his centurions, and people who screamed, "Crucify him!" killed God.
Man stripped him, beat him, mocked him, "hailed" him as "king".
And then man led him out to a cross.
Man watched while he stumbled along the Via Dolorosa. Some jeered him, some wept, some wailed, some didn't pay attention.
Man, in the guise of trained centurions, picked up nails--long, cruel nails--and, using a mallet, drove them, blow by blow, into skin and muscle and bone and blood vessel.
They did it three times. One for each arm, and one for both feet, crossed together.
And then they sat back and gambled while God gasped for breath, slowly suffocated, bled, and died.
And if that wasn't enough, someone rammed a spear into his side.
Then the broken body of God was picked up and carried to a borrowed tomb, wrapped in linen, and laid to rest.
The last act was the sound of a stone rolled over the entrance, then the final thud as it landed in its place.
This was the day that man killed God.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Friday, March 31, 2017
Coronary thrombosis, cerebral hemorrhage, and I-85
If the main routes through Atlanta, Georgia can be called "arteries", then Atlanta has been long overdue for the traffic equivalent of a coronary thrombosis or a cerebral hemorrhage.
Yesterday, it got both.
At approximately 6:30 p.m., Channel 2 news cut to a live shot of horrifyingly thick black smoke billowing from under an overpass at I-85 and GA State Road 400. This is the height of rush hour (or, non-rush hour, however you want to put it) and 85 was crawling with commuters desperate to get home.
The Georgia State Patrol, fearing for the integrity of the bridge, stopped traffic.
Minutes later, the bridge collapsed.
Amazingly, NO ONE was killed or injured. In fact, NO ONE was even on the bridge when it collapsed.
However, the result of the coronary thrombosis of the highway will be Atlanta's own version of bypass surgery.
Beginning this morning, if you want to get into the city of Atlanta, you can't go down I-85 south. Instead, you'll have to exit on I-285, which goes around the city of Atlanta, and pick whatever access point you think will get you to where you need/want to go. If you want to get downtown, your best bet may be to take I-20 from I-285.
If you want to go north on I-85, you'll have to get off at 17th street, just north of downtown.
Both I-85 north and south in the area of the collapse are closed until further notice.
Which leads one to ask: Is there a traffic equivalent of beta blockers for Atlanta?
Well, possibly. One is called MARTA, our public transportation system, comprised of buses and trains which may or may not get you where you want/need to go when you want/need to go there. Another is working from home, which people are being encouraged to do today. There's also car pooling.
Dekalb County Schools are closed today, giving the kids there a one-day head start on their spring break. (Matthew's home today. Gwinnett County is using an unused snow day as a holiday today.)
What caused the fire?
We don't know yet what started it. What people think was burning was a bunch of plastic cables stored under the bridge. One (now former) Facebook friend posted "terrorist attack", with NO PROOF. That is just plain irresponsible. (And if it WERE Al-Qaida or ISIS, it would be a heck of a lot more coordinated and a lot more spectacular.)
For now, GDOT and whoever else is in charge will be performing bypass surgery and eventually reconstruction of the arteries.
Brace yourselves for a long hospitalization and recovery period!
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Yesterday, it got both.
At approximately 6:30 p.m., Channel 2 news cut to a live shot of horrifyingly thick black smoke billowing from under an overpass at I-85 and GA State Road 400. This is the height of rush hour (or, non-rush hour, however you want to put it) and 85 was crawling with commuters desperate to get home.
The Georgia State Patrol, fearing for the integrity of the bridge, stopped traffic.
Minutes later, the bridge collapsed.
Amazingly, NO ONE was killed or injured. In fact, NO ONE was even on the bridge when it collapsed.
However, the result of the coronary thrombosis of the highway will be Atlanta's own version of bypass surgery.
Beginning this morning, if you want to get into the city of Atlanta, you can't go down I-85 south. Instead, you'll have to exit on I-285, which goes around the city of Atlanta, and pick whatever access point you think will get you to where you need/want to go. If you want to get downtown, your best bet may be to take I-20 from I-285.
If you want to go north on I-85, you'll have to get off at 17th street, just north of downtown.
Both I-85 north and south in the area of the collapse are closed until further notice.
Which leads one to ask: Is there a traffic equivalent of beta blockers for Atlanta?
Well, possibly. One is called MARTA, our public transportation system, comprised of buses and trains which may or may not get you where you want/need to go when you want/need to go there. Another is working from home, which people are being encouraged to do today. There's also car pooling.
Dekalb County Schools are closed today, giving the kids there a one-day head start on their spring break. (Matthew's home today. Gwinnett County is using an unused snow day as a holiday today.)
What caused the fire?
We don't know yet what started it. What people think was burning was a bunch of plastic cables stored under the bridge. One (now former) Facebook friend posted "terrorist attack", with NO PROOF. That is just plain irresponsible. (And if it WERE Al-Qaida or ISIS, it would be a heck of a lot more coordinated and a lot more spectacular.)
For now, GDOT and whoever else is in charge will be performing bypass surgery and eventually reconstruction of the arteries.
Brace yourselves for a long hospitalization and recovery period!
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
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