I Has Snow . . .
Not so much excited, but I took pictures from inside the relative warmth of my apt:
<= Clicky
Paul Was Damn Realistic
“I am all things, to all men, that by all means, I might win some” ~ 1 Corinthians 9:22
It’s not often that I quote passages of the Bible to co-workers. Well, not when they are aware of it. Today was an exception.
You can pour only so much of yourself into each person you encounter. And beyond that you find more than you thought you had, and pour that out as well. But no matter how hard you work, you can’t win/save/gain/protect/help/teach them all.
Paul knew this, so he broke his foot off in his own butt for the sake of “some:” for as many as would accept. This in no way pushes aside the rest, but it is an attitude of health.
When asked today if I was going to “save all my kids” (in a non-spiritual sort of way) after spending an hour in the hall with a crying student, this is the answer I gave.
There is only so much you can do. Love whomever is around to be loved, but this never means it will always be accepted.
Internet Explorer (ie) Vs Firefox
So I’m learning things show up differently on IE compared to Firefox. I’m using Firefox when posting. Everyone, stop using IE, nowhere near as cool.
That is all.
Forethought: On Ants And Sin
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us ~ Hebrews 12:1 (ESV)
I like ants.
I was in my kitchen last night and I looked down remembering how around this time last year I spotted an ant running across my floor. He found a crumb of some sort, scoped out the area, grabbed it in his powerful mandible, and trotted off to parts unseen.
I love watching ants. They are strong, graceful, brilliant, industrious, community centered, and damn it, just a bit cute. Maybe I see myself in his form: another a little black guy in a very big world.
As a result, I hate killing the scout. He who creeps across my kitchen, between the cracks, carefully scampering from corner to counter, searching for the feast which will feed his family: He’s only doing his job. How would I feel if someone ran into my classroom and shot me while . . . hmm. Too close to home?
Regardless: he’s good at his job and I love him for it; his undying devotion to something much larger than he.
But if he continues on, if he reports back to the collective, if I allow him to live, I will be infested with an army of his peers, and that is more than I can bare. One is cute, thousands . . . ants are not like love with its limitlessness. They are more like snow or bacon bits.
While I have less of a problem dispensing justice from a can of Raid upon the invading hordes, than I do on the lone scout, it does not bring me joy. However, selfish though it may be, the needs of this one outweigh the needs of the many legged, and so does my foot.
But then what is the solution? How can i avoid killing the brave little forerunner without being forced to meet and murder his friends and family?
As I pondered all of this I realized what brought it all to mind, for there was no little stalwart soilder ant running serpentine manuvers across my fake tile floor at the moment. I was sweeping.
The solution: Don’t leave food about.
The Taste Of Lot’s Wife ~ Traci Brimhall
He knew she was gone 
but he couldn’t look back
to see her final form,
never realizing it was her
absence he tasted each time
he was in the ocean,
each tear that crept
to the corner of his mouth,
each drop of sweat he licked
from his daughters’ bodies.
[Included in Issue No. 1 of Relief Magazine ==>
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Why do I post this? Because my response is what I hope to garner from every poem I personally write. What was my response?
“Hmm … wow, I hadn’t thought of that . . . deep . . . HOLY $H!7!!!”
: a sense of new found depth, quickly followed by shock and cognitive dissonance.
Maybe this is why the editor of a Christian Mag told me they could only publish one of my peices, for fear of pissing off more people than they already did. He also said he’d like to put my rejected peices on his wall, as a testement to the type of Christian lit he would like to publish.
Or it’s because I sometimes write things like this… (see “knowledge”)
Can the mold be broken just a little more often? The Bible is messy, because life is messy. Humans are messy, and God is often covered in our shit because He loves us.
If Christian writing can’t capture this, then let’s burn all the Bibles and just go HOME, beacause there can be nothing left to be gained by reading it after subtracting the reality, or from continuing on down here with a set of cracked, rosy-colored Jesus glasses.