Reader? Reading.

Many of my friends know I'm an avid reader. Not as rabid as some, but more than others. Usually I've got two books going at once (when my eldest daughter and I read a novel it gets to three like now). So, in lieu of placing what I'm currently reading under "Favorite Books" I'm going to try and slip it in my blog. I'll do two things with this: 1) I'll tell you a smidge of what I know about the book and why I want to read it, 2) If you are remotely interested, I'll do a paragraph, or so, on what I thought about the work when I finish. Maybe it will peak your interest. So, if your a reader I'm going to occasionally share what I'm reading.

Just Finished
My Friend Leonard, James Frey. I read Frey first book, A Million Little Pieces, and felt like I had to read the sequel. Frey has come under attack lately for assumably falsifying many of the "facts" in his books. Fine. Even if he did, the reads are raw and emotionally racking. The books style reminds me of an E.E. Cummings poem. Frey and his editor by-passed many traditional structural elements common in prose to make room for sentences (or what pass for sentences) that run/stream/flow. Once you realize what the style is trying to accomplish (intentionally like poetry) you can get into the Frey-groove. If you want to know how an addict thinks and feels pick up the first installment, Little Pieces. Be warned, the language isn't for the faint of heart. If you want a trans-continent, rags to riches, friend to grave story, pick up My Friend Leonard.

Now Reading
Forever Odd, Dean Koontz. I love Koontz. Yes, he is bent. Yes, his books are, at times scary, and deal with the super-natural/unreal, but when it is all said and done, in every book there is a good guy and a bad guy (no confusion) and the good guy always wins! This is a sequel to Odd Thomas, and the protagonist is a lovably simple fella who struggles to do the "next right things" for those he loves. I hope Forever Odd is as good as the previous Odd.

On Poetics, Aristotle. I'm doing this in the Loeb Classic Series which is a Greek/English text. Reasons: 1) I like the classics and I read On Rhetoric by this guy, and realized again how formational the classics are on modern ideas (logic, composition, etc.), 2) I enjoy seeing where the NT Greek concepts draw there force. For example, the Greek word translated as "sin" (harmatia) is not new with Jesus or Paul. The word had a life before Paul imbued it with such theological importance. Aristotle and many others use this word and it is helpful to see it in its original context - at least for me.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling. - reading this (Number 4 in the series) with Rachel. We've read the first three and we love them.

Well, today's my birthday. Yea! One more year, no big deal. What is a big deal is the fact that my children are getting older, sad but true. Not long ago, I had an experience with my four year old.

When the line, “I’ve got to go,” is spoken it is not too difficult to understand what is meant. “I’ve got a lunch meeting in half an hour across town so, I’ve got to go.” “I’ve a dentist appointment. I’ve got to go.” “I know I only have a 2’ putt left for birdie but my wife is in labor. I’ve got to go.” Usually when someone says, “I’ve got to go,” what they mean is, “I’ve got to leave this place because I need to be somewhere else.” However, when your four year old son screams, “I’VE GOT TO GOOOO,” as you’re walking down the dairy isle in the local grocery store the line takes on a slightly new meaning.

It was around ten on a Monday morning and it was just “the guys.” We were on a morning adventure which translated into a milk run at a neighborhood grocery store. As we entered the sliding glass doors, we had our usual philosophical debate on the merits of walking or riding. We agreed that riding in a grocery basket had far greater benefits then walking. That is how I ended up pushing a four year old boy, in a grocery basket, in the back of Kroger, on a crowed -mostly with women - milk aisle.

We picked up a few bananas and a loaf of bread, then we closed in on our intended milk target. I rounded a corner and spied the milk not more than twenty feet ahead. As I pushed the cart up next to the dairy case - performing a pass and park move on a retired couple that would have made Jeff Gordon proud - Noah got eerily quite. (As is common knowledge: no four year old stops talking unless they are eating, crying, or sleeping. So, his quietness was a bad omen.) Finding a non-lethal expiration date on a gallon of way to expensive 2%, I snatched our quarry, secured it in our basket, and headed for home. Success! No ruined displays, no broken glass, I didn’t even have to apologize to a stranger for my child awkwardly colliding with them (usually because my kids like to walk backwards into people for some odd reason). All I had left to do was pay and we were home free. But, it was not to be. My previously silent four year old let fly with that heart stopping statement, “I’VE GOT TO GOOOOO!” Heads turned. “I’VE GOT TO POO-PEEEEE!” Carts stopped. “Shhhhhh,” I tried to squelch the situation before it got out of hand. “DADDY! I’VE GOT TO GOOOO! NOW!” Too late, I heard chuckles. My head dropped. I whispered, “Not so loud, son.” “BUT I’VE GOT TO GO!” he continued yelling as I raced toward the restrooms.

Embarrassed. Yes. Embarrassed is exactly what I was. I was embarrassed because my son proclaimed to the grocery world that he needed to “poo-pee.” To complete strangers, my son was divulging private details about life. Embarrassed. Did all those who heard the screaming think my son was incontinent? Embarrassed. Did they think I was an unconcerned parent? Embarrassed. Did they believe I didn’t know the finer points of public decorum and if I did could I not teach them to my son? Embarrassed.

Red faced and still trying to quell the bathroom monster I silently wished I’d left my son at home because away from foreign ears, away from public scrutiny, I didn’t have to worry about Noah embarrassing me. However, we were not at home and I was embarrassed. When he first started yelling the thought crossed my mind for a split second, “Pretend he’s not yours.” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend the kid in the cart that I was pushing didn’t belong to me. No matter how embarrassed I was, I couldn’t disown my child. For good or ill, he was mine. I’ve kissed boo-boos for him, I’ve laughed at nonsense “knock-knock” jokes he’s told. I’ve held him for hours as fever sapped his energy and he laid glassy-eyed like a Raggedy Andy on my shoulder. I was there at his birth and I’ve walked with him through his, albeit, short life. That child is mine and I cannot, I will not, disown him.

Since that embarrassing scene with my son in the grocery store a few weeks ago I’ve reflected on his action, and my embarrassment, quite a lot. In another humorous, but slightly disconcerting, moment of life an amazing truth was once again pounded into my stubborn heart.

Do you ever think that God is embarrassed by us? In no way do I pretend to know the mind of God, but I’m inclined to think He is. I know my own life way too well to pretend there haven’t been a few embarrassing moments for Him. I can imagine being pushed along by the Father, I’m babbling nonsense about Creation and Being while He, nods his magnificent head, eyes sparkling as he listens. And as we move through the aisles of life I realize I do such embarrassing things. I intentionally belittle an acquaintance…I participate in self-destructive behavior…I refuse to help someone in need… I refuse help from godly shaped people…I get anxious about insignificant events…and the list goes on. And I believe that God could be embarrassed, but here is the thing: unlike me God is not embarrassed for Himself, He’s embarrassed for us, on our behalf. And that is a big difference. God’s done nothing to be embarrassed for, we have and he knows it. He also knows that others know it.

No matter how idiotic we behave, no matter how easy it might be for Him to disown us, He doesn’t. One of the most astonishing truths in the Universe is that God won’t disown His children. My heart beats fast when I read Hosea. When you get to Hosea 11, God has already lamented for how idiotic His children behaved. He is completely disgusted with how they acted (and there will be repercussions for their disobedience). However, they are still his children. “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. But the more I called Israel, the further they went from me. They sacrificed to the Baals and they burned incense to images. It was I who taught Ephraim to walk, taking them by the arms; but they did not realize it was I who healed them. I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love; I lifted the yoke from their neck and bent down to feed them” (11:1-4). And then comes this soul wrenching line, “How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel?” (11:8). Can you hear God’s unbreakable love? You can hear his pain for sure, but underneath all of his grief there is an unfathomable mercy. Listen again, “How can I give you up…Nancy? How can I hand you over,…Tom?”

See, for good or ill I am a child of God’s. He has healed my wounds, lovingly taken delight in my innocence, been a fortress of strength when my world was falling apart, and most importantly, sacrificed himself so that I could be free. He was there from my inception and has walked with me through this, albeit, short existence. God looks at me - like I look at my son - except he looks at me (like he looks at all his children) through the glory of the cross and says, “That child is mine. He means too much. I cannot, I will not disown him.”

Allergies are kick'en my rear. For the last two weeks I've done nothing but blow my nose, cough, sneeze, and rub my eyes. Medication only works so-so, and since most allergy or sinus meds don't alter my mind/mood, I don't like taking them. Talk about irony. (If you have to ask, then don't.)

A few nights ago I was trying to share an idea that hadn't fully formed. I'm blaming my incoherency on my mucus-filled head. "My mind's a bit fuzzy.” Yea, that works, or "It's hard to put two sentences together through the....achoooooo." In reality, most of the time my thoughts are incoherent, so the other night wasn't anything new.

I was attempting to bring the two concepts of "space" and "freedom" together in order to better speak about both and how they applied to my life at that moment. Earlier that week I'd read an interesting bit of ancient wisdom from the Tao Ching (some of it’s really odd, but some is thought provoking) which said, "Thirty spokes unite in the one nave; but it is on the empty space (the axle) that the use of the wheel depends. Clay is fashioned into vessels; but it is on their empty hollowness that their use depends...Therefore, what has a positive existence serves for profitable adaptation, and what has not that for actual usefulness." Now I take the last line as meaning: "positive existence" is stuff, good for being molded or shaped into something which allows for functional space thus, "actual usefulness." This understanding makes sense of the examples.

So taking that idea of space being a really useful thing, I tried to apply that to the concept of freedom, at least personally. Here goes, so much of who I was, was defined by the space around me. When the walls around me dictated who I was they became prisons. When who I was, was understood by what I saw - not within - but by a title on a door, a "seat at the table," a car payment, an association with X, you can fill in your own blanks, then my "positive existence" stopped being a tool for service and became a constricting container. I had to live into the surroundings (which is backwards). No longer was the space adaptable for usefulness, but instead it was a limiting and restrictive force. Eventually it atrophyed becoming smaller like a straightjacket.

What I didn't get - what I'm trying to understand now - is that freedom, true freedom isn't something you can point to and say, "there it is." Freedom doesn't have a color or texture. Freedom is a space within me that isn't defined by the exterior. I think of the movie Shawshank Redemption where Andy puts on the opera music and for a fleeting second everyone in the prison yard is transported by the beauty of the singing. They are moved beyond the barbed wire and into an - excuse the word here - existential place that can't be reached by hands. That’s freedom.

Freedom isn't defined by walls. Freedom is defined by the empty, but willing space, within my heart. It is a space that isn't occupied by fear or anxiety but peace. Maybe Jesus was hinting at this when he said, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." Peace.