I ran a google search today for "how to hold on when you feel like you can't hold on any longer." The first result that came up was "how to hold in your pee." So I got a laugh, which I needed. Then I found the text of a helpful sermon, which included this quote from Job, describing exactly, in precise detail, how I feel:

"Oh, that I might have my request, that God would grant what I hope for, that God would be willing to crush me, to let loose his hand and cut me off! . . . "What strength do I have, that I should still hope? What prospects, that I should be patient? Do I have the strength of stone? Is my flesh bronze? Do I have any power to help myself, now that success has been driven from me? . . . My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and they come to an end without hope. Remember, O God, that my life is but a breath; my eyes will never see happiness again."

The sermon goes on to talk about despair, and especially the quiet despair in which you give up on the inside, but keep going through the motions of your life. It is thus that soulless zombies are born: life without hope is living damnation. And this is the main struggle with me, as I've talked about often before. I don't want to go back there. But I feel it pulling me, like quicksand.

I don't know why it's been so bad the last week or so. Maybe it was the two year anniversary of the day all this started. The thought that it's been two full years since my life has been good or pleasant. Since I've had a friendly conversation with her. Since I've been able to go to church and fully, truly engage in worship and fellowship without being preoccupied with whether I'm hurting her or frightening her, or whether I'm going to be accused of something crazy completely out of the blue. Since I've been able to go anywhere locally without constantly looking around, worrying that I'm going to accidentally run into her and make her think I arranged it on purpose. And then, struggling with that other part of me which always has the faint little hope that I will run into her by accident, and she'll actually be kind to me. Two years, that every time the 'ding' goes off that I've received an email, that dumb little part of me hopes it's from her. Two years of, every time I write something about my own life and thoughts for my blog, wondering if she's going to read it, and if so, whether it will cause her distress, or freak her out, and make the whole thing worse. Two years that I've been unable to go to a concert, or a play, or really enjoy a good book or movie, because they all remind me. I wanted to go see "Madame Butterfly" recently, for instance, but decided against it. Because I wanted to avoid awkward encounters. And because everything, now, which is associated with grace, and beauty, and the good things in life, is connected in my heart to her.

So what do I do with my time? I exercise, I pray, and I read. Nonfiction these days, mostly, because it doesn't have the emotional attachments that most of the fiction I like does for me now. I pray A LOT. All the time. Literally, all the time. While I'm working out. While I'm driving. Under my breath, in the sauna. Walking through the store. I'm like a monk: my life is sterile, barren, and dull. I do, totally, appreciate, and am grateful for, the closeness I've found with God during this time, and all he's done for me. But sometimes it just feels like I can't go on, because there is no hope for anything better. Externally, I mean. People talk nonsense about how you're just supposed to be "satisfied with God and him only, no matter how bad it gets". And in a sense, I am, and am soaring above it all, spiritually. But people who talk blithely about that have very little experience with suffering: they talk about it as if somehow the suffering weren't suffering, as if, say, being in a P.O.W. camp or an abusive marriage were supposed to somehow become pleasant because you know God. That's ridiculous. You can find God in bad situations. And you can use these times to grow, spiritually, and rise above it. But the situation itself still sucks and hurts, and walking around spouting false positive thinking or "positive confession", wearing a fake smile, and pretending that it doesn't bother you is just B.S. And you all know, by now, how I feel about B.S.

I believe in God. And I always will, no matter what. He answers my prayers all the time. So I know he's there, I know he's listening, and I know he cares. And I believe that somehow, sometime, some good is going to come of this, and his purpose will be accomplished. I really do. But it's one thing to choose to believe that; it's another to make yourself feel it all the time. If there are some who can do that, I'm not one of them.

The Artesian Well of Life

"As for me, I never lived, I was half dead, I was a rotting tree, until I reached the place where I wholly, with utter honesty, resolved and then re-resolved that I would find God's will, and I would do that will though every fiber in me said no, and I would win the battle in my thoughts. It was as though some deep artesian well had been struck in my soul." -- Frank Laubach

Back to Black and White

Before I met you
The whole world bored me
Life was only marking time
waiting to die
distractions
entertainments
brief moments of pleasure
but nothing really worth my while
Nothing to thrill me,
challenge me,
inspire me
At least, not in this world
I had hope for After,
but here and now was grey
dull
pointless
dumb

And yet...there were also fleeting glimpses of something better...
Points of light
Little treasures
Moments of beauty...
The secret things of my soul
But I was alone with them
like a solitary king in his counting room
like a lonely scholar with his books

And then there was you,
like that moment in Oz,
when the world turns to color
from shades of grey

Everything changed
The lovely became beautiful
The pleasant became wonderful
The interesting became intoxicating
The mysterious became magical
The good became sacred

And all those things, those little things I'd found
Those moments of truth and beauty,
Those glimpses of joy
That pointed me to Eternity
For me, found their earthly fulfillment in you:
Because you loved them too,
and your presence suffused them with a golden light
The same light that surrounds you wherever you go:
The sparkling fairy-trails you leave behind when you pass by:
The intangible radiance that shines from your spirit,
and fills any place you're in with a glow that says, "Home"

And now that I've lost you,
I've lost everything
There is no beauty
No joy
No loveliness
No hope
Only the incessant electric buzz of existence

I know it sounded crazy
I know
I thought so myself
I'd found a magic wardrobe
and no one else could see the doorway at the back

I know I acted strangely
I know
My mind was telling me that it was impossible
My spirit was telling me that it was inevitable
And my heart was being torn apart by
the greatest desire
and the greatest fear
I have ever known

One thing I thought I knew:
Courage
I've faced death many times
But death is easy;
What I've got to face is unspeakably harder:
Life without you

"It is not good that man should be alone." -- God

Nat King Cole - When I Fall In Love

And while we're on the subject...

Billie Holiday - All or Nothing at All

Yeah.

Babies

She's hand-sized.

Also, I neglected to post this: my other son became a father last week too. He said, "I feel like I was born for this." All the men in my family are devoted fathers.

That's four now, in case you're counting: the twins in February, now these two within a week of each other. And Toby also has an older stepson (another thing the men in my family have in common: can't resist a damsel in distress).  I am a patriarch. :)

Damien Rice - The Blower's Daughter

Strength and Vulnerability

Had a long talk with my son late last night, after what he describes as the scariest and most stressful day of his life. Turns out the bleeding and all was only the beginning of the nightmare: an orderly that said he was going to get a nurse to check them in, then just went home and forgot about them; a nurse that told them they were going to have to just sit in the waiting room all night, because they weren't a priority; an incompetent anaesthesiologist who left the poor girl feeling everything throughout the caesarean.... But, thank God (literally), everyone is ok in the end, and also thanks to my son, who (don't know where he gets it) is quite hard-headed and extremely protective of those he loves, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer from the idiots who were trying to blow them off. (Once my other son, Michael, cracked his head while horsing around at school: the school officials tried to hush it up, not wanting to take responsibility: Toby put his fist through a wall and said "TAKE MY BROTHER TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!!! AND CALL MY DAD!!)

Anyway, after all was settled and everyone resting, he came home, relaxed, and called me. Because he was troubled. He said, "Dad, this is the day that I've been waiting for pretty much my whole life. But I don't feel the way I'm supposed to. It's like, I love her, I really do, but I don't actually feel anything." I knew what he was talking about before he even finished, and I said, "Is it just this, or is it everything?" "Everything."

So we talked about the things he's been through, and I said that combat is hard on everyone, but it's hardest on those who are good, sensitive, caring people. And he had found that, in order to survive and function, he'd had to turn off his emotions. And the way it works is, you can't just turn off the bad ones: they're either all on or all off. And then he came back, and he had those nights when he used to call me in the wee hours, and all the stresses of re-adjustment, and at some point he found that it was easier to just turn them off and leave them off. And he said, "Yeah, Ryann tells me that I'm cold and distant. But I didn't really see it until now."

I wanted to illustrate to him the importance of dealing with this sooner rather than later, because the longer you wait, the harder it gets, and I don't want him to get to the point where God has to supernaturally intervene and give him a new heart, like he did with me. I said, "Do you remember what I was like when you were little, compared to how I was when you were older?" And he said that he did, very clearly. When they were little, I was playful, and involved, and engaged, and affectionate, and kind. And then afterwards I was, for lack of a better word, a hard-ass. Now we've talked about that part before and he's said that he's actually grateful for that because it made him strong enough to deal with anything. But I said that, although that was true, what I should have done was be able to be a hard-ass when I needed to, but also that kind and soft-hearted father at other times. But I didn't: I checked out. And what his family needs from him now is for him to deal with his issues and then be there for them, completely, including being emotionally available. This is not an easy thing. And it's made harder by the fact that he still needs to be a hard-ass a lot of the time in order to be successful in his work, which is still the Army. So, he's got to find a way to open himself back up to his emotions, but be able to switch back when he's not in the right place to be vulnerable and sensitive: he can't go around weeping and whining while he's fighting or training soldiers.

So, we talked about it for a long time, and about what to do and how to come out of it, but since this blog isn't really about him, and since I don't want to reveal too much about his struggles, because they're not mine, I'll get to the next point, which is what this conversation showed me about myself. I got to thinking about my own heart, and what's been happening since that day when God intervened, and I got some new perspective.

As I said, this is exactly what happened to me. Sometime, between the Army and police work and everything else bad in my life, I just turned it off. Then forgot where the switch was. And years passed, then decades, and I forgot that there was a switch. I would sometimes think back on "how I used to be" with embarrassment, and get angry at myself for having been so weak (something which Toby mentioned last night that he was already feeling about himself too).

Then the thing happened that we've talked about before, and I was changed. And I went back to grad school, with my shiny brand-new tender heart full of love, and I got nuked. But I made the choice to keep going: to keep being vulnerable, take the pain, and keep letting the love flow out. This, however, left me in an intensely vulnerable place.

And that's when I met This Girl, and this is why she got in so deep, and I can't get her out. She walked around in the cement of my heart while it was still wet, bent over and put her handprints in it, and wrote her name. And dotted the 'i' with a little heart.

I mean, when I met her, she was exactly the person I needed to meet at that point in my life. Not because she fit some pre-formed ideal I had in my mind. But, in fact, because she didn't: she wasn't what I wanted, she was what I needed. And that has God's handwriting all over it.

You know, when I first met her, what I saw was a girl who was a little bit lonely and a little bit sad. And I just felt my heart connect to her. We would talk about fairy tales, and learning Elvish and Greek, and raising chickens, and going hiking, and beauty, and truth, and how stupid and ugly most of the modern world is, and, most importantly, Jesus. I was totally alone in the world. And I just happened to bump into the only person I'd ever met whose spirit, I felt, was exactly like mine. And it happened at a time when I was the most vulnerable, the most sensitive, and needed it the most in my whole life. How could I not think that was God? How could I not fall in love? And, my God, when she sings...I don't want to be cliché, but it's like hearing the voice of an angel. I told her once, "You, singing about Jesus. I can't think of anything in the world that could make me happier." In fact, even her speaking voice is like the music of the heavens to my ears. I'd rather listen to her talk than to most singers sing.

And I also saw a girl who seemed like she could really use some attention. Which was convenient, because there's nothing I like more than being good to a woman. I just love it. Seriously. No agenda, no manipulation, no hidden motives. I just love doing those sweet little things that make a girl smile and feel good about herself. I didn't mean, at the time, to fall in love with her, nor to make her fall in love with me. It just did my heart good to do her heart good. (And if she would be objective and think back, she would see that this is true because, although she was by far the main recipient of my thoughtfulness, she was not the only one. I've given little gifts, and flowers, and cards, and made gift baskets, and cooked dinners, and given complements, to quite a few women in our church, most of whom are married or ineligible in some other way, including her own mother. But I loved her the most, even before I fell in love with her. That I admit, without apology.)

But the thing, I think, that affected me most was that she accepted me. And liked me. And even respected me. Even though I weighed 350 pounds. Even though I was weird and insecure and socially awkward, like a man who's come back from years alone on a desert island. Even though I was still rough around the edges, and broken, and pretty much a big mess. She was sweet to me, and not just as a matter of form, but from the heart. And that is why I can't accept other people's explanation of her more recent behavior, that she never cared about me at all, or that she's just selfish and thoughtless, or whatever. I know better. I know what a good person she is. I've seen it. I don't know what the explanation is, but I know it's not that. Probably has something to do with fear, although whether it's actually fear of me based on false perceptions or my own mistakes, or fear of her own feelings, or general fear of intimacy, or of being vulnerable, or a mix of them all, or something else entirely, I just have no way of knowing. My God--is that it? Does she, in her own way, have her heart locked away like mine was? Is that why he brought us together?

So the point is, here is why I can't get her out of my heart. Because in order to do so, I would have to shatter the cement, tear up the foundation, and start over. And I can't. My heart has been shattered too many times: it's too fragile: this was my last chance. And I feel like if I even tried, I would be turning my back on God, despising the work he's done in me and the gift he gave me. He could do it. He could tear up that foundation and build a new one. But he hasn't. Even though I've prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and given her and my love for her up to him, and asked for his will and not mine to be done, and sought him, and humbled myself, and fasted, and denied myself, and given up my own will and desires, and actually listened to and considered everyone else's advice, even when it was insulting. He hasn't.

I know all the practical advice. I know all the clichés. I know what a normal person, in a normal situation, should do about something like this. I know what common sense says to do. And if I hadn't known already, I've had enough people offer me their advice and opinions on the matter to gag a tyrannosaur. But this isn't a normal situation: it's a struggle for my soul. I'm Job, sitting on the ash heap, and nothing is going to save me but God. (And most of the people who've offered their opinions have been about as helpful as Job's counselors.)

He hasn't done it, and I can't, and so, until he moves, I'm stuck. And I struggle every single day with slipping back into that hard-heartedness, that emotional dead zone. Every day. Every single day, for the last two years, I've been white-knuckling it to get through. And there's nothing else I can do, but continue to hang on, and trust in him, and wait for his deliverance, in whatever form and at whatever time he chooses to send it. That, or, as Job's friend said, "Curse God, and die."

Update

Mother and child are alive and healthy, although unfortunately the baby has to spend the first month of her life in an incubator. Strange, because her father did too.

Thank you.

Please pray for my daughter-in-law...

...Ryann, and my unborn grandson. She is bleeding and was just rushed in for an emergency caesarean.

Correction, granddaughter.

My son does not need this, after all he's been through.

The most beatiful thing in the world is a sweet young mother with her child.

Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen

Woke up this morning singing this.

500 Miles

And speaking of the Proclaimers, this is the song that was in my head the whole time I was walking last year.

Whole Wide World

Here's a slightly less arcane artist's word on the same subject.

Wishes to His (Supposed) Mistress

I came across this yesterday and thought it very apropos to what I've been thinking regarding my prospects of "meeting someone". As usual, one of the English metaphysical poets has said exactly what I want to say, better than I can say it myself.

Who e’er she be
That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me;

Wher e’er she lie,
Lock’d up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny;

Till that ripe birth
Of studied fate stand forth
And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her, my wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call’d my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty
That owes not all his duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty.

Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil
Of shop, or silkworm’s toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face that’s best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone command the rest.

A face made up
Out of no other shop
Than what nature’s white hand sets ope.

A cheek where youth,
And blood, with pen of truth
Write, what the reader sweetly ru’th.

A cheek where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day
A lover’s kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displaces
The neighbour diamond, and outfaces
That sunshine, by their own sweet graces.

Tresses, that wear
Jewels but to declare
How much themselves more precious are.

Whose native ray
Can tame the wanton day
Of gems, that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tam’d heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on Love’s bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joys, that confess
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and flight
As the coy bride’s when night
First does the longing lover right.

Tears, quickly fled,
And vain, as those are shed
For a dying maidenhead.

Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow
From a forespent night of sorrow.

Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers’ play,
Yet long by th’ absence of the day.

Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes say, “Welcome friend.”

Sidneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers.

Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers,
’Bove all, nothing within that lours.

Whate’er delight
Can make Day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.

In her whole frame
Have nature all the name,
Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery,
Picture and poesy,
Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish, her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes, and I wish—no more.

Now if time knows
That her whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows,

Her whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;

Her that dares be
What these lines wish to see:
I seek no further, it is she.

’Tis she, and here,
Lo, I unclothe and clear
My wishes’ cloudy character.

May she enjoy it,
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it.

Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying wishes,
And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions; but her story.

-- Richard Crashaw, 1646

Two Years....

"We must do without hope." -- J.R.R. Tolkien

Dropped my guests off in Pennsylvania today. I'm back home now, and the place is so empty and quiet, it's kinda sad. Alone again. Naturally.

I love my life. Except for the loneliness. I am so tired of being alone. So sick and friggin' tired. I know I could just go out and find some girl to keep me company: that would be easy. Hell, I've got a few volunteers waiting. But I know too well from experience that being with someone doesn't necessarily keep you from being alone: the wrong person can make you lonelier than you are by yourself.

Lots of Mennonites between here and Harrisburg. In fact, the place where I dropped my friends off for their next stop is a big Anabaptist convention. I get a lot of Mennonite girls making eyes at me. Must be the beard and the plaid shirt. :) Couldn't marry one, though. Unfortunate, because I actually find them very attractive: modesty is sexy. But a) although certain aspects of simplicity appeal to me greatly, I can't adopt their eschewal of the good things in life. And b) I can never, never be a pacifist. If somebody is trying to hurt my wife and kids, I'm going to kill him. Period.

Ran into people from church again the other day. They said they're going to keep on trying to invite me to things, hoping some day I'll change my mind. I love them a lot for trying. But it really doesn't make it any easier on me, chiefly because I am so tempted to take them up on it, especially in these empty moments. But I know it would only make it worse, in the end.

What I really need is for someone to buy my house, so I can get the hell out of here. Well, that's not exactly accurate. What I really need is some kind of love in my life.

Oh, and I bought new pants the other day. Waist size 40. The ones I wore when I moved to Virginia were 52, and the ones I wore when I was eighteen were 36.

Now I'm thinking about the origin of the phrase, "train of thought".

Solomon and the Shulamite

I'm reading through the Old Testament again, and am struck by the story of Abishag.

"Now king David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he gat no heat. Wherefore his servants said unto him, 'Let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin: and let her stand before the king and let her cherish him, and let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord the king may get heat.'  [Yeah, that'll do it. I love the unblenching virility of the Bible: some time between Augustine and Luther, Christianity became a religion of wan eunuchs, but the Bible is not so. --ed.] So they sought for a fair damsel throughout all the coasts of Israel, and found Abishag, a Shunammite, and brought her to the king. And the damsel was very fair, and cherished the king, and ministered to him: but the king knew her not." -- 1 Kings 1:1-4

In case you're not up on Elizabethan vernacular, "knew her not" means she was still a virgin when the king died.

So later, when David has died and Solomon has been made king, his brother Adonijah, who had tried to declare himself king and was barely spared his life by Solomon, goes to Solomon's mother, Bathsheba (yeah, the woman David "knew" after watching her bathe on her rooftop), and sends her to ask king Solomon to give him Abishag as his wife. Look at Solomon's reaction:

"And king Solomon answered and said unto his mother, 'And why dost thou ask Abishag the Shunammite for Adonijah? Ask for him the kingdom also'."

Then he had Adonijah executed. That's a pretty strong reaction, right? So who was Abishag to Solomon, that he valued her alongside his entire kingdom, and even more, because he pardoned his brother for trying to usurp his throne, but killed him for asking for Abishag?

Well, I had a suspicion, and some research confirmed it: Shunammite is another way of saying Shulamite. (The village in Israel which was called in ancient times 'Shunem' is now called 'Solem'. 'Shulam' is an obvious transitional form in the linguistic evolution of the word.) That is, 'Shulamite', as in;

"Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.
Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Gilead.
Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins, and there is not one barren among them.
As a piece of a pomegranate are thy temples within thy locks.
There are threescore queens, and fourscore concubines, and virgins without number.
My dove, my undefiled is but one; she is the only one of her mother, she is the choice one of her that bare her.
The daughters saw her, and blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?
I went down into the garden of nuts to see the fruits of the valley, and to see whether the vine flourished, and the pomegranates budded.
Or ever I was aware, my soul made me like the chariots of Amminadib.
Return, return, O Shulamite; return, return, that we may look upon thee.
What will ye see in the Shulamite? As it were the company of two armies." 

-- Song of Solomon 6

So Solomon fell in love--truly fell in love, with this sweet young girl who cherished and ministered to his father. I can almost see the love progressing, as the two of them love and minister to the good old man, each noting the tenderness and respect which the other shows him; glances, whispered words, perhaps a fleeting brush as they pass, or a touch on the arm....

Some say that the Shulamite was one of Solomon's other wives, such as Pharaoh's daughter, for whom he built part of the palace. But in chapter one of the Song, the bride says that she is dark from the sun, because her mother's children were angry with her and made her tend the vineyards. That doesn't sound like a Pharaoh's daughter: it fits much better with a common girl of uncommon beauty who was found in a nation-wide search of maidens to keep the king company. A simple country girl whose beauty, grace, and charm comforted the old king and captivated the heart of the young one. Beautiful, no? Here's a passage on the Shulamite from the book All the Women of the Bible:

"Although Solomon composed 1,005 songs (1 Kings 4:32), the one before us from his gifted pen was in a class by itself, which he named, “The Song of Songs,” meaning a very excellent song, or the most surpassing of his Songs. Because of the sexual atmosphere of this song, or poem, there have been those writers who have protested against its inclusion in Holy Writ, not only because of its love content, but also because it is destitute of any declared divine name or truth. Solomon’s “Song” is not simply an oriental love poem, full of exquisite beauty and charm, set amid beautiful pastoral scenes. It is also the portrayal of a lovely yet lowly maiden from her northern home who could not be swayed by the wealth and splendor of a gorgeous court life. She loved her beloved for what he was, not had, and gave him all her love, and was adverse to his sharing his love with any other woman.
Immersed in polygamy as Solomon was, and which in his heart, he knew to be against God’s law, it may be that he wrote this Song as a protest against an almost universal practice, and as a portrayal of the purity and constancy of a pure woman’s love and of the ideal relationship God ordained for a man and a woman. Today, human society is saturated, to its detriment, with lower ideals of free love, loose practices and easy divorces. The attractive Shulamite impressed upon the ladies (?) of the court her love and loyalty to the one man who had wooed and won her heart. That she triumphed can be gathered from her confident confession, “I am my beloved’s, and his desire is towards me,” and many waters could not quench such singular love. Spiritual minds all down the ages have seen in this remarkable Song a symbol of the new union and communion existing between Christ and His true church—His Bride."

Also, the Bible says that "Solomon loved many strange women, together with the daughter of Pharaoh...and his wives turned away his heart after other gods." The love shared by the two protagonists  of the poem is a holy, pure love. The kind of love that can only be shared by a man and woman in communion with the true God. Look at this:

"And Solomon brought up the daughter of Pharaoh out of the city of David unto the house that he had built for her: for he said, 'My wife shall not dwell in the house of David king of Israel, because the places are holy, whereunto the ark of the Lord hath come.'" -- II Chron. 8:11

So this is speculation, but speculation based on the textual evidence: Pharaoh's daughter and all the other "strange women" were kept separately from Solomon's own dwelling place, because they were not holy. But would God choose the union of his holy and anointed king with an unholy strange woman to be the picture of His union with his mystical bride? I think not. The Beloved of the Song is a daughter of Sarah. Solomon's true love was Abishag the Shulamite.

Another thing sparked my attention, as I was reading a little further on. Solomon was thirty-ish when he became king, and obviously couldn't marry what was technically his father's concubine as long as his father was alive. And she was a "young virgin", which, at the time, probably meant about fourteen. That means that the most beautiful and moving love poem ever written, the love story which has inspired people for the last three thousand years or so, and the image of romantic love which God Himself chose to portray His love for us, His people, was between a man and a woman about fifteen years apart in age.

I especially love the lines, "Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?" and "Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me." You don't really get it until you've really, truly been in love. Until you're a ridiculous man who's not afraid of anything in the world except a hundred and ten pound girl with hair like flowing honey and eyes like the Caribbean sea sparkling in sunlight.

Sacrifices to Molech

I avoid news. But someone just sent me the video of the Planned Parenthood doctor casually discussing the sale of the various bodyparts of the murdered babies over lunch, calmly describing the various clinical barbarities inflicted on the helpless child during the "procedure".

My question is, why is everyone suddenly outraged because they're selling the parts, rather than because they're actually doing these heinous things to innocent little babies? We've all known for decades that it's going on.

And my answer is one that I've alluded to before: only two things are important in America: sex and money. Or, to put it another way, America has two gods: Mammon and Venus. Molech may be getting the scraps, but it's when you mess with one of those two that people really get upset. Witness that insider traders and con men routinely receive harsher sentencing than rapists.

"Amen. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus." -- Rev 22:20

Visitors

I've been hosting my friends Peter and Helen, from India. Peter is a pastor and missionary, and both are lovely people who love the Lord. Helen insists on doing the dishes, and made me an authentic Indian meal last night. She says, "Wherever I go, I am a woman." I love women who are unabashedly feminine. I took them around my property a bit, because they are fascinated by the forest: Helen loves trees and is amazed by how many different kinds there are on my mountain. They couldn't get enough of the wild raspberries and blackberries, and spent a lot of time taking pictures to send back home.

Emotional Flatline

I've hit some kind of wall: don't feel anything at all anymore. I don't know if it's because I'm completely emotionally exhausted, or what. It feels like I'm dead inside. I just finished looking through a box of old family photos, looking for something for my daughter, and not even that stirred any feeling whatsoever.

Also, can't sleep.

"It is better to feel pain than nothing at all." -- Unknown

All Noble Things are Difficult

"Enter ye at the straight gate...because straight is the gate and narrow the way"
-- Matt. 7:13-14

"If we are going to live as disciples of Jesus, we have to remember that all noble things are difficult. The Christian life is gloriously difficult, but the difficulty of it does not make us faint and cave in, it rouses us up to overcome. Do we so appreciate the marvellous salvation of Jesus Christ that we are our utmost for His highest?

God saves men by His sovereign grace through the Atonement of Jesus; He works in us to will and to do of His good pleasure; but we have to work out that salvation in practical living. If once we start on the basis of His Redemption to do what He commands, we find that we can do it. If we fail, it is because we have not practised. The crisis will reveal whether we have been practising or not. If we obey the Spirit of God and practise in our physical life what God has put in us by His Spirit, then when the crisis comes, we shall find that our own nature as well as the grace of God will stand by us.

Thank God He does give us difficult things to do! His salvation is a glad thing, but it is also a heroic, holy thing. It tests us for all we are worth. Jesus is bringing many "sons" unto glory, and God will not shield us from the requirements of a son. God’s grace turns out men and women with a strong family likeness to Jesus Christ, not milk sops. It takes a tremendous amount of discipline to live the noble life of a disciple of Jesus in actual things. It is always necessary to make an effort to be noble."

-- Oswald Chambers

Bounty

You would not believe how many berries I've got this year: they're literally weighing down the vines in big bunches, like grapes in the promised land. I collected these in about half an hour without going twenty feet from my house. And I've got six acres.

Making an Effort

I tried "going out" this last week. Tried a few different things: spent an evening downtown, went to a party, had a young lady up to the house for dinner. These are the things that one does when one is being sensible, trying to move on, to be normal, to forget.

But for me, it just accentuated my isolation. I go out, and I meet people. Women show interest: seriously beautiful, seriously young women. But I have no real interest in them. I mean, it's nice to just talk and not be alone for a while, but there's nothing there. I really do try, and I really do care about them, as people, but there's no connection. And the further I go along the road of getting to know them, the more I see that I just have nothing in common with ninety-nine percent of humanity. I mean, I know, nobody is ever going to find anyone exactly like themselves. But you've got to have some degree of commonality to have a real relationship with someone. Here are the things I run into:

1) I am seriously Christian. And therefore, so must she be. There's just no way I could have a successful long-term relationship with anyone who isn't. Unfortunately, most people who are quite serious about living as Christians are also quite modern in their tastes and practice: to them, worship means standing for an hour with your hands raised while singing along to what I find to be trite emotionalism; Christian music means contemporary Christian music or "praise and worship" music; Christian literature means what's in the Christian fiction section. And that's great, if that's what's doing it for them--that's where they're at, and it's ok. But I need more. And I need to be able to share it with the most important person in my life. 

2) On the other hand, there are lots of people who are Church People, and have better taste in the peripheral things, but aren't really serious like I am about living in and for Christ. Religion, for them, is a nice thing to be involved in as one of the activities of a balanced life, but when you start talking about, and trying to live, radically for Jesus, they treat you like you're dangerous and insane. "You don't actually think God speaks to you, do you?" Well, yes, I do, as a matter of fact. So what I need is someone who, like me, can find God in a very real, deep, and meaningful way in Shakespeare, Bach, Donne, Verdi, and Michelangelo, and not someone who just "enjoys" those things because they're part of what it means to be an educated and cultured person.

3) And someone who can also find Him in a very real, deep, and meaningful way in the view of the mountains from our house. And the stars from our campsite. And the freshly-tilled soil of our garden. And the joy of making something beautiful and useful with one's own hands. And in the simple beauty of traditional folk music and culture, whether our own or someone else's. Who could, like me, be left misty-eyed and breathless after listening to Zauerli and Alpine horns for the first time, or find deep joy in sitting down to a traditional Japanese meal.

4) I like good stuff. Artisan foods, wine, craft beer, you know, all that. And I'm into healthy eating, and exercise, being outdoors, growing, making, and cooking things for myself. And I need someone who's going to be able to walk that path with me too, not someone who's going to be a constant weight, dragging me down and resisting me. So there's about half the population or better ruled out right there.

5) I hate television. I hate what passes for "music" in popular culture these days. I don't care about fashions or trends or even news, really. Most movies that come out don't interest me. I've resigned from politics. I think sports are kinda stupid--or at least, the fervency with which people follow sports is stupid. I'm not into casual sex or the tortuous serial pseudo-marriage style of relationships on which the majority of people spend all their time and energy. I find most conversations I overhear banal and dull. Therefore I have nothing to talk about with, as I said, ninety-nine percent of humanity, because I just listed pretty much everything they care about or want to talk about. I try not to judge, but I and most people just have no common interests. And I hate, most of all, being fake and making meaningless, banal chitchat.

6) My life is about ideas and ideals. Truth. Beauty. Courage. Love. I love to talk about these things. But I don't just want to talk about them: I want to live them. And I need somebody who can talk with me about them, and who will live them with me. And someone who won't just be following me, but challenging me, helping me, pushing me, inspiring me. Someone who is in some ways better than me, and therefore helps me become a better version of myself.

When I look around at what's out there, I feel like I've been sitting in a fine restaurant, smelling the delicious food, seeing other people served their meals...but have been thrown out into the alley to dig in the dumpster for my meal. Sure, there are lots of pretty girls. But to me, it's just empty beauty. Like junk food: appealing in its way, but really just empty calories. That sounds too harsh: let me try again. I really do care about all these people, as people. But none of them is what I need for my life. Sweet people. Good people. Caring people. But not quite enough.

I mean, you know, on a certain level I'm good at interacting with anybody, from any background or walk of life. And not just faking it, but genuinely connecting with and caring about them. But that's me giving to them. Which I love, but when you're talking about real relationships, there has to be both give and take. I truly find joy in sitting down with a homeless guy over a meal and talking to him. But that doesn't really meet my deep emotional and intellectual needs. Does this make sense, without me sounding selfish? 

And I'm wondering too: even if I do find someone again who really interests me; am I ever going to have the courage to truly open myself up again? Can I risk going through this again? I don't know. I'm not even done going through it this time.

The Truth

I had a conversation some time ago in which a friend told me that she'd heard people doubting the veracity of certain things I've said about my past. I don't care about those people, but I do care about the trust of my friends. And I know that there's a difference between choosing to trust someone you love and having all doubt removed. Therefore, so that those who do care about me don't have to wonder on any level whether I'm actually just a big fake and a liar...

Basic Armor (Tanker) Training completion.

Forms showing my service in the Gulf War. I've highlighted the relevant entries.

Discharge from my Special Forces unit.

Police Academy diploma.

My deputization.

To make sense of the dates, the chronology was this: I joined the Army in '85 and served three years on active duty as a tanker. From '88 to '93, I was a reservist. I volunteered for active service in the Gulf War and subsequently served almost another year on active duty before returning to reserve status. While still in the reserves, I went to the police academy, then got a job with the Alamosa Colorado Sheriff's Department about the same time my reserve service ended.

Not that I ever brought any of it up to boast. Or that there's really anything to boast about. It's just my past, and it is what it is.

Help Me

Ray LaMontagne - Be Here Now

There aren't enough violins and cellos in popular music. Anything is better with violins and cellos.

"Don't put your faith in walls, 'cause walls will only crush you when they fall."

Perfection and Grace

Because Jesus is both perfection and grace, He both drives me to virtue and excellence, and provides for me a resting place when I fail. His perfection is my destination. His grace is my home.