The last few days I’ve been under the weather and it’s been a tremendous benefit. Why? Because I used the time to listen to a book on CD that did me a world of good.

The book: Bonhoeffer, Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, by Eric Metaxas.

Actually, I’ve known the Bonhoeffer name for a long time, and something of his life. Anne read the book last year along with members of her book club. But until now I’ve had little idea.

This was a thorough-going 22 hours of listening, on 18 disks! I admit I slept at moments, but mostly it not only kept my mind off my malaise but truly on higher things.

Sometimes it’s a great benefit being sick.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer lived in Germany during the days of Hitler. By his resolve, conviction, education (doctorate by age 22) and his surrender to following the words of Jesus literally, he was the exact antithesis to Adolf Hitler.

Much of his work was to fortify the church which, along with most of the German culture, was caving in to the pragmatics and early successes, not to mention the unstoppable force, of the dictator.

Last year I read two books featuring that life. The first was Hitler’s Cross, by Irwin W. Lutzer, a documented account of Hitler’s early occult probings and his establishing the swastika as supreme symbol even over the church. Then I read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, A History of Nazi Germany, in 1200 pages, by William Shirer. That book mentioned nothing of the more-than-natural powers Hitler seemed to have, but I was struck at the many times hellish opportunities just opened before him.

There were a number of internal attempts to stop him, none succeeding. One of those involved Dietrich Bonhoeffer, for which he gave his life, by hanging, at age 39, just weeks before the war ended.

But this wasn’t to be a book report. Actually, I don’t know what it was to be. Except to say that on reading the one (Rise and Fall) I continually waged my head, and while reading (listening to) the other, I continually lifted my head.

I’ve since ordered and am reading The Cost of Discipleship, authored by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Somehow I missed this one until now. Once again I’m gaining a great deal, going through it very slowly, and after this, will again.

If anything, it’s adding to my health. And this time I’m not even sick.

_____________
Next: The Blank Canvas blog will feature paintings made leading up to, during, and after September’s time in Wyoming.

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Greetings of the new year to you my friends. And thanks for tuning into this blog this last year.

It’s a blank slate, this blog . . . and I’m a blank slate, I don’t always know what I’ll write. There are periods when nothing comes, or my writing time is focused elsewhere. Then, my deepest thoughts, those I write for myself, I’m not sure will be received . . . particularly on this, an artist’s website. (But then, none of us are only one thing.)

Here’s one that came this morning, transcribed from jottings in my sketchbook:

“I am the Lord your God,
who teaches you what is best for you,
and directs you in the way you should go.”*
There it is, a direct quote.
The wise man has been saying it (Solomon, in Proverbs**)
Now the prophet dictates it.
God wants us to get it.
It’s like He’s expecting me to be able to hear.
Meaning . . . we both want the same thing.

I want direction,
He wants to give direction.
Sounds like a perfect match.
All I can say is, “Let’s go.”

But do speak clearly, Lord, and not too soft.
And keep my ears clean,
Not full of wax,
Not too attracted to other sounds,
Not too dull,
And not so prone to tune You out.

That You’ll speak, I have no doubt,
It’s the listening part that needs the help.
I pray that You will hear me out on that.

Do you see what I mean? Very personal. Not that I mind sharing, but don’t want you to mind hearing. This one, I thought, at least a help for direction as we enter a new year. The promise is for all of us.

Like I said, let me know.

__________
*Isaiah 48:17, **Proverbs 3:6, etc., etc., etc.
The photos are from my speaking a week ago, on God’s “comfort.” It’s on line here.

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The other night I had a dream, long, weird, and a bit fearful.
I felt we were living in ominous times.
I was in America but a weakened version.
It was like God had once been blessing but we’d turned away.
A foreign power had taken over, our leaders were their vassals.
Their solders were everywhere.
And now we were even forced to pay taxes to this foreign country.

Internally, things weren’t much better.
Any vestige of spiritual leadership had gone pretty powerless, without faith, or even belief.
Our political leadership kept up a show of such, but you couldn’t tell.
Anything of God seemed far distant, of another age, and not relevant.

In the dream I was something of a long distance trucker.
I had a girlfriend, maybe we were married . . . she was pregnant.

This one night she was with me and we were driving late.
It was very clear, full of stars, and very cold.
Then the heater went out. There would be no sleeping in the truck.
That night, of all nights, we could not find one motel with a vacancy.
It was just bad luck.

Then as if everything possible was going wrong, labor pains began.
I was stressed beyond stress, alone, with nowhere to go.

Right then a door opened with a brilliant light and a woman’s voice:
“Wake up, it’s Christmas, and breakfast is on the table.”

That, of course, was my wife in real life. I’d been dreaming.

After that it was all noise and children with presents and pretty wrappings strewn everywhere. It was the merriest moment of the holiday described by that name.

But not so the original occasion. Mystery, maybe, with angels and strange announcements, shepherds showing up with accounts of having seen a vision en masse, and academes from distant realms presenting opulent gifts and bowing down at a feed trough.

Then there were dreams, like Joseph’s warning of baby killers coming, which would not be a dream.

Actually mine wasn’t either, but related for a point . . . that the original Christmas, while very special, was not merry, more like scary.

But it happened, and that it did changed everything, and became a great comfort for all mankind.

Peace on your earth this season, and those to come.

______
PS  I’ll be speaking on these things and more this evening and tomorrow morning at Capo Beach Church. Click link for times and location.

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Having little to do with the list, here’s me speaking and painting. Click to check it out.

As I’m prone to do, whether or not it’s at the turn of the year, but then especially, I take a quick look at where life’s been taking me.

Listing high points and low, I found more of the high, but the learning came mostly from the low. (And that’s another high point.)

You might want to do the same exercise, and share it with a friend. Here’s mine (shared with a friend).

The year’s high points:

All travels, particularly the distant ones–Papua New Guinea, Oregon, Arizona, Washington, Wyoming, Kansas City and Chicago (Anne only), and Jericho/Israel. (The trip to Papua New Guinea was to explore subject matter for a new book. I drafted some 20 chapters before anesthetizing it for lack of focus.)

All relationships, including a number of new ones of deep interest. (This category, relationships, may be the essence of living.)

Mornings with God: Quiet connections between my mind and His, with my taking notes. (I have His notes.)

A further clarifying of my personal calling, providing focus for my months and hours.

Weekly gathering of close friends, sharing our minds, learnings and lives. (Missed our retreat this year, but enjoyed many pot-lucks.)

Weekly coffee with closest friend, the continuing of a 20-year conversation on every topic and lots of laughter.

Publishing a new book, People of the Earth, and further distribution of last year’s, It’s About Life.

Painting, probably a hundred pieces. Continuing to teach.

Blogging, on a fairly regular schedule on many topics, some reflective, some historical, some motivational, some “just because.”

The Year’s Low points:

Jury duty, when, on reflection, we didn’t provide justice to the plaintiff.
Learning: Be careful about taking someone to court.

Road accident, involving son-in-law Vernon with resultant long coma and ongoing restoration.
Learning: Seeing daughter Allison rise to the crisis in attitude and inner strength. (Her blogs have been particularly heartening. Check the most recent, with photos BY four-year-old Justine.)

Any argument with Anne, always a low point and sours life in general.
Learning: Keep talking . . . do not let the sun go down on your wrath.

My father’s death (four months after my mother’s the year before).
Learning: (1) It wasn’t really a low point, rather a “life point,” (2) I’ve moved into his slot, and (3) reviewing their lives has done me good.

Weaving through all this is a myriad of “Mid-Points,” the stuff of normal life. But reviewing these is instructive, and makes me appreciate all–both the high and the low. It’s life: Always worth examining.

Now it’s your turn.

_______

PS. In the last few days I’ve spoken three times, different talks, each while painting. One of them was videoed. Click on the picture.

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The team effort building the playground in Jericho.

Okay, I am a creative. That is, I make things that didn’t exist before, I do things that weren’t expected.

I don’t do everything. In fact depend on others for a great many important things. The regular stuff I often need help with, the stuff we need, that I need. What I supply instead is that which may be perfect for the situation but nobody knew it was coming, wouldn’t have missed it if it hadn’t, but which adds to the quality of the moment or the space.

Moreover, I’m seeing how every person has their own person-ness, contribution and style, and how everything they do is microcosm of their wholeness. We could say of every action, “There he goes again.”

I see it now looking back at the time with the team building a playground in Jericho. I was somewhat useful, but not in the technical areas. When there was a mechanical problem to be handled, I deferred to others. I often moved around, switching “teams,” getting involved in things only briefly. But, as somebody noticed, I made a point of encouraging anyone who was doing anything. I pitched in with energy with certain non-technical things, like rolling the wheel barrow around and doing physical stuff that had to be done.

But what I did do that no one saw coming was to write a humorous poem covering antics and reflections of how we worked together, and then I took initiative to wait for the right moment and stand up and dramatically read it to the group. Nobody could have seen that coming, but they loved it and it added to the quality of the whole event.

It was the same thing with the paintings, which I took a day out to do (missing a day of touring) and then surprised everybody some days later with an “art show” in which they were presented, each one, with the paintings as gifts. Some said this made the trip for them, or at least filled any need to buy some special keepsake of the trip.

Again, nobody saw it coming, if it hadn’t happened nobody would have missed it, but doing it added to the memorability and the quality of the whole.

In truth, I didn’t see these coming either. It’s just the kind of thing I do. And knowing that, accepting it, helps with the personal freedom.

That’s a little encouragement we all need . . . to know who we are, the uniqueness of our particular contribution, and then do it.

Do it for others.

The world just gets better.

____________________

PS By coincidence of this post, I’ll be doing another of my speaking and painting events both this evening and this coming Sunday. It’ll be the Christmas story, expanded, both in word and on canvas. Tonight it’ll be at Capo Beach Church at 6:30. On Sunday it’ll be a Granite Creek Church in Claremont at 9:30 and 11:00. All are welcome at both.

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Queen Justine.

I said I was going post a few blogs on insights from our recent Israel trip. That was before Thanksgiving and a quick trip to my sister’s in San Luis Obispo. Anne and I took grandchild Justine and surprised Sue, adding to her already abundant guest list of 35-plus. Two and a half more didn’t put even a dent in the refrigerator-full of leftovers. And as it happened, Justine was only interested in the rolls, just three of them.

After the meal and the traditional go-around of what we were thankful for, I couldn’t deny that what heads my list is God himself. My reasons: it seems conceivable that one could have nothing, but having God (and knowing it) be altogether content. On the other hand, one can be as rich as a queen and still, without God, be hungry.

And that’ll be my offering to you today.

We’ll do Israel another.

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I made a few drawings in my sketchbook as we went along. They’re generally unfinished, but that’s how sketches are, moments in time, until time’s up.

We have just returned from Israel. It was a very full two weeks. The first was to build a playground with 30-some other volunteers temporarily serving “Kids Around the World,” an organization that does such. The second was a tour of Israel with the same group. There was so much to take in . . . some of it a review, now with “place” to connect it to; other was new information. It’s the kind of experience that one has to, well, experience. To try and explain it somehow diminishes it all.

A portion of us, sitting and listening to our guide at ancient Shiloh, moments before we got up and walked around . . . possibly on holy ground.

For the Israel tour we had the benefit of two guides, one a walking encyclopedia of historic, linguistic, cultural and biblical knowledge, the other more of a commenter on sometimes the political, sometimes the spiritual angle of things. We often got out to not-normally-visited places, like Shiloh, the setting for many Old Testament happenings and an early resting place for the Ark of the Covenant.

That’s Isaac on the right, our university-trained tour guide. On the left, my quick poem, penned right where Peter denied and a cock crowed. (Click drawings–maybe twice–for larger view.)

Sketch books, as I use them, are as much for words as for drawings. Sometimes it’s the jotting down of some momentary meditation, like the above, done while sitting briefly in the house of Caiaphas. That was one of the main mid-night venues of Jesus’s pre-crucifixion condemnation, right after Peter’s famous (predicted) denial in triplicate. The list that follows is of later notes jotted for any further recall or contemplation.

Such contemplations on some of these topics, or others, will be the subject of the next few blogs. It’s for my sake as well as anything, to capture them before they’re gone. As always, feel free to share.

Just in case you can’t read my small print, here’s the poem (or prayer):

Lord — It’s a comfort, tho a small one,
That like with Peter
You already know all about my denials.
Three times before breakfast
On any given day.
The worst, for Peter, was his boast
That he never would.
THAT, I won’t say.
But does that make me better?
Or worse?

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There’s no good photo of me in this situation, nor the armed guard looking on, but this of my friends is just as good.

I wish I had a picture of me standing with the Israeli soldier. He wouldn’t have minded; others had and he was compliant about it. I just never think of such things. But this time it would have been something worth having, if only to share here.

The occasion was the continuation of our tour in Jericho. We completed the playground (a photo yet to come) and moved on to other things. A big one for a morning was the supposed Mount of Temptation where Jesus withstood the three-times tempting of the devil. I could say more about that as it was pretty interesting, but I want to stay on focus here.

A few more stops and we were at the River Jordan and likely the exact spot where John the Baptist did the work for which his title was derived and where Jesus incredibly showed up to take part. What sins did he have to repent of? No matter; he was going through the death and resurrection symbolism that he would ultimately undergo in reality. A number of our group had decided to follow this rite at this spot on this day.

I’d thought about it myself, but vacillated. Don was first to go in. In his 85 years Don’s become a giant in the motorcycle field, leading the effort for importing a number of major brands over the years. He’s an interesting person to talk to, but I’d not thought a believer. Then, there he was, standing in the water, answering the questions affirmatively. Did he believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the only merit for eternal life? “Yes.” Then down he went, and lifted back up again.

I still wasn’t sure I’d follow. Raised in a Christian family, had I not been been baptized at around age nine? Seems my brother was ready, though two years younger, and I couldn’t be outdone. But later I began giving in to a lot less temptation than that mountain is known for and the effects led me far afield of my earlier teachings. It broke my mother’s heart and made me the subject of many prayers of many people for many years.

But I didn’t care about any of that.

There’s a book’s worth of experiences to follow but suffice to say in time I began to pay. As the famous parable goes, it was among the pigs in a far country I woke up and in humility returned to my Father’s house.

That was in Mexico. Anne was rather shocked. In time she also believed and a year later was baptized. Providing company for her and wanting to reaffirm my own stand, I also was baptized, then a second time.

So why again now? Good question. There was certainly no need. But when else could I make such a proclamation right here where Jesus did? Remember, he didn’t need to either.

And there was a certain uniqueness to the situation, being under the eyes of these two Israeli guards in full battle gear. So I did, but before going down, related a few of these things to the small group of friends on the bank and any others listening in.

Afterward I was moved when one of the guards, the one with enough English, approached me and said, “I was glad to hear your speech.”

Who knows what effect these things have? It’s in the invisible realms that change happens, but it’s manifest in ways that are seen.

(Now to keep avoiding those other temptations that the wind keeps blowing in.)

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We’re in Jericho. We’re with a group of 30-some volunteers organized by “Kids Around the World.” They build playgrounds. The one we’re building was disassembled in a Chicago suburb and is about to experience new use here in the West Bank.

For us, the whole trip is unusual. First, here we are in Palestine. Didn’t they just have another war here a month or so ago? (Or is it a continuation of the same one?) Of course the people are lovely, but crossing into the area is like crossing into Tijuana. There must be one perfect word to describe it but I don’t want to be pajorative.

Second, that a group of us, many strangers to each other until now, and most without any experience in these things, are following minimal instructions, a few photographs (of the playground as it looked in Chicago) and somehow putting this thing up.

From above we must look like a bunch of ants scurrying around, each bumping into one and then another, and then hurrying off to some other occupation, known only to the ant.

Still, Solomon used that lowly creature as role model for the rest of us. “Go to the ant . . . consider her ways and be wise. It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it provides its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest. (Proverbs 6:6-8)

I’ve not noticed any ants. Nor do I know how they’d survive. Though there are a few tended green areas for farming, the vast stretches of this place are bone-arid and cement-hard. Seems the land would be more logically named “God Forsaken” than “Promised.”

Why all the fuss about this particular part of the world?

But there’s history here, and principles at stake, and a future predicted. So the citizens go on, and so do we, in this case building a playground.

It’s sort of a cup of cold water in Jesus’ name.

Now and then we encounter hints of the tensions. Arriving at Israel’s Tel Aviv airport a young Jewish woman greeted us with surprise that we’d be going to Jericho, a place she’d never been, nor legally permitted to. Then on the road between our hotel and the work site we pass by a sign telling Israelis to stay away on pain of death. (Note last sentence on red sign, below.)

But we feel no danger. More, a stiffness in the muscles, and a surprising sense of accomplishment as we, like ants, bumble about, and keep working.

If the children who use this playground when its done have half the fun as we’ve had building it, it will have been eminently worth the effort.

Next: A photo of the completed project (God willing).

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A bit of ephemera found among Dad’s things.

I find it amusing when Dad says he was discouraged in his first two years in college as his grades “weren’t real good.” It’s the kind of grammar Mom would correct in him all their lives, but he held onto it. The following continues the saga. By the way, Part 4, about their post-wedding trek to the west coast in search of work, was posted earlier under “Traveling Blood.”

Dad often mentioned the special newlywed summer working at this place (and doing real good financially).

From Dad:

There was no steady work to be found. I had many jobs, lasting several days to a week or more. After almost a year of this we decided that I would be able to make up some of my low grades and complete my education as an electrical engineer.

We had a rough time that first year financially but by my junior year I was able to get a job as a park ranger at Devil’s Tower National Monument for the summer, and a job in the fall at a Laramie tourist camp which gave us room and $50 per month. So we did good financially.

From Mom:

His university yearbook exists, but oddly no photo of him. However, the one below seems to have been taken for the occasion.

Jobs continued to be sporadic so one day Hy said, “What do you think of me going back to college?” By that time we had $100 saved, so we took off for Laramie in March to attend the third quarter of school.

The following summer Hy worked for the railroad at Tipton, on the section, replacing ties, and we lived in our little trailer. Hy’s dad was a brakeman on the railroad and he would often throw out a large block of ice from the refrigerated freight cars, keeping our ice box full.

The following fall we went back to Laramie again and Hy graduated two years later from the College of Engineering. That was in the spring of 1942. We sold our trailer and gave the car to his youngest brother Burwin because we didn’t think it would make the trip to the east coast.

We took the train to Camden, New Jersey, where he had been hired to work for RCA.

And that is how my brother and I happened to be born on the east coast . . . though not raised there for long.

NEXT: Anne and I will be traveling to Jericho and Israel. Who knows what Internet connections we’ll find? Maybe you’ll hear from us, maybe not. We’ll see.

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