digestive crumbs

he came, he ate my digestives (leaving only crumbs) and drank the milk (cleaned his own dishes) pinned a stocking to my bed and hopefully continued on his jolly way to help make your Christmas magical and full of experiences worth smiling about, moments worth remembering.
my days have been filled with blessed interactions around the hostel, transatlantic-phone-relayed conversations, and an appropriate allotment of solitude, usually taking the shape of walks throughout the city.
and i saw King Kong for free - one of the hostel-dwellers works at the cinema. i enjoyed it. i'm a sucker for a story with fist fights and love in it; it had both.
and i finished reading Phantastes by George MacDonald, which is even way better than King Kong, because it not only has love and fist fights in it but poetry and fairies as well.

enroute this very evening to London where, tomorrow, i'll meet father and Kelly for some shared adventures. shared adventures are a thing i greatly desire and i am excited!

one more sleep

Matthew chapter three.
In those days (which is to say, the days when miracles happened more blatantly than ever, when God was whispered to walk amongst us) water-wading-body-baptizing John showed up in the wild parts of Judea with a message vibrating forth from his vocal chords and shaking the rocks around him, "Turn around, turn around cause God's Dream is sneaking up on us!"
John's the one that the crazy old sage Isaiah had talked about all those years before, "A voice issuing from the wilderness - 'Clear the road, mark the way, God's coming through!'"
All he wore was his own hairy skin and a few tattered scraps of animal hide. He chomped on bugs for nourishment and drank down honey straight from the comb. People came from the city, people came from the countryside - people came from all over opening up their souls to John and letting him dunk them in the river and hold them there until their lungs screamed for air, until their hearts cried out for new life.
But once, when the teachers and preachers came tip-toeing out into the wild regions trying desperately not to dirty their garments all the while ignoring their own soiled souls, John called them out on the fake lives and complex lies they were living. He said this to them (and, if we're honest, to us all), "Bunch of snakes! Why are you slithering and sniveling out this way? You think running to daddy everytime you're in trouble is going to save you? No - it's time you start owning up to your own crap, it's time you start blossoming with acts of kindness. Your dung heap lives are as good as fire fuel if you don't."
Then he turned to everybody else and let them hear, "I splash you with some water, get you a bit wet - and that's a sure enough sign that you want to live better, but" (and here he whispered, drawing those intent, dust smeared faces all the closer) "one's coming..one's coming who can make you live better. I wouldn't even dare finger his shoe laces. One glance from him and you'll be washed cleaner than clean with wind and fire. One touch from his hand and your insides will melt. He'll find the good in you, if there's any there to be found - and if not, he'll clean out the bad. One's coming..."

And so our time of waiting draws to a close, only to begin again. Let's get wrapped up - like all those presents under our trees - in the intensity of our coming Savior.
Peace. Merry Christmas.

Christmas in Edinburgh

There's the winter wonderland, which has all of the high priced rickety rides that you might hope to find at any fair or exhibition - and all of them crammed snuggley into one small pocket of the city; right along side of the outdoor skating rink which they've been trying desperately to keep frozen in the above freezing temperatures of these winter days. Mostly what results is a mass of people gliding about a pond of almost-slush with their ankles all wobbley in rental skates and smiles spread across their faces.
There's the nativity what a golden retriever in it on the corner of West Princes St. Gardens, not far from where I rolled down the hill in my Santa suit. The life size nativity pieces were sculpted not immaculately but roughly, with a touch of the grit and earthiness that I'm sure must have accompanied the initial event of the incarnation.
And from my window, five or six stories off the deck, I can see across the way over the tops of chimneys and streets and terraces, into the windows of some sort of office building where they have Christmas trees on each level all lit up with different colors. Off to the left I can see the subtle but proud summit of Arthur's Seat; at night time the moon lingers above that and if I cast my gaze straight ahead it reaches to the belt across Orion's waist. And I suppose these last bits don't have much to do with Christmas, except that anything celestial and everything wonderful ought to remind us of the miracle behind this holiday.
May it be so with you.
May it be so with me.

proud feet

Last night I got to talk about faith and spirituality for a while. Pam, who is from Australia and lives at the hostel right now, working in Edinburgh saving money up to get on the road again, and I went to the Castle Arms, which is a pub about 37 big steps from my front door where they have this thing called the Traveler's Menu and its reserved for us hostel dwellers, it has food on it that is cheap enough to be considered by backpackers and scroungers like us, but good enough to actually enjoy. I had nachos with heaps of stuff on them. Filling. £2.95. Miracle.
Pam has her chin pierced (most people here don't), she rolls her own cigarettes (most people here do), and her parents are practicing Roman Catholics. But she got sort of tired of (or perhaps was never much interested in it in the first place) a Christianity that didn't mean much at the level of the soul. She doesn't seem bitter at all, but I got the impression that, as fas as she could tell, Christianity was mostly boring and useless, though perhaps a bit mysterious as well. Can't say that I blame her, a lot of times Christianity (Protestant or Catholic or whatever) tends to come across that way doesn't it? I'm not sure who's to blame?
But anyway..as we were talking she got me telling her what it is I think Christianity is, or is supposed to be all about. She listened real graciously and I don't quite remember what I said but I enjoyed saying it and I think it was halfway coherent. Throughout the conversation I talked about God as if God exists without a doubt; just because that's pretty well how I approach life.. but I know there are doubts, lots of them, I think that's alright and that it's good. It's alright that Pam asked, "What if, in the end, you find out you were wrong all along?" It's good that she asked, "What is God anyway?"
I haven't had all kinds of interactions like that, but I think under the surface (and there's often several layers of surface) these are the sorts of fears people are confessing and these are the sorts of questions they are asking, in one way or another, when we encounter them regardless of the kind of interaction.
God grant us eyes that peel and ears that delve; then courage or patience or whatever it may be that we need in order to respond well.


We also all decorated our Christmas tree last night here at the hostel. It stands 14 proud feet tall and I got to put the tinsel up around the very very top.

a poem that stumbled upon me

Cross skyward floating ablend with the night

Jesus hanging from the ceiling all tangled up on a cross so luxuriously adorned

And me sitting staring
or walking wondering

In speechless proclamation (which is contemplation)
I can't escape
We shan't escape
the question:
What difference does Jesus make?

In answer I blink an unknowing blink
or smile a smile like on the face of a child

What difference, what difference, what difference
up there
does Jesus make?

Stuck on, plastered on to some crosses with years of complacent idolization
Idolizing the son of God with his bleeding hands, his bleeding sides, his bleeding brow
Fixing him to the cross with our
inaction our
indifference our
toleration of indecency

Some crosses emptied of flesh
Bare and naked like the Jesus we've peeled off of it
Peeled and empty and left to dangle round our necks
below our chins held high with the touch of arrogance that comes
with the assurance of our place round the throne

What difference does Jesus make?
Stuck up there half dead
Or ripped off and disregarded
Where's the living Jesus?
Where's the moving Jesus?
Where's the loving Jesus?

He spoke of movement
we've settled for inaction
He touched with love
we are touched with arrogance

What difference does Jesus make?
Can't be answered by the sound of sloppy words
Only answered by our unknowing, our cease striving, our becoming

"Come to me all you who are sick of the way things are
the way things ought not be
and I will give you rest
I will show you peace
I will teach you the rhythms of grace
Only come to me
Become like me"

What difference does Jesus make?
What difference are we making?
For Christ's sake, what's the difference?

pictoral proof of me (and steve) in scotland

our shared ascent of Arthur's Seat - Steve jet-lagged and me glad to have a friend near enough to touch.






some reading material - (actually a super big book full of old fabric samples at Holland and Sherry in the little town of Peebles, where they make luxury fabric for the suit company Steve works for)





my basement at ness - see the cute little harris tweed tartan teddy in the box on the floor? you too could hold him tight - ww.nessbypost.com






us clubbin!






Scotland forever! - our hike through Glen Nevis just around the corner of Fort William

the sauntering santas

This morning, after sharing some brekky comprised of toast, eggs, clementines, oj, etc (with Wayne, Roger, Emma, Beck, Kristy, Anthony, and another guy whose name I don't remember but he has his eyebrow pierced and his hair is sort of like Ben Blevins hair) we met up with hundreds and hundreds of other people - all shapes and sizes, even a few different colours. We met in the gardens that are sandwiched between Princes Street and the castle, we all put on Santa Claus suits and we went for a bit of a jog serenaded by some kilted piping Santas; all to raise some of the good Queen's currency to put into the "When you wish upon a star" foundation. It was brilliant!
I was fortunate to pass the rest of the afternoon with my friends, each of us in our red felt pants, at "The Last Drop" listening, talking, listening. Fascinating people - with real life hearts, emotions, opinions, and stories about what their days on this earth have been like.
This evening I received a sweedish birthday cake (late but ludicrously delicious) from the Swedes, decorated gingerbread cookies (I made a gingerpig and gave him smarties for his nostrils), and there were Christmas carols at St. Giles.

Enjoying here.
Missing home.

for mom and dad

twenty-three years ago something very significant took place in my life.
this morning i think of that occurence (though honestly don't recall much of it) and wish to extend my thanks to my parents for being who they are and helping me to be, and for their nearness to me as i have grown and as i become.

with the tastes from the Lord's table and a taste from mom's kitchen (mint squares received yesterday - christmas is officially allowed to come!) fresh in my mouth, i'm ready to embrace this damp day in edinburgh -- ready to embrace another year of life; moved by the unforced rhythms of grace...

spiced tea and tickles

I have celebrated the Sabbath now several times with the Edinburgh City Corps of the Salvation Army during their Sunday morning worship. The Salvation Army, as I understand it, is rooted in the methodist tradition - as is my own Wesleyan heritage. Just as the liturgical celebration at St. Giles is refreshing like a glass of cold water, the more familiar style of church carried out at the Salvation Army is soothing like a mug of warm tea. (Still different though, a different sort of tea - spiced with songsters and a brass band and uniforms and their own lingo.)

-----------------------

I continue to enjoy the encounters - brief and extended - that are given to me. Sometimes I almost miss them, but as often as I remember to I cherish them..
Rob the yoga instructor from the Netherlands, late into his fifties, small, and quirky as all get out. He was at Fort William when Steve and I were there, a week later he was in the bunk above mine here in Edinburgh - leaning his head over upside down while I read the psalms with my tikka to tell me, with his broken english and evangelical-vigor, how important experience is when it comes to religion and life and anything.
A chicken packed pita and chips at the pub with Anthony from Sri Lanka then Australia then Canada now here. He ate a meatless double burger since he's a vegetarian and an accountant. We shared stories. Talked about hopes, desires. Both love the films 'Big Fish' and 'Finding Neverland' and 'Swiss Family Robinson'. He's never seen 'Princess Bride'.
Remember Johnny our brother with the dreads dreaming toward being a reggae singer? He came in one night while I was working at the desk and had a slew of Bob Marley pictures from an old calender, gave me a couple - one of them with Bob Marley's teeth bared smiling, the same sort of smile that Johnny mirrors whether he means to or not.
Talking with Greg about the food he eats to fend of sickness and avoid hangovers, helping Maria remember my name by drawing a picture of a ram, bantering behind the desk with Rachel and Katie, being offered turnip chips from Ash and Alaya, piano lessons with Jen, a chat about cuisine and literature with Sweedish Charlie. And let's not forget the Irish lady in the shop who sounded (as much as a middle aged woman with class can sound) like Brad Pitt from 'Snatch'.

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Leaned up against a damp statue of some sort last night to look, really look, at one of my Christmas trees (I have many in the city) while I listened to Enya sing 'Silent Night', only without english words. Appreciating the way Christmas tickles the heart. Missing the sharing of tickles.

combatant clemintines

steve left this morning.
i walked about edinburgh seeking information regarding my post-christmas travels (which, in time, you will read fully about).
i've got a bit of a runny nose, but loads of clemintines to combat it with.

and here's some words from one of my favorite writers - words that i have to return to often:
"Yes, crucifixion before resurrection, winter before spring, a seed left to die in order to yield a harvest, such is the pattern of life, of living. We must walk through the petite mals, the little deaths, and on occasion the grand as well. But, our focus is not on the death, our view is toward the promise, the fullness, the freshness of new legs and unrestricted heart! This is how our Lord’s pattern is different than all of the rest. Instead of distracting us with the illusion of “comfort” or medicating us with“leisure”, He shows us up front the cost of honesty, the price of becoming real. Ole Wormwood would have us playing X-Box while the van drives headlong, full speed toward the cliff. Brother of Life takes our hand and walks us through the valley (ah, the flowers and plains and grizzlies!), no illusions, no distractions, no smoke or mirrors, just true life – with company."

with Company...

Let me tell you about Holy Communion at St. Giles..

My alarm clock wakes me around 7.37am, Communion is at 8, I don't need that long to get there, but I need that long to get there in time to experience the deep silence and grand space of the place 15 minutes prior to the sharing of the elements. I wake up and my flesh, damn it, tells me I want to sleep. I say, "No I don't," it says, "Yes you do." Then I look at it with a hard cold look and swing my legs out of bed. I wiggle into my pants, put on shoes but no socks, drape my coat over my shoulders and flee to the eucharist. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, I meet the man walking his two short-legged, puffy-bellied dogs as the city starts waking up with a pink tint up against the stone fo the buildings. The minister sits on a bench just inside the doors to guide us God-hungry (or at least God-curious) individuals to the little cubby of a chapel tucked against the north side of the church. Then we sit, one two or three of us - eventually four, seldom five - in that deep silence and grand space of the place until the bells toll. After the bells I hear the squeak squeak and clunk clunk of the steps carrying the man who is carrying the elements to us - bread wrapped up in a cloth like the mystery that it is and wine in the sliver goblet with little dents, the goblet that reflects the hands that carry it, the black and white tile of the floor, the thirsty lips that approach it with care.
The squeaks and the clunks make my heart skip, like the whistle at the start of the game - only more sacred.
The minister places the elements before us, then sits with us, usually right next to me, making our four count five or our seldom five, six. Quiet. He reads a psalm with words and voice and accent that hangs and flows like the white robe he's adorned in. It's my native tongue and it's a foreign language all at once. It's music in cognito. He reads more, from the gospels sometimes, from the letters others. And calls Jesus names, beautiful names. Then his prayer - not a written prayer, but polished and crafted with careful thought and poignant phrases - each time a bit different, each time more or less the same: "Feed us that we may feed others." He approaches the symbols of flesh and blood and turns to face us. Then back and forth we climb our way through the liturgy like the switch backs of a steep ascent. "Give thanks to the Lord," he says. We say, "It is meet and right so to do." And other words, back and forth. "Lord Jesus Christ..have mercy upon us. Lord Jesus Christ..have mercy upon us. Lord Jesus Christ.." And just when we're ready to plead for mercy a third and final time something shifts - a sudden boldness, a sudden desperation, or just because it's written this way in the lectionary - who knows - but for some reason we finish with the wild request, "..grant us thy peace." And most of us believe it is possible, the rest of us go through with it hoping that it might be. The elements blessed, committed - the minister nibbles and sips then brings them to us. The man on my left absorbs the elements with haste, as if the mercy and peace we've been speaking of, believing in, hoping for may escape if he takes too long. The woman on my right, the one whose face has been glowing the whole time as if Jesus was there holding her hand and telling her secrets, chews the bread pensively and sips the wine cautiously not wanting to arrive on the other side of this experience. I love how dry the bread is in my mouth. I love how the cup covers my whole face when I tip it up to receive the drink offered to me. Then we all shake hands - like at the end of the game, only more sacred - briefly breaching the barrier of island-existence and in so doing passing a hint or two of the previously mentioned peace with a moment of touch and a shared smile. We don't sit down until the minister speaks a good word over us and leaves with the leftovers. After that we can stay as long as we need to - long enough to let it all setlle in, long enought to wonder at what it is that just happened during that handful of moments between one deep silence and the next there in the grand, sacred space of the place.
Once I stayed long enough to be the last one, long enough to be the one to blow out the candles as I walked back toward the door and the world waking up, as I walked back there all nourished in my soul.