The Hand Song by Nickel Creek
I rarely post lyrics as a post, but I will make an exception here. Few songs can bring a tear to my eye, but this one did. Though the emotional effect is certainly aided by the music, I think you can gather enough from the words alone. I think I actually posted these lyrics a long time ago at my Xanga, but it hit me again as though for the first time.
“The Hand Song”
The boy only wanting to give mother something,
And all of her roses had bloomed.
Looking at him as he came rushing in,
knowing her roses were doomed.
All she could see were some thorns buried deep,
And tears that he cried as she tended his wounds.
And she knew it was love, it was what she could understand.
He was showing his love and that’s how he hurt his hands.
He still remembers that night as a child, on his mothers knee.
She held him close and she opened her Bible, and quietly started to read.
Then seeing a picture of Jesus, he cried out:
“Mama he’s got some scars just like me!”
And he knew it was love, it was what he could understand.
He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.
Now the boy is grown and moved out on his own.
When Uncle Sam comes along.
A foreign affair, but our young men are there.
And luck had his number drawn.
It wasn’t that long till our hero was gone, he gave to a friend what he learned from the cross.
But they knew it was love, it one they could understand.
He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.
It was one they could understand.
He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.
What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me. [A Muse(ing) 8]
“Love is a peculiar thing, it’s kind of like a lizard. It wraps it’s tail around your heart and crawls into your gizzard.” Those are the wise words regarding love that my father taught me from a young age, and while I’m not quite sure what it means, I know it’s profound and semi-true. Love doesn’t make sense. Love is crazy. Both Francis Chan and Michael Bublé say so–perhaps they should collaborate on something.
Inspiration is not in short supply, nor is the time to write, but I don’t do it. I don’t do it because I’m scared. I’m scared that my writing is in vain, I’m scared that this will be the writing that proves I’m not a good writer, I’m scared that my words are meaningless after all. But love; love conquers such fears, doesn’t it? I mean, I’ve never read that love specifically conquers that particular fear, but isn’t it supposed to drive out “all” fear?
I’m afraid of so much more than writing though. I’m afraid of love itself, because it doesn’t make sense. Sure, I’m talking about the glamorous, amorous sort of love, but I’m also talking about down and dirty, gritty, self-sacrificial, everyone else first, serving love. Real love isn’t about me, after all. Love is for everybody else. And love is something I don’t know how to do in practice. I’ve served others at times, though never adequately, and I’ve even been “in love” whatever that means. I’ve felt the pain of losing love, both of best friend and of best girl. But love can’t really be lost, can it? Real love comes from the Creator, and flows from an incessant supply.
I need to tap into that wellspring. Because love never fails.
Muse(ing) 7
My church was packed today and it was beautiful. We had 97 comfortable blue seats, and kept adding folding chairs to the back as people piled in. It was the first time our church broke the century mark, and that means we need to start thinking about how we grow, not just trying to grow.
A few weeks ago, we were running around 40 people.
We are a young church. I think over 85% of the congregation is connected to Liberty, either as alumni or students.
Our rapid growth is mostly thanks to the influence of word of mouth among Liberty students. But we’re doing other things to make sure people know we’re here. We just filled two backpacks per grade (pre-k through 5th) with a year’s worth of school supplies for the local elementary school, which has a number of less-than-wealthy families’ kids. This past week, for the second time this summer, a number of people gave out free coffee and donuts to people who were commuting in the morning (God bless those that helped… they started at 6:30 in the morning). There was a cookout at a local park near the inner-city where they gave out free food a few weeks ago, and at the beginning of the summer, we had a block party for inner-city kids to enjoy.
Also at the beginning of the summer, I began leading a small group bible study–well, technically a book study: Don’t Waste Your Life by John Piper. It’s shifted and grown into a lovely bunch of people whom I love and for whom I hope I can give something worthwhile.
As a shock today, I was asked, along with two others, to be a consider being a deacon. I’ve been praying that God would let me be grow more involved in the church, and here’s an open door for me to do so. I’m not giving my response right away; I’m going to pray about it for a couple days, but I must say, I’m quite excited.
My heart is church planting, and this a chance to get involved with one in a very real way. God is on the move through the love in our church, and that is truly awesome.
Muse(ings) 6.5
A coffee shop and conversation on a Monday night. There’s a storm brewing outside and it makes the coffee better somehow. Behind the counter, she can hold a conversation with anyone. At the counter myself, I can write anything I want. It might get read, it might not. I can share it, I can keep it hidden; it doesn’t matter. What matters is that life is vivid. It is vital. Literally. And I mean literally literally. I have to say that, because literally, like love, is overused and abused as a term. Life, love, and vitality. All go up in flames. Burning like calories. If the calories don’t burn you just get fat. And if you get fat, you have a hard time running. You get lethargic and everything becomes stale.
Don’t let things get stale. Stale bread, stale coffee, stale life. It’s crumbles and tastes terrible.
Muse(ings) 6
Muse(ings) 6
Classes begin in a week. I’ve spent just under $500 on textbooks. My new job responsibilities start in a few days. I’ll be a GA for my own class.
The territory I’m in is unfamiliar but exciting—maybe it’s exciting because it’s unfamiliar. I’ve been watching my former RA/RD colleagues update their twitter accounts in real-time as they go through leadership training at Liberty. It’s strange not to be a part of it. I once envisioned becoming an RD, but for each of the past two years I’ve stopped just short of applying.
I couldn’t go on in student leadership for a variety of reasons. I needed to have opportunity elsewhere. I wanted to be able to get involved in a church, specifically a church plant. I wanted to have different ministry avenues that were not limited by the constraints that come with being an RA. I wanted to be able to travel a little bit more. I wanted to get away from living with freshman on a dorm.
But really, what I wanted most was an atmosphere in which I could relish in honesty. Not that people in OSL are dishonest—but there is a limit on how open one can be in an environment rife with rules. I want to be me, to have accountability with someone who can’t fire me. I want to be honest with my struggles without fear. Truthfully, I probably could have been more open than I was, but not with my perceptions.
My prayers are with those who are still in that ministry. It’s a fantastic opportunity. Don’t waste it…. And don’t have any fear. Be real, be honest, and start a revolution.
Muse(ings) 5
Muse(ings) 5
I’m embarking on a new chapter in my life, a new frontier that intimidates me. See, the next few pages of my life story are mostly out of my control, and I don’t know how they’ll be written. Will the climax that has been building for the last few years be resolved in the way I’ve hoped for so long or will I have to move along into an unknown, if more realistic, alternative? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough—knowing that resolution is on the way is almost bittersweet in a manner I can’t quite explain. In my head, a soundtrack of songs of wanting play on and on.
I suppose the romance element of a story is indeed only part, but it’s funny how it can be so integral to everything else. It’s the potential merging of two stories in a crossover that is ever so unpredictable. It’s two adventures becoming one, complicating the character development, enriching the plot, and doubling the drama. It’s good, but it’s heavy and not for the faint of heart.
So, as the plot unfurls, the setting alters a bit too—I’m a couple months into my new apartment, once again living with my roommate of the past two years. My room is clean for the first time all summer. I can’t say the same for my heart.
Two more years of graduate school—I’m going to be 25, nearly 26 by the time I’m done with my Master’s degree; I can’t wait that long to start my life—life begins here and now.
I swear I’m not conceited, I’m just that awesome
So, I’ve find myself to be more caustic than I want to be. I’m somewhere between an elevated self-opinion and insecurity issues. It’s an odd conundrum. I have as much self-confidence as anyone else in my abilities. What I don’t have confidence in is my likability. Everyone wants to be liked. I don’t have to be liked by everyone, mind you; I just want to be respected and liked among those I also respect and admire. It’s somewhat selfish, but I feel a need for validation. I have no lack of self-esteem or confidence in my abilities, largely because my parents were awesome and supportive. But my childhood left me with some minor scars, nonetheless—not the typical ones, and nowhere near as devastating as what other people I know have been through. But I seek out affirmation from my peers because it’s something I don’t fully comprehend and it’s something I never had before college. In seeking it out, I overstate myself, building myself up to be something awesome—something I’m not. The thing is, in order to push myself up, I often push others down—I don’t mean to, I really don’t, but I do it.
Thing is, I’m not sure how to be a great friend. It comes naturally one-on-one most of the time; I’m a good listener and trustworthy, and very careful about advice I offer. But other times, I’ll snap at people—mock their tastes, chide their behavior—not because it affects me but because I want to look good—but it makes me look bad. And I need to stop. I really do.
To anyone I’ve put down, blatantly or not, I’m sorry.
The person I want to be is not who I am.
Muse(ings) 4
It’s funny how inspiration to write comes and goes. Like now: I have no real inspiration. I don’t even know what to write. I could write about love, and the lack thereof. I could write about coffee and my love thereof. I could write about music, perhaps even offer a review of some new album—though I usually do that while listening to the given album, and I’ve been without a portable music player for months now. It’s quite an experience. I haven’t been without portable music in years.
It seems that the world has its own soundtrack separate from what I hear from my sound isolating earphones—sounds of leaves rustling, of voices in every octave and key—some from people and some from what people have made, and some from what no person could ever craft. I wish I could say that it’s opened up a world of conversations with others that I had forgotten were possible, but that’s not quite true. But it is freeing in its own way. When you don’t have 30 gigabytes of music files you can take with you everywhere you go, you tune in to other things, maybe a radio station playing a new artist worth hearing (thanks for playing Cage the Elephant, WNRN—you stay classy), or maybe just your own thoughts. After all, it can be hard to process your own thoughts when you incessantly drown them out in waves of sound. What serves as inspiration so often can be its own hindrance to expression if applied too liberally. Maybe I haven’t been as intentional as I should be with this opportunity to hear the world’s soundtrack; it has some lovely melodies to be heard—melodies of baby squeals, banana peels, drum fills, and various other thrills.
Speaking of intentionality, I’ve found myself losing such in the last few weeks. Twice I’ve had complete strangers stop me while I was entering or exiting my truck and ask me for a ride to somewhere. Neither person was threatening, but it either time, it struck me as exceedingly odd. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been a man about town until recently, but I’ve never been flagged down by a stranger for a ride before (unless it was a fellow college student on campus at Liberty). Both times, I thought to myself, I should let this be an opportunity to share Christ and be unashamed—after all, if they were unashamed enough to ask a stranger for a favor, couldn’t I be unashamed enough to share what I live for? I don’t know, and I won’t beat myself up too much, but I could have said so much more than “God bless” or “be blessed in the name of Jesus.” I have so much to learn; I’ve asked God for opportunities, and he’s given them, only for me to panic and ignore them.
By the way, for the 20 some people who read my writing without commenting…. you could try commenting—let me know what you like and dislike, what you agree and disagree with, what repulses you or resonates with you.
The Pearl Pt. 2 will hopefully be coming forth soon, but we’ll see. As for Muse(ings) 4, I guess i figured out what to write about.
The Pearl pt. 1 [Muse(ings) 3]
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant seeking fine pearls, and upon finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it. Matthew 13:45-46
He knew what he wanted. He knew nothing else could compare, and thus nothing else was worth striving toward. All else could be counted as loss for this great treasure.
This pearl has a uniqueness to all who would dare to purchase it. It never looks the same to anyone, but it is eternally beautiful, undisputedly worthwhile. So it would seem to anyone with eyes to see. But it takes courage to take that step of faith in eliminating the distractions that would keep the man from the pearl.
After all, if one sells all he has for one thing, how might he continue life as before? It would certainly not be the same. Nothing can be the same. What shall he wear? Where shall he sleep? What shall he eat? A pearl cannot be eaten! It might accent a nice garment, but it would look quite silly with no other clothes, and it would not be the most comfortable of pillows. No, to sell all one has to pursue this pearl is strange indeed. Even if it’s financially profitable, it seems impossible in practice.
So I sit. I know the pearl is out there. I’ve glimpsed it. It is no ordinary pearl… it radiates, it glows. It shows scenes of greatness… like a crystal ball that foretells future greatness. But it is no parlor trick. This pearl brings that greatness of lore. That greatness that the human heart was destined to pursue. Something happened along the journey for mankind. The pearl was buried long ago, but the treasure map is written on our hearts.
Oh, I know the pearl is there. But do I even want to find it? If I did, could I afford it? It tells stories of life, yes, but it also forecasts death. Remember, if one buys this pearl… there can be nothing else.
What a cost. “Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Will he not first sit down and estimate the cost to see if he has enough money to complete it? For if he lays the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule him, saying, ‘This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.’ Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand? If he is not able, he will send a delegation while the other is still a long way off and will ask for terms of peace.” Luke 14:28-32.
This cost is beyond what I can count.
Still, I want that pearl.
A certain ruler asked him, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
“Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother.’”
“All these I have kept since I was a boy,” he said.
When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was a man of great wealth. Jesus looked at him and said, “How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” Luke 18:18-25
This story is so many of ours. We can drown ourselves in material to keep us from experiencing what is real. We think that what is material is what is real. To purchase the pearl is to embrace what is beyond us. It is to acknowledge that we cannot be who we were made to be on our own accord. For some it is alcohol, for some it is video games, for some it is the American Dream, but for all… it is a nightmare of materialism.
God calls us to awaken from this dream state, to awaken from our stupor. To be so in love with God that nothing else matters is not foolishness; it is sobriety itself.
I want to live. I want to be who he has made me to be. I’m not sure what that entails yet. But it’s going to cost a lot. Remember the tower builder and the king who was going to war? You know what Jesus said right before that?
Large crowds were traveling with Jesus, and turning to them he said: “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple. And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple. Luke 14:25-27
But what have I to fear? Do I need a pillow? Do I need clothes? Do I need anything but Him?
For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they?
And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? You of little faith! Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.
But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Often, I’ve wondered if I should sell all and see what God would do. I don’t think I’m supposed to do that just yet, but in truth I’m both terrified and hopeful that he will. Will I have the courage when he calls for it? I want that pearl.
To be continued…
Muse(ings) 2
It’s funny what music can do to you. It drove me from my favorite coffee shop tonight and to another across town. For at The Muse, I saw girl pants on guys, and brightly colored hair and t-shirts—I thought to myself, I love this scene so often, but not tonight. I had gone to relax and to read and to think, and perhaps even to write. After all, Muse(ings) II is quite due. I pondered my course of action in the parallel parking space for a few minutes. This is my place… why are other people whom I didn’t approve here. I do suppose I can’t in fact make the world work my way.
I have another place I do enjoy, as much for the richness of the building as the coffee, and that is The White Hart. History oozes from the walls of this 1800’s downtown Lynchburg building. ‘twas not always a coffee shop, but must have always longed to be a riverhead of many a man’s thoughts. I read my novel and music begins to play… I left The Muse because of the music… I want to drown in words tonight, not in notes. A rhythm sets in. No, a cacophony. This is awful. I love folk, but they have no cohesion, everything is grating. A voice begins, with clarity and strength—a woman’s voice swimming against the current of a musical river. The voice itself changes the course of the current and the music begins to gel. I appreciate it. The dragon in my book is angered, but villains lie slain.
I’ve written something already on this day, and I know it has been read by the most important of readers. The response is withheld as yet, but my arrows have not yet scared the target into running away.
My mind sings along, we’ve got to come together right now, over me…. Stop hey, what’s that sound… don’t you want somebody to love. I love it. Americana renditions of classics. Perhaps my story will be a modern retelling of classic love stories. Is this a Shakespearean comedy or a tragedy? The tragedy would be to never know.
(The above is part of a series of posts inspired by times at my favorite coffee shop… in this one however, I have cheated a bit… it was written with Muse inspiration but from my bedroom.)
