"Above all else, guard your heart,
for it is the wellspring of life.
Put away perversity from your mouth;
keep corrupt talk far from your lips.
Let your eyes look straight ahead,
fix your gaze directly before you."
So true. So, so impossible to do my own. Jesus, give me wisdom.
6.25.2011
6.13.2011
[not] like clockwork.
i tried, really hard.
the door had a wooden placard with the words Rev. Genaro Diesto, Jr. written in gold lettering. to my surprise, the door was unlocked.
i slowly turned the handle, entered, and stood there for a long time, arms crossed in the middle of the room. what used to be his room.
and i stared around at the chair he once sat in,
the desk he once wrote on,
the windows he used to look through,
the floor he paced around on,
the bookshelves now emptied of his theological books.
and i imagined him doing all those things. no, i saw him doing those things. i remembered seeing him do those things.
i even came across something he wrote. The Pastor's Report. His comedic tone intertwined with a serious topic of conversation...that's how he always wrote. and talked.
and i tried, really hard.
i even closed my eyes.
but i couldn't hear his voice.
that voice that's full of authority and tenderness at the same time.
or his laugh.
that boisterous, make-you-laugh-too type of laugh.
and the more i tried, the more frustrated i became with myself for not being able to remember. how could i not remember what he sounded like? if i sat here and closed my eyes, would i eventually hear him?
so i tried to cry.
i tried, really hard.
i even drove to his grave by myself.
sat by it. spoke to him. waited in silence for that moment where i would break and tears would flow.
but it never came. why didn't it come? did i not miss him anymore? of course i did.
my brother cried today. so did my mother. so why couldn't i?
because feelings aren't like clockwork.
on some days, remembering that my dad died hits me so unbelievably hard.
on other days, it's a simple nostalgic smile.
on others still, the thoughts come, but the emotions do not.
but everyday, every single day, i think about him.
and that's something that'll never be too hard.
the door had a wooden placard with the words Rev. Genaro Diesto, Jr. written in gold lettering. to my surprise, the door was unlocked.
i slowly turned the handle, entered, and stood there for a long time, arms crossed in the middle of the room. what used to be his room.
and i stared around at the chair he once sat in,
the desk he once wrote on,
the windows he used to look through,
the floor he paced around on,
the bookshelves now emptied of his theological books.
and i imagined him doing all those things. no, i saw him doing those things. i remembered seeing him do those things.
i even came across something he wrote. The Pastor's Report. His comedic tone intertwined with a serious topic of conversation...that's how he always wrote. and talked.
and i tried, really hard.
i even closed my eyes.
but i couldn't hear his voice.
that voice that's full of authority and tenderness at the same time.
or his laugh.
that boisterous, make-you-laugh-too type of laugh.
and the more i tried, the more frustrated i became with myself for not being able to remember. how could i not remember what he sounded like? if i sat here and closed my eyes, would i eventually hear him?
so i tried to cry.
i tried, really hard.
i even drove to his grave by myself.
sat by it. spoke to him. waited in silence for that moment where i would break and tears would flow.
but it never came. why didn't it come? did i not miss him anymore? of course i did.
my brother cried today. so did my mother. so why couldn't i?
because feelings aren't like clockwork.
on some days, remembering that my dad died hits me so unbelievably hard.
on other days, it's a simple nostalgic smile.
on others still, the thoughts come, but the emotions do not.
but everyday, every single day, i think about him.
and that's something that'll never be too hard.
6.04.2011
Milk and Honey
I am always scared of returning home.
Why?
Because going home always seems to be a spiritual desert for me. A place where I find no spiritual food or even a place to get fed. I picture a long and windy road before me, and I am stuck in the Neutral gear, unable to move forward past the desert.
No, I take that back. I'm in Reverse. A steady retreat to an uncomfortable and discontent yet lazy and apathetic lifestyle. Back to a time of seeking and not finding, listening but doubting what my ears hear, looking and seeing nothing but brown sand and heat waves. One-way conversations with God.
It has made me passive. Too afraid to change anything because of past failed attempts, I find myself simply wishing I would come back... and things would just be different.
And so it is, with every summer/winter/spring break, that this fear of going back and seeing no change returns. Friends provide but a momentarily uplifting escape. The church and my family are preoccupied with their own spiritual battles.
It is in this time God speaks with such assurance and boldness that I can rest peacefully and, to my surprise, joyfully. He tells me that these two weeks, as short as they may be, will be filled with change. The wilderness is necessary in order to fully experience my oasis.
"You, my child, will grow."
In God's time.
In God's way.
Why?
Because going home always seems to be a spiritual desert for me. A place where I find no spiritual food or even a place to get fed. I picture a long and windy road before me, and I am stuck in the Neutral gear, unable to move forward past the desert.
No, I take that back. I'm in Reverse. A steady retreat to an uncomfortable and discontent yet lazy and apathetic lifestyle. Back to a time of seeking and not finding, listening but doubting what my ears hear, looking and seeing nothing but brown sand and heat waves. One-way conversations with God.
It has made me passive. Too afraid to change anything because of past failed attempts, I find myself simply wishing I would come back... and things would just be different.
And so it is, with every summer/winter/spring break, that this fear of going back and seeing no change returns. Friends provide but a momentarily uplifting escape. The church and my family are preoccupied with their own spiritual battles.
It is in this time God speaks with such assurance and boldness that I can rest peacefully and, to my surprise, joyfully. He tells me that these two weeks, as short as they may be, will be filled with change. The wilderness is necessary in order to fully experience my oasis.
"You, my child, will grow."
I do not fully understand the reasons for the wildernesses of God's absence. This I do know: while the wilderness is necessary, it is never meant to be permanent. In God's time and in God's way the desert will gave way to a land flowing with milk and honey.
- Richard J. Foster, Prayer
In God's time.
In God's way.
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