“Sometimes I would like to ask God why God allows poverty, suffering, and injustice when God could do something about it.”
“Well, why don’t you ask God?”
“Because I’m afraid God would ask me the same question.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Journaling
Had several things going on lately dealing with Spiritual Disciplines, those holy habits that we do in order to experience more of God's love in our life. One of those that I've been thinking about is journaling... well more appropriately, blogging about some thoughts and random musings. Maybe through my jumbled thoughts someone else will experience a wonderful means of grace. Maybe it will create some order in my brain... who knows?
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Lorelei is here!
Hey guess what! Lorelei Donovan came in weighing 8 lbs, 14. oz. on Thursday, April 9 about 2:03 in the afternoon. Everyone is doing great, and we're excited to have a new little baby girl to grow with us on our journey.
Lorelei literally means "mumuring rock", and though it was used as the name of a siren who would sing to lure sailors to their deaths, I prefer to think of it from a Biblical standpoint of Luke 19:40. Jesus is in the week before his crucifixion and ressurrection and the disciples and followers are cheering him saying "Blessed is the King!" Some Pharisees try to get Jesus to make them be quiet, and Jesus responds, "I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." You tell them Jesus. To God be the Glory, and thanks for the many blessings in my daughter, our own little murmuring rock.
Lorelei literally means "mumuring rock", and though it was used as the name of a siren who would sing to lure sailors to their deaths, I prefer to think of it from a Biblical standpoint of Luke 19:40. Jesus is in the week before his crucifixion and ressurrection and the disciples and followers are cheering him saying "Blessed is the King!" Some Pharisees try to get Jesus to make them be quiet, and Jesus responds, "I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." You tell them Jesus. To God be the Glory, and thanks for the many blessings in my daughter, our own little murmuring rock.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Blogalicious
Oh geez... maybe I wasn't cut out for blogging...what has it been, a month? Oh well, maybe I will add some more random thoughts tomorrow since it is supposed to snoooooow. Oh yeah... and I turn 36 tomorrow, so am now on the slippery slope towards my 40's. Guess you're only as old as you feel, and I can still whip up in basketball on some teenagers, so I'm doing alright, gettin good grades, Future's so bright... gotta wear shades. Gotta wear shades.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thankgiving?
The Great Tablecloth by Pablo Neruda
When they were called to the table, the tyrants came rushing
with their temporary ladies; it was fine to watch the women pass
like wasps with big bosoms followed by those pale
and unfortunate public tigers.
The peasant in the field ate his poor quota of bread,
he was alone, it was late, he was surrounded by wheat, but he had no more bread;
he ate it with grim teeth, looking at it with hard eyes.
In the blue hour of eating, the infinite hour of the roast,
the poet abandons his lyre, takes up his knife and fork, puts his flask on the table,
and the fishermen attend the little sea of the soup bowl.
Burning potatoes protest among the tongues of oil.
The lamb is gold on its coals and the onion undresses.
It is sad to eat in dinner clothes, like eating in a coffin,
but eating in convents is like eating underground.
Eating alone is a disappointment, but not eating matters more,
is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks
trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides.
Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs, it burns, burns and has no fire.
Hunger is a cold fire.
Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten;
let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in the lakes of the world,
set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow,
and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat.
For now I ask no more than the justice of eating.
When they were called to the table, the tyrants came rushing
with their temporary ladies; it was fine to watch the women pass
like wasps with big bosoms followed by those pale
and unfortunate public tigers.
The peasant in the field ate his poor quota of bread,
he was alone, it was late, he was surrounded by wheat, but he had no more bread;
he ate it with grim teeth, looking at it with hard eyes.
In the blue hour of eating, the infinite hour of the roast,
the poet abandons his lyre, takes up his knife and fork, puts his flask on the table,
and the fishermen attend the little sea of the soup bowl.
Burning potatoes protest among the tongues of oil.
The lamb is gold on its coals and the onion undresses.
It is sad to eat in dinner clothes, like eating in a coffin,
but eating in convents is like eating underground.
Eating alone is a disappointment, but not eating matters more,
is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks
trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides.
Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs, it burns, burns and has no fire.
Hunger is a cold fire.
Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten;
let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in the lakes of the world,
set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow,
and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat.
For now I ask no more than the justice of eating.
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