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Ice jam on Mardi GrasTuesday, February 13, 2018
From James 1 Because I think that birds have as much trouble with ice as I do. More. I pick through ice to get to the windshield. They pick through ice to eat. Once again I'm struck by my own sense of entitlement. The birds live in our back yard; I only use it for my convenience. The birds sleep in the trees; in the spring I trim limb after limb to get a little sun on the garden. The birds eat what they can find. They have no granary or crop insurance; they don't have little stoves filled with fire to soften their seeds. For dinner tonight I think Margaret is roasting a chicken. Well, there you are. We have claimed dominion and improved many parts of our planet. In so doing I take for granted my place in the kingdom and too often forget that others have a place as well. Tomorrow's Ash Wednesday is also Valentine's Day. Are there lots of plans for sweetheart meals changed a bit by that? Lentils, not meat this year? Depends on who you're trying to impress, I guess. I definitely want to impress my wife. Maybe we'll go to Outback today, before the fast begins. Be my valentine on Fat Tuesday this year, darling. James is so clear in his letter. EVERY perfect gift comes from above. There is nothing we can claim as new under the sun. We improve on what we've done in the past, but always then and now, evermore, everything starts with God. At church Sunday the pastor said, "Jesus comes after what we care about the most because he wants to be close to us." I take that to mean that Jesus imbues all that we hold dear with his own presence. Opening my eyes, I see Jesus on my bank account, I see Jesus on my car, I see Jesus shining in Margaret's incredible eyes. Above and below, all around me beautiful. Of course Jesus remains when the rest falls away. Every perfect gift ... is Jesus. A squirrel just found the seeds I left on the table outside. She is looking at me through the window, wondering what to do. Eat the seeds, girl, eat the seeds! Let me love you, Jesus says. Be my child, and let me be your lover. Find the Tuesday fat today, and chew on it all night. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and I will love you. You are mine. Which days do you love me, Lord? These days are like the sand on the seashore and the stars in the sky. I cannot count them on my fingers; infinity is not tamed by our numbers or our names. There are eleven blues and eight whites, but your rainbow-loves rise up without end. |