100 year old prayers for today...

In the tradition of short daily devotions such as A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie and Morning and Evening by Charles Spurgeon, Evening Prayers by Christoph Friedrich Blumhardt provides a scripture followed by a short inspirational prayer based on the verse. Blumhardt preceded and influenced a who’s who of theological giants including Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Emil Brunner and Karl Barth although he is not as well known in America. With the release of this book, Plough Publishing hopes to change that.

As with any book of devotions, the impact on the reader depends entirely on how carefully and consistently it is read and the location the reader is in their spiritual walk which will affect the words impact. I always equate it to playing golf on an amateur level (the only level I can relate to). I can play 17 holes of awful, uninspired golf and be on the verge of never playing again but then hit a perfect approach shot to the 18th green and finish my awful day with a birdie and walk off the course with a renewed love for the game and plans to book my next tee time. In much the same way, I can read for two weeks and move between nodding knowingly to a shrug of indifference but then reach a day where every word burns deep within me and my life is changed. And I await the next entry with heightened anticipation.

The prayers recorded in Evening Prayers are based off the spoken word, prayers that Blumhardt actually recited during evening devotions in Germany. I liked that I could hear a voice speaking as I read the daily entries and I appreciate the editors declining to change that. I am comforted that personal petitions to heaven by a German pastor 100 years ago can resonate so deeply in a 50 year-old in America today. God is consistent. God is good.

I recommend this book and I implore anyone to consistently dig in and read it daily with a prepared heart. Anticipate and welcome change.

Handlebar Marketing has provided me with a complimentary copy of this book for review.


The High Calling Newsletter: A Review

I am confident that I am not the only Christian in America who has had the following scenario play out in their cubicle: In the waning hours of a long, grueling day at work, your eyes cannot seem to look away from the stack of marked up documents on the edge of your desk, their existence a reminder that you will be working over the weekend. Again. The only internal argument you can muster is the same one you have waged for years. “This can't be all there is. I am wasting my time here. I should be doing something more important with my life, something more noble. I need to find a job at a church or with a mission group. I need to be in full time ministry...'

The High Calling newsletter exists as a reminder to all of us wistful and frustrated worker drones that we are in full time ministry and our mission field is our workplace. They are a valuable resource to arm us for “battle”--in both obvious and unusual ways. Each article is short which is critical for people with little extra time. The subject matter runs from the practical to articles dealing with our wistful nature, allowing us to dream a little in the midst of the mundane. There is also a variety of writers, each with their own voice, that keeps the rhythm lively and staves off staleness. Each author is archived so, if you find someone you connect with, it is easy to find more of their essays. There is also variety in the method of disseminating the information with audio and video options. Adding transcripts and summaries is a welcome extra since it is not always practical to listen or watch.

More than anything the information is encouraging. The content comes from a place of understanding what the readers are dealing with, whether they are a CEO, supervisor or just entering the “secular” work force. There is no guarantee that every article will apply to your situation or your taste but perusing the content will give you plenty to think about and apply as you traverse your own office space mission field.

Disclaimer: I was compensated to provide an unbiased review of this product.


Time Out

I am taking a short break. Be back soon. I promise.


US: The Magic Blanket

[This series will run every Monday and Friday for as long as I can remember the stories within 79% accuracy. Check back often or, better yet, use the RSS (Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)) and sign up for automatic reminders whenever there is a new post.]

I have a blanket. It is actually a quilt, which, I suppose, is a sub-species in the blanket family. It was hand made by my grandmother on my dad's side, a person I always knew as Grandmother Colle. Not grandma or gramma or grannie or some other wacky name based off the poor pronunciation skills of an infant. Grandmother. What is odd about that is the woman who demanded that name was not formal by any stretch of the imagination. She was funny, cheated at cards and made every grandchild feel like they were her absolute favorite (to which we all say as an aside, “But I actually was her favorite”). She has been gone from us for several years but one thing she left for me was that blanket. She presented it to me my senior year of high school in 1977. It is big, six feet by five feet, solid tan across the back and the front has multiple 5” x 5” squares of different material. And it is laced with magic.

I took that quilt to college and it was part of my trousseau when I married Hope. It has survived a couple of dogs and three kids with only a few busted seams. After multiple washings, Hope had to add some blue yarn to keep the centers of each square tied down, but the splash of color adds some character. The quilt will keep you cool in the summer and warm in the winter, which makes no sense but is a truth that can be attested to by anyone who has made contact with it. It has wrapped our children through naps, pity parties and time outs as well as hours of Winnie the Pooh, Barney and Power Rangers. There is no way to count the number of people who have curled up under that blanket and found themselves fighting a need for a nap. To this day the kids fight over who gets to use it while watching TV when they drop in for a visit. And it is the default choice when Hope watches her junk television shows (which grandmother would most certainly approve of).

I have no doubt that the kids have already discussed who will get grandmother's quilt when Hope and I are gone, even more so than the china or sterling silver place settings. It seems a little odd to hold some random material stitched together a long time ago in such high esteem but I think it has something to do with the fact that it represents a constant in our lives. It has been with us from the beginning and has not lost any of its appeal. My kids have no recollection of my grandmother. They don't, like me, look at buttered toast and have an urge to dip it in super sweet coffee or see a bottle of Barq's root beer and immediately think of boiled shrimp. But they feel a bond with her because she made their dad a blanket that has survived, like us, and is as much a part of our family as our last name. I'm pretty sure the magic woven into that quilt was love. 


Krista, my Sista

We were born three years apart, me first in September and her in October. Initially, she was a pest, constantly in my space, following me, mimicking me, oblivious to my desire to be left alone, at least occasionally. As we traversed childhood, we found more in common than not. She loved to play sports, excelling in softball and tennis, and we both grew strong on a steady diet of Frito pies and Chick-O-Stix at the dusty Texas ball fields. She got outnumbered when my brother was born but she more than held her own, proving her mettle consistently in the two-on-one battles. We shared dreams and concerns, especially when our little brother decided to use the encyclopedias for bedtime reading, worried that his blooming nerdiness would evaporate any Colle cool that we had created when he reached high school. We like to think we steered him toward a happy medium and made him the man he is today. (High five!)

High school brought about a lot of change and, with it, less time together—a move from Texas to Florida, my leaving home for college, marriages, kids, moving to different parts of the country and all the other life events that happen as we keep moving forward. And she has had her share of life events, testing that mettle that was forged so early. She was strong then and she is stronger now. She has survived, tenacious and brave, a great mom and a loyal wife.

Today she celebrates a birthday, a milestone, from the fours to the fives, and I have, as before, paved the way, letting her know that it’s okay to turn that corner. The water is warm and the chicken is boiled and we are all a little more appreciative of a quiet house and a smooth Bordeaux. Happy birthday, Krista my sista. I love you and am proud of you and I look forward to waving you through to the sixes and beyond. 


US: It’s Halloween, Hallelujah!

[This series will run every Monday and Friday for as long as I can remember the stories within 79% accuracy. Check back often or, better yet, use the RSS (Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)) and sign up for automatic reminders whenever there is a new post.]

Halloween ain’t what it used to be. When I was young, it ranked an easy third behind Christmas and Easter (and Easter is second only because I was raised in a Christian home and nothing comes before those two events—as it should be). Not only did we dress up and walk our neighborhoods, my dad, the Baptist minister, would go to great lengths to scare all the trick-or-treaters that dared ring our bell by dressing as Dracula—including full makeup and a cardboard box coffin--and shining a flashlight from under his chin for effect. He perfected the proper inflections in the phrase, “I vant to suck your blood.” Our church always had a haunted house run by the youth, one I was not allowed to enter even with Child of the Staff cred, because it was too scary. This was not a Hell House with a presentation of the gospel at the end, it was just chock full of scares and gross outs like every other haunted house in town. Bowls of “body parts,” chain saw wielding maniacs and lots of fake blood. I loved standing outside and hearing people scream and then watch them exit laughing.

But something changed in the time between my last neighborhood walk as a ghost and my first Halloween celebration with our own kids. The church, as one entity, rose up and revolted against the holiday. It was now in bad form to walk the neighborhood so we now had to walk through the mall and get candy from bored store employees. No longer was the hospital on call for medical help after a trip and fall in a bulky costume, but now they were offering free x-raying of everyone’s bag of candy. And if you didn’t want to go to the mall, then every church put on an alternative to Halloween, complete with games for the kids and enough candy to choke an elephant. Yes, it was safe but it also felt sterile (although the intentions were honorable).

But the real question was what to do with our kids when we, as parents, straddled both worlds? We understood where our church was coming from but we also wanted our kids to experience the special night of walking the neighborhood, ringing doorbells and shouting “trick or treat!” Initially we made the best of it, supporting the church and making some really cool costumes to help create a special night for our clueless kids. When attending Hallelujah Harvest at the church, the costumes had to be either Biblical or “non threatening.” One year William dressed as Goliath, complete with a wadded up masking tape rock on his forehead, a small trickle of blood added to push the envelope. Over the years the kids dressed as sheep, clowns and royalty. (Every year there were multiple Queen Esther costumes. Here is a question for your discussion groups: Why not Rahab?) Occasionally our kids won the costume contest, a source of pride for the kids and mom, the seamstress. And there was always some kid trying to skirt the rules, the most memorable being the middle school boy who showed up dressed as The Whore of Babylon. He didn't make it past the front door.

When the kids got a little older, we began splitting time, hitting up the church for “happy hour” and then joining a gathering at a friend's house and walking the neighborhood en mass. The window for Halloween is so short that before we knew it the kids were choosing to work the game booths at church instead of hitting up houses and all of the decision-making faded away. And standing at the food booth, dishing up slaw and chili dogs, I could appreciate how much fun the little ones were having in the church parking lot, jumping on inflated slides and engaging in cake walks, but I also knew that my house was one of the places the neighborhood kids had to skip, their parents muttering that we were probably at the mall. Or church. And it hurt a little, but it wasn't enough pain that a Snickers mini couldn't heal.


US: Tape Head

[This series will run every Monday and Friday for as long as I can remember the stories within 79% accuracy. Check back often or, better yet, use the RSS (Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)) and sign up for automatic reminders whenever there is a new post.]

We began expanding our family in 1986. At that time, portable video cameras were available, affordable and a necessity as we prepared for the arrival of our first child. We were excited and clueless about what the actual birth day would involve and were pretty sure it would be nothing like it was explained to us in birthing classes provided by the hospital. So to cover all of our bases, the first event we filmed with our new camera was a trial run of Hope going into labor, being led to the car and then leaving the house for the hospital. My dad was the videographer and, even though Hope and I displayed some promising, albeit raw, acting talent, the continuous laughing and voice over of my dad giving us direction gave away the inauthentic effort.

Fortunately, the actual birth day was successful and my dad was once again available to tape my reports from the birthing room and capture the first announcement that William Jacob Colle IV had arrived. And that was the last day that I was not behind the camera for the next 26 years.

Our first camera was big, many times larger than the portable video cameras and smart phones that people shoot with today. I had to balance the camera on my shoulder, peer through the eyepiece and try to keep the picture in focus which was almost impossible since the early cameras liked to lock in on everything but the intended subject matter. Nothing like watching your baby take its first, blurry steps while the latest episode of Knott’s Landing is clearly seen in the background on TV.

Since the media used was VHS tapes, we had to tote the camera as well as a bag full of accessories including extra tapes and a wall charger in case the battery ran out before the event ended. And we taped everything. I recently went through all of our old tapes in order to transfer them to DVD and I was amazed and embarrassed by the amount of film burned on William lying on his stomach, trying to flip himself over. It was a riveting hour (and he never did manage to get to his back until tape three).

I was the official videographer for our family and my biggest fear throughout this time was that my children would have no idea what I actually looked like. That they would see an ad for a video camera and point and excitedly shout, “Da da.” The positive of shooting so much is that we were able to capture precious moments in time, events that we may remember but without near the clarity that a video will provide. First giggles and first steps. Discovering a leaf and feeling the grass between their toes. The joy of opening a gift and the struggle to use a spoon. Yes, we remember but getting a chance to watch it unfold before you once again is a gift. So, parents, video often and save those files for a rainy day. You will enjoy the trip, repeatedly.