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.
12/10/2014
11/03/2012
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.
10/22/2012
10/19/2012
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.
10/18/2012
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.
10/15/2012
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
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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.
10/12/2012
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.
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