Unless a grain of wheat dies.

Calvin on Jean 12:24-25

For not only do we think that we perish in death, but our life also is a sort of continual death (Col 3:3). We shall therefore be undone, unless we be supported by that consolation which Paul holds out: if our outward man decays, the inward man is renewed from day to day (2 Cor 4:16). When, therefore, the godly are distressed by various afflictions, when they are pressed hard by the difficulties of their situation, when they suffer hunger, or nakedness, or disease, when they are assailed by reproaches, when it appears as if they would every hour be almost overwhelmed by death, let them unceasingly consider that this is a sowing which, in due time, will yield fruit.

In short, to love this life is not in itself wrong, provided that we only pass through it as pilgrims, keeping our eyes always fixed on our object. For the true limit of loving life is, when we continue in it as long as it pleases God, and when we are prepared to leave it as soon as he shall order us, or--to express it in a single word--when we carry it, as it were, in our hands, and offer it to God as a sacrifice. Whoever carries his attachment to the present life beyond this limit destroys his life; that is, he consigns it to everlasting ruin, devoting it to destruction.

Wandering

Today I walked the platform among a mass of people descending from the same train as me making the typical pilgrimage to which we've grown accustomed and looked over them feeling the lostness of modern man.
I listened to the fascinating noise that echoes in the center hall of a metro station with the beeps of daily passes clicks of rotating turnstiles clops of hurried leather shoes and the dull drone of confused mutters.
I read about Muslims only having 2,500 mosques in this country with a desire to double that number and thought it a curious statistic knowing we have almost as many churches with a desire to triple the number. 
I searched for space invaders and found a few. 
I heard a man make a millennium of church history simple in a matter of minutes and wanted to hear more.
I had the luck of falling upon the band of Balkan men with their dulcimer and upright bass and accordion and two full and soaring clarinets whose music has a strange capacity to fill me with life and stopped to listen before stepping on the long rolling sidewalk.
I watched two shots of espresso drip into a plastic cup half-full of tap water and heard the kind Frenchmen warmly call my first name as if I had arrived home from work after a long day.
I peered into the dark windows of an 'exceptionally closed' Burger King to find a ghost-town of lifeless abandoned booths and upon looking closer was surprised to see a Muslim man among them kneeling on a mat to say his mid-afternoon Ramadan prayers. Evangelical church planters are not the only innovative ones and perhaps abandoned fast food restaurants could answer the need for more mosques.
I wrestled incessantly with myself over a variety of trivial matters and tried to feel again whatever it was in the first place that got me to where I am wondering what in God's name could be next and how in the world it might unfold recalling countless dreams and brainstorms that were never pursued largely out of fear preferring to tackle projects that are instead surefire and easy to finish.
The death of self-importance is long, hard, slow, and painful and it's a stubborn zombie of a beast that just when you think has been killed once and for all comes right back to continue haunting you. The cross we are called to bear is a daily one.

Praying with Flannery

I dove into Flannery O'Connor's prayer journal last night. It's a plain, intimate and fascinating affair, even if it feels at times intrusive to read. I don't anticipate it being a source of model theology, yet it is certainly a worthy model of frank and vulnerable praying. For me there is added interest as it was written just a few years before being diagnosed with Lupus. A distant and sterile introduction by a scholar and friend does not ascribe much to the reality of the recipient of her prayers, yet he tends to affirm that prayer does in fact change things, that many of her prayers were, in one way or another, and even with a bit of irony, answered. I could quickly turn this blog into a record of appreciated quotes, lines I might be led to pray with her, and in that way the book is therapeutic, cathartic, perhaps not unlike some of David's intensely personal prayers becoming the corporate songbook of the church.

So, this was last night's...

All boils down to grace, I suppose. I am afraid of pain and I suppose that is what we have to have to get grace. Give me the courage to stand the pain to get the grace, Oh Lord. Help me with this life that seems so treacherous, so disappointing.

Added track to sleepy-time mix

Yes, I am still gradually adding to the sleepy time mix, which, if I've done things correctly, is downloadable here (without this song).

So, here's the newest addition. Is there a more beautiful song with which to tuck in your children and prayerfully end a day?

John My Beloved

I'm not nearly ready to try and say something worth reading about this album, except that it's exceptional. So far this is my favorite track. There's a lot of reasons why, though I recognize I've always been immediately partial to songs using a sustained note over the entire chord progression... (see also: this song, 10 years old this year and that sustained note halfway through still gets me)

Working on the non-verbals

Now that the girl has fully mastered norwegian babble, she's been working on things more sophisticated than actual words, like non-verbal communication.

Since the other day, she's been offering elaborate conversations, all in babble, but accompanied with complex movements of the head, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, shoulders, arms, and hands. Hips are not excluded, either. She knows exactly what she's saying. We don't, though we are certain she is drop dead serious; there's no mistaking that.

There are very clearly multiple levels of communication going on: explanation, exclamation, negotiation, rationalization, interrogation, collaboration. All that in the hands, though mostly in the shoulders lately.

She's really concentrating on developing her shrug. It's already close to perfection. She'll lift the arms and twirl the hands for extra expression. She'll do it repeatedly to get it just right. It may be a shrug to express delight or to shift the blame. The repetition gives us several tries to understand, as if it weren't clear the first time.

She's furrowing and raising eyebrows. Shaking, nodding, bowing, tilting, turning the head. Raising, folding, flapping, crossing the arms. Pointing, wagging, waving fingers.

I could go on and on. I didn't know the body was capable of such expression, especially not from a 1-year old. Scarier: she's observing all this elsewhere, carefully recording this, seeing, studying, downloading and installing, learning and practicing.

Maybe even from us.

La Vie des Gens

Our cinéma closed in September. There is one that's even better, but it requires a 30 minute drive on country roads. It's worth it.

This was at least the third occasion to go out on a weeknight to hear a director humbly present their film. Each time it's been an immense privilege. I like country cinemas that show good films and invite their directors, films and directors that otherwise would remain unknown. And it was also a privilege to realize, halfway through the director's talk, that I was understanding what he was saying. I was not lost, I was enjoying it as much as anyone else was.

This is probably not a film that will make its way subtitled to the states, and for that I'm sorry. It's a year of following a firecracker of a visiting nurse and her host of patients that become like family. We don't always fear death; we fear growing old, the limitations and the ailments and aches and the pains that come with it. And in spite of it all, there are smiles and bright spots, most often due to the visits of caretakers, those moments when solitude and loneliness are broken.

It's a tribute to humanity, and to those who give of themselves for others.

The title is simple and brilliant: it's about the life of people.

If Christianity is about visiting the sick and caring for the widows, we could all learn a thing or two from Françoise.

If you don't know about this guy yet...

...your introduction is overdue. Enjoy. Thank me later.

and then there's this.

je suis enchanté.

Dad Troubles

The train home was set to depart in one minute when the other kid announced he needed to pee. The trip home was set to take well over an hour. The alert sounded, the doors closed, and we started the journey.

He said he could hold it.

The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.

I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.

We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.

I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.

The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.

We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.

We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"

This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.