This book, I found accidentally, but what a treasure. I love people and their stories, and Jackie Hill Perry’s is beautiful, on several levels.
The College Guy told me to check out Hill Perry’s hip hop, which I did. This caused me to Google her, which caused me to find her book. I’m glad.
Chapter eight of Gay Girl, Good God, beginning on page 67, is wrecking me in a good way, as my neighbor Nancy says. It helps refine my understanding of what I call My Miracle. Parts of chapter twelve wrecked me all over again last night. I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.
Nancy is one of several, strange connections that led me to visit UPPERROOM in Dallas for church on June 30. That day’s speaker also wrecked me in a good way. The message was called the Emerging Church. I was there, and most of it, but not the entire message made it to their podcast. This talk also helped me process things in a way that made sense for the first time.
And this song, lately. The worship team at another church I visited sang it. Sometimes, I play it on repeat.
“You wear the scars for all my mistakes, and that part just wrecks me.”
So there you have it, my update for today.
I’m in, Jesus. I’m Yours. You are faithful and you are gracious, and I’m just grateful.
Here is a peek at graffiti I happened to see on June 30 while picking my way through an alley to my car from the Spiral Diner in Dallas. At first, I found this expression amusing, hence the effort of pulling out my phone to memorialize. But I also found it to be thought-provoking, as art is intended to be:
Of course, this all could be tongue in cheek, and credit to the artist above.
Some might put my dad into the category of being rich. He attributes his success to luck combined with need and fear of failure. He also describes himself as a big fish in a little pond, which would be more accurate, in my opinion. But if I could use only one word to describe my father, it would be generous.
Both my family and I, along with other assorted people, traveling outward in ripples, know first-hand of my dad’s generosity. Some remain nameless, as complete strangers.
Sometimes, I go to breakfast with my dad. On one such day this past April, as we drove home, we chatted. Since the death of my step-mom, Carol, Dad struggles with whether or not to keep his large house. As I’ve told him and others, I support the general idea of you doing you.
The pendulum of this house question swings back and forth in my father’s mind. On this occasion, he was pondering keeping his house. But my dad also likes to say he is Nellie Cox’s son, and therefore, he hates waste. Nellie was Dad’s mom, and my grandmother. She was frugal, and she taught her son that one spends money, but never squanders. His thought was that living alone in a big house could be overdoing things.
On an occasion when Carol was still alive, toward the end of her life, this question came up. Dad fully intended to die first, so he asked her about keeping their house. If he died first, he wanted to know, would she keep the house? Here was her reply:
Of course. It’s my home.
My father is eighty-three years-old. On this day in the car, chatting with my beloved Dad, I desperately wanted him to be the one to make this decision. It would be a huge thing, and stressful to sell his home of many years, uproot, downsize and readjust. On the other hand, far be it from me to discount the teachings of Nellie Cox, because I happen to be her granddaughter, and I concede to frugality and sensibility on occasion, myself. So, not having anything better to say, I borrowed from Carol’s answer, and I said:
It’s your house, Dad.
My dad’s head snapped to attention, and he looked at me, and said, resolutely and without a second’s hesitation:
It’s our house.
After surprise, my heart was instantly warmed, because I never saw Dad’s house as our family’s house. But he does.
You see, my dad is gifted in matters of business, and he’s an achiever. He built himself up from literal dirt and true poverty, combining hard work and persistence with that serendipity he mentions. And he sees his resources, whatever they may be, as a way to benefit others. But thanks be to Nellie Cox and to God, Dad is not wasteful. And I admire him for that balance.
So, since I missed posting on both Mothers and Fathers Day, let’s just call this my July the Fourth offering, shall we?
And here’s to you, Dad. I’d certainly rather eat at Spiral Diner than eat someone rich, whatever that means. And I proudly say that you are wealthy in other ways, besides money and things.
Enjoy, Dad. You’ve earned it. And if you should choose to sell your house and move into that tiny place you talk about, it won’t change a thing for me. I’d love you just the same if you didn’t have two nickels to rub together.
It was one year ago today that a quiet, almost invisible event cracked my world open to its molten core. I’m thankful because I needed waking and breaking, and in the aftermath, those two things certainly happened.
Yesterday, I stood in a church I never would have visited before my life-changing incident. I’ll be processing that visit for some time. But at the most basic level, for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like the oddball in the room. And I have no idea what to do with that.
Currently, I am not a church member anywhere, and I’m completely comfortable in that state.
One thing’s for sure: When I’m with Jesus, I’m home. And that can happen almost anywhere.
My bare bones theology now includes that God exists as three people. I know them, and I can’t deny someone I’ve met.
There’s a father. There’s a son. And there’s a Holy Spirit. They’re all one God. Don’t ask me to explain that any further, because I can’t. But I live in here, so I should know.
I trusted Jesus Christ on faith. And then, He moved in, as the Holy Spirit, and showed me in one thousand secret ways how real He is. And those three God people started to come together for me in a cemetery, walking among the tombstones, where I rose out of ashes, alive and free. How much sense does that make? To me, not one bit.
Some weeks ago, I posted about my home town having a heritage from a country in Europe. Europeans happen to look a lot like I do. But my neighbors in Ennis, Texas also come from other countries, and wear skin that varies from pale to dark, and has all sorts of hue variations.
Thanks to my friend Gavin for sharing with me his thoughts about how we, as humans, describe each other. He loved me enough to have that conversation, but the deeper truth, in my humble opinion, came from the mouth of his younger brother, Gabriel.
One of my neighbors told a heartbreaking story on Friday before last, and it inspired this post. She has a store in town. I shop there. Because of her dark skin, she was treated unkindly at her boutique, which operates to benefit women escaping abuse in our area. This neighbor reported to me she doesn’t think the insensitive person actually lives in our town, but was possibly visiting. Knowing what happened to this faith-filled woman felt like a punch to the gut, and froze my words, so I’ll end soon.
I want to say that I love my neighbors, but this is not because I’m somehow good. In fact, I’m not. I do, however, believe God gives me this love. But I’ve been wrong before.
I’ll finish with more glimpses of our town and our citizens. These photos were taken recently at our Blues on Main festival. May it grow into the scope of our Bohemian Super Bowl someday.