The Unsuccessful Throne of a Fleabrain

An old fable tells of an elephant lumbering across a wooden bridge suspended over a ravine. As the big animal crossed over the worn-out structure, it creaked and groaned under the elephant’s weight. When he reached the other side, a flea that had nestled itself in the elephant’s ear proclaimed, “Boy did we shake that bridge!”1

The flea had done nothing; the elephant had done all the work, if there’s any contribution from the flea enough to shake the bridge is the weight of his pride.

If there’s anything in common about all human beings aside from their breathe is a sheet of paper lodged on their forehead with these words, “Look at me.” And with the digitized age, it became so rampant and as usual as a blink of an eye, it has been a ploy hidden under a comfortable cloth of community plumbing.

“Success begets amnesia and sabotages the memories of the successful”2, penned Max Lucado. And as we rise up with what we do best, all of us become qualified of a throne, but the problem with this throne is that there’s something about it that makes us fall. There’s an eject button hidden somewhere that when we become too comfortable with the attention we are getting, we find ourselves perched in mid-air, a few seconds away from hitting rock bottom. And we could only hold memories of our success advertising no one but ourselves.

“Riches and honor come from God alone, for God rules over everything. Power and might are in His hand, and it is God’s discretion that people are made great and given strength”3

Wow! What does that speak about? We are successful to make Him known, to reflect like mirrors the brightness of Jesus. Why are we good at what we do? Comfort and self-esteem? Not so much. Consider these as bonuses not the reason. We are good at what we do for God’s sake.

It is not about the farmer that there are good crops, it about the Maker of the farmer. It is not about a good lens that makes a good shot, it is about the Artist of the Universe. It is not about a good blog that words inspire, it is about the One who said “Let there be light” before all words come to be. It is not about us, it is about God. He makes us excel to make him known.

How I wish I quit being a fleabrain. Right now!

Notes:

1. Max Lucado, It's Not About Me, pp 149, Integrity Publishers Inc. 2004

2.Max Lucado, It's Not About Me, pp 149, Integrity Publishers Inc. 2004

3. 1 Chronicles 29:12

A Parrot’s Parody

With a fresh breeze of April’s north wind, I struggled to keep my feathers from being clipped. The sight of the laymen trying to catch up with my flawless acrobatic stunt from my cage to the veranda back to the apricot tree made them look like senile creatures in search for justice. Why can’t they overpower a parakeet?

Well I have to leave them the way they are. A hopeless generation of trials and errors. The view from the peak of this old tree is nothing less than microscopic, all I see are fugitives caught in a knight’s tale, they clothe themselves with iron-clad jeans and velvet dripped vest. Indeed it is so colorful I almost forgot I have better choice of colors than them. Just a while ago I was watching them from my cage, living at the mercy of their time management, I almost die of hunger before getting a few crumbs of whatever it is in that small yellow cylinder. They laugh at me every time I get the chance to say “good morning fellow!” four times in a row. What’s wrong with that? my boss taught me those words. How in the world would I know what that means?

The usual day for me is a series of left-right, left-right movement of what else but my beak? The kids would stare at me before going to school and throw a very humane encouragement at me, they are so gracious they always have that serious stare at the nare just below my cere before exploding into a theatrical caucus, “Ugly parrot looking like a mascot!” And then they would just dance their way off.

Those are small time unfavorable merits of being a flying creature with a healthy rostrum. Forget it. I’m at the top of my lungs now, it’s payback time. You can try to climb my peak but I would just let you a few inch near me and I would fly with the wind. I could go places that I could own, you can not put me in a cage anymore.

Enough of my farewell speech, I’m definitely ecstatic of a proud glide to the other side of this doomsday castle.

I see different flowers, more colorful than the one near my rust-filled cage. The smell of freedom is just so liberating I could hop in and out of these lovely trees.

Pause.

I’m dizzy. I’m dizz…

“It’s a hit, we got that stupid bird, don’t tell your brother we used his slingshot, he’ll be angry at us, you know him.”

“It is for freedom that Christ set has set us free. Stand firm, then and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery”
Galatians 5:1

The difficulties of our lives are not our cage, what binds us from going out is actually covering us from being hurt. Even the furnace of fire was an awesome display of God’s glory. The lion’s den, a stroke of His sovereign power. And the cross, it was not so pleasing to the eyes, the wood that was used for it was not even of the highest kind but it has a blade so sharp it cut the temple curtain from top to bottom.

Whatever and wherever you are right now, it is a canvass-perfect moment to display His glory!

The Thief That Was I

Inspired by Luke 23:26-43

Just above my sun-burnt forehead, the heat of the sun settles to the west and my body weary of a week’s travel starts to transform into a pain cushion that leaves no room for comfort. Even sleep was not in my agenda. Before me is a table covered with crumbs that were left over from a festive meal of edible grass and warm water. I should not be hungry anymore; I am filled to the bin. I made sure that the money from the purse that I have stolen from that old lady would buy me enough food for the day. I’m sure it did.

My palms are still covered with blood; I hope the blind man still has air to breathe even if it’s colorless. I did not mean to hurt him, the little boy with him was so angry with me but I could not hurt a little boy, how could I?

I was at their court to steal their livestock, nothing more. It’s as simple as that. I made so much noise after hitting the old man’s head with an iron rod, the people came running towards me, I have no time to spare.

Maybe that is why I am so tired; yes I was running like mad, I don’t know where I am heading I just need to leave the crowd and head for my life. Is it my fault that I was born to a poor family? At the age of five, I started stealing for food, my father was not home and my mother came looking for him. I remember that was the last time I saw them both.

It was more than thirty years and still I have to steal to earn an extra day, an extra foothold, another pair of sunrise and sunset, I lost count of the people I hurt and stole from.

Suddenly, I heard a voice, “I am thirsty!” I opened my eyes, it was all just a dream, my life was in front of me for a few minutes that my eyes were closed. And now I am facing reality, I hung helplessly on a wooden cross. In front of me is an audience who is mocking me…no! not me, I was wrong, I am not the object of their mockery, it is this man beside me. They called him the King of the Jews, why do all the people in this rotten hill hate him so much? I can’t see anything wrong with him.

His face is covered with blood, I can’t differentiate between the thorns and his eyebrows, his dry lips was covered with bleeding skin, it must have been where his beard and mustache was before the people stripped it like a wild grass. Blood, so much blood! The more blood drips from his body, the more the crowd slanders him. I looked at his feet, the nails that glued it to the wood almost shattered his feet. I am not sure what’s keeping him alive. I know how rough the wood is. I can feel it in my back. But his back is barely hiding his inner skin. I can’t stand the sight of it. With so much pain I am witnessing I can not feel my own pain.

But what is this that I see in his eyes?

Amidst the near fatal wounds exposed in the heat of the sun and with the loud noise of the crowd, I saw something in his eyes; it’s the last thing that you would see in places like this. In people like him on his death cross. A calming peace. Like a thousand voltage of lightning, his kindness struck my heart with unexplainable impact – it brought me to repentance. I was about to ask his name when the man on his other side, also on the cross spoke bluntly; “Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!” I shouted back at my fellow thief “Don't you fear God since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then I turned to the man in between us, the Lamb of God, the Messiah; with a soft voice, with all the strength left in my body and with His kind stare that led me to repentance, I told Him these words “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Before all the memoirs of my past sin turns into tears, I heard a Father’s voice, a Shepherd’s call, a Friend’s assurance – “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.”

I closed my eyes in blessed assurance, eternity now awaits me, I don’t know how, but this Man did it all for me. And now the blood the covers His whole body wrote silently these words in my heart “I did this for you my child”

Amazing grace, How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, But now am found

Was blind but now I see

John Newton

The stones that missed their target

Aquel de ustedes que esté libre de pecado, que tire la primera piedra.1

A young woman was passionately caught in a sculpture of akarthasia, exchanging illicit vows with a stranger in the form of a collage of whispers and smiles. The room was poorly lit, and these two souls thought they had the world all by themselves, right across from where they share a guiltless act lays a lamp on a table desperately keeping its composure not to dance with the visual vibrato that its light is witnessing. And almost a glimpse of a moment before catching their last breathe for the night, the thunderous waves of footsteps from an unruly crowd banishes the dark alley of the narrow, dusty road leading to their small shanty. And before the young woman and her “friend” become aware of it, a group of scribes and Pharisees along with their apprentices where at the shanty’s doorstep. “Get her!” And before she could figure out why all eyes are on her alone, she was savaged.

One of the men who is well-built, standing more than six feet in height grabbed her by her soft petite arm, giving her no time to even pick up a piece of cloth to cover her nakedness. Another held her by her tired feet. Still another snatches the curly hair above her nape.

She was beamed from a dim-lit room to a well-lit lamp post on the public alley. With all the people shouting she did not know who to listen to, she did not know what they are grunting about but she was more than sure these people are angry at her. Why not? The young man she left was not her husband, and so is the man last night and the other night. Right now, the people started counting her faults one by one.

The only thing covering her flesh aside from her hair are her tears, still it was not enough to give her a descent clothing but its all she could do right now. She was thankful for the grainy soil that covered her knees; suddenly she noticed she was bleeding. It might be because she was banged on one of the concrete walls while being carried by the angry men, it does not matter where the bleeding came from, she can’t feel any pain at this moment.

The noise slowly subsides, as one of the Pharisees steps forward, he began to present her case to the Teacher.

“Teacher, they said, This woman has been caught in the very act of adultery. Now Moses in the Law commanded us that such women shall be stoned to death. But what do You say?”2

As if this Pharisee is all knowing and with utter concern about the law, he only asked the question for one reason only; to try to find a charge on which to accuse the Teacher who came back to the temple from the Mount of Olives. With a pulsating grin, the Pharisee was expecting a buzzer beating shot that he made rendering the Teacher utterly powerless. But the Pharisee was wrong, in all his life of knowledge of the scripture, he was never right about this Teacher.

“Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”3

Silence. Stones dropping down one by one on the ground, just a few inch away from each of the accuser’s feet. Until no one is holding a stone anymore. All the stones missed their target.

“Who is this man?”, the young woman asked herself. “I am very sure I have sinned, but who is this man with such powerful words?, no one ever treated me this way before. No one ever sided with a filthy rag, especially in a community of the elect and religious”

She has so many questions to ask herself, she did not noticed it was only her and the Teacher that is left on the once crowded court. And before she could utter one more challenge on her thoughts, she was totally silenced by the redeeming words that this kind Carpenter is about to say;

“I do not condemn you, go and sin no more”4

She was never this bare in front of anyone before, countless men have seen her inner most skin but this Man standing in front of her saw pass through all that, He saw her heart, He looked at her as a living soul and with the almost eternal hatred that she earned from all the people around her, she now has a sure eternal life ahead of her. She can’t wait to stand up and tell the world about Him. She knew from her heart, this is the last time that she would go in that dim-lit room again. She would stop walking in the dark and will have the Light which is life.5

I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; And I will not remember your sins.6

Even the seemingly most blessed and clean life has some skeletons under the closet, all of us are filthy rags no one righteous, not a single one. 7

Our failures are not fatal. 8

God’s amazing redeeming power can take tragedies and injustices in our lives and turn them into precious eternal victories. 9

Notes:

1. Juan 8:7 Nueva Versión Internacional

2. John 8:5 NIV

3. John 8:7 NIV

4. John 8:11 NIV

5. John 8:12 NIV

6. Isaiah 43:25 NIV

7. Cedartone

8. Max Lucado, Six Hours One Friday, 1989, Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

9. Tommy Walker, He Knows My Name, 2004, Regal Books, pp 29

Desperate for Light

So much familiar with afternoons, it’s a sign that the evening is coming. It tells us that in a few moments the light of the sun will leave us with a mere reflection of its light on the moon.

Life has its afternoons, especially made for failure-prone creatures. For sinful-by-nature beings. For the self-loving, godless society. Afternoons are always here to remind us that days turn into nights; the strong would yield to a good night’s rest, the poet would write his last words and close the last page of his own resume.

How many of us have been through the same road for the nth time around? How many failures does it take to believe that it’s the last one? How much anger would it spell to realize the undeserved kindness of God aiming at our combatant heart? Is that your last stare? Is that your last glimpse? Does your tongue have enough to sting? How about your neighbor? Does he remind you that you are not alone? That sometimes it’s ok to be silent when they are talking? Who do you have to reason with? That person in the mirror? Isn’t it you? The same old you?

Oh yes, indeed time is inadequate for you to get your portion of the land of smiles and triumphs. The more you count time, the more you lose it. The more you gain access to friends, the more you become alone. Ironies of all ironies, it’s not about the numbers that would make you a better person or a lesser failure if we would go by our definition of man. It’s always the heart that dictates your direction, and a heart without God is aimlessly pursuing nothing.

How come there is still a road ahead for those who wane? It’s all grace that gave your feet the ground it stands, it’s all grace that provided words in your lips after your worthless promises. It’s all grace that shed light on your dark face. But where would you go after the long run when time catches up on you again?

When was the last time you prayed? No I mean the last time your heart talked to God? Prayers can be part of a daily routine, but not all prayers have heart. I can’t stop meddling with man’s futile attempt to live in peace yet end up the opposite. Who failed where and when?

I am not sure. One thing I am sure about is we are not called to fail. Though we are doomed to fail because we are not anywhere near God’s standard, Christ loved us best when we were a failure. He died for all of us even when we are yet sinners. And His grace abounds. Suddenly we become undeserving pricks that even if we fail a thousand times, God has a thousand and one ways of His kindness leading us to repentance.

Wake up sleeping soul, the Lord is mighty to save. There are great battles to be won for His kingdom, and those battles that you can not win for yourself, He already won it all. Don’t even try to outsource your own will to alter His love. It’s there forever regardless if you are or if you are not.

Now evening falls, you become desperate for light. Just try to get some sleep. That’s all you can do when the sun sets in.

About your failures! Never mind if you think you are unable to take another step after all these, for either He will strengthen you to make you able, or He will call a sudden halt, and you will not have to take it all.1

Sleep. Just sleep.

Notes:
1. Frances Ridley Havergal, Streams in the Desert, pp16, Copyright 1925 by the Zondervan Corp.

Love Minus Zero/No limit

Bob Dylan, Copyright © 1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.

Once labeled as a great American poet, Robert Allen Zimmerman (Jewish name: Zushe ben Avraham) has been a major figure in popular music for five decades. His music started more than ten years before I breath the first air on my nostrils.

On my early childhood days, growing up on a poverty stricken suburb, it’s very unusual for me to grow up with his songs reverberating on the four corners of our house, all coming from an old turn table which I used to play with my sesame street toys. Even after a good spanking from tatay, I had the signs of stubbornness at a young age, I still put my two inches Bert and Ernie toys opposite each other and just be amazed as they go round in circles. Eventually messing up my tatay’s” LP.

In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.

Only a few of his followers know his real name, but to the rest of us he is known as Bob Dylan. As far as I can remember, I often loath hearing his songs, which for me was nothing but noise. And at a young age, though exposed to reading English books, I could not fathom why a singer could write songs almost the size of a book.

Yes, for me he was just a singer then. One of those whom I hear over the radio, almost everywhere. But I was not aware, parallel to me growing up on different challenges of life, this complicated crooner is shaping up the history of music.

The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.

Fast forward to the years where there was a bulging fascination in my heart to poetry, I slowly began to appreciate the stroke of his pen, the imagination of beauty that Bob has, that I believe no one else among his echelon could match.

Pure art, that’s the best way I could describe his songs. Long before I started listening to Steven Curtis Chapman’s anointed lyricism, I was already deep into Bob’s lyrical genius.

The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.

To my surprise, on one of John Piper’s book that I just recently finished (Don’t waste your life) He quoted Bob’s song in the early chapter. Which only proves that Bob Dylan’s music traverses different cultures, anyone does not need to be someone to be able to appreciate his music. His contributions to popular music and the words he penned for five decades has inspired people from different races.

On my way to sleep, I just got reminded of this song, searched for the complete lyrics and while reading and listening to it. I got inspired to write about his music.

So if you’re into definitive poetry and music, key in these words on the search box of YouTube and Google and just try to check out a few of his songs – Bob Dylan.

Blog # 50: Leaving 2007 with 8 fingers

I was thinking what would make this blog entry different, if not special from the rest of my entries this year. So the title says so. Yes. This blog entry is done with 8 fingers only. A few hours ago on a dinner gathering with my fellow brethren, the boys challenged each other’s strength on the hard court. We ended up playing a friendly game with a few locals that where already on the court when we arrived. I wish to describe the action-packed court hustle we had but my left hand is in pain. I could not type so much words like I could this past year.

This is the simplest way I could describe it, I was not expecting the blind pass from my team mate and before I knew it, my pinky finger got hit and it almost broke in two. It’s so painful I could not feel it hehehe. Not after the game when its already dinner time, my finger is already red in pain. One of my friends have to strap two of my fingers to give the injured one a rest. Free from pressure. No movement. But out of a stubborn will to catch up with this blog entry on new year, here I go again.

Well have to end this entry before I end up having to say goodbye to my small finger too. It’s still in pain as I end this blog.

Welcome 2008, it’s a pleasure to write one last entry this year with eight fingers left.

I hope to weave the next words with ten fingers already. Tomorrow morning, they plan to have another game. This time, I have to sit it out on the bench. And gaze at the athletic animation that the rest of the gang could share.

I still thank God though, my right hand is still intact and is more than able to hold my cam’s shutter to capture great moments that my brethren are celebrating.

Kindly pray for my left pinky finger, I miss typing with my both hands.

Sleeveless Errands

This is the second article that I wrote for an OFW magazine based in Singapore, actually I wrote this early December, and I remember writing about Christ coming from the manger to the cross. The publisher instead asked me to write about the New Year. And so I scrubbed my eyebrows to rush for this topic and the gracious Lord has provided that I be able to come up with this. And now I want to share this to all of you. May all of us be blessed with the coming year as God has faithfully desired to bless each one of us.

A few more tick of the clock and it's high time to look back to the past. The past 365 days at least.. A vast majority of people “once again” would come up with a long list of hopeful wishes. We plan to resolve issues by ourselves, never mind if it would be a replica of last year's agenda. What's important is to make that promise again and try our best to make it better this year.

One popular website lists the top 10 New Year's resolution that we mortal beings make. Topping the list is “Spending more time with family and friends”. The list is a result of polls conducted by different organizations and they have figures to prove that people really come up with these resolutions¹. Analyzing the list makes you think that man, in reality has age-old disappointments in life. We are prone to “miss the mark” or “not meet the line”. As long as our sanity could hold, we have a tendency to fail ourselves.

Then the 31^st of December comes, we are shocked to look at a blank sheet of data, we found out that the only effort we made in relation to these promises is to make a list of them. And then you sit on a table with a new sheet of paper to list a new set of resolutions, you could only say to yourself, “How come I miss that one?”

But why? It is not so difficult to do after all. It is not a life and death situation, it does not take a full armor to resist life's buoyant charisma, you don't need a surgeon to always remind you what smoking and drinking could do to the sensitive tissues of your body. And it only takes a mirror to realize that you need to tame that bulge tucked in your pants in favor of your belt. There are things called, paychecks, payslips, its printed clear for you to see, how come you always spend more than you have?

C.S. Lewis wrote, “We would have never promised to do things if we would have known how busy we would be. And all human beings have this curious idea that they ought to behave in a certain way and can not really get rid of it.”²

Can it be true? That the more we understand our being, the more we become tolerant of these behaviors? Or is there Someone in the center of it all who made all things for our enjoyment yet we shun from Him. Going back to the second question of this paragraph, can humans, which are mere creations grasp the thought of the Creator?

Maybe if we would have known that we are created for a purpose, that we could not make it through a minute of this life with pure thoughts, maybe we would instead leave all things in one table and let Him who owns all do all the repairing for us. Maybe through that we would realize that there is no such thing as hopeless – only Godless.

Another year wasted you would say.

I have good news for you, the bible says “In Christ all things hold together”^3. Steven Curtis Chapman wrote, “There's a wonder in the here and now, it's right there in front of you. This is the only moment that we could do anything about”⁴

So the next time you would think of writing a new list of To-Dos, take it from the Best Man that ever lived, “Apart from Me you can do nothing”⁵

Notes:

1. http://pittsburgh.about.com/od/holidays/tp/resolutions.htm

2. CS Lewis, pp 7-8, “Mere Christianity”.. CS Lewis Pte Ltd. 1942

3. Colossians 1:17 NIV

4. Steven Curtis Chapman, “Miracle of the Moment”. Sparrow Songs, Peach Hill Songs 2007

5. John 15:5 NIV

Jesus is best CEO-type leader, says new S Korean leader

On my way to Mandalai Drive this morning, I got a copy of Today Online, a free newspaper from Mediacorp. While browsing the pages of the newspaper. The name of Jesus in bold letters on top of one of the pages caught my attention. This is indeed good news.

It's past midnight now, and I made sure I would be able to post a copy of this article to my blogsite. Well, here it is. The following section is published on Today Online, pp 22, December 29,2007, Saturday. Be blessed!

SEOUL — South Korea’s President-elect Lee Myung Bak , a former business CEO, has described Jesus Christ as “the best model of a CEO-type leader”. Mr Lee, 66, made the statement during a prayer meeting on Thursday at Seoul’s Somang Church where he serves as a Presbyterian elder, his aide Kim Heon Jin said.

“I’ve said I will become a CEO-type leader but, actually, the best model of a CEO-type leader was Jesus Christ,” Mr Lee said. “Two millennia ago, Jesus showed a leadership of service by
washing the feet of his disciples.

“Likewise, I will do my own best, serving the people.” Mr Lee wanted to stress his desire to become a president devoted to working for the people, the aide said. A former chief executive of the Hyundai group, Mr Lee has pledged to revitalise the economy. He faces a criminal inquiry into his alleged links to a 2001 share manipulation fraud. He denies wrongdoing and was cleared by an earlier investigation.

About one in four of the population, or 13.7 million South Koreans, are Christians, according to the National Statistical Office.

AFP

A pair of slippers for tired feet

On a desolate land fronting a majestic castle, footprints of despairing hope marks the pathway to the entrance gate. Numb as a beetle, the once robust shoulders became a yoke of failure. The proud hands could no longer wave boastfully but could only silently trace the rugged walls to the steel opening. After a few tries, the solemn shadow was successful in opening the doors, slowly, unlike the way he did when he left this castle.

It was not so long ago when he decided to make a mark of his own. To live life and enjoy everything at the expense of his father’s riches. Beautiful women collide with a delightful feast of his favorite foods. Expensive jewelries adorn his mortal body making him like the King of Egypt. Feasting as if it’s his last breath. Not looking back nor staring forward, he is stuck in a limbo of dancing dreams. His hopes where nowhere to be found, having everything in his hands. He thought glory went home to his heart and his pockets could spell anything that he wants.

Unfortunately he was wrong.

Not until he found himself eating with swines. Not until he could not figure out the difference between his sweat and his tears, especially if it’s on the tip of his tongues. Not until the silk that covers his soft skin became garments that even snakes would refuse to wear. How long did it take before the sky kissed the ground? Where are his friends who drank pure wine with him? There’s one, he looked familiar. Yes, it was the man on the bar. He spent so much money for that man’s drink. And that lady in black, she was all over her last night.

But what was in their eyes?

Don’t they know him? Have they forgotten the same man whom they shared high spirits on a single table?

It’s too late. They took off already. Back to the swine.

He never had eye contact with a pig before, nor did he notice that when pigs eat, it doesn’t matter where it came from. They just swallow every thing that their mouth could take. And as he was more than familiarized with their smell and the touch of their skin. He remembered one thing.

Yes, he remembered he has a father. He could ask his father to make him his slave at least he could have a nice place to sleep. Surely, his father can’t forgive him, but he could hire him as a servant to their household.

It was a long walk from town. Now he is finally in front of their house. Expecting the claws of his father’s rage and mimicking a hopeless dove in front of a blazing furnace, he walks slowly. The silence of the mist that surrounds their garden is music to his ears. He thought there was no one home that time, it was very calm. Why not? It was the late hour of the night. Everybody must be asleep. He starts to turn his back, and decides to come back tomorrow. As he takes the first step towards the gate, he heard a rushing sound of feet pounding the ground, with utmost desire to reach him, it was someone running. The sound gets louder as the feet gets closer; he could hear the hard breathing on that person’s chest. He could be wrong; tears are starting to cover his cheeks. He is too ashamed to look at the person’s face. Until the running stops, the hard breathing is now covering his own chest, why could he not move? Because there was a tight embrace wrapping his frail body. He could not take it anymore. He lifted his head to see his father’s eyes. And before he could speak one single word, all his strength was chastised by one single word from his father’s lips. “Son”

They shared a few steps towards the house, and it was only now that he noticed he was not wearing any slippers. He saw his father looking at his dirt worn feet. Smiling at him, his father said….

"Here is a pair of slippers for your tired feet my son!"

"I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more."

Isaiah 43:25 (Today’s New International Version)

The Amazing Stolen Shot of a Ribcage in Distress

(Diagnosis: Over reaction to seven cups of coffee on Christmas Day)

Vanities of all vanities, in vain profanity
Curse is the idle mentality of its stubborn duplicity
A duel to a mile, as cruel as the Nile
With utmost desire to shun what is vile

In a populace of wise counsel, learning faster than a camel
A collage of gray and leather, has left the soul to wander
The ancient recipe of life’s mediocrity
Has transformed pity to a romantic atrocity

Maybe now, Maybe then, surely it could also be
A matter of honesty to prove that which is fallacy
A sand or a stone, could both be your tomb
Either of whom, you leave your mother’s womb

Climbing your Everest with only a vest on your chest
Rewriting the questions of your difficult quest
Hypodermic and losing eyesight within hindsight
A chill on your opposite right has left you dead tight

Crave for the fellow who wears your old yellow
Ask for the scaffold that held your feet low
Beside a building of miniature gambling
Is an ugly duckling that ate your spoiled dumpling

Oh laughter must end where letters could bend
With words you could lend when you could not pretend
That your bed is not fit to replace a thousand bulbs lit
When your eyes are knit to the place where you sit and eat

Never again will I take much caffeine
More than the drain that my friend has taken
So I would not write again, about a called curtain
Now I travel on a sleepy train, with this last word written 11:16

More than conquerors

There is no time for coffee break in war. Those who are quite idle get hit by stray bullets. And after the noise died down and groans of bleeding pain substitute the acrobatic fighting skills of opposing forces, the ground is left with with two kinds of warriors, the defeated and the conquerors.

I could go on writing about how graphic war could be but I could only pick up the words from those old war movies which I used to watch. As much as opposing nations could only say they are protecting their country at the end of a barrel of a loaded gun, in the same way I could only say that the only inevitable things about war is blood, sweat and tears. Though the joker would complain about the thief who took his sense of humor, there is nothing he can prove that indeed, he is only a joker and not a thief himself. Though the soldier would complain about the enemy who took his dreams away through a gunshot wound on his limbs, there is nothing he can prove that indeed he is only a soldier and not an enemy himself.

There could be a life-long debate to who the real enemy is when people are at war. Soldiers are paid to "protect" a better word to substitute for "kill". Battalion commanders gives order to destroy and conquer, fleet soldiers give bullets to survive.

Christians with only an armor of faith to shield their frail bodies have their own share of going into war. But they hold a bigger price tag at the end of the battle, they are called "more than conquerors".

The first few paragraphs of my article is just an introduction to the words that I really wanted to share, though I try my very best, I could not give justice to the person who wrote the following paragraphs. But still, In my own little way, I wish to share the inspiration that this writer have long been giving to people of all walks of life. To the weak and to the strong, to the poor and to the rich. To the lost who stood at the end of their line just to find hope carrying his burdens. The writer started with this verse;

"In all these things we are more than conquerors1"

"The gospel and the gift of God are structured so wonderfully that the very enemies and forces that are marshaled to fight against us actually pave our way to the very gates of heaven and to the presence of God. He wants us to be more than conquerors, turning storm clouds into chariots of victory. What your enemy plan to use for your defeat, you can confiscate for your own use.

When Dr. Moon, of Brighton, England was suddenly struck by blindness, he said, 'Lord, I accept this talent of blindness from you, help me to use it for Your glory so that when You return, you may receive it back with interest' Then God enabled Him to invent the Moon Alphabet for the blind, through which thousands of blind people were enabled to read the Word of God and thereby come to the glorious saving knowledge of Christ.

The ministry of thorns has often been a greater ministry to mankind than the ministry of thrones.2"

notes:
1. Romans 8:37
2. L.B. Cowman, Streams in the Desert, 1925 Cowman Publications, pp 469

Numbers Everywhere

I read this news on Yahoo, and was so amazed by it I chose to post it on my blog. Whatever this man is drinking...let me have it.

My favorite part is this "He sat down and it was all very quiet -- and all of a sudden he amazingly just cracked it." Whooa! Sat down and cracked the 13th root of 200 digit numbers - err..without calculator just pure brains..

Anyways thats a lot of spoiler from me. Read the news for yourself and ask the person sitting next to you - "Cracked?"

'Mathlete' smashes human calculation record: museum

Tue Dec 11, 12:21 PM ET

The world's fastest human calculator on Tuesday broke his own record for working out a 200-digit number using nothing but brain power to produce the answer in just over 70 seconds.

Alexis Lemaire, a 27-year-old Frenchman, correctly calculated the 13th root of a random 200-digit number from a possible 393 trillion answers.

The so-called 'mathlete' produced the answer of 2,407,899,893,032,210 in 70.2 seconds, beating his previous record of 72.4 seconds, at London's Science Museum.

A computer was used to produce a random 200-digit number before he sat down to calculate the answer in his head.

The museum's curator of mathematics, Jane Wess, said: "He sat down and it was all very quiet -- and all of a sudden he amazingly just cracked it.

"I believe that it is the highest sum calculated mentally.

"He seems to have a large memory and he's made this his life's ambition. It's quite remarkable to see it happen. A very small number of people have this extraordinary ability; nowadays there is only a handful."

Lemaire, who attends the University of Reims in northern France, began demonstrating his prowess by finding the 13th root of a random 100-digit number but gave up trying to improve his performance when he calculated an answer in under four seconds in 2004.

Like an athlete, he trains his brain daily for the far harder task of finding the 13th root of 200-digit numbers.

Article URL:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/britainsciencerecordoffbeat

footnote:
The fastest mathematical equation I solved in my whole life was "Who killed Magellan?", and I was able to solve it for only 5 minutes, minus the time I looked for a calculator.

Cling to the Cross

Complicated circumstances clouding your view, leaving you without a clue about how much gravity it would take to keep your feet on the ground. Trying to resist the temptation to carry out a grand orchestra with songs as rare as a fantasy locked in the grave of a story teller.

Once upon a glimpse of time, there used to be a herald standing in front of you, improvising your motives on all walks of life.

In your fear to stop being the architecture of great words, you shun from the Giver of words. You know for yourself that He alone holds the chronometer of life but you still risk painting the sky with your own dreams. “You will never learn” says a fellow thief. “I’ll be waiting for you to fail again” says a failing mortal soul. You ran out of alibis this time and you ended up responding in defeat, “Maybe they are right”.

And the gloomy afternoons of your memories rushed to the dark nights of your guilt. The pride that escorted you to your downfall is now disguised as shame and prevents you from rising again. You prefer the ground; you say to yourself there is not much air for you to breathe you might as well remain lying down. And so you did.

Meanwhile on the other side of life called destiny, the road is filled with human beings moving on. Artists crafting new ideas, politicians stitching new promises to be worn, infants enjoying their milk while hope builds up in their fragile heart, hearts are breaking up, families being united, love being lost, friends leaving friends, strangers welcoming each other, and foes reconciling with their enemies. There’s a lot going on around you, would you still lie down?

You tried getting up but the mud you’re lying in is so thick, it hesitates to let you go, you are glued to destruction. You keep turning your head on all directions, you are looking for anything to hold on to, anything just to keep you out of that mud. Guess what? You are lying in a pile of mud; the nearest part of the earth near you is a rocky road. You give up. There’s no use to find your own way out. And as you lie down, you tried one unfamiliar thing that you have never tried before. You lay still. And there you see parallel to where you are is the sky; the cumulus calmness brought a sudden peace to the angry waves of your anxieties. And then you remember these words “My peace I leave to you”.

This place looks familiar, you are right. This is the same place that He went when He joined His Father in heaven. The early believers of the church were staring on that same place you are staring right now. They can never be wrong, they rejoiced in hope and continued to do so even up to the most grueling deaths in the hands of their persecutors. It is how He touched your life. From the manger, to the cross, to the tomb, then beyond the tomb, He went straight to His throne.

It’s the only hope there is for saving you. The world behind you, the cross before you. No turning back, no turning back.1

He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth2

Great is your God!

Sleep in peace as the day dawns; leave everything to Him who is all knowing. His grace has made you whole, His love has proven it all and all you need to do is be still and know that indeed Jesus is Lord!3

Notes:

1. Paul Baloche and Matt Redman, "I Cling to the Cross" 2007, Ingerity's Hosanna! Music.

2. Psalm 40:2-3 NIV

3. Psalm 46:10 NIV

Leaving a trail

Leaving a trail
Originally uploaded by Blessed.Wind

It came to pass that you left home...far from where I am standing you stood your ground...with an honest heart you bid goodbye...Though you wanted to stay, there lies a greener pasture on the other side of the valley...not for your sake but for those you loved...as the clouds flew with you, I fared you well...not letting you know that your heart is in danger, I chose to stay...thank you for not going too far....thank you for leaving a trail for my blood stained footsteps to follow...I never knew you would stop and wait for me somewhere down that dark road...but there you were, with your usual silent stare...I was not ready for it but you gave the fiercest blow that shattered all my faults into pieces...you gave love when hatred was all there is for me...you gave love when the guns of treason I fired came rushing back to me...you gave love when the only shield I have left is death...thank you for your love...may I have enough life enough to give you back even half of what you gave...i love you!

Between a pen and a paper lies a black ink.

Obhet Cristobal, Singapore

The ink is almost dry as the pen suffocates itself with frivolous relaxation. And in the affluence of a semi-charmed kind of life, the price tag did not reveal how much life is really worth. Instead there is a very distinct mark on the worn-out piece of paper, and it reads “fill in the blank”.

Friday evenings are not the same as it used to be, the once familiar excitement of Saturday’s first hour becomes an unfamiliar longing to rest. The motivation to think that was once the result of a romantic moment with nature suddenly becomes a rushing desire to sink in the covering of a nylon bed piece.

Life transforms so easily, it’s either you're aware of it or you just realize it, most of the time you get surprised by the grains of sand adorning the tip of your weary sandals. You are never sure where you came from in as much as you are sure that you are not supposed to be where you are. The need to pursue a path becomes a tragic craving to bring your steps to a halt.

Is it the long road ahead that’s taking your time or is it the time taking different roads that heads to nothingness?

The soul is confused, while the logic is diffused.

When life’s recipe is left with only a concoction of comedy and common sense, you will soon find out that there’s not much left on the table to enjoy. Suddenly you search for greener pastures, you look for the lighter shade, you remember a choral fest of silence that slowly builds up to a ferocious stillness. The quiet wild that hinders you from dancing with the wind.

“Take me with you”, says your heart to the mirror in front of you, but the mirror could only whisper, “I could only go where your eyes could stare, if only you would not turn your back on me and forget how I look like”

Rubbish!

All these are rubbish. You wish to sing a new song and enjoy the miracle of the moment, you’re tired of swinging back and forth between the altar and the door but you are pretty sure you will fail again.

The only way is to let go of all your “if only’s”. To leave the “maybe” behind, to throw the “what if” away and to ignore the “this time I’m ok” attitude. You are really no good by yourself, you need a Savior, you need to spend your life to things of eternal worth. Fixing your eyes on the rainbow will not take you to the pot of gold, but setting your eyes pass the highest clouds, to the hands the hold the sun and the moon together, to the One that counts the stars, to the author and finisher of your faith, then your life would begin to have that iota of worth.

Eventually you still don’t deserve it.

But how come you enjoy a good life?

Love says it all. Not just any ordinary love, but that which has no greater love, that is willing to die so that others might live, that which triumphed over the cross. That kind of love.

Severely broken for the sake of all, wounded so you would never bleed. Crushed so you would be whole, insulted so you would hold a crown, died so you would live.

Dear friend, if you know something longer than forever, count again you will never miss it’s ending for sure.

On the third day, He rose again.

One heart entangled in a chaotic stupor of trivial errors. Breathing every moment made for uncertainty.

Violent unbelief scares off a young man's dream. In a famine of sleep and loss of speech, the warm kiss of nature suddenly turns to a bloody wrath of the wind. Blank walls raised from miniature lies, when the ones you ate with on the same table becomes stranger as a foe. There you find the soil with utmost worth.

God's beautiful grace made sure that the skies cover this earth, for in moments that there's no more right left to see on all sides, you look up to the sky as tears remain in your face and will never fall down to the ground, until you feel it transform to a tiny river gushing forth from your weary eyes down to your pale face.

True, pain can make you numb. But life is never painless, take heart it is never joyless also. Enveloped emotions are rarely fruitful.

Losing hope is easy, just let go of your conscience and its a done deal. The good thing about hope is although you thought you lost it all, it chose to remain inside of you and would surely make a comeback not for your own glory but for your worth by virtue of a wooden cross. “Apart from me you can do nothing” such kind words from the lover of your soul.

You screwed up this life, big time, there's no turning the spotlight to you again, you had it all, the applause of your peers is but a silent stare. Everyone wonders how so much mud ended up on your face without anyone noticing. No one to point a finger to, even the mirror might turn its back on you. Where do you go?

Some people jumped to their death. Some took a bath with their own blood. Some smiled. Some knelt down. Some did the same thing, even worse. Some defended themselves. Some wrote blogs. But the solid truth is, most of them died. The remaining ones are yet to die.

Death, so tragic yet sweet. Ferocious yet silent. Death has his own time, but never on yours, it would never knock on your door to warn you and make you pack your bags. It doesn't come with a return address in case you still want to live an extra day. It's there, it sure is.

If there is one thing about death that mortals should learn to live with is that – IT IS NOT FINAL!

There is a second verse to your life song, there is a victory proclamation to your life service, there is a coat of comfort to your yoke-swollen shoulders, there is “well done” note to the servant from the Master. But let us not forget, there is also a fiery fire to blaze a life lived in the dark.

There is no safer time than now to read those words again “On the third day, He rose again”. Praise Him for the blood. Nothing else could make you whole again. No one else to lift your head again, None can compare to how He loved you. Not for who you are, but because of what He's done, not because of what you've done, but because of who He is.

The Legend of the Thorn Sower

“Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking, we are expecting partly cloudy skies upon arrival at our destination airport. I hope you enjoy the flight”

It was not your ordinary flight on time day, in fact the plane flew four hours later than expected. As the first group of passengers lined up for boarding, the flight crew was very warm in checking the boarding passes.

Everyone is seated. All trust are hosted on the plane's cockpit. No electronic signals are allowed to interfere with that of the plane's.

A young girl opens her book, reads her favorite part. Words that inspired her before never fail to inspire her still. It was a book given to her by her friend, it was a few years ago that her friend left her for good. She never knew what happened to her friend but every time she flips the pages of her book, she remembers the color of the night when they shared tears together.

Two seats ahead of the girl was an old man, in his age, he is very excited to see his beloved son. How many years was that? Five years! What have happened to his son, he never answered his letters, he never even tried to contact him.

“Mommy! How long are we going to fly?” Trisha asked her mom. As if she heard nothing, her mom just brushed her hair and quietly smiles, dreaming of the warm embrace of her beloved, none can compare to the feeling of being reunited to Randy, ah! None sweeter than her husband's name.

“Can I call you when we get there?” a young bachelor asking the beautiful lady beside him whom he just met. She just nodded. A simple nod, but for the young lad, it meant everything.

A few notches ahead, as the clouds swallowed the 150 plus seater, turbulence sets, engaging the beautiful view from the wing side to a ferocious grip of courage. A sudden surge would prove fatal, no one knows. Everyone is venturing in limbo.

Calming peace.

35,00 feet from the ground, doubts begin to pile up with the pressure rising up, something went wrong with the right wing. Bonnie saw it and she already told herself, “I'm gonna die”

Fear permeated an almost dim lit section of the plane.

Empty bottles and waste bags are scattered on the floor.

The captain remains silent, he knows what to do in this kind of situation. He never fear death, though it was his first time to encounter such arrogance of nature, he simplified his options.

“I have to keep the plane on the air as long as I don't see a safe place to land”

The plane started to plunge.

“God help us” the captain uttered in a near hopeless situation.

There was a loud roaring sound, the speed of the plane collapsing to the mountain top was so quick to introduce death to everyone. The other wing catches fire, a loud beeping sound surrounded the dying plane.

To hold their breath is what everyone can do the most.

It did not help either.

Smoke.

Blood.

Smell of gasoline.

You could witness a canvass of dead people and the carcass of the airplane. How many were dead? Who would know? Except one.

It was the captain of the plane. The master and commander of the deceased airbus. To some stroke of luck, he was the only one standing. He was the only one left to tell the story. But who would believe him? and who will be the first one to listen to him?

He tried to measure the magnitude of the damage done. But how? Does he need to count the casualties? Search for them? There are 180 of them, where would he start?

It's easier to walk around a parked plane than to walk pass the pieces of a demolished plane.

He can't stand the sight of lifeless bleeding bodies, he walked far from the plane, he could still see it, he walked a little farther, but he could still see it.

As he puts his eyes away from the plane, he saw fields of green. Beyond that are tall trees, maybe protecting a small wildlife community. Those trees could provide food and shelter for him. He walks slowly, his every step was heavy as if he is wearing an iron shoes.

A few steps inside the forest, he could see darkness, uncertain darkness. But at the heart of the forest, there seem to be a small light. Regardless of its size, it amplified something in his heart, something that was left intact amidst the bruises and pain that he suffered from the plane crash.

He is not sure where that light is coming from but amidst this twilight zone, there it is. It may take long before he gets there, but the one thing that remained in his heart was so sure he is never alone.

Hope.

The only thing that he holds on to.

He never know when his life will last.

He never know how many steps are left before hope dries up.

It's painful to be alone, without anyone to encourage him as he walks towards that light. But one great servant of God once said;

“The classroom I went to was so difficult, the lessons are so painful, but Jesus stood in front of the class. And that's why I learned a lot”1

There may be a hundred steps left, or even a thousand, but for the captain, it won't matter for he is not the captain of his life anymore.

The forest swallowed him.

There was no trace of him from where he came from.

Silence.

Footnotes (quoted italic text)
1. Corrie ten Boom, Door to Repentance, 1971