THE ABBA KEY

THE ABBA KEY

Jesus.

The Spirit let him know

not just ways of God,

not just the wiles of God,

not just the will of God.

But God. Up close and personal.

He knew God so intimately 

that he called God Abba.

Daddy.

You and me.

The Spirit lets us know

not just ways of God,

not just the wiles of God,

not just the will of God.

But God. One on one.

So we can know God so intimately 

that we, too, can call God Abba.

Daddy.

“When we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’

it is that very Spirit bearing witness 

with our spirit that we are children of God. . . “

(Romans 8: 15b-16)

 

ABBA

Jesus

Son of Abba

Knew

Got God

Taught God

To any and all

Wanting to know

Willing to listen

Wishing to be

More than 

Sons and daughters

Of God

Willing, wanting, wishing

To be sons and daughters

Of Abba

“And because you are children, 

God has sent the Spirit of his Son 

into our hearts, crying, 

‘Abba! Father!’” 

(Galatians 4:6)

MOBIUS MARBLE EXERCISE

If you need a way to slow your mind down in the middle of the night (or whenever), try this.

While lying on your back/sitting upright, let your hands, fingers tip to tip, rest on your chest. Next, imagine a marble starting at your left fingertips and lazily rolling down your arm to elbow, then up your upper arm and across your shoulder, up your neck. Then, after making a loop inside your head it rolls back down your neck to your right shoulder and arm. Finally, turning at your right elbow, it travels up your forearm to your right hand and fingertips. . . .ready to go again.

To make this exercise require a little more concentration, imagine the marble is on a track in the middle of a mobius ribbon beginning at your left fingertips and running down along the top of your left arm to your elbow where (remaining in its track) it now travels up the underside of your upper arm, across your left shoulder, then crosses over, rolls up the right side of your neck, and continues up into your head where (still in its track) it now briefly comes out topside on the ribbon as it crosses over to the left side of your head, then back underneath as it travels down the left side, across your right shoulder and down your right upper arm to the elbow. Once there, (still in the same continuous track) it now comes out on top again as it makes its final turn and ascends up your right forearm, through your hand. Once there it completes its loop at your right fingertips and is ready to make the next one.

I know. Sounds complicated! But do it very, very slowly at first. Once you get the hang of it, it's easy. It requires some visualization--but that’s the point of the exercise. Visualizing this process forces our mind to stop visualizing anything else--including all the worries, woes and wonderfuls in our lives . Try variations. Making the marble roll successively slower works especially well. Just mind the marble.

Want to take it to a third level? Become the marble.

TODAY.

LET’S GIVE THE WORLD & OURSELVES A GIFT.

LET’S TAKE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HOW WE THINK.

PRIVILEGED

These hands,

I look down at them 

as I type these words.

Discoloring. Veined. Bony. 

Speckled with “age” spots.

Once they looked young and supple, 

oh, so smooth and strong.

Then one day I looked down

and there at the end of my arms 

were my father’s hands.

These days they’re looking more 

like those of my gnarly grandfather.

Of course, all of them are gone now, 

gone down the ultimate one way,

flowing in the river called nature

which stops for no thing. No one.

The first privilege 

is just to be a part of it,

to be welcomed into these waters.

The second is a deep knowing

that this is the ultimate course of nature;

We are each part of the flow of all things.

The third is to personify this privilege, 

to welcome the joy of it into this day, 

even this very moment. 

Alright then! I clap these beautiful hands 

in wonder, praise and thanksgiving!

“So we do not lose heart. 

Even though our outer nature is wasting away, 

our inner nature is being renewed day by day.” 

(2 Corinthians 4:16)

WHAT RUT?

Once there was a man in a rut, a rut so deep that when he looked up all he saw was the sky. He looked ahead. Rut. He looked behind. More rut. He frowned. He called for help. No one. After a while he looked down and he thought to himself, “Hmm.” Then he took his shovel and pulled a little of the dirt around him together, placing it under his feet. And he was higher. He did it again. And he was higher still. Again. And again. Finally, he filled the rut with enough of the soil within reach to simply step out of it and walk away. And he said to himself, “What rut?”

What’s the moral(s) of this story? What might it mean for you and me today?

TODAY.

LET'S GIVE THE WORLD & OURSELVES A GIFT.

LET'S TAKE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HOW WE THINK.

SPACE FOR GRACE

For musicians it’s the rest amidst the notes,

for farmers it’s what parts the sheep and goats.

For the clock it’s the gap ‘tween tick and tock,

for the conflicted, ‘twixt a hard place and a rock.

For artists it’s the negative in plain view,

for beer sommeliers it's in the bubbles of the brew. 

Forwritersit’swhatcomesbetweentheletters, 

for judges, the hair splitting aiders from abettors.

I’m talking about the space between all things,

without it life’s a cello sans the strings.

Instead of things being spread all asunder,

space keeps the above from the down under.

We don’t need it in the thick of bread and butter,

but let’s ask, “Really, what does our clutter utter?”

We may think that space is nothing, but it’s not,

so let’s cherish the precious little that we’ve got.

No matter how we spend our day,

there’s a good reason for feng shui.

Let’s not fill in every blank

afore we give up the ghost and tank,

that way mother can have her druther

and we can still be someone other.

Life can be sweet for all,

regardless of one’s call.

Yes, let’s give a little grace 

to the whole of the human race, 

for even protons, neutrons, electrons 

need their space.

BRAVE OLD WORLD

While out for a walk, I happened upon a hillside located on the outer rim of the lovely little Pennsylvania town of Oley. It was the end of a long day of driving and I was out to get some fresh air. As I strolled up the hill I found myself entering another world…an antique motorcycle fair, or what would be one the following day.  

Though new to me, everything there was antique—including most of the riders. Outfitted in their requisite buckles, bandanas and boots, many with long hair, most with beards, virtually all of it grey, they talked the talk. Shot the breeze.

Their bikes? Everything from beauty to beast. From vintage Harley’s to vapid Honda 50’s—in every condition from polished and pristine to rust buckets on wheels. Some were truly works of art so pleasurable to look at that I found myself staring at them. They were obviously the labor of someone’s love. Others were comically lacking…a clutch here, a transmission there. Some were laid out on the grass. So many dissected hogs.

Though opening day was yet to be, the blatantly entrepreneurial types were already hawking their wares. Bike parts were everywhere—looking like leftovers from surgical procedure gone awry. Some neatly displayed upon flea market tables with their price tags discretely turned under, some strewn across the grass in a “make-me-an-offer” style in front of boldly striped lawn chairs permanently sagged from the weight of their occupants.

Hemming the bottom of the hill like the frill on a square dancer's skirt,was a fanciful array of tents, campers, topper-ed trucks and trailers. It was supper time and judging by the pleasant smell, portable grills ruled. Burgers and brats, sizzling dogs, barbecued chicken, and the rarified sirloin sputtered to perfection as their sultry fragrances crested the hill then wafted skyward.  Incense to the gods.  

The chatter around the grills was excited and loud, the camaraderie was contagious. Boisterous reunions popped up like dandelions in the field around me as the newcomers revved their bikes or honked their rigs, raucously announcing their arrival while they motored parade-speed past the others, flexing their mechanical muscles and sizing up the competition before marking their territory and settling in for the duration.

It was obvious some were long lost but loyal friends who had ridden together in younger days. Now they straddled the country only to be reunited by the occasional antique bikers fair. As with all true friends, the passage of time since their last goodbye didn’t matter. Now they were together again and the excitement was palpable. Bikes, beer and brouhahas. Let the party begin!

“How long have antique biker fairs been going on?” I wondered naively as I walked. “How long have folks been coming to these events, swarming on hilltop meadows like bees full of buzz?” Since before they were antiques? Probably. For some, maybe longer.

As I wandered down the grassy lanes that checkerboarded the fairgrounds and slipped past the last circle of hogs and wannabes parked near the entrance, I realized that I had uttered nothing more than an occasional “Hi!” or “Nice bike,” the entire time I had been in this brave old world. Obviously, this was not my mug of brew.  But strolling further, as I lost the last of the now distant clatter, I found myself feeling strangely warmed by the whole experience. I couldn’t help but think, “Is this a great country or what!” As I walked back to my car and pressed my electronic key to unlock the door I pondered, “Will there ever be an antique SUV fair?”

WHAT EVERY LOVER LONGS TO HEAR

Into the whirlwind of your love I come,

into this wild that is you,

in all, with all, under all.

Betwixt crushing ancient mountains together, 

while flinging galaxies eons older apart,

you, O Holiest of Holies, 

speak to me of a love new like no other,

a wildly intimate, wildly inclusive love.

Like a seatide rising at my shore, 

your wilding seeps into me slowly, but surely,

one wavelet escorting the next and the next,

breaking apart  my rocky self-said boundaries,

setting me free, resetting my course,

sending me to the furthest horizons of hope

and other infinitely wild places within me.

You bring me safely to a new world, 

a world called  “One! . . . Beautiful! . . . Delight!”

You reassure me there is no place

that your love cannot, does not call home.

Even in the midst of all that is death,

your love is easing, your grace attends.

Upon the cross winds of your spirit 

you raise me up, you bear me, you carry me 

far beyond the reaches of my known, 

to where I hear what every lover longs to hear;

your sweet voice beckoning me, 

“Come away, my beloved.”

Gladly, gladly I come. 

Humbled. Honored. Loved. Wilded. 

I come.