Speaking of Faith

"We don't make progress by denying our experience." I am quoting John Polkinghorne as he was interviewed this afternoon on the NPR radio program Speaking of Faith. Rev. Dr. Polkinghorne is a physicist and Anglican priest and was discussing one of my favorite subjects of late, the happy coexistence of the Christian faith and science. It does no good to deny truth when it doesn't fit your understanding of faith. Christians should never fear truth, as all truth is truly God's.

Apparently Dietrich Bonhoeffer said something to the effect that since God is unknowable, as man discovers more and more "truths" in the scientific world, God is pushed farther and farther away from us. Mr. Polkinghorne countered with the idea that since the Christian God is a god of truth, whenever we uncover more scientific truth, we get to know God better. I embrace the second theory. Our universe is amazing and we should not be afraid to discover how it works.

Too Many Poets?

The following quote is taken from Ted Kooser's (current Poet Laureate of the US) recent book entitled The Poetry Home Repair Manual.
--
A noted contemporary poet and critic has said we ought to keep poetry a secret from the masses. Another, the editor of a prestigious anthology of poetry, said that each nation ought to have no more than a handful of poets. Both sound pretty elitist, don't they? Well, we'll always have among us those who think the best should be reserved for the few. Considering the ways in which so many of us waste our time, what would be wrong with a world in which everybody were writing poems? After all, there's a significant service to humanity in spending time doing no harm. While you're writing your poem, there's one less scoundrel in the world. And I'd like a world, wouldn't you, in which people actually took time to think about what they were saying? It would be, I'm certain, a more peaceful, more reasonable place. I don't think there could ever be too many poets. By writing poetry, even those poems that fail and fail miserably, we honor and affirm life. We say "We loved the earth but could not stay."
--
So, instead of taking a gun to someone's head, or your own for that matter, write a poem. Spill your guts metaphorically across a clean, white page with carefully chosen words and lucid linguistic imagery. You'll feel better and so might someone else.

Mineral first discovered here in the 1820's, Mineral Point, WI. Or so said the nearby sign. I don't know which mineral(s) they're talking about, but I liked the face in the rock.
photo by A. Graf

Trees in the Mississippi River, Wyalusing State Park
photo by A. Graf

Barn wall detail, Mineral Point, WI
photo by A. Graf

berry vine and shadow, Mineral Point, WI
photo by A. Graf

clay and glass marbles in an antique store window, McGregor, Iowa
photo by A. Graf

A slice of what I believe to be the Pigeon River, at dusk - Sheboygan, WI
photo by A. Graf

More colorful detail on the bottom of a friend's boat
photo by A. Graf

Boats viewed from behind brush on the beach at Elkart Lake, WI
photo by A. Graf

Colors on the bottom of a friend's boat, Elkart Lake, WI
photo by A. Graf

My happy Easter reminder - has she laid those 50 to 100+ eggs yet?
photo by A. Graf

Resurrection and Reappearances

It's almost Easter again and Christians around the world are reminded of the resurrection of Christ, rebirth and new life. I am reminded of something else.

My recently latent fears have been resurrected by a collection of 30 limbs radiating from a sleek and slender, striped little body clinging to the cinder block wall above the laundry sink in our basement tonight. That's her above. Remember last Easter Sunday morning? The day I learned that two-and-a-half dozen little grippers sometimes just isn't enough to keep a centipede on the wall? Oh, yeah. I'm thinking about Easter, all right. What was God thinking when he made these things? And why do they seem to be developing a habit of showing up at the most hopeful time of year?

I Love Brussels Sprouts, But Barium I Can Do Without

A few years ago when we first invited James to come to dinner, I asked him if there were any foods that he couldn't eat or didn't like. He replied that there were indeed two things in life he simply would not eat: Brussels Sprouts and barium. I carefully avoided both of these in the evening's meal.

This morning I had my first upper GI and with it, my first taste of barium. I have to say it was not all that bad. I wouldn't want to drink it if I didn't have to, but it certainly wasn't as awful as some would make it seem. It was thick and chalky, yes, but thankfully bland, and I had no trouble swallowing it.

First, they gave me what basically amounted to a small dose of Pop Rocks. Then I chased that immediately with a thick barium shake. While I stood there gulping the glop, they took pictures of my suddenly gas-distended abdomen as the white goo slimed down my digestive tract. The attending physician pointed out a bunch of my interesting internal landmarks to the two radiology interns who were taking the x-rays and watching the journey down my throat on a monitor above my head.

Once this dose was down and the doctor was satisfied with the pictures, I was carefully tilted back down onto my back, rolled gently from side to side to allow the gunk to fully coat all sides of my innards, and then x-rayed from various degrees around my body. Halfway through this I also had to drink another larger cup of thinner barium. This was slightly more difficult as I was already full of gas bubbles and the thicker first serving, but I managed okay, only dribbling a little onto the table and pillow. More photos and then it was over.

One of the nurses handed me a warm, wet washcloth to wipe the white residue off my lips. I hadn't realized I had made such a pig of myself. Got barium?

I bought this really cool underwater camera while on vacation last week in Florida . . . well, okay - the Milwaukee Public Museum has some nice exhibits.
photo by A. Graf

Time Warp

A friend just forwarded me an e-mail in which it is explained that on Wednesday of this week at two minutes and three seconds after one o'clock it will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

Reading this e-mail, I was transported back in time to Camp LuWiSoMo on the shores of Round Lake, where I attended a weekend retreat in middle school. Our youth pastor at the time, Pastor Chuck, made us count down the seconds until the clock struck 12:34 pm, making the time and date read 12:34 5/6/78. I have always remembered this. I think at the time Pastor Chuck must have hoped we would.

Wet Sunday

We tried to take a family hike today out at Lapham Peak State Park. Even bought our annual sticker. The skies started misting on the drive out and it was a regular spring shower by the time we hit the parking lot near the observation tower. Rats.
The kids fought the entire way back to town. By the time we pulled up in front of our house, my husband and I were ready to kick the kids out of the van and speed off by ourselves. Instead, he kept them in the vehicle and gave them a talking-to while I grabbed the tripod I hadn't been able to use in the park and my macro lens to shoot the first wet blooms of spring in our own front yard.

Wet crocus poking up through leaves in our front yard
photo by A. Graf

Blue reticulated iris in our front yard
photo by A. Graf

Crocus bowed down by rain in our front yard
photo by A. Graf

Forest floor, Lapham Peak State Park - white oak leaves
photo by A. Graf

leaf littered slope near the tower parking lot, Lapham Peak State Park
photo by A. Graf

The article below gave me a chuckle. I have no fear for how God feels on the subject, but I do wonder what he thinks. I still believe in prayer, always for the sake of the prayee, but maybe even more for the wellbeing of the prayer.
We've all heard it said how vast and immeasurable God is, how far above are his thoughts from our own. Even if we could tell him what to do, would we be better off persuading him? I love that he knows what to do. I also love that I can tell him what I want, or what I feel. I can trust him to do what is best, the perfect part of a perfect prayer being the submission itself to his will.
Finally, someone I can really trust. I didn't say understand, but that's okay for now.