Stained

Stained with minerals

leeching through the ages,

red rock still stands.

Stained with tears

flowing through my years,

my soul goes on.

26 July 2001

Colorado National Monument

Fruita, CO

More barbed wire

Walls and barbed wire have run through my mind ever since reading Theresa Cho's post Unveiling the Barbed Wire Divider. I attended the International Ecumenical Peace Convocation as well so the themes were close at hand. Theresa's words inspired some words from me. And led me to a picture I had taken at the University of the West Indies:

Not sure what to make of the picture - but it is worth pondering.

See you along the Trail.

Flight 97 to Anchorage has been delayed

Haunted by your absence

I stand,

shifting weight from foot to foot.

As backpack straps dig into my shoulder,

I gaze at people scurrying by,

on their journeys from here to there.

At times my eyes fix upon a stranger,

and as her face blurs before me,

for an instant,

only for an instant,

you, who are I know not where,

are with me.

2003
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

Fragments from the past

For better or for worse, you can be the judge, I will be posting some older material over the next few weeks - pieces written some time ago but never posted.

Because this involves importing existing files, there may be formatting issues. Dates may not be precise; locations may be unclear.

Many of the pieces were written in the Southwest; some during trips to South Africa; others in places I have forgotten. All are fragments from the past.

See you along the trail.

Seen and unseen

Some walls we see,

some walls we don’t.

Some walls we build,

stack brick by brick,

lay stone on stone,

I-beam, concrete,

reinforced steel,

and string with care

across the top:

concertina.

Some walls we build

on lines unreal,

yet drawn on maps;

ancient divides:

this part is ours –

this part, not yours;

belonging marked

with spikes of steel.

Some walls we build

seeking safety,

striving to find

security

through what we touch:

height, depth, and strength

topped by razors

on coils of steel.

Some walls we build

to know who’s in         

and who is out,

to show who has

and who has not:

divisions made

and  then enforced

through wire with barbs.

Some walls we build

on lines that lie

within ourselves:

gender, class, creed,

nation, sex, race;

diversity

judged and measured

by devil’s rope

Some walls we see,

some walls we don’t.

Inspiration for this poem came from the reflection Unveiling the Barbed Wire Divide by Theresa Cho.

30 May 2011
New York, New York

Walls

Some walls we see;
some walls we don't.

Some divide places;
some fragment our hearts.

 30 May 2011
New York, New York

It was enough

From the Presbyterian News Service:

The Rev. Walter Soboleff, one of the first Alaska Natives ordained to ministry in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) died May 22 in Juneau, Alaska of bone cancer and prostate cancer. He was 102.

We met once. It was a few years back, before Walter had turned 100. I had the privilege to attend the Native American Presbyterian Men’s gathering at Cook College in Tempe. It was humbling to be welcomed into the group.

I remember walking the dormitory hall on the Saturday afternoon. As I so often do, I was checking my BlackBerry.

"Don't you ever quite working?" one of the men asked.

"He never does," said another.

I smiled. And only now I confess that I was checking football scores. Why disillusion anyone was my thought at the time. Besides, we were in Arizona. I went with that old axiom: in the West, "when the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

Turning the corner in the hallway was Walter. We greeted each other briefly. I took about two steps and then stopped in wonder. I stared at the BlackBerry - seeing the device, not the screen. I looked down the hall at Walter, walking away from me, then back at the BlackBerry, then back at Walter.

Amazing as the BlackBerry was, I could only imagine how much more amazing - how much more marvelous - how much more wonder-filled, Walter's life must have been. What he had seen - and done - and experienced - during his years. I stood for a time in awe, watching as he made his way back to his room.

I stood in awe again that Sunday morning - as Walter preached - his faith, his grace, his courage, his commitment to justice shone through.

Walter lived over 36,500 days. I was blessed to be with him on parts of 3 of those days. I wish it had been more. It was enough.

For Walter's life and love and witness, thanks be to God.

See you along the Trail.


   

Albanian Muslims and Besa

After yesterday's post about Hotel Rwanda and the response of Paul Rusesabagina to the genocide in Rwanda, it was very interesting to read about Yad Vashem's honor of Albanian Muslims as "Righteous Among Nations." This designation, the Jewish people’s highest honor, is awarded to those who risked their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust.

The article, which I discovered thanks to my friend Margaret Aymer, tells I story I did not know:

When the Axis Powers invaded Albania in 1939, the good people of Albania refused to release the names of their Jewish citizens. They provided false papers and helped their Jewish population hide amidst the general public.

They were so effective in their efforts that Albania became a safe haven for Jews fleeing other regimes. Albania is one of the very few countries in Europe- and the only one under Nazi dominance- whose Jewish population rose during World War II. 

Not a single Jewish life was lost to the Nazis in Albania.

Why did this happen? Yad Vashem concludes that the reason was rooted in the faith of Albania's Muslims:

The remarkable assistance afforded to the Jews was grounded in Besa, a code of honor, which still today serves as the highest ethical code in the country. Besa, means literally “to keep the promise.” One who acts according to Besa is someone who keeps his word, someone to whom one can trust one’s life and the lives of one’s family. Apparently this code sprouted from the Muslim faith as interpreted by the Albanians. 

Besa in Albania.

Making room in Rwanda.

Thanks be to God.

See you along the Trail.

There's always room

Yes. It is 3:25 in the blessed A.M.

I just finished watching Hotel Rwanda. I am tired. My great end of the church aches, really aches.

But for some reason, I put the movie on around 1:00ish and once it started, it simply seemed wrong to stop. I had to watch, even though I have seen it many times. I had to watch.

I had to watch for those people who perished and for those people who were wounded in body, mind, and spirit and who bear still their wounds.

I had to watch for those few people who tried to sound the alarm, for those few people who acted to protect, and for those people whose number is legion  (and I am among them) who failed. Failed to act or acknowledge or even watch as the horror unfolded. Those people who lived the words of the film crew within the film: I think if people see this footage they'll say, "oh my God that's horrible," and then go on eating their dinners.

For the killed and maimed, the killers and maimers, for the ones who ignored and the ones who were ignored, I had to watch. No choice.

In watching, I realized again what an incredible actor Don Cheadle is. He is gfted, gifted, gifted. But this is also a story and a role that clearly moves Cheadle. Paul Rusesabagina may be An Ordinary Man (his own book title), but he is an incredible character to play. Cheadle knows that plays accordingly.

Other characters are poorly developed.  I knew that. I recognized it again. The actresses and actors who play many of the roles are not given much to work with. But they carry on and Cheadle/Rusesabagina carries the movie.

The story of the events at the Hôtel des Mille Collines in Kigali during those days of hell is an incredibly powerful story, an intensely poignant story, an excruciatingly painful story. It is story filled with evil acts and international indifference and banal inaction. It is a story of common decency that becomes uncommon courage. Even though I know the outline well, it is a story that grips me every time I watch.

And every time, I come a way with something new.

Tonight (this morning?) my learning came at the end of the movie when Cheadle/Rusesabagina makes the observation: There's always room.

There's always room. Are the words factual? Did Rusesabagina say that as his family made their way toward Tanzania? Maybe. Maybe not. It really does not matter. Because they are true.

There's always room. They expressed the truth that came to guide Rusesabagina's life as he opened the hotel to people fleeing death. Seeing others as sisters and brothers - he could do nothing else but find a way, create a way where there was no way - make room when there appeared to be no room.

There's always room. They express the truth that guided rescuers during the Holocaust and during times of slaughter and genocide before and since.

There's always room. They express the truth that could change our lives if we can open ourselves to let them do so.

There's always room. Are they about hospitality? Certainly. But they point directly to the awareness that we are made for each other. That we are not made to butcher and exclude and deny one another -  physically, emotionally, spiritually, or in any way. That Love has created us to love and that in loving our true humanity (broken and wounded as we are) is revealed and lived and reveled in.

There's always room. What would it look like to live those words, really live those words - in our homes, our neighborhood, our churches, our places of work, our country, around the world?

It would be challenging. It would be hard. It would be frightening. Difficult. Costly. Painful.

But it also might lead to hope and peace and justice and joy and life, abundant life.

There's always room. May it be so for me. Ever more, every day, may it be so for me.

‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.’ Mark 9:37

See you along the Trail.

Backtracking

Every now and then it becomes necessary to backtrack on the Trail. We move ahead only by moving back.

Sometimes this is because we are lost. Sometimes it is because we forgot something. Sometimes it is to correct something.

I noticed that a number of my posts had picked up really odd labels. What was worse, when adding new labels they autofilled and expanded the problem.

So this morning, I backtracked. I cleaned them up, deleted them.

In the process, I changed the order of my posts. Strange. But that sort of thing happens when one has no idea what one is truly doing.

If you want to see my most recent posts - which come from the experience of the International Ecumenical Peace Convocation in Jamaica - check out this link: http://graybeardtrail.blogspot.com/search/label/Jamaica.

On Twitter, you can check #iepc for posts about the convocation. I tweet as @wmkoenig personally and as @PresbyUN for work.

See you along the Trail.

Comfort

Seat 36-G reclines,
invades "my" space,
smacks my chin,
annoys at first,
then slowly,
hauntingly,
embarrassingly,
calls to mind
how deeply my comfort
depends on discomforting others.

11 May 2011
Swiss International Air Lines 022

Regret

Too late I rose.
Too soon you left.

Farewell
hangs forever
unsaid between us.

11 May 2011
Swiss International Airlines Flight 022

Tomato

Tomato,
though juice or soup or exactly what type,
I could not tell,
must have caused the large red stain
on the back of his shirt.
How it got there, I cannot guess.
Nor do I choose to imagined
what might have caused
the crusted stains
that covered
the sweat pants
sagging below his waist,
revealing his buttocks.
I avert my gaze
and plod on.
Slowly as I walk,
he shuffles even more slowly up the ramp toward forty-deuce.
But as I pass him,
it's like a neon light appears -
words flashing over and over:
some mother's child
some mother's child
some mother's child.
At the station door, I turn,
face him,
smile.
Making eye contact for a moment,
he nods.

Observed in Grand Central Station
May 2011
Written
11 May 2011
Swiss International Air Lines 022

Hearts

Is it any wonder we
so often die
of heart attacks;
when
so often life
stomps
tugs
breaks
our hearts?

11 May 2011
Swiss International Airlines Flight 022

Inspired by any one of a number of news stories involving the killing or violation of God's precious children or similar events that do not make the news. Such tragedies happen every day.

C-16, GVA

Walking down the jetway,
the long, long jetway,
that led, not to Tipperary,
but to Gate C-16, GVA,
I watched my fellow travelers
and I noticed -
could not help but notice -
colorful bags, clutched with care,
clearly filled with souvenirs,
reminders of what was done and
memories of what had happened
while in Switzerland.
Sometimes I wondered what they carried;
sometimes I knew;
and sometimes, even knowing, I still pondered:
how much more nearly Geneva
would I remember,
how much more clearly events and experiences
would I call to mind,
how much more dearly images of friends
would fill my heart,
had I but been wise enough
to purchase
M&M's.

11 May 2011
Boarding Swiss International Airlines Flight 022
in Geneva 

And in the end

And in the end
God gives a song.
When death has come,
and pain aches deep,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives a song.

And in the end,
God gives us hope.
When all seems lost,
despair runs high,
it's all we have,
it is enough,
For in the end,
God gives us hope.

And in the end,
God gives us love,
when hate reigns strong,
when fear looms large,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives us love.

And in the end,
God gives justice.
When systems wound,
exclude, exploit,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives justice.

And in the end,
God gives us peace,
when wars rage hot,
violence strikes,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives us peace.

And in the end,
God gives us Christ,
when all is done,
and all is said,
Christ's all we have,
Christ is enough.
Give thanks to God,
God gives us Christ.

25 May 2011
Jet Blue 868
KIN - JFK

Customs form conundrum

The question has been faced before,
but never can I recall my answer,
so every time it looms anew,
I pause to deeply ponder:
is coffee food?

25 May 2011
Jet Blue 868
KIN - JFK

Jet Blue Flight 868 - Random observations

The complimentary head set really isn't that sweet of a deal when you sit in the row where the monitors don't work.

For a good time, nothing quite beats riding for 3.5 hours with a strange dude's elbow embedded in your rib cage.

Of course he may well be thinking that it is truly a joy and delight to sit by a dude whose shirt smells like it has been used to rub down the winner of the Kentucky Derby.

They actually are charging for pillows and blankets on this flight. I have heard of such, but this is the first time I have seen it.

Duh, should have read the fine print. It's a "never-been slept on pillow" and a blanket that's "mine, just mine." If only I had seen that sooner - I have been experiencing such an overwhelming desire to own a miniature pillow.

One flight attendant wore rubber gloves to stow our bags and no gloves to pass out customs forms. Another flight attendant did the exact opposite. What's the deal with that.

I have seen things on this airplane that I have had no desire to see. Ever. There really should be fashion police for those people who wear too few clothes.

See you along the Trail.

25 May 2011
KIN - JFK

Outline

Like a tooth peeking through gums,
stone walls work their way
through the hard-backed earth,
revealing an outline,
posing a mystery:
what secrets lie buried in this ground?

22 May 2011
University of the West Indies
Kingston, Jamaica

The big blue truck

Sweat plasters his bright red shirt to his back,
sweat rolls out from under his doo-rag, stinging his eyes.
Heat rises from the macadam
to greet the sun's hot rays.
Along the roadside he trudges,
keeping pace with the big blue truck.


The sickly smell of decomposition
rises from a pile of plastic bags -
refuse, scraps, detritus of consumption - 
that blocks his path. 
He stops, stoops, 
futilely tries to shoo some flies, 
then slowly, deliberately
one
by 
one
picks up each bag
and throws it into the truck bed.


While the final bag is in his hand,
gears engage,
the truck slips slowly away.
As that last bag hangs suspended in the air,
he shifts his shoulders,
kicks the dirt,
and starts toward the next pile,
following the big, blue truck.

25 May 2011
Norman Manley International Airport
Kingston, Jamaica

The Fighter

I am not much for boxing.

I don't turn off boxing when it comes on during the Olympics; I don't pay close attention, either.

I am certain I have never watched a professional match from beginning to end. I am fairly certain I have not watched enough individual rounds combined to constitute a whole fight - unless that fight was a first-round knockout.

But on today's return plane from Geneva, I choose to watch The Fighter. I had heard much about the film. And what I heard was good. And I have always liked Christian Bale. So when it appeared as one of the choices, I decided to give it a go.

I am glad I did. It did not disappoint. It did not convert, I won't be buying the DVD (a similar experience took place years ago: I watched The Boxer because it featured Daniel-Day Lewis), but it definitely did not disappoint. And is worthy of the praise and nominations it received.

Boxing may be the presence, but the film is about family, loyalty, courage, and redemption. And you can't go too far wrong with those themes when you have a good story and strong cast. The Fighter does.

And it has Christian Bale. And Christian Bale can act. The others in the cast also perform quite well. Melissa Leo is amazing. Mark Wahlberg gets top billing and delivers.

But this is Bales' movie. And Christian Bale can act.

The boxing is a bit violent - the language a tad rough (but hey, Christian Bale's character was a crack addict) - but it is well worth a look.

See you along the Trail.

11 May 2011
Swiss International Air Lines 022

Red Stripe under a Jamaican moon

Heat radiates from patio stones

even in the darkness.

Sweat beads roll slowly down the amber bottle.

O’er the mountain,

its green shades seen as black,

the yellow orb climbs quickly

to add its reflected light to the night

as it hangs like a Communion wafer in the sky.

A breeze stirs the leaves.

I drink

and remember.

23 May 2011

University of the West Indies

Kingston, Jamaica

Nightmares

Life ended

and the nightmare began

when they came,

the so-called soldiers;

came and took her,

took and armed her,

armed and used her,

used and raped her.

Life began,

new possibility,

when she learned

a child she carried;

stirring in her womb,

crying at his birth,

nursing at her breast,

laughing at her side.

Life ended

in another nightmare.

Again came

the so-called soldiers;

though loved by her so dearly,

tormented by the children,

rejected by the village,

her young son went with them.

23 May 2011

University of the West Indies

Kingston, Jamaica

Ultra Deck

Under the great white tent,

beneath our trampling feet

through the holes and around the seams

of the Ultra Deck,

slender green shoots spring;

seeking sun,

affirming life.

22 May 2011

University of the West Indies

Kingston, Jamaica

Arpilleras

Flour sacks and

scraps of cloth

brightly colored,

pieced together,

stitched together,

transformed by skilled hands:

art of resistance

witness to sorrow,

remembering pain.

Flour sacks and

scraps of cloth

brightly colored,

pieced together,

stitched together,

transformed by skilled hands:

art of resistance

love’s affirmation,

proclaiming hope.

23 May 2011

University of the West Indies

Kingston, Jamaica

The ways you learn things

Watching The Sorcerer's Apprentice, I started backtracking an actress - something that I often do.

I discovered that Alice Krige who played Morgana Le Fey was the Borg Queen in various Star Trek flicks and played the love interest for Harold Abrahams (played by Ben Cross who played Sarek in the most recent Star Trek - yes, I wonder if I have cinematic ADD) in Chariots of Fire.

It's a small world.

Cue Vangelis.

See you along the Trail.

Rats! Missed it

And I was so in the market for some ginormous fleas. I will have to pay closer attention next year.

A better answer

I think I have come up with a better answer.

The Shire on the Hudson was used for many years by interns serving the Presbyterian Church at the United Nations.

Neighbors apparently got used to this. They give very quizzical looks when they realize that I live there. And after a moment or two of thought, they usually come up with a profound observation along the lines of, "You aren't an intern, are you?"

So far I have let people off the hook gently. I quote Nancy Reagan and then explain that I am not an intern and that we have reconfigured the ministry and its staffing pattern.

This happened again today and it makes me think that the time has come to make a change. After significantly less careful pondering that it deserves, I have come up with an alternative response.

"You aren't an intern, are you?"

"Why yes. Yes I am. And think how old that must make you."

I'll let you know what happens if I try it.

See you along the Trail.

Sometimes we laugh

Sometimes we laugh
because we are happy,
our laughter rings with joy.

Sometimes we laugh
because we are nervous,
our laughter cuts the edge.

Sometimes we laugh
because we are frightened,
our laughter masks our fears.

Sometimes we laugh
because we are grieving
our laughter hides our tears.

Sometimes we laugh.

Reframing

It has been said before, but it bears repeating. Speaking to Presbyterian Women in the Presbytery of New York City, Dana Trexler of Safe Horizon pondered:

In situations of abuse, people often ask:
"Why doesn't she leave?"

Shouldn't people ask:
"Why doesn't he stop hitting her?"

Geneva - 10 May 2011

That one tear

"They are for my wife."

My lack of languages other haunts me when I travel. Other people know multiple languages. I carry only English - and that not well - plus some Sesame Street Spanish. A smattering of high school French,  limited in vocabulary, atrocious in pronunciation, travels with me.

"They are for my wife."

Despite my language limits I do remember enough French to know that is what he said.

We were on the number 5 bus headed from Grand-Sacconex to the Church of Scotland in Geneva.

He, well he must have been going to see his wife.

Tufts of white-gray hair poked out from beneath his gray hat. He wore a gray-checked suit. The bright flowers wrapped in tissue and cellophane and clutched tightly in his age-spotted left hand offered a striking contrast to the pervasive grayness.

He slid across the bench to sit by the window and with a gesture of his free hand offered the vacated seat beside him. "Merci," I said as I declined. He shrugged and turned to look out the window, lost in thought.

A woman entered at the next stop and took the seat. She spoke, complimenting the beauty of the flowers, or so I presume because of his answer.

He did not make eye contact as he responded with a simple phrase that I could understand. "They are for my wife."

His seat-mate tried to make conversation with him. He replied in monosyllables, his gaze remained fixed outside the bus although it was clear he looked not to see but to retreat, remember, reflect.

At one point she asked me a question. Having no idea what she had asked, I turned to those dim recesses where reside what remains of four years of French reside to find the appropriate response. "Je ne sais pas." Feelings of incompetence and arrogance washing over me, I looked away.

When she left the bus, a couple stops later, he did not repeat his offer of the seat, but continued to stare out the window.

Then I saw it. In the corner of his right eye. A tear. One solitary tear. 

At that moment, the bus pulled to a stop across from a medical facility and he began to move, struggling to cross the bench and keep his grip on the flowers. I moved to offer to hold them, but saw the tear again and thought better. I took his elbow.

He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and exited the bus.

And I was left to wonder about the memories, the pain, the grief, the love contained in that one tear.

See you along the Trail.

Geneva
Bus 5
8 May 2011
Mother's Day

Worship in Geneva - 8 May 2011

Worship today was at the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian) in Geneva. The congregation meets in the Auditoire de Calvin which is next door to Calvin's church. The service there is in French. The service at the Church of Scotland is in English.

Interestingly enough, many peoples and places, nations and races were present in the congregation. The presence of the Executive Committee of the World Communion of Reformed Churches enhanced the diversity - but it was already present.

See you along the Trail.

Discomfort

Into darkness the plane sails,
proud ship of the air,
passing o'er ocean depths
where rest once proud sea-going vessels,
both great and small
now skeletons rusting, rotting.

In the darkness of the cabin
they sit in silence,
the comfortable silence of
computer chosen seatmates.

She shifts
as exhaustion grips her;
sleep seeking to claim her,
fitfully shifts again.
Her head finds his shoulder,
pauses,
then leans in harder without knowing.

His turn to shift,
but not too far -
darkness, gratefully,
masks deep discomfort.

Swiss International Air Lines
Flight 23
JFK-GVA
6-7 May 2011

A small puddle of orange

All orange.

That was the color of the cards.

Clapping followed.

The Executive Committee of the World Communion of Reformed Churches is meeting in Geneva. They started on May 5.

In their discussion, they use a consensus model that involves showing cards to indicate support for or dissent from a matter under consideration.

Orange is good. It represents support. Go for the orange!

The Presbyterian Ministry at the United Nations also represents the (WCRC) at the UN. Ryan and I wrote a report of our work and I was asked here to present it. After some travel misadventures in New York, I arrived this morning (Geneva time). This afternoon (Geneva time) I fought off jet lag and made the report.

I spoke.

Questions were asked.

In a bold move, I asked a question of my report.

Well, OK, it wasn't a question of my report. More a question raised by my report.

Then moderator asked if people supported the report.

And a sea of orange cards appeared.

Well maybe more of a small puddle since there are only 40 or so members.

But all the cards were orange!

And then they clapped.

Over the next few days, we will explore together how to deepen and expand this partnership. Tomorrow starts with worship at the Church of Scotland in Geneva. We are staying in the John Knox International Center so that seems fitting.

See you along the trail!

May 5, 1 Train

As the train hurtled downtown,
passing 110th,
rushing toward 103rd,
images danced in the windows.

For a moment,
only a moment,
brown eyes reflected toward mine

For a moment,
only a moment,
brown eyes captured mine.

For a moment,
only a moment,
brown eyes flashed a smile to mine.

For a moment,
a moment lingering still,
my eyes smiled in return.

Grief

Does it ever really heal?

Or do we merely
muddle through
carry on
make due;
while it lies beneath the surface,
sometimes shallow,
sometimes deep,
always present,
ever there,
patiently waiting the next loss,
the unexpected reminder,
the anticipated anniversary
that rips our heart and tears our soul
and reconnects with endured pains, reopens past wounds,
so that incomprehensibly, inevitably
each loss
becomes every loss
haunting us
until we can again
muddle through
carry on
make due
and await
the repeating cycle.

Skins

Several films viewed today including Skins a favorite - a painful, powerful, poignant film. Graham Green, a favorite actor, is in the cast. It's a tale of brotherhood, brokenness, healing, reconciliation, revenge, renewal and more.

Each time I view the film, it takes me back to the time I watched it at Ghost Ranch with Sid Birt and others. At one point, reflecting on a character's behavior, Sid looked at me and observed, "He's something of a strange police officer." I nodded.

And at the climax of the film, I looked at Sid and said, "But he's quite a brother."

Check it out.

See you along the Trail.

Thanks Pete!

Belated Happy Birthday to Pete Seeger who turned 92 on May 3.

I actually had a conversation with him once. He and Si Kahn were doing music at a conference I was attending. I sat down beside them. Si noticed that I was wearing a watch (this was the old days). He asked, "What time is it?" I responded with the time. "Thanks," said Pete.

That should have been my line.

Thanks, Pete . . .
for unflagging witness
persisting patiently
sharing hope
living with integrity
caring for creation
pursuing justice
building community
breaking down walls
crossing lines when appropriate
and honoring lines when appropriate.

Thanks Pete
for rising up in song,
bringing us along,
and reminding us that
we cannot keep from singing.

Thanks Pete!
Happy Birthday (about 24 minutes late).

See you along the Trail.

Denzell and Chris

Finally got around to seeing Unstoppable tonight. I have a feeling it would be have been one to see on a big screen.

Denzell was quite impressive - as expected - as usual. Chris Pine, the new Kirk, was also in it. SI was pleasantly surprised by his performance. He has real possibilities.

The film is "inspired by true events." It isn't clear how factual the film is - a quick look at IMDB and Wikipedia indicated that there is some semblance to the real events.

Interesting play on the title - the runaway train is stopped; the characters play by Denzel, Chris, and Lew Temple refuse to stop their efforts to halt the train.

Unstoppable points to the willingness of some of God's children to put themselves on the line for others - even when they don't know the others - even when they have no reason to do so - even when they every reason not to do so. For such people, I give thanks.