"But the least of these look like criminals to me
So I leave Christ on the street"
4 giant tents.
500 hot dogs.
12 people setting up and tearing down.
300 each, water bottles and flyers.
7 beach chairs.
2 boxes of veggies.
5 cases of soda.
1 iPod Shuffle.
The results were amazing. I loved seeing people working together for Christ and being Christ to others. I want to do this every week. I want to always be at the beach living Jesus for people, giving them what they need- food and water- and what they're looking for- Nourishment and Fulfillment.
Go figure- when Jesus said to feed the hungry, he meant just that! So what's our big deal? Why can't we occasionally go give out free stuff and offer people the Gospel?
"And may the Bread on your tongue
leave a trail of crumbs
To lead the hungry back
To the place where you are from.
And take to the world this love, hope and faith
Take to the world this rare, relentless grace
And like the three in one
Know you must become what you want to save
Cause that's still the way
He takes to the world."
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Ever the same
There was something vastly attractive about the old man's demeanor. It was a small porch, made of rotting pine and rusty nails. His rocking chair creaked loudly, the white wicker having lost its lustre and youth, along with the man upon it. Youth, perhaps, but not lustre.
His white and gray hair in two plaits fell along his shoulders and nearly down to his waist while a massive turquoise ring tapped against the armrest. The part in his hair revealed a wrinkled but firm forehead and strong eyebrows. His lips pursed together as if he was considering carefully his words before he spoke them. His ears, one pierced with a feathery dreamcatcher, clung to the sides of his head like weary travelers hanging on for dear life despite their fatigue.
His hands were leathery and worn, remnants of a lifetime of hard work and soft caresses, of harsh hammering and delicate beading. Needle pricks and tool callouses appeared side by side, co-witnesses of the life this man had endured.
But the eyes. Oh, those eyes! Blue as the sky on a sunny day, gray as the sea after a storm. They told stories, tales of days more simple, nostalgic yarns of peace and war were spun in those eyes. Hardened by battle, yet soothed by the touch of a woman. Cold as ice, yet warm as a summer afternoon. They were smooth and coarse, caring and painful, refreshing and stinging. The eyes are the window to the soul, and this soul had been wounded and healed many times. The song of the ancients danced in the lights of the eyes, giving life to a face that would have been otherwise quite dead.
The wind blew gently, disturbing the wisps of hair that had escaped careful braiding. Winds of change, he was thinking. The winds that came every year at this time, and would always come. That would never change.
The dry lips parted and began to sing a tribal tune.
His white and gray hair in two plaits fell along his shoulders and nearly down to his waist while a massive turquoise ring tapped against the armrest. The part in his hair revealed a wrinkled but firm forehead and strong eyebrows. His lips pursed together as if he was considering carefully his words before he spoke them. His ears, one pierced with a feathery dreamcatcher, clung to the sides of his head like weary travelers hanging on for dear life despite their fatigue.
His hands were leathery and worn, remnants of a lifetime of hard work and soft caresses, of harsh hammering and delicate beading. Needle pricks and tool callouses appeared side by side, co-witnesses of the life this man had endured.
But the eyes. Oh, those eyes! Blue as the sky on a sunny day, gray as the sea after a storm. They told stories, tales of days more simple, nostalgic yarns of peace and war were spun in those eyes. Hardened by battle, yet soothed by the touch of a woman. Cold as ice, yet warm as a summer afternoon. They were smooth and coarse, caring and painful, refreshing and stinging. The eyes are the window to the soul, and this soul had been wounded and healed many times. The song of the ancients danced in the lights of the eyes, giving life to a face that would have been otherwise quite dead.
The wind blew gently, disturbing the wisps of hair that had escaped careful braiding. Winds of change, he was thinking. The winds that came every year at this time, and would always come. That would never change.
The dry lips parted and began to sing a tribal tune.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)