One who was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and an arrogant man.

                                                               1 Timothy 1: 13

Paul repeatedly referred to himself as the chief of sinners.  An odd designation to our ears of a man who grew up in the strength of the temple, who dedicated his life to learning the law, to following its every command.  I think we might point more quickly to a terrorist or a serial killer, to one who destroys for the pleasure of destruction.  

I guess I always thought Paul's use of the term either crushing guilt over his earlier persecution of Christians, or a prod of conviction to his followers; is this is who I am, where does that leave you?  

He gives more detail here though.

       A blasphemer:  irreverent to God

            A persecutor:  hostile to the children of God

                   An arrogant man:  proudly refusing the instruction of God

It's a terrifying list that blankets a world of history, that explodes through every newscast of the day, and sidles into every quiet house of deceptive calm.  Those heinous choices worked by the obvious villains, spring from the same heart as mine.  What is any sin but the assumption of superiority to God?        

It's the official start to summer project season.  I bought a sander, a yogurt maker, a can of paint, and some stain.  I drooled longingly over several styles of deck lights, but managed to resist them.  Not out of any level of self-control, but because I couldn't figure out how to hang them.  I'm sure I'll be back.  

The projects of the day consisted of pulling down the old broken back screen door and sanding and painting the scarred remains of the wooden one.  It doesn't look great, but should at least alleviate concerns that we're hosting a bear cub in the back yard.  

It's storming, of course.  Shelby's cowering in the basement, hiding under anyone's feet who will let her and dreaming I'm sure of putting a few more terrified trenches into my still-wet door.

Pita bread or a rather thick semblance of such, was the morning's cooking experiment, and now seven jars of thickening milk are hopefully, gently warming themselves into yogurt.  

Early morning bikes over the river, a peaceful beginning to a joyous day.

Honeysuckle breezes,

       Soft with the tease of rain,

                   Fuzzy toddling goslings,

                         Stumbling across the trail,

                                        Wary hissing mamas,

                                               Protective in their wake,

                         First real morning of ought to be at work and I'm not,
                                                                 Bliss

                      Come away by yourselves to a remote place and rest a while.

                                                           Mark 6:31

Excitement devoured by horror.  A giddy joy of victorious service eclipsed by the terrifying reality of the execution of John.  I imagine them crowded around Jesus, chattering like children, each nudging another aside to step just a little closer, to absorb the validation of his affectionate response, to release their fears to his strength.

The story doesn't record what he might have said to encourage or comfort them.  There are no explanations or reassurances to calm their spirits, he just asks them to come away.  Come away, not go away, suggesting he has every intention of coming along.

 Come away, to a remote place.  Remote, quiet, away from the crowds, away from the demands, away from the angry dissension.   A place to rest.  

What would it be to rest with Jesus?  

In a world that spins faster every day, where the voices never end, and horrors pile like autumn leaves on the constant barrage of news sites, the greatest power might be the strength to stop; to breathe, to focus, to rest a while with Jesus.

I will exalt You, Lord,

because You have lifted me up,

and have not allowed my enemies to triumph over me.

Psalm 30:1

David seems almost giddy in his joy.  I imagine him breathless, eyes darting and heart pounding, nearly in shock it's really over.  There won't be one more battle hidden behind the distant cliff, one more sleepless night of starting at every sound, one more heavy weapon to lift against those he once defended.  "You have lifted me up," he declared, almost floating on the joy and relief of the gift of this day.  

Yet history tells us how fleeting this peace would be.  How long did he really have before reality set in?   There would be the infighting and struggles of establishing a new kingdom, of bringing a battle worn people back into unity, of proving his worth as the chosen of God. 

Didn't he know, in some small corner of his mind, how harsh this new battle would be?  Did it niggle at his joy?  Did he drift from celebration to strategy?  Or did he just revel on the joy of the moment, on his gratitude to God for the gifts of the day?  

I'm far to ready to worry about the future, to fear the inevitable next trial lurking in the mists of my mind, and to forget to bask in the joy of the battle just won.