different

I don't wanna hear anymore, teach me to listen
I don't wanna see anymore, give me a vision
That you could move this heart, to be set apart
I don't need to recognize, the man in the mirror
And I don't wanna trade Your plan, for something familiar
I can't waste a day, I can't stay the same


I wanna be different
I wanna be changed
'Til all of me is gone
And all that remains
Is a fire so bright
The whole world can see
That there's something different
So come and be different
In me


brother, can you spare an idea?

All of us, to some extent, borrow from others, from the culture around us. Ideas are in the air, and we may appropriate, often without realizing, the phrases and language of the times. We borrow language itself; we did not invent it. We found it, we grew up into it, though we may use it, interpret it, in very individual ways. What is at issue is not the fact of “borrowing” or “imitating,” of being “derivative,” being “influenced,” but what one does with what is borrowed or imitated or derived; how deeply one assimilates it, takes it into oneself, compounds it with one’s own experiences and thoughts and feelings, places it in relation to oneself, and expresses it in a new way, one’s own.

-- Oliver Sacks, The River of Conciousness


the bend in the road

Bend

"Death is not the end of the road; it is only a bend in the road. The road winds only through those paths through which Christ Himself has gone. This Travel Agent does not expect us to discover the trail for ourselves. Often we say that Christ will meet us on the other side. That is true, of course, but misleading. Let us never forget that He walks with us on this side of the curtain and then guides us through the opening. We will meet Him there, because we have met Him here. The tomb is not an entrance to death, but to life. The sepulcher is not an empty vault, but the doorway to heaven. When we die, nothing in God dies, and His faithfulness endures. Little wonder the pagans said of the early church that they carried their dead as if in triumph!"

Lutzer, Erwin W. (2015-04-17). One Minute After You Die (p. 78). Moody Publishers. Kindle Edition.


throwback thanksgiving

TBTI stumbled onto some old - like 1950's old - films that depict life in that era.

Maybe just a little early for me, but it still gives a good idea of life in the day when family values were radically different than they are today.

For much of my childhood, thanksgiving meant butchering time at my grandparents' house. It was only as I got older, and my grandparents decided they would no longer raise pigs and mess with butchering that Mom would go all out on thanksgiving... I miss those days.

 


bill at one

TBTSome boxes just hold all sorts of surprises.

I found a package of photos in my basement and spent a few minutes running through them.

It was a full of memories - weddings, pictures of dad's work buddies, airplanes, etc. BillatOne

But when I shuffled through them, there was a picture of me -- when I was one year old.

The writing on the back of the photo said "19-6" and it looks like I'm not more than a year old. My sister looks as though she's definitely well into being two. I'm guessing the picture was taken on June 19. From what I can tell it was taken in my grandparents' kitchen. While my dad and grandfather were building my parent's house, we lived for a short time with my dad's parents. Memories of that time are long gone, but the picture remains.

It makes me laugh - everyone has smiles and I look as though I'm totally dumbfounded. The last to figure things out.

It's that - or I'm wondering who's going to change my diaper.  (Big grin...)


to where you are

TBTWhen my mother passed away in 1996, I felt like I had come to the end of the road. So much of my days up until then had been focused on making sure she was OK.

She was there one day - and gone the next.

For many weeks I could not enter her bedroom without being overcome with emotion.

Two decades later, I still find myself thinking of her and remembering her. When I heard this song by Josh Groban many years ago, it helped me to grieve and to remind me of how precious she was -- and still is -- to me.

 


scrappy

ScrappyHe showed up shortly after I placed the bird feeder on my library window. I figured since I would be spending a lot more time in my home office, I might as well have a little visual enjoyment. It took a little while for the birds to find it and figure out there was food to enjoy, but once there was one, more arrived.

And one morning I noticed one of the red-headed finches seemed to have an injured eye. It would turn its good eye toward the food before selecting a seed to eat and rather than perch on the feeder's edge, this little bird would sit in the food.

Then during the summer I didn't see him. For awhile I figured he had died from the injury. Survival of the fittest and all that.

But yesterday he was once again sitting in the seed, enjoying the quiet and having all the seeds to himself.

I called him "Scrappy" - because in his short life I'm guessing he's faced more than his share of difficulties.

Half of his world is always hidden, so he's never sure what he's going to have to face. Other birds pick at him and chase him off - and he leaves. Then he returns to the feeder when the gang has moved on to munch somewhere else.

I hope it comes back often. It reminds me that no matter how much crap life throws at me, I can still keep going - even if no one else wants me around.