elvis

i look at this picture and see passion, a man absorbed in what he is doing. then he got old, he got fat and finally got himself dead, on a toilet.

what happened?

i think of my life and i don't want this to happen to me. i've already gotten a little fat but i sure as heck don't want to die on a toilet. i want to finish my life with vigor, with passion. i want to be young elvis. i don't much care for old elvis.

paul's letters to timothy are a great help to me. it is a mentor's letters to a young, and from what i've gathered, somewhat scared man who is in over his head (a good place to be to experience God).

it's not just the advice, the wisdom that paul gives timothy that i love. it's the fact that paul is finishing as a young elvis, not the one that could barely squeeze into his gaudy jumpsuits. he still had the passion he did when he declared much earlier in his minisry that "i decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified." (1 cor. 2:2)

it is in these letters, his final writings, that he is able to declare the following: "i've fought the good fight, i have finished the race, i have kept the faith." (2 tim. 4.:7) and the fact was that he was still doing it. look closely a few verses down, he asks for timothy to bring his books and parchments above all (he also asks him to bring his cloak, which may or may not have been covered in rhine stones. we'lll never know). he knew it was just about his time to go but he still sought to know Christ and him crucified through the scriptures (the parchments). seeking Truth until the end.

i want that. i want to be a beat-up old fart who loves Christ with all he's got and who has been going strong since he started all those years back. i pray for the grace to love God passionately, which probably starts in the grace of knowing that He loves me.

of course, if you prefer the bloated elvis, this might not mean the same thing i'm hoping it does. metaphors are dangerous for this reason as. fyi- elvis died at the age of 42, easily the best number in the world.

i'm going crazy

that's about it. i think i'm losing it.

Don't read the end if you like animals.

On Monday evening, I returned to Moldova. In my time back, I've mastered the art of not sleeping at all.

There are so many possible causes. There is the obvious time change, the harder bed, the lower-quality pillow, the chorus of dogs that apparently dwells on top of my roof, the diet I must get readjusted to, the questions that have risen in my time away and, shockingly, the strange man who moved into my room during my retreat (note: he has crazy, yet tender eyes, which glow in a piercing red, gazing right through me as I cling to my blanket for a comfort that would not come. My clinging tis but vanity as we both know that blanket could never keep me safe from his hatred. My only hope, fettered though it may be, is that he will fall into repose first.). These things together could inspire insomnia in any creature, and a strange creature I indeed am.

I wish I could say that things went smoothly these past three weeks with me across the ocean. Obviously, there have been some problems, problems I am working through with some of the other wonderful people stationed here in Moldova. I've been thrown a somewhat expected curveball, but it still managed to take me off guard. That happens sometimes. No matter how well you've prepared yourself for something, some things just don't let you get prepared. I'm told, and even have told people, that these are the times when God is at His best (as if there are times He isn't), that it is in weakness that God's power is made perfect. Those things are, I trust, true. And in my sleepless state, I've been able to listen to His voice even though it was so quiet I had to strain to hear it.

He gave me no answers. For the most part He told me to be quiet, to be still.

I love to fill the silence with noise, some sort of static to keep me from those things. While home, it was voices of friends I haven't seen in too long, bluegrass music on Sunday nights, Sportscenter a couple of times a day, the blue Weezer album in my car (played loudly to help me hit the really high notes) and an enormous box fan lulling me to sleep. Not that these are bad things, especially not that Weezer album, they just prevented me from ever really being quiet and from being still.

I say all this so that if you haven’t done those two things in conjunction with each other recently, you'll consider it. If it’s a nice day, go lie in the grass and look into the sky and just be there. If it’s raining, find cover (or not) and watch it rain. Watch the clouds move past the moon and breathe it in. The heavens declare God’s glory and I feel like this world needs more witnesses to that glory. Just take it in.

In a completely unrelated matter, my cat Chief is missing and probably gone forever. You were a good cat, as far as cats go, and I, for one, will miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t know you better. Godspeed, friend. Godspeed.

Furthermore, for those of you who knew Scrappy, also known as"Vodka" for a brief time (i.e. the dog found in Falesti during January), there is a better than average chance that he has been stolen and, as a result of the theft, has been eaten my some family or dog thief or some innocent person who thought they were getting a more traditional type of meat from a street-side vendor. I'll think of him somewhat fondly and also as something like the following.

Lastly, the two puppies, who I titled Estelle Getty and Chuck Norris and who formerly ran about our place, are also gone. I often would declare "those puppies are so cute, they're edible." It frightens me to think somebody may have thought likewise and then acted upon that thought.

It has been a bad month for pets.