I want to run.
Run through the fields of a familiar place.
I want to find a hope in a heart that is filled with grace.
I want to run to the safety of the valley of comfort.
A place I can stay within the lines of complacency.
But I feel a tug; a tug to run again.
To run to the open spaces.
The open spaces; the places the faces of things unseen.
I want I want I want.
Its selfish, melodramatic ,and jaded.
I want to be in state of service where my words are loved and not thought overrated.
It should serve as an example of a soul still working.
With some fears conquered but others oh so lurking.
Meet me here.
Raise me up.
A bountiful feast ;an overflowing cup.
You are above watching.
And here down below.
God help me be a light.
A warm light; a holy glow.
In the darkness.
In the deep.
We run this race of life never stopping and listening.
To sit by a quiet stream
Or count the stars.
To realize you know each name , not just theirs , but ours.
We are astounded by your complexity
Yet we often feel your not a reality
Help us find you
Help us know you
Amen
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Rocky Raccoon : The tale of a raccoon that was having a bad and disoriented day.
As I was sitting in my room doing homework still clad in the Sunday best, a sound erupted from down the street. I poked my head out of my bedroom window and listened again. A cry for help split the quiet street of Robmont . As I looked for the commotion I heard, "McClain get your gun"!
Not knowing what to do, I sprinted to the attic, grabbed my old Winchester .12 gauge , and sprinted for the door. As I ran across the street in true gentlemen farmer fashion,a whole host of house buyers stared in shock as a teenage boy ran carrying a hunting shotgun.Upon arriving at the neighbor in distress's house, I witnessed a pitched battle between man and beast. My father wielding a shovel was swinging like a heavy hitter at a psychotic raccoon whilst it was being sprayed with water,and fought by the dog. It was as if an exhibit at Petting zoo or Sea world had gone terribly wrong, what with the flying water coming out of the garden hose or the wild animal sprinting around the backyard.The whole thing was an extreme spectacle and had gathered a small gallery of concerned,and most likely bored neighbors. I ran up and tried to pin it down with a flat head shovel as my dad called animal control. With my neighbor in the house and the dog barking from across the yard, the whole thing was starting to calm down. After the dispatch of Animal control took his sweet time to get there, we all went our separate ways.
I had thought I had the raccoon beat while recounting the story to some friends. But then, oh then I got that call that you never want after that event. "Um McClain, ya your gonna probably have to get rabies shots,or...you...could probably go insane or die"...great. So I took the shots, and have finished the cycle. I thought old Rocky Raccoon had lost the fight, but it turns out he was just a bit under the weather ,and have a most likely terrible day.
Not knowing what to do, I sprinted to the attic, grabbed my old Winchester .12 gauge , and sprinted for the door. As I ran across the street in true gentlemen farmer fashion,a whole host of house buyers stared in shock as a teenage boy ran carrying a hunting shotgun.Upon arriving at the neighbor in distress's house, I witnessed a pitched battle between man and beast. My father wielding a shovel was swinging like a heavy hitter at a psychotic raccoon whilst it was being sprayed with water,and fought by the dog. It was as if an exhibit at Petting zoo or Sea world had gone terribly wrong, what with the flying water coming out of the garden hose or the wild animal sprinting around the backyard.The whole thing was an extreme spectacle and had gathered a small gallery of concerned,and most likely bored neighbors. I ran up and tried to pin it down with a flat head shovel as my dad called animal control. With my neighbor in the house and the dog barking from across the yard, the whole thing was starting to calm down. After the dispatch of Animal control took his sweet time to get there, we all went our separate ways.
I had thought I had the raccoon beat while recounting the story to some friends. But then, oh then I got that call that you never want after that event. "Um McClain, ya your gonna probably have to get rabies shots,or...you...could probably go insane or die"...great. So I took the shots, and have finished the cycle. I thought old Rocky Raccoon had lost the fight, but it turns out he was just a bit under the weather ,and have a most likely terrible day.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
My Walden
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Since the farm has sold which is just so spelled out for the people that actually read this blog of mine, I have since taken up fishing. To say I am a novice is an understatement ,but slowly I am getting better. This little pond shown below is my little escape from city life. It is ,as I mused today my Walden pond. Henry Thoreau , went to a place called Walden pond for a year to reflect on life; to get away and be quiet. This is my place to be quiet. Thoreau did the same thing." I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever." Henry David Thoreau. This is the closest thing I have to the farm. It is where I come to think and find meaning. Today , while doing college app's I got so stressed out, that I just slammed my laptop shut grabbed my fishing rod and ran out the door and drove to my Walden. As I drove a soft country song came on and a smile came to my face. The stress melted and I was at the pond. I got out to the soft sound of crickets chirping on the bank ,and the sound of bass hittin bugs on top of my Walden. As I hopped the fence the sound of the street was dampened by the live oaks that surround the pond. I wave across the pond to old Mr. Crouch working in his garden. He is a great man that lets me fish at the pond. A missionary,and true red blooded american Mr. crouch is one of a kind. The pond is quiet as I throw out a couple casts and unwind.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Rain is Jazz
Rain is a wonderful thing.Today it is raining and all is right with the world.
I came home and put on jeans and wool socks and skated across the floor like a speed skater in the Olympics. I listened to good smooth jazz while my window had tiny little fingers rapping on the pane. I drove through the rain be-bopping along to some smooth Miles Davis.
Rain is Jazz. It is is the sharp ,smooth, inconsistent yet ordered event that sometimes happens on a good afternoon. To some, rain is a pain (not trying to be corny lyricist). But for me it is a chance to throw on some comfortable clothes and spend a good afternoon inside by a fire,or reading a good book. Rain has always reminded me of Jazz because I grew up listening to Jazz. When I was a little boy I would go spend weekends with my grandfather and go hunting or work in the barn. At the end of every night after prayers, I would crawl into the rickety old twin bed and stair out the window at the stars or ...rain and start to doze off. Now if your from the upstate of South Carolina, chances are you don't have an alarm system. So our alarm was the sound of a radio. We left it on all the time to "ward off intruders". But, we all new that was a load of bull and left it on anyway. As I would fall asleep I would here Jazz on the radio. This sparked my love for music in the beginning. I have these memories of laying in that bed ,listening to jazz crackle through the old GE radio that sat in my grandfathers room and know that I was safe. Away from the rain outside and in the warmth of the covers and music that surrounded me. The house,the house had its own music too. The thump of the gas heater rumbling through the wall, or the sound of the fridge quietly buzzing. The sound of the screen door slamming. The sound of the coffee maker in the morning. The house was music and safety too. So on days like this with the rain softly falling , I look back to what once was. Rain makes me nostalgic. Sometimes in a good way,some times bad. Someone once told me that rain makes them sad ,but mindful of the happy memories it brings them. On the path of life there will be hardship, but you must hold on to the things you love, remembering the the times that were good and the times to come. In this case for me, rain is jazz. It is the spark of a passion, the comfort of a father figure,and the memories of a places taken by the sands of time.
I came home and put on jeans and wool socks and skated across the floor like a speed skater in the Olympics. I listened to good smooth jazz while my window had tiny little fingers rapping on the pane. I drove through the rain be-bopping along to some smooth Miles Davis.
Rain is Jazz. It is is the sharp ,smooth, inconsistent yet ordered event that sometimes happens on a good afternoon. To some, rain is a pain (not trying to be corny lyricist). But for me it is a chance to throw on some comfortable clothes and spend a good afternoon inside by a fire,or reading a good book. Rain has always reminded me of Jazz because I grew up listening to Jazz. When I was a little boy I would go spend weekends with my grandfather and go hunting or work in the barn. At the end of every night after prayers, I would crawl into the rickety old twin bed and stair out the window at the stars or ...rain and start to doze off. Now if your from the upstate of South Carolina, chances are you don't have an alarm system. So our alarm was the sound of a radio. We left it on all the time to "ward off intruders". But, we all new that was a load of bull and left it on anyway. As I would fall asleep I would here Jazz on the radio. This sparked my love for music in the beginning. I have these memories of laying in that bed ,listening to jazz crackle through the old GE radio that sat in my grandfathers room and know that I was safe. Away from the rain outside and in the warmth of the covers and music that surrounded me. The house,the house had its own music too. The thump of the gas heater rumbling through the wall, or the sound of the fridge quietly buzzing. The sound of the screen door slamming. The sound of the coffee maker in the morning. The house was music and safety too. So on days like this with the rain softly falling , I look back to what once was. Rain makes me nostalgic. Sometimes in a good way,some times bad. Someone once told me that rain makes them sad ,but mindful of the happy memories it brings them. On the path of life there will be hardship, but you must hold on to the things you love, remembering the the times that were good and the times to come. In this case for me, rain is jazz. It is the spark of a passion, the comfort of a father figure,and the memories of a places taken by the sands of time.
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