Wed, 28 Mar 2012 02:27:26 -0800WeeblyTue, 22 Feb 2011 10:27:23 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2011/02/flulyke-sypmtoms.htmlOnce there was born
To a man who was funny,
A small boy whose nose
Was always quite runny.

It dripped and it dribbled
He coughed and he sneezed
And the problem arose
With the slightest small breeze.

Flu like symptoms it seemed
Were the obvious cause
For the uncomfortable drizzle
At the end of his schnoz.

But it wasn’t just snot
That flowed with wind weather,
More often than not
What he blew was a feather.

A feather is weird
You have to admit
His parents conferred
They prayed and had fits. 

They worried and feared
And quite often teared
Their special bright boy
Was really quite weird.

His parents did notice
When they stopped and they sat
He’s a remarkable boy
In more ways than that.

They asked friends and neighbors
They pointed out things
Have you noticed that when
He is sad he just sings?

He knew all the hymns
The ones that showed how
The creator was good
Whether or not we knew how.

And what about
All those days when it rained
He chuckled and muttered
But never complained.

He makes us all laugh
With his antics and joked
He’s just like his dad
Always teasing with folks.

But still there was trouble
Absolutely no denying
Even the hint of a breeze
And he seemed to be flying.

Those two bumps on his back
We’re worried for those
And it’s not just all that
Have you looked at his toes?

Instead of walking
Around on his feet,
His toes always hover
Just an inch off the street.

“We’re really concerned”
They whispered at night
We should see a doctor
These things just aren’t right.

So they loaded him up
In the car and they went
To the top of the hill
To see Dr. Flint;

Alone in a room
With white walls and machine
Flint offered just gloom
It seemed really quite mean;

“Flu like symptoms,” he said
“May not go away
He’s not quite right in the head
And you know what they say,

These things sometimes happen
There’s nothing to do
Your boy has a sickness
It’s something like flu.”

“We’ll try what we have
But it’s really not much
For your boys big problems
It’s not quite enough,

He’ll be gone in a year
If he’s tough make it two
You’ll have to be strong
Have faith to get through.”

Mom and dad just stared
Glassy eyed, not believing
How could our bright boy
Already be leaving?

So back down they went
With their plans and their schemes
And hearts that were full
Of broken plans and crashed dreams

And Luke…

Afraid and alone
At home in the dark
An idea in his head
Lit up like a spark

A burning fresh dose
Of truth and of hope
Took away all his fears
He was no longer morose…

I wonder he thought
As he studied his toes
What if there’s a reason
For jokes and my nose

So he thought and he wondered
On the reasons for things
And he wiggled and squirmed
And felt for his wings

An experiment of hope
Snuck up in his mind
He wiggled his toes
And stretched with his mind

From out of the dark
In his sad lonely place
A voice in his heart
Brought a smile to his face

“The pain that you feel
In your legs when you walk
Is not really much more
Than a twist in your sock.”

“The way that sometimes
Feathers float from your nose
And you’d rather not walk
Just float on your toes?”

"These things about you
Are different than most
It’s really quite simple,
Like cooking some toast.

See, some people grow
The same inside as out
But others are fast
Their heart has to shout

The message they have is
To important to wait
The plan made for them
Is real hard to fake

Here’s the secret young man
You’ve been hoping to hear
I’m telling you now
Cause you’re time’s getting near

Your parents are worried
And sometimes quite sad
The symptoms you know
Are really quite bad

But flu like’s not right
Dr. Flint missed the boat
You have Fly Luke symptoms
Your soul’s meant to float

I've done you a favor
In the short time you’ve lived
All the life that’s set in you
Is for you to give

In a world changing way
That can’t fit with the crowd
So rise up and fly
Cause the sound’s getting loud

So Luke shut his eyes
And he felt with his wings
And as he rose in the air
He started to sing

The sound from his mouth
Was a bright winsome song
All the people around him
Awoke before long

As the notes from his tune
Struck the strings in their hearts
Sleepy people were dancing
And there were more from the start

Who saw that their friend,
This small broken boy
Was a powerful warrior
His song brought real joy

As dancing was spreading
From bedroom to street
Luke rose up in the air
His conductor to meet

He approached his best friend,
His real source of strength
The dancing got quiet
On the streets, their whole length

By the look in his eyes
And the crook in his brow
The conductor was pleased
With the show up ‘til now

But it wasn’t enough
He raised both arms up high
And the air seemed to shimmer
And let out a big sigh

He looked Luke in the eye
In a pause of great wonder
It could be described
As a rumble of thunder

Then both hands came down
With great force and a fling
The conductor looked up
And he roared, “LET US SING!”

And there in the air
Was the heavenly host
Both evil and good
But the bad were all toast

The angels all stood
With their feet on red throats
Not one demon could wiggle
No liar could boast

A sound like the wind
Swept out from the sky
It changed all the hearts
Who were standing nearby

Transformed by the song
Where a small boy had been
Appeared a powerful warrior
A giant man amongst men

He clapped his hands with great force
And the demons were crushed
Then the angels arose
With a thundering rush

Around and around
The great throng he flew
He circled the crowd
And danced while wind blew

The feathers from before
From his nose when he sneezed
Now made up great wings
With no need for a breeze

So the truth about Luke
Came from a real place
No longer broken
His heart was in place

For making us laugh
And making us cry
And drawing attention
From earth to the sky

Now all battles are fought
The war has been won
The flu is now over
And Luke flies with the Son

His small body has been
A great place to compose
A powerful song
That will defeat all great foes

His life has meant more
Than a nine year old’s should
The love that exploded
Did more than most could

We remember and hope
To be big in our hearts
So we set life aside
To follow his start…

This story is about a boy who is much more powerful than he appears. 

The life that filled up Luke to overpower his earthly body had called forth such a powerful outpouring of love that the enemy was destroyed.  Prior to Luke’s powerful life, the enemy had made great headway and was on the eve of a successful invasion.  But the gathering of saints had been a surprise attack by the Good and Wise King who had chosen a powerful warrior to take the surprising (not to him) form of a small, broken child.  This child had successfully fulfilled his calling as a wielder of love, joy, peace and hope in the midst of terrible worldly circumstances.  Multitudes of otherwise lost and asleep warriors had been affected and their ties to the world all but severed.  They prayed and lived and the enemy’s plans were thwarted.  Now, the host of heaven, in the wake of victory, sings Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty!!  The whole earth is filled with his glory!!  And Luke stood next to his Friend the King surveying the wrecked demons; trampled by the warriors he had led into battle.  His Friend was heard to say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant, enter into your rest.”  And those of us left behind, waiting our whole lives to become the kind of warrior Luke was in only nine short years, sang with hope that we would never forget his story and the way he had changed our lives – bringing us into the glory of God in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Thank you Luke.

Therefore, we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

]]>Fri, 18 Feb 2011 15:28:14 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2011/02/the-somewhat-raw-poetry-of-the-kingdom-of-heaven.htmlThere is a battle being fought even now.  It has raged for millennia and we are in the thick of it.  Our enemy is determined to destroy all that is good, pure and innocent.  He wants to make love powerless and life meaningless.  He already knows he will be defeated in the end, so he rages to bring as much destruction as possible before he is sent away.  In the realm of the Spirit, the enemy works to keep the doors and windows shut.  He does not want us to get in.  He does not want us to respond to the invitation given by Jesus to “repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.”  It is his desire, this squirrely, sneaky enemy of ours, to keep us out of the Kingdom of Heaven.  For it is there that our new, real identities await.  He knows that we will find what we want, slip out of our superhero costumes and put on the power of new life.

Battle rages as it has
Going on for millennia past
We think it nothing
Not here or there
So we walk around
In our underwear

Ignoring the secrets
Hiding from rest
Flexing and bragging
And posing nearly nude
Wearing our long johns
With a dumb attitude

How silly we look
With our plans and our books
Like we know where we’re going
Or what it all took

Why don’t we just stop
Listen and wonder
What is that sound
That crashes like thunder?

It’s the hope in our heart
That beats in our chest
That something is real
That something is best

And it’s true that it is
There is something right
We’ve been invited inside
Every day and each night

If we’ll wake from our stupor
And head for the cross
We’ll find that the answer
Is there, it’s the boss

The guy who made
The thing spin around
Is waiting up there
Above common ground

Where no one’s a loser
If willing to bend
His knee to the one
The beginning and end

Life then will ripen
A seed breaks apart
An awakening starts
Down deep in the heart

If allowed it will grow
Into a full tower
Of love and of glory
Of hope and of power

And so a full circle
We come to the where
The place we are wearing
Our long underwear

You might wonder why
You might think it’s funny
To be hopping around
Like a pink easter bunny (think “Christmas Story”)

But consider the cause
What could be the source
Of so many people
Front and backs of a horse?

Go back to the cross
Look there in brimstone
A red devil is there
His tights all a crimson

You see he was fooled
By his own foolish pride
And brought low in the end
Where he then had to find

A way to get back
To punish the man
Who sent him to earth
As a low life and band

Of losers and liars
Stinkers and cheats
No one to like
Just things to beat

So he put on a costume
Of red tights and some horns
And started to brag
Real quiet to all born

We believed his dumb lies
And gave up our hearts
To a guy who smells
Like burnt dust and wet farts

He told us all how
He gave us the steps
But its gotten too hard
Even doing our best

So we must give up
We must quit trying
The only real way
To live is by dying.

]]>Tue, 09 Nov 2010 11:22:38 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2010/11/haunted-house.htmlSome people swore that the house was haunted. 
 
It sat low, surrounded by unkempt and jagged grass, crowded by clumpy shrubs and dark, viney trees.  Darkness clung, diminishing lightness and drawing it down.  Heavy and sinking, witnesses waited to see it list to one side.  They whispered and scrunched their shoulders in twitchy shudders.  In the midst of wandering, well-dressed souls, the Smith house wrested quietly in a row of unnoticed neighboring homes.  Speculating observers only stopped there.  Dark curiosity arrested fertile minds.  Stories were told, but the Smith house mystery remained.  It hung, waiting for an answer.  It hunched, giving the strong impression that it was about to do something. 
 
For the watchers, bored in their corners and shadows, the consternation of the curious entertained deliciously.  They waited for someone to come too close.  Most resisted the temptation to touch, but from the ranks of the under-thinking, someone always became prey to the guards.  The house seemed alive but sick, not right in some elemental way.  Like if you touched its flat surface, it would possess a barely discernable pulse.  If a long stretch of time went by with no victims, the watchers hid the warning signs.  The chief guard always punished them mercilessly when they tricked people, but he never forced his minions to bring them back. 
 
So the legend and the mystery surrounding the house grew.  Suspicions and fear were reinforced when patrons disappeared.  And yet, they continued to come.  Invited and dared by subtle cues, they came and stared and spread the news.  The other homes were largely left alone. 
 
Often in the crowd, an old man stood.  Silent and stooped he watched as well.  He left as he came, unnoticed and alone.  If you noticed you could see that he watched not the house in its darkness but the eyes of the people.  He searched and shuffled away disappointed.
 
Then one day, something changed.  The house did list.  Unmistakably crooked, too heavy on one side.  Crowds grew and whispers coalesced, humming.  The watchers paced nervously.  This new development unsettled the sense of balance.  The old man stood with them quietly, turned sideways, he looked at their eyes.  Finally, he moved away from the ranks and stopped in front of another house.  Gazing at it for a while, a smile turned up the corner of his wrinkled mouth.  A small boy wandered over.  Tilting his head, he looked up at the man and followed his smiling gaze to the house.  Bright and straight it stood, comfortable and warm.  Sunshine reflected and birds splashed in rain puddles.  The house next to it shared the same light.  He found himself smiling as well.  He turned round and round and saw that the whole room was filled with paintings of bright, happy homes with only one dark, scary one.  After pondering a little, he whispered to the man, “why is everyone looking at that ugly house instead of these pretty ones?”  “Ask them,” the man replied.
 
So the little boy, standing by the old man, asked loudly, “Why isn’t anyone looking at the happy houses?  Do you like to feel scared and sad?”  His question broke the spell.  Like magic, the pull of the crooked picture shriveled and the people spread throughout the room.  The museum curators came from the corners and talked with the visitors, telling stories of art and artists.
 
The next morning, on a post in front of the crooked house, was a note.  “Be naught drawn only to darkness, but consider more the light.”  It was signed, Mr. Smith.
 
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
 
 
 


]]>Sun, 07 Nov 2010 14:49:47 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2010/11/cafeteria-glory.html Strolling studiously slow
In my sticky fingers
Focused on near attention
Pretending not to linger

Instant potatoes
Waxen beans
Tawdry fixens
Minimum means

Casting glances not quite furtive
Certainly not knowing
Connecting in my mind
With the place I am going

Clinking on plastic
Trays and cheap silver
Cardboard milk boxes
Cold peas all a dither

Across the room
Corner of my eye
A big handle comb
Flies through the sky

Crowd stops and watches
The clinking gets quiet
No chew and no swallow
Awaiting the diet

Of luck or of shame
Of coolness or lame
By catching or dropping
Will it bring him great fame?

Windows part foggy
With fingertip scrawls
Floor kinda sticky
With smashed up meatballs

Barely a motion
Slight turn of hand
Comb in my fingers
I stop still and stand

Don’t look surprised
I think in my head
If they think it a’ purpose
You’ll win them instead

Hesitation erupts
In a rapturous cheer
I loft the green comb
With a wave and a leer

For now in this instant
Flung on me by chance
I’ve become quite a man
In my bell-bottom pants

]]>Thu, 03 Jun 2010 21:10:31 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2010/06/chasing-running-from-or-standing-still.html My fun loving wife bought two hamsters for Christmas last year.  Cody and Emma named them Spot and Brownie (Spot has a spot and Brownie is brown).  My kids love the little rodents and so does Tiger (our cat) albeit for different reasons.  They spend a lot of time running on those little wheels.  Brownie is a much better wheel runner; mostly because Spot is a better eater and has a hard time getting his considerable bulk and his waggly rear moving in any kind of regulated rhythm.  It is captivatingly funny to watch a fat hamster with a big butt run on a too small wheel.  Brownie is svelte, and a long as his wheel isn’t crammed up against his drink dispenser, he can really get the thing hummin’.  Both of them have a weird habit of sticking their head out the side of the wheel.  I think they are trying to see where they are going.  It’s a little dangerous because the wheel spokes are spinning as fast as the wheel and there is considerable risk of guillotining.  My theory is that as soon as the wheel is spinning fast enough to be satisfying, the mesh screen of the wheel blocks their forward vision.  So they have to look out the side.  Ironic isn’t it? 

         People are a lot like that.  We treat life like a big hamster wheel.  Always running.  Either chasing something or running from it.  Rarely standing still.  But we’re on a wheel that spins in concentric circles, never letting us make any forward progress.  Some people get really proficient, like Brownie.  They become phenomenal runners.  Trim and sleek, they can run so fast that you can barely see the wheel from the outside.  But from where they are, it’s a solid wall over, under, behind and in front of them.  Others figure they won’t be able to run fast, like Spot, so they build better wheels.  They invent frictionless bearings and high traction surfaces.  They build ergonomic controls and flat screen HDTV’s on gyroscopes so they can distract themselves from their running.  But, they don’t stop running.  Some of us direct all our energy and focus towards it.  Some of us try to pretend like we’re not running at all.  But rarely does anyone ever get off the wheel. 

         The only way to see where we are going is to poke our heads out the side through the spokes.  Gauging progress like that is very dangerous.  Those that are professional runners have created a momentum that they rely on.  The spokes are going very fast and anything but a quick look will negatively affect the efficiency they have worked so hard to foster.  Those who have built super wheels have done so taking into account the constant spinning.  If the wheel slows or stops, gyroscopes crash, bearings tremble, ergonomics become useless…  And for both of them, there is the ever present danger of having their head removed by a spoke.

         Our hamsters run mostly in the dark.  They are in a glass cage with a towel over it.  Every one in the house is asleep or listening to the spinning wheels.  They can’t see where they’re going even if they do look.  If they come out of the wheel during the day, one of the kids will be there to pick them up and snuggle them.  They will get to play and be told how cute they are.  They will get to be part of the family.  They get to run all over the house that’s infinitely bigger and more exciting than their cage.  They are protected and safe (as long as Tiger’s outside) and able to run without the wheel. 

         Yeah, people are like that.  It wastes a lot of time and energy, but man are we dedicated to it.  God didn’t invent wheels.  He invented people.  He gave us a garden and we made wheels instead.  All through history we’ve been running on those stupid, useless wheels trying to get to God and the wheel is the thing that is in the way!  We know it to.  We can all feel that the wheel is not working, and when we glimpse through the spokes and see the Garden, and God standing there, we know that He is what we need. God can see through the wheel, He knows what we’re running from or chasing.  Sometimes He will jam a stick in the spokes and our wheel will jerk unceremoniously to a halt.  It really screws up the wheel, and generally makes us look stupid and clumsy (uh huh) but then we get picked up and snuggled by God.  Which is way better than looking cool on our wheel.  The trick is to stay with Him, follow Him around, do whatever He is doing and find our joy and purpose in Him instead of getting back on the wheel.

         There are three ways to spend your life/time:  chasing something, running from something or standing still.  Only those who stand still can see, the rest are blind.

]]>Wed, 02 Jun 2010 16:47:05 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2010/06/who-are-alan-darby-and-lester-mccool.html I may have an overactive imagination...  Alan and Lester are characters compiled from people I know or who have been described to me.  They epitomize the kind of man I aspire to be and spend time with.  I hope one day to write stories with them as the characters. 

Fort Darby, is for now, a fictional place as well.

Those who created Fort Darby labored from a passion for discovery and a commitment to share a rich life with their neighbors.  Alan Darby and Lester McCool are the founding characters of this endeavor and epitomize the heart of those who call it theirs.  In the beginning and now, many called them crazy.  Many are drawn to them and their dream for a better kind of living.  Both of them share an understanding of life that is unusual in American culture.  It is a perspective that costs comfort and convenience but pays significant dividends.  (What is meant by that word – life?*)  Of course, since both actually live that way the challenge is hard to ignore.  Those that know them recognize the impact of their lives as well as the contentment and purposefulness they exhibit.  Their lives and character are worth investigation.

Alan Darby
Alan Darby is an old man.  No one knows for sure how old.  He likes to keep it a secret and seems to take a private pleasure in the consternation it causes among his friends.  Guesses range from late sixties to early nineties.  He’s a healthy and strong widower, living on his own in the farm house he shared with his wife of many years.  Visitors find his home to be tidy and inviting; he says that’s the way his wife left it.  His property is a neatly organized scheme of storage barns, cow pens, and “the shop”.  He still farms hay and corn and runs milk cows on his own land.  He harvests the hay each summer with local teenage boys he shanghais each year with the help of the local high schools FFA director.   He says it’s his way of making sure the youngsters don’t head down the farming road without knowing about it first.  One of his favorite sayings is “hard work is what we’re doin’ here!”  Funny thing about it is that even though he pushes the kids hard each summer, most of them still go into agriculture for a career.  Most of them come back to help again after their first summer and all of them name Mr. Darby as a mentor in the stories they tell of those summers. 

I remember one of those summers myself.  I was just fourteen and barely as big as a bale of hay.  Alan decided it was better for me to wait until the next year to start bucking hay as it might break me in half.  So he gave me a machete and a five gallon back pack weed sprayer and sent me into the fields to do battle with thistles.  I marched around for weeks hacking and spraying.  I single handedly defeated the entire thistle population in over 100 acres.  In the evenings when they started taking the bales in, I would push them in front of the conveyor.  On the nights when morning dew was expected, we would work feverishly until the wee hours of the morning.  All of us were willing because we knew that after, Mr. Darby’s wife would have some kind of an enormous dessert waiting for us.  Nothing was better than being exhausted, sweaty and covered with hay dust, sitting around a table together filling our stomachs with delicious food.  I became a man during those days.  Eventually, I became the field boss.  I drove the hay wagons and strategized with Mr. Darby the plan for the huge stacks of hay stored in the hay lofts of his barns. 

Back to Alan Darby.  He seems to know everything but rarely offers advice unless asked.  Somehow though, you want to ask.  One thing to watch for; if Alan Darby gives you unsought for advice, you better listen.  It’s probably because you are about to do something stupid.  In particular, he will warn people he considers a risk to those he cares about.  He sees himself as a protector of his neighbors, especially women and children; anyone who is somehow limited in their ability to care for themselves.  Often he will recommend someone else as an expert.  He knows everyone that knows the most about a particular subject and by recommending, weaves the fabric of the community.  He is a great respector of people, especially those who have put in the hard work to gain wisdom and understanding through difficulty.  I’ve heard him say, “I don’t trust a man who hasn’t been through hard times.”  He can tell you about fixing tractors, caring for animals, building out of wood or steel, how to make great cornbread and about the confusing interactions with the fairer sex.  He is an articulate communicator and seems to bring every subject back to its deeper context.  It is rare to talk with him and not wonder about the more significant questions of life.  Most people say he is encouraging and supportive, even when he tells you you’re wrong.  Mostly he asks questions and tells stories.  Somehow, when talking with him, you figure out more about yourself.  Another of his favorite expressions is “you said it.”  People often attribute their ideas and opinions to Alan and he is quick to remind them that he didn’t tell them, they figured it out. 

Alan is tall but not intimidatingly so.  He is thin with broader shoulders that are square and held back.  His clothes are always worn but clean.  Usually overalls and a cotton shirt.  Except Sundays, when he always wears a suit and tie to church and dinner with friends.  Apparently, he has not changed in size for many years because it appears that his Sunday suits are at least 30 years old.  When it’s not Sunday, his hair is usually wind blown or hand tousled.  He is often outside and tends to run his fingers through his hair when solving a problem.  When not in the company of women, he will often wear a battered cap.  Apparently, he has a collection because you never know what it might say.  His skin is weathered and wrinkled but not loose.  His hands are calloused and His eyes are grey and either piercing or observant, depending on the circumstances.  He has a tattoo of a voluptuous beauty on his left forearm.  Rumor has it that it is from the nose of the plane he flew in WWII.  Some say it’s of his late wife.  It’s hard to tell because it’s old like him and tattoos weren’t done with the same precise methods they are today.  It’s another mystery.  He is always chewing on something.  He smoked in the old days and says it’s a leftover habit.  Don’t loan him your favorite pen.  Lacking an implement he will work on his manicure.   There is a deep and ragged perpendicular scar on the other side of the same forearm.  He says he got it fighting off girls, but whenever he says it around Lester, Lester shakes his head and mutters while he walks away. 

Alan can usually be found in town around lunch time and sitting on his front porch after dinner.  He rarely dines alone, but doesn’t seem to plan his lunch dates.  While he works hard, he never seems to be rushed.  Lots of people drop by his house to visit and seek his advice and he is rarely unavailable.  However, if you stop by in the middle of the work day, you will find yourself working while you talk.  Not only will you find a wise listening ear, you will also learn something.  Alan spends a lot of time at Fort Darby.  He serves as an advisor and participated significantly in its creation.  He is one of the men who works on the garden project and has donated generously to its health and effectiveness. 

Lester McCool
Alan’s most frequent companion is Lester McCool.  Lester is younger than Alan by a generation or two or maybe three, though it’s hard to tell.  Lester spent his early working years as a machinist and welder.  He worked on the railroad, and later as a crew boss in a factory that produced large farming implements.   He lives in town in a white house with a big front porch that faces the street.  He comes home every day at 5:30 and emerges from the bathroom freshly showered and clean shaven at the exact moment his wife places the dinner on the table.  He carries a black metal lunch box and wears a collared shirt with overalls every day except Sunday.  On Sundays, he wears a hat, slacks, white shirt and a tie (he teases Alan about his suit being out dated, but wears styles from the 80s himself).  His hair is never messy and his face is always close shaved (at least after dinner and breakfast) until his 5:00 shadow shows up.  He is rarely without a hat.

Lester’s passion, at least the most obvious one, is his wife Jean.  She is a dignified woman who seems to reduce him to jello whenever she is around.  Though known to argue frequently, they can more often be seen sitting close on the front porch.  She is the happy victim of his constant affection and blushes when he comments on her many worthy character traits and attributes.  Their daughter Betsy is his next in line eye twinkle.  Now married with her own children.  He is smitten whenever she is around.  His unabashed love for the women in his life combined with his strength and solidity is one of the things that aptly demonstrate his character.  Few men are willing to express themselves with humility and passion.  Either they are effeminate or overly macho.  Lester is neither.

Lester is a big man well over six feet and more than 200lbs.  His shoulders are heavy and sloped and his arms are thick with corded muscle.  Though often dirty from hard labor, he is neat and fastidious and never lingers in his work clothes.  Under his shirt sleeves, both arms are nearly covered in tattoos.  He is an imposing figure and known to be a threat to those who deserve it.  However, Lester is a gentle, kind man that children gravitate to.  He often has hard candy on his person and always treats people old or young, big or small, rich or poor, whatever nationality with respect and generosity.  It seems as though everyone knows him.  I have often walked with him down Main Street and it is impossible to carry on an uninterrupted conversation because everyone is familiar.  Lively discussion on a multitude of topics is spontaneous and frequent.  Lester’s smile is always on the ready, though he lacks silliness except with his own family.  His laugh is deep and warm and authoritatively infectious.  Like Alan, he is unassuming about his own wisdom and often refuses to comment on things he feels uninformed of.  There is a kinship between he and Alan that resembles an older brother, younger brother respect and camaraderie. 

Lester is the kind of man who mysteriously is somehow involved in lots of projects with many different people.  I’m not sure how he ends up having time to help in so many different circumstances, but he is always asking detailed questions about things people are doing.  You can tell by the way they answer that he has been a participant in some way or another.  It’s interesting that a man like him would be so ready to help.  He never comes across as too busy so is always giving the impression that he is available to be a part of your life.  Though he does not tout his own experience or skills, when he is part of a project, he is always foundational.  He leads without telling people what to do.  He brings out confidence and extra effort from anyone involved.  However, he is very impatient with those who are lazy or excuse makers.  If you are not on the team, then stay out of the way.  Lester has a garage full of obscure miscellaneous parts and pieces from machines and projects that are always available and seem to never be reduced.  Always willing to lend a tool or an odd part, he is also not afraid to ask for help.  Rather, he expects participation – especially on things that are for mutual benefit for the community.

Often on Saturday afternoons Alan and Lester can be found playing chess on the boardwalk in front of the hardware store; Alan smoking (and chewing on) a pipe, Lester with a cigar, arguing good naturedly about cars, sports or the destiny of America.  Lester’s dog, Mike curled up under the table.  Both stopping frequently to visit with whoever may come up the steps.  Many an untried man has walked up the steps to the hardware store to piece together a project for his homestead and ended up as a disciple in the Alan and Lester school of rural life.  They both share an interest in seeing people discover the joys of a simple hardworking way of life that is shared with neighbors and are quick to help it come about.  Lester often says, “There’s enough time for everything important.”  He demonstrates his strong belief in that statement by spending himself on those around him.  He believes that riches only last until they are spent, but a life spent on his neighbors lasts forever.

The world may never know Alan Darby or Lester McCool, but their neighbors consider themselves fortunate to.  Visit Fort Darby some time, if you get a chance to meet them, you’ll understand why.

 

]]>Tue, 03 Nov 2009 02:02:18 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2009/11/pre-babel-language-its-what-ive-been-thinking-about.html Synapses and heartbeats are colliding in my jerky, brilliant, sophomoric glide through these days.  Thoughts and desires are elevating the tension between my static place on this spinning globe and the fuzzy area where time slows, additional dimensions show up and my eyes are less than what is required to really see.  I’m conflicted.  Some part of me doesn’t want to try this hard, the rest of me, as disconnected as I am to myself, feels urgent, anxious and unfinished.  Perhaps barely started.  I know there is something beckoning me.  Someone is telling me there is more; and I believe it.  I feel it.  I’m not sure if I hear a whisper because my hearing is becoming more acute or if I’m finally hearing the loud warning.  Am I being invited to something transcendent or warned away from something monstrous and diabolical; maybe both.

 

There are snatches of music drifting on meandering heaven scent breezes.  At lucid moments, my consciousness coincides with this music and my hearing suddenly finds its meaning.  I know what I’m for.  The hints my senses have offered me finally give a clear suggestion. 

 

It makes my mouth water.  I can’t sit still.  I want to dance, sing , scream.  I hope so desperately.  I want to destroy that which holds me.  Send it to oblivion and escape the bounds and shackles.  This box I’m in is both torture and generous preparation.  I am willing but I want much more.

 

I believe there is a language that can satisfy this yearning.  There is life that can be communicated beyond mere words.  I have been invited to receive the life of the creator.  He has named me as a son and a lover.  He has made me part of his body and his bride.  I have become the mystery the angels sing of.  They see and are awed by the love my God and I share.  It is special and holy.  It is beyond comprehension.  No singular mode of either communication or understanding is capable of holding it.  I am quite sure that if all forms came together in perfect harmony they would serve mainly to illustrate their own limitations in light of the magnitude of perfect existence.

 

But again, it is not for me to worry about completing anything.  That is for him.  For now, in my melancholy, music wafts.  I am seeing connections.  I am seeing reason for hope and despair – both which will be satisfied…

]]>Sun, 13 Sep 2009 12:02:27 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2009/09/contradictions-do-not-exist.htmlI'm reading "Atlas Shrugged" by Ayn Rand.  She is the mother of "Objectivism".  It's great writing with lots of fantastic quotes.  Here is the one that slapped me in the face yesterday.  It's not that I'm buying into her philosophy, it's that truth can be found anywhere God reveals it if I'm connected to Him. 

From the character of Hugh Akston, the great philosopher turned cook in a diner, "By the essence and nature of existence, contradictions cannot exist.  If you find it inconceivable that an invention of genius should be abandoned among ruins and that a philosopher should wish to work as a cook in a diner - check your premises.  You will find that one of them is wrong."

This rings true to me.  Taken into account when comparing the ruin of the world and the goodness of God.  Taken into account when analyzing the church and my own desperate life.  This is astoundingly reassuring.
]]>Fri, 14 Aug 2009 12:58:47 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2009/08/why-i-am-doing-what-im-doing.htmlRecently, my efforts to make the world a comfortable little place have been thwarted. 
I hear a light chuckle in my heart as I stand with my hands upturned and a bit of a scowl on my face.  I am curious and certainly not in control.  I'm tired of scrabbling and sweating to make my ends meet.  So, I gave both ends to God and threw my tools in my little truck.  I've been working on a house for some friends of mine and realizing how much more I enjoy helping than selling. 
My theory is this:  If I bring what I've got and trust Jesus with the results, he will take care of me.  Something like, "do not worry about what you shall eat or wear for life is more than food and the body is more than clothing.  You can't add to your life by worrying so just live today.  Seek first the kingdom of God and all the rest will be given to you.  Invest in heavenly treasure..." (please excuse the paraphrase).  
Anyway, I better not worry about a fair exchange because of two things:  (1)If I got what I've earned, I'd be separated from God's goodness, dead, a grease spot with no hope.  (2) What he is offering for free is unimagineably better, not even comparable to what I can offer (post babel words do not suffice).  So, it's better for me to just jack into the Jesus matrix and be the part of the program he designed me to be. 
I love fixing things, especially broken ugly things.  That's probably a reflection.  I love figuring out problems with people who really yearn for solutions.  I love getting involved in the mess of people's lives and discovering their coolness.  Seriously makes me smile with contentment.  And I love to show young men how to do stuff, including the above mentioned.
Fortunately, I've got a full compliment of DeWalt tools and all the neat gadgets a recovering contractor would expect to have. 
All I can say is - it adds up to something that sounds like a crazy fun adventure with lots of great stories to tell afterwards.
]]>Fri, 07 Aug 2009 22:22:43 -0800http://www.darbyporch.com/2/post/2009/08/a-short-story-about-a-little-pink-house-and-my-great-grampa.htmlI believe Gramps knew it would be his last Christmas.  Though only a child and not privy to the details, the hidden evidences of his illness seemed to lurk in the corners.  Gramps loved me.  He was my Grandma Mimi’s second husband.  People considered him a little too tough, maybe even mean; but only with grown ups.  With my sister and me, he just loved us.  We knew, and everyone could tell.  That’s just how things were.  Mimi and Gramps were not really poor, but they watched every penny.  That year he let us pick whatever we wanted out of the Sears catalogue.

Mimi and Gramps lived in a little pink house on “U” Street in Vancouver, Washington.  The front yard was carefully kept with a small lawn and big Rhodies, but not stiff to make you stay on the sidewalk.  There was a one-car garage that smelled of old, dry wood.  The brown walls on the inside of the garage were comfortable to a workingman.  Bare studs, perfect for big galvanized nails you could hang things on.  Gas cans and an old push mower waiting their turn in the corner.  Just enough tools on the workbench to jerry rig broken things around the house.  Cobwebs in dusty windows hung way up high if you were nine.  Mimi kept a freezer in the garage.  As far as I knew, the only thing in it was vanilla ice cream.  There was also a big three wheeled bicycle with a basket on the back and a late sixties Buick Rebel.  The garage was mostly Gramps’ territory except for the freezer. 

In the basement, down the steep wood stairs, under the light of not enough uncovered bulbs was the laundry.  A big oil-burning furnace with a monstrous round tank on short legs sat next to the water heater in the corner.  Both of them made strange noises at you when you came down alone.  They also whispered undecipherable warnings in the middle of the night if you were awake.  I wasn’t really afraid of them, just wary.  Shelves and shelves of canned food lined the cool concrete walls.  The basement earned enough of Mimi’s attention to stay clean and tidy.  It was still the kind of place I didn’t want to go without leaving the door open and knowing that someone knew where I was. 

The back yard existed in two segments.  On the East side of the walkway towered a big apple tree and the grass.  On the West side the garden grew behind a short fence.  In the grass, Gramps and I fished with sticks and string in an old zinc washtub.  When I got tired of fishing, I swam in it.    Until then, we sat in the heat on aluminum-framed chairs with faded, rainbow colored, nylon webbing.  We drank root beer from real glass bottles that sat warming on an old red metal end table.  Gramps just smiled and gave me tips on the fish. 

The back porch provided sanctuary in the summer time.  He sat with me and cut apple slices with his bone-handled pocketknife.  One for me, one for him, one for me, one for him, back and forth until the apple was just a skinny core.  Then a short walk over to the garden compost heap hand in hand with the core stuck on the end of his knife.  We stood there looking at the garden, appraising its growth, just hanging out.  Then he flicked the core onto the compost pile.  It happened slowly, like a ritual.  Mainly we just stood together or sat together or walked around together.  My little hand filling his knarled, lined arthritic hand.  My hand untried, soft and weak; his scarred, calloused and work hardened.

Usually, Mimi brought us lunch on the back porch.  We ate on an old redwood picnic table with a blue and white flowered vinyl tablecloth.  The benches were hard to get into and they wobbled even when you sat still.  I never did.  She made tuna with pickles and onions and mustard, deviled eggs, coleslaw and a big, watery bowl of carrots, celery and radishes from the garden.  She always provided BBQ potato chips and more root beer.  Mimi missed the health food movement.  Or maybe she ignored it.  Her recipes were filled with butter, oil, gravy, sugar and salt.  The garden balanced everything though.  She served lots of vegetables. 

After lunch Gramps and I tended to the garden.  I used a kid’s sized hoe and he a big one.  I think mine was a regular one with half the handle cut off and filed down.  He carefully dug up the weeds and threw them in a rusty old wheelbarrow.  I followed behind whacking the ground with my stubby hoe.  He gave me directions and pointed out weeds he had “missed.”  Nothing ever died in his garden.  He knew exactly what every plant needed and when, from pickup loads of manure to marigolds for slug defense.  Everything produced.  He grew big, fat tomatoes, sweet yellow corn, crispy green beans, sour rhubarb, heavy orange pumpkins with prickly stems, lettuce, squash, peas and dozens of other vegetables.  Gramps’ garden supplied food for he and Mimi, all his grandkids and his neighbors.  Though not easily classified as a kind man, his devotion to the garden that blessed so many revealed a significant part of his character.

Gramps and I always ate vanilla ice cream and watched Portland wrestling after dinner.  He taught me how to mix it into a milk shake after it melted just a bit.  “Ruth, bring us some milk,” he would say.  In would come Mimi and pour just a little into each of our bowls.  Not a word spoken.  After the ice cream was gone, I would move from his lap to the floor and play with the dog, Boo.  Boo was a little black curly haired yipper.  The kind of dog my dad hated.  He could get up to 30mph it seemed like, chasing a little rubber squeaky bone, in about 12 feet.  If someone knocked on the screen door, he barked so hard and so fast I thought his head would pop off.  I never knew how he died.  Maybe his head did pop off.  Gramps loved the dog too.

When I got sleepy, Mimi would come get me from Gramps lap and take me to the spare bedroom.  The bed was hard as concrete and the comforter wasn’t comfortable.  The fat, resilient pillow bent my neck ninety degrees.  I tried to fall asleep quick so I didn’t have to interpret the mutterings of the furnace.  If Mandy was there too, we usually wrestled for ownership of the most blankets; though the gigantic bed could hold six more kids with room to spare.  Once asleep, morning came immediately. 

Breakfast at Mimi’s was my favorite meal.  I say Mimi’s because Gramps had a much smaller role in the kitchen than in the rest of the house.  Mimi was the boss.  I remember three things about breakfast with Mimi.  The big chrome toaster produced a limitless supply of English muffins at Mimi’s coaxing.  She let me have as much butter as I wanted.  A big glass pitcher full of fresh orange juice and fried eggs sunny side up with lots of pepper rounded out the meal.  This was another time where not much was said.  Mimi cooked and served; Gramps and I sat and ate.  It wasn’t a strained silence, “please pass the…” “Thank you Ruth” and “thank you Mimi” were heard easily.  We were just comfortable in our roles. 

That last Christmas season, Gramps wanted Mandy and I to pick our Christmas presents out of the Sears catalogue.  He told us in July, so we spent months agonizing over our choices.  Mom wanted us to pick from the lower priced items but Gramps politely requested that she let us have free reign of the catalogue.  Mom and Gramps had an understanding.

One time Gramps lost his temper and yelled at my mom.  She told him he wasn’t allowed to do that, piled us into the car and left.  We drove around for a while while mom cooled off. When we pulled back up to the curb, they were both waiting on the sidewalk looking worried.  They hurried up to the car apologizing.  Gramps promised never to yell at mom again.  He never did.

That year, mom drove the bus for our school in exchange for tuition.  Her route went right past Gramps and Mimi’s house.  So once a week or so, she dropped us off for the afternoon.  Gramps was not very active in the garden both because it was getting late in the year and because he was tired a lot.  We spent most of our time sitting in his lap mulling over the pages of the catalogue.  We talked about everything they offered.  He wanted to know why we wanted it and what we would use it for.  He never once told us that a choice was good or bad.  He just wanted to know what we thought.  Sometimes he fell asleep while we sat there.  Once all three of us did.  Mom came after it got dark and gathered us up to carry out to the car.  Mimi put a blanket on Gramps and he just kept sleeping.  As Christmas got closer, sometimes we sat on the edge of his bed and talked while we flipped the pages.  We finally decided sometime in early November.  Mom said we better hurry up or it wouldn’t get delivered in time.

Gramps wasn’t feeling very well that Christmas.  He didn’t talk much.  But he hugged us both when we gave him our homemade Popsicle stick presents.  He sat in his chair chuckling while we opened our presents.  I wonder why we were so excited when we knew what was under the wrapping paper?  We spent so much time choosing and discussing with Gramps.  The gifts were from him.  It was the grand finale.  He never went shopping, but he put an unmeasureable amount of time and love into those gifts.  Gramps loved us.

Several years ago, mom gave me a photo album containing a slightly faded picture from that Christmas.  Mandy and I are sitting on Gramps lap, one on each leg, facing each other but looking at the camera.  I’m wearing my new fleece lined jean jacket, sitting up straight with a big, goofy confidant grin.  Mandy is wearing her red and white ruffled party dress and a slight little smile with her curly, red haired head cocked shyly to one side, almost nuzzling Gramps.  Gramps has his arms around us and an easy expression of contentment on his craggy old face.  Gramps really loved us.]]>