Speaking of Which

My new book is out! Kesslyn Runs is the story of a fifteen -year-old girl who runs away from her abusive foster home and seeks shelter with a group of self-proclaimed monks, who then help her battle her former captors as they slowly begin to uncover the terrible secret of the foster care system that abused her.

It’s an adventure story that takes my characters across the scrubland of Eastern Washington, and the first of three planned in a series. It’s a good read, gripping, and I’ve been told it’s tough to put down.

So far, there are Kindle and Nook editions (and eventually an iTunes edition), both available for $2.99. There will a paperback edition available from Amazon for $9.99.

And this is the link to the Nook version, which should also be readable on the iOS and macOS iBooks app.

Now, what are any of you waiting for? Go out there and buy my book!

Not The Best Example

I have been reading Alban Butler’s Lives of the Saints (the Kindle edition), and today — May 4th — was the day for St. Monica, the Mother of St. Augustine.

Now, Monica was raised a Christian but betrothed and married to Patricius, a pagan. Butler is keen to note that her forbearance and submissiveness eventually prompted Patricius to convert, but in the interim, Monica had to deal with her husband’s temper, and Butler has this to say on the matter:

When she saw other wives bearing the marks of their husband’s anger on their disfigured faces, and heard them blaming their roughness of temper or debaucheries, she would answer them: “Lay the blame rather on yourselves and your tongues.” Her example alone was a sufficient proof; for, notwithstanding the passionate temper of her husband, it was never known that he ever struck her, or that they had ever, for so much as one day, entertained any domestic dissension; because she bore all his sallies with patience, and in silence, made no other return but that of a greater obsequiousness, and waited an opportunity to make him sensible of his mistake when that was necessary. And as many as followed her advice in this respect towards their husbands, rejoiced in the experience of the comfort and advantages which accrued to them from their patience and complaisance; while those that did not follow it, continued still in their vexations and sufferings.

I’m quick to say that the ancients — in this case, fourth century Monica and even 18th century Butler — knew more about being human than we do — but in this instance, I’m going to assert the superiority of recent modernity. This was the wrong advice 1,600 years ago, it was the wrong advice 250 years ago, and it is the wrong advice today.

“Jackrabbit, this is Big Boy…”

I don’t know why, but I have always found military training and propaganda films from the 1950s and early-to-mid 1960s soothing. It may be that it reminds me of another, simpler, better age (we know how it all ends, or doesn’t, as these missiliers prepare for the “first day of a nuclear war”), something related to my youth, which is far behind me.

When I was young — kindergarten and first grade — and my dad was stationed at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs, and then at the Naval Post-Graduate School in Monterey, he would get these McDonnell Douglas promotional calendars highlighting the company’s aerospace and defense products. Just big pictures, with a simple calendar, each something different — a rocket, a satellite, a radar dome (Mitsubishi produced something very similar promoting its regional jet this year) — and yet all McDonnell Douglas “products.”

I remember two years of those. I want to say 1971 and 1972. There might have been more.

Why was this a simpler time? I suppose times before can always seem like simpler times to those of us living in the chaotic and complex now. There was certainty in that world, a certainty that I don’t see or feel (and maybe that feeling is more important) in there world today. I doubt it was simpler, of course. People have always been and will always be people, and no one in any of these films has any idea what’s coming. Death was far more likely in Southeast Asia than it was in toe-to-toe nuke-u-lar combat with the Ruskies. After all, these were people who trained and prepared for nuclear war with an urgency and seriousness we no longer possess. (And not even when we panic about North Korea.) But in many ways, we don’t have to possess that seriousness anymore.

Their world has passed. And I can feel nostalgic for it because none of the worst things they prepared for came to pass.

Anyway, one of things I like about YouTube is that so many of these films are now there, free for the viewing. So, if you want to learn all there is to know about a retarded laydown delivery…

Devotional Life

There’s another reason I have not blogged of late.

My spiritual/religious life has taken something of an inward turn. Blogging requires that you have something to say, and a need to say, and while I’m certain there are probably some of you hanging on my every word (raise your hands… yeah, I didn’t think there were many of you), I’ve reached a point where I’m not hanging on my every word.

I have become much more focused in my devotional life.

I have a host of apps I use on my iPad for this. There’s iBreviary, an app packed with Catholic prayers and rites and readings and whatnot. And the Church of England has a couple of apps, Daily Prayer and Lectionary, which Jennifer and I subscribe to. And even the dear old Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, which has shown me the hairy back of its hand more than a few times, has a nice Small Catechism app more grounded in Martin Luther’s cranky language than the feel-good therapy of the liberal church.

So here’s what my day looks like. In the morning, I rise and say Luther’s morning prayer, and I follow that up with Anglican morning prayer, the CoE’s saint of the day if there is one (and/or the saint of the day from iBreviary), and then a reading of day’s saint from Alban Butler’s Lives of the Saints (the Kindle edition was stunningly cheap) and a chapter from the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church. And then I read the scripture readings for the day. This takes around an hour, after which I scan through the news and a few websites I’ve come to really appreciate. Then I cheerfully — as Martin Luther commanded — go to work, sometimes after reading Luther’s admonitions to husbands and employees.

And then around noon, I say iBreviary’s noon prayer, and follow that up with a chapter from St. Benedict’s Rule for Monasteries and then a chapter from St. Ambrose’s On The Duties of the Clergy and then either lunch or short nap or back to work.

At night, Jennifer and I say Anglican night prayer together, usually proceeded by the day’s gospel. I follow with another chapter from the Roman Catechism and St. Amrose, then my favorite act of contrition from iBreviary (“Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins!”), the Te Deum, Luther’s evening prayer, and then I go to sleep. Probably not as cheerfully as Martin Luther commanded, but sleep all the same.

It is wonderfully centering and calming, a reminder that the world is bigger than our current struggles. That saints wage all sorts of struggles and can be faithful in any number of ways. I honestly don’t have a lot to say right now, at least about God or scripture or politics. It is more important to me right now that I listen to the wisdom of prayer, of God, and of the ages — I am inclined to think the ancients knew more about being human than we do. I hope that’s okay. I will poke my head out of my burrow more often, specially once Kesslyn Runs is published.

But right now, it just soothes my soul and nourishes my spirit to simply listen.

An Update — Changes Are Happening

Greetings. It has been a month since I last blogged. A silent month. Which isn’t the best of things, especially since I promised I would blog more.

Bleh. It’s tough to keep promises.

But things are happening.

The first is, the novel I have been working since … I’m not exactly sure when I started … Kesslyn Runs is finished. And edited. And typeset. The Amazon Kindle and print versions are uploaded and ready to go. The Nook version is ready to go, all that’s pending is Barnes & Noble approving my tax information. The iBooks version is ready to upload as well, with Apple’s approval of my selling e-books there still pending.

Here’s what the back cover of Kesslyn Runs says about the book:

When fifteen-year-old Kesslyn decides to flee her abusive foster home, she seeks help from the only people she can trust — a group of self-proclaimed monks led by Jerome, a former pastor who has made it his life’s work to help foster kids.

But it proves difficult for Kesslyn to evade her former captors, who follow her as she runs from Spokane across the scrubland of Eastern Washington, putting Jerome and his monks — Javier, Tyler, and Bethany — at great risk as they begin to uncover the horrific truth about the system that abused her.

And here’s where the book came from.

Almost three years ago, I started getting some texts from some kids in the Pacific Northwest, all claiming to be foster kids in trouble. One, in particular, named Melina (I gave her the name “Bethany” in this blog) told me such a tale of woe and was such a compelling personality that I believed her. I even set up a ministry site, Pslam 10 Ministries, to do this work.

(I have not taken down the ministry site, but I’ve made it private and downloaded all the content.)

Well, it was all a lie. I had some doubts a few months in, but once I started getting information I could actually confirm — like the names of foster parents, because foster parent licenses are public records in Washington State — and whoever it was on the other end of the text messages started telling me weirder and more violent stories, and then disappeared completely, well, it was all over. That was about a year ago, though this person has texted me on and off since then, though significantly less so of late.

At any rate, the end of 2016 and early 2017 were tough times for me and my wife Jennifer — my reporting job doesn’t really pay enough for us to live off of, so I was constantly worried about money, my father died, and Jen and I were in a difficult place in our marriage (in part because of this dumb online ministry I did). It didn’t help the seeming collapse of the only meaningful thing I was doing in my life. It just didn’t.

But after a bit, I thought — she told me such a good story, a compelling story, I might as well make something out of it. So, slowly, Kesslyn Runs arose from it all. I tweaked a lot for the story, but it presumes that this online ministry I thought I was doing was actually real.

I am anticipating that Kesslyn Runs will be the first of three books in a series. I won’t say anything more than that right now.

LENT — Free to Despair

1 O LORD, God of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you.
2 Let my prayer come before you; incline your ear to my cry!
3 For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draws near to Sheol.
4 I am counted among those who go down to the pit; I am a man who has no strength,
5 like one set loose among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more, for they are cut off from your hand.
6 You have put me in the depths of the pit, in the regions dark and deep.
7 Your wrath lies heavy upon me, and you overwhelm me with all your waves. Selah
8 You have caused my companions to shun me; you have made me a horror to them. I am shut in so that I cannot escape;
9 my eye grows dim through sorrow. Every day I call upon you, O LORD; I spread out my hands to you.
10 Do you work wonders for the dead? Do the departed rise up to praise you? Selah
11 Is your steadfast love declared in the grave, or your faithfulness in Abaddon?
12 Are your wonders known in the darkness, or your righteousness in the land of forgetfulness?
13 But I, O LORD, cry to you; in the morning my prayer comes before you.
14 O LORD, why do you cast my soul away? Why do you hide your face from me?
15 Afflicted and close to death from my youth up, I suffer your terrors; I am helpless.
16 Your wrath has swept over me; your dreadful assaults destroy me.
17 They surround me like a flood all day long; they close in on me together.
18 You have caused my beloved and my friend to shun me; my companions have become darkness. (Psalm 88 ESV)

I came across this saying one of the daily offices the other day — Thursday I think. I don’t remember which one, Evening Prayer, maybe. I’ve been using the rubrics and readings for the daily offices from the St. Bede Breviary web site, part of my continued drift toward something resembling orthodox Anglicanism.

In fact, I do wish I had my own small chapel where I could do this with others. Pray the hours, and celebrate the eucharist. Assuming, of course, there are others here in Moses Lake who would do this. And I don’t think there are.


At any rate, this psalm. I like this psalm. I have underlined most of it in yellow in my Bible. It is one of pure, unleavened lament. There is little but sorrow and despair here.

And that says it is okay simply cry out, to lament, to despair. And to do all of those things without tacking on a happy ending or sense of hope.

A few things. In the Hebrew, the first line here is:

A song. A psalm of the Sons of Korah [קֹרַח]. To the choirmaster: according to the Mahalath of Leannoth. A maskil of Heman the Ezrahite.

The Sons of Korah have a number of psalms attributed to them, and it appears to be related to a verb קָרַח which means “to make bald” though it bears an interesting resemblance to קָרַה which means “to encounter or meet” with an emphasis on misfortune, and also to oppose.

I bring this up because Korah is that guy way back in Numbers 16 who challenges Moses for very democratic reasons — “You have gone too far!” he tells Moses. “For all in the congregation are holy, every one of them, and the Lord is among them! Why then fo you exalt yourselves above the assembly of the Lord?” — and is swallowed up live, along with his followers, into Sheol, the underworld, the land of the dead.

The Sons of Korah — the bald or, if you like, the unfortunate oppositional ones — know a few things about misfortune.

About being cast out from the presence of God.

There is, among many Christians, a sense that God wants, even demands, that we be happy and upbeat all the time. No despair. No sorrow. No lament. Everything is all resurrection, and no crucifixion. An empty tomb without anyone dead ever laid there in the first place.

Jesus comes into your life and changes it for the better! Always better! Always happy! Always on your way to health and wealth and your best self ever!

Anything else is doubt. Faithless, hollow, doubt.

But this is not true of scripture itself. Yes, we do know the end of the story — the tomb is empty, the dead are risen, there will be a new heaven and a new earth. But to get there … we must first suffer and die.

So it is okay to sit, and lament, and wonder — where is God? Why is God doing this to me?

In fact, if we take the psalms as Martin Luther did, the very prayers of Christ, then we are doing what our Lord did in his very humanity — wonder where God is, and why he is alone, abandoned, and why it seems he bears the wrath so unjustly, and so alone.

It is Christ, wondering, “My God, My God, why you have forsaken me?” A real cry of despair, of uncertainty and unknowing, if the humanity of Jesus means anything at all.

If our humanity means anything.

We are freed to despair. And while many such psalms end with a confession of trust and faith in the saving mercy of God, this one does not. Which means — we can despair like this too. We can faithfully cry out to God “You have abandoned me to destruction, cast my soul away, left me alone and unwanted, like a man alive among the dead.”

Full stop. End of statement. No “… but you are faithful” or “I will trust in the Lord.” just silence. Despair followed by a quiet nothing, an emptiness that seems to stretch to the very beginnings of the universe.

We are free to despair and lament because this is not unbelief. This is not a lack of faith. Or a lack of trust. It is an honest expression in a time of deep sorrow and trouble. I am alone. I am unwanted. I have been wounded and I will never heal or be whole again. I have been abandoned by God. We are free to do this.

Because … to cry out to God in sorrow, or despair, or even in rage, is an act of faith. An act of trust. That God will hear. And remember.

And know.

LENT — Fear and Loathing

15 And they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons. 16 And he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. 17 And he was teaching them and saying to them, “Is it not written, My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.” 18 And the chief priests and the scribes heard it and were seeking a way to destroy him, for they feared him, because all the crowd was astonished at his teaching. 19 And when evening came they went out of the city. (Mark 11:15-19 ESV)

For some reason, in my main Bible (the ESV I got before going to seminary more than decade ago), in the margin of this portion of Mark’s gospel, I have scrawled “Ezekiel 7,” which comes in the midst of several chapters in which promises horrific judgement upon Israel.

“Behold, the day! Behold, it comes! Your doom has come… (Ezekiel 7:10)

God promises violence — war, death, destruction, starvation, disease, disaster upon disaster. “All hands are feeble, all knees turn to hot water,” God promises.

There is some talk of buyers and sellers — “wrath is upon their multitude,” God says, and silver and gold are unable to deliver them. The land, the city, the temple will be defiled:

21 And I will give it into the hands of foreigners for prey, and to the wicked of the earth for spoil, and they shall profane it. 22 I will turn my face from them, and they shall profane my treasured place. Robbers shall enter and profane it. (Ezekiel 7:21-22 ESV)

This is, I think, why I connected these two. Robbers profaning in the temple is a sign of the judgment of God. Jesus isn’t cleansing the temple — he’s giving us a foreshadow of God’s coming judgment, the judgment that will see this temple pulled down, destroyed, no stone left standing upon another.

Ezekiel shows us more in Chapter 8, when we see idolatrous worship in the temple — priests worshipping the sun, worshiping idols in the dark, claiming “The Lord does not see us, the Lord has forsaken the land.”

And in Chapter 9, Ezekiel tells of a man clothed in linen with a writing case at his waist, and God commands this man to pass through the city, to mark those who “sign and groan over all the abominations” while five other men are commanded to go through the city and and kill, to show neither pity nor mercy, and to start at the temple.

And this is only the beginning.

Jesus isn’t cleansing the temple. He is judging it. He is a foreshadow of God’s coming judgment, the army that will arrive and besiege and destroy the city. And so many of those living in it.

God will redeem a remnant. That beautiful passage about removing the heart of stone and replacing it with a heart of flesh only comes after all this. We who await our redemption must remember — it only comes after a terrible time of judgment, of suffering, of death, and of exile.

All the while, those who benefit from the iniquity and injustice of the world, who have come to believe that God no longer sees, that God has truly abandoned the world, are afraid — afraid that judgment means an end to things. And it does.

But we are still afraid too. Our hearts beat, not quite flesh, but no longer stone. We eat our bread and drink our water in trembling and fear. We fear suffering and death, exile and powerlessness, the end of ways which have grown comfortable and profitable, that we will no longer be important or influential.

We fear. And we are right to be afraid. Terrible things are coming. We cannot stop it. We can only watch, powerless, while God does his horrible work.

LENT — Not For Ourselves

4 As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, 5 you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. 6 For it stands in Scripture:
“Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone, a cornerstone chosen and precious, and whoever believes in him will not be put to shame.”
7 So the honor is for you who believe, but for those who do not believe, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,”
8 and “A stone of stumbling, and a rock of offense.” They stumble because they disobey the word, as they were destined to do.
9 But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. 10 Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.

What do we use stones for?

Well, not much. Not anymore. Our technology is such we can cast concrete and quarry whole sheets and slabs of rock. We don’t use stones themselves to build much anymore.

But we did. Homes, and roads, and temples, and vast pyramids, built out of rocks, raw and shaped, set into place, one upon another.

A stone is not asked if it wants to be used. Or how. Or where. It is simply used, placed where it fits best or looks best or even just where it is needed.

We are living stones in an edifice we did not design, are not constructing, and will never really use. Not for ourselves, at any rate.

And this is a hard thing. We all want an obvious, clear, meaningful purpose for our lives. Our best lives now, lives that mean what they mean primarily to ourselves. Self-defined, self-actualized, self-realized. “My life has meaning and purpose to me!” We all want that. We want to know who we are and why we are. We are taught it is what freedom means, and it is the highest human calling, our most human purpose, to define, to choose, to create our our meaning and purpose and calling.

But it isn’t. Because we are mere stones. We are fashioned and shaped and used in ways we cannot consent to and might not even approve of were we asked. And we aren’t asked. Sometimes … we have to take on faith that our lives have value and meaning and purpose, because it’s not clear or obvious on the face of it that they do. At least not to ourselves.

We are stones. We are material from which a great temple, a wondrous house of worship is being built. Our lives have value. But not necessarily because we choose that value. Or even know what it is. Our lives have value because we belong to one who chose us, formed us, shaped us, picked us for tasks we haven’t chosen and gave us purpose and meaning we don’t create.

Our lives are not our own. We are free not because we are in charge but because we aren’t. We are free to be who we are called, formed, shaped, and loved. Free to become this great spiritual house, sing in this great choir of witnesses, free to proclaim that we are a people who have received a mercy we could never deserve.

LENT — Just Passing Through

1 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 2 For by it the people of old received their commendation. 3 By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible. …
13 These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. 14 For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. 15 If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. 16 But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.
17 By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac, and he who had received the promises was in the act of offering up his only son, 18 of whom it was said, “Through Isaac shall your offspring be named.” 19 He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead, from which, figuratively speaking, he did receive him back. (Hebrews 11:1-3, 13-19 ESV)

Abraham is that man who never received the things promised.

He heard, he listened, he trusted, and he believed. In things he would never live to see.

This is what faith is.

I don’t have a home. I am a sojourner through this world, at home nowhere, belonging to no one, no kin have I who will claim me, a stranger and an exile everywhere I go. Like Abraham, I wander, a promise in hand not for myself but for my descendants.

I want a home, and I shall never have one. My home is wherever I put up my tent, water and feed my stock, sleep and wake with Jennifer. I desire a better country, a tribe that will claim me, but I shall never have that and shall never live there. I have a promise of belonging but I shall never belong.

I believe. I trust God. I thought I might live to see the promise of God, to hold it in my hand, to live in it and breathe it and be it. But instead, it is far off, a shimmer on the horizon, more mirage than substance. It is real, but only because God has made that promise, and not because I actually have hold of it.

We who are church are too at home in the world. Too comfortable with place, too attached to a people, too convinced that the way we have come to live is the promise God has made to us and to all people for all time. There is something to be learned from those who wander, that we too grasp the promise of God, perhaps more fully, because we cannot easily mistake the way we live for the promise of God.

As church, we must remember the only promise we have that means anything is that we shall be raised from the dead. Yes, we shall be a blessing and have a homeland and descendants more numerous than the stars in the heavens, but every time we actually try to secure those promises for ourselves, we fail — we act rashly and unjustly, we confuse means and ends, and we think impermanent things are really the promises God made to us all along.

We are exiles, wanderers, just passing through. That is who we really are.

LENT — Laughter

1 The Lord visited Sarah as he had said, and the Lord did to Sarah as he had promised. 2 And Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son in his old age at the time of which God had spoken to him. 3 Abraham called the name of his son who was born to him, whom Sarah bore him, Isaac. 4 And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac when he was eight days old, as God had commanded him. 5 Abraham was a hundred years old when his son Isaac was born to him. 6 And Sarah said, “God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me.” 7 And she said, “Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children? Yet I have borne him a son in his old age.” (Genesis 21:1-7 ESV)

Laughter. Sarah says she and her husband will become objects of … well, what exactly? Ridicule? That such old people have a baby of their own, one they made in what appears to be the conventional way? (Though they had some help; this family appears to need lots of divine help to conceive children.) Amazement? Pity?

Sarah isn’t clear why people people will laugh over her. She’s just clear they will.

She names their son Isaac, Yitzhaq יִצְחָֽק, which means “he laughs.” Sarah laughed at this promise several chapters ago, when the three men who appear to be The Lord visit. She denied laughing at what is clearly the promise of God, but God — before setting out to Sodom to deal with its brutal and murderous hospitality — hears and upbraids her. “You did laugh.”

And in the passage that immediately follows. Hagar — who Sarah has no love for — laughs. The occasion of that laughter is the weaning of Isaac, and the great feast held on that day. Again, we aren’t told why Hagar laughed, only that she did. And this is the cause for Sarah to well and truly expel Hagar and her 14-year-old son into the wilderness.


We laugh for many reasons. Joy. Amusement. Amazement. Pity. Derision. We laugh with and at people. Sarah says everyone who knows will “laugh over her” (כָּל־הַשֹּׁמֵ֖עַ יִֽצְחַק־לִֽי). Not with her, but over her1. She sees herself as an object of pity and derision, of amazement and amusement, of the “what were they thinking?” kind of judgement.

This is what it means sometimes to receive and bear the promise of God. Derision, perplexed amusement, a condescending pity. To be laughed at, and not with. Whatever Hagar meant with her laughter, Sarah took it the worst way possible. Because she herself took it the worst way possible.

Sometimes we are bad bearers of the promise. Reluctant, doubting, past our ability to bear the Good News of God with any goodwill, magnanimity, or joy.

But we bear the promise anyway. Because that promise is not ours, it’s God’s. And while we may be recipients, we also convey that promise to others. Abraham will never realize all the promises made to him — descendants more numerous than grains of sand, a home for those very descendants, being a blessing to the nations (peoples) of the world. He received them, but they weren’t for him.

We receive them. But they aren’t for us. That’s the strange reality of this promise for God. We receive them, trust them, believe them, and carry them on for others. Because they aren’t for us, even as they are.

We are all the bearers of a promise from God that is much bigger than we are.

  1. Though to be fair, the JPS Tanakh translates this passage as “with me,” as does the Christian Standard Bible. And that has a very different implication than the ESV’s “laugh over me.” Still, Sarah’s laugh is dismissive and even a little derisive, and that suggests she thinks others will laugh that way too. ↩︎