If we do our best to practice the love Christ told us to, how do we do so without hurting others? Those whose unrighteous acts were driven by their misunderstanding of that same love, or a secular but still innocent good Samaritan desire to help their fellows, or by their believing they are motivated by the Holy Spirit? How do we stand up for what is right without hurting others careers, families, reputations, feelings, or sensibilities? How can we speak the truth (in love) when the truth we must speak is considered obscene, prejudiced, discriminatory or a lie by those who must hear it? When others are trying their best to do what is right but fall so far short as to do what is wrong should the righteous write a book about the situation necessarily revealing all the unrighteousness of the others?
Sometimes it seems the righteous path is a very narrow ledge along a cliff face with a bottomless void on the other side; a difficult walk at best.
Praise God for his love and promise.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday School
We decided last fall to study the general letters of the new testament. In a paroxysm of glibness, I suppose, the class wanted to pursue the study from the back forward so we started with Jude. We worked back to the pastorals, and now are finishing the letters to Timothy. It has been an interesting study. It seems the two primary themes that are hammered over and over and over in these letters are the admonition to personal holiness driven by love, and the caution to maintain the unadulterated truth of the gospel in the face of powerful efforts to add to it, revise it, or dilute it. Interestingly, it seems those letters are truly timeless and as valid today as they were when written.
We have decided to move on to the letters of Paul to the churches, and will be maintaining the bassakward approach we have started. It will be interesting, no doubt.
We have decided to move on to the letters of Paul to the churches, and will be maintaining the bassakward approach we have started. It will be interesting, no doubt.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Rare horticulture
In between showers yesterday I was out in the yard. The mushrooms have given way to other, more unusual fungi like devil's cigars and round golden brown things. More interesting still are the molds I found. On a stack of two year dry milled mesquite is growing a blue-green colored mold that has the consistency of the dust from a vacuum cleaner bag. It is growing on the light yellow outer wood of the mesquite predominately, but has spilled onto the red heartwood as well.
On remnants of an old elm stump a black, gray tipped spiky mold is growing very well. It has covered the stump and the visual effect from a few feet a way is very striking. I can't describe it. I suppose I should take a picture.
Interesting things that grow in this wet, cool environment. Keeping an eye out for the mango trees and monkeys.
On remnants of an old elm stump a black, gray tipped spiky mold is growing very well. It has covered the stump and the visual effect from a few feet a way is very striking. I can't describe it. I suppose I should take a picture.
Interesting things that grow in this wet, cool environment. Keeping an eye out for the mango trees and monkeys.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Fishing Delerium Tremens
The rain continues daily around here. Each morning I expect to see mango trees growing outside my window and monkeys swinging through them. Every day, sometimes morning sometimes afternoon, at least once a day there is a tropical downpour for half an hour to an hour. Some days it just winds up and rains all day. The weather radar is red and yellow and green all over, always a few thunderstorm cells travelling around looking for some place to dump a load of water. The creeks stay full. The little ones are lovely brooks and the larger ones become raging rivers within minutes of the start of the rain.
On the bright side, the lawn and gardens look like it is still May. On the dark side the grass needs cutting every fourth day, and the rain only allows it at its whim.
Needless to say getting out on the lake is impossible. Each time we try the radar suggests plenty of wind, lightening, and rain will join us.
The result - fishing withdrawal. Guess I will have to get into researching the history of weather around here. So far we have broken the record lows many days this summer, more to come.
On the bright side, the lawn and gardens look like it is still May. On the dark side the grass needs cutting every fourth day, and the rain only allows it at its whim.
Needless to say getting out on the lake is impossible. Each time we try the radar suggests plenty of wind, lightening, and rain will join us.
The result - fishing withdrawal. Guess I will have to get into researching the history of weather around here. So far we have broken the record lows many days this summer, more to come.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Boats
The photo at right is one taken by Tom Lovett on a fishing expedition in the late 1950's. I really like the way it shows the recreational boat and the commercial oiler. The scene of a diesel powered tug pushing a fuel barge up the intercoastal somewhere along the wilderness of South Padre Island, probably just south of the Port Mansfield cut, could be repeated today. The tug and barge today would look identical to the one in the picture. The recreational boat is a very different story. If that were to be seen in the same location today, the coast guard would likely be called to round up the obviously deranged individual who would take such an inadequate and inappropriate boat on such an outing.
Imagine taking that old v-hull (marine plywood) boat pushed by a 10 - 15 horse Johnson outboard up the Laguna Madre for several hours! Thank goodness for fiberglass, dargel/shallow sport, and hi-power outboards.
Imagine taking that old v-hull (marine plywood) boat pushed by a 10 - 15 horse Johnson outboard up the Laguna Madre for several hours! Thank goodness for fiberglass, dargel/shallow sport, and hi-power outboards.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Damfishing
When I returned to freshwater fishing this year one of the lessons my instructor (JP) taught me in his Friday evening classes was the use of soft plastic craw-worms on a rip-rap dam. The idea is that rip rap dams provide an ideal habitat for colonies of crawdads. Apparently they can exploit the small space and mud between the stones to successfully feed and reproduce at a rate that will support their population as well as a strong population of healthy bass. The crawdad is largely a nocturnal creature, and so was my instructors approach to fishing rip-rap dams.
As the sun was setting on our class JP prepared several of his rods with soft plastic crawdads rigged either Texas, Carolina, or unweighted while enthusiastically stating we were going to "fish the dam". Having never participated in such an activity, and JP preferring to model the correct practices rather than directing his pupil, I was not expecting the dam to present any drastic departure from bait or techniques that worked in the rest of the lake. So I left my favored white twirly tail grub jig on my ultralight rod and spinning reel. (I had also as yet not come to embrace the wacky worm as a suitable bait for any self-respecting angler.)
As had happened so often in this Friday evening school, I was shown a lesson by the maestro. As we drifted along the dam JP caught and released one big bass after another. Meanwhile, I lost jigs in the rocks. It was clear that I would have to learn to fish a soft plastic crawdad rigged with a bullet weight if I wanted to participate in the exercise of the dam. Before the next class, I had supplied my tackle tray with weights, 1/0 worm hooks, and some lovely blue-black Zoom crawdads.
Having given up fresh-water fishing since the early 1970's, and never been reservoir fishing for bass, I had never caught a fish on a weighted soft plastic bait. I was apprehensive about trying it and especially on my ultralight spinning tackle so I planned to fish a bait caster on a medium action rod. Next Friday after additional classes in wacky worm and as the sun set we again prepared for the dam. This time I was intent on emulating the the tools and techniques of my professor. All was in readiness as we began our drift. I watched, as best I could in the dark, JP's rod tip, when and how he cranked the reel handle. He had already instructed me that we would cast over each other's line as we drifted, and with three in the boat it required some delicate synchronicity to successfully pull that off in the dark. About my third cast of the blue-black crawdad it happened. The bass hit the bait with force like snagging a rock, and immediately began taking line, moving parallel to the dam away from the boat to my left. The rewarding sing of the drag renewed my joy. It was a nice 20 inch fish that was returned to the lake. I caught a few other bass along the dam that night, and under JP's tutelage have caught several others along rip rap dams since. Even the ultralight rig with 6# test has dragged a couple of those "footballs" into the boat on the crawdad at night.
There remains yet another predator of dam that I want to settle scores with. About half way down the dam every time we fish it something(s) strikes with vigor bump!-bump!-bump!! as we drift through the area. Our considered opinion is some perch have staked out that spot, and defend it from all comers. My guess is that being perch they lack the jaws to fully suck in the large hook and 4" crawdads we target the bass with. I am now ready to remedy that. I have found some nice 2" crawdads and have bent some small hooks into an offset eye to rig the little plastics with. It is my hope we will have some pictures of those dam perch after our next outing. I'll post 'em if so (and if it ever quits raining).
God bless you all.
As the sun was setting on our class JP prepared several of his rods with soft plastic crawdads rigged either Texas, Carolina, or unweighted while enthusiastically stating we were going to "fish the dam". Having never participated in such an activity, and JP preferring to model the correct practices rather than directing his pupil, I was not expecting the dam to present any drastic departure from bait or techniques that worked in the rest of the lake. So I left my favored white twirly tail grub jig on my ultralight rod and spinning reel. (I had also as yet not come to embrace the wacky worm as a suitable bait for any self-respecting angler.)
As had happened so often in this Friday evening school, I was shown a lesson by the maestro. As we drifted along the dam JP caught and released one big bass after another. Meanwhile, I lost jigs in the rocks. It was clear that I would have to learn to fish a soft plastic crawdad rigged with a bullet weight if I wanted to participate in the exercise of the dam. Before the next class, I had supplied my tackle tray with weights, 1/0 worm hooks, and some lovely blue-black Zoom crawdads.
Having given up fresh-water fishing since the early 1970's, and never been reservoir fishing for bass, I had never caught a fish on a weighted soft plastic bait. I was apprehensive about trying it and especially on my ultralight spinning tackle so I planned to fish a bait caster on a medium action rod. Next Friday after additional classes in wacky worm and as the sun set we again prepared for the dam. This time I was intent on emulating the the tools and techniques of my professor. All was in readiness as we began our drift. I watched, as best I could in the dark, JP's rod tip, when and how he cranked the reel handle. He had already instructed me that we would cast over each other's line as we drifted, and with three in the boat it required some delicate synchronicity to successfully pull that off in the dark. About my third cast of the blue-black crawdad it happened. The bass hit the bait with force like snagging a rock, and immediately began taking line, moving parallel to the dam away from the boat to my left. The rewarding sing of the drag renewed my joy. It was a nice 20 inch fish that was returned to the lake. I caught a few other bass along the dam that night, and under JP's tutelage have caught several others along rip rap dams since. Even the ultralight rig with 6# test has dragged a couple of those "footballs" into the boat on the crawdad at night.
There remains yet another predator of dam that I want to settle scores with. About half way down the dam every time we fish it something(s) strikes with vigor bump!-bump!-bump!! as we drift through the area. Our considered opinion is some perch have staked out that spot, and defend it from all comers. My guess is that being perch they lack the jaws to fully suck in the large hook and 4" crawdads we target the bass with. I am now ready to remedy that. I have found some nice 2" crawdads and have bent some small hooks into an offset eye to rig the little plastics with. It is my hope we will have some pictures of those dam perch after our next outing. I'll post 'em if so (and if it ever quits raining).
God bless you all.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Wesleyan Christianity
Thanks to Gavin at Hit the Back etc... quoting John Wesley and Locust & Honey's "An Outsider Perspective", what Wesleyan style Christianity looks like, can be easily understood. Gavin summarizes John Wesley's description of how a Methodist (the original name for this flavor of Christianity) feels about things. L&H found and links to a post at Act 3 "Whither Methodism" where John Armstrong accurately details how the group can continue to practice the Great Commission.
Remember that Wesley did not intend to start a new denomination, he sought personal holiness and the revolutionary renewal came about through him by the power of the Holy Spirit . That renewal was the return, by individuals not a group, to the real work Jesus Christ calls us to; the Great Commission. To do that work we must, individually, know Jesus and "keep our eyes on him". Renewal has been institutionalized in the discipline of the denomination.
A Wesleyan Christian is full of joyful hope, not married to a denomination or political/social/intellectual wing/position within it, but is saved from death by Jesus, and trying to share that gospel of salvation & redemption from sin to our siblings who do not know it (and if they are hungry/sick/poor/disturbed working to relieve that because we try to practice the love ((ethic)) of our Christ because of our salvation, not to achieve it. See GCP's "Ending the War Against the Poor").
We are not Wesleyan Christians when we are otherwise -
Yours in Christ.
Remember that Wesley did not intend to start a new denomination, he sought personal holiness and the revolutionary renewal came about through him by the power of the Holy Spirit . That renewal was the return, by individuals not a group, to the real work Jesus Christ calls us to; the Great Commission. To do that work we must, individually, know Jesus and "keep our eyes on him". Renewal has been institutionalized in the discipline of the denomination.
A Wesleyan Christian is full of joyful hope, not married to a denomination or political/social/intellectual wing/position within it, but is saved from death by Jesus, and trying to share that gospel of salvation & redemption from sin to our siblings who do not know it (and if they are hungry/sick/poor/disturbed working to relieve that because we try to practice the love ((ethic)) of our Christ because of our salvation, not to achieve it. See GCP's "Ending the War Against the Poor").
We are not Wesleyan Christians when we are otherwise -
Yours in Christ.
Western Days '07
Our community's summer festival is wrapping up today, starting with the big parade down main street. It is a real joy to see everyone out either taking in the parade or marching in it. It lasted about an hour this morning. There were alot of great floats and groups in it, but the Tennessee Walker pictured at right was really impressive, a beatiful horse that was taller than any other in the parade (and this being horse county there were many, even one draft horse).
The festival retains the fun and sense of small-town community it has had since I came here in '96, despite our proximity to the metropolitan area. A kid with a wagon can still get in and march if the notion takes them.
God's love for us is amazing, well beyond our ability to understand. I see it reflected in so many ways, and this little slice of his creation is yet another.
Yours in Christ.
The festival retains the fun and sense of small-town community it has had since I came here in '96, despite our proximity to the metropolitan area. A kid with a wagon can still get in and march if the notion takes them.
God's love for us is amazing, well beyond our ability to understand. I see it reflected in so many ways, and this little slice of his creation is yet another.
Yours in Christ.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Perryville Names - Questionable Texas History
Since coming here I have heard several different versions of why the city of Elgin is mispronounced with the hard g as in get rather than the j sound as English masters tell me it should be. The historical fact is the stage-stop community of Young's Settlement, which became Perryville with the arrival of a post office and was also known as Hogeye, moved two miles north to be on the Houston & Texas Central railroad line. From there the story becomes more diverse.
The first explanation I heard was that immigrant northern European settlers used the homeland's grammatical rules and the hard G sound, which habit was copied by the under-educated early settlers at this end of the blackland prairie.
The next story I heard was that when the railroad was being built through the area a large number of saloons were established in what became the city. When the Masons down at Hogeye decided economic sense required they move to the railroad, they sought a new name for the town. They asked a well loved and respected train conductor named Elgin about naming it after him. He agreed, but only if the hard G was used. The alleged basis for his insistence was that he was a strict teetotaler and did not want any association with Gin. Since the line was not finished to Austin until 1871 and Pullman service on the line did not start until 1872 this is a pretty doubtful story, but sort of fun. The associated story is that by the turn of the century the town was so burdened with saloons and gambling that it was commonly called "Hellgin" (same hard g) by the railroad employees.
The latest tale was announced in a community event last evening and is apparently endorsed by the chamber of commerce. In this version the commissioner of the Houston & Texas Central line was a fellow named Elgin and he gave his blessing to using the family name for the relocated community. There was no explanation why his family name was pronounced with the hard g.
I suppose I'll have to break down and go over to the historical society to do some research.
The first explanation I heard was that immigrant northern European settlers used the homeland's grammatical rules and the hard G sound, which habit was copied by the under-educated early settlers at this end of the blackland prairie.
The next story I heard was that when the railroad was being built through the area a large number of saloons were established in what became the city. When the Masons down at Hogeye decided economic sense required they move to the railroad, they sought a new name for the town. They asked a well loved and respected train conductor named Elgin about naming it after him. He agreed, but only if the hard G was used. The alleged basis for his insistence was that he was a strict teetotaler and did not want any association with Gin. Since the line was not finished to Austin until 1871 and Pullman service on the line did not start until 1872 this is a pretty doubtful story, but sort of fun. The associated story is that by the turn of the century the town was so burdened with saloons and gambling that it was commonly called "Hellgin" (same hard g) by the railroad employees.
The latest tale was announced in a community event last evening and is apparently endorsed by the chamber of commerce. In this version the commissioner of the Houston & Texas Central line was a fellow named Elgin and he gave his blessing to using the family name for the relocated community. There was no explanation why his family name was pronounced with the hard g.
I suppose I'll have to break down and go over to the historical society to do some research.
Overcome
Rain is falling hard, a dark, loud thunderstorm is rolling over. A good time to catch up.
At Locust and Honey yesterday there was a story about an episcopal priest of 20+ years who has decided that she is also a Muslim. She believes she can remain a Christian pastor while also claiming to be a practicing, believing follower of Mohamed. (Read "Taking Interfaith Relations Way Too Far" here) This kind of theological position from an ordained Christian leader seems to surprise those who read and comment at L&H, I am not sure why. It seems to me that the current theology of some, if not many of the mainstream pastors I have encountered in the last 20 years reflects similar beliefs.
The way these folks think is rather agnostic in that they believe that God cannot be fully known in this life. They seem to believe that all the various spiritual activities recorded by humanity are efforts by God to commune with humanity. This notion is consistent with the idea I have often heard from preachers that God reveals himself to humans at the level we are able to understand him, exemplified in the nation of Israel's Old Testament history. It is not a far step from that sort of thinking to believing that any sort of spirituality, whether revelatory or not, is as valid as any other. It is thinking that each such spiritual system is an attempt by God to commune with the various isolated cultures around the globe, and "meeting them where they are". That is certainly supported by the teaching that the creation story and other supernatural events recorded in religious history are myths or Jungian archetypes humanity has used to interpret otherwise difficult life events. It is a rather appealing way of maintaining a sense of intellectualism and avoiding any responsibility to any one religious teaching over another. It also allows those pastors to believe that new revelations are coming from God as we are increasingly evolving in our ability to understand what they call god. From that sort of thinking; sin is not what it once was, if it ever really was at all, Jesus was Christ only sort of in that we needed that gospel lesson to move us down the road in understanding of God and his love, and any sort of belief about God is as valid as another. There are reasons to be skeptical of preachers, and measure their words and against the Bible.
At Locust and Honey yesterday there was a story about an episcopal priest of 20+ years who has decided that she is also a Muslim. She believes she can remain a Christian pastor while also claiming to be a practicing, believing follower of Mohamed. (Read "Taking Interfaith Relations Way Too Far" here) This kind of theological position from an ordained Christian leader seems to surprise those who read and comment at L&H, I am not sure why. It seems to me that the current theology of some, if not many of the mainstream pastors I have encountered in the last 20 years reflects similar beliefs.
The way these folks think is rather agnostic in that they believe that God cannot be fully known in this life. They seem to believe that all the various spiritual activities recorded by humanity are efforts by God to commune with humanity. This notion is consistent with the idea I have often heard from preachers that God reveals himself to humans at the level we are able to understand him, exemplified in the nation of Israel's Old Testament history. It is not a far step from that sort of thinking to believing that any sort of spirituality, whether revelatory or not, is as valid as any other. It is thinking that each such spiritual system is an attempt by God to commune with the various isolated cultures around the globe, and "meeting them where they are". That is certainly supported by the teaching that the creation story and other supernatural events recorded in religious history are myths or Jungian archetypes humanity has used to interpret otherwise difficult life events. It is a rather appealing way of maintaining a sense of intellectualism and avoiding any responsibility to any one religious teaching over another. It also allows those pastors to believe that new revelations are coming from God as we are increasingly evolving in our ability to understand what they call god. From that sort of thinking; sin is not what it once was, if it ever really was at all, Jesus was Christ only sort of in that we needed that gospel lesson to move us down the road in understanding of God and his love, and any sort of belief about God is as valid as another. There are reasons to be skeptical of preachers, and measure their words and against the Bible.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
A couple of pretty great posts from Christian bloggers
Check out 21st Century Reformation, "Meekness. . ." here. By Jove, I think he's got it!
Then, Reverend Phelps continues her excellent work in culling the news for those issues critical to our society and therefore our politics and our church with the post on Ms. Clinton here. I really appreciate her and the loving way she uses her very powerful intellect. If you want to know what Christian love is read GCP.
All; have a great rest of the weekend. Go to church! God Bless You!
Yours in Christ
rw
Then, Reverend Phelps continues her excellent work in culling the news for those issues critical to our society and therefore our politics and our church with the post on Ms. Clinton here. I really appreciate her and the loving way she uses her very powerful intellect. If you want to know what Christian love is read GCP.
All; have a great rest of the weekend. Go to church! God Bless You!
Yours in Christ
rw
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Fishing with Stingrays
I rose early, well before daylight, so I could be at the drop off just at sunrise. The tide & solunar tables suggested that would be the optimum time that day in 1988. It was a calm May morning on Corpus Christi bay as I drove over Kennedy causeway on my way to highway 361 and the backside of Mustang island. I was going to fish one of my favorite wading spots "dead man's hole", a large cove-like area of skinny water over a firm sandy bottom with occasional potholes and lots of grassy spots. In my experience the area was well populated with keeper size trout, big reds, and flounder. I also knew how well the stingarees liked that sandy bottom and was an inveterate shuffler, fishing only in shorts and sneakers.
It was still dark when I arrived at the end of the sandy trail in my Chevy truck. In the peace of that early morning I readied my bait casting rig, made sure I had my stringer and began the quarter-mile or so wade out to my favorite spot to stand and cast soft plastic lures into the belly deep water. On my way the pink-orange light of dawn cracked the horizon to my right as I shuffled noisily through the black, opaque water. By the time I got to my spot and made my first cast the sun had appeared over the island and begun to reveal the beauty God has made for us, in the bay named to remind us of his sacrifice. The mildly cool water was still dark and there was not yet sufficient light to see the bottom. I continued casting with no more success than an occasional bump-bump-bump from little or hesitant fish.
As the sun lept up from the island the light penetrated farther and farther into the clear green water. With each small increase in light I studied the water around me for indications that might help put me on fish. First, only the top foot or so was visible and I could see the water was clear with occasional bits of broken grass floating through it. Then, with only another foot or so visible the light gave way to darkness and for all my eyes told me the water looked the same as that in the middle of a deep lake. If not for my feet planted firmly on the sandy bottom my senses suggested a limitless deep. It was wonderful to be out so early on such a beautiful morning. The minor strain on the insteps of my feet from standing in sand covered with moving water began to send its annoying message so I wiggled and stamped my feet to reposition them and gain a bit more support.
I surveyed the watery horizon, where from my vantage point all I could see was water to the southwest through the northeast, the sun continued its reliable climb to my right and slightly behind me. Small, brilliantly white clouds developed low in the sky and the occasional shore bird flew by in search of breakfast I supposed. Finally, the light was sufficient for me to do a good survey of the bottom around me for grass, or blue crabs, or any indications of whether I should seek a more productive spot to stand and cast. As I gazed on the bottom I began to make out the subtle variations, rises and falls, in the sand; interrupted by only the tiniest stands of short sea grass. Closely examining that sand I first made our one pair of small gold and black eyes, then another near by, then others, then dozens of others, then as far as I could see surrounding me in the clear bay waters the gold and black eyes of a large school of stingrays, all about ten to twelve inches across and all buried in the sand up to their eyes.
After the initial wave of adrenalin charged panic washed through me, and I overcame the instinctive biological demand that I jump straight up and run away, I could hear the voice of reason firmly warning me to stay calm and not move in any way that could upset the rays. As seconds grew into minutes I gradually regained my composure and the capacity to use my limited reasoning abilities. With that I realized that in the dark I had either waded into their bedroom, or they had come and went to bed around me. That meant that I had been so successful with my shuffle and foot-strain relief movements that I had not incited a strike. Alone there a quarter mile from shore on the back side of the island in about four feet of water on a rising tide, a strike could have had devastating consequences. The only cell phone available in those days came in a big bag and only a very few had them. I did not have a VHF radio and was not aware of any that would hold a charge for more than an hour or so, or small and waterproof enough to carry in a fishing shirt pocket.
As I stood there and considered my position I decided the best thing to do was to keep fishing. The spot was a good one based on my experience, and I had been safe there for more than 30 to 40 minutes. If I was lucky the rays would move on with the rising tide and I could shuffle away safely. If I was not, when it got to be time to leave I had the assurance that I had existed with them and perhaps successfully shuffled into them earlier so I would have a good chance of getting out without a strike. Over the next hour or so I fished and watched the stingray school. From time to time reflecting light would make the bottom invisible for a little while. When I could see it I saw an occasional ray shake out of the sand and swim away, or another one come settle in with the school. I picked up a good sized flounder, about 18 inches, so I had something to keep my mind off the rays.
As the morning wore along I thought less and less about them and more about the fish I might catch. As the sun moved higher overhead and the clouds grew larger and gray-bottomed the reflection more and more made the water hard to see through. When it came time that I had to move back to shore my attention returned to the rays. I began taking advantage of every time the bottom was visible to scour for signs of them, hoping to find small gaps that would give me a path out. Much to my relief, with each opportunity to look I saw no rays, no eyes, no sign of the school only the smooth sandy bottom and an occasional blue crab moving along it. Once convinced the area was clear of rays I began a very careful and deliberate shuffle to the shoreline. Words cannot express the relief I felt as I moved into the shallow waters and could clearly make out everything on the bottom.
There are so many amazing, terrifying, and wonderful things about the bays, gulfs, prairies, mountains, deserts and the creatures that populate them. Wondering about our place in this world and how all those before us successfully navigated through creation, and how I had that morning, still keeps me occupied.
It was still dark when I arrived at the end of the sandy trail in my Chevy truck. In the peace of that early morning I readied my bait casting rig, made sure I had my stringer and began the quarter-mile or so wade out to my favorite spot to stand and cast soft plastic lures into the belly deep water. On my way the pink-orange light of dawn cracked the horizon to my right as I shuffled noisily through the black, opaque water. By the time I got to my spot and made my first cast the sun had appeared over the island and begun to reveal the beauty God has made for us, in the bay named to remind us of his sacrifice. The mildly cool water was still dark and there was not yet sufficient light to see the bottom. I continued casting with no more success than an occasional bump-bump-bump from little or hesitant fish.
As the sun lept up from the island the light penetrated farther and farther into the clear green water. With each small increase in light I studied the water around me for indications that might help put me on fish. First, only the top foot or so was visible and I could see the water was clear with occasional bits of broken grass floating through it. Then, with only another foot or so visible the light gave way to darkness and for all my eyes told me the water looked the same as that in the middle of a deep lake. If not for my feet planted firmly on the sandy bottom my senses suggested a limitless deep. It was wonderful to be out so early on such a beautiful morning. The minor strain on the insteps of my feet from standing in sand covered with moving water began to send its annoying message so I wiggled and stamped my feet to reposition them and gain a bit more support.
I surveyed the watery horizon, where from my vantage point all I could see was water to the southwest through the northeast, the sun continued its reliable climb to my right and slightly behind me. Small, brilliantly white clouds developed low in the sky and the occasional shore bird flew by in search of breakfast I supposed. Finally, the light was sufficient for me to do a good survey of the bottom around me for grass, or blue crabs, or any indications of whether I should seek a more productive spot to stand and cast. As I gazed on the bottom I began to make out the subtle variations, rises and falls, in the sand; interrupted by only the tiniest stands of short sea grass. Closely examining that sand I first made our one pair of small gold and black eyes, then another near by, then others, then dozens of others, then as far as I could see surrounding me in the clear bay waters the gold and black eyes of a large school of stingrays, all about ten to twelve inches across and all buried in the sand up to their eyes.
After the initial wave of adrenalin charged panic washed through me, and I overcame the instinctive biological demand that I jump straight up and run away, I could hear the voice of reason firmly warning me to stay calm and not move in any way that could upset the rays. As seconds grew into minutes I gradually regained my composure and the capacity to use my limited reasoning abilities. With that I realized that in the dark I had either waded into their bedroom, or they had come and went to bed around me. That meant that I had been so successful with my shuffle and foot-strain relief movements that I had not incited a strike. Alone there a quarter mile from shore on the back side of the island in about four feet of water on a rising tide, a strike could have had devastating consequences. The only cell phone available in those days came in a big bag and only a very few had them. I did not have a VHF radio and was not aware of any that would hold a charge for more than an hour or so, or small and waterproof enough to carry in a fishing shirt pocket.
As I stood there and considered my position I decided the best thing to do was to keep fishing. The spot was a good one based on my experience, and I had been safe there for more than 30 to 40 minutes. If I was lucky the rays would move on with the rising tide and I could shuffle away safely. If I was not, when it got to be time to leave I had the assurance that I had existed with them and perhaps successfully shuffled into them earlier so I would have a good chance of getting out without a strike. Over the next hour or so I fished and watched the stingray school. From time to time reflecting light would make the bottom invisible for a little while. When I could see it I saw an occasional ray shake out of the sand and swim away, or another one come settle in with the school. I picked up a good sized flounder, about 18 inches, so I had something to keep my mind off the rays.
As the morning wore along I thought less and less about them and more about the fish I might catch. As the sun moved higher overhead and the clouds grew larger and gray-bottomed the reflection more and more made the water hard to see through. When it came time that I had to move back to shore my attention returned to the rays. I began taking advantage of every time the bottom was visible to scour for signs of them, hoping to find small gaps that would give me a path out. Much to my relief, with each opportunity to look I saw no rays, no eyes, no sign of the school only the smooth sandy bottom and an occasional blue crab moving along it. Once convinced the area was clear of rays I began a very careful and deliberate shuffle to the shoreline. Words cannot express the relief I felt as I moved into the shallow waters and could clearly make out everything on the bottom.
There are so many amazing, terrifying, and wonderful things about the bays, gulfs, prairies, mountains, deserts and the creatures that populate them. Wondering about our place in this world and how all those before us successfully navigated through creation, and how I had that morning, still keeps me occupied.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Long Day
It has been an interesting day. I tested for a little job and lo and behold the test was on a spreadsheet I had created back in 1994 or 95. I don't know whether that demonstrates what good work I do or how stuck and changeless that work group is. . . . After I got over that I had to take defensive driving for dismissal of a ticket - I am jammed to get the certificate in so I had to do it online. With my slow connection it took more than eight hours. At least it is done. Now I want to figure out that picasaweb photo application. . . .
No rain today, so likely dead bees tomorrow, much to my regret.
God bless all
No rain today, so likely dead bees tomorrow, much to my regret.
God bless all
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Rain and Bees
What a spring, I have had several inches of rain here since Sunday night. This after the wettest spring even old-timers can recall. It is wonderful and the temps are staying down as well, but it is getting in the way of something that has to be done; bee removal.
For ten years a hive of honeybees has lived in our pavilion down by the pond. Until three weeks ago they have been docile and we have enjoyed their company. It was kind of nice to see swarms move out, to have them in the flowers and know they are fulfilling Gods purpose. Three weeks ago something happened. Either a new hive moved in and took over or they decided they had been not treated with sufficient respect. I went outside one day and heard buzzing so loud it could be mistaken for a helicopter, bees were dripping out of the hive entrance by the thousands. More thousands were flying around the entrance with great speed. After a while that activity seemed to settle down, although the numbers flying around remained high. I noticed also that several bees were in the pavilion and seemed to be on guard duty. If I remained to long one would come along and sting me. The next two days one person in the family was stung a day, by one bee. A lawn party was moved 30 feet from the hive, and still guard bees came and harassed the guests.
For years I have tried to get a keeper or someone to come and take the hive, to no avail. I have talked to, literally, five dozen people about it and no one would mess with them - and that was when they were nice. So, with the new aggression which keeps us out of a big part of the yard and threatens the young children that come down by the pond from across the way regularly, I feel compelled to kill the hive. It is not what I would prefer to do, but I see no other option. When the rains stop for a day or two the process of eliminating the bees will begin. If there is any other option, I would like to know it.
Regarding yesterday's post, there is lots of interesting commentary and news going on around the Internet, check out these: http://confessingumc.org/v2/, http://www.ird-renew.org/site/pp.asp?c=fvKVLfMVIsG&b=278604
For ten years a hive of honeybees has lived in our pavilion down by the pond. Until three weeks ago they have been docile and we have enjoyed their company. It was kind of nice to see swarms move out, to have them in the flowers and know they are fulfilling Gods purpose. Three weeks ago something happened. Either a new hive moved in and took over or they decided they had been not treated with sufficient respect. I went outside one day and heard buzzing so loud it could be mistaken for a helicopter, bees were dripping out of the hive entrance by the thousands. More thousands were flying around the entrance with great speed. After a while that activity seemed to settle down, although the numbers flying around remained high. I noticed also that several bees were in the pavilion and seemed to be on guard duty. If I remained to long one would come along and sting me. The next two days one person in the family was stung a day, by one bee. A lawn party was moved 30 feet from the hive, and still guard bees came and harassed the guests.
For years I have tried to get a keeper or someone to come and take the hive, to no avail. I have talked to, literally, five dozen people about it and no one would mess with them - and that was when they were nice. So, with the new aggression which keeps us out of a big part of the yard and threatens the young children that come down by the pond from across the way regularly, I feel compelled to kill the hive. It is not what I would prefer to do, but I see no other option. When the rains stop for a day or two the process of eliminating the bees will begin. If there is any other option, I would like to know it.
Regarding yesterday's post, there is lots of interesting commentary and news going on around the Internet, check out these: http://confessingumc.org/v2/, http://www.ird-renew.org/site/pp.asp?c=fvKVLfMVIsG&b=278604
Monday, June 4, 2007
What was the Great Commission Anyway?
Gerry Charlotte Phelps laments the postmodern United States Methodist bishop's efforts to prevent the more orthodox Southern church having equal voting power at General Conference here. Meanwhile, Ben Whitherington takes a cheap shot at literals, just after praising Billy Graham's work to spread the gospel here. At the same time the seminary students, future pastors, young pastors and bloggers of the Methodist stripe discuss just about everything but making disciples of Christ.
What about the gospel message Billy Graham carried? Is that preached anywhere in the Wesleyan church today? The old Monroe brothers song asks "Will He wait a little longer, there's so many out in sin? Will He wait a little longer, give us time to gather in?" What do the Wesleyan churches say about that issue these days? Seems to me they are saying "when it is convenient and safe we will give those less fortunate the help we think they need and if they happen to stumble across saving grace, well and good, as long as they join a bible church and don't stay around to rock our boat by trying to share that grace directly".
The denomination that claims Wesley as its founder has, as far as I can tell, given up his evangelical mission. Pastors believe the commitments made to Christ at places like Billy Graham crusades cannot even possibly be true. "Evangelical" means to many of them some kind of secular conservative, probably Calvinist person, who is closed-minded and judgemental, likely a literalist. Yet those same folks who view "evangelicals" that way, who also claim to be open in every way, will not tolerate for even a moment the possibility of dissent in their leadership or congregations (denying the Southern church equal votes for example). I am afraid there are few left in the United Methodist church that I know who are truly committed to fulfilling the commission, of openly sharing the gospel of salvation by Christ Jesus. If there are, they are awfully quiet about it. What will the UMC answer when asked about "gathering in"? (or am I just a misguided troglodyte for still believing in Christ's return, heaven, hell and sin?).
What about the gospel message Billy Graham carried? Is that preached anywhere in the Wesleyan church today? The old Monroe brothers song asks "Will He wait a little longer, there's so many out in sin? Will He wait a little longer, give us time to gather in?" What do the Wesleyan churches say about that issue these days? Seems to me they are saying "when it is convenient and safe we will give those less fortunate the help we think they need and if they happen to stumble across saving grace, well and good, as long as they join a bible church and don't stay around to rock our boat by trying to share that grace directly".
The denomination that claims Wesley as its founder has, as far as I can tell, given up his evangelical mission. Pastors believe the commitments made to Christ at places like Billy Graham crusades cannot even possibly be true. "Evangelical" means to many of them some kind of secular conservative, probably Calvinist person, who is closed-minded and judgemental, likely a literalist. Yet those same folks who view "evangelicals" that way, who also claim to be open in every way, will not tolerate for even a moment the possibility of dissent in their leadership or congregations (denying the Southern church equal votes for example). I am afraid there are few left in the United Methodist church that I know who are truly committed to fulfilling the commission, of openly sharing the gospel of salvation by Christ Jesus. If there are, they are awfully quiet about it. What will the UMC answer when asked about "gathering in"? (or am I just a misguided troglodyte for still believing in Christ's return, heaven, hell and sin?).
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Friday Night Fishing
Went out yesterday evening, fishing under that big "blue" moon and had a good outing. We caught and released a number of really good sized fish. Wore out some more line, and reinforced the importance of the Wacky Worm rig to the discipline. 
Surprisingly, the big ol' fish were up in creeks along the bank, just as if they were spawning again. This spring has really been something around here. I can't recall one so cool and wet. Everything is really beautiful. It was a real blessing to be outdoors yesterday evening, feeling the cool breeze and catching fish like it was still April. God is good all the time.
I tried to get some of the pictures into this post, but no soap. I will have to work on that. The whole slide show is at http://adventurewriting.spaces.live.com/
That little brown dog is something.
Surprisingly, the big ol' fish were up in creeks along the bank, just as if they were spawning again. This spring has really been something around here. I can't recall one so cool and wet. Everything is really beautiful. It was a real blessing to be outdoors yesterday evening, feeling the cool breeze and catching fish like it was still April. God is good all the time.
I tried to get some of the pictures into this post, but no soap. I will have to work on that. The whole slide show is at http://adventurewriting.spaces.live.com/
That little brown dog is something.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Driving a Few Miles in Texas
This week, for a number of good reasons, I was involved in driving from near Perryville to the tip 'o Texas at Port Isabel/Padre Island, from there to Dallas, from there to Lubbock, and back home via Dallas. That was accomplished in three days, and covered some 1,778 miles. The route I use south from home travels through the heart of some of the best ranch land in the state and the cities most associated with the war for independence from Mexico in 1836. Bastrop, Gonzalez, Goliad, San Patricio were all important centers for the revolution, and cites of important events in Texas History. That route also covers some famous indian fight locations, notably the battle of Plum Creek.
The route I chose from Lubbock was slightly out of the way, I dropped down to Lamesa to show my companion the city and then took Texas 180 east from there. That road is a county seat tour that demonstrates the very geometric layout of those counties. I think they were all established about the same time in a big effort to organize the political subdivisions of that vast area. It is was a beautiful route through interesting counties some with last names of early Texas heroes for the county and their first name for the county seat. For instance the county seat of Borden county is Gail honoring Gail Borden, and the seat of Jones county is Anson for Anson Jones. In addition, some of the courthouses along this route are among the more attractive in the state (not to knock some of those on the route south mentioned above). Here are a couple of notable ones along that route:
the Shackleford County Courthouse in Albany
& the Parker County Courthouse in Weatherford
The drive through North Central Texas was beautiful as the wildflowers are still in full bloom up that way. Down here and on South they have fairly well played out.
The trip was long and fast, but a nice getaway. The recovery of my sleep cycle is, however, taking longer than I expected.
The route I chose from Lubbock was slightly out of the way, I dropped down to Lamesa to show my companion the city and then took Texas 180 east from there. That road is a county seat tour that demonstrates the very geometric layout of those counties. I think they were all established about the same time in a big effort to organize the political subdivisions of that vast area. It is was a beautiful route through interesting counties some with last names of early Texas heroes for the county and their first name for the county seat. For instance the county seat of Borden county is Gail honoring Gail Borden, and the seat of Jones county is Anson for Anson Jones. In addition, some of the courthouses along this route are among the more attractive in the state (not to knock some of those on the route south mentioned above). Here are a couple of notable ones along that route:
the Shackleford County Courthouse in Albany
& the Parker County Courthouse in Weatherford
The drive through North Central Texas was beautiful as the wildflowers are still in full bloom up that way. Down here and on South they have fairly well played out.
The trip was long and fast, but a nice getaway. The recovery of my sleep cycle is, however, taking longer than I expected.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Fishing With Blacktips
For all of my life I have loved being outdoors - the wilder, the better. Living in the Chihuahan desert of West Texas (the Permian basin; even more barren than most of that great desert) as a child I spent hours roaming, capturing lizards, insects, examining rocks, and appreciating the beauty of creation as the sun moved across the sky. That love has never changed, although now I spend almost all my time either inside a building or inside a vehicle to get my daily bread.
One late spring afternoon in 1985 I played hooky from the office and headed down Padre Island, driving about 15 miles south on the Malaquite National Seashore. In those days the park was new and true wilderness. There was no entry gate or fee and the odds of seeing a park ranger were nil. You were more likely to encounter a state game warden and those odds were a million to one on a weekday afternoon. Other than another fisherman driving by every couple of hours or so, or an oil well service beach buggy every twelve, the only things joining you there on that isolated shoreline were seagulls, and pelicans.
The afternoon was perfect. The sand was wet and firm 20 yards up from the surf line making for fine driving, less chance of getting stuck. The sky was clear except for a few cumulus clouds rising out over the gulf horizon. The southeasterly breeze made the heat and humidity bearable. Out in the surf waves broke gently over four or five sand bars, rising only two or three feet. When a wave lifted, in the moment before it gently broke, the life of the sea could be seen back lit by the sun through the clear water. Whiting, mullet, and all sorts of bait fish in schools the size of canoes swam through the surf, occasionally leaping free of the water to sail across the face of the wave. Into this great gift of the Creator I waded, with my prized Fenwick rod and trusty Ambassadeur reel.
As the afternoon turned to evening I had a good stringer of fish. It was tied off with a twenty foot cord to my rod holder, a five and a half foot length of three inch schedule 40 driven into the sand at the waterline. I could never get comfortable with the stringer tied to my belt, as most wade fisherman do it. I had heard too many stories of guys much bigger than me being pulled under the waves by sharks hitting their catch, or waders whose calf was torn open by a shark looking for a new taste sensation. I even lacked the nerve to bring a bait bucket out with me, feeling that it was too similar to chumming, just asking for unwanted attention. Having waded & swam out to the third bar across a five to eight foot gut, I stood in chest deep water admiring all that I could see.
The view from my spot was wonderful, the sun was settling down a few inches over the horizon. I watched a coyote who had snuck down from the dunes fifty yards down the beach, snacking on carrion washed up on the shore. In the surf out over the next bar I had occasionally seen game fish, and for the last half hour had watched a pair of three to four foot black tip sharks moving up and down the beach chasing the bait fish. With a stringer of nice fish for the kitchen, happily tired from several hours in the surf, and surrounded by such isolation and beauty, I was filled with gratitude for the opportunity to be where I was. My gratitude only slightly exaggerated by the three or four Lone Stars I had over the afternoon.
As I stood there gently rocking with the water, contemplating catching one or two more fish before leaving, about ten feet out in the gut in front of me I noticed a school of bait fish jumping my direction. Within seconds of noticing that, and as my mind made the search for what might be causing them to jump, another school of bait fish exploded around me - with some bouncing and flapping off of my chest and shoulders. By that time my instincts shouted there was a very good chance the bait were fleeing those two black tips I had been seeing. I do not remember the next few moments in any detail and what I do recall can't be accurate. What I remember is completely exiting the water like a missile launched from a submarine, then running across the surface of the water until I was splashing towards my truck in the six or so inches of a receding wave on shore. If you have ever had the excitement of avoiding a fatal collision you know how I felt upon reaching the sand, drained, shaking, and surprised to be in one piece.
I did the only sensible thing, setting my rod in the PVC pipe to which my stringer was tied, and got another Lone Star from the cooler. As I turned my gaze back towards the gulf I saw another amazing thing, which at that moment seemed as unreal as my dash from the surf. The long stringer on which my catch was secured went taught, spraying small arches of water into the air. At the end of the stringer the PVC pipe lept from the wet sand, straight up out of the sand it was driven into. In an instant the stringer pulled the pipe, and my rod & reel with it, out to sea. I ran towards where it had been as everything disappeared into the waves.
With the same alcohol-fueled mental alacrity I had demonstrated standing out on the third bar, I realized those black tips had come into the very shallow gut where the fish on my stringer were and taken them back to their kitchen. While I was quiet pleased to have not been a shark snack, and even more grateful for a very memorable day in the wilderness, I was pretty disappointed about the loss of my favorite rod & reel and the day's catch. Some twenty or so minutes later as I sat on the tail gate of my truck, sipping Lone Star and watching the sunset spread purple and across the southwestern horizon, I spotted something bobbing in the water very near shore. Walking out into the shallow water, there was my rod & reel; washed back to me thanks to the tidal flow and a cork handle. A few feet away was the PVC pipe with about twelve feet of stringer cord still attached, ending in a frayed cut.
While I prepared to leave I reflected on the afternoon, and gave thanks to God that I had the privilege to be fifteen miles south on Malaquite this late spring day. I also considered that it might be a good idea to leave the water when you see two sharks hunting in the breakers in front of you, to not fish alone, and to immediately freeze your catch rather than string 'em.
Yours in Christ.
One late spring afternoon in 1985 I played hooky from the office and headed down Padre Island, driving about 15 miles south on the Malaquite National Seashore. In those days the park was new and true wilderness. There was no entry gate or fee and the odds of seeing a park ranger were nil. You were more likely to encounter a state game warden and those odds were a million to one on a weekday afternoon. Other than another fisherman driving by every couple of hours or so, or an oil well service beach buggy every twelve, the only things joining you there on that isolated shoreline were seagulls, and pelicans.
The afternoon was perfect. The sand was wet and firm 20 yards up from the surf line making for fine driving, less chance of getting stuck. The sky was clear except for a few cumulus clouds rising out over the gulf horizon. The southeasterly breeze made the heat and humidity bearable. Out in the surf waves broke gently over four or five sand bars, rising only two or three feet. When a wave lifted, in the moment before it gently broke, the life of the sea could be seen back lit by the sun through the clear water. Whiting, mullet, and all sorts of bait fish in schools the size of canoes swam through the surf, occasionally leaping free of the water to sail across the face of the wave. Into this great gift of the Creator I waded, with my prized Fenwick rod and trusty Ambassadeur reel.
As the afternoon turned to evening I had a good stringer of fish. It was tied off with a twenty foot cord to my rod holder, a five and a half foot length of three inch schedule 40 driven into the sand at the waterline. I could never get comfortable with the stringer tied to my belt, as most wade fisherman do it. I had heard too many stories of guys much bigger than me being pulled under the waves by sharks hitting their catch, or waders whose calf was torn open by a shark looking for a new taste sensation. I even lacked the nerve to bring a bait bucket out with me, feeling that it was too similar to chumming, just asking for unwanted attention. Having waded & swam out to the third bar across a five to eight foot gut, I stood in chest deep water admiring all that I could see.
The view from my spot was wonderful, the sun was settling down a few inches over the horizon. I watched a coyote who had snuck down from the dunes fifty yards down the beach, snacking on carrion washed up on the shore. In the surf out over the next bar I had occasionally seen game fish, and for the last half hour had watched a pair of three to four foot black tip sharks moving up and down the beach chasing the bait fish. With a stringer of nice fish for the kitchen, happily tired from several hours in the surf, and surrounded by such isolation and beauty, I was filled with gratitude for the opportunity to be where I was. My gratitude only slightly exaggerated by the three or four Lone Stars I had over the afternoon.
As I stood there gently rocking with the water, contemplating catching one or two more fish before leaving, about ten feet out in the gut in front of me I noticed a school of bait fish jumping my direction. Within seconds of noticing that, and as my mind made the search for what might be causing them to jump, another school of bait fish exploded around me - with some bouncing and flapping off of my chest and shoulders. By that time my instincts shouted there was a very good chance the bait were fleeing those two black tips I had been seeing. I do not remember the next few moments in any detail and what I do recall can't be accurate. What I remember is completely exiting the water like a missile launched from a submarine, then running across the surface of the water until I was splashing towards my truck in the six or so inches of a receding wave on shore. If you have ever had the excitement of avoiding a fatal collision you know how I felt upon reaching the sand, drained, shaking, and surprised to be in one piece.
I did the only sensible thing, setting my rod in the PVC pipe to which my stringer was tied, and got another Lone Star from the cooler. As I turned my gaze back towards the gulf I saw another amazing thing, which at that moment seemed as unreal as my dash from the surf. The long stringer on which my catch was secured went taught, spraying small arches of water into the air. At the end of the stringer the PVC pipe lept from the wet sand, straight up out of the sand it was driven into. In an instant the stringer pulled the pipe, and my rod & reel with it, out to sea. I ran towards where it had been as everything disappeared into the waves.
With the same alcohol-fueled mental alacrity I had demonstrated standing out on the third bar, I realized those black tips had come into the very shallow gut where the fish on my stringer were and taken them back to their kitchen. While I was quiet pleased to have not been a shark snack, and even more grateful for a very memorable day in the wilderness, I was pretty disappointed about the loss of my favorite rod & reel and the day's catch. Some twenty or so minutes later as I sat on the tail gate of my truck, sipping Lone Star and watching the sunset spread purple and across the southwestern horizon, I spotted something bobbing in the water very near shore. Walking out into the shallow water, there was my rod & reel; washed back to me thanks to the tidal flow and a cork handle. A few feet away was the PVC pipe with about twelve feet of stringer cord still attached, ending in a frayed cut.
While I prepared to leave I reflected on the afternoon, and gave thanks to God that I had the privilege to be fifteen miles south on Malaquite this late spring day. I also considered that it might be a good idea to leave the water when you see two sharks hunting in the breakers in front of you, to not fish alone, and to immediately freeze your catch rather than string 'em.
Yours in Christ.
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