The Soul You Loved

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“I know a man in Hell now.” That’s what the Preacher should have said if he were honest. But no one wanted an honest preacher today. Instead he talked of the good parts of the man’s life, how generous, and kind and caring he was, and what a shame it was he died young–all the things everyone wanted to hear. Old women daubed their eyes and a young lady softly whimpered.

The funeral home was unbearably warm, the small room packed. The preacher loosened his neck tie for the third time and talked of heaven and angels, hoping no one noticed the abrupt transition. He didn’t say the man was there, exactly, but he didn’t say he wasn’t there either. Best to let people think he might be.

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Reviewer’s Digest //Non-Fiction

A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis

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Read October 28th

 (Afterward by Chad Walsh read on the 29th)

4 Stars

I was pleased with myself for finishing the entire book in one sitting–but then again, I couldn’t very well go to bed in the middle anyway. It frightened me to see the questions, the doubts, the despairs of a well-grounded theologian when faced with grief–more frightening still, to see myself in the background of his introspective mirror. But in the end, it encouraged me to see the man of despair climb to be once again the man of hope.

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I Left Heaven For This??

I read the following original short story last month in a writing group I attend and thought it would be a good time to highlight it here on the blog. Like “A (Stereo)typical Interviews with Three Millenarians,” it is a satirical piece that gave me a new angle with which to address theological arguments and craft counter-arguments during an informal debate on eschatology I had with a friend over a year ago. Essay is me telling readers “see, this argument doesn’t hold water,” satire is me beckoning readers to exclaim, “this argument doesn’t hold water!”

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Gratitude and Ann Voskamp

With the holidays rolling around again, especially Thanksgiving, the topic of gratitude is a hot topic. My Facebook feed is already flooded by posts and book recommendations on gratitude. One book in particular took the market by storm three years ago and its author has continued to hold a steady and devout following ever since. That book is “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp. I published a review of it here before my blog went public and I thought it would be an appropriate time to repost it.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0310321913/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0310321913&linkCode=as2&tag=livinheassha-20

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Two Weeping Kings

Awhile back, I was introduced to the talents of Eric Whitacre and his evocative song “When David Heard”, by my composer-friend, Zachary Horner (if you get the chance, be sure to check out his Sound Cloud account for samples of his own amazing work), and continue to be fascinated by the song’s depth and intensity conjured up by–most astounding!–the singing of just a single verse from 2nd Samuel.

“When David heard that Absalom was slain he went up into his chamber over the gate and wept, my son, my son, O Absalom my son, would God I had died for thee!” (2nd Sam. 18:23 KJV)

The song is brimming with emotion. It was nearly too much for me to bear the first time I heard it. When the voices got loud my eyes started to fill and I had the wild impulse to rip my earbuds out, cover my ears and run. I could picture it all–the gut-wrenching grief like voices screaming in my ears, chasing me down, hunting me like a wild animal then, as the voices quieted I could feel the loneliness creeping in like a quiet mist. I could see the memory of the long march back home, the uncertain glances from the soldiers as they watched their brave warrior-king retreat within himself, his eyes glazing over, unresponsive to those around him, uncaring of where he went next, his thoughts consumed by the one who was not with them, the son whom he loved and was dead. It was like a darkness had fallen over the whole company.

Later, it felt like a dream. It was easy for me to imagine King David waking up, panting, sweat glistening on his brow and sitting up in bed only for the silence to tear his soul more than his dream. I could feel the coldness, the unresponsiveness of the palace stone walls. I could feel the cry for answers, the despair, the emptiness.

In the final minute of the piece, it was as if the shepherd-king was standing on one of his many balconies, looking out over the business of the city, listening to the voices bubbling up from the market square and remembering all that once was. Time has passed and the gut-wrenching grief has passed, leaving behind only a dull ache.

He can never forget.
He can’t simply move on.
He can’t explain why.
It just is.

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Whale-Lines, Foolish Elves, and the Faith of Laughter

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When you think about it, death is never more than one false step away.

One run red-light.

One moment of distraction while driving on the highway.

One minute a child is left unattended.

One tree that fell the wrong way.

One plane ride that fails to reach its destination.

One stray bullet in the bunker.

One unexpected hold-up at a grocery store.

One explosion at a fertilizer plant.

One shooting at an Elementary School.

One visit to the wrong place at the wrong time.

One doctor’s visit.

One CT scan.

One dial on the stove you thought you’d turned off but didn’t.

One case of faulty wiring in the attic.

One lightening strike.

One flash flood.

One tornado.

One heartbeat that doesn’t come when it should.

One breath you’d never thought you wouldn’t have.

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