The cry of the knife

Once upon a time, in another life in another world, Sarah and I lived in a little grass hut in a meadow beside a beaver pond. We were foreigners in the border country of two great tribes of native people, the Chair-Key people and the You-Tube people. These two tribes were fierce rivals; although they were not at war, fighting and pillaging was not uncommon along the border.

We lived at peace with both peoples, I spoke both Chair-Key and You-Tube fluently and often traded with them. We lived simple lives trapping beaver and raising a few crops. However, I knew our situation was dangerous. If one tribe ever suspected that we were allies with their enemies, I knew there were extremists who would not hesitate to destroy us. I was especially wary of the small sect called the Chair-Key con Queso’s.

We had a very precious baby son. At night, our son would become a fillet knife and we would wrap him in banana leaves and lay him outside the hut in a thicket where he was protected by a pack of wolves (that we affectionately named “The Wuves”). Occasionally, our little fillet knife would wake up wimpering and crying because his banana leaves had unwrapped, so I would wake up and wrap him again. The Wuves were very compassionate, but they didn’t have the slightest idea how they could help, so they would just pace around and wag their sad tails. Little help that they were, I knew the wolves would be the first to sound the alarm and raise the defense if ever a Chair-Key con Queso extremist tried to harm our little knife.

If danger ever came our way, I had a plan. In the middle of our little pond was a large beaver hut that had once housed over a dozen beavers. Now it was abandoned, and I had fashioned it into a hut-bunker. The only entrance to the hut was under the water; you had to swim down through a cave and come out inside the hut. I had made the hut as comfortable as possible and stocked it with spare supplies. There were bear rugs, elk fur blankets, beaver skin pelts, rabbit fur caps, venison jerky, corn meal, dried apples, and winter squash. There was just enough room for three people to lay down.

We practiced the drill often, what we would do if danger came our way. No matter what happened, Sarah would take the baby, run to the edge of the water, blow in the baby’s face to make him take a deep breath, and then dive in the water, into the cave and up into the hut. I would come if I could or stay and fight if I had to.

We had used the hut once, when would we need it again?

Now when I awaken to the cry of the little knife, I think….. where are the Wuves…..con Quesos?....... hut-bunker……

What I believe... about the Bible

In addition to dream-stories, I will publish my core beliefs in a series of posts.

Once I was on a long plane flight through the night and I could not sleep. I stood up and walked around the plane, carrying my Bible and praying. In a dark corner of the plane another man was awake, reading a book. As I walked past him, he asked me, "Is that God's Word you are carrying?"
"Yes, it is." I replied.
Why would I say 'Yes'? Is the Bible God's Word? What do you believe?
Here's what I believe:

I believe that the Bible is theopneustos, it is “breathed out by God”. All of the Bible has God’s authority, and it does not affirm anything that is contrary to fact – it is inerrant. It has been authored by men “moved by the Holy Spirit” in everyday terms and language fitting the context of the writer, but it is still God’s Word.

The teachings of the Bible are infallible, they are trustworthy and not misleading when interpreted correctly: according to the original intent of the author, according to literary form, and according to context in view of the rest of the Bible.

While some passages of the Bible may be difficult to interpret, the Bible’s message is clearly understandable; all things necessary for our salvation and Christian growth are clearly set forth.

The central character of the Bible is God, and God’s message to man is made complete in the person of Jesus – he is the “Word” of God. The central message of the Bible is this: We can know God eternally by trusting in Jesus Christ as our Savior.

Is today’s Bible really reliable after thousands of years of translations? Although we do not have the original “God-inspired” documents, we have thousands of ancient new testament manuscripts from the first four centuries, many more than any other writings in history. The Dead Sea Scrolls found in 1947 were Old Testament documents that were dated around 100 B.C.; they confirmed that the Old Testament we have has been very, very well preserved over the last 2000 years. Therefore we can have confidence that the English translations we have today are very true to the original.

How do we know we have the right books in the Bible? The books included in the Old Testament represent the books recognized by Jewish scholars as Scripture since 400 years before Christ. All of these books were recognized as God’s Word by Jesus. All the new testament books are recognized as God’s Word because they represent the teachings of the apostles, those given special authority by Jesus (whether directly or indirectly, as Mark records the gospel taught by Peter). They have been recognized as God's Word since the first century. We can be assured that we have God's complete revelation to us which is sufficient for our relationship with God to be complete.

Books for reference:

Josh McDowell, Evidence that Demands a Verdict

Bruce Milne, Know the Truth

Wayne Grudem, Systematic Theology

To the weeds...

As I faded to sleep last night, my wife and I were talking about raising children, and an idea popped into my mind. Now, I must be wary anytime I get ideas before going to sleep because I am not sure if I am awake or dreaming when the idea pops in my head. The true test will come when I tell it to Sarah, she is very good at discerning conscious thought from sub-conscious thought, which can be about as difficult as discerning a monkey from a rubber chicken. Here is the thought, "Honey, we shouldn't worry about weeding the back yard because we can let the weeds watch the kids when they are back there."
(Can you guess what movie we were watching?)

"Listen to that thistle, son, else he gonna chap yo' backside 'fore you know what hichya."

The end of an Irish tune

A pub can be such a sad and happy place. On one side of the pub, a group of reunited college friends told loud stories and laughed louder. On the other side, my childhood friend Jim and his family gathered around Jim’s uncle Nick, sick with cancer, and they knew that this was his last night with them. It was Nick’s idea to come to his favorite pub, where he was determined to spend his final hours laughing and telling stories. He was too weak even to lift a pint of ale, he managed a few swallows but nothing more. Nick’s voice was weak, and he couldn’t muster the strength to tell long-winded stories like he used to, but merely mentioning names and places was enough to flood everyone with nostalgia. Towards the end he started to babble meaningless phrases and we were reminded of the melancholic reality before us.

Suddenly, Nick sat up boldly and addressed his brother (Jim’s father) in a clear, business-like voice, “You know how to fix that plumbing in your basement don’t you? You need to get a 2” NPT flanged coupling….” He described in great detail what needed to be done – Nick was a plumber, you see.

He stopped. He dropped his head for a moment as if drifting away to another place. He smiled and looked up. Reverting back to his childhood in Ireland, he hummed a children’s tune. He burst into song with an Irish voice long forgotten. The family joined him, and soon the whole bar was singing or humming along. Nick only recalled the last line of the song, but he sang it over and over again, and finally he stood up and danced with his eyes full of laughter and we sang and wept with joy and sorrow. Then he stopped, hugged his brother, and died.

The snow kayak

When our friend Honza came over from Czech Republic to Colorado for a visit, I had no idea he was such a talented skier, and I had never heard of snow kayaking. We drove high into the mountains where there is always snow, even in mid-summer. It was a steep, rocky mountain face, and I had not intention of skiing. Honza slipped on his skis and slid off before I could even get out of the car. “Don’t you love the snow!” He called back. “Do you ever do this? I call it the ‘blind machete’.” He yelled as he slid off of a cliff ... backwards!

As he landed, he sliced his skis through the snow, spinning himself around to continue down the mountain out of sight. Dumbstruck, I gasped as he appeared again, skiing uphill to the top of the cliff, as if gravity did not apply to him. Was I watching some animated cartoon, was I dreaming? Up and down the mountain, over and around trees he flew like some video in fast forward and rewind. Every new move had some creative name, half of them were in Czech, and most of them I don’t remember.

When he was done, he came back, saying “Let me show you something else, have you ever used a snow kayak?” He pulled out a large board, like a small surfboard, but wider and shorter, and the edges curved up like a shallow boat. There was a small seat in the middle which he sat upon and straps that held his waist and feet. He used a paddle like he was kayaking to turn and weave his way down the snow. It looked like it would be very fun indeed, and much easier and safer than skiing off of cliffs backwards!

Bears! Bears!

“Bears, Bears! Don’t get in the van! There’s two bears in there!” I ran to stop my wife and sister from getting in the van, but they weren’t listening.
“Honey, stop! There are no bears!” My wife said as she opened the door to the van.
“No!” I tried to grab her, to stop her from entering the trap…

Flailing wildly in the bed, I kept yelling, “Bears! There are two bears in the van! Bears! Stop!”
“Honey, stop! There are no bears!” My wife tried to calm me.
“Yes there are! Two bears.” I continue to yell, probably waking the baby and the neighbors by now.
“Honey, we are in bed, there are no bears.”
“Well if there aren’t any bears, I guarantee you we aren’t in Australia.”
Silence.
“I told you we weren’t in Australia because I didn’t see any kangaroos.”
At least I got something right.

-Dreamineer

Dead Deer

March 29, 2007

When I first saw the tan patch on the hill south of my parents house, I knew something was wrong, dead wrong. It was a dead deer. There were more, I found another, and another - at least five. I tried to swallow – this was bad. They had all been shot, killed on our property, but it wasn’t any of us. My parents lived in the mountains, and we had legally harvested deer on our property in the past, but this was not deer season. We knew we had to report this and make sure suspicion did not fall on us. Division of Wildlife agreed to send someone the next day.

Next day, I got up early, right at dawn. I walked outside and froze – shocked to see an old brown Chevy truck half-hidden in the trees. It was an early 60’s model, tailgate was smashed in, sides dented and rusted and the door falling off. There was a man inside, sliding a rifle into a case, it must have had some kind of silencer. The truck lurched awake and started moving. I started running toward the truck, trying to get a look at the man inside.

As I sprinted toward it, I looked in the driver side window, but there was no steering wheel. The steering wheel was on the right side like a British car. I saw a man driving.
He was an older man with wispy white hair, thinning on top. He had a small frame and thin shoulders. He wore small round glasses and a trimmed gray beard.

It wasn’t hard to find out information about the old Chevy truck with the steering wheel on the right – we found out it belonged to a man named Hayes. We found out he was a trouble maker that lived right in town. My dad and I went down to an auto store to ask some questions and we dug a little too deep. His brother owned the shop and found out we were asking about his brother. Then it started to get ugly, his brother was drunk and started yelling. We quickly realized we were in the wrong place asking the wrong questions. People moved in the shadows, cars drove away behind the shop.

We quickly got in the truck and drove away. Suddenly the old brown truck was behind us with the two Hayes brothers in it – following us. What would they do? We crossed the railroad tracks and stopped. The car stopped, and they got out holding something. Guns!

We had two rifles in the truck from hunting season. We grabbed some cartridges and shoved them in. They were drunk, it was obvious. They started firing and yelling and coming towards our vehicle. Another car and two more people got out. We hid behind the seat, now we had no choice. They were only giving us one choice, it was us or them.

We were hunters – I was born and raised with a rifle or a shotgun in my hand. I could shoot quickly from any position and hit an 8 inch target at 200 yards every time.

They were drunk and angry and outnumbered us. They did not have a chance.

Timing my shots and making sure every shot counted, I turned and fired through the back window of the truck... one down…my dad fired, another one down… I fired, third down… my dad fired again, last man down and the shooting stopped. Our ears rang and the gunfire hung in the air like a thick fog. I slumped in the seat and nausea overcame me. I threw up.

My detachable foot

My detachable foot

It was the most advanced magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) equipment I have ever seen. I could see all the bones of my foot in a three dimensional image that moved with my foot as I flexed and extended it. The doctor could even rotate the image to see different angles. I had been having foot problems so I was having it examined.

The problem was between my tarsal bones, the group of small little bones beneath the talus – which makes up the ankle. We could see where I had had surgery five years ago to remove a bone spur on the talar-navicular joint. Everything in the area of the surgery was fine. The Doctor actually stuck his finger between the bones and felt them – we could see it on the MRI. Strangely, there was no pain in that joint, even with his finger in there.

Then he rotated the view so that we could see up from the bottom of my foot and we noticed a new joint. My whole foot was attached with a “tongue and groove” joint. The groove was front to back underneath the tarsal bones. My foot had slipped forward out of place, causing me great pain whenever I flexed the joint. So the doctor took a rubber mallet and pounded it back in place so the bones were flush, and you could hardly even tell it was there.

“The joint is still a little loose.” The doctor said.

“Do you think my whole foot could slip out of the joint?” I replied.

“O yeah, let me show you.” He tapped the back of heel a couple of times and gave it a solid whack. My foot slid right off into his hand, and he handed it to me. Astonished I looked it over and quickly asked him to put it back on.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t come off unless you hit in just right spot. We’ll put you in a splint for a couple weeks and let the joint tighten up so it doesn’t slip anymore.”

He put my foot back in place and wrapped it firmly with an elastic bandage.

I woke up and flexed my foot a couple of times, no pain. I felt for the joint and realized it wasn’t there – AHA! My foot can’t fall off!

A conversation with my wife at 3:27 a.m.

April 3, 2007

A conversation with my wife at 3:27 a.m.

We were riding mountain bikes across the West, from Colorado down to Arizona, up to Oregon and back to Colorado. We rode trails as much as we could, but when we had a long stretch of road to travel we put on road tires. Sometime during the trek I had an idea, and the idea grew and grew and the trip faded away before it was complete…. and I awoke.

“Honey, what do you think about mounting the camera on the handlebars?”

No response, Sarah is laying beside me.

I go on,“You would probably need a plate to support it, and then you would need four screws, one supporting each corner. You would have to drill a hole in the handlebars, then you would need another screw that actually fastens on to the camera…”

“Honey stop talking and go to sleep.” Sarah interjects.

“I’m not talking, I’m asking you a question, just answer my question, should I put the camera on the handle bars? You know, so you could take pictures while riding your bike. Of course, I don’t know what would happen if you crashed. I suppose that is a good question…”

“Go to sleep.”

“I was sleeping, now I have to figure this out. It would be nice to have it right on the handlebars so you could just snap pictures as you rode by… but I suppose they would be blurry. You could take a video though. It would be like real life, what you saw as you rode along. What do you think?”

Silence.

“I suppose I could just hold the camera on the handlebars for a little bit and take a video, then I wouldn’t have to figure out how to mount it on there. You’re right, I didn’t think about crashing. I’m still talking out loud, aren’t I. You want me to stop talking and go to sleep don’t you?..... Goodnight”

Dream - March 12, 2007

Underwater men – an earlier dream recalled.

We were in Brandon, Nebraska, my son’s namesake. We went to the Brandon pond (“Grandpa’s pond”) to see if we could fish. We found the water was very high because of all the moisture, in fact even the road to the south was underwater. An old man was there fishing, I did not know him, but he knew the pond and had fished there so often he almost knew all the fish by name, since it is not a very large pond. I don’t know how he could fish because the cattails were so thick around the edges you couldn’t even bring your line in without catching them.

This old man was patiently and earnestly trying to catch the one elusive fish in the pond “Catfish Hunter”. (That isn’t the actual name used in the dream – I can’t remember what it was, so I am using this name a la “Grumpier Old men”) As we talked, the man saw his line move and he motioned me to silence, “It’s him, I know it is.” He patiently watched the line go out and then violently set the hook. The rod bent over double and suddenly jumped out the pond into the road (without seeing the fish). We followed the line to a great bid tractor submerged in the road. Suddenly the tractor sprang into life and raced up and down the road like a cartoon: hooting and sending water all over us and everything else, with a wild eyed catfish at the wheel. The old man hooted and hollered and waved his rod around, hoping his line could hold.

Eventually his line broke and the tractor stopped. A huge, hulking catfish stepped out that looked strangely enough like a man. He walked proudly over the bit of land to the pond. He had a brightly lit cigar hanging out of his mouth, and at his side a smaller squattier cat fish with a sawed off shotgun.

I stood, paralyzed with fear. By this time it was night, and seeing the strange figure by the light of the old man’s lantern and the cab light of the tractor was an eery sight.

The massive catfish sneered respectfully to the old man with a slight bow and said,

“Is that what you were waiting for, old man?” Then he peered queeringly at me and lunged back into the pond.

Frightened, I returned back to the house in Brandon to sleep. Somehow, I later learned that several of the fish from the pond would go out joy-riding in the tractor at night. Since I couldn’t sleep, I went out to watch them. A whole group of bass (that looked a lot like men-bass) were out. The ringleader noticed me and called out, “Look, it’s the guy that Old Man Catfish was talking about!” He called me over and asked, “Are you a Grandson of the Stewart?”

“Yes, I am Ryan, son of Richard, son of Ronnie.”

They men-fish talked excitedly amongst each other and looked at me reverently, and the ringleader replied,

“Yes, of course it is you, my lord. Some of us have seen you grow up, you know. Although I’d say most of these chaps are newcomers.”

“Did you know that I have a son?” I asked.

“A son! A Stewart!” the fish all exclaimed and they began to dance and slap their fins upon the ground. “We must go and tell the others!” And off they went toward the pond. As they left, one shouted, “What’s his name?”

“Brandon!” I yelled back.

He smiled and pointed his fin to the letters etched in the side of the tall grain elevator, B-R-A-N-D-O-N. “Of course!” he exclaimed, and jumped in the water and disappeared.

(I learned later that the fish in the pond revered the Stewarts as their Lord Protectors because Ronald Stewart had created a home for them so many years ago. Not all the fish believed in the tale, some had become skeptical of the Stewart name)

-Dreamineer

Snakes in the Flesh

Dream - March 6, 2007

I can remember the burning sensation of the yellow and black snakes slithering in and out of my skin. Their ugly heads would slide out of my arms and legs and give me a menacing glance before plunging back into my flesh with a sting. I was slave to these seething serpants, I had to do whatever they commanded me or they threatened to bite me and send me into horrible, gut-wrenching pain.

This hell was the world of Zoroastrocism (in my dream, not in reality). That was at least what I believed. I remember a specific day in high school. When the demon snakes told me to park along the curb, but then refused to let me get out of the car. I was imprisoned in my own car as they burned in and out of my arms. Every time I tried to move they would pop out and threaten me and I would resign. After a time, a voice echoed in my head, a voice full of authority and compassion, the voice of God. The voice told me to open the door and not listen to the snakes, they would not harm me. I hesitated, I was full of fear - fear that the snakes that possessed me would punish me. But the voice echoed again, "Do not listen to them, open the door."

With immense effort I gritted my teeth and pushed open the door. Nothing happened. I jumped out and stood up – and behold, the burning in my arms was gone. I had conquered my demons! They had never even had any power over me. I wanted to go around to all Zoroastrocists and tell them, “Don’t listen to the snakes, they won’t bite you – in fact they are not even real.”

In my victory, another scene flashed in my mind and I was shown my alternative. What would have happened if I listened to the demons burning through my flesh. A bloodied and smashed corpse pressed against the ground with only one body part still intact, the left lens of my eye. Before my life expired, I heard the voice of God telling me, “There never were any snakes, and they had no power over you. Everything you did was your choice to obey the demons and disobey Me.” I cringed because I knew that this would have been my fate if I had obeyed the snakes in my flesh.

-Dreamineer

Dream - March 5, 2007

All I can remember is trying to cross a raging river that kept growing higher and higher. We were driving in an old pickup across a stream where there should not have been a raging river. Stranded in the middle, our only choice was to go back, get out of the truck and make our way to shore holding the last strand of barbed wire of the fence. Further along there was a railroad that crossed the river that was still well above the water. We climbed the step slope up to the railroad, but it required crossing the barbed wire onto some other private property that was not a good idea. We were in Mexico and did not really know where we were. A bandit with a revolver and bands of ammunition popped out from behind the railroad tracks and demanded our wallets, our passports, our identification. He was most interested in our passports because they brought a high price from the alien smugglers who were in the business of smuggling people across the border into the U.S.

So here we were, stranded somewhere in south central Mexico, hundreds of miles from the US border with no identification, no car, no cash, and only a handful of Spanish words in our vocabulary.

I don’t know what happened to my partner, whoever I was with, I don’t even know who it was. Eventually I was on my own. Broken Spanish phrases started to come back to me as I traveled, Necesito ir a norteamericano. Did that make sense? Probably not, but it was enough.

I got hooked up with a band of travelers who also wanted to cross the border, although their trek would be an “illegal” one. To them it was a risk worth taking.

At one point in our expedition, we rolled along railroad tracks by pushing ourselves in small coal cars along the railroad tracks. We “rowed” with long sticks and poled along down the railroad tracks.

Finally we rounded a bend and saw the great Rio Grande and across the water was the great state of Texas. As we looked at the water and noticed border patrol people on the far side, I realized that I could probably just start flailing about in the water and yelling, “ I am an American, I’ve lost my wallet, Help me, Help” and the border patrol would came and save me.

So this was the tactic I used and it worked. The border patrol man picked me up. I recited my social security number, address and drivers license number and he was convinced. He escorted me away from the border to the nearest town about 100 miles away.

I don’t know what happened to my traveling companions who tried to cross a different way.

- Dreamineer