I’ve picked up a writing gig. Nothing major, just local lifestyles coverage in a regional magazine for the well-heeled. Have a look.

From one of my favorite new blogs, Time to Write, I bring you the following. Enjoy.

Onion News Network: Plight of Missing Hikers Will Make Great Movie

I knelt and prayed in my vegetable garden this morning. It wasn’t a theologically profound exercise in which I invoked the Almighty to intercede in the affairs of man, ecce homo.

No, it wasn’t a grand, pompous affair. I simply asked God to help me with my day and to represent him well in everything I did. My hands rested face down in the dirt, a reminder of Abraham’s declaration to God that he was “but dust and ashes.” (Gen 18:27 NASB) My prematurely wrinkled hands looked oddly beautiful in the soft dirt, inches away from my incoming crop of zucchini and green beans.

I couldn’t overcome the temptation to pray for my minuscule patch of land, that the assortment of heirloom tomatoes, carrots, chili and bell peppers, zucchini and green beans would somehow be a blessing to everyone who comes to our home. As corny as it seems, I’ve become personally involved with these plants. When my bell peppers didn’t take off — and still haven’t — I scratch my head and go over everything I’ve done to give them a good start. When my impatiens and violas I planted from seed didn’t germinate, I went online for answers.

I’m sure God must feel this way about us: watching, nourishing protecting and then wondering why his initiatives don’t take as he expected them to. It must be frustrating to see us make a mess of things continually and having to rescue us. I’m so grateful he does.

Here are a few of the tulips, marigolds and daffodils that I planted in the front yard. Enjoy.

Is the object in the above photo a:

1. Potato masher
2. Bean masher
3. An international incident during the holidays
4. All of the above
5. Rear turn signal cover from a ‘53 Packard.

I’ll discuss the answers along with my own observations later this week.

I didn’t take an extended vacation from blogging because I had nothing to say. No, this nearly two month absence was the result of feeling world-weary and burned out. It seemed like I made time for everyone except myself. I had more business contacts than friends, I wasn’t eating or sleeping well, I hadn’t read a book for pleasure in ages and I didn’t have a hobby. So, I went off in search of myself. Here’s what I found.

I found my old friend, Kelly (center), who celebrated his 40th birthday. Jerry Jimenez (right) completed The Californian survivor’s — er, alumni, meeting. (The woman at the far left is Jerry’s fiancée.) Kelly is also a new dad. He and his wife are already great parents. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer couple.

I found the wife makes excellent chile rellenos. And to think she has been sandbagging for nearly five years while I languished in the land of tofu and whole wheat. The nerve.

I helped plan my mother’s 60th birthday party. When planning a large gathering, don’t overlook the savory simplicity of a taqueria as a caterer. We went this route and couldn’t have been happier. The guests raved about the tacos and from the host’s perspective, having the guests negotiate their own tacos (amount, fillings, etc.) made life so much easier.

I found I’m a pretty decent gardener. I’m growing a vegetable garden largely from seeds. It has been an exercise in patience. There’s only so much watering, plant food, soil aeration and repositioning in sunlight a novice gardener can do, the rest is up to the plant. I’ve learned there are some things I simply cannot control. And when I try to force my will on a tiny seedling, I kill it. I planted most of my vegetable seeds in January. Here we are in the beginning of April and they’re growing, but it will be months before I pick my first tomato.

I found that bulbs take a long time to sprout from the earth, even longer if you have a lot of shade on your property.

I found that with enough water and a shovel, even the most towering, unwelcome shrub will die.

I found that the tactical placement of fully grown annuals is necessary for preserving one’s sanity when the impatiens and violas one planted from seed didn’t grow, even after months of watering, repositioning and plant food.

I found that my pastor trusts me enough to let me preach on Sunday morning. It’s a humbling, hilarious and horrifying thought. I had too much to say to be nervous. I had a blast and I pray someone’s life was touched by what God put on my heart.

OK, this is enough for a first post. I don’t want to send all of you into shock. Your deprived little eyeballs wouldn’t recover from it.

On days like today, I feel like standing at the edge of a cliff, placing every scrap of paper associated with me into a 50-gallon drum, dousing it with kerosene and flicking a match in the center, then watching it all burn down, the ash flittering up, up and away to an unclouded sky replete with possibilities.

I struggle figuring out how and when God intervenes (or interferes) in humankind’s affairs. Anyone who doesn’t struggle with this is a big fat faker and is doing it wrong.

My weekend illustrates my point perfectly. We were headed to San Bernardino to celebrate my in-law’s 60th wedding anniversary. Somewhere along Highway 99 late Friday night, I lost my cell phone near Turlock. A man in Fresno calls my mother, who calls me Saturday afternoon to say that he found my phone and would like to return it to me. Read the rest of this entry »

With my overbooked schedule, I’ve resigned myself to the truth that for now, this will be the T.J. Maxx of blogs. By the time the news reaches my poor little blog, the news has already faded from prominence. I think I’m OK with this, or at least I will be. I have to be, since academic and professional demands take precedence right now.

Now that I’ve given my little treatise on why I’ve been so horrendously behind in my blogging lately, I bring you this news item from Monday’s New York Times. A group of more than 30 high school hoodlums broke into and vandalized a farmhouse in Ripton, Vermont once owned by Robert Frost. There is an excellent narrated photo essay that accompanies the story.

The incident happened in late December. The news travels slowly in and out of Vermont, I guess.

I feel sick about this. How odd that stories of killing and natural disasters around the world pass regularly in and out of my mind, but this story has lingered in my memory since Monday.

How could someone do this? I think of Frost as a kindly old soul not unlike a provincial minister. I have a used paperback containing selected poems of his, the sort of paperback with a cracking binding, yellowed pages and that slightly sweet, dusty smell associated with old books.

Long before I discovered Dante and Proust, Frost’s simple measured lines hooked me into the world of words. Were these vandals aware of the power of words? Probably not. They were too drunk to care.

What did Frost ever do to anyone? I can see a more controversial writer, a Salman Rushdie, or John Steinbeck, whose works were burned in front of the public library in my hometown. But I’m giving these derelicts too much credit. They were just looking for a party.  Get enough drunk minors together and bad things happen.

I might be overreacting, but this feels like a new cultural low.

After enduring a flooded basement, lagoons of trapped water in front of my porch, clogged rain gutters and a limitless supply of caked mud tracked across our hardwood floors, our Camellia bush and winter Crocuses bloomed. A brief respite from a wet winter, and a reminder that better days lie ahead.