barley 365/75

J BW 365/74

K near field 365/73

I saw an idea to drive 10 minutes away from your home in any direction and snap pictures. Here's one from that assignment.

April Fool's Dinner 365/72 - #72- getting a free lunch

Compilation Sunday: (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one) Chocolate wafer cookies and rolled up balls of taffy make up this dinner. It was made for the girl's as an April Fool's Dinner but I was the fool to think I would trick my daughter, even for more than a second. Her question was, "Is that chocolate under there?"

You know the old saying that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Well, maybe the original author of such a saying may have been right, but apparently he wasn’t talking about dinner.

The other night Carla and I and the kids went to Chapala’s, a Mexican restaurant, for dinner with Carla's dad. It’s a nice place with decent food and a pleasant atmosphere, albeit a little bit loud for casual conversation. I tried the queso fundito con chorizo, normally an appetizer, as my main course. Those who’ve dined on the same course at El Taco Real, please realize that Raymundo Garcia didn’t steal the recipe from Chapala’s. Anyways, the food was good, the conversation even better. When the plates were finally swept away, we waited only for the bill. Now, normally in such an environment with one check for the entire party, I might put up a disinterested, fainthearted struggle with my father-in-law for the right to pay the bill. I realize it’s a worthless pursuit to wrestle the check away from him, the epitome of generosity. It’s kind of like I’m the Washington Generals and he’s the Harlem Globetrotters. No matter the spirited effort on my part, at the end of the day, the battle’s going to belong to the graying, bearded wonder from Holland.

We waited, but the bill didn’t come. Finally after a spell of time, our waiter arrived, and instead of the bill, he handed out the news, “Your bill has been paid in full.” Nervous sideways glances seized all of us. Did we just hear that right? Was he joking? Was this really the case? Who would pay our bill? What did we do to deserve this? “A gentlemen covered your bill in full” was all the waiter said. And so we were left with our questions and feelings, both wrapped around us tighter than a cloak.

The questions of who were soon swallowed whole by feelings of joy and freedom. The bill, while by no means imprisoning or suffocating, was still a burden that we must face before we could exit the restaurant and carry on with our evening. To have the burden simply erased without any effort at all on our part felt strangely freeing. It’s not the experience that one has on a daily basis. The feeling of freedom was palpable.

It takes not the wisdom of Solomon to see where I’m headed with this post. The spiritual connection is obvious. Having the bill paid relates directly to the cross. Jesus paid the gargantuan bill of my sins with the divine currency of his blood on the cross. This is obvious. Many stories and allegories involving this kind of celestial transaction have been written. Mine is neither all that novel nor perceptive.

What struck me the other night was the feeling. The experience of grace was so profound and vivid. Throughout my whole body I felt the weight of this burden immediately lifted from my shoulders. It was like the shackles and chains fell to the floor with a resounding crash, the sound of which was sweeter than the purest of symphonies. It’s one thing to know forgiveness, to know the power of the cross, to know the value of cancelled sin. It’s another to feel it. To hear the cell door slam open. To smell the aroma of mercy. To feel the divine touch of grace.

The best part is that living the experience of grace makes me want to do it all over again. It makes me want others to be a part of it. Sometime if you see me in a restaurant or want to pay my bill, go ahead. Don’t hold back. Sharing that kind of grace is a beautiful thing.

And then sometime, I’ll do the same.

C near airport 365/71

Bridge with Kenna 365/70

Jacie Cd sz. 365/69

Oaks Canal 365/68

Flower, black border 365/67

Daisies Sky 365/66

Chris' Booty (his haul, not his backside) 365/65 - #65- hunting wild game

Compilation Sunday: that special time of week when picture and prose become as one.

Rolling over the African landscape the casual American on safari would come in contact with the most unusual of beasts. There’d be zebras and tigers and wildebeests and giraffes dotting the horizon all over the continent. The animal population teems with prides and packs and herds and troops and broods of all kinds. There are literally millions of wild beasts covering the land. However, to find this particular oryx shown in the picture, one would have to travel to the most exotic of all locations: Porterville, California.

My brother-in-law Chris bagged this oryx while on a hunting safari about a year and half ago. (Technically, I’m not all that certain of hunting terminology. I’ve heard the hunter-gatherers among us talk of “bagging” a deer. Can “bagging” be used to refer to animals of all sizes and shapes? Were I a rugged outdoorsman, might I be able to describe my capture of wild game as “bagging a cheetah” or “bagging an elephant?” Or does the term “bagging” only refer to taking down an animal that can fit into a bag? If the prey is somewhat larger, does a different term get used? Would it be correct to say that I “boxed” or “crated” or “industrial size trash-canned” a rhino?) On a visit to their house this past weekend, Carla and I got a first-hand look at the various heads of a wildebeest and an impala and others all ready for mounting in an office or den in the near future (or not so near future- depending on if you’re asking Chris or his wife. I'm not so sure that Pottery Barn has a line that features the wildebeest very prominently.)

Seeing all the fruit of an African taxidermist’s labor got me thinking about the concept of hunting.

Some people, especially men, take to it like ducks to water. It’s in their blood, their DNA. For them nothing is more enjoyable than traipsing over the landscape, looking and watching for the most elusive of game, bringing the sight to their eyes, quieting their bodies and preparing to unleash explosion, all in the hopes of ending the life of an unsuspecting animal.

This is not me. If you know me at all, you realize that I might just be the farthest thing from a hunter on this green planet. Perhaps it’s a result of my formative years. I imagine that such tracking instincts are learned rather than embedded at birth. My dad was not the hunting type, unless the term “hunting” could be stretched to include the “take-no-prisoners”, life or death pursuit of real estate upon which to chase a little white ball. This is the closest I ever got as a boy to outdoor, wilderness recreation. Granted, with clubs in hand I’d take mighty violent swings at the ball, but never have I come close to taking life with such forceful lunges, except of course for the time at Veenker Memorial on the campus of Iowa State when my 4-iron veered screaming sideways, line-driving straight at my beloved father, who was saved only by my forceful shout of “Fore” and the solid fiberglass construction of the golf cart which he desperately dove behind.

For me, this is likely as close as I will ever get to taking life with some sort of weapon. The tale of former Vice-President Cheney’s exploits on the hunting trail, while fodder for late night talk show hosts, to me was much more of a cautionary tale. Were I to head out into the wild with explosive in tow, I’d not be scared of shooting someone else in the hunting party. I’d be plenty scared of shooting myself.

Thus, in this area of life, I’ll be content to live vicariously through my brother-in-law. When I visit his abode, I’ll look at the various mounted brutes, perhaps imagine that I bagged them myself, picture myself with deluxe hunting jacket and hat on standing with one foot upon the brute and pipe in mouth and then leave that reverie and his house and return to my blissful, peaceful life devoid of such manly accomplishment.

Peeking through fence 365/64

J and K struggle 365/63

I am so glad I found this feature. I've been wanting to post these pictures to show the progression of Jacie and Kenna and their ensuing struggle to pull the wagon.

Cousins Easter 365/62

Everyone is in the picture but Ayla, who needed a break and Tommie (3 days old) because he was at home.

B&W Carter Zoo 365/61

R.O.U.S. 365/60

I really did this photo an injustice. I should have put something in the picture so one could compare the actual size of this rodent. This is for all those Princess Bride fans out there, including myself.

Hiking Wildflowers 365/59

We went hiking on Thursday with our family. We've hit a new stage in life. It was absolutely beautiful weather and the wildflowers are out. My only concern was Avery's propensity to fall just walking on flat surfaces; I didn't know if she could handle the trails high up. We had a great time and the kids were troopers!

Jacie's toothless grin 365/58 - #58- the doctrine of the tooth fairy

Compilation Sunday: That special time of week when picture and prose become as one.

This morning within a 1/2 hour's time I had two different yet very profound experiences dealing with belief, all before the sun climbed over the peaks of the Sierras. It seemed kind of fitting for an Easter morning.

Before I get to those, let me give a little background. Last night I pulled the ol' minivan into the garage and was met with an excited shout of "Daddy" as soon as I opened the door to the house. Usually this is a sign of great things to come, except of course when it's my youngest daughter Avery rushing up to me and excitedly asking me to smell her breath. (If you're a parent, I'm sure you can relate to a young child learning to brush her teeth by herself. Sometimes indulging her desire is the olfactory equivalent of having a face only a mother or father can love.) It wasn't Avery this time. It was Jacie, and she gushed to show me the hole in her mouth where one of her teeth used to live only minute before. For our family this was a first. We found my old homemade, tooth-shaped pillow my mommy had made for me, stuck the tooth in and snugly put it next to her blanket on the bed. With all of that came the requisite admonitions and heedings about the magical Tooth Fairy coming for a visit and being quiet and so on. She went to sleep hopeful for a visit from the tooth fairy. Carla and I closed the door and were hopeful that the room wasn't too dark and that the Tooth Fairy wouldn't slam his size 12 paws into the dresser.

Jacie woke up this morning clutching a pair of shiny quarters that the Tooth Fairy had left. (Perhaps the casual reader of this blog is thinking that 4 bits is quite the paltry amount, especially for a first tooth. Well, obviously the dire recession has hit even the magical realm. Word has it that the Easter Bunny won't be making quite as many eggs available for discovery either. It's a sad state of affairs.) She truly and firmly knew that the Tooth Fairy had come to her room. She believed wholeheartedly. She then proceeded to lose the quarters in a matter of minutes, but safe investing will be a subject for some other post.

It was quite the contrast to the scene I witnessed 25 minutes earlier. I needed to make a quite trip to Winco for some eggs for breakfast. I walked in on this, Easter Sunday morning, and found . . . business as usual. Stacked cardboard boxes were strewn about like toppled dominoes. Stockpersons shelved and shelved items. The place was largely absent of the joy of Easter, minus of course the Peeps and Cadburys. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting: people singing and dancing as they lined up Chef Boyardee? Gleaming smiles as they straightened melons? I don't know. It just seemed like there should be some indication that this was the day of all days on the calendar, the day to celebrate life and the fact that is has meaning. Today shouldn't be a day like any other, and Winco just seemed to be a microcosm of a world that doesn't believe and subsequently doesn't care about the Risen Savior.

I'm not saying that the Tooth Fairy is a savior and that believing in him or her (that's a huge question in itself: what exactly is the Tooth Fairy's gender?) is saving faith. I just know that to be a Christ follower is to believe in something you cannot see, but you believe in it anyway, and it profoundly affects you in powerful ways. I saw that in my daughter Jacie this morning. I didn't see it at Winco.

I guess I'm glad that Jacie believes in the Tooth Fairy. Last night she was pretty sure as she hoped for a visit, and this morning she was downright certain of the visit, even if she didn't see him/her/it. Sure-hope-certain-see. Sounds like a biblical prescription for faith. It gives me hope that she'll ultimately find true faith in Christ. All thanks to the doctrine of the Tooth Fairy.

Roses on Fence 365/57

Thorns Donkey 365/56

We saw a donkey the other day near a house that I always find so beautiful. It's tucked back from the road and has alot of acreage. They have horses grazing all in the pastures and a couple donkeys. I thought this was a good one for Good Friday.

Strawberries 365/55

In the words of Rachael Ray, "yummo". I love this time of year when we can eat strawberry shortcake, pie, jam...

JC Flying 365/54

This was taken on the other side of the airport. Who knew we could drive on the other side? Funny thing is there was really nothing to take a picture of but somehow objects "flying" were still captured.

Kaweah Oaks Daddy and Children 365/53

We had a picnic at the Preserve today and then went on a hike. We took the Grapvine Trail which was a nice walk (1/4 mile) through the "forest" as Avery called it. There were alot of long vines hanging down from the trees, I imagine it's alot like what monkeys would swing on or maybe Tarzan!

Aerial Jacie 365/52

RR balance beam 365/51 - #51- playing around

Compilation Sunday: That special time of the week when picture and prose become as one.


At its least, a photograph captures a moment in time, however grainy or blurry that moment might be. Sometimes, though, a single photograph can somehow magically grab more than a single frame of time. Sometimes a single photo manages to encapsulate an entire age and this particular shot captures the whimsy and lightheartedness that is childhood. To be a child is to look at the cold, hard steel of the tracks, as straight as columns on a spreadsheet, and see a balance beam inviting a gymnastics prodigy for a world-class routine.

I hope my kids don’t quickly lose sight of the balance beam in their lives. Adulthood is long and full of Responsibility and Work. I want them to play as if Time were on vacation. I want them to play dress-up with unabated ridiculousness. I want them to play “babies” all the way until they’ve got babies of their own. I want them to ride bicycles and scooters as if they’re racing childhood across the asphalt.

God gives each of us a little corner of our hearts that is the center of play. As kids, we’re hanging out in this room most of the time, celebrating the genuine joy of hide and seek and trucks and balls and dolls. As we grow this room in our hearts gets visited less and less often as we get mired in Duty and Responsibility. Every once in a while, by plan or by providence (as if there’s a difference) we make a quick trip to our own individual center of play and the journey is usually quite exhilarating, if not nostalgic.

One of the best days in the last decade happened on February 12, 2005. A group of about 10 ladies, including my wife, planned a surprise day trip to the coast for their husbands. Obviously they were so enthralled with us and our many genuine, romantic, loving, compassionate (did I mention humble?) nature that they wanted to treat us to a special day away. On the bus ride to the coast we did all kinds of adult things. We talked tax refunds and tax sheltered annuities. We drank alcohol and snacked on crackers and spinach dip. We played cards and gently ribbed each other the way that guys do.

But when we got to the beach, we dialed back the clock. We broke out the bat and ball and played a full-fledged coed game of whiffle ball, complete with running and diving and cheers and jeers, and we ran up and down the sand, playing ultimate Frisbee with delight. Granted, our bodies might have creaked and cracked a little more than in years gone by and our velocity wasn’t setting any land-speed records, but we simply played nonetheless. It brought us all back in time and made us realize the sheer exhilaration of play once again.

In short, play is recreation and to “recreate” is to once again revisit the Father’s ultimate act of blowing life into this world. Maybe that’s why it feels so invigorating to play and why as Jacie walks the balance beam in this picture, I hope she never runs out of track.

Avery kissing Daddy 365/50

I call this Blake and Avery's engagement picture. It looks like it should be. Beautiful background, focus on the lovely couple...