John 12:8 “You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
There are some things we will always have, both good and bad, but Jesus overcomes all things. He is more important than the best and the worst that we experience. We devote our time and energy to those things that have the greatest impact on our lives. We see sickness and health, wealth and poverty. All these things have a great impact on us for good or bad, and all of them can, by their impact, distract us from Christ. The essence of our relationship with Christ is that while all these things affect us at different levels we need to deal with Christ first and all other things through Him, not before or after Him.
The sequence of events in how we deal with any occasion in our lives determines the impact they have on us for Christ.
Occasionally, in some form or another the question is asked of me, “With all that you have been through why do you hold on to your faith?”
I think the answer to that question lies in what my priorities have become. I simply cannot bear to imagine my life without my faith. I’ve been there and done that. I have changed too much to go back and find satisfaction in a world without God. It would be barren and lifeless. I can no longer tolerate the world’s value system. I think about what offends God and I care about it. These things were once the furthest things from my mind. At the same time I have also reached a point where, while I love, fear and respect God, I have also come to understand that He allows questions. He allows challenges from us, for that is how we learn submission to Him. He can overcome any challenge. It is we who fear challenges to God, because we fear that He cannot meet them. We apply our own limits to God which automatically makes Him inadequate for our needs.
In his book “Reaching for the Invisible God.” Philip Yancey quotes Kathleen Norris.
“One so often hears people say, “I just can’t handle it”, when they reject a biblical image of God as Father, as Mother, as Lord or Judge; God as lover, as angry or jealous, God on a cross. I find this choice of words revealing, however real the pain they reflect: if we seek a God we can “handle”, that will be exactly what we get. A God we can manipulate, suspiciously like ourselves, the wideness of whose mercy we’ve cut down to size”.
In ancient times it was common practice for a farmer to worship gods that were representative of the things he had to deal with. Hence there were gods of the soil, of the sun, the rain, the harvest. He sacrificed to it in the way he saw fit and made up his own priestly rules. His god’s influence ended at his property line.
By cutting God down to a “manageable” size we attempt to make Him into someone who is our individual ideal of “enough” to satisfy our personal needs. Yet God, being limitless, is more than enough; our need, also being limitless, can never be filled by a god of our own making.
I don’t love God enough.
I don’t love my wife enough.
I don’t love my children enough.
It can never be “enough” when the source that satisfies your need is limitless.
A limitless source supplies a continuous need. A limitless source will also provide a limitless means of expression. There is always more available to give through Christ.
We are the Beloved of God. We must never desire less than He offers us. We must not maintain a minimal faith.
When our faith reaches a point where we have had “enough” then we have begun the slow and painful spiral down to death. A real faith recognizes that there is never “enough” to satisfy our thirst. True faith is never satisfied. It always searches for one more thing to believe, one more wonderful piece of evidence that proves for me once again that God loves me.
Sometimes that search takes us into areas of our lives that we would rather not go.
In the midst of my selfishness and pride I discover that my humility gives me value.
In the midst of my anger I find that a peaceful heart will accomplish more.
In the midst of all my wonderful “Christian Activities/Ministries”, I find exhaustion that forces my dependence on Christ.
In the aftermath of a cruel and bloody crucifixion, I find the pearl of the Resurrection. The latter is not possible without the former.
Sometimes the greatest treasures are the ones left unused and forgotten in the corner of the attic, covered with dust. They are the things of my childhood that were left behind with the advent of “maturity” in my social lexicon.
Many times when I am helping to care for some of the children in our church nursery, I will attempt to get them interested in some of the toys in the arsenal. Sometimes they can be a pretty hard sell, but most of the time there is something that will catch their fancy. In the process of using a random toy to catch their attention I have to admit that it gets my attention instead. Sometimes I use a particular toy to get their attention because it’s a toy I want to play with. I keep thinking to myself, “Why didn’t we have toys like this when I was a kid?” (Although I have to admit that if Elmo doesn’t shut up soon he’s gonna get his batteries yanked.) And for a little while I give up the weightier theological/social/important matters that occupy my thoughts and try to pretend that I barely know how to walk. I try to learn all over again instead of rehashing the same old information. The “big” things will all still be there when I get back to myself, because “You will always have the (fill in the blank)…” But Christ is bigger.
My priority then is to become the child Christ called me to be. To regain some of the purity of spirit that I had before I was influenced by the rest of the world. When Christ called us to be like children, I don’t think he necessarily meant for us to be blindly trusting. He wants us to trust Him completely, but He wants us to come to Him with no regard for the limitations this world would place on our relationship to Him.
When the children wanted to be near Jesus the adults were trying to hold them back. He told the adults to let them come.
“Then little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." When he had placed his hands on them, he went on from there.” Matthew 19:13-15. If there was one sound that I had to think of that inspires joy in me I would have to say it is the sound of a child who is just learning that he or she has a voice. They have not yet learned to form words. Every sound they make is an experiment. Every sound is the embodiment of wonder. God knows what kids are like, and He enjoys it. Children are capable of understanding the intimacy that God desires to have with us while still acknowledging Him as the Creator of all things.
Children first want to be loved.
Christ first wants to love us.
Be like a child.
I want Him to enjoy my presence as well, and so I attempt to be the kind of person He is making me to be.
Our lives take on a weird cycle. We start out as children wanting to be adults so we can do more, and then we become adults who want to be children so someone else can take all the responsibility and we can go back to enjoying life.
Christ calls us to exactly that life, but the joy of life He desires for us is based on Him rather than the empty, selfish pursuits of the world. By the world’s standards we need “things” and “stuff” to be “happy”. We must be “visible” and “prominent”. And when we have bought all the “things”, and got all the “stuff”, and become “visible” and “prominent”, we find ourselves withered, dried up, and lifeless, dying for nothing.
The world wants me to have a relationship with Christ on its terms not on God’s terms. The world doesn’t want to actually know anything about our relationship with God. It’s enough for them to know I have that relationship as long as they don’t have to hear it. That’s enough for them.
It’s not enough for God. God is not silent about what He wants from us. “You will always have the …”, but you have God first. He wants you more than any need anyone else has, and your satisfaction in life will be greater when you seek out His desires for you before your own, or the world’s.
I don’t always want to do that though. Sometimes my desires are in direct opposition to my faith. Sometimes I collide with my faith, and it shakes me to my core. Because while I am fickle and flit to and fro amongst all the “things/stuff/values/…garbage” that the world offers, my faith being a gift of God, remains firmly fixed on God. I drift further and further from it at times, but I remain attached with this “spiritual rubber band” called my conscience that can only stretch so far before all of my justifications for doing the things I do can’t be stretched any further and I get yanked back to that rock hard and fast. I collide with my faith. After I have slammed into it and the stars have cleared from my eyes I finally get back on top and realize, “Wow! The view is so much better from here!”
It’s much easier to see the benefit of my faith in the aftermath of a crisis than in the midst of it, but it’s always what I hold on to the hardest in the difficult moments. Anything else would crumble beneath me. I know this from experience.
So now instead of trying to be a child of this world, I strive to be a child of the next, sitting in the lap of the God of Wonder…
©Dan Bode 2004
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sewer Golf
I had dinner with an old friend that I hadn't talked to in a while last week. It reminded me of a story I wrote a few years ago that was actually inspired by him. No deep spiritual truths here, just fun...a lot like my friend.
There is something going on in the underworld of cities all over the world. I don’t think “conspiracy” would be the right word, but maybe “secret society” is appropriate. Let me tell you how I know about this.
One day a few months ago I was talking to a friend of mine who was doing some work on a house he and his wife had just purchased. He said he needed a powerful toilet to replace the one in the bathroom his sons use. When I asked him why he said, “Because I have four sons. They are very “productive”, and I’m tired of plunging their toilet all the time.” He said the toilet salesman that he got the new toilet from told him that it was so powerful that it could actually flush 12 golf balls at one time!Now I have to admit that this sounds like an impressive standard to me. Especially when you realize that toilets don’t flush like they used to. The old toilets used to be able to use somewhere around 2000 gallons of water per flush. It was about enough to fill your pool (if you had a pool that you needed to fill in a hurry and about 200 gallons of chlorine to sterilize it with). Then someone said we were using way too much water to flush our toilets and they made a national standard that said you couldn’t make toilets with tanks on them bigger than somewhere around 1 gallon. This of course led to the creation of a black market in old toilets that everyone wanted to buy because they had to flush 50 or 60 times anyway with the new toilets. I personally think this also led to the drop in the level of the world oceans as well. I mean, think about it for a minute. One day we’re dropping 2000 gallons per flush, and the next we’re down to 1! That’s land mass water retention! How could it not have a global impact?
So now you can understand how impressed I am to hear about a toilet that can flush 12golf balls in one flush!
The discovery of this “flushing standard” caused me to start wondering: Why are golf balls being flushed to measure the toilet flushing power in the first place? Why would anyone think that one perfectly good golf ball would be useful in a toilet let alone 12 of them?! Now I myself am not a golfer. I used to play a little in high school (sometime in the last century), but it just never took. It’s a little too sedate for me. About the only real “action” I saw was when the incredibly fat geese that hung out at the pond by the 9th hole attacked my partner and he had to defend himself with a 9 iron. I had never actually seen anyone run on a golf course before. And even the most ardent supporters of the game have to admit that it’s not really an exciting sport. I mean sure things get a little tense toward the end of a high stakes tournament when the purse (there’s a manly term) is a million dollars and the player realizes that he might not be able to make that next yacht payment if he misses this final 10 yard putt for the birdie or bogey or palmer or nicklaus or whatever they’re going for, but for most of us who play on public courses where the squirrels steal the balls before they get to the green it just ain’t that big a deal. Even the announcers on television whisper about everything. It just seems too stinkin’ calm and quiet to be called a “sport”.
Anyway, I started thinking about all the stories I’ve heard about the stuff that’s found down in sewers by the guys that work down there. One of my own brothers used to do that and he came back with some valuable pieces of jewelry. I’d be willing to bet there’s a pretty good sized wild goldfish population down there too (they probably all mutated into carnivorous koi or something). So who would benefit from flushing golf balls? The sewer maintenance guys! They’re playing golf in the sewers! You may think I’m way off on this, but next time there’s a construction crew replacing the main sewer pipes in your town you should look at how big those things are! The average person could stand up in them! It would be easy to set up a tournament too. Just imagine the salesman after he has completed the sale standing in the back room on his cell phone:
“Hey Smitty, it’s Ralph.” (Smitty is the tournament coordinator who works for the city sewer system.)
“Hey Ralph, did you get those balls delivered?”
“Yeah they’ll be around the intersection of 9th and B St. on the east side.”
“Perfect! Thanks for setting that up for us.”
“No problem, and the customer wanted a second demonstration so there should be 24 Top-Flites instead of the usual 12!”
“Way to go! Thanks man! Now remember we’ll be going in at the manhole on 6th and C St. at 6AM tomorrow. It hasn’t rained for a while so the methane buildup shouldn’t be a problem this time.”
“Methane? What’s methane gas got to do with it?”
“Didn’t I ever tell you about that? After it rains sometimes the methane gas builds up in the pipes. That’s probably why you got so light headed last time.”
“Was that it? Wow, I never knew that!”
“Ok well, we’ll see you tomorrow morning!”
“Ok Smitty!”
And I’ll bet the rules are pretty straightforward too. You’re probably not likely to lose the balls very easily. I remember from all the ones I hit into the water that golf balls don’t float, so I’m thinking they’re pretty easy to retrieve from the shallow water running at the bottom of the pipes. It’s probably more a matter of whether you want to put your hands in it or not, I mean those balls were delivered through toilets after all. Infrared goggles are optional, but recommended in case you lose your light and can’t keep track of the other players in the dark. A miner’s headlamp is a must. All players wear rubber boots with special non-skid soles. All players are required to have a functional GPS locator on there person at all times. No smoking or flame producing devices are allowed due to the occasional aforementioned buildup of methane, a flammable gas.
Drivers are rarely used since your shots all consist of putts and bank shots off the wall. Divots do not exist here; therefore they do not need to be replaced. The tee is a specially constructed portable platform that is transported with the group through the course. Its height is adjustable to accommodate for the varying depths of water in different sections of the pipe network.
The course is configured on the morning of the game, and is sometimes made up as you go along. The actual “cup” will be the opening from one of the residential or commercial sewer mains that drain into the main pipe, or a bucket laid on its side according to player preference.
Penalties accrue when your ball ricochets down the wrong tunnel or when your ball takes out a light. Penalties are also awarded if you take your shot after the other players have started to advance into the field of play. If your ball hits another player the rest of the group will determine how many strokes you are penalized. If the player is rendered unconscious you are penalized the maximum 5 strokes. If he does not regain consciousness within 2 minutes the game must be post-poned and the injured player transported above ground and left on a public park bench while an anonymous 911 call is made for an ambulance. This is necessary to retain the required anonymity of the players. When the player recovers and the game can resume the player who made the debilitating shot is awarded 1 additional stroke for every hour it took for the injured player to recover his memory after regaining consciousness.
You are awarded a deduction if your ball takes out a rat or any other resident sewer animal.
I could go on, because the rules get pretty detailed, but I won’t. I think they are actually going to form a club and write by-laws and everything. I’m not really sure where they would build their club although I suspect it would be “tubular” in design.
It is truly amazing how something so simple as flushing a golf ball down a toilet can lead to the development of an entire subculture!
What a country!
© Dan Bode 2006
There is something going on in the underworld of cities all over the world. I don’t think “conspiracy” would be the right word, but maybe “secret society” is appropriate. Let me tell you how I know about this.
One day a few months ago I was talking to a friend of mine who was doing some work on a house he and his wife had just purchased. He said he needed a powerful toilet to replace the one in the bathroom his sons use. When I asked him why he said, “Because I have four sons. They are very “productive”, and I’m tired of plunging their toilet all the time.” He said the toilet salesman that he got the new toilet from told him that it was so powerful that it could actually flush 12 golf balls at one time!Now I have to admit that this sounds like an impressive standard to me. Especially when you realize that toilets don’t flush like they used to. The old toilets used to be able to use somewhere around 2000 gallons of water per flush. It was about enough to fill your pool (if you had a pool that you needed to fill in a hurry and about 200 gallons of chlorine to sterilize it with). Then someone said we were using way too much water to flush our toilets and they made a national standard that said you couldn’t make toilets with tanks on them bigger than somewhere around 1 gallon. This of course led to the creation of a black market in old toilets that everyone wanted to buy because they had to flush 50 or 60 times anyway with the new toilets. I personally think this also led to the drop in the level of the world oceans as well. I mean, think about it for a minute. One day we’re dropping 2000 gallons per flush, and the next we’re down to 1! That’s land mass water retention! How could it not have a global impact?
So now you can understand how impressed I am to hear about a toilet that can flush 12golf balls in one flush!
The discovery of this “flushing standard” caused me to start wondering: Why are golf balls being flushed to measure the toilet flushing power in the first place? Why would anyone think that one perfectly good golf ball would be useful in a toilet let alone 12 of them?! Now I myself am not a golfer. I used to play a little in high school (sometime in the last century), but it just never took. It’s a little too sedate for me. About the only real “action” I saw was when the incredibly fat geese that hung out at the pond by the 9th hole attacked my partner and he had to defend himself with a 9 iron. I had never actually seen anyone run on a golf course before. And even the most ardent supporters of the game have to admit that it’s not really an exciting sport. I mean sure things get a little tense toward the end of a high stakes tournament when the purse (there’s a manly term) is a million dollars and the player realizes that he might not be able to make that next yacht payment if he misses this final 10 yard putt for the birdie or bogey or palmer or nicklaus or whatever they’re going for, but for most of us who play on public courses where the squirrels steal the balls before they get to the green it just ain’t that big a deal. Even the announcers on television whisper about everything. It just seems too stinkin’ calm and quiet to be called a “sport”.
Anyway, I started thinking about all the stories I’ve heard about the stuff that’s found down in sewers by the guys that work down there. One of my own brothers used to do that and he came back with some valuable pieces of jewelry. I’d be willing to bet there’s a pretty good sized wild goldfish population down there too (they probably all mutated into carnivorous koi or something). So who would benefit from flushing golf balls? The sewer maintenance guys! They’re playing golf in the sewers! You may think I’m way off on this, but next time there’s a construction crew replacing the main sewer pipes in your town you should look at how big those things are! The average person could stand up in them! It would be easy to set up a tournament too. Just imagine the salesman after he has completed the sale standing in the back room on his cell phone:
“Hey Smitty, it’s Ralph.” (Smitty is the tournament coordinator who works for the city sewer system.)
“Hey Ralph, did you get those balls delivered?”
“Yeah they’ll be around the intersection of 9th and B St. on the east side.”
“Perfect! Thanks for setting that up for us.”
“No problem, and the customer wanted a second demonstration so there should be 24 Top-Flites instead of the usual 12!”
“Way to go! Thanks man! Now remember we’ll be going in at the manhole on 6th and C St. at 6AM tomorrow. It hasn’t rained for a while so the methane buildup shouldn’t be a problem this time.”
“Methane? What’s methane gas got to do with it?”
“Didn’t I ever tell you about that? After it rains sometimes the methane gas builds up in the pipes. That’s probably why you got so light headed last time.”
“Was that it? Wow, I never knew that!”
“Ok well, we’ll see you tomorrow morning!”
“Ok Smitty!”
And I’ll bet the rules are pretty straightforward too. You’re probably not likely to lose the balls very easily. I remember from all the ones I hit into the water that golf balls don’t float, so I’m thinking they’re pretty easy to retrieve from the shallow water running at the bottom of the pipes. It’s probably more a matter of whether you want to put your hands in it or not, I mean those balls were delivered through toilets after all. Infrared goggles are optional, but recommended in case you lose your light and can’t keep track of the other players in the dark. A miner’s headlamp is a must. All players wear rubber boots with special non-skid soles. All players are required to have a functional GPS locator on there person at all times. No smoking or flame producing devices are allowed due to the occasional aforementioned buildup of methane, a flammable gas.
Drivers are rarely used since your shots all consist of putts and bank shots off the wall. Divots do not exist here; therefore they do not need to be replaced. The tee is a specially constructed portable platform that is transported with the group through the course. Its height is adjustable to accommodate for the varying depths of water in different sections of the pipe network.
The course is configured on the morning of the game, and is sometimes made up as you go along. The actual “cup” will be the opening from one of the residential or commercial sewer mains that drain into the main pipe, or a bucket laid on its side according to player preference.
Penalties accrue when your ball ricochets down the wrong tunnel or when your ball takes out a light. Penalties are also awarded if you take your shot after the other players have started to advance into the field of play. If your ball hits another player the rest of the group will determine how many strokes you are penalized. If the player is rendered unconscious you are penalized the maximum 5 strokes. If he does not regain consciousness within 2 minutes the game must be post-poned and the injured player transported above ground and left on a public park bench while an anonymous 911 call is made for an ambulance. This is necessary to retain the required anonymity of the players. When the player recovers and the game can resume the player who made the debilitating shot is awarded 1 additional stroke for every hour it took for the injured player to recover his memory after regaining consciousness.
You are awarded a deduction if your ball takes out a rat or any other resident sewer animal.
I could go on, because the rules get pretty detailed, but I won’t. I think they are actually going to form a club and write by-laws and everything. I’m not really sure where they would build their club although I suspect it would be “tubular” in design.
It is truly amazing how something so simple as flushing a golf ball down a toilet can lead to the development of an entire subculture!
What a country!
© Dan Bode 2006
Monday, May 23, 2011
Trials and Failings
My initial reaction to trials has always been rebellion. I think I can always say that I eventually learn my lesson in these trials, but it almost never comes quickly.
When I am faced with a trial that threatens myself, I am usually quicker to see the light. If, on the other hand, it threatens those I love I come to the conclusion of my lesson in a more pedestrian manner.
When someone I love is threatened it is my immediate reaction to do everything I can to fix it myself. Now I suppose this reaction, in and of itself, shouldn’t be considered bad. We should all be doing what we can to help each other. For me, however, it becomes more of an issue in that I fail to recognize when all of my resources have failed to obtain the desired result. I fail to recognize when I have failed. I have become an expert in whipping dead horses.
When I have reached the end of my resources, and failed to accomplish what I set out to do, I sit back and rail against my God for not doing it right, in spite of the fact that somewhere inside I am fully aware that it is I who has done it wrong. Pride is a harsh mistress.
When I come to the end of my limited resources, I am forced to admit to a sense of inadequacy that inspires in me an incredible fear. I fear not being “good enough”. If I am not a “good enough” husband and father my family will dislike me. If I am not a “good enough” friend no one will be interested in my needs as a person. If I am not a “good enough” employee I will be out on the streets with my family.
The paradox in all of this is that my definition of “good enough” sets a standard of expectation that no human is able to reach. In addition, I find that no one else sets standards that high for me, however they do set standards too high for themselves as I do. So we are all jumping for the bottom rung of the ladder that we ourselves have set too high to reach.
God also sets a high standard. He asks us to be holy, as He is holy. He asks us to become perfect. God has set for us a standard that we are unable to reach just as we do for ourselves. The unique, and crucial, difference between us and God is that He is willing and able to give us the means to attain His standard, while we constantly fail to meet our own. One of the reasons for the very existence of Christ is that He alone can lift us to the standard of God. He completes our journey toward perfection. A greater wonder still is that He allows us to reach that goal while we remain in our imperfection.
Human nature has always been to strive for control of our environment and our destiny. Rather than acknowledge God’s authority we strive against our own humanity. We seek to exceed our own limitations, and in the end, our entire lives become stories of unending failures that leave us weary, thirsty, struggling to draw our next breath. Our efforts are meant, like the Tower of Babel, to make us equal to God rather than to draw near to Him. We assume that we have some place as divine beings rather than acknowledge that we are subject to God’s divinity.
It is when I have to sit by and watch helplessly as one I love suffers that I become so acutely aware that I am not adequate to the task of reaching the standard I have set. My standard requires that I end the suffering of others, but my humanity proves that I am unable to do so.
This is where I learn the most. This is where I finally figure out that I ultimately control nothing. This is where I finally realize that my choice is to trust that God alone knows the ultimate good that will come out of a given situation, or to leave my faith in Him behind and live with the inadequacy of my own strength.
It’s a lesson I have learned before, I just wish I could remember it for the next time.
©Dan Bode 1999
When I am faced with a trial that threatens myself, I am usually quicker to see the light. If, on the other hand, it threatens those I love I come to the conclusion of my lesson in a more pedestrian manner.
When someone I love is threatened it is my immediate reaction to do everything I can to fix it myself. Now I suppose this reaction, in and of itself, shouldn’t be considered bad. We should all be doing what we can to help each other. For me, however, it becomes more of an issue in that I fail to recognize when all of my resources have failed to obtain the desired result. I fail to recognize when I have failed. I have become an expert in whipping dead horses.
When I have reached the end of my resources, and failed to accomplish what I set out to do, I sit back and rail against my God for not doing it right, in spite of the fact that somewhere inside I am fully aware that it is I who has done it wrong. Pride is a harsh mistress.
When I come to the end of my limited resources, I am forced to admit to a sense of inadequacy that inspires in me an incredible fear. I fear not being “good enough”. If I am not a “good enough” husband and father my family will dislike me. If I am not a “good enough” friend no one will be interested in my needs as a person. If I am not a “good enough” employee I will be out on the streets with my family.
The paradox in all of this is that my definition of “good enough” sets a standard of expectation that no human is able to reach. In addition, I find that no one else sets standards that high for me, however they do set standards too high for themselves as I do. So we are all jumping for the bottom rung of the ladder that we ourselves have set too high to reach.
God also sets a high standard. He asks us to be holy, as He is holy. He asks us to become perfect. God has set for us a standard that we are unable to reach just as we do for ourselves. The unique, and crucial, difference between us and God is that He is willing and able to give us the means to attain His standard, while we constantly fail to meet our own. One of the reasons for the very existence of Christ is that He alone can lift us to the standard of God. He completes our journey toward perfection. A greater wonder still is that He allows us to reach that goal while we remain in our imperfection.
Human nature has always been to strive for control of our environment and our destiny. Rather than acknowledge God’s authority we strive against our own humanity. We seek to exceed our own limitations, and in the end, our entire lives become stories of unending failures that leave us weary, thirsty, struggling to draw our next breath. Our efforts are meant, like the Tower of Babel, to make us equal to God rather than to draw near to Him. We assume that we have some place as divine beings rather than acknowledge that we are subject to God’s divinity.
It is when I have to sit by and watch helplessly as one I love suffers that I become so acutely aware that I am not adequate to the task of reaching the standard I have set. My standard requires that I end the suffering of others, but my humanity proves that I am unable to do so.
This is where I learn the most. This is where I finally figure out that I ultimately control nothing. This is where I finally realize that my choice is to trust that God alone knows the ultimate good that will come out of a given situation, or to leave my faith in Him behind and live with the inadequacy of my own strength.
It’s a lesson I have learned before, I just wish I could remember it for the next time.
©Dan Bode 1999
Trials and Failing
My initial reaction to trials has always been rebellion. I think I can always say that I eventually learn my lesson in these trials, but it almost never comes quickly.
When I am faced with a trial that threatens myself, I am usually quicker to see the light. If, on the other hand, it threatens those I love I come to the conclusion of my lesson in a more pedestrian manner.
When someone I love is threatened it is my immediate reaction to do everything I can to fix it myself. Now I suppose this reaction, in and of itself, shouldn’t be considered bad. We should all be doing what we can to help each other. For me, however, it becomes more of an issue in that I fail to recognize when all of my resources have failed to obtain the desired result. I fail to recognize when I have failed. I have become an expert in whipping dead horses.
When I have reached the end of my resources, and failed to accomplish what I set out to do, I sit back and rail against my God for not doing it right, in spite of the fact that somewhere inside I am fully aware that it is I who has done it wrong. Pride is a harsh mistress.
When I come to the end of my limited resources, I am forced to admit to a sense of inadequacy that inspires in me an incredible fear. I fear not being “good enough”. If I am not a “good enough” husband and father my family will dislike me. If I am not a “good enough” friend no one will be interested in my needs as a person. If I am not a “good enough” employee I will be out on the streets with my family.
The paradox in all of this is that my definition of “good enough” sets a standard of expectation that no human is able to reach. In addition, I find that no one else sets standards that high for me, however they do set standards too high for themselves as I do. So we are all jumping for the bottom rung of the ladder that we ourselves have set too high to reach.
God also sets a high standard. He asks us to be holy, as He is holy. He asks us to become perfect. God has set for us a standard that we are unable to reach just as we do for ourselves. The unique, and crucial, difference between us and God is that He is willing and able to give us the means to attain His standard, while we constantly fail to meet our own. One of the reasons for the very existence of Christ is that He alone can lift us to the standard of God. He completes our journey toward perfection. A greater wonder still is that He allows us to reach that goal while we remain in our imperfection.
Human nature has always been to strive for control of our environment and our destiny. Rather than acknowledge God’s authority we strive against our own humanity. We seek to exceed our own limitations, and in the end, our entire lives become stories of unending failures that leave us weary, thirsty, struggling to draw our next breath. Our efforts are meant, like the Tower of Babel, to make us equal to God rather than to draw near to Him. We assume that we have some place as divine beings rather than acknowledge that we are subject to God’s divinity.
It is when I have to sit by and watch helplessly as one I love suffers that I become so acutely aware that I am not adequate to the task of reaching the standard I have set. My standard requires that I end the suffering of others, but my humanity proves that I am unable to do so.
This is where I learn the most. This is where I finally figure out that I ultimately control nothing. This is where I finally realize that my choice is to trust that God alone knows the ultimate good that will come out of a given situation, or to leave my faith in Him behind and live with the inadequacy of my own strength.
It’s a lesson I have learned before, I just wish I could remember it for the next time.
©Dan Bode 1999
When I am faced with a trial that threatens myself, I am usually quicker to see the light. If, on the other hand, it threatens those I love I come to the conclusion of my lesson in a more pedestrian manner.
When someone I love is threatened it is my immediate reaction to do everything I can to fix it myself. Now I suppose this reaction, in and of itself, shouldn’t be considered bad. We should all be doing what we can to help each other. For me, however, it becomes more of an issue in that I fail to recognize when all of my resources have failed to obtain the desired result. I fail to recognize when I have failed. I have become an expert in whipping dead horses.
When I have reached the end of my resources, and failed to accomplish what I set out to do, I sit back and rail against my God for not doing it right, in spite of the fact that somewhere inside I am fully aware that it is I who has done it wrong. Pride is a harsh mistress.
When I come to the end of my limited resources, I am forced to admit to a sense of inadequacy that inspires in me an incredible fear. I fear not being “good enough”. If I am not a “good enough” husband and father my family will dislike me. If I am not a “good enough” friend no one will be interested in my needs as a person. If I am not a “good enough” employee I will be out on the streets with my family.
The paradox in all of this is that my definition of “good enough” sets a standard of expectation that no human is able to reach. In addition, I find that no one else sets standards that high for me, however they do set standards too high for themselves as I do. So we are all jumping for the bottom rung of the ladder that we ourselves have set too high to reach.
God also sets a high standard. He asks us to be holy, as He is holy. He asks us to become perfect. God has set for us a standard that we are unable to reach just as we do for ourselves. The unique, and crucial, difference between us and God is that He is willing and able to give us the means to attain His standard, while we constantly fail to meet our own. One of the reasons for the very existence of Christ is that He alone can lift us to the standard of God. He completes our journey toward perfection. A greater wonder still is that He allows us to reach that goal while we remain in our imperfection.
Human nature has always been to strive for control of our environment and our destiny. Rather than acknowledge God’s authority we strive against our own humanity. We seek to exceed our own limitations, and in the end, our entire lives become stories of unending failures that leave us weary, thirsty, struggling to draw our next breath. Our efforts are meant, like the Tower of Babel, to make us equal to God rather than to draw near to Him. We assume that we have some place as divine beings rather than acknowledge that we are subject to God’s divinity.
It is when I have to sit by and watch helplessly as one I love suffers that I become so acutely aware that I am not adequate to the task of reaching the standard I have set. My standard requires that I end the suffering of others, but my humanity proves that I am unable to do so.
This is where I learn the most. This is where I finally figure out that I ultimately control nothing. This is where I finally realize that my choice is to trust that God alone knows the ultimate good that will come out of a given situation, or to leave my faith in Him behind and live with the inadequacy of my own strength.
It’s a lesson I have learned before, I just wish I could remember it for the next time.
©Dan Bode 1999
Monday, May 16, 2011
Everything Changes
I don’t suppose anyone can be expected to expect the unexpected.
Isn’t that why it’s called the unexpected?
I mean, everything changes right?
For some reason I recalled an incident, out of the many from my childhood, that proved this statement valid.
A few miles from my home there was an industrial park that always had some construction going on one of the lots. A necessary part of the construction process was moving excess dirt off of the site being prepared for any new building. There was one particular lot that, for whatever reason, was used as the dirt dumping ground. As the weather imposed itself on the dirt on this lot it was slowly transformed into a very hilly landscape. There were hills of a variety of sizes here from small bumps to the “main hill” as my friends and I used to call it.
The Main Hill was apparently the first load of dirt that was dumped on this lot. It was located fairly close to the center of the property and it was by far the highest hill there. Without diluting my memory of its size I would say its peak was probably about 30 feet high, which to a grade school kid is relatively high. The Main Hill had uniform slopes on all sides of about 40 degrees.
The thing about this park and this lot in particular was that it was on the route that we took almost every Saturday to get to our favorite candy store. It was the late ‘60’s and my allowance of .50 cents could buy a whole bag of assorted candy back then. I can still remember how mortified I was when they raised the price of my favorite candy bar, the Big Hunk, from a nickel to ten cents. They almost boosted it right out of my price range. I had to ask for a raise in my allowance. The cost of living affected even me. In addition to candy we would also get a canned drink called “Apple Beer”. It was basically carbonated apple juice, but when you poured it into a glass it looked like beer and formed a head like beer. We would slam a can down and have belching contests afterward. It made us feel manly.
Anyway, the usual routine that developed once Main Hill was created was to ride our bikes through this lot on the way to the candy store and ride over the hills. We would go over the smaller hills first and then launch our mobile assault on Main Hill once we worked up enough speed. We would pedal as fast as possible up one side and keep pedaling over the top and all the way down the other side. The speed was wonderfully exhilarating. Coming down the other side at full speed was kind of scary, because you knew if you had to stop for anything you simply could not. It was a great feeling.
One Saturday we were on our way to the candy store, and we approached the hill lot from the far end like we always did. I was in the lead. I had the biggest bike that my Grandma had bought for me used. I was the biggest kid and could always get the highest speeds. I hit the trail for the Main Hill going as fast as I could. We had been doing this for months. It was always the same. I built up speed and went up one side and down the other. This was always how it happened. Unfortunately I had never heard the phrase, “everything changes” at this point in my young life. It never occurred to me, or any of my friends for that matter, that anything could be different about this day.
I approached Main Hill going as fast as I could go. My friend Pete was about 15 feet behind me and Ron was right behind him. Over the top I went, and like always my tires left the ground for the briefest of moments, the wind whistled through my crew cut. It was here that I discovered a new facet of the construction process that I had heretofore no reason to believe existed.
When a new building is being constructed the ground is made level to accommodate an even surface on which the building is meant to stand. Usually, this requires excess dirt to be removed. What I had failed to realize was that sometimes dirt needs to be added to fill in existing holes. This in turn requires that the dirt has to be retrieved from somewhere. The lot on which we found ourselves playing daredevil happened to be “dirt source”. I found that no matter how much grass is growing on a hill, and no matter how well packed the dirt is, it can’t stand up to a bulldozer. I also discovered that Main Hill, being the largest hill on the lot, was also the most obvious source to go to for dirt.
We always approached Main Hill from the same side. Looking at it from our regular approach I could see no difference.
It wasn’t until I crested the hill that I saw that Main Hill was now only half the hill it used to be. It was simply gone!
A bulldozer had come in during the week and stolen the other half of Main Hill!
Worse yet was the fact that not only could I do nothing about it, but I didn’t even have time to express my outrage before I became completely and totally airborne! I let out a wordless scream as my tires left terra firma for the great unknown. I suppose I should clarify that the unknown did not refer to where I was going since the spot where I was going was rapidly filling my field of vision as I unwittingly flew down toward it. No, the unknown in this case was what my condition would be once I physically found that newly ploughed piece of earth with the combined mass of my bike and my body.
I ran across a quote once by Douglas Adams that says “The art of flying is to throw your self at the ground and miss.”
I can honestly say by this definition I failed utterly. I hit the ground with almost wild, yet reluctant, enthusiasm. I have vague memories of multiple impacts. The front tire of my bike hit first, and after that all I really remember is being tangled up in my bike frame as I tumbled over and over. I finally came to rest lying on my back. My leg had somehow worked itself between the spokes of the front wheel. The wheel was completely bent out of shape and the tire was flat. I looked up at the cliff that marked what was left of this side of Main Hill and saw that Pete and Ron had had enough time to stop the only way they could by basically dumping their bikes off to the side of the path at the top. They were lying on the ground looking down at me.
“Are you ok?!” yelled Ron.
“I’m not sure.” I said. I took a quick inventory of myself and found that I didn’t feel any serious pain. “I think I’m ok, but I’m stuck!”
My bike was lying on top of me and with my leg sticking through the spokes movement was not easy. Ron and Pete came down as fast as they could. I waited until they got there before I tried to move. I just laid there on my back contemplating the clouds drifting across the sky, and life in general. It was one of the few genuinely philosophical moments of my childhood. When your life passes before your eyes how does God make it so you actually see your whole life in a split second? Does it take longer when you get older, or is it always the same length of time? I’m gonna ask Him when I get to heaven.
Pete and Ron got there and helped extract me from the tangle of my bike. The spokes of the ruined front wheel were spread apart so I could pull my leg out. It was sore but still functional. Nothing broken. Lots of bruises were starting to form, though, and there were several areas on my body where swelling would be evident in the near future.
The guys sat down and just stared at me.
“Are you really ok?” asked Pete.
“Yeah.” I said.
“Man! You should have seen yourself! You just flew right out into the air! We heard you yell and had just enough time to stop before we went over too!” said Ron.
“Hey, look at your leg!” said Pete.
We looked down at my leg to see the imprint of the spokes very clearly impressed onto my calf. It would serve as my temporary badge of honor for surviving the ordeal.
We walked the rest of the way to the candy store. I wasn’t seriously bleeding and no bones were broken so there was never a thought in any of our minds that we should go immediately home. Nothing short of death would have kept us from our candy and Apple Beer. We ate our candy and drank our Apple Beer and belched. It had never felt better than it did that day.
When I got home with my damaged bike and told my mom what had happened (while wearing a carefully rehearsed stunned look on my face and with appropriate exclamatory embellishments from Pete and Ron), she was concerned enough to make me sit down and make sure there was indeed nothing broken. She brought us all milk and cookies which, was the ultimate cure all for me, and life was good again.
After my dad fixed my bike (I think even he was impressed with my survival after he saw the damage) we went back to the Hill. Another big chunk had been taken out. We could no longer attack the heights there, an activity which I was secretly happy to give up. We had to content ourselves with all the smaller hills. Whenever I get on a rollercoaster now I still feel a twinge when it goes over the hump that makes me feel weightless. I’m just never quite sure if I’m gonna miss the ground this time or not. Of course that doesn’t keep me off the roller coasters.
But because of that I discovered that, even though I may not have realized the full implications of this at the time, everything does indeed change. I also discovered that we are amazingly adaptable creations. And though we do not care for the change that may occur, we make our choices as to how we go on. But we do go on one way or another. I would have preferred that they had added dirt to the top of Main Hill rather than taking it away, but I survived and that is how I measured success in those days. Back then survival was all I needed to be concerned about. I could sit in the back seat and let my parents drive never having to worry about the idiot who cut me off. My responsibilities were limited. So nowadays when I remember the Charge of Main Hill, it is still a good memory despite the pain.
Heck, I’m just glad I survived my childhood.
©Dan Bode 2003
Isn’t that why it’s called the unexpected?
I mean, everything changes right?
For some reason I recalled an incident, out of the many from my childhood, that proved this statement valid.
A few miles from my home there was an industrial park that always had some construction going on one of the lots. A necessary part of the construction process was moving excess dirt off of the site being prepared for any new building. There was one particular lot that, for whatever reason, was used as the dirt dumping ground. As the weather imposed itself on the dirt on this lot it was slowly transformed into a very hilly landscape. There were hills of a variety of sizes here from small bumps to the “main hill” as my friends and I used to call it.
The Main Hill was apparently the first load of dirt that was dumped on this lot. It was located fairly close to the center of the property and it was by far the highest hill there. Without diluting my memory of its size I would say its peak was probably about 30 feet high, which to a grade school kid is relatively high. The Main Hill had uniform slopes on all sides of about 40 degrees.
The thing about this park and this lot in particular was that it was on the route that we took almost every Saturday to get to our favorite candy store. It was the late ‘60’s and my allowance of .50 cents could buy a whole bag of assorted candy back then. I can still remember how mortified I was when they raised the price of my favorite candy bar, the Big Hunk, from a nickel to ten cents. They almost boosted it right out of my price range. I had to ask for a raise in my allowance. The cost of living affected even me. In addition to candy we would also get a canned drink called “Apple Beer”. It was basically carbonated apple juice, but when you poured it into a glass it looked like beer and formed a head like beer. We would slam a can down and have belching contests afterward. It made us feel manly.
Anyway, the usual routine that developed once Main Hill was created was to ride our bikes through this lot on the way to the candy store and ride over the hills. We would go over the smaller hills first and then launch our mobile assault on Main Hill once we worked up enough speed. We would pedal as fast as possible up one side and keep pedaling over the top and all the way down the other side. The speed was wonderfully exhilarating. Coming down the other side at full speed was kind of scary, because you knew if you had to stop for anything you simply could not. It was a great feeling.
One Saturday we were on our way to the candy store, and we approached the hill lot from the far end like we always did. I was in the lead. I had the biggest bike that my Grandma had bought for me used. I was the biggest kid and could always get the highest speeds. I hit the trail for the Main Hill going as fast as I could. We had been doing this for months. It was always the same. I built up speed and went up one side and down the other. This was always how it happened. Unfortunately I had never heard the phrase, “everything changes” at this point in my young life. It never occurred to me, or any of my friends for that matter, that anything could be different about this day.
I approached Main Hill going as fast as I could go. My friend Pete was about 15 feet behind me and Ron was right behind him. Over the top I went, and like always my tires left the ground for the briefest of moments, the wind whistled through my crew cut. It was here that I discovered a new facet of the construction process that I had heretofore no reason to believe existed.
When a new building is being constructed the ground is made level to accommodate an even surface on which the building is meant to stand. Usually, this requires excess dirt to be removed. What I had failed to realize was that sometimes dirt needs to be added to fill in existing holes. This in turn requires that the dirt has to be retrieved from somewhere. The lot on which we found ourselves playing daredevil happened to be “dirt source”. I found that no matter how much grass is growing on a hill, and no matter how well packed the dirt is, it can’t stand up to a bulldozer. I also discovered that Main Hill, being the largest hill on the lot, was also the most obvious source to go to for dirt.
We always approached Main Hill from the same side. Looking at it from our regular approach I could see no difference.
It wasn’t until I crested the hill that I saw that Main Hill was now only half the hill it used to be. It was simply gone!
A bulldozer had come in during the week and stolen the other half of Main Hill!
Worse yet was the fact that not only could I do nothing about it, but I didn’t even have time to express my outrage before I became completely and totally airborne! I let out a wordless scream as my tires left terra firma for the great unknown. I suppose I should clarify that the unknown did not refer to where I was going since the spot where I was going was rapidly filling my field of vision as I unwittingly flew down toward it. No, the unknown in this case was what my condition would be once I physically found that newly ploughed piece of earth with the combined mass of my bike and my body.
I ran across a quote once by Douglas Adams that says “The art of flying is to throw your self at the ground and miss.”
I can honestly say by this definition I failed utterly. I hit the ground with almost wild, yet reluctant, enthusiasm. I have vague memories of multiple impacts. The front tire of my bike hit first, and after that all I really remember is being tangled up in my bike frame as I tumbled over and over. I finally came to rest lying on my back. My leg had somehow worked itself between the spokes of the front wheel. The wheel was completely bent out of shape and the tire was flat. I looked up at the cliff that marked what was left of this side of Main Hill and saw that Pete and Ron had had enough time to stop the only way they could by basically dumping their bikes off to the side of the path at the top. They were lying on the ground looking down at me.
“Are you ok?!” yelled Ron.
“I’m not sure.” I said. I took a quick inventory of myself and found that I didn’t feel any serious pain. “I think I’m ok, but I’m stuck!”
My bike was lying on top of me and with my leg sticking through the spokes movement was not easy. Ron and Pete came down as fast as they could. I waited until they got there before I tried to move. I just laid there on my back contemplating the clouds drifting across the sky, and life in general. It was one of the few genuinely philosophical moments of my childhood. When your life passes before your eyes how does God make it so you actually see your whole life in a split second? Does it take longer when you get older, or is it always the same length of time? I’m gonna ask Him when I get to heaven.
Pete and Ron got there and helped extract me from the tangle of my bike. The spokes of the ruined front wheel were spread apart so I could pull my leg out. It was sore but still functional. Nothing broken. Lots of bruises were starting to form, though, and there were several areas on my body where swelling would be evident in the near future.
The guys sat down and just stared at me.
“Are you really ok?” asked Pete.
“Yeah.” I said.
“Man! You should have seen yourself! You just flew right out into the air! We heard you yell and had just enough time to stop before we went over too!” said Ron.
“Hey, look at your leg!” said Pete.
We looked down at my leg to see the imprint of the spokes very clearly impressed onto my calf. It would serve as my temporary badge of honor for surviving the ordeal.
We walked the rest of the way to the candy store. I wasn’t seriously bleeding and no bones were broken so there was never a thought in any of our minds that we should go immediately home. Nothing short of death would have kept us from our candy and Apple Beer. We ate our candy and drank our Apple Beer and belched. It had never felt better than it did that day.
When I got home with my damaged bike and told my mom what had happened (while wearing a carefully rehearsed stunned look on my face and with appropriate exclamatory embellishments from Pete and Ron), she was concerned enough to make me sit down and make sure there was indeed nothing broken. She brought us all milk and cookies which, was the ultimate cure all for me, and life was good again.
After my dad fixed my bike (I think even he was impressed with my survival after he saw the damage) we went back to the Hill. Another big chunk had been taken out. We could no longer attack the heights there, an activity which I was secretly happy to give up. We had to content ourselves with all the smaller hills. Whenever I get on a rollercoaster now I still feel a twinge when it goes over the hump that makes me feel weightless. I’m just never quite sure if I’m gonna miss the ground this time or not. Of course that doesn’t keep me off the roller coasters.
But because of that I discovered that, even though I may not have realized the full implications of this at the time, everything does indeed change. I also discovered that we are amazingly adaptable creations. And though we do not care for the change that may occur, we make our choices as to how we go on. But we do go on one way or another. I would have preferred that they had added dirt to the top of Main Hill rather than taking it away, but I survived and that is how I measured success in those days. Back then survival was all I needed to be concerned about. I could sit in the back seat and let my parents drive never having to worry about the idiot who cut me off. My responsibilities were limited. So nowadays when I remember the Charge of Main Hill, it is still a good memory despite the pain.
Heck, I’m just glad I survived my childhood.
©Dan Bode 2003
Saturday, May 7, 2011
For My Mother -
It was Mother’s Day, 1980. The second one since I had become a Christian.
My mother had died seven years before, but it was this day that I began to understand the impact she had on my life.
I was new to the church I was attending, the one where I eventually met and married my wife and raised our daughters. I was speaking to a lady after church explaining in one of those awkward situations where I was asked what I was doing for my mother for Mother’s Day. When I explained my situation there was often a brief silence followed by, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!” I would then try to give them an out by asking what they were doing for Mother’s Day and wish them well.
This time it was different.
This lady asked, “Was she a Christian?”
I thought about this in that second before I answered. Being a Christian had taken on a new meaning for me. I now understood that is was so much more than going to church every Sunday, and growing up in the church “culture”. I had wandered spiritually for many years before finally understanding the differences between “belief” and “commitment”, “observation” and “relationship”. When I was asked that question I looked back on all the expressions of faith and belief from my mother I could remember. I remembered the stories and plays she wrote for church productions and the themes that ran through them. I remembered the times she would answer my questions, which more often than not had nothing to do with God (or at least I didn’t think so) with, “Because Jesus would (or wouldn’t) want us to do that.” I understood that her expressions of faith were not superficial answers. Her faith was intimately intertwined in her life.
So when I was asked that question, “Was she a Christian?”, I could answer without reservation that, yes, Virginia Bode, my mother, was a Christian. She gave me the seeds of faith that germinated years later and opened my eyes on my past, my spiritual heritage.
“Yes, she was.” I replied.
It was at that very moment that I remember starting to think of my mother in a way that had simply never occurred to me before. It was something I had taken for granted without realizing its true impact. My mother had Faith!
There are times when someone says something to me, and I know it is absolutely Correct. It actually fits somewhere in my soul. It is one sentence that actually changes me.
Her next statement was one of those.
“Well then, you know that she was always praying for you. That’s why you’re here now.”
That one sentence rocked me to the core.
This woman who barely knew me, and didn’t know any of my family was right.
As sure as my mother was a Christian, she was praying for her children. I suspect probably even more for me given the trouble I had a tendency to cause.
I was there because of the prayers of my mother. Even then she could reach me.
I will never fully understand the commitment she made to me, or adequately appreciate the sacrifices she made for me. But I do know now without a doubt that even though I was just a boy when she died it was she who made me a better man.
I will always be grateful to that lady in church for that short conversation. I praise God for that moment when He let me know that my mother knew where I was. That I had finally read that unwritten line in her will where she left me her faith, my legacy.
It has always been one of my greatest regrets that my wife, and children, and now my grandchildren, never knew my mother. I can only hope that they see enough of her in me to recognize her when they meet her in heaven.
When I left church that day I went home and wrote my mother a letter. I’ve reproduced it here. My writing style has changed quite a bit since then, but I’m leaving it as originally written so you see the sentiment more clearly through the eyes of that day.
Dearest Mother, 5/11/80
Since you’ve been gone, there have been so many things I’ve thought to tell you, so much love I’ve wanted to give you. Recalling the commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother”, I realize how many times I did not honor you.
All the times I’ve wanted to call you to share something with you, only to remember that speaking to you is no longer as easy as a phone call, all those times are not easy.
The time when your prayers were finally answered, and I finally made your God my God, I wanted so to speak with you, to tell you that His love was my love, to come to you and give you the honor that I had never given.
I felt so empty when I found I couldn’t.
Yet I know that it was because of you that I had finally reached that point.
How joyful I was when I looked back and was able to see God’s hand upon you as you patiently taught me all that He had shown you.
How immeasurably happy I was to know that you are there with Him.
I thank you dearest Mother.
I thank you for nurturing me in your womb, for giving me birth, for guiding me as I lived my life, for sharing Him with me.
And Mother, know that because you did share Him with me, when He comes again, I will be able to stand beside your empty grave and love you and honor you as no child has ever loved or honored their mother.
Dearest Mother, I love you.
Your Loving Son,
Daniel
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