This type of blogging is called a "braided" or "mosaic" essay where the parts are interspersed and woven together. I'm borrowing this concept shamelessly from another writer in the blogosphere.
The countryside of Gibson County is strikingly beautiful this time of year. The green is returning to the fields, where God’s paintbrush has splashed purple wild violets everywhere.
I score well over 200 points on the clergy stress test, if you count the loss of my dog, Isaiah, as “death of a family member.” Mostly that’s due to a new job, new residence, and new relationships. Supposedly scoring over 200 in a 12-month period can set you up for serious psychological and physical consequences.
My legs aren’t used to the hills around here. The cardio just about kills me on my bike rides and runs. I sweat bullets and pant like I never even lifted a finger before.
One of my favorite books as a kid was Will I Have a Friend? On his way to his first day of kindergarten, Jim worries aloud to his dad about finding a friend at school. Finally, in the afternoon, Paul shares his truck with Jim.
I’ve been running or walking each day past the home of Rhonda, a parishioner who is visually impaired. I interviewed Rhonda my first Sunday at Hillside, asking her what being visually impaired has taught her about faith. She learned the “sighted guide” technique early on in life, holding onto the arm of someone who has sight and walking two or three steps behind. Maybe that’s a lot like how we should walk with God.
William Bridges claims that transitions have three parts -- the ending, the letting go, and the new beginning.
I violate the “No Trespassing” sign to jog down the road to Lake Gibson. I figure I’m not fishing or hunting, so I’m not causing any harm. I sit on a rectangle of concrete to pray, meditate, and stare at the still waters. Today there’s a broken pair of spectacles on my concrete block. Time for a new pair of glasses.