It keeps coming up, my favorite NT Greek word again, it keeps rearing its head, Mark 9:1, ἴδωσιν. For theologians who worry over the question of theodicy, and for those among them and all who quit the Faith because God IS Whoever and Whatever God Says and Shows God is INSTEAD OF whoever and whatever human religionists wish, hope, feel they need, and construct God to Be: Sean's telephone call from Fred, a dying thirteen year old boy who shows them up for seeing, perceiving, discerning, realizing, understanding the Spirit of God as God was to Fred. Fred εἶδεν God.   To see, especially with the mind's eye, spiritual discernment, where God truly is  "Neighbor" by Sean Dietrich, it's a worthy read this morning. Even helps me personally, my own  personal " ἴδωσιν" of God nearly those  biblical Forty Years ago. "I AM speaking to you, Tom Weller". God as Whoever, Whatever, Whenever, living His word to Moses, "I Will Be what I Will Be" - - for

  Wednesday was a busy day, starting with breakfast of smoked king salmon from Alaska Seafood Company. I went online about them and found that they ship for free. The product is delicious, and I may place an order with them. After breakfast, our second covid booster vaccine just as Sam's pharmacy opened. The pharmacist said she was getting lots of phone calls asking about it, we were the first to arrive. Just as with a ll the others, and this is my fourth covid vaccine shot, I've had no reaction, not even a tender arm.  From Sam's to Publix for the twofers we wanted - - coffee, Blue Bell homemade vanilla, Linda's yogurts, and frankfurters, two brands of all beef - - Ball Park and Oscar Meyer. Hot dogs I'm leery of, as years ago we bought Morrell frankfurters in the Navy commissary in Yokohama, Japan, and, slicing one open, Linda found a mouse foot. So that brand went off our grocery list until Hell freezes over. I've tried most of the hot dog brands and'm no

  60°F and 100% humidity reads the weather status on my phone. It also says Fog, but there's no fog on the Bay as I look out from 7H.  Shrimp boat passing 7H. Shrimp boats is a-comin', their sails are in sight. No sails anymore, and the Louisiana moon, a crescent low in the dawn sky, with Venus. When my father was a boy here, and his brother and sisters, local transportation was by boat, not many cars; when my grandfather A D Weller was mayor of StAndrews in the nineteen-teens they passed an ordnance that limited cars to 15 mph and they had to have a horn or bell to warn pedestrians of their presence. In StAndrews the boardwalk along the entire waterfront, out of town by train. The train depot was at 11th Court and Bayview Avenue, behind the kayak shop that when I was a boy here was our local drugstore. What a happiness to be able to live here and indeed to be here in a place of my heart at this stage and age of life - - the NT Greek word is  μ ακάριοί translated "happy&qu

  A poem-a-day is waiting every morning, I've told this before, in my email. Nearly always I glance at, sometimes I skip and move on, mostly I read all of it before scrolling on through email. A bit more often than now and then, I stop and read and, taken with something, scroll down to read about the poet and more of the poet's work.  Just so this morning, "My Local Dead" by Mark Wunderlich, then about Mark, then a couple more of his, "Difficult Body, and "The God of Nothingness". What attracted me was his surname, because Wunderlich Medium is a typeface I use, my font for anything I'm going to print and read, especially aloud, like sermon notes and a manuscript, because it comes out nearly bold, not at all faint, easy on my eyes. Anyway, a college professor of literature (Bennington College, Vermont) as many of these poets turn out to be, with books of poetry to sell, Mark's poetry betrays a soul in distress, a life of much pain, I hear no laug

It's me, it's me, it's me, O Lord. That's me. Yep, it's me (predicate nominative, it's actually I), standing at the window opening at the far east end of the HV sidewalk outside of 7H, the morning sun at my back, casting my shadow on the far wall beside the elevators. So I'm really a shadow then, having lived into another age of the reality that a nuclear burst behind me could leave me permanently as a burned image on a wall. It happened at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It happened in the television miniseries "The Day After". Which is a better image, a photograph, or a shadow?  Or a memory. A memory, I think a memory. A memory is best. Comparative with two, superlative with three.  It's Sunday morning, when I rise at three o'clock and have coffee, black coffee and sometimes a bit of dark chocolate, both of them heart healthy, to stir my brain awake because the morning ahead may involve conversation with brainwork.  This morning sitting up in bed

    The most common and traditional word for this change of consciousness was historically “prayer,” but we trivialized that precious word by making it functional, transactional, and supposedly about problem solving. The only problem that prayer solves is  us ! +++++++++++++ That is from Richard Rohr's post this morning, Saturday, as he finishes up a week about Paul, and calls us into prayer that takes us out of ourselves and unites us with the Being of Creation who named self to Moses as I AM, Being, All That Is.  Perhaps not only Pantokrator, but even Panentheos, God the All, In All, As All. I've done that disappearance into prayer from Time to Time in my life, experiencing it as an ineffable sort of leaving oneself behind, if that makes sense. Concentration not unlike disappearing into a novel, which I always loved to do, regretting when it ends, wishing to go back, and to stay there. That sort of prayer involves determination and practice and concentration and abandonment. 

  Breakfast this morning, I'm trying, see, not very hard, but trying, is a mug of black coffee and a couple of slices of deli thin-sliced turkey breast rolled up and cut up into about a dozen little bite-size bits; avocado oil dribbled over instead of mayonnaise, and parmesan cheese instead of salt. It's okay, though to really enjoy it you have to pull a Little Jack Horner: sit in a corner and say "what a good boy am I".  At early afternoon dinner I'll make up for this nonsense with a proper slice, maybe one rib, of the prime rib roast. Here's how I'm going to cook it: ++++++++++ Instructions Trim your rib how you like it best. Generously salt the roast, insert a thermometer probe near the edge of the roast, set the low-temp alarm for 30°F and place the roast in the freezer. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 225°F. When the low-temp alarm sounds, remove your roast from the freezer. Heat a heavy skillet (cast iron is preferred here) over high heat.  Sear the

Geese! Having made themselves more and more at home over the past few days, a goose couple have laid claim to our beloved osprey nest at the Boulder County Fairgrounds in Longmont, Colorado. This morning, just as she was doing as I watched her yesterday, old mother goose is nesting comfortably, and I expect to see eggs any Time. Bird watchers in the area have reported seeing osprey arriving, but as of now, specifically yesterday and today, the osprey couple, known to watchers as Mom and New Dad, are overdue back home from their winter migration.  I think it was to be expected: the old Dad, who was well aged, did not show up last year; a new male bird took up with Mom osprey, who herself is getting on up in years. I'm not surprised if Mom osprey doesn't return, and I don't know enough about ospreys to know whether New Dad osprey will have bonded with the nest after just one season, and that unsuccessful, no eggs hatched last year; or whether he will jump to the first young b