Light is sown

I'm still reading Psalms.

I read other Scriptures. I'm pushing my way through Isaiah. I'm delighting in the eccentricness of the Gospel of John. But the Psalms are where I always seem to go when I need some encouragement, which is most of the time.

Today I read "light is sown for the righteous; and gladness for the upright in heart."

An interesting image: light being buried in the ground as a seed that will one day sprout, and then grow into something abundantly more than the seed that was planted.

Here on this earth, if we are perceptive and are open to perceiving, we get little bits of light. My seventh grand child was born a few days ago. She is so fragile and so absolutely dependent. Her brain is taking so much in, but, I believe, without any cognitivity on her part. Yet at this stage, she radiates life and thus draws people, like a magnet. But then what do you do, now that you are next to her? Must you make faces and funny sounds? As a new born, she will not respond to such things.

Just appreciate life, that most mysterious and unknown quality of which our planet is teeming. Uniquely teeming, or so it seems.

I was just reading about how Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus. (What a sight to see Jesus weep!) Why was He sad in such a way that tears came? 

Maybe death is the saddest thing, just as life is the happiest.

In our world, life means death. Anything that lives, dies. But that shouldn't be. Life should be so much better than that.

Light buried in darkness, what will it grow into?

Life buried in death. 

Sown perishable. 

Sprouts forth imperishable.

That's how it should be; though what that could be like is beyond what I can imagine.

Regardless, I'm encouraged.

Profiling

So I see a young man at the grocery store checkout with a couple bags of Doritos and a pail of ice-cream. "Supper?" I ask him.

He looks annoyed. "It's dessert," he tells me. Then he recognizes me. "How are things at Story Book?" he asks.

I tell him, "Things are always good at Story Book. How about with you?" But he's talked enough. His thoughts are on other things.

But when he leaves, he turns to me and says, "We'll see you later, Jerry."

Jerry lives at Story Book. I live at Story Book. Jerry's bald. I have a beard. I wear glasses. I don't think Jerry wears glasses. But we are both old white men. It's hard to tell old white men apart.

I try to obey the speed limit. Sometime I don't try as hard as other times. I got picked up for speeding in Aurora, Mn three times in about a month. It was the same police officer. He'd come back to my car and look at me, "Having a bad day?" he'd ask. Three times in a row, I couldn't think of a good reply. He would then take my driver's license, start to take it back to his car. Then he'd change his mind and just bring it back to me. "I'm just giving you a warning this time, okay?

"You have a nice day," he'd say while walking away.

He didn't recognize me. Just another old white man.