Tuning The Dulcimer

A Life Worth Living

2008-05-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

From Gabe

The sign said it was a mile and a half trail, down 600 feet, to the base of the canyon. The implication, of course, was that there was a not-quite-identical mile and a half hike back up 600 feet to the rim. I admit sometimes I forget to respect implications (the implications of that statement are not really important to me). What I knew is that I really wanted to go to the bottom, and see the White House Ruins.

Canyon De Chelly (pronounced d'Shay) is one of those God-made wonders that defies explanation. Its beauty rivals that of the Grand Canyon. In fact, if the Grand Canyon were not quite so grand, it probably would pale by comparison to the breath-taking Canyon De Chelly.

This place is more than just significant to the people of the Navajo Nation. It is the cornerstone. According to their tradition, the life of the Dine (it's what the Navajo call themselves, is pronounced d'nay, and means, simply, "people") originated here, at the site of one of these inconceivable rock formations called "Spider Rock." With the exception of 5 years that began in 1863 (a profoundly dark time in the legacy of the White Man), it is believed that dine (that is "people") have lived there for 5000 years. There are carvings, etchings and ruins of dwellings built into the shear mountain walls to bear witness to that history.

Canyon De Chelly is a National Park site that resides entirely within the Navajo reservation. The reservation, which is approximately the size of West Virginia, has been under the stewardship of the Navajo from "the beginning." They call it "Navajoland." Not because it belongs to them. It's much more like they belong to it. The Navajo are a proud, gentle and soft-spoken people. And they possess very little. How they survive is still a bit of a mystery to me, though I am sure it largely involves White Man's favorite version of repentance: Federal Aid.

Well, anyway, who wouldn't want to see these ruins, that speak of the ancestors of the Navajo? Well, for starters, people smart enough to realize that they need to be in fairly good shape to climb up a mile-and-a-half-long, 600-foot-tall trail. I am not such a person. In either respect.

After seeing the ruins and purchasing some beautiful hand-made jewelry, my group started our walk back to the trail. Along the way, I noticed a young man selling limestone carvings that were replicas of those on the actual limestone walls of Canyon De Chelly. He was a delightful young man, though his replicas were easily the least accurate of any I'd seen that day. Still, I allowed him to give me his sales pitch and history lesson, then I talked to him about how hard it must be to carve limestone with a nail (really), and generally made him feel as good as I could about what he'd done -- without actually purchasing his work. And I got one more opportunity to soak in the Navajo. Then I had to catch my friends.

The floor of Canyon De Chelly, at least where the White House Ruins are, is sandy, much like a beach. I briskly trotted off to my friends, thinking (perhaps for the first time with a clear head), "If I hit the base of this trail winded, I have no hope of reaching the top alive." Indeed, I hit the base winded. Obviously, since I'm writing this, my prediction was a tad melodramatic. But that doesn't mean I didn't believe my fate with each step and each breath I took.

But I learned a few somethings as I labored up that path, and I lived to tell about them. So now you get to hear it. (Are you wishing now that I have the gift of prophecy?)

As I stopped to catch my breath the first time, a little more than a third of the way up the canyon wall, I began to think that I couldn't possibly die this way. After all, I am not an athlete. It would be as ludicrous for me to die doing something athletic as it would for me to be trampled to death by a mob of angry hamsters. Maybe even more ludicrous. No, I would press on, perservere, achieve the goal set before me, no matter how painful, how daunting, how... unproven...

It was at this moment my friend Gary showed up. He and the rest of our party had actually gone on ahead, not realizing I had fallen behind. But, when he did notice my absence, he waved them on, and waited for me. And he stayed with me. Several more times I needed to stop. Somtimes I realized it, sometimes he did. He didn't need even one stop. But he stayed with me: to cheer me on, to encourage me, to keep me company, to "pace" me, to protect me.

As I considered what I had done, and what he had done, a few things occurred to me.

First, a life worth living is meant to be experienced -- to be completely consumed. In order to do that, we have to be willing to try things we've never tried before. Sometimes, we may not even plan them appropriately. But life is to be siezed and lived and not just witnessed.

Second, a life worth living is dangerous. And it can be painful. And daunting. And unproven.

Third, a life worth living is worth sharing. Sometimes, that sharing might even save your worth-living life. But every time, it makes the journey richer. After all, in God's economy, the only way to multiply your assets is to share them.

Fourth, God really, truly loves me. And He proves it repeatedly by blessing me with the people whom He draws to me. And he proves it by challenging me to embrace a life worth living.
I'm taking this lesson home with me (along with two, seriously stiff calves). I'm going to try to remember it as I contemplate and exercise my living in Philippi. But, as I wait on God, on theatres, on the blossoming of a church, I won't wait on life. I will live it.

Why was I even near Canyon De Chelly this week? I went to Gallup, NM to work a conference on Christian community development, hosted by the Navajo churches in that area. I was there as part of the worship team. Amazing things happened at that conference. And I promise you'll hear about them all, and I promise that many of you will be astounded.

In the end, do you know what we all learned there? We learned that a community has a life worth living. And that such a life is dangerous. And that the living of that life is worth sharing. And that God really loves the community that is Navajo Nation, just as much as He loves one called Philippi, West Virginia. And whatever yours is called as well.

After four days of witnessing that truth, I still needed an excruciating 45-minute uphill climb to make it real.

A Good Man

2008-01-24T11:47:00.000-08:00

I have a friend. He does many good things for many people. People say he is a good man. A very good man indeed. He works very hard, doing things for God. Yet he's never satisfied, never fulfilled. Always running. Seeking more. He's good -- good and tired. And there's always more to do. I suspect there always will be.

There are many people like my friend. They do good things for many people and for God. History is rich with such people. One such man was the one we know as the apostle Paul. He devoted his life to doing good things for God. In the process, he persecuted and killed many godly people. He did this in God's name and many people thought he was a good man. Then, one day, on his way to Damascus (to kill more Christians), he finally actually met God. God said to Paul that day, "If you think perhaps you're finally finished doing things for me, then it's time to let me do things through you." And the world was changed forever.

There's little doubt that Paul had a "type A" personality. Some say Paul's driven nature enabled him to change the world. I remain unconvinced. I believe instead that God worked through Paul to accomplish this grand mission, and it was only possible because Paul was willing to be used. His personality, his nature, his training and all of his qualifications were secondary.

Why do I think that? Well, for starters, because Paul said so himself, in stronger words than these. Beyond that, I also know this about Paul: immediately following Paul's dramatic conversion that fateful day, the Lord didn't immediately unleash him. Instead, He sent Paul off to his hometown of Tarsus. Not to work. To wait. Ten years. For ten years, as far as we know, Paul seemingly did nothing for God. God used that time to season Paul, and I suspect, given Paul's personality, it took every moment of that time to prepare him to be God's vessel. And when finally Paul was ready to stop trying to do things for God, God did amazing things through him.

It's not that Paul wasn't capable. He was exceptionally capable. But Paul himself pointed out that his capabilities really counted for nothing. My friend is like that: extremely capable. As for me, I'm kind of glad to say I'm no Paul, and I'm not like my friend. I am not "type A." Nobody would ever accuse me of being "driven." I certainly do not consider myself particularly capable of anything God might "need" me for. And it would seem, by the standards we tend to use, that I certainly am not qualified to plant churches. And yet, incredibly, God has called me to do just that.

Lots of people are wondering what exactly that will look like. Will I be able to use the methods all the well-qualified type-A church planters use to plant a church? Not a chance. Not because using methods are bad or wrong, but simply because that's not how God works through me, because He hasn't made me that way. And, amazingly, I cannot please God or glorify Him unless I am the man He has crafted me to be. As the song says, "I gotta be me." But not for my own pleasure or comfort, but entirely for His delight.

As I have thought about it (and oh, I've spent plenty of time thinking about it), the only method of planting a church that makes sense for me is this one: "Unless God builds the house, the people labor in vain." Sounds pretty catchy to me. I'm going to give that one a try.

So what will I do? I'll obey God. I'll watch for Him. I'll wait for Him. I'll abide in Him. I'll move when He tells me to. I'll let Him use me, however He sees fit. I will take on whatever role or moniker that pleases Him: be that "minister", "missionary", "Christian businessman", "pastor", "janitor", or "bum". And I will do everything I can not to try to do things for God. I expect it to be difficult. I expect to work hard, strictly according to God's agenda. And, as the Lord sees fit, He will plant a church through me. In the meantime, and throughout the journey, my only expectation is that it won't look to anyone like I'm planting a church at all. Rather, the church I like to call Church of the Renaissance will simply emerge, in God's perfect timing, in His supreme power, as the simple result of "doing life" together with the people God puts in my path.

After all this, what will people think of me? Well, if I do things right, not much. They won't point to me or anything I've done and say, "Look at all the good things he did for us." Rather, they will say, "See how much God has done." And who could ask for anything more than that?

I love my friend. I respect him immensely. He is a hard-working man. And that is something to be admired. Paul never stopped working hard. My friend needs a dramatic experience -- a Damascus Road moment -- in his life, so that he will surrender himself to God. For me, this part was easy, because my weaknesses are so obvious. But that is not so for him. My prayer for my friend (because I love him), is that God will grab hold of him soon, so that he can get out of the way and let God work through him. After the dust settles, will he work less hard? I doubt it. But I suspect that he will find the fulfillment that eludes him now, and he will be content that everything God wants to accomplish through him is being done. He will have peace. And rest. And he will find his true identity. Indeed, he will be richly blessed.

Coronado's Happy Ending

2008-01-23T08:23:00.000-08:00

I've always been troubled by the book of Ruth. It's the story of woman named Naomi who loses everything and everyone (her husband, her sons, her home), except her daughter-in-law, Ruth. By the end of the book we see Naomi in the home of Ruth and her new husband Boaz, rocking her little grandson. And the Hebrews who first heard the story were like, "Ah! Peace! Redemption! Restoration!" I, with my American mindset, have always felt a little guilty, because it seems like Naomi got a raw deal. After all, she did still lose her husband and sons. How can there be a happy ending with so much tragedy?

I know someone else who knows a little something about a raw deal. His name is Francisco Coronado, and he was the explorer of the American Southwest, as well as the man who put in place the first missionary to the Zuni Indians. He was a man of integrity, a man of faith, and a fine leader. And he got a raw deal.

I was thinking about him today as I was reading the review of the latest "National Treasure" movie on Plugged In. (I really want to see this movie!) Part of the story line deals with the legendary cities of gold, including Cibola. Cibola was what Coronado was seeking when he left Mexico City on his expedition in 1540. We've been studying Coronado in school, and just finished the bittersweet story of his life this week.

Coronado made a 3-year exploration of the Southwest, traveling through modern-day Mexico, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas. He fought only when he needed to, and won every battle he was in. He lost almost no men of the more than 1,000 he commanded. He was well-respected by his men, and the Indians, all of whom he treated kindly. At the end of 3 years, his men signed a petition to go home, and he assented. On the march home, they passed many settlements, and he allowed his men if they wished to stay behind to build new lives. As they approached Mexico City, he told his men to enter the city a few at a time. He didn't want them to return as heroes because he believed they'd failed. After all, they had only claimed more land for Spain than any expedition ever, converted thousands of Indians to Christianity, and created an atmosphere of goodwill with the tribes so as to open the area for settlement. That sounds a lot like failure!

Coronado even feared returning to his own home. His wife, Beatriz, had financed a large part of the expedition (with Coronado's best friend, Mendoza). He was afraid she might not want to see him again because he'd lost all her investment. Her response to his return was a great celebration and prayers of thanksgiving for his return. (He had been critically wounded just a few months before when he was kicked in the head by a horse, and nearly died.) When he confessed his failings to his friend Mendoza, he told him, "How could you find gold if there was none to be found?"

Coronado's life story echoes Naomi's for me. Where's the happy ending? I think a large part of the problem with happy endings is our own definition of them. We are quick to say, "Well, God's ways are not man's ways..." all the while holding on to our own secret dreams and aspirations. What does success look like when defined by God? Many years ago, Eugene Peterson coined a phrase that is sort of my personal mission statement, "A long obedience in the same direction." Is that (or something like it) closer to God's definition of success?

We have spent a year in the hills of Appalachia, pursuing a dream that God planted in our hearts. And from the get-go things have been everything but what we planned. A year down the road finds us someplace we'd never thought we'd be - struggling to put food on the table, worshipping in other churches, and living a quiet, often lonely life. But it also finds us enmeshed in our community, experiencing the life that our neighbors live, and sharing the hope and the future that we have. We find ourselves uniting the pastors and congregations of this area toward a common goal, and ministering to children and college students in ways we couldn't have imagined.

No, we're not ministering the way we'd planned. This is way better.

And I feel incredibly successful.

Growing Up

2007-11-13T19:56:00.000-08:00

Our #2 daughter turned 10 a few days ago. Wow. Ten years. You know, when I was a younger I believed that as long as I "got my act together" before the children turned 5, that it'd be okay. Somehow, the mistakes I made would be "acceptable" as long as I was done making them before they turned 5. Then Daughter #1 turned 5. Then Daughter #2 turned 5. Then Daughter #3, and in just two months, Daughter #4 will cross that threshhold. And you know what? I still don't have my act together. I still struggle daily with trying to be the mother they need and God has called me to be. But God still believes in me, and He's still teaching me.

Back in June, Daughter #3 had a birthday, six months after we moved here on this great God adventure. And by that time it had completely sunk in that things were going to be different than we thought they'd be. We were poorer than I ever remember being. Every morning I woke up wondering if there would be food to feed the children that day. And on top of all that, there came this birthday.

Birthdays in our "old" life were magnificent affairs filled with homemade carnivals, pumpkin coaches, princes in tuxedos, handmade dog houses, and glorious, glittering cakes. They were the result of days of labor and not a little bit of money. But it was okay. Celebrations are really important to our family, and it was an investment we were always willing to make. We were still willing this year, but we were far from able.

Daughter #3 wanted an author's party. I found instructions for a book cake online, and we tried to come up with some inexpensive ideas for activities and favors. But my heart was far from being "in" this celebration. Instead of being all about celebrating the day of my daughter's birth, it became an outlet for my sadness and disillusionment about how different my life was now. I never could pull myself out of this tailspin, and Daughter's birthday went by without a present from us or a party for her and her friends. Just emptiness.

But it is thankfully not God's way to leave us in our emptiness, or our self-pity, or our indecision and inaction. He picks us up, dusts us off, and leads us down a path of growth and refinement that is His alone.

Daughter #2 had her birthday last week. And while we couldn't throw her an elaborate party, we crowned her "Queen for a Day," and we allowed her to choose the meals and the activities for the day. We opened presents at midday. There were the exciting, high-impact ones from her uncle and grandparents -- a new bike and an Irish dancing costume for her doll. But beneath the glamorous, sparkling gifts were those from her own family -- a handmade doll outfit from one sister and a bracelet another sister had made. Gabe's gift was plans he had drawn for a doll bed, and the promise that they would build it together. Mine was there too -- a shirt and pants for her special doll stitched lovingly by me. We could not give her a bicycle or a store-bought outfit for her birthday. But we could give her our love and our time. And that's exactly what we did.

It was a lovely birthday...one that warm memories are made from. And although Daughter #2 was the one who turned 10 that day, I have to believe that I'm the one who grew up that day.

And I'm already planning Daughter #3's Half birthday celebration.

Let the Children Come

2007-10-15T12:45:00.000-07:00

This is just a picture I wanted to share from our world. Yesterday (Sunday) morning during church, children began coming forward to the altar to pray -- unbidden. They simply came. A mother came up to pray. Then her school age daughter came forward and put her arms around her mother and prayed with her.

Then the other children came -- sometimes one, sometimes two. And they all knelt silently and lifted their hearts to their God, their Father, their Abba. I was so moved at the poignancy of the moment that I had to take a picture to share with you.

We've been pouring ourselves into ministry to children and their families here, and it was as if God wanted to give us a little glimpse of how He can use the paltry offerings of our time, energy, and strength.

Jesus loves me, this I know:
For the Bible tells me so.
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me:
The Bible tells me so.

Navigating The Current

2007-10-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

From Gabe

Have you ever wondered what God is doing, or what He's thinking? Well, I do all the time. If you don't, then we need to talk, because one of us is doing something horribly wrong. I don't mean the second-guessing kind of wondering, though I mistakenly do that from time to time as well. The fact is, in the last several months (years?) I find myself wondering a lot. And I think God laughs and shakes His head as He wonders, "does he really think he'll ever understand me?"

I am cursed to be an analyst. In my years as a "software professional" (which sounds much more impressive than it is) this curse looked like a blessing. But in other areas of life it is exactly what it is: a curse.

A little while ago, my friend Mark "The Shark" migrated with his "school" to cooler waters (literally and emotionally), and I still find myself profoundly sad. You see, Mark has the dubious honor of being one of the few people in my life who "gets" me. What that says about Mark is probably not germain to this particular post, and may someday show up elsewhere (no promises, no threats). What it says about me is, of course, what matters. That's because, if blogs serve no other purpose, they are wonderful exercises in self-reflection, self-expression and, well, to put it bluntly, self-absorption. And so, let's talk about me...

Seriously, though, I am sad about Mark's leaving, even if it is "the right thing." I miss our Tuesday mornings at the Medallion and then Veteran's Park by The Bridge. I miss his mysterious appearances at our door for no reason other than to say, "Hey, God told me you needed to be reminded He loves you..." I miss his amazing example of faithfulness, handling living on support so much more gracefully than I do. We became friends so fast, the way people do only when they pray honestly together. And the impact he has had on my life will last forever.

So, as this "force" in my life has moved on, I find myself wondering, again, what is God doing? And then I think about Phil Vischer. And jellyfish. Well, isn't that what you think about? Specifically, I think about what he observed about jellyfish. They can't really propel themselves, except a little up and down. They move with the current. They rely on the current to take them where they need to go, and for nourishment. I imagine the jellyfish never questions the current. He probably doesn't ever critique the current. I am quite certain the jellyfish actually never contemplates the current. He just depends on it, and embraces it and accepts it as the gift that it is.

Lucky jellyfish.

Then again, jellyfish don't need friends like Mark "The Shark" either. Maybe I'm the fortunate one after all, even if it means I'm cursed to question.

"It's Time To Talk About What We Learned Today"

2007-09-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

From Gabe

My friend, Mark "The Shark" lent me a book a couple weeks ago. I finally started reading two nights ago and I simply could not put it down. It's called "Me, Myself and Bob" and it's written by Phil Vischer, the creator of VeggieTales. It describes in sometimes gory detail the rise and fall of Big Idea Productions, and the rise and fall and resurrection of Phil Vischer. It is charming, engaging, funny, bittersweet, sad, shocking and immensely challenging. It is a must-read for anybody who has a dream, or once had a dream. Indeed it is for everybody.

Thank you, Shark, for loaning me the book at this moment. It hit me where I am living. Thank you, Phil Vischer for listening to God's drawing you to write it. Your experiences and deep insights into them are an inspiration for anybody who wants to do great things for God!

Me, Myself, & Bob: A True Story About Dreams, God and Talking Vegetables
By Phil Vischer

Available At Amazon

City Life (from Laura)

2007-09-24T04:44:00.000-07:00

We're city folks. Not because of where we've been, or what we've done, but because of where we live now. Ask anyone 'round here. Why one of the folks here said, "Well, if you'd taken more than a day to find your house, you wouldn't have gotten stuck with such a small piece of property." I smile politely. We live on half and acre that backs up to a forest.

But, as spacious as it seems, the fact is, that our house IS downtown. That's what makes us "city folks." Our "neighbors" are family court, the 911 call center, the laundromat, and the lady who hates our holly bush. But we like it here. We like being "in the middle of it all." In a rural town of 3,000 there isn't a whole lot of "it all," so being in the middle of it seems like a good place to be.

(Photo: Ooh, ooh, ooh, looking out my front door...)

I don't think we could adequately comprehend the nature of our town, though, until last week. Last week we had an adventure. Last week we had an EMERGENCY.

It was around midday on Wednesday. I was in the kitchen making lunch when Gabe strolls in and says, "Where's our fire extinguisher?" Without looking up I said, "It was pressurized, so the movers wouldn't take it. I have it on our list to buy at Wal-Mart when we can." And then, "Why?" He said, "Because there's a car on fire in front of our house."

I was anything but non-chalant. I ran to the front window (we have a bay window that sits out from the front of our house), and sure enough there, 10 feet from the front of our house was a beautiful 1972 dark blue VW beetle with fire coming out the back. The owner was standing next to it, looking dazed and confused.

I immediately got on the phone and called 911. The operator calmly answered, "911. What's your emergency?" And I answered, breathlessly, "There's a car on fire in front of my house!" And the drawl was as slow and as sweet as any when she said, "We know, Sweetie. We've dispatched someone." Now, mind you, she didn't ask for my address or anything. But they already knew about the car on fire, in front of my house.

The fire department had still not come, but people sure did. Folks in neighboring houses walked down, a couple of folks from the 911 center came out to watch, and the man from the newspaper office walked up the hill to take pictures. How do I know this? Because all of us are standing out on our front porch watching the flames grow higher and higher. They were inching closer to our 1868 all wood house.

As soon as I saw the newspaper man with his camera, I sprung into action. I hearded the entire family back into the house. I explained, "Our first time in the newspaper is not going to be us all standing on our front porch watching a car on fire like a bunch of rednecks." "I am NOT going to be quoted in the story when the writer asks, 'What happened here?' as saying, 'Well, this car pulled up and just caught fire.'"

The flames continued to grow and the crowd grew and we continued to watch...from inside of course (Did I mention we were city folks?). But still the fire department didn't come (it's an all-volunteer fire department). But one of the guys did walk over from the 911 center with a big fire extinguisher and put it out. And just at that moment, the fire department pulled up.

After about an hour, all that remained was a vivid memory and a pile of ashes in front of our house. But I consoled myself with the fact that our little "adventure" would certainly be in the paper...why we might even take the front page! But it was Wednesday already, and so the paper wouldn't come out now for another week.

The next Wednesday I was at the IGA and got my paper as usual. I explained to the cashiers that we were hoping to make the paper because of our car fire. (How crazy is that?) I was crestfallen when they told me the story wasn't in there. But then they added, "But we heard about that!"

Now that's "city" life.

How Cool Is That? (From Gabe)

2007-09-17T16:29:00.001-07:00

I have a friend named Brian. He is one of the coolest guys I know. Okay, I think he looked cooler when his hair was long, but he is no less cool for having "grown up" and cut it off. You know what cool thing Brian did today? He showed up. Yep. Showed up. Practically unannounced. Right here in Philippi. He just showed up.

He was in the neighborhood and just dropped in. Brian lives in Pensacola, Florida. Okay, he was vacationing in Canton, Ohio and then Wheeling, with another friend of ours, his mom, Janice. She's mighty cool, too. After all, she did birth and raise Brian. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Philippi isn't on the way to Pensacola. These too cool people (no misspelling here, all ye "bee-heads" out there) came two hours out of their way to visit us.

This is an extreme way that we take seriously the command to not forget to assemble. Today we assembled. Got together. Not just existing in the same general vicinity, mind you. For about five hours we knit ourselves together. Brian's amazingly encouraging spirit served to remind me that God has done amazingly cool things for me and in me and through me, and He is still at work in this way today.

For me, it echoes back to another time, a couple thousand years ago, when those Jesus-people were going out of their way to be knit together. In those days, those who saw them said, "Now that's cool. They really love each other!"

Others have visited before. Others are still to come. That's cool too. This time, it was Brian's turn to represent all those who love us. The Saporitos owe him our debt of gratitude. In that he listened to God and then did what He told him to, we all do. That is always cool.

Blowing The Pipe (From Gabe)

2007-09-12T11:11:00.000-07:00

So, here we are... Nearly ten months into a journey that has taken us quite far from where we expected to be. And why not? I mean, God alone knows the plans He has for us. What we know of that is simply that His plans are for our good and not harm. How presumptuous we can be, to consider that we have even an inkling into His mind, His wisdom and His plan! We, who should be honored just to be invited to the dance, should be delighted beyond words when we are able to get even a few steps right!

Some of you are asking: Who are you?

Well, do we even know? Yeah, we do. Sort of, anyway. At least, that is, we believe we know as much as God has allowed us to see at this time. We are Church of the Renaissance. We are here - in Philippi, West Virginia, in the heart of Appalachia - simply because God called us here. What are we doing here? If you'd asked us that ten months ago, we'd have had an answer for you. It just may have been the wrong answer, perhaps. Actually, the verdict is still out on that one. Now, all I can say that God believes we have something to offer this community: ourselves. For myself, I'd be the first to admit that doesn't seem like much. But it's what I have to offer, and offer it I will, and I have.

I am Gabe Saporito, though that is of little consequence. If God is the author of this strange saga, then I am the protaganist. My wife is Laura. Actually, I think she is the protagonist. I am more likely the antagonist. I believe that she and I will share this blog. Perhaps over time that will get confusing. Then I'll just boot her off and tell her to make her own (at which point, people will stop visiting this one, I'm sure).

Some months back, our support team - the "leadership team" for Church of the Renaissance -challenged us to create a newsletter. We've tried. Oh, how we've tried. But there is this thing called "life" and its nefarious partner in crime called "inertia", and where life meets inertia you find many of the best intentions - languishing. The fact is, it's difficult to produce a work to properly convey the comings and goings of life. For those of us to whom "good enough" is never good enough, this spells disaster.

Anyway, that work, currently lying dormant as we pursue lesser ventures like teaching kids to read, praying with pastors and generally being available to God, is called "The Dulcimer". I'm sorry, you'll just have to wait for its debut to understand why it's called that. I realize that this might mean you'll never understand it, and all I can say is that there's not really room here to explain, and besides, sometimes understanding is just not that important. (Mercy, alas is not my strong suit)

This blog is an attempt to compensate for the dearth of information otherwise making its way to all of you. Over time, it might rather support The Dulcimer, rather than serve as its surrogate. Either way, it seemed important that this blog be given a name to relate to that other, more noble publication. "Tuning the Dulcimer" seemed appropriate, because this blog is likely to provide something other than the newsletter. Where it will one day provide information about where we are and what we are doing - and more to the point what God is doing, this blog will hopefully offer insight into why and how things are happening.

This first post is tedious, I know. It is, after all, a first post, and therefore providing the groundwork for what will follow. After all, when an instrument is tuned, there must first be a reference tone sounded. So here, we are simply blowing pitch as they say in "the music biz". But, for those of you concerned that this whole blog might become tedious, remember this: A pitch pipe sounds nothing like a dulcimer. It only hints at the promise of sweet tones flowing forth as time goes on.

I will warn you further, though, that the sound of a complex instrument being tuned is not necessarily always pleasant. A blog, after all, is still a blog. And so, from time to time you may find posts here that are emotionally difficult to read. Sometimes, you might not even agree with us. And, you know what? That's fine. Iron sharpens iron through friction. But please remember, blogs are not one-way communication. After all, friction requires contact. So we ask that you offer us feedback, whatever it may be. So far, one of the hardest parts of being here is the occasional feeling of isolation that sometimes threatens to consume us. So, please, be iron. Be fire. Be a douse of cool, refreshing water. Just don't be silent.

The pitch has been blown. Let the tuning commence.