To help anticipate some of these problems, we’re in the act of producing a short film based on an even shorter story by comedic British author P. G. Wodehose.  Rather than invest in period-appropriate costumes and set pieces, we are giving historical accuracy the armchair treatment and making something costumey and fun, where time and setting are gleefully irrelevant. I’ve included a few stills from a recent scene below, hamming it up with brother, Stephen.

If you are a young man and are at IBLP headquarters for more than two hours, you will invariably meet a wonderful man named Phil Garvin. And if you meet him you will inevitably make one of two decisions. You will either become a believer, or if you already have, you will commit to become a “Fisherman” as he calls them.  This is a person who shares the Gospel everywhere he goes, and as opposed to a “seed planter” (what most Christians are if they witness at all) a fisherman actually catches fish.  I was already a believer when I met Mr. Garvin, so naturally I committed to be a “fisher of men”.

Since returning from Chicago however, I’ve developed a habit of leaving my pole in the closet when I got out in public. Finally I told the Lord, “I’m tired of trying to create witnessing opportunities where people are not really interested. If you want me to share the gospel, please bring people to me who have questions.” Well, he did.  I was waiting in a café a couple weeks ago and one of the waiters walks up to me. “Have you been here before?” Yes I had. “You’re that photography guy, right?”  Ok. I had never seen this guy in my life, but I am a “Photography Guy” of sorts, so I said “Sure.” It would have ended there, but I felt prompted to share my experience in the food service and how I could relate to his daily frustrations. This really brightened him up. He shared his experiences during Katrina.  Bingo! It’s amazing how much you can have in common with a total stranger.  I’ve found it impossible for me to share my Katrina experiences without sharing my faith as well. 

To my delight he was truly interested in what sort of faith could be strong enough to endure something like that. He was very receptive of the gospel message and gladly accepted the gospel tract I offered him.  I’ve rarely met a worldly American adult with a heart so open to the Gospel.  His name was Robert. After coffee, I had errands to run in town including getting prints of my latest paintings from Office Depot.  

When one of my paintings came out of the printer the guy behind the counter asked what the story was behind the painting. It was a scene from the French version of the Count of Monte Christo, the part were Edmund Dantes has just cut himself free from the body bag and surfaces for his first breath of freedom in almost twenty years. He holds the crucifix-turned-knife aloft in triumph. In the background is the prison of Chateau D’if.  I explained that many people today are sinking in despair, imprisoned by fear, waiting for death to usher in eternal darkness. What they don’t realize is that there only hope is to cling to the cross, stop struggling to be free on their own, and trust Jesus to save them.  The man kept staring at the picture while I told him the story. A moment later the printer jammed and he called the manager down to fix it. When the manager arrived the man said “You should tell him the story you just told me.” So I got to share the gospel twice, right there in the store. I wouldn’t say I’m quite a “fisherman” yet; still more of a seed-sower, but it’s been exciting to see how much easer it is when you just ask God to bring people into your life who have questions.

Cheers,

Peter

    The next day mom came home excited about some real buys she found at the thrift store. She said she had something for me. My mind was a total blank concerning what it might be. I had temporarily forgotten complaining to God about not returning anything. She pulled out a pair of brown leather chucks. “I know you have that other pair you always wear but these were such a great buy I couldn’t pass them up.” I hadn’t yet told her about giving away the former favorites.
    I hope that whenever E.T. looks down at his feet he will remember that God’s love for him does not depend on what he is in this world’s eyes, and I’ll remember not to despise little ones when I look down at mine.                 

    In my determination to “count no hours but the sunny ones” I have also sought to also include here real life events of an unfortunate nature, as antidote to the pangs of nausea often inspired by all the sunshine and flowers dribble. My life since the previous post is the same, only more so. Good and bad continue to “run on parallel tracts and arrive about the same time.” Today it rained marble sized hail on dad’s vegetable garden as a tornado passed nearby. I spent all evening indoors working on the moody drawing you see below. An artist neighbor popped in for a visit yesterday, and upon hearing of my interest in drawing she went home and returned with armfuls of loot from her studio. Art books, exotic paper, brushes, and box upon box of beautiful pastels were only a few of the things she lavished upon us. I started my composition all wrong. I made the trees and their reflection on one side of the paper, then deciding the landscape was nearly barren, I drew in the windmill, using as a design reference a photo I took of a Rembrandt original while in Holland.  Pastel is an exceedingly tactual art form. You just layer in the colors and massage them around until you like what you see.

Journaling is the art of pressing in a book days that were too pretty to throw away. You don’t have to write every thing that happens to you. You can, like the inscription I read on a sundial, “count no hours but the sunny ones.”  I’m just now reaping the rewards of notes I took on my life in the North last year, like this entry:

 Nov. 3, 2007
    Out all day. Woke up at 9:00 and caught the train to Chicago. Quiet suburbs rolled past, still asleep in the soft morning light. Dave’s brothers are in for the weekend. As we walked though the cold, moist air wonderful musky smells of chocolate wafted up around us, so thick and sweet you could practically drink it. Stopped for coffee. Found an ancient bookstore called Afterwords. Explored the brick basement, row upon row of wonderful books. Bought almost more than could be easily carried. Then went to Gap and bought a woolly striped scarf.

 Someone asked me the other day how my life is going and as usual I said I couldn’t complain. He told me to try. After one those awkward twenty second lulls in the conversation all I could do was turn back to him and say flatly “No, really, I have nothing to complain about.”  It is a curious thing, the realization that your life is perfect. It is not a state of mind to be arrived at easily. First you have to consider all the woeful things that failed to occur over the previous week, and if you haven’t completely lost your train of thought you can start on all the wonderful things that have happened that you forgot to find delight in. This is what I was attempting to do in that awkward twenty seconds. Not a single change to any one aspect of my environment could possibly make me any happier than I already am, and any good thing I receive as of this moment is just an overflow of God’s grace. O.k., maybe I could think of some clever way to drive without insurance, or be making a great deal more money than I am, but overall, there is nothing I would remove from my life if I had the choice. Perhaps these sudden overtures of contentment result from my new interest in the woeful tales of Dickensian heroes struggling to maintain integrity under the most crushing conditions. Or more likely the steady pace of country life has taught me to disdain the level of complication my friends ascribe to the very simple process of living.  

 
I scribbled this in my journal last week:
    Began the morning with a quiet walk through the green pasture land around my home. The brilliant light glimmered in the leftover rain puddles. I finally got up the courage to hop the neighbor’s fence and trespass on his irresistible green turf. I helped Stephen in the kitchen with breakfast. We rolled dough out into sheets and cut them into long strips. These we oiled and covered with brown sugar, cinnamon and walnuts, then stacked and cut again. The layers were then baked on edge until they rose into sweet flaky fans. Spent the whole afternoon fencing outside with the brothers. This has proved a great way to connect with them. Our staged fights have all the vigor of real combat. Possibly the biggest rush I’ve had since coming home. The only downside is the little sisters insist on being involved, and it will be on my head alone if one of those beautiful eyes are put out. Stephen manufactured an ideal practice sword out of an old golf club and the head of a trombone stand. The activity is a welcome change and keeps me out of doors. In the evening I potted palms for the house.  The day ended with a meal at a neighbor’s house. Fish and Chips and a double round of Shang-Hi. Then a bedtime tale from P.G. Wodehouse.

 Forgive me if my overtures of pastoral life savor of the saccharine, but for the first time in my life I really feel I’m being led in green pastures, beside the still waters. And these are the days I choose to remember.

A new year deserves a fresh perspective. A peek into the dark closet of what used to be my old Xanga was chilling, to say the least. A lot like peering down the corridor of a mortuary and seeing a lot of dead, tagged toes peeping back at you. Many things have changed about my life, and it’s time they were reflected here. I want to create an environment hospitable to the celebration of Life. Rejoicing in the daily transformation, like the butterfly forming withing the cocoon. The Unfortunate Events thing was charming, but sadly, I could only post after something terrible happened, and when my life improved I stopped writing. But God has been so faithful and so good I feel that if the credits were to roll on my life at this moment I would consider it a very happy ending.

Providence is a word which here means the alignment of coincidences whose timing is so impeccable as to be attributed only to a Divine source. It’s cultural antonym is the infamous Act of God, which here means a misfortune so calamitous that even the most ardent atheist couldn’t find it in him to point finger at dear old Mother Nature. You will remember that a few entries ago I quite despaired over the “Malicious Puppeteer,” and wondered wether in retrospect, everything would fall together, or just fall apart. My mind was a flurry of questions to which I didn’t really want answers.

But then there is Providence. God is so good. You people have no idea. First of all, I would like to thank everyone so very much for your continued prayers for my mom. Through careful adherence to a very stringent nutritional program, and by God’s grace, she is in the process of experiencing total healing. 

My family came to pick me up from headquarters the day after the Christmas Conference. Though I think they were more than a little alarmed at the extent to which my little quirks have flourished unguarded in the bliss of bachelorhood, they decided to take me home anyway. The most beautiful memory I have of their visit was ice skating in Millennium Park. There were surprisingly few bloody shins and smashed-up appendages to divide between us, thanks to the patient coaching of Janny Moore and Philip Roth, who with Eric Rice took special time out to commemorate my last day in Chicago. The next day I made the rounds to say so long to all my HQ friends. I guess you would all like to hear that I miss you desperately, but the truth is my heart is still so brimming full of memories, stories and pictures, I haven’t found any time for grieving.

I hope you all are blessed with a happy New Year, and I look forward to visiting with you here every week as we experience the next chapter in my ongoing Celebration of Life.

Cheers,