Those John Wilds vocals; Lululemon grass-shoppers; What we inherited
3 Things this week and a poem
What is it, 10 days to the US election? I've always watched closely and have been fascinated with US politics.
Like you I'll be watching with interest. I saw a clip online from that 40 million evangelicals may sit this one out, which would sway the election one way or the other. I liked the take by Dave Ramsey, the hillbilly financial advisor: you're not voting for a saviour or a pastor, you're picking someone whose policies most match yours, so plug your nose and make a choice.
In Canada we vote for our local rep (and not directly for whosoever becomes our leader), so there's less attention on the top of the ticket. It's an interesting difference.
No matter how you vote or who you want to win, I'm glad you're here. Thanks for spending some of your weekend with Things I Wrote Down. Here are three things and an a poem.
1. Those John Wilds vocals
Last night Petra and I caught a concert Bethel put on in Niagara. I always love to see people in their creative element, their incredible talent honed over time on display, completely in command of their gift.
That happened last night as Jen Johnson and John Wilds led a 2 hour set of songs, many sung in churches across the world every Sunday.
Wilds’ vocals stood out. His set at the keyboard as he sang and riffed off old hymns was transcendent.
Here’s his Spotify account:
2. Lululemon grass-shoppers
I now know what a swarm of locusts looks like. They fall upon a place, cover everything in sight, leave behind the bones of a once lush and vibrant environment.
That's what happened when we happened upon a Lululemon outlet this weekend. The clothes racks were stripped to the metal like so many shafts of wheat.
We went into the shop to see what the madness was about. And I became a grasshopper. I am now the owner of a pair of shorts that cost me $29.
Curious to see if my analogy pans out? Here’s a locust plague in real life.
It checks out.
3. What we inherited
It was fascinating to drive through Niagara-on-the-Lake this weekend. There’s a road in the beautiful vineyard-filled landscape that has old church buildings on either side, many of which have been converted into businesses.
The really stunning buildings now are all the wineries where people travel from around the world to visit. The buildings are glass-filled, cathedral-like places that capture the sun’s radiance. A pilgrimage for the fruit of the vine.
It's surreal to see the old and new together in this way. What brought people together then; what draws the people now. Centred around wine, yet so different.
I drive a street like that and can't help but ask questions. How do things start and who starts them? Where did we come from and what has been handed to us?
Perhaps my interrogative nostalgia comes from spending time to bring together a play that looks at the church’s inheritance of great music. This week, my hour-long play Christmas Inheritance dropped online.
It's about a kid who thinks he knows what he wants—fame, fortune, meaning. And the strange visitor who walks him to a hymnal and shows what he's always, already had.
A poem
Inheritance. Where we've come from. Where we go. Where we're going and how we get there.
That's the chain of word association that brought me to this week's poem, which I'm sharing, again, from my pandemic experiment of one poem per day in the lockdown.
It's short but little things can provide some of the biggest blessings.
