What if we're already in Heaven?

The other day was riding my bike. I do that a lot, probably 30 miles of trails, and another 20 or so on roads, every week, when I can, in Michigan. In the summer, for obvious reasons.

I was riding a trail that was ablaze in with white and yellow flowers. O.K., I think the white ones were weeds, but the way the sun lit them in the late afternoon, combined with the yellow ones (possibly also weeds) was spiritually radiant. Just sayin’, weeds can also be spiritually radiant.

As I rode through the scene, embracing my role as an active participant in it all, it thought. “What if this is Heaven? What if we are in it right now and we don't even realize it?”

At that exact moment a bluebird startled by an eighth of a ton Polack cranking a mountain bike up a moderate grade covered in gravel and dirt, flew out from the bushes on my right not ten feet away. The afternoon sun made its iridescent feathers explode in an exclamation point to my thought about is this heaven?

Then I hit a root and wiped out. But, the moral of the story is: Practice makes perfect. Given that, should we all be focusing more on ‘practicing like we're playing’ as it relates to heaven?

See … Having ADD is hard. We think about things like this!

Born Again Weber Man

I can still hear my father’s words ringing in my ears, “Get that grill going.” Then I hauled the black bowl and dome out from inside the screened porch and took a match to the coals. After that perfect balance of gray on black with red glow was achieved, the artist vaulted from his Lazy Boy, grabbed whatever fare was slated for that day, and began painting on his wire grate palette. Tending, turning, adjusting the meat, poultry, fish or vegetables, and then pulling the lid with back on. As he carefully manipulated the vents the words, “Nothing cooks like these darned Weber’s son.” were always passed along.

Dad has been gone for almost 30 years. But as many sons come to understand – he was usually right about, well, nearly everything. Last week I rediscovered how right he was about, “Nothing cooks like these darned Weber’s son.”

We rented a place on lake Michigan. Upon arrival we walked out on to the porch, and I saw her there in the corner. A bigger Weber than dad’s. It had a roll back cover holder and a thermometer too. Over the ensuing week the equipment was put to task. Salmon, flank steak, vegetables, brats, dogs, burgers. Even did a cast iron skillet Michigan cherry cobbler in it. We rocked that grill …

But, I had been already been lured away by the implied convenience of propane and a push button starter. The shiny silver mastodons lined up outside Home Depot and Lowes taunted me, then I bought one. Then I bought another, and another; all the while ignoring the sage words from dad.

Well, things are going throw back here. There is a 20 lb. bag of charcoal in the SUV. This weekend, I will not be tempted or swayed by claims of “cook up to 40 chicken breasts” and “cleans easily.” This weekend, I will listen to the old man. This 4^th of July, I will buy another Weber.