Life Talk with Craig Lounsbrough

Craig Lounsbrough

Life Talk is a podcast intentionally designed to enrich your life, deepen your marriage, enhance your parenting, maximize your work life, and dramatically embolden this journey that we call life.

  1. 1d ago

    Finding Ourselves Somewhere Else - "In the Footsteps of the Few"

    Not Where We Were It seems that we have some vague and rather ethereal sense of where we’re going in this thing called life.  For the more contemplative soul, that sense might be quite refined.  For the casual traveler, it might be a bit more nebulous and scattered.  For many, where they’re going is defined by the tasks of the day, rather than enlarged by a vision for tomorrow. In many cases where we’re going is far more rigorously defined by all the places where we don’t want to go, rather than the places where we do want to go.  At other times its definition is shaped by the opinions of others, or it’s carved directly from the bedrock of the value systems that have been built into our lives throughout the whole of our lives. In whatever way we do it, we all have some sense of where we’re going. And too often, we find ourselves ending up someplace else.    The Detours We Create Yet, life is not so predictable as to always wind its way to the places that we presumed it to be going.  There are those times when where we were going was mistaken as some sort of final destination when in reality it was only a step to a final destination. At other times the place where we’re going is really a destination that we had fabricated because the place to which life had originally called us appeared too big, or too far, or too steep, or simply impossible in whatever way our limited vision happened to interpret it. Sometimes our destination is to set a course away from our destination so that we can dispense with whatever responsibility or obligation our original destination might have demanded of us. But then there are those other times when life takes a sharp turn that seems little of our actions, nothing of our destination, but everything of circumstances designed to kill our journey and crush our destination long before we get within arm’s length of it. And then in the magic of life, there are those times where we have actually pursued some authentic destination with such rigor that the trajectory has catapulted us past our destination to places that are everything of our fondest imagination. However, it might play out, we’re all headed somewhere.   The Explanation of Detours Missed How It Happens Yet, more often than not it’s the not the obvious shifts in our journey that are the core problem. Sure, life shows up and we get shoved down. There’s no question that the natural ebb and flow of life, whether it be titanic or miniscule, will happen to us.  Despite our frequently ego-centric inclinations to the contrary, we are not so shrewd or ingenious as to be able to traverse life in a manner that deftly side-steps everything that comes at us.  We don’t dance as well as we think we do.   Casual and Careless Yet, more often than not, the explanation doesn’t rest in life having shown up. The much more poignant issue is that too often we are passive, flabby and lax in rigorously living out our lives. We’re far too casual and careless. Somehow, somewhere the sanctity of life and the privilege of living it out was supplanted with some sense that it’s too much work or that it’s not going to work, so why try?   Preoccupied with Pabulum Too often we’re too preoccupied with pabulum. We’re tediously engaged with tiny things and we’re caught in the tedium of minutia because we can gather these things around us and control them when the bigger things are out of our control. Too frequently we’re goaded by the fear of big dreams and massive possibilities, so we dumb down our lives to anesthetize those fears.    Along for the Ride Frequently we presume that we’re some docile passenger along for a ride that’s going wherever it’s going, so we just let it go to wherever that place is. We freely surrender to passivity which is an invitation to meaninglessness. And meaninglessness is the death of the soul itself. Life is a river, we say. And the best course of action is to navigate it because entertaining the far-fetched notion of swimming against it is utterly preposterous.     The Walls of Denial At other times, we live in the constructed confines erected from the raw material of denial, causing us to live out a life that is in denial of life itself. We become squatters living in a squatter’s camp constructed by the flimsy materials of justification, rationalization, blame-placing and projecting. We pull in the walls due to the reality that materials of this sort are always pulling inward because they will die if we dare to press them outward.  Hemmed in by walls of this sort, the world around us is shut out and moves on without our awareness of it.    Ending Up Where We Wish to Be We will end up somewhere. The fact that we have a destination is irrefutable as life is a journey that presents us with no option other than the journey. We may decide that the nature and course of the journey is irrelevant, and we may take a backseat to passivity.  If we do, we have no right to complain when we end up in some place other than what we may have thought or preferred. Yet, we can recognize that we are not automatons subject to the flux of the world within which we have found ourselves. It would seem advisable to recognize that we have an obligation to the course that our life is taking, and that along with that obligation we have been granted a profound degree of power to bring to the course. If we succumb to carelessness, or become engrossed by pabulum, or if we just let the ride go wherever circumstances take it, or if we pull close the walls of denial this thing that we call life will wind itself to wherever it’s going with no one at the helm.  And that kind of destination cannot be good. We would be wise to inventory our lives and determine if we are in some way large or small participating in any of these behaviors.  If so, we need to root them out and expunge them from our lives.  Reclaiming a sense of vision, and then seizing our lives with discipline and intentionality will set us on a path that will land us in places that we’ve dreamt to land.  If we don’t, the place we land may not be on any land that we even remotely recognize.       Thanks for joining us today.  You will discover “In the Footsteps of the Few – The Power of a Principled Life,” as well as all of my books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or wherever books are sold.  It’s my hope that you find these books are meaningful and restorative in your life. Also, visit us daily on all of our Social Media sites to find inspirational quotes and videos.

  2. Aug 4

    ”An Intimate Collision - Encounters With Life and Jesus” - Part Three

    Dean was deaf.  It was that simple, but it was inordinately complex at the same time.  Life can have its sinkholes.  Sometimes there’s a bunch of them, enough of them to cause a broad and crippling implosion where things just cave in all around us.  Life then becomes a litany of foggy responses to trauma where we move zombie-like through whatever the day or the moment holds.  There is no forward movement in times like these.  When our worlds collapse it all becomes about survival because often that’s all it can be about.  Soon survival becomes the norm where we strive to survive for the sake of survival itself.  Life becomes abjectly meaningless other than getting through the day to fight the meaningless that will face us again tomorrow. Dean was deaf.  But he was mentally retarded as well.  Tenderly kind, compassionate and invitingly soft underneath it all, he was the by-product of the sink-holes that had scattered themselves all around his life.  In the end, it all imploded and he retreated into his deafness and his mental retardation, finding there some seclusion away from it all.  He sat along the roadside of life watching some of it go by and ignoring the rest of it.  He surrendered to isolation and held the world at bay, barricading himself many fathoms deep within himself.  He effectively placed himself out of reach of anything.  He was a treasure lost in the stratified subterranean layers of his fear.               He had never mastered his deafness.  Some lean into their disability and shape it to serve them.  He never leaned into it.  Some work to compensate for their handicaps by strengthening the things that are not handicaps.  He never compensated.  Rather, he decompensated down into a silent oblivion where he sat hunched and utterly alone. Sign language and the reading of lips never broke him out of the prison that deafness had thrust him into; that place so many fathoms deep that no one could get down there.  He was somehow held inside with the world held outside.  Each could see the other from their variant vantage points, but neither could bridge the gap nor plumb the depths.  Whatever separated him from the rest of us seemed intractably immovable.   A Conviction of Greatness Life sometimes persuades us to believe that there is so much more to something or some person even though we can’t see it.  We engage that thing or that person with a certainty that there lies within them something profound despite the fact that it’s completely hidden.  It seems that we walk circles around them, looking and probing for some crack or tear that will grant us a peek inside.  We look for some chink to wriggle through or a knob that we can wrestle with long enough until some hidden door opens and grants us entrance to the riches within.  There emerges a dogged persistence about it all because we dare not bypass what lies within even though it’s held away from us. That was Dean.  He was a kid that I could not let go of even though there was nothing to hold onto.  His mild mental retardation put him even further away; a young man of riches unearthed that always provoked me back to him.  He was frustrating and abrasive at times, being unable to break through his own deafness and reach up and out to everything outside of himself.  His coarse and sometimes rash behaviors seemed to be an expression of his deeply engrained trepidation of the world, combined with his own frustration of choosing to seclude himself.  Because he couldn’t break out, he reinforced his isolation from the inside out, pushing everything away so that he would have a sense that it was he who was locking it all out.   Somehow he found solace in thinking he controlled it because it gave him a sense he could get out of it.  He couldn’t. I didn’t choose to be relentless with this kid.  I had no choice but be relentless.  Sometimes what you see in another is far too convincing and too terribly compelling to let it go of it even when you meet with nothing more than outright rejection and ever-thickening walls.  And walls there were; thick, fortified and towering.  I found myself relentless in pursuit and then disappointed into withdrawal, only to do it all over again because this kid was somehow just too precious to let go of.  He needed to hear, maybe not with his ears, but at least with his heart.  I prayed that God would pull Dean aside and open up something that would open him up.         Deaf to Life Rejection and scorn was his lot due to the assumption of sin that others had about him.  The world was loudly silent for him.  Something was missing that he could not identify because he had never known it.  Life is indeed an orchestra full and complete, absolutely masterful.  But for the deaf man it was absolutely silent.  The musical pieces and masterful renditions for which life was created were soundless for him.  Notes and scores that were casually written across the faces of friends, that were penned in the raucous flamboyance across bustling open air markets, that found subtle notation in droning bees gently drifting from blossom to awaiting blossom all gave the faintest hints of the melodies they illustrated, but the sounds were never there.  The sheet music ran in front of him in endless reams, but they didn’t spawn a sound. The haunting call of myriad geese aloft, the pounding surf throwing itself against a forever beach, or the fingers of the wind rustling through listless treetops were silent for him.  The roll of a distant summer thunderstorm on a humid horizon, or the raucous laughter of life rising from the soul of humanity itself was nothing more and nothing less than the sound of silence.  Entombed in a vacuum of deafening silence, the orchestra had always played soundlessly for this deaf man; vigorously indeed, but vigorously silent.  He was deaf and he was starkly alone. He attempted to interact and engage with the music and the melodies.  But to try to participate in a world you can’t hear leaves you ever outside of that world despite how hard you try.  His lips were slow and drawn with words that were ill-formed.  He arduously attempted to wrap words around voice and syntax and intonation that he had never heard.  He spent himself in perpetually frustrating efforts to do what he couldn’t conceive and could much less imagine, to put sounds to words he’d never heard. His words were slurred, distorted, verbally twisted and linguistically bent, readily inviting and successfully garnering ridicule, mockery and confusion from those that lived in the world of sound.  His was a life forced out onto the fringes of life, exiled there in a lonely land where silence is a hated, but forever companion.  There was no breech in the wall to slip back through in order to touch humanity so as to belong to something other than the silence. Rejection by others was based on the errant assumption that some sin had caused his deafness.  This conclusion was elevated as full-fledged fact, rendering him an outcast on the falsest of premises.  Rejection and silence are both isolating, the difference is that one is a choice, the other is chance.  What they have in common is that the person upon whom they both fell chose neither.  It was something like a full emasculation of everything it is to be human.  This is what it was to be deaf and mute.  And so his life went. There was a rumor that circulated.  A distant murmuring unheard by deaf ears, but caught by others said that Jesus was in the Decapolis.  This prophet and miracle worker had come.  The verdict as to who this Jesus was remained a point of discussion and debate.  Some of that was quite heated and some of it was really rather innocuous.  Yet, He was coming and the captivating risk that He was something more than a mortal man was compelling. Had those around this deaf man tired of his dependency, these friends of his, or did they care for him?  Was he little more than an object that could be used to entice a miracle of this prophet?  Was their intent little more than a ploy for a cheap thrill?  The text is unclear.  The motive is foggy and indistinct.  But they take the deaf mute to Jesus.  It didn’t appear to be an action of the deaf man’ own accord as there is no hint of self-determination or self-initiation.  There doesn’t appear to be any sort of remote inkling that the possibility of being ushered into the world of sound is a distinct possibility.  How can you possibly know what you’re missing if you’ve never had it?  How can you desire something if desire has no place to be cultivated because we’ve no idea that there’s anything to be desired?  Sometimes we see in and through others what we could not otherwise see because it’s not within us to see.  Sometimes we experience the passionate and vigorous pulse of desire vicariously through the heartbeat of others and we sense the pulse in them.  Sometimes our vision of the possible is only possible because we see that vision reflected in the eyes of another and we watch it listlessly dance about in their smile.  Sometimes we actually end up dancing because others have caused us to believe in the dance and have ushered us out on the dance floor even when we can’t hear the music ourselves.  Such were the deaf mute’s friends.       And so, the rumor draws them to Jesus.  Soon the embedded mass was found.  Ushered by these friends, the deaf man pressed through the crowd.  The small entourage cuts a swath through a fluid array of assorted humanity that swelled and eddied around Jesus.  The clamor of a world of never-ending needs simultaneously sought relief.  The world clamored around Jesus seeking some shred of hope and some healing that arises from that shred of that very hope.  The crowd swirled around this wandering prophet as if in the grip of the undertow of all creati

  3. Jul 28

    ”An Intimate Collision - Encounters With Life and Jesus” - Part One

    Filth described her very well.  While it was an apt depiction, it failed to embrace the fullest description of what she was.  Some lives seem to be nothing more than a brutal manifestation of the accumulated slag and scum that is leftover in the wake of some departed tragedy.  These people become the thing that life has done to them, being so irreparably identified with their own tragedies that they themselves are a living manifestation of all those assorted tragedies.  Sometimes we become what life has done to us.  Hers was a life that was already an abysmal collection of untold catastrophes that resulted in filth nearly indescribable.  She was only fourteen. Susan was of little note as she stepped off the bus that first day of summer camp.  She was one of over one hundred campers swirling in an arriving mass of anticipation.  Gathering tattered bags and a tattered spirit, her eyes were set hollow with the effects of a life lived in hatred.  Filth and a pervading stench drew her apart from the rest almost instantly.  Her soul seemed to reek with a putrid odor that handily eclipsed the smell emanating from her skin and clothing.  There was about her an inner ugliness that permeated everything else about her, that had consumed her and had digested whatever shred of good there might have been.  It all seemed to have effectively left the fragrance of any human goodness now consumed in the sludge of whatever it was that seemed to define her. Her defense mechanism was so refined that she immediately repelled all who drew near, thrusting others so far away that she guaranteed her own isolation.  Her own woundedness was so utterly complete that the poison of the pain she felt spewed in venomous rages at anyone who drew near.  Her self-hatred was effectively projected outward onto anyone who dared draw near physically or emotionally.  She seemed as something less than human, something abominable; something terribly horrifying within which any shred of humanity was consumed and utterly lost. The following week of camp was to be marred by ugly confrontations.  She devolved into assorted rages that were wild, brutish, entirely unprovoked and profuse.  She refused to shower.  Ferocious outbursts were filled with anger distilled into lethal poison that devastated other hearts, young and old.  Physical assaults and violent rages had an insane wildness and a touch of insanity about them.  There emerged at times something animalistic about her, something very primal that raged unrestrained by either reason or rationale.  At times the line between that of a visceral animal and a human being was blurred and terribly ill-defined.  In the end, Susan was isolated in a lone cabin.  Her parents refused to come and get her.  Her pastor was unwilling and unable to deal with her rages as her life did not fit neatly into some clean theological rubric that he could manage.  The camp staff gathering to pray for her, but found their prayers as ineffective.  Some sort of spiritual possession was questioned, and rightly so.  She was a monster; a raging pathetic monster that we waited to relieve ourselves of at the close of camp.  Such was our judgment of her.   Judging From Fear Judging is, I think, a manifestation of our own fears.  We judge so that we might have some sense of control and some feeling of superiority.  If we judge that which is before us, we assume we will not become whatever it is that we are rendering judgment upon.  We set ourselves apart as distinct from that thing or that person with that distinction somehow convincing us that we are different.  Judging places us above that which we judge, meaning that we will not succumb to it from our supposedly elevated position. We judge because we fear, and because we fear we are not prone to look deeply into the person that we’re judging.  For if we look deeply, we might see ourselves.  We might be forced to surrender to the reality that that which we are rendering judgment upon is as much a part of that person as it is a part of us.  Superficial judgment allows us to bypass our own humanity and live in the lie of superiority.  The person whom we judge is then sacrificed to our thin self-serving judgments and whatever is it that God wanted to do in our lives through that person is tragically lost.        Judgment Revealed It was to be that final night of camp.  The next morning a mass of buses and cars would invade the gravel parking lot, snatching up sun burnt campers filled with the wild tales of a week’s adventures.  But that would be tomorrow.  For now, night had fallen, drawing up a warm blanket of thick summer air across the camp and out beyond the wooded expanse, tucking the world in at each horizon.  Crickets sang in a chorus of the night from the deep woods, lulling the day to slumber with their mesmerizing notes.  Frogs bellowed thick from a stream that meandered through a wooded ravine down a slight ridge.  Their chorus hauntingly rolled up the rise and across the slight meadow.  Lightening bugs cast dancing pinpoint pigments of yellow across the shadowy landscape and deep into the tall stands of sleepy timber.  The moon had only shaken a sliver of itself awake, mingling with the starry minions.  It was the perfect night; soft and subtle.  God’s creation was melding into perfection. With the campers bedded down for that final night, I strolled down to the chapel now bathed in the soft shadows of night.  A few moments with God at the end of a long week seemed so right.  Drawn, I descended the winding dirt and gravel path with the soft crunch of each step muffled by night’s thick softness.  Slight shadows cut from the thin pastel light of a sleepy moon seemed to whisper something about reverence and what it is to be alone with God. Another person had thought the same.  The outdoor chapel was framed by a wall of river rock that extended muscular granite arms around an expansive gravel floor.  Across the gravel expanse there stood a rock and timber altar with a muscular, rough-hewn cross as a shadowy sentry.  Thick timbers supported a vaulted wooden roof spread with broad knotty pine boards.  The woods beyond were alive with the night.  And Susan was there. A shadowy figure knelt at the altar.  Her aloneness was poignant, an isolated life kneeling before an altar in a desperate hope of somehow breaking that isolation.  The crying was soft and indistinct, being defy muted by her fear of vulnerability.  The moment was a manifestation of a broken heart and deeply wounded spirit which had somehow collided with God enough to strike a spark of hope.  She was kneeling there, her fingers embedded in the rock altar, hoping that this hope would not fail her as had everything else. We had all seen her as ugly, despicable, the slimy scum of humanity that teetered on the savagery of a wild animal.  We wanted nothing more than to see the sun break on the final day of camp and watch her leave both the camp and our lives.  We could not wait to be rid of her, to relegate this vermin back to the hole from which she had crawled.  To say we hated Susan was likely excessive.  To say we despised her was likely true.  And yet, here she was, broken.  The wounded humanity she so vehemently lashed out from was pouring out across that rock and timber altar.  Her core was exposed and for the first time I saw a slight glimpse of her humanity.  I had errantly judged it not to be there for fear that I would recognize it in myself.  Now I saw her brokenness and in it, I recognized my own. I feared her, not knowing in that moment what to do; not wanting to do anything out of the fear of behaviors I’d observed and the hatred I’d seen spew from her.  But I found myself walking toward her anyway.  Having made no conscious decision to do anything, I stepped, my footsteps dictated by something wholly other than me.  Suddenly I was beside her in the thick dark, in the thick of night; in the thick of her night.  Without a word spoken, she reached up and took my hand and drew me down to her side with a force that buckled my knees.  Putting a trembling arm around me as if the whole of her spirit was leaning its weight on me, I felt for that brief instance the intolerable hell of her life.  And in that moment I understood why she was what she was. Her words were to silence the night that surrounded us.  Nature drew down into the moment, stood on tiptoe so it seemed as God reached out from the expanse of that starry night and changed a life. Her next words set me back, instantly slicing through all the things that had caused me to judge her so harshly and revealing who this really was.  She said, “would you pray with me?”  Without a word from me her heart ruptured open in prayer.  I never uttered a word.  I didn’t have to as such an action would have been only an intrusion in that transforming moment.  Massive floodgates surged opened and a enormous reservoir of pain that had accumulated over the incalculable expanse of years and events deluged the darkened chapel.  I knelt . . . stunned.  I had arrogantly diminished her in my judgments, and I experienced my own cleansing in hers.  It was a marvelous and privileged moment. In the end, we spent over an hour kneeling in the gravel, cloaked in a deep summer’s night. Her prayers, a lifetime tidal wave of events and circumstances kept coming; of abuse and neglect and drugs.  The assorted maladies such as hunger, too few clothes, empty birthdays, numerous evictions and the rejection of society that abject poverty brings to a young life.  There was a devastating abortion and a fathomless litany of other terrifying choices that shredded her soul.  A father’s alcoholism, a brother’s suicide, and a mother’s incessant marital unfaithfulness layered in it all.  Things that I could have never have comprehended.  Hers was a devastated life

  4. Jul 21

    ”An Intimate Collision - Encounters with Life and Jesus” - Part Two

    Darren and a cheap plastic fish; it was a dollar store bin filler indelibly stamped with “made in China” that bordered on being junk.  There were numerous needs in Darren’s life, so numerous that he himself was lost in them.  They were pathetic and endless, so it seemed anyway. A plastic fish was little more than a cheap toy that momentarily anesthetized a child-like mind trapped in the deterioration of a thirty-five year old body.  It was a mere trinket, a point of focus upon which to forget the realities that had bent him and ultimately broken him.  It served as a pathetic distraction from all that had cut thick furrows across his head and heart far too early and far too prematurely.  It was a cheap, plastic fish. The years had stooped his gait and lined his hair with ever lighter shades of premature gray, cutting deep fissures across his brow and thickening young skin.  His gait had been reduced to a shallow shuffle, dragging thick shoes across coarse pavement.  He wore the soles thin on the outsides edges, further canting his gait.  His soul was much the same, deeply worn along the outside edges as well; throwing into a precarious imbalance the cadence of an already distorted life.  Darren found himself limping through a world that placed ultimate premiums on that which is new, believing that any value is inherent only in the degree of newness any object possesses.  The world viewed his worn edges as old, used up and spent.  He was unfairly evaluated as discarded humanity and rendered invisible to the eye of a world too busy. Baggy pants were thread thin at the knees and frayed at the pockets with stitching pulled and strained at variant seams.  An oversized shirt bespoke of his desperate efforts to fit in life.  Like his shirt, it never happened.  Stained and limp, a faded handkerchief hung from a weary pocket.  A mouthful of decay filled each smile and poured out in each conversation.  Chapped lips were edged thick by coarse stubble sprouting from a grimy bed of mottled skin.  The expanse of his squared jaw and sunken cheeks were covered with a bumper crop of inattention.  His words were primitive and slurred; rolling off his tongue in seamless bursts that made comprehension nearly impossible.  Shoulders were drawn down by the weight life had exerted on him, pulling him forward in a Neanderthal sort of cadence that was long and slothful.  And he wanted to show me his plastic fish. “Kind of like the disciples, huh?  They caught fish.  They were fishermen!” he said.  A broad smile of decay anticipated a hearty response from me.  Darren was thirty-five, yet he was enamored with a dollar store plastic fish.  “Like the disciples, huh?”  His persistence accelerated my desire to talk to a real adult.  Church was over and there were many candidates milling about.  My momentary objective was to determine how to terminate this infantile conversation and find someone with some shred of intelligence that I could talk to.  I moved to close the conversation with Darren and did so quite deftly I thought.  He would have no idea that I had just ditched him.  As I stepped away from him, he held the plastic fish in his weathered hands as if it were a precious treasure and muttered softly to himself, “I was a sinner, now I’m a fisher of men too.”   God Strikes There are unexpected moments in life when God sends simplicity as a blinding light that is far more pure and infinitely more superior than all the intellectual musings I could devise.  Darren’s words . . . “sinner” and now “fisher of men”, though soft, backlit my soul in blinding light and thundered through the very core of my ego-centric spirit.  They rocked me, simultaneously illuminating my flagrant sense of superiority as paper thin and backlighting my egotistical self against something far greater and far grander.  A light both brilliant and revealing was thrown onto something I had unknowingly lost in the dark pool of piousness and shallow Christianity that I had cultivated.  “Sinner” and “fisher of men” represented two opposite ends of life.  One was represented by sin sheathed in death on one end, and that of salvation and the humanly unexplainable privilege of salvation on the other.  He had seized something spiritually authentic that was indefinably powerful because of its innocent simplicity. His words drew me down with my soul melting into repentant puddles on the pavement and pooling around Darren’s feet.  And in my heart a stark thought shot through my brain.  It seized my heart and surged through my soul as the light exposed the grotesqueness of my immaturity . . .  “go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:9, NIV).  I had rarely felt so abjectly ugly and so starkly far from God.  I was sickened by myself with nowhere to run in order to get away from myself.  Darren had brilliantly backlit my life with a hand full of simple words, a plastic fish and an innocent life.  I was repulsed by what I saw in the blinding light.   Fish and Light The cool of the night aimlessly drifted by.  Time drifted listlessly with it.  Waves gently lapped the weathered wooden hull as if the night was completely pacified with simply existing.  Sails flapped passively, rolling in a dance with an occasional listless breeze that floated out from somewhere deep in the night.  The timbered creaking of shifting weight was soft against the darkness.  Oars dipped deep and silently, spinning tiny whirlpools of water that softly gurgled in the thin veil of satin moonlight.  The damp scent of water gathered in a thin, veneer layer of mist that tentatively skirted the water’s surface.  The night was intermittently rendered musty with the odors of nets wet with nothing but water.  A distant heron hauntingly called into the night from a far shore.  Muffled voices and the lights of other boats drifted listlessly across the water. Nets were cast in a perfectly spinning arch, pirouetting to the rhythm of the night as they were launched by thick arms sure with experience.  Slapping the water, they were given a moment to sink into the night of the lake.  Descending, the keel of the boat became smaller in the submerged descent.  The chalky white moonlight was shattered into a million moving shards of milky light on the underside of the waves, fading as the depths were listlessly plumbed.  The water cooled, darkened, and was stirred by soft currents.  All was listless in a dreamlike descent. And then there was a massive tug initiated by the same sure arms of experience.  The net reeled and folded in upon itself, instantly enfolding everything within it.  A series of firm tugs follow in a different kind of rhythm that was much less peaceful and much more intentional.  Lunging toward the surface the net broke the liquid plane and was hauled into the coarse belly of the boat. Again it was the same.  There was nothing in the nets embrace but weeds, water and disappointment.  A gruff remark, and then a curse edged rough with the abrasion of frustration cut the night and oozed the pus of anger into the boat’s belly.  Frustration was manifest and coarsely expelled into the night by exasperated fishermen whose finest skills could not coerce the deep waters to offer up their bounty.  The waters stubbornly chose to withhold their living treasures.  The net was hurriedly prepared by frustrated hands and launched again, and again, and again.  Frustration layered upon frustration until nothing other than frustration defined the whole of the night. The moon slowly descended to sleep behind the horizon.  The multitude of stars drifted across the expanse of the velvet blackness, moving in unison with the turn of the universe and the winds of heaven nudging them to the same horizon.  Night would soon drift into day.  The nets remained empty.  Soon the sun stirred with the first tentative band of pastel thin light on a yawning horizon, softly illuminating empty boats.  So went the night. This was Simon Peter’s world, that of his father and his grandfather.  His was a lineage of weary boats, hemp nets, flapping fish glinting in flashes of silver, sails and storms.  He was isolated within the world of trolling by night as the fish rose to cooler waters and sleeping by day.  Lost in this world of his, he was so engrossed in its demands that he was defined by that world, having standardizing everything else by its shape and form.  This world of nighttime fishing and the life that goes with it dictated the shape, tenor and tone of his life.  It was so familiar and natural that becoming it, for Simon Peter, was being nothing less than who he was and where he needed to be.  There was little thought of anything else for he knew nothing else.  No other world other than the methodical frustration of sparse nets, contrary winds, too few fish to market leaving purses thin with coinage, long nights followed by exhausted days with the only promise being more of the same . . .  nothing other had backlit his life enough to see anything any different.   In His World There was an unexpected intrusion in Simon Peter’s tiny world.  A carpenter turned prophet found His way to this place of nets, nights and weary men.  Word had spread carrying rumors of miracles that had long drifted across the lake, having reached the shoreline and lapped against the wooden hulls of the docked boats.  It was likely that many of the fishermen had gotten wind of Jesus as their sails might have caught a slight breeze. But it was of little import. Rather, it was an inconvenience.  Like too many nights, the night had been long and fruitless.  The nets had yielded nothing more than water, weeds and weariness.  There were no fish to market that day.  The lake and the night had joined forces to deny these hunters of the deep any trophy.  The coming night would be pressed with the ne

  5. Jul 14

    Taking It to Our Knees - Not Defined By a Journey Gone Wrong

    Not Defined by a Journey Gone Wrong “To let myself be defined by my greatest mistakes is my greatest mistake.” Craig D. Lounsbrough Hi, I’m Craig Lounsbrough Welcome to LifeTalk It seems that we have some vague sense of where we’re going in this thing called life. For the more contemplative soul, that sense might be quite refined. For the casual traveler, it might be a bit more nebulous and scattered. Vague or refined, we all have some sense of where we’re going. And too often, we find ourselves ending up someplace else. Some of us are not necessarily in conscious pursuit of wherever this place is. We have this instinctually primal sense that it’s there and we intuitively assume that our path will take a natural course to wherever that place is. Then, there are others of us who are myopically focused on where we’re going to the degree that everything that we do is wholly defined by that singularly beguiling destination. In whatever way we do it, we all have some sense of where we’re going. And too often, we find ourselves ending up someplace else.    The Detours We Create Yet, life is not so predictable as to always wind its way to the places that we presumed it to be going. There are those times when where we were going was bafflingly mistaken as some sort of final destination when in reality it was only a step to a final destination. At other times the place where we’re going is really a destination that we had fabricated because the place to which life had originally called us appeared too big, or too far, or too steep, or simply impossible in whatever way our limited vision happened to interpret it. However it might play out, we’re all headed somewhere.   The Detours Life Creates But then there are those other times when life takes a sharp turn that seems little of our actions, nothing of our destination, but everything of circumstances designed to kill our journey and crush our destination long before we get within arm’s length of it. There’s a sense that something intrinsically unjust, stealthy and evil is always about and on the prowl, and whatever it is, it’s bound to show up. When it does, it undoes everything that we thought was secure and certain, wreaking havoc on whatever our journey had been to that point.  Yet, more often than not it’s the not the obvious shifts in our journey that are the core problem. Sure, life shows up and we get shoved down. There’s no question that the natural ebb and flow of life, whether it be titanic or miniscule, will happen to us. Despite our frequently ego-centric inclinations to the contrary, we are not so shrewd or ingenious as to be able to traverse life in a manner that deftly side-steps everything that comes at us.   Casual and Careless Yet, more often than not, the explanation doesn’t rest in life having shown up. The much more poignant issue is that too often we are passive, flabby and lax in rigorously living out our lives. We’re far too casual and careless. Somehow, somewhere the exquisite sanctity of life and the priceless privilege of living it out was supplanted with some sense that it’s too much work or that it’s not going to work, so why try? And so, we drift without knowing that we’re drifting because we’re no longer paying attention.   Preoccupied with Pabulum Too often we’re too preoccupied with pabulum. We’re tediously engaged with tiny things and we’re caught in the tedium of minutia because we can gather these things around us and control them when the bigger things are out of our control. Too frequently we’re goaded by the fear of big dreams and massive possibilities, so we dumb down our lives to anesthetize those fears. We’re caught in small things, and the outcome is that we end up finding ourselves somewhere else without ever seeing it coming.   Along for the Ride Frequently we presume that we’re some docile passenger along for a ride that’s going wherever it’s going, so we just let it go to wherever that place is. We then turn to the hovel of our small agendas because it’s the only place that we now have to go. We become so entangled in the pull of our own flimsy agendas that we serve agendas that serve no other purpose than serving our agendas. Assuming we’re on a ride that we can’t direct, the outcome is that we end up finding ourselves somewhere else without ever seeing it coming.   The Walls of Denial At other times, we live in the constructed confines erected from the raw material of denial, causing us to live out a life that is in denial of life itself. We become squatters living in a squatter’s camp constructed by the flimsy materials of justification, rationalization, blame-placing and projecting. Hemmed in by walls of this sort, the world around us is shut out and moves on without our awareness of it. The outcome is that we end up finding ourselves somewhere else without ever seeing it coming.          Ending Up Somewhere We will end up somewhere. The fact that we have a destination is irrefutable as life is a journey that presents us with no option other than the journey.  We may decide that the nature and course of the journey is irrelevant and we may take a backseat to passivity. If we do, we have no right to complain when we end up in some place other than what we may have thought or preferred. However it happens, we will end up somewhere.   Defined by a Journey Gone Wrong To whatever degree we have done it, we have contributed to where we find ourselves at this moment. The causations may have been largely of our making. Our poor decisions and impulsive choices may have landed us in dark places. We may have believed in the wrong things and justified those beliefs in spite of the painful outcomes that they repeatedly laid at our feet. We may have thought wrong, thought selfishly, abandoned any forethought, or not thought at all. Therefore, we thought ourselves to where we never thought we would be. We may well be the author of our destinations and the surveyor of the roads that brought us to these places. Those places might be barren. They may be empty of everything for which we had hoped and void of the slightest piece of our slightest dreams. We may see no way out of them and therefore assume that we will be forced to surrender the rest of our lives journeying further into them. All of this may be true. But what is truer is that you are not your destination. Your lack of judgement at a crucial crossroads may have placed you here, but you are more than the place at which you have arrived. Bad choices and even worse passions may have landed you in the wasteland that you’re living in. But you are not what you see around you. You are not the place within which you have put yourself. You are more than the choices that you made and the beliefs that you errantly embraced. You are more. And because you are, the place you are at is not the place where you will are doomed to live. You are more than what surrounds you and so is your future.   You will find “Taking It to Our Knees – Declaring Who I Am” on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or wherever books are sold. Thanks for joining us on LifeTalk today. You will find LifeTalk on most podcast platforms as well as YouTube. I would also encourage you to check out our daily posts on all of our Social Media sites. Thanks being here today. See you next time.

  6. Jul 12

    ”In the Footsteps of the Few - The Power of a Principled Life” - Part Four

    "In the Footsteps of the Few - The Power of a Principled Life" I Was Thinking - To Think Outside the Box(s) I was thinking.  And the more I thought, the more I realized that there is a whole lot to think about.  But in my thinking, I thought that most of our thinking (despite how much there is to think about) is really pretty standardized and chafingly rote.  We think in predetermined patterns and pre-existent templates that require no thinking, other than the commitment not to think.  We think in the way that others have chosen to think because they’ve already done the thinking, which relieves us of the need to do so.  We think we think, but the more I think about that, the less I think we think (if you know what I mean).  So, while there’s a whole lot to think about in this big, wide world of ours …we don’t.  It seems that our thinking is constrained in a manner that there’s really not that much thinking going on at all.  Rather, more often than not our thinking is a tired process of monotonously gathering up a predictable handful of stale but safe thoughts.  And if we play with them long enough, we figure that maybe they’ll freshen up and something innovatively fragrant might actually emerge out of the rot.  If something actually does, we’re usually scared of whatever it is.  If it doesn’t (which is typically what happens) we become increasingly convinced beyond hope that life is actually as stale as we thought it was.       Why? Most of this appears to happen because we think within boxes that we randomly (and sometimes not so randomly) borrow.  We think within predetermined boxes because anything outside of those requires some innovation wherein we let the leash out a bit, let our thoughts find their legs, and let them run.  But we’ve discovered that sometimes that simply takes too much thought, far too much energy, and far, far too much courage, for it is much easier and much, much safer to just sit.  Or worse yet, we fear that once our thoughts have caught even the slightest whiff of a life running at full stride, they will forever refuse the short leash.  What if our thinking were to open up fresh venues and pull back some hitherto hidden veil that suddenly revealed vast horizons that leaves ignorance no place to hide?  And what if the magnitude of such revelations is such that it handily crushes the complacency within which we’ve found so much comfort?  What if?  And out of the fear that such things might actually befall us, we peruse the stank back alleys of complacency, hastily borrowing boxes that we find deep in the darkened hovels of mediocrity.  And life becomes a journey lived within suffocating boxes rather than an adventure crafted of breathless horizons.   Our Box Collection: The Box of Societal Norms We think within the box of societal norms.  We grant these norms legitimacy because most of the people around us adhere to them in one form or another.  Because all these people adhere to them, we naturally grant these norms a morality, assuming that others would not dare embrace them if they weren’t sufficiently ethical or moral.  Therefore, (despite the terribly narrow nature of both the boxes and our logic), they are deemed acceptable.  To our relief, we quickly discover that if we think within these boxes we are far less likely to be met with rejection, or ridicule, or disdainful judgement, or some other rather distasteful response.  We desperately want to be in the good graces of those around us as that’s far more comfortable and far less dangerous than being in some other more adverse state of relationship with these people.  Therefore, the rules of the box rule out the role of thinking.   The Box of the Mundane We think within the well-worn boxes of the mundane as that path is quite well charted, rigorously predictable, and therefore void of anything dangerous because other people have figured out where all the dangerous stuff is and either removed it, or they’ve created paths around it.  We know that venturing off the path in life is ref with all sorts of calamity that’s just waiting to happen, and so in the box of the mundane there’s nothing to venture off on because there’s one and only one path.  It might be mundane, it might go nowhere, but it’s safe (if you happen to define ‘safe’ as refusing to live in order to effectively avoid being hurt).  In an increasingly busy world that’s careening in every conceivable direction, the box of the mundane allows us to perfectly function on autopilot since there’s only one path that we can walk.  Better yet, if we so choose we can simply sit along the side of this singular path, as this box generously allows us to somehow think (because we’re not) that sitting is a journey.  Therefore, the rules of the box rule out the role of thinking.   The Box of Our Fears We think within the box of our fears, as anything on the outside of those walls is filled with horrific danger (often of the most fabricated sort).  We’ve probably ventured out there a time or two, and when we did, we got hurt.  And so, when we were hurt, we put our pain on emotional steroids which exponentially magnified our fear.  We then took that fear and fashioned a monster that doesn’t exist, and we hunkered down in our box horrified by the fiction of it all.  And while the space out there is a whole lot bigger than the infinitesimally tiny space in here, at least it’s safe.  And safety (in our minds) is a decent trade-off, so much so that we amply decorate the box and make it homey with the scant furnishings of justification, rationalization, denial and other carefully appointed excuses.  We settle into the scantily upholstered armchair of mediocrity and wile away our days pretending that we’re not pretending.  Therefore, the rules of the box rule out the role of thinking.   The Box of Our Families We think within the box created by our families as we engaged them growing up.  In many unhealthy families, their boxes were shaped by their own demons and assorted hobgoblins that they handed the reins of power over to.  Over time, they dutifully passed those onto us lock, stock and barrel.  Sometimes these families demand that family members stay within those boxes because, somehow, we will vanish into the dank darkness of another life, or be whisked off to parts unknown by friends, or fall headlong into a career if we dare step outside of them.  Other times, family members may prompt us to move outside of the box because they have come to recognize the life-sucking quality of the box.  Yet, while they prompt us to step out, they did not know how to do so themselves.  Therefore, we must do the most daring thing imaginable and think through exactly how in the world we’re going to do that.  Therefore, the rules of the box rule out the role of thinking.   The Box of Self-Esteem We think within the box crafted by our low self-esteems.  These are often the smallest of all boxes because we dare not create any room whatsoever for anyone else to come in lest they see how pathetically awful we really are.  Sitting in our confining hovel, we know full well that there’s great adventure and untapped possibilities outside of our boxes.  There’s a good chance that we studied it, or read about it, or on those better days taken a slight peek outside before slamming the door shut again.  In fact, knowing all of that is often the most difficult thing of all.  We know outside this box of ours there’s more life than we can wrap our solitary minds around.  We constantly hear the invitations to come out.  We can imagine adventure because we’ve imagined it so many times that we can almost touch it in our minds, which makes us think that somehow we’re touching the adventure out there (which in fact, we are not).  But we doubt our ability to function in it, or find a place in it, or seize it in the cultivation of our dreams, or much less survive it.  Therefore, the rules of the box rule out the role of thinking.   I Was Thinking I was thinking that there are a whole lot of boxes.  Lots and lots of them.  But I was also thinking that they are just boxes and nothing more.  A box is not a fortified prison with towering walls and tangled barbwire, even though we have come to see it as such.  It’s just a box and nothing more.  And as a box, it doesn’t hold us.  Rather, we hold it.  I don’t ‘think’ that we have the power to move beyond our boxes.  Rather, I ‘know’ that we do.  And when we realize that power and move beyond our boxes, the parameters of our lives will explode exponentially in a manner that we will be free to think about all the many things that this big, wide world of ours has to think about.  When we do, the role of thinking will finally destroy the rules of the box.  And when that happens, we will be genuinely free.  And when we’re free we won’t be imprisoned by the dark specter of endings.  Rather, we can embrace the majesty of our purpose, and we can run with the power of our calling. And so, I think I really, really want to think outside the boxes.  So, I think I’ll start getting rid of them.  It might take some time.  I’m going to have to be honest about them and grieve what they’ve already stolen from me.  It might be scary (in fact, I know it will be).  I may wonder what in the world I’m doing at times.  People may wonder what I’m doing as they peer out from the cracks in their own boxes.  But to not get rid of the boxes is to rot away in a box.  And I know that that is not the life for me.  And might I say, I don’t think that’s the life for you either.  So, let’s begin the process of letting the role of thinking destroy the rules of the box.  And let’s be free.

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