tag:buckstorm.com,2005:/blogs/and-other-storiesAnd Other Stories...2019-05-18T07:54:39-06:00Buck Stormfalsetag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/63381962020-06-01T11:40:43-06:002023-12-10T09:45:33-07:00Traveler's Tip #356<p><span class="font_regular"><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/2a7515f0f436002faef6fd99285882f1a65d6848/original/there-is-always-hope-251688.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_right border_" /></strong></span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular"><strong>Traveler's Tip #336</strong></span></p>
<p>What if the political yammerers stopped yammering, the press stopped pressing, social media became social and the entire world took 5 minutes and actually practiced the words of Jesus? LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF. I think our planet wold never recover, in the best way.</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/56507242019-02-19T16:22:24-07:002023-12-10T09:50:57-07:00I Hope This Novel is More Than a Novel<p><span class="font_large"><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/04aa6399b855aaa981875cec2f317f09e6b66628/original/front-cover-for-review-front.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_right border_" />Hello everybody,</strong></span> </p>
<p>And a big welcome to all the new email list members! It’s way past time to touch base after being AWOL from the satellites for so long. I was at a conference this weekend and received a friendly verbal spanking from a nice lady who requested I crank up the blogs again. I’m certainly going to try and do that. </p>
<p>But I have a good excuse! About a year ago my friend, Bill Perkins, founder and president of Compass International approached me about writing a book. “An exciting new novel,” he said. He wanted to tell the Christ Story in a new and different way—from a first century Jewish perspective through the eyes of two powerful Sanhedrin members, Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. The idea caught my attention. Here were two radically different men, Sadducee and Pharisee (think far right and far left today), thrown together at the most critical moment in the history of the world. What they saw and the lens they saw it through, fascinated me. </p>
<p>And so we got to work. I developed and wrote the story while Bill researched cultural, historical, and biblical texts. A year later, it’s safe to say we’re both proud of the result. </p>
<p>This is an ancient tale in a new light, and couldn't be more applicable to our age. I thought I knew the Christ Story. I thought I knew Israel. But this journey took me places and taught me much. I hope you’ll pick up this book and take a step back in time with me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><strong>THE LIST</strong></span> <br><strong><em>The ancient prophets said he would come. And for centuries the people watched, waited and hoped. He was to be the redeemer of Israel. The all-powerful King of Kings who would finally and decisively deliver the nation from the iron fist of Rome. </em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Joseph of Arimathea is a wealthy man, but wealth can't buy peace. Nor the affection of the wife he loves. Nicodemus is a leader of Israel who will stop at nothing to find truth. Sadducee and Pharisee--two men, worlds apart, thrown together at the most critical moment in the history of the world. </em></strong></p>
<p><em><strong>Set against the spectacle and grandeur of ancient Israel and the brutal violence of the Roman Empire, here is a tale not to be missed. Step into THE LIST and experience the Christ story as you never have before.</strong> </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a contents="Order THE LIST Here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://compass.org/product/the-list/"><span style="color:#f39c12;"><strong><span class="font_xl">O</span></strong></span></a><strong><span class="font_xl"><a contents="Pre-order THE LIST Here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://compass.org/product/the-list/"><span style="color:#f39c12;">rder THE LIST Here</span></a></span></strong></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/53678742018-07-30T15:47:45-06:002023-09-06T22:56:26-06:00Why Not Choose Joy?<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/b3a14aebf8d940a27f5371602d3ede97a27c8266/original/laughing-kid.jpg/!!/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #355</strong> <br><em>If you have no joy, there’s a leak in your Christianity somewhere. </em><br> - Billy Sunday </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Just a quick word…</em> </p>
<p>Love <br>Joy <br>Peace <br>Patience <br>Kindness <br>Goodness <br>Faithfulness <br>Gentleness <br>Self Control </p>
<p>This is the fruit of God’s Spirit scripture tells us about. This is the character of God. This is Jesus. The real Jesus. </p>
<p>Almost everywhere I look in the world today I see the opposite of every one of these attributes. Culture, entertainment, politics, and, sadly—and sometimes most glaringly—the Church. Why? He is so close. Why do we insist on seeking and glorifying the carnage of chaos when peace is right here? Why turn our backs on the God Who loves us and wants only the best for us? </p>
<p>Please don’t trade the Beautiful Truth for a shadow. Right is wrong and wrong is right… It may be a different garden—but it’s the same old lie. </p>
<p>But God is Love. God is truth. </p>
<p>Not my truth, not your truth—<em>the Truth.</em> </p>
<p>Don’t follow a politician. Don’t follow a movement. Don’t follow a church. Don’t follow a man. </p>
<p>Follow Jesus. </p>
<p>Joy is ours for the taking! </p>
<p>I’m in, how about you? Let’s ride this life out together. And at the end, arms wide open, we’ll crash onto that glorious shore and never hurt again. </p>
<p>Fair winds travelers, </p>
<p>Buck </p>
<p> </p>
<p>P.S. <br>Thanks to House of James Bookstore for the nice BOOK review! <span class="font_large"><a contents="CLICK HERE TO READ" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://blog.houseofjames.com/2018/07/finding-jesus-in-israel.html" target="_self">CLICK HERE TO READ</a> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">New Book</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><strong>FINDING JESUS IN ISRAEL</strong></span> <br><span class="font_large">Through the Holy Lan d on the Road Less Traveled </span><br><a contents="GET IT HERE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://worthypublishing.com/product/finding-jesus-in-israel/" target="_self"><span class="font_large">GET IT HERE</span></a></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/53053272018-06-19T16:42:32-06:002023-02-11T22:36:21-07:00Willow Stor--I mean Quezada<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/1e7f8989f54ff8a977a6d1ea85e607b9d223aa11/original/wedding.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler's Tip #354</strong> <br><em>You can let off the gas, but the miles keep coming. Don't waste a single minute... </em></p>
<p><strong>Thinking about my daughter today… </strong><br>Saturday I walked my daughter (and pal) down the aisle, handed her to her intended, and then stepped up front and married them. No kidding, I really did. </p>
<p> Cue tears, my friends. Happy Father’s Day to me. </p>
<p> Robert is a great guy. He loves the Lord. I love him. But, c’mon man, she’s my daughter! </p>
<p> When I got to the part in my notes that said Vows, I have to admit I almost lost it completely, but I wanted to hold it together for them. I did pretty good until the toasts started, then all bets were off. Tears continued on through dinner and then definitely through the father-daughter dance (Randy Newman’s You’ve Got a Friend in Me). </p>
<p> Lots of smiles. Lots of tears. Lots of dancing. A crazy happy sad day. </p>
<p> And now they’re in Hawaii and the air around here feels a bit emptier. I’m cried out. Both happy and sad tears, but isn’t that life? </p>
<p> Another stanza from the pen of the Great Poet. And on life’s pages, change is a constant thing. </p>
<p> Just the other day, I was the first person in this world to hold her. She was only a few seconds old. I remember it perfectly. She studied me—looked right inside me—with an intently serious look on her tiny face. I thought she had wise eyes, like she’d stepped into the world with answers to questions I hadn’t even thought of yet. In the end, I guess she figured I was okay and it’s been that way ever since. </p>
<p> Maybe I’m a little sad, and a little happy, and a little sad, and… but she’s in God’s hands and I wouldn’t want it any other way. She’s so happy and that thrills me. </p>
<p> Still, I can’t wait to see her. Come back, kid! </p>
<p> So, my friends new and old, we've seen some miles. And many more to come. Please raise a glass with me to one of the best souls on the planet, Willow Stor…I mean Quezada. Willow, I wish you and Robert a million years of the groovy kind of love your mother and I have always had. You still have wise eyes. You still look right through me. </p>
<p> God is good. All the time. </p>
<p> Aloha and fair winds, </p>
<p> Buck/Papa</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/52119162018-05-01T12:49:57-06:002023-12-10T12:03:31-07:00Release Day! WARNING - This is not your average travel book!<p><span class="font_regular"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/5a620fb119aad81e80eae92811d3a7e62dcce8f6/original/coffeecig.jpg/!!/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Hey everybody, </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 1em;">It's release day! Even if you're a dyed-in-the-wool fiction fan, I really think you'll like this book. Step off the well-worn tourist path with me, hear a few stories, and meet some of the people and places that make Israel so special. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Warning - <em>this is not your average travel book!</em> Here's a sample chapter to give you an idea. And if you like what you read, please pass it on! It's a HUGE help. Word of mouth goes a long way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Also, I have a few live interviews coming up over the next few days on radio waves across America. Click <a contents="HERE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://buckstorm.com/road-and-airwaves" target="_self"><strong>HERE</strong></a> for dates, times, and regions. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Peace on the journey! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Buck</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chapter 2 </span></p>
<p><strong><span class="font_large">Kerouac, Starlight, and a Curly Haired Dog </span></strong></p>
<p>After a long day the sun sinks into the Negev on tired wings. Nothing comes easy in the desert. . . . <br> The beach city of Eilat hangs on the very southern tip of Israel like a drop of dew about to fall into the Red Sea. Egypt stretches to the west and Jordan to the east. South, across the water, the mountains of Saudi Arabia loom. The town itself is a modern place, but like everything in this part of the world, its foundations rest on hard-packed layers of history. Moses wandered here, for instance. In the Timna Valley just a few miles to the north, King Solomon mined for copper. The Queen of Sheba traveled through this area on her biblical journey to Jerusalem. <br> With access to both the Red Sea and the major trade routes of old, Egyptians, Nebateans, Romans, and others all have deep history here. Eilat is also Israel’s jumping-off point for visiting the mind-boggling ruins of Petra across the border in Jordan. The small group I was with booked themselves a tour to do just that, and I drove them down, planning a couple of stops along the way to see some other ruins. <br> It’s only a one-hour flight to Eilat from Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, but by car it’s a long, hot grind through the desert. We left Jerusalem early and headed south. The day shone clear and beautiful. Have you ever seen the desert? Well, my friend, that is desert. A hard, lifeless place. We drove hours of empty highway. Once we saw a young Bedouin boy herding goats on a hillside. Miles later, a couple of Israeli tanks out on some military exercise kicked up a tall pillar of dust. An hour after that we passed two men on camels. One waved; the other never even looked our way. <br> The highway rolled on. <br> City lights shone along the Red Sea waterfront, and the sun died completely as we—hot, hungry, and roadweary—finally pulled into Eilat. I’d booked our overnight at the Sunset Motel, a place that sounded more like Route 66 than Israel. I’d never been there, but after circling several blocks—GPS can be dicey—we finally found it. A concrete and plaster wall with a heavy wooden door hid the building from the street. I went in to make sure everything was cool while the others grabbed bags and belongings from the van. <br> Now, if you’re ever in Eilat and have some money in your pocket and want a nice hotel experience, there are plenty of great places, believe me. Try something down by the water—it’s beautiful there. But, if you’re on a serious budget and don’t mind rough-around-the-edges and a good dose of adventure off the tourist path, then the Sunset’s your place. The only word I can think to describe it is trippy. Think David Lynch meets Jack Kerouac, and then toss in a little Indiana Jones for flavor. Stepping into the courtyard, I found myself in another world, far removed from the dusty, desert-town street. Tree branches stretched overhead. Orange, purple, green, and blue lights splashed everywhere. The sculpted, cavelike walls had shapes molded over them—tree roots, branches, and tribal stone carvings. Low, built-in couches and tables bordered the wide patio with hookahs lining a shelf behind them. A big, curly haired dog cracked one eye open at me from its place on a wicker chair. Water dripped. I half expected to hear the theme song from Twin Peaks waft out from somewhere. <br> To my left, thick, varnished beams held up a shade structure. Beneath it, a young African girl manned a bar. She just stood there with arms crossed, leaning against a post, watching me. Her dress hung loosely from the straps over her thin shoulders. I smiled at her and said hello. She offered a bored blink and said nothing. I tried again, telling her I’d emailed ahead for a reservation. She said something in Hebrew. I asked her if she spoke English. She sighed and gave a shout toward the back. A male growl replied. <br> Enter Avi—owner, designer, and builder of the Sunset. He emerged a bit disheveled, hair askew, sandals, baggy pants, and an old tank top. He barked at the girl and, with a wave, shooed her scurrying away. Then he turned to me. <br> “What?” he snapped. <br> “Hi, I booked a reservation online—” <br> “I don’t know anything about it,” he interrupted, turning as if to head back into the shadows. <br> All I could think about at that moment were my tired travelers outside. “No, I’m telling you I booked online. I paid for four rooms on the website. My group is outside with our bags.” <br> Looking doubtful, he weighed the situation. He shouted, and the African girl came back. He said something in Hebrew. The girl sighed, gave me a look as if I’d insulted her family, then disappeared again. He sighed and shook his head. You’d have thought I’d asked him to cure the common cold or help me move. <br> “She’ll get some rooms ready.” He held out his hand. “Cash or credit card?” <br> “Like I told you, I paid online. The rooms are already paid for.” <br> He turned the volume up from three to eight. “And I told you! Cash or credit card!” <br> We squared off. “Look, man. I paid for four rooms. I don’t know what to tell you.” <br> Verbal sparring went on for quite a while, but we eventually worked it out. <br> Now, Avi—whom you just met—is what you’d call . . . let’s just say colorful. The poor guy gets a pretty bad rap in the hotel reviews. True, he yells a lot, especially if you want him to get out of bed in the morning to unlock the gate and let you out. (This request is apparently unacceptable.) But spend a little time with the guy, ask him about his motel, and he’ll warm up. He loves the place. You get the feeling it’s the guests he’s not crazy about. I don’t blame him. People can be a trial sometimes. Truth be told, I’d probably feel the same. Keep an open mind. He’s an alright guy. <br> Bags unloaded, rooms settled and arranged, we climbed back into the van and headed for the waterfront lights and food. The city vibrated with life; it was a calliope of color. We were all a little falafel and shawarma-ed out, so the aroma of grilling meat coming from the Burger Ranch had us circling like sharks drawn to blood. Burger Ranch—the only place I’ve ever been where you can order a ham-burger the size of a pizza. Brilliant. Let me tell you, when you’re starving, the Sliceburger ranks right up there with the PillCam, USB drives, and Waze GPS. Never underestimate the genius of the Israelis. <br> Dance clubs, restaurants, and a waterfront midway—nighttime <br> Eilat throbs with noise and energy, a playground for the young and young at heart. Out past the promenade the noise quieted to a dull, rhythmic thump as I stood in the dark, knee-deep in the Red Sea. Ships lay at anchor on the calm water. Across the way, the lights of Lawrence of Arabia’s Aqaba winked from just over the Jordanian border. I dialed home on my cell. It felt like heaven to hear my wife’s voice. <br> Later, back at the Sunset, no one felt ready to turn in. So we gathered some chairs and camped awhile beneath the patio lanterns, talking and letting the day slip away at its own pace. In a far corner, Avi sat on a worn couch chain-smoking and petting the curly haired dog. His cigarette glowed in the dark, faded, then glowed again. On a whim, I asked him to join us. I figured he’d either decline or ignore me altogether. Glow . . . fade . . . glow. At length he shrugged, lit a fresh one with the tip of his last, eased his lanky frame up, and dragged a chair over. The dog followed lazily and then sank to the concrete beside him. <br> Conversation, slow out of the station, gradually picked up steam, and Avi mellowed. We asked him about his motel, then about his life and history. He humored us, smoking and walking his mind back through the desert and the decades, his words laced with the struggles and joys of carving out a life in that hard land. I knew he still held his cards close to his vest—there were things he wouldn’t give up to outsiders—but we took what he offered. After all, this was history unwritten, stuff you couldn’t Google or watch on a PBS documentary. He talked through at least half a pack, and we lost track of time. At last, after the moon dropped beneath the patio wall, Avi stubbed out his last butt, saluted a goodnight, and headed for his room. The curly haired dog followed close on his heels. <br> The group left early the next morning for their Petra excursion. I found myself with a free day. I gassed up the van, grabbed some truck-stop coffee and chocolate croissants—the best in the world (the best croissants, not coffee)—and headed south along the western edge of the Red Sea. After a few miles I pulled a U-turn close to the Egyptian border and cruised the beaches looking for a likely spot to pass the day. Resorts, bars, and dive shops lined nearly every foot of the water’s edge. <br> The Red Sea’s crystal-clear water and abundant sea life is a diver’s paradise and draws scuba enthusiasts from around the world, but I wasn’t in a diving frame of mind. After days and days of travel, I just wanted my own little piece of beach and some rest. I found a parking lot with some vacant spaces and a sign promising beach access through the thatched-roof pub. The girl at the bar looked me up and down as though I had three eyes and had just parked my spaceship outside. But when I bought a couple bottles of water and gave her a good tip, I guess she decided I was okay. She only spoke Hebrew but somehow understood my question and pointed the way to the beach. Once out on the sand, I understood her surprised reaction to my presence. This was no American hangout. Pure Israeli all the way. My baggy board shorts were all by their lonesome in a sea of speedos. I found an empty beach chair, downed half my water, and leaned back for a nap. A group of elderly guys—you guessed it: speedos and shirtless—played dominos around a table. Families frolicked, children laughed, and I slept. After a while I swam a little, then slept again. <br> I woke up to see a rail-thin, very feminine-looking man standing in front of me slathering himself head to toe with some kind of silver, sparkling sunscreen. He made a serious production of it. By the end of the application, he looked like a glittery Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. He sauntered ankle-deep into the water and somehow managed to get himself onto a beach raft without getting his impressive pompadour wet. Propped on one elbow, he used his free hand to paddle back and forth, up and down the beach. Poor guy was dying to be noticed, but everyone just went on with their vacationing. In the end he gave up and flopped onto a beach towel. I wondered about his story, but I was too tired to ask. <br> By late afternoon I was pretty crispy—but not as crispy as some of the speedo guys. I headed back to the street in front of the Sunset, our rendezvous spot. The group hadn’t come back yet. It was past checkout time, and I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I really didn’t feel like waiting in the hot van. I took my life in my hands and pushed through the wooden door. All quiet in Twin Peaks. True to form, Avi lounged and scratched the curly haired dog behind the ears. The young African girl rested her elbows on the bar and watched a woman sing a Middle Eastern melody on the TV. I asked Avi if I could hang for a while. He squinted and paused, then shook his finger-scissored cigarette at me, speaking in Hebrew. By the tone and the look on his face, I had no doubts I was about to get tossed out on my ear. I held my ground. In the end, he sighed and waved me to a chair. I sat. He went back to scratching the dog, his thoughts far away. He never said another word. <br> Yeah, Avi’s an alright guy. <br> My friends finally made it back. We drove through the night to make a flight in Tel Aviv. Somewhere in the middle of the Negev, we stopped to look at the riot of stars. They vibrated in the sky and overflowed to the horizon, so bright I felt I could hear them if I listened hard enough. A billion Tin Men paddling through their inky sea above a world distracted by the glow of a phone screen. The van engine ticked as it cooled, loud in the desert stillness. I thought about a God who could imagine a sky like that. Could fill it to overflowing with moons and suns and planets—celestial bodies dancing side by side with an African girl’s dreams. It hit me then. I knew in that moment that this place wasn’t lifeless at all. It was, in fact, filled to the brim. Pressed full with God and His radical star-drenched love. <br> He imagines universes. He paints the sky with His fingertips. <br> And He smiles down on a crusty motel owner, an African girl, and a curly haired dog.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl">Like it so far? Get your copy <a contents="HERE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Jesus-Israel-Through-Traveled/dp/168397140X" target="_self">HERE</a></span></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/51887772018-04-18T12:57:45-06:002023-12-10T09:53:55-07:00Finding Jesus in Israel<p><strong>Hi Guys, I'm happy to say my new book is available for pre-order pretty much everywhere. It's already getting some nice press and, even better, seems to be touching lives with God's Love. I thought I'd offer a snippet. The following is the introduction. Hope you like it! </strong></p>
<p><strong>Peace on the Journey, <br>Buck </strong></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><strong>Israel: A Crossroads</strong></span><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.amazon.com/Finding-Jesus-Israel-Through-Traveled/dp/168397140X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1524074112&sr=1-1&refinements=p_27%3ABuck+Storm" target="_self"><span class="font_regular"><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/57f8c1fa92c60715828af59b8b23195103c581f9/medium/israel-temp-cover.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_m justify_right border_" /></strong></span></a><span class="font_large"><strong> </strong></span></p>
<p>This place is a crossroads. Nowhere else does David’s harp hold down the root chords to Robert Johnson’s blues. This place wrecks you and uplifts you, breaks you and inspires you. It leaves you no wiggle room. It demands your attention. </p>
<p>When I was first approached with the idea of writing a book about my travels to Israel, I nodded politely, dropped it on the floor behind me, and gave it a firm kick under the rug. I didn’t mean to be rude, but while I love history, I’m no historian. I love the Bible, but I’m not a world-class theologian. I look forward to Christ’s imminent return, but I’m certainly no eschatological genius. I know several who are all of the above. I’ve worked and traveled with them. We’ve broken bread together. I respect them. But I don’t pretend to be one of them. </p>
<p>What I am is a songwriter. I’m a novelist with a couple of books under my belt. I’m a traveling troubadour and an observer of people. . . . I’m a storyteller. And truth be told, that’s why—when no one was watching—I pulled the idea out from under the rug, wiped the dust off it, and turned it over in my hands a few times. </p>
<p>You see, Israel draws me. Just when I think I’m done with the place, off I go again, winging halfway around the world. The smells, the tastes, the sights, the feel of the air. . . . It’s a land of extremes and a place of incredible dichotomy—exactly the stuff of which great stories are made. It’s the land of patriarchs and prophets. Of Jacob, Job, and Jesus. Of wars and rumors of wars. Of Jezebel’s dogs and jets kicking dust up off the Negev as they scream below sea level. It’s David and Bathsheba and legal prostitution advertised on the tart cards beneath the sturdy walking shoes of tourists rushing for buses that will take them to the Garden Tomb. </p>
<p>This land and its people have always played a part in my life. </p>
<p>I grew up with Bible stories. Sunday school in the church basement offered the flannelgraph kid version, but the real impact for me came during evenings listening to my grandpa pull tales from his old King James. The stories he told weren’t about pairs of cartoon giraffes and elephants or a mellow, surfer Jesus with feathered hair. No, this was darker stuff. Battles and blood and sex and fire from heaven. Angels and devils in a great wrestling match over mankind. Here were kings and strongmen. Lion killers, prostitutes, heroes, and liars. If it had been a drive-in theater, my mom would have shoved my head down behind the back seat and told me to stay there. No, my grandpa’s Bible wasn’t rated PG-13, but in his living room I heard it unfiltered. I heard about men and women flawed to the core but loved wildly by their Creator and used for His glory. </p>
<p>I also heard about a shifty con man named Jacob, whose name God changed to Israel. </p>
<p>Israel . . . </p>
<p>Years later my grandpa finally made it to that land where so many of the stories he told took place. He returned with stories of his own, new friends, and five smooth stones from David’s brook. </p>
<p>To me, my grandpa was a giant killer. </p>
<p>When he passed, I was asked if there was anything of his I’d like to have. Without hesitation I asked for that old King James Bible. </p>
<p>A decade or so later, my wife and I were invited on a Holy Land tour. Off we went on our first trip to Israel, I with guitar in hand and neither of us really knowing what to expect. I was so grateful to be invited to walk through the settings of the very stories I’d heard and read all my life. Caesarea, Jerusalem, the Garden of Gethsemane, the Sea of Galilee—these places impacted me deeply. I could have left Israel satisfied and gone back to my own journey, my own tales. </p>
<p>But then I had a moment. </p>
<p>It was a very cold and wet afternoon in the Golan Heights. A soldier stood beneath the darkening sky talking to our group about an October night in 1973. It was Yom Kippur—for Jews, the holiest day of the year—and Israel was under attack. They faced overwhelming odds, an Arab coalition led by Syria to the north and Egypt to the south. The word went out for all hands on deck, and our soldier was called out of bed to fight. I listened that day in the Golan as he spoke with deep emotion of friends and brothers who gave their lives in the hills above to protect the land of both their ancestors and their children. </p>
<p>As his story pulled me in deeper, the sky thundered and began to rain. All around me, people grumbled, broke away from the group, and headed back to the dry warmth of the bus. The soldier still talked, but only a couple of us remained. I saw tears in his eyes. And somehow, in that moment, I knew without a doubt I would return to this place. </p>
<p>It hit me hard: the story of Israel—the real story—isn’t found in books. And not even in the comfortable baritone of my grandfather’s voice. Israel’s real story is written in the hearts and lives of her people. It is the unspoken tale behind a tired soldier’s eyes. It tells of a journey that grinds on—haunted, hard, and beautiful. Here was Israel. Here was Love. </p>
<p>Israel is beautiful. Israel is vibrant. But Israel isn’t clean. Far from it. Israel is sin, redemption, passion, and blood. At its heart, it’s human and filled to the brim with the world—people of every religious, social, and political bent. The very ones God loved so much that He sent His son to die for. Israel is a Palestinian kid on a roof in the old city beneath stars that dance like angels. It’s the Jewish vendor in The Shuk—Jerusalem’s huge outdoor market—cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, yelling and haggling with a housewife over the price of a fish. The guy in front of a desert gas station flirting with the female tourists and hawking rides on his sleepy-eyed camel. Pilgrims soaked in vibrating ecstasy as, on Easter morning, they march the Via Dolorosa, the path Jesus walked on His way to the cross. </p>
<p>At its very foundation, Israel is the story of God’s interaction with mankind. </p>
<p>Me? I’m a self-admitted lousy tourist. The “back on the bus please exit through the gift shop” stuff definitely isn’t my thing. So a few years ago my wife, Michelle, and I decided to start taking a few friends at a time, rent a van, and see Israel off the well-worn tourist trails. In the pages ahead, I don’t promise facts and figures. I won’t even swear to absolute accuracy. But you will see an amazing place, meet incredible people, and experience a living, ongoing story told to the best of my recollection, from the perspective of me—my grandpa’s grandson.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><strong>Finding Jesus in Israel</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>Through the Holy Land on the Road Less Traveled</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a contents="ORDER HERE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://worthypublishing.com/product/finding-jesus-in-israel/" target="_self"><strong><span class="font_large">ORDER HERE</span></strong></a></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/49374992017-11-17T14:22:04-07:002023-12-10T09:45:36-07:00Flying Hats—Can We Really Have Peace in this World?<p><span class="font_regular"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/c72056293be075ed0ea7d84061d6a36e8524d76e/medium/sally.jpg" class="size_m justify_right border_" /></span><strong>Traveler’s Tip #353 </strong></p>
<p><em>Earth hath no sorrow that Heaven can’t heal.</em> </p>
<p> —Thomas Moore </p>
<p> </p>
<p> I had breakfast with a friend the other day and he told me I reminded him of a Buddhist nun he used to know. I honestly didn’t even know Buddhists had nuns. Not that it means much. The only real exposure I’ve ever had to nuns of any kind was 1960’s Sally Fields. I kind of wish I reminded him of Sally instead—at least she had a cool flying hat. </p>
<p> “Why do I remind you of a Buddhist nun?” I said. </p>
<p> “Because even with everything in the world crashing—politics, wars, natural disasters, everything—you seem like you’re always happy and peaceful. It's weird.” </p>
<p> So we talked about Jesus for a while. </p>
<p> I guess I’m a lousy Larry Durrell (a super clever Somerset Maugham reference for all you literary types...). I don’t feel the need to travel the world looking for truth. Jesus found me early and He’s never left, even on the darkest parts of the road. </p>
<p> We’ve come some miles, He and I. And I do feel at peace. And happy, if you’re wondering. Not that I don’t get down at times. And stress still presses once in a while. But when it does I never carry it alone. </p>
<p> I’ve been thinking about Enoch lately. Enoch <em>walked with God: and he was no more; for God took him</em>… One, simple sentence that says so much. The constant, perfect presence the Maker. It sounds unattainable. Something reserved for the giants of the Old Testament. But if you thumb through the pages for a minute you’ll find those people were people—messy people—like me, like you. </p>
<p> The imperfect, doubting, stubborn kind of people loved by God. </p>
<p> Nothing’s changed since then. Modern Romans still shake their fists. Now they even have smart phones to tweet their rancor. Pharisees still pound their pulpits and work the masses while the name Jesus is relegated to the third verse of a Mumford sounding worship song. </p>
<p> And still He waits… </p>
<p> And He waits some more. </p>
<p> Offering untold peace is for those who truly call on Him, even while the waves crash the door and the devil screams in the streets. </p>
<p> The truth is, we don’t have to be afraid. We don’t have to make it up on our own. </p>
<p> <em>Earth hath no sorrow that Heaven can’t heal…</em> </p>
<p> The story’s already written. </p>
<p> I’ll choose peace, will you? </p>
<p> Lord, let me walk like Enoch walked, that’s all I really want. </p>
<p> And maybe a flying hat… </p>
<p>Peace on the journey pilgrims, </p>
<p>Buck</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/45804352017-02-07T13:49:13-07:002023-12-10T10:05:19-07:00Should We Keep Our Mouths Shut? - The Academic Attack on Faith and Why I Wish I Had Dawkin's Frequent Flyer Miles<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/ad221bbc5aeb587ff94d268cd9fd6187f03a66ef/large/ein.jpg?1486500507" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #352 </strong><br> <br><em>“The fanatical atheists are like slaves who are still feeling the weight of their chains which they have thrown off after hard struggle. They are creatures who – in their grudge against traditional religion as the ‘opium of the masses’ – cannot hear the music of the spheres.”</em> <br>—Albert Einstein <br> <br>A while back I posted a statement that one of my daughter’s Criminal Justice professors made to the class—“<em>Christians are a nightmare to work with and anyone with religious convictions doesn't belong in the criminal justice field at all.</em>” I was somewhat surprised at the huge response to the post. Many voiced similar experiences and frustration although a few put the onus on Christians and my daughter. My favorite was, “<em>Tell her if she can’t handle the heat get out of the kitchen</em>”. That one actually made me laugh—he definitely doesn’t know my daughter. That girl will handle herself. <br> <br>Now I know we ignorant faithful are supposed to sit back and take the discriminatory abuse or risk the unforgivable brand “intolerant hater” but hey, I have a blog, a few people who read it, the first amendment, and something on my mind so here you go… <br> <br>It’s no newsflash that my daughter’s experience was just one in a continual barrage of anti-theist rhetoric taking desperate precedent over actual subject matter on our campuses. Here’s another more recent dig at faith by the same professor: <br> <br>“<em>I’ve never been more disappointed in academia than when I saw a picture of Jesus hanging at Gonzaga University</em>”. <br> <br>I take pride and comfort in the love, empathy, and unwavering quiet faith my daughter displays. To be honest, I mostly want to punch somebody in the neck (Lord give me patience). Let me say this to you students who dare to come to the logical but unpopular conclusion that a detailed, mathematical universe might have intelligence behind it and didn’t explode (for no reason at all) out of absolutely nothing into perfect order—you are not the hillbillies you’re made out to be by the academic elite. Keep your eyes open. Use your mind. You aren’t alone. In colleges and universities across the country it seems students are enrolled in the same class no matter the name on the schedule—<em>Only Uneducated Hicks Believe in God 101.</em> (Oh, and please make sure to leave your tuition checks with the finance department). <br> <br>As for me, I’ll readily admit I’m too ignorant to be an atheist. I’m definitely not well traveled enough to proclaim the empirical truth to the pathetic faithful that no God exists anywhere in the universe. You see, unlike Madalyn Murray O'Hair, Richard Dawkins, and my daughter’s Criminal Justice professor I haven’t <em>been</em> everywhere in the universe. But man, I’d love to have those frequent flyer miles… <br> <br>So, all you uneducated bumpkins out there, join me in raising a glass to higher education and all those classroom-pulpit-pounding smarties who condescend to teach us the absolute truth that there is no absolute truth… Wait…what? And speaking of bumpkins, we’re in interesting company. I thought for fun I’d throw out a few quotes from some other pseudo-intellectual hacks. Poor guys, they should sit in on my daughter’s class sometime. Maybe they could learn a few things and finally contribute something useful to society… <br> <br>Keep your feet on the path pilgrims, truth wins.<br><br>Fair winds, <br> <br>Buck <br> <br><em><strong>Supposing there was no intelligence behind the universe, no creative mind. In that case, nobody designed my brain for the purpose of thinking. It is merely that when the atoms inside my skull happen, for physical or chemical reasons, to arrange themselves in a certain way, this gives me, as a by-product, the sensation I call thought. But, if so, how can I trust my own thinking to be true? It’s like upsetting a milk jug and hoping that the way it splashes itself will give you a map of London. But if I can’t trust my own thinking, of course I can’t trust the arguments leading to Atheism, and therefore have no reason to be an Atheist, or anything else. Unless I believe in God, I cannot believe in thought: so I can never use thought to disbelieve in God. </strong></em><br>--C.S. Lewis <br> <br> <br><em><strong>“As we conquer peak after peak we see in front of us regions full of interest and beauty, but we do not see our goal, we do not see the horizon; in the distance tower still higher peaks, which will yield to those who ascend them still wider prospects, and deepen the feeling, the truth of which is emphasized by every advance in science, that ‘Great are the Works of the Lord’.” </strong></em><br>—Sir Joseph J. Thomson, Nobel Prize winning physicist, discoverer of the electron, founder of atomic physics. <br> <br> <br><em><strong>“A scientific discovery is also a religious discovery. There is no conflict between science and religion. Our knowledge of God is made larger with every discovery we make about the world.” </strong></em><br>–Joseph H. Taylor, Jr., who received the 1993 Nobel Prize in Physics for the discovery of the first known binary pulsar, and for his work which supported the Big Bang theory of the creation of the universe. <br> <br> <br><em><strong>“God [is] the author of the universe, and the free establisher of the laws of motion.”</strong></em> <br>—Physicist and chemist Robert Boyle, who is considered to be the founder of modern chemistry. <br> <br> <br><em><strong>“It may seem bizarre, but in my opinion science offers a surer path to God than religion.” <br>“People take it for granted that the physical world is both ordered and intelligible. The underlying order in nature-the laws of physics-are simply accepted as given, as brute facts. Nobody asks where they came from; at least they do not do so in polite company. However, even the most atheistic scientist accepts as an act of faith that the universe is not absurd, that there is a rational basis to physical existence manifested as law-like order in nature that is at least partly comprehensible to us. So science can proceed only if the scientist adopts an essentially theological worldview.” </strong></em><br>–Physicist Paul Davies, the winner of the 2001 Kelvin Medal issued by the Institute of Physics and the winner of the 2002 Faraday Prize issued by the Royal Society (amongst other awards), as cited in his book God and the New Physics (first quote), and from his acceptance address of the 1995 Templeton Prize (second quote). <br> <br><em><strong>“Astronomers who do not draw theistic or deistic conclusions are becoming rare, and even the few dissenters hint that the tide is against them. Geoffrey Burbidge, of the University of California at San Diego, complains that his fellow astronomers are rushing off to join ‘the First Church of Christ of the Big Bang.’”</strong></em> <br>–Astrophysicist Hugh Ross, former post-doctoral fellow at the California Institute of Technology and author of The Creator and the Cosmos: How the Latest Scientific Discoveries of the Century Reveal God. <br> <br><em><strong>“Astronomers now find they have painted themselves into a corner because they have proven, by their own methods, that the world began abruptly in an act of creation to which you can trace the seeds of every star, every planet, every living thing in this cosmos and on the earth. And they have found that all this happened as a product of forces they cannot hope to discover…. That there are what I or anyone would call supernatural forces at work is now, I think, a scientifically proven fact.” </strong></em><br>–Astronomer, physicist and founder of NASA’s Goddard Institute of Space Studies Robert Jastrow. <br> <br><em><strong>“I believe that the more thoroughly science is studied, the further does it take us from anything comparable to atheism.” <br>“If you study science deep enough and long enough, it will force you to believe in God.” </strong></em><br>—Lord William Kelvin, who was noted for his theoretical work on thermodynamics, the concept of absolute zero and the Kelvin temperature scale based upon it. <br> <br><em><strong>“God created everything by number, weight and measure.” <br>“In the absence of any other proof, the thumb alone would convince me of God’s existence.” <br>“I have a fundamental belief in the Bible as the Word of God, written by those who were inspired. I study the Bible daily.” </strong></em><br>—Sir Isaac Newton, who is widely regarded to have been the greatest scientist the world has ever produced. <br> </p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/45028592016-12-08T17:21:02-07:002022-07-20T03:24:15-06:00Is There Still Hope? Intellectuals, Jesus, and Round Couches<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/d70e3299dc3ddf0297a9ac56b47647ec8f5c87d5/original/san-diego-international-airport-original-5878.jpg?1481242410" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #351 </strong><br><i>Stuck in the middle of the night in the San Diego airport? The round couches are your only option.Try them. And you might find yourself at an appointment that was set before the foundations of the earth...</i><br> <br><br><br>I wanted to share part of a note Michelle received from a new friend we met at the San Diego airport some months ago--a young woman completely chained by the social agendas and intellectual pride that defines our modern human existence. I’m so encouraged and amazed that the God of the Universe is still insistent on reaching out to the beautifully broken.<br> <br> <br><em><strong>Michelle,</strong><br><strong>Hi, I hope you are well! I have been struggling with temptation a lot lately and have fallen into sin that I am repenting for. Just wanted to share that night at the airport completely changed my life. There is no denying God and Christ in my life anymore. Thank you SO much! I am blown away with the kindness you have shown me and am so excited about starting the Bible study. We are studying the book of John! It was amazing. I had such a wonderful time and love the fact that it is just women- that is exactly what I need. <br> <br> I went to the Cavalry Church on Saturday night for a prayer meeting which I’ve never even heard of before. It was amazing! I am starting to get plugged in. I am starting to feel a lot less shameful of my past through the Bible, which is really surprising to me. Part of my fear was that I thought I would find myself being rejected once I read parts of the Bible. I didn’t realize how I was putting false idols in front of me. Well, there’s a lot I didn’t realize about the lifestyle I was living as it relates to the Bible. I like to think I am so intelligent and know what this world is about, but reading the Bible and starting to understand the history in that time and the struggles that they went through is eye opening. The Bible has both humbled me and I have found solace in the fact that if I have a question about life I can actually find it in the Bible. That itself is hugely comforting! Not only that, but I didn’t imagine I would find myself relating to the struggles of some of the people Jesus came across. I’m slowly starting to understand that Jesus died for my sins too! That I can be saved as well! That I am not unworthy of His love! Thank you for listening and guiding me- I am eternally grateful for the kindness you’ve shown me. Thank you so much for introducing to me Jesus’ love in such a gentle and non-judgmental manner- it was definitely no accident that I met you! </strong></em><br><br> <br>Be encouraged, my friends! No matter what this world throws our way we can know we will be forever loved. The intellectual pride, social agendas, finger-pointing, name calling—all the things the devil does to discredit the wild, holy, love of God and His people can be discouraging, but they might as well be matchsticks in a hurricane. Our Jesus cheerfully shreds them to bits to reach the broken soul. <br> <br>He will not be deterred! <br><br>Fair winds,<br>Buck </p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/44564142016-11-07T15:53:30-07:002023-12-10T09:33:05-07:00Election Eve... <p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/aaede3fc4cb0aea54704271ac106af3a46d27b82/original/gettyimages-137983428.jpg?1478556916" class="size_l justify_right border_" /><strong>Traveler's Tip #350</strong><br><em>In the words of the great Woody Guthrie, "Jesus Christ for President... Let us have him for our king." </em><br><br>America, as with every nation, has had its ups and downs. It’s wars, rebounds, dustbowls, and real estate booms. In our short history we've commanded the respect of the world because, and only because, we have been good. We have offered hope. But, again as with every nation of note, world power has its pitfalls. Like Rome, or the Greek Empire—the list goes on—America slogs on with blind, single-minded determination, leaving behind a reputation of virtue, honor, and goodwill toward men and wind-sprints towards a finish line that promises complete moral bankruptcy. In fact, we demand it in the name of tolerance. We have been fooled and we’ve loved it. We haven’t lost our compass, we’ve crushed it with our boot heel. Today we are dumb and numb. Duke Ellington, Cole Porter, and George Gershwin have been bumped off by Fiddy Cent and the modern Romans go wild. <br> <br>We are divided by design, folks. And one thing is certain--no matter the outcome, tomorrow night we will be a country even more split than we are today. <br> <br>Should one candidate win, my heart breaks for women. There are so many wonderful, qualified, moral and wise females out there, and yet you very well may be represented in the pages of history by one of the most corrupt and condescending career politicians ever to hold office. She does not love you. You are a means to an end. <br> <br>On the other hand, there are so many good and qualified men. Men who respect the common good. Men who are temperate—patient to listen and slow to anger. Men who are quiet and strong and command respect without bluster. And yet these are our choices. <br> <br>So where do we turn? Not to the church it seems. The new western version has become for the most part nothing but mini corporations captained by celebrity CEOs. No answers there. Not to Hollywood. Not to the Facebook wars. Certainly not to our crumbling and corrupt political system. We must turn to truth--the God who loves us.<br> <br>The thing is, no matter whose name follows the word President, true peace and happiness only come from the Maker, the One to whom we all owe our breath. <br> <br>But we must break before we heal…if we will. <br> <br>Jesus said- <br> <br><em>“Blessed are the poor in spirit, <br> For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. <br>Blessed are those who mourn, <br> For they shall be comforted. <br>Blessed are the meek, <br> For they shall inherit the earth. <br>Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, <br> For they shall be filled. <br>Blessed are the merciful, <br> For they shall obtain mercy. <br>Blessed are the pure in heart, <br> For they shall see God. <br>Blessed are the peacemakers, <br> For they shall be called sons of God. <br>Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, <br> For theirs is the kingdom of heaven. </em><br><br>Where among those clamoring for our votes are the humble? Where are the pure in heart? Where are the peacemakers? <br> <br>Are we as a people willing to humble ourselves? Are we willing to seek righteousness and strive for honor and truth rather than selfishness and pride? Are we willing to become the <em>least of these</em> so that we might be great again? Because this is the only road to peace. The good news is we weren’t created for division. We were made for unity. We were born to love and be loved. This was and is God’s plan for you and me. <br> <br>Lord, teach us to kneel so we might stand together. <br><br>Give us peace... <br> <br>Keep looking in, and keep looking up, Pilgrims. And no matter what happens, remember, the King is, and will remain, on the throne. <br> <br>Fair winds, <br>Buck</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">WOULD YOU LIKE TO RECEIVE THESE BLOGS DIRECTLY?<br><a contents="CLICK HERE" data-link-label="Welcome to the Family" data-link-type="page" href="/welcome-to-the-family"><span class="font_large">CLICK HERE</span></a></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/44390422016-10-26T16:27:12-06:002022-04-18T11:35:30-06:00When Anger and Frustration Drag you Under...<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/2a7515f0f436002faef6fd99285882f1a65d6848/original/there-is-always-hope-251688.jpg?1477520392" class="size_l justify_right border_" /><strong>Traveler’s Tip #349 </strong><br> <br><em>“When everything is falling apart, everything is falling into place.” </em><br> —Mike Evers <br> <br><br>Dear Travelers, <br> <br>Just a quick note of encouragement today. <br> <br>I know it feels like you’re hanging onto the end of a rope while the inmates cackle and saw away at the top. I know it feels like your beliefs, the things you hold dear, your very contribution to society are attacked and despised. <br> <br>And they are. After all, we humans are insistent on repeating history. <br><br>This is frustrating because you do your best to love others. And it feels like you can't defend yourself.<br><br>But you don't have to.<br> <br>Be at peace! When everything is falling apart, everything is falling into place. Our hope, our security, is in the End of the Story. <br> <br>There will be justice. <br>There will be goodness. <br>There will be peace. <br>There will be love. <br> <br>Don't worry. Let go of the rope, my friends. The fall is beautiful… <br> <br> <br><strong>Psalm 46</strong> <br> <br><em>God is our refuge and strength, <br>A very present help in trouble. <br>Therefore we will not fear, <br>Even though the earth be removed, <br>And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; <br>Though its waters roar and be troubled, <br>Though the mountains shake with its swelling. Selah <br>There is a river whose streams shall make glad the city of God, <br>The holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High. <br>God is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved; <br>God shall help her, just at the break of dawn. <br>The nations raged, the kingdoms were moved; <br>He uttered His voice, the earth melted. <br>The Lord of hosts is with us; <br>The God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah <br>Come, behold the works of the Lord, <br>Who has made desolations in the earth. <br>He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; <br>He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two; <br>He burns the chariot in the fire. <br>Be still, and know that I am God; <br>I will be exalted among the nations, <br>I will be exalted in the earth! </em><br> <br>Fair winds, <br>Buck</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Click </span><span class="font_xl"><a contents="HERE" data-link-label="Welcome to the Family" data-link-type="page" href="/welcome-to-the-family">HERE</a> </span><span class="font_large">to recieve these blogs directly!</span></p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/43514362016-08-31T16:37:10-06:002023-12-10T09:43:24-07:00On Racism… Bill’s Life Mattered<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/c1fbf7b73b1e65b585a39b10c78e34d0c4666210/medium/end.png?1430160766" class="size_m justify_right border_none" alt="" /><strong>Traveler’s Tip #348</strong><br><em>Headed for California next week. In-N-Out Burger. Enough said.</em> <br> <br>It’s been a nice break at home for the last couple months but now Michelle and I are gearing up for a September/October tour. Watch for us, we might be headed your way. Give us a wave if you see us pass. <br> <br><br>Meanwhile, somewhere out past the patio lanterns hanging across my back porch the world continues to lose it’s mind. I guess that cosmic moral compass doesn’t have a glow-in-the-dark needle. And, brother, it looks dark out there. <br> <br>Some of you have asked if the characters in my novels are based on actual people. Mostly, the answer is no. But today, as quarterbacks sit out the National Anthem, talk-show hosts rant, candidates jockey and shoot cap-guns across the imaginary aisle , and David Duke and Al “The Pal” Sharpton two-step across the grave of MLK, I’m thinking about Mort, my blind, black, fountain of wisdom in The Miracle Man. <br> <br>I like Mort. And Mort has me thinking about Bill Moore. <br> <br>I met Bill not long after I moved with my family to Hayden, Idaho on Thanksgiving Day, 2000. I didn’t know it at the time, but back then Hayden was famous (or infamous) for being the home of the Aryan Nation in America. Which makes it ironic that one of the first (and lasting) good friends I met was African American. Funny, looking back I don’t remember thinking about Bill as any particular race or ethnicity. To me he was simply one of the best people I ever knew. He overwhelmed us with goodness. <br> <br>Bill wasn’t rich. He sold used tires for a living and worked hard every day. He asked for nothing. He’d give you anything. I never heard Bill complain. And as a black man living in Hayden, I imagine he had a lot to complain about. But the thing was, Bill had an agenda. An agenda bigger than himself, bigger than the Aryan Nation, bigger than any human ideology.<br><br>An agenda I wish we all had... <br> <br>You see Bill followed the great example of the Great Example. And as such he loved and served only one race—the human race. This is the reason he could—and did—walk in to a local breakfast joint one morning and shake the hand of Aryan Nation leader, Richard Butler. Bill had the courage and confidence of knowing his Creator. Richard Butler had nothing but the empty blustering bravado of hate. Bill left him speechless. I don’t think the man knew what hit him that day. <br> <br>Paul the Apostle said: <br><em>There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus</em>. Galatians 3:28 <br> <br>Let me tell the fruit of that one precious black life—a life that mattered. When Bill succumbed to cancer a few years back several hundred gathered to celebrate his life. Old, young, black, white, men, women—for hours they shared stories of how this unassuming man spoke into, encouraged, blessed, and changed their lives. A man with no microphone or political platform. No books or talk shows. No guest spots on Fox News or CNN. Just a seller of used tires. Just love, humility and honor wrapped in human skin. And when real love, humility, and honor are at work—note to Mr. Duke and Mr. Sharpton—they unite, they never divide. <br> <br>And against odds, Bill Moore was a uniter. He brought people together in the name of Jesus who he loved. This was Bill’s legacy. What will yours be? <br> <br>Bill’s skin happened to be black. Mine happens to be white. He was my friend. <em>Lord, make me more like Bill. Make me more like You. Make my life matter</em>… <br> <br>All for now—keep your eyes on the prize, pilgrims. <br> <br>Peace, <br>Buck</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/43027942016-07-30T16:29:12-06:002022-06-01T03:02:25-06:00Barns, Back Roads, and Emerson Radios - America in the Rear View Mirror<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/266d0d45c178a360307676b799746db14e570b46/original/barnsunrise.jpg?1469916242" class="size_l justify_right border_" /><strong>Traveler’s Tip #347 </strong><br><br>Drive out of the suburbs. Past that big intersection with the Home Depot, Walmart, and Chili’s. You know the one—every town has it these days. Keep going. Don’t turn in to that neighborhood… What’s it called? The Landings, The Falls, The Glades? Something like that. Of course there’s no water or forest or ship to be seen. Keep going. Past the Italian place—fake Tuscan—splotchy drywall and stucco. Past the Mexican place—pretend adobe—the beams in the front are plastic and starting to peel. Past the outlet mall and the Texaco Travel Plaza (Subway right inside) and the MacDonald’s. Keep driving. Drive till you can breathe. Where the streetlights get further apart and then disappear altogether. Drive to where the stars start. <br> <br>No Interstate for you. Stick to the back roads. The asphalt will eventually give way to gravel. You’re getting closer. Slow down when you see the rusted John Deere tractor on the left and watch for a rutted dirt road that angles off to the right. Take it. After a mile or so, next to the big fir tree, stop and turn off the engine. Listen to it tick. That and the birds waking up are the only sounds you’ll hear out there. <br> <br>Then, just as the sun starts to rise… you’ll see it. Off to the east, silhouetted against the sky…a barn. <br> <br>No big deal. There are thousands of them tucked into forgotten pockets of America. If you’ve driven the rural tracks and trails you’ve seen them. This one, it’s not really any different from any others—and that’s what makes it great. You see, each and every one of them hold a thousand stories. <br> <br>Grab your Stanley thermos (if you don’t have one, you should—green, preferably) and pour yourself a cup. Head for the barn, no one will mind. No need to leave your phone in the car, there isn’t any service anyway. Just open the big, sliding door and step in. It’s quiet in there. You can hear yourself think—how long has it been? Particles of dust laze and swirl in fresh sunbeams—their own little universes and solar systems. Take a breath. Smell the old hay and oil and ghosts. Let the world fade. <br> <br>As far as the locals are concerned the barn has been there forever. No one remembers the young man with the black hair and thick beard who built it. Ah, but you should have seen him. He worked sunup to sundown and often long into the night for months. Once in a while a neighbor helped, but in those days people weren’t close by and even if they were they had their own work to do. A man got by the best he could. Board by board, the barn was built. Then a house. Eventually a wife came along. And children. And grandchildren. <br> <br>But the sun rises. Sun sets. Clocks tick. By the fourth generation that first family moved on, give or take a few second cousins. Others came. They always do. And so it went. Season after season. Year after year. <br> <br>Still, there the barn stood. <br> <br>Take a look around, but don’t rush. The thing is, here, away from the incessant noise that echoes through the cosmos, you’ve encountered the <em>authentic</em>. This is not Bear Country Jamboree. This is not Cracker Barrel. This is the real thing. That coffee can of rusty nails in the windowsill? It was put there the same week Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. We were a country of dreamers and achievers then…much like the young man that built the place. We were fighters and everyday heroes. Sure, there may have been a few desperados in the woodpile, but for the most part we were loyal, lovers of family—lovers of good. <br> <br>There used to be an old Emerson radio that sat on the workbench although it was gone by Neil Armstrong’s time. News came in on it, baked fresh and still warm from the glow of tubes. WW1, WW2, the Yankees win the series… Benny Goodman, Lefty Frizzel, Louis Armstrong, Hank Williams...they launched their genius into the airwaves and vibrated the molecules through that 4-inch speaker. <br> <br>Before the Emerson radio, a horse was born in the back stall. 1903, I think it was. There were high hopes he'd win the Kentucky Derby. Maybe even the whole Triple Crown. Of course, these hopes were held exclusively by a very single-minded eight-year old girl. Her name was Esmeralda Mills. Though tender in years, her faith and love was unwavering as is often the way between girls and horses. Old Baldy never made it twenty miles from the farm let alone all the way to Kentucky, but Esmeralda <em>was</em> riding him the day she met Lonnie Weaver. She and Lonnie were married in the doorway of this very barn a year later. A year after that, Lonnie shipped out for France and the Great War. <br> <br>See that stream of light coming in down low through the east-facing wall? If you look close, you’ll find a hole and a crack in the boards. That was the result of one of Fergus Weaver’s fastballs. A pitch everyone figured would take him straight to the Majors. But then again there are a lot of holes in a lot of walls of a lot of barns—dreams grow fast and big in these places. Fergus made it as far as the Yakima Bears and played for a few years before coming back to ranch. Not the Yankees by a long shot, but everyone was proud anyway. <br> <br>I love this one—In 1977, Bob Weaver and his pop, Carl, used the barn every night after work to retrofit a nearly-totaled ’64 Chrysler Imperial for the demolition Derby at the State Fair. The strangest thing—Cal’s hands, which shook badly since his return from Viet Nam, got better over the weeks he and Bob worked. By the time they finished those hands were steady as a rock. His wife swore to everyone who would listen—and even some that wouldn’t—it was a miracle. Carl just chalked it up to time with his son and a quieting of the mind. The boys made it to the derby, but even though they welded pieces of railroad track into the doors and around the radiator the Chrysler was only the second car knocked out of competition. Carl and Bob never seemed to mind. They still talk about that time together, and that loser car as their greatest triumph. I think they’re right. <br> <br>So many stories. Presidents, wars, feast and famine. Good years, bad years, and in between. Edison, prohibition, Bonnie and Clyde, Steinbeck, Babe Ruth, Al Jolson, Elvis, Martin Luther King Jr.… America. The barn has stood implacable for a long, long time. It is history. It is solidity. Built carefully and firmly on its foundation of stones. It has seen wind and rain, flood, snow and sun. Hopefully it will see more. <br> <br>You see, somewhere along the road we've stopped building barns, at least not like our fathers built them. Instead we've become demanders of the immediate. Great and skilled builders of flash and mirrors and monuments to the temporary. We are full, drunk, and merry. We are rich and lacking in nothing. We are addicted, lost, and drifting. <br>Doing what seems right in our own eyes, we’ve written off heavenly and wise advice about stone foundations and opted for sand because it’s cheaper at to buy Lowe’s. <br> <br>There are bulldozers on the horizon, folks. Kicking up dust and coming fast. They say the old barns needs to go to make way for the newer and shinier. To quote Joni Mitchell, <em>They paved paradise and put up a parking lot</em>. Such is progress. <br> <br>Keep your progress. This old dinosaur is buying a Stanley thermos and an Emerson radio. <br> <br>Take it to the street, Pilgrims. <br> <br>Fair winds, <br>Buck </p>
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<p><strong>Traveler’s Tip #346 </strong> <br><em>I’ve stood on a corner in Winslow Arizona but I didn’t see any girl or flatbed Ford. I saw a desert storm roll across the horizon. The sky above Winslow can hold a lot of thunder. </em> <br> <br> <br>I’m out on a three-week tour with Ransom, my son. He's traveling with me and sharing the stage. I miss my wife and daughter terribly, but let me tell you, this will be a trip I’ll never forget. A real, over-the-top thrill. We’ve come a couple thousand miles so far, plenty of time to talk and think. You know what? My son’s a pretty cool guy. I’m also pretty sure he knows more chords than me. <br> <br><em>Me and Frankie, laughing and drinking <br>Nothing feels better than blood on blood <br>Taking turns dancing with Maria <br>While the band plays Night of the Johnstown Flood <br> (Bruce Springsteen – Highway Patrolman) </em> <br> <br>Blood on blood. Family has been on my mind a lot this trip. I see the way people respond to my son and I when we’re on stage together and their joy makes me happy. It strikes me we humans were created for family. It’s molded into our DNA. We respond to it. We love it. We love to see strong, bonded relationships. We love family. We love LOVE. <br> <br>The older I get the more I see family as a gift like no other. Husband and wife, parent and child, grand, great-grand, fill in the blank, we all want to belong. We want someone to have our back. That’s what a real family is. That’s what a real family does. <br> <br>Family is under fire right now, at least in the western culture. We all know it. And I imagine mine is a poster-child for politically incorrect. My kids are adults now but they figured out the difference between girls and boys at around two years old and they can still tell. We're Christians. I don't feel bad about this. I feel blessed and loved. </p>
<p>I’m supposed to be mad, I guess, and argue with the vocal few. The thing is, I never run into the vocal few. I can only speak to my experience. If I want to be honest, and I do, I need to leave the fort and explore the real world outside the influence of Limbaugh and CNN. The truth is, I’ve meet people. Real people, who work and party and hurt. Who sit beside hospital beds, go to baseball games, and play in bands. These people are not statistics or demographics. They have names and faces. Many are now friends who I love. Some have different politics. Some are a different race, different religion, different orientation than me. For the most part I find the passengers on this ship to be lovely. I know they're loved by God. And I find they love my family, too. Do we always agree? No. Do I speak my mind? Do I share my faith? Yes, my life would be a lie if I didn’t. Do they get mad and argue? Almost never. <br> <br>Life is a matter of perspective. Look for hate and brother you’ll find it—there’s plenty. But look for love and you’ll find that more. Choose love. If you're Christian, like me, don't choose it as a cop-out on your faith, but because of your faith. Jesus marked time with prostitutes and drunks. With the broken and least of these. With kids and lepers and and tax collectors. He loved them. But who did he call out? The pharisees and the hypocrites. We don’t need to win arguments. We need to give God’s heart. We don’t need people to think or act or vote like us. It’s not about us. It’s about Him. When we eliminate ourselves from the equation, we can invite people home to the Father with pure faith and no agenda. Then they can find the peace the Father gives. Then God wins. <br> <br>Yeah the vocal few are dangerous. To everyone, not just families like mine. We know it's going to get worse. But they’re motivated by hate, and hate loses, no matter how it’s manipulated or the tables turned. They're good about that but they’re fighting a stacked deck. No matter the legislation. No matter the agenda. To the very end of this earth end men will love women. Women will love men. People will marry. Children will be born. Brothers and sisters will squabble and protect one another. Grandmas and Aunts will tear up at talent shows. Dads will pretend not to tear up at ball games. We’ll fight with each other. We’ll fight for each other. We’ll have each other’s backs. We will love. The family is a brick house. It’s a picture of God’s unity and a gift to men. It will last because He will last. <br> <br>Ransom and I, we’ll see a few more states and a few more stages. We'll wander backroads America. We’ll meet farmers and cowboys, surfers, music legends and baristas. We’ll pray in restaurants. We’ll smile, make friends, and leave tips. We’ll honor Jesus the best we can. We’ll leave towns churches, truck stops, and Starbuck’s with our hearts full. And in the end, hopefully, we'll have given more than we received. <br> <br>And soon be home with our wives, sisters and daughters. Nothing feels better than blood on blood. <br> <br>Fair winds travelers, <br>Buck</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/42067482016-06-01T11:56:57-06:002023-12-10T09:46:43-07:00Mountain Men, Merle Haggard, and Bathrooms<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/bedd0ccf6bef13b43663c4a6c9cacaba0fa9a4f0/large/declo.jpg?1464803759" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #345 </strong><br><em>Passing through Southern Idaho? You might check-in to the Declo Hotel. Although I have the feeling the shadows that linger there are pretty fresh. And it’s a known fact some have heavier footsteps than others…</em> <br> <br><br>Greetings travelers. I’m coming to you live from Starbucks in Reno while our truck is undergoing an operation at the shop on the corner. Praying the mechanic has nimble fingers—we’re playing in Lodi tonight and it’s a bit of a drive. Warning—I’m hopped up on a quad-shot Americano which brings my two-fingered typing speed close to a blistering 25 wpm so hold on to your hats, don’t want them to blow off. <br> <br>Been in Montana the last couple weekends. It’s been a rural, dirt-road sort of trip, Haggard and Hank the soundtrack in my head. My son and I walked a ghost town Sunday afternoon, although most of the ghosts seemed to have packed and hit the road. Maybe headed for Seattle, or Los Angeles, or someplace else with a Home Depot and a Chili’s—after all, it’s 2016. For what it’s worth, we did hear a one-man band with an umbrella strapped to his head and a kick drum on his back play a passable <em>Secret Agent Man</em>. <br> <br>Back roads America. The weeds are growing out there, closing in on the small town days and old ways. Still, it makes me smile that—far away from the maddening noise of suburban normality—there are tough and tender people, lined faces and hard hands, that have each other’s back and look you in the eye. They read scripture at the public high school graduation, and send the senior class of nine proud graduates out into the world with solid ground beneath their feet. Out there—cross my heart—mountain men still come down out of the hills once a year, packing everything they own on horses and mules. Librarians and yogurt shop owners smile, keep cans of air freshener handy, and never complain. <br> <br><em>Turn me loose, set me free <br>Somewhere in the middle of Montana <br> -Merle Haggard (Big City) </em> <br> <br>Something tells me mountain men are never confused about which bathroom to use. I doubt Merle was either. <br> <br>And on we go, down the road, my son and I. Three weeks and lots more towns before we see our loved ones again. But it’s good. And we have the privilege of taking music and the infinite love of Jesus to so many people who have forgotten His name. The reunions are happy. <br> <br>The radio is broken. Sorry Glenn Beck, NPR, and Garrison Keillor. In the silence I’m reminded (again) that God is driving and He isn’t stressed. Not even about truck repairs, bills, or bathrooms. <br> <br>So be encouraged, pilgrims, there is a place, if you care to find it, where you can go to church on Sunday morning, and still get the Cowboy Special at Trixi’s Bar even though it’s after noon and they’ve stopped serving breakfast. <br> <br>Life is good. <br> <br>Fair winds, <br> <br>Buck </p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/41005812016-03-22T17:55:06-06:002023-12-10T10:06:57-07:00And then... Joy<p><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/8a2b1520497f596a1ce2579c32e74ceebc774c35/original/cali.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #344</strong> <br><em>Somehow Michelle and I missed winter this year. And somehow…that’s okay. </em><br> <br> <br>“Lord I believe. Help my unbelief!” <br>Remember that guy? If I believed in reincarnation, which I don’t, then I think could have been him in a past life. I stood on stage a few days ago and half-joked that the problem with living on faith is that it takes so much stinking faith (half–joked being the operative word). Sometimes, pilgrims, you just get tired. Sometimes your body hurts. Sometimes you feel like if you have to spend one more minute in the car you’re going to pound your head against the steering wheel… <br> <br>But then there’s today. Night has passed and the sun is bright. I’m on the road in California, sitting under a tree while a squirrel the size of a Shetland pony munches on an orange and checks me over with sugar-glazed eyes. My only immediate problem is that the on food the patio table in front of me is healthy Trader Joe’s and not an In-N-Out burger. Which—come to think of it—might be a decidedly serious issue. Ah…first world problems. But that’s another blog… <br> <br>Yes, all things are new. <br> <br>You see, yesterday morning I prayed. <br> <br>And last night God answered. <br> <br> “Why are you surprised?” He says. <br> <br> “I’m not surprised. I’m blown away.” I sense that He’s pleased by this. <br> <br>Travelers, life hurts. But when we know Him even though it hurts, it’s always good. Some of you are reading this from your mountaintop. Some from the valley dark. Believe me, I know every foot of the road, both places. If I can give you anything today, please hear this. You are loved and the pain—as hard as it is—is only for a season. In it He has purpose, and it’s always for our good. <br> <br>Then there are those of you reading this who don’t believe at all. I know your names. But more importantly, so does He. And, friends, your doubt has no bearing on His existence. Nor His goodness. He loves you deeply. So do I! <br> <br>Me? At times I’m a wanderer. I’m a struggler, a sinner, and a wrestler of God. But tell me He doesn’t exist? He doesn’t care? You might as well say that water isn’t wet and the ground beneath my feet isn’t solid. Tell me not to breathe in and out. You see, I know Him well. And, more importantly, He knows me. <br> <br>Lord, thank you. I believe. Forgive my unbelief. <br> <br>Press on Pilgrims, we’re in this together, <br> <br>Buck </p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/40682112016-03-01T16:39:36-07:002022-05-11T06:41:43-06:00Common Senselessness - John Wayne for President<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/168c9df35362e55e855a58f55618e6a2c16f0061/original/flag4.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #343 <br>Hang in there, amigos. The road’s a little rough but the end of the story is going to be awesome. <br> <br> <br>It’s Super Tuesday today and here’s the view from my neck of the woods. In one corner, a well-meaning guy who thinks it would be a good idea for a socialist to lead a constitutional republic (he might consider China or Finland, he’d have a better chance—newsflash, the deal’s rigged Bern) along with a far-left-middle-right-leaning-liberal-conservative(ish) queen-of-the-double-negative-lady who is better and smarter than the rest of us and changes positions/accents daily depending on the crowd (brief pause for cackle). In the other corner (you thought I was going to let them off?) a room full of whining third-graders on substitute teacher day fighting over the marbles (I know you are but what am I? Your mom should show her tax returns…) <br> <br>Honestly, I’m feeling a bit removed from it all. Like watching a car wreck on TV. I know it’s happening somewhere but I’m separated from it by plasma, wires, and satellites. And besides, I need to go microwave my coffee. <br> <br>Now you regular readers of my sporadic ponderings (there has to be an oxymoron in there somewhere) know I usually don’t climb down into the political soup, but bear with me. This landscape of Hanna Barbera candidates is just way too tempting. <br> <br>The flat-screen. Warm, fuzzy, Medialand—the alternate reality. Kind of like Willy Wonka’s joint, filled with Oompa Loompas who’s voices have been marginalized, sound-bited, and watered down in the cotton candy of politically-correct elitism and exclusiveness. Promise them the moon in a box, they buy it every four years—sucker born every minute. Plus they’re orange and weird-looking (wait, it might have been one of the third-graders that said that). Yup, in Medialand, common sense has packed its saddlebags and headed for the hills with The Duke and Honest Abe. Back here in the scared-new-world of common senselessness the shell game continues—man, that lady has fast hands! <br> <br>So, remember, here in Medialand the moral of the story is that black lives matter, unless you’re actually an African and un-taxable (or a cop). Oh yeah, and Arab Christians being wiped out by the hundreds of thousands are just pesky Christians, after all, who’s going to miss them? Now where did I put my prayer rug? And speaking of Jesus… wait, actually, don’t because exercising your religious freedom infringes on religious freedom or something else collegiate-sounding like that, and of course we need to exclude to be inclusive…. What? Wait, did you just pray? Stop that… now go hug an atheist. <br> <br>Back in real America, next Tuesday is even more super. Michelle and I are headed back out on the road where real people—you guys—work hard, love, and care. We’ll take a few songs and the love of Jesus to those we meet along the way. Sorry kids, fair warning—you might want to run for your safe place. <br> <br>So, God, could we please have John Wayne back? Or anyone else that can take a punch and come back swinging? We’re a short on heroes around here.…amen <br> <br>Now get out there and vote, you taxable units. <br> <br> <br>Fair winds, <br>Buck</p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/40352912016-02-10T16:20:33-07:002022-02-04T23:26:13-07:00Camping with Knuckleheads<p><br><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/8107185d02cb5191ce0625a659af0aeea8b22367/original/maria.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #342</strong><br><em>If you happen to pass Calvary Chapel Cypress in the Los Angeles area, look up Maria. Let her take your picture. Yes, it’ll take her 20 minutes to figure the camera out but her unfiltered joy will make your day… </em></p>
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<p><br>Hello from sunny California! Michelle and I are currently getting ready to wrap up a five-week tour and get a little home time before hitting the road again. It’s been such a good trip. NM, TX, AZ, CA…so many wonderful people everywhere we go. <br> <br>One current theme I’ve been hearing out here is—What happened to the blogs? So I’m feeling both convicted and blessed. The truth is, life and travel have just been busy. But I’m going to do my best! It’s good to be missed, my friends. <br> <br>I was saddened today to read a post from a non-Christian friend about the hate-filled rhetoric she perceives as coming from the Christian ghetto. A twist of a crafty devil, if you ask me. I meet believers around the country, and let me tell you—a Spirit-filled Christian, a real follower of Jesus, is a miraculous thing. The direct target of the last acceptable form of discrimination in America and yet the first to stand for the down-trodden and serve others. Kicked, ridiculed, and told to keep his mouth shut, yet offering a cup of cold water to his enemies. Christians are being slaughtered by the tens-of-thousands around the world yet praying for their executioners with their dying breath. Personally, I’m tired and saddened by the constant vilifying. <br> <br>Yes, there is the odd “Christian” duck that doesn’t operate in the love of the One who gives breath. But their agenda has nothing to do with Jesus. More often than not it has to do with building their own kingdom—motivated by pride, and believing their own press—send the cash, baby, amen… <br> <br>Yesterday morning I stood on stage tuning up and watched people from all different walks-of-life, race, and social status organically praying for each and bearing one another’s burdens. With such sincere hearts! With pure joy! That’s the Jesus I know. That’s the Father who walks with me every day. I couldn’t live without Him. <br> <br>So, to those out there hijacking Christ’s name and arguing just to be right—stop. Nobody ever browbeat or out-debated anyone into the arms of Jesus. And to my non-Christian friends (I know you’re reading)—I love you dearly. I’m sorry for the misconceptions you’ve been fed by a few knuckleheads. When it comes to casting stones none of us have a leg to stand on so my hands are empty. But, I believe with all my heart that our Father misses you. You were created by and for Him. He has good things for you. Adventures our tiny imaginations can’t even begin to fathom. Both in this world, and the next. I want to live them with you. There is a better way, a road less traveled. <br> <br>This life is but a breath but lets breathe it together. Men will let you down, Jesus never will. <br> <br>Fair winds all you astronauts, <br> <br>Buck </p>
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<p> </p>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/38699722015-09-26T09:54:57-06:002022-03-10T22:30:31-07:00All Things...<div class="captioned justify_right"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/fab2a5ff0dc3cad4dfcb472b661bb2f256055bf6/original/beastie.jpg?1443282779" class="size_orig justify_right border_" /><p class="caption">Happy Daughters Day to Willow Storm. Who could ask for more?</p></div><strong>Traveler’s Tip #341</strong><br><em>If you stop at Wall Drug in South Dakota you can have your picture taken on a horse-size, concrete jackalope… So that’s nice.</em><br> <br><br>Coming to you live from a Holliday Inn in St. Louis today. On the banks of the mighty Mississippi in the land of Twain. A few thousand miles since my last note—moving hard and fast. We have a concert in Kansas City tonight. If you wouldn’t mind, say a pray for our car—still running good but passed the 200,000-mile mark this trip.<br> <br>Miles and miles and miles. Brother, the road can be a constant cycle of ups and downs. Sometimes when I’m tired it doesn’t take much to drive the highs and lows.<br> <br>Only Jesus keeps things consistent. He is constant Joy (I am not).<br> <br><br><br>There are days I can identify with my Lord in the garden so long ago.<br> <br> “Jesus, let this cup pass,” I say.<br> “All things,” He answers. “All things…”<br> <br>I’ve seen the torches of the Romans streaming down the hill. A <em>cohort</em> the Bible says—hundreds. A great multitude of men. They gather around, every pressure and care and snare this world can throw. And the world has a good arm—a hanging curve, inside fastball, then one that catches me in the head and takes me to the dirt. In these times no man stands with me. Friends flee. No flesh will be my rescue. No church or program cares. All is lost. Then my Friend—the painter of sunsets, the One who holds the cosmos in His hands—settles an arm around my shoulder.<br> <br> He smiles and simply says, “I Am.”<br> <br>And <em>He Is</em>. In a rush, the power of that simple truth dwarfs everything else. The Romans, priests, and devils drops to their faces.<br> <br>And I’m into my Master’s arms. To the mountain tops. Higher up, further in.<br> <br>Yes, all is lost.<br> <br>And now I can rest.<br> <br>Are you standing in the batters box on a full count? Be encouraged today, traveler. You’re not alone. Maybe you have or haven’t hit the 200,000-mile mark yet but we’re all on this road nonetheless. It might go long—maybe even extra innings. But when the last out is made we’ll be breathing hard, but celebrating in the winning dugout.<br> <br>All things…<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: center; font-size: 17px;">Enjoy these blogs?</span><br style="text-align: center; font-size: 17px;"><a contents="Download a free sample of my book THE MIRACLE MAN here!" data-link-label="The Miracle Man" data-link-type="page" href="/the-miracle-man--2" style="text-align: center; font-size: 17px;">Download a FREE sample of my book THE MIRACLE MAN here!</a> </div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/38520352015-09-12T10:46:52-06:002023-12-10T09:33:17-07:00The Wife of My Youth<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/93d17e47fff13fae72f239c3aa18cb02884cfc89/original/10641291-1072200982807601-438062904509280988-n.jpg?1442076357" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #340</strong><br><em>If you see an overlook beside the road, pull off and look back. It’s good to see where you’ve traveled. But when you’re done, don’t forget to get back in the truck and start driving again. The road ahead holds great things…</em><br> <br> <br>Conversation with the clerk at the hardware store today–<br> <br> <em>“I know your name. I think saw you on TV,” she says.</em><br><em> “Was it America’s Most Wanted?” I reply. </em><br><em> “Nope. Don’t think so.”</em><br><em> “You might be getting me mixed up with Brad Pitt. That happens a lot.” </em><br><em> I think this is clever—she apparently doesn't.</em><br><em> “I think you were playing music,” she says.</em><br><em> Ah! Fanning the old ego flame… I stand a little taller. “Could be. I’m a songwriter.”</em><br><em> She squints at me then goes back to ringing me up. “Nah. I’m probably wrong. And it definitely wasn’t Brad Pitt.”</em><br><em> I take my light bulb and receipt and slip back into the faceless masses.</em><br> <br>God always has a way of reminding us of our place in the grand scheme of things.<br> <br>So there are a lot of good detailed blogs out there. Heady spiritual stuff and nonstop political insight to chill our bones as we navigate these troubled times. Read them, and make no mistake the days are dark. But here’s a little tidbit of good news to lift your day – <em>A light has come into the world and the darkness cannot overpower it!</em> The Living God is on the throne and we can belong to Him. Aren’t you glad?<br> <br>He gives good gifts to men.<br> <br>So I want to write about my wife…<br> <br>We’re back out on the road next week, blowing by the ghost of Custer and the glory of Rushmore on the way east. Cornfields and oilfields, truck stops and rib joints (Kansas City)—look out Midwest here we come. Michelle Storm will be with me and it feels like Christmas in September. It’s funny how the miles don’t seem as long when home tags along with you. Twenty-six years now we’ve shared this married E-ticket ride. Clinging to the safety bar of our wonderful, traditional (oh relax) rollercoaster life we’ve had each other’s backs through blue sky and some pretty good blows. I’m happy to say as we hoist sail for this leg of the voyage the winds are fair and coming in off the beam.<br> <br>Yesterday we cycled through the North Idaho hills in our standard yo-yo fashion. I fly past her going down—and she leaves me in the dust going up. This is due to a well-known but rarely mentioned property of physics called <em>The Law of Tonnage</em>. In the science books it’s right next to another law that states—<em>A body in motion tends to seek out the nearest couch</em>. Isn’t it the way of things? You pull and push each other along, doing the best you can, until one day you look around, half stunned by the sudden calm in the tempest, and find your kids have become beautiful adults, you have the best daughter-in-law in the world, the seas have settled, and you’re still holding hands with your best friend.<br> <br>God has given us a great love story. Maybe my place here in the masses isn’t so bad. I don’t have to be recognized at the hardware store to be worthwhile. I’m famous to Him. And to my wife—she also has a way of reminding me of my place in the scheme of things. She makes <em>me</em> The Miracle Man.<br> <br> <br>Yes, it’s God who gives good gifts to men. He insists on blessings I don’t deserve and Michelle Storm is undeniable proof to the doubter. I shake my head at the hecklers, insistent in their demand that God doesn’t exist. From my vantage point—this gravel overlook beside the road—they might as well step out of an airplane laughing at the ignorance of all us hillbillies who still claim to believe in the archaic idea of gravity.<br> <br>Not me, friends. I’ll tag along with Jesus. He’s a good and gracious pilot. And I’ll thank Him every step of the way for the flashlight he shines on my path. In a few days He, Michelle and I will head for Middle America and, let me tell you, a three-strand cord is not easily broken. He’ll do amazing things. We’ll watch and cheer Him on.<br> <br>Look for our headlights. They’ll be there. Don’t forget to wave.<br> <br>And when we stop for the night I’ll be a thousand miles from my house, but not from my home. My wife will be sleeping by my side, and my own porch-light will be shining right outside the motel room door.<br> <br>Fair winds, pilgrims—see you on the road.<br> <br>Hopelessly in love with the wife of my youth,<br> <br>Buck<br> <div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/38342022015-08-28T13:42:06-06:002023-12-10T09:54:59-07:00Rope Burns<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/00dc72ab256e50c90e866a8f4568bc1aa8fcfd2e/large/walken.jpg?1440869378" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #339</strong><br><em>“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.” </em><br> ― Ernest Hemingway<br> <br> <br><br><em>“I’ve thought about it,” Luke said. “I’m hanging on to a rope a thousand feet in the air over rocks, and I’m losing my grip. Losing it fast. I’m asking you, Mort, what am I supposed to do? I need to know. I need answers.” </em><br><em> “That’s an easy one, Lukeollis. You got to let go of the rope. You fall and you trust.” </em><br><em> “See, Reverend, that doesn’t help. I need real, what to do right now in the physical world, answers. Not your spiritual stuff.” </em><br><em> “No, you don’t, boy. You need what I’m giving you. You need to let go of the rope. Nothin’ else.” </em><br><em> “That simple, huh?”<br> “Yup. That simple.”<br> “It might be a long drop.”<br> “You’d be surprised...” </em><br> - from THE MIRACLE MAN<br> <br> <br>The book of Proverbs tells us to <em>Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.</em><br> <br>I’ve been there, have you? I can see the rocks below. The waves are crashing. My hands are tired and my arms are shaking. I slip down the rope a little—then a little more. I remember the old saying—<em>Tie a knot and hang on!</em> I'm not sure whoever came up with that saying ever actually hung on a rope... How am I supposed to tie a knot when I need every bit of my strength just to keep from falling? Plus, even if I managed it, I have a nagging suspicion it would wind up looking more like a hangman’s noose than a square knot.<br> <br> “Jesus?” I call.<br> “Yes?”<br> “Where are you?”<br> “Everywhere.”<br> “I’m tired.”<br> “I know. Let go.”<br> “It’s a long way down.”<br> “Not really.”<br> “Hang on, maybe I can figure something out…”<br> “You can’t…”<br> <br>A thousand thoughts fly through my brain. What if I’m wrong? What if he lets me go? Man, I’ve really done it this time…again. What if he’s mad?<br> <br>But in the end my strength fails. It always fails. Hands bloody with stubbornness, I finally slip.<br> <br>And fall…<br> <br>…into the arms of my Friend.<br> <br> “Don’t drop me,” I say, looking down at the rocks again.<br> “Do I ever?”<br> “No, but I <em>did</em> hang for a long time—on my own. Where were you? It would have been easier to let go if I’d have seen you down here.”<br> He laughs. “You don’t know by now to look up? Who do you think was holding the top end of the rope in the first place?”<br> <br>Look up, my friends. The beginning is near. And like Mort says – <em>He ain’t gonna leave you hanging…</em><br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck <div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/38228012015-08-17T15:28:45-06:002023-12-10T09:59:02-07:00Donald Trump's Hair and Other Great Band Names<div class="captioned justify_right"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/e06f180733ba758311d9de1ce66d38ea1fda7ccc/large/evil-machine.jpg?1439846411" class="size_orig justify_right border_" alt="" /><p class="caption">Willie MacNelson Keeps a Wary Eye on the Evil Machine</p></div><strong>Traveler’s Tip #338</strong><br><em>Stop along the way. Break bread, fellowship, laugh. And be sure to stop talking long enough to listen to The Least of These—you never know what the Master is trying to tell you.</em><br> <br> <br>Well, it’s been a couple thousand miles since last week’s ponderings. I’m home again after a whirlwind two weeks of dates as well as a memorial service for my precious grandma. I’m a little tired but, coffee in hand, I’m plunging into blog-land (a couple days late).<br> <br>Just a few thoughts today…<br> <br>I read the news this morning—never quite sure that’s a good idea. Hillary’s switching to Snapchat (good call). The Donald—I actually enjoy the banter and bold disregard for the politically correct nonsense that’s hog-tying America but please…Mr. Trump…my friend…the hair. I can’t look away. This is not the look of the Leader of the Free World. But maybe that’s the point? Politics and Saturday morning cartoons—is it just me or is the line getting blurry?<br> <br>Hill and Don—adrift and lost on a vast sea of ego and privilege—loved by Jesus. Hey, who am I to judge? I’ll pray for them today. And for my country.<br> <br>Out on the road…<br>I love the way God speaks and ministers through His people, don’t you? I met Val in Loma Rica, CA. She’s a lovely woman who both blessed and broke my heart. Val offered to make a couple of meals for me. What a time of fellowship. Romanian by birth, she and her husband escaped the communist block (and a lifetime of persecution for Christ) and immigrated to America in 1983. They were childhood friends, sweethearts, and constant companions. He passed away two years ago in a drowning accident. Of course Val was beyond devastated. But, let me tell you, mister, if you want proof of a gracious God, spend ten minutes with Val. Here is a woman that absolutely radiates the Holy Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness… Such grace shining up from deep within the valley of the shadow of death and loss. What an amazing God we serve that we can know this kind of peace in times of pain. Our harbor in the storm... As I sat in Val's presence I felt the arms of Jesus around me and realized in that moment why I was in Loma Rica. This is the way it works much of the time. Thank you Lord for encouraging me through Your faithful saints! God bless you, Val. I hope to see you again!<br> <br>Great is THY faithfulness! This is the true perspective of the believer who’s walked miles with the Savior.<br> <br>An exciting thing for me—copies of THE MIRACLE MAN are beginning to crop up at concerts to be signed and talked about. I smile because many of you tell me you feel like you know the characters, and that their stories are your stories. Well, I guess they are—yours, mine, and ours. We’re in this together and I’m reminded of that as I move on from town to town. I meet so many nice people everywhere I go. Thank you all for ministering to me! God is at work in our lives and I love to hear about it.<br> <br> <br>I think I’ll skip the news tomorrow—even Donald’s hair, as tempting as it is—and write my own headline…<br> <br>GOD IS BUSY GIVING GRACE TO MEN<br> <br>Make sure you read the whole article. The end is awesome.<br> <br>Just me—a resident of earth, citizen of Heaven—checking in live from America…<br> <br>More to come.<br> <br>Fair Winds,<br>Buck <div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/38094032015-08-08T12:34:01-06:002022-05-22T12:21:08-06:00Picking Out a Cross Necklace for Bill Maher<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/ca0363e45be64364a353bf5e5261435cdf42b3de/original/3010889019-465a7b5e7c.jpg?1439058508" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #337</strong><br><em>They say you can never go home. That’s not true—but sometimes it’s a really long drive.</em><br> <br>It’s a beautiful morning in Oroville, California. I have a feeling that happens a lot here. The people at the Super 8 are very nice. I’ve blown through four states in the last five days, passing the miles talking to Jesus and listening to Willie Nelson read Louis L’Amour stories—both are good for the soul. Late check-out this morning then headed for a Lodi concert tonight.<br> <br>Last night I stood on the stage of a little brick church. I felt a lot of history in that place. What sermons and songs bounced off those walls in days long past? Voiced by men and women whose names no one remembers? I added my own to the mix. I hope they hang around awhile.<br> <br>Out here in America time marches on, waiting for no one and no respecter of persons. Towns are boarded. Old Victorian houses are falling apart. One Main Street fades into another, nothing but the obligatory struggling antique store and memories. The Victorians give way to trailers and blocked-up cars. There are still good people out here, but they’re fading into transparency, becoming opaque while small men at the Capitol spend their days shooting cap pistols across the aisle and their evenings sharing drinks.<br> <br>They say the days of the pioneers were hell on horses and women. I don’t think that’s true anymore—Hillary is doing fine as first world morphs slowly into third.<br> <br>On the hotel room TV Bill Maher makes his guest hide her cross under her blouse because it offends him. The audience claps. At the same time, on the other side of the world, a Christian missionary feeds a hungry little girl—Bill’s not even a blip on her radar screen.<br> <br>Out past the trailers, a faded farmhouse leans hard in the middle of a field, ravaged by weather and broken hearts.<br> <br><em>America</em>. Man—this place is haunted.<br> <br>There are ghosts here. Ghosts of the strong and the good and the moral. The builders and the dreamers. The fighters and the forgotten that gave their lives so the politicians could play, a woman could wear a cross, and Bill Maher could whine. Yes, America is becoming a land of ghosts and sadly they have heavier footsteps than the living.<br> <br>But me and Jesus and Willie? We’ll keep our chins up and speak our mind. We’re headed for another town. We’ll share a little truth (of <em>course</em> there’s such a thing, Bill). We’ll celebrate an empty grave and love people because people are lovely. For the most part we’ll be loved back.<br> <br>Oh, and we’ll wear our crosses outside our shirts… for all the honest world to feel.<br> <br>So watch for us pilgrims, we’re coming to your town. And we bring good news. As dark as it seems, the devil’s lies are rapidly wearing thin and it’s getting grey in the east. The sun is on its way and the forecast is good.<br> <br><em>Adios</em>, Bill Maher. Go with God, my friend. You don’t worry Him. He cares for you dearly. Might as well drop your fists, it’s a losing fight. All the hate in the world isn’t even a drop against the ocean of God’s love. Hey, who knows? Maybe He’ll send you a cross necklace for <em>Christ</em>mas.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck <br> <div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37978192015-07-31T11:18:19-06:002021-11-18T17:33:56-07:00 Roses and Noxzema - Here's To You, Verna Lee Storm<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/a774005553b3ef2d7b33ea99306ba38dea320258/large/img-20150727-111558.jpg?1438363152" class="size_l justify_left border_" />Traveler’s Tip #336</strong><br><em>“I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now...Come further up, come further in!” </em><br>― C.S. Lewis, <em>The Last Battle</em><br> <br><br>Verna Lee Storm was a fluffy woman. Soft in body, clothes and temperament. She loved to laugh. She was the smell of cold cream and roses. She was a jar of Noxzema for sunburn and maker of home-made ice cream.<br> <br>She was the spoiler of grandkids. I know because I was her oldest. To me she was the embodiment love.<br> <br>I spent my fifth grade year living with my grandma and grandpa. Hey, it was the seventies—that’s what kids did. A hard time, needless to say. Ten years old—the age when boys contemplate things. Faith, divorce, baseball… A spinning vortex of all the joy and unbearable sadness of life. Like most, I struggled to understand.<br> <br>I met Jesus that year. Not my parent's Jesus, nor my grandparent’s. Not even the flannel graph Jesus in the Arlington Church of Christ basement. When I met the real God there was no doubt. I needed Him and He knew it. We’ve been together ever since. I’m so glad.<br> <br>Through that turbulent year my grandma was His angel. She made everything bright and sugary and sheltered me from some of the hardness and pain of life. Maybe not the most healthy approach but looking back, there’s no doubt in my mind that I needed it at the time. Everything hurt too much.<br> <br>Faith, divorce, baseball… I thought and contemplated. Death, too. I remember vividly talking to Jesus—telling him that the one thing I knew I’d never be able to bear on this earth was the death of Grandma Storm. It was something unimaginable. An event that would plunge the world into shadow and cold with no hope of sun. I prayed I would die first.<br> <br>Isn’t it the way with Jesus? We grow with Him and He stretches us. We learn to lean on Him more and more all time. Eventually he peels away the layers of people and things we surround ourselves with to protect us from the harsh reality of this world. <em>He</em> <em>alone</em> becomes our harbor and shelter. Our all in all. He is everything we need.<br> <br>And <em>that</em> is how I bear the fact that at 4am on July 27<sup>th</sup> my fluffy grandma slipped the chains of this earth and stepped into that Better Country. Into the arms of my grandpa and the presence of God. I’m glad I can know it’s true.<br> <br>We all knew her--or someone like her. It hurts when they leave, doesn’t it? We know it’s <em>good</em>, but it hurts. Thank you Jesus for the joy of the eternal. Thank you for grace. Thank you for hope!<br> <br>Wilbur and Lee Storm never had two dimes to rub together. Never wrote great spiritual books or had international ministries. They simply loved Jesus and everyone He put in their path. They struggled along through this world with faith, family, and laughter and it was enough.<br> <br>Theirs might not be the biggest mansion in Heaven but I’d bet the moon it’s the happiest. Stop by when you get there. The joint will be full, believe me. Tacos on Fridays. Muffins on Sunday mornings. It’ll smell like roses and cold cream.<br> <br>And so, next week, somewhere in Southern California, the Storm clan will gather. We’ll tip a glass and we’ll celebrate a life well lived. We’ll tell stories and laugh about the things she said and did because that’s our way. We’ll talk about the sound of her laugh--one none of us will ever forget. And most of all we’ll talk about that great reunion we’ll have up there soon. You’re all invited.<br> <br>We’ll be happy—and our hearts are broken.<br> <br>Goodbye for now Grandma Storm. I love you. I’ll see you again when the stars fall from the sky…<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck<br> <div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37892562015-07-23T17:09:49-06:002017-01-15T16:45:20-07:00Dancing With the Ayatollah and Other Bad Ideas—How to Find Peace in Troubled Times<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/5f8a52501a2115ad094578bbeb59b8799d9a6a88/large/deacon.jpg?1437692920" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #335</strong><br><em>God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.</em><br><strong>C. S. Lewis</strong><br> <br> <br>Do you want a peace? Here’s a short list of things that will NOT bring peace into your life:<ul> <li>Hand feeding white sharks pieces of meat.</li> <li>Deciding to try it with your teeth.</li> <li>Inviting the Ayatollah to sit down and have a beer with you (Sorry Mr. Kerry).</li> <li>Passing out COEXIST bumper stickers on a Ramallah street corner (my apologies to the good people of Portland).</li> <li>Babysitting your son’s new puppy while he’s in Hawaii on his honeymoon (come home soon son).</li>
</ul>I’m a dreamer. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion the grass is a little bit greener on the other side. I can’t shake it. I’ve also never had a problem hopping fences. Even wasted some time kicking them down.<br> <br>That’s before I realized all that green grass just meant more to mow.<br> <br>I’ve pursued a lot of pastures. I’ve had a million plans to bring peace and fulfillment to my life. Falling in love, having kids, getting a record deal, getting out of a record deal, seeing the world, writing a book, selling a gazillion books, having thousands—no, millions—of people read my blog… Oh brother.<br> <br> “What are you doing crawling around down there?” Jesus asks.<br> “Looking for something.”<br> “Well, you’ve pushed a lot of diamonds out of the way to pick up a few rocks.”<br> “Story of my life.”<br> “Didn’t I tell you? That in this world you’ll have tribulation?”<br> “Yeah. I hate that part.”<br> “What are you looking for?”<br> “Peace, I think.”<br> “Any luck?”<br> “It’s right around the corner, mister.”<br> “You have me. So you have peace.”<br> “What about the bills?”<br> “Do I look like I’m short of cash?”<br> “No, but…”<br> <br>Peace, right around the corner. Elusive as a pretty girl’s smile. I’ll have it when… (Fill in your own blank here—you know what it is).<br> <br>But everyday I get older. A little more grey. A little more weary of the chase. Breathing hard from the storm I drop into the shadow and the shelter of my friend Jesus…again. I lean against his legs. He puts a scarred hand on my head. He doesn’t have to say anything—we both know.<br> <br>That’s one of the things about God—He never rubs it in.<br> <br> “I love you,” Jesus says.<br> <br>And peace floods. Every time. Right through my stubborn will and thick head. Beyond anything I can understand or hope for. Beyond the trials, beyond the struggles and the plans. Beyond my dreams.<br> <br>Peace floods.<br> <br> “Don’t run off again,” he says.<br> “I won’t.”<br> “You will.”<br> “I won’t”<br> “When you do, I’ll be here.”<br> <br>And I remember for the thousandth time—peace is not the absence of conflict or problems or the successful realization of my tin-can plans. Peace isn’t money, power, or influence. Peace isn’t even winning the world for Christ.<br> <br>Peace is the simple presence of my Jesus.<br> <br>I won’t…<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37830112015-07-18T17:18:53-06:002021-11-20T04:30:10-07:00Where Does the Time Go? My Son’s Wedding...<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/b6abc750c974d9254b19f8305b09716a1a3c235d/large/father-son.jpg?1437261301" class="size_l justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #334</strong><br><em>On Highway 95 headed south? Take a left into the mountains at New Meadows and head for McCall, Idaho. Find yourself a wedding and hope for rain (they say rain on the wedding day means a long, blessed marriage). But don’t be surprised when you find yourself asking—where did this grey hair come from?</em><br> <br>Ever wonder where the time went?<br><br>Wow…<br>Last week I stood beneath an angel-filled, Idaho sky. It stretched out above, alternating between deep blue and threatening rain. A surreal experience, standing there beside my son as his bride-to-be walked down the aisle toward us. Man, really? Where did the time go? This is the guy who, five minutes ago, was trying to master the R sound, hitting the ball off the tee, and running to third instead of first.<br> <br>In the blink of an eye he’s a man. I’m both happy and proud. Tears upon tears.<br> <br>The beautiful bride-to-be asked me to play a song for the ceremony—the first time I remember being nervous in forever. I taped the lyrics to the top of my guitar so I wouldn’t forget them. I think I executed the thing in a fairly coherent fashion but I can’t swear to it. If not, nobody cared, they were such a beautiful couple.<br> <br>God held the rain off, but thunder rolled and cracked through the message as He blessed with His presence. Hard to imagine a more perfect and beautiful sound. I couldn’t stop smiling.<br> <br>And then it was over, and there he went. Ransom Storm, the son of my youth. Back up the aisle with our new daughter-in-law and all I could do was stand there, just another guy clapping in the crowd.<br> <br><em>Time</em>… Oh, man, this life can hurt. We’ve all felt it. Life’s a breath, mister, and don’t forget to breathe because you might miss it.<br> <br> I talked to the Lord. “He’s my only son.”<br> “He is.”<br> “I miss him already.”<br> “Trust me, I know all about Only Sons. And missing them.”<br> “I love him so much.”<br> “I love him more.”<br> “Will they be okay?”<br> He laughed—more thunder. “Yes, they will. Forever and ever…”<br> <br>She loves him so much. I can see it in her face. And my son, he’s practically lost in her. As it should be. I’m happy for them. (Yeah, that’s right, I’m still crying).<br> <br>A breath, a vapor, a wisp of smoke, a snap of the fingers. But, oh the blessings of the King! Ransom and Sarah Storm shine with the love of Jesus. God has been beyond faithful to me. Why me, Lord?<br> <br>It’s just the beginning really.<br> <br>And that’s the thing. When we know Christ the joy never ends. There is sadness here, sure, but we taste it briefly and move on toward perfect joy. What a future! Hope—it takes me to my knees.<br> <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/f483c6a5bb09f41d084b39232ab4c0ec2f75267b/original/r-s.jpg?1437261384" class="size_l justify_left border_" />Forgive my rambling, pilgrims. This isn’t the most thought-out or articulate blog I’ve ever written. But my heart is filled with the poetry of life, in all its glory—both sadness and joy. I’m feeling it deeply today and I want to share it with my friends and my Jesus.<br> <br>My son disappears over the hill… Can you imagine? The poetry of life—I’m wrecked.<br> <br>God gave <em>His Own</em> so that mine might never know death. What love is this!<br> <br>And the joy! Time runs like water through my fingers. I can’t slow it. But it does’t touch Jesus. My God is waiting. And all eternity looms bright and shining.<br> <br>So—<em>welcome to the family</em> Sarah Storm! You are beautiful, inside and out. Our hearts are full.<br> <br>Family—friends—Jesus, forever. Can you imagine? What a glorious hope we have in our Maker! Never to end, never to grow dim! He holds us in his hand.<br> <br>Guess what? The tears are still here. And I wouldn’t trade them for the world.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37598002015-06-29T22:50:13-06:002017-01-15T16:45:20-07:00Somewhere... Over the Rainbow...<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/4c8255a2d3748f6561b79fcb10da3ec79396d142/medium/20150626-162341.jpg?1435639734" class="size_m justify_right border_" />Traveler’s Tip #333</strong><br><em>Stop at the Mennonite store in Clark Fork, ID. The caramel coffee cake is unbelievable. And if you see a horizon-to-horizon rainbow shining so bright it hurts, thank God. He’s so good! </em><br> <br><br>Welcome to this week’s political street brawl; America stands decidedly divided into two corners—those with the technical acumen to superimpose rainbow colors over their facebook profile pics, and those without. Or at least those who feel everything they hold dear and sacred is being stripped away, shingle by shingle.<br> <br>Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me bless His Holy Name! <em>Thank You Lord that You’re not stressed.</em><br> <br>I’m taking a close look and, surprisingly, finding I’m not stressed either. <em>It is well, it is well, with my soul… </em>I’m standing with the King. Resting in my Father’s arms.<br> <br>I’m a Christian, that’s the deal. Mast to keel. I love my friend Jesus. He’s shown Himself faithful at every turn and I’ll return the favor. He’s the reason I breathe in and out. Don’t agree with me? That’s fine. I’ll give you a cup of cold water. I’ll visit you when you’re sick. I’ll even help you move (and that’s saying something—I <em>hate</em> moving). I’ll show you Christ and His love because I love you. And because <em>He</em> loves you.<br> <br>Let me ask, do we really expect a government that is vocally and adamantly Godless to legislate morality based on God’s principles? Of course not, why would we? His word clearly says what these days will look like right down to the gnat’s eyebrow. Here we are. Even secular historians will point out the fact that history repeats itself. So the U.S. goes the way of Rome—practically a carbon copy—because mankind is mankind. I guess we’ll see what God’s hand holds. Revival? Maybe. Repentance? Who knows? Or we’ll just slip under the waves with a great rebellious whimper.<br> <br>Either way, God is God and always will be. Long after this earth is dust.<br> <br>Yes, Christians, the hate directed toward you is intense right now. Does it make sense? Not really, unless God is who He says He is—the embodiment and definition of love and justice. We all feel it. But hey, this is a battle that started long ago. Long before red white and blue flew over a rainbow-colored white house. It’s nothing but a continuation of the same old story. One that started in the garden, continued at the cross, and has raged with fury everyday since.<br> <br>Choose this day whom you will serve. It all brings me to my knees, to worship.<br> <br>Man wants to be God. He pontificates, legislates, and shakes his fist at the sky. And the laughter of the One-who-allows-our-hearts-to-beat echoes through the heavens…<br> <br>Face it—it’s an old, tired dance. The <em>radical few </em>(not all—but they’re good at pulling the uninformed into the cause) aren’t shy about stating the end-game. The clear-cut mission is the <em>expulsion of Jesus Christ from the world culture</em>.<br> <br>“Change!” they tell me. “Your old ways are irrelevant now!”<br> <br>Look, I can trace my Christian heritage back directly 600 years. In 1728 my family showed up on these shores to serve and love in the name of Christ. They fought in the Revolutionary War and every war since. Patriots to the core. But we’ve always known our true citizenship was not of this earth. This little rock hanging in space is just a breath—a vapor. It’ll crumble one day. And I’ll go to my fathers. And my <em>Father</em>.<br> <br>The question is, while I’m part of this world, can I love someone even if I don’t agree with his or her choices? Well, God did that with <em>me</em> at every turn. He didn’t agree, or condone, but He <em>loved</em>. In fact, He loved this whole messed-up, rebellious, sinful humanity to the point of death. He loved us to the point of Jesus.<br> <br>C’mon folks, don’t buy the lie that everyone has to support everything someone does or thinks in order to love them. That makes no rational sense—in fact it’s ridiculous—unless you’re quivering under the illogical umbrella of political correctness. If you are, please knock it off. It’s annoying. Fold that thing up and put it away. Common sense is a much better choice.<br> <br>Enemy fire—so do we Christians run screaming for the caves? Of course not. Stand up! Be men! Don’t whine! God is God and if He’s real—and He is—He will have His way. What have we to fear? Let me tell you brother, there’s a Supreme Being infinitely higher than any Supreme Court. Higher than the Heavens are above the earth.<br> <br>And still He loves—beyond all imagination.<br> <br>Come home sons! Come home daughters! Your Father misses you!<br> <br>As for me, I’ll love my traditional wife—always. I’ll love my traditional kids—always. And I will love <em>all</em> those God puts in my path. Rainbow colored Facebookers and all.<br> <br>And I will serve Jesus and Jesus alone with my dying breath. And the <em>then</em> real adventure will begin…<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37459312015-06-17T15:19:36-06:002022-01-14T18:39:11-07:00Life In the Happy Ending<em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/f1243f694dbe430be9468455254bc06557686466/medium/venus-quote.png?1434575782" class="size_m justify_right border_none" alt="" />Traveler’s Tip #332</em><br><em>The world is your backyard. And you don't have to mow it.</em><br> <br> <br>“I have come," said a deep voice behind them. They turned and saw the Lion himself, so bright and real and strong that everything else began at once to look pale and shadowy compared with him.”<br>― <strong>C.S. Lewis, <em>The Silver Chair</em></strong><br> <br>“Dearest Daughter. I knew you would not be long in coming to me. Joy shall be yours.”<br>― <strong>C.S. Lewis, <em>The Horse and His Boy</em></strong><br> <br> <br>I’d planned on sharing something else this week (I’ll save it for another) but today I’m absolutely wrecked by the goodness of God and it’s all I want to talk about. I’m pinned to the ground by His relentless love. I can’t move. Over and over, just when I feel bent to the point of breaking, He <em>takes me by surprise</em>. I come—again—to the realization I’m living in the happy ending. And the story is just getting started. <br> <br>Hey, <em>world</em> – flail and falter! Spit, scratch, and scream. I am His and His alone. He is for me, where does that leave you?<br> <br>Take heart, travelers! Yes, the night is dark, but it’s also far spent. The cliffs are steep, the wind is howling, and the road is rough but the Driver’s not stressed. Lean your head back, listen to the music, and enjoy the ride. You’re gonna love the destination. <br> <br>Yup, I am wrecked with joy.<br> <br>And one day soon, face to face.<br> <br>That’s it, travelers… Yeah, that’s pretty much it.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck<br> Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37280422015-06-03T16:32:41-06:002023-12-10T09:51:02-07:00The Beautiful OrdinaryTraveler’s Tip #331<br><em>The road less traveled is narrow, winding, and mostly uphill. Take it anyway. The view’s worth it and there’s almost never any traffic.</em><br> <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/639629c5910be770848f142462011221263d36be/original/lvngrmrndy.jpg?1433370658" class="size_l justify_right border_" /><br>After a two-week tour with the remarkable Randy and Leslie Stonehill (and Nigel the unflappable and odd-looking tour dog) I find myself the sailor home from the sea. Feeling ragged but Spirit-filled. There were so many wonderful people along the way, it’s sad to see them in the rear-view mirror. What an amazing miracle, this family of God!<br> <br>Uncle Rand is living history and I love to pry stories out of him. Writing <em>Love Broke Through</em> and listening to the engineer’s pressing of Jackson Browne’s <em>For Every Man</em> with Keith Green, Moon Pies with Mark Heard, Abbey Road (enough said), Ringo Starr hitting him up for a ride after a party in London, the grumpy Scottish codger and his false directions to the concert venue (now, follow everything I told ye and you’ll be… NO WHERE NEAR IT!)<br> <br>I ask him, “Is there anyone you haven’t met or anywhere you haven’t played?”<br> <br>He says, “Did I ever tell you about that time in Outer Mongolia?”<br> <br>This is the way it works. So begins another <em>truth is stranger than fiction</em> tale about grey-out power surges, chain smoking interpreters, and an overabundance of Fanta Orange Soda. A person could put Randy in the corner instead of a TV and save a bundle on the cable bill. Great for long drives.<br> <br>On the Washington coast we stopped to visit a precious brother struggling with a debilitating disease who’s been a fan of Randy’s since the early seventies. What a blessing. Tears ran freely as Randy played and spent some time. I don’t believe anyone wanted it to be over.<br> <br>Later, back in the car, we talked again.<br> <br>Randy looked thoughtful. “You know, earlier, when we were talking about those shows at Red Rocks?”<br> <br>“Sure.” Frankly, I was a little jealous. It’s been one of my dreams to play Red Rocks ever since U2’s <em>Under a Blood Red Sky</em>.<br> <br>“Red Rocks was cool, but that living room back there? Those are the important gigs, don’t you think? The eternal ones. I think that’s the stuff that really means something in the big scheme of things.”<br> <br>Okay, maybe I feel better about never playing Red Rocks. Because I’ve known a lot of places like that living room. And he’s right of course. The concerts, all the nice people at the product table afterwards, the travel—it’s all wonderful, but the fact is God is in the beauty of the ordinary.<br> <br>I know this for a fact. I’ve seen Him in the eyes of third-world children. In the bent frames of the elderly. He’s the lover of office workers and mailmen. He contends with passion and intensity for the hearts of hookers and preachers and convicts and the guys that smoke cigarettes and hold those SLOW signs, the ones that wave at you with two fingers when there’s roadwork going on.<br> <br>Do you see yourself as ordinary? Maybe feel like you don’t mean much in the immensity of God’s plan? Think you’re just the little guy? <em>You would be wrong</em>. The thing is, you mean <em>everything</em>.<br> <br>Here’s the thing. If you or I or Mother Theresa or Richard Ramirez or the Apostle Paul had been the only residents on this bit of dust floating in space, the grand drama—the cross and empty grave, <em>the Christ story</em>—would have played out exactly as did.<br> <br><em>You</em> are worth dying for to a God Whose love and attention is limitless and infinite.<br> <br>He is God of time and universe. He is the God before whom the Kings of the earth will one day bow. He is the God that longs for <em>you, </em>thinks of <em>you</em>, every second of every day and <em>will for all eternity.</em><br> <br>He is the God of a man, broken in body but not spirit, in a small house in the trees. He holds him close and whispers wonders unimaginable of a soon home-coming where there will be no more pain. No tears, MS, or wheelchairs.<br> <br>He is the God of <em>us</em>. And there is endless belonging.<br> <br> Thank you Lord for the beautiful ordinary.<br> <br>I’m so glad to know You.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37113432015-05-20T20:31:44-06:002017-01-15T16:45:20-07:00Lord I Believe – Help My Unbelief<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/47e197ef87bcbd98e7545f97f0f8ff4c06bdf52d/medium/blindness.png?1432175465" class="size_m justify_right border_none" alt="" />Traveler’s Tip #330</strong><br><em>Blue sky, birds singing outside, water trickling… Hey, CCR - Lodi isn’t such a bad place to be stuck. </em><br> <br> <div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Jesus said to him, “If you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes.”<br>Immediately the father of the child cried out and said with tears, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”<br> Mark 9 </strong></div> <br>I started a two-week tour with Randy Stonehill last night here in Lodi, California. A sweet evening. Forgot a few words, missed a chord or three, but a sweet evening with a guy determined to finish well. Anyway, there are lovely people in Lodi and they don’t seem to mind a dropped word. This morning I’m tucked away in a single-wide trailer in some groves behind a church. Moving on up the coast tomorrow.<br> <br>I miss my family terribly.<br> <br>But Jesus is here.<br> <br>It’s been a lot of driving over the last few days. Northern Idaho to Cali. I’ve been thinking about faith. Jesus talked about faith the size of a mustard seed. Sounds easy but sometimes I think my fingers are too big to pick up something so small. Either that or mustard seeds can get crazy heavy.<br> <br>At night, when the monsters come out, I worry. Not for myself, for some reason my faith is strong there. My family though, that’s another story.<br> <br>I’m not sure why I struggle in this area. In my mind I know God is sufficient in all things. Especially love—he loves my family more than I ever can. Still, the responsibility weighs. The life of a writer on the road can be challenging. Financially, emotionally, so many ways. And I want to take care of them. Give them what they need. It can be a heavy weight. You know the one… I bet you’ve been there, too.<br> <br>“Don’t I always come through?” Jesus says.<br> <br>“Lord I believe. Help my unbelief!”<br> <br> “Have you seen miracles?”<br> <br>“Yes. Help my unbelief!”<br> <br>“Remember Rock Springs, Wyoming?”<br> <br>“Yes.”<br> <br>“Remember that time in Eastern Arizona? Nebraska? That gas station in Honduras? That night by the Galilee in Israel? Was I there then? Do I need to go on? Because I can…”<br> <br>“I wish you would…”<br> <br>“Have you ever wanted for anything?”<br> <br>I have to think about this one. But other than In-N-Out Burger when I’m not in the Southwest nothing comes to mind.<br> <br>“No.”<br> <br>“Then why do we keep having this conversation? Be still. <em>I am God</em>.”<br> <br>I know He’s there. He’s proven Himself true over and over, time after time. Then why the struggle, Buck? Why do I worry about my family? I love them so much. I want to take care of them. I want the best for them. But so does He. The difference between us? He actually <em>knows</em> what’s best.<br> <br>So this is me, Jesus. Confessing my shortcomings. Confessing my worry. Confessing my struggle and doubt and worry. I love You and I know You’re faithful. So I’ll put one foot in front of the other. With Your help I’ll drive on. I’ll trust You in the miles, the music, and the pen. I’ll trust that you’ll meet the needs. Of both my family and others I bump into along the road. I’d be blessed if You’d use me. I know You don’t need me when it comes right down to it, and if I’m honest I don’t have much to offer, but I’ll be your man.<br> <br>And I suppose that’s all He’s ever wanted.<br> <br>How about you? Do you struggle with doubt? Does that mustard seed grow bigger than the mountain it’s supposed to move? Are you the dad in Mark chapter 9 (help my unbelief…)? Welcome to the herd. Believe me, you’re not alone. We’re a curious bunch of ordinary radicals. Set apart yet human. Holy but still arm wrestling with the old man, muscles shaking.<br> <br>I’m asking Him for faith, travelers. I’m committing—again—everything and everyone that’s dear to me into His hands. Maybe you are, too. <br> <br>Anyway, thanks for talking it through with me. I feel better.<br> <br>We’re in this together. And to quote old, unflappable Hank Sr. – <em>We’ll never get out of this world alive</em>… Might as well roll down the windows and enjoy the ride.<br> <br>Take care of them please, Jesus. I need you so desperately.<br> <br>Lord, I believe… I just believe.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/37086222015-05-14T11:13:12-06:002021-11-20T04:34:10-07:00On Love and Duct Tape<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/196d361064bf8589a0d5f70faf4d44b48cef1963/large/stars.png?1431623484" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /><br> <br><strong>Traveler's Tip #329 </strong><br><em>Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier. </em>-<strong>Mother Teresa</strong><br> <br><br><strong>On Love - </strong><br> <br>There is no remedy for love but to love more.<br>-<strong>Henry David Thoreau</strong><br> <br> A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.<br>-<strong>Jesus Christ</strong><br> <br>There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love.<br>-<strong>Martin Luther King, Jr.</strong><br> <br>Faith makes all things possible... love makes all things easy.<br>-<strong>Dwight L. Moody</strong><br> <br>Love thinks no evil.<br><strong>-Apostle Paul</strong><br> <br>As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.<br>-<strong>Jesus Christ</strong><br> <br>Love hurts.<br><strong>-Joan Jett and the Blackhearts</strong><br> <br><br><strong>On Duct tape-</strong><br><br>One of the things I ask God most often is that I can hear His voice more clearly. Not what I <em>think</em> is His voice, or what I think He might say if I <em>did</em> hear Him, but to really hear His voice and heart and will.<br> <br>I’ve found this to be a dangerous prayer. Because like any good prayer, it leads places.<br> <br>Oswald Chambers talked about being so close to the heart of God that His will and our will become one. A great man, a good man, I tip my hat to him.<br> <br>I’m not Oswald - I’m the duct tape guy. One long strip, wrapped over every inch of my body.<br> <br> Jesus asks, “You want to hear me? You want to know me?”<br> <br> I say yes, although the tape over my face muffles the word.<br> <br> “Okay, then,” He says. “Let’s get <em>you</em> out of the way.”<br> <br>And so it begins. The tearing, the pulling. It hurts, sure, but that’s what love does sometimes. Little bits of me come free with every tug of the tape. Sometimes he pulls a long strip at once. I shout and complain. He smiles.<br> <br>When it’s done I stand, cold and raw, stripped of all the useless baubles I’ve collected along the trail. They seemed important at the time. They’re nothing now—bits of unrecognizable chaff and dust stuck in a big wad of used tape. And He loves me. Enough to not let anything come between us, even me. I want to be like Him, but to do that I need to <em>know</em> Him. I need to understand His character—who He was, who He is.<br> <br>Side by side through this life and into the next—tape free—here’s what I find: He’s infinitely patient. He’s kind (often when we least deserve it). He’s humble. He sees and hopes for the best in us. He’s quiet. He’s strong. The lost and broken come to Him and find a home. Children flock to Him, love Him, laugh with Him.<br> <br>He’s the tugger of tape—the remover of self. He has a soft spot for me. He has a soft spot for you.<br> <br>I pray that I can hear His voice. The answer is <em>yes</em>.<br> <br>Yeah, Joan Jett, you’re right—love hurts.<br> <br>But love is good…<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36969972015-05-06T22:23:49-06:002017-01-15T16:45:20-07:00Goodbye From Venus<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/d12b1d1b6465847b4a1a1405fe327d8caeb33cb8/large/the-miracle-man-map-3.jpg?1427212969" class="size_l justify_left border_none" alt="" />Traveler’s Tips #328</strong><br><em> If you happen to wander onto the pages of my imagination don’t worry, it’s a mostly friendly place. Be sure to stop by the Venus Motel, you never know who might drop in.</em><br> <br> <br>I’ve written more songs than I can remember. Sometimes I’m asked which is my favorite. Writers say that’s like trying to pick their favorite child. Man, apply that to me and I’d be a miserable dad. I’d have some kids I liked, some I’m indifferent about, and a few I’d make sleep out in the garage.<br> <br>But…there <em>is</em> this one song… I keep it around like loose change and guitar picks. I’m partial to it. Years ago I recorded it with good friends—we laughed a lot. And nights out playing it are great memories for me. Thinking back, nobody ever told me it was a very <em>good</em> song, at least not in the popular sense. No verse, chorus, or bridge. And I’m not convinced the words are structurally sound. Just a meandering piece of musical poetry that somehow fought its way out to the satellites and back.<br> <br>I don’t play it much, unless it’s alone in a dark room. It sounds good to me there.<br> <br><br><strong><u>Goodbye From Venus</u></strong><br>Past the edge of town,<br>Out where the world ends<br>Where the desert gives the sky<br>Nothing but silence<br>There’s an old motel<br>The sign is a shimmering Venus<br>And even though she smiles<br>Her eyes are sad<br>A husband and his wife<br>Laugh in the darkness<br>He fumbles with the key<br>She wraps her hair around her fingers<br>They walk into the room<br>By the light of the sidewalk<br>Throw the key inside the drawer<br>Next to Gideon’s Bible<br>And she says, Hey, let’s walk down by the swimming pool<br>Maybe we could have a beer while the room cools down<br>You know I really love to be with you<br>And there’s a million stars tonight…<br> <br><br>A few chords and words—it’s a love song, I guess. Maybe not in the typical sense but more in the way that says, <em>we’ve seen some things together and I can’t wait for more.</em><br> <br> Flickering blue light from the pool, the shadow of far-off mountains in the moonlight—and the one person in the world you know, without a doubt, is a gift from Heaven. This is the sweet thing. The thing I love. The thing that lasts.<br> <br>As the years passed I missed the Venus Motel so I wandered back there in my writing. I closed my eyes and watched the sunset from the pool deck. Listened to Spanish guitar float from the lounge. The place wound up playing a big part in my novel and when we knocked around cover ideas I was thrilled that the Venus finally found her way to the front of the class.<br> <br>I think of her out there, buzzing and flickering next to the great American highway while the sky tosses planets around. To me she’s always represented the broken in us. But also the watchful and the hopeful, with an eye to the horizon. She’s seen the wars, but chooses to remember the good. I’m glad she made the cover. Resurrected out of the back streets of my brain and cruising Main again. She reminds me of soft words and confidences, of holding my wife’s hand and hearing her laugh.<br> <br>Even as the sun falls, we know it’s going to circle back. We’ll be hanging at the Venus for now but soon and very soon we’ll be able to say the night is far spent and the day is at hand. Eternity stretches out before us, a bright and shining thing, farther and more wonderful than imagination or pen can tell. I can live with that. <br> <br>So if you see her out there—the Venus—waving at you from the edge of the road or from the cover of a book, pull over. Check in. Relax a while. But make sure you schedule a wake-up call for just before dawn. Meet us on the deck. After all, we’re in this thing together. And the sunrise promises to be spectacular.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36826042015-04-29T13:43:42-06:002022-01-14T18:41:49-07:00The Long Road Home and Hillary in a Headlock<strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/4f7b394f75a9030ffb660774331e3978a9aa16d1/large/rope.png?1430336506" class="size_l justify_right border_none" alt="" />Traveler’s Tip #327</strong> – <em>The road home is the longest, the last hour is the hardest, and the light in your living room window is the brightest star in the sky.</em><br> <br>Hello, fellow pilgrims. I’m happy to say with the porch light at my little farmhouse acting as North Star I’ve docked safely at Planet Storm and dropped sails for a couple weeks. The sun is shining today and the air smells like cut grass and sky. I’m going to rest for a minute.<br> <br>Not so around the world, I’m afraid. The smoke is thick out there. Buildings burning in Baltimore, Nepal shaking itself to the ground, nation rising against nation, warning shots across the bow… Damascus on the verge, Israel a cup of trembling, Russia rattling its sword… Oh, and the global war on Christians and Jews—the unvarnished truth whether it’s said out loud or not. <br> <br>And, in the midst of it all, to the delight of many and the indifference of others, the sun may quickly be setting on America’s long season as a world power.<br> <br>It’s a page-turner, friends… In fact it’s an all-time, international best seller. Hey, just wait till you get to the end.<br> <br>Yesterday’s Hillary sound bite - “Deep-seated religious beliefs must change.”<br>Oh well, she’s not the first. It’s been said that God’s word is an anvil that has worn out a lot of hammers. Sure, we can puff out our chests and shake our tiny fists but God is still God and we’re still not. Ha! I love Him!<br> <br><em>“Of every earthly plan, that is known to man, He is unconcerned.”</em> – Bob Dylan.<br> <br>Translation—God’s not up there biting His nails and checking His blood pressure, amigos.<br> <br>A conversation with Jesus plays through my brain pan:<br> <br> “What about Hillary?” I ask.<br> “What about her?”<br> “She’s irritating.”<br> He laughs and says, “<em>You’re</em> irritating.”<br> I can’t argue with that. “Could you at least take her down a few pegs?”<br> He shrugs<em>. </em>“And while she was yet a sinner I gave my life for her, just like you.”<br> “Yeah, but…”<br> “But what?”<br> “You don’t worry about everything going on?”<br> “Um… No.”<br> “I could do without the sarcasm.”<br> “I’m sure you could.”<br> “Just one peg?”<br> “Turn off talk radio, kid. Love wins.”<br> <br>So I have an idea (actually, I’m pretty sure it’s His idea). I stop whining and pray. I ask God to get old Hill in a half nelson of grace and peace and take her to the mat. Pin her with the <em>love that has no end</em> till every time she steps up to the microphone the only word on her lips is a resounding, joy-filled <em>Jesus</em>. That would be fun to see, wouldn’t it? To sing with Hillary in Heaven?<br> <br><em>Note—Westboro Baptist, tele-evangelists, and Jesus-for-Profiters please put your fingers in your ears...</em><br>Yeah, the press is bad, but hang in there you Christians! Sure, you are hated, but so was He. Real love can be offensive. Jesus told us it would be this way. But I’ve met you all over the world, even across the brick and barbwire denominational lines. I’ve broken bread with you, slept in your homes, and laughed with you. You’re certainly not perfect but you’re lovely people. You’re the first to feed the hungry or to give a cup of cold water. You’re the first to give to those who have nothing, even if you suffer for it. I’ve watched your generosity bring smiles to the faces of the broken in every forgotten corner of the world. I’ve seen you love one race without prejudice—<em>Adam’s race</em>. God’s love, through you, has been no respecter of persons. You are responsible for the vast majority of good and loving works around the planet. <br> <br>Listen, the night is far spent, the hour is at hand, and the <em>beginning is near</em>. Cling to that armor of light till your fingers bleed. Hold on to what is good. Be encouraged! You’re not alone and you never will be. Oh, the indescribable glory of the Yesterday, Today and Forever God. You are His and that knows no end.<br> <br>One day soon you will know Him even as you are known.<br> <br>Believe me, He won’t leave you hanging…<br> <br>And it’s not cheating to read the last chapter. <em>Love wins!</em><br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36727462015-04-22T23:58:06-06:002022-01-14T18:37:51-07:00A Season of Constant Unbalance<em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/49b3f658c4c8e1511473835665f4a747606b1e8e/original/notasoul.png?1427943412" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Traveler’s Tip #326 </em><br><em>If you lock your keys in your car outside of a Super Eight in Billings, Montana call Chuck at the Lock and Key. He’s a nice guy. Tell him Buck said hello. He’ll remember. </em><br> <br>I’m feeling very ragged around the edges today. If I were a flag they’d retire me. I’ve lost track of states and miles over the last couple of weeks. Now the wind is whipping across the Dakotas and I’m in a season of constant unbalance.<br> <br>Nighttime America stretches out in every direction. A black land-ocean broken only occasionally by islands of light—small towns and truck stops—hubs of activity and life. Somewhere near the Iowa/Minnesota border I filled a cup with ice to keep myself awake on the road. In line to get it I talked with a truck-driver with gold teeth and dreads who does the same. I was headed for the west coast. He was on his way to Amarillo with a half-load. A very nice guy looking forward to seeing his family. Later, at a rest stop, a businessman in a rush made sure we all heard his Bluetooth conversation. He almost tripped over a homeless girl sitting against the wall with her dog. He didn’t look down... She didn’t look up.<br> <br>The woman cleaning the bathroom. The family taking pictures with the eighty-foot, concrete dinosaur. The guy at the counter with tobacco stains that stop at the end of his beard and pick up again on his T-shirt. The man in the Cadillac Escalade with a bronze statue of a racehorse bolted to the hood. So many people—so many stories. Hundreds, thousands, millions. And God—the Beautiful Reality—deeply invested in every single one, be they prodigal or pilgrim. <br> <br>Fortified with huge sodas and Slim Jims and trail mix we hoist our sails and ease out of the gasoline harbor back onto the terrestrial sea. We slip out into the dark and once again become nameless, faceless pairs of headlights. Out there with nothing but the broken white line I find lots of time to think. I pray, I talk, I listen. Sometimes He answers in short order. Little miracles breathed in a quiet voice or popping up on the cell phone screen. Then there are the tough prayers. The thorns in the flesh that grow bigger and more painful with every mile marker.<br> <br>I have one particular thorn I’m wrestling with right now. I have deep conversations with the Lord about it. He smiles and puts His arms around me. He drops blessings around me like apples off a tree. I say thanks—but the thorn’s still there. I can think of lots of ways for Him to fix the thing and believe me I’m never shy about pointing them out. Still, nothing. Once in a while I decide I’ll kick open a door or two and yank the thorn out myself. He closes them again with a gentle hand.<br> <br>“Why?” I say.<br>“Because My grace is sufficient,” He answers. “My grace. My love. My favor.”<br> <br>And so it goes till everything fades and one truth remains—He’s right. Nothing, real or imagined, is as sufficient as His grace—even a prayer answered the way I’d like it to be.<br> <br>A hundred years will pass. Then a million. A billion years. Billions of billions. The stars that pepper my windshield tonight will fade and die. He’ll say, “Watch this,” and laugh new ones into existence. I’ll be with Him at every turn. This thorn? What is it to me? I’m a child of the King.<br> <br>And so it’s a season of constant unbalance and that’s just fine. In my weakness He is made strong. Just the way it should be. My Friend will drive now and I’ll rest in the dashboard lights.<br> <br>Fair winds all you terrestrial sailors,<br> <br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36616672015-04-16T13:33:11-06:002017-01-15T16:45:19-07:00The Problem With Pockets<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/849b408593cba6ff9100ebd4cc5b8501b7021e28/original/campfire2.png?1428767415" class="size_l justify_center border_" />It’s been lots of states over a couple days and I’m feeling pretty spongy. Today I’m in a hotel in Lincoln, Nebraska. Playing here in town tonight. I’m looking forward to the people and time with Jesus. <br>Last night in Omaha was great. Had some old friends drive a long away for the concert and it was wonderful to see them. I love the family of God. We come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. We speak different languages. We wear different clothes. We worship in all kinds of ways. And yet, there’s such a joy of community with Jesus in the center. Jesus said the world would know we were His by our love for one another. I’m happy to be a part of that. I pray we’ll live up to it.<br> <br>Over the last one million seventy-three miles I’ve driven in the last two days, I’ve been thinking about pockets. I’m emptying mine. Too many things shoved down in there that I don’t need. The old wounds and hard memories. Big things. Heavy things. After a while it gets hard to walk. Those tough, bitter stones that sink us straight to the bottom of our self-created hell. Have you been shot at? Maybe you knocked out the windowpane with the butt of your rifle and shot back? Have you been kicked into the dust then kicked some more? It happens in this imperfect world filled with imperfect people. Jesus said we’d catch a roundhouse once in a while. Sometimes we see the punch coming while our hands are tied behind our backs. It gets so frustrating. Then we have to decide what to do with the pain. God’s answer is simple—give it to Him. Lay it at the foot of the cross. Hey, Buck, drop the pistol.<br> <br>Here I am. Emptying my big pockets of hard lumps of black. Some of them handled so often they’ve worn to a shine. There’s a great Bob Dylan line—<em>Surrender your crown on this blood stained ground, and take off your mask. He sees your deeds, and He knows your needs even before you ask.</em> I’m no mystery to God. I’m transparent as glass. There’s a great freedom in that. I’ll just come with all of it, turn my pockets out and ask Him to take all the trash. I’m tired.<br> <br>I imagine a face to face with Jesus. I’d plead my case. Show Him the bruises. Talk about all the miles and dreams and dust. The churches and the bars and the broken. Man, it would be a long story. I know He <em>could</em> tell me to get over myself. Talk about His own very real suffering. But that’s not the Father’s heart. In the end I think He’d simply smile and say, “I love you. Be born again.” He has a way of getting straight to the heart of the matter.<br> <br>Let me be free. Let me be clean. Let every day be the end of me—the beginning of Him. <br> <br>So I’m emptying my pockets of all the stones I’ve collected along the road. And I’m filling those same pockets up again to overflowing with the limitless love of God.<br> <br>And here’s the incredible part—Love doesn’t weigh anything.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck<br> Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36600412015-04-15T15:05:02-06:002015-04-15T15:05:02-06:00Traveler's Tip #325If you're walking into a roadside rest area in Iowa and a maintenance lady with a mop says, "Be careful in there," if you say, "Why, are there tigers?" you'll have a new best friend.Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36484512015-04-08T18:37:16-06:002017-01-15T16:45:19-07:00Betting On the Global Bar Fight<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/f6c24d8bc216e15f75852541edd55154f018e784/original/postcard-sunset.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Traveler’s tip #324<br><em>If you’re vacationing in the Islamic Caliphate, it might be fun to take along a stack of Coexist bumper stickers to hand out to the guys for their military vehicles. </em><br> <br> <br>Jesus said, “When you see these things beginning to take place, look up. Your redemption draws nigh.” Is your neck getting stiff? Man, mine is.<br> <br>It’s a whirlwind out there. So many things twisting with such insane abandon it must be spiritual. Brothers and sisters are being tortured and killed around the globe everyday for nothing more than having the audacity to take the hand of the God of Love. To bake or not to bake?—Make it stop! Deals being struck. Deals not being struck. Donkeys and elephants shaking their fists at one another. On and on it goes… A global bar fight, and the blood of sinner and saint alike is soaking into the sawdust on the floor.<br> <br>And here I am, like many of you, spinning through space with the dust and stars and tumbleweeds and bits of trash. I find myself looking for ways to hedge my bets against the spiritual and political climate of the day. I wrack my brain for some way to build a razor wire fence around everything I love and believe. Just like the seekers at Mars Hill in Apostle Paul’s day, I grope in the darkness for an answer that’s right beside me, loving me, whispering out of the wind.<br> <br>The most unpopular answer of all—Jesus. God of Love, wild and free.<br> <br>Why? Because He’s the lover of the lost. He’s the radical. He’s political poison. He’s the crusher of walls. He rejoices over the prodigal’s return. He is LOVE without cost. He is gentle and just. He’s the friend of hookers and children and addicts and the I.R.S.<br> <br>I’m in no position to judge anyone. That’s already happened and men are found wanting. Inflicting my vision of morality on a fallen world is pointless. Winning the debate makes me nothing but right. Who cares about that? But there <em>is</em> something I can offer. Just like Paul, I can bring the stripped down, simple message that offers hope and peace and light and life. I can say—<em>Come home! Your Father misses you!</em> I can show them Jesus. Be they rich or poor, gay or straight, tele-evangelist or talk show host, king, common man, or lice-ridden child on a Honduran street. I can show them love. And <em>that’s</em> something worthwhile. <br> <br>President Obama needs Jesus.<br>Congress needs Jesus.<br>Billy Graham needs Jesus.<br>Jews and Palestinians need Jesus.<br>Donkeys and elephants need Jesus.<br>Bakers and buyers need Jesus.<br>The ACLU needs Jesus.<br>The ACLJ needs Jesus.<br>I need Jesus.<br>You need Jesus.<br> <br>If He is the answer then there’s no more fight. And He will be. When the final punch gets thrown to clear the floor… His love… is a bottomless ocean.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36361062015-04-01T11:26:38-06:002022-07-25T15:42:13-06:00G.K Chesterton, Drunk Truckers, and a Couple of Churches<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/91752/e448b3a04279a947a87b6009ca214f3f9a245bcb/original/old-church.jpg?1427909350" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Traveler’s Tip #323 <br><em>If you find yourself in Montana, make it a point to visit Ovando, population 94. Such wonderful people! But, if you’re playing in the log church on the hill there, try not to continually say Or-vando. This is the west, and most people are armed. Thankfully, they’re too polite to shoot.</em><br><em>What a great Sunday in Ovando! Hope to come back and I promise not to add an R.</em><br> <br> <br>I drove through a tiny town in Idaho recently. A pretty place with a short main street, a scattering of houses, obligatory log tavern, a town library in a single-wide trailer—these are the places I love. At the end of Main Street there were two old churches, almost identical, right across the street from each other. So close they could have thrown open the stained glass and had a spitball fight. It brought to mind the old joke about the lone castaway on the desert island with his three huts—his house, his church, and the church he used to go to.<br> <br>I wonder about us Christians sometimes and our churchianity chest thumping. We love our doctrine and—be it conservative or liberal or cautiously in between—we’re proud of it. We talk about it, teach it, arm-wrestle over it, write thick, important books about it so we can teach it some more…<br> <br>The problem is you and I can have doctrine in common but if we don’t have <em>Jesus</em> in common we’re just wind banging a loose shutter against the house. We’re a general annoyance with nothing real to offer. I’m not just talking about the <em>idea</em> of Jesus—the historical, print Jesus—as wonderful and important as the Christ story is. I mean the <em>reason-to-get-out-of-bed-in-the-morning</em> Jesus. The one who gives us breath <em>today</em>. The one who walks with us and guides us on the minute-by-minute, second-by-second paths of our lives. The Love that rescues us from the storm and calls us friend. Doctrine without that Love exemplified as its foundation is nothing but a scattering of dead leaves. Worthless and forgettable.<br> <br>I wonder which of those two churches Jesus would walk into? Both most likely. Because both would be filled with the beautiful and broken. And afterward He’d be down at the tavern chatting with G.K Chesterton and C.S. Lewis and other thinkers with initials for first names. He’d most certainly be hanging with the prostitute and the drunk trucker over in the corner by the Coors sign. He’d find me, and you, and offer us hope from our helpless posturing.<br> <br>Oh the infinite love of Jesus! A bottomless ocean. A shoreless sea.<br> <br>I guess if you need me I’ll be down at the tavern too. You know what? Maybe we could unload the guns, kick down the church walls, and all meet there. It’s easy to find. Just across the street from the hardware store. I’d love to ask C.S. a couple things. Who knows, maybe J.K Rowling and J.D. Salinger will show up. We could call the prostitute and the trucker over and watch the things of earth grow strangely dim in the light of God’s glory and grace. Let’s put the inescapable love of the resurrected Jesus in the middle of our lives and see where the conversation goes…<br> <br>See you there. I for one could stand to learn a few things.<br> <br>Fair winds,<br>Buck Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/36070922015-03-17T10:39:41-06:002022-05-31T05:35:40-06:00The Happy Ignorance of Being Thirty-nineteen When I was seventeen I was a genius. A serious, going-to-change the world type of genius. So I did what every red-blooded Arizona border town kid does—packed up my guitar and headed for NYC to play music on the streets. <br> See? Genius.<br> I limped back home some months later with a smashed hand and about thirty pounds lighter.<br> By then I’d turned eighteen… still a genius.<br> Funny, now I’m thirty-nineteen and I don’t know anything. The God of my youth I graciously invited along on my life-adventures has proved himself in these middle years a great and wonderful mystery. I’ve seen Him do amazing things. Miracles really. I’ve tagged along as He’s reached out and touched the broken, stoned, poor, wealthy, and arrogant. From prisons to castles He’s taught me He’s no respecter of persons, but loves equally and completely. His love crosses every nationality, border, and sin. Even mine. Even yours.<br> I don’t want to change the world anymore. Just allow myself to be changed. To tag along and be a blessing to the <em>one</em>, not the masses. To reach out and take the hand of the Father Who offers me breath. He pats me on the head and says, “Okay. Now watch <em>Me</em> change the world. Starting with you.”<br> That’s fine with me.<br> Being a genius is exhausting.<br> <br>Fair winds!<br>Buck Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/32288082014-10-10T14:26:23-06:002015-03-17T14:55:53-06:00The ConversationSo there was this guy named Ray…
<br>
<br>Traveler’s Tip # 322: If you find yourself in an Irish pub, or a breakfast hole in the middle of Montana—or anywhere in the world come to think of it—and a trucker or cowboy or farmer or tractor mechanic says, “So there was this guy named Ray,” there’s a 60/40 chance it’s going to be a good story.
<br>
<br> Let’s see where this one lands. Roll the dice. Could go either way.
<br>
<br> Ray never showed much emotion. In fact in the weeks, months, years I knew him—every Thursday at the retirement center—I’ll bet I could have counted his smiles on one hand. Even so, he’d be the first guy in our little Bible study to show up and often the last to leave. Ray self-appointed himself Official Chair Setter Upper, and it helped so I didn’t argue. After his weekly chore he’d plant his long, thin frame in the furthest back corner, cross his arms and watch. Frankly, he was a book whose cover I judged at first sight. I titled it Grumpy Old Man.
<br> It may have been a month or more when I heard Ray speak for the first time. We were alone in the room and he stood there for a long moment. I thought he might chew me out for something. Then he said, “It started when I was thirteen.”
<br> To this day I consider that one of the greatest conversation openers ever (I’ve tried it myself a few times but never as successfully as Ray).
<br> “What started?” When someone hits you with a statement like that it leaves no wiggle room for the curious mind.
<br> “The conversation,” he said.
<br> He had me. “What conversation?”
<br> At that point I noticed—and it surprised me very much—stoic Ray had tears in his eyes. He explained he’d grown up very poor in Southern Idaho before and during America’s Great Depression. A more innocent and terrible time. Steinbeck’s America. The beginning of Ray’s thirteenth summer his dad stood him next to the road in front of their farmhouse and pointed east. A hundred miles down that road was another farm, and they were expecting Ray to report for three-month field hand duty in a few days. So, the thirteen year-old kid fast-tracking to manhood took a backpack of food, a jug of water, got on his bicycle and started pedaling. His dad didn’t wave.
<br> And the conversation began. Under that bright Idaho sky Ray started talking to God. The first hundred miles of an infinite journey.
<br> “We started talking that day and we never stopped. The conversation just goes on.”
<br> Ray was quiet. He didn’t give much away in the feelings department. But I came to know Ray as a man deeply in love with his Lord. And Ray’s quietness taught me more than a thousand sermons. Ray wasn’t grumpy. He wasn’t lonely. He was simply content with the companionship of his Maker. He had no interest in the opinions of men.
<br> The Apostle Paul suggested unceasing prayer. His conversation started on a road like Ray’s.
<br> Enoch walked with God then, one breath to the next, took in the air of a Sweeter Country.
<br> I haven’t seen Ray for some years but I think of him often. I wonder what air he breathes now? Either way, one thing I know—the conversation continues. And it will long after the stars in that Idaho sky are but a distant memory.
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<br>Happy peddling,
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<br>Buck
<br>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/32187932014-10-05T18:07:41-06:002014-10-06T01:29:56-06:00The Second Most Beautiful Thing There are many kinds of sunsets. In fact, if you think about it, there’s one happening every second of every day somewhere in the world. Old Man Sun eases his body down on jungles, plains, and mountains. He sinks, hissing into rivers, and casts his fading gold over the summer children who laugh and splash in the shallows. He bounces off sheets of ice and sets oceans on fire. The sun dies a hundred, a thousand, a million deaths a day—yet remains a grand and eternally optimistic Romeo, offering his dying breath to lovers and poets around the globe. <br>What kind of God puts a thing like this into motion? What kind of God imagines a star and it is—it becomes? Who can speak universes into existence? Fill the skies with wonder simply for His good pleasure? <br> He is wild and holy. Painting unending sunsets with His fingertips and soaring far above the pumping tiny fists of men who demand He request their permission to exist.<br> No, God is free. Free from my will—and your will.<br> He is the unshackled Great I Am.<br>And so we gather, those of us who call ourselves Christians. We discuss and bat around spiritual ideas and concepts. We listen to long diatribes from men in the know as they explain to us the detailed thought, will, and character of the One who gives us breath. We stuff these ideas comfortably into boxes and get on with life. We’re ants in a hole beneath a Nebraska barn confidently describing to each other the details of New York City.<br> I love the holy and free God. He takes me to my knees. I don’t understand Him. <br> He commands the heavens and He helps me find my car keys.<br> He’s spilling His colors across the Idaho sky at the moment--the second most beautiful thing.<br> Right behind the Artist.<br> <br> Fair winds,<br> Buck Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/22287732013-12-13T15:21:26-07:002013-12-13T15:52:52-07:00Immediate God If God is God it stands to reason that I'm <em>not</em> God. I'm glad I'm not God. You should be glad I'm not God. I'm finding in Him a love that I can't begin to understand let alone imitate. He's present and immediate in our lives should we choose to seek Him. I choose to. I have to. I need to. I'm in thankful mode today, watching miracles drop around me like apples off a tree. <br><br>Walking with my Friend,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/19435432013-10-25T06:36:01-06:002023-12-10T09:43:49-07:00Tips for the Traveler Traveler's Tip #321: If you're in the Twin Cities, on the St Paul side, don't ever EVER say that you're enjoying the Minneapolis area. <br>
Traveler's Tip #322: If you in fact blunder into #321, you can diffuse the situation by pumping your fist and shouting GO VIKINGS! Then, no matter which area you're in someone will give you a hug.Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/16171892013-09-13T06:51:44-06:002013-09-13T06:51:44-06:00BoxesI'm seeing more and more clearly that we moderns, especially westerners, have become very good at shoving everything into our own particular and comfortable boxes. We have work boxes, play boxes, family boxes, friend boxes, faith boxes... This isn't the way we were created, but the way we've become. Our one purpose on this planet is communion with God. This single fact splinters to bits any box we can build. Worship is why we're here. We can no more compartmentalize worship and communion with the One who allows us our next heartbeat than we can breathing air. Boxes aren't freedom, they're a grey-walled prison cell. I'm getting out the crowbar and sledgehammer. Let a little light in. That first swing feels pretty good.<br><br>
Peace in Jesus,<br>
Buck<br><br><br type="_moz">Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/16077082013-09-12T08:30:43-06:002013-09-12T08:30:43-06:00Orange MoonIt's always a strange feeling to take a song, birthed in some dark, quiet and often very private place, and drag it out into the light of day, in front of a room full of people. Just the fact that this can happen, and to see an audience respond on a real level, is a miracle to me. I've been answering emails this morning from very nice and sometimes broken people who were moved last night by some of the words and rememberances of this journey. So encouraging. It reminds me that we're all in this together. We aren't alone, and fellowship and love for one another is such an important part of this brief experience we call life (I imagine our definition will alter drastically when we one day step into that better country!).<br><br>
A huge, orange, moon followed us home--at least last night's home. It tracked it's way across the Seattle cityscape, at one point cutting the Space Needle in half. Magical and beautiful. I couldn't help but think that even that was a small gift from the Lord. "Courage son!" He says. "You will never be left or forsaken."<br><br>
Thank you Lord for the gifts you give to men.<br><br>
Tonight we'll do it again.<br><br>
Peace!<br><br>
Buck<br type="_moz">Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/15607452013-09-06T06:56:07-06:002022-05-26T00:52:44-06:00White Knuckles “Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.” <br>
- Winston Churchill<br><br>
"The Miracle Man" is in the second layer of editing, all active verbage and syntax correct hopefully. Getting closer to the time someone might actually read this thing. Oh boy...<br type="_moz">Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/22224832013-09-05T14:20:43-06:002013-12-12T18:19:49-07:00MiraclesSo the wifi at Starbucks is out. Don't worry, it'll be up tomorrow... Tomorrow I'll be two hundred miles south of here. Oh well, Staples parking lot has internet so it all works out--and the sun's coming out in West Seattle. Had a wonderful time at Calvary Chapel Paulsbo last night, followed by a midnight ferry run from the island into downtown Seattle. We were the first car on the boat so the view spread out before us unhindered. Just awesome. I'm continually blown away by small daily miracles. Many who read this will be unbelievers or on the the fence. For me, these days, there's simply no denying the reality of God in my life. It's just a minute by minute walk, skin to skin with Jesus. I'm just blown away. First night last night of two weeks on the road with Randy Stonehill. It all came back pretty well. I felt the Holy Spirit in every note. There's also talk of an original Buck Storm Band reunion concert in Santa Barbara. All the guys! What a blast that would be. Tomorrow night in Salem (temporary home of Ransom Storm) then on again. Thank you Jesus for loving and using the unlovely.<br><br>Strength on the Journey,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/15538842013-09-05T10:20:43-06:002013-09-05T10:20:43-06:00MiraclesSo the wifi at Starbucks is out. Don't worry, it'll be up tomorrow... Tomorrow I'll be two hundred miles south of here. Oh well, Staples parking lot has internet so it all works out--and the sun's coming out in West Seattle. Had a wonderful time at Calvary Chapel Paulsbo last night, followed by a midnight ferry run from the island into downtown Seattle. We were the first car on the boat so the view spread out before us unhindered. Just awesome. I'm continually blown away by small daily miracles. Many who read this will be unbelievers or on the the fence. For me, these days, there's simply no denying the reality of God in my life. It's just a minute by minute walk, skin to skin with Jesus. I'm just blown away. First night last night of two weeks on the road with Randy Stonehill. It all came back pretty well. I felt the Holy Spirit in every note. There's also talk of an original Buck Storm Band reunion concert in Santa Barbara. All the guys! What a blast that would be. Tomorrow night in Salem (temporary home of Ransom Storm) then on again. Thank you Jesus for loving and using the unlovely.<br><br>Strength on the Journey,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/12984422013-07-30T19:54:33-06:002023-12-10T09:47:02-07:00Schedule mistake!!Hey everyone,<br>Sorry about the schedule mistake on facebook. I won't be at Calvary Mountlake Terrace this Saturday, but I'll be there with Wayne Taylor and Randy Stonehill Wed. Sept.11th.<br><br>Blessings!Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/12014392013-07-16T07:09:31-06:002023-12-10T09:32:37-07:00Wiping Cairo From My eyesThis is a thank you. So many have written and sent such encouraging words. For those that have asked me to please continue this blog, well, it's time to get back on the horse. Let me say this; The devil throws a lot of dirty splitters and curve balls. You've seen them. This time he brought a ninety-nine MPH fastball high and inside. No kidding - straight to the head. I'll admit it's taken me a few weeks to pull myself up out of the dust and pick up the bat again. But I'm stepping back in the box, no small thanks to all of you. After taking a reading, I find the sun is shining, my wife is beautiful, and my kids are standing tall and strong before the throne. God is God and that's enough for me. So - I'm wiping Cairo from my eyes. The breath of morning paints the sky... And, in the words of old Townes, "I got two legs". They're back under me and I'm headed onward and always upward leaving the ghosts and ruins behind. Truth shines. Thank you Jesus. Blessings and thanks to all who've joined me on the continued journey.<br><br>Goodness and Mercy!<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/9161812013-06-11T04:11:39-06:002021-11-20T04:30:59-07:00Guitars and Thumb Wars<br>Little children, keep yourselves from idols. Amen. 1 John 5:21<br><br>The apostle John closes his incredible New Testament letter about of love, salvation and assurance with this seemingly out of place and random thought: “Keep yourselves from idols.” God doesn’t act randomly. For me, the placement of this instruction causes it to stand out as a wonderful, stark reminder for people like me that can be so easily distracted and wander off the narrow path. John reminds us - God will share His glory with no man or thing.<br><br>Two major events happened in my life the year I turned nine. I was born again, and I got my first guitar. It seems like the two things have wrestled ever since. Sometimes it’s been an all out brawl and sometimes just a thumb war but a battle none the less. The good news is that after a lot of years, a lot of miles, and a lot of lessons, I think the fight’s finally winding down. The problem for me has always been learning to give everything I have or am to the Lord. Art is one thing that I’ve had a hard time letting go of.<br><br>I got the guitar on Christmas Eve. I learned three chords on Christmas Day. I wrote my first song before the New Year came. It was one verse long and filled with all the angst of a nine year old boy trying to deal with fights, separation, rumors of divorce and a living situation that involved bouncing around between relatives. I still remember every word and the hope I felt that I had found a voice people would listen to. I know that guitar, the music and the writing were gifts from the Lord. I’m filled with gratitude for the life He’s given me but, as happens with so many of us, I’ve often found myself worshiping the gift rather than the Giver.<br>You see, it’s not enough to worship God, we need to worship only God. Then all the good gifts that come to us from Heaven can shine as the beautiful things they’re intended to be; for His glory, not ours.<br><br><br>Little children, keep yourselves from idols. Amen.<br><br>Strength on the Journey!<br><br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/7962312013-05-22T09:47:17-06:002013-05-22T09:47:17-06:00A Note to Bus DriversLess of Me in the Monitor Please - <br><br> There’s a simple and obvious truth in this universe that (being thick-headed) it took me years to realize. Are you ready? <br>“God is God, and I’m not God.” <br>Amazing. It seems straight forward enough, but many of us go through our whole lives without figuring it out. We have to drive the bus, knuckles white on the wheel, and oh - without any help, please. Now, I don’t actually know how to drive the bus, what the pedals do, how to shift, and yes, the bus crashes a lot, but most of the time that’s because all the other buses get in the way. Ok, maybe not, but then again there’s probably at least little truth there. After all, it’s a big world full of bus drivers, and they’re all just pretty much just as selfish, white-knuckled and wide-eyed as I am. <br> Worship is surrendering the wheel. You see, we’ll always worship the driver, and if I’m him well, I’ve been him and it’s not pretty. I don’t want to drive anymore.<br><br> God is God, I’m not God. Consider the words of the Lord in the Old Testament Book of Job;<br><br>Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said: <br>“Who is this who darkens counsel, By words without knowledge? <br>Now prepare yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer Me.<br> “ Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?<br> Tell Me, if you have understanding.<br><br> Man, this verse should be a roadside sign for all of us stubborn bus drivers. The call to worship is the call to surrender. Let go of the wheel and let your Father drive. It’s a much smoother ride.<br><br>Lord, I want to fall asleep by the dashboard lights!<br><br>Peace on the Journey,<br>Buck<br><br>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/7962302013-05-22T09:47:17-06:002021-11-18T17:32:10-07:00A Note to Bus DriversLess of Me in the Monitor Please<br><br> There’s a simple and obvious truth in this universe that (being thick-headed) it took me years to realize. Are you ready? <br>“God is God, and I’m not God.” <br>Amazing. It seems straight forward enough, but many of us go through our whole lives without figuring it out. We have to drive the bus, knuckles white on the wheel, and oh - without any help, please. Now, I don’t actually know how to drive the bus, what the pedals do, how to shift, and yes, the bus crashes a lot, but most of the time that’s because all the other buses get in the way. Ok, maybe not, but then again there’s probably at least little truth there. After all, it’s a big world full of bus drivers, and they’re all just pretty much just as selfish, white-knuckled and wide-eyed as I am. <br> Worship is surrendering the wheel. You see, we’ll always worship the driver, and if I’m him well, I’ve been him and it’s not pretty. I don’t want to drive anymore.<br><br> God is God, I’m not God. Consider the words of the Lord in the Old Testament Book of Job;<br><br>Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said: <br>“Who is this who darkens counsel, By words without knowledge? <br>Now prepare yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer Me.<br> “ Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?<br> Tell Me, if you have understanding.<br><br> Man, this verse should be a roadside sign for all of us stubborn bus drivers. The call to worship is the call to surrender. Let go of the wheel and let your Father drive. It’s a much smoother ride.<br><br>Lord, I want to fall asleep by the dashboard lights!<br><br>Peace on the Journey,<br>Buck<br><br>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/7573582013-05-16T08:24:15-06:002013-05-16T08:24:15-06:00Why Worship?Worship in the Hebrew language means to “bow down.” Do you remember the day that Jesus crashed into your life? Somehow, somewhere you heard the Gospel, the Good News! What glorious news! As a sinner, you recognized your desperate need for a savior and cried, “Jesus I surrender”! The surrendered life, what a wonderful thing! We live now as born again believers. We operate in a constant state of surrender and gratitude, knowing that even though we deserve hell, we have become, through the cross, the righteousness of God in Christ Jesus. As we gather together, our worship, our singing and praise, flows out of this revelation, this surrendered life. We “bow down”. <br>David directs us to, “Give unto the LORD the glory due unto his name; worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness” (Psalm 29:2). Jesus said that God is pleased with our worship and seeks those who will “worship Him in Spirit and Truth.” (John 4:23-24) This is the high calling of every believer.<br>Oh what a wonderful thing to be Children of the Living God! Let us come before the Lord with joy and gratitude for the mercy we’ve been shown and the grace by which we’re saved. <br>Live in peace Christians, you have been set free! Sing with abandon. Surrender, worship, “bow down.” Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/7408992013-05-14T10:26:36-06:002021-11-20T04:32:49-07:00More thoughts on worshipChronicles 6:11-13<br>And it came to pass when the priests came out of the Most Holy Place, and the Levites who were the singers, all those of Asaph and Heman and Jeduthun, with their sons and their brethren, stood at the east end of the altar, clothed in white linen, having cymbals, stringed instruments and harps, and with them one hundred and twenty priests sounding with trumpets— indeed it came to pass, when the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising and thanking the LORD, and when they lifted up their voice with the trumpets and cymbals and instruments of music, and praised the LORD, saying: “For He is good, For His mercy endures forever,” that the house, the house of the LORD, was filled with a cloud, so that the priests could not continue ministering because of the cloud; for the glory of the LORD filled the house of God. <br><br>Are you one of those people who just see a drum set on a church stage and thinks the music’s to loud? You know who you are. Sometimes you write complaint notes on the back of a tithe envelope and drop them in the offering plate. That’ll teach them. One of these days you might even sign your name if the sound guy doesn’t get a clue. Let me ask you - what would you do if one Sunday morning, along with the guitars and drums (see cymbals), a hundred and twenty trumpets took the stage? Talk about a serious horn section!<br><br>The event we read about in the passage above was no “get it over with so we can hear the sermon and go to lunch” kind of worship service. This was the real deal. What would it be like if we could get over our pride and self absorption, our fear and our shyness, and worship the way that we’re called to? What if we gathered together in fellowship, singers and musicians as one, and proclaimed, in one accord, that we serve a loving God? He is good! His mercy endures forever! <br>One day we’ll stand in His presence and all creation will thunder with rejoicing and adoration of the King of Kings. What a day that’ll be.<br><br>You know what? Why wait? Lets start now.<br><br>Peace in Jesus everyone,<br>Buck<br>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/7087092013-05-09T08:01:17-06:002022-05-24T02:27:26-06:00Thoughts on WorishpBecause Your lovingkindness is better that life, My lips shall praise You. Thus will I bless You while I live; I will lift up my hands in Your name.<br>It’s tempting for a worship leader to try to gage the effectiveness of his or her leading by the physical reaction of the congregation. I catch myself doing this from time to time. A friend of mine wrote the line, “Teach me to lift up my hands, and to surrender my all.” When sing it I often can’t help cracking an eye open to see if anyone is actually doing it. The thing is, worship is a matter of the heart, and people worship in different ways. My wife for instance, who is one of the most sincere lovers of God that I know and truly blessed with the gift of faith, loves to worship but I don’t often see her raise her hands or do any other thing that’s too outwardly demonstrative in a corporate worship service. For her, worship is a quiet, personal time between she and the Lord. I know this because every time I ask how she thought the worship service went (which really means, “How do you think I did today?”) she says, “I don’t know, I was worshiping” (which really means, “I was worshiping, what were you doing?”). <br>One of the most valuable lessons a worship leader can learn is that he isn’t the worship leader at all, the Holy Spirit is. God deals with individuals individually, and we need to give Him room. I always find it uncomfortable to be in a service where the singer is acting as more of a cheerleader than a worshiper. If I’m pressed over and over from the stage to lift my hands or clap or put my right foot in or take my left foot out and shake it all about, my focus isn’t any longer on Jesus but just on how annoyed and uncomfortable I’m getting. <br>Personally, sometimes I can’t help but raise my hands, and sometimes I just want to bow my head and quietly focus on Jesus. Oh beautiful grace! How wonderful to be free in the Lord.<br>So lift your hands…or don’t….clap, dance, quietly bow your head….or don’t ….but do this, give your whole heart, rest in His love, worship. <br>Be abandoned to the God that saves us!<br>Buck<br>Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/6083402013-04-25T06:57:31-06:002013-04-25T06:57:31-06:00John Prine, Angels from Montgomery, and a Hard Caribbean RainI’m remembering a trip I took to Central America a few years back. We’d had a long, through-the-night flight followed by a white-knuckle, prayer of re-dedication-inspiring, van ride through Honduras to a little town on the Caribbean coast. We checked into our rooms, which were in an old wooden building sitting up on stilts (it’s hurricane country there). I was wired from travel, or maybe too tired to sleep. I took my guitar out on the porch and sat on a deck chair next to an ashtray filled with some previous guest’s cigarette butts. I sat there for a long time that night, listening to the ocean and picking John Prine songs (I was in a John Prine mood I guess – it happens). I can’t put my finger on when, but at some point it started to rain. It had to have started lightly at first because I really didn’t notice it, but the God really hit the throttle. I’ve never seen rain like that. The place had a tin roof and it just pounded like thunder. You know, as I played those songs from my childhood, and listened to the rain, I remember feeling so close to Jesus, almost overwhelmed. I worshiped in my heart. “Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.” Not necessarily doctrinally correct but I understood the sentiment. Somehow that night stands out to me as one of the great worship experiences of my memory.<br>I wasn’t singing hymns. I wasn’t singing worship songs. There was no sound system, mood lighting, or beautiful cathedral - just Jesus, John Prine… and me. And Jesus called me “friend.” <br>So what is worship? Worship is fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. We recognize our need. We surrender to Jesus, and through His blood we’re reconciled to God, and have fellowship with Him every hour and every minute of our lives, and then it gets even better - Heaven! Through this journey we call life we have a Great Companion. We have a Friend. <br><br>Jesus, precious Savior gentle and true, may we worship You every second of every day.<br><br>Please be with John Prine.<br><br>Grace and Peace in Jesus to you all. Be abandoned to God!<br><br>Buck Storm – signing offBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/4624762013-04-03T07:11:31-06:002022-03-03T00:26:25-07:00New MexicoJust home from several days in the Southwest, crisscrossing Indian reservations, deserts and farms. In southern New Mexico we passed a rural corner with and old adobe Catholic shrine. There were some benches around it. They looked well worn. I wonder if grace has ever touched those bricks? I hope so. Directly across the street was the Manhattan Bar. Hey, we all worship someplace, this is America.<br><br>In the scrub oak of southern New Mexico<br>There’s a shrine on a corner where the faithful go<br>Manhattan Bar just across the street<br>When the praying’s done that’s where the faithful meet<br>The sun flutters down on angel’s wings<br>They dance all night to the Rio Kings<br><br>Maybe?<br><br>Goodness and Mercy,<br>BuckBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/3773692013-03-16T16:43:16-06:002013-03-16T16:43:16-06:00Honduran MoonIt's been the Storm family's great and incredible blessing to sponsor Henry Edguardo Ramos Lopez, a giant in the Kingdom of God, through Compassion International. <br><br>I was in Gracias, Honduras, in 2006 and was able to spend the day with Henry and his mother. There've been some miles since then but I'll never forget it. A fellow traveler woke me, knocking on my hotel room door so early in the morning it seemed like the middle of the night, and told me that Henry and his mother were in the hotel restaurant waiting for me. I threw some water on my face, put some clothes on and headed down. I recognized Henry right away. He'd obviously taken a little more time getting ready than I had. He was dressed in his best (and only) white dress shirt and pressed blue pants. His hair was slicked and his face was scrubbed and shining. I felt like a slob next to his handsomeness! I had no problem picking him out of the crowd. He had a picture of my family in his hand and was studying first it, and then the face of every stranger that walked by, hoping it would be me. I was humbled.<br><br>What a day that was! I bought him everything in sight but I don't think he even noticed. He just held my hand and stared at me the whole time. When it was time to go he set down his new soccer ball and held me and cried. I cried too.<br><br>Henry Edguardo Ramos Lopez prays for me beneath a Honduran moon. How loud must his voice ring through the halls of heaven! Lord I am blessed.<br><br>Search your heart. Pray. I hope you'll sponsor a child. It will be the biggest event in his or her life, but even more than that, it will change yours forever.<br><br>Please join Henry and me. We're changing the world! Click the COMPASSION button on the home page. www.buckstorm.comBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/3753642013-03-15T16:22:43-06:002013-03-15T16:22:43-06:00Pack of LiesJust recorded this one and I kind of like it. Look for it on the revised and expanded "Breath of God" CD. <br><br><br>The Lies the Devil Told<br><br>Sundown in the garden <br>I could hear the leaving trains<br>Like the warning of the Master that was bouncing through my brain<br>I wish I had been stronger<br>But that apple shone like gold<br>And I listened to the lies the Devil told<br><br>The Devil is a liar, and liars they do lie<br>I imagine that you’ve met him if you live beneath the sky<br>I turned my collar up <br>And I walked out into the cold<br>Just as empty as the lies the Devil told<br><br>Hey this game feels familiar<br>I’m a little short, think I’m gonna fold<br>I took my thirty bits of silver<br>And I blew them on the lies the Devil told<br><br>Johnny prefers bourbon<br>To catch his morning buzz<br>Helps him feel a little like the man that Johnny was<br>Before the levy broke<br>Before the kingdom sold<br>Before he listened to the lies the Devil told<br><br>Ruby serves up breakfast<br>Down at the Waffle Stop<br>To a man with a paper nametag that says “Hello my name’s Pop”<br>She says, “You feeling any better?”<br>He says, “I’m just feeling old”<br>I guess you can’t outrun the lies the Devil told<br><br>Hey this game feels familiar<br>I’m a little short, think I’m gonna fold<br>I took my thirty bits of silver<br>And I blew them on the lies the Devil told<br><br>Now the lawyers channel Darwin<br>They shake their tiny fists<br>As if the God of all Creation needs their permission to exist<br>But the fire’s getting weaker<br>And the coffee’s getting cold<br>They’re wearing thin, those lies the Devil told<br><br>Well the party’s winding down now<br>The sun is almost up<br>I’ve broken bread with sinners<br>And I’ve passed around the cup<br>I can hear the riders coming<br>Just like thunder through my soul<br>Drowning out the lies the Devil told<br><br>Hey this game feels familiar<br>I’m a little short, think I’m gonna fold<br>I took my thirty bits of silver<br>And I blew them on the lies the Devil toldBuck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/3751792013-03-15T14:57:54-06:002023-12-10T09:41:36-07:00No Deal I stumbled across a picture of Townes Van Zandt's Rear View Mirror record on the internet. Stuck it in the pic above. It's always good to have Townes and angels looking over your shoulder. Looking forward to some New Mexico green chili next week. Lots of broken white line ahead. Yup.Buck Stormtag:buckstorm.com,2005:Post/3698792013-03-14T04:40:00-06:002022-05-04T00:29:22-06:00Greetings from the shadowland, Thoughts and observations to come.<br><br>
Strength on the journey my friends,<br><br>
Buck<br type="_moz">Buck Storm