The Lens

 The Lens 

So many words are spoken today, and so much background noise fills the air, creating confusion. Future generations will not stand a chance unless we begin to speak truth through the lens of wisdom, the lens of experience, the lens of reality, and above all, through the lens of love and truth. 

The older I get, the more clearly my lens focuses on what truly matters—the real meaning of life—and the powerful truth that it’s never too late to shape humanity through words.

We have to help the next generation turn away from their addiction to knowledge, their addiction to social platforms, and their addiction to fame. Our minds were never meant to absorb so much information, and this has caused our lenses to become blurred far too early in life. 

We may not bring anything new to the table, but what we do have is a more focused lens—sharpened by years, pain, and perspective—unlike the generations coming behind us. We now compete with machines that have fostered a deep addiction to information, shaping the lenses of humanity across all ages. Just look around the next time you are out and see humanity with their heads down and their eyes locked on their machines. 

The lens will tell the real story. A focused lens reveals the truth, but if it’s distorted, it brings lies into reality. I have looked through the lens as a twenty-year-old, as a thirty-year-old, as a forty-year-old, as a fifty-year-old, and now as a sixty-year-old. I now see more clearly the traumas that have shaped me. I have accepted the fact that I was not the cause but a casualty of a lens that was so blurred and full of evil. As I walked into the path of that evil lens, nothing but torture took place. I tried my best to stay out of sight. 

Those traumas have given me a unique vision, a hard-earned clarity that helps me fight my battles one at a time—mostly with myself, and sometimes with those around me. Some never realize they are in the focus of my lens. They are just stray casualties of the ever-changing lens and the unwanted focus that was not meant for them. They take it personally, but it’s not that way at all. The fact of the matter is that what comes into the view of the lens has a purpose, and that purpose is to bring a clear vision to our humanity, our life, our purpose, and our existential being. 

I have come to one conclusion about this story. It is much more complex than just a short one-liner. With that said, I will focus on what’s ahead. 

It’s been weeks now, and I’m still struggling with the direction. The front end of this story has changed so many times. I believe it’s because when we sit back and take time to bring clarity into focus, the lens brings something that is so beautiful that we can say, That’s it!

That’s what’s different about my twenty-year-old lens, my thirty-year-old lens, and even my forty-year-old lens. These years were about taking everything in and processing what came into focus. My formative years were so blurry. I lived in survival mode, where there was no time to focus on anything else. 

I know that’s not the case for all of humanity. I often wonder what it’s like to be looking through a twenty-year-old lens right now; it must be terrifying. Even the thirty and forty-year-old lens must carry deep concern for what’s to come. 

But a focused lens brings hope and a calm reality. We all come from uniquely shaped lenses, and that’s what makes this world so beautiful and diverse. If we all shared the same focus and the same lens in this life, we would not need Him. That’s the beauty of the lens; it builds us, layer by layer, shaping us through the years. 

Now, my fifty-year-old lens was the start of a revolution inside of my soul. I’m not sure if that’s true for all lenses that develop in our humanity, but for me, it sparked a new clarity. To be honest, the late fifties brought an awakening of sorts that led me into a new era. I realized that I had spent so many years running from the very clarity that I was searching for. I kept the focus I desired out of reach because of fear. I was afraid of what would come into view, afraid of what clarity might bring. I fought hard. And now, I am in my sixty-year-old lens. 

I am still fighting for clarity. I want to see, but I am still fearful of this past that seems to emerge with new memories and destruction. Yet I now have tools—handed to me by the grace of beautiful people who were placed in my life.

Despite all the scratches, rough spots, and blurred areas on my lens, there is hope. The scratches are reminders of past losses and past victories—each one now clearer in hindsight. The rough patches reflect the mountains I have climbed and the roads I have traveled. The blurred spots? Maybe they’re just meant to stay there for now. Maybe that’s grace, too.

No matter where you are in your lens of life, accept the scratches, the rough patches, and even the blur. These are all part of the journey. Look at what’s in focus now. Work on that. That’s where you are right now. That’s what matters.

Clarity will come with time. Don’t rush toward it so quickly that you miss the understanding meant for the moment. True clarity will never come from the machines designed to overwhelm our minds. It comes through genuine connection—one-on-one—and through alignment with our purpose in life. 

Our relational response to one another is what brings clarity and vision to our purpose in life. 

So, let’s continue to polish our lenses—the lens of compassion, attention, purpose, and love. 

www.sandwestedit.com  

  

I Saw You

I Saw You

Hey Chris, I saw you today. You were sitting on the rail of the pier, fishing with your friends. You were talking it up as usual and asking questions about the fish in the Cape Fear River. You were probably asking how deep the water is and what kind of bait you should use. This reminds me of how you used to ask those questions in the old days down by the river. 

Your beard still looks the same, all spotty with rough patches around your chin. Your hands still look the same—their strength tells the story of a working man. Your voice is still scruffy and harsh sounding, but so soft in tone. 

It’s the last day of vacation for Lisa and me in Southport, North Carolina. We have fished on the city pier almost every day for the last nine days. Some days were good and other days not so good. We found ourselves staying in room six again at the Riverside Motel. This seems to be a magical place for encounters. There was a tropical storm that rolled through the first couple of days, most likely impacting the fishing. For the most part, our trip was wonderful. People from all walks of life strolled out on the city pier throughout the day. Some just watched as we fished, and some wanted to talk about it. 

Today was like all the other days since we’ve been here; the fishing was slow, and the crowds were large. I’m not sure that we blended in as locals, but they thought we knew what we were doing. Ironically, we were on our last fishing rigs because we had lost all to the rocks below, and we only had a few pieces of bait left. We were far from locals; we were the only people fishing together. No matter the place, we have always enjoyed this togetherness. We listen to stories in stereo and repeat them later in mono to each other. Did you hear that? Did you hear this one? Oh, wait a minute, did you hear her and the story she told? These brought smiles and laughter to our souls. 

But there was one thing about today that was different. We noticed a tent near the pier and lots of children and parents setting something up. We just thought it was a different vendor, as they frequently came to that area to sell stuff. It was hot on the pier, and there were numerous locals fishing. You can tell who they are; they just look like they belong. I didn’t pay much attention to them. I looked mostly at the water and listened to surrounding conversations. That’s what I enjoy the most, just listening and waiting for the next story to come to life. 

I had just emerged from the grip of a story that had me locked down for months—one of those complex, never-ending pieces that refuse to let you rest. The Lens haunted me day and night, demanding my attention. After countless revisions, I finally sent it to my editor, who does beautiful work. As I write this story, it’s still with her. 

When I am free, I tend to listen more intently and watch people more closely. But the freedom is short-lived—another story is always on the verge of unfolding. 

I was listening to several stories today on the city pier. Some were as prescribed, which simply means I could tell you the end before they finished. No big deal—just the way I listen and process. 

I’ve been thinking about a person we met earlier in the week who seemed to be carrying a great deal of pain in her life. I didn’t press for any details. As I handed her my book, she simply said, “How did you know I needed this right now?” I wondered if this would be my next story. But it became clear it wasn’t—maybe later though. 

As we fished, I noticed a group of people coming down the city pier with their children, asking if we would like some lemonade. My knee-jerk response was, “No,” without even thinking or looking at who was offering me this sweet, refreshing drink. Then I glanced down. It was a little guy, maybe five or six years old, reaching up towards me with a cup of lemonade, and in his other hand, he held a pocket Jesus. 

“For you,” he said. I melted.

I was… I’m now crying just trying to write this. I was so humbled. So blessed. Moved beyond words. Not worthy of it. Humbled again. Hands in the air—overwhelmed by this unexpected expression of love right there on the city pier. 

I took the lemonade and the little Jesus and told the boy I had always wanted one of those. I placed it front and center in my tackle box. He also gave me a flower and a card with the name of their church. I was so moved by this that fishing didn’t even matter anymore. It was just about that moment and what was happening right then and there. 

They continued up and down the city pier, blessing everyone they met. 

I was staring at the water below, and this little girl came over to a group of people behind me on the pier who were fishing. She offered the group some lemonade, and they said, “Sure.” I held my cup up to toast the girl in the group, and one of them called out in a loud voice, “I know, right?” We acknowledged each other without any other social exchange, but it was great. 

I had not paid much attention to this small group of five or six behind me. They were all talking, and they even had some music playing very low. They looked like they were in their thirties or so. The group seemed to be more about just being there than fishing. I thought that was cool. 

The parents and children were making another pass to see if anyone needed a new cup of lemonade—or even a little Jesus. As they approached the group behind me, they asked, “Anyone need a lemonade or a Jesus?” One guy said in a very scruffy and harsh voice with a very soft tone to the little guy, “I don’t want any lemonade, but I will take a Jesus.” 

I turned—almost in slow motion—to see who had said this. My eyes followed from the floor of the pier up to the young man sitting on the rail. It was my brother, Chris! 

“I’ll take Jesus,” he said. I stared at this young man, and for a moment, our eyes met. It was as if he was saying, “I’m okay.” No words were spoken—just a quiet reassurance he was at peace. That while he was no longer here, he was doing just fine with his Jesus. 

Chris passed years ago after a long battle with drugs—a battle he could never win. The pain was too deep. At thirty-seven, his life ended, and his struggle finally gave way to peace. He is the one who introduced me and my family to Jesus. For that, I will always be grateful, and I am happy that he encountered Jesus when he did. 

I watched as the young man on the rail hopped down, tucked the little Jesus in his pocket, and walked away. As our eyes met once more, he gave me a glance that seemed to say, “I’m going to be just fine. I have Jesus with me now.” I stood there quietly and watched as they disappeared into the crowd.

When my brother left this world, all he had was a few papers in his pocket and a small New Testament Bible. I still have it to this day. This encounter reminded me that all we have in this world is hope. Hope that things are going to be okay. Hope that we are going to make it. 

Just like the old days at the river‚—we fished, we hoped, and we loved. 

It was great to see you today, my brother!

We all need a little Jesus in our lives.

www.sandwestedit.com  

 TAPESTRY

The wind has blown in my direction for many years now, from the east, west, north, and south. Many currents have taken me from there to here. The wind has finally calmed. Where am I? The tapestry is almost finished. The end is near; others say no, but I know it’s close.

So many want to be heard, and there is an abundance of talking and influencing happening in our world today. I believe it’s an attempt to complete the tapestry. Be it personal or otherwise, the tapestry is woven by what it hears, feels, and experiences. 

I’ve been thinking about this story for months now; it seems more complex than just a woven piece. It’s a story that is frayed yet still has a sense of completion. Sadly, every story has an ending, and that’s the beauty of the tapestry: it tells the whole story. What will mine look like? What will yours look like? Will they be completed or still marked by frayed ends—threads never told or never healed? 

Often called “the rich tapestry of life,” this metaphor describes how life is made up of many intertwined parts—threads of experience, memory, and emotion woven together. 

The tapestry is unique to each individual—there are no two people who look the same. The colors, the sunrises, the sunsets, the words, the glances, the smiles, the laughter, the conversations, the hugs, the kisses, and the stories that are told are different for everyone. 

Our tapestry tells a story. When completed, they hang on a wall of memories that last for a few years and maybe even into the next generation. At the end of our lives, what does it all mean? Is it really a life that says, “I have lived,” or a life that says, “I have been broken?” The words I write are for those who are to come and for those who see my tapestry and view it as a complete work or a frayed part of humanity. 

The tapestry is meant to make a difference; the colors and the weave of brokenness are all mentioned to bring about change in humanity. The brokenness is meant to bring light to those who need change and hope for a future. When people look at our completed and frayed tapestry, they will see that our struggle was real and that we left a path which was meant to be finished. It forges a path to completeness for those who will follow. 

The broken are those who are left behind and never raised to life. The broken are those who never realize that their tapestry matters. The broken are those who never ever know that their tapestry is being written and will be hung on a wall one day in front of all who know their story. Every story will be told one day, and every story matters, and that’s the importance of the tapestry. 

Woven together, piece by piece and thread by thread, our tapestry is being wondrously constructed. While in the moment, we don’t even realize that our tapestry may be nearing its end. Then, suddenly, the weaving slows, our nail is placed on the wall, and we see our tapestry as a whole. What have we left? What have we given? What message have we offered to humanity? Have we completed our mission? Is our tapestry frayed, or is it complete? So many questions arise in this woven pattern of life. 

In my own life, I can testify that my tapestry may never be completed, but as best I can, I will strive to weave every frayed thread. My goal is singular: to be at peace in the end, and to weave a tapestry that says I cared, that says I loved, and that makes an impact on humanity. In the end, I want my tapestry to say I was not lonely, that I was alive, blessed by all who knew me, a strength to those whom I encountered, and an encourager to the fallen. My tapestry will speak for itself. Its colors will be vibrant and full, telling a story of completeness and wholeness to all who knew me. The tapestry will tell our story. What will yours look like?

Mine may tell the inspiring story at the ball field last weekend with my grandsons. As a few of my frayed ends were being woven back together that day, I realized some were still healing and some had already been made whole. It felt like the solidarity between me and the tapestry itself. As tears rose to the edges of my eyes, no one knew, and no one saw, as this quiet, sacred moment unfolded. 

I was asking a simple question to my nine-year-old grandson. “So why are baseball gloves so expensive, and what’s with these baseball bats?” He began to explain in detail the reason for the soft, woven leather, the intricacy of the bat, and why the grip had to have a special wrap. The gloves were woven in fine leather, and the pocket was meant to catch the really fast balls. The pocket was supposed to protect the fingers, which fit into a specific place that helps shield the hands. I was so taken by the conversation. He even demonstrated how to hold his bat and how to swing it. Then he looked up at me and said, “That’s how we do it, G Daddy. It’s baseball.”

I thought about this for a few hours, and after talking to my sweet Lisa, I realized how profoundly this moment had impacted me. I felt as if some of the frayed ends of my tapestry had been woven back into place.

There was so much I had missed as a child. I realized my grandson was experiencing something I had never had the opportunity to see, much less be a part of. I was witnessing a chain, once broken by my own trauma, being mended with love, compassion, and a hope that is real. 

At his age, I had been fighting for my life, hiding from the evil that tried to destroy me day and night. I was that invisible child, longing to be seen and fighting to survive. There was no love, no baseball, no basketball, and no fun at all. Just the constant search for a place to rest, even for a moment, which felt like everything at the time. 

How blessed I am to be in this moment with my grandson, who has the opportunity simply to be. The opportunity to show his G Daddy his tapestry, the exquisite colors being woven in such sweet love. What a beautiful story my daughter and her wonderful husband have written—and continue to write—in his life. 

While my own tapestry remains frayed in so many places, I believe these moments in life take those worn pieces of our tapestry and weave them back into place. They complete us. They make us whole. And if we are willing, they bring a special healing to us all. 

It’s never too late. The tapestry is waiting for you. 

www.sandwestedit.com  

The Sandbar

 The Sandbar

From time-to-time, memories surface that I don’t understand how to express, much less write about. This is one of those rare memories that was triggered by the last story, Jane. 

A river, flowing just down the street from our trailer, became part of our daily lives. It wasn’t a particularly powerful river, but graceful, lofty trees lined its banks and provided us shade and a place of solace. These trees had been drinking out of the river for centuries. They spoke so many stories to us, of those who had been before us, and of those who would follow. 

This was during a time that I happened to be at home—what I described in the last story as a rest stop for me. The principals at my current residence were playing well and showed no signs of torture, but I knew that was just a matter of time. 

On any hot summer day, my brothers, Mike and Chris, would join me down by the river. Jane would come with us as well; she wasn’t much into fishing but enjoyed the time we spent together. 

We had a special place where we fished—it was called the sandbar. It appeared mostly when the river was at its lowest. I remember us walking through the trailer park, fishing poles in hand, heading down the street to that path in the woods—the one that led to our special spot on the river. We were excited to see that sandbar as we stepped over the puddles of water and made our way onto that exquisite place. We kicked off our shoes as soon as we reached the sandbar, and the sand felt coarse on our bare feet. Our toes sunk into the sand, and we felt the wonder of God’s creation. This place gave us a glimpse of who God was, even though we didn’t know much about God at that point; we were mostly in survival mode. One thing we knew for sure—the sandbar led us to a place of hope and peace. 

The sandbar served several purposes, and one was to give us the perfect spot to cast our lines across the river to the large rock on the other side—where all the hefty catfish lay. When the river was high, that rock was out of reach, but when the river receded and the sandbar emerged, we had access to those massive cats. 

The expansive sandbar contained both sun and shade. Fresh beams of sunlight shined overhead, and shade was in abundance as well. 

Jane wrote in the sand most of the time; she often would play a game and ask, “What did I spell?” I always took time to answer regardless of the intense fishing going on. 

We were all in place but yet out of place on the sandbar. The grace the sandbar brought us also brought us more beauty than we could have ever imagined. Here’s that one memory I have. 

First I tied on the bolts and nuts to my fishing line, added some old stinking chicken livers to my hook, and cast over to the big rock. The line hit bottom, and I set my pole in the sand; the pole rested on a fork of a branch I had set just under the first eyelet on the pole. Then I waited. We watched all the poles that were set, waiting as the river pulled the lines ever so lightly. Suddenly, my pole went from a straight position to almost touching the water of the river. I grabbed the pole quickly and started to reel. I screamed, “It’s a big one; it’s a big one. My friends ran over to me, and Mike and Chris encouraged me to keep reeling. They were screaming, “Reel, reel; you got ‘em.” The fight went on for what seemed like hours, but it was just minutes. We just wanted to see that monster! What was it? Was it the big one we had always dreamed of catching? 

I kept reeling, and finally, he surfaced right in front of us all; we were eye to eye with this enormous fish. I stopped reeling and walked backward, dragging him on the sandbar. He had to be three feet long. We were not much taller than he was. He was now completely out of place, but we needed to show him off to the trailer park. Otherwise, no one would have believed us.

I can vividly remember us all, including Jane, jumping for joy and feeling ecstatic the moment we caught that massive fish. There was never any question about what we were going to do with him—it was unspoken. I grabbed him by the gills, and we headed to the trailer. It was a struggle to get to our destination. Once we entered the house, my brother Mike instantly started filling the bathtub with water. That’s right, we put that fish right in the tub. He seemed happy, but we all knew he was out of place. 

As the fish filled the entire tub, we summoned all our friends in the trailer park; it was like a sideshow of sorts. As the kids walked through our trailer to our bathroom, amazed by this anomaly of nature, we felt like the kings of the river.

Then the inevitable happened. Mom came home and flipped the trailer upside down. “Get that fish out of here. You can’t keep him here. Take him back to the river where he belongs. He’s out of place here!” 

She actually took it way better than we thought. We laughed all the way back to the river. Jane reminded us that our laughter would soon end because of the look on our mom’s face. Then we broke out crying with laughter all over again. 

Back at the sandbar where our journey began, we laid him near the water, his head just touching the surface. As quickly as we pulled him in, he eased back into the water. He swam along the bank of the sandbar as if to thank us for putting him back into his place. Then, all of a sudden, he disappeared—back to the big rock to tell his story to all those who had witnessed his displacement. If only fish could talk. He was back where he belonged.

Being out of place can bring about pain, suffering, and even death. Being out of place can also bring new life, beautiful endings, and fresh beginnings. We were out of place on that sandbar, and yet, it led us to new places and brought us solace and peace at a time when we had no way to escape. As a family, we often seemed out of place—unwanted and in the way of others’ stories. We survived in so many different places, either together or apart, but our family bond always remained strong. 

This story has so many possible endings. I’ve been sitting on it for weeks now, pondering the perfect conclusion. I’ve even woken up at two and three in the morning, asking myself how it should end. 

Being out of place is different for all of us. It can happen in a restaurant, a store, during a conversation, with a glance, a word, a smile, in a relationship, and even with family. 

In the end, you only have to ask two questions when you feel out of place: “How do I get back? How do I return, healthy and ready to continue my story as it’s intended to be written?” 

So, what’s your plan? You’ve got to get back! No matter what, you have to find your way back to where you belong.

www.sandwestedit.com