For fifty years I have scribbled notes on scraps of paper and tossed them into desk drawers, bedside table drawers, dash compartments of cars and mostly storage boxes. I’ve been cleaning out my attic recently and looking through the stuff. The topics are as varied one can imagine. Lots of them make little sense to me now, after lying there all these years. I’ve discarded a foothill if not a small mountain of the stuff. There must have been some reason I thought some of it was worth keeping, but not anymore. For instance, I once started a commentary on the animal kingdom. “A camel is a horse designed by a Methodist committee.” Or, “An elephant is a mouse built to government specifications.” I didn’t go much farther on that project partly because I am almost certain that I heard that material from someone else but I don’t know who. I figure if I’m going to plaigerize something, it ought to be better than that.

     Some of my notes mark historical events. Here’s a note I wrote in December 1983 on the death of the great Spanish artist Juan Miro. He said, “I never dream when I’m sleeping—only when I’m awake.” I know what he means.

     Here’s a note I made to myself while spending a summer preaching in Australia 30 years ago. There is, In the Australian consciousness a wonderful myth that I love. Somewhere out beyond the horizon is the charred stump of a long-dead tree, burned-out tree. North, south, east, west—it doesn’t matter which direction you choose, the black stump is there. No one knows what kind of tree it was nor how long it has been there. However, it is there marking the boundary of meaningful space. No one has ever seen it but it is there. When an Aussie wants to speak of the biggest or smallest, smartest or most ignorant, prettiest or ugliest of anything or anybody, he used the phrase, “This side of the black stump.” That little phrase rules out all comparison. Beyond the black stump there is nothing but an infinity of desert dunes where no trees grow. That is an intriguing image to ponder.

     Lots of these fragments are theological. I have no recollection of the context in which I wrote this, but I think it’s a keeper. “Your sin is not forgiven until it is ended. Don’t ask God to forgive what you are unwilling to quit doing.” When I was very ill I wrote on a paper napkin, “I don’t know why I have this illness, but somehow I know God is trusting me with it.”

     After hearing a college professor tell this story, I made this note. “The young girl was so badly misshapen, I could hardly bear to look at her. I asked her why she was in college. She said, ‘When I was born the doctor told my mother I would never walk. But my mother pulled me across the floor forcing me to try three times a day. I cried. I thought my mother did not love me. I later learned that three times a day, my mother cried too.’”

     The daily news often provides a report about something too good to pass by. Like the report on the woman who received her certification to do CPR. On her way home a flash flood deluged her town. Suddenly she saw a man face down in the water. She stopped her car and ran to him, turned him over on his back and began to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He struggled free and shouted, “Lady, I don’t know what you’re doing but I’m trying to unstop this sewer!”

     As I rummage through these bits and pieces, I’m reminded of what fun I’ve had along the way. I’ve laughed a lot and cried some too. I’ve learned loads and taught a little here and there. One of the great discoveries is that at the rate I’m going, it will take me fifty more years to sift through this stuff in my attic. I hope you’ve got an attic too!

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