Beloved.carry.hope

May 27

People That Have Changed My Life

André Jacob Cotan

People That Have Changed My Life

Ashley Nicole ( formerly Cotan) Hopkins

May 25

visualgraphic:

Never put to sea

(via jonnicheatwood)

“As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie, he finally felt as if everything was going to be ok. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren’t any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true. And, so it was, a wristwatch saved Harold Crick.” (via jonnicheatwood)

May 17

we are not all mulberry trees. but I might be.

I believe that there’s nothing quite like adversity to stir the heart to a creative release. Poetry, song, and paint are fruit harvested of provocation and trial. Psalms of old were pruned from holy hearts that bled in the giving. Who am I to shun the pressures of this Holy cup, that greater men did drink… that the Father did pour…

Restore our fortunes, Lord,
    as streams renew the desert.
⁵Those who plant in tears
    will harvest with shouts of joy.
⁶They weep as they go to plant their seed,
    but they sing as they return with the harvest.

Amen.

I saw the perfect stone and in my instability I threw myself at it. Compelled by blood and love and all things unreasonable. I fell into gracious wreckage. The milky glass of my heart became sand in the breaking. I lay in wait. I groaned for heaven to consume me. A fiery star fell from high embraced me in my shattered state. It touched my being and in a moment I was glass again. The full bright of fires’ light passed in me to be seen through me truly. I am undone… but He is not done… and so I fall again, lest He fall on me.

Letters of Note: Love, Dad

jonyee:

Sage marital advice from Ronald Reagan to his son, Michael, the day before his wedding. I hope to one day give my son advice this noble.

Thanks Jon. I’m confident that you will give your son this and much more. You’re a man of honor.

May 15

Come One ~ Come Everyone

Paddle Board Tempe Town Lake with yours truly and some Tempe champs

This Sunday morning - 8:54 AM - Either meeting at the boat dock or the Tango Casa

It’s 20 bucks to rent your own board for an hour and a little less if you get one of the boats or kayaks.

http://boats4rent.com/tempe-town-lake/ for all the rental specs.

Call/Text/E-mail ~ for more info 602 308 9593 thebradley@mac.com

[if you don’t have the chedda’ for your own board we can work something out so don’t bail on account of a skinny wallet.]

This event and it’s activities are ~~unofficially~~ endorsed by Bradley Stewart of Brosenbrüs cafe located under the View on the North-East corner of Rural and Apache Blvd. They make a fine Sandwich and a delicious cup o’ Toddy.

(via joieduvoyage)

May 10

epic.

May 3

Many summers ago.

On the quiet green skirts outside of Chêne-Bourg, where I was born, my friend Marianne Walsh and I spent time plucking apples with long bamboo poles that had small leather “clapping hands” on the ends. We’d pull them off and put them in burlap sacks to carry them back from her families orchard to their home where I was staying for the summer. We drove a Volkswagen that was old and proudly showed its age, though not quite as old as the little green auto in the photo (looks like a Dacia). I remember the smell of gasoline and earth and apples. I remember serenity.

Marianne was 10 years my senior and at least as many lifetimes wiser… She was one of those rare ones that age only in the best and most beautiful of ways. Her heart, her thoughts, her understanding, and her love were ancient and majestic. Her face was young and lacked the lines and hardness that marked those of her peers. I was 17 and quite nearly convinced that she was a goddess. I loved her. It’s the plainest and truest way to say what I felt in my heart for her, but my love was not that of a lovers. It was full of boyish and poetic romance, but it carried all the purity of a sibling… nothing less than love, but nothing more than what a brother feels for his dearest and most cherished sister. You understand of course.

We ate and we drank in the tremendous beauty of every afternoon. We devoured the nights… and the half-lit twilight hours… these we cherished with an unrestrained temperance that taught me in whispers that which I now know of the wastefully generous nature of my God. These memories are pearls. I own few things that are as special to me. Wheat fields, midnight swimming in Lac Léman, dogs barking, bike wheels turning, a single light at the road’s T, the asylum, mountains… silence. I remember silence. Have you ever shared this sweet harbor with someone you loved? I hear it now and feel it anointing me with glad sadness. It was the beautiful void that our hearts agreed to share, the poverty of words and the mourning over our lips impotence… the space so often filled with the presence of our most beloved mutual friend, Jesus. I am ruined by these memories… the rich flavors of life and love. I’ve walked in heaven and communed with saints. I am beloved of the King and befriended by high nobility. I am a wandering soul. I am a pilgrim in rags of brown.

I am God’s son. There is only one God. I am one of many sons and many daughters in a family that I love very much.

Brothers… sisters… love one another.

joieduvoyage: fantastic.

May 2

something I’m sure of. we should all be playing a little more croquet.

Apr 29

light uncovers.

Beloved.carry.hope

Bradley Christofer Cotan.

we are not all mulberry trees. but I might be.

Letters of Note: Love, Dad