So I was having dinner with one Mark Burleson a few nights ago, and he mentioned that my blog was looking rather stale. He didn't use those words, but the word "stale" was what came to mind when I glanced at my own site.
October? Geez.
I have blogged on another site, Atypical Spirituality, so most of my thoughts during the past part of the semester have wound up there, either in post or comment form.
So shortly after Mark pointed out the underwhelming absence of fresh material, I attended a holiday movie marathon put on by a couple of other friends of mine. If you know me, you know I'm not a movie person. I don't think that movies promote social interaction; if I want to see people, I'll make plans to hang out with them instead of watching pictures flit across a screen while they happen to be sitting next to me. I can watch a movie just as well by myself as I can with a myriad of friends; generally speaking, there are better ways to get to know said friends than a movie.
I also have to deal with movies in a different sense; again, if you know me, you know that I'm not an overwhelmingly emotional person. But for some reason, movies can break into that side of my psyche like nothing else. I get sympathy pains when I see a person get injured on the screen. The struggles of the characters, be they emotional or physical, take on a life of their own; and so, their journey of toil and travail becomes my journey of empathy.
Example: Early this year, I saw The Prestige with a girl I was dating. It had been a fabulous night; we both were excited about the film. However, when it was over, my world had been rocked; the amount of personal pain that the characters had gone through had put me through hell as well. She wanted to discuss the movie, to engage it; I just wanted to crawl into a corner and brood.
That movie hurt.
And many that I watch do, in different ways. This is also part of why I don't watch movies that often; I don't enjoy being tweaked in ways I don't understand.
There's another side to this coin, too; I have movies that I love. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. The Truman Show. The LotR films. Tombstone. Gladiator. It's a Wonderful Life. And, of course, the Firefly episodes. Some of these movies don't hit me as hard as others; others put me into a positive emotional state. Few things grab my heart like seeing Aragorn and Arwen finally together or George Bailey on a snow-covered bridge, crying out: "I want to live again... Please let me live again."
I've heard it said that guys watch movies because of what they are shown; girls watch them because of how the movies make them feel. I understand that this is a vast, sweeping generalization; it just makes me wonder.
Before the previously mentioned movie marathon, I didn't really understand the heart-warming aspect of films. However, watching three in a row produced such a tidal wave of warm fuzzies that I had to sit and deal with them. Is this why a movie becomes a classic? Maybe; maybe not. I don't claim to know why such things happen, and I don't want to try and figure it out.
I'm not sure that after this experience I'll make movies more a part of my life; however, I think I am now able to appreciate such films a little bit more.
12.28.2007
10.24.2007
Thoughts From the Middle of a Cloud
So here I am sitting at 32k ft up in the air, reading GK Chesterton. He had just finished describing one of the reasons he came to find that he believed orthodoxy; one of those reasons involved the magic of the universe.
``My first and last philosophy, that which I believe in with unbroken certainty, I learnt in the nursery. I generally learnt it from a nurse; that is, from the solemn and star-appointed priestess at once of democracy and tradition. The things I believed most then, the things I believe most now are the things called fairy tales, they seem to me to be the entirely reasonable things. The are not fantasies: compared with them other things are fantastic. Compared with them religion and rationalism are both abnormal, though religion is abnormally right and rationalism abnormally wrong. Fairyland is nothing but the sunny country of common sense. It is not earth that judges heaven, but heaven that judges earth; so for me at least it was not earth that criticized elfland, but elfland that criticized the earth. I knew the magic beanstalk before I had tasted beans; I was sure of the Man in the Moon before I was certain of the moon. This was at one with all popular tradition. Modern minor poets are naturalists, and talk about the bush or the brook; but the singers of the old epics and fables were supernaturalists, and talked about the gods of brook and bush. That is what the moderns mean when they say that the ancients did not “appreciate nature,” because they said that Nature was divine. Old nurses do not tell children about the grass, but about the fairies that dance on the grass; and the old Greeks could not see the trees for the dryads.
But I deal here with what ethic and philosophy come from being fed on fairy tales. If I were describing them in detail I could note many noble and healthy principles that arise from them. There is the chivalrous less of “Jack the Giant Killer”; that giants should be killed because they are gigantic. It is a manly mutiny against pride as such. For the rebel is older than all the kingdoms, and the Jacobin has more tradition than the Jacobite. There is the lesson of “Cinderella,” which is the same as that of the Magnificat = exaltavit humiles. There is the great lesson of “Beauty and the Beast”; that a thing must be loved before it is loveable. There is the terrible allegory of the “Sleeping Beauty,” which tells how the human creature was blessed with all birthday gifts, yet cursed with death; and how death also may perhaps be softened to a sleep. But I am not concerned with any of the separate statutes of elfland, but with the whole spirit of its law, which I learnt before I could speak, and shall retain when I cannot write. I am concerned with a certain way of looking at life, which was created in me by the fairy tales, but has since been meekly ratified by the mere facts.”
Thanks, Gilbert. Flying has always excited me but for different reasons. When I was young, it was because it scared me. Close quarters; loud noises; strange people; sudden jarring movements. Terrified the whole flight because of some primeval fear that God would drop the plane. Then I went to school and learned things; dumb things. Things like Bernoulli’s Principle and “laws” of flight. Reason drains the joy and the mystery of things; earlier in Orthodoxy, Gilbert said something to the effect of the only madmen being the completely logical people. Every normal person has a touch of the madman in them, and that is what keeps them sane.
So call me a madman, but flying is still magical. I know there are so-called laws that govern such things, but I say phooey on them. If the laws were really all that awesome, they wouldn’t let the frisbee come down to earth; the arms of science would hold me in the air after a flying leap. But the same laws that dictate that the plane remains aloft also dictate that I plummet back down after I attempt to do what the plane does.
Stupid laws.
For some people, there is nothing magical about this. There is nothing mysterious about it. What goes up must come down; some things just come down slower than others.
Stupid people.
The plane is magical because it stares the laws in the eye and says, “I’m calling the shots here. I defy your law of gravity; let it do it’s worst! I’ll take the air and atmosphere that cannot hold a man aloft and walk upon it like it is solid ground. And even before you had laws to explain it, birds and others of my kind were tiptoeing across the clouds long before you had any idea as to how we could.”
The law of gravity was broken, so new laws had to be made to explain the miracle away. And the bumblebee came along and winked at the new laws; then it chuckled and flew against the face of reason.
To me, few things are as exciting as taking off in a plane. If you and I ever chance to fly together, watch my face during takeoff. (That is, if my face isn’t plastered against the window so I can watch the ground fall away.) Chances are, you’ll see me smile; I can’t help myself. How many people across the centuries wished they could be doing what I am right now? How many attempts were made so once, just once, could man thumb his nose at nature and say, “Ha! Beat that”? And then when we finally did, flying lost it’s shininess after a while. It’s just like jumping in a car and driving, which at first glance seems pretty commonplace. Did you ever stop to think about how amazing it is that you can easily drive in five minutes to a place that it would take you an hour to walk to?
Planes and cars aren’t the rule; they’re the exception. The world is full of such mystery. It makes no sense. I can’t fly; but with the help of superpowers, a winged dragon, an airplane, or a magic potion I can. All the fuddy-duddies who believe in rules and laws might say that an airplane doesn’t belong in that list; I say that it does, and the only reason they’re crying about it is because they haven’t found proper chains of science to shackle the other three.
The world is far more mystical than we care to admit. And certainly more magical than we are comfortable with.
``My first and last philosophy, that which I believe in with unbroken certainty, I learnt in the nursery. I generally learnt it from a nurse; that is, from the solemn and star-appointed priestess at once of democracy and tradition. The things I believed most then, the things I believe most now are the things called fairy tales, they seem to me to be the entirely reasonable things. The are not fantasies: compared with them other things are fantastic. Compared with them religion and rationalism are both abnormal, though religion is abnormally right and rationalism abnormally wrong. Fairyland is nothing but the sunny country of common sense. It is not earth that judges heaven, but heaven that judges earth; so for me at least it was not earth that criticized elfland, but elfland that criticized the earth. I knew the magic beanstalk before I had tasted beans; I was sure of the Man in the Moon before I was certain of the moon. This was at one with all popular tradition. Modern minor poets are naturalists, and talk about the bush or the brook; but the singers of the old epics and fables were supernaturalists, and talked about the gods of brook and bush. That is what the moderns mean when they say that the ancients did not “appreciate nature,” because they said that Nature was divine. Old nurses do not tell children about the grass, but about the fairies that dance on the grass; and the old Greeks could not see the trees for the dryads.
But I deal here with what ethic and philosophy come from being fed on fairy tales. If I were describing them in detail I could note many noble and healthy principles that arise from them. There is the chivalrous less of “Jack the Giant Killer”; that giants should be killed because they are gigantic. It is a manly mutiny against pride as such. For the rebel is older than all the kingdoms, and the Jacobin has more tradition than the Jacobite. There is the lesson of “Cinderella,” which is the same as that of the Magnificat = exaltavit humiles. There is the great lesson of “Beauty and the Beast”; that a thing must be loved before it is loveable. There is the terrible allegory of the “Sleeping Beauty,” which tells how the human creature was blessed with all birthday gifts, yet cursed with death; and how death also may perhaps be softened to a sleep. But I am not concerned with any of the separate statutes of elfland, but with the whole spirit of its law, which I learnt before I could speak, and shall retain when I cannot write. I am concerned with a certain way of looking at life, which was created in me by the fairy tales, but has since been meekly ratified by the mere facts.”
Thanks, Gilbert. Flying has always excited me but for different reasons. When I was young, it was because it scared me. Close quarters; loud noises; strange people; sudden jarring movements. Terrified the whole flight because of some primeval fear that God would drop the plane. Then I went to school and learned things; dumb things. Things like Bernoulli’s Principle and “laws” of flight. Reason drains the joy and the mystery of things; earlier in Orthodoxy, Gilbert said something to the effect of the only madmen being the completely logical people. Every normal person has a touch of the madman in them, and that is what keeps them sane.
So call me a madman, but flying is still magical. I know there are so-called laws that govern such things, but I say phooey on them. If the laws were really all that awesome, they wouldn’t let the frisbee come down to earth; the arms of science would hold me in the air after a flying leap. But the same laws that dictate that the plane remains aloft also dictate that I plummet back down after I attempt to do what the plane does.
Stupid laws.
For some people, there is nothing magical about this. There is nothing mysterious about it. What goes up must come down; some things just come down slower than others.
Stupid people.
The plane is magical because it stares the laws in the eye and says, “I’m calling the shots here. I defy your law of gravity; let it do it’s worst! I’ll take the air and atmosphere that cannot hold a man aloft and walk upon it like it is solid ground. And even before you had laws to explain it, birds and others of my kind were tiptoeing across the clouds long before you had any idea as to how we could.”
The law of gravity was broken, so new laws had to be made to explain the miracle away. And the bumblebee came along and winked at the new laws; then it chuckled and flew against the face of reason.
To me, few things are as exciting as taking off in a plane. If you and I ever chance to fly together, watch my face during takeoff. (That is, if my face isn’t plastered against the window so I can watch the ground fall away.) Chances are, you’ll see me smile; I can’t help myself. How many people across the centuries wished they could be doing what I am right now? How many attempts were made so once, just once, could man thumb his nose at nature and say, “Ha! Beat that”? And then when we finally did, flying lost it’s shininess after a while. It’s just like jumping in a car and driving, which at first glance seems pretty commonplace. Did you ever stop to think about how amazing it is that you can easily drive in five minutes to a place that it would take you an hour to walk to?
Planes and cars aren’t the rule; they’re the exception. The world is full of such mystery. It makes no sense. I can’t fly; but with the help of superpowers, a winged dragon, an airplane, or a magic potion I can. All the fuddy-duddies who believe in rules and laws might say that an airplane doesn’t belong in that list; I say that it does, and the only reason they’re crying about it is because they haven’t found proper chains of science to shackle the other three.
The world is far more mystical than we care to admit. And certainly more magical than we are comfortable with.
9.10.2007
The Orthodox Experience
So this past Sunday, I had the pleasure of visiting an Eastern Orthodox Church. It was a challenging experience. This blog will not cover all of my thoughts and questions regarding the experience; I also know that were I less ignorant, many of my questions would be answered. Here we go.
I was content to sit and observe the service. I didn't venerate the icons, I didn't cross myself, and they didn't let me take communion because I wasn't a member. All these things kinda marked me as a visitor. I mean, when everyone else is bowing and you're still standing up, you're kinda hard to miss. That being said, the orthodox do a great job of making people feel welcomed; even though I clearly didn't have a clue as to what as going on, there was no "outsider" feeling like there is in so many other churches. At the community meal after service, they made me go to the front of the line as the guest. It was a very humbling experience. Amazing people; the presence of God was evident in the interactions and in the service as well.
It was a very positive experience. I've never been to an orthodox church before. My only experience thus far has been the Greek Festival that the Greek Orthodox church puts on back home. It was a far cry from my roots in the United Methodist Church, and certainly nothing like TLC. However, the presence of God was there just the same, and I'm very glad I got to go.
And then I started to think about it. Their forms of worship, alien though they may have seemed to me, had been around longer than anything I had experienced previously. They had survived the test of time. And I also wondered, will people still be pressing their foreheads to icons centuries after the guitar has fallen out of favor with contemporary worship leaders? Will Scripture still be chanted after Powerpoint slides have become a thing of the past? In the Emergent community, people seem to focus on the changing culture and the fact that the church must change with it. However, this experience flew in the face of that thought.
It wasn't comfortable; it wasn't seeker-friendly. And somehow, I respected it all the more for being not.
But, all that being said, I don't think I could make the jump and convert. My theology doesn't line up. The theology that has been around for hundreds of years... And yeah, I don't understand much of it because I don't understand the tradition that upholds the theology. But why can't women minister? Why is Mary a big deal? How is venerating an icon worshiping God? And why is it important that Mary never had sex, and honestly, who cares if she did? Why must I seek Mary's help in chasing after relationship with the Father when Jesus is the only intermediate that the Scriptures state that I need? Or why do I need any other saint's help for that matter? Why must we chant the liturgy? What's wrong with reading it? Why must we chant the Scripture reading? What's wrong with reading that? And what's up with the whole "ancestors of God" deal?
Another thing that struck me about this church... I probably heard about half an hour of announcements. In those announcements, 10 minutes dealt with upcoming feast days, celebrations, and small groups. 20 minutes dealt with their budgeting for the upcoming year and church officer elections. There was no mention of any sort of community/social justice activity or cause.
Theology notwithstanding... Dealbreaker.
People should go. We should know our roots. But we also should also be cognizant of the fact that we can't freeze time. Apparently the only thing that the Orthodox church has changed is the wording of the liturgy and whether or not the initiate must kiss the priest's hand when he takes the censer from him.
It was a good experience... But I'm still looking.
I was content to sit and observe the service. I didn't venerate the icons, I didn't cross myself, and they didn't let me take communion because I wasn't a member. All these things kinda marked me as a visitor. I mean, when everyone else is bowing and you're still standing up, you're kinda hard to miss. That being said, the orthodox do a great job of making people feel welcomed; even though I clearly didn't have a clue as to what as going on, there was no "outsider" feeling like there is in so many other churches. At the community meal after service, they made me go to the front of the line as the guest. It was a very humbling experience. Amazing people; the presence of God was evident in the interactions and in the service as well.
It was a very positive experience. I've never been to an orthodox church before. My only experience thus far has been the Greek Festival that the Greek Orthodox church puts on back home. It was a far cry from my roots in the United Methodist Church, and certainly nothing like TLC. However, the presence of God was there just the same, and I'm very glad I got to go.
And then I started to think about it. Their forms of worship, alien though they may have seemed to me, had been around longer than anything I had experienced previously. They had survived the test of time. And I also wondered, will people still be pressing their foreheads to icons centuries after the guitar has fallen out of favor with contemporary worship leaders? Will Scripture still be chanted after Powerpoint slides have become a thing of the past? In the Emergent community, people seem to focus on the changing culture and the fact that the church must change with it. However, this experience flew in the face of that thought.
It wasn't comfortable; it wasn't seeker-friendly. And somehow, I respected it all the more for being not.
But, all that being said, I don't think I could make the jump and convert. My theology doesn't line up. The theology that has been around for hundreds of years... And yeah, I don't understand much of it because I don't understand the tradition that upholds the theology. But why can't women minister? Why is Mary a big deal? How is venerating an icon worshiping God? And why is it important that Mary never had sex, and honestly, who cares if she did? Why must I seek Mary's help in chasing after relationship with the Father when Jesus is the only intermediate that the Scriptures state that I need? Or why do I need any other saint's help for that matter? Why must we chant the liturgy? What's wrong with reading it? Why must we chant the Scripture reading? What's wrong with reading that? And what's up with the whole "ancestors of God" deal?
Another thing that struck me about this church... I probably heard about half an hour of announcements. In those announcements, 10 minutes dealt with upcoming feast days, celebrations, and small groups. 20 minutes dealt with their budgeting for the upcoming year and church officer elections. There was no mention of any sort of community/social justice activity or cause.
Theology notwithstanding... Dealbreaker.
People should go. We should know our roots. But we also should also be cognizant of the fact that we can't freeze time. Apparently the only thing that the Orthodox church has changed is the wording of the liturgy and whether or not the initiate must kiss the priest's hand when he takes the censer from him.
It was a good experience... But I'm still looking.
6.29.2007
Too Many Friends...
Somewhere between the Drillers game and the Dilbert game tonight, I came upon a realization. (While I was eating a Kudo bar. Those things inspire realization.) I've got too many friends and I can't keep them all happy.
Take tonight for instance. Earlier in the week, I had set up plans to play Dilbert with friends from church. The going-away party for the China team was tonight. A friend was playing a concert in BA. My LifeGroup wanted to move our next meeting to tonight. Another friend's birthday was tonight and plans were in the works for a Drillers game.
Count 'em, people! 5 things all asking for my time on a Friday. Dilbert had some priority because it was the first thing planned. Going-away party had to sit on the back burner. Concert in BA was nixed because I didn't hear about it until this morning. LifeGroup was shot down because I already had plans, though I said they could meet without me. I carved out the first half of my evening before Dilbert and made plans to hang out with them at Drillers Stadium, at least for a while.
I stood up and walked out of Drillers Stadium with the shouts of my friends telling me to sit back down ringing in my ears. At least the Dilbert people didn't bug me for being late.
I counted today; 73 days before I hit the road for school. 20 before I leave for Colorado. 29 until I return from Colorado. Roughly 40 days between Colorado and Wilmore. At this point, every moment with friends counts. So many friends... Old friends that I haven't seen in a while that I want to see one more time before I go. Friends that have been in the trenches with me for the past several years. Friends from church that are my coworkers, but my buddies as well. And a few random people that don't really fit into any of these categories.
I want to see them all.
But I can't!! Damn it, I can't. In my efforts, some people will get ignored so I can see others. It's inevitable. There's nothing I can do about that. I have to make some relationships suffer to keep up with others. It's a sick game, and I just can't win.
So how will things be when I leave? Will I have a myriad of almost-friends? Will I have a tight circle of good, close friends? Does it even matter?
I feel like I'm trying to hang onto a fistful of sand... It's all slowly slipping away, and the harder I squeeze the more grains fall out. Eventually, I'll just look at where a pile used to be and see a few grains remaining... I suppose that's inevitable.
I don't want to let my friends go... Just a few weeks back, I wrote a post begging them to hang on to me. What do you do? I don't know...
I can't. I just can't.
Take tonight for instance. Earlier in the week, I had set up plans to play Dilbert with friends from church. The going-away party for the China team was tonight. A friend was playing a concert in BA. My LifeGroup wanted to move our next meeting to tonight. Another friend's birthday was tonight and plans were in the works for a Drillers game.
Count 'em, people! 5 things all asking for my time on a Friday. Dilbert had some priority because it was the first thing planned. Going-away party had to sit on the back burner. Concert in BA was nixed because I didn't hear about it until this morning. LifeGroup was shot down because I already had plans, though I said they could meet without me. I carved out the first half of my evening before Dilbert and made plans to hang out with them at Drillers Stadium, at least for a while.
I stood up and walked out of Drillers Stadium with the shouts of my friends telling me to sit back down ringing in my ears. At least the Dilbert people didn't bug me for being late.
I counted today; 73 days before I hit the road for school. 20 before I leave for Colorado. 29 until I return from Colorado. Roughly 40 days between Colorado and Wilmore. At this point, every moment with friends counts. So many friends... Old friends that I haven't seen in a while that I want to see one more time before I go. Friends that have been in the trenches with me for the past several years. Friends from church that are my coworkers, but my buddies as well. And a few random people that don't really fit into any of these categories.
I want to see them all.
But I can't!! Damn it, I can't. In my efforts, some people will get ignored so I can see others. It's inevitable. There's nothing I can do about that. I have to make some relationships suffer to keep up with others. It's a sick game, and I just can't win.
So how will things be when I leave? Will I have a myriad of almost-friends? Will I have a tight circle of good, close friends? Does it even matter?
I feel like I'm trying to hang onto a fistful of sand... It's all slowly slipping away, and the harder I squeeze the more grains fall out. Eventually, I'll just look at where a pile used to be and see a few grains remaining... I suppose that's inevitable.
I don't want to let my friends go... Just a few weeks back, I wrote a post begging them to hang on to me. What do you do? I don't know...
I can't. I just can't.
6.17.2007
Thoughts Regarding Napping Upon Trampolines
You should try it.
This afternoon, I had the most singular experience. I was able to slip the surly bonds of existence and relax in a state of tranquil bliss unlike anything I have experienced.
Okay, so I really just took a nap on the trampoline in the backyard, but it sure felt great. I would highly recommend the experience.
It all started as a whim; I was just going to lay down and stare at the trees while my laundry was finishing up. I caught up my iced tea in one hand, a large fistful of Sunday-style-sleepiness in the other, and kicked back on top of a rather large black circle.
The sky was a little cloudy, so the sun wasn't too bright. The air was just a tad breezy, so the bugs were staying away. Surrounded by the wonder of nature, I stared upward. Towards the blue sky gleefully mottled with clouds. Towards the treetops gently swaying in the wind.
I took off my long-sleeved shirt and rolled it up under my head; it would make a decent pillow. I relaxed and let the wind play with my hair. I don't remember much after that.
Until I woke up. The sun had come out and was endeavoring to bake the trampoline, as well as it's occupant. Some bug had tried to eat my hand, but fortunately found the task a bit too daunting. My iced tea was unfortunately no longer iced.
However, the experience remained great. I think I'll do it again.
This afternoon, I had the most singular experience. I was able to slip the surly bonds of existence and relax in a state of tranquil bliss unlike anything I have experienced.
Okay, so I really just took a nap on the trampoline in the backyard, but it sure felt great. I would highly recommend the experience.
It all started as a whim; I was just going to lay down and stare at the trees while my laundry was finishing up. I caught up my iced tea in one hand, a large fistful of Sunday-style-sleepiness in the other, and kicked back on top of a rather large black circle.
The sky was a little cloudy, so the sun wasn't too bright. The air was just a tad breezy, so the bugs were staying away. Surrounded by the wonder of nature, I stared upward. Towards the blue sky gleefully mottled with clouds. Towards the treetops gently swaying in the wind.
I took off my long-sleeved shirt and rolled it up under my head; it would make a decent pillow. I relaxed and let the wind play with my hair. I don't remember much after that.
Until I woke up. The sun had come out and was endeavoring to bake the trampoline, as well as it's occupant. Some bug had tried to eat my hand, but fortunately found the task a bit too daunting. My iced tea was unfortunately no longer iced.
However, the experience remained great. I think I'll do it again.
6.06.2007
Comedy at the Crib
So Saturday Night Coordinator's meeting took place this week during the noon hour on Wednesday, as it always does. We met at Rib Crib. I'm not sure why exactly things transpired as they did, but it sure was worth a laugh.
Eddie, Brad, and myself were sitting before the meeting in the group room, shooting the breeze. In the middle of this conversation, a Rib Crib employee flew past the group room door shouting, "CODE YELLOW! Heads up!! We're going CODE YELLOW!!"
The three of us paused our conversation to gawk at the hole in the space-time continuum that the urgent employee had just left. I wondered out loud what the deuce "Code Yellow" actually meant.
Are terrorists attacking? Is it someone's birthday? Did someone find the Virgin Mary enshrined in the coleslaw? Did the giant vat of mustard in the kitchen finally run dry?
Alas, we shall never know.
After this odd moment had passed and normal conversation resumed, a surprisingly sudden wave of loud music assaulted our eardrums. The noise was enough to prohibit normal conversation, so I excused myself to resolve the issue.
There just so happened to be a meeting of employees outside the group room door. I'm not sure why they were there; perhaps they were defining the precise meaning of "Code Yellow." I approached the one who looked the most like the manager, and requested that the music be turned off.
In pig latin.
I'm not sure why I resorted to a dead language hailing from the forgotten and bygone days of middle school. All I know is that it came without thought and that I felt proud of my eloquence. "Ixnay on the usicmay." Perfectly understandable! Concise, clear, and even slightly comedic. It never crossed my mind that there may be people who have successfully resisted the persistent efforts of irrelevant culture making inroads into their psyche during the formative years of junior high.
However, today I ran across such a specimen who could not appreciate, much less comprehend, my mastery of early teenage communication. My astuteness was received with a blank stare broken by a slightly twitching eyebrow.
Fortunately, our waitress happened to be standing nearby. An obvious pillar of understanding, she grasped my request and speedily resolved the issue. I bet she also figured out what "Code Yellow" meant. Sharp young lady.
After these events, our meeting continued unhindered. I did have to resist the urge to call out "Code (insert random adjective here)!!"
I wonder how next week will go.
Eddie, Brad, and myself were sitting before the meeting in the group room, shooting the breeze. In the middle of this conversation, a Rib Crib employee flew past the group room door shouting, "CODE YELLOW! Heads up!! We're going CODE YELLOW!!"
The three of us paused our conversation to gawk at the hole in the space-time continuum that the urgent employee had just left. I wondered out loud what the deuce "Code Yellow" actually meant.
Are terrorists attacking? Is it someone's birthday? Did someone find the Virgin Mary enshrined in the coleslaw? Did the giant vat of mustard in the kitchen finally run dry?
Alas, we shall never know.
After this odd moment had passed and normal conversation resumed, a surprisingly sudden wave of loud music assaulted our eardrums. The noise was enough to prohibit normal conversation, so I excused myself to resolve the issue.
There just so happened to be a meeting of employees outside the group room door. I'm not sure why they were there; perhaps they were defining the precise meaning of "Code Yellow." I approached the one who looked the most like the manager, and requested that the music be turned off.
In pig latin.
I'm not sure why I resorted to a dead language hailing from the forgotten and bygone days of middle school. All I know is that it came without thought and that I felt proud of my eloquence. "Ixnay on the usicmay." Perfectly understandable! Concise, clear, and even slightly comedic. It never crossed my mind that there may be people who have successfully resisted the persistent efforts of irrelevant culture making inroads into their psyche during the formative years of junior high.
However, today I ran across such a specimen who could not appreciate, much less comprehend, my mastery of early teenage communication. My astuteness was received with a blank stare broken by a slightly twitching eyebrow.
Fortunately, our waitress happened to be standing nearby. An obvious pillar of understanding, she grasped my request and speedily resolved the issue. I bet she also figured out what "Code Yellow" meant. Sharp young lady.
After these events, our meeting continued unhindered. I did have to resist the urge to call out "Code (insert random adjective here)!!"
I wonder how next week will go.
6.01.2007
Cold, Hard Facts
At coffee last Wednesday:
Preston: "Have you ever found in your group of honors program friends that even though they are advanced intellectually, they might be stunted in emotional development or social skills?"
Me: "Oh, yes. We're all slightly crazy."
Preston: "Have you ever found in your group of honors program friends that even though they are advanced intellectually, they might be stunted in emotional development or social skills?"
Me: "Oh, yes. We're all slightly crazy."
5.22.2007
Friends Are Friends For What?
Over the past several weeks, I've been getting ready to go to another place. In the latter half of August, I will load my belongings into a red Honda Civic named Roxie and meander across our great nation. This trek will deposit me in Wilmore, Kentucky for at least the next two years of my existence.
So where does that leave my relationships here? In many interesting places. Some people seem to have dealt with the idea; we can laugh and joke about me moving on. Some people seem to ignore the fact and would prefer not to address it. Others could care less.
And others, in an odd twist of fate, seem to be in the process of slowly writing me off. Letting the relationship wane and die. That when I drive down I-44 into the sunrise, I will fade out of existence. Just like I faded out of their minds sometime before I actually left.
Somehow, I feel like my friends are dying off long before I'd like them to. Maybe it's the constant of shift that plagues my every step. Maybe it's just how I perceive the gang this summer. Maybe things have been off ever since Aimee and I broke up, and
I just can't bounce back from that. Maybe it's the fact that the clock is ticking on everything I do, and I'm trying to pack as much as I can into the little time I've got left; and I can only be disappointed, because I can't get everything done. I don't know.
All I know is that I feel like Marty McFly; looking at pictures of the gang, and slowly seeing myself fade into nothing. Complete obscurity.
In the Hebrew culture, after you died, your memory was your afterlife. A life forgotten was the worst hell; a life remembered was the greatest heaven.
It's almost like I'm watching myself slowly be damned.
And the funny thing is, with so little time left, some of my relationships have come alive. Other people seem to share this desire to have meaningful interactions before I leave, and go out of their way to try and make those things happen. I thank God for friends like these.
And now... For some reason, I'm not scared to build friendships in the time I've got left. Some people, I'm just starting to become friends with them. And I will miss them, but I'll be glad that I knew them instead of standing by and watching them float out of my life.
To those who are still taking the time to be in the trenches with me: I love you guys more than you know. Don't think that it all ends in August.
And to those who are fading: Please don't give up on me yet.
Don't give up on me ever.
So where does that leave my relationships here? In many interesting places. Some people seem to have dealt with the idea; we can laugh and joke about me moving on. Some people seem to ignore the fact and would prefer not to address it. Others could care less.
And others, in an odd twist of fate, seem to be in the process of slowly writing me off. Letting the relationship wane and die. That when I drive down I-44 into the sunrise, I will fade out of existence. Just like I faded out of their minds sometime before I actually left.
Somehow, I feel like my friends are dying off long before I'd like them to. Maybe it's the constant of shift that plagues my every step. Maybe it's just how I perceive the gang this summer. Maybe things have been off ever since Aimee and I broke up, and
I just can't bounce back from that. Maybe it's the fact that the clock is ticking on everything I do, and I'm trying to pack as much as I can into the little time I've got left; and I can only be disappointed, because I can't get everything done. I don't know.
All I know is that I feel like Marty McFly; looking at pictures of the gang, and slowly seeing myself fade into nothing. Complete obscurity.
In the Hebrew culture, after you died, your memory was your afterlife. A life forgotten was the worst hell; a life remembered was the greatest heaven.
It's almost like I'm watching myself slowly be damned.
And the funny thing is, with so little time left, some of my relationships have come alive. Other people seem to share this desire to have meaningful interactions before I leave, and go out of their way to try and make those things happen. I thank God for friends like these.
And now... For some reason, I'm not scared to build friendships in the time I've got left. Some people, I'm just starting to become friends with them. And I will miss them, but I'll be glad that I knew them instead of standing by and watching them float out of my life.
To those who are still taking the time to be in the trenches with me: I love you guys more than you know. Don't think that it all ends in August.
And to those who are fading: Please don't give up on me yet.
Don't give up on me ever.
5.17.2007
Flashmobs, Father Brown, Fighting Tectonic Shift, and Friggin' Long Walks
I had an interesting day yesterday. I can't even remember the proper order for all these events, so I guess you'll just get them in order of relative impression.
I saw a guy with a shirt that passionately encouraged me to "Fight Tectonic Shift" and to "Restore Panagea." On his back was a graphic of the aforementioned supercontinent. When he turned around, the shirt also proclaimed that the wearer was, in some form or fashion, connected with the Oklahoma State University Geology Department.
I wonder if Pistol Pete has a degree in geology. Go Pokes!
As I was making the turn to get onto I-44, I saw that a man of African-American heritage had felt the need to exit his vehicle whilst at a stoplight and dance upon the median. In the split second I had to ponder him, I noticed the inordinately large, self-possessed smile he carried on his countenance. Seems that he was having a great time.
Man. I should try that sometime.
After dropping off my tennis racquet to be strung, I ambled down the sidewalk to the local Barnes & Noble. I discovered, to my great joy, that they had a volume of Father Brown detective stories. This line of stories was written by my author of choice, G. K. Chesterton, and is comprised of many short stories, similar to the style of the shorter Sherlock Holmes narratives. I would rate Father Brown as Sherlock Holmes' equal in intelligence, if not his superior. (Perhaps not a fair comparison, but ah well.) However, Brown is as humble and unassuming as Holmes is vain and arrogant. Holmes, while always doggedly tracking down the scent of a clue, remains sharp and focused. Brown, while just as determined, casts an air of being aloof, disconnected, and prone to making observations and comments that seemingly have nothing to do with the matter at hand, but always bring him home to the perpetrator. Perhaps the most striking difference between the two is that Holmes is a free agent; he will turn criminals over to the authorities as he sees fit, or will release them if he judges that they can do no more harm. Brown is a Catholic priest; and Chesterton, in an interesting twist, brings the climax of the story in the criminal's confession of their sin to the sharp-witted man of the cloth. The focus is not on the bringing of the criminal to justice; instead, the emphasis lies on the criminal's reconciliation to God.
Interesting.
Finally, I took a walk last night. It was a nice walk; I had always passed this trailhead around 101st and Garnett, and wondered where it went. Last night I found out. It follows the turnpike. It was a lovely walk, and I got kinda carried away. I followed the trail to Elm and the Creek Turnpike, and then turned around and walked back. About 7 miles, all told. It was nice; fireflies were out, there was a nice breeze. If I could ignore the pavement under my feet and the highway over my shoulder, I would have thought I was in the country. My legs kinda hurt today, but it was time well spent.
And in light of all that.... I can't help but believe God looks down on his kids and smiles.
I saw a guy with a shirt that passionately encouraged me to "Fight Tectonic Shift" and to "Restore Panagea." On his back was a graphic of the aforementioned supercontinent. When he turned around, the shirt also proclaimed that the wearer was, in some form or fashion, connected with the Oklahoma State University Geology Department.
I wonder if Pistol Pete has a degree in geology. Go Pokes!
As I was making the turn to get onto I-44, I saw that a man of African-American heritage had felt the need to exit his vehicle whilst at a stoplight and dance upon the median. In the split second I had to ponder him, I noticed the inordinately large, self-possessed smile he carried on his countenance. Seems that he was having a great time.
Man. I should try that sometime.
After dropping off my tennis racquet to be strung, I ambled down the sidewalk to the local Barnes & Noble. I discovered, to my great joy, that they had a volume of Father Brown detective stories. This line of stories was written by my author of choice, G. K. Chesterton, and is comprised of many short stories, similar to the style of the shorter Sherlock Holmes narratives. I would rate Father Brown as Sherlock Holmes' equal in intelligence, if not his superior. (Perhaps not a fair comparison, but ah well.) However, Brown is as humble and unassuming as Holmes is vain and arrogant. Holmes, while always doggedly tracking down the scent of a clue, remains sharp and focused. Brown, while just as determined, casts an air of being aloof, disconnected, and prone to making observations and comments that seemingly have nothing to do with the matter at hand, but always bring him home to the perpetrator. Perhaps the most striking difference between the two is that Holmes is a free agent; he will turn criminals over to the authorities as he sees fit, or will release them if he judges that they can do no more harm. Brown is a Catholic priest; and Chesterton, in an interesting twist, brings the climax of the story in the criminal's confession of their sin to the sharp-witted man of the cloth. The focus is not on the bringing of the criminal to justice; instead, the emphasis lies on the criminal's reconciliation to God.
Interesting.
Finally, I took a walk last night. It was a nice walk; I had always passed this trailhead around 101st and Garnett, and wondered where it went. Last night I found out. It follows the turnpike. It was a lovely walk, and I got kinda carried away. I followed the trail to Elm and the Creek Turnpike, and then turned around and walked back. About 7 miles, all told. It was nice; fireflies were out, there was a nice breeze. If I could ignore the pavement under my feet and the highway over my shoulder, I would have thought I was in the country. My legs kinda hurt today, but it was time well spent.
And in light of all that.... I can't help but believe God looks down on his kids and smiles.
5.12.2007
Ehhhh... So Now What?
Well, graduation was this past week. Not for me, but for several friends of mine. Hard to believe I've been out in the world for a year.
Dang, I feel old.
Anyway, it's struck me how my friends are dealing with questions of faith. Because questions they do have. After four years of ORU, four years of being in the bubble, four years of Christian environment, these people suddenly find themselves graduated from the bubble. They also find themselves very able to function within a bubble, but they also find that the bubble, for the most part, has failed to answer their questions; or even worse, they find that the bubble has failed to be relevant to where they are in life.
Ouch.
So I've got friends that are struggling. Some are pursuing more orthodox expressions of faith. Some are pursuing less orthodox ways of belief. Some have no idea what they are pursuing, but hoping they'll recognize it when they find it; and still others have given up the pursuit of anything at all.
Part of this makes sense. I've taken the year off this past year, and it's been hell. More than enough to cause me to question God. In every way. Whether or not He loves me, He cares, or if He even exists. I had to fight through this stuff.
So now, several months and many arguments with the ceiling later, here I sit. Still a believer. And I can say that God does care. He does love. And He certainly does exist. He is faithful. And though I have walked through trials and pain that I do not wish to see again, I can see God's hand holding mine through it all.
But somehow, though I remain convinced of God and the rightness of my belief, I also sympathize with my friends who are struggling. You have to grapple; you have to fight. You have to make it your own.
I also wish that they didn't have to do that. It hurts. My friends, people I'd dive in front of traffic for, thinking of leaving the church. For what? I don't know... But they do, I guess. Is that really necessary, I ask myself (because I don't have the guts to ask them)? Is it because something else is shiny and grabs their attention? Or is the problem not with the belief system, but perhaps in the believer? Perhaps it is time to be stretched, to grow?
What changed? Why doesn't it work anymore? If God's been distant, who's been running away? And will changing churches, or even faiths, fix anything? Will renouncing faith fix anything?
It may sound like I'm encouraging blind belief. Please understand, I'm not. I'm encouraing questions. I'm encouraging fighting for truth, wherever that may be found. But I'm also wondering why somehow running from God, or evangelical Christianity, or whatever, will fix wherever one is at and provide answers to their questions.
I'm scared for my friends. Who knows where they will wind up? I don't. I just have to put them in God's hands, and trust Him to hold them, as He has done me.
Dang, I feel old.
Anyway, it's struck me how my friends are dealing with questions of faith. Because questions they do have. After four years of ORU, four years of being in the bubble, four years of Christian environment, these people suddenly find themselves graduated from the bubble. They also find themselves very able to function within a bubble, but they also find that the bubble, for the most part, has failed to answer their questions; or even worse, they find that the bubble has failed to be relevant to where they are in life.
Ouch.
So I've got friends that are struggling. Some are pursuing more orthodox expressions of faith. Some are pursuing less orthodox ways of belief. Some have no idea what they are pursuing, but hoping they'll recognize it when they find it; and still others have given up the pursuit of anything at all.
Part of this makes sense. I've taken the year off this past year, and it's been hell. More than enough to cause me to question God. In every way. Whether or not He loves me, He cares, or if He even exists. I had to fight through this stuff.
So now, several months and many arguments with the ceiling later, here I sit. Still a believer. And I can say that God does care. He does love. And He certainly does exist. He is faithful. And though I have walked through trials and pain that I do not wish to see again, I can see God's hand holding mine through it all.
But somehow, though I remain convinced of God and the rightness of my belief, I also sympathize with my friends who are struggling. You have to grapple; you have to fight. You have to make it your own.
I also wish that they didn't have to do that. It hurts. My friends, people I'd dive in front of traffic for, thinking of leaving the church. For what? I don't know... But they do, I guess. Is that really necessary, I ask myself (because I don't have the guts to ask them)? Is it because something else is shiny and grabs their attention? Or is the problem not with the belief system, but perhaps in the believer? Perhaps it is time to be stretched, to grow?
What changed? Why doesn't it work anymore? If God's been distant, who's been running away? And will changing churches, or even faiths, fix anything? Will renouncing faith fix anything?
It may sound like I'm encouraging blind belief. Please understand, I'm not. I'm encouraing questions. I'm encouraging fighting for truth, wherever that may be found. But I'm also wondering why somehow running from God, or evangelical Christianity, or whatever, will fix wherever one is at and provide answers to their questions.
I'm scared for my friends. Who knows where they will wind up? I don't. I just have to put them in God's hands, and trust Him to hold them, as He has done me.
5.03.2007
I Think Somehow I Missed It.
I had a rather singular experience today. A girl, about my own age, stopped by selling magazine subscriptions. Her goal? She was trying to earn enough points to get a trip to Rome. She asked if she could sit, so I invited her in. I got her a glass of water.
I sat down and flipped through what she was offering while we talked about movies... Apparently she's a big fan of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Anyway, I didn't see anything I wanted. She did a great job of trying to identify my interests, but honestly... I'm not a big magazine guy. We got into the age-old Sean Connery vs. Johnny Depp debate for a minute, and then I told her that I didn't see anything I was interested in. I stood up and took my own now-empty glass into the kitchen.
I came back in the living room and wished her the best; that I hoped all would go well and that her trip would be great. I also apologized for not helping her out. She said that was okay; that I had that look about me.
"The look of a loser?" I joked.
"No..." She paused and silently considered me for a moment. "...The look of someone who wouldn't give me anything."
And after a few more pleasantries, she went on.
Ouch. Here I am, ORU t-shirt and all. I had told her I was in Biblical Studies. I may as well have "Christian" written on my forehead. A trip to Rome would have been fun... I've been overseas, and it's a blast. I could have helped her. I could have taken some time and found out her story. By Christian standards, she wasn't someone you'd spend time with; cigarette smoke pungently evident on her person, the Playboy bunny featured prominently on her purse. But I could have done something. Even if I didn't want a magazine, I could have given her a check for the trip. I could have prayed for her. Something.
As she walked out the door, I couldn't help but feel that somehow I blew it. I've always been a soft touch for salespeople. Sob stories in parking lots will empty my wallet. This past year, I've developed a thicker skin. Or maybe I just don't care as much.
But what's the big deal? She was selling magazines... I didn't want any... Case closed. I shouldn't feel bad.
In a few weeks, I plan to send out sponsorship letters for my upcoming studies at Asbury. Very different, some would say. Others would say not so different. I couldn't help but being struck by the similarities.
What could I have done?
I sat down and flipped through what she was offering while we talked about movies... Apparently she's a big fan of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Anyway, I didn't see anything I wanted. She did a great job of trying to identify my interests, but honestly... I'm not a big magazine guy. We got into the age-old Sean Connery vs. Johnny Depp debate for a minute, and then I told her that I didn't see anything I was interested in. I stood up and took my own now-empty glass into the kitchen.
I came back in the living room and wished her the best; that I hoped all would go well and that her trip would be great. I also apologized for not helping her out. She said that was okay; that I had that look about me.
"The look of a loser?" I joked.
"No..." She paused and silently considered me for a moment. "...The look of someone who wouldn't give me anything."
And after a few more pleasantries, she went on.
Ouch. Here I am, ORU t-shirt and all. I had told her I was in Biblical Studies. I may as well have "Christian" written on my forehead. A trip to Rome would have been fun... I've been overseas, and it's a blast. I could have helped her. I could have taken some time and found out her story. By Christian standards, she wasn't someone you'd spend time with; cigarette smoke pungently evident on her person, the Playboy bunny featured prominently on her purse. But I could have done something. Even if I didn't want a magazine, I could have given her a check for the trip. I could have prayed for her. Something.
As she walked out the door, I couldn't help but feel that somehow I blew it. I've always been a soft touch for salespeople. Sob stories in parking lots will empty my wallet. This past year, I've developed a thicker skin. Or maybe I just don't care as much.
But what's the big deal? She was selling magazines... I didn't want any... Case closed. I shouldn't feel bad.
In a few weeks, I plan to send out sponsorship letters for my upcoming studies at Asbury. Very different, some would say. Others would say not so different. I couldn't help but being struck by the similarities.
What could I have done?
4.25.2007
Welcome to... The Church of Bastards.
Quote from before coordinator's meeting today I just had to pass on...
Context: Preston, Brad, and I are sitting around, discussing the Farkle tournament and awaiting the arrival of the other coordinators.
Me: "...And then she muttered, "Bastard!" and passed the dice on."
Preston: "Speaking of bastards, where is everyone?"
Priceless!
Context: Preston, Brad, and I are sitting around, discussing the Farkle tournament and awaiting the arrival of the other coordinators.
Me: "...And then she muttered, "Bastard!" and passed the dice on."
Preston: "Speaking of bastards, where is everyone?"
Priceless!
4.23.2007
A Small Glimpse of Love...
Over the course of the past few weeks, I have had the most oddly profound thing happen to me. A couple of months ago, a wonderful girl and I started dating. It was an amazing time. Positive emotions all around. And then this thing of beauty ended. I don't regret the experience at all. A wonderful month with a wonderful girl. However, breakups mean pain. Loss. Grief. And through a process I don't understand, these things have taken on a beauty of their own. I don't wish to block these things out. They are part of the experience of life. They add depth; they bring a certain sincerity, a marked wholeness to life that would not be there otherwise. I choose to walk through these things, knowing that these things are not to be avoided, but instead experienced and lived. Just as much as any happy experience. It's all necessary; happiness would be meaningless without sadness to make it great. There would be no healing in sadness if happiness could not come out of it.
So that's where I am. Thus is the backstory for what you're about to read.
The concept of love has always been a foreign one to me. It never made sense. I knew it was something awesome, but I couldn't tell you what it felt like. I had no idea what it meant to love my neighbor, much less the Creator of the universe. I could serve my neighbor; I could jump in front of traffic for my neighbor, but did I love my neighbor?
Nyehh, couldn't tell ya. Same thing with God.
Until recently... I may have a clue now. When I was dating this marvelous young lady, it was my honor and privilege to do things for her. Open the door for her. Have a rose sitting at her place at the table on Valentine's Day. Slip chocolate bars in her book bag when she wasn't looking. Sit with her in silence when she didn't want to say a word. Pick up the phone in the wee hours of the morning when she needed someone to talk to. Take time out of my day, every day, just to see her and let her know that I cared about her. If she had asked, I would have done anything. Grabbed a calendar and some scissors and made Spring come tomorrow. Bought her a sleepy, fuzzy puppy to pet while she did her studies. I would have spun the world on my finger like a basketball if it would have made her day better.
And she was worth it. All of it. Why? Because she was my girl. It wasn't my duty to do those things. It was my honor. My joy. There was nothing else I'd rather be doing than making her day better. She meant that much to me.
And maybe... Just maybe...
We mean that much to God.
Maybe even more. God does spin the earth like a basketball. He paints the skies every day. He gave me everything that I have; nothing did not come from Him. If there is any reason that I had a good day, it's because God made it so. If there is any reason that I did not stop dead in my tracks today, it's because God kept me walking.
"Jesus Christ, what more could He have done for you?"
He has done everything. And He can do more. Not because of anything I've done, or anything I will do. Because He loves me that much. Because I'm his kid.
Because He said so.
It's hard to explain... God is giving himself to us all the time. He wants to. He desires a relationship. Every day, he pulls out all the stops of the universe just for us. He doesn't have to.
He wants to.
Maybe this is a part of what love is. I'm not sure I've done love justice in this post. I'm not even sure if I've done God justice in these paragraphs. But I do know that God loves me and shows me in ways beyond my imagination.
If you want to stop reading here, you've got my permission. Go have a cookie or something. No hard feelings; see ya next time.
This is a poem/song I wrote when this realization hit. It's not the greatest thing ever, but it captured the moment. Maybe you can pull something out of it too.
I painted the sky today
Every shade of white and blue
And sent a light breeze on its way
Just so I could touch you
I spun the earth and placed the stars
And pulled the moon a little bit closer
So when the sun falls, falling star
The night would be perfect and last forever
All these things I'd do for you
My favorite, my only
So much more if you'd ask me to
My beautiful, my lovely
I am yours
Everything around us here
What can I do for you?
Anything you ask, my dear
Because it's my pleasure to
Pick up the phone at 2AM
Listen to your heart cry
Race to you as fast as I can
Hold you; you are mine
If I had one second left
To do anything I wished
I would spend my dying breath
Just to let you know
I am yours
4-16-07
So that's where I am. Thus is the backstory for what you're about to read.
The concept of love has always been a foreign one to me. It never made sense. I knew it was something awesome, but I couldn't tell you what it felt like. I had no idea what it meant to love my neighbor, much less the Creator of the universe. I could serve my neighbor; I could jump in front of traffic for my neighbor, but did I love my neighbor?
Nyehh, couldn't tell ya. Same thing with God.
Until recently... I may have a clue now. When I was dating this marvelous young lady, it was my honor and privilege to do things for her. Open the door for her. Have a rose sitting at her place at the table on Valentine's Day. Slip chocolate bars in her book bag when she wasn't looking. Sit with her in silence when she didn't want to say a word. Pick up the phone in the wee hours of the morning when she needed someone to talk to. Take time out of my day, every day, just to see her and let her know that I cared about her. If she had asked, I would have done anything. Grabbed a calendar and some scissors and made Spring come tomorrow. Bought her a sleepy, fuzzy puppy to pet while she did her studies. I would have spun the world on my finger like a basketball if it would have made her day better.
And she was worth it. All of it. Why? Because she was my girl. It wasn't my duty to do those things. It was my honor. My joy. There was nothing else I'd rather be doing than making her day better. She meant that much to me.
And maybe... Just maybe...
We mean that much to God.
Maybe even more. God does spin the earth like a basketball. He paints the skies every day. He gave me everything that I have; nothing did not come from Him. If there is any reason that I had a good day, it's because God made it so. If there is any reason that I did not stop dead in my tracks today, it's because God kept me walking.
"Jesus Christ, what more could He have done for you?"
He has done everything. And He can do more. Not because of anything I've done, or anything I will do. Because He loves me that much. Because I'm his kid.
Because He said so.
It's hard to explain... God is giving himself to us all the time. He wants to. He desires a relationship. Every day, he pulls out all the stops of the universe just for us. He doesn't have to.
He wants to.
Maybe this is a part of what love is. I'm not sure I've done love justice in this post. I'm not even sure if I've done God justice in these paragraphs. But I do know that God loves me and shows me in ways beyond my imagination.
If you want to stop reading here, you've got my permission. Go have a cookie or something. No hard feelings; see ya next time.
This is a poem/song I wrote when this realization hit. It's not the greatest thing ever, but it captured the moment. Maybe you can pull something out of it too.
I painted the sky today
Every shade of white and blue
And sent a light breeze on its way
Just so I could touch you
I spun the earth and placed the stars
And pulled the moon a little bit closer
So when the sun falls, falling star
The night would be perfect and last forever
All these things I'd do for you
My favorite, my only
So much more if you'd ask me to
My beautiful, my lovely
I am yours
Everything around us here
What can I do for you?
Anything you ask, my dear
Because it's my pleasure to
Pick up the phone at 2AM
Listen to your heart cry
Race to you as fast as I can
Hold you; you are mine
If I had one second left
To do anything I wished
I would spend my dying breath
Just to let you know
I am yours
4-16-07
3.28.2007
Something About Beauty...
"This is the position we are in when confronted by beauty. The world is full of beauty, but the beauty is incomplete. Our puzzlement about what beauty is, what it means, and what (if anything) it is there for is the inevitable result of looking at one part of a larger whole. Beauty, in other words, is another echo of a voice - a voice which (from the evidence before us) might be saying one of several things, but which, were we to hear it in all its fullness, would make sense of what we presently see and hear and know and love and call 'beautiful.'"
Simply Christian
by N. T. Wright
To me, this section raises the question if we are able to fully apprehend/comprehend, or even appreciate, beauty. Wright seems to be saying that if we could see beauty in its fullness, then we could fully grasp it. But I'd like to raise the question:
Can we do that?
When we see beauty, many times we do not ponder its incompleteness - we try to appreciate it, however we may do that. It may not be until some time later that we realize its incompleteness for the first time. And when we do, the object itself becomes no less beautiful. We just understand it more fully.
And can we understand enough to find the missing ingredient that will make us appreciate and know beauty to its fullest? I don't think so. It doesn't seem to be a matter of understanding. At this point, the awesomeness of beauty is in just that - awesome being: "Extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear." Beauty can be all of these things. Which makes me realize:
Beauty is bigger than us.
I can only handle it in small doses. Anything more would make my head explode. I simply cannot take beauty in its completeness.
But oh my, what a gorgeous explosion it would be...
Simply Christian
by N. T. Wright
To me, this section raises the question if we are able to fully apprehend/comprehend, or even appreciate, beauty. Wright seems to be saying that if we could see beauty in its fullness, then we could fully grasp it. But I'd like to raise the question:
Can we do that?
When we see beauty, many times we do not ponder its incompleteness - we try to appreciate it, however we may do that. It may not be until some time later that we realize its incompleteness for the first time. And when we do, the object itself becomes no less beautiful. We just understand it more fully.
And can we understand enough to find the missing ingredient that will make us appreciate and know beauty to its fullest? I don't think so. It doesn't seem to be a matter of understanding. At this point, the awesomeness of beauty is in just that - awesome being: "Extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear." Beauty can be all of these things. Which makes me realize:
Beauty is bigger than us.
I can only handle it in small doses. Anything more would make my head explode. I simply cannot take beauty in its completeness.
But oh my, what a gorgeous explosion it would be...
3.25.2007
On That Funny Thing I Feel In The Morning
Maybe you feel it too. Have you ever opened your eyes to a feeling of great expectation, mixed in with a small dose of joyous dread? Kinda like when you were a child, perhaps. Think back to Christmas morning. You were excited because you were going to get presents. Nothing could be better. You were also just a tad worried that you weren't going to get what you asked for. Maybe Auntie Matilda had a nasty habit of getting you monogrammed hankies every year instead of giving you a gift card to the nearest retailer who sold various and sundry wicked awesome items, and you're a tad concerned that she failed to pick up on your thinly veiled hints for the fifth year in a row. But that's probably okay, because she's not the only one giving you presents. Hopefully.
But you get the idea. Something big is going to happen today. I can't put my finger on what it is. It's probably good. It's possibly bad. But I'm expecting something. Looking over my shoulder, trying to figure out what comes next. Going into situations with a feeling of shaking the box and trying to guess what's inside. Rather on edge, but in a good way.
So that's the feeling. Let's push things a bit further.
Let's suppose that every day is Christmas Day. You wake up expecting something. The tree is set up, there's snow on the ground, carols are playing on the radio, the calendar confirms that today is indeed December 25th. And you jump out of bed, sprint down the stairs, and crash-land in the living room, where you find...
Wicked awesome presents? Every once in a while. Bad presents? Occasionally. Lumps of coal? More than I'd like, but not more than I'd admit to.
Nothing at all? Almost every day, it seems.
What gives? Despite the obvious fact that today is Christmas Day, nobody seems to have gotten the memo. Dad just left for work. Mom's telling me that I'm going to be late for school. I forgot my algebra homework. Someone canceled at work tonight and I have to cover their shift.
Wait! I thought today was Christmas! Happy, joyous, exciting, unexpected, spine-tingling revelry of enjoying gifts and seeing what the world held for me!
But no... Today is a day just like any other, and I'm the odd one out for feeling this way. Every day. And to make matters worse, I can't take the tree down. I can't put the snow back in the sky. I can't change the songs on the radio. And I certainly can't change what the calendar says.
So I wake up feeling very certain that today is going to be a fabulous, life-changing day. And then I end the day feeling bummed and tired because it wasn't. Oh, sometimes it is. Once in a blue moon. But almost every day... It doesn't seem that way.
I can't expect every day to be super-awesome. I know that. Life just doesn't work that way. But I do wish that I could wake up feeling content with whatever the day holds instead of biting my nails day after day in a state of mental anticipation.
Or maybe the days are great, and I just can't see it. Either way, it's pretty tiring. Maybe things will be better tomorrow...
But you get the idea. Something big is going to happen today. I can't put my finger on what it is. It's probably good. It's possibly bad. But I'm expecting something. Looking over my shoulder, trying to figure out what comes next. Going into situations with a feeling of shaking the box and trying to guess what's inside. Rather on edge, but in a good way.
So that's the feeling. Let's push things a bit further.
Let's suppose that every day is Christmas Day. You wake up expecting something. The tree is set up, there's snow on the ground, carols are playing on the radio, the calendar confirms that today is indeed December 25th. And you jump out of bed, sprint down the stairs, and crash-land in the living room, where you find...
Wicked awesome presents? Every once in a while. Bad presents? Occasionally. Lumps of coal? More than I'd like, but not more than I'd admit to.
Nothing at all? Almost every day, it seems.
What gives? Despite the obvious fact that today is Christmas Day, nobody seems to have gotten the memo. Dad just left for work. Mom's telling me that I'm going to be late for school. I forgot my algebra homework. Someone canceled at work tonight and I have to cover their shift.
Wait! I thought today was Christmas! Happy, joyous, exciting, unexpected, spine-tingling revelry of enjoying gifts and seeing what the world held for me!
But no... Today is a day just like any other, and I'm the odd one out for feeling this way. Every day. And to make matters worse, I can't take the tree down. I can't put the snow back in the sky. I can't change the songs on the radio. And I certainly can't change what the calendar says.
So I wake up feeling very certain that today is going to be a fabulous, life-changing day. And then I end the day feeling bummed and tired because it wasn't. Oh, sometimes it is. Once in a blue moon. But almost every day... It doesn't seem that way.
I can't expect every day to be super-awesome. I know that. Life just doesn't work that way. But I do wish that I could wake up feeling content with whatever the day holds instead of biting my nails day after day in a state of mental anticipation.
Or maybe the days are great, and I just can't see it. Either way, it's pretty tiring. Maybe things will be better tomorrow...
3.13.2007
Gone For So Long...
Sorry, Tank.
Apologies. I have let this blog fall into almost-nothingness.
Life has been wild. In the past months since I have blogged here, I have gotten a full-time job at the church, I have been accepted into Asbuy Theological Seminary, I turned 23, I got a girlfriend, and I lost said girlfriend. I'm coming to the realization that at this point in life, the only constant is change.
I don't like that. You know those people who say "Change is good?" I wish I could toss them off a moderately sized skyscraper. They can enjoy flying.
For a change.
However, I continue to believe that God is watching after me and guiding my steps. I've come to realize that I can never feel that in the process; I can only look back and say, "God was there."
I guess that has to be good enough. It's all I get for now... But there is grace here. I know it. I can feel it.
Everything's gonna be okay.
Apologies. I have let this blog fall into almost-nothingness.
Life has been wild. In the past months since I have blogged here, I have gotten a full-time job at the church, I have been accepted into Asbuy Theological Seminary, I turned 23, I got a girlfriend, and I lost said girlfriend. I'm coming to the realization that at this point in life, the only constant is change.
I don't like that. You know those people who say "Change is good?" I wish I could toss them off a moderately sized skyscraper. They can enjoy flying.
For a change.
However, I continue to believe that God is watching after me and guiding my steps. I've come to realize that I can never feel that in the process; I can only look back and say, "God was there."
I guess that has to be good enough. It's all I get for now... But there is grace here. I know it. I can feel it.
Everything's gonna be okay.
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