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.

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.

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.

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?