Blogs from the Deep

Saul, Winston and Other Individuals

2012-01-22T22:09:00.000-08:00

It’s a shame about Saul! You know what I mean? Here is a guy who had everything going for him: the right looks; the right height; a kingdom established by a sovereign God; the anointing; even a few short stints prophesying, which turned out genuine enough to puzzle writers about how he should be categorized (Prophet or no?). But then things started to go downhill from there: Saul trying to take on the role of a priest when he wasn’t one; not following directions 100% in the midst of warfare; trying to repeatedly hunt down and kill shepherd-boy Dave, an innocent man; willing to put Jonathan to death over eating a bit of honey, and seeking out witches to help him make major life decisions. It’s just plain sad when you think of it! Isn’t it? He had potential, but his end was inglorious, and his royal line died with him.

We know plenty of stories of individuals who started well, only to fall into infamy: Benedict Arnold, Robert Lundy (the Irish version of Arnold), Martha Stewart, Darth Vader, Gollum… just to name a few. Right? Chapters from history books, media and the fictitious versions of these stories should douse cold water on us. Wake us up! Whisper to us the need to “keep on keeping on” (as GT and the Halo Express so eloquently defined “endurance”). It should remind us to walk in integrity; to love to God; to tidy up those priorities; to keep our minds and hearts set on things that don’t spoil, fade, rot and/or burn.

“Never give up!” Those were the carefully chosen words of Winston Churchill. He used them to encourage his countrymen while earth and buildings were exploding around Great Britain. And how crucial those words are to the weary heart; to those growing weak and weary in the trenches. We’ve come this far, let us not lose hope now; let us not fall victim to the sinister darkness around us.

This is getting a bit preachy, isn’t it? But I preach to myself. My muscles are tired; my heart is sad; I’m at a crawl. But there is a death that comes with halting; with pilgrims who tire of arduous trails. My anemic pace isn’t much, but I take comfort in the fact that there is a certain school for those who are feeling spent. I don’t know what I’m supposed to learn at this place, but I’m guessing it will be an important lesson. After all, I’m all ears if nothing else… and really, I don’t want to share the same fate as Saul.

Another Song

2012-01-10T11:46:00.000-08:00

“I want to run, it’s my nature to run, and I want to fight, it’s my nature to fight, and I want to live but You tell me to die. I have resolved that I’m much better off in Your hands then mine…

I want a crumb, but You are a feast. I want a song, but You are my symphony, I want a star, but You are a galaxy. And I have resolved that I’m much better off in what You have for me.

–Bebo Norman, exerpts from his song “The Only Hope”

Josh Garrels-Farther Along

2012-01-04T21:43:00.000-08:00

I really love this song.

Around the World in 18 Days

2011-12-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

It is difficult to pinpoint what I love about travel. Perhaps it is the fact that no matter how many places you visit, there will always be new places to go or else something you haven’t seen at a previously visited location. There is also the aspect of meeting new people that fascinates me (says the introvert). The challenge of adjusting to a different way of doing things or thinking about things is also interesting. This process can be pleasant, and sometimes painful, but you can hardly walk away unscathed by what you experience during an expedition.

This month I bought a ticket to China. I have been telling my friends about it, and have found myself saying things like “I’m nervous about going to the airport in Beijing” or “I’m nervous about [insert whatever here].” It isn’t too much of a surprise that I’m saying these things. I’ve heard similar things come out of my mouth right before venturing to other places. When I first went to Ireland I was concerned about living a whole year away from my family and friends, and when I first went to Switzerland I didn’t know if I would be able to find the proper train to get on, and when I went to Colombia I was anxious about Bogota being the Kidnapping Capital of the world (among other things). I am now realizing that I’m not just “nervous” about these things; I’m voicing fears. "Fears that I don’t totally want to admit are fears.

I just recently finished reading Numbers and Deuteronomy . The Israelites had plenty of fears, and usually didn’t mind voicing them. “You led us out here to die” they told Moses. “We’re going to starve to death; we’re thirsty! What I’d give for a good meal of leeks!" There was a lot going on with those folk. The fact that Numbers records an 11 day journey taking 40 years is quite sobering (I hope my journey to China just takes 18 days, as planned!). And then, as you probably know most of the Israelites still didn’t REALLY get it, and ended up dying in that sandy wasteland- except for Caleb and Joshua. And then what mighty warriors they turned out to be! I think it’s interesting how Joshua’s career started out. God told Moses to tell Joshua not to be afraid but to be courageous, and then God told Joshua that directly on several occasions, and then later on Josh was able to exhort the rest of the Israel not to be afraid, but to be courageous. What a journey for that man! What a kind of an epic journey for the rest of the nation! To finally go in and conquer the land; THEIR LAND, and to joyfully claim it. Now that's the kind of expedition I'm talking about- one that leaves the imprints of indelible ink.

Deut 5:29 Oh that they had such a heart in them, that they would fear Me, and keep all My commandments always, that it may be well with them and with their sons forever!

Dialog With a Six Year Old

2011-12-19T12:06:00.000-08:00

He came to his lesson last Saturday with a beautifully wrapped present. The tri-colored bow was ingeniously twisted at the top, and the paper of the gift bag shouted things out at me, like “Joy! Joy! Joy!” and “Merry Christmas!” I uttered my surprise at the lovely gift, and let out an “Ooh!” and “Ahh!” as I lifted out the chocolate covered pretzels and a bottle of foamy soap- the kind whose delicious scent lingers on your hands long after you’ve washed them. After I discovered what was in the bag he explained the gift “Well, I didn’t buy it. My mom bought it, and then she gave it to me so I could give it to you… I have Eight Dollars!” I smiled at his frankness; not every kid gives credit where credit is due.

We worked on some Christmas music. Before we started, he protested: “I can’t do this! I don’t know how to play on the E string, or how to use my 4^th finger yet!” I assured him that he could play the song I had in mind for him, and flipped to one that was at his level. His eagerness to be where his older sister is on the violin shines through during every lesson.

As he swings his feet back and forth in his chair he asks “How old do you have to be before you can be a violin instructor?” I told him there wasn’t really a certain age that you had to reach to start teaching, but if he kept playing he would be ready in no time. “You know what?” he said “When I’m a teenager you’ll be a grandma!” I eagerly tried to adjust his math calculations by explaining that I would be in my thirties when he becomes a teenager... but I can understand how 7 years would seem like an infinite span of time for a 6 year old.

Getting this boy to focus on his assigned music is tricky. The music ahead of what we are working on is always much more tantalizing to practice than on what is assigned on a weekly basis. As I wrapped up Saturday’s music lesson he said “Oh yeah, by the way, do you recognize this?” He then proceeded to play a few measures of Ode to Joy from memory. I was surprised; impressed that he was working on something more advanced than what we were struggling to play through just a few minutes earlier. I replied “Yes. Yes I do!” and secretly thought: “Will wonders never cease?”

Isaac

2011-11-05T18:49:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure what I would do if I found myself on an altar, with my father’s hand wrapped around the handle of a knife ready to slit my throat. But that is exactly the predicament Isaac found himself in. Let’s say it is a safe bet that Isaac knew what was going on. He knew they had not arrived at that mountain carrying a lamb (or any other four legged animal). He knew the fire was pipin’ hot ready to go! He knew what usually took place on top of carefully stacked stones. But there seems to be something missing from the story. The chapter doesn’t give any detail of a dramatic struggle between Isaac and his father Abraham. It just says that Abraham bound Isaac. Does anybody else find this strange? I mean, Abraham was no spring chicken, and Isaac was what, a teenager? I’ve seen plenty of 2 year olds quickly outdistance their parents, I’m sure Isaac could have …but… he didn’t. All we know is that his father bound him, and that Isaac would have been a goner had it not been for the LORD’s intervention: an angel who spoke and staid Abraham’s outstretched hand.

I wonder what the walk back down the mountain was like. I wonder if Isaac resented being bound and almost killed; if dinner conversation was reduced to “Please pass the salt.” Or maybe he was impressed that his father withheld nothing from God. Nothing… not even him! Not even his son whom he loved.

More Notebook Notes

2011-09-23T20:13:00.000-07:00

In the midst of my notebook sorting and purging, I came across a few quotations that made an impact on me several years ago. Here is one by Amy Carmichael from her book Thou Givest... They gather:

God- let me be aware,
Stab my soul fiercly with another's pain;
Let me walk, seeing horror and stain;
Let my hands, groping, find other hands.
Give me the heart that divines and understands-
Give me the courage, wounded, to fight;
Flood me with knowledge, drench me with light.

Here is a quotation from C.S. Lewis from the same notebook:

...behind all asceticism the thought should be, "Who will trust us with the true wealth if we cannot be trusted even with the wealth that perishes? Who will trust me with a spiritual body if I cannot control even an earthly body? These small and perishable bodies we now have were given to us as ponies are given to schoolboys. We must learn to manage; not that we may someday be free of horses altogether but that someday we may ride bareback, confident, and rejoicing, those greater mounts, those winged, shining and world-shaking horses which perhaps even now expect us with impatience, pawing and snorting in the King's stables. Not that the gallop would be of any value unless it were a gallop with the King; but how else- since He has retained His own Charger- should we accompany Him?"

High School Poetics

2011-09-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

I have been digging through old notes and books from back when I was in High School. This process is part of a new effort to widdle down and condense what I own. Flipping through a few notebook, I came across some poetry that I wrote back in the day. It definately has a sober and darker tone to it. I don't think it was because I was perpetually depressed; I just think writing was a way for me to vent at the time and handle difficult experiences. Most of the poems are not particularly special or well written, but for what it's worth, here are two poems from the High School Heather.

Silent Music

I shed the tears that weigh me down,
So that I can walk lonely halls.
Here, with head held high, I smile,
While frozen faces slip by, I sigh.

Is there an art to learning art?
I train my hands, but my eyes cannot focus.
I play music that most people cannot hear.
I hold my best on a platter,
only to look down and see that it is broken.
But I'll give what needs mending,
And I'll smile as they pass me by,
Here is where darkness cries for light,
And I'll carry a candle gladly.
I'll carry a candle gladly.

Here is another poem that was written shortly after a friend died in a car wreck.

Adrian

Black road
Silence
Crunching gravel
Tempo increases
Racing wheels
Laughing voices
Breathing souls
Spreading tree
Crunching metal
Brief cries
Burning flesh
Answering silence
17 years old
Peircing eyes
Man forever young
Mother's tears
Friends' disbelief
Silence
Black road ...questions

Being Unbreakable and Getting Shot

2011-09-14T21:38:00.000-07:00

I just recently watched the movie Unbreakable. I like this movie, but because of its serious treatment of the storyline and my preference for comedy, I’ve only watched it 2 or 3 times. The movie is slightly depressing to me, but I enjoy stories about super heroes. The cinematography is dark hued and cleverly manipulated; pieced together like illustrated panels found within a comic book.

One of my favorite scenes in this movie is fairly intense. The son of the main character wants to prove that his father is a super hero, and so one day he confronts his dad in the kitchen pointing a gun towards his chest. The boy believes that his father won’t die if he shoots him, thus proving to the world (and to his father) that there really is something ridiculously strong about him. Up until this point in the movie we have a hunch that the boy is right (to some extent), but we don’t want him to shoot his father because we don’t believe it will bounce off of his chest like a rubber bullet. In this nail biting scene the dad starts shouting at the boy to put the gun down- the mother as well is standing by helplessly, every-once-in-a-while saying a few words to try to diffuse the situation. Finally the dad says something to the effect of “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t shoot friends.” And then the mother affirms his words “Yeah, friends don’t shoot friends.” I’m not sure why this cracks me up every time, but I think it has something to do with the absurdity of the situation, and that the parents pick such an obvious truism to say to the boy. It helped calm down the situation, so I guess the son needed to hear it. In his head, the boy had thought through everything semi-rationally, but there was an obvious flaw in his thought process. If he was wrong about his theory, he would lose more than proof of his father’s super hero abilities; he would lose his father.

I believe, every now and again, we need to hear truisms. Sometimes they come in the form or clichés like “It’s not the end of the world.” or “Ya gotta get back on the horse.” or “If you keep doing that to your face it will stay that way.” And sometimes words just need to come in the form of truth. 100%, non-diluted unclichéd truth. We need reminded of the truth because we either forget it, or we haven’t really thought things through. We have somewhere, somehow, left something vital out of the equation.

I was reading 1 Peter this evening with a group of women in a Bible study, and in the middle of reading it dawned on me that it was really important for me to read some of those verses. They hit home. A little bit like bitter medicine; and at the same time, a little bit like a warm blanket. There wasn’t a gun in the room this evening, but I think I just got shot.

Set on Pilate

2011-08-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

Towards the end of summer, I had a taste of what it is like trying to pacify a mob. I was at Kansas Bible Camp, and acted out Pontius Pilate’s role during Christ’s trial. In order to disguise the fact that I’m the wrong gender to portray Pilate, I penciled in a quick unibrow on my face with eyeliner around 5:15 in the morning, and soon found myself staring down from a second story balcony, viewing a sea of bleary eyed High Schoolers, most of them with sheets haphazardly wrapped toga-style on top of their jammies. No decent trial should meet at this time of day!

Being Pilate, I had a few lines to shout to the mob. It seemed like I kept coming back to the fact that we were on the verge of killing an innocent man. Why would Barabbas look good in comparison to this man, Christ? The crowd shouted up to me “If this Man were not an evildoer, we would not have delivered Him up to you.” But the tone and look of the crowd did not necessarily reflect bunny-eyed innocence. What is the definition of “evildoer,” anyway? It was a situation so perplexing that I could see how it could make friends out of enemy rulers. Another question that weighed on me: I asked the camper who was portraying Christ, “What is truth?” I wonder if it occurred to the real Pilate that he had posed this question to Truth Himself. During the reenactment I washed my hands in front of the crowd, trying to show either them, or myself, that I was innocent of “this man’s blood;” I wonder if Pilate, in real life, had witnessed a tinge of red in the water, as torchlight flickered and played on the water’s surface.

It is common practice to act out Shakespearean plays in order to better understand what is taking place. I wouldn’t say the literary works are on the same plane, but I think it’s a worthwhile practice to apply to the Bible as well.

What's in a name?

2011-07-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

When I think of the name Victoria, I picture the British monarch who reigned over England and Ireland during the latter part of the 1800s. This queen’s portrait comes to mind, as I envision her pursed lips and British reserve; surely anyone named Victoria would have to carry about the same grandeur and starchiness as this woman did… or so I thought, that is, up until the beginning of last week. It was last week when I met another Victoria at Grade School camp. This Victoria was a wild child, with loose unkempt curls, distracted, energetic grey eyes, and a resolve not to listen to adults. This Victoria wasn’t extremely regal, but she definitely livened up the atmosphere. Mid-week, as I was tuning up my violin to help lead music, she told me “Sometimes, when I hear music, I JUS’ GOTTA DANCE!” And dance she did, in the aisle, or in the small space in front of her seat! Maybe it was an outpouring of being a grade schooler who marches to her own beat, or maybe it came from being, as I learned, a Victoria. As I played the music up front, I was able to catch a glimpse of her abandonment- a lack of conscientiousness that she was in a fairly conservative place. It made me glad that the music I played helped give rise to this demonstration of brimming joy and merriment. I was also a little envious. I was too grown up; carried too many inhibitions; had too many reservations; I was too… well, British, to fully connect with the dancing fun. Perhaps, when everything is weighed out, my OWN name is more closely related to that 19^th Century British monarch.

Falling Trees

2011-06-27T21:07:00.000-07:00

A tree almost fell on my car. Nothing life-threatening; nothing while I was driving, but I almost parked in my usual spot at home last evening, and in the middle of the night a Bradford Pear tree in the front yard decided to split from the rest of the Bradford gang.

Actual Front Yard Footage

To sweeten the situation, I almost, ALMOST, parked in my usual spot, but last-minute was like “Nah, I’ll pull up into the driveway instead.” I’m glad I did, because I might not have a side mirror or windshield in my car right now. I’m lucky, right? I want to bask in this thought for a while, because the last few days I’ve been feeling anything but lucky.

I am guessing you know how these things go. Sometimes feelings of being less fortunate than others can sneak in stealthily, and sometimes hand-in-hand with the sulky tear-stained face of self-pity. Often these feelings come because of circumstances, or simply because we left the back door unguarded and wide open.

I’ve been reading a few books for the literature class I’m teaching this Fall. One of them is The Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis. Reading through it again, I am reminded why it is one of my favorite books. I will try not to give it all away if you’ve never read it before, but one of my favorite parts in this book is when one of the main characters, Shasta, is riding through some fog on a horse, and he is thinking about how unfortunate he is. A majority of what he sees as misfortune were encounters with numerous lions throughout the long journey that he has just taken. In the middle of this fog he encounters Aslan, the Christ figure in the book (who also happens to be a lion), and the conversation he has with Aslan changes everything. Shasta realizes that he has not encountered many lions along the way, but one, Aslan, and all for important reasons. During this time Aslan walks with Shasta through the fog, and the next morning when the weather clears and Aslan is gone, the boy realizes he had been walking along the edge of a cliff, and it was the lion who kept him from careening over the edge. You could say he was a lucky boy, or you could simply say it was Aslan in his life all along.

I'm not going to attribute the tree limb missing my car to luck. I want to be as wise as Shasta, and realize that lions are not always what they appear to be.

Journey Notes: Turkey and Ireland

2011-05-16T14:46:00.000-07:00

Glendalough, Ireland

Amphitheater at Ephesus, Turkey

I just finished a 17 day trek to the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Turkey. When people ask about how a trip went, I acknowledge that they are not really asking about every step taken, and every life experience breathed. I also realize that most people expect more than a “good” in reply, so I thought I would take time to express a few highlights, intermingled with simple impressions of what I saw along the way. I’ll start with Turkey, because in my mind it retains the vivacity and freshness of a land newly perceived and traveled.

Istanbul is a big city. You could live there for years and still not realize the depths of this sprawling metropolis. While there, my friend Laura and I hit several touristy sites, like the Aya Sofya, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace and the Grand Bazaar. We also biked around an island located South of the city via the Bosphorus Strait. The main aspect of these hot spots that stands out to an American girl (or, at least, this one) is the rich history attached to each site. They are subtle encouragements to hit the books to brush up on some history, or study it afresh in order to piece together things learned about the Ottoman Empire, Sultans, and the Crusades.

Ephesus was great, but intense. The weather was excellent while we were there, and we put a few miles on our shoes walking around, viewing 2000 year old carvings and checking out the amphitheater where the apostle Paul preached. Overall view and philosophical thoughts about the place: very cool.

Some of our time in Turkey was spent hanging out with my friend Jessica Williams, and checking out a few activities that she is involved with on a weekly basis. One of the highlights of this was attending an annual cooking class party with her, where we ate some killer Turkish dishes, and afterwards the meal transitioned into a dance party with mostly Muslim women. It was interesting, fun and a little out of my comfort zone.

Turkish coffee is strong, typically handed to you in small cups almost like espresso. Usually there remains a strata layer of grounds in the dregs of your cup, and you smiley more conscientiously afterwards because the thick coffee likes to cling to the enamel of your teeth. It also appears to be a very manly drink, and I felt endangered of possibly growing a mustache after it was consumed.

My time in Ireland was quite a bit different than Turkey (as might be expected). In a way, Ireland was like putting on a sweater I like to wear, some of it remains homelike to me, and some of the time was spent traveling to favorite haunts like Glendalough, meeting friends from Dublin, and heading up North to where I used to go to school, then on up to the Antrim Coast, which is famous for sites like the Giant’s Causeway. While in Ireland I ate quality chocolate, drank properly made cups of tea, saw friends I had not seen for 2 ½ years, breathed in salt air from the ocean, took pictures in 500 year old cemetary, listened to sweet Irish trad music, and ate lamb shank at Johnnie Fox’s Pub. My time there met prior expectations, and rekindled friendships with people I love and respect. Overall, it was... "great."

What is Best

2011-03-09T11:29:00.000-08:00

I was watching an episode of “Chopped” the other day, and was intrigued. The main idea behind the cooking show is to see which chef (out of 4) can create the most savory, magical dish using several ingredients pulled from a picnic basket. While the show was highlighting the oddity of having a rare vegetable in the mix, a man named Madison shrugged it off, explaining that there was a time when he was homeless, and learned by scraping through the contents of dumpsters how to work with what he found. During Madison’s interviews he continually expressed that everything in his life, including past transgressions, helped shape him into the man he is today. Madison went on to win the competition against the other chefs, and ultimately won the most coveted award among chefs who appear on “Chopped”: 50 Grand, and an illustrious title of Top Chef among Top Chefs! I find it interesting that a man with Madison’s background whipped chefs who worked for years with famous men in high class metropolitan restaurants. I am sure that Madison put his time and training in with the best of them, but this definitely says something positive about the School of Hard Knocks.

I think you would agree it is a valuable thing to recognize life experience as a mode of transformation. I have been memorizing some verses on 3x5 index cards. One of my verses tells me that God teaches me what is best (Isa. 48:17) and the next verse tells me that God is not a liar (Num. 23:19). As I’ve been memorizing these, I have been trying to ask myself hard questions that I usually indulge in avoiding, such as “Do I truly believe that God teaches me what is best?” It is a hard pill to swallow. If this is true (and we know that God does not lie), then every hardship, every turn in my path, every scraped knee, queasy stomach and heartfelt pang of disappointment were for my best- to teach me what is best. It takes a good teacher to be able to pull this off.

Sometimes I am absolutely flummoxed as a music teacher knowing how to teach what is best. There is a pivotal point in lessons where the student has finished playing their first excerpt, and the teacher needs to say something. Sometimes I have a choice between 3 to 4 things, and if we really made an encompassing list there would be all sorts of things I could say, but they hardly matter. The most weighty decision is what the BEST thing is to say- the very thing that will not discourage the young budding artist, the thing that will sharpen their musical skills and make them a more dedicated violinist in the end. Sometimes that thing is not “You need to play your C sharp higher.” or “change the angle of your bow.” Sometimes it’s just “Why did you not practice this piece?” It is a tricky, delicate matter, and I don’t totally have it figured out, but I am impressed by a teacher who does- a teacher who knows His students, and has a bigger picture in mind for them. If God can mold a master chef out of a man scavenging the bottoms of trashcans, then that should reinforce my resolve to entrust my education to Him.

Sleeping with Spiders

2011-02-17T20:47:00.000-08:00

I believe a brown recluse might have taken a bite out of me while I was having a nap. The bite has spread across my upper rib cage; presenting itself as a blazing scarlet letter, but not any letter I recognize from the English alphabet. It goes much deeper than the skin too. It seems to have bruised down throughout my ribs, and vacillates between being painful and ridiculously itchy. It has affected my heart somehow too. At night, as I’m lying in bed, my heart seems to want to burst out of the confines of my ribcage. The stabs of pain around the bite have taken my body’s attention away from sleep. Really, who knew that such an itsy bitsy spider could affect an adult’s body in such a dramatic way? Apparently, it could be much worse. I’ve been looking at spider bites on the internet, and some of those pictures are very deeply seated in the human flesh, raw, and not to be looked at while dining (or carrying out). As I was brushing my hair today, I was taken aback by the fact that I looked so normal on the outside. I have a bite that affects me in all the ways previously mentioned, but the problem can be swiftly covered up by my black DW T-shirt.

Last week I finished rereading The Hobbit. It seems now like poetic justice that Bilbo Baggins killed so many spiders with Sting (his sword), and taunted them with names like Attercop and Tomnoddy. I’m not really sure what those names mean, but apparently it is highly offensive to spiders, and it made many of them very angry. My heart also goes out to the twelve dwarves who were stung by the creepy crawlies, and strung up in the trees incased in spider cocoons. If a little spider can do all the damage mentioned in the first paragraph, beware of getting attacked and eaten by giant ones!!!!

All this to say, good night, sweet dreams, and check under your covers before you hop in bed tonight.

Naomi, you can't get rid of me!

2011-01-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

I wonder if Ruth ever cast a tentative glance back toward the land of Moab. Did she ever question her decision to “goest where thou goest”? As resolute as her decision was to leave everything behind to go with her mother-in-law, it seems like there would be times afterward where she might have re-evaluated her choice of making this “bitter” woman her new best friend. Maybe Ruth didn’t agonize over these things too much, and maybe that is why she was worth 7 boys to Naomi. Maybe she only allowed herself to shed so many tears for her mom and pop back home, and looked straight ahead and attended to the task at hand (survival!). But even though we know her decision had the seal of God’s approval, it could not have been a stress-free environment for this tenderhearted Moabitess.

Choices are fickled things. Are they not? When I try to draw some conclusions about them, part of me says I would like to see the result of my choices right away, as when the curtain is raised up on those glitzy game shows, and instantly the contestant knows if they are a proud owner of a new ca-arrr, or if they just got themselves a functional toaster oven. The other part of me says that it is okay that choices slowly play out. We know that in the throes of military action the results of choices are often quickly brought to light. You took a wrong turn, and now the comrade at your side has a bullet through his chest. Bad choice; now you know; the price is dear.

Sometimes our choices demand more of us than we bargained for, and the weight lays heavily on our shoulders, such as the caretaker of a sick person on a “bad” day, or a mother who has just answered the same question for the umpteenth time, or the chain smoker next door, who, in his own ashen faced way is trying to shovel the snow out of his driveway. In all these situations, an individual might be tempted to examine the original point that brought them to that land of toil, and lament that they turned right at the fork-in-the-road instead of left.

I am no Ruth, but I want to take a page out of her book; I want to learn from her example. I am sure the folks back in the land of Moab thought she was mad for the decision she made- thought that she was throwing away her chance to have a legacy, to have kids and a family. But what did they know? She grasped hold of the true God in that strange land that she found herself in, and thrived. We know how this story played out. How she became the ladylove of Boaz, how she became interconnected with the human chain that produced the likes of King David, and later heralded in the promised messiah. We know the decision she made to accompany Naomi was not stupid! It was not rash! It was a good, solid decision that brought blessing and transformed the lives of those closely associated with her. Naomi did not die calling herself Mara. That is something. Isn’t it? And I say, since we have such a cloud of witnesses that have gone before us, like this gal Ruth, let us run! run! run! the race marked out for us, and trust that our God brought us to Himself and this land for a reason.

New Year's Res

2010-12-30T09:01:00.000-08:00

I thought I would slip this in before the Christmas season was entirely over, and I also thought this quotation echoed the heart of someone who knew how to make proper resolutions. Here are the words of Nate Saint:

"As we have a high old time this Christmas, may we who know Christ hear the cry of the damned as they hurtle headlong into the Christless night without ever a chance. May we be moved with compassion as our Lord was. May we shed tears of repentance for these we have failed to bring out of darkness. Beyond the smiling scenes of Bethlehem may we see the crushing agony of Golgotha. May God give us a new vision of His will concerning the lost and our responsibility."

Surprising Joy

2010-12-29T10:05:00.000-08:00

I have been listening to kids’ books in my car. It makes driving around town oh so much more daring-suspenseful-surprising-intriguing! I’m questioning the grammatical stability of that last sentence, but I’ve recently heard others like it, so it must be okay.

Two of the freshly listened to audio books have been from The Series of Unfortunate Events (bks 9 & 10) by Lemony Snicket. These books are witty and cleverly written, but the whole premise behind them is that nothing ever goes right (or ends right) in the books. The three orphans, who are the main characters in the series, continually escape the evil Count Olaf by using their inventive skills, book knowledge and sharp teeth. Nevertheless, I believe I will take a sabbatical from the books- I’m just a little put off with the fact that one the orphans had her sweetheart swept away by a flooded stream… that just seems so depressing. Depressing, but I should have guessed; nothing ever goes right for those orphans.

I think Lemony Snicket’s books get something right, though. It is an underlying principle in the book series that ingenuity comes out of cataclysmic situations, and I think that’s not skewing things too much. It IS probably during the most difficult seasons in our lives that good things are produced, and perhaps even marvelous things, such as prolific literature, invention, art, and sometimes… sometimes even joy. I can think of quite a few occasions where things seemed pretty dismal in my life, but where I also experienced joy at the same time. Weird. Paradoxical isn’t it? Here are the top three personal examples that come to mind as I type this paragraph.

Story #1: When I was in Bogota, Colombia I sunburned so badly that I looked like a lobster. The package deal with this sunburn included heat stroke and a blistered scalp. When things started to heal a day or two later, my skin started peeling like mad. I was a little embarrassed about this, considering that I was in a country where a person’s presentation and appearance heavily mattered, but the job of combing all the dead skin from my hair seemed gargantuan. My friend Jess pulled me aside and painstakingly combed through my hair getting rid of the disgusting dead skin. I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant for her, probably right up there with looking through hair for lice, but she took the time to do it, and even lightened the situation by cracking jokes and making me laugh. It made me happy that I had a friend like her.

Story #2: When I had my wisdom teeth pulled out, I remember sitting on the couch, watching the movie Hot Fuzz and eating a strawberry blizzard, both kindly supplied to me by my parents. Despite looking like a chipmunk and feeling like I had just come out on the unlucky end of a bar fight, I felt very loved and taken care of.

Story #3 A week after I had knee surgery, I fell on a freshly mopped floor at a Forensics and Debate national tournament. I was sick to my stomach- having felt something rip during the fall I was pretty sure I had undone everything the doctors had meticulously accomplished with the surgery. In the ER, while awaiting an X-Ray, I remember giggling with my debate coach, Marla, as the guy in the compartment next door related to a friend how he accidently chopped off part of his finger with a lawnmower. It doesn’t sound very funny right now, but maybe you had to have been there. We also took turns drawing pictures and commenting on the wall charts while we waited. It was a physically painful time, but probably one of the best bonding times I had with that coach.

How about you? What’s your story?

Racing Toward Hope

2010-12-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

I am not sure I would recommend the movie Apocalypto to you; even though I definitely consider it a worthwhile flick. Just to put it out there, it’s not for those easily offended by South American Birthday Suits. But if you can take that with a grain of salt, you will find an epic story of a man battling ridiculous odds to stay alive, and to keep his family members alive as well. The gauntlet the hero endures is jaw dropping- spear wounds, arrows through the chest, encounters with a mama jaguar, being stretched out on a chopping block as unfriendly Mayans anticipate non-surgically removing his heart- this all keeps the storyline moving. It seems like at every turn Jaguar Paw, the hero, should be a dead man, but right as you think all is lost, there is a twist in events, or the man himself finds some kind of hidden strength- unnatural endurance to spur him on- keeping him from giving into fear. There was too much on the line for him to give up hope. He craved and clung to it with all his might… and then some.

This thread of an idea, pushing beyond natural human limits for the sake of hope, seems to be a reoccurring theme in my thought life recently. It is everywhere. I see elements of it in the Christmas story, lingering around that One in the manger, with the delicious soft infant skin and the cry of a newborn. Strong traces of it are found throughout Christ’s ministry, culminating to a fever pitch at gethsemane, the cross, and with manic victory at the empty tomb. The crushing weight of Christ’s battles, evidenced in drops of blood on his brow, through an enemy who would not leave him alone during his darkest hours, and through the water and blood that poured out from a broken heart. Death did not just threaten to take him, but actually swept him into that dark stream. Comparing this story to the movie mentioned earlier, I suppose one of the main differences between Christ and Jaguar Paw was that Christ did not just passionately cling to hope. He was, and is hope.

Through the influence of my brother and sister-in-law I have started to listen to a group called Mumford & Sons. There is song written by M & S called The Cave. I have had my computer repeatedly play this tune to me over the last week and a half. Here are a few lines from the chorus that have stuck in my head:

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

I don’t know about you, but there is a lot in life that seems to be bent on sucking my hope dry. But even with the crushing weight of circumstance, and the internal battles that wage war and leave us sputtering for breath, it is vital that we hold onto hope with all that we got. All that we got… plus some.

Incarnation

2010-12-20T11:27:00.000-08:00

"The feed trough was no afterthought. All along God has been doing His best to get next to us, humbling Himself to reach out to us. But nothing can match what happened that night in that Bethlehem cave. There a child was born among 'the sweet breath and streaming dung of beasts' and nothing is ever the same again... once [we] can never be sure where he will appear, or to what lengths he will go or what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of man."
      -Thoughts from a Dave Roper book

Twas much that man was made like God before,
But that God should be made like man- much more.
     -John Donne

Ruined

2010-11-28T19:01:00.000-08:00

Last week I was hanging with my family when I heard a dramatic “OH NOOOOO!” come from my 4 year old nephew. I asked him what was wrong, and he feverishly explained “I got snot on my shirt, AND IT USED TO BE MY FAVORITE SHIRT TOO!!!” I looked at the patch on his shirt; casualty of an explosive sneeze. I laughed inside as I wet a paper napkin and dabbed the beloved shirt a few times. The piece of clothing, I believe, was salvageable.

The situation was a little funny, but at the same time, I can empathize with those same kind of panicked feelings. They can pop up unassumingly, catching you off guard during moments of weakness. Sometimes, I will be painting a picture, and the brush will glob on the wrong shade of blue, or accidently smear a crisp line that I had genuinely liked before it was “Ruined”. And I’ll be thinking “AHHHGGH, the whole painting is ruined!” “I’m not an artist; I’m a fake!” “I can’t paint!” So on, and so forth. If you could hear my screaming thoughts at these times, you’d say “pathetic”. Really.

Or sometimes I will get that same panicked feeling when a glass slips out of my hand because I was thinking about other things. By the time I hear the glass shattering I know there is no gluing that thing back together. Ruined. Broken. At least with the painting there was some hope, but this…

Sometimes I wonder if God chuckles at my drama. When I take the time to consider my life, words like “ruined” come all too quickly to my lips. Upsets and mistakes can make a life look unattractive, but life is not ruined no matter how bad it gets. God in his mercy can wash what we claim to be indelible ink. In addition, He gives us new mornings to work with. “Try again” He tells us... and we should.

Listless No More

2010-11-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

Here are some of my favorite things, in no particular order:

Bagpipes and snare drums… played outside

Grasshopper cookies made by Keebler. They’re like Girl Scout Thin Mints, but not.

The effect of paint on canvas. Sometimes it does its own thing, and I’m okay with that.

Bubble baths. The type where the bubbles are mighty enough to form a bubble beard… and bubble eyebrows.

*

Tea. Especially on the days I feel cold and shivery.

A musical instrument in the hands of someone who knows how to play well. They don’t have to be a virtuoso necessarily, but someone who plays with heart and skill.

Applepie- homemade, just out of the oven, but cooled off slightly. A little cinnamon… not too much.

Movies that make me laugh, think, or that put some effort into unraveling a good story.

Penguins and Monkeys. Need I say more?

Travel- roadtrips, oversea trips, field trips, DQ trips

Walks- brisk, but slow enough you have time to think, pray or talk

Rollerblading

Super hero movies- Spiderman, X-man, Batman

Well written books

Current favorite color: Emerald. Runner up: Violet. Third favorite color: Bright Orange.

*I was going to put people on the list, but I think that would be kind of a polemic thing to do, because people technically are not “things”… they are… well, people.

The Song of The Redeemed

2010-11-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have an operatically trained voice. Perhaps you are rolling your eyes right now because you do not particularly care for opera, but picture a voice, YOUR voice, if it could reach earth shattering heights, and depths that would rearrange the bowels of the most sour-faced puddleglum out there. A voice that could NOT sing haphazard karaoke or that could ONLY just manage to squeak out a decent tune every now and again. But a voice that could make the simplest of melodies linger sweetly in the air. A voice that was malleable in your lungs, like clay that could be shaped into whatever you wished, presenting the harmonies in your head on a silver platter. And with garnish at that! And think what it would be like to have ears that matched the voice. Ears that could hear better, more intricate harmonies and that could weave them into complex tapestries with other ethereal voices.

I am hoping my heavenly voice and ears will have that capability someday.

To take this in a slightly different direction, these following verses are of interest to me:

Rev 14:3-5 TLB

3 This tremendous choir-144,000 strong-sang a wonderful new song in front of the throne of God and before the four Living Beings and the twenty-four Elders; and no one could sing this song except those 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth. 4 For they are spiritually undefiled, pure as virgins, following the Lamb wherever he goes. They have been purchased from among the men on the earth as a consecrated offering to God and the Lamb. 5 No falsehood can be charged against them; they are blameless.

When you think about it, this special choir has some serious competition in heaven, but not even Seraphs will be able to pick up this tune and hum along. It is either off limits to the angels, or maybe they just won’t be able to muster up enough soul to do it justice. It is the song of the redeemed. It makes me wonder what will make this new song so very special. Is it the singers themselves, or is it the song writing behind it? It could just simply be the song writer Himself. Actually I think that will be a big part of what makes it so marvelous. That choir will be singing about redemption from a clear perspective. Not as slaves freshly bought off the market, who treat their master with disdain. The disdain coming from the unarticulated belief that he paid too little for them, not really fathoming the full price of the purchase. And the song won’t come from the lips of slaves who think he paid too much for them. Slaves who do not let it sink in that they are actually worth something now that they are in the possession of the new master. But the song will be uttered from the lips of blood-bought overcomers who finally understand with a clear perspective the astonishing proceedings behind their purchase.

It’s going to be a different show altogether, this upcoming celestial event- new eyes; new ears; beautiful new voices. Aged Instruments that have been through the ringer, and survived. And more than just survived! The individual voices making up the choir are going to make the likes of Sarah Brightman sound like the older version of Janis Joplin in comparison. It's going to be fantastic. Not a spectacle you want to miss!

Veni, Vidi, Vici

2010-10-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

I was looking at an html tutorial site, and the three sentences at the top of the page caught my eye and drew out their respective responses (which I have included in ( ) ):
With HTML you can create your own Web site.       (I believe that)

This tutorial teaches you everything about HTML.     (ok... maybe)

HTML is easy to learn - You will enjoy it                 (I doubt it)

I Hear Ya!

2010-10-22T13:34:00.000-07:00

     Last night I was talking to a friend, and midway into the conversation I could tell I had completely lost them. Their eyes were semi-glazed over, and I could tell their thoughts were far away; maybe dwelling on a bit of homework, or perhaps setting sail on a dream vacation. I undoubtedly was beating a subject to death; undoubtedly rambling, but afterwards I was just glad I wasn’t spilling my guts, talking about anything of consequence. That could have been really… (raising the pitch of my voice) AWKWARD!

     That incident reminded me of other experiences in my past, but situations that were on the opposite side of the spectrum. Times when I spoke at the podium in the middle of a hot debate, and where I knew that everything coming out of my mouth was being heavily weighed, judged, and possibly skewed in abbreviated form on somebody’s debate flow. I knew my competition was listening to what I said, but usually with the degree of kindness and painful precision of somebody anticipating my immediate death and destruction. It’s good to be heard… I guess.

     A few weeks ago, I shared the story of Elijah on Mount Carmel with my Sunday school kids. The verse that recounts Elijah taunting the Baal worshipers (1 Kings 18:27) always strikes me as funny. I’m sure those prophets were shooting Elijah dirty looks as they were slicing themselves and dancing like they had never danced before. Elijah was suggesting that their god, Baal, couldn’t hear them because he was either deep in thought, busy traveling, on the pot, or taking a nap. The situation would have been worth a picture. It’s definitely funny, but sad at the same time. It is sad because it’s true. Their god couldn’t hear them! Not the handicap you want when you are having a show down between deities.

     To me, one of the most comforting things found in scripture is that our God hears us (Micah 7:7). Not just when we are voicing something interesting. Not just when our life is on the line. And not with the ear of someone intent of doing us in if we don’t say things correctly. And God doesn’t just hear us, He responds too: sometimes by withholding rain, or through the medium of fire and earthquakes, sometimes simply through whispers. And frankly, that’s kind of cool. I like that.

Hmmm... interesting

2010-10-18T18:09:00.000-07:00

I am in the throws of looking for a job again- just something part time. I was looking through the classified section of the newspaper when I came across an ad for a secretarial position for a church with ideal hours and pay. I've been skimming their website to see what kind of a place it is, and I thought I'd share a few highlights.

They don't have a purpose statement, but they do have 7 principles they live by:

-The inherent worth and dignity of every person
-Justice, equity, and compassion in human relations
-Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations
-A free and responsible search for truth and meaning
-The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large
-The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all
-Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part

There was a A and Q section for the website, and this one caught my notice:

Q: Is this some kind of cult?

A: No! If anything, it is the opposite of the mind control that characterizes cults.

Does that set your mind at ease? Here's another question. This one is in answer to how I could become a member:

There are two requirements for membership: 1) Sign the membership book, and 2) make a donation with your name attached to it (the amount is up to you). Joining any religious organization is a big decision, so we have literature on the subject, introductory classes, and lots of people who would be delighted to respond to your questions.

So, what do you think? Should I apply? ...and yes, if you guessed it was a universalist church you get the prize for the day.

Pursuant

2010-10-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

There is a couple in one of my immediate circles who were just recently engaged. It was a bit of a surprise (to everyone actually, including some of their closest friends) because the couple never dated. Even up to the point where the man popped the question with the ring in hand they were “just friends”. The situation fits them. I am happy for them, and do not want to squelch their unique story, but it definitely reads differently than most romances I have witnessed.

There is something kind of fun about watching a man trying to win a girl’s heart. Some, it seems, use their wits and creativity. Other guys act cocky, or maybe they are just plain persistent, not accepting the word “no” to mean no. For the record, I am not being pursued. I have my theories as to why, of course: too intimidating, not intimidating enough, too tall, too short, I have yellow teeth (I drink a lot of tea *sheepish grin*), too shy, too confident… the list goes on. You may have some of your own theories (family members do not need to comment on this one :p)

However, I think The Art of Pursuing goes up a level in my mind, when the target of the one pursuing isn’t really all that lovely. Or maybe they are lovely, in their own way, but it is not very obvious to anybody else. The pursuit takes place because of some secret phenomenal reason only the pursuer knows. Maybe some witnesses know too, but the reasons behind the pursuit are rooted deeper than surface level.

You are probably familiar with the poem entitled the Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. Recently I have been reading a book called Why I Am a Christian, by John Stott, and in his first chapter he talks about how God has been the Hound of Heaven in different individual’s lives. An excerpt from some of C.S. Lewis’ writings stood out to me:

“The prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape?... The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation.”

Stott also uses some of Augustine of Hippo’s writings before and after Augustine came to Christ. Here is a clip from that:

“Augustine attributed his experience to the sheer grace that is the free and unmerited favor of God. He claimed that God had quickened all five of his spiritual senses- hearing, sight, smell, taste and touch.

‘You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.’”

C.S. Lewis, Augustine and John Stott all had deep experiences because of the pursuit of the Hound of Heaven. Reading through different accounts of this happening reminded me that God pursues the unlovely, the prodigals and those who are kicking and screaming. Earlier in this post I said I wasn’t being pursued, but in actuality, I guess I am. I am, and so are you.

Timid Prayers

2010-10-11T08:19:00.000-07:00

I have issues. Some of my problems stem from verses like Proverbs 15:29, “The LORD is far from the wicked, but He hears the prayer of the righteous.” You get similar verses in the Psalms about God hearing the righteous, and it is also reflected in the NT as well (James 5:16 for an example). The most unnerving aspect of these verses is that I do not FEEL righteous most of the time. Deep down I empathize more with being wicked. This has affected my prayer life. Sometimes I think “How righteous do I need to be for God to really hear my prayers? I know there are cracks in this kind of thinking, but these misgivings have caused me to restructure my moments of prayer. I think, “Well, it’s best to get the dirt on the table to begin with.” Clean vessels pray better, right? I really do believe that is true, but sometimes even after this process misgivings well up. What happened to coming before the throne with boldness? Hebrews 4:16 says “Let us therefore draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and may find grace to help in time of need.” this verse more than hints at the need to approach the throne not as a timid being, overly conscience of imperfection and caked on mud, but as… well, more like a warrior.

I was happy to learn that I was not alone in my mental gymnastics. Andree Seu, one of my favorite journalists, had an article in September’s issue of World magazine that struck a chord with me. She wrote:

“The Lord says when we come to Him we should come ‘without wavering’. What would ‘without wavering’ look like? I know full well what ‘wavering’ looks like: Maybe God is ticked off with me. Maybe God won’t answer because of what I did last night. Maybe I’m not forgiven. Maybe the request I am making is the kind of thing God doesn’t do anymore. Maybe that promise I thought I saw in the Bible pertains to the distant future only. Maybe that miracle was only for the time of Christ. Maybe that verse that looks like a promise is not really a promise but a principle. Maybe I’m not asking according to His will.”

Andree then proceeded to systematically map out verses and reasons why these “waverings” are lame. Highlighting verses that speak about there being a lack of an audience when it comes to condemnation (Romans 8:1, 1 John 3:20), and addressing each of the “waverings” head on.

Last night I went to a prayer meeting to help send off one of my friends to Lebanon. My mind started to wander towards the end of the meeting, and I had to direct myself back to focus. I needed to remember that we were in the middle of a battle and talking to someone omnipotent. The room was full of grey haired individuals; nothing wrong with that; just a little bit of a rough turnout for my generation. And as I looked around the room afterwards, I had to smile, realizing what a rag tag group we were. We didn’t carry the look of an unabashed conquering army, but still, it was an army. And being yanked back to reality during the prayer time, the importance of what we were doing struck me. It made me resolve to throw out the “waverings” as they show their ugly faces. There is quite a bit on the line here: evangelism, the future of the church, and personal growth just to name a few. We, as Christians are indeed at war. We cannot afford to pray like a bunch of pansies. It’s not in the budget, nor has it ever been.

Psalm 145:18 "The LORD is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth."

Paris Hilton and The Hunger Games

2010-09-27T18:41:00.000-07:00

The only reason I will admit to having watched the show is because I was distracting myself. Sometime I feel like I have A.D.D. as I flip through the TV channels at the gym; trying to forget that my muscles are burning, and that I still have 20 minutes to go on the elliptical machine. This particular show was a reality series built around Paris Hilton finding a new best friend (or B.F.F., as the show kept reminding the viewers). At the time, it was hard to decide what bugged me the most about the show. The shallowness of it was definitely screaming for me to change the channel, but the puzzlement over why all those girls would put themselves through the contest kept me glued. The show was down to four contestants, when the camera crew filmed Hilton telling each of them that they were eliminated from the show. Hilton then proceeded to watch each girl during their exit interview after she had left the room, taking note of how sad they were about getting kicked off her show. Hilton then decided based off of the interviews who was really the girl to be weeded out. It seemed like such a classic case of manipulation, ingenious really, but “Ouch!”, so cold and harsh at the same time! It’s like Jr. High all over again, but with America watching.
This show established a new hobby horse for me. It made me start to think that we, as a culture are on our way to the arenas of Rome. I know, there is a big distance between A and B here, but let me explain.
We already know that our reality shows contain manipulation. What is the harm of that? Those girls signed up for it, right? But one of the key elements that makes me squeamish is the disconnect audiences feel toward reality show contestants, and our strong desire for entertainment and distraction (whether it be from sore muscles or just escape from our normal existence). The TV audience has now been programmed to view some ghastly things without flinching. We do not know the contestants personally, even though we might be interested in their character. Stinks to be them… but oh well!
Last weekend I read the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. It is one of the most suspenseful books I have read in a long time, and it articulates some of the cumulative thoughts and feelings I have had over the last year (since watching Miss. Hilton and her prospective B.F.F.s.) The book is in the category of teen lit, and so it spends some time on a love triangle that still hasn’t untangled itself by the second book (I’m not finished with that one yet), but over all it is a good read. It is insightful about the direction our society is taking. Not only in the sense that the storyline is woven around a reality TV show arena, where kids are forced to kill each other, but The Hunger Games also brings to light the vanity and self focus that often accompanies wealth. While the main character, Katniss, was having to deal with issues like death, shell-shock nightmares, poverty, hunger and being on the government’s hit list, another acquaintance, named Octavia, was living a life of ease in The Capital. Octavia lamented to Katniss the fact that her biggest disappointment in life was having people come to her Birthday party wearing feathers (it was apparently a fashion disaster). The irony is very apparent. This contrast was a reminder to me that as Americans we are rich compared to the rest of the world. If we close our eyes to the distraught, poor and hungry we are no better than Octavia. It was a direct hit between the eyes, but it is a point well taken.

Mmm bueno… Blue Bear is my favorite!

2010-09-18T08:02:00.000-07:00

I am about to reveal something shocking (and perhaps EVEN terrifying) about my current living situation. I was opening the freezer drawer to retrieve a can of juice, when… I CAME ACROSS THIS!!!!

I know. That is exactly what I thought! It is not every day you find a frozen bear head in the freezer with the hair still on it, and the eyes and everything in tact! I don’t want you to think we are barbarians, however. There are still some indigenous tribes in the mountains of South America who routinely eat Blue Bear- it's just not commonly found in the United States. I have been flipping through the recipe books, and there is not even one recipe written for Blue Bear head that I could find. I was rather diligent in looking too, perusing many categories such as soups, casseroles, and even pies. My thoughts are, though, with a little hot sauce and some garlic it could turn out okay. If you have ever had this delicacy before, let me know. I am open to new ideas and recipes.

Forward Thinking

2010-09-04T10:00:00.000-07:00

Isaiah 25:8-9

He will swallow up death forever;
and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears from all faces,
and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth,
for the LORD has spoken.
It will be said on that day,
"Behold, this is our God; we have waited for him, that he might save us.
This is the LORD; we have waited for him;
let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation."

Gut Experience

2010-09-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, one of my favorite sports was soccer. I remember one year especially being the hallmark year for getting the breath knocked out of me with the ball. I am not sure if it was because of the particular group of kids I was playing with, or that my stomach was a magnet for flying objects, or just that my skill level wasn’t quite there yet. But I remember that instantaneous feeling happening frequently in a period of a few months.
There is nothing like getting the breath knocked out of you. When your lungs are feeling collapsed, and when you don’t have any gumption to stand straight anymore. The whole world slows down, your eyes widen, and you focus on just one thing: B-R-E-A-T-H-E.
Last night I auditioned for the Topeka Symphony. I prepared. I practiced for it several hours a day for a few weeks, and felt solid on my repertoire. I came early, and was given the audition spot of number 2, which meant I could go in and get the audition over without waiting until my palms started to sweat first. It was all going well, until I heard the girl in front of me practicing one of the excerpts. Spiccato!? I didn’t know we had to play spiccato!!! It got my heart racing. When it came time to do the blind audition, I started with my most solid piece first. Mozart. I had been playing this certain piece of music since high school. With too much pressure on the bow I started too loudly, I couldn’t keep my intonation centered and clipped my beats- producing wretched rendition of something that sounded decent just 10 minutes beforehand. The following excerpts went better, but the sight reading left much to be desired. Overall I feel like I bombed it. Overall, it feels like I had the breath knocked out of me.
I haven’t heard if I got into the symphony or not, but my gut feeling is that it is a “no”, which is pretty disappointing. But what can you say? That’s life!
I’m going to put this down in my book as a learning experience… another one for this year that cuts deep- another failure; another pummel to the stomach. But there are still a few things left to do. Straighten up. Breathe. Don’t be afraid of the ball.

Raising the Roof

2010-08-31T12:10:00.000-07:00

As I was flipping through Time magazine yesterday, a short article on Claremont Graduate University caught my eye. Claremont has now extended its Religious Studies to include the full trio of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. This all under one roof… hmm, interesting. Apparently, by implementing this change it has increased enrollment by 10%, so it’s been alright for the school’s pocketbook. I suppose this change in policy shouldn’t surprise me. After all, we do live in a pluralistic society. We as Americans like convenience. If a student goes to Claremont unsure of whether they want to be a pastor (or priest), Rabbi or Imam, they can decide on their religion conveniently without having to switch schools.
I was curious to what a school’s purpose statement would look like while offering these three religions side-by-side (along with Mormonism). I figured the purpose statement wouldn’t mention Jesus Christ, because Islam wouldn’t see Him as God, and wouldn’t claim He was anything more than a prophet, and Judaism wouldn’t see Him as Lord or king. But if you leave these out of Christianity… well, you don’t really have Christianity anymore, do you?
So I got on Claremont’s Website and found some of the school’s purpose statement. It is as follows:
“The School of Religion wants its students to experience what it means to be both inside and outside a community of faith. We hope to train individuals – students, researchers, educators, and leaders – from a variety of religious traditions and secular perspectives to be able to participate in a civic life of unprecedented religious diversity. The distinctive vision of the school is to create and promote a study of religion that produces graduates who are ‘religious multilinguals.’ We hope this perspective promotes religious understanding and tolerance.”
I feel the statement “We hope to train individuals… to be able to participate in a civic life of unprecedented religious diversity” makes a pretty big claim. The school is aware there is religious diversity in Jerusalem, right? The end sentence I find interesting as well “We hope this perspective promotes religious understanding and tolerance.” It sounds like they have their fingers crossed on that one.

Multiculturalism and multilingualism have their place, but it’s difficult to keep the skeptic in me fully behaved on this one. Yes, people with diverse religions can battle out their differences verbally on the campus greens, and it might give them food for thought on their faith of choice, but it seems like you have to surgically remove the backbone of each of these religions to make it happen cordially. If religious diversity and tolerance are Claremont’s primary aims, I can see this attracting a certain demographic of people, but to upcoming graduate student candidates I would shout "Run away!". Tolerance and diversity have a nice ring to it in an academic purpose statement, but at the cost of throwing away an iron-sharpens-iron atmosphere. Is tolerance and diversity important enough to die for? It is worth thinking about. It might be this generation’s emerging religion.

Single Girl Mentality

2010-08-15T14:34:00.000-07:00

It is a verse I remember highlighting in a hot stuffy dorm room at camp; ideal for one of those 5 minute devotionals, and a likely candidate to become cliché, if not treated with care. Proverbs 4:23 Watch over your heart with all diligence, for from it flow the springs of life. Now as I look at that spot in my Bible, the purple pen ink has faded, and the heart sticker placed in the margin isn’t looking so hot. It is peeling at the edge.
I believe the most common take on this verse for girls, if I may so generalize, is that we are supposed to barricade our hearts. This involves resurrecting a chain link fence, and digging a deep mote around the perimeter for a line of defense. And if our hearts get hurt, we tend to kick into high security mode, complete with barbed wire loop-dee-doos, watch towers, illuminating lights and slobbering hounds on steroids. Pity the man that dare take a shot at this! He is going to get scratched by the barbed wire, attacked by those mangy dogs, and most likely have to be Superman in order to succeed on his mission.
I think we have missed the point. I am not proposing that we are not to protect our hearts at all, leaving them unsheltered from the elements. They are not something we want stolen or trampled. On the other hand, we don’t want that organ to become a museum piece either; an artifact that only gets dusted off every few months. Who wants to be guarding a dry well? Our hearts need to be exercised, and more importantly than that, they need to be functioning.
Another verse I’ve been thinking about: John 15:13 Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. I believe this would hint that love by nature is vulnerable. There is a cost involved here.
In the next week I will have three friends kicking their heels and moving away. It’s not easy to see them go, but I am glad that I have had the opportunity to know them. It isn’t always easy to reach out your hand in friendship to people when you know they won’t be in the same vicinity (or country) for very long, but I think it is important to do so. It goes back to that barricading idea again. Who is really missing out when we don’t love people the way we should? Maybe the answer is more complex than we realize or can know, but we know that we ourselves miss out to a certain extent.
So here again, I write out some rambling for another post. Sorry if it is too preachy or too… something or another. It is just something I have been churning around in my head, and sometimes wonder if any other people feel the same way.

Comparitively Speaking

2010-08-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

I believe that one of the main differences between my violin playing and the music of Heifitz, is that he could play a few more notes per second. Who’da thunk, but a few notes here and there make a difference. A different bowing technique, hours of practice, training… cleverness… all play a part in it too. Right?
I was scanning the artwork of Leonardo DaVinci last week. My attention was drawn to the fact that his sketches were pen and ink. Some of his pictures do not contain the fine traces of pencil markings and eraser smears that indicate guidelines for the pen. His sketches were set in stone once the ink hit parchment, and they are beautiful. The lines I put down on paper, including pencil markings, fall short in such a dramatic way of this artist’s masterpieces. The difference between DaVinci and myself is what? A few lines? A different production rate? A few tablespoons of genius?
The fine arts get difficult when we start comparing ourselves to others. Not only do we have our peers to compare ourselves to, but when you reach the position of world renown for your work, you then have the world’s historic musicians and artists judging you through their legacy. Is there an artist or musician who can escape the ruler?
This week I’m playing in a musical. The music is very difficult, and I am trying to rise to the occasion. Today I am working on a section to get it up to the tempo marking of 132. I have it up to 100, which means if I try to play it at rehearsal tonight as is, it is going to flop. It’s just 32 more beats per minute than I have already under my fingers, but it feels as attainable as the stars right now.
I’ve been looking through the notes of the music director from last rehearsal. Most of them say I need to play out and I need more confidence. I sigh as I read these. It feels like the story of my life. I wish confidence could be found in some dusty trunk up in my grandparent’s attic. If you don’t have it, it’s not easy to get.
Well, it’s time to get back to practicing. It is time to let the metronome chirp away, and time to stop thinking about comparison... 132, I’m not afraid of you!... I think.

This year, Spain is king!

2010-07-12T19:39:00.000-07:00

I am not one to usually venture into mosh pits, but this celebration would be worth the trip to Madrid. Spain’s World Cup dominance was brilliant; the final game well played. Amidst all of the yellow cards and frustrating gridlock of score during their final match, the team maintained composure and sportsmanship. The game had an interesting twist as well: it wasn’t one of the heavily celebrated macho players, such as Sergio Ramos or David Villa who kicked the winning (and only) goal, but a quieter individual named Andres Iniesta, whose skilled feet secured the victory for his team during the last few minutes of overtime. It was one of the most intense games I’ve seen in a while, and it forced me to walk around the block a few times afterwards to subdue my excitement. Here is a cheer for Spain! Here is a cheer for Iniesta! Well done, I say!

Churnin' out the Paintings

2010-06-20T18:57:00.000-07:00

Here are two more paintings that I finished within the last two days. I'm still having issues with taking pictures of them without the glare of the flash, or the fuzz of not having a flash. The painting with the tree, sunset, and birds is a wedding present for my friend Kristin. The second one was for Father's Day, commissioned by a woman who works in ministry alongside her husband on the Washburn campus.

After the Rain

2010-06-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

Today I have been puzzling over how to construct a rainbow out of cellophane. The rainbow’s purpose is to help decorate my church for VBS, and will hopefully be accompanying Noah’s Ark, which is planted firmly on the baptismal in the sanctuary (a prop that was masterminded by both of my parents). The rainbow has the capacity to be up to 8 yards in length, so basically the sky is the limit! I have decided that it doesn’t have to be the best rainbow EVER, but I want it to make an impression. I might feel bad if I heard a kid say, in so many words, “I just don’t get it.” It dawned on me today, however, that real rainbows are subtle by nature. Sometimes it takes an extra person in the car to point one out. We know they often appear after the rain, but we are not always keeping an eye out for one. And it is partly for that reason, that hidden, glorious sight, which causes us to sharply inhale and say such words as “Wow!” and “Cool!” when we come across one. It is also easy to reduce rainbows to mere spectacles. It is easy to forget that they are a promise that God is not going to flood the earth multiple times over. It would be pretty rough if we had a world wide flood every few centuries. It would make the rest of the natural disasters look like measly kittens.
This afternoon I came across a verse of a hymn that I had scrawled into my journal:

O joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That man shall tearless be

The verse hit home again today. It was a reminder that we can view God’s promises as mere spectacles, or claim them for what they really are. I just wanted to thank many of you for speaking truth, and pointing out the Lord’s promises to me over the course of the last two weeks. The Lord’s blessing on those who have an eye for spotting rainbows.

In Shape

2010-05-24T21:17:00.000-07:00

There is something amusing about watching a small child trying to force a square wooden block into a circle shaped hole. We can contribute their action to a lack of fine motor skills, or the fact that their overall world-wise experience has been short lived. It doesn’t matter how much brute force the child applies to the toy; we know it just ain’t gonna happen.
The comical side to this act dissipates when we see the same action in grown ups. At some level, it does seem like a page out of The Far Side, but deep down we feel “That person should have known better.”
I went up to a cash register last week to purchase a CD. After I dug inside of my purse I retrieved, and proudly presented, a $10 gift card that I had been counting on to acquire the music in my hand. The cashier glanced at it and said “This is a Borders Gift Card”. It took me a second, but suddenly I realized I was standing in a Barnes and Nobles... not Borders. With a Wallace and Grommit grin, I over enthusiastically said “Right!”, and fumbled to quickly stick the card back into my purse. I haven’t ordered an Egg McMuffin at a Burger King as of yet, but I managed to do something equivalent to that.
I have been doing some nail biting lately about what steps to take next with my life. It seems like there are oodles of pieces to fit together and I have no idea how they are supposed to go. I know nail biting isn’t the answer, and brute force probably isn’t the answer either, but I’m running out of time to decide what I am going to do.
For some reason this morning, the story of Abraham’s servant came to mind. Before setting out on his journey to help old Abe find Isaac a wife, he asked the Lord to grant his mission success. And “Ah ha!” the Lord brought along Rebecca, and she watered the camels and everything! The servant still had to make the journey to get to Rebecca’s neighborhood, which probably contained its own perils along the way. The servant still had to take the time to scope out the watering hole and step up and ask his scripted question, but the whole series of events appear like God answered the servant’s request in a very deliberate and clear way.
I suppose the Lord allows some details to seamlessly fall into place. The pieces of Phoenix School of Law, Turkish Schools with art teacher openings, health issues, questions about whether I’m going to be single for the rest of my life, my current job and living situation: these all do not require my brute force baby efforts to “fix” them. I still have to make the journey, I suppose, but there is no use in trying to hammer square pegs into round holes. …After all, this isn’t Borders.

Painting Without Numbers

2010-05-03T21:02:00.000-07:00

I've been painting lately. Here is a picture of my latest 30"x40" project. It's not finished yet, but I think I've reached the Staring Stage, where I can look at it from various angles and tweak it as I see fit. Any suggestions are welcome (up until Thursday, and then it is too late... Duhn! Duhn! Duhhh!).

Cordially Declined

2010-04-27T14:17:00.000-07:00

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS”: the poignant words uttered by Gandalf as he faced the dreaded fire demon. As the hobbits screamed back with tear streaked faces, Gandalf battled his ominous foe. Even though he was drawing a line to alter the fire demon’s path, Gandalf’s own path was decidedly altered: behind him savage spider-like Goblins, farther back still, a dim-witted (but upset) water monster, and hundreds of miles up a mountain pass not fit for kings (or holiday ski resorts). Even for a wizard this was a serious plight. With a well-aimed wicked lash of the whip, the demon pulled Gandalf down with him into what was practically a bottomless abyss.
I guess all of this to say that Gandalf’s choice A was blocked, so he had to go with what was choice B or C (or maybe even Z).
As some of you know, I was declined entrance into KU’s School of Law. I would not say this was the school I had placed my highest hopes and expectations upon, but still, the way is blocked, and I acknowledge that this is not a good sign. Going to law school has been a large part of my focus for the last nine months, and I suppose the most upsetting aspect of this news is that I don’t have a plan B. I don’t know why, or for who, I need a plan B- is it for myself; my family; for God? I’m not sure; it just seems important right now.

… Hopefully, my fall back plan won’t involve sky diving with fire demons.

Water Water Everywhere

2010-04-23T21:05:00.001-07:00

The swimming pool at Kansas Bible Camp provides a crucial, refreshing service to hundreds of giggling/ screaming/ shouting campers every summer. Because it remains coatless throughout the winter, rain water, leaves, frogs and miscellaneous debris combine forces to create murky water in its depths. The concoction is semi-lethal to the swimming pool filter, and so the water from the pool is removed via human muscle and five gallon buckets. I participated in this annual pool-cleaning event last weekend.
There are three aspects to the KBC water displacement process: there is the Scooper, who fills the bucket with water then hoists it up as far as they can to the ledge of the pool, then there is the Watchman, who hoists the bucket out of the pool, and finally, there is the Pourer who pours out the bucket once it reaches ground level. It did not take umpteen buckets of water for me to realize that I was (am) a weak individual, and this activity also helped me remember I had certain muscles that I had forgotten about. After two hours of this service, I was reduced to a haggard Pourer. And finally, towards the tail end of the activity, an individual crouched down by the side of the pool, handing down shaky empty buckets to those below.
This experience made me grateful I’m not a sailor, especially an old time sailor on a sinking ship. It is one thing to be doing this kind of work to the sound of cheerful voices singing catchy songs from Newsies, but to do this while fearing that my sailing vessel was going to plummet into the depths of Davey Jones… WHEW! That would be sobering. As a crew of approximately twenty-five people we displaced several feet of water from that swimming pool, but to have the whole ocean trying to get into the bowels of a ship through some broken boards would be disparaging, to say the least. The salt water would lash against your skin, stinging cuts and open wounds, and find its way into your eyes, mouth and ears. UGHTH! The battering from the ocean would knock even the most experienced sailor off their feet. The raw power of the ocean is startling; who can fight it?
If we tried displacing the ocean’s water in its entirety, it would be a stupid venture. No matter what we would use, it would be more foolhardy than attempting to empty the KBC pool with a handful of sewing thimbles.
Today I was reminded that God’s love is like an ocean. It is vast… it is powerful… and wow... that’s a lotta love!

An Audience Member

2010-04-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

For my 24th Birthday two of my Irish roommates took me to hear the virtuoso violinist Benjamin Schmid play Concerto No. 1 by Szmanowski. Our front row seats were almost too close to the Dublin Symphony, if that is possible. As we craned our necks upwards, practically staring up into Schmid’s very nostrils, we witnessed Szmanowski played with zest and precision! Even though my roommates and I were practically sitting at the violinist’s feet, he was oblivious to our presence. He knew we were there collectively, the several hundred “we”, but Schmid could have cared less if the three of us were absent from the concert hall that night.
Or did our presence make a difference to this virtuoso? Come to think of it, we were well behaved audience members. We were not heckling or pummeling rotten fruit at him. We were there to support his playing, and did our best to avoid hindering the fire of his art. In a way, our presence DID matter.
There are many facets to being an audience member. When I was visiting my friend Jess in Columbia, I had the privilege of watching her lead a girl to Christ. Because of the language barrier I was unable to understand every word that was being said, and unable to fully take part in what was happening, but I understood what took place. In a small sense, I got to be part of the event. I witnessed God in action; changing a life; snatching a soul from the damnation of hell.
Several weeks ago I found myself at the doorstep of a woman in her 40s, asking her where she thought she would spend eternity when she died. I was scared, but I got to witness a person who was tender to the gospel, and who readily grasped hold of Christ. God had prepared this woman’s heart before I (and the two other people I was with) had timidly knocked on her door. As I think about this recent experience, I again find myself in the audience seat, and it occurs to me that someone greater than Schmid is playing the tune.

Pottery

2010-02-21T20:40:00.001-08:00

This vessel is cracked
Water can only be held within
Halfway up; up to half way down
Yet this bowl can be used
To wash dusty feet

This vessel is scarred
A gash here deep within
A chip here; a chip there
Yet it still has beauty
It reflects another image

This vessel is shattered
Nothing can be held within
A shard here; a shard there
Yet the pieces are to be taken
To make something else

This vessel is sealed
A mystery lies within
Something powerful; something sweet
To be poured out
-HM

Abnormal Weather Patterns

2010-02-20T19:54:00.001-08:00

I watched Sunny With a Chance of Meatballs with my neighbor girl last night. Here are a few lessons that my impressionable young mind picked up:

1. Nerds rule.
2. Nerds rock... and rule.
3. If you want to impress a member of the opposite sex build them a giant JELLO house.
3. Food becomes aggressive and intent on self-preservation after undergoing extreme mutation from excessive radiation exposure.
4. Eagles are to wizards what rat-birds are to mad scientists.
5. Man eating chickens can become chicken beating men.

Overall Conclusion: The movie was good, but the book is better.

Snow Drift Synopsis

2010-02-12T21:04:00.000-08:00

It was 5:30 in the morning and below freezing. The angle that the car was sticking in the ditch indicated that it would take even more pushing to get it out. Again we pushed; again the tires sped and slipped around in the snow. I spit out the gravel that found its way in my mouth from the spinning tires. This was not the bravo start the girls and I wanted that morning traveling back to Kansas from Teec Nos Pos, AZ. The trip is long enough without the complications of a royally stuck vehicle.
Finally, after 4 hours of delay the car inched its way out of its snow cocoon, and we were free to start out again on our maiden journey. The trip back turned into an even greater adventure as we made our way onto the highway. In addition to getting stuck, our car broke down twice because of a cheeky battery. And because of two inadequate maps and a driver who didn’t know her way, that being myself, we made a wrong turn that contributed an hour or two to the trip. Even though these were frustratingly interesting experiences, I usually tend to dwell on the details of our stuck vehicle at the beginning of the trip more than anything else.
If it hadn’t been for Dale, who ran back the 7 miles to Immanuel mission to get help, the other girls and I would have been in an even more serious predicament. If it hadn’t been for the below zero degree weather sleeping bag that I brought, just because I wanted to try out a Christmas present, things could have been a great deal chillier in the car while we waited for Dale’s return.
Perhaps because of a mixture of rational and irrational fears, I have a fear of being in vehicles that are stuck in one place. I do not like the sound of spinning, slipping tires. I love the momentum of moving forward. And really, who knows how long it will take to get a trapped vehicle unstuck. Hours? Days? Years? Who wants their cute little car to turn into a rusted hunk of metal?
I also have a fear of spinning tires in a not so literal sense. I love the feel of momentum in my life- the thought that I am working towards goals and accomplishing things is invigorating to me. I was talking with a customer the other day, and I was relating to them the importance I felt about moving forward in a direction in life. Their reply to my dissertation was “Yeah, but you work in a drum shop.” All I could do was shrug, because yeah, I can see the irony of that, and yeah, those are the words I hear in my own heart sometimes. But when I seriously think about it, I know that I am taking steps to move forward. I just finished taking a law entrance exam for the second time, I’m also applying to a few colleges and sprucing up some resumes to apply to other jobs. It is hard to know if this is simply spinning my tires, or if I will gain some ground in using my energy towards this. Even though spinning tires isn’t desirable, I know that tires that are moving are at least more advantageous than those that are motionless.
And thinking back to our car stuck in that snow drift, I don’t believe it was really in danger of becoming a rusted hunk of metal. There were four of us girls who strongly wanted it to be out of that drift, and I am comforted by this thought. I have a God who can use immobility, spinning tires and motion to get me where I need to be, and He is not in the habit of walking off and forgetting about people who need help.

Philippians 1:6 For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

Finally!

2010-02-08T21:56:00.001-08:00

Love. Twuuee Love.

2010-02-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

I was watching Westside story a few weeks ago with some friends, when one of them piped up and said "They both die in the end, right?" The common consensus was "Yes, they [the lovers] both die." After a pause, another friend remarked "Well, that's dumb." There was a moment of flabbergasted silence, then we all burst out laughing. We could see her point. Short lived love is almost right up there with unrequited love; just not as fashionable as it used to be in Shakespearian times. We would prefer a "Happily Ever After" story over a tragedy.
Some of the greatest love stories in the world are tragic. I admit that. Name off just about any one of them and there is going to be some element of things-gone-awry: one person dying before the other (like in Braveheart), or while they are still too young (Last of the Mohicans, Westside Story/Romeo and Juliet), or separated because of poverty or disease(The Fields of Athen Rye), or separated because of personal issues (Edward Sissor Hands, Pride and Prejudice, You Got Mail).
Of course it is the most heart wrenching of stories when one of the lovers gets left behind by the other lover. When the beloved dies and things are left unsaid; undone; the whole storyline seems shattered. I usually cry when I get to the part in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe where Aslan dies. The White Witch raises her stone knife in one victory blow, then tramps off. Susan and Lucy are left in the dark clueless about what to do next. Their love is lying dead and silent on a stone table. What hope do they have left for the future? Of course, all this changes in the story when dawn has broken.
I'm thankful that the foundation for Christianity isn't based on a tragic love story. Last week I was reminded about the radical aspect of Christ's resurrection. Yes he died, but YES He lives. Christ's followers are not confined to visiting a tomb of a good man or teacher. We're not left expressing our love and devotion to someone who cannot hear us. There are tragic aspects to the redemptive story, but the ending is stellar.

Zephaniah 3:17 "The LORD your God is in your midst, a victorious warrior. He will exult over you with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy."

My Two Unsuccessful Skydiving Attempts

2009-11-28T19:42:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, I've been trying to go skydiving for the last two months, but have been unable to because of unruly weather. However, the camera eye captured a few things at the drop sight before we found out the devastating news that we were not going to jump.

The game is up; do you wish to start again? Commonalities between Inmates and a Branson Musical

2009-11-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

I spent most of my Saturday at a maximum security prison; not because I became an offender since we chatted last, but because I was going through some volunteer training to be part of a program called InnerChange Freedom Initiative (IFI). A good chunk of the general training session was dry. The gal giving the talk tried to make it somewhat interactive, but the gist of her lecture was “Here are the rules. If you break the rules we rip off your volunteer badge.” I understand the rigidity of the prison, and did not protest when they fingerprinted me and made me sign a pile of papers, it was a reminder that this was serious stuff and nobody just waltzes into a high security prison. But I would have to say that those hours in the classroom were not what I would freely refer to as “fun”. After this segment of the day lethargically crept by, the leaders of IFI came into the room to do a bit of their own training for a smaller percentage of us who wanted to escape with the rest of the lot. But before we raced out of the classroom we quickly realized that the IFI program directors were like a breath of fresh air. One of the first things they did was feed us lunch. Come to me beautiful Subway sandwich! Next, they shared real life stories of transformation in the lives of prisoners, and talked about the struggles and strengths of their program. I went away feeling greatly encouraged and super-glad that I was with IFI and not some other program. It struck me afterwards, though, that all of the volunteer programs are striving for the same thing: they aim to break the cycle of offenders getting out of prison and then jumping back in because of difficulties they might face in mainstream society, and because of the unforgiving chain of bad decision making skills. Each of those programs have their own method to achieve the goal of changing convicts. I believe IFI has a very high success rate, but even there, change is not a piece of cake. You gotta really want change to make it happen.
The day after my time in prison, I drove to Branson, Missouri to hang out with my friend Caroline. We went to Silver Dollar City that afternoon. Caroline and I decided to see A Christmas Carol, because Branson is already fancy-free and holiday-happy this early in November. Caroline informed me that The Christmas Carol was “good”, and I agreed to go with a “Sure, I don’t care what we do.” kind of attitude. After the production was finished, I walked away incredibly impressed. I was impressed because of the professionalism behind it all: the ornate rotating set, the costumes, the quality of actors and the creativity that went into making a well known story enjoyable to watch ONCE AGAIN. Some of the sweet notes from one particular vocalist were so glorious and poignant that my eyes were forced to become watery as I sat there in a sea of audience members. Of course, the main message behind the Christmas Carol centers around the non-stagnant state of Scrooge. As we see him wrestle with his bed curtains after each encounter with the Christmas Spirits, our gut feeling (and previous experiences) tell us that Scrooge isn’t going to be the same miserly humbug he once was. He’s going to change… or at least we know he has the choice to change.
I am currently not a prisoner or a miserly old man, but I recognize that I have the choice set before me to change: to change for better or for worse. Positive change is always tough. The worm probably doesn’t look forward to what takes place in a cocoon, but almost everybody would say that the new creature is much better than the old one. So cheers to butterflies! Cheers to dancing, singing, rich elderly men on Christmas day. And here’s a cheer for convicts who have managed to assimilate back into society outside of prison walls, and who have genuinely undergone change… not an easy thing, for sure.

Peel Back the Temporal

2009-10-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

This poem is a bit rough around the edges. It needs some polishing (and maybe even a bow tie). However, it states some of the things I have been turning around in my head lately, and it is something new for the blog. Something that can fill in that multi-month gap of profound silence. :)

If I could peel back the temporal
But momentarily catch a glimpse
Of that which withstands fire
To see with certainty
Paths tailored for my feet
With unscaled eyes witness myself
A new creature, washed
Not merely
Human confined in blemished skin

If I could but peel back the temporal
Would I still run
After the fleeting,
The illusive
The idolatrous?
With regenerate sight
Would my new perspective
Feed abandonment-
Propel a heart that loved
Without the impatient voice of reservation?

To long to peel back the temporal
Is that merely a Thomas Request?
Stemming from innate doubt of the glorious?
A lack of trust?
A scantiness of faith?
This longing to see beyond the area of path
Which my feet know
And my mind feels

Someday,
The temporal will be peeled back
Open wounds will be healed
Tears will be brushed away
Purpose will be defined
Hope will unite with her gorgeous cadence

Until then, The Eternal One
Who felt the pinions of the temporal
Who brushed into place
What the optical lens knows and understands
He will feed us from His hand
That which is needed for today
For today and right now

Susan Boyle and Her Unassuming Voice

2009-04-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you have already heard about Miss. Boyle. The 48 year old woman who divulged to British television audiences that she lived alone with her cat Pebbles, and had never been kissed. She then proceeded to walk on stage of Britain’s Got Talent with her mop of curls, and opened her mouth to sing Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables. Before she made a sound the audience was decidedly ready to cast their vote against her, but before she reached her first cadence she had flabbergasted her judges and audience alike. She was stunning and, in her own way, exquisite. She received a standing ovation and as her audience members jaws were still in half opened position she was ready to simply walk off the stage.
There is something I like very much about this. It might be the fact that she is such an unassuming star, but I think it might be more than that. The whole scenario rings of something like a fairy tale, and if not a fairy tale, then at least a very good bedtime story. It reminds me of the prima donna who made her break while scrubbing floors at an opera house- a true story, so I’m told. Who knew the cleaning woman had such a glorious set of pipes? Then again, wouldn’t we rather that she got the upgrade in pay scale more than the woman already dripping with diamonds?
Now back to Susan. Our faithful news sources are confidently reassuring us that we will hear more from Miss Boyle. To that I say “Splendid!” because Jiminy Cricket tells me that our western culture is way too eager to boo contestants off stage, and at times it is even to the point of willing them to tear each other limb from limb in the name of competition (Or is it in the name of entertainment?). In this day where a majority of our celebs are famous because they radiate the aura of Venus, I say lets go with the lady with the defined eyebrows and crazy curly hair. Susan made people who were half asleep suddenly turn their heads. And it is for this, Miss Boyle, that I salute you.

Duct Tape and Pure Nard

2009-03-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

St. Patty's Day is coming up. Sometimes holidays can remind you of past holidays, and lately I've been turning over in my mind a St Patrick's Day from 4 years ago. I was attending Ulster University at the time, and recruited by a fellow student to travel with a carnival troop to march in the Dublin parade as a space alien. "Something different" I thought- something I could tell my children's children about, but in retrospect, I probably won't.
The group of kids I was traveling with were pretty wild. That's the best way I know how to explain it. For an example, the guy sitting a few seats behind me on the bus had dyed his hair bright fire engine red, and had left the vivid blue body paint on his skin from the parade. He looked like a t-shirt and blue jean clad version of Mystique. One of the boys who was about 15 had been annoying a few people during an earlier part of the trip, and so a few of them in the back of the bus decided to duct tape him to the seat. It wasn't just a little tape here and a little tape there, it was a full body metallic cocoon. I'm not sure if he had been drinking with the others earlier, but the boy somehow slept through the taping process. When he woke up and started to try to move around, intense jeering broke out in the vicinity of the silver webbed mass that used to be simply a human body. He was the vulnerable target of spit wads, and vulnerable in other ways because his arms were pinned to his side. Maybe on some level he deserved this, but it just seemed malicious to me. I'm not totally sure all of the reasons why, but it made me sick. Like, puke-my-guts-out kind of sick. I got up and made my way to the back of the bus. Maybe initially I thought some of the others from the front of the bus had had enough and would join me, but after a few steps it was apparent that nobody felt the same way. The whole bus erupted with shouting "Leave him alone! Sit down!" I could feel my ears turn red and my hands were shaking as I tried to tear away at the edges of the stubborn tape. After a few minutes the duct tape boy himself told me to back off, so I did. I walked back to my seat with a bus load less of potential friends, and wishing that the next lethargic 3-4 hours would rocket away.
This isn't all that great of a story, but there is a point to it. I'm taking the time to write about it because it makes me think about the following story in a different light.

This story I actually like, No, not just like- I love it. I was reminded about it this last weekend. It's the story about Mary who anointed the Lord's feet with pure nard. I heard that the equivalent price of that vial of perfume was worth $36,000. It was the woman's life savings. Her dowry. She didn't just dab a bit of that precious stuff on the Lord's toes; she broke the jar open. She let down her hair. Her glory. A sight in that culture that would have been reserved for her husband. Judas and the other men in that room smelled the perfume. They knew its worth; knew that it was costly, and in part understood what she was doing. Their reaction to what she did could be translated as that "they snorted" at her.

I wonder if her ears turned red.
I wonder if her hands shook.

But what stands out to me is that Jesus didn't react like the others. He said: "Leave her alone."

Speaking of Art

2009-02-16T08:36:00.001-08:00

I am starting to believe more strongly that small talk is an art form, not just a necessary evil. I try to work at it; quite hard actually; I believe in its importance. It is, after all, a crucial stepping stone to friendship (with some exceptions, of course). I think small talk takes on the characteristic of an art form in that sometimes the harder you try, the more distorted it can become and the further you are from what it should be, or where you want to be. Overworking the drawing, you could say. It also seems to be something that can improve with practice: tear muscle to build muscle. I'm guessing that the Duchess of York is more refined in her social skills than the hermit living off in the mountains of Nepal. The old boy just needs practice! Small talk is also something that takes concentration. I remember reading in Strad magazine that the violinist Joshua Bell could concentrate so intently during the delivery of his rep, that he could change his fingering in a piece depending on what he was feeling at the moment of his performance. Not everyone can do that! That's gutsy! But it also means that broken concentration could be catastrophic. It could leave a musician wondering "Where am I?" and "Where do I go from here?". It's the same way with small talk. If you are not concentrating when you're talking with Michelle (Or was it Marsha?), you are never going to remember that she likes to go scuba diving for pirate's gold (Or was she talking about mold?).
For the sake of keeping things natural in conversation, practicing in order to get better, and keeping things interesting enough to hold your attention, I recommend the following small talk conversation tips. If somebody mentions the words "conflict" or "fight", insert the two words "cage match" in your next comment. If somebody mentions they are having a hard time doing something, kindly suggest the purchase of a pet monkey (useful creatures, they are). And if things go really down hill, where you are groping to find something salvageable from the conversation that has gone South to topics like the weather, you can always channel the conversation to picking out names for hurricanes. If the small talk gets to the point where it us just painful, another option is to quote someone semi-famous, and then to quietly slip away, but as LeVar Burton used to say "You don't have to take my word for it."

The Occupation of Elves

2009-02-07T09:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the luxury of having options is overwhelming. I find this to be the case in the bread aisle at Dillons, and when I am picking out frames at the optometrist's. This dilemma even appears when I'm deciding what to do on a Saturday night; if you have two options the time space continuum demands that you make a choice, and in a timely manner as well (Chop! Chop! We don't have all day!). And sometimes the Luxury of Options reaches its fever pitch when it comes to thinking about occupations and life goals. In 10 years, someone in my demographic could become a Doctor or a dentist or a Dairy Queen worker. They can save up and go to facinating destinations all over the world, like Antartica or Siberia or... Baldwin City. Options are great, but they take energy if you want to address them properly, and for that reason it is easy to under-appreciate them.
During times like this, it can be good to compare yourself to others who do not have an abundance of options; those who are less fortunate. And in the less fortunate, I mean elves- a people group (...!...?) who are rather limited in their choice of occupation, because, as one of my brothers pointed out to me, what kind of jobs can you get if you are an elf? You can work in Santa's workshop (but he only takes you if you are clever and nimble, and rumour has it that they have maple syrup on everything in the cafeteria, so you have to like that). If you are an elf you can bake cookies in the Keebler tree (this is just speculation, but my bet is that even for as big as the trunk is, it's tight quarters). If you are an elf you can act in movies, like the Lord of the Rings (but they only accept you if you are extremely good looking), OR, if you are an elf, you can be a cobbler and sew up shoes (but you have to be willing to work nights). I might be missing one or two occupations, but you get the idea. Elves are extremely limited in their choice of occupation and none of them are terribly ideal. I might go as far as saying that elves are actually (and I am going to linger on this last word) suppressed.
So, I decided not to write a blog post on the difficulty of having options in life. I will choose to appreciate this luxury. Instead, I will leave you with the choice of clicking on the blog links off to the left side of the screen, posting a comment at the bottom of this blurp, doing other computerish tasks, or clicking off your computer and going for a walk- because it's a lovely day out today.

Brushing Shoulders with the Rich and Famous

2009-02-02T20:46:00.000-08:00

Ann Geddes posterchild

Who knew that Elvis would grace his presence in Topeka?

I am not sure which movie she played in, but I'm almost positive this is a famous actress. She'd have to be, right? To wear a coat like that?

For Nuttin'

2009-02-01T20:09:00.000-08:00

I can think of few things in life more exasperating than the realization that something was done in vain. And I will gladly give you some choice selections from my Experience Portfolio to illustrate what I mean. One example would be practicing for hours on a crazy-hard song to find in the end that it was never to reach the ears of an audience. With a maniacal fist shake I say "Those practice room walls better have enjoyed what they absorbed." Or another example of vain experience would be painstakingly stitching frog slippers for a friend, only to find out that the slippers were several sizes too small for the recipient of the gift (The slippers fit okay on their hands, though, which is a thought I often comfort myself with). Other things done in vain: thinking up the ultimate super power that I would choose to possess if I were indeed a super hero. But alas, even this in the end is vanity! Let's face it, that ingenious super mutation would never occur, even if I did happen upon a vat of radioactive goo or decided to drink mysterious liquid from a fuming beaker. Now I suppose you could rationalize each of these experiences, and say that those practice hours made me a better musician, and that those tiny stitches built up much needed hand muscles, and that those super hero musings were... okay, those were just a waste of time. But there are some things we could say were done just PARTIALLY in vain.
In addition to vain things in life, there's always the sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind that something MIGHT be done in vain, and therefore not worth my while. When I am in the throws of gathering up the guts to walk across a room to talk to someone who is standing alone at a social function, I think to myself "This could be for nothing." You gotta weigh the odds of whether that person wants to talk to someone who answers to your name, or if they would rather sip punch, or if you will be able to quickly think of anything worthwhile to talk about with them. Or maybe you're that punch sipping wallflower that's wondering why you even came to the party. Was it in vain that you used the gas money to drive you to where you are at? Or, say you're filling out a job application for the umpteenth time, and the thought occurs to you that filling out applications might just be a way that you are using your free time, you know, that it is turning into a hobby like fly fishing. Are you actually going to gain meaningful employment, or are you just filling in the provided blanks, like a form of silly sudoku? And at the pinnacle of those lurking vain thoughts rest deeper questions, like "What if I set my heart on something that I cannot have? Or that I cannot achieve? Or the timing is just super wrong? Is it going to be in vain?" Aye there's the rub! That's where things get tricky; when you are not very sure if something falls into the vain category or not; if something has the potential to lead to disapointment, or worse yet, a bit of pain.
All this is just a very round about way of saying that I like the following verse:

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your toil is not in vain in the Lord. 1 Cor. 15:58

I think that says it all. Here is something you can stake everything on.

Abandonment

2009-01-01T15:33:00.000-08:00

Having driven across Kansas a few times lately, I am reminded of how many derelict buildings dot the landscape. Their ragged neglect evidenced by roofs caving in, windows with gaping smiles and blooming weeds, the protégé of tumbleweed. The truth is, upon detecting these dilapidated places, I feel sad. I feel the same way about them as I do about ruins in Ireland. They can sometimes have an odd splendor to them, but often they are just forlorn- forlorn and solemn. They are abandoned. Someone gave up on them. Thinking they would perhaps invest their time and money in a more trendy place, or at least in a place that wouldn’t need the roof patched. Or maybe the owner had to move off to an exotic place like the Bahamas for health reasons, or maybe they are now deceased, and left the property to their only son in Toledo who is a busy Doctor and doesn’t have time to care for it. Or maybe the previous owner was dirt poor, and it now belongs to a bank that is having a hard time selling the property for equity.
Really, abandonment is weird. It is usually a word that has unpleasant connotation attached to it and leaves us wondering “What went wrong?” But the word suddenly turns out to be a good thing if something is abandoned that needs to be. Who likes rain dripping on their heads while they are trying to drink a cup of tea? That old house ain’t worth your time! Why hold onto a shack if you can live in a palace, or a house with a garage and swimming pool? Why hold onto things like guilt, fear or bitterness? It’s much better to throw those little guys out the window.
Another weird thing about abandonment is that it seems to graduate to a higher level when it is done with good intent. When I was in Greece this last summer I talked to a guy who was part of a Bible study called The Barbarians. I asked him why they were called Barbarians to see if it fit the image in my head of maniacal bonfire dancing, and men with braided beards ripping off chunks of meat from mammoth-sized turkey drumsticks. The guy said they were called Barbarians because they wanted to be “passionate, fully abandoned to God.” That answer didn’t really fit into my Barbarian paradigm, but I’ll give him the benefit of doubt… because it does sound rather glorious! If there was a girl version of the Barbarians I’d join. It kind of fits into my Live Hard goal, after all. Resurrect that hidden savage. So… viva la abandonment! The good kind, I mean.

About Esther

2009-01-01T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have been reading through the book of Esther again. Even though Esther has found her beautiful self pasted on millions of Sunday school flannel boards and repeatedly cliché-style referenced in women’s Christian lit, I remain intrigued every time I read through the original book. Reading through it this time two things stood out to me. One is about her, and the other is not.
About Esther: she was beautiful, clever, feared God, and obedient to the leadership God placed in her life. My guess is that she must have had a winning type of personality, charming Xerxes and the rest of his ilk like she did. It seems to me that she deserved the best. But she didn’t have the easiest life: parents killed tragically, exiled, torn from a loving guardian, placed in a palace full of competitive women, and then married off to a man who slept around and who possessed carefully guarded machismo (Step lightly or get shipped off and replaced!). Esther’s people were being annihilated before her eyes, and she probably had a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach that she would be next. It seems to me that Esther’s story falls into the same category as good people getting cancer, or honest business men finding their hard earned cash performing a disappearing act overnight. If I had lived during Esther’s time, and if she had been one of my home girls, I’d say she didn’t deserve any of that rough stuff to happen to her, but, the way that God orchestrated everything in her story is breathtaking. The story resembles a tightly fitted puzzle which leaves the best pieces for last. All those hard things that happen to Esther make sense in the end. All the ugly loose ends are neatly tied, and it makes you want to praise God for His majestic strength and omniscience. At the end of the book the hard things in Esther’s life don’t look meaningless after all, and we are not left pitying her state or feeling like her life was permeated with injustice. I think the last 3 chapters are a taste of heaven. All the hard things in this life will someday resolve into meaning and we’ll have a new light shed on this life’s twists and turns.
Not about Esther: Esther 3:15 really bugs me. It says that while the king and Haman sat down to drink, the city of Susa was in confusion. Their Edict was causing mass chaos and slaughter, and they decided it was a brilliant time to grab a bite to eat. It reminds me of the scene in The Lord of the Rings where Pippen sings his haunting ballad while the king pops grapes into his mouth, and while the king’s dear son fervently battles away in a ruined city. It grossly emphasizes a lack of concern, accentuated by the fact that those kings were the primary source of the tumultuous events taking place while they dine. To think about it is upsetting, but I suppose it is a reminder about priorities, and points me towards double checking my grape-popping habits. I came across this quotation from C.S. Lewis the other day, and I think he completes this thought nicely. “My own experience is something like this. I am progressing along the path of life in my ordinary contentedly fallen and godless condition, absorbed in a merry meeting with my friends… or a bit of work that tickles my vanity…, when suddenly a… headline in the newspapers that threatens us all with destruction, sends this whole pack of cards tumbling down. At first I am overwhelmed, and all my little happinesses look like broken toys. Then, slowly and reluctantly… I try to bring myself into the frame of mind that I should be in at all times. I remind myself that all these toys were never intended to possess my heart, that… my only real treasure is Christ.” This New Year I want to focus on proper priorities, and I’m looking forward to the time when all the happenings of my years will make perfect sense.

Welcome to the Garage

2008-11-05T21:30:00.000-08:00

When you come across the word "Supersonic" what immediately comes to mind? Sports cars with jet engines attached? A drive thru Sonic where everyone is on rollerblades? Wait, even better: A drive thru Sonic where you receive your food in one of those cylndrical tubes that you use for bank transactions (Super!).
I just got a job at a place called Supersonic, and it's actually not like that. It's more along the lines of a music shop with a garage type of ambience to it. Perhaps not the place my collegiate colleagues would have voted me most likely to work at, but I find it to be an interesting place. At Supersonic, we sell guitar cables. Loads of them! Some of them are black; some of them are the color or Skittles. The walls of the music shop are choca-block full of musical gear. Everything from harmonica holders to sleek triangular Jackson guitars. We carry drum sticks with shock absorbers in them, and cymbals that are arranged and displayed to look like Chinese Christmas trees.
So if you're in the Topeka area, stop on by Supersonic! Jam a bit; chat a bit, and check out the garage for yourself!

Live Hard

2008-10-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

One of the slogans for Lincoln Douglas Debate used to be Talk Hard. I have decided that my new motto for the next while is going to be Live Hard (It is perhaps jumping the gun on a New Year's Resolution, so it is just a goal). The draw back to claiming these two words is that there might be some Hedonistic Rock Star Philosophy associated with it: "Wear out your body, 'cause Baby this is as good as it gets!" But, really, I have different plans for those words and how I want them to motivate me in the weeks to come.
I can relate well to Elijah. After Mount Carmel victories it is in my wiring to lay down and lose vision for what is to come next. I also realize that it is easier to detect the Wilderness Elijah mentality in others, more so than when it is found within myself. For example: Elijah. Elijah would be a good example. :) Another example: A few weeks ago a woman a little past middle age said to me "I don't understand why the Lord has had me live this long." I left that conversation feeling disconcerted. From my viewpoint she had a tremendous amount to live for and should keep truckin' for all she's worth! But it made me wonder afterwards if I had allowed that same kind of thinking to creep into my own head.
A few days after that conversation I drove a Burmese girl named Kaung to the hospital for a post operation check up. Kaung had a hole repaired in her heart, and the Doc wanted to see how things were holding up. Kaung bravely proceeded through the gauntlet of heart tests: EKG, Echocariogram, and X-Rays.
As I sat in the dark room watching Kaung's heart lub-dubbing on the screen, and hearing her father quietly chuckle at the Homeward Bound movie playing in the background, it hit me that life is an incredible gift. There is no guarantee on that next heartbeat.
So I guess that is where my motivation comes from for acquiring a new motto. Even though I don't want to emulate Elijah curled up in the wilderness under a juniper tree, I do want to get a taste of his Mount Horeb experience. To hear the Lord's voice; to be sustained by His food; without carrying loads of baggage with me. To live hard, even during the quieter pauses in life.

Letting Your Hair Down

2008-10-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

I played my violin this evening at a nursing home fund raiser. It wasn't because of any altruism on my part or because of the pristine condition of my heart. I played tonight because the lady recruiter was insanely sweet and my mouth was unable to utter a resolute "no" when she asked me.
I chose to play a medley piece that cataclysmically collides three short songs together, and cleverly fills in the gaps with arpeggio structured cadenzas. The piece was simply chosen because I figured it would fullfill my alloted minute quota. My favorite sliver of the repertoire is the last breathtaking 10 bars that unite to bravely form the piece's conclusion. The last section is composed of mad running sixteenth notes, whose sole purpose in their short-lived lives is to propel everything forward. The notes build hyper-tension by picking up tempo as they climb several octaves and push toward the brilliant dynamic of fortissimo (Voila!). The whole piece is built around that finale ending. It careens maniacally forward and then when it cannot soar any higher in that blue cloudless sky it spits out a few notes, as if in afterthought. Kind of like "Here are some double-stop Ds. Take that!" It gives me a head rush to greet those notes and they are usually played with an extra fiesty foot stomp, just for affect. It's all about attitude. No room for timidity here. Risk-taking-anxiety is thrown out the window. It's all about abandonment, really.
It really is all about abandonment. Letting the hair down. Daring the instrument to catch on fire!

...perhaps a bit bewildering for the elderly... next time, maybe, I should play Brahms... or something.

Purge the Closets

2008-09-15T13:57:00.000-07:00

I remember reading once about the contents of Abraham Lincoln's pockets found the day he was assassinated. Along with spectacles, a pocket handkerchief and whatnot were nine newspaper clippings favorable to his presidency and his policies. I find it fascinating that a man who has gone down in our history books as being one of the most courageous and greatest American presidents of all time cared about newspaper clippings. It makes sense, though, he was human after all and words of encouragement can do wonders for those battling their way upstream.
After being prompted by the words "Purge the closets" written on the bathroom mirror at my oldest brother's house, I have been inspired to intensively clean out my closets, and have been trying to coax myself to part with what I don't need, or what I predict will not be of much value to me in ten years. Books, letters, CDs and clothes are all at risk of getting their Closet Status changed. As I have been weeding through the random ensemble of articles I wonder what an alien observer would think about the contents of my closets. Would they find it weird that I keep 2 hockey sticks, or would they raise their eyebrows at well intended half started projects? I know you shouldn't get overly zealous with what others think of your closet space, and nobody is on the verge of writing articles about my pocket lint, but it is a reminder to me that if there is anything in there that I'm ashamed of it's time to bag it up and give it to Goodwill. Quality newspaper articles are far better than skeletons.

Thoughts for Chewing and Swallowing

2008-09-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman, Oct. 17th

May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. Gal. 6:14

"They were people who were living to themselves. Their hopes, promises, and dreams still controlled them, but the Lord began to fulfill their prayers. They had asked for a repentant heart and had surrendered themselves with a willingness to pay any price for it, and He sent them sorrow. They had asked for purity, and He sent them sudden anguish. They had asked for meekness, and He had broken their hearts. They had asked to be dead to the world, and He killed all their living hopes. They had asked to be made like Him, so He placed them in the fire "as a refiner and purifier of silver" (Mal. 3:3), until they could reflect His image. They had asked to help carry His cross, yet when He held it out to them, it cut an tore their hands.
...Yet God strengthened them and protected them, even from themselves. Often, in His mercy He held them up when they otherwise would have slipped and fallen. And even in this life, they knew that all He did was done well. They knew it was good to suffer in this life so they would reign in the one to come; to bear the cross below, to wear a crown above; and to know that not their will but His was done in them and through them."

Andy Mckee- Drifting

2008-08-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

This guy is insane!

Robots, Sweet Bats and Fights with Kites

2008-08-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

I am back in the U.S. of A. One of the benefits of being home again is that I have more of an opportunity to catch up on cinematic entertainment. Now, I realize that to be a proper movie critic, you need (at least!) a Top Ten list of movies that you are critiquing, and two thumbs. I have two thumbs, but I only have a list of 3 movies. Maybe that will qualify me as...a... blogger who watches movies sometimes.

Wall-e: A brilliant movie put out by Pixar, creatively constructed, and a reminder that EVEN robots like to hold hands [insert shoulder shrug here]. A clear green message behind it (which isn't bad to dwell on for a bit), and a touching scene where many obese people, along with their mega slushies, are jostled to one side of a spaceship. I give it: Two thumbs and a pinkie.

Batman: The Black Knight: Stunning performance by Heath Ledger as the joker; I was effectively weirded out! After watching the movie, and as I was headed down the hall of the theatre, I felt like I received a week's dosage of mass chaos through osmosis. The fighting was also at a consistent level through most of the flick- I wouldn't have minded a few lighter moments so that I could catch my breath, but overall it met my high expectations for the Batman series, and it gets a 9.43672 on my rating scale.

The Kite Runner: An ideal movie if you need to cry, and don't have a good reason to do so. It is raw; contains a redemptive storyline, and isn't afraid to deal with hard topics. It encapsulates a strong message about loyalty, courage, and overall it is a poignant "think movie." Contains a fast forward scene, but I stil give it: three popcorns and a coke.

Needs: And the People Who Own Them

2008-08-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

I used to view physical need as something straight forward in its simplicity: Person A needs a coat; Person B has a coat to give away; Person B gives coat to Person A. But I'm starting to think that detecting true need and addressing it is much more complicated than that. There are several Romanian gypsies I have encountered in a suburb of Dublin. When I initially met one on the street, I saw her holding her baby, and I was like "Yeah, I'll give you what change I have to buy food." A few months later I met the same woman on the top floor of a double decker bus, chillin' with other gypsies, and listening to music blaring from speakers connected to an i-pod. The bus trip stongly left me with the impression that I was a dupe. I don't have an i-pod. Who knew gypsies could afford them?! Something else I've been thinking about occurs at the soup kitchen I work at. Why is it that the homeless men (and some women) who seem to have the most need take less than the ones that look like they are not as bad off? It seems like it should be the other way around. Do you get less greedy the longer you're on the street, or do you just become more street wise and know where to get what you need to survive? Working with travellers has also got me thinking about neediness. I've had some travellers grab bags of clothes and bread before I had my arms fully extended to give them away. Sometimes I see some of the contents of the bags left in the street after the bags have been rummaged through. Do you still give when what you are giving isn't really appreciated, or maybe not even what the person wanted in the first place? And do you always give when you know you won't get a Thanks? The warning about casting pearls before swine (Matt. 7:6) occasionally comes to mind. And can you spread yourself too thin, trying to give too much so that in the end you're not helping anybody?
Well, maybe the fog will clear for me on this issue. In the meantime, I will be grateful that I'm not a Doctor who has to decide who gets the only donor kidney available. I guess I'll just have to give what I got, in the smartest way possible, and leave the details to the One who knows everything.

French Impressions

2008-07-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

Paris was once described to me as the ultimate de je vue experience. There is so much we know about the city from movies and other forms of media that if we set foot in the place, hypothetically, it should feel like we have been there before. Mid-June I put my Pepe Le Pew Loony Tunes knowledge to the test, and went to see if my pre-concieved notions of Paris were accurate. Naturally, I found some were very close, and some were not.
The ones that were not: Strawberry Parfait was supposed to be more common in Paris than snotty-nosed kids at play school, or so I thought. But I did not find an abundance of this ice cream dish during my exploration. The lack of beret wearing was a bit disappointing as well, the only people wearing berets were clearly tourists, and not some avande garde artists smoking cigars.
The things that were: The Eiffel tower was more than I expected. I don't think I would readily spend several hours queing for my turn to get to the top of the tower again, but I was impressed by the beauty of the tower's architecture, and the view of the city from the top was breathtaking. The Louvre was amazing as well, and it made me happy to walk through a sliver of it.
Something I had no pre-concieved notions about, and that made an impression on me was the Metro, Paris' underground transportaion system. I found it all to be a bit surreal- the weak ultraviolet lights doing little to cheer up the grey tone in the belly of the subway train. The greasy poles that you have to hang onto to maintain your balance (and to keep you from falling over and taking out all the people in front of you), and the smell around you, which is a mixture of the smell of perfume and people whose daily hygene ritual doesn't always necessarily include showering.

The Sun Runs Its Course

2008-07-16T06:41:00.000-07:00

Last week I witnessed a stunning sunset from my perch on a hill overlooking Benone, Northern Ireland. I think sunsets are proof of God's loving-kindness. I mean, He could have made darkness come to us at night like He flipped off a light switch, but He didn't. Instead He gives us fair warning everyday that is's going to get dark. And He could have chose to make the sun dim down like one of those chandelier living room lights, you know the one with the roundy kind of knob on the wall, but again, He didn't. Instead, He usually accompanies the sunset with radiance of color, phenomenal clouds, astounding variations of shade, and the shifting of shadow. I suppose He could have also reserved sunsets for the days when we really pleased Him, where we gave our 100% for Him and sacrificially and altruistically gave of ourselves to others, but He didn't do that either. He provides sunsets on the days that we failed Him, played the harlot and forgot Him, over-stuffed our egos, and revealed the miniscule quantity of love that we actually possess. He gives us sunsets everyday. He is a kind God. He loves us.

Packin' the Dayz

2008-07-06T11:35:00.000-07:00

It is amazing to me how much one week can contain. I feel like a month was tightly rolled and squeezed into the last few days. Last week's occupation was counseling for a girls camp. Many of these hoody clad females were between the ages of 8 and 10, and were bused in from inner city Dublin. At the end of the week, having looked around at the other bleary eyed leaders, I can safely assess that I wasn't alone in my a-week-is-a-month feeling.
Several things happened that I still don't fully understand. I don't understand how one little girl can go so rapidly from smudging out my name on a banner Sunday night, to giving me sweet cards with red crayoned hearts on them Thursday night. I don't understand why a girl would refuse to touch a dirty (but scraped) plate, when her hands are immersed in hot soapy water. I don't understand how so many girls can be friends one minute, and so violently at each other's throats the next. But that's okay. I suppose those are the type of things that puzzle you when you are in rehash mode.
There are several things that I do understand about the week, and they tend to make me smile. It makes me smile to think about the little girl who was so grateful for learning how to swim on Wednesday, and it makes me smile when I think about getting to teach the girls from my tent a few new songs. It also makes me smile when I think of the two girls that gave their life to Christ towards the end of the week. I think those are the things that make packed days worth it, and it is where I need to choose to let my thoughts rest.

Boogie Bogging among the Blogs

2008-07-05T07:42:00.000-07:00

Most people, perhaps, would think of a blog as a digital space for the display of noble and mundane thoughts for bored people to read. Others might view it as a launching pad for discussion, or would simply use it as a place to list their Top 10 favorite BBQ Sauces. But little do they know about the Blogs of Wicklow Co., Ireland. Smelly, hairy creatures, who lurk in the the mossy ivy-shrouded forests. Forests that are hedged in by thick scraggly vines and prickly plants that draw blood to the careless explorer. It is here in the forest, near swampy waters filled with lethal looking eels and ill-looking frogs, that the Blogs live. Not many people have ever seen the Blogs, because they only come out at night... and they have red eyes... and sharp teeth... and they like to feed on [insert shrill scream in the background]... popcorn. Blogs love popcorn! And they have horrible episodes of insomnia which makes it difficult for them to sleep. Thus, the red eyes! If you would like to help the Blogs battle their insomniac tendencies, and assist the medical world in finding a cure, please post your check to...
I'll stop there. :0)
Just had to write something random for my first post.