Today is my birthday.
February 27th - I should say today is our birthday - we were born thirty-six years ago in the large metropolis of Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ryan, Vikki and I were born three days late; my sister, the largest, tipping the scales at 6 1/2 pounds and Ryan and I managing a mere 4 1/2. Imagine that - if you will - fifteen pounds of kids in one belly. It all seemed rather large until I saw the mortifying picture of the mother who was pregnant with septuplets. Her belly looked like a gasoline tanker; I had to resist my gag reflex. I did always tell Christine that she looked beautiful when she was pregnant, though.
As I reflect back on this life of mine, I'm trying to ponder what has changed most since the 1970's. Many would say it's the music - digitally compressed files packed with digitally enhanced voices paired with digitally enhanced videos; it all seems so fake now. Gone are the disco kings and queens who made us (perhaps I'll speak for myself), me, want to shake my groove thing, yeah, yeah, yeah. Although by the time the disco was closing shop, I was all of five years old and I didn't even know what a groove thing was.
Some might say that the biggest change is in how information is passed. I am just old enough to remember when there was an actual dial on the phone and it took approximately a minute to call my friends, especially if they had a lot of zeroes or nines in their phone numbers. The phones were connected to the wall by a chord - there was a large fascination for me to curl the cord around my finger as I talked on the phone. In my home town of Rake, we didn't even need to dial the first three digits; since the town was so small, we only had to dial four numbers. The computer has changed the world, I know. All that information at our fingertips. I can type in a word on Google and have billions of hits in less than a second. I remember in high school writing papers and having to finger my way through the encyclopedia to look up the gestational period for the hoary marmot (it took me most of one study period). I also distinctly remember when there were only three channels to be had on the television. Perhaps because we lived in a rather remote section of Iowa, and the airwaves were a bit thinner (that's my assumption), we could only get PBS and two CBS channels. People always talk about the Cosby Show, but I have no recollection because the NBC station was too far away. My television experience from the younger years bounced back and forth between Dukes of Hazard and Love Boat. Also the early morning Saturday cartoon experience watching "Cartoon Olympics" and "Superfriends." Now the cartoons are for mature audiences. What's happening in the wild world of sports.
Speaking of sports, they've changed a bit too. Instead of athletes making a decent living, many of them earn (I use that term very lightly) more than the GNP of many small countries. I just found out this morning that Manny Ramirez turned down 45 million dollars for two years because he feels that he would be underpaid. Everything about that situation makes me want to scream and boycott any type of baseball for the next fifteen years. But, I won't. I am addicted to baseball and I will only inwardly scream and then hope the guilt goes away while I watch the Mets blow another September lead. Our sports addiction is fed by the media. For twenty-five years we have had ESPN - imagine that, one whole channel dedicated to just talking heads talking about sports. In college it was so bad that I would watch the same ESPN program two times in a row just in case I missed something before it. I'd also even watch ESPN if they were broadcasting the national spelling bee. Sports? Not necessarily, but that doesn't mean it's not a competition for which I can yell for the underdog to win.
These things have changed, perhaps, but one aspect that has evolved the most (in a negative way) is community. Remember when there were block parties, or card parties, or simply picnics when a whole community was invited? Where have those days gone? Well, I think I have a few answers and you can disagree with me if you want to.
1. Kids are busier than they have ever been before. Parents place kids in dance, sports, music etc. so early now, that the family is simply left gasping by all the places they need to drive them. this problem is driven by the need to succeed and where the parents failed in the past; they live out their dreams vicariously through their children. "I never was able to make it to the state championship basketball game," one parent might say, so he has them dribbling a basketball obsessively when the child is four months old. It's the Tiger Woods syndrome, I think. Tiger started golfing when he was two - even on the Johnny Carson show - and now every parent wants their child to be a prodigy of some sort.
2. Information technology has destroyed face-to-face communication. It is now thought that seventy-five percent of youth are not able to carry on a conversation with an adult and look them in the eyes when they speak. The cell phone has slain any sort of communication. And now that text-messaging is rampant, youth and adults no longer need to hear the voice of the other person. Even if we want to, we no longer know how to talk to each other. Instead of talking about important events in our lives - to share kids birthdays, special events, even just a meal, it now seems like work to many people and it's much easier to stay at home and be sedated by our television sets or computer screens.
3. Eating together is non-existent. A recent study suggests that an average family will sit down to a home-cooked meal once per week. Throughout the ages, this is where most family communication occurs. Taking time to prepare a meal, taking time to sit and discuss the day - these things are passe. Because we don't eat as a family, most of us no longer eat as a community either, which is one of the main reasons a community of faith is so important - eating together reaches into our innermost self and reminds us that at heart, all of us were made to be in community together.
4. Lastly, we are what we earn. The more money we make, the more important we are. People spend more time at work so that they can spend more money on a house that they are never in. There is no such thing as a nine to fiver anymore. Our value is translated by our work habits not our connections. It is the appropriate time in human existence, I believe, to refocus the community back to its roots - the greatest things in life are not things but relationships.
There is a bit of soap-boxing on my 36'th birthday. I was in the mood to take a sentimental journey and am looking forward to attempting ways to counter-act the four anti-social points that I sometimes add to my own life. Keep strong and have an excellent February 27th.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Way of the Dodo
A few weeks ago, I ran across an article expounding on the different aspects of life that are becoming obsolete or extinct. Of course we can all think of a few that have occurred in the last ten years: typewriters, eight-track cassettes, manual transmission cars, but the list from the Washington Post was a bit more exhaustive. Here is a list of a few of the things that Anna Jane Grossman brings forth as leaving - the way of the dodo:
Maps: With new GPS technology, folding maps has become a thing of the past. No more expletives when trying to figure out which section is folded first or finding the most direct route to towns that might not even appear on the map itself. Plus, it's much more fun to listen to a GPS system tell you to 'TURN AROUND NOW!!!" I think they even come with GPS systems for men which tell us "Now you'll never again have to pretend you know where you are going."
Cash: This is a true head-scratcher to me, but our society may be in the last throes of money that folds in wallets or jingle lingle lings in your pocket. For the first time in history it now costs more to make the money than it is worth. So - plastic. But, fear not, plastic in the next ten years will also become instinct. Cell phone technology will probably increase so much that all banking transactions will be done on the phone. Another interesting detail about a cash-less society is that even the most iconic of games, Monopoly, has now switched to cash-less. Each person is given a credit card and the banker swipes the card every time a transaction is made. Only the banker and the buyer know how much money the player has left. And, instead of receiving $200 when passing 'Go', the player receives two million dollars. That's quite the increase in real estate value.
Blind Dates: What used to be the scariest of moments in a single person's life, is now a little more under control. Because we are a 'googling' society, we can find out exactly what our blind date is like even before we accept the uncomfortable pressure from our parents.
Short shorts: Although these shorts, thankfully, went out of style in the early 1990's, they actually weren't buried until John Stockton retired from the NBA. Although, as recently as 2006, at a retro-throwback game between the Lakers and the Celtics, the Lakers wore short basketball shorts. Here was the quote from Kobe Bryant, star of the Lakers whose team was losing dreadfully at halftime: "I don't know what it feels like to wear a thong, but I imagine it feels like what we had on in the first half. I felt violated. I felt naked." Ah, remember the days. My high school basketball uniform shorts were so tight, it looked like I was wearing only my underwear. No wonder we lost so many basketball games.
Cassette tapes: They went out of style quite a while ago; CD's took over and hadn't really given up the ghost. But not only were tapes popular back in the 80's so were 'mix tapes.' Perhaps all of you gen x'ers can remember waiting for the top 9 at 9 to hear your sweet love muffin in 7th grade dedicating a song by Chicago or Styx. By that radio you would sit and as soon as the DJ would start to announce the dedication, you would press record on your 'boom box' which was as big as a hatchback car. Then, after recording Richard Marx's "Hold on to the Night," you would try to add a few other songs that would help you get through the day. Maybe "Money for Nothin'" or "We Built This City on Rock and Roll." What about "Heart of Rock and Roll." Sheesh. It's like taking a stroll through music's hall of shame. I remember when I was about ten years old, while we were eating family supper, I would take out the tape recorder, set it in front of the television and record the music from "Solid Gold." It wasn't quite the same without the dancers, but I was unusually hypnotized by Dionne Warwick.
So many treasures of the past become useless or else simply irrelevant with new technology. One of the startling beauties of the past that seems to be going the way of the dodo is prayer. More and more I talk to people about prayer life and they say that they either find prayer outdated or useless, or else they just don't have time. They don't see the purpose and more than one person has said, "God already knows what I want and He'll give it to me if He wants to." Prayer has been relegated to a role of polishing Aladdin's lamp and expecting a handsome thirty-three year old Jesus to come dancing out of the spout to address the concerns of daily monetary conditions, not just daily bread.
The confirmation class and I were talking about this very question just this last weekend. They now wonder if God really listens or if we should just pray when we are expected to like bedtime. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." or the speed prayer at meal time. During the rest of the day we're on our own. But C. S. Lewis and others liken prayer not just to asking God for what we want but allowing God to share with us what we need most. Sometimes we don't' even know ourselves. Prayer is not changing God's mind but allowing God to change us so that we realize we depend on Him for everything. When we think about our relationship with parents or guardian growing up, often they provide all of our needs without asking or even thanking. But imagine the shock if a child were to ask and thank their parent for everything that was given to them? What would happen if my own children were to thank us for the roof over their heads, the meals in front of them and the books that grace their rooms? Imagine my delighted shock and then my willingness to give even more to make them happy.
Isn't it so with God? If we were to ask and thank God for all the things to come, imagine how much more blessed we are in realizing that God does this simply because He loves us. Just through prayer. And the more we pray, the easier it becomes - the conversation is not limited to bedtime or mealtime, but lifetime - one long dialogue between the holy one of the universe and a minuscule human like me. It is hard to imagine.
So, if the option arises for you, don't let your prayer life go the way of the dodo. It is not obsolete; in fact, it is so incredibly important, that living without it is like living with shortened breaths. Pray, my friends. Pray.
Maps: With new GPS technology, folding maps has become a thing of the past. No more expletives when trying to figure out which section is folded first or finding the most direct route to towns that might not even appear on the map itself. Plus, it's much more fun to listen to a GPS system tell you to 'TURN AROUND NOW!!!" I think they even come with GPS systems for men which tell us "Now you'll never again have to pretend you know where you are going."
Cash: This is a true head-scratcher to me, but our society may be in the last throes of money that folds in wallets or jingle lingle lings in your pocket. For the first time in history it now costs more to make the money than it is worth. So - plastic. But, fear not, plastic in the next ten years will also become instinct. Cell phone technology will probably increase so much that all banking transactions will be done on the phone. Another interesting detail about a cash-less society is that even the most iconic of games, Monopoly, has now switched to cash-less. Each person is given a credit card and the banker swipes the card every time a transaction is made. Only the banker and the buyer know how much money the player has left. And, instead of receiving $200 when passing 'Go', the player receives two million dollars. That's quite the increase in real estate value.
Blind Dates: What used to be the scariest of moments in a single person's life, is now a little more under control. Because we are a 'googling' society, we can find out exactly what our blind date is like even before we accept the uncomfortable pressure from our parents.
Short shorts: Although these shorts, thankfully, went out of style in the early 1990's, they actually weren't buried until John Stockton retired from the NBA. Although, as recently as 2006, at a retro-throwback game between the Lakers and the Celtics, the Lakers wore short basketball shorts. Here was the quote from Kobe Bryant, star of the Lakers whose team was losing dreadfully at halftime: "I don't know what it feels like to wear a thong, but I imagine it feels like what we had on in the first half. I felt violated. I felt naked." Ah, remember the days. My high school basketball uniform shorts were so tight, it looked like I was wearing only my underwear. No wonder we lost so many basketball games.
Cassette tapes: They went out of style quite a while ago; CD's took over and hadn't really given up the ghost. But not only were tapes popular back in the 80's so were 'mix tapes.' Perhaps all of you gen x'ers can remember waiting for the top 9 at 9 to hear your sweet love muffin in 7th grade dedicating a song by Chicago or Styx. By that radio you would sit and as soon as the DJ would start to announce the dedication, you would press record on your 'boom box' which was as big as a hatchback car. Then, after recording Richard Marx's "Hold on to the Night," you would try to add a few other songs that would help you get through the day. Maybe "Money for Nothin'" or "We Built This City on Rock and Roll." What about "Heart of Rock and Roll." Sheesh. It's like taking a stroll through music's hall of shame. I remember when I was about ten years old, while we were eating family supper, I would take out the tape recorder, set it in front of the television and record the music from "Solid Gold." It wasn't quite the same without the dancers, but I was unusually hypnotized by Dionne Warwick.
So many treasures of the past become useless or else simply irrelevant with new technology. One of the startling beauties of the past that seems to be going the way of the dodo is prayer. More and more I talk to people about prayer life and they say that they either find prayer outdated or useless, or else they just don't have time. They don't see the purpose and more than one person has said, "God already knows what I want and He'll give it to me if He wants to." Prayer has been relegated to a role of polishing Aladdin's lamp and expecting a handsome thirty-three year old Jesus to come dancing out of the spout to address the concerns of daily monetary conditions, not just daily bread.
The confirmation class and I were talking about this very question just this last weekend. They now wonder if God really listens or if we should just pray when we are expected to like bedtime. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." or the speed prayer at meal time. During the rest of the day we're on our own. But C. S. Lewis and others liken prayer not just to asking God for what we want but allowing God to share with us what we need most. Sometimes we don't' even know ourselves. Prayer is not changing God's mind but allowing God to change us so that we realize we depend on Him for everything. When we think about our relationship with parents or guardian growing up, often they provide all of our needs without asking or even thanking. But imagine the shock if a child were to ask and thank their parent for everything that was given to them? What would happen if my own children were to thank us for the roof over their heads, the meals in front of them and the books that grace their rooms? Imagine my delighted shock and then my willingness to give even more to make them happy.
Isn't it so with God? If we were to ask and thank God for all the things to come, imagine how much more blessed we are in realizing that God does this simply because He loves us. Just through prayer. And the more we pray, the easier it becomes - the conversation is not limited to bedtime or mealtime, but lifetime - one long dialogue between the holy one of the universe and a minuscule human like me. It is hard to imagine.
So, if the option arises for you, don't let your prayer life go the way of the dodo. It is not obsolete; in fact, it is so incredibly important, that living without it is like living with shortened breaths. Pray, my friends. Pray.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sleeping Beauties
I have a friend, Roger, who called and complained to me that he has yet to end up in one of my blogs. Roger, by nature, is neither a complainer (nor a frequent caller, for that fact) but an excellent friend who is delusional about his basketball abilities. He's into old age now; in his fifties - old enough to be my father, or at least older uncle. Roger is one of those unique people in life that bring memories alive - not that he is a living fossil, I would never say that - at least not to his face, but the memories he brings forth are opportunities for us to smile and remember that life really is connected by moments of joy.
Roger is the principal of elementary schools in Waverly, Iowa. He is of average height, skinny, but not stick figured; my memories of him still picture him with brown hair but as of this age, I would guess salt and pepper is more likely. He has a smile that starts on one side of his face and then spreads to the other, kind of like the sun rising; the way he speaks is a constant sort of amusement to me - sarcasm, but not the biting kind - more like the bouncing kind (it bounces off me like water on a duck). His intelligence is apparent and kindness is evident (I'm stroking his ego a bit here). To put it simply, after years apart, Roger doesn't change - and that's a good thing.
Roger, as we were talking the other day, brought up his disastrous summer last year when the flooding of the Cedar River ravaged Waverly and the school district. Irving Elementary School lay underwater; its bathing produced devastating effects and Roger was left trying to relocate all of the children in his school to some other place. When disaster occurs, of course the first thing that is sacrificed is sleep. From what I hear from another friend, Roger seemingly didn't sleep for two weeks; his eyes looked like empty walnut shells - his body language suggested walking death. But like many Iowans last summer, Roger simply rolled up their sleeves and did what he had to do to save life as he knew it.
Even last night as I spoke with my spiritual practices class that one of the things that I take most for granted is sleep. I never really think about how great I feel after a good night of dreaming (or sometimes not dreaming), but when I don't get any sleep it feels as if the world may indeed come crashing down around my bed headed hair. Sleep is truly a gift - doctors might say it is the most necessary element to healing.
Even in one of the most famous fairy tales of all time, Sleeping Beauty, the main character, is put under a spell so that she might sleep instead of succumbing to illness and death. It gives new meaning to the phrase "getting some Beauty Sleep." Roger could really use some of that.
But we live in a society that seems to call a good thing bad and a bad thing good. I heard the other day a group of people bragging about how little sleep they get. One man said, "I average about six hours of sleep per night." "Oh yeah," said the woman, "I'm lucky if I get five. I go to bed at midnight and get up at five o'clock and begin work." The last man in the group looked at them with derision, "Four hours. That's all I need. I guess I'm blessed." It sounded like a demented episode of name that tune: "I can name that tune in four notes..." We consider ourselves blessed if we can get by on less sleep so that we can 'work' more. But, the studies show that the less sleep we get, the less productive we are. More hours of work does not necessarily increase productivity. It usually only lessens job satisfaction. But, we are a society that worships at the altar of work and bows down to the idol of ergomania. Those that work more are lifted up as ideal citizens; those that work 'only' forty hours per week are considered slackers.
Sad, really.
Many cultures around the world emphasize the need for rest - the need to replenish resources. Of course the traditional afternoon siesta in Spanish culture speaks to this. When Christine and I were in Germany in the mid '90's, some towns would shut down for two hours after lunch. A nap, at times, is not a luxury, but a necessity. Sleep is for healing and refreshing the soul. Take, for instance, Jesus modeling of retreating silence. Mark 1:32-34 Jesus spends his day having the sick and the demon possessed brought to him. After healing from the beginning to the end of the day, Jesus needs to retreat. So, in spite of the fact that not every person was healed, he gets up early in the morning to spend time in prayer - to be silent. Luke 8 also speaks of Jesus' need for sleep. The disciples have put out onto the Sea of Galilee and Jesus descends into the boat simply to sleep. Even the Son of God needs to rejuvenate.
My encouragement to you this week; in the midst of connecting joys in life - in the midst of stress and tragedy - look for sleep; look for rejuvenation; look for time in silence with God. Prepare for the days ahead.
Go ahead. You deserve a break today.
Roger is the principal of elementary schools in Waverly, Iowa. He is of average height, skinny, but not stick figured; my memories of him still picture him with brown hair but as of this age, I would guess salt and pepper is more likely. He has a smile that starts on one side of his face and then spreads to the other, kind of like the sun rising; the way he speaks is a constant sort of amusement to me - sarcasm, but not the biting kind - more like the bouncing kind (it bounces off me like water on a duck). His intelligence is apparent and kindness is evident (I'm stroking his ego a bit here). To put it simply, after years apart, Roger doesn't change - and that's a good thing.
Roger, as we were talking the other day, brought up his disastrous summer last year when the flooding of the Cedar River ravaged Waverly and the school district. Irving Elementary School lay underwater; its bathing produced devastating effects and Roger was left trying to relocate all of the children in his school to some other place. When disaster occurs, of course the first thing that is sacrificed is sleep. From what I hear from another friend, Roger seemingly didn't sleep for two weeks; his eyes looked like empty walnut shells - his body language suggested walking death. But like many Iowans last summer, Roger simply rolled up their sleeves and did what he had to do to save life as he knew it.
Even last night as I spoke with my spiritual practices class that one of the things that I take most for granted is sleep. I never really think about how great I feel after a good night of dreaming (or sometimes not dreaming), but when I don't get any sleep it feels as if the world may indeed come crashing down around my bed headed hair. Sleep is truly a gift - doctors might say it is the most necessary element to healing.
Even in one of the most famous fairy tales of all time, Sleeping Beauty, the main character, is put under a spell so that she might sleep instead of succumbing to illness and death. It gives new meaning to the phrase "getting some Beauty Sleep." Roger could really use some of that.
But we live in a society that seems to call a good thing bad and a bad thing good. I heard the other day a group of people bragging about how little sleep they get. One man said, "I average about six hours of sleep per night." "Oh yeah," said the woman, "I'm lucky if I get five. I go to bed at midnight and get up at five o'clock and begin work." The last man in the group looked at them with derision, "Four hours. That's all I need. I guess I'm blessed." It sounded like a demented episode of name that tune: "I can name that tune in four notes..." We consider ourselves blessed if we can get by on less sleep so that we can 'work' more. But, the studies show that the less sleep we get, the less productive we are. More hours of work does not necessarily increase productivity. It usually only lessens job satisfaction. But, we are a society that worships at the altar of work and bows down to the idol of ergomania. Those that work more are lifted up as ideal citizens; those that work 'only' forty hours per week are considered slackers.
Sad, really.
Many cultures around the world emphasize the need for rest - the need to replenish resources. Of course the traditional afternoon siesta in Spanish culture speaks to this. When Christine and I were in Germany in the mid '90's, some towns would shut down for two hours after lunch. A nap, at times, is not a luxury, but a necessity. Sleep is for healing and refreshing the soul. Take, for instance, Jesus modeling of retreating silence. Mark 1:32-34 Jesus spends his day having the sick and the demon possessed brought to him. After healing from the beginning to the end of the day, Jesus needs to retreat. So, in spite of the fact that not every person was healed, he gets up early in the morning to spend time in prayer - to be silent. Luke 8 also speaks of Jesus' need for sleep. The disciples have put out onto the Sea of Galilee and Jesus descends into the boat simply to sleep. Even the Son of God needs to rejuvenate.
My encouragement to you this week; in the midst of connecting joys in life - in the midst of stress and tragedy - look for sleep; look for rejuvenation; look for time in silence with God. Prepare for the days ahead.
Go ahead. You deserve a break today.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The Phone Call
I hadn't talked to Aaron since his wedding which was about a year and a half ago. When the phone rang last night, I was on the treadmill, running, sweating profusely and trying to lie to myself saying it was all worth it. The insistent harshness of a phone is a burden to my sanity; it tears into my ear drums - interrupts all train of thought. In short, the phone generally puts me in a bad mood. One ring. Two rings. I ignored it (I just assumed Christine would get it as I was in the midst of something). After finishing my 'workout' (I always wondered why it was called that) I traipsed up the stairs, legs shaking, holding on to the railing for dear life and asked Christine who was on the phone.
"I don't know. I didn't answer it." She responded.
"Why didn't you answer it?"
"I was in the middle of something." I looked and saw that she was in her favorite reclining chair wrapped up in a blanket reading a book. She was caught up in the wonderful world of imagination, like good ol' Mr. Rogers used to say, and the insistence of the phone would not persuade her from her reverie. Annoyed - I noticed how I had placed more importance on my pastime than hers (I'm a selfish little beast sometimes), I went to check my phone and a blast from the past came up.
Aaron.
When I first met him Aaron was a long-haired, surfer dude, guitar playing, Minnesotan who had spent quite a bit of time in California. Almost all of his sentences were added with an emphatic word: "Man." For example: "You should have seen the great waves I saw in California, Man." or "I love these beans, Man." And my favorite "Yeah, totally, Man." I didn't actually know what that meant but it was usually stated after something positive happened in his life like playing an exciting guitar riff or eating at McDonalds.
Aaron and I hit it off instantly. He was the kind of 'rock star' that I had always wanted to be. As we were preparing to travel the country playing Christian rock and roll music, it was nice to have someone on our band that had actually played rock and roll music before. Oh wait, our drummer did, too, but the ladies and I were ignorantly unaware of what it meant to play rock music. My idea of rock in the early 90's was to throw some guitar into an MC Hammer song. Too Legit, Too Legit to quit - squealing guitar and then a few dance moves. I digress.
I joined the band as the bass guitar player having played all of three months for my jazz choir in college - now that's true rocking out. After a week of training, the three men on our team staying up late every night getting to know each other, we traveled to a place in South Dakota for even more team bonding and training. Our team, Watermark (truly a rock and roll name if you've ever heard it - but I suppose it's better than Captive Free - I hope I don't get accosted for saying that. I suppose it's like having a rock band called Savage Garden: that's a real scary name.) we all rode in the same 8 passenger van laughing and talking for the 12 hour drive to the remote western parts of South Dakota, Lee Valley ranch to be exact.
As we entered the ranch, the sun greeted us. It was almost like taking our own personal vehicle into the Garden of Eden. All the teams (12 teams about 80 people) exited the vans and glanced around in dropped-jawed wonder. The smell of pine trees was overwhelming; it was quiet except for the groaning, grunting stretching that was emanating from disembarking passengers. The director of the camp told us that we would each be staying in our own personal tents on wooden flats with mattresses. He happened to say that not all mattresses are equal and forgetting one of the greatest of Jesus' sayings "The first shall be last and the last first" Aaron looked at me and said, "The first shall be the first to get the best mattress, Man." And off he sped across the valley toward the little white abodes in the trees.
We secured for ourselves two of the best and, it so happened,we were right next to each other. After staking our claim we went back to the van to retrieve or things and placed them in the tents - setting up tent, if you will, placing our bags and necessities in proper positiosn. We were going to be there for a week.
As it so happens, there were so many things to do at Lee Valley that at times I forgot to do things that had been natural for the first 22 years of my life. I forgot to brush my hair, I forgot to change clothes (I had a perpetual pair of overalls that eventually stood up by themselves) and I decided that bathing was optional. I justified it by telling myself I was preserving the environment by not using so much water.
Throughout these days of, what now seems, bliss, Aaron and I decided to play some practical jokes on each other. First there were venial sins that could be forgiven with great ease - pine cones in the sleeping bag, dirt in the orange juice - easy stuff. But then, trying to outdo each other, Aaron ramped up the 'sin' and went directly to mortal. I didn't know this until that moment, but if you put raisins in someone else's toothpaste, the raisins absorb the toothpaste and get stuck in the tube thus denying the owner a chance to cleanse ones chompers. Well, Aaron snuck into my tent one afternoon after procuring a few raisins from lunch. When I went to brush my teeth at night found that I would be borrowing toothpaste from someone else. As I went to borrow from Christine (we hadn't been romantically involved yet, but there was still a stirring somewhere in the pit of my stomach), I could hear Aaron giggling away with his braying, donkey like laugh.
I vowed revenge.
The next night before sleep, Jill, another one of our teammates, and I dug up some earth worms and placed them under Aaron's pillow. As Aaron went to bed that night, we silently waited outside his tent and then the sound, "Aaaaah!!!" a rustling and then the giggling started. I can't actually tell you what he mumbled under his breath, but it was funny to hear him deal with his own conflicting emotions. Jill and I covered our mouths and headed back to our own respective tents thinking that I had finally gotten the best of him.
All was forgiven in the morning and a few days past. Every once in a while I would catch Aaron staring at me, expectantly as if waiting for something. Finally, when he could contain himself no longer, he approached me sniffing the air. "Don't you ever take a shower, Man?"
As the rules of my life had changed, and laving had become optional, I said, "I'll get to it soon."
"You stink, Man."
"Fine, I'll go and shower." Off to the barn I went (strangely enough, the showering area was in an old shed). After washing off the dirt and grime from the week I went back to my tent and I happened to notice Aaron sitting in his tent peeking out the zippered door like a prairie dog examining the outer world from his burrow.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"Nothing, Man." He was smiling like a fox in front of a chicken house.
I entered my tent and proceeded to change. Then, I took my deodorant from my toiletries bag and took off the cap. There, to my horror, was one of the worms that we had put under Aaron's pillow. The worm had absorbed the chemicals from the deodorant and turned a beautiful aquamarine color. The smell was revolting.
"AARON!!!!" I shouted. All that I heard from the short distance was the hyenic laughter and zipper being opened quickly. I showed him the corpse.
Through his laughter I said, "You've committed murder. That's one of the commandments, Mister. You've just purchased a one way ticket to hell." Aaron held up his hands. "Nuh uh. YOU committed murder. If you would shower more than once this week, the worm would have been saved." I smiled at him. He smiled back.
There truly is nothing like a good friend.
We gave the worm a proper Christian burial with music and prayers.
So I got a call from Aaron. It had taken him a long time to settle down and get married; and when it finally did, he married a wonderful woman, Beth, from Wisconsin.
I called him back and even the way he answered brought back a flood of emotions of every memory from almost fifteen years ago. The same cadence to his voice, the same inflections - the same laughter. His voice was almost like being wrapped up in that old blanket that you've kept in a drawer for a while. Good friends are people who, when you talk to them after an extended period of time, never forget where the conversation stopped. I realized that I'd missed him without realizing I'd been away from him. In some ways, all good friends and family take up residence inside your heart and arrange themselves in their own personal tents. They set up shop, placing favorite memories within easy reach. My memories of Aaron keep getting better after all these years. I would guess that all of you have specific people that keep getting more beautiful with age. And that is one of the rare beauties and mysteries of life: the imprints of other people on your own soul.
Aaron called to say that he and Beth are expecting a child. I am so happy for the world to get a replicate of a good friend of mine.
Sometimes life really is good.
"I don't know. I didn't answer it." She responded.
"Why didn't you answer it?"
"I was in the middle of something." I looked and saw that she was in her favorite reclining chair wrapped up in a blanket reading a book. She was caught up in the wonderful world of imagination, like good ol' Mr. Rogers used to say, and the insistence of the phone would not persuade her from her reverie. Annoyed - I noticed how I had placed more importance on my pastime than hers (I'm a selfish little beast sometimes), I went to check my phone and a blast from the past came up.
Aaron.
When I first met him Aaron was a long-haired, surfer dude, guitar playing, Minnesotan who had spent quite a bit of time in California. Almost all of his sentences were added with an emphatic word: "Man." For example: "You should have seen the great waves I saw in California, Man." or "I love these beans, Man." And my favorite "Yeah, totally, Man." I didn't actually know what that meant but it was usually stated after something positive happened in his life like playing an exciting guitar riff or eating at McDonalds.
Aaron and I hit it off instantly. He was the kind of 'rock star' that I had always wanted to be. As we were preparing to travel the country playing Christian rock and roll music, it was nice to have someone on our band that had actually played rock and roll music before. Oh wait, our drummer did, too, but the ladies and I were ignorantly unaware of what it meant to play rock music. My idea of rock in the early 90's was to throw some guitar into an MC Hammer song. Too Legit, Too Legit to quit - squealing guitar and then a few dance moves. I digress.
I joined the band as the bass guitar player having played all of three months for my jazz choir in college - now that's true rocking out. After a week of training, the three men on our team staying up late every night getting to know each other, we traveled to a place in South Dakota for even more team bonding and training. Our team, Watermark (truly a rock and roll name if you've ever heard it - but I suppose it's better than Captive Free - I hope I don't get accosted for saying that. I suppose it's like having a rock band called Savage Garden: that's a real scary name.) we all rode in the same 8 passenger van laughing and talking for the 12 hour drive to the remote western parts of South Dakota, Lee Valley ranch to be exact.
As we entered the ranch, the sun greeted us. It was almost like taking our own personal vehicle into the Garden of Eden. All the teams (12 teams about 80 people) exited the vans and glanced around in dropped-jawed wonder. The smell of pine trees was overwhelming; it was quiet except for the groaning, grunting stretching that was emanating from disembarking passengers. The director of the camp told us that we would each be staying in our own personal tents on wooden flats with mattresses. He happened to say that not all mattresses are equal and forgetting one of the greatest of Jesus' sayings "The first shall be last and the last first" Aaron looked at me and said, "The first shall be the first to get the best mattress, Man." And off he sped across the valley toward the little white abodes in the trees.
We secured for ourselves two of the best and, it so happened,we were right next to each other. After staking our claim we went back to the van to retrieve or things and placed them in the tents - setting up tent, if you will, placing our bags and necessities in proper positiosn. We were going to be there for a week.
As it so happens, there were so many things to do at Lee Valley that at times I forgot to do things that had been natural for the first 22 years of my life. I forgot to brush my hair, I forgot to change clothes (I had a perpetual pair of overalls that eventually stood up by themselves) and I decided that bathing was optional. I justified it by telling myself I was preserving the environment by not using so much water.
Throughout these days of, what now seems, bliss, Aaron and I decided to play some practical jokes on each other. First there were venial sins that could be forgiven with great ease - pine cones in the sleeping bag, dirt in the orange juice - easy stuff. But then, trying to outdo each other, Aaron ramped up the 'sin' and went directly to mortal. I didn't know this until that moment, but if you put raisins in someone else's toothpaste, the raisins absorb the toothpaste and get stuck in the tube thus denying the owner a chance to cleanse ones chompers. Well, Aaron snuck into my tent one afternoon after procuring a few raisins from lunch. When I went to brush my teeth at night found that I would be borrowing toothpaste from someone else. As I went to borrow from Christine (we hadn't been romantically involved yet, but there was still a stirring somewhere in the pit of my stomach), I could hear Aaron giggling away with his braying, donkey like laugh.
I vowed revenge.
The next night before sleep, Jill, another one of our teammates, and I dug up some earth worms and placed them under Aaron's pillow. As Aaron went to bed that night, we silently waited outside his tent and then the sound, "Aaaaah!!!" a rustling and then the giggling started. I can't actually tell you what he mumbled under his breath, but it was funny to hear him deal with his own conflicting emotions. Jill and I covered our mouths and headed back to our own respective tents thinking that I had finally gotten the best of him.
All was forgiven in the morning and a few days past. Every once in a while I would catch Aaron staring at me, expectantly as if waiting for something. Finally, when he could contain himself no longer, he approached me sniffing the air. "Don't you ever take a shower, Man?"
As the rules of my life had changed, and laving had become optional, I said, "I'll get to it soon."
"You stink, Man."
"Fine, I'll go and shower." Off to the barn I went (strangely enough, the showering area was in an old shed). After washing off the dirt and grime from the week I went back to my tent and I happened to notice Aaron sitting in his tent peeking out the zippered door like a prairie dog examining the outer world from his burrow.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"Nothing, Man." He was smiling like a fox in front of a chicken house.
I entered my tent and proceeded to change. Then, I took my deodorant from my toiletries bag and took off the cap. There, to my horror, was one of the worms that we had put under Aaron's pillow. The worm had absorbed the chemicals from the deodorant and turned a beautiful aquamarine color. The smell was revolting.
"AARON!!!!" I shouted. All that I heard from the short distance was the hyenic laughter and zipper being opened quickly. I showed him the corpse.
Through his laughter I said, "You've committed murder. That's one of the commandments, Mister. You've just purchased a one way ticket to hell." Aaron held up his hands. "Nuh uh. YOU committed murder. If you would shower more than once this week, the worm would have been saved." I smiled at him. He smiled back.
There truly is nothing like a good friend.
We gave the worm a proper Christian burial with music and prayers.
So I got a call from Aaron. It had taken him a long time to settle down and get married; and when it finally did, he married a wonderful woman, Beth, from Wisconsin.
I called him back and even the way he answered brought back a flood of emotions of every memory from almost fifteen years ago. The same cadence to his voice, the same inflections - the same laughter. His voice was almost like being wrapped up in that old blanket that you've kept in a drawer for a while. Good friends are people who, when you talk to them after an extended period of time, never forget where the conversation stopped. I realized that I'd missed him without realizing I'd been away from him. In some ways, all good friends and family take up residence inside your heart and arrange themselves in their own personal tents. They set up shop, placing favorite memories within easy reach. My memories of Aaron keep getting better after all these years. I would guess that all of you have specific people that keep getting more beautiful with age. And that is one of the rare beauties and mysteries of life: the imprints of other people on your own soul.
Aaron called to say that he and Beth are expecting a child. I am so happy for the world to get a replicate of a good friend of mine.
Sometimes life really is good.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Fairy Tale
Josephine and Greta were sitting in the bath the other night having a merry old time a-splishing and a-splashing. After fifteen minutes or so, a blood-curdling scream emanated from the bathroom. Christine ran to the bathroom, opened the door, noticed the sopping wet floor and shouted, "What's wrong?" Her fear had her imagining the worst.
Josephine's face was bloody and Christine hurried over to her. No crying, but she and Greta were frantically searching the through the water. Josephine looked up at Christine and said, "I lost a tooth." As she smiled, the gaping hole in her lower bite gave evidence to the fact that incisor was indeed lurking somewhere in the water.
As is our tradition, each of the girls has a small, tooth-shaped felt container that holds the tooth that has been freed. The night of ortho-dopsy, the girls will place their tooth in the toothholder and then place it under their pillow in hopes that the Tooth Fairy will come during the middle of the night to place a little present where the tooth was.
The Tooth Fairy is debatably an American character. Interestingly, the idea of hiding baby teeth after they have fallen out is customary world wide - and from much earlier traditions. I'm adding a few that really piqued my interest.
In Europe, mothers and fathers would bury the baby teeth outdoors in hopes that in its place adult teeth would grow. But, they also buried the teeth to keep it out of the hands of witches. If a witch were to get their hands on a baby tooth (or fingernail clipping or hair, for that fact), they would place a curse on the previous owner of the body part. Nice. Nothing like scaring kids witless when they lose a tooth. It's bad enough trying to convince kids that they are not dying when they recognize their first bowel movement.
In other parts of Europe, specifically France and Italy, the Tooth Fairy is not a 'fairy' (think Tinkerbell) in the traditional sense but a mouse. As the story goes in French "La Bonne Petite Souris" (the Good Little Mouse) a wonderful queen decides to punish an evil king by placing a mouse under his pillow where thereby the 'good little mouse' will torture the evil king and knock out all his teeth. In lowland Scotland, it's not a mouse, but a white, furry rat that hides under children's pillows to wait for them to go to sleep. Then, after the youth is fully asleep, the rat will produce a coin or treat from somewhere to replace the lost tooth. This is where our American tradition comes from, although I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of telling my kids there is a rat underneath their pillow.
Lastly, in parts of certain Asian countries: India, Korea and Vietnam, the child who has lost his or her tooth will take the tooth and place it somewhere in (or on) the house. According to tradition, if the tooth is lost from the lower jaw, the tooth is tossed onto the roof of the house. If, from the upper jaw, the tooth is placed in a crack in the floor. As it is hidden, the youth will shout into the air "bring me a mouse's tooth instead." Strange. But for good reason. Everyone knows, of course, that rodents' teeth do not stop growing. If you have mice teeth in your mouth, they will never get worn down, right?
You know what, I'm pretty comfortable with establishing a nice little 'fairy' tale about a man who comes in the middle of the night to take the old tooth and put a nice present under their pillow. Whether the man is wearing a tutu or a muumuu, whatever it takes, is a perfectly acceptable way to help kids deal with the pain of loss. But the visual is good for me in a different way.
If you are anything like me, I, many times put my thoughts beneath my pillow at night. All the worries and the cares that have stacked up, have worried me through the day, are placed beneath my head. In my prayers, I often will ask God to come take away the old, the distressing, the cares that seem too heavy and replace them with gifts like peace, joy, patience, kindness, - you can look up that list. Of course, God is not the tooth fairy, and not a fairy tale for that fact, but the results for me are similar. When I wake up, usually I will feel refreshed, not just be sleep, but the ability of God to take something of my immaturity and turn it into maturity. I love the fact that I still say the prayer with the girls, "Now I lay me down to sleep..." At night, I place everything into God's hands including the deepest recess of my soul. Even if that moment comes and life as I know it leaves, well, what a gift waits for me under the pillow.
Enjoy life - tomorrow has enough worries of its own.
Josephine's face was bloody and Christine hurried over to her. No crying, but she and Greta were frantically searching the through the water. Josephine looked up at Christine and said, "I lost a tooth." As she smiled, the gaping hole in her lower bite gave evidence to the fact that incisor was indeed lurking somewhere in the water.
As is our tradition, each of the girls has a small, tooth-shaped felt container that holds the tooth that has been freed. The night of ortho-dopsy, the girls will place their tooth in the toothholder and then place it under their pillow in hopes that the Tooth Fairy will come during the middle of the night to place a little present where the tooth was.
The Tooth Fairy is debatably an American character. Interestingly, the idea of hiding baby teeth after they have fallen out is customary world wide - and from much earlier traditions. I'm adding a few that really piqued my interest.
In Europe, mothers and fathers would bury the baby teeth outdoors in hopes that in its place adult teeth would grow. But, they also buried the teeth to keep it out of the hands of witches. If a witch were to get their hands on a baby tooth (or fingernail clipping or hair, for that fact), they would place a curse on the previous owner of the body part. Nice. Nothing like scaring kids witless when they lose a tooth. It's bad enough trying to convince kids that they are not dying when they recognize their first bowel movement.
In other parts of Europe, specifically France and Italy, the Tooth Fairy is not a 'fairy' (think Tinkerbell) in the traditional sense but a mouse. As the story goes in French "La Bonne Petite Souris" (the Good Little Mouse) a wonderful queen decides to punish an evil king by placing a mouse under his pillow where thereby the 'good little mouse' will torture the evil king and knock out all his teeth. In lowland Scotland, it's not a mouse, but a white, furry rat that hides under children's pillows to wait for them to go to sleep. Then, after the youth is fully asleep, the rat will produce a coin or treat from somewhere to replace the lost tooth. This is where our American tradition comes from, although I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of telling my kids there is a rat underneath their pillow.
Lastly, in parts of certain Asian countries: India, Korea and Vietnam, the child who has lost his or her tooth will take the tooth and place it somewhere in (or on) the house. According to tradition, if the tooth is lost from the lower jaw, the tooth is tossed onto the roof of the house. If, from the upper jaw, the tooth is placed in a crack in the floor. As it is hidden, the youth will shout into the air "bring me a mouse's tooth instead." Strange. But for good reason. Everyone knows, of course, that rodents' teeth do not stop growing. If you have mice teeth in your mouth, they will never get worn down, right?
You know what, I'm pretty comfortable with establishing a nice little 'fairy' tale about a man who comes in the middle of the night to take the old tooth and put a nice present under their pillow. Whether the man is wearing a tutu or a muumuu, whatever it takes, is a perfectly acceptable way to help kids deal with the pain of loss. But the visual is good for me in a different way.
If you are anything like me, I, many times put my thoughts beneath my pillow at night. All the worries and the cares that have stacked up, have worried me through the day, are placed beneath my head. In my prayers, I often will ask God to come take away the old, the distressing, the cares that seem too heavy and replace them with gifts like peace, joy, patience, kindness, - you can look up that list. Of course, God is not the tooth fairy, and not a fairy tale for that fact, but the results for me are similar. When I wake up, usually I will feel refreshed, not just be sleep, but the ability of God to take something of my immaturity and turn it into maturity. I love the fact that I still say the prayer with the girls, "Now I lay me down to sleep..." At night, I place everything into God's hands including the deepest recess of my soul. Even if that moment comes and life as I know it leaves, well, what a gift waits for me under the pillow.
Enjoy life - tomorrow has enough worries of its own.
Friday, January 9, 2009
My Gift
C. S. Lewis writes eloquently about his thoughts on Christmas:
"Three things go by the name of Christmas. One is a religious festival. This is important and obligatory for Christians; but as it can be of no interest to anyone else... The second (it has complex historical connections with the first, but we needn't go into them) is a popular holiday, an occasion for merrymaking and hospitality. If it were my business to have a 'view' on this, I should say that I much approve of merrymaking. But what I approve of much more is everybody minding their own business. I see no reason why I should volunteer views as to how other people should spend their own money in their own leisure among their own friends. It is highly probable that they want my advice on such matters as little as I want theirs. But the third thing called Christmas is unfortunately everyone's business.
I mean of course, the commercial racket... I condemn it on the following grounds:
"Three things go by the name of Christmas. One is a religious festival. This is important and obligatory for Christians; but as it can be of no interest to anyone else... The second (it has complex historical connections with the first, but we needn't go into them) is a popular holiday, an occasion for merrymaking and hospitality. If it were my business to have a 'view' on this, I should say that I much approve of merrymaking. But what I approve of much more is everybody minding their own business. I see no reason why I should volunteer views as to how other people should spend their own money in their own leisure among their own friends. It is highly probable that they want my advice on such matters as little as I want theirs. But the third thing called Christmas is unfortunately everyone's business.
I mean of course, the commercial racket... I condemn it on the following grounds:
- It gives on the whole much more pain than pleasure. You have only to stay over Christmas with a family who seriously try to 'keep' it (in its third, or commercial, aspect) in order to see that the thing is a nightmare. Long before December 25 everyone is worn out - physically worn out be weeks of daily struggle in overcrowded shops, mentally worn out by the effort to remember all the right recipients and to think out suitable gifts for them. They are in no mood for merrymaking; much less (if they should want to) to take part in a religious act. They look far more as if there had been a long illness in the house.
- Most of it is involuntary. The modern rule is that anyone can force you to give him a present by sending you a quite unprovoked present of his own. It is almost a blackmail. who has not heard the wail of despair, and indeed resentment, when, at the last moment, just as everyone hoped that the nuisance was over for one more year, the unwanted gift from Mrs. Busy (whom we hardly remember) flops unwelcomed through the letter-box, and back to the dreadful shops we go.
- Things are given as presents which no mortal ever bought for himself - gaudy and useless gadgets, 'novelties' because no one was ever fool enough to make their like before."
C. S. sounds like a bit of Dickens' Scrooge, but in many aspects, he has nailed the very head of my feelings about the Christmas traditions of presents. But, when I was young boy, my attitude was much different. Giving a gift, no matter how small or insignificant, to someone else was a source of great joy from me. And receiving a gift - that was true pleasure. Gifts, not necessarily at Christmas, and not necessarily gift-wrapped, are a symbol of love. Christmas gift giving may have turned into a symbol of corporate greed and fiscal insanity, but the gift giving without hope for recompense makes the world go round.
The other day, a very close friend of mine received a package in the mail. The address from the sender was from her 'boss.' My friend (who we will name "Kristin") happens to sell kitchen cookware and accessories for the company of this 'boss.' Anyway, inside the package was a letter and a 'gift.' The letter congratulated Kristin for selling $15,000 worth of products and for her reward or 'gift' Kristin received a small, silver colored, one-half inch plastic cooking whisk that could either be affixed to Kristin's coat or worn as a necklace. (Why anyone would put a chain through a plastic cooking utensil and wear it around her neck is beyond me, but I'm also clueless why someone would push a perfectly good earring through their tongue)
I looked at Kristin and said, "Are you joking? For selling $15,000 of product they give you something that came out of an arcade gallery. You know, those little machines that have the claw - it makes a growling noise as you move it around and then drops on top of a yellow, plastic ball once every ten times. That is your reward for serving and selling?"
Kristin held up the little plastic whisk with a smile on her face. "Silly boy. This isn't about the gift; this is a symbol of me being proud of my accomplishment. My boss didn't need to send me anything."
"So do you have to send her anything in return - a piece of Tupperware or maybe spoon she can wear for a hat?" Nothing like sarcasm in the winter.
Kristin simply rolled her eyes.
"Won't you feel guilt if you don't send her something in return? Isn't that the point of thank you letters? To even out the balance - gift for thanks?"
"I might do that," Kristin responded. "For all gifts, thanks ensure good relationship."
"Next time tell her you want the gift that fits in your wallet. Maybe a %5 increase in your commission."
Kristin put the whisk down. "You don't get it. The gift is enough. And, by the way, this better not end up in one of your blogs."
I took the half-inch sized whisk from her hand and tried to scramble my eggs for breakfast.
I think many times God gives us gifts and we tend to treat them more like C.S. Lewis' understanding of the unfortunate side effects of capitalistic Christmas, than Kristin's thankful response for enjoying the job she's been given. Sometimes when God gives us gifts we feel like we must exhaust ourselves finding the perfect way to pay him back. If only I could do enough good things for other people, then God would be thanked enough. Or (this is my thought process usually) if I do enough for God, then the gifts are going to keep coming. Like the "Gift of Jafar" or whatever that book was a few years ago that spoke of asking God for whatever you want and if you're faithful enough, He'll give it to you. "Prayer of Jabez" - that's it. Give to God and he'll multiply it so you will be rich, have a great big house and be the envy of your sub-division.
Or, when God gives us some gifts, its almost an invitation that God wants us to help in a way that is outside our comfort zone. A friend of mine just learned how to play the guitar. She was really enjoying it (this is not Kristin, by the way - I have more than one friend, remember George?) but once she got the hang of it, someone asked her if she would play for church. Then, my friend politely stopped playing the guitar because she couldn't envision actually playing for someone else (which in my opinion is perfectly fine) but perhaps God can use her even in the midst of her fears of failure.
Lastly, sometimes a gift of God is what we deem gaudy or useless. I have often heard people say that they have no talent - that God hasn't blessed them with anything. But often, when people say that they are talent-less, they are simply comparing themselves to others who have talents that are promoted as more desirable. All gifts from God are useful and can be utilized in a way that only God can show us how. But, it's a matter of discerning in what way God can use our usefulness.
Our Savior's is in the process of trying to understand the gifts that God is giving each one of us. "Finding Your Place" is what it is being called. In the body of Christ, our gifts are used to promote the greater good. Not everyone can be teachers or preachers, musicians or leaders, sacristans or ushers - but all gifts need to be utilized to help the Body of Christ to be a moving, living entity. A wise man once said, "If it doesn't move, the odds are, it's probably dead." His name was Captain Obvious.
So, here is my encouragement this week: take a few moments this week - be silent and listen for the expression of the gifts of God in your life and hear how He wants you to use them. Read, pray and if you want to, let me know what gift God is pressing into your hands. Find your place to serve.
Have a great week.
reid
Friday, January 2, 2009
Again! Again!
C. S. Lewis writes, "Many religious people lament that the first fervors of their conversion have died away. They think - sometimes rightly, but not, I believe, always - that their sins account for this. They may even try by pitiful efforts of will to revive what now see to have been the golden days. But were those - the operative word is those - ever intended to last?
It would be rash to say that there is any prayer which God never grants. But the strongest candidate is the prayer we might express in the single word 'encore.' And how, exactly, should the infinite repeat Himself? All space and time are too little for Him to utter Himself in them even ONCE.
And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories."
Lewis' words almost always convict me - they find me in my little hiding space, content with where I am, and push me out into the open. His gift for choosing the most appropriate at the most opportune time astounds me and I am left with a feeling that I need to do some serious thinking about my life. Do you ever feel like that? After reading, or hearing a piece of music, perusing a painting - do you ever feel like your perception of life has been tweaked, even just a bit?
For example, how many times have I said to God, "I realize that you were very close to the people of the Old Testament. Visually, you were in their sights; vocally, you were in their ears. Why can't you do that for me? Why don't you show yourself, sound off - especially with regards to all the evil that occurs in the world. Just SHOW YOURSELF and take out all the unknowns for the world!"
Jeremiah says it best (chapter 12) You will be in the right, O Lord, when I lay charges against you; but let me put my case to you. Why does the way of the guilty prosper? Why do all who are treacherous thrive? You plant them, and they take root; they grow and bring forth fruit; you are near in their mouths yet far from their hearts. But you, O Lord, know me; you see me and test me - my heart is with you.
So often, I speak to God is I should always be first and foremost on his list of people to listen to. Like Jeremiah, I am quick to point out anyone else that I feel is affronting God. It is as if I see myself as God's most trusted advisor, whispering in His ear what He should be doing next. If you've ever seen the Lord of the Rings, I am like Wormtongue speaking into the king's ear. Ugh.
So, all my yammering is about me. I want to see God. I want God to show Himself so that I can be convinced. I want God to speak to me - very vocally - so I am sure what He wants me to do this year. I want God to come in the form of (almost Wondertwinnish) any sort of conquering hero to break down corruption (which seems to be prevalent in the state of Illinois), murder (which is showing itself all over the world) and sin in general - which I want to be the definer of the term.
Therein is my sin and I haven't read my Bible anywhere near as closely as I should have. Even though God continued time and again to reveal Himself in many different ways, did the Israelites (or any others, for that fact) continue to take God seriously? Do our their senses, and our senses, realistically lead us to a greater faith in God? Maybe for a little while, but then it all starts to fade and we question once again, "Are you really there God? Did I just imagine your presence?"
Similar to the writing of C. S., when we first encounter the almighty in an almost physical way, whether seeing or hearing, we reach the mountaintop experience - a physical feeling, a manifestation of God who is very near us. But then the feeling fades, and we are left with a yearning for that gloried time, or place, and go back to it time and time again and ask again, "Encore, God. Encore. Do it again."
Christine and I went to some friends' home a few days ago. They have a daughter who isn't two yet and a son who is four. Evie, who previously looked at me as if I were a giant ogre, discovered that I was an excellent jungle gym. I would toss her in the air, over my shoulder, bounce her on my knee - whatever it took to make her happy - I love hearing the sounds of kids squealing with delight (reasonable decibel levels are always appreciated).
Evie, after having enjoyed my jungle gym-nosity, began to shout, while holding her arms in the air, "Again! Again! More magic tricks!"
It is the time of year, at the very beginning, where we have once again looked at the past year and assembled our little blocks of guilt. We resolve to dissemble the castle of guilt built so fastidiously the year before, and build up a new fortress of faith. Many people promise themselves that they will draw closer to God in 2009. Many yearn for a connection to the Almighty so that they can see the will of God in a very personal moment. Usually, though, those (myself included) people want God to come in a way that is easiest, or most palatable, which is usually conjuring up images of the way God came to them in the past. It is a resolution for God to act in the same way that brought us to the mountaintop and showed us the vastness of the good that is in God. But this year, is it possible that God will show up in completely unexpected ways? What would happen if we all let the memories be those 'nourishing, wholesome and enchanting' memories and let God break all boundaries? What if Jesus Christ, freshly re-energized in our hearts after Christmas, was given freedom to speak to us in word, sound or picture - perhaps especially in the voice of a loved one? Would this new year bring us closer to the faith that we all long for that is not connected by puppet strings to our past experiences?
Again! Again! I shout to God - but simply to love me again in a way that might be different - a new experience in these short trips around the sun. Again! Again! What are you going to show us this year, God?
It would be rash to say that there is any prayer which God never grants. But the strongest candidate is the prayer we might express in the single word 'encore.' And how, exactly, should the infinite repeat Himself? All space and time are too little for Him to utter Himself in them even ONCE.
And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories."
Lewis' words almost always convict me - they find me in my little hiding space, content with where I am, and push me out into the open. His gift for choosing the most appropriate at the most opportune time astounds me and I am left with a feeling that I need to do some serious thinking about my life. Do you ever feel like that? After reading, or hearing a piece of music, perusing a painting - do you ever feel like your perception of life has been tweaked, even just a bit?
For example, how many times have I said to God, "I realize that you were very close to the people of the Old Testament. Visually, you were in their sights; vocally, you were in their ears. Why can't you do that for me? Why don't you show yourself, sound off - especially with regards to all the evil that occurs in the world. Just SHOW YOURSELF and take out all the unknowns for the world!"
Jeremiah says it best (chapter 12) You will be in the right, O Lord, when I lay charges against you; but let me put my case to you. Why does the way of the guilty prosper? Why do all who are treacherous thrive? You plant them, and they take root; they grow and bring forth fruit; you are near in their mouths yet far from their hearts. But you, O Lord, know me; you see me and test me - my heart is with you.
So often, I speak to God is I should always be first and foremost on his list of people to listen to. Like Jeremiah, I am quick to point out anyone else that I feel is affronting God. It is as if I see myself as God's most trusted advisor, whispering in His ear what He should be doing next. If you've ever seen the Lord of the Rings, I am like Wormtongue speaking into the king's ear. Ugh.
So, all my yammering is about me. I want to see God. I want God to show Himself so that I can be convinced. I want God to speak to me - very vocally - so I am sure what He wants me to do this year. I want God to come in the form of (almost Wondertwinnish) any sort of conquering hero to break down corruption (which seems to be prevalent in the state of Illinois), murder (which is showing itself all over the world) and sin in general - which I want to be the definer of the term.
Therein is my sin and I haven't read my Bible anywhere near as closely as I should have. Even though God continued time and again to reveal Himself in many different ways, did the Israelites (or any others, for that fact) continue to take God seriously? Do our their senses, and our senses, realistically lead us to a greater faith in God? Maybe for a little while, but then it all starts to fade and we question once again, "Are you really there God? Did I just imagine your presence?"
Similar to the writing of C. S., when we first encounter the almighty in an almost physical way, whether seeing or hearing, we reach the mountaintop experience - a physical feeling, a manifestation of God who is very near us. But then the feeling fades, and we are left with a yearning for that gloried time, or place, and go back to it time and time again and ask again, "Encore, God. Encore. Do it again."
Christine and I went to some friends' home a few days ago. They have a daughter who isn't two yet and a son who is four. Evie, who previously looked at me as if I were a giant ogre, discovered that I was an excellent jungle gym. I would toss her in the air, over my shoulder, bounce her on my knee - whatever it took to make her happy - I love hearing the sounds of kids squealing with delight (reasonable decibel levels are always appreciated).
Evie, after having enjoyed my jungle gym-nosity, began to shout, while holding her arms in the air, "Again! Again! More magic tricks!"
It is the time of year, at the very beginning, where we have once again looked at the past year and assembled our little blocks of guilt. We resolve to dissemble the castle of guilt built so fastidiously the year before, and build up a new fortress of faith. Many people promise themselves that they will draw closer to God in 2009. Many yearn for a connection to the Almighty so that they can see the will of God in a very personal moment. Usually, though, those (myself included) people want God to come in a way that is easiest, or most palatable, which is usually conjuring up images of the way God came to them in the past. It is a resolution for God to act in the same way that brought us to the mountaintop and showed us the vastness of the good that is in God. But this year, is it possible that God will show up in completely unexpected ways? What would happen if we all let the memories be those 'nourishing, wholesome and enchanting' memories and let God break all boundaries? What if Jesus Christ, freshly re-energized in our hearts after Christmas, was given freedom to speak to us in word, sound or picture - perhaps especially in the voice of a loved one? Would this new year bring us closer to the faith that we all long for that is not connected by puppet strings to our past experiences?
Again! Again! I shout to God - but simply to love me again in a way that might be different - a new experience in these short trips around the sun. Again! Again! What are you going to show us this year, God?
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Little Drummer Boy
It has been almost two months since I blogged (funny how that word has forced its way into the English language). One of my friends, who will remain unnamed, but I will give him the name George, wrote to me, "You had a nice Christmas letter, but that didn't make up for the fact that I Reid has been vacant for two months. Slacker."
Nothing like a nice little slice of guilt cake for the holidays, topped with a inch thick icing of sarcasm. Thank you, George.
George is one of my good friends and it pleases me to no end (perhaps even inflating my ego more that it should even though George, if he looks closely, could spell the word 'ego' out of his own name - I digress once again) that people are reading the blog and even more than one person has said they enjoyed it. What a nice little Christmas gift.
Another woman e-mailed me this week and asked about the history of the song "The Little Drummer Boy." Her question was, "I don't ever remember a story in the Bible about a young boy bringing a drum to play for the baby Jesus." Well, here is the rest of the story.
As the shepherds were tending their flocks by night, lo and behold an angel of the Lord appeared behind them, scaring them witless and said - "Go to the city of David and there you will find this day the Savior born, the one who is to be the Messiah." Of course the shepherds were extraordinarily frightened, but then a whole company of angels appeared in the sky playing their trumpets and singing loudly, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those he favors."
The youngest of the Shepherd boys, George, said to himself, "Himself, that brass section needs a drummer!" So George decided it was time to make for himself a drum, but what should he use? He couldn't very well use one of his own flock - the owner might not feel that was a good use of resources and surely he couldn't use tree bark. But then, as the angels were singing, he heard the sound of a ram caught in a thicket behind him. The ram's voice miraculously morphed into human, "I waaaant to be a baaaasssss drum." Thinking that this ram was heaven sent, young George took the ram and sacrificed it, taking the best parts for himself and his fellow sheep herders. George said, "Now that we are full, let us go to the town to see what thing has occurred."
The shepherds ran as fast as they could, over the rivers and through the woods. George stumbled once and fell, but the little drum stayed intact. His friend Richard helped him to his feet and said, "Hurry up, the Christ child doesn't have all day."
And so they ran faster until they reached the place that the angels had told them. A star shone high over head casting down a beam of light on the strangest of places. In the midst of the squalor and noise of a tiny town like Bethlehem, the rays of the moon came to rest on a stone cave, where, at the entrance, a mother and a new born were watching the festivities of the night. George and Richard pushed their way through the human mass, passed the animals in the streets and stood at the feet of mother and child. George looked at Richard and said, "Do you think this is the right baby?"
Richard said, "The baby would be wrapped in swaddling clothes so this is a pretty good bet."
George asked the woman, "Shall I play for you?" The woman smiled, not saying anything even though she secretly did not like percussion instruments. George said, "I call this song, 'Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum.' I'm not very good at lyrics, Miss. When I get some good words, I'll come back and play for you again." So, young George the shepherd, played his song "Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum" for the mother and child. The people of the town began to grow agitated and began shouting for an end to the one note symphony. "Be Quiet!" But George shouted back, "Go to sleep! I'm playing for the Christ child." George continued his monotonous bass beat until the baby Jesus became disturbed by his playing and began to cry. Mary wished that George would not play his drum any more but George and Richard had lulled themselves into a trance. So, the baby Jesus took matters into his own hands and reached out for the drum. George noticed that Jesus wanted the drum and he was very honored. So, handing the drum to Jesus, the savior reached out and touched the drum and it was once again turned into a living ram. All were startled except for Mary who pondered this in her heart.
Thus the little drummer boy lives in legend.
Thus this, of course - and hopefully very cheek full of tongue - is not legend or fact but hopefully a humorous way to introduce the most wonderful time of year - Christmas. The real message behind the littlest of percussionists is that a gift is not truly about volume but about substance. Jesus is faithfully committed to receiving all gifts even if they are not gold, frankincense or myrrh. What is important for me to always remember that the greatest gift that God wants of us is our hearts - for the essence of our love to be placed at the foot of the manger - that our lives are gathering of breaths that expel forth the air that proclaims "Glory to God in the highest!" And, from the knowledge that we are no longer subject to darkness of this world, we realize the light has come and we receive peace. Peace that passes all understanding. We don't need to place a Wii at Jesus feet, nor the newest thing in the catalog - not even a nice polo sweater for the little baby Jesus on a cold winter's night, even if those swaddling clothes are dirty and threadbare. No, just your heart. Just your love.
Return to the manger this Christmas and remember the gift of the Little Drummer Boy - it was not his drum playing, but his heart.
Nothing like a nice little slice of guilt cake for the holidays, topped with a inch thick icing of sarcasm. Thank you, George.
George is one of my good friends and it pleases me to no end (perhaps even inflating my ego more that it should even though George, if he looks closely, could spell the word 'ego' out of his own name - I digress once again) that people are reading the blog and even more than one person has said they enjoyed it. What a nice little Christmas gift.
Another woman e-mailed me this week and asked about the history of the song "The Little Drummer Boy." Her question was, "I don't ever remember a story in the Bible about a young boy bringing a drum to play for the baby Jesus." Well, here is the rest of the story.
As the shepherds were tending their flocks by night, lo and behold an angel of the Lord appeared behind them, scaring them witless and said - "Go to the city of David and there you will find this day the Savior born, the one who is to be the Messiah." Of course the shepherds were extraordinarily frightened, but then a whole company of angels appeared in the sky playing their trumpets and singing loudly, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those he favors."
The youngest of the Shepherd boys, George, said to himself, "Himself, that brass section needs a drummer!" So George decided it was time to make for himself a drum, but what should he use? He couldn't very well use one of his own flock - the owner might not feel that was a good use of resources and surely he couldn't use tree bark. But then, as the angels were singing, he heard the sound of a ram caught in a thicket behind him. The ram's voice miraculously morphed into human, "I waaaant to be a baaaasssss drum." Thinking that this ram was heaven sent, young George took the ram and sacrificed it, taking the best parts for himself and his fellow sheep herders. George said, "Now that we are full, let us go to the town to see what thing has occurred."
The shepherds ran as fast as they could, over the rivers and through the woods. George stumbled once and fell, but the little drum stayed intact. His friend Richard helped him to his feet and said, "Hurry up, the Christ child doesn't have all day."
And so they ran faster until they reached the place that the angels had told them. A star shone high over head casting down a beam of light on the strangest of places. In the midst of the squalor and noise of a tiny town like Bethlehem, the rays of the moon came to rest on a stone cave, where, at the entrance, a mother and a new born were watching the festivities of the night. George and Richard pushed their way through the human mass, passed the animals in the streets and stood at the feet of mother and child. George looked at Richard and said, "Do you think this is the right baby?"
Richard said, "The baby would be wrapped in swaddling clothes so this is a pretty good bet."
George asked the woman, "Shall I play for you?" The woman smiled, not saying anything even though she secretly did not like percussion instruments. George said, "I call this song, 'Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum.' I'm not very good at lyrics, Miss. When I get some good words, I'll come back and play for you again." So, young George the shepherd, played his song "Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum" for the mother and child. The people of the town began to grow agitated and began shouting for an end to the one note symphony. "Be Quiet!" But George shouted back, "Go to sleep! I'm playing for the Christ child." George continued his monotonous bass beat until the baby Jesus became disturbed by his playing and began to cry. Mary wished that George would not play his drum any more but George and Richard had lulled themselves into a trance. So, the baby Jesus took matters into his own hands and reached out for the drum. George noticed that Jesus wanted the drum and he was very honored. So, handing the drum to Jesus, the savior reached out and touched the drum and it was once again turned into a living ram. All were startled except for Mary who pondered this in her heart.
Thus the little drummer boy lives in legend.
Thus this, of course - and hopefully very cheek full of tongue - is not legend or fact but hopefully a humorous way to introduce the most wonderful time of year - Christmas. The real message behind the littlest of percussionists is that a gift is not truly about volume but about substance. Jesus is faithfully committed to receiving all gifts even if they are not gold, frankincense or myrrh. What is important for me to always remember that the greatest gift that God wants of us is our hearts - for the essence of our love to be placed at the foot of the manger - that our lives are gathering of breaths that expel forth the air that proclaims "Glory to God in the highest!" And, from the knowledge that we are no longer subject to darkness of this world, we realize the light has come and we receive peace. Peace that passes all understanding. We don't need to place a Wii at Jesus feet, nor the newest thing in the catalog - not even a nice polo sweater for the little baby Jesus on a cold winter's night, even if those swaddling clothes are dirty and threadbare. No, just your heart. Just your love.
Return to the manger this Christmas and remember the gift of the Little Drummer Boy - it was not his drum playing, but his heart.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Trust Factor
I have been doing some deep pondering lately about the idea of trust. Animals, by nature, are designed for distrust. They have sensors which allow them to always be prepared to fight or flee - they are wary that anyone, or anything, could be a predator. Some animals can't even trust their mates. Take, for instance, the praying mantis - imagine the male praying mantis spending his wedding night with his wife, they, in delirious joy consummate their marriage. He wakes up in the middle of the night and she is devouring his leg. He should have seen that coming. He should have put out a midnight snack for her. Alas, he just becomes part of the big circle of life.
Or what about certain crocodiles. The mother crocodile lays all the eggs, protects them from danger, watches them crack open and out spew the little crocodiles. Imagine her frustration when her mate comes round the corner whistling, "Boy, am I hungry," and grabs a few of his children for breakfast. Brutal. Animals are brutal. In a survival of the fittest world, most animals will go to extreme efforts to stay alive even if it means devouring the related competition.
There are certain animals that I don't trust. Take spiders, for example. The exterior of a spider is unappealing, for sure. Fangs, prickly legs, some of them even have the appearance of hair. Their fat, little bodies promise hidden grossness if they remain too long near me. Egg sacks hanging from the ceiling; spider webs drifting across my face as I go out to get the mail. Ugh. Some people would call my arachnaphobic lack of trust for spiders as irrational, but I find that almost all of my fears have a rational episode in my past for my lack of trust.
When I was ten years old, my family and I went camping with my grandparents. We had a glorious time running around in the outdoors; the trees smelled like dirty suitcases. The grass felt like a bed of scratchy softness. The air whisked through my hair as I ran, stumbling to play catch with my uncle and my siblings. It was so nice to get down and dirty.
At night, my parents told me to go to the bathhouse to take a shower. I grabbed my gear and gingerly crossed the gravel road in barefeet, the rocks seeming to poke holes in my soles. The cicadas were serenading me to the showers and I took my time - whistling, sometimes singing - looking around to see if there were any young ladies, you know how it is. I opened the swinging door, screeching, it slammed shut behind me. The showerhouse didn't have any lighting except the natural stuff that God creates. I showered, basically in the dark. Taking my time, I washed the grunge off the day and prepared to add more the next.
After the shower, I dried off and headed to the mirror to make sure that I had the part of my hair directly down the middle 80's style. Just as I was about to finish, I noticed something in my hair begin to move. Then, like a horror movie, I noticed that it was a daddy-long-legs spider dripping its way down my hair and then...then...it's... first...leg...hit...my...cheek...bone. I was revolted but I couldn't move a muscle - there this thing was taking its merry time going for a walk about my face.
The next thing that I realized was that my mouth was open and that I was screaming like a young lady. From that moment, I have learned not to trust any spiders and specifically those that want to use my face as a racetrack.
Our past informs our level of trust for things. I have a friend who was bitten by a dog when she was younger. Now she cannot even come near them. Another friend fell off a ladder; he cannot even stand near ladders now. Someone else I know saw the airplanes flying into the Twin Towers - she cannot even think about flying in an airplane.
Our lack of trust is not limited to animals or inanimate objects. Often, there are moments when we have been hurt emotionally, physically or spiritually by those closest to us. Whether intentionally or accidentally, our psyches and souls remember and carry scars and we are wary of repeating those incidents as coming close to a pot of boiling water. So I ask the question, "Why do humans trust at all?" If we are so prone to hurting each other, if we carry within us the ability and predisposition to harm others, why do we open ourselves to vulnerability?
That is the question I have been wrestling with lately. Someone once told me I had to earn their trust - they weren't just going to give it to me because someone else told them that I was trustworthy. So, I have taken that to mean that trust is somewhat of a commodity - something that is given away. Trust can be hoarded, kept to yourself. But what are the benefits of trusting someone else? Well, you are invited to write to me and let me know if I am way off base, but I view the benefits of trusting others are that four sets of eyes are better than two. When we trust others, we are trusting that they are looking out for our interests as well as their own. When we trust, we are allowing the other person to stand at our back and take care of us without fear of being stabbed. When we trust, we open up that box inside of us that allows others to become part of our being.
God created us to be in community. It is very difficult to be in community without trusting at least some of our fellow human beings. Without trust, we are individuals in a divided world. Without trust, our hearts begin to grow a hardened shell around them and some spark of life cannot light the fire - the ache to be special to, and protected by, someone else.
It is a hard thing, to trust. I invite you to pray about those whom you trust and those whom you mistrust this week and think again about the episodes in the past that don't allow us to trust and which create the hardened shell around our hearts.
Or what about certain crocodiles. The mother crocodile lays all the eggs, protects them from danger, watches them crack open and out spew the little crocodiles. Imagine her frustration when her mate comes round the corner whistling, "Boy, am I hungry," and grabs a few of his children for breakfast. Brutal. Animals are brutal. In a survival of the fittest world, most animals will go to extreme efforts to stay alive even if it means devouring the related competition.
There are certain animals that I don't trust. Take spiders, for example. The exterior of a spider is unappealing, for sure. Fangs, prickly legs, some of them even have the appearance of hair. Their fat, little bodies promise hidden grossness if they remain too long near me. Egg sacks hanging from the ceiling; spider webs drifting across my face as I go out to get the mail. Ugh. Some people would call my arachnaphobic lack of trust for spiders as irrational, but I find that almost all of my fears have a rational episode in my past for my lack of trust.
When I was ten years old, my family and I went camping with my grandparents. We had a glorious time running around in the outdoors; the trees smelled like dirty suitcases. The grass felt like a bed of scratchy softness. The air whisked through my hair as I ran, stumbling to play catch with my uncle and my siblings. It was so nice to get down and dirty.
At night, my parents told me to go to the bathhouse to take a shower. I grabbed my gear and gingerly crossed the gravel road in barefeet, the rocks seeming to poke holes in my soles. The cicadas were serenading me to the showers and I took my time - whistling, sometimes singing - looking around to see if there were any young ladies, you know how it is. I opened the swinging door, screeching, it slammed shut behind me. The showerhouse didn't have any lighting except the natural stuff that God creates. I showered, basically in the dark. Taking my time, I washed the grunge off the day and prepared to add more the next.
After the shower, I dried off and headed to the mirror to make sure that I had the part of my hair directly down the middle 80's style. Just as I was about to finish, I noticed something in my hair begin to move. Then, like a horror movie, I noticed that it was a daddy-long-legs spider dripping its way down my hair and then...then...it's... first...leg...hit...my...cheek...bone. I was revolted but I couldn't move a muscle - there this thing was taking its merry time going for a walk about my face.
The next thing that I realized was that my mouth was open and that I was screaming like a young lady. From that moment, I have learned not to trust any spiders and specifically those that want to use my face as a racetrack.
Our past informs our level of trust for things. I have a friend who was bitten by a dog when she was younger. Now she cannot even come near them. Another friend fell off a ladder; he cannot even stand near ladders now. Someone else I know saw the airplanes flying into the Twin Towers - she cannot even think about flying in an airplane.
Our lack of trust is not limited to animals or inanimate objects. Often, there are moments when we have been hurt emotionally, physically or spiritually by those closest to us. Whether intentionally or accidentally, our psyches and souls remember and carry scars and we are wary of repeating those incidents as coming close to a pot of boiling water. So I ask the question, "Why do humans trust at all?" If we are so prone to hurting each other, if we carry within us the ability and predisposition to harm others, why do we open ourselves to vulnerability?
That is the question I have been wrestling with lately. Someone once told me I had to earn their trust - they weren't just going to give it to me because someone else told them that I was trustworthy. So, I have taken that to mean that trust is somewhat of a commodity - something that is given away. Trust can be hoarded, kept to yourself. But what are the benefits of trusting someone else? Well, you are invited to write to me and let me know if I am way off base, but I view the benefits of trusting others are that four sets of eyes are better than two. When we trust others, we are trusting that they are looking out for our interests as well as their own. When we trust, we are allowing the other person to stand at our back and take care of us without fear of being stabbed. When we trust, we open up that box inside of us that allows others to become part of our being.
God created us to be in community. It is very difficult to be in community without trusting at least some of our fellow human beings. Without trust, we are individuals in a divided world. Without trust, our hearts begin to grow a hardened shell around them and some spark of life cannot light the fire - the ache to be special to, and protected by, someone else.
It is a hard thing, to trust. I invite you to pray about those whom you trust and those whom you mistrust this week and think again about the episodes in the past that don't allow us to trust and which create the hardened shell around our hearts.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Bugs
One of my co-workers has a bug. Physically, she is aching, sniffing, sneezing, stuffy-head (you can problably state the slogan with me.) If one were to look at her, one would see that she is having trouble sleeping; the bug is wreaking havoc with her emotions and that which has infected her, keeps her from concentrating on the task at hand. Her nose is red from blowing; her eyes are watery; her lungs rasp and ache and I feel sorry for her. I cringe every time I hear someone say, "Oh, it's just that time of year," as if that will make the ill person feel better that the earth produces germs at particularly repetitive times.
There are certain medicines that you can take to rid yourselves of the cold bug, flu bug and whatever other kind of insect you choose to adapt as a symbol of an illness. I often wondered why germs are called bugs - it seems somewhat derogatory for those poor defenseless germs that inhabit our airways and sinuses (I'm kidding of course.)
But there is one bug that has infected another one of my friends that is certainly welcome. The Love Bug (not the 1970's version of a VW Beetle that has a talking front end and is prone to driving itself around a racetrack) has found its way to Trina. Bit her hard, too. I can see the results of its infection. Her nose, at times, is red from crying with happiness (I think its happiness?), perhaps its just the scrambling of emotions when the Love Bug bites. Her eyes twinkle with happiness - she has placed a picture of her loved one, Dan, right next to her computer - it seems that she can't take her eyes off him; certainly, she may be having troubles concentrating and that is not a bad thing at all - no sirree - not a bad thing at all.
What's different about my friend Trina is that she's been married to Dan 19 years already. After a few rough years, Trina and Dan had found themselves inoculated against the beautiful disease - the disease that causes feelings and flooding of emotions to wash over them - to look at each other as if the time they spent together was the most precious possession on earth. They had, it seemed, become immune to looks and touches, a brush of hair, coquettishness, his wanting to impress her with his strength. Their eyes became dimmed of the light of love; the infectious laughter that once permeated their one-ness, had been eradicated.
After many months of trials and talking, emotions and encouragement, Dan found Trina again; Trina saw Dan the way he was but especially the way he is and found that they had wasted enough time avoiding love. Trina came to me a few weeks ago and asked if I would bless their rings for them - if I would help them reaffirm their vows, in a way, that they made 19 years ago. In the midst of God, in the sanctuary, with their son Brandon watching, they professed that love would once again be a constant in their life - that through their own blood vessels the Love Bug would do its incredible best.
I don't think that Trina an Dan are the only ones that suffer, or have suffered, through a time of numbness in relationship. Why do we become immune to our partner's love? Why do we starve the bug that seeks to infect us with amorous love from God? I think it comes from our willingness to set aside our priorities in life and deal with the pressures of the present - the stresses of life that need our immediate attention - and we lose focus on the big picture. All becomes blurry because of struggles at work, putting food on the table, disciplinary problems for kids and we forget the very first moment we saw the love of our lives.
The first time I met Christine is still crystal clear in my memory. I was returning from a fishing trip in Canada, my sister Vikki was driving; we entered the city of Minneapolis where I was to join a Youth Encounter band as the bass guitar player. My sister and I were very close, but she also had a endeared relationship with my current girlfriend at the time. As we stepped out of the car, I looked up and an angel appeared in front of me - it was almost as if I was a deer and the brightness of the sun caused me to pause - I felt run down by a train - WHAM! There she was, this tanned Venus wearing short shorts and a blue t-shirt, her bleached brown hair plaited, big brown eyes - She saw me too. The love bug took a chunk out that time. As I tried to pry my mouth off of the ground, my sister came and stood in front of me, grabbed my by the shoulders and said, "Don't you dare."
Well, I dared.
Throughout our married life, just like Trina and Dan have done, Christine and I continually search for new ways that we can invite God to infect us with the Love Bug. This sounds a bit schmaltzy, cheesy and all sorts of things that only Nicholas Evans could write about (or maybe Danielle Steele). But, I honestly think that we need to open our eyes anew every day and find ways to introduce the host into our system - be carriers of love - all sorts of pieces of the analogy can come to light. Love-sickness, it's a real disease, and a great one.
Find some time to talk with your loved one, or family, or whomever that is closest to you, to re-establish the things that you love about them and why they make you happy. Write lists including the memories that jump to your mind that are crystal clear when you were happy together.
Grow some bugs.
There are certain medicines that you can take to rid yourselves of the cold bug, flu bug and whatever other kind of insect you choose to adapt as a symbol of an illness. I often wondered why germs are called bugs - it seems somewhat derogatory for those poor defenseless germs that inhabit our airways and sinuses (I'm kidding of course.)
But there is one bug that has infected another one of my friends that is certainly welcome. The Love Bug (not the 1970's version of a VW Beetle that has a talking front end and is prone to driving itself around a racetrack) has found its way to Trina. Bit her hard, too. I can see the results of its infection. Her nose, at times, is red from crying with happiness (I think its happiness?), perhaps its just the scrambling of emotions when the Love Bug bites. Her eyes twinkle with happiness - she has placed a picture of her loved one, Dan, right next to her computer - it seems that she can't take her eyes off him; certainly, she may be having troubles concentrating and that is not a bad thing at all - no sirree - not a bad thing at all.
What's different about my friend Trina is that she's been married to Dan 19 years already. After a few rough years, Trina and Dan had found themselves inoculated against the beautiful disease - the disease that causes feelings and flooding of emotions to wash over them - to look at each other as if the time they spent together was the most precious possession on earth. They had, it seemed, become immune to looks and touches, a brush of hair, coquettishness, his wanting to impress her with his strength. Their eyes became dimmed of the light of love; the infectious laughter that once permeated their one-ness, had been eradicated.
After many months of trials and talking, emotions and encouragement, Dan found Trina again; Trina saw Dan the way he was but especially the way he is and found that they had wasted enough time avoiding love. Trina came to me a few weeks ago and asked if I would bless their rings for them - if I would help them reaffirm their vows, in a way, that they made 19 years ago. In the midst of God, in the sanctuary, with their son Brandon watching, they professed that love would once again be a constant in their life - that through their own blood vessels the Love Bug would do its incredible best.
I don't think that Trina an Dan are the only ones that suffer, or have suffered, through a time of numbness in relationship. Why do we become immune to our partner's love? Why do we starve the bug that seeks to infect us with amorous love from God? I think it comes from our willingness to set aside our priorities in life and deal with the pressures of the present - the stresses of life that need our immediate attention - and we lose focus on the big picture. All becomes blurry because of struggles at work, putting food on the table, disciplinary problems for kids and we forget the very first moment we saw the love of our lives.
The first time I met Christine is still crystal clear in my memory. I was returning from a fishing trip in Canada, my sister Vikki was driving; we entered the city of Minneapolis where I was to join a Youth Encounter band as the bass guitar player. My sister and I were very close, but she also had a endeared relationship with my current girlfriend at the time. As we stepped out of the car, I looked up and an angel appeared in front of me - it was almost as if I was a deer and the brightness of the sun caused me to pause - I felt run down by a train - WHAM! There she was, this tanned Venus wearing short shorts and a blue t-shirt, her bleached brown hair plaited, big brown eyes - She saw me too. The love bug took a chunk out that time. As I tried to pry my mouth off of the ground, my sister came and stood in front of me, grabbed my by the shoulders and said, "Don't you dare."
Well, I dared.
Throughout our married life, just like Trina and Dan have done, Christine and I continually search for new ways that we can invite God to infect us with the Love Bug. This sounds a bit schmaltzy, cheesy and all sorts of things that only Nicholas Evans could write about (or maybe Danielle Steele). But, I honestly think that we need to open our eyes anew every day and find ways to introduce the host into our system - be carriers of love - all sorts of pieces of the analogy can come to light. Love-sickness, it's a real disease, and a great one.
Find some time to talk with your loved one, or family, or whomever that is closest to you, to re-establish the things that you love about them and why they make you happy. Write lists including the memories that jump to your mind that are crystal clear when you were happy together.
Grow some bugs.
Friday, October 17, 2008
A Beauty Pageant
The other day I was perusing all of the movies that we currently own on DVD. An assortment of genres spring forth from the shelf in our basement: action, drama, comedy, of course children's movies - a tear jerker for myself when I need to pop the cork on my emotions (Armageddon). As I was running my finger across the top of the DVD's attempting to find something that would capture my interest, I came across a movie that I hadn't seen in a while - Little Miss Sunshine. For those of you who haven't seen this brilliant motion picture, it is a story about a family who must make their way across the great southwest to California where the youngest daughter is to be entered into a beauty pageant - a.k.a. the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.
As I watched this movie again, I noticed a great consistency with the plot line from another one of my all time favorite talkies - National Lampoon's vacation. The Griswald family, against all odds, wends their way across country to California to visit the Nirvana like destination of Wally World. Watch and see if I'm not the only one who sees the similarities.
Anyway, one line in the film really struck me as poignant. Dwayne, a young man whose dreams of becoming an Air Force pilot are shattered, is talking to his uncle outside of the pageant. Dwayne says, (and I'll paraphrase here because I'm not sure profanity would be a good thing for this blog) "All of life is a beauty pageant: Jr. high, highschool, college - job, home life. It's all one big beauty pageant, trying to outshine everyone else for some inane trophy or title that says, 'I'm number one!'" I agree with Dwayne on many points - Life, in its very essence, in its very fundamental core, is a survival of the fittest. It is incredibly easy to be sucked in to the inflow over us that tells all of us to strive to be at the top of the heap. Our very human nature screams, "Everyone - look at me! Remember me! I want the world to remember my deeds because if they don't, what was the point?"
I have seen beauty pageants before. Usually the television coverage shows only a few brief segments - the interview and the swimsuit competition. Listen to that: the swimsuit competition. Is it actually possible to compete while wearing high heels and a one piece swimsuit that looks like everyone else's? How are they judged? Are they critiqued on their ability to smile while being uncomfortable that everyone is viewing them as a sexual object? Why not have the television show the talent competition - I'd love to hear some great singers, actresses or see some incredible dancing. To me, Miss Wonderful would be a talented representative of the United States of America at the Miss Universe pageant (Don't get me started on what I think of a pageant called 'Miss Universe.') We compete to be beautiful. We compete to be beautiful by the standards of a sex starved society. Society says if you are thin, have straight teeth, nice hair and a taut body, you are one up on the rest of us slouches.
So, I have tried, at times to be anti-beautiful (it's not such a hard thing in my case.) I will let my hair grow to long. One such instance in high school, I had a Mul-hawk. For those of you who don't know what that is, a mul-hawk is half mullet and half mohawk. I know that you are all jealous and I will try and find a picture for my facebook page. When my brother first gave me my mul-hawk, I was an organist at a tiny country church in rural Iowa. One cold fall morning, I put my stocking cap on and drove the ten miles to church. The older ladies of the church greeted me warmly; they loved to have a young organist. "Good morning, Reid," they twittled as they reached out to shake my hand or touch my arm. I stood quite a bit taller than most of them and as I took off my cap, the reception was almost as if I had pulled a snake out from under my hat. Gasping, the ladies took a step back - I knew the reaction would be strange. They gathered in a corner while I took my coat off and placed it on a hook. Then, there was a tug at my sleeve, and Mary pulled me around to face her. She could not even look in my eyes; they were glued to the top of my head. "Reid, we have decided that you must wear your hat during the service." So, I wore my hat during the service even though I was in a room all by myself where no one could see me. I used to take naps during the sermon - fortunately I was a light sleeper and could hear the 'amen' at the end of the oration.
I have grown my beard long enough to braid it. My visage was so different when I returned from Europe 12 years ago, that my sisters and parents didn't recognize me when I stepped off the plane. Danielle later said, "I was sitting next to Vikki (my other sister) and I pointed to you and said, 'there he is, I think.'"
My other anti-beautiful that I shared at a service the other night was my first vehicle I owned by myself. My brother's first car was a 1980 white Camaro with T-tops - it looked like it was straight out of a Whitesnake video with scantily clad lady writhing on the hood. Maybe that's why he bought it. My sister Vikki's first car, I think, was a Honda - nice white one also. My little sister's first car, if memory serves me correct, was my parent's white Ford(?) maybe. Nice white cars. When I finished the tour with Youth Encounter, I had $800 to my name. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of money after earning $50/month as a volunteer for a year and a half. Of course there is no such thing as an $800 car at a used car lot, so I went into the megatropolis of Rake, Iowa and sought out a friend of the family who liked to fix cars up and sell them off.
He had two cars and they were nothing like the cars that my siblings bought. They were both Mary Kaymobiles - pink exterior (I like to think of it as a salmon color - much more masculine), maroon interior and manual windows. 1988 Buicks. He had two of them; one was non-dented, no rust that he was selling for $1000. Too rich for my blood. The other was well used; it looked as if someone had decided that a Mary Kaymobile was a good hunting vehicle and had driven it through the fields. Imagine your surprise, if you were a hunter, out in the bush waiting for game when a 1988 pink Buick comes ripping through the field on the trail of a deer. Anyway, Mr. Woodwick was selling her with an $800 price tag. Excellent. I was so proud to pay cash.
I packed up Pinky, as I named her - later we would trade her in for a 1983 F-100 brown pickup named 'The Brain.' So, I packed up Pinky pulling a 6 foot u-haul trailer that held all my belongings and headed for the Grand Canyon State (Arizona) where I would be holding a job as a youth director.
Funny thing - as a youth director driving a Mary Kaymobile, all the kids always new where I was. And, in fact, the cool thing for kids to do was to ride with me in the Pinkymobile on our way to youth events. The Anti-beautiful thing began to catch on. Soon, kids were asking me if, when they bought their first car, they should get a Gremlin or an Omni.
In some ways, there is something completely beautiful about not worrying about the exterior. Like Pinky, our exterior's all fade a bit after a while. The polish wears off, the rust begins to show. Perhaps the body become a little outdated, doesn't start as well in the mornings or cold - but cars are, at their core, simply just a mode of transportation. Our bodies, in some respects, are that also. What is important is not that they always remain shiny and nice-smelling (although I would think that would be imperative for upkeep), but that they bring our souls to people and places so that we can experience all that God has for us. So I say, enjoy the ride and stop worrying about the mode.
Well, I guess I mixed enough metaphors for the day. And perhaps I've delved a bit too far into an idealistic world. But, seriously, enjoy the ride today. Take a few minutes to not look in the mirror and take heart in the beauty of what God is doing in the world.
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