sneaking it in under the wire

According to the clock, it's still technically Friday, but only by five minutes. Just returned from opening night of Beyond Therapy. A small but enthusiastic crowd made it a good first show. And with revelry following, I was lucky to make it back in time. But I did.

Was trying to think of what I could write about all day (yes, I know Angela, if I had a project, it would be much easier). Had a wonderful rant in my head on the drive home in response to some accusations made about my beliefs, but the hour is too late and my brain is too tired and right now I don't give enough of a damn to write about it. So why don't we take the easy way out and simply meditate on various bits of flotsam and jetsam that have caught my attention lately.

I tweeted this earlier today, but if you're not on Twitter, you're missing out on one of the funniest "flame wars" I've ever seen. The unlikely partners in crime? Kevin Smith and Neil Gaiman. I happen to follow both of them, so I get to see them zing each other. I've laughed out loud several times. Explaining it will do no good - you have to read this stuff for yourself. A sample

Mr. Smith: Spells! Elixirs! Eyes of newt! Lots of one-eyed newts running around because @neilhimself uses potions on our women to soften their resolve!

Mr. Gaiman: @thatkevinsmith most of those Newts are actually pirates. The one-eyedness is nothing to do with me being a warlock.

This doesn't do it justice. But you get the idea. If this were a TV show, I'd watch it. Of course, then it would get canceled after only a handful of episodes like all the other TV shows I like.

More pop culture: I watched the documentary Anvil: The Story of Anvil this afternoon. More heartbreaking than anything else. Reminded me a bit of The Wrestler, only about a metal band. Watching their passion for what they are doing and realizing they're never going to get to live their dream was tough at times. You feel bad for them but then at the same time, I can see why they never quite hit it big like their contemporaries. If you like 80s metal or stories about people following their passions, check it out.

I'm in the process of trying to renew my five year license and I have a question: do other professions require a person to spend so much money simply to stay licensed? I mean, after paying for six hours of continuing ed, FBI background check and the $200 fee to pay for your new license, it could easily cost over $2,000. This seems a bit excessive to me. Just wondered if this was specific to education or if other professionals went through similar flaming hoops to keep their jobs.

Got my supplemental pay for coaching Academic Team this week and so I've been doing some research on my next major purchase - a flat screen TV. Looking in the 50" range, probably LCD. Beyond that, I'm still trying to figure out what brands are best and the best places to buy them. Any recommendations would be greatly appreciated.

My friend Rob posted an article yesterday, The New Dating Game, after talking to his sons who explained to him "douche bags have kidnapped dating" and "kind, loving, sexy people don't exist." After reading the article and the description the author gives of the dating scene, I realized:

1. I would hate going to clubs and bars if that's what they're like
2. As a quintessential beta male, I would be unsuccessful anyway
3. I'm going to die alone

I think I'm going to have to read it again to see if her argument holds up. I've known for quite some time that I'm nowhere near normal when it comes to dating (I'm so far away, normal is a mere speck on the horizon), but I didn't realize I was the antithesis of what women in the dating scene are looking for. Somewhat disheartening. It did remind me a bit of a line Celine says in one of my favorite movies, Before Sunrise:

You know, I have this awful paranoid thought that feminism was mostly invented by men so that they could like, fool around a little more. You know, women, free your minds, free your bodies, sleep with me. We're all happy and free as long as I can fuck as much as I want

I may have some more thoughts later, but right now it's far too late for me to hope for anything resembling coherent thought. Until next time...

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"Great! Now I have guilt!"

One day in and I've already disappointed the masses. I told you to lower your expectations, but did you listen to me? No, you did not. I'd apologize for not being as, shall we say, verbose as others who do this, but I'm not really that sorry. Quantity doesn't always mean better.

Not long ago while reading over some old journal entries (back when I used to do this in the privacy of my own Word document), I realized I used to write a lot more than I currently do. After some thought, I came to this conclusion - I don't find myself that interesting anymore. I mean really, to go on and on like I used to, for pages and pages - what was I thinking? If I'm bored writing about it, I can't imagine anyone else surviving to the end.

However, I will do my best to use my 30 minutes wisely and not get distracted by other things. No more checking email or Facebook while I'm typing. Just writing.

Some observations from my first "no music" commute:

• You don't have to scream quite so loudly at the other drivers when there's no music to shout over; however...
• What you do shout sounds painfully loud and clear without music to muddy it up. Which makes me cringe a bit more. Which hopefully will encourage me not to shout so much.
• Staying focused will be the trick - with nothing to occupy my mind, it tends to wander about quite a bit. Some centering prayer will help.
• The drive home is much worse than the drive to work, mostly because the persistent rush of the pavement under my tires is quite soothing and after a long day at school I...find...myself...dozing...off...

Looking forward to seeing how it goes for the rest of the time. Doesn't quite feel like a sacrifice at this point, but then this is more about my discipline than sacrifice. At least in my head it is.

I hope you got a chance to see the moon tonight. A sharp, crisp crescent poised to slice open the night sky and let it bleed. Quite beautiful hanging over the snow.

Final dress for Beyond Therapy went OK. Only one blogger showed so not quite the "audience" we'd hoped for, but it's all come together well. And I got some grading done (it's a Lenten miracle!) Per usual, I'm totally wired afterwards, which means sleep, which should be my companion in about 30 minutes, will probably be much farther away. I have a friend who believes my insomnia is tied to my being in plays. And I admit, my sleep patterns do tend to get jacked up during shows. But not sure it's much different than when I'm not in a show - a little more pronounced, perhaps. Couldn't fall asleep until nearly 1AM last night and then was up at 4:45AM, waiting for my alarm to go off. And then I couldn't get out of bed once my alarm did go off and I hit snooze for, well, ever. Someday I'll find a normal sleep pattern. Probably when I retire. Or die, whichever comes first.

OK, so that last little bit was a bit dark. Sorry.

It's usually at this point in my blog that I begin to write about the process of writing and how frustrating it can be (in fact, I wrote quite a few sentences about just that before deleting them and starting over). (And I just deleted some more - really, if I don't want to read them...). This is mostly why I stopped blogging in the first place - I don't have anything of importance to share. Yes, I know, the Buechner quote about talking about our lives and all that. But most of the time I feel I'm pissing into the ocean, hoping to raise the water temperature enough to take a swim (ponder that wonderful metaphor for a while. On second thought, don't). In this day and age of blogs and tweets and status updates and rants, what's one more voice in the din?

Rabbit trail much?

Tomorrow, in accordance with school policy, I will be administering the latest attempt to prove schools (and more specifically, teachers) are actually teaching (or not teaching, as the case may be) our students something. Forget the Ohio Graduation Test - that's so last decade. Here come the "end of course exams," designed to standardize learning and measure not simply how much a student knows, but also how much they have learned from year to year. Because as we all know (because we're told over and over and over and over and over again), all of the problems in the United States - the bad economy, the crime and violence, the crumbling social networks, dogs and cats sleeping together - can be traced back to our students not taking enough standardized tests. If only we could objectify...er, I mean...objectively prove students are learning, then we could live in the glorious utopia pastors, politicians and ETS wonks promise lies just beyond the the horizon. So grab your scantron and your number two pencil and join me as we lead...

Bleah. I can't even get up the energy to continue to be snarky.

See, half an hour has already passed and I'm not sure this is any longer than the last one. And I'm sure it's no more meaningful. Maybe someone should have made reading my blog their Lenten practice - it may be more of a sacrifice to do that than it is for me to write it. Time to go put on my nightly charade of pretending I'm going to fall asleep any time in the next 60 minutes. Or maybe I'll try and start watching my latest DVD from Netflix: Anvil: The Story of Anvil. Nothing like some hair metal to send you off to sleep.

Sorry for the lack of deep thoughts. Maybe this weekend. If you're lucky...

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and so it begins again

ahem...

I'm back.

We've begun once again the 40-day journey known as Lent. 'Tis a season for giving up. 'Tis a season for giving back. 'Tis a season for removing. 'Tis a season for reattaching.

So I'm reattaching to this here blog-thing again. Throwing out my thoughts. Spending time actually looking/listening to my life, to see/hear what I've been missing because I've been too busy to stop and be silent.

I'm sure I'll be a bit rusty here at first. Hopefully practice will make, if not perfect, then more interesting reading at the very least. I have no agenda, nothing specific I want to write about. These aren't meant to be Lenten thoughts, though I'm sure they'll creep in. My focus is on the discipline of writing. I just need to write, to rebuild those muscles I've let atrophy lately. All that to say: it might be best to lower your expectations.

As for Lent, I feared I would not find an Ash Wednesday service to attend. However, I remembered Christ Church Cathedral downtown usually did a 6:00 service, right about 5:35. Made it just in time. Good to go through the ritual, to listen to the words. Was struck by the phrase, "rend your heart" in the Joel 2 passage. Something to chew on over the next few weeks. The officiant seemed to bend over backwards to make his sermon as joyful and happy as possible. Like he was embarrassed the season called for penance or any searching of our souls. Heaven forbid we ask people to spend any time pondering less than happy thoughts.

Anyway, might as well answer the question on everyone's mind: what did I give up for Lent. Struggled a bit this year figuring out what God would have me sacrifice. Several friends gave me ideas, which I considered, some much more than others. I've done so many different fasts for Lent it becomes increasingly difficult not to repeat myself. I've given up my usual, chocolate. But I've also decided to give up listening to music on the way to and from work. I know, I know, sounds lame, but that's 50 minutes of silence I'll be adding to my day. Thought about giving up music altogether, but I did that a couple years ago and, so, I wanted to vary it a bit.

And obviously, I've added this bit of discipline to my life as well - you know, the writing of my thoughts in a blog. The plan is to write for 30 minutes, come rain or shine. We'll see how it goes. Depends on how focused I am how long that will end up being. Why do it in public like this? More of a chance I'll stick to it if I know people are reading. Too easy in a personal journal just to, you know, skip a day or two. Feel free to hold me accountable.

OK, I should be moving to bed (how I wish I could have given up my insomnia for Lent. Actually, I have a whole list of things I wish I could have given up for Lent, but that's a discussion for another time. Perhaps). Feel free to comment - just as I'll feel free to engage you in a discussion or not. Don't take it personally if I don't respond. Like I said, it's not really about what is said but the fact that I'm saying it at all.

Faretheewell.

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thoughts on seeing Jenny Holzer's Protect Protect

Protect me from what I want
All things are delicately interconnected
Ambition is just as dangerous as complacency

Silhouettes bask in the glow of these truths, lost in the challenges they present.

Being alone with yourself is increasingly unpopular
Being judgmental is a sign of life
Being sure of yourself makes you a fool
Chasing the new is dangerous to society
A charismatic leader is imperative
Life itself is not sacred
Romantic love was created to manipulate women
Spending too much time on self-improvement is anti-social
The most profound things are inexpressible
You are victim of the rules you live by
You have to hurt others to be extraordinary
A strong sense of duty imprisons you

The repetition of these words, the flashing stimulating the brain, bathing we here in the room in an other-worldly glow, our faces immobile yet ever-changing. We are transformed by the mere presence of these words - we need not read or believe them to change.

Emotional responses are as important as intellectual ones
Expiring for love is beautiful but stupid
If you can't leave your mark, give up
It's better to be lonely than to be with inferior people

The power of the word transforms all it touches - even when the words lose their meaning, what remains still has power. These flashing words stimulate, making couples want to express their love for one another, even when those words speak of the horror of rape. But for those of us with no outlet, we are left to scribble on the page.

Planning for the future is escapism
Sin is a means of social control

These words like rivers flowing, ever changing, their motion toward an unseen sea. If I step within them, they change and shift yet still remain the same. I no longer see the words but only their motion, the river but not the water.

This is what I imagine my unconscious looks like, a constant, unstoppable scroll of thoughts, desires, secrets, memories. But I lack the courage to display it to the world.

I am more moved by these phrases than the reality of what has happened in Iraq. Does this make me calloused? Or do I come to be challenged in a different way here? Everyday bureaucracy blown up larger than life makes me sad but does not change me. While it may be "the truth" about what has happened, it lacks the quality of Truth. Perhaps its that I do not need (want?) to be reminded how horrible war is for it seems obvious enough to anyone with a heart.
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the power of dynamic planning

So this morning, while wandering aimlessly around Chestnut Hill, I received a phone call from my friend Lauri. Lauri, who has been pestering me to come and visit for a couple of years now. Lauri who planted the seed for this wonderful spring break excursion in my head. Lauri who was kind enough to open up her couch for me to crash upon while I was traveling. Lauri who found out this morning that she needs to have her gall bladder removed. Today. So. Plans shift and change. I won't get to see her, but will still head to Jersey and do the park-n-ride thing. Much cheaper than trying to park in NYC. And not like I'll need my car once I get there anyway. Anne is kind enough to let me crash with her for a couple of extra nights. Good to have friends as flexible as you.

Today has been quite relaxing, which is the point of vacation after all. Did a bit of walking, a bit of eating, a bit of shopping. Brad's seminary's bookstore is going out of business and their books were on sale. Picked up The Emergent Manifesto and a Willimon book for $8.25. Brilliant. Am now chilling on the couch, waiting for Brad to return from dropping off the boys and Sarah to return from work. No idea what is planned for the evening, but will be good to relax with good friends.

So imagine this: you've woken up early in the morning and driven through the beauty of Amish country to avoid the toll roads, only to realize the estimated time given by Googlemaps is about 45 minutes off. You eventually arrive at your destination, only to determine the only parking is metered parking and it's seven minutes for every quarter. So you drop as much change as you have and walk through the pouring rain to meet your friend. It goes well as you catch up over the past 20 years and realize you're both still much the same as you were in high school, at least the essential parts of you. Older, but the connection is still there. You're both a little annoyed at having to leave every half an hour to feed the meter, but it makes the afternoon more memorable. You even throw caution to the wind and walk down to see the Liberty Bell - you see it, but don't have the time to gawk at all the history posted on screens down the hall. Some other day. By the time you say your goodbyes, the rain has abated and you smile and hope it doesn't take another 20 years to catch up again. And then you go your separate ways.

Now it's later, and you make it to Sarah and Brad's house just in time to head over to their Easter Vigil service where their son is being baptised. In the hustle and bustle of greetings, you forget one thing - you drank an awful lot at the coffee house where you met you friend Gabe and haven't used the restroom. And you don't remember until the priest has lit the Paschal candle from the flames and you make your pilgrimmage into the building for the reading of the lessons. For those unfamiliar with the Easter Vigil, it's a celebration of the way God has worked in the lives of His people throughout the Old Testament, the salvation stories from creation through the prophets and beyond in a series of twelve readings, usually followed by a song and a time of reflection for each one. They normally last about three hours. So by the time the Israelites have walked through the Red Sea on dry land (the third reading), my eyeballs are floating. But there's no way to get to the bathroom from where I am, so I focus on the readings and hope it all goes well. I'm fine until we march into the sanctuary for the baptismal. There, the minister says these words:

Holy God, holy and merciful, holy and mighty,
you are the river of life,
you are the everlasting wellspring,
you are the fire of rebirth.
Glory to you for oceans and lakes, for rivers and streams.
Honor to you for cloud and rain, for dew and snow.
Your waters are below us, around us, above us: our life is born in you.
You are the fountain of resurrection.
Praise to you for your saving waters:
Noah and the animals survive the flood,
Hagar discovers your well.
The Israelites escape through the sea,
and they drink from your gushing rock.
Naaman washes his leprosy away,
and the Samaritan woman will never be thirsty again.
At this font, Holy God, we pray:
Praise to you for the water of baptism and for your Word that saves us in this water.

To make matters worse, the entire time he says these words, he is pouring water from a pitcher into the baptismal font...very...very...slowly. I had to bow my head and fake an emotional response to keep from laughing out loud and having my own private baptism right there. Miraculously, I made it through and over to the bathroom without embarrassing myself or my friends.

My urination distraction aside, 'twas a lovely service - those gathered laughed at the lighter side of each of the stories and the variety of readers definitely added to the enjoyment. I highly recommend attending one if you haven't before. Put it on your calendar now.

More thoughts later, perhaps. Been an excellent trip so far - exactly the refreshment I needed. Here's hoping for more of the same.
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drive by posting

Great Easter weekend here in Philly. The Easter Bunny even found me and brought me a basket, first time in 25 years. The house is empty and I have much to write about, but I need to get out and about. Hopefully I'll find a spot here in Chestnut Hill to throw some words on the screen about the trip so far. First order of business, however, is find somewhere serving breakfast. Mmmmm. I did a quick google search, but think I'm simply going to walk and see what catches my eye. It's part of the adventure.

More later.
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we're running with the shadows of the night

This song has been stuck in my head since last night.

Saturday morning. My old friend insomnia stopped by last night and refused to let me go until well into the morning and then stopped back later just to be sure I hadn't missed him. Bastard. So I guess it's hotels in general I can't sleep in and not simply ones where I have to share a bed. Will definitely make this summer interesting.

A steady rain has moved in, which should make my trek to Philly much slower and moister. I'm meeting Gabe at Cafe Olé - hopefully it's not too crazy crowded and I can find parking with a minimum of hassle. I haven't seen Gabe since...just after high school? First year of college? I'm feeling a bit trepidatious (shut up spell check, it is too a word) about it. You never know what to expect. It's almost like meeting someone again for the first time - we change so much over the years we're basically new people. But I'd like to believe our core stays the same, that I'll be able to recognize a certain "Gabeness" in him. We'll see.

I'm reading Peter Rollins How (Not) to Speak of God. I already read his Fidelity of Betrayal and found myself challenged. Probably should have read this one first since I'm sensing it's more laying the foundation. Enjoying it so far, though I wish it were my own copy so I could highlight in it. May have to see about picking up my own copy soon. May throw some choice tidbits up as I read them.

OK, I should see about gathering my belongings up and getting them out to the car. Also need to stop by the front desk and make sure they take off the "safe" charge on my bill. Seriously - I get charged for something I didn't request? Suddenly I have "Master of the House" running through my head.

Next stop: Philly and the baptism of Evan.
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shadows

The day began in darkness as the buzzing above my head reminded me I wanted to make it to the 7:00 AM Good Friday service at Redeemer over in Hyde Park (or is it Oakley, I never can tell the difference). Showered, headed out, got there, only to find no one there and a sign proclaiming Good Friday services at noon and 7 PM. So much for the internet. So I drove and fueled up, went home and packed up and hit the road about 5 1/2 hours before my initial time. Might as well get to the hotel early to take full advantage of all the money I'm spending to sleep.

The trip itself was fairly uneventful - signs of spring abounded, but the day itself was a perpetual grey with smatterings of sunlight and sprinkles intermixed. I passed the time listening to music - the birthday mix Brian made for me (it rocked), the mix I made for others (not bad, if I do say so myself...and I do), and the new stuff I downloaded right before I left (including a brilliant musical called [Title of Show]. Hilarious, clever and highly recommended).

I made good time and great gas mileage and arrived in Mechanicsburg just before 6 PM. Generic Ramada Inn, but the place is mostly empty (yet the pool is always packed - go figure). My first goal was to find the St. Luke's Episcopal, which I had scoped out online and was having a Tenebrae service at 7 PM. Perfect. I checked email and FB (praise God for free wi-fi - and my new laptop) and headed to the heart of Mechanicsburg.

St. Luke's is your typical small Episcopal church - I was easily one of the youngest ones there. No one sat in my pew, which isn't surprising. But I quieted myself and focused on why I was there. Tenebrae is Latin for shadows and for the uninitiated, this service focuses on seven shadows associated with Good Friday, a candle representing each one and as each scripture is read, a candle is extinguished, the shadows growing darker and deeper until only the Christ candle remains. It then is removed and the congregation leaves in silence to contemplate the meaning of the death and betrayals celebrated through the scriptures and song. For my money, a far more moving service than your typical Easter cantata, especially since it forces you to actually deal with Christ's death instead of rushing to the resurrection.

Unfortunately, while they had the pieces, they missed the experience. The candles were extinguished, but the sanctuary lights were left on. The tables were covered with black, but the windows were not. The Christ candle never left but was only stashed behind the altar until the final song was sung and was brought back out. The reason? "The lit candle is then returned in the hope of spreading the light of the Gospel story through the disciples." Unfortunately, in the story, that doesn't happen for a few days. And instead of everyone leaving in silence, we wandered out, chatting about the weekend's plans.

Yet, I was still struck by the darkness of these shadows...Betrayal. Desertion. An Unshared Vigil. Accusation. Crucifixion. Death. The Tomb...and the echoes I find in my own life. Abandoning my trust in Him and turning to those things I can control. Staying silent when others mock my faith. Finding my own needs more important than waiting upon Him. Slapping Christ in the face and asking Him to tell me what comes next. Proclaiming Jesus King but taking marching orders from others. Standing at a distance, watching the work of the Kingdom. Wrapping Christ in spices to hide the hard truths about Him. These shadows remind me why we cannot simply jump ahead to Sunday - because for the time being, we live in the already/not yet. We cannot simply leave the lights on and disperse these shadows. We must find a way to live in them until the Light comes to take them away.

I also found myself fascinated by the ridiculousness of parts of this story. Judas saying, "Surely it is not I, Rabbi?" knowing full well it was. The disciples saying they would die with him and then bolting at the first sign of danger. Judas kissing (kissing!) Jesus to betray Him. An ear cut off. A follower, who for some reason was wearing only a linen sheet, running away naked. Such random moments. Why include these? Why didn't some later editor realize the silliness of much of this and take it out, tighten up the story, help the flow? Why not leave them in the shadows where they belong?

Oh right. Because that's where we live.
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why am I not hungry?

Nearly 7:00 PM and I'm not at all hungry. This does not bode well, for it probably means I will be hungry at some unhealthy time, like post 9:00 PM. My own fault, I suppose, for eating such a big lunch at Moe's. But it was for my birthday and it was the only time before my actual birthdate to take advantage of the coupon (free entreé - can't beat that).

Oh yeah, if you hadn't realized it, it's my birthday week. Yeah for me.

I'll try not to bore you with tedious details of entering my final year in my thirties and how different my life is than I imagined it, both the good and the bad, though it will somewhat depend on how the week goes I suppose. Not exactly providing the hope you need, am I? If it helps, I pretty much thought myself out this weekend, so odds are I won't have the brain power or the desire to type it all up this week. Consider yourself saved.

Our "Irish Wake" for Jeremy went well, though somehow I made it through the entire day without consuming any alcohol. Diet Coke, however, is another matter entirely. My friend Andrea S. was there and she is the only person I know who can drink more than I can, which is rather surprising. I thought my "drinking problem" was one of a kind. Anyway, great to see everyone and catch up and share memories and make some new ones. I was sure we were going to get kicked out of the cemetery - so much for a solemn occasion. Though definitely in keeping with our memories of Jeremy. I think he probably would have laughed loudly right along with us.

I still struggle with Jeremy's death, though not so much because he's gone, but my reaction to his death. I feel a sense of loss because he's gone, but I'm not sad so much for his absence as for his absence in the life of his friends. Seeing their reactions and how much they miss him is what hurts. So it's for them I mourn, not so much for my own sense of loss. Sometimes I feel like that's a bit calloused, like I don't care enough. Even having lost friends, death still feels distant to me, something I know happens to all but having little effect on me.

I'm sure I rambled on this stuff two years ago, too, so forgive the rerun. Didn't help that our lectio last night was on the raising of Lazarus. Nice timing, that. Seeing Jesus' reaction to losing his friend, his anger (!) and being troubled made me question my own reactions. Actually, considering the season, I'm surprised my mind has wandered over these questions more often. Two more weeks of Lent. Not sure how the journey's gone - I've removed the distractions, but as mentioned before, haven't really filled them up with anything significant.

Still not hungry. This is not good. I'm tempted to find something to eat, to make sure I'm not eating right before I go to bed. But not being hungry, I have no idea what that might be.

OK, so I've been looking at laptops. Gina's looking to buy one to replace her old laptop and in the process of helping her I find myself thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should pick one up, too." I did get my taxes finished (finally) so I could probably afford a cheap one, even after throwing a huge check at my remaining consumer debt. And it would be good to have this summer when I'm stranded in Nazarenedom with iffy computer access as far as I know. And no, I won't be getting anything with an apple on it - for what I need, any Mac is simply overkill and would merely be a status symbol showing everyone how cool I am at three times the price of a functional PC. Oh, I'm sorry, did I type that out loud?

Time to walk away from the screen and figure out a plan for dinner. Bleah. Still no idea.
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Now playing: Primus - Eleven
via FoxyTunes

beware! this blog's gone sporadic!

So obviously I am in a season of random blogging at best. No rhyme, no reason, only when I feel like it. I suppose that's not too different than what I normally do, only I seemed to be much more consistent. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Pet peeve of the week - saw another national ad using the word less when it should be fewer. I know, less is more punchy and to the point. It's also wrong. No wonder our country can't speak its own tongue.

Social faux pas of the week: so our housechurch combined with the Rogers housechurch for some fellowship and so we could try to take care of some of the brush in my back yard by burning it in a fire barrel. All went well for about an hour, when my neighbor came out and complained that the fire was too close to his house and he'd be happy to call the fire department and let them know we were illegally burning stuff. So, being the non-confrontational person I am, I grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the fire and called an end to it. I'm sure Steve was right and that I wasn't doing anything wrong, but why antagonize neighbors who probably don't like me anyway? It's times like these I wonder if I'm made to live in a neighborhood. You know, around other people.

Over halfway through Lent - I gave up chocolate (as usual) and TV, which is not at all usual. Haven't really missed it much, though trying to catch up on it all on Sundays doesn't always work. The problem is, I haven't found a constructive way to fill the time. Not sure I could say what I have done - probably more time online. The goal was to remove distractions, which I did, but don't feel I've redeemed the time so to speak. Sure, I've read more, but wonder if I should do more. Geesh, guilt-ridden much?

So last week for artwalk I spent some time in the Surrealism exhibit. If you're in the Cincy area, I highly, highly recommend it. Great stuff from the Jerusalem museum in its only North American appearance. Here are some random thoughts I had, both last week and on Saturday:

Unlike much of what passes for modern art, surrealism I get - the physical expression of the unconscious. Like dreams, we often cannot explain them, but they are felt and experienced all the same. Reason takes a back seat and we bypass the logical and see how it feels. We find within that which we can almost identify, but it slips through our fingers as soon as we try to grasp it. The familiar shifts to the left and suddenly what we thought we knew is something new altogether. Lines blur or disappear or become impossibly thick, breaking boundaries, opening us up to a new way of seeing. The colours seem brighter, more real than the muted ones we see in real life. Like our dreams, these images lie closer to the truth than our rational minds can grasp. These images force us to stare - with nothing solid to hold on to, our eyes try to make sense of what they see, but as soon as we think it makes sense, it slides and shifts, leaving only impressions, not knowledge.

Later...

These images, like half-remembered dreams captured on canvas - they remind me of moments thought forgotten. I do not understand the image, yet I connect with it. You do not explain these - you experience them. Like God, they resist category, resist examination. They are and we find ourselves examined by them. And whatever they elicit from us speaks more of who we are than of what they are.
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Now playing: Pomegranates - This Land Used To Be My Land, But Now I Hate This Land
via FoxyTunes

a parable

All his life, James wanted to be a writer, though he forgot the moment he fell in love with writing. It seemed pen and paper surrounded him most of his life. But he vividly remembered the first time he let anyone read his writing. He was ten years old, in the semi-darkness of his neighbor Suzy’s shed. He watched her face anxiously as she mouthed his words. What she would think? Would she like them? Her eyes caught his, then looked down. “It’s nice. Want to get some ice cream?”

He didn’t share his writing much after that.

Not that he stopped writing. He spent hours furiously scribbling in notebooks, on scraps of paper, wherever he could find a waiting surface. And often he imagined sharing these words. But he remembered the look in Suzy’s eyes and feared to see it again.

But as junior high passed and high school came, his confidence grew. One summer night, he’d almost shown one of his sonnets to a lovely girl in the backseat of a Camaro. But cowardice won out and by the time he found the courage again, she found her way to someone else’s backseat. Eventually, though, the stars aligned and he presented his good friend Anna one of his notebooks. And this time, the look he saw in her eyes as she read left him hopeful. She actually seemed to like them. Finally, joy! But after a while, James got nervous leaving his writing in someone else’s hands, even hands that seemed to like his words. So with many tears, he asked for their return. And, realizing his mistake, spent the next year trying to give them back. But the moment had passed.

Despairing, he talked to older, wiser friends who offered him encouragement, telling him to be patient, that now was not his time. Wait for college, they’d say. There you’ll flourish. There you’ll find yourself published. Then all those who rejected your words will realize what they missed and wish they hadn’t squandered their opportunity. James brightened up and eventually packed up all his notebooks and headed off to college with hope in his heart.

Over the next several years, James gave his writing away to waiting eyes, ever hopeful that this would be the one. But the one never seemed to materialize. Sometimes they returned the notebooks, unopened. Sometimes they enjoyed them for a while, but then got bored and gave them back. Sometimes they found someone else’s writing more appealing. He heard a myriad of excuses, but soon they all began to sound the same: “Your poems and stories, they’re nice enough, but…I was hoping for something more.”

James couldn’t understand – all around him, others were finding readers that understood their writing, even writers he felt weren’t nearly as gifted as he was. How was it so easy for some to share, to find readers that got them? How were they getting published when he could barely get anyone to look at his manuscripts? Why couldn’t he find connection with someone? Why didn’t others love his stories, his poems, his musings?

After years of struggling, holding on to hope, James found himself one night reading through his notebooks. As his eyes crept across the pages, it became all too clear, so clear he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Maybe the problem didn’t lie in finding someone to like his writing. Maybe the problem lay in the writing itself. He’d always been told he was a good writer, that someday it would happen, someday he would get published. But sitting there by the light of a single candle, the truth became apparent: he wasn’t much of a writer. And he never would be. It made sense: if he had any ability or talent, it would have happened by now. Not everyone is born with the gift and better to realize this now and find what his gift was than trying to be something he could never be.

Without a word, he gathered up his notebooks, his pens, his pencils and shoved them into a box. He made his way down the basement stairs and placed them on a shelf next to some old clothes he kept meaning to take to Goodwill. With a final sigh, he walked back up the stairs, wondering what waited for him now, the box abandoned to the darkness. Æ

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Now playing: The Hold Steady - Lord, I'm Discouraged
via FoxyTunes

not so easy

I thought I would easily get back into the swing of blogging again, but I seem to have hit a wall of some sort. Every time I sit down to write, it all seems so trivial and unimportant. Why bother putting drivel out there. There's plenty of it to go around nowadays. But if I wait until I'm "inspired," who knows when I'll post again.

And honestly, is anyone out there interested in a blow by blow recounting of the trials and joys of my days? Surely I've been absent long enough that those who were using this blog as a means of keeping in touch with my life have moved on. And what kind of picture are they getting of my life anyway when I mostly use this space to bitch and moan? Not a complete picture at the very least.

Maybe it's time to put an end to this season of my life. I have found other ways to get my writing fix, other places to rant and rave. It was nice to scream into the void for a while, but maybe I'm in a different place now. Or maybe I was always in this place, only I didn't realize it. Or maybe I'm just in one of my moods and should shut up.

My lent so far has not been as focused as I had hoped. Giving up TV has left me with a lot more miscellaneous time on my hands, which I've been filling with reading and a little writing. But am I doing what I'd planned, which is actually finding/seeing God's face? Or am I simply filling the space left by one distraction with another? I do find myself doing a lot more thinking lately, which isn't always a good thing. I end up chasing my tail and convincing myself of things that aren't necessarily true.

Sunday night at Thinplace we looked at the Transfiguration and I journalled about what it is that terrifies me and I came up with a long list. Actually, it terrified me just how terrified I am. Not the fears we usually talk about - spiders, snakes, heights. These are ones I've been wrestling with for quite a while, ones I've not seen go away. And after I had written them down, I realized I had no one I could - or would - share them with.

Which makes me a little sad.

Look, maybe it's the season of life. Maybe all this is fairly normal, though I sense not much about my life could be considered normal. Maybe this too will pass. But what if it doesn't? What if this isn't a phase but is simply the next part of life and I need to stop hoping it will change and get used to dealing with what it is? Perhaps at this point it's too late to keep hoping each day will be different and realize my energy is better spent making the best of each day.

Which makes me a little sad. Æ

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Now playing: Soul Coughing - Screenwriter's Blues
via FoxyTunes

not intending to tease

So much for aspirations of writing every day of Lent. Blame end the end of the trimester. And being in a show. And simple a growing tendency to become easily distracted.

Last night was our third show. We're almost halfway through now. The performance felt the tiniest bit off, though I don't know if that means my perception was off or if we were off. I know I caught myself anticipating lines and actions last night, spoiling my performance. Hopefully not enough that anyone else noticed, though most likely if they did, it was an unconscious awareness. Will need to focus tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Lots of friends and family in the audience last night - my parents; the Ball's; Russ, an old friend from college I haven't seen in about 20 years; Angela, Izaac and Sophie; one of my students and his mom. I came out after the show to chat, but kept getting distracted. Like I said, it all felt a little off. Combined with the usual post-show buzz, I probably came across as rude and uncaring. 'Twas not my intention, but I couldn't seem to track anything. Mea culpa.

Nothing officially planned for the day - I've started some much-needed laundry and need to sit down and finally gather all my tax materials together. No grading today - Saturday is my sabbath from all things school, even when I have piles still to go like I do. One day a week seems reasonable. I was going to try and grade last night during the show, but that didn't happen, which is probably good for all involved. The last thing you want is a distracted teacher grading your essays.

Maybe it's the greyness of the day, but my daily life seems to lack the lustre you'd want if you're going to share it with the world. Events of the past several days, weeks, run through my head, but none seem interesting enough to share. Or they seem self-indulgent (yes, I know the whole idea of a blog is in itself self-indulgent, but you know what I mean). This is what kept me away for so long. Nothing worse than having your own mundaneness and selfishness confirmed in public. And I don't dare open the door to my thoughts because I don't understand them most of the time and can't imagine what they would look like to outsiders.

Maybe I'm beginning to lose my mind.

Gee, aren't you glad you decided to check back in and see if I was writing? Time to stop.
Æ

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Now playing: The Dust Brothers - This Is Your Life
via FoxyTunes

what I've left undone

We start with a confession - forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been 56 days since my last post. This was an unintentional sabbatical. No forethought, it simply turned out this way. For some reason, my thoughts didn't feel worth posting. I know, I know, it's never stopped me before. But it did this time.

I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.

At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:

I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.

When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.

This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.

I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ

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Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes

a final haiku

i will not be sad
to see this year disappear
leaving hope behind
Æ

Christmas Eve musings

Not sure how much musing will actually go on, but it is Christmas Eve and I am actually sitting down to type up something similar to musings. Probably won't provoke too many thoughts - not even provoking my own thoughts at the moment. But it seems like I ought to at least say something...

Ought. There's a word that's been haunting me lately.

Not feeling much like Christmas today. Rain and miserably warm temperatures definitely part of that. Didn't help that my scheduled trip to heaven turned out less than ideal. To quote a wise man from the north, "My head looks like something Picasso painted." I know it's the day before Christmas and all, but did you not hear me when I said, "Please leave the front longer?" Too busy worried about getting to the myriad of Christmas Eve events planned for after work I guess. I know. Hair grows. There are far worse problems. But my hair has never been this short. Never. A friend of mine broke into laughter upon seeing me. I don't blame them. At least I'll bring a little joy to people's lives this Christmas.

A friend (not the one who laughed at me) has been feeling a bit blue this Christmas and asked how I fought the blues. And I realized I don't fight them. Takes too much energy and you end up feeling worse. Better to give in and become friends with them, take them down to the local pub and buy them a drink or invite them over to watch some sad movie or sit in the dark and listen to some melancholy music. Love your enemies, the Bible says and I find myself doing that, befriending the blues. Not sure it works for everyone, but it works for me (though I'm sure some would say it doesn't work so well...).

If it hasn't become obvious yet, been a fairly low-key Christmas break so far. Started off well - three Over the Rhine shows, a fairly clean house full of guests, good times spent with friends, Christmas tree finally up. Still, been struggling with my usual nemesis this time of year - to quote the poet, "The worst kind of lonely/Is alone in December." All the gatherings, the concerts, the parties, the services, reminded me how much my heart longs to share them with someone. Not to sell my friends short, which I probably am (and for that I'm sorry), but sometimes you long for a hand to hold, to make the darkness seem not so dark because their heart brightens the hidden parts of you.

Of course, I had a hand to hold last year during Christmas and I can't say it made it any brighter. Oh wait, I'm not allowed to talk about that. Moving on...

Christmas Eve service tonight at 11:00. Mom and dad talked about coming down, but with the gross weather, they decided to stay in Dayton. I don't blame them - I wouldn't have wanted to drive all the way here, either. I'm looking forward to being quiet for a bit, listening to the stillness of the night, trying to remember why it is we actually celebrate this season. Phyllis reminded us at the conference that this season is all about the Incarnation - God becoming man, entering into our world and thereby transforming it, showing us what we could become, what we were created for. Forget the stars and the angels and the shepherds and the myth of a silent night (seriously, it was noisy in and around that manger). God became flesh. God became us. Us, with our weaknesses and our selfishness and our tendency to forget what is truly important. And by doing so, He showed us what we could be, reminded us of what it means to be in the image of God. And we've been trying to live up to that for 2000 years. As well we should.

Enough for now. Not sure when I'll be back- been less than inspired lately. We'll see how it goes.
Æ

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Now playing: Prince - Another Lonely Christmas (12")
via FoxyTunes

is re-posting the same as re-gifting?

I'm sure this is something I've posted before. But last night at Thinspace we chatted about Luke 2, the inspiration for this poem. It's one of the pieces I'm proud of because it turned out much like it was in my head when I thought of it. I now have a companion piece I'm working on, after our discussion last night. Here's hoping I find time to work on it. In the meantime, enjoy.

ποιμένας

abiding here in shadow-swept darkness
surrounded by the keep of my watch
ever searching the frozen horizon for signs
a glimpse of reflected fire in an unwelcome eye
the subsensular growl upon a midnight clear
i wait as always in the glooming mist
the stars alone my singular companions

the mind it drifts like winter here
thoughts dispersed upon the breeze
condensed to droplets, a veil before my eyes
distorting what little light remains
reflected from the city below me lying
life is lived within its walls
warmth and passion i only know
through frosted window pane
the swirling smoke from a well-loved hearth
like prayers raised to a God of love
and grace and truth and beauty and hope and
i wonder why my little fire
lights and warms only me

and suddenly she happens
shredding the darkness round about
peeling back my night-stained world
to leave her only in the wake
i stand beauty-struck dumb
my heart a feral beast bound
blindly seeking space without
the first Adam’s cage
like my thoughts i scramble backwards
(as i always seem to do)
only to fall down, sore afraid

fear not! she cries in such a voice
compliance tends impossible
her presence enough to send me
clambering to the night for
i fear to taste the love she pours
from fingertips stretched to cool my raging tongue
i fear to touch such suppleness
and lose myself within her open grace
i fear the fragrance of her invading all i am
‘til truth alone remains
i fear to see her severe beauty reminding me
this other Life by life obscured
but most of all i fear to hear the siren-song of hope
crouched hiding ‘neath her tidings of joy

for unto me is born this day in her
salvation long-expected, long-forgotten
wrapped in rags of radiant splendor
and lying in a bed
somewhere in the teeming city
dimmed by glory flinging
hallelujahs in the night
it comes to pass when she is gone
my eyes mere pinpricks growing wide
i rise with haste to seek
peace, good will, hope newborn
lying still there in the dark

and all these things shall i keep kept
to ponder in my desert heart
Æ

Facebook is ruining my blogging

Thurman wishes he had the time to write out the thoughts he had during last week's The Great Emergence conference but finds no time to do so.
Æ

advent goodness from Uncle Fred

Because this stuff is too good to keep to oneself. And because I've been quite aware of the darkness lately.

Give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which thy son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility: that in the last day, when he shall come again in hi glorious majesty, to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal.

All the paradoxical themes of Advent are compressed into that handful of words: Christ coming at Christmas time in great humility and again at the end of time in glorious majesty - Christ coming as a child to save us and as a king to judge us - mortal life, immortal life. They clatter against each other like shutters in the wind with all their points and counterpoints. They all but deafen us with their message at one and the same time of sin and grace, justice and mercy, comfort and challenge. "Cast away the works of darkness," they say, and put on "the armor of light." Maybe those are the words that best sum up the paradox of who we are and where we are. Somewhere between the darkness and the light. That is where we are as Christians. And not just at Advent time, but at all times. Somewhere between the fact of darkness and the hope of light. That is who we are.

"Advent" means "coming" of course, and the promise of Advent is that what is coming is an unimaginable invasion. The mythology of our age has to do with flying saucers and invasions from outer space, and that i s unimaginable enough. But what is upon us now is even more so - a close encounter not of the third kind but of a different kind altogether. An invasion of holiness. That is what Advent is about.

What is coming upon the world is the Light of the World. It is Christ. That is the comfort of it. The challenge of it is that it has not come yet. Only the hope for it has come, only the longing for it. In the meantime we are in the dark, and the dark, God knows, is also in us. We watch and wait for a holiness to heal us and hallow us, to liberate us from the dark. Advent is like the hush in a theater just before the curtain rises. It is like the hazy ring around the winter moon that means the coming of snow which will turn the night to silver. Soon. But for the time being, our time, darkness is where we are.

The Clown in the Belfry
Frederick Buechner

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Now playing: Sufjan Stevens - O Come, O Come Emmanuel
via FoxyTunes

a little holiday levity

1. Put your iPod on shuffle. (Or you can write whatever comes on the radio.)
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!


WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Love is Blindness - Cassandra Wilson

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Hanging on to You - Jay Farrar

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's a Doll Revolution) - Elvis Costello

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Eric's Trip - Sonic Youth

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Do You Love Me? - Clem Snide

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Brown Eyes - Red House Painters

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Things That Disappear - Rhett Miller

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Lie Still, Little Bottle - They Might Be Giants

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Slow and Steady - Pedro the Lion

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Wild Blue - The 77s

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Well OK - Altar Boys

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Another Song - Sam Phillips

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Ticket to Ride - The Beatles

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
A Girl in Port - Okkervil River

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Be Still My Beating Heart - Sting

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Faded Flowers - Shriekback

WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Gone - U2

HOW WILL YOU DIE?
Do Or Die - Dropkick Murphys

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET?
The Little Cowboy- Erin McKeown

WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Out of Control - U2

WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart - Whiskeytown

WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Shaker - Yo La Tengo

WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Hotwax - Beck

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Flugufrelsarinn - Sigur Ros

WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Bad - U2

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Now playing: U2 - Bad
via FoxyTunes

getting what we deserve

This is always a goofy week. Two days of classes, with a good 15-20% of students already gone for the holidays. It's only school - why bother having my student show up? Anyway, today was easy - two bells of lab time, two bells of test taking. I even covered for Kurt who fell to the projectile vomiting his offspring passed along to him. The joys of childrearing.

As we enter this holiday season (and notice I said enter, as in not yet - holiday season doesn't start until Thanksgiving, ads and displays in grocery stores be damned), I'm feeling much like one of George Romero's creations - gruesome and slow with a desire to feed off the living. In other words, business as usual around ths blog. Hard to believe only a year ago I was anxiously anticipating the holiday season and the joys it would bring. Of course, this is before it all went spectacularly wrong.

Been pondering the word deserve lately from a multitude of sides. Rob brought this up during Thinspace a couple of weeks ago, how we're paralyzed by this word. Many of us think we haven't gotten what we deserve, that this world, our God, owes us. Health. Love. Wealth. Our hearts' desire. Many of us think we have gotten something we didn't deserve - a broken relationship, a shattered dream, a raw deal. And then there are those of us who believe we don't deserve anything - not comfort, not security, not success, not love. Where do these ideas come from? How is this concept of what we deserve formed within us? How do we come to such differing conclusion on what it is we deserve?

It will come as no surprise to my regular reader that my struggle is with the last of this unholy trinity - I've come to believe that I don't deserve anything. Check that - I don't deserve anything good in my life. My martyr complex is well-documented and this is part of that, I suppose - we are created for suffering, not for pleasure; we should meet suffering with the same joy we meet blessing; we should not be surprised or saddened when disappointment enters our lives. While I know intellectually this is a steaming pile of feces, emotionally it continues to cripple me. It's difficult to live passionately when you not only expect life to suck, but believe that's the way life is supposed to be. It's hard to hold on to the things you love when you don't believe they're truly yours.

Strangely enough, my view on this works the other way for other people. I see my friends suffering through illness and job anxiety and divorce and believe they don't deserve to be going through all that. And even when the suffering comes from their own choices, I find myself wishing the consequences away, asking for God's grace to step in, to bring them joy. Why can I not do this for myself? Why is God's grace good enough for them but not for me?

Too often we reduce grace to this idea of what we deserve - we all deserve to be punished for our sins and shortcomings, but God gives grace and takes away the punishment. He's the great executioner deciding not to drop the axe on our deserving necks. But this makes grace no more than a means to an end - a way to avoid what should happen to us. But I don't believe God desires this utilitarian view of grace. Grace isn't ultimately about us - it's ultimately about how God interacts with His creation, fallen as it may be. God doesn't just extend grace to us - He is grace to us.

I pray I can remember that this holiday season. I pray we all can remember that.
Æ

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Now playing: Neko Case - Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis
via FoxyTunes

respice

Respice

begging in the darkness alone
hearing the movement
the excitement all around
wondering what all the chaos is about
they tell me what it is
why the crowds clamor
why the joy, the surge of hope
but my eyes
my damned eyes
will not open
i want but cannot see
i know Him
i know who He is
what He can do

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"

the voices in my head attempt to drown me out
be quiet!
your crying drowns out our joy
don't drag us down
let us praise Him!
let us sing!
how dare you ruin on our parade
how dare you steal this moment

"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!"

i've been silent too long
content to let others experience His presence
willing to sit on the sidelines
happy just to know such joy exists
even if i cannot see it myself
what good is dancing if i cannot see my partner?
what good is hoping when only darkness lies ahead?
and so i scream from my darkness, hoping beyond hope

"LORD JESUS CHRIST, SON OF GOD, HAVE MERCY ON ME, A SINNER!"

and all

becomes

still

something has changed around me
the sweet chaos of the moment fades
into an otherworldly silence. no longer
do the voices condemn. no longer
do the crowds distract. no longer
am i lost in the midst of what i cannot have
all is stripped away
leaving only me in darkness
Him in stillness
nothing moves
nothing stirs
and from this space of unimaginable peace
i hear the question that haunts

"What do you want Me to do for you?"

all creation belongs to Him
His is not an empty offer
i know within me He will
give me whatever i ask
my mind spins
the stillness of the moment is shattered
by the swirling of my wants and desires
all shouting for supremacy
all seeking to be the answer

ask for wealth!
ask for wisdom!
ask for peace!
ask for love!

yet at the center of this holy moment
a whisper rises within my soul
until it can no longer be ignored
and in a cracked and raspy voice
i lay my deepest desire at His feet

"Lord, let me see again
let me know Your presence
let this darkness blinding me
be swept away. save me from relying
on second-hand experience, living vicariously through
what others see
what others experience
i once tasted this life
i remember the glory of the sky
the splendor of the earth
the wonder of a smile
the devastation of a tear
the burn of a stare
help me, Lord, remember them again
help me, Lord, recover what i've lost
help me, Lord, not only to see
but to live again"

the crowd, still silent
the air anticipatory
all creation lingers, fingers crossed
as i wait with outstretched arms
nothing left to lose
all the world to gain
and in that holy silence
i hear Him draw a breath
as He did at the beginning of time
ready to transform
this sightless lump of clay once again
to bring me back to life
back to the love and life and joy i once knew
He exhales and i feel him breathe into my darkness
the words i've longed to hear...

receive
your
sight...
Æ

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Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - This Temporary Life
via FoxyTunes

it's pronounced doo-MAHS

The story so far: due to his inability to accurately judge the amount of time necessary to adequately grade all the work he assigned over the trimester, our intrepid hero found himself entering the final week of class buried under a cavalcade of ungraded papers and assignments that threatened to drive what remains of his tenuous sanity into the nether regions of hell itself. Every new day brought frustrations and tortures galore as the piles seemed unchanged, perhaps even growing slightly. But as he woke on this final day, a flicker of light danced in the distance, through the remaining papers and essays, and for the first time in weeks he began to believe all was not lost.

Our hero is monumentally stupid, as will soon be proven.

After a few snatches of sleep, this beleaguered man stumbled into his waiting chariot and made his way to the school to finish off the final stack waiting for him there. Finish these, he thought, and only the final essays will stand between me and sweet freedom. He finished a good chunk of them in the stillness before the first exam. He fought through distractions during first bell and entered the final exam period on his schedule needing only to finish a smattering of research papers. As his second bell students finished his far-too-easy final, he scribbled furiously, scratching the scores down on a makeshift grade sheet until, just before the bell rang, only two papers remained. He passed back his student's work, impressed with his grading acumen, and gathered the remaining flotsam and jetsam scattered on his desk to deal with during his planning period. He felt the weight lift from his shoulders. A sense of peace waited for him, only minutes away, in the office he shared with his fellow teachers.

It was there, in that cramped, windowless polygon of brick that it all began to fall apart. As our exhausted champion sifted through the pile of miscellaneous detritus he brought with him, he could not locate the makeshift score sheet he had used to record the grades. Thinking he had left it back in his classroom, he made a trek through the empty halls back to the third floor to retrieve it from his desk.

Of course, it was not there.

Panic setting in, he cast about, searching every inch of his room, every nook and cranny where such an important piece of paper could hide, trying not to disturb the students taking their final exam and giving him concerned looks. He thrust his hands into the recycling box, hoping to find the elusive artifact amidst the discarded student work callously dumped there after his charges had noted their grade. Nothing. He retraced his steps back to the office, scanning the floor for any sign, any glimpse of his red marks next to student's names, to no avail. From the depths of his soul came a dark rush of nausea, colliding with the ominous cloud of despair, forming a swirling maelstrom of impending madness somewhere in the vicinity of his suddenly impotent brain. His world turned black. The grades he had so diligently finished were gone, vanished forever, never to be seen again.

The questions came crashing in. What had happened to it? What would he do? What could he do? What would happen to the final grades he had to turn in that weekend? Could he remember what they had earned? Could he reconstruct the morning's efforts? What if he made a mistake? He wandered the halls, clenching and unclenching his useless hands, imagining nightmare scenarios involving parent complaints, administration censure, loss of employment and managing a Wendy's franchise.

Eventually the students were freed from the farce of finals, leaving him alone in his ransacked room, wondering what to do next. He stared at the empty spaces in his gradebook, knowing not how they would ever be filled now. The darkness of the situation continued to haunt him, leaving him hopeless, directionless, useless. Slowly it became clear what he must do - he must face up to his error and reach out to the ones he had let down through his own irresponsibility and negligence. With a deep breath to quiet the storm in his head, he grabbed the keyboard lying on the desk and typed up an email to all those affected by his asininity, students and parents alike, asking for their forgiveness and their final grade, if they had not already carelessly trashed them.

So now he waits, saddened by the evidence of his own incompetence, hoping tomorrow finds his inbox filled with the redemption needed to put this horrible experience behind him and to enter the new trimester with the opportunity and determination not to screw up this stupendously ever, ever again.

Good luck with that, dumbass.
Æ

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"This is our moment. This is our time."

Barack Obama is the President-elect of the United States of America.

Just in case you didn't hear.

I'm looking forward to what happens next, to see if Obama can prove to be a different politician. If he can do even half of what he spoke of in his victory speech, his will be a memorable administration. At the very least, I won't be cringing every time the president speaks to the nation and the world anymore.

The best part of this whole thing: as I was reminded again tonight, Obama's not truly in control. God is. And even if the worst fears of the far right come true or Obama proves to be less than I hope him to be, I know my call is the same - to love God with all my heart, mind, soul and strength and my neighbor as myself. That never changes - and this call is the one thing I have some semblance of control over. I can't control what happens next in our country, but I can find a way to show love to all those around me. And that is something we as Americans can all agree on, no matter the color of our state. Æ

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Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself

Other people's words, from Uncle Fred again. Read this last night. Can I believe both last night's post and this one? I believe I can...Æ

After centuries of handling and mishandling, most religious words have become so shopworn nobody's much interested any more. Not so with grace, for some reason. Mysteriously, even derivatives like gracious and graceful still have some of the bloom left.

Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There's no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries and cream or earn good looks or bring about your own birth.

A good sleep is grace and so are good dreams. Most tears are grace. The smell of rain is grace. Somebody loving you is grace. Loving somebody is grace. Have you ever tried to love somebody?

A crucial eccentricity of the Christian faith is the assertion that people are saved by grace There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you have to do.

The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you.

There's only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you'll reach out and take it.

Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.

Wishful Thinking

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do not read this

More words from other people, this time from Doug. It's how I'm feeling tonight. Tomorrow, probably not so much.

"Loneliness is my curse - our species' curse - it's the gun that shoots the bullets that make us dance on a saloon floor and humiliate ourselves in front of strangers.
"Where does loneliness come from?...Maybe you think fate is only for others. Maybe you're ashamed to be reading about loneliness - maybe someone will catch you and then they'll know your secret stain. And then maybe you're not even very sure what loneliness is - that's common. We cripple our children for life by not telling them what loneliness is, all of its shades and tones and implications. When it clubs us on the head, usually just after we leave home, we're blindsided. We have no idea what hit us. We think we're diseased, schizoid, bipolar, monstrous and lacking in dietary chromium. It takes us until thirty to figure out what it was that sucked the joy from our youth, that made our brains shriek and burn on the inside, even while our exteriors made us seem as confident and bronzed as Qantas pilots. Loneliness."

Eleanor Rigby

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loss for words

Been silent here a while. My usual blather/banter hasn't seemed particularly relevant or important or significant to share with the world at large. And I find myself inundated with opinions and arguments and accusations and rationalizations, a swirling maelstrom of mangled language meant to convince me of one side's superiority over the other's, but succeeds only in convincing me to stop listening at all.

And maybe that's a good thing. I wonder sometimes if our need to fill up the silence with whatever pops into our heads keeps us from truly communicating. I don't speak or write to connect with anyone else, but only so I don't have to deal with the uncomfortableness silence brings. Or listen to what the silence says.

Maybe it's time to listen more to the silence than to the noise.

Yet here I am, filling up cyber-silence with my own blog noise. I am nothing without my contradictions.

Been reading Peterson's The Contemplative Pastor and this morning read his chapter on Annie Dillard and realized I'd been missing her and her ability to, as Peterson puts it, exegete the world around her with eyes wide open. I've found my eyes squinted shut too much lately. I should pry them open by revisiting some of Dillard's thoughts. Need something deeper to challenge me. Been skimming the surface for too long.

Methinks illness is wreaking havoc on my brain. Too tired to think anything or write anything coherent. Silence sounds like a good option (or listening to my new emusic downloads - ah, contradictions).
Æ

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thoughts from Uncle Fred

Because I can't think of anything to say myself tonight...Æ

Most of the old restraints are gone or going. Such purely practical restraints as the fear of pregnancy and venereal disease have been all but eliminated by the ingenuity of modern science. Pornography is available to anybody who has the money to buy it at the newsstand. As much as you can generalize about such matters, in the realm of sexual behavior the word seems to be increasingly, "Anything goes," or, among the more responsible, "Anything goes as long as nobody gets hurt," the trouble with which how can anybody know in advance, in any complex human relationship, sexual or otherwise, who is going to get hurt psychologically, emotionally, spiritually? Or the word is, "Anything goes as long as you love each other," the trouble with which is that love here is likely to mean a highly romanticized, sentimental sort of enterprise that comes and goes like the pink haze it is.

What makes this a tragic situation, I believe, is not so much that by one set of standards or another it is morally wrong, but that in terms of the way human life is, it just does not work very well. Our society is filled with people for whom the sexual relationship is one where body meets body but where person fails to meet person; where the immediate need for sexual gratification i satisfied but where the deeper need for companionship and understanding is left untouched. The result is that the relationship leads not to fulfillment but to a half-conscious sense of incompleteness, of inner loneliness, which is so much the sickness of our time. The desire to know another's nakedness is really the desire to know the other fully as a person. It is the desire to know and to be known, not just sexually but as a total human being. It is the desire for a relationship where each gives not just of his body but of his self, body and spirit both, for the other's gladness.

The Hungering Dark

homecoming

For those wondering: I did indeed survive my first ever excursion into chaperoning. But not without consequence - I ended up feeling ill Monday morning and called in sick today to stay home and rest with the hopes of staving off a more serious illness. We'll see over the next couple of days whether I was successful or not.

As for the dance itself, it wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined it might be. Of course, as I told a friend, I had anticipated scenes from a post-apocalyptic world where all morals had been discarded, so there was no where to go but up. Maybe I'm not as easily shocked as others. Maybe I simply didn't see the decadence going on. But of the 2100 (!) students attending the dance, only a handful of them seemed intent on reenacting acts meant for the bedroom.

Now I don't have great experience with school dances, having grown up in a pre-enlightened Church of the Nazarene where pre-marital sex was frowned upon because it might lead to dancing. My church went so far as to provide homecoming and prom "alternatives." For the uninitiated, these were similar to school dances in that they involved finding a date, buying a corsage, dressing up, going to a fancy dinner and staying out until the wee hours of the morning. The only thing missing was the dancing. We even had our share of drama (we were teenagers, after all).

So being a good Nazarene, I never set foot at an official high school dance (at least, until after I graduated from high school, but I mentioned that already). Most of my non-Nazarene friends had difficulty grasping the problem - heck, even some of my Nazarene friends had a hard time understanding it. Looking back, it does seem a bit ridiculous to call dancing sinful, especially since it's mentioned so many times in the Bible, most of the time in a positive manner. But being a member of the Nazarene church, I felt it was my responsibility to live up to the standards they had set forth in the Bible...er...Manual. Even if I didn't agree with them.

But the truth was, dancing was never a huge temptation for me. Rare was the time I found myself with the burning desire to "get my groove on," so to speak. Some of that was due to my religious upbringing (I say religious because I don't remember my parents ever telling me it was wrong to dance). Some of that was due to my lack of confidence with girls. Some of that was due to my uncomfortableness with my body. But I was reminded Saturday night the main reason I did not go to dances...

The music is abysmal.

Seriously. Made me want to grab a random corsage and jam the pin into my ear to stop the madness. Most of the "songs" (and I use that term loosely) were stunning in their boringness. Didn't help that during the four hours of the dance, they only played three songs I have on my iPod (for the curious: Journey's "Don't Stop Believing;" Michael Jackson's "Thriller;" and Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me"). The rest were unremarkable, minus two absolute travesties: "Cotton-Eyed Joe: remix" and a dance medley of hairband hits (imagine AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Guns 'n Roses over a dance beat. Trust me, it's worse than you can imagine).

Other than that, my first dance as a chaperone was, for the most part, a positive experience. I could have done without the oppressive humidity in the arena (was so bad, it started to drip from the ceiling. I'll let your stomach churn over that image). And standing for over five hours made me long for my comfy chair. But it was actually fun seeing my students dressed up. You could see the adults they will become in a few years lurking just below the surface. And it was an ego boost to see them get excited over seeing you there. Yet what I'll probably remember most, and what I most regret from not going to dances in high school, was the sense of joy that permeated the event. When the songs everyone knew (everyone but me, of course) came on, teenagers came from every corner to fill the dance floor, throw their troubles into the humid gym air and lose themselves in an expression of joy. Or to sway quietly in the darkened arena, aware only of the arms draped about your neck, the eyes staring into yours. We all need to do that sometimes. If onlythey would play some decent music to go along with it...Æ

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Ah Friday, how we love you

Friday night. Feeling exhausted. Brain probably shouldn't be out this late trying to write. Should be in bed, preparing for a Saturday filled with students - Saturday school in the morning, homecoming dance in the evening, with a few hours in between to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

Spirit week at Mason - The homecoming theme is "A Night in Wonderland" - a little bit of Lewis Carroll, but not so cartoony. Monday was Mad Hatter day, Tuesday Tweedledee/Tweedledum day (twins), Wednesday was Crazy day, Thursday was Character day and Friday Spirit day. Here's me on Character day. See if you can guess who I was:


I couldn't tell which students I was more disappointed with - the ones that knew who I was or the ones who didn't (the most common guess - hobo. Seriously? It's Character day!). OK, that's not exactly true - it was the latter. Not sure they're the best movies for most high school students - something I might have thought about before dressing up as a notorious imaginary drug dealer.

I'm a bit trepidatious about tomorrow night - my hope is I'm not haunted by images of my students doing things I have no desire to see. I asked them to try and spare me watching their vertical expression of a horizontal idea, but I don't think that's actually going to happen.

Been glorious sleeping weather here the last couple of nights - breezy enough I can curl up under my comforter, the crisp autumn air cool on my face. Actually felt a little chilly a couple of times. For those of whose bodies tend to burst into spontaneous fountains of perspiration, these cooler days are a Godsend. Plus, besides the physiological benefits, my mind feels clearer, a little brighter, a little happier. Even with my recent bouts of nostalgia, they've been pleasant remembrances, not the horrible "my life was so much better then" type. I fondly remember those times, but they only shine the light on my life now and show me how blessed I am. They remind me I would not be the person I am today without them. And I certainly wouldn't want to be the person I was then now.

Follow up to my last entry: got an email from my friend Brad, who reminded me Cindy had had an impact on his life as well, something I had forgotten. He shared a bit of his story and it was interesting to see how the two meshed together. I told him if anything comes of my "google trap" that I'll let him know. BTW, it's her birthday today, so happy birthday Cindy, wherever you are.

That's enough of that.

My favorite show from last year started up again - Pushing Daisies. I love these characters and their world. Here's hoping enough other people do too so it stays on the air. They've shaken things up a bit, which is good and they did a good job of introducing new viewers to the world. And regardless of what EW says, Chi McBride is brilliant as Emerson Cod and perhaps my favorite character on the show.

OK, need to start winding down so I can get up early tomorrow and do Saturday school. Here's hoping I'm disciplined enough to get my grading done. Night. Æ

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