poured out

33 minutes that will rock your world

2011-10-26T11:58:00.004-05:00

Evidently, a few people still periodically visit this blog, even though it's been uninhabited for over a year now. And that's totally fine, I'm not judging you! I read dead blogs sometimes, too. My own, even, for nostalgic purposes.

In any case, since there still is a bit of traffic meandering through here, I'm going to use it as one more back alley to hopefully get this powerful video into a few more hands. Here's a re-post from my current blog:

Until today, I've had this sort of meaningless hangup about including photos or videos in my blog life. I inflicted myself with the vague challenge to always aim for posts written well and clearly enough to not need such crutches. I haven't abandoned that idea altogether, but I'm going to have to give up on it as a law, because this video has to be posted.

Actually, it's already phenomenally popular, and I'm a bit of a latecomer to the scene, so there's a fairly good chance that many or most of you have already seen this. But if you haven't, here's your chance.

I'll warn you, the video deals in part with the Holocaust, and includes some graphic imagery. It's not for children.

Prepare to have your world rocked.

(This blog template is too narrow and unadjustable to let the whole video - or even its full-screen button - show up below. Irksome, but I don't have time to change the whole blog right now, especially since it's technically dead, anyway. For a better view, go to http://www.180movie.com/)

the never-ending hitchhiker's guide, and a sleeping child

2010-08-21T11:19:00.003-05:00

_Two movies in one night - ridiculous? Probably. But here's what they were: "The Never-Ending Story" and "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." The former was a childhood staple of mine that I'd nearly forgotten, rediscovered at the library; the latter is a film based on a book that I'd semi-recently absorbed with a mixture of amused incredulity and profound disappointment.
_"The Never-Ending Story" has its flaws, pervasive and hard to ignore. Outdated special effects, for example, along with a messy hodge podge of convincing and crummy acting, reasonable and ridiculous dialogue, good morals and morals with no more foundation than a zephyr. All things taken together, it's not that great a movie - but there's still something captivating about it; something that rings true and makes my heart nod and chuckle contentedly. Something essentially and delightfully childish. Maybe this feeling stems from nothing more than an incoherent fondness for the fraying threads that wind back through my life and tie this silly film to my own childhood. Maybe I'm just off my onion. But I think that, in the midst of a certain amount of confused babbling, "The Never-Ending Story" has something important and true to say about the vital necessity of imagination, and about the unique power of story.
_I hate trying to write positive media reviews (ergo, my nearly consistent failure to ever do so). In the act of trying to describe and explain what's good about a thing, and why, I always end up feeling like a painted clown pantomiming Shakespeare - exaggerating it and ruining it and killing it. So I'll just leave you with that to chew on for now, and maybe you could watch the movie sometime and see what you think.
_So after I finished watching the above-mentioned film with Eli and Sam, I went downstairs and found the rest of my family watching "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." I watched the last half with them, then went back to the beginning and watched the first half - a fitting approach, I thought, to a tale of such a consummately pointless and wandering nature. For book and movie alike - though the writing is witty and imaginative; and though I cannot deny the existence of periodic goldmines of hilarity therein; and though the narrative is amusing in its absolute failure to make any sense - all this withstanding, in the end the whole thing boils down to little more than a bitterly cynical, despairingly laxadaisical commentary on the ultimate meaninglessness of life. Douglas Adams glories in nothingness. "Eat, drink, and be merry - for tomorrow we die," as they say. So long, and thanks for all the fish.
_Unfortunately, I tend to enjoy writing negative reviews of popular media; but I'm going to cut this one short, because that's not really my point.
_What I really wanted to say, is something like this. Last night I watched two movies, both of them based on the whacked-out imaginations of two very different, yet similarly wide-eyed, lunatics. (I use the term only with the greatest respect and affection.) But neither tale can afford the luxury of being just an empty narrative. One is an angry fist shaken desperately at God and much of what He has called good. The other, though stumbling often over its own feet, leads us gently outside and points out the flickering stars, whispering how beautiful they are, and making us wonder Who put them there. Oh, beware of ever saying something is "just a story." You're living one right now. Stories matter.
_I wandered upstairs after the movies were over, and found the light on in my room. We have bunk beds, and Sam was curled up asleep on the lower one, which is Cami's. On my dresser was an unwrapped chocolate coin with two bites taken out of it - underneath was a yellow sticky note, and in a child's mom-aided scrawl, written "For Tierney. Love, Sam." I guess my heart melted a little around the edges, and I might have either laughed or cried if anything had happened just then; but nothing did. I slid him to the edge of the bed and picked him up, warm and a little sticky where he'd been snuggled against himself. He stirred and opened his eyes just a bit as I carried him across the dark hallway, but he didn't make a sound, and he rolled right over and was still when I laid him in his own bed.
_And I thought, this is why we tell stories. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but this is it. Something in that infinite trust, that warmth and vulnerability, that absolutely childish wonder at this marvelous world we're a part of. The vitality and the joy of making up stories is something that, given the opportunity, most children embrace easily; and it's something that, tragically, most of them seem to forget as they morph into adults. Grow up, to be sure - but never so much that you lose your child's heart. God made us to need stories. That's remarkable.

skin deep

2010-08-09T19:34:00.000-05:00

A city on a hilltop stood,
with gleaming walls all round;
and all within were fair and good-
but none remembered there, who should,
that sickness lurked within the wood
that did their walls surround.

Ah, foolish women, foolish men
that gave away their lives!
The gates thrown wide, they let it in.
It came, it saw, it conquered then;
no plague like this had ever been.
They would not long survive.

O'er ruined streets, 'neath crumbling gates,
a stranger came alone.
The cure he knew, and would not wait
a house of healing to create,
to save them from this deadly fate-
return them to their own.

To those he healed he gave to stay
and labor in his stead.
He taught until they knew the way,
then took himself and went away,
but promised to return one day-
when life was made widespread.

Full zealously they started out,
to call the dying in.
With heartfelt pleas, with hopeful shouts,
they all the city went throughout
and left no room for any doubt
that life was offered them.

Many sick came to their door,
and none was turned away.
Some would not drink, and still abhorred
the life that could have been restored-
ah, ignorance! that brays for war
when peace is on its way.

Yet others came, gave up the fight,
and drank the healing draught.
Not one was lost, all faults despite-
their strength restored, regained their sight;
they longed to spread this great delight-
and learned the doctor’s craft.

But slowly, something strange occurred:
the doctors lost their zeal;
and, safe amongst themselves conferred,
to fill the air with empty words.
The anguished cries outside, unheard-
men died alone, unhealed.

The healers learned to be afraid-
though naught deserved their fear.
Their dread of failure: shadow-made;
of re-infection: fancy-played.
From windows turned their eyes away-
they held their lives so dear.

The patients’ beds stood often bare,
so few were brought inside.
But one gray eve, a young man dared
approach the steep, unwelcome stair;
collapsed outside and begged for care-
“Please, help me live!” he cried.

The doctors stopped and stared, appalled-
this mound of filth, alive?
His bleeding flesh with maggots crawled;
a sight like this none could recall-
so long they’d hid behind their walls-
could their skills, unused, revive?

Said one, “I can’t recall the name
that used to set them free,”
while some knew how, but still refrained-
afraid, repulsed, embarrassed, drained-
but most just looked away in shame,
pretending not to see.

And so it was, ‘neath walls of white
that housed life’s very breath-
the ones who knew the way of light
refused to venture out one night,
and, silent, watched man’s futile fight
engulfed instead by death.

Oh, shame! to those who, washed in blood,
can never die again;
yet fear this world’s transparent flood-
a shackled prince the source thereof-
and blush to speak the name of Love:
of death the only end.

I Was Home Schooled:

2010-07-13T18:20:00.003-05:00

Confessions of a Slightly Freakish Citizen

Part I: Introductory Remarks, Followed by a Very Important Question

Since completing my term of formal education in 2008 (and declining, subsequently, to journey on to college), I can no longer officially label myself as a “student”. But, like most Americans these days, I used to be one; and like most kids, some of the commonest questions I fielded from adults had to do with what grade I was in, and where I went to school. For me, the answer to the first question was generally, “Umm. . .”; and to the second, “Oh, I’m home schooled” (which served, incidentally, to explain the ambiguity of the first). I remember, in my smaller days, a general air of perplexity and concern emanating from the recipients of these abnormal responses to their commonplace questions. “You’re what?” was the standard comeback. Over the years, however, as the home schooling movement has stretched its tentacles throughout the land, people have become more accustomed to the idea. They respond to it with less startled confusion, sometimes even asking some follow-up questions. Do you like being home schooled? What is it like? Is your mom a teacher? Where do you get your books? Do you get recess?

What I find a little surprising is how few people have asked what seems like the most obvious and fundamental question of all: Why do you home school?

Why? As annoying as they can sometimes be, the majority of two year olds actually have the right idea about this question. Essentially: never stop asking it. Given sufficient humility to probe honestly for true answers, this little inquisition can prove incomparably valuable in discovering where our hearts are and what’s really important to us.

Quite often there are layers on layers of motives behind any given action, all peeling back ultimately to reveal whether God or some other god is at the center of our lives. Why are you eating lunch? Probably because you’re hungry, which is uncomfortable. But to what end to you desire comfort? You’re probably also eating because if you continued not to for long enough, you’d eventually starve to death. But to what end do you desire life? Are pleasure and existence ends unto themselves, or are they means by which we seek something higher? Service, perhaps – but service to what, to whom? What do you live for? If you poke and prod at them enough, I think you’ll find that, though there initially appear to be countless options from which to choose your master (family, community, country, church, sports, science, the arts, education, and so on, ad nauseum), there are actually only two choices – one of which wears these myriad disguises. You’re either serving yourself (and therefore, indirectly, the devil), or your Creator. And since God is the source of all truth . . . I think we all know which is the conniving weasel with all the masks.

All these words, and I have yet to even touch on the subject of education in general, home schooling in particular. But I wanted to preface this subject, with its slight-to-middling potential for controversy, with the suggestion that, for the Christian, there are few questions more important than this:

Why am I doing this?

So the grand summarizing finale of this introductory note is: I’ll be back with more. In the meantime, tell me what you think – about this, about education, about anything. If there are questions you’d like me to attempt to answer, points you think I should make (or have already missed), or objections you’d like to see addressed, please don’t be shy. These ramblings illustrate my convictions, but I’d love to hear yours too, whether you agree with me or not.

I think, though, that before I continue down this path, I’d better take a commercial break and post a review of the movie “I Am Legend” that I keep telling my pastor I’m going to write. Is that weird? . . . Perhaps. . . but so am I. I was home schooled; what can I say?

jonah

2010-07-07T16:45:00.004-05:00

Not particularly pleased with life, but I cleaned out the garage today, and there was this tomato cage - chicken wire wrapped in clear plastic. It belonged in a different building, so I took it there. Funny how things strike you sometimes. The quonset is dirty and full of all manner of mismatched junk. Beautiful? I don't think so. But when I got to the open doorway I stopped, because it was. There was something strangely massive and ethereal about it, like a dream, or a painting of a dream. The quiet silver light of an overcast sky filtered in through the hole-ridden roof, gentle on the old wood, beaten as it was by weather and worn by time, burdened with memories it could not share. Two long wooden ladders leaning against the back wall swept up with startling age and grace, and a pile of wire and plastic cages - like the one forgotten in my hands - lay at their feet, out of place, almost other-worldly. Like a nest of queer transparent eggs, like insects of colorless iridescence caught sleeping, like something I ought not to have disturbed. What is this world we inhabit? The ribs of the building arched up to a point, rib after rib after rib, like the inside of a whale. Like Jonah's whale, or fish, if it was a fish. I thought of Jonah. Was I like him? Was I angry about the fruit of my reluctant obedience? Or where it grew? Or how slowly? Would I dare? I might . . . oh, foolish girl.

an attempt at summary

2010-06-27T23:03:00.000-05:00

On the morning of Saturday the 12th of June, 2010, a team of eight Iowans began the long trek from Sanborn, to Omaha, to Chicago, and, finally, to the hustle and chaos of New York City. Our group consisted of Pastor Dan Donovan, Lance and Arlene Van Beek, Mark Uittenbogaard, Sue Gonnerman, Jason Diekevers, Daniel Hofland, and Tierney Erwin, all members of Cornerstone URC in Sanborn.

Pastor Paul Murphy (of Messiah’s Reformed Fellowship in New York City) and their summer intern, Sam Perez, picked us up at the airport and escorted us, along with our piles of luggage, to the Salisbury Hotel in midtown Manhattan. After a delicious suppertime introduction to genuine New York style pizza, and a brief overview of the upcoming week’s schedule, our hosts bid us farewell for the evening. Part of our group stayed at the hotel to rest up after a long day of travel, while the rest of us ventured out to explore Times Square – monument to consumerism and mankind’s desperate frivolity.

We spent much of the Lord’s day worshiping and fellowshipping together with the members of Messiah’s Reformed Fellowship (MeRF). What a blessing and encouragement, to sit under faithful preaching and teaching in the heart of a city so full of lost souls, and to worship together with our brothers and sisters in the Lord. In spite of our diverse backgrounds and dissimilar lifestyles, it was a great comfort to see how thoroughly encompassing is our bond in Christ. We concluded the day (in spite of some rain) with a barbecue and more fellowship at the home of one of MeRF’s members.

Monday morning dawned early, and we met for devotions around 7:15. Uprooted from the heart of Dutch farm country and transplanted into the collision of worlds that is New York City, I think we were all at least a little (maybe a lot) apprehensive about our first day of work. We prayed for wisdom, though, and entrusted the day’s work to the Lord – then took off on the subway (a very familiar thing by the end of the week) to get started. One book table was set up on a sidewalk in midtown Manhattan, manned by three group members (more on the book tables later). Stationed on various street corners, the rest of us handed out MeRF postcards to anyone who would take them, with barely time to shout “Christian church!” before the masses had hurried by. Later in the morning, we put the postcards away, moved to the financial district, and handed out fliers instead, advertising the church’s Tuesday afternoon Bible study near Wall Street. This work was quite impersonal and could be discouraging, but it helped get the word out about the church – and there’s no telling how or when God will use even these little seeds in the lives of the souls He is calling out of darkness.
After lunch we found an open street corner and set up another book table (for a new total of two). A team of three could usually manage a book table pretty efficiently, with one primary “advertiser” standing or walking amongst the passersby, calling out and directing them to the books; and two others waiting at the table, ready to strike up a conversation with anyone who was willing. In some ways, it takes a certain kind of person to walk up and start discussing their faith, or lack thereof, with a total stranger; and of those who did stop, what a myriad of worldviews we encountered! Christians (either nominal or apparently sincere), agnostics, atheists, Muslims, Buddhists – just to name a few. Many wanted nothing to do with the cross; some scoffed and rolled their eyes; others were openly angry and even hostile. Yet in amongst all the apathy and opposition, there were those, too, whose hearts seemed softer, who were lost and broken and hurting, who seemed genuinely interested in what we had to say about the gospel and the hope it so freely offers. There are conversations, faces, and names that each of us, I think, will pray for and remember for a long time.
Monday evening wrapped up with an adventure in Chinatown, led by Pastor Murphy’s daughter, Shannon, wherein we sheltered Iowans got the genuine Chinese experience, complete with chopsticks and bubble tea. Ask one of the group members sometime; it was unique.

Tuesday began much as Monday had, with the table work and flier distribution breaking off around noon in order for our group to attend Pastor Murphy’s Wall Street Bible study. This study focuses on the application of biblical principles to finances, economics, and other related areas of life. We were delighted to welcome four or five new visitors who came in response to fliers they had received in the past two days, and to hear that Pastor Murphy had received emails from a couple of others with whom we had made contact. After the Bible study, most of our group spent some time touring Ground Zero before meeting back up at a soup kitchen where we were scheduled to work. This was an eye-opening experience for many of us, and those especially who served by waiting on tables came away with some interesting stories, illustrating well the pros and cons of this sort of ministry.

On Wednesday our work was focused mainly on the two book tables, as well as the distribution of stacks of MeRF postcards to as many merchants and businesses as would accept them. After lunch, most of the group took some time to ride the Staten Island ferry, where they saw the Statue of Liberty from a distance, among other things. On this day and throughout the week, the Murphy children and a couple of other church members joined us in our work, as they were able. It was a great blessing to be able to learn and witness alongside these brothers and sisters in Christ.

Thursday brought more table work for many in our group, and a new task for a few of us: door to door evangelism in the Projects. This was a sobering experience in some regards, as we witnessed firsthand the squalor and hopelessness in which so many live, and contrasted this with the ease and prosperity of our own lives. Yet, as Pastor Murphy pointed out to us as we worked, there is a difference between relative poverty and absolute poverty. In spite of their low standing in our own country, New York’s city housing provides its residents with cable television, and many of them own working vehicles; in most third world nations, these would be wealthy men. The most desperate darkness in these people’s lives is not financial, but spiritual – and it is to pierce this darkness that the light of the gospel goes forth among them. We were challenged persistently by closed doors and language barriers; but even there we were able to have a few good conversations with people who seemed genuinely interested in the church, and even met some Christians who encouraged us in our work. That evening we were able to attend Pastor Murphy’s second weekly Bible study, whose current focus is on the book of James. We again rejoiced to welcome a visitor to the study, who had received a flier earlier in the week, and were encouraged by her positive response to the lesson.

Our entire group teamed up on Friday morning to complete our work in the Projects. The day was hot and humid, and though we were encouraged again by a smattering of thoughtful conversations, I think we were all glad to be finished by lunchtime. Since it was our last day in the city, we were given the afternoon free. Some of us visited the South Street Seaport, Central Park, and a few other places, while others returned to the hotel for some much needed rest and relaxation. We finished the day, and the week, with a wonderful evening of food and fellowship with the Murphy family at their home.

The next day, in a backwards replay of the previous Saturday, Sam and Pastor Murphy brought us and our luggage to the airport and, after saying our goodbyes, we began the journey from New York City, to Chicago, to Omaha, and finally to our homes in and around Sanborn, Iowa. I think I can safely say that our time in New York was a tremendous blessing to each of the people in our group; and we continue to pray that God will use that time and experience not only in our own lives, but also in those whose lives were touched, however briefly, however slightly, by His work through us in the city. However, it is my sincere hope and prayer that it will not end there – that each of us will take what we learned in New York and let it embolden us to continue witnessing to the power of our risen Savior even here at home. There are people in Iowa who are just as lost as those we talked with in Manhattan, and the gospel is just as mighty to save here as it is there. May it be our heartfelt desire and passion to become, ever more thoroughly, our Lord’s willing and humble servants, eager to find opportunities to shine the light of salvation into a dark and dying world.

Soli Deo Gloria.

Sparkly

2010-04-07T23:05:00.002-05:00

or
My Top Ten Reasons for Heartily Disliking Twilight

10. The story is dull.
Frankly, the plot, around which Stephenie Meyer weaves the drama that is Twilight, is just … boring. Apart from a lot of angst, heart throbbing, and smooching, for a long time nothing much happens. (Oh, and Edward saves Bella’s life a few times, but those incidents have no further connection to the latter part of the story.) In the last few chapters the pace finally picks up, but even then the string of high-tension events seems disjointed. Evil characters appear out of nowhere (and later return to the same) and randomly threaten Bella’s life, presumably in order to showcase Edward’s great bravado in rescuing her at the last minute. There’s just not much more to the story, in the end, than: “Look, Edward and Bella are in love.” Pretty thin, if you ask me.

9. The writing is uninspired.
I’ve read worse, but this is mediocre at best. I’m not saying I could do better … it’s just not that good. Careful, step-by-step explanations and superfluous descriptions litter the pages, and meanwhile the words plod along, more or less devoid of color and poetry. Although the writing is for the most part correct, there seems to be little understanding of the power and beauty of language. Words are just the humble vehicle for the above mentioned not-very-interesting story.

8. The alleged abstinence message isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
A number of people have expressed admiration for the way in which Edward makes a particular point not to physically consummate his and Bella’s relationship until, in some later installment, they are eventually married. As far as it goes, this is great, and I know it’s becoming increasingly rare in our depraved culture. It’s just too bad when all our heroes and heroines need to do in order to win our enthusiastic applause is to refrain from committing some of the more shameful and glaring sins available.
It’s also worth noting that, once Edward and Bella reach the conclusion that their romantic interest in one another is irreversible, they spend a great deal of time kissing, stroking, and breathing on each other. In some respects, the absence of full consummation is a bit of a technicality.

7. Compared to vampires, ordinary humans are essentially losers.
I can’t think of a single mortal being subjected to description in this tale, who is not thus described without some degree of condescension, irritation, or contempt. Many of them seem like perfectly nice people, but as long as they share this world with Edward (and, later, his almost-equally-remarkable undead “family”), their existence can be seen as little better than pathetic.
The condescension extends to practically all the non-vampire students at Bella’s high school, to the occasional adult that stumbles into the narrative, and, even more unfortunately, to Bella’s parents. Everyone’s greatest flaw is that they just can’t compare with Edward’s mysterious majesty.
Granted, Bella has grown up in a broken home, and mostly under the supervision of a flighty, eccentric mother; so to some degree her distant, deceitful, and politely disrespectful behavior makes sense. My complaint isn’t so much that we are given a heroine with attitude problems, as that the teller of the tale condones her behavior. Not, perhaps, in so many words; but the resolution of the story’s conflict is that Bella begins to get what she wants (see: Edward), regardless of her methods in obtaining it/him. The end, quite obviously, justifies the means.

6. The story has dangerous implications for girls in real life.
This isn’t to say that everyone that reads about Bella is doomed to follow her example, any more than reading Mein Kampf will compel you to commit genocide. However, I still can’t help but find it concerning that a book so clearly targeted at vulnerable young girls and women champions such foolish behavior.
Observe: Bella sees a highly attractive, mysterious young man and swiftly develops a crush on him. He pays attention to her, treating her with alternating interest and loathing. They discover an inexplicable magnetism, and become the center of one another’s worlds. The fact that Edward thirsts ravenously after her blood is of very little concern to Bella. What could happen? Bella distances herself from her friends, mostly ignores her mom, and lies to her dad so she can be with Edward. They run off into the forest and spend the day together while her father is away fishing, and Edward spends a night (clothed) in Bella’s bed with her, diving for cover when the offending parent comes up to check on his daughter. Before the tale is concluded, Bella has lied to most, if not all, of the significant characters in the book, almost always in order to conceal Edward’s true identity. In the end she gets the guy, because he ‘loves’ her … apparently because she smells good and isn’t afraid of him.
This, ladies, is your heroine.

5. There’s something wrong with the whole vampire analogy.
Twilight disappointed me more than a lot of other regrettable books I’ve read, I think because I saw a lot of potential in certain elements of the story. Weird as it sounds, I find vampires rather intriguing, and I’m somewhat fascinated by the idea of the “monster that tries to be good.” Unfortunately, these things are pretty effectively drowned out by melodramatic teen romance, and are, I think, mishandled in what little screen time they get. I’ve been toying with ideas of how to improve on this concept, but I have no definite answer yet. I’ll keep you posted.

4. The story preys on female weaknesses.
Two in particular: 1) Our lust to be lusted after; and 2) our search for the “perfect” man.
With regards to the former – Twilight is written in the first person, as narrated by Bella, so we experience the story very much from her point of view. Bella is new at school, and within a few days has at least four or five different guys vying for her affections. Of course she scorns all of them but Edward. In this situation she finds herself to be the only girl to have captured his attention in a hundred years. Other girls drool when he walks by, but he has eyes only for Bella. He is unshakable, but she is his one weakness. How ideal is that?
With regards to the latter – essentially, Bella finds what doesn’t exist. Edward is not human, and shares almost none of our weaknesses (see point #3). No wonder guys hate Twilight. It makes promises that no real man can keep, and raises the bar higher than any mortal can jump. If you let Edward get to you, men will be frustrated and women will be disappointed; if you don’t let him get to you, you’ll just be annoyed.

3. Edward is a god.
He has tousled, auburn hair; fiery golden (sometimes black) eyes; perfect lips; a clear and musical voice; cold, pale (sometimes sparkling) skin; a crooked smile; long, white hands; a lean, muscular figure; impossibly graceful movement; unbelievable strength. He drives a brand new Volvo, wears designer clothing, and writes in a clear, elegant script. He plays piano like a pro, writes complicated music, is a brilliant student, owns more CD’s than a music store, and reads people’s minds. His kisses make Bella pass out, he hunts grizzly bears with his bare hands (teeth?), and he drives like a maniac but never gets caught or crushed. He is eloquent and mysterious, in control, superior in every way. In a paraphrase of Bella’s own words, there is nothing at which he is not ten times better than everyone else.
He is invincible.
While we’re on the subject of Edward, he’s also a complete sap. True, he bravely saves Bella’s life a number of times through the course of the book. But does he really risk his life to do so? Hearken to the words of Edward’s vampire-brother, Jasper: “You’re worrying about all the wrong things, Bella. Trust me on this – none of us are in jeopardy … Our family is strong. Our only fear is losing you.” (emphasis mine)
When Edward really does have something to lose, he reacts in a completely different manner. A few more excerpts to illustrate:
On page 84: “It would be more … prudent for you not to be my friend,” he explained. “But I’m tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella.”
On page 190: “Don’t you see, Bella? It’s one thing for me to make myself miserable, but a wholly other thing for you to be so involved. I don’t want to hear that you feel that way. It’s wrong. It’s not safe. I’m dangerous, Bella – please, grasp that.”
On page 197: “Do you want to ride with me today?” he asked … There was uncertainty in his voice. He was really giving me a choice – I was free to refuse, and part of him hoped for that. It was a vain hope. (Sure, make the girl decide. Coward!) (emphasis, again, mine)
On page 211: “Don’t you see? That’s what proves me right. I care the most, because if I can do it” – he shook his head, seeming to struggle with the thought – “if leaving is the right thing to do, then I’ll hurt myself to keep from hurting you, to keep you safe.”
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t care enough.

2. Love is seriously misrepresented.
This follows nicely from the previous point.
First, what is trumpeted as love turns out to be extremely selfish, foolish, and weak. As described in point #6, all kinds of bad things happen when Bella casts herself into her vampire’s dangerous arms, but nobody minds; and as we saw in point #3, Edward passes the most critical decisions off on his girlfriend, and prefers his “fascination” with Bella to actually making a real sacrifice in order to protect her.
Second, love is pictured as a surging of the heart, a flutter of the emotions, a mysterious chemistry that cannot be denied or escaped. Of course, this notion is extremely common in our society, but it is also extremely stupid. That’s not love. It’s lust. If I had time and space to describe what love is, if I understood its depth well enough to do an adequate job, rest assured, I would. Unfortunately, I lack all these resources, so let it suffice to say that love is a choice, an attitude, a way of living. Read your Bible; find out what love is. I’ll get you started: God is love.
Love is emphatically not an emotion or a chemical reaction. If you find yourself attracted to a gorgeous, dangerous guy who wants to drink your blood, you can help it. And you should.

1. The story is dishonest.
Lying under, over, and around all the above nine points, I think this is the one that bothers me the most. The story of Twilight isn’t true. I don’t mean that I disapprove of fiction and fantasy; I mean that stories should show us the truth, and this story lies about the way the world works. It lies about what is good and evil, what is right and wrong, what is really important in life. The story gives us a girl obsessed with a cool looking guy, a guy too weak to do the right thing, deceitful children, passive parents, envious peers, and adrenaline-laced episodes of romance and danger – all realities in a fallen world – but the horrible thing is that the story goes on to show us that this is the way things should be. This is right; this is good; meditate on these things. Cheer for these characters. Live for these feelings.
This is the serpent, speaking to Eve … “You will not surely die…”

my wandering mind

2010-04-05T10:12:00.000-05:00

I keep finding these things I scribbled down and forgot about. This was in a little notebook I used to carry around with me sometimes. We were at an orchestra concert at Dordt sometime a year or two ago; obviously I paid more attention to the instrumentalists than the music that time.

He sat, leaned back, with his hair combed straight up, looking out through his dark rimmed classes like a bored celebrity. He had a shock of dark hair and a grey beard. He knew what he was doing, and it was easy.

--------

With raw passion and long, thick hair hanging in curly wisps about her face. . .long bare arms, she played like the breeze, with as much care as a brook and as much thought as a sparrow.

--------

With great care and diligent work she had learnt her art; she was precise, she was concentrated, and her foot tapped a little to the beat. An open, innocent, and almost foolish face was hers. You didn't really expect her to know anything, but she was good.

--------

At first you thought she was pretty, but then you realized she wasn't, really. Her face was plain, and bordered on being grumpy. But then she began to play, and we realized she had a soul. . .maybe more of a soul than we had.

...a soft, green voice, with roots in the deeps and leaves reaching for heaven. . .

The descriptions are plenty florid, and unfortunately have no point in existence. Interesting, though. People are so interesting, and they all have stories. If only I knew what they really were.

Sometime I should try asking them, instead of making something up from a distance. . .

rose colored glasses

2010-03-24T09:06:00.001-05:00

Late one night this winter, I was feeling nostalgic and irrational; I flipped on the light and scribbled down what I thought. We paint the past in such bright, beautiful colors, and forget that it was the present when it happened, and that we have no less reason to be happy now than we did then. Fickle humanity.

Sometimes I miss my childhood. . .
. . . when Wal-Mart was an incalculably cavernous labyrinth to wander through;
. . . when a journey of three hours seemed more like three lifetimes;
. . . when a rickety metal swing set and some sunshine was all I needed to be happy all afternoon;
. . . when macaroni was exciting, popsicles were exhilarating, and a trip to Baskin Robbins was ecstasy itself;
. . . when the basement was genuinely scary, because I really thought the Grinch lived down there;
. . . when watching Cruella DeVille while hanging upside down from the couch was hilarious every single time;
. . . when running in aimless circles on the lawn was normal, when sitting on laps was expected, and when bedtime stories were the law;
. . . when the world was big, and I was small, and I knew it, and was happy.

2010-03-19T03:12:00.005-05:00

In deepest night, ‘neath bloody moon
And stars as cold as death,
Between the cracks of rugged stone
A wispy violet bloomed alone
And felt my dying breath.

No gust assailed its tender leaf,
But shallow, gasping sighs;
And round its roots a crimson stain
Spread wider with each breath of pain.
I closed my weary eyes.

To life my mem’ry cast its gaze,
To acts now writ in stone.
How strange to see this sentence end,
An awful tale in scarlet penned—
Its price I paid alone.

My crimes unnumbered all were black;
My master’s word was law.
By his command and my free will,
I plundered, robbed, and shot to kill;
And none survived who saw.

A caravan of wealth untold,
The echoed rumor said,
Must soon pass through our lonely vale;
For time is short and life is frail—
The reckless plunge ahead.

For war they came well fitted out,
And would not yield the way;
But in the chaos of the fight
A misplaced child, half-crazed with fright,
We seized and dragged away.

With rage my master’s eyes burned bright:
He would not stand defeat.
He reigned, the highway’s bloody king;
The merchant’s child would feel his sting,
His vengeance in retreat.

For days we kept her thus in fear,
Her torment just begun.
And though my past was dark and rank,
From these foul deeds my spirit shrank;
Oh, what had I become?

In depth of night I roused my friend,
Who only bore my trust;
The child between, we silent fled,
Two traitors now: the walking dead;
For what is man, but dust?

A journey cannot measure time
When death haunts every hour;
By day we cringed in shallow clefts,
By night we ran, of sleep bereft,
And knew our hunters’ power.

A chill wind whispered rain that day,
And hailed the road’s last miles;
We crouched beneath a fallen pine,
The child’s small hand slipped into mine,
And rested just awhile.

The cold of dusk began our march,
The longest and the last.
We paused; my friend turned sudden round,
His face drawn hard, his eyes profound,
With horror held aghast.

“You can’t,” I softly whispered,
“Look, we’ve almost reached the end.”
With glint of steel he answered me;
I looked, but found no place to flee.
“I’m sorry,” said my friend.

“They’ve trailed us now for days,” he said,
“We cannot both go back.”
Three shots rang out in moonlight still,
The child cried out; my blood ran chill
And turned my shirt front black.

To the dust from which I came I fell,
And heard her cries grow faint.
In vain I sought to rise again,
While, agonized, my soul gave in,
Crushed beneath its weight.

My best so futile, life so frail,
And I a worm indeed;
Yet, being nothing, could not fall,
And hope, so strange! I, after all,
Was not the first to bleed.

In deepest night, ‘neath bloody moon,
I breathed my last alone;
And a wispy violet, awed, beheld
A broken soul, by love compelled
Eternity to own.

because everything doesn't have to have a point

2010-02-24T23:32:00.000-06:00

I was eating an orange today, and after the last slice had slid deliciously down my throat, I discovered one of these tiny little "bead" things still swimming around in my mouth. I pondered it a moment, how curious and exciting it was that something as large and plain as an orange should be made up of such exquisitely juicy little pieces. Then I decided to swallow it and think about something else. At the last instant it occurred to me that such a tiny pocket of juice, tucked away inside its own minute skin, must have been separately reserved because it tasted either very good or very bad. I determined to find out which it was. I swished it around in my mouth. I tried for several minutes to catch it in my front teeth and puncture it, and nearly hyperventilated before giving it up. At long last, the magnitude of force between my tongue and lower front teeth made it pop, but it didn't taste like anything.
I just thought you'd like to know.

2010-02-21T18:07:00.000-06:00

Walking along....sun in my eyes. Singing a silly little song to myself, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Fish around in jeans pocket....crumbled up crackers...stale. Check my compass....oops, going the wrong direction. What now?

This is the story of my life, and I fancy the general gist of most other Christians' lives as well. Twenty years ago I set out walking....well, no, that's not quite true. The first bit I spent mostly just lying around like a super-adorable blob of baby chub (yes, even I was cute once); after awhile I learned to crawl, and it wasn't until after that that I figured out this whole walking thing. But in a metaphorical sense, I've been trekking through this world for somewhat more than twenty years now, and I can see a sort of pattern emerging.

I start out making more or less of a beeline for the Celestial City. Sometimes the sun shines and the birds sing; other times it rains; every so often an inland tsunami nearly bowls me over. Whatever the case may be, after a certain amount of time I inevitably look up and find that, in the midst of my complacency or self-satisfaction or discontent or discouragement, I've wandered completely off the path and into the jungle. Thankfully, though I am unfaithful, my God is faithful, and He always brings me back. But I'm constantly re-routing. Perpetually discovering new sins and shortcomings, and rediscovering old ones I'd forgotten about or swept under the rug. Always being drawn, slowly but surely, away from my wretched, death-bound self, and into the likeness and glory of the Lord.

So here too, with this blog. I think it's high time to pull out the maps, re-examine the sailing directions, and chart a new course across the open sea, with the wind at our backs, the sun shining in the clear air, and a pistol in every....man's....wait a minute.

In any case, I'm shifting gears. In the past, this blog has ultimately, if subconsciously, served as little more than a showcase for my extremely irregular fits of dubious inspiration. I'd like it to be a bit more than that. It's still just a blog, but my idea is to make a more regular habit of writing on it, with the following objectives:

1. I hope that the musings and confessions of a very small pilgrim on her way to eternity may, in some small way, be used to glorify God, and perhaps to help others see Him a little more clearly. And He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness." Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. (2Cor.12:9)

2. It would also be nice if I could somehow learn, through this exercise, to force myself to write often and honestly, whether I particularly feel like it or not. This is said by many to be a beneficial practice, and I believe it.

So here I am--raw, uncivilized, and very, very small. But don't look at me. Look past me to my Savior, believe, and live.

biff and iguana man come back for more

2009-11-18T13:54:00.001-06:00

"Eating forks is not allowed," I told my aged aunt.
She looked at me with longing eyes; her face was pale and gaunt.
I gripped her knobby shoulder (when she winced I let it go);
I really did feel bad for her, and tried to tell her so.
"I know you're used to eating things that normal people don't,
And family can forgive you, but, well, other folks just won't.
I only wish to save you from a life of scorn and shame,
Besides which, I'm in favor of untarnished family names."
My aunt's blue eyes grew piercing bright; her finger smote my nose.
"How little you discern," she said, "your silly words just show.
This 'normal' that you speak of -- I can't fathom what it means --
But it strikes me awfully funny, and I'd rather you came clean.
You've never cared for family names -- just look at your career!
Now come here, sonny, don't be shy. What do you really fear?"
My aunt's an awfully sharp old bird (I've said it oft before),
And this, her latest insight, only made me like her more.
"I ought not, Aunt, deceive you." ("Cuz you can't," she pointed out.)
"So now I will desist, and tell you what it's all about.
We're going to a picnic, as you know, this afternoon,
Among whose guests I fear will be a certain ghastly goon.
He's never very kindly, but I've heard his latest trick
Involves a homemade poison that has made bald eagles sick.
He likes to lace it into things like silverware and rum,
And forks will be his target, if he knows that you have come.
Now, what he's got against you is a question for the wise;
But Biff and I will both be there, to take him down to size.
Fear not, my aged relative, though Biff you have not met--
He's not extremely lovely, but of sidekicks he's the best."
"Well, thank you, boy," she said, "but here is what I can't quite see:
You said he poisons eagles -- what's that got to do with me?"
I pondered this a moment, how to speak the truth with tact;
I said, "Well, that you're an old bird is a well-established fact;
And, honestly, your tresses have been looking rather thin;
So I figure, what bald eagles kills, could also do you in."
"Your logic is impeccable, and I'm touched by your concern;
I'll eat no forks today," she said, in tones both brave and firm.
If you knew as well as I how very much my aunt loves forks,
You, too, would shed a tear and choke out, "Thanks, you're such a sport."
That's what I did, I tell you, and I'm not a bit ashamed;
Iguana Man has feelings too, in spite of world-wide fame.
My aunt licked off her finger, then she wiped my tear away.
I must confess this grossed me out, and prodded me to say,
"Dear aunt, let's have an end to all this touchy-feely stuff;
Let's venture forth to picnic, though the going may get rough.
Though bologna may be gummy, though jell-o may be goo,
Though forks be laced with poison, we will see this mission through."
The aunt was so excited by this optimistic chant
That she took off down the sidewalk toward the park in nothing flat.
"Hey, aunt, I thought we'd take the car!" I yelled, but all in vain;
Her steps were quick, her hearing bad -- she strode on just the same.
I shrugged and took off after her, and soon we reached the park,
A strangely cheery setting for such dreadful deeds and dark.
We pulled up, panting, leaning on some tables for support,
Upon which lay, I saw too late, a great array of forks.
My aunt did gasp, and I gasped, too. This fiend would stoop so low!
We heard a cough; we whipped around, and saw we weren't alone.
A single boy stood by himself, the picnic's lonely host;
A can of Raid was in his hand; his shirt said, "Flies, You're Toast."
The right words quite escaped me, but the boy spoke up instead.
"You're rather late, I cannot lie," the young fly hunter said,
"The other guests have been and gone, but I s'pose they'll all be back;
They're only at the soccer fields across the railroad track.
My father put this picnic on, but he left me here in charge,
To 'splain about the food and stuff, and welcome dear Aunt Marge."
He gave us each a plate and walked us past the pans of food;
A lot of it was gone, but what was left looked pretty good.
"And here's the beans, and there's the cake," the Splainin' Boy declared,
And set us at our places, and brought drinks and silverware.
He sat across the table, and a fly sat next to him.
It must have been a dumb fly. A spritz of Raid soon did it in.
With pride I saw Aunt Marge consume her lettuce with a spoon;
Her resolve was strong, but wouldn't last; I must relieve her soon.
Oh, where was Biff when need was near? I knew he'd planned to come;
He forgot, I thought with sadness. I was deserted by my chum.
"Now, look here, boy," I said, "I need your help, and that's a fact,
For you possess the info that my stunning brain still lacks.
Have any of your party seemed the ghastly, goony type?
The type that poisons eagles, just to hear them moan and gripe?"
"Why, yes!" the Splainin' Boy cried out. "I know of whom you speak.
He looks quite harmless, nibbles plums, and sometimes talks in Greek,
But underneath his charming shell lurk innards rank and grim;
Come, follow me, across these tracks! I'll take you straight to him!"
He yodeled in a manner which I thought I knew quite well,
But other things had filled my mind, and I hadn't time to tell.
A hectic kind of soccer game was coming to its close;
The checkered ball made one last bump off someone's skillful toes,
And hurtled past the goalie, who, enraged, thrashed on the ground--
And cursed in Greek, I noticed, as he waved his arms around.
"Aha!" I said, and saw just then that, much to my surprise,
Another guy had tackled him: a guy with muddy eyes;
A guy with hair like moldy straw, a guy whose nose was big--
I saw now just how wrong I'd been, to accuse him as I did.
'It's Biff!" I yelled, "You've saved the day! I knew you would! Ahoy!"
"Hey, Dad! I brought Iguana Man," cried out the Splainin' Boy.
I jumped and sharply looked at him. "Did you just call Biff, 'Dad'?
And how'd you know my name, you frightful insect-killing lad?"
"I did just call him Dad, because he is," he said with pride.
"If it weren't for him and you, Aunt Marge would probably have died.
I stayed behind to warn you (I was told that you'd wear green),
While Dad kept track of Goony here, who's on his soccer team.
A lot of forks were poisoned, but not one of them was ate."
My heart swelled as I looked at him, and said, "Your dad's sure great."
"I know," the boy said rapturously, and did a happy dance;
It was a joyous scene that only hugging could enhance.
Then Biff strolled up; I hugged him, and the scene was made complete.
The goon, now tied up tightly, growled and gurgled near our feet.
We made quite sure this crook would never plague our town again:
The cops soon came and shipped him off to serve his time in Spain.
(Apparently he grew up there; all that Greek was just for show.
But his eagle/aunt vendetta was for real, I'll have you know.)
That night we had a picnic -- Biff, his son, my aunt, and me;
We ate banana salad while we lounged beneath a tree.
Biff and I were glad, for we could safely now behold
My aunt consuming forks, for she was odd, but she was old;
And family names are worthless if they cause such needless stress.
An aunt can have weird habits. We don't love her any less.

my advice to you is this.

2009-11-05T18:06:00.000-06:00

I was thinking about some of the things I've recently enjoyed, some of them on the internet and some of them off of it, and I thought I'd share them with the world at large, in case anyone is interested. Whether or not you take my advice on any of this is, obviously, entirely up to you. I refuse to be held responsible for any death, injury, or emotional damage sustained as a result of actions taken in response to this post. Understood? Not responsible. Okay.

First, I recommend eating mint ice cream while driving down the highway at sunset. It's slightly dangerous and usually results in a sticky shirt front, but is well worth the extra laundry soap.

I also recommend that you watch "The Butterfly Circus" It's really good, and it'll only take about twenty minutes of your life (exactly twenty minutes if you watch all the credits).

"Validation" is another short film worth spending sixteen and a half minutes on, with the following disclaimer. The film contains about equal parts fluff, self-esteem-booster, and sappy romance; in spite of which, I find it a touching tale, and a poignant reminder to look for the good in others, and to tell them when we see it.

While I'm on YouTube, "Spin" is entertaining.

"The Hitchhiker's Trilogy" (a book) (which is not a trilogy) is a rollicking good time. Read it, however, at your own peril; the chances of your sanity surviving the experience are pretty slim.

I recommend having a six-year-old little brother who memorizes Men At Work songs and sings them at the dinner table, and a three-year-old brother who tells you that you are the "perfect lady" who he found laying down on a cliff by the garden and subsequently married, and who knows "the perfect way to walk".

I recommend playing with little boys named Landon who laugh at you when you do silly things and love to see you no matter what. Their cheerful demeanor in the face of difficulty and their ability to brighten the glummest day will inspire you every time, I guarantee it.

I don't know that I necessarily advise throwing eighty bales of hay off a flatbed and stacking them in the barn, but if you're going to do it, I do recommend doing it happily and with two small boys trying to help. This makes it much more exciting, and keeps you occupied with trying to keep people from falling onto the concrete, instead of obsessively counting bales.

If you're trying to learn to play the cello, I recommend practicing between lessons.

If you're trying to learn to knit, I recommend patience in astronomical quantities.

I strongly advise you to wear fuzzy socks and skate around on the kitchen floor.

It strikes me as a very good idea to pull out your large appliances (like fridges and stoves, for example) and clean behind them, at regular intervals shorter than five years.

I recommend singing loudly, whether anyone's listening or not.

I advise you to watch the sunset, go to bed on time, stay up late, visit friends, keep a journal, allow mistakes to keep you humble, and drink plenty of apple cider.

And while you're at it, get me some, too.

2009-10-23T11:34:00.001-05:00

I die to live: how strange a thing:
And blood can set me free;
My lifeless tongue will learn to sing,
Glad slave of liberty.

I live to die: how great the cost:
Two natures war within;
How long the road, how dark the cross,
How fiercely clings my sin.

Through fire gold is purified:
In pain must healing start;
And so to suffering now, my Lord,
I yield my trembling heart.

the pencil had a point, but this doesn't

2009-09-30T15:38:00.000-05:00

Here is something dumb. There’s this pencil, it’s white and seems to be from both Cimarron Insurance Company, Inc., in Kansas, and the Akron Loan Company in Colorado. It has a little orange logo thing on one side, and has a sort of chewed-up look to it. I accidentally stole it the last time I made Anton, CO, my very temporary home.

I guess I got kind of attached to it. It lay on my dresser for a long time, sprawled out across the book manuscript I’d been using it on when the accidental theft was perpetrated. Every time I saw it there (or almost every time), I thought about sitting in the Herrons’ dining room, reading that manuscript and taking notes on it, and twisting that pencil around and around while I tried to think of what I was thinking about. I also thought what a burglar I was, and how funny it was that I should give thought to the burgling of a pencil, and how I’d better return it to its rightful masters anyway. I meant to send it home with Luke when he ventured into the northern reaches of Iowa in August; but I forgot.

I remembered it when I came back to Colorado a week and a half ago, and laid it safely to rest in the drawer where it belongs. One would think that ought to be the end of the story (although inordinate levels of boringness may prevent this tale from actually qualifying as a “story”).

Today, though, in the absence of other immediate activity, I decided to get that manuscript back out and see about finishing with it. I realized that I would need a pencil. I went to the drawer where the pencils are and looked inside. Pens and pencils there were in abundance, but I was seized suddenly with an intense desire to find my old stolen pencil back, and use it as I had in days of yore. I was seized also by a lost sense of panic at the thought that, having returned my old stolen pencil to its proper place of residence, it might easily (and perfectly lawfully, which made it worse) have begun once again to be used by its true owners; and might have been relocated to another region of the house; and might never again be gazed upon by my longing eyes.

I dug through the basket of writing utensils, forward and backward, scrabbling, alarmed at my alarm. I did not want an orange pencil. I wanted my pencil. My precious? Nah.

At any rate, I dug and scrabbled away, and started getting really sad about the whole business, when at last I found my pencil. Except it’s still not really mine, and if I take it home with me again it will be a double burglary, which might be punishable by death.

In other news, my hands smell like grilled hamburger, and my left leg is falling asleep from me sitting on it for too long.

Biff and Iguana Man Strike Again

2009-06-15T17:44:00.001-05:00

"Don't smash the exit signs," he said as I came in;
He wore a slick tuxedo and an ample double chin.
I eyed him for a moment, and I raised one eyebrow high;
I straightened out my shoulders and my nifty new bow-tie.
"What makes you think I'd want to, sir?" I asked with some disdain.
His features wrinkled grossly, as though seized with mortal pain;
At length I saw that this must be his version of a smirk,
And I thought he ought, perhaps, to seek a different line of work;
For a butler ought to be a thing that strikes you as serene:
A shimmer in the atmosphere, commanding, meek, and clean.
He ought to keep his feelings hid beneath a marble brow;
He must always answer calmly; he must never have a cow;
And a smirk is such a thing that, in his wildest, fear-filled dreams,
He must run from it in terror, and awake from it with screams.
These thoughts traversed my brain cells with the speed of lightning, greased,
And when I looked again, I saw his smirking fit had ceased.
He was gazing past my earlobe at a thing set just beyond,
With a look of grave suspicion, like a poodle near a pond.
I looked around behind me, but the only thing I saw
Was my trusty pal (his name is Biff), with hair like moldy straw.
I was gripped with understanding for the butler’s glassy stare:
This Biff’s a dandy sidekick, but he’s anything but fair.
Admittedly, his suit was nice, but this could not disguise
His toad-like face, his lumpy nose, his muddy, greenish eyes.
To the butler I addressed myself: “Of Biff be not afraid!
I know he looks the vandal type, but that’s just how he’s made.
He’d sooner die a martyr’s death than smash an exit sign;
Now please just let us in, for we’ve been beckoned here to dine.”
He pondered this a moment, then he bobbed his balding head.
“Alright, you guys, but watch your backs,” the aging butler said.
I wondered what he meant, but I was not allowed to ask,
For Biff had shoved me in the door before three seconds passed.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” I queried in a slightly wrathful tone,
“That butler might have news we would prove better to have known.
He said to watch our backs, and if I’m right that often means
That someone near at hand is cooking up a deadly scheme.
If we die tonight, I’m blaming it exclusively on you.”
Biff glowered, then he said, “That’s fine. I kind of hope we do.”
“Oh, come now Biff,” I cried, “What is the matter with your head?
This party’s not so awful that you’d rather turn up dead!”
“That’s easy,” quoth Biff glumly, “for the likes of you to say.
But you have no idea what I’ll suffer here this day:
I’m used to wearing blue jeans, chugging Pepsi from a can,
And chatting ‘bout the races, or whatever comes to hand.
But these folks, they’ve got their manners and their high-filootin’ gems;
They’ll stare at me and whisper, ‘What the world’s the deal with him?’”
I tried to reassure him; I advised him to relax.
I thumped his chest and then applied a wallop to his back.
He didn’t seem much cheered, but with reluctance still he came.
I led him to our host, whom I informed of both our names.
He welcomed us politely, then forgot that we were there,
For a pretty girl had walked past, and he had to smooth his hair.
After that, Biff tried to vanish, but his efforts were in vain:
In all that polished glamour, he stuck out with vivid pain.
There were satins, silks, and diamonds; there was gold, and all things fine;
There were botox-altered faces; there was caviar and wine.
And out there in the midst stood Biff, his crooked mouth agape;
I couldn’t help but pity him, he looked so like an ape.
At last the dinner chime was rung; we all filed in to feed
(For however fine our outsides, we’ve the same internal greed).
The cooking was exquisite, and the conversation bland;
Entertainment was provided by an aged crooner’s band.
Then suddenly the lights died, and a honking wail rang out;
The guests all shrieked in fear and stumbled aimlessly about.
“A red alert!” a voice boomed. “All you fruitcakes form a line!
You’ll be searched and questioned shortly: someone’s smashed an exit sign!”
I looked around for Biff, who in the crush had disappeared;
I saw him near the punch bowl, and his face looked awfully queer,
So I strode up to his side; I grabbed his hand and stroked its palm.
“It’s gonna be ok, Biff,” I declared, to make him calm.
He quivered like a jelly, and his face showed grief and rage
As he pointed at two men in matching suits up on the stage.
“They’re watching me,” he rattled, “And I know exactly why:
They’re sure that I’m the culprit, and they long to see me die.
It’s all because I’m ugly, man!” And sharply he exhaled.
“They won’t kill you, Biff,” I told him, “At the worst, you’ll go to jail.
And prison, though unpleasant, is a better fate than most—
Just think! You could be sliced up, fried, and eaten cold with toast.”
Biff looked at me, and I could see his eyes fill up with tears;
“You’re right,” he choked, “And now I must be master of my fears.
If a life in jail is what awaits, to such I’m now resigned;
But still, the fact remains – I didn’t smash that exit sign.”
I started, for this revelation caught me by surprise;
And, grieved by my disloyalty, I knuckled both my eyes.
“Oh Biff,” I whispered hoarsely, “By this injustice be not vexed.
We’ll find the rightful crook and wrap our fingers round his neck.
That butler, you remember, seemed to know this would occur –
Let’s see if we can find and quiz the noble, portly sir.”
We traipsed around the ballroom, and peered into every face;
There were humans in abundance, but the butler? Not a trace.
Then we saw a sign marked “Stairs” beside a door left just ajar;
We thought we’d take a peek. We wouldn’t wander very far.
But just inside the door there was this yellow “Caution” tape,
And in the act of sneaking past, the butler, mouth agape.
Above his head an exit sign (or one that once had been)
Was dangling by some wiring; and he gripped a rolling pin.
Befuddlement had seized me, but it didn’t keep me long,
For Biff leapt past and yodeled, “Hey! I knew those blokes were wrong!
I didn’t smash no exit sign – this butler did the deed,
And now he must be captured, and my reputation freed!”
A chase ensued that would have made an epic poet proud,
The butler’s speed defied his girth, and frankly, I was wowed.
But Biff cannot be shaken, once he fixes on his prey;
He kept up with his quarry, and at last he got his way.
In chains and brought to justice, still the butler’s eyes shot sparks,
But his bite had all been wasted; he could now but feebly bark.
As the cop car pulled away, and all the guests went back inside,
I looked across at Biff, and didn’t try to squelch my pride.
The lamplight on his features made me think of heroes bold,
Who, ugliness aside, have wills of steel and hearts of gold.
A better sidekick can’t be found, for snagging errant knaves,
Than Biff, who spends his life in making sure the world stays saved.
We crossed the street together, to where Kum n’ Go still stands;
I bought us each a Pepsi, and we drank it from the can.

nostalgia does not induce good poetry

2009-06-09T18:21:00.001-05:00

My life is a memory.

Ahead is only fog.
A perfect light marks the end,
But the path I must take there is unclear.
What I think I see
May be something else,
Or perhaps it isn't there at all.

For an instant
I am in the present,
Then it flashes past into history.
Instant upon instant,
Always in the present,
But only an instant at a time.

Behind me is the story,
The one God's been telling all along.
It's frozen, and in a way it's gone:
I can't change it
And I can't have it back.
Time is a one-way street.

Sometimes when I stand where I used to stand,
And everything is changed,
Longing sweeps over me;
In a way I suppose I want it back,
But mostly I wish I'd known at the time
How soon it would be gone.

I spend so much time
Waiting for the future;
I don't understand that when it gets here,
It will turn into the present,
And by the time I realize it's happened,
It'll be over.

I'm always in yesterday's future.
I'm always in tomorrow's past.
This instant,
This little instant right now,
That's all I'm ever going to get,
This side of glory.

What am I doing with it?

tread softly

2009-05-04T22:45:00.000-05:00

Believe me,
every man has his secret sorrows,
which the world knows not;
and oftimes we call a man cold,
when he is only sad.
(H.W. Longfellow)

I like stories. Pretty often, when my mind fails to find more productive ways of entertaining itself, I find myself making up stories about the people I see. Whether I'm walking through Wal-Mart, driving down the road, sitting in a restaurant, or waiting for a concert to start, interesting people almost never fail to show up, and once they show up, I can hardly help but think about them. I imagine who they are, where they came from, where they're going, what's going on in their lives, what awaits them in the future. Sometimes I wonder if this is an entirely ethical pastime, but I've reached the tentative conclusion that it's fairly harmless, since I don't actually believe any of the things I'm making up are anywhere near true. I just use the impressions people give me as a launching pad for fictions constructed entirely out of thin air (and generally forgotten more or less immediately). All the same, I suppose it's kind of a silly thing to do.

The thing, though, is that people really do have stories -- true stories that I know nothing about. Every single person you or I will ever meet has a life, and it's just as real to them as mine is to me. My existence is so self-centered, I often forget that. Think of all the cars you pass on the highway on a given day. I don't suppose most of us take the time to actually think it through very often, but isn't there kind of a subconscious assumption that once a vehicle has whooshed past you and vanished from sight, it and its occupants (because it does have humans inside, believe it or not) cease to exist? Well, the fact is that they don't. To them, you are the flash of speeding metal, barely noticed and immediately forgotten. Every single person in every one of those cars, everyone living in all the houses and apartments you pass, everyone walking down the sidewalk, everyone at the store -- every single one has had moments of joy, moments of pain, moments of suffering, moments of refreshment -- all these moments making up a life. And every single one has a soul that cannot die.

It really struck me today, a year after my sister's death, how little most of us really know about each other. In some ways, that's just as things must be -- each of us can only live one life, and we can't share equally in the suffering of all those around us, or I suppose it would kill us. It isn't required of us to remember all the birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones people have lost, or to keep up with everyone's struggles and heartaches, sharing acutely in all their pain. It just isn't possible. Yet I was convicted, on the other hand, of keeping too much to myself, of not reaching out to others when I can, or at least thinking and behaving selflessly when that's all I can do.

You see, we just don't know. We don't know what other people have been through, or what they're going through now; and even if we do have some idea what's going on, we can't understand what it's like until we've been there. Sometimes as I'm driving to Spencer, I remember May 4 of last year, when we drove that same route, trailing a distant ambulance, and nobody else knew where we were headed; nobody knew our lives had just been shattered. Sometimes, then, I look at the car ahead of me and wonder where they're going: is it an ordinary errand, or are they staggering through tragedy? Who am I to know? If someone flies by me going twenty over the speed limit, maybe he's just late for a dentist appointment; or maybe his wife is about to give birth to their first child; or maybe his child is dying. If the car just ahead of me is poking along at a maddening pace, I wonder if I could take a deep breath and be patient, instead of tapping on the wheel and growling under my breath. It could well be that the driver just can't see the road through her tears.

Death touches more people than you might think. Sometimes I stop at the cemetery where Addy is buried on my way home from work, or when I'm driving by, and there's almost always a fresh grave, or one that the grass has yet to grow over. Every time, someone's world fell apart. And it doesn't end there; the grass is green over Addy's grave, but our hearts still ache. Life goes on; the world forgets, but we never will.

So when the lady ahead of you in the checkout lane can't find the right change; when there's a tired, screaming toddler at the next table; when the gas station attendant all but snaps at you about your purchases; when the cars ahead of you take half the morning to make their left turns ... consider carefully before you assume anything, because there is much that you don't know.

The painful truth is that you're not the center of the universe, and neither am I. None of us is the main character, and most of us probably aren't even in the supporting cast. We're props and makeup artists and piccolo players in the band -- each of us has a part, to be sure, but frankly, it's not about any of us. God made every single one of us in His image, and the sole purpose of that was so that we could glorify Him and enjoy Him forever. For those of us who have been redeemed, it's all "about" our Heavenly Father, and loving Him by obeying Him, which means loving each other. That's the only reason any of this matters.

And for those of you who suffer, for those of you who grieve, for those of you who feel alone in your pain -- take comfort and remember that you're not. "For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15) He was forsaken, the Heidelberg catechism assures us, so that God might never forsake us. In fact, Hebrews 13:5 says the same thing: "For He Himself has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." And in Isaiah 61:1, ""The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me, Because the LORD has anointed Me To preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound."

We may be many things, but when we belong to Christ, we are never alone.

Tread softly, for you know not what an ill-feigned smile conceals;
Be patient: think how far away a troubled mind may be;
Speak kindly, for you cannot know the pain another feels;
And love -- for there is always more to life than you can see.

they knew

2009-03-26T22:50:00.000-05:00

What is the militia? It is the whole people. To disarm the people is the best and most effectual way to enslave them
- George Mason

Laws that forbid the carrying of arms...disarm only those who are neither inclined nor determined to commit crimes...Such laws make things worse for the assaulted and better for the assailants; they serve rather to encourage than to prevent homicides, for an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man.
- Thomas Jefferson, quoting Cesare Beccaria's "On Crimes and Punishment"

The constitution supposes, what the History of all Governments demonstrates, that the Executive is the branch of power most interested in war, and most prone to it. It has accordingly with studied care vested the question of war in the Legislature.
- James Madison, writing to Thomas Jefferson

If Congress can employ money indefinitely to the general welfare, and are the sole and supreme judges of the general welfare, they may take the care of religioin into their own hands; they may appoint teachers in every state, county, and parish, and pay them out of their public treasury; they may take into their own hands the education of children establishing in like manner schools throughout the Union; they may assume the provision for the poor; they may undertake the regulation of all roads other than post roads; in short, everything, from the highest object of state legislation down to the most minute object of police, would be thrown under the power of Congress.
- James Madison

It is working like gravity by night and by day, gaining a little today and a little tomorrow, and advancing its noiseless step like a thief over the field of jurisdiction, until all shall be usurped from the states, and the government of all be consolidated into one.
- Thomas Jefferson, on the federal judiciary

Arwen, Undomiel, Evenstar, Whatever

2009-02-26T22:18:00.000-06:00

How comest thy part in this tale?
And who dared enlarge it so far
That, bloated, thou staggerest onward,
And thy role doth so hopelessly mar?

The footsteps thou strivest to follow
Are truly so small and so light,
That any attempt that thou makest
Goes blundering into the night.

Thou ought to be small, unoffensive,
And not go out wandering so much,
Chasing Gondorian Rangers,
Whose hearts thou so gropingly clutch.

Hypnosis by brain-waves thou sendest
To a gullible soul far away.
Thy necklace, a chain ever-clanking,
Obsesseth him day after day.

Thou seest how low is thy standing
In the favor of one, which is me.
I think that thou long ago should have
Been drowned on thy way o’er the sea.

Thou askest now why I am speaking
To thee, whom I esteemest so low?
I’m done now, but why did I bother?
Ask not, because nobody knows.

~Tierney Erwin

p.s. Since my reputation is worth so much, and hangs already on a thread so fine, I feel compelled to point out that 1) I wrote this years ago (I forget how many), and 2) even then, the formal English (thee, thou, -est, etc....what is that called, anyway?) was bad on purpose.
There. Now I feel better.

The Adventures of Biff and Iguana Man

2009-02-07T23:38:00.001-06:00

"No throwing babies," the sign in the window said.
I stopped to gawk and wonder, and then to scratch my head.
I stood there for a moment, then I turned myself around;
I watched, with grave suspicion, the goings-on in town.
A woman swept the sidewalk while the grocer stacked his wares;
Some boys were playing freeze tag, and a girl sat on some stairs;
A teen, complete with ipod, with great effort parked his car,
And near a blowout sale rack, two young moms played tug-of-war;
A new car passed an old one, and a moped passed them both;
A couple lovebirds waltzed on air, apparently betrothed.
Upon this scene of normalcy I gazed with some alarm--
What dreadful secrets lay beneath this fair facade of charm?
What possibly could spur the drawing up of such a sign?
Were babies really being thrown? A shiver smote my spine.
For a time I stood there frozen, then my Inner Hero stirred;
“Well, don’t just sit and slobber! Get your cape, you lousy bird!”
To my face these words were spoken! I could scarce believe the spite,
But I didn’t pause to answer, for I knew that he was right.
And, besides, my Inner Hero (though heroic to a fault)
Is known to lean toward rudeness. Indeed, perfect he is not.
So I thundered to my pickup with my nostrils bravely flared;
A cape is in my trunk, you see. I always come prepared.
I flung it round my neck, and in its blueish-green embrace
A new Me took the spotlight, though I kept the same round face.
My hat was pulled down to my eyes; my collar touched my ears;
I was, as has been wisely said, among evil’s darkest fears.
I tore across the pavement, kicking sparks up in my wake;
My heart was pounding wildly, but I swear it didn’t quake.
When I reached the storefront window, with that awful sign inside,
I paused to shake my fist, and then I flung the front door wide.
The splendor of my coming would have scared a warlord stiff,
But the freckled kid inside just laughed (his name was likely Biff).
He had braces and bifocals, and he laughed like choking cats;
I couldn’t help but loathe him, but I stalked to where he sat.
“Tell me now where I must venture,” were my words to that young bloke,
“To avenge these hard-tossed infants.” And I gave his face a poke.
With the benefit of hindsight, that last gesture was not wise,
For immediately upon it, greenish flames flicked in his eyes.
“Did you just poke my face?” he rasped. What could I say but “yes”?
And what precisely happened next is anybody’s guess.
I tried to keep my balance, but that kid was quick and fierce;
The strength with which he kicked me quite defied his tender years.
We tumbled on the floor then, getting jabs in when we could;
Of this art I am a master, but this Biff guy sure was good.
At last I broke his hold and stood and grabbed a whiteish flag;
“Oh say,” I said, “Why not be pals? This fighting’s such a drag.”
He gave an awful gurgle and made three more well-aimed kicks,
Then he grinned a silly grin and said, “Ok. Let’s call it quits.”
With relief my soul was flooded now; I wrung his sweaty paw;
Then, “You must be Iguana Man,” he said in startled awe.
I smiled and blushed a little bit, for what he said was true;
Then, out of common courtesy, I asked, “And who are you?”
“My name is Biff,” quoth he, to which I said, “I thought as much.”
(A face like his, I thought, no other name could justly touch.)
“Are you looking for a job, Biff? For your wallop’s got pizzazz,
And a sidekick’s something I’ve not got, but really ought to have.”
Such radiance seized Biff’s features that it rather hurt my eyes,
And he gave a harsh, elated squeak, in affirmative reply.
“Come on now, Biff,” I said then, “There are babies to be saved.
Someone has been throwing them; let’s crush the errant knaves!”
Biff yodeled, and he set off down the street at such a pace
That I had to rent a scooter just to keep up with the chase.
For many blocks we sped thus, till we reached the edge of town,
Then Biff pulled up so sharply that I nearly mowed him down.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely, “This is where they toss the babes,
But they tranquilize the infants, so their cries don’t wake the nabes.”
“The fiends,” I darkly muttered, and with stealth we crept inside.
Then Biff got really nervous, and he said we’d better hide.
“They meet here every Tuesday right at seven, and that’s soon.
Let’s hide here in the closet, then we’ll snag the wretched goons.”
A first-rate plan I thought it, so we hid among the coats—
The reek of must and mothballs was so strong it hurt my throat.
We didn’t suffer long, though, for there soon arose a din,
So we crowded to the keyhole to peek outside from within.
There was padding on the floor, and there was padding on the walls;
There were men in padded jumpsuits (some were short and some were tall).
There were cradles in the corners. There were babies all about
(They were wrapped up snug in blankets, with their faces poking out).
Then a great and solemn silence swept the chatter off its feet,
And there rose a muffled humming, and a soft but steady beat.
Then a man strode to the infants and he gently picked one up,
And with fluid, swift dexterity he slung the helpless pup;
Another silent man reached out and snatched it from the air.
I didn’t scream, but this I did: I pulled out half my hair.
As one body, Biff and I leapt out; we cried, “Lay down your arms!
Place the babies in the cradles, or you’ll certainly be harmed.
We are trained in Russian boxing, and we know a hundred tricks;
We have written epic poems, and we sometimes swallow bricks.”
Now, I cannot say with certainty that all of this is true,
But things were looking desperate, and, well, what else could we do?
It did the trick, at any rate—those brutes spun out and fled,
And we chased them round in circles till we all were almost dead.
At last the fiends surrendered, and they hung their heads in shame;
I told them that, if I were them, I would surely do the same.
Then Biff scooped up the babies, while I dragged the crooks to jail;
By sunset we were satisfied that one more case was nailed.
I was pleased with my new sidekick, who, though ugly as a toad,
Was very good at boxing, and with valor was bestowed.
We stood out on a hilltop then, my partner Biff and I.
We didn’t have to say a word—the same glints were in our eyes.
The world was now a safer place; our day’s good deed was done,
So we kicked back, had a beer, and watched the setting of the sun.

The End.

my flitting thoughts light briefly hereon...

2009-02-03T21:31:00.000-06:00

...in other words, here are a few things I've been thinking about lately. This is my excuse for a blog post when I lack the motivation or subject matter to write anything of my own.

Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.
-Job 13:15

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
Or to be loved as to love with all my soul.
-a song

I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.
-Jane Austen

And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things."
-Luke 10:41

It takes no courage whatsoever to type alone in my study. Especially when I'm typing for a safe audience.
-Andree Seu

For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?
-Jack Handey

Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug.
-John Lithgow

I blame Dorothy Sayers

2009-01-24T22:43:00.000-06:00

Imagine a man--not a terribly honorable man (guilty, in fact, of murder; though only two people know it yet)--who has become entangled in a deadly drug-smuggling ring. At the beginning, he didn't know what he was getting into, but he needed money; and even when he did find out what it was all about, he stuck with it. Imagine that such a man, under the growing suspicion that you (who are obviously a British lord who moonlights as a self-directed private detective of sorts) are on to his trick, comes to your flat one night to confess. After exchanging tales and getting the whole thing sorted out, making it quite evident that his game is up, suppose the man confides that, though he himself is strangely relieved that it's over, his one great distress is that his past deeds will cause his wife and child such pain and public disgrace.
The role the man played in the drug-trafficking was inconspicuous, though vital. Its revelation, besides shocking and shaming his family, would also ruin the reputation of the advertising firm for which he worked, and through which he secretly worked his mischief.
The murder he committed was related to the drug business, and was rather ingeniously constructed to look like an unfortunate accident, and has been credited as such by all the world, apart from yourself and one discerning young lady.
Suppose you are well aware, as you talk together this evening, that another member of the drug ring has trailed your man here, and is waiting somewhere in the shadows outside, fully intent on doing him in as he makes his way home again.
You are also aware that if your man stays a few hours in your flat, he will be safe, for your friends at Scotland Yard will by then have sprung their trap on the rest of the gang elsewhere in the city, and the would-be assassin will have fled for his own life.
The man contemplates suicide, to save his wife and child from the scandal (provided you hold your tongue, of course).

Knowing all this, could it be justifiable to suggest something else to the man? What if you said,

"Listen! I think there is one other way out. It won't help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and child."
"How?"
"They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you."
"What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I'll do anything."
"It won't save you."
"That doesn't matter. Tell me."
"Go home now. Go on foot, and not too fast. And don't look behind you."

What if the blood drained from his face as he said, "I think I know what you mean. . .very well."

And what if he did it?

conversations with a five-year-old superhero

2009-01-08T20:30:00.000-06:00

Tierney is walking through her parents’ bedroom.
Enter Eli (wearing a cape with the collar turned up, a belt with a pistol holster bearing a wooden sword, and Tierney’s graduation cap) and Sam (dressed in long johns, a baby bib, and a too-small knitted cap of some kind).

Tierney: Oh, look, it’s a graduated superhero.
Eli: No, it’s actually a helmet. It only looks like a graduation hat.
Tierney: I see.
Sam: Hi, Middis Bott.
Tierney: Mrs. Potts? Why do I always have to be Mrs. Potts? Can’t I be someone else this time?
Sam: No. Middis Bott.
Tierney: Oh, fine. Who are you, again?
Eli: Mr. Beeda. Or maybe Baby Mayne.
Sam: Yeah. Baby Mayne.
Tierney: Oh. Hi, Baby Mayne.
Sam: Hi…
Eli: My name is Jack. I’m actually a guard at the hotel.
Tierney: The hotel?
Eli: This is the hotel.
Tierney: I see. Do all the hotel guards wear helmets like that?
Eli: Yeah, it has armor underneath. I have two chain mail shirts, too. And this is my sword.
Tierney: At least your sword looks like a sword.
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Do you get a lot of armed robbers at this hotel?
Eli: No, I’ve got two chain mail shirts.
Tierney: I know, but why do you need all that armor? Do you get attacked a lot?
Eli: Not really. Sometimes I wear a suit coat.
Tierney: Oh. Do you wear your chain mail underneath?
Eli: No, just a white shirt.
Tierney: I see. Do people call you Agent 86 when you wear your suit coat?
Eli: Yeah, but I’m really a guard.
Tierney: Disguised as Agent 86?
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Very tricky.
Sam: Daddoo, beez! Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: What?
Sam: Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: Tractor please?
Sam: No, daddoo, beez!
Eli: Oh, you want your gun?
Sam: No…
(A trek is made to Sam’s dresser, wherefrom Eli pulls a largeish “number one” birthday candle.)
Tierney: Oh…I see. Candle please.
Eli: That’s his gun.
Tierney: Oh. It looks like a candle.
Eli: It’s a gun.
Tierney: Disguised as a candle?
Eli: Yeah.
Sam: Yeah. Daddoo.
Tierney: So then you can tell all the bad guys, ‘No, I just carry a candle around with me for fun,’ and then you can shoot them.
Eli (laughing): Yeah, like, pshew! Pshew!
Tierney: Oh, that was fun.
Sam: Yeah. Dun. Bad duys. Oh!
Tierney: Oh man...
Sam: Oh man!
Tierney: What is it?
Sam: Dood duys! Winnow!
Tierney: The good guys are coming in the window?
Sam: Yeah. Dood duys.
Tierney: Good guys should really come in the door.
Sam: Yeah. Bad duys.
Tierney: Oh, there are bad guys, too?
Sam: Yeah, winnow.
Tierney: Well you’d better get them!
Sam: Pshew! Pshew! There.
Tierney: How do you tell which ones are the bad guys that you can shoot?
Eli: The bad guys all wear white, and the good guys all wear black.
Tierney: Sam’s wearing white.
Eli: No, he has a blue bib, and this blue hat, and a tractor on his jammies.
Tierney: Oh. So the bad guys just wear all white with nothing on it. Are you a good guy, Sam?
Sam: No. Dood baby.
Eli: All the good babies wear white pajamas with this little tractor on them, and a light blue hat, and a blue bib with a brown dog on it, and above the dog it says ‘woof’, and no socks.
Tierney: I see. That’s quite a uniform.
Sam: Oh! Bad duys!
Tierney: Bad guys over there, too? Good grief, they’re coming out of the woodwork tonight.
Sam: Dood duys!
Tierney: Bad guys and good guys? Oh dear. Are they fighting?
Sam: Yeah.
Tierney: Who’s winning, the bad guys or the good guys?
Sam: Um…bad duys.
Tierney: Oh no! You’d better go help. You can’t let the bad guys win!
Sam: Dun?
Eli: Yeah, here, shoot my helmet.
Tierney: You want a hole in your helmet?
Eli: No, it’s got armor under it.
Tierney: Oh, it’s bullet-proof?
Eli (scornfully): No, it’s sword-proof.
Tierney: So if someone shot your helmet, the bullet would go through and kill you?
Eli: No, it’s armor.
Tierney: Well, that’s what bullet-proof means. Bullets can’t get through it.
Eli: Oh. Yeah. It is.
Tierney: That’s good.
Eli: I’m actually one of them, over there.
Tierney: One of the good guys?
Eli: Yeah. I’m a guard.
Tierney: So I hear.
Eli: All the guards wear black pants and a grey shirt, and white socks, and a black cape, and a sword, and a helmet.
Tierney: Goodness. Who designed your uniform, anyway?
Eli: The hotel, of course!

Exit Eli and Sam. Finis.

2008-12-29T23:29:00.000-06:00

Heinrich opened the parcel in surprise, and read the note taped to the bundle of yellow papers inside.

"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."

"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."

He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.

"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."

Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.

---------------

"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"

"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"

"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."

"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."

"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."

"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."

"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."

"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"

"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."

"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"

"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."

"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."

"In a who?"

But she was already gone.

......................

"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"

"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"

"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"

"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."

"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"

"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."

"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"

"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."

"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"

"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."

"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"

"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"

"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"

click.

my life as a series of minor disasters

2008-12-17T01:11:00.000-06:00

Act 1

Scene 1

The stage is set. It is Monday, the eighth of December. Tierney rises early and, for once in their lives, both she and Camille are ready to leave for work with time to spare. Tierney even feels comfortable enough with the day's progression to drive slightly under the speed limit. Then, about halfway through Hartley, it happens. An elderly gentleman on his way to the grocery store makes an ill-considered left turn, and the crunch of shattered glass and crumpled metal announces the end of the short life of Tierney's Camry. As the smoke and dust slowly drift away, it becomes apparent that the right side of Cami's face has not reacted well to its encounter with the airbag, and the man in the other vehicle is bleeding pretty steadily out the back of his hand. But that is the extent of the damage to human life from this encounter, and everyone is thankful.

Scene 2

Fast forward to Tuesday, December ninth. Tierney, in spite of a deep-seated conviction that there is nothing in the world the matter with her, agrees to a precautionary post-crash trip to the chiropractor. Camille is scheduled to see the chiropractor a little later the same morning, as well as the opthomologist, for her eye was scratched and bruised in the collision. Altogether, the appointments ought to take only a couple of hours, and Tierney should be able to return to work at noon. But, alas and alack, the highways and byways have all been thoroughly coated with a glassy layer of ice, and are impassable at speeds greater than 30 miles an hour. After much toil and travail, Cami's eye is examined and proclaimed mostly-healed, both girls get their necks thoroughly cracked, and Tierney finally arrives at work a full two hours before it is time to go home.

Intermission

(From Wednesday, December tenth, through most of Saturday, December thirteenth, life proceeds at a fairly normal rate, pausing only for occasional tic-like problems that register but as small blips on the radar screen, and which are almost immediately forgotten. This is a good time to go out and replenish your supply of popcorn and Diet Pepsi, if you're running out.)

Act 2

Scene 1

Saturday, the thirteenth of December, flies by with nary an incident, but Tierney wraps up the day with a long, vivid, and disturbing dream about vampires, which finally awakens her at 6:00 in the morning. This occurrence, subsequently deemed the worst nightmare Tierney has ever had, is made all the stranger by the fact that she has never watched a vampire movie, and has thought about vampires approximately twice in her life.

Scene 2

The date is Sunday, December the fourteenth. Tierney and her mother drive to the evening worship service in spite of impending weather problems, due largely to the fact that the choir is singing before church this evening, and Tierney is the designated choir pianist. Upon the conclusion of the service, offers of places to stay the night begin to fill the air, and a glance outside proves them not unjustified. A short venture out onto the highway proves them very well justified indeed. The Erwin van makes an about-face, and proceeds instead to the Visser abode, where it remains until the next morning. Its human inhabitants, along with the residents of said abode and another family of refugees, amuse themselves until midnight by playing "Apples to Apples" and a very dangerous game of spoons. After being soundly beaten in the latter, and declared "neat", "delightful", "offensive", "revolutionary", and "aged" in the former, Tierney parts ways at last with her church attire, and falls soundly (not to mention dreamlessly) asleep in a very soft bed.

Scene 3

The fifteenth day of December is a Monday, and is, incidentally, Keegan's thirteenth birthday. School is given a two-hour-late start, much to the relief of Tierney, who will now have sufficient time to return home, shower, and find something more suitable to wear than a sweater and a tiered skirt, before returning for work by 10:30. Unfortunately, when she and her mother arrive home, they discover that the shower drain has frozen in their absence, and that the only person to get a shower has been Keegan, who remains unaware of the problem until later. Tierney makes do the best she can, but has a fairly rotten day at school. Late starts are not, she decides, good for anyone. However, at last the schoolday ends, and when she returns home she finds her mother making a pecan pie to take along to Keegan's birthday celebration with Grandpa and Grandma in an hour and a half. But what, in such a situation, is the electricity to do but go out? So it goes out. And it stays out. The family abandons the pecan pie project, finishes their preparations in the dark, and departs for the Pizza Ranch in Spencer. While there, Tierney eats just under ten pounds of food off the buffet, and drops a piece of dessert pizza on its face. The electricity is, we are happy to report, once more operational when the troops return some hours later.

Scene 4

On the morning of Tuesday, the sixteenth day in December, Tierney wakes up and shivers violently. Her face is cold, her feet are cold, her blankets are cold, and her mind is cold. Whose bright idea was it to turn the heater off in the middle of the night? Apparently it was the heater's idea, and it's sticking to it. Tierney pumps all the hot air and steam into the bathroom that she can find, and still barely survives her shower. She dons three long-sleeved shirts, wishes her chilly family all the best, and leaves for work. One can only hope that the repairman will arrive soon. (And he does.)

Let us hear the conclusion of the matter.

Tierney walks slowly through the quiet, powdery snow, squinting her eyes a little against the flurries of snowflake clumps still making their leisurely way down from the heavens. She shuffles her feet and kicks the snow around, smiling for no good reason at all. She's trying to think of a new way to describe the snow, a fresh, true way that will bring a vivid picture to your mind and make you think of it in a way that never occurred to you before. Gently falling powder snow deserves to be described in such a way; but she can't think of anything. One wishes for the mind of C.S. Lewis at times like this. In spite of this failure on her part, she is not downcast. It is hard to be sad when school has been let out early because of the weather (which is not even all that bad), and there is snow falling all around, as if all the world is a giant snow globe that has just got itself righted. Is there anything so quiet as snowfall without wind, the soft feather flakes brushing gently together, rustling on the very edge of hearing? Ah, life is beautiful, disasters and all.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-11T18:27:00.001-06:00

Hmm. Christmas. What does that make you think of?

Some people think of a cone-shaped tree in the living room, wrapped in twinkling lights and crowned with a plastic star. Which is actually pretty weird if you think about it, because what in the world does that have to do with anything?

Some people think of an enormously fat, apparently omnipresent man in a red coat who somehow squeezes himself, in a rather criminally-minded manner, down the chimney at night, leaving presents for everyone in socks hung by the fireplace. That's even worse than the whole tree thing, because besides being weird and disturbing, it's just plain impossible.

Other people, the pious ones, remember "the real reason for the season". They think of singing angels in the sky, richly-dressed kings on camels, shepherds, sheep, and a sweet little baby in a feed trough. In some ways, I suppose this is the strangest Christmas image of all.

It is, nevertheless, a familiar one. You can hardly live in America and not know what a "nativity scene" is. We recognize them at once, with the necessary components--Mary, Joseph, three wise men, a selection of shepherds, a donkey, a cow, and a few sheep--all gathered in a neat little arc, with a neat little manger in the center, cradling a baby in a neat little nest of fresh, soft straw. It's a serene and peaceful arrangement. It's tidy, it's well-lit, and it's cute. But there's nothing "cute" about Christmas.

What is there, honestly, that is "cute" about having to be born in a stable? Even on a superficial, story-telling level, it's rather horrible. A stable is for animals. It smells like animals, and it's cold at night and dirty. In most portrayals of the nativity scene, I've noticed that the manger is uncommonly cradle-like, both in size and in structure. I haven't done any in-depth research on ancient Middle-Eastern mangers, so maybe that's really what they were like; but somehow I doubt it. And even if they were, if you think about it, would you readily lay your hours-old baby to sleep in a trough from which farm animals had eaten, lined only with a layer of scratchy, prickly hay? What a rude way for any baby to greet the world, let alone the Son of God. The scene we call the nativity is many things, but it can never be cute.

Go deeper. Perhaps indeed we are too flippant about the circumstances into which Christ was born; perhaps we gloss over the atrocity of it all. But how do we treat the infant Savior Himself?

Of a "holy infant, so tender and mild" we sing, and we request that He "sleep in heavenly peace". We smile indulgently as we listen to small children tell us in song about "the little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay", laid away in a manger.

From whence comes this condescension? Does it never occur to us that the only reason the infant lay there in the manger at all was because He had come to suffer the torments of hell in the place of His chosen people? Our offense against God is so great, that this was the payment required: that the eternal, almighty Son of God must be born a helpless baby, live a homeless man, and die the death of a criminal, rejected by man and forsaken by God. Never once, in the life He lived for us, did He sin. But His is not an adorable innocence, bathed in a soft, friendly glow and covered all around with comfortable fuzzies. His perfect holiness ought instead to drive us, trembling, to our knees in humility and unspeakable gratitude. God's love, demonstrated thus in the sacrifice that set us free, is indeed beyond our comprehension, and this really should fill us with joy, for the agony of hell that faced us has been replaced with glory and eternal life in Christ. But this does not make Him a God to be trifled with. He is not, as C.S.Lewis so powerfully put it, a tame lion.

O LORD, I have heard Your speech and was afraid;
O LORD, revive Your work in the midst of the years!
In the midst of the years make it known;
In wrath remember mercy.
God came from Teman,
The Holy One from Mount Paran.
His glory covered the heavens,
And the earth was full of His praise.
His brightness was like the light;
He had rays flashing from His hand,
And there His power was hidden.
Before Him went pestilence,
And fever followed at His feet.
He stood and measured the earth;
He looked and startled the nations.
And the everlasting mountains were scattered,
The perpetual hills bowed.
His ways are everlasting.
I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction;
The curtains of the land of Midian trembled.
O LORD, were You displeased with the rivers,
Was Your anger against the rivers,
Was Your wrath against the sea,
That You rode on Your horses, Your chariots of salvation?
Your bow was made quite ready;
Oaths were sworn over Your arrows.
You divided the earth with rivers.
The mountains saw You and trembled;
The overflowing of the water passed by.
The deep uttered its voice,
And lifted its hands on high.
The sun and moon stood still in their habitation;
At the light of Your arrows they went,
At the shining of Your glittering spear.
You marched through the land in indignation;
You trampled the nations in anger.
You went forth for the salvation of Your people,
For salvation with Your Anointed.
You struck the head from the house of the wicked,
By laying bare from foundation to neck.
You thrust through with his own arrows
The head of his villages.
They came out like a whirlwind to scatter me;
Their rejoicing was like feasting on the poor in secret.
You walked through the sea with Your horses,
Through the heap of great waters.
(Habakkuk 3 : 2 - 15)

God's character has never changed and never will, even when He came as a baby, even when He hung dying on the tree. Can you stand before this God and call Him "sweet little Jesus"? Can you stand before Him and say anything at all, without His salvation?

When I heard, my body trembled;
My lips quivered at the voice;
Rottenness entered my bones;
And I trembled in myself,
That I might rest in the day of trouble.
When he comes up to the people,
He will invade them with his troops.
Though the fig tree may not blossom,
Nor fruit be on the vines;
Though the labor of the olive may fail,
And the fields yield no food;
Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,
And there be no herd in the stalls--
Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
I will joy in the God of my salvation.
The LORD God is my strength;
He will make my feet like deer's feet,
And He will make me walk on my high hills.
To the Chief Musician.
With my stringed instruments.
(Habakkuk 3 : 16 - 19)

much ado about not much at all

2008-11-25T20:13:00.001-06:00

And so I find myself working a full time job. It's one of the last things (apart from joining a convent or the military) that I would have predicted or desired for myself, and even now I often find myself wishing I was on a different path, and wondering why I'm not. (I suppose this seems weird, in a world where the norm is for girls to pursue a career of some form or another; but that is a topic for another day.) However, I can begin to see how, if I were to spend all my time keeping house, reading, writing, and doing the other things I used to think I was going to do with myself, I would probably become too comfortable, and lose sight of the need for continued growth. Stagnation never does much toward saving the world.

Sometimes I am mildly perturbed, for reasons varying widely in their degree of selfishness, by the sadly deficient nature of my appearance. But then I think to myself, you know, if I were beautiful at all, I would run a high risk of becoming intolerably vain about it. Not to say that I'm not vain enough as it is. I am, to be sure, but my current vanity is tempered by the constant reminder that it has no basis in reality. So in the end, it's probably more of a blessing than a curse, even though it's easier to see it the other way around.

Often, what looks like a disaster, or at least a disappointment, is actually the best possible thing that could have happened. Actually, scratch that part about "often". Make it always. Several well-known and oft-quoted verses come to mind:
"And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28)
"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope." (Jeremiah 29:11)
"Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ's sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy." (1 Peter 4:12-13)
"And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope." (Romans 5:3-4)
And there are more...but you get the idea.

Now, perhaps you are thinking to yourself, "This is all true, and certainly it is glorious and wonderful and well worth reminding ourselves of; but it's not a very original thing to devote a blog post to." (Not that blog posts have to be original--mine are living (or dead) proof of that.) Well, the abnormal part of this train of thought is still coming, so keep your shirt on.

It's entirely possible that I am the only person in the history of mankind to have felt this particular way; at least, I don't recall ever hearing anyone else speak of it in my presence. So perhaps I am sticking my neck out here; perhaps this is the testing point, the point at which clinical insanity is diagnosed, the point of no return. Maybe they'll name a whole new species of mental instability after me. That would be one way to go down in history, though I can think of a few better. Curing the common cold, for example, or inventing disposable clothing. But I digress.

The thing is that, though knowing and believing that God really does work all things (including unpleasantnesses, if that's a word) for good is a tremendous comfort, my appallingly sinful nature has found a way to shade even this truth with grey, and twist it into something it's not. Observe:

-My primary "goal" (if you want to call it that) in life is to be a wife and mother, a keeper at home; and that's what I think it should be. But sometimes I think I want it too much, and then it begins to seem likely that God will see fit to re-organize my priorities by causing me to live out my days as an old maid.

-I think it would be rather disappointing and difficult, not to mention boring, to be rich. So sometimes I think that I will probably inherit a prosperous diamond mine, or marry a multi-millionaire, in order to learn patience, temperance, wise generosity, and...who knows what else.

-I hate city driving, and I would miss the sunset and the stars dreadfully; so in order to remove distractions and fix my mind more firmly on things that actually matter, perhaps God has a long-term city dwelling in my future. Probably a high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago, with one window, no yard, and noisy traffic 24/7. Ouch.

-I think it would be fun to have twins, so I probably won't.

-I would rather not be burnt at the stake, so I probably will.

-In the unlikely event that there is someone out there who is simultaneously godly enough for me to want to marry him, and crazy enough to want to marry me, I suppose he will have a bent towards know-it-all-ism, will hate reading and love rap, will have an annoying Boston accent, and will have a last name starting with G. (Cursive G's are such a plague.) All of those things would be somewhat difficult to live with, but I'm sure I would learn all kinds of valuable things through the experience (and I mean that).

Do you see the pattern? In all these things, I keep in mind (quite sincerely) that God can and will use everything He does in my life for my good. I acknowledge, pretty readily, that the things I think I want are often inferior to the things I actually need, and that God knows the difference between the two infinitely better than I do. My problem is that I start to assume that He will pretty much always use the most unpleasant means available to teach me the things I need to learn. I begin to subconsciously feel that, although the end result will be good, God would like me to suffer as much as possible between now and then...just because.

It's a subtle perversion of the truth, because God's ways aren't our ways, and often they really are painful and unpleasant to endure. And really, if God does see fit for me to be a rich, apartment-dwelling old maid until I am finally burnt at the stake in my old age, He will have done me no wrong. The problem isn't with the hypothetical situation, but with my arrogance and lack of trust in attempting to predict God's plan, and in assuming it will be everything I hope it's not.

I suppose I make myself sound like a confirmed and irrevocable pessimist. The redeeming quality all this absurdity has to it, is that it is almost always subconscious, half-hearted, and semi-jocular. So why do I write about it at such length? Good question.

So. How about it? Am I off my onion? Well, duh...

Why

2008-11-12T20:38:00.000-06:00

Black. White.
Stop. Go.
Right. Wrong.
Why is it seldom so easy?

Light and dark.
Good and evil.
Life and death.
They cannot coexist. The division is clear and unyielding.
Why do we have such a hard time seeing it?

Smudged lines and vague instructions aren't the problem. God didn't create a muddled universe. He didn't make the rule book a cryptic and complicated mess, in hopes that we'd mess up in our efforts to figure out how to play the game. He didn't set us up to fail.
The problem isn't the way the lines are drawn. The problem is with our eyes.

Given the clearest possible instructions--"of this tree you shall not eat"--we still managed to rebel, and now we see all as through a glass, darkly. Truth is still truth, and it's written on our hearts, whether we want to see it or not. Good is good, and evil is evil. There is no grey area; no middle ground.

I think what messes us up--even when, by the Spirit's power, our eyes start to open--is that in our quest for righteousness, we're usually looking for the wrong thing. What we'd really like to find is a step-by-step guide to holiness through external obedience. This action always takes precedence over that action. The less you talk, the less trouble you'll be in. Work always comes before play. Mercy always trumps justice. We may not like them much, but regulations are relatively easy to obey. Hard-and-fast laws of good behavior make life simple, comfortable...and hollow.

In the grand scheme of things, it's pretty easy for me to lift the corners of my mouth into a smile, wrap my fingers around a doorknob, and hold the door open for the lady behind me at the store. It's even possible, without exerting an enormous amount of energy (most days), to do so while feeling quite pleasant about it inside. I feel I have done well. It was the right thing to do, and I did it. Do I really think that's all it takes to please God? I'd like to think that, but I know I'm wrong.

I ask myself, then...Why do I do what I do? Why do I do even a simple "good deed" like opening the door for a stranger? I can think of about a million wrong answers.
Maybe I want the lady I'm helping to admire me and think what a nice person I am.
Maybe I want the young couple in the checkout aisle (who I hope are watching) to notice what I'm doing and think what a nice person I am.
Maybe someone in the general vicinity knows someone else that I know and want to impress, and I'm hoping news of my good deed will eventually get around to the that person.
Maybe I am pleased at the level of sanctification I have evidently now reached.
Maybe it just makes me feel good to remind myself what a nice person I'm capable of being.
Maybe I'm imagining the lady is a queen of some distant land, and obviously you open doors for queens of distant lands.
Maybe I feel guilty for snapping at my brother this morning, and now I've redeemed myself.
Maybe I was rigorously trained as a small child to always open doors for people behind me at stores, and I'm still afraid of being spanked if I don't.
Maybe I'm paranoid about bad karma catching up with me.
Maybe someone told me last week what a courteous young lady I am, and I feel I must keep up that reputation.
Maybe I'm upset with myself for being so discourteous in the past, and I'm doing penance by opening as many doors for people as I can find in an hour.
Maybe I missed lunch, and I'm hoping the lady has a granola bar or two in her purse that she'll feel like sharing if I'm nice.
Maybe...a thousand other things.

But there's only one right answer.
The lady behind me at the store was made in the image of God, and He has commanded me to honor His image by loving her as I love myself. God sent His only son to live and die in my place, to ransom me from the pit of hell and bring me instead to eternal life in His presence. Out of thankfulness for what He has done, how can I not offer myself as a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God? My chief end in life is to glorify and serve my God forever. If I love Him, I will keep His commandments.

How often I do what looks like the right thing. How seldom I do it for the right reason.

1 Samuel 16 : 7b
For the Lord does not see as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Colossians 3 : 23
And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.

1 Corinthians 10 : 31
Therefore, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.

Edit

2008-11-01T00:28:00.000-05:00

to the post-before-last:

I might have decided that I actually like Batman better than Spidey. It may never be official, but we have watched both recently, and that is my inclination at the moment.

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

The Song of the Salesman

2008-10-20T00:02:00.001-05:00

I was going through some old papers yesterday, and found this little song I made up years ago. Probably the only truly great thing I've ever written. If you feel so disposed, you can sing it to the tune of "If you're happy and you know it".

This is all you need to make your life complete!
Even though it doesn't work it's really neat!
See, it's packaged so inviting,
Don't those colors look exciting?
And that price you thought so fright'ning
Can't be beat!

batman-inspired bunny trails

2008-10-11T22:28:00.000-05:00

It's too bad Batman is a fictional character, because if he was real, I think I could tell him why he has such a hard time keeping Gotham City clean. Actually, it would be sort of nice if Batman were real even if I didn't have anything especially relevant to say to him. If there's one thing this world needs more of, it would have to be young multimillionaires who dress up as large, black bats at night and chase criminals in and out of dark alleys and parking lots. There's always room on the streets for another batmobile or two.

I have singled out Batman in spite of the fact that I would tend to like Spiderman better. This is because, while other superheroes (like Superman and Spidey) exist primarily to protect the largely innocent population from outlandishly ugly and outrageously evil supervillains who periodically crawl out of the woodwork, Batman tends to fight general corruption (along with the inevitable supervillain). He finds himself very much alone and, like Athanasius, "against the world". (I think the parallel with Athanasius ends there, though.) The city is so thoroughly riddled with crime, apathy, and despair that it often seems that Batman and one or two minimally influential cohorts are the only "good guys" in the whole place. Gotham City's problems are such that the death of the villain alone is always an insufficient remedy. Of course it helps, if only because there will be fewer exploding skyscrapers and chaotic car chases for awhile; but it does little to actually cure anything. The poison reaches too deep.

Batman's problem, as I see it, is that he fights an internal disease with external antidotes. Certainly it is noble to rid the community, whenever possible, of otherwise unchallenged drug lords and other deranged criminal masterminds. I'm not saying that doesn't need to be done; it does. But that's only the beginning of the cure. Batman fails because he assumes that, once there are no more slavering, clown-faced maniacs wandering the streets, the general population will be free to unleash its dormant goodness, and the inherent virtue of mankind will win the day.

Unfortunately for Batman (and the rest of us), that's not how it works. After all the stray supervillains have been rounded up and disposed of (though there seems to be an endless supply of them in most superhero-inhabited realms), the deep-rooted corruption of every man, woman, and child alive still remains; and it won't heal itself. People need more than slightly-less-dark; they need light. By itself, the eradication of lies isn't enough; it has to be replaced with the truth. Crime is only a symptom; the real disease is in our hearts. The people of Gotham City need the gospel.

As it happens, the real world needs the gospel, too. I think we make a mistake when we start to think some kind of salvation can be found if we just reform our national and global political systems. This isn't to say that the government doesn't need reforming--it does, rather desperately, and working toward such reform is a worthy and honorable endeavor (when pursued for the right reasons, of course). But the government got into its current quagmire because of a deeper, darker problem in the hearts of the people who voted it into existence. And unless we pull out the weed by its roots, it will only come back, stronger than ever.

The other side of the same coin is that only the Holy Spirit can breathe life into the dead souls of men. Without His power, no amount of begging, pleading, lecturing, preaching, reasoning, or discussing will do any good at all. At the same time, when God wills that one of His elect be saved, He can use the strangest (and often even the weakest) means to bring it to pass. In short, whichever direction you go, it's beyond our control. Perhaps this seems rather discouraging and hopeless. Actually, though, it is the height of glory, and a hope beyond imagination. God is in absolute control, and He works all things for the glory of His name and the good of His people. It is not our burden to determine the path of history; we have only to give our best effort to the tasks laid out before us, whatever and wherever they may be, and God will take care of the rest.

So whether America rises again or falls at last into darkness, whether Batman ever finally succeeds in securing tranquility for Gotham City, we can rest with perfect confidence in the providence and omnipotence of God. Someday we'll see the whole story, and our small part in it will finally make sense.

In the meantime, we have work to do.

If I Knew

2008-09-24T07:50:00.000-05:00

If I knew that today was my last day on earth,
Would I do what I’m doing right now?
Would I say what I’m saying, though I know it might hurt,
If it was the last thing you'd hear from my mouth?

Would I spend so much time on such trivial things,
If I thought that was all I would do?
Would the things I’ve not done still be put off, you think,
If I knew I’d be leaving so soon?

Would the things that annoy me and get on my nerves
Maybe not seem like such a big deal?
Would I feel so offended at that one thoughtless word,
If I knew it was the last thing I’d feel?

Could I let some things go, and give others more care?
Would my speed to forgive be the same?
If I knew time was short, could I choose to forbear,
And quietly shoulder the blame?

Might my thoughts have more depth, and my words greater weight,
Would my deeds have more purpose and drive?
Would I hesitate so before doing what’s right?
Would I be so reluctant to try?

Yesterday’s gone, and it will not return;
Tomorrow may not come at all.
If you knew that today was your last day on earth,
Would you be ready to answer the call?

Lunchtime at the Nursing Home

2008-09-18T07:49:00.000-05:00

I used to work in the kitchen at the local nursing home. This was (and remains) my opinion of the food there--and of almost all institutionally prepared "food" as well. (I'm cheating on this blog thing so far...by posting things I wrote months or even years ago. Eventually, however, I will write something new.)

"Bring the poison for the inmates!"
Calls the Captain to the guard.
"Cook them all the food that we hate:
Make it soggy, dry, or hard;
But if it's pleasant to the palate,
We will feather you with tar!"
"Might as well just feed them fishbait,"
Someone mumbles to the chard.

"What they like the best is plastic,"
Says the Captain with a smile.
"Soaked in chemicals and gases,
And the waters of the Nile.
Call it food (don't sound sarcastic),
And hum gaily all the while!"
Grumbles someone, "In the Arctic
There are things to eat less vile."

"Forward, march!" now cries the Captain.
"Down the hall we go to feed!
They are waiting in the dungeon:
Thence we go to quench their greed!
With a pile of Slime and Onions
We supply their every need."
"Nearer death with every luncheon,"
Mutters someone. "That's our creed."

Expectation

2008-09-14T22:34:00.000-05:00

Every journey has a destination, and every story has an end. The song is beautiful while it lasts, but there always comes the moment when the last note hangs quivering in the air, and when it has finally fled away, we are left in silence. It cannot last forever. We long, as we turn over the last page of a beloved book, to go back to the beginning, reaching out desperately for what has been, but can never be again. As we see the end of a beautiful road drawing nigh, we wish hopelessly that it would go on and on...forever. But it must come to an end; it could not stay so beautiful forever, or if it did, we should grow weary of it. Better to let it go while the memory is still sweet, and hang on instead to that memory, however mingled with pain. But why then the pain? Why are we not content? Why do our hearts still ache for something more? It is because this is not enough. Even in our reaching backwards, we know that what we really want cannot be found there. What we are truly seeking lies ahead of us, not behind. We were created for perfection, but we have fallen--this we know. and in ourselves we are dead, and heedless of our plight. But our ransomed souls cry out for restoration; we long to be made whole. In this life, we will never be complete. Everything around us, and we ourselves, are only broken copies of what was; fleeting shadows of what will be. This world is not where we belong. It is full of joy and beauty, to be sure; but the highest beauty is mingled with pain, and the deepest joy is bittersweet...and there will always be an end. That is why there is that ache that will never quite go away; that longing we can never quite define; that hole that is never quite filled while we remain in this life. One day we will go home; we will become what we were made to be, and we will be complete. And then we will be caught up and swept away by a beauty and a joy so high, so deep, and so perfect, that an eternity will not be sufficient for us to begin to comprehend it. And this time, it will never, ever end. Hallelujah!

"For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the redemption of our body For we were saved in this hope, but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perserverance."

~Romans 8:19-25~

Bugs and Babies

2008-09-08T17:08:00.000-05:00

I was driving a light blue minivan down a lonely gravel road, early one morning this summer, at a rate of approximately 56 mph. I was on my way to pick strawberries for a local strawberry patch, and I wasn't feeling overly enthused about the idea. I was tired of picking strawberries. You probably would have been, too, if you'd been doing it, in the blistering sun and pouring rain, for 5-7 hours every day for nearly three weeks. It's not the worst thing in the world (malaria and typhoid fever are worse), but it wasn't exactly at the top of my List of Favorite Things to Do on a Rainy Thursday Morning. I was trying to cheer myself up by listening to the radio, rolling the windows halfway down, and taking the humps on the gravel road without slowing down; and then I noticed a bug crawling around on the inside of my window. And I thought to myself, "What an odd bug." Because it was. It looked sort of like a rather flat tick, with somewhat larger legs, and long, graceful antennae. A "Great American Tick-alope", according to my slightly eccentric, but nevertheless clever and charming, sister Camille. (That probably won't make any sense unless you've seen the Pixar short-story-film thing that comes before The Incredibles. I think it's called "Boundin" or something like that. Pretty cute.)

Anyway, I was thinking about this bug (and trying not to go off the road while I watched it crawl hither, thither, and yon), and it occurred to me what a grand adventure it must be having, in a small, buggy kind of way. Imagine being half an inch long, and finding yourself plastered to the inside of the window of a van hurtling recklessly down a rather bumpy road. And this particular fellow still had enough energy and courage left to go exploring on this speeding sheet of transparency. I admired his pluck.

It made me think about the things we miss when we live too much on the safe side. When we slather ourselves in sunscreen, keep our feet carefully on the sidewalk, and always follow the recipe. Sometimes I like to take off my shades, even when the sun is shining in all its painful brilliance; just so my eyes can experience life "all the way". Sometimes I'd rather turn off the AC and roll down all the car windows instead, whatever havoc it will doubtless wreak on my hair; just because.

I know, they're little things. But I've never been to Cuba or ridden a motorcycle, and I don't live near any roller coasters; so I get my thrills when and where I can.

---------

Later that afternoon I was playing my cello, and my baby brother was hollering in his crib. At first he contented himself with making loud, squalling sounds like a tornado siren or a small fighter jet coming in for a landing. Eventually, however, I noticed he was more and more consistently yelling, "Neen! Neen!". That's my name. Probably he had started hearing cello-ish noises and deduced that I was ignoring him. (For the record, I wasn't precisely ignoring him. I was going to get him up....my plan just wasn't quite as instantaneous as his.) So I went in and turned off the box fan that's supposed to keep the sleeping child from hearing the wakeful noises that tend to permeate the rest of the house (like telephones and cellos), then went over to have a chat with my smallest sibling.

"Hallo, Beebee," I cooed, "Why are you screeching like that? You sound like a screech owl...a baby screech owl."

(People always say silly things to babies, small children, and animals. I can't explain it, but I do it, too.)

Sam babbled something incoherent in reply, and bounced impatiently up and down in his crib. I am fluent in Sammish, and I knew that this should be approximately translated, "Get me out of this death trap, you mean girl. I want some pretzels." I was in a benevolent mood, so I obliged.

"You want out of bed?" I asked sweetly, "Come here, then, baby. But why were you screeching so much before? You never told me."

"Owie," said Sam, and he stuck his thumb in my mouth. That would be Sammish for "Kiss it".

in which we discuss the dangers of driving at sunset

2008-08-09T23:09:00.000-05:00

When I took the driving test to get my license, I only made one mistake. But it was a bad mistake. According to the lady who kept track of my score, it was the worst mistake listed on her sheet (except, probably, for mowing down pedestrians or attempting to outrun a cop). Going through an unmarked intersection, you see, I apparently breezed right through, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and putting myself and my passenger in grave danger of being broadsided by any number of phantom cars that might or might not have been there. Subtract eight points from the final tally. Actually, I retain the private opinion that I did look both ways before crossing the street; only that my head didn't move, and due to the fact that I was wearing sunglasses, my instructor failed to note the silent rotation of my eyeballs in their sockets. I did not, however, press charges at the time, seeing that I received a passing grade even with the deduction. It was also comforting that, apart from my instructor, my mother, and myself, no-one ever need know about the incident, thus keeping my driver-ly reputation, for now, at a decent level of mediocre. Unless, of course, some loony-bird were to take it into her head to include it as an anecdote in a blog post intended to be broadcast all across the universe by way of the internet. But what kind of nut would do something like that?

It struck me the other day what a tragically hilarious irony it would be if that was how I died: if, in a carbon-copy repeat of that one mistake on that first day, I was flying blissfully through an unmarked intersection on my way to a Bingo re-match at the senior center, heedless of danger and daydreaming happily of brownies and decaf coffee, only to be skewered at the last by a panic-stricken semi. Actually, it would probably be the semi's driver that would be panic-stricken. I doubt if the truck itself would care that much.

I seem just as likely, if not more so, to die in a head-on collision with oncoming traffic (what other kind of traffic, might I ask, does one get into head-on collisions with?), due to an irresistible compulsion to gaze, enraptured, at the sunset or a passing pelican, instead of at the road. Roads don't stand up to a whole lot of enraptured gazing, and I tire of them rather quickly. Sunsets, on the other hand...ah, me. Oh, and pelicans. Pelicans are nice, too. So are wallabies, for that matter. But I digress.

I was headed east on a rather lonely blacktop this evening, and I could see rain on the horizon. A greyish haze smothered most of the visibly sky, but there was a certain amount of sunshine filtering thoughtfully through from the west. It was neither gloomy nor cheerful. I didn't even really notice that it was anything at all, until later. I came to a stop sign, and signaled a left turn. There was a blue minivan coming up on my right, so I waited for them to pass. (See, I do sometimes look both ways at intersections.) I happened to glance to my left as I rounded the corner, and I saw the sky.

It wasn't quite sunset yet, but it was glorious. I groped, even then, for words that might translate a little bit of this glory to the page; but the endeavor was vain. Imagine a clear, blue patch of sky on the western horizon of an otherwise overcast sky. Imagine a single column of mounting, gilt-edged cloud in the center, and hard-edged rays of sunlight spilling out into the corn fields below. Imagine that, only a hundred times better and more brilliant. Do you think you could keep your eyes off it? I couldn't.

The glory surprised me. The rest of the sky was so nondescript this evening; who would have anticipated such brilliance in that one corner? There's something incredible about finding beauty where you didn't expect it. A dandelion wriggles its way up through a crack in the sidewalk. A boring acquaintance turns out, in fact, to be quite witty and charming once you get to know her. A really lovely song sets in the middle of an otherwise forgettable CD. A hand-written letter arrives from a far-away friend. A gorgeous sunset crowns the end of a cloudy day.

I glanced back at the road just in time to avoid hitting a large pickup truck coming over the brow of a hill. They should never have given me my license.