_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 Outdated special effects, for example, along with a messy hodge podge of convincing and crummy acting, reasonable and ridiculous dialogue, good morals and morals with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.
09 August 2010
skin deep
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.
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.
13 July 2010
I Was Home Schooled:
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?
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?
07 July 2010
jonah
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.
27 June 2010
an attempt at summary
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.
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.
07 April 2010
Sparkly
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 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…”
05 April 2010
my wandering mind
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. . .
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. . .
24 March 2010
rose colored glasses
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.
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.
19 March 2010
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.
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.
24 February 2010
because everything doesn't have to have a point
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.
I just thought you'd like to know.
21 February 2010
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.
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.
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