This is a starting place for people who are interested in learning about the war going on in Uganda and the efforts that are being made to provide relief to those who, because of attack and displacement, are suffering.
The fact is that people are dying right now. I mean, this moment, as you read and re-read this statement, people are dying. Uganda is our current focus, but as you open your eyes to this one area of African horror, don’t be blinded to the rest of our world. Here are just a few statistics to get you thinking, and their respective sites where you can find more information.
-> There were over 9,000 deaths from HIV/AIDS, nearly 2,000 from violence and 500 by war. Today. http://www.poodwaddle.com/clocks2.htm
-> Every day, almost 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes--one child every five seconds. http://www.bread.org/learn/hunger-basics/hunger-facts-international.html
-> Around 50,000,000 to 60,000,000 child labourers work in hazardous circumstances that cause ill health and chronic disease and san sometimes lead to their death. https://worldvision.org.nz/PDF/resources/Child_Labour.PDF
-> At least 1,000,000 girls worldwide are lured or forced into commercial sex activities each year. https://worldvision.org.nz/pdf/resources/Trash%20or%20Treasure.pdf
This information should weigh on your heart. Don’t allow yourself to forget it, but make room for what I am about to tell you – because this is, for now, what we are going to fight. This... this is our war.
There is a war going on in Africa; this war started over 20 years ago as a feud between the Ugandan government and one woman named Alice Lakwena. Since the 80’s, the rebellious group that she started has become a violent, ruthless army set on taking down Uganda’s current government. The group has been taken over by a man names Joseph Kony, and had been renames the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). When they lost their support from the people of Uganda, they turned against them – and began to steal children from the smaller villages, forcing them to kill and torture on command. Many of these children witnessed their own siblings heartlessly murdered without cause or explanation. It is estimated that there are 3,000 child soldiers in the African jungles, being held captive and living in constantly life-threatening situation in the borderlands of northern Uganda, southern Sudan and the Congo. Peace talks are failing because Joseph Kony continues to go back on his word. He is an unreliable, ruthless leader and his clearest objective seems to be to terrorize the people and kidnap the children of Uganda and the surrounding regions. He will not stop... so he needs to be stopped. And these children need to be rescued.
This is a lot of information to take in, especially if you have not yet been exposed to these facts. I strongly encourage you to look up the Invisible Children documentary (available on YouTube) and get yourself educated. These words can get across only a fragment of what those videos will impress on your mind. When you have seen or heard enough, I ask you – we ask you – they are asking you – to REACH OUT.
Respond: Take what you have learned and set it into your mind. Find a way to personally connect to these people and respond in a proactive way. Don’t get depressed – get empowered. Learn as much as you can and make it mean something.
Expose: This cause is not something to keep inside. The whole goal is to make people aware of their world and the daily tragedies that we are ignoring. Spread this information around, share your research and your heart with others that they may, in turn, do the same.
Address: Get public. Make a statement, write a note, create a poster, craft a song... Draw attention to these kids by drawing attention to yourself. Join out tee-shirt campaign, or start something of your own. Be creative – and be bold.
Challenge: This is a challenging of not only others but also for yourself. Fundraising schemes, widespread awareness campaigns, luxury-fasting and other such events would fall into this category. Push your creative limits or participate in someone else’s plans – I dare you.
Harvest: Collect the resources (people, money, projects, arts and crafts...) you have and do something with it. Send the money to relief organizations or missionary groups in Uganda and the other areas of the world in such great need. The harvest here is from us and for them.
Omit: The ultimate goal is, as a global community, to step in and help these people. To rescue the child soldiers and displaced citizens, to provide for their needs and to stop Kony’s group from further terrorism. Can this be done? Yes, with a lot of help and some serious elbow grease from everyone with eyes to see and ears to hear.
Ugandan: Uganda (and Invisible Children) is a starting place for this group and these efforts. There is so much need that we, in North America, choose not to see. Our long-term goal does not stop with Uganda... Long-term, we do not stop. There is terror and horror all over this globe. This is a universal awareness effort.
Terror: What is terrifying? Living under the threat of unpredictable physical attack, living without security, living without family, living without hope, living without food, living without water... just living without... without is terrifying in itself.
So, now it’s your turn. Take this upon yourself. Find some brilliant ideas and share them. Learn, first and foremost, and then reach out to those who need your help so desperately. As we come up with brilliant plans and events, we will share them... but we won’t do your job for you. You have been informed, now the responsibility is yours.
This is your mission. Choose to accept it.
Friday, 20 March 2009
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Dishonourable, Bachelor
Does anyone remember the days when television used to portray love as lasting and commitment as more than a halfhearted promise only made to be broken for the inevitable heartache of those involved and the "entertainment" of others? These days of positive relational expression seem to have gone the way of the toilet in recent years. Between dramas, soap operas, sitcoms, cartoons and "reality" TV, our cultural perception of life has been severely warped.
Nothing jumps to mind faster than The Bachelor to illustrate my point. A couple of months ago I caught myself watching the first few episodes and somehow I tuned in for every single one... I'm still not quite sure how I became a regular of the Monday night drama, but I did, and I began to grow the strange attachment to those women that comes from too much time observing a stranger. I felt like I knew them in a way, that I could relate, and their lives began to matter to me. So, last night when I had to watch Jason tear up not one but two hearts with his decisions, I was actually upset. I was so... disappointed.
When I fall in love, it will be forever... or Ill never fall in love. In a restless world like this is, love is ended before its begun and too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun. When I give my heart, it will be completely, or Ill never give my heart. And I expect no less from my man when I, if I, marry. I will not compete for attention or affection and I would never want to find myself in a position of choosing between two people that I care for equally. People were designed for one other person at a time: one other person for life, whoever they may be. So maybe I am an idealist or a dreamer of sorts and maybe I have watched too many Disney movies; nevertheless, I have been witness to love that works and lasts through the toughest of trials, love that is passionate and supportive and enduring and real. I have seen love that survives and grows deeper and stronger all the way through life, love that is, often, rooted in more than this world's shallow expectations and feelings of any kind. I have seen love founded in God and truth and trust. Is this too much to ask? Are these aims set too high?
I am not looking for love right now, nor seeking attention from a man in my life, so please, please don't read this as some kind of awkward invitation. Take it as a challenge.
Guys, I'm talking to you here: be men. Maybe you are already in a relationship. Maybe you are a single chap with his eyes roaming 'round for a pretty girl to call your own, or maybe you are of the opinion that life with a woman isn't worth the drama (and this may be true); whatever your "status" I ask you not to follow the lead of men in the media. Fools are those who cannot recognize the effects of their actions; jerks are those who see them and don't care. Please, don't follow either of these examples however plentiful they are in this world. Create a new standard. You don't need a white horse to be a hero and you can reserve your shining armor for medieval reenactments. Women are looking for qualities that are much more portable than those things: trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength, consideration for others...
And ladies: be ladies! (Yes, we can be bold and take initiative and rock at our jobs, but how can we expect men to be all they can be if we are trying to play both roles?) Find the qualities in yourself that will balance what you want your man to be; we compliment each other by design (and not just physically). They need our trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength and consideration for others as much as we need theirs, even in friendship.
There is still hope out there for love. There are still people who believe in for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health so long as they both shall live. Not everyone is completely consumed by our consumer culture that tells us everything is disposable, even love, even life. Traces of traditional, moral values are still found, strewn and scattered in pieces around this world, but God knows we need more of it. We need more love. We need more faith. We need something we can trust without doubt and fear, someone we can go to when we do fail each other, when everything else slips down the drain. It just so happens that He has provided us with such a thing... but perhaps that message is best saved for another time.
Nothing jumps to mind faster than The Bachelor to illustrate my point. A couple of months ago I caught myself watching the first few episodes and somehow I tuned in for every single one... I'm still not quite sure how I became a regular of the Monday night drama, but I did, and I began to grow the strange attachment to those women that comes from too much time observing a stranger. I felt like I knew them in a way, that I could relate, and their lives began to matter to me. So, last night when I had to watch Jason tear up not one but two hearts with his decisions, I was actually upset. I was so... disappointed.
When I fall in love, it will be forever... or Ill never fall in love. In a restless world like this is, love is ended before its begun and too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun. When I give my heart, it will be completely, or Ill never give my heart. And I expect no less from my man when I, if I, marry. I will not compete for attention or affection and I would never want to find myself in a position of choosing between two people that I care for equally. People were designed for one other person at a time: one other person for life, whoever they may be. So maybe I am an idealist or a dreamer of sorts and maybe I have watched too many Disney movies; nevertheless, I have been witness to love that works and lasts through the toughest of trials, love that is passionate and supportive and enduring and real. I have seen love that survives and grows deeper and stronger all the way through life, love that is, often, rooted in more than this world's shallow expectations and feelings of any kind. I have seen love founded in God and truth and trust. Is this too much to ask? Are these aims set too high?
I am not looking for love right now, nor seeking attention from a man in my life, so please, please don't read this as some kind of awkward invitation. Take it as a challenge.
Guys, I'm talking to you here: be men. Maybe you are already in a relationship. Maybe you are a single chap with his eyes roaming 'round for a pretty girl to call your own, or maybe you are of the opinion that life with a woman isn't worth the drama (and this may be true); whatever your "status" I ask you not to follow the lead of men in the media. Fools are those who cannot recognize the effects of their actions; jerks are those who see them and don't care. Please, don't follow either of these examples however plentiful they are in this world. Create a new standard. You don't need a white horse to be a hero and you can reserve your shining armor for medieval reenactments. Women are looking for qualities that are much more portable than those things: trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength, consideration for others...
And ladies: be ladies! (Yes, we can be bold and take initiative and rock at our jobs, but how can we expect men to be all they can be if we are trying to play both roles?) Find the qualities in yourself that will balance what you want your man to be; we compliment each other by design (and not just physically). They need our trustworthiness, dependability, respect, maturity, compassion, loyalty, strength and consideration for others as much as we need theirs, even in friendship.
There is still hope out there for love. There are still people who believe in for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health so long as they both shall live. Not everyone is completely consumed by our consumer culture that tells us everything is disposable, even love, even life. Traces of traditional, moral values are still found, strewn and scattered in pieces around this world, but God knows we need more of it. We need more love. We need more faith. We need something we can trust without doubt and fear, someone we can go to when we do fail each other, when everything else slips down the drain. It just so happens that He has provided us with such a thing... but perhaps that message is best saved for another time.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Fast-Food Fast For Food
Do you know what is going on in our world?
I admit it: I actively avoid news channels, I turn off the World Vision broadcasts, I haven’t read a newspaper (even online) in a few years, I hear about people doing terrible things and going through unbelievable suffering and I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. I am worse than ignorant... I am purposely dismissive.
Until now: my eyes have been opened.
Take an hour or two and look around our world. What is going on in Asia? How about Africa? South America? Your own city and town? Our culture has made selfishness an acceptable practice. Ignoring our neighbours because of social position or religion or colour or distance is wrong. We are lying to ourselves and to each other: “Well, they’re used to that, it’s their culture” or “You can’t help everyone, so don’t play the hero” and “I can’t afford to support another person because I’m already in debt, I don’t have the skills, I’m too busy...”
Lame excuses and transparent lies. It’s a lie.
The fact is that people are dying because of our laziness and idle attitudes about human life. Our cultural gluttony is starving others. With needless spending we throw away money that could be used to save a life. Children in Africa are starving because of wasted food at my table.
I want to do something about it.
I am young. I am still in school and I can’t wave down an airplane and fly across the world right now to personally feed one of these tortured, starving children. Missions work and volunteer aide is a huge need globally right now, but at this stage in my life, I am not in a position where I can fill one of those roles. But maybe I can support someone who can.
My plan: I’m going to fast fast-food.
The money that I spend on going out to dinner, on eating in the cafeteria, on random snacking to and from the mall, on McDonald’s, on Tim Horton’s, on Subway, on Euphoria smoothies, et cetera, will now be kept in a large mason jar on my dresser. At the end of each month (over the course of a year) I will send that money to a different missionary overseas, as an encouragement and a reminder that their work and their lives have not gone unnoticed. At the beginning of each month I will write a note about where and why I chose to send the money, a bit about the country and ministry. If at any point you would like to join me in this, I will happily send over your cash and letters too.
So, bag your lunches for a while. Skip a meal and think about those who don’t have the luxury of deciding to – those who just have no food, no clothing, no home. Maybe we can’t save everyone... but everyone can save someone, and one can make all the difference in the world.
Somebody is praying for help today. Will you be their answer?
I admit it: I actively avoid news channels, I turn off the World Vision broadcasts, I haven’t read a newspaper (even online) in a few years, I hear about people doing terrible things and going through unbelievable suffering and I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. I am worse than ignorant... I am purposely dismissive.
Until now: my eyes have been opened.
Take an hour or two and look around our world. What is going on in Asia? How about Africa? South America? Your own city and town? Our culture has made selfishness an acceptable practice. Ignoring our neighbours because of social position or religion or colour or distance is wrong. We are lying to ourselves and to each other: “Well, they’re used to that, it’s their culture” or “You can’t help everyone, so don’t play the hero” and “I can’t afford to support another person because I’m already in debt, I don’t have the skills, I’m too busy...”
Lame excuses and transparent lies. It’s a lie.
The fact is that people are dying because of our laziness and idle attitudes about human life. Our cultural gluttony is starving others. With needless spending we throw away money that could be used to save a life. Children in Africa are starving because of wasted food at my table.
I want to do something about it.
I am young. I am still in school and I can’t wave down an airplane and fly across the world right now to personally feed one of these tortured, starving children. Missions work and volunteer aide is a huge need globally right now, but at this stage in my life, I am not in a position where I can fill one of those roles. But maybe I can support someone who can.
My plan: I’m going to fast fast-food.
The money that I spend on going out to dinner, on eating in the cafeteria, on random snacking to and from the mall, on McDonald’s, on Tim Horton’s, on Subway, on Euphoria smoothies, et cetera, will now be kept in a large mason jar on my dresser. At the end of each month (over the course of a year) I will send that money to a different missionary overseas, as an encouragement and a reminder that their work and their lives have not gone unnoticed. At the beginning of each month I will write a note about where and why I chose to send the money, a bit about the country and ministry. If at any point you would like to join me in this, I will happily send over your cash and letters too.
So, bag your lunches for a while. Skip a meal and think about those who don’t have the luxury of deciding to – those who just have no food, no clothing, no home. Maybe we can’t save everyone... but everyone can save someone, and one can make all the difference in the world.
Somebody is praying for help today. Will you be their answer?
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Twenty-five.
1. I have a deep and personal affection for all things silly. Two immediate examples: Larry the Cucumber and his diddies make me smile no matter my mood, and I am actually going to take the time to fill out this survey. I may even combine the two.
P.S. This is a note that originated in the world of facebook. Usually such notes, the kind that are more ...revealing... in nature, are avoided on this blog. I like having a certain anonymity, though I'm sure most of you know exactly who I am; but, upon the request of my family (that I may share this with more family), I am leaving it here. I hope that this may entertain you, or at least help you to settle once and for all in your mind that you are not the oddest person on the Internet. I am a quirk. And now anyone can prove it...
1. I believe that even numbers are the single most aggravating invention of humankind. My frustration is not specifically with things that are grouped in multiples of the pair. It is the numbers themselves that irk my very core. For example: 2. Eww. Or even worse, 4. From time to time I can handle the number 8, but 10 is unsettling and 6 gives me goosebumps... actually. A physical reaction. But odd numbers... ah yes. Odd is where it's at.
3. Sometimes I wear mismatched sock in honour of my best friend. I secretly find it unsettling and I am incredibly aware of my feet all day. I prefer life barefooted more than any other way.
3. The ring I wear on my right hand has never technically belonged to me. I don't know who's it is... I'm sorry if I've been wearing your ring for the past five years, but you can't have it back. I love it too much. and I think it makes my finger look lovely... :)
5. I have mutant bunion feet.
7. I love public transportation. My bus pass is by far my best (inanimate) friend in North Bay. We have made many excursions over the past year and a half, and I know their are many more journeys and adventures to come.
7. I like every left-handed person I have every met. Just for the sake of repetition, I have never met a left-handed person I was not attracted to in some way. I have often wished to be left-handed and for about a year I tried to train myself to be ambidextrous. (I did not succeed at the time, but my left-handed chalkboard writing isn't horrific.) Part of me is quite sure that I will marry a lefty.
7. I can speak fluent Pig Latin. When I was little, if my Mom wanted to have a conversation that she didn't want my sisters or me to pick up on, she would spell the key words. When we learned to spell, she resorted to Pig Latin. I don't think my Dad ever learned, but I remember being quite confused for a few months, listening to my Mom and my Grandpa chatting it up over my head. But then I learned the trick to that too, and spoiled their fun.
9. I love to write... and I currently have five blogs, three of which you have access to via my profile, for days that you find yourself with some free time and nothing to do (or if you need to procrastinate for a while), and one is my diary (of sorts) and one is my prayer journal... or prayer blog, I suppose... I'm pretty sure God gets the message no matter the medium. I'm also in process of creating a choose-your-own-adventure story that needs a few more alternative endings.
9. I collect dimes. I have over $200 in dimes at home and I'm building up a nice collection here at school as well. I have a hard time spending them, and I often sort them into a different pocket from the rest of my change when I'm shopping - the habit is mostly subconscious at this point. If I see a dime on the floor, even in a busy hallway, I will more than likely stop to pick it up. One time, I bent to pick up a dime that was sitting in a doorway... just as a heads-up to all of you would-be dime collectors, make sure no one is following you very closely before you stoop. They may go flying.
11. I love second-hand stores. I would guess that about half of my clothing comes from Value Village, Sally Ann or Winners. The other half comes from Wal-Mart. The other half comes from (of course there are three halves) a variety of other cool places (ie, Eclipse and Stitches).
11. Stickers = the bomb.
11. I picked up my clarinet for the first time in six years this afternoon. (It was a little squeaky...) My goal is to be able to play it with ease by summer. I'm working on Disney tunes for the time being.
13. My parents have instilled a wonderful appreciation for antiques in the depths of my soul. My personal passion is books... Anything printed before or around 1900 is of instant interest to me. Upon moving to school this year and packing/unpacking my life I realized that over half of the boxes I had brought up were filled with books. Alas, some of them have since been sent home due to a lack of shelf space, but I proudly display the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and Dr. Seuss among many other authors throughout modern history.
13. I have four dresses in my closet up here. One of them is a marvelous princess ball gown, a strapless floor-length coral thing that I am absolutely in love with. Some times I wear it around my apartment when no one else is home and sing all of the greatest Disney love songs to myself, just for the fun of it. I hope you have things you do just for the fun of it.
15. I am afraid of mathematics. (2+2=5) (If you read 1984, you may understand some of my apprehension... or at least that reference.)
17. I love shrimp, but it's actually the dip I'm addicted to. Did you know that pretty much anything dipped in seafood sauce tastes like seafood? One of my favourite shrimp-alternatives is cheese and crackers... "Tastes like chicken"? Nope. Tastes like seafood. MmMmmmm :)
17. I struggle with both insecurity and vanity, often at the same time. The tension between them tend to leave my self-image in a pretty shaky place most days.
17. I will never need alcohol to bring life to a party; just keep me up past 2am. Apparently, I am pretty entertaining all on my own.
19. I took three years of Spanish in high school and I can still read and understand quite a bit, though I've lost most of my conversational skills. One of my life-goals is to become bilingual (or trilingual, if Pig Latin ever becomes a recognized language...) and live in Central America for at least a year. I would love to go on a long terms mission trip there, or perhaps go over to teach English. In high school I went to Mexico for just over a week and in 2007 I went on a trip to Costa Rica for a month. I think I left part of my heart in those places. One day I will go back and retrieve it.
19. I am a pyro. I love fire. This has lead to a number of nearly-dangerous activities in my time, many to do with campfires or bonfires, some to do with candles and matches... But the flame is such a naturally intriguing thing... I understand why it has become such a metaphor.
19. I am a country girl to the bone, to my very core. Country music is my therapy for homesickness, especially those old songs and the artists from my childhood. The Dixie Chicks, early Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Garth Brooks, Shedaisy, Kieth Urban, Martina McBride, Lonestar, Terri Clark, Tim McGraw, Phil Vasser... the list is a long one. Country music is all about the old-school, old-fashioned, simplistic ways of life. That's how I grew up, it's how I live, and how I'd like my kids to grow up. I was raised by a cowboy and very proud of it.
21. Rain is my favourite precipitation and dancing, singing, running, playing or just standing in the rain is the best feeling in the world. I wish it would rain more. Maybe I should move to BC or England for a while. I think I would have a wonderful time.
23. I have had blonde, brown, red, black and green hair. The green was on purpose. I'm going blue next, but just little bits this time.
27. I write secret notes to one of my friends in Runic.
29. I wear an apron about 90% of the time I spend in my kitchen, whether or not I am baking or cooking anything. I think I just like the domestic feeling. It makes me feel like maybe the world still has some of those old-fashioned principals and values that my favourite country songs sing about. It's the kind of thing that I think our modern hyper-progressive culture is deprived of... I think that maybe if women wore aprons more often and guys started styling the tie again from time to time that some of the problems that feminism has brought into our society would be tempered. Maybe people would feel more settled, more at peace...
P.S. This is a note that originated in the world of facebook. Usually such notes, the kind that are more ...revealing... in nature, are avoided on this blog. I like having a certain anonymity, though I'm sure most of you know exactly who I am; but, upon the request of my family (that I may share this with more family), I am leaving it here. I hope that this may entertain you, or at least help you to settle once and for all in your mind that you are not the oddest person on the Internet. I am a quirk. And now anyone can prove it...
1. I believe that even numbers are the single most aggravating invention of humankind. My frustration is not specifically with things that are grouped in multiples of the pair. It is the numbers themselves that irk my very core. For example: 2. Eww. Or even worse, 4. From time to time I can handle the number 8, but 10 is unsettling and 6 gives me goosebumps... actually. A physical reaction. But odd numbers... ah yes. Odd is where it's at.
3. Sometimes I wear mismatched sock in honour of my best friend. I secretly find it unsettling and I am incredibly aware of my feet all day. I prefer life barefooted more than any other way.
3. The ring I wear on my right hand has never technically belonged to me. I don't know who's it is... I'm sorry if I've been wearing your ring for the past five years, but you can't have it back. I love it too much. and I think it makes my finger look lovely... :)
5. I have mutant bunion feet.
7. I love public transportation. My bus pass is by far my best (inanimate) friend in North Bay. We have made many excursions over the past year and a half, and I know their are many more journeys and adventures to come.
7. I like every left-handed person I have every met. Just for the sake of repetition, I have never met a left-handed person I was not attracted to in some way. I have often wished to be left-handed and for about a year I tried to train myself to be ambidextrous. (I did not succeed at the time, but my left-handed chalkboard writing isn't horrific.) Part of me is quite sure that I will marry a lefty.
7. I can speak fluent Pig Latin. When I was little, if my Mom wanted to have a conversation that she didn't want my sisters or me to pick up on, she would spell the key words. When we learned to spell, she resorted to Pig Latin. I don't think my Dad ever learned, but I remember being quite confused for a few months, listening to my Mom and my Grandpa chatting it up over my head. But then I learned the trick to that too, and spoiled their fun.
9. I love to write... and I currently have five blogs, three of which you have access to via my profile, for days that you find yourself with some free time and nothing to do (or if you need to procrastinate for a while), and one is my diary (of sorts) and one is my prayer journal... or prayer blog, I suppose... I'm pretty sure God gets the message no matter the medium. I'm also in process of creating a choose-your-own-adventure story that needs a few more alternative endings.
9. I collect dimes. I have over $200 in dimes at home and I'm building up a nice collection here at school as well. I have a hard time spending them, and I often sort them into a different pocket from the rest of my change when I'm shopping - the habit is mostly subconscious at this point. If I see a dime on the floor, even in a busy hallway, I will more than likely stop to pick it up. One time, I bent to pick up a dime that was sitting in a doorway... just as a heads-up to all of you would-be dime collectors, make sure no one is following you very closely before you stoop. They may go flying.
11. I love second-hand stores. I would guess that about half of my clothing comes from Value Village, Sally Ann or Winners. The other half comes from Wal-Mart. The other half comes from (of course there are three halves) a variety of other cool places (ie, Eclipse and Stitches).
11. Stickers = the bomb.
11. I picked up my clarinet for the first time in six years this afternoon. (It was a little squeaky...) My goal is to be able to play it with ease by summer. I'm working on Disney tunes for the time being.
13. My parents have instilled a wonderful appreciation for antiques in the depths of my soul. My personal passion is books... Anything printed before or around 1900 is of instant interest to me. Upon moving to school this year and packing/unpacking my life I realized that over half of the boxes I had brought up were filled with books. Alas, some of them have since been sent home due to a lack of shelf space, but I proudly display the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Bunyan, Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and Dr. Seuss among many other authors throughout modern history.
13. I have four dresses in my closet up here. One of them is a marvelous princess ball gown, a strapless floor-length coral thing that I am absolutely in love with. Some times I wear it around my apartment when no one else is home and sing all of the greatest Disney love songs to myself, just for the fun of it. I hope you have things you do just for the fun of it.
15. I am afraid of mathematics. (2+2=5) (If you read 1984, you may understand some of my apprehension... or at least that reference.)
17. I love shrimp, but it's actually the dip I'm addicted to. Did you know that pretty much anything dipped in seafood sauce tastes like seafood? One of my favourite shrimp-alternatives is cheese and crackers... "Tastes like chicken"? Nope. Tastes like seafood. MmMmmmm :)
17. I struggle with both insecurity and vanity, often at the same time. The tension between them tend to leave my self-image in a pretty shaky place most days.
17. I will never need alcohol to bring life to a party; just keep me up past 2am. Apparently, I am pretty entertaining all on my own.
19. I took three years of Spanish in high school and I can still read and understand quite a bit, though I've lost most of my conversational skills. One of my life-goals is to become bilingual (or trilingual, if Pig Latin ever becomes a recognized language...) and live in Central America for at least a year. I would love to go on a long terms mission trip there, or perhaps go over to teach English. In high school I went to Mexico for just over a week and in 2007 I went on a trip to Costa Rica for a month. I think I left part of my heart in those places. One day I will go back and retrieve it.
19. I am a pyro. I love fire. This has lead to a number of nearly-dangerous activities in my time, many to do with campfires or bonfires, some to do with candles and matches... But the flame is such a naturally intriguing thing... I understand why it has become such a metaphor.
19. I am a country girl to the bone, to my very core. Country music is my therapy for homesickness, especially those old songs and the artists from my childhood. The Dixie Chicks, early Shania Twain, Jo Dee Messina, Garth Brooks, Shedaisy, Kieth Urban, Martina McBride, Lonestar, Terri Clark, Tim McGraw, Phil Vasser... the list is a long one. Country music is all about the old-school, old-fashioned, simplistic ways of life. That's how I grew up, it's how I live, and how I'd like my kids to grow up. I was raised by a cowboy and very proud of it.
21. Rain is my favourite precipitation and dancing, singing, running, playing or just standing in the rain is the best feeling in the world. I wish it would rain more. Maybe I should move to BC or England for a while. I think I would have a wonderful time.
23. I have had blonde, brown, red, black and green hair. The green was on purpose. I'm going blue next, but just little bits this time.
27. I write secret notes to one of my friends in Runic.
29. I wear an apron about 90% of the time I spend in my kitchen, whether or not I am baking or cooking anything. I think I just like the domestic feeling. It makes me feel like maybe the world still has some of those old-fashioned principals and values that my favourite country songs sing about. It's the kind of thing that I think our modern hyper-progressive culture is deprived of... I think that maybe if women wore aprons more often and guys started styling the tie again from time to time that some of the problems that feminism has brought into our society would be tempered. Maybe people would feel more settled, more at peace...
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
A Change of Plans
Something as mundane and ordinary as a spoon should not have become as important as it did, but dream, like life, is completely unpredictable, and nothing could have prepared us for the drama that the tiny utensil would bring.
We were sitting in a high class restaurant somewhere in Paris, the kind of place where you not only pay by the dish but also by the hour and you tip your server every time he comes to your table. The ladies looked fantastic, almost majestic, and there was no denying the glamour that dripped from the diamond jewellery and perfectly fitted floor-length gowns that framed each woman’s unique beauty in the perfect way. In a word, the evening was exquisite.
The maître d’ gave firm yet professionally hushed direction to his waiters in perfect aristocratic French and the restroom had beautiful daybed seating for those who found themselves in wait for one of the plush, elevator-sized stalls. Each plate of food came on sterling silver 19th Century style covered dishes, with delicate gold leaf inlay on each lid, and the food between the precious metals was no less lovely. Course after course we were pampered with the finest that France could offer.
It was the third dessert selection that changed the mood. With his usual, graceful bow our waiter presented our dish. With a flourish he removed the lid and revealed...
... A large ice cream sundae.
Ashley looked at me with a question in her eyes. I tried to offer a wordless response; I didn’t ask for it. I don’t know what’s going on. Suddenly a young man burst through the double doors at the entrance of the restaurant. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and a light washed pair of jeans. He looked like Fonzie, but this guy was not the Happy Day’s star. This was a 50’s or 60’s version of Jon Margeson.
“Hey there, dolls!” He shouted from across the room, hopping light-heartedly over other horrified guests as they sipped at expensive soups or sliced delicately at warmed peaches with miniature forks and knives. Jon slipped past an astonished waiter as he tried desperately to keep his five plates of food in composed balance. Then Jon skipped over to our table and grinned at the giant sundae that sat, untouched between us. “Wowee, what a bash! And would you check out this cat here?” Jon was waving his arm towards the frustrated maître d’ who was trying to hustle Jon back out the door without making an even more intrusive scene for the patrons of his restaurant. “Cool it, Clyde, we’re gonna cut out of here in a flash if you just lay back and give me a chance to explain! You don’t have to get so frosty, man, ya dig?”
Jon turned his attention back to our table. Marsena’s jaw had dropped in shock during that last speech and her facial expression would have easily spoken for the rest of us, if we hadn’t already been expressing our own disbelief; Jessica had dropped her glass and its contents were leaking across the tablecloth towards the place where my last mouthful of cheesecake had fallen, and Ashley looked like she was struggling to make a decision between gracefully fainting to the floor or taking Jon my the ear and throwing him out of the restaurant herself. Before she could act on either, however, Jon has seized our sundae in his left hand and one of the long sundae spoons in his right. He proceeded to scoop the cherry off the top and toss it into the air, catching it, along with the following glob of whipped cream, in his mouth. Then he licked the spoon clean and began to twirl it like a baton around the fingers of his right hand. “So,” he grinned, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” In perfect unison every lady at the table shook her head. No, I thought, Let's not. We don't even have to say we did.
Jon, with a mischievous smile on his face, had evidently taken our stunned silence as licence to continue. He began drumming his spoon against the rim of the sundae cup along to the song “Johnny B. Goode” that had just started playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. As soon as he tapped at the lip, every shimmery-gowned woman, coat-tailed gentleman and all of the waiters and attendants in the room froze in place, with the exception of my dinner party and our personal Pied Piper, leading us through the maze of beautiful, life sized marionettes to the back of the restaurant to the doors of the kitchen. Jon gave the swinging doors a swift kick and my friends followed him into the next room. I hesitated, looking back into the room I was leaving. The people looked so terribly still, so caught in the actions of life... life unlived is not alive at all, and this scene was unsettling. Jon came up just behind me, now humming the appropriately titled Herman’s Hermits hit, “This Door Swings Both Ways” to himself. He rapped his spoon against the bowl of the glass three times and suddenly everyone sprang back to action, as though nothing more disruptive than a collective sigh had taken place. Satisfied and smiling once again, I turned to follow him through the still-swinging doors.
The first thing I saw was the long counter, not of the high society professional kitchen I had anticipated, but that of a 1950’s style diner. “Ah, the good life!” Jon called out to the guy behind the counter. “Ladies, please let me introduce my pal, here...” But no introduction was required. We already knew this friend, more or less. Behind the counter, flipping burgers with one hand and in a permanent salute with the other, stood a member of the Queen’s national guard with a traditional chef’s hat on top of his own bearskin mountain, and he had a cow-print apron overtop of his red uniform jacket. He also had an incredible moustache, the specific description of which I will leave to your own imagination. It was Brian Jaques. He put down his barbeque flipper and, still in salute, pulled a flask from one of the apron’s pockets. He took a swig and then splashed a dose on the sizzling hamburgers. “Lime eet up. Eetz dah seeecret engreeedient, yaah.” He was an obvious imposter of the accent, but he kept it up consistently and was always smiling, so no one bothered him. “Vaat tave you been doeenk zis eevenink, Jon ov zee slicked back hair ov red?” Jon pulled a small comb from his back pocket and smoothed the sides on his hair into a perfect ducktail. “Well, I just picked up these chicks in some fancy joint in ol’ Pari’ and I’ve got a big gig in about an hour.” He leaned in to Brian in faux secrecy and whispered, “These gals would be late for everything if we weren’t around...” He gave the group of us a smart-aleck wink and added, “Imagine, showing up late to get circled!”
Brian chuckled heartily at the joke and the rest of my dinner party, apparently not yet filled from our dainty French meals, hiked up the hems of their gowns and hopped up onto the stools in front of the counter. I joined them, surprised at the renewed hunger that the kitchen smells had brought out in me. Brian flipped the hamburgers backwards and over top both of his hats in quick succession, each patty landing perfectly centered atop the toasted buns that had magically appeared before us. We couldn’t resist... in a flash our prim and proper ladylike manners went down the drains and our appetites got the better of us. For a few minutes we ate in silence, listening to Jon jabber on with Brian as he finished what was left of the sundae. When the last drizzle of chocolate sauce was gone, he stood up from the counter. “Time’s up ladies. It’s been a kick, sugar-booger, but we gotta jet. Places to be ya know.” With a salute back to our chef he started once again to rap against the edge of the glass with his spoon. At that moment the scene froze again and Brian, with a patty in mid-flip and one hand to his brow smiled his farewell. The burger didn’t fall to the grill again until we had almost passed through the double doors at the back of the kitchen, when Jon reappeared to free him from the spell of the spoon with three sharp raps. The last I saw of Brian Jaques, he was reaching into his apron once more for his flask.
The area through the double doors was more like stepping into an alternative universe than into another room of any kind. We were, quite suddenly, outside. It was springtime and the sunshine was fresh and warm. On either side of me were rows and rows of collapsible chairs filled with friendly and familiar faces. My dinner party was walking ahead of me slowly, trying to take in the scene. Their dresses shimmered in the morning light, their jewellery sending rainbowed reflections in every direction. The path before me was a deep blue, the colour of sapphire, and there was something white scattered along the ground. Marsena had picked up a basket of flowers that was by the back door of the diner and was dropping them along the path. I looked down to my own feet to have a better look when I suddenly realized for the first time exactly what kind of gown I was been wearing.
It was... whiter... than I remembered.
Marsena, Ashley and Jess walked up the aisle and to the left, wiping tears from their eyes and smiling with the kind of smile that struck fear into my racing heart. Helplessly, I followed, now acutely aware of my trailing train and wobbly high heels. Janis suddenly appeared to my side and passed me a bouquet of white lilies and lilacs. I smile in spite of myself.
The flowers had done their job to distract me, for the next moment I looked up, I was at the front of the chapel, facing Jon who was still holding the sundae cup, though in the past few seconds he had added a thin black tie to his wardrobe. He began to tap the side of the glass again, but this time there was no stillness. Instead, they fell into a quick silence and turned their attention to the front of the room as Jon began to speak.
“Dearly beloved, ladies and gents, we are gathered here today to witness a uniquely awesome and blessed event...” In an unusual mix of dread and curious delight I turned my head ever so slowly to the right, to my mysterious groom.
And then I woke up.
We were sitting in a high class restaurant somewhere in Paris, the kind of place where you not only pay by the dish but also by the hour and you tip your server every time he comes to your table. The ladies looked fantastic, almost majestic, and there was no denying the glamour that dripped from the diamond jewellery and perfectly fitted floor-length gowns that framed each woman’s unique beauty in the perfect way. In a word, the evening was exquisite.
The maître d’ gave firm yet professionally hushed direction to his waiters in perfect aristocratic French and the restroom had beautiful daybed seating for those who found themselves in wait for one of the plush, elevator-sized stalls. Each plate of food came on sterling silver 19th Century style covered dishes, with delicate gold leaf inlay on each lid, and the food between the precious metals was no less lovely. Course after course we were pampered with the finest that France could offer.
It was the third dessert selection that changed the mood. With his usual, graceful bow our waiter presented our dish. With a flourish he removed the lid and revealed...
... A large ice cream sundae.
Ashley looked at me with a question in her eyes. I tried to offer a wordless response; I didn’t ask for it. I don’t know what’s going on. Suddenly a young man burst through the double doors at the entrance of the restaurant. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and a light washed pair of jeans. He looked like Fonzie, but this guy was not the Happy Day’s star. This was a 50’s or 60’s version of Jon Margeson.
“Hey there, dolls!” He shouted from across the room, hopping light-heartedly over other horrified guests as they sipped at expensive soups or sliced delicately at warmed peaches with miniature forks and knives. Jon slipped past an astonished waiter as he tried desperately to keep his five plates of food in composed balance. Then Jon skipped over to our table and grinned at the giant sundae that sat, untouched between us. “Wowee, what a bash! And would you check out this cat here?” Jon was waving his arm towards the frustrated maître d’ who was trying to hustle Jon back out the door without making an even more intrusive scene for the patrons of his restaurant. “Cool it, Clyde, we’re gonna cut out of here in a flash if you just lay back and give me a chance to explain! You don’t have to get so frosty, man, ya dig?”
Jon turned his attention back to our table. Marsena’s jaw had dropped in shock during that last speech and her facial expression would have easily spoken for the rest of us, if we hadn’t already been expressing our own disbelief; Jessica had dropped her glass and its contents were leaking across the tablecloth towards the place where my last mouthful of cheesecake had fallen, and Ashley looked like she was struggling to make a decision between gracefully fainting to the floor or taking Jon my the ear and throwing him out of the restaurant herself. Before she could act on either, however, Jon has seized our sundae in his left hand and one of the long sundae spoons in his right. He proceeded to scoop the cherry off the top and toss it into the air, catching it, along with the following glob of whipped cream, in his mouth. Then he licked the spoon clean and began to twirl it like a baton around the fingers of his right hand. “So,” he grinned, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” In perfect unison every lady at the table shook her head. No, I thought, Let's not. We don't even have to say we did.
Jon, with a mischievous smile on his face, had evidently taken our stunned silence as licence to continue. He began drumming his spoon against the rim of the sundae cup along to the song “Johnny B. Goode” that had just started playing over the restaurant’s speaker system. As soon as he tapped at the lip, every shimmery-gowned woman, coat-tailed gentleman and all of the waiters and attendants in the room froze in place, with the exception of my dinner party and our personal Pied Piper, leading us through the maze of beautiful, life sized marionettes to the back of the restaurant to the doors of the kitchen. Jon gave the swinging doors a swift kick and my friends followed him into the next room. I hesitated, looking back into the room I was leaving. The people looked so terribly still, so caught in the actions of life... life unlived is not alive at all, and this scene was unsettling. Jon came up just behind me, now humming the appropriately titled Herman’s Hermits hit, “This Door Swings Both Ways” to himself. He rapped his spoon against the bowl of the glass three times and suddenly everyone sprang back to action, as though nothing more disruptive than a collective sigh had taken place. Satisfied and smiling once again, I turned to follow him through the still-swinging doors.
The first thing I saw was the long counter, not of the high society professional kitchen I had anticipated, but that of a 1950’s style diner. “Ah, the good life!” Jon called out to the guy behind the counter. “Ladies, please let me introduce my pal, here...” But no introduction was required. We already knew this friend, more or less. Behind the counter, flipping burgers with one hand and in a permanent salute with the other, stood a member of the Queen’s national guard with a traditional chef’s hat on top of his own bearskin mountain, and he had a cow-print apron overtop of his red uniform jacket. He also had an incredible moustache, the specific description of which I will leave to your own imagination. It was Brian Jaques. He put down his barbeque flipper and, still in salute, pulled a flask from one of the apron’s pockets. He took a swig and then splashed a dose on the sizzling hamburgers. “Lime eet up. Eetz dah seeecret engreeedient, yaah.” He was an obvious imposter of the accent, but he kept it up consistently and was always smiling, so no one bothered him. “Vaat tave you been doeenk zis eevenink, Jon ov zee slicked back hair ov red?” Jon pulled a small comb from his back pocket and smoothed the sides on his hair into a perfect ducktail. “Well, I just picked up these chicks in some fancy joint in ol’ Pari’ and I’ve got a big gig in about an hour.” He leaned in to Brian in faux secrecy and whispered, “These gals would be late for everything if we weren’t around...” He gave the group of us a smart-aleck wink and added, “Imagine, showing up late to get circled!”
Brian chuckled heartily at the joke and the rest of my dinner party, apparently not yet filled from our dainty French meals, hiked up the hems of their gowns and hopped up onto the stools in front of the counter. I joined them, surprised at the renewed hunger that the kitchen smells had brought out in me. Brian flipped the hamburgers backwards and over top both of his hats in quick succession, each patty landing perfectly centered atop the toasted buns that had magically appeared before us. We couldn’t resist... in a flash our prim and proper ladylike manners went down the drains and our appetites got the better of us. For a few minutes we ate in silence, listening to Jon jabber on with Brian as he finished what was left of the sundae. When the last drizzle of chocolate sauce was gone, he stood up from the counter. “Time’s up ladies. It’s been a kick, sugar-booger, but we gotta jet. Places to be ya know.” With a salute back to our chef he started once again to rap against the edge of the glass with his spoon. At that moment the scene froze again and Brian, with a patty in mid-flip and one hand to his brow smiled his farewell. The burger didn’t fall to the grill again until we had almost passed through the double doors at the back of the kitchen, when Jon reappeared to free him from the spell of the spoon with three sharp raps. The last I saw of Brian Jaques, he was reaching into his apron once more for his flask.
The area through the double doors was more like stepping into an alternative universe than into another room of any kind. We were, quite suddenly, outside. It was springtime and the sunshine was fresh and warm. On either side of me were rows and rows of collapsible chairs filled with friendly and familiar faces. My dinner party was walking ahead of me slowly, trying to take in the scene. Their dresses shimmered in the morning light, their jewellery sending rainbowed reflections in every direction. The path before me was a deep blue, the colour of sapphire, and there was something white scattered along the ground. Marsena had picked up a basket of flowers that was by the back door of the diner and was dropping them along the path. I looked down to my own feet to have a better look when I suddenly realized for the first time exactly what kind of gown I was been wearing.
It was... whiter... than I remembered.
Marsena, Ashley and Jess walked up the aisle and to the left, wiping tears from their eyes and smiling with the kind of smile that struck fear into my racing heart. Helplessly, I followed, now acutely aware of my trailing train and wobbly high heels. Janis suddenly appeared to my side and passed me a bouquet of white lilies and lilacs. I smile in spite of myself.
The flowers had done their job to distract me, for the next moment I looked up, I was at the front of the chapel, facing Jon who was still holding the sundae cup, though in the past few seconds he had added a thin black tie to his wardrobe. He began to tap the side of the glass again, but this time there was no stillness. Instead, they fell into a quick silence and turned their attention to the front of the room as Jon began to speak.
“Dearly beloved, ladies and gents, we are gathered here today to witness a uniquely awesome and blessed event...” In an unusual mix of dread and curious delight I turned my head ever so slowly to the right, to my mysterious groom.
And then I woke up.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
The Nurture Reflex
Boys and girls are different creatures. The knowledge of this fact is something I have possessed for a long time; physical dissimilarities have been pointed out since, memorably, my fourth grade Sex-Ed class with that far-too-repetitive song, “My body’s nobody’s body but mine” and other such public school scarred-for-life nonsense. I’ve notices emotional differences as well, generally associated with the response to a heartbreaking country music song or sappy “chick flick” farewell scene... ladies tend to bat their lashes rapidly, pretending to be subtle about the coming tears in the presence of certain company, while guys usually crack a few well-timed jokes that serve to spoil the mood and break the tension. Last week I witnessed yet another distinction between the two sides of the gender coin: social response to injury.
If you have ever played any kind of hockey, be it on street or rink, you are well aware of the potential for injuries and the natural roughhousing play that comes with such team sports. If you haven’t already come to understand this as true, let me assure you, accidents do happen, and they are dealt with promptly by those close by. Allow me to provide you with an example which is, conveniently, the true inspiration for this particular piece.
I live down the road from a house full of guys and last Saturday they organized an event of sorts – hockey day all day – kicking off their celebration of everything sticks and jerseys with a game of road hockey, which seems to be the recent male-bonding activity of choice (bringing us to another point of difference... girls bond better over munchies, football and red-rover). The guys had been out there for a good amount of time in the many-degrees-below-zero weather before the hand of fate (or more accurately the elbow of Tim and face of Kyle) interrupted their fun.
In the World of Girl, when someone starts to bleed seriously from any part of their body, there is a very specific and well practiced routine that takes action at first sight of the wound. It’s our Nurture Reflex that all women, at some level, are born with. Here is the system for injures in a nutshell:
1. Everyone is involved and active. Quickly someone take the organizational command of the group, delegating tasks for efficient recovery of the down-and-outer, no matter how down and out they happen to be. Calls of “Get some ice” “Bring that water here” “Tip that head back now and let’s get a good look at you” can be heard for several minutes following an accident.
2. All other activities that might be labeled “fun” and that could cause the injured person to be left out are ceased immediately and plans for the rest of the afternoon are put on hold indefinitely.
3. Everyone who needs to be called is called, and probably some who don’t even really need to know. Prayer requests are sent out like lightening and if the problem is deemed serious enough by either the person who knows the most about “these things” or otherwise by the one who has taken leadership of the situation, a hospital ride is figured out.
4. If the case is emergency worthy, one or two girls are elected to travel with the injured party to the hospital while the others busy themselves with making “Get Well Soon” cards and the like. The rest of the day is spent nursing the poor soul back to health.
In Man World, the Nurture Reflex shows itself a little differently...
1. If the injured party is hurt but can still see, breathe and stand normally, he’ll be fine.
2. If he’s hurt badly (i.e. cannot see, breathe or stand normally), one or two of his buddies will help him to wherever he needs to go (i.e. living room, bathroom, emergency room or snow bank).
3. If he’s being taken care of, everyone else should continue on with whatever they were doing before the accident happened. The game must go on as life will go on. He’ll understand.
4. When the injured party returns, looking a little roughed up with stitches or cast or sling, everyone pokes lighthearted fun at his expense, to hasten the healing process. (I’m not actually sure that this last one is a considered a positive reaction or that it is even welcomed at all - as I am not actually a guy, nor have I shown up with a sling or cast or stitches after being wounded - so, call it keen observation or poetic license, whichever is closer to the truth.)
Guys and gals... we’re different creatures, no doubt. We live our lives differently, and we respond to life differently, but there is one bond of sameness that I find undeniable in any situation. We are all made in the image of God... and God has a Nurture Reflex too. “Praise be to the LORD, for he has heard my cry for mercy. The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song. The LORD is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for his anointed one” (Psalm 28:6-8).
God definitely has an advantage in the care-giving department of life, because he not only protects us from danger ahead of time, but he also gives us what we need to prevent problems and helps us pick ourselves back up when we fall – and not just physically – the physical element is pretty important - a broken tooth and split lip need to be attended to, but he has given the means to mend those particular problems to people. God looks after us in ways that we can’t look after each other – in spiritual matters, in the eternal issues. In some ways we can help to protect each other in these ways as well (most effectively by making sure that we are living our own lives in line with what God outlines through His Word), but ultimately God, and even more specifically Christ, is the one who we trust (or don’t) with our souls.
So here, I suppose, is the thought challenge: if you skin your knee, you can take care of yourself and if you break your arm, there are people who will come to your rescue... but if you are in a car accident tonight and die, who is going to have your back?
Death is not something you can kiss better.
The end of this note has taken a rather serious turn, but I suppose the same is true in life – when it comes time to wrap up, you make your decisions and face the music, if it is indeed music that you will be facing...
There is much, much more to say on this topic. If you are a Christian reading this note, please think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. If you are not a Christian reading this note, by now probably wishing that you hadn’t, please, think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. Come talk to me, go talk to a friend or talk to God, perhaps. Deal with the questions and doubts that you have before it’s too late to pose them. Don’t be afraid of an awkward conversation... sometimes they are the ones that can teach you the most.
If you have ever played any kind of hockey, be it on street or rink, you are well aware of the potential for injuries and the natural roughhousing play that comes with such team sports. If you haven’t already come to understand this as true, let me assure you, accidents do happen, and they are dealt with promptly by those close by. Allow me to provide you with an example which is, conveniently, the true inspiration for this particular piece.
I live down the road from a house full of guys and last Saturday they organized an event of sorts – hockey day all day – kicking off their celebration of everything sticks and jerseys with a game of road hockey, which seems to be the recent male-bonding activity of choice (bringing us to another point of difference... girls bond better over munchies, football and red-rover). The guys had been out there for a good amount of time in the many-degrees-below-zero weather before the hand of fate (or more accurately the elbow of Tim and face of Kyle) interrupted their fun.
In the World of Girl, when someone starts to bleed seriously from any part of their body, there is a very specific and well practiced routine that takes action at first sight of the wound. It’s our Nurture Reflex that all women, at some level, are born with. Here is the system for injures in a nutshell:
1. Everyone is involved and active. Quickly someone take the organizational command of the group, delegating tasks for efficient recovery of the down-and-outer, no matter how down and out they happen to be. Calls of “Get some ice” “Bring that water here” “Tip that head back now and let’s get a good look at you” can be heard for several minutes following an accident.
2. All other activities that might be labeled “fun” and that could cause the injured person to be left out are ceased immediately and plans for the rest of the afternoon are put on hold indefinitely.
3. Everyone who needs to be called is called, and probably some who don’t even really need to know. Prayer requests are sent out like lightening and if the problem is deemed serious enough by either the person who knows the most about “these things” or otherwise by the one who has taken leadership of the situation, a hospital ride is figured out.
4. If the case is emergency worthy, one or two girls are elected to travel with the injured party to the hospital while the others busy themselves with making “Get Well Soon” cards and the like. The rest of the day is spent nursing the poor soul back to health.
In Man World, the Nurture Reflex shows itself a little differently...
1. If the injured party is hurt but can still see, breathe and stand normally, he’ll be fine.
2. If he’s hurt badly (i.e. cannot see, breathe or stand normally), one or two of his buddies will help him to wherever he needs to go (i.e. living room, bathroom, emergency room or snow bank).
3. If he’s being taken care of, everyone else should continue on with whatever they were doing before the accident happened. The game must go on as life will go on. He’ll understand.
4. When the injured party returns, looking a little roughed up with stitches or cast or sling, everyone pokes lighthearted fun at his expense, to hasten the healing process. (I’m not actually sure that this last one is a considered a positive reaction or that it is even welcomed at all - as I am not actually a guy, nor have I shown up with a sling or cast or stitches after being wounded - so, call it keen observation or poetic license, whichever is closer to the truth.)
Guys and gals... we’re different creatures, no doubt. We live our lives differently, and we respond to life differently, but there is one bond of sameness that I find undeniable in any situation. We are all made in the image of God... and God has a Nurture Reflex too. “Praise be to the LORD, for he has heard my cry for mercy. The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped. My heart leaps for joy and I will give thanks to him in song. The LORD is the strength of his people, a fortress of salvation for his anointed one” (Psalm 28:6-8).
God definitely has an advantage in the care-giving department of life, because he not only protects us from danger ahead of time, but he also gives us what we need to prevent problems and helps us pick ourselves back up when we fall – and not just physically – the physical element is pretty important - a broken tooth and split lip need to be attended to, but he has given the means to mend those particular problems to people. God looks after us in ways that we can’t look after each other – in spiritual matters, in the eternal issues. In some ways we can help to protect each other in these ways as well (most effectively by making sure that we are living our own lives in line with what God outlines through His Word), but ultimately God, and even more specifically Christ, is the one who we trust (or don’t) with our souls.
So here, I suppose, is the thought challenge: if you skin your knee, you can take care of yourself and if you break your arm, there are people who will come to your rescue... but if you are in a car accident tonight and die, who is going to have your back?
Death is not something you can kiss better.
The end of this note has taken a rather serious turn, but I suppose the same is true in life – when it comes time to wrap up, you make your decisions and face the music, if it is indeed music that you will be facing...
There is much, much more to say on this topic. If you are a Christian reading this note, please think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. If you are not a Christian reading this note, by now probably wishing that you hadn’t, please, think about what this really means and talk to someone about it. Come talk to me, go talk to a friend or talk to God, perhaps. Deal with the questions and doubts that you have before it’s too late to pose them. Don’t be afraid of an awkward conversation... sometimes they are the ones that can teach you the most.
Monday, 26 January 2009
The Unexpected Road Trip
It was getting very late. We all knew it was going to be too late, even before we pulled into the car dealership’s parking lot. The lights were out in the Enterprise offices, but Abbie needed her vehicle. She had taken a rental when she came to town, for one reason or another, to save on gas, perhaps, but it was time for her to leave, and she had to go tonight. “See,” I turn to my friend whose bottom lip had stuck out just a little further than usual, in an indignant pout. “Closed.”
I don’t believe the concept of “closed” and its long-term consequences ever really settled in Abbie’s mind, because a split second later the seven of us were huddled around the front doors and Randa was trying to shake them open. “Closed and locked.... Come on guys, seriously, let’s just come back in the morning.” Abbie’s gaze swept back and forth, searching the street suspiciously. Satisfied, she took a knee beside Randa, eye level with the lock and a moment later had jiggled it open with one of her hair pins. Helplessly, I followed everyone into the building. My whiny protests did nothing to temper the infectious thrill of a break-in...
The offices that held Abbie’s keys captive were attached to a small chain of businesses, like a very tiny strip-mall. Most of the other storefronts had their lights off, doors closed and gates shut tightly, but there was one room with a few standing lamps that lit up the space on the other side of the frosted glass panes. The shadow of a man hovered back and forth nonchalantly, reading what seemed to be a newspaper, with a mug of hot beverage in one hand.
Heather opened the large, unlocked glass door and was the first of us “safely” inside the room. I closed the door behind myself as gently as possible, looking nervously towards the softly lighted room at the end of the hall. The pacing continued so I tried to calm my breathing.
There was much shuffling inside the room, mumbled hushes and from time to time someone would knock into some mysterious piece of furniture. It was very dark because there were few exterior windows and so although the night sky was quite bright, there was very little natural light to take advantage of. Those with cell phones found them quickly and coordinated the glow into a makeshift searchlight. The room was “L” shaped, turning sharply to the left after the long, wide foyer that we were standing in. Jon went to investigate, taking one of the cell phones with him. I watched in horror (the others in proud amazement) as Abbie hopped over the tall reception counter and smashed the glass paneling of the tall display case behind it with her bare fist. I automatically gasped aloud. My friends offered her a mimed round of applause. This can’t be happening...
The display case had contained an astounding number or keys. Abbie quickly found her own, conveniently labelled “Abbie” and hopped back over the counter as though it were the most natural and common place thing in the world to have broken into a building and stolen back her own possessions. By this point everyone else was exploring the rest of the store. “Hey,” called Heather in an exaggerated and excited whisper, “There’s a safe over here!” My heart leapt, but certainly not for joy. As John and Greg joined Heather by the safe I crept back to the doorway to look out for our neighbourly businessman with the paper.
His light was off... and his door was open.
My heart was beating so loudly that I could hardly think, much less explain to my friends the paralyzing fear that had rooted me in the middle of the room. John had cracked the combination to the safe at about the same time as I heard more glass breaking around the corner to the left, where I couldn’t see. Jon appeared waving a crowbar. “I found us a way out of here.” Everyone by the safe grinned, holding up their treasures. Heather had about four million dollars worth of diamonds cupped between her hands and the boys were holding up huge bags of coin, the kind pictured in old western movies, with a large dollar sign printed on one side, just to make sure you knew exactly what it contained. Randa had taken Abbie’s keys from her (as she had to drop off the rental keys at the counter, naturally) and both of them had joined Jon who was, as far as I could tell, climbing out his newly “discovered” escape hatch. The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor at my feet. Then I heard the sirens.
I dragged myself from the middle of the floor and over to the broken window just in time to see Abbie drop down from the sill and into a shallow snow-bank. “Hurry up, Nikki, before the cops get here!” she called, running away to the other side of the parking lot where Jon and Randa had started up the vehicles. “No!” I shouted at her, shaking my head and beginning to sob through my desperate cries. “No, Abbie, we can’t! Just put the key back, you can stay at our place tonight and we’ll come back in the morning!” The door behind me opened and someone began to yell. I heard the broken glass of the case breaking beneath their feet. “Please,” I begged out the window, “Come back!” Abbie slammed her door and rolled down the window. “Last chance, Nik. Let’s go!” The men behind me swung the beam of their flashlights in my direction. I looked in panic out the window one last time. “Where are you going!?” My shout was barely heard above the squealing tires as they peeled out of the parking lot. But I got my reply.
The florescent overhead lights flashed on and I was blinded for a moment as strong hands cuffed me to a chair, back in the middle of the room. The police had come, the store owner had been called and CTV snapped my picture; then the lights went out again and someone set up an old-school interrogation spotlight, staring down at me from above. Someone in a fedora began asking silly questions, like “Where are the diamonds” and “Who are you working for” while I cried and began to think about how I was going to explain this to my parents. I said what I could, which was the only word that would come to mind, the only explanation I had and the parting farewell of my crime-loving friends: Vegas, baby. Vegas.
I don’t believe the concept of “closed” and its long-term consequences ever really settled in Abbie’s mind, because a split second later the seven of us were huddled around the front doors and Randa was trying to shake them open. “Closed and locked.... Come on guys, seriously, let’s just come back in the morning.” Abbie’s gaze swept back and forth, searching the street suspiciously. Satisfied, she took a knee beside Randa, eye level with the lock and a moment later had jiggled it open with one of her hair pins. Helplessly, I followed everyone into the building. My whiny protests did nothing to temper the infectious thrill of a break-in...
The offices that held Abbie’s keys captive were attached to a small chain of businesses, like a very tiny strip-mall. Most of the other storefronts had their lights off, doors closed and gates shut tightly, but there was one room with a few standing lamps that lit up the space on the other side of the frosted glass panes. The shadow of a man hovered back and forth nonchalantly, reading what seemed to be a newspaper, with a mug of hot beverage in one hand.
Heather opened the large, unlocked glass door and was the first of us “safely” inside the room. I closed the door behind myself as gently as possible, looking nervously towards the softly lighted room at the end of the hall. The pacing continued so I tried to calm my breathing.
There was much shuffling inside the room, mumbled hushes and from time to time someone would knock into some mysterious piece of furniture. It was very dark because there were few exterior windows and so although the night sky was quite bright, there was very little natural light to take advantage of. Those with cell phones found them quickly and coordinated the glow into a makeshift searchlight. The room was “L” shaped, turning sharply to the left after the long, wide foyer that we were standing in. Jon went to investigate, taking one of the cell phones with him. I watched in horror (the others in proud amazement) as Abbie hopped over the tall reception counter and smashed the glass paneling of the tall display case behind it with her bare fist. I automatically gasped aloud. My friends offered her a mimed round of applause. This can’t be happening...
The display case had contained an astounding number or keys. Abbie quickly found her own, conveniently labelled “Abbie” and hopped back over the counter as though it were the most natural and common place thing in the world to have broken into a building and stolen back her own possessions. By this point everyone else was exploring the rest of the store. “Hey,” called Heather in an exaggerated and excited whisper, “There’s a safe over here!” My heart leapt, but certainly not for joy. As John and Greg joined Heather by the safe I crept back to the doorway to look out for our neighbourly businessman with the paper.
His light was off... and his door was open.
My heart was beating so loudly that I could hardly think, much less explain to my friends the paralyzing fear that had rooted me in the middle of the room. John had cracked the combination to the safe at about the same time as I heard more glass breaking around the corner to the left, where I couldn’t see. Jon appeared waving a crowbar. “I found us a way out of here.” Everyone by the safe grinned, holding up their treasures. Heather had about four million dollars worth of diamonds cupped between her hands and the boys were holding up huge bags of coin, the kind pictured in old western movies, with a large dollar sign printed on one side, just to make sure you knew exactly what it contained. Randa had taken Abbie’s keys from her (as she had to drop off the rental keys at the counter, naturally) and both of them had joined Jon who was, as far as I could tell, climbing out his newly “discovered” escape hatch. The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor at my feet. Then I heard the sirens.
I dragged myself from the middle of the floor and over to the broken window just in time to see Abbie drop down from the sill and into a shallow snow-bank. “Hurry up, Nikki, before the cops get here!” she called, running away to the other side of the parking lot where Jon and Randa had started up the vehicles. “No!” I shouted at her, shaking my head and beginning to sob through my desperate cries. “No, Abbie, we can’t! Just put the key back, you can stay at our place tonight and we’ll come back in the morning!” The door behind me opened and someone began to yell. I heard the broken glass of the case breaking beneath their feet. “Please,” I begged out the window, “Come back!” Abbie slammed her door and rolled down the window. “Last chance, Nik. Let’s go!” The men behind me swung the beam of their flashlights in my direction. I looked in panic out the window one last time. “Where are you going!?” My shout was barely heard above the squealing tires as they peeled out of the parking lot. But I got my reply.
The florescent overhead lights flashed on and I was blinded for a moment as strong hands cuffed me to a chair, back in the middle of the room. The police had come, the store owner had been called and CTV snapped my picture; then the lights went out again and someone set up an old-school interrogation spotlight, staring down at me from above. Someone in a fedora began asking silly questions, like “Where are the diamonds” and “Who are you working for” while I cried and began to think about how I was going to explain this to my parents. I said what I could, which was the only word that would come to mind, the only explanation I had and the parting farewell of my crime-loving friends: Vegas, baby. Vegas.
Friday, 23 January 2009
The Blanket of Gold
I am sitting cross-legged on top of my bed, on my grandmother’s blanket of precious gold thread. Perhaps you may comment on its yellowing colour but I promise it’s golden at heart. Perhaps the yellow comes of its age, for I believe it may have been her mother’s before hers, before mine. But I know that it’s gold even though it may not seem it. I know that it’s gold, because she told me it was.
There are not many things, in some ways, that I remember of my grandmother, but the memories I do have are vivid and clear. I remember the layout of their home near Woodstock, and their basement or cellar where a game of crokinole could always be found, and where I imagined secret passages that ran to wonderful places, and played hide and seek with my sisters among the shelves and boxes of life, packed away. I remember the picture of Jesus upstairs, walking along the beach in bare feet. I remember thinking he looked so lovely, so at peace and so gentle and so strong at the same time. I remember their kitchen there, with the peach coloured curtains and the Precious Moments figurines that sat along the sill. I remember the day that we received our own little figurines, each with a child’s face and a soft animal’s body. I still have mine in a box back home. I found it this Christmas and it made me smile a lot, and cry a little. I remember “the new house” with carpets of white, where we would draw pictures with our fingers just after the vacuum, and then drawing on her legs with crayon when the novelty of the first game had faded. I remember the great stone lions at the front driveway, and the friendly boy-neighbour with his tree house, and the corn field behind the shed that I went into just once, and the ashes of a fire pit where we used to pretend we would be brave enough to walk across it, even if it were burning coals, like they did in Aladdin. I remember the back porch and the mysterious other door where people we didn’t know lived in the other half. I remember watching the Gaithers upstairs on the bed with Mom because it was Grandma’s favourite, and Mom would tell us stories about when she was a little girl growing up, with her pet goats who were terribly smelly, and eating green beans with Aunt Lynne until they were sick, and tale of the tricycle and the picnic bench. I remember our room, tucked into a corner, with rainbow wallpaper and lights you turned on like a giant button, and the curtain for a door, and piles and piles of pillows. I even remember the stairs and how they turned at a small platform before you got to the front door and the kitchen, over to the left of my perch. I sat on those stairs and watched many long talks held by the grown-ups at the table, or Scrabble games. It was by those same steps that I remember holding onto Amanda the day I named her, the day that Carolyn received Polly and Melissa got Jessica. I remember Grandma pulling me aside into her room and explaining that it wasn’t the right doll – that she had wanted another one, that she could send a way for it, or she had tried to – one with a lighter dress or something... but Amanda was perfect. She was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, and she still sits at home, waiting for me every time I come back from school.
And now we have come full circle to the story I set out to tell... the story of my grandmother’s blanket. We were at that table, the one that had been for Scrabble and grown-ups, and somehow I knew that it was going to be a very important conversation. I don’t remember if I was sitting or standing at the time, but I remember being at eye-level with my Grandma, and I remember her leaning in a bit, like she was going to tell me a secret.
I suppose in a way it was a secret, a very special kind of exchange, just between the two of us. She told me that she wanted to give me something – something that I was going to get now but that I couldn’t have until I was quite big, and in school... in University. She told me of the beautiful golden blanket that had been an heirloom, a thing passed down in a very special way, from one woman to another, in our family. She had tried to explain that she was giving it to me so early because she wanted to make sure she got to give it to me herself. I didn’t really understand what she had meant by that, at the time... people say she had been sick for a long, long time, but I had never seen sickness. All I can remember is the love. Anyway, there was a gift bag at her feet, kind of under her chair. She reached for it and slowly pulled out the blanket of gold; the most wonderful tapestry I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. She unfolded it for me to admire for only a moment, just long enough for my six-or-seven-year-old fingertips to feel its cool smoothness, then she folded it back up, so carefully, and put it back into the gift bag. She told me that Mom was going to take care of it for me until it was time for me to have it again. And she did.
My grandmother’s golden blanket has only tonight come back out of the gift bag. I think I was almost afraid of using it before now, remembering the way my Grandma had handled it with such care, like it was the most delicate and fragile possession she had ever owned. But I want to be able to look at it more. It is still as wonderful as I remember it, from so long ago in the kitchen of the new house. The pattern is beautiful, so unlike anything else I have, and the material feels cool and smooth under my twenty-year-old fingertips. And now it smells like my hope chest, a reminder that our memories both prepare us for our future and are affected, however gently, by our present.
I couldn’t be happier tonight. I’ve been wiping at tears for over an hour now, but my heart feels so good. There are other stories I have of Grandma Alway, other memories to share another time, but the story of this blanket made of gold seems to top them all, right now. I only hope, in however many years when I have the joy of a daughter or granddaughter that I will be able to pass on this blanket, folded up carefully into its original gift bag, so that its journey may continue, along with all of the stories and histories that go with it.
There are not many things, in some ways, that I remember of my grandmother, but the memories I do have are vivid and clear. I remember the layout of their home near Woodstock, and their basement or cellar where a game of crokinole could always be found, and where I imagined secret passages that ran to wonderful places, and played hide and seek with my sisters among the shelves and boxes of life, packed away. I remember the picture of Jesus upstairs, walking along the beach in bare feet. I remember thinking he looked so lovely, so at peace and so gentle and so strong at the same time. I remember their kitchen there, with the peach coloured curtains and the Precious Moments figurines that sat along the sill. I remember the day that we received our own little figurines, each with a child’s face and a soft animal’s body. I still have mine in a box back home. I found it this Christmas and it made me smile a lot, and cry a little. I remember “the new house” with carpets of white, where we would draw pictures with our fingers just after the vacuum, and then drawing on her legs with crayon when the novelty of the first game had faded. I remember the great stone lions at the front driveway, and the friendly boy-neighbour with his tree house, and the corn field behind the shed that I went into just once, and the ashes of a fire pit where we used to pretend we would be brave enough to walk across it, even if it were burning coals, like they did in Aladdin. I remember the back porch and the mysterious other door where people we didn’t know lived in the other half. I remember watching the Gaithers upstairs on the bed with Mom because it was Grandma’s favourite, and Mom would tell us stories about when she was a little girl growing up, with her pet goats who were terribly smelly, and eating green beans with Aunt Lynne until they were sick, and tale of the tricycle and the picnic bench. I remember our room, tucked into a corner, with rainbow wallpaper and lights you turned on like a giant button, and the curtain for a door, and piles and piles of pillows. I even remember the stairs and how they turned at a small platform before you got to the front door and the kitchen, over to the left of my perch. I sat on those stairs and watched many long talks held by the grown-ups at the table, or Scrabble games. It was by those same steps that I remember holding onto Amanda the day I named her, the day that Carolyn received Polly and Melissa got Jessica. I remember Grandma pulling me aside into her room and explaining that it wasn’t the right doll – that she had wanted another one, that she could send a way for it, or she had tried to – one with a lighter dress or something... but Amanda was perfect. She was one of the most important gifts I have ever received, and she still sits at home, waiting for me every time I come back from school.
And now we have come full circle to the story I set out to tell... the story of my grandmother’s blanket. We were at that table, the one that had been for Scrabble and grown-ups, and somehow I knew that it was going to be a very important conversation. I don’t remember if I was sitting or standing at the time, but I remember being at eye-level with my Grandma, and I remember her leaning in a bit, like she was going to tell me a secret.
I suppose in a way it was a secret, a very special kind of exchange, just between the two of us. She told me that she wanted to give me something – something that I was going to get now but that I couldn’t have until I was quite big, and in school... in University. She told me of the beautiful golden blanket that had been an heirloom, a thing passed down in a very special way, from one woman to another, in our family. She had tried to explain that she was giving it to me so early because she wanted to make sure she got to give it to me herself. I didn’t really understand what she had meant by that, at the time... people say she had been sick for a long, long time, but I had never seen sickness. All I can remember is the love. Anyway, there was a gift bag at her feet, kind of under her chair. She reached for it and slowly pulled out the blanket of gold; the most wonderful tapestry I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. She unfolded it for me to admire for only a moment, just long enough for my six-or-seven-year-old fingertips to feel its cool smoothness, then she folded it back up, so carefully, and put it back into the gift bag. She told me that Mom was going to take care of it for me until it was time for me to have it again. And she did.
My grandmother’s golden blanket has only tonight come back out of the gift bag. I think I was almost afraid of using it before now, remembering the way my Grandma had handled it with such care, like it was the most delicate and fragile possession she had ever owned. But I want to be able to look at it more. It is still as wonderful as I remember it, from so long ago in the kitchen of the new house. The pattern is beautiful, so unlike anything else I have, and the material feels cool and smooth under my twenty-year-old fingertips. And now it smells like my hope chest, a reminder that our memories both prepare us for our future and are affected, however gently, by our present.
I couldn’t be happier tonight. I’ve been wiping at tears for over an hour now, but my heart feels so good. There are other stories I have of Grandma Alway, other memories to share another time, but the story of this blanket made of gold seems to top them all, right now. I only hope, in however many years when I have the joy of a daughter or granddaughter that I will be able to pass on this blanket, folded up carefully into its original gift bag, so that its journey may continue, along with all of the stories and histories that go with it.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Rambling Rant
The time ticks on
And the snow falls down
And the bus is late
And I am late
And I am late
For school.
The wind picks up
And the world seems cruel
As the bus is still late
And I am late
For a brand-new class
At school.
So what if I whine,
As I stand here alone
With sopping wet cuffs
And sniffling nose
As I wait and wait and wait
And wait for the bus...
So I look up in spite
At the ridiculous sign
That smiles and says
“Wait just twenty minutes”
But means a full hour
Of dashed hopes and cold and wet.
Where is this bus?!
The class will begin,
The professor won’t wait
And won’t care why I’m late
And I am so late,
So late.
I’ve decided to cry.
With tears streaming down,
And freezing my face,
I suddenly see
The stupid late bus
With its stupid late smile.
Just great.
So the world pokes fun
As I wipe down my face
And wipe off my book
And my hat and my hair
And I stick out my tongue at that cruel sign
And that stupid bus
And my phone for a watch
Who laughs in my face as I check the time
Again.
But the bus-driver smiles
And the snow melts away
And I get to class
With a minute to spare
To spare!
Quite mysteriously...
So I’m sorry, I say, to the very late bus
And the snarky sign just trying to help
And the friend I rushed past
Without saying hello
In the hall with dropped eyes
On the way to class.
Perhaps tomorrow
When my alarm goes off
And I reach for the snooze
I’ll get up and out the door instead,
And not have to wait
Or fear being late...
For the third day in a row...
And the snow falls down
And the bus is late
And I am late
And I am late
For school.
The wind picks up
And the world seems cruel
As the bus is still late
And I am late
For a brand-new class
At school.
So what if I whine,
As I stand here alone
With sopping wet cuffs
And sniffling nose
As I wait and wait and wait
And wait for the bus...
So I look up in spite
At the ridiculous sign
That smiles and says
“Wait just twenty minutes”
But means a full hour
Of dashed hopes and cold and wet.
Where is this bus?!
The class will begin,
The professor won’t wait
And won’t care why I’m late
And I am so late,
So late.
I’ve decided to cry.
With tears streaming down,
And freezing my face,
I suddenly see
The stupid late bus
With its stupid late smile.
Just great.
So the world pokes fun
As I wipe down my face
And wipe off my book
And my hat and my hair
And I stick out my tongue at that cruel sign
And that stupid bus
And my phone for a watch
Who laughs in my face as I check the time
Again.
But the bus-driver smiles
And the snow melts away
And I get to class
With a minute to spare
To spare!
Quite mysteriously...
So I’m sorry, I say, to the very late bus
And the snarky sign just trying to help
And the friend I rushed past
Without saying hello
In the hall with dropped eyes
On the way to class.
Perhaps tomorrow
When my alarm goes off
And I reach for the snooze
I’ll get up and out the door instead,
And not have to wait
Or fear being late...
For the third day in a row...
Friday, 26 December 2008
Merry Christmas Letter
Happy Belated Christmas! I am writing today for more than one reason; the first is that I have not found the time or the inspiration for writing a letter before this morning, and the second is that Boxing Day gives me a unique opportunity to share with you some of the reasoning behind the joy I have found this Christmas... joy that came after Christmas was over, after all of the presents had been unwrapped and friends and family had been visited and everyone else was tucked into bed once more, donning new pyjamas. Last night I had a bit of a revelation, my own little Scrooge moment when I too was in bed with a new nightdress. Though it was quite late at the time, I had finally stopped moving, stopped bustling about the way that we do even in rest on Christmas, and I lay quite still for a moment before I began to pray. This is about the point that my stomach churned and I began to realize that I have let yet another Christmas slip through my fingers.
Christmas eve, morning and night were a visual memory but a spiritual blur... while my family was gathered around the tree downstairs, opening gifts from each other, we each made sure to respond with thankfulness and smiles and genuine gratitude from the heart, but when I removed my thoughts from the paper and ribbon before me to the holy gift of God’s son, to the gift wrapped in the womb of a young woman and opened to everyone in history, I turned away quickly, almost impatient for another gift to be opened. It was quite late last night or early this morning that I was caught by my internal foolishness. I was shamed and blessed, convicted and encouraged and challenged by my thoughts, finally Christ centered.
You see, the concept that "it's better to give than to receive" is an idea that, ironically, comes from the lips of Christ himself. I say ironically because, although I am sure that God found pleasure and joy in sending Christ to us, in giving us the ultimate of all Christmas gifts, I think that He got the proverbial short end of the stick. When we, as a race of broken, short-sighted, bustling, hopeless and easily distracted souls first opened His gift, we met the baby with mixed feelings: some of us rejoiced, some of us feared, some of us turned a blind eye or cold shoulder. As the child grew up, or as the gift lost its novelty, we left it alone. For years we completely ignored it, until it started causing us trouble, and just like a small child would with a simple doll that seemed dull or troublesome, we began to abuse the gift – to take it for granted, to push its limits, to hurt and harm on purpose – we broke the precious gift He had given to us. We broke him and could do nothing to repair the damage done; like a shattered porcelain mannequin, we looked upon the broken body of Christ and finally realized the importance of the gift, the value of His Son, and the terrible guilt and shame of ruining something that has been given with such care, sacrifice and love. Facing the broken-hearted face of God, the giver of the gift and the Father of the Son, is a thought more dreadful than any of us can bear.
But the heart of God holds so much more than disappointment and pain. He looked down at us and met our trembling hands and tearful, fearful eyes with love so abounding, mercy so healing, passion so filling, grace so forgiving and care so deep that we had no idea what to do with ourselves. Then, God did something that I cannot understand. He took our hands, cut by the splinters of a broken doll and covered in the blood of His son and He washed us clean of our crime; then He took him from us to His place and fixed him, completely, better than we had ever seen him before, so much more vibrant and so much more alive... and then He gave him back.
Even God re-gifts. God sent Jesus to us once so long ago in a stable in Bethlehem with only a few witnesses. He gave him to us again in another miracle that we did not deserve, in the partial majesty and wonder of His holy character. I cannot wait for the day when He offers Christ to us once more, when He will send him back with all of His amazing and truly awesome glory. We didn't deserve him the first time, but we needed him so much more than we had known. We didn't deserve a second chance at showing our appreciation, loyalty and respect, but He has given it to us as He has given him to us for this life and for this time. We do not deserve eternal life no matter what we have done or what we are doing and no matter our efforts to come, but I know that He has already given us this gift, this priceless and inexpressibly valuable gift, forever.
And so we come to Boxing Day. Traditionally, this is the time when we begin the process of favouriting gifts, of setting aside others, of contemplating exchange or re-gifting. I pray that you will act carefully with the gift of God. I pray that when we are boxing and shelving and shuffling the presents we have only yesterday unwrapped that the gift of Christ, of the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, of the promise of his return in full glory and the activity of God in our lives will not be forgotten as quickly as some of our other presents. I pray that you and your family will continue to celebrate although the festivities of the world have passed. I pray that we will continue to express our gratitude with genuine smiles, with the thankfulness of people in great need and with the praise, honour, joy, love, hope and sacrifice due to the giver of such a gift.
And so, I wish you a very merry Christmas not only this day but the next and the next, and may the Christmas season and the true spirit of this holiday extend in your heart long into the coming year.
With faith in the truth of His word, God bless.
Christmas eve, morning and night were a visual memory but a spiritual blur... while my family was gathered around the tree downstairs, opening gifts from each other, we each made sure to respond with thankfulness and smiles and genuine gratitude from the heart, but when I removed my thoughts from the paper and ribbon before me to the holy gift of God’s son, to the gift wrapped in the womb of a young woman and opened to everyone in history, I turned away quickly, almost impatient for another gift to be opened. It was quite late last night or early this morning that I was caught by my internal foolishness. I was shamed and blessed, convicted and encouraged and challenged by my thoughts, finally Christ centered.
You see, the concept that "it's better to give than to receive" is an idea that, ironically, comes from the lips of Christ himself. I say ironically because, although I am sure that God found pleasure and joy in sending Christ to us, in giving us the ultimate of all Christmas gifts, I think that He got the proverbial short end of the stick. When we, as a race of broken, short-sighted, bustling, hopeless and easily distracted souls first opened His gift, we met the baby with mixed feelings: some of us rejoiced, some of us feared, some of us turned a blind eye or cold shoulder. As the child grew up, or as the gift lost its novelty, we left it alone. For years we completely ignored it, until it started causing us trouble, and just like a small child would with a simple doll that seemed dull or troublesome, we began to abuse the gift – to take it for granted, to push its limits, to hurt and harm on purpose – we broke the precious gift He had given to us. We broke him and could do nothing to repair the damage done; like a shattered porcelain mannequin, we looked upon the broken body of Christ and finally realized the importance of the gift, the value of His Son, and the terrible guilt and shame of ruining something that has been given with such care, sacrifice and love. Facing the broken-hearted face of God, the giver of the gift and the Father of the Son, is a thought more dreadful than any of us can bear.
But the heart of God holds so much more than disappointment and pain. He looked down at us and met our trembling hands and tearful, fearful eyes with love so abounding, mercy so healing, passion so filling, grace so forgiving and care so deep that we had no idea what to do with ourselves. Then, God did something that I cannot understand. He took our hands, cut by the splinters of a broken doll and covered in the blood of His son and He washed us clean of our crime; then He took him from us to His place and fixed him, completely, better than we had ever seen him before, so much more vibrant and so much more alive... and then He gave him back.
Even God re-gifts. God sent Jesus to us once so long ago in a stable in Bethlehem with only a few witnesses. He gave him to us again in another miracle that we did not deserve, in the partial majesty and wonder of His holy character. I cannot wait for the day when He offers Christ to us once more, when He will send him back with all of His amazing and truly awesome glory. We didn't deserve him the first time, but we needed him so much more than we had known. We didn't deserve a second chance at showing our appreciation, loyalty and respect, but He has given it to us as He has given him to us for this life and for this time. We do not deserve eternal life no matter what we have done or what we are doing and no matter our efforts to come, but I know that He has already given us this gift, this priceless and inexpressibly valuable gift, forever.
And so we come to Boxing Day. Traditionally, this is the time when we begin the process of favouriting gifts, of setting aside others, of contemplating exchange or re-gifting. I pray that you will act carefully with the gift of God. I pray that when we are boxing and shelving and shuffling the presents we have only yesterday unwrapped that the gift of Christ, of the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, of the promise of his return in full glory and the activity of God in our lives will not be forgotten as quickly as some of our other presents. I pray that you and your family will continue to celebrate although the festivities of the world have passed. I pray that we will continue to express our gratitude with genuine smiles, with the thankfulness of people in great need and with the praise, honour, joy, love, hope and sacrifice due to the giver of such a gift.
And so, I wish you a very merry Christmas not only this day but the next and the next, and may the Christmas season and the true spirit of this holiday extend in your heart long into the coming year.
With faith in the truth of His word, God bless.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Creatures of Detail
I am not a sports fan. Growing up as the eldest of three girls, there were rarely hockey games on the television – my Dad did give my sisters and me a strong base of traditionally male influenced experiences such as the annual father-daughter fishing trip that we took out to a very manly hunt-camp (though it was sometimes hard to tell after a weekend of girl-immersion… those weekends were filled with a wonderful and strange mixture of hairdos and animal guts). My Dad also made sure that his little girls had a general roadmap to a good tool box (making certain that we knew the difference between Robertson and Phillips screwdrivers), that we could drive our boat-like caravan without hitting too many trees (although I think this particular activity was partly to blame for his slowly graying beard), and taught us an appreciation for all things science fiction – but when it came to relaxing in front of the television as a whole family, my father was unjustly outnumbered every time. In fact, hockey as a pastime never crossed my mind until I moved to North Bay.
I am still not very interested in the sport, but I have made friends with a large group of people who are genuinely passionate about the game and so for the past few months I have been trying to learn some of the athletic jargon, or at least a decent grasp of the rules, et cetera. At present I find myself enduring yet another face-off in the company of my friends, all conversation staying far above my head; however, the time I am spending here with my notepad, huddled in the corner, is serving an interesting purpose. I am studying reaction.
Though not everyone is gifted with the skill of close observation in attitude or cue, we are all creatures of detail. When something is important to us, it consumes our attention. How can something so removed from our reality have such a dramatic effect on us? (One of my guy friends has just leaped up from his seat to holler a comment drenched in personal frustration at the referee. I doubt that he can hear him.) It amazes me that something so small can trigger such a reaction in a person. The puck didn’t go in… it’s not the end of the world. It’s not even the end of the game.
As I watch my friends get into mock-fights in representation of their favourite players who have just had a clash on the ice, I am suddenly wondering if I can learn from their strange connection to these far-off unknown allies.
You may not know this about me yet, but I am a budding actor-to-be this and next semester. I am in an acting class, theatre appreciation specifically, and I am learning to apply some of what I see in my life into my work between the curtains and under the lights. On stage, I am reacting to other people, other actors, but I am also acting as though I am living the life of my character. I am going to have to draw upon memories I don’t have and a history that doesn’t exist to make the connections to the audience authentic. If I can pull from memories in my own history that can be made applicable to the situation at hand, if I can find the moments of hockey-like reaction or fishing trip importance in my mind before I take the stage, then those are the details that I need to draw on.
The big picture is awesome and grand but it is only truly great if the details are in focus. That is where the beauty is found – that is where the reality lies – in the details.
I am still not very interested in the sport, but I have made friends with a large group of people who are genuinely passionate about the game and so for the past few months I have been trying to learn some of the athletic jargon, or at least a decent grasp of the rules, et cetera. At present I find myself enduring yet another face-off in the company of my friends, all conversation staying far above my head; however, the time I am spending here with my notepad, huddled in the corner, is serving an interesting purpose. I am studying reaction.
Though not everyone is gifted with the skill of close observation in attitude or cue, we are all creatures of detail. When something is important to us, it consumes our attention. How can something so removed from our reality have such a dramatic effect on us? (One of my guy friends has just leaped up from his seat to holler a comment drenched in personal frustration at the referee. I doubt that he can hear him.) It amazes me that something so small can trigger such a reaction in a person. The puck didn’t go in… it’s not the end of the world. It’s not even the end of the game.
As I watch my friends get into mock-fights in representation of their favourite players who have just had a clash on the ice, I am suddenly wondering if I can learn from their strange connection to these far-off unknown allies.
You may not know this about me yet, but I am a budding actor-to-be this and next semester. I am in an acting class, theatre appreciation specifically, and I am learning to apply some of what I see in my life into my work between the curtains and under the lights. On stage, I am reacting to other people, other actors, but I am also acting as though I am living the life of my character. I am going to have to draw upon memories I don’t have and a history that doesn’t exist to make the connections to the audience authentic. If I can pull from memories in my own history that can be made applicable to the situation at hand, if I can find the moments of hockey-like reaction or fishing trip importance in my mind before I take the stage, then those are the details that I need to draw on.
The big picture is awesome and grand but it is only truly great if the details are in focus. That is where the beauty is found – that is where the reality lies – in the details.
Echoes
The staircases of our school are wonderful and unexpected places of solace for me. I find few things are peaceful as an empty stairwell and though there are few times when these transitory caverns remain quiet and deserted, I treasure the moments that I can find solitude there.
Even when I am alone, however, the stillness of the place does not stay quiet for long… the staircases of this school are my favourite places to be tranquil but they are also my favourite place to sing. The echo of the space and the way that the self-made music reverberates off the walls, the steps and the windows reminds me of a kind of heavenly choir, a host of angelic spirits, joining me in my music.
Echoes are so interesting. They are like a beautiful instant replay, like a voice underwater, like a haunting chill found in any melody…
In the theatre, this echo doesn’t exist. The padded seating and paneled walls make every effort to stop the echo, as though they are to be feared in the art of acting – and I suppose in speech they are a harm or nuisance, distracting or distorting the sounds of spoken word, but with the song, where often the storied are told as much through the melodies as they are through the lyrics, an echo is a wonderful tool of expression.
My favourite part of this personal escape is not the silence or the echo of my own voice – it’s catching others in the act as they bustle and saunter from Point A to Point B. I am always so encouraged by the reverberating whistle of a staff, visitor or fellow student… Apparently the art of semi-private expression extends beyond my blabbering self.
So, the staircase: a place of solitude where I can sort my thoughts when the rest of the world lapses into noise and chaos, a place where I am free to sing and enjoy the echoes and a place to be reminded that, at least on their own, the people of Nipissing and Canadore still have a spirit of personal expression.
Long live the melody…
Even when I am alone, however, the stillness of the place does not stay quiet for long… the staircases of this school are my favourite places to be tranquil but they are also my favourite place to sing. The echo of the space and the way that the self-made music reverberates off the walls, the steps and the windows reminds me of a kind of heavenly choir, a host of angelic spirits, joining me in my music.
Echoes are so interesting. They are like a beautiful instant replay, like a voice underwater, like a haunting chill found in any melody…
In the theatre, this echo doesn’t exist. The padded seating and paneled walls make every effort to stop the echo, as though they are to be feared in the art of acting – and I suppose in speech they are a harm or nuisance, distracting or distorting the sounds of spoken word, but with the song, where often the storied are told as much through the melodies as they are through the lyrics, an echo is a wonderful tool of expression.
My favourite part of this personal escape is not the silence or the echo of my own voice – it’s catching others in the act as they bustle and saunter from Point A to Point B. I am always so encouraged by the reverberating whistle of a staff, visitor or fellow student… Apparently the art of semi-private expression extends beyond my blabbering self.
So, the staircase: a place of solitude where I can sort my thoughts when the rest of the world lapses into noise and chaos, a place where I am free to sing and enjoy the echoes and a place to be reminded that, at least on their own, the people of Nipissing and Canadore still have a spirit of personal expression.
Long live the melody…
Saturday, 6 December 2008
The Mind of a Six Year Old
From time to time I find myself in need of a special kind of therapy. When I am discouraged, I try on one of a number of wonderful dresses buried in my closet, when I am lonely I make time to go out with a few friends or call home and talk to my Mom or my sisters and when I am stressed, I become six years old.
When I am overwhelmed by schoolwork, be that assignments or exams, I have found that the best therapy for recovering my sanity is to temporarily act as though none of it matters. I don my favourite pair of head-to-foot patterned pajamas, take my Sesame Street blanket that I have hiding between the duvets on my bed, gather my reserve box of sweet cereal, a large bowl, my favourite spoon and a gallon of milk and I sit in front of the television with legs crossed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The recovery process usually takes me about two hours and by the end of Bugs Bunny or the Flintstones, my focus and my inspiration have usually returned.
While in the midst of a Road-Runner cartoon I found myself marveling at the creative processes of Wile E Coyote as he designed yet another flawless, genius scheme. Always a masterpiece of blue-prints and instructions, Wile E’s plans had every visual reassurance of success; naturally, the Road-Runner would find some way of foiling his plot, and we all know that this coyote has suffered many a concussion when his tiny pink umbrella failed to hold back the falling bolder or anvil. The next frame was what has always impressed me with Wile E’s character… no matter the previous injury, he would immediately be working up some new and devilish plan to capture and cook our speedy friend.
Where would the fictional world be without Acme Enterprises and where would we be without heroes like Wile E that remind us of the meaning of endurance and perseverance under all kinds of trials and tests? It is lessons like this one that pull me out of academic slump and emotional weariness and back into the world of functioning people and progression of thought. With characters like Wile E that can pick themselves up even after they get knocked off their feet over and over and over, then how can I do anything but smile and pick myself back up in the midst of a crazy and stress filled week? Even when I feel like I’m drowning in work – at least it’s not an anvil.
When I am overwhelmed by schoolwork, be that assignments or exams, I have found that the best therapy for recovering my sanity is to temporarily act as though none of it matters. I don my favourite pair of head-to-foot patterned pajamas, take my Sesame Street blanket that I have hiding between the duvets on my bed, gather my reserve box of sweet cereal, a large bowl, my favourite spoon and a gallon of milk and I sit in front of the television with legs crossed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The recovery process usually takes me about two hours and by the end of Bugs Bunny or the Flintstones, my focus and my inspiration have usually returned.
While in the midst of a Road-Runner cartoon I found myself marveling at the creative processes of Wile E Coyote as he designed yet another flawless, genius scheme. Always a masterpiece of blue-prints and instructions, Wile E’s plans had every visual reassurance of success; naturally, the Road-Runner would find some way of foiling his plot, and we all know that this coyote has suffered many a concussion when his tiny pink umbrella failed to hold back the falling bolder or anvil. The next frame was what has always impressed me with Wile E’s character… no matter the previous injury, he would immediately be working up some new and devilish plan to capture and cook our speedy friend.
Where would the fictional world be without Acme Enterprises and where would we be without heroes like Wile E that remind us of the meaning of endurance and perseverance under all kinds of trials and tests? It is lessons like this one that pull me out of academic slump and emotional weariness and back into the world of functioning people and progression of thought. With characters like Wile E that can pick themselves up even after they get knocked off their feet over and over and over, then how can I do anything but smile and pick myself back up in the midst of a crazy and stress filled week? Even when I feel like I’m drowning in work – at least it’s not an anvil.
Monday, 1 December 2008
A Little Encouragement
This letter comes from North Bay and from the desk of a very tired, very stressed and very encouraged young woman. It's the encouragement part of my life that I want to pass along briefly, in case you are finding yourself in one of the other two categories.
Life is beginning to wrap up here, partly in the completion-of-tasks sense, partly in the shiny-paper-everywhere sense. In less than a month we will all be sitting in front of a tree with wrapping paper and ribbon at our feet, and if that mental image isn't quite enough to pull you through the next couple of weeks, here are a couple verses that will hopefully encourage you as you work through the rest of life until Christmas:
"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23)
"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen for what is seen in temporary but what is unseen is eternal." (2nd Corinthians 4:18)
"Find rest, oh my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and salvation. I will not be shaken!" (Psalm 62:5-6)
"The end of all things is near. Therefore, be clear-minded and self-controlled so that you can pray." (1st Peter 4:7)
"Do not be anxious about anything but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:6-7)
I hope that the next little while will be a productive and successful time for you, whatever you have on your plate... try to get a little sleep from time to time, proofread your homework, crack open the advent calender, eat some fresh fruit and smile as much as you can!
And so, with a prayer and a smile of my own, I leave you to tests and papers and work. Keep your chin up and God bless.
Life is beginning to wrap up here, partly in the completion-of-tasks sense, partly in the shiny-paper-everywhere sense. In less than a month we will all be sitting in front of a tree with wrapping paper and ribbon at our feet, and if that mental image isn't quite enough to pull you through the next couple of weeks, here are a couple verses that will hopefully encourage you as you work through the rest of life until Christmas:
"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23)
"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen for what is seen in temporary but what is unseen is eternal." (2nd Corinthians 4:18)
"Find rest, oh my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from Him. He alone is my rock and salvation. I will not be shaken!" (Psalm 62:5-6)
"The end of all things is near. Therefore, be clear-minded and self-controlled so that you can pray." (1st Peter 4:7)
"Do not be anxious about anything but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:6-7)
I hope that the next little while will be a productive and successful time for you, whatever you have on your plate... try to get a little sleep from time to time, proofread your homework, crack open the advent calender, eat some fresh fruit and smile as much as you can!
And so, with a prayer and a smile of my own, I leave you to tests and papers and work. Keep your chin up and God bless.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
The Not-So-Sleeping Beauty
I am Briar Rose, officially named Aurora (or Princess Aurora), best known in local folklore as Sleeping Beauty. I was born into a wonderful royal family, doted upon by not only my parents but my guardians, the three good fairies, and an entire kingdom of loyal subjects. I was even betrothed to a prince. I was blessed with supernatural gifts of beauty and song; however, as the stereotypical story unfolds, I am also cursed: upon the eve of my 16th birthday, I shall prick my finger and fall into a deep sleep until true love’s kiss awakens me.
To counter the spell I was sent to the forest to be raised by the fairies (acting mortally) until the threat had passed. I was taught to be quite tame and gentle, traits that come naturally having been by myself for so long; only the three women and the animals keep me company.
But now... now things have changed.
It’s the 14th Century and the evening of my 16th birthday, before the supposéd death sentence comes into effect. They’ve dressed me up in a poufy gown and suddenly they want me to get married! Well, I want to get married too, but not to some stranger in a starched prince costume, but to the man I love, the man I have been dreaming of since the day we danced in the wood. It seems like yesterday, and it was, but the connection we shared was worth this escape I’m planning. Fate has a hold on me no longer. The fairies and the royalty, as dear as they are, have lied to me for 16 years and it’s about time I take fate and life into my own hands.
I’m in the upper room of the castle where my “parents” are keeping me until they march me down the aisle. I’ve finally been left alone to try and process some of this, and I am not going to sit here even a moment longer than I have to. I am running away.
The castle walls are cold stone, bare and cage-like. One heavy and barred door is just behind me to the left, the only way in or out of this room. The fairies are somewhere on the other side but I don’t know where they’ve gone or how long they plan to stay away. The entirety of my life in the homely country cottage has been condensed to three cardboard boxes in the corner. Before me is a large mirror, and all I can see is the stupid dress they have draped me in, and the crown on my head – a symbol of imprisonment and death, as far as I am concerned. They keep talking about a spinning wheel? Who cares? I just want to get back to the forest before he gets there; it is with that boy, that man, that my happily ever after lies.
I am collecting all of the things I need to get back to the cottage – shall, basket with some key food supplies, comfortable shoes (trading my heels in for flats), and a candle, which I can’t find. I know I have to leave ASAP to avoid being recaptured, but I need the light to be able to find my way back, not that I really know the way. As the time moves along, I get more panicked, starting to talk out the rushed packing processes of earlier this morning. It wasn’t logical; I keep finding forks and toothbrushes together, my cloak was wrapping plates, and so on. The frustration is building rapidly.
I’m frustrated by the inefficiency of the clutter in the room (wondering all the time how much of the life I’ve know was false and empty) and I’m scared out of my mind at the life that waits for me if I stay (an arranged marriage to a man I don’t know and probably won’t even like, parents and people who love me but don’t know anything about who I am, aunts who turn out to be fairies with magical powers, a huge castle that feels so foreign and cold and isolating...). But from time to time I get swept away in anticipation of the life I could have with the.... man... well, his name isn’t that important... He loves me and I love him and even with the dangers of the world, even in getting home again, our love will protect me.
I want to get home, to the cottage in the woods, not because it’s my home but because that is the place where I am supposed to be meeting my love right now. I need to find that stupid candle and get out of here, somehow, without being seen – even in this ridiculous ball gown.
There are so many obstacles to face; I’m locked in the tower of a castle (how cliché) with one way out that is probably fortified by a hundred royal guards. I’ve been dressed up in a gown that not only weighs three times what my usual dresses do, but is also nearly florescent and could house a small country of people under its skirt. I can’t find the candle and although the room is lighted well, I think a girl of any stature carrying a full sized torch might be counted as suspicious. Time is also, naturally, ticking against me.
The stakes: if I get free and find my way back to the cottage in time, I will surely live a life full of love and romance and fairytale bliss. If, however, I am captured, I will be forced into a horrifying marriage to the ogre prince and I will be miserable the rest of my life. Or, on a more positive note, I will prick my finger on a spindle and fall into a dream-filled coma for the rest of my life... not a terrible option, when compared to the legal slavery I will be forever trapped in otherwise...
And so, I move to action. I root through my boxes, collecting the things I will need for my journey. Hiding the dress as best I can, I light the candle, grab some matches and quietly slip out the door without being seen.
To counter the spell I was sent to the forest to be raised by the fairies (acting mortally) until the threat had passed. I was taught to be quite tame and gentle, traits that come naturally having been by myself for so long; only the three women and the animals keep me company.
But now... now things have changed.
It’s the 14th Century and the evening of my 16th birthday, before the supposéd death sentence comes into effect. They’ve dressed me up in a poufy gown and suddenly they want me to get married! Well, I want to get married too, but not to some stranger in a starched prince costume, but to the man I love, the man I have been dreaming of since the day we danced in the wood. It seems like yesterday, and it was, but the connection we shared was worth this escape I’m planning. Fate has a hold on me no longer. The fairies and the royalty, as dear as they are, have lied to me for 16 years and it’s about time I take fate and life into my own hands.
I’m in the upper room of the castle where my “parents” are keeping me until they march me down the aisle. I’ve finally been left alone to try and process some of this, and I am not going to sit here even a moment longer than I have to. I am running away.
The castle walls are cold stone, bare and cage-like. One heavy and barred door is just behind me to the left, the only way in or out of this room. The fairies are somewhere on the other side but I don’t know where they’ve gone or how long they plan to stay away. The entirety of my life in the homely country cottage has been condensed to three cardboard boxes in the corner. Before me is a large mirror, and all I can see is the stupid dress they have draped me in, and the crown on my head – a symbol of imprisonment and death, as far as I am concerned. They keep talking about a spinning wheel? Who cares? I just want to get back to the forest before he gets there; it is with that boy, that man, that my happily ever after lies.
I am collecting all of the things I need to get back to the cottage – shall, basket with some key food supplies, comfortable shoes (trading my heels in for flats), and a candle, which I can’t find. I know I have to leave ASAP to avoid being recaptured, but I need the light to be able to find my way back, not that I really know the way. As the time moves along, I get more panicked, starting to talk out the rushed packing processes of earlier this morning. It wasn’t logical; I keep finding forks and toothbrushes together, my cloak was wrapping plates, and so on. The frustration is building rapidly.
I’m frustrated by the inefficiency of the clutter in the room (wondering all the time how much of the life I’ve know was false and empty) and I’m scared out of my mind at the life that waits for me if I stay (an arranged marriage to a man I don’t know and probably won’t even like, parents and people who love me but don’t know anything about who I am, aunts who turn out to be fairies with magical powers, a huge castle that feels so foreign and cold and isolating...). But from time to time I get swept away in anticipation of the life I could have with the.... man... well, his name isn’t that important... He loves me and I love him and even with the dangers of the world, even in getting home again, our love will protect me.
I want to get home, to the cottage in the woods, not because it’s my home but because that is the place where I am supposed to be meeting my love right now. I need to find that stupid candle and get out of here, somehow, without being seen – even in this ridiculous ball gown.
There are so many obstacles to face; I’m locked in the tower of a castle (how cliché) with one way out that is probably fortified by a hundred royal guards. I’ve been dressed up in a gown that not only weighs three times what my usual dresses do, but is also nearly florescent and could house a small country of people under its skirt. I can’t find the candle and although the room is lighted well, I think a girl of any stature carrying a full sized torch might be counted as suspicious. Time is also, naturally, ticking against me.
The stakes: if I get free and find my way back to the cottage in time, I will surely live a life full of love and romance and fairytale bliss. If, however, I am captured, I will be forced into a horrifying marriage to the ogre prince and I will be miserable the rest of my life. Or, on a more positive note, I will prick my finger on a spindle and fall into a dream-filled coma for the rest of my life... not a terrible option, when compared to the legal slavery I will be forever trapped in otherwise...
And so, I move to action. I root through my boxes, collecting the things I will need for my journey. Hiding the dress as best I can, I light the candle, grab some matches and quietly slip out the door without being seen.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Pip, Chip and Theodore
Over the past few weeks our cottage has been steadily collecting tenants. Unwelcomed as they may be, our new roommates have settled quite comfortably into their new home where they are apparently warm, dry and well fed. As a general statement they keep to themselves – they don’t use up all of our hot water and they don’t blast their music late at night – but there is an odd combination of severe territorialism and a complete lack of respect for personal space that has created some tension between the human and chipmunk populations.
We’ve tried asking politely. Chip, please stay out of my dresser drawers. There are things in there not for rodent eyes. We’ve tried demanding our privacy. Theodore! Get out of my space! And stop eating the popcorn. When you start paying for it, you can have some. Until then, back off! We’ve warned, begged and threatened with no avail. Even our heavily overused air fresheners won’t keep them away for long. It’s getting a little ridiculous.
With professional exterminators out of the question, Pip, Chip and Theodore have thus far been able to postpone their inevitable demise. We only know of one chipmunk that has met his Maker in our home, if chipmunks do indeed come face to face with the living God, and that poor rodent drowned in our toilet prior to our arrival. (We buried him respectfully in a closed casket service provided by the nearest Wal-Mart shopping bag, the strength of my slinging arm and the forest behind our cottage.) But the dead ones are of little consequence to us now; it’s the ones that refuse to leave and refuse to die that really irk the spirit of our home.
We have run out of viable options. We have done everything we can thing to get rid of these vermin pests. We have been left with no alternative action.
This.
Means.
War.
Apartment 714 has turned into a battle of wit. By rummaging through our bedrooms, the Chips have learned everything they need to know about us, and have used this information to abuse their stealth powers. Desperate times are upon us and we have called in for back up.
Meet our secret weapon of superhuman handy-man skill: Carl. Armed to the teeth with nails and with a hammer in hand, Carl took immediate action with no direction necessary and in moments everyone in the house knew that Pip, Chip and Dale had stolen their last chocolate malt ball.
Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from our experience with the not-so-friendly chipmunks of MBC; I have a professor who has said many times that a good story must reach beyond the fictional narrative and into the real world if it is going to be of any lasting influence, so allow me a moment to overlay the framework of this little allegory. Consider a simple substitution of title for each of these characters: Pip, Chip and Dale become Anger, Deception and Lust. If your life is open to them you won’t have to look far; they find their way toward the source of your survival (popcorn to prayer life) and ruin it, so slowly at first that you barely notice, then more and more directly until you feel like there is nothing you can do to stop the attacks. My personal efforts have no lasting affects and I feel not only invaded but also exposed, as though everything in my life has been tainted. Eventually there comes a point when you cannot help yourself any longer. You must call out for help or struggle forever in a winless war. So, who are you going to call? Not a handy-man, though the answer does lie in a carpenter...
The truth of the matter is that the things that hurt us the most, the things that get into the cracks of our will and corrupt the spirit are things that we invite into our lives; we ignore them or feed them and then fight the consequences instead of the root issue. The footholds of sin are secure; however, there is one who can free us from the burdens we carry and the messes we make... Carl used nails in the wall, Christ used nails in the cross.
So, I suppose this is the first of my “choose your own adventure” stories with a few possible morals and endings to choose from. The first is obvious; invest in some solid Tupperware and lock up your goodies. The second; protect yourself actively against rodents and the alluring snares deployed against mind and body... sin is attractive, chipmunks are furry and cute, both cause harm far beyond the mischief of the first impression. The final moral is a lesson I am struggling with on a daily basis; we are not created to be independent. God designed us to need Him, and as much as I love working on my own and trying to figure out the answers, there are times when I must, we must, surrender independence before we can ever be free.
We’ve tried asking politely. Chip, please stay out of my dresser drawers. There are things in there not for rodent eyes. We’ve tried demanding our privacy. Theodore! Get out of my space! And stop eating the popcorn. When you start paying for it, you can have some. Until then, back off! We’ve warned, begged and threatened with no avail. Even our heavily overused air fresheners won’t keep them away for long. It’s getting a little ridiculous.
With professional exterminators out of the question, Pip, Chip and Theodore have thus far been able to postpone their inevitable demise. We only know of one chipmunk that has met his Maker in our home, if chipmunks do indeed come face to face with the living God, and that poor rodent drowned in our toilet prior to our arrival. (We buried him respectfully in a closed casket service provided by the nearest Wal-Mart shopping bag, the strength of my slinging arm and the forest behind our cottage.) But the dead ones are of little consequence to us now; it’s the ones that refuse to leave and refuse to die that really irk the spirit of our home.
We have run out of viable options. We have done everything we can thing to get rid of these vermin pests. We have been left with no alternative action.
This.
Means.
War.
Apartment 714 has turned into a battle of wit. By rummaging through our bedrooms, the Chips have learned everything they need to know about us, and have used this information to abuse their stealth powers. Desperate times are upon us and we have called in for back up.
Meet our secret weapon of superhuman handy-man skill: Carl. Armed to the teeth with nails and with a hammer in hand, Carl took immediate action with no direction necessary and in moments everyone in the house knew that Pip, Chip and Dale had stolen their last chocolate malt ball.
Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from our experience with the not-so-friendly chipmunks of MBC; I have a professor who has said many times that a good story must reach beyond the fictional narrative and into the real world if it is going to be of any lasting influence, so allow me a moment to overlay the framework of this little allegory. Consider a simple substitution of title for each of these characters: Pip, Chip and Dale become Anger, Deception and Lust. If your life is open to them you won’t have to look far; they find their way toward the source of your survival (popcorn to prayer life) and ruin it, so slowly at first that you barely notice, then more and more directly until you feel like there is nothing you can do to stop the attacks. My personal efforts have no lasting affects and I feel not only invaded but also exposed, as though everything in my life has been tainted. Eventually there comes a point when you cannot help yourself any longer. You must call out for help or struggle forever in a winless war. So, who are you going to call? Not a handy-man, though the answer does lie in a carpenter...
The truth of the matter is that the things that hurt us the most, the things that get into the cracks of our will and corrupt the spirit are things that we invite into our lives; we ignore them or feed them and then fight the consequences instead of the root issue. The footholds of sin are secure; however, there is one who can free us from the burdens we carry and the messes we make... Carl used nails in the wall, Christ used nails in the cross.
So, I suppose this is the first of my “choose your own adventure” stories with a few possible morals and endings to choose from. The first is obvious; invest in some solid Tupperware and lock up your goodies. The second; protect yourself actively against rodents and the alluring snares deployed against mind and body... sin is attractive, chipmunks are furry and cute, both cause harm far beyond the mischief of the first impression. The final moral is a lesson I am struggling with on a daily basis; we are not created to be independent. God designed us to need Him, and as much as I love working on my own and trying to figure out the answers, there are times when I must, we must, surrender independence before we can ever be free.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Open Your Eyes
Once upon a time, as the clichéd entry begins, there was a beautiful young girl who lived in a magic mirror. The girl spent much of her time gazing into the world of reality, longing to be a part of the adventures and pleasures that their kind of life could bring. She pressed her hands against the thick glass that separated her world from theirs and imagined a place where people were full of energy and colour, much unlike the flat and dulled spaces she saw when surveying her own home. The girl was a dreamer, that much was well known about her – but who she really was seemed a mystery even to her friends and family; she saved her heart for staring across the glass and into the lives of others.
The mirror she lived in was magical for two reasons; the first, obviously, was that it contained and protected a world of people, just like those on the other side. They were a special and lovely clan, friendly and full of life, though the girl couldn’t see it. The second magical element to the mirror was that it was reflective, though it did not reflect directly. When a person came up against the glass they would not see their own image but instead it was the reversal of the world at their back. If the girl had taken a step backwards and turned around she would be looking at exactly the same view as the mirror seemed to project.
Perhaps if she had turned around she would have joined into the game of Frisbee that had found so intriguing. If she had turned, she could have given a hug to the child with scrapped knees that had fallen off her bike. Maybe then she would have gone to the dance or carolled at Christmas or played in the park or done one of a million things that she watched the children in the mirror doing. If only she had turned around and faced her world with her eyes truly opened, maybe then she would have really lived.
But the girl never answered the call of her friends when she was looking through the pane of glass. She blocked out and ignored everything that happened behind her and refused, perhaps unconsciously, to participate in her world.
Especially when he was there.
A boy, young and handsome, looked back at her; he used to be so quiet, only rarely coming into the mirror’s view. He would quietly walk back and forth between the trees at the edge of the wood, always with a cautious and curious gaze. In the girl’s imagination she would often think of conversations that she might have with this boy, were he able to see her. Impossible, she thought. He lives in the world of colour and I am here, so flat and dull. He can’t see my world nor can I pass through this glass to his. Impossible. And yet the more the she dwelt on the impossibility of her growing affection for the boy and the more confidant he seemed to grow, coming ever closer to the mirror, the more hopelessly consumed she became with the life she saw – and the more distanced from her world she became as well.
By day the little girl would peer through the glass, longing to be on the other side with the boy and his friends, and into the evening she would lie down on the grass and drift into dream about his world and his life. Little did she know that he too had spent time dreaming of the looking glass girl, slowly building up the courage to finally meet her. Until then, he thought, I will care for her from a distance, dreaming of the life we might someday share.
Time wore on and the girl went to the mirror in spring rain and winter chill for many years. She grew from a hopeful child to a young woman enveloped in an imaginary life; with every passing season she found herself loving the boy, now a man, more and more, but she was also desperately lonely. He was a beautiful fiction – intangible, illusive and pretend. It’s a lie, she would tell herself, over and over while staring into his face. His image stood now, and for a long time before this moment, directly before her, confidant, tall and strong. He was kind looking and attractive, ever so much more than their first few meetings, and yet he was the wonderful lead character of a life she could never possess. He’s not real... but I love him...
The man had attached himself completely to this woman in every way that one can without physical contact or mutual conversation. He was so committed to her that in a moment’s breath he would marry without doubt or fear, and yet he remained silent, waiting until she was ready.
That day came after seven years of looking through glass. The girl had been eerily quiet for hours, thinking about her life; the life that she had wasted by spending her time standing in front of the mirror. She thought about her family and her friends that for so long had worked to keep her in touch with reality, supporting her and loving her even when they disagreed with what she was doing and thinking. She thought about the part of her heart that she had devoted to the glass, the investment of her mind that she had put in something so superficial and empty. Then the girl stopped thinking and began to act. She stood and bravely faced the mirror’s surface.
“NO!” she cried, emotions erupting from the depths of her soul. The single word rang loud and true and clear with a self-strength she had never before experienced. “You do not own me!”
Suddenly the woman threw herself forward and pounded the sheet of glass with both fists. She could feel it strain under her pressure. She struck again, with more force and the glass moaned at the blow. Once more she lifted her arms in an attack against the glass that had kept her from life on either side of the pane. The flawless surface of the magic mirror shattered.
For the first time in the whole of her life, she saw her own reflection in the broken glass. The little girl, so familiar from ages past, was nowhere to be seen and in her place stood a tall and beautiful woman, colourful and strong, like the people she had been watching for years. She laughed a quiet, mournful laugh for the life that the mirror had stolen away. “How did I ever get so consumed with the life of my fantasy when reality, true and present and full, was all this time behind me? How could I be so blind?” The woman leaned her forehead against the broken glass and let her tears fall. “No more of this. No more.”
After a moment she pushed away from the pane and turned away from her life of slavery to an imagined world. Her eyes lifted up, truly open to the sight in front of her, her world, reality. She gasped.
The view she saw was the view she has been staring at since girlhood. The meadow, the trees, the town and the church, the school, the people... the boy...
He stepped forward and held out his hands. “I knew you would find me eventually.” He smiled. He was a boy no longer as she was no longer a child, and his voice was deep and clear. How she had waited for this moment! How she had longed to hear him speak! “I’ve been waiting so long,” he said, “because I knew that you weren’t ready for me. You’ve no idea how my heart ached when you were crying and I couldn’t comfort you. How I longed to laugh along with you, but I needed to wait. But now you have finally come away from your dreams and wishes into a world that can truly be yours. Come with me; let me show you the life you have been missing, the life you have always wanted.”
How much of our lives are spent longing for an imagined life? How often do you find yourself dreaming of that perfect man or woman, however distant and intangible they may be? A life of ideals and fanciful hopes is a dangerous and discouraging one to dwell within. Concentrating solely upon the future causes you to lose sight of the present; aspiration must be balanced with action, daydream with truth. Don’t forfeit who you are but find who you are in the world that’s foundation is real; it is then that you will truly discover what it means to live.
The mirror she lived in was magical for two reasons; the first, obviously, was that it contained and protected a world of people, just like those on the other side. They were a special and lovely clan, friendly and full of life, though the girl couldn’t see it. The second magical element to the mirror was that it was reflective, though it did not reflect directly. When a person came up against the glass they would not see their own image but instead it was the reversal of the world at their back. If the girl had taken a step backwards and turned around she would be looking at exactly the same view as the mirror seemed to project.
Perhaps if she had turned around she would have joined into the game of Frisbee that had found so intriguing. If she had turned, she could have given a hug to the child with scrapped knees that had fallen off her bike. Maybe then she would have gone to the dance or carolled at Christmas or played in the park or done one of a million things that she watched the children in the mirror doing. If only she had turned around and faced her world with her eyes truly opened, maybe then she would have really lived.
But the girl never answered the call of her friends when she was looking through the pane of glass. She blocked out and ignored everything that happened behind her and refused, perhaps unconsciously, to participate in her world.
Especially when he was there.
A boy, young and handsome, looked back at her; he used to be so quiet, only rarely coming into the mirror’s view. He would quietly walk back and forth between the trees at the edge of the wood, always with a cautious and curious gaze. In the girl’s imagination she would often think of conversations that she might have with this boy, were he able to see her. Impossible, she thought. He lives in the world of colour and I am here, so flat and dull. He can’t see my world nor can I pass through this glass to his. Impossible. And yet the more the she dwelt on the impossibility of her growing affection for the boy and the more confidant he seemed to grow, coming ever closer to the mirror, the more hopelessly consumed she became with the life she saw – and the more distanced from her world she became as well.
By day the little girl would peer through the glass, longing to be on the other side with the boy and his friends, and into the evening she would lie down on the grass and drift into dream about his world and his life. Little did she know that he too had spent time dreaming of the looking glass girl, slowly building up the courage to finally meet her. Until then, he thought, I will care for her from a distance, dreaming of the life we might someday share.
Time wore on and the girl went to the mirror in spring rain and winter chill for many years. She grew from a hopeful child to a young woman enveloped in an imaginary life; with every passing season she found herself loving the boy, now a man, more and more, but she was also desperately lonely. He was a beautiful fiction – intangible, illusive and pretend. It’s a lie, she would tell herself, over and over while staring into his face. His image stood now, and for a long time before this moment, directly before her, confidant, tall and strong. He was kind looking and attractive, ever so much more than their first few meetings, and yet he was the wonderful lead character of a life she could never possess. He’s not real... but I love him...
The man had attached himself completely to this woman in every way that one can without physical contact or mutual conversation. He was so committed to her that in a moment’s breath he would marry without doubt or fear, and yet he remained silent, waiting until she was ready.
That day came after seven years of looking through glass. The girl had been eerily quiet for hours, thinking about her life; the life that she had wasted by spending her time standing in front of the mirror. She thought about her family and her friends that for so long had worked to keep her in touch with reality, supporting her and loving her even when they disagreed with what she was doing and thinking. She thought about the part of her heart that she had devoted to the glass, the investment of her mind that she had put in something so superficial and empty. Then the girl stopped thinking and began to act. She stood and bravely faced the mirror’s surface.
“NO!” she cried, emotions erupting from the depths of her soul. The single word rang loud and true and clear with a self-strength she had never before experienced. “You do not own me!”
Suddenly the woman threw herself forward and pounded the sheet of glass with both fists. She could feel it strain under her pressure. She struck again, with more force and the glass moaned at the blow. Once more she lifted her arms in an attack against the glass that had kept her from life on either side of the pane. The flawless surface of the magic mirror shattered.
For the first time in the whole of her life, she saw her own reflection in the broken glass. The little girl, so familiar from ages past, was nowhere to be seen and in her place stood a tall and beautiful woman, colourful and strong, like the people she had been watching for years. She laughed a quiet, mournful laugh for the life that the mirror had stolen away. “How did I ever get so consumed with the life of my fantasy when reality, true and present and full, was all this time behind me? How could I be so blind?” The woman leaned her forehead against the broken glass and let her tears fall. “No more of this. No more.”
After a moment she pushed away from the pane and turned away from her life of slavery to an imagined world. Her eyes lifted up, truly open to the sight in front of her, her world, reality. She gasped.
The view she saw was the view she has been staring at since girlhood. The meadow, the trees, the town and the church, the school, the people... the boy...
He stepped forward and held out his hands. “I knew you would find me eventually.” He smiled. He was a boy no longer as she was no longer a child, and his voice was deep and clear. How she had waited for this moment! How she had longed to hear him speak! “I’ve been waiting so long,” he said, “because I knew that you weren’t ready for me. You’ve no idea how my heart ached when you were crying and I couldn’t comfort you. How I longed to laugh along with you, but I needed to wait. But now you have finally come away from your dreams and wishes into a world that can truly be yours. Come with me; let me show you the life you have been missing, the life you have always wanted.”
How much of our lives are spent longing for an imagined life? How often do you find yourself dreaming of that perfect man or woman, however distant and intangible they may be? A life of ideals and fanciful hopes is a dangerous and discouraging one to dwell within. Concentrating solely upon the future causes you to lose sight of the present; aspiration must be balanced with action, daydream with truth. Don’t forfeit who you are but find who you are in the world that’s foundation is real; it is then that you will truly discover what it means to live.
Friday, 26 September 2008
The Answer Man
“And welcome back to The Answer Man; I’m your host, Nowitt Tall. For those of you just tuning into tonight’s program, we have been addressing the issue of the future and its ridiculous uncertainty for the past half hour. In the studio with me is Miss Terri, of the Department Explaining Finite Information Newly Exposed (also known as DEFINE), and she will be speaking to the predicted pattern of unsettlement and general obscurity that the future holds, or perhaps, doesn’t. Miss Terri, what can you tell us about the future?”
“Nothing... and that’s the whole problem! DEFINE is finding great difficult tracking down any absolutes about the future. We simply cannot claim any definite knowledge of a situation before it happens. There are far too many variables! Too many things that could happen! Did you know that there are entire government departments that dedicate their lives to the research of possibility? I know of a woman who has spent millions trying to isolate every possible outcome of a falling paperclip. You would be astounded at some of her findings.”
“But the future, Miss Terri. Is there nothing you can say?”
“Surely I could say many things about the future, but even with my heavily prepared and researched report there is honestly nothing I could say that you yourself could not discover in a few minutes.”
“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that no one knows anything about what is going to happen at any time in the future?!”
“Well, no one that works in our building.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s the future that is ridiculous. The only one who would know that is... well, we can’t really get into that here.”
“Please, if you have any information at all I’m sure that everyone is growing quite nervous and would appreciate some kind of reassurance.”
“Well, I don’t have your answers Nowitt Tall, but there is a small group of researchers who have been looking into the Source. They’ve been coming up with some crazy discoveries in futuristic prophesies for the past six thousand years or so.”
“That’s fantastic! Do you think you would be able to get in contact with one of these people?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well folks, we are going to take a short break and track down one of the researchers of the Source while you are subconsciously absorbing the politically tainted and overwhelmingly materialistic social propaganda that is about to follow in 30 second clips.”
[Look! Look over here, quickly, now! Do you see this stunning young woman? She may eat next to nothing and be airbrushed and lighted professionally for this commercial, but you can look just like her every day if you purchase our one-of-a-kind all-natural imitation soap-substitute facial cleansers. Guaranteed results in only seven weeks if coupled with rigorous exercise and plastic surgery. Side effects may include stomach cramping, abnormal hair growth and in rare cases sudden death. Vote Liberal!]
“Welcome back to The Answer Man, I’m your host, Nowitt Tall. Before our break we were talking to Miss Terri from DEFINE. I would now like to welcome to the hot seat Ima Witness, who will explain some of the research that her team has been uncovering about the future and its mysteriousness. Hello Ima. Thank you for coming over here on such short notice.”
“My pleasure! I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to share a few minutes of what we have been looking into. It’s a fascinating line of work and rarely taken as seriously as it should be.”
“Please, tell us whatever you would like. The floor is yours.”
“I work with a team that has been thoroughly looking into the biblical prophesies of the Christian New and Old Testaments. We study the past track record of scriptural accuracy to predict how accurate the prophesies of the future may be. It has been an incredible project; there are hundreds of very specific prophesies that have come to completion within the bible’s historical canon, and many, many more that have yet to be fulfilled. I have no doubt in the precision of the remaining global forecasts.”
“No doubts?”
“None.”
“...None.”
“There is something about complete assurance of supernatural absolutes in our world that give inexplicable peace to the soul. Take the end of the world, for example.”
“Let me guess. Global warming, right? I knew it would catch up with us eventually.”
“No, it’s not global warming or another ice age. The sun is not going to explode, the earth is not going to split in half because of a giant earthquake and I really don’t think zombies will be taking over international government any time soon, no matter how convincing their political campaigns. All of these supposedly scientific and cultural ideas sound ridiculous when compared to the biblical model. Ask yourselves honestly which of these theories makes more sense; millions of years of environmental torture under the stress of an aging star or the final victorious triumph of a just and omnipotent God?”
“You have a very interesting view on this issue, Ima! Thanks you for your input into today’s show. It’s encouraging to know that there are still people out there who put their faith in established absolute truths. It’s also a good reminder that there are more ways to interpret reality than the world of North American media would have us believe. That’s what our goal is here on The Answer Man; bringing the answers and the arguments to you. And so, we thank you for listening. I’m Nowitt Tall, leaving you with many more questions and a few new answers. Until next week, keep thinking, keep asking and keep tuning in!”
“Nothing... and that’s the whole problem! DEFINE is finding great difficult tracking down any absolutes about the future. We simply cannot claim any definite knowledge of a situation before it happens. There are far too many variables! Too many things that could happen! Did you know that there are entire government departments that dedicate their lives to the research of possibility? I know of a woman who has spent millions trying to isolate every possible outcome of a falling paperclip. You would be astounded at some of her findings.”
“But the future, Miss Terri. Is there nothing you can say?”
“Surely I could say many things about the future, but even with my heavily prepared and researched report there is honestly nothing I could say that you yourself could not discover in a few minutes.”
“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that no one knows anything about what is going to happen at any time in the future?!”
“Well, no one that works in our building.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s the future that is ridiculous. The only one who would know that is... well, we can’t really get into that here.”
“Please, if you have any information at all I’m sure that everyone is growing quite nervous and would appreciate some kind of reassurance.”
“Well, I don’t have your answers Nowitt Tall, but there is a small group of researchers who have been looking into the Source. They’ve been coming up with some crazy discoveries in futuristic prophesies for the past six thousand years or so.”
“That’s fantastic! Do you think you would be able to get in contact with one of these people?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well folks, we are going to take a short break and track down one of the researchers of the Source while you are subconsciously absorbing the politically tainted and overwhelmingly materialistic social propaganda that is about to follow in 30 second clips.”
[Look! Look over here, quickly, now! Do you see this stunning young woman? She may eat next to nothing and be airbrushed and lighted professionally for this commercial, but you can look just like her every day if you purchase our one-of-a-kind all-natural imitation soap-substitute facial cleansers. Guaranteed results in only seven weeks if coupled with rigorous exercise and plastic surgery. Side effects may include stomach cramping, abnormal hair growth and in rare cases sudden death. Vote Liberal!]
“Welcome back to The Answer Man, I’m your host, Nowitt Tall. Before our break we were talking to Miss Terri from DEFINE. I would now like to welcome to the hot seat Ima Witness, who will explain some of the research that her team has been uncovering about the future and its mysteriousness. Hello Ima. Thank you for coming over here on such short notice.”
“My pleasure! I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to share a few minutes of what we have been looking into. It’s a fascinating line of work and rarely taken as seriously as it should be.”
“Please, tell us whatever you would like. The floor is yours.”
“I work with a team that has been thoroughly looking into the biblical prophesies of the Christian New and Old Testaments. We study the past track record of scriptural accuracy to predict how accurate the prophesies of the future may be. It has been an incredible project; there are hundreds of very specific prophesies that have come to completion within the bible’s historical canon, and many, many more that have yet to be fulfilled. I have no doubt in the precision of the remaining global forecasts.”
“No doubts?”
“None.”
“...None.”
“There is something about complete assurance of supernatural absolutes in our world that give inexplicable peace to the soul. Take the end of the world, for example.”
“Let me guess. Global warming, right? I knew it would catch up with us eventually.”
“No, it’s not global warming or another ice age. The sun is not going to explode, the earth is not going to split in half because of a giant earthquake and I really don’t think zombies will be taking over international government any time soon, no matter how convincing their political campaigns. All of these supposedly scientific and cultural ideas sound ridiculous when compared to the biblical model. Ask yourselves honestly which of these theories makes more sense; millions of years of environmental torture under the stress of an aging star or the final victorious triumph of a just and omnipotent God?”
“You have a very interesting view on this issue, Ima! Thanks you for your input into today’s show. It’s encouraging to know that there are still people out there who put their faith in established absolute truths. It’s also a good reminder that there are more ways to interpret reality than the world of North American media would have us believe. That’s what our goal is here on The Answer Man; bringing the answers and the arguments to you. And so, we thank you for listening. I’m Nowitt Tall, leaving you with many more questions and a few new answers. Until next week, keep thinking, keep asking and keep tuning in!”
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
A Father’s Love
I’m sitting here, alone in the quiet stillness of my apartment’s living room, reflecting on the last really great hug I received. Perhaps it is a strange thing to have occupying my thoughts at such a time, but the thinking has taken some time to resolve itself into an expressible idea. And so, here I am, smothered in the memory of a hug.
The specific embrace I’ve been thinking about was one that I shared with my Dad this summer. I don’t even remember what had caused me to be so upset that day or even which day it was, but I remember the hug vividly; it was strong and immobilizing, holding me tightly and protectively and it was really, really long. It seemed to stretch on and on forever until something odd happened... I kind of got used to the pressure and position and I almost couldn’t feel him or the hug for a while. After a few more moments of standing in the hug that I couldn’t feel, I shifted just a little, as a hint or suggestion that perhaps it was a good time for this particular hug to end, when suddenly all of the power in my Dad’s hug was realized afresh and I was once again caught in a wonderful, loving, protective, accepting, supportive, intentional and overwhelming embrace. I think that’s when I started to cry. Without a word, my Dad’s arms wrapped just a little bit tighter around my body, holding me close for a long, long time.
While I was sitting and thinking over this memory, I had a personal epiphany: my Dad and God hug the same way. The first time you come into contact with God you are completely blown away by His intense, fierce, powerful and gentle, welcoming and transforming love. God’s love is, unlike anything else we have ever encountered or can possible understand, perfectly constant. So consistent is this love, in fact, that in some unimaginable way we become accustomed to it; the love that once ignited a fire of joy and a passion for truth in our hearts changes, in our perception, into warmth that lulls us to a semi-comfortable spiritual slumber. After a while of living in the warmth of God’s love we begin to overheat and get restless, so we move. A slight change of position and suddenly we are once again flooded by wave after wave of God’s merciful and compassionate personal love. He loves us – He loves you – and he’s not about to let you go.
There is nothing quite like the loving hug of a father. I hope you have had the experience of a physical man to protect you and your family... but if your life’s blessings have fallen in other areas and for one reason or another you are without this role model and leader in your life, know that there is someone waiting with arms open wide, waiting to give you the hug of your life. All you have to do is open yourself to the embrace and let Him pull you close and hold you safe.
Friday, 15 August 2008
Another One Bites the Dust
Suddenly this simple, lyrical phrase has taken on a new weight and meaning in my life; never before have I desired the gritty taste and texture of sand in my mouth, but after last night the pursuit of such an experience has consumed my plan-making mind. What is the fastest and most enduring way that I can accomplish this goal? How can I ‘bite the dust’ so intensely that one might be able to grow flowers in the earth between my lips?
A word of explanation. Every Thursday night here at MBC the staff gather for a worship session and short time of study or reflection. Recently, we have been watching the Nooma video series to spark our small group conversations. Each video deals with something different – a story, a passage, some insight into the bible or into our faith, an element of life – and usually I can apply one or two things from the clip to my own life and walk with God. Last night was different.
My entire week – my entire summer – has been a very emotional rollercoaster. Last night I went through a condensed recap of every emotion I have experience over the past few months in the span of about an hour. In the ten minutes while watching this video, my mind and my mood went from quietly and contentedly pensive to unexplained and slightly aggressive frustration to complete submission. How did I get here? Then I started really listening to what Nooma Man was talking about. I began to understand what he meant about the dirt... and I realized something profound... I’m too clean.
In the video, Nooma Man was talking about the disciples of biblical times; not just of the twelve, but of any follower of any rabbi at that point in history. Here’s the breakdown of his lesson: if you wanted to follow someone as a disciple, you didn’t just trail along with the crowd from place to place; instead, your goal, your main objective in life, your driving force and core motivation was to be like your teacher. You became a mimic, a copycat and as close a reflection of the real deal as possible; you followed them around, yes, but you followed them paying acute attention to detail. You leached on to the rabbi and attempted to duplicate everything he did, both spiritually and physically... and the physical following got you dirty.
“May you be covered in the dust of your rabbi...” May the mud that is flung off the sandals before you cake onto your skin and get in your teeth. If you were covered in dust because you were following that closely to your leader, it was a compliment to look dirty.
I want to be following that closely.
Perhaps this makes little sense to anyone outside of my mind. I don’t even follow my own thoughts some days... Here’s the gist. I am following after Christ, but I’m falling behind a little. I’m within earshot but some days I let myself dawdle and I begin to rely on the relay of God’s messages through other people instead of kicking myself into gear and learning first hand. I have some catching up to do. I need to get closer, walk faster, get into a shadowing position. I have to act like I want to learn if I really do want to learn. I have to find a way to grow up and push forward and bite the dust.
A word of explanation. Every Thursday night here at MBC the staff gather for a worship session and short time of study or reflection. Recently, we have been watching the Nooma video series to spark our small group conversations. Each video deals with something different – a story, a passage, some insight into the bible or into our faith, an element of life – and usually I can apply one or two things from the clip to my own life and walk with God. Last night was different.
My entire week – my entire summer – has been a very emotional rollercoaster. Last night I went through a condensed recap of every emotion I have experience over the past few months in the span of about an hour. In the ten minutes while watching this video, my mind and my mood went from quietly and contentedly pensive to unexplained and slightly aggressive frustration to complete submission. How did I get here? Then I started really listening to what Nooma Man was talking about. I began to understand what he meant about the dirt... and I realized something profound... I’m too clean.
In the video, Nooma Man was talking about the disciples of biblical times; not just of the twelve, but of any follower of any rabbi at that point in history. Here’s the breakdown of his lesson: if you wanted to follow someone as a disciple, you didn’t just trail along with the crowd from place to place; instead, your goal, your main objective in life, your driving force and core motivation was to be like your teacher. You became a mimic, a copycat and as close a reflection of the real deal as possible; you followed them around, yes, but you followed them paying acute attention to detail. You leached on to the rabbi and attempted to duplicate everything he did, both spiritually and physically... and the physical following got you dirty.
“May you be covered in the dust of your rabbi...” May the mud that is flung off the sandals before you cake onto your skin and get in your teeth. If you were covered in dust because you were following that closely to your leader, it was a compliment to look dirty.
I want to be following that closely.
Perhaps this makes little sense to anyone outside of my mind. I don’t even follow my own thoughts some days... Here’s the gist. I am following after Christ, but I’m falling behind a little. I’m within earshot but some days I let myself dawdle and I begin to rely on the relay of God’s messages through other people instead of kicking myself into gear and learning first hand. I have some catching up to do. I need to get closer, walk faster, get into a shadowing position. I have to act like I want to learn if I really do want to learn. I have to find a way to grow up and push forward and bite the dust.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Breathe
Breathe in...
I fill my lungs with the Breath of Life.
Exhale...
I drain myself of everything mine.
Who am I, what am I?
Questions I pose but cannot answer.
Questions for another mind.
For another person.
For a supernatural source of infinite knowledge;
The sometimes revealer of mystery,
The exclusive creator of all things known
And of things unknown
And things unknowable.
God.
My God.
The answer to the chaos, the anchor in the storm,
The only one that I can trust.
The only one that I can truly trust
Never to change,
Never to falter,
Never to fail,
Never to ignore,
Never to leave,
Never to run,
Never to misjudge,
Never to betray,
Never to die.
Breathe in, slowly...
I feel the life begin to spread into the cold parts of myself,
Into the cold parts of my heart.
Exhale, slowly, so slowly...
Peace washes over my body in a physical wave.
I can feel His love.
A quiet smile covers my face.
Jesus brings out a softness of spirit in me;
A gentleness that is stiffened and chipped by modern civilization.
Our world has a way of leaving scratches and bruises on the soul
But He is the restoration and the fixation of my heart.
Breathe in... be renewed by the Spirit.
Exhale... surrender to a joy and a peace that cannot be swayed by storm.
Let go of your doubts and fears in exchange for the answer;
In exchange for the anchor.
Let go of yourself
And breathe in.
I fill my lungs with the Breath of Life.
Exhale...
I drain myself of everything mine.
Who am I, what am I?
Questions I pose but cannot answer.
Questions for another mind.
For another person.
For a supernatural source of infinite knowledge;
The sometimes revealer of mystery,
The exclusive creator of all things known
And of things unknown
And things unknowable.
God.
My God.
The answer to the chaos, the anchor in the storm,
The only one that I can trust.
The only one that I can truly trust
Never to change,
Never to falter,
Never to fail,
Never to ignore,
Never to leave,
Never to run,
Never to misjudge,
Never to betray,
Never to die.
Breathe in, slowly...
I feel the life begin to spread into the cold parts of myself,
Into the cold parts of my heart.
Exhale, slowly, so slowly...
Peace washes over my body in a physical wave.
I can feel His love.
A quiet smile covers my face.
Jesus brings out a softness of spirit in me;
A gentleness that is stiffened and chipped by modern civilization.
Our world has a way of leaving scratches and bruises on the soul
But He is the restoration and the fixation of my heart.
Breathe in... be renewed by the Spirit.
Exhale... surrender to a joy and a peace that cannot be swayed by storm.
Let go of your doubts and fears in exchange for the answer;
In exchange for the anchor.
Let go of yourself
And breathe in.
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