The One You Love

One of the things that I will always remember from my short time in Virginia is the time you spend at night. During the day, I would futilely fill out job applications and drive around to figure out where I was. But, around 5:00 I would get bored until Kyle came home. To stave off boredom, I would cook dinner, and put on music to dance to in the kitchen. I would meticulously plan so that dinner would be finished the exact moment he walked in the door (much to his delight).

One thing I noticed was how fun it was to come home at the end of the day and there not be a dark apartment, but the smell of a warm meal and warm reception. Even now, Kyle jokes about me coming up to be his cook and how I'll make a good li'l housewife one day. There wasn't much in the way of planning. Just buy groceries and cook what you had. Nothing absolutely astonishing came out of the oven, we decided what to eat the night before.

I like living with a dog now. Chester is always happy when I come in the door and it makes for a warm welcome. I think I understand why people have dogs, because whoever gets home first isn't denied a loving hello from someone who misses them.

And in a 'round about way I think of my future family. One day I'll probably open the door and some rugrat will come and wrap itself around my leg, there will be evening plans and I will get to enjoy the love of a family. And today, I realize I couldn't live alone because I need someone to be there, not as a crutch but as a reassurance that I'm not the only soul in this world. That other people smile and hurt and live and breathe like I do except that they live a life separate from mine.

One of my favorite memories is my parents kissing each other three times before they left the house or after they arrived. It taught me to always come home to the one you love, because often times they love you right back.

It's 4:35 on a Monday and now I'm going home to see Chester and hopefully Jim is there already.

namaste

vaya con Dios

What magazines do you read?

Recently, (this morning) I was reading a magazine for Christian ministers. Amongst the articles covering an Assembly of God convention, music reviews, and a touching piece on the lawyer called the "Conscience of China's" disappearance, there were countless advertisements. Books and colleges dominate the purchasers of ad space. Quick note, I'm not accusing Christian magazines of selling out; they need ad revenue to keep subscriptions cheap.

Dominating the wording in the ads were adjectives like extreme, revolutionary, relevant, and the like, all describing how these various books could change your life and the world. Nestled in the bottom corner of one page was an editorial cartoon with the caption, "You say you have interest in ministry, but you don't drink craft beer, haven't seen a Wes Anderson movie, nor have you grown a goatee." All these things are intended as to be relevant to a modern twenty-something culture. The cartoon didn't come down on these things and I realize it is making (a very accurate) stereotype (says the goatee sporting, craft beer snob who recently saw 'The Darjeeling Limited').

But, I guess the thing that gets me is that we, Christians, use this language among ourselves. As if we have lost the meaning of Scripture and need a couple of self-help books and a cool CD to reintroduce the Bible to us. It makes me question why I do the things I do. Why do I say I enjoy the outdoors when I haven't been camping in over a year? I like mountain biking, but my tires are worn from riding miles on the pavement and not the trail. I have a goatee because I can't grow a full beard and Abbie likes it. Why am I pursuing a life in ministry? Do I want to fight making a religion that has never nor ever will be relevant to culture, relevant to culture? The 'Conscience of China' saw the followers of an ancient Chinese religion being tortured, and he, because of his Christian worldview, sued the government; while in America we (Christians) hear about prisoners being tortured in Gitmo and do not demand the government be true to their call to be the last, great hope. No we left that battle to the Left because we were to busy arguing that homosexuals can't call themselves married while half of our followers file for divorce and have unwed mothers.

I guess I want to believe I'm going to be a part of a group that is more concerned about the state of man's soul than the color of walls, order of worship, or style of singing. I want to be a part of a group that will not worry if they are relevant and just be true to their hearts seeking after God.

namaste

vaya con Dios

I Need a Francis Fix

I was asked today whom I was listening to, which doesn't happen often. I live with a guy who introduces me to most of the music I know.

I told the person who asked that Hootie and the Blowfish was one of my favorite bands growing up. Maybe a little bit odd for a kid in elementary school, but it was the 90's and music was better. While most of my friends listened to Nirvana and Marlyn Manson, I listened to 'Cracked Rear View,' 'Fairweather Johnson,' 'Scattered, Smothered, and Covered,' and 'Musical Chairs.' Yeah I bought them all. Later, when I was in college, 'Looking for Lucky' spent an entire month in my CD player.

I started thinking how my taste in music now figure into my taste then. Now, I like decidedly more bluegrass styled music, and Hootie was rock, right? Listen to the later albums. It takes a definite bluesy, grassy shift.

The second thing that remains the same is the passion. Comparing The Avett Brothers' and Hootie's singing, I actually believe their lyrics. The way the song is sung means a lot to me. I want to feel what the artist is feeling, see what they saw, rip my heart out and give it to them. That's one of the reasons I don't listen to a lot of contemporary Christian music. Everything seems canned, polished, ...fake. I'd rather hear someone scream and cry out lyrics of jubilation than to hear someone hit a perfect high C. (Reasons I didn't and don't listen to Celine Dion and Mariah Carrey.)

Some things change and somethings never do.

Last night just as I was about to go to bed the power flashed on and off several times then shut off completely. The wind howled outside.

This morning you could tell there was power last night. Piles of leaves were heaped in the roads that still shone with the rain from last night. The wind blew all day long trying to rip leaves that trees that stubbornly held on to. You could tell there was strength. Strength beyond human control. Yes, we harness the wind for energy, for transportation, and for fun. But, we have no control over it.

The first night on trail I spent in Glacier NP, I lived in fear of the invisible wind. We camped in a valley between Pitamakin and Triple Divide Peaks. The wind seemed to slosh in the large bowl. It would rush down the slopes of one side, down through the valley, and up the opposing slope where it would lose its energy and slip back down to assault the valley once more. We were surrounded by tall pines the creaked and groaned and ached against the wind. Standing up more from tradition than resistance.

I thought back to when Elijah was on the run from Jezebel and was led to a cave to talk to God. God sent three signs: wind, fire, and an earthquake. But, He was not in any of the three. The wind He sent cracked the rocks. Today, there were many branches that were tossed down by wind (one of which landed on my power line). I understand wood being cracked and splintered by storms, wood heavy with water buffeted by gust cannot withstand for long. I see pictures of palm trees bent by hurricanes and oaks lifted by tornados, but rocks being cracked? That's a wind. The LORD finally spoke to Elijah in a small voice. After He flexed His muscle, God showed Elijah that He didn't need to speak loudly to be heard because He holds all power of creation in His hands.

So today I walked around in God's power, every gust against my face, every leaf whipped around my feet, the ominous sky all reminded me that I serve the LORD God who, not only holds all the power of creation in His hand, but also upholds me with His hand. I had an odd bravery today. Like God has set a hedge around me that will never fail. I could almost see the angels that were revealed to Elisha that stood guard all around. They defended me from Hamlet's slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and I am grateful.

namaste

Vaya con Dios

Jesus Movies for Atheists

So I realize that most of my post take a religulous bent, but that what I'm dealing with and so its what I write about.

Last night I watched, the first part of Bill Maher's "Religulous." No, I didn't throw a hissy-fit and storm away (like some Christians in the movie), I had to go help a friend with an art project. Going into this movie, I knew that Bill is an ardent atheist claiming agnosticism. That sounds weird, but it basically means he wants others to doubt religion like him and doesn't seek to understand others. Kind of like Bill O'Reily or Glenn Beck. They just ask questions to badger their source to either make them look stupid or not get any answers. Knowing this and realizing that I would just sit there and fume the entire movie if I took this attitude. I decided to take notes on it. Writing down questions asked, answers I would have given, and in-congruencies in either Bill's or the interviewees logic.

What I came away with was a look into the mind of a modern (excuse me) post-modern atheists. First off, Bill never sought out a qualified source. The only doctors he spoke to were the director of the Human Genome Project and a former Four-Tops who called himself doctor yet did not have a doctorate. At no point was any professor of religion from a divinity school questioned. Maybe I'm jaded and way more knowledgeable about sourcing interviews, but that's where I would have started, not the truck-stop church with the Flava-flav look-a-like preacher. (Interesting note, Bill thanked them for being Christ-like after they prayed for him). Second, there were too many cut scenes where the answers to the questions were cut off. It seemed if the answer wasn't what was expected, Bill did not further pursue it, as a seeker would have, he just moved on to the next question. In the cut scenes, which took place in the van the crew traveled in, Bill repeatedly insulted those he just interviewed or was about to interview. I also noticed how some of the people would stop the interview in the middle of it if they perceived they were losing. But, one time (I chuckle as I write this) a rabbi wouldn't let Bill say anything till he finished answering the question. Bill, visibly upset, stopped the interview and left.

Here are some of the things I took away from "Religulous"

Why is faith good?

Where do I stand on subjects such as evolution, homosexuals, existence of Jesus, virgin birth, veracity of scripture, after-life, and love?

Most people will equate Catholicism as what all Christians think, unless they handle snakes and speak in tongues.

Do I live like Jesus?

If heaven is so good, why don't I commit suicide?

How do I approach other religions; do I think their claims are to outlandish to be believed?

How much do I actually know about the Bible?

Do I love others?

If you interview or have a discussion with a person hostile to your views, pre-set the rules of engagement and use a paper in pen to jot down rebuttals instead of interrupting.

Know the signs of a seeker.

Know how you live your life and how God has told us to live in order to give an answer (1 Pet 3:15).

Above all be Christ-like so that no one can fault you as hypocrite.

The last thing that struck me was the perceived loss of freedom that religion brings. And while that is a whole post in itself, what is it that binds me: the love of/for God, or the traditions of men?

namaste

vaya con Dios

duh duh ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding

So it's closing in on Halloween and that means candy corn, small children running around in the dark, college girls thinking that lingerie + animal ears = a halloween costume, desecrating large squash for art's sake, and nothing but gore flicks on television.

What does the the title of this entry have to do with gore flicks?

There has been a recent rash of scary gore filled movies that feature inbred, mutated, bible-bangin', cannibal hillbillies. Now, I take issue with this representation. I'm not the country boy I sometimes profess to be. I know plenty of these country folk and I love them. Second, why is there always a religious bent towards these cannibals? I know we profess to eat the body and drink the blood of Christ, but, seriously, come on in its just bland bread and grape juice.

Anyway, rather than blow up on this I leave you with the classic redneck thriller tune.

Bluegrass Imagination

Tonight I went to a free bluegrass concert. The band was named Buttermilk Revival and they were... ok. Don't get me wrong they weren't terrible we just left when they decided to play the same song twice near the end of their second set. Also, an ok night of bluegrass is better than what I would've done.

I guess what I like about bluegrass is that it transports me to a place I've never been, cannot go, ... and probably doesn't exist. The plink of the mandolin and the twang of the banjo take me to some far off dancehall with no air conditioning and squeaky wooden floors. The band's rhythm is driven by the thump of feet on the worn boards covered in saw dust. Dim lights can't hide the tired smiles of dancers in the trance of music. Young people rebelling with the now innocent sound of old-timey. Or maybe it's the gospel hymns sung by a family. Pop playing the guitar while Mom touches the piano. Sons and daughters picking a banjo or making a fiddle sing. The off-harmonies are overcome by the that sound that can only come from people who share blood and a love that is more than just a last name. There's a third image of many men and women sitting in a circle trading tunes. The old passing down to the young.

The closest I've come to this place was in a coffee shop in Radford, VA. A free-for-all picking. Old men cradled fiddle dusted white with the rosin of decades. A middle aged man played a mandolin with a neck polished dark and shiny from years of use. His speed did not match his age, fingers sprinting faster than my legs could run in my youth. In the corner, a young man or old boy sat picking a banjo with the skill of the old men, the prodigy. I've forgotten the name of this place, but, if I visit Radford again, I will find my way back to that coffee shop on a Monday night.

Maybe this is a product of who I am and where I live. I've always longed for a time not my own and its lifestyle. I guess since I'm a product of the North Georgia mountains and Cumberland Plateau, I have connected to bluegrass. If I had lived in Louisiana it would have been jazz and zydeco, Memphis would be the blues, New York would be... show tunes?

I don't know where this is going but I don't think this desire will stop or that my imagination will stop running whenever I hear this beautiful music, I will go to this place

Reflections on the Pig Flu

Wednesday night, I took a quick vote among friends as to how manly we were. The qualifier for this being who had been infected with swine flu. This, of course, would isolate only one member at the table.

Thursday morning, I wake up with a terrible back ache and the feeling of a dagger being thrust into my skull. Ok, no need to panic, I don't have the flu, just woke up feeling bad. So I got up and took a shower, because that can make you feel better. Nope, didn't work. I went back to bed. The rest of the day was spent in the fuzz of a 102 degree fever, in my bed. Donnie brought Tylenol, Abbie brought a thermometer to confirm what we already knew, and Ryan brought me a 6 inch sub. Of which I ate approximately 2 and a half inches. Then Jim sentenced me to my room.

That night was spent in the grips of fever and my HD Dolby 5.1 dream world. I resolved to be awake the next day to escape my dreams.

Friday was a better day. 99.3 But, still a day spent as a pariah. Watched "Garden State" and then quickly wound down.

Saturday morning I woke up with a 98.2. Ate lunch with Abbie. All that remains of the pig flu is a nasty cough and fatigue (as you can tell by the suffering writing at the end of this blog). I'll post more, but a quick thanks to all those who kept me alive these past three days.

namaste

vaya con Dios

Life's a flood

It's been 10 days since I've been here. Here being this blog, an ethereal place that can be anywhere now thanks to satellites. I've been here 5 years, here is Athens, first state-sponsored (socialism) center of learning. Named for that ancient, classic city of learning and open-thought. Where Paul conversed with religious men who wanted to honor even that which they were ignorant of. I've been here way too often in my short-life, and shorter-career.

Here is a place of fear and self-doubt that I'm "not supposed to be." What? Just because I'm training to work with the Church and for The King, why can't I be frustrated in my faith. Just because I'm "leading" people I can't have a moments doubt of what direction I'm going. Why am I not entitled to the same emotions and feelings everyone else has. People complain about clergy not knowing what it's like to live in this world. Where do we live, Mars? It seems some people believe the "church men" live on that red planet named for an imaginary warrior. Wouldn't my fears make you feel better now that I'm more like you? No!? People want someone who will kick against the goad with their face to the wind, screaming into the night with fearless bravery. Let me tell you, fear begets courage. Courage, bravery, reckless abandon: these are all words to describe fear that has been choked down into the gut where it rest in a bitter pit. It is ever present and ever painful. And, we are called to accept this because by it we remember the One who was afraid and followed through anyways.

This is picking up in the middle of the story and in the middle of a conversation I'm having with myself. So let's begin with the current story.

Before school resumed I had lunch with a student. He had posted on his Facebook page how much he hated Christians, Christianity, and church. OK, a lot of people hate church, fine. Join the rest of everyone, your not the first. Christianity is a bit of a stretch, in its form as "church," ok, that's just a repetition of the latter, as a moral system, maybe if you hate love. Christians though? Which ones? The televangelists, politicos, talking heads and hate-mongering sign-waving wack jobs? Me too. Or, the family that has loved you for the past two years and has desperately tried to connect to your life so that you won't have to endure alone? Because if you hate them, we have a problem, because you hate me, and I don't hate you. So we ate at the lovely Christian chicken cafe of the south. I thought it was ironic, but he didn't seem to notice. We conversed for a while and then I finally blurted out why I asked him to lunch. (I'm not good at beating around the bush.) He asked me if I wanted the answer he was giving or the truth. Well, that's not a good way to start a discussion. The answer was he was tired of the dogma. (Ok, time out. What do you think dogma is?) He defined dogma as the way people acted in church about stuff. That's not dogma, but I wasn't here to argue vocabulary. The truth, he then told me, was that he was homosexual, gay, other words that are synonyms. Wow, I haven't had a gay friend who wasn't a known homosexual when I met them, this was new. I told him I wasn't going to judge him or "straighten" him out, but others won't be so graceful. We left that table both carrying a secret that ticked like a bomb. Funny thing is, he still comes to our ministry now and again to maintatain relationships (remember that word).

Yesterday, he posted to his wall he was in a relationship with a guy in Maine. This elicited comments of "hmmmmm...", and "interesting." Also, his religious views have changed to "would you be willing to risk a relationship for them." "Them" being the religious views of the reader. What does this mean? Am I willing to talk to you even though you may violate some of my beliefs? If I did that I would be a lonley man with no friends who couldn't keep himself company. Or will I compromise my beliefs in order to remain you friend.

There are very few hills I will stake a flag and die upon. I may stake a flag, bellow, and fire artillery from one hill, but I will not die on it. But, with my religious views (terrible phrase, I'll post on that later), I will never give, because a Man died on hill for me. So, Kyle S. if following Christ and living for the King mean we cannot be friends, I'm sorry. I did not draw that line. If I am wrong and you still want to be a friend with differences between us, I want to be your friend.

And to the church-haters. The church sucks, we screwed up, I'm sorry. We do have moments where we try to help and they are often forgotten.

Acknowledge those hidden
namaste
vaya con Dios

So tonight I tried reading some of the mountain biking blogs. I used to subscribe to Backpacker magazine for all the trail descriptions and musings that come with prolonged seclusion. I guess the slow repetitive walking where scenes gradually rise to meet you over the next hill allow you to take your mind off your environment and ponder why you have even come to this beautiful, desolate, but lonely spot. 

Mountain biking lacks this. Your environment changes so quickly you barely realize it except you know you're dodging pine trees instead of oaks. But, you don't the time to reflect on how the pine smells or how long those oaks with their gnarly roots have been around and what history they've seen. No, when you're on a bike and bombing down a hill, your only thought is keep the rubber on the trail and shiny parts carrying the soft fleshy thing upright. It's hard to make the thousands of automatic miniscule adjustments philosophical when you're in the moment. Of course, you can make this about life and how there are many reactions that we blah blah blah...

I'm just saying mountain biking is an constant adrenaline fueled endeavor that is hard to describe. When you do it doesn't sound fun. "Aw man it was great, we hurtled down the hill dodging tree branches with our skull. We went so fast I was afraid to let go of the handlebar long enough to grab the break. Then we climbed a hill and my thighs were screaming at me. And then I had this great crash where I flipped over the bars and rolled out where I was sitting on the trail and my bike crashed into a tree." See doesn't sound like that much fun right. But, that wind in your face and you manipulating a machine that you control every aspect of. Even that fear of injury at every bump will keep on edge for the next few hours after the ride. 

So here's to Mountain Biking

namaste

vaya con Dios

Keelboats and Gouda Burgers

Sorry guys,

Monday was a nice day. I kayaked down the Broad River with other such blogstars as TCH, lp, and the notorious milkshake drinker, "Jim." Anyway as often happens when I am outdoors around few people my mind began to wander. And thanks to my soggy butt, I decide to stand on top of the sit-on-top project and use my paddle as a pole. Initially, I saw myself as a gondolier in Vienna. But, I realized my surroundings. Majestic pine and old hardwood trees leaning to sip from the Broad River that is choked with rock outcrops and blanketed with coarse sand. I stood on my kayak wearing not a beret, but a cheap Wal-Mart lid and thought of the freedom the old keelboatmen must have felt before steam and locomotion moved our goods to market. Of course, this daydream had a soundtrack. It was beautiful in the waning summer to relax with friends and spend some time out of doors.

That night, Abbie and I threw a small grill-out. Growing up, any holiday meant a special meal, and summer holidays meant grilling out. Last year, I was kind of depressed on Labor Day because no one I knew wanted to eat together. This year, I was determined to not let that happen. Grilling smoked gouda cheese burgers and corn on the cob, with sweet potato fries, and fried honey buns a la mode filled my apartment with such a complex bouquet that can only be matched with the laughter of friends. The next day, when I came home for lunch, the smell of smoke lingered when I opened the door, and I strained my ears to hear if the laughter my still be caught in the carpet and walls. Needless to say, I enjoy getting together and eating with friends. Quick thanks to Fiyaman and Mojo for finishing the burgers.

So, thanks for reading my wax poetic. I will redouble my efforts to post frequently.

Coop, since you're probably the only one still reading... have a good weekend, and I hope to see you soon.

namaste vaya con Dios

Meriwether Blogger

A couple of months ago I finished a Undaunted Courage, a biography of Meriwether Lewis. Probably the heaviest reading I've done in a while. It took close to 2 months to finish, reading it slow to somehow grasp the arduousness of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Much of the record comes from the journals kept by the captains and one private. Letters were a second source to gain insight on Capt. Lewis' life. I guess journals were more common in past times. And the messages from the post were valuable goods that brought news of loved ones' health, activities, and thoughts.

Today, a majority of our letters has been reduced to e-mails and facebook. They fly as electrons through processors and waves in the air. Your inbox becomes full and you delete it all. A text message can be instantly responded to. Facebook lets everyone who cares to look know what your status is. Why send a postcard from your adventure when you can just email the photos you've taken. Letter writing has been resigned to the hopless romantics. So, much of today's communication is lost, deleted because of the glut of information.

Journaling has taken on a new life though. This blog is a journal. Through it I relate my thoughts and you might be able to extrapolate what is happening in my life. This all so public information may never die. Unless the internet crashes. In a hundred years or more, the historians will be fishing through these blogs, try to figure out exactly who was the author to gain perspective of life as we entered the 21st century. They will sift through travel journals, political commentary, and social commentary to try to explain why we did or didn't destroy the environment, pass a bill or two, and why we drank so much caffeine. They will read one guy's blog about his affair with a Native American and then wonder why his wife left him. Maybe, they'll see a moral collapse amidst all of this data that is being stored, and wonder why we didn't see it ourselves since the words were right in front of us. Those generations will see a wistful people of non-absolutes in the name of political correctness, a disposable trendy culture that didn't bother to save correspondence and instead bank collective anonymous journals that recorded far out thoughts that no one reads or even matter.

namaste
vaya con Dios

I'm a statistic

So I was watching the usual liberal-bent media shows. And, the politicians and talking heads are bringing up the old battle that basically began the "permanent" (thank goodness) majority. That's right health care reform is being waved as a banner over the heads of the tired, poor, and huddled masses yearning to breathe free. While others parade and drag it around like .... well this part was going to include a not so obscure reference to a terrible time when American soldiers corpses were displayed behind moving vehicles. On second thought even as terrible as some people are arguing health-care reform its not worth desecrating the life of someone's son, brother, friend.
Sorry about that.
Some people talk about health-care reform as if it is a way to score points politically. And, here's where it hit me... I'm in the news. Now the only times I've been in the news are as follows: I read the 2nd most books of anyone my age at the local library one summer, I was a cub reporter at Riverbend two years in a row, my classmates and I did a study on fish"deaths" (moronic reporter) in the N. Oconee River, and I worked in the Botanical Garden wetlands with a class. But back to the point.

I don't have healthcare. Let me put that a different way, I don't have an insurance company to go to bat for me in the hospital. I could, while riding my bike in the bike lane, wearing a helmet, and obeying all the traffic laws, get hit by a car, break a bone or two (if I'm lucky) and then owe someone $50,000.
I am looking for coverage so that I'm not uninsured for long. But, when I get it I'll be paying the most of any country for 15th rate coverage. Yeah, America isn't even second-rate. That goes to one of those pinko-socialist countries that has "horrendous" healthcare.
In the meantime, there are some doctors who, out of charity, don't take the copay from their patients because they don't have money, yet need the care. Why can't we socialize our system so that we all get good, fair healthcare. We cannot leave anyone behind and we will help our fellow man instead of seeing him as a drain on society

I'm a statistic and I was on TV tonight.

namaste, vaya con Dios

Seasons of Mentors

As I look back on my life, I realize there have been men of God mentoring me at the right times to guide me where to go. And, as they come in like a mist they are gone.

Chad always wrote his lessons on the white board in the teen room. The bible lessons became more art, painted with different Expo markers, they flowed across the board, connected by sweeping arrows pointing the order of the lesson. He introduced me to the deeper meanings of those Bible stories I learned in Sunday school. More importantly, he cared about us the students. We each felt like we had our own unique relationship with him.

Steve's sermons were always didactic. He had great command of vocal dynamics. Crescendoeing towards his point with his hand drumming the podium. Forget finding the meat of Scripture, he sucked the marrow from the bones of the gospels, epistles, and prophets. Spending several weeks on the profundity of Jesus being a priest in the order of Melchezdik.

Jack spoke in more relational terms, preferring common sense and using did-you-knows to accent his lessons. Always using the Word as a two-edged sword to pierce to the heart. He never intended to make you cry, but you did anyway, and sometimes he did too. Mentoring me as one who always asked questions and not liking simple cop-out answers. He would show me any tidbit he would come across. I can ask him, "What have you learned recently?" and I will get an amazing lesson on God and life. When I asked what he thought of my desire to be a full-time minister, he didn't ask if I had thought this through. He gave me sound advice on how to be gracious and prepared. To this day, I think of him when asked for a reference because I know what he thinks of me.

Uncle Bubba has always been by favorite uncle, and he only grown more important. He stands in shaded contrast to the other men. He is one of the people I wish to emulate, because of his understanding of people, and more specifically my family. I can talk to him when I need an outside opinion on how to deal with my family because he knows our warts and hidden scars. His honest desire to meet people as they are impresses me.

Barrett took me as a frightened freshman and let me see the freedom God offered in His word. Through him I met Jim and Jake, who led me through that tumultuous first year away from all I had known. I remember the day I knew GCSC was where I would stay. I had a rough day, went to the center, and asked if they could pray with me. Each dropped what he was doing and we prayed together. The General opened his apartment to let me escape my roommate and his girlfriend, and introduced me to CS Lewis. Troy brothered me through Fiji and learning to engage people to lead them to Jesus, and ultimately took me as a friend.

Donnie asked me if I wanted to have a Bible study with him. We went through Luke and discovered that the Bible is all about Jesus, even the stuff about Jesus... is about Jesus. (I know it doesn't make sense, maybe that's another blog post). We spent an hour each Monday in Luke like a cotton gin, combing through it. But before that, we spent an hour talking out our weeks in our booth at Barbarito's where we were recognized as regulars.

But this entry was not brought on by any of these men. Each worthy of a solo entry, but the next man is honored because he won't be around me much longer. Yeah, there are influences I haven't put here, my dad, Chris, Mr. Ingram, Watson, and others. Many of those above did not recieve the review they deserve. But, I want to save the last space in this post for ...

Fred came to the GCSC at the right time. We wanted to delight in sharing with others, but we had no clue how to do that. He took me and increased my view of scripture. We rubbed the wrong way sometimes, and we called each other on the carpet. I could tell him he upset me and he could do the same so that we could work it out. He showed me how to disciple people and the importance of looking outside the church of Christ for growth spiritually and numerically (what a revolutionary concept). Fred never let us be lazy as a ministry, he knew we could keep going and had more energy than we thought. He always made sure to validate the way we felt even if that feeling was irrational. If he read this he would say that it God who did this and he was only a conduit of the LORD's blessings. But, I think God is proud of Fred and would want him to take a little credit for saving souls and lives at UGA. Fred, Alison, Ian vaya con Dios I hope God blesses your work in Amarillo and you are a blessing to that church. (Sentimental post over)

vaya con Dios
namaste

Empty

Paul told some Christians in a letter that he was being poured out like a drink offering. We sing a song, "Emptied Himself of all but love..."

I realize these men are rockstars of my faith (One being supremely greater than the other, though he did say imitate me as I imitate the supreme rockstar), but I kinda relate to that idea of being empty right now. The last three weeks I've slept in one day. Even this past Thursday I had off I had to wake up and do something I didn't want to. I tried to enjoy a hike that same day, but was rushed to get back into town for ridiculously early commitment. People in my life are having meltdowns or not going anywhere at all.

So I'm pouring myself out on them. I've saved up a pretty sizeable ammount of good juju so I'm offloading it. I think I did it too fast.

Now I'm going to Bible camp where I feel like I'm going to continue to pour myself out for an entire week. Except there's nothing left to pour. So, I'm going to leave this cup imagery and think of myself as a sponge. Squeeze a sponge and you squeeze out the water, yet the sponge is still damp. You can always squeeze out more.

Caution: Science Content Ahead
Or think of the soil. There are two water contents in soil that we look for. The first is field capacity. This is the amount of water a pedon (dirt clod) can hold before its pores completely saturated. At this point water can freely flow through the soil; rain falls down and feeds the groundwater, which feeds the river that fills the ocean. The other water content is called the wilting point. This is the water content in which plants can no longer draw water off of the soil because the minerals are holding on to water molecules much like a super magnet. There is still water in the soil but it is not usable. This water gives the soils its ability to maintain its structure.

So maybe I'm soil, I was a Water and Soil Major after all. I give life to plants by letting them all draw water off of me while I wait for rain and then I will be able to let the water flow through me so that I can fill the ocean. (After all I'm going to Bible camp and I should experience the fullness of God there, right?)

namaste
vaya con Dios

Facebook Hate

So, the incredibly anonymous blogger Fiyaman (to whom I'm related), left for paradise today. No Sarah, not Alaska! At approximately 1:30 tomorrow morning he will arrive on the island of Oahu by way of Phoenix and Maui. Yeah he's roughing it among the hula dancers, surfers, and ukuleles. I bet he gets lei'ed as soon as he gets off the plane.

I report this not only to wish him Godspeed and traveling mercies, but to use him as an inspiration for this post. His (as of late, silent) blog was dedicated to espousing his opinions on the political discourse of this country and his views on how this shapes our lives. That being said, some of his opinions are strong and not everyone agrees with them.

I've recently been asked by several facebook acquaintances to join groups decrying certain causes. Most of these groups do not line up with my political philosophy, but that is only one of the reasons I don't join them. The second reason I don't join these groups (including groups that do align with my philosophy), is that these groups demonize the opposing opinion. I recieved an invite this morning for "The Welfare Box" facebook group. The premise seems pretty benign and even innovative on the surface, until you read that these people will work for less than minimum wage. Curious, I looked at the rest of the groups my friend, who invited me, belonged to. It was a myriad of basically "hate" groups. Not skin head, KKK, Optomist International hate groups, but a couple of political I hate this person who is no longer running for presidential office, and a lot of "I hate this football team and question their sexual orientation" groups.

Next week, I will be a counselor at a rather conservative Bible Camp. It will be funny because, I won't be derided for my politics (which I try not to discuss), but for my choice of SEC football teams. Now, the irony of these arguments is that most of them will be perpetuated by 10-13 year olds who have never attended college. The major reason most of them cheer for this team is because of their parents, who most likely didn't attend the university they root for. I realize how convinient it is to dislike teams, especially since gator rhymes with hater (or in hacker termz g8r h8r). But, honestly why did one choose that school over your school. Simple, in-state tuition. I am going to support the Bulldogs because they represent UGA and the football team has no bearing on the value of my education.

But, while those kids choose their team based on their parents affiliation, I also realize they will hold world views based on their parents example. And while its kinda funny to join facebook groups like this, this, this (that's supposed to be a liberal hate link but just look up "I hate Bush", or this, what message are you spreading to your friends. Do we even think anymore when we say the word hate? Do we even remember what hate looks like when it manifests itself as discrimination, prejudice, gossip, and sophomoric facebook groups? Can we realize our worldviews are full of silent seething hate when we won't listen to the other side of the debate?
Honestly, this is what happens when you let little hate fester and pass it on to others.

What do you hate?

a boring post (absolutely no insight)

Well guys, its been two and a half months since I last spewed words onto a screen. Yeah, there are excuses, but who cares, right? I'm back now...ish. Campus ministry is a lot of fun and sometimes more work than you think. The majority of what I do comes in time-sensitive lumps. Which is ok, I guess but I'd rather have it spaced out.

Currently, I'm sitting in my brand spanking new office facing its fancy, red, accent wall. I'm supposed to take Thursdays off to prevent burn out and get stuff done. However, I have a desk and my laptop is here, so I think I'll stick around a bit. I really like having a space to go to. It gives a good definition to when I'm in work mode. Not only is it my office, its MY office. I had to clean out a junked up space, patch a couple holes, paint the thing, and put together the desk and chair. I have some serious ownership of this place. I'll be leaving it in a couple years and handing it off to another apprentice at the GCSC so that will be sad.

I like this space because it kinda validates me. It shows that I work and have a purpose. I like knowing where my place is in the world and that I'm doing something to effect it. I even have business cards now with the title "campus minister" on them. The first two weeks have been busy and I hope it continues. I like having something to do everyday.

Sorry kids that's it just another boring post. (But how about the new look, huh?)

If I had a hammer..

I am having a good week. Why? I have been working, smashing my fingers and wrestling with window blinds. I watched a really old movie in which a rich playboy is constantly sick. The doctor tells him that he needs to do some work. His butler remarks, "The hardest job in the world is doing nothing." I'm here to say that, "Yeah, it is" I find great joy in manual labor. My muscle tired and sore with the strain of the day. Let me say here that the past few days were not that strenuous but were appreciated.

Also, I received the most amazing gift Tuesday. I opened a graduation gift and discovered a blank, red Moleskine notebook. A blank book, the thought still shivers my spine. A blank book gives you the license to fill it with anything. What do you put in there? Do you dedicate it to one subject? Is it a multi-tasker? Will it only be filled with appointments and to do list? And the first page, how do you begin? I feel like having a ribbon cutting ceremony. The first page is the first impression of your book. I feel like I may overdo it and come off trite or overthought.

Our lives are blank books. Some are totally dedicated to one subject, others are merely a list of to-do and appointments. Some are filled with the wise sayings of others, or the musings of the owner. And a couple of us are missing a few pages. Sometimes our lives remain a blank book because we were too afraid to begin. There was no worthy cause found to fill the pages, or we worried we might mess up and the whole book would be ruined. Is that an excuse to leave a book blank? No! Now, the book is made useless through no fault of its own. It still exist, but it cannot live up to its true potential because it is blank. A blank book is only exciting because it is waiting to be filled. There is no joy in an empty book.

I look forward to caressing each leaf with a pen, caring for the spine and marking the latest entry with its bright red ribbon.

Passion and the Soup Line

Sorry that it's been a long time folks. I did return safely from Honduras, even though I made it seemed like I had been shang haied in the middle of it by not posting.

Too many things have happened since the last post to write them all. Every few days an idea for a post would pop into my head and I would wile away the time until I forgotten the post only to recount it right as I got in bed. Of course, then forgetting it by morning. This would continue for a few days until the passion for the post had gone. Thus, removing any desire for writing the post when it was remembered at an appropriate time.

I am a passionate person, and I am a thoughtful person. My ideas are my identity. If I am not passionate about an idea, then I really don't focus on it.

Although another problem is I am one of the millions of Americans that is a victim of this economy. Yeah, I said victim. McDonald's isn't hiring right now, that's a problem. Some fat-cat, ponzi-scheming, knuckled-headed, bull-pucky, Wall St. moron has killed the economy. And now we're all falling. Some 40% of Capitol Hill also wants the economy to stay dead. I really don't think any politician is reading this, but on the off-chance they are... PLEASE PUT ASIDE YOUR DIFFERENCES AND SOLVE THE PROBLEM AND DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT THE SOLUTIONS PUT ON THE FLOOR. That's the job of anonymous bloggers like me. And, I'd much rather gripe about action than watch the House and Senate figure out which of the Big 3 to put down. (So long Chrysler, Dodge, Jeep)

I guess the big reason for that last convoluted paragraph and my lack of passion as of late is not having a job. Even though I claim I'm a free spirit, I need some structure in my life. I don't like getting out of bed when I have nothing to do. Sleeping late, watching TV, not going outside... I'm becoming what I hate. You get a little discouraged after three months of no's and some twenty or so applications later. (As an aside, why can't business just accept resumes instead of making me write down my address, phone number, and last three jobs? I mean good grief, my resume looks nicer than your crappy photocopied application that I will fill with my chicken-scratch. Just ask for a resume, which will tell you more, and give me a questionnaire.) Not only that, but I'm trying to start raising money for the Internship and everyone is losing their jobs.

Any way, I want to end on a happy note so that this isn't a completely depressing post. I did get to work today, cleaning out gutters and what not. So, I'm a little tired and I am motivated to post. See, I work and get to share with all you people.

namaste
vaya con Dios

God blessed America to bless the name of God

Even though it appears no one is reading my blog... I will continue to write because there is no one to shut me up.

Can you imagine what it was like to be Jesus when He was healing people? I mean every one was coming to Him with every infirmity and ailment. What if you had no power to heal people but they believed you did? I saw a girl today with club feet, that has been offered an application to the Shriner's Hospital. But, I guess that's to far in the story to start it. We left Tegusigalpa (affectionately known as Tegoose) this morning for San Antonio, a big city about the size of my hometown. Not the big one to the north the one on my address when you send me a letter. We then traveled down a rock road, accessible only by 4 wheel drive and sufficient ground clearance, to Jicoman. Parking a new truck in front of the school peaked the interest of every student, and then not uno pero dos gringos stepped out of the truck and one had hair como chiles. Where were they going? They're going to Cindy to tell her they can make her feet well. Word spread like wildfire. Cindy and her sister Diana were dressed in their Sunday best. Even though Phil spoke his best Spanish, it had to be translated into the local dialect to be understood. Not only was Cindy going to be made well, she might go to los Estados Unidos. The entire village paraded to the small house, large by the village's standards, and crowded the windows doors and living room. Cindy sat like a doll in her wheel chair that was un regalo de Dios while Phil asked her if she wanted to get better. 

Request poured in for the gringos to see if others could be made better. Children piled in the back of the truck to go to the people of the village. Jose, whom the doctors said had polio, had what could be MS and Azburger's. For 20 minutes, he was the focus. Excitement was evidenced by fits that came over him when he tried to speak. Then we had to pick the truck up and turn it around. There was the old woman who couldn't walk well, and the man who had a dislocated, atrophed arm, and more, who mistakenly asked me as though I understood Spanish perfectly at the speed of light. There was nothing we could do for these hurting people. I didn't have the gift to heal them.

School was cancled early on the account that the director needed a ride into town and the children could ride in the back of a truck to there homes along the road some five miles or more. 

There is much pain in the world and I have done nothing to be born in the best country, the great hope of world, the city of light on a hill. Yeah, I know, screw America and everything, but we have been given such blessings by birth. These blessings, education, nutrition, hope for a better tomorrow, are not ours to hoard. They are ours to give to the tired, the poor, the huddled masses of the teeming shores. No, we do not have to bring everyone to the USA; we bring the USA to them. We share our knowledge, our bounty, our hope. We offer not hand outs but hand ups. It is dehumanizing and a form of slavery to give people what they need without teaching them to do for themselves. You give a man a fish so that he knows what a fish is, and then you teach him to fish so that he can have fish when you are gone. 

Jesus had so much power that He didn't use. He used what He did wisely to have the most effect. So that we would yearn for the day when ther will be no more sorrow, no more pain. 

namaste/ Dios le protega

Grape juice and tortillas

Something happened yesterday that I really wish we could incorporate into our spiritual lives. In the morning I worshipped with a church in one barrio (suburb), then we took Communion to a lady in a village and worshipped, and then we worshipped with another church in the city at night. At every worship service, I participated in the Lord's Supper. That is to say, I took Communion. At my home church, we have a large Lord's Supper during the morning service. During evening worship, there is an announcement for those "who did not partake of the Lord's Supper this morning" to go to the back and find out where it will be served. Or at other places where there is no spare room, people are asked to raise their hand and then they will be served. Umm, isn't this called communion. Didn't Jesus say something to the effect of "As often as you do this in rememberance of Me, you proclaim My Name until I return"? So why do we separate ourselves by morning partakers and evening partakers? Ningun (no one) asked if I had already communed because I was in the process of communing con mis hermanos. 

I've got a crazy idea that will tick a good number of people off or at least make people think. (Really, that's all you have to say. You always have crazy ideas that tick people off.) Why not everyone take communion at every service on the first day of the week? That way the whole body is communing with one another. I know that reeks of inefficiency, but I think God had called us to slow down and think about Him for awhile. Let's face it two hours on Sunday and one and a half on Wednesday don't cut it.

But wait, there's more! Athens, you don't get off the hook easily either. Small groups can commune too. Yes, I know we study and we eat together, but what if part of LIFE group is dedicated to spiritual communion. 

But, what do I know. Soy un gringo.

namaste/ vaya con Dios

P.S. Does anyone actually read this

Barriers and Bathrooms

Do you know what it's like to be a deaf/mute? Or maybe a high-functioning disabled person? Do you remember what it was like to be a baby and want something? Maybe you wanted to tell your parents you had a dirty diaper or you were hungry or lonely. How did you communicate? If you were normal, you screamed your ever-loving head off. But, what if you couldn't. 

Welcome to a foreign language. You know the emotion, you know the intent, heck, you may even sabe palabras, but you don't have it all. People will stare you straight in the face and ask you a pregunta with a smile on their cara. You catch maybe two words (hopefully more than your name). For all I know someone could pull a trick on me and be speaking baby babble. I wouldn't know the difference. But, you stop, you try, you fail, you try again, you fail miserably because you thought you had learned something which gave you more confidence than skill, you stop, you try...  And then, hopefully at some point, you develop a compassion for anyone who visits you, regardless of circumstance, who can't speak your language. Whether it be English, Spanish, the language of church, or college intelligence. Because one day you will be humbled.

The sun came up early this morning and I awoke at 6 feeling rested. But, church didn't meet until 9:30, so back to sleep until 8:15. At breakfast we had some weak coffee that got crunchy at the bottom. After church, we had coffee mediano. Before lunch, we had coffee that resembled motor oil that hadn't been changed for 6000 miles. Thick, black, fuerte. Yeah, there's no cream and sugar doesn't quite cut the bite on it's own. Oh, and then after lunch I had fresh squeezed orange juice, then after we took Communion to a lady I had another glass of orange juice. About that time I realized I had not visited un bano lately. So, to punish my lack of planning I was subjected 45 minutos of a bumpy (understatement) dirt road that caused my seatbelt to grow ever tighter on my bladder. I realize I have a bladder like a camel's hump but come on! Despite where you thought this was going I made it back to the hotel room with time to spare.

I'll write about the churches tomorrow

namaste/ vaya con Dios

Hola! Como estan?

A primero Yo pienso escribir este blog post en Espanol, porque estoy en Honduras, pero despues del dia, I realize how long ago yo fue in Spanish 4. Rather, than try to translate everything from English to Spanish and then back, I'm trying to think en Espanol. However, that creates holes in my thoughts when I no conozco la palabra (much like this post). This results in most thoughts resembling an essay that has been shot at medium range by a shotgun. Only a few of the words are recognizable, some are only fragments of what they are intended to be, and then some are completely blown to smithereens. I catch about every fifth word in conversation. That means I understand just enough to know the subject but not enough to make a coherent thought and comment. Reading is much easier and the ration is flipped. That's right I can usually get four out of five words with a fudge factor. 

The trip has already been eventful. On the plane ride, we sat next to a Honduran that had been to Iraq and Afghanistan, but wouldn't or couldn't say what he did there. That's right I sat next to a.) a mercenary, b.) a spy, c.) a special ops. Yeah he probably could've killed five time before I crumpled to the ground in the tight quarters of the airplane. But, I had been up since 5:00 and I didn't care. My first meal in Honduras was very authentic as we waited for the rental truck. Como una haburguesa doble con queso y papas fritas de Wendy's. Ok, so it wasn't very authentic, but that was all they had in the aeropuerta. We drove across Honduras to Santa Rosa de Copan. If Chattanooga was in the tropics, it would be similar to Honduras. The craggy mountains are lush and green. Phil and I shared a candlelit dinner at restaurant this St. Valentine's day. We walked to the central park and talked to a family next to a line of street food vendors. For a second, I could almost here Tony Bourdain's cynical voice espousing some optimistic universal truth, in a way only one who put's on a pessimistic front can. Well now I'm back in the hotel. I was able to call my girlfriend but the the network is full and I have spotty service. That means, I can't tell my parents I didn't meet a fiery demise in the Gulf of Mexico. So, if anyone reads this tonight, try to let them know I'm quite alive and well and that I tried to call them.

namaste, vaya con Dios

Leaving (again)

I go through phases of life. I went through a Star Wars phase, and was a complete dork. I went through an island phase of life. Even though I don't really like the beach. I learned to play ukulele and decorated my room in an island theme. It looks really cool even though I designed it. Then there were the other such phases that have come and gone.

Currently, I'm in a leaving phase. Everyday of my life it seems that I am leaving somewhere and pulling at heart strings every time. In Virginia, my buddy and I parted ways knowing we would see each other again. Also, the campus minister, his wife, and I developed and odd kinship in less than a week. In Chattanooga, I renewed a friendship that could only last a week before I came back to Athens. And of course, my parents had a hard time with me leaving again. In Athens, my short presence caused all my friends to vie for time. And now, I am leaving Honduras. This trip is my capstone. It concludes two months of living out of suitcases and I guess begins a new phase of my life. Where I will have a daily routine to keep me occupied.

Or maybe not...

namaste
vaya con Dios

Books and CSI in the Big Apple

My most sincere regrets for not writing for a while. My life has been without enough interest to write about.

I have almost finished "East of Eden," and I have hit a point where I don't want it to end. The book is like a long chess game. At first, the players moved around and it took some time to understand their actions and strategy. Some of the characters developed lovely personalities and others you despised because of their lack of humanity. (By the way, it is very difficult to make a fictional human character with sympathetic qualities into a very evil, black-hearted person.) Some of the pieces have been lost along the way. Some of them pawns, only their to move the story along or to gain some advantage further down the road. Others, were the big players that you hated to see go not only because of the way they moved the story but the way they moved within the story. Now, when the majority of the pages sit in my left hand and only a few in my right, I am reluctant to finish the story. The endgame is obvious, not in a way that ruins it but obvious in the way Scooby-Doo is obvious. You know Fred and the gang will catch the bad guy, but you don't know how or what actions will invariably draw the narration to a close.

Speaking of the good guys always winning... I have recently renewed my affection for the CSI series. The original in Las Vegas is my favorite because the charecters seemed more developed, but it rarely comes on in syndication. I like the Miami the least because, well, the actors overact and are too hardboiled. Horatio and his group just go around accusing every suspect and turn out to be wrong 2 out of 3 times every episode because that's all the time the writers have for them to be wrong before the bad guy is caught. So, I wind up watching the New York version the most. Yeah the acting suffers from the same dilemma and they overaccuse as well, but not as much as the Miami squad. Anyway, I digress. I like CSI because, like Scooby-Doo, the bad guy is always caught. Justice is always served. And, I like thinking the forces of good always win out in the end despite our obvious character flaws.

namaste
Vaya con Dios

P.S. are ya happy coop

Story of Life

I really enjoy surprise parties. If one is pulled off, it is one of my greatest joys. It's hard to throw me a surprise party. One, most of my friends have a hard time keeping a secret. But, the most difficult thing is that I am astutely observant. If there is the slightest hint of a plot, I can usually sniff it out. Which is a shame, because then it is not a surprise party and then everyone, guests and myself included, are disappointed.

This is not so unlike Christmas or any other time when gifts are exchanged. Children and loved ones poke and prod to find out what they will receive. I don't think this is to ruin the joy of astonishment in reception, but rather a fear of an unknown thing that is coming their way, as certain as the grave (or taxes). I once went snooping under my parents' bed in early December when I was a child. There I found a new skateboard that would be mine in a few weeks time. But, there was no pride or sense of accomplishment, but a fear and a shame that I had some how broken the trust or faith of Christmas. That Christmas morning, I received a good many other gifts along with the skateboard, but I took no joy in the skateboard. I don't know if it was that I didn't want it or that I knew the gift before it was given.

Similarly, I have the curse of picking up on forshadowed events in literature. As I read the words on the page, I can, in a well-written piece, feel the pain of the characters, smell their skin, and hear their voice. The words take on a weight and darken against the font previously used. The sorrow in the forthcoming pages broods and gathers like low-hanging clouds before a storm. I hate when I figure out the forshadows, especially when they first appear. If you figure the plot one or two pages before it happens you're only sad for five minutes or so while the characters rush towards certain doom and you're screaming at the parchment and ink to stop them in futility.

Regardless of the story, none of the characters stop and say, "Hey don't you feel like we're doomed to live out this story. You know, like our futures are already written." I guess that's what I hate about my story. I can't feel the forshadowing that may be gathering in my skies. Not to say that all future is gloom and doom, but it would be nice to know where I'm going. Perhaps, someone is screaming at my story to go here and say this, do that. But, like gifts at Christmas, the joy is not in finding out the future, but enjoying the thrill of astonishment when it comes, and looking back on the crooked trail that brought you straight to where you need to be.

Beats two and four

Some who follow this, if anyone may wonder why it's named "Beats two and four." The simple answer is, those are the beats the mandolin plays on in bluegrass. I recently received a mandolin and I like bluegrass. Those two beats are difficult to play on because they are the up beats in most music scores. The upbeats are not emphasized in music much. But, they are very important. It adds color to the music. The bright chop of mandolin is the counter the dark bass on the downbeats. Think on it, how could you get to three without two, or how can you come back to one without four.

Maybe we can have some fun on the upbeats of life. The parts that get left by the wayside. How many times has your day been ruined by someone cutting you off or been brightened by kind note? I found that in recalling a road trip with my brother, the times in the car were the ones we remember most. The destinations seem secondary. A mountain scene does not look realistic with out the wisps of clouds. Chocolate chip cookies need a bit of vanilla. The contrasting flavors of life ebb and flow to show us how wonderful our lives really are. And, sometimes we need the dark to see the light. Beats two and four are fun because no one expects them, they show up as a time to shine for those who embrace them.

Dreams

Ever since I was little, I have had vivid dreams. I would sit at breakfast telling my mom the most fantastic stories. They were so detailed, it was assumed I made them up. Most people dream in black and white, less people dream, or least remember their dreams, in color (colour if you're British). My dreams are more than Dolby 5.1, HD, Blu-ray. No, my dreams come in more like virtual reality. You remember the 3-D rides at Disney world where you get tossed around like a rag-doll and stuff comes flying at your head? Welcome to my dream world. Most of the time my dreams are benign or even enjoyable. Like the one where I was in a race with Bill Nye the Science Guy as a judge. However, some of my dreams are terrible. They haunt me the following days like I had some choice in the matter.

There are some dreams we do choose. There was one American who dreamed another would stand across the way on a cold, January morning. Some of my friends dream of med-school. There are a lot of times I wish I could take these dreams and play them at night.

I have many dreams I know won't come true. There are songs I will never sing because my fingers are too slow to form the chords, or collaborative efforts won't happen because of my hard-headedness or that of others. I probably won't own trendy gourmet restaurant or shoot a photo article for National Geographic. There are many skills I will probably never have, and there are many places I'll probably never go.

Who knows where those dreams came from. Did I have a choice in those dreams? There are some dreams we choose and some we do not. We are presented with a number dreams and then we choose from those which to follow. We are forced to follow some dreams, and sometimes an unexpected nightmare binds us up for a while. But, everyonce in a while, we have dream that is, in fact, enjoyable that we did not choose.

namaste, vaya con Dios

Bathrooms

Whenever I had an assigned reading book in high school, I would go one of two places. A little study area in the basement or the bathroom. No one will bother you in the bathroom. If you're in you bedroom, people will bother you because you're in a place that allows a meeting. If you're in the bathroom, no one wants to catch you with your pants down (literally). Often (for fear of developing hemorrhoids), I would set the lid down on the toilet. It was quite nice: quiet, good light, and,if I needed to take a bathroom break, I was already there.

You can learn a lot about people from their bathrooms. Do they have dry or oily skin, maybe they have dandruff or acne? Is it a male's throne or are there feminine hygiene products under the sink. Maybe they have an exotic disease like dengue fever. I wear contacts and therefore have all the paraphernalia that goes along with that.

But also, you can tell about someone's personality. Do they not want to look old (hair dye and anti-age cream)? Do they think they are fat (diet pills)? What is their self-image? Are they a clean person? Some bathrooms are really ornate and are meant to be enjoyed, while some are utilitarian, and are only meant for the three S's (think about that for awhile it will come to you).

Regardless, you should feel better after coming out of a bathroom than you did going in (unless it's public restroom, ick) Your body expels the junk you consumed earlier in time. You wash yourself of the grime from the day. Maybe, VA is my bathroom. Yeah that's right, I'm taking a spiritual dump right now. I've been consuming education, experience, relationship, etc for the past 23 years. I'm absorbing the nutrition of this gluttonous feast I've been on in college and now I'm taking a big fiber pill to clean my system. It sounds kinda gross, but that made total since in my mind. After the ancient Jews used the bathroom they said a special prayer to YHWH because of this miraculous thing that just occured. They didn't know why they needed to do that, but God did. I guess every once in while we need to shower and remove all the sweat, dust, and grime we pick up from life. So here's to spiritual bathrooms, now go take a dump!

namaste, vaya con Dios

Why do you care what I think?

I guess the answer is a little bit easier to answer if you know me. Which also begs the question, "Do you know me?"

From what I gather from others web logs or "blogs," anonymity is a standard. I don't know why because if you are reading this you either a) told by me that I had a blog, b) facebook stalked me and discovered I had changed my websites, c) someone who randomly searches for blogs to follow and don't give a flying flip what my actual name is.

Yet this is contradictory to the reason to blog and really all of our modern networking. By writing in a blog or "blogging" I can express my opinions, thoughts, and musing regardless of their coherence, sanity, logisticalness, or butchering of the English language. I suppose you care what I think because I have left many friends for a period of time and you want to keep in touch with me. Aw, how sweet. And, even though most of this post has been scathingly sarcastic, I would like to say without the least bit of hubris, thank you for caring what I think.

Maybe one day we will see each other (if you can figure out my super secret identity) and you can tell me how stupid I was to post such swill.

Second Topic
Why am I in VA?
To answer this you might want to read the introduction to Donald Miller's "Through Painted Deserts." It talks about leaving and how we are formed when there is no saftey net. My favorite novels, and consequetially the best ones, are about journeys. I admire and often question the decision-making skills and thouht processes of the characters in these stories that leave. Often the stories end poorly. Abraham died in a foreign land, Moses could only gaze at the Promised Land. Jeremiah "Liver-eating" Johnson was hunted like the animals he trapped until he died. Christopher McCandless died alone wishing for community. And the list goes on.
There are good endings. Joshua was faithful until the Promised Land. Donald Miller found a new community and reinvigorated his faith and wrote books to inspire others to continue when it seemed Christianity was irrelevant in modern culture.

I think the answer lies in my favorite novel. By the end of "The Grapes of Wrath," the Joads have nothing left. The big dreams they had were crushed like the grapes in vineyard. They lost their strength and hope. But they could still give of themselves. In the last paragraph the daughter actually breast feeds a grown man after her baby was still born.

I guess I'm away to remove my selfish thoughts by losing everything that has made comfortable. Jehovah has called me to have the faith that He will feed me like the birds and dress me like the flowers. I want choose my next steps carefully on the path of life. I do not want to make selfish decisions, because they are easy, or expected, or boring, or even logical. Sorry for the long post.

namaste, vaya con Dios