So many prayers these last few weeks to sustain:
A son whose mother has gone home to the Lord.
A sister whose brother is dying from the same disease that took her father.
A family whose little unborn girl is not forming correctly within the womb.
A woman whose sister has turned her back on God and embraced a sinful life.
Lord, we are a weak and frail people. And our standing before You does not change this; it only enlightens our understanding of what it means for our souls. "We are unable to save ourselves, even if we wanted to," as a young man testified to at his baptism tonight. But You are omnipotent; in You is all power and by the word of Your power You uphold all things. By Your holy will, You act to not only keep us alive in body but bring us to life in spirit. And so it is in Christ alone that we come to You, for only You have the power and the will to accomplish what we, Your weak creatures, need. So sustain us, Lord. In faith let us not grow weary. In prayer make our hearts strong with the assurance that You hear and are close to the broken-hearted. In body let us live with courage and boldness even as we cry out for refuge in Your loving arms. In Your most excellent Name, Amen!
Let us love and sing and wonder
Let us praise the Savior's name
He has hushed the law's loud thunder
He has quenched Mt. Sinai's flame
Let us love the Lord who bought us
Pitied us when enemies
Called us by His grace and taught us
Gave us ears and gave us eyes
He has washed us with His blood
He has washed us with His blood
He has washed us with His blood
He presents our souls to God
Let us wonder grace and justice
Join and point to mercy's store
When through grace in Christ our trust is
Justice smiles and asks no more
He who washed us with his blood
He who washed us with his blood
He who washed us with his blood
Has secured our way to God
Let us praise and join the chorus
Of the saints enthroned on high
Here they trusted him before us
Now their praises fill the sky
He has washed us with his blood
He has washed us with his blood
He has washed us with his blood
He has washed us with his blood
He will bring us home to God
Jars of Clay - based on a hymn by John Newton (1725-1807)
04 November 2007
03 October 2007
Cars
Not generally the subject you would see the average girl posting on, but then my motto has always been "defy the average." Besides, I am not claiming to be an expert on the subject of automobiles. I do, however, have an opinion. My roommate has been subjected to enough rants and squeals while driving with me to attest to this. And isn't blogging all about the un-expert airing their opinion? Don't worry; if my opinion really mattered, I would be getting paid for it, like Lileks.
My opinion is that manufacturers, or at the very least designers, of the modern automobile are having a secret "who can sell the oddest car" contest. Only with what is out there on the road, it's not so secret anymore.
Don't believe me? Why else would the Honda Element, Pontiac Aztek or Chevrolet Avalanche exist? Ok, maybe they aren't ugly and I just have no concept of real beauty. The only alternative explanation I can think of is that they are aliens attempting to masquerade as cars, but their identity recalibrators developed scanning-deficit-disorder from watching too much TV and got distracted by another random odd object those humans seem to need.
Still don't believe me? With the appropriate accompanying drum-roll, I now present...
The Shoe - Honda Element
The car for people in denial. They need to buy a minivan. But they cling desperately and irrationally to that sense of style and freedom they had before there were children. So, Honda has presented us with the Element. Bonus points for looking odd enough that people will call in style to avoid the accusation they have no taste. This is similar to the argument on whether or not Neo-Dadism is art.
The Tissue Box - Scion B
A square car. Wasn't this what we played with when we were children? I keep expecting to see a "suitable for ages 2 to 5" sticker on the bumper. And the new ones just look like a box in desperate need of braces to correct a grimace of an under-bite.
The Plastic Tonka - Pontiac Aztek
Why for the love of all mangled crash dummies would I want to drive a car that looks like it is plastic? If I wanted that, I would build myself a car out of Legos. It would probably hold together better (gotta love those interlocking blocks), might cost less and would be a good bonding experience with the kiddies.
The Yup-Truck aka Upchuck
There are several versions of what the politically correct are calling a "sport utility truck" out there - Chevrolet Avalanche, Honda Ridgeline and Ford Explorer Sport Trac. I can just hear the board room conversation that allowed the opportunity us to buy these vehicles.
"Men want big trucks. We have told them for years that they need a big truck to prove they are men. We need to make more big trucks."
"But women want a car they can fit the kids in. We have developed a whole demographic that knows they have to take the whole soccer team to practice prove they're super mommy. We need more SUVs."
"But SUVs are like minivans, and we all know how passe those are."
"I know, I know. Let's squash a mini-truck bed on an SUV."
"Yeah, men will get their truck."
"Women will get their SUV."
"And those gullible yuppies will buy more gas-guzzling monstrosities. We'll be rich!"
"I bet we won't even have to tell them to buy it. We can advertise it as a one-up on the Jones. Jones have to own two cars to have both an SUV and a truck."
In Greek mythology, these automobiles would be known as chimera. Car designers, there is a reason it is called mythology. Car buyers, get a real truck.
The Wide-Mouth Bass - 5th Gen Ford Mustang
I mention this one last because I must admit it was on my 'yikes' list for some time. I have since recovered, but the trauma still happened. For the first several months of seeing this on the streets, I was in a state of disappointment. I would come up behind one, think 'ooh, pretty', only to pull up alongside it and see what they did to the front half. It was all the more painful because this is one of my favorite cars. I am especially fond of the 1st generation Mustangs and there was much joy when the 4th gen redesign reclaimed, at least to my mind, hints of those pioneers. At least they did in the rear design. But there was still something lacking. The new Mustang filled that vacuum, or rather tried to swallow it with its nose reminiscent of the wide-mouth bass looking for lures. It took a year for me not to flinch when I saw that gaping maw coming at me. And another year before I could smile when one drove by. When I begrudgingly began to suspect I had fallen in love with this new pony, I decided it was time for a little research. And I have realized that the newer Mustangs are much closer to those first models. Like the 4th Gen, it has the sleeker side and rear design obscured by the convex lines of the 2nd and 3rd eras, but unlike those three eras, it reclaims that cavernous front of the early years. It is those first Mustangs that made it my favorite car. Now, if anyone asks me about the newer Mustang, I only say "wide-mouth bass" as a term of endearment and comment that it has the terror-instilling glare any legitimate sports car should have.
In other car news, Ford has decided to rename the Freestyle. Sales were slipping so to instead of redesigning the model, the powers that be have rummaged around in the name bag and pulled out Taurus. Slap an 'X' at the end and whah-lah, a brand new car sure to sell like hotcakes grilled by a Hooters' waitress in a camp of starving lumberjacks. Sorry, Ford, it is going to take more than a Jedi mind trick to convince me that switching the name of a basic, standard, run-of-the-mill, four-door sedan to a mythological bull-headed man makes said car sexier.
PS-Thanks to Trudi for help with for a more apropo monikers.
My opinion is that manufacturers, or at the very least designers, of the modern automobile are having a secret "who can sell the oddest car" contest. Only with what is out there on the road, it's not so secret anymore.
Don't believe me? Why else would the Honda Element, Pontiac Aztek or Chevrolet Avalanche exist? Ok, maybe they aren't ugly and I just have no concept of real beauty. The only alternative explanation I can think of is that they are aliens attempting to masquerade as cars, but their identity recalibrators developed scanning-deficit-disorder from watching too much TV and got distracted by another random odd object those humans seem to need.
Still don't believe me? With the appropriate accompanying drum-roll, I now present...
The Shoe - Honda Element
The car for people in denial. They need to buy a minivan. But they cling desperately and irrationally to that sense of style and freedom they had before there were children. So, Honda has presented us with the Element. Bonus points for looking odd enough that people will call in style to avoid the accusation they have no taste. This is similar to the argument on whether or not Neo-Dadism is art.
The Tissue Box - Scion B
A square car. Wasn't this what we played with when we were children? I keep expecting to see a "suitable for ages 2 to 5" sticker on the bumper. And the new ones just look like a box in desperate need of braces to correct a grimace of an under-bite.
The Plastic Tonka - Pontiac Aztek
Why for the love of all mangled crash dummies would I want to drive a car that looks like it is plastic? If I wanted that, I would build myself a car out of Legos. It would probably hold together better (gotta love those interlocking blocks), might cost less and would be a good bonding experience with the kiddies.
The Yup-Truck aka Upchuck
There are several versions of what the politically correct are calling a "sport utility truck" out there - Chevrolet Avalanche, Honda Ridgeline and Ford Explorer Sport Trac. I can just hear the board room conversation that allowed the opportunity us to buy these vehicles.
"Men want big trucks. We have told them for years that they need a big truck to prove they are men. We need to make more big trucks."
"But women want a car they can fit the kids in. We have developed a whole demographic that knows they have to take the whole soccer team to practice prove they're super mommy. We need more SUVs."
"But SUVs are like minivans, and we all know how passe those are."
"I know, I know. Let's squash a mini-truck bed on an SUV."
"Yeah, men will get their truck."
"Women will get their SUV."
"And those gullible yuppies will buy more gas-guzzling monstrosities. We'll be rich!"
"I bet we won't even have to tell them to buy it. We can advertise it as a one-up on the Jones. Jones have to own two cars to have both an SUV and a truck."
In Greek mythology, these automobiles would be known as chimera. Car designers, there is a reason it is called mythology. Car buyers, get a real truck.
The Wide-Mouth Bass - 5th Gen Ford Mustang
I mention this one last because I must admit it was on my 'yikes' list for some time. I have since recovered, but the trauma still happened. For the first several months of seeing this on the streets, I was in a state of disappointment. I would come up behind one, think 'ooh, pretty', only to pull up alongside it and see what they did to the front half. It was all the more painful because this is one of my favorite cars. I am especially fond of the 1st generation Mustangs and there was much joy when the 4th gen redesign reclaimed, at least to my mind, hints of those pioneers. At least they did in the rear design. But there was still something lacking. The new Mustang filled that vacuum, or rather tried to swallow it with its nose reminiscent of the wide-mouth bass looking for lures. It took a year for me not to flinch when I saw that gaping maw coming at me. And another year before I could smile when one drove by. When I begrudgingly began to suspect I had fallen in love with this new pony, I decided it was time for a little research. And I have realized that the newer Mustangs are much closer to those first models. Like the 4th Gen, it has the sleeker side and rear design obscured by the convex lines of the 2nd and 3rd eras, but unlike those three eras, it reclaims that cavernous front of the early years. It is those first Mustangs that made it my favorite car. Now, if anyone asks me about the newer Mustang, I only say "wide-mouth bass" as a term of endearment and comment that it has the terror-instilling glare any legitimate sports car should have.
In other car news, Ford has decided to rename the Freestyle. Sales were slipping so to instead of redesigning the model, the powers that be have rummaged around in the name bag and pulled out Taurus. Slap an 'X' at the end and whah-lah, a brand new car sure to sell like hotcakes grilled by a Hooters' waitress in a camp of starving lumberjacks. Sorry, Ford, it is going to take more than a Jedi mind trick to convince me that switching the name of a basic, standard, run-of-the-mill, four-door sedan to a mythological bull-headed man makes said car sexier.
PS-Thanks to Trudi for help with for a more apropo monikers.
11 September 2007
Money, Money, Money!
It’s official. I am a banker.
Now practically everyone says at some point in their life, “I never thought I would be doing (fill in the blank).” But my being a banker is just a little more than that. For example, my brother and I came up with a code, admittedly influenced by several seasons of Alias. If I ever told him I worked for a bank, he would know I really worked for the CIA or FBI. When I did get my current job and informed my family, I had to do a little more than the casual convincing with my brother that my job was just that and not a cover. We are talking "if there is a bright center to the universe, then you are on the planet farthest from."
But Tatooine is home sweet home now. And in the last two years of negotiating the canyon that is banking, I have learned there are a few things the average person who must use the services of a bank may not be aware of. In the interest of salvaging whatever sanity is left amongst myself and my fellow bankers, I have decided to pass along some of my learning.
Disclaimer: The following list in no way implies or infers imbecility on the part of any or all people with accounts. All of the following “tips” are the result of actual circumstances. Names have been withheld to protect the guilty (and keep me from getting fired).
Without any further ado, I give you:
THE INFORMED BANKING CUSTOMER or HOW TO MAKE YOUR BANKER HAPPY
1) If you don’t have enough money in your account to cover all of your check, don’t write it.
I don’t care if your pastor tells you God loves a sacrificial giver and will multiply what you give, don’t write it. And you have to have to a sacrifice in order to sacrifice. Writing that check does not make the money supernaturally appear in your account. And putting “God’s blessings of wealth. heath and happiness” in the memo does not up your chances at this happening either. I am only speaking to the first one on this. I have no knowledge of the last two being fulfilled. However, I sort of doubt that if God does not answer the prayer for the first, that He would honor the others instead.
2) The ATM is not a slot machine.
Just because your ATM card has a $9999.99 withdrawal limit does not mean you can withdraw that much money from an ATM. The ATM may have its own limit. The ATM may not have that much money. You may not have $9999.99 in your account. You may be in India or some other country that, for no reason discernible by man, will change the rules (or ignore them completely) on the 3rd Tuesday of every month ending in “r” on a leap year.
3) Bankers do not possess telepathy.
Write your checks clearly and for the exact amount you want them to clear for. And FYI, the legal written amount is the amount your check will (i.e. should) clear for. Don’t write the numbers of $1.00 in the little box and then write out long hand “one hundred dollars” if you don’t want $100.00 to be taken out of your account. The same applies to the opposite situation.
4) The bank is not your grandmother who gives you money just because she loves you.
The bank may make an error. And you may be in possession of more money than you should have. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep it. Don’t whine when we take it back. It is not mature and it won’t make us give the money back.
5) The bank is also not your trust fund attorney who gives you money because you are entitled to it.
As a corollary, there is no such thing as a bank error in the bank’s favor. Let us know about them politely and we will be happy to fix them. It is important to us and to our auditors that you have exactly the amount of money you are supposed to. But remember, this amount has absolutely no relation to the amount you think you are entitled to.
6) Just because Ernie is your buddy does not mean he knows how to print checks.
Buy your checks from a reputable printer if you want your checks to clear properly.
7) Just because you say it's okay for you withdraw $100,000.00 in hundreds from an account you may or may not be on does not mean the teller should let you or will let you.
8) You have absolutely no control over how the people you write a check to spend that money. Once you give it to them, it is theirs. And we bankers will not tell you if they spent it on ice cream or a new fridge.
9) The little currency symbol on the check is not there to take more ink out of the printer.
Don’t write an American check in British pounds. Don’t scribble out the South African Rand symbol for the Euro symbol. Instead, write your check in the currency it is supposed to be in. Or wire the money if it is going to have to cross into a different currency.
10) Checkbooks, statements and receipts are not printed to kill more trees.
We give them to you so you can keep good records. Good records mean you won’t be confused by the charges that happen. Good records mean that when there is a problem you will have the necessary information to help us fix it. Good records mean that you will be able to answer 85% of the questions that might happen on your own.
11) Banks will spit out stale checks just as fast as your baby will spew the spinach on your new white shirt.
Checks are considered "stale" after six months, like most things in life. When Auntie Molly in Indiana sends you that birthday check, please deposit it on your way to work or class the next day. If you put it in your sock drawer and find it on your next birthday, don't be offended when it comes back. Instead, make with the puppy-eyes and ask dear ole Auntie for another check.
12) Banks do not employ Hogwarts' owls.
Neither does the US Postal service or any other mail carrier. If you move and don't tell us, your new debit card and your statements will not magically arrive in your mailbox.
13) Debit machines at the check out do not ask you "Are you sure?" in hopes of getting you to buy one more pack of gum.
Pay attention to the amount you are agreeing to have debited. That way you won't have to explain to your boss why you bought a $47,000.00 sweater at the Hilton on your business credit card.
Now go, spend money, but no more than you have.
Now practically everyone says at some point in their life, “I never thought I would be doing (fill in the blank).” But my being a banker is just a little more than that. For example, my brother and I came up with a code, admittedly influenced by several seasons of Alias. If I ever told him I worked for a bank, he would know I really worked for the CIA or FBI. When I did get my current job and informed my family, I had to do a little more than the casual convincing with my brother that my job was just that and not a cover. We are talking "if there is a bright center to the universe, then you are on the planet farthest from."
But Tatooine is home sweet home now. And in the last two years of negotiating the canyon that is banking, I have learned there are a few things the average person who must use the services of a bank may not be aware of. In the interest of salvaging whatever sanity is left amongst myself and my fellow bankers, I have decided to pass along some of my learning.
Disclaimer: The following list in no way implies or infers imbecility on the part of any or all people with accounts. All of the following “tips” are the result of actual circumstances. Names have been withheld to protect the guilty (and keep me from getting fired).
Without any further ado, I give you:
THE INFORMED BANKING CUSTOMER or HOW TO MAKE YOUR BANKER HAPPY
1) If you don’t have enough money in your account to cover all of your check, don’t write it.
I don’t care if your pastor tells you God loves a sacrificial giver and will multiply what you give, don’t write it. And you have to have to a sacrifice in order to sacrifice. Writing that check does not make the money supernaturally appear in your account. And putting “God’s blessings of wealth. heath and happiness” in the memo does not up your chances at this happening either. I am only speaking to the first one on this. I have no knowledge of the last two being fulfilled. However, I sort of doubt that if God does not answer the prayer for the first, that He would honor the others instead.
2) The ATM is not a slot machine.
Just because your ATM card has a $9999.99 withdrawal limit does not mean you can withdraw that much money from an ATM. The ATM may have its own limit. The ATM may not have that much money. You may not have $9999.99 in your account. You may be in India or some other country that, for no reason discernible by man, will change the rules (or ignore them completely) on the 3rd Tuesday of every month ending in “r” on a leap year.
3) Bankers do not possess telepathy.
Write your checks clearly and for the exact amount you want them to clear for. And FYI, the legal written amount is the amount your check will (i.e. should) clear for. Don’t write the numbers of $1.00 in the little box and then write out long hand “one hundred dollars” if you don’t want $100.00 to be taken out of your account. The same applies to the opposite situation.
4) The bank is not your grandmother who gives you money just because she loves you.
The bank may make an error. And you may be in possession of more money than you should have. But that doesn’t mean you get to keep it. Don’t whine when we take it back. It is not mature and it won’t make us give the money back.
5) The bank is also not your trust fund attorney who gives you money because you are entitled to it.
As a corollary, there is no such thing as a bank error in the bank’s favor. Let us know about them politely and we will be happy to fix them. It is important to us and to our auditors that you have exactly the amount of money you are supposed to. But remember, this amount has absolutely no relation to the amount you think you are entitled to.
6) Just because Ernie is your buddy does not mean he knows how to print checks.
Buy your checks from a reputable printer if you want your checks to clear properly.
7) Just because you say it's okay for you withdraw $100,000.00 in hundreds from an account you may or may not be on does not mean the teller should let you or will let you.
8) You have absolutely no control over how the people you write a check to spend that money. Once you give it to them, it is theirs. And we bankers will not tell you if they spent it on ice cream or a new fridge.
9) The little currency symbol on the check is not there to take more ink out of the printer.
Don’t write an American check in British pounds. Don’t scribble out the South African Rand symbol for the Euro symbol. Instead, write your check in the currency it is supposed to be in. Or wire the money if it is going to have to cross into a different currency.
10) Checkbooks, statements and receipts are not printed to kill more trees.
We give them to you so you can keep good records. Good records mean you won’t be confused by the charges that happen. Good records mean that when there is a problem you will have the necessary information to help us fix it. Good records mean that you will be able to answer 85% of the questions that might happen on your own.
11) Banks will spit out stale checks just as fast as your baby will spew the spinach on your new white shirt.
Checks are considered "stale" after six months, like most things in life. When Auntie Molly in Indiana sends you that birthday check, please deposit it on your way to work or class the next day. If you put it in your sock drawer and find it on your next birthday, don't be offended when it comes back. Instead, make with the puppy-eyes and ask dear ole Auntie for another check.
12) Banks do not employ Hogwarts' owls.
Neither does the US Postal service or any other mail carrier. If you move and don't tell us, your new debit card and your statements will not magically arrive in your mailbox.
13) Debit machines at the check out do not ask you "Are you sure?" in hopes of getting you to buy one more pack of gum.
Pay attention to the amount you are agreeing to have debited. That way you won't have to explain to your boss why you bought a $47,000.00 sweater at the Hilton on your business credit card.
Now go, spend money, but no more than you have.
21 July 2007
Fine!
So it has been brought to my attention that I have not posted in a while. So here I am posting. This is me posting. But I have decided that today I will not dazzle you with my whit. No, I am going to "cheat" as my roommate so kindly put it. Personally, I like to think of this as weaseling out of thinking by offering some pictures. Follow the link to find out what my lovely (yes, I am trying to use flattery, but that doesn't make it not true) Grace peeps have been up to this summer.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/telumiel/sets/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/telumiel/sets/
05 April 2007
A Prayer for Good Friday
Lord, in reflection of Your suffering, forgive me for taking lightly that which I should not and thereby lowering my appreciation for the pain you endured. Forgive my base notion of fun for corrputing the seriousness of Your humiliation and sacrifice.
You did it for joy. Instead of rejoicing with you, I still heap insult upon You by brushing it aside and so rob my soul of the sweetest drops of living water. You have called us to join You in suffering, to complete what is lacking in our faith. But the attitude of my heart hinders me from fully joining, for how can I participate in that which I have no discernment of? Yes, there is bitterness in this world, physically, mentally and emotionally. Humiliation is not just that it is inevitable as a Christian living in a depraved world but part of being joined into Your body, a holy privilege to be embraced.
Teach my heart to rejoice in hostility. Keep my heart from anger and pride of self that demands for its own sake. Let me not grow fainthearted. Keep me from shrinking back. Meet me in the Garden as the Father met You. Thank You for Your Spririt which has endured before me; may I always seek the depths of Your comfort and wisdom. Keep my heart sober upon the sacred. Use any suffering that You will to present to me a means of bringing more of Your sons to Your glory.
Teach me to count everything a loss compared to the surpassing worth of know Jesus Christ our Lord, And by this become like Him in His death, so that when I draw my final breath, the resurrection from the dead will be mine at last! Amen!
Philippians 3
You did it for joy. Instead of rejoicing with you, I still heap insult upon You by brushing it aside and so rob my soul of the sweetest drops of living water. You have called us to join You in suffering, to complete what is lacking in our faith. But the attitude of my heart hinders me from fully joining, for how can I participate in that which I have no discernment of? Yes, there is bitterness in this world, physically, mentally and emotionally. Humiliation is not just that it is inevitable as a Christian living in a depraved world but part of being joined into Your body, a holy privilege to be embraced.
Teach my heart to rejoice in hostility. Keep my heart from anger and pride of self that demands for its own sake. Let me not grow fainthearted. Keep me from shrinking back. Meet me in the Garden as the Father met You. Thank You for Your Spririt which has endured before me; may I always seek the depths of Your comfort and wisdom. Keep my heart sober upon the sacred. Use any suffering that You will to present to me a means of bringing more of Your sons to Your glory.
Teach me to count everything a loss compared to the surpassing worth of know Jesus Christ our Lord, And by this become like Him in His death, so that when I draw my final breath, the resurrection from the dead will be mine at last! Amen!
Philippians 3
13 March 2007
Ketchup and Temples
Some experiences stick with us, whether we want them to or not. And sometimes this is good, because it allows us to learn lessons the first time around and relearn them the next time around. And every once in a while we learn a new lesson from an old experience, usually because the cook added a little ketchup to spice up that leftover meatloaf. And that is precisely what happened to me today.
My ketchup was Tozer. I am currently reading “The Pursuit of God” for my thinking book. My fun book of the moment is Christopher Stasheff’s “The Secular Wizard”, which flirts with thinking occasionally, but that is another rabbit trail for different hunt. Tozer was describing reality as a means of directing the reader toward the presence of the spiritual and our need to interact with it just as we do the physical. Now, granted he did preface this with reality-as-seen-by-a-lay-person disclaimer, which to me means more than any philosopher's attempt at clearing the water by dumping .3542 lbs of muddily strung-together words. His definition of reality was this:
"What do I mean by reality? I mean that which has existence apart from any idea any mind may have of it, and which would exist if there were no mind anywhere to entertain a thought of it. That which is real has being in itself. It does not depend upon the observer for its validity. [...] Faith creates nothing; it simply reckons that which is already there."
And here is where the meatloaf, to continue our leftover food metaphor, came in. The first thing I thought of was the Jain temple we visited in Old Delhi. This was the out-of-the-way-down-a-side-street one (which is saying quite a lot in Old Delhi), not the one with the bird hospital. On the first floor entrance, the check-in priest sat guard on a cot. We had to read a list of requirements, take our shoes off, strip of any leather (belts) or photography equipment and wash our hands. Up a narrow, steep staircase that had been crawled upon by so many sweaty feet the marble was slicker than a bald monkey's butt (and smelled just about as sweet), was a room about the size of a regular American apartment living room. The least decorated surface was the floor, with its understated white, red and black marble inlay. Enough shiny to cause a magpie to hyperventilate coated the walls, ceiling and pillars. The obligatory idol carved lotus style and dressed in silk was sheltered within an enclave at the end of the room. Along the length of the room, marble basins containing carved feet protruded from the wall at chin height, with a portrait of the god whose feet they were above them.
Before we forcefully shooed him away, a priest started in on a longwinded explanation of the ministrations that must be carried out each morning for the god's feet (the only part of the god they may touch). I will refrain from passing along the wind, short or long, except to say that it was extensive, tedious and absolutely ridiculous.
At the time I mused upon the difference between the idols who demanded the devout care for their feet and the Living God who offers refuge in His arms as a dove to her young (Ps 91:4). All praise be to the Lord from whom there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus and to whom we may approach with confidence to receive grace and mercy in time of need!
Now again, the temple was brought to my mind for another lesson. As I smelled the incense and witnessed the shloshing milk, I pitied the people enslaved to such lunacy and hated the demons who forged the chains. Now I see those laughable actions as even more than rituals to bind the soul. Could they also be attempts to reinforce a false reality?
Most, if not all, of the Hindu women we interviewed (and women who were previously Hindu) commented on the imperative to rise early and care for the gods before starting the day. Before any normal day activities occurred, the gods were washed, dressed and fed. Only then was the day ready to begin. Only after the gods had once again started caring for the mortal world could that world revolve again. One Christian woman, after describing her life as a Hindu, said that now her mornings felt free; she could sit in bed and pray before beginning her day.
Some might try to argue that this too is a form of making the world revolve again. And I would agree, but from a completely different direction from the Hindu. The Hindu’s morning rituals wake the gods, start them. I must admit I find it is completely understandable the regimen and fear driving these rituals. After all, what might happen to me if I forgot to get my god his morning coffee? Not only would he probably be cursing mad, he also would not be there when I need him.
But for the Christian, beginning the day with prayer in no way recreates or restarts God, but rather the opposite. We, as the created, are the ones in need of waking and starting the day “on the right foot.” So to seek to ground ourselves on the One in whom reality is found is both right and natural. He is still there; He always has been and always will be. I am the creature who requires that reminder.
So tomorrow, when I wake up in my bed that is still there, brush my teeth with the water that still comes out of the faucet and drink my coffee that still percolates from those odd little beans, I will pray and remember that God is still God and I am still His.
My ketchup was Tozer. I am currently reading “The Pursuit of God” for my thinking book. My fun book of the moment is Christopher Stasheff’s “The Secular Wizard”, which flirts with thinking occasionally, but that is another rabbit trail for different hunt. Tozer was describing reality as a means of directing the reader toward the presence of the spiritual and our need to interact with it just as we do the physical. Now, granted he did preface this with reality-as-seen-by-a-lay-person disclaimer, which to me means more than any philosopher's attempt at clearing the water by dumping .3542 lbs of muddily strung-together words. His definition of reality was this:
"What do I mean by reality? I mean that which has existence apart from any idea any mind may have of it, and which would exist if there were no mind anywhere to entertain a thought of it. That which is real has being in itself. It does not depend upon the observer for its validity. [...] Faith creates nothing; it simply reckons that which is already there."
And here is where the meatloaf, to continue our leftover food metaphor, came in. The first thing I thought of was the Jain temple we visited in Old Delhi. This was the out-of-the-way-down-a-side-street one (which is saying quite a lot in Old Delhi), not the one with the bird hospital. On the first floor entrance, the check-in priest sat guard on a cot. We had to read a list of requirements, take our shoes off, strip of any leather (belts) or photography equipment and wash our hands. Up a narrow, steep staircase that had been crawled upon by so many sweaty feet the marble was slicker than a bald monkey's butt (and smelled just about as sweet), was a room about the size of a regular American apartment living room. The least decorated surface was the floor, with its understated white, red and black marble inlay. Enough shiny to cause a magpie to hyperventilate coated the walls, ceiling and pillars. The obligatory idol carved lotus style and dressed in silk was sheltered within an enclave at the end of the room. Along the length of the room, marble basins containing carved feet protruded from the wall at chin height, with a portrait of the god whose feet they were above them.
Before we forcefully shooed him away, a priest started in on a longwinded explanation of the ministrations that must be carried out each morning for the god's feet (the only part of the god they may touch). I will refrain from passing along the wind, short or long, except to say that it was extensive, tedious and absolutely ridiculous.
At the time I mused upon the difference between the idols who demanded the devout care for their feet and the Living God who offers refuge in His arms as a dove to her young (Ps 91:4). All praise be to the Lord from whom there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus and to whom we may approach with confidence to receive grace and mercy in time of need!
Now again, the temple was brought to my mind for another lesson. As I smelled the incense and witnessed the shloshing milk, I pitied the people enslaved to such lunacy and hated the demons who forged the chains. Now I see those laughable actions as even more than rituals to bind the soul. Could they also be attempts to reinforce a false reality?
Most, if not all, of the Hindu women we interviewed (and women who were previously Hindu) commented on the imperative to rise early and care for the gods before starting the day. Before any normal day activities occurred, the gods were washed, dressed and fed. Only then was the day ready to begin. Only after the gods had once again started caring for the mortal world could that world revolve again. One Christian woman, after describing her life as a Hindu, said that now her mornings felt free; she could sit in bed and pray before beginning her day.
Some might try to argue that this too is a form of making the world revolve again. And I would agree, but from a completely different direction from the Hindu. The Hindu’s morning rituals wake the gods, start them. I must admit I find it is completely understandable the regimen and fear driving these rituals. After all, what might happen to me if I forgot to get my god his morning coffee? Not only would he probably be cursing mad, he also would not be there when I need him.
But for the Christian, beginning the day with prayer in no way recreates or restarts God, but rather the opposite. We, as the created, are the ones in need of waking and starting the day “on the right foot.” So to seek to ground ourselves on the One in whom reality is found is both right and natural. He is still there; He always has been and always will be. I am the creature who requires that reminder.
So tomorrow, when I wake up in my bed that is still there, brush my teeth with the water that still comes out of the faucet and drink my coffee that still percolates from those odd little beans, I will pray and remember that God is still God and I am still His.
27 January 2007
Pictures...
I am coming up in the world of technology and internet savvy. Here is a link to the India pictures I have been able to post on Flickr... www.flickr.com/photos/telumiel/
Let me know if the link doesn't work...still new to this, so patience please.
Pace~
Let me know if the link doesn't work...still new to this, so patience please.
Pace~
25 January 2007
India...
Before I post a few pictures, here are some thoughts, since that is what blogs are for. A couple days after I came back Jars of Clay's "Oh My God" popped up on my iPod. I don't know if they were thinking India when they wrote it (probably not), but the emotion this song holds toward humanity (and inhumanity) and the prayer it cries are, to me, a picture of my reflections of India. It is better to listen to this song, it starts out slow and low but ends pounding. However, posting that is probably a violation of some piracy law, and, as I do not want to go to jail, I will just post the lyrics (and encourage you to buy the song and or CD "Good Monsters"). Without further ado, Jars of Clay...
As tintillating as India may seem, in my pictures and in others, it holds no answers, only questions. And the Western mind seeks those questions as a cat seeks the fire, wanting warmth not knowing the fur will catch fire. Of all the things that surprised me, the greatest and one of the saddest was the number of Westerners "seeking" truth, Shiva's ashes rubbed upon their forehead. I share these pictures only as a call to prayer, nothing more. To succeed in that is joy enough.
More to come later, but Panera is closing and I must go. It is a sad state of affairs when the internet in India is more reliable than my internet at home. Irony of ironies.
Pace~
edited 07-01-27 by the Walrus
"Oh My God"
Oh my God, look around this place
Your fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
Flights of grace, and future falls
In present pain
All fools say, "Oh my God"
Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed
There is no cure for our disease
Turn a phrase, and rise again
Or fake your death and only tell your closest friend
Oh my God.
Oh my God, can I complain?
You take away my firm belief and graft my soul upon your grief
Weddings, boats and alibis
All drift away, and a mother cries
Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say
War creators; racial haters
Preachers always say
Distant fathers; fallen warriors
Givers always say
Pilgrim saints; lonely widows
Users always say
Fearful mothers; watchful doubters
Saviors always say
Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we're better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder
Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children - this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers - this is our greatest offense
Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God, look around this place
Your fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
Flights of grace, and future falls
In present pain
All fools say, "Oh my God"
Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed
There is no cure for our disease
Turn a phrase, and rise again
Or fake your death and only tell your closest friend
Oh my God.
Oh my God, can I complain?
You take away my firm belief and graft my soul upon your grief
Weddings, boats and alibis
All drift away, and a mother cries
Liars and fools; sons and failures
Thieves will always say
Lost and found; ailing wanderers
Healers always say
Whores and angels; men with problems
Leavers always say
Broken hearted; separated
Orphans always say
War creators; racial haters
Preachers always say
Distant fathers; fallen warriors
Givers always say
Pilgrim saints; lonely widows
Users always say
Fearful mothers; watchful doubters
Saviors always say
Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we're better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder
Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children - this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers - this is our greatest offense
Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God
As tintillating as India may seem, in my pictures and in others, it holds no answers, only questions. And the Western mind seeks those questions as a cat seeks the fire, wanting warmth not knowing the fur will catch fire. Of all the things that surprised me, the greatest and one of the saddest was the number of Westerners "seeking" truth, Shiva's ashes rubbed upon their forehead. I share these pictures only as a call to prayer, nothing more. To succeed in that is joy enough.
More to come later, but Panera is closing and I must go. It is a sad state of affairs when the internet in India is more reliable than my internet at home. Irony of ironies.
Pace~
edited 07-01-27 by the Walrus
19 January 2007
The Final Frontier
Ok, so maybe this post doesn't match the title, but I like it and since it is my blog, I can use it. To stretch the title, my final frontier is travelling home. Our flight leaves tonight at midnight, and despite my counter prayers of getting stuck and missing work on Monday, we should arrive home at noon on Sunday, CA time. It has been quite an adventure, one which I will be posting further about once home and the mind begins to debrief.
Thank you so much for those of you that prayed. The film came back (it had to go to Bombay...yet another adventure in India). There was no sign of the scratch affecting the pictures. I have taken many more with both the digital and the film, so there is quite the record of our trip.
See you all soon!
PS - for another look at this trip, have a look at the team site (sorry I forgot to mention it until now)...Donna did a great post a few days ago that should tide you all over... xanga.com/indiateam
Thank you so much for those of you that prayed. The film came back (it had to go to Bombay...yet another adventure in India). There was no sign of the scratch affecting the pictures. I have taken many more with both the digital and the film, so there is quite the record of our trip.
See you all soon!
PS - for another look at this trip, have a look at the team site (sorry I forgot to mention it until now)...Donna did a great post a few days ago that should tide you all over... xanga.com/indiateam
11 January 2007
The Second Lesson
What follows is a little introspectivity I did yesterday. Had fun India times getting it posted...the internet wasn't connecting, then the mouse wasn't moving, then the computer was all of a sudden in parts on the floor (by the nice man who in charge of the computers...not me). But all is back together today, so here are some thoughts...
Cross-cultural travel is always interesting. Being thrust into an entirely different situation – different smells, sights, sounds. Our brains have difficulty getting used to everything different. It is called culture shock for a good reason.
In preparing to come to India, I knew there would be such shock. To borrow a phrase, “if there is a bright center to the universe, we are on the planet furthest from.” Yes, there is McDonald’s here, but it is guarded by a man in a starched uniform who stands by a podium with the words “Please Wait To Be Seated” carved into it. Not your American fast food, by any stretch of the imagination. And that is just an easily translated example.
So in my sinfulness, I tried to take the easy way out. I shut down. I am ashamed to admit it, but for the first few days of experiencing India, I felt nothing; I made myself feel nothing. Call me a coward, for that is what I am; I was afraid of the pain of empathy. And the saddest part is that in not feeling their pain I could not love them. What scares me the most is that in hardening my heart towards the people of India, my heart was also hardened toward God.
I had taken two whole rolls of pictures before I confronted my idiocy. And it was my stupidity that forced the issue. My camera developed a small fleck. In my probably ill-advised attempts to remove this speck, however gentle, I scratched my camera.
The result – tears. Yes, I bawled. Not just because I had scratched my camera, although that was definitely a factor. I felt as though my hiding mechanism had been taken away; I could not hide behind my camera anymore. I could not see India from the safe distance behind my lens. It would come crashing in and I didn’t know what to think or feel about that because I had shut all of that down.
My sister, being the wonderful person she is, counseled me to let her take the camera and finish the roll. I would walk join her in a walk-about without it. So for the first time, after being here for four days, I experienced India. And it did break my heart. But the Lord bound it up again and, in doing so, made is possible for me to love.
Halfway through our walk, I had the camera for a moment. And I took my first picture because I loved the person in it. Not the subject, not the composition, the person. There was an old woman begging and my heart loved her. I wanted to tell her story of sitting on a cold sidewalk with an outstreached hand as pants walk by day after day, hoping those pants will drop a coin or bit of food. I don’t know if the picture will turn out, but I do know that I have that picture in my soul. She doesn’t know it, but that woman was my first true introduction to India.
Being of a more rational mind now, I am not sure if this scratch will affect the pictures. We are attempting to develop the roll soon to see. I do have a digital camera for backup and will be using that, although I am not completely comfortable with it. Pray that it will give the pictures we need. And pray that my heart will stay soft. Until next time...
Cross-cultural travel is always interesting. Being thrust into an entirely different situation – different smells, sights, sounds. Our brains have difficulty getting used to everything different. It is called culture shock for a good reason.
In preparing to come to India, I knew there would be such shock. To borrow a phrase, “if there is a bright center to the universe, we are on the planet furthest from.” Yes, there is McDonald’s here, but it is guarded by a man in a starched uniform who stands by a podium with the words “Please Wait To Be Seated” carved into it. Not your American fast food, by any stretch of the imagination. And that is just an easily translated example.
So in my sinfulness, I tried to take the easy way out. I shut down. I am ashamed to admit it, but for the first few days of experiencing India, I felt nothing; I made myself feel nothing. Call me a coward, for that is what I am; I was afraid of the pain of empathy. And the saddest part is that in not feeling their pain I could not love them. What scares me the most is that in hardening my heart towards the people of India, my heart was also hardened toward God.
I had taken two whole rolls of pictures before I confronted my idiocy. And it was my stupidity that forced the issue. My camera developed a small fleck. In my probably ill-advised attempts to remove this speck, however gentle, I scratched my camera.
The result – tears. Yes, I bawled. Not just because I had scratched my camera, although that was definitely a factor. I felt as though my hiding mechanism had been taken away; I could not hide behind my camera anymore. I could not see India from the safe distance behind my lens. It would come crashing in and I didn’t know what to think or feel about that because I had shut all of that down.
My sister, being the wonderful person she is, counseled me to let her take the camera and finish the roll. I would walk join her in a walk-about without it. So for the first time, after being here for four days, I experienced India. And it did break my heart. But the Lord bound it up again and, in doing so, made is possible for me to love.
Halfway through our walk, I had the camera for a moment. And I took my first picture because I loved the person in it. Not the subject, not the composition, the person. There was an old woman begging and my heart loved her. I wanted to tell her story of sitting on a cold sidewalk with an outstreached hand as pants walk by day after day, hoping those pants will drop a coin or bit of food. I don’t know if the picture will turn out, but I do know that I have that picture in my soul. She doesn’t know it, but that woman was my first true introduction to India.
Being of a more rational mind now, I am not sure if this scratch will affect the pictures. We are attempting to develop the roll soon to see. I do have a digital camera for backup and will be using that, although I am not completely comfortable with it. Pray that it will give the pictures we need. And pray that my heart will stay soft. Until next time...
08 January 2007
The First Lesson
Arrived in India yesterday night. So far my impressions have been limited data gathering, but I have learned one thing so far…DON’T eat the chilies. And how do I know this, you ask? I will tell you.
My rice salad today at lunch had garnishes, a slice of onion, a slice of cucumber, and what looked to me to be a mutant green bean. I saw this green bean and I thought “I love green beans. I am so happy to have this grean bean.” So I popped it in my mouth with the spoonful of rice already in there.
I munched. I was happy.
I swallowed. I was happy.
But then my mouth began to hurt. The rice must be more spicy than I thought as I took another bite. I swallowed. My lips were burning by now and everytime my tongue touched the roof of my mouth more fire erupted. Wow, that was some spicy rice. It will go away soon, I thought. My fellow teammates were discussing Tony Romo’s almost-hall-of-fame moment and were naturally not paying attention to my reddening face, which I did not want to bring to their attention anyway. That was some really spicy rice. All thresholds I thought existed on the pain one mouth could contain had been surpassed. Finally, I could sit in silence no more.
I squirmed. I whimpered. I all out bawled.
My companions finally noticed my distress.
I got sympathy. I got chuckles. I got pity.
also was informed that it was the “green bean” that was the cause of my present troubles. Needless to say, the rest of my meal consisted of naan bread in a futile attempt to cool the burning sensation. That lovely event occurred about 15 minutes later when my nerves finally shut down in numbness, exhausted from shouting at my brain that they were being tortured.
When asking our fellow diners if they would eat an entire chili, one man replied, “I am not stupid.” They say you learn best from experience. Well, this is one experience I will not be forgetting the lesson of anytime soon. While in foreign countries, double check all vegetables for edibility before heartily consuming.
My rice salad today at lunch had garnishes, a slice of onion, a slice of cucumber, and what looked to me to be a mutant green bean. I saw this green bean and I thought “I love green beans. I am so happy to have this grean bean.” So I popped it in my mouth with the spoonful of rice already in there.
I munched. I was happy.
I swallowed. I was happy.
But then my mouth began to hurt. The rice must be more spicy than I thought as I took another bite. I swallowed. My lips were burning by now and everytime my tongue touched the roof of my mouth more fire erupted. Wow, that was some spicy rice. It will go away soon, I thought. My fellow teammates were discussing Tony Romo’s almost-hall-of-fame moment and were naturally not paying attention to my reddening face, which I did not want to bring to their attention anyway. That was some really spicy rice. All thresholds I thought existed on the pain one mouth could contain had been surpassed. Finally, I could sit in silence no more.
I squirmed. I whimpered. I all out bawled.
My companions finally noticed my distress.
I got sympathy. I got chuckles. I got pity.
also was informed that it was the “green bean” that was the cause of my present troubles. Needless to say, the rest of my meal consisted of naan bread in a futile attempt to cool the burning sensation. That lovely event occurred about 15 minutes later when my nerves finally shut down in numbness, exhausted from shouting at my brain that they were being tortured.
When asking our fellow diners if they would eat an entire chili, one man replied, “I am not stupid.” They say you learn best from experience. Well, this is one experience I will not be forgetting the lesson of anytime soon. While in foreign countries, double check all vegetables for edibility before heartily consuming.
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