Please note that this was written several weeks ago and I am just now getting the chance to post it. I have since changed apartments and no longer have the wonderful sights I am about to describe. But I do have similar sights, to fill later posts.
People watching is fun. A cheap form of entertainment, unless of course you are watching at Disneyland. Then it becomes an expensive form of entertainment. I have discovered the perfect spot for people watching. My bedroom window at the apartment I am currently staying at overlooks the street below. And since it is on the second floor, I am high up enough that I can see a good bit and low enough that I can still see the people.
My street is by no means a busy street, but there is a steady stream of traffic. What do I see?
Cars and more cars. Many are taxis, but more and more are private owned. Most cars are Asian makes, with a few Russians thrown in since we are so close to the border. I have also seen some really nice looking Mercedes and Volkswagons go by. To date, there has also been one Ford and one Chevy. Seeing those brought a smile to my face.
Motorcycles. Most of these two wheeled motorized contraptions would probably not be called motorcycles by enthusiasts in the States. Mopeds are probably the technical term. The few real motorcycles I have seen makes me want to intoduce the Harley to the streets of Hailar. I can just see a Hog rolling down these streets. The part I would love to see the most would be the pedestrian reaction. Unfortunately, the speed of traffic here (considerably slower than America) would probably annoy any true Hog and they would just roar through and leave the entire city wondering if the alien invaders had passed them by.
Bicycles. China is the land of bikes. Unlike India which seems to be in a competition of who can put the most people and/or stuff on one vehicle, China has sensibly adopted the one rule. One bicycler can have one passenger. This passenger does not perch precariously on the handlebars like we did as children. Instead, all bikes have a short little seat over the rear wheel on which to perch precariously on the back. Most people ride sidesaddle, as it were, but I have seen a few adventurous and younger souls hanging on astride the narrow seat, most of which are padded with a thin foam. Children like to play the balance game, but girlfriends will use the opportunity to hold their boyfriends. No one falls off though, at least that I have seen. I did see a mom yesterday attempting to teach her son how to balance. He looked to be about two, almost past the size for the little children’s baskets that take the place of the rear seat on some bikes in America. He didn’t seem to thrilled at the idea.
Bikeshaws. I am not sure what the official name for these contraptions is but it is as if someone chopped off the handlbars and front wheel of a bicycle and attached replaced it with a front loaded, two-wheeled cart. It is sort of like a backwards rickshaw, though never for people, at least not that I have seen. They carry everything from garbage to vegetables. Some wander slowly through the neighborhoods, calling Ping-no at various intervals. No, that is probably not what they are saying, but that is what it sounds like. I asked what they were saying. The answer was “I think they are selling ice cream.” When I commented that it didn’t look like there was ice cream in the cart, the only answer was a shrug. So I don’t feel to bad about not knowing what they do.
Pedestrians. Many people walk everywhere. And in a smaller town like here, that is perfectly possible. Most women wear heels of some kind. The practical part of me wonders how they do not trip and fall on the bumpy tile-like sidewalks.
For a side note on all traffic, I have noticed that umbrellas and facemasks are in vogue. Umbrellas to keep the sun off. Lighter skin is considered more beautiful. (If this is truly the case, my legs should have about the same value as Helen of Troy’s face, not that I am eager to start any sort of violence. Besides, Paris was an idiot.) I am not really certain what the facemasks are for, but I think they are to keep the wearer from breathing in pollution. Most of the facemasks are made of cloth and some have eyelet lace designs. Women ridding bikes also wear these, although a standard variation is a gauze scarf drapped or tied over the face. My American mind is much confused on this one.
The rest of the traffic is made of a various buses for public transportation, a donkey cart or two (they assist with the sewage and garbage disposal process) and a couple of kids on rollerblades. Navigating traffic is a lifesized game of rock, paper, scissors. Bus beats car beats motorcycle beats bike beats ped, with the ped not beating anyone. Anyone higher up on the vehicle food chain isnt going to move out of the way. Not the mad house or cacophany of sounds that Indian traffic is, but all in all it makes for an entertaining scene.
My new apartment is on the sixth floor and does not have a street below. I am excited to move in, but will have to locate a new form of entertainment. Perhaps I will go downstairs and outside and talk to my neighbors. They probably won’t understand me, but that hasn’t stopped me yet. Don’t worry, I still only say good things about you.
28 August 2008
11 August 2008
The Little Insect That Did
Remember that joke about mosquitoes in Minnesota needing tennis rackets to squash them with. Well, I have been introduced to their distant cousin.
We went outside the other night and there in the lamp light was a swarm that would have made Hitchcock do a whole different film. Ever wonder what the Egyptians saw? This was about the same thing, only mosquitoes instead of locusts and under a lamp instead of over the entire country. Just a taste of the terror they must have felt at the sight of that cloud coming to devour. Which was more than what we were giving the mosquitoes.
Know the most annoying thing about a mosquito? She can fly around a room, land on you, be swatted away, only to fly for three more hours, waiting patiently until you fall asleep to land on you again, this time actually sticking her needle nose into you. The next morning you wake up with a half dozen more itching bumps just because the damn thing was too quick for your swats and too nocturnal for you to wait her out. If thorns didn’t exist before the fall, perhaps mosquitoes didn’t either.
And we are not even going to mention the case of squishing a mosquito while you are half awake with your lip as she was biting you. Ok, maybe we will. I just really hope I was the first bite of the night, cause if not that brings a whole other ick factor to the situation that I am steadfastly not thinking about.
I have heard that mosquitoes like O type the best. In high school, when we studied genetics, I did the percentages of the likelihood of my blood type based on my mom (O) and my dad (A). (I don’t remember the positive or negative part now.) It was 75% in favor of A, but I never was tested. The scientist part of me always wanted to know, though. Thanks to the mosquitoes, if the number of bites I have gotten is any sort of proof, I believe I have inherited my father’s blood. I suppose they are useful for something.
Going back to those Minnesotan skeeters, the mosquitoes here might be their long lost relatives. My theory is that a few of their ancestors hitchhiked on the Siberians who came across the land bridge and became the many tribes of Native Americans. Sustained by the blood of those hardy individuals, the mosquitoes only grew larger.
But here in Northern China, they have subsisted on the same diet and remained the same. Although that might change. With the introduction of milk as a staple into the Chinese diet (along with other Western foods), the average Chinese is getting taller and larger. Perhaps their mosquitoes will too. In that case, be afraid, be very afraid.
So how do we deal with these pesky bloodsuckers? My solution, aside from a dosing of deet and praying for wind, has been to not give them any skin to bite. Oh, they try. Part of me feels sad for them, trying in vain to get their noses through my sweater and into my skin. I am forever thankful that my jacket is thick enough that they cannot. My face is still open though.
Anybody know where I can buy a burka in China?
We went outside the other night and there in the lamp light was a swarm that would have made Hitchcock do a whole different film. Ever wonder what the Egyptians saw? This was about the same thing, only mosquitoes instead of locusts and under a lamp instead of over the entire country. Just a taste of the terror they must have felt at the sight of that cloud coming to devour. Which was more than what we were giving the mosquitoes.
Know the most annoying thing about a mosquito? She can fly around a room, land on you, be swatted away, only to fly for three more hours, waiting patiently until you fall asleep to land on you again, this time actually sticking her needle nose into you. The next morning you wake up with a half dozen more itching bumps just because the damn thing was too quick for your swats and too nocturnal for you to wait her out. If thorns didn’t exist before the fall, perhaps mosquitoes didn’t either.
And we are not even going to mention the case of squishing a mosquito while you are half awake with your lip as she was biting you. Ok, maybe we will. I just really hope I was the first bite of the night, cause if not that brings a whole other ick factor to the situation that I am steadfastly not thinking about.
I have heard that mosquitoes like O type the best. In high school, when we studied genetics, I did the percentages of the likelihood of my blood type based on my mom (O) and my dad (A). (I don’t remember the positive or negative part now.) It was 75% in favor of A, but I never was tested. The scientist part of me always wanted to know, though. Thanks to the mosquitoes, if the number of bites I have gotten is any sort of proof, I believe I have inherited my father’s blood. I suppose they are useful for something.
Going back to those Minnesotan skeeters, the mosquitoes here might be their long lost relatives. My theory is that a few of their ancestors hitchhiked on the Siberians who came across the land bridge and became the many tribes of Native Americans. Sustained by the blood of those hardy individuals, the mosquitoes only grew larger.
But here in Northern China, they have subsisted on the same diet and remained the same. Although that might change. With the introduction of milk as a staple into the Chinese diet (along with other Western foods), the average Chinese is getting taller and larger. Perhaps their mosquitoes will too. In that case, be afraid, be very afraid.
So how do we deal with these pesky bloodsuckers? My solution, aside from a dosing of deet and praying for wind, has been to not give them any skin to bite. Oh, they try. Part of me feels sad for them, trying in vain to get their noses through my sweater and into my skin. I am forever thankful that my jacket is thick enough that they cannot. My face is still open though.
Anybody know where I can buy a burka in China?
01 August 2008
Chewing, Swallowing and other Eating Processes
Did your father ever tell you “Chew your food; you’re an animal”? Mine did. Of course, he could have just been quoting Matilda, but something in his eyes told me it was more than just a quote. There was wisdom to be learned here, my young padawan.
In America, good little boys and girls are instructed to chew their food into an unrecognizable state. Some people advocate the chewing eat bite 100 times. Others would say that if Lileks couldn’t compare it to one of his 50’s recipes, you shouldn’t swallow it yet. And those children who do not follow one of the above, receive quotes like I did or little side glances or not quite so sympathetic noises when the cud comes out one way or the other in an untimely fashion.
But all of this negative social pressure doesn’t really work on children who don’t care about social pressure. Take me for example. Despite all of my parent’s quotes, I am still a fast eater, mostly because I don’t chew long enough, whatever that is. There was also that term served at a camp run by “an organization for young women” where we were only given 10 minutes to eat. That psuedo-boot-camp might have had a lingering detrimental effect on my chewing habits, but we will save my stint at being Oliver for some other post. Today I wish to enlighten you all on another, perhaps more effective way of controlling how much children chew.
(A quick note lest anyone take offense at what I am about to type. I am thoroughly enjoying the cuisine here. The versions in America simply do not do it justice. Yes, there are a few more exotic things I have discovered that I just cannot eat, but for the most part I am enjoying Chinese food. That said, there is been a bit of a learning curve when it comes to the actual eating part. And that is where this discussion resumes…)
Leave some bones in. Believe me, children will take the threat of their intestines being torn to shreds by an errant bone fragment much more seriously than they will Mommy cautioning them in her best you-better-listen-now-voice to chew slower. I am not exactly sure why. Maybe Berkley could give me a grant and I could study the phenomenon and find out. Until they do, we will have to rely on empirical evidence that this is just true.
Let us consider the pros to this approach.
The poor cook, who has more than enough to do, does not have to go through the entire carcass, picking out every little last bone. She has other food to cook rather than waste her time with little bones. Just let her chop it up into roughly portion sized pieces and let the eaters do the work.
The meat will still be hot. All of that time taking the bones out takes time. Time that the meat will be cooling instead of being eaten.
The pieces will be big enough for the eating utensils to handle. Let’s face it, in the land of chopsticks, this is a very important culinary consideration. Go tearing all of the meat to little bits just to get those pesky bones out might mean that you spend the next several hours chasing around those illusive meat bits you rescued from being stuck to a bone you could have easily picked up. Wouldn’t it have been easier to pick up the meat laden bone with the chopsticks, put it in your mouth, pretend you had a sunflower seed, eat what you want and spit out the rest? You might actually gain calories, which I hear is one of the main purposes for eating.
Conversation will be enlightened. Junior is studying biology in school. You are quizzing him. He doesn’t remember what a vertebra is. You point out the piece of bone he has just finished chewing around. This, of course, presents a perfect segue into the difference between vertebrates and invertebrates. As a result of your cooking choices, Junior scores a perfect on his test the next day.
Now for those pesky cons. Hmmm…aside from a perforated bowel, I really can’t think of any. And those only happen if a) you know you should chew and you don’t or b) you are a visitor to this new land and you don’t know all of the tricks to eating yet. If the problem is the former, just slow down. Live life as the bones come along with meat. If you find yourself in the latter situation, pay attention to your lunchmates. If they are spitting out bones, the probability that you will have to as well is rather high.
Now that we know the dangers of the fireswamp, we can chew here indefinitely.
In America, good little boys and girls are instructed to chew their food into an unrecognizable state. Some people advocate the chewing eat bite 100 times. Others would say that if Lileks couldn’t compare it to one of his 50’s recipes, you shouldn’t swallow it yet. And those children who do not follow one of the above, receive quotes like I did or little side glances or not quite so sympathetic noises when the cud comes out one way or the other in an untimely fashion.
But all of this negative social pressure doesn’t really work on children who don’t care about social pressure. Take me for example. Despite all of my parent’s quotes, I am still a fast eater, mostly because I don’t chew long enough, whatever that is. There was also that term served at a camp run by “an organization for young women” where we were only given 10 minutes to eat. That psuedo-boot-camp might have had a lingering detrimental effect on my chewing habits, but we will save my stint at being Oliver for some other post. Today I wish to enlighten you all on another, perhaps more effective way of controlling how much children chew.
(A quick note lest anyone take offense at what I am about to type. I am thoroughly enjoying the cuisine here. The versions in America simply do not do it justice. Yes, there are a few more exotic things I have discovered that I just cannot eat, but for the most part I am enjoying Chinese food. That said, there is been a bit of a learning curve when it comes to the actual eating part. And that is where this discussion resumes…)
Leave some bones in. Believe me, children will take the threat of their intestines being torn to shreds by an errant bone fragment much more seriously than they will Mommy cautioning them in her best you-better-listen-now-voice to chew slower. I am not exactly sure why. Maybe Berkley could give me a grant and I could study the phenomenon and find out. Until they do, we will have to rely on empirical evidence that this is just true.
Let us consider the pros to this approach.
The poor cook, who has more than enough to do, does not have to go through the entire carcass, picking out every little last bone. She has other food to cook rather than waste her time with little bones. Just let her chop it up into roughly portion sized pieces and let the eaters do the work.
The meat will still be hot. All of that time taking the bones out takes time. Time that the meat will be cooling instead of being eaten.
The pieces will be big enough for the eating utensils to handle. Let’s face it, in the land of chopsticks, this is a very important culinary consideration. Go tearing all of the meat to little bits just to get those pesky bones out might mean that you spend the next several hours chasing around those illusive meat bits you rescued from being stuck to a bone you could have easily picked up. Wouldn’t it have been easier to pick up the meat laden bone with the chopsticks, put it in your mouth, pretend you had a sunflower seed, eat what you want and spit out the rest? You might actually gain calories, which I hear is one of the main purposes for eating.
Conversation will be enlightened. Junior is studying biology in school. You are quizzing him. He doesn’t remember what a vertebra is. You point out the piece of bone he has just finished chewing around. This, of course, presents a perfect segue into the difference between vertebrates and invertebrates. As a result of your cooking choices, Junior scores a perfect on his test the next day.
Now for those pesky cons. Hmmm…aside from a perforated bowel, I really can’t think of any. And those only happen if a) you know you should chew and you don’t or b) you are a visitor to this new land and you don’t know all of the tricks to eating yet. If the problem is the former, just slow down. Live life as the bones come along with meat. If you find yourself in the latter situation, pay attention to your lunchmates. If they are spitting out bones, the probability that you will have to as well is rather high.
Now that we know the dangers of the fireswamp, we can chew here indefinitely.
09 February 2008
10 Reasons I'm Not Dating (Response)
Ok, so this is my response to a friend's post on Facebook. I don't have Facebook, so my response is going here. As he says in his disclaimer, this is for humor's sake with a dash of mildly serious sarcastic wit. *smiles and flutters eyelashes* My comments are interspersed between the 10 Reasons I Cant Get A Date.
(Disclaimer: My intent on this blog is humor. So if any comments offend you I truly apologize but please keep in mind that I'm only joking. Also, I don't want this to turn into a woman bashing blog [although that would be fun] lets respect each gender affirming that we're both equally created in the image of God, so please enjoy the blog and feel free to comment).
R: That is what I am doing now. So no getting annoyed at me. :)
10. Girls feel intimidated because I'm a seminary student: Well, that may be true but all you need to get into a seminary is to say you're a Christian and have money. The truth of the matter is that I'm really not that smart and I fine every possible loophole to escape through to hide that fact. So far, so good, I haven't been exposed for the idiot that I am. Yet.
R: If a girl is intimidated cause you are a seminary student, she probably isn’t the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
9. I ask out girls that are too busy: This is usually some lame excuse to avoid saying, "I'm just not interested in acknowledging your existence nor am I interested in spending any of my valuable time with you." However, call me naïve or just down right ignorant, but the girls I ask out are student athletes in real difficult majors. So the excuse might be legitimate (the emphasis is on "might" - even though they make it seem like they don't even eat or sleep; maybe they're robots in disguise, like the Transformers but instead of cars they're hotties). Some of you might be asking, "What about the girls who are not student athletes you ask that still say they're busy?" Let me think about that for a while. .... uh, I got nothing.
R: Are you saying you have had just as bad luck with non-athletes or that you haven’t asked out any non-athletes? Just curious. And why only athletes? Are they somehow better then the rest of us? Or is it just cause they are fitter? Cause if that is the answer then you ain't got no place to be whining with #8…if you won't go out with me unless I’m hot, then don’t go crying if I don’t go out with you if I don’t think you’re hot. As for the don’t have enough time, if she doesn’t have enough time for a date, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
8. I'm just not attractive: Granted, I know that I'm not that most attractive guy but am I really that ugly? I thought girls could look past that stuff and see the heart of the person? It's the guys who are shallow pigs that are driven by selfish motives and ambition, isn't it? Have I somehow been misinformed?
R: No, you are not physically ugly. But keep up this whining and your heart gets uglier by the second, at least to us girls who “look past that stuff.”
7. Lacking a wide social context: What I mean by this is that I'm only expose to certain types of girls (i.e., athletes refer to ..9). I have friends that tell me I need a "wider social context" to be expose to different types of girls. But I know what I like and what I want. For instance, I have a roommate who is dead set on landing a hotty who is interested in philosophy. Although I don't deny their existence I just never have seen one (sort of like unicorns & lepercons. I could picture one of his conversations going like this - Roommate: "Honey, do you think God is temporal, pretemporal, or supratemporal?" Hotty philosophy babe: "Well dear, I think He is atemporal, which makes it possible for Him to be both transcendent and immanent." If there is ever a smokin' hotty that talks like that I'm sure to fine my lepercon riding on a unicorn chasing Aslan the talking Lion down Imperial Highway saying the "The British are coming ... the British are coming" [ok, I know that wasn't funny] - yes, I also believe that he will die alone). However, it never occurred to me that athletic girls might not give a rip about me because I don't play soccer (play soccer for real and not just on Nintendo; On a side note, I was catching some of the World Cup and I admit that they're were some great soccer highlights but I've never seen so much constant flopping. You just tap a player and it looked like they were gunned down by a sniper. If I wanted to watch grown men fake getting hurt I'd watch pro wrestling). But hey, maybe it's that outside-the-box type of thinking that I need to be opened to a "wider social context" that my roommate is talking about.
R: So you are only interested in soccer girls? What about volleyball girls or softball girls? Your roommate might be on to something…kind of hard to get a date if you lock yourself in a monastary, physically or metaphorically. And if a girl isnt going to date you because you don’t play soccer, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
6. Influences from the feminist movement: Now let me begin by saying that I know the feminist movement is a reaction from abusive, insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat men who won't own their decisions or be held accountable for their actions. So of course women have a breaking point, which they finally say, "enough is enough, we don't need men they suck!" Even though some woman might not call themselves a "feminist" they're still influenced by the movement even though they might not be aware of it. For instance, when I open the door for a lady I'm given a look that says, "Did you think I couldn't open the door myself, you stupid jerk!" When I don't open the door for a lady when given an opportunity I'm looked upon as a rude insensitive bastard. Well, quite the pickle indeed. Forget about asking for a date, I just don't want my head taken off.
R: If a girl thinks all men suck, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. I think I am seeing a trend here, but that could be me.
5. Over ambition (this could be attached to ..6 but I'll make another category anyway): Since more and more moms are teaching their daughters that they can't rely on a man, more and more women are career driven (this also relates to ..9). They're so focused on getting a college degree and establishing their careers there really isn't any room for even having coffee with a guy, let alone going on a date. What ever happened to women desiring to be good homemakers and mothers? It's really a noble desire. I'm not talking about being barefoot and pregnant (well, sort of) but realizing that women play a critical role in the lives of children in teaching and shaping their character for future accomplishments that would contribute to the goodness of mankind. Ladies, you don't have follow what the media tells you to do. Heck, if this career drive continues I fear that the human race will come to an end as we know it.
R: You do realize that you are asking out athletes, a subculture that thrives on ambition, right? And if the girl is one who wants a career (and since you obviously want stay at home), she is probably not the girl you should want to date anyway.
4. Girls don't know what they want: refer to heartbreak ..4 (what the heck, refer to all the heartbreaks I've written). I often wonder why some of the most quality girls I know end up with some of the biggest tool-bags I've ever seen. And girls probably wonder why some quality guys end up with airheads. Well, there's a simply answer for that, because they're freakin' hot. I'm still waiting for the answer to the first question.
R: Yes, we have no clue what we want. Whereas men know exactly what they want. So maybe it is a good thing we don’t know what we want.
3. I act too slowly: For me, when I want to ask a girl out I need some time to muster up the courage. But almost to a fault. For instance, when I finally called this one girl to ask her out she immediate said that she was "flattered." Oh great, the "F" word, I knew where this was going (ladies, a word of advice, if you say the "F" word 'flattered' the guy is already bracing himself for rejection). It turns out that she got a boyfriend just a week and a half ago. Crap!! That's just the story of my life, running behind schedule.
R: Thanks for the advice. I will keep that in mind if I ever have to tell a guy no when he asks me out. That is of course assuming I will be asked out. Cause you know that is what I live for…rejecting all of those men that come lining up.
2. The "friendship zone": Now I've never heard of this notion until recently. Apparently the ideal of having a strong friendship as a foundation before you move into a romantic relationship is outdated. I've befriended girls before and have said to myself, "Hey, I think this could go somewhere." Only to hear the reply, "I only think of you as a friend." It seems like when a girl gets so comfortable with a guy as a friend, they enter something called the "friendship zone" (even against his will - sounds more like the twilight zone to me) and can't break out of it no matter what (kind of like prison or death row). Doesn't really seem fair to me to get sentenced into the "friendship zone" when the cause is simply being a faithful friend, while the girl goes on dating the insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat. On top of that, when (emphasis in "when") they have problems, who does she confide in?? That's right, the dude that she sentenced into the "friendship zone," because he's "safe." Yes, the mind of a woman is truly a mystery.
R: You think you have it hard trying to figure out girls. Try being one. Having a guy who is a friend means that you don’t have to be so careful what you say, you don’t have to be so cautious in what you do, you don’t have interpret what he does and you don’t have to interpret what he says. That is valuable to a girl, especially when we seemed to be designed to always be on our guard. And it scares the hell out of us to think of that friendship changing, whether or not that really is how it goes when you go from friend to girlfriend. Ok, yeah, that might be a little insecure. But how about this…I will own up to my insecurities and you own up to yours?
1. I'm Asian: I know that I joke about this often but I gotta tell ya, I think there is some truth to it. I live in a predominately white community and go to a predominately white school. Now don't get me wrong, I think white women are beautiful but I've notice that they don't have an affinity towards Asian men (I'm open to dating Asian women, I even dated one a few months ago. She didn't turn out to be the most stable person to say the lease). They, white girls, like cowboys that still hunt for their food, haul hay, know how to work a chainsaw, about 6'3 in height, loves country music, and likes to shot animals for sport. I think I fall short of every major category. Now I would tie myself in a pretzel for the right girl but I have to admit my limitations. I could learn how to hunt and how to work a chainsaw but I can't grow another four inches and I've given country music a try (really ...I have ... honesty ...I have ... truly ...I have). I didn't figure this out until it was too late. I would cook meals for certain girls only to realize that they didn't want me to cook the food but to hunt it down and kill it myself. That's difficult in Southern Cally, considering cars already hit the only animals that are around here anyway. The last time I checked the class schedule there wasn't a Cowboys 101 course offered, so I guess I'm done for.
R: If a girl won't go out with you because you are 5’11’’, then she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. As for your other beefs, sounds like you are already a cowboy, just minus the Stetson and the Colt.
Well, I guess that does it for my list. I'm open to any suggestions or ideas about how to get a date. I think I'm going to set myself on fire now.
R: Are you really sure you want a date with a girl who is athletic, plays soccer, doesn’t like seminary, wants a career and just dispises men in general? Cause it sounds like those are the ones you are asking.
Why are you so worried about getting a date? You are in seminary, don’t you have slightly more important things to do? And even if you are no longer in seminary, aren’t there still better things to do than agonize over women?
Like working on the virtue of contentment. There’s a hobby you should get into. Might take up some of that free time you have since you aren’t on a date. Instead of finding a girl, how about working on becoming the man you should be for the girl. That is much more productive, because even if you never find her, you will still be a better man.
To start, I recommend Rudyard Kipling’s “If”. I might not be an athlete. I might not be “hot.” I might care less about my career. I might care less if you are in seminary. I might not care how tall you are. I might not care if you are my friend or if you are safe. I might not care if you don’t like country. But I certainly care whether or not you can live if...
(Disclaimer: My intent on this blog is humor. So if any comments offend you I truly apologize but please keep in mind that I'm only joking. Also, I don't want this to turn into a woman bashing blog [although that would be fun] lets respect each gender affirming that we're both equally created in the image of God, so please enjoy the blog and feel free to comment).
R: That is what I am doing now. So no getting annoyed at me. :)
10. Girls feel intimidated because I'm a seminary student: Well, that may be true but all you need to get into a seminary is to say you're a Christian and have money. The truth of the matter is that I'm really not that smart and I fine every possible loophole to escape through to hide that fact. So far, so good, I haven't been exposed for the idiot that I am. Yet.
R: If a girl is intimidated cause you are a seminary student, she probably isn’t the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
9. I ask out girls that are too busy: This is usually some lame excuse to avoid saying, "I'm just not interested in acknowledging your existence nor am I interested in spending any of my valuable time with you." However, call me naïve or just down right ignorant, but the girls I ask out are student athletes in real difficult majors. So the excuse might be legitimate (the emphasis is on "might" - even though they make it seem like they don't even eat or sleep; maybe they're robots in disguise, like the Transformers but instead of cars they're hotties). Some of you might be asking, "What about the girls who are not student athletes you ask that still say they're busy?" Let me think about that for a while. .... uh, I got nothing.
R: Are you saying you have had just as bad luck with non-athletes or that you haven’t asked out any non-athletes? Just curious. And why only athletes? Are they somehow better then the rest of us? Or is it just cause they are fitter? Cause if that is the answer then you ain't got no place to be whining with #8…if you won't go out with me unless I’m hot, then don’t go crying if I don’t go out with you if I don’t think you’re hot. As for the don’t have enough time, if she doesn’t have enough time for a date, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
8. I'm just not attractive: Granted, I know that I'm not that most attractive guy but am I really that ugly? I thought girls could look past that stuff and see the heart of the person? It's the guys who are shallow pigs that are driven by selfish motives and ambition, isn't it? Have I somehow been misinformed?
R: No, you are not physically ugly. But keep up this whining and your heart gets uglier by the second, at least to us girls who “look past that stuff.”
7. Lacking a wide social context: What I mean by this is that I'm only expose to certain types of girls (i.e., athletes refer to ..9). I have friends that tell me I need a "wider social context" to be expose to different types of girls. But I know what I like and what I want. For instance, I have a roommate who is dead set on landing a hotty who is interested in philosophy. Although I don't deny their existence I just never have seen one (sort of like unicorns & lepercons. I could picture one of his conversations going like this - Roommate: "Honey, do you think God is temporal, pretemporal, or supratemporal?" Hotty philosophy babe: "Well dear, I think He is atemporal, which makes it possible for Him to be both transcendent and immanent." If there is ever a smokin' hotty that talks like that I'm sure to fine my lepercon riding on a unicorn chasing Aslan the talking Lion down Imperial Highway saying the "The British are coming ... the British are coming" [ok, I know that wasn't funny] - yes, I also believe that he will die alone). However, it never occurred to me that athletic girls might not give a rip about me because I don't play soccer (play soccer for real and not just on Nintendo; On a side note, I was catching some of the World Cup and I admit that they're were some great soccer highlights but I've never seen so much constant flopping. You just tap a player and it looked like they were gunned down by a sniper. If I wanted to watch grown men fake getting hurt I'd watch pro wrestling). But hey, maybe it's that outside-the-box type of thinking that I need to be opened to a "wider social context" that my roommate is talking about.
R: So you are only interested in soccer girls? What about volleyball girls or softball girls? Your roommate might be on to something…kind of hard to get a date if you lock yourself in a monastary, physically or metaphorically. And if a girl isnt going to date you because you don’t play soccer, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.
6. Influences from the feminist movement: Now let me begin by saying that I know the feminist movement is a reaction from abusive, insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat men who won't own their decisions or be held accountable for their actions. So of course women have a breaking point, which they finally say, "enough is enough, we don't need men they suck!" Even though some woman might not call themselves a "feminist" they're still influenced by the movement even though they might not be aware of it. For instance, when I open the door for a lady I'm given a look that says, "Did you think I couldn't open the door myself, you stupid jerk!" When I don't open the door for a lady when given an opportunity I'm looked upon as a rude insensitive bastard. Well, quite the pickle indeed. Forget about asking for a date, I just don't want my head taken off.
R: If a girl thinks all men suck, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. I think I am seeing a trend here, but that could be me.
5. Over ambition (this could be attached to ..6 but I'll make another category anyway): Since more and more moms are teaching their daughters that they can't rely on a man, more and more women are career driven (this also relates to ..9). They're so focused on getting a college degree and establishing their careers there really isn't any room for even having coffee with a guy, let alone going on a date. What ever happened to women desiring to be good homemakers and mothers? It's really a noble desire. I'm not talking about being barefoot and pregnant (well, sort of) but realizing that women play a critical role in the lives of children in teaching and shaping their character for future accomplishments that would contribute to the goodness of mankind. Ladies, you don't have follow what the media tells you to do. Heck, if this career drive continues I fear that the human race will come to an end as we know it.
R: You do realize that you are asking out athletes, a subculture that thrives on ambition, right? And if the girl is one who wants a career (and since you obviously want stay at home), she is probably not the girl you should want to date anyway.
4. Girls don't know what they want: refer to heartbreak ..4 (what the heck, refer to all the heartbreaks I've written). I often wonder why some of the most quality girls I know end up with some of the biggest tool-bags I've ever seen. And girls probably wonder why some quality guys end up with airheads. Well, there's a simply answer for that, because they're freakin' hot. I'm still waiting for the answer to the first question.
R: Yes, we have no clue what we want. Whereas men know exactly what they want. So maybe it is a good thing we don’t know what we want.
3. I act too slowly: For me, when I want to ask a girl out I need some time to muster up the courage. But almost to a fault. For instance, when I finally called this one girl to ask her out she immediate said that she was "flattered." Oh great, the "F" word, I knew where this was going (ladies, a word of advice, if you say the "F" word 'flattered' the guy is already bracing himself for rejection). It turns out that she got a boyfriend just a week and a half ago. Crap!! That's just the story of my life, running behind schedule.
R: Thanks for the advice. I will keep that in mind if I ever have to tell a guy no when he asks me out. That is of course assuming I will be asked out. Cause you know that is what I live for…rejecting all of those men that come lining up.
2. The "friendship zone": Now I've never heard of this notion until recently. Apparently the ideal of having a strong friendship as a foundation before you move into a romantic relationship is outdated. I've befriended girls before and have said to myself, "Hey, I think this could go somewhere." Only to hear the reply, "I only think of you as a friend." It seems like when a girl gets so comfortable with a guy as a friend, they enter something called the "friendship zone" (even against his will - sounds more like the twilight zone to me) and can't break out of it no matter what (kind of like prison or death row). Doesn't really seem fair to me to get sentenced into the "friendship zone" when the cause is simply being a faithful friend, while the girl goes on dating the insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat. On top of that, when (emphasis in "when") they have problems, who does she confide in?? That's right, the dude that she sentenced into the "friendship zone," because he's "safe." Yes, the mind of a woman is truly a mystery.
R: You think you have it hard trying to figure out girls. Try being one. Having a guy who is a friend means that you don’t have to be so careful what you say, you don’t have to be so cautious in what you do, you don’t have interpret what he does and you don’t have to interpret what he says. That is valuable to a girl, especially when we seemed to be designed to always be on our guard. And it scares the hell out of us to think of that friendship changing, whether or not that really is how it goes when you go from friend to girlfriend. Ok, yeah, that might be a little insecure. But how about this…I will own up to my insecurities and you own up to yours?
1. I'm Asian: I know that I joke about this often but I gotta tell ya, I think there is some truth to it. I live in a predominately white community and go to a predominately white school. Now don't get me wrong, I think white women are beautiful but I've notice that they don't have an affinity towards Asian men (I'm open to dating Asian women, I even dated one a few months ago. She didn't turn out to be the most stable person to say the lease). They, white girls, like cowboys that still hunt for their food, haul hay, know how to work a chainsaw, about 6'3 in height, loves country music, and likes to shot animals for sport. I think I fall short of every major category. Now I would tie myself in a pretzel for the right girl but I have to admit my limitations. I could learn how to hunt and how to work a chainsaw but I can't grow another four inches and I've given country music a try (really ...I have ... honesty ...I have ... truly ...I have). I didn't figure this out until it was too late. I would cook meals for certain girls only to realize that they didn't want me to cook the food but to hunt it down and kill it myself. That's difficult in Southern Cally, considering cars already hit the only animals that are around here anyway. The last time I checked the class schedule there wasn't a Cowboys 101 course offered, so I guess I'm done for.
R: If a girl won't go out with you because you are 5’11’’, then she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. As for your other beefs, sounds like you are already a cowboy, just minus the Stetson and the Colt.
Well, I guess that does it for my list. I'm open to any suggestions or ideas about how to get a date. I think I'm going to set myself on fire now.
R: Are you really sure you want a date with a girl who is athletic, plays soccer, doesn’t like seminary, wants a career and just dispises men in general? Cause it sounds like those are the ones you are asking.
Why are you so worried about getting a date? You are in seminary, don’t you have slightly more important things to do? And even if you are no longer in seminary, aren’t there still better things to do than agonize over women?
Like working on the virtue of contentment. There’s a hobby you should get into. Might take up some of that free time you have since you aren’t on a date. Instead of finding a girl, how about working on becoming the man you should be for the girl. That is much more productive, because even if you never find her, you will still be a better man.
To start, I recommend Rudyard Kipling’s “If”. I might not be an athlete. I might not be “hot.” I might care less about my career. I might care less if you are in seminary. I might not care how tall you are. I might not care if you are my friend or if you are safe. I might not care if you don’t like country. But I certainly care whether or not you can live if...
26 January 2008
Cacophony of the Soul
What is emotion?
Why did God give it to us?
Have we ever felt a pure single emotion that isn’t complicated by other ones?
I don’t know the answer to the first two questions, but I will venture an answer for the last one.
No. I have never had a moment where there was only one emotion beating in my heart.
Yes, there have been times when one emotion is the loudest or most popular or the director of all the others. When my grandpa died, when my “kids” prayed to receive Christ, when I have sat with my dog on a quiet Saturday. Grief, love, peace. All of those emotions were first in my heart. But I cannot deny that there were others in the background, still tinkling upon their instruments. Lostness, hate, joy, thankfulness, contentment, anticipation. It is kind of like those bands named after the lead singer. Charlie Daniels is the name we remember, but Carolina and Saigon would be missing something if there weren’t five other people playing.
In moments where one emotion stands tall understanding ourselves is made that much easier and that much more treacherous. I can identify that one emotion playing the loudest. That is not bad; it is very good. We need identify what we feel. Just feeling goes nowhere and does nothing. When one emotion takes the lead, I am much more able to examine it and either deal with it or encourage it.
The danger comes in ignoring or forgetting the other emotions still playing. I could not fully deal with the grief from my grandfather’s death until I had faced the anger singing the backup vocals. There is sure to be some psychiatrist out there who has explained it better and been paid more for said explanation, but for my layman brain that is what the mind science comes down to.
But what do we do when our heart is hosting The Vienna Boys Choir instead of The Charlie Daniels Band? A group of emotions are all singing in our soul. How do we know what we are feeling if we can’t pick them out from each other?
(Now, perhaps, is probably the time for me to admit I don’t have the best musical ear. Pretty sure it’s not a better one. It doesn’t even qualify as a good one. Meaning that my musical/band analogy is probably going to fall apart right…about…now… So sit tight and enjoy the concert ‘cause I am going to keep typing.)
When a choir sings, telling the individual singers apart isn’t easy. And if you do manage to isolate just one, it is only for a moment. Add in a piano, guitar, drums, bass, etc. and if your mix artist or sound guy isn’t on top of it, cacophony is the result.
Speaking of sound guys, ever seen a sound board? Most people have, but I figured I should check. My church has a small one. After working back in the sound booth doing other things for two years, I am still afraid of it. All of those little tiny knobs to do heavens knows what. Our sound guys turn them, but I can’t always hear the difference. I do know where the “She’s gonna blow! Kill her quick!” slide is. And I have used it skillfully. Once. Other than that, I leave it to Master Brian and his Mighty Minions.
Aside from getting in a props to the sound guys at Grace EV Free, I mention this because sometimes my emotions seem to be controlled by a similar soundboard. See, I am going somewhere with this. My sound guy capacity does not magically expand in the metaphorical realm. It is only slightly more sophisticated than it is in the literal realm – I know where a few more buttons are in addition to the kill switch.
I am getting better at the emotional sound board thing, but there are still days when the only thing I can say to my concerned roommate when she asks me how I am doing is “Mmmmahfloooo!” - not the most intelligent nor communicative of noises available in the English language.
I have decided that what I need is a headset on my emotional soundboard, the kind that hooks up individually to the different imputs. Put on those headphones, push the little button in the correct row, and all you hear is what that mike is getting. If only my soul could do that.
But I can’t. I am still human. (Still…as if I could turn into anything else.) And as much as my pride hates it, I’m still in need of fixing. And I can’t fix it myself. Try as I might, if I fiddle with the nobs, I am going to ruin something before I realize what I am doing.
But what do I do with those “Mmmmahfloooo!” moments?
I can’t make them go away. But I can get out of the way so the One who created my soundboard can bring out the song my heart is failing miserably at singing. Even better, He will help weed out the emotions that shouldn’t be playing in that particular song anyway.
So will I ever feel a single pure emotion without all of this mess?
Probably not. Life is always messy. At least on this earth is. Perhaps in heaven before the throne. Until then, just get used to nonsensical noises.
Mmmmahfloooo.
Why did God give it to us?
Have we ever felt a pure single emotion that isn’t complicated by other ones?
I don’t know the answer to the first two questions, but I will venture an answer for the last one.
No. I have never had a moment where there was only one emotion beating in my heart.
Yes, there have been times when one emotion is the loudest or most popular or the director of all the others. When my grandpa died, when my “kids” prayed to receive Christ, when I have sat with my dog on a quiet Saturday. Grief, love, peace. All of those emotions were first in my heart. But I cannot deny that there were others in the background, still tinkling upon their instruments. Lostness, hate, joy, thankfulness, contentment, anticipation. It is kind of like those bands named after the lead singer. Charlie Daniels is the name we remember, but Carolina and Saigon would be missing something if there weren’t five other people playing.
In moments where one emotion stands tall understanding ourselves is made that much easier and that much more treacherous. I can identify that one emotion playing the loudest. That is not bad; it is very good. We need identify what we feel. Just feeling goes nowhere and does nothing. When one emotion takes the lead, I am much more able to examine it and either deal with it or encourage it.
The danger comes in ignoring or forgetting the other emotions still playing. I could not fully deal with the grief from my grandfather’s death until I had faced the anger singing the backup vocals. There is sure to be some psychiatrist out there who has explained it better and been paid more for said explanation, but for my layman brain that is what the mind science comes down to.
But what do we do when our heart is hosting The Vienna Boys Choir instead of The Charlie Daniels Band? A group of emotions are all singing in our soul. How do we know what we are feeling if we can’t pick them out from each other?
(Now, perhaps, is probably the time for me to admit I don’t have the best musical ear. Pretty sure it’s not a better one. It doesn’t even qualify as a good one. Meaning that my musical/band analogy is probably going to fall apart right…about…now… So sit tight and enjoy the concert ‘cause I am going to keep typing.)
When a choir sings, telling the individual singers apart isn’t easy. And if you do manage to isolate just one, it is only for a moment. Add in a piano, guitar, drums, bass, etc. and if your mix artist or sound guy isn’t on top of it, cacophony is the result.
Speaking of sound guys, ever seen a sound board? Most people have, but I figured I should check. My church has a small one. After working back in the sound booth doing other things for two years, I am still afraid of it. All of those little tiny knobs to do heavens knows what. Our sound guys turn them, but I can’t always hear the difference. I do know where the “She’s gonna blow! Kill her quick!” slide is. And I have used it skillfully. Once. Other than that, I leave it to Master Brian and his Mighty Minions.
Aside from getting in a props to the sound guys at Grace EV Free, I mention this because sometimes my emotions seem to be controlled by a similar soundboard. See, I am going somewhere with this. My sound guy capacity does not magically expand in the metaphorical realm. It is only slightly more sophisticated than it is in the literal realm – I know where a few more buttons are in addition to the kill switch.
I am getting better at the emotional sound board thing, but there are still days when the only thing I can say to my concerned roommate when she asks me how I am doing is “Mmmmahfloooo!” - not the most intelligent nor communicative of noises available in the English language.
I have decided that what I need is a headset on my emotional soundboard, the kind that hooks up individually to the different imputs. Put on those headphones, push the little button in the correct row, and all you hear is what that mike is getting. If only my soul could do that.
But I can’t. I am still human. (Still…as if I could turn into anything else.) And as much as my pride hates it, I’m still in need of fixing. And I can’t fix it myself. Try as I might, if I fiddle with the nobs, I am going to ruin something before I realize what I am doing.
But what do I do with those “Mmmmahfloooo!” moments?
I can’t make them go away. But I can get out of the way so the One who created my soundboard can bring out the song my heart is failing miserably at singing. Even better, He will help weed out the emotions that shouldn’t be playing in that particular song anyway.
So will I ever feel a single pure emotion without all of this mess?
Probably not. Life is always messy. At least on this earth is. Perhaps in heaven before the throne. Until then, just get used to nonsensical noises.
Mmmmahfloooo.
04 November 2007
Sustain - Thoughts from Communion/Baptism Service
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)
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)
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.
14 November 2006
The Color of God
A friend once remarked me that grace is blue. After my initial surprise at this slightly odd statement, I pondered upon why he said this.
What is to follow is a window into my ponderings, for I think that the rabbit trail they follow leads to a valuable conclusion. But ye warned, this is my rabbit’s trail and they do not always follow the railroad tracks. Some might object to the impending verbosity, to which I say what good is a destination if you don’t know how you got there? However, if your concern lies solely with the end, there is nothing but good sense to stop you from just scrolling down to the last paragraph.
My first response to my friend’s rather abrupt statement was “Can an attribute of God have color? Isn’t He spirit which, by all definitions I have ever encountered outside of fantasy literature, has no color?” But I do not think my friend was talking literally. Therefore, let us journey into the wonderful land that is metaphor where much can be made clearer which cannot be fleshed in the land of science.
What is color? Aside from the definition of light waves reflecting in various patterns, color is how we express ourselves. For example, Goths have claimed the color black. Why? Sadness, evil, rebellion, angst…all of these emotions which are the foundation of the Goth mindset connect with that color. (Now I have nothing against the color black, or Goths, for that matter; this is simply an observation on the use of color by people with certain tendencies. Back to the scheduled rabbit trail…) The Goth affinity to this color makes sense given that black for the Western world is the color of mourning. As an interesting side note, in Asia mourning’s color is white, though I dare not make any conjecture as to why, being wholly unqualified.
My point, as it may have gotten lost, is that our minds connect certain colors to certain emotions or states of being. Personages more schooled and scholarly than I am have undoubtedly spent hours as well as forests speculating why, so I will not do so here. Except to say that I do not think it is as strange as some might like to think.
After all, the same thing is done with words. We have all played the word association game in which one person says a word and another says the first thing that word makes them think of. How could one word draw up such colorful responses if there was no emotion, whatever it may be, connected in the responder’s mind to that otherwise meaningless string of sounds? We connect our emotions to things, be they words or colors, sights or sounds.
Here we reach a difficult ledge. As with all connections our minds make, there are always exceptions and caveats, because concepts are too unwieldy to be contained by single words and words are too useful to be restricted to single ideas. Going back to our example of black is an example of the latter for black is also the color for classy. See “little black dress.”
But, with God, it is the former. Because He is the Creator. And because He created everything, He is above everything. And because He is above everything, no one thing below Him or even conglomeration of things can fully describe Him. However, they can partially reveal Who He is because He created them and therefore left a mark on them.
When Moses asked for a name to take back to Pharaoh, he received a statement of being, which became the most sacred name for God in the Old Testament. But it still does not encompass completely Who He is. Throughout the rest of the Scriptures, God continually gives His people names for Himself.
If God can have names why not colors?
Now that we have that established, why is grace blue? Not any color of blue, the shade of blue the sky is when there is no storm on the horizon, the sun is shining, and all that is ahead is the promise of a good day. It makes sense, for that is what grace is…God has taken my sin and guilt away; He has given His Son; He has made me new. Perhaps that is why going to the park on a Saturday and lying on the grass, looking up at the sky is so relaxing.
I think the problem I often have with grace is that I begin to go about my life in this new day and forget to look up at the sky. I leave my house, go to work and come back home, forgetting that all the while the sky is blue. I remember that Christ has taken the punishment for my sin, but I forget that guilt has been washed away as well. If guilt were to remain, the sky would be grey. I think that I must work off my guilt. But that is not the color of grace; it is a gift, just like a good park day, and I can no more earn it than I can a day of pleasant weather with clear skies. But I can enjoy it to its fullest, and that is exactly what I must do with grace, to praise God for it in every way I can and to encourage others to do the same.
Yes, grace is blue.
And love is green.
That one, dear reader, I shall leave to you to ponder that one down your own rabbit trails.
What is to follow is a window into my ponderings, for I think that the rabbit trail they follow leads to a valuable conclusion. But ye warned, this is my rabbit’s trail and they do not always follow the railroad tracks. Some might object to the impending verbosity, to which I say what good is a destination if you don’t know how you got there? However, if your concern lies solely with the end, there is nothing but good sense to stop you from just scrolling down to the last paragraph.
My first response to my friend’s rather abrupt statement was “Can an attribute of God have color? Isn’t He spirit which, by all definitions I have ever encountered outside of fantasy literature, has no color?” But I do not think my friend was talking literally. Therefore, let us journey into the wonderful land that is metaphor where much can be made clearer which cannot be fleshed in the land of science.
What is color? Aside from the definition of light waves reflecting in various patterns, color is how we express ourselves. For example, Goths have claimed the color black. Why? Sadness, evil, rebellion, angst…all of these emotions which are the foundation of the Goth mindset connect with that color. (Now I have nothing against the color black, or Goths, for that matter; this is simply an observation on the use of color by people with certain tendencies. Back to the scheduled rabbit trail…) The Goth affinity to this color makes sense given that black for the Western world is the color of mourning. As an interesting side note, in Asia mourning’s color is white, though I dare not make any conjecture as to why, being wholly unqualified.
My point, as it may have gotten lost, is that our minds connect certain colors to certain emotions or states of being. Personages more schooled and scholarly than I am have undoubtedly spent hours as well as forests speculating why, so I will not do so here. Except to say that I do not think it is as strange as some might like to think.
After all, the same thing is done with words. We have all played the word association game in which one person says a word and another says the first thing that word makes them think of. How could one word draw up such colorful responses if there was no emotion, whatever it may be, connected in the responder’s mind to that otherwise meaningless string of sounds? We connect our emotions to things, be they words or colors, sights or sounds.
Here we reach a difficult ledge. As with all connections our minds make, there are always exceptions and caveats, because concepts are too unwieldy to be contained by single words and words are too useful to be restricted to single ideas. Going back to our example of black is an example of the latter for black is also the color for classy. See “little black dress.”
But, with God, it is the former. Because He is the Creator. And because He created everything, He is above everything. And because He is above everything, no one thing below Him or even conglomeration of things can fully describe Him. However, they can partially reveal Who He is because He created them and therefore left a mark on them.
When Moses asked for a name to take back to Pharaoh, he received a statement of being, which became the most sacred name for God in the Old Testament. But it still does not encompass completely Who He is. Throughout the rest of the Scriptures, God continually gives His people names for Himself.
If God can have names why not colors?
Now that we have that established, why is grace blue? Not any color of blue, the shade of blue the sky is when there is no storm on the horizon, the sun is shining, and all that is ahead is the promise of a good day. It makes sense, for that is what grace is…God has taken my sin and guilt away; He has given His Son; He has made me new. Perhaps that is why going to the park on a Saturday and lying on the grass, looking up at the sky is so relaxing.
I think the problem I often have with grace is that I begin to go about my life in this new day and forget to look up at the sky. I leave my house, go to work and come back home, forgetting that all the while the sky is blue. I remember that Christ has taken the punishment for my sin, but I forget that guilt has been washed away as well. If guilt were to remain, the sky would be grey. I think that I must work off my guilt. But that is not the color of grace; it is a gift, just like a good park day, and I can no more earn it than I can a day of pleasant weather with clear skies. But I can enjoy it to its fullest, and that is exactly what I must do with grace, to praise God for it in every way I can and to encourage others to do the same.
Yes, grace is blue.
And love is green.
That one, dear reader, I shall leave to you to ponder that one down your own rabbit trails.
04 November 2006
Portrait of the Soul
If there were anyone ever living that I could have a picture of, it would be Jesus. Not so I could make a golden calf of it, though the probably blasphemous—please forgive me, Lord—mental image of a calf statue with Jesus’ face tied to its face is slightly humorous. And not just any picture, since this is wishes, a portrait. Whether black and white or color, I have not yet decided, probably the former. But, as one wiser than I has said, “If wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak.”
Why would I want a portrait of Jesus? Not to put Him in the church directory (what a coup that would be!). I would want to study it, His face that is. Would it be as I imagine…His skin weathered from years outdoors, His eyes full of love and sorrow, His shoulders stout as a Man who is confident in Who He is? Would He have the beginnings of crow’s feet from laughter?
I have a theory that the soul of a person can be seen in their face. And a corollary to my little pet theory (of which this is only one) that the soul is most often and best seen in portraits. We are constantly on the move…hither, thither and yon. But a portrait stops us for that moment in time and, if the person is honest with the camera, we catch a glimpse of their soul. Don’t believe me? Go look at Steve McCurry’s “Afghan Girl.”
Faces tell us something about a person…what is in their eyes, how they hold their head, the lines in their face. A portrait captures that in a way other medias cannot. Granted, my theory may be influenced by the fact that we are an imaged based culture. But images have long been important in cultures across the globe and through the centuries. They made their appearance in different ways then they do today. For example, we pin up posters of our favorite actors instead of carving them out of marble. My point, however, is that the image is not something unique to American culture. How it is interpreted, perhaps, but the value of a picture to capture what is there before us is universal.
Since I cannot get a picture of Jesus, my next wish would be to have a picture of everyone He has changed. Christ living in us makes a mark on our soul, and if my soul can be seen in a portrait, it stands to reason the perhaps we may glimpse God in the faces of our fellow believers. Now stop right there. I am in no way leaning toward the belief that all of us are God or any other such nonsense. I am more speaking toward how God works in our lives. It is His love that I see shining out of the eyes of His disciples, His joy on their lips.
In January, I have a chance to try my theory out. I am going to join a research team in India as they glean the testimonies of women believers. My role will be that of the photographer. To which the answer to the next question of “Am I a professional photographer?” is no. But I love to take pictures. Why? See above discussion.
Why am I going on this team? First, I firmly believe that every believer has a story to tell about how God has worked in their life. Where God is, there is always a lesson to learn, both about Who He is and how we are live according to that truth. Testimonies open the door to those lessons, and pictures open that door even further. Second, at my church, we recently finished studying through the book of Acts. One reflection many of the congregation have observed is the significance Luke places on the unity of the church, especially demonstrated through loving care for fellow believers. I believe one way of living the love Luke was writing about is found in listening to and learning from the stories of God’s people. I want to love God better and love His people better, and this is a way He has given me to do so.
Please pray for me as I prepare to go.
Why would I want a portrait of Jesus? Not to put Him in the church directory (what a coup that would be!). I would want to study it, His face that is. Would it be as I imagine…His skin weathered from years outdoors, His eyes full of love and sorrow, His shoulders stout as a Man who is confident in Who He is? Would He have the beginnings of crow’s feet from laughter?
I have a theory that the soul of a person can be seen in their face. And a corollary to my little pet theory (of which this is only one) that the soul is most often and best seen in portraits. We are constantly on the move…hither, thither and yon. But a portrait stops us for that moment in time and, if the person is honest with the camera, we catch a glimpse of their soul. Don’t believe me? Go look at Steve McCurry’s “Afghan Girl.”
Faces tell us something about a person…what is in their eyes, how they hold their head, the lines in their face. A portrait captures that in a way other medias cannot. Granted, my theory may be influenced by the fact that we are an imaged based culture. But images have long been important in cultures across the globe and through the centuries. They made their appearance in different ways then they do today. For example, we pin up posters of our favorite actors instead of carving them out of marble. My point, however, is that the image is not something unique to American culture. How it is interpreted, perhaps, but the value of a picture to capture what is there before us is universal.
Since I cannot get a picture of Jesus, my next wish would be to have a picture of everyone He has changed. Christ living in us makes a mark on our soul, and if my soul can be seen in a portrait, it stands to reason the perhaps we may glimpse God in the faces of our fellow believers. Now stop right there. I am in no way leaning toward the belief that all of us are God or any other such nonsense. I am more speaking toward how God works in our lives. It is His love that I see shining out of the eyes of His disciples, His joy on their lips.
In January, I have a chance to try my theory out. I am going to join a research team in India as they glean the testimonies of women believers. My role will be that of the photographer. To which the answer to the next question of “Am I a professional photographer?” is no. But I love to take pictures. Why? See above discussion.
Why am I going on this team? First, I firmly believe that every believer has a story to tell about how God has worked in their life. Where God is, there is always a lesson to learn, both about Who He is and how we are live according to that truth. Testimonies open the door to those lessons, and pictures open that door even further. Second, at my church, we recently finished studying through the book of Acts. One reflection many of the congregation have observed is the significance Luke places on the unity of the church, especially demonstrated through loving care for fellow believers. I believe one way of living the love Luke was writing about is found in listening to and learning from the stories of God’s people. I want to love God better and love His people better, and this is a way He has given me to do so.
Please pray for me as I prepare to go.
24 October 2006
Plants and Purposes...
At my work, there is a fountain, made of little boulders plucked from those magical rock trees found at landscaping supply stores and placed together in a visually artistic manner so as to form precise, pleasant waterfall for city dwellers who wish to experience what my mother calls the outdoors. And, of course, our little piece of the wild comes with its own little sign that reads “Please stay off the rocks”—the unwritten sentiment being that this waterfall is fragile…or that we don’t want to be sued for anybody’s idiotic stunts.
The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.
Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.
But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?
As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?
Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.
Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.
Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.
Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.
How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.
I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.
Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.
The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.
Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.
But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?
As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?
Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.
Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.
Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.
Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.
How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.
I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.
Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.
13 October 2006
So I guess I am finally jumping on the band wagon that is blogs. Well not jumping...falling maybe, possibly being pushed. I couldnt post on Karisa's unless I had one, so I figured I have better get one, cause commenting there is non-negotiable.
Dont look for too many posts or consistant updating. If you know me, then I see you and talk to you and you shouldn't have to read about my life on the internet. Unless one of us is out of country...in which case I will make an exception. :) Any posts here will be musings of a sort...what sort I havent decided.
Brilliance and wittiness to come later...
the Walrus
Dont look for too many posts or consistant updating. If you know me, then I see you and talk to you and you shouldn't have to read about my life on the internet. Unless one of us is out of country...in which case I will make an exception. :) Any posts here will be musings of a sort...what sort I havent decided.
Brilliance and wittiness to come later...
the Walrus
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