Finally!

Love. Twuuee Love.

I was watching Westside story a few weeks ago with some friends, when one of them piped up and said "They both die in the end, right?" The common consensus was "Yes, they [the lovers] both die." After a pause, another friend remarked "Well, that's dumb." There was a moment of flabbergasted silence, then we all burst out laughing. We could see her point. Short lived love is almost right up there with unrequited love; just not as fashionable as it used to be in Shakespearian times. We would prefer a "Happily Ever After" story over a tragedy.
Some of the greatest love stories in the world are tragic. I admit that. Name off just about any one of them and there is going to be some element of things-gone-awry: one person dying before the other (like in Braveheart), or while they are still too young (Last of the Mohicans, Westside Story/Romeo and Juliet), or separated because of poverty or disease(The Fields of Athen Rye), or separated because of personal issues (Edward Sissor Hands, Pride and Prejudice, You Got Mail).
Of course it is the most heart wrenching of stories when one of the lovers gets left behind by the other lover. When the beloved dies and things are left unsaid; undone; the whole storyline seems shattered. I usually cry when I get to the part in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe where Aslan dies. The White Witch raises her stone knife in one victory blow, then tramps off. Susan and Lucy are left in the dark clueless about what to do next. Their love is lying dead and silent on a stone table. What hope do they have left for the future? Of course, all this changes in the story when dawn has broken.
I'm thankful that the foundation for Christianity isn't based on a tragic love story. Last week I was reminded about the radical aspect of Christ's resurrection. Yes he died, but YES He lives. Christ's followers are not confined to visiting a tomb of a good man or teacher. We're not left expressing our love and devotion to someone who cannot hear us. There are tragic aspects to the redemptive story, but the ending is stellar.

Zephaniah 3:17 "The LORD your God is in your midst, a victorious warrior. He will exult over you with joy, He will be quiet in His love, He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy."

My Two Unsuccessful Skydiving Attempts

As some of you know, I've been trying to go skydiving for the last two months, but have been unable to because of unruly weather. However, the camera eye captured a few things at the drop sight before we found out the devastating news that we were not going to jump.

The game is up; do you wish to start again? Commonalities between Inmates and a Branson Musical

I spent most of my Saturday at a maximum security prison; not because I became an offender since we chatted last, but because I was going through some volunteer training to be part of a program called InnerChange Freedom Initiative (IFI). A good chunk of the general training session was dry. The gal giving the talk tried to make it somewhat interactive, but the gist of her lecture was “Here are the rules. If you break the rules we rip off your volunteer badge.” I understand the rigidity of the prison, and did not protest when they fingerprinted me and made me sign a pile of papers, it was a reminder that this was serious stuff and nobody just waltzes into a high security prison. But I would have to say that those hours in the classroom were not what I would freely refer to as “fun”. After this segment of the day lethargically crept by, the leaders of IFI came into the room to do a bit of their own training for a smaller percentage of us who wanted to escape with the rest of the lot. But before we raced out of the classroom we quickly realized that the IFI program directors were like a breath of fresh air. One of the first things they did was feed us lunch. Come to me beautiful Subway sandwich! Next, they shared real life stories of transformation in the lives of prisoners, and talked about the struggles and strengths of their program. I went away feeling greatly encouraged and super-glad that I was with IFI and not some other program. It struck me afterwards, though, that all of the volunteer programs are striving for the same thing: they aim to break the cycle of offenders getting out of prison and then jumping back in because of difficulties they might face in mainstream society, and because of the unforgiving chain of bad decision making skills. Each of those programs have their own method to achieve the goal of changing convicts. I believe IFI has a very high success rate, but even there, change is not a piece of cake. You gotta really want change to make it happen.
The day after my time in prison, I drove to Branson, Missouri to hang out with my friend Caroline. We went to Silver Dollar City that afternoon. Caroline and I decided to see A Christmas Carol, because Branson is already fancy-free and holiday-happy this early in November. Caroline informed me that The Christmas Carol was “good”, and I agreed to go with a “Sure, I don’t care what we do.” kind of attitude. After the production was finished, I walked away incredibly impressed. I was impressed because of the professionalism behind it all: the ornate rotating set, the costumes, the quality of actors and the creativity that went into making a well known story enjoyable to watch ONCE AGAIN. Some of the sweet notes from one particular vocalist were so glorious and poignant that my eyes were forced to become watery as I sat there in a sea of audience members. Of course, the main message behind the Christmas Carol centers around the non-stagnant state of Scrooge. As we see him wrestle with his bed curtains after each encounter with the Christmas Spirits, our gut feeling (and previous experiences) tell us that Scrooge isn’t going to be the same miserly humbug he once was. He’s going to change… or at least we know he has the choice to change.
I am currently not a prisoner or a miserly old man, but I recognize that I have the choice set before me to change: to change for better or for worse. Positive change is always tough. The worm probably doesn’t look forward to what takes place in a cocoon, but almost everybody would say that the new creature is much better than the old one. So cheers to butterflies! Cheers to dancing, singing, rich elderly men on Christmas day. And here’s a cheer for convicts who have managed to assimilate back into society outside of prison walls, and who have genuinely undergone change… not an easy thing, for sure.

Peel Back the Temporal

This poem is a bit rough around the edges. It needs some polishing (and maybe even a bow tie). However, it states some of the things I have been turning around in my head lately, and it is something new for the blog. Something that can fill in that multi-month gap of profound silence. :)


If I could peel back the temporal
But momentarily catch a glimpse
Of that which withstands fire
To see with certainty
Paths tailored for my feet
With unscaled eyes witness myself
A new creature, washed
Not merely
Human confined in blemished skin

If I could but peel back the temporal
Would I still run
After the fleeting,
The illusive
The idolatrous?
With regenerate sight
Would my new perspective
Feed abandonment-
Propel a heart that loved
Without the impatient voice of reservation?

To long to peel back the temporal
Is that merely a Thomas Request?
Stemming from innate doubt of the glorious?
A lack of trust?
A scantiness of faith?
This longing to see beyond the area of path
Which my feet know
And my mind feels

Someday,
The temporal will be peeled back
Open wounds will be healed
Tears will be brushed away
Purpose will be defined
Hope will unite with her gorgeous cadence

Until then, The Eternal One
Who felt the pinions of the temporal
Who brushed into place
What the optical lens knows and understands
He will feed us from His hand
That which is needed for today
For today and right now

Susan Boyle and Her Unassuming Voice

Perhaps you have already heard about Miss. Boyle. The 48 year old woman who divulged to British television audiences that she lived alone with her cat Pebbles, and had never been kissed. She then proceeded to walk on stage of Britain’s Got Talent with her mop of curls, and opened her mouth to sing Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables. Before she made a sound the audience was decidedly ready to cast their vote against her, but before she reached her first cadence she had flabbergasted her judges and audience alike. She was stunning and, in her own way, exquisite. She received a standing ovation and as her audience members jaws were still in half opened position she was ready to simply walk off the stage.
There is something I like very much about this. It might be the fact that she is such an unassuming star, but I think it might be more than that. The whole scenario rings of something like a fairy tale, and if not a fairy tale, then at least a very good bedtime story. It reminds me of the prima donna who made her break while scrubbing floors at an opera house- a true story, so I’m told. Who knew the cleaning woman had such a glorious set of pipes? Then again, wouldn’t we rather that she got the upgrade in pay scale more than the woman already dripping with diamonds?
Now back to Susan. Our faithful news sources are confidently reassuring us that we will hear more from Miss Boyle. To that I say “Splendid!” because Jiminy Cricket tells me that our western culture is way too eager to boo contestants off stage, and at times it is even to the point of willing them to tear each other limb from limb in the name of competition (Or is it in the name of entertainment?). In this day where a majority of our celebs are famous because they radiate the aura of Venus, I say lets go with the lady with the defined eyebrows and crazy curly hair. Susan made people who were half asleep suddenly turn their heads. And it is for this, Miss Boyle, that I salute you.

Duct Tape and Pure Nard

St. Patty's Day is coming up. Sometimes holidays can remind you of past holidays, and lately I've been turning over in my mind a St Patrick's Day from 4 years ago. I was attending Ulster University at the time, and recruited by a fellow student to travel with a carnival troop to march in the Dublin parade as a space alien. "Something different" I thought- something I could tell my children's children about, but in retrospect, I probably won't.
The group of kids I was traveling with were pretty wild. That's the best way I know how to explain it. For an example, the guy sitting a few seats behind me on the bus had dyed his hair bright fire engine red, and had left the vivid blue body paint on his skin from the parade. He looked like a t-shirt and blue jean clad version of Mystique. One of the boys who was about 15 had been annoying a few people during an earlier part of the trip, and so a few of them in the back of the bus decided to duct tape him to the seat. It wasn't just a little tape here and a little tape there, it was a full body metallic cocoon. I'm not sure if he had been drinking with the others earlier, but the boy somehow slept through the taping process. When he woke up and started to try to move around, intense jeering broke out in the vicinity of the silver webbed mass that used to be simply a human body. He was the vulnerable target of spit wads, and vulnerable in other ways because his arms were pinned to his side. Maybe on some level he deserved this, but it just seemed malicious to me. I'm not totally sure all of the reasons why, but it made me sick. Like, puke-my-guts-out kind of sick. I got up and made my way to the back of the bus. Maybe initially I thought some of the others from the front of the bus had had enough and would join me, but after a few steps it was apparent that nobody felt the same way. The whole bus erupted with shouting "Leave him alone! Sit down!" I could feel my ears turn red and my hands were shaking as I tried to tear away at the edges of the stubborn tape. After a few minutes the duct tape boy himself told me to back off, so I did. I walked back to my seat with a bus load less of potential friends, and wishing that the next lethargic 3-4 hours would rocket away.
This isn't all that great of a story, but there is a point to it. I'm taking the time to write about it because it makes me think about the following story in a different light.

This story I actually like, No, not just like- I love it. I was reminded about it this last weekend. It's the story about Mary who anointed the Lord's feet with pure nard. I heard that the equivalent price of that vial of perfume was worth $36,000. It was the woman's life savings. Her dowry. She didn't just dab a bit of that precious stuff on the Lord's toes; she broke the jar open. She let down her hair. Her glory. A sight in that culture that would have been reserved for her husband. Judas and the other men in that room smelled the perfume. They knew its worth; knew that it was costly, and in part understood what she was doing. Their reaction to what she did could be translated as that "they snorted" at her.

I wonder if her ears turned red.
I wonder if her hands shook.

But what stands out to me is that Jesus didn't react like the others. He said: "Leave her alone."