Messy Glory

At Long Last...

2011-06-30T06:11:00.000-07:00

Denny (who is now happily married) and I have finally finished the task we began so many (two?) years ago... The Caffeinated Gospel, our book that recollects our evangelistic road trip through middle-America, is published! Much thanks to my brother Ben for the spiffy cover design.

You can get a copy of it here. ...and use this coupon code to save yourself some money: sunshineca305

Here's an excerpt from the introduction...

Why "The Caffeinated Gospel"?
We will try to avoid making any obviously cheesy metaphors about coffee being a picture of God’s love. One of us doesn’t even like coffee – and the metaphor already fails at multiple levels (need we mention that caffeine is a drug?).

What we’re getting at is the lack of evangelistic energy in our part of the world. Friends of ours have told us that they feel “inadequate” to share the gospel, and we know the feeling ourselves. We wish we could tell you our answer is easy – you may have guessed already that it’s not.

It takes work, recklessness, and the constant reminder that we are nothing without love.

What the Bird Said Early In The Year

2011-03-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

(by C.S. Lewis)

I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear

'This year the summer will come true. This year. This year.

'Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees 

This year nor want of rain destroy the peas.

'This year time’s nature will no more defeat you. 

Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you.

'This time they will not lead you round and back

 To Autumn, one year older, by the well worn track.

'This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell, 

We shall escape the circle and undo the spell.

'Often deceived, yet open once again your heart, 

Quick, quick, quick, quick! – the gates are drawn apart.'

"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing." - Lewis, Mere Christianity

Road Trip Conversations...

2011-02-07T04:57:00.000-08:00

Here are just a few samplings of banter from our latest road-trips:

"You know, this actually isn't a bad radio station," Mitchell nodded on beat from the back seat.

"It's Denny's iPod," said Josh.

"What? No it's not."

"Sure it is."

"Great," I said. "You just complimented Denny."

"I take it back."

---

"Wouldn't it be great if a guy just came out of that house and said 'Hey! Y'all want some fresh biscuits?' and made them for us right here from scratch?" We were clearly getting delusional by this point in the trip.

"Yeah," said Mitchell. "But he'd say 'biscuit,' not 'biscuits': 'You want some fresh biscuit?'"

We all looked at Mitchell quizzically.

"Guys like that always just say 'biscuit.,'" he added, as if that clarified his point.

---

"Oh, come ON!" I sighed.

"Alan," said Mitchell, "You have a bad habit for getting behind the slowest, dumbest people on the road."

"Thanks, Mitchell."

"I'd say it was just bad luck, but...I don't know anymore. I just don't know."

"Thanks, Mitchell."

"Alan..."

"Yeah?"

"You are a failure."

"Thanks, Mitchell."

---

As we drove along the lonely interstate drinking our coffee and planning our next few days, we sometimes passed the time by reading aloud. And what better story to read than an old "Choose Your Own Adventure" book?:

"What do you think, Meechell?"

"Huh? Sorry guys, if I don't get a choice at least every 2 pages, I start to tune out. What'd you say the choices were?"

"A T-Rex is chasing us and we can either dodge right (pg. 28) or turn around and run through his legs (pg. 54)."

"Hm. I say - dodge right."

"Oh no." I sighed, knowing this was going to end poorly, "That's a terrible idea."

Denny continued reading: "You decide to dodge right and make a run for the bushes. Unfortunately, the T-Rex is not only a skilled predator, but a fast one as well. Long before you reach the bushes, you come face to face with the sharp jaws of a pre-historic creature hungry for your flesh. The End."

"What? We just died?" said Mitchell, apparently in shock.

"Great," I said. "Why didn't you turn around? You know his brain is small - they said it was the size of a peanut - we just threw a rock at him and he was dazed for three minutes! Run through his legs, and he'll have no idea what's going on! Good grief, you've gotta pay attention to the details."

"Look," said Mitchell in his own defense, "I do best at these when they give me large firearms."

"When do they ever do that? We've read five of these and not once did they give you a firearm!"

"This is dumb, guys," said Andrew, "you think we can take a break from this awhile?"

---

"Don't you think it'd be cool if people started saying 'I'll see you in Hell!' when they parted ways, instead of lame things like 'bye' or 'see-ya!'? You know, like they do in all the Westerns?" This was Mitchell again, never at a loss for something absurd to talk about.

"I'm pretty confident that would take a while to catch on," suggested Denny. "But maybe that's just me."

"Yeah...well, it took electricity a while to catch on too, you know..."

"Guys," said Andrew, "what are you talking about? That doesn't even make sense." We all looked at him blankly.

"Hey!" Mitchell said, distracted. "Is that The Fox and the Hound?"

Denny leaned closer to the front windshield, peering through the back of the van in front of us. "I think so -"

"Let's stick close to this guy for a while..."

Jollities.

2011-02-03T14:58:00.000-08:00

Daddy Buck

2011-01-05T21:42:00.001-08:00

I've really struggled writing this. My grandfather passed away last Sunday, and I'm hit more and more everyday by how much I miss him. We called him "Daddy Buck" and he lived next door to me all my life. He was a good neighbor, a wonderful grandfather, and a great man. He taught my 3rd grade class stories about life in the Great Depression, he told me he always knew I'd be a teacher, and he grossly mispronounced the names of everyday foods.

Here is a picture of him fishing. He loved to fish. I'm not a fisher myself, but if you gave me a rod after showing me this picture, I'd be out to the fishing hole in no time at all.

Here he is at the pool with my oldest brother (a wee lad at the time). Daddy Buck would always show up when we kids went swimming. Even this last summer, he came out on his porch and didn't nod or shake his head, or even say a word. He just watched us and smiled.

This next one is from one of his favorite barbeque joints. Daddy Buck would call me while I was in college just to go out for a sandwich. I knew, of course, that this always meant a barbeque sandwich, and I knew, too, that he would always pay - even if my brother or I insisted otherwise. Most times, I wouldn't be able to go right then, so he'd always offer me a "rain check." I never cashed in enough of those.

Here we are as children wrestling with him. He appears to be winning handily.

Needless to say, we all miss him dearly. He was ready to go though, and for that I'm grateful. He was also a man of faith, and it eases the pain to know that he is now in a far better place, a place where death itself works backwards, a place where his loving wife awaits him, a place where all things are made new.

Red Fish, Flu Fish

2010-12-30T17:26:00.000-08:00

You know something's wrong (i.e. you have the flu) when...

a. you take a nap all morning, finally feel up to doing something, get out of bed, reheat yesterday's pasta, eat it, and then find yourself back in bed moments later, completely exhausted.

b. sentences like this one make up a good part of your daily reading: "Two of the three oseltamivir-induced substitutions (E119V, H274Y and R292K) in the viral neuraminidase from clinical isolates occur at the same amino acid residues as two of the three substitutions (E119G/A/D, R152K and R292K) observed in zanamivir-resistant virus."

c. besides reading all the fine-print of your prescription drug, you also read anything in sight, which in my case (dare I say it?) includes the first book about that Harry guy (which reads remarkably like Matilda for at least the first 50 pages...) Note: That does not mean I've changed my opinion on the matter. If I did, then you would have substantial cause to be concerned about my health. :)

d. you look up things like "the anatomy of mucus" on Google

e. you lose interest in things as soon as you begin to show a bit (the anatomy of mucus, for example)

f. you write extremely dramatic poems like this and don't remember when or why...:

the weak man in bed

you must go to the well.
there - you must pour the water
without this - there is no relief
without - this - there is.

you must find it.

In my mind I go - but
it brings no relief.
none.
not a drop

delay - for lack of words
for lack - of strength.

and so - he watched the night
the shadows on the walls
shadows - in the well.

it's cheating - you know -
that bit about the mind.
and he knows it - yes -
full well.

g. you walk around the house wearing latex gloves, and play Donkey Kong doing the same

h. laughing, or smiling, or getting up, or moving, or just thinking about it - sets you off in a violent coughing spree that lasts just long enough for you to think about it again

i. Jello. You eat more Jello than you have the rest of your life. Combined.

j. you do something you haven't done in a year and a half, like blogging twice in two days.

A Story from the Wood Pile

2010-12-29T14:43:00.000-08:00

I'm moving rooms this week and stumbled upon this, fading away in some long-forgotten corner under my bed. I don't know exactly when I wrote it, but here it is anyways... And as a note, by the way, before I turn you over to the story, $29.99 is a steal for a Flu shot - get it now (!). Otherwise, you'll may be like me in a few days - reduced to salami and eating Jello four times a day (not fun). Not to mention the hours of work I've missed and the general feeling of uselessness day in and day out. Fortunately, there are powerful drugs at work within me (all of the legal kind, of course), and things finally seem to be on the up and up (after three long days).

And now, without further delay...

***
CHESTER. That's right, his name was Chester. He wasn't a particularly large man, though in school the boys always mocked him as "Chester Chubbs" - nor was he a particularly observant one. He was an ordinary man by the day's standard and concerned himself with the hither-tithers and what-nots of what we might expect from the husband of a loving wife. Not that she was all that loving this day. Which is why, you should know, he found himself at Kroger's instead of Roger's Rotisserie Rooster Barn for his lunch-break.

All that to say, Chester was not in the least bit distraught by this turn of events (though perhaps befuddled), as it wasn't everyday he had the chance to pick out Cosmic Pineapple instead of the usual square kind (which is probably why his wife never offered him this job all that often in the first place). Nor was he bothered when he discovered the existence of Fruitle-Oodles in the cereal aisle (despite the passer-byer's mumbled comment that "there's a reason no one's ever heard of 'em").

But Chester would not be thwarted. Not this day. He paced around that store like one of Old Man Kroger's kin, though by the size of his nose, he was clearly not related to anyone respectable. And as it so happened, he left the store in the self-same manner - grinning like a niño who had just robbed his father's coin collection.

Now as I have mentioned, Chester was not a particularly observant man. But I also mentioned - or maybe I didn't - this was already turning out to be a particular sort of day. Had it been a normal day, Chester surely would not have observed the man hop-skipping his masked self in between Volvos and Buicks on the outskirts of the parking lot (in fact, on a normal day, Chester would have been eating a not-so-fresh rotisserie chicken or two in a place where no one had ever even heard of a parking lot), and Slingo (the masked man) would have made it to the other side of the road unharmed and untouched.

As it was, Chester did notice what he thought was Zorro's arch-enemy prancing his way east to west; his not-quite-unloaded cart did come soaring towards the masked man at unprecedented velocity; and Slingo did end up in room B28 of the Muffleton Hospital with not but a knot on his head and a few fractured phalanges. Which is why, as I was trying to tell you all along, a lone shopping cart now sits at the edge of Kroger's parking lot with nothing in it but a bag of Fruitle-Oodles.

That's "Mr." to you...

2010-12-02T20:45:00.000-08:00

If anyone still reads this blog, you've probably had enough of my modern poetries and obscure book recommendations (and quite rightly so) for the time being. As such, I have "arranged a new feast for you" this evenin', as the Old Man and the Sea might have said. Note: I have never read "The Old Man" but I'm quite confident he would never have said any such thing...unless they made a movie out of it, in which case he probably *did* say those very words.

I have told you nothing of my job as a teacher. For shame. It is a lovely job - a difficult job at times, of course, but as rewarding as a prize pig at the county fair (and much more agreeable than both the pig and the fair, combined).

I see myself in so many of the students...and wonder at those others who periodically find it fashionable to make D+s on my reading quizzes. "You'll never get through to all of them," some people will remind me. But what about Milton? Surely John Milton should get through to more than half of them....right? Apparently not. But I suppose that's nothing to fret - I was never really huge on Milton myself.

I teach with a stick, to begin with - and that for beating the children whenever they misbehave. Fortunately, none of them have, so the stick only serves as 1) a pointer, 2) a very poor walking stick, 3) a twirling object in times of boredom, and 4) a very effective means of bringing any idlers back into focus (a simple whack on the desk usually does the trick).

I also go by "Mr. Halbrooks" now, which is as bewildering to me every time I hear it as it is to my students, who still don't quite know how to pronounce it properly. I think I forgot the bit on the first day of class where the teacher is supposed to write his name on the board and sound it out for one and all. A few of them insist on calling me "Professor Plum", too, which is equally shocking.

As for class itself, well, here are a few stories...

a. The first quiz I ever gave was on Beowulf, which my Brit Lit childrens were supposed to read over the summer. This would not have been a memorable story, I must admit, if all of the student *had* actually read it over the summer. One of the questions was a quotation identification: Who said "thus and such"? Now (I told them), I realize the book is full of names like "Wiglaf" and "Hrothgar" and other names that are as hard to remember as they are to spell, so you don't have to remember the guy's actual name - just tell me who he is....like "It's the king talking to Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures..." or something along those lines. Got it? Good. And they did get it - except for three of them. Beowulf's brother is not, in fact, an actual character in the poem. He's not even mentioned in passing. But that was certainly not enough to stop three of my kids from answering, for number 3, "Beowulf's brother." One of them elaborated even further: "Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures." Merciful heavens.

b. One of my other classes, in our discussion of "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" said, and I quote, "I hated Reepicheep." I was speechless - I didn't even know that was possible. To date, I have not recovered from that one.

c.

Me: After reading Frankenstein, were y'all surprised at all by it's depth, or did it still come across as just a thrilling horror story?
10th Grader: I was surprised. It was actually really good. And deep.
Me: Good! Well, what do you think we can take away from it, then? Any universal messages?
10th Grader: Yeah, I think the main point was that - if we try and create human beings ourselves, things will go horribly wrong and he'll end up destroying everybody and everything. So we shouldn't try that.
Me: Oh. I see...

Thanksgiving

2010-11-23T09:05:00.001-08:00

I read about a little girl who
just today said she was thankful -
for her little dog
and for - I'm not sure if more - but
for the crisp sound (of?) fall
leaves on the ground.

Another was thankful
for a life with no troubles
only with mastakes.

And that, just how she said it -
happily, mistaken.

Good Gollie (and Bink!)

2010-10-01T18:01:00.000-07:00

Good Kate has done it again. And this time she's done it in a different medium than her usual masterpieces - a medium that, as it were, is not all too far from Calvin and Hobbes. Not that she's started a new comic series - no, none of that. But her newest book (co-written with Allison McGhee) is more about images and colour than narration. In fact, there isn't any narration - the entire plot is told in dialogue and watercolour - an a fabulous duo it is.

The medium she chose, of course, is no accident. Just like The Tale of Desperaux glories in the fact that it's a book, Bink and Gollie glories in the fact that it's a picture book...if that's what you can call it. It feels like an altogether new genre, really - taking the best from the world of picture books (beautiful watercolour illustrations) and the best from the world of comics (dialogue that develops character, dialogue that says "this is true").

I won't tell you anything about the story, of course, because it's far to cruel to give anything away in a book so short. You could read the whole thing just standing up at the book store (which I did), and laugh out loud when Bink smells pancakes (which I also did), but that shouldn't keep you from buying it and reading it again and again and making all your friends read it too (which I will, have no fear).

Everyone who plays Calvinball, everyone who appreciates harmony and joy, everyone who just needs a good story every now and again - everyone, in fact, should read this book.

How to talk to Mice...

2010-09-22T15:59:00.000-07:00

If you ever get bored, fear no longer.

If you're ever lonely, rest a ease.
If you ever want a small rat to talk to...

your days of waiting have come (at long last) to a timely end.

Reepicheep (!) is here. The mouse talked to dragons, fought with giants, the mouse who sailed to off the end of his own world - has come back (that's right!), and now awaits you in the cyberworld.

Why? we have no idea.

Truth be told, he's probably an imposter. The real Reepicheep would have him tarred and feathered in a heartbeat. But that's no reason not to talk to him. And you can! Here: http://www.thelionscall.com/activities/talk_to_reepicheep.cfm

...and do let me know if you get him to say anything as strange as this...

Me: What is my purpose?
Reep: Hopefully, all of us are here to do our Creator's work.
Me: Who is our Creator?
Reep: King Edmund.
Me: That, my friend, is blasphemy.

...later...

Me: Why are you here?
Reep: Because Aslan created me.
Me: But you said that King Edmund created you.
Reep: Oh dear, I gave the wrong answer.
Me: You should be ashamed.
Reep: Name one other Mouse who is ashamed.

psalm eight

2010-08-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

"...I landed in the peace of evening. Punta Arenas! I leaned against a fountain and looked at the girls in the square. Standing there within a couple of feet of their grace, I felt more poignantly than ever the human mystery.

In a world in which life so perfectly responds to life, where flowers mingle with flowers in the wind's eye, where the swan is the familiar of all swans, man alone builds his isolation. What a space between men their spiritual natures create!

...I lean against a fountain. Old women come up to draw water: of their drama I shall know nothing but these gestures of farm servants. A child, his head against a wall, weeps in silence: there will remain of him in my memory only a beautiful child forever inconsolable. I am a stranger. I know nothing. I do not enter into their empires. Man in the presence of man is as solitary as in the face of a wide winter sky in which there sweeps, never to be tamed, a flight of trumpeting geese..."

Wind, Sand and Stars - Antoine de St. Exupery

Ludwig's First Sunset

2010-08-09T14:28:00.000-07:00

Written on the Way to Deborah's Weddin'

2010-06-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

Josh, Anna, Michael and I wrote this jolly poem in honor of Deborah and Evan's wedding. and yes, the existence of a real Kevin is completely fabricated... enjoy. :)

Leaven La Vida Loca

(based on a true story)

There once was a boy named Evan,

A lad who baked bread without leaven.

"Alas, O my soul,"

Said the lad to his roll,

"I wish I could bake like that Kevin."

The boy that he spoke of, this Kevin (fiend)

Was a sprightly young lad of just seven (teen).

He made cakes a la carte

And strawberry tarts

That could satisfy angels in heaven (winged).

Now Deborah liked Kevin, not Evan.

And Evan liked Deborah, not Kevin.

"Alas, O my soul,

"A lass make me whole,"

Said Evan whilst looking towards heaven.

An angel then came down from heaven

To help the poor leaven-less Evan.

"Deborah, don't fear,

"The right man is near.

"The lovin' lies not in the leaven."

The angel receded to heaven

And Deborah looked up and saw Evan.

"Alas, O my soul,

"This lad makes me whole,

"But a cake we will need at the weddin'."

So Deborah was married to Evan,

A match that was made up in heaven.

The party was swell.

The cake was as well,

Its baker none other than Kevin.

brown.

2010-06-03T17:16:00.000-07:00

It will all sound contrived,

the forest being hungry

for naught knows what --

the sea of ivy,

poisoned. And the thorns

- the ones I'd rather have than spiders.

And just after saying it,

running into webs - one

after the other.

What of it?

A shattered pile of sticks from childhood --

one unrotten log.

And all of it

coming together just in time

for me to run back and wash it off --

if it was on time.

But there it is, anyways. We'll call it

brown.

The Fuller a Life, the Fuller a Death

2010-04-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had the joy of attending a funeral. Yes, the joy. It was everything the funeral of a Believer should be - full of grief - the pouring out of hearts "like water in the presence of the Lord" - and yet still so full of hope. There were uncomfortable moments, yes - but to heck with comfort. It was beautiful. Tears came down my face during the whole service and yet I left rejoicing. That's the way, I think, a funeral ought to be.

Stewart Bieber died just last Saturday, doing one of the things he loved most in life - barefoot waterskiing - what he called "walking on water." For some reason ("Why?" asked his wife, Rachel, at the funeral - "Why doesn't matter. I don't have that answer. What matters is that life comes out of death...'unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies'...") for some reason, while he was on the water he suddenly hit a dock and died instantly.

Rachel was there when it happened. You would think she'd have struggled to speak clearly at the funeral. What grief compares to such loss? She did not struggle - or as she put it - the Rock of her salvation carried her through it - and you couldn't convince me more that this was absolutely true. She reminded us of all the things Stewart was in life, all the pain of seeing his face in the water at his death, all the rage and numbness that resulted in the coming days, and then all the grace that permeated her life and the lives of others in Stewart's wake. Everything she said was riveting - it was clear this was no ordinary man. Stewart changed the world by embracing the power of relationships. Stewart lived for the joy of life, he sang with the tune of hope - and in doing so, his death was full of life.

When Rachel wailed with open arms at the funeral's close, it was the most welcome noise I've heard since Eponine's beautifully tragic voice joined in the final chorus of Les Mis. It was a wail full of real, a wail full of true. It was a wail of hope - a paradox that rivals only this: the fullness of life coming from the fullness of death.

I am reminded of Katherine Paterson (author of Bridge to Terabithia), whose son lost his best friend suddenly to a lightning bolt on a summer afternoon. After struggling to do all she could to comfort him, she said this, and it still fills me with wonder: "How many people in their whole lifetimes have a friend who is to them what Lisa was to David? When you have had such a gift, should you ever forget it? Of course he will forget a little. Even now he is making other friendships. His life will go on, though hers could not. And selfishly, I want his pain to ease. But how can I say that I want him to "get over it," as though having loved and been loved were some sort of disease?....He is not fully healed. Perhaps he never will be, and I am beginning to believe that this is right."

I, too, believe that this is right. Grief is real and loss is real. And Hope is real, too. So much Glory from so much Mess.

Made-up Words...

2010-01-16T21:14:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you will know by now that I have a fondness for the made-up word. Perhaps not. Either way, it doesn't matter, because I do, in fact - verily, verily - have that fondness of which I speak. Where they come from can always change - sometimes it's because of my eardrum failing me at the opportune time (as with "Periwander," which I always thought was a line in Bob Dylan's Tambourine Man. It's not.), and sometimes it's just the result of a lack of sleep. The words I have for you tonight fall under that second category.

The first is the Lowperbole. A "lowperbole," unlike its exaggerated counterpart, the hyperbole, is to be used in describing those times when a story or event is accepted as a fabrication. It's the reaction to a supposed exaggeration, in other words. For instance, you come home from school and Ma tells you that the local rabbit ate your whole cabbage patch doll and has started bouncing off neighborhood walls. Knowing what you do about Ma's tendency to fabricate, you create the lowperbole version in your mind to determine what really happened: the rabbit ate a shriveled scrap of last night's twice-boiled, thrice-baked red cabbage, and now he's making progress hopping along on his disjointed back leg. The reality, of course, will be somewhere in between, but the lowperbole is both a natural and healthy stage in the reasoning process.

Next we have a creation of just yesterday: "Womandatory." The definition of this one is a bit more subjective, so I'll have to give it to you in context and let you figure it out from there:

Jenkins comes back to his room after a long day and remembers his mother's request of that morn' - "Jenkins, before you brush your tusks, be sure to drink a can of this" - and she hands him some V8. Jenkins rolls his eyes, but obliges his kind mother's wishes, swigging the can just before bed. "Why are you drinking that?" his brother Meriwether asks. "Ma says it's mandatory," Jenkins grumbles back. "It's not," comes Meriwether's reply, "it's womandatory."

And such is the case of any obligatory action that compromises your manhood.

(Note the horror on the young boy's face...and the evilness that radiates from his mother. I'm eternally grateful that my own mother never poured orange juice out with any such facial expression...)

Happiness and Cheer

2009-12-25T00:23:00.000-08:00

In Defense of Poetry

2009-12-24T06:20:00.000-08:00

(This is not a poem). Just yesters, I ran into some friends of mine who asked me if I read the latest Sojourn. "Alan, you write poetry - did any of that stuff make sense to you? I mean, do poems really mean something to the people who write them?" This is not a unique sentiment. In fact, the majority of friend-types I run into say that poetry doesn't make sense. So what's it worth, anyways? Chances are, if you don't like poetry, you won't even start this unless I make you think it's not a poem. (It's not). Plato says poets are liars, but I'll let you take that for what it's worth.

This is what I'm trying to say:

Poetry is a lot

like coffee - once you acquire the taste

you enjoy it in ways others can't.

It takes some time, sometimes, but once the time is taken

you don't miss it - for what it's worth. Still,

at the same time, some people find it

so repulsive, they never want to like the taste.

Why learn to like something you don't already naturally?

That's how I am with coffee, so I

at least understand.

First, they say, try it with sugar

or cream or even honey. Do

people drink coffee with honey? I

would start drinking poetry with it.

This is what you read most of the time:

Bitter droplets of afternoon

drip down buttonholed

mugs of lava - where

do we come from said

the bee-keeper's wife, but she knew

his mustardseed skirt was too short

for the making. Baking.

Caking.

I drink mine hot when I drink mine

but I don't drink mine when I do. just

listen.

That's as much poetry as I'll inflict on you for the time being (remember, this is not a poem). The most common question I get regards the meaning of poetry. "Why do people like to use words nobody knows and flowery language no one understands - it's like they're trying to make things confusing?"

Poetry requires a reader. Just writing poetry does you no good - that's not the point of it. If all I wanted to do was tell you something, I wouldn't need to do so with poetry. I would just tell you. Or write you. But what if I had more in mind than telling you? A good poem, in my books, is one that tells you something, but "tells it slant," as Ms. Dickinson would have it. This is where some problems come in, of course. Quite a few contemporary poets have gotten so caught up in the way of telling you something that they forget what it was they were trying to tell you. Or maybe they didn't care about what they were telling you to begin with.

Telling it slant is the real trick to poetry, though. I need to make you understand what I'm telling you, but I need you to do some work to understand it. That's part of the whole poetry thing. If you have to do work to figure out something, it becomes more yours and less mine. (This paragraph is mine). The more it's yours, the more I've done my job. But if I just tell you, it was never yours to begin with. Roses are Red will always be plagiarism - yet we always look for "the road less traveled" as if it were our own to take.

What can I give you, though, to make it your own? Think of it like a game, where you're the detective and I can give you clues. What clues, you may ask? The title, for one, should give you some direction on how to read the poem. If the poem is called: "A Fig or Two," you should ask yourself it that means the whole poem is a "fig" or if it represents a fig or it imitates a fig or it is describing a fig or...you get the point. I can also enjamb lines or use binary oppositions or self-conscious gestures, but if you don't know what any of that means, don't worry. Poetry is not only for the elite. I can also use capitalization techniques and line-breaks and puns and dashes and colloquialisms and parentheticals (and the like) to give you direction.

As a poet, I can't give you the destination, but I'll at least offer some road-signs.

This was not a poem. (That

was a poem).

See?

When I Were a Dragon

2009-12-24T06:11:00.000-08:00

I realize now

that the poem I gave you

was incomplete. I forgot to mention

the cold and the fog

you see spackling out your mouth

when it comes down upon

the sky. Clearly

I meant to include that bit but

you know how it is you

get on the train and think

you'll do this and that when you get there

but not here.

Here is only a moment

but moments are all so

I'm looking

at it now and remembering.

The uses and misuses of Piglet's friend Pooh

2009-10-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

Having named our house after a certain "wise" feathered character in the Hundred Acre Wood, I am obligated to make a statement about our dear friend Pooh. Over the years, the bear of little brain has lost a great deal of his fur to the mass-market corporate world. From diaper advertisements to disney sing-a-longs, Pooh has received far more bruises than he did in his days of bump-bumping down the stairs behind young Christopher Robin. But now the heffalump-hunter has been disgraced in a way I fear to even name. The story can be found here (click).

It's a silly little phrase at first glance, a harmless, charming, witty little jig: "Return to the Hundred Acre Wood." And to that I say, Humbug. Some loon has decided to write the sequel to A.A. Milne's classic story, even after Milne went to so much trouble writing a perfectly fitting ending himself. It's like joining a game someone else has already won.

If Pooh had his say on the matter, he'd probably mumble something about a "bother" and then go off and forget what he'd bothered about. Piglet, meantime, would try and be very brave by imagining himself fighting off the hordes of misguided publishers. Eeyore, of course, would be neither fazed nor surprised.

Perhaps it won't be all that bad, you may say. And then, you should at least read it first before you say anything about it. Well, Bubba, I *have* read it - or at least the free excerpt they put online (here) - and it was most disconcerting. The author strikes me as one of those types that thinks good children's literature must include lots of simple sentences to help the child understand. Even Dr. Seuss would not be amused.

----

But now to happier things. First of all, there's Pooh Hour - which clearly falls in the the Proper uses of Piglet's friend Pooh category. Pooh Hour, as the term is used by some goodly friends of mine (and perhaps the phrase will soon permeate pop-culture), is the term for those times when everything - yes, yes...everything - is delightfully humorous. If you walk into a room full of normally low-key types who are rolling on top of tables laughing about a bag of pop-corn popping, you're probably witnessing someone's Pooh Hour. Typically, it hits sometime in the mid-afternoon, or, after a long, stressful day is over, in the wee hours of the night. If you're lucky (or just plain loony), Pooh Hour strikes the clock every day of the week. And Rabbit would not approve.

Lastly, there's this. A group of psychologists decided to poke fun at themselves by diagnosing Pooh's friends and Rabbit's many relations with psychological disorders. The resulting medical review can be found here (click), and the world's greatest chart can be found here (click). Sometimes things like this can be just the catalyst one needs to be thrown directly into Pooh Hour. One can only hope for such a fate.

What a Billow be...

2009-10-03T19:04:00.001-07:00

When given the choice, I go to the beach about twice every decade.

Not because I hate the beach, or that I ever leave the beach unsatisfied, but the mountains, the rivers, the trees, the puddled-marshlands, have always proven superior in my experience. Nonetheless, here I am listening to the crashing waves (a most lovely melody, I readily admit) for the second time this year. The ocean is unusually packed with jelly-fish this year, so swimming in the ocean isn't quite the charm I remembered it being. So today, my brother and I opted to build a sandcastle at the edge of doom.

Why the edge of doom? you may ask, and rightly so. The edge of doom, I have long believed, is the only place a sandcastle should go - otherwise, there's no point in even building one. The kings of old didn't build castles just to feel better about themselves or to say, "Hey, ma! look at these white-washed walls!" No. They built them for protection from plague-ridden swineherds and over-zealous knights who thought chivalry meant the slaughter of small children. It is in a similar vein, I reason, that sand castles should be built. If there's no threat of a jelly-fish hoard pouring over the walls in a splurge of salt-water, there's no need for a castle.

So Andy and I built ours at the edge of doom, and just as we finished he called it a day and went in. And there I was by myself, guarding everyone else's towels with a castle under siege. Fortunately, the castle was holding its own, so I let myself relax. The natural thing to do in such situations is to sit in one of the nifty seats Andy and Haynes dug in the sand earlier that afternoon. So I did - minding my own business, not causing anyone any grief or trouble - the sun going down on my right and some sand-pipers piping away at my left - when a girl a few years my elder passed by and started loitering in the area, picking up shells every so often - or shall I say acting like picking up shells.

Before I knew it, she asked me if I was comfortable in my little seat. "Yes," I said casually, "my brother made it and I stole it from him after he left."

"Oh!" she laughed, coming closer to me. "You mind if I sit down?"

I wish someone other than the girl had seen my face in that moment. I think it was akin to an old photo my mom took of me seven years ago. We were in Hawaii for my 9th grade Spring Break and my brothers and I were posed with the coconut-wearing, grass-skirted Luau dancers. Ben and Andy are very natural - smiling and holding up a pineapple rind or something. But not Alan. Horror, sheer horror, holds my face together as I breathe in the shock of the scandalous moment.

And so it was today, as the bikini-clad girl sat by my side on the gulf coast. Why? I will never know. I did, however, manage to maintain semi-control of my shock as I conversed with her about her school, her hometown, and her age (6 years my elder). Eventually, my parents both walked up from their stroll down the beach and gave me the "what in tarnation?" look. Andy, meanwhile, looked on quizzically from the balcony, as Ben showed up with Whitney and both of their heads cocked.

And you wonder why I like the mountains better.

Only the children know what they are looking for...

2009-10-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

I'm at the beach again, which means I'm supposed to feel small again. You know, the vast ocean compared to the small human - you're supposed to feel insignificant at times like these. Truthfully, though, I don't - at least, not any more than I normally do.

If I ever need to feel insignificant, all I have to do is look out the windows of my house and watch all the cars go by. Look at all those people, I tell myself. You don't know any of them and they don't know you. You have no idea what their stories are - where they're going, or why they're even in the car to begin with. For all you know, they want to change the world, just like you. Then again, maybe they're just mindlessly going from one place to the next - like the train-riders in The Little Prince. "They are asleep in there," said the switchman, "or if they are not asleep they are yawning. Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."

I was looking at one of my old friends' Facebook pages the other day, and I came across this:

About me: Honestly, It's not really about me at all.

yep.

What if? Why not? Could it be?

2009-09-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

Wondrous wondrous Kate D. (think Edward Tulane and Desperaux) has come out with another glorious tale - full, as always, of light - The Magician's Elephant. My book recommendation habits, however, will allow me to tell you precious little about what the book is about. Halbroox Bros. rule number one in picking up a new book - *never* read the back. Why? because too many a good book was ruined by some overzealous publisher who thought it'd be a grand idea to reveal half the plot on the back cover.

This is how it usually goes:

Jimmy was always a strange boy. But one day, his whole world is changed - an even stranger, eight-legged creature shows up on his bedstand to tell him the meaning of life and to set him off on the most exciting adventure of his lifetime.

So you pick up the book (I'm not really sure why at this point) and start reading...and reading, and reading. On page 320, the spider finally shows up in what's supposed to be a plot-twist. FAIL. All this time you were waiting, expecting the eight-legged wonder to appear and change the boy's life. The book ain't about the spider - it's about Jimmy. But now that Jimmy's life is a sub-plot and the spider has gained full rights to the climax, you set it down and find a cheese muffin. And with a plot like that, we can hardly blame you.* In other words, you limit the amount of times you get moments like these:

Note: I must admit that every now and then, you will, in fact, come across the back of a book that is just vague enough to get you interested without giving away anything you shouldn't know. So perhaps Halbroox Bros rule number one in picking up a new book is a bit harsh. Just know that we have had far too many a good book spoiled to remain detached from what we see as the inevitable disillusionment with book-backs. Of course, there is always hope for a better future...in fact, one of my friends wants to be "one of those people who write blurbs on the backs of books," so we cannot give up on back covers altogether.

All that to say, this book is grand, and has nothing to do with 8-legged creatures or boys named Jimmy. And whatever the back cover says, don't read it. It's Kate DiCamillo, so know it's pure goodness.

What I can tell you is this: it's full of hope, loss, wonder, and Home. And already, I've said too much.

Zebra Cakes and the Beginning of Something New...

2009-08-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night was fast approaching, and with it the teaching of my next lesson in the Lord's Prayer series. This time: "Lead us not into temptation."

I had planned on spending the afternoon preparing, and so I made my way home early from work. I whistled merrily as I got out of my car and strolled towards the house, little knowing how much temptation lurked inside the front door.

First, it was the cutting board from Tuesday's watermelon - sitting in the sink, still tarnished with white seeds and a chuck of rind that never made it to the rubbish bin. Dang. I can't prepare for a lesson on leading us not into temptation and just pass by a sink full of my own dirty dishes. So I washed it.

Next, it was the brownies. I hadn't eaten any snacks yet, so I ate the first one without a second thought. No problem. The next one was a little less justified, but tasty anyways, and if it turned out that I later regretted it, I could just use that as an example for giving into temptation.

My taste buds and stomach fully satisfied, I made it past the kitchen and into the dining room.

Zebra Cakes.

They were sitting there on the counter all alone, like some poor orphan who'd been neglected for the greater part of his natural life. But no. That would just be shameful - stuffing my face with pure tasty goodness while preparing my heart to talk to the children about God's power to provide a way out in those times of temptation. "No temptation has befallen you other than that which is common to man." Zebra Cakes are certainly common to man. So I passed them by.

I sat on the couch to read from the Good Book and quickly found myself tilting towards the horizontal state. Before long I was on my back, eyes half closed, with Benji's dino pillow secured comfortably behind my neck. Lead us not..... tem...ta.......t..........

I jumped to my feet. Just another epic failure of a role-model I was, sleeping on the job. So I walked around to get the blood flowin' and the mind churnin'. Things were on the up and up for a while, until...

Zebra Cakes.

This time, I gave right in. Without a thought to the lesson I was teaching or the book I was reading, I grabbed the box with greedy fingers and turned it upside down. Shake. I feared the worst. Shake. I dropped my jaw. Shake. No Zebra Cakes. Not even one.

The box was empty all along.

----

Tomorrow I head off to Chicago with Denny on an evangelistic road trip. It promises to be a most exciting, challenging, and messily glorious adventure. If anyone's interested in keeping up, we'll be blogging along the way at socraticcup.blogspot.com.

25 Rolls of Toilet Paper

2009-08-05T21:03:00.000-07:00

My good friend Miguel told me a story yesterseve that captures the very essence of messy glory. It simply must be shared.

----

It started like it always does - some overzealous kid wanting to do some quasi-illegal activity to get the urge out of his system. At first Miguel was not convinced, but the thought of 40 yards of christmas lights wrapped around Chad's car was enough to secure his involvement. Within a few hours, the toilet paper was all purchased, the plan was made, and a group of five or six students (plus Michael, the "responsible college intern") were walking down a dark street armed and ready to roll their youth minister's house.

It was not thirty seconds after they stepped foot in the yard that Chad's garage door made a noise like an old electric can opener and began to rise. The dispersion was as smooth as any could have been rehearsed - the girls took off running down the street, the guys found suitable bushes nearby - only Michael was left in the yard, and the other side of the car seemed a perfect hiding place.

I say "seemed" because a few moments later it became clear that this was not to be the case. If I'm caught hiding, thought Miguel, I'll give them an awful fright. So to assure his not being caught, he found his way *under* the car...and waited.

EPIC FAIL.

As the other car made its way out of the garage and up the driveway, the headlights landed directly on our dear friend. The car stopped.

...

"Yeah, there is a grocery bag in our front yard." Thank goodness, said the mutterings of Miguel's mind, Amanda called Chad to tell him a mysterious bag was left in the yard - NOT that a mysterious man was hiding under the car. The one side of the phone conversation he could hear continued.

"Dude, there's 25 rolls of toilet paper in here - unwrapped!. .... Well, I guess that means you don't need to go to the store any more." Amanda was on her way to Wal-Mart to pick up...need I say it? Toilet Paper.

"I'd think we were getting rolled, but why would they leave the bag here? Nobody would be that dumb." Michael silently nodded under the car, wondering the same.

The next few minutes were something of a blur. Amanda pulled the car back in the driveway, Chad discovered more mixed messages - a wad of christmas lights, a single strip of paper on a bush - and Michael decided it was time to reveal himself. All three of them stood in the front yard laughing at themselves and each other until Chad got a chance to ask Michael if anyone else was involved.

"No. Just me," admitted Michael, just in time for the two other guys to appear from their respective trees and bushes. More laughter.

"So this is everyone, then?" "Yep. Everyone." And the three girls walked into the driveway.

It's such, such a perfect day...

2009-07-29T06:15:00.000-07:00

I was in the midst of writing a long story last night when I suddenly drifted out of consciousness. So in the meantime, this will have to suffice (I'm confident it will...).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lb9X5jMofEo

Something Untraditional (we hope...)

2009-07-06T21:21:00.000-07:00

"Well, what'd you do for the Fourth of July this year?"

I broke my cousin's left toe.

We were having our usual reunion in the mountains of Tennessee with the Halbrooks side of the family (often dubbed the 'less-than-normal side' - and for understandable reasons). Friday brought its usual joys - the special ingredient pancakes (vanilla ice cream this time, which received top marks in every category), monkey tree madness at the river, a rousing game named after an idiom of fruit comparisons, and a restful nightly sabbatical on the top bunk hammock.

Saturday of course was equally enjoyable, but for the one moment of tragedy. Tradition has it that whenever we set foot on the waters of Honey Creek, a tree of boatlike proportions must be felled or dragged into the water for transportative purposes. It was during this dragging that Jacob's toe was poorly placed beneath my folly.

"Alright, we're all going to pick it up on three," I suggested.

"One, two....three!" We lifted. It was at this fateful moment that I realized the end of the log I was holding was more than I had bargained for.

"Okay, I'm gonna drop it." No one-two-three this time. Just the drop. And the ligaments that had been merrily holding Jacob's left toe to his left toe bone were merry no longer.

Ben still insists that the blame rests on us all. A kind brother, and I'd do the same for him...but we all know the truth. Jacob's toe has every right to pay me back in full.

The Cockroach Whisperer...

2009-06-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

Just a few minutes ago, I was sitting on Denny's recliner wondering what to blog about for the night. After rejecting the first few ideas (due to copyright infringements), I was getting desperate. Until something extraordinary happened.

Stephen walked into the room and announced, with no inflection of voice, "There's a dinosaur on the ceiling." Actually, there was a cockroach. I would have far preferred the dinosaur.

By this time, Stephen had left the room and returned with his personal "Bug Stop" spray bottle. Stopping just below the wretched creature, he paused just long enough for Gregor to dislodge himself from the ceiling and *FLY* in a direct line toward my own speechless face. Fortunately, his flying powers were not developed enough to make it all the way to my face, so he crash-landed just at my feet and scurried under my chair.

I was up faster than a cuckoo at the strike of twelve, curled up on the sofa just opposite. Stephen, though momentarily frozen, was back in action and appeared completely unconcerned. Ben lifted up the chair. Denny looked on in horror. Stephen stood armed and ready with his spray-bottle. Gregor decided this was a good time to disappear.

Of course, none of us were all that thrilled about Gregor's latest decision, so Ben banged the chair down and set him running toward the space just below the carpet. A clear boot-to-the-floor was in order, but no - that would be too easy. Stephen insisted on the Bug Stop.

Spray. Dash. Spray. Shuffle. Spray. Dart. Spray. Spray. Disappear.

Gregor disappeared once more below another couch. FAIL.

But Stephen again showed no signs of discouragement. "He's going for the door." And sure enough, just as we all gave the boy the evil eye, Gregor appeared again on the backside of Denny's sofa. The spray war continued - with Gregor consistently leading the way *straight* to the door.

Stephen assured us the creature would leave in an honorable manner. To the surprise of all the other occupants of the house, Gregor waltzed out the front door as soon as it was opened, leaving nothing but his memory behind.

I'm sure this has some sort of application to everyday life, but I will leave you to figure that one out - the story itself is enough for me.

Update from Stephen and his magical spray-bottle:

"I have secured the perimeter."

Hop on Pop

2009-06-21T21:28:00.000-07:00

Pa.

A short name, yes. But contained within those two letters are years of wonderment and glorious fatherdom. Yes, it is Father's Day, and yes, that gives me every right to tell you how amazing mine is.

When I detached my skis in the middle of some obscure wooded regions of Vail, Colorado, he did not complain. Nay - he put me on top of his own skis and within the hour, they were found.

When no one knew if we were really going to make it to Hawaii the next year, He got our hopes up. Ma: "Rick, don't get their hopes up." Pa: "We are GOIN'!" Ma: (shakes head) Childrens: (laugh hysterically)

When Halloween rolled around three years ago, he passed as a genuine harley davidson biker. Only to be beaten by some foe who decided to wear one of those pre-made Roger Rabbit outfits.

When our love for dinosaurs and bones could not be satiated, he took us fossil hunting all over the States - and we've shark teeth in every cupboard to prove it.

When every other family we know calls their parents Mom and Dad, he let us call him Pa.

More on the "gut" and the greasemonkey...

2009-06-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

Now, before you think: great - Alan's goes off to England for a few months and comes back believing in the paranormal, let me explain myself. I know all this talk about visions and demons and the like is uncomfortable. Especially for people tend toward the intellectual side of Christianity instead of the emotional/experiential side. But it shouldn't be any more uncomfortable than anything you'd find in the book of Acts - demon possessions, visions, miraculous healings - it's all there.

If all goes as planned, I'll be able to explound to you my thoughts from the past week in an organized, understandable fashion. Of course, the last time I posted, things did *not* go as planned. In fact, just after I finished posting, my internet failed and I migrated outside my house where I sometimes get better reception (...I shamelessly steal the signal from my brother's house next door...). As soon as I got outside, I realized the door behind me was locked, and my Ma was already long asleep. FAIL. I still didn't have internet access either, so all I could do was talk to myself while the wireless amoebas decided to start doing their job again. (...they did...)

Anyways, I've been doing a good deal of thinking and dialoguing with a friend of mine on the whole unseen/spiritual/gut thing, or whatever you want to call it. Twas a grand expedition (*almost* as good as Pooh's Expotition to the North Pole), and in the end we came to some satisfying conclusions. Of course, the best part was the application dance....which looks like this:

Some conclusions and speculations:

1. All sorts of people do have these experiences. you can attribute it to some undigested bit of corn if you wish, but plenty of people who would have no reason to make up these sorts of stories just to feel like "special christians" - have these experiences, dreams, "gut knowings" as one of my friends puts it. Choose to dismiss them all as coincidence, wishful thinking, or lies if you wish - I'm of the camp that believes they really happen (not that ALL the stories are true, of course). And I wasn't in that camp until I sat down and actually thought about it.

2. They don't happen to everyone. I know this because they don't happen to me, and never have. If they are real though, should I want them to happen to me? Three days ago, I would have said yes: it's the whole "faith like a child bit" - I should open my mind more to the idea of unseen signs and direction and then God may use that method to reach me. Now I've changed my mind, though (thanks, trusty dialogue partner). more on this in a bit...

3. As I mentioned last time, these things seem to happen more often in places like Africa and the Amazon. It makes sense to me that this is largely because our culture has almost entirely wiped out the concept of the spiritual world. The influence of the Enlightenment philosophers and the scandal of the Salem Witch Trials didn't help the situation too much. But this is not the case in Africa or the Amazon - the spiritual world is very much a part of daily reality - and they know it. Are there more demons in Africa than in America? I have no idea, but if demons are at all shrewd (which we have every reason to believe [Gen. 3]), they will probably want to go as unnoticed in our materialistic world as they want to go noticed in say, Africa. In his preface to Screwtape, Lewis says this: "There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. They themselves are equally pleased by both errors and hail a materialist or a magician with the same delight."

4. But enough about demons. Why should I not want to tap into this whole vision / revelation bit, if I believe it really happens? Why should I not want to have "gut knowings"? In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul tells the folks he's writing to to "eagerly desire spiritual gifts, especially the gift of prophecy..." Now we figured this had something to do with the visions and gut knowings and such we've been talking about. I can't give you the whole conversation, or you'd be reading this post for a few days more than you've already read if for...but here's a snippet -

thetalkingmouse:

So what you're suggesting is that if you aren't the vision type, it might not have anything to do with christian maturity or levels of belief...

but rather there are certain types that God uses visions and such for and others he doesn't. Just like there are some people God uses to care for the children and others to care for the elderly...

neither is better or worse -but we should be willing at least, even if we aren't the vision types, to accept that certain people ARE.

Believe them, but not go around looking for visions ourselves.

Oytak:

Yes. That's what I mean.

I mean, Paul asks himself, "Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Do all work miracles?" etc. And what he really emphasizes are the three Christian cardinal virtures. Which are vital to Christian maturity.

...Anyway, I suppose the conclusion I'm coming to is that God gives certain gifts to certain people, and it's probably not a good idea to "try harder" to "open our minds" in order to attain a gift that might not be designed for us?

...And I suppose the real test of a gift is whether or not it glorifies Christ; otherwise, there's major reason to doubt its validity.

So we all ought to be striving toward Faith, Hope, and Love, and cultivate the gifts God *does* give us.

And perhaps He just gives more emotional-based people gifts that speak more plainly to them? (aka more abstract gifts?) and to more reasoning-based people gifts that correpsond more to their midns (aka more instructive/expository gifts?)

...And perhaps some "visions" are just one time things.

5. The leg bone's connected to the...knee bone (!)

A good friend of mine is like me, in that she revels in the intellectual power of Christianity - in the nuances of the text, the brilliance of the imagery, the literary and historical genius of God's plan. Her roommate two years ago, though was one of the types that's always stressing the experiential part of Christianity instead of the intellectual...in the end, she says, it was good for them both. Strange at times, but good.

Which means it's time for....

The truth is, we need both sides. Not just individually, but as a group. Right now, the "vision" type people mostly flock through charismatic church doors, and the intellects stay seated in their non-handclapping pews. We need to do something about that - and it starts with people like you (that's right, you) and me either opening up more toward the intellectual side of faith or the emotional one, depending on which side of the spectrum you occupy.

And that can be exciting, really. It's the thrill that we "intellectual Christians" get when we read a book like Don Miller's Blue Like Jazz. Something that reminds us, even if only briefly, that spirituality isn't just about theology and whether or not suffering is a by-product of choice or what Bonhoeffer should have done if he was given a direct shot at Hitler. It's about love, grief, hope, despair - raw emotion.

And I haven't even mentioned what this all has to do with greasemonkeys...

The elusive "gut" and other strange things...

2009-06-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

It's storming again here in the 'Ham - which reminds me of a thought I had just the other day that was left as undeveloped as the South Pole.

The subject revolves around seen and unseen forces. The seen forces in this case are the electromagnetic flashes of light my friends' brother saw this weekend when he was struck by lightning (Note: he had a remarkably quick recovery and was laughing about it less than an hour later - which is wondrous indeed). The unseen forces - clearly - are harder to pin down.

When yon friend-of-mine's brother was struck, she suddenly had an empty feeling in her stomach even though she had no idea what had happened. The way she described it to me, she just suddenly knew *something* had happened to her brother. And she was right, as we now know. Strange.

But is it so strange?

A product of a culture that emphasizes the empirical, I've always felt a little odd hearing people's stories about how they had visions or sudden feelings that actually corresponded with reality. A few months ago, I was working with a guy at my internship in London (you remember Dennis and the others? same place.) who told me he was led to work at ECCP and to attend St. Barnabas Church because of a vision he saw. "I had never been there before," he told me, "but when I got there it looked exactly as it had in the dream." It didn't help that right after that, he asked me how I was led to work there. "Uh...well, it was an internship that looked interesting to me and seemed like it fit my talents and such..."

The point is, these 'other-worldly' experiences happen every day, apparently just not to me. No - I realize, of course, that they don't happen to a lot of people. But is that because we're just not special, or does that mean that they don't really happen to anyone at all, and it's just in their minds? My experience suggests that neither is the case. In fact, it seems quite possible to me that my doubts about the reality of these strange experiences is precisely what prevents them from ever coming my way.

Hypnosis, I am told by my psychology teacher, works far more effectively for people who go into it believing it works. For the doubters, it rarely has the same power. Does this invalidate hypnosis? I don't think so - because clearly it still works for some. What it suggests is that a correlation exists between belief and experience. And this is nothing new - we've know this from placebo drugs and the like for years. "Correlation does not mean causation," I can hear my teacher saying now. So I will try and not draw anything more out of this phenomenon.

In dealing with issues involving the unseen, I point out two other observations.
1. there seems to be a heck of a lot more demon / angel activity going on in the Bible than anyone I know has ever experienced.
2. every now and then, I'll hear something about missionaries dealing with spiritual forces of good and evil, but it's always in places like Africa or the Amazon.

My question is simple: Why?

The answer, I'm sure, is far more complicated, and I'll be glad to give you my thoughts - another night.

It's that Time Again (!)

2009-06-09T21:26:00.001-07:00

A Van for all Seasons...

2009-06-08T05:30:00.000-07:00

When she started smoking, we knew her time was short.

Our family mini-van "bit the big one" (as my Pa would say) just yesterday, and I write this in her honor. Sure she had problems with her high beams and was already over 250,000 miles, and sure she would lock the doors everytime you tried to unlock them manually...but it was a family fault we were all used to anyways. Kinda like us being used to the fact that Jenkins always wears his "Where is Pisgah?" shirt in public twice a week.

We went to Gatlinburg this weekend, and all the hills and stop and go traffic were more than she could handle. The thermostat apparently gave out on us and the radiator spat out all of the engine coolant, until finally, as Ma informed us, "she blew a gasket." I don't know what that means in van-terms, but it sounds pretty bad.
In her memory, here are some stories she brought to us:

Some six or seven years ago, it was time for the first-ever Fixed Point student retreat. We packed the foosball table in the back of our mini-van (this is Not a suggested way of using the back 2/3rds of any vehicle) and followed the Taunton's van of similar build. We were well aware of the fact that our particular make of mini-van was keen to give up early on the whole window-rolling-down bit, so when we pulled up next to the Tauntons in a parking lot, we opened the door to talk. What we were not well aware of was the fact that the Tauntons had the same problem with their mini-van....just on the opposite side. So we both stopped, both tried our windows and remembered they didn't roll down, and both opened our doors into each other's.
----
About the time we got the window thing fixed, we took our yearly trip to Vail, Colorado (this was probably five years later). In fact, I think this was just a few months ago...Anyways, it was time to leave and the snow had just decided to dump itself upon all the roads north of the southern state line. Most other families would have counted their losses and waited for the snow to melt enough for easy access to the highway, but no - not us. We had 23 hours more driving before we got home, and we were not about to let a little snowdrift impede our efforts. After several failed attempts to pick up speed and make it up the hill from our condo, we were forced into the most unusual activity: pushing the van up a snow-ridden slope. Five of us lined up at the bumper while Andy pushed the gas ever-so-slightly. "Slower! Slower! NOWW! Go, go goooooooooooooo!" This went on for some dozens of minutes, which included quite a few face plants in the snow and quite a lot of backwards progress. In the end, though, man conquered nature and our trusty van led us to victory once again.
----
Of course, yesterday was not the first time she smoked. Whether it was peer pressure or she was just curious ("just one smoke couldn't hurt me"), she had tried it once already sometime last autumn. This time, she was the beast of burden for our South Dakota/Canada road trip - a trip that would soon be characterized by busted radiators and 12 cups of coffee a day. This was the trip where Mitchell informed us of the genocide of cornstalks, where we met the world's largest pheasant, and where the border patrol man we lovingly named "Sasquatch" did everything he could to prevent us from making it across the Canadian border. This was the trip where our van decided to die as soon as we pulled into Denny's grandparent's driveway, and immediately began oozing green stuff out of the hood. We left it there and took the grandparent's car through South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and North Dakota before we found out that our friends at the van repair center were in no hurry to get us home. Well, we did make it home in time, thanks to Denny's awe-inspiring one-liners on the cell phone with car mechanics ("We're only missing one piece to our puzzle, and I think you have it."), and some fancy foot work with the new radiator supplier.
----
All that to say, this van's been good to us, and we're sad to see it go.

VBS Jollities

2009-06-02T19:48:00.000-07:00

VBS for Cahaba Park Church just concluded tonight. And for the two days I was there, 'twas a joyous occasion.

Day One: One of the kids made two of the greatest VBS comments ever. This was even more glorious than the time the people at Covenant misspelled "Gentle" and an entire crew of 8 year olds went around thinking they were the "Gentile Giraffes" for the first full day of Bible school.

It was music time and all the children had been called together by the music leader, who was looking for any way she could to get them excited about singing songs they'd never heard before.

"Alright everyone! It's music time (!), and we're about to sing...but I see just one thing wrong....what is it??" She was hinting at the fact that everyone was still sitting down (a non-proper position for VBS songs, for the uninitiated).

Five-and-a-half year-old Jay boldly stepped forward to answer the question. "We're all sinners!"

Later the same evening, Jay explained to us all that Joeys are baby kangaroos.

"Tell everyone what a Joey is, Jay."

"A Joey is a - a baby kangaroo." He paused. "And they're faster than a rabbit!" Another pause, this time with some thought going into the next comment. "...but they're Not faster than Jesus!"

Day Two: The skit for the night was all about the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. Moses was about three years my senior with a beard about 40 years my senior and a hat that refused to stay on his scalp. But these were minor difficulties compared to the Angel of Death, whose presence was supposed to bring with it all those dark and empty feelings typically associated with Angels of Death. This was working pretty well, actually, what with the hollow sounding music, the grim reaper halloween costume and the snarls coming from the lady's lower jaw....Until. Sally on row two saw the strange facial resemblance of the dreadful spectre and could not contain herself. "Mom?!" she was clearly excited at the discovery. "It's my mom!!"

We can only wonder. Was it really the facial features she noticed, or is Sally just used to this sort of behavior from her ancestors?

What happens when you chat and play Canasta simultaneously...

2009-05-31T13:37:00.000-07:00

thetalkingmouse

disgrace

mutesquirrel*

W-wha-?

thetalkingmouse

epic disgrace

mutesquirrel

What? WHAT?

thetalkingmouse

oh, not you

I'm playing canasta

mutesquirrel

Oooh.

Are you failing?

thetalkingmouse

I just made the most epic failure of a move I've seen since john brown

mutesquirrel

Oh wow. Sad day.

And I had no idea you were around in John Brown's day.

Well, there's always the chance to recover, now isn't there?

thetalkingmouse

if there was, it left me a long time ago

mutesquirrel

Good gracious.

thetalkingmouse

and denny just discarded a six

mutesquirrel

You sound so angsty.

Well, um...boo, Denny?

thetalkingmouse

hahahaha

yes

I've moved from the state of depression to the state of... [:0]

mutesquirrel

WOAH.

thetalkingmouse

whatever that means

mutesquirrel

death.

It means...

At least your not to --> [:#] stage yet.

*you're

I just broke my cardinal grammar pet peave rule.

thetalkingmouse

willi wonka takes every single card I discard

mutesquirrel

I think the world might end.

Um...

Baaad Willi Wonka.

Only I thought it was spelled WIlly Wonka?

thetalkingmouse

mmmmm.....

bad day for us both, I see

mutesquirrel

Uh-huh.

thetalkingmouse

well, that's Willy

this is Willi

mutesquirrel

Oh. Well. Um, hello to Willi, then.

thetalkingmouse

hehehehe

he would say hello, but he doesn't speak to strangers

mutesquirrel

Well, good for him. His Mummy taught him well.

I hope he doesn't take candy from them, either.

thetalkingmouse

he does, actually

mutesquirrel

I see some inconsistent behavior. He ought to go reevaluate his life.

thetalkingmouse

wonka is taking candy from me right now

that's the problem

mutesquirrel

Boo.

This conversation is so ripe with metaphors. It astounds me.

thetalkingmouse

all from a game of canasta too

I *told* you to play more canasta

but no, you wouldn't believe me

mutesquirrel

I wouldn't?

I don't remember refusing to play more canasta...

I just remember some very colorful words exchanged about the game of Presidents.

thetalkingmouse

ha!

well, denisovich just ended the game

fortunately

this also meant the momentary end of my misery

mutesquirrel

Good. It was sounding awfully tragic.

thetalkingmouse

much rejoicing.

mutesquirrel

Quite. I was beginning to worry for all of your sakes. Sounded like a very messed-up crew.

I'm going to Nashville tomorrow!

W-w-woo.

My cousin is graduation; and even though you don't know him from Adam, you should be proud.

thetalkingmouse

Nashville!

spiffiness

mutesquirrel

Quite.

It's one of my favorites.

thetalkingmouse

wait....

your cousin "is graduation"?

mutesquirrel

oops.

thetalkingmouse

talk about metaphors

mutesquirrel

graduating.

Well...

I mean...

thetalkingmouse

I am proud

mutesquirrel

He *could* be graduation himself.

I dunno...

He can be secretive at times

Good. I'll let WIll know.

Actually, I won't.

That would be highly odd.

thetalkingmouse

and I'm also proud of Adam, by way

mutesquirrel

Really? Why so?

Most people tend to thing he really messed things up...

thetalkingmouse

well....he *was* first

man....

don't you know your old testament

mutesquirrel

He didn't have any say in that, though, did he?

thetalkingmouse

just forgotten old texts to you, huh?

he was the only human saying anything, if I recall

mutesquirrel

Yep. Completely left them to the dust bunnies.

Huh?

Humans spoke a lot in the old texts, if I remember correctly.

thetalkingmouse

not when it was just Adam

mutesquirrel

Ohmigosh.

That's just silly.

thetalkingmouse

well...I must be back to another game of canaster

hopefully the result this time will be less tragic

mutesquirrel

And I need sleep for Nashville.

I hope so, too.

thetalkingmouse

thanks for keeping me entertained

mutesquirrel

You can't afford another Epic Fail.

thetalkingmouse

night!

mutesquirrel

Indeed! Night!

*This person's true identity has been blurred so as to prevent lawsuits and other frivolous action...

The Halbrooks Compound Expands (!)

2009-05-29T18:39:00.001-07:00

The rumors are true. While I was away in England, my family launched another campaign against the "good fences make good neighbors" types, and insodoing, increased the Halbrooks boundaries by 46%. Hailed as our greatest territorial gain in some 30 years, I have attached a diagram to help explain the situation to the uninitiated:

(If that illustration does not explain the entire situation to you at first glance, you may want to have some words with Rand McNally, who labeled this drawing "the achievement of a lifetime").

Now, with one eye on the diagram (so wonderfully drawn by the artistic mastermind that lives in the basement), and one eye on this here text, follow me as I explound. If you only have one eye, I apologize. You are simply out of luck.

---

It was a cool, dim-lit April afternoon when it all started. Higgins was frolicking in the backyard with imaginary sheep, Ma was knittin a new rug for the old chimney, Daddy Buck was talking to all of his relatives at the same time from inside Aunt Dee's car somewhere on 280 (via Skype), and Jenkins was raiding the local grocer for a bag of swedish fish. But where was Pa? As the old saying goes, "Pa does the fishin' where the wombat does the wishin'"

And on this day, the saying was true.

With a can of his favorite carbonated fermented milk soft drink (melon flavoured) and a single vertebrae of a Camarasaurus, the neighbors were no match for his fury. He paced the perimeter, slid through the loose gate, and waltzed into their living room with a maniacal set of facial features. In less than 24 hours, the neighbors had all but fled the civilized world, and the house - well, the house was Ours.

---

No. Sadly, that's not how it really happened. But as the diagram clearly demonstrates, we *did* purchase the house behind ours, and we *did* knock down the fence in between our yards, and we *are* moving in this very weekend. Only the gray area on the map is unconquered. When we do take it over (which will only take a matter of time, if things continue as they have), it will become grazing land for all the sheep I ever wanted.

That way, Higgins will no longer have to frolic among imaginary friends.

The First Overwhelming Experience...

2009-05-20T05:09:00.000-07:00

That's right.

I have returned to my goodly home in the states and have already felt the pangs of culture shock down my spinal column. And of all the places: Moe's.

While Moe's Knows Burritos, Moe's does Not know how to keep a man who's spent the last four months in Europe as comfortable as he'd like. Here's the deal: I came back to the states the day before yesterseve and had a glorious reunion with my family, complete with Mexican food from Habeñeros, which I've been craving all this time (prior to that, I scarfed an o-so-tasty milkshake from Chick-fil-a, which I had not craved, but should have). So far, all was good. I was still resetting my circadian rhythm and getting used to the fact that I had four wheels I could put to use whenever and wherever, but other than that I was melding back into American culture like horse carrying a bucket with two stones and a bird.

Until.

I showed up at Latimer House yesterday (not to be confused with Vladimir House) and Benji and I decided to head to Moe's for lunching and munching. And lunch and munch we did, though I was, as they say, in fear and trembling. Why? I will attempt to explain.

When we walked in, I became aware of three things:

1. everyone there was caucasian, except for the one guy who was about to cook Ben's Phil E. ("the only decent thing on the menu," Jenkins informed me)

2. everyone said things like "y'all" and "corn-fritter"

the third revelation was the worst, though...

3. I suddenly became aware that here, in the heart of Mountain Brook amongst fellow Moe's eaters, I could, at any moment run into any number of people who knew me.

This does not sound like something that should terrify a reasonable child past the age of 4. However, you must understand. Being in Europe with twelve other students for four months conditions you to know, on any given moment, where the other twelve are. So when you go into a cafe with three of them, you know you'll never meet anyone else in that cafe again probably for the rest of your life. Before long, this sense of invisibility becomes natural, and you never have to walk into a restaurant and look around to see if Jimbo-from-Middle-school had the idea to chaw a corndog at the same time you did.

At Moe's in Birmingham, Alabama, though, this whole unobtrusive stunt is foiled altogether. Not only could Jimbo be sitting in the corner, some guy who knew you 12 years ago could pop outta nowhere and ask you why you haven't cut your hair in the past month and a half. So you know, this proposition is enough to make a person with the same personality as Machiavelli cower in the shadows.

So as soon as I ordered my Joey Bag of Donuts, that's exactly what I did.

Monkey Heads...

2009-05-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

haHA!

2009-05-07T03:53:00.000-07:00

And now, the joy of modern technology...even though I clearly posted all of the last seven posts today, I can change a few settings and make it look like I've been consistently posting for the past week and a half. Victory is mine.

Internship Thoughts...

2009-05-06T03:16:00.000-07:00

Dennis still has a long way to go, but it does seem that God is doing something powerful in his life. I certainly hope so. And he’s not the only one. In the course of my time at ECCP, I met all sorts of uniquely challenged individuals – some more sociable than others, and some that just frankly disturbed me. One elderly man told me once “You know what I’m looking for now?” No, what? “A young man that I can settle down with.” I inched farther away on the couch. A few weeks later, after I questioned him on this matter, he explained to me that he wasn’t really an old man. He was an old woman. That’s right. I thought Bryan was male the entire time, but apparently his mother had him go through a sex change at the age of 4 without his knowing. Confused his whole life about his gender, Bryan finally confronted his mother, who told him at age 50 that he wasn’t genetically a male. You can begin to understand why these people never really felt like they belonged. My heart goes out to them, and I’m both blessed and honored to have had the opportunity to experience this other aspect of London: the people on the “outskirts.” I may never see Bryan or Carl or Dennis again, but I know they are in good hands at ECCP, and I can but pray that the gospel will break them and bring them eternal hope.

I don't think it takes much imagination to figure that these sort of people are everywhere. The people "on the outskirts," I mean. But more than that. Perhaps you'll never get a chance to talk to those sort of people - you'll never get a chance to fill a bowl of pasta for a man that's been through drug-therapy twice this year. Don't think that also means you won't get a chance to share love with people. Anywhere you are, whether work or school or in the swimming pool on a hot summer day - there's more than likely someone who doesn't feel like they belong. See to it that, as far as it is in your power, they do. It will be well worth the effort.

Part III - The Last Day

2009-05-06T03:14:00.000-07:00

Two days ago was my last time to work at the coffee bar. It was a grand last day, but I hated to have to leave. Most of all, I wanted to see Dennis off before I never saw him again. Fortunately, he arrived about an hour into it, and gave me an update on the job search. "I had a literacy test this morning," he informed me, "and I'm still waiting to hear back from it." "Oh good!" We talked for a while about the jobs he's applied for, and I wished him the best, and told him today was my last day. He brushed off the comment and moved onto something else. "I'll be praying for you and your job search," I mentioned. "And I'll pray that you vote Democrat next time," he said in what appeared to be all seriousness. I smiled, but was beginning to think that a proper farewell with this man was close to impossible - when Victoria showed up. I'd told Victoria about how the Coffee Bar works, and all the strange conversations I'd had, and how mad the Bible study usually is, and so she decided to come see what it was really like in person. It was wondrous to have her there - I introduced her to Nancy and Kerry and Enrique, to Carl and Bryan, and finally to Dennis. "Do you have a minute so sit down?" he asked her. She was excited to meet him, after hearing about him for so long, and was happy to sit and chat with him while I went off to the food distribution area. "Why are you a Christian?" he immediately when for the jugular. I smiled. I gave Victoria the "there's Dennis for you" look, grinned, and left her to a sure-to-be long and interesting conversation with my friend.

When I got back from handing out the food (an hour later), she was still there, and Dennis looked at me - "I'm telling her," he said with a beam. I had to think about what he meant for a second and then said, "Oh! your story. Great." So I joined them as he finished up, and at the end, he added a part he'd never included before - his wife. I'd never heard the man speak so honorably of anyone. She was loving, kind, did everything for him that he needed, and he knew he didn't deserve her at all. This was a perfect chance for me to get a last word in about the gospel to him. "I think that's remarkable, Dennis, that you have such a wonderful relationship with your wife. And it's so interesting, because throughout the Bible, marriage is put out as a parallel to our relationship with God - maybe God is using your relationship with your wife to give you a picture of his own love toward you. Do you mind if we pray for you and your job search and all, before I have to go?" "Well, if it makes you feel better, or does something for you, that's fine." This was a major breakthrough, in my opinion. You'd have to know the man, but that he would let someone pray for him was a shock to us all. So Victoria and I (and Amy, who had joined the conversation just a few minutes before) all prayed then and there, and Dennis said nothing, but shook our hands - "I'm glad to have met you, Dennis," I said.

"Of course you are," he replied. Such a Dennis answer. And with that and a farewell, he was off.

Things Children Can Get Away With...

2009-05-04T03:30:00.000-07:00

Victoria pointed out the other day that children can get away with so many things that would probably send an adult straight to the loon-house. On my way to the airport the other morn', I was unsettlingly reminded of this comment when a small childling sat down across from me with her parents and exclaimed, "Why are your legs so hairy?"

So I decided to make a list adults can no longer do on the way to the airport:

ask your parents (in a voice the person in question is sure to overhear) "is he happy?"
sing a song from Shrek unintelligibly and ask strangers if they liked it
lift up your shirt and show everyone around the glory of your belly-button ("put your stomach away, dear")
move constantly between two seats (as I sit with my arms crossed in my designated space)
crawl around on the floor in a b-line towards people you've never met before

Part II - Our Friend Returns...

2009-05-03T03:13:00.000-07:00

Talking to Dennis again, I assure you, was not a difficult thing to accomplish. Every Wednesday, week after week, he came - usually bypassing the coffee altogether - (he preferred tea anyways - with two spoonfuls of sugar and the tea bag still in the cup) and went directly to me. One time I was even modestly chastised for talking to him too long(!). Needless to say, the first few weeks were a bit odd - always him letting me know how poorly educated I was, always him arguing that Christianity lived through politics and not through people, always me trying to convey to him that just because Christians themselves have failed time and again doesn't mean Christianity has failed, and always Dennis feeling triumphant. One week, though, we finally got passed all this and he opened up to tell me his story. I think I asked him why he so utterly rejected Christianity, and he decided to give the long answer. At the end of his story (which included his nearly dying from epilepsy as a young child, his son getting hit by a double-decker bus, and a multitude of Christians who treated him badly and acted overly pious), he said, "So you see why I'm not a Christian." "No," I said. "I can see you've had a very hard life, and quite a number of people have treated you in ways they shouldn't. But I don't see why you blame God. Don't you think the fact that you didn't die, and that your son didn't die, are a blessing?" That was all I got in, because he interrupted me (a move he uses quite frequently whenever the other party is trying to make some poignant comment) and started off on another rant against the faith. Progress, though, progress. We had now moved from his assaulting me to more personal things, and I no longer dreaded seeing the man, but really wanted to get to the bottom of why he was so hostile. A few weeks later, everything changed. Well, not everything, but his attitude did, at least.

I didn't see Dennis for a few weeks, but when he did show up next, he was not quite so volatile as before. "I walked out on my job today," he told me. "Why?" I started. And so we were at it again, talking non-stop for the greater part of two hours. Eventually, he showed me some numbers that he had looked up of other places that he might be employed. I went with him to the phones downstairs and we called several of them, who kindly agreed to send him an application. He showed me how much pension money he was making, how much he already had saved, and how much his job still owed him. "That's enough money to live on for a few months, don't you think? I mean, if you were in my situation, you wouldn't be worried, right?" "Right," I said, "not yet - hopefully those applications will work out and you'll have another job before long, anyways." "But I'm fine for now?" "I would think so, yes. Keep me updated on the applications, and if you find any more numbers next week, we'll call them, ok?" "This is how much money they owe me." He showed me again. He thanked me and shuffled off. I went back to the coffee bar trying to figure out if that was a good thing for Dennis or bad. He had hated his job, and he sure seemed less angry at the world now that he was somewhat broken. "Alan," I turned around. It was Dennis, who'd come back. "I wanted to thank you again, and I know I've said I appreciate you a lot today, but I wanted to make sure you know I'm on the straight side of the road. I'm not gay." This last bit he half-whispered. I laughed. "Oh, I know Dennis, don't you worry. Take care, and let me know how the job search goes!" It was a good day, no question.

Lesson: The Germans don't like British Pounds...

2009-05-01T03:36:00.000-07:00

Unaware of the phenomenon of May Day, I managed to book the first ever flight to Memmingen on Ryan Air. this means two things...first, that the pilot, who already does his best to make RyanAir flight landings as uncomfortable and terrifying as possible, has never landed at this particular airport. it doesn't help, either, that when the landing time did come, I was completely unaware, beign entrhralled by a new book I had just purchased a few hours before. Secondly, it meant that the airport we were flying to was small. very small. so small that all the pounds I brought with me to exchange at the airport exchange place were totally useless - there was No airport exchange place. so I got off the airplane, left the airport, and walked in what looked like the directioin toward the city, with nothing by two euros and 80 cents. Later on, this would buy me a pretzel (buterpretzel to be precise) and a bottle of wather that I was praying would not be carbonated. It was. The first town I got to was silent. A silence that was extremely unwelcoming, despite the beauty of the flowers and trees and German buildings scattered hear and there. every now and then a biker would huff and puff and he peddled by, but mostly it was silent. I should have taken this as some sort of warning, but I just figured it was a small quite town where nothing ever really happened. But by the time I got to the next town - a much larger town, this one - one that actually had its own ice cream shop - I was huffing and puffing myself. And while the ice cream shope was open, nothing else, as far as I could tell, was. maybe a cafe or two. and a church. but not the bank, no, and no change exchange places to speak of. all the supermarkets begged me to come in with their fruit displays smiling out the windows like an eager child with his face to the glass - but as soon as my eyes widened, they drooped once more. locked. closed down. Do they have a siesta hour here, too? this was a serious question for me. finally, I made it to a hotel where a lady kindly informed me that it was in fact, a holiday, and all the banks and such would be closed. there's an atm around the corner, she poited out. fail. it had extracted all but 50 dollars from my savings account and it was all in my wallet in pounds. having noting else to do, I was forced to extract the rest of my funds in euro dollars from the machine and then my journey to munich began. now I am in the train headed Munichways with 10 euro left and no place to spend the night. yet.

Part I - In which we meet Dennis

2009-04-30T03:07:00.000-07:00

When I first joined the ECCP team (my London internship), the director took me aside to tell me all the logistical stuff - don't give out your phone number, don't tell people where you live, don't, don't, don't...you know - the mindless stuff that anyone should know naturally. But then he added a bit at the end. "And watch out for Dennis. He's a nice guy, don't get me wrong, but he's hostile to Christianity and I don't really know why he keeps coming back. He had theological training, but has had some really bad experiences with Christians and now hates it altogether. He especially likes to find new people - like you - and challenge their faith by displaying his knowledge and making you feel like you don't have any idea what you believe or why you believe it. I don't think you'll have to worry about questioning your faith or anything, but I’m telling you this so you can be ready for him."

And so, on the first day of work, what should happen? An elderly chap walked in the door - a little hunched, and with hair askew - looked at me, and said "who is this?" "Hi! I'm Alan," I started, "good to meet you. You want some tea or coffee?" "A little feminine, don't you think?" I just looked at him, still trying to figure out where the last comment came from. "Hi Dennis," I heard someone else say. Oh…Dennis. "Where are you from?" he asked. I told him. "Did you vote for Obama?" I told him I didn't, not this time. Clearly, this was the wrong thing to have said. Before long, a big Scottish chap was in on the conversation as well, a-jabbin away Dennis while the latter tried to make me feel like a fool and a moron bundled together by a spool of yarn. "Why are you a Christian?" he eventually asked. I began to answer, when Nancy (a wonderful polish lady) came and stole me from the coffee bar to go distribute food. Relieved to have some peace, I looked up to see that Dennis had followed. "Do you know what transubstantiation is?" Yes. "Do you know what happened in 313?" Yes. "What?" Uh. the Council of Nicea? "No. that was 325. It was the Edict of Milan. Don't you know the Edict of Milan?"

He continued on like this for some time, making sure I realized I didn't know a tenth as much about the history of the Church as I ought - until eventually I was sent somewhere else where he didn’t follow. So that night, I went home a little disappointed. I hoped that my first encounter with him would be one different that ones he'd had with other people. I wanted to give some answers that caught him off guard and made him think - wow, this guy really does know why he believes. But no, it was just like his experience with everyone else. I made sure I'd talk to him again sometime.

The Linguistics Lesson for the Day...

2009-04-25T02:26:00.000-07:00

A lovely day in the park. Zeva is making rings out of grass shards, I am making a flag out of a stick, Victoria is rambling about how this hole we found in the ground is a secret portal to another world, but we can't fit through it, and a bird is chirp-chirpin away at an imaginary foe.

"That bird sounds awful disgruntled," I say.

"That's the truth."

"Disgruntled. What does that even mean? I mean, does that mean you can be gruntled?" this last comment comes from Victoria.

"Of course you can be gruntled." - this from me.

"But if disgruntled is a bad thing, does that make gruntled a good thing?"

"Ya."

"How is gruntled a good thing?"

"Well, if you're disgruntled, that means you're so upset that all the grunts are coming out of you - you are, as it were, dislodging the grunts from within."

"And if you're gruntled?"

"You're not angry, so all your grunts stay inside of you."

Oh.

Continued...

2009-04-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

Change the world, eh...How? First, by treating the people you run into today as eternal beings, because that's what they are.

Two things to keep in mind: First, as Lewis says,

"It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth 'thrown in': aim at earth and you will get neither...If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probably explanation is that I was made for another world. If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same."

Now this next excerpt may seem to contradict the first, but I assure you it doesn't.

Chris Fabry - "At the Corner of Mundane and Grace" - Chap. 47:

"I once read a book that chronicled the incredible journey of a man who quit his lucrative job, divorced his wife, sold his possessions, and moved to a beach house along the coast of California. It was a beautifully written book with a nice cover that made you want to do the same.

In those pages I sensed a searching, the same desire I have to salve the daily ache of the ordinary. The author was trying to fill the hole in his soul with sand, salt air, and driftwood art. But a beautifully written book does not make it a true book, nor does emptying ourselves of all responsibility help us achieve authenticity.

Going back to nature, getting close to crabs and mackerel, will not, in the end, prove your existence is worthy. It only gets you closer to crabs and mackerel. It's easier for me to see this flaw since I'm not sure crabs and mackerel are that fond of people like me. I would rather eat them than spend time with them. But something in me yearns for this kind of romance. It sounds fulfilling to leave everything and everyone behind and begin again.

Upon closer examination of the story, however, I saw it was not a life filled with simple abundance. It was simply pathetic.

The author of this beautifully written book pointed to Paul Gauguin as an authentic, artistic individual. To correctly pronounce the French name 'Gauguin,' you must sound as if you have a big hunk of crab in your mouth. Paul Gauguin forsook his wife and five children and took a residence in Tahiti, where he could paint all day and smell the sea and live as if nothing else in the world mattered but his gift. Perhaps if I were more gifted, like Gauguin, I would understand his choice. This, I believe, is one of the many blessings of mediocrity.

Anyone can run away fro life. Anyone can take off their watch and say they are free from the restrictions of time. As idyllic as it sounds, I have decided not to emulate these people. I want to be a man who takes off his watch and sits in the middle of the floor, no matter how crowded with toys and stale Cheerios, and plays with his children until they believe he truly loves them. I want to be a man who is not concerned about getting away from every encumbrance of life but who wants to use those encumbrances to make a statement to those around him: 'You are more important to me than things. You are more important than my ambitions. You are eternal. These are temporal. I want to spend my life on you, not on them or even myself." ...

But amidst this grand desire, I have a desperate problem: I am no better than the person who runs off to Tahiti and abandons his children, for every day I am just as selfish. I don't often take off my watch and let the children jump on my back, but when I do, I'm only down there a few minutes before I look at the clock and wonder when I can start doing what I really want. Every day with little decisions I choose the Island of Me instead of some exotic solace. It looks a lot more respectable than Tahiti, but it seems just as far away to my wife and kids. The only difference between Gauguin and me, other that the way you pronounce it, is that I am left with a thousand choices each day instead of one big one."

Hopefully, you will see the connection.

Harmonies, Hobbits, and Hope

2009-04-15T22:58:00.000-07:00

Today was a wondrously musical day: the morning was spent with the Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra rehearsing the Rite of Spring (I thought it was about all the parts of spring coming alive - the daffodils, the trees blooming, the birds, all in one harmony - but no, it turns out it was 'a pagan sacrifice.' I've never been good at figuring out what musical linguistics were actually saying...Like the time I thought one bit of the carnival of the animals was a hippo, and it turned out to be swan...), and the evening was with the London Symphony Orchestra playing the entire Fellowship of the Ring score with the movie playing in the background. It was brilliant. Beautiful. Grand.

But back to the Bolivar. The Youth Orchestra that we saw takes the best of the best from El Sistema - a Venezuelan organization that takes impoverished children or those from underprivileged backgrounds and trains them in the ways of music. There are hundreds of youth orchestras operating under this system, and it has apparently had a profound effect on the Venezuelan youth. The conductor of this group (Gustavo Dudamel) was equally brilliant and funny (it was a rehearsal, so he would stop every now and again to explain to the crown why this piece of music was so powerfully rich). You could tell the violinists and all the others loved him and we're honored to be there. It even gave me fond memories (which is hard to do) of my high school band days. ha! Here's the conductor:

So having in mind what this orchestra has accomplished and having watched "Blood Diamond" last night, seeing Gandalf say (with an orchestra under his chin) "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us," the last 26 hours have repeatedly reminded me to stop what I'm doing and change the world. We should take comfort in the fact that we live in a world that can be changed, and has been by individuals all along.

From the mouth of a child...

2009-04-14T05:36:00.000-07:00

ME: I'm gonna take a nap right hear and rest.

*Ethan jumps on my stomach*

EMELINE: Not with us around!

it was true - all true. so instead, I jotted down a few things that came out of their mouths....here's a sampling:

I'm so hungry I could pop my head off and my whole body would go like phsssswww!

Daddy's not here.

Yes he is.

I'm just kidding.

Hey-la-ti-da-ti-da.

My couch - my property. You can get your own couch.

*Ethan runs off*

Ah, just let him go - he's a grumpus today. But don't call him that. He'll go waaayahaahaaayaaaa! (she flails her arm around every which-a-way).

Alan, I can play a song on the guitar.

Really?

Yeah. It's called Emeline's Guitar.

(she bangs on the strings of the guitar without any noticeable harmony...)

....and that was my morning. a fine morning it was.

Some thoughts on weeping...

2009-04-13T01:53:00.000-07:00

According to a couple of psychologists named Myers and Briggs who will forever go down in history for realizing that there are really only 16 variations of people in the whole world, I'm an ENFP. For the record, that means I share the personality of Machiavelli and Dr. Seuss. "An ENFP who has 'gone bad' can become manipulative - and is quite good at it." I'm excited.

Anyways, that's not the point here. The point is that I'm an "Feeler" and not a "Thinker", which basically means I never make rational decisions and really just rely on what I feel like is a good idea. No, that's actually not true either. It really means I have more of a reliance on my emotions than non-feeler types. Not that big of a deal, but it does, in some sense, help justify why I'm about to try and ameliorate those who weep. If your not the weeping type, no need to fear - it's not for everyone, I'm told. My point here is that it is, in fact, for some.

We went to church yesterday (it was a British church, so I probably should cut them some slack), where we heard a most interesting Easter sermon. I won't get into the pastor's comments about how "When we are resurrected, we will all be 33. You know how I know this? - because Jesus was resurrected in a 33 year old body." Somehow I must have missed this detail the last time I read the Synoptics... And I'll only mention his saying that we all brought our angels with us when we came to church this morning. The main thing I had a problem with was his contention that Mary Magdalen's weeping was both improper and wrong.

Here's the passage:

'But Mary stood weeping, outside the tomb, and as she wept she stopped to look into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet. They said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping?' She said to them, 'They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.' ...

Of course, the story goes on, and she recognizes the risen Lord when he calls her name, and it is a lovely, glorious story of hope in the midst of a broken world that God himself has redeemed.

But that's not what we talked about this Easter Sunday. Instead we focused on how Mary's weeping kept her from seeing the truth and how He chastises her for letting tears get in the way of hope. hmph.

Now don't get me wrong - it is all very true that we can lose sight of hope sometimes because we become overly emotional about something or think all is lost when really things just didn't happen the way we thought and wanted them to. But Mary's weeping here was not something she should have been chastised for - and she wasn't - not by Christ at least. When He and the angels ask her 'Why are you weeping?' they are not condemning her - they are showing their genuine concern. If she went to the grave and saw an empty tomb and thought, 'hrmmm...well, I guess he's gone for good, let's get on with life and trust that something will make all this work out in the end,' we'd think her an emotionless, heartless woman who never really cared about Christ outside of his ability to help her personally. Mary's weeping was both natural and proper.

The more important question here is 'Whom are you seeking,' which Jesus answers for her shortly by revealing his true identity to her by saying her name - showing her he cares for her personally and filling her with all hope and joy and peace. The tears allow her to appreciate this moment all the more. It's no wonder Jeremiah tells us in Lamentations to "Cry out into the night watches / Pour out your hearts like water in the presence of the Lord." It's no wonder the Psalms are saturated with weeping, questioning tears. And it's no wonder we are told when Job tears his clothes and falls to the ground in sorrow but still worships the Lord that "in all this Job did not sin."

See, the point here is not to never weep. The point is to not lose sight of hope in your weeping. This is why the ending of the Lord of the Rings is so wondrous when Gandalf assures the hobbits: "I will not say: Do not weep; for not all tears are an evil." The Fellowship is coming to an end, but hope is not.

Weep for the end of something gold that didn't stay, but weep in hope and assurance of the swift sunrise that will permeate eternity.

Why? because He is risen.

Swimming in the Serpentine...

2009-04-11T19:18:00.000-07:00

Almost every morning, our neighbor Roger leaves his flat at 5:30 and walks to Hyde Park (about a 30 minute stroll), where he and a group of "Serpentine Swimmers" jump in the frigid waters of the River and stroke a few laps. Among this group are Olympic swimmers, people who have swum the English Channel, owners of fruit stands, and members of the House of Commons. Roger, himself, apparently was a tourist attraction some twenty years back, when he would dress in his "swimming costume" and head down the streets of London barefoot, jump in the Serpentine, and walk back to his flat dripping wet.

But today, a few of us got to join in the fun. We didn't leave at 5:30, though, not today - for this day was a Serpentine race, which happens twice a year, as far as I can tell, and some 30 people show up hoping to win a trophy. Roger was not swimming this time and we just went along to see what was happening. It was grand - British people everywhere yelling out insults at the swimmers - "come on, Anna, you could walk faster than that!" "Walter's given up already." One of the onlookers explained to us that this was the 'slow group,' and amidst all the gleeful madness, one guy stood submerged in the freezing water with a cup of tea. "Jim, what are you doing?" "I'm injured!" he kept explaining. "Jim's acting like he's injured so he doesn't have to race," noted another.

Anyways, all said and done, three of us ended up in the water whether we planned to or not, and a pool of spectators laughed along with us while they continued to mispronounce "Alabamee." hahahaaa....goodness.

Of Daffodils and Staples (Clive Staples, that is)....

2009-04-10T15:12:00.000-07:00

Today we visited that homely town where Tolkien and Lewis walked about and John Wesley carved his name in stone. Oxford, they call it - and yes, it does live up to all its namesake.

Roger, our trusty neighbor, took us around Christ Church, Trinity College, St. John's, New College, Lincoln, and his own - Magdalen College. We walked on dirt paths next to streams with daffodils bloomin like an Outback appetizer, over the place where Ridley and Latimer lit their flame across all of England, and into a candy store that did NOT have the famed Millionaire bar that I've spent the greater part of my life looking for.

It was a lovely day, but now I am worn like the gums of a pig who been chawin a hambone. So here's one story for you.

Roger told us that the old president of Lincoln college was so proud of a certain painting of Henry VIII that he showed it to one of Henry's descendants. It was quite a remarkable gem-o-the-trade, as the entire picture was made up of little hand-written passages from the the chapters of Psalms that you could only see if you looked closely. When he saw it, the descendant (who happened to be some sort of king/ruler figure) said "I want it."

"You can have it," said the President. "Under one condition."

"What is that?" asked the man.

"That you will give to us whatever we ask of you."

"Very well. What do you ask of me?" replied the King/ruler/person.

"That you give it back."

And to this day, it remains at Lincoln College.

Another Pie in the Face...

2009-04-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

Note: this post is full of sarcasm...I'm not this evil in real person...at least, I like to believe this is the case...

"Success is counted sweetest," wrote Emily Dickinson, "by those who ne'er succeed." So after my last failed attempt to pie Denisovich in the face (it was a tragic story, let me tell you) tonight's go at it resulted in pure, unhindered elation. A loose interpretation of 'messy glory', the mess was all over KatyO's face and the glory was all to be mine.

So here's the story...about a month ago, I was telling some good Londonfolk about how much grander life would be if more people got pied in the face on a daily basis. Katie begged to differ, offering one of those moralistically tomfoolerish comments about how things would go horrifically wrong if the wrong person had whipped cream applied to their freshly combed hair without a moment's notice..."but you could pie me - I wouldn't mind....it's just some people." This was all the permission I needed.

Today, then - whilst bakin a Koala cake for Kayla's b'day, I got Nathan to stew up a bucket of whipped cream for me, fresh from one or three of those powder packets. And anytime you can get Nathan involved in a pie-ing, you should already count it as a clear victory. Problematically, though, I was missing a proper pie tin. All we had was metal or glass, and the paper plates had left the building through various trash-baskets months ago. So tonight, as a group was going to the store, I sent Kathryn to pick up a pie tin for me. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, KatyO was in the grocery group and helped pick out a metal pie tin, as nothing else was available. 'Tis fortunate I didn't actually use her weapon of choice...

By now it was 10 of the clock and we were just getting back from Kayla's party shindig with her grandparents, and my options were wearing thin. Plenty of cream, a bit o time, but still no proper serving method. Fortunately, I was in my Robin Hood outfit, which comes in handy quite a bit, I've found (you never can tell when a robbery from the rich and a donation to the poor is needed). So I took off my hat, grabbed my favorite spoon, and filled the green feather-pinned headgear with the white goodness. Everyone was there, pretty much, and everyone saw me walk out with a cap full of cream. But KatyO walked and talked on unawares... mmmmmmm! The pie came in from the side and the hat formed perfectly around her face. It was a moment of pure joy. For me at least. Pure joy and justice in a world where it seeks so often to evade us.

And this time, the collected works of Mark Twain didn't have to take one for the team.

There are no words...

2009-04-07T14:59:00.000-07:00

Back to the Minotaur...

2009-04-05T15:17:00.000-07:00

f. Right...so I seem to have neglected the Minotaur after all this time...hmph.

When I left you, we had just met up with some elderly canadian types who were having a jolly time walkin around in the dark.

So we about-faced again back the way we headed after they told us there was not one but Two trattorias in the vicinity, and they implied that we had given up far too easily. Needless to say, by the time we got back to our Trattoria, it was still very much closed, and even the Canadians had to agree that the lights up the hill belonged to some pedestrian of sorts. Not taken off guard by the revelation, the two told us to keep going, so we took five more steps around a bend in the road and lo! another Trattoria shone out in the heavy darkness.

So we wandered our way inside and they went of to one corner and we went straight for the middle, all while a rotund Italian man said something incoherent to us in one of those romantic languages (I think it was Italian). So we sat down and tried to figure out the menu with an italian dictionary we stole from the Canadians (with their consent) - this approach apparently didn't work to well, since Shannon thought she ordered seafood pasta and ended up getting a bowl of spaghetti noodles floatin in some broth with a few tablespoons of fish-food dumped on top. She decided the guy must have gone to a pet store and thought the picture of a fish on a can meant fish seasoning. Anyways, halfway through the meal, one of the ladies walked over to our table and said: "Excuse me [in a voice much louder than necessary], what is the creature called that is half man and half horse?"

Trying to recover from the initial shock of the question, I mumbled something about a centaur, at which point the lady at the other side of the room yelled, "Ask them what a Minotaur is!"

"No, it's not a minotaur, it's a centaur," we tried to reason.

"No, it show up in Harry Potter all the time." I cringed at the mention of the name. For crying out loud, I can't even go to Italy without hearin about that harry loon.

"It's a centaur."

She turned around. And then back again - "What's a minotaur?"

After we convinced her that it was, in fact, a centaur, she walked back to the other table and said, quite audibly, "It's called a cinotaur."

She did point out at some point in the conversation that a picture of the backside of the horse/man creature was on the wall, which served as the instigator of such strange conversation. That made me feel a little better about the situation, but I still don't think I will ever properly recover.

"It's called Spring, Mum...and they have one here every year..."

2009-03-30T01:21:00.000-07:00

The woods and pastures are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this?

~ Wendell Berry

Continued Musings on Italy...

2009-03-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

f. and so, to carry on the Minotaur story....Katie G. found out somewhere or another that the Trattoria de Maiano was the place to eat if traveling to Fiesole. So, of course we did our best to find it. Unfortunately, our best meant ending up on a dark narrow road some 30 minutes after sundown. At the first sign of civilization (a hotel this time), we waltzed in to the reception area and asked about it. "Ah!" said the jolly Italian bellhop, "the Trattoria. It's just down the road and a bit to the left. You'll pass the Frattoria first, but that's not it. You're looking for the Trattoria. The road will be narrow, so be careful." We left with far more confidence than we ought.

Another 20 or so minutes passed and we began to wonder if all those stories about Roman expansion were merely lies to make outsiders believe Italy was actually inhabited by people. They were not lies, I am happy to tell you. The Frattoria was now in sight! Which meant the Trattoria was only minutes away. So.....we kept going...and going...and going. Lights laughed at us from miles away, the wind blew a cold breeze in our faces, and the sounds of night saturated the air. Alright, so that's a little dramatic...But (!) we did finally see a sign that said Trattoria, and at this there was much rejoicing - which was followed by much lamenting - and shortly thereafter by someone making some comment about how it would be a good story anyways...(that was probably me). The Trattoria was closed - shut down for the season, as far as we could tell, and ne'ern a soul in sight. There we some lights up the hill, but they clearly belonged to some pedestrian who took up residence in the otherwise abandoned village. So we about-faced and walked 100 yards right into a couple of elderly Canadians who were either taking a midnight walk through the breeze (which we found highly unlikely) or hoping to find the same place we were. They were loud, a bit loony, and some of the kindest chaps we'd met all week.

My goodness, I haven't even gotten to the Minotaur yet.

A flounder, indeed...

2009-03-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

e. Venice - a beautiful place, but sadly lacking trees. Two days was the perfect amount of time to stay, so that I could get my tree fix in Tuscany as soon as we left. While we were there, though, we rode a gondola (quite exciting):

and we passed by a restaurant on the corner of one of the blocks that was displaying a vibrant menagerie of sea creatures. Shannon: "Look! it's one of those...those flat fish(!) it's called a...a....." (Shannon clearly thought it was a sting-ray). An italian waiter nearby finished her sentence: "Eet's a Flounder!" Shannon, realizing that it was, in fact a flounder, and that an italian man she had never met before was yelling about flounders in the middle of the street, added: "Yes, a flounder!" and briskly walked on her merry way. I laughed heartily in her wake.

f. On day two of our Florence experience, we took the day off to head to Fiesole - a smaller Tuscan village on the hill just 15 minutes outside of the city. It was a lovely day: exploring pastry shops, hiking through the tuscan wilderness:

and watching the sunset over the city of Firenze. But as the sun was going down, the glory of the day was only just beginning...if I told you it involved Canadians and the Minotaur, you might not believe me. So I'll tell you it involved fish food and a taxi. Truth be told, it involved all four....

It's a Flounder!

2009-03-23T15:27:00.000-07:00

Some randomness from my rompings through Italy last week...

a. We started our journey on a RyanAir flight. mmm. what can you say about cheap airfare? First of all, they charge you for everything they can think of: this includes those "free" peanuts and drinks all plane flights are expected to give you out of gratitude, checking in a bag, lottery tickets that support some obscure charity, and of course, using the bathroom on board. Fortunately, they did not think to charge you for: getting off the plane, using the oxygen masks in case of an emergency, unlocking the overhead storage bins, or pulling down the tray-tables. Just you wait, Henry Higgins, just you wait.

b. Some Italians like it when you use their language. Others mock you when you try. Some smile. Some glare. Unfortunately, it was one of these latter kinds that I came across at dinner one of our first nights. "I'll have the [attempted pronunciation of long italian name] -" ::blank look:: "do you want meat sauce or tomato sauce?" I thought about asking her for a bucket of whipped cream instead so I could pie her in the face upon our next meeting.

c. Machiavelli continues to manipulate everyone around him to contrive against me. We went to a church in Florence where Galileo, Michaelangelo, Dante, and some of Napoleon's ancestors were buried - but I paid my 5 euro to see the grave of a man who will always be dear to my heart: Machiavelli. You see, good old Machi and I have the same personality type, according to Briggs and Myers: ENFP - which means we have high moral standards, but when we lose them, we become manipulative genii who can and will make people act the way we want. Machiavelli, as far as I can tell, advocated doing just this. Why this church wanted to bury him in their walls I will never know. (Dr. Seuss, I would like to point out, shared this personality type as well, so I could really go either way at this point in my life). Anyways, we got inside and I started looking around - wall 1 - no machiavelli. wall 2 - galileo. wall 3 - bonapartes. wall 4 - michaelangelo and dante - and then some construction work over a few other graves. All my walls being scanned, I looked through the construction fabric at what looked to be an important grave. yep. Machiavelli betrayed us all again, hiding himself behind rows of metal bars and fabric. What a fiend.

He followed me to Rome too - blocking off every Arch that could have been walked under with construction tape just to annoy the Christmas goose out of me. And then in Sorrento, he closed off the ferries to Capri on the one day we could have made it out to the island! I will have my vengeance. I'll just have to wait until the day I lose all my standards.

d. I still never explained the title of this post...but sleep beckons...more on the morrow.

Internshipstuffs...

2009-03-11T14:42:00.000-07:00

You know all those stories in the Good Book where Christ is telling some parable and the people completely miss the metaphor? Like when he calls himself the living water and the lady thinks he's talking about a liquid. Or when he says his followers must eat his body and drink his blood and they think he's suggesting cannibalism. Well, I get to talk with these chaps every Wednesday - and it's quite the thrill, let me tell you.

My internship in London is with a community project based out of a local church that runs a soup kitchen for those "on the outskirts of society." This means not only the homeless, but the people with speaking problems or drug problems or schizophrenia. There's one lady who thinks everyone in the world is out to get her. "I'm still alive," she notified us today when we first saw her.

Needless to say, I have some really interesting conversations every week. I'm sure I'll share some with you one day, but for now I'd like to concentrate on the Bible study bit we do at the end...

"The question I have for you is this..." said Nic, our leader, after a 45 dialogue on the original Passover of Moses' day (really, the conversation included everything from fig trees to milk and honey to Gordon Brown, depending on whatever came to their minds). "If you had the choice to put the blood of the lamb on your doorpost, would you do it?"

"hm..." said one. "Now that is a very interesting question you have put to us, Nic."

"I - I know if - if I had blood of anythin on my - on my door," interrupted another, "I would wipe it off."

"Well, I might would need a house in the winter because it's cold, but I don't need one in the summer," added a third.

"A very interesting question, that is, Nic." And that's how it usually goes.

Of Mazes and Rabid Geese...

2009-03-11T04:01:00.000-07:00

Here are some of the wonderful people living at the Daniel House this semester. The Daniel House is in the background there ->

...but not really.

This is Leeds Castle, where we watched an epic Swan/Goose battle and got extremely lost in a hedgemaze while the hecklers looked on and mocked us from their fort in the middle.

Interviewing the Stonehenge Experts...

2009-03-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

Our trip to Stonehenge last weekend was enhanced by an audio tour guide much like the one at Bath. This tour guide, though, was clearly making up most of its information, as it made confident assertions about a pile of rocks they knew practically nothing about. This being said, we decided to take matters into our own hands...and if we ever come back to this side of the world, we plan to sell our own audio guide to the people who are fed up with the "real" one. Here's a brief excerpt from our version...

Of Mud and Merriment...

2009-03-08T15:31:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago, a few of us headed north for the goodly land of the Cotswolds. We rented a cottage in a small town

called Blockley about 4 miles from Moreton-in-Marsh, which has the train station and the nearest bus stop. When we got there on Friday morningish we strapped our luggage to our backs and found a footpath that took us underhill and overhill to our homely house. We passed through fields and ran into several flocks of sheep (I put my bags down in the first one and ran around with them...it was glorious.), a large tree which we sat under and ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (the only form of peanut butter I can handle), and a really old stone wall with moss growin out of its innards. The first time we did the trail, it took us about 3 hours if you include our lunch stop and all the stops we made to take pictures every 23 seconds. When we arrived at the cottage, Gloria, the house-keeper, met us with a smile and talked to us for about 20 straight minutes about every topic she could think of. It was a lovely introduction to an even lovelier place. The rest of

the day was spent walking about the town, playing on a playground, and scrounging materials for omelets that eventide. We all gathered around the fireplace that night and thought... 'ah! what a pleasant weekend this will be...' Little did we know the excitement in store for us.

"So what's the plan for the day?" asked Katyo after we went through half a box of Choco Puffs and a few oranges (which Katie G. pointed out would be a horribly awkward thing to eat on a first date).

"Well, we walk to Stow-on-the-Wold and rent the bicycles, bike down to Borton-on-the-Water and be back by night. We'll try and see if we can keep them overnight and return them Sunday evening."

So that was the plan. But after telephoning the bicycle people, and other bicycle people, and people who used to be bicycle people, we ended up figuring out that the nearest bicycles were actually at Bouron on the Water and not Stow. "No worries, though, it should only take 2 or 3 hours to walk there, and we're here to see the countryside anyways." This was mistake number one. Had we walked the whole way, it would have taken some 5 or 6 hours to get there by foot and the bicycle place would have long been shut-down.

Upon realizing this, we took a bus to Bourton after an already late start and meandered through the beautiful village until about 4 of the clock.

"do you have any maps of good bike-trails in the area?" we asked the kind man behind the counter.

"you're coming from Blockley, right?" "yeah" "well, you'll probably only have time to get back home before it gets dark."

We should have realized this would mean trouble. And of course we didn't.

The problem was that the roads were more uphill than downhill, and we stopped every time I came within half a mile of a sheep. Needless to say, it was dark before we were even half-way back. A quarter of the way back, even. But we had a brilliant idea - lock up the bikes in Stow and take a bus to them in the morning and continue our journey from there!

Brilliant, except for one thing. we forgot that the busses don't run on Sundays.

So the next morning, as we sipped tea next to the fireplace and had a lovely bible study together, we thought once more that this would be a calm, relaxing day. And then we found out about the busses. Soooo, we did the only thing we could and walked to Stow. a mere 8 mile stretch, and overestimating our human abilities we thought we could make it in 2.5 hours. try 4. and halfway through hour 2, Katie G. asked me if I remembered to bring the key to the bicycle lock.

"uhhhhhh....mmm. that's not good." "you're kidding right?" "uh.... no."

"well, maybe we can pick the lock." - another error in human reasoning.

We got to our bikes with 5 minutes to spare and quickly realized that the lock was going nowhere, which meant the bikes were going nowhere. So we called a taxi (poor man, he must have thought we were loons). "hey! we need a ride from Stow to Blockley." "Ok, I can do that." "and then back to Stow." silence. "think of it like a there-and-back-again type journey." "alright." "oh, and then we need to go back to Blockley." there was no way we were walking all the way back in the dark. (oh, I forgot to mention, that's what we did the night before, and it was quite the adventure, what with Katyo getting her shoe eaten by a mudpuddle and the rest of us getting covered with dirt and grass).

In the end, it was the story of the season, and we all laughed and smiled and shook our heads in disbelief.

A wonderful weekend it was - even if nothing went the way it was supposed to.

Goats in the Bath...

2009-03-07T11:04:00.000-08:00

Today's journeys brought us west of London to the city of Bath - respectfully named for the hot springs which the Romans strategically exploited for all their worth a few centuries before the Bath city council did the same. The tour of the Roman Baths was hosted by a hand-held walkie-talkie lookin gadget that spoke to you when you typed in the right numbers. Fortunately, there were numbers specifically for children, so you could still learn as much as you wanted without having to listen to some old british guy telling you a bunch of nonsensical figures and measurements that you were sure to forget by the time you drank your afternoon tea. The children's audio guide even interviewed imaginary Romans who worked in the Baths, scrubbin the floors and laying the stones and such.

What they didn't warn you about was that one of the people they interviewed was a haruspex. And what, you may be rightly asking, is a haruspex? Well, since you asked....it's a soothsayer type who guts goats and studies their innards. And if you think that's a bit graphic, listen to the children's audio guide: baaaabaaaaaaa--(the noise of the goat suddenly stops with a "wwwwwesh") "He separates the liver from the rest of the innards and sets in on the table. Steam rises..." "Do NOT go to Londinuim!" he says - "The signs are not good."

More children, every day, becoming calloused about goat genocide.

Stories from London...

2009-03-06T11:45:00.001-08:00

Because I believe every day has at least one good story, and because I agree with Kate DiCamillo that "stories are light" in a dark world, here are a few to share with you from the last couple weeks.

I'm living with a four-year old Ethan who likes to call me by every name under the sun other than my own. As I casually slurp my potato stew for dinner, he suddenly looks up and me and grins. "Hello Fork," he says, smirking. "Hello Hair, Hello Lettuce, Hello Carrot." He continues naming me with every inanimate object in sight. Of course I responded in fashion ("Hello Ear"), and the madness continues. His sister, Emeline, tells me that I will never win, since he can and will go on forever. "He does this all the time at home," she says.

I'm in London right now for the semester and we met our neighbor the second night - a kind man named Roger. He told us all about the area around our house and all the good places to see art, authors giving lectures, public debates, bookshops, performances, and the like. At the end of his talk with us he said, "Now,

do you believe in accidents or purpose? because if you believe in purpose - that every meeting happens for a reason, and every moment is working together for some unseen vision to take place - then every meeting, every moment - life itself becomes Extraordinary." It made me smile.

After stopping by Shakespeare's Globe, which wasn't all that similar to his real Globe, according to our guide, we waltzed into St. Paul's Cathedral and climbed the 257 stairs to the Whispering Gallery above the choir. This may have been a most bothersome venture but for the little British schoolboy who was proudly showing his Pa how well he knew his numbers. Proudly, that is, until he got to the very top. "Two-hundred twenty-six, two-hundred twenty-seven...two-hundred twenty-EIGHT! There's 228 stairs, Dad!" "228, good job son," added his Pa. "No, 257," said an elderly woman matter-of-factly, "you must've lost a few." I was in shock - the nerve! To this his Pa added, "You must have lost a few, son."

Unbelievable.

While traveling about the city we came across a grand statue which read the following: "Milo the Cretonian / Who an Ox slew with his fist / and ate it up in one meal / Ye gods, what a glorious twist." Upon some consideration, we took this to mean that an overzealous ox took hold of Milo's fist and killed the poor fellow with it. After which, he detached the fist and gulped it down in one sitting. Thus, the glorious twist. And a lesson to us all in pronoun usage.

Because of Wonder...

2009-03-05T12:09:00.001-08:00

If you've stumble upon this bit-o-writing whilst periwandering through life, know I'm glad you've come. I hope you've not come thinking you'll find something more exciting or ingenious than the usual....I doubt you will. I hope you've come because it's good to have company.

We periwander

wondering

what will we all be

come.

We waltz and

whistle

merrily and sometimes

sing off key.

But if you stop

to ponder

and bring a bug

to mum

she may stop

and wonder -

and wonder

is for better.

for better

for we.

Messy Glory

At Long Last...

What the Bird Said Early In The Year

Road Trip Conversations...

Jollities.

Daddy Buck

Red Fish, Flu Fish

A Story from the Wood Pile

That's "Mr." to you...

Thanksgiving

Good Gollie (and Bink!)

How to talk to Mice...

psalm eight

Ludwig's First Sunset

Written on the Way to Deborah's Weddin'

brown.

The Fuller a Life, the Fuller a Death

Made-up Words...

Happiness and Cheer

In Defense of Poetry

When I Were a Dragon

The uses and misuses of Piglet's friend Pooh

What a Billow be...

Only the children know what they are looking for...

What if? Why not? Could it be?

Zebra Cakes and the Beginning of Something New...

25 Rolls of Toilet Paper

It's such, such a perfect day...

Something Untraditional (we hope...)

The Cockroach Whisperer...

Hop on Pop

More on the "gut" and the greasemonkey...

The elusive "gut" and other strange things...

It's that Time Again (!)

A Van for all Seasons...

VBS Jollities

What happens when you chat and play Canasta simultaneously...

The Halbrooks Compound Expands (!)

The First *Overwhelming* Experience...

Monkey Heads...

haHA!

Internship Thoughts...

Part III - The Last Day

Things Children Can Get Away With...

Part II - Our Friend Returns...

Lesson: The Germans don't like British Pounds...

Part I - In which we meet Dennis

The Linguistics Lesson for the Day...

Continued...

Harmonies, Hobbits, and Hope

From the mouth of a child...

Some thoughts on weeping...

Swimming in the Serpentine...

Of Daffodils and Staples (Clive Staples, that is)....

Another Pie in the Face...

There are no words...

Back to the Minotaur...

"It's called Spring, Mum...and they have one here every year..."

Continued Musings on Italy...

A flounder, indeed...

It's a Flounder!

Internshipstuffs...

Of Mazes and Rabid Geese...

Interviewing the Stonehenge Experts...

Of Mud and Merriment...

Goats in the Bath...

Stories from London...

Because of Wonder...

The First Overwhelming Experience...