Thinking Deep on a Drive

The other day while I was driving and I started thinking about the people in life I respect the most.

Why do I admire them so much? What was it about them I appreciated so much that made them stand out from all the rest of the people I know?

Then I began thinking of who in life has had the greatest influence on me. People that I have wanted to emulate, be like, copy--even become. Why did I want to become them? Had I?

Humility. Of the traits I found myself both admiring and desiring to imitate in my own life, what stood out to me was that many of the people I loved so much are humble. What does that even mean?

"God created the world out of nothing, and as long as we are nothing, He can make something out of us." -Martin Luther

Luke 22:26 says "The greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves."

This verse might as well have never left the original language it was written in. It has for the last twenty-two years of my life had absolutely no bearing on my life whatsoever. I'm sure every time I've ever read or heard that verse spoken it has had little or no weight on my heart. Now I look at it and wonder, how do you live like that?

How can I, a naturally selfish person who out of impulse looks for the shortest line, changes lanes frequently and ends prayers quickly because I'm hungry even BEGIN to understand what this means?

Luke 5:8 Peter cries out "Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man" which is how I've lived my entire life.

It is the fullness of the Spirit that makes me take in Christ and live as if He is in my life. Not anything I do.

Andrew Murray writes, "...the reality is that external teaching and personal effort are powerless to conquer pride or create the meek and lowly heart in a person."

Jesus came as a man not to be served, but to serve. That is key. The connection I am beginning to realize is that it is not through my own empowerment I am redeemed, but through riding the wake of Christ that I begin to realize what humility truly means.

I have been given a tremendous gift of grace, a learning curve in life that allows me to pursue relentlessly becoming exactly it is that Jesus has for me to be. Unlike drag racing, I do not have a straight line I need to adhere to, but instead the freedom of the law to live in. I can chase after becoming a godly man and discovering what it is God has for me without worry that I'm going to mess things up or fall short.

It isn't about the end goal, it's about the journey. It's about following Him moment by moment.

James 4:6 says "God opposes the proud." This directly affects and deals with me, as I am by nature of my humanity, prideful. But this is not a stand alone statement. "God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble." And it is there I must live.

I suck at the daily tasks of submission. Serving, praying, thinking about holy things, these things don't come naturally to me. But God delights in me, His child, somehow anyway. I am promised this, told this, shown this, and time and time again reminded that it isn't about me. It isn't about me.

It isn't about me.

It's to the glory of God.

Donald English says in his book The Message of Mark, "At the source of all Christian service in the world is the crucified and risen Lord who died to liberate us into such service." Our service then, my service, is not what brings about humility. It is the act following the submission of my heart to His, recognizing that I am not deserving of any pride. None.

I cannot serve my way out of this prideful hole my life so often exists in.

Instead, I need to recognize my position as recipient to a huge kingdom, my place being to serve that kingdom and in as many ways as possible, effectively communicate the love and sacrifice that Jesus is to our hurting world.

What I have admired most in the people I respect are their humility, how effectively they communicate, how often they choose to serve, and their love they have for others.

These things come from a perfect Savior who promises the same to me. I can become what I see and long for.

It starts with the decision to realize with humility that I have been given much; many opportunities to serve, many chances to love, and more than both combined to live the way Jesus has asked me to.

Originally posted by guy1 at tastedangerouslyrandom

In Love? Wear a Tribal Symbol

Why do they do it?

Good question.

Every person above the age of 37 has wondered that completely original thought since facial jewelry started to come with an "imbedded" option.

Ears, nose, cheeks, ears, lips, chin, tongue, eyebrows, ears...it can all become a strange and wonderfully magnificent meeting place for all types of metallic and plastic infection inducing works of human art. (The word “ears” is used three times because there are three times as many places in your ears to pierce than the whole rest of your face combined.)

I often wondered why on earth people of a non-ethnic minority chose to wear bones in their nose and ears. You know, the curved ones that are pointed on either end...sometimes big, sometimes bigger.

Then it came to me. They were simply hopeless romantics.

Yes, the kids walking around jingling like Christmastime in enough metal material to subdue a small country were chivalrous, idyllic, imaginary dreamers.

The cartilage-like matter dangling from their faces and ears meant they were in love.

“Sweetheart, I will love you with every bone in my body.”

Thats what they told their girlfriends. Every one of them, scared that they wouldn't be able to give enough love, added just a few more bones to their bodies.

Notice, no one actually asks these kids why they have chosen these piercings, for fear the individual will take out their iPod headphones and have an intelligent conversation with them, shattering their stereotype of the subculture.

I've had my lip pierced... in the same spot. Three times.

“Why did you do that?” you ask. Well, its like this.

I don't really know.

I'll list responses in order that I think them up.

1. There was something comforting in the knowledge that I was never to be bored again, having endless entertainment there at my lips. It was like a friend just waiting to be played with.

2. After getting it, I had to change the way that I spoke to allow for the irregularity on the left side of my mouth, and after taking it out each time, it threw me off completely.

3. “Dance, Dance,
We're falling apart to half time
Dance, Dance
And these are the lives you'd love to lead
Dance, this is the way they'd love...”

4.The ability to psyche people out when I had it by conversing intelligently with them made my day every time.

But that is the perspective of a guy with one big logical fallacy for a brain.

Lunch

I've just walked past nine booths lined up on either side of me displaying the pictures of hungry, dirty children with the most beautiful eyes and smiles you could ever hope to see. In our marketing culture of small payment plans, redit lines, sex appeal and sales that draw us in, at the heart of it all is our culture. We are a culture that spends. We buy comfort, love, health, laughs, counseling sessions and new movies.

Hand-in-hand with every taste or preference you have is an opportunity to serve or an outreach to join with. If you want to build a well, adopt a child, buy incredible photographs to support a given cause or travel the world in service, the opportunities are there. On this planet with networking now so extensive I can identify with someone four states away who just posted an update about doing their taxes at the last second possible just like I did, there is literally a limitless, infinite number of available chances to serve or give.

We pull up in our Buick Rendezevous careful to park with an even space nest to both sides of the vehicle, get out and lock it with the push of a button, then go inside the Youth Ministry Conference to get our badge for the week. We walk by the ministry tables and smile courteously, making a mental note to avoid that section of the conferencing area from now on. I glanced then walked by to lunch, and so, so many people reacted that way.

Jesus said "there will always be the poor." This may or may not surprise you, but He was speaking the truth. I contend, however, that He was not providing an escape route. We are not called to serve everyone in the world tirelessly and care about every single outreach, He was also clear about that. We are given specific gifts, passions, intuitions and abilities. But what Jesus did say, and what I saw a startling lack of, is compassion.

"Caring" and "getting involved" are not synonymous with compassion. Compassion is sincere, scriptural, and an aspect of our faith that is both unique and powerful. What does it look like to be compassionate, to have compassion for those who hunger for and need it more than a well, medical help or an education? Every single answer to life as we need is found in the bible, and we have it as an open book to refer to as often as we like, no holds barred. That should be where we learn to sift through hundreds of organizations, thousands of people passionate about them, and the millions of needs that are represented. What is it that God is calling me to, how can I encourage these people and what they do? How can I use the gifts I've been given for His glory and learn how to become more compassionate and full of grace?

I saw many people give the booths they walked by the same look I imagine they give homeless people asking for a dollar, and it was so apparent the difference between what a hardened heart looks like and what compassion comes across as. A hardened heart shuts out each booth and makes the person feel a slight twinge of guilt as they walk by and later push a button to unlock their 2009 SUV. A compassionate heart sees the unity in Jesus through grace and is open and honest as they interact with the individuals who are so drawn to those needs, joining them in prayer and through fellowship with the Holy Spirit whether or not they adopt a child for $38.00 a month.

originally posted by Guy 1 on Taste Dangerously Random

From the Mind of 1884

This Christmas my brother and I drove from Washington to Montana. During our trip we sang songs, took turns driving, argued about the effect of autotuning on the music industry and it's downfalls/benefits, drank energy drinks, sang anthems loudly, peered through a snowy windshield, yelled at passing semi-trucks, and actually used the restroom maybe twice for the whole eight hundred miles, a topic of great pride.
One of our stops was a ten minute drive back the way we came off an exit to find a rumored bookstore.
We found it.
Upon arriving at the front door that jingled merrily, we saw floor to ceiling every square foot of the place covered in books. Treasures. Invaluable and intoxicatingly joyful treasures.
We dispersed, went our separate directions, and dove headlong into the past. An hour later I emerged with one of my most prized finds. See, since dating this incredible girl who has all but renewed my fire for reading and literature as well as old books, I found a gem among the dime novels, outdated text books, and editions of past National Geographic. It was titled "the Human Body and It's Health" by "Smith." Copyright: 1884. Marked in penciled old lady handwriting was the price "7.95" on the inside cover.
She took five dollars.
I walked away with my heart light and my hand filled with a tiny little "reader" for elementary students of the past, a surprisingly well versed and detailed overall entailing of the human body.
I will share with you a short paragraph titled "Effect of Alcohol and Tobacco."

"Section V. --1. By the action of alcohol, muscle is sometimes changed, in part, to fat. It thus becomes flabby and feeble. Alcohol affects the muscles indirectly, by affecting the digestion and the blood, and so spoiling their nourishment. The athlete training for a prize, knows well, that, if he indulges freely in alcoholic drinks, he will surely fail to bring his muscles to a hard and vigorous condition. Total abstinence from alcohol and tobacco is important for his success.
2. Firm and active muscles are desirable for every one. The boy who thinks it manly to smoke, is, by doing so, lessening that muscular power which is an admirable and manly possession. The pale faces, dull eyes, and flabby limbs which this practice tends to produce, give no sign of manliness. It is true that men distinguished for strength of body are often users of intoxicating drinks or tobacco. But it is also true that such men frequently become diseased, and die before their time. They have squandered the powers which nature has given them."

I found the article surprising and concise...even if the science behind it was only speculated, not proven.
Be ye warned, young males: drinking makes for flab.
Flab just isn't sexy.
Nor is dying of disease.

At least we know Harry Truman, John McCormack and Eleanor Roosevelt weren't born from drunks in 1884 with this quality education being taught in New York and Chicago at the time.
The world needs more little green elementary reader books and less Ludacris lyrics about "gin and juice."
Well, maybe. Or maybe it's that back in the day people were tough.
Like...I would so not mess with this group of people. They could all totally outrun my flab, and I rarely, rarely touch the stuff.



Post-note. I can't be certain, but I think the subliminal messaging behind this elementary reader is that if you drink or smoke, these people in the above picture will come back from the past and point their finger at you.
Drink and smoke at your own discretion.

Kangaroos and Buffalo

My imagination has always been, and is to this day, a ravenous beast in a peaceful wood that will never be silenced.
Take a left off the highway and go along the main drive through town eventually making several turns. It is here you’ll find the “Barn House.”
We lived in a two story house with features that for some reason my older sister and I attributed to a barn. And so it was called the Barn House. I’m twenty-one now, and to this day we will refer to that particular home as the “Barn House.”
There were always next door neighbors. It wasn’t until I was in high school and learning to separate myself voluntarily in attitude and behavior from the normal world that I learned the practice of knowing and being friends with one’s neighbors was decidedly unpopular.
These neighbors had a son my age, and we did stuff together. All the time. Or not that often. I can never remember.
He wore a red shirt sometimes. I think.
His mom was a short lady and had curly hair.
Their house was blue.
And there was definitely a stone wall, about two and a half feet tall that divided our property and theirs.

Dad owned a garage door company, and it was in the early years of its becoming…whatever it is that companies become.
This meant that since we had little-to-no warehouse space for the doors, we stored them in racks in our garage. Dad had a small office located somewhere else he left for to go to work each day.
When I was six, he came home one day and wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks, sat me down on our blue, felty-feeling couch with big buttons all over and said “Jimmy, I’ve got some pretty exciting news.”
This had to be important. Really important. I know ‘cause Mom was sitting across from me with the camera all ready.
My older sister put her pencil down and completely abandoned the homeschool math sheet she was working on. She could add seventeen minutes to three-thirty pm later.
Dad wasn’t mad at Jimmy, and her eight year-old mind didn’t already know what Dad was going to say, so she had to listen.

“Well Jimmy, one of my customers wanted a garage door. But this was no regular customer, this guy had a very special job. He goes to work every day and takes tourists for helicopter rides up the side of Mauna Kea and takes them right over the volcano.”
My Dad probably said more. I’m guessing what followed was he told me about how the customer traded him a helicopter ride for part of the payment for his garage door. I’m sure my Dad told me when we were going, and that it was at least several days away. There is no doubt in my mind that my sister waited until the opportune moment when she and Mom were alone in the kitchen, then she asked her how come Dad was taking me and not her, and she maybe even cried about it.
All I know is the seconds flew by and then I was dressed in my favorite Sher-kahn t-shirt from the jungle book that a Vietnamese lady who lived in an apartment building made for me, climbing into the cockpit of a helicopter.
Another second or two and I was adjusting my headphones, telling Dad and the pilot that I could hear them both.
Then we were moving smoothly over hundreds of acres of grass and cattle. Roads, tiny little cars and pretend-looking buildings passing relentlessly below.
To this day I’ll swear I saw kangaroos and buffalo. I can see them in my mind just as I did the day we flew over them on our way to the Volcano. I only wish they existed.
Then we were there. I could see the smoke rising angrily, billowing dark and other-worldly from the most deadly and dangerous thing a little boy’s mind could conceive of.
Lava was more dangerous than the ocean.
People died in lava.
We were at the edge of the volcano. I could see it bubbling and spurting orange and red liquid fire out at me. What if it burned a hole in the plane.
In a horrified, fascinated panic I gripped the arm at the edge of my seat and leaned back from the window.
The pilot was going right over the lava.
“Whoa, its getting pretty hot in here, can you feel that Jimmy?” I could feel it. I could smell certain death below. We were going to die. People died in lava. We were right over it and the pilot was steering us so that now we were totally over the lava. What if the helicopter stopped spinning and we dropped into it? Me and Dad were gonna die. And the pilot too.
“Wanna go down a little closer to the lava?”
“No Dad!”
The laughs in my headphones were no competition for the loudness of my imagination.
I didn’t want to die. Other people already died in that lava down there, and Dad wanted to go closer!
I could feel it all over my skin as I sank into it. It felt just like the jacuzzi I got into at the hotel before one time. Then a security guard came over and told Dad no kids allowed in it, so Bethany and I had to go play in the pool while Dad got to talk with the older tourist people from Canada with funny accents.

Somewhere a gasp and another dip in the rotors later, we landed at the airfield in Waimea. It was cold and rainy, fog covered the small private airstrip we drove away from. I was cold and numb from my mind out to my still crawling skin.
We had flown over the Volcano.

Dad had done what the imagination of a little boy could not have conceived in a million little boy years.
My sister graduated first, married first, and had the first grandchild.

But I flew over the Volcano.

Mums in Season

Taking a deep breath, there was the sound of denim on leather as he slid out of the bucket seat of his 1976 Chevy pickup. The door slammed hard, maybe just a little too hard.

Booted shoes laced up to the ankle plodded softly on the cemented walkway.
A single petal from the bouquet of Mums (her favorite flower) dropped to the ground unnoticed.
Somewhere several hundred yards to his left a frozen pine cone dropped with an echo that resonated over the frozen creek bed.

Almost there.
Heavy breathing.

He started to slow, realizing that it was cold outside.
His fingers tugged at the zipper that always seemed to catch halfway up his worn leather jacket.

Everyone he knew thought it was unhealthy for him to go and see her again, but he didn’t care. He had to. He’d promised her.
She was his everything. He lived for that smile, the laugh, the look in her eye that she kept special for him alone.
And every time he visited her, he got to see those again.

“Hello sweetheart. I missed you so much this week. So much happened that I haven’t gotten to tell you about.
Before I go any further though, here. I got these for you, I know they’re a little gone by, but they’re Mums. I had to."

“I was late to work again on Friday. Luckily Aaron didn’t say anything, but I know he noticed. He just gave me one of those smiles that said, 'lets not have this conversation.' I really like him, and I know you do too. You were so happy when I got that job, I remember you lit up like a Christmas tree and practically squeezed my lungs flat. Then you called all your family and everything…you’re amazing. You never fail to make me feel like the most important man in the world.”

“All the other men at work talk about how their wives gossip about them or nag all day. I got to come home every day to the most beautiful woman in the world with eyes that said I love you. You got excited with me, you made me laughed and laughed at my jokes, and your favorite thing was to just be with me.”

“I got a phone call from Christine the other day. She said she’s doing well, she likes college, and she’s taking a ton of hours but that there’s this guy that makes her take a break and go for a walk or to the movies every once in a while. I’ll have to get your opinion on him.”

“You are without a doubt the smartest, loveliest woman I know. If something big in my life happened, I couldn’t wait to come home and tell you about it because I wanted so badly to know what you thought about it.”

“I’m thinking about selling the truck. I know it was your favorite, but its getting old like us, and I’m going to need something more reliable soon. Especially since its winter time. Should I go with another truck or a car? Truck? Of course. Heh heh, the first truck I ever bought was because you told me it was attractive to see a man driving around in a truck. I’ll never know why you decided I should be your attractive man. Its not like I was in your league. I guess the truck was though.”

The sun had gone down and it had gotten eight degrees colder while he’d been talking to her, but he’d gotten much warmer.

On and on he spoke. And still she listened with her soft smile and eyes that held something special for him alone.

Eventually the flowers froze in his gloved hands, the scarf wrapped around his neck preserving him against the snow that had begun to fall.

The distant streetlights at the entrance glistened on her grave, reflecting on the iced-over tombstone that had her name, age, and favorite quote chiseled on its face.

Saying goodbye, he kissed the floral arrangement tenderly, then dropped them beside her.
Getting up off his knees, he trudged slowly through the wind that had just picked up, and head down, arms wrapped around his chest, headed back towards his truck that would go for sale in the morning.

As always, even though he knew instinctively what she’d say it was so important that he asked and heard her opinion.

He respected it more than anyone else’s in the world.

A solitary tear fell to the frozen ground.

The truck coughed once, then turned over and came to life with a roar.

A Delivery of Accidental Irony

He wore a look that only young men who have had to take their Father's place as man of the house can wear.
A scraggly goatee, tanned features, and eyes that gleamed with teases of maturity taking shape told me that he was several years older than his age of 18.
I sized his bloody face up. "What happened to you?"
Obviously he had the crap beaten out of him.
"Three guys jumped me."
My fingers pulled at his swollen cheek bones, spread the cut above his brow apart, and prodded around his eyes.
"Ow, shit."
I stopped for a second to acknowledge his glare.
"You are allowed to think whatever you want, make up any name for me you possibly can. You cannot curse in front of your sister. I know it hurts, I'm sorry."
He stared.
"She's heard it all already."
"I didn't ask that. Don't move your head, just follow my finger with your eyes."

Another few moments and I stepped out of the room.
Just under two minutes to gather up a basin, saline solution and nice expensive medical soap, scrub sponge, towel, gloves, and inform the doctor his patient was ready.
Knocking, then I pushed open the door.
"Okay, I'm just going to clean you up a little so when the doctor comes in to take a look he can see a little better what's going on. This is just expensive soap and water, and here; feel this sponge, see? It's not rough, it's soft. But it'll still sting some."

The ever present question.
"Will I need stitches?"
"Most likely. It looks like four, maybe five, but I doubt it. It'll need to be closed though for sure."
He grimaced, then a flurry of threats and harsh words came out of his mouth against the people who did it to him.
The room grew quiet as Mother and daughter watched his face slowly reappear, the crimson disappearing into the sponge and drips.
No warning whatsoever.
Just a question, his voice low and startling sincere.
"What would you do? I mean, how would you handle the situation if you knew who did it to you?"
The sponge froze on his forehead.
Every particle in the room stopped moving as Mother and daughter stared at me.

I've never been attacked by three people who used my own bicycle to beat me, who kicked me in the head while I was lying on the rough pavement being punched, who laughed and got into their car and drove off.

"Do you know who did this to you?"
"Yes."
"Where's your Dad?"
"He lives in Michigan."
"I think you need to ask him."
"I don't talk to him."
"Do you have an Uncle, Grandpa, some family here? You need to ask them."
"No, just my Mom and sister and two Aunts."

Caked blood from his ears made the water in basin officially too murky to see through.
"What would you do? Would you just let them get away with it?"
He looked at me fiercely, his query cutting and relentless.

The doctor came in and spent several minutes asking his own questions, voicing concerns and clarifying statements.
"We'll use 4.0 vicryl for him...I'll write up the orders and we'll send him to get a CT scan, I want to rule out any possible internal trauma, although it seems like he's fine."
Lidocaine and Marcaine took any discernment for detail from him and his cut was soon ready to be closed.
As the needle dove in, hemostats gripped and twirled in a choreographed dance that tightened and looped, flipped spun and tied, our words did the same as we talked man-to-man.

"Sit tight. I'm going to get a wheelchair and then I'll take you to get your head scanned."
It came out negative.
The damage would be bruises, cuts, abrasions, swelling, throbbing, anger, frustration, and the battle for making an incredibly tough decision few have encountered.
I shook his hand and had him sign at the bottom by the "X."
"You're free to go, hope you feel better man."
He smiled, a first for the evening.
"Thanks."
He shook my hand firmly. Of course he had a good grip.
"And don't come back in here to get stitched up again without bringing me a pizza."
He looked at me and rolled his eyes, ice pack held to the back of his head.

"That's what I was going out to get when this happened."

Meeting Pandora

What first alerted me to their presence next door was an the heavy aroma of spices that spilled around and over the slightly cracked door, allowing the thick scent of curry to fill the entire hallway. As I walked past their door carrying an excess of luggage that belied my eight months of traveling I picked up the faint murmur of a foreign language.
Both were both scent and sound were legitimate and strong.
Exhausted, I slid my key-card into the door and got...red.
Trying again...still red.
Impatiently I threw down my luggage, wanting green. Green, not stupid red.

Her tiny voice startled me.
"You shouldn't throw things. That's how you break stuff."
I turned sharply around and saw a short olive-skinned girl with long black hair and beautiful eyes. She was smaller than most five year-olds but spoke with the authority of at least seven birthdays.

"Be careful. You're making a lot of noise."
I was completely put in my place.
"Sorry. I'm super tired and my key isn't working. Whoops, there it goes, see? I wanted green but it kept giving me red."
She stared up at me completely unimpressed.
"So. You don't have to throw things Army man."
Now it was my turn.
"Wrong. I'm in the Air Force."
"Same thing."
If I hadn't already, I was going to lose a huge battle with someone a third of my age and more than that smaller than me.
Completely unacceptable. So I changed topics.

"Your dinner smells good, were you the cook?"
She smiled at me, finding it humorous. Whew.
"No, its supper, and I didn't cook it. I get to eat it now though, and it's going to be so good. Bye!"
With that she turned on her heel and exited the conversation and hallway.

...
A week or two passed as each evening I returned to ever diverse meal fragrances.
...

I stood waiting for the insultingly slow elevator to arrive, my basket of laundry weighing more as my boredom grew.
"I bet you can't tell what we've been saying. It's in another language that you don't know."
This time I knew better than to give her the first hit of astonishment, regardless of whether she deserved it.
"You're right. I don't. You know an entire language that I don't know?"
"Yep." The smug look on her face was pronounced. What was it I did to deserve this relationship again?

"Wow. Guess what."
Instead of answering, she looked straight into my ignorant eyes and spoke several sentences of her native tongue, whatever it was.
"No, I'm serious, guess what."
The only way for me to avoid annihilation was to ignore her shots across my bow.

The elevator door opened and closed.
I set my laundry down.

It was on.

"What."
"I know another language too."
"No you don't."
"Yes, I do. I'll prove it. You ready?"
"Yep."
I smirked at her.

I crouched down and pointed to her stomach.
"What is this called?"
"Its my tummy."
Nope. Not even close.
"Nope, not even close ma'am."
She challenged me.
"Then what is it?"

I began pointing at her tummy, guessing roughly as to where things were located.
"Here's where your duodenum is, it's the beginning of your intestines. Here's your colon, and you have mucosa and submucosa all through there. Your pancreas should be about here, and this is your gallbladder. Hey look, it's your liver! Not. You can't see it, but it's there. And here is where your stomach is."
She looked at me.
"Yep, I knew all that."
"No you didn't. Just like I didn't know what you were saying."
Win or lose, she wasn't going to lose.
"Fine."
And with that she turned around and scootered off down the hallway.
As I leaned over to pick up my bags, her father followed in his daughter's footsteps and scared the living everythings out of me.
"You know, I am quite impressed. She's usually very shy but for some reason she gets along with you. That is very good!"

I smiled at him and backed into the elevator.
"Thank you, your daughter is very sweet."
The doors closed and I caught myself audibly snorting.
Shy? Sweet?
No...neither one of those.

She was...acute, calculating, clever. Aggressive, daunting, and fearless, intelligent, small and...
she won.

The Training Instructor's Favorite

My first day of basic training I was told to sit perfectly still until my training instructor returned. He came back after just over five hours. I'd rather be hit in the face with an agitated puffer fish then ever try to sit still for that long again.

By the end of basic I'd hands-down been in trouble more often and had to do more push-ups than anyone else in my flight of 56 guys. I was also the training instructor's favorite. I know this because he told me, right before I got sent outside to move four hundred sandbags for no apparent reason other than I was his favorite.

One time I got in trouble for dancing in the kitchen while on KP duty. My punishment was... unpleasant. I say "one time" because that is not the kind of thing you want to get in trouble for twice.

Inside our bathroom was a vent that went up, over, and down into the girl's bathroom of our sister flight. Needless to say when our respective instructors were absent, there was much communication through the vent. I won fifteen dollars for doing an imitation of our First Sergeant into that vent. Word somehow reached our instructor and the next day I found myself doing that same imitation, only not into a vent.

My job in the flight was to roll shirts. I figured out a way to use two drawers side-by-side that made every shirt turn out immaculate, far above what was expected for inspection. Every guy had five PT shirts, six white undershirts and six tan undershirts. Times sixty.

One night for no apparent reason my entire body broke into hives. To this day I have no idea what caused it. Bees?

I don't remember ever feeling as proud as the day I had my name tag sewn on my uniform. It's strange to me how strongly I felt and still do feel about it.

My sisters sent me letters that occasionally had pictures in them. I'll never forget how powerful a letter or a picture can be.

During the six weeks when I'd never seen so much hazing (or public ridiculing), cursing or anger in my life, God turned what started out as two of us praying together every night into well over twenty guys gathering every night in the shower... the only place we'd all fit without waking the others up.

And I will never forget the day my drill instructor walked up behind me at breakfast and said
"You might want to get up. Now." Then flipped our entire table full of food into the air.
I'm pretty sure none of the cockroaches survived the fall.

Roadnoise will drown out an enchanted childhood

Many people have said "There's nothing like family."
Do they know what they're saying?
Think about it for a moment, what is a family? Family is proof that God exists, and that He has a sense of humor. Family is one of the least logical ideas in the universe.

The process of family-making in America goes something like this:
Take a person, and have them meet randomly and fall in love with another person.
Boy and girl get married.
Soon another person comes out of the girl.
Voila, family is made.
The person coming out of the other had no choice in the matter.
The child is bound by the law of "family" to the kissy couple, and is for 18 (or a nerdy 35) years of their life under their authority.

When the child needs to be fed, the kissy couple that had him/her will feed him. Every time.
When the child throws up or does something equally disgusting, the kissy couple that had him/her will clean up and hold him/her.
When the child does something wrong, the kissy couple that had him/her will be responsible for him/her.
For 18 (or a nerdy 35) years.

This I ask of you. Why does it make sense? It doesn't. It isn't so much duties carried out by a kissy couple as it is love and dedication.
An endless cycle of selflessness to the end of seeing the success of others.
Yum.

Think for a moment about the role of parents... get a job and hold it so that your family may have income to feed and clothe the children, as well as provide for their wants and needs.
What inspiration. It makes no sense, but all across the world, in every tongue, tribe and nation, it is a complete idea practiced by all.

And yet when someone sits behind the wheel of a vehicle, the last thing on their mind is the fact that a kissy couple has dedicated their life to their success as an individual.
The furthest thing from their thoughts is that they were born into a loving household, provided for their every want and need for 18 years, and the amount of love they were shown.
The person behind the wheel might as well have been born into a family of wolves.

They want to kill you.

They sit behind you on the freeway traveling at one mile an hour faster then your 71 mph, two feet behind you mouthing not-nice words and shaking a fist that someone once called "adorable, so small, and delicate!"

Not anymore it isn't.

In a cruel joke of a personality switch, the person driving behind you just left the baby shower where they were swapping embarrassing stories, exchanging laughs over presents being opened by a soon-to-be mother of twins, and they probably even grabbed a handful of napkins to clean up the accidental spill of apple juice on the lunch table when it was knocked over by the passing of hot dogs from one end to the other.

The person driving to your rear was once given a trip to Disneyland as a surprise birthday present.

Recently, the person behind you now swerving lane to lane trying to get as close as possible so they can hopefully cause personal harm was given the opportunity to speak at a conference on Leadership and Management of Self.
The five points in the speech each with ten minutes of sub-text and illustrations accompanied by humorous stories were as poignant as any well-delivered sermon. Most who attended that session left with at least a page and a half of good notes.

It never fails to amaze me what the wheel of a car will do to some people.
Put them behind it, and their family, their careers, and their love of life all grow strangely dim in your headlights and they become homicidal land sharks on wheels.

As Plato once said..." ."


Well, Plato said nothing about being cautious you don't set aside your humanity to become the picture of ferocity every time your speed exceeds 35 mph.

But he should have.

Pass Me by World, My Nose is to the Window

The other day I rode on a jet plane again. I’d forgotten what a spectacular experience it is; soaring high above twin-engine Cessna planes… gliding atmospherically in a manner that was way, way above my allotted privileges as a two-legged wingless mammal.

Glancing around me at the dignity-starved individuals surging towards a doorway too small for the mass of shoving and selfishness that abounded, I couldn’t help but rudely marvel to myself.
“Huh. That little teeny, tiny plane out there is going to get him (large guy), him (another pretty hefty fella) and HERRRR? (uh…) up in the air?
What science plus technology and a few rubber wheels can do these days.

Then my mind jolted back to reality. Ah yes, it was time for me to go to my seat.
4A.
Priority seating?
Weird.
I strode casually past throngs of mobbing pulses and jumped in front, flashing an i.d. and proof that my random, entirely accidental superiority complex of priority could in fact take a physical form.
“Thank you sir, enjoy your flight!”
Oh, I would.
Four ay, bay bay!

My bag barely fit in the overhead compartment.
No, wait! If I turn it this way and shove with all my might, it might just…
AW MAN!

Oh, those moments we feel alive.
“Sir, I don’t think it will fit. Would you like me to take it to the back?”
There was no condescension in her voice. Not just a little bit that made me feel like a million yen.
“Sure, that’d be great thanks!”
Feigning obliviousness to the possibility of appearing like a moron, I handed her the blue road-runner bag.
“No problem.”

Fifteen minutes later our wheels lifted off the ground, the world became obtusely angled for a few moments, and we shot into the air.
Subconsciously I did my part as a good passenger and lifted my seat-end off my seat, hoping that we’d at least be light enough to not crash immediately.
By some miracle of consistent laws, lots of oxygen and nitrogen and extensive money/engineering, we made it alive into the air.
A two hour and forty-five minute flight.
My seat-end sighed as we leveled out, and I scooched and squiggled, reaching that point where I was deceived into thinking I was relaxed when in fact my knees were driving the person the next seat through three rows into the cockpit.

The squirrelly guy sitting next to me glanced at me once…twice…three times, then ILLEGALLY put his headphones in, and took out a Stephen King novel.
What if we crashed, killing several dozen people because of his stupid Stephen King headphone antics?
Uncool.
This guy was totally and irrevocably out.
Out of my universe.
See ya bud.

“Can I get you a beverage?”
“What’s a beverage?”
This lady was smart enough to ignore me.
“We have Coke, Diet Coke, Ginger Ale, Dr. Pepper, Sprite, V8…” Her voice trailed off and she stared at me like there was a mole growing on my cornea.
“I’ll have orange juice…please.”
I slid down a nanometer in my chair, and like a foot and a half on the inside, reaching the appropriate internal height of the four-foot eight I was acting like.
“Here you go Sweetie!”
Her energy was infectious. I was back.
“Thank you ma’am. Could I have a third bag of pretzels?”
She didn’t miss a beat, even though no drum was in sight.
“Nope.”
She wheeled her cart an inch and a quarter, and out of my universe entirely.
“Sir, can I get you anything?”
Entirely out of my universe, she was asking the gentleman behind me what he would like.

My forehead spent the next hour and thirty minutes pressed against the plastic window as Texas, Arizona then Nevada slid by silently down below.

Ah, it felt good to ride in a plane again.
There’s nothing like seeing seamlessly perfect circular and square fields of whatever far down below.
What ARE those things anyway?
They’re so puzzling when you’re in the air; you literally hurt your head trying to figure out how they’re so exact and who keeps them up, but when you get back on the ground you never think about them, or if you do you can’t find them.

They’re SO out of my universe now.
Entirely.

Two Bright Shades of the Same Color

Her “good morning” lit up every one of their already joyful faces.

They’d come trundling in with their backpacks by ones and twosies, filing into the classroom and going directly to their wall spaces to put their lunches up, then sit down in their seats.

Watching them talk animatedly, she smiled.

Innocence could not be duplicated.

“Teacher, teacher, look!”

The words always preceded a marvel; a captivating accomplishment of either God or mankind that demanded full and undivided attention.

Bending a knee, taking a seat, walking over to them with her skirt swishing silently taking naturally feminine footsteps to make the conversation more sincere, she met every child at their level and brought them up to where they should be.

“Wow, look at that! You drew that? Did you have any help?”

Her eyes sparkled teasingly.

“Nope. I did it all by myself. Brandon, he’s my older brother…”

“I know Brandon. I met him, remember?”

“Oh yeah! Um…Brandon, uh, he helped hold the paper some while I drew it, but I didn’t trace it. I just drew it…all by myself.”

“It’s really pretty. I like the colors you chose. They remind me of Easter. Did you do Easter with your family on Sunday?”

She paused briefly to turn away for a moment.

“Good morning Michaela!”

No preschooler made it through the doorway unnoticed. Each was as much an individual as any adult, if not more.

“Yep. We hid eggs and Skyped Grandma. She’s in Iowa er…somewhere. See, here’s where I messed up on my paper. I didn’t mean to use purple but I did.”

The embarrassment was genuine.

“So I see. Great job, I like purple, it’s my favorite color!”

“Really? Thanks!”

“Now go find your seat and wait for the pledge.”

Through compassion and an unwavering firmness each year she fought sniffles and coughs, the occasional unreasonable side of parents who could be extremely demanding, and paying her bills.

Each year she fought to stay awake after several hours of inputting grades online with several hours left of work.

She fought her way through the snow early in order to make it in time to greet her pupils as they filed through the door all flushed bright red and bundled up tightly against the cold.

She fought the gossip in the break room.

She fought through any monotony, unpleasant or boring material, and she fought the random rampant bad attitude that fumbled its way into her classroom.

She fought with grace, with beautiful blue-green eyes, and a heart that was absolutely in love with each and every one of her students.

She craved that look in their eyes when they lit up with a sudden understanding the concepts.

Her creative side thrived as songs, posters, field trips, reading aloud, colors, the floor, the table, and each brightly colored child-sized chair all served as tools, outlets for them to learn.

The designer of the first in-flight, unmanned, military aircraft refueler jet.

A filmmaker.

The first person to invent a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus that created 90% recyclable oxygen for longer, deeper dives.

A computer scientist who built the first hard drive based off nano quantum mechanics.

Those and hundreds of others throughout her career grew up to become great things.

…

Her name was Anna. Some said she was the victim of down-syndrome.

Anna didn’t see it that way.

She had her own personality, her own sharp mind that was on fire with a will to learn just like every other student she wasn’t the same as.

She stood quietly on the outside edge of the playground watching the other children play. Their coordinated games of tag or hide and go seek were not familiar to her, but she was visibly focused and concentrated as she carefully studied their behavior.

After five minutes, which would have been an eternity to any of her peers, she dove into their world. Moments later she was jumping, sliding, laughing and yelling just all the rest of her class.

Maybe she was a little louder.

Not all of the children included her in their activities.

She might’ve tripped a few more times than the rest.

But nothing escaped the pen and hand of her teacher, sitting on a bench silently journaling the activities of the beautiful girl.

By studying the trend of her pupil throughout the year she’d noticed a retreating wait time before Anna played with the other children.

Anna began needing assistance with most simple tasks, but after patience, a healthy dose of frustration and her incredibly strong will, she was walking to the child-sized fountain and filling her own water bottle.

Then she used the restroom completely of her own accord, completing all the necessary tasks with no help.

Most of the time.

And every day as she played on the padded steps, spongy ground, underneath the sun and watchful eye of college interns, her teacher journaled, strategized learning plans and set goals.

Anna learned best through sign language and hands-on games that sent multiple learning sensations to her memory through sight, feel, smell, taste or joy.

So they did math in the gym.

Hula hoops taught Anna how to count to five.

The beanbags inside the hula hoops helped her get to twenty.

She signed she was hungry, she signed she was mad, she signed numbers, her letters, and dozens of words.

Her colors didn’t come to her easily, but when she realized how many places colors could be found in she ran throughout the room pointing out and signing yellow, pink, blue, green, grey,

black…but her most excited unintelligible squeals of happiness came when she found purple.

It was her teacher’s favorite color too.

by Guy 2

c 2009

Call 911! Oh, wait... that's me.

As I sit on an office chair subconsciously turning it in it slightly from side-to-side, my phalanges (fingers) drum the table absentmindedly and I take in everything my instructor is teaching.

"You have a geriatric (elderly) patient who complains of not being able to breathe.
She is breathing at 34 bpm (breaths per minute) and shallow. She has no radial (wrist) pulse and her carotid (artery in the neck) pulse is weak. What oxygen will you administer and using what mask?"

I raise my hand.
"Yes?"
Each time I raise my hand I take time to make sure what I'm going to ask makes sense. It does again this time.
"Ma'am, couldn't we just call 9-1-1 and let the professionals take care of the situation?"
She stares at me blankly.
"You ARE the professional."
"Oh."
I remember my hand is still up and pull it back down.
A second later it shoots back up.
"Yes?"
This time I've really got it. This makes perfect sense.
"Sergeant, one time my dad ran over his own leg with his truck. See, he'd parked it on a hill and it was a manual truck and he'd forgotten to put the emergency brake on, so when he tried to stop it it ran over his leg."

"What does that have to do with administering oxygen?"

"My dad breathed into a paper bag all the way to the hospital and he made it alright. Maybe the geriatric patient could breathe into a paper bag."

She stared at me.

I don't think that was the answer she was looking for.

So I gave it one more shot.

"Sergeant?"
"Yes?" She was a little bit um...irked at me I think.

"I would administer 15 liters per minute of oxygen through a non-rebreather mask to the patient."
She smiled.
"And what would you do if the patient became unresponsive?"
"I would administer CPR with a pocket mask, one way valve and supplemental oxygen until my patient became a Republican."

In a world where my days are fully occupied cramming my brain with medical terms such as "oropharyngeal" "respiratory arrest" and "man shot in the face during a hunting accident", humor is how I survive this new world of insanely difficult schooling.

To be able to look at someone in my class and call them "glucose zygomatic" and they look at me quizzically before realizing that it means "sweet or sugar cheeks" is my ultimate entertainment.
Day after day I sit, focused and attentive, absorbing material that is WAY smarter than I am.

The military pays me to be in school full time and after I graduate a person with severe chest pain who calls 9-1-1 will have me show up at their door.
I'll be expected to assess the scene and patient, administer whatever emergency care is needed, then transport them safely back to the hospital.
It's enough motivation for me to be...scared spitless. (Commonly referred to as "parotitis")

I now live and breathe a language where "BID" means twice daily, "q" is every and there's blood in just about everything (except hopefully BRP, which means bathroom privileges).

There is no longer any race, because we are all equal, have the ability to go into cardiac arrest (heart stops functioning) and we are all...pink.
Every nail bed, every oral mucosa (inside the lower lip) and every conjunctiva (inside the lower eyelid) transcends all language and cultural barrier.
If any one of those is pale, cyanotic (bluish), flushed (unnaturally red) or jaundiced (yellowyish) then you are unhealthy.

As I agonize over every test question becoming increasingly diaphoretic (the symptom of sweating) I take a deep (good tidal) breath and pause.

I am growing closer every day to becoming a Nurse.
God is incredible.
My frontal lobe (section of the brain responsible for memory) buzzes as I overwork the poor, ignorant fool.
I. Love. Life.

A Truck, Not a Conversation

It was a simple compliment directed to him with the intent of being outgoing and perhaps initiate a conversation.
“I like your truck.”
His features changed suddenly and he became harsh and rough in his tone of voice.
“No, it is not nice truck. It’s terrible truck. It’s not even mine. I had to borrow it to come here.”
Startled, I attempted to smooth things over.
”I wouldn’t say that. I would say it’s an…exciting truck. Look at that bed, they don’t make them like that anymore. And those seats with the red velvety material? Heck yeah!”

“You like it? Then take it. I don’t want it anymore. I hate it. You want to know something? I had a nice truck once. Last year.”
My gaze shifted momentarily to his hands as my eyes caught their movement. His hands were slowly clenching into fists, and he stepped a little closer to me as he spoke forcefully and bitterly.
“I had a Ford F-150. It was a 2004 model, and it was silver. I decided that I would go home one year for Christmas to visit my family across the border in Mexico. I fell in love with a beautiful woman there. I tried to take her home and the border patrol, they took the truck from me, and put her in jail.”
His eyes flashed in anger and his chest heaved as he spoke passionately.

“Forty-four days she stayed in jail. Then they deported her right out of the country, back to Mexico. That was three years ago. Every month I try again to get Visa for her, but they will not let it go through.”
He paused, as if waiting to hear my excuses, my defense, or even just my response, but none came. I was speechless and even slightly confused. How do I reply to that?

“I’m sorry, that’s awful.”
Completely understanding the inherent strength in a silence, he didn’t respond.
He simply turned his back to me and got back in his truck.
Taking a step backwards, I found myself still trying to find something to say to him, even though he’d already closed the vehicle door.
The engine stalled, once, twice, three, four…five…six…times.
He opened the door to say something to me, and I immediately offered “would you like me to push the truck for you, sir?”

“No, its okay. But do you see? This is not a nice truck.”
The Hispanic man who couldn’t have been more than in his late thirties waved me on, dismissing me.
“Buenos noches” I called out to him before heading back inside.
He looked up briefly, nodded, then as the engine turned over and finally caught, he closed his door and drove away with the roar of the clutch bridging its first and second gears.

Feeling empty, I spent the remainder of the evening chiding myself for not saying something encouraging or apologizing for what had happened to him.
Three days later, sitting at my computer writing and still attempting to process through what had been said in the parking lot that night, I came to a conclusion.

There are some things in life that should only be heard, not made into conversation.

Unintelligible Fun

Guy 2 graduates from U.S. Air Force boot camp this week.
Boot camp was crazy. Babysitting was crazy too.


"Okay, have fun! I'll see you whenever you get back."

The door closes, and three eager faces look at me, wondering "What're we gonna do?"

I had built up this whole babysitting thing with the cousins, and now it was time to deliver.


The Characters:

The 2-year-old: Loves to communicate in unintelligible languages urgently. I'm convinced she speaks a mixture of a South African dialect, a little French, Dutch, and then sprinkles English on top to mess with my mind. It works.

The 6-year-old: Very sharp, loves to get a kick out of something I really didn't intend to be funny, laugh hard for a good long while, then bring it up all the time. It's like I'm a smaller person than her. She's nothing above 4'2", and I'm over 6 feet. But yet I still often feel left out, or that what goes on with her is way over my head. It puzzles and intrigues me. It must be a skill.

The 8-year-old: Avid reader of anything she can get her hands on, plays piano, has bright red hair but a fairly complacent personality, loves dancing and singing above all other sports (including eating, breathing, and keeping a regular pulse). She really, really loves to dance.

Me: Older cousin and babysitter now being stared at expectantly.

"Okay girls, are you hungry? Feel like pizza?"
Their excited response was encouraging, but not enough to pull me out of my small low I'd just tripped into realizing that painfully un-original me just played the stereotypical babysitter and offered the girls pizza. It was a hard hit to take, but after a moment, I swallowed a glass of water and moved on with my life.

Over glasses of milk, chips with salsa that was too hot (the animated and over dramatized yelling that happened on the two-year-old's side of the table was a poster on the wall that said "salsa. dumb idea. she's two.") I had seen her eating it earlier that day, but unfortunately the salsa didn't make it into the long-term memory part of her brain, because the first thing she did was ignore the pizza and go right for the mild, piling it all on a single pathetic corner of a chip, and plunging into her pallet before I had an opportunity to finish praying.

"In Jesus name..."
"yaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! hot! hot! hot!" the two-year-old yells.

"Amen. Two-year-old, no more salsa. Eight-year-old, could you pass it to this end of the table so she can't reach it? Thanks."

A few moments later, I look over at 6-year-old next to me, who isn't touching her pizza. "Hey, what's going on girlie? Can I cut up your pizza for you?"

"Sheesh, I thought you'd never ask. And I'm hungry too."

Feeling pretty bad I hadn't thought of it sooner, I cut her pizza up into bite-sized pieces for her.

"Oopsies" I said, then kept cutting. "Sorry Bob. Shoulda asked you sooner 'bout that pizza."

Then up from her toes came an incredibly loud roar of laughter, and hair flew all over the table as the six-year-old threw her face onto her plate and started cracking up hardcore.

"Sorry Bob! HAHAHHHAHHAAAAAAAA! He said 'Sorry Bob!'"

Perfectly even toned, not gracing the 6-year-old with the least bit of inflection, the eight-year-old coldly responded "It wasn't funny."

Your imagination can fill in the rest of the meal, and it probably wouldn't be that far from the actual dining experience I had.

Next task at hand: clean up dinner, then decide that cleaning up dinner was very boring. So we stopped cleaning, and skipped right to the dancing portion of the evening.
Take two cups of ballet and put them in the center of the room.
Next find one egg(head), give him a guitar, and tell him that no adults are around, he can act as dumb as he likes.
Then, take three tablespoons that are totally dirty, and set them on the counter where they will be ignored as the rest of the events in the evening unfold.
Add a half cup of general noise provided by two-year-old who could care less about the Tarzan soundtrack music, if people were dancing, she was too.
Sprinkle ever so slightly a little mosh action the girls picked up somewhere...from someone else other than me who didn't teach it to them the last time I babysat...
Then douse it all with hyper-ness, bake at a million degrees for about 45 minutes, and you have...

Me getting schooled by three girls who KNOW how to dance and all together don't add up to his age.

Thankfully after the girls went to bed, I still had an hour or so of quiet, danceless time which I used to clean the areas that looked like Katrina happened twice in. It made the house look really good when I put the furniture back where it belonged.

As I slowly drifted off to sleep that night, the sounds of the 80's still ringing in my ears and my legs aching from the many times I jumped into the air purposelessly, I thought to myself...

"Did you leave the oven on?"

Sleep didn't come so easily after that, because trying to drift off again having just gone from a relaxed horizontal position to a leaping, running, stove-checking frenzy of action brought my pulse rate up in a decidedly unhealthy manner.
The stove was not left on.
Good.
But I was no longer tired.
Crap!
Oops, I'm totally not allowed to say that.
I meant "aw man!"

© 2008
By JPE

Today I Swore

Today I made one of the biggest commitments of my life.

Barring my decision to accept Christ or my upcoming baptism... it was the most sincere thing I've ever done.

I swore with my right hand raised, repeating these words after a retired Lt. Colonel of the Army, and I joined the United States Air Force Reserve.

"I, ~~~ , do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God." 

Ever since I was in Junior High I'd imagined myself in the Air Force, even when I didn't really want to do it in college.
Out of college and working various jobs, it looked like the Air Force Reserve could help me get back on track with my life and help me meet my goals of becoming an E.R. Nurse.
And it would be an opportunity for me to serve my country for six years.

Six years.
I've never committed to anything for that long before.

But more than anything else, today as I sat and signed papers stating that my life insurance policy was five hundred thousand dollars, and it would all go to my Dad; as I decided that my emergency contact was my Dad, and that in the event of any kind of death, accidental or in the line of duty, my Dad would get all my possessions and my last paycheck... five words choked me up.
Five words that I never signed below, five words that never appeared on paper.

But it was these five words that caused my hand to be steady, my words to remain clear, and my heart to beat against my chest as I spoke the pledge.

"I'm proud of you son."

© JE, 2008

Guy 1 penned this two months ago, now he's one month into boot camp.

Furry with Salt

As you exercised your American freedoms yesterday at the ballot box, Guy 1 strenuously exercised with little freedom. He's surviving boot camp.
Here's a post he wrote last year.


Returning a large french fries to the manager behind the McDonald's counter, I politely explained "I'm so sorry, but these french fries were really, really salty."
"How salty were they?" she responded. (I like to think she was trying to gauge the damage her product might have wreaked on my poor hungry tummy.)

"Furry with salt" I carefully responded, so she would know just how salty they were.
"I'll bring you out new fries in a sec'."
"Thanks!"

Approximately ten minutes later, she walked over to my table.
"Here are your fries, sir. I made them, then stirred them with only the salt that was left over from our last batch, so I hope they're not too furry this time."
She placed the overflowing triangular box on my tray, then stepped back and waited expectantly.
Then, my greatest performance.
I took a fry, placed it delicately in my mouth, bit, chew, and swallowed. Careful to keep my expression pleasantly suprised, I said happily "tastes great! Thanks again!"
She smiled and walked back behind the food service door to continue making fries.
After she had left, I did the only thing I could.

I added more salt.

© JPE 2007

A Glance Inward can be Disgusting

You've got to be joking. I was going to be late again.

So frustrating.

Not forgetting to make sure my clothes matched, my teeth were brushed and my hair wasn't looking like Amy Winehouse when she first wakes up, I floored it through the kitchen, down the steps, out the door and onto the freeway.
Traffic.
On a Sunday morning.
Of course.

Let's just paraphrase the next few minutes by saying the person driving my car wasn't happy, feeling worshipful, or honoring to God.
In fact I was quite angry.
I made lots of sarcastic and cutting comments under my breath to no one in particular as I looked for a creative way to make a fifteen minute drive into a seven minute drive.
Instead, I was able to make it just under twenty minutes.

It was that premature left turn to "shortcut" what I thought was construction.
Whatever.
Pulling into my carefully chosen parking stall, yanking the e-brake and jumping out, not forgetting my bible and my smile, I strode quickly to the front door.
Finally.
Church.
Yes.

"Good morning!"
It looked like he was sincere. I bet he had the same crappy morning I did.
"Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm great! Welcome, need a bulletin?"
I thought about it. Was I standing in front of him, expectantly staring at the stack of papers he held at waist level?
Yes.
"Sure, I'd love a bulletin! Thanks!"

Walking inside to where the worship music was already playing, I chose a seat that was two spaces away from the people on either side.
Room to breathe.
Wow.
What a morning.
God, I'm so sorry that I'm so frustrated.
I'm here, I made it, and here I am, opening myself to you.

I sang, and closed my eyes.
I listened and prayed along with the speaker.
He spoke, and I mentally noted many of the points that he made.
I took the sermon to heart.
And I opened my heart to the scriptures that were read.

Then the communion worship song began.
As I closed my eyes and turned my focus inwardly, I was interrupted by the slam of a chair as someone right behind me stood up suddenly.
Turning my head slightly, I caught a glimpse of someone.
What. The. Heck.

She looked to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties.
Her hair was matted, oily, and she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a massive t-shirt that bore the proud crest of Corona.
She stumbled into another chair, banging her knee into it. It became quickly apparent that she was either drunk or her equilibrium was suffering from nonexistence.
She was drunk.
Completely distracted by this woman, I watched as she staggered down the middle of the aisle.
Then to my surprise she turned to her right and complimented a young woman on her beautiful child.

I involuntarily shook my head.
What was happening? Who let this woman in?
I mean, this is church, we're here to minister to people like that, but why was she allowed to just do whatever in the middle of the service.
My judgmental and abhorrently Pharisee-like mind attacked this woman in the moment, before I even realized what was going on.

She made her way to the communion table and reached for the bread.
Her filthy, grimy hands ripped off a piece and she crossed herself in front of three hundred people in a Protestant church.
Then she started munching on a portion that would have made two sandwiches.
I stared shamelessly.

Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, someone two rows back from the front stepped into the aisle, walked to the woman's side, and picked up the remainder of the loaf, grabbing the two other loaves that were on the table.

I watched as she gave the homeless woman a huge hug.
Then she stepped back, handed her all the bread that had been on the table, and put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the back of the church.

God, how selfish am I?
I'm so, so sorry that I do not respond in a manner that reflects the heart of Your Son.
My mind reeled with the immensity of what just occurred in front of me, shattering my comfort zone and ripping apart who I say I am to reveal who I actually am.

God, take my heart away from me.
I want to be someone who moves on the wings of your Holy Spirit, no longer held captive in the talons of my own vicious self-centered heart.
Make me someone who will never, ever throw down such disgusting condescension on those who deserve your love and grace just as much as I do.
May I never again narrow haughty eyes in glances that condemn those you gave your life for.

When we had finished the communion song and were sitting back down again, I cleared my eyes enough so that they weren't so blurry and looked behind me to the back of the auditorium.

There sat the homeless woman on a chair, eating her bread happily and talking with the woman.
.. ... ..

"Take me into the Holy of Holies, take me in by the blood of the Lamb.
Take me into the Holy of Holies, take the coal, touch my lips, here I am."

© 2008, J.P.E.