Eden

Tonight at the end of light
Tonight, I feel lonely
I thought I heard my heart stop beating
I long for you to hold me

I guess I feel like Eden
The twilight tried its best
Tonight I feel good and evil
Against my chest

Would I love you less or better
If I didn’t miss your face
Read your words like a love letter
Would I have known your grace?

I guess I feel like Eden
Aware of all I am
Tonight I feel good and evil
Against my skin

We’re all homesick
Is love the reason?
My hunger led me to your hope
Until the end of this colder season
Keep us warm

Cause we are always Eden
The day after she fell
We feel good and evil
And choose which one to tell

-Alli Rogers

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Big Family Survival - Part 2: Traveling

Whether it's a short jaunt to the next county or an "all-nighter" into the heart of the continent, our family always seems to be driving somewhere. The combination of prolonged physical immobility, confined space, and familiar company can be quite trying. I therefore conclude that traveling deserves its own survival briefing.

Like many other families, we're stuck using what is practically the only widely-available mode of mass transit: the ubiquitous 15-passenger van. You know the type: a sliding door that requires Herculean strength to close, a rats nest of cell-phone chargers in the glove compartment, partially eaten granola bars between the seat cushions, enough doll clothes to stock an American Girl thrift store, looks as big as a football stadium inside, and smells like one too. Lesson one: this is your habitat. Get used to it.

On any trip of any considerable length, food is an important consideration. ("Any considerable length" may be taken to mean anything longer than 3 hours. Anything less is just tooling around.) Lunch in the car saves money, and it also saves that all-important traveling commodity: time. So, at random hours, whoever is in charge of the cooler will open shop and take orders. Before you know it, it's a regular meteor shower of cheese sticks, apples, granola bars, baby carrots, and cookies if you're lucky. On long trips, this menu becomes strangely repetitive, until even Cracker Barrel begins to sound good.

We Telians are somewhat famous for eating our apples core and all. My only explanation for this highly unusual practice is that eating the core is vastly preferable to holding the stupid thing, watching it oxidize, and feeling your hand growing stickier by the minute. Now you may ask: Why don't you throw it away? To which I reply: How feasible do you suppose it is to pass an apple core past four rows of disgusted siblings to the trash bag? Not very. Or you may ask: Why don't you throw it out the window? To which I reply: The windows don't open: this is a 15-passenger van, not a Mustang convertible. Or you may ask: Why don't you just put it in a bag? To which I reply, Do you have a Ziploc dispenser in your van? Because we don't.

So - we eat the core. (You can pocket the stem, or hide it somewhere.)

Next to food, the hottest issue in travel politics is music. It's basically a problem of mathematics: one stereo, twenty ears, and two-hundred CD's. Hmmmm.

If you're running for driver, you can try catering to special-interest groups. If you're not driving, you can bring earbuds and a music player, but this doesn't work too well if the main stereo is also playing. Derek Webb and Hide 'Em In Your Heart don't mix: trust me.

Most of us are agreed that Ford vans were designed to carry passengers comfortably - for about 15 minutes. For starters, the almost complete lack of headrests is a dead giveaway. You're left with two options: 1) slide yourself forward until your rear is falling off the seat and place your neck on top of the bench, or 2) tighten your shoulder belt and cradle your head in it. (The latter alternative only works on relatively straight roads. Otherwise, you will be rudely awakened in about 3-1/2 minutes by a resounding smack against the window that is both painful and embarrassing.)

The other engineering disaster is the ventilation system. For some reason, there are no overhead vents for the rear bench. (No one actually uses that bench, do they?) Keeping the temperature in a comfortable range is one thing, (most of us gave up on that a long time ago) but in the back, sometimes you just plain can't breathe. As I said, there's no vents, and of course, none of the windows open. So you close your eyes, and "think happy thoughts," and try to conserve oxygen.

Thankfully, no one in our family has any real problem with carsickness. This is fortunate, because we all have a real problem with vomit. One time, we were coming down a corkscrew road, returning from a family camping trip. Of course, Chloe had just been crammed full of oatmeal, and about halfway down, her little tummy just gave up. Dad pulled over, and everyone promptly exited out the nearest door or window, like a fire drill, only more compulsive than rehearsed.

There you have it: a crash course in Darwinian driving. All we need to do now is find somewhere to go!

Image courtesy of fusioncoedsoccer.com

The Kingdom of God

The Kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking...

or of education...

or of success...

or of music...

or of politics...

or of happiness...

or of maintaining the status quo...

...but of righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Ghost.

Romans 14:17

Image courtesy of chrictonmiller.com

Church-in-a-Truck

Instant Church:

1 Canopy
1 Guitar
2 Folding Tables
3 Water Coolers
17 Folding Chairs

Just add people!

Somewhere

Somewhere
Between the lost and the found
We're all hanging empty
Empty and upside down
But I'm hanging on
Though the fall may tempt me
And I believe in the dawn
Though I tremble in the night

Somewhere
Amidst these ins and these outs
There's a fine line of purpose
I follow even now
Through the haze of despair
That confuses and hurts us
I look to see that You're there
And I run toward Your light

Somewhere
Beyond these reasons and feelings
Somewhere
Beyond the passion and fatigue
I know You're there
And that Your Spirit is leading me
Somewhere
Beyond all this

Someday
Now I don't know when
But I know that You're coming
You're coming back again
And the earth will burn away
And the sky fill with thundering
As it announces the day
Has finally arrived

Somewhere
While the time is still now
We're still hanging empty
Empty and upside down
But I'm hanging on
With all that is in me
And I'll sing my songs
And I'll laugh until I fly

Somewhere
Beyond these reasons and feelings
Somewhere
Beyond the passion and fatigue
I know You're there
And that Your Spirit is leading me
Somewhere
Beyond all this

Somewhere
Take me away somewhere
Somewhere
Take me away somewhere...

-Rich Mullins

Big Family Survival - Part 1: Mealtime

Growing up in a large family teaches you all sorts of useful skills you wouldn't otherwise have the opportunity (or obligation) to develop. Like how to snitch frozen blueberries in total secrecy. Or how to dry yourself off without a shower towel. Or where to hide your cup so it's still there when you come back.

Mealtime is an important place to hone your survival skills. Whenever there's food involved, you're always playing for high steaks. You can't afford to have sloppy strategies.

Hard work and good cooking means we take mealtime pretty seriously. Dinner is the main meal; in fact, it's pretty much the main event of the whole day. The kitchen table is the most important piece of furniture in the house. (Dad's La-Z-Boy is a close second.)

Generally we have what is affectionately termed "assigned seating." This means you always sit in the same spot. Always. And if you happen to sit in the wrong spot, the lawful occupant of that spot will promptly inform you of your mistake, occasionally quite forcefully. The emotional attachment possible between toddler and chair is truly remarkable.

Being assigned to a seat at or near the end of the table is highly desirable, because this means less passing. It never fails: you've just picked up your chicken thigh, brought it to your mouth, and someone asks for the salad dressing. You can pretend not to have heard, but that generally doesn't go over too well. Moral of the story: sit at the end. No one bothers you, and not only that, you automatically look important.

As a rule, we have very good manners - and very good workarounds. You always watch for an opportunity to take the second-to-last of something, because then you don't have to ask the dreaded question: "Does anyone want the last _____?" Because inevitably someone does. So take the second-to-last and save yourself the trouble.

We have plenty to eat; too much, oftentimes. Still, the plain fact is that there is only so much food, no more. And if you're really hungry, this can be a problem. When we were young, we hit upon a creative solution: eat fast! If you eat fast, you'll be ready for seconds before the next guy! Then you can disappear into the crowd when he finally comes around for seconds and finds out it's all gone.

I still remember going to an all-you-can-eat salad bar place and realizing with a start that we guys were eating like we were in some sort of contest at the county fair. We had to remind ourselves to slow down: it's not going to run out here.

Yes, growing up in a large family is a rush. For the cookies.

Image courtesy of amateurgourmet.com

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The Value of Vocabulary

One of the several reasons why readers make better writers is that they simply know more words, and knowing more words means you're more likely to know the correct one for the task at hand. This is crucial; because, as Mark Twain said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter - it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

But it's not enough to just know the right word – you also need to remember it when it's time to use it. This is harder than it seems. Keeping your vocabulary ready and agile takes practice. It's easy to slip into patterns, using dull, pallid words and monotonous sentence structures, overlooking colorful synonyms and dramatic grammatical fireworks.

Make it a habit when you're reading to pay attention to the author's choice and arrangement of words. Words do not just leap onto the screen of their own accord - someone had to put them there: those particular words, in that particular order.

For example, when I was reading through Paul Mariani's Thirty Days, I came upon a sentence that contained the word “winced.” I stopped; something sounded wrong. I re-read the sentence, thought about it, and realized that he should have used “flinched” instead. It fit with the flow better and made the impact of the thought that much stronger. But that's the fun of writing. When you're at the keyboard, you get to write it your way.

When you come across a word you don't know, in reading or in conversation, ask what it means or look it up. Don't be one of those people who smile and nod as if they were the second coming of Noah Webster. Learning, like getting born, is embarrassing. But it is the beginning of a whole new world.

Precision – that striking quality that marks all great writing - is not accidental. It is a skill developed painstakingly by writers who care. Open any book and you will find “intelligent design” at work. (Well, most books. I can think of a few exceptions.)

The highest aspiration for a writer is to be known as someone who “writes what he means,” because a writer's basic goal is not necessarily to convince the reader, but simply to be understood. Most of the time, that's hard enough. To this end, I can think of no better advice than this from Susan Sontang: “Love words. Agonize over sentences. And pay attention to the world.”

Image courtesy of jupiterimages.com

Thirty Days with St. Ignatius

Whenever I'm reviewing a Catholic book like this, I'm aware that I'm walking a very fine line. Over the last year, however, I have been forced to admit that Catholicism, though irretrievably distorted, contains some important remnants of Christian spirituality. As with anything, one needs discernment to accept the good and reject the bad.

Thirty Days is a journal of the author's spiritual retreat in New England. The retreat was based on a series of exercises developed by Ignatius of Loyola in the 16th century, which guide retreatants through a series of meditations, prayers, and scripture readings over the course of 30 days.

What I appreciate about writings such as this is the sense of serious and disciplined spirituality. Of course, Catholicism has no monopoly on this. Books such as Richard Foster's Celebration of Discipline excel at examining these activities from a Protestant perspective. But Catholics, at least historically, seem generally more inclined towards meditation and asceticism.

Another thing Catholicism has retained is an appreciation for the beauty of liturgy. Quiet common prayers, simple ceremonies, the sublime beauty of broken bread and flickering candles against white linen. Really, the concept of the sacramental was Christian before it was Catholic.

A lot of the book, especially the second half, consists largely of Mariani's paraphrase of Biblical passages, as he meditates on the story of Redemption and retells it, mostly for himself. For some reason, I find this type of writing annoying. If I wanted to read Biblical narrative, I would prefer to just read the Biblical account itself. When narrative is plucked from scripture and dropped with token modifications into another work, it starts to feel like filler.

Mariani's skill as a writer shows clearly in his descriptive passages, which are vivid, concrete, and sensitive. In a roundabout way, these sections provide the primary keyhole into Mariani's experience, allowing the reader to identify with the joys and agonies of his spiritual journey.

"Early this afternoon, clouds began rolling off the ocean, bringing with them the wind again, whipping up the ocean. Except for the houses, the seascape here could be Genesis all over again, the varying modulations of waves rolling in, no two breaking in exactly the same way. How little after all one gets down on paper, the infinite possibilities lost as one goes after first one thought and then another, trying to get it right. Two or three seagulls are soaring in the dying light. And now, suddenly, hundreds of them, a swarm: charred paper blowing in the wind, drifting to the left toward Niles Pond, fishing for something." (95)

I appreciated the book as an honest spiritual diary and a reminder of the value of meditation and silence. Still, I was left with a strange emptiness - probably because I know too much about Catholicism. Erroneous traditions are always distracting. However, I too need forgiveness, and comfort, and direction, just like Mariani. In that respect we are the same.

"Ignatius knew - like every great spiritual visionary - that we suffer from a skewed, self-centered vision of things. Now it's time to try and put things back in order for myself. But that means understanding my own radical disorder, and then trying to align my will with God's. The funny thing is that others could spot my ludicrous failings in a heartbeat. It's only me who thinks everything I think and do should be up for an Oscar." (18)

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Bible School and Back

As most of you know, I spent last week at a Youth Bible School in Loveland, Colorado. I heard about the school through Jonathan Marshall, who attended last year. It was hosted by River of Life Christian Fellowship, a small local church with a big heart for serving God.

I flew out of Fresno on Saturday the 29th. The flight was pretty empty, but sure enough there were two elderly ladies chatting away directly behind me. I learned you can't rent a car in Ireland if you're over 70. You never know what useful knowledge you'll pick up listening to airplane conversations.

I had brought along The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, mostly because it's a big thick paperback that makes me look intelligent. It's a fascinating work; Solzhenitsyn has a sharp mind and a deft pen. Surprisingly, the book is completely lacking any trace of bitterness: just calm, orderly narrative. His firsthand perspective is very vivid, one of the reasons I enjoy reading insider history like this.

Upon landing in Denver I retrieved my baggage and found some lunch. (I passed by the illustrious Auntie Anne's Pretzels; I just couldn't bring myself to spend four bucks on a pretzel, no matter how big it was. But I loved their slogan: Spoiling Dinner Since 1988.) After lunch I met up with the other guy who had flown in from California and together we headed to the curb to await our ride to Loveland.

I stayed at the home of nice young couple from the church, along with another Bible School student from Pennsylvania. We enjoyed several late-night conversations together, not to mention some good cooking. Colorado food was excellent, but could still use more fruits and veggies.

The school was relatively small: there were only 22 students attending. The small size was actually quite nice, as it allowed you to get to know just about everyone and made the group discussion times more lively and less intimidating.

The teaching schedule was rigorous. There were three sessions every day, each at least 90 minutes long. The speakers were Rick Grubbs (Redeeming the Time), Santosh Poonen (Living for God's Purpose), and Phil Luckett (Cat & Dog Theology). In the afternoon, when the teaching was over, we generally would have some time set aside for open discussion and prayer. We also had donuts, lunch, and dinner at the church every day.

Most evenings found us at the park playing volleyball. Wednesday and Thursday, we played flag football, which was a new experience for me. I was surprised to wind up sore from the tense positions and twisting action involved. Quite different from the all-out running and cutting in Ultimate.

Thursday night we all went over to the home of one of the church families for some snacks, games, and (ahem!) pranks. I wound up on the wrong end of a few jokes, but it was a fun and memorable evening.

We only had one session Friday morning, after which we drove up to Rocky Mountain National Park to have lunch, do some hiking, and spend some time reviewing the week. Bighorn Sheep, flaming yellow Aspens, Elk, bottled water, fall mountain air. It was neat to see some new country.

Friday night, our last night together, we drove up to old town to do some witnessing. We went to a cobbled square surrounded by pubs and worse. Several of the guys wore signs, some passed out literature, and some, myself included, set off Bible in hand to find people to talk to. I had several interesting conversations: one with a punk, one with a satanist, and one with a pair of intellectual postmoderns. It was bracing to be out on the frontlines again, literally face to face with the lostness of humanity.

I flew home Saturday afternoon, dog-tired. My muscles were aching, my jeans were dirty, and my head was spinning from the prolonged intense spiritual stimulation. I needed time to process everything, I needed clean clothes, but mostly I needed sleep.

Although the sessions were good, they were not the predominant part of the week for me. Even more than the concentrated teaching, I appreciated the chance to interact with and encourage the other young people, and to see and hear about the work the Lord is doing in their lives.

All in all, it was a refreshing time. I felt like the Lord showed me a lot of pride still clouding up my life, and also helped me gain a fresh perspective on what He is doing in the church here in central California. Some of the thoughts shared by one of the local elders during the hike on Friday also spoke to me powerfully, and I'm hopeful they will bear fruit.

I'm grateful to those of you who were praying for my trip. God's not through with me yet.


"I cannot look you in the eye / so I check the knots on my disguise / 'cause I fell in love with fashion in the dark /

and now I want a broken heart" - dW