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Sunday, June 26, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Kentucky Avenue
It has been a week and one day since I had been in Joplin, Missouri. A week and one day since leaving my fingerprints on the utter destruction that had laid before me. A week and one day since I had met Josephine and Gary and had asked if we could help them scour through Josephine's once-standing house on Kentucky Avenue. It was in her joyful response of a yes that we began to dig and discover all that an F-5 tornado destroyed and left behind. Finding her favorite dolls and balls of yarn seemed to bring about the responses specifically reserved for Christmas. But, I suppose, in discovering the valuables that mean the most to you after such destruction, you can't help but rediscover its worth and its meaning as a whole.
And these are the thoughts that I caught myself in. I was standing between a vanity set and a large cabinet and making eye contact with my surroundings: a bathtub in the front yard, the house with exposed insides that once held private stories, layers of tarp attempting to cover goods that were probably always covered and stored anyway. I can ever-so-slightly hear the creaking and rocking of a large piece of aluminum that had been tangled into the tree above. These thoughts and these sounds are sticking and protruding themselves into a part of myself that I have yet to discover; the part of me that sits separately in its corner. Perhaps it is the altruistic state of mind that sits so quietly and distant before it is poked out of place. Whatever it has been, it is teaching me that much of what I put my money and what I consider valuable truly contains no weight of value whatsoever.
I looked around at not only Josephine's once-called home, but also at the entirety of Kentucky Avenue, and I could not picture what this neighborhood had looked like prior to the tornado. I saw trees that once stood strong, tall and powerful, tragically uprooted and turned onto their side. And I cried. I cried a lot, actually. I kept asking that pesky, rhetorical, over-repeated "Why?" that seems to come after such a scene, and if this was all real. I could not fathom how an act of nature made a city its playground. Nature not only expelled mayhem on humans, families and homes, but on nature itself. I had no words to really form (hence the week-and-one-day-late blog); I was word-frozen. I could only form one conclusion, and it is the same conclusion one gets to at the end of every missions trip or after encountering such a tragedy - I take everything for granted.
That statement alone can shift your world on its axis - its corrective axis, at that - and it makes you see, feel and touch life differently. It makes you appreciate the loving, overwhelming family that you still tangibly have, the bed that you sleep in, the closet full of clothing, the shoes that you wear and the buildings that you see while driving back into a still-standing city. It can be in these moments of the utter reality of your surroundings that life makes sense. One of those acknowledgments in how God created the Earth with a mere breath and human beings from the dirt. It's these simplistic things that I have time and time again, over-complicated and, subconsciously, tried to understand them by taking my next paycheck and spending it on empty, unfulfilling valuables that serve no purpose in my life.
I am beginning to think - it is in its process of full understanding - that I have gotten a lot of things wrong. I've taken situations in an overdramatic tone or have underestimated them and missed the picture entirely. I pray and I hope that this doesn't cease too quickly nor that it stops poking that part of me that cries to be truly altruistic or God's hands and feet without question; not needing or searching for some form of praise.
I also pray that I not too quickly walk away from Kentucky Avenue, ravaged and sitting in its debris, because honestly, that is where I felt real for the first time in my life.
And these are the thoughts that I caught myself in. I was standing between a vanity set and a large cabinet and making eye contact with my surroundings: a bathtub in the front yard, the house with exposed insides that once held private stories, layers of tarp attempting to cover goods that were probably always covered and stored anyway. I can ever-so-slightly hear the creaking and rocking of a large piece of aluminum that had been tangled into the tree above. These thoughts and these sounds are sticking and protruding themselves into a part of myself that I have yet to discover; the part of me that sits separately in its corner. Perhaps it is the altruistic state of mind that sits so quietly and distant before it is poked out of place. Whatever it has been, it is teaching me that much of what I put my money and what I consider valuable truly contains no weight of value whatsoever.
I looked around at not only Josephine's once-called home, but also at the entirety of Kentucky Avenue, and I could not picture what this neighborhood had looked like prior to the tornado. I saw trees that once stood strong, tall and powerful, tragically uprooted and turned onto their side. And I cried. I cried a lot, actually. I kept asking that pesky, rhetorical, over-repeated "Why?" that seems to come after such a scene, and if this was all real. I could not fathom how an act of nature made a city its playground. Nature not only expelled mayhem on humans, families and homes, but on nature itself. I had no words to really form (hence the week-and-one-day-late blog); I was word-frozen. I could only form one conclusion, and it is the same conclusion one gets to at the end of every missions trip or after encountering such a tragedy - I take everything for granted.
I am beginning to think - it is in its process of full understanding - that I have gotten a lot of things wrong. I've taken situations in an overdramatic tone or have underestimated them and missed the picture entirely. I pray and I hope that this doesn't cease too quickly nor that it stops poking that part of me that cries to be truly altruistic or God's hands and feet without question; not needing or searching for some form of praise.
I also pray that I not too quickly walk away from Kentucky Avenue, ravaged and sitting in its debris, because honestly, that is where I felt real for the first time in my life.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
"Cubism Dream"
I fear that it has been in the moments that I reach this blank page, with this blinking cursor cursing my thoughts and me, that I draw question marks in place of what I would have hoped to have been writing. My words cease to be eloquent as they leave my mind. It's like leaving the your sleeping bag at home for a camping trip; you're stuck outside, sleeping beneath the countless stars without that cushion of knowing that if you rolled over, you would still be in your little bag, and safe from an ant pile.
But.. here I am, wallowing in my figurative ant pile. It's dreadful to have to feel as if I am purging thoughts from my cerebrum. My brain should only have to work this hard whilst sitting behind a desk and computing numbers too large to make sense. Perhaps it would be easier to write about how difficult life has been lately, but I would rather save those thoughts for some later post or maybe come to realize that life really has not been as difficult as I've made it out to be.
Oh, I could possibly delve into how I have found new music to tickle my ears - Local Natives, The Last Royals, Manchester Orchestra, Sleeping At Last... but see, you don't really care. So, is that what it all comes down to? The little pieces of thought to this jigsaw-ish writing that question themselves to the point of death?
This insecure dilemma has left my writing feeling like a scene from Fight Club. I read another's thoughts on life, love and the sorts, and I realize how incredibly elementary-like my words form themselves. I then draw the conclusion that it is, probably, because I have yet to read a piece of literature that will spark my mind. The only novel that gets me to write like my mind is leaking creativity is The Special Topics in Calamity Physics, which typically leaves me walking, talking, writing, and living in a metaphoric state. It's slightly scary, honestly.
I think I just need a vacation. One of those vacations where you forget that there is such a thing as humanity, but eventually miss human contact at some point. Yes. Good thing that is what I am getting to do at the beginning of June. I'll reconnect myself with the Atlantic Ocean, the sun and its warmth - Illinois does not understand that concept - and sand hot enough to scorch my tiny toes. I plan on taking my leather bound journal (of course I have one, courtesy of Chelsea) in order that I may store my leaking thoughts.
Maybe then, just maybe, I will have rolled out of the figurative ant pile and have nice, secure thoughts to plant and to entertain.
But.. here I am, wallowing in my figurative ant pile. It's dreadful to have to feel as if I am purging thoughts from my cerebrum. My brain should only have to work this hard whilst sitting behind a desk and computing numbers too large to make sense. Perhaps it would be easier to write about how difficult life has been lately, but I would rather save those thoughts for some later post or maybe come to realize that life really has not been as difficult as I've made it out to be.
Oh, I could possibly delve into how I have found new music to tickle my ears - Local Natives, The Last Royals, Manchester Orchestra, Sleeping At Last... but see, you don't really care. So, is that what it all comes down to? The little pieces of thought to this jigsaw-ish writing that question themselves to the point of death?
This insecure dilemma has left my writing feeling like a scene from Fight Club. I read another's thoughts on life, love and the sorts, and I realize how incredibly elementary-like my words form themselves. I then draw the conclusion that it is, probably, because I have yet to read a piece of literature that will spark my mind. The only novel that gets me to write like my mind is leaking creativity is The Special Topics in Calamity Physics, which typically leaves me walking, talking, writing, and living in a metaphoric state. It's slightly scary, honestly.
I think I just need a vacation. One of those vacations where you forget that there is such a thing as humanity, but eventually miss human contact at some point. Yes. Good thing that is what I am getting to do at the beginning of June. I'll reconnect myself with the Atlantic Ocean, the sun and its warmth - Illinois does not understand that concept - and sand hot enough to scorch my tiny toes. I plan on taking my leather bound journal (of course I have one, courtesy of Chelsea) in order that I may store my leaking thoughts.
Maybe then, just maybe, I will have rolled out of the figurative ant pile and have nice, secure thoughts to plant and to entertain.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
This is our ring around the trunk.
When we wiggle ourselves out of the truth that has been imparted unto us, we find ourselves in the hardest jigsaw puzzle of our lives. Life becomes this outrageous enigma, full of mirrors reflecting lies. The worst thing about this enigma, that in our mindless circling about, we begin to believe these reflected things. Nothing short of lies to push us further from who we are and who we were created to be.
The strings that had been cut so long ago begin to throw themselves down . Wiry and frail, much like our state of mind, they reattach to old hooks that had long ago disappeared. The reattachment first shows no pain, but it is soon that we feel the pull and the tug from the power of these strings. The scissors to release us feel high and too far out of reach, so we muzzle our questions and ride the pull.
Yet, once our feet are tired of the drag and our calloused knuckles take their grip to what is going on around them, we take a deep breath. The inhale brings a refreshed life long awaited for; one that brings a charge to reach for the scissors that once seemed too far. And see, see this is where the maze begins a new opening. Our new charge pulls against the strings; a tug-of-war to see who wins. Just as the last step is about to give into the pull, our once battered fingers reach the fine point of scissors. The grip of these scissors feel as if we were trained for this already, so we cut and feel the release of tragedy.
Reaching the end of it all, with shattered mirrors and sliced feet, it is all too much to look back. Taking a seat and feeling the bones within us surrendering themselves to the ground around us, we sit beneath a tree that has taken bloom. We find comfort in relating, because just as we have felt death all over, this tree, too, had to die to give bring about new life. And each time... it's so much more beautiful than last.
This is our bloom. This is our ring around the trunk. This is life without strings, and this is beautiful.
The strings that had been cut so long ago begin to throw themselves down . Wiry and frail, much like our state of mind, they reattach to old hooks that had long ago disappeared. The reattachment first shows no pain, but it is soon that we feel the pull and the tug from the power of these strings. The scissors to release us feel high and too far out of reach, so we muzzle our questions and ride the pull.
Yet, once our feet are tired of the drag and our calloused knuckles take their grip to what is going on around them, we take a deep breath. The inhale brings a refreshed life long awaited for; one that brings a charge to reach for the scissors that once seemed too far. And see, see this is where the maze begins a new opening. Our new charge pulls against the strings; a tug-of-war to see who wins. Just as the last step is about to give into the pull, our once battered fingers reach the fine point of scissors. The grip of these scissors feel as if we were trained for this already, so we cut and feel the release of tragedy.
This is our bloom. This is our ring around the trunk. This is life without strings, and this is beautiful.
e.e. cummings
Via Christopher Conley Tumblr:
i thank You God for most this amazing
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
-e e cummings
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Not even a million price tags
You know what I hate? I hate that we have turned Jesus into a homeboy; an image plastered onto a shirt and sold at a shoe store. I hate that the majority of crosses that hang around necks serve no significant purpose. To some it is a symbol of "luck" - whatever that is - and to some it is the gift that their grandmother gave them. I hate that Jesus is a Sunday-morning-brunch-talk Jesus to most. But, more than anything, the distaste reaches its peak in the fact that we are okay with these things.
I would rather speak on behalf of American's in stating that we have grown completely accustomed to these images and these mottos regarding Jesus. So much so, that we have missed the overall picture two quotes ago. To be blatantly honest, I fall into this category so often. I felt my conviction one night in church with a guest speaker who spate out the words "Why are we always looking for the next best sermon, the next best worship band and the next best conference to attend?" I left asking myself those questions, because that's me. Now with Easter here and the reality of it all making its appearance, I sat in a Good Friday service at church, dressed in black and putting my best somber face on, all per the request of Pastor James. Quite different this all was, as most years prior my Good Friday's were spent, well, not acknowledging it was indeed Good Friday.
So, somberly I sat and service began. I had a good time in worship, thought the bits of acting that came through were done very well and, gosh, we had really awesome worship leaders. Golden voices. Just as I thought it was a wrap, the last act was up and it came to the part where Jesus was to be crucified. On pops this video of this man's backside, only showing his right shoulder, badly beaten with flesh torn and mangled tissue so vivid that I felt sick. The gashes on His body were minute compared to the sound of His breathing; it was so faint and so fatal. This was Jesus dying. This was the reality of His crucifixion. It wasn't a picture above a mantle or a universal symbol for Christianity, it was reality for the first time to me. I sat there, silently crying because it felt like I finally reached the end of this enigma I had traced through for so long. The only thing that kept going through my head was "That's my Lover." and that's all I kept telling myself. I heard his faint breaths and knew He was dying for me. And I know, I know this sounds so repetitive to some, but for me it was my basement light clicking on. I know I will never fully understand it, but it felt like a gust of wind to finally have a taste to understand what He did for me, for us, just so I could have a second chance at all of this. I grabbed the wooden cross that hangs on my neck and it felt so different for the first time.
And now I sit in bed with all of these images of what we have made Jesus out to be. How we've turned this tragic, yet beautiful deed into a marketing campaign. All He wanted to do was show us how much He loves us and we take it and turn it into a market place. We all know what Jesus thinks about that ("My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a 'den of robbers'" Matthew 21:13) and I don't want to be okay with this. In discovering a sacrifice that is real and has weight, we have to refuse to turn it around to glorify us. What He did for us could hold not even a million price tags, and even if they did, they would all have names written on them. You, me and everyone else.
I guess the question is what do I do from here? I cannot physically stop the unconscious believer from wearing their WWJD bracelet while flipping me off. I think I would rather take this as a challenge to myself, even when I want to flip the tables like Jesus. In due time, though, in due time. Overall, I truly am grateful now... the cross around my neck feels heavier with meaning.
I would rather speak on behalf of American's in stating that we have grown completely accustomed to these images and these mottos regarding Jesus. So much so, that we have missed the overall picture two quotes ago. To be blatantly honest, I fall into this category so often. I felt my conviction one night in church with a guest speaker who spate out the words "Why are we always looking for the next best sermon, the next best worship band and the next best conference to attend?" I left asking myself those questions, because that's me. Now with Easter here and the reality of it all making its appearance, I sat in a Good Friday service at church, dressed in black and putting my best somber face on, all per the request of Pastor James. Quite different this all was, as most years prior my Good Friday's were spent, well, not acknowledging it was indeed Good Friday.
So, somberly I sat and service began. I had a good time in worship, thought the bits of acting that came through were done very well and, gosh, we had really awesome worship leaders. Golden voices. Just as I thought it was a wrap, the last act was up and it came to the part where Jesus was to be crucified. On pops this video of this man's backside, only showing his right shoulder, badly beaten with flesh torn and mangled tissue so vivid that I felt sick. The gashes on His body were minute compared to the sound of His breathing; it was so faint and so fatal. This was Jesus dying. This was the reality of His crucifixion. It wasn't a picture above a mantle or a universal symbol for Christianity, it was reality for the first time to me. I sat there, silently crying because it felt like I finally reached the end of this enigma I had traced through for so long. The only thing that kept going through my head was "That's my Lover." and that's all I kept telling myself. I heard his faint breaths and knew He was dying for me. And I know, I know this sounds so repetitive to some, but for me it was my basement light clicking on. I know I will never fully understand it, but it felt like a gust of wind to finally have a taste to understand what He did for me, for us, just so I could have a second chance at all of this. I grabbed the wooden cross that hangs on my neck and it felt so different for the first time.
And now I sit in bed with all of these images of what we have made Jesus out to be. How we've turned this tragic, yet beautiful deed into a marketing campaign. All He wanted to do was show us how much He loves us and we take it and turn it into a market place. We all know what Jesus thinks about that ("My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a 'den of robbers'" Matthew 21:13) and I don't want to be okay with this. In discovering a sacrifice that is real and has weight, we have to refuse to turn it around to glorify us. What He did for us could hold not even a million price tags, and even if they did, they would all have names written on them. You, me and everyone else.
I guess the question is what do I do from here? I cannot physically stop the unconscious believer from wearing their WWJD bracelet while flipping me off. I think I would rather take this as a challenge to myself, even when I want to flip the tables like Jesus. In due time, though, in due time. Overall, I truly am grateful now... the cross around my neck feels heavier with meaning.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
It's going to be beautiful, brother.
It has still been since June 15th that you decided to take the scissors to all that was around you. And I don't know why today in particular it is extremely hard for me to even think about. This may even come out quite nonsensical in the end, but at this point I don't even care much.
I have been so selfish lately. My own selfishness has gotten in the way and now it's the point of pride vs. pride in this game. It has to stop now, because the enemy likes it far too much and he is just dragging you further, and my cold shoulder to this situation like a helping shove into those valleys. I think the things that I have tried to tell you have grown stale and tasteless to you, but I don't care. I will never stop telling you how sorry I am to have been such a crappy sister to you. I wish I could take back every degrading thing I've ever told you before and I wish I never participated in the things that did not build you up.
While God was building you up, your own family was taking a hammer to it.
I think the thing that surprises me the most is how I was growing closer to God as you were loosening the strings to your relationship with Him... all at the same exact time. But again, I was too selfish to even notice. Slowly, you were making an exit and slowly I was beginning to see His glory. Now that you've taken your exit and now that you have decided to live this life that isn't close to the way you know you should be living makes me so weary. I think it is because you know... like, you KNOW how you should be living but you decided that your rebellion needed to get out. Again, that is a lie that is picked up far too often. I already know that if something horrific were to happen, in a heartbeat you would ask for forgiveness from God and you would want back right then, because you could never doubt Him (I know this because you did agree). But still... you continue.
It's to this point now where I have to put off my pride in this and continue to love you; love you until there are bruises and there is bleeding, because that is how much I love you. Even if I did not show it before. I will fight for you, because I cannot be another helping hand in this. You were created for so much more. Even my old birthday cards tell these stories. Your written scriptures, trying to encourage ME, the old unbeliever, to come to know God, because He knew His plans for me. I suppose now it is your turn... no matter how much I hate that, but God works out everything for His purpose. So one day, one very beautiful day, God will turn this around to glorify Him. You know what will be said?
"You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done. The saving of many lives." Genesis 50:20
And it's going to be beautiful, brother. And then the angels will rejoice... because you are back.
I have been so selfish lately. My own selfishness has gotten in the way and now it's the point of pride vs. pride in this game. It has to stop now, because the enemy likes it far too much and he is just dragging you further, and my cold shoulder to this situation like a helping shove into those valleys. I think the things that I have tried to tell you have grown stale and tasteless to you, but I don't care. I will never stop telling you how sorry I am to have been such a crappy sister to you. I wish I could take back every degrading thing I've ever told you before and I wish I never participated in the things that did not build you up.
While God was building you up, your own family was taking a hammer to it.
I think the thing that surprises me the most is how I was growing closer to God as you were loosening the strings to your relationship with Him... all at the same exact time. But again, I was too selfish to even notice. Slowly, you were making an exit and slowly I was beginning to see His glory. Now that you've taken your exit and now that you have decided to live this life that isn't close to the way you know you should be living makes me so weary. I think it is because you know... like, you KNOW how you should be living but you decided that your rebellion needed to get out. Again, that is a lie that is picked up far too often. I already know that if something horrific were to happen, in a heartbeat you would ask for forgiveness from God and you would want back right then, because you could never doubt Him (I know this because you did agree). But still... you continue.
It's to this point now where I have to put off my pride in this and continue to love you; love you until there are bruises and there is bleeding, because that is how much I love you. Even if I did not show it before. I will fight for you, because I cannot be another helping hand in this. You were created for so much more. Even my old birthday cards tell these stories. Your written scriptures, trying to encourage ME, the old unbeliever, to come to know God, because He knew His plans for me. I suppose now it is your turn... no matter how much I hate that, but God works out everything for His purpose. So one day, one very beautiful day, God will turn this around to glorify Him. You know what will be said?
"You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done. The saving of many lives." Genesis 50:20
And it's going to be beautiful, brother. And then the angels will rejoice... because you are back.
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