Red Light, Green Light

My wife and I were driving down 19th Avenue in San Fransisco the other day.  At the end, right were it turns into 280 you actually take a right turn.  To continue straight down 19th, you have to pull left into the straight lane at the stoplight and wait an obscenely long time for the light to let you through.  I've never seen anyone in that lane.  When you look down that street, you don't see any cars moving.  A few parked on the sides, but none moving anywhere and apparently no where to really go.  The reason I was looking at this street was because the left lane on 19th Ave seems to move the fastest in that area, but I'm always afraid I'm not going to be able to turn right.  As it turns out though, every lane on 19th runs right onto 280 and the rest of the avenue is a quiet, single lane road to the kinds of places only a few locals actually go.  I actually felt pity for a street.

I have a habit of personifying things.  My car, computer, even some of my phones actually have names.  Most of the stuff I interact with during the day has at least a personality.  I can't help it.  For some reason, when I open my backpack, I feel comfortable with it, like I do with any friend I've had many adventures with.  And then annoyed at its habit of hiding things from me, moving them from pocket to pocket.  It thinks it's funny and I can almost see it smirking.

Anyway, I felt sorry for that street.  I wondered if it looked at the 280 on-ramp and wondered what made traveling down that freeway such a more interesting and exciting option than continuing on to wherever that street goes to.  I don't even know.  I've never gone straight.  And that led me to wonder if streets actually prefer the quiet life or the busy one.  I guess it depends on the street.  The street just down from my house likes it quiet.  I know this because it has those stupid speed humps on it and make you go less than 20 mph.  That street is like a grumpy old man who doesn't like kids kicking balls onto his lawn.

I'm only telling you all of this though because it led me to have another deep thought.  It happened as I was telling someone about the townships in South Africa.  In these townships, thousands, if not millions of native african people live in squalor just outside the predominantly white cities which are full of wealth and decadence.  It occurred to me that people live in similar situations in other places of the world as well, but we don't feel the pity we feel for those poor people near Capetown.  I think its because of the contrast that appears.  It isn't so bad if you live in a grass hut and eat grubs if everyone you know lives that way.  A corrugated metal shack might even seem pretty fancy.  But when you live in a metal shack next to a mall selling $100 sunglasses, life is pretty unfair.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this.  Its just an observation at this point.  The pity I feel, that we may feel for ourselves, is often only pity based on a comparison with someone else.  I suppose you could apply this to our view of how athletic we are, or how pretty or wealthy or intelligent we are.  But when it comes down to it, those people in grass huts live happy contented lives eating grubs and walking everywhere.  Little boys dream of growing up to be shepherds and are happy to do so.  Its only disappointing when you realize that you could have been an astronaut--if you even know what that is.


I hope, for that neighborhood's sake, that the rest of 19th Avenue doesn't feel jealous of the northern half or of 280.  It may not be the route of choice for 99% of the traffic, but in the end its still going somewhere.  And one of these days, I'm going to veer left and find out where that is.

(For the record, the townships in Capetown are a huge problem, the result of much evil that still exists and the people there deserve so much more.  My wife and I are actually going there to host free summer camps for the poor kids who grow up without hope that things will ever change.  We're hoping to give them some.  And since I'm not above a shameless plug for support--we still have some funds to raise.  Please specify it's for Ben/Frodo)

Numbers Are Just Organized Scribbles

"Squiggly circles refuse straight lines."  That was how my wife summarized the point I had just made about the irony of pens working fine when you squiggle them in circles, but scratch ink-less when you try to write an actual number.  She's taken to writing down interesting things I say or notice for me or her to blog about later.  I probably should do the same, I had several great ideas for this blog just this evening.  Unfortunately, you'll have to endure this one.

The problem I've been facing these last couple of days has been one I've struggled with all my life.  See, apparently my last blog was fairly well received.  You'd never know it from looking at the actual blog, but there were a lot of comments on Facebook asking me when my book was coming out and saying other terribly nice things.  I would be lying if that didn't make me happier than a California cow (which, by the way is a terrible analogy because I think cows look pretty miserable wherever they are--but you get my point).  That being said, I suddenly found myself in this position of having to live up to my newfound status as a future pulitzer prize winner.  Or whatever it is they give to good bloggers.  And, not coming up with any ideas, didn't write anything at all.

What is it in our human nature to go to such extremes?  One minute I'm timidly posting my blog to Facebook where people I actually know will read it and know I wrote it.  I'm satisfied with my work, but embarrassed to actually show it to anyone.  And then, a few encouraging remarks later I feel I cannot top myself, my creative glands blocked and swollen and my head following suite.  There is a narrow, knife edged line dividing the pitiful from the prideful and it is painfully difficult to walk down it.

The key, I think, is the key to walking any narrow path.  One foot in front of the other.  Not just swinging it forward, though, like you're strolling quickly down the "awkward" aisle at a department store, but carefully putting each foot actually and literally in front of the other.  Our feet, just like our pride, naturally go to the left and right.  Self condemning with one step, self praising with the other and back again.  Knowing them the way we do, we should see it coming and work to bring them in.  With practice, patience and the grace of God, maybe someday we will be good enough for the Romanian gymnastic team.

That being said, it is ironic about the pens.

Stranger in a Strange Land

There are some things about myself that I have never considered abnormal.  Well, not abnormal in the I-have-an-arm-growing-out-of-my-right-ear kind of abnormal, just the not-quite-like-most-people kind.  My latest discovery happened the other day as I was helping my wife buy some long underwear.

I've never really shopped in the woman's department before--especially the underwear section.  That's not surprising since I didn't date too many girls before my wife and really didn't have too much reason to.  I didn't just not go there though, I actually kind of avoided it.  That aisle in every department store that always seems to be the shortest route to anywhere and its lined with bras and panties?  Ya, I hardly ever used that aisle.  I went the long way through the luggage and shoes.  In the rare times that I just sucked it up, I kept my eyes pointing straight ahead of me; I guess so that anyone who was watching me--another weird thing about me: I'm pretty sure someone is watching me whenever I'm in public--would assume I just wanted to get to the housewares as soon as possible and not some other weird thing.

In parallel to this, I have always been annoyed when I've had to buy underwear for myself and there has been someone else browsing the same aisles.  Even more so if that someone was a woman.  I remember one time in particular there was an older couple there who were having a very frank discussion about the various virtues of the types of underwear and which one they should get for the husband.  As far as I could tell, he couldn't remember what kind he wore and so they were having to figure it all out again at 60 years old.  It made me very uncomfortable.  I think I went to look at bath towels for a while until they remembered that he just wanted plain whitey-tighties.

So here I found myself in the women's underwear department, trying to decipher which package of long underwear was the best with a wide variety of bras, socks, panties and other items I couldn't even see the usefulness of on every side.  And to make it even more confusing, women's stuff just isn't very utilitarian.  Men's long underwear is right there with the other stuff whose sole purpose is to keep us warm.  It's in a package that has a warm looking man on it and it looks, first and foremost, warm.  Women's long underwear (if I can even call it that) has a picture of a woman on it that looks like she's seducing me.  It was between some very creative but definitely not warm socks that go up much farther than a sock needs to go and a display of belts lined with fuzzy fur--I guess so your waist doesn't get cold.

There were, of course, women everywhere.  And since I'm married now and have every reason to be looking in that aisle (or so I had convinced myself), I felt a little sorry for the discomfort they must have certainly been feeling.  And then I turned malicious.  "Serves them right!" I thought to myself, since they insist on always crowding me as I try to find the right combination of style and size in the men's section.  I even blatantly glanced at the bras.

Later, when I told my wife about this new turn in my life, this new round of courage I had summoned, this new bit of maturity I had attained, she said to me, "I doubt anyone even noticed you were a guy.  Most girls don't really care."

"Oh," I said.

"But these look really cute!" she replied.  "Good job!"

I hope that "cute" and "warm" are somewhat synonymous.

In One Word

There are certain people that I think God has put into my life in order to embody certain ideas for me.  Much like we know God because he came to earth as a man, I feel like I understand these ideas more deeply because I have known these men.  For instance, when I worked as a Program Coordinator at a camp, I wanted to be the best leader for my team and for my program as I could.  My mental "target" for this was a camp director I worked for for several summers before: Ed.  Ed claimed that to be a leader, you didn't have to know how to actually do any of the things your team did, you just needed to gather those people who did know how to do those things around you and enable them to do so.  There was something about him that made me excited about coming to camp to work my butt off.  I always hoped to have that effect on my staff.

I started thinking about this because my wife and I have recently arrived in Romania to stay for a couple weeks.  (Side note, if your keeping track, I missed a few days due to traveling and such.  Trust me, while its debatable how valuable any of this is, anything I would have written during that time of endless airports, vans and restaurants would definitely be a waste of your time).  As we were talking as a group this morning about what we would be doing today, we explained to Charlie that one of the reasons we had come was to be an encouragement to him and his wife.  Charlie is the Romanian side of the organization we came with, Romania Building the Next Generation.  I loved working with Charlie at a camp here last year and was glad to see him this year.  I suddenly realized as we talked that Charlie's face was what came to mind when I thought of the word "humility".  This is a man who is about to become the number two man in the organization, who could probably be the only reason we're able to do anything here at all and who leads a team of people from all over Romania to minister to the local children and teach them about God.  He has every reason to be proud of himself--we certainly are--and could easily flaunt his position.  And yet he considers himself to be nothing.  Not in that self-degrading hide-my-pride-with-humility way that most of us trying to be humble end up putting on, but in a quiet, caring, servant-like manner.  There is nobody I would rather be working with in Romania than Charlie.

I makes me wonder what kind of effect I'm having on the people around me.  What my "legacy", to use my former camp's lingo, will be.  The word doesn't have to be a positive one.  The word "obnoxious" brings a face to mind, as does the words "two-faced".  But I hope that my word is a good one, that I've been an encouragement to someone.

Maybe, since I've spent almost an hour now on my "15 minutes of blogging" (as I usually do), I should be remembered as "long-winded".

...And Flossing is Important Too

I was doing the dishes.  It was the last thing I could see that needed to be done before we leave for Romania tomorrow morning.  My wife was on the floor, stuffing just enough supplies into our bag so as to maximize our luggage allowance and not go over.  She was talking to her mother at the same time (a skill I will never master).  Suddenly, she cries out, "oh, we still have to do our blog!  Uuuuhhhh, we never have time for that blog!"

And that's the funny thing.  Of all the people I know, and most of the people I've ever known, we certainly have the time for this blog.  We don't have jobs, so we should have time for all sorts of things.  But the thing is, I feel just as pressed for time, just as harried, just as tired trying to get my video back to the Red Box as I did before when I had a full time job and all the Red Boxes were a thirty minute drive.  How ridiculous is that? 

What is it about us--and I'm willing to admit that this may be a personal problem and there are only a few others than can sympathize--that makes us feel as if responsibility is such a downer?  Its this feeling that I don't get to make a choice for myself.  I've been pressed into a corner by that stupid Red Box.  If I don't get there by 9pm (and God forbid there's a line!) then I'm out another $1.09.  So I have to go and that's such a burden.  Even when the entire rest of my day is spend doing exactly what I want when I want to.

But here's the flip-side.  And hopefully the part that makes me look a little more mature.  When I actually give into the responsibility, it feels good.  I can't help it, but I actually like saving $1.09.  I like writing this blog.  There's just this little part of me that doesn't like having to make the decision to actually be responsible.

I like to think that little part of me is getting littler.  But then I'm sitting in bed and I realize I forgot to brush my teeth.  UUUHHHHH!

Divine Joviality

One time, when I was in Romania, I ruined my favorite pair of shorts because I sat in goose poop (that's pupa de gusca in Romanian).  That's only mildly funny until you realize that I was playing Duck, Duck, Goose with a bunch of village kids.  That's the sort of stuff that happens to me.

I'm reading this book called the Book of Joby.  It's a modern day version of the Book of Job (of biblical fame) that happens right here along the northern coast of california.  So far I absolutely love it--though to be honest I'm only three chapters in.  One of the things I love about the book is the way God interacts with Satan, his angels, and even people.  One of my favorite scenes so far is one where Gabriel, who has been worshipfully contemplating the light of the sun reflecting off the waves of the Pacific for a couple of days, suddenly realizes that there is someone on the beach in his "territory" that he wasn't aware of.  He flys over for a closer look and sees a fisherman casting his line into the ocean.  Scanning the man's memories, his fears and desires, he gets a good idea of who the man is and finds him to be completely ordinary.  Average.  Just what you'd expect of a man of that age fishing along the coast.  Its all very unnerving to Gabriel, though, as he's not sure how the man got to where he was without Gabe knowing.  Suddenly, he notices a certain detail and swoops down next to the man, suddenly appearing as a human being.

"Kind of risky, doing that in front of humans, isn't it?" the old man asks. 

"It would be if I was in the company of humans, my Lord," Gabe responds.

Smiling mischievously, the old man asks, "What gave me away?

"You're not using any bait," Gabe chuckles.

"Can't an old man who loves fishing just cast into the water for the enjoyment of it?" the old man challenges.

"Yes, but even then he'd use a hook!" Gabe laughs.  And the gig is up.  God admits who he is.  He and Gabriel continue in this bantering fashion as God prepares them a meal and they eat together.

I love this picture of God interacting with his creation.  I feel like sometimes we get really caught up in the omni-s of God: his omniscience, omnipresence, omnipotence.  We forget that God is a person, just as we are persons, and he tends to interact with us as persons do with persons.  What kind of conversation can you really have with someone who knows everything, including what you're going to say?  What's the point, even?  Why tell God about your day when he was there?  What's funny about sitting in pupa de gusca to someone who not only wouldn't allow it to happen, but technically doesn't even have a butt?

But that's the beautiful thing about God.  He does interact with us as persons.  He's not--and I daresay, never has been--an intangible spiritual entity that we cannot comprehend.  Well, I guess technically that's exactly what he is, but he loves us enough to stoop to our level of limited comprehension so we can at least relate to him in the way we're used to.  That's why prayer is important.  Because I think if you were to pass God in the street and he saw your unhappy face, he'd ask what was the matter (even though he knows).  That's why he says that "where two of you are gathered in my name, there I will be also."  Because he knows that we need to be physically present with people sometimes--including him.  We need to shake their hands and punch their shoulders (even though he doesn't really have anything to shake or punch).  And that's why he came to Earth as Jesus.  Because we were never really going to know God until he sat down and ate a meal with us.  Walked down the street with us.  Used the bathroom before us.

It reminds me of my interaction with kids.  I had a little buddy named Isaiah that I used to hang with all the time.  He was like five or six.  We didn't talk about the latest episode of the Office or how much gas mileage our cars got.  We talked about how, well come to think of it, there wasn't actually much "talking".  We just chased each other around a lot, built stuff out of sofa pillows and assembled things out of Legos.  And I never thought less of Isaiah because he didn't have an opinion on the Iraqi war.  Isaiah knew me as well as any five year old can know a grown man.  Not much, but enough for me to be his best buddy.

 I hope there are geese in heaven.  And that Jesus has a change of robe.

Did you feel that?

The other day, my wife asked me a question.  I think it went somewhere along the lines of, "so how do you feel the presence of God"...or something like that.  She was asking about my experience of God, more or less.  But, as often happens when I'm talking with someone about the Faith, I found myself hung up on the particular phraseology used.  The "Christianese", if you will.  I often hear phrases like "presence of God" and find it really hard to actually talk about it because I'm not really sure what they mean.  Like when a church service starts and the worship leader says that we're entering into "The Presence of God".  I'm actually somewhat ok with this usage now, as I see it as a spiritual metaphor for what we're doing physically--though that took a good two days of my life to work out.  But I'm not sure that the people in the audience understand it that way.  People come to church and want to actually feel the presence of God.  And I can't help but wonder in confusion, what does that actually mean?

Of course, we of the Faith will readily admit that God is always present.  That's just part of the package when you worship an omnipresent god.  But that's obviously not what is meant because people wouldn't be asking for it then.  It would be like asking for another serving of air.  There are stories in the Bible where God was actually physically present the way my wife is present across the table from me as I write this right now.  He shows up in clouds and pillars of fire.  He shows up in a gentle whisper and has a conversation with his prophet.  He goes walking in the garden and he is even born as an actual man and eats and sleeps and everything.  But I don't think this is what people mean either.  Because there are times when I've heard people say that they have felt God's presence and nothing of this sort happened, at least not that I noticed. 

I've asked people about this feeling and haven't really gotten straight answers.  Apparently, feeling the presence of God isn't something one can describe or explain.  I can accept that.  But it does make me feel a little jealous.  I mean, I think I have a pretty good relationship with God.  But I've never gotten a spiritual "hug" or had this weird mystical sense that he was physically there in the room with me. 

I guess in the end I don't feel left out too much.  I think I'd rather know that he was always there whether I sensed him or not.  That way, when I don't sense him, I don't have to wonder where he got off to.

Dirty Pant Cuffs

Ok, Entry # 2.  I've now gone farther in my blogging career than I have ever gone before.  Yes, there have been other blogs.  Two others, to be precise.  The first one I don't really remember much about.  I think it was back when blogging sites were just coming out and I was wondering what all the hype was about.  I set up a blog, filled out my profile, and then wondered what I was supposed to do with the dang thing.  I didn't do anything.  In fact, the only reason I even remember that blog is because when I went to set up my second blog, my username was already taken.  (I discovered a long time ago that my username, though nothing super original, is *never* taken--with only one exception.  Someone has already taken it on gmail.  And that bugs the heck out of me.  Especially since I can't be entirely sure that its not actually me and I just forgot the password).

Anyway, thank God for password recovery links (when they work, anyway).  The second blog was for a mission trip I was going on and because our pastor had just mentioned blogging as a spiritual discipline.  I'm not really into spiritual discipline as a rule, but one involving a cool web site and sitting in coffee shops sounded like one I could get into.  Plus it would be a great way of staying connected to my friends who were supporting me on the trip.  I wrote one entry.  It was dumb.  I know it was dumb because I read it a year and a half later and it sounded forced.  Unnatural.  I've read stuff I've written a long time before and much of the time I impress myself.  I have an uncanny ability to forget stuff that I've said or, apparently, written. And I find great enjoyment in learning that not only was a story I just heard retold enjoyable, but one that had I told in the first place.  I'm not bragging about my skills.  I just think most people don't get to experience themselves that way and I'm thankful for it.  Its the only plus side to having a terrible memory for things.  There may actually be other plus sides, but I can't remember any of them at the moment.

So when I started this blog, there it was.  The dumb entry.  I deleted it and started over.  And now I've gone into unexplored territory.  The unknown.  The Star Trek theme song is playing in my head right now.

One of the interesting things about starting this blog yesterday was the plethora of topics available to me to write about today.  I kept thinking of new ones and, to be quite honest, had to hold myself back from sitting down and purging myself of all my deep thoughts.  But I knew if I did that I would find myself feeling bored and done with the whole thing after I finished.  So I kept them to myself.  And now I'm just typing away about how many things I have to say to the world without actually saying anything.  My wife is sitting across from me, spending her own 20 minutes (she's doing 5 more minutes than I) sharing her deep thoughts with the world.  She's  a deep person, always thinking deep thoughts.  I can be deep too; but where she's like a somewhat clear lake where you can actually see the depth even if you can't see the bottom, I'm more like the muddy shallows.  Who knows how far down you'll have to sink your feet in the sticky mud before you hit the firm ground underneath?  I certainly don't.  But you can bet a lot of people have ruined a good many pairs of pants trying to find out.

And with that I close this entry.  Sorry about your pants.

The Infamous First Post

The time is currently 10:02 am.  My wife recently mentioned some favorite author of hers that said if you want to get good at writing, try writing for at least 30 minutes every day.  It doesn't matter what you write about, just write something.  Thirty minutes seems like a long time to me--which is weird because I'm totally unemployed and have all the time in the world.  So I'm going to write for at least 15 minutes.  That should be a good start.

Why am I doing this, though?  Good question.  I like to write.  I just don't do it.  And I find myself writing in my head all the time, those thoughts just never seem to make it to paper.  And when I read a good author (I recently finished a book by Tim Keller who qualifies), I find myself thinking, "I could do this--and actually kind of want to."  But I don't.  So now that I'm employed and find myself on the other side of the phrase "If I had more time I would...", I think I'm going to give it a go.

Yesterday I actually wrote something for real.  Meaning that people were actually going to read it and it has my signature on it.  It's a devo that my wife was asked to write for her home church in Torrance, CA.  She was asked to write it, but since we're married now and we want to be a part of that church as a couple, we figured maybe I should write it.  And, though it was difficult to admit to even her when she mentioned it, I really wanted to!  So I wrote it yesterday.  Its good, I think.  I like it anyway, and that's all anyone can really hope for.  But when I finished and let her sit down to read it, it was the most frightening thing I've experienced in a long time.  She's read stuff I'd written before, but this wasn't just anything...this was a devotional on a Bible passage.  It (supposedly) communicates Truth about God.  What it has to say could be the difference between Heaven and Hell for someone.  Well, maybe its not that dramatic, but it felt like it.  As she sat down to read it, I went to the couch, crawled under a blanket and peeked out with one eye to watch her.  She, like most readers, was quiet, occassionally smiling or even half-laughing (a good sign, there were some half-jokes in there).  Meanwhile, I was a nervous wreck.  Seriously, it was the longest five minutes I can remember from recent history.  It was like I was on the line being picked last for elementary school football or about to ask out a girl for the first time or standing at the edge of a zip line platform about to put my full weight into a very very skinny cable. 

And when it was done, she turned around and smiled.  Then she laughed as she saw me cowering on the couch and ran over to me.  Pulling the blanket away from my face, she looked me in the eyes and said she loved it.  That she always loves it when I write.  That she knows how frightened I feel (she's been writing for years).  And that she's so happy I did it.  And then some more stuff happened ;)

So that's why I'm doing this.  Because I've always wanted to and because someone I love loves me.

The time is currently 10:22 am.  That's twenty minutes.  And easier than I thought.