I get excited about little things.
Call me crazy, but my new coffeemaker is absolutely beautiful. I found it in Wal-Mart, all sparkly and white and clean, and now it resides on my kitchen counter, where my enthusiasm for it has almost carried undertones of the stereotypical 1950's domestic. New household appliances! Rather an odd feeling for a young, hippie-hearted urbanitess. Watch out, June--you've never seen the likes of this chick before.
In this case, I'm mainly reveling in the enjoyment of the new and shiny, not being much of a caffeine addict myself. Coffee indulgence, for me, almost always comes as part of a social event. I got the coffeemaker for social events; particularly Brandon, through whose veins runs the java of kings, and my small group, which meets at my place. And I have to say, having just done a test run on it, that that stout little 4-cup Mr. Coffee percolates a good cuppa joe.
Fun fact for the week: Did any of you know that Bach--yes, the Bach--wrote a whole cantata about coffee? Appropriately titled "The Coffee Cantata", of course. If I have my fun facts straight, the good and gifted Johann Sebastian wrote it for his thirteen kids. The cantata tells the story of a lovely maiden whose father forbade her to drink any more coffee, and told her that he would not allow her to marry unless she gave it up. So she gave it up, but secretly resolved that a man could only win her favor if he promised to allow her coffee after the marriage.
How do I know this? Two words: Voice lessons. The aria "Far Beyond All Other Pleasures" (the maiden's love song for coffee; a sort of German baroque equivalent of "The Cheeseburger Song" from VeggieTales) is one of the toughest screechers I have ever had to stretch my lilting little lyric-soprano voice to reach.
7.16.2006
7.10.2006
Forget-Me-Nots
They’re small, simple blue flowers; low to the ground, content to offer what they have and rest at the roots of the great stalks. I love them. They bring to mind that line in Josh Groban’s "My Confession," “I am staggered by your beauty, your unassuming grace”; they’re so much of what I want to be.
I thought of them tonight, maybe because church took me back to another time, and I found myself remembering things that I will never forget, but have shut out of my mind since my move to Bellingham.
Brady Bobbink talked about intimacy with God, as part of a series on Mark 3’s record of the disciples’ calling. He talked about how hard it is to throw your whole being over to Christ, and the exclusivity of the relationship with God—the danger of allowing more than one person or thing to enter that place rightfully reserved for another. Again I felt that rush of affection for God, that touch that I’ve missed from my life for so long.
Then the worship team got up and played the song “Your Love is Extravagant.” I haven’t heard that song in years--almost since Jeffers first played it, strumming quietly on his guitar, in one of his summers at YD—Reachout Expeditions back then. And I remembered Jeffers. And then I remembered Reachout, and what it meant to me, and what everyone there meant to me—my core team, Paul and Bob and Sarah and Jon and Rick and Aaron—and the summer staff that spoke most into my life: Edd, Guppy, Kurt, the Boyes, Jeffers, Kristin, Ruth, Elizabeth, Lisa, and Aileen—and others—and how I would not be who I am today without that place and those people.
I left YD not out of lack of love for the place or the people, but out of my own emotional crisis based on severe burnout (years of trying to do too much), shattered faith (that happens a lot to people in ministry), and grief. For which reason, when I moved to Bellingham, I accepted the total change of life and put away my memories for a time. They tied too deeply into everything I was feeling.
Tonight, I felt like God brought those memories back to me, restored, purified, even perhaps a little clearer seen through last year’s experiences. I came home and cried, but I’m sensing an opening in my heart to the past, a merging of my old life with the new.
After all this time, I see God giving me the ability to move forward, based on what He once made of me, though I’d been temporarily broken—His use of a small rural youth ministry and its passionate, pure-hearted staff to shape the life and heart and faith of one girl.
“Strange thoughts and stranger dreams
Have haunted me these days
A world that’s never what it seems
Has kept me wandering in its ways
Love as only love can speak
Has softly called my name
In love alone I will now complete
This journey back the way I came
And it’s a long way back from the wrong end of the road
And a lonely time to get through
I can hear you turn toward the footsteps you know—
just your drifter wandering home to you
Roads may bend and tides may turn
And call to wheels and oars
But my heart will beg and ache and burn
Until it finds its way to yours
And it’s a long way back from the wrong end of the road
And a lonely time to get through
The sounds you hear now are nothing you don’t know—
just your drifter coming home to you”
I thought of them tonight, maybe because church took me back to another time, and I found myself remembering things that I will never forget, but have shut out of my mind since my move to Bellingham.
Brady Bobbink talked about intimacy with God, as part of a series on Mark 3’s record of the disciples’ calling. He talked about how hard it is to throw your whole being over to Christ, and the exclusivity of the relationship with God—the danger of allowing more than one person or thing to enter that place rightfully reserved for another. Again I felt that rush of affection for God, that touch that I’ve missed from my life for so long.
Then the worship team got up and played the song “Your Love is Extravagant.” I haven’t heard that song in years--almost since Jeffers first played it, strumming quietly on his guitar, in one of his summers at YD—Reachout Expeditions back then. And I remembered Jeffers. And then I remembered Reachout, and what it meant to me, and what everyone there meant to me—my core team, Paul and Bob and Sarah and Jon and Rick and Aaron—and the summer staff that spoke most into my life: Edd, Guppy, Kurt, the Boyes, Jeffers, Kristin, Ruth, Elizabeth, Lisa, and Aileen—and others—and how I would not be who I am today without that place and those people.
I left YD not out of lack of love for the place or the people, but out of my own emotional crisis based on severe burnout (years of trying to do too much), shattered faith (that happens a lot to people in ministry), and grief. For which reason, when I moved to Bellingham, I accepted the total change of life and put away my memories for a time. They tied too deeply into everything I was feeling.
Tonight, I felt like God brought those memories back to me, restored, purified, even perhaps a little clearer seen through last year’s experiences. I came home and cried, but I’m sensing an opening in my heart to the past, a merging of my old life with the new.
After all this time, I see God giving me the ability to move forward, based on what He once made of me, though I’d been temporarily broken—His use of a small rural youth ministry and its passionate, pure-hearted staff to shape the life and heart and faith of one girl.
“Strange thoughts and stranger dreams
Have haunted me these days
A world that’s never what it seems
Has kept me wandering in its ways
Love as only love can speak
Has softly called my name
In love alone I will now complete
This journey back the way I came
And it’s a long way back from the wrong end of the road
And a lonely time to get through
I can hear you turn toward the footsteps you know—
just your drifter wandering home to you
Roads may bend and tides may turn
And call to wheels and oars
But my heart will beg and ache and burn
Until it finds its way to yours
And it’s a long way back from the wrong end of the road
And a lonely time to get through
The sounds you hear now are nothing you don’t know—
just your drifter coming home to you”
7.09.2006
Acmenormous
This, folks, is the reason I do not write about current events: By the time I get around to writing about them, the word “current” has ceased to be an appropriate descriptive term.
Be that as it may, however, I basically promised Beth I would write about Acmenormous, which happened July 3rd. After all, it was definitely worth writing about… so here, for your reading pleasure:
Bellingham, Washington. College town. Artsy. Bohemian. Green, in more ways than one. Liberal, by which I mean Democratic, if not socialist. Hippie and accepting, outdoorsy. Peaceable, except when picketing or demonstrating. Little city. Canadian-infused.
Who knew that it was half an hour’s drive to a different world?
Acme, Washington. Small town. Lots of cows. And Republicans. Thoroughly patriotic, as far as I could tell; either that, or they just really like fireworks. Education?—well, I didn’t like the way they spelled “vendors”, but apparently “venders” is an allowed spelling according to Messrs. Merriam and Webster.
Acmenormous, basically speaking, is a fireworks show—not just any fireworks show, though. If rumor doesn't lie, the masterminds take all the money they get from the previous year and use it to buy fireworks for the next year. They set them off in a giant field outside of Acme, and even Bellingham rebels show up to watch. Judging from the crowd, however, I’d have to say most of them didn’t come from Bellingham: we drink beer over here, too, but not usually with Kenny Chesney. And all those car stereos weren’t playing Bon Jovi.
The greatest thing about our Acmenormous experience, however, didn’t have anything to do with fireworks or music or small-town culture. It had to do with the guys in the next car over. Beth said she knew before we had fully parked that hilarity had joined us for the evening.
We got out of the car, and immediately one of the guys said something funny. He wasn’t talking to us, but he spoke too loudly for anyone to help hearing.
We Caucasians—despite the fact that I’m registered with the government as a Creek Indian—can’t say certain things without accusations of racism. The same does not hold true between a young African-American, whom I’ll call Tim, and his young Hispanic friend, herein dubbed Carlos. As Beth put it, “I’ve never heard so many racial slurs in one night.”
For instance, in the course of a conversation they had with the nearest guy in a pickup, Carlos said “Yeah, I work in the fields picking raspberries.” Carlos, I might add, wore a Hollister California shirt and sparkling white tennis shoes, and had fussed about having to “Shout out” a small grass stain on his shorts.
“Yeah, I’m his boss,” Tim chimed in. “I tell him ‘I see you pickin’ them light berries,' and I say, 'Don’t you pick no light berries, I tell you to pick them dark berries. You put those back.’ ”
At this point, the pickup man motioned toward Beth, who had tears running down her face from laughing so hard. Tim and Carlos welcomed us into their evening from then on.
Football came next on their agenda, and they formed a touch-tackle game with one older guy who knew how to play, a bunch of young boys who had varying degrees of skill, two girls, and themselves. We were the “crowd noise,” and they called on us several times. In between duties, we laughed. Tim kept telling people not to step on imaginary vegetables, supposedly mingled in with the long grass. He also teased Carlos for having no knowledge of the Spanish language. He, however, had no knowledge of the ball or the rules.
“Is he black?” Carlos asked the older guy, teasingly, halfway through the game. “Is he black? He can’t play football!”
“What are you talking about, Carlos?” his friend returned. “You can’t speak Spanish!”
Eventually, the football game dissipated and the guys headed off somewhere; a couple of my brother-in-law’s friends showed up; the daylight faded. I got cold and sleepy, and my mind wandered away, not to return until the loudspeaker informed us that the fireworks would happen shortly.
Somebody’s granddaughter played the Star-Spangled Banner on the saxophone, just before the fireworks. And they did have some big fireworks, especially for a privately-run show. And then I fell asleep in the car, waiting to get out of the field. At least I wasn’t driving.
It’s a good show. Everyone should go next year.
Be that as it may, however, I basically promised Beth I would write about Acmenormous, which happened July 3rd. After all, it was definitely worth writing about… so here, for your reading pleasure:
Bellingham, Washington. College town. Artsy. Bohemian. Green, in more ways than one. Liberal, by which I mean Democratic, if not socialist. Hippie and accepting, outdoorsy. Peaceable, except when picketing or demonstrating. Little city. Canadian-infused.
Who knew that it was half an hour’s drive to a different world?
Acme, Washington. Small town. Lots of cows. And Republicans. Thoroughly patriotic, as far as I could tell; either that, or they just really like fireworks. Education?—well, I didn’t like the way they spelled “vendors”, but apparently “venders” is an allowed spelling according to Messrs. Merriam and Webster.
Acmenormous, basically speaking, is a fireworks show—not just any fireworks show, though. If rumor doesn't lie, the masterminds take all the money they get from the previous year and use it to buy fireworks for the next year. They set them off in a giant field outside of Acme, and even Bellingham rebels show up to watch. Judging from the crowd, however, I’d have to say most of them didn’t come from Bellingham: we drink beer over here, too, but not usually with Kenny Chesney. And all those car stereos weren’t playing Bon Jovi.
The greatest thing about our Acmenormous experience, however, didn’t have anything to do with fireworks or music or small-town culture. It had to do with the guys in the next car over. Beth said she knew before we had fully parked that hilarity had joined us for the evening.
We got out of the car, and immediately one of the guys said something funny. He wasn’t talking to us, but he spoke too loudly for anyone to help hearing.
We Caucasians—despite the fact that I’m registered with the government as a Creek Indian—can’t say certain things without accusations of racism. The same does not hold true between a young African-American, whom I’ll call Tim, and his young Hispanic friend, herein dubbed Carlos. As Beth put it, “I’ve never heard so many racial slurs in one night.”
For instance, in the course of a conversation they had with the nearest guy in a pickup, Carlos said “Yeah, I work in the fields picking raspberries.” Carlos, I might add, wore a Hollister California shirt and sparkling white tennis shoes, and had fussed about having to “Shout out” a small grass stain on his shorts.
“Yeah, I’m his boss,” Tim chimed in. “I tell him ‘I see you pickin’ them light berries,' and I say, 'Don’t you pick no light berries, I tell you to pick them dark berries. You put those back.’ ”
At this point, the pickup man motioned toward Beth, who had tears running down her face from laughing so hard. Tim and Carlos welcomed us into their evening from then on.
Football came next on their agenda, and they formed a touch-tackle game with one older guy who knew how to play, a bunch of young boys who had varying degrees of skill, two girls, and themselves. We were the “crowd noise,” and they called on us several times. In between duties, we laughed. Tim kept telling people not to step on imaginary vegetables, supposedly mingled in with the long grass. He also teased Carlos for having no knowledge of the Spanish language. He, however, had no knowledge of the ball or the rules.
“Is he black?” Carlos asked the older guy, teasingly, halfway through the game. “Is he black? He can’t play football!”
“What are you talking about, Carlos?” his friend returned. “You can’t speak Spanish!”
Eventually, the football game dissipated and the guys headed off somewhere; a couple of my brother-in-law’s friends showed up; the daylight faded. I got cold and sleepy, and my mind wandered away, not to return until the loudspeaker informed us that the fireworks would happen shortly.
Somebody’s granddaughter played the Star-Spangled Banner on the saxophone, just before the fireworks. And they did have some big fireworks, especially for a privately-run show. And then I fell asleep in the car, waiting to get out of the field. At least I wasn’t driving.
It’s a good show. Everyone should go next year.
Corrections
After Mom read my blog about books, she said "What about Abba? and John Denver? and 'Dirty Laundry?' " In other words, she and Dad did let my sisters and I listen to secular music. I stand corrected. We had one tape, which contained "Take a Chance on Me" and "Chiquitita" by Abba, a couple of John Denver songs, and that old hit, "Dirty Laundry," which I remember singing cheerfully as a child "Kickemony up, kickemony down" because I didn't know how the lyric really went.
For that matter, I've always had trouble understanding song lyrics. When I was very small, Mom used to listen to this beautiful, achingly sad song about someone who died the other night. At least that's what I thought, until I saw the lyric years later: "El Shaddai, El Shaddai, El Elyon na Adonai." To be fair, four-year-olds can't be expected to understand Hebrew, but I have the same problem with English. I could swear today that Elton John sings "Hold me close, I'm trying to dance here/Down the head lice on the highway" ("Tiny Dancer") but I know that can't be right.
Anyways, we did listen to secular music as children... just not very much. That tape pretty much made it up till I turned sixteen and Dad started listening to country music in the car. I thought country music the greatest thing ever. That is, until I moved out here and discovered Bryan Adams and Sheryl Crow and Lifehouse and all their friends.
Now, I have a fairly eclectic taste in music--I like some of almost anything but girl hip-hop and free jazz. But people will still talk about bands like INXS and I'll say "I don't know any of their songs." Oh well. Worse things could be said about a person.
For that matter, I've always had trouble understanding song lyrics. When I was very small, Mom used to listen to this beautiful, achingly sad song about someone who died the other night. At least that's what I thought, until I saw the lyric years later: "El Shaddai, El Shaddai, El Elyon na Adonai." To be fair, four-year-olds can't be expected to understand Hebrew, but I have the same problem with English. I could swear today that Elton John sings "Hold me close, I'm trying to dance here/Down the head lice on the highway" ("Tiny Dancer") but I know that can't be right.
Anyways, we did listen to secular music as children... just not very much. That tape pretty much made it up till I turned sixteen and Dad started listening to country music in the car. I thought country music the greatest thing ever. That is, until I moved out here and discovered Bryan Adams and Sheryl Crow and Lifehouse and all their friends.
Now, I have a fairly eclectic taste in music--I like some of almost anything but girl hip-hop and free jazz. But people will still talk about bands like INXS and I'll say "I don't know any of their songs." Oh well. Worse things could be said about a person.
7.02.2006
Good Question
“What are the five books that have influenced you the most?”
This question showed up in a book at work the other day, offering itself irresistibly among the text. Here’s my answer, straight from the soul of one card-carrying bookworm. I’d be absolutely delighted if any of you want to leave your answers in the comments section, or post it on your own blog and let me know.
1. The Bible. I considered stating this as a given and moving on, because it’s such a textbook Sunday-school answer for a good Christian girl. The fact remains, however, that even if I had never chosen to believe it, its words would still today be embedded into my soul. It hasn’t simply influenced me; it has defined me. Favorite quote, one among many: “Be still (or as the NASB puts it, ‘cease striving’) and know that I am God.”
2. Wild at Heart. I know, I know… shouldn’t I be saying “Captivating” (the one that was written for girls?) No. For several reasons; most basically that I read Wild at Heart first, and at the first time in my life that I was ever ready to comprehend its underlying truths—those referring to what God meant humankind to be, and what really went wrong with our hearts. Yes, it transformed the way I see the hearts and actions of men, giving me a new appreciation and respect for things I hadn’t before understood. But it absolutely revolutionized me as a woman and a Christian. Favorite quote (from the chapter on Eve, which I’ve read at least ten times): “A woman living out her true design will be valiant, vulnerable, and scandalous.”
3. Harry Potter. I can’t pick out one book here; the whole series will have to do. Dumbledore’s compassionate heart and rich, unique wisdom, Harry’s love and bravery, Luna’s peace, Fred and George’s love of fun, Hermione and Ginny’s tough individuality and steadfast support, and Ron’s bumbling but deeply devoted loyalty speak libraries of truth to me. That’s not even mentioning characters like Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Neville, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Moody, McGonagall, Hagrid, or the gone-but-not-forgotten James and Lily Potter. I’ve learned more about courage, faith and love from those books than most of the “Christian” novels I’ve ever read. Make of that what you will. Favorite quote, Dumbledore to Harry in book 5: “In the end it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you.”
4. No Compromise: The life story of Keith Green. My parents didn’t let me listen to secular music growing up. On the other hand, most of what passed for music among the Christian crowd in my early years was about as well written as something sung by Gwen Stefani, only with a thoroughly moral message and no cool beat. So we listened to Keith Green. Even today, I can’t listen to an old Keith Green record without hearing his passion for God throbbing in his voice. That passion defined his life, which is why I love the book—that, and I think God cut my soul out of the same piece of cloth as that of Keith’s wife, Melody. She wrote the book. Favorite quote… well, without having the book here to flip through, I’ll have to go with a line from one of their songs: “Make my life a prayer to you, I wanna do what you want me to/ No empty words and no white lies, no token prayers, no compromise.”
5. Fifth place gets split between C.S. Lewis’s “That Hideous Strength” and Nicholas Sparks’ “A Walk To Remember,” both books having had the advantage of protagonists with whom I sympathized at every moment. Neither Mark nor Jane Studdock, from the former, said or thought or did much of anything that part of me didn’t think I would have done in their case; I grew as they grew. And Sparks’ Jamie Sullivan was my hero, everything I wanted to be—well, except for the dying part. Dowdy and a social zero among her peers—just like me in my teens and early twenties (at least, whenever I dared venture outside the homeschool community)—she had a quiet confidence that has helped me find my own. Favorite quotes, first from "That Hideous Strength": “…To desire the desiring of her own beauty is the vanity of Lilith, but to desire the enjoying of her own beauty is the obedience of Eve, and to both it is in the lover that the beloved tastes her own delightfulness.” From "A Walk To Remember": “Jamie also taught me the value of forgiveness and the transforming power that it offers… Jamie held no grudges. Jamie led her life the way the Bible taught.”
Your turn! After all, I just finished a good book... time for some new reading material.
This question showed up in a book at work the other day, offering itself irresistibly among the text. Here’s my answer, straight from the soul of one card-carrying bookworm. I’d be absolutely delighted if any of you want to leave your answers in the comments section, or post it on your own blog and let me know.
1. The Bible. I considered stating this as a given and moving on, because it’s such a textbook Sunday-school answer for a good Christian girl. The fact remains, however, that even if I had never chosen to believe it, its words would still today be embedded into my soul. It hasn’t simply influenced me; it has defined me. Favorite quote, one among many: “Be still (or as the NASB puts it, ‘cease striving’) and know that I am God.”
2. Wild at Heart. I know, I know… shouldn’t I be saying “Captivating” (the one that was written for girls?) No. For several reasons; most basically that I read Wild at Heart first, and at the first time in my life that I was ever ready to comprehend its underlying truths—those referring to what God meant humankind to be, and what really went wrong with our hearts. Yes, it transformed the way I see the hearts and actions of men, giving me a new appreciation and respect for things I hadn’t before understood. But it absolutely revolutionized me as a woman and a Christian. Favorite quote (from the chapter on Eve, which I’ve read at least ten times): “A woman living out her true design will be valiant, vulnerable, and scandalous.”
3. Harry Potter. I can’t pick out one book here; the whole series will have to do. Dumbledore’s compassionate heart and rich, unique wisdom, Harry’s love and bravery, Luna’s peace, Fred and George’s love of fun, Hermione and Ginny’s tough individuality and steadfast support, and Ron’s bumbling but deeply devoted loyalty speak libraries of truth to me. That’s not even mentioning characters like Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Neville, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Moody, McGonagall, Hagrid, or the gone-but-not-forgotten James and Lily Potter. I’ve learned more about courage, faith and love from those books than most of the “Christian” novels I’ve ever read. Make of that what you will. Favorite quote, Dumbledore to Harry in book 5: “In the end it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you.”
4. No Compromise: The life story of Keith Green. My parents didn’t let me listen to secular music growing up. On the other hand, most of what passed for music among the Christian crowd in my early years was about as well written as something sung by Gwen Stefani, only with a thoroughly moral message and no cool beat. So we listened to Keith Green. Even today, I can’t listen to an old Keith Green record without hearing his passion for God throbbing in his voice. That passion defined his life, which is why I love the book—that, and I think God cut my soul out of the same piece of cloth as that of Keith’s wife, Melody. She wrote the book. Favorite quote… well, without having the book here to flip through, I’ll have to go with a line from one of their songs: “Make my life a prayer to you, I wanna do what you want me to/ No empty words and no white lies, no token prayers, no compromise.”
5. Fifth place gets split between C.S. Lewis’s “That Hideous Strength” and Nicholas Sparks’ “A Walk To Remember,” both books having had the advantage of protagonists with whom I sympathized at every moment. Neither Mark nor Jane Studdock, from the former, said or thought or did much of anything that part of me didn’t think I would have done in their case; I grew as they grew. And Sparks’ Jamie Sullivan was my hero, everything I wanted to be—well, except for the dying part. Dowdy and a social zero among her peers—just like me in my teens and early twenties (at least, whenever I dared venture outside the homeschool community)—she had a quiet confidence that has helped me find my own. Favorite quotes, first from "That Hideous Strength": “…To desire the desiring of her own beauty is the vanity of Lilith, but to desire the enjoying of her own beauty is the obedience of Eve, and to both it is in the lover that the beloved tastes her own delightfulness.” From "A Walk To Remember": “Jamie also taught me the value of forgiveness and the transforming power that it offers… Jamie held no grudges. Jamie led her life the way the Bible taught.”
Your turn! After all, I just finished a good book... time for some new reading material.
Remembering God
That pirate that I spend so much time with recently lent me a book called “I’m the Legend of the Son of Man.” That book made me cry today.
The book, a privately published novel, tells the life story of Jesus in first person. It actually sticks pretty closely to the events chronicled in the Gospels, although it naturally adds quite a bit as it describes Jesus’ growing years and daily life.
It does have one premise with which I disagree, mostly because of Jesus’ statement in John 8:58— “Truly, truly I say to you, before Abraham was born, I am”: the idea that Jesus operated as much on sheer faith as we do. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that He never doubted or questioned who He really was. But it did raise to me this interesting question: How omniscient was he when he lived down here? When he predicted Peter’s denial, was that a prophetic revealing to him by the Spirit at that time? Or did he know as he walked the earth, for Peter as well as David and the rest of us, “the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them”? (Psalm 139:16). Hmmm.
But that isn’t what made me cry.
After meandering through the first two-thirds of the book over several weeks of work lunch-breaks, today I took a blanket and a Coke out on my little back deck and, while attempting to sunburn my legs, finished the book.
There’s another part of my story that needs filling in here before I go on: In the summer of 2003 I fell in love with God in dazzling, incredible new ways. “You ride on wind, and you hide in darkness,” I wrote him. “You’re an adventure wherever we go…” I titled the song “Endless Glory” and have sung it in church.
And I thought, with absolutely no intention of being arrogant, that I finally loved God in such a way as could not be shaken.
Then, of course, in 2004 and 2005, the three main pillars that had built up my faith in that one blessed year imploded rather dramatically. I got shaken, all right—rattled loose in the central chambers of my being—and spent several months in an emotional hell that became physical in its destructive heat; a form of suffering that I never, ever want to face again.
Since December of 2004, much of my experience in faith and love for God has been blind determination and stirrings of an ache for the passion, joy and hope I’d lost and wondered if it were even possible to regain.
Somehow, in the last chapter of that book, Jonathan Cring managed to infuse some of that resurrective joy into his words.
I read through the final page, closed the book, and welcomed the tears because they poured out of a tenderness toward God and a hope in heaven that I haven’t felt in a year and a half.
I don’t know why you wanted me to read that book, Brandon, you can tell me one of these days… but thanks.
Sometimes I write songs out of life’s experiences. Other times, I write and then proceed to live out the lines (not on purpose, but it happens!) This song was both.
“You keep me asking and you keep me guessing
You’re a mystery that plays with my mind
You leave me so blessed, and then you leave me helpless
You’re surprising me all of the time
And you make me angry, hurting me on purpose
And then you show me what love really means
You’re my God, you’re my deepest story
You’re everything that I was made for
Loving you is an endless glory
I’m forever wanting more”
The book, a privately published novel, tells the life story of Jesus in first person. It actually sticks pretty closely to the events chronicled in the Gospels, although it naturally adds quite a bit as it describes Jesus’ growing years and daily life.
It does have one premise with which I disagree, mostly because of Jesus’ statement in John 8:58— “Truly, truly I say to you, before Abraham was born, I am”: the idea that Jesus operated as much on sheer faith as we do. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that He never doubted or questioned who He really was. But it did raise to me this interesting question: How omniscient was he when he lived down here? When he predicted Peter’s denial, was that a prophetic revealing to him by the Spirit at that time? Or did he know as he walked the earth, for Peter as well as David and the rest of us, “the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them”? (Psalm 139:16). Hmmm.
But that isn’t what made me cry.
After meandering through the first two-thirds of the book over several weeks of work lunch-breaks, today I took a blanket and a Coke out on my little back deck and, while attempting to sunburn my legs, finished the book.
There’s another part of my story that needs filling in here before I go on: In the summer of 2003 I fell in love with God in dazzling, incredible new ways. “You ride on wind, and you hide in darkness,” I wrote him. “You’re an adventure wherever we go…” I titled the song “Endless Glory” and have sung it in church.
And I thought, with absolutely no intention of being arrogant, that I finally loved God in such a way as could not be shaken.
Then, of course, in 2004 and 2005, the three main pillars that had built up my faith in that one blessed year imploded rather dramatically. I got shaken, all right—rattled loose in the central chambers of my being—and spent several months in an emotional hell that became physical in its destructive heat; a form of suffering that I never, ever want to face again.
Since December of 2004, much of my experience in faith and love for God has been blind determination and stirrings of an ache for the passion, joy and hope I’d lost and wondered if it were even possible to regain.
Somehow, in the last chapter of that book, Jonathan Cring managed to infuse some of that resurrective joy into his words.
I read through the final page, closed the book, and welcomed the tears because they poured out of a tenderness toward God and a hope in heaven that I haven’t felt in a year and a half.
I don’t know why you wanted me to read that book, Brandon, you can tell me one of these days… but thanks.
Sometimes I write songs out of life’s experiences. Other times, I write and then proceed to live out the lines (not on purpose, but it happens!) This song was both.
“You keep me asking and you keep me guessing
You’re a mystery that plays with my mind
You leave me so blessed, and then you leave me helpless
You’re surprising me all of the time
And you make me angry, hurting me on purpose
And then you show me what love really means
You’re my God, you’re my deepest story
You’re everything that I was made for
Loving you is an endless glory
I’m forever wanting more”
6.22.2006
X-Men III
As of just a few weeks ago, I had never seen X-Men--any of them; and not without reason. In my teens, I even pillow-censored Star Wars (for those of you who don't know what pillow-censoring is, I define it as the act of holding a pillow between your eyes and the television during the creepy parts. For those of you who don't know what Star Wars is... well, I'll have to refer you here.)
Anyways, I outgrew most of that a couple years ago; probably when I saw The Patriot, closely followed by Gladiator, which violent (and beautiful) films became the first two movies I ever cried over.
Those two movies didn't quite cure me of my ideas about most of the action genre, however. So when Brandon wanted me to go see X-Men III with him, I hadn't seen the first two, and I told him that. Which meant that we brought the first one back to my place and watched it.
To my surprise, I didn't just like it--I found it passionate, deep, haunting and powerful. So we watched the second one, which I liked even better. Brandon filled in the story with history from his knowledge of the comic books, TV shows, etc., and by careful cultivation grew a healthy X-Men fan.
Be forewarned from here, if you haven't made it to the theater for the third movie yet: if you know enough about the first two, you might be able to piece together a spoiler from the rest of this blog. And--if you haven't seen it, stay till the credits are over. Trust me on this one. Don't leave, like everyone in the cinema did tonight except for me and Brandon and two or three other astute folks in the back.
Tonight, we drove up to Sunset Square and watched the third. The Last Stand left me feeling bittersweet, for several reasons. First of all, Wolverine and Rogue have been my favorite characters from the start. Wolverine ended the series as a hero, but it cost him unimaginably; one couldn't ask for a more heartwrenching scene than his final confrontation with the Phoenix. Rogue made a choice that cost her deeply as well, and would change not only her life but the lives of others around her. But I cannot blame her for what she did. Rogue, of all the characters, faced the most hellish dilemma--to love, and never be able to touch.
"Let the punishment fit the crime" accurately describes Magneto's fate. I don't for a minute deny that he deserved it. Something in his character always caught me, though; held out some small hope of redemption; perhaps his friendship with Xavier. Instead, one of the stallions in the story with the greatest potential for nobility chose viciousness instead; and, despite the evil, it was a shame to see that strength gelded.
Here's the question that will dog the mental footsteps of X-Men fans for... ever, I guess: What made that chess piece wobble?
Anyways, I outgrew most of that a couple years ago; probably when I saw The Patriot, closely followed by Gladiator, which violent (and beautiful) films became the first two movies I ever cried over.
Those two movies didn't quite cure me of my ideas about most of the action genre, however. So when Brandon wanted me to go see X-Men III with him, I hadn't seen the first two, and I told him that. Which meant that we brought the first one back to my place and watched it.
To my surprise, I didn't just like it--I found it passionate, deep, haunting and powerful. So we watched the second one, which I liked even better. Brandon filled in the story with history from his knowledge of the comic books, TV shows, etc., and by careful cultivation grew a healthy X-Men fan.
Be forewarned from here, if you haven't made it to the theater for the third movie yet: if you know enough about the first two, you might be able to piece together a spoiler from the rest of this blog. And--if you haven't seen it, stay till the credits are over. Trust me on this one. Don't leave, like everyone in the cinema did tonight except for me and Brandon and two or three other astute folks in the back.
Tonight, we drove up to Sunset Square and watched the third. The Last Stand left me feeling bittersweet, for several reasons. First of all, Wolverine and Rogue have been my favorite characters from the start. Wolverine ended the series as a hero, but it cost him unimaginably; one couldn't ask for a more heartwrenching scene than his final confrontation with the Phoenix. Rogue made a choice that cost her deeply as well, and would change not only her life but the lives of others around her. But I cannot blame her for what she did. Rogue, of all the characters, faced the most hellish dilemma--to love, and never be able to touch.
"Let the punishment fit the crime" accurately describes Magneto's fate. I don't for a minute deny that he deserved it. Something in his character always caught me, though; held out some small hope of redemption; perhaps his friendship with Xavier. Instead, one of the stallions in the story with the greatest potential for nobility chose viciousness instead; and, despite the evil, it was a shame to see that strength gelded.
Here's the question that will dog the mental footsteps of X-Men fans for... ever, I guess: What made that chess piece wobble?
6.20.2006
Music at Work
Being a musician, I never thought I could listen to music and write Perl scripts at the same time. I thought that for a reason; namely, that music tends to take over any other tasks at hand. If I'm driving and listening to Def Leppard, I'll catch myself speeding (if it's Lifehouse's "You and Me" playing, I have to be especially careful, because I love that song and it's all I'll remember after it's over.) If I'm doing housework and listening to LeAnn Rimes, whatever I'm doing stops whenever the melody goes above high C, because I have to straighten up to hit high notes well, and it's nearly impossible to just listen to LeAnn.
Apparently, though, the absence of an accelerator pedal at my desk--and the fact that "singing along" in my silent department would be akin to shouting in the library--makes it possible for me to listen and work at the same time, without affecting the quality or quantity of work accomplished.
So, today--while setting up divisions and tangling with a nasty multi-level list--I wore headphones most of the time. On the playlist:
1. Relient K, "mmHmm." I haven't paid much attention to this band in a couple of years; guess I should have. Excellent CD. Fave tracks: "Be My Escape", "High of '75", "Let It All Out", and "Maintain Consciousness"... although I have to put in a good word for "My Girl's Ex-Boyfriend", because it runs through my head and makes me laugh.
2. Collection of themes from various video games, movies, and TV shows. Brandon made it for me. Has the "Brothers" song from Fullmetal Alchemist on it, and a lot of other very beautiful songs (others that stand out to me right now: "Tifa's Theme" from Final Fantasy VII, "Kaoru and Misao" from Rurouni Kenshin, and "Grief and Sorrow" from Naruto.) Incredibly good music to work to, although every time I hear "To Zanarkand" from Final Fantasy X, I have to remind myself that I can't learn a melody and write regular expressions at the same time.
3. John Van Deusen, Closet Songs. My favorite artist, with or without his band, The Lonely Forest (although they definitely rock.) Someday, I'll be able to say that I played street hockey with him before he was famous. That particular CD is made up mostly of songs he, unfortunately, doesn't do anymore.
4. CD I burned off of MSN Music last year. Titled it "Philosophy and Passion." Managed to make it all the way through Jon Bon Jovi's "Livin' On A Prayer" without accidentally singing aloud... minor miracle, that.
5. Relient K again. I broke my usually strict rule about not listening to the same CD twice in the same day. And I did it for a Christian CD. That... just doesn't happen. It's good stuff. Besides, their happy-go-lucky drummer keeps me awake.
Apparently, though, the absence of an accelerator pedal at my desk--and the fact that "singing along" in my silent department would be akin to shouting in the library--makes it possible for me to listen and work at the same time, without affecting the quality or quantity of work accomplished.
So, today--while setting up divisions and tangling with a nasty multi-level list--I wore headphones most of the time. On the playlist:
1. Relient K, "mmHmm." I haven't paid much attention to this band in a couple of years; guess I should have. Excellent CD. Fave tracks: "Be My Escape", "High of '75", "Let It All Out", and "Maintain Consciousness"... although I have to put in a good word for "My Girl's Ex-Boyfriend", because it runs through my head and makes me laugh.
2. Collection of themes from various video games, movies, and TV shows. Brandon made it for me. Has the "Brothers" song from Fullmetal Alchemist on it, and a lot of other very beautiful songs (others that stand out to me right now: "Tifa's Theme" from Final Fantasy VII, "Kaoru and Misao" from Rurouni Kenshin, and "Grief and Sorrow" from Naruto.) Incredibly good music to work to, although every time I hear "To Zanarkand" from Final Fantasy X, I have to remind myself that I can't learn a melody and write regular expressions at the same time.
3. John Van Deusen, Closet Songs. My favorite artist, with or without his band, The Lonely Forest (although they definitely rock.) Someday, I'll be able to say that I played street hockey with him before he was famous. That particular CD is made up mostly of songs he, unfortunately, doesn't do anymore.
4. CD I burned off of MSN Music last year. Titled it "Philosophy and Passion." Managed to make it all the way through Jon Bon Jovi's "Livin' On A Prayer" without accidentally singing aloud... minor miracle, that.
5. Relient K again. I broke my usually strict rule about not listening to the same CD twice in the same day. And I did it for a Christian CD. That... just doesn't happen. It's good stuff. Besides, their happy-go-lucky drummer keeps me awake.
6.16.2006
Sunbreaks and God
The dark clouds cast an ominous feeling, hovering just at the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, which had gone gray in the shadows.
I was eight, and my family and I stood in the church parking lot, along with more of the church. Josh and Jared--boys from the junior-high contingent--pranced back and forth among the ruts in the gravelly dirt. One of them had smeared mud on his tongue, obviously for the sake of getting an "Eww, gross" from the pack of little girls.
Distractions notwithstanding, I kept turning my eyes to the top of a nearby peak. A small part in the clouds had formed there, and a bright ray of sunlight made a track through the darkness. I remember feeling that if I walked up that trail of light through the doorway in the clouds, I would find God there.
That memory comes back to me now and again, perhaps once every couple of years, whenever I catch one of those narrow, highly contrasted sunbreaks. They look--damn science!--like portals into heaven.
I thought of it last night, standing out on the pier at Boulevard Park. The sky and water had turned as gray, and almost as smooth, as steel; out across the bay, the sun came through in a couple of spots.
It's just a little girl's imagination. But I still think of the experience of going to heaven as walking up the light, through the doorway in the clouds. Straight to God.
Which proves, probably, that I have either read too much Reader's Digest or that a part of me will never quite grow up. Both, I hope.
I was eight, and my family and I stood in the church parking lot, along with more of the church. Josh and Jared--boys from the junior-high contingent--pranced back and forth among the ruts in the gravelly dirt. One of them had smeared mud on his tongue, obviously for the sake of getting an "Eww, gross" from the pack of little girls.
Distractions notwithstanding, I kept turning my eyes to the top of a nearby peak. A small part in the clouds had formed there, and a bright ray of sunlight made a track through the darkness. I remember feeling that if I walked up that trail of light through the doorway in the clouds, I would find God there.
That memory comes back to me now and again, perhaps once every couple of years, whenever I catch one of those narrow, highly contrasted sunbreaks. They look--damn science!--like portals into heaven.
I thought of it last night, standing out on the pier at Boulevard Park. The sky and water had turned as gray, and almost as smooth, as steel; out across the bay, the sun came through in a couple of spots.
It's just a little girl's imagination. But I still think of the experience of going to heaven as walking up the light, through the doorway in the clouds. Straight to God.
Which proves, probably, that I have either read too much Reader's Digest or that a part of me will never quite grow up. Both, I hope.
6.13.2006
Ache
We all feel it sometimes—that sense of the deep sorrow involved in living in this world, mingled with a poignant hope. Those who have read John Eldredge’s books will remember that he called it “the haunting.” I love that description. You know the feeling.
And you feel it when you watch your friend walk back into a situation that she’s beyond her ability to bear. Even knowing that you’re doing what you can to help her, a part of you wonders if you’re missing something—if you could go just a step further, and it would be enough.
You feel it as you watch a beautiful story about two brothers on a quest, making their way in a brutal world, possessing nothing—not even a body, in one case—but each other. The haunting pours out of the song they sing to each other, and out of all music, really; music, like art and story, convey what can never be expressed in only ‘so many words.’
And you feel it when you say something that, no matter how important or well-meant, hurts someone that matters to you. You watch the sword hit its mark, and everything inside you wants to get up and fling your arms around them; and you hold back because you wonder if it’s appropriate, and instead watch your respect for them grow in the grace of their response.
Hope changes everything. It's enough.
And you feel it when you watch your friend walk back into a situation that she’s beyond her ability to bear. Even knowing that you’re doing what you can to help her, a part of you wonders if you’re missing something—if you could go just a step further, and it would be enough.
You feel it as you watch a beautiful story about two brothers on a quest, making their way in a brutal world, possessing nothing—not even a body, in one case—but each other. The haunting pours out of the song they sing to each other, and out of all music, really; music, like art and story, convey what can never be expressed in only ‘so many words.’
And you feel it when you say something that, no matter how important or well-meant, hurts someone that matters to you. You watch the sword hit its mark, and everything inside you wants to get up and fling your arms around them; and you hold back because you wonder if it’s appropriate, and instead watch your respect for them grow in the grace of their response.
Hope changes everything. It's enough.
6.09.2006
Strange Encounters
Bellingham definitely has its own cultural aura. I moved here because I love its funky, hippie-grunge feel, even though (a) sign-carrying protests on street corners make me laugh a lot more often than they make me think, and (b) there are some things no woman should do with her hair. I love it that they show movies in parks in summer, rain or shine. I love it that a pirate band can march through WalMart with an accordion.
Occasionally, though, the live-in-the-raw mentality makes for some very... well... unique experiences.
Tonight my sisters and brother-in-law and I went out to a little restaurant downtown. Bellinghamites know the downtown cafes for the personality as much as the food, and it seems expected for the staff to joke back and forth with each other, have lively, lighthearted conversations with the customers, and otherwise make the dining experience fun.
The cook at this particular cafe, a guy probably in his twenties, busied himself making burritos and in the process found out that his four customers were related. "Ah," he said, "I had a weird feeling about you when you came in." This made us all laugh.
Having ordered last, I waited behind for my plate as my family went outside and chose a table. As I strolled back toward the counter, the cook spoke again.
"Yeah, I got a really weird vibe from you all. Are you witches?"
I smiled and said no. "Well, is one of you a baker?" he asked.
My youngest sister, I told him. "Well, that's one. Is one of you a seamstress?"
None of us really like to sew. No, I told him, still smiling.
"Well, usually I find that when I meet three witch sisters, one of them's a baker, one's a seamstress, and one is all about the dudes."
At this point I didn't know whether to laugh or try to take him seriously. How does one respond to that? Excuse me while I go untangle my eyebrows from my hairline? Or maybe "Yeah, you can usually find me sewing and cursing." Instead, I smiled, took my food and thanked him, and went outside, where of course I told my family. By the time I got to the end of the story, Beth and I were laughing so hard we could barely speak.
What a funny world...
Occasionally, though, the live-in-the-raw mentality makes for some very... well... unique experiences.
Tonight my sisters and brother-in-law and I went out to a little restaurant downtown. Bellinghamites know the downtown cafes for the personality as much as the food, and it seems expected for the staff to joke back and forth with each other, have lively, lighthearted conversations with the customers, and otherwise make the dining experience fun.
The cook at this particular cafe, a guy probably in his twenties, busied himself making burritos and in the process found out that his four customers were related. "Ah," he said, "I had a weird feeling about you when you came in." This made us all laugh.
Having ordered last, I waited behind for my plate as my family went outside and chose a table. As I strolled back toward the counter, the cook spoke again.
"Yeah, I got a really weird vibe from you all. Are you witches?"
I smiled and said no. "Well, is one of you a baker?" he asked.
My youngest sister, I told him. "Well, that's one. Is one of you a seamstress?"
None of us really like to sew. No, I told him, still smiling.
"Well, usually I find that when I meet three witch sisters, one of them's a baker, one's a seamstress, and one is all about the dudes."
At this point I didn't know whether to laugh or try to take him seriously. How does one respond to that? Excuse me while I go untangle my eyebrows from my hairline? Or maybe "Yeah, you can usually find me sewing and cursing." Instead, I smiled, took my food and thanked him, and went outside, where of course I told my family. By the time I got to the end of the story, Beth and I were laughing so hard we could barely speak.
What a funny world...
6.07.2006
if (/moreinput/) {$brain=overloaded;}
After two full days on-the-job in my new position, I can say the following:
If you put part of your Perl script in the wrong place relative to the rest of it, the data really gets screwed up.
Perl also does not like it when you leave the semicolon off the end of certain lines. Or forget to backslash certain characters in a regular expression. Or lose track of how many curly braces you have open. I do those things a lot, meaning that I'm learning to find those mistakes very quickly.
There's a lot of road between $(+,2,3), which equals 5 in DIESEL, and other things beginning with $ that make important stuff happen... some of which I understand, and some of which is playing rather coy with me just now.
When everything works as intended and the markup gets properly converted, the victory experience compares to having climbed past a very difficult stretch of rock wall. Or winning at cards (oh, wait... have I ever done that?)
However steep the learning curve, and despite long stretches of staring at the screen trying to figure out why something doesn't work, I haven't regretted taking the position at all. I like this.
And... at least when computer languages get difficult to deal with, I know they remain logical. I'll let those who know what I used to do figure the flip side out :) although ninety-nine percent of the time I liked that too.
Anyway, I heard a funny computer joke the other day, which I never would have understood before. Apparently in binary, which uses only ones and zeroes, the number two is written one-zero, or 10. The mathematical convolutions necessary to get 10 to mean "two" have me positively kerflummoxed, but that aside: "There are only ten types of people in this world--those who understand binary, and those who don't."
BWAAAHAHAHA...
P.S. Have I always had Briana's link spelled "Photograpy"? Sheesh! I think I'll fix that now.
If you put part of your Perl script in the wrong place relative to the rest of it, the data really gets screwed up.
Perl also does not like it when you leave the semicolon off the end of certain lines. Or forget to backslash certain characters in a regular expression. Or lose track of how many curly braces you have open. I do those things a lot, meaning that I'm learning to find those mistakes very quickly.
There's a lot of road between $(+,2,3), which equals 5 in DIESEL, and other things beginning with $ that make important stuff happen... some of which I understand, and some of which is playing rather coy with me just now.
When everything works as intended and the markup gets properly converted, the victory experience compares to having climbed past a very difficult stretch of rock wall. Or winning at cards (oh, wait... have I ever done that?)
However steep the learning curve, and despite long stretches of staring at the screen trying to figure out why something doesn't work, I haven't regretted taking the position at all. I like this.
And... at least when computer languages get difficult to deal with, I know they remain logical. I'll let those who know what I used to do figure the flip side out :) although ninety-nine percent of the time I liked that too.
Anyway, I heard a funny computer joke the other day, which I never would have understood before. Apparently in binary, which uses only ones and zeroes, the number two is written one-zero, or 10. The mathematical convolutions necessary to get 10 to mean "two" have me positively kerflummoxed, but that aside: "There are only ten types of people in this world--those who understand binary, and those who don't."
BWAAAHAHAHA...
P.S. Have I always had Briana's link spelled "Photograpy"? Sheesh! I think I'll fix that now.
6.04.2006
Attention, WalMart Shoppers
You won't see this every day!
Saturday, last-minute shopper that I am, I stood among the greeting cards at WalMart, looking for something for my friend Donna's birthday party that afternoon. I love standing around reading greeting cards, as long as they don't contain rhyming poetry. Although I saw several hilarious cards that I'd never run across before, the cards didn't take me by surprise... the accordion did.
The accordion and its player marched by the end of the row, closely followed by two guitarists, a fiddler, and a whole troupe of dancing, clapping, oddly-garbed people. An amused-looking photographer brought up the rear.
Assuming the Highland Games in Ferndale had something to do with the display, I watched the show march past and went back to reading the cards.
Five minutes later (it takes me a long time to card-shop) I heard the music again, this time accompanied by raucous--but trained--voices singing "And the streets run red with the blood of the rich..."
I turned to watch again, and it hit me: these weren't highlanders, not unless I missed the history class that talked about the Scotch ruling the high seas with swords and terror. These were pirates, fully-costumed, singing pirates, missing only a parrot and the Jolly Roger.
A little Googlework led me to the Pirates-R-Us. I'd never heard of this group before and have no idea what their songs are really like, but they sure livened up the Bellingham WalMart. Ah yes, this is why I moved to Bellingham. The funky, offbeat cultural melting pot appeals to me, minus the drugs of course. If you're bored or short on creativity in this town, you're just not getting out enough.
Saturday, last-minute shopper that I am, I stood among the greeting cards at WalMart, looking for something for my friend Donna's birthday party that afternoon. I love standing around reading greeting cards, as long as they don't contain rhyming poetry. Although I saw several hilarious cards that I'd never run across before, the cards didn't take me by surprise... the accordion did.
The accordion and its player marched by the end of the row, closely followed by two guitarists, a fiddler, and a whole troupe of dancing, clapping, oddly-garbed people. An amused-looking photographer brought up the rear.
Assuming the Highland Games in Ferndale had something to do with the display, I watched the show march past and went back to reading the cards.
Five minutes later (it takes me a long time to card-shop) I heard the music again, this time accompanied by raucous--but trained--voices singing "And the streets run red with the blood of the rich..."
I turned to watch again, and it hit me: these weren't highlanders, not unless I missed the history class that talked about the Scotch ruling the high seas with swords and terror. These were pirates, fully-costumed, singing pirates, missing only a parrot and the Jolly Roger.
A little Googlework led me to the Pirates-R-Us. I'd never heard of this group before and have no idea what their songs are really like, but they sure livened up the Bellingham WalMart. Ah yes, this is why I moved to Bellingham. The funky, offbeat cultural melting pot appeals to me, minus the drugs of course. If you're bored or short on creativity in this town, you're just not getting out enough.
6.02.2006
Betcha Didn't Know...
These surveys go around regularly, and I always get a big kick out of reading them. Now the time has come to fill one out! Briana Bell (see, now that I've gotten started with the hyperlinks, I can't stop) had this on her site, and I always follow a good example. Have fun reading!
TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF - The Survey
Name: My middle name is Leah
Birthday: Same as W.A. Mozart's, but more recent
Birthplace: Florida
Current Location: Washington
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Also brown
Height: 5'11''... I'm a long ways up
Right Handed or Left Handed: Southpaw (that's lefty for anyone who didn't know)
Your Heritage: American, which means: mostly Scottish and Creek Indian; ultimately Heinz 57
The Shoes You Wore Today: My Old Navy canvas shoes with the embroidered flowers. This is fun. Ask me about my jeans.
Your Weakness: Running late, being "too nice", reading when I ought to be getting things done
Your Fears: Tsunamis, volcanoes, earthquakes. Oh, great. We could get any of those out here! No, seriously: fast-moving water, losing the people I love, getting too far away from God, and existing instead of really living my life.
Your Perfect Pizza: Lots of cheese and mushrooms! Thick crust. Should be part of an evening containing family or friend(s), and a good movie.
Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Get some of my songs on CD.
Your Most Overused Phrase On an Instant Messenger: "Yay for _______"
Thoughts First Waking Up: "Six o'clock already, I was just in the middle of a dream..."
Your Best Physical Feature: Hmm. You decide! Eyes, I think.
Your Bedtime: As early as I can convince myself to go; usually around 11:30PM
Your Most Missed Memory: Evenings with my family, usually involving singing with my sisters and/or long rambling talks.
Pepsi or Coke: Coke
MacDonalds or Burger King: Wendy's
Single or Group Dates: Just me and l'homme que j'adore, whenever he comes around
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: It's all disgusting. Just give me that powdered stuff we all used to eat out of the can in grade school.
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate, unless it's a milkshake
Cappuccino or Coffee: Caramel Macchiato or Frappuccino
Do you Smoke: No... vocal cords aren't replaceable, and I need mine
Do you Swear: :-D
Do you Sing: All the time... around the house, in the shower, in the grocery store, in church, with or without my piano or guitar
Do you Shower Daily: Wouldn't miss it for the world
Have You Been in Love: I have
Do You Want to Go to College: I dream about it
Do You Want to Get Married: Heck yeah... I 've got too much to give to keep it under wraps forever :-D
Do You Belive in Yourself: Don't the survey people know how to spell "believe?" Yes, I'm getting there.
Do You Get Motion Sickness: Nope, nor seasick as far as I can tell
Do You Think You Are Attractive: Adorable, really :)
Are You a Health Freak: No, I like ice cream and pizza too much
Do You Get Along With Your Parents: Two of my best friends, none closer!
Do You Like Thunderstorms: As long as the lightning doesn't come after me
Do You Play an Instrument: Piano, guitar, and my voice
In the Past Month Have You Drank Alcohol: Yes
In the Past Month Have You Smoked: No... what is with this survey's smoking obsession?
In the Past Month Have You Been on Drugs: Just aspirin, and only once
In the Past Month Have You Gone on a Date: Not that I know of
In the Past Month Have You Gone to a Mall: Tuesday night
In the Past Month Have You Eaten a Box of Oreos: Seriously... does anybody want to know?
In the Past Month Have You Eaten Sushi: I have not eaten sushi in my entire lifetime
In the Past Month Have You Been on Stage: A couple of times
In the Past Month Have You Been Dumped: I don't think it could be defined as 'dumped'
In the Past Month Have You Gone Skinny Dipping: Too cold!
In the Past Month Have You Stolen Anything: Nope... those hearts keep getting away from me :P
Ever Been Drunk: Nope
Ever Been Called a Tease: No
Ever Been Beaten up: No
Ever Shoplifted: No
How Do You Want to Die: Quickly
What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up: If I ain't there now...
What Country Would You Most Like to Visit: Excuse me while I go stab at a map of Europe with a push pin!
In a Boy/Girl...
Favourite Eye Color: Doesn't matter, as long as those eyes are warm and affectionate
Favourite Hair Color: As long as it's a color
Short or Long Hair: Depends on the face, although I find shaggy hair pretty hot
Height: I thought that mattered to me till I once met an eminently likeable man of 5'4'' (guesstimate)
Weight: Healthy
Best Clothing Style: Casual, please be casual... jeans, cowboy, grunge, hippie, granola, all of the above, I don't care, just don't be the dressy type
Number of Drugs I Have Taken: Apparently this survey is drug-obsessed too. None, unless you count aspirin, tylenol, and penicillin.
Number of CDs I Own: The question should be more like "How many of my parents' did I take with me when I moved out?"
Number of Piercings: One in each ear
Number of Tattoos: I don't even write on myself with pens.
There you have it! You too can take this survey and provide the world with large amounts of information about yourself... I just couldn't make the link bring up the questions, so you'll have to copy from here and change your answers. Have fun! If you post your survey results to your own site, let me know and I'll check it out.
5.31.2006
Final Fantasy X
I played the first three hours of Final Fantasy X the other day.
Let me put that statement into perspective. My entire experience with video games in the past consists of the first two levels of SuperMario Bros. for Nintendo, jumping on little mushroom-men to stay alive (they kill you if you don’t) and collecting gold coins.
Brandon the Pirate bravely undertook the task of introducing me to the game, and with apparently infinite patience sat beside me and coached me the entire time. For this reason, Tidus—the main character—still has a life and a task to do, something beyond wandering around trying to figure out how to get off that first level where all the kids want him signing autographs.
And, now that I have actually begun to experience a serious video game, I have to say: Cool. Video games do not fit the idea I had of them till recently, which was something along the lines of Pac-Man with guns. Wander through the halls and shoot stuff. No, they have a plot, and a point, and even deep thought. For instance, the evil power in the game goes by “Sin.” Whether “Sin” is the translation of the Japanese word, or the Japanese word itself, I have yet to determine; it makes for some interesting ideas, though, from the characters’ conversations about it.
I enjoyed finding out where Tidus would go next, and killing piranha-like fish with huge teeth, and the fact that Tidus, Ahron, Brandon and I outlasted the tentacled tower thing in fair battle. I also enjoyed watching the story progress.
As for my current position in the game: I like the Hawaiian sort of a place where we left Tidus about to play blitz-ball with the surfer-dudes. Wakku, the head surfer-dude, cracks me up. He seems good-hearted and loveable. That girl with the bad taste in clothes got left in the last level, which was fine by me; as Kate Hudson says in Alex and Emma, “She’s flighty, she’s flirty, and she’s a flawed character!” Now we have a pretty, gentle girl who just called down a hot-pink eagle-looking thing. I like her. If I have anything to say about Tidus’s destiny, which I doubt, he’ll marry her.
Anyway, Tidus has begun his journey. We’ll see where he goes from here… provided the piranhas don’t get him.
P.S. I’m completely, over-the-top excited about actually making a hotlink in my own text! After a full day of studying SGML, markup languages rank tip-top on my cool list. Hopefully I’ll feel the same way about PERL tomorrow evening… wish me luck :)
Let me put that statement into perspective. My entire experience with video games in the past consists of the first two levels of SuperMario Bros. for Nintendo, jumping on little mushroom-men to stay alive (they kill you if you don’t) and collecting gold coins.
Brandon the Pirate bravely undertook the task of introducing me to the game, and with apparently infinite patience sat beside me and coached me the entire time. For this reason, Tidus—the main character—still has a life and a task to do, something beyond wandering around trying to figure out how to get off that first level where all the kids want him signing autographs.
And, now that I have actually begun to experience a serious video game, I have to say: Cool. Video games do not fit the idea I had of them till recently, which was something along the lines of Pac-Man with guns. Wander through the halls and shoot stuff. No, they have a plot, and a point, and even deep thought. For instance, the evil power in the game goes by “Sin.” Whether “Sin” is the translation of the Japanese word, or the Japanese word itself, I have yet to determine; it makes for some interesting ideas, though, from the characters’ conversations about it.
I enjoyed finding out where Tidus would go next, and killing piranha-like fish with huge teeth, and the fact that Tidus, Ahron, Brandon and I outlasted the tentacled tower thing in fair battle. I also enjoyed watching the story progress.
As for my current position in the game: I like the Hawaiian sort of a place where we left Tidus about to play blitz-ball with the surfer-dudes. Wakku, the head surfer-dude, cracks me up. He seems good-hearted and loveable. That girl with the bad taste in clothes got left in the last level, which was fine by me; as Kate Hudson says in Alex and Emma, “She’s flighty, she’s flirty, and she’s a flawed character!” Now we have a pretty, gentle girl who just called down a hot-pink eagle-looking thing. I like her. If I have anything to say about Tidus’s destiny, which I doubt, he’ll marry her.
Anyway, Tidus has begun his journey. We’ll see where he goes from here… provided the piranhas don’t get him.
P.S. I’m completely, over-the-top excited about actually making a hotlink in my own text! After a full day of studying SGML, markup languages rank tip-top on my cool list. Hopefully I’ll feel the same way about PERL tomorrow evening… wish me luck :)
5.30.2006
The Annual Hockey Game
I don't really know exactly how it started. There's quite a mental and physical leap from Bible Study every Wednesday to street hockey every Memorial Day... unless, perchance, the demographical makeup of your group includes at least one Canadian, as well as a bunch of people who quote Strange Brew and talk like Canadians, even if they aren't from the Great White North, eh?
Ah well. However it began, it exists now in such well-rooted tradition that Brad comes down from Alaska and Matt and Darcy come up from Portland, and the Schaarschmidts and Van Deusens come from--well, right next door to each other. I go down to Anacortes from Bellingham, because traditions are sacred. One doesn't miss the hockey game.
The goals were homemade by Bill or Joel or Zack or all three, and I don't know where they got all of their hockey sticks. Or where Brad and Matt got those goalie pads. Or (and this may bring down the wrath of the hockey gods) which teams the many jerseys come from.
Nor do I know how to convey the hilarity of hearing Brad and Matt yell trash-talk at each other from the opposing goals. They generally dissolve themselves, each other, and their teammates into laughter whether or not the game is in progress. They've been known to stomp into the middle of the playing field and stick-gloves-shirt each other (you have to see the Mighty Ducks to understand that.)
Everybody plays at least a little bit. Sometimes a few of the boys wear roller blades, but most of us just strap on the good old Nikes and run around.
The hockey game brings out a side of Jennifer that shows itself only on rare occasions. Soft-spoken, ladylike me takes a day off. I don't play hockey like a lady. I put my stick right down on the pavement and throw myself into the fighting circle with the boys. The day after the game I feel more sore than at any other time during the average year.
Nobody tackles, but we all get a few bruises. This year, I blocked the ball once with each of my big toes, which would have mattered less had I worn real tennis shoes and not my Old Navy canvas shoes. Lesson learned.
The classic comic moment--and the reason for at least half my current soreness--came when Rusty V. and I ran off the pavement and into the just-rained-on grass "out of bounds" after the ball. We reached the ball, went to fight over it with our sticks, and at the same moment slipped. In an instant, both of us were on our backs on the ground. Everyone roared with laughter, none harder than the two of us. Too bad no one got that on tape. We could've sent it to Funniest Home Videos.
Ah well. However it began, it exists now in such well-rooted tradition that Brad comes down from Alaska and Matt and Darcy come up from Portland, and the Schaarschmidts and Van Deusens come from--well, right next door to each other. I go down to Anacortes from Bellingham, because traditions are sacred. One doesn't miss the hockey game.
The goals were homemade by Bill or Joel or Zack or all three, and I don't know where they got all of their hockey sticks. Or where Brad and Matt got those goalie pads. Or (and this may bring down the wrath of the hockey gods) which teams the many jerseys come from.
Nor do I know how to convey the hilarity of hearing Brad and Matt yell trash-talk at each other from the opposing goals. They generally dissolve themselves, each other, and their teammates into laughter whether or not the game is in progress. They've been known to stomp into the middle of the playing field and stick-gloves-shirt each other (you have to see the Mighty Ducks to understand that.)
Everybody plays at least a little bit. Sometimes a few of the boys wear roller blades, but most of us just strap on the good old Nikes and run around.
The hockey game brings out a side of Jennifer that shows itself only on rare occasions. Soft-spoken, ladylike me takes a day off. I don't play hockey like a lady. I put my stick right down on the pavement and throw myself into the fighting circle with the boys. The day after the game I feel more sore than at any other time during the average year.
Nobody tackles, but we all get a few bruises. This year, I blocked the ball once with each of my big toes, which would have mattered less had I worn real tennis shoes and not my Old Navy canvas shoes. Lesson learned.
The classic comic moment--and the reason for at least half my current soreness--came when Rusty V. and I ran off the pavement and into the just-rained-on grass "out of bounds" after the ball. We reached the ball, went to fight over it with our sticks, and at the same moment slipped. In an instant, both of us were on our backs on the ground. Everyone roared with laughter, none harder than the two of us. Too bad no one got that on tape. We could've sent it to Funniest Home Videos.
5.26.2006
Only on the Drive To Work
...alone in my car...
...can I crank up "My Heart Will Go On" and belt it out at the top of my lungs, without having the rest of America tell me to turn off the World's Most Overplayed Song.
All right, I know it's cheesy! It also takes a heck of a lot of work to sing--good strong breath support, clear resonance on those high E's, and all the hyped-up emoting a girl can muster. All good nine-to-fivers build up a little stress by Friday morning! I'll guarantee that an over-the-top soulful power-performance of that song makes a superb tension release.
Hah... it doesn't make a very good mental picture though, does it? Ah well. Live a little. Don't fear to sing out when you're stopped at a traffic light. It gives those other drivers something to tell their friends about that day. Just don't close your eyes.
...can I crank up "My Heart Will Go On" and belt it out at the top of my lungs, without having the rest of America tell me to turn off the World's Most Overplayed Song.
All right, I know it's cheesy! It also takes a heck of a lot of work to sing--good strong breath support, clear resonance on those high E's, and all the hyped-up emoting a girl can muster. All good nine-to-fivers build up a little stress by Friday morning! I'll guarantee that an over-the-top soulful power-performance of that song makes a superb tension release.
Hah... it doesn't make a very good mental picture though, does it? Ah well. Live a little. Don't fear to sing out when you're stopped at a traffic light. It gives those other drivers something to tell their friends about that day. Just don't close your eyes.
5.25.2006
Spring Green
In twenty-eight years of life, I have never so looked forward to the spring.
Seattle, for eight months out of twelve, holds her own among the cities of America for beauty; the south side of Bellingham, if possible, is even prettier. We've got Mt. Baker on one side and the bay on the other, quaint little neighborhoods, and Western Washington University's campus. Western has so many hidden beauties that to appreciate it fully, one has to walk it once during the daylight, again at sunset on a clear day, and again at night, preferably in that order.
We pay for the glories of spring, summer, and fall during the winter. Everything goes gray. The sky, the streets, the buildings, the trees, the ground, the rain, the air. The clouds move down and close in on the valleys, and this girl--raised under Montana's Big Sky--finds it hard to breathe at times.
The day I could finally look out my window and see green this year made my week. And just this week, the weather changed too; the chill left the air, and even the rainy and windy days feel... well, like May instead of January.
I know that the comparison between seasons and life ranks high on the list of overused, overtired ideas, right up at the top with "You'll understand better when you grow up" and keeping Christmas in the heart all year long. So I'll just say that maybe spring this year matters not just because I missed green and blue and purple and pink and yellow so much--oh, I missed them!--but because so much of my life from December of 2004 through the past few months seems to have been about the winter cycle of dying back for the sake of regeneration.
What it all means... I don't know yet. Fair enough. God will have his little secrets. Life wouldn't be the same without them, I guess :) But of all the verses in all the books in the Bible, here's one of my favorites:
"Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away;
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone,
The flowers appear on the earth,
And the time of the singing of birds is come..." Song of Solomon 2: 10-12
Seattle, for eight months out of twelve, holds her own among the cities of America for beauty; the south side of Bellingham, if possible, is even prettier. We've got Mt. Baker on one side and the bay on the other, quaint little neighborhoods, and Western Washington University's campus. Western has so many hidden beauties that to appreciate it fully, one has to walk it once during the daylight, again at sunset on a clear day, and again at night, preferably in that order.
We pay for the glories of spring, summer, and fall during the winter. Everything goes gray. The sky, the streets, the buildings, the trees, the ground, the rain, the air. The clouds move down and close in on the valleys, and this girl--raised under Montana's Big Sky--finds it hard to breathe at times.
The day I could finally look out my window and see green this year made my week. And just this week, the weather changed too; the chill left the air, and even the rainy and windy days feel... well, like May instead of January.
I know that the comparison between seasons and life ranks high on the list of overused, overtired ideas, right up at the top with "You'll understand better when you grow up" and keeping Christmas in the heart all year long. So I'll just say that maybe spring this year matters not just because I missed green and blue and purple and pink and yellow so much--oh, I missed them!--but because so much of my life from December of 2004 through the past few months seems to have been about the winter cycle of dying back for the sake of regeneration.
What it all means... I don't know yet. Fair enough. God will have his little secrets. Life wouldn't be the same without them, I guess :) But of all the verses in all the books in the Bible, here's one of my favorites:
"Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away;
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone,
The flowers appear on the earth,
And the time of the singing of birds is come..." Song of Solomon 2: 10-12
5.24.2006
AI5 Finale
I just watched the American Idol results show, and I'm happy.
I got to see Clay Aiken sing.
Even with the funny little kid freaking out on stage next to him, trying with helpless tone-deaf fervor to sing along, it sounded incredible. It took me a minute to recognize him, though! Some stylist took the spiky hair and... well... let's just say that all traces of nerd got removed, leaving me with oh my GOSH! Anyways, I had no intention of watching the complete two-hour results show, but Clay made it all worth it.
And yes, it was good to see Taylor win. He accepted the honor with true grace. Katharine played her part well, too, and all in all it was a good show.
Not having watched the beginning auditions, I didn't hear this till yesterday, but in Taylor's audition he said something that I respected. If for no other reason, I'm glad he won for this. One of the judges had asked him something along the lines of "Why are you trying out for American Idol?" He answered:
"I want my voice heard."
"Why?" Simon asked.
"Because I think I have one."
Way to go, Taylor Hicks.
...And, that's all for American Idol this year.
I got to see Clay Aiken sing.
Even with the funny little kid freaking out on stage next to him, trying with helpless tone-deaf fervor to sing along, it sounded incredible. It took me a minute to recognize him, though! Some stylist took the spiky hair and... well... let's just say that all traces of nerd got removed, leaving me with oh my GOSH! Anyways, I had no intention of watching the complete two-hour results show, but Clay made it all worth it.
And yes, it was good to see Taylor win. He accepted the honor with true grace. Katharine played her part well, too, and all in all it was a good show.
Not having watched the beginning auditions, I didn't hear this till yesterday, but in Taylor's audition he said something that I respected. If for no other reason, I'm glad he won for this. One of the judges had asked him something along the lines of "Why are you trying out for American Idol?" He answered:
"I want my voice heard."
"Why?" Simon asked.
"Because I think I have one."
Way to go, Taylor Hicks.
...And, that's all for American Idol this year.
AI5 Three Hours and Counting
Yes, I intended to post yesterday, but yesterday kept me too busy. I almost didn't get the program watched. Of course I watched it though... well, most of it.
Seeing Chris Daughtry smiling in the audience did my heart good. Finals night wasn't the same without him.
I can't retract last week. Taylor should win. He sang last night like he'd already won the competition; it would surprise me big-time if he didn't.
That said, Katharine McPhee still stands as one of my favorites of the season. Her performances get lower marks from Simon and the gang sometimes, but usually I have no idea why. Maybe they all hold memberships in Ella Fitzgerald's fan club, and they don't like anyone else singing her songs.
Which brings me to my next point: Who does the writing for the "original songs" that form a part of the finals every year? I could write songs like that in fifteen minutes, while talking on the telephone and washing dishes. Well, maybe not quite that fast. But the shameful excuses they put out for "possible first single" just gag me, and they get worse every year.
My opinion on the business is that the AI songwriting machine made short work of Clay Aiken's career, which could have gone on for decades fed by writers of Art Garfunkel's caliber. His rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water was ten-minute-standing-ovation good. The same could not be said of Invisible, or worse yet, The Way (anyone even remember that song?)
Clay Aiken's Christmas album, on the other hand, showcased his true talent. That boy can outsing just about anyone on the pop charts nowadays. He's also much more likeable than almost anyone on the pop charts nowadays. Ahhh, there I go ranting... I know he's just as happy helping special needs kids as singing, but I miss the guy. Forgive my tirade.
Best wishes to Taylor and Katharine, whatever happens.
Seeing Chris Daughtry smiling in the audience did my heart good. Finals night wasn't the same without him.
I can't retract last week. Taylor should win. He sang last night like he'd already won the competition; it would surprise me big-time if he didn't.
That said, Katharine McPhee still stands as one of my favorites of the season. Her performances get lower marks from Simon and the gang sometimes, but usually I have no idea why. Maybe they all hold memberships in Ella Fitzgerald's fan club, and they don't like anyone else singing her songs.
Which brings me to my next point: Who does the writing for the "original songs" that form a part of the finals every year? I could write songs like that in fifteen minutes, while talking on the telephone and washing dishes. Well, maybe not quite that fast. But the shameful excuses they put out for "possible first single" just gag me, and they get worse every year.
My opinion on the business is that the AI songwriting machine made short work of Clay Aiken's career, which could have gone on for decades fed by writers of Art Garfunkel's caliber. His rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Water was ten-minute-standing-ovation good. The same could not be said of Invisible, or worse yet, The Way (anyone even remember that song?)
Clay Aiken's Christmas album, on the other hand, showcased his true talent. That boy can outsing just about anyone on the pop charts nowadays. He's also much more likeable than almost anyone on the pop charts nowadays. Ahhh, there I go ranting... I know he's just as happy helping special needs kids as singing, but I miss the guy. Forgive my tirade.
Best wishes to Taylor and Katharine, whatever happens.
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