August 27, 2005, I woke up for the first time in my new Bellingham home.
August 29, 2005, I got up at 4:00 AM and began my new job at 5:45.
Both days, I stopped and spent time admiring the view from somewhere. Everywhere I turned, the hills and trees and lights and water and mountains seemed to offer comfort and beauty and rest and hope.
I didn't know then what it would mean, or how exactly my life would change. I only knew that it had changed, and that it had needed to.
One year doesn't feel like much time anymore. Christmas. Birthdays. Evenings and mornings, winter and summer. Red leaves in the fall and flowers in the spring.
There are still connections to be made between the old and the new, and much to re-learn. And I will love my childhood years and my time at YD and my other great memories forever. That said, I'm grateful for this year.
For a white flower, picked from a bush outside of Haggen's. For a four-hour stint just sitting in my room, staring out my window, marveling. For laughing and crying with girls gathered in my living room of a Wednesday night. For Instant Messenger. For getting reacquainted with my Californian sister. For the hope of Bailey. For the fireside room at Hillcrest Chapel. For Spanish diccionarios, Greek typing, and hilarious people on telephones. For starting the blog I've wanted since first reading Chris Knight's a couple of years ago. For hours on the phone with a "best friend" who after eighteen years hasn't tired of me yet. For a young writer whose eyes look blue in some lights and green in others, who tells me beautiful things I've never heard before.
What will the next year hold? I'm content right now without the answer to that question. Three hundred sixty-five evenings and mornings overwhelm little Jennifer when she thinks about them in advance. One day at a time is good enough.
8.28.2006
8.26.2006
Miscellany
A week-and-a-half’s absence from blogland doesn’t necessarily result from a lack of things to say. Sometimes it has more to do with having too much, and lacking words or time to express it all.
Writing up an entire blog and then having one's internet crash can be thoroughly annoying.
Right now, the sun shines uninhibited by clouds of any sort, and I can see green leaves against blue sky—one of my favorite things in life.
It’s hard not to believe in God when standing in a forest next to a little sun-spangled, laughing, bubbling brook. That serenity and peace cannot be improved upon, except by entwining one’s fingers with those of someone who cares.
In case anyone doubted my bookworming propensities, I’ll confess to having read the entire text of “A Streetcar Named Desire” in one morning. This morning. Tennessee Williams can write, no doubt about that. The heartripping tragedy of the story contrasted oddly with the idyllic, late-summer color and light around me, though.
As impressive as anyone may find bronc riding and barrel racing, no part of a rodeo could top the mutton bustin’. After one small boy stood up gamely after getting rather dragged and tumbled by his sheep, the announcer said “He came out of the gate with two fistfuls of wool, folks, and he’s still got ‘em.” The boy raised his fists.
Even the best of songs grow annoying when the human brain puts them on instant replay. That said, “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge has run through my head for most of this week without wearing out its welcome in my life.
Few women have the moxie to stand up to the wiles of car salesmen. My sister Beth happens to be one of them.
When Anne Shirley talks about ‘kindred spirits’, I know what and who she means. Kindred spirits have, among their other greatnesses, the ability to go on as friends like they never left off, no matter the time elapsed since last contact. I have several of those in my life. I love them all. Shouldn’t put so much time between conversations with some of them.
It might not be “normal” to burst out laughing from total silence when no one else is around, but it sure makes life more fun.
Not many people talk about contentment in the context of young love. But they should. Or maybe they shouldn’t. Let it remain one of the good and perfect surprises.
And yes, I know that good English grammar frowns on the opening of a sentence with a conjunction. As passionately as I uphold the proper use of commas and semicolons and other important linguistic matters, however, that is a stupid rule.
The prophet Daniel had the right idea. It’s easier to pray by a window. Especially an open window. With a good view.
Writing up an entire blog and then having one's internet crash can be thoroughly annoying.
Right now, the sun shines uninhibited by clouds of any sort, and I can see green leaves against blue sky—one of my favorite things in life.
It’s hard not to believe in God when standing in a forest next to a little sun-spangled, laughing, bubbling brook. That serenity and peace cannot be improved upon, except by entwining one’s fingers with those of someone who cares.
In case anyone doubted my bookworming propensities, I’ll confess to having read the entire text of “A Streetcar Named Desire” in one morning. This morning. Tennessee Williams can write, no doubt about that. The heartripping tragedy of the story contrasted oddly with the idyllic, late-summer color and light around me, though.
As impressive as anyone may find bronc riding and barrel racing, no part of a rodeo could top the mutton bustin’. After one small boy stood up gamely after getting rather dragged and tumbled by his sheep, the announcer said “He came out of the gate with two fistfuls of wool, folks, and he’s still got ‘em.” The boy raised his fists.
Even the best of songs grow annoying when the human brain puts them on instant replay. That said, “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge has run through my head for most of this week without wearing out its welcome in my life.
Few women have the moxie to stand up to the wiles of car salesmen. My sister Beth happens to be one of them.
When Anne Shirley talks about ‘kindred spirits’, I know what and who she means. Kindred spirits have, among their other greatnesses, the ability to go on as friends like they never left off, no matter the time elapsed since last contact. I have several of those in my life. I love them all. Shouldn’t put so much time between conversations with some of them.
It might not be “normal” to burst out laughing from total silence when no one else is around, but it sure makes life more fun.
Not many people talk about contentment in the context of young love. But they should. Or maybe they shouldn’t. Let it remain one of the good and perfect surprises.
And yes, I know that good English grammar frowns on the opening of a sentence with a conjunction. As passionately as I uphold the proper use of commas and semicolons and other important linguistic matters, however, that is a stupid rule.
The prophet Daniel had the right idea. It’s easier to pray by a window. Especially an open window. With a good view.
8.17.2006
Moulin and Music
Naomi and I had this planned for weeks.
Last night, accompanied by Beth, we finally watched the Nicole Kidman/Ewan McGregor version of the old classic, Moulin Rouge. Neither one of us had ever seen either version; hence the movie night. Beth had seen it, so she explained it to us; it gets a little tough to follow in places.
Do I recommend the movie? Yes—to women who need a glass of wine, some chocolate, and a beautifully told, over-the-top, romantic story to cry over. It has a sad-though-satisfying ending and definitely has its risqué moments… being about a guy who falls in love with a prostitute… but it’s sweet. And the music!
Despite the fact that I like most of Elton John’s music, I’ve always hated the one called “Your Song.” I hated it thoroughly until the moment early in the movie where Ewan McGregor—his character trying to escape a rather embarrassing situation—starts off with the line “My gift is my song, and this one’s for you.” A stunned hush falls instantly over the scene (and over everyone watching.) It’s enough to give anybody goosebumps.
The same could be said for his two lines of “Up Where We Belong” and the final duet with Nicole Kidman on “Come What May.” Ewan McGregor—besides having fabulous tone to his voice—has got something very few modern singers possess: an understanding of how to use dynamics to their full potential.
And I’m totally jealous. Which means I’ve been practicing. On whatever songs come to mind.
So… if anyone in Bellingham has “You Light Up My Life” running through your head, sorry: you probably just passed me on the road somewhere.
Last night, accompanied by Beth, we finally watched the Nicole Kidman/Ewan McGregor version of the old classic, Moulin Rouge. Neither one of us had ever seen either version; hence the movie night. Beth had seen it, so she explained it to us; it gets a little tough to follow in places.
Do I recommend the movie? Yes—to women who need a glass of wine, some chocolate, and a beautifully told, over-the-top, romantic story to cry over. It has a sad-though-satisfying ending and definitely has its risqué moments… being about a guy who falls in love with a prostitute… but it’s sweet. And the music!
Despite the fact that I like most of Elton John’s music, I’ve always hated the one called “Your Song.” I hated it thoroughly until the moment early in the movie where Ewan McGregor—his character trying to escape a rather embarrassing situation—starts off with the line “My gift is my song, and this one’s for you.” A stunned hush falls instantly over the scene (and over everyone watching.) It’s enough to give anybody goosebumps.
The same could be said for his two lines of “Up Where We Belong” and the final duet with Nicole Kidman on “Come What May.” Ewan McGregor—besides having fabulous tone to his voice—has got something very few modern singers possess: an understanding of how to use dynamics to their full potential.
And I’m totally jealous. Which means I’ve been practicing. On whatever songs come to mind.
So… if anyone in Bellingham has “You Light Up My Life” running through your head, sorry: you probably just passed me on the road somewhere.
8.15.2006
The Gospel in Tie-Dye
Down in Old Fairhaven, where beats the heart of Bellingham culture, there’s a little fenced park known as the Fairhaven Green. Raised above the surrounding street and edged by glass-roofed patios, the Green boasts a perfectly-kept square of grass with a concrete stage-platform at one end. The stage abuts an old building with a giant white screen, set up for the local bands and popular movies they show down there every Saturday night in summer.
Last Thursday night, the Western Washington University theater guild took over the stage for their next-to-last production of Godspell. We saw it—Brandon and I—sitting on one of my old blankets on the grass, just one row back from the front. I had never seen the play. Now, I can tell you all that it’s one of those that sticks in your mind and just gets better as you think on it.
The little troupe of ten actors, four musicians, and a few techs, knew their craft. Godspell combines so many different theatrical styles that it can’t be easy to perform, but the gifted, wildly-costumed cast made it enthusiastic, vibrant—truly alive.
To add to that, I loved the music—everything from the comical, tap-danced “All For the Best”, to the Episcopal hymn lyric “We Beseech Thee”, to the hauntingly lovely “By My Side.”
For anyone who hasn’t seen it (and you should), Godspell basically tells the Gospel story in an offbeat, urban, 70’s musical setting. Apparently props, stage and costumes can be customized from one production to the next; this guild performed against a tie-dye-painted wall, wearing an assortment of outlandishly random clothes, and throwing empty soda cans and water bottles at each other during the “Tower of Babble” act.
Nine of the actors (everyone but Jesus) took on multiple roles—for instance, the same guy played John the Baptist and Judas—and the first half of the show moved through a rapid, uptempo progression of parables, teachings, and events. It was often downright hilarious, with ten comedians running up and down the aisle and all over the stage, interacting playfully with each other and the audience. The second half sobered down gradually, culminating naturally in the death and resurrection of Christ (hope I didn’t just spoil the story for anyone :-P )
As to the power of telling a well-known story in a new and creative way—let’s just say that for me, watching, it stripped out all of the excess baggage attached to Christianity by the difficulties of life, by the church's legalism, by the world’s mocking cynicism, and left me with Christ.
My favorite part: when Jesus looked into the eyes of the woman caught in adultery, put his hands on her shoulders, and said “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and do not sin again.” He started to walk away, but turned back to her with a smile and took her hand as she sang him these words:
“Where are you going?
Where are you going?
Can you take me with you?
For my hand is cold
And needs warmth
Where are you going?
Far beyond where the horizon lies
Where the horizon lies
And the land sinks into mellow blueness
Oh please, take me with you…”
“…Then I'll take your hand
Finally glad
Finally glad
That you are here
By my side”
Last Thursday night, the Western Washington University theater guild took over the stage for their next-to-last production of Godspell. We saw it—Brandon and I—sitting on one of my old blankets on the grass, just one row back from the front. I had never seen the play. Now, I can tell you all that it’s one of those that sticks in your mind and just gets better as you think on it.
The little troupe of ten actors, four musicians, and a few techs, knew their craft. Godspell combines so many different theatrical styles that it can’t be easy to perform, but the gifted, wildly-costumed cast made it enthusiastic, vibrant—truly alive.
To add to that, I loved the music—everything from the comical, tap-danced “All For the Best”, to the Episcopal hymn lyric “We Beseech Thee”, to the hauntingly lovely “By My Side.”
For anyone who hasn’t seen it (and you should), Godspell basically tells the Gospel story in an offbeat, urban, 70’s musical setting. Apparently props, stage and costumes can be customized from one production to the next; this guild performed against a tie-dye-painted wall, wearing an assortment of outlandishly random clothes, and throwing empty soda cans and water bottles at each other during the “Tower of Babble” act.
Nine of the actors (everyone but Jesus) took on multiple roles—for instance, the same guy played John the Baptist and Judas—and the first half of the show moved through a rapid, uptempo progression of parables, teachings, and events. It was often downright hilarious, with ten comedians running up and down the aisle and all over the stage, interacting playfully with each other and the audience. The second half sobered down gradually, culminating naturally in the death and resurrection of Christ (hope I didn’t just spoil the story for anyone :-P )
As to the power of telling a well-known story in a new and creative way—let’s just say that for me, watching, it stripped out all of the excess baggage attached to Christianity by the difficulties of life, by the church's legalism, by the world’s mocking cynicism, and left me with Christ.
My favorite part: when Jesus looked into the eyes of the woman caught in adultery, put his hands on her shoulders, and said “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and do not sin again.” He started to walk away, but turned back to her with a smile and took her hand as she sang him these words:
“Where are you going?
Where are you going?
Can you take me with you?
For my hand is cold
And needs warmth
Where are you going?
Far beyond where the horizon lies
Where the horizon lies
And the land sinks into mellow blueness
Oh please, take me with you…”
“…Then I'll take your hand
Finally glad
Finally glad
That you are here
By my side”
8.06.2006
I Am 50% Weird
From the sublime to the… well, hilarious, anyway. I worried about this post being too great a contrast with my last. Humor is good, though, and laughter heals. It has certainly helped me this weekend.
Briana, my best friend and a veteran Myspacer, recently posted the results of an internet quiz on her site. It told her that her “inner European” was Italian. Which makes sense, if you know Briana; she studied photography in Italy and, in the process, fell so much in love with that country that she’s now learning the language as well.
Of course, I had to try the quiz. This automatically meant that I killed an absolutely unreasonable amount of time yesterday taking internet quizzes. When it comes to getting acquainted with oneself, no question is too small, I guess.
The quizzes range everywhere from a “quick and dirty IQ test”—which told me I was below average logically, even after I’d played with the answers until the score went as high as it would go and it called me a genius in every other area of knowledge—to generators that will give you invariably stupid foreign names. I had a blast playing with them; laughed hard and freely at the tests and their results. Among other things, I have learned from them that my inner Californian would live in Orange County, that my “2005 summer anthem” was Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone”, that I’m so sexy I sometimes scare men away, and that I should date a Swede.
Here are some of my favorite results. You can take these tests yourself (after you finish reading this post, of course!) Be careful, though: they’re highly addictive.
My “inner European” didn’t surprise me at all; well, except by actually being reasonable:
This particular quiz seemed like the answer to my prayers (you have to read my post “Odd Stuff” to understand that):
This one intrigued me. What kind of soul are you? it asked. While taking the test, I wondered in amusement how many kinds there were, and who defined them. This is really a pretty accurate description of my personality, though; the quizmakers must have ripped off part of the Myers-Briggs or something. I wonder about the compatibility feature, however, since the "What Kind of Soda Are You? quiz told me to stay away from my best friend's personality:
I’ve lain awake nights wondering about this one. You have, too. Admit it:
As a new but loyal X-Men fan, who has happily progressed all the way to reading (Brandon’s) comics, I simply had to take this:
I didn’t know how to feel about this response:
This one came as a bit of a relief. Since I scored so high on weirdness, though, apparently my quirks have just manifested themselves in Yankee ways :P
I would never have posted one that asked simply for the kind of car I drive, except for the hilarity of the response. Ask my family; they’ll all tell you I’ve openly liked the idea on this bumper sticker. “I’m Matt Foley… and I’m a motivational speaker…”
And now, for the grand finale, is one all you men will definitely want to take. The internet appears to have been tipped off about my listening to Metamorphosis at work (no joke—I actually do that):
Now it's your turn! You know you have all been wondering what kind of mythological creature you are (I'm a mermaid) or what kind of pizza you would be ('Everything' pizza, in my case) or what animal you were in a past life (apparently, I was a beaver; I have no memory of this.) Ahh, I love the internet. You can find answers to everything you ever wanted to know and more... much more.
Briana, my best friend and a veteran Myspacer, recently posted the results of an internet quiz on her site. It told her that her “inner European” was Italian. Which makes sense, if you know Briana; she studied photography in Italy and, in the process, fell so much in love with that country that she’s now learning the language as well.
Of course, I had to try the quiz. This automatically meant that I killed an absolutely unreasonable amount of time yesterday taking internet quizzes. When it comes to getting acquainted with oneself, no question is too small, I guess.
The quizzes range everywhere from a “quick and dirty IQ test”—which told me I was below average logically, even after I’d played with the answers until the score went as high as it would go and it called me a genius in every other area of knowledge—to generators that will give you invariably stupid foreign names. I had a blast playing with them; laughed hard and freely at the tests and their results. Among other things, I have learned from them that my inner Californian would live in Orange County, that my “2005 summer anthem” was Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone”, that I’m so sexy I sometimes scare men away, and that I should date a Swede.
Here are some of my favorite results. You can take these tests yourself (after you finish reading this post, of course!) Be careful, though: they’re highly addictive.
My “inner European” didn’t surprise me at all; well, except by actually being reasonable:
| Your Inner European is French! |
 Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so. |
This particular quiz seemed like the answer to my prayers (you have to read my post “Odd Stuff” to understand that):
| You Should Learn French |
 C'est super! You appreciate the finer things in life... wine, art, cheese, love affairs. You are definitely a Parisian at heart. You just need your tongue to catch up... |
This one intrigued me. What kind of soul are you? it asked. While taking the test, I wondered in amusement how many kinds there were, and who defined them. This is really a pretty accurate description of my personality, though; the quizmakers must have ripped off part of the Myers-Briggs or something. I wonder about the compatibility feature, however, since the "What Kind of Soda Are You? quiz told me to stay away from my best friend's personality:
You Are a Peacemaker Soul |
 You strive to please others and compromise anyway you can. War or conflict bothers you, and you would do anything to keep the peace. You are a good mediator and a true negotiator. Sometimes you do too much, trying so hard to make people happy. While you keep the peace, you tend to be secretly judgmental. You lose respect for people who don't like to both give and take. On the flip side, you've got a great sense of humor and wit. You're always diplomatic and able to give good advice. Souls you are most compatible with: Warrior Soul, Hunter Soul and Visionary Soul |
I’ve lain awake nights wondering about this one. You have, too. Admit it:
| Your Personality Is Like Ecstasy |
 You're usually feeling the love for the world around you - you want to hug everyone. And while you're usually content to sit back and view the world with wonder... Sometimes your world becomes very overwhelming and a little scary. |
As a new but loyal X-Men fan, who has happily progressed all the way to reading (Brandon’s) comics, I simply had to take this:
| You Are Cyclops |
 Dedicated and responsible, you will always remain loyal to your cause. You are a commanding leader - after all, you can kill someone just by looking at them. Power: force beams from your eyes |
I didn’t know how to feel about this response:
| You Are 50% Weird |
 Normal enough to know that you're weird... But too damn weird to do anything about it! |
This one came as a bit of a relief. Since I scored so high on weirdness, though, apparently my quirks have just manifested themselves in Yankee ways :P
| You Are 10% Redneck |
 I'll slap you so hard, your clothes will be outta style. You ain't no redneck - you're all Yankee! |
I would never have posted one that asked simply for the kind of car I drive, except for the hilarity of the response. Ask my family; they’ll all tell you I’ve openly liked the idea on this bumper sticker. “I’m Matt Foley… and I’m a motivational speaker…”
| Your Bumper Sticker Should Be |
 Livin' in a van - down by the river |
And now, for the grand finale, is one all you men will definitely want to take. The internet appears to have been tipped off about my listening to Metamorphosis at work (no joke—I actually do that):
| Your Inner Pop Princess Is Hilary Duff |
 "I'm shedding Shedding every color Trying to find a pigment of truth Beneath my skin" You're sweet and cute, but a little more complex than that. |
Now it's your turn! You know you have all been wondering what kind of mythological creature you are (I'm a mermaid) or what kind of pizza you would be ('Everything' pizza, in my case) or what animal you were in a past life (apparently, I was a beaver; I have no memory of this.) Ahh, I love the internet. You can find answers to everything you ever wanted to know and more... much more.
8.04.2006
Now I Understand…
…something of what people mean, when they lose someone they love and say “They still live… their love, their memory, lives inside me.”
I’ve never lost someone really close to me, so you’ll hopefully forgive me for talking this way about a dog. To make it to age 28 without losing a parent or sibling or close friend, either to age or tragedy, ranks in the category of miracles, but I have. And the mere thought of losing the few people very close to me—I’ve always kept the bulk of my social life to family and a few close friends—makes up my saddest moments. I will not compare losing an animal, even Peaches, to the loss of a human life’s presence on this earth.
Someone might say, as if in agreement, “It’s just a dog.” But I know better than that.
When I was sick, she curled up beside me on the couch. When I came home after YD trips, she crawled up in my arms and sat there so I wouldn’t go away again. When the man I loved left Washington to marry another woman and an unrelated experience left me with panic attacks and I didn’t know if I could ever trust God fully again, she was among the loyal ones whose love got me through—the one who followed me around like a little shadow and slept in the crook of my elbow.
And I can’t seem to make myself believe that she won’t come running and barking next time I visit my parents, wanting to be picked up, frenzied with welcome.
Or howl with my sister, or ride around on her shoulder. Or that Sweet Pea, Mom’s dog, won’t butt in for her share of the attention, or sit on the couch and bark at mocking cats. When Peaches got sick, Mom took the aged, frail and practically toothless Sweet Pea in too, knowing that Sweet Pea would have had a short and sad life without Peaches there. The dogs hadn’t been separated for more than a few hours in eleven years, and Sweet Pea couldn’t even handle hours well. My poor mother. Those dogs were a part of almost everything she does.
As humans, we live with loss, but we don’t forget being loved. Not completely. Not if we’re in our right minds.
Now, I’ve cried until 1:15 AM, when I know I have to go to work in the morning. And I’ll have to post this halfway through the day, so my sister doesn’t read it and wind up crying when she’s trying to answer telephones. Peaches was her dog first.
We had eleven years. And no, to the insatiable human heart, it was not enough. But it was good. And I’m still inclined to hope that dogs really do go to heaven. I can’t help myself. Love never dies.
I’ve never lost someone really close to me, so you’ll hopefully forgive me for talking this way about a dog. To make it to age 28 without losing a parent or sibling or close friend, either to age or tragedy, ranks in the category of miracles, but I have. And the mere thought of losing the few people very close to me—I’ve always kept the bulk of my social life to family and a few close friends—makes up my saddest moments. I will not compare losing an animal, even Peaches, to the loss of a human life’s presence on this earth.
Someone might say, as if in agreement, “It’s just a dog.” But I know better than that.
When I was sick, she curled up beside me on the couch. When I came home after YD trips, she crawled up in my arms and sat there so I wouldn’t go away again. When the man I loved left Washington to marry another woman and an unrelated experience left me with panic attacks and I didn’t know if I could ever trust God fully again, she was among the loyal ones whose love got me through—the one who followed me around like a little shadow and slept in the crook of my elbow.
And I can’t seem to make myself believe that she won’t come running and barking next time I visit my parents, wanting to be picked up, frenzied with welcome.
Or howl with my sister, or ride around on her shoulder. Or that Sweet Pea, Mom’s dog, won’t butt in for her share of the attention, or sit on the couch and bark at mocking cats. When Peaches got sick, Mom took the aged, frail and practically toothless Sweet Pea in too, knowing that Sweet Pea would have had a short and sad life without Peaches there. The dogs hadn’t been separated for more than a few hours in eleven years, and Sweet Pea couldn’t even handle hours well. My poor mother. Those dogs were a part of almost everything she does.
As humans, we live with loss, but we don’t forget being loved. Not completely. Not if we’re in our right minds.
Now, I’ve cried until 1:15 AM, when I know I have to go to work in the morning. And I’ll have to post this halfway through the day, so my sister doesn’t read it and wind up crying when she’s trying to answer telephones. Peaches was her dog first.
We had eleven years. And no, to the insatiable human heart, it was not enough. But it was good. And I’m still inclined to hope that dogs really do go to heaven. I can’t help myself. Love never dies.
8.01.2006
Comments
Apparently, after getting comment-spammed the other day and turning on Word Verification for comments, I somehow managed to restrict all commenting to "Team Members Only"... which meant that nobody could comment except for... well... me! Since I'm not inclined to do all my own commenting, and I like to hear the opinions of my friends and anyone who might drop by, I have fixed that little problem.
Thanks, Brandon and Chris, for pointing that out to me this morning... never would have figured it out myself!
Happy commenting :-)
Thanks, Brandon and Chris, for pointing that out to me this morning... never would have figured it out myself!
Happy commenting :-)
7.29.2006
Saw Star Wars, I Did
At first, I just thought the moon was extraordinarily bright. Then the truth hit me: dawn had arrived. That might be the first time I’ve ever stayed awake till the sun began to rise.
Last night also became my first-ever movie marathon, as well as my first full viewing of any of Star Wars episodes 1, 2, and 3. I generally blame of my lack of cultural knowledge on having been homeschooled on a farm in Montana, but for having missed out on these three experiences, the guilt rides fairly on my own shoulders for a) not having attended enough youth group functions in high school, b) never having gone to college (that’s a blog-post for another day), and c) never bothering to sit down and watch the new Star Wars movies.
I have to give credit for the whole idea to Brandon, Professor of Cultural Education (he’s already taught me nearly everything I know about anime and the Muppets.) He suggested the marathon in Blockbuster, after gasping playfully and looking rather shocked because I said I’d never seen the new trilogy.
Ten hours later, we sat on my floor amid a sea of DVD cases, empty iced-mocha glasses, a pizza box, half-full soda bottles, remote controls, and random pillows and blankets. We’d stayed awake—he checked frequently and faithfully to make sure I didn’t go to sleep and miss any of the story. My good-natured roommate, much amused by our movie marathon, had gone to bed. We finally looked around at the mess, rubbed movie-glaze out of our eyes and laughed, and I can now say that I’ve seen all of the Star Wars episodes. And the clone-war cartoons that go between II and III.
If anyone had told me three years ago that I’d ever actually like a movie like Revenge of the Sith, I’d have questioned their prophetic or perceptive abilities. Since I’ve spent the past three years outgrowing a lot of my old notions, however, and have fallen in love with deep and somewhat dark dramas like Harry Potter and Phantom of the Opera, it’s become less of a stretch. Now, having seen the new Star Wars, I have to say that I liked it… a lot.
When we have, in the world, parables like Star Wars… and Harry Potter… and Phantom of the Opera… it amazes me that we as humans could ever fall into the very traps those stories warn against: idolatry of power and of another person being two of the most dangerous. That, I think, more than anything else struck me in watching Star Wars. I watched the Sith poison Anakin’s mind, playing off his beautiful love for Padme, tempting him with the thought of controlling his own destiny and hers.
Yoda’s advice didn’t ring true with me the first time I heard it. He told Anakin to make the effort to let go of the ones he loved—well, being Yoda, he probably said it more like “Learn to let go, you must”—and my mind reacted immediately with “What is this, some sort of ‘He who loves none has no woes’ Eastern proposition?” Not until I contrasted his words with those of Sidious did I catch the wisdom that would have saved Anakin, had he only followed it: Even the deepest of loves must be held with an open hand. The moment anyone attempts to own it, control it, or put it absolutely before all other good, is the moment the door gets flung wide and evil finds its way in.
I loved the way the movie ended, with the babies Luke and Leia being placed in their adoptive families; Luke with Anakin’s stepbrother, on the very planet where Anakin first met Qui-Gon and Padme. Especially knowing what Luke went on to do... I cannot describe that ending any better than with the word redemptive.
Last night also became my first-ever movie marathon, as well as my first full viewing of any of Star Wars episodes 1, 2, and 3. I generally blame of my lack of cultural knowledge on having been homeschooled on a farm in Montana, but for having missed out on these three experiences, the guilt rides fairly on my own shoulders for a) not having attended enough youth group functions in high school, b) never having gone to college (that’s a blog-post for another day), and c) never bothering to sit down and watch the new Star Wars movies.
I have to give credit for the whole idea to Brandon, Professor of Cultural Education (he’s already taught me nearly everything I know about anime and the Muppets.) He suggested the marathon in Blockbuster, after gasping playfully and looking rather shocked because I said I’d never seen the new trilogy.
Ten hours later, we sat on my floor amid a sea of DVD cases, empty iced-mocha glasses, a pizza box, half-full soda bottles, remote controls, and random pillows and blankets. We’d stayed awake—he checked frequently and faithfully to make sure I didn’t go to sleep and miss any of the story. My good-natured roommate, much amused by our movie marathon, had gone to bed. We finally looked around at the mess, rubbed movie-glaze out of our eyes and laughed, and I can now say that I’ve seen all of the Star Wars episodes. And the clone-war cartoons that go between II and III.
If anyone had told me three years ago that I’d ever actually like a movie like Revenge of the Sith, I’d have questioned their prophetic or perceptive abilities. Since I’ve spent the past three years outgrowing a lot of my old notions, however, and have fallen in love with deep and somewhat dark dramas like Harry Potter and Phantom of the Opera, it’s become less of a stretch. Now, having seen the new Star Wars, I have to say that I liked it… a lot.
When we have, in the world, parables like Star Wars… and Harry Potter… and Phantom of the Opera… it amazes me that we as humans could ever fall into the very traps those stories warn against: idolatry of power and of another person being two of the most dangerous. That, I think, more than anything else struck me in watching Star Wars. I watched the Sith poison Anakin’s mind, playing off his beautiful love for Padme, tempting him with the thought of controlling his own destiny and hers.
Yoda’s advice didn’t ring true with me the first time I heard it. He told Anakin to make the effort to let go of the ones he loved—well, being Yoda, he probably said it more like “Learn to let go, you must”—and my mind reacted immediately with “What is this, some sort of ‘He who loves none has no woes’ Eastern proposition?” Not until I contrasted his words with those of Sidious did I catch the wisdom that would have saved Anakin, had he only followed it: Even the deepest of loves must be held with an open hand. The moment anyone attempts to own it, control it, or put it absolutely before all other good, is the moment the door gets flung wide and evil finds its way in.
I loved the way the movie ended, with the babies Luke and Leia being placed in their adoptive families; Luke with Anakin’s stepbrother, on the very planet where Anakin first met Qui-Gon and Padme. Especially knowing what Luke went on to do... I cannot describe that ending any better than with the word redemptive.
7.22.2006
Pirates of the Caribbean II
Having waited patiently for the crowds to thin out, I saw Dead Man's Chest in a mostly-full theater on Thursday night. Here's fair warning: If you're a jumpy person, don't be the one to hold the popcorn. Otherwise, you're likely to wind up with popcorn all over yourself. All over the floor, too. And maybe the pirate sitting next to you. All I can say is, it's a good thing I wasn't also holding the soda.
Anyways, after seeing Pirates II, I realized that I now need to go back and see the first one again. My main memories of The Curse of the Black Pearl are Johnny Depp's entrance, the line "This is just like what the Greeks did at Troy, except they were in a horse, and we're in dresses," and disconnected scenes that might or might not contain important parts of the storyline. So I'm not going to write a full review of Dead Man's Chest. For a complete and well-thought-out review, check out Chris Knight's take on it here.
As for my thoughts--well, I just remember seeing my first Johnny Depp movie, Benny and Joon. For the next several years, I didn't realize who had played the quirky and unforgettable outcast, Sam (who brought life to an otherwise rather stupid movie, if my memory holds true); my good friend Edd told me in the summer of 2004, after giving me a brief but hilariously lifelike imitation of Sam's breadsticks-dance with a couple of potatoes.
Now, having seen Johnny Depp as Captain Jack and in other roles, I've got to take my proverbial hat off to him for perfecting a practically unsurpassed gift as an actor. I might question his ability to portray anything non-offbeat, were it not that I saw Chocolat and Finding Neverland (fabulous movies, both of them, in my opinion). I love seeing creativity taken to its best, whether in acting, writing, art, music, science, sport, or any other field. Johnny Depp takes the idea of a character and gives it a soul.
At some point, I'm going to have to watch Dead Man's Chest again, if for no other reason than that I never caught sight of my former coworker, Rusty Rice, who reportedly got called in as an extra a couple of times during the filming of this movie and the next. He worked on one of the tallships that was used in the movies, and at one point even sent my then-boss a picture of himself wearing Johnny Depp's hat.
The final view we get of Captain Jack Sparrow kicks off the marketing for the next movie. Anyone who sees that scene and doesn't care whether or not they catch the trilogy finale--well, they're missing that integral human gotta-know-the-ending-of-the-story component. The writers apparently took lessons from Scheherazade herself.
Anyways, after seeing Pirates II, I realized that I now need to go back and see the first one again. My main memories of The Curse of the Black Pearl are Johnny Depp's entrance, the line "This is just like what the Greeks did at Troy, except they were in a horse, and we're in dresses," and disconnected scenes that might or might not contain important parts of the storyline. So I'm not going to write a full review of Dead Man's Chest. For a complete and well-thought-out review, check out Chris Knight's take on it here.
As for my thoughts--well, I just remember seeing my first Johnny Depp movie, Benny and Joon. For the next several years, I didn't realize who had played the quirky and unforgettable outcast, Sam (who brought life to an otherwise rather stupid movie, if my memory holds true); my good friend Edd told me in the summer of 2004, after giving me a brief but hilariously lifelike imitation of Sam's breadsticks-dance with a couple of potatoes.
Now, having seen Johnny Depp as Captain Jack and in other roles, I've got to take my proverbial hat off to him for perfecting a practically unsurpassed gift as an actor. I might question his ability to portray anything non-offbeat, were it not that I saw Chocolat and Finding Neverland (fabulous movies, both of them, in my opinion). I love seeing creativity taken to its best, whether in acting, writing, art, music, science, sport, or any other field. Johnny Depp takes the idea of a character and gives it a soul.
At some point, I'm going to have to watch Dead Man's Chest again, if for no other reason than that I never caught sight of my former coworker, Rusty Rice, who reportedly got called in as an extra a couple of times during the filming of this movie and the next. He worked on one of the tallships that was used in the movies, and at one point even sent my then-boss a picture of himself wearing Johnny Depp's hat.
The final view we get of Captain Jack Sparrow kicks off the marketing for the next movie. Anyone who sees that scene and doesn't care whether or not they catch the trilogy finale--well, they're missing that integral human gotta-know-the-ending-of-the-story component. The writers apparently took lessons from Scheherazade herself.
7.18.2006
Dogs
In the final book of the "Anne of Green Gables" series, Rilla of Ingleside, Rilla's older brother Jem comes home from World War 1. With him comes his dog, who waited for him at the train station for four years.
I know it's fiction... don't know if that ever actually happened or not... but it's a good story.
Little "Dog Monday" has to follow Jem everywhere, of course, once he has his soldier back safe and sound. Monday even insisted upon going to church, where he jumped up in the middle of the sermon and barked joyfully. Afterwards, the Reverend John Meredith--who has some great lines in those books--patted Jem's dog on the head and said something I've loved:
"Faith and affection and loyalty are precious things wherever they are found. That little dog's love is a treasure, Jem."
I've always been a big-dog person myself; Dad's had a couple of Newfoundlands in the past. Oddly enough, though, the best animal friend I've ever had--and I've had horses, rabbits, goats, sheep, dogs, cats, and a bird in my lifetime--is my sister's happy-go-lucky toy poodle, Peaches. She plays and makes racket with Beth, and then when she gets tired she comes and sleeps in the crook of my arm. She's forever a puppy despite her eleven years, and I could swear she has a soul--love looks out of her eyes.
I know it's fiction... don't know if that ever actually happened or not... but it's a good story.
Little "Dog Monday" has to follow Jem everywhere, of course, once he has his soldier back safe and sound. Monday even insisted upon going to church, where he jumped up in the middle of the sermon and barked joyfully. Afterwards, the Reverend John Meredith--who has some great lines in those books--patted Jem's dog on the head and said something I've loved:
"Faith and affection and loyalty are precious things wherever they are found. That little dog's love is a treasure, Jem."
I've always been a big-dog person myself; Dad's had a couple of Newfoundlands in the past. Oddly enough, though, the best animal friend I've ever had--and I've had horses, rabbits, goats, sheep, dogs, cats, and a bird in my lifetime--is my sister's happy-go-lucky toy poodle, Peaches. She plays and makes racket with Beth, and then when she gets tired she comes and sleeps in the crook of my arm. She's forever a puppy despite her eleven years, and I could swear she has a soul--love looks out of her eyes.
7.17.2006
Odd Stuff
Fair warning: This post comes mostly from the abstract and somewhat nerdy part of my mind. I mainly chose to write about this because my other blog-option had more to do with how the ENTIRE WORLD, from the Buddhist monks in China to Saddam Hussein to your own next-door neighbor, is out to keep me from getting to work on time. Of course, when I'm on the freeway going seventy-five with time to spare and clear road ahead, there'll be a thick-jowled monster disguised as an SUV breathing down my bumper because some minivan too prudish to go ten over and too impatient to slow down is stuck in my blind spot, going seventy-six.
Ah well. Some days come to us for fun, others to build character. Some days come to ram character down our throats with a turkey fork.
There, I think I've cleared off my sarcasm. I can write now.
The things that come in handy in life typically take me by surprise; which, I suppose, is why the inside of my bedroom closet looks the way it does. But I'm not writing about my bedroom closet either... that's a dark secret if ever there was one.
One of my quirks is a total fascination with language; English, of course, but foreign language as well. Someday I hope to be fluent in another tongue, and the main hindrance to that is my inability to pick just one. I have become quite the jack-of-all-trades-and-master-of-none with foreign language. For anyone bored enough to want the details:
Don't hate me, but I fell in love with French at the tender age of six, and have never totally recovered. I can actually come up with sentences in this language, when I can remember the necessary words. The grammar doesn't come with any guarantees, though.
Everybody takes Spanish, so out of a desire to be unique I chose not to; at least, until our church offered a 12-week course, and I took it, like climbing a mountain, "because it was there." One can't really study language without also understanding the culture behind the words, and the fiery soul of the Latino people called out to mine. If I'm reading, I can figure out a lot given a certain amount of context, but only scattered words get through when it comes to me in auditory form.
Olympic figure-skating might not seem like a good reason to study a language, but I picked up a Russian book or two simply because Sergei Grinkov and Yekaterina Gordeyeva shot nearer artistic perfection in their chosen medium than most of us ever dream of in ours. Dad also likes it, so he brings me home words his Russian coworkers teach him.
Mandarin Chinese just sounded interesting, and Arabic seemed like a good idea--although I learned exactly two words of Arabic and never figured out how to decifer the tight script. Don't ask me to translate Chinese, either. When Chris Rock, at the end of Rush Hour, said "Shye-shye ni; ni hau-de," I knew what he said, but that short phrase uses almost every word I remember.
Large amounts of singing in Italian and German gave me recognition for the words and flow of those languages, though I can't generally translate (or put enough force into my German consonants), and I've sung in Latin. I once wrote an alphabet song for Hebrew, though I forget which character belongs to which letter, and I can read the ancient Greek alphabet.
Oddly enough, this random scrap-bag of knowledge gets used in my life, and not just to read the French signs across the Canadian border. For instance, I once had a boss who went to the Ukraine, brought back receipts, and wanted me to keep track of the finances. I could read the Cyrillic script on those receipts, as Ukrainian is a close cousin to Russian, and generally figure out what went where.
Nowadays, writing markup for large amounts of text which may have any sort of linguistic fragments contained therein, it actually helps to know that "C'est mon blog, et je l'aime; vous savez que vous desirez le lire" is French, "Enrique Iglesias" is Spanish for Henry Churches, "Alcune persone si comportano come i piccoli bambini malvagi quando guidano un'automobile" is Italian (although I don't know if it's syntactically correct, as I used free online translation to get that), and "Foo! Kakaya nyevkoosnaya yeda!" is (transliterated) Russian (but if you're a guest at some Russians' house for dinner, please don't say that; say "Kakaya khoroshaya yeda, bolshoya spasiba!" Otherwise, you'll just get me--and yourself--in trouble with the cook.)
Now, you can all amuse yourselves by either figuring out what the above phrases mean or leaving me comments to correct my grammar. Or you can just go to the comments, where I'll post the translations before going to bed.
Bonne nuit.
EDIT, 7/18/06 5:22PM: Again, I stand corrected. Chris Tucker, not Chris Rock, played opposite Jackie Chan in Rush Hour. I always get those two mixed up. They look too much alike.
Ah well. Some days come to us for fun, others to build character. Some days come to ram character down our throats with a turkey fork.
There, I think I've cleared off my sarcasm. I can write now.
The things that come in handy in life typically take me by surprise; which, I suppose, is why the inside of my bedroom closet looks the way it does. But I'm not writing about my bedroom closet either... that's a dark secret if ever there was one.
One of my quirks is a total fascination with language; English, of course, but foreign language as well. Someday I hope to be fluent in another tongue, and the main hindrance to that is my inability to pick just one. I have become quite the jack-of-all-trades-and-master-of-none with foreign language. For anyone bored enough to want the details:
Don't hate me, but I fell in love with French at the tender age of six, and have never totally recovered. I can actually come up with sentences in this language, when I can remember the necessary words. The grammar doesn't come with any guarantees, though.
Everybody takes Spanish, so out of a desire to be unique I chose not to; at least, until our church offered a 12-week course, and I took it, like climbing a mountain, "because it was there." One can't really study language without also understanding the culture behind the words, and the fiery soul of the Latino people called out to mine. If I'm reading, I can figure out a lot given a certain amount of context, but only scattered words get through when it comes to me in auditory form.
Olympic figure-skating might not seem like a good reason to study a language, but I picked up a Russian book or two simply because Sergei Grinkov and Yekaterina Gordeyeva shot nearer artistic perfection in their chosen medium than most of us ever dream of in ours. Dad also likes it, so he brings me home words his Russian coworkers teach him.
Mandarin Chinese just sounded interesting, and Arabic seemed like a good idea--although I learned exactly two words of Arabic and never figured out how to decifer the tight script. Don't ask me to translate Chinese, either. When Chris Rock, at the end of Rush Hour, said "Shye-shye ni; ni hau-de," I knew what he said, but that short phrase uses almost every word I remember.
Large amounts of singing in Italian and German gave me recognition for the words and flow of those languages, though I can't generally translate (or put enough force into my German consonants), and I've sung in Latin. I once wrote an alphabet song for Hebrew, though I forget which character belongs to which letter, and I can read the ancient Greek alphabet.
Oddly enough, this random scrap-bag of knowledge gets used in my life, and not just to read the French signs across the Canadian border. For instance, I once had a boss who went to the Ukraine, brought back receipts, and wanted me to keep track of the finances. I could read the Cyrillic script on those receipts, as Ukrainian is a close cousin to Russian, and generally figure out what went where.
Nowadays, writing markup for large amounts of text which may have any sort of linguistic fragments contained therein, it actually helps to know that "C'est mon blog, et je l'aime; vous savez que vous desirez le lire" is French, "Enrique Iglesias" is Spanish for Henry Churches, "Alcune persone si comportano come i piccoli bambini malvagi quando guidano un'automobile" is Italian (although I don't know if it's syntactically correct, as I used free online translation to get that), and "Foo! Kakaya nyevkoosnaya yeda!" is (transliterated) Russian (but if you're a guest at some Russians' house for dinner, please don't say that; say "Kakaya khoroshaya yeda, bolshoya spasiba!" Otherwise, you'll just get me--and yourself--in trouble with the cook.)
Now, you can all amuse yourselves by either figuring out what the above phrases mean or leaving me comments to correct my grammar. Or you can just go to the comments, where I'll post the translations before going to bed.
Bonne nuit.
EDIT, 7/18/06 5:22PM: Again, I stand corrected. Chris Tucker, not Chris Rock, played opposite Jackie Chan in Rush Hour. I always get those two mixed up. They look too much alike.
7.16.2006
Coffee
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.
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.
7.10.2006
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.
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