“Not much for introductions are you?”
“Nah, I do what needs be done and leave the formalities to you white collar folks.”
“Well, if it suits you fine, I’ll…”
Joe pressed white knuckled fingers against his temple. His head was pounding as fast as his racing heart. The smoky room did not help ease the pain, and the unnoticed television show with its almost inaudible voices was only a blaring obnoxious light in the dark room.
Unable to focus on the T.V. screen or the wall or anything around him, he slapped at the end table. Head bent down, he felt along the scratched wood finally grasping a hold of a bottle. Brown liquid sloshed around within the glass as he flipped it up and gulped almost all of it down. He sighed. It burned. But it dulled the pain.
He rubbed his temple again pushing into the skin. A centralized pain formed just above his eye. It grew in intensity until the dull throbbing of the head ache subsided. The relief was short lived. As he stopped rubbing his forehead, the aching began again. He groaned loudly wishing for a quick painless death, which did not come.
Shadows stretched across the wall behind him, their eeriness a reminder of his past unease. Floor boards seemed to creak overhead where the attic, filled with old artifacts from before the First World War, lay desolate and uninhabited; except for the rats, of course. Joe had heard them scampering around plenty of restless nights.
In the midst of the pain, Joe stood up and stumbled to the first wall he could find. He leaned against the smooth structure finding comfort in its stability.
“I’m a mess,” he said through clenched teeth. He inched his way along the wall and limped into the kitchen wincing as he put weight on his sleeping leg. As he grabbed hold of the refrigerator and opened the door, he squinted at the bright light. It took a moment for his pupils to contract before he could inspect the contents within the fridge. As if to speed him on, his stomach began to growl and his hands began to shake. “Come on, where are you.” He looked around for a moment. “There,” he grabbed a bag of bread, some lunch meat, and a bottle of mayonnaise.
Five minutes later, he plopped back down into the chair and began chewing on his rubbery concoction. Mayonnaise oozed onto his fingers as he tried to tear the bread with his teeth. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume.
On the screen, a doctor was inspecting a young man’s arm. The young man’s fingers were swollen and very blue veins showed through his skin. Neither person looked overjoyed. “It looks like we might have to cut off your arm,” the doctor was saying, “You are not getting sufficient oxygen to the muscles,” He began pressing around the swollen hand.
Joe could hardly swallow his food and quickly changed the channel. Dora the Explorer popped up on Qubo. The animated girl was running with Boots across an old rickety bridge. Much better Joe thought, flipping the channel again. He did this again and again until the obvious truth came as an epiphany to him. The Television had nothing vaguely interesting to offer at the moment.
Flipping the T.V. off, he sat in silence and gulped down the last bit of sandwich. He rubbed his still-throbbing head. Food hadn’t help. The migraine was still there. The medicine cabinet had been exhausted of its recourses. Cold wet rags had lost their magical powers, and no amount of distraction could stop the pain. Alone in the dark room, listening to the sounds of inconspicuous forces, he wondered how long his head would pound. And of Course, wondering didn’t help either.
How long had it been since he had breathed. How long had it been since he had felt the warmth of a fire, or smelled wet spring grass? How long had it been since his mind had been free to think normal human thoughts, not plagued by paranoid feelings and dark concepts. A very long time, he guessed. It had to be the house. In his rationalizing, he always came back to the house. Old, creepy, filled with dark secrets he was happy not knowing, the house had an evil history to it. People had died there. Some had been young and innocent. Others had not.
The large Victorian-like home had been around since the early eighteen-hundreds. Wheat, cotton, and tobacco fields had once grown around the house where phone lines and stop signs now stood. Slaves by the hundreds had worked hard within those fields. They had been beaten for the smallest offences, and had huddled in their hovels at night only staying alive by the comfort of family and other loved ones.
During the civil war, deserters had hidden away in the house. Afraid for their safety, they had cringed and waited, hoping their captains would not find them. Some had been fatally wounded and had bled to death. Joe looked down at the hard wood floor. Probably died on this very floor, he thought with a shudder.
Not much later, certain noble, revolutionaries had hidden runaway slaves within the tunnels that lay underneath the house. The structure, abandoned and overlooked by the state during that time, had been a perfect hiding place for the poor slaves. Now its old deteriorating walls, warped floor boards, and rain weathered exterior housed a lonely delusional man and his poor excuse for possessions.
Joe chuckled to himself and cringed again as pain shot through his head and into his neck. He was definitely not the most intriguing thing that had happened to the house. But, He thought, that was a good thing. He was very happy with a safe, uneventful life. All he really wanted was his T.V. and enough lunch meat to last him until the turn of the century.
Thoughts of the past running through his head, he leaned back against the chair and imagined himself in thirty years. He would be well ahead of his mid-life crisis by then. The old house would probably still be standing and he would be their, like a loyal dog, clutching onto the old structure waiting for it to toppled over or completely decayed from the elements.
As his imagination ran through different scenarios, his eyes became heavier and heavier. All of the sudden he was aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The sound was somewhat mesmerizing adding lead weights to his eyelids and dulling his already muggy brain. Minutes ticked by and space and time seemed to fade out of his awareness until his head dropped onto his should. His hand went limp and slid off of the arm rest.
On the edge of awareness and leaning dangerously toward total obliviousness, He heard someone or something whisper into his ear. “Hmmm,” Joe mumbled barely processing the almost inaudible sound.
“Come out. Show yourself and face me like a man,” The voice was so soft that Joe passed it off as part of a dream.
“Who…” he mumbled, but couldn’t finish the sentence. As he dropped off the edge of consciousness, a figure walked out of the shadows and leaned against a doorway. He chuckled softly to himself and watched Joe snoring away in the rocking chair. “Sleep tight,” the voice said, hoarse and menacing. “I have a lot in store for you.” He laughed and slipped back into the darkness, his cackle echoing eerily throughout the house.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Prologue
He knelt down and brushed his finger across the wood noticing wetness on the floor. Looking up he saw the source. A wet spot had formed on the ceiling where rain water had gathered and deteriorated the dry wall. The water dripped slowly but persistently, a rhythmic tap echoing through the abandoned hallway.
Ryland was fascinated as he stretched out and popped his back. The smooth green windbreaker rustled loudly in the void. Throwing a hand into his pocket he continued to explore the ancient structure, running his right hand along the carved walls craning his neck to get a glimpse at the writing on the ceiling.
The further he walked past old useless furniture and menacing dark shadows the more uneasy he became. There was stillness about him. Deeper and quieter then ever before, the atmosphere seemed foreboding and Ryland could sense it. Somewhere off in the distance evil lurked waiting for its prey.
A sound echoed around the interior. It had come from one of the dark rooms adjacent to the hallway. A note of skepticism pulsed through Ryland’s mind for a second or two. Just a sound, he laughed nervously to himself, nothing to worry about. He continued more slowly this time forgetting about the fascinating old furniture. His resolve was beginning to wane.
All he had to do was walk through the hallway and out the back door. Easy enough, if it weren’t for the creaking floor boards, random noises, and oddly shaped shadows. Another echo emitted out of the darkness. “Shoot!” Ryland jumped. His heart was racing and he fought to keep control over his imagination.
What had he been thinking? He stepped over a warped floorboard. The senior jocks had dared him to walk into the old structure. “Lot’s of the guys from school do it,” they had said. But their shifting eyes and non-convincing tone spoke otherwise. He was sure they themselves had never stepped foot on the property. He remembered trying to stop his hands from shaking as he had brushed some nervous sweat from his brow. After gaining control of the involuntary movement in his hands and legs, he had nodded at the older boys with fake confidence. Very fake. Ryland smiled grimly to himself. He had been a wreck. And now, ten minutes later, here he was jumping nervously at every little abnormality.
He stood up a little taller as he thought of the scornful smiles on the Jocks’ faces. They probably thought he’d pee his pants. He winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. There had been no accidents yet, but the night wasn’t over. Reserves of anger from years of ridicule and being looked down upon suddenly unleashed. What did those boys know about him? That he was easy to throw into a trash can. That he couldn’t fight back when they stole his money or held him against his locker. They couldn’t possibly make judgments about him and say he was stupid, weird, and terrified of everything. They didn’t know Ryland H Edward II. He’d show them. He would make his dead mother and distant father proud.
“Come out,” He said a little above a whisper. “Show yourself and face me like a man.” His voice was becoming louder and more confident. As he passed one of the dark rooms there was a subtle blur of motion. The movement was so subtle, Ryland hardly noticed it through the security he had found in his anger. “I’ll give you to the count of three,” he dared, taunting the darkness. “One, two, thr…” before he could finish the count, a voice laughed hysterically from another of the rooms followed by the “tip” “tap” of shoes on hard wood. Ryland nearly jumped out of skin, but dared not turn around. Instead, he sucked up against one of the walls and slid to a crouching position hugging his knees to his chest. “Oh, please no, Oh, please no” his said over and over again. A cold chill ran through his body and he thought he heard someone whisper something close by.
Maybe if he closed his eyes, the laughing creature wouldn’t notice him he thought. The five-year-old mentality, though useless, was somewhat comforting.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland opened his eyes. As he stared down at the old weathered floorboards afraid to look up, the foot steps came closer. Louder and louder, they approached him until…silence. The same unbearable, deep silence hung over the abandoned house like stillness before the storm. Something waited, Ryland knew. It was poised ready to pounce any second on the young boy.
Not quite paralyzed by fear, he lifted his head focusing on one of the empty door ways. The footsteps had been coming from that general direction. His eyes began to refocus in the dark. For a few breathless seconds he could only make out dark blotches and a few shapes. Then as the shapes became distinguishable objects, he noticed it. Something protruded slightly from the door way. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. At first it looked like a box lying on the floor. But as his eyes gathered in more light particles he recognized, in horror, what he was looking at.
There was whisper, a chuckle, and then another foot step as a large black boot penetrated the empty space of the door way landing only six feet from Ryland’s cowering body. “Welcome, Ryland” the voice was hoarse and menacing. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Ryland was fascinated as he stretched out and popped his back. The smooth green windbreaker rustled loudly in the void. Throwing a hand into his pocket he continued to explore the ancient structure, running his right hand along the carved walls craning his neck to get a glimpse at the writing on the ceiling.
The further he walked past old useless furniture and menacing dark shadows the more uneasy he became. There was stillness about him. Deeper and quieter then ever before, the atmosphere seemed foreboding and Ryland could sense it. Somewhere off in the distance evil lurked waiting for its prey.
A sound echoed around the interior. It had come from one of the dark rooms adjacent to the hallway. A note of skepticism pulsed through Ryland’s mind for a second or two. Just a sound, he laughed nervously to himself, nothing to worry about. He continued more slowly this time forgetting about the fascinating old furniture. His resolve was beginning to wane.
All he had to do was walk through the hallway and out the back door. Easy enough, if it weren’t for the creaking floor boards, random noises, and oddly shaped shadows. Another echo emitted out of the darkness. “Shoot!” Ryland jumped. His heart was racing and he fought to keep control over his imagination.
What had he been thinking? He stepped over a warped floorboard. The senior jocks had dared him to walk into the old structure. “Lot’s of the guys from school do it,” they had said. But their shifting eyes and non-convincing tone spoke otherwise. He was sure they themselves had never stepped foot on the property. He remembered trying to stop his hands from shaking as he had brushed some nervous sweat from his brow. After gaining control of the involuntary movement in his hands and legs, he had nodded at the older boys with fake confidence. Very fake. Ryland smiled grimly to himself. He had been a wreck. And now, ten minutes later, here he was jumping nervously at every little abnormality.
He stood up a little taller as he thought of the scornful smiles on the Jocks’ faces. They probably thought he’d pee his pants. He winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. There had been no accidents yet, but the night wasn’t over. Reserves of anger from years of ridicule and being looked down upon suddenly unleashed. What did those boys know about him? That he was easy to throw into a trash can. That he couldn’t fight back when they stole his money or held him against his locker. They couldn’t possibly make judgments about him and say he was stupid, weird, and terrified of everything. They didn’t know Ryland H Edward II. He’d show them. He would make his dead mother and distant father proud.
“Come out,” He said a little above a whisper. “Show yourself and face me like a man.” His voice was becoming louder and more confident. As he passed one of the dark rooms there was a subtle blur of motion. The movement was so subtle, Ryland hardly noticed it through the security he had found in his anger. “I’ll give you to the count of three,” he dared, taunting the darkness. “One, two, thr…” before he could finish the count, a voice laughed hysterically from another of the rooms followed by the “tip” “tap” of shoes on hard wood. Ryland nearly jumped out of skin, but dared not turn around. Instead, he sucked up against one of the walls and slid to a crouching position hugging his knees to his chest. “Oh, please no, Oh, please no” his said over and over again. A cold chill ran through his body and he thought he heard someone whisper something close by.
Maybe if he closed his eyes, the laughing creature wouldn’t notice him he thought. The five-year-old mentality, though useless, was somewhat comforting.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland opened his eyes. As he stared down at the old weathered floorboards afraid to look up, the foot steps came closer. Louder and louder, they approached him until…silence. The same unbearable, deep silence hung over the abandoned house like stillness before the storm. Something waited, Ryland knew. It was poised ready to pounce any second on the young boy.
Not quite paralyzed by fear, he lifted his head focusing on one of the empty door ways. The footsteps had been coming from that general direction. His eyes began to refocus in the dark. For a few breathless seconds he could only make out dark blotches and a few shapes. Then as the shapes became distinguishable objects, he noticed it. Something protruded slightly from the door way. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. At first it looked like a box lying on the floor. But as his eyes gathered in more light particles he recognized, in horror, what he was looking at.
There was whisper, a chuckle, and then another foot step as a large black boot penetrated the empty space of the door way landing only six feet from Ryland’s cowering body. “Welcome, Ryland” the voice was hoarse and menacing. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Monday, October 17, 2011
A Quick, Cheap Metaphor
My life is like a church sanctuary. And I don’t mean this as a spiritual illustration. The picture of a church sanctuary just happens to pop up in my head as I box life up into this quick, cheap metaphor.
My life is like a church sanctuary. It is 3:00 P.M. Sunday afternoon and the pews are filled to a bursting point with people. Up on stage dressed in Sunday’s best, a red-haired chipper, high-energy lady leads the afternoon events. Nervous students sit in their pews clutching the arm rests or tapping their shaking toes against the ground. In their hands, music books shake as much as their toes.
Outside, a beautiful Sunday afternoon follows the movements of the sun waiting for its queue to fall asleep when the large, orange orb drops below the horizon. Meanwhile, a music recital is under way. Each student can’t enjoy the cool spring afternoon past the old sanctuary walls. They can’t even see through the barriers they built around themselves. They are in a dark dreadful tunnel. At the end of the tunnel lays, not a light, but a black grand piano. It taunts them to no end.
When the timer clicks zero after a beautiful Sonatina; when life consist of a few more seconds; when unnatural, unsettling quietness hangs in the air only disrupted by tiny footsteps down hardwood stairs, the long awaited moment arrives. No one could ever hope for that moment, especially the poor student standing up for his turn at the dreaded piano. But the moment is inevitable, mandatory and steadfast.
The student will stand up. He had prepared too many days in advance for this. The days had been long, prolonging the dreaded moment. He lays the music on the bench and looks at it longingly as he leaves it behind. Though he had memorized the song several weeks before the recital, the sheet music is soothing, available if things went terribly wrong.
The student will walk out off the comfortable pew into the isle. Now he is exposed for every one to see. They look around with glaring eyes. “You will fail,” they say, “We are waiting for you to fail”. The poor student looks back at his pew; his home, the sanctuary within a sanctuary, and walks further away into the jaws of hopelessness, failure and condemnation. Up the stairs through the tunnel to the piano, his footsteps echo around the room. Everyone is so, so quiet. Are they breathing? Are they alive? Can they see through his church cloths to the racing heart underneath? He sits upon that bench and waits. The seconds tick by. Like hours, they drag on until the moment can’t wait any longer. His little child fingers rest on the piano for one last jolt of the clock hand and then he plays.
Time becomes a thing of the past. For those few moments nothing exists but the piano and his dancing fingers. A rhythm and a beautiful harmony of chords and notes take the place of minutes and seconds. The melody rings around the suddenly enchanted chamber. And then as quickly as it began the moment is over. The last chord is played and the audience claps. The young boy smiles, bows sloppily and quickly runs to his sanctuary.
My life is like a church sanctuary. I am that boy waiting in the pew. Like a prisoner about to be executed, I wait with shaking hands. The pew is my home, my family, friends, and comfortable hang outs. It represents the familiar things in life where I feel safe. The dreaded tunnel is only an illusion I create for myself. It is a barricade between me and the “other” unfamiliar parts of my life. At the end of that tunnel are the things I need to do, the mandatory, inevitable, steadfast priorities. Outside of the pew is my journey towards those things I dread most.
Many times I have taken that journey away from the pew. All the while I could hear the taunts of failure. As real as the tunnel I had created for myself, the taunts impeded my voyage to do those hard things outside of my comfort zone.
But always, when the moment came, the one I had imagined in horror for so many days and had dreaded to the point of exhaustion, everything worked out. I played my piece on the piano, the seemingly ravenous crowed clapped as reality slapped me in the face for my prideful fear, and I ran safely back to the haven content from accomplishment. Over and over again I have done this. Even as I write these words at midnight on October the 17th, I sit in my pew, awaiting the next hard inevitable thing. My hands shake as I see it coming. I clutch the pew arm rests until my knuckles turn white and my toes tap nervously against the hard word floor.
Then I hear the footsteps…
My life is like a church sanctuary. It is 3:00 P.M. Sunday afternoon and the pews are filled to a bursting point with people. Up on stage dressed in Sunday’s best, a red-haired chipper, high-energy lady leads the afternoon events. Nervous students sit in their pews clutching the arm rests or tapping their shaking toes against the ground. In their hands, music books shake as much as their toes.
Outside, a beautiful Sunday afternoon follows the movements of the sun waiting for its queue to fall asleep when the large, orange orb drops below the horizon. Meanwhile, a music recital is under way. Each student can’t enjoy the cool spring afternoon past the old sanctuary walls. They can’t even see through the barriers they built around themselves. They are in a dark dreadful tunnel. At the end of the tunnel lays, not a light, but a black grand piano. It taunts them to no end.
When the timer clicks zero after a beautiful Sonatina; when life consist of a few more seconds; when unnatural, unsettling quietness hangs in the air only disrupted by tiny footsteps down hardwood stairs, the long awaited moment arrives. No one could ever hope for that moment, especially the poor student standing up for his turn at the dreaded piano. But the moment is inevitable, mandatory and steadfast.
The student will stand up. He had prepared too many days in advance for this. The days had been long, prolonging the dreaded moment. He lays the music on the bench and looks at it longingly as he leaves it behind. Though he had memorized the song several weeks before the recital, the sheet music is soothing, available if things went terribly wrong.
The student will walk out off the comfortable pew into the isle. Now he is exposed for every one to see. They look around with glaring eyes. “You will fail,” they say, “We are waiting for you to fail”. The poor student looks back at his pew; his home, the sanctuary within a sanctuary, and walks further away into the jaws of hopelessness, failure and condemnation. Up the stairs through the tunnel to the piano, his footsteps echo around the room. Everyone is so, so quiet. Are they breathing? Are they alive? Can they see through his church cloths to the racing heart underneath? He sits upon that bench and waits. The seconds tick by. Like hours, they drag on until the moment can’t wait any longer. His little child fingers rest on the piano for one last jolt of the clock hand and then he plays.
Time becomes a thing of the past. For those few moments nothing exists but the piano and his dancing fingers. A rhythm and a beautiful harmony of chords and notes take the place of minutes and seconds. The melody rings around the suddenly enchanted chamber. And then as quickly as it began the moment is over. The last chord is played and the audience claps. The young boy smiles, bows sloppily and quickly runs to his sanctuary.
My life is like a church sanctuary. I am that boy waiting in the pew. Like a prisoner about to be executed, I wait with shaking hands. The pew is my home, my family, friends, and comfortable hang outs. It represents the familiar things in life where I feel safe. The dreaded tunnel is only an illusion I create for myself. It is a barricade between me and the “other” unfamiliar parts of my life. At the end of that tunnel are the things I need to do, the mandatory, inevitable, steadfast priorities. Outside of the pew is my journey towards those things I dread most.
Many times I have taken that journey away from the pew. All the while I could hear the taunts of failure. As real as the tunnel I had created for myself, the taunts impeded my voyage to do those hard things outside of my comfort zone.
But always, when the moment came, the one I had imagined in horror for so many days and had dreaded to the point of exhaustion, everything worked out. I played my piece on the piano, the seemingly ravenous crowed clapped as reality slapped me in the face for my prideful fear, and I ran safely back to the haven content from accomplishment. Over and over again I have done this. Even as I write these words at midnight on October the 17th, I sit in my pew, awaiting the next hard inevitable thing. My hands shake as I see it coming. I clutch the pew arm rests until my knuckles turn white and my toes tap nervously against the hard word floor.
Then I hear the footsteps…
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
"Even His Enemies Were at Peace with Him"
From the moment the people of Judah were exiled to Babylon in 605 B.C., Daniel’s life was a constant tug in one direction and then another. Whether he was forced to serve under a foreign king, threatened by Nebuchadnezzar’s ridiculous demands, or thrown into the lion’s den, his existence was constantly defined by unforeseen, life-altering events. But, even though he had no real control over his path, he was never a man agonizing over the things happening to him. Instead, He showed immense faith and obedience in the midst of sin and temptation
Daniel lived in the last of two kingdoms. Only a century before, the northern kingdom, Israel, had been annihilated before an Assyrian assault. As was their custom, the imperial army had not only conquered their enemy, the Israelites, but they had destroyed any remnants of their belief or culture. This left Judah with its Godly kings to rule until the next imperial assault. Daniel was a citizen living in Judah during that time. Among his fellow country men he enjoyed the freedom of religion and culture. In 605, however, the long awaited assault manifested itself through the Babylonians.
At the army’s head, Nebuchadnezzar besieged and conquered Jerusalem taking king Jehoiakim captive along with all of Israel. Fortunately, Babylon, unlike Assyria, did not destroy the identity of their enemy. In a more subtle approach to conquering the world, they would win their enemies over by giving them the same freedom they would possess before being conquered. This approach was nice enough for normal Israelites. Unfortunately for Daniel, any of the wiser Israelites were assigned to the king’s top eunuch. Being one of these men, Daniel would be forced to learn the language and literature of the Chaldeans and to eat the defiling food of the king. In a very frustrating chain of events, he was essential placed under the watchful eye of the king himself. Every move he made would be scrutinized as he was forced to bend to the ways of the Babylonians.
A series of tests ensued for Daniel that lasted most of his existence in captivity. When he first arrived in the “land of Shinar” he was required to feast on the King’s food. The feast contained defiling unclean animals. To eat the meal would have been sin against the God of Israel. Daniel knew that his situation was a serious one, and he made a distinct choice at that moment. Whether he lived or died he “resolved that he would not defile himself with the king’s food or with the wine that he drank”. But he had not yet resolved to die. Instead, he made a test for the King. The captured Israelites would continue to eat clean, holy food and the Babylonian youth would continue to eat their meat and drink their wine. If Daniel and his country men remained healthy and grew stronger, they could keep their diet. If they did not remain healthy, the Eunuch would deal with the Israelites as he felt necessary.
The test ended well for Daniel and his companions. They remained healthy, and grew much stronger physically then the rest of the youth. Impressed by this unusual turn of events, the eunuch took away the wine and king’s food from everyone and replaced it with vegetables.
As time went, Daniel and his companions became wiser then all of the wise men in the nation. Soon, when the king had a dream that none could interpret, a servant sent Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar. He was able to explain the dream to the king and interpret its meaning. Pleased beyond belief, even bowing before Daniel, the king acknowledged the God of Israel and made Daniel ruler over the whole province of Babylon.
Several years later when the Medes took over the Chaldean throne Daniel again was tugged in an unforeseen direction. However, because of his trust in God and the wisdom that God gave him, he earned prestige once again with the king, Darius. Eventually some of the other councilors to the king became jealous of Daniels relationship with Darius. They plotted to kill Daniel legally. After much scheming they discovered a perfect way to rid themselves of their competition and gain favor with the king. They devised a document requiring that for thirty days no one could bow down or worship any other being but the king. Signed by the king himself, this document was authentic and could not be defied. But Daniel, being the Godly man that he was, would not cease to worship his God. Seeing this defiance, the councilors brought news to Darius that Daniel was worshiping God. With much sorrow the king was forced to abide by the document casting Daniel into the lions den. After a day, the king found Daniel alive. Through God’s miraculous hand, the lion’s mouths had been shut.
Daniel’s life was a reflection of proverbs 16. “The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord…” (16:1) “…Commit your work to the Lord and your plans will be established…” (16:3) “…When a man’s ways please the Lord, he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him…” (16:7) “…the heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” (16:9) Daniel was taken along so many different roads he had never planed on taking. The Lord constantly placed difficult circumstances in front of him. This was a fact of life for him. And it is a fact of life for us all. Everyone’s life is dependent on God’s rules and His plans. None makes a way outside of God’s way. Daniel understood this fact and did what was commanded of him by his God (16:1, 7) and just as it is said it will happen in proverbs it happened for Daniel. He committed his work to the Lord, he pleased his God and even his enemies were at peace with him.
Daniel lived in the last of two kingdoms. Only a century before, the northern kingdom, Israel, had been annihilated before an Assyrian assault. As was their custom, the imperial army had not only conquered their enemy, the Israelites, but they had destroyed any remnants of their belief or culture. This left Judah with its Godly kings to rule until the next imperial assault. Daniel was a citizen living in Judah during that time. Among his fellow country men he enjoyed the freedom of religion and culture. In 605, however, the long awaited assault manifested itself through the Babylonians.
At the army’s head, Nebuchadnezzar besieged and conquered Jerusalem taking king Jehoiakim captive along with all of Israel. Fortunately, Babylon, unlike Assyria, did not destroy the identity of their enemy. In a more subtle approach to conquering the world, they would win their enemies over by giving them the same freedom they would possess before being conquered. This approach was nice enough for normal Israelites. Unfortunately for Daniel, any of the wiser Israelites were assigned to the king’s top eunuch. Being one of these men, Daniel would be forced to learn the language and literature of the Chaldeans and to eat the defiling food of the king. In a very frustrating chain of events, he was essential placed under the watchful eye of the king himself. Every move he made would be scrutinized as he was forced to bend to the ways of the Babylonians.
A series of tests ensued for Daniel that lasted most of his existence in captivity. When he first arrived in the “land of Shinar” he was required to feast on the King’s food. The feast contained defiling unclean animals. To eat the meal would have been sin against the God of Israel. Daniel knew that his situation was a serious one, and he made a distinct choice at that moment. Whether he lived or died he “resolved that he would not defile himself with the king’s food or with the wine that he drank”. But he had not yet resolved to die. Instead, he made a test for the King. The captured Israelites would continue to eat clean, holy food and the Babylonian youth would continue to eat their meat and drink their wine. If Daniel and his country men remained healthy and grew stronger, they could keep their diet. If they did not remain healthy, the Eunuch would deal with the Israelites as he felt necessary.
The test ended well for Daniel and his companions. They remained healthy, and grew much stronger physically then the rest of the youth. Impressed by this unusual turn of events, the eunuch took away the wine and king’s food from everyone and replaced it with vegetables.
As time went, Daniel and his companions became wiser then all of the wise men in the nation. Soon, when the king had a dream that none could interpret, a servant sent Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar. He was able to explain the dream to the king and interpret its meaning. Pleased beyond belief, even bowing before Daniel, the king acknowledged the God of Israel and made Daniel ruler over the whole province of Babylon.
Several years later when the Medes took over the Chaldean throne Daniel again was tugged in an unforeseen direction. However, because of his trust in God and the wisdom that God gave him, he earned prestige once again with the king, Darius. Eventually some of the other councilors to the king became jealous of Daniels relationship with Darius. They plotted to kill Daniel legally. After much scheming they discovered a perfect way to rid themselves of their competition and gain favor with the king. They devised a document requiring that for thirty days no one could bow down or worship any other being but the king. Signed by the king himself, this document was authentic and could not be defied. But Daniel, being the Godly man that he was, would not cease to worship his God. Seeing this defiance, the councilors brought news to Darius that Daniel was worshiping God. With much sorrow the king was forced to abide by the document casting Daniel into the lions den. After a day, the king found Daniel alive. Through God’s miraculous hand, the lion’s mouths had been shut.
Daniel’s life was a reflection of proverbs 16. “The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord…” (16:1) “…Commit your work to the Lord and your plans will be established…” (16:3) “…When a man’s ways please the Lord, he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him…” (16:7) “…the heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” (16:9) Daniel was taken along so many different roads he had never planed on taking. The Lord constantly placed difficult circumstances in front of him. This was a fact of life for him. And it is a fact of life for us all. Everyone’s life is dependent on God’s rules and His plans. None makes a way outside of God’s way. Daniel understood this fact and did what was commanded of him by his God (16:1, 7) and just as it is said it will happen in proverbs it happened for Daniel. He committed his work to the Lord, he pleased his God and even his enemies were at peace with him.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Are We There Yet?
A Normal Road Trip seen through the Eyes of a Teenager
You’ve been in the same van with your family for a long time. Three bottles of water sloshing around in your body, one hundred and twenty five miles still to go, and nothing but a few centimeters of metal separating you from seventy eight mile-per-hour wind and bone crushing road, you begin asking some serious questions. But a single overpowering question plays over and over again in your head. Unable to escape your thoughts, it pulses past the mental realm into a painful physical reality. “Where is the stinkin’ bathroom?”
This same situation occurred to me, as it always does, unexpectedly. It all began the day we went to Ponca City, Oklahoma for Christmas. Last minute packing underway and people rushing around in anticipation of the coming Christmas events, we all were excited for the few days we would spend talking with old friends, eating good food, and opening presents. I especially was excited to get away from the daily routine. Happily, I went about my business willing the time to go by more quickly so that we could finally be on our way. Little did I know that my joyful, naïve state would eventually be ripped out from under me by a terrifying reality: four-and-a-half hours on the road in a Dodge Caravan. Not until later, when my head was pounding and I had an intense need to us the bathroomm, did I remember how the seemingly innocent two-hundred-and-eighty mile drive could suck me of my energy and my resolve to live. We finished packing everything by Eleven O’clock and eventually loaded ourselves into the cramped compartment we called a van. After the last minute “did we forget anything?” question was finally asked and we were ready to leave, I settled down in my comfortable chair prepared to enjoy the ride.
The first few miles of any trip are always the best. Everything is still familiar, the joy of a new and interesting destination is in the immediate future, and your head doesn’t feel like it’s been smashed by a bowling ball. But this euphoria lasts only so long. Soon, two miles turns into twenty miles which slowly turns into fifty miles, which slowly turns into boredom central, and you don’t feel any closer to where you are going then when you started. Eventually the immediate destination doesn’t feel so immediate anymore. Your head is pounding and you begin to feel a subtle pain forming in the lower region of your body. These thoughts and feelings were what consumed my mind sixty miles into the trip. I couldn’t move around, I had forgotten that reading in a vehicle is not a very good idea, and I was polishing off a large bottle of water. If I had been thinking strait I’m sure I wouldn’t have been so hasty to put liquid in my body. Then it hit me full force. A whole world of excitement could not make up for the misery I was in at that moment. And it only got worse. As my need for the restroom became more intense, very little things caused me the greatest amount of irritation. A once normal friendly conversation became a bombing of loud noises to my ears. Each word slamming against my eardrum reminded me of the miles between me and the next rest stop. Then I realized that I was sitting in a very uncomfortable position. But I could not, for the life of me, get comfortable anywhere on the seat, and moving around to find the perfect spot only articulated my painful state. On top of everything, no amount of distraction could pull me away from what I was feeling.
As can be imagined when we stopped midway through the road trip, I was elated to stumble out of the van on to the heavenly, unmoving ground. Old friends, good food, and presents didn’t matter anymore. I was now facing a life or death situation and was desperately striving for life. Somehow, despite the stiffness of joints and general paralysis that comes from sitting far too long, I managed to make it into the gas station. Blurred figures moved around me, but they were only distant, unimportant images in my mind as I walked towards the one destination that would bring relief. Needless to say, after that day, I christened the gas station my “home away from home” for very obvious and practical reasons. As we piled back into the car I realized what our little puppy, Riley, must have felt as he was also shoved into a small cramped box. The only difference between his situation and mine was that I didn’t fight back and bark. The rest of the trip was much of the same with similar thoughts, questions, and regrets. Only the familiar view of the stop light and Lows sign, which marked the visible beginning of Ponca City, kept me from going crazy. All of the sudden the great fog of misery cleared and I could breathe once again. Familiar sights began popping up all over the place. As they became more numerous and closer together I felt an internal scream of joy boil up into my throat. We had survived the great obstacle between us and a relaxing, Christmas weekend. We had managed the long trip to Ponca City.
The van pulled slowly into my grandparent’s driveway met by a quiet and inviting scene. Compared to the rush of traffic and claustrophobic atmosphere, this was heaven. I heard myself sigh in relief as I pulled open the door and let the cool fresh air wash over my face. My life was looking good once again. I could only hope that the trip back to Missouri would be a little more forgiving.
You’ve been in the same van with your family for a long time. Three bottles of water sloshing around in your body, one hundred and twenty five miles still to go, and nothing but a few centimeters of metal separating you from seventy eight mile-per-hour wind and bone crushing road, you begin asking some serious questions. But a single overpowering question plays over and over again in your head. Unable to escape your thoughts, it pulses past the mental realm into a painful physical reality. “Where is the stinkin’ bathroom?”
This same situation occurred to me, as it always does, unexpectedly. It all began the day we went to Ponca City, Oklahoma for Christmas. Last minute packing underway and people rushing around in anticipation of the coming Christmas events, we all were excited for the few days we would spend talking with old friends, eating good food, and opening presents. I especially was excited to get away from the daily routine. Happily, I went about my business willing the time to go by more quickly so that we could finally be on our way. Little did I know that my joyful, naïve state would eventually be ripped out from under me by a terrifying reality: four-and-a-half hours on the road in a Dodge Caravan. Not until later, when my head was pounding and I had an intense need to us the bathroomm, did I remember how the seemingly innocent two-hundred-and-eighty mile drive could suck me of my energy and my resolve to live. We finished packing everything by Eleven O’clock and eventually loaded ourselves into the cramped compartment we called a van. After the last minute “did we forget anything?” question was finally asked and we were ready to leave, I settled down in my comfortable chair prepared to enjoy the ride.
The first few miles of any trip are always the best. Everything is still familiar, the joy of a new and interesting destination is in the immediate future, and your head doesn’t feel like it’s been smashed by a bowling ball. But this euphoria lasts only so long. Soon, two miles turns into twenty miles which slowly turns into fifty miles, which slowly turns into boredom central, and you don’t feel any closer to where you are going then when you started. Eventually the immediate destination doesn’t feel so immediate anymore. Your head is pounding and you begin to feel a subtle pain forming in the lower region of your body. These thoughts and feelings were what consumed my mind sixty miles into the trip. I couldn’t move around, I had forgotten that reading in a vehicle is not a very good idea, and I was polishing off a large bottle of water. If I had been thinking strait I’m sure I wouldn’t have been so hasty to put liquid in my body. Then it hit me full force. A whole world of excitement could not make up for the misery I was in at that moment. And it only got worse. As my need for the restroom became more intense, very little things caused me the greatest amount of irritation. A once normal friendly conversation became a bombing of loud noises to my ears. Each word slamming against my eardrum reminded me of the miles between me and the next rest stop. Then I realized that I was sitting in a very uncomfortable position. But I could not, for the life of me, get comfortable anywhere on the seat, and moving around to find the perfect spot only articulated my painful state. On top of everything, no amount of distraction could pull me away from what I was feeling.
As can be imagined when we stopped midway through the road trip, I was elated to stumble out of the van on to the heavenly, unmoving ground. Old friends, good food, and presents didn’t matter anymore. I was now facing a life or death situation and was desperately striving for life. Somehow, despite the stiffness of joints and general paralysis that comes from sitting far too long, I managed to make it into the gas station. Blurred figures moved around me, but they were only distant, unimportant images in my mind as I walked towards the one destination that would bring relief. Needless to say, after that day, I christened the gas station my “home away from home” for very obvious and practical reasons. As we piled back into the car I realized what our little puppy, Riley, must have felt as he was also shoved into a small cramped box. The only difference between his situation and mine was that I didn’t fight back and bark. The rest of the trip was much of the same with similar thoughts, questions, and regrets. Only the familiar view of the stop light and Lows sign, which marked the visible beginning of Ponca City, kept me from going crazy. All of the sudden the great fog of misery cleared and I could breathe once again. Familiar sights began popping up all over the place. As they became more numerous and closer together I felt an internal scream of joy boil up into my throat. We had survived the great obstacle between us and a relaxing, Christmas weekend. We had managed the long trip to Ponca City.
The van pulled slowly into my grandparent’s driveway met by a quiet and inviting scene. Compared to the rush of traffic and claustrophobic atmosphere, this was heaven. I heard myself sigh in relief as I pulled open the door and let the cool fresh air wash over my face. My life was looking good once again. I could only hope that the trip back to Missouri would be a little more forgiving.
Safety before Cement: My Summer at a Cement Plant
When I first heard that I would be working at a cement plant for the summer, I began psyching myself for the experience. It would supposedly be a lot of nasty work. I would be waking up at 5:45 in the morning every week day, I would be working hard with my hands, and I would do whatever messed up job they could produce. In a very simple way of explaining it, my idea of normal daily life was about to get drastically altered.
The first morning was probably the worst. After comfortable dreams, I was awakened by my alarm clock. The most annoying devise in the world, it beeped persistently for several minutes before I forced myself out of bed. What made the alarm clock so terrifying was its agonizing chant. I could hear it in every loud “BEEP”. “Three more months,” “Three more months,” “Three more months,” It seemed to say over and over again. “Yeah, yeah,” I thought. Before my ears exploded, I walked over and flipped the off switch. Peaceful silence ensued. Then, I remembered why I was up. Sighing to myself I dressed, strapped on my boots, and walked up stairs to fry some eggs. For most of the summer, this was my routine. More monotonous then anything I had ever encountered, this ritual became dreaded Déjàvu.
The drive was always nice. Being in the car, feeling it shake gently, and listening to talk radio, always woke me up in a friendly way. During that time I was able to see the beautiful orange sun rising slowly into the sky and feel the cool morning breeze through the open window. It’s safe to say that those quite minutes to myself before work was an important part of preparing me to face each day.
Rolling into the parking lot, I was always met by a sign which read “Safety before cement.” This was more then just a phrase. It was something every employee had to consider during the day. When out working in the plant each person needed to first understand the dangers involved in his task. Then he needed to act accordingly to avoid injury or death. One way everyone avoided certain dangers was through something we called PPE. “Personal Protective Equipment”, a helmet, a reflective vest, safety glasses, and steel-toed boots, was required at all times. These would save me from injury several times during the summer
Once parked, I would make my way through the double glass doors that marked the entrance to the Lafarge office area. Down a hall past several offices, followed by a left, and then a right would lead me into the break room. There to greet me with tired downcast faces were the three companions I was destined to be with throughout the summer. Corey, Brandon, and Erik were all hired along with me as summer interns. Like me, they had dreams of becoming something more then cement workers. Starting college, attending College, or finishing an associate degree, the three were only working that summer for higher academic purposes. Essentially, like me, they need money for college.
At this point as the clock struck 6:55, everyone in the break room would grab their PPE and head towards the control room for a safety meeting. There, we discussed different hazards to avoid and the assignments we needed to accomplish for that day. The meeting usually lasted five to ten minutes in which time we leaned against our respective wall willing the day to be over. After the meeting finished, we would either receive instructions from our supervisor, Terri Van Winkle, or a Control-Room Supervisor. As a general rule, we always looked forward to assignments from Terri Van Winkle who usually gave us less strenuous work like sweeping or light shoveling. As another general rule, we never enjoyed assignments directly from control. These consisted of heavy shoveling and Jack hammering.
Though life out in the cement plant was a doozy, working with three other guys made the work load somewhat easier. First thing we would do upon leaving the office building was grab our equipment; shovel, broom, and sometimes Jack hammer, and trot off toward our assigned work area where we would spend the rest of the day working.
Each work area had its own name. Behind the office building was the pan conveyor. A large belt on rollers, the pan conveyor carried different materials from one section of the plant to the other. We found that a lot of our work centered there. Shop thirty-five also had a conveyor in it that carried raw materials throughout the plant. This too was another of our central work places. Shop Forty-seven resting against one of the cement silos was the pan conveyors pit stop. There, materials were carried through a bucket conveyor, a vertical conveyor, up into one of the silos. These silos, four in number, held different types of cement used to fill large cement trucks. To the left of the office building sat a large green tower where material was burned at over 3000 degrees Celsius. Our work there, several hundred feet in the air, was always very warm from the burners.
Down a dirt road that wound throughout the plant, under the ground through a mine and out on the other side of a large hill, lay what was known as the old plant. The fifty year old plant, still operational but only half functional, was a maze of dark corridors rusted equipment and dirty rooms. It was a desolate as it was intriguing. We four guys enjoyed anytime we could spend over in that area away from other people. There we were mostly assigned to what was known as the finish mill. A seven story rusted structure, dimly lit and very loud, the finish mill provided us with light easy work. We would bring brooms to sweep up piles of excess cement, shovels to pick up the piles, and buckets to dump the piles down different shoots. These shoots would carry the cement into silos.
Our jobs were many and very diverse. Sometimes we would sweep and broom out different buildings. Other times we would jack hammer hardened piles of cement until our hands rung from the vibrations. Other days we were assigned tasks only requiring one of us. During one of these assignments when the plant was shut down for maintenance, I was sent up into the tower as a “Whole Watch”. There, I was assigned to watch one of the maintenance workers weld on the inside of one of the burners. As I watched, I held a small device that tested the different chemical levels inside the burner. If oxygen levels fell lower then 19 percent or rose higher then 23 percent I was required to get the welder out into open air.
For three months my life and dreams were cement related. I learned what my life might be like without a college degree. I learned how to wake up early, how to endure through a hard work day, and how to get along with three other guys. Life at Lafarge was not all fun and games, but I believe it strengthened me mentally and physically as I earned couple of calluses along the way.
The first morning was probably the worst. After comfortable dreams, I was awakened by my alarm clock. The most annoying devise in the world, it beeped persistently for several minutes before I forced myself out of bed. What made the alarm clock so terrifying was its agonizing chant. I could hear it in every loud “BEEP”. “Three more months,” “Three more months,” “Three more months,” It seemed to say over and over again. “Yeah, yeah,” I thought. Before my ears exploded, I walked over and flipped the off switch. Peaceful silence ensued. Then, I remembered why I was up. Sighing to myself I dressed, strapped on my boots, and walked up stairs to fry some eggs. For most of the summer, this was my routine. More monotonous then anything I had ever encountered, this ritual became dreaded Déjàvu.
The drive was always nice. Being in the car, feeling it shake gently, and listening to talk radio, always woke me up in a friendly way. During that time I was able to see the beautiful orange sun rising slowly into the sky and feel the cool morning breeze through the open window. It’s safe to say that those quite minutes to myself before work was an important part of preparing me to face each day.
Rolling into the parking lot, I was always met by a sign which read “Safety before cement.” This was more then just a phrase. It was something every employee had to consider during the day. When out working in the plant each person needed to first understand the dangers involved in his task. Then he needed to act accordingly to avoid injury or death. One way everyone avoided certain dangers was through something we called PPE. “Personal Protective Equipment”, a helmet, a reflective vest, safety glasses, and steel-toed boots, was required at all times. These would save me from injury several times during the summer
Once parked, I would make my way through the double glass doors that marked the entrance to the Lafarge office area. Down a hall past several offices, followed by a left, and then a right would lead me into the break room. There to greet me with tired downcast faces were the three companions I was destined to be with throughout the summer. Corey, Brandon, and Erik were all hired along with me as summer interns. Like me, they had dreams of becoming something more then cement workers. Starting college, attending College, or finishing an associate degree, the three were only working that summer for higher academic purposes. Essentially, like me, they need money for college.
At this point as the clock struck 6:55, everyone in the break room would grab their PPE and head towards the control room for a safety meeting. There, we discussed different hazards to avoid and the assignments we needed to accomplish for that day. The meeting usually lasted five to ten minutes in which time we leaned against our respective wall willing the day to be over. After the meeting finished, we would either receive instructions from our supervisor, Terri Van Winkle, or a Control-Room Supervisor. As a general rule, we always looked forward to assignments from Terri Van Winkle who usually gave us less strenuous work like sweeping or light shoveling. As another general rule, we never enjoyed assignments directly from control. These consisted of heavy shoveling and Jack hammering.
Though life out in the cement plant was a doozy, working with three other guys made the work load somewhat easier. First thing we would do upon leaving the office building was grab our equipment; shovel, broom, and sometimes Jack hammer, and trot off toward our assigned work area where we would spend the rest of the day working.
Each work area had its own name. Behind the office building was the pan conveyor. A large belt on rollers, the pan conveyor carried different materials from one section of the plant to the other. We found that a lot of our work centered there. Shop thirty-five also had a conveyor in it that carried raw materials throughout the plant. This too was another of our central work places. Shop Forty-seven resting against one of the cement silos was the pan conveyors pit stop. There, materials were carried through a bucket conveyor, a vertical conveyor, up into one of the silos. These silos, four in number, held different types of cement used to fill large cement trucks. To the left of the office building sat a large green tower where material was burned at over 3000 degrees Celsius. Our work there, several hundred feet in the air, was always very warm from the burners.
Down a dirt road that wound throughout the plant, under the ground through a mine and out on the other side of a large hill, lay what was known as the old plant. The fifty year old plant, still operational but only half functional, was a maze of dark corridors rusted equipment and dirty rooms. It was a desolate as it was intriguing. We four guys enjoyed anytime we could spend over in that area away from other people. There we were mostly assigned to what was known as the finish mill. A seven story rusted structure, dimly lit and very loud, the finish mill provided us with light easy work. We would bring brooms to sweep up piles of excess cement, shovels to pick up the piles, and buckets to dump the piles down different shoots. These shoots would carry the cement into silos.
Our jobs were many and very diverse. Sometimes we would sweep and broom out different buildings. Other times we would jack hammer hardened piles of cement until our hands rung from the vibrations. Other days we were assigned tasks only requiring one of us. During one of these assignments when the plant was shut down for maintenance, I was sent up into the tower as a “Whole Watch”. There, I was assigned to watch one of the maintenance workers weld on the inside of one of the burners. As I watched, I held a small device that tested the different chemical levels inside the burner. If oxygen levels fell lower then 19 percent or rose higher then 23 percent I was required to get the welder out into open air.
For three months my life and dreams were cement related. I learned what my life might be like without a college degree. I learned how to wake up early, how to endure through a hard work day, and how to get along with three other guys. Life at Lafarge was not all fun and games, but I believe it strengthened me mentally and physically as I earned couple of calluses along the way.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
The Dream
Have you ever had one of those dreams? It starts out innocently normal. You are outside your house. As you enjoy the cool day, you are doing something you might on a regular basis. But somewhere in the pit of your stomach you begin to feel anxiety. At first you pass it off as the food you ate. Maybe your stomach is cramping up from a combination of lunch and over exertion. As the feeling grows up through your stomach and into your mind, though, you begin to think other wise. The sensation will not stop and only gets stronger until you finally realize that something is very wrong. This is the turning point of the dream.
All of the sudden the sky grows dark. A once nice spring day has become a cold wintery night. Contemplating going into the house, you feel a chill run up your body. A look to the left and to the right does not produce any results or resolve the issue. It is time to go inside. But, before you have a chance to do the rational thing, your impulses introduce you to an illogical solution. “Go across the street,” your impulses tell you. You look towards the street. It is what you might expect from a street. You shrug, the immediate anxiety rolling to the back of your mind. “Why not,” you say. You step through the damp grass—probably from a recent rain. The feeling of a wet smooth surface against your flesh sends chills up your spine. You ease your toe onto the pavement as that uneasy feeling begins to take over again. Each step on the pavement raises the volume of anxiety, until you are no longer sure about what you’re doing. Leaving the road you hesitantly look at the landscape in front of you.
At this point during the dream you see, for the first time, something to be afraid of. An open field and dark forest lay in front of you personifying your feeling of dread. You immediately stop and look back towards your home. But all you see is more field. The road has disappeared; the forest surrounds you. Goose bumps crawl up your spine and you begin to feel lethargic. Behind you the darkness creeps up from the forest. As it gets closer you run the other direction as fast as you can. The forest doesn’t seem to get any closer but the darkness continues to gain speed towards you. Then your feet fall out from under you and you hit the ground with your face. The darkness washes over you like a flood of water and you wake up.
All of the sudden the sky grows dark. A once nice spring day has become a cold wintery night. Contemplating going into the house, you feel a chill run up your body. A look to the left and to the right does not produce any results or resolve the issue. It is time to go inside. But, before you have a chance to do the rational thing, your impulses introduce you to an illogical solution. “Go across the street,” your impulses tell you. You look towards the street. It is what you might expect from a street. You shrug, the immediate anxiety rolling to the back of your mind. “Why not,” you say. You step through the damp grass—probably from a recent rain. The feeling of a wet smooth surface against your flesh sends chills up your spine. You ease your toe onto the pavement as that uneasy feeling begins to take over again. Each step on the pavement raises the volume of anxiety, until you are no longer sure about what you’re doing. Leaving the road you hesitantly look at the landscape in front of you.
At this point during the dream you see, for the first time, something to be afraid of. An open field and dark forest lay in front of you personifying your feeling of dread. You immediately stop and look back towards your home. But all you see is more field. The road has disappeared; the forest surrounds you. Goose bumps crawl up your spine and you begin to feel lethargic. Behind you the darkness creeps up from the forest. As it gets closer you run the other direction as fast as you can. The forest doesn’t seem to get any closer but the darkness continues to gain speed towards you. Then your feet fall out from under you and you hit the ground with your face. The darkness washes over you like a flood of water and you wake up.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Community
Community is a very strong word which emphasizes a commonality of members in a society. In ‘Webster’s American Family Dictionary’ this word is described as ‘a social, religious, occupational, or other group sharing common characteristics or interests’. Though the dictionary describes the word in different ways, this statement seems to fit it best. Contrary to popular belief, community is more then just a group of people that happen to be in the same place. In fact, Community, as it is described in the definition above, is not even characterized by a common locality but by a common thought process or goal.
Sociologists might use words like primary group—or even Gemeinschaft in some cases—to describe one important aspect of community. This is the idea that one has a strong, more intimate social tie with a certain group of people. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Sunday evening to a friends home where three other guys meet. In this meeting Joe and his friends sit together at a table in the basement playing poker and talking about their childhood antics. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his friends, who have a common interest, poker and their childhood. They interact in an intimate personal way. Also their Goal is not the ultimate end to the relationship; they do not have a relationship so that they can play poker. Instead, the Goal is only a result of the relationship; they play poker because they are good friends.
A stark contrast to Gemeinschaft, Gesellschaft is a less-thought-of aspect of community. It describes community at its most primitive state. In this case the relationships are less intimate and more business related. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Monday afternoon to a meeting with ten co-workers. In this meeting Joe and his co-workers talk about the previous week’s accomplishments and about ways to improve worker efficiency in the next week. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his co-workers, who have a common interest, work-efficiency. In this example, however, the group of people interacts in a less intimate way. Also, Their Goal is the ultimate end of the relationship; they meet so that they can improve worker efficiency.
Not only can community be very diverse but people can engage in multiple groups. For instance, Joe somebody can have friends he meets with every Sunday night and he can also have those ten co-workers he brainstorms with on Monday afternoons. As long as the communities do not contradict each other anyone can engage in both Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft relationships through out his life.
So a social group may interact because they like each other or because they have to and individuals will probably interact in both. But no matter how you look at it, these interacting individuals are exhibiting an important point about our world. We need people and, more often then not, we are apart of communities.
Yesterday I was apart of a community of people. We met in the evening to learn different kinds of dances together. For two hours we laughed, sweated, and talked with each other. This was an example of a Gemeinschaft group. Our interactions and Goals were a result of our close relationship with each other—not vise versa. After yesterday it struck me how much I enjoy and need the first example of community. I love to interact with people I know and appreciate being around. Our interaction did not just produce a goal but it satisfied our deep human need for belonging.
In a strict human way of speaking, we need more Gemeinschaft type communities. So many of us have friends we know. These are people we could easily have a close enjoyable relationship together. But, more times then not, we choose to stick to ourselves and we only interact with people we have to, like in a Gesellschaft type relationship. We sacrifice relationships and enjoyable times for a life of necessity.
Sociologists might use words like primary group—or even Gemeinschaft in some cases—to describe one important aspect of community. This is the idea that one has a strong, more intimate social tie with a certain group of people. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Sunday evening to a friends home where three other guys meet. In this meeting Joe and his friends sit together at a table in the basement playing poker and talking about their childhood antics. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his friends, who have a common interest, poker and their childhood. They interact in an intimate personal way. Also their Goal is not the ultimate end to the relationship; they do not have a relationship so that they can play poker. Instead, the Goal is only a result of the relationship; they play poker because they are good friends.
A stark contrast to Gemeinschaft, Gesellschaft is a less-thought-of aspect of community. It describes community at its most primitive state. In this case the relationships are less intimate and more business related. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Monday afternoon to a meeting with ten co-workers. In this meeting Joe and his co-workers talk about the previous week’s accomplishments and about ways to improve worker efficiency in the next week. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his co-workers, who have a common interest, work-efficiency. In this example, however, the group of people interacts in a less intimate way. Also, Their Goal is the ultimate end of the relationship; they meet so that they can improve worker efficiency.
Not only can community be very diverse but people can engage in multiple groups. For instance, Joe somebody can have friends he meets with every Sunday night and he can also have those ten co-workers he brainstorms with on Monday afternoons. As long as the communities do not contradict each other anyone can engage in both Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft relationships through out his life.
So a social group may interact because they like each other or because they have to and individuals will probably interact in both. But no matter how you look at it, these interacting individuals are exhibiting an important point about our world. We need people and, more often then not, we are apart of communities.
Yesterday I was apart of a community of people. We met in the evening to learn different kinds of dances together. For two hours we laughed, sweated, and talked with each other. This was an example of a Gemeinschaft group. Our interactions and Goals were a result of our close relationship with each other—not vise versa. After yesterday it struck me how much I enjoy and need the first example of community. I love to interact with people I know and appreciate being around. Our interaction did not just produce a goal but it satisfied our deep human need for belonging.
In a strict human way of speaking, we need more Gemeinschaft type communities. So many of us have friends we know. These are people we could easily have a close enjoyable relationship together. But, more times then not, we choose to stick to ourselves and we only interact with people we have to, like in a Gesellschaft type relationship. We sacrifice relationships and enjoyable times for a life of necessity.
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