He Hides a Smiling Face

History Paper

2012-02-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

The Southern defiance was determined to repel any civil rights the African Americans might attain after the Civil War. During this reconstruction period, Southerners increasingly persecuted former slaves. They used many forms of maltreatment including something known as lynching which was a brutal form of rogue governing in the Southern states. If a former slave attempted to do anything outside his rights as a second-class citizen, he would be convicted immediately of a heinous crime, usually rape, and would be burned, hung, or mutilated. It is frustrating to contemplate the African American’s predicament, and I definitely agree with the sentiments of certain journalists who wrote on such circumstances. No matter the justification, what Southerners did toward their fellow man was nothing less than criminal and illogical.

The excuses Southerners used to rationalize their behavior were astounding and
discouraging. According to Mary Church Terrell in her article on lynching, Southerners supposedly lynched African Americans to punish them for such ghastly crimes as rape. The statistics on rape in the United States during that time, however, did not come close to supporting the amount of lynching against former slaves.

Southerners also believed that those black people striving for equality were the very same rapists and murderers afflicting the American land. Mary went on to dispel that theory as well. According to her research, the educated, Northern, former slaves who strove for equality were not criminals. They were good members of society upholding the morals and laws of American society. It was the uneducated, oppressed black people in the south who primarily committed the crimes.

Southerners thirdly mistakenly stereotyped the whole African American race. They attributed the few horrific crimes committed by a very small fraction of the black population to all former slaves in the United States. According to Southerners, even the most moral, intelligent African American was not capable of hating rape or rejecting it as something acceptable.

Mary Church Terrell was right when she accused the Southerners of lying and murder. They were committing crimes in the name of justice. Instead of sharing power with African Americans, they attempted to put the former slaves in a second class position. By their acts of passionate hate, the Southerners destroyed moral and ethical boundaries and became, in essence, the kind of people they hated.

As I read an account of Samuel Petty’s lynching I grimaced at the general acceptance of the crowd. Even the young twelve-year-old children chased after the African American and participated in the gruesome lynching process. The whole town was involved. No one cared whether they were seen. According to a reporter from the Crisis, “no one attempted to hide their identity”. Everyone shamelessly beat, mutated, and burned Samuel Petty. Even the jury on the case was involved in the lynching.

This awful reality was a normal occurrence and acceptable practice during that time. It was a result of years of rationalization and indoctrination. One white male approved of it and passed that approval to his son who then passed it to his son. Because of this process, whole towns, like the one that lynched Samuel Petty, participated in what was essentially murder. No one was blamed or accused, and white families continued their lives.

These atrocious acts were immoral and rightfully frowned upon by such activists as Mary Church Terrell. In so many words, Mary made a great point. It would have been so much better if such indoctrination could have been stopped before it infected another generation. So many lives could have been saved and former slaves could have gained the freedom they rightfully deserved.

Chapter 2

2012-01-09T17:56:00.000-08:00

Ryland moaned and focused on the room around him. Darkness surrounded every corner. No help there. Where was he? Something didn’t feel right. His ankles were in a great amount of pain and his head was about to explode. For some reason, all the blood had rushed to his head.

Both hands brushing across the wood floor, he realized that he was upside down. As he tried to kick his way out of ropes binding his ankles, he began to sway back and forth. His brown hair hung suspended downward.

What had happened? He was trying to remember the last thing he had seen. He remembered leaving school. He had walked through the ally past the rundown duplexes, through Baker’s Graveyard, and then into the new neighborhood towards the historic homes. He remembered some of the seniors coming up behind him. They had pushed him around a little and thrown his backpack into the bushes. There had been a serious discussion. He had been challenged to do something. What was it: old house; whispers in the dark? He had been terrified.

Then everything came back in a rush. He had been dared to go into the old Victorian home. Sweaty handed and shaking, he had walked into the house. He had heard a voice and had seen a figure. The figure had stepped into the hallway. He remembered feeling a sting on his arm. Then everything had gone black. Now he was hanging upside down helplessly, a perfect target.

All of the sudden uncertainty gave way to fear. The figure was somewhere in the house lurking, maybe even watching Ryland hanging disoriented in the dark. He tried more frantically to get out of the ropes. Swaying even more violently then before, he pushed against the floor to stabilize himself. Unfortunately, his left hand slipped and slid across the wood. He yelped in pain feeling a splinter dig into his flesh.

A floor board creaked in the corner and Ryland suddenly forgot the pain. “Who’s their,” he said. Silence ensued. “Please, say something!” He waited hoping that this was just some stupid, elaborate prank. The dark roomed remained silent and still. If this was a prank, he would never leave his house again. If it was real, well, he might not make it back to his house alive. Hanging in the dark, growing more tired by the minute, he wondered whether other young, helpless losers had been dared to go into this same house. Maybe he was only a high-school statistic, one of the young stupid percent whose gullibility had made him a great target for high-school jocks.

Another floorboard creaked. It groaned loud and long as if someone was leaning hard on the wood. In one last attempt to slip out of the bonds around his ankles, Ryland tried to pull himself up to grab the rope and loosen it. No luck. He fell back into his original hanging position cringing at the sudden sharp pain in his stomach. He remember the first day of high school, he had been given the choice of table tennis or PE. Out of pure practicality, he had picked table tennis. There was no way he could keep up in PE, at least, not with his body type, he remembered thinking. Now sore and unable to pull himself up, he wished he had picked PE.

Another sound from that same corner drew Ryland’s eyes away from where he thought his feet might be. He had a perfect view of that area in the room. Whoever, whatever it was crouching in the dark would not leave with out Ryland’s getting a glimpse. He waited, feeling the pressure growing in his scull. His eyes began to water and his hands began to tingle. Everything ached, he realized. Somehow, he had to do something to get away. Before long he would black out again. Probably for the last time.

Ryland pulled himself up an inch and let himself drop. The rope became tense and gave a little. His heart skipped a beat. He did this again and again. In a matter of minutes, he could feel his hair touching the ground. No doubt, the knot was almost completely undone. As he contemplated whether or not he should drop again, fearing that he might break his neck, the rope gave way altogether. He fell to the ground in a heap.

The sudden impact threw Ryland’s senses out the door. He tried to push himself off the ground but could not find the strength. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood surface and he went crashing down with another resounding THUD! Stars floated above his head. He gasped for breath. Rolling over onto his back he looked up at what was probably the ceiling. The blackness seemed to float around and he could hear his strained breathing.

“You can’t hide,”

The whisper sent shockwaves up Ryland’s spine, and Goosebumps across his arm. As strange as it seemed, the voice did not come from with in the room or, even, within the house. The sound originated inside his head.

“That’s right. I know what you are thinking.”

The voice cackled as it read Ryland’s deepest thoughts. When would the dizziness go away he wondered as he felt the whole house bend in towards him. If he were younger and believed in all of the fairytales, he might have thought the house was alive.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland was able to stand up and staggered towards the door way. But as he leaned in towards the wall to steady himself, he missed it altogether and almost fell flat on his face. Was it his imagination or had the wall moved? He moaned. It seemed as if the whole house was against him. Slipping through the opening of the door way he looked to his left. The corridor tapered off into complete darkness. Not an ounce of light revealed what lay beyond. Looking to his right, Ryland could just make out a dim light. The yellow glow illuminated a stair case and a large door. Freedom, he thought.

Was this really as easy as it seemed? Someone had taken the time to kidnap him and tie him up. Now he was going to walk out the door as if he had just come for a visit and was leaving? Ryland had been in high school long enough to realize that life wasn’t that easy. As he had learned to do some many times, he began to ask himself, What is the catch?

The answer was quickly manifest in the form of a scraping noise to Ryland’s left and a voice in his head. “The catch is simple,” the voice said. It seemed to understand his train of thought. He felt a sweat drop slide down his cheek. “Sadly,” the voice taunted, “You can escape, but only from your earthly body.” The scraping noise became louder.

Ryland took that as a hint and sprinted towards the front door. As he ran down the hall he passed a room glowing with light from a lamp. For just that second the whole world seemed to slow down. He looked into the room and could see an older man sitting in a recliner, eyes glued to a television screen. A bottle of beer, waded napkins, old newspapers and half eaten food lay on a table next to him. The floor appeared as dirty as the table. Old cloths covered the carpet. Piles of books lay in one corner of the room. Cardboard boxes lined the walls.

Ryland couldn’t remember seeing the light or the man earlier. But he did remembered the room. It had been covered with objects he had not been able to make out in the dark.

All of the sudden the world seemed to speed up again as he passed the room. Approaching the door, He grasped the door knob, twisting and pulling back as hard as he could. But it would not budge. He became more frantic by the moment and Looked over his shoulder. A figure step out of the shadows of the hallway and into the light. Ryland closed his eyes and tugged again.

“Nice try” the voice said sarcastically. “Now we are back to square one.” Ryland felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. "look into my eyes, so that you can know true fear." The voice was suddenly so much more menacing. Unable to avoide the temptation to look Ryland tilted his head upward but was suddenly stoped by another voice.

“Is anyone there?”

Ryland opened his eyes and noticed a man standing in the light. The same man had been in the lighted room just a second ago. His hair was scraggly and matted in some places. His glasses hung on the tip of his nose and were slightly crooked. His small, tight shirt hardly covered the belly that hung over his pants.

Ryland stood up noticing that his pursuer had vanished. “Sorry to bother you sir,” He said, walking towards the man, hoping for sanctuary from his tormenter. “My name is Ryland; I did not mean to trespass. I had no idea that anyone lived here.” He looked up into the man’s eyes.

The man did not even acknowledge Ryland’s existence. He shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a cat,” he said turning and walking back into the lighted room.’

Ryland was left alone wondering what was happening to him.

Chapter 1

2011-11-12T16:27:00.001-08:00

“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.

Prologue

2011-10-27T11:43:00.000-07:00

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.”

A Quick, Cheap Metaphor

2011-10-17T12:40:00.001-07:00

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…

"Even His Enemies Were at Peace with Him"

2011-10-12T15:24:00.001-07:00

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.

Are We There Yet?

2011-10-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Safety before Cement: My Summer at a Cement Plant

2011-10-07T12:17:00.001-07:00

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 Dream

2011-10-06T13:09:00.001-07:00

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.

Community

2011-10-05T13:09:00.001-07:00

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.

Through Their Eyes

2010-10-08T05:41:00.000-07:00

Go to a crowded place. Look around at the people. What do you see? Someone like me would perceive individuals going about their business. In my mind they seem consumed in there purpose (whatever that may be) living a perfectly contempt life. Of course this observation is made out of ignorance and can only remain true so long as the person in question is within the context of my vantage. What if, however, I were to look closer, past the material concealments? What if I were to look past the casual cloths, brushed back hair, plucked eyebrows, narrowed glance, tight genes...what is left when all else is stripped away. It is a man (or woman) who is consumed, not with what business he is about, but with a life only witnessed by himself and those closest to him. This life is filled with secrets, problems, and more then a slight lack of solutions. I will find that the casual cloths are actually wrinkled, the hair is brushed back as if in haste and fear, the eyebrows are slanted ever so slightly to indicate peril, anger, agitation, resentment and a need for help, the narrowed glance is cast by hollowed eyes formed by many sleepless nights, and the genes appear worn at the knees and torn ever so slightly near the calf. Suddenly, before my eyes is, not a casual shopper (or whatever their business may be), but a human being in need of serious help.

So, the next time you go to a crowed place, don't look around at mere people who are causally going about their business. Look, with a scrutinizing glance, at a crowd of people filled, to the point of exploding, with secrets and problems. They are in need of serious help. With this in mind, go up to any particular person and ask in what way they need prayer. "Sir, I probably can't empathize with your situation but I can sure sympathize with you...what exactly do you need prayer for?"

Don't look at this world through the eyes of a passive citizen, but through the eyes of an active Alien. You aren't here to live among fellow citizen’s of a corrupt world but to live among poor dejected sinners who need God so direly. Your Job is to give them what they really need: Jesus Christ.

What is this post about?

2010-09-20T07:21:00.000-07:00

I want to do this post a little differently then the others. I've written out an article on a certain topic. I eliminated any words that would automatically reveal what I'm talking about. Essentially, this is an ambiguous post. Your job is to figure out what the topic is. Comment and tell me what you think. Here it goes...

When I consider that great beast, I wonder who could have composed it! What wrong ideals, brought forth from laziness and inexperience, could be forced upon a creature who needs no prodding in such a matter.

Sadly, these ideals are not ones of merit whether good or bad. For they are the ideals of no-ideals. Yes! It is a lack of teaching; a lack of care which is our problem. This does not take away the reality of sin. Sin is at the heart of the matter (namely pride). But it does reveal a great responsibility for the latter party. Not just the responsibility of preventing trouble but also the responsibility of creating a higher standard.

Where one starts, or, whether or not one can even begin to imagine taming a sin-infected being are very good questions. Both have, I’m sure, been considered by many a struggling person. The answer is quite simple. The true beginning, after everything is torn away, is with the heart of the struggling one in question. Have they committed to something higher then themselves and their earthly achievements? For earthly achievement can only take the passion for teaching and reproof away. Instead of focusing on those poor impressionable creatures, the latter become consumed in what needs to be done for earthly comfort. They must, instead, determine to abstain from earthly obsessions for the sake of a mannerly and moral, future generation. This determination can only come from their very depths: the heart.

Though abstaining is a worthy and noble cause, the process can not be left merely to that great defensive tactic. One must then bring himself to act offensively. Fill that great void with a very noble thing: Simply, the armor of God. With truth and its example, one can only prepare to end victorious. With righteousness and its example, one’s pure motives before God along with that wonderful gift, prayer, will leave the person joyful and ahead in the race. But don’t let me forget that most powerful article of war, faith, which God has given to us for the ultimate victory. Without it one can’t even hope to get through the gates of heaven. Through it one can endure those difficult times where teaching and reproof are dire but least used.

Though many more things could be said on this topic—hundreds of books have been written on it—I believe I should end this writing now. It is enough to contemplate for years to come. So spend some time turning over how you will act when your time comes.

Midnight Babbling

2010-09-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

It is approximately 10:36 in the evening. The windows are open allowing cool air and the sound of crickets into my room. A fan blows in the distance: a long ten foot walk made even longer by the darkness that surrounds me. A combination of such circumstances brought me to this point of desperation. I need to write.

Step one in the writing process worked itself out evidenced by my presence at the computer. Man, it feels good. I haven’t written in a long time and my fingers have only itched more for this key pad the longer I’ve been away from it. But step two still awaits my attention. I don’t know what to write.

Though it may be an act of sin on my part, I could continue to produce nonsense. This fun use of literary talent requires no form of forethought. As a result, I might say something I would regret later. The alternative, though more tactful and skillful, is quickly becoming less attractive. I don’t have the patience or brain power for it, an excuse not exclusive to this particular hour.

I believe I have convinced myself to continue with meaningless words. It is easier, will satisfy my itchy fingers, and will get me into my warm soft bed much faster. Whether or not it will successfully draw you in and capture your attention is up to you and the length of your patience. As I see it, you won’t last this next paragraph.

While you have been reading this short post according to your reader’s clock, my writer’s clock has been ticking away. It is now 12:08 and I seem no closer to sleep then I was two hours ago. My unshaven beard hangs on my itching skin, sleep pulls at my eyelids willing them to shut completely, and yet my restless leg jumps around under this sad cluttered desk. To put it bluntly, I’m a mess. But you role your eyes looking at your watch which indicates one minute has been wasted. A minute you will never get back. I can’t do anything about that, however.

My decision to write this sad post and your decision to read what I have written are two entirely different matters. Mine is a result of dedication to writing and an inability to go to sleep, while yours is nothing more then simple boredom. Both are unintentional and yet totally inevitable. As some would say it, we both are a victim of God’s providence. But that is how it should be. We do what we do according to God’s ultimate plans.

Normally I would conclude my post with some over arching point. You might even think I have somehow attained one in the midst of this slosh of words. It would probably have something to do with God’s providence able to reveal itself in the kind of chaos that you and I create in our reader/writer relationship. Though that is an interesting and true idea, it does not apply right now. Yes, God providence does govern over chaotic times, but no, that is not my point. This post has strictly been nonsense. There are no hidden messages; no secret codes. This is just a tired, restless writer humoring his unintentional impulses gladly excepting that God intended it to be.

Good night.

Help Needed.

2010-08-15T19:46:00.000-07:00

This will probably be the shortest post I ever compose. Go ahead. Cheer and be happy. Relish this moment of simplisity. Enjoy this short minute where I don't go on and on about what I think.

On to the point. Could you, my readers, tell me what I should post that would make this blog into something good and beneficial. I am at the verge of just throwing this mess away. I feel that everything I write is long, drawn out, and highly opinionated. I'm not really getting anywhere. I'm just boring you to death by telling you what I think. I need life and dynamics. Yes! that is it. I need a dynamic blog. But how? What should I post about. Please, readers, give me some ideas. I can just hear my blog screaming out for relief. I know you are too.

My Sister

2010-08-08T09:01:00.001-07:00

I sit in my bedroom. Army men lay out in front of me. Strategies and scenarios running through my head, I prepare each plastic soldier for his impending doom. Shots are fired from both sides. Men fall, tanks are blown up from Aerial assault, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I hear uncontrollable laughter. I look up at my opened front bedroom door and then back at the battle before me. I am trying to figure out which is more important: a world altering battle, or a very peeked curiosity. With out much further thought I choose the latter. As I make my way out the door and around the corner I wonder what could have triggered the sudden outburst. I’m not left curious for much longer. As I enter the dining room I behold a very humorous scene. A smile begins to form on my face and then I begin to laugh. Less then five years old and standing on a chair, my little sister looks at an hysterical mother. She has a smile of embarrassment on her face even though it is apparent she is enjoying the attention. Cute as could be, strapped down tight to ensure total safety; a little girl’s bike helmet rests on her head.

That is one of my favorite stories about Beth. Apparently, being younger and not used to the kitchen and its hidden mysteries, she had gained a very painful habit of knocking her head against one of the cabinet corners. Where most people would have considered taking out the whole cabinet with a bat or a sledge hammer each time they hit there head, Beth did not. Instead of getting angry, she thought up a very affective way to continue working in the kitchen without altering her position or the cabinet’s position. Strapping a helmet on her head, she eliminated a whole lot of bad kitchen memories and put in its place a very fond one.

Whether wearing a bike helmet to cook chicken noodle soup or trying to dance like a star in the middle of the living room Bethany was constantly the center of entertainment. She could make us laugh in a good productive kind of way. As time passed, however, maturity followed, leaving the funny cute stories in the past while drawing different future recollections to the present.

In another scene I sit in a car pondering what to do. Should I get out and follow my mom and sister into the building? They are already on the grass median in front of our van and aren’t stopping for anyone. A school book lies on my lap. My brother sits in the back. As I look inside at one of the science modules I decide to put it down. School could wait until later. Opening the door I step out and let the book drop into the front seat. After a few minutes we enter the building through one of the doors. Two other people have joined us by now. They engage in a little bit of small talk. We arrive at a door in one of the hallways. Shifting my weight to my left leg I watch Beth go into a room with a lot of other girls. It is her first day of babysitting class.

The stage of cute humorous thoughts and actions far behind her, Beth had entered the era of responsibility. She took the initial babysitting course and was all set for the big leagues. Fortunately a neighbor down the street had home-group meeting on Wednesday night. Beth, being responsible and easy access was picked for the job. Ever since then she has been working hard keeping the children in line and earning the money she can.

One last story that comes to my mind reflects another characteristic of Beth that followed her into her more mature years.

I sit on a couch throwing a tennis ball against the bricks in our fireplace. I haven’t finished school yet, but I don’t intend to. My brain is fried from the endless math and science questions. I hear footsteps in the hallway walking towards my position. The footsteps are not heavy enough to be my brothers. There is no question in my mind about who is coming. Bethany walks into the room a deck of cards in her hand. She gets the questioning look in her face and asks the anticipated question. “Could you play with me?” My initial reaction is to say no. I usually do. But this time I feel bad for her. Besides, I think to myself, I’m bored out of my wits. I go into her room and we play speed for a while.

As the story indicates, Bethany really liked spending time with me and my brother. She would constantly ask us if we had time to play with her or do things with her. Though I haven’t appreciated my sister’s devotion like I should, my mind set is slowly changing. I realize now how great it is to have a sister that cares. One who is willing to ask us a million times to play with her just so she can spend time with us.

So I hope that I have written a post that helps you see Bethany a little clearer now. She is a sister who can be funny and witty. But she can also be determined, responsible, caring, loyal, and much more. Yes, she is human and does have her bad moments. But overall she is a great sister and I couldn’t ask for a better one.

Thanks Beth for being such a great sis 

The Meaning of Life and a Little Bit on Shaving

2010-08-02T08:23:00.000-07:00

I sat across the table from Grant Yost Sunday evening. In front of me an assortment of food awaited my attention. I stared down at the table my purpose in life being quite apparent. I needed to clear that plate. Little did I know, however, that my train of thought would be promptly directed toward priorities I hadn’t considered in a long time.

The young man in front of me began talking. A look of deep concentration and a slight smile showed on his face. Listening intently, I forked food into my mouth without giving the wonderful taste much thought. I was captivated. He presented the idea that life for the Christian should be completely spiritual. The other things that lay on a more material level aren’t important. I think that he was taking the verse in Mathew six about selling everything we have and following Christ literally.

Next to me on my left another great mind, Bryan Elliff, put his ideas in the mix. He seemed to lean towards Grant’s train of thought. We shouldn’t have the picture of five Christian business men, he told me. Instead, he presented the view that all Christians everywhere should live with the necessities only preaching the gospel and further the kingdom.

In the end, we left the table with unresolved issues, confused ideas, intangible thoughts and one main question: Is the passage, “sell everything you have, pick up your cross, and follow me” a mindset or an action? Should we live a life where spirituality is our only action while the rest like fashion, hobbies, or more important secular activities like work lay stagnate? Or should we live a life where our main Goal is spirituality while we incorporate the material as a means of supporting the spiritual.

The main point of this post is not really to answer that question because I can’t do so with confidence. I want to cause you readers to consider your life and what it means. What is your purpose and how exactly do you go about fulfilling it. So, though I will tell you a little bit about what I think, I only want to provoke your thoughts enough for you to go out and find the answer for yourself.

So, we all probably hold the view that we must glorify God in this life. That is our life’s meaning: "Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” (Mathew 5:16) But how much of our lives and what part of our lives should be dedicated to that cause. We live a life where there are so many more things then just the spiritual realm. Every where we turn around there is always something material staring us in the face. Unless we are missionaries or pastors, work’s goals are always material, so, according to our question, can we work in a material world and still glorify God? Or should we not work at all and focus solely on glorifying God. If we go to a store to look for cloths our goals are material and won’t really glorify God, so, according to our question, can we shop fashionably and yet still glorify God. Or should we not focus on fashion at all. I Hope the picture I am painting is becoming clear. Can we focus on this material world and yet still fulfill our meaning in life? According to Mathew 6, we must “seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” So it is somewhat clear from this verse that we should first focus on seeking the kingdom of God, or glorifying God, in everything we do. Then certain things like what we wear and what we eat will be provided for us. But is it sinful if we engage in a material way after we have first sought the kingdom?

Before I continue with this train of thought I want to incorporate a quick illustration. As most boys my age who have begun to sprout facial hair, I must shave. If I don’t I look trashy and ill prepared for my day. There are times when I don’t shave and tend to let the hair grow. It begins to look bad and eventually I begin to feel scratchy. As the days go on and I still don’t shave, my mind starts to be affected. I feel lazy. Not wanting to do anything I won’t work as hard and periodically find myself sitting around doing nothing. So if I want to stay on top of my game I need to shave. Now from a birds eye view, shaving may not seem like a very important part of my overall life. It is way more important for me to finish college and get a good job then to shave every day. However, if you look closely at the subtle affect that occurs from not shaving you will slowly see the birds-eye-view changing. My life would essentially begin to look pretty unproductive. In fact, I might not ever finish college. That doesn’t mean shaving should be my number one priority, mind you, because it doesn’t directly result in my getting a college degree or a job. I must primarily focus on striving for the degree. But since how I feel—like being scratchy and trashy—does affect how well I do at big things like college and work, I should focus somewhat on getting rid of the trashy feeling.

All of that to say, yes, our number one priority should be glorifying God. That is our purpose in life. But that doesn’t mean I should just let my physical existence go. I need to stay in shape so that I will have a body that can continue to preach the gospel and seek first the kingdom of God. That doesn’t mean my main focus should be staying in shape just like my mane focus shouldn’t be shaving, But I still need to put some energy and care in that part of my life so that I can better fulfill my true meaning. In a sense, then, I am incorporating in a material goal and using that goal to glorify God. I also shouldn’t give up on creating a good appearance. Who will take a Christian seriously if he begins evangelizing dressed carelessly? People will find him unkempt and repelling. Again, we are using a material goal to glorify God. The same goes for every part of our physical being. So all I am trying to say is that the material life around us is linked in a very intimate way with our spiritual lives. We can’t have the spiritual with out the physical. We must care about what happens in this material world. We must also be incorporated in material activity because it does flow over into our spiritual lives.

So to answer the main question should we actually physically get rid of everything we own and then follow Christ? It isn’t obligated. But, in a way, it is like separating two very necessary parts from each other: the physical existence we were created to enjoy from the spiritual existence we were created to live for. We can use our physical desires and needs to work as a catalyst for our spiritual growth and the expansion of God’s kingdom. I’m not saying that we can’t sell everything we own and get rid of every material thing we do to follow Christ, because some great Christians do that. I am saying that we shouldn’t feel obligated as Christians to literally sell everything and just stop incorporating ourselves into certain material things. I believe God was saying that we should use everything we own and everything we do for His glory. If that means selling everything, giving to the poor, and going out to evangelize then follow that call. But even then the Christian won’t escape all of material things in this world. He must still deal with them as they come using them to further the kingdom. So don't just rid yourself of everything material but use everything and every circumstance you have and are in for God’s glory.

A Reminisce and God’s Glory: Part Three

2010-07-22T12:16:00.001-07:00

I look up, and, in front of me is a house. It is larger then the others we have looked at. It is so much more appealing then the little two room apartment we are forced to endure. Our realtor stands outside the door, an ant in comparison to what looks like a towering structure. She opens the door and we go in. At once I am captivated. I look to my right and there is a large mirror that creates the illusion that the house is really bigger then what it is. As I look around I can see stairs going down and up. I follow my parents up the first flight. The house is larger then I thought. “This is it,” I say, “We need to get this place.” My parents sound somewhat skeptical, but aren’t altogether opposed to the idea. They look around mentioning that it needs some work. My dad goes outside to look over the shed in the back yard. The door shuts and so does my memory of that time.

In the midst of the blurred indistinguishable memory another time stands out. I sit at the dining room table. My mom is on the other side. We had just finished having a play date with our friends. I am worn out and sit breathing heavily at the table. Suddenly as we are discussing the friends and what they are like, my mom asks me if I think they are Christians. I begin to answer with words I think are intellectual and well thought out. But they only serve to cause another inquiry. “Are you a Christian?” Out of nowhere my mom asks the question I never knew I would get. It scares me and I quickly say yes. But she continues to pry at me. The room disappears to reveal another room filled with people looking at me and smiling once again.

I hold a piece of paper in my hand. It is my “testimony”. I have just finished reading it and am now signing my name on a piece of paper. I am told to go get some different cloths on. All goes dark. Then, I am outside soaked and shivering. I have just been baptized for the last time. In that moment and in this one I remember all of the times I had pridefuly ignored God. I remember the different people I was with and the different times I was baptized. I remember the influences I had. Some were good. Some were bad. But all in all I remember how it all, my whole life, was directed by God for his glory and for my salvation. Everything I had done and that had happened to me all came down to the moment (I don’t know the exact time) that I was saved. And it was all symbolized in that baptism: the one not for my salvation but to signify it. Now the rest is yet to happen it isn’t in my past so I can’t really tell you about it. But I hope through this post you have come to know me a little bit better and have come to know what I live for. May God, then, be glorified in the rest of this life I live.

A Reminisce and God’s Glory: Part Two

2010-07-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

Several years have passed. We walk into an office. I don’t focus on much around me. I see a face but I can’t describe it: young and yet somehow old. My parents talk for sometime, saying things I can’t or don’t want to understand. I am stuck in my own world. I hear words like “church”, “false doctrine”, and “need to change”. We get up and leave.

We never attend that church but instead go to another. My parents decide they like it. I don’t care.

The office fades out and I find myself in another room. But this room looks out on a large audience who watch with smiles on their faces. Below me swaying back and forth is a small body of water. I’m in a baptistery. I see my family with me. I’m in a robe like garment. As I watch, each family member is being dunked under the water by my dad. It is my turn. My father says a few words and then all sound is drowned out as I go underneath. Coming up from the water everything around me is gone, I’m no longer wet.

I sit in a pew hands in my lap. I look to my side and see my dad sitting next to me. He is listening intently to the words being spoken in the front. Looking down at my hands I ignore the sermon. I wonder who my favorite football teem is playing today. The buffalo bills I remember with a smile. I can’t wait to see who wins. Then suddenly a man hands me a plate from the right hand isle. It has two different contents on it: a small glass with grape juice in it and a white flake of bread. I reach out to grab the bread. Hesitating I wonder if I should take it. My life hadn’t reflected the symbol I was about to partake of. I reluctantly grabbed both contents, however, and held them in my shaking hands. Then every thing was fogged over.

My monotonous life is becoming more monotonous. I find scenes molding into each other more and more. They are becoming less distinct. I remember depression. I remember being sick of my surroundings. One scene pulls itself away from the rest. It becomes distinct and clear in my head. I am riding in a car. A friend of mine sits next to me. It is the older boy who opened that door in the earlier memory. His name is David Moore. In his hand is a walkie talkie. He smiles and speaks into it. A girl’s voice answers on the other end. I don’t know what it says. The words are muffled by forgetfulness. I don’t know why but I begin to sing. My friend’s mom smiles and looks back, “that is very good,” she says. I blush and quickly stop. I look back over at my friend. I had seen him for the past several weeks in a row. And I knew I would probably see him for the next weeks to come. I stopped smiling and wondered when I would pull out of the present monotony. Suddenly I can’t see his face any more he is gone along with the car.

Several months have passed by now. I hold a controller in my hand. The voices of younger kids playing and talking in the distance carry into the dark room. I stare dumbly into a TV screen. On it a man runs through the woods. I am controlling him. In the distance grenades go off. I’m nearly hit. I stop, turn and shoot an unsuspecting soldier in the back. He dies. Suddenly from outside of my own little world a call breaks me out of my stupor. “Your computer time is up.” It is my mom. I stay on for another thirty minutes ignoring the call. Then, out of pure boredom, I turn of the game station and look around the room. All is dark. Then, through a window, I can see some kids playing around out back in a sand box. The backyard reminds me that I won’t be seeing it for to much longer. I am going to move in a week. It seems so unreal that it isn’t unusual. I accept it. Maybe mostly because it is a break from the deadly monotony. Every thing goes black as, for the last time; I see my old world and old friends. It is gone forever.

Suddenly I’m in a blue van. We are driving up a long small road into a parking lot. I remember hearing something about a heartland center. I am more then a little nervous. The building looks large, which can only mean one thing: there are a lot of people. Suddenly everything is gone. It disappears in the fog of forgetfulness. A second later I am walking through a hall. I look around and wish that I wasn’t there. As we reach two glass doors we turn left and enter a large sanctuary. A lot of people are moving around inside. A lot of unfamiliar faces. I look around to see what kind of faces. They all seemed nice and welcoming. We sat down in the middle row four rows from the front. I can’t distinguish faces. There is what looks like a young man standing on the stage. He is speaking. Then what looks like a younger girl, who I find out later to be his sister, is up on stage with him. The young man sings: it sounds very good. The sermon is a blur as I only remember that a foreigner is speaking. Suddenly everything clears. The sermon is over and I am sitting in my seat next to my brother. We are wearing our leather jackets. I look around and see a little boy who is wearing glasses. Then, suddenly the young singer comes over and introduces himself as Bryan Elliff. He is followed by several other younger people. They introduce themselves too. I feel the questions raining in and am flattered enough to answer them happily. As I go to answer another question I turn around and see…nothing…it is all gone. I am no longer in the sanctuary. All around me is fog.

A Reminisce and God’s Glory: Part One

2010-07-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

The first thing that comes to my mind when I reminisce about my life is the great mercy dealt to me. It spared me from a lot of pain and turmoil.

I can vaguely remember my parents splitting up. I recollect certain scenes when I was with one or the other. In one of those scenes I am very young. I stand on a bed watching my dad working in the kitchen. He has just finished helping me with something. I can’t quite remember what. I look out the window and see my grandmother walking towards our front door. Everything fades as the rest is only a fogy picture in my mind. Suddenly I am there again embracing my grandma. I find out she has something for me. It is a three-wheel bike for toddlers. I am elated. I can still remember the feeling of joy even to this day.

The mercy I mentioned comes later on in my life, but not too much later. My parents who have been away from each other for some months go to meet with a pastor one night about their relational issues. My Dad wants so bad for things to be different. He has been changed and wants a second chance. My mom doesn’t want to hear about it. She reluctantly goes with him that night, however. But quickly ends the meeting by saying that it is finished and leaves without another word. My Dad who is devastated talks to the pastor a little longer asking him what chance he has of ever being with my mom again. The pastor is pretty sure the relationship is finished.

Through the grace of God, however, my mom changes her mind and eventually they both are together again and soon after become professing Christians. That mercy would follow me through the rest of my young life and, I am certain, would help mold me into the person I am today.

The next scene I recall is a few years later. I lay down on another bed in a room that my brother and I share. We live in a trailer. My dad stands over me. He is tucking me into bed. As I get comfortable in the covers enjoying the presence of my father and the warm glow of the lamp, I look up into his eyes and listen quietly to his words. He asks me a simple question, “Jacob, have you ever heard of goliath?” I hadn’t heard of that great giant who was slain by a mere young but faithful man. That is the first time I recall hearing about the bible. Again every thing fades into the fog of forgetfulness.

Objects and people suddenly come into focus as my memory clicks into another stage of my life. I am bent over, hands on my knees looking at the ground, trying to catch my breath. In the distance a girl is walking slowly towards me. Her face is very familiar. I have known here for years. She is smiling but I know her purpose. As she gets closer I must make my move. I take one last deep breath, turn around, and jolt for a door in the side of the church. I can hear her behind me. As I make it to the door I quickly open it mapping out the path I need to take. Down the stairs, through fellowship hall, and out the big glass doors. As I take the stairs two at a time I hear heavy breath behind me. Terrified I look back but am relieved to see my friend, Bryan, behind me. The terror comes back as both the girl chasing me and another girl appear behind us. They aren’t letting up. I yell as loud as I can and fly through the door. Every thing fogs over once again.

We decide to leave that first church with the sole intent of going to a more family focused congregation—one which focuses on strong parental guidance of their kids. We drive over to the house of the pastor of family covenant. I remember walking up the front steps. My throat is very sore, and I have an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know I’m going to have to meet someone new. All the while, I’m making sure that I stay behind my mom and dad. “Knock, Knock, Knock.” My dad raps his knuckles against the door in that rhythm he always uses. The door opens slowly to reveal the face of an older boy, with whom I would soon come to be good friends. He smiles and lets us in. Suddenly the contents of the room swirl around in an invisible, tornado-like wind fading from view until all goes fogy once again.

As some years go by, we stay with the church growing somewhat close to the five families within. Another scene begins to materialize.

I’m running as hard as I can through a park. It is Fifth Street Park over by the brick streets and older homes. That is how I distinguish it from the rest. I always remember the red bricks. As I run, I can hear kids my age screaming and laughing along with me. I look over and see another friend I have made. We are playing tag. Suddenly I slide to avoid being tagged, scrapping up the grass and staining my genes. Getting up I feel like kicking myself knowing that the slide isn’t worth my embarrassment. My memory world fades out for a second and back in. I stand with one foot on a bench. Towering over me is an outside pavilion. We are still in the same park. My best friend is standing to my right. He is talking somewhat heatedly to an acquaintance. They are discussing Lord of the Rings. Marcus, my friend, says that Lord of the rings is sinful and bad. I stupidly agree with him getting in an argument with the acquaintance and his older brother. Fog once again envelopes me, but, only momentarily. We suddenly appear in the drive way of large house. My friend’s mom stands, hand on her hips, listening as a lady and her son apologize for their behavior at the park. I see a glint of prideful victory in the former’s face. She nods matter-of-factly and accepts the apology.

Our prideful self-righteous attitudes continue for a couple more years to come. I go along with it because that is how the people around me act. We are right and others are obviously wrong. Suddenly that life is gone while yet another scene surfaces.

Charles Dickens: Babbling Buffoon or Genius of His Art?

2010-06-05T17:35:00.000-07:00

Charles Dickens wrote books of literature in an attempt to convey the physical and moral environment—mostly the corruption of the environment—of historic times through the actions of fictitious characters. Many people have read his books and loved them. Most of these admirers lived either during Dickens’s time or during the years after the 1940’s. They described him with phrases like, “The Greatest writer of his time”, “Far more then a great entertainer, a great comic writer”, and “A genius of his art”. After Dickens’ death, however, his literature was critically analyzed and deemed too flippant and wordy. No one could take his seemingly careless writing seriously. He, as “A genius of his art”, was replaced by Russian counterparts who, ironically, admired him and imitated some of his techniques. Was Charles Dickens really an over-rated writer who deserves to disappear from the list of great literary prodigies? Should we raise our eyebrows at his works and discard them as wasted time and effort?

Eighteenth century poet/writer, George Meredith, wrote, “Not much of Dickens will live, because it has so little correspondence to life...If his novels are read at all in the future, people will wonder what we saw in them, save some possible element of fun meaninglessness to them.” Meredith seemed to hold the view that reading Dickens’ writing was a pointless exercise. He thought that though Dickens’ books possessed a hint of attractive entertainment, they did not teach anything meaningful about human nature. Essentially, they were meaningless and wordy. One of Dickens’ books, “A Tale of Two Cities”, portrays this type of writing. Containing excess description and an ample amount words to describe simple, unimportant things, it proceeds to strain the mind to the point of explosion. The wordiness raises a question regarding Dickens’s literary purpose. Why does he persistently hammer scenes into the reader’s head when his audience probably understood them several paragraphs earlier? There does not seem to be any real answer, except that he had a great fascination for words, scenes, and human action. The last fascination appears to hint towards Dickens’s interest in the psychology of man as he attempted to show us, in a way that we can understand, what the human is like by nature and why he thinks what he thinks.

Dickens’s wordiness was only one reason people disliked him. He was also criticized for his sense of humor and sarcasm. Frowned upon by many, his satire was discounted as nothing more then pointless babble. For some reason, the Critics could not take Dickens seriously. Their view of his writing and its significance was drastically altered because they could not help but scoff at what they thought should have been a serious matter: content and theme. It was wrong of them to judge so quickly, however. Dickens had, as a writer, the right to intersperse some humorous material amongst the many serious, real-life events within his novels. It was the critics’ job to go to the context of the humor in question and determine if it was appropriate. Was Charles Dickens having fun at the expense of someone else? Or was he using a valid form of satire to mock the corrupt Governmental laws and human actions of his time? If the latter was the case—which it seems to be—then his form of literary humor should have been admired, not criticized.

Another aspect of Dickens’s writing that roused conflict is his Characters. “As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular capacity (Remembering how young and smooth it was) of lifting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed attention.” As the description of the lady in the above sentence goes on for a paragraph, the reader will begin to formulate a mental picture of her. He may even begin to have an opinion of what the young woman in the story is like by nature. This opinion is the result of great skill on Dickens’ part. With mere ink and paper he essentially captures, so well, the very essence of human character. He describes each person with such care and moves them about there business in such a way that he creates a personal attachment between them and his readers. His books are not like most books of the twenty-first century. They are so much deeper with their character and human intent. There is no doubt that Dickens’ readers can relate the characters they read about to people they see in every day life.

Dickens’ writing is a true master piece of literature. His ability to describe a scene so well draws the reader into a whole other world where corruption is unveiled through satirical humor and human nature is critiqued with in-depth Character development. How can someone read such a book as “A Tale of Two Cities” and yet discount it as pointless rambling? It is the essence of good writing. By being so informative it leaves the reader enriched with a better knowledge of who he is by nature as a person. It also leaves no doubt in his mind that he has just read a true work of art: A tale with so many different themes, characters, and lessons woven together that it forms a beautiful tapestry of life. Charles Dickens, then, is not a babbling buffoon as some would think. He is a true writer whose talent is expressed in every word he writes.

You Mean “Being Realistic in a Very Unrealistic World…Right? ;)

2010-04-18T07:29:00.000-07:00

I want to start out with a hand of applause for Sarah’s boldness in speaking of her escapades. Congratulations!

My initial intention in writing this post was to argue Sarah’s point. I was going to speak of the benefits that come from a realistic world and how pointless it is to live in a world where reality lays dormant. Then I had a wave of inspiration. It washed over me in the form of complete and thorough revelation. What has been revealed to me will now unfold before you in this post.

First of all I would like to make a revolutionary statement. We do not live in a realistic world these days. “What?” you may ask, “But I don’t talk to myself, or look for guys with pink hair. How am I unreal?” What Sarah called “unrealistic” is the true reality we left behind years ago at the invention of the television, and, later, the internet. Even back before the twentieth century we can find this true reality in comparison to the fake one we are now in.

Consider, for instance, the immensity of games out there. You could go to almost any store, pick out a cool video game, plug it into your game station when you got back home, and be immersed in a fake world for hours. Another escape from reality that comes to my mind is the deadly DVD. Pointless and stupid, it will take you on a journey through someone else’s life. For three hours, images formed by a series of three colored dots flashing across the screen almost at the speed of light will pull you away from reality sucking you into a totally fake world

I want to put into consideration what great strides we have made in producing better and more fun ways to enjoy our movies. Throwing away the old bulky television we have replaced it with a high definition version. “It is crystal clear” they say. We turned the rolling film into the VHS; we turned the VHS into the DVD; we turned the DVD into the blue ray and so on. We have essentialy upgraded what we think is so important ignoring the more practical and essential things. I have to drive over roads whose repairs and upgrades have been avoided altogether while I can go home and enjoy the best media has to offer. Do you see the comparison? What is fake and totally unreal has been built up for our comfort, but what is real and practical has been left to die.

Since Sarah’s idea of living is actually realistic and is totally not insane, I will refer to her idea as reality from now on.

So lastly, living this realistic life should be our goal. We need to throw away our pitiful media infested world for a life of imagination. Instead of going into the mall to see Avatar and what great quality it has, we need to look for ways to occupy our minds in this world right now. Go looking for a guy with pink hair. It might be a little bit strange, but at least it is a search for a real person in a real world. Talk to a person who doesn’t exist. At least, that person was produced by your imagination and not some screen. Be active in your thinking.

This is the way that kids back in the colonial days lived. They probably had as much fun with a rock as we do now with all of our games and movies. While there minds were being stretched and cultivated, ours are being compressed and gooified.

In conclusion, we live in a truly unrealistic world which lacks imagination and brainpower. Sarah’s desired kind of living is actually reality, but it was left to die countless years ago. We must re-awaken that kind of life for the sake of reality and sanity ;)

"Hanging Out" at the Mall

2010-04-08T18:53:00.000-07:00

The first thing I think when I hear the word “Mall” is of punk skateboarders texting their friends, girls carrying hand bags stuffed to the brim with the latest in fashion, and a guy, hand in hand with his girlfriend, dragged through countless stores for no apparent reason. The Mall has become a hang out for the youth in our society. Friday night comes along, and school is out. The young people leave their homework for another time. Putting on heavy makeup, jelling back their hair, and wearing the coolest cloths, they head off to their weekend hang out; their home away from home: the mall.

I don’t think it is beneficial for the youth to hang out at the mall in their free time. In fact, in most cases, it is a total waste of time. Such ventures provide the younger generation with ample opportunity to be foolish and to gain bad habits for their adult life.

First of all, hanging out in malls can create rebellious teens. Let me give you a hypothetical example. Consider two young boys walking through a mall. They are free to go wherever they want and to look at whatever they desire. What’s to stop them from playing an “M” rated game that they know their moms would never approve of, or buying a few bad music CD’s, or going into some stores that they shouldn’t. They might even become apart of the wrong crowd. Suddenly stealing would become an option. Eventually their minds would be totally corrupted from all the bad influence, resulting in anger and rebellion which could devastate those around them.

Secondly, hanging out in malls can be a cause of bad financial habits for the future. Another scenario comes to my mind when I think of young people in a mall. Consider two young girls. Dressed up in pretty skirts, purses hung over their shoulders, the two make a trip to every store imaginable. If they happen to have a debit or credit card, the sky is the limit to their purchases. One pair of genes multiplies into several. One pair of shoes becomes two pairs. Ten dollars spent turns in to one hundred dollars spent. Suddenly they find themselves in a situation of major overspending. Now, overspending might not be the end of the world for these young girls. But what happens when they become adults and have a family of their own? Their husbands might be the only ones earning money, and might not even have a very big income. Suddenly fifty dollars out of the bank account could mean a month of only beans and rice or, worse, a life on the streets. Why should young people create bad habits that will affect them when they are adults?

Lastly, hanging out in malls eliminates the possibility of gaining skills. Imagine a group of youth going in and out of stores, spending endless ours looking at anything from phones to binge bag chairs. Half of the time they’ll stand around texting their friends about some cute guy, or the latest movie. In the end, they really don’t accomplish much for themselves. Yes, their time was spent enjoying friends and fooling around, but they missed out on learning something new. By “Something new” I don’t mean, “What new movie Gerard butler played in” or “the latest gossip about so and so”, but “How to cook” “How to fix a bike or car” “How to hang up blinds” “How to make a garden” “How to repair damages on a house” or less practical things like “how to defend one’s self against an attacker”, “how to weave a basket” “how to put together and fly an electric plane” “how to write a book” “how to run a marathon without having a heart attack” and other countless skills. Allowing the youth to roam around in malls creates a society of lazy, boring people.

Before I end this article I want to give a few positive words to the opposing view point. It isn’t all bad for youth to hang out at malls in their free time. But they must do so in moderation. Water is good and necessary for everyone, but when taken in excess it can kill. Spending some time in a mall is fine but if the younger generation is consumed in a life at the mall, trouble will arise. It may even cause permanent, future damage. So I am not completely against mall shopping as long as it is limited and, if possible, supervised.

Dogs Rule; Cats Drool

2010-04-05T12:14:00.001-07:00

“Here kitty, kitty,” I called, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I was squatting on the kitchen floor beckoning an orange cat with my finger. “Noah, come hear, Please, I promise I won’t hurt you.” My voice was set in the annoying tone you hear parents use as they rebuke their three year old child. But not even that could get a response out of the stump before me. The cat licked his paw ignoring my call like I didn’t even exist. That was it. Enough was enough. “Just come on you dumb cat! I know you can hear me!” I yelled, more then annoyed at the prideful animal. The cat jolted off in a hurry scared by my voice. I stood up and glared at the dinning room table, “I hate cats.”

Before I continue this post I must say that the opinions expressed here come from a fervent dog lover. I am sorry for the feline prejudice, but my experience with cats has completely tainted my view of them. So please don’t take anything personally. Thanks.

Why oh why did God create Cats? They look down on the human race, tear up the furniture, and disobey every command given to them. There independent and prideful nature leave people like me scratching my head and wondering why they exist. Was it God’s joke to humanity? He thought that He would make a small, cute creature with claws and a horribly assertive disposition. I personally don’t think it is funny. Consider how impractical cats are in general. What do they do for us: Nothing. In fact, we do every thing just to make the ungrateful animals comfortable. All we get in response is scratch marks all over the face.

On the other hand, dogs are wonderful creatures. Their practicality, obedience, and intelligence put them high up on my list of respect. Just the idea of having a large powerful beast between me and any intruder is reason enough to get a dog. On top of that, they are a wonderful friend to live around listening to their owner’s problems with a kind pant and waging tail, and obeying him with loyal obedience. What is not to like about a dog? They are practical and yet great fun.

We once had a dog named Ritz. Before dying, he was a loyal watch dog. His kindness towards family and yet fierce behavior towards strangers was a testimony to his character. He always showed a desire for companionship by nuzzling my hand. At some points he would even lay his head against my lap and fall asleep. Anytime someone drove past or came up to the door he would always bark as if to say, “If you’re going to hurt my family you have to come through me.” When it came to running around out side, Ritz was a playful animal and would never give up a good chance at stealing a stick from my hand. He was a true dog: smart, fun to be around, and protective.

So in conclusion to this short article, I hate cats and love dogs. Now, it is your turn to decide what you think. Would you rather be with the fierce, yet obedient canine, or stuck up, self righteous feline? I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.

As a side note: the above article applies to only certain types of dogs. Poodles are surly not one of them. Thanks for reading!

The Point of This Blog

2010-03-29T14:04:00.000-07:00

When I awoke this morning I began developing ideas for a new blog post. It took five minutes in a state of deep thought before a question occurred to me. What is the main theme of this blog? That question seemed like the one needing asked. But it would still leave some things unsaid. So I dug a little deeper for something a little more revealing. Then it hit me. Who is my audience? Who am I writing to, and, thus, what issues or thoughts do I need to address? The answer I came up with was quite interesting: it doesn’t matter.

First of all, I probably don’t have an audience. I wouldn’t blame anyone for not reading this blog. If I were someone else and had stumbled upon these writings I would have abandoned them a long time ago too.

Second, a blog isn’t meant to conform to any one group of people. What is the point of beginning a blog if I am going to limit it to a predetermined set of people with predetermined interests? It’s like keeping a wild tiger caged up when it should be roaming free. I need to let my writing display my interests. It doesn’t matter how random they may be. Leave the audience that wants a strict subject and theme to their math text books. While they are figuring out the quadratic equation the rest of you will be captivated by my unique style, opinions, and tastes. Yes, you may even be drawn by the randomness of the posts.

However just as there is a danger in letting our hypothetical tiger roam free in New York City, there is a danger in letting my ideas and thoughts run unimpeded throughout the blog. I may find myself pretty popular with some people, but others will hate me for my flippant and whimsical nature. They will call me names. They may say that I am no writer, and may make me feel like dirt. But I will stand my ground and be as fearless as the tiger.

With all that in mind, I have no question to what this blog is about. It isn’t a blog with a single theme for a one-minded kind of people. It is a reflection of my thought, ideas, ramblings, stories, articles, and life experiences. Scraping the corners of my thought and clearing out the cob webs I will show you, in all randomness, what I think. In the end, then, wouldn’t you think that I might actually become predictable? Believing that would be your biggest mistake. As I have already established with one of my best friends: I am unpredictable: be prepared for anything.

I'm Sorry for not Posting Sooner!

2010-03-28T12:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, so maybe the title implies that I am making an apology to you, the general reader. Maybe I felt guilty for leaving you all in suspense. This being the case, I determined to write an apology post so that I could receive a warm pat on the back and an, "It's alright," by those dedicated and loyal to me. Before I gag, I think I'll stop right there. By this part of the post I am sure you have begun to realize that I don't intend to apologize to you. It is just simply not the case. "Then," you may ask, "What is the point of this post? Who could you possibly be apologizing to if it isn’t me?" That is a good question and I am sure I will do a horrible job of answering it. But I’ll try anyway. Drum role please...

"I'm sorry, dear writer for not posting sooner." That statement is ambiguous and probably needs further explanation. But first, let’s quickly reflect on the mess I have made thus far. I wrote a whole paragraph explaining what this post wasn't about, lest you be deceived. Then I started the second paragraph-and preferably the last-with a very confusing statement. It not only kept you hanging but has also caused me to write a few more useless sentences in an attempt to "really" explain every thing! Yes, I can empathize with you...this is getting really tiring. Please bear with me, though.

Now for the explanation: what writer is the apology indicating? It is me. Clearly, then, I am apologizing to myself. But why? Doesn't that seem a little Conceited? I mean, who but the stuck up sissy's apologize to themselves. Well, I'll get to that in a minute. First, I need to answer the question, "Why am I apologizing to myself?" I am sorry for not making myself more disciplined. I want to be a writer; I say I love to write, and yet, I am hurting myself immensely by not determining to write at least once a week. This blog is the perfect opportunity for that type of discipline. Not posting, then, probably plays a huge affect in what kind of writer I am and in what kind I become. The less I write, the less comprehendible my writing is, and, thus, the less fun I will have as a writer. For that reason I am sorry. Does it make sense now? If not, then I can't help you. As to the idea of me being a sissy for writing this post…it is only a matter of opinion.

Now that this horrible and long apology is finished I must do something. I must say “sorry,” for the apology. Please don't be too surprised by that last odd statement. Just get used to the fact that you are reading an odd kind of writing from an odd kind of person. So in closing, I’m very sorry whoever you are out there: Interested or (Probably) board reader. I hope the next post better suits your reading tastes.

Just do what needs to be done: The hidden pride behind lack of confidence.

2009-09-21T06:54:00.000-07:00

My family and I walked casually up to the Wal-mart checkout counter. I stood innocently by, Oblivious to what was happening around me, resting my hands on the basket. No hidden insight or sixth sense would prepare me for what happened next. My mom turned around and asked if any member of our family would be willing to put a bowl back up. A task awaited my attention. It was simple enough: Locate the aisle of the item in question, put it up, and make my way back to the check-out line. Sadly, however, for me it was not that easy.

As I stood there staring at the bowl, I thought of the most trivial thing. What if I could not find the right aisle? I would walk around looking, for every one to see, like I had no clue what I was doing. Then, beaten and battered, I would drag my humiliated self back to the check-out counter and awkwardly relate my failed attempt to complete a simple full-proof task. Ironically, in conclusion to this seemingly terrifying situation, I took the bowl, easily located its home and made my way back to the counter.

This seems like a ridiculous scenario that could only be made up in a comedy. Who would be afraid to simply take a bowl and put it back where it came from? I was of course. But, why? No confidence? Uncertain? Insecure? All the above. In a moment of pressure I second-guessed my own capabilities.

It sounds as if the unconfident person is the victim. In a moment of weakness he is pounded by the great predator self-doubt. Oh, what a sad thing to witness! How can such a man be saved from this fate, and continue to live his life happy and content. A second glance, however, will show that he is not a victim, but, an offender.

Gazing over the Wal-mart incident, we see that my hesitance to take the bowl was prideful. I was afraid of looking stupid to the world around me! My own ego was more important to me then anything else. I should have remembered what Christ said, “No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth” (Matt, 6:24). In a sense my ego took the place of the word wealth in this passage, and I devoted part of myself to it. At that moment in time, God’s own glory faded in my mind to be replaced by a fear of looking stupid. This was very bad, because we are called to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” (Matt22:37). Nothing else should take His place, especially pride: there is no room for anything or anyone else.

This story is a good lesson for those of us who have a lack of confidence. Through it they can see that though self-doubt may seem innocent enough, it is an act of placing something higher than the love required from us in Matthew 22. It is treason in the worst sense of the word.

What is a good way to fight against this pride? “Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matt 6:33). God needs to become the first and ultimate focus. Read his words in Scripture and follow them whole heartedly, seeking only to shine the light of His glory to all men. Once your gaze has been locked upon God, your fear of looking stupid will vanish, and taking a bowl back to its aisle will be a cinch.

The next time you feel hesitant to do something because you doubt your own ability, realize that you may very well be putting God on the back burner and betraying the love that you owe him. Love the lord your God with all your heart, put your full focus on Him, forget about your own glory, put your confident in Christ, and do what needs to be done.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” (Hebrews 12:1)

Lucy

2009-06-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

She is a nice enough individual with good intentions. Yet, her ponderous gate and tendency to run into doors reveals her to be a clumsy, oblivious character.

Her apparel consists of a dark, dust-covered coat worn at all times of the day. The only noise she ever makes is a low groan or high-pitched wine. Most people are sympathetic to her condition, but some, like me, ridicule and banter her daily. She does not do well to criticism; she loves praise; and she’ll be joyful and kind to any person in the world.

People love it when they see Lucy. She is fun to be around (Most of the time). Do not put her in a room with a vacuum, though. She will go ballistic. She squishes her-self into little corners and lays there as if she will blend into the wall. When I vacuum, the temptation to chase her is too great. As I move in her direction, she tenses up. I make a quick run for her. She is way too quick for her size. She jumps up and begins to run franticly away from her tormenter. Mercy is not on my schedule. I continue to chase her, forcing her to fit in to tight places only a mouse should be made to fit in. She must have some form of super power. She walks through walls, fits underneath couch cushions and does so many feats worthy of praise. I have not to this day been able to catch her with the vacuum.

The one thing that primary sets her apart from others of her kind is here awkwardness. She will not eat her food until she is the only being in the room (Not including her buddy Ritz). She will stand by the back porch door and stare inside. If a car passes by she will bark at it while continue to stare into the house, as if she is doing here job as guard dog. If she were working for cash she would be fired.

Besides all of her flaws she is still a smart dog, in her own little way. She is kind and loving. She rarely complains—only when I have my foot on her head. She is all-around an interesting and amusing Character in my life. She is our family dog.

12 days

2009-03-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

I spent twelve days on a diet limited to only a few types of foods: white meat, whole wheat pasta, brown rice, beans and a small variety of vegetables. Though the food was not all that tasty, it satisfied my hunger.

People have a tendency to eat food which is airy and full of sugar. They normally over eat, and are rarely satisfied with themselves after a meal. In their mind, they are feeding their bodies what they think it needs. Really, they are only giving themselves unneeded fat, and sugar. It leaves them unsatisfied and desiring more food more frequently. My diet threw away the sugary and fatty foods like bread, bacon, chips, pizza, jelly ect… and took on foods which have more nutritional value and are more fulfilling. They give what the body needs: nourishment and a full stomach. As I went through this diet I became weary of the foods I had to eat. My mind became filled with thoughts of jelly sandwiches, hamburgers, tacos, pizza, bacon, and sausage. I wanted to find good taste in my food. After the diet I learned the hard way that the “good taste” I was looking for was not worth the trouble I had to go through to get it. On Saturday, my first day free from the diet, I pigged out on pizza. On Sunday afternoon, I ate two large sandwiches, and, in the evening, I ate too many chips. The more I ate the more I wanted and yet, I was not being satisfied. Eventually I came to a realization: I was not going to get fulfilled. Only after comparing the experiences of eating healthy food and the experience of eating less fulfilling foods did I realize how great the diet was. I attained a new appreciation for the foods my diet incorporated.

There is a great biblical truth within this little diet escapade: God is the only true fulfillment in life.

Eating the healthy food on the twelve day diet is like relying on God for fulfillment, and eating the fatty sugary foods is like relying on the world for fulfillment. Imagine a person pursuing God for twelve days. As he pursues the all powerful creator, he begins to feel a joy and fulfillment come over him. It is like nothing he has ever felt before. After a few days of relying only on God, he begins to look back at his previous life and its contents. He thinks of playing video games, hanging out with friends, indulging in crude jokes, watching his favorite television show, and essentially living a life where God is absent. For some reason, though he is already getting what he needs by relying on God for fulfillment, a desire comes over him to go back to that life he was living. After surviving the twelve days he gave himself to rely only on God, immediately, he begins to indulge in the things of the world. He plays a few hours of video games, says a really good crude joke, and proceeds to satisfy his worldly desires. Before he knows it the day has come to an end, and he realizes that it was a waste. He isn’t feeling fulfilled; in fact, he is really disappointed with himself. What is the moral of the story? God is man’s only true fulfillment; the world is not. Only after actively pursuing God and finding long lasting fulfillment in Him will we realize how truly empty the world is.

A long time ago I was doing a catechism with my brother. The catechism asked me a very important question: What is man’s primary purpose? The answer was this: To glorify God and enjoy him forever. It is only logical that “what man was created to do” is “what fulfills him”. We were created to Glorify God. In glorifying Him we are going to be fulfilled. God made us in his image. He created us with a capacity to think rationally. Because we can think rationally, we should realize that we were created, and are subject to glorify and enjoy the creator, finding fulfillment only in Him. You have a choice to make. the world is passing away and the enjoyments we find in it. But the Lord God almighty will never pass away.

Will you choose a degenerating world or the never changing all satisfying God? The world presents a temporary, non-lasting and unsatisfying pleasure. God presents a lasting and wonderful fulfillment:
“For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. The world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God lives forever.”(1 John, 2:16-17).

He Hides a Smiling Face

2009-03-07T08:42:00.000-08:00

"Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.” William Cowper, a great influential poet, led a life of internal torment and suffering. In the last hours of his seemingly fruitless life he could not find the assurance of faith that he sought. Because of his doubts, Cowper drew closer and clung more tightly to God. God also used this afflicted life to encourage the believer to reject selfishness, embrace the sanctifying work of the Lord, and serve Him with great passion and joy. As we look at these things we see that within the poet’s suffering there is a loving and merciful hidden smile of God.

In the Hidden Smile of God, John Piper explains how Cowper's suffering was beneficial to him: “What makes it so relevant for Cowper’s condition is Herbert’s insight into how God, at times, withholds a rest from our soul, not to make us miserable, but that restlessness may toss us to his breast.” William’s suffering was a way of drawing him to God. He no longer relied on himself or his world, which seemed to be falling in around him, but on the one true God.

How can a believer benefit by dwelling on a life like Cowper’s filled with internal, spiritual battles; several attempts at suicide; and a death without hope of salvation? Studying the life of Cowper, who suffered so much, is an important habit for believers. Understanding his suffered reproaches, persecutions, and yet his continual praise and obedience to God is an illustration for believers to exemplify. It gives the believer zeal to look outside of himself and his own sufferings and to, instead, do good to all men in the name of the Lord. Benjamin Brook made this very point:

“Of all the books which can be put into your hands,
those which relate the labors and suffering of good
men are the most interesting and instructive. In them
you see orthodox principles, Christian tempers, and
holy duties in lovely union and in vigorous operation.
In them you see religion shining forth in real life,
Subduing the corruptions of human nature, and inspiring
A zeal for every good work.”

Though William Cowper suffered because of his faith, his life was very benficial. He adorned the doctrine of God with the fidelity of his life. His steadfastness through suffering sweetened and intensified the song of his faith. We are commanded by the bible to imitate those who through faith and patience inherited the promises. We can only do this once we have read their stories.

Another benefit of Cowper’s suffering is the powerful words of his God centered poems and hymns. “Cowper today is still touching the hearts of thousands who know nothing of him at all, simply because, in worship, they sing his hymns “There Is a Fountain filled with Blood,” “O for a Closer Walk with God,” and “God Moves in a Mysterious Way.” As William suffered he was drawn to God. He, then, began to write Hymns of wonderful spiritual significance. These Poetical songs are encouragement for many Christians who are, as Piper said, being touched by Cowper simply because, in worship, they sing his hymns.

William Cowper’s life should be an example to the Christian on how he should look at his salvation. The Christian should constantly look at himself with a critical spiritual microscope to determine if he is in the faith. Many people will go through what they call the Christian walk. “Their assurance, however, is not based upon truth. Despite their veneer of righteousness and obedience to God’s commands, Jesus reserves his most withering words for them, such as ‘son of hell’ and ‘how will you escape being condemned to hell?” Donald S. Whitney in How Can I Be Sure I’m A Christian describes a very scary thought: A person may live what he thinks is the Christian life and yet be “condemned to hell.” So it is important for the Christian to test himself to see if he is in the faith.

Cowper was the recipient of much good through his suffering. Each moment of persecution that he went through was one less moment of selfishness, and one more moment for him to draw closer to God. Cowper is an encouragement for believers today. Through his life, he encourages believers to continue on steadfastly in their faith even in the most trying times. Truly behind the frowning providence of William Cowper’s life there sits the merciful, smiling face of God.