13 days, 15 years

It is interesting to note that Terri Schiavo starved to death, after her vegetative condition was brought on by a heart attack caused by an eating disorder. May she finally know peace that passes all understanding.

I'll say goodbye to Al

So, Al is totaled. Evidently, the brake system is in total hydraulic failure. So, I'll sweep my voice up in to my best Karen Carpenter... "and say goodbye to Al, all the roadtrips we've had have come and gone - all the memories of driving in the noonday sun, and now there's something to believe in and move on to- something to belong to..."

....an ISUZU TROOPER! it's huge, white, and a year newer than Al. I'm moving up in the world.



I'm going to try not to become someone I hate, driving an SUV around while casually sipping a grande soy chai no water. This troops was cheep cheep cheep like a baby chicken and has low miles to boot. It was an easy choice really.
People keep apologizing to me and asking me if I'm stressed out. Honestly, I'm not. It's just a car, it's just money. Nobody is sick or dying or hovering on the brink of accepting Christ. It's not a life issue. All I can say is, Support our Troops!

the triumphal entry

Yesterday morning I was in Denver, so I went to church with a friend. I was excited. For the first time in a while, I was excited about church. I wanted some palm branches, some kids in robes with towels tied to their heads. Some "Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord." A little "Hosanna to the Son of David!" I wanted to be caught up in the momentary majesty of the King of Kings, for a few days. Until it all unravels on Thursday and the scourging begins.

Every time there is something magical about Holy Week. How it could have been. The anticipation, the promise, and then the heartbreak all over again, resounding with the "I am who you say I am." The rebuke of Peter, the healing of the guard's ear. The not-so-holy greeting of a kiss that sealed it all. The precedent of pacifism and nonviolence, even to the point of wrongful death. I wanted the beginning of this yesterday. I craved it, like the beginning of a favorite movie, when what is about to happen washes over you with its reverberating intensity, even before it has gotten there.

What I got instead was disappointment. I have been aware for some time that many churches completely ignore the liturgical calendar. I thought Palm Sunday would some how be exempt from this sort of gross American personalization of everything. I was wrong. Never once in the hour long service was the triumphal entry mentioned. The only thing reminiscent of palm branches were the potted ferns sitting in the lobby. I wasn't asking for a live donkey, as is often present at my parents' megachurch, though the touch would have been nice. There were no Hosannas. The little kids were in a different part of the church, tearing up plastic furniture and playing with felt boards, no doubt. The sermon was on "Only 100 years to live," and was basically about making the most out of your life time. Jesus was mentioned in passing, as perhaps the key to this room full of lifetime goodies, not really all that important once the door was opened.

I sat there through the service and felt bitterness rising in myself like bile. The problem is, I don't want to be a cynical person. I don't want to be someone who is always down on everything that is going on in the church. But somebody has got to stand up and say this isn't what it's all about! My savior wasn't scourged so you could wear an N'sync style headset mic over your flouncy hair and bounce around on stage, shouting, "I love to rock out!.... for Jesus!!!" Or so that you could become a stand-up comedian instead of a pastor. I want radical redemption here, not entertainment. Paul certainly wasn't about entertainment. A kid once fell out of a window and died because of Paul's lack of keeping the customer satisfied. That's probably because Paul realized, however, that the Church is not customers. Something that the American Evangelical church trusts and believes in. And we have more empty people sitting in our pews, that will be sorely disappointed when the few of us jump up and cry "Hosanna!" on the last day. The church is missing its mark. When will we wake up and realize that if we fail to cry out, the stones will do it for us?

the precedent

see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.



The Terry Schiavo case has kept my attention, I'll give it that. The pictures of the slack-jawed woman, looking up into her mother's eyes, tell me life is present there. How much, I have no idea. I have not sat down next to her bedside and looked her in the face. I don't know if her eyes are dull or bright. I don't know if she would even know that I am there.

What I do know is that our President signed a bill today. Our entire legislative body, Congress, has decided something lawfully needed to be done. I wasn't aware a bill could be originated for a single person. This is the part I begin to find bone-chilling, not the fact that someone removed an incapacitated woman's feeding tube.

Looking at the big picture here, all I can see is that we have set a precedent. Not about life, but about the extensionary power that the entire government can have into one life, one family. Whether or not Michael Schiavo is attempting to kill his alert, cognisant wife or allow his friend and companion to slip away as she would have wished, I am unaware. I do know that these situations can get incredibly complicated. Now, this complication is compounded beyond belief in the direct involvement of our federal government. What I wonder is, what does this mean for society down the road? What if laws change, but this precedent remains? Vague ideas of slipping away begin to loom in the back of my mind. And it's an altogether different type than Mrs. Schiavo is expereincing.

Back to this actual case. I've got several different angles of thought on the matter, but I don't think I have any conclusive answers on anything. I have also watched with a detached amusement (as is my favorite form of observation with this group of people) the involvement of the religious right. I leave you all with the following quote from an Associated Press article I found on Yahoo! News, by AP writer Vickie Chachere.

"...A crowd of about 50 people prayed and sang outside the hospice on Sunday. One man played "Amazing Grace" on a trumpet, as a pickup truck pulled a trailer bearing 10-foot-high replicas of the stone Ten Commandments tablets and a huge working version of the Liberty Bell. "

Way to go, guys. Way to go. Let's take it to Congress and turn it into a parade.

gaps, cataclysms, and forgotten muffins

There will be times, there will be terrible times in the last days.

Another night down at the Maté Factor. I get so frustrated when I can't remember something like the term "cataclysmic (a.k.a. gap) theory" at nearly 2 am. Or what the pre-flood canopy was called. I am, however, called to thankfulness for the fact that I was taught about these items. And that I've considered the destiny of the unevangelised, so that I'm not caught off guard. I'm thankful for 24-hour types that work with you when you just snap your fingers and shake your head and go "neph, neph... something about demon babies and female humans. dang it." Elohov just puts trays of unbaked bread around the countertop that I scour the internet on. The dough proofs around me slowly and silently, reminding me of my own brain cells.

Forgotten muffins in the steam oven are actually found to taste better- they get a slightly crusty exterior, and the butter seeps all the way through. I'm going to have to remind them to forget more often.

Somewhere in the background, Shelly and Yakkar discuss the difference between the destinies of the righteous and the holy in the coming age, and 2 Timothy 3 is read aloud. All is right and at peace in Manitou, including myself.

no tears for caesar

Beware the Ides of March. Beware Greeks bearing Gifts.

Beware people who don't have any idea why the Ides of March is significant. Down with the burgeoise. Up with the Plebs. Let's find jobs that don't belittle, that are concerned about something beyond the bottom line. Sounds incredulous? Maybe. I however, am optomistic that it can be done. I will twist the knife into the back of the evil empire, and watch it slowly sink to its knees. Not even the whispered "Et tu, Brutae?" will win me over.

I am resolute.

Today, Caesar, you die.

slow steps

Yesterday I tried to make a point of calling some old friends that were around when Katie Kobelski passed away two years ago. I wanted to tell people that they were appreciated, loved, and valued. I want to remember her always, and remember also that friends may not always be around. One of the legacies she has left me with is a sense of perspective and appreciation for what I have.

I mostly left messages; but that was ok. I told co-workers and my roommate, startling them, that I valued them. The only person I actually talked to was Kati Hultman, and I had to explain a seemingly random call to her. It's not really like a holiday, perhaps a day of rememberance and celebration. She told me that she liked to think of March 10th not as the day Katie died, but as the day she was reborn.

***

I went to the Friday night gathering of the Community of the Twelve Tribes tonight here in Manitou. I have not felt the Spirit of God that strongly in a long time. They cooked wonderful, organic foods, played music, and danced. They are a people filled with joy, where teenagers aren't surly and children obey their parents. They look you in the eye when they speak with you. They are a people in love with God, and I am quickly falling in love with them.

I have found a body of believers with which to fellowship while on this leg of my journey. Now all I need is to figure out how to make more than $9 an hour, get a pet, and get myself to the point of being able to hike the entire incline in one trip. If only I didn't need oxygen....

this was just a moment in the woods

There was a time in high school when I couldn't get enough of Steven Sondheim's "Into the Woods." Not only do I idolize Bernadette Peters (probably to an ubiblical degree) but Sondheim's writing is phenomenal. The music is great, but as I would like it, the words are even better. I found the lyrics running through my head this morning as I contemplated small moments during the last week that have been minor flashpoints in my life.

"This was just a moment in the woods... and if life were made of moments, then you'd never know you had one."

The last phrase captures both the moment and the life all at once; they each define the other. Even thinking that I don't have much in life, God gives me small glimpses into what could have been... but for the grace of God go I. "The slotted spoon doesn't hold much soup, but it can catch the potato."

Shelly and I were down with the cult kids a couple of nights ago when we had a rather lengthy encounter with an extremely drunk woman. Her friends abandoned her on a bench in front of the cafe and she was so inebriated she literally couldn't walk. After an hour of incredibly weird conversation, a couple of trips inside, taking off of shoes, and ordering a turkey reuben, we got her safely back with the people she belonged. Now I understand the whole avoid drunkeness thing. How scary it is to be alone, and lost.

"But no one is alone, truly- no one is alone. Sometimes people leave you, halfway through the wood- others may decieve you; you decide what's good. You decide alone, believe me, no one is alone."

Tomorrow marks two years since one of the bravest women I knew, Katie Kobelski, left us in the wood. A long talk with an old friend reminded me last night, no one is alone. In these woods, we may lose our way, our mother, or our cow. But no one is alone.

keyz and futon hammox

Friends. Friends, friends, friends.

Sometimes I like to think I have come somewhere in these 22 years of mine. It's a false statement.
Let me relate the following two humorous anecdotes with you all about my foolishness.

#1

Last week, Jo (roommate) and Brian (friend from Denver) and I pulled a futon out of the dumpster. It was only a little dusty, and was otherwise in perfect condition. I decided to turn it into a hammock, as we have hooks on the front porch, and it would be lovely, so lovely, to float on a futony hammocky bed and gaze out at the mountains, people, Colorado dust, or whatever. I went to WalMart and bought ropes. And hooks, and little caribiners, that said "NOT FOR CLIMBING" on them. Since I wasn't climbing, I figured it was ok. I came home, and kicked off all of the cats who thought it was the Manitou cat hotel on our front porch because there was a futon matress. I tied knots, hoisted, teetered dangerously on plastic lawn chairs, got kind of sweaty, and finally got the futon into an "up" position. Ben, Jo's boyfriend, made the generous comment to me that it looked like if you got in it, it would feel like a sandwich where you were the meat. Ok, it did, no lies. I tried to adjust, and once I got it into a somewhat reasonable position, I sat on it. I then promptly plummeted to the ground, muttering at broken ropes and stupid futons.

This morning I carried it back down to the dumpster.

#2

This story is unfolding even as I type. I decided to ride my Trek to work today. Good idea; it was sunny but brisk, the perfect type of riding weather. I bought a new Bell helmet Saturday, and borrowed my roommate's bike lock until I can get one. I had my little hydration pack all filled and stashed my work shirt and green apron inside. Work went well, there were no bike theives, and though I got out a little late, I would still be home by dark. I found a cell phone without a battery on the side of the road, but otherwise it appears to be in good condition. I ripped my linen pants a little when the hem caught in the chain, but no worries- they just have ventilation now. Once home, I realized MUCH TO MY CHAGRIN that I had no keys. They were at the store, a good four miles from here, and it was now completely dark. Fortunately there is a spare key, which I was able to use to get in, but no way to get back to the store. I called Shelly, who is bringing them to me, on her way over for some maté with the cult kids.
How fortunate for things called friends.

Always remember, my fellow Americans, to laugh at yourself. No matter how culturally advanced or theologically learned you are, you will do dumb things. Yay.

places faces graces aces

bold the states you've been to, underline the states you've lived in and italicize the state you're in now...

Alabama / Alaska / Arizona / Arkansas / California / Colorado / Connecticut / Delaware / Florida / Georgia / Hawaii / Idaho / Illinois / Indiana / Iowa / Kansas / Kentucky / Louisiana / Maine / Maryland / Massachusetts / Michigan / Minnesota / Mississippi / Missouri / Montana / Nebraska / Nevada / New Hampshire / New Jersey / New Mexico / New York / North Carolina / North Dakota / Ohio / Oklahoma / Oregon / Pennsylvania / Rhode Island / South Carolina / South Dakota / Tennessee / Texas / Utah / Vermont / Virginia / Washington / West Virginia / Wisconsin / Wyoming / Washington D.C /

Go HERE to have a form generate the HTML for you.

climbing and falling

On Monday, Shelly and I hiked the incline (a.k.a. the old cog railway) with her dog, Flower. We did pretty well, and only declined going the last third because of a late start and a setting sun. Colorado never ceases to amaze me. You can be sweating in a t-shirt one moment, and as soon as the sun dips behind the summit you are ascending, no amount of clothing (or red beanies) can keep you warm. We came back down the Barr Trail after taking an ice-covered switchback. Handholds dug into crunchy, solid snow have the odd effect of making your fingers sting, rather than feel cold. Fine motor skills are impeded, hampering the ability to use normal objects like plastic belt clips or shoe laces. Lessons are learned- if hiking in snow again, bring gloves and bungee a fleece jacket onto my hydration pack.

Coming down was perhaps more dangerous than climbing up. There are wooden railroad ties that serve as steps as you ascend, albeit sometimes quite haphazardly. The Barr Trail, however, is a loose mixture of gravel, packed dirt, and at this time of year, ice/snow combinations. Add a rather excited smallish dog into the mix, and things quickly become amusing.

The whole affair reminded me of a rather embarrasing incident in college, which of course I had to share with Shelly immediately. A crisp Sunday morning my freshman year, probably in J-Term but for sure in winter, Leah Coon and I were leaving the basement of Wright, headed out to the F(ing) lot to climb in her rusty Chevy S-10. She was wearing heels (something that amused me- she never had a problem with the clutch in the old truck with those things on) and I was in customary flats, being much too clumsy to ever attempt any sort of artificial height enhancement. I offered her my arm, assuring her that the traction on my shoes would ensure that we wouldn't fall. She gratefully accepted, and we began mincing our way across the ice-covered sidewalk, along with many other students all headed out to church. About this time, my feet left the ground. Within .05 of a second, all five feet nine inches of both of us, with hosiery and skirts and woolen pea coats and all came crashing down onto the very cold, firm and final ice-covered pavement. After making sure nothing indecent on a Sunday morning was showing, we scooped ourselves up, and laughing, continued out to the far side of the PERC. I have not since offered stability on the ice to a single soul. Be warned. I'm dangerous.