messy spectacles

Yuletide Musings

2006-12-25T23:33:00.000-06:00

I came home a bit early to avoid the holiday rush and sat down to a typical night of channel-surfing, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but a listing in the on-screen guide for "Yule Log." So now I'm sitting here, blogging, basking in the light of a six-hour showing of a fireplace, captured in full high-definition glory. Call me crazy, but it's warm... homey... lovely...

I had a most blessed Christmas weekend. Dad got the news last week that his PSA is down to 7 (from 27 two months ago), and somehow this change for the better translated into a repreive from the typical holiday dysfunction. Nary an argument was heard as all the preparations were made, the presents were wrapped, the grandkids appeased. Quite marvelous.

Generally speaking, I am not a Christmas person - wait - make that "I am not an Xmas person." The lights, the inflatables, the endless remakes of "The Little Drummer Boy" by Mariah Carey and Kanye West and their ilk all make me want to find a cave. In years past, I've been left alone with Over the Rhine's "Darkest Night of the Year" -- the only Christmas album I've found remotely palatable. This winter, however, they've followed it up with "Snow Angels," an album of original songs that manages to be deeply spiritual and melancholy and intimate all at the same time. Thanks Karin and Linford - Much love. I also happened upon a double album of Christmas favorites by indie fave Sufjan Stevens and was absolutely blown away. The instrumentation and arrangements are gorgeous and he pulls out classics like "I Saw Three Ships" and "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" that I haven't heard in years. I highly recommend you pick them up.

But for now, that "To Go" piece of grandma's cherry pie is calling to me from the fridge. I think I'll scoop some vanilla and bask in the Hi-Def glow of Channel 1500. Great love and joy to all who still stop in to this little corner of Internetland now and again. May you be richly blessed.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Too Soon, and Yet, About Damned Time!

2006-12-21T13:48:00.000-06:00

It's snowing in Minnesota. Yup, that's right -- first snowfall of the year on December 21. I don't know if it's a record, but grey was sure getting old.

Not that I'm a fan of winter - I prefer my weather a firm sixty-two and partly cloudy, thank you very much...

Still, I'm tempted to hit the balcony and catch a few flakes on my tongue, just for old times' sake...

I can't help but be enchanted...

Voices from the Past

2006-10-26T11:19:00.000-05:00

So I've been trying to decide about getting another tattoo. For years, I've wanted the celtic design that appears on the cover of Jeff Johnson's 1984 CD Icons, but in the innumerable moves I've made over the past five-ish years, I seem to have lost the album art. Bummer.

Last night, this prompted a massive Internet search for the cover art, to no avail. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised since the disc has been out-of-print for at least fifteen years, but I was still saddened. Until I got the bright idea to look for a copy of the CD itself. All I've had for years is the booklet, so that would be good on a number of levels. I started thinking back, trying to remember the songs, and several were still backed up in my cognitive hard drive. Wild!

I thought back to the end of my junior high years, when I was first coming to terms with my decidedly artsy nature - amazed that I survived seventh and eighth grades - listening to this collection of songs that was God-centered yet bore no resemblance to the typical bubble-gum, Jesus-y, Amy-Grant pop that dominated the Christian music scene. As I remember, it was the last track that stuck in my head, that I would listen to over and over again, sitting in the tan bucket seat of our conversion van and weeping in gratitude.

It was called "Windemere," Johnson's setting of a poem by John Keble that was written at the British lake of the same name:

Looking through the window
out upon the lake
Windemere is trying to sleep
but continues to awake.
High above the village,
standing on a hill,
an angel sings a psalmody
that interrups the still.

The song seeps through the cracks and gaps
of the weathered window-frame
and fills the room with praises
of an even older Name.
Through the walls that form this room,
I'm taken to that hill,
face-to-face with Someone
that my memory marvels still...

I could never hear these sounds,
I could never see,
I could never feel this breeze
until you blew on me.
I could never love, really,
I could never fear.
I would have never, ever thought
that I'd be standing here.

Thou who has given me eyes to see
and love this sight so fair,
give me a heart to find Thee out
and read Thee everywhere.

Standing in my dining room, looking through the slats of cheap apartment vertical blinds, I welled up again. This time, though, I was as grateful for everything since ninth grade as I was then for everything before. This crazy thing called life truly is a journey - a blessed one - and I find myself at thirty-five praying the same prayer I prayed at sixteen:

Give me a heart to find Thee out and read Thee everywhere.

Pendulum Swings: The Jared Chronicles, Part 2

2006-07-17T09:12:00.000-05:00

This morning, I'm standing outside of work, desperately wracking my brain for new tricks and manipulations to convince Jared to come inside, into the nice cool air conditioning, but no dice. He's talking, dead-set on having my full attention until his van arrives to take him off to work. Little does he know I haven't heard a word he's said. I'm trying to figure out how I can keep him happy and still get my paperwork done on time. Suddenly, something he says snaps me out of it:

"My friend Shawn died."

"Really? What happened?"

"Oh, he was sleeping, and then he got sick, and then he died."

What do you say to that?

"That's sad."

"Yuh. I went to his funeral."

"That's good."

"Yuh. I put my hand on his coffin. Like this." Jared reaches out and pats the hood of my car gently, then lets his hand rest.

"I care about him. He's my friend," Jared says solemnly, staring through the blue steel.

I'm struck by his gesture, by his use of the present tense. My eyes drop to the pavement, looking down at the driveway to avoid being blinded by tenderness. Jeremy's dog Bud is lying panting on the sidewalk. Subject change.

"Big Kris got a puppy."

"Really?"

"Yeah! He looks just like Bud, only little and yellow."

Jared scrunches up his face in irritation. "Not yellow. Bud's a chocolate lab."

"I know... Big Kris got a yellow lab."

"Bud's a chocolate lab. But he can't have chocolate chip cookies. They're poison to him. Only me. Only I get cookies. Not Bud."

He says this with every ounce of profundity with which he just spoke of Shawn. I can't help but bust out laughing. I guess wisdom comes in many forms.

In his recent poem, "How to Be a Poet," Wendell Berry writes:

There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

I think I know what he means...

The Karma of Care: Strange Places

2006-06-25T23:57:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been feeling like a human Care Engine. My June flew by with days spent attending to dad and nights at work. Dad is, to borrow an adjective from an unfortunate context, a "flaming" extrovert. Asking him to sit alone at mom's condo all day is akin to asking George W. Bush to pull off a convincing Hamlet. It's just not in his nature.

So for much of the last week or two, I've been chauffer and companion and gofer. Making thirty-odd trips a day between kitchen and recliner for iced tea, SunChips, insulin, or anti-androgen pills. Driving to Abbot for an IV infusion in the chemotherapy room (and that's a whole 'nother post), to Office Max for mailing labels, to SuperTarget for summer sausage. You'd be surprised how tiring it can get. I used to stay up for an hour or so after the boys went to bed at work, but now I crash like a bandicoot.

To top it off, my job has been frustrating. The Down Syndrome guys I care for have been unusually needy, and due to short staffing, I've been working four nights a week instead of my usual three. Those fantasies of not having to work are back with a vengeance, but along with them come the Practicality Gnomes to remind me of medical insurance and the perils of student loan payments.

Those damned Practicality Gnomes are a total buzzkill.

Then the other night I was at work, and one of my clients (we'll call him Jared) was supposed to be in bed a half hour earlier. I opted not to make an issue of it since he had the next day off work. I just packed up, undressed, and went to bed as usual.

Long about 11:30, I hear some motion. Sure enough, here comes Jared out of his room. I know it won't do any good to crack down and tell him to go to bed, so I try to lead by example and fake sleep. Jared turns on the hall light and I hear him creeping over to me, whispering my name. I don't respond. I sense him looming over me, bracing myself for whatever joke he wants to play, and instead I feel his blunt fingers gently tucking the blanket beneath my shoulder.

A few seconds later I'm still not hearing footsteps, so I crack my eyelids to see what's going on. Jared's at the armrest of the couch, where I've tossed my clothes. He picks up my pants and quietly folds them into neat thirds, setting them pocket-up on an empty stretch of bookshelf. He lifts my button-up shirt and hangs it over his arm about three different ways, trying to keep it from wrinkling. I'm about to laugh at his good-hearted frustration when he starts buttoning up the shirt. My chuckle catches in my throat as he gets to his knees, smooths the cotton flat on the beige carpet, and folds it carefully, Banana Republic style. He finds a place next to the pants for it to spend the night in wrinkle-free peace, sets it down, and pats it into place.

He turns back to me, and I quickly shutter my eyes. I smell rapsberry Jell-O on his breath and feel his whiskers scratching my eyebrows as he plants a quick kiss on my forehead.

"G'night, Jeffy" he whispers.

Tears come to my sleep-faking eyes as the hall light cuts out and Jared's door utters a creak made louder and longer by his effort to be quiet.

"G'night, Jared" I reply to the blackness in gratitude.

Care is a two-way street. Sometimes it comes back to you in the ways and places you least expect it.

The Shape of Things

2006-06-25T23:49:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I've been quiet for a while. Here's what's happening.

My dad's prostate cancer is back. Only it's not in his no-longer present prostate, it's in his spine. The presenting issue is that one vertebra had malignant growth to the point where he lost control of his legs. This is how we found out. However, there is "involvement" on three other vertebrae. So I've been on that journey.

As far as blogging is concerned, it's been a mixed bag. I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "I could SO blog about this," but it hasn't felt right. Not that I don't want to share, because there have been any number of sacred moments, but because I was/am afraid of turning this blog into a cancer diary. Bleh.

I'm only now starting to feel ready to juggle - to seek some balance here. Cancer-related entries will happen, be sure, but I've got other things to say and be heard on mixed in. The problem is, they're all trapped in my skull, percolating away in a big churning mess - a mess I can finally get to. So look for me to be back more regularly.

That is, if anyone's still bothering to check this... :-)

Correspondence Overheard

2006-06-10T23:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Tree,
I wish you had eyes so you could see green.
Love, Boy.

Dear Boy,
I wish you had roots so you could feel green.
Love, Tree.

Jeff's "Dream Car of the Future"

2006-05-18T14:38:00.000-05:00

OK, picture this: Mini Cooper Convertible, either...

hydrogen powered

-or-

gas/electric hybrid, E-85 capable.

It's quick, it's earth-friendly, and it's STILL dead sexy... Any thoughts?

What's yours?

P.S. No Hummers, please...

Recycling Goes Too Far.

2006-05-09T23:13:00.000-05:00

You know Jared, the Subway dude? The guy who lost all that weight by eating nothing but roughage on a bun and for this became an instant celebrity, making cameos in every new Subway commercial for what seemed like a decade? Yeah, that dude.

Clearly, I have been SO over Jared for a while. But tonight at work, the guys were watching the local weather when a blast from the past hit ground zero. They're running THAT Subway commercial again. The one that screams "EIGHTIES!!" with every frame, from the Debbie Gibson hair to the Paula Abdul rooftop video setting (from "Opposites Attract," the one with the cartoon cat that raps) to the row of backup mimes holding hero sandwiches and that 3D grid horizon thing that filled the lower third of every album cover released between '82 and '85.

Wait -- MIMES? That's not even 80s, that's just scary. Who the hell decided to put MIMES in a fast food commercial??? If they're supposed to be some surreal, dadaist riff on Ronald McDonald, you way overshot, people.

What marketing genius brought this turkey back? Have Blimpie and Quizno's and Jimmy John's driven you to these desperate straits? Oh, Subway, how you have fallen.

I'm all for environmentalism -- hybrid cars, green fuels, all that crap -- but some things are truly and permanently disposable. What's left of the ozone layer can handle the fumes from a few more feet of celluloid. Send Jared -- he's good enough at burning calories.

P.S. I apologize for the rapid shift in tone from the previous post. I promise it will happen again.

Sabbath Gleanings

2006-05-06T15:11:00.000-05:00

Last night, as I was watching the weather forecast, I decided today would be a School-Sabbath. I would not so much as practice the presence of papers, finals, essay revisions. I would take care of the other neglected elements of my life and just be. Until the sun sets.

I sleep in til eleven and get dressed, stepping out onto the back porch for some light. The sun's fingers are tickling the birds, setting them atwitter with glee. Eunice is next door hanging out her unmentionables for those same fingers of warmth to caress into dryness. I notice a squirrel, trotting confidently along the telephone wire high above the alley. He must have climbed on from the tree that overhangs our garage. Unfortunately, no other trees intersect with the wires, and he scurries down the length of the alley, stopping every few seconds, room to go forward but not enough to turn around. Ah, well, I think, he'll eventually find a tree or figure a way to go down the telephone pole.

I move to the front stoop, waiting for a flutter of wings that never comes. A female mallard (whom I've dubbed Daisy) appeared several weeks ago and laid her eggs beneath the evergreen shrub that sits by our front door. Always before, she's run for it when I come around the corner. Either she's grown accustomed to me or some biological imperative won't let her leave her eggs at this crucial juncture. I greet her as always, but she just looks up at me with one side-mounted eye.

I glance down at the black ants marching around the sidewalk. One of them carries a larger beetle over its head, the beetle's legs churning the air as if to say (with a thick British accent), "But I'm not dead yet!" I laugh out loud at the way Monty Python interrupts my Discovery Channel mindset.

Our front yard testifies to the rhythms of life. To my right, amid a scattered field of dandelions, sits the remnant of the massive elm that blew down last fall, stump cut too short to even sit on. On the left, the sapling Lisa planted to replace it stands strong and young and beautiful, wearing a garland of tulips like some sixteen-year-old southern belle at her Coming Out party back when the phrase "coming out" carried much lighter baggage.

I've been that squirrel, scurrying down a path that looked great at the front end only to find it leading further than I ever wanted to go. I've been that beetle, dragged and carried ominously toward some unpleasant fate. Heck, I've even been the ant, hijacking the course of others and trying to bear them to a place of my choosing. Hopefully, those seasons are over.

Now I want to be like Daisy, waiting patiently in spite of things that scare me or tire me out, waiting through stiff legs and cramped wings, waiting through rain and wind and sunshine, waiting for new things to come to life. New communities, new adventures, new graces, new joys.

Summer's coming. Bring it on!

Encounter with "Greatness"...

2006-04-25T10:48:00.000-05:00

So on the first day of the Festival, I was crossing the street to rejoin my NWC cohorts when a man stopped me.

"You don't happen to know your way around this place, do you?"

"Nope. Sorry." I glanced down at his name badge and read "Scott Cairns."

Ever since Judy introduced me to his work, Scott Cairns has been one of my favorite poets -- I used four of his poems in our large group prayer times at this year's Good Friday retreat.

"Mr. Cairns!" I gushed, "What a pleasure to meet you!" He looked down at my nametag.

"Jeff!" he said in what seemed to be an equally appreciative tone, "Nice to meet you, too!" I must have looked confused, because he said "You have a website or something, don't you?" I managed to stammer, "yes, a blog..." I must confess, I have no idea what he said after that point, beyond that it was somehow complimentary.

Scott Cairns has read my blog!

I immediately rushed to rejoin my mates and tell the story. Manders said, "well, that would make my year." Thus began what H. Jane started referring to as my "nonsexual crush" on Scott Cairns.

In all fairness, I wasn't the only one. By the end of the weekend, Susan was referring to him as her "new boyfriend."

The sessions and readings of his I went to only confirmed my impression of the man as a remarkably intelligent, witty, and thoughtfully Christ-centered artist. Mr. Cairns, if you happen to read this, thank you again for your generosity in words, time, and artistry. Hopefully, we'll meet again in the future.

For those of you whose curiousity has been peaked (in line with my intentions for this post), check out this interview with Mars Hill.

God, Too, Uses Boxcutters

2006-04-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

Well, here I am, y'all, in sunny Grand Rapids, MI at Calvin College's Festival of Faith and Writing. It should be called "Feast" for all the chewing I've done in only two sessions. I had a somewhat embarrassing epiphany in the first. Phillip Gulley is a Quaker pastor who writes fiction and essays that are homespun and charming and delightfully real. I hadn't heard of him before today, but I went on the recommendation of a friend.

It was great. He read from a forthcoming collection of essays and then opened the floor to questions. I felt like the kid on the short bus as people made pithy and insightful queries about his characters and settings and, in short, had clearly read his stuff. I, on the other hand, kept dwelling on a comment he'd made about Quaker services -- a few hymns, a brief sermon, and then thirty minutes of silence. It resonated so deeply with my spiritual direction experiences and the heart of Abbey Way, so I popped my hand up.

"Mr. Gulley, I come from an evangelical, conservative, very cognitive-based tradition and I'm finding the older I get, the more contemplative my personal spirituality is becoming. I'm wondering if and how the rhythms of silence in your spiritual tradition inform your writing process?"

He looked me dead in the eye for a long second, and said "That's a really good question. I don't think I've ever been asked that before. To answer, silence is absolutely indispensable to my writing. Most of my ideas come either on my quiet morning walk or in Meetings."

Now, if you've read this blog for any length of time, you'll know one of my favorite rants is against the "western" compartmentalization of life. I HATE this concept of church is a place you go and set of routines you perform on Sunday, the sense in which we become different people depending on our environment.

So imagine my shock when his answer prompted me to think, "Wait. Maybe God is leading me to Abbey Way in part to help me be a better writer." It was like a solar flare in my skull. The more I looked into the light, the more I started to think, "Well, duh... If He's calling you to write and calling you to Abbey Way, they've got to be connected." I was chagrinned to think that here I am, Mr. Holistic, and God still has so many of my boxes to slash open, walls to tear down before my life is an open, spacious, and ordered sanctuary for His holiness.

Who knows? Maybe more will even be shattered this Festival weekend. Stay tuned to find out.

Let the renovation continue. Amen.

A quick quote for the world...

2006-04-18T09:38:00.000-05:00

"We are all wounded inside in some way or other. We all carry unhappiness within us for some reason or other. Which is why we need a little gentleness and healing from one another. Healing in words, and healing beyond words. Like gestures. Warm gestures. Like friendship, which will always be a mystery. Like a smile, which someone described as the shortest distance between two people.

Yes, the highest things are beyond words.

That is probably why all art aspires to the condition of wordlessness. When literature works on you, it does so in silence, in your dreams, in your wordless moments. Good words enter you and become moods, become the quiet fabric of your being. Like music, like painting, literature too wants to transcend its primary condition and become something highter. Art wants to move into silence, into the emotional and spiritual conditions of the world. Statues become melodies, melodies become yearnings, yearnings become actions."
- Ben Okri, "Beyond Words", A Way of Being Free

Neurotica (Part One)

2006-03-19T12:57:00.000-06:00

So as I was driving to work on Friday night, I realized I should probably eat something (appetite loss is a side-effect of my ADD meds). The route to work takes me up highway 65, so the options are pretty much open. This is the conversation that actually took place in my head:

SelfA: McDonald's?

SelfB: Nah -- you had McDonald's for breakfast. It'd be like you were making a documentary or something...

SelfA: Yeah. Burger King?

SelfB: Yesterday.

SelfA: Right. Besides, their supersize has paper cups. Chipotle?

SelfB: You're meeting Josh for lunch there tomorrow.

SelfA: Oh, yeah. Arby's?

SelfB: They think they're too upscale -- and they're expensive enough to prove it.

SelfA: Jimmy Johns?

SelfB: Nope. You need hot food. OK, Seriously... what do you feel like eating?

SelfA: Burger. Definitely a burger.

SelfB: Wendy's?

SelfA: Yeah, but again, they have paper cups for the supersize... McDonald's plastic is so much easier...

SelfB: Do you realize how pathetic it is that you're more concerned with cup materials than you are with food?

I went to Wendy's. Not that I cared. Not that I even tasted it, really, I just couldn't handle the thought that something so trivial was the core of my culinary decision-making. What's up with that?

The Mystery of Openness

2006-03-12T12:04:00.000-06:00

OK, Gloria -- I know, I promised to blog last night and now it's Sunday. Better late than never. :-) Wow, this is odd. My blogmuscles have atrophied. I feel like I'm coming out of a coma or something... Anyway...

Yesterday, I was blessed to watch Cole and Ella while their parents were off talking and praying. Cole is six and Ella is three, and they are both about thirty kinds of great. In the morning, we went to the park. We played on the swings and the jungle gym (sidenote: How did jungle gyms get so much cooler than they were when I was a kid? All kinds of tunnels and suspension bridges and plastic mock-climbing walls? How great is that?). Another family showed up, and before I knew it, Cole was clambering up to their oldest boy perched on top of the tunnel. I overheard him say, "Hi, my name is Cole. Do you want to be friends?"

I laughed out loud. But no sooner did my laughter stop than I noticed that familiar pressure in my eye sockets. I flashed back to Junior High, when a question like that would've promptly landed me face down in the nearest garbage can.

Please, God, I whispered, don't let him lose that.

Telling the story last night, I had to pause and think about my present relational modus operandi. How more often than not, when I meet someone I want to get closer to, the feeling prompts an immediate and daunting cost-benefit analysis. Do I have the time for this relationship? Do I have the energy for the work of getting to know somebody new? The accountant in the back corner of my brain whips out his old-school adding machine and digs into abstract calculations that would make an IRS auditor blush.

Jan talks often about open-handedness. About coming into a situation willing to let it be what it is, to hold what's there without an agenda or expectation. I'm starting to realize my own open-handedness feels too often like empty-handedness. There's a big difference.

So I'm picturing Cole's six-year-old heart, perched wide open on a tube of bright blue polystyrene, and the tears are back.

Please, God, help me find that again.

Ah, Jeff... How You Do Ramble On...

2006-01-07T20:33:00.000-06:00

I'm driving home from a solo dinner at Chipotle, past the ganstas hanging out on the corner of the strip mall, which seems an odd place for gangstas to be hanging out, listening to the Inuit singing through my car radio. So many cultures, so many voices... The southwestern food sloshing contentedly in my stomach, the hip-hop vernacular laughing on the sidewalk, the strange Arctic syllables that make it no farther than my windshield.

I was reading Gilead as I ate, wishing I had a highlighter from time to time. The narrator speaks of young skeptics:

And they want me to defend religion, and they want me to give them "proofs." I just won't do it. It only confirms them in their skepticism. Because nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense.

Why the crap don't I bring a highlighter? It made me think of "the Book of Daniel" again. I watched about 45 minutes of it last night, and frankly don't have a lot to say. Their Jesus was more schlocky than anything, with an overgrown beard and pouffy robes that made him look more like a linebacker than the Son of God. I appreciated that he had a sense of humor, telling Daniel he'd been "reading too many Episcopalian self-help books." (In The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco theorizes that Jesus never laughed because he knew how much evil Christians would commit in His name. I don't buy that, but it's thought-provoking.) But the figure in "The Book of Daniel" didn't come off as Jesus as much as he came off as Daniel's concept of Jesus or maybe the writer's concept of Jesus.

My primary impression was that the show just wasn't very good. A clear shot at "Desperate Housewives" meets "Joan of Arcadia" with a dash of "Six Feet Under" thrown in for good measure. Nothing to see here. Sadly, that may be the ultimate guarantee of the show's success. I really don't care.

"Nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense." Really? That's the kind of quote that turns my brain into a cow's stomach - pushing the thought back and forth to be chewed like cud at least four times before I can finally digest it. My immediate response is ironically defensive, "Well, there go half the writings of C.S. Lewis..." But then I think of ideas that have come up again and again at church lately, the thought that "the gates of hell will not prevail" puts the church in an offensive light, anything but hunkering down passively and waiting for Gabriel's trumpet. NBC's Jesus had so little impact on me precisely because of his passivity - I couldn't relate to a Jesus that didn't take the initiative, that served as a sort of spiritual Howard Cosell, offering presence but no passion, commentary, but no call.

Now that I think about it, Lewis wasn't writing entirely from response. He consistently paints Christianity as broader and wider and deeper and richer and infinitely more compelling than any of the world's philosophies. He wasn't writing with his shoulders out to block modernist ideology, he was throwing a hail-mary deep into and beyond enemy territory. (Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Jeff just used a football metaphor. Write it down, cuz it ain't likely to happen again.)

I can't help but believe that God has the defense covered, that if we were living lives that passionately and proactively brought the Kingdom into the world, His Life - His ideas, His emotions, His Presence, His purposes - would shine such that skepticism-as-faith would be revealed as shadows and dust. So maybe Robinson's narrator is right... I don't know. All I know is that the idea that I, the eighty-eight pound spiritual, physical, and intellectual weakling, am needed to defend the omnipotent one seems laughable. On the contrary, I need His defense to even take a step toward the life He's calling me to.

But I've rambled long enough. I want to read more of this book before bedtime - I'm sure there are more landmines like this waiting to be tripped. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them. I'm still trying to wrap my head around all this, and I'm sure I will be for the rest of my natural life. Blessings on all y'all out there in blogland. Be present to His Presence.

Matters of Perspective

2006-01-05T08:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I had a lunch date at Chipotle (mmm... Chipotle...). I backed out of my garage into the alley, and as I turned to look forward, I noticed a big ol' snowplow cruising past the end of the alley in the distance. I had a Tim Allen "huh, huh" moment because of the massive machine, but something about it bothered me. Lo and behold, I got to the end of the alley to pull into the street, and what to my wondering eyes did appear but the plow -- a mini front-end loader designed for clearing sidewalks. I had that strange moment of vertigo as my perception shifted and clicked, like when you finally see the sailboat in those "magic eye" pictures that were all over the malls in the late 90s. It was just this teeny little plow. The impression was no longer one of raw power, but of simple work. I had to laugh.

A couple of days before, I noticed a blurb on IMDB about this American Family Association that's boycotting NBC's "The Book of Daniel" because it features an episcopal priest who talks to Jesus. The problem? He is also "addicted to painkillers, has an alcoholic wife, a drug-dealing daughter and a gay son." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself "Frickin' Christians..." I mean, seriously, how many ministers -- how many CHRISTIANS are addicted to substances or work or (gasp) ministry? Are wrestling with broken relationships? Have no clue how to effectively fight for their kids? Aren't these precisely the kind of people Jesus WANTS to talk to? Don't get me wrong - I have a healthy amount of skepticism about any "Christian-themed" progam that makes it to network TV (ask Judy how resistant I still am to Joan of Arcadia...). But it seems to me that even if the show is completely theologically whack'd and WAY off base, we should celebrate, because at least it can leverage dialogue about the things of God. I walked away from the article preparing a blog-style smackdown rant calling down lightning on the latter-day Pharisees of the AFA.

Then I came across Jan's post. She surprised me yet again, quoting Semisonic's tune "Closing Time" (I love that song!). Reading those words again, singing them in my head with Jan and her story of late in my mind, tears came to my eyes. This super-fun song that could so easily be written off as an ode to the drunken one-night stand shifted. The spelling of the chorus changed in my mind to "I know Who I want to take me home." Not the usual, jeff-drama, life-sucks-God-let-it-end sort of take me home, but a take-the-driver's-seat, whatever-road-You-choose-no-matter-how-winding kind of take me home. It became an anthem of dependence.

Notice the difference in perspective?

Timbur's post from a while ago has stuck with me, ringing in my mind. I read the papers, channel surf to FOX news for a few minutes, and my stomach turns at being stuck with the label "Christian" in this culture. But I also feel like it would be giving ground to call myself something else, though since DC Talk, I've kinda liked "Jesus Freak." So here's my solution. I'm taking a page from the consumer culture and coining the word "Xian." I don't think I would ever call a person an Xian, but organizations and behaviours definitely qualify. Xians take the Christ out of Christian. They are more concerned with prohibitions than with possibilities, more focused on politics than people, more vested in safety than salvation.

And no sooner do I type that than I notice the Xian in me. Ugh.

But I want to be a Christian. I want to follow a God who's not safe, but is good. I want to practice risky obedience. I want to be able to see Kingdom significance in everything, to say with Gerard Manley Hopkins, "The world is full of the grandeur of God."

So to my inner Xian, I hope you wither and die. To Jesus, take me home. On the way, give me more and more Kingdom perspective. And may my wee little plow clear a bit of the way for others.

Community Musings

2006-01-03T09:48:00.000-06:00

Yes, I'm back in blogland -- with a vengeance. Expect a few posts today. Maybe I'll even get a head start on Jamie's record from last year.

In the meantime, check out Bart Campolo's Manifesto on their new community in Cincinnati for some food for thought...

Reflection on a Snow Day

2005-11-30T01:27:00.000-06:00

I had a doctor's appointment this morning at 7:40. Nobody panic - it was a rather routine checkup on my ADD meds, but it had been rescheduled once already (at the doctor's request), and I wanted to be sure I made it on time. You see, the clinic is in St. Louis Park off of Highway 100, legendary in the metro area as a traffic nightmare.

So I planned ahead. Mapquest said the trip was just under 17 miles - 23 minutes in normal traffic. To be safe, I left the house just after 6am and brought homework to do if (thinking when) I got there early.

I reached the clinic at 9:15.

It was surreal. I'm trapped in the car, nowhere to go, going nowhere, thinking things like "Dante' couldn't have imagined..." and "Find a happy place..." and "Its SUCH a God-thing that I don't own a gun..." At the end of the first hour, I switched the iPod to like really mellow, calm, happy music. By the second, the calm was punctuated by fits of hysteria - that heady blend that you can never safely label as either laughter or tears, it's just convulsive and involuntary. I could not believe people pulling out of line behind me into the merge lane just to leap ahead seven cars or so.

I'm fairly sure I cycled through the five stages of grief at least four times between 394 and Excelsior Blvd. - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - only they became like this maddening spiral. I could only accept for so long before my brain rebelled and refused to believe this was actually happening. In hindsight, I wish I'd had the presence of mind to be more present to God in the traffic. Instead I cursed under my breath, punched the sunroof, and pictured Ghandi in my passenger seat giving other drivers the finger on my behalf.

When I got to the Mental Health Floor and announced (at 9:20) that I was checking in for my 7:40 appointment, the receptionist looked at me as if I was clearly on something and informed me that the next available time slot was on January 12.

I calmly explained to her that I hadn't seen the doctor since August, I had made a good-faith effort to get to my appointment on time, and I was perfectly willing to camp out in the lobby all stinking day on the off-chance that the good doctor could find time to squeeze me in. I'm fairly sure I delivered this in a polite and reasonable tone. I know I said it about 15 decibels lower than my ordinary speaking voice. After all, this is the Mental Health Floor - if I behave too unreasonably, bad things could happen.

Long story short -- I only had to wait about 15 minutes, the doctor diagnosed me with some mild clinical depression, and sent me home with my monthly batch of brain candy. I was able to get to class on time, and listen to the guest speaker drone on about life in the "real-world" environment of the technical writer, trying to communicate the dynamics of a corporate structure. Been there, done that. Why do you think I got my sorry ass back into school? {shudder} My afternoon was dominated by a much-needed nap.

Then, just after I got to work tonight, my cell phone rang. A close friend called to ask for prayer. He talked, I listened. He was honest, vulnerable, trusting. I prayed for him with my whole heart and the small, stumbling, insufficient words that poured from it. And God heard the whole kit and kaboodle. Funny, but those ten minutes on the phone - present to God and a person I love and feeling them present to me - redeemed the whole day. For a few minutes, at least, I felt like I got it right.

Postcard from a Runaway Life.

2005-11-20T13:01:00.000-06:00

So, yeah -- clearly it's been a while since I blogged. All I can say is eighteen credits of English is taking its toll. I can't say I wasn't warned. C'est la vie.

Just because I've been blogsilent, though, doesn't mean I've been blogabsent. Our virtual baby shower for little miss Talia Grace has been delightful and charming, and I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with a suitable offering of my own. This dilemma is, of course, complicated by the fact that Blogspot doesn't seem to like uploading pictures from a Mac. As usual, insistence on something better than the status quo has its drawbacks (insert wry smile here).

Yesterday, I rearranged my room and discovered I have space for one more of the little black shelves I use (and table touchlamps). This is a blessing, since I display my Everyman's Library collection on them, and stock is beginning to outstrip capacity. So I took off for Target, home of the wrought-aluminum shelf and cracked-glass touchlamp, planning to drop thirty-odd bucks in the interest of aesthetic harmony.

I don't care for the new Roseville SuperTarget. I'm thrilled it's finally open, but I miss the old Store One. I could've made a beeline for the exact spot on those old, friendly shelves where they had what I wanted. Instead, I wandered around for half an hour, trying to make sense of the new layout amid the distraction of droves of people comparing tinsel styles while surrepetitiously humming "Jingle Bells."

Jingle Bells? On November 19? For this, I was woefully unprepared. I expected turkeys and horns-of-plenty, not reindeer-shaped fireplace tools and red foil bags of roasted chestnuts. Maybe even a corner of the store that featured nearly-bare shelves of candy corn and flame-retardant superhero capes. What happened?

I was lost. I couldn't find anything I was looking for, and maybe they no longer carry the stuff. I passed an aisle of wrapping paper and heard a disembodied baritone "fa-la-la-la-la"ing, and the next thing I knew I was striding through the parking lot, making a beeline for my car.

I think the gifts we choose say as much about the giver as the recipient. Maybe I'm just a narcissist in denial, but even with the people whose passions I can't understand, I look for gifts that speak to something we share, gifts that I can get excited about, too, gifts that might deepen the connection between us.

So Talia, my dear, if it were in my power, I would give you time. Time to wear pajamas with feet as long as possible. Time to be silly and messy. Time to remember well, to toss dry leaves at your brother and sister before you even think about making a Christmas list. Time to laugh at how crazy adults are. Time to notice how lucky you got in the Great Parental Lottery. Time to dive headfirst into worship and not worry about what's for lunch. Time to delight in all the gratuitous gifts of God.

And if my desire - my prayer for you - should be answered, I'm not ashamed to hope that God spreads it around a little.

Nutbars-R-US

2005-10-21T00:32:00.000-05:00

I am officially convinced that Wednesdays are Mental Illness Night at OfficeMax.

Seriously.

Last week, I went in to pick up these funky disposable fountain pens that Dr. Jones turned me on to (there's just something about that tactile scratchy non-ballpoint feeling, you know?). Walking toward the pen aisle, I noticed a middle-aged woman trying on notebooks. Literally. It seemed she was looking for one that would balance perfectly on top of her head. Yes, this actually happened.

So last night, I went to pick up a notebook (what happened to narrow ruled, people?), and got the double whammy. First, there was a couple walking through the store loudly discussing an upcoming lawsuit. I mean, confidential details overheard from four aisles away. Yes, this is socially awkward, but clearly not insane. What got me is that they spent at least ten minutes arguing over whether the legal documents should be printed on cream letterhead with roses or plain, simple lavender. Legal documents. Wow.

Then, I got to the checkout and was stuck behind this woman who was very upset that they didn't have the right ink cartridge. The cashier offered to help and asked what she was looking for. She pulled out one of those wallet cards that comes with your printer. "See? You DO NOT HAVE these!!!"

"OH! Yeah, we do! That's actually one of HP's most common models -- they're right here!"

"No, that has the same number, but it's not the same!"

"Well, ma'am, your printer is three years old. HP has changed their packaging twice since then."

"WHAT??? They can't do that!!! How are we supposed to find the right refill when the pictures don't look the same???"

Uh, by the number.

Wednesdays. OfficeMax Roseville. Mental Illness Night starting at around 7pm. Check it out if you have the time.

Maybe it's not right for me to be so amused, but these seem like trivial brokennesses, like hitches in a person's stride as they walk along the road rather than awkward limps or broken legs. I was talking with a high-school English teacher today, and she told me that she was called to the conference room yesterday to discuss a student. All the boy's other teachers were present along with the guidance counselor. The mother arrived about 10 minutes late. She informed the staff that she suspected her son was smoking pot, and she was very concerned. She asked the teachers if they'd seen any warning signs or indicators that the boy was baked, stoned, high, wasted, toked, messed up, gone, or in other altered states during classes. They all just kind of looked at each other and shrugged. "Not really," they answered, "but we'll be on the lookout." Then the guidance counselor, trying to be as helpful and supportive as possible, asked Mrs. X why she thought her son might be using. Without missing a beat, she replied:

"My stash has been short three weeks running."

Why is there so much brokenness in the world, and why is it so easy for us to ignore our own? I'm feeling really good right now -- all my homework was done by 5pm, and I got to spend the night mixing a new batch of cologne, doing my QBOR (that's Quarterly Bookshelf Organization Routine) and actually reading fiction for fun. I'm on top of my game. Yet, I'm not. The messy places are just in shadow, out of sight, out of mind.

Lord, now that the stress levels are down, now that there's room to breathe -- Thank You! But don't let me forget how utterly dead and hopeless even the upswings would be if I couldn't depend on You. Remind me to use this time to invite you deeper into the broken places and renovate at will. Come, Holy Spirit, and fill in the cracks. Let my rest be that of stillness and not stasis.

Thy kingdom come. Deo Gratias.

News Flash

2005-10-19T06:37:00.000-05:00

After a few weeks of construction (Power out, restart, power out, restart, ah chuck it...), CoraclesWakeRadio is back online. Currently playing music new to me in the past year -- enjoy!

Better Late than... well, you know.

2005-10-16T20:58:00.000-05:00

Well, in defiance of my profile as an "early adopter," I am only now getting around to doing the "survey thing." I can't make any promises, but I hope it was worth the wait.

Five things I want to do before I die:
1) Live in another country for at least a year. OK, I actually want to live in more than one country for at least a year -- Iceland, Scotland, Slovakia... the list keeps getting longer.
2) Publish
3) Read at least 2500 more books.
4) Own a house that has a nice kitchen (with an island and double oven) and a walk-in closet that I can convert to a chapel.
5) Become a whole lot more like Jesus.

Five things I can do:
1) laugh
2) see beauty
3) cook
4) put words together
5) cry

Five things I can't do:
1) be patient with Microsoft Windows.
2) conceal my feelings.
3) settle for bullshit answers.
4) keep my hair.
5) math.

Five little-known facts about me:
1) I used to have a pet snake. An Argentine Boa named Lucy. I miss her.
2) I was once the proud owner of a 1988 Yugo.
3) I need lots of alone time.
4) I've had dinner with a Bond girl.
5) I occasionally wear pajamas as if they were regular clothes.

Five (living) people I'd want to have with me if stranded on a desert island:
1) Bono - OK, so I'd be depriving the world -- shoot me. Good heart, great music, plus a mind that would produce some great conversations.
2) Janeane Garofalo - cute, sassy, an appropriate companion for my more bitter moments of tropical exile.
3) Billy Collins - witty, imaginative, could help me see the situation in unusual and delightful ways.
4) Anne Lamott - ditto on the witty, earnest, self-aware, and a bit neurotic. Imagine she and Janeane chatting it up...
5) Brian Greene - I've never really had time to learn string theory, not to mention basic physics in general, so his presence would be instructive.

Five (dead) people I'd want to have with me if stranded on a desert island (provided they weren't dead and all...)
1) Audrey Hepburn - Most beautiful woman EVER. Great accent, too. From what I've read she'd also be inclined to pitch in with huts and latrines.
2) Vincent VanGogh - Another one who could see beauty in unusual ways. Crazy is good on a desert island. And he'd always be up for lending an ear...
3) Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - An appetite for fun, plus I'll bet ya anything he'd be coming up with Bamboo Concertos in short order.
4) Martin Buber - Someone to talk deep with. I have a few questions to follow up on both I and Thou and Good and Evil and we'd have nothing but time.
5) Flannery O'Connor - Wicked-sharp sense of humor, great perspective, deep faith, and imagine how she'd push everyone else's buttons... never a dull moment with Flannery around.

Five people I want to see do this next:
Anyone (if such a person exists) that hasn't done it already.

There ya go. Hope you all are blessed and enriched by the experience.

More blogging now -- Quad One is over. Come back soon.

All About the Music, Baby!

2005-10-08T01:51:00.000-05:00

All right, so last Saturday I was hanging out with timbur and p carlson and chattin about life and scifi and... music. Remembering the sheer, unadulterated Velveetafest that was the 80s.

Then I caught up on Ashley's blog, where she links to a search for the top 100 songs of the year you graduated (enter the year in the search field here). The list came up and... whoa-ho-hoooaaa, Nelly.

To my immense chagrin, I can sing at least four bars of 88/100 of them. That's actually kind of sad. Especially since these perennial classics include:

1. Look Away, Chicago
3. Every Rose Has Its Thorn, Poison
9. Baby, I Love Your Way/Freebird, Will To Power
11. Right Here Waiting, Richard Marx
13. Lost In Your Eyes, Debbie Gibson
15. Heaven, Warrant
23. I'll Be There For You, Bon Jovi
32. Eternal Flame, The Bangles
34. When I See You Smile, Bad English
37. When I'm With You, Sheriff
75. Shower Me With Your Love, Surface

The sheer volume of schmalz packed into a mere 365 days beggars the imagination. Add to this the fact that New Kids on the Block held no less than four slots. They tied with another band, but the New Kids only had 1 out of 4 in the top 30, and these dudes had all four. Any guesses? Awww, c'mon... wait... you've got it...

Milli Vanilli.

And you wonder why people wonder about me.

Oh, and yes, Virginia, the "Get to Know Me" post will be coming tomorrow.

An Open Letter to the NWC Homecoming Committee

2005-10-01T12:46:00.000-05:00

To whom it may concern:

I am a current student of Northwestern College who commutes from off-campus. In order to pay for school, rent, gas, insurance, ramen noodles, EasyMac, and water, I also work full-time. This particular homecoming weekend, I am working a total of 24 hours, so my time is something of a premium. Today, I had to photocopy a reserve text in the library and ran to campus at my earliest convenience. Leaving the library, to my intense dismay, I ran into the homecoming parade. It took me no less than 50 minutes to leave campus from my parking spot in front of the library.

Having so much time on my hands, I had the opportunity to formulate a few thoughts for your consideration:

1) A parade? The concept has a certain quaint charm, I'll admit, but Northwestern is neither Texas A&M nor Lake Wobegon. What, if I may be so bold as to ask, is the point? Last I checked, our football team is not what one would term a bright star in the universe of collegiate athletics. As Northwestern is, primarily, an academic community, can we not retain for ourselves a few shreds of dignity?

2) Further planning and recruitment may be required. A single fire engine, squadcar, convertible, and 2 SUVs with soap-stained windows and streamer-clad trailers does not constitute a "parade." I mean, come on people, even Courtney Love can manage better than that...

3) If you MUST have a "parade," would it be too much to ask to route the thing through the P.E. Center turnabout for the brunt of their vaudevillean shenanigans to allow a window of free-flowing traffic for those of us who happen to be about legitimate academic business? Such a route would also extend the amount of time allotted to the precious offspring of our alumni. After all, on a straight-line route, the number of tooth-rotting, obesity-promoting tokens of our collegiate esteem cannot even approach the potential quantity that could be offered by burying the P.E. Center walkup in Tootsie Rolls and Smarties.

Still, one could not have asked for a more lovely afternoon to be unexpectedly trapped in the purgatory of freeway traffic on a road that is not even legally considered a street.

Thank you for your service, and I wish you great(er) success in years to come.

Blessings,

Jeff Ostrom

P.S. I'm not bitter.