Tomorrow, I get to fly the friendly skies, and I'm excited.
I get to visit the airport and witness the spectacle of thousands of people dispersing out into the world. Oh, the places they'll go! Where did they come from? Where are they going? What brought them here? What takes them there? (answer: airplanes. Airplanes do that.)
Check-in is super easy these days. Their friendly staff will keep the lines moving - all I need is my confirmation number.
The views from airplanes are always fantastic. On the first leg, I'll see Manhattan as I land at JFK. On the second... Cincinnati. Cincinnati, Ohio. Yessir, the 'nati. On the third, the fine, familiar streets of Grand Rapids, Michigan.
I'll ride in mild luxury, my mind at ease as the trusty folks at Delta carefully and respectfully ensure that my luggage makes all of its connections. They'll bring me my complimentary beverage, maybe some peanuts or pretzels, and I'll drift off to sleep.
Maybe I'll get bumped up into first class!
Maybe I'll sit by someone famous!
Of course, all of that excitement will come crashing down tomorrow when I confront the reality of flying.
I'll rise at 5:30 am, shower, scarf down some breakfast, and hit the road with Markus and my bags, fight San Juan rush hour traffic to get to the airport by 8. After the check-in, I'll be at the mercy of the TSA agents. (I'm a big, bearded guy. I don't foresee any... problems.)
Once I'm through, I'll wait until we all bum rush the plane to claim overhead bin space. I'll crouch down in my seat - window seat, otherwise there will be people crawling over me to use the potty the whole way to New York. There won't be a lot of legroom, you have to pay extra for that now.
I'll visit four airports, two of which I have no business being in except for the fact the Delta says I can save $74 if I stop there.
The layover in New York is three hours. That's just enough time to go mad in the airport, but not enough to leave it. I'm gonna find some overpriced food court food. Airports have done away with free Wi-fi. I guess I'll bring a book.
If I start at 6 am tomorrow and count my two hours on the road, I'll spend 16 hours traveling, just to get from the Caribbean to the midwest. (For reference: A direct flight from San Juan to Chicago takes about 4 hours.) When I land in Grand Rapids, I'm going to be exhausted.
But you know what? At the end of the day, I'll see my family for the first time in more than seven months. And for that, I would glad endure tomorrow a hundred times.
I'm coming home.
August 8, 2011
August 3, 2011
Emily Disappoints
One of the things I hope I'll experience here is a hurricane. The locals, I assume, think I'm stupid. Hurricanes are bad, they're disasters. Don't wish for hurricanes. Don't wish for disasters.
I'd also kind of like to see a tornado. I've had lots of dreams about tornadoes. I rate them scarier and more unpredictable than hurricanes, based mostly on my experience with them in dreams. One minute, you're whitewashing a fence with your buddies from your little league team, then there are some raindrops, then you're driving home for shelter, watching the thing take shape in the sky, then you stop to see some people from your Biology class and, oh yeah, that tornado, gotta go guys, and it's bearing down on you from behind and you get to thinking - I'm finally going to see a real tornado in REAL life and it's not a drea-
Dang it.
Still haven't seen a real tornado in real life. My dad has, I think, but he grew up in Iowa where tornadoes grew on trees. So of course he has.
Tornadoes sneak up and destroy things, lots of things, whatever things they please. They'll devour a whole block of houses and leave a single one untouched. Because they can. Then they disappear. They're phantoms. They're loco, ese.
Hurricanes, they give you plenty of warning. (So I hear.) They start, get huge, then wobble a little bit and head toward land all big and dangerous. They wreck everything, stick around for a few days then burn out somewhere over Georgia.
If tornadoes are the crazy junkies of the weather-world, hurricanes are the big, depressed lumberjacks.
I guess.
But anyway, living in the tropics, the prospect of a hurricane roaring up on shore - I sleep about 40 feet from the Caribbean - before I head back to the Midwest is pretty intriguing. I picture it sounding like a freight train rolling through camp, everyone huddled inside playing monopoly by candlelight, bonding. Living through a hurricane would make a great story. People in Michigan don't know nothing bout no hurricanes.
So I really want to see one. And this storm showed up on the watch list, far away, 90% of the way to a tropical storm before reaching the Lesser Antilles - those little Caribbean islands people take cruises to, the ones that curl down to South America - with plenty of time to turn itself into a hurricane and find its way onshore here. I got my hopes all up. People poo-pooed it, saying it would most likely miss us. They usually do. Still, I knew there was always a chance. No telling what a depressed lumberjack is capable of.
She became a storm and got her name, Emily. They don't name boring storms, do they? This should be good.
She stayed down, crossed all those tiny islands and spilled into the Caribbean. So far, so good.
Then she stayed right out there to sea, almost out of sight, not doing anything remotely interesting. Her clouds brought us rain, but she didn't blow down any palm trees or anything.
Had I not had my ears intricately attuned to the scuttlebutt at the local watering hole (AKA El Frappe) and had I not been keenly watching the NWS Atlantic loop, I probably would never have known that whatever passed over us/by us was a tropical storm. Sure, we only got her slightest, farthest reach, but I saw enough to know that this was a supreme let down.
And so my thirst lives on. Hurricane season is yet quite young, and though I'm heading back to Michigan for a month next week, I'll be back for much of September and October.
I'll be waiting.
Watching.
I took this picture while PR was under a Tropical Storm warning (clicking makes it big):
I'd also kind of like to see a tornado. I've had lots of dreams about tornadoes. I rate them scarier and more unpredictable than hurricanes, based mostly on my experience with them in dreams. One minute, you're whitewashing a fence with your buddies from your little league team, then there are some raindrops, then you're driving home for shelter, watching the thing take shape in the sky, then you stop to see some people from your Biology class and, oh yeah, that tornado, gotta go guys, and it's bearing down on you from behind and you get to thinking - I'm finally going to see a real tornado in REAL life and it's not a drea-
Dang it.
Still haven't seen a real tornado in real life. My dad has, I think, but he grew up in Iowa where tornadoes grew on trees. So of course he has.
Tornadoes sneak up and destroy things, lots of things, whatever things they please. They'll devour a whole block of houses and leave a single one untouched. Because they can. Then they disappear. They're phantoms. They're loco, ese.
Hurricanes, they give you plenty of warning. (So I hear.) They start, get huge, then wobble a little bit and head toward land all big and dangerous. They wreck everything, stick around for a few days then burn out somewhere over Georgia.
If tornadoes are the crazy junkies of the weather-world, hurricanes are the big, depressed lumberjacks.
I guess.
But anyway, living in the tropics, the prospect of a hurricane roaring up on shore - I sleep about 40 feet from the Caribbean - before I head back to the Midwest is pretty intriguing. I picture it sounding like a freight train rolling through camp, everyone huddled inside playing monopoly by candlelight, bonding. Living through a hurricane would make a great story. People in Michigan don't know nothing bout no hurricanes.
So I really want to see one. And this storm showed up on the watch list, far away, 90% of the way to a tropical storm before reaching the Lesser Antilles - those little Caribbean islands people take cruises to, the ones that curl down to South America - with plenty of time to turn itself into a hurricane and find its way onshore here. I got my hopes all up. People poo-pooed it, saying it would most likely miss us. They usually do. Still, I knew there was always a chance. No telling what a depressed lumberjack is capable of.
She became a storm and got her name, Emily. They don't name boring storms, do they? This should be good.
She stayed down, crossed all those tiny islands and spilled into the Caribbean. So far, so good.
Then she stayed right out there to sea, almost out of sight, not doing anything remotely interesting. Her clouds brought us rain, but she didn't blow down any palm trees or anything.
Had I not had my ears intricately attuned to the scuttlebutt at the local watering hole (AKA El Frappe) and had I not been keenly watching the NWS Atlantic loop, I probably would never have known that whatever passed over us/by us was a tropical storm. Sure, we only got her slightest, farthest reach, but I saw enough to know that this was a supreme let down.
And so my thirst lives on. Hurricane season is yet quite young, and though I'm heading back to Michigan for a month next week, I'll be back for much of September and October.
I'll be waiting.
Watching.
I took this picture while PR was under a Tropical Storm warning (clicking makes it big):
July 29, 2011
Loss of power
There's lightning over the Caribbean almost every night right now. I had never gotten a picture of lightning before so one night I went out and opened the shutter for about 30 seconds and behold: lightning, captured digitally. Lightning sure is pretty and all, but it's the thunder I really like. You see the lightning flash, and you can stand by the shore and picture the shockwave coming at you over the water until the thunder rolls up overland and echoes off the mountains. The good ones shake your bones and make everyone stop for a minute and look. I love it. Thunderstorms are premier entertainment.
They're no surprise right now. At the end of summer, the atmosphere gets all agitated and active. It's hurricane season, after all. I set my homepage to the National Hurricane Center and curiously look at the map everyday to see if there's anything interesting out there. Today, there is:
That red circle out there will probably become Emily, and Emily may or may not become a hurricane, and that hurricane may or may not visit us in Puerto Rico. As a midwestern boy, the prospect of experiencing a hurricane is exciting. But ask me again in a week.
Earlier last week, following an afternoon thunderstorm, I was in my apartment when the power went out. Not a surprise, not a big deal, it will come back. Get on with life. A little while later, I stepped out and saw that everyone was gathered around something. I had apparently missed some hubbub or something. Dave was sitting in the backhoe, in front of a snapped power pole, with wires draped over his roof, and over the top of The Big Van too. He'd hit the power pole, but we won't go there. He and the passengers of the van were stranded.
It was a holiday. I don't know why, but it was. So it took a long time to get the power company out to do anything. Eventually, the cops came out, and some other people too, but it was Pam and Jon who freed everyone from their electrical prison by rolling up in Dave's cart and letting them step out onto it.
They didn't get the power back right away. It was just our little camp that went on without it. Luckily, summer camp - especially a day camp like we were running - runs mostly outdoors, so during the day all you need is sunshine and a breeze and everyone's fine. Let me understate something immeasurably: sleeping at night in humid 80 degree weather without a fan is uncomfortable. I'd rather not need to do it. It is not the ideal sleeping situation.
I heard cheering when the power came back yesterday. Had my fridge had anything worth saving in it, it would have gone bad. But after four weeks of summer camp, it was like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of fridges. Some old eggs. Condiments. A bunch of cheese slices. A pitcher of water. All very replaceable. I restocked it today. But then there's that whole potential-hurricane Emily thing on the way.
Let us hope Emily stays away, but let us be thankful she waited until camp was done.
July 18, 2011
On Sickness
It didn't take long last week for me to lose my voice. It was probably Tuesday when I started getting hoarse. It never really left, not to the point where I had to whisper and gesticulate everything, but I was noticeably lacking in the vocal faculties.
One thing I was able to squeak out was when I told Theresa that this meant I'd probably get sick. Theresa rightly argued that it wasn't the lack of voice that would get me sick, but stress - it was stress that made me lose my voice, and it was stress that would probably get me sick.
That, and germs.
Kids bring germs. We probably ought to have biohazard suits. Even then - who knows what kind of crazy bugs they're bringing with them. We take whatever precautions we can, to stop colds, flu, lice outbreaks, what-have-ya. But stuff gets through.
By the time Thursday came, I had the runny nose, and that lasted through Friday into Saturday. Congestion. Cough. All that.
Let me amateur-psychoanalyze this thing out for you. When a full-blown cold takes my body over, I eventually start to lose my mental and emotional balance. To a certain extent, the spiritual balance too.
I think that when you're sick, and your body has begun to divert energy from your brain to fight the illness, the first thing to go is humility. When you are visibly sick, everyone suddenly thinks they're a doctor and you've lost all sense. And it gets really, really annoying.
Now, I'm a grown man. I've had many, many, many colds that have done many awful things to me. I've also dealt with more than my fair share of allergies. In fact, I spent the better part of my Junior year of high school with a box of kleenexes in my backpack.
So I know how to medicate myself. The last thing I want is everyone giving me medical advice. Actually, the last thing I want is everyone telling me how horrible I look while I'm trying to look decidedly non-horrible. And this always, always happens when I stagger out of my house, usually with most of a bottle Dayquil in my system, mustering composure, propping up my eyelids, trying not to look like a zombie as I wander out for food or some such basic need. Not an easy thing to do clutching a roll of TP.
I especially don't like medical advice from teenagers. You are 15. I know Vitamin C is good for me. Don't tell me to go to bed.
On Saturday morning, I emerged for the debriefing meeting for the week. There was going to be pizza after the meeting. After weeks of rice and beans and chicken, I wasn't about to let some stupid old cold keep me from delicious pizza. And then there started a long succession of people telling me how horrible I looked while dispensing unproven medical advice.
I've already been sick a day and a half. I'm coming out of it. Already took my Airborne. I have more DayQuil in me than I should.
Back.
Off.
Of course, I was more diplomatic than that. At least I think I was.
I went to the meeting. I got my pizza. And I was miserable. I became, I think, a very unpleasant person. Any humility had long since departed. Anything I'd put into the schedule that wasn't well received, I took personally. My patience was gone, I really just wanted to be out of there. I definitely couldn't handle listening to anyone speak Spanish. "Just tell me what they said and let's move on." Jokes were no longer funny - there went the sense of humor. I can't say what all else disappeared.
We piled in the van and drove back from the Laundromat and Domino's. I don't remember saying anything, just thinking that the pizza wasn't good enough to warrant me being out of bed right then. It was Domino's, after all. So when we got back, I handed off the keys and walked away from them all before anyone could tell me what to do. It was my way of saying, "I know. You were right. Shut up. I'm going to bed."
One thing I was able to squeak out was when I told Theresa that this meant I'd probably get sick. Theresa rightly argued that it wasn't the lack of voice that would get me sick, but stress - it was stress that made me lose my voice, and it was stress that would probably get me sick.
That, and germs.
Kids bring germs. We probably ought to have biohazard suits. Even then - who knows what kind of crazy bugs they're bringing with them. We take whatever precautions we can, to stop colds, flu, lice outbreaks, what-have-ya. But stuff gets through.
By the time Thursday came, I had the runny nose, and that lasted through Friday into Saturday. Congestion. Cough. All that.
Let me amateur-psychoanalyze this thing out for you. When a full-blown cold takes my body over, I eventually start to lose my mental and emotional balance. To a certain extent, the spiritual balance too.
I think that when you're sick, and your body has begun to divert energy from your brain to fight the illness, the first thing to go is humility. When you are visibly sick, everyone suddenly thinks they're a doctor and you've lost all sense. And it gets really, really annoying.
Now, I'm a grown man. I've had many, many, many colds that have done many awful things to me. I've also dealt with more than my fair share of allergies. In fact, I spent the better part of my Junior year of high school with a box of kleenexes in my backpack.
So I know how to medicate myself. The last thing I want is everyone giving me medical advice. Actually, the last thing I want is everyone telling me how horrible I look while I'm trying to look decidedly non-horrible. And this always, always happens when I stagger out of my house, usually with most of a bottle Dayquil in my system, mustering composure, propping up my eyelids, trying not to look like a zombie as I wander out for food or some such basic need. Not an easy thing to do clutching a roll of TP.
I especially don't like medical advice from teenagers. You are 15. I know Vitamin C is good for me. Don't tell me to go to bed.
On Saturday morning, I emerged for the debriefing meeting for the week. There was going to be pizza after the meeting. After weeks of rice and beans and chicken, I wasn't about to let some stupid old cold keep me from delicious pizza. And then there started a long succession of people telling me how horrible I looked while dispensing unproven medical advice.
I've already been sick a day and a half. I'm coming out of it. Already took my Airborne. I have more DayQuil in me than I should.
Back.
Off.
Of course, I was more diplomatic than that. At least I think I was.
I went to the meeting. I got my pizza. And I was miserable. I became, I think, a very unpleasant person. Any humility had long since departed. Anything I'd put into the schedule that wasn't well received, I took personally. My patience was gone, I really just wanted to be out of there. I definitely couldn't handle listening to anyone speak Spanish. "Just tell me what they said and let's move on." Jokes were no longer funny - there went the sense of humor. I can't say what all else disappeared.
We piled in the van and drove back from the Laundromat and Domino's. I don't remember saying anything, just thinking that the pizza wasn't good enough to warrant me being out of bed right then. It was Domino's, after all. So when we got back, I handed off the keys and walked away from them all before anyone could tell me what to do. It was my way of saying, "I know. You were right. Shut up. I'm going to bed."
July 6, 2011
The first leg
...of the marathon.
Yeah, as I'm starting to write this blog, I'm pretty sure it's gonna be one of those life update posts where I don't get on a soapbox or anything. I don't think.
Starting in early June, I started to be busy. Staff training was a few weeks away. Lots of teaching materials to write, lots of schedules to make, details to figure out, people to call, camps to keep marketing. It's weird to have to plan to plan. With all of these details in my head, it's challenging to put this whole mental mess of summer into some kind of sequential, logical gameplan. Especially for a summer you've never seen.
But every summer in camp is one you've never seen, I guess. But that first one, it's a real bugger.
Even as I write all of this, from the lobby of a McDonald's, basically pushed out of camp by those I'm working with to preserve my own sanity, I have about 70 billion little things in my head.
Still gotta plan the games.
Didn't get out the chiquicampa flyers.
Fall retreats aren't that far away and NOT A THING IS DONE FOR THOSE, OHMY-
Stop it.
My brain needs a break. Let it rest. Camp will happen regardless. The big stuff is taken care of. The staff are here. The campers are signed up (around 90 right now, but a lot of them just show up without calling.) The devotional booklets are printed BUT THEY STILL NEED TO BE STAPLED.
I'm learning about delegating responsibility. My first thought with every task is just to do it. I used to feel guilty about delegating. Or at least, nervous about passing stuff off to newbies. Doing everything yourself is never good though. It gets messy. Overwhelming. Stressful.
Especially that last one. If effective delegation were an artform, I'd be a four year-old with finger paints, helplessly hoping to grow into a Picasso.
And so staff training started on Friday. And pretty much since then, I've been running, with this constant noise of to-dos in my head. OHHH, FORGOT ABOUT THE STAFF TRAINING EVALS-
No. Cut that out.
And today is day six. We've covered a lot of ground, and skipped over a lot of ground that, I hope, we'll come back to later. Our staff stays over on the weekends, which means we have some duties on Saturdays as well. Not really a day off in the whole month. So you've gotta pace yourself. If you're not careful, you can crash.
So they kicked me out. And to think, on a night when the Tigers had already played a day game.
Yeah, as I'm starting to write this blog, I'm pretty sure it's gonna be one of those life update posts where I don't get on a soapbox or anything. I don't think.
Starting in early June, I started to be busy. Staff training was a few weeks away. Lots of teaching materials to write, lots of schedules to make, details to figure out, people to call, camps to keep marketing. It's weird to have to plan to plan. With all of these details in my head, it's challenging to put this whole mental mess of summer into some kind of sequential, logical gameplan. Especially for a summer you've never seen.
But every summer in camp is one you've never seen, I guess. But that first one, it's a real bugger.
Even as I write all of this, from the lobby of a McDonald's, basically pushed out of camp by those I'm working with to preserve my own sanity, I have about 70 billion little things in my head.
Still gotta plan the games.
Didn't get out the chiquicampa flyers.
Fall retreats aren't that far away and NOT A THING IS DONE FOR THOSE, OHMY-
Stop it.
My brain needs a break. Let it rest. Camp will happen regardless. The big stuff is taken care of. The staff are here. The campers are signed up (around 90 right now, but a lot of them just show up without calling.) The devotional booklets are printed BUT THEY STILL NEED TO BE STAPLED.
I'm learning about delegating responsibility. My first thought with every task is just to do it. I used to feel guilty about delegating. Or at least, nervous about passing stuff off to newbies. Doing everything yourself is never good though. It gets messy. Overwhelming. Stressful.
Especially that last one. If effective delegation were an artform, I'd be a four year-old with finger paints, helplessly hoping to grow into a Picasso.
And so staff training started on Friday. And pretty much since then, I've been running, with this constant noise of to-dos in my head. OHHH, FORGOT ABOUT THE STAFF TRAINING EVALS-
No. Cut that out.
And today is day six. We've covered a lot of ground, and skipped over a lot of ground that, I hope, we'll come back to later. Our staff stays over on the weekends, which means we have some duties on Saturdays as well. Not really a day off in the whole month. So you've gotta pace yourself. If you're not careful, you can crash.
So they kicked me out. And to think, on a night when the Tigers had already played a day game.
June 28, 2011
The other side of service
Last night I had garbage duty in the dining hall. It's a pretty simple set up, really. You stand behind a table, people come up and drop off their plates, napkins, utensils, cups, and extra food. You sort all of that out so it fits into one garbage bag. Feeding 200 World Changers can lead to lots of bags of garbage if you're not careful.
I'm careful. I'm also good at Tetris, so I'm a pretty good at dropping stuff in place as it comes in. And I was a dishwasher a bunch of years ago, so I'm pretty good at arranging food waste and getting covered in filth. I have a system, and I stick to it. It's more refined than I care to admit.
So garbage duty isn't a big deal to me. I actually like doing it, it's a chance to serve other people and bless them. All they have to do is set their stuff down on the table. I handle everything else. And blessing others blesses me. So I get to stand there with a smile on my face and talk to people as they come up, and I make their life just a tiny bit easier.
Sometimes, though, people ignore the system. Even though I am standing there wearing my gloves and handling everyone else's garbage, they still choose to come up and take care of it themselves. Usually, it's the adults.
They mean well. I know what they're thinking:
"I don't want to be a bother."
"I can do this myself."
"Don't worry, I got this."
They'd hate for some poor missionary guy to have to handle their garbage for them. So they come back behind the table and place their stuff in the wrong bins and get in my way and - come to think of it, steal my blessing.
I am there to serve, but they don't want to be served. They take my service away.
Sometimes people would just rather not be served.
Take footwashing, for example. It's far more awkward and uncomfortable for the person allowing their feet to be washed than for the person doing the washing. Your feet stink, and they sweat, and that's terribly inconvenient for anyone getting close to them. But Jesus did it. Imagine Jesus washing your smelly, nasty feet. Now there's an image for you.
It's uncomfortable to let somebody serve you. It can be uncomfortable to need to be served. "I don't want to be a bother" and "I don't want to be served" are not all that different.
Are you good at letting people serve you?
I'm not. Some people - Christians in particular - are very eager to give, but would rather not receive. After all, we're told 'tis better to give than to receive.
But receiving service is different. After all, becoming a Christian has an awful lot to do with recognizing that you need help.
Sometimes, people genuinely want to serve you.
And there's nothing wrong with allowing someone to serve you. So let them do it. Don't take away their service.
So the next time you see me in the garbage line at CDC, with my hand out...
Don't worry, I got this.
I'm careful. I'm also good at Tetris, so I'm a pretty good at dropping stuff in place as it comes in. And I was a dishwasher a bunch of years ago, so I'm pretty good at arranging food waste and getting covered in filth. I have a system, and I stick to it. It's more refined than I care to admit.
So garbage duty isn't a big deal to me. I actually like doing it, it's a chance to serve other people and bless them. All they have to do is set their stuff down on the table. I handle everything else. And blessing others blesses me. So I get to stand there with a smile on my face and talk to people as they come up, and I make their life just a tiny bit easier.
Sometimes, though, people ignore the system. Even though I am standing there wearing my gloves and handling everyone else's garbage, they still choose to come up and take care of it themselves. Usually, it's the adults.
They mean well. I know what they're thinking:
"I don't want to be a bother."
"I can do this myself."
"Don't worry, I got this."
They'd hate for some poor missionary guy to have to handle their garbage for them. So they come back behind the table and place their stuff in the wrong bins and get in my way and - come to think of it, steal my blessing.
I am there to serve, but they don't want to be served. They take my service away.
Sometimes people would just rather not be served.
Take footwashing, for example. It's far more awkward and uncomfortable for the person allowing their feet to be washed than for the person doing the washing. Your feet stink, and they sweat, and that's terribly inconvenient for anyone getting close to them. But Jesus did it. Imagine Jesus washing your smelly, nasty feet. Now there's an image for you.
It's uncomfortable to let somebody serve you. It can be uncomfortable to need to be served. "I don't want to be a bother" and "I don't want to be served" are not all that different.
Are you good at letting people serve you?
I'm not. Some people - Christians in particular - are very eager to give, but would rather not receive. After all, we're told 'tis better to give than to receive.
But receiving service is different. After all, becoming a Christian has an awful lot to do with recognizing that you need help.
Sometimes, people genuinely want to serve you.
And there's nothing wrong with allowing someone to serve you. So let them do it. Don't take away their service.
So the next time you see me in the garbage line at CDC, with my hand out...
Don't worry, I got this.
June 22, 2011
The Lanyard
Many moons ago, in my first summer at Grace (2003), I was given a lanyard. It was a cherished gift, an in-crowd thing, for the in-the-staff-at-GYC-crowd, given to us all by Chad Saxton. At least, that's how I remember it. I've had it for a long time.
By some miracle, it survived being one of my possessions. I lost it many, many times, but it always came back. It was subject to some pretty serious perils - dangling off my neck over starting campfires, unscrubbed toilets, plates of food, lots of dangerous situations. We had some good times together:
(together on a hiking trip)
(during my short lived blue-glue-hair punk, eat potatoes from Styrofoam cups phase)
(Worn completely unnecessarily during the eating contest at Mangames. Shoutout to Jared and Tim.)
(As an aquatic observer, complete with required AO whistle, on the raft. Shout out to Dave and Paolo)
The lanyard was a beautiful thing. At first, it was just a very convenient way of holding onto keys. At Grace, I only needed two keys. One got me past padlocks, and another got me into everything else. (Note to self: Come up with a clever joke about how the keys didn't just get me into doors, but trouble too.) It maintained that cause when I brought it down here to Puerto Rico. Unfortunately, now I have a bunch of keys that I carry everywhere and now I walk around with saggy shorts. I think they're affecting my posture too. I couldn't carry them around my neck, so I kept them off the lanyard and used it just for the whistle and the house key. But anyway.
(see. I told you: Lots of keys.)
But it became more than a key-holder. It became a treasure of sorts. It said "Grace Youth Camps," something no lanyard is likely ever to say again because it's Grace Adventures now. Only people from way-back-when could have one. It was a part of my history, a symbol.
Also, it had a little clip so I could detach it and let people borrow my keys without having to endure the enormous inconvenience of removing the whole lanyard from my neck.
So it was disheartening when I lost the lanyard and the house key and whistle it held two months ago. I had loaned it to someone to use the whistle - the same one that had been attached to it for years, probably. When camp ended, I realized all the counselors had gone home and I didn't have my lanyard. I called around to see if anyone had it. They didn't. One guy said another guy had it last, that guy said another guy had it last. I worried, just a little, but held out hope it might turn up on camp someday. It had my house key on it too. For the time being, my house went unlocked.
Then.
One day.
I was picking up some trash outside by our firepit.
Dave was riding around on the lawnmower by the firepit.
And I heard
an awful clink-clang-clunk-thump of some foreign object being run through a lawnmower.
And I don't have to tell you it was my lanyard, whistle, and house key.
Dave shut off the mower and held up the pieces. He asked if it was mine. My heart sank.
A little shred of my history had just been demolished by a lawnmower. The whistle was gone. The house key was somehow still intact, just a little scraped and bent. The cloth of the lanyard was chopped into pieces, so one of them said "Grace Yo" and another said "-th ca" and still another "mps." I held them in my hands and wanted to sob a little bit.
"So you've been here the whole time. I've been missing you." It seemed like a such a tragedy that this thing, this cheap little thing, could endure for so long, could narrowly escape death or separation so many times, hang around my neck for so many memories, and sit outside waiting for me to find it only to meet its doom in a split second in a lawn mower. I held my composure. I didn't sob or anything, but the disappointment was displayed on my face nevertheless.
I'm sentimental, I guess.
Markus was there, and he took the pieces from my hands. He said, "I can tell that this meant a lot to you. I'll see what I can do."
Markus sews. Sometimes I make fun of him for it.
And so it was that this week, Markus called me and told me he had a gift for me. He came over and knocked on my door. I opened it, and he held out his hand with the lanyard hanging from it. He had fixed it. I was kind of speechless. He stitched the whole thing together, and even re-embroidered the missing letters back on it as best he could. It's a little crooked in spots but that's no big deal. Actually, it gives it some character. It gives it even more background story.
(peace)
This concludes the story of how the lanyard, a symbol, was lost, destroyed, found, repaired, returned. Redemption is a beautiful thing on every level.
By some miracle, it survived being one of my possessions. I lost it many, many times, but it always came back. It was subject to some pretty serious perils - dangling off my neck over starting campfires, unscrubbed toilets, plates of food, lots of dangerous situations. We had some good times together:
(together on a hiking trip)
(during my short lived blue-glue-hair punk, eat potatoes from Styrofoam cups phase)
(Worn completely unnecessarily during the eating contest at Mangames. Shoutout to Jared and Tim.)
(As an aquatic observer, complete with required AO whistle, on the raft. Shout out to Dave and Paolo)
The lanyard was a beautiful thing. At first, it was just a very convenient way of holding onto keys. At Grace, I only needed two keys. One got me past padlocks, and another got me into everything else. (Note to self: Come up with a clever joke about how the keys didn't just get me into doors, but trouble too.) It maintained that cause when I brought it down here to Puerto Rico. Unfortunately, now I have a bunch of keys that I carry everywhere and now I walk around with saggy shorts. I think they're affecting my posture too. I couldn't carry them around my neck, so I kept them off the lanyard and used it just for the whistle and the house key. But anyway.
(see. I told you: Lots of keys.)
But it became more than a key-holder. It became a treasure of sorts. It said "Grace Youth Camps," something no lanyard is likely ever to say again because it's Grace Adventures now. Only people from way-back-when could have one. It was a part of my history, a symbol.
Also, it had a little clip so I could detach it and let people borrow my keys without having to endure the enormous inconvenience of removing the whole lanyard from my neck.
So it was disheartening when I lost the lanyard and the house key and whistle it held two months ago. I had loaned it to someone to use the whistle - the same one that had been attached to it for years, probably. When camp ended, I realized all the counselors had gone home and I didn't have my lanyard. I called around to see if anyone had it. They didn't. One guy said another guy had it last, that guy said another guy had it last. I worried, just a little, but held out hope it might turn up on camp someday. It had my house key on it too. For the time being, my house went unlocked.
Then.
One day.
I was picking up some trash outside by our firepit.
Dave was riding around on the lawnmower by the firepit.
And I heard
an awful clink-clang-clunk-thump of some foreign object being run through a lawnmower.
And I don't have to tell you it was my lanyard, whistle, and house key.
Dave shut off the mower and held up the pieces. He asked if it was mine. My heart sank.
A little shred of my history had just been demolished by a lawnmower. The whistle was gone. The house key was somehow still intact, just a little scraped and bent. The cloth of the lanyard was chopped into pieces, so one of them said "Grace Yo" and another said "-th ca" and still another "mps." I held them in my hands and wanted to sob a little bit.
"So you've been here the whole time. I've been missing you." It seemed like a such a tragedy that this thing, this cheap little thing, could endure for so long, could narrowly escape death or separation so many times, hang around my neck for so many memories, and sit outside waiting for me to find it only to meet its doom in a split second in a lawn mower. I held my composure. I didn't sob or anything, but the disappointment was displayed on my face nevertheless.
I'm sentimental, I guess.
Markus was there, and he took the pieces from my hands. He said, "I can tell that this meant a lot to you. I'll see what I can do."
Markus sews. Sometimes I make fun of him for it.
And so it was that this week, Markus called me and told me he had a gift for me. He came over and knocked on my door. I opened it, and he held out his hand with the lanyard hanging from it. He had fixed it. I was kind of speechless. He stitched the whole thing together, and even re-embroidered the missing letters back on it as best he could. It's a little crooked in spots but that's no big deal. Actually, it gives it some character. It gives it even more background story.
(peace)
This concludes the story of how the lanyard, a symbol, was lost, destroyed, found, repaired, returned. Redemption is a beautiful thing on every level.
June 15, 2011
June 10, 2011
The Great Equalizer
One of the drawbacks of my job is that it can, on occasion, require me to spend precious time playing lots of fun games with kids.
And often, I am better at the games than the kids are. This gives me an exercise in humility because I often want to display my dominance, put them in their place, and make known to all my vast superiority in whatever game we're playing. Especially to cocky 10-year-olds.
(Note: Sometimes they are better than me at certain games. I will not be addressing such scenarios today.)
Generally, I have to tone it down and remember that the playing field is not level. I have been gifted with a decade or more of additional experience and, to a lesser extent, a more athletic frame and larger brain. But mostly the additional experience. I typically temper the walloping I hand them based on the disparity in our skills. That's fair.
And yet, there is a flip side to that coin of justice.
Not every game is fair. Not every game needs to be fair. Sometimes, the result is important and hard work and preparation and skill and talent should be rewarded, and one team should be crowned a champion while the others are given something to aspire to.
Like little league baseball. And athletics in general. For me, it was high school marching band.
But 4-way Beach Ball Soccer is not one of those times. Camp games don't often require preparation and practice by the participants, and the reward is often inconsequential or candy-related. Justice, in camp games, really just means that every kid has fun.
Hence, it is often my role as a self-moderating participant to become the Great Equalizer.
My team is getting pummeled, and kids are losing interest? Better help us catch up and keep it interesting.
We're way too far ahead and kids on the other team have started to wail in embarrassment? My defense might suddenly tank.
A few kids are dominating and need to be neutralized? I'm on it.
It's pretty gratifying to become an instrument of justice. When I put a kid in his place, there might be a fist pump or two and I might walk a little taller, with a little more swagger. And yes, it might be just 4-way Beach Ball Soccer, but justice has nevertheless been served.
And that, friends, is what it's all about.
And often, I am better at the games than the kids are. This gives me an exercise in humility because I often want to display my dominance, put them in their place, and make known to all my vast superiority in whatever game we're playing. Especially to cocky 10-year-olds.
(Note: Sometimes they are better than me at certain games. I will not be addressing such scenarios today.)
Generally, I have to tone it down and remember that the playing field is not level. I have been gifted with a decade or more of additional experience and, to a lesser extent, a more athletic frame and larger brain. But mostly the additional experience. I typically temper the walloping I hand them based on the disparity in our skills. That's fair.
And yet, there is a flip side to that coin of justice.
Not every game is fair. Not every game needs to be fair. Sometimes, the result is important and hard work and preparation and skill and talent should be rewarded, and one team should be crowned a champion while the others are given something to aspire to.
Like little league baseball. And athletics in general. For me, it was high school marching band.
But 4-way Beach Ball Soccer is not one of those times. Camp games don't often require preparation and practice by the participants, and the reward is often inconsequential or candy-related. Justice, in camp games, really just means that every kid has fun.
Hence, it is often my role as a self-moderating participant to become the Great Equalizer.
My team is getting pummeled, and kids are losing interest? Better help us catch up and keep it interesting.
We're way too far ahead and kids on the other team have started to wail in embarrassment? My defense might suddenly tank.
A few kids are dominating and need to be neutralized? I'm on it.
It's pretty gratifying to become an instrument of justice. When I put a kid in his place, there might be a fist pump or two and I might walk a little taller, with a little more swagger. And yes, it might be just 4-way Beach Ball Soccer, but justice has nevertheless been served.
And that, friends, is what it's all about.
June 1, 2011
Points of View
I've been reading Rob Bell's book, Love Wins.
Where was I two months ago, right?
I often attended Mars Hill and typically appreciated Bell's teaching style, as well as the laid back atmosphere of his church, and the band's unique infusions of popular Rock/Indie/Disco/Funk tunes with modern worship songs. Also, the services started at 11. That goes a long way when you're delivering pizzas until 2 am.
I had a Love Wins bumper sticker on my last car, and still have one on a music book. I also have a Jesus Wins bumper sticker put out by another West Michigan church to contrast it.
Maybe love wins, but publicity definitely does. I heard buzz from plenty of Puerto Ricans (and Americans, and news outlets, and blogs, and relatives, and... yeah) about some unorthodox ideas from a pastor I knew fairly well, through many church services over many years.
They were saying all kinds of things
about what he was saying,
and what he was saying
didn't seem to be in line with
what
others
had
always
been
saying.
Questioning Gandhi's eternal resting place?
Universalism?
Must investigate.
I visited a Universalist church once. Didn't care for it. Their congregation was surprisingly aged, but the building was beautiful. I really couldn't see how embracing every religion and worldview gave them any kind of framework to make sense of God, the world, sin, death, anything. Their syllabus was far too open, kinda like taking a class on "Stuff." What are we going to learn about today? "Stuff." How do you study for that? How do you leave and go home and ponder that and come back the next week seeking something deeper, something concrete, something to stand on? How does that change your life? They had pagan verses in their hymn books. The sermon was self-helpish. It was Oprah church. I could have stayed home and watched Oprah.
A Christian church, on the other hand, has a framework. There's a Bible, there's tradition, there's a refined approach with a limited swath. You can gauge the Pastor's teaching against the Bible. Is he right or wrong? Why? It's in the Word. Go read it for yourself. At a Universalist church, you just kinda have to decide if the pastor is smart and take his word for it.
All that to say: Rob Bell isn't that kind of Universalist. I don't know what he is. He still uses the Bible as a framework, he still says Jesus is The Way. He just says it with a twist, one that I can't really refute, support, or explain. I'm not convinced he's a heretic or anything, though I do think there are some questions a laymen like myself can ask that a Christian pastor with a wide following probably can't, at least without complications and blowback. It's one thing for me to be at home, watching TV, wondering - What am I going to eat for dinner? What if God lets everyone into heaven anyway? Where are my socks? It's another for a pastor to write a book about it.
His book is okay, as far as readability goes. I'm about 80% of the way through it and mustering motivation to finish it. Some of what he says, I like. Some of what he says, I don't really have an opinion on. Some of what he says, I don't agree with. But for covering such a controversial topic, the book is pretty boring. Maybe that's because I often read it when my eyelids are already heavy (*Not a good state in which to read your Bible, btw.) He devotes a lot of it to asking questions, many of which he doesn't answer. And I think that's what he set out to do - ask a lot of questions. I'm cool with that. I'm all about getting to the bottom of why we believe what we believe.
We were riding up to church in San Juan on Sunday and I had the book in my lap. A friend was riding shotgun and asked me about it. He's pretty opinionated. He'd admit this. So he asked me about the book...
I articulated Bell's point of view as well as I could and diplomatically said there were some things about it I like and some that I don't. He went on to aptly debunk most of what I said, at least as he understood it, quoting scripture along the way.
I found myself defending Rob Bell's point of view. Which is interesting because it's not one I particularly agree with. I do this a lot, it turns out. In this instance, my inclination was to back up Rob Bell's book because the person debunking it by their own admission hadn't read it.
I don't consider myself very argumentative, and I don't really care about winning an argument or being especially convincing. I just like discussion. I often take a centrist viewpoint. Maybe that makes me wishy-washy. I've been accused of that before.
Or maybe it's just more fun to argue with someone you agree with. That way, they defend my point of view, and they typically do it better than I could.
Where was I two months ago, right?
I often attended Mars Hill and typically appreciated Bell's teaching style, as well as the laid back atmosphere of his church, and the band's unique infusions of popular Rock/Indie/Disco/Funk tunes with modern worship songs. Also, the services started at 11. That goes a long way when you're delivering pizzas until 2 am.
I had a Love Wins bumper sticker on my last car, and still have one on a music book. I also have a Jesus Wins bumper sticker put out by another West Michigan church to contrast it.
Maybe love wins, but publicity definitely does. I heard buzz from plenty of Puerto Ricans (and Americans, and news outlets, and blogs, and relatives, and... yeah) about some unorthodox ideas from a pastor I knew fairly well, through many church services over many years.
They were saying all kinds of things
about what he was saying,
and what he was saying
didn't seem to be in line with
what
others
had
always
been
saying.
Questioning Gandhi's eternal resting place?
Universalism?
Must investigate.
I visited a Universalist church once. Didn't care for it. Their congregation was surprisingly aged, but the building was beautiful. I really couldn't see how embracing every religion and worldview gave them any kind of framework to make sense of God, the world, sin, death, anything. Their syllabus was far too open, kinda like taking a class on "Stuff." What are we going to learn about today? "Stuff." How do you study for that? How do you leave and go home and ponder that and come back the next week seeking something deeper, something concrete, something to stand on? How does that change your life? They had pagan verses in their hymn books. The sermon was self-helpish. It was Oprah church. I could have stayed home and watched Oprah.
A Christian church, on the other hand, has a framework. There's a Bible, there's tradition, there's a refined approach with a limited swath. You can gauge the Pastor's teaching against the Bible. Is he right or wrong? Why? It's in the Word. Go read it for yourself. At a Universalist church, you just kinda have to decide if the pastor is smart and take his word for it.
All that to say: Rob Bell isn't that kind of Universalist. I don't know what he is. He still uses the Bible as a framework, he still says Jesus is The Way. He just says it with a twist, one that I can't really refute, support, or explain. I'm not convinced he's a heretic or anything, though I do think there are some questions a laymen like myself can ask that a Christian pastor with a wide following probably can't, at least without complications and blowback. It's one thing for me to be at home, watching TV, wondering - What am I going to eat for dinner? What if God lets everyone into heaven anyway? Where are my socks? It's another for a pastor to write a book about it.
His book is okay, as far as readability goes. I'm about 80% of the way through it and mustering motivation to finish it. Some of what he says, I like. Some of what he says, I don't really have an opinion on. Some of what he says, I don't agree with. But for covering such a controversial topic, the book is pretty boring. Maybe that's because I often read it when my eyelids are already heavy (*Not a good state in which to read your Bible, btw.) He devotes a lot of it to asking questions, many of which he doesn't answer. And I think that's what he set out to do - ask a lot of questions. I'm cool with that. I'm all about getting to the bottom of why we believe what we believe.
We were riding up to church in San Juan on Sunday and I had the book in my lap. A friend was riding shotgun and asked me about it. He's pretty opinionated. He'd admit this. So he asked me about the book...
I articulated Bell's point of view as well as I could and diplomatically said there were some things about it I like and some that I don't. He went on to aptly debunk most of what I said, at least as he understood it, quoting scripture along the way.
I found myself defending Rob Bell's point of view. Which is interesting because it's not one I particularly agree with. I do this a lot, it turns out. In this instance, my inclination was to back up Rob Bell's book because the person debunking it by their own admission hadn't read it.
I don't consider myself very argumentative, and I don't really care about winning an argument or being especially convincing. I just like discussion. I often take a centrist viewpoint. Maybe that makes me wishy-washy. I've been accused of that before.
Or maybe it's just more fun to argue with someone you agree with. That way, they defend my point of view, and they typically do it better than I could.
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