AAARRR!

Ahoy!

Ye should be knowin' that September 19th is Talk like a Pirate Day. Some land lubbers weren't believin' me, but I've t'proof that the likes o' Caleb could not deny--I found 'er on thurrr interrrnet (I'm an amateurrr pirate, so me lingo limits itself to an emphasis on rrr's--I mean, ARR!'s). Ye can even get yer own pirate name (that thar title should be a link). Mine were "Otto the Peevish". Me pirate nature were: "Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!" I'm not shur whar a "fine, reliable pirate" fits in the pirate scheme o'things, nor whar they got "steadiness and planning" out o' me answers. Aye, starboard now! Avast!

The Grandmothers of Christmas

This morning I went to Trinity Presbyterian for church. I don't think I've been there since July. When I go, I usually walk. I love that tangible connection between home and worship.

Today, I had company--Alena, my housemate, and Polly and Charles, friends. I savor the quiet community of walking to and from church, the simplicity and fellowship. Even if all the chat is chatter, creating that space on either side slows life down a bit and makes room for a smidge more reflection and reverence. Sometimes I walk alone. Also good.

The talk was on Jesus' grandmothers (the ones listed in Matthew: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba). The broad theme was what God has to say about family. The speaker described the stories surrounding these women and their nations--the shame and scandal. And Jesus chose these stories to shape his lineage.

I love being reminded of how God transforms shame, how he redeems our stories. I love knowing that, in a world of broken homes and histories, God simply says, through Jesus, "I know." I love the example of transparency and courage: God bought a home with skeletons in the closet. And, as only he can do, he resurrected them. I love that when the sinless Savior died, his blood carried away geneaologies of sin.

One of my favorite names for God is Immanuel.

Stories like those of Jesus' grandmothers are why.

I'm so glad I have legs

Seriously. I'm just sitting here with this incredible sense of wellbeing and contentment. Because I have legs. Doug and I went on a great hike today. It would have been very difficult without legs.

Oh, The Things You Can Fry

Yes, it is truly amazing the sheer number of fryable things out there. Indeed, I plan in the near future to compose a short ode dedicated to this theme. My muse will be the Puyallup Fair*. My afternoon trip there will be my research.

The Puyallup Fair is Western Washington's largest fair. It has all the things a fair should--4H cats languishing (or at least hiding in litter boxes) in diorama displays, chickens with inexplicable feather growths, people pretending to be cowboys (you know, the ones who call into country stations from Bellevue with a deep southern twang that's as real as their September tans), Royal Canadian Mounted Police prancing about on Canadian horses to peppy Canadian music, rabbits contemplating heart attacks because they don't even have a litterbox to hide in, tremendous pumpkins, arbitrarily judged floral displays, enough moving, blinking, "musical" rides to send me into a blithering state of sensory overload and, above all, fried foods.

Now, I'm not talking about just any fried foods--though, of course, those were there too. I'm talking about "see-it-to-believe-it" fried foods. My co-worker, her husband and I were on a mission. We searched, we asked, we scoured. Following rumors, hearsay and the smell of hot canola, we eventually found ourselves winding around the outskirts of the fairgrounds. There, in the twilight, we saw it, glowing like a shrine to all that is excessive and glutinous in America. Now, maybe it was wrong to support such a thing. I'll let you judge. Nevertheless, as we slowly walked home, exchanging fried twinkies, snickers and oreos**, a little bit of that Fair Glow followed us, and I could feel the end consonants dropping off words like years off my life.

Y'all come back now, y'hear, and don' be keepin' all those twinkies fer yerself...

*I will personally award a candybar to the non-Washingtonian who can phonetically describe the pronunciation of "Puyallup". Frying is optional, cheating is not.

**Not as amazing as fried pickles, granted, but still pretty stellar. Shout out to Bef for alerting me to this new pickle phenomenon. Gross, but I'd probably try it.

Fall's First Fire

Today I waded through early morning rain, swaggering slightly to accomodate the copper bin slung over one hip. Then, standing on tiptoe to gather logs from the top, loving the sense of plenty that is a well-stocked woodshed, loving the smell of damp earth and mixed wood (cedar, pine, fir). Staggering inside again. Carefully arranging each log in its place, laying the first flames, polishing the stove's glass panes (yes, in that order--no, not standard operating procedure). Curling up with a book and a cuppa'.

It's not tea in the garden, but Fall certainly has its charms.

Marimba debut

There's nothing quite like elementary school. Even when you're a grown up. Where else could I have played a soprano marimba before an adoring audience some 500 souls strong? Where else would the performance be delayed so that the audience and performers could just stand there and wave to each other? Where else would my musical capacity receive such heartfelt and generous applause?

So there I was, first assembly of the year, up on stage with some other daring (read: willing-to-come-early-and-leave-late-in-order-to-learn-to-play-marimbas-in-a-few-short-days) staff folks. Every neuron in my brain firing AC, GC, GB, EC, repeat (not technically stunning, but the music teacher told me the part still mattered). The alto and bass marimbas adding their deep resonance. Mmmm. Glorious.

Of Marimbas, Poetry and World Domination

The thing with playing in the marimba band was that it spiraled me into one of my "why can't I be a swank superstar" pity fests*. Driving home, my inner dialogue ranted against the injustices of societal norms of attraction. Norms of appearance, yes, but also of ability. (This conversation primarily occurred because my marimba skills are mediocre at best. To circumvent despair, I'd been listing things I actually CAN do. This worked until I realized that my skills aren't exactly magazine features: "How to be more poetic," "Doodling your way into a man's heart," "The allure of risk taking"--mainstream just doesn't touch this stuff.)

BUT WAIT, what's this on the radio? NPR had begun describing a world leader who captivated followers with the poetry and prose of his language. Yes, there he was, a man who used poetry to enthrall the hearts and minds of his generation. He hadn't needed musicality, looks, athleticism. Indeed, lacking all three, he remains one of the most sought after people of our time. His name? Osama Bin Laden.

Sigh.

*yes, I realize that pity fests are irrational, selfish and ungrateful. I felt bad about all of those failures, too. Sigh x 3.

Good news gone bad

So, with my feeler still comatose, my thinker has had free reign to further dissect the implications of telephone con artists. I wonder what role they've played in changing our generation's approach to faith in general and the gospel in particular. Think about it--any time someone offers us something REALLY good (or even just passably mediocre), how often is our first thought, "What's the catch?" Whenever the world offers something too good to be true, it usually isn't (good, true or both).

Hear me on this one? That tension of feeling like our two choices are gullibility or cynicism?

And into this tension God offers the best deal ever--eternal life, divine resources, love, wholeness, healing, forgiveness, hope, purpose. All by grace. All free.

I wonder how many people turn away because it's simply "too good to be true."

And we'd rather be hard than foolish, empty than fooled.

So Jesus said, "Be wise as serpents, innocent as doves."
(Feel free to judge contextual legitimacy or lack thereof by going to Matthew 10:16)

Too tasty to not document

This was dinner tonight:

Wedges of crimson heirloom tomato, thick slices of crusty baguette, slivers of Serrano Spanish ham, just picked basil and fresh mozarella cheese, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, sprinkled with freshly ground pepper and french sea salt, consumed with a glass of Pinot Grigio, and eaten without silverware.

So I'm an optimist

You know how you can walk up to some people (and I think we all know which people) and they will, without provocation, begin throwing letters at you, letters that define who you are and what you do? For example, ENTJ or ISFP. Well, the two times I've actually taken this test (granted, a while ago) I came out evenly split between T (Thinker) and F (Feeler). I'll admit that part of me savors this evidence of internal complexity. Sadly, the larger truth is that this complexity confuses me, or at least results in wasted time.

Here's an example from tonight:

Every once in a while, I get this urge to hear out telemarketers. I mean, I really want to believe that they have something worthwhile to say (feeler). They're people too, afterall (feeler). And they've got to make a living (feeler). So they call me up, and I listen to their offer. But then the thinker kicks in. Why do they want my bank routing information? Why did the man's employee ID number change within the space of 3 minutes? Why do all these people with exotic accents have names like James Butterworth and Marshall Hunt? (Feeler kicks back with an "It's that wicked imperialism").

Given the increasing doubts, I attempt a polite escape. But I'm compromised by my dual nature. It's sapping me of much needed external assertiveness.

Paralyzed by this internal dialogue, I keep listening. Marshall Hunt throws in something for the thinker--"hard facts" if you will--phone numbers, addresses, location numbers.

But by now, the feeler's not really buying it. They're using way too many big words. The verbal manipulation's a bit too obvious. Besides, I'm vaguely uncomfortable with their pronunciation of legit-eh-mate; some awkward cross between Indian salesman and Australian come on.

Time passes. I've already told them (several minutes ago, in fact) that I won't be giving out any bank information. They're beginning to believe it for themselves.

We say a terse goodbye.

My feeler feels guilty for wasting their time. My thinker thinks "What about OUR time?!!" My feeler says, "Well, at least I believe in the good in people." My thinker says, "Well, at least I'm a realist" and beats up my feeler.

It's exhausting, really.

This convicts my soul

It's the last meeting in a long day of meetings at Hick's Lake. The gospel is washing over me like rain and I'm lulled by it's ancient familiarity, good news as old as the loving heart of God. But then something breaks through. The speaker speaks about Hurricane Katrina. This is current. I have current opinions about this. There is nothing lulling about my opinions. How come all those rich people didn't make room in their cars for people without cars? Why aren't there any means of bilingual emergency broadcasting in a city with such a large hispanic population? Why didn't people leave? Why couldn't people leave? How can race, class, politics, money be so powerful that they make themselves heard above something so terribly primal as a hurricane? Sitting in my orange plastic chair, I remember the radio clip that makes me cry, "I don't know where my sons are. I just wish they'd contact me." I think about my mom.

And then I think about the gospel. I think about how rich I am, loaded down with good news and safe ground. I think about my free access to the Bible and to fellowship which fuels my Christian walk. I think about eternal souls and coming judgement and wonder if I really let myself believe in death and hell. There's a lot of room in my car, and more often than not, I barely brake for pedestrians...

Daring deeds during dawn desk dumping

Once upon a time there were three housemates with a large, ugly, decrepit desk cluttering up their living room. The youngest housemate said, "Let's put it in the basement." The middle housemate said, "Let's take it to the dump." The oldest housemate said, "Let's get up really early, wear all black, draw fake moustaches on our faces with eyeliner and sneak it on to a fraternity's lawn." (Okay, the oldest housemate's getting a little too much credit. It was the middle housemate who knew that the Greek system has free dumping--she's in a sorority--but the disguises were all me...err, ahem, the oldest housemate's.) Sadly, the oldest housemate has a tender conscience, and much of the drama was lost because the desk was deposited by the dumpster rather than in some other, more prime, location.