I watched "Julie/Julia" yesterday. Makes me want to do something interesting with my blog.
So, I need ideas for blog-revamping. Or a something-revamping. Or just anything I can use as a New Year's resolution so I can feel like something new is happening in my life...
1 New Thing Every Day. There's an idea. I should try to do something new every day. Then again...that's a vague term, and very easily boring. I mean...if I just read a new book every day, things would get boring pretty quickly. Or ate a new ice cream flavor. Are there even 365 ice cream flavors??
I got a webcam for Christmas. So technically, I could start a video-blog. That might be interesting. Then again...it might just be another opportunity for me to ramble. Also, I'm not sure my mother would approve of my showing my face on youtube...I might get stalked.
Then again...there are a lot of things I do that my mother would disapprove of....if she knew...
And then, sometimes, there are times when I think even writing this blog is a waste of time. I keep around four different journals (one for poetry, two for thoughts, and one for projects). So what's this one for?
Existential questions...
on a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT note, I will be filming a lengthy - by which I mean 20-minute - film over the course of the coming week. It is very difficult and complicated, and as producer, I'm stressing out a lot. So prayers would be very much appreciated. Thanks.
12.26.2010
12.23.2010
End of Story
The best end to every story is love and the promise of new adventure, particularly after a point where it seemed like the end.
The end of every story should feel like this - a sense of infinite peace. Not that there will be no more troubles, but a knowledge that, when trouble comes, things will turn out for the best. The rest after a great struggle, where one seems all too inadequate. And peace, as you are assured that you are safe, that there is someone out there working for your good. The elation as the losing army sees reinforcements on the battlefield. The exhaustion after a race well-run. The joy of knowing you are loved, after years of uncertainty. Proof, after a lifetime of wandering between doubt and trust. The relief of a project finished and lying there, shining in all its glory, on the table. And the peace and hush of a child asleep.
The end of every story should feel like this - a sense of infinite peace. Not that there will be no more troubles, but a knowledge that, when trouble comes, things will turn out for the best. The rest after a great struggle, where one seems all too inadequate. And peace, as you are assured that you are safe, that there is someone out there working for your good. The elation as the losing army sees reinforcements on the battlefield. The exhaustion after a race well-run. The joy of knowing you are loved, after years of uncertainty. Proof, after a lifetime of wandering between doubt and trust. The relief of a project finished and lying there, shining in all its glory, on the table. And the peace and hush of a child asleep.
12.03.2010
Paradise: a story
In our world there is a story, almost never told word-for-word, but oft repeated in some thin disguise.
The story goes that once, there existed a Paradise...of sorts. It was a garden, created by a powerful being, who put all sorts of wonderful things in the world in it. - at any rate, the two people, a boy and a girl, whom he had put into it, and had lived in it all their lives, considered it so. But one day, another wise and great being gave the girl who lived in Paradise an apple, that would give her wisdom and knowledge equal to the one who had created her and her Paradise. The maker of the Paradise had told her not to eat it, but in a bold step of faith, she did.
After she ate it, she saw the garden with new eyes - not as Paradise, but as Prison, with high walls surrounding the garden, and guards at every gate. She realized her own potential, all that could be done to create a true, better Paradise, outside the limits of the maker. She saw past all the lies and confinements set up by the maker. And she set out to teach everyone to see with her eyes, and to know the truth of her so-called Paradise.
I live in this world, a descendant of her descendants, surrounded by the realizations of her potential. I live in the new Paradise, created by her and her children.
And there is hardly anything of Paradise about it. We have been trying to recreate Paradise for ourselves for thousands of years, and have failed.
But I know the secret: without the Maker, no Paradise can exist.
The story goes that once, there existed a Paradise...of sorts. It was a garden, created by a powerful being, who put all sorts of wonderful things in the world in it. - at any rate, the two people, a boy and a girl, whom he had put into it, and had lived in it all their lives, considered it so. But one day, another wise and great being gave the girl who lived in Paradise an apple, that would give her wisdom and knowledge equal to the one who had created her and her Paradise. The maker of the Paradise had told her not to eat it, but in a bold step of faith, she did.
After she ate it, she saw the garden with new eyes - not as Paradise, but as Prison, with high walls surrounding the garden, and guards at every gate. She realized her own potential, all that could be done to create a true, better Paradise, outside the limits of the maker. She saw past all the lies and confinements set up by the maker. And she set out to teach everyone to see with her eyes, and to know the truth of her so-called Paradise.
I live in this world, a descendant of her descendants, surrounded by the realizations of her potential. I live in the new Paradise, created by her and her children.
And there is hardly anything of Paradise about it. We have been trying to recreate Paradise for ourselves for thousands of years, and have failed.
But I know the secret: without the Maker, no Paradise can exist.
10.17.2010
You
Something I jotted down two weeks ago. May or may not have anything to do with me as a person. For reflection.
When I talk to you, I begin to act like you. When I look at you, I begin to copy you. When I learn of you, I begin to follow you.
I overthink everything I do around you, wondering if you would approve. I calculate my every move to draw your attention. I plan my words to impress you.
I get a heady feeling from talking to you. Any exchange of words sends me into ecstasy. Any sign that you accept and love me sends a thrill down my spine. It tells me I belong, that I am part of a group.
Why am I like this, so easily influenced? Because I fear isolation and estrangement. Because I fear the risk of developing my own opinions. And because I trust that there is a strong reason for you to believe what you do.
I am a sheep with no shepherd, a lemming with no leader, a country with no constitution.
When I talk to you, I begin to act like you. When I look at you, I begin to copy you. When I learn of you, I begin to follow you.
I overthink everything I do around you, wondering if you would approve. I calculate my every move to draw your attention. I plan my words to impress you.
I get a heady feeling from talking to you. Any exchange of words sends me into ecstasy. Any sign that you accept and love me sends a thrill down my spine. It tells me I belong, that I am part of a group.
Why am I like this, so easily influenced? Because I fear isolation and estrangement. Because I fear the risk of developing my own opinions. And because I trust that there is a strong reason for you to believe what you do.
I am a sheep with no shepherd, a lemming with no leader, a country with no constitution.
9.10.2010
My friend
I have a long-distance friend called Brandon the Orthodox. I call him this, not because he does not have other interesting features, but because I know many Brandons, and he is the only Orthodox Christian among them, and we have a habit of discussing Orthodox Christianity almost every night over facebook chat.
These conversations often last for hours each night, and occasionally dive into other topics, but eventually wind up with him explaining some Orthodox tradition or practice to me, such as icons or liturgical prayer, and then my challenging it, and him refuting my challenge, and my eventual mental exhaustion and need for sleep terminating the conversation. Which leaves me to ponder the discussion as I drift off into oblivion.
As a result of these conversations, I have NOT gone Orthodox (yet), but I have reconsidered and re-evaluated many practices generally accepted in my church community. For example, I have realized that liturgical prayer is not useless, and is, in fact, beautiful and beneficial. I have also been led to ponder the nature of the word "image," and of symbolic acts such as Communion and baptism. And in these discussions, I discover how much I do not know, how much I do not understand. And often, I realize it is not for me to understand. For if I were to understand and know everything, there would be no mystery in God, no awe in worship. And I am satisfied in not knowing in full, and knowing only in part, so that God may further be glorified.
These conversations often last for hours each night, and occasionally dive into other topics, but eventually wind up with him explaining some Orthodox tradition or practice to me, such as icons or liturgical prayer, and then my challenging it, and him refuting my challenge, and my eventual mental exhaustion and need for sleep terminating the conversation. Which leaves me to ponder the discussion as I drift off into oblivion.
As a result of these conversations, I have NOT gone Orthodox (yet), but I have reconsidered and re-evaluated many practices generally accepted in my church community. For example, I have realized that liturgical prayer is not useless, and is, in fact, beautiful and beneficial. I have also been led to ponder the nature of the word "image," and of symbolic acts such as Communion and baptism. And in these discussions, I discover how much I do not know, how much I do not understand. And often, I realize it is not for me to understand. For if I were to understand and know everything, there would be no mystery in God, no awe in worship. And I am satisfied in not knowing in full, and knowing only in part, so that God may further be glorified.
9.02.2010
Things I love...and things I hate continued
21. Understanding.
22. People who consistently write blog posts that no one except two specific people seem to understand. If you want to be exclusive, write an email. Don't make me read it.
23. Clarity
24. Unnecessary subtlety
25. People
26. People
27. Missionaries
28. Missionary stories
29. Trans-Siberian Orchestra
30. Siberia
31. Running, biking, and walking
32. Exercise
33. Eating
34. Thinking about how many calories I just consumed.
35. Comparative politics
36. Politicians
37. Belief
38. Believing blindly
39. Finishing a list
40. Finishing THIS list
22. People who consistently write blog posts that no one except two specific people seem to understand. If you want to be exclusive, write an email. Don't make me read it.
23. Clarity
24. Unnecessary subtlety
25. People
26. People
27. Missionaries
28. Missionary stories
29. Trans-Siberian Orchestra
30. Siberia
31. Running, biking, and walking
32. Exercise
33. Eating
34. Thinking about how many calories I just consumed.
35. Comparative politics
36. Politicians
37. Belief
38. Believing blindly
39. Finishing a list
40. Finishing THIS list
9.01.2010
Things I love...and things I hate
So all the odd numbers will be things I love, and all the even ones, the things I hate. They switch back 'n' forth, y'see.
1. Friends that I can chat with online for hours about deep topics.
2. Friends that attempt to chat with me about nothing - like seriously, guys? You say hi...and then proceed to talk about...absolutely nothing important? awwwwkward.
3. Friends that will talk to me in real life and on chat.
4. Friends that will talk to me on chat...but seem to dislike talking on the phone, or in real life.
5. Fiction/fantasy
6. People who live in a fantasy.
7. Music
8. A "song" in rap. Which is not music.
9. Most books on Christianity.
10. Most Christian books.
11. Cannons
12. Pachelbel's Cannon.
13. Making videos.
14. Watching videos that other normal people made.
15. Smiling
16. Looking at pictures of myself smiling.
17. My college friends
18. Watching my friends leave for college.
19. Complaining in a witty fashion
20. Listening to other people complain in non-witty fashion.
1. Friends that I can chat with online for hours about deep topics.
2. Friends that attempt to chat with me about nothing - like seriously, guys? You say hi...and then proceed to talk about...absolutely nothing important? awwwwkward.
3. Friends that will talk to me in real life and on chat.
4. Friends that will talk to me on chat...but seem to dislike talking on the phone, or in real life.
5. Fiction/fantasy
6. People who live in a fantasy.
7. Music
8. A "song" in rap. Which is not music.
9. Most books on Christianity.
10. Most Christian books.
11. Cannons
12. Pachelbel's Cannon.
13. Making videos.
14. Watching videos that other normal people made.
15. Smiling
16. Looking at pictures of myself smiling.
17. My college friends
18. Watching my friends leave for college.
19. Complaining in a witty fashion
20. Listening to other people complain in non-witty fashion.
8.13.2010
Disgusted with the Human Race
No, don't worry, nothing drastic has happened in my life.
I've just been annoyed by people recently. It disgusts me, how petty/stupid/false people are, and it horrifies me, how prideful/hateful/unforgiving I can be.
There was a party at my house last night, and a bunch of families from my old church came over. Most of the teens sat around on the couch gossiping about who liked who and played truth or dare.
And speaking of my old church, the last time I went to that youth group was almost a month ago. And the only thing I discovered there that day was how the entire group was split into small cliques. (I usually spend my evenings there after the activities are over outside, talking with a few other outsiders, thereby creating another clique without meaning to.)
I have friends from Taiwan staying over at my house. This means my mother is stressed. So when she is speaking to me or my siblings, her voice is harsh and irritated, but then she will turn around and speak in a sweet voice to my friend's parents, as if nothing has happened.
My brother recently mistook something I said for something else. So he told me to shut up. I told him I didn't know I had said something wrong, and asked him to clarify. He clarified by telling me to shut up again, and stormed to his room, slammed the door closed, and began throwing things at the wall. He still hasn't told me what I said wrong, and won't admit to being wrong.
I was in a play recently, and all I could think of during rehearsals was how little the rest of the cast seemed to care for the show. They complained about how terrible things were going, and how stupid the entire thing was, but the minute the show actually finished, and people were telling them how wonderful they were, they brightened up and lapped up all the glory.
And of course, there's always the sheer stupidity of people around me. The sheer evil spoken of in newspaper headlines. The sheer pettiness of everyday conversation.
Humans sicken me. I sicken me, because I see myself joining in on these things, and falling for them every day.
Lord help us all...
I've just been annoyed by people recently. It disgusts me, how petty/stupid/false people are, and it horrifies me, how prideful/hateful/unforgiving I can be.
There was a party at my house last night, and a bunch of families from my old church came over. Most of the teens sat around on the couch gossiping about who liked who and played truth or dare.
And speaking of my old church, the last time I went to that youth group was almost a month ago. And the only thing I discovered there that day was how the entire group was split into small cliques. (I usually spend my evenings there after the activities are over outside, talking with a few other outsiders, thereby creating another clique without meaning to.)
I have friends from Taiwan staying over at my house. This means my mother is stressed. So when she is speaking to me or my siblings, her voice is harsh and irritated, but then she will turn around and speak in a sweet voice to my friend's parents, as if nothing has happened.
My brother recently mistook something I said for something else. So he told me to shut up. I told him I didn't know I had said something wrong, and asked him to clarify. He clarified by telling me to shut up again, and stormed to his room, slammed the door closed, and began throwing things at the wall. He still hasn't told me what I said wrong, and won't admit to being wrong.
I was in a play recently, and all I could think of during rehearsals was how little the rest of the cast seemed to care for the show. They complained about how terrible things were going, and how stupid the entire thing was, but the minute the show actually finished, and people were telling them how wonderful they were, they brightened up and lapped up all the glory.
And of course, there's always the sheer stupidity of people around me. The sheer evil spoken of in newspaper headlines. The sheer pettiness of everyday conversation.
Humans sicken me. I sicken me, because I see myself joining in on these things, and falling for them every day.
Lord help us all...
8.10.2010
Love, Literature, and the Lydian Mode
She is sitting at her desk, a pencil in one hand, and the other hand holding a cold can of diet Coke. Every once in a while, her pen stops scratching, so that she can take a sip. When she tilts the can against her lips, her little finger lifts itself from the surface of the can, a remnant of the elegant habits of a time and culture now lost. A time and culture she is attempting to bring to life.
I stand behind her, outside the shadow of her lamp, wondering how best to perform the task set before me. In these modern times, people no longer understand what I try to say to them - they do not pick up the traces I leave in the sparse trees, in the faces of the people pushing past them. Subtlety is lost in the 21st century, replaced by clocks, computers, classrooms, places and things which tell you everything and leave nothing to Imagination.
He has a very difficult time, Imagination. He has bags under his eyes from keeping awake through the night so often - Dream often needs his help these days, to make his work worthwhile and interesting. He complains to me about how often people ignore him, how many times they dismiss him. I see him often; sometimes we work together. We do so more and more; with people the way they are, the strength of both of us is needed to get the job done.
But today he is busy - most likely some new artist, or, even more likely, a filmmaker. I can’t say I blame him for leaving me today; the films these days could use a bit of his work.
The girl has moved, reminding me of the task at hand. She has turned on her computer (uninspired devices, really, but sometimes useful in my line of work), and is now instant messaging a friend, whose screen name is, as I read over her shoulder, “thenextbard.” I smile faintly as I recognize the name; I have visited him several times, each time with great success. The girl is talking with him about her writer’s block. I laugh to myself quietly at the irony of my standing right next to her as she types the words. I’d like to tell her that everything will be alright in a few minutes, as soon as I find out how to do this, but that’s not recommended in my line of work.
“Thenextbard” tells her he has to go. She says farewell, sighs, and reaches for her mp3 player.
Suddenly I know what to do.
But in order to do it, I must make another quick trip.
I see him now. A friend of hers, but not the bard. He is also sitting at the computer (they seem to be everywhere these days, but today I will not complain, since I have a use for it). I have visited him once or twice before, so I know how this should go. I gently tap him on the shoulder, so that he will turn around.
He doesn’t, choosing instead to scratch at the shoulder, still typing with one hand.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Feeling in a somewhat violent mood, and also being in a rush, I crash his computer. I know he hates it, but at least it gets his attention.
After the usual human string of curses and attempts to reboot, he sags back into his chair. I could tap his shoulder again, but instead I decide to run my hand across the strings of the guitar behind him.
This usually creeps people out. But not him. After all, he often insists half in jest that his guitar is a real person, so why shouldn’t make a sound?
It’s worked. He has picked up the guitar, and is now fiddling with random tunes. Now that all the pieces are in place, I carefully, subtly guide his fingers so that it plays something approaching an ancient scale - the Lydian mode, actually. If he were one of us, he might realize that this was the same kind of music that used to resound through the Greek temples. But he isn’t. And so he plays, unaware of my presence, unaware of how his gradually forming composition will be used.
I prepare to leave, but before I do, I do one last thing. With his computer screen still black, I change it so that when he returns to his instant message page, there will be only one name there.
I return to the girl’s side, after running a few errands that take no more than half an hour - sending mothers the right songs to calm their crying babes, presenting a new metaphor for a poet to use, giving another writer a few words to put in her essay, etc.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting, the boy with the guitar appears on the girl’s IM screen. After quick hellos, he tells her to check her email. I linger just long enough for her to download the mp3 file and listen to the first straining notes, and then hurriedly grasp her pencil and begin writing furiously as the music plays on.
Nothing like a few moments of complete satisfaction with my job.
I visit her again, a year later, to see how she is doing. As I see her, sitting at a table, signing copies of a book (the book I helped her with, I note with some selfish pride), I grin. With all the busyness of her still-young life now, I may have to check on her in the future, and help her out with whatever uninspired sequel she will probably be working on then.
Postscript:
A few years later (not that time makes a difference to me), I was approached by one of my colleagues, Love. I don’t talk much to her; our paths rarely cross. But today, she greets me with a “Hello” and automatically rushes into her story.
“Do you remember a writer girl you may have helped with a book?”
I reply, saying that there have been many writer girls that i have helped with books.
“Have you helped one by getting a friend of hers to play her a piece of music?”
I slowly nod, and ask what about them that could be so interesting, although I have already guessed what it is. I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil your fun -”
Ironic, I was just thinking the same thing.
“-but you might want to go take a look at them.”
So I do.
I see them both, sitting in the park. I smile, because outdoor places are useful places for my work.
They are both sitting on a park bench. The girl is still writing, but today, she smiles as if she knows she can never get writer’s block again. The boy is still playing his guitar - the same guitar, although now significantly more beat-up. He is smiling as well, as he closes his eyes and inhales the clean, crisp autumn air.
The girl stops writing suddenly and puts her paper down. As she does, I spy a small but brilliant glimmer on her left hand, which goes to turn the boy’s face towards her. He turns his head, his hand still strumming the strings.
The strumming stops only when their lips meet. And even then, afterward the long, lingering moment, he plays one final chord. In the Lydian mode, of course.
I stand behind her, outside the shadow of her lamp, wondering how best to perform the task set before me. In these modern times, people no longer understand what I try to say to them - they do not pick up the traces I leave in the sparse trees, in the faces of the people pushing past them. Subtlety is lost in the 21st century, replaced by clocks, computers, classrooms, places and things which tell you everything and leave nothing to Imagination.
He has a very difficult time, Imagination. He has bags under his eyes from keeping awake through the night so often - Dream often needs his help these days, to make his work worthwhile and interesting. He complains to me about how often people ignore him, how many times they dismiss him. I see him often; sometimes we work together. We do so more and more; with people the way they are, the strength of both of us is needed to get the job done.
But today he is busy - most likely some new artist, or, even more likely, a filmmaker. I can’t say I blame him for leaving me today; the films these days could use a bit of his work.
The girl has moved, reminding me of the task at hand. She has turned on her computer (uninspired devices, really, but sometimes useful in my line of work), and is now instant messaging a friend, whose screen name is, as I read over her shoulder, “thenextbard.” I smile faintly as I recognize the name; I have visited him several times, each time with great success. The girl is talking with him about her writer’s block. I laugh to myself quietly at the irony of my standing right next to her as she types the words. I’d like to tell her that everything will be alright in a few minutes, as soon as I find out how to do this, but that’s not recommended in my line of work.
“Thenextbard” tells her he has to go. She says farewell, sighs, and reaches for her mp3 player.
Suddenly I know what to do.
But in order to do it, I must make another quick trip.
I see him now. A friend of hers, but not the bard. He is also sitting at the computer (they seem to be everywhere these days, but today I will not complain, since I have a use for it). I have visited him once or twice before, so I know how this should go. I gently tap him on the shoulder, so that he will turn around.
He doesn’t, choosing instead to scratch at the shoulder, still typing with one hand.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Feeling in a somewhat violent mood, and also being in a rush, I crash his computer. I know he hates it, but at least it gets his attention.
After the usual human string of curses and attempts to reboot, he sags back into his chair. I could tap his shoulder again, but instead I decide to run my hand across the strings of the guitar behind him.
This usually creeps people out. But not him. After all, he often insists half in jest that his guitar is a real person, so why shouldn’t make a sound?
It’s worked. He has picked up the guitar, and is now fiddling with random tunes. Now that all the pieces are in place, I carefully, subtly guide his fingers so that it plays something approaching an ancient scale - the Lydian mode, actually. If he were one of us, he might realize that this was the same kind of music that used to resound through the Greek temples. But he isn’t. And so he plays, unaware of my presence, unaware of how his gradually forming composition will be used.
I prepare to leave, but before I do, I do one last thing. With his computer screen still black, I change it so that when he returns to his instant message page, there will be only one name there.
I return to the girl’s side, after running a few errands that take no more than half an hour - sending mothers the right songs to calm their crying babes, presenting a new metaphor for a poet to use, giving another writer a few words to put in her essay, etc.
Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting, the boy with the guitar appears on the girl’s IM screen. After quick hellos, he tells her to check her email. I linger just long enough for her to download the mp3 file and listen to the first straining notes, and then hurriedly grasp her pencil and begin writing furiously as the music plays on.
Nothing like a few moments of complete satisfaction with my job.
I visit her again, a year later, to see how she is doing. As I see her, sitting at a table, signing copies of a book (the book I helped her with, I note with some selfish pride), I grin. With all the busyness of her still-young life now, I may have to check on her in the future, and help her out with whatever uninspired sequel she will probably be working on then.
Postscript:
A few years later (not that time makes a difference to me), I was approached by one of my colleagues, Love. I don’t talk much to her; our paths rarely cross. But today, she greets me with a “Hello” and automatically rushes into her story.
“Do you remember a writer girl you may have helped with a book?”
I reply, saying that there have been many writer girls that i have helped with books.
“Have you helped one by getting a friend of hers to play her a piece of music?”
I slowly nod, and ask what about them that could be so interesting, although I have already guessed what it is. I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil your fun -”
Ironic, I was just thinking the same thing.
“-but you might want to go take a look at them.”
So I do.
I see them both, sitting in the park. I smile, because outdoor places are useful places for my work.
They are both sitting on a park bench. The girl is still writing, but today, she smiles as if she knows she can never get writer’s block again. The boy is still playing his guitar - the same guitar, although now significantly more beat-up. He is smiling as well, as he closes his eyes and inhales the clean, crisp autumn air.
The girl stops writing suddenly and puts her paper down. As she does, I spy a small but brilliant glimmer on her left hand, which goes to turn the boy’s face towards her. He turns his head, his hand still strumming the strings.
The strumming stops only when their lips meet. And even then, afterward the long, lingering moment, he plays one final chord. In the Lydian mode, of course.
8.08.2010
testimony for Boston Project
Boston Project Testimony
When I first signed up for the Boston Project, I was completely unaware of what exactly I would be doing. I was unaware that I would be taking only two showers that week. I was unaware that I would have to paint and do yard work and make quilts. I was unaware that I would be sanding boards for six hours. And I was also unaware of how God would use this trip to impact my life.
The Boston Project, for me, started with a challenge the first night to allow God to break the box that we put Him in. Peter, one of the staff, explained that we often put God into a box, defining Him by certain words and certain expectations, and he challenged all of us to let God break the borders we put around Him, and go beyond our expectations. It was a speech I had heard before, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it. I had read the miraculous stories of missionaries who had been protected by angels, of terminally ill who were healed through prayer, and of all the rest of God’s wonders. I thought my box was as big as it ever was going to get; I had heard it all. And maybe I had. But hearing stories can’t hold a candle to actually experiencing them.
Many of the challenges I faced that week were physical. Every morning, we got up at 7 o’clock (and, if we were getting a shower that day, at 6:30), which is three hours before the time when I normally get up in the summer. The first day was spent painting an elderly lady’s back deck, outside in the hot sun, and the second sanding long wooden boards till my arms were sore. And of course, every day there was inevitably the walking up two flights of stairs to bed at the end of the day. I was constantly hot and sweaty and tired. And I didn’t realize until I got back home that God had been providing for me even then. In such an environment, it would be easy to feel like giving up, or at least feel depressed, but God had given me a cheerful spirit that week, and an ample energy supply that got exhausted at the end of the day, but was always renewed by the next morning. The fellowship I had with the other people around me, the knowledge that I was doing something to help someone else, and the joy of doing God’s work helped to keep me going each day.
And thankfully, the highlights of my week definitely outweighed the challenges. One of my favorite days was Wednesday, when some of us were given the opportunity to serve the homeless in the Boston Commons, with Starlight Ministries. We handed out sandwiches, chatted with the homeless people in the park, and held a short service there. It was an eye-opening experience for me, to interact with the homeless for the first time, help to meet their needs, and listen to their stories. It felt good to be helping others with their basic needs, and through hearing what they had to say, I gained a new perspective of these people, most of which lost their homes due to the economy, to unfortunate family circumstances, or to illness, age, or disability. Of course, to learn such things is upsetting, but it makes one all the more grateful to get a fuller view of things than what one had previously.
Another really great time was the time we had as a group, whether it was at our service sites working with kids from other churches, our Dinner Downtown with our respective churches, or our time quilting sleeping bags for the homeless. These were times where we got to know each other, bond over our sandwiches or quilts or sandpaper or what-have-you, and generally fellowship and have a great time.
But undoubtedly, the best day was Thursday, when we participated in spontaneous service. We were divided into small groups of three or four kids, with one or two leaders, were given plastic bags of random materials, and were assigned to different areas of the Boston Commons to serve in whatever ways we could. By the time my group had walked to our area of the park, it had started to rain. Soon, the rain had gotten so bad that we all had to take shelter under one of the huge trees…right next to two people. One was a street musician, who was trying to pack up his instrument and speakers; we were able to give him a garbage bag from our set of materials, to cover up his speakers with. He thanked us, and left. The other was a college student named Amanda, with whom we spent the next half an hour talking about everything from serving the community to Nietzsche to the meaning of love. Although we weren’t sure of what sort of impact we had made on her by the time she left to find dryer haunts, I feel that God had given us much common ground to talk about, her being a sociology major and I being interested in psychology, and that both parties had learned something new from the conversation. Just after she left, a mother arrived under the tree, with her two boys, ages 4 and 2. The four-year-old was sobbing terribly about how he hated the rain, and we were able to give him the rest of our materials (some markers, paper, etc.), inside the plastic bag, so that he could cover his head with it. The mother thanked us, and even said, “God bless” as she left with the kids. We had used up our materials and time, and we were all soaked, so we ran the rest of the way back to the subway station, screaming and laughing the whole way. One kid, Duncan, was shampooing his hair as he ran (he was taking advantage of the extra shower).
So why did I bother to say all that, and describe that one hour in such detail? That event, our Spontaneous Service, was what really broke the box. I realized, after we had returned to our “home” and changed into dry clothing, that the many blessings I had received that day were too coincidental to be coincidence. If I hadn’t been wearing flip flops that day, something which I hadn’t done the rest of that week, I would have ruined the only pair of sneakers I owned. If it hadn’t rained, we wouldn’t have met those people, or have been able to help them out. If Amanda hadn’t been sociology major, we probably would have had a lot less to talk about, and wouldn’t have gotten to the deeper topics of the meaning of love and the existence of God. If Duncan had not had shampoo in his pocket, we would have missed out on the hilarious sight of him sprinting past us, his hair covered in foam.
Experiencing these little miracles for myself really helped to break the box I had put God in. Previously, I had believed that God did do great and miraculous miracles, but only for the missionaries and others doing great, life-threatening works. But God personally went and brought us a few little miracles, so that we could be witnesses of his love and mercy for the lowly and seemingly insignificant. His love for us was and is so great, that He is willing to get into the details of our lives, creating small miracles for us to rejoice over. And since we are to love as He loves us, I now understand, and hope that you understand, a bit more about what it means to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength…Love your neighbor as yourself.”
When I first signed up for the Boston Project, I was completely unaware of what exactly I would be doing. I was unaware that I would be taking only two showers that week. I was unaware that I would have to paint and do yard work and make quilts. I was unaware that I would be sanding boards for six hours. And I was also unaware of how God would use this trip to impact my life.
The Boston Project, for me, started with a challenge the first night to allow God to break the box that we put Him in. Peter, one of the staff, explained that we often put God into a box, defining Him by certain words and certain expectations, and he challenged all of us to let God break the borders we put around Him, and go beyond our expectations. It was a speech I had heard before, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it. I had read the miraculous stories of missionaries who had been protected by angels, of terminally ill who were healed through prayer, and of all the rest of God’s wonders. I thought my box was as big as it ever was going to get; I had heard it all. And maybe I had. But hearing stories can’t hold a candle to actually experiencing them.
Many of the challenges I faced that week were physical. Every morning, we got up at 7 o’clock (and, if we were getting a shower that day, at 6:30), which is three hours before the time when I normally get up in the summer. The first day was spent painting an elderly lady’s back deck, outside in the hot sun, and the second sanding long wooden boards till my arms were sore. And of course, every day there was inevitably the walking up two flights of stairs to bed at the end of the day. I was constantly hot and sweaty and tired. And I didn’t realize until I got back home that God had been providing for me even then. In such an environment, it would be easy to feel like giving up, or at least feel depressed, but God had given me a cheerful spirit that week, and an ample energy supply that got exhausted at the end of the day, but was always renewed by the next morning. The fellowship I had with the other people around me, the knowledge that I was doing something to help someone else, and the joy of doing God’s work helped to keep me going each day.
And thankfully, the highlights of my week definitely outweighed the challenges. One of my favorite days was Wednesday, when some of us were given the opportunity to serve the homeless in the Boston Commons, with Starlight Ministries. We handed out sandwiches, chatted with the homeless people in the park, and held a short service there. It was an eye-opening experience for me, to interact with the homeless for the first time, help to meet their needs, and listen to their stories. It felt good to be helping others with their basic needs, and through hearing what they had to say, I gained a new perspective of these people, most of which lost their homes due to the economy, to unfortunate family circumstances, or to illness, age, or disability. Of course, to learn such things is upsetting, but it makes one all the more grateful to get a fuller view of things than what one had previously.
Another really great time was the time we had as a group, whether it was at our service sites working with kids from other churches, our Dinner Downtown with our respective churches, or our time quilting sleeping bags for the homeless. These were times where we got to know each other, bond over our sandwiches or quilts or sandpaper or what-have-you, and generally fellowship and have a great time.
But undoubtedly, the best day was Thursday, when we participated in spontaneous service. We were divided into small groups of three or four kids, with one or two leaders, were given plastic bags of random materials, and were assigned to different areas of the Boston Commons to serve in whatever ways we could. By the time my group had walked to our area of the park, it had started to rain. Soon, the rain had gotten so bad that we all had to take shelter under one of the huge trees…right next to two people. One was a street musician, who was trying to pack up his instrument and speakers; we were able to give him a garbage bag from our set of materials, to cover up his speakers with. He thanked us, and left. The other was a college student named Amanda, with whom we spent the next half an hour talking about everything from serving the community to Nietzsche to the meaning of love. Although we weren’t sure of what sort of impact we had made on her by the time she left to find dryer haunts, I feel that God had given us much common ground to talk about, her being a sociology major and I being interested in psychology, and that both parties had learned something new from the conversation. Just after she left, a mother arrived under the tree, with her two boys, ages 4 and 2. The four-year-old was sobbing terribly about how he hated the rain, and we were able to give him the rest of our materials (some markers, paper, etc.), inside the plastic bag, so that he could cover his head with it. The mother thanked us, and even said, “God bless” as she left with the kids. We had used up our materials and time, and we were all soaked, so we ran the rest of the way back to the subway station, screaming and laughing the whole way. One kid, Duncan, was shampooing his hair as he ran (he was taking advantage of the extra shower).
So why did I bother to say all that, and describe that one hour in such detail? That event, our Spontaneous Service, was what really broke the box. I realized, after we had returned to our “home” and changed into dry clothing, that the many blessings I had received that day were too coincidental to be coincidence. If I hadn’t been wearing flip flops that day, something which I hadn’t done the rest of that week, I would have ruined the only pair of sneakers I owned. If it hadn’t rained, we wouldn’t have met those people, or have been able to help them out. If Amanda hadn’t been sociology major, we probably would have had a lot less to talk about, and wouldn’t have gotten to the deeper topics of the meaning of love and the existence of God. If Duncan had not had shampoo in his pocket, we would have missed out on the hilarious sight of him sprinting past us, his hair covered in foam.
Experiencing these little miracles for myself really helped to break the box I had put God in. Previously, I had believed that God did do great and miraculous miracles, but only for the missionaries and others doing great, life-threatening works. But God personally went and brought us a few little miracles, so that we could be witnesses of his love and mercy for the lowly and seemingly insignificant. His love for us was and is so great, that He is willing to get into the details of our lives, creating small miracles for us to rejoice over. And since we are to love as He loves us, I now understand, and hope that you understand, a bit more about what it means to “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength…Love your neighbor as yourself.”
7.29.2010
On Courage, Muslims, and More
I had a discussion with a friend last night, concerning many things, but mainly centered around God's will and murder and killing (it's a long story/argument, the gist of which I may or may not post at a later time).
But while we were talking about it, the subject of suicide bombing came up. Both he and I agreed that there was something we could learn from Muslim fundamentalists - NOT suicide bombing, but rather the courage to do so, if God willed it. We both thought that such courage was greatly lacking among Christians, particularly in America. Not many of the Christians I know would be willing to study bombmaking for years, and then blow themselves up with one if God called them to do so.
Some might protest, saying that God would never tell anyone to do such a thing. Well, He has in the past. The Canaanites were to be completely wiped out, every man, woman, and child. It was also God's will for Elisha to call out bears to maul children who had done nothing more than tease Him. It was God's will to wipe out the entire population of the earth, minus eight people. Unreasonable? Perhaps. But crazy or not, we as God's people are to be prepared to carry out His will, no matter how cruel or "unreasonable" in our eyes it may be.
But while we were talking about it, the subject of suicide bombing came up. Both he and I agreed that there was something we could learn from Muslim fundamentalists - NOT suicide bombing, but rather the courage to do so, if God willed it. We both thought that such courage was greatly lacking among Christians, particularly in America. Not many of the Christians I know would be willing to study bombmaking for years, and then blow themselves up with one if God called them to do so.
Some might protest, saying that God would never tell anyone to do such a thing. Well, He has in the past. The Canaanites were to be completely wiped out, every man, woman, and child. It was also God's will for Elisha to call out bears to maul children who had done nothing more than tease Him. It was God's will to wipe out the entire population of the earth, minus eight people. Unreasonable? Perhaps. But crazy or not, we as God's people are to be prepared to carry out His will, no matter how cruel or "unreasonable" in our eyes it may be.
7.26.2010
kung-fu phony
I've recently been watching a lot of kung-fu movies, thanks in part to my mom's efforts to integrate more Chinese into my life. But as part of it...I've become rather jaded.
First of all, a disclaimer. I do not bash kung-fu movies because of their over-masculinity. I do not claim to dislike action movies. I do not claim to dislike violence in movies.
However, it is the ludicrousness and the predictability of such movies that I dislike. I mean, quite honestly, one man repeatedly battling huge swarms of minions and then battling "THE EPIC EVIL DUDE OF DOOM" in a close fight and then winning is no way for a story to go. It is hardly realistic. It is hardly anything but predictable. And although there is a stereotypical theme (usually that of courage in impossible odds, or of fighting for what you believe in, or the like), one can argue, and argue well, that there are a hundred better ways to portray it than through a kung-fu movie.
Although the physical conflict is more than present, I must argue that the emotional conflict in such cases tend to be tacky, or nonexistent. The characters are stereotypes, and the dialogue something out of a comic book. They have very little depth, and too much action. In fact, oftentimes, there is too much action and too little story for anyone to really care about the characters, much less how they end up. And usually, one can guess those as well.
I guess there is some thrill in seeing epic battles play out on the screen. However, this last note I have to say: the best conflict is played out not on the battlefield, but in the heart and in the mind.
First of all, a disclaimer. I do not bash kung-fu movies because of their over-masculinity. I do not claim to dislike action movies. I do not claim to dislike violence in movies.
However, it is the ludicrousness and the predictability of such movies that I dislike. I mean, quite honestly, one man repeatedly battling huge swarms of minions and then battling "THE EPIC EVIL DUDE OF DOOM" in a close fight and then winning is no way for a story to go. It is hardly realistic. It is hardly anything but predictable. And although there is a stereotypical theme (usually that of courage in impossible odds, or of fighting for what you believe in, or the like), one can argue, and argue well, that there are a hundred better ways to portray it than through a kung-fu movie.
Although the physical conflict is more than present, I must argue that the emotional conflict in such cases tend to be tacky, or nonexistent. The characters are stereotypes, and the dialogue something out of a comic book. They have very little depth, and too much action. In fact, oftentimes, there is too much action and too little story for anyone to really care about the characters, much less how they end up. And usually, one can guess those as well.
I guess there is some thrill in seeing epic battles play out on the screen. However, this last note I have to say: the best conflict is played out not on the battlefield, but in the heart and in the mind.
7.21.2010
Psalm 88
A song, the lyrics based on Psalm 88
VS. I
O Lord my God,
God of my salvation,
I cry out to you by day
and I scream for you at night.
Hear my prayer;
Listen to my cry.
For my soul is filled with strife,
And my death draws near.
PRECHORUS
I am as good as dead
I’m a man without strength.
I am left among the dead
like the slain in the grave.
I am forgotten, cut off from your hand.
Lord, I’ve called you...but where are you?
CHORUS
Do the dead praise your name?
Is your love declared from the grave?
Are your wonders known in the dark?
Your faithfulness in Abbadon?
So Lord I call upon your name.
Lord, I need an answer.
VS. II
Lord, explain
why you’ve placed me here.
In the depths of this dark pit
Underneath your crashing waves.
I am alone
my friends have disappeared
I am trapped in this dark place
with no escape.
CHORUS X2
BRIDGE
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
I lift my hands to you
Why do you hide your face?
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
My eyes grow dim with tears
Lord save me from this place!
INSTRUMENTAL
CHORUS II
May the dead praise your name
May I declare your love to my grave
May I shine your light in the dark
Be faithful in the valley of death
So Lord I call upon your name
‘Cause Lord, you are the answer.
VS. I
O Lord my God,
God of my salvation,
I cry out to you by day
and I scream for you at night.
Hear my prayer;
Listen to my cry.
For my soul is filled with strife,
And my death draws near.
PRECHORUS
I am as good as dead
I’m a man without strength.
I am left among the dead
like the slain in the grave.
I am forgotten, cut off from your hand.
Lord, I’ve called you...but where are you?
CHORUS
Do the dead praise your name?
Is your love declared from the grave?
Are your wonders known in the dark?
Your faithfulness in Abbadon?
So Lord I call upon your name.
Lord, I need an answer.
VS. II
Lord, explain
why you’ve placed me here.
In the depths of this dark pit
Underneath your crashing waves.
I am alone
my friends have disappeared
I am trapped in this dark place
with no escape.
CHORUS X2
BRIDGE
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
I lift my hands to you
Why do you hide your face?
Every day I call on you
Every night my prayers I send
My eyes grow dim with tears
Lord save me from this place!
INSTRUMENTAL
CHORUS II
May the dead praise your name
May I declare your love to my grave
May I shine your light in the dark
Be faithful in the valley of death
So Lord I call upon your name
‘Cause Lord, you are the answer.
7.13.2010
Inspiration
What is inspiration?
I ask because I seem to lack it recently.
dictionary.com - oh wait, I mean RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY - "an inspiring or animating action or influence," "a divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul," "the drawing of air into the lungs; inhalation."
urbandictionary.com - "See instead 'plagiarism'," "a word for that special herb," and others too obscene to mention.
So to unpack these definitions...I'll start with the irreverent last two. "See instead 'plagiarism'," and "a word for that special herb." Sometimes I feel that's exactly what my inspiration is. I watch a movie, and am tempted to write a story in the same style, with the same kinds of characters, or with the same plot. It's a "it's-so-good-I-have-to-try-to-do-something-like-it" syndrome. Or perhaps it's a thirst for fame - "hey-guess-what-this-is-awesome-and-famous-and-maybe-if-I-copy-it-I-can-get-awesome-and-famous-too." It's a sad state of affairs.
As for "that special herb," I sometimes use my inspiration like that. I put on my favorite piece of music, or watch an "inspiring" movie, and do so simply to get a high out of it...I don't do any of the things I am inspired to do...I just like the feeling of being inspired. It doesn't do me any good, nor anyone else, either.
Now on to more positive definitions: "An inspiring or animating action or influence." No need for discussion there. Although I do like the use of the word "animating," as in bringing to life. Another key word is "action." It's unusual, but sometimes doing something (rather than passively watching or listening to something) will provide inspiration. Like going for a run. Or making a movie (see last post).
"A divine influence..." I particularly like that one. The idea that God provides me with the words and ideas is a comforting one. This kind of inspiration, although not necessarily recognizable, is the one I consider the best.
The final one is the most literal meaning of inspiration, as taken from the Latin - "in-breathing" or inhalation. I don't really want to write about this one, because I feel as though I would botch the description. I'll let you guys think about it.
I ask because I seem to lack it recently.
dictionary.com - oh wait, I mean RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY - "an inspiring or animating action or influence," "a divine influence directly and immediately exerted upon the mind or soul," "the drawing of air into the lungs; inhalation."
urbandictionary.com - "See instead 'plagiarism'," "a word for that special herb," and others too obscene to mention.
So to unpack these definitions...I'll start with the irreverent last two. "See instead 'plagiarism'," and "a word for that special herb." Sometimes I feel that's exactly what my inspiration is. I watch a movie, and am tempted to write a story in the same style, with the same kinds of characters, or with the same plot. It's a "it's-so-good-I-have-to-try-to-do-something-like-it" syndrome. Or perhaps it's a thirst for fame - "hey-guess-what-this-is-awesome-and-famous-and-maybe-if-I-copy-it-I-can-get-awesome-and-famous-too." It's a sad state of affairs.
As for "that special herb," I sometimes use my inspiration like that. I put on my favorite piece of music, or watch an "inspiring" movie, and do so simply to get a high out of it...I don't do any of the things I am inspired to do...I just like the feeling of being inspired. It doesn't do me any good, nor anyone else, either.
Now on to more positive definitions: "An inspiring or animating action or influence." No need for discussion there. Although I do like the use of the word "animating," as in bringing to life. Another key word is "action." It's unusual, but sometimes doing something (rather than passively watching or listening to something) will provide inspiration. Like going for a run. Or making a movie (see last post).
"A divine influence..." I particularly like that one. The idea that God provides me with the words and ideas is a comforting one. This kind of inspiration, although not necessarily recognizable, is the one I consider the best.
The final one is the most literal meaning of inspiration, as taken from the Latin - "in-breathing" or inhalation. I don't really want to write about this one, because I feel as though I would botch the description. I'll let you guys think about it.
7.10.2010
Negotiations: a story
Negotiations
written by Faith Liu
based on the short film by Ryan Mullins, Faith Liu, PJ Liu, and Joshua Jackson
No one had thought of the Anderson house as a possible home to a hostage situation. They were your average American family, with an average amount of money, an average-sized house, in an average neighborhood of an average part of the country. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
No one had thought of forty-seven-year-old Sean Anderson as a potential hostage, either. He was no danger to anyone, he wasn't related to anyone that would be a potential victim of a hate crime, and his family had no vast deposits of money or political power. He was practically harmless.
And now, gagged and unconscious, he was completely harmless.
Not that the hostile party was particularly concerned with that fact.
The main room of the basement had become far too small for the Hostage Rescue Team. It didn't help anyone relieve tension either. Knowing that in the next room was a serial killer with an unconscious hostage, and being able to do nothing about it made the HRT restless. They had more weapons, more skills, and were more prepared than any other SWAT members, but being able to fast-rope was no use if there was no window big enough to come down through. The only thing to do was wait.
John Able, the officer in charge, was just about to glance at his watch for the third time since calling for a negotiator, when he heard the door to the basement open. His sigh of relief was automatically followed by a dubious glance at the negotiator herself.
She was tiny - a five-foot two girl, of possibly Middle-Eastern heritage, with black, curly hair that made her look as though she had come fresh from high school, and soft brown eyes reminiscent of an Audrey Hepburn. Her tan trench coat seemed two sizes too big, making her look even smaller than she was. More like a hostage than a hostage situation negotiator, the man thought.
"What's the situation, Mr. Able?"
John cringed. Her voice was high enough to belong to a sixth-grader - as clear and innocent as a songbird. Too innocent for her line of work. But he held out a hand anyway and said, "Call me John."
"Alright then. I'm Ariel Parker."
He nodded, and followed that up by quickly summarizing the situation. "One victim, as far as we can tell. Sean Anderson. Fifty-seven years old. Judging from the lack of noise, we think he's knocked out."
"What about the kidnapper? The file sent to me didn't give me much - a white male in his twenties could mean anything."
John acquiesced. "HQ nicknamed him Double. Real name is unknown."
"Why Double?"
"Because in every case he's been involved in, two people - one victim, one negotiator or a forced negotiator, have been shot."
No facial response to that, so he continued. "He's done three of these so far, and in two of those, the killing and the escape happened before the FBI could get there. Always a secluded area. Witnesses see nothing, hear only gunshots. He's either trigger-happy...or just too smart."
"Then what's his point? Killing everyone first doesn't get him a reward."
"No, it doesn't. He always demands a ransom, but whether paid or not paid, it's still the same body count. Two."
"Yeah, the file told me. Always takes one person, then somehow gets another body by the time he leaves. No discernable patterns as far as victims, time, and place go. Always demands money, a different amount each time, and always specific down to the cent. Still two dead either way." She paused, processing her own information. "He's not doing this for the money, then."
"Correct."
"Do you know what it is he wants?"
"No. None of the negotiators have managed to get out of the room with that information."
"I see." Her eyes shifted to the left, but otherwise, no emotion. "He always has to talk to the negotiator in person?"
"Yes. That's...that's why the negotiator is always dead. He won't allow it any other way."
"Can we talk to him on the phone? Through notes? Shouting through the door?"
"We've already tried getting him to talk. All we've gotten so far is a note slipped under the door, saying he won't talk to anyone but the negotiator."
Her eyes stared at the floor. Either she was thinking hard, or there was a fascinating insect specimen next to his left foot.
"You one of those psychologist types?" he asked, merely to relieve the tension.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's the other type?"
"The politician."
She laughed. Not a real laugh, but enough to relax her face. "The psychologist, definitely. Behavioral, to be precise." She ended, almost to herself: "But it doesn't really matter in this case."
A pause. Then she asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the next room; from what we can hear, they're in the corner of the room."
"Lighting? Surroundings?"
"Bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling. Your typical unfinished basement. Lots of shelves. Power tools, toilet paper, storage stuff. No windows big enough for our snipers. You get the picture."
"Anything else I should be aware of?"
"Then you're going in?"
She shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."
Able shook his head at her innocence. "You sure this is wise? Once you're in there, we can't cover you. And anyway, we do have the clearance to just go in with the guns. He won't be able to escape this-"
"He still has a hostage. You can't risk it." Her voice was becoming challenging, so he responded with like boldness.
"We can't risk losing you, either. Or anyone else after you. Statistically, going in heavy-duty would be safer."
"But would it be right?" She let the question sink in for a moment. "Mr. Able, I have two jobs: one is to get the hostage out, and the other is to get the criminal out and into handcuffs. Compromising on one to get the other is not an option."
John took a deep breath and looked at the floor for a moment. "All right. I won't say I approve of this, but seeing as it's your own life on the line...I'll assume you know what to do with it." He forced his eyes back onto her face, and was again shocked by how young she seemed. A girl her age shouldn't even be involved in such business, much less die in it.
"Did you bring a bulletproof vest with you?"
She looked at him again, eyebrow raised. "What for?"
Again, he was slapped in the face by her innocence. Or her naivete. He wasn't sure which one it was. "For protection, dammit! What if you get shot?"
"Then I get shot."
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but was too surprised to care. "Listen, as a negotiator, you don't go in with weapons. That doesn't mean no protection!"
"I don't go in with weapons assuming that he will do the same. If I wear a vest, that means I don't trust him, and that he can't trust me."
"Trust? Are you crazy? You're worrying about trust at a time like this?"
"Yes, in fact I am." Her voice had a decided edge to it now, as if she were growing uncomfortable talking about the topic. And well she might; the thought of getting shot was as distasteful to her as it would be to any other person.
John's shoulders slumped as he realized there would be no convincing her. "Well, then..." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Good luck, Ariel." Realizing this might be the last time he would see her alive, he impulsively hugged the small girl.
When she pulled away, he saw that her eyes now had a sorrow in them that made them seem ten years older. She murmured a thank you and hurried off.
She didn't want him to see her cry.
As she headed for the door to the adjacent room, the rest of the HRT team seemed to step aside for her, almost in awe. They all knew what she was doing, and most of them thought she was crazy.
She probably was.
She put her mouth to the door and spoke loudly, "Hello? This is the hostage negotiator. Alright if I come in?" Other than the volume, her voice seemed perfectly at ease.
She checked her watch, and decided to wait for one minute. At 48 seconds, a piece of paper towel was slipped under the door. The thin, spidery writing had been done in a red pen. "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
"Religious nut...what else is new?" she muttered to herself. "Alright, everyone," she called to the men in uniform surrounding her. "Stand clear of the door...and pray as though your life depends on it." She laughed nervously at her own joke. No one laughed with her.
Taking a deep breath, Ariel Parker opened the door...
...and stepped into the lion's den.
The unfinished room was dark, except for the stream of light from the tiny window near the ceiling that lit up the center of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, with small alcoves hidden in the walls. All of them were in complete black; any of them would make a good hiding place.
She called out a precursory "Hello?" but got no response. She glanced behind the work shelves. No one. Turning around, she made her way towards the other end of the room. A pack of paper towels stood opened on the floor near the furnace. Part of one had been ripped off.
Taking the bait, she checked behind the furnace. Still no one.
"Hello? This is Ariel Parker. Are you there?"
She stepped out from behind the furnace and out in front of a particularly dark alcove.
She heard a sound coming from the blackness, and spun around just as the ceiling lightbulb came on, illuminating the alcove.
"Ah...the negotiator." A dark voice, low with menace and - was it really? - amusement.
Under the naked lightbulb stood the killer, looking as every serial killer should: dark coat, closely-cropped brown hair, ghostly pale skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun. Despite that fact, he was wearing a pair of dark shades that concealed his eyes. A strange accessory, but not as menacing as the M4 Carbine in his hands. Pointed at her, of course.
She could see the man behind him, slumped against a wall, unconscious. His hands and feet were bound with zip-ties, a gag was tied around his mouth, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.
She took the metaphorical deep breath.
Step one: establish rapport and maintain calm.
She lifted her arms away from her sides to show that she didn't have a weapon. "I'm Ariel Parker, the-"
"Hostage negotiator, yes." He wasn't hasty to interrupt. Not nervous or frantic. Just...in control. It wasn't normal.
Alright, moving on. Step two: find out what he wants and establish authority over the situation.
"We have the money you want...back in the other room. If you like, I can go back and get it as soon as we've established the terms of exchange."
He didn't respond to that one. She had a feeling that he was waiting for something, his eyes boring into hers from behind the dark lenses.
Step three: find out what he really wants.
"But I don't think that's what you're after, is it?"
"You're the psychologist; you tell me." He seemed to have relaxed now, to the point where his tone of voice might have been used in dinner conversation.
"What is it you're after?"
He cocked his head in an exaggerated motion of thinking. "Money." He was playing with her now.
"I don't think that's what it is."
Silence.
"I can't get it for you unless you tell me what it is."
He laughed quietly. "You wouldn't be able to get it for me anyway."
"Well, why don't you try me?"
He laughed again - a long, steady, unsettling sound. She couldn't be sure if it was a good or a bad sign.
When he had finished, he leaned against the concrete wall, and motioned for her to sit down on a nearby stool. "If you're going to be that persistent, you might as well sit down for the story."
She obliged, noting hopefully that he had set the Carbine down on the ground, if only to give his hands a rest.
"How well do you know this man here?" He pointed to the hostage behind him.
She glanced at him, and then replied almost impatiently, "He's in his fifties, works as professor at the community college, has a wife and two children, and has no criminal record to speak of. Has he offended you personally in some way?"
"No - mustn't jump to conclusions, miss. What do you think Mr. Anderson was doing two nights ago?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Well, I do. He wasn't at home watching TV with his wife - he was at the home of one of his students. One of his female students, I might add." He laughed again, a darker laugh than the one he had used earlier. "He told his wife that he was going to be at a meeting. Definitely a lot more exciting than those previous, don't you think?"
She decided not to respond to the question, asking her own instead. "What does this have to do with-"
"Ah, ah, miss. Let me finish." For a brief instant, his mouth twisted into an indulgent smile, as if she were a child with too many questions, but then his face became grim. "That wasn't the first time, either. Anderson has been doing this for years...and hasn't been caught or punished. Until now, that is."
"I still don't see what this has to do with y-"
"It has nothing to do with me. This has to do with justice." His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. She almost believed him.
"Then that is a matter for the law to handle, not you."
That statement brought an explosion from the man. "Look around you, miss! The law doesn't work. Innocent people are being violated, killed, all the time, and with nothing to make up for it. Justice has not been served - it cannot be served with our human systems of so-called law."
"And how does what you're doing help?"
"I'm letting you know. I'm letting everyone know. The only proper response to evil is to eradicate it - to destroy it. The wages of sin is death. There is no substitute."
"Is that what you're going to do? Prove that there is no substitute for...for this?"
"I won't be doing it. You will." The Carbine was pointed at her again.
Slowly, she stood up. Slowly, she thought over what she was going to say. And slowly, she said it. "What is it you want me to do?"
"You get to make a choice. You can either let me kill this man, as is deserved, or you can try to offer an alternative."
"You just said there was none."
"That's only what I know. Obviously, you think otherwise. You have one hour to come up with a substitute, or to let justice be done. If you're wise, you'll choose the latter."
"The wages of sin is death."
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the low light as he raised his gun.
"But." She stood up. "But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."
His smile disappeared. "Wrong answer. Your Lord Jesus isn't coming down to save this man."
"No, but I can." She breathed in and out, hard. Tried to keep her hands from shaking. "I have a substitute."
"Oh really? Well, let's hear your offer."
She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. Opened them. Managed to look at him straight in the eye. "Me. Kill me. Let him go."
The man's lip curled into a snarl. "How noble. You're stupid, you know?"
"Perhaps."
"You expecting your God to come and save you? Huh?"
"If He wills it."
That answer seemed to infuriate him even more. He crossed the room, gun in hand, in two seconds, slammed her body against the concrete wall, shoved the barrel of the gun into her gut, and sneered in her face, "Well, your God can't save you now."
In a rage, he turned and kicked the still-unconscious hostage in the ribs. "And this guy? He won't even know what you've done for him. No one will care!" He was screaming now. "This!" He picked up the man by the shirt collar. "This pathetic piece of worthless junk is what you're dying for?!"
She remained leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight, wordless.
He dropped the man on the floor, and suddenly his voice dropped down to a whisper even more dangerous than his screams. "And what about you? What about everything you've worked for, that you're never going to see finished? What about your family, your friends, that you are never going to see again? Is this worth it?"
She heard a click as he prepared the gun, still talking. "Death isn't fun, you know. And trust me, your God's not coming to save you this time. Or anytime else. No one can save you now, except yourself. Look at me!"
Her eyes shot open at the command. The man now looked emotionless, except for his hands, which were clenched tight. "You're going to go through with this?"
"Yes."
There was a bang, and suddenly her left leg gave out from under her and she fell onto her knees, gasping.
"You sure?" he asked through clenched teeth, his finger still on the trigger.
"...yes."
Another bang, and the hand supporting her trembling body felt like it was on fire. Her shoulder hit the concrete.
Before another word was spoken, another bullet hole appeared in her back.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, between which muffled sobs could be heard.
Through bleary eyes, she could see a dark form looming over her. "Last chance now. Do you want to back out?"
She was in too much pain to speak, but she managed to make a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Darkness.
If one ever happens to pass by the Calvary Church of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, on any given Friday, be sure to step in for a minute or two. It's a relaxing place, with long, dark pews, colored by the afternoon light filtering in from the stained-glass windows. A simple wooden cross hangs at the front, with a matching altar underneath. The soft carpet muffles almost any sound, so that it's so quiet, one feels as though one can hear the imperceptible sounds that angels make when flying. It's a peaceful place. A place of rest.
And, if you happen to come in at the right time, you may observe that there are three people sitting in the front row - two men sitting on the pew, one other in a wheelchair. They are very quiet, and don't seem to be doing anything other than contemplating the cross and the altar. Occasionally, one of the men - the older one - will grasp the hand of the person in the wheelchair.
If you are patient, you may see their faces when they leave up the aisle. The first, you will observe, is a young man. His hair is brown, and closely cropped, and he wears dark clothes, which contrast against his pale skin. He walks with his back so straight one might call it stiff. But his eyes, which are a soft green, bear the look of one who has been relieved of a great burden.
The older man is pushing the wheelchair. His hair is gray, and there are deep lines, worn by care and penitence, in his face. There is a name tag pinned onto his shirt, revealing that his name is Sean Anderson and that he works as a greeter at the church. He wears the gentle smile of one who has been forgiven of a great sin, and is now at peace.
Now that you can their faces, you realize that the person in the wheelchair is a girl in her twenties. Her left leg is in a cast, and her right arm is heavily bandaged. Her black hair falls to her shoulders in waves. Her eyes, doe-like and soft brown, stare into the distance, as if contemplating something profound and wonderful. Her face is that of one who has served as a vessel, poured out for God, and filled again to overflowing.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - The words of Christ, as recorded in John 15:13.
written by Faith Liu
based on the short film by Ryan Mullins, Faith Liu, PJ Liu, and Joshua Jackson
No one had thought of the Anderson house as a possible home to a hostage situation. They were your average American family, with an average amount of money, an average-sized house, in an average neighborhood of an average part of the country. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
No one had thought of forty-seven-year-old Sean Anderson as a potential hostage, either. He was no danger to anyone, he wasn't related to anyone that would be a potential victim of a hate crime, and his family had no vast deposits of money or political power. He was practically harmless.
And now, gagged and unconscious, he was completely harmless.
Not that the hostile party was particularly concerned with that fact.
The main room of the basement had become far too small for the Hostage Rescue Team. It didn't help anyone relieve tension either. Knowing that in the next room was a serial killer with an unconscious hostage, and being able to do nothing about it made the HRT restless. They had more weapons, more skills, and were more prepared than any other SWAT members, but being able to fast-rope was no use if there was no window big enough to come down through. The only thing to do was wait.
John Able, the officer in charge, was just about to glance at his watch for the third time since calling for a negotiator, when he heard the door to the basement open. His sigh of relief was automatically followed by a dubious glance at the negotiator herself.
She was tiny - a five-foot two girl, of possibly Middle-Eastern heritage, with black, curly hair that made her look as though she had come fresh from high school, and soft brown eyes reminiscent of an Audrey Hepburn. Her tan trench coat seemed two sizes too big, making her look even smaller than she was. More like a hostage than a hostage situation negotiator, the man thought.
"What's the situation, Mr. Able?"
John cringed. Her voice was high enough to belong to a sixth-grader - as clear and innocent as a songbird. Too innocent for her line of work. But he held out a hand anyway and said, "Call me John."
"Alright then. I'm Ariel Parker."
He nodded, and followed that up by quickly summarizing the situation. "One victim, as far as we can tell. Sean Anderson. Fifty-seven years old. Judging from the lack of noise, we think he's knocked out."
"What about the kidnapper? The file sent to me didn't give me much - a white male in his twenties could mean anything."
John acquiesced. "HQ nicknamed him Double. Real name is unknown."
"Why Double?"
"Because in every case he's been involved in, two people - one victim, one negotiator or a forced negotiator, have been shot."
No facial response to that, so he continued. "He's done three of these so far, and in two of those, the killing and the escape happened before the FBI could get there. Always a secluded area. Witnesses see nothing, hear only gunshots. He's either trigger-happy...or just too smart."
"Then what's his point? Killing everyone first doesn't get him a reward."
"No, it doesn't. He always demands a ransom, but whether paid or not paid, it's still the same body count. Two."
"Yeah, the file told me. Always takes one person, then somehow gets another body by the time he leaves. No discernable patterns as far as victims, time, and place go. Always demands money, a different amount each time, and always specific down to the cent. Still two dead either way." She paused, processing her own information. "He's not doing this for the money, then."
"Correct."
"Do you know what it is he wants?"
"No. None of the negotiators have managed to get out of the room with that information."
"I see." Her eyes shifted to the left, but otherwise, no emotion. "He always has to talk to the negotiator in person?"
"Yes. That's...that's why the negotiator is always dead. He won't allow it any other way."
"Can we talk to him on the phone? Through notes? Shouting through the door?"
"We've already tried getting him to talk. All we've gotten so far is a note slipped under the door, saying he won't talk to anyone but the negotiator."
Her eyes stared at the floor. Either she was thinking hard, or there was a fascinating insect specimen next to his left foot.
"You one of those psychologist types?" he asked, merely to relieve the tension.
She raised an eyebrow. "What's the other type?"
"The politician."
She laughed. Not a real laugh, but enough to relax her face. "The psychologist, definitely. Behavioral, to be precise." She ended, almost to herself: "But it doesn't really matter in this case."
A pause. Then she asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the next room; from what we can hear, they're in the corner of the room."
"Lighting? Surroundings?"
"Bare lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling. Your typical unfinished basement. Lots of shelves. Power tools, toilet paper, storage stuff. No windows big enough for our snipers. You get the picture."
"Anything else I should be aware of?"
"Then you're going in?"
She shrugged, as if it were no big deal. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."
Able shook his head at her innocence. "You sure this is wise? Once you're in there, we can't cover you. And anyway, we do have the clearance to just go in with the guns. He won't be able to escape this-"
"He still has a hostage. You can't risk it." Her voice was becoming challenging, so he responded with like boldness.
"We can't risk losing you, either. Or anyone else after you. Statistically, going in heavy-duty would be safer."
"But would it be right?" She let the question sink in for a moment. "Mr. Able, I have two jobs: one is to get the hostage out, and the other is to get the criminal out and into handcuffs. Compromising on one to get the other is not an option."
John took a deep breath and looked at the floor for a moment. "All right. I won't say I approve of this, but seeing as it's your own life on the line...I'll assume you know what to do with it." He forced his eyes back onto her face, and was again shocked by how young she seemed. A girl her age shouldn't even be involved in such business, much less die in it.
"Did you bring a bulletproof vest with you?"
She looked at him again, eyebrow raised. "What for?"
Again, he was slapped in the face by her innocence. Or her naivete. He wasn't sure which one it was. "For protection, dammit! What if you get shot?"
"Then I get shot."
He knew his mouth was hanging open, but was too surprised to care. "Listen, as a negotiator, you don't go in with weapons. That doesn't mean no protection!"
"I don't go in with weapons assuming that he will do the same. If I wear a vest, that means I don't trust him, and that he can't trust me."
"Trust? Are you crazy? You're worrying about trust at a time like this?"
"Yes, in fact I am." Her voice had a decided edge to it now, as if she were growing uncomfortable talking about the topic. And well she might; the thought of getting shot was as distasteful to her as it would be to any other person.
John's shoulders slumped as he realized there would be no convincing her. "Well, then..." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Good luck, Ariel." Realizing this might be the last time he would see her alive, he impulsively hugged the small girl.
When she pulled away, he saw that her eyes now had a sorrow in them that made them seem ten years older. She murmured a thank you and hurried off.
She didn't want him to see her cry.
As she headed for the door to the adjacent room, the rest of the HRT team seemed to step aside for her, almost in awe. They all knew what she was doing, and most of them thought she was crazy.
She probably was.
She put her mouth to the door and spoke loudly, "Hello? This is the hostage negotiator. Alright if I come in?" Other than the volume, her voice seemed perfectly at ease.
She checked her watch, and decided to wait for one minute. At 48 seconds, a piece of paper towel was slipped under the door. The thin, spidery writing had been done in a red pen. "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
"Religious nut...what else is new?" she muttered to herself. "Alright, everyone," she called to the men in uniform surrounding her. "Stand clear of the door...and pray as though your life depends on it." She laughed nervously at her own joke. No one laughed with her.
Taking a deep breath, Ariel Parker opened the door...
...and stepped into the lion's den.
The unfinished room was dark, except for the stream of light from the tiny window near the ceiling that lit up the center of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, with small alcoves hidden in the walls. All of them were in complete black; any of them would make a good hiding place.
She called out a precursory "Hello?" but got no response. She glanced behind the work shelves. No one. Turning around, she made her way towards the other end of the room. A pack of paper towels stood opened on the floor near the furnace. Part of one had been ripped off.
Taking the bait, she checked behind the furnace. Still no one.
"Hello? This is Ariel Parker. Are you there?"
She stepped out from behind the furnace and out in front of a particularly dark alcove.
She heard a sound coming from the blackness, and spun around just as the ceiling lightbulb came on, illuminating the alcove.
"Ah...the negotiator." A dark voice, low with menace and - was it really? - amusement.
Under the naked lightbulb stood the killer, looking as every serial killer should: dark coat, closely-cropped brown hair, ghostly pale skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun. Despite that fact, he was wearing a pair of dark shades that concealed his eyes. A strange accessory, but not as menacing as the M4 Carbine in his hands. Pointed at her, of course.
She could see the man behind him, slumped against a wall, unconscious. His hands and feet were bound with zip-ties, a gag was tied around his mouth, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.
She took the metaphorical deep breath.
Step one: establish rapport and maintain calm.
She lifted her arms away from her sides to show that she didn't have a weapon. "I'm Ariel Parker, the-"
"Hostage negotiator, yes." He wasn't hasty to interrupt. Not nervous or frantic. Just...in control. It wasn't normal.
Alright, moving on. Step two: find out what he wants and establish authority over the situation.
"We have the money you want...back in the other room. If you like, I can go back and get it as soon as we've established the terms of exchange."
He didn't respond to that one. She had a feeling that he was waiting for something, his eyes boring into hers from behind the dark lenses.
Step three: find out what he really wants.
"But I don't think that's what you're after, is it?"
"You're the psychologist; you tell me." He seemed to have relaxed now, to the point where his tone of voice might have been used in dinner conversation.
"What is it you're after?"
He cocked his head in an exaggerated motion of thinking. "Money." He was playing with her now.
"I don't think that's what it is."
Silence.
"I can't get it for you unless you tell me what it is."
He laughed quietly. "You wouldn't be able to get it for me anyway."
"Well, why don't you try me?"
He laughed again - a long, steady, unsettling sound. She couldn't be sure if it was a good or a bad sign.
When he had finished, he leaned against the concrete wall, and motioned for her to sit down on a nearby stool. "If you're going to be that persistent, you might as well sit down for the story."
She obliged, noting hopefully that he had set the Carbine down on the ground, if only to give his hands a rest.
"How well do you know this man here?" He pointed to the hostage behind him.
She glanced at him, and then replied almost impatiently, "He's in his fifties, works as professor at the community college, has a wife and two children, and has no criminal record to speak of. Has he offended you personally in some way?"
"No - mustn't jump to conclusions, miss. What do you think Mr. Anderson was doing two nights ago?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Well, I do. He wasn't at home watching TV with his wife - he was at the home of one of his students. One of his female students, I might add." He laughed again, a darker laugh than the one he had used earlier. "He told his wife that he was going to be at a meeting. Definitely a lot more exciting than those previous, don't you think?"
She decided not to respond to the question, asking her own instead. "What does this have to do with-"
"Ah, ah, miss. Let me finish." For a brief instant, his mouth twisted into an indulgent smile, as if she were a child with too many questions, but then his face became grim. "That wasn't the first time, either. Anderson has been doing this for years...and hasn't been caught or punished. Until now, that is."
"I still don't see what this has to do with y-"
"It has nothing to do with me. This has to do with justice." His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. She almost believed him.
"Then that is a matter for the law to handle, not you."
That statement brought an explosion from the man. "Look around you, miss! The law doesn't work. Innocent people are being violated, killed, all the time, and with nothing to make up for it. Justice has not been served - it cannot be served with our human systems of so-called law."
"And how does what you're doing help?"
"I'm letting you know. I'm letting everyone know. The only proper response to evil is to eradicate it - to destroy it. The wages of sin is death. There is no substitute."
"Is that what you're going to do? Prove that there is no substitute for...for this?"
"I won't be doing it. You will." The Carbine was pointed at her again.
Slowly, she stood up. Slowly, she thought over what she was going to say. And slowly, she said it. "What is it you want me to do?"
"You get to make a choice. You can either let me kill this man, as is deserved, or you can try to offer an alternative."
"You just said there was none."
"That's only what I know. Obviously, you think otherwise. You have one hour to come up with a substitute, or to let justice be done. If you're wise, you'll choose the latter."
"The wages of sin is death."
He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the low light as he raised his gun.
"But." She stood up. "But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord."
His smile disappeared. "Wrong answer. Your Lord Jesus isn't coming down to save this man."
"No, but I can." She breathed in and out, hard. Tried to keep her hands from shaking. "I have a substitute."
"Oh really? Well, let's hear your offer."
She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. Opened them. Managed to look at him straight in the eye. "Me. Kill me. Let him go."
The man's lip curled into a snarl. "How noble. You're stupid, you know?"
"Perhaps."
"You expecting your God to come and save you? Huh?"
"If He wills it."
That answer seemed to infuriate him even more. He crossed the room, gun in hand, in two seconds, slammed her body against the concrete wall, shoved the barrel of the gun into her gut, and sneered in her face, "Well, your God can't save you now."
In a rage, he turned and kicked the still-unconscious hostage in the ribs. "And this guy? He won't even know what you've done for him. No one will care!" He was screaming now. "This!" He picked up the man by the shirt collar. "This pathetic piece of worthless junk is what you're dying for?!"
She remained leaning against the wall, eyes shut tight, wordless.
He dropped the man on the floor, and suddenly his voice dropped down to a whisper even more dangerous than his screams. "And what about you? What about everything you've worked for, that you're never going to see finished? What about your family, your friends, that you are never going to see again? Is this worth it?"
She heard a click as he prepared the gun, still talking. "Death isn't fun, you know. And trust me, your God's not coming to save you this time. Or anytime else. No one can save you now, except yourself. Look at me!"
Her eyes shot open at the command. The man now looked emotionless, except for his hands, which were clenched tight. "You're going to go through with this?"
"Yes."
There was a bang, and suddenly her left leg gave out from under her and she fell onto her knees, gasping.
"You sure?" he asked through clenched teeth, his finger still on the trigger.
"...yes."
Another bang, and the hand supporting her trembling body felt like it was on fire. Her shoulder hit the concrete.
Before another word was spoken, another bullet hole appeared in her back.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, between which muffled sobs could be heard.
Through bleary eyes, she could see a dark form looming over her. "Last chance now. Do you want to back out?"
She was in too much pain to speak, but she managed to make a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Darkness.
If one ever happens to pass by the Calvary Church of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, on any given Friday, be sure to step in for a minute or two. It's a relaxing place, with long, dark pews, colored by the afternoon light filtering in from the stained-glass windows. A simple wooden cross hangs at the front, with a matching altar underneath. The soft carpet muffles almost any sound, so that it's so quiet, one feels as though one can hear the imperceptible sounds that angels make when flying. It's a peaceful place. A place of rest.
And, if you happen to come in at the right time, you may observe that there are three people sitting in the front row - two men sitting on the pew, one other in a wheelchair. They are very quiet, and don't seem to be doing anything other than contemplating the cross and the altar. Occasionally, one of the men - the older one - will grasp the hand of the person in the wheelchair.
If you are patient, you may see their faces when they leave up the aisle. The first, you will observe, is a young man. His hair is brown, and closely cropped, and he wears dark clothes, which contrast against his pale skin. He walks with his back so straight one might call it stiff. But his eyes, which are a soft green, bear the look of one who has been relieved of a great burden.
The older man is pushing the wheelchair. His hair is gray, and there are deep lines, worn by care and penitence, in his face. There is a name tag pinned onto his shirt, revealing that his name is Sean Anderson and that he works as a greeter at the church. He wears the gentle smile of one who has been forgiven of a great sin, and is now at peace.
Now that you can their faces, you realize that the person in the wheelchair is a girl in her twenties. Her left leg is in a cast, and her right arm is heavily bandaged. Her black hair falls to her shoulders in waves. Her eyes, doe-like and soft brown, stare into the distance, as if contemplating something profound and wonderful. Her face is that of one who has served as a vessel, poured out for God, and filled again to overflowing.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - The words of Christ, as recorded in John 15:13.
6.17.2010
Death in the Family
Recently, someone I know lost a close friend to what the medical examiner said is suicide. I can't find out any details as to why they would think so, but the fact remains that there has been a death.
I'd like those people reading this to pray for that man's family and friends.
I've experienced deaths in my biological family before, but usually very distant relatives. I never really spoke with people who knew the deceased. Those deaths didn't really have much of an impact on me. But this event, where literally a friend of a friend died, has saddened me more than most.
Death is not funny. We laugh about it sometimes; in stories, movies, and video games, we revel in the death of an enemy. But in real life, death is serious business. In cases where the deceased was a Christian, there is some rejoicing that the deceased is now free. But that rejoicing is always mingled with sorrow. And in every case, there is an empty hole left where that person once was.
Now, looking back, I wonder how I could possibly have been laughing at a youtube video an hour before, when my friend is suffering like this. It makes me feel heartless, knowing that I was enjoying something pointless when other people are mourning. And multiply that by all the people who die each year. It's hard for me to accept death as something "real." Until now, it's mainly been a concept, something to talk about at funerals and church sermons. Well, now I've been "made older" by this new knowledge.
There isn't much else I can say on this topic that hasn't already been said. I just ask that you guys pray for these people.
I'd like those people reading this to pray for that man's family and friends.
I've experienced deaths in my biological family before, but usually very distant relatives. I never really spoke with people who knew the deceased. Those deaths didn't really have much of an impact on me. But this event, where literally a friend of a friend died, has saddened me more than most.
Death is not funny. We laugh about it sometimes; in stories, movies, and video games, we revel in the death of an enemy. But in real life, death is serious business. In cases where the deceased was a Christian, there is some rejoicing that the deceased is now free. But that rejoicing is always mingled with sorrow. And in every case, there is an empty hole left where that person once was.
Now, looking back, I wonder how I could possibly have been laughing at a youtube video an hour before, when my friend is suffering like this. It makes me feel heartless, knowing that I was enjoying something pointless when other people are mourning. And multiply that by all the people who die each year. It's hard for me to accept death as something "real." Until now, it's mainly been a concept, something to talk about at funerals and church sermons. Well, now I've been "made older" by this new knowledge.
There isn't much else I can say on this topic that hasn't already been said. I just ask that you guys pray for these people.
6.14.2010
The Outsider Status
This shall be a post of random ranting. Starting now.
I seem to feel like an outsider often. I don't know if everyone feels like this, or is it just me. No matter where it is, with what group it is, I feel like an outsider, not belonging as the others do.
I'll watch the others talk and laugh about things I don't know or don't understand, and I'll feel jealous. What I'm jealous of, I'm not sure. Is it possible I'm jealous of their friendships, the love they have for one another? Or is it simply my human desire to belong?
I feel out of place in many places. There's always something that sets me apart, and the others seem distant, whether they intend to or not. They can try (and some really do try) to make me feel at home, to help me become one of them. But I can't. I have to be...me. I can't be one of a group.
So I smile fakely, and pretend to have a good time, for their sake. I try not to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I try. Usually I just end up making myself feel uncomfortable. And jealous. Very, very jealous.
It's not simply my desire to fit in. I don't need to "be like everyone else." I just want to sense that sense of friendship and fellowship that everyone else seems to be able to sense...but not me. I can't. I have to be lonely.
Okay, that was my emo rant of the week.
I seem to feel like an outsider often. I don't know if everyone feels like this, or is it just me. No matter where it is, with what group it is, I feel like an outsider, not belonging as the others do.
I'll watch the others talk and laugh about things I don't know or don't understand, and I'll feel jealous. What I'm jealous of, I'm not sure. Is it possible I'm jealous of their friendships, the love they have for one another? Or is it simply my human desire to belong?
I feel out of place in many places. There's always something that sets me apart, and the others seem distant, whether they intend to or not. They can try (and some really do try) to make me feel at home, to help me become one of them. But I can't. I have to be...me. I can't be one of a group.
So I smile fakely, and pretend to have a good time, for their sake. I try not to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I try. Usually I just end up making myself feel uncomfortable. And jealous. Very, very jealous.
It's not simply my desire to fit in. I don't need to "be like everyone else." I just want to sense that sense of friendship and fellowship that everyone else seems to be able to sense...but not me. I can't. I have to be lonely.
Okay, that was my emo rant of the week.
5.28.2010
Disney-fied
As some of you may know, I recently went to Disneyworld. Which got me thinking for some reason.
I have friends who are anti-Disney. They can't stand any Disney movie (Pixar doesn't count), because of its medieval/unrealistic/babyish ideas. NOT every girl will be a princess (in fact, if you live in America, you never will). NOT every singer becomes a world-famous rock star with two identities. There is NO SUCH THING as a magic carpet, a star you can wish on, or a benevolent fat lady with wand that will give you anything you ask for out of thin air. NO frogs will turn into princes upon being kissed, and then promptly marry you.
I remembered these people (you shall forever remain nameless, don't worry) as I was walking through Disney (specifically, as I was waiting in a line. One of many lines.). And all I could think of was how much they would hate this place. It was so...happy. So...magical. And so very unrealistic.
Of course, that practically ruined my mood, so I tried not to think such thoughts for the rest of the day.
On the opposite tack, the next evening, my brother and I were sitting on the bleachers, watching "Fantasmic," one of the big Broadway spectacular/fireworks extravaganzas. I remember sitting right next to me was a little girl, maybe three years old. The minute a Disney princess came out on the stage, she would stand up on the bleacher and point, with a smile the size of a watermelon slice on her face. When the big dragon appeared to devour Mickey, she began sobbing like the world was about to end. In fact, when even the entrance music for one of the bad guys began playing (the bad guy didn't even have to show up), she would bawl.
Of course, my first thought is "Aw, isn't that sweet." And the next thought, "Wow, that's really innocent...and naive." That, of course, put me into an argument with myself as to how to react to such things - with cynicism or with "childlike wonder."
I ended up choosing the latter option - which made my experience all the more pleasant. With just a tiny effort, my entire week was made "magical." I would gasp every time a firework went off, as if it had been pixie dust and not gunpowder. I would sing randomly throughout the day, as if there had always been a soundtrack to my life. I played along when Peter Pan asked me if there was a fairy in my battery-powered light-up pen. I was an evil bounty hunter for ten minutes when I got stuck in a line with two 4-foot-tall Jedi. I had the time of my life.
I realized - it's a lot like reading fiction. Or watching movies. No one points out the fact that the Boondock Saints could never have existed, that DeLoreans can't be modified into time machines, that there is no Middle Earth besides the white-hot core of our planet. Because for those 2 hours, we're not absorbed in how unrealistic the movie is. We want to know the story. And we'd quickly duct-tape closed the mouth of anyone who tries to ruin it for us by constantly reminding us of how unrealistic it is.
So if I ever go to Disneyworld with any of you reading this blog...beware. I have duct tape. And I'm not afraid to use it.
I have friends who are anti-Disney. They can't stand any Disney movie (Pixar doesn't count), because of its medieval/unrealistic/babyish ideas. NOT every girl will be a princess (in fact, if you live in America, you never will). NOT every singer becomes a world-famous rock star with two identities. There is NO SUCH THING as a magic carpet, a star you can wish on, or a benevolent fat lady with wand that will give you anything you ask for out of thin air. NO frogs will turn into princes upon being kissed, and then promptly marry you.
I remembered these people (you shall forever remain nameless, don't worry) as I was walking through Disney (specifically, as I was waiting in a line. One of many lines.). And all I could think of was how much they would hate this place. It was so...happy. So...magical. And so very unrealistic.
Of course, that practically ruined my mood, so I tried not to think such thoughts for the rest of the day.
On the opposite tack, the next evening, my brother and I were sitting on the bleachers, watching "Fantasmic," one of the big Broadway spectacular/fireworks extravaganzas. I remember sitting right next to me was a little girl, maybe three years old. The minute a Disney princess came out on the stage, she would stand up on the bleacher and point, with a smile the size of a watermelon slice on her face. When the big dragon appeared to devour Mickey, she began sobbing like the world was about to end. In fact, when even the entrance music for one of the bad guys began playing (the bad guy didn't even have to show up), she would bawl.
Of course, my first thought is "Aw, isn't that sweet." And the next thought, "Wow, that's really innocent...and naive." That, of course, put me into an argument with myself as to how to react to such things - with cynicism or with "childlike wonder."
I ended up choosing the latter option - which made my experience all the more pleasant. With just a tiny effort, my entire week was made "magical." I would gasp every time a firework went off, as if it had been pixie dust and not gunpowder. I would sing randomly throughout the day, as if there had always been a soundtrack to my life. I played along when Peter Pan asked me if there was a fairy in my battery-powered light-up pen. I was an evil bounty hunter for ten minutes when I got stuck in a line with two 4-foot-tall Jedi. I had the time of my life.
I realized - it's a lot like reading fiction. Or watching movies. No one points out the fact that the Boondock Saints could never have existed, that DeLoreans can't be modified into time machines, that there is no Middle Earth besides the white-hot core of our planet. Because for those 2 hours, we're not absorbed in how unrealistic the movie is. We want to know the story. And we'd quickly duct-tape closed the mouth of anyone who tries to ruin it for us by constantly reminding us of how unrealistic it is.
So if I ever go to Disneyworld with any of you reading this blog...beware. I have duct tape. And I'm not afraid to use it.
5.15.2010
Whose Rights?
Currently, only two countries in the world have not ratified the U.N. Convention On the Rights of the Child: Somalia...and the United States.
Why is this so? And what is so wrong with the Convention?
I took the time (yes, I have nothing else to do) to read the entire Convention, from Preamble to Article 54. The general essence of the Convention is that children (meaning humans under 18) have the same human rights as adults...and then some.
The government is allowed to intervene in a child's life, including taking him away from his parents, if it is in the "best interest of the child." "The best interest of the child" is mentioned over and over again throughout the entire thing, as it is the Convention's "primary consideration."
The Convention does respect the responsibilities, rights, and duties of the parents, family, or community in guiding children in the exercise of their rights. That's a relief.
However, a child can form and voice their own views, if old or mature enough to do so, and their views will be considered depending on their age. Parents are not allowed to control their kids' speech - the government will step in when the speech infringes on other people's rights or is a danger to national security. Basically, their parents, although allowed to "provide direction," are not allowed to prevent their kids from saying whatever they want, access whatever media they want, or complain to courts however they want.
Parents are still responsible to secure their children's proper living conditions, of course, and are allowed to "provide guidance" in most matters, but the government is allowed to interfere if it is "in the best interest of the child."
The wording of the entire Convention is nebulous, allowing for much interpretation (and misinterpretation). As are most laws.
Certain U.S. citizens also claim that it is in conflict with the Constitution and Supreme Court rulings in the past, which do not allow interference in the parent-child relationship. The HSLDA is against it, due to the fact that it may allow the government to disallow homeschooling. The U.S. has a history of refraining from ratifying U.N. resolutions, due to concerns of sovereignty and federalism. Some believe we simply don't need it.
Many international organizations, however, do support the resolution, including World Vision and the International Rescue Committee.
What does everyone else think?
Why is this so? And what is so wrong with the Convention?
I took the time (yes, I have nothing else to do) to read the entire Convention, from Preamble to Article 54. The general essence of the Convention is that children (meaning humans under 18) have the same human rights as adults...and then some.
The government is allowed to intervene in a child's life, including taking him away from his parents, if it is in the "best interest of the child." "The best interest of the child" is mentioned over and over again throughout the entire thing, as it is the Convention's "primary consideration."
The Convention does respect the responsibilities, rights, and duties of the parents, family, or community in guiding children in the exercise of their rights. That's a relief.
However, a child can form and voice their own views, if old or mature enough to do so, and their views will be considered depending on their age. Parents are not allowed to control their kids' speech - the government will step in when the speech infringes on other people's rights or is a danger to national security. Basically, their parents, although allowed to "provide direction," are not allowed to prevent their kids from saying whatever they want, access whatever media they want, or complain to courts however they want.
Parents are still responsible to secure their children's proper living conditions, of course, and are allowed to "provide guidance" in most matters, but the government is allowed to interfere if it is "in the best interest of the child."
The wording of the entire Convention is nebulous, allowing for much interpretation (and misinterpretation). As are most laws.
Certain U.S. citizens also claim that it is in conflict with the Constitution and Supreme Court rulings in the past, which do not allow interference in the parent-child relationship. The HSLDA is against it, due to the fact that it may allow the government to disallow homeschooling. The U.S. has a history of refraining from ratifying U.N. resolutions, due to concerns of sovereignty and federalism. Some believe we simply don't need it.
Many international organizations, however, do support the resolution, including World Vision and the International Rescue Committee.
What does everyone else think?
5.12.2010
Enviral-mental
"Let's save the environment." "Be green!" "Protect Mother Earth."
These slogans are shouted at us every day. The government, the media, the companies, the schools - and a lot of bloggers, too. But why?
The temperature of the earth is rising. Trees are being cut down. Species are going extinct. Weather is getting weirder. EARTH IS BEING DEFILED.
Therefore, we need to pour our money into programs that will help restore the earth; since we were the ones that destroyed it, we should be the ones to put it back together again.
I have an extremely simple solution to the entire environmental problem, that will solve it almost immediately. The solution is...
...we kill all the people. Everyone. Including ourselves. If we did so, the world wouldn't have to worry about the cars, factories, industries, and all that junk that is "destroying Mother Nature." If we got rid of the biggest enemy of nature, humans, the environment would be set for life.
Of course, we can't do that. No one wants to kill someone to "save the environment." But that is exactly what we are doing. For years, we've been spending thousands upon thousands of dollars in an attempt to help nature back onto its feet again - while every year, 15 million children are dying of hunger. Last year, Minnesota passed the "Clean Water, Land, and Legacy Amendment" which increased taxes and diverts $300 million dollars every year to helping the environment - while in less than 50 years, those dollars could have satisfied the entire world's sanitation and food requirements.
So the question is: which do we care more about? The children in third-world countries, or the green pitcher plant? People, or things? We in America are blessed to have enough money to, after taking care of our own needs, see to the needs of others. It simply depends on who - or what - we spend that money on.
It's your choice.
These slogans are shouted at us every day. The government, the media, the companies, the schools - and a lot of bloggers, too. But why?
The temperature of the earth is rising. Trees are being cut down. Species are going extinct. Weather is getting weirder. EARTH IS BEING DEFILED.
Therefore, we need to pour our money into programs that will help restore the earth; since we were the ones that destroyed it, we should be the ones to put it back together again.
I have an extremely simple solution to the entire environmental problem, that will solve it almost immediately. The solution is...
...we kill all the people. Everyone. Including ourselves. If we did so, the world wouldn't have to worry about the cars, factories, industries, and all that junk that is "destroying Mother Nature." If we got rid of the biggest enemy of nature, humans, the environment would be set for life.
Of course, we can't do that. No one wants to kill someone to "save the environment." But that is exactly what we are doing. For years, we've been spending thousands upon thousands of dollars in an attempt to help nature back onto its feet again - while every year, 15 million children are dying of hunger. Last year, Minnesota passed the "Clean Water, Land, and Legacy Amendment" which increased taxes and diverts $300 million dollars every year to helping the environment - while in less than 50 years, those dollars could have satisfied the entire world's sanitation and food requirements.
So the question is: which do we care more about? The children in third-world countries, or the green pitcher plant? People, or things? We in America are blessed to have enough money to, after taking care of our own needs, see to the needs of others. It simply depends on who - or what - we spend that money on.
It's your choice.
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