Hoster boy

A good soundtrack has been running through my head all day.  Yesterday I hummed a song and it was the next one they played on the radio, and today it happened again.

I must use my powers for good.

Tonight I am hosting a New Year's Eve party for the first time.  I am excited!  Not just because people are coming over, although that is nice, but more because of what it means.  It means that I live somewhere that can support such a gathering.  Some place that is warm and comfortable and inviting that people want to come to.  It means I'm succeeding in one of my goals.

It is recursively lame to write about not knowing what to write about... I have much to do, anyway.  So I better!  Go do it!  Yeah.

"2009, you were a great year. The best one yet. But I have a feeling 2010 is about to steal your thunder. Don't worry, I'll love you both equally, just in different ways."

-J

In the age of chaos

A friend who I respect tremendously on spiritual matters proposed something to me quite audacious a few months ago, and it's been percolating in my head ever since.  He suggested an interesting interpretation of courtship, one that did not include physical intimacy.  On the surface it sounded ludicrous, but this is someone who I hold in a high enough opinion that I do not treat his ideas casually.  I decided to think about it.
Of course unmarried couples should not sleep together.  This is something pretty much all Christians can agree on.  There's about twenty good reasons I can think of off the top of my head, which means there's a hundred and twenty more that don't even occur to me...  It's something I've wanted to write on, given how my position on premarital celibacy has been so totally altered by the Holy Spirit.  What my friend offered, though, was sort of a thought experiment that traveled down the path further.  So what if a couple actually did save all intimacy for marriage?  What if their wedding kiss was actually their first kiss?
Like I noted, it sounded crazy to me at first.  I have noticed something, though: whenever I see something that is widely accepted and encouraged by American culture, and I imagine what the exact opposite of that thing would be, more often than not what I have imagined can be found somewhere in the Bible.  Obedience to parents, submission to God, devotion to truth even when it appears it is against one's self-interest... these are not things celebrated or given approval by the society surrounding us.  Quite the contrary.  Why then do we accept the current doctrine of courtship?  A Christian marriage is not governed by the same insight or heading in the same direction as an American marriage.  But I've always assumed that it's okay for it to look just like one.  I never thought about it.  Physical intimacy, within the holy covenant of marriage, is both a gift from God and a celebration.  Mentally I narrow the definition of "intimacy" to specifics, but there's no reason why that should be.  Your wife is the one you may touch, and should, and no other.  The one you may kiss, and should.  That is true.
I'm still not really sure how I feel about it.  It's such a powerful idea that I can't put it down for now.  

-J

Counter intelligence

Like the mercury in a barometer, I rise in response to the level of atmospheric pressure surrounding me.  Work had me come in yesterday, in contrast to the past two years.  It's a good sign; people want our sandwiches enough that Rich has decided to run with a skeleton crew this week instead of hibernating until January like usual.  Monday there was apparently some big order because it was explained to me that after I dropped off a couple lunches, I would then come back and run the front end of the shop while Rich and his son were out delivering.  
Working the counter freaks me out a bit.  I'm not bad at it, I'm just afraid I'll make a mistake and lose a customer.  I had to answer the phone too, which is even more nerve wracking because our connection isn't great.  Even at the best of times I suffer from kakorrhaphio-lalio-xenophobia which is the fear that someone will talk to me in a language that is clearly English but with an accent so thick that I will not be able to understand them.  Things I am comfortable with: smalltalk; high-pressure situations.  Things I fail at in absolute terms: high-pressure smalltalk.  Seriously, if there is a consequence for not doing well, my brain will spontaneously generate the dumbest sentences Western civilization.
(Brief example)
HER: It is nice to meet you, young man who is dating my daughter.
ME: I AM THE KING OF THE BANANA-PEOPLE.
HER: I understand that you work at the church.
ME: Females should be federally licensed and monitored. 

And so on.
It went okay.  I'd like another swing at it, now that I've at least survived one day.  I like the feeling of growing outside myself.  Pat is my boss' wife, of many years, and if I'm ever old and married I'd like it to be to someone like her.  She's got this lovely gray hair, close-cropped and sensible and attractive, and she wears a skirt under her apron most every day.  She gets bored in the kitchen some days, and will just start baking things to keep herself busy.  It's good to be around on those afternoons.  She's very sweet and always willing to help me out with cooking questions; yesterday she gave me a copy of the pie crust recipe she personally uses, which was pretty amazing.  She has a way of doing things, though, and that's just the way that they're done.  She doesn't like saying "no" directly, but she absolutely refused to make a sandwich for a customer yesterday using a wrap instead of bread.  No.  That won't be possible.  I asked her about substituting tofu in a dish once and she gave me an unnerving look.  "I don't use tofu.  Ever."
She's awesome.

-J

Lift those heavy eyelids

I've never wanted to have a child, and when people ask me "whyzzat?" I've said that I don't have the biochemical desire, which is true.  But in addition to that, I've pointed out "Well, I'm not mature / patient / disciplined enough".  Last night I realized that's not really an excuse so much as a complete admission of guilt.  I've noted before that it is a good thing to be mature enough to be in a romantic relationship, regardless of whether or not a relationship is something God provides.  It would be kind of stupid to get off the logical train there.  
For some reason cognitive dissonance set in and I never took it any further.  Because a lot of reasons.  Which are all dumb.  So the moral of the story is that even if I never end up having a child, developing the qualities necessary for parenting is not an optional goal.  One can say "I choose not to reproduce" (or choose not not to), and that's totally okay, but do not try to absolve oneself of the choice through lame, lame self-disqualification.  That's so lame.  Don't do that, me.

-J

Decrastination

I'm writing now, because there's a pretty good chance that if I put it off until later, I'll forget.
Now: thinking of something to say.

Hummm.

Things You Can Write And By You I Mean Me:

-Self-reflective prose soliloquy
-Humorous or otherwise notable anecdote
-Poetry
-List of some sort
-Exploratory fiction
-A well-crafted sentence or two painting a larger concept
-This

-J

winding down

The iPod that is playing through the church speakers is making my teeth grind. I'm not sure I've ever head a mix of Christmas music I liked less than this one. But that's the last complaint I'm making tonight, or about tonight. I will remember the good, and the "otherwise" is meaningless, and past.
The church is slowly emptying after service. I can still see quite a bit of dessert on the table from up here in the booth. It has been a very long time since I stood in line to take communion. They always leave some on the band table behind the curtain, and I find a quiet spot alone back there in the evenings.
I like my solitude. Tonight I'm going to go home after turning all the lights and computers off here, and I'll just be by myself. I would share it with the right person, but the list of right people is small; I could count them on one hand. Because I want to relax tonight, and be myself, and not feel like I have to put on any mask of family or function... it's not many people who I can really feel peaceful with.
Every chair was full tonight. There's still a crowd now, half an hour after.
I'm glad they all came. I'll be glad to be home.

-J

Merry Christmas eve eve day.

It is such a gorgeous day.  The sun was shining and there was blue sky showing through fluffy white clouds.  Cold but not chilly.  I went to work today, which was nice.  I get a little weird if I have too much time off... we had an encouraging number of delivery orders, and the storefront seemed busy.  I guess they let me have the day off yesterday, and gave Rod the day off today.  Rich told me they won't need me tomorrow, so the next time I'll be in will be January 4th.  At six AM, to help with the biggest order I've ever seen.  It'll be great, just as long as I can get someone else to lock up the audio gear after church the evening of the 3rd.
On the tenth day of Christmas, Sugee's Box Lunch Company gave to me:
10 days a-breaking
9 rolls a-sticky
83 cents and 24 dollars (in tips)
7 sugar cookies
6-layer sandwich
A FIVE POUND CALZONE (maybe not actually five pounds but it is big.  I'm going to eat it so much.)
4 hours of work
3 gingerbread men
2 many sweets
And a paycheck signed "From Sugee's"

I feel great.  I feel liked and appreciated and cared for.  I feel like God loves me very much.  I know it's true all the time, but it's a little closer to mind with a mouth full of ham and swiss on rye from a kitchen I'm proud to work in.  

-J 

Holiday

Brian called me from work a few minutes ago, and told me to stay home.  There weren't enough orders to justify me coming in today.  I like my job, and I like doing it, and I like getting paid for it.  I also like staying home, though.
I asked a friend who is married what the biggest difference was about that new state of life.  He told me it was that when you're married, and you spend two hours idly surfing the internet trying to find some song lyric that you only half-remember, there is another human being around to look at you in such a way that you realize all the twenty ways you could have better used that time.  He and his wife had dubbed it "crumbing out".  It was to be avoided.  It made me laugh because it's true... I excuse the wasting of time an awful lot when it's just me holding me accountable.  So hopefully no crumbing out today.  The Lord knows that I have needs, and He provides for me.  Therefore when he provides me a break from work, I should honor Him in that too.  For the record, responsible napping counts.  We must be good stewards of ourselves as much as anything else.
Brian is the dispatcher at Sugee's Box Lunch Company.  He's worked there for over twenty years.  He curses a lot under his breath when it's busy, and he knows pretty much every street in King County.  "So go south on 140th until just after you pass Bel-Red, then it's the next driveway on your left, immediately, across from 24-hour fitness.  You'll have to drive all the way to the back of the office complex over a few speed bumps and then it's around to your right.  It's secured so you have to push a doorbell and they'll let you in."  Every now and then I manage to say something that cracks him up, which is a good feeling because I worry that he gets so stressed out.
I reported to him about my last delivery of the day, yesterday.  "So, that lady who called from Eastside Skincare was actually from The Little School."
"Oh," he said, "Ellen, right.  I thought I recognized the name,"
"Yeah, she was there getting a treatment.  The owner was there and Ellen I guess had been telling her about us because she wanted a sandwich.  She asked if she could just tell her order to me.  'It'll be faster if you call in,' I told her.  'I don't have time for that!' she insists.  So I go 'Well... I could call them.' and she says 'Yeah, okay do that'.  So that was that weird phone call you got."
The phone call in question was me trying to dictate an order that was sort of being half shouted from right next to me by someone reading a menu and having trouble making up their mind, but still in a terrible hurry. 
"So I came back here and got the sandwich and brought it to her, and she asks me 'how much is it?' and I tell her '$10.17', and she pulls out eleven dollars and looks at it in a concentrating way then adds one, and then takes one back, and then asks Ellen her client 'Will eleven dollars cover that?'"
Ellen told her to give me twelve.

-J

That night

That night had two best parts.  The first was when I was holding your hand, and you let go a little, and I wasn't quite sure why until you interlaced your fingers with mine.  That was the best part.  The second was laughing together like hyenas in my car.
When I kissed your hand and you rolled your eyes a little and said "c'mere" and held me close... that was the best part too.

-J

Tell her to find me an acre of land

The life of a Christian is an estuary.

-J

Love Letters from the Skeleton Kingdom of the Moon - Part 1

Cable sat with his back to the door. The fluorescent lights shone dully off of the white wall tiles. Idly, the detective reached out and gathered up some papers with his right hand. He stacked them, put a new one on top, and then casually disregarded them back onto the counter from where they had been scooped. One fell into the wash basin and droplets of water immediately discolored the black typewriter text. Cable fished it out and examined it; a statement of intent to seize his office. The date on the top was now blurred, but the envelope it had been sealed in had arrived six months ago. The letter was not particularly civil in tone. A less civil letter had arrived two months after that, and two months later some men came by who were so uncivil they might actually have been described as "impolite".
Cable rocked left, and then right, then left in his office chair, rolling it gently across the linoleum floor. The mirror to his right needed cleaning. He made a mental note to probably do absolutely nothing about it. The globe-shaped lightbulbs above the glass hurt his retinas to look at. Three of them had burned out, the last just this morning. On-off-on-on-off-on-off. "Just like life," Cable thought to himself. The door opened and someone wearing high heels walked in. "You have the wrong door," said Cable, without turning around. "Either that, or you're dyslexic and trying to find the "moor s'nem"."
"I never believed much in propriety," replied a nonchalant contralto voice. Cable rotated his chair around.
"Well I never believed much in Santa Claus," he offered, "but that doesn't mean I went around spoiling it for everyone else." The woman was of medium height and slender build, in her right hand she held a brown alligator-skin briefcase. She was wearing a khaki suit jacket and skirt, with a white blouse and a hat off to one side over her delicately ringed blonde hair. A lacy white veil descended over the top half of her angelic face, behind it heavy lashes and cool blue eyes. The bathroom's garish fluorescent light destroyed the look completely.
"You are Cable Meridian?" she asked. She offered up her left hand, in it a piece of paper which had until a moment ago been taped to the outside of the door. It read, "Meridian Investigative Agency" in black sharpie. Up until two months ago it had instead been taped to the door of a very nice office where Cable had conducted his business. Times had changed.
"I hope you're paying well," Cable said with lids half closed. "Scotch tape doesn't come free."  
"If it's your sign you're worried about, let me assuage you," she lilted invitingly. She set down the briefcase on the washroom counter and opened it. Click, click. From inside she produced a handsome brass rectangle, custom engraved with Cable's name and occupation. The detective leaned forward in his chair and straightened his fedora.
"So you're not here by mistake," he stated.
"You were recommended to me by an acquaintance," she said with a vague smile.  "My name is Verity September Jones.  Do you accept cases dealing with zombies?"
"Well..." said Cable.  He gave her another eyeing.  From behind the walls a drip echoed through the small hotel washroom. "I've never turned one down."

-J

They lied to us through song

Things which are not true:
*Love is all you need (The Beatles)
*Love will tear us apart (Joy Division)
*If you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his kiss (Betty Everett)

Something like 80 of the top 100 songs of the last fifty years have been about love.  You have to be careful; these people cannot be trusted.

-J

With flowers of winter

The Lord hears our prayer, and I am happy.  After nine months Christopher was offered a job.  The church may have found a new building.  I am blessed beyond measure.  And these things have yet to resolve... Christopher's job offer is demanding, and he may have to decline if certain matters cannot be flexible.  An acceptable contract for the building Mars Hill has made a offer on may not materialize.  And I, in the midst of my warmth, must be circumspect; God's plans are trump.  I do not yet know how things will end.  I have my hope.
Time spent in prayer is never wasted.  No matter what, God hears us.  I think that's enough.  That He answers too is something wholly remarkable.

-J

Service sector

It's easy to feel disconnected on this side of the lake. "Central" seems like some nebulous movie bureaucracy, every now and then sending someone over to meddle. Of course it is a lie. Central Ops serves our church with great care and sacrifice. I forget that they also serve nine other campuses and their own people. I've been confronted recently with my own pride, and of course I didn't want to listen. I cannot hold out for long against truth, though. Praise the Lord.Productions is a ministry especially prone to feeling disconnected.  We spend church services apart from others, it often seems like nobody understands what we do or the work required to accomplish things.  It is good to take pride in one's work, but the peril I face is letting my work become my pride.  I feel like I need to defend my volunteers from oppression by the rest of the church.  I feel like I deserve to be informed of things, consulted for my valuable opinion.  Of course it is a lie.  We are all servants, in a competition to be the lowest brick in the wall; bearing the most weight, being the least self-interested.I was not hired to be a champion or a guru.  Mars Hill employs me to be an implementor.  My contract reads "and other tasks as necessary", which means sometimes my job is defined as "be inconvenienced".  
"For I say, through the grace that was given me, to every man that is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think as to think soberly, according as God hath dealt to each man a measure of faith." [Rom 12:3]  My self-worth stems solely, exclusively, out of my relationship with God.  Deriving self-worth from any other source is to declare God insufficient.  It's idolatry.  I have a terrible practice of making passive-aggressive comments to people totally unrelated to the issue which vexes me, and I know the reason I do it is so they can say "Wow how annoying" and therefore justify me.  It's sin.  Of course it is a lie.  Justification comes from God too.  I don't make snarky passive-aggressive remarks to the Lord, and why?  Because I know he won't justify me, but rather he'll instruct me.  Which involves knocking me off my throne and back into my place.  And my human nature doesn't want that.
But the Holy Spirit in me does.  I yearn after the Lord.  In my heart I love Jesus far too much to try to be my own king.  I am glad there are people around me to confront me when they see my stray.  This is the way in which service sanctifies us.  Not that the one who serves is superior; the one who serves has his sin revealed more fully.  The connection to be concerned with is my connection to God.  He led me here, as well as everybody else in the body, and He will be faithful to complete the good work He began in us.  Everything else is just working out the specifics.  And how can I ever be proud or self-righteous in the face of that?

-J

Solomon's key

At community group last night we reviewed a little of the history of King David. God describes David as "a man after My own heart, who shall fulfill all My will." In the chronicles of the kings all the rest of Israel's rulers are compared to David. That's pretty serious, and I never really understood it since David was guilty of adultery and conspiracy and murder. He killed a man to cover up the fact that he had impregnated that man's wife. I never got how God could give such a glowing review to someone who had done such a hideous thing. It's actually bothered me for a long time, although I didn't realize it. I feel like the pieces finally came together, though.
In Luke, Jesus said that he had been praying for Simon Peter. Jesus Christ, praying to God the Father, and just for Simon the fisherman. "Simon, Simon, behold, Satan demanded to have you, that he might sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned again, strengthen your brothers." [Luke 22:31-32]
That your faith may not fail. Jesus already knows that Peter is going to deny him, deny even knowing him. He is praying for Peter's repentance on the other side of failure. And that's what made David a man after God's own heart - not that he was sinless! That his repentance was always true, and complete, and swift on the heels of conviction. That we repent is paramount to God, not that we don't sin. God, like Jesus knew of Peter, knows we will deny Him. But when the Holy Spirit pricks our heart, we must run to him and not away. That is the act of a repentant heart.
"From that time Jesus began to preach and to say, Repent! For the kingdom of Heaven is at hand." [Mat 4:17]
You ever want to hear a sermon delivered by God? There it is. Repent.

Lately I've been splitting linguistic hairs, and I don't even know why. I don't mean to. I'm sorry. Like when you asked if you could help me on Wednesday night and I just said something stupid instead of "Thank you, that is really nice of you" like I should have done. I felt bad about it, because I don't even know why I said it. I imagine you'll say 'it's a small thing', and you are right, but small is not the same as meaningless. <--- there, see, I did it again. But that difference does matter, so I apologize to you, and I will turn again.

-J

Reptile house

I was born under an unlikely sign.  When you spin a top, it does not spin exactly straight, but rather the upper end of it traces a circle in the air.  This type of movement is called 'precession', and may be found in all spinning bodies, the Earth included.  Because of this phenomenon, which star is our "north star" gradually alters - in another few thousand years Polaris will no longer be usable as a fixed reference.  It also has some impact on the field of astrology.
One's birth sign is determined by drawing a line from the Earth through the sun and out into space.  Whatever constellation this line intersects with is the sign you were born under.  The sun is pretty far away, so the determinations remain mostly constant.  Mostly.  Due to the precession of the Earth there is now, briefly, a thirteenth astrological sign.  Which I was born under.
I don't know much about Ophiuchus, except he was a dude that held a snake.  But that's alright, I guess.  I've always liked The Crocodile Hunter.  And if I was a Harry Potter character I'd be in Slytheryn for sure.  So maybe there is something to it.
I don't believe the stars have any influence on our lives... the people who drew constellations to make sense of the heavens could not have guessed the vast distances between the tiny points of light they watched dance through the year.  They did not consider that apparent closeness might only be relative: the star Tabit, in Orion, is twenty-six light years away; right next to it by our view is Pi4 Orionis - twelve hundred light years further.

I like snakes.  The poison ones are scary, but the rest are cool.  Like, I wouldn't mind holding one, I mean.  And it feels sort of secret cool to know that I was born under some weird snake sign.  Astrology is silly, and deriving personal significance because of the movement of the Earth around the sun is silly.   Still, I am glad I'm not a "Cancer".  

-J

4x7

Tomorrow is my birthday, but for the first time in many Decembers I don't feel like writing a year-in-review.  My whole life revolved on the axis of last June; not just my situation or goals, but by perception.  Reminiscing seems so uninteresting.  I think there are a lot of components working together, but all I can focus on is how amazing the things ahead of me are.
For the first time in my life I'm looking forward to the future more than the past.
You won't even believe how great it will be.

-J

Meter running

I once met a psychic named Beth
Who told me the date of my death
'Twas two weeks ago
Which just goes to show
Her crystals were probably meth

-J

Bringing it all back home

A kiss > A Hershey's Kiss > KISS > Henry Kissinger

- J

Chapter Three

"Why do cats like telling stories so much?" I asked Benjamin one day. He looked at me, surprised.
"I will never cease to be amazed at what you people don't know," he told me. "Cats were the first storytellers. Humans learned it from us." This made me wrinkle my nose in skepticism.
"Storytelling is intuitive," I retorted. "It's natural to tell stories."
"It's natural to hunt," he rebutted, crouching low to investigate a grasshopper, "but you still have to teach kittens how to do it. Look, I'm not saying humans are bad at storytelling. Quite to the contrary, you've done some very inventive things with the medium. But the fact remains, it is a tradition originated by cats."
I dropped the subject, and had actually forgotten about it two evenings later when Benjamin came around the house. I hadn't seen him in the meantime and asked him what he had been up to.
"No time for that, come quickly," he said. His tone was friendly but insistent, so I threw on a jacket and followed him off into the orchard. Benjamin was kind enough to slow his pace for me, but it was still difficult to keep up with him in the murky twilight. His velvety gray fur all but disappeared amid the tall grass and looming trees. Soon we had left my grandparents' land and now I followed him out through unfamiliar rows of peach and apricot. The trees seemed to become steadily larger as we went, and soon they towered over my head. I had no idea where we were. Benjamin seemed to know exactly where he was going, though, and I trusted him enough to put worry aside. We must have traveled in this way, half-hiking, half-jogging for ten or twenty minutes before he finally stopped. My eyes were straining to make out his shape in the near-darkness and I was exhausted from the trip. I have never been particularly physical, and my endurance especially leaves much to be desired. I collapsed on the grass and leaned back against a rough tree trunk, the night dew soaking through my jeans.
"I'm sorry to have dragged you all the way out here, but theres a storyteller passing through the area and I doubt you'd ever get a chance to meet her otherwise.
"I thought all cats were storytellers," I said, not really caring at this point that it was sort of a rude thing to say, especially after Benjamin had gone to the effort of trying to introduce us. He was gracious enough to let it slide.
"All cats are storytellers, but just as some cats are better hunters than others, some cats are better at telling stories." This made good sense. "She's called Hermia, she's pretty famous. Stay here," he told me, "I'm going to tell the gathering that I've brought a... guest."  I smiled at the way he finished.
I barely even saw him move before he vanished into the pitch and I was left by myself. It was summer still, but the night was unusually cold. The moon was smothered under a thick blanket of clouds, but I thought I could see the steam of my breath. I pulled my jacket tight around me and covered my hands in its folds.
After a short time I looked up out of instinct to a shape emerging from off to my right. I thought it was Benjamin at first, but the voice which ordered, "Follow me," was a stranger's. I got up and followed.
Within a minute, maybe two, I entered a clearing.  The ground was rough, with tough patches of grass working up through the hard soil.  Trees ringed us, and within the circle they made was echoed a second one of perhaps a dozen cats.  They did not seemed concerned by my entrance; glancing over lazily before attending to a paw that needed grooming.  Cats are always like that.  "Sst," I heard a voice whisper softly.  I looked up to where it had come from and saw Benjamin lying on a thick tree branch near my head.  "Sit here," he said under his breath.  
As I took my seat beneath him, I began to pick out the shapes of more cats, both in the trees and on the ground around us.  I estimated about twenty, but it was hard to tell.  They did not speak, and so neither did I, all of us waiting for some cue.  Finally a black, slender cat made her way out of the trees and walked idly into the center of the glade.  We had been passively quiet, but the silence became active.  Just the wind could be heard, carrying the ever-present chorus of the crickets.

Last call

Almost let today get away from me... it's only been a week.  Can't falter now.
Last night I dreamed I was a werewolf, teaming up with a vampire and a skeleton to explore a mysterious dungeon.  I have to say, that is quite a bit more like it.

___

I'm still learning what it means to be selfless. It's not intuitive yet... I have to think about it. I have to work it out, like a puzzle box with my true soul inside. I don't imagine I am special in this. We are all of us still in progress.
It's so amazing when I reach it; the humbling power of it. I learned about it watching Pastor Mark preach through the Song of Solomon last year. The ideas were so audacious, truth I had never heard before... ideas that were so primal that they preceded instinct.
Relationships as they are taught by the world are inherently selfish. 'No, no', the married man says, and even this rarely: 'if she came to me and asked me to change something, I'd do it'. Selfish. That you would make her risk rejection, or you becoming defensive, or countering with your own criticism. The Christian man does not wait in spiritual cowardice for his wife to find the courage to come to him; he pursues her bravely. He seeks her, "Please finish for me the following sentence - 'I am attracted to you, but I would be more attracted to you if...'". The power and dignity in those words... And he does this not once in a lifetime, but once every three months. And then he carries it out. Not because he is her slave, because he loves Jesus more than her. His happiness comes through obedience to God, which means loving her as commissioned by God, through the enabling power of the Holy Spirit.  He trusts that she will not hoard her happiness selfishly, but that likewise loving Christ more than him, she will in the same way lay herself out. It's not even about 'fair'.  God's love for us teaches that fairness is not a necessity for our relationships. The Christian man knows that pursuing her happiness will ultimately accomplish his own. It is the only place where true intimacy exists. Vulnerable. Selfless. 

- J

Down on record

That dream was no good.  Who do I speak with to demand my sleep back?

Still Good:
1) Quiche.  Quiche is brill because you can eat it for any meal of the day.  It's good hot out of the oven and still is reasonable if reheated in the microwave.  Fills you up with no sugar crash later.  I will continue to petition Oslo for an introduction of a 'food' category to the Nobel awards.

2) Hot showers.  I spent the last two years living in a house with four other guys.  Hot showers were planned like bank robberies.  Okay, set your alarm for 2am.  Towel, check.  Flip flops, check.  Right, so very quietly.... Now I live by myself.  The hot water doesn't last forever, (especially when you like it as hot as I do) but at least I know that I've got a good ten or fifteen  minutes every morning to wake up the right way.  For the record, the wrong way is sudden cold water in the middle of shampooing.

3) The bible.  My head just does not feel right if I don't get some time in the word every morning.  It's like my radio dial gets jostled during the night, and reading scripture is how I carefully re-tune it to the frequency of truth.  I have to read this book.

Lorraine's Law: The last slice of quiche will be eaten at the meal immediately following the realization that there is only one slice of quiche left.

-J

Try it like this

I heard someone talk about secrets just about a week ago, and I had never heard it explained before.  It's been percolating in my mind ever since, as at least one recent person has discovered when I completely failed to elocute it well.
My friend was teaching a group of new Children's Ministry volunteers at the chapel, and I only came in for the very end to listen to what it was about.  I heard him say, "If a child comes to you and says 'I want to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone', you must tell them that you want them to share, you want to listen and help, but that you won't make that promise."  What?  Don't you want them to confide in you?  He explained it this way:
The moment you make that promise, to keep their secret, you set yourself up as their functional savior.  I will be the one to help you.  You can place your hope in me.  But that's not our role, obviously.  It seems like a small thing, but what do secrets do?  They separate us... they burden us often.  Not secrets like birthday presents, that's not really a secret even - it's a surprise.  And not something private.  That's something you can still tell people who are close to you.  A secret is something you can't tell anyone.  So it separates you from people... one more way in which you are alone.
The metaphor John gives us for heaven is a place with no night - only light, everywhere.  The idea is that nothing is hidden.  There are no liars in heaven, he records.  No untruths, no misunderstandings... and no secrets.  Perfect intimacy is a place where we lay our armor down and no longer consume ourselves with our own protection.
It was something that hadn't occurred to me.  Hopefully next time I'll be better at communicating.

-J

Girl you're so groovy

Actual pixies > The Pixies > The Breeders > Frank Black & the Catholics > Frank Black > Black Francis > Pixy Stix.

-J

Salsbury's Story

Messewyne

It is a commonly known fact that cats are aware of every hiding place, bolt hole, and half-inch shadow in their domain. But Messewyne knew everyone's. From the day he was born you couldn't hide from him. He knew the layout of the whole barn before his eyes had opened. By one year he could get across town in the time it took the Hansom driver to give you your change. Some swore he was really several cats, but there was only one Messewyne. When his mother bore him, the hair on the back of every farmcat rose to attention, for they knew he was an omen and intended for some purpose of destiny. Messewyne was the only cat ever born who had no shadow.

His time was in the early days of Brighton, before the industrialists really took interest in the town, and legends were more tangible back then. It was said you could still see Sai Li racing across the moon at night in the moment before you blinked. Something had been troubling the cats of Brighton, but no one could really put a name to it. Something in the water. Something on the wind.
It was the first of November and a bitter cold nipped at the nose like a starling. Gray Hellespont had called together all the cats of the city to a meeting that night, in the grove behind the churchyard, and because they all loved and respected him they came. Story had it that Hellespont had been the first cat in Brighton, and he was old enough that it might have been true. He was blind and very wise, and all the cats in the city looked to him for leadership. These days you rarely find such cats, such leaders of cities, but it was not so strange back then. Nowadays cities are too big. Cats don't respect any authority, even of their own kind. But even one of today's belligerent young toms would have given a bow to Hellespont. His very atmosphere commanded it.
And so the cats of Brighton met; Jackwhite, with his piercing blue eyes, and Tiger, his mother. Rhubarb the singer, and Winslow, the pompous cat who lived in the clocktower. And more, and more, until the entire clearing was filled with cats. Many had not seen each other for years, and there were greetings and more than one fight. But then silence swept the assembly like a reflex, and they turned to watch Grey Hellespont slowly, stiffly climb the old sycamore stump to address them all.
"Cats of Brighton, my cats," he began slowly. It was utterly quiet, as if even the crickets respected his authority. "Sons and daughters of the ellipsis. Many of you know, or suspect, why I have called you here tonight." Hellespont looked out upon the crowd with old, blind eyes and continued. "Something has been tickling the ends of my whiskers for drawn days now. Something has loomed over me, just beyond what I can smell. I know you all feel it too. In the early times, we cats were sensitive to more than just the goings-on of this world. Generations have dulled our perception, but not our instincts. Something in Brighton is wrong. Something must be done."
The cats in the clearing murmured to themselves and looked at each other nervously. They had all been on edge for a month or more. Quinn the miller's cat spoke up across the crowd. "What can be done?" All eyes returned to Hellespont.
"What indeed. We cannot take action until we know what we face." He said reasonably. "Therefore, a cat must be sent to determine the cause of this unrest." More murmuring broke out and the cats shifted about.
"Who will be sent?" called Percival, the Mayor's cat's son. In times of trouble, cats do not form committees or debate their approach as people do. A cat's limitations are confined by company; they will always work best on their own, and they will never function at their peak when watched. Therefore, one cat will always be sent, to deal with the situation as they see fit.
"Who indeed." replied Hellespont. "It may be a dangerous mission. I sense some peril in the undertaking. What cat could be asked to find something that cannot be smelled or touched? But the cat who must go already knows his duty. Indeed, I do not even have to call his name." It was true. Messewyne stepped forward.
There was a hush in the crowd that swept back through the cats as they craned their necks over each other to see. "Messewyne, quickest and cleverest of the cats of Brighton. Are you ready?"
"Yes, O cat," he replied.
"Then go now, and go quickly," Hellespont said to him. And as dream-like as it had filled, the clearing was empty, leaving the old blind cat alone on the mossy sycamore stump behind the churchyard. He said a prayer under his breath and then he, too, was gone.

Messewyne was black and gray, the mottled ripple of a shadow on water. He was strong and in his prime. When he walked he strode with the proud pace of a lion and when he ran he was gone before you could compare him to anything at all.
Messewyne ran that night, through the fog-tipped dark, through the winding cobble streets of Brighton, and ran and ran until breath escaped him and he collapsed into near instant sleep on the chaff-strewn floor of the brown-roofed granary. When he woke, he was not alone.
His breathing did not hasten the smallest measure as Messewyne mentally bridged the gap between slumber and reality. He had felt the presence in his dreams, and carefully controlled his heartbeat and ribs so as not to betray his consciousness. Ever so slowly, perhaps the width of a robin's eggshell, Messewyne opened one eye. There was nothing in front of him. Nothing, save a presence. Then it was gone.
It had not been a mistake. Something had been there. Messewyne rolled to his feet and stretched thoroughly, then went over the granary floor a whisker's-length at a time. There had definitely been something. Everything leaves an imprint or feeling behind when it exits a room, but this was wholly a new sensation. Like smelling a memory. Like part of the room was still asleep back in Messewyne's dreams.
His powers of perception alerted him then. Whatever had been near, was still somewhere close. His eyes darted then, and he saw it: a shadow on the floor by the hatch of the granary. Nothing was casting it... it had no source. Just a shadow. People always take at least a moment to do anything, but cats can truly act without hesitation. And Messewyne could act faster than that. He launched himself without even tensing his muscles. The shadow darted away impossibly fast, but Messewyne missed it by less than a paw-length. The young cat was not done however; summoning all of his speed and reflexes, he gave chase.
The shadow moved like a mad illusion. The grey and black cat followed it, over houses, under windowsills, between the cracks of fenceboards, across the whole of Brighton and back, and again, and a third time. Finally, behind the church against the old pitted stone wall, Messewyne caught it.
"You have been bested, specter," declared the cat. The shadow, naturally, had no power of speech. "You have escaped from someone," Messewyne continued, "and you have caused us much distress. I cannot release you." Messewyne held the shadow down firmly with his paw. "Therefore," he finished, "you will be my shadow from now on. I claim you." And so it was.
Messewyne kept the shadow from that day forward. Eventually it began to clarify in shape from the wild thing it had been, and started to look like him. It was always still untamed, however. Many years later on the day that Messewyne died, the shadow disappeared, and was never seen in Brighton again. It is still somewhere, though, traveling over and through the world. Sometimes you can see a cat chasing it; across a room, or up a wall, trying in vain to be the one who can reclaim it. It will never happen. Messewyne was the only cat ever quick enough to catch his own shadow.

-J

Thoughts from the back seat of mom's minivan

I never was much of a conformist, so I'm not going to write about anything topical. I'm such a rebel, I know. You wrote in parentheses that I know who I am, and it's true. I don't know much, but I've got a handle on that. Ice cream sundaes just aren't the same without hot chocolate. I cannot be blamed. You, from the past, wondered if you should stand strong or surrender. I can't help but feel implicated in that line of thought... perhaps it is vanity. But it got me thinking.
Mostly about you.
I don't want to control you or confine you. I don't want to change who you are, or deflect you. I don't want to buy, sell, or process you. I know the feeling of wanting to fight just for the sake of fighting. I felt that way a few years ago. A new friend with a whirlwind entrance into my life, and the best job offer I've ever received. "Come with me! Work in a coffee shop up in Denali National Park for the summer." Yes please. I'll take second helpings of Run Away From Myself. But a buzz in the back of my spine told me not to go. I agonized over it; there was nothing I had ever wanted to do more. I lost sleep, and my mind suffered through a fever of the will. By daybreak the temperature of my thoughts had finally fallen, and I felt depressingly resigned. Staying was not what I wanted to do. I bore it like a cross, bitter. But, as with most things God gives me, I eventually discovered that it was not only what I needed to do, it was what I wanted to do as well.
I told a story, which means I agree with you. My empathy is strong. It is not what I hoped: to cause you to feel stuck between what feels like freedom and what appears to be the opposite. I want freedom for you. I want you to feel free.
There is an undeniable mental space occupied by a lone soul which vanishes in the presence of another. I understand this. I am not blind to the physical laws governing human relationships. I understand what it is to feel the heart pulled towards some green patch of imagination. A garden yearned after, in which we can see ourselves as undressed, as we lived in The Beginning. I know it too. I am idly reminded, though, of our first parents, and how even in that place of peace it was not good to be alone. The symmetries I'm drawing are loose ones, but it's worth considering the things we paint ourselves to desire.
I am a devoted believer in possibility. Realizing the invisible requires this delicate hands-off involvement. It's a dichotomy. Anything good is worth working for, so it is as good as you make it. Anything good is from God, so it can be as good as you let it be. Care for a plant, but don't tell it how to grow.
I want to be the one with whom you are free.

-J

Declaring intentions

I haven't the sprightliness of mind to be deceptive. Twain noted that honesty is wise for the forgetful. I am glad that facility lends me to simplicity, but the plain truth is that I enjoy living with all my cards face up on the table. Drama and head games seem not only like too much effort, but it's hard to see what, in the long run, they even accomplish. As my life telescopes out like a Hitchcock camera trick, even short-term desires begin to be understood through a lens of eternal priorities. I think, for the first time, I actually know what I want.
It's been coming together for a few seasons, now. The underpinnings were constructed before work began on the frame. I appreciate that. God continues to reveal Himself to me in a way I am capable of understanding, and He teaches me with a personal attention to my needs that I can't even come up with a way to say "thank you" for. Let me follow the example I have been given.
The purpose of this point of digital tangency is to be a vehicle for me to write. Yes, I already have a webjournal. But that was created with a different purpose, and adapting it now would require not only the indulgence of my small audience, but a retooling of the space it occupies in my brain. Simpler to pull out a fresh piece of paper and start clean.

My Intention: To write. Something. Anything. Monday through Friday. Any day I don't post it here - if I wrote by hand or on my typewriter for example - I will summarize what I wrote on a subsequent day to stay accountable.

Any time that quantity becomes the driving animus of ones apical meristem, the fruits produced cannot be relied upon for safe consumption... I know this. But it is painfully obvious to me that writing something is superior if the alternative is to write nothing at all, paralyzed as I can become by spectres of insufficiency. I err now on the side of the prospecter, choosing to labor for value. Since my previous method was to wander around looking for nuggets exposed on the ground, at least if I continue to come up empty now I can hold my head high for the actual exertion required.
This will not be referred to as either a "project" or an "experiment". This is the new thing I'm doing in the morning. This is the groundwork for the rest of my life. This is what I need to do if the future I want is to happen.
The glimpse of it that I've seen is too good. There is simply no way I can justify not expending the effort. It has mystified me, how someone who enjoys writing as much as I do can avoid it so neurotically. But that's behind. Ahead is what I want, and this is the next step. Stating plainly my course. Now: to do it forever. No problem. Look - I've already done it today.
Fortunate is the man whose conscience moves him to changes so simple.

-J

Law-abiding.

I. Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.
I am fairly certain that I have never abided by this.
Either that, or I have an abnormally strong personal entropy. But even if that were true, we cannot point to some aspects of the laws of physics to excuse us from others.
Passion is easy. Consistency is hard.

May, in the final reckoning, I be counted among the consistent.

-J