A Latin Swear Word

One of the funnier things in my life over the past week has been my mother. Really, there's no one like her and I'm beginning to appreciate that more and more. Before I used to hate it and it would annoy me terribly, but now, appreciation is beginning to sink in and I really think that's a good thing.

On Sunday night while the family was playing a game, I said "booyah" about something. I had probably just built a settlement in Settlers, but that's besides the point. My mom is the Queen of I-know-absolutely-nothing-about-pop-culture, so of course she gave me a bewildered face. She asked me what "booyah" was and I told her the first thing that I could think of, that it is a very bad swear word. Now, my mom is a girl of the fifties, conservative beyond description, really. In short, she doesn't swear. (Actually, I do have a rather faded memory of my mom bringing in groceries and dropping a bag and I thought she said "sh*t" but she denied it and I think cried because her children thought she was vile and no longer a Christian.)

So immense pleasure has been brought to my life by trying to get my mom to say "booyah." She's done it a few times (she really just wants to fit in like everyone else in this world), but she always asks me what it means. She even told me one time that it's just been so long since she's taken Latin. I just roar and roar.

I am not sure how long this can continue. For a while it's funny, then it's just cruel. Oh mothers. What would we do without them in this world?

The Loss of a Love

Just yesterday I gave a shout-out to my beloved car, Victor the Volvo. Now, I must say up front that I didn't actually invest any money to get this car, which is one reason why it's so beloved, but it is also just a fantastic car and who doesn't love Volvo's?

Well, today I went in to check on Victor's little oil leak that he's had for a few weeks now. It wasn't good news. Now, I don't know much/anything about cars, but I still heard the diagnosis loud and clear: there is a leak in the motor and it all needs replaced. There were many other parts described and pointed at, but I was 1) already too saddened/shocked about the news of the motor to try to understand and 2) I never know what car people are talking about anyway. They obviously don't know that this is my first car and I sing opera for crying out loud. I think car knowledge is so helpful and beneficial, but really, if I can check my oil and put gas in, I think I'm doing pretty well.

My next question was logical: so what do I do with this oil leak? The response brought great grief and anxiety: sell it now. They spoke of my car as if it was a dirty old rag and didn't even have enough respect to not speak poorly of him while he was nearby. Granted, I've only had this car for seven months, but we've had seven glorious months, with trips to Pennsylvania and Chicago, a dozen or so trips to Upland, and a few thousand trips to the beloved Olive Garden, where Victor often enjoys the "Employee of the Month" spot up front because I was either running late or simply wanted to show him off to everyone who came into the restaurant (tips go down when the customers find out YOU'RE the one driving the '92 Volvo). Goodness, I even have two tickets with this car. When he started going way too fast all on his own, did I just abandon and leave? No, and now when he gives me one sign of trouble, I'm up and gone. It just doesn't seem fair, doesn't seem faithful.

Now, I'm devastated. I probably shouldn't admit this, but while I was telling Joy on the phone, I started to cry a little. They told me I could run it for a while and just keep a carton of oil in my trunk and hope the overly-oiled belt doesn't slip off and cause me even greater grief, but they really think my best bet is to sell it now. They all just kept talking about how Volvo's aren't cheap to fix. I wanted to tell them that love isn't cheap either, but we don't just throw it on the side of the road with cigarette butts and beer cans, do we? It's give and take, ya know? You give the Volvo love and praise and the Volvo takes all your money. Really it's quite simple. I don't think they would have understood. They probably don't know a thing about love either for that matter.

So I think tomorrow sometime my mother and I are going to go around to a few used car dealerships. Sounds trashy, doesn't it? I don't even have the slightest idea of what I'm doing. I guess my goal is to find a car I want and can somehow afford (why did I just make that trip to Colorado and did I really need to get tickets to see Kelly Clarkson in concert?!) and hope they give me some money for my good friend Vic. (Vic is short for Victor the Volvo, lest we get confused with Vicki, my mom. Her nickname is Vickers.) My mom, Vickers, says I probably can't get another Volvo because they're expense and truthfully, they are kinda expensive to fix. I don't even know which cars are good and which aren't. I feel like Neons are girly (even if Blom has one) and Hondas run forever, but who knows if those are even true. If anyone has any advice, I beg of you to help me. I kinda want a jeep, but think that's probably out of the picture too. This is one of the saddest days of my life. Okay, I may be a little bit over-dramatic, but give me a break. It's my first car and now I have to be unfaithful and find another. There will never be another "first car" just like there will never be another "first love." (Really, the parallels between cars and love is remarkable. I might write a book about it.)

Plus, when it comes down to it, this is gonna cost me money, and that really is the sad and upsetting part. Joy, I think we may have to change our honeymoon plans. Why are we going to Mexico anyway? I hear Rockford can be very nice in December.

Idol Frustrations

Everyone who knows me should know that I really do love "American Idol." The fourth season is currently happening, and honestly, I didn't really get into it too much. I saw a few scattered weeks, but really, without people to watch the show with and an evening work scheudle, it just faded into the thoughts of the "good ole college days." I always said I was going to get more serious about this season when they got down to the final twelve. That was the stated goal, and I started off extremely well, watching with Drew and Blom in sweet sweet Eagle-Vail, Colorado. Then I came back home to Shelby and the frustration began.

You see, for the last two weeks I've had to work when Idol was on, but have tried both weeks to get the VCR set up so my dad could tape it for me and I could watch it when I got home. My dad, Pastor Bob, husband of knows-nothing-about-pop-culture Vickers, actually loves American Idol and has been a devotee for a few years now. So he was more than willing to tape it for me, but I just can't get the VCR to tape. Last week it was bad, then this week I dug out my VCR from my closet and tried every hook-up and connection I could think of, and still it wouldn't record. I think maybe something is wrong with the TV. Anyway, I don't know what to do and I am horribly disturbed about all of this. Why can't technology and I be friends?

In Idol-related news, today was positively beautiful. One of those it's-almost-spring days when the sun is warm and people go around in t-shirts and skimpy shirts and flip-flops a little before they really should. I even bet there would have even been a few ladies on Olson Beach today if they all weren't on Spring Break. It's one of those days when you want to get in a car (I absolutely LOVE my Volvo! You are my hero MMG!!!), roll all the windows down, and blare a diva from the speakers. I, of course, chose Kelly Clarkson. I'm currently a little obsessed with her and am gearing up for seeing her in concert next weekend. My life couldn't be better, really. I suppose it could've been better if Taylor was there and we were loop cruising, because that really is beyond comparison, but Taylor is in Boston and there is no one walking the loop right now anyway.

Today I've been reminded again (it seems I am always being reminded of this, which is fine by me) that I have such great people in my life that are willing to be my friends. I love you one and all, young and old, those that make me think and those that just make me laugh. Some are all around the world (shout-outs to the Egyptians and Aussies!), but really, none of them are very close to me, and that saddens me. Anyway, I love them all and am challenged by them all and am so grateful that I actually believe I have friends out there who know me and still accept me. That's a pretty beautiful thing.

The Hiding of the Baskets

A few years ago, when I came home from Easter during college, I woke up on Easter morning and saw Easter baskets simply sitting on the fireplace mantle. I was furious. I told my mother I would not accept my Easter basket, that it had to be hidden. It would honestly be the equivalent of my parents not wrapping Christmas gifts but simply putting sweaters and shirts and games randomly under the tree. What is the fun in that? Come on now, everyone knows part of the thrill on Christmas morning is actually unwrapping the gifts. (Note that I said "part of the thrill." The gifts are still very much important in themselves, so don't think a horrible gift counts simply because it's wrapped and all. It doesn't.) It's the same with the Easter basket. I don't actually care too much about the candy and juices and apples that come in my Easter basket, but I reallyt do care very much about searching for the basket on Easter morning. Yes, I'm five and I don't care. So when this happened a few years ago, I was pretty devastated and told my mother I would go to my room for ten minutes while she hid the basket. I think that was a moment when she wondered why she had a fourth child. But my mother is a great mother and she of course hid my basket. (I think it was pretty easy that year, in the dryer or oven or some other standard hiding place that used to work, but I did only give her ten minutes after all...)

Now onto this year: I woke up and because of the business of the season, the baskets weren't even ready. I didn't show my frustration, and when I got home from work, my mom and dad made the wait worthwhile. They sat us all down (I was actually way too excited and had way too much adrenaline to sit down) and told us that this year the baskets were hidden next door in the church. There was howling and screaming, mostly by me, but nonetheless, you could tell everyone was pretty excited. The couples (Jess and Tim, Chris and Jen) each had a basket and I had my own (one of the last remaining benefits of being single...not having to share my Easter basket). They took us to the foyer of the church, told us the boundaries, and let us lose, telling us there was even a prize for the first one to find a basket. We went off. I went through the nursuries first, then the balcony, skipped the sanctuary because I was pretty sure my parents would think it was sacreligious to hide a basket there, and then went up to the baptistry area. Way in the back corner of the maze of rooms that is behind the church, in a room where they do all the pretty flower arrangements, I saw my basket. I went to the baptistry, screamed that I had found one so that everyone would know, and when I arrived back to the foyer, I realized I was indeed the first one to find a basket. You can't imagine the elation in my soul.

Chris and Jen then found the second basket (in the women's bathroom downstairs), but Jess and Tim were really having a hard time. So the rest of us joined in the search but simply couldn't find it anywhere. So as the devious children that we are, when we were all in the back rooms far from my parents, I told them we should just leave the church through one of the back doors and go home, seeing how long my parents would just sit in the foyer thinking we were off searching somewhere for the lost basket. Well, it was a moment of siblinal bliss. (I don't think siblinal is a word, but it should be. Basically, it was a moment of bliss shared by siblings.) We went back to the house, started the game of Settlers of Catan (positively my favorite game ever), and within a few minutes my parents found us at home, and laughter erupted again. They gave us a big hint and we went back and found the basket, and really, it was one of those great family memories I just think I'll probably treasure for a really long time.

You see, I've never thought there were a lot of benefits to being a pastor's kid. But being able to have the hunt for the Easter baskets in the church has got to be at the top of the list.

Ragamuffins

What a wonderful Easter I had! It seems each year the reality and pretending of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ hits me more and more. I am going to share my favorite part of the morning service with you all now. I'm sure you have all been to Easter services where a cross is carried down the aisle of the church, usually during some dramatic reading or powerful and sentimental piece of music. This seems to happen every year in my church. Perhaps they think that since they spend the time and effort to build a cross they should at least use it once every year. And really it can be a good visual reminder of what our Lord did years and years ago and what we are called to do every moment of our lives as we follow Him. Regardless, when the cross is usually carried in, I usually see an elder of the church, or at least someone who is within church leadership and respected in the church as a "man of God." While I suppose there isn't something inherently wrong with this, I really loved our cross carrier yesterday morning. You see, it was this awkward, somewhat embarrassed, young kid, probably around 12 years old. And whereas the deacon or elder usually has on his "Easter Best" suit and tie, this one wore jeans and old tennis shoes and a beautiful black button-down with yellow and red and orange streams of fire shooting from the bottom upwards. Really, it was something that can be found at truck stops all across America. (And yes, I am one to know, which you will already realize if you read my comments on the I-80 truck stop that I wrote last week.) He fumbled with the cross and when he went to put it in its upright position at the front of the church, he just wasn't tall or big enough to get quite the leverage needed for an easy placement. But he struggled and succeeded, and I loved it. I think I cried. Because to me that's what the church needs more of, and when he struggled and succeeded I couldn't help but think that's what happens so often in the Christian life. It's one long process with a whole lot of struggle. I don't go to a big or flashy church but I'm noticing more and more that the people that do come are a random group of ragamuffins, to steal a term from our dear friend Brennan Manning. Sure, there are the holy stoics who have been there for centuries, but there are also these others coming, people who know very little about God and this thing called Christianity. There are ex-Mormans, mentally handicapped, and the very poor. It makes me delighted to see them and I feel honored to be a small part of the community with them, even though I honestly don't know any of them very well. I used to be really excited about changing churches when I move in a few months, getting away from the small-town church my dad has always pastored, but yesterday I realized that there really is something quite beautiful going on there and I think some part of me will really miss that. I hope I always am moved by the community that is the Church, even if the Church is also something of great frustration and sadness. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced or can imagine and is something I always want to be a part of. Because, really, we're all ragamuffins. Sure, some may look more like ragumuffins on the exterior or based on what we think society may label as a ragamuffin, but I know I'm a ragamuffin, struggling and seeking and wanting to belong. I love that we are all equal at the foot of the Cross, that Christ does not go with stereotypes and is the Truth. I love that He desires to know me. I also know that Christ loves ragamuffins and wanted to associate with them. And since I want Christ to associate with me and I certainly want to associate with Christ, I think being a ragaumuffin must be a pretty good thing.

Driving Worship

I often find that when I am driving I communicate with God, and God communicates with me. I often pray and worship and love Him all at the same time while weaving in and out of traffic. There have been many times the tears simply start pouring (driving and crying are often simultaneous for me) and I've either had to pull over to side of the road until I could see again or cover my face while at a red light so the cars next to me don't see that I'm a bawling baby. It really is a beautiful thing that I wish I could package and carry with me every moment of every day. It doesn't happen every time I drive and I can't really manipulate it into being there. Once in a while, a certain line hits me from a CD (such as Over the Rhine's line "Whoever brought me here is gonna have to bring me home") or a thought crosses my mind about my salvation and redemption and I find myself aching to be in God's presence, and then I realize that on some very real level, I am already there. I listen to David Crowder Band singing "Praise, Praise the Father, Praise the Son. And Praise the Spirit three in one" (really, I love that poem by St. Francis of Assisi) and my whole being, my entire soul, longs to be with my Saviour. I wonder how to capture this awe, this desire, on a more permanant level. But maybe that's not a good desire. I'm just not sure. I mean, I do believe God wants us to be in constant worship with Him, but perhaps this looks different than simply me crying while I drive. I mean, that is a heightened sense of worship for me, but that doesn't mean worship isn't also happening at other, more subdued times, perhaps in even more beautiful and subtle ways. I'm not even close to understanding the Holy Spirit, and I think that's for the best. Perhaps when I desire to be in a more evident state of worship on a more regular schedule it is me trying to play god and decide when the Holy Spirit will move. But I do love those somewhat rare moments in the car by myself when I feel so extraordinarily close to my Creator and Saviour. Easter is coming up this weekend. It seems so early this year and I honestly haven't given it much thought until this week. Perhaps after church and after hanging out with my family and after working at the OG I will get in my car and go for a late drive, seeking out this One who died for me. He's there regardless of my seeking and hoping, but I want to find a time to really thank Him this year. Each year it seems I am more and more stricken by what happened when He was born, died, and then rose from the dead, and I hope that never changes. I hope I will long more and more to be in His presence, and until that happens, to help bring His kingdom here on Earth. I encourage you to find a time to meet Jesus this Easter. Maybe it's in the corner of your room cuddled up inside a blanket, maybe it's with your family around the Easter feast, maybe it's singing with the other struggling saints at church, maybe it's laying on a beach in Florida (for all you Spring Breakers from Taylor), or maybe it's going for a drive and believing that Jesus Christ is right there with you. Regardless, have a blessed Easter.

Food in the Midwest

One of the goals of Colorado 2K5 was to experience food that we don't just have at our homes in Illinois (Blom), Indiana (Drew), and Ohio (me). Basically, no Taco Bell or Wendy's. We pretty much lived up to this goal, and here's my personal run-down of all the food we experienced:

1) BART AND YETI'S: Located right in Vail, Colorado, this is a great little Irish pub that we went to for lunch on St. Patty's Day. To start off with, the hostess had this fantastic green outfit on, and even though the wait was longer than quoted, eveyone was extremely nice. The burgers and sandwiches were great, the green beer was cold, and the place is named for two beloved dogs for goodness sake. Overall, this was a fantastic experience, a jewel among the mountains.

2) IOWA 80 TRUCK STOP: Somewhere between Rockford and Des Moines, in the middle of Iowa, you will find the World's Largest Truck Stop. God bless America. They feature over 800 truck parking spots, a movie theatre, more junk things to buy than I've ever seen, cool T-shirts, chrome and more chrome, a few fast-food places, and one very fine restaurant. Yes, this was the first meal of the trip we had, and it was hard to top. We sat at the bar and talked to Cora, one of the finest waitresses I've ever seen. She told stories we didn't quite understand, kept our waters filled, and the food wasn't too shabby either. Overall, it was a euphoric experience, and if anyone is driving on 80, you must stop. Ask for Cora. She'll be the one running away from you when you try to take her picture.

3) HOT DOG STAND: I had never been to Denver, and I loved the downtown. Eclectic and clean, spacious and intimate, old yet young, this is a city I could live in. (Plus they have a great opera season this year AND a great little shop devoted to all things Nepal...) We didn't want a spend a lot on lunch, plus we were getting anxious to get into the hills, so we enjoyed a meal at the hot dog stand, where we had the jumbo beef hot dog meal, which included the dog, chips, and a drink for only $2 or something. We sat in the boulevard eating and reflecting on the city and then when we got cold we could just jump on a shuttle back to our car.

4) CULVER'S: Okay, this is where we got a little lax on our goal. Drew had never eaten at a Culver's and I didn't think they even existed in Indiana or Ohio, and it wasn't until after we ordered our meals that we discovered they do. Nevertheless, the burger was great, the custard was pretty good (I've had better, both at a different Culver's and elsewhere), but Drew and I both agreed that the fries were some of the best we've ever tasted. I think that shows something. Every place in the world gives fries with their burger, but it's the burger that is the obvious focus. Culver's has it right...the burger is still pretty dang good, but you actually enjoy every last fry too. Finally a place has fast food with all the necessities covered. Granted, this is a pretty expensive fast food, but maybe you can just ask for a bucket of fries and save some money.

5) WHISKEY CREEK: On Monday night we stayed in Nebraska, in the amazing town that is Kearney. We were hungry, and thought Whiskey Creek might fit the bill. It didn't. It started off with Emily, our flustered hostess that later said some of the stupedest things we've ever heard (we called her over to the table to talk some more after she sat us.) I'll give a highlight: When she sat us, she asked us what time it was. We told her a little past 8. The response was amazing, "Wow...I always eat at 4." I work in a restaurant and I assure you that people eat at all times of day and I am quite certain Emily must know this as well. Just because she was flustered by three dashing men is no excuse for stupidity. My burger wasn't bad (you might notice that I love burgers and am always in the mood for one), but the other guys didn't like their sandwiches at all. Plus our waiter was somewhat of a goon, which never helps. I wouldn't really recommend this place, but we sure did get a lot of laughs out of it, which made it all worthwhile.

6) PAZZO'S: There is not too much in Eagle-Vail, so on a Friday night, this was a bumpin'-bumpin' place to be. You see, eveyone else's pizza looked good. The thing is, ours didn't and wasn't. We got the Sicilian Style and it was dry and hard. The menu said it fed 6-8, which actually meant there were a total of 8 pieces. So although this place is supposed to be pretty good and the people there seemed to be enjoying it, we left disappointed.

7) RUNZA: We had never heard of a Runza, but Nebraska has plenty of them. So on the way home, we stopped in Ogallala, Nebraska (yes, that's the name of this unfortunate town). I asked the girl at the register what she recommended and she said she loves the Cheese Runza and their onion rings. I tried them both and flat-out did not like my meal. Needless to say, the jokes were flying ("Yeah, that cheese runza sure gave me the runzas," or "At Runza, everything will just runza right through you") and although the burgers apparently were alright (Blom and Drew were smarter than me and stuck with something standard and relatively safe), I don't think I would ever go back.

Honorable Mention: PADDY'S in Eagle-Vail is a fantastic little Irish pub we went to for some St. Paddy's celebration. Everyone was loving the holiday, there was green galore, and our bartenders were amazing, especially the one who forgot to take our money.

Un-honorable Mention: THE ELEPHANT EYE at the hotel in Kearney was nice to look at (a bar up in a tree-house overlooking the pool), but left much to be desired. I guess you just can't expect good things from a bartender who is wearing flip-flops and a hooded sweatshirt.

So that's the run-down. At least at every place, even the ones with much-to-be-desired food, gave us something to remember and laugh about. Food and fellowship, two of the great things of life. Well, gotta runza. Peace.

Back Home

I'm back from my journey to Colorado. At the end of a trip away, you're usually supposed to be somewhat excited about coming home and all of that. Honestly, when we left the hills, I was just sad. I didn't want to leave, but we did anyway, and drove for 16 straight hours to Rockford, Illinois. Not only was I leaving the beauty of the mountains, but I was also leaving Blom and Drew and going back home to a life in Ohio that leaves much to be desired. There's just something about being "with the guys" that I love and don't seem to have much of anymore. We had intelligent conversation and also had equally important unintelligent conversation. We discussed what our purposes are in this grand thing called humanity and wondered what life will be like when Blom has a kid in a year. We did ski a second day in Vail, and I'll be honest, I made dramatic improvement and was flying down the hill, in and out of trees, over bumps, and even conquered a black diamond like it was nothing. Skiing is positively my new favorite thing. It is so beautiful out there, and to be alone with nature sliding down a hill is just fantastic. I've really experienced nothing like it before. It's just too bad I live in the midwest, so it'll probably be a while until I can experience something similar again. Maybe that will make it more special, I don't know, but at least the memory is worth remembering. Thanks guys for a great week. People ask me if we'll do it again. All I can say is, "That's a given." They don't even laugh.

Skiing Pro

Here I am, sitting in the library in Vail, looking out at the hills and pine trees. I'll be honest...I love it and somewhere in my dreams I think I may just move out here. Today is our day of relaxation, which is really quite amazing since yesterday was a full day of skiing.

It was my first time skiing ever. I was pretty nervous going into it, so Blom was gonna give me a little lesson on a green slope, which is the easiest. Instead, he accidentally took me on a blue (intermediate) and I hated my life for the next hour. I fell about ever minute or two, my skiis would fly off regularly, and there were definite moments that I was rolling down the mountain. I probably swore under my breath more in that hour than I have in the rest of my life combined. Okay, that's not true, but it was a lot. Thankfully, Drew was willing to put up with my beginning stages and once we actually found the green trails, I found my experience much more successful, and therefore, much more fun. Really, staying up and getting down the hill isn't the problem. The problem is that you go so freaking fast. And then you realize rather quickly that you are no longer in control, and I personally don't like that feeling at all. So going is easy, slowing down and stopping is hard. There were still many other falls throughout the day, some quite extreme (there was that moment I was already going way too fast and then went flying...almost literally...over this bank down a steep hill), but I also found that I love skiing. Of course I'm still not good, but I can get both up and down the mountain somewhat successfully, and really, that's the goal. It was more fun that I thought it would be and there were even those moments that I would fly head over heals into a snow bank, but then some girl would ski up to me and say, "Are you alright?" If you wanna meet the snow bunnies, you can't be a good skiier. This is the wisdom of the hills.

Today my entire body is sore, especially my butt. A lot of hard falls caught up with me and there was nothing the hot tub could do to help too much. My right knee hurts, my wrists, my fingers, and I also have a pretty dramatic sunburn on my cheeks. But besides all that, I had a most enjoyable experience, so enjoyable in fact, that we may go skiing again tomorrow.

Sex and Smoking

I've recently been saddened by a few conversations, both at the OG and also some on Taylor University's campus. I'll just go ahead and say that these two communities are radically different, but at the same time, in this area, I think they are scaringly similar.

I'll start with the OG: A few of us the other night were talking about adultery. The three of us all were in agreement that it wasn't a good thing. I personally think that's a pretty good starting point. One of the managers came over to talk and we asked him what he thought about adultery. His response: "Let me see if I first understand what adultery is, because I understand adultury to be that my wife was pregnant within two weeks of our divorce being finalized." It was clear from the way he said it that he wasn't the one causing this pregnancy. So I assumed he would think adultury wasn't a good thing like the rest of us. Then he continued, "But Americans get so worked up about sex. In Europe, it doesn't really even matter...sex is just like smoking." In my mind, I wondered, how has sex become so secularized, so degeraded in value, that it is compared to smoking as a regular and acceptable occurance whenever the need is there? We all hear about how sex is horribly desanctified in our society, but rarely has it hit me in a way like comparing adultury to lighting up.

Another story from last night at the OG: Once again, a bunch of us were sitting around talking, and one of the guys said he kinda had the hots for some girl at work. He then said, however, that he wasn't interested in a relationship, but simply wanted to get some action. He said (and I quote thing young hedonist): "I have needs, ya know." It's sad to me, but sometimes I wonder if we have taken sexuality, something intended for good and glory, and turned it into something so carnal and base, that it is beyond redemption and there is no longer any possible good left. Of course, the theological part of me doesn't believe this (ie. God makes all things new and nothing is beyond His redemption, etc.), but sometimes I wonder what can possibly be done and even wonder if God made a mistake in creating sex in the first place. I don't believe this and don't want to believe this, but sometimes my mind and heart can't get around such a huge and personal issue that the questions come and the answers just aren't as readily available.

Now a story from TU: I've heard about this over the last couple of years, and it bothers me endlessly, so much more than these last two stories. Random making-out. Christians getting together (usually it starts with a flirtatious IM conversation...) and deciding that it's OK to go for a car-ride to make-out. Both parties are consenting that it's non-committal, it's purely physical (no emotions allowed), and it's acceptable. This is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. This is where I wonder why a lot of what goes on at Taylor is the same as what goes on at the OG. Sacred and secular aren't being separated. Sure, on the Christian campus, we say it's just making out, it's not like it's sex or anything. But I don't think sexuality is based on a simple decision that random making-out is fine and random touching, random oral sex, random penetration isn't fine because that "goes too far." If we as young Christians are subscribing to this view, then how are we different from those saying you shall not touch or kiss at all before married? We say they're being legalistic while we simply draw the line a little further on so that we can at least have some pleasure and gratification. For the Christian, this is basically the same as the guy at the OG who says, "I have my needs." Either way, pleasure is being sought at the expense of purity and the quest for holiness is being replaced with the quest for selfish gratification.

So I guess what I'm saying is that while the conversations at the OG were saddening and disappointing, they don't even compare to my reaction to what goes on at my dear alma mater. It's saddening to me that when people subscribe to a world-view that is supposed to be life-changing and different from that of the world, the world-view isn't actually at all different from others around us. There are so many sub-issues that go along with this (thoughts on hypocrisy, legalism, emotional attachment, gender issues, etc.) that I can't even go into now. I just wish I knew how a senior Taylor guy calls up a freshman Taylor girl to make-out and thinks he is actually glorifying God with his own life, but also doing that whole edification and loving of his Christian sister thing. I don't understand it. The struggle for purity is intense and real and I know this. I am trying to not preach something I don't myself need to also hear at some level. Ask any engaged Christian couple how they stay pure in their physical relationship and I think they'll all say it's a pretty difficult thing. So this all makes me think about my life too, which is usually a good thing. Maybe I feel so passionately about all of this because I know from personal experience what it can do and how it destroys and how none of it is "just like smoking." I dunno. These are just ramblings and I have more thoughts than words.

To completely change the subject, tomorrow night I am driving to Rockford, Illinois to meet up with sweet sweet Drew and Blom and then we're off to Vail, Colorado. Now, Drew and I have never skied before, so this is going to be an experience, and at least we have each other. Needless to say, I am pumped beyond description and will certainly let you all know how it goes. Peace out and have a great weekend. I'm heading to the mountains.

Party Boy

I don't really have any friends in Ohio, and I'm usually okay with that. Sure, I love relationships and all, but didn't really love my high school friends even when I was in high school with them and certainly would find it difficult to relate to them five years later. So recently some people at the Olive Garden (hereafter referred to as the OG) have been inviting me to hang out with them. Apparently as I let my real personality show up more often at work, people like it and they think I'm funny or something. So this week Don told me he and his roommate were having a party. At first, I wasn't going to go. I mean, can I possibly relate to these people for hours at a time? Then I thought about it some more, and figured, why not? So last night a bunch of us gathered in a rather small yet pleasant apartment for games and drinks and food. I did participate in all three, but there seemed to be a few who could only commit to two of the three, with drinks being the high winner of the evening. But the thing that I realized is that even though I'm really not the big party animal, I can relate to these people. At around three five of us went to a rather dark and damp bar called the CaddyShack (I think one of the guys was hoping to meet up with some girl...) and I actually ended up having a great conversation with Jason, one of the new waiters at the OG. He recently broke up with his fiancee and we sat for about an hour at the bar talking about the decision, the ramifications, what it all meant for the future. Mostly, I just listened while he talked, but really, there was something in that moment (perhaps it was the thick, smoky fog) that was actually quite beautiful. Over Coronas and White Russians we opened up and bared some of our hearts. It's not often that I get to have a conversation like that with a 32-year-old black male, and it was good for me. I doubt that I'll be a regular at these parties, but if they always end in vulnerability and openess and a good White Russian, maybe I should be. There's always someone nearby, it seems, who just longs go get vulner-and-op, ya know? I love those moments. God bless the CaddyShack.

What is Missions?

Okay, I've been gone for almost two months. I'm horrible at this blog thing so far, but this is a new day and I'm going to start my blog again. The primary reason is because I started to write a book last week and last night I realized that I need to wait about ten years before even thinking seriously about writing a book (what do I really have to say, honestly?!), so this will be my writing outlet until then...

For the last two summers, I have gone overseas with a missions organization called Royal Servants (www.royalservants.org) In 2003 I went to Nepal and in 2004 I went to Northern Ireland. I recently had a discussion about missions and youth and all sorts of related things with good friend Dawnette, who is definitely one of those Christians who strives to love like Christ and isn't afraid of the questions that come with all of that. Anyway, we were talking about missions in the context of the summer youth ministry that we are familiar with and realized there are some big questions. Those questions have been with me for the last week or so, and I just wish I had some answers. I wish I knew the best way to share my faith. Honestly, I'm a wuss. Most of the time, even when a conversation would naturally move towards spiritual things, I wuss out. Instead, I simply tell myself that "they will know I am a Christian by my love, by my love." And you know what, I believe that's true. When it comes down to any type of ministry or missions, I believe love has to be first and foremost. If we're not loving, then we're not being "little-Christs," and if we're not being little Christ's, then we're not pointing people towards Christ, and if we're not doing that, then we are really in trouble.

I often wonder about my faith and how it is best communicated. You see, I'm not one of those go-out-and-scream-about-Jesus kinda people. I never have been and, although I am not a prophet, do not see that happening anytime soon. To me, that turns people away from Christ rather than draws them to Him, but I also don't think I should sit passively by and let spiritual discussion become the rarity in dialogue. So the question is, When do I speak about my faith and when do I let actions speak for themselves? Is this enough? When do I take a leap and acknowledge verbally our faith and trust in Jesus Christ? How do we do that that compels people towards Christ instead of turning them away from Him?

I am going to quote a good friend of mine here, whose name is Marcia May Ghali. I recently read something she wrote and agree whole-heartedly: "I don't think there is any difference between preaching the gospel and serving the poor, but I do think that there is a difference between evangelizing and preaching the gospel. Maybe I'm walking on thin ice, but I think that we are too concerned with pulling souls over this line that we can't see or define. I don't think its my job to get people saved, I think that is up to the working of the Holy Spirit. And of course I believe He uses us for that purpose, and that's where preaching the gospel comes in. In Egypt, its not often that people convert because of really good evangelistic methods and it usually happens because of dreams and visions. So pray for dreams and visions and pray that Christians would have the power to love, to preach the gospel to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, and proclaim freedom for the captives. Words aren't working. The Four Spiritual Laws just don't cut it. I don't have the answers, and I'm not exactly sure how this looks in real life. All I know is that something in me has to change, and I think I'm slowing beginning to see all that, but there are miles to go before I sleep. "

If "words aren't working," then why not? And when do words work, because certainly the gift of language can and should be used for God's glory and proclamation, right? Is it simply a cultural issue where words can work in places like America or Ireland, but not as much in Egypt and Nepal? How do we actually take our faith from something internal and make it something external? How do we entertain dialogues and questions and random musings on God and religion?