When I was in high school, my two best friends at school were both named Mike. Both were upwards of six feet tall and somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. I was five foot five and three-quarters and skinny enough to crawl through air conditioner vents. We were all conservative Christians. We'd eat lunch together at the loser table in the cafeteria.
One Mike and I were in most of the same classes. We fought for the top grades, and he generally beat me. We sat next to each other on the bus. We had been in the same gym class in middle school, and had been partners in badminton.
We were in Mr Little's Earth Science class together. The first unit was on geology, and Mr Little talked a lot about how the earth was billions of years old and how we could know that.
Of course, Mike and I knew better than to trust things like radiometric dating; we were both young earth creationists.
I had been homeschooled from second through seventh grade. My seventh-grade science curriculum was supposed to be on 'Matter and Motion', that is, physics and chemistry. Every science book in that curriculum had a unit on birds and a unit on creationism. The key quotes that I remember are, 'Evolutionists date the fossils by the rocks, and they date the rocks by the fossils. This is circular reasoning.' and 'There was no entropy before the fall.'*.
So, on the bus ride home, on the first day that Mr Little lectured on the age of the earth, Mike and I talked about how we knew that that's just not true. I told him about how the earth's rotational speed was decreasing; if we were to back-extrapolate the earth's rotational speed to five billion years ago, the earth would have been flat as a pancake because of the centrifugal force.
In government class, Mike sat on my right and Jason sat on my left. On Halloween, Jason wore yellow pants that lit up like Christmas lights. Dan set in front of me. We made fun of Dan a lot, but I forget what we said that was amusing. Riley sat behind me.
Halfway through schoolyear, it came out somehow that Mike was a Jehovah's Witness. So were Jason, Dan, and that girl in English class. Mike said, 'We've got you surrounded!', jokingly. Riley was not a Jehovah's witness.
When I got home and told Mom and Dad, they showed me how to use the book, The Kingdom of the Cults, and they rented some videos from the Christian bookstore about the Jehovah's Witnesses, so that I would know how to defend my faith. I charted out on a napkin my main arguments, like how God's real name is Yahweh.
Later that week, the other Mike told me he was moving to North Carolina. I had lost both Mikes.
I was scared that I would succumb to Mike's propaganda and accidentally become a Jehovah's Witness; even though I am a good Calvinist, I was afraid that I would lose my salvation. I don't think I was particularly concerned about Mike's eternal soul.
Mike and I spent the rest of the school year trying to convert each other. We each put in a lot of time digging up the perfect Bible verse that would prove the other guy wrong. Mike gave me sticky notes with Bible verses to look up. A lot of his arguments required that I use his Bible, which translated John 1:1 as 'In [the] beginning the Word was, and the Word was with God, and the Word was a god.'
Our attempts at mutual evangelism were friendly and I eventually lost my fear of accidental conversion.
One of Mike's strangest arguments involved a verse from Revelation about a pregnant woman going into the desert for 'time, times, and half a time' (Revelation 12:14). Mike read this as 3.5 times; with one time being one thousand years (II Peter 3:8), for a total of 3500 years from the prophecy (585 BC) until the last judgment. Given that Jesus will reign for a millennium before the last judgment, Jesus was predicted to return in 1914. He did so invisibly, Mike said.
Also, it turned out that the other Mike wasn't actually planning on moving to North Carolina; he was just pranking us.
***
I was going to the hip contemporary church at this point; our youth leader was named Mike. He talked about grace a lot; he said that it is the thing that makes Christianity different from any other religion in the world. Mike talked a lot about his problems with road rage, and he was quick to confess how this was a consistent problem with him. He was free to talk about his shortcomings, though, because he believed in grace; he believed that repenting was more important than his reputation. He also taught us about the social gospel.
Mike told us about how he used to have a Jesus fish on his car, but he scraped it off because he didn't want Christians to look bad whenever he would cut somebody off.
There was a Christian video that Mike showed us a couple of times. It was made in the late seventies. It started with a college student waking up from a recurring dream in which he saw an old man wearing bib overalls, cutting down wheat with a scythe. This student was taking some college class in which he was told that religion isn't intellectually valid.
He started to doubt his faith, but, then, he came across an article that predicted Jesus' return to be imminent. The reasoning in the article was that, since a thousand years is as a day to the Lord, and Jesus was in the ground two days and rose on the third, and Jesus lived two thousand years ago, Jesus return must be soon, to usher in his millennial reign, the 'third day'. Also, the earth is six thousand years old, and it was made in six days, and the sabbath is the seventh day, so the earth is ready for a thousand-year sabbath, the millennial reign of Jesus.
The student got all set to make a big speech on campus based on the content of the paper. He then chickened out, and went to talk to the wife of the author of the article; on this visit, he saw a picture of her late husband, who was the man in bib overalls in his dream.
The student returned to campus. The student told the gathered crowd of skeptics that maybe the article isn't entirely sound, but we have lots of other reasons to think that Jesus is coming back soon; for example, Israel was re-formed as a state a mere thirty years ago. Even if Jesus isn't coming back soon, you never know when you will die, so you should go ahead and convert to Christianity, just in case.
After the movie ended, we talked about it, and Mike agreed that the Bible numerology was kind of hokum and that the story was kind of manipulative, but, he said, 'It makes a good point.'.
I was angry.
***
*If there was no entropy before the fall, then Adam and Eve must have been perfect crystalline solids.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Gum and cigarettes
I once knew a woman named Mary. She told me this story. One time, she was walking around in Baltimore, and she saw a man on the street who looked bedraggled and hungry. God told her, she says, to pop in at the 7-Eleven to pick up lunch for this guy. As she headed to the cash register, she felt an impulse to purchase a pack of gum. She gave the bag of food to the hungry man, and he thanked her, and asked her if she had any cigarettes. 'No, but is gum okay?' She says that he said yes.
Mary takes this impulse to pick up the pack of gum, when she wouldn't ordinarily have thought to, as a sign of God's work in her life.
I call shenanigans.
What smoker thinks finds gum to be a satisfying substitute for nicotine?
Worse, though, Mary thinks that God's telling her to pick up a pack of gum, and the hungry man's acceptance of it, is a satisfying reason to believe in God. That she doesn't see God smiting with plagues or healing lepers or parting seas or raising the dead doesn't bother her, because she's settled for God telling her to pick up a pack of gum. If God is real the way that Mary says that she thinks he is, she wouldn't bother telling this story about the gum‚ she would find it mundane.
When believers tell lame stories, I lose confidence that God is real.
Mary takes this impulse to pick up the pack of gum, when she wouldn't ordinarily have thought to, as a sign of God's work in her life.
I call shenanigans.
What smoker thinks finds gum to be a satisfying substitute for nicotine?
Worse, though, Mary thinks that God's telling her to pick up a pack of gum, and the hungry man's acceptance of it, is a satisfying reason to believe in God. That she doesn't see God smiting with plagues or healing lepers or parting seas or raising the dead doesn't bother her, because she's settled for God telling her to pick up a pack of gum. If God is real the way that Mary says that she thinks he is, she wouldn't bother telling this story about the gum‚ she would find it mundane.
When believers tell lame stories, I lose confidence that God is real.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Negative one souls
One time, Paul, an alumnus, came to InterVarsity's large group meeting on a Thursday night. He was wearing a day-glo orange armband, and handed out armbands to anyone who wanted one. His idea was that people would ask us about our armbands, and we could tell them that we're wearing armbands because we're so excited about Jesus that we want to tell everyone, and that the armbands give us an opportunity to do that. We called this Operation Orange Armbands. We were supposed to wear our armbands for a few weeks, 40 days, I think.
This happened when I was a student research assistant at the Army Research Lab. The scientists never asked me about the armband. I got into a lot of interesting discussions with the janitors and technicians, though, but they were mostly practicing Christians, already.
I was disappointed at how much I suck at evangelism. My armband didn't lead anyone to the Lord. Actually, by my count, I've won negative one souls.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Church Tradition Story 5: Beatles and Hair
One time, I went to a party at Chauncey's house--Chauncey is Lee's son--and Chauncey told stories about growing up in Canada. I remember something about killing a moose and jumping a tremendous distance on a machine. (Authentic Canadians refer to snowmobiles simply as machines, as in, "Would you mind running such-and-such an errand?" "Of course not, I'll just hop on my machine.") I forget if Chauncey actually did kill a moose or do the jump on the machine, because these were from two of his statements from the game, two truths and a lie, and Chauncey is amazing at that game.
What I do remember from Chauncey's storytelling that I'm sure is true are a couple of his stories about the eccentricities of living in a small Mennonite community out in the wild.
Chauncey went to a small Christian school. They weren't allowed to listen to rock and roll. There was even a record in the school library that was about how terrible rock music is. It had two-second clips from Beatles songs, to illustrate how evil rock is. Chauncey would go to the library, borrow the record, and listen to those clips a lot.
These Mennonites interpreted I Corinthians 11:2-16 literally; this passage teaches that women should pray with their heads covered, but men should pray with their heads uncovered and should have short hair. One time, a visitor came to their church, his hair went just below the tops of his ears. Chauncey turned to his mother, Genny, and asked, "Mommy, is that man a Christian?"
What I do remember from Chauncey's storytelling that I'm sure is true are a couple of his stories about the eccentricities of living in a small Mennonite community out in the wild.
Chauncey went to a small Christian school. They weren't allowed to listen to rock and roll. There was even a record in the school library that was about how terrible rock music is. It had two-second clips from Beatles songs, to illustrate how evil rock is. Chauncey would go to the library, borrow the record, and listen to those clips a lot.
These Mennonites interpreted I Corinthians 11:2-16 literally; this passage teaches that women should pray with their heads covered, but men should pray with their heads uncovered and should have short hair. One time, a visitor came to their church, his hair went just below the tops of his ears. Chauncey turned to his mother, Genny, and asked, "Mommy, is that man a Christian?"
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
If you listen, you get it
[The following is lightly edited from a journal entry I wrote on the evening of December 19, 2004.]
I went Christmas caroling with Wilkens Avenue Mennonite Church tonight. We knocked on a lot of doors, but only a few people listened to us. When we got back to church to warm up, Phil and I coached Wendy and Mike in a game of chess. Whenever one of them called "check," Phil and I hockey checked. And yelled. I got laryngitis.
On my way out, I said "Hi" to Bob. Bob is great--he's got white hair, a long, white beard, and enough weight. Bob is often mistaken for Santa Claus.
There's a janitor at work, Mark, who always greets me and asks me how I'm doing as if he actually wants an account of how I'm doing. Mark takes out the trash and mops. One time, I was talking with Mark, and he said, "I'm just trying to keep everybody's spirits up." That confused me at first. Mark is a janitor. Morale isn't part of his job description.
One time, I was talking with Derek, another janitor at the lab. He asked me what I want to do with my life. I told him that I want to get a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. I then explained, quite patiently, that Ph.D.'s in mechanical engineering are called "doctor" but do not treat ailments. I mentioned I may want to live in Australia. Derek said, "Watch out for crocodiles!" in all seriousness. Derek was genuinely concerned for me, that I would not be mauled by a large reptile.
One time in Philadelphia, as my friends and I were coming off the subway and walking up to street level, we met a man named Seth. He was dirty, had misplaced his leg, outright lost his teeth, and couldn't see or speak clearly. He grabbed my hand when I got near him, and he grabbed Jen's hand, too. All I could think about was finding the nearest sink after I got through this interaction. Seth tried to tell me and my friends his story, but all I could make sense of from his mumbling was something about the Poconos. I'm glad Seth started talking before I could say something stupid.
When Bob talks, his tongue often goes all the way to the roof of his mouth. He's kind of hard to follow. Bob is a Santa--he has three gigs to go to tomorrow. Sometimes, Bob's sentences don't go anywhere. "I'm Santa for all kinds of kids--white, colored, Spanish..." and then it trails off. What's the point, Bob?
Bob can talk like Donald Duck. It's quite amazing. Bob says it's a gift from God. People have trouble understanding Bob when he talks like Donald Duck. Bob says "If you listen, you get it."
After talking with Bob, I walked toward the door. Bob told me to look out, but I wasn't listening; I almost bumped into Clyde.
Phil and I yelled. I got laryngitis.
I went Christmas caroling with Wilkens Avenue Mennonite Church tonight. We knocked on a lot of doors, but only a few people listened to us. When we got back to church to warm up, Phil and I coached Wendy and Mike in a game of chess. Whenever one of them called "check," Phil and I hockey checked. And yelled. I got laryngitis.
On my way out, I said "Hi" to Bob. Bob is great--he's got white hair, a long, white beard, and enough weight. Bob is often mistaken for Santa Claus.
There's a janitor at work, Mark, who always greets me and asks me how I'm doing as if he actually wants an account of how I'm doing. Mark takes out the trash and mops. One time, I was talking with Mark, and he said, "I'm just trying to keep everybody's spirits up." That confused me at first. Mark is a janitor. Morale isn't part of his job description.
One time, I was talking with Derek, another janitor at the lab. He asked me what I want to do with my life. I told him that I want to get a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. I then explained, quite patiently, that Ph.D.'s in mechanical engineering are called "doctor" but do not treat ailments. I mentioned I may want to live in Australia. Derek said, "Watch out for crocodiles!" in all seriousness. Derek was genuinely concerned for me, that I would not be mauled by a large reptile.
One time in Philadelphia, as my friends and I were coming off the subway and walking up to street level, we met a man named Seth. He was dirty, had misplaced his leg, outright lost his teeth, and couldn't see or speak clearly. He grabbed my hand when I got near him, and he grabbed Jen's hand, too. All I could think about was finding the nearest sink after I got through this interaction. Seth tried to tell me and my friends his story, but all I could make sense of from his mumbling was something about the Poconos. I'm glad Seth started talking before I could say something stupid.
When Bob talks, his tongue often goes all the way to the roof of his mouth. He's kind of hard to follow. Bob is a Santa--he has three gigs to go to tomorrow. Sometimes, Bob's sentences don't go anywhere. "I'm Santa for all kinds of kids--white, colored, Spanish..." and then it trails off. What's the point, Bob?
Bob can talk like Donald Duck. It's quite amazing. Bob says it's a gift from God. People have trouble understanding Bob when he talks like Donald Duck. Bob says "If you listen, you get it."
After talking with Bob, I walked toward the door. Bob told me to look out, but I wasn't listening; I almost bumped into Clyde.
Phil and I yelled. I got laryngitis.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Pseudo-historical Fiction
I think that I would like myself if I was a noted fiction author. The fame isn't very important to me. I just think that if I could write good fiction, that would show me that I understand what it is to be human in a deep way. I don't think I have this understanding.
I think a shortcut to raw fame in writing fiction is writing a mediocre contemporary story, and putting it in a time capsule, with instructions that the piece be published in 500 years under a psuedonym as historical fiction. Of course, if I were to use my real name, people would know that the book is average fiction, rather than insightful historical fiction; I couldn't make my name known this way, but a lot of people would know the work, so that should count for something.
If I were famous, I could launch a jewelry line called, "Silverwear" where you could hang forks from your ears.
Sometimes I come up with ideas for things that I think would be interesting stories. A man is backing up in a parking lot and accidentally hits a child and kills him; the man freaks out and goes on the lam, making it harder to make things right. Maybe he kills the witnesses, but there are witnesses to those killings. Maybe he evades arrest, so the charges against him increase. I'd like to read a story like that, but I don't know how I'd go about writing it. I'm afraid it would seem contrived.
I wish I had synesthesia.
Actually, I think all of my story ideas have something to do with death. I'd like to write a political thriller in which an unpopular president pays someone to fake an assassination attempt on him, to garner sympathy. I think that disrespecting the wishes of the dead is an underused plot device.
One time, I was in a Panera, and there were two people there talking in sign language. I thought this was interesting, because I normally talk between bites of food, but if I were to use sign language, I could talk while chewing, I'd just need to put my sandwich down. If I could communicate both by talking and signing, maybe I could eat and talk without pauses. In my pseudo-historical fiction story, there would be deaf people having a conversation, but probably not at Panera; I think they would be at a smokey diner.
I think a shortcut to raw fame in writing fiction is writing a mediocre contemporary story, and putting it in a time capsule, with instructions that the piece be published in 500 years under a psuedonym as historical fiction. Of course, if I were to use my real name, people would know that the book is average fiction, rather than insightful historical fiction; I couldn't make my name known this way, but a lot of people would know the work, so that should count for something.
If I were famous, I could launch a jewelry line called, "Silverwear" where you could hang forks from your ears.
Sometimes I come up with ideas for things that I think would be interesting stories. A man is backing up in a parking lot and accidentally hits a child and kills him; the man freaks out and goes on the lam, making it harder to make things right. Maybe he kills the witnesses, but there are witnesses to those killings. Maybe he evades arrest, so the charges against him increase. I'd like to read a story like that, but I don't know how I'd go about writing it. I'm afraid it would seem contrived.
I wish I had synesthesia.
Actually, I think all of my story ideas have something to do with death. I'd like to write a political thriller in which an unpopular president pays someone to fake an assassination attempt on him, to garner sympathy. I think that disrespecting the wishes of the dead is an underused plot device.
One time, I was in a Panera, and there were two people there talking in sign language. I thought this was interesting, because I normally talk between bites of food, but if I were to use sign language, I could talk while chewing, I'd just need to put my sandwich down. If I could communicate both by talking and signing, maybe I could eat and talk without pauses. In my pseudo-historical fiction story, there would be deaf people having a conversation, but probably not at Panera; I think they would be at a smokey diner.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sharon and Wendell
One time about a month ago, I was having a bad anxiety day. I'd been cooped up in my house too much or something, I suppose. I tried all of my tricks for coping. I had a shot of Scotch before heading out to lead a lunchtime Bible study. I played violent video games. I went to the gym. I went to the grocery store and got some King's Hawaiian Sweet Bread and some terrible Knorr noodles. I really needed a shower, but, driving home, I saw my neighbors Wendell and Sharon sitting with John on his stoop, so I stopped and talked with them.
I first met Sharon as I was walking home one day at the end of the summer. Sharon has an ice shaver, so on hot days, she sells snow cones to neighbors at the corner; some people grab a lawn chair and sit in a circle with their feet in buckets of cold water.
I have no idea how this started, but Sharon started telling me about her cousin Rachel. According to Sharon, Rachel wore mens' size 38 pants at age four. Rachel had "a fat head." Rachel's grandmother would pre-chew her food for her until she was six years old. Rachel's teenage brothers would each drink a gallon of milk a day; it was a tough guy thing for them. Rachel drank two gallons a day. Sharon brought a bag of popcorn over one day, and Grandma tried to take it from her, swearing she'd choke. Rachel's grandmother didn't let her go to school, afraid Rachel would come home to find her dead.
One time, there was a home remedies book being passed around and Rachel's grandmother accused the owner of the book of witchcraft.
Wendell has white wisps of hair and black eyebrows and a knobby nose. He told me about some handy home remedies. If you have a boil, you can put a moist tea bag on it and that will soothe it. Mint tea aids digestion. Sassafras tea is an anti-coagulant and also aids digestion. Castor oil, everyone knows, is good for clearing out the colon.
Through all this, John didn't say much. John has a lot of tattoos and two tiny fuzzy dogs.
Wendell says that Barack Obama got elected because it's clear that OPEC chose him as president by driving up gas prices before the election to make people want a big political shift. I forget if Wendell likes Obama or not.
This was about a week after the election, and the state of Maryland had just passed legislation calling for five slot machine establishments to be opened. I asked Wendell what he thought of this. He recalled when the Bay Bridge was opened; it was supposed to be the case that the tolls would be in effect only until the construction was paid off, and then, Maryland citizens wouldn't have to pay a toll, but we still have to pay the toll now. "Where's the money going?" he asked. We talked about the lottery, and how the lottery was supposed to raise money for the schools, but it really just made rich the company that runs it. Wendell doesn't think that the legalization of slots will help all that much.
We talked about the future. Wendell wants to know why we don't have flying cars. There were amphibious cars made decades ago, but those aren't mainstream yet. He's not sure what to think of iPods.
Wendell is disappointed with cloning. Cloning is supposed to give an exact copy, so my clone should be another 23-year old, not merely an embryo that is genetically identical to me.
Wendell has a sixth-grade education, but he's not ashamed of that, because he feels like life gave him the education that he really needed. "I've got common sense," he said. "That's what you really need."
I first met Sharon as I was walking home one day at the end of the summer. Sharon has an ice shaver, so on hot days, she sells snow cones to neighbors at the corner; some people grab a lawn chair and sit in a circle with their feet in buckets of cold water.
I have no idea how this started, but Sharon started telling me about her cousin Rachel. According to Sharon, Rachel wore mens' size 38 pants at age four. Rachel had "a fat head." Rachel's grandmother would pre-chew her food for her until she was six years old. Rachel's teenage brothers would each drink a gallon of milk a day; it was a tough guy thing for them. Rachel drank two gallons a day. Sharon brought a bag of popcorn over one day, and Grandma tried to take it from her, swearing she'd choke. Rachel's grandmother didn't let her go to school, afraid Rachel would come home to find her dead.
One time, there was a home remedies book being passed around and Rachel's grandmother accused the owner of the book of witchcraft.
Wendell has white wisps of hair and black eyebrows and a knobby nose. He told me about some handy home remedies. If you have a boil, you can put a moist tea bag on it and that will soothe it. Mint tea aids digestion. Sassafras tea is an anti-coagulant and also aids digestion. Castor oil, everyone knows, is good for clearing out the colon.
Through all this, John didn't say much. John has a lot of tattoos and two tiny fuzzy dogs.
Wendell says that Barack Obama got elected because it's clear that OPEC chose him as president by driving up gas prices before the election to make people want a big political shift. I forget if Wendell likes Obama or not.
This was about a week after the election, and the state of Maryland had just passed legislation calling for five slot machine establishments to be opened. I asked Wendell what he thought of this. He recalled when the Bay Bridge was opened; it was supposed to be the case that the tolls would be in effect only until the construction was paid off, and then, Maryland citizens wouldn't have to pay a toll, but we still have to pay the toll now. "Where's the money going?" he asked. We talked about the lottery, and how the lottery was supposed to raise money for the schools, but it really just made rich the company that runs it. Wendell doesn't think that the legalization of slots will help all that much.
We talked about the future. Wendell wants to know why we don't have flying cars. There were amphibious cars made decades ago, but those aren't mainstream yet. He's not sure what to think of iPods.
Wendell is disappointed with cloning. Cloning is supposed to give an exact copy, so my clone should be another 23-year old, not merely an embryo that is genetically identical to me.
Wendell has a sixth-grade education, but he's not ashamed of that, because he feels like life gave him the education that he really needed. "I've got common sense," he said. "That's what you really need."
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Why I go to the coffee shop
If a crazy person, in his ranting, were to give me a great idea for a short story, is it ethical for me to write it? Should I give him attribution? This is not a hypothetical situation--I like listening to a troubled friend I met at the coffee shop.
My lab is on a balcony, overlooking the engineering building atrium. When I leave the lab late in the evening, I often see a couple practicing ballroom dance. The man is tall, of medium build. The woman is short and trim, and well-dressed; the man wears a faded T-shirt and khakis. I wonder if one is teaching the other but I can't tell. I never see them dance to music. I wonder if they love each other, or are simply dance partners. I'm up on the balcony, which is good, because I don't want them to know I'm spying on them.
At meeting on Sunday morning, I often sit in the same row as a man who is serious about journaling; he is always writing in his fine leather-bound journal during the service. That is, that was my first impression. Then, peeking down the row at his journal, I saw that it wasn't a journal, but a day planner. I thought, "Who works out their schedule during the sermon?" This Sunday, I sat closer to him than usual, and was able to read the words he wrote. He wrote legibly enough, but the words didn't make any sense together. He's confided in me about how he made a mistake and became embarrassed one time, a couple of weeks ago. Still, I feel awkward asking him why he writes in a calendar during meeting.
At my sister's guitar recital, I saw a man reading the program with the aid of a magnifying glass. I wondered why one girl played a prelude, instead of the whole piece. I always thought that a prelude is an introduction to a longer piece. It turns out that that used to be the case. Now, preludes don't necessarily precede anything, they're just written in the style of the old preludes.
At the coffee shop, one time, I got excited about Sarah Palin and jostled my mug, spilling a little; I got up to get napkins. On my way back, I was stopped by a fellow patron of the coffee shop who told me that I could have gotten my napkins from him, instead of going back to the counter. This gent has a bushy mustache; maybe he's in his fifties. He introduced himself to me as "Cowboy."
"Cowboy?" I asked, wanting to be sure.
"Cowboy."
I don't think he is, or ever was, an actual cowboy. I wonder if he did something amazing to deserve being called cowboy. I'll ask him how he got his nickname the next time I see him.
My lab is on a balcony, overlooking the engineering building atrium. When I leave the lab late in the evening, I often see a couple practicing ballroom dance. The man is tall, of medium build. The woman is short and trim, and well-dressed; the man wears a faded T-shirt and khakis. I wonder if one is teaching the other but I can't tell. I never see them dance to music. I wonder if they love each other, or are simply dance partners. I'm up on the balcony, which is good, because I don't want them to know I'm spying on them.
At meeting on Sunday morning, I often sit in the same row as a man who is serious about journaling; he is always writing in his fine leather-bound journal during the service. That is, that was my first impression. Then, peeking down the row at his journal, I saw that it wasn't a journal, but a day planner. I thought, "Who works out their schedule during the sermon?" This Sunday, I sat closer to him than usual, and was able to read the words he wrote. He wrote legibly enough, but the words didn't make any sense together. He's confided in me about how he made a mistake and became embarrassed one time, a couple of weeks ago. Still, I feel awkward asking him why he writes in a calendar during meeting.
At my sister's guitar recital, I saw a man reading the program with the aid of a magnifying glass. I wondered why one girl played a prelude, instead of the whole piece. I always thought that a prelude is an introduction to a longer piece. It turns out that that used to be the case. Now, preludes don't necessarily precede anything, they're just written in the style of the old preludes.
At the coffee shop, one time, I got excited about Sarah Palin and jostled my mug, spilling a little; I got up to get napkins. On my way back, I was stopped by a fellow patron of the coffee shop who told me that I could have gotten my napkins from him, instead of going back to the counter. This gent has a bushy mustache; maybe he's in his fifties. He introduced himself to me as "Cowboy."
"Cowboy?" I asked, wanting to be sure.
"Cowboy."
I don't think he is, or ever was, an actual cowboy. I wonder if he did something amazing to deserve being called cowboy. I'll ask him how he got his nickname the next time I see him.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Mr Willie
Mr Willie lived on Vincent Street, on the same block as the school that my church runs. He smoked a pipe--this is how I met him. Walking to my car after meeting, I saw Mr Willie sitting on his stoop with his pipe, and I commented that I'm a pipe smoker as well. He told me he was trying to quit. His shoes were falling apart. I told him I would come smoke with him, but I never got around to it.
One night, I was walking home from a meeting at church, and I passed Mr Willie's house. Mr Willie had a friend on the stoop with him, and they were looking up at the sky. In Baltimore, it's never truly dark, so Mr Willie was excited because he could see a star.
One time, I went to a community association meeting for the Mount Clare neighborhood. Mr Willie was, I suppose, the oldest person there, and by virtue of his seniority, he was the one appointed to open the meeting in prayer. Mr Willie's voice was notable, it was boyish and warm. He prayed as if he was familiar with God, as if he really thought that God made the sun rise and the rain fall, and that through this, God would always take care of him.
A representative of Mayor Sheila Dixon's office came to the meeting to encourage us to vote in favor of allowing slot machines. He had hipster glasses, and wore a sweater and tie under his sport-jacket. I wasn't sure what to think because I'm a libertarian, and I think people have a right to do very stupid things, but a government-enforced monopoly on gambling isn't very libertarian. None of my neighbors thought that allowing slots was a good idea. This poor gent from the mayor's office got shouted down by the neighbors, but, then, the head of the community association called the meeting to order. Mr Willie then said, "I remember when gambling was outlawed. What has changed that we should allow it now?"
One night, I was walking home from a meeting at church, and I passed Mr Willie's house. Mr Willie had a friend on the stoop with him, and they were looking up at the sky. In Baltimore, it's never truly dark, so Mr Willie was excited because he could see a star.
One time, I went to a community association meeting for the Mount Clare neighborhood. Mr Willie was, I suppose, the oldest person there, and by virtue of his seniority, he was the one appointed to open the meeting in prayer. Mr Willie's voice was notable, it was boyish and warm. He prayed as if he was familiar with God, as if he really thought that God made the sun rise and the rain fall, and that through this, God would always take care of him.
A representative of Mayor Sheila Dixon's office came to the meeting to encourage us to vote in favor of allowing slot machines. He had hipster glasses, and wore a sweater and tie under his sport-jacket. I wasn't sure what to think because I'm a libertarian, and I think people have a right to do very stupid things, but a government-enforced monopoly on gambling isn't very libertarian. None of my neighbors thought that allowing slots was a good idea. This poor gent from the mayor's office got shouted down by the neighbors, but, then, the head of the community association called the meeting to order. Mr Willie then said, "I remember when gambling was outlawed. What has changed that we should allow it now?"
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Jane the Prezel Lady
A couple of weeks ago, I got a voicemail from my friend, Jane. Well, Jane's more of an acquaintance. I've not sat down and had tea with her or anything. The point is, she wasn't sure I would know who she was when she called me, so she said, "Hi, Alex, this is Jane the Pretzel Lady," and then gave me the information on the upcoming community association meeting. (This meeting wound up being both boring and tense. I was glad I went.)
I go to Jane's church. Jane sits in the front row, on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. I walk past her house a fair amount, visiting friends or going to church meetings. She always says hi to me.
At the annual church retreat on Labor Day weekend, I was trying to find a good place to read, so I was poking about in the lodge after ten at night. I found Jane in the rec room, reading her Bible. I walked into an adjoining storage room, the one where the folding chairs are kept, and read in there. Later, Jane told me she saw me go into a room, but didn't realize, until after I had left, that it was a closet. I think this made her feel a little bad for me. I told her I didn't mind at all. We know each other as the other person looking for a quiet place.
At the retreat, I was in charge of registration and keeping track of who ate at which meals and so on, for billing purposes, so I had to learn the names of everyone who came. This was good for me, because, until that point, I only really knew the names of the other young adults, the people in my care group, and the people who lead a lot of things. Even though I've been at this church for almost five years, there were still a lot of people that I didn't know. It was just an hour before reading in the closet that I'd properly met Jane.
One time, I was talking with Harold after church, as he packed up the sound board, when, suddenly, a little kid ran up, gave him two pretzel sticks, and ran away. Harold explained that every Sunday, Jane brings a passel of pretzel sticks to meeting, to give to children for good behavior. After giving out one pretzel to each kid, Jane would give two pretzels to Harold, saying, "And two for the pastor."
I don't think that Harold has been the pastor for the last ten years, but Jane still makes sure he gets two pretzel sticks after meeting every Sunday. I suppose Harold somewhat resented that Jane still treated him like a pastor. Also, I can't imagine Harold welcoming special treatment for being the pastor. I don't think he minds the attention too much, though.
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/19208
I go to Jane's church. Jane sits in the front row, on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. I walk past her house a fair amount, visiting friends or going to church meetings. She always says hi to me.
At the annual church retreat on Labor Day weekend, I was trying to find a good place to read, so I was poking about in the lodge after ten at night. I found Jane in the rec room, reading her Bible. I walked into an adjoining storage room, the one where the folding chairs are kept, and read in there. Later, Jane told me she saw me go into a room, but didn't realize, until after I had left, that it was a closet. I think this made her feel a little bad for me. I told her I didn't mind at all. We know each other as the other person looking for a quiet place.
At the retreat, I was in charge of registration and keeping track of who ate at which meals and so on, for billing purposes, so I had to learn the names of everyone who came. This was good for me, because, until that point, I only really knew the names of the other young adults, the people in my care group, and the people who lead a lot of things. Even though I've been at this church for almost five years, there were still a lot of people that I didn't know. It was just an hour before reading in the closet that I'd properly met Jane.
One time, I was talking with Harold after church, as he packed up the sound board, when, suddenly, a little kid ran up, gave him two pretzel sticks, and ran away. Harold explained that every Sunday, Jane brings a passel of pretzel sticks to meeting, to give to children for good behavior. After giving out one pretzel to each kid, Jane would give two pretzels to Harold, saying, "And two for the pastor."
I don't think that Harold has been the pastor for the last ten years, but Jane still makes sure he gets two pretzel sticks after meeting every Sunday. I suppose Harold somewhat resented that Jane still treated him like a pastor. Also, I can't imagine Harold welcoming special treatment for being the pastor. I don't think he minds the attention too much, though.
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/19208
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Church Tradition Story 4: Projector Trees Clap
When I was four years old, we had a party at church for a stranger. My four-year old self could figure out that he was important. I didn't know why everyone liked him so much. I was afraid of him, because I thought his name was Mr Witch, and I knew witches are spooky.
It turned out his name was Mr Rich, as in Richard. He was the new youth pastor.
The church was a traditional Presbyterian church, with wooden pews and a pipe organ and choir loft. We were told not to run in church, because it's God's house. People dressed up, Dad would wear a sport coat and Mom would wear a dress. We sang out of hymnals.
Mr Rich brought special music to the church. On the one Sunday out of the month that we would sing this special music with Mr Rich, (in addition to the hymns), he would bring out a portable screen and an overhead projector. Because we could see the words on the screen, and didn't need hymnals, we could clap along with Mr Rich's songs! My favorite song had a line,
The trees of the fields will clap their hands X X
The X's indicated when we were supposed to clap.
I liked Mr Rich. He was fun, and had a big, hearty laugh. He knew how to play the trumpet. Mr Rich invited us to camp, where he led us in playing crazy games, like bowling with a ball that was bigger than me. Of all the grown-ups, his lessons on Christianity were the funniest.
A few years later, Mr Rich got fired--there was some sort of personality conflict among the leadership, and I think that he was fired for unfair reasons. As he packed up the overhead screen for the last time, one of the old church ladies said, "Good. I could never worship with that thing up there."
The last I heard, Mr Rich had become a truck driver.
It turned out his name was Mr Rich, as in Richard. He was the new youth pastor.
The church was a traditional Presbyterian church, with wooden pews and a pipe organ and choir loft. We were told not to run in church, because it's God's house. People dressed up, Dad would wear a sport coat and Mom would wear a dress. We sang out of hymnals.
Mr Rich brought special music to the church. On the one Sunday out of the month that we would sing this special music with Mr Rich, (in addition to the hymns), he would bring out a portable screen and an overhead projector. Because we could see the words on the screen, and didn't need hymnals, we could clap along with Mr Rich's songs! My favorite song had a line,
The trees of the fields will clap their hands X X
The X's indicated when we were supposed to clap.
I liked Mr Rich. He was fun, and had a big, hearty laugh. He knew how to play the trumpet. Mr Rich invited us to camp, where he led us in playing crazy games, like bowling with a ball that was bigger than me. Of all the grown-ups, his lessons on Christianity were the funniest.
A few years later, Mr Rich got fired--there was some sort of personality conflict among the leadership, and I think that he was fired for unfair reasons. As he packed up the overhead screen for the last time, one of the old church ladies said, "Good. I could never worship with that thing up there."
The last I heard, Mr Rich had become a truck driver.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Beards in Space
Astronauts have to be cleanshaven. Although I had worn a full, thick beard for the past few years, I shaved it off to enter the Federation Space Program. Beards would keep our helmets from sealing properly with our spacesuits. Facial hair in space has killed many astronauts. Now, I am in a space pod with my fellow crewmen, McGursky and Savillo. We left earth several months ago, and are on our way to Mars, to join the colony.
"McGursky, did you ever try growing a beard?" I ask.
"I was more a mustache person. I had a pencil mustache, like John Waters, from back in the 21st century. I shaved it, because I looked like a pedophile, even though I could have kept it while in the FSP."
"I had a pudding ring," says Savillo.
"Ah, the McBeard," I say.
Looking out the porthole, McGursky exclaims "What's that?"
I look, and see a metal ring, miles in diameter, straight ahead of us. In the center is a blue energy field. "I hate blue energy fields. Buckle up, boys!"
***
I hate the inside of my mouth in the morning. I was always bothered by people who brush their teeth before breakfast--I tried it once, but the toothpaste made my orange juice taste untoward. I fail to comprehend how others can find brushing their teeth right before breakfast to be a pleasurable experience. I can't trust these people.
Instead, I drink very dark coffee to overwhelm the bad morning taste in my mouth--it's so acidic and bitter that it turns my stomach, but feeling queasy in the morning is better than having to taste that bad taste in my mouth.
I smack my lips, I am very thirsty. I try to get up to make coffee, and fall back down. My legs are crushed under a collapsed bulkhead. I groan.
***
I wake up again; all I can see are bright fluorescent lights. McGursky helps me sit up. I am in the sickbay. McGursky tells me that my legs had to be amputated, but I have been fitted with prosthetic robot legs. They're pretty kickin'.
***
We don our spacesuits, and step out of the space pod. We have crash landed on a planet covered in thick vegetation. We trudge through the vines and fronds; that is, McGursky and Savillo trudge, I more tromp. I'm surprised at how agile my new robot legs are.
Our sensors indicate that the atmosphere is safe for us to breathe. It's rather hot and muggy. We take off our helmets.
Climbing to the top of a hill, we find a large stone structure--perhaps it is some alien temple? A bit rashly, Savillo runs up to the entrance. McGursky and I try to stop him--he could be rushing into a trap. Instead, as we grab Savillo by his shoulders, we are now close enough to peer inside the building, and, sensing no obvious danger, we continue in.
The great hall feels cozy, it is lit by orange paper lanterns. The room is full of tables and chairs. On top of the tables are napkin dispensers and unfamiliar condiments. The wall opposite the entrance is covered in what look to be hundreds of windows, arranged in a neat grid. Drawing closer, we see that this is an automat. In one window, I see a goatee, in another, a handlebar moustache. I see a pencil mustache. And then, I gasp, as I see a beard that looks identical to the one I had before entering the FSP.
The machines take quarters, but all I have is cash.
"McGursky, did you ever try growing a beard?" I ask.
"I was more a mustache person. I had a pencil mustache, like John Waters, from back in the 21st century. I shaved it, because I looked like a pedophile, even though I could have kept it while in the FSP."
"I had a pudding ring," says Savillo.
"Ah, the McBeard," I say.
Looking out the porthole, McGursky exclaims "What's that?"
I look, and see a metal ring, miles in diameter, straight ahead of us. In the center is a blue energy field. "I hate blue energy fields. Buckle up, boys!"
***
I hate the inside of my mouth in the morning. I was always bothered by people who brush their teeth before breakfast--I tried it once, but the toothpaste made my orange juice taste untoward. I fail to comprehend how others can find brushing their teeth right before breakfast to be a pleasurable experience. I can't trust these people.
Instead, I drink very dark coffee to overwhelm the bad morning taste in my mouth--it's so acidic and bitter that it turns my stomach, but feeling queasy in the morning is better than having to taste that bad taste in my mouth.
I smack my lips, I am very thirsty. I try to get up to make coffee, and fall back down. My legs are crushed under a collapsed bulkhead. I groan.
***
I wake up again; all I can see are bright fluorescent lights. McGursky helps me sit up. I am in the sickbay. McGursky tells me that my legs had to be amputated, but I have been fitted with prosthetic robot legs. They're pretty kickin'.
***
We don our spacesuits, and step out of the space pod. We have crash landed on a planet covered in thick vegetation. We trudge through the vines and fronds; that is, McGursky and Savillo trudge, I more tromp. I'm surprised at how agile my new robot legs are.
Our sensors indicate that the atmosphere is safe for us to breathe. It's rather hot and muggy. We take off our helmets.
Climbing to the top of a hill, we find a large stone structure--perhaps it is some alien temple? A bit rashly, Savillo runs up to the entrance. McGursky and I try to stop him--he could be rushing into a trap. Instead, as we grab Savillo by his shoulders, we are now close enough to peer inside the building, and, sensing no obvious danger, we continue in.
The great hall feels cozy, it is lit by orange paper lanterns. The room is full of tables and chairs. On top of the tables are napkin dispensers and unfamiliar condiments. The wall opposite the entrance is covered in what look to be hundreds of windows, arranged in a neat grid. Drawing closer, we see that this is an automat. In one window, I see a goatee, in another, a handlebar moustache. I see a pencil mustache. And then, I gasp, as I see a beard that looks identical to the one I had before entering the FSP.
The machines take quarters, but all I have is cash.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Singing Unironically
I used to go to a Hip Contemporary Church. The idea behind this church was that if we sang songs in a style that fit with the music that's played on the radio (real radio stations, not religious ones), and if the pastor used Power Point slides and movie clips to give visuals to his sermons, and if we renamed Sunday School to Kidtricity, and if we had a church logo, and we put the logo on frisbees and polo shirts and coffee mugs, then people who would ordinarily never set foot in a church would come and they'd become Christians.
One time, I was driving my family to church in our big blue twelve passenger van. (Dad called it the "Purple Mountains Majesty.") I had to wait, as we entered the church parking lot, because a passel of people were crossing the street. Mom told me that just a couple of years before, none of these people were Christians, and now they're involved in our church; I suppose this idea works pretty well.
One time, at the Hip Contemporary Church, we sang "O God, Our Help in Ages Past." We started singing it in the style of the old hymn that it is; the keyboard was set to sound like an organ. Then, as the second verse began, there was a sudden style change, and the volume went up, the tempo quickened, and the electric guitar got turned on. There was head-banging and applause. At the time, I thought this was cool.
One time, I went on a retreat with my church, the one I go to now, the Hip Mennonite Church. The Hip Contemporary Church is hip as in congruent with our culture; my Hip Mennonite Church is as hip as a church can be and still be Mennonite, which is to say, not very much. We use transparencies, not Power Point, to show our song lyrics. Some of the women wear head coverings and dresses. Each Sunday I expect my thighs to fall asleep, because the pews are old and wooden and uncomfortable.
The speaker on our retreat was E Daniel, the father-in-law of our pastor, Todd, and the father of Todd's co-pastor and wife, Marita. E Daniel used Power Point, but his slides weren't very well designed; they didn't have pretty backgrounds. E Daniel didn't make pop culture references.
E Daniel is bald and old and portly. Before one evening session, E Daniel played Bang! with Richard and Michael and me and I forget who else.
In the evening session, E Daniel talked about how he was always a very religious person. When he got baptized, everyone else getting baptized with him was crying, because they were contrite for their sins. E Daniel didn't have any big sins to make him feel contrite, so, instead, he discretely pinched himself in the back of his thigh until he cried, too.
E Daniel then called Lee to the front of the room.
Lee is old and portly, but he has hair--it's silver. His granddaughter normally sits in his lap during church and pinches his nose and cheeks, and she smiles. I've never seen Lee in a shirt with fewer than two buttons; he is a polite, mature, generous, devout person, and someone we all look up to.
E Daniel told us that he and Lee grew up together. E Daniel asked Lee to tell his story.
Lee used to be a drag racer.
Lee had a fake-o conversion when he was a teenager; he says, he actually just cared about himself, and behaved himself well enough in church to not get into too much trouble. He wasn't truly a Christian. He got married to Ginny, a good Christian woman; she didn't realize that Lee's Christianity was a mask.
Lee hated revival meetings.
He hated how the preacher would yell at people and intimidate them, he hated the weird pressure, he hated how it was the same story every night, but if you were a church person, you were expected to not miss a revival meeting. Most of all he hated altar calls, which always used Just As I Am as the invitation. Lee hated Just As I Am--it's all sappy and the imagery is wimpy. We all laughed, because we hate Just As I Am, also.
Although Lee didn't like revival meetings, he would go to them anyway, every summer, "to keep up the façade." He was more interested in drag racing, so he would fantasize about that while was imprisoned in a pew. He would arrive late and try to sit in the back.
At some of these meetings, he would feel a compulsion to genuinely repent and become a Christian. He didn't want to walk the aisle, though, that would be cliché; he intended to convert at home. However, after he'd leave the revival meeting, the urge would pass.
For no good reason, in one of these revival meetings, Lee realized that he needed to change. Each time he went to a revival and felt compelled to salvation, God was calling him. He had an impression that this might be the last time God called him, after that, God might just let him stew in his stubbornness; God might let him get away with this stunt.
He wanted to do the altar call, but he was ashamed, so when it was time for the altar call, he asked Ginny to go with him, for moral support. The choir sang Just As I Am.
He said that this experience with God was a breath of fresh air. Before, he had been weighed down by living unforgiven, but after he fessed up, he was floating a foot above the ground.
Lee told us that the next morning, at work, he told his buddies that he wasn't going to tell dirty jokes with them any more. He made it clear that he still wanted to be their friend, but something had changed with him, and he felt like he couldn't tell dirty jokes any more. (I suppose Lee was changed in other ways, too, but this was the most concrete change he cited.)
After Lee finished his story, E Daniel asked us if anyone needed prayer, if any of us wanted to live a changed life. We sang Just As I Am.
One woman asked for us to pray for her for freedom from an addiction. Our pastors, Todd and Marita, were the others to come forward for the altar call; they felt overwhelmed and attacked and depressed, so we prayed for our pastors. I don't think I'd ever seen a pastor ask for help like that, before.
One time, I was driving my family to church in our big blue twelve passenger van. (Dad called it the "Purple Mountains Majesty.") I had to wait, as we entered the church parking lot, because a passel of people were crossing the street. Mom told me that just a couple of years before, none of these people were Christians, and now they're involved in our church; I suppose this idea works pretty well.
One time, at the Hip Contemporary Church, we sang "O God, Our Help in Ages Past." We started singing it in the style of the old hymn that it is; the keyboard was set to sound like an organ. Then, as the second verse began, there was a sudden style change, and the volume went up, the tempo quickened, and the electric guitar got turned on. There was head-banging and applause. At the time, I thought this was cool.
One time, I went on a retreat with my church, the one I go to now, the Hip Mennonite Church. The Hip Contemporary Church is hip as in congruent with our culture; my Hip Mennonite Church is as hip as a church can be and still be Mennonite, which is to say, not very much. We use transparencies, not Power Point, to show our song lyrics. Some of the women wear head coverings and dresses. Each Sunday I expect my thighs to fall asleep, because the pews are old and wooden and uncomfortable.
The speaker on our retreat was E Daniel, the father-in-law of our pastor, Todd, and the father of Todd's co-pastor and wife, Marita. E Daniel used Power Point, but his slides weren't very well designed; they didn't have pretty backgrounds. E Daniel didn't make pop culture references.
E Daniel is bald and old and portly. Before one evening session, E Daniel played Bang! with Richard and Michael and me and I forget who else.
In the evening session, E Daniel talked about how he was always a very religious person. When he got baptized, everyone else getting baptized with him was crying, because they were contrite for their sins. E Daniel didn't have any big sins to make him feel contrite, so, instead, he discretely pinched himself in the back of his thigh until he cried, too.
E Daniel then called Lee to the front of the room.
Lee is old and portly, but he has hair--it's silver. His granddaughter normally sits in his lap during church and pinches his nose and cheeks, and she smiles. I've never seen Lee in a shirt with fewer than two buttons; he is a polite, mature, generous, devout person, and someone we all look up to.
E Daniel told us that he and Lee grew up together. E Daniel asked Lee to tell his story.
Lee used to be a drag racer.
Lee had a fake-o conversion when he was a teenager; he says, he actually just cared about himself, and behaved himself well enough in church to not get into too much trouble. He wasn't truly a Christian. He got married to Ginny, a good Christian woman; she didn't realize that Lee's Christianity was a mask.
Lee hated revival meetings.
He hated how the preacher would yell at people and intimidate them, he hated the weird pressure, he hated how it was the same story every night, but if you were a church person, you were expected to not miss a revival meeting. Most of all he hated altar calls, which always used Just As I Am as the invitation. Lee hated Just As I Am--it's all sappy and the imagery is wimpy. We all laughed, because we hate Just As I Am, also.
Although Lee didn't like revival meetings, he would go to them anyway, every summer, "to keep up the façade." He was more interested in drag racing, so he would fantasize about that while was imprisoned in a pew. He would arrive late and try to sit in the back.
At some of these meetings, he would feel a compulsion to genuinely repent and become a Christian. He didn't want to walk the aisle, though, that would be cliché; he intended to convert at home. However, after he'd leave the revival meeting, the urge would pass.
For no good reason, in one of these revival meetings, Lee realized that he needed to change. Each time he went to a revival and felt compelled to salvation, God was calling him. He had an impression that this might be the last time God called him, after that, God might just let him stew in his stubbornness; God might let him get away with this stunt.
He wanted to do the altar call, but he was ashamed, so when it was time for the altar call, he asked Ginny to go with him, for moral support. The choir sang Just As I Am.
He said that this experience with God was a breath of fresh air. Before, he had been weighed down by living unforgiven, but after he fessed up, he was floating a foot above the ground.
Lee told us that the next morning, at work, he told his buddies that he wasn't going to tell dirty jokes with them any more. He made it clear that he still wanted to be their friend, but something had changed with him, and he felt like he couldn't tell dirty jokes any more. (I suppose Lee was changed in other ways, too, but this was the most concrete change he cited.)
After Lee finished his story, E Daniel asked us if anyone needed prayer, if any of us wanted to live a changed life. We sang Just As I Am.
One woman asked for us to pray for her for freedom from an addiction. Our pastors, Todd and Marita, were the others to come forward for the altar call; they felt overwhelmed and attacked and depressed, so we prayed for our pastors. I don't think I'd ever seen a pastor ask for help like that, before.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Peculiarities and Irritations
I am irritated when people try to schedule phone calls with me, or tell me "leave your phone open". If I can take the call, I will, if I can't, I won't, and it's as simple as that. I can't stand it when someone calls me five times trying to get through to me, without leaving a voicemail.
I like it when postal workers wear pith helmets while walking their routes because it makes them look like they're on a mail safari.
I do not have the mental capacity to understand why people fill the kitchen sink with dirty dishes to "clean up." The worst case of this that I've seen is a pile of dishes that goes above the faucet. This means that the dirty dishes get wet and fester. To actually clean them, the dishes have to get pulled back out of the sink, so that there's room to use the faucet, and now the counter has fetid dirty dishwater on it.
When I am driving somewhere that I have never been before, and I have a navigator (riding shotgun) reading directions to me, I request that the navigator read two steps ahead, at least, so that I know if I have to watch for any quick turns. Some navigators are obstinate, and only give the next immediate step, and refuse to provide any further information. If I have a navigator like this in the future, I will pull over and have them swap seats with someone in the backseat as punishment.
In the house I grew up in, we had an oak tree that was four hundred years old. There was a deer stand in it, or what had been a deer stand--all that was left was four rotting planks. We couldn't get them down easily, and this bothered me a lot. Dad wouldn't let us build a tree fort. Instead, Dad made a little fort for me. It was barely a fort, it was three pieces of plywood, maybe a yard wide, total, held together with bungee cord. It wasn't as good as a tree house, but it was okay for watergun fights.
One time, I was at the gym, and someone hopped onto the elliptical machine next to mine, and exercised vigorously; ten minutes later, she got off, wheezing. Now, this person was reasonably fit. What was peculiar was the machine was off the whole time, so it provided no resistance. Is it proper to say, "Excuse me, Miss, but are you aware that you frittered away your last ten minutes on a non-functional piece of equipment?"
I started lifting weights this summer. I still haven't figured out the etiquette for that, either. Everyone's listening to their iPod. Someone will walk up to me as I'm doing lat presses, and ask me a question, but I can't hear them, and so an awkward, "What did you say?" and pointing and gesturing.
Also, we only have one rope thing in the gym. I don't know what its proper name is, but it's the only suitable handle for the ab press. People are always snatching it from the ab press, though, and taking it to another machine to do T-Rexes. Well, Mike, Tim, and I call them "T-Rexes", because when doing them, you only move your forearms. T-Rexes can be done with other handles just as well, so I think that it ought to be considered proper to request the rope thing back from someone doing T-Rexes if I want to work my abs, but I'm afraid to ask.
I was walking across the quad last Thursday, when I saw a man with a perfectly uniform halo of hair and beard, making him look like a lion.
When I go to a pub, it's typically because I want to drink beer and talk with my friends. Why do pubs often have the music so loud that conversation is impossible? Also, why do pubs often have muted TV's without captions?
I don't get toothpicks in sandwiches at restaurants. I know that the theory is that the toothpick holds the sandwich layers together, but I've not seen this play out so well in practice. I've had oodles of problems with sandwiches falling apart as I eat them, but this is after I've taken the toothpick out to avoid splinters in my nose. I've never had a sandwich fall apart from the kitchen to the table as a result of not having a toothpick.
Some churches are not satisfied with merely having a name, they have to have a tagline, too. Two come to mind:
Where the nations gather to worship
The Amazing Grace Church
The Amazing Grace Church tagline bothers me, because I hope that it's not the only Church in which Grace is Amazingly present. My big problem here is the definite article.
Another definite article problem I have is the Old Bay-flavored Utz potato chips, with the tagline, "The Crab Chip." I'm always disappointed, because when I open the bag, I hope for only one crab potato chip that just fits the bag. Also, although crabs are often seasoned with Old Bay here in Maryland, they do not naturally taste anything like Old Bay. They should change the packaging to read, "A Passel of Chips Evoking Memories of Eating Crabs."
I like it when postal workers wear pith helmets while walking their routes because it makes them look like they're on a mail safari.
I do not have the mental capacity to understand why people fill the kitchen sink with dirty dishes to "clean up." The worst case of this that I've seen is a pile of dishes that goes above the faucet. This means that the dirty dishes get wet and fester. To actually clean them, the dishes have to get pulled back out of the sink, so that there's room to use the faucet, and now the counter has fetid dirty dishwater on it.
When I am driving somewhere that I have never been before, and I have a navigator (riding shotgun) reading directions to me, I request that the navigator read two steps ahead, at least, so that I know if I have to watch for any quick turns. Some navigators are obstinate, and only give the next immediate step, and refuse to provide any further information. If I have a navigator like this in the future, I will pull over and have them swap seats with someone in the backseat as punishment.
In the house I grew up in, we had an oak tree that was four hundred years old. There was a deer stand in it, or what had been a deer stand--all that was left was four rotting planks. We couldn't get them down easily, and this bothered me a lot. Dad wouldn't let us build a tree fort. Instead, Dad made a little fort for me. It was barely a fort, it was three pieces of plywood, maybe a yard wide, total, held together with bungee cord. It wasn't as good as a tree house, but it was okay for watergun fights.
One time, I was at the gym, and someone hopped onto the elliptical machine next to mine, and exercised vigorously; ten minutes later, she got off, wheezing. Now, this person was reasonably fit. What was peculiar was the machine was off the whole time, so it provided no resistance. Is it proper to say, "Excuse me, Miss, but are you aware that you frittered away your last ten minutes on a non-functional piece of equipment?"
I started lifting weights this summer. I still haven't figured out the etiquette for that, either. Everyone's listening to their iPod. Someone will walk up to me as I'm doing lat presses, and ask me a question, but I can't hear them, and so an awkward, "What did you say?" and pointing and gesturing.
Also, we only have one rope thing in the gym. I don't know what its proper name is, but it's the only suitable handle for the ab press. People are always snatching it from the ab press, though, and taking it to another machine to do T-Rexes. Well, Mike, Tim, and I call them "T-Rexes", because when doing them, you only move your forearms. T-Rexes can be done with other handles just as well, so I think that it ought to be considered proper to request the rope thing back from someone doing T-Rexes if I want to work my abs, but I'm afraid to ask.
I was walking across the quad last Thursday, when I saw a man with a perfectly uniform halo of hair and beard, making him look like a lion.
When I go to a pub, it's typically because I want to drink beer and talk with my friends. Why do pubs often have the music so loud that conversation is impossible? Also, why do pubs often have muted TV's without captions?
I don't get toothpicks in sandwiches at restaurants. I know that the theory is that the toothpick holds the sandwich layers together, but I've not seen this play out so well in practice. I've had oodles of problems with sandwiches falling apart as I eat them, but this is after I've taken the toothpick out to avoid splinters in my nose. I've never had a sandwich fall apart from the kitchen to the table as a result of not having a toothpick.
Some churches are not satisfied with merely having a name, they have to have a tagline, too. Two come to mind:
Where the nations gather to worship
The Amazing Grace Church
The Amazing Grace Church tagline bothers me, because I hope that it's not the only Church in which Grace is Amazingly present. My big problem here is the definite article.
Another definite article problem I have is the Old Bay-flavored Utz potato chips, with the tagline, "The Crab Chip." I'm always disappointed, because when I open the bag, I hope for only one crab potato chip that just fits the bag. Also, although crabs are often seasoned with Old Bay here in Maryland, they do not naturally taste anything like Old Bay. They should change the packaging to read, "A Passel of Chips Evoking Memories of Eating Crabs."
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Church Tradition Story 3: Imago Dei
One time, Greg and I were hanging out with a group called Imago Dei. We went to a Celtic festival with them, but I'm not sure how that's relevant to the story.
Anyway, Greg and I had just met Imago Dei, but we didn't know what it was, so we asked Gary.
"It's us!"
"I mean, are you affiliated with a church or something?"
"I guess you could say that we are a church, but we prefer to think of ourselves as an intentional community. We aren't just about what happens on Sunday morning, we actually care about each other, and go through life together."
We talked about appropriate grounding for theological orthodoxy, I gave my "The Bible is not the word of God, Jesus is the Word" rant, and Gary nodded vigorously. I'm always a little terrified when my opinions on Christianity are taken seriously, so I asked Gary if Imago Dei is Emerging, and he said no, rather emphatically.
Imago Dei is a pretty neat intentional community. When we stopped at a gas station, a hat was passed around, and everyone shared as much money as they wanted to, which seems like a friendlier system than dividing up the bill exactly equally. When we got pizza, later, the hat got passed again. Pierre had given extra cash for gas, but didn't have any for pizza--no worries! We shared.
So we were sitting around, eating pizza, and Greg and I were asking some more questions about Imago Dei. Greg asked Jay where they meet; "Oh, we meet in homes," Jay said.
"So, you're a house church?" I asked.
"No, no, we're not a house church."
"If you grow big enough, would you get a building?"
"That's where our valuing multiplication comes in. If our group gets to be too big for us to have this sense of intimacy that we have now, we'll split."
"So you'll always be meeting in houses."
"Probably, yes"
"But you're not a house church."
"That's right."
Then, Greg asked, "Is there someone who's in charge?"
"Well, I'm the overseer."
"Oh, so you're the bishop."
"I guess you could say that I'm the episcopos, that's the Greek word for overseer, in the Bible."
"You're the bishop."
"Yes, I'm the episcopos."
"You're the bishop."
"I'm the episcopos."
Also, everyone in Imago Dei mentioned how much healing they experienced by reading John Eldredge's books; some spent a week with Eldredge in the middle of the woods in Colorado. I'm not sure how that's relevant to the story.
***
Edgy church breaks old rules, insists on new ones
Anyway, Greg and I had just met Imago Dei, but we didn't know what it was, so we asked Gary.
"It's us!"
"I mean, are you affiliated with a church or something?"
"I guess you could say that we are a church, but we prefer to think of ourselves as an intentional community. We aren't just about what happens on Sunday morning, we actually care about each other, and go through life together."
We talked about appropriate grounding for theological orthodoxy, I gave my "The Bible is not the word of God, Jesus is the Word" rant, and Gary nodded vigorously. I'm always a little terrified when my opinions on Christianity are taken seriously, so I asked Gary if Imago Dei is Emerging, and he said no, rather emphatically.
Imago Dei is a pretty neat intentional community. When we stopped at a gas station, a hat was passed around, and everyone shared as much money as they wanted to, which seems like a friendlier system than dividing up the bill exactly equally. When we got pizza, later, the hat got passed again. Pierre had given extra cash for gas, but didn't have any for pizza--no worries! We shared.
So we were sitting around, eating pizza, and Greg and I were asking some more questions about Imago Dei. Greg asked Jay where they meet; "Oh, we meet in homes," Jay said.
"So, you're a house church?" I asked.
"No, no, we're not a house church."
"If you grow big enough, would you get a building?"
"That's where our valuing multiplication comes in. If our group gets to be too big for us to have this sense of intimacy that we have now, we'll split."
"So you'll always be meeting in houses."
"Probably, yes"
"But you're not a house church."
"That's right."
Then, Greg asked, "Is there someone who's in charge?"
"Well, I'm the overseer."
"Oh, so you're the bishop."
"I guess you could say that I'm the episcopos, that's the Greek word for overseer, in the Bible."
"You're the bishop."
"Yes, I'm the episcopos."
"You're the bishop."
"I'm the episcopos."
Also, everyone in Imago Dei mentioned how much healing they experienced by reading John Eldredge's books; some spent a week with Eldredge in the middle of the woods in Colorado. I'm not sure how that's relevant to the story.
***
Edgy church breaks old rules, insists on new ones
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Church Tradition Story 2: Lightbulb Evangelism
I've heard that the Brethren in Christ commonly have "evangelistic services" at 7 PM each Sunday, which is curious, because the services aren't particularly evangelistic, they're just regular Sunday-night church services. Few remember why these services are called evangelistic. In the 1800's, when electricity and incandescent lights were bleeding-edge technology, many churches in this denomination paid dearly to have electric light bulbs installed in their sanctuaries. Then, they started having extra services after dark, so one could invite one's non-Christian friend, saying, "Why don't you come to church, to see the lightbulb?"
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Church Tradition Story 1: Dismissal of the Catechumens
There is a part in the Orthodox Divine Liturgy called the Dismissal of the Catechumens, in which the priest chants, "All ye catechumens, depart! Depart, ye catechumens! All ye that are catechumens, depart! Let no catechumens remain!" and this used to be important, because it would have been terrible for an outsider to see and misunderstand the meaning of the eucharist, when the early church was undergoing persecution. Now, the words remain, but it's understood that no one is expected to actually leave--it's just a tradition. However, some Orthodox churches today have problems with visitors leaving halfway through the service, not knowing that the Dismissal of the Catechumens is vestigial.
As Orthodox churches assimilate into American culture, the services shift from using the congregation's heart language to the English language, with some parts in one language, and some in the other. I've heard of a Romanian Orthodox church in DC that has its services entirely in English, except the Dismissal of the Catechumens is in Romanian, so no one leaves by mistake.
As Orthodox churches assimilate into American culture, the services shift from using the congregation's heart language to the English language, with some parts in one language, and some in the other. I've heard of a Romanian Orthodox church in DC that has its services entirely in English, except the Dismissal of the Catechumens is in Romanian, so no one leaves by mistake.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Cous cous, Speeding, Grandma, Clara
On Good Friday this year, I was driving down 295 to Capitol Christian Fellowship, with a pot of Moroccan cous cous in my passenger seat. For no good reason, I was going 74 miles an hour in a 55 mile an hour zone.
I got pulled over as soon as I passed a federal cop in an unmarked car. I hadn't been pulled over for anything in five years. After I got my ticket, I kept driving, but I felt terrible. I wanted to go fast, I wasn't trying to get to CCF early or anything, I just wanted to go fast, so I ignored the speed limit.
I got to CCF, where Mennonites from all the churches in the district were convening for a potluck. I mentioned that I had sped to my friend, Galen, because confessing sin is important, but I didn't feel any better.
As I ate supper, I wasn't really paying attention to what the other people at my table were saying. I was thinking about why I felt so bad. All of a sudden, I realized that I don't love Grandma.
I mean, I have nice feelings about Grandma and I'm polite to her when I see her. I don't give up much for Grandma, though. She's pretty lonely in assisted living; a visit would mean much to her. It's not like hanging out with Grandma is a wild and crazy time, but, still, it's easy for me to pop by, and I just don't, and that's how you can tell I don't love Grandma. What sort of person doesn't love his grandma? I could at least give her a call. (I think I will tomorrow.)
This scared me, because not loving Grandma is a lot worse than speeding, but I felt worse about speeding than about not loving Grandma.
I was thinking about why I felt so bad, and I figured it was because I had been confronted by an authority figure, and not because I was actually contrite.
After supper, I went into the sanctuary, and sat, alone, and prayed that God would change my heart, and that I would be more loving, like Jesus. I prayed that I would at least love Grandma more than I did then.
During the service, I was distracted by Clara. Clara is, I don't know, five years old? Clara's family was sitting right in front of me. Clara wouldn't sit still, and kept jumping from her seat with her parents across the aisle to her friend, and then back again. I was irritated with Clara because I felt terrible about speeding and not loving Grandma, and it's Good Friday, which is a good day to feel terrible about how bad we are, and I was trying to focus on God, and Clara wasn't being very reverent at all.
And then, Clara handed a piece of paper to her mom. It was a card that said, "I love you, Jesus. From Clara."
I got pulled over as soon as I passed a federal cop in an unmarked car. I hadn't been pulled over for anything in five years. After I got my ticket, I kept driving, but I felt terrible. I wanted to go fast, I wasn't trying to get to CCF early or anything, I just wanted to go fast, so I ignored the speed limit.
I got to CCF, where Mennonites from all the churches in the district were convening for a potluck. I mentioned that I had sped to my friend, Galen, because confessing sin is important, but I didn't feel any better.
As I ate supper, I wasn't really paying attention to what the other people at my table were saying. I was thinking about why I felt so bad. All of a sudden, I realized that I don't love Grandma.
I mean, I have nice feelings about Grandma and I'm polite to her when I see her. I don't give up much for Grandma, though. She's pretty lonely in assisted living; a visit would mean much to her. It's not like hanging out with Grandma is a wild and crazy time, but, still, it's easy for me to pop by, and I just don't, and that's how you can tell I don't love Grandma. What sort of person doesn't love his grandma? I could at least give her a call. (I think I will tomorrow.)
This scared me, because not loving Grandma is a lot worse than speeding, but I felt worse about speeding than about not loving Grandma.
I was thinking about why I felt so bad, and I figured it was because I had been confronted by an authority figure, and not because I was actually contrite.
After supper, I went into the sanctuary, and sat, alone, and prayed that God would change my heart, and that I would be more loving, like Jesus. I prayed that I would at least love Grandma more than I did then.
During the service, I was distracted by Clara. Clara is, I don't know, five years old? Clara's family was sitting right in front of me. Clara wouldn't sit still, and kept jumping from her seat with her parents across the aisle to her friend, and then back again. I was irritated with Clara because I felt terrible about speeding and not loving Grandma, and it's Good Friday, which is a good day to feel terrible about how bad we are, and I was trying to focus on God, and Clara wasn't being very reverent at all.
And then, Clara handed a piece of paper to her mom. It was a card that said, "I love you, Jesus. From Clara."
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Snow
[I wrote most of this on a snow day, a Thursday in February, and on the day after that.]
I clipped my fingernails just now, and so I have trouble picking stuff up.
I was in a bad mood, so I made postmodern food. Here is my recipe:
1 lb. tempeh
2 jars spaghetti sauce, nothing weird, maybe the kind with a little garlic and basil in it
3 Bell peppers, cut into 1/4" strips
1 Onion, diced
Some Blueberries (frozen is fine)
Olive oil, I guess
Blanch the tempeh, then chop it into triangles, and set it aside. Fry the onions in a little olive oil. Throw everything in the pot, including the tempeh. Bring it to a boil. Top with the bell peppers. This is awesome food, because the blueberries suck up the spaghetti sauce and they burst in your mouth with sweetness and acidity at the same time. I didn't have enough spaghetti sauce, so I had to go to the grocery store.
It snowed today, and school was closed. Snow is the one natural thing that grown-ups can't keep from interfering with their work. I like snow, because I pretend it's God's way of telling us we need a day off.
When I was in middle school, my friend, Dave, said that snow is like grace, because it covers everything, and you can see what everything was, but it looks completely different, at the same time.
One time, I was talking with my friend, Harold, about snow, and how it's like grace. I mentioned that my friend, Amber, doesn't like thinking of it that way, because she always thinks of the homeless people who are stuck out in the snow. Harold said that it's probably still okay to think of snow as a reminder of grace. He told me about a friend he has who is homeless. The friend would accept food and money as gifts, but, when it was snowy, Harold offered to let his friend into his house, but the homeless friend declined. Harold's mercy was available to his friend, but the friend didn't accept that mercy, so he was stuck, cold and wet in the snow.
So, I was in a bad mood, and I had left my food in a pot on the stove while I went to get more spaghetti sauce. I also needed gummi worms. I've never seen a sad person eating gummi worms. The gummi worms at Giant were unacceptable, they were chalky and very short, so I went to Wal*Mart instead and got gummi worms there. The gummi worms at Wal*Mart were a lot better, they were clear and stretchy. The only problem was that some of the gummi worms were a combination of red and orange, and those two colors don't go together.
When I grow up, I'm going to sell gummi worms with gummi surgical equipment, a scalpel and a needle and that special thread used in dissolving sutures. You can perform segment transplants, so that the gummi worms are only made of colors that go together. It's also fun to tuck a half a dozen gummi worms into my upper lip and let them dangle and pretend to be a monster.
I saw an armored truck parked right in front of the Walmart, with its warning lights on, in the middle of the crosswalk. Do armored trucks ever get towed illegally?
My favorite cocktail is the rusty nail, which is 9 parts Scotch whisky and 5 parts Drambuie, with ice to taste. I like to wait until the ice melts before eating.
As I write this, I'm sitting in the library atrium, avoiding finding useful articles for my research. It's late on Friday afternoon, the place is almost empty.
I notice that there is a table set up near the guard station, where you are supposed to leave your food, before entering the library proper. On the table sits a twelve-inch sub from Sub Connections. There is no guard.
I am tempted to steal the sandwich, and take it into the library, and devour it directly in the middle of the stacks, to see if I can do it without getting noticed. The only thing stopping me is that the sandwich might have meat on it; I'm a vegetarian.
Defibrilator and Spaz are excellent names for energy drinks.
I clipped my fingernails just now, and so I have trouble picking stuff up.
I was in a bad mood, so I made postmodern food. Here is my recipe:
1 lb. tempeh
2 jars spaghetti sauce, nothing weird, maybe the kind with a little garlic and basil in it
3 Bell peppers, cut into 1/4" strips
1 Onion, diced
Some Blueberries (frozen is fine)
Olive oil, I guess
Blanch the tempeh, then chop it into triangles, and set it aside. Fry the onions in a little olive oil. Throw everything in the pot, including the tempeh. Bring it to a boil. Top with the bell peppers. This is awesome food, because the blueberries suck up the spaghetti sauce and they burst in your mouth with sweetness and acidity at the same time. I didn't have enough spaghetti sauce, so I had to go to the grocery store.
It snowed today, and school was closed. Snow is the one natural thing that grown-ups can't keep from interfering with their work. I like snow, because I pretend it's God's way of telling us we need a day off.
When I was in middle school, my friend, Dave, said that snow is like grace, because it covers everything, and you can see what everything was, but it looks completely different, at the same time.
One time, I was talking with my friend, Harold, about snow, and how it's like grace. I mentioned that my friend, Amber, doesn't like thinking of it that way, because she always thinks of the homeless people who are stuck out in the snow. Harold said that it's probably still okay to think of snow as a reminder of grace. He told me about a friend he has who is homeless. The friend would accept food and money as gifts, but, when it was snowy, Harold offered to let his friend into his house, but the homeless friend declined. Harold's mercy was available to his friend, but the friend didn't accept that mercy, so he was stuck, cold and wet in the snow.
So, I was in a bad mood, and I had left my food in a pot on the stove while I went to get more spaghetti sauce. I also needed gummi worms. I've never seen a sad person eating gummi worms. The gummi worms at Giant were unacceptable, they were chalky and very short, so I went to Wal*Mart instead and got gummi worms there. The gummi worms at Wal*Mart were a lot better, they were clear and stretchy. The only problem was that some of the gummi worms were a combination of red and orange, and those two colors don't go together.
When I grow up, I'm going to sell gummi worms with gummi surgical equipment, a scalpel and a needle and that special thread used in dissolving sutures. You can perform segment transplants, so that the gummi worms are only made of colors that go together. It's also fun to tuck a half a dozen gummi worms into my upper lip and let them dangle and pretend to be a monster.
I saw an armored truck parked right in front of the Walmart, with its warning lights on, in the middle of the crosswalk. Do armored trucks ever get towed illegally?
My favorite cocktail is the rusty nail, which is 9 parts Scotch whisky and 5 parts Drambuie, with ice to taste. I like to wait until the ice melts before eating.
As I write this, I'm sitting in the library atrium, avoiding finding useful articles for my research. It's late on Friday afternoon, the place is almost empty.
I notice that there is a table set up near the guard station, where you are supposed to leave your food, before entering the library proper. On the table sits a twelve-inch sub from Sub Connections. There is no guard.
I am tempted to steal the sandwich, and take it into the library, and devour it directly in the middle of the stacks, to see if I can do it without getting noticed. The only thing stopping me is that the sandwich might have meat on it; I'm a vegetarian.
Defibrilator and Spaz are excellent names for energy drinks.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Night Ocean
[I wrote this last summer while on holiday at sea.]Tonight, I took a walk. As I came to the boardwalk, leading to the ocean, I turned on my flashlight, because I was afraid. I kept walking. Upon passing over the dunes, I fanned the light around, and I saw beach chairs and umbrellas, and a tent, left there overnight. Closer to the ocean, crossing the high tide line, I glanced down, to see flash into the hole...something.
I looked around, and in the ground, I saw a dozen holes, right near me, each an inch wide. Looking down the beach, there were more, some only a few inches, one from another. Then, I nearly stepped on it, a sand crab. I took its picture, and then got down close, but it shot into its hole. I found many others, some would hold still, and I would photograph them, but often, I'd take the picture, look down, and the crab would be gone, but my camera got him. I was stepping carefully, afraid I'd step on one, they were all around. Looking at the crabs, I imagined them running up to me, all around me, in a swarm, and cutting and poisoning me.
When I had taken about twenty pictures of them, I walked back across the high tide line, away from the ocean. I stood there, in the dry, loose sand, looking at the ocean and the dark, cloudy sky, listening to the waves crash. I had been afraid near the crabs, but when freed from that distraction, I was even more afraid, looking at the ocean and the sky and the dark. I was asphyxiated. I was small.
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