Briefcase.

"Interesting how moments that were once our favorites can be the ones we abhor the next day. and the ones that seemed so... meaningless are realized as pivotal points in our existence. Life... funny thing."

I love moments. I love to live them. I love those small seconds of the day that you know no one else noticed. They dangle and then dash away, leaving you breathless to describe them.

The day faded out and I sat on the bus, surrounded by familiar strangers on my way to Vancouver. We'd talked about Christmas, about families, how I feel about Texas and then laughed as I retracted my statements when approached by a Texan. We talked about writing and we talked about why we were on that bus. On the outskirts of Vancouver I wondered out loud why we had pulled over at a broken down gas station. It had a crooked sign, and the pumps were rusted. Through the window you could see the convenience store clerk looking bored as the last of the sunlight disappeared, doubting she'd have any customers the rest of the night. One pick-up truck was parked outside. The boy sitting next to me answered my wondering, facetiously asserting that this must be a stop. 

It was. 

From behind me an old man got up. He was wearing a blazer and a cowboy hat. He was no hillbilly though, but a figure emerge from a novel. He reached above his seat into the overhead storage of the Greyhound. He removed a single piece of luggage, a small, brown, square briefcase. Leaning slightly forward, he shuffled to the front of the bus. He descended the stairs and paused on the pavement below. I waited for him to move to the side of the bus to claim the rest of his bags which I assumed were underneath. Instead, he looked around, and then walked away. My head tilted in curiosity as I watched him move away from the gas station down an old road, one foot before the other on the asphalt, cracked and uneven. There were no lights ahead, no car to pick him up, nothing for miles. He turned quickly into a phantom. I turned to the boy next to me, and told him with the utmost respect for this man that I wished I could be so free as to travel holding only a briefcase. He replied, "How Kerouac..." 

I have no idea where the old man went. But in my mind he walked for miles, one of the few left from the Beat Movement. Still part of the anti-culture, still preserving adventure, still moving against the tide accidentally. Yes, it's moments like these that drive me back into my crazy mind, that unhinge me and send me hurtling back into the dreams of being On the Road. I'll never get over it. My life is one of those moments.

Faces

If you have not yet, please read the story of Kate Donahue and Jesus Sanchez. And if you pray, plead. Give if you can. But, listen to the story, because it is more than a story- it is the living, breathing pain of a family that has been hurt. It is more than a story, it is a reason to care, a jolt to stop being so hardened to the suffering of the people we are so privileged to love. 

Newspaper clipping from the Beat Museum
in San Francisco. Another product
of the Beat Movement. Thought it fit
the mood, and have been wanting to share
it for awhile now. 

I’ve been itching to write something quirky and lighthearted. Today is not the day I think. Quite the opposite from how I feel. Flying 40,000 feet above the earth I ache to look down and see a different world. Days like this make me wonder why I’ve decided to dedicate my life to uncovering pain and studying the causes and solutions. Social work does not promise happy endings. It’s days like this I see my mother in me because I feel such brokenness in the depths of my soul, I feel the burden of those I love.

If you’ve ever read The Secret Life of Bees the character May Boatwright best describes what I feel when I step out of my head and look at our world. The Psalms echo through my mind, words of pain and recognition of such depravity and tragedy in our world. It’s too much when we see it all, I become nonfunctional in the face of such great human suffering. From of our first breath, we cry. Pain is real, it is inescapable. Our friends, our family, our loves, ourselves… we confront daily incredible and real broken heartedness. The faces of my friends flash in my mind, those who are close to me. And they are followed by the children who have never been loved, whose faces are unknown to me, by the women who have only ever known touch to be abuse, by the boys whose own father’s face was their greatest fear... and by the humans who have fallen so far, who hurt so much that they lash out and become the abusers, create the abused. Create victims. Perpetuate pain. Break goodness.

I don’t want to see anymore. All of this makes me hateful and angry, tears of sadness turn to rage at the Creator who says He will be there to give us the strength to handle it all as we see how desperately we are. But why do we have to handle it at all? Why do I have to see the ones in my life I care the most for sit helplessly as an uncaring disaster attacks their beautiful hearts?

And then, that small, persistent reminder arises. A nudge at my temper. It will not always be like this. As simple as that. I wish with all that I am that everything was renewed now, that all of the perfection we beg for would take form in the life we live right now. I cannot even begin to fathom sitting in the seat of God, seeing and feeling every single thing that happens to hurt His beloved people, the crown of His creation. I would surely break my promise and wash them all away, simply to stop my own connection to the pain. But the promise holds fast: mercy. There will come a day. Despite darkness, despite the fight, despite rage, He is good. I was reminded yesterday, I do not know the whole story of God’s love for the world. I don’t need to know the answers to know that God still gives breath. And while I breathe I will know and I will see that God is good, that He is love, that He is better. So go the Psalms: tears to anger, anger to rage, rage to brokenness, brokenness to helplessness. Helplessness to praise. Redemption rises.

Primal Warfare

I am literally in love with this picture
and all of the questions it
arouses. As well as its harmony
with the end of this blog. Pay attention.

I wanted go to bed. I really did. But my fingers just want to type and my heart wants to write. So, fine, I'm up.


I sat with my Papa again tonight in his living room in Kansas City with the big Siamese cat who sits in the leather chair like a person and watches the Science Channel with us. My grandpa ate deli meat (ham, which I'm now craving... damn vegetarianism) and drank red boxed wine, and he talked about Mississippi. I saw all the colors with their sepia tones and the 1940's streets of Jackson, with the kiddy matinee on Saturday mornings and the hot tamales sold on the corner by the black man who'd been alive since the beginning of time. Life was beautiful. My Papa, the only boy in his family, became a nuclear physicist/chemist. He always tells me stories about things I've never heard. Tonight, he promised to show me something I'd never seen before. He was right.


He brought in a rolled up chart. When he opened it, my eyes adjusted to the colors, dates, and diagrams. It was a history of nuclear warfare from the beginning of production in America in the 1920's. He explained all the colors, the keys and showed me where he started helping out with the production. He pointed to the red lines, all the warheads that are currently stockpiled. "There's a piece of me in each of those. I helped invent things that stopped things from happening in the bombs. I also have something on Mars." Right, my Papa's also a genius I forgot to mention. But, instead of wondering about the effect of water on the corrosion of the chemicals and the effect of hydrogen on the corrosion of the soft metals like my grandad, I thought about how far we haven't come.


That's right. After almost one hundred years of nuclear warfare, we are no more civilized or advanced as a society it seems. We still have to be able to blackmail each other into "peaceful" situations, to be able to have the ability to blow up the whole of Russia 6 times over so that we are safe. That doesn't make me feel safe. It makes me feel... primitive. For all of the progress we have made in setting up societies and preserving cultures so many of us are still focused on preservation through a power struggle. The alpha male dominates. I'm not here to rant on the job of the "big brother" or to give my political stance on war or homeland security. That's another blog. I just wonder sometimes if our highly advanced progress in the area of destruction is really just a 21st century version of the first society's own tradition of the "one with the most wins." Or if it's just the human version of animal instincts. I wonder with all the ability to blow up countries, why we haven't figured out how to save them yet? While we could wipe Central America off the map with one submarine of missiles, why we haven't been able to even help them to have a decent standard of living. There's not answers to those questions that can take place in essay form. They take place in human form, spelled out in the footsteps of those who tend to the civilians who are ripped apart by the effects of the wars led by their leaders. They take place in the hands of the peace makers who cross borders and make dropping bombs obsolete in the face of beautiful humanity.


Will we ever learn? Probably not. But I hope that for the next generation what we have to show is more than a well preserved stockpile of nuclear warfare to brag about.

The Philosophy of Christmas

"Santa is Dead…"

                     -K. R. Smith 

In a conversation with Molly in which I endlessly mocked the shallow shell that is our most celebrated season, we laughed at the truth of the ridiculously dramatic yet humorous statements which jumped from my overactive mouth. So we developed this tragic piece of irony, these thoughts are a story told by the pretentious and nasaly voice of an overtly learned and obnoxious American, making obvious that her views, so rooted in the American way are clearly full of wisdom, irony and clichés. Please, take this entry with a grain of salt…

Here in America, Santa doesn’t come. Not anymore at least. The streets are covered in lights, and the children await eagerly the arrival of a large man who will satisfy their sticky, greedy fingers. Their thoughts revolve around the boxes which are already underneath the tree whose life they have stolen so that their home may resemble the now dying European tradition of Christmas cheer. But Santa won’t come. Not anymore. Every American adult is tainted with the flow, the ebb and tide of the retail season which overtakes the generosity which once burst forth with the mention of Christmas. Instead of the rise of humanity, Christmas season brings the rise of consumerism. Our wallets are empty, and so are the hands of the needy… because we have left the department store cash registers overflowing with what appears to be our Christmas cheer. The faces of our celebrated, flawless heroes, the Presidents of the United of America, are so sadly the faces which will cause too many to be hungry this year as they make their way into the banks of those corporate giants who already have too much. No, Santa won’t come here. Not anymore. Because, who can give us who already have 2 of what we need and 4 of what we don’t need, anything that will ever satisfy us? Our mouths drip with the drool of materialism, and the saliva hits the sidewalks, covering those who we in our superiority, trample into poverty. Yeeessss, we are all so cultured here in America. My shoes were made in China, my shirt in Taiwan, and my diamond is from the Ivory Coast. Of course I care about these places in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season… my money all pays their factory wages! No. No, Santa doesn’t come here. Here where our stockings hang like flags of war announcing the coming of another season of oppression for those in the sweat shops producing our shining, clicking, and buzzing Christmas presents and fueling Santa’s disgust at our selfish ambitions in this holiday season which is rooted not even slightly in what makes us happy. No, happiness can’t be bought. Obviously. We’ve bought everything. Everything. And are we happy? No.

So, cry large alligator tears of sadness at the empty space you find under your tree on December 25^th oh little American children. And slump in your chairs of self-indulgence, praise your righteousness which is shown by your giving of a thousand pointless gifts oh people of the United States. Christmas is no longer a reflection of something transcendent, the echo of a meta-narrative and place of union for meaningful moments… it is a reflection of our own faces, which have grown disfigured and drawn with every empty Christmas season. Yes, throw a tantrum, childish America… Because Santa has forgotten you.

Running with Scissors.

“When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.” –Eric Liddell, Chariots of Fire

Out of the many things I do that make very little sense to many people, perhaps the one which makes the least sense is how much I love to run. Unless you are a runner as well, there appears very little purpose or practicality in running for miles and miles with no decided destination besides returning to where you started. And yet, compulsively my soul grows hungry for the rhythm of my feet against the ground, to feel the echo of my footsteps resounding through the dirt.

On the beach, running is a song. It’s like each breath in and then out is the crescendo or the melody that you sing with the sound of the waves as they too move in, and then out. But, despite all of the power in your own body, the force in each muscle to move your legs further down the beach, you are so frail compared to the surging and ever approaching salt water. And so exists a mutual respect between the sea and the runner. The sea does not cross its boundaries, the runner knows his place. Jumping in and out of the sea foam, avoiding sharp shells, splashing through the tide pools, blisters form on the bottom of feet so used to being  confined in a pair of shoes. The sand though, is not like the ocean. It is resistant to the interruption of an intrusive runner in its fragile rest, piece lying precariously upon piece. And so it moves to make the ache in your calves grow with intensity, never supporting the push off, scratching and biting at your bare feet. But, the soothing salt water rinses off the anger of the sand, and instead makes the sand cooperate, binding the pieces together, restoring unity between the runner and the sea.

In the woods where I run, the trees bend down. They are the admirers of the creatures who can move, living their movement through the footsteps of the runners passing by. And the path carries my red shoes for the miles, but strikes back if I step too hard, reminding me I am only human and my fragile legs can be hurt if I run too long. But, the bond between runner and nature grows, as I run my same path day after day, and look down to see my own footsteps still etched in the soft dirt from yesterday’s run, or the day before. The path remembers the energy and rejoicing between my soul and the soul of my Creator experiencing creation, and preserves the reminder that I have been here. I have seen what too many people pass by. Each puddle is a hurdle, each bird is cheering the runner by, each twig that snaps is a word to endure from the earth who understands what it is to grow tired, and to be overused, out of breath.

Why do I run? Because. Because I can. Because that dull pain which starts throbbing in my muscles is really just the story of another adventure; on the beach, through the words, in the city, traversing the world. Because it is the one place in which all of my senses interact to make me feel at home, to make me feel complete. My mind, my body and my soul. I hear the sound of the waves, or the  stillness of the woods. I feel my body creating a rhythm and all parts of my working together to continue each step. I see the beauty around me, the sunshine and the sky, the sandpipers and the seagulls. I smell the salt, the fish, the pinecones and the dying leaves. And I taste the sweat that drips down my face, the chapstick which protects my lips and melts away as my run grows longer. There are more reasons than could possibly be explained by words, because it is a holistic “because” why I run.

Camouflage Travel

I have the privilege of writing again from my favorite place: the airport. Today as I sit in the Denver airport a thousand thoughts fly through my mind, with or without destination. With or without a place to land. I sat upstairs and ate my dinner while drinking a paper cup of jasmine green tea (thank you Target) and watched the rest of my fellow travelers walk by, always familiar, always strangers. Today, the airport was full of soldiers. They’re coming home for Christmas from wherever they have been in the world. Their families, wives, children, parents, girlfriends, and best friends will be waiting for them when they get home. And, after 20 days or so, most of them will leave again.

The aim of my blog at this point is not to express my opinion. I will not pretend to be learned enough to have something to say on every issue, and even if I do I will not be so presumptuous to think I have all the answers, or that I am anywhere near done forming my opinion on life. My views on the military have changed drastically in the last years. But, let us shed the mask of politics. I want to say what I see. Moving through the Denver International airport, I saw very few grown men. I saw so many young boys. Young ambitious boys, dedicated perhaps, lost maybe. And it doesn’t really matter which side of the issue we fall on at this point, because what I see are their faces. And I really wish I could give you a look at the photograph that is etched in my mind of this young soldier sitting alone on the floor of the airport. His eyes follow the people who pass, flitting from traveler to traveler. He wanders back and forth in front of our gate. As my mind replays the words of Howard Zinn in his book A People’s History of the United States, I think about our government and I think about the ambitions and missions of the empires of the past. I watch us fight what seems to be the same wars over and over…. And I see it in the eyes of this soldier.

But I watch camaraderie form between strangers as more soldiers join this one in front of our gate, and see fraternity that has been developed between them since the first day of boot camp, despite whether or not they knew each other before this moment in time. And, there is something that we all long for in finding a brother in every place we go. I sit and watch them smile and pace, waiting to be off the ground. And I desperately want to shed the presuppositions and the politics and instead see stories. Why is it that we have clumped people into groups and prejudices so that we can more easily dismiss their humanity and assert our beliefs? Our very nation was founded on our efficiency in this area. If the land was “given to us by God,” it is simply righteousness which drove us to destroy the humanity and value of the Indians and claim that the earth held its destiny in the hands of our empire. What will it take to strip our eyes clean so that we no longer look at people and see a philosophical stance or membership to a movement, but the face of a human being, a child of God, a design, with innate not assigned value? I begin now, thinking that the first question I would like to ask this soldier is, “If you could build a house, where would it be and why?” Stories are the angles in which our existence takes place and they long to be told, bursting forth from the one dimensional plane of acquaintanceship into the deep, complex, and multidimensional planes of personhood and friendship.

Semester.

In three words I can sum up everything I've 
learned about life: it goes on.
-Robert Frost

Another semester draws to a close. I don't think anyone can really complain. As I reflect on this semester I cannot say that it was a semester that was a particularly happy one. It was long, and hard. I had a lot of amazing and good times, but I walk away very tired. There is something very melancholy about watching everyone leave campus and seeing the parking lot empty out. It's like the real beginning of winter. The end of the semester is never bad, just cold I think. 


I walked out of my Anatomy/Physiology class Monday afternoon after finishing the final, and I was genuinely sad. This semester I changed the direction of my career completely, though most of my goals remain the same. But, leaving behind medicine has been exciting, and now suddenly very sad. The dreams I had for so long about becoming a nurse or a doctor remain in the seat I had occupied this semester as I walk out to pursue new dreams. The vivid goals I had wanted to accomplish will stay behind and become some other young ambitious student's passion, as I chase down some new study. It's scary to let go, even for someone with so little attachments. Make no mistake, I do not regret changing to social work from medicine, I finally have peace. But, it was my consolation that my career would have meaning, that I would be successful. It was a fall-back identity. I am forced to stand on the raw truth straight from the mouth of God to know who I am, instead of upon the reward of a guaranteed meaningful career. 
 

At the end of this semester, I stand with frayed ends, and an unusual contentment at the prospect of returning to Joplin next semester. I will miss Ozark over Christmas strangely enough, it has brought me comfort this semester in my hard times, wisdom when I was helpless, and community when I found myself isolated. I look ahead, so excited to see what will happen, embracing the things that I love: writing, music, running, nature, friends, adventure, football!, philosophy, and new ideas. As I continue to process the vast amount of things I have experienced this semester, wisdom will come I think, and maturity. Growth can leave you ragged... but ready to run farther, study harder, and travel more. Even when exhausted, I have found the answer to my clouded mind to be, move. One day at a time we move, led sometimes only by the previous direction our feet were headed, and when the sun again shines, we'll have clarity. Time has no patience, it will not wait for us to be ready to handle what comes, we fight through and enjoy the times of rest when we are granted them. Thank God for Christmas break.