timewasters

Via Crooked Timber:

in three minutes, the largest dot will travel around the circle once, the next largest dot will travel around the circle twice, the next largest dot three times, and so on.

the dots are arranged to trigger notes on a chromatic scale when they pass the line

Go here to play. The handcrank version wasn't as fun as I expected it to be, but variation 11 was great! Usually if I want to get dizzy in the computer lab I have to spin in my chair- it's nice to have the work taken out of dizziness for once.

Also, these games might be more fun for those of you who read French, but I'm enjoying not knowing how poorly I'm doing.

PS: The only thing worse than being the audio-visual techie at a conference with lots of tech problems is being the audio-visual techie at a conference with almost zero tech needs. I am bored... bored enough to play silly internet games, the directions to which I can't read because they're written in French.

sailing

My dad got a sailboat while I was in high school. It wasn't much of a boat, just big enough for him and me and a lunchbox. We used to take it out on the reservoir near my house, sail it up one way and down the other.

Or, sort of sail. My dad is 5'11'' and big, even now, and he weighed close to 300 pounds at the time. He would sit at the back of the boat and run the mainsail, and I'd sit at the front and run the jib- if we tried it the other way around, the nose of the boat stuck in the water. He'd holler directions at me, I'd get confused, he'd helpfully yell detailed mathematical explainations, I'd get angry, and then we'd run aground somewhere for lunch.

We never actually crashed the boat- I left that job for Kim, when she and Dad were out sailing after I left for college. Once, though, on a particularly windy day, we nearly tipped it.

Ok, I'm sorry, that was boring. Let me try that again, with more salacious detail:

The cold northern wind blew across the resevoir, tossing our small bark upon the waves. Sky gray like sheet metal stretched overhead, scuffed by wrathful, speeding clouds. My father and I wrestled with the wet ropes, shouting over the furiosity of the storm...

That's not at all accurate, although it's more exciting. It was a sunny day, just with a strong wind... and really, the wind wasn't even that strong. I just held on too long.

I mentioned that Dad controlled the mainsail while I controlled the jib. The means of control was a rope threaded through a grommet on the sail, with which I could control the tension of the sail and the direction in which it pointed. Ours was a small boat, though, so when the wind blew particularly hard we would let go the ropes and wait out the gust- too much wind would capsize us.

So, we're 'speeding' down the resevoir, probably not at a particularly fast rate but more quickly and smoothly than we had gone before, when a blast hit us from behind. Dad let go of his rope and told me to let go of mine, but I didn't hear him. The boat pitched foward, then sideways, as my little sail took the brunt of the gust.

"Let go! Let go of the rope!"

I heard Dad, that time, but I couldn't process what he was saying. The boat was at enough of an angle that the mainsail was brushing the water, and my dad was sitting up on the top edge to try to balance it- I had my body braced against the boat, pulling for all I was worth to hold the sail against the wind.

"Let go! You have to let go!"

I could feel my arms (and legs) tiring, and the rope started sliding between my hands. The sail was still taut, and the wind was still driving us foward, but the the rope was slipping, slipping, slipping... and then it was gone. My jib floppped free in the wind, the boat sat suddenly upright in the water, and I fell backward in the boat. My dad, not quite so lucky, fell backward out of the boat.

"Why didn't you let go?"

Dad was annoyedly dogpaddling in the resevoir, as the wind died down, trying to figure how he would get back in the boat. He was annoyed to be unexpectedly on a swim trip, but more so annoyed with me for having ignored clear and sensible instruction. He tossed the lunchbox back into the boat and repeated himself:

"Why didn't you let go?"

For the same reason that I still hold things, I guess. I was too busy playing tug-of-war with the wind to hear or realize that holding on was the problem, not the solution. The blisters on my hands were not only hard won, but useless.

So, an odd story, and I don't doubt it makes more sense when I tell it than when I write it. But there it is.

the song in my head

I love rock and roll!
...and something-or-other about a... jukebox, baby!

I don't know the rest of the song, and no matter how many times I look up the lyrics I forget again exactly what is going on with the jukebox. So it's just those two lines, incomplete and looping in my head.

Perhaps ironically, this song fragment makes me hate rock and roll.

Last night was more fun, though- I pulled the Audio Adrenaline out of hiding, cranked it and danced in my living room to Underdog:*

I am so weak and I'm so tired
It's hard for me to
Find enough strength to feed the fires
That fuel my ego
And consequently all my pride has up and died
Which leaves me
Down on my knees
Back to the place I
Should have started from...

I'd put a dime in a jukebox for Audio Adrenaline, any day.

Unfortunately, this version of the lyrics doesn't transcribe the sermon out of the middle, which is the awesomest part of all.

oh no!

No more New Pantagruel. I feel like I should hold a calling hours.

"We believe life is eucatastrophic: a joyous catastrophe." That's a good epitaph.

Oh, and I updated the list of articles on the right, if you're interested. Are the headers in ridiculously large type? I've been trying to make them smaller, but now I'm wondering if it's just the ESR computers that make them look so big.

milk

Via What Would Jesus Blog: Buy your milk at Amazon.com

Or don't, but do read the reviews.

However, when I put that cold, white substance to my lips...
...Well, lets just say that I passed out to to the overwhelming almost-ninja-like greatness. It made me splash all the water out of the tub. My mom told me to stop.

This milk was so good, I passed out. When I woke up 3 weeks later, apes ruled the earth.

This milk tastes pure, wholesome, and makes me ecstatic toward the world in general.

This milk was prescribed to me by my spiritual leader. Each week we order gallons and gallons of this Milk and bless it. Once it is blessed we pour it all into tubs so that we can baptize and save members of our congregation.

Like i haven't felt this good since eating 'shrooms with my peanut butter in 78'!

Wacky people.

I've posted this already

...but it's been on my mind again.

Lot's Wife

They had no time—the just man
hurried across the bridge,
followed God’s magistrate
along the black ridge.

His grieving wife lagged behind
as if she had no will,
arms heavy with useless things,
heart heavier still.

She couldn’t recall if she’d shut the door,
turned off the iron; worse guilt,
she’d left behind the baby pictures,
her mother’s ring, her wedding quilt.

One arm raised as if to gather
her whole life in that embrace,
tears blurring the view,
without much thought she turned her face,

became what she had shed. Who grieves
for this nameless woman, Lot’s reflective wife?
I grieve.
I know holding on can cost a life.

quote 2

And clue 1: It's not a Christmas book.

That's what liberty is, I thought. To have a passion, to amass pieces of gold and suddenly to conquer one's passion and throw the treasure to the four winds.

Free yourself from one passion to be dominated by another and nobler one. But is not that, too, a form of slavery? To sacrifice oneself to an ideal, to a race, to God? Or does it mean that the higher the model the longer the tether of our slavery? Then we can enjoy ourselves and frolic in a more spacious arena and die without having come to the end of our tether. Is that, then, what we call liberty?

the song in my head

By the time I get home tonight, I'll have walked from my apartment to school and back three times. I usually try to be more organized, but it's been one of those days.

"One of those days" is a vague phrase, you say? Well, here's a detail: I ate gas station food. Twice. In fact, that's all I ate.

This song has been in my head all day, which means that I've not just been walking down South A street, I've been dancing. It's got a good beat, and the more I sing it in my head, the more my hips start to move.

The downside is probably that I look like an idiot, but the upside is that no cars have come near to hitting me today. Apparently I'm making enough of a spectacle of myself to be obvious to all drivers in the area.

And I'll not prepare my heart for the change of season.
And I'll whip old Winter Wind there if she blows, if she blows.
Well, God bless the day that you came along and you tipped my apple cart.
And you made me hotter than Mojave in my heart.

Off to finish my sermon!

pre-Christmas literary guessing game

Tell me the name of the novel:

"Eat and drink," he continually shouted. "Eat and drink, boss, and get warmed up! You sing too, my boy, sing like the shepherds: 'Glory to the highest!... Glory to the lowest...' Christ in born, that's a terrific thing, you know. Pipe up with your song and let God hear you and rejoice."

He had quite recovered his spirits, and there was no stopping him.

"Christ is born, my wise Solomon, my wretched pen-pusher! Don't go picking things over with a needle! Is He born or isn't He? Of course He's born, don't be daft. If you take a magnifying-glass and look at your drinking water- an engineer told me this, one day- you'll see, he said, the water's full of little worms you couldn't see with your naked eye. You'll see the worms and you won't drink. You won't drink and you'll curl up with thirst. Smash your glass, boss, and the little worms'll vanish and you can drink and be refreshed!"

pumpkin cream

I bought a cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich today at the gas station. Both were adventures, and neither was totally a disappointment. The sandwich was heavyladen with greasy, sugary wonderfulness, and the coffee was, in a word, caffeinated.

Purity is usually essential to me, in evaluating a cup of coffee. I never muck mine up with cream and sugar, and certainly not with non-dairy cream and fake sugar. Cream goes on oatmeal, and sugar goes in cookies (and gas station sandwiches); coffee is a blessed moment set aside for caffeine alone.

Except today. Today, I was lured by the vast, colorful display of little creamer cups in the rack beside the go-lids. Pink ones, green ones, blue ones... I do love color. There were the old standards- French Vanilla, Irish Cream, Hazelnut- the stolid creamer flavors that add stability to an ever-changing world.

Mixed in among the standards, though, were newfangled oddities like Cinnamon Hazelnut and Pumpkin Spice. "Pumpkin Spice!" I thought. I free associated: coffee-> hot drinks-> Mormons-> college-> Java 101-> chai! That was it- chai always makes me think of pumpkin pie, which I love! Maybe, just maybe, my coffee could taste like pumpkin pie, too? I poured in two creamers with bated breath, and waited for the concoction to cool.

Of course, I didn't experience the rapturous delight for which I had been stoking myself. Pumpkins are good, sugar is good, and coffee is superb, but they don't all go in the same cup. I missed the bitter bite of my old friend- nothing washes down greasy sausage like black gas station coffee.

I may have to walk back to the gas station for a plain cup of coffee, just to wash the sugary taste out of my mouth. However, my return trip to Speedway will be as a more experienced person, wiser for having learned an important lesson about being true to myself. I must not be swayed by the pressures of this world, no matter how colorful and potentially promising they may be. I am a woman who likes her coffee black, and while openness to new experiences is to be appreciated, in the end I still like my coffee black. And it was good.

I'm preaching tomorrow in chapel, using a version of the same sermon that I preached at home. I should be revising and practicing... but I'm considering offering a five minute testimony on the importance of integrity in hot drink choices and then leaving the rest of the meeting for silence.

co-op people

It's raining, again. I assume that it will continue to rain until I get my truck fixed, not because this makes sense but because walking long distances in cold rain puts me in the mood to assume such things.

I'm afraid I'm coming down with a cold, so I've been bundling a bit. I have on a long-sleeved dark blue tee-shirt, a short sleeved turquoise polo, and wore a pink hooded fleece and a gray fleece overtop for the walk to school, even though my arms couldn't move freely behind all the layers. More ricidulously, though, I'm wearing a light blue knit cap. Everywhere.

It works, usually- keeping my head warm keeps me from getting sick. I just feel a bit odd wearing a winter hat indoors, when it's only October and the heat is on anyway.

Today, though, I was told that I look like "one of those co-op people," which reframes my silly hat as a fashionable alliance with forces of economic justice and good wraps. Perhaps I'll even be happy about the rain, now; I bet co-op people like the rain.

First, though, I'm going out for ice cream. This will not help my cold in the least, but time spent talking with friends is always good.

dirty word alert

Link.

On a cleaner note, I liked these two Reverend Fun cartoons, too.

belated friday fies

1) Trucks that won't start.
2) Walking to work in the cold.

That pretty much covers Friday.

Today's my mom's birthday, so I had a good chat with my dad on the phone. And when I say 'good,' what I mean is 'depressing.' We spent the whole time talking about the various truck parts that may or may not be broken, and whether or not they'd be worth fixing.

It's a bit like hospice- at what point do you stop providing care and simply let the truck die in peace?

So, a malfunctioning celluloid on the clutch wouldn't be so bad to fix. If the relay between the battery and the starter is broken, that would also be worth fixing. If, however, it's the expensive little computer on top of the... (I blanked out, here. I really hope it's not the expensive little computer, wherever it might be located.)

Most depressingly, it's not the belt that I knew was going bad. I didn't really think it was- the alternator wouldn't be running if the belt was bad- but I kept hoping anyway. This means that I have to fix both the newest mystery problem and the belt.

Fie.

let it be, let it be

This song has been in my head all day:
And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

It finally sunk in, yesterday, that my apartment is a wreck. And not my usual 'oh my gracious, it's so messy' when I've just got stacks of books and papers on all the available chairs, either. 'Wreck' as in 'still haven't really unpacked from being in NY, and haven't cleaned since.'

I did do laundry, though. Maybe that will inspire me to hang my clothes in the closet.

wittenburg door

Answer this mad lib in the comments:

O (Title) of my (Noun)
(Title), when I (Verb) your (Noun)
Something in my (Body Part) just (Verb)
And I can't (Verb) anymore
When I'm in the (Noun)
I know your (Body Part/Noun) (Verb) me
And I know I'm gonna (Blank) (Title) (Period of Time)

(Title), You're so (Adjective)
(Title), You're so (Adjective)
(Title), You're more (Adjective) than anything I've ever (Verb) before
And I'm gonna (Verb) You (Period of Time)
I'm gonna (Verb) You (Period of Time)
Because you're (Adjective), you're so (Adjective)
I wish I had the words to say

That I'm (Reaction) by Your (Divine Attribute)
I'm (Reaction) by Your (Divine Attribute)
I can't (Verb) that You would (Verb) for (Title)
And even if the (Noun) can't (Verb)
And I can't (Verb) Your (Body Part)
I'll still (Verb) You with all my (Body Part/Noun) for (Period of Time)
(Verb) with all my (Body Part/Noun) for (Period of Time)....


Verbs
see, hear, feel, touch, taste, realize, acknowledge, praise, comfort, run, hold, forgive, live, accept, die, shout, sing, dance, tell, bleed, cry, call, stand, believe, trust, say, take, abandon, forsake, wash, live, dwell, find, rejoice, proclaim, walk, clothe, smile, tremble

Body Parts
hands, feet, face, eyes, heart, spirit, lips, ears, wounds, tongue

Nouns
wind, nails, cross, hill, mountain, valley, stream, sea, river, lightning, tree, stone, grass, bird, field, child, shelter, throne, angels, world, storm, thunder, tears, temple, sake, might, power, above, deaf, dumb, shadow, presence, sins, grief

Titles
I, You, Your, His, Lord, God, we, Savior, Redeemer, Messiah, Lamb, Lion, King, Shepherd, Keeper, Alpha, Omega, Beginning, End

Period of Time
always, now, forever, tonight, tomorrow, yesterday, never, thousand

Adjectives
amazing, wonderful, bigger, mighty, righteous, holy, clean, powerful, loving, merciful, full of grace, kind, caring, good, worthy, just, incredible, small, weak, alone, tired, angry, peaceful

---------------
Also, this made me think of reading Henri Nouwen:

Never ever use
Someone else's woundedness
As a booty call.

nietzsche family circus

Way too much time this morning has been occupied with this:
The Nietzsche Family Circus pairs a randomized Family Circus cartoon with a randomized Friedrich Nietzsche quote.


The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies,
but to hate his friends



This is the hardest of all:
to close the open hand out of love,
and keep modest as a giver.



To use the same words is not a sufficient guarantee of understanding;
one must use the same words for the same genus of inward experience;
ultimately one must have one's experiences in common.

you know you're a nerd when...

a list of 50 books provides you with material for reminiscing.

The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind: "Few people have accused evangelicalism of being an intellectual movement—but now we feel bad about it, at least."
(Someday, when I'm in charge of evangelicalism, everyone will think it's for nerds. Until then...)

Desiring God: "Who expected a Calvinist Baptist to redeem hedonism for Christ?"
(Who, indeed?)

The Cross and the Switchblade: "Amazing things started happening when, in 1958, a country preacher arrived—Bible in hand and Holy Spirit in heart—in the ghettos of New York City. Christian Retailing reports that 'more than 50 million copies are in print in 40-plus languages of the book that gave birth to the ministry of Teen Challenge.'"
(I read this book over and over, in high school.)

All We're Meant To Be: "Scanzoni and Hardesty outlined what would later blossom into evangelical feminism. For better or for worse, no evangelical marriage or institution has been able to ignore the ideas in this book."
(One of the most exciting books I read in undergrad.)

A Wrinkle In Time: "Madeleine L'Engle told CT that when she tried to be a Christian with her "mind only," she ceased to believe. But then she realized that God was a storyteller. Her 1962 classic modeled the power of imagination to energize belief."
(Still on my bookshelf, alongside the rest of the series.)

The Cost of Discipleship: "'Although cheap grace has entered into the common vocabulary of evangelicals,' says theologian Roger Olson, 'the full weight of Bonhoeffer's exploration of true Christian discipleship has yet to be borne by many of us.' Translated into English in 1949, Bonhoeffer's classic remains a devastating critique of comfortable Christianity."
(Not on my bookshelf beside Life Together, because I loaned it to a friend and never got it back. Someday, when I have endless wads of moolah to spend at the bookstore...)

The Divine Conspiracy "With this call to discipleship, 'Willard joins the line of Thomas a Kempis, Luther, Fenelon, Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection, Zinzendorf, Wesley, Frank Laubach, Dorothy Day, and other master apprentices of Jesus,' wrote Books and Culture editor John Wilson in a review, praising the University of Southern California professor's "philosophical depth" and 'penetrating understanding of Scripture.'"
(I got this book for Christmas one year as a teenager; my mom asked me to pick a book out of a catalog, and I chose one that looked like a mystery. Divine love is a mystery, right?)

What's So Amazing About Grace?: "With trademark self-deprecation, Yancey wrote: 'Grace comes free of charge to people who do not deserve it, and I am one of those people. I think back to who I was—resentful, wound tight with anger, a single hardened link in a long chain of ungrace learned from family and church. Now I am trying in my own small way to pipe the tune of grace. I do so because I know... that any pang of healing or forgiveness or goodness I have ever felt comes solely from the grace of God.'"
(This book usually gets stocked in the inspirational section of the Christian bookstore, which I don't visit often. I loved it, though.)

The God Who Is There: "'This book, and its companion volumes, accomplished something startling and necessary: It made intellectual history a vital part of the evangelical mental landscape, opening up the worlds particularly of art and philosophy to a subculture that was suspicious and ignorant of both,' writes John Stackhouse, professor of theology and culture at Regent College."
(Also not on my bookshelf, but should be. The Mark of the Christian is, though, and I'd gladly loan it out even if I knew it wouldn't be coming back- Schaeffer is that good.)

I've read other books on the list, but these are my favorites. When I try to explain to my ESR friends that yes, evangelicals do have scholars and novelists, and we're not just a bunch of illiterate hobos on the religion train, these are some of the folks I'm talking about.

complaint

I've been at ESR for a year. In this time, the only memories I have of clean bathrooms in the classroom building occured when a student cleaned them. The soap containers are consistently almost empty, the stalls consistently short on toilet paper, the mirrors dirty and the floors sticky.

I'm not complaining about that. I'm a Pentecostal, I believe in the gift of healing; what use do I have for sanitary conditions?

But today, the day on which I needed to leave the computer lab to make use of the facilities, the restroom across the hall was being cleaned. What?! This is an unheard of catastrophe. So, I ran downstairs to the other ladies' loo,... dum dum dee dum... but the door was blocked open because the floor had just been mopped.

People, shiny mirrors and filled soap dispensers mean nothing to me if I can't achieve my primary goal in visiting the john. I think we need to have some communal truth-telling about our priorities concerning public restrooms, and then everyone needs to agree with me that the most important thing is that one or the other of them be accessible at all times.

Unrelatedly, I'm trying not to find this funny, by which I mean posting it here so that you can embarrassedly laugh with me.
Oooohhh man I'm so hung over and I've got to be on a taco in Fresno in an hour...
I'll have to play with the beer foam at the Roadhouse tonight to see if I can get it to do that.

in my email this morning

Let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds...
-Hebrews 10:22-24

haven't had a poem in a while

Pablo Neruda - Ode To Broken Things

Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

and then it clicks

Back in May, I described my experiences of discernment as similar to a waterfall back home:

There [is] a hair-raising suddenness, moving from the shaded ledge into the sun, being able to see the river clearly for a moment before tumbling back underwater.

I felt like my summer was suspended. I never really found what I was looking for- even the job at the Roadhouse came just before school started again. When I was home, I felt like I was seeing conclusions to the questions I had raised with my clearness committee.

And now, I feel like I'm underwater. I'm not sure which encourages me more: remembering that I do float, or realizing that I was right back in May. Bouyancy is sweet... being able to say 'I told you so' (even to myself) might be sweeter.

The picture is my favorite of several that I took while at home.

bon jovi

It's probably considered weird to blog about something that only one other person will get, but this is for you, Lindsey:

I heard Livin' on a Prayer today and sang my heart out.

We've got to hold on ready or not
You live for the fight when it's all that you've got

Whooah, we're half way there
Livin on a prayer

Good times.

grandma

Today is my Grandma Logan's birthday. She went into the hospital over the weekend, and the emails I've gotten are a bit sketchy as to why. Physically, she's more or less fine, as long as she takes her medications. Mentally, though, she's falling apart, and her continuing refusal to take her pills is wreaking havoc on both her body and our family.

I'm heading up to visit this weekend- a friend picked up my Saturday morning shift, even though he was already working in the afternoon. We'll have a good argument when I get back as to who had the longest day. I think I'll win.

It's frustrating to see so little to be done to solve the problem. Rumor is that we're considering placing Grandma in a nursing home, if we can use 'considering' in a vague sense. We move slowly and disorganizedly. It took us a year and a half to get them into assisted living, though, and they've been there less than a year- particularly frustrating, since I really thought that was going to work out.

This is all incoherent, but I'd appreciate your prayers for my family. Particularly hold my mom in prayer; it's hard on her to be in New York when all this is happening in Indiana.

Update: Grandma's out of the hospital. I'm still planning to go up Saturday to visit, but it no longer feels quite so panicky.

monsters!

I don't have a ton of childhood memorbilia. Maybe other oldest children can identify with me, here- most of my books and toys became my sisters' books and toys as I outgrew them, and then found other homes among cousins and church friends.

I'm not complaining. The last thing I have space for, in my little apartment, is boxes of toy tractors and My Little Ponies that I'd never use. Well, maybe not never- I still do play with the Legos I took from home. But I can't imagine I'd get much use out of them, and I don't seem to be on a path to having children anytime soon, so I'm glad those things are where they're useful. If I ever do have a kid, I'm sure people will buy it more plastic crap than it'll ever need.

This book, however, is different. My dad used to read to me, and taught me how to read before I was three. This was our favorite book. He used to start by reading the cover, and then reading the entire title page...

The Monster at the End of this Book. Written by Jon Stone. Illustrated by Mike Smollin. Featuring Grover, a Jim Henson puppet. As performed on Sesame Street by Frank Oz.

...and so forth. I squeal at him that I wanted to turn the page, and he'd say "but you wanted me to read the book, right? This is what the book says. Published by Western Publishing Company...

I don't remember that at all, but my mom told me about it when I started reading this book to my sisters. It was an all-time favorite, but especially as their nail-clipping book. They'd sit still and let their nails be clipped if I would read them the tale of Grover being so scared of the monster, again and again. When I read it, I always began the same way that my dad had: The Monster at the End of this Book. Written by Jon Stone. Illustrated by Mike Smollin. Featuring Grover, a Jim Henson puppet. As performed on Sesame Street by Frank Oz. And, of course, my sisters would squeal. I read it over and over, until I could recite most of it- a useful skill, when busy clipping toenails.

Mom was so amazed at how similar I sounded to my dad when I read it, particularly since I don't remember him reading it to me. From the starting prank onward, my intonation and cadence matches the way he read it.

I asked him to read it to my sisters once, just to check. It was eerie, hearing my voice in him and realizing that it was really his voice in me.

This morning, I read The Monster at the End of this Book to Scot and Jen's girls. We sat on the floor, with Rosa on my lap, and I started in. The Monster at the End of this Book. Written by Jon Stone. Illustrated by Mike Smollin. Featuring Grover, a Jim Henson puppet. As performed on Sesame Street by Frank Oz.

Rosa didn't squeal at me. She just snuggled in for a good long read. She's obviously not related to me.

Point is, I miss my sisters. I am missing my sisters would be more accurate, missing them as they've gone from elementary school kids to young women. They were nostalgic when I said I was taking the book back to Indiana, and I offered to read it one last time, but it never quite happened. They'd have listened for old time's sake, but they don't need me to clip their toenails anymore.

Mom wanted me to find a home for some children's books, and I left the bag of them with Scot and Jen. I kept The Monster at the End of this Book, though. Maybe I'll read it at school sometime- seminarians need stories, too.

the full armor of God

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.
--Ephesians 6:10-18

When I pray for myself and my friends, I often think about this armor. I grew up swaddled in holiness language, but it's only recently become evident to me how much gaining an orientation toward holiness is a battle. It's not a slow slide into the Spirit. It's getting up every day, buckling on truth, shoeing ourselves with peace, and holding righteousness close. The shield of faith and the helmet of salvation are necesary, because the flaming arrows do come. And without a sword, the fight is lost.

My prayer is that we will all be well suited for the battle. Not a battle with each other- that's why we need the shoes of peace, because it's so easy to mistake fighting with each other for fighting on the side of the Lord. I pray that we will be alert, praying for and stregnthening one another to wholeheartedly pursue holiness.

driving to Binghamton

This is one of my favorite hymns:

I know not why God's wondrous grace to me he hath made known,
Nor why, with mercy, Christ in love redeemed me for his own.

But I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able
To keep that which I've committed unto him against that day.

It's one of the ones that comes up often when my extended family is gathered for musicmaking. The hymn goes on, laying out a creed in the negative- verses of things I don't understand, held against the one thing I know for sure.

I used to make up my own verses for this hymn. It started as a joke, when I was taking General Chemistry at Houghton. Late at night on the fourth floor of the science building, my friends and I would write verses about electrochemistry, stoichiometry, and a punk named Avogadro.

The idea stuck, though. This hymn has gotten me through a plethora of unanswerable questions- which, by the way, are pretty much my biggest nightmare. I like bugs and spiders and snakes and even caterpillars, heights and driving fast and attending Unitarian churches, but questions I can't answer give me the creeps.

I hit such a question on Interstate 86, driving toward Binghamton last Thursday. Perseverate has been the word of the day for weeks now, so I turned off Thelonious Monk and settled in for a good argument with myself.

This would be a great point for a phrase like "twilight was creeping up like a black cat in moccasins," but it wasn't, really; I was speeding into it.* Usually there are eight magic minutes between when the sun first touches the horizon and when it disappears behind the trees, but this interval shortens dramatically when one is fleeing eastward.

Perseverating along, I didn't notice for a while that I was being tailed by a semi. Moreover, this was no heathen truck- the grille was bearing a lit up cross which shone brightly in my mirror. Like with Paul on the road to Damascus, the light of Christ was blinding. I had to flip the dimmer switch to escape it.

Then, unlike my usual rational self, I flipped the mirror back to the daytime setting and just drove with the glare. Who needs to see the road when you can see the Light, right? That's when this hymn came to mind, and without Monk in my speakers I started singing.

I know not how this saving faith to me he did impart,
Nor how believing in his Word wrought peace within my heart.

I know not what of good or ill may be reserved for me,
Of weary ways or golden days, before his face I see.

But I know whom I have believed. That and the light of Christ in my eyes are enough of a surety for me, no matter how much else I might want to know.

Of course, in half an hour or so I had to pull over to refill my coffee mug. Emotional processing is hard work, and requires lots of caffeine. I parked in an 'emergency parking zone,' because a lack of coffee is an emergency, and lost the light of Christ in the process. I've been told before that caffeine addiction is a problem, but I never thought it was on a theological scale.

I found Monk's arrangement of Blessed Assurance to be my soundtrack for driving in the dark.

This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long.

*And really, as many times as I've heard that phrase, I can't imagine a cat in moccasins being all that sneaky.

in which I spend quality time with hail

Last night, the Roadhouse was full of high school students dressed up like it was prom night. I don't know where they were going, but there were hordes of them- the girls uncomfortably stylish in their strappy dresses, and the guys wavering between acting gentlemanly to impress their dates and chucking peanuts at each other. It made for a fun night, partly because I didn't have any in my section. Watching them was fun; cleaning up after them would not have been.

It was a busy night overall, and the stress level was raised by the weather. Every time we get a hard rain, the music shorts out and the computer terminals go down. Orders can't be placed, and the guests' moods are not improved by the incessant "bish-bish-bish" from the speakers.

In the middle of this, a well dressed boy who looked just like my cousin Levi came up to me. He was agitated in an unaccustomed way, as though he wasn't very good at not being laid back. He had left the lights on in his car, and now needed a jump- did I know of anyone who had jumper cables?

"Gracious," I thought to myself, "I'm too busy for this. But I do have cables... and he looks just like Levi." We went to find Derrick, the manager on duty, and he told me to finish what I was doing and then I could go jump the car. Levi's doppleganger started to look a little less nervous and said he'd meet me outside.

I delivered some cokes and ran out into the rain. Employees don't park in the regular parking lot- there are designated areas, I guess, but most of us park in an abandoned gas station in the same plaza. I dug out my jumper cables and drove back to the Roadhouse, peering past the neon glare on my windshield to find this kid and his car.

No luck. It started to rain harder as I pulled on the emergency brake and left my truck in the lot, running back in to ask the hostesses if they had seen a boy with curly brown hair in a long-sleeved blue shirt. "Nope," said the hostesses, also helpfully pointing out that I was wet.

Back out into the rain, which quickly turned into hail. Now, I'm no stranger to nasty weather- I can easily drive through blizzards that would shut down entire towns in Indiana- but hail this large isn't a big part of my weather experience. Me on a more sensible day would have said "Levi's doppleganger is probably waiting this out in his car, so I'll just go sit in my truck."

This, however, was not a sensible day... and he looked so much like Levi! I ran through the hail, trying to be sure that he wasn't waiting outside his car for me. Once around the restaurant and back again, by which time the hail was melting back into a soft rain. Behold, Levi's doppleganger appears, saying in a very Levi fashion, "You weren't out in the rain and hail, were you?"

No, Levi's doppleganger, I just took a quick shower before coming to jump your car. In my clothes, jacket and all.

Levi's doppleganger's name turned out to be Preston. He was accompanied by an older fellow who looked like he could have been his father, who climbed out of the back seat. I can't imagine anything more boring than chaperoning your son from the back seat of the car, but this man seemed relatively uncranky. He let Preston handle hooking up his end of the cables, just shouting directions over the now-functioning music (with which we bless the entire parking lot, because we're good-hearted like that).

It was still raining, so of course we couldn't get a decent connection. I got sparks on my end, which means that the circuit should have been good, but Preston's engine didn't even try to turn over. More shouted directions, more fiddling was the clamps, and still nothing, and I noticed the girl in the car looking colder and colder in her strappy dress. Not that she'll ever read this, but I should add that hers was one of the more modest dresses I saw last night. They just seemed like good kids overall... and did I mention that he looked like Levi?

Third time was a charm, and Preston jumped back out of his car to undo the clamps and thank me. He shook my hand- again, just like Levi would have- and I told him to have a great night. Parked my truck back at the gas station and ran through the clearing rain back to the Roadhouse with my apron in hand, full of straws in soaked wrappers.

Of course, Derrick had been too busy with trying to get the computers up to check on my tables, so I entered the kitchen to shouts of "has ANYONE seen Julie?" My tables got a good story, though, authenticated by my drippy wet hair and sloshy shoes.

It felt good to do something purposeful at work, more than delivering beer and steaks. Preston said they'd have to come back and leave me a ten dollar tip- I don't know about the tip, but I hope they do come back. I never did get to ask anyone what all the dress up was for, and I'd love to know how the rest of their night went.

atheists for allah

Dan's blogging seriously, but I just thought this was funny:

"No, everyone is born Christian. Only later in life do people choose to stray from Jesus and worship satan instead. Atheists have the greatest "cover" of all, they insist they believe in no god yet most polls done and the latest research indicates that they are actually a different sect of Muslims."
Link.