In my memory I sit curled up in my favorite reading chair. A blanket wrapped for comfort.
I push play for music that speaks to my soul. I can feel the bass in my chest. Light flickers against walls.
I sort through the pictures. Like in Harry Potter's world, these pictures are not static but move as I hold them. They bring with them sounds, and color and texture of life.
I pick up the first photo. An old theatre. Deep red curtains. The center isle leading to the stage. It was my new experience to have church in a building other than, well, a church. It was a place I only visited a few times when I could catch a ride during my car-less freshman year. There was something different about the voices. The sounds in the theatre. The story that began during autumn years ago.
----
Edges of another photo. A converted supermarket is now a church. Clouds are painted on the front wall bordering the brick wall in the center. Candles line the front stage, wax dripping down the black metal holders into puddles. The young man in front has humor and honesty that catches me off guard. And the music pulls me out of myself. Out of my awkwardness and clumsiness. This became my resting place.
----
The back room is painted in deep blues, golds and burgundy. Couches in a circle. And discussions between peers that make my head and heart spin. Sometimes it's a Sunday morning. A handful or two of college students. Some days it is a Tuesday night and there is the sweet smell of cigars and maybe a pipe. It is here a group is gathered one week after a phone call. It was time for on leader to start a new community and new journey. Time for the torch to be passed on to another. I remember a feeling of sadness for this passing moment. And a comfort in my soul for this community I belonged.
----
A retro Sunday. "New" burst orange pews to accommodate the few hundred college students. In the spirit of celebrating a silly gift of seating, some of us boldly dressed up in old 60's and 70's attire. There was fun here. Laughing. Spirit. Sarcasm at times. Yet there was also awe. Mystery. Beauty. Humility and brokenness.
----
Communion during the last Sunday before I moved home from college. Orange pews still. Tears from my friend Kelly and I before walking up for a torn corner of bread and the small plastic cup of grape juice. It was time for my life to change. Many good moments from the previous few years. And a lot of uncertainty ahead. Distance to separate me from a place that fostered the paradigm shift. One that would leave lasting ripples of change. Distance from a community that always allowed me to be me. The music that enveloped me, was felt in the beat of my heart and soul. With eyes closed, within moments I was transported to another world.
----
Another photo. The last time I saw my pastor Kyle. He spotted Kelly and I during the sermon. A moment of recognition. I remember how much I longed at that time to be back in that room week after week. To a place where I could come to with whatever was on my heart. Close my eyes. Sway. Forget about the outside and remember my connection to something else. We chatted with Kyle after the service for only a few quick moments before visiting another college hangout.
----
This next photo was outside of a house on Halloween weekend. Dressed up in costume with the phone in my hand. To hear the words "Kyle is gone". The world paused if only for seconds.
The dramatic pause of a song that soon would let the tears begin. And a new melody rise.
The cool October air. Inside candy corn and chocolate, decorations and a few early students and parents. But outside is was an enveloping darkness. It's a picture I hid against my chest for a few hours that night before sharing. A picture says a thousand words... This snap shot was a climatic chapter of Kyle's story that had a brief but profound supporting role in my story. And my story there after continues to be colored by this picture.
---
I sort through more photographs. Some are laid out in a time line. My eyes dart back and forth between them. There are others that are out of sequence laying in my lap. The beating the bass is still there. The melody of relationships is present. The harmonies of conversations are the richness and colors. There are shadows and light playing around with the images that are sometimes clear and other times softly blurred with time.
----
So I pull out the most recent photograph. Standing in a pew of a church I have never attended, in a city I don't live, more than a thousand miles from where the first picture in the old theatre was taken. Instead of candles there are lights. And the music louder, more complex. The same band plays. A request from someone in the audience leads to a quick recall of an old song. One that was played often in the beginning of my time with my college church. Moments like these to bring the story full circle. And yet they add a new layer to build on. Some days these photos lay tucked away. But times like these I bring them out on display. They can say more about me and who I am now than I can explain. They frame my present.
I am blessed that I get to share these photographs with others. And look fondly at these moments.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Midnight revelations
Okay it wasn't midnight. Maybe 2:41 am. Or It could have been 4:37 am. It has been different times for the last four nights.
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
The first night it was a dream about earthquakes and fires. I woke up abruptly and knew it was one of those dreams. Those dreams--the ones that if I did not get up for a drink and go to the bathroom to wake up would continue haunting me all night. I brushed off the dream in the morning figuring it was due to: a) the upcoming 20th anniversary of the '89 Loma Prieta Earthquake b) I had been in San Francisco more frequently in the last month and that always makes me think about earthquakes c) I had started to read a book about the 1906 earthquake and fires that ensued. While irritated that I had broken sleep, I didn't think to much about the dream.
Night two brought on more dreams. Dreams I cannot recall details from but definitely disaster of some sort. Another middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Saturday night. So again I brushed it off to bad timing and figured I'd make up for the disjointed sleep in an afternoon nap.
Sunday night came. Once again another disturbing dream woke me twice. By the second time I was mumbling a few obseneties. I NEED sleep. I already struggle with getting enough hours. More days that not hoping that the 6 1/2 to 7 hours a night won't cause me to slip back into a nightmarish state in my waking hours. The details were a blur but something told me that these weren't just my normal random dreams.
I mentioned my strange dreams to a friend via email who recommended I write them down and figure out if there was some meaning. I started to blow it off figuring it was just random memories my brain was purging. But eventually I decided if I wanted continuous sleep again I had to figure if there was something there. Yet the details were all blurred. There were people but they were nameless and faceless. I recall a sense of panic and chaos but that was the limit of my recollection.
The fourth night of a waking nightmere sent me once again to the bathroom and the kitchen. This time I took a spoon from the drawer and served myself a tablespoon of peanut butter. Strange dreams in four nights called for a strange response. I crawled back into bed trying to move my legs around my dead-to-the-world-sleeping cat. And there I decided that my dreams were about me losing control. Or the chaos that happens when I pretend to be in control.
It was at some odd hour that this conversation occurred in my head. I think the peanut butter was God's way of keeping me quiet--and limiting the snarky comments that I often put in his mouth.
Me--"Okay God, what are you trying to tell me?!? This is the FOURTH night in a row I woke up from crazy dreams".
God--"Shannon, you have to let go of your control."
Me--"WHAT?"
God--"Your control. All of your dreams about how things go wrong when you try to control something. Or that things can be out of your control completely. I want you to trust me."
Me--"Could you not have told me this when I was awake!?! You know how much I need sleep!"
God--"No. You weren't listening to me. I knew you'd hear me this way. There are too many distractions for you during the day. "
Me--(thinking and bordering a pout)"But what does that look like?"
God--"Trust me and I'll show you".
Think what you will about this little conversation. Believe me I went through quite a few explanations of my craziness before catching the last few hours of shut eye. But the feelings and conversation were real. And the need to respond to this was real.
Limited by my humanity and brokenness, despite all the times I've tried so hard to ignore, deny, curse, and run from faith--I still believe. I still believe in hope, in love. In a God that is bigger than me. In a God who tells me a story that I can see myself living. That those who come before me share my story. The communities I have lived within, moved away from (for whatever reason) or will encounter at some point share in the story. And it's the story of my life that I don't want to just endure and survive but LIVE.
So to God I say:
"Bring it on. Bring on your correction. Bring on your lessons. I'll accept the suffering knowing that it produces character. But also bring the joy. Bring the beauty. Your love.
Forgive me when I go off the deep end like I do at least oh 1000 times per day!
Oh and one more thing--yup. You already know. Let my team's story end in a big silver cup this June. Even if there are more nights that the story is a little messy like it was last night".
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Why can't my cat be more responsible?
The advantage of living by yourself: No one will yell at you for the mess you make and leave even if for days...or months. Freedom.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
The disadvantage: No one will pick it up. (Especially your spoiled cat who doesn't work for his food, sleeps all day, and complains if the food bowl is empty or he wants attention. Too bad you can't claim him as a dependent on your taxes.) Responsibilty.
I hate to admit that I can be a slob. Its one of those undesired genes--or shall I say habits--I come by honestly from my parents. I have moments where I stay on top of cleaning and picking up. But most days, I walk in the door, throw my purse and what ever else on the living room floor and then continue to leave a trail of items all over my living space. And when that living space is only 650 square feet, that doesn't take much time before it looks like a tornado hit.
The mess I leave embarrasses me. It results often in my condo becoming so messy I don't know where to start, I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Which leads to having to create paths through the living room from the door to the kicthen or the bedroom to the bathroom (so that I don't trip in the middle of the night). Consequently most of the time I don't invite anyone over to hang out and am more than willing to pretend that my flexibility in meeting them else where or at their residence is selfless--not because the truth is I don't want someone to see my lack of care for my personal space.
Tonight I decided not to turn on the TV when I came in the door. After walking in the door (kicking the cat back in as he tried to sneak by once again!), dropping my purse and some books on a chair, and kicking off my shoes, I stopped to look around. Again with what my mother refers to as a "postage stamp" condo, the survey was quite short. But it revealed that I had one of two choices tonight. I could easily ignore the mess and either read, turn on the TV after all, or climb into bed knowing that the morning would bring more frustration of creatively traveling through the junk and feeling chaotic. Or I could pick up at least some of the mess and enjoy a few moments of peace.
As I chose the responsible adult action, I turned to the sink. Again something I hate to confess, but here and there I don't clean my dishes right away. A few glasses and pieces of silverware were waiting to be put in the dishwasher. One of the cups had some remaining ice tea with a very small amount of mold sitting at the top.
Gross. Really gross.
And then some neurons started to fire in my brain. A new connection hit as I was rinsing my dishes. Placing them in the dishwasher, putting in soap and starting a new cycle.
THIS is what happens in my life when I fail to see those poor choices I often make in how I treat others and myself (and yes, I'll say it even my cat) resulting in chaos. When I claim that I have freedom to do whatever I damn well please just because I can. And then I look around I wonder why things aren't working out. I'm not talking of the accidents or the normal life problems or even the results of others' choices affecting me. I'm realizing how the judgements I pass, the relationships I ignore, and the choices to put my own needs above others are the piles of shoes all over the floor. The laundry that is waiting to be finished and rehung. The closet that has a pile big enough the door will not shut unless I kick the pile higher and deeper.
The mess that occurs when I place doing what I want (which sometimes is good) over what is best. All for the sake of my freedom. Of my right to choose. Sometimes that choice only affects me. My anger at a driver who cuts me off in traffic. I yell and imagine how I would love to ram my SUV right into the back of their bumper and push them off the road. That anger is limited mostly to the confines of the vehicle with a few curse words and visions of revenge. But even those limited moments of expression can lead to a growing anger that can affect an entire day at work or taking focus out of time with family or friends. And if I continue to let it fester, that anger could lead to road rage or just an genearal sense of anger and resentment to anyone who decides to assert their own rights to do what they please. I wish I could say that every time I reacted to a car that cut in front of me needlessly without signals or concern for safety did not bleed into the following moments. But left unchecked, its those piles of papers that build up until a bill is missed or a family member I snap 10 minutes into a drive to celebration dinner because I didn't chose to just allow that car a few extra feet of space.
Sometimes I wait until my place is so messy I can't find things, or my wardrobe is so bare I'm having to do a last minute load of laundry so I have a pair of jeans I can wear. Or maybe someone is coming over and I scramble to make my place presentable enough. Enough that I can say "Forgive me. It's just a little messy" when I'm really thinking "if you only saw the pile I shoved into my closet" or "good thing you didn't show up 10 minutes ago".
How many times have I done this in my life? How often do my words say "I have my issues but I'm doing okay"? What I often mean is "you couldn't stand it if you really knew what bad choices I've made" or "at least my life isn't as messy as that person's".
What choices to assert my freedoms do I hide in the closet pretending no one can see. Waiting to see when that pile becomes so large that it pours out into my bedroom. When I have to keep others out of my life because I don't think they could stand the things I've done.
"No one would love me if they knew/all the things I hide." (Caedmon's Call).
These words hit to the core when I hear them.
And my one relief as I spent a quick fifteen minutes attacking the last of my kitchen and living room (besides knowing that when I woke up and got ready for work that I wasn't in danger of tripping and had clean dishes to eat breakfast)...
...that I didn't have to clean things up by myself. My responsiblity was saying "I was wrong." And there was someone to help change the rest. Someone who could change my heart.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
jaws...
The picture on my shoulder is not who I am. But it expresses a part of me.
A love for an animal that has come to represents a change in me.
A change in how I see God.
How I see Fear.
How I see myself.
It represents grace and danger.
Something to respect and stand in awe.
As I child I feared them. A look in those black eyes would cause me to turn away. Even when behind the glass in an aquarium. When I moved back to San Jose, I discovered a love for hockey. And it so happened that the local team had a mascot I used to fear. Somewhere in learning about off-sides, icing, interference and slashing I started to love the shark as the animal. I continued to learn the rules of a graceful yet often violent game--cheering on a good fight as much as a sweet goal--I also started discovering about the lives of some fish
Fish that have a bad reputation.
Its the balance of how peaceful they can swim and how dangerous they can be when they're doing exactly what they're supposed to do.
And the more that is known about them, the more questions about them arise.
The death they cause brings them their life. The blood is part of what they're supposed to be.
Old and simple yet they're still a mystery.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Needful Things
"Everybody loves something for nothing...even if it costs everything." Stephen King.
Stephen King. The king of horror. Known for his gruesome stories, many of which have been made it to movies (although must fail to translate well on screen with a few exceptions). But I don't think the monsters in his stories are what is the scariest (yet I still have a hard time watching Pet Cemetery). Its the understanding he has of humanities weakness for evil. The picture he can paint of how an ordinary person can make those small choice that can lead to disastrous outcomes is terrifying. And its not always because of what the characters actually end up doing. The act that is so many of his cases leads to murder is not what scares the hell out of me. Its that each one of us is capable of making those choices that can lead to death. That I can make those choices.
My mom read Needful Things quite a few years ago. She was so frightened by the book that she put a chair under the door in the hotel room where she stayed in Kansas. She swore she'd never read another one of his books again. That was almost my dare to read it. It took me about 10 years to complete the dare. About 2 weeks to read the 700 plus page story. I didn't put any chairs under doors. But it was scary.
What is the cost of my soul? What would I pay for happiness? What happens to a community when people start caring more about objects that provide temporary fulfillment but ultimately lead to hate, violence, destruction and death? What does it look like in my life? In the real world, what temporary pleasures will I try to fulfill at the expense of loving God and loving others?
Villains in King's stories don't start out usually as mass murderers. Well, some do. Some look like the new guy in town working down the street with a green awning and smooth talking. They alter themselves to seduce their victims in choosing to do acts many of the characters may have sworn they wouldn't compromise. They were just doing "tricks" in the novel. Tricks that set of the destruction of a community. The nice man with the green or brown or gray eyes finds the weakness of the individual and feeds half-truths and attractive lies. The evil spreads but often starts covered in sugar. But something changes. New villains emerge. The normal person makes a choice to put themselves greater than others. Greater than their family, friends or neighbors. In the horror stories, small choices lead to more choices that grow to frightening results. Monsters arise.
--What choices do we make? Do I make? Choosing myself over others? It may seem small. But at what point will many small judgements lead to hate? White lies lead to outright deception? Taking what is rightfully mine lead to stealing? How many small decisions to assert false superiority lead to slavery or racism or even genocide? Where does it stop? But most often the more important question seems to be, where does it start? What is my part in where we are in our world? What is each of our parts in how we gotten to the sadness in our world? And how can we bring back good or redeem our world?
The heroes of Stephen King's stories...Often people with faults who have recognized their part, their faults in the story. Not masked avengers with capes and super powers. Humans. Broken humans. Who have also made mistakes. Who have maybe been a part of the problem during part of the story. But have figured out the lies of the villains and their own part. The heroes that have decided that their community, family, and neighbors are worth saving. And as impossible as their choices are, these heroes choose the possibility or even reality of injury and/or death to give others life.
--Will I be the person that recognizes the lies I've believed? Will I be the person who can see beyond my needs and weaknesses and chose things that will bring life to others? Will I make sacrifices in my life for my neighbor? What would it look like if more people chose to be this kind of hero?
The king of horror. A teacher in what makes us human. The stories are a mirror for our propensity for evil, our potential for good. Not for the faint of heart. But the stories remind me of who I am, who I could be, who I should strive to be. And they get those chemicals in my brain and body that bring fear and in a bizarre way a little bit of pleasure. On to some other stories for now though!
Stephen King. The king of horror. Known for his gruesome stories, many of which have been made it to movies (although must fail to translate well on screen with a few exceptions). But I don't think the monsters in his stories are what is the scariest (yet I still have a hard time watching Pet Cemetery). Its the understanding he has of humanities weakness for evil. The picture he can paint of how an ordinary person can make those small choice that can lead to disastrous outcomes is terrifying. And its not always because of what the characters actually end up doing. The act that is so many of his cases leads to murder is not what scares the hell out of me. Its that each one of us is capable of making those choices that can lead to death. That I can make those choices.
My mom read Needful Things quite a few years ago. She was so frightened by the book that she put a chair under the door in the hotel room where she stayed in Kansas. She swore she'd never read another one of his books again. That was almost my dare to read it. It took me about 10 years to complete the dare. About 2 weeks to read the 700 plus page story. I didn't put any chairs under doors. But it was scary.
What is the cost of my soul? What would I pay for happiness? What happens to a community when people start caring more about objects that provide temporary fulfillment but ultimately lead to hate, violence, destruction and death? What does it look like in my life? In the real world, what temporary pleasures will I try to fulfill at the expense of loving God and loving others?
Villains in King's stories don't start out usually as mass murderers. Well, some do. Some look like the new guy in town working down the street with a green awning and smooth talking. They alter themselves to seduce their victims in choosing to do acts many of the characters may have sworn they wouldn't compromise. They were just doing "tricks" in the novel. Tricks that set of the destruction of a community. The nice man with the green or brown or gray eyes finds the weakness of the individual and feeds half-truths and attractive lies. The evil spreads but often starts covered in sugar. But something changes. New villains emerge. The normal person makes a choice to put themselves greater than others. Greater than their family, friends or neighbors. In the horror stories, small choices lead to more choices that grow to frightening results. Monsters arise.
--What choices do we make? Do I make? Choosing myself over others? It may seem small. But at what point will many small judgements lead to hate? White lies lead to outright deception? Taking what is rightfully mine lead to stealing? How many small decisions to assert false superiority lead to slavery or racism or even genocide? Where does it stop? But most often the more important question seems to be, where does it start? What is my part in where we are in our world? What is each of our parts in how we gotten to the sadness in our world? And how can we bring back good or redeem our world?
The heroes of Stephen King's stories...Often people with faults who have recognized their part, their faults in the story. Not masked avengers with capes and super powers. Humans. Broken humans. Who have also made mistakes. Who have maybe been a part of the problem during part of the story. But have figured out the lies of the villains and their own part. The heroes that have decided that their community, family, and neighbors are worth saving. And as impossible as their choices are, these heroes choose the possibility or even reality of injury and/or death to give others life.
--Will I be the person that recognizes the lies I've believed? Will I be the person who can see beyond my needs and weaknesses and chose things that will bring life to others? Will I make sacrifices in my life for my neighbor? What would it look like if more people chose to be this kind of hero?
The king of horror. A teacher in what makes us human. The stories are a mirror for our propensity for evil, our potential for good. Not for the faint of heart. But the stories remind me of who I am, who I could be, who I should strive to be. And they get those chemicals in my brain and body that bring fear and in a bizarre way a little bit of pleasure. On to some other stories for now though!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Just a piece of a bigger song.
"Date night?"
"Of course."
Sunday nights after meeting with some friends for dinner and discussion (aka Bible study), I usually head over with a friend to the theater at Oakridge or sometimes Campbell for coffee and a movie. We joke about it being our date night but it's just two friends hanging out. Although it's not "just" anything. It's become a time I see as sacred. A time to share and process and live and grow. A time that I have learned to be myself. A time I feel safe to be vunerable. And some weeks it's just silliness. But most often I come away with plenty to reflect on from both the movie we chose and/or the converstaion before and after. So it goes with tonight's choice. The Soloist.
My head is still working through all of the movie. It echoes previous conversations. It echoes some life themes. At least my life--if only in the emotions not the context. Although suprisingly even a few pieces of the movie share a context.
One of my favorite bands is the David Crowder Band. They led worship at the church I attended in college. They still do when they're not on tour and I miss that church. At the end of their album "Collision or (3+4=7)", David recorded an interview and was discussing "The Lark Ascending". The song starts with simple chords then keeps growing into this rich song of variations on a theme (their whole album also does this). Like a orchestral piece. A song that keeps growing from many instruments playing variations on a theme. The richness of a piece comes from how it all comes together.
When I got home I realized despite the movie title as "The Soloist", much of the music was still set within the background of an orchestra. Often it was implied in the characters' head or there for the audience's benefit. But the beauty of the music was the individual playing in the context of many others in the same song.
Which brings me back to date night and the discussions that my friend and I have. So many times we have these running themes in our discussions. Sometimes it's obvious because it's based on life situations. Sometimes it may seem more random but themes keep popping up. They run through the context of an evening out, time at a coffee shop, quick emails within a week, or even outside our own conversations. It's these life lessons that are so much richer in the context of living life with others--in community. Living my own story in the midst of other people stories. My "solo" becomes a piece in an orchestra. I gain meaning in the messiness of life by seeing the beauty in other people's stories. Where details may be completly different, the emotions I go through may be far closer to the main theme than I would have previously imagined.
So these movie and coffee nights have become those muscial phrases that repeat and build. In the couple of years since we've been friends, these converstations have become deeper, more fun, more intense, more freeing. Others have been a part of the conversations too. And this has added to the beauty in my life. Even when things get messy. I've learned how valuable that song has become.
And I came out of the movie thinking that I really need to go see a symphony sometime soon.
...And coming out of the movie thinking, I am so thankful of those people in my life that enrich the phrases in my life. That echo the lessons I keep learning.
"Of course."
Sunday nights after meeting with some friends for dinner and discussion (aka Bible study), I usually head over with a friend to the theater at Oakridge or sometimes Campbell for coffee and a movie. We joke about it being our date night but it's just two friends hanging out. Although it's not "just" anything. It's become a time I see as sacred. A time to share and process and live and grow. A time that I have learned to be myself. A time I feel safe to be vunerable. And some weeks it's just silliness. But most often I come away with plenty to reflect on from both the movie we chose and/or the converstaion before and after. So it goes with tonight's choice. The Soloist.
My head is still working through all of the movie. It echoes previous conversations. It echoes some life themes. At least my life--if only in the emotions not the context. Although suprisingly even a few pieces of the movie share a context.
One of my favorite bands is the David Crowder Band. They led worship at the church I attended in college. They still do when they're not on tour and I miss that church. At the end of their album "Collision or (3+4=7)", David recorded an interview and was discussing "The Lark Ascending". The song starts with simple chords then keeps growing into this rich song of variations on a theme (their whole album also does this). Like a orchestral piece. A song that keeps growing from many instruments playing variations on a theme. The richness of a piece comes from how it all comes together.
When I got home I realized despite the movie title as "The Soloist", much of the music was still set within the background of an orchestra. Often it was implied in the characters' head or there for the audience's benefit. But the beauty of the music was the individual playing in the context of many others in the same song.
Which brings me back to date night and the discussions that my friend and I have. So many times we have these running themes in our discussions. Sometimes it's obvious because it's based on life situations. Sometimes it may seem more random but themes keep popping up. They run through the context of an evening out, time at a coffee shop, quick emails within a week, or even outside our own conversations. It's these life lessons that are so much richer in the context of living life with others--in community. Living my own story in the midst of other people stories. My "solo" becomes a piece in an orchestra. I gain meaning in the messiness of life by seeing the beauty in other people's stories. Where details may be completly different, the emotions I go through may be far closer to the main theme than I would have previously imagined.
So these movie and coffee nights have become those muscial phrases that repeat and build. In the couple of years since we've been friends, these converstations have become deeper, more fun, more intense, more freeing. Others have been a part of the conversations too. And this has added to the beauty in my life. Even when things get messy. I've learned how valuable that song has become.
And I came out of the movie thinking that I really need to go see a symphony sometime soon.
...And coming out of the movie thinking, I am so thankful of those people in my life that enrich the phrases in my life. That echo the lessons I keep learning.
Friday, April 24, 2009
It's just a game...but one I LOVE
It's been told to me (and repeated myself over and over)--"It's just a game". But it still hurts when the team I rooted for didn't play like I wanted them to last night. And while it is just a sport, hockey is something in the last 5 years I've come to LOVE. Each year, I've poured more emotion into the season. And each year, the end comes down to "there's always next year". The moments of joy in a game when the battles were won and the "W" comes at the end of a 60 or more minute game are fulfilling. The well fought losses are frustrating but understood. And those games where you wonder what happened to a team that is so talented, fast, strong and capable? Those games I want to cry or hit something or both. Those games I threaten to find a different team to give my loyalty. Those games I wonder why I even care about 23 men and 1 mission.
But I do. Hockey fascinates me. The smell of the rink, the sounds of the blades on ice, bodies hit against the boards, the crowd yelling and chanting. Fights, penalties, the sin bin. The Zamboni! Having a common hate with other fans--the officials or Chris Pronger. The stories of players who worked so hard to get to their moments of glory. A player who has continued to train intensely despite an injury that cost him a season of playing a game he loves far more than I do. Stories of comebacks and overcoming obstacles. Names that are entertaining to say--Cheechoo, Kopitar, Wisniewski, Ovechkin, Khabibulin. The fact that nifty is a cool word to say--deke even cooler. Singing the Canadian and American anthems with an arena full of people. Spoiled by announcers who seem to bring peace to my soul when I turn on a broadcast. Yes, I care. And without any other words to describe it--I feel a alive in my passion for the game. As my hometown team the Sharks are my boys. Jumbo Joe, Patty, Pickles, JR, Torrey...my sports heroes. Sharks themselves have become an animal that I am fascinated with, inspiring a new tattoo soon to come.
Hockey has become a context, an analogy for life. Maybe that's why I take a loss like last night so personally. But they didn't lose to upset me. They don't know who I am. Just another fan of an intense sport.
Sadly, against my usual rants about sticking with my team until the end of the game, my friends and I watched some clips from Inside the Actor's Studio instead of the last 7 minutes. Watching Liza Minelli and Cameron Diaz use their favorite swear words hit the spot--as Anaheim scored another goal. Some time at the gym, averting my eyes from any sports channels, also helped.
Once again a revelation hit. Being passionate about something (or someone) also means there is a risk of disappointment. I could stop caring so the next let down wouldn't hurt so much. Become a fair weather fan. But where would the flip side of excitement come. I've been numb to experiencing things my life too long because of fear of failure and disappointment. So at 12 AM last night, sweating on the elliptical machine I decided that these nights of sadness and frustration were worth it. Whether it's a hockey game or own goals in my life, I'll take the risk of believing with the potential and likelihood of future disappointments. Because when the Cup is won or what I want most finally comes into play, I want every scar, drop of sweat, and every emotion to count.
Today however I'll process. A little quiet. A little sad. A very small hope that the overwhelming disappointment those guys must feel themselves wouldn't prevent the last efforts they have within them. And hope that in my own life, while mourning over disappointments that may/will come, I'll still brush it off and keep trying. Keep waiting for that SOMEDAY. Because sometimes this is really about that.
But I do. Hockey fascinates me. The smell of the rink, the sounds of the blades on ice, bodies hit against the boards, the crowd yelling and chanting. Fights, penalties, the sin bin. The Zamboni! Having a common hate with other fans--the officials or Chris Pronger. The stories of players who worked so hard to get to their moments of glory. A player who has continued to train intensely despite an injury that cost him a season of playing a game he loves far more than I do. Stories of comebacks and overcoming obstacles. Names that are entertaining to say--Cheechoo, Kopitar, Wisniewski, Ovechkin, Khabibulin. The fact that nifty is a cool word to say--deke even cooler. Singing the Canadian and American anthems with an arena full of people. Spoiled by announcers who seem to bring peace to my soul when I turn on a broadcast. Yes, I care. And without any other words to describe it--I feel a alive in my passion for the game. As my hometown team the Sharks are my boys. Jumbo Joe, Patty, Pickles, JR, Torrey...my sports heroes. Sharks themselves have become an animal that I am fascinated with, inspiring a new tattoo soon to come.
Hockey has become a context, an analogy for life. Maybe that's why I take a loss like last night so personally. But they didn't lose to upset me. They don't know who I am. Just another fan of an intense sport.
Sadly, against my usual rants about sticking with my team until the end of the game, my friends and I watched some clips from Inside the Actor's Studio instead of the last 7 minutes. Watching Liza Minelli and Cameron Diaz use their favorite swear words hit the spot--as Anaheim scored another goal. Some time at the gym, averting my eyes from any sports channels, also helped.
Once again a revelation hit. Being passionate about something (or someone) also means there is a risk of disappointment. I could stop caring so the next let down wouldn't hurt so much. Become a fair weather fan. But where would the flip side of excitement come. I've been numb to experiencing things my life too long because of fear of failure and disappointment. So at 12 AM last night, sweating on the elliptical machine I decided that these nights of sadness and frustration were worth it. Whether it's a hockey game or own goals in my life, I'll take the risk of believing with the potential and likelihood of future disappointments. Because when the Cup is won or what I want most finally comes into play, I want every scar, drop of sweat, and every emotion to count.
Today however I'll process. A little quiet. A little sad. A very small hope that the overwhelming disappointment those guys must feel themselves wouldn't prevent the last efforts they have within them. And hope that in my own life, while mourning over disappointments that may/will come, I'll still brush it off and keep trying. Keep waiting for that SOMEDAY. Because sometimes this is really about that.
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