I spent the most surprising day -- surprising because it was unplanned. I went to church this morning after eating most of a package of bacon (you know how I love that stuff) and some cheerios and yogurt: planned. I was invited to eat with one of the families in the church: unplanned. Eating turned into an all-afternoon ordeal: unplanned. I went back to church: planned. I was invited over to eat dinner with another family and a bunch of students and recent graduates: unplanned. I was then driven to the apartments (near my car), where I ended up singing sacred harp hymn melodies with some very eclectic people, most of whom I know: pseudo-planned. Yup. Mostly unplanned, but all good. That takes us to now, when it is 11:23 and too late to call my dear family.
this is from an andrew peterson song:
"Tonight in the light of the merchandise store
well, they were packin up my bags.
I saw the pictures of the prophets with the picket signs,
screamin, 'God Hates Fags!'
"And it feels like the church isn't anything more
than the second coming of the Pharisees,
scrubbin each other till their tombs are white
with chiseled epitaphs of piety.
"Oh, well there's a burning down inside of me
because the battle seems so lost.
And its raging on so silently,
we forget its being fought.
"So, amen.
Come, Lord Jesus, amen.
Oh, amen.
Come, Lord Jesus, amen.
"It's taken me years in the race just to get this far,
still there is no end in sight,
there's no end in sight.
Cuz I've carried my cross in the dens of the wicked.
You know I blended in just fine
"I'm weak and I'm weary of breaking his heart
with the cycle of my sin,
of my sin.
Still he turnes his face to me and I kiss it,
just to betray him once again.
"Oh, I've got oceans down inside of me.
And I can feel the billows roll
with the mercy that comes thundering
o'er the waters of my soul
"So I say amen.
Come, Lord Jesus, amen.
Oh, amen.
So come, Lord Jesus, amen.
"It's a night in the light of the gathering rain:
I could hear hear creation groan.
And a sigh rose up from the streets of the city
to the foot of heaven's throne.
"Oh, and the people hear the sound of the sweet refrain.
An absolution in the fray
in the fray
tells of the death of the one for the lives of the many,
more than any picket sign could say.
"So, amen.
Come Lord Jesus, amen.
Oh, amen.
So come, Lord Jesus, amen.
"Woah, amen!
Come Lord Jesus, amen.
Please come, Lord Jesus.
Amen."
So many folks I know are thinking about life in these terms, it seems. I just thought it appropriate to record the sentiment. Tonight will most likely see me packing for Belgium and writing thank you notes and reading for pleasure at a local coffee shop. Ahhh. I worked my last hours of the month this morning and will attend my last church service at RP for awhile tomorrow morning. I'll catch up with Mike later that night (I think), after a little visit to the apartments.
Hmmm. Good-bye Chattanooga! Good-bye Lookout Mountain! Good-bye Greyfriar's and Covenant and RP and St. Elmo and college living and Chalmer's and native language and so forth! I'm off for another adventure. Hopefully it won't be my last. Hopefully you'll hear from me soon, perhaps through this very blog. ;)
Here's to Jesus, who makes hoping more than blind optimism. Here's to the morning star rising in your heart as well as in my own.
Love,
Bob
(beware: this is a pseudo-rant)
Jonathan Krueger pays English grammar no respect. (Jon, if you're reading this, you should know that you have no respect for the English grammar!) I mean, his sentences fail to acheive normalcy in my conventional subject-object grammatical world! His uses of adjectives meet all my requirements for verbs! He puts down adverbs where I would place conjunctions!
Ok, so there are extenuating circumstances. Actually, I've been reading his poems lately, and his philosophy of poetry seems to emphasize expression over form. This reflects something about my own philosophy of poetry, by way of contrast, I suppose. Can I compare Jon to Gustav Mahler and myself to Bach? Well, I'm all about expression through informative (and form-conscious) description or depiction. Jon writes some DARN fine poetry by minoring on description and majoring on impressionistic imagery and organic sensibility.
Yeah, great poetry, good emotions, but it leaves grammar out in the cold! I'm learning from my friend and roommate Jon. Still, I'm not sure I can ever disentangle myself from my messy and lifelong love affair with the mechanics of the English language. Just thought I'd share. (Go read his stuff @ http://dakota.covblogs.com)
I have a few friends who are coping with varying degrees of sucess with loneliness. One friend pines away in their house, thinking self-deprecating thoughts and second-guessing the occasional interactions they have with other people. One friend is watching their friends walk away from them and toward others. This friend is gracious with the sorrow this causes, keeping grief private and publicly turning to new relationships. One friend keeps absent others in constant contact, living in the past and refusing to move into future relationships. I'm trying to take notes for the lonely times that no doubt lie ahead for me.
Quote of the week: "God brings people into our lives in three ways. Some friends come for a reason. Some friends come for a season. Some friends come for a lifetime."
5.19.04 – I spent the ride home tonight thinking about something our pastor said tonight. In speaking for the nth time about qualifications for an elder, Kevin said that our hearts are not often compassionate. We are more quickly turned to stinginess than to graciousness, to mere self-preservation rather than true compassion. I will admit that I initially received these words with self-righteousness and had a few people in mind that I deemed non-compassionate. Eventually, however, I realized that despite my “giving” personality, a community development major, and being an R.A. for two years, these words are more true of me than not.
I'm sitting at Mike Hardie's iMac with a multigrain bagel and a glass of orange juice. I woke up at the leisurely, lazy hour of 9 AM, fed the cat, and watered Mike's frontyard garden. I think I'm getting used to the rhythm of regular work life. Weekends become more special and the bank becomes harder to get to.
Mike and Warren are both out of town today, so I can pretend that this is my house. It is a lonely and independent and very grand feeling, owning one's house... but almost all the stuff in this house is Mike's, so I am quickly reminded of my non-ownership.
Today will include washiing the floor of Ashe activity center, making a dessert, taking said dessert to a church picnic at the Mays', seeing a derelict friend (who doesn't have a home, job, or working car right now), and seeing another friend from Minnesota that I haven't seen in at least a year. Whew! The days are just packed.
I should also contact a bunch of people about MTW references. And take a gift to my former boss and current friend Chris Clark. Hmmm. I better get cracking. Will post again soon.
Love,
Bob
all the people gave
shekels upon shekels of precious things
to make my fireplace beautiful
and it was lovely.
then came the burning:
like a million silver, distant stars
sacrifice was always something
i admired best from afar.
but now those stars
were very near and very hot and very dense,
the weight of sacrifice blazing
frightfully in my belly.
o, how i railed against those
who had given so willingly to me so naively
thinking the better the altar
the easier the life!
and now there are ashes
where once there was the weight and heat
of stellar life, light, and beauty:
I miss the burning.
have all those people
regretted their shekels poured into my altar
since now it lies dormant
or is this the year
between stars?
she never walked as kindly as she did
the day they drew her number,
led her away,
and chopped up her soul.
it’s not as if the chopping were unexpected
because she had always known
that souls were meant to be whacked
and bruised
and lacerated
and finally, well, chopped
like so much grade A pork.
it’s just that when her name
came over the loudspeaker
(thundering steam-roller fate
driving over a chipmunk)
she could no longer pretend
that she was any more than a rodent
in somebody else’s way
and had to be content
to recognize the inevitable squish.
but she was kind about it.
(this is a poem I wrote back when I never used this blog. now that graduation is over, you should begin to see a few retroactive posts. enjoy!)