Muse

Writing.  It is strange that I can both love and hate something so intensely at the same time.  I love to think about writing.  I love to concoct storylines and essay ideas in my head.  I even love to relate said ideas to others.  But when the time comes to actually write, and I am faced with the blank page, a crisis takes place.  I fumble, I fume, I fuss; I come quite near to pulling my hair out, as I watch the marvelous work of literary genius that has been safely pent up in my head collapse upon the paper like a house of cards in a hurricane.

And yet sometimes it is not this way at all.  Indeed, at times it seems as though I am almost a passive observer watching the story write itself.  Words, sentences, and paragraphs flow suddenly and swiftly as though some mental sluice gate has been lifted.  Everything comes out right, exactly how I intend it to, and I smile to myself – the sweet smile of satisfaction – as I see my story materialize on the paper before me.

These occasions are rare, unfortunately, and I have been surprised many times – my smile of satisfaction turning to a grimace – as I realize that what I had written so effortlessly has turned out to be complete tripe.  It’s so easy to write tripe.  I have also been surprised on several occasions to find that some of the works that have proved to be the most difficult have turned out to be some of my most favorite.  Thus writing and I continue this love/hate relationship.

The ancient Greeks knew something of this.  Their poets would never think of conducting a work without first beseeching the Muses for assistance and inspiration.  Indeed, the Greeks held the poet in as high esteem as the prophet: both were sparked by divine inspiration.       

Yet the Muses were known to be fickle.  At once lavishing a poet with literary inspiration, and then leaving him to languish in stunted creativity. 

I had a wonderful idea for a post today.  Thoroughly imagined and structured in my mind.  I sat down at my desk this evening brimming with excitement.  I wrote two sentences and the Muses decided go on vacation.  I started three other posts – all of which are conveniently open on my computer as I write – yet the Muses staunchly refused to assist me.  I sweated, I gritted my teeth, I listened to classical music; I even got up from my desk and walked around, took a shower, and unloaded all my writing sorrows onto my confused but patient wife.  Yet the Muses had abandoned me and I was lost.

I came back to my desk and brainstormed furiously.  Retrieving a notebook of essay ideas, I willed myself to write.  Yet every point of punctuation pierced my confidence like a dagger.

Why, oh why dear Muses have you abandoned me?  I want to post on this blog and you have left me to flounder in the wilting wasteland of writer’s block.  What’s that you say?  Oh, yes, this will do nicely.  Thank you.

 

Did you ever know anyone like…

Have you ever met one of those people who are great out of the gate but exiting the second turn seem to just fizzle?   Someone who is full of ideas, good ideas even, but sputters to a halt once the actual work begins?  One who can find 10,000 excuses for starting tomorrow instead of today?  No? “In that case, Hi, I’m Larry.”   (Not really but I thought it was a great line from the movie Sky High.)

I could do an entire posting on my life just using lines from movies and songs, that is sad really because I only know a few lines from books I could use.  I would have to say that I am a product of the 70’s and 80’s.  I am first generation MTV.  I remember when “Video Killed the Radio Star” was regularly played on MTV, Martha Quinn was our VJ and Dire Straits was singing “I Want My MTV.”  I remember when Madonna was just a Boy Toy Material Girl (wait nothing’s changed there) Pat Benetar, Blondie, ZZ Top, Aerosmith, Robert Palmer and a host of others whose videos told stories and captured our attention, at the distraction of things more necessary.  Leisure Suits, disco, and the Iranian Hostage debacle were some of the benchmarks of my teenage years, quite the contrast with my redneck, white socks and cowboy hat.  I’ve always been a bit of a square peg in a round hole world.  Living at the speed of MTV and never looking beyond the moment.

I cannot blame the culture I grew up in for my lack of discipline and my Doctorate in Procrastinology, that is all on me, I am a self-made man in that regard.  Instead of reading a classic book… I popped a tape in my “add on” cassette player and cranked up Waylon Jennings, Molly Hatchet, and ELO.  Instead of exercising and pursuing my love of baseball… I ended-up living out Jackson Browne’s classic, Smokin’ in the Boys Room.  Instead of disciplining myself to schoolwork and get good grades… I floated through, just getting by, living for the Heat of the Moment.  Never looking to tomorrow but was more concerned with, “I want it all, I want it all, I want it all and I want it now!”  “Damn the torpedoes, Full speed ahead!” I cried from the front seat of my friends Trans Am as we did our best Smokey and the Bandit imitation.  My life was just like that scene where the bridge was out, and being young, dumb and foolish I was going to make the attempt to jump it anyway, only to stop short not having the nerve to totally commit to full throttle breakaway.  My illusion of life being captured on Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell album was just that, an illusion.  Tighter and tighter the spirals of life swirled and I did not see that mine was out of control and I was on the Eve of Destruction.

Sounds very exciting doesn’t it?  Kind of a redneck, James Bond, Joe Walsh: Life of Illusion fantasy that I wanted to live out.  Reality never came close to the grand fantasy I was living inside myself.  I was never able to live up to the person I dreamt myself to be.  “But then again, Who Does?” (had to give props to Blade Runner there, this being what, its 25th anniversary)  So, things didn’t turn out the way I planned, hmmmm actually that was the problem… I never had a plan.  Peg the volume, Fry, Walsh, and Henley are living Life in the Fast Lane at the Hotel California.  And the illusion continued.

In ’77 my world came undone when dad died.  Mom’s world crashed in on her and in a way I lost both parents that Good Friday morning.  Clarence Carter singing, Patches is a poignant memory I have of that spring.  That summer consisted of Star Wars and a massive crush on Carrie Fisher, yep that year my fantasy was to be Luke Skywalker, battling the evil Empire and flying off among the stars with the girl.  (Lucas messed up a great adolescent fantasy by making Leia, Luke’s sister… at least for all those other nerds who aren’t from West Virginia or Arkansas, kissin’ cousins don’t ya’ knowJ)  So by the time High School was over I had it in my mind that I should make my mark on the world at least by the time I turned eighteen.  Eighteen came and went so I figured fame and fortune and everything that goes with it was just around the corner by twenty.  Twenty was a bittersweet year, still had not made my fortune and the girl I figured I would one day marry started dating my best friend.  (They have been happily married for I guess as long as my wife and I have, going on twenty-one years now, and I still count them as some of my best friends.)  Later that same year I met my wife-to-be, I just didn’t know it…yet.   While she claims that after that first date and that first kiss she went home and told her momma that she had met the man she was gonna marry.  I think that was just to stroke my ego… musta’ worked cause we’ve been together for twenty-four years.(married for 21)

So, what was my point here?  I wanted to say something important about finishing what you start and having the discipline to see things to the…  

 

Top Ten Posts for January, 2008

Here are the Top Ten most visited posts on Quadrivium for January, 2008:

1. Monty Python’s Parody of Knighthood (Part 1): How Monty Python and the Holy Grail humorously skewers the ideals of Arthurian chivalry.
2. Observation: A funny essay on the art of people watching.
3. What is Christian Art?: Is there such a thing as “Christian” art and how does one recognize it?
4. Is Fantasy Escapism?: Is fantasy literature (LOTR, Narnia, etc.) an attempt to escape reality, or does it communicate reality better than any other genre?
5. Stephen Pinker and the Morality of a Meat Machine: Admiring Stephen Pinker’s awesome ‘do, and examining his not-so-awesome materialistic foundation for ethics.
6. The Economics of Art: A rejoinder to post 3 that takes a different approach to the idea of “Christian” art and the concept of ‘art’ altogether.
7. Pinball Brain: A post that ponders the perpetually preoccupied mind and what to do about it.
8. America the Dim-Witted: A collection of stupid warning labels…need I say more?
9. The Conflict of Christianity and Culture: A post that examines the underlying causes of modern Christianity’s estrangement from culture.
10. April 22: Pregnancy and childbirth…from the dad’s perspective.

 

The Doctor’s Visit Part II

Momma called the doctor and the Doctor said…

“No, OZ never did give nothin’ to the Tin Man, that didn’t, didn’t already have.”

Much like the Tin Man they found today that I do actually have a heart.  It’s right where it is supposed to be and is doing all the things it is supposed to do.  So I’m wondering if maybe I’m actually the Scarecrow, “If I only had a brain?”  Cause the thoughts that I’d be thinkin’ while-a drivin’ in ma’ Lincoln if I only had a brain… or the winning Power Ball lottery ticket from this week.

They “STILL” don’t know why my legs look like Charlie Brown’s Macy’s Day Parade balloon legs.  At this point I would consider taking a stick pin to them but what happens if they take off like a balloon.  I can see me bouncing off the walls, ceiling, taking a few laps around the ceiling fan and sputtering to a halt on the piano.  I can hear my daughter Elizabeth now, “Do it again Daddy, do it again!” 

              Technology is wonderful, I got to watch my heart in action today, amazing.  Well, I mean, I didn’t actually see my heart (that would have been messy) but I saw an image of my heart.  You know, a sonogram, just like they do with babies.  And yes, I did have her check, and no, I am not pregnant (it just looks like I am) thank you very much.  I tried to get her to make me an audio recording of that rhythm, it sounded just like conga line music… bum bum   bum bum   bum   ba!  bum bum   bum bum   bum   ba!  Wait, scratch that, I can’t dance, I’m Baptist. (And possibly a little too nerdy) So why did you email me?  What do you want?  Come on chop, chop I haven’t got all morning.  Hummm?  What’s that?  Oh!  Yea, I’m emailing you aren’t I?       

Ok, one more thing and I’ll be done. (yep, I’m Baptist alright)

When they were taking all my information they have one of those talking scales and all it said was “Uncle! Uncle!”  But they said my weight was normal… for someone 7’ 1” tall. 

Then came the questions: 

 “Do you smoke?”

            “No”

“Do you drink?”

“Is this a trick question?

“I mean do you drink alcoholic beverages?”

“No”

“Do you take drugs, illegal drugs?

“No”

“Do you exercise?”

“No, I kicked the habit years ago.”

“And it shows.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

“Hard not to, twins?

“Why yes, a boy and a girl.”

“How far along?

“Fourteen years.”

“That long?  I wouldn’t have guessed more than the second trimester.”

“Oh you mean that!”

“Yea! that!”

“I’m rather attached to that, it may not be fly but it is phat!” 

(I think I impressed her with my knowledge of pop culture terms and Ebonics.  But then again I also left an impression on the chair in which I was sitting.”uncle! uncle!”)

Say Goodnight Gracie,

“Goodnight Mrs. Calabash where ever you are!”

 

A Personal review for 2007

Things have been going by so fast that this review was posted in 2007 before it was written… the universe has finally caught up to my time in reality, and here is last year in review.

2007

 

Wow, another year has past. I thought this year we would do one of those Christmas letters.

My problem is remembering what was significant… or even what actually happened this year.

 

This was our first full year since mom’s home going. It has been an emotional rollercoaster, from out of nowhere would come a flood of memories, or an huge dose of reality would steamroll us. The hardest part is going over to the house and trying to clean up. So many memories. But mom left us with the greatest gift of all, a testimony of her Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. I would not call mom back to this world of pain and suffering, that she knew all too well, even if I could. Her joy is complete in Jesus Christ now. She cannot return to us but she showed the way she went and invited others to believe on Jesus Christ so that we could see her again some day. I am looking forward to that reunion.

This summer we took our vacation in Atlanta Georgia. The main event was a Braves game. Before passing Mom had made me promise to get the kids to a Braves game as soon as we could. She had wanted to go herself but her health was just too bad. So we went to a game the day before the first anniversary of her passing. I remember thinking about how that would play in a Master Card commercial: Trip to Atlanta $$, Tickets to a Braves game $$, Hot dogs and a drink $$$$$$, The memories of a promise kept… priceless.

Children are such a blessing!

I have always thought it was amazing that I have had children who were born in different years (obviously), different decades (1990‘s, 2000‘s), different centuries (1900, 2000), and different millenniums(2nd and 3rd AD) and had twins to boot! 

Can you believe that the twins had the in-class portion of Driver’s education this year??? They are freshmen in high school this year. That can’t be right… but alas ‘me babes’ are suddenly ‘me teens‘. She played both JV and Varsity Volleyball this year. He has been on Varsity Baseball since 7th grade and he made JV Basketball again this year. (He played soccer last year as a fill in, but sat out this year. The soccer team all wanted him to play again this year. Maybe he will play again next year.)

Our little one started pre-school this year. I just turn around and it is another milestone in one of their lives. She is attending pre-school at RHRBC. That is the church I grew up in. Talk about a flood of memories!! The old building is gone but just being there evokes some strong memories of Mom and Dad; good memories.

This year marked two decades my wife has put up with me. She is either incredibly brave and loyal or dain bramaged. She is an incredible woman and a wonderful mother. Right now she is in the hospital recovering from surgery. Everything went very well, the operation was a success, and she is doing very well and may get to come home soon. She can recuperate here at home over the Christmas and New Years holidays.

I guess that leaves me to talk about. How can one describe such legendary grandeur in the mere fifteen lines left on this page? You can’t. It is impossible! Think of the Grand Canyon, the vast Atlantic Ocean, and then think of them being filled… with me, and you can begin to imagine my …. What my pants must daily endure.

You know, they say there are four stages of a man’s life:

1> You believe in Santa Clause.

2> You stop believing in Santa Clause.

3> You play Santa Clause.

4> You look like Santa Clause.

I have reached stage four; beard, belly and all. Ho, Ho, Ho!

So, there you have it, The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (maybe I’ll get a copy of that for Christmas) from Us to you.

Seriously, we wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas (while we are still allowed to say Christmas) and a Happy New Year.

D,T,K,D & E

 

April 22

It was a mild September Sunday. I was languidly perusing the pages of a book when I was startled by a cry from my wife on the opposite end of the house. As I hurried to the location of the sound, she met me in the kitchen waving a small, plastic wand. “It’s positive!” she declared as she danced about the dining table. I stood there blinking as my world rolled off of its axis. There are some things for which we can never prepare ourselves; the announcement of a child is one of them.

The arrival of a pregnancy to hopeful parents brings with it a kaleidoscope of feelings. Emotion washes over you as intense and irresistible as a tidal wave.  Surges of joy and trepidation accompany moments of pride and apprehension as you begin to grapple with a new identity. Parenthood looms over you – promising, threatening, and wonderful.
As time passed I watched my wife transform into a swollen version of that person who danced around me in the kitchen (the dancing had stopped by the fifth month). Morning sickness and mood swings dominated our household as the tiny life within her asserted his presence. Books and videos on parenthood became our primary source of information and many hours were spent in breathless silence as we awaited another kick.

Six months into the pregnancy, a routine doctor’s appointment revealed that Stephanie had developed preeclampsia. This meant critically high blood pressure that was a serious danger to both Stephanie and the baby. She was placed on strict bed rest until delivery, and we were warned that the baby would probably be coming earlier than either of us expected.

And that is precisely what happened. On April 21, 2003 (just six weeks later) Stephanie was admitted into the hospital for an induced labor delivery. That night the doctor informed us that he had scheduled the delivery for the next morning and that we should try to get some sleep. My wife followed his orders; I did not.

I became intimately familiar with the ceiling of my wife’s hospital room that night as I gazed up at it, listening to the seconds tick by on my wristwatch. I was overwhelmed with a feeling strangely akin to the Christmas Eve’s of my childhood. In a matter of hours I would be a father. The thought exhilarated me and terrified me at the same time.
Sunrise came and flooded the room with light. April 22 had arrived and so had the nurses to escort my wife to the delivery room. Pain, fear, and wonder ensued and at 10:00 that morning I was handed a bundle of blankets that had a tiny face inside staring up at me. And this is the point in this narrative when words can no longer fulfill their function in conveying true meaning. At that moment I experienced such emotion that to try to describe it would only risk sentimentality.

Perhaps the only way to explain it is to say that at that moment I felt as though I were holding an extension of myself transformed into a new person.  A life that was indivisibly linked to me in its origin, yet completely individual in its actuality and potential. I was astonished by how fiercely I could love a face that I had only seen for a few moments. I wanted to tell him all of this. I wanted him to let him know how incredibly special he was; how much he had changed me. But I could not find the words and he would not have understood if I had.

 

Wonder

Forty dollars is far too much to pay to look at fish.  But I bought tickets anyway to the Ripley’s Aquarium of the Smokies for me and my wife.  I consoled myself, however, with the fact that my seven month old son would get in free.  Indeed the primary reason for this outing was to impart to him an early interest in nature by exposing him to the wonders of the sea. 

I glanced down at Luke’s stroller as we left the ticket booth and meandered our way through the crowd to the main entrance.  He had just completed a cavernous yawn and was blinking his eyes heavily.  “Make sure he doesn’t go to sleep,” I quipped to my wife, “I don’t want him to miss a moment of this.”

At last we entered the great glass doors of the aquarium and were instantly greeted by the smell of salt water and air conditioning.  A giant, cylindrical fish tank stood like a pillar of crystal just in front of us.  Inside, a kaleidoscope of fish darted about in all directions.  I pulled out my camera so that I would be able to capture Luke’s first expression of surprise.        

It was here that my disappointment began.  Rather than the vibrant curiosity I expected, my camera lens was greeted by yet another yawn as Luke eased back into his stroller with a settled air of indifference.   I began to point vigorously at the tank with cries of “look!” and “fishy!”, but in spite of my gesticulations, my son remained unmoved.  “He must be overwhelmed with it all,” I remarked to my wife. 

“He just looks bored to me,” she replied as we began to stroll down the walkway to the various exhibits.

In spite of my initial disappointment, I was determined that my son be thrilled and enlightened by this experience.  As we proceeded through the aquarium I made every effort to stoke his interest.  I positioned his stroller in front of every tank so that he would have an excellent view of its contents.  I read every placard to him and we watched every video that accompanied the exhibits.  I even broke the rules at the horseshoe crab-petting station by picking up one of the writhing creatures so that he could touch it.  This only drew a shriek of terror from my son which, in turn, caused me to drop the crab and drench my shirt in the process.

At last we neared the end of the tour.  We had seen everything from sharks to salamanders, yet nothing had sparked Luke’s interest.  It seemed that there was nothing in this multi-million dollar facility that would excite my son.  As we rounded the final corner I despaired of ever seeing his curiosity aroused.    That is, until we came upon the giant spider crab exhibit. 

Strategically positioned at the end of the aquarium tour, the giant spider crab is certain to dissolve the most stalwart apathy.  Imagine a common daddy longlegs on steroids complete with spiky armor and three foot long legs and you will get some idea of the spider crab’s appearance as it sat perched on a large rock in its murky, cylindrical tank.  This, I was certain, would grab Luke’s attention.

I wheeled his stroller next to the tank and knelt down beside him to await his response.  At first nothing happened.  Then Luke carefully stretched his hands out before him as a look of absolute wonder enveloped his face.  A sense of satisfaction steadily grew within me until I noticed that there was something strange about the way his eyes were set, as though his focus was upon something much nearer than the brooding creature in the tank before him.  I watched in amazement as Luke slowly flexed his tiny fingers up and down with a look of utter concentration on his brow.  My son had discovered his hands.

 

My Life As A People Hater

 Two months ago, I didn’t love you. Maybe I loved you a little, some of you a little more, some a little less. I certainly didn’t love you the way Christ commands me to love you, that is, as I love myself. Thankfully, God has shown me this problem and I have been praying that He will give me the grace to overcome it. Let me share with you just a few things that have helped me overcome this problem. (I am still a work in progress and believe me, I have not yet arrived at Christ-like love!)

1. Random Acts of Kindness

           I recently went with a few people from our church to the local mall (the weekend before Christmas of all times) to participate in a Random Acts of Kindness outreach. For a few weeks prior to the event, we received donations from members of the church so we could go to the mall and buy people’s dinners. We went up to individuals and families as they were at the register of their dining establishment of choice in the food court and offered to pay for their meals. Some of them gave us odd looks, some were really pleased, one even broke into tears. Unlike typical evangelism, we didn’t make a deal with them and say, “I’ll buy your food if you sit and talk to me about Jesus.” We just provided a need out of love for our fellow people, and then gave them a church brochure with info about our church and  a message about Christ on it. No gimmicks, no Christian trickery, no evangelistic sleight of hand. For the first time in my life, I understood how Christ must have felt when throngs of people surrounded Him as He ministered to them. In a never before seen phenomenon, as we were buying food and giving church brochures to those for whom we purchased meals, we had people surrounding us asking us for our literature. Understand, they were not asking us to buy their dinners. They saw us showing love to people and it perked their interest, and they just wanted to know who we were. I have never had such a good time in evangelism. And I do very seriously consider this evangelism. Even though we didn’t actually get to talk about the Gospel, we demonstrated the love of Christ and gave them a paper with the word of God on it.

    2. Outreach to the Homeless

        A few weeks later, we took blankets we collected from church members to give to homeless people turned away from shelters. Our city has passed this really stupid law that shelters can only house a certain number of homeless, even if they have beds for more. The result is that several get turned away to sleep on the streets. I was upset the day of this ministry because as I was coming home from work around 5pm (the outreach started at 7pm) I spoke to our minister of evangelism and we only had 4 blankets. I had two problems with this: I was afraid there would be more than 4 people and we would run out of blankets and this would be bad for those who didn’t get one, and I was afraid not only would some be without a blanket, but our church would be embarrassed because we only managed to round up 4 blankets. I prayed that God would either give us more blankets, or give us only 4 people. In His abounding grace, He did both. We actually wound up with 14 blankets, but we didn’t have to give any out because everyone (yes, there were 4 people outside) got a bed that night. We’re going out again next week, it’s supposed to be a lot colder, so there’ll be more people, and thankfully we have more blankets.

    3. Real Conversations

       I have a tendency to teach and lecture without wanting to listen, because I don’t (didn’t, that is) love people enough to really listen to their problems with Christian compassion. I’ve been studying the life of Christ lately in an attempt to learn how to deal with people, and what I have seen is His remarkable ability to talk to people. He certainly didn’t talk like Christians talk. In Mark 10, a man asked Him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life”. Notice that Jesus didn’t say, “You need to believe in me and get saved,” He talked to the man, and gently broke down his worldview. He gave him the little bit of God’s truth that he needed at that time, and sent him away to meditate on it. Maybe he came back, maybe he didn’t, but Jesus had a real conversation with him. Christians have been so determined to see a soul saved that they have neglected the rest of the man. If I really love someone, I’ll be interested in him, not just teaching him. So I’ve been trying to have real conversations with the people I see everyday.

   4. My House as God’s Sanctuary

       I’m terribly hobbit-like, and my house is my hole. This is at least how I felt until God began to change me. There was a “select elite” of people who I enjoyed having over to visit. Now, I can’t really explain the change outside of grace, but I like having more people over, even in-laws! (God really is amazing!) I have for so long wanted to use the abilities God gave me to minister (teaching, preaching etc.), but I was totally blind to this hunk of real estate I sit in every day. God has given me a home, not big but at least big enough to host a few people, and a wife who loves to be a hostess, but I was too thick to see how that could be used for His glory. I’m trying to now make my home a sanctuary for those who need it. (Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight. . .)

So that’s my confession, and a list of just a few things that God’s using to change me more and more into the image of His Son. I love you. (At least I’m trying!)- A.P. Sullivan

 

Pinball Brain

Have you ever contemplated how much time we waste on meandering thoughts?  During any busy day, our minds become crowded with To-Do lists, Have-Done lists, and things you cannot even label because they speed by on the highway of your mind, forgotten as quickly as you thought of them.  Have you ever driven yourself to the store and wondered how you got there because your mind was not on the road, but you cannot really explain what distracted your mind for so long?  I have to admit that I have done this on several occasions.  In meditating on the thought life, I am starting to understand that this is a part of who we are.  Our thought lives reflect our self-discipline, or lack thereof.  Our brains become little more than pinball machines with thoughts darting back and forth with no real goal or focus.  This becomes a habit that we fall into.

 

Having an untrained mind is like a person that is trying to organize the closet.  They start well with the right intentions.  They arrange the shoes by type and color.  They pull out the old boxes to go through and put in their proper place.  But then something distracts them.  They see the closet floor needs to be vacuumed.  Then they see they might as well vacuum the entire bedroom, then the whole house.  As they are vacuuming, they see toys lying around that must be put up, and so goes the day.  At dusk they realize that the boxes are still lying in the bedroom floor, none of the clothes have been boxed up for the season and the only thing they accomplished was sorting the shoes.

 

However the first thing we must do to break a bad habit is to recognize it for what it is.  Is an uncontrolled mind such a bad thing?  I am coming to think that it is.  It shows disorder, lack of discipline, and it affects other areas of the life.  The example of the closet shows a person that cannot focus his or her mind on the task at hand.  The time has been wasted and cannot be gained back.  We see that having an undisciplined mind is a problem and we admit our failures.  But where are we to go from here?  Is there any help for those of us who have difficulty maintaining a constant stream of thought?  I Corinthians 10:5 states, “…bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ;” Our thoughts are to be brought under Christ’s control.  Does having a well-organized mind glorify God?  I say yes.  I am still meditating on this verse as I learn to control my thought life.  I know it will help organize my day, free myself from stress and most of all, glorify the One who gave me the mind to think.  Not to mention, I can drive to the store and not wonder why I am in the Laundromat parking lot instead.  Any comments or suggestions on this would be most helpful.

 

Finding Myself…Sort Of

Ah, the wonders of the World Wide Web.  Who among us – while sitting before the computer – has not been seized with the sudden desire to type our own name into a search engine to see what the results would be?  Perhaps we harbor a hidden desire that our name will repeatedly flash upon the screen in a magnificent shrine of blue text; thus confirming our suspicion that we are much more famous than we had previously believed.  Or maybe we are plagued with a persistent paranoia that some acquaintance of ours has posted a particularly malicious comment about us on a personal blog (complete with embarrassing photos).  Whatever our motivation, I am sure that most of us have succumbed to the temptation of trying to find our name somewhere on the web.  At least I know that I have.  In fact, I just did the other night.

“Joshua Johnson”.  I entered my name into the search engine making sure to enclose it with quotation marks so that only those exact words would be queried.  In a moment my monitor was filled with hundreds of references to web pages that contained my name (235 to be exact).  I must confess, however, that I was quite disappointed with the initial fact that none of these names apparently referred to me.

            There were a great many lawyers, which makes me wonder if men named “Joshua” have an uncommon proclivity towards the legal profession or if men from the legal profession just enjoy placing their names on the internet.  There are also quite a few college students who share my name on the web.  This, again, causes me to wonder why I – being a college student – have not found myself among the references.  Perhaps I have not achieved the level of notoriety that is required to be considered worthy of a search engine’s recognition.  Or maybe I just need to join an athletic team at my school (frisbee golf appears to be the recreation of choice as far as “searchability” is concerned).

            Scattered among the lawyers and college students that are my namesakes were several obituaries.  It is an eerie thing to see your name in an obituary.  While the life that is being eulogized is quite different from my own in its personality and achievements, there is still a strange feeling that occurs when I read a sentence that starts with, “In memory of Joshua Johnson…” or “Joshua Johnson dies at age…”  It makes me contemplate my own mortality as I consider the possibility that another Joshua Johnson could have been reading my obituary tonight.

            Indeed, I see a great deal of possibility as I scan through the electronic references that bear my name.  All of the contingencies of life swirl before my eyes as I see soldiers, firemen, teachers, and construction workers – all who are as different from one another as I am from each of them – yet all sharing in that most important of identifiers: our name.  I wonder what circumstances guided the destinies of these men; what circumstances have guided my own life?

            I feel small as I see that christening which was given to me by my parents – that verbal tag that I have clung so tenaciously to as my own – scattered and stamped upon thousands of other men.  I am compelled to wonder along with Shakespeare’s Juliet, “What’s in a name?”  What is it about this combination of letters and syllables that causes my ears to perk up if I overhear them in a neighboring conversation?  Why is it that I feel so strange when I read of the life and death of a complete stranger who shares nothing with me but a title?

            There I sat, my face illuminated by the glow of my computer’s monitor, staring at the interpretation of my own name in a hundred different lives; confronted by my anonymity, my mortality, my identity.  It’s amazing what you can learn on the internet.

 

Observation

The other day, while at the mall, my wife and I went through an oft-repeated routine: she entered a clothing store and I took a seat on a bench outside to wait for her.  Why did I not join her?  There are many reasons actually, but I will give only two.  First – as any married man could testify – entering a clothing store with your wife can be a very hazardous experience, for at some point you are certain to be asked a terrifyingly unanswerable question: “Does this make me look fat?”  If you answer “yes”, you will be called an insensitive pig and will be treated as such for the next two weeks; if you say “no”, you will be called a liar until you say “yes” which will gain you the expanded title of a lying, insensitive pig.  And if you choose to remain silent, your silence will be taken for a “yes” and you will be accused of being unable to communicate. Thus, the wise man upon hearing this question will respond by promptly faking a heart attack.

The second reason why I chose not to accompany my wife is that it gave me an excellent opportunity to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: people watching.  Now, I realize that this may sound like some sort of deranged voyeurism, but I assure you that the kind of “people watching” to which I am referring is perfectly legal.  It consists in observing individuals whom you do not know and trying to guess something about them in that brief moment as they pass by.

The mall is a veritable smorgasbord of humanity and the perfect place for a people watcher.    Take, for example, one the newest trends in parenting: the child safety leash.  I counted at least three children (two boys and one girl) who were tethered to their parents by this strange device.  One of the little boys I saw kept darting in front of his mother only to be jerked back (yo-yo like) by a flick of his mother’s wrist.  She did this nonchalantly while chatting with a friend who walked beside her.  The friend, however, was visibly disturbed and she would wince every time the child was reined in.  I’m surprised that the mother never noticed. 

Then there was the rather large fellow wearing a denim shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots that clicked every time he took a step.  He sported a Fu Manchu and a mullet hairstyle that was billowy on top and stringy in the back.  In one of his meaty fists he clutched a tiny, pink shopping bag that he swung by his side to match his lumbering gait.  I noticed several shoppers point and snicker after passing him, and I must confess that the sight brought a smile to my own face.  Yet he was the epitome of self-confidence; wearing a silly grin as he strode by my bench.  Perhaps he had a gift for his girlfriend or wife in the bag – or maybe for his mother.

Shortly after, a pack of teenaged boys shuffled by.  Nearly everyone of them donned a baseball cap and a polo shirt with the collar turned up in the back.  They appeared to have developed a synchronized strut and seemed to be trying very hard to exude a macho presence to everyone about them.  One of the boys caught my eye in particular; it seemed as if his every gesture was calculated to please his peers.  His eyes darted to and fro from underneath the brim of his cap until once they locked with my own, lingered there for a moment, and then turned away.  I wondered if he was happy – as happy, say, as the big man with the little, pink bag.

All of this had taken quite a while, and I was beginning to worry about my wife (and my bank account).  A quick glance through the store window, revealed her standing at the checkout counter about to make her purchases.  I got up from the bench and strolled over to meet her at the entrance.  As I approached the store, I noticed a man and woman having a heated conversation within.  The man had his hands raised in an exasperated defense.  I smiled to myself.  Poor guy, he should have faked a heart attack.

 

A Visit to the Ackland Art Museum

Recently my husband and I went to the Ackland Art Museum, located on the campus of UNC at Chapel Hill, NC.  Since I have never been to this museum, I was unsure of what to expect.  I was hesitant as we entered the building because I supposed this place to be full of certain contemporary art pieces that are not my cup of tea.  My presuppositions were wrong. Encountering the culture through the art was an invigorating and enlightening experience.  We were able to view art from several eras and cultures.  I got to see statues of ancient rulers and pieces of pottery from across the globe.  I even got to study several Chines Hanging Scrolls as my husband explained the painting process behind them.  My favorite was the 1500’s European section.  I was awestruck by the beautiful brush strokes that depicted the apostles, prophets, and stories in the Gospels.    One piece that we studied was The Presentation in the Temple by Giovanni Battista Naldini.  This painting centers on Mary handing the infant Jesus to Simeon.  Naldini captures the emotion in Mary and Simeon’s faces that they must have felt as they saw the ancient prophecies being fulfilled before their eyes.  I was captivated!  Our college & career group plan on visiting another musuem in the near future and I can’t wait for another chance to engage the culture through art.  Bring it on!

 

Surprise at the Sea

The drive home was silent, with the exception of an occasional yawn of exhaustion.  The week had rushed past in a flurry of wonderful and intriguing events.  Luke, our three-year-old son, was asleep in his car seat with suitcases on both sides of him and a little wooden train in each hand.  Since my husband Josh was driving I spent my time reflecting on what I had experienced while at the beach.  I knew that Luke’s first trip to Morehead City, North Carolina would be memorable, but I had no idea that he would teach me so much.  My motive for taking Luke to see the ocean was for his benefit, but the amazement that he demonstrated over the smallest things showed me all that I had taken for granted.

 

The drive down Interstate-40 had been filled with an incessant string of, “Where are we going?”, “Are we going to the beach?” and “Are we there yet?”  Luke seemed concerned that we may change our minds.  I knew the bridge crossing the inlet was approaching so I grabbed the camera to capture Luke’s first impression of the “big water”.  His expression was one of utter amazement as his eyes darted from window to window to drink in the vast blueness. “Wow!  That’s a big yoshun!”

 

Within minutes we pulled into the parking lot of the motel.  We grabbed our bags and walked to our room.  It was average-sized, with teal walls and white, wicker furniture.  We reserved a double-bed room so Luke could have his own full-size bed.    I showed him where he would be sleeping and he gasped with glee at his very own “big boy bed”.  He scrambled onto it, rolled around on the covers and bounced on the mattress a few times before exclaiming, “I want to go swimming!

 

I rummaged through our beach gear, slathered sunscreen on every inch of Luke’s body and then we headed for the sand.  We turned the corner of the motel and Luke screamed in delight as he picked up speed.  His bright green eyes were examining something and I followed his gaze to see an abandoned sandcastle.  Before I could stop him, Luke raced to it and crashed into the highest tower.  The structure toppled around him and he giggled at the new sensation of sand on skin.  “Look at the sand, Mommy!” His awe at something so simple puzzled me, and I considered the delight in his voice.  Luke finally noticed the big blue ocean behind him and he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the water, but just as he approached, a wave crashed onto the sand and Luke scurried to my side. 

“But Luke, it’s just water.”  Josh explained as he splashed his feet into the retreating current.  Luke sidled toward him and stuck his feet in the water.  He spotted another wave and ran back to me.  He loved swimming pools and bathtubs, but this experience was altogether different.  Swimming pools did not chase him.  After several advances and retreats, Luke was comfortable enough to splash in knee-deep water.  He squealed at the sand running between his toes and gaped at the minnows darting back and forth.  Were these real fish swimming around his ankles?  The only fish he had known before were in big display tanks, or his own black Beta named Sishy.

 

Just then, a tiny tan crab flashed by in the nearby sand.  “What’s that, Mommy?” 

“That’s a crab, sweetheart.”  I did not realize Luke had never watched a crab scuttle sideways.  He stumbled after the crab, tripping over the mounds of sand. Yet the crab returned to its hole just in time, and Luke proceeded to throw sand into its home in hopes to scare it out.  However, it did not surface again and the sandcastle we had started quickly distracted him.  All afternoon he played in the sand and in the shallow surf until he was bent with exhaustion and even then he refused to leave the fun to go back to the room.  We bribed him into leaving with promises of returning in the morning and proceeded back to the room where he fell asleep within minutes of a warm bath and a slice of pizza.

 

As the events of the trip drifted away, my focus returned to the car and I peered out of the window at the brilliant blue sky.  White puffy clouds were drifting by and I tried to think of how Luke would react to their splendor.  I smiled as I glanced back at him, still sound asleep with his trains clutched in each tiny fist.  I wondered what he may be dreaming of and wished I could peer into his thoughts to watch his excitement and wonder over the simple things of life.

 

Reviled and Revered

         

          I recently had an encounter with a snake.  I am not relating an adventure, however, since it was nothing more than a common backyard brown snake that I saw slithering out of the path of my oncoming lawnmower.  Still, I must confess that a strong revulsion rose up within me – a sudden seizing of the heart – as I watched this small, brown ribbon weave its way through the grass.  The scientific name for this is ophidiophobia, which is just a fancy way of saying that I really don’t care for snakes.

            This may not seem a startling confession, since nearly everyone who reads the above paragraph would share my sentiments.  But it still seems strange to me that I retain this fear of snakes.  Why snakes of all things? 

            Take dogs for example.  Why not be afraid of dogs?  I have much more reason to be, considering the fact that my lower back still bears the dental signature of a particularly unfriendly chow.  I can still remember the day when two enormous rottweilers menacingly circled around me as a neighbor screamed warnings to remain perfectly still.  I ought to be afraid of dogs, but if it had been two garter snakes instead of rottweilers, I would have most likely fainted with fear.

            So what is it about snakes?  From Eden to the Hesperides it seems that mankind has exhibited a peculiar distrust of the serpent.  Is it their reputation for being deceitful, malevolent, and venomous?  Maybe, but I don’t think so.  I believe our repulsion for snakes lies in a much more simple fact: they are utterly unlike us. 

          The snake is a writhing, undulating, slick-scaled strand of limbless motion that seems to glide rather than crawl.  It lives in obscurity, under slimy rock and root; silently flicking its forked tongue and surveying its surroundings with its obsidian eyes (and it’s the eyes that get you).  Look into the eyes of a dog – no matter how fierce – and you see the semblance of a soul; a kindred spirit in some way.  Lock eyes with a snake, however, and you see unblinking black windows into nothingness.  It is said that the eyes of a snake can charm you; make you forget everything as it draws you into the nothingness that lurks behind them.  It is no wonder we shudder at the sight of a serpent.

          But not everyone does, and this is a mystery.  You see it in the Hindu Naga and Indian snake charmer, in the spirited services of certain southeastern churches, adorning the heads of the Pharaohs, and healing the smitten who will look upon its brazen form.  An object of hatred for some becomes an article of worship to others.  The infamous reptile, cursed to eat dust, exalted to a place of honor; reviled and revered.  It seems there is no middle ground: we adore or despise that which is most unlike us.

          I must confess that – concerning snakes – I fall into the latter category; which brings me once again to my backyard. As the snake retreated from the whirling blades of my lawnmower, I felt an incredible urge to overtake it; to dice it into a hundred tiny pieces.  But I halted just short of my pursuit when the snake stopped, raised its head, and stared at me with a scaly grin.  I returned its gaze for just a moment, and then the snake darted away.  I did not follow.  Was it my appreciation for life – no matter how personally abhorrent its form – that restrained me? Or maybe a moment of empathetic insight into the existence of this mysterious creature?  Perhaps, but I must confess that my motive was primarily pragmatic.  As you may already know, snakes eat rats, and the only thing that I hate worse than a snake is a rat.