Left and right

My sister forwarded me an email recently that had a bunch of brain tricks and optical illusions. Most of them were ones I'd seen before--counting all the fs in a sentence, catching all the "thes" in a sentence, seeing the old lady and the young lady, that sort of thing--but there was one in the email that I hadn't seen before. It was a video clip of a not-very-clothed lady spinning in a circle. The way you saw her turn determined which side of the brain you were using. (For a refresher course in which side does what, check this out.)

As most people who know me can attest, I don't have the best left-and-right skills. It took me a while to decide which hand was making a legitimate "L,"and then I realized that I was seeing this dancer spinning to the left. The description said that if you saw the lady spinning left, you were left-brained, and if you saw her spinning right, you were right-brained. If you could see her spinning both ways, your IQ was 160 or above. Well, I just couldn't imagine that I was left-brained at all, so I had to call my family to confirm that I had the correct left.

They came, and, once I explained my dilemma, they confirmed that I had, indeed, gotten my left correct. My brother saw the lady turning right, and my dad could see her switch back and forth at random. My mom also saw the lady turning to the right.

But as I looked, I realized that I saw the lady switching back and forth as well! Then my brother followed, though my mom could still only see her turning to the right. By this point I was curious (I've never taken an IQ test, and don't actually know what's considered high, but 160 just sounds a lot higher then my IQ should be) as to what brained I really was. So I pulled up a bunch of tests online and my brother and I took them, and found some fairly surprising results. For one thing, I have extremely high left-brainedness. I'm pretty much completely middle-brained, which means I have almost equal strengths on both sides, but I still am stronger in my right brain than my left (though not my much, which was where my surprise lay). As for my brother, he has stronger right-brain dominance than I! For those of you who know my brother and I, one might assume me to be the more right-brained among us, and he the left-brained. But apparently, assumptions are often wrong.

Of course, these tests are generic tests, potentially faulty. I might be completely right-brained after all, but I answer left-brainedly. Who even knows.

I dub thee...

Our family has the odd habit of naming things. I'm not quite sure where it started, but by the time I was old enough to remember anything, our Kenmore fan was just called "Kenmore." We don't make a habit of naming everything (for instance, no room in our house has a name, like The Rose Room or anything like that), but there are a few things that deserve titles.

Such as vehicles. Our van, big, slow and green, is called the Turtle. (I'll never forget the day I told the guy at Goodyear Tire that, and afterward he began to refer to the van as The Turtle. They messed up our brakes, though, so he didn't endear himself to me, even though he was on board with the whole Turtle thing.) Our Camry, with the first three letters of the license plate reading "Elf" was dubbed The Elf. Tacky, we know, but it came with a name, and we don't believe in being contrary to pre-named items. Our Taurus is called Avon. I'll take full credit for that one, because I was the one who first fell in love with a clever little book called The End of the Beginning, wherein an ant and a snail (Avon and Edward) journey forth on all sorts of adventures. Having a vehicle named Avon seemed like the least we could do to pay homage to the brilliance that is that book.

Other things in our house weren't really my doing. Our refrigerators, for instance. We have two refrigerators, both whiteish, both side-by-side, and it was frightfully difficult to tell them apart. My mom kept on reminding us that we should pick names for them (other than "the milk fridge" and "the leftover fridge"), and after several suggestions like Stan (because the one was more tan-coloured than the other), and other less-sensible names, we stumbled upon brilliance. Mahli and Mushi.

My mom claims that she always sort of wanted twins named Mahil and Mushi, after the legendary Bible brothers, but just never had the chance. So, that was that. Mushi became the name of our fridge that always dies (and leaves us with mushy food) and Mahli became... the other one. Everyone thinks we're saying Molly and Mushy, and can't imagine why we chose such odd names, but we silently thank that clever Merari fellow for having such funnily-named children.

A month of crazy

Well, we all do crazy things. As November approaches, and NaNoWriMo with it, I realize that my days of fairly regular blogging will no doubt come to an end. NaNoWriMo is a crazy program in which you write a novel (well, sort of a shorter novel, checking in at only 50,000 words) using only the 30 days of November. I've only done it once, but I'm hoping to again this year. Which is why I don't think I'll have a lot of excess time to be blogging several times a week.

A big problem I've been trying not to think about is this: I do not have a plot. I think that maybe perhaps I have sort of something I could use as a plot-type thing, but it's really not all here. Last year I had a similar problem, but it ended up coming to me, and I was able to write a story in about 56,000 words and be done with it. But I'm not sure that such helpful inspiration will strike me twice. My younger brother (did it last year, doing it again) keeps on going on about his story, and how he's got it all figured out, but I just don't work that way. Prewriting was always my least favorite part of English--sometimes, in fact, it was so problematic that I would write the whole essay, and then go back and write an outline based on what I'd actually written. I'm not suggesting that that's a good way to go, I'm just saying, that's how I roll.

Which means that when November comes and several thousand people are out there, cheerfully writing stories that have been outlined in their heads for months, I'll be tapping at the keyboard, killing off random characters, adding a lot of adverbs, and trying to get my word count up. It's a sad, sad month I'll have ahead of me.

Back from the Neverland

I guess I never bothered to mention that I finished Peter Pan. I had meant to write about it when I finished, but rather forgot. I suppose it's not worthy of too much consideration, but the truth of the matter is, it was a fascinating read, once you got over the killing.

The whole reason I could ever recommend that book to anyone (besides its sheer classic value), is because James Barrie was truly a genius. Throughout the whole story you get the feeling that he was as baffled as you are, as to why the story unfolded the way it did. He sounded so helpless, often, as if it pained him that the story follows certain paths, and it pained him that he couldn't just make up whatever he pleased. There was one point in the book where he was talking about all the adventures the children had on the Neverland, and he spent a while trying to decide what story to tell. Shall I tell the one about the mermaids? Or the battle with the Redskins? Or the time when Tinker Bell tried to float Wendy away? Or when Peter fought the lions? Eventually, James Barrie claimed to have tossed a coin to decide which story to tell, and ended up telling the one about mermaids, though he was awfully sorry it hadn't been another story, but that's just the way it was.

It just cracked me up, how much James Barrie feels a part of the story. You almost feel as if he were really a part of it, like you'd have a much different view of everything, had someone else attempted to tell it.

Another part I liked? That when they wanted to tell time on the Neverland, someone would wander around until they heard the crocodile ticking, and then hang around him until he chimed the hour. At which point they would know what time it was.

But all that aside, there were parts I really didn't like. At the end, when Peter Pan is having the last battle with Hook and the pirates, one of the Lost Boys slowly counts as various pirates get killed off. One. Two. Three. And so on (he gets up to about seventeen, which isn't actually correct, because two, Smee and someone else, I forget who, managed to escape alive). And even the demise of Hook is viewed as a rather lackadaisical affair, similar to spotting the Never Bird in the ocean, or bumping into Tiger Lilly in the woods. It rather creeped me out to have to read it in such a hum-drum manner.

Also, I couldn't decide how old Peter Pan really was. We like to think of him as maybe eight or ten (well, that's how old I might have placed him, if I'd given it any thought), but in the book it says multiple times that Peter still had his baby teeth. Well, I nannied a child who just turned five, and has already lost several of his baby teeth. Is this to imply that Peter was maybe just four years old? I really don't understand how a boy of such short stature could conceivably knock off so many beefy pirates.

Also, this doesn't seem to be common Peter Pan knowledge, but Peter had a terrible memory. He forgot everything. I think it was just to show that he was a child and didn't have to care, but maybe it was because he was four years old, and children of that age don't have a good recollection of anything.

And I could never determine "fact" from "fiction," because the book goes on and on about how they play-acted everything, from meals to mending to medicine. Wendy made the children sleep on the rock for half an hour before swimming after lunch, but then it says that it was rather silly, since their lunch was just play-acting, anyhow. So... did they ever eat? I have no idea.

There's this hilarious part right at the end of the book where we're in the nursery, looking at Mrs. Darling as she mourns for her children, and James Barrie had wanted to mock her, because he wasn't so terribly fond of her, but then he saw that she really did miss her children, so he decided to be nice. But there's this hilarious sentence that says, "If she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn't help it." I just liked that the children were described as rubbishy.

Speaking of children, I didn't realize, until reading this original version of the story, that the Lost Children stayed in the "real world." In the Disney movie, didn't they stay in the Neverland? I don't quite recall.

Oh, and Mr. Darling felt so dreadfully remorseful about his part in the children flying away (he had been the one to tie up Nana the night they flew the coop), that after the children left, he kicked Nana out of the kennel and he lived in it until the children returned. He had the taxi bring him to and from work every day (he was excessively fond of taxis, since a taxi had helped him beat the rush to propose to Mrs. Darling before she was a Mrs.) and just never got out of the kennel. Can you say odd?

Whatever the case, the story was well presented, though I found the plot a little strange at times. Odd though it might have been, I have done my duty as a child, and read Peter Pan. I must say, it doesn't make me want to stay a child forever. It makes me happy, in fact, that I'm in full possession of my faculties and in no danger of being attacked by pirates or ticking crocodiles. Sometimes real life feels safer than fantasy.

Of apples and trees

We had supper the other night at my grandparent's house. The food was delicious, the fellowship was wonderful, and the conversation... familiar. Familiar, because it was the same conversation we have every time we go. The embarrassing thing? I haven't even memorized it yet.

I love it, don't get me wrong, I just appreciate the humor of the whole thing. What happens is we talk about this and that--what various family members are up to, who's studying up on what Biblical topic, what we feel about chiropractors or torture chambers--and then, all of a sudden, we're talking about Israel. And that's fine, truly it is, I love all things Israel. What makes it so familiar is that the conversation almost always goes the same way.

My grandpa talks about how Israel is being protected only by the hand of the Lord, and how nations are retarded to try to fight against Israel. My dad backs this up with recent news items about countries who want to attack Israel. They talk about American politics for a moment, then revert back to all the points in history wherein Israel was protected in miraculous ways. Anyone who's had a meal with these guys has no doubt heard at least some of the stories. 90 Minutes in Antibe being a fairly popular one. They also talk about the times when the Israeli soldiers would stand out in the open and always hit their guys, while the enemy always missed them. The time when Israeli planes came to a Russian airfield and managed to knock out all the actual fighterly planes, and somehow miss all the decoy planes is a good one, too.

It's always interesting, and about 20 minutes into this hour-long ordeal my grandma falls asleep and my brother and I start conversing among ourselves. But one day (if the rapture holds off for a while longer), no doubt, I'll find myself having a meal with my brother and his family, and he and I will start telling all of his bored children about all the miracles the Lord performed for Israel when they didn't even know it. And they'll roll their eyes and start talking about something else. That's OK, they'll no doubt get a chance to hear it again, if they choose not to listen that time. And again. And again.

Connect the dots

All the time when people explain things to me from the Bible, I realize that it is such a good thing that everyone else came along first to connect all the dots for me. The other night my grandpa was talking about how 1 Kings 18:38 was the closest we could ever come to understanding what really went on on the cross, and, though I've heard it before, I was enjoying that thought, but I was also thinking: who first realized that?

The verse goes as follows: "Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench." And it's a nice verse, and a nice connection, but honestly, I have to admit, I'm not sure I would have been able to get from that verse to the cross without a little direction.

Which makes me think: how much of the Bible would I have been able to understand had not so many Berean-type folk come before me? I'm not sure I would have gotten much farther than connecting Psalm 22 to the cross, truth be told. There are just so many pictures and types and shadows in the OT that I still don't really get, even though they're explained to me. Samson, for instance. People are forever explaining how he's a type of Christ, and I nod and smile, but really don't follow.

So, to all the Berean-type folks in the world, thank you. I join with all the other people like me in asking that you continually help us out by sharing your wisdom with us. I'm just really bad at connecting the dots on my own.

All about unity

So, you know how I was rambling on about the song City on Our Knees, and how I hoped it was about evangelism and the such? Well, I just found a quick youtube clip of Toby explaining what the song was about. Great, I thought, now I'll know. So I watched it, and, though I know now what it's about, I don't think it's as great as I once did.

The song, says Toby, is about Unity. The moment when we lay aside our differences and we all come together, blah blah blah. What? Why are saints and sinners coming together, and what's their common ground? I'm not trying to be too critical here, but the whole point of sinners is that they're not saved yet. I, Toby, am saved. I, Toby, don't exactly have the ability to lay aside my differences--I'm saved and that's that. I, Toby, should be coming and sharing the gospel with them. We, Toby, are not going to a city with One King with said sinners if those sinners didn't get saved. We, Toby, are the light of the world, and if we can't differentiate between sinners and saints, than we need brighter lightbulbs.

And honestly, I'm not trying to sound like a grouch here, but the difference between me and my lost neighbour is that I have Jesus Christ living in my heart, and he doesn't (yet). That difference shouldn't prevent us from talking (and it certainly shouldn't prevent me from evangelizing, especially since my flesh seems to get in the way of that on its own enough as it is), but it certainly does prevent my neighbour and I from coming together in a unified, fellowshippy way. Sorry, Toby, you tried, and you missed.

All for the sake of posterity

Some people keep journals as a record of their life for the sake of posterity. Others, like me, keep a journal to keep from exploding from the excessive amounts of words inside of them. Honestly, I like my way better, because it seems more interesting, plus, I can write or not write whenever the Spirit so moves me without worrying that a grand-niece of mine might one day wonder what I did on that illusive missing Tuesday. Even better, once I burn my journals, they'll never be the wiser as to the fact that my Tuesday was missing in the first place.

But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!

But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.

But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.

For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?

I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.

But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.

Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.

I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.

Lose my soul

I was watching the music video for TobyMac's song, Lose My Soul, the other day. And, while I like the song, I think it's only fair to share that I didn't really understand the music video. Yes, yes, I got the part about the guy NOT killing himself (deciding he didn't want to lose his soul, I can only assume), but everything else? No clue.

For instance, I was sorry that the lady had to sell her wedding band, but was that showing that she was losing her soul? gaining the world? I couldn't figure it out. And the guys who stole the computer? What was that? Gaining the world? Because it didn't really fit in with the story. For a second I thought maybe the pawn shop guy was the one who was gaining the world/losing his soul. But I think he was a good guy. He admired the wedding band, and seemed to pay a good price, plus he smiled when the guy returned the gun without killing himself. That was... nice.

This is why I sometimes thing I should stick with hymns. They, at least make sense. Modern music, or whatever we call it, rarely does. For instance, I really like the new TobyMac song City On Our Knees, but I don't really understand it. Why are the sinners and saints meeting, and what are they doing? and if those sinners are truly sinners, then I'm sorry, but they're not coming to the city with One King without some serious Salvation. But I agreed with his general point of starting now and here. I mean, I agree, providing he's talking about evangelizing or something. Like I said, I'm really not sure what he's getting at in that song.

But I think it's about evangelism, since he talks about third-world missions and stepping across the line. I've been thinking a lot recently about how little I evangelize, and it's been driving me crazy, my lack of evangelism-motivation.

So, here's hoping that when Toby is singing "we are one choice from together," what's he's saying is that if I get you saved, we'll be together forever. And then we can be family. That's cool with me, my friend. Getting saved is about the most glorious display we can find on earth. So maybe Toby knows what he's singing about, after all.

The Bumbetoes

One of my favorite story books when I was a child was one called The Bumbletoes. My grandma had it from when she was a child, and it was the only fictional book she and her siblings were ever allowed to own. The book went missing for about ten years, so the details were getting foggy. There was something about a castle, a picnic situation, and Buttonsboy kept on saying "Right ho."

But we found it recently, much to our delight, and it was one of the few things I asked for from my grandmother's house after she passed away... and I got it! The book is over a hundred years old now, and has been in the family for more than 90 years, according to the inscription in the front page. "Five little H_____'s, from Uncle Herbert, Jan. 1918." Magnificent in beat-up-ness, brilliant in verse, and clever (yet vaguely frightening) pictures is what makes the book what it is.

The basic story is that The Bumbletoes (little odd-looking, alien-type fellows) decide that they're not content being at home, they're wanting to travel. And they want to take Buttonsboy and Belinda, because Buttonsboy is their friend, I guess, and "a girl can cook or trim a hat."

With all that out of the way, the travelers travel forth. They go by boat, get seasick, and stop for a picnic lunch, made especially sweet by "Sally Luns, those best of buns" which "cheer each drooping heart." Now comes my favorite part of the whole book. Pardon the long quote.

As if from subterranean depths,
A Growl comes to their ears,
And round the corner of a rock
A Big Black Bear appears.

Now fly the Bumbletoes, with speed
That only fear can lend:
Alone now stands the Buttonsboy
Belinda to defend.
No help is near, no weapons sure,
Nor pistol, sword, nor gun--
With courage born of great despair,
He throws the deadly Bun.

Not often for such courage rare
Such swift reward is found--
The Bear before that fearful blow
Lies dead upon the ground:
Belinda laughs at perils past,
The others do the same,
Congratulating Buttonsboy
Upon his careful aim.

After the nearly ill-fated picnic, they set off again, see a castle in the distance, and are welcomed warmly by the residents of the castle, only to discover that they are merely being imprisoned. The Bumbletoes dissolve in tears, "'All, all is lost,'" they cry, 'Give us a foot or so of floor, We'll lay us down and die.'"

Belinda has an interesting take on matters as well (if it weren't for the bun killing the bear episode, this would be my favorite part of the book, hands down). "'Oh! Buttonsboy,' Belinda says, 'Although I'm not a man, and have not intellect enough to think out any plan, I grasp the prospect is not one we're likely to enjoy--I think we needn't quite despair!' 'Righto!' said Buttonsboy."

Now tell me, isn't that the funniest thing ever? I have not intellect enough to think out any plan? Best part is, the book was written by a duo of sisters, Millicent and Githa Sowerby. We are forever thankful that they felt they had intellect enough to write and illustrate a book that should be a classic in its own rite.

The Bumbletoes and Buttonsboy are put to work, growing pale and thin and having no time for sleep or play. These weren't the adventures they were looking for, I'll tell you that. Belinda, being a girl "now must sew and cook, and bustle all she can," because apparently bustling is an actual thing to do. The things you learn while reading.

Anyhow, all is saved when a Donkey falls in love with Belinda (at which point we realize that maybe Belinda and Buttonsboy were brother and sister and not marriageable-type playmates after all). After declaring his love for Belinda, the Donkey makes this Darcy-worthy impassioned speech.

My stand is only made of wood,
My voice is best unheard,
My tail is short--I know full well
That I was born absurd;
But oh! I'd perish for your sake,
I'd give up carrots too,
Nor touch another blade of grass,
And all for love of you.

How touching. Eventually "love lends him brains to form a simply brilliant plan" wherein he brings poppy seeds to Belinda, who bakes them into an apple pie that is a "culinary art." Everyone from the castle loves the pie (the very large pie, the largest pie Belinda could have possibly made) and they all eat it and simultaneously fall into a deep sleep. The Donkey steals the keys from the sleeping key-holder dude, and they all escape.

It's a good thing they have the Donkey with them (you didn't think Belinda was going to leave him behind, did you?) because once they realize that they'll never make it to the coast by walking on their feet, the "helpful Donkey cries 'You'll have to ride, of course, and as a cow is rather slow you'd better try a horse!" The Bumbletoes catch a non-broken-in horse, somehow managing to ride it off into the sunset, because by this point everyone in the castle woke up sort of angry over the situation and were chasing them.

It gets worse. The castle folk are coming ever-closer and since our travelers "have no guns, not even buns, they cannot turn and fight" they end up taking out their pocket-knives cutting most of the way through a wooden bridge the castle-folk will have to cross to reach them, and waiting for the bad castle-folk to walk out on the bridge (all at once, mind you) and the bridge falls apart. Naturally, the castle-folk "Hang for a moment in the air--then scatter far and wide. Down, down they fall, and one and all are sunk beneath the tide." But the book hastens to assure us that the evil folk manage to make it out alive and come to the coast just in time to watch the friends put out to sea. Belinda got to man the wheel, actually, so I guess even though she couldn't form intelligent plans, she was able to be some good.

They get home safe and sound, but best of all:

No more their restless spirits long
In distant lands to roam;
While ways are steep and seas are deep,
It's best to stay at home.

Oh, and there's a picture at the end of Belinda watering some flowers standing in front of a cave-like dwelling with a sign "At Home" on it.

So remember this, good friends. 'Tis always best to be "at home."

Rhymes with "wholly unfortunate"

I used to write poem-ly things when I was young. Once, I even took a poetry class. Unfortunately my poems were, in a word, terrible, and the poetry class didn't help even one iota. The whole "tree/Calvary/died for me" rhyming scheme worked well for the first 12 or so years of my life, and after that, I sort of latched onto the simple "rewind/mind/God is kind" type stuff that seemed like such brilliance.

But I just have no talent for poetry. Every time I look back on poems I considered to be so incredible or deep, I sort of want to burn them (which isn't unusual, I pretty much want to burn everything I've ever written). But sometimes I make myself try to write poetry, just to see if I've inadvertently gotten hit in the head with a poetry-laden 2x4. So far, just so you know, it hasn't happened. When I try to write poetry these days I just feel like being lazy and doing what every other modern poet does, which is to say, write completely random words.

Let me try a poem that would get a modern poet published in a magazine.

Tortilla Chips dreams
Frozen Vegetables drama
Wrinkled Paper fear
Antique Watch far from youth

Pretty much, that's what I see when I read poetry written in the past hundred years or so. What is wrong with at least attempting to put in cool-sounding lines, like things about "time yet for a hundred indecisions, and time for a hundred visions and revisions," sort of Thomas Stearns style? Not that T. S. Eliot bothered to rhyme much, but at least he had a natural cadence to his work, and at least some of his stuff rhymed, and at least he didn't write abstractly about plutonium and proms and sowing seeds of anger. When I look at modern poetry I realize that there's usually something to decipher (unlike my beautiful poem above, so seriously, don't bother trying to find a deep meaning between my tortilla chips and fear), but if I wanted to decipher something, I'd work on Hebrew, or do a logic puzzle, or try to read my dad's handwriting or something. There is no good reason for having to spend forever trying to figure out poetry.

Poetry is supposed to touch a chord inside of you. Reach something you didn't know you had. It's supposed to make you itch to say words or your own, jumbled masses of thoughts, strung together like music. But these days? You're counting blessings if the words are even masses of jumbledness, and finding things strung together is somewhat hopeless.

The tablecloth,
Sinks in the washer,
Under the weight of water,
and soap, and dirty socks.

Seriously, people get paid for that?

Hold on

I’ll admit: as far as I know, I’m the only person in a first-world country who still likes to be on hold when calling for help. There we have it: I pretty much love it. I don’t understand what the problem is for those poor folks who dislike it. What’s not to like?

First, grab a book or magazine, and the time flies. Better yet, learn the song that they’re playing on their continuous loop, and learn it. Then sing along, only better.

Actually, I’ll admit, it’s the music that makes me love being on hold. I love being on hold, listening to their stupid music, knowing that dozens of other people are listening to the same music as I am at that very second. For some reason it seems way cooler than listening to the radio, which is also (obviously) listened to by multiple people at a time.

I like to sit on hold, listening to their music, and pray for the other people listening to that exact same music. I like to think that they’re having a good day (though let’s face it, they’re on hold, which most people consider a waste of a day), or I like to think that if they’re not having a good day (which we’ve basically established that they’re not) then my little prayer for them will help their day get better. I don’t know their names, obviously, or anything of the sort, but I know what they’re doing at that exact moment—just doing the same thing I am.

And you know what? Somehow it makes being on hold seem not all that bad.

Thomas Stearns would have cried

I don’t know why I keep sharing all this stuff from my journals, since they’re supposed to be top secret, keep out or else, and all that. But apparently I don’t write as much private stuff in my journals as 10-year-olds are wont to do. Plus, I’m still dwelling on them, and blogs are supposed to be about things we’re pondering, so I figured I might as well spring for it.

First, I’m not completely insane, I promise. However, I do sometimes do odd things. For instance, in a journal that I kept about three or so years ago, I decided to do a rather insane thing. My first entry has a portion that goes as follows:

“Well, I’ve finally started my new diary. Just for background information (for 47 years from now, if the Lord doesn’t come, or tribulation saints (hi!) if He does) I’m __ years old. I lead a rather uneventful life and can’t write in straight lines… and absolutely NO handwriting skills. Good luck, oh ye tribulation saints. Go find a Bible or something—way more profitable and way easier to read!

“So, _______ conference comes up soon, and no doubt these pages will be full to the brim of “guess what?” stories. I seem to always collect stories at conferences, like flies to honey, or something. Not that I’m honey, or stories are flies, but it was just the best analogy I could think of. By the way, I can’t spell, not even if my life were hanging on the chance. So, my tribulation saints: beware. And as I said, Bible is always better. But if you do insist, I shall keep writing.

“That gives me an idea. You know how Anne Frank did that annoying “Dear Kitty” thing? Well, for this insufferably long journal, I can do a “Dear Tribulation Saint.” I doubt that’s been done too many times before. And if it has, well, so what. We’re all just excited about the Lord’s coming.”

So apparently I decided to keep a journal dedicated entirely to a random tribulation saint. We often talk in our house about how we hope the trib saints get to our house before the government, because then they can get our many Bibles. Clearly this has influenced me to consider that they might take off with my journals as reading material.

So, I carried forth for several months, starting each journal entry with a “Dear Tribulation Saint,” or, if I were feeling rather blasé, I’d just say “Tribulation Saint:” and carry forth. But one day, I had a rather startling thought.

“Friend,

“I just realized something. What if you’re not a tribulation saint? What if *gasp* you’re an evil dictator who has scoured the homes of known believers for information on meeting places and stuff? AHHH!!!! Get away from my diary!

“Anyhow, if the (hopefully large) chance that you’re a Saint, and/or still reading this, I shall endeavor to tell you about my day.”

Then, one September 11^th, I got pensive about that.

“Before I get too far I just want to say, September 11 already? I know that you, as a tribulated person, have all sorts of crazy stuff in your world, but September 11 was pretty crazy for me.”

I just couldn’t believe that I would even vaguely compare our little problems to Tribulation-sized problems. Clearly I have no sense of fair comparisons.

While going tangenty one day, I made this observation to my friend TS,

“Anyhow, that got a little off-topic from my subject, but that’s OK, because 1) this is a diary and I can say pretty much whatever I want, and b) if you’re really a tribulation saint, then I’m in Heaven and the rules of writing don’t even apply any more.”

I’m not sure why I thought that the rules of writing would cease to apply once I got a Heavenly-type promotion, but maybe my old self knew something it hasn’t bothered to share with the current me.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!

“Oh wait, do you have happy anything days there in the tribulation? That would kind of stink, not having happy anything days. I mean, I guess you have joy in the Lord and all that, but that would just kind of stink.”

Actually, I think the most amusing part of my whole thing was that I eventually shortened my saint’s title from “Tribulation Saint” to “TS.” It took me a little while to realize that T. S. Eliot has such initials, so I started calling my Tribulation Saint TS, Thomas, or just Eliot. And sometimes Thomas. It vaguely weireded me out to realize that writing my journal to a man didn’t seem odd, because I’d been subconsciously writing it to a male the whole time.

Which should be weirder, but when I think of tribulation saints, I mostly think of men, for some reason. Silly, I know, because women and children would be the most likely to grab journals from someone’s room (the men would be in the basement stocking up on pliers and flathead screwdrivers) and so it goes to follow that a woman or childly person would end up with my journal.

But, it’s all foolishness anyhow, because if I manage to remain on earth for very long, I intend to burn most (code word: all) of my journals anyhow. So, Tribulation Saint, don’t bother looking for those journals. Go help your mom raid our pantry. Also in the basement, by the way, so just follow the menfolk, and you’ll do fine.

Overaged

Some people are superstitious, this much I know. For instance, the number 13 seems to be basis for a number of popular superstitions. If I were superstitious (which I am not, no matter how many times my foot/nose/palm itches and people tell me I'll walk new ground/kiss a fool/get some money), I might think it was a superstitious event that my older brother died when I was 13, or that my grandpa died the day before my little brother turned 13, or, better yet, I might have a crazy theory about today.

Today, if you'll recall, is the 13th day of October. It's a Tuesday, so there's certainly nothing Friday-like going on, but today is just an odd day. My little brother? The one who is three years older than I, the one who was six or so years removed from my older brother? Yeah, well, today he's exactly two months away from being 17. Which isn't that crazy in and of itself (except that, aww, he's growing up), except that it means that he's officially as old as my older brother was when he died. Several hours older, in fact.

And it feels so funny to be measuring things by hours, after six entire years have separated us from the death of my older brother, but I can only seem to wrap my mind around the hours thing right now.

I remember the day I turned "older" than my older brother. I sort of wanted to vomit, truth be told. It's such a lost feeling, having the laws of nature do that to you. Naturally speaking, when one person is born before another person, they are older than the second-born. But when death switches up the picture, rules like that don't apply. I remember trying to mentally sort out what it even meant, turning older than my elder. I never really came up with a good answer, I guess, and clearly I still can't articulate it very well.

But I'm happy for my younger brother. I'm happy that he and I are friends, much like my older brother and I were. I'm excited for him, that he's been able to walk the paths he's walked, and come out on the other side. Does it weird me out that he's gotten farther in life than my older brother ever did? Yeah. But it doesn't feel like as much of a betrayal to my older brother as I sometimes mused it would be. Because life doesn't follow rules like we think it should. Life happens, and it's only through the strength of the Lord that we're able to make it day by day, even when the days feel like they come completely out of order.

But I guess, when you think about it, that if our steps are ordered by the Lord, than the days in our lives can't really come out of order. Which is a good reminder, since I'm apt to be dramatic about pretty much everything. But with the One Who ordered the Universe on my side, I know that my life is similarly ordered, and as such, I have nothing of which to be afraid.

Forgotten: the lost boys

Well, the previous (rather, the post that is below me right now) was an old one I'd written back before I even got this blog. I'm forever writing random things, keeping them for a while, and then deleting them. I wrote this back in January, and when I got a blog in March, I figured I should use it for a blog post. But alas, time slipped away and I never posted it. But today is my day! I pulled it out and posted it.

The ironic thing? I'd never really read Peter Pan before (actually, I'd read the original play, but not the book) and I'm currently reading it. I'm only about halfway through, but it's sort of a long read for what's perceived as a childly book. It's mostly enjoyable, though James Barrie sure didn't shy away from blood and gore. For instance, he described how Captain Hook liked to randomly kill people. Just exactly what I wanted to hear.

I saw the Disney version of Peter Pan once, and the only thing I really remember is that they sung a song with a line "Why is the red man red," which always amused me for some reason, and also that once when Hook and Peter are fighting, Peter steps right off the end of some part of the ship (I'm bad a parts of ships, but it's a little crossbeam the sail was attached to, if that helps) and keeps fighting with Hook--even though he's not standing on anything solid! I remember being rather disgusted at the lack of realism in that part.

Though how the whole thing with Neverland was acceptable, I'm not sure. Oh, James Barrie actually called it "the Neverland" the whole time, so I guess I should start describing it as "the Neverland." Pardon my previous erroneous ways.

Wendy and the insurance company

I often get those epiphany moments where I realize that I never want to grow up. Not so much like Wendy and the Lost Boys and all that, but more like... real life is not fun.

What brings about this particular moment of revelation is insurance. Not mine, of course, because I'm trying to avoid things like real life (including insurance) for now, but I've been working with my grandparents on their insurance recently. Good practice for when it will be my own insurance, no doubt, but it's a little hard to be thankful for such a wonderful opportunity at the moment.

So here's the deal: they are thinking of switching insurance companies. Not a problem, I can check up on other insurance companies for you. So my grandpa got all his information together, along with a sheet of places he wanted me to price check, and off I start. Well, first of all, the websites ask these crazy questions that I don't understand. Why would insurance be different depending on how much education you had? So, my grandma did high school and that's it; are you seriously going to charge higher or lower insurance because of that? There are bazillions of questions about firewalls and alarm systems, which I mostly don't understand and fudge.

So auto insurance: I'm supposed to know how many cylinders their car has. What? I hardly even know what cylinders are. Well, I do, but how am I supposed to know that? So then it's all like "LD" or "SS" and it has something to do with the car, but all I can think is "Lord's Day?" "Sunday School?" and that's not what they're asking.

On top of that, some of the companies ask about liters. Huh? Liters for gas? something about pressure? What? I have no idea what this stuff means. And the first time a website asked me something about garages, I thought it had something to do with where the car got parked at work or something. I was looking around for a place where I could click "we don't use parking garages frequently, y'all crazyson" but it didn't have it. And then I realized that it just was talking about where we park it in a garage. Which town. Oh, never mind.

So then I had to call a few places (felt like a few dozen places, honestly) to speak directing to representatives, because, well, the Internet hates me. So then they realize that I'm just a granddaughter and need authorization. "My grandpa's at Costco, can you get it from my grandma?" so I stick my grandma on the phone. All I can hear is her side of the conversation, which goes something like this: "Yes, that is my name... Yes... No, I'm the grandmother, she's the granddaughter... She can tell you what you need to know, she understands more about this than I do..." it goes on for a while until I get back on the phone with that particular guy, who begins to ask all the same questions the website wanted to ask me five minutes previously.

Education: "Well, Mike," that was his name, in case anybody was worried that my name suddenly became Mike "I asked him that this morning and he said that he has years more experience than any of the goons working for your company, so I'm not sure where that puts him." The insurance guy laughed. Which was good, because I'm not sure if you're supposed to tell people who are helping you that they're little more than goons. But hey, somehow it worked.

So this particular guy (we're sticking with Mike stories, for now) figured that since I was just a granddaughter, I wouldn't know anything about insurance. So he explains every little thing to me, and so I'm guessing he was paid by the hour, because I've got to say, I did not need so much background info on every part of the policy plan.

But then I was mentally speculating about his life, and wanted to ask personal questions. I mean, is that allowed? I don't know proper protocol, but he was talking about his family, and then he mentioned that he's usually in the office until 10:00, which doesn't sound like a guy who has a family who means a whole lot, if you ask me.

But, of course, none of this was about asking me.

Anyhow, after explaining to Mike multiple times that we didn't need rental insurance ("Mike, the whole point of me being a granddaughter is that if their car does break down and go into the shop, I'll just drive them around for a while") and didn't need roadside assistance ("AAA, Mike, AAA") we were ready to get the quote.

And then his computer went all weird for a while and I got put on hold. Not that I mind hold, but the suspense just about killed me. And then, of course, it was way too expensive and totally not worth it.

So Mike got to waste about an hour of my time, and now I can't get that hour back.

Is there insurance for missing time? Because I want some.

Memory days

Today, my brother would have been 23 years old. I can hardly believe that so many birthdays have come and gone since he passed away. I must admit to not having felt very melancholy about it today--it was just another day for me. But even as I have days that are just like all the rest, I have in the back of my mind that I had a brother, but no longer. Well, I still have a brother, but not this exact one.

I can't really think of what else to add. Other than that the odd mix of emotions that I stir up by thinking about it are always confusing to me. Sometimes it irritates me that I've moved on as completely as I have, and other times it irritates me that it still makes me sad. The passage of six+ years is by no means a reason for me to stop caring or thinking about it, but there are so many other problems to consider other than the death of my brother that it's odd to me that I still dwell on it at all. But, I figure that if I feel like being sad, then I will, and that's that.

But today wasn't such a day. Today was a day where I was thankful for the memories I have of us, and the memories I'm making with the rest of my family these days.

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.

I press towards the mark

I have a birthday coming upon me fairly quickly, and for some reason, I've decided that this year I am going to set goals for myself, and I am going to accomplish them. I can do all things through Christ Which strengtheneth me, is my logic, so why not accomplish a few things using said strength?

So I sat down with some paper and a trusty black pen, and started to make a list of my goals. It was odd, though, I've never done anything like this before. I don't even make new year's resolutions--if I want to change something in my life, I'm not waiting for a new year to do it, that's for sure. So anyhow, I couldn't decide if maybe I should have guidelines for how specific my goals should be, or just do whatever. So I've got a rather odd combination of specific and vague items.

So this year, Lord willing, I will sew a thing. That's right, in the next twelve months I will have done a project that required sewing. That was one of my less specific ones, I have to admit.

Also, I'll read at least one ministry book a month. Lord Willing. And I'll throw away things from my bedroom at least once a month.

The list goes on, but it includes such things as reading Newberry medal books, passing out tracts (this is for more than once a month, I promise), doing word studies (Oh, Strongs), actually writing in my journal, calling friends I don't normally call, becoming friends with a specific person, scrapbooking, things like that. I was just telling Brother J that I didn't stand much of a chance, accomplishing this, and he looked solomly at me and said, "But when you make a covenant with God..." and then I felt convicted into properly accomplishing all that I have agreed upon.

So, with Christ I can do all. Take that, flesh.

Give me words to speak

I fall so short. All the time. In every area.

But one area in which I've been feeling particularly short recently is the whole evangelizing thing. Sometimes I just don't open my mouth for the Lord. If someone wants to make the first move and ask me, then I'll talk, but otherwise? I just don't. Which is terrible, I fully recognize this.

For instance, as my brother and I were walking home from meeting one evening recently, we saw a guy wondering around some bushes with a flashlight. So, naturally, we stopped and asked him if we could be of any assistance. Turns out he'd lost the battery for his cell phone, and his wife was quite upset, so he was looking for it in the dark. So, we helped him look for it for a while, and when we all came up empty-handed, he said to just forget it, he'd look tomorrow.

So I told him I really hoped he found it, and I was sorry that he'd lost it. At which point, the guy called over his shoulder (he was walking away from us in rather a huff), "What's the point, this whole life is miserable and nothing goes right anyhow and she's going to kill me and nothing good happens..." His rather run-on sentence went on for a while, at least until my brother and I could no longer hear him, and that was that.

But I remember standing there thinking: should I be running after him? Because I know that there are good things in life, I know it's not all miserable! I have Jesus living in my heart! I apparently know something this guy doesn't know!

But I stood there and watched him go. I didn't even holler a "JESUS SAVES!" after him or anything.

I could justify my way out of that one, since he'd been walking away and everything, but recently I had another experience where I just didn't open my mouth, and really could have.

I was walking home from meeting on a Sunday afternoon, and in one of the parking lots I cut across (I believe in efficiency) I came across a group of old people, just sitting around in lawn chairs. So they asked me how my day was, what I'd accomplished, what I did for work, all that stuff. I told them a little about me, and one of the things I mentioned was that I taught Sunday School.

So one old dude told this story that went something as follows, "I taught Sunday School to high school students, and they were wondering how God could have made man after the cave men were already around, and so I explained that man wasn't really man until God put a soul in him."

I remember standing there looking at this guy thinking, "Wh-huh?" And I was still trying to work out his logic when some other guy started talking to me about job stuff and another old guy started asking me how I felt about Obama.

But again, that's no excuse! I shouldn't have let him tell such a completely weird thing and get away with it. Sure, he was old, but he's talking about my Saviour, here. I should be able to jump in and be like, "Oh, actually, I was just reading His letter the other day and I'm pretty sure you got it all wrong."

Ack. Like I said, I fall so short it's depressing.

I never did like to brush my hair...

Sometimes I have these little epiphany moments in life wherein I realize that I'm pretty much exactly the same now as I was when I was a child, only, well... taller. Most times these moments strike me due to things I do or say that remind me that you don't cease to be a child unless you're willing to put away those childish things (Paul was way ahead of me). Sometimes I find these childish vestiges of me in old essays, notebooks, or journals of mine, but I recently managed to find a quote from an old school paper of a sister of mine that made me laugh. She had done character sketches of each member of our family, stating how old they were and a little thing or two about their life at that moment (K was sixteen, just gotten her drivers license, C was a baby and just sort of hung around, etc.), and reading mine was like reading something she might have written about me today. It was in the fall of 1996, and this was her perception of me:

"Jo is six years old and in second grade. She enjoys making lunches and singing more than brushing her hair!"

Switch out "lunches" for "suppers" and "six" for "twenty," and it would be as believable now as it was then.

Of course, now I'm plagued with questions about whether or not posterity can get a grasp on what I was really like without having access to the papers and musings of all of my siblings. I've been considering staging a takeover of all relevant papers, but have determined that since the Lord is coming soon, I don't have to worry about such not-entirely-kosher activities. I shudder to consider the full extent of damage I could cause to all of my familial relationships...

Abe's big test

Apparently I’ve always been a pensive one. I spent one whole entire journal entry several years ago wondering something that I still sometimes take time to ponder. Namely, Abraham. I’m just going to type in all the words I wrote, since my thoughts on it haven’t truly changed in the last several years. Actually, they have, but I’ll get to that afterwards.

~*~*~*~*~

I was thinking about Abraham and Isaac. That story seems so unfair to me. And I know, God has His ways, nothing is ‘unfair’ with God, etc. I know the drill. But why, why did God have to test Abraham like that?

God knows everything. God knew that Abraham would go, that the angel would show up, that Abraham would sacrifice the ram instead. God knew all of that! So the point was certainly not that God was wanting to see how far Abraham would go. Did God do it to show Abraham how far he (Abraham) would go? And if so, what was the point?

I can see it now. “Sarah! We’re back! I almost killed Isaac last week, but on the plus side, I know that I trust God and that He rocks!”

“Um, dear, you can’t take any more father-son bonding trips, OK?”

Ahhh, so many questions, so few remaining Bible characters. And when I say ‘so few,’ I mean none.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Well, I’ve since decided that the Lord does indeed test us just to show us what we can accomplish when we actually dare to trust Him. Also, most of what the Lord puts us through ends up showing out His Glory to those around us in incredible ways. So while I still think that it was crazy times for old Abe to have to go forth and do this, I appreciate it for the strengthened faith that he got, and also for the lesson it teaches us—and the picture it is for us of Christ.

Also, I liked that I had to clarify that no Bible characters have remained to this day. You know, just in case one day I had forgotten that no Ezras or Timothys of Biblical proportions were still wandering around. I’ve got a bad memory, you never know how bad it might get. Best be prepared, that’s my motto.

With age comes... boringness

While reading through old diaries of mine the other day I realized that I am boring these days. I mean, legitimately not interesting. My diaries used to be hilarious. My emailing habits were laugh-inducing, at the very least, while maybe not hilarious, per se. For instance, I was looking through emails the other day and came across this email (this is only a fragment of an email, we used to email lengthy missives to one another multiple times a day) that I wrote to friend mrg. This was from April 2006, should any of you wonder how long ago it was that I used to be funny. How I wish I understood why I stopped...

"It snowed 2 nights ago, did I tell you? Freezing cold. As in Jo-could-almost-see-her-

breath-inside-the-house cold. I hate sitting through breakfast when it's cold. Partly because sitting through breakfast means that I'm awake, partly because breakfast implies that it's morning, partly because I hate all mornings, and partly because I'm not huge into cold. Just thought you should know.

"Ahh, I miss those old mad scientists. Do you ever wonder what would happen if a bunch of crazy Einsteins just kinda jumped out of nowhere and started talking? Talking about anything, really, because they talk so funny. Sometimes I have to wonder. Those crazy geeky-type people: do they realize that they're not normal? I mean, really, do they understand that there is a world or "normal people" (should the rest of us in the world be considered normal, which, looking just at the example of you and I, is quite unlikely, but compared to the Einstein guys we seem normal enough) that they just don't fit into.

"Good grief, am I still talking? I honestly have no idea where that came from. I have no idea why I started talking at all. Oh man, I think I need a nap. I hope you're faring better then I, because I think my condition is deteriorating. Do I have a condition? I hope so. Conditions seem fun. Fun in that very I'm-most-likely-going-to-die kind of way, but hey, that could be fun. OK, yeah, I really do have to go."

I guess that's not that funny, but I can't even tell you the last time I wondered about Einsteins jumping around and talking. In fact, that was likely the last time. I don't entirely miss those days, I think my brain wires were criss-crossed and somehow they've gotten somewhat untangled, which is why I'm old and boring now. I just miss that I had the ability to say words like that.

Though why I wanted a condition, I'm really not sure. Though if you died from something, huzzah, you'd be in Heaven!