Altered Title

The voices bouncing in my skull began dialogue today regarding the main title of these collective accounts. There was a motion to alter the title to read "The Pilgrimage of a Temporary Egyptian." The argument disclosed this reason, for we are entering into a new land that no one in my body has ever traversed before. There are unveilings of the newest creatures and beauties we never knew existed.

United Airlines might as well have renamed themselves Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria (NPSM Air for short); or perhaps The Mayflower is more appropriate for the cause. Nevertheless, United remains as will Journeys, for just as being (re)United feels so good, so also the accustomization to our original caption seems broadly accepted and as any good brand name, it keeps the customer coming back.

Motion denied. Next.

Imposed Ironies and the Glory of Grace

inimical - unfavorable, opposed, adverse

As rare as unwrapping a new pyramid from the sands of Egypt is the frequency of exposing a true pleasure unattached to a coupling vice or irritation. It is the humor of a paradoxical God.

I have not had any overwhelming dispositions or inimical argumentation that have sweet-talked this conversation out of its dank cave; it is merely a law I've observed from afar and all too near. Allow me to explicate with anecdotes stumbling from my own hamartia.

As I denoted in yesterday's post, sloth torments my ability to prepare for public speaking engagements. Yet, God swoops in to save the day. The information falling out of my laughing mouth lay bare fantastic insight to the corners of life we cover our eyes to search for. However, the insight, erred and marred by lack of preparation, sinks in the muck when designed for the green pasture. Though my introduction was posted as revolutionary to the ears of a early adolescent, it only smashes with impact when delivered with emphatic pizzazz. This zeal turns and nonchalantly strolls whistling away from my stage presence.


You won't get my brain without the body. Beethoven composing in the ear of deafness. Valiant athleticism personified in the limbs of a 5' foot 7 inch frame. A most well spoken mind captured in a crippled voice box. The greatest romantic commitments made oceans apart. Full knowledge married to unresponsive forgetfulness. Ghandi's commitment notions to Christianity (not quite, but close). The culmination of millennia of prophesy scuffling as a derelict freeloader and mooch. But who could change it? Who would change it? The good must be adjoined to the bad and the ugly. The keys to the Kingdom cost more than everything you ever wanted, and that is never the same requisite for any two people (I feel your sorrow, rich young ruler).

But God. If these inherit and inerrant truths falter, where would we rest*? Ask George. That old Herbert knows me too well.






*THE PULLEY.
WHEN God at first made man,
Having a glasse of blessings standing by ;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can :
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way ;
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure :
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottome lay.

For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature :
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlesnesse :
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.



Postal Script to Mother and Angie: Return to The Perfect Crash and Burn Stop I left you a follow up comment Stop There you will find your only solace Stop Christmas is around the corner Stop

Memoirs of a Good Ol' Boy

Ever since I made a proclamation of integrity and erased all the illegally downloaded music from my computer years ago, I have not received the amount of country music that I wish kissed my ears.

But today, yes today, while in Cairo, Egypt listening to the DJ spout off some quips in Greek my inattentive audio assessors arched when this good ol’ country boy recognized a memorable melody that perked my now cropped antennas.

This one reason why I love this place. Though I do not have ready access to a new Bible (of which I am coming close to needing with Matthew 5 – Luke 9 threatening canonical expatriate status), country music now climbs the ranks of Americanism significantly available to the international community. American country music on a Greek radio station in Cairo, Egypt. If you are ever in Egypt tune into 97.5 FM LOVE Radio

“I’m buildin bridges / straight to your heart. / And all of this distance / won’t keep us apart. / Won’t keep us apart.”

That one goes out to one very special young lady.


On a completely unrelated note, tonight we met again for our weekly middle school event after a two-week break. The straw drawn for speaking about “What is Scripture?” lucked its destiny in my hands. After scourging the mind with some free writing on the subject, one main idea finally impressed me enough to be the elected as the central subject. Seeking the counsel of the Holy Spirit as to bring praise to the glory of God served as an intelligent avenue of guidance. So we all listened, self included to what words drove off this tongue. As it turns out, Scripture lives not just as the story of some old dead people who had some incredulous tales of spiritual experience, but Scripture lives as our story today. You who read this now, as an individual, it is your story. The people who raised you, i.e. parents, grandparents, all your family, you friends, your children, your children’s children, it is all of our story. It is your name written in that holy Script.

These men and women of faith (Rahab, King David, Christ and Paul), these are your family, your ancestors from whom you have learned the path set before you. Have you ever wondered what will happen to you? Look in the Gospels. Do you have days when you don’t have the words to explain how you feel? Flip the pages to the Psalms. If you’ve had dark days of pain, skim over Ecclesiastes. This is your story. Your identity is rooted in the identity of God’s prostitutes and prophets. God’s identity is rooted in the identity of these prostitutes and prophets. Kings and drunkards, sometimes both.


You are in this story. When you find yourself paused by the curiosity of the inquisition of humanity, I encourage you to pick up one of these tiny books and give it a glance. I promise you won’t walk away with some insight; it may not be the one you wanted to hear but insight nonetheless. This is your story. Love and rejection, love and rejection, over and over and over and over. This is Scripture; your life.

The Perfect Crash and Burn

Just that you are reading what I have now written should be testimony enough that my body is still in tact after today's 21.5 mile mountain bike ride. With an introduction like that, let me dispel the frightening thoughts pillaging my mother's now disquieted mind.

We let from the front of the CAC (Cairo American College) with a gang of riders all twice my age. Geared with some of the top equipment in the field, including pretty sweet bikes, we rolled out at 7 a.m. It is somewhere between 2-3 miles to Wadi Delga where the adventure prepared for us awaited our assent. And ascend we did. We did climbed so much, I actually cramped in my thighs for the first time in my life. In my defense, it wasn't until after the 3/4 mark in the ride.

Being a rookie on the course, I claimed and embraced the fullness of the learning curve sent from God the Father himself. Just before the halfway mark two of our dusty clan sided on the way of ease, parting them from us back towards Caffé Greco for their postride latté. The truest of our troupe soldiered on to punch out most of the rest of the typical route. It was at this moment, I remember thinking, in poor form, how those guys must not be manly enough to keep on.

These tougher-than-thou thoughts continued for only a short while longer. We came upon a set of steep descending and rolling hills. As we approached, the man was graciously invited me to ride with them paused to assert a bit more of his bountiful wisdom. He explained to me how to ride this part and to be careful of my speed when riding up the rapid risers. I took it in but after the upon a successful mounting of the first launch, the ignorant pride set it. One more shorter hop, the culmination of speed, and without my permission or consent, I was no longer on my bike seat... 6 feet in the air. "Well self," I said to myself. "Looks like we'll be trading cells with some of the sandy rocks below. Welcome them with open arms." And that is what we did. Within the second after introducing my whole left side to Egypt's foundation, I had popped back up and remounted to kickoff into the next jump.

Our fearless leader, Kenny, watched the whole account and swarmed over in a haste of concern. I was reminded that it would be good and preferable to take a rest up for a minute to regroup. With a shrug from the shoulder worked, and a half shrug that looked more like a limp from the other, I responded by persevering with my resaddle and an "I'm ok. Let's ride on," from my mouth. So we did. He handed me two electolyte capsules and rode past with surprised agreement.

Despite the circumstances, (for I have taken worse spills before) that was not one of the instances when fear flashed my life in my blinking eyelid. The desert, for those who have never been to a real desert, is full of rock formations, plateaus, and hills begging to be climbed. Because of the combination of these, we rode, on occasion, along some ridges deeper than I would normally walk. It is here that we found ourselves more than conquerors. Courage and adrenaline bounding excitement replaced fear in the crags and corridors of my soul. It did rear its deformed face a time or two when a jutting rock caused a detour from the intended path, and also when the tail tire lost grip along one of these imposing ridges.

All together, I finished with an overwhelming sense of pride, self affirmation, sore tail bone, and a few raspberries leperring my left side like a dalmatian. Some call them wounds, I prefer the term "battle wound."

These dangerous gentlemen ride out nearly every weekend. I hope to pass their initiation and be named as one of this crew of rowdy dirt gangsters.

The Overflow

Yesterday, I kind of made fun of the precipitation patterns here. I was put in my place when every couple of hours I woke up to the crescendo of mighty thunder clapping in my ears. Even lightning and power outages. Madness.

I woke this morning to the bleating of the most persistent car alarm to ever exist, I'm sure set off by the roaring thunder. I honestly did not hear the threatening cries of our favorite 3 year old, which reaffirmed my commitment to our standoff as of late (see previous entry The Love of the Father). Upon entering the kitchen in a groggy stooper, the first question on the heels of a gruff good morning tested my ability to sleep soundly. "Did you hear the thunder?" met my reply of "How could I miss it?" Despina then enlightened me as to the frequency of such a storm, once every ten years.

Yikes.

And I sat in bed as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Thus is the shame of an ignorant man. Maybe I'll see rain again when I get back to the States in June.

7 Habits of Highly Effective Top S(h)ell(v)ing Books

Severely contrary to my natural tendencies, and my dad can testify to this like a street corner preacher, I have picked up the book "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change" by Stephen R. Covey. Do not be fooled; this was not a book I chose to read. It came by divine intervention via the will of our boss and fearless leader, Travis Black. With all that burns within me, I do not want to read this book. But for the sake of team cohesiveness, I have decided to put my own desires in the dust, but not without a passive-aggressive taunt of dissonance to appease my pride.

Yet, with this self-authenticating book rattling in my quivering hand, I decided with encouraging exhortation from a wise friend or two to make the most of my time in these blubbering words. In practical terms, I will attempt to provide some two sided feedback on what I've read each week, though sometimes it may only be a sentence that beckons me to parse its meaning. Do not expect too much from these insights because I might accidentally come with a partial and bias approach but I do ask for accountability in this matter and criticism on my criticism. I want to grow, I really do. I even want to want to read these pages, but when spinning through them like a flipbook cartoon exasperation flowers my nostrils with the scent of the wooden pages, I can only solicit the guidance of Covey himself. So if anyone can send him this link, I would greatly appreciate his counsel and oversight. Without that, I cannot promise anything more than the offensive words of a heart-hardened vagrant.

Hope you'll join me in this pilgrimage to freedom from oppressive words of these "effective" persons. (Please take note of the satirical value of these words, though as in any sarcasm, there is a hint of truth).

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

It rained! Precipitation fell from the sky. Rain was not the only thing falling because here in the dirty desert; the leaves clothe themselves in dust. Here, your car is actually dirtier after it rains, even if you haven't driven it anywhere.

Nevertheless, for 3 minutes, it rained! And even thundered once. I heard a suspicious rumor about a bolt of lightning or two, but there is no way to prove it.

We didn't need it, but I missed it. Rain!

The Love of the Father

Mitch Albom writes a book entitled "Tuesdays with Morrie." I read this book years ago, sophomore year of university study. If you've not read it, it is important to note that I believe this book solves one of the major problems of our ever-changing world: genuine discipleship. I'll address the note of Christianity later.

Even before I moved abroad, I've been hoping and praying for a mentor seeping with wisdom and desire to teach an eager learner. Disastrous to my feeble hopes, I have not found a person willing to take me under wing as I had wished. There was a different method of mentor-discipleship moving my soul. I've been allowed the to sit at the feet of many wise rabbis passing through for a couple of days or sometimes even, a couple of weeks.

Today, as the heavy drawbridge lowered and opened to me the opportunity to return a shard of the patience blessed unto me. Markos, the youngest, and I coincidentally struck a hunger cord on the same harp as we sat watching Superman. So we ate. As usual, I finished first, for my mouth and appetite are slightly larger than his. As I progressed toward the snack cabinet, and retrieved a granola bar. With his sandwich almost half finished, he informed me, quite matter of fact that he was finished. Why I believed him, no one will ever know because he then turned to the snack cabinet and also attempted to retrieve some goodies that he refers to as "treats."

The natural response to his desire for these, at least from me, was to implore him to first finish his true lunch. He disagreed. The packet of sugary chocolate appeared much more appetizing, and who could blame him? But in the interest of his well being, I insisted that he first consume the first food. Markos does not like to be told no. And so the debate began; me with the proposition of all food or none and he with the demand for what he wanted, when he wanted it. Incited tempers commanded tears. I desperately wanted to give him the treat, but it hurt me more to think what it would be like for him to grow up missing such discipline in his life. As an older, wiser concerned man who wants only good for those near him, I refused to give in. Since my power was significantly more mature than his, he clawed and climbed, wept and drooled trying to attain this prized, sweet, sugary goodness. As the salty drops and gooey saliva gathered in a pool on my shorts, and amidst the flailing wails, all I could muster were memories of my own wailing and pleading for things not of what i needed but merely of what I temporarily wanted to gratify my my craving.

And just as Marko's bellowing echos in my ears still, I know that he, like me, needs a constant rabbi to teach us the ways that are better and higher than ourselves.

This was the first time I have acknowledged what it would be like to act parentally, in the best interest of a child younger than the ones I've lived with at summer camp. Mom and Dad, I've been continually thanking you for the work you've done in me over the last 23 (almost!) years. Today will be no different. Thank you for your perseverance in love. And to parents not my own, rest assured that your child too will soon enough understand your dedication and sacrifice for them. They may not thank you, but they may not know how. Accept this thanks as a representation of the appreciation you children have for you.

Writers' Block

It has now been a few days since we last met, dear friends, and for that I apologize. It seems that there are times when people seem to get tired in the evening when the sun goes down. Though this is not the case if you grew up Egyptian or have recently been a student at any university, living with a family solicits my recollection of submission.

With the madness that silhouettes the radiant life of a Maadi Community Church youth intern, we still have remnants of our past lives that pay alms on occasion. For instance, this past Sunday I lay down for a nap at 6:30 p.m. just before dinner only to rise again at to a darkened room and a tap tick tock of a silent clock whispering the midnight warning. Midnight? Indeed. Though not expecting to start my day by the renewal of a clock, the counting sheep were now asleep and their snoring kept me boring.

With little more to do than squirm in bed, I resolved to video games and instant messenger, rotting my brain with one, and satiating my social appetite with the other. Both like candy. But I didn't need candy. I needed NyQuil and a back rub. Alas, neither came despite my prayers.

There were a few moments, however, when one tactfully chosen individual sneaked through my impervious fortress of a soul and tricked me like a wooden horse, into rendering said soul into the satin hands of said friend. So don't jab too hard in days to come, for the tender soreness that comes from such an event lasts longer than I agree to. Not only is that so, but the same event occurred the following Wednesday night only a few hours later, with a small hand chopping at the 3. Neither solicited but both direly due.



Just as any normal week in Egypt, desperate rededication to the Lord found its form this time in the frame of a frightening car ride to the newest installment of fast food service. (That's right, we got a Burger King). Upon arriving at a restaurant where I can have it my way, it dropped to my knees and hugged myself and nearly kissed the ground but stopped when I remember how that would as likely die instantly of disease-saturated dirt if the car ride hadn't done it first. Elated to be alive, we ordered our food in this two table gas station restaurant. Conversation began and I like any true Israelite forgot what my God had just saved me from. In our defense, our conversation fell into a trance of learning how to more aptly identify the Gospel understanding to a misled and thirsty people, mostly Egyptian Muslims.

Our adviser was a 25 year old Egyptian man, Sanke, who had been working for a "worker" fund raising company. He had spent a good part of his life taking the Truth of Jesus Christ to Muslim companions. He could have taken a collection at the end of dinner and the other 3 of us would have paid for his trip to London in a few months; his words possessed inspiring power. He had these things to say to our intrusive curiosity: 1. Do not be like the Egyptian Christians, for they act like they are better than everyone else; 2. Do not be like the American Christians, for they act like they are better than everyone else. "So what do we do, Sanke? Be like Jesus? [scoffing chuckle, sarcastic nudge]" 3. Be like Jesus. "Oh."

We heard stories of Sanke's witnessing to Muslim taxi drivers withdrawing responses such as "Why don't they teach us these things?" (in regard to a loving, compassionate God). We asked of persecution and heard small tales of (il)legally restrained drivers' licenses by fasting and frustrated officers of the law (not as big of deal here as in the States). All with great adoration poured out to God the Father and Jesus Christ our Lord.



This week has multiple conversion experiences involving taxi rides you would have thought stunt movie worthy. I was taught how to make an omelet with the least amount of clean up. I even stumbled upon a fantastic idea for a satirical narrative, I want to call it Seussian Theology. It sounds great but I have very little inspiration. Perhaps, it is not appropriate to make fun of other religions, but it would be fun. For now, Muslims and Greek Orthodox can rest in peace for it will be many moons before or even if this endearing novella reaches Gutenberg.

This weekend we had 5 days off for the end of Ramadan. As I left Kevin's villa, the guard on duty didn't even allow me to utter a full good night before he exclaimed with every once of emitting exuberance, "We eat tomorrow!" We rejoice together for a moment and I traveled home. Also within this extended exemption from the week, my host family departed for a night of desert camping. They returned with petrified coral, shells, as well as a petrified sand dollar. I have seen the pictures of this place known for its remnants of whale bones. That's right, whales... in the desert. It is known as Valley of Whales near Fayoum. Incredible.

Finally finding the time and words, I have now chiseled out a block of what latest adventure we cross in the constantly whisking Egyptian winds. I offer you this writer's block.

Armadas, Influxes, and other gerbiling thoughts

Below are the daily thoughts that prevent my normality:

Attacks at every moment are difficult to defend. Remember the fortification of the King. His word is His sword. Defensive when required, offensive by nature. The swing of this mighty blade annihilates the oppressors.

Some days I have an influx and abundance of ideas. Others, I find these brilliant brigades immobilized and chronically cryogenic.

Why do words, like new cars, plummet in value immediately after they leave the lot of the mouth? I am restless with so much religious jargon. So many words have been exhausted, and should only be retired to return again in a retro-fashion with prodigal purpose. Forget the whales, save the words. (Its a pun. It means don't talk.)

And now I laugh, chuckle, smirk, and grimace at the sight of the schedule I've just been assigned to complete for myself. What is my objection to this structured lifestyle? Why do I constantly loathe responsibility?

Uninhibited. Uncovered. Undignified. These are what I seek. These are my longing. Why must we regard social invitations to present a united front, a perfect self? Did Christ ever admit ignorance? Or perhaps ignorance is not the item on the table.

A moment ago, I crashed through a door leading to what I thought would be our usual office. Within the minute, and it did take the full minute, my tread actualized not in stiff stale air, as is the norm, but instead to a humid mist of shy tears meek in presentation but bold in proclamation. Awkward, no. Jealous, desperately. There have been moments when the salty waters yelped for escape, but alas, the assumption of taught society sternly rebuked any welling or whelming proposing within my soul. How could such a superior entity as the soul be manipulated by a creature as duplicitous and serpentine as corrupted society.

I want a sword. A real sword. Like the kind that, in the past would have taken the head of some enemy. I want to battle. Its within me. To fight. Clank and assail with a bombard of silver steel upon an enemy as catharsis for the attacks received. As I pondered this, the voice of assumed wisdom crawled swiftly in, "You don't want to see war, boy. It scars." I lost my thought.

Upon a brother's trust steed, we strode gallantly toward a deserved lunch. Just as we began, an unsuspecting arrow of unexpected delivery announced its presence in my thigh. She asked, how are you, as would any gently cultured soul, and without biting as a posthumously desired upon the death of the conversation, I unwittingly replied a dull, ok. As if prompted, the next thought rose as like another arrow screaming to be launched back; "Such a loaded question. Ask only if you have the time and disposition to take the necessary responsibility to respond. Do you?" Or maybe even a simple "Heavy question; you sure you want to know the answer?" said with a smirk of sincerity. With this in mind; here is my motion, I motion we stop asking such questions. They place me (and assumed others) in a ethical quandary. Do we answer socially and save the person the time they intended to keep to themselves, allowing us to be passively polite; or instead answer with a lionheart and steal this self associated portion of the day? If you would like to keep your time to yourself, greet only with a greeting, such as hello, or good morning/evening, perhaps even a simple "I acknowledge your presence," for that is all a greeting serves to do. If your truly want to know me, you mustn't even ask these vague and ambiguous interviews but skip them all together and query the heart. Let the mind be free of mischievous responses. Let the heart do some talking. Deep cry to deep.

One last qualm for the day. When we address the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, why do we ask him to "just" do this or "just" do that? How about I just love another human being? Ever tried to "just" love someone. It is not a simple task. How about I just create a miracle from thin air? Or just create walking, talking, pondering man from dust? Yes, his power is more infinite than the greatest idea I've ever not put to use, however, is any kingdom work "just" a task? Why are our words with God more thoughtless, lacking intention, than those with our fellow sinners?

Uninhibited. Uncovered. Undignified. That is what I seek. This is where I want to be.

These former things are the plagues of a typical day. Most days I just want them to go away so I can adjust to normal society, but I cannot imagine living that way. Chew on them apples... you'll get applesauce.