Greasy grasp of the Garden

The following is a rapid recollection of thoughts from the regretfully unrecorded conversation of the night with Kevin, more as a reminder than a full report:

This life sucks. Get over it. We live in a fallen world. We were not designed to live this way. Not alone, community, care for the land. There is no formula. "This is the most morbid picture of life I could have given." "But perhaps the most accurate one."
The promise of the best life is only based on an acknowledgment that others strive and don't find. At least we know we won't find happiness here. We aren't suppose to. Why would God do that? He must; we sinned. He can't be anywhere near sin. That's why He is creating a new Earth.

Peace of comfort vs. Peace of Hope
The rich will have a hard time getting into heaven, because when Jesus comes to save the rich won't feel like it is salvation. They had everything they wanted. It makes sense that the poor receive the Kingdom; they've been awaiting freedom from oppression. This would lead us to the same reason God would choose an enslaved nation such as Israel to claim as His. It is the sick who need a doctor, and the imprisoned who need a savior. A wealthy nation has nothing to be saved from but a low and crappy nation has everything to be saved from.



Check back for comments from the co-conversationalist himself.

Functional Design

Yesterday, and days leading up to it, boredom pluck a new cord. In most circumstances, this deadening nothingness is satisfied with a void filling video game. However, two circumstantial differences crashed the party this week, the first of which has been feeding on maturation. The snarling beast of lonesome fantasy games barks all the louder as its snapping jaw enjoys a muting muzzle. Though they video games still suffice as a source of sweet entertainment, they fail now in their former mutinies of the mind.

The following alteration to the week bounces in unexpected, but more warmly welcomed than anyone could anticipate. Due to unusual activity in the electricity, the power cord to the Wii surged and burned. We held a memorial service the same day for close friends and family.
This bittersweet passing melted away all ability to easily waste away our lives. It was that very moment when I realized we'd need to be more creative in our attempts to waste our lives.

My aimless body scuffled around the house lifeless. Fast forward to today. Normal routine ensued: Awake, pour the cereal, stare at the wall, then spend 30 minutes deciding what will happen next. On occasion I chat online with a friend when she is awake.

Today, I decided to watch a movie. The Last of the Mohicans survived as almost the last movie I hadn't seen in the drawer. Not a disappointment. The adrenaline gushed within me to become a Mohican myself, to know nature and control my surroundings as one intimate with its Maker. I launched out the door to set my body to such form and control. But it left me with these thoughts.


As the sculpting and flexing muscles surged, so did my mind. Why is it that I succumb to this perceived need to work out, to sear my body into a machine that can stand up to the challenge? I have nothing in my daily life or even in a yearly life that requires such fitness. There is no need for the power of a strong arm hold whatever social countenances I desire. But as for practical purpose, I glean none.

My suspicion veers toward a residue of a once necessitated survival requisite. We were designed to subdue to the earth, no? I fear that our current interpretation of such a command hits slightly outside the intended red dot. Why do athletes train now? To engage in less dangerous forms of "battle" where risks remain low and assurance finds a home. It is a remnant of what we used to do, how we used to conquer, a necessity for food and survival. Now, a structured body lives in the cage of social appearance and entertainment value.

I want to work out, but the desire slowly ceases. I lift only as a means of feeling good and "healthy" living. It all seems a bit more lackluster now.

Through the Glass, part 2

As promised, to everyone's surprise, the story continues.

We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.

It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.

Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.

We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.

We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.

Three Plates Plus Desert

As most anyone who reads this should know, gluttonous amounts of food gorged many stomachs this holiday weekend. Slammed to the ears with scents and stuffings enticing a fluid drool dribbling from our mouths, I actually paid a very tiny man to go into my belly and stomp on the inhaled grub as to make room for more than any human should ever eat in a span of so many hours. And I can take you to places in this town where a family would split a loaf of bread, if they were privileged on that day.

Ironically, one of our MCC staff asked me to lead our church staff prayer that morning. Feeling as unequipped and unworthy as usual, I leaned on the only prayer I can recite mostly by memory - the Lord's Prayer. And I sometimes forget all the words to even this. But the Lord's Prayer for 30 minutes? Holy crap. That's what I thought I was about to dish out. But because the Lord cares more for his people to encounter Him than to worry about what some flippant late-adolescent prepares for an assignment, He turned up. The irony arrives when a recollection of my last words words prayed escape to the surface:

"Daddy, in all these things we point to you; we draw the praise to you. May we as a church offer the kind of fasting you have requested – to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke. Allow us eyes to see and opportunities to share our food with the hungry and provide the poor wanderer with shelter, when we see the naked, to clothe them.

"Then we will hear the LORD reply and answer, as we have cried for help, we will hear him say: 'Here I am.'” (adaptation from Isaiah 58)

Prayer of fasting on the day of over-eating and gluttony. Red-handed proof that God has a sense of humor. Perhaps this may live as a reason the the audibility of the Lord's voice grows faintly dim.

After all these dingy domestic dirges died off, I joined a pick up game of good old-fashioned American football; full tackle, full blitz. The was a trip down memory lane and around the corner from bruised up boulevard. We gotta have something so that us boys are socially allowed to touch each other.

One other thing druggedly drags on my mind from this weekend. After staff prayer, Larry Boss, the acting senior pastor pulled me aside (intentional or not, I've no idea) to express thanks and dig into a bit of my past. Where'd you go to college? Major? Etc etc. But the nagger binds me to his simple words after my answer to the reply "Oh, youth ministry. So you want to be a youth minister, huh?" I batted the question away with the rehearsed answer I've been spitting for so many years, "Not really. I don't care to officially work in a church." "We'll talk about this more later," sliced the nagged response I'd been running and hiding from for so long.

Its been a few years now since I vowed to the Holy One Himself that I'd never be an official youth minister or salaried church worker of any kind. Yet one of the most throbbing fears tailing my alleged story resides in a hesitant beckoning to follow through with the degree I originally intended to graduate with.

None of this speculation will mature to fruition. I boldly claim this as my mantra because our current leader remains active for at least one more year. And after that, should roar of the lion-esque schedule follow the path as I have created for it, there will be another tame year even after that before the fearsome adventure persists. All that to say, it should be at least 2 more special years before more consistent/ permanent travel attacks my passions again.

But who has the Lord ever asked for counsel? Certainly not this satiated stomach.

Through the Glass

Earlier this week, I bellowed into the ancient cell phone bestowed upon me only to be the recipient of a humble invitation to a middle school birthday party. If you do not know this about me yet, middle schoolers exist as my favorite age group exceeded by no other. Period. With this new knowledge, you might anticipate my ready answer. What you do not know is my schedule. Indeed, as the phone conversation progressed, a scooping fear jumbled my thoughts twirling me into the sketchy reciprocation of "I'll have to get back to you."

I know what this generally means to most Americans, especially for a man who has been rejected on occasion by a fair share of pretty girls. This nasty phrase some days ruined my life, yet like word vomit, this crowded phrase spewed out of my mouth. Nonetheless, things fell into place and the ball began rolling.

One thing I forgot to mention: this is one of our Egyptian youth. That means all his friends are not the typical Expat families we generally work with, but instead he kicks it with his Arabic-speaking, broken English, Egyptian compadres. 8 in total.

This single experience may have topped all other single experiences of this journey thus far. Here is how it came crashing down:

First, I hop in a taxi and relinquish my stone-phone to the driver. He takes me somewhere I don't recognize, pointing at an unfamiliar building and hold his hand out for a few pounds. I slapped him five and headed out. I again slid through the phone to redial his sister's (the youth's sister, not the taxi driver's) phone number, as he unwittingly awaited my surprise arrival.

Skipped up 6 flights of stairs where I recognized a similar structure of housing from my American memories. This building was appeared to be like that of low-income, government housing intended to roof a plentitude of families as "cost effectively" as possible. It was shortly after that observation that memory pointed to the surrounding circumstances: 1. We are in Maadi, a.k.a. Mini-America, translation = $; 2. He goes to a decent school where he has learned to speak fluent English, translation = $; 3. He comes from a Christian home, which in Egypt translates to (you got it) = $. To sum it up, as far as Egyptians go, this family has $$$. But their lifestyle would never lead to a typical American connecting such an observation.

On the way up, to make conversation, his sister tells me about the building which is what they would call a tower. Anything over 10 stories constitutes a tower. This concrete construction was well over 20 stories, 26 to be exact. She filled in the conversation by explaining how 26 stories meant over 500 flats (what we would call an apartment).

By now we have completed the spiral of stairs and embark down a dimly lit concrete hallway. Grey walls, gossamer glass, dank doors, all seemingly ready to crumble. So what did we do next? The six of us there at that time battle it out in a friendly fútbol match... in the eight-foot wide hallway. Highlight of the party.

Because of my mastery of the fútbol arts I decided to play goalie as not to cause the young men with me to stumble as we played. As it turns out, my goalie skills are slightly better than my other skills. They only scored through my legs 6 or 7 times.

Tomorrow will come the rest of the stories of:
glass broken
pushing, fun, cheating
eating - you eat whatever and how ever much they give you. you don't refuse food.
language - made fun, perfectly content
parents
walk home - daniel

Inebriated

Its as if a still photo has paused this moment. Plate dirtied with spaghetti residue, a few minced tomatoes, and a fork leaning over the protective curve of the plate. Tubaware silently waiting to find its use abroad the weary polka dot pot housing the remnants of its once steaming and seemingly prepared noodles. Now little less than lukewarm and top propped open by the wooden spoon and serving fork, the table itself mumbles, inaudibly in exhaustion. There is no action anywhere. All movement has ceased. A faint melody whispers into the scene – Intoxicating by David Crowder Band.

Without hesitation the serene plane syncs into fast forward – bodies spill in to splash the conforming noodles and sauce into the comporting container, dishes fall into the washer, chairs slide into line like a military unit, lights blink out, and a new storm of calm claims the counters. Music fades out without the song ending.

I wonder why I write. Is it so you know me? Or is it so you can hear me? I don’t think I do it for myself, not as a journal to account for the memories. Many have implied that this extended vacation proves how faithful or willing I am to follow our Lord Christ. I cannot at this time wholeheartedly agree. This evening some students and I sat around to discuss Mark 1:16-20. If you are as dulled to seeing scripture references in any kind of commentary as I am, let me spell it out for you for sake of your convenience.

“As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

“When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay he called them and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.” (NIV)

With this as our central message for conversation, we began something that vaguely resembles discourse (as much as we 9th and 10th grade boys can, not much talking happening there) placing on the discussion table a curiosity as to what is everything. Every time I hear sermons and extra words on this verse the presenter without fail notes how the disciples left everything behind. The word bellowing into the right side of my face solicits my hesitation and insecurity. What is this everything we impress so heavily? I’ve been taught as long as I’ve been (re)living that we can measure our Christianity by the amount of persecution we endure; or perhaps by the amount of sacrifice even those invisible to the searching public. Even when the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing, giving, or sacrificing, there is measurement in evaluation.

As this discussion pressed on, I could not think of much that I had truly sacrificed to travel so far. Most of any friendships are still somewhat in tact and communication; money has never been my greatest concern, besides I living on that given by precious donors. This is none to mention my selfish craving to escape the complexity and frustration of Western perspective. Oh, and life in general, (sorry you have to hear this with the rest of the viewing public, mom and dad), I could die tomorrow and be fully content knowing this would happen. Aside: that may be the source of my audacity when taking the streets here in Cairo at large.

The only think I thought might be of sacrifice would be my reputation but even that is somewhat tainted by the general mystery that surrounds most people’s perspective of who I am. All this to say, persecution is counted dead if it ever lived, and sacrifice has been offered on the altar of itself.

With nothing now to measure, a problem seems to develop. I want to be a disciple but’ve nothing to leave behind. It would be here where I’d return to my nets and boat as a good disciple would when his Lord is crucified but I don’t even have nets or a boat to call home.


Then how do we finish? I scream and cry, aching to run barefoot, leaping of the cliff to fly as was intended. Now and again I hear these echoes of Eden sweet-talking my soul into a land of milk and honey reminding me of how we were designed to live. I often feel alone in these echoes, perhaps because they counter-collide with the swift depressions of this dank realm. Enter the hymning reminder, “When I die /Hallelujah by and by / I’ll fly away.”

Life speeds on, just as it should, not fast enough or desperate to slow down. As the bored and tired spaghetti pot, we fulfill our purpose regardless.

End note: I watched the scenario with the spaghetti play in my head first as I was writing, and chuckled softly to myself when it then happened in real time.

The Simple Life

Thanks to a growing friend who has become one of my closest companions, we have decided to become landscapers. It encompasses some of life's greatest needs: the desire to see results from what you have been working toward; creativity and ingenuity; in the States, everyone wants their yard to be pretty; and also, a certain starting and stopping point during your work day. This is a job where you cannot bring the work home with you. When you are finished for the day, there is no need to keep working. I am nearly positive this ideal is flawed but it tastes like seams of light shining through the huggable white clouds on a warm spring day.

Riverside

Riverside. This term lingers in my ringing ears from the good old days of Santa Fe Indian high school football. It meant we had reached the end of the field after a scrimmage series and coach wanted us to keep playing. Riverside. Turn it around and keep punching on.

If you follow the erratic and patchy writings of this web log, then you may or may not have read the entry former this. It mentioned something about how a job can become difficult. Who knew? Probably you did, but decided not tell me. To that I aim a satirical thanks in your general direction. At least you must refrain from dipping your tongue into the candied "I told you so" bowl.

Now that the intensity of this time has subsided for a few weeks, I'd like to reflect if only for a moment on some of the weeks' coherencies (and incoherencies).

The most presiding idea raps of the sophomore. The word, as it has been taught to me, is a paradox of a wise fool (Greek - sophos=wise; moros=fool). Being drowned with an influx of personal and externally observable circumstances, I applaud the man, woman, or child who pieced together this word. For the laws of this truth tingle the tip of my trembling fingers (my fingers have no known reason for trembling, but still true nonetheless). I'd like to start with sophomore year of high school but I attribute anything moronic I did simply to being in high school. Since the appetite of HSers eats a large chunk of my schedule pie, I feel justified in saying what I did.

Instead, I will move to sophomore year of our university work. In good sophomoric form, I anticipated knowing much more about school, life, and, well, anything even from the first day of my return to campus. Class would now be a breeze; I knew how to work my daily schedule; not to mention we were moving on up to the east side, to de-luxe dorm room on the third floor (the sky). We were no longer the fish to be eaten by the sharking seniors. How naive we were, [insert head shaking sigh]. When classes got harder, friends began to spin, and pledging a social club began to own our lives, humility gently removed the tiara of implicated jewels and crowned me with its martyr-marking thorns. Perhaps that is a bit much, but I do remember feeling strongly the stupidity and irreverence of my arrogance that year.


Shortly after that long year, I wised up and fell into a position of authority as the ACU Leadership Camps Head Counselor. The first time it was offered to me, I fervently, but politely, rejected the invitation to lead a battalion of men on a narrow path to toward a shared mental model (that was for you Jan) of leading others to Christ, one camper at a time. Eventually, there was enough flattery for me to acquiesce into the position. That summer finished with some freshman maneuvers but left me feeling as though I might actually deserve to lead again (I didn't). But they offered again. With much less, if any, flattery I jumped aboard. Sophomore year as a leader is not one I ever wish upon anyone. If you could skip to a junior year or pass off the requisite learning to another position, I'd advise this. That summer brought about significant more frustration than I care to recall. But it was good, nonetheless.

And now, I watch somewhat idly as our leader here, fends off the inevitables often associated with sophomore years. We know what we expect, but it is never the same people, place, personalities, what have you. This makes light of our wise plans that were slightly more foolish than we'd expected. Alas, we all come to this realization as time allows, however time is rarely so kind enough as to warn of such a predicament.

We learn and soon find ourselves nearing juniors.


Next, and final for this evening, I bring to you the deeper frustrations of my heart. I crave maturity. Kinda. I find money running more of my life than I'd like. Yet, I object to this aimless casting. I rebel. It will not rule me. But I find this law at work as well: I want to know money well enough to control it, as not to be its cowering weakling. The light bulb of the day shines brightly on the thought that I've been almost fully reliant on everyone around me for most any luxury and even many necessities of life. I suppose my truer desire resides in a hope that I could take care of myself. But even then, I hear Christ whisper in my ear, "11Whatever town or village you enter, search for some worthy person there and stay at his house until you leave. 12As you enter the home, give it your greeting. 13If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you." What I hear is as a disciple, we must rely on the good will and generosity of God and his faithful. I have a massive fear of being an imposing obligation, yet this links with an opposing desire to be fully connected with a community who is blessed by dispensing hospitality.

We cannot serve both God and mammon? See you on the riverside. Hopefully God will part the waters, as He did for Moses, so we can walk through dry again.

Turmoil

I've only a few minutes to write in order to meet my self-appointed bed time, so I will make an effort to be brief.


Rest defeated by a scourging mind is not rest at all. Harassed by the perceived need to accomplish even the minutest of tasks (which most of mine are), I scarcely find the usual joy in even just studying the Scriptures. Rest is minimal from the dogged, nagging tease of the full completion of a task. This is not a format my brain finds comfortable, typically due to its lack of task-inclined adjustment. "Learning and/or, more properly, growth requires stress," serves me as a daily reminder. Refinement solicits fire, and does anyone really want to walk through fire. Not even Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego choose to walk through the fire, however with faith like blazed by a kiln, these men stepped out onto something they could not tangibly touch nor visibly see.

Though it seems to downplay the importance of that story, my only solace resides in the recollection of this ancient faith. This must be preparing me for something greater. And if not me, the let the faith of the masses be inclined towards my God. His name be the glory I seek every day, in thought, word, and action.

Growing up

There comes a time in every youthful warrior's life when he must learn what it is to test his skills, refine the taught talents imposed by tireless tribulation. That day is today. And yesterday; and tomorrow. For within the city limits and suburbs of Cairo I've embarked up a new incline seeking the plane of responsible peace.

This day, I awoke later than usual to a reminder of my lone pilgrimage to the American Embassy in downtown Cairo, otherwise known as "Real Egypt." Maadi though tainted with with Western culture only tingles of a true Egyptian experience. But now, this morning, the venture groans with anticipatory anxiety. Finding myself more and more apt and armed to invite new adventures, this one snorted with battle readiness.

After one lost Arabian taxi, an unsure metro exit and a near connection with a rugged and burly Puegout that exceeded my years on this earth, tension in my revving body eased a bit when my rabidly attentive eye met the proudly swaying American flag.

Strolled up to the window, a well spoken and well dressed doorman informed me that Citizen Services closed at 11:00 a.m. Peeking at my wrist, I realized 11:00 a.m. was a leering 15 minutes past. Disappointed but not distraught, I considered that this would give me opportunity to try my arm again, this time with a round of practice under my belt seared with sweaty accomplishment.

Though the result was utter failure, the learning and wisdom added to me finds great solace in with my soul. There are more words and ideas to scribble regarding this title of Growing up, though today's panini lunch at the Pottery Cafe (see Mogamma and the Pottery Cafe) that tasted a delicious Chicken Tandoori has met its completion, just as this downtown scramble leaks into memory alone.

I'll be back. And for those who read faithfully, I am extending my apologies and sincerest request for forgiveness due to the sporadic and unpatterned postings. Thank you for your continued support with comments, messages, and prayers. All appreciated greatly.