For all you skeptics out there, this video is proof just how hard we work at our jobs in youth ministry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnA8ynX_jxU
(If you cannot click this link, you may need to copy and paste this into your address bar.)
Watch the video before you continue reading this entry.
This past weekend, MCC Youth Staff held our annual dodgeball tournament. For those of you who don't know, this is truly a big deal. I mean, come on, its dodgeball. Who doesn't like to watch young adolescents flail rubber kickballs at their peers? Face smashing, clothes-lining, girly screams from the voice box of puberty-ensuing males. Awkward 15 year old girls making an attempt at athleticism, impervious to the social expectations, and sold on the "girls just wanna have fun" attitude.
Our youth staff bonded together more than any previous event, most probably because of the requirement of each person to pull their own weight for the success of such a momentous event. We pulled in volunteer referees, a special guest MC, and every piece of sound, light, and video equipment we could find, steal, or borrow. Yours truly spent his time on that technical side orchestrating the musical arrangement, setting up lighting effects, and plugging in excessive bundles of squabbling cords.
Upon the approach of the highly anticipated first pitch, we took our appointed places. Kev embraced the light board, Annie, wielded her cameras with all her subtle might, Mo and Ashley biting mentoring awaiting players on the tactics of not only dodgeball but four square as well. Where was I? Hiding behind the sound booth, fumbling through an iPod playlist that lacked half the music I expected it to have. Luckily, the impromptu king himself, Kelly Garrett had given generously of his coveted time and comedic abilities to the Master of Ceremonies position. His clever wit accounted for my early silence on the mic and dry undertone as the night progressed.
After tripping on cords, incidental unplugs, and energy-zapping song transitions, I eventually learned that rooting my feet to one position and fading with only a single slider, the sound technician in me could flower like a blade of grass in a florist shop.
There were intermittent activities tossed into the schedule as superfluous, yet encouraged excitement. They competed for fastest coke chug with following belch, a Greaseian style dance competition, pregame interview video, and things of the like. We invited those not yet old enough to enjoy a movie or two on the lush patch of grass we cherish on our premises. It was a collide-o-scope of chaotic fun.
The hint of closing ceremonies came when a surprise game of intern-only dodgeball clashed on the duct tape court. The typical melodrama that encases any intern-only public event finished and the whistle blew. Kev met his match within the initial 30 seconds leaving me stranded to battle the three girls with only my acute sense of dodgeball awareness and rusty throwing arm as weapons. Odds stacked against my favor, I ruthlessly blocked, ducked, and flipped over projectiles seeking to end my dodgeball career, then and there. Resolute, I found God's favor obliterating 2/3 of the the opposition. But the fight was not yet over. One of the referees (who must have a crush on the only girl left), clear out of the dark sky, whistled me eliminated from the game for a 10-second ball hold. Fury replaced the blood in my veins and I opened a line of communication with that ref used only by military and sailors. That's not true (it was church event...). But we did have some fun dialogue exchange as we dammed the pressure of a smile seething behind our teeth.
We played best 2 of 3 games. Perhaps this is the best explanation of how the following games resolved: the next day, all three girls grumbled about how sore they were from the torrent of dodgeballs they encountered the night before.
I woke the next morning sick, even after an 11 hour recovery sleep. Nothing too serious (don't freak, Mom...), only a nagging sore throat. It was worth it. Youth ministry is tough.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Boys Are Back in Town
One of my favorite social faux pas of a post-holiday season still stands as the consistency of regular questioning. Take this season, as example. Even before I left the States I managed to exchange a courteous dialogue with most of our youth group consisting of questions at least very similar to the following:
Person 1: Hey, how are you?
Person 2: Good. good.
P1: Yeah? How was your break?
P2: Good. We sat around and watched TV (or read or watched football)
P1: Awesome. Sounds like you had a great time.
P2: I did. How was your break?
P1: Good. We sat around and watched TV (or read or watched football)
P2: Awesome. Sounds like you had a great time.
P1: I did.
P2: Well, its good to see you again.
P1: You too.
With some, that is the end of the conversation. With a closer few, there would be a list of received gifts containing one if not all of these things: money, music, clothes, and on occasion some type of video game console.
This conversation happened in excess of 20 times since I've returned to Cairo, 15 of which occurred this morning between church services.
Let's pray. Not really. It wouldn't be a very good transition for me to begin a prayer at this point in our interaction. But that was about how awful the transition cringed at our Thursday night service when after watching a hilarious video advertising our upcoming dodgeball tournament, I stabbed the hilarity with a solemn "Pray with me," followed by a sobering ritual of pastoral prayer. Nobody slept through that one.
Our youth team slapped together what is no doubt the funniest video I've ever been apart of, this past Wednesday. With some late night editing and final filming done within hours of the release date, this film had "The Office" fans and naïve audience members giggling, chuckling, and falling out of chairs even into the sermon. But those members took a humor hiatus when as the video ended with me yoga stretching dressed in Polo shirt, tie, and slacks with dodgeball in hand, I strode upon stage and began praying. (See back to EgyptKyle.blogspot.com in following days for footage from the video.)
After every present pastor approached me to address the transition from video to pray on Thursday night, post-worship service, complimenting and commenting on the video and pray, I decided to seek a new, less awkward transition. Here is what Kevin and I came up with:
(finale music of video fades, I walk to the pulpit and mic. Glance up to the screen to make sure my character had finished stretching only to proceed with transition)
"Whoever decided the order of worship this week decided it would be embarrassingly funny if now I lead the pastoral prayer." (a few chuckles rekindle) "Now if you wouldn't mind, please pray with me..." (continue with prayer and scripture)
That is my embarrassing story of the day. Check back frequently to listen to more of Kyle Stallard reminiscing his Embarrassing Story of the Day.
Person 1: Hey, how are you?
Person 2: Good. good.
P1: Yeah? How was your break?
P2: Good. We sat around and watched TV (or read or watched football)
P1: Awesome. Sounds like you had a great time.
P2: I did. How was your break?
P1: Good. We sat around and watched TV (or read or watched football)
P2: Awesome. Sounds like you had a great time.
P1: I did.
P2: Well, its good to see you again.
P1: You too.
With some, that is the end of the conversation. With a closer few, there would be a list of received gifts containing one if not all of these things: money, music, clothes, and on occasion some type of video game console.
This conversation happened in excess of 20 times since I've returned to Cairo, 15 of which occurred this morning between church services.
Let's pray. Not really. It wouldn't be a very good transition for me to begin a prayer at this point in our interaction. But that was about how awful the transition cringed at our Thursday night service when after watching a hilarious video advertising our upcoming dodgeball tournament, I stabbed the hilarity with a solemn "Pray with me," followed by a sobering ritual of pastoral prayer. Nobody slept through that one.
Our youth team slapped together what is no doubt the funniest video I've ever been apart of, this past Wednesday. With some late night editing and final filming done within hours of the release date, this film had "The Office" fans and naïve audience members giggling, chuckling, and falling out of chairs even into the sermon. But those members took a humor hiatus when as the video ended with me yoga stretching dressed in Polo shirt, tie, and slacks with dodgeball in hand, I strode upon stage and began praying. (See back to EgyptKyle.blogspot.com in following days for footage from the video.)
After every present pastor approached me to address the transition from video to pray on Thursday night, post-worship service, complimenting and commenting on the video and pray, I decided to seek a new, less awkward transition. Here is what Kevin and I came up with:
(finale music of video fades, I walk to the pulpit and mic. Glance up to the screen to make sure my character had finished stretching only to proceed with transition)
"Whoever decided the order of worship this week decided it would be embarrassingly funny if now I lead the pastoral prayer." (a few chuckles rekindle) "Now if you wouldn't mind, please pray with me..." (continue with prayer and scripture)
That is my embarrassing story of the day. Check back frequently to listen to more of Kyle Stallard reminiscing his Embarrassing Story of the Day.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Its Good To Be Back
About 25 minutes ago I found myself sitting up in bed talking on the phone. The voice of the other end pieces together enough English for me to understand that he is delivering my lost luggage to me. Allow me to set the scene.
When I arrived in Cairo International Airport on the evening of January 6th, I expected to jump through customs, grab my bags and be on my way with a matter of 20 minutes. But why would that be any fun? Instead, my excitement rises when I see the first of my two luggage items gliding toward me on the conveyor. Little did I know that if that luggage could speak it would have been screaming frightfully terrors about how he and his younger brother were separated in Paris.
Because of his years of travel experience this bag knew how to handle the situation smoothly, without showing his raging anxiety. His sibling was not yet weathered enough traveling storms to know trouble when its coming. The old bag got out as soon as he noticed a problem and jumped the plane to Cairo. The rookie was not so lucky. He was left like a forgotten, unloved child.
After expectant many moments of waiting and watching for my beloved luggage, an eerie bell buzzed out, sounding the end of the luggage line. On the verge of tears, my brave one bag and I toughened up, dabbed the corner of a misty eye and marched over the the mob of people growling about their similar circumstances.
"I can't wait til tomorrow; I leave for Alex!" snarled one Frenchman. "I've precious cargo in mine," piped another short white-wigged gentlemen. And so we waited. But to add to the confusion, one round faced Egyptian came by wearing an Air France work coat and stout mustache that identified him unmistakably as a native. He nabbed out passports cracking over his shoulder, "I be back," and refusing any of my gestures of curiosity.
Time passes slower when you think you might be living in a baggage claim area for the next several day. But just as irritation with our swift-handed fiend overwhelmed me, I began to notice the clerks distributing some belongings among the crowd. Passports. A sigh of relief and arm extended to accept back the conceivably prodigal document.
With no avail, I made my claim to this ambiguous luggage. Upon the consult of the clerk, I called the next day to check the status. "Tomorrow night it should be in to... (pause)... 17 Port Siad, Maadi. Correct?" Oh crap. They have been confused by the address. No, ma;am, its the corner of road 17 and Port Siad, where they intersect. Okay, thank you sir. Click.
Tomorrow night was tonight. Expecting it might be nearly midnight or 1 am before they deliver the alleged bag, I entertained my wits with a few hours of Wii entertainment. By this point, I've only slept 3 and a half hours in the last 24. Its now 3 am and exhaustion claims its rigged prize. A dark room with the blue glow of only the digital alarm clock as lamp cues the confused man suddenly talking on the phone in his sleep. 4:06 am.
He tells me he is at Port Siad and Road 17. "I'll be there in one minute," I mumble. We meet. He inquires about his tip, because every man who is awaken in the midst of glorious rest instinctively grabs for his wallet. Except me. The man announces his Christianity to me as if that will have an impact on his tip. I free only my wallet and phone from the warm shelter of my pocket as evidence to my stupidity. The polite disgust covers his face and thank him for his service to return with my bruised but not beaten treasure.
And if you were wondering, everything that started in the suitcase found its way here. Again the sweet song of 5:00 am call to Islamic prayer lulls me to a weary sleep. Good night, and good luck.
When I arrived in Cairo International Airport on the evening of January 6th, I expected to jump through customs, grab my bags and be on my way with a matter of 20 minutes. But why would that be any fun? Instead, my excitement rises when I see the first of my two luggage items gliding toward me on the conveyor. Little did I know that if that luggage could speak it would have been screaming frightfully terrors about how he and his younger brother were separated in Paris.
Because of his years of travel experience this bag knew how to handle the situation smoothly, without showing his raging anxiety. His sibling was not yet weathered enough traveling storms to know trouble when its coming. The old bag got out as soon as he noticed a problem and jumped the plane to Cairo. The rookie was not so lucky. He was left like a forgotten, unloved child.
After expectant many moments of waiting and watching for my beloved luggage, an eerie bell buzzed out, sounding the end of the luggage line. On the verge of tears, my brave one bag and I toughened up, dabbed the corner of a misty eye and marched over the the mob of people growling about their similar circumstances.
"I can't wait til tomorrow; I leave for Alex!" snarled one Frenchman. "I've precious cargo in mine," piped another short white-wigged gentlemen. And so we waited. But to add to the confusion, one round faced Egyptian came by wearing an Air France work coat and stout mustache that identified him unmistakably as a native. He nabbed out passports cracking over his shoulder, "I be back," and refusing any of my gestures of curiosity.
Time passes slower when you think you might be living in a baggage claim area for the next several day. But just as irritation with our swift-handed fiend overwhelmed me, I began to notice the clerks distributing some belongings among the crowd. Passports. A sigh of relief and arm extended to accept back the conceivably prodigal document.
With no avail, I made my claim to this ambiguous luggage. Upon the consult of the clerk, I called the next day to check the status. "Tomorrow night it should be in to... (pause)... 17 Port Siad, Maadi. Correct?" Oh crap. They have been confused by the address. No, ma;am, its the corner of road 17 and Port Siad, where they intersect. Okay, thank you sir. Click.
Tomorrow night was tonight. Expecting it might be nearly midnight or 1 am before they deliver the alleged bag, I entertained my wits with a few hours of Wii entertainment. By this point, I've only slept 3 and a half hours in the last 24. Its now 3 am and exhaustion claims its rigged prize. A dark room with the blue glow of only the digital alarm clock as lamp cues the confused man suddenly talking on the phone in his sleep. 4:06 am.
He tells me he is at Port Siad and Road 17. "I'll be there in one minute," I mumble. We meet. He inquires about his tip, because every man who is awaken in the midst of glorious rest instinctively grabs for his wallet. Except me. The man announces his Christianity to me as if that will have an impact on his tip. I free only my wallet and phone from the warm shelter of my pocket as evidence to my stupidity. The polite disgust covers his face and thank him for his service to return with my bruised but not beaten treasure.
And if you were wondering, everything that started in the suitcase found its way here. Again the sweet song of 5:00 am call to Islamic prayer lulls me to a weary sleep. Good night, and good luck.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Bazaar
One of the first comments of the morning spilled out the mouth of young Iasonas Katsaros.
"Your eyes have a white circle around them. That's weird," he informed me.
This tanning is not unusual to the rest of the world. When a person goes to the beach and wears their sunglasses all day, the result yielded is the infamous reverse raccoon. I, however, was not at a beach. There was sand all around but absolutely no water. Instead we sat, or rather we stood, in the blazing sun of the wadi desert at the annual Maadi Women's Guild Christmas Bazaar held at the Wadi Degla Sporting Club. The temperatures deceived us, thus the reason for our Rudolph'd noses and jolly cheeks and foreheads. When we left our homes at 9 am that morning the chill thrilled us all with a shivering 55 degrees Fahrenheit. The breeze and the chill never rose beyond 70.
Lucky for me, the work I had put into my tan earlier in the year barricaded the burn from any insinuating pain. Fearful of a day of sled-leading jokes and a crispy face, relief gave way to joy on the skip over to pageant rehearsal this morning.
I serve as one of the 4 wise kings of Orient. I did not mistype as you may be wondering. This year, there are four of us baring gifts to the glowing baby-King. One of the other kings, who is dressed as a pharaoh, brings the same gift I thought would be wise - gold. In the spirit of holiday cheer we duke it out while telling King Arthur and the pirate king of Asia to hush their oh so wise yappers.
I, the only king from the appropriate location and time period, get cut from the gift baring, leaving me only to kneel in shameful awe of the precious baby Jesus, of whom was a clay pot today. We didn't have a baby to rehearse with so we improvised.
All in all, its not too shabby of a gig. I get to dress up in a man dress called a galabeya, play a nerdy role that doesn't make the cut, and ride on a camel of which one of the wise men was tossed from in last year's performance. Now why did I agree to do this again? Oh, yeah, to spread the word of the birth of Christ. He better do something brilliant when he grows up.
"Your eyes have a white circle around them. That's weird," he informed me.
This tanning is not unusual to the rest of the world. When a person goes to the beach and wears their sunglasses all day, the result yielded is the infamous reverse raccoon. I, however, was not at a beach. There was sand all around but absolutely no water. Instead we sat, or rather we stood, in the blazing sun of the wadi desert at the annual Maadi Women's Guild Christmas Bazaar held at the Wadi Degla Sporting Club. The temperatures deceived us, thus the reason for our Rudolph'd noses and jolly cheeks and foreheads. When we left our homes at 9 am that morning the chill thrilled us all with a shivering 55 degrees Fahrenheit. The breeze and the chill never rose beyond 70.
Lucky for me, the work I had put into my tan earlier in the year barricaded the burn from any insinuating pain. Fearful of a day of sled-leading jokes and a crispy face, relief gave way to joy on the skip over to pageant rehearsal this morning.
I serve as one of the 4 wise kings of Orient. I did not mistype as you may be wondering. This year, there are four of us baring gifts to the glowing baby-King. One of the other kings, who is dressed as a pharaoh, brings the same gift I thought would be wise - gold. In the spirit of holiday cheer we duke it out while telling King Arthur and the pirate king of Asia to hush their oh so wise yappers.
I, the only king from the appropriate location and time period, get cut from the gift baring, leaving me only to kneel in shameful awe of the precious baby Jesus, of whom was a clay pot today. We didn't have a baby to rehearse with so we improvised.
All in all, its not too shabby of a gig. I get to dress up in a man dress called a galabeya, play a nerdy role that doesn't make the cut, and ride on a camel of which one of the wise men was tossed from in last year's performance. Now why did I agree to do this again? Oh, yeah, to spread the word of the birth of Christ. He better do something brilliant when he grows up.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Yule Tide Greetings
Though it is cooling off a bit here, I find myself stripping my shirt from a toasted torso when running in the wadi today.
Also, there is officially less than 2 weeks before a quick leap across the Atlantic puddle. It'll be a good skip home, or so I hope.
I had a Dr. Pepper today for the first time in over a year. It gave me a head ache.
The longer I spend with the Katsaros' the more it feels like family. I went to Yannis' soccer game yesterday and sat with the families. During a lull, I terrorized the young ones on the playground as the big bad playground monster, tagging and moving with great tact and rapidity.
I find the cynic in me bobbing for surprise visits more often than I'd care to see his gnarly disgruntled face. Some one please tell him to stop.
It would take great convincing to sway me from a belief that functional family and true social reform (what I refer to as dreams) do not coincide. Perhaps this is youthful ignorance chiming in, but I do not believe it possible.
Recently, my youthful immaturity blinds and exposes my frugalled experiences. In this, there has been a surge of disdain and apprehension for revealing immaturity. My whole life I've maintained the reputation as the one more mature than his peers. That slows as you age, I think. The expectation for maturity flattens out and climbs near a ceiling. Breaking ceilings is not an activity I'm accustomed to, though it is a growing family tradition (apologies, Dad. Terry I hope you are laughing while remembering that ordeal many years ago). Perhaps, I'll continue the tradition.
I burst with tension yearning the simple life.
Independence is my friend, but interdependence is my brother.
Big words (like interdependence) make me want to vomit. I wish I, and others, could write and talk with pictures like cultures of the East.
I am retiring for the night to sip some tea and lounge on the sofa couch.
In the holy, precious name of Jesus Christ our risen Lord, I pray. Amen
Also, there is officially less than 2 weeks before a quick leap across the Atlantic puddle. It'll be a good skip home, or so I hope.
I had a Dr. Pepper today for the first time in over a year. It gave me a head ache.
The longer I spend with the Katsaros' the more it feels like family. I went to Yannis' soccer game yesterday and sat with the families. During a lull, I terrorized the young ones on the playground as the big bad playground monster, tagging and moving with great tact and rapidity.
I find the cynic in me bobbing for surprise visits more often than I'd care to see his gnarly disgruntled face. Some one please tell him to stop.
It would take great convincing to sway me from a belief that functional family and true social reform (what I refer to as dreams) do not coincide. Perhaps this is youthful ignorance chiming in, but I do not believe it possible.
Recently, my youthful immaturity blinds and exposes my frugalled experiences. In this, there has been a surge of disdain and apprehension for revealing immaturity. My whole life I've maintained the reputation as the one more mature than his peers. That slows as you age, I think. The expectation for maturity flattens out and climbs near a ceiling. Breaking ceilings is not an activity I'm accustomed to, though it is a growing family tradition (apologies, Dad. Terry I hope you are laughing while remembering that ordeal many years ago). Perhaps, I'll continue the tradition.
I burst with tension yearning the simple life.
Independence is my friend, but interdependence is my brother.
Big words (like interdependence) make me want to vomit. I wish I, and others, could write and talk with pictures like cultures of the East.
I am retiring for the night to sip some tea and lounge on the sofa couch.
In the holy, precious name of Jesus Christ our risen Lord, I pray. Amen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)