Sunday, July 13, 2008
Concluding Thoughts
With the chill of a clammy echoing well/catacomb, the murky darkness, rank and rancid prowls in on tempestuous trials; the year I've left here raised from within the snake holes the soul both the weakest and worst I never thought I possessed. Challenged what often times felt like beyond measure, an unceasingly fragile confidence and renewed boldness collided to spark flames to unlit portions of personality, character, and work ethic. So much learning, so little time.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Bullies Do Exist
9 July 5:00 A.M.
Afflicted by the pungent of sunscreen-stained clothes and skin, the battle to sleep rages on - me wrestling a torturously fluffy pillow, unable to sleep despite residing in the undoubtedly most comfortable best I've run my fingers across in the past year. Reminiscent of Edmund Dantés escape from Château d'If when his servant enters to wake him one morning, the servant starts incredulously that his master would willing make his pallet on the cold and dirty floor than recline sweetly on a mattress of most expensive and elaborate repose, I find the scars I now gladly bear accost my once unadorned and overlooked peaceful sleeping habits.
A simple, cruel cackle, as that from a jealous schoolyard bully, incessantly prods my consciousness as though a sizzling cattle prod seared the painted images of Egypt inside my eyelids, leaving out what it lacked1. To capture elusive rest, I must remain awake to remind me of current circumstance. The stench of this frying flesh draws salty tears like a broken bucket from a dark, deep well. As was the case when upon our departure from Romania, when one leaves the trifecta of blood, sweat (oh how much sweat!), and tears in a single place, that one person inevitably and supernaturally joins in life with that place, whether for the good or the bad only time will tell.
As I imagine amalgamated Egypt [author secretly chuckles at the irony], a smug and seemingly content grin twist maliciously onto the Conglomerate plaque, as if to taunt my dreams in the wee small hours of the morning, uncaring of the 5000 mile chasm between here and there. A resentful insinuation of irritating awareness claws deep in these ragged hours, "If you were here now, you wouldn't have these thoughts or problems; you'd be carousing familiar, embracing streets." But isn't that the whisper of the Enemy. Those thoughts stink of Satan's deception. I will indeed treasure my time and experience of Egypt, however I will not let the Deceiver posthumously ruin the transformation our God has brought about within me.
1. lyrics from Twila Paris' song Painting Pictures of Egypt.
What will you miss about Egypt?
-In America, I often feel as though I don't measure up. I don't meet the minimum standards of masculinity. In Egypt, the treat you like a king. There is no mask. I could be whoever I wanted because they didn't care who I wasn't. They only cared for who I was. Whether it for truth or cash, the feeling remains the same.
Afflicted by the pungent of sunscreen-stained clothes and skin, the battle to sleep rages on - me wrestling a torturously fluffy pillow, unable to sleep despite residing in the undoubtedly most comfortable best I've run my fingers across in the past year. Reminiscent of Edmund Dantés escape from Château d'If when his servant enters to wake him one morning, the servant starts incredulously that his master would willing make his pallet on the cold and dirty floor than recline sweetly on a mattress of most expensive and elaborate repose, I find the scars I now gladly bear accost my once unadorned and overlooked peaceful sleeping habits.
A simple, cruel cackle, as that from a jealous schoolyard bully, incessantly prods my consciousness as though a sizzling cattle prod seared the painted images of Egypt inside my eyelids, leaving out what it lacked1. To capture elusive rest, I must remain awake to remind me of current circumstance. The stench of this frying flesh draws salty tears like a broken bucket from a dark, deep well. As was the case when upon our departure from Romania, when one leaves the trifecta of blood, sweat (oh how much sweat!), and tears in a single place, that one person inevitably and supernaturally joins in life with that place, whether for the good or the bad only time will tell.
As I imagine amalgamated Egypt [author secretly chuckles at the irony], a smug and seemingly content grin twist maliciously onto the Conglomerate plaque, as if to taunt my dreams in the wee small hours of the morning, uncaring of the 5000 mile chasm between here and there. A resentful insinuation of irritating awareness claws deep in these ragged hours, "If you were here now, you wouldn't have these thoughts or problems; you'd be carousing familiar, embracing streets." But isn't that the whisper of the Enemy. Those thoughts stink of Satan's deception. I will indeed treasure my time and experience of Egypt, however I will not let the Deceiver posthumously ruin the transformation our God has brought about within me.
1. lyrics from Twila Paris' song Painting Pictures of Egypt.
What will you miss about Egypt?
-In America, I often feel as though I don't measure up. I don't meet the minimum standards of masculinity. In Egypt, the treat you like a king. There is no mask. I could be whoever I wanted because they didn't care who I wasn't. They only cared for who I was. Whether it for truth or cash, the feeling remains the same.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Its not goodbye...
Separation and departure remain as a norm when you live in a highly transient community. Coming to the end of another year (years are from August to May when you work with or are in school), a couple of thoughts resurface almost daily.
Goodbyes, in this community, extend further than they should - in my opinion. As a youth staff, we began thinking about and speaking our parting words over six weeks before our official release date. As one who does not necessarily care for extended farewells, a corrupting frustration drips like acid rain on my concluding month. I much prefer to hug once speak a couple words (if that many) and go our separate ways. This is not to say we wouldn't keep in touch, however I only have a tolerance for so many sentimental moments. Even as I think these things now, it strikes me as youth and ignorance speaking.
"Every moment is precious," said one particular youth. I love this young man with every once of my capable heart, but awkwardness and blurred emotion sway our interaction.
For one who expects this as a norm, you'd think it would be easier. How did it come that I didn't know the wetness of a tear, yet now must tense with all my might to dam these salty emotions. Nostalgia and recollection poison any quiet moments that sneak past the clutter and bustle of Egyptian hours. We had a wise man of age come counsel our staff on some blah blah boring stuff that lowly interns such as myself don't care much for. Despite the assigned content of his seminars, he shared a sliver of life on a more personal basis with a select few. Perhaps the most clever words I recall are those regarding age - "Young men speak more about the future because they have more it than the past; old men speak on the past because they have more of it than they do future."
As a single man, not necessarily "on the prowl," I ponder the importance of companionship. Even as I write this now, the depth of my yearning to share life with another bears its ugly head. Plagued with furious questions speeding in from parents and peers about the ominous "future", nothing is certain. How scary that can be.
Please excuse my incoherence. Haze fogs my writing eyes. There are things I'd like to scribble out but the weight of my heart restrains me from straying too far from these leavings.
Change is rampant, swelling in my stomach. I know the man I entered as, he is but a remnant. But to be a new one, oh the fear. I knew how to manipulate that previous persona. And now discipline, and patience, and sacrifice stickle the conscience. I don't know how to do this.
And to further stone myself from these petty... emotions, I must depart this journal entry to watch a movie. That always helps; enter an alternative reality.
Goodbyes, in this community, extend further than they should - in my opinion. As a youth staff, we began thinking about and speaking our parting words over six weeks before our official release date. As one who does not necessarily care for extended farewells, a corrupting frustration drips like acid rain on my concluding month. I much prefer to hug once speak a couple words (if that many) and go our separate ways. This is not to say we wouldn't keep in touch, however I only have a tolerance for so many sentimental moments. Even as I think these things now, it strikes me as youth and ignorance speaking.
"Every moment is precious," said one particular youth. I love this young man with every once of my capable heart, but awkwardness and blurred emotion sway our interaction.
For one who expects this as a norm, you'd think it would be easier. How did it come that I didn't know the wetness of a tear, yet now must tense with all my might to dam these salty emotions. Nostalgia and recollection poison any quiet moments that sneak past the clutter and bustle of Egyptian hours. We had a wise man of age come counsel our staff on some blah blah boring stuff that lowly interns such as myself don't care much for. Despite the assigned content of his seminars, he shared a sliver of life on a more personal basis with a select few. Perhaps the most clever words I recall are those regarding age - "Young men speak more about the future because they have more it than the past; old men speak on the past because they have more of it than they do future."
As a single man, not necessarily "on the prowl," I ponder the importance of companionship. Even as I write this now, the depth of my yearning to share life with another bears its ugly head. Plagued with furious questions speeding in from parents and peers about the ominous "future", nothing is certain. How scary that can be.
Please excuse my incoherence. Haze fogs my writing eyes. There are things I'd like to scribble out but the weight of my heart restrains me from straying too far from these leavings.
Change is rampant, swelling in my stomach. I know the man I entered as, he is but a remnant. But to be a new one, oh the fear. I knew how to manipulate that previous persona. And now discipline, and patience, and sacrifice stickle the conscience. I don't know how to do this.
And to further stone myself from these petty... emotions, I must depart this journal entry to watch a movie. That always helps; enter an alternative reality.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Aftermath
We were asked to share what God was doing in us this year, with our high school group. Here is what I wrote (and read):
I wouldn't be who I am without having been raised in the educational atmosphere, lavish environment, and persistent push toward excellence that I call home. For this I am ever grateful. However, there is only so much a student can learn from a teacherless classroom. Tired from the monotonous wade through materialism and self focus, I needed a breath of fresh air. Egypt. ?.
Take me to a new place, I whined.
A crooked bend spat in The Ear.
I prayed and prayed. I talked, complained, argued, and even on one occasion spat at God to free me from the shell of monoculture. Few people understood this longing, and fatefully this familiar phrase floundered fervently like a fading fad from friends and family, "Why would you want to leave America? Its the best country in the world!" Farewell, I bid. Farsighted had I fastened my fancy.
Abundance and luxury unsatisfying,
I need more - the undesire.
A fickle tickle sickled the rhythm of my
ear drums,
Beating a path across a dry ocean floor...
A journey of Mosaic proportions,
misunderstood.
But worry not, young pilgrim;
I had studied the scriptures from multiple perspectives, finding one common theme necessary for transformation - absence, drought, aridity. Where did Moses lead the Israelites after Egypt? Into the desert. Where was Jesus led by the Holy Spirit for his testing? Into the desert. Where did Elijah run before encountering the Lord on Mt. Horeb? Into the desert. So of course where must I go to meet my King? Into the desert. Enter Egypt.
Of course, the physical landscape seemed more of a pun and sense of God's humor than a spiritual metaphor, but before a month was down, a realization crept ever so subtly to whisper in my ear, "My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water." Those are not the words of a man who needs physical hydration.
Knees dirty and bent for a release from
Captivity,
Hands likened themselves to the weary knees,
breaking the abrasive fall to humility. A plea,
moved
p r o s t r a t e
from the depth of a soul,
Arid and barren as the cracked soil of a
gasping desert wilderness.
Enter a place to match the posture.
The irony runs deep. Never before in my life have I been so well fed; never have I thirsted for drink since I laid a tiny toe on this turbulent terrain. However, never since I left the safety of the womb have I ever been so scared, so vulnerable. But unlike before, I knew how to steel myself.
Feasting ferociously on the faux pas of a former facade, trust walls rose up to protect and defend a tattered heart. Yet as they say, what goes up, must come down. The hospitalities of hearts and homes, your hearts and homes, crushed divots in those defenses. Unsolicited love cannoned holes through my seemingly impervious protection. From families to freshmen to fun-loving freaks, the trust walls turned to trust falls (but only in the case of a tie).
Ease does not bring definition.
Are the river's rocks sculpted by a pebble's
time ashore?
Shall the character of a warrior be tested
in the evenings of peace?
Ease does not bring definition.
It took a trip to Romania, a Hardy, a Betty. Children waning, bodies mistaken, souls misled. It took a trip to the orphanage, a Bramsen, a story about the unremembered, neglected, overlooked and ignored, lives of beautiful souls dropped off to die - to bring purpose, to bring life to that limp lying body. And so we ask, how have I changed?
Lest there be adversity and engagement
clashing the forces,
A character shall not be tested.
Ease does not bring definition.
Now a man with insight. I am a man knelt before his King to go were he sends me. I will go where you send me. Once a floater, now a focused fighter, fierce and fearless for the future of the Kingdom. Fettered to my first love, forever.
Challenge casts composure.
Knee now sanctioned for service.
Exit this place with purpose to posture.
I wouldn't be who I am without having been raised in the educational atmosphere, lavish environment, and persistent push toward excellence that I call home. For this I am ever grateful. However, there is only so much a student can learn from a teacherless classroom. Tired from the monotonous wade through materialism and self focus, I needed a breath of fresh air. Egypt. ?.
Take me to a new place, I whined.
A crooked bend spat in The Ear.
I prayed and prayed. I talked, complained, argued, and even on one occasion spat at God to free me from the shell of monoculture. Few people understood this longing, and fatefully this familiar phrase floundered fervently like a fading fad from friends and family, "Why would you want to leave America? Its the best country in the world!" Farewell, I bid. Farsighted had I fastened my fancy.
Abundance and luxury unsatisfying,
I need more - the undesire.
A fickle tickle sickled the rhythm of my
ear drums,
Beating a path across a dry ocean floor...
A journey of Mosaic proportions,
misunderstood.
But worry not, young pilgrim;
I had studied the scriptures from multiple perspectives, finding one common theme necessary for transformation - absence, drought, aridity. Where did Moses lead the Israelites after Egypt? Into the desert. Where was Jesus led by the Holy Spirit for his testing? Into the desert. Where did Elijah run before encountering the Lord on Mt. Horeb? Into the desert. So of course where must I go to meet my King? Into the desert. Enter Egypt.
Of course, the physical landscape seemed more of a pun and sense of God's humor than a spiritual metaphor, but before a month was down, a realization crept ever so subtly to whisper in my ear, "My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water." Those are not the words of a man who needs physical hydration.
Knees dirty and bent for a release from
Captivity,
Hands likened themselves to the weary knees,
breaking the abrasive fall to humility. A plea,
moved
p r o s t r a t e
from the depth of a soul,
Arid and barren as the cracked soil of a
gasping desert wilderness.
Enter a place to match the posture.
The irony runs deep. Never before in my life have I been so well fed; never have I thirsted for drink since I laid a tiny toe on this turbulent terrain. However, never since I left the safety of the womb have I ever been so scared, so vulnerable. But unlike before, I knew how to steel myself.
Feasting ferociously on the faux pas of a former facade, trust walls rose up to protect and defend a tattered heart. Yet as they say, what goes up, must come down. The hospitalities of hearts and homes, your hearts and homes, crushed divots in those defenses. Unsolicited love cannoned holes through my seemingly impervious protection. From families to freshmen to fun-loving freaks, the trust walls turned to trust falls (but only in the case of a tie).
Ease does not bring definition.
Are the river's rocks sculpted by a pebble's
time ashore?
Shall the character of a warrior be tested
in the evenings of peace?
Ease does not bring definition.
It took a trip to Romania, a Hardy, a Betty. Children waning, bodies mistaken, souls misled. It took a trip to the orphanage, a Bramsen, a story about the unremembered, neglected, overlooked and ignored, lives of beautiful souls dropped off to die - to bring purpose, to bring life to that limp lying body. And so we ask, how have I changed?
Lest there be adversity and engagement
clashing the forces,
A character shall not be tested.
Ease does not bring definition.
Now a man with insight. I am a man knelt before his King to go were he sends me. I will go where you send me. Once a floater, now a focused fighter, fierce and fearless for the future of the Kingdom. Fettered to my first love, forever.
Challenge casts composure.
Knee now sanctioned for service.
Exit this place with purpose to posture.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
500 miles
I'm Gonna Walk (500 miles) -
[to the music of I'm Gonna Be (500 miles) by The Proclaimers]
When I wake up, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to do his yoga. (10 min.)
After Yoga, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to go to church. (10 min.)
If I eat lunch, yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to get his lunch. (10 min.)
And if I have a meeting, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to his meeting. (10 min.)
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks all over Maadi
to have taxis honk their horns.
-Da da dun duh interlude-
When I meet kids, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man walking to their house. (10 min.)
And when they don't show, even when they said they would
I'm gonna be the man who walks right out the door. (10 min.)
If we hang out, yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man whose walkin all the more (10 min.)
If I lose weight, its because I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man walking everywhere.
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks all over Maadi
to have taxis honk their horns.
[Fade music]
As you may have guessed, in Cairo, we walk a lot. This is nothing new. People have always walked. But this week I grew curious; what portion of our day do we spend walking where we would normally drive? So I calculated. It is approximately 10 minutes to walk from our villa to the church or the school, about 15 minutes to certain students homes, and 20 minutes to visit some young adult friends we work and hang out with. It is another 10 minutes from the church to the school, and from any given point, between 7-10 minutes to walk to Rd 9 (its like the Strip - full of stores, groceries, banks, restaurants, etc). So on any given day I will walk at minimun 20 minutes just to get to the church and back home. An average day keeps my feet pedaling for around an hour but it is not uncommon to meet me on a day that I have walked upwards of 2+ hours, strictly for event to event transportation.
I entered this country weighing in at 180 pounds (81 kilograms). As of 9:00 am this morning, I clocked in at 164 pounds (74 kg). The moral of this story is the 80s made some great music.
[to the music of I'm Gonna Be (500 miles) by The Proclaimers]
When I wake up, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to do his yoga. (10 min.)
After Yoga, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to go to church. (10 min.)
If I eat lunch, yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to get his lunch. (10 min.)
And if I have a meeting, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who walks to his meeting. (10 min.)
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks all over Maadi
to have taxis honk their horns.
-Da da dun duh interlude-
When I meet kids, yeah, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man walking to their house. (10 min.)
And when they don't show, even when they said they would
I'm gonna be the man who walks right out the door. (10 min.)
If we hang out, yes, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man whose walkin all the more (10 min.)
If I lose weight, its because I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man walking everywhere.
But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walks all over Maadi
to have taxis honk their horns.
[Fade music]
As you may have guessed, in Cairo, we walk a lot. This is nothing new. People have always walked. But this week I grew curious; what portion of our day do we spend walking where we would normally drive? So I calculated. It is approximately 10 minutes to walk from our villa to the church or the school, about 15 minutes to certain students homes, and 20 minutes to visit some young adult friends we work and hang out with. It is another 10 minutes from the church to the school, and from any given point, between 7-10 minutes to walk to Rd 9 (its like the Strip - full of stores, groceries, banks, restaurants, etc). So on any given day I will walk at minimun 20 minutes just to get to the church and back home. An average day keeps my feet pedaling for around an hour but it is not uncommon to meet me on a day that I have walked upwards of 2+ hours, strictly for event to event transportation.
I entered this country weighing in at 180 pounds (81 kilograms). As of 9:00 am this morning, I clocked in at 164 pounds (74 kg). The moral of this story is the 80s made some great music.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
On my way to a party...
As I strolled the streets, a ruckus, a fuss snared my ear drums. Cranking up a sense of expatriate awareness, as if I could possibly find this life in potential jeopardy, my spidey sense honed into a rioting crowd flailing about down the hill. Wings awkwardly flapping with intent to strike sense into the head of an agressor met no opposition from the bleached officer amid the fight club. Living here has allowed me to see how contagious anger raptures the mind of innocent bystanders. And in this chaotic moment, as I resumed my seat on the front row after darting onto a safer sidewalk, to my astonishment, a graying elderly woman transformed her purse into a weapon of Egyptian destruction rebuking one of the young combatants with a purse-fist-verbal assault combo. A chuckle somehow slipped from my throat, countered tactfully with a somber and pompous head shake of attempted disapproval. "You'd never see a fight in the middle of the day like this in the States," I boasted. "We would do it the sophisticated way - wait until dark and gather a gang of roughnecks and vandals to secretly destroy the property of our caviling foe. Face-to-face, fist-to-fist, nose-to-nose, is just to close; we need to respect others' need for privacy and personal space.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Lessons
Against my better judgment, I will stay the drooping desires of my eyes for your reading enjoyment (hopefully).
Some life lessons I've embarked on as of late:
1. Good things come to those who wait. But when you've waited 10 months and you leave in one, good things suddenly become frustratingly urgent.
2. Females are difficult to understand. Males are difficult to know. I explain it like this: Men like to fix things, work on things take things apart and put them back together. We want formulas, mechanisms, so we can work logically through the steps when something is awry. Women, however, as I understand, seem to be more relational creatures. They do not care to understand how you feel. They just want to know how your day was. Tell me about you. Functionality serves little to no purpose when you attempt to know a person.
This theory serves true even among same-sex interaction. For instance, the young men I join in a small group each Tuesday night are great guys. However, it has taken me the length of my stay here in luscious Egypt to finally know these men. They all depart within the month. You better believe the irritation from that is worse than bed bug bites from a cheap motel mattress.
3. Husbands love your wives. In one of our group meetings with the aforementioned young men, we spent a decent tangent discussing the effects of various translations of the Bible which inevitably led to a discourse/soapbox lecture on the equality and consideration a couple should have for each other. As I spoke, the Spirit must have taken over because the words spewing out my mouth were not from thoughts I had previously constructed. The discussion went something along these lines (edited for grammatical alterations and slightly more impressive presentation from yours truly):
Me: Take for instance Ephesians 5 when we read about husbands and wives. When you start off, the text is seemingly sexist in its approach to "wives submit your husbands, for they are the head" etc, etc.
Student: [affirmative nod] Yeah...
Me: And some could even read into the next portion as another gender-bias argument, however, let's read this quickly - "Husbands, love your wives." Now we are like woopidee do da. If he married her, he probably loved her, so what's so special about this? Keep reading - "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ love the church and gave himself up for her [...]" So now, you get to die to yourself each day for the sake of your wife.
Student's mom: [walked in the door just in time to listen in on the end of conversation, pretending to fold clothes but truly just eavesdropping on her beloved son's meeting. Upon hearing "die to yourself for sake of your wife," chimes in to her son] Ben, are you listening to this man. You should be taking notes!
Me: [much quieter as mom exits, leaning in] She may have to submit, but you have to die?! Who got the raw end of that deal?
4. Sit at his door. In a world so rapidly moving, we expect God to show up on our schedule. We rarely (if ever) wait for the Lord to exit his home to meet us where we are. I find myself waiting for God like I would a late professor. You get 5 minutes before I leave, if I'm feeling generous. Who would have thought that the Creator has a different time schedule than his limited, boundary-confined creation?
5. Perspective is a gift, given to those who don't really need it at a time it isn't really useful. Two close friends have some, how shall we say, prickly provocation any time they are in the same room. Both have sought mediation and counsel from others as well as myself. However, neither cares to listen to the portion they could improve or, more poignantly, the hard truth hidden from their cycloped eyes. With truth being hard and me a bit of a softy, nor residing in a place acceptable enough to deliver such catastrophic catalyst, we only pray they will discover these big red doors by combining there blinded peepers to form a single good pair they can share.
6. Family or Passionate occupation? Its an ongoing debate between inexperienced, idealistic twentysomethings. Save it for later.
Some life lessons I've embarked on as of late:
1. Good things come to those who wait. But when you've waited 10 months and you leave in one, good things suddenly become frustratingly urgent.
2. Females are difficult to understand. Males are difficult to know. I explain it like this: Men like to fix things, work on things take things apart and put them back together. We want formulas, mechanisms, so we can work logically through the steps when something is awry. Women, however, as I understand, seem to be more relational creatures. They do not care to understand how you feel. They just want to know how your day was. Tell me about you. Functionality serves little to no purpose when you attempt to know a person.
This theory serves true even among same-sex interaction. For instance, the young men I join in a small group each Tuesday night are great guys. However, it has taken me the length of my stay here in luscious Egypt to finally know these men. They all depart within the month. You better believe the irritation from that is worse than bed bug bites from a cheap motel mattress.
3. Husbands love your wives. In one of our group meetings with the aforementioned young men, we spent a decent tangent discussing the effects of various translations of the Bible which inevitably led to a discourse/soapbox lecture on the equality and consideration a couple should have for each other. As I spoke, the Spirit must have taken over because the words spewing out my mouth were not from thoughts I had previously constructed. The discussion went something along these lines (edited for grammatical alterations and slightly more impressive presentation from yours truly):
Me: Take for instance Ephesians 5 when we read about husbands and wives. When you start off, the text is seemingly sexist in its approach to "wives submit your husbands, for they are the head" etc, etc.
Student: [affirmative nod] Yeah...
Me: And some could even read into the next portion as another gender-bias argument, however, let's read this quickly - "Husbands, love your wives." Now we are like woopidee do da. If he married her, he probably loved her, so what's so special about this? Keep reading - "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ love the church and gave himself up for her [...]" So now, you get to die to yourself each day for the sake of your wife.
Student's mom: [walked in the door just in time to listen in on the end of conversation, pretending to fold clothes but truly just eavesdropping on her beloved son's meeting. Upon hearing "die to yourself for sake of your wife," chimes in to her son] Ben, are you listening to this man. You should be taking notes!
Me: [much quieter as mom exits, leaning in] She may have to submit, but you have to die?! Who got the raw end of that deal?
4. Sit at his door. In a world so rapidly moving, we expect God to show up on our schedule. We rarely (if ever) wait for the Lord to exit his home to meet us where we are. I find myself waiting for God like I would a late professor. You get 5 minutes before I leave, if I'm feeling generous. Who would have thought that the Creator has a different time schedule than his limited, boundary-confined creation?
5. Perspective is a gift, given to those who don't really need it at a time it isn't really useful. Two close friends have some, how shall we say, prickly provocation any time they are in the same room. Both have sought mediation and counsel from others as well as myself. However, neither cares to listen to the portion they could improve or, more poignantly, the hard truth hidden from their cycloped eyes. With truth being hard and me a bit of a softy, nor residing in a place acceptable enough to deliver such catastrophic catalyst, we only pray they will discover these big red doors by combining there blinded peepers to form a single good pair they can share.
6. Family or Passionate occupation? Its an ongoing debate between inexperienced, idealistic twentysomethings. Save it for later.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Weekends
There was an anonymous complaint that I hadn’t written in a while. Please accept my sincerest apologies. The following is meant only to be humorous, not ethnocentric or culture bashing in any way.
This weekend, our youth staff of 6 (-1 since Kev is taking some leisure in the good ole U.S. of A.) plus 3 generous, sacrificial volunteers spent our selves from Thursday at 4:00 p.m. until Saturday at 5:00 p.m. with 80+ middle and high schoolers. Upon the conclusion of the camp we as a clump concurred in a cumulative constructive criticism that quarters were a bit crowded and we could’ve connected a couple more counseling compadres close to our kids to cut the quantity of crew-to-kid into a quality control. Just for a little extra humor and test of patience, the Big Kahuna allowed for a croaked engine on one of our two transporting buses. Indeed, the grass was greener on that side of Egypt than any other I’d yet been, however, at that point, it was only the other side of my pillow I truly cared to embrace.
In true Egyptian fashion I will recount the rest of this story with the a logic I simply refer to as “Welkham to Ejyp(t)” mentality (Welcome to Egypt, ‘t’ is silent). The rest of this story will be backwards as to slowly reveal more only when deemed necessary assist the conversation in some way, however, I do apologize if there is a touch of coherence. That may detract from the full experience a bit.
Let me begin at the end by explaining how the shade we experienced at a Christian owned complex brought about an appreciated coolness from the oppressive heat of the crescent moons atop the local minaret. There seemed to be an unusual joy floating among the other residents. I will note that I am still unsure of where this perceived joy is sourced. I did not ask but I guessed that one group was a gang of business folks together for some teambuilding weekend activities. This guess is only led in this direction because of the experiential evidence I gathered from watching the upper class businessmen here in Ma’adi. If not Christ, the only other reason I could give to the flocks of laughter would be due to the apparent youth of our fellow retreaters.
Even in this appreciated shade, the Egyptian mentality towards work shined bright despite any cooling cover. There was a reluctance to work beyond anything required or even keep one’s word after constructing a negotiation. We argued politely for use of the ropes course, our cabins, and our general meeting room, all of which had been previously “taken care of”.
One thing I have learned from our fearless leader Travis, if you lay down for the desires of deceitful business, no one win. Lose-lose (thanks again, Covey.) So again, as so often he has, bossman took matters into his own hands by requesting the room from the people occupying it. We received full confirmation at 1 a.m. after the first day. To remain humble, I’ll just say we were tired. But by 1:40 I finally found myself scuffling across the dark of our wood cabin floors clawing for the rod iron poles of my bunk nearly as hard the floor itself. The blanket was pleasant, though.
I typically try to make a strong effort to avoid monocultural comments or anything that could be construed as rude. It does seep into my writing a bit and for that I apologize. I have a genuine affection for the people here, despite the difficulty it is to work with them on occasion.
This weekend, our youth staff of 6 (-1 since Kev is taking some leisure in the good ole U.S. of A.) plus 3 generous, sacrificial volunteers spent our selves from Thursday at 4:00 p.m. until Saturday at 5:00 p.m. with 80+ middle and high schoolers. Upon the conclusion of the camp we as a clump concurred in a cumulative constructive criticism that quarters were a bit crowded and we could’ve connected a couple more counseling compadres close to our kids to cut the quantity of crew-to-kid into a quality control. Just for a little extra humor and test of patience, the Big Kahuna allowed for a croaked engine on one of our two transporting buses. Indeed, the grass was greener on that side of Egypt than any other I’d yet been, however, at that point, it was only the other side of my pillow I truly cared to embrace.
In true Egyptian fashion I will recount the rest of this story with the a logic I simply refer to as “Welkham to Ejyp(t)” mentality (Welcome to Egypt, ‘t’ is silent). The rest of this story will be backwards as to slowly reveal more only when deemed necessary assist the conversation in some way, however, I do apologize if there is a touch of coherence. That may detract from the full experience a bit.
Let me begin at the end by explaining how the shade we experienced at a Christian owned complex brought about an appreciated coolness from the oppressive heat of the crescent moons atop the local minaret. There seemed to be an unusual joy floating among the other residents. I will note that I am still unsure of where this perceived joy is sourced. I did not ask but I guessed that one group was a gang of business folks together for some teambuilding weekend activities. This guess is only led in this direction because of the experiential evidence I gathered from watching the upper class businessmen here in Ma’adi. If not Christ, the only other reason I could give to the flocks of laughter would be due to the apparent youth of our fellow retreaters.
Even in this appreciated shade, the Egyptian mentality towards work shined bright despite any cooling cover. There was a reluctance to work beyond anything required or even keep one’s word after constructing a negotiation. We argued politely for use of the ropes course, our cabins, and our general meeting room, all of which had been previously “taken care of”.
One thing I have learned from our fearless leader Travis, if you lay down for the desires of deceitful business, no one win. Lose-lose (thanks again, Covey.) So again, as so often he has, bossman took matters into his own hands by requesting the room from the people occupying it. We received full confirmation at 1 a.m. after the first day. To remain humble, I’ll just say we were tired. But by 1:40 I finally found myself scuffling across the dark of our wood cabin floors clawing for the rod iron poles of my bunk nearly as hard the floor itself. The blanket was pleasant, though.
I typically try to make a strong effort to avoid monocultural comments or anything that could be construed as rude. It does seep into my writing a bit and for that I apologize. I have a genuine affection for the people here, despite the difficulty it is to work with them on occasion.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Christina
Everyday here, exciting or seemingly extraordinary events occur that an inner dialogue sways me to believe I could expand that instance into a well scripted and dramatic or comedic narrative. However, despite Egypt's 3rd world country status, it remains a place busy enough to keep me from the desire to write. Not only that but, it seems that the times I do have to write, the proper pen and paper (or keyboard) are not accessible. So tonight I bring to you a story written by some friends of mine while we voyaged down the Nile on a simple yacht name The Christina. This is their recount of our quest:
"We all played Sleep Olympics. We were on the middle of the boat on a big soft cushion that's smooth, wrestling for my (Kyle's) over shirt. Asena and Iasonas spied on a man from the crew. We saw cows and sheep eating grass from the green land. Wind was blowing hard and the food was delicious, especially the spicy chips. When we wrestled, the nice boy and girl tried to throw my shirt in the Nile, as well as my flip-flops. In a mad and mean warning, I tricked them by saying I would throw them in the mucky green water, almost the color of the grass. The shade of the bridge brought relaxation from the buckling heat. When the fast speed boat passed by, the wake it left caused an explosion (in our imagination) on the tiny police boat nearby. Also, there was a field on the boat for soccer. Asena reminded us she is an expert on everything. An 88 year old windsurfer named George Washington glided up near the helm to try to steal our yacht but instead we invited him aboard to join the party. He was so overwhelmed and surprised with joy, he decided to stop stealing but the police took him to prison anyway. But we informed the authorities how nice he really was and they let him out."
I did assist in the construction of this story but mostly just in grammar. I might have helped with a word or two, but the story is truly theirs. Iasonas and Asena are approximately 7 or 8 years old. You might imagine, we had quite the fun on this tiny ship. These stories are worth 100x anything I might spew out attempting to perforate a cut out picture for you to take home with you. I thought a little coloring might look a little prettier. Thanks Asena. Thanks Iasonas.
"We all played Sleep Olympics. We were on the middle of the boat on a big soft cushion that's smooth, wrestling for my (Kyle's) over shirt. Asena and Iasonas spied on a man from the crew. We saw cows and sheep eating grass from the green land. Wind was blowing hard and the food was delicious, especially the spicy chips. When we wrestled, the nice boy and girl tried to throw my shirt in the Nile, as well as my flip-flops. In a mad and mean warning, I tricked them by saying I would throw them in the mucky green water, almost the color of the grass. The shade of the bridge brought relaxation from the buckling heat. When the fast speed boat passed by, the wake it left caused an explosion (in our imagination) on the tiny police boat nearby. Also, there was a field on the boat for soccer. Asena reminded us she is an expert on everything. An 88 year old windsurfer named George Washington glided up near the helm to try to steal our yacht but instead we invited him aboard to join the party. He was so overwhelmed and surprised with joy, he decided to stop stealing but the police took him to prison anyway. But we informed the authorities how nice he really was and they let him out."
I did assist in the construction of this story but mostly just in grammar. I might have helped with a word or two, but the story is truly theirs. Iasonas and Asena are approximately 7 or 8 years old. You might imagine, we had quite the fun on this tiny ship. These stories are worth 100x anything I might spew out attempting to perforate a cut out picture for you to take home with you. I thought a little coloring might look a little prettier. Thanks Asena. Thanks Iasonas.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Last week
It has been a few days since we last spoke, so please allow me a insufficiently quick description of a few of the activities I’ve lately participated.
Cake delivery
Last Friday marked the 23 years my friend and brother-from-another-mother, Kevin P. had been on this earth. Because of the generosity of the community here as well as his general genial persona, he received to whole birthday cakes. One of which he did not want to go to waste. Since we couldn’t eat both, Kev decided we should pass out the remains to some of the locals around his villa – i.e. the guards, the police, the street sweeper, a nearby family of squatters, etc. In all honesty, when he called me, I had no desire to join him as I was in the middle of a mission on my most current video game. Alas, the Spirit won and drug me off my fat butt to do some Kingdom work. It was good.
Diversity
Every so often something will happen that reminds me of the awesome diversity of youth with which we work. On Monday, I jumped in on a basketball game with an Egyptian, Sudanese, South African, and American. Does it get better?
Rite of passage
Last Saturday 7 adult men took one 12 year old boy into the desert, for within the week, that boy would become a man. Not in the way western culture defines it; in fact, just the opposite. The culture we call home has divorced rites of passage into manhood thus leaving us with clueless, confused boys trapped in 40+ year old bodies. The 7 of us decided we would train this one differently and spoke words of affirmation and encourage into this (now) young man's life. We also tried to explain a bit of what he could expect but also remind him that we would be there to walk with him along the perilous journey.
One week from tomorrow I will baptize this young man into the body of Christ. Unreal.
Weather/ sickness
Most places around the world claim to have four seasons of weather. Cairo fits that mold but in a slightly unexpected format. Normal seasons = Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. Egyptian seasons = Spring, Khamsin, Summer, Pre-spring. There is no Autumn, but rather when the heat becomes too unbearable at the end of Spring and into Khamsin, then any leaves that managed to sprout wither and die. It takes less than a week for the whole process.
Now you might be saying, "Kyle, what is this new Arabic you've learned? We uninformed Westerners don't understand that funky language." Well my friends, consider this your first lesson in Arabic. A khamsin (phonetically: hard kh like your [k]hawking up a pile of mucus from the back of your throat, kh-ah-m-seen) is what the Egyptians refer to as the 50 days of intense winds and sand storms that sweep the country. Allow me to paint this desert picture for you with a quick tale. Last week, a couple of us jumped out to the local wadi (dried river valley) for a swift 5k jog. When we reached our turn around spot, we stopped rub our eyes in disbelief (and to clear the sand now raining in our faces). The usually visible-despite-the-smog skyline of greater Cairo had been removed and replaced with a massive, "thick and dreadful darkness".
Now that you know what it looks like outside, how about a brief explanation of how it feels. Today it did not get hotter than 28C (82F). The previous day it was nearly 40C (104F). Needless to say, this weather will jack with a person's immune system. Many people I've encountered complain of headaches, soar throats, and overall weariness. I am not immune.
Warnings
I never have actually met anyone who experienced persecution for their faith until lately. One of my yoga buddies and local saint seeking simply to bring cup of cold water to the thirsty has recently received some serious warnings regarding his status in the country. He travels a lot. It has happened to others without warning, they just don't let you back into the country. And I complain about the weather.
Prison visit
To cap it off, our team took a visit to one of the Egyptian prisons. After multiple frisks and personal space violations we were allowed to interact with the prisoners. We met a group of Nigerian inmates who had been arrested for anything from drug possession and trafficking to simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. MCC sends a man a couple times a week to maintain our cell ministry there (bad pun, but not intended). These men held sweet joy in there smiles and conversed with pleasure and ease.
One of the men who joined our team for the day was on business in Cairo from Nigeria and heard, by the grace of God, that his childhood friend happened to be held in this prison. Upon their reunion, the tears, joyous tears that wrecked his face darkened and dried as they rolled down that black-as-midnight skin into a prideful finger pointing to the gloomy reality of cold, gray prison bars.
After all these events, starting with my entrance to this country, then culminating in Romania and perusing my life still this is the one thing I’ve learned: serve others before yourself. It suddenly makes sense.
Cake delivery
Last Friday marked the 23 years my friend and brother-from-another-mother, Kevin P. had been on this earth. Because of the generosity of the community here as well as his general genial persona, he received to whole birthday cakes. One of which he did not want to go to waste. Since we couldn’t eat both, Kev decided we should pass out the remains to some of the locals around his villa – i.e. the guards, the police, the street sweeper, a nearby family of squatters, etc. In all honesty, when he called me, I had no desire to join him as I was in the middle of a mission on my most current video game. Alas, the Spirit won and drug me off my fat butt to do some Kingdom work. It was good.
Diversity
Every so often something will happen that reminds me of the awesome diversity of youth with which we work. On Monday, I jumped in on a basketball game with an Egyptian, Sudanese, South African, and American. Does it get better?
Rite of passage
Last Saturday 7 adult men took one 12 year old boy into the desert, for within the week, that boy would become a man. Not in the way western culture defines it; in fact, just the opposite. The culture we call home has divorced rites of passage into manhood thus leaving us with clueless, confused boys trapped in 40+ year old bodies. The 7 of us decided we would train this one differently and spoke words of affirmation and encourage into this (now) young man's life. We also tried to explain a bit of what he could expect but also remind him that we would be there to walk with him along the perilous journey.
One week from tomorrow I will baptize this young man into the body of Christ. Unreal.
Weather/ sickness
Most places around the world claim to have four seasons of weather. Cairo fits that mold but in a slightly unexpected format. Normal seasons = Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. Egyptian seasons = Spring, Khamsin, Summer, Pre-spring. There is no Autumn, but rather when the heat becomes too unbearable at the end of Spring and into Khamsin, then any leaves that managed to sprout wither and die. It takes less than a week for the whole process.
Now you might be saying, "Kyle, what is this new Arabic you've learned? We uninformed Westerners don't understand that funky language." Well my friends, consider this your first lesson in Arabic. A khamsin (phonetically: hard kh like your [k]hawking up a pile of mucus from the back of your throat, kh-ah-m-seen) is what the Egyptians refer to as the 50 days of intense winds and sand storms that sweep the country. Allow me to paint this desert picture for you with a quick tale. Last week, a couple of us jumped out to the local wadi (dried river valley) for a swift 5k jog. When we reached our turn around spot, we stopped rub our eyes in disbelief (and to clear the sand now raining in our faces). The usually visible-despite-the-smog skyline of greater Cairo had been removed and replaced with a massive, "thick and dreadful darkness".
Now that you know what it looks like outside, how about a brief explanation of how it feels. Today it did not get hotter than 28C (82F). The previous day it was nearly 40C (104F). Needless to say, this weather will jack with a person's immune system. Many people I've encountered complain of headaches, soar throats, and overall weariness. I am not immune.
Warnings
I never have actually met anyone who experienced persecution for their faith until lately. One of my yoga buddies and local saint seeking simply to bring cup of cold water to the thirsty has recently received some serious warnings regarding his status in the country. He travels a lot. It has happened to others without warning, they just don't let you back into the country. And I complain about the weather.
Prison visit
To cap it off, our team took a visit to one of the Egyptian prisons. After multiple frisks and personal space violations we were allowed to interact with the prisoners. We met a group of Nigerian inmates who had been arrested for anything from drug possession and trafficking to simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. MCC sends a man a couple times a week to maintain our cell ministry there (bad pun, but not intended). These men held sweet joy in there smiles and conversed with pleasure and ease.
One of the men who joined our team for the day was on business in Cairo from Nigeria and heard, by the grace of God, that his childhood friend happened to be held in this prison. Upon their reunion, the tears, joyous tears that wrecked his face darkened and dried as they rolled down that black-as-midnight skin into a prideful finger pointing to the gloomy reality of cold, gray prison bars.
After all these events, starting with my entrance to this country, then culminating in Romania and perusing my life still this is the one thing I’ve learned: serve others before yourself. It suddenly makes sense.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Daily Scedule Archetype
Some of you may be wondering what it is we youth interns do with our time each day. You deserve to know how your money serves the Kingdom. Allow me to recapitulate today’s events as a paradigm:
7:30 am – Alarm
7:31 – Flap arm in the general direction of snooze button
7:40 – Repeat
7:50 – Wake up
7:55 – Cereal (Breakfast #1)
8:00 – Yoga
9:00 – Waffles and yogurt (Breakfast #2)
Somewhere in the next two hours – Read & pray some
11:00 – Morning meeting or office work
These appointments usually consist of a rundown of that day’s major events (i.e. Contact, Collision, special events, etc), some type of assessment of some current or proposed program, making fun of each other, and pretending like any of us knows what we are doing.
12noon – Walk to Rd. 9 or Home
If home, then –
12:15 – Leftovers for lunch, accompanied by conversations to solve the problems of the world
12:45~1:00ish – Meander back to the office to pretend to follow up with any of the work we discussed at our 11am meeting
1:00-3:00 – Drift into a zombified status of half-work, half-drowsy head bobbing.
If Rd. 9, then –
12:15 – Discourse about where we should eat
12:30 – Stroll up and down the active street once or twice waiting for someone to make a decision
12:45 – Go to Lucille’s anyway
1:00 – Sit down
1:05 – Receive menu
1:06 – Order Brinks (a.k.a. drinks, but entertainingly misspelled)
1:07 – Decide to order a delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich
1:08 – Laugh hysterically at the other menu misspellings and comical errors while waiting another 20 minutes for the waiter to remember we haven’t ordered yet
1:28 – Order delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich
1:58 – Double check to make sure they put our order in
2:00 – Receive delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich and pray
2:00:30 – drool over delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich waiting for Kev to finish praying
2:00:31 – Inhale everything on our plates
2:15 – I polish off any remnants of uneaten food and lick the fallen delicious BBQ sauce from our plates
2:30 – Ask for check
2:55 – Waiter remembers to give us check
2:56 – Hurriedly toss L.E. (Egyptian Pounds) as we rush out the door
3:00 – Full out sprint to our meeting with individual youth
3:15 – Nearly barf after arriving at specified meeting location to find youth has cancelled or forgotten but neglected to pass along that valuable information to the other party.
3:30 – Convince a different youth that we are not lame, at least not if no one sees them with us
5:00 – Move some equipment for that evening’s group event
5:30 – Scream at lawless Egyptian drivers from within the safe and soundproof confines of my car for nearly crushing the side of said vehicle
6:00 – Hopefully grab a snack resembling dinner before night’s event(s)
6:15 – Arrive and set up equipment
7:00-9:00 – Event/Program
9:30 – Clean up after numerous unsuccessful attempts to get youth to clean up after themselves
10:00 – Start home
This process, and it is a process basically looks like hopscotch through fearsome, unregulated traffic and mentally omitting taxi honks aimed at my American female friends.
10:30 – Eat dinner for real
11:00 – Bask in the peaceful memories country music helps me reminisce and ponder the problems of the world over a cup of tea.
11:30 – Miss my self-imposed bed time
12midnight – Aimlessly squander time online catching up on American social life (mostly on facebook)
12:30 or 1:00am – Cereal (Breakfast #3/ Midnight snack)
1:15ish – Slink into bed, asleep before I’ve fully disrobed – one sock half off, one shoe still tied on, a single pant leg begging the other to follow, shirt removed up to neck where it simply acts as a sun blocker in the morning.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I can say with a genuine heart, I wouldn't trade this year for anything else. Except Heaven.
7:30 am – Alarm
7:31 – Flap arm in the general direction of snooze button
7:40 – Repeat
7:50 – Wake up
7:55 – Cereal (Breakfast #1)
8:00 – Yoga
9:00 – Waffles and yogurt (Breakfast #2)
Somewhere in the next two hours – Read & pray some
11:00 – Morning meeting or office work
These appointments usually consist of a rundown of that day’s major events (i.e. Contact, Collision, special events, etc), some type of assessment of some current or proposed program, making fun of each other, and pretending like any of us knows what we are doing.
12noon – Walk to Rd. 9 or Home
If home, then –
12:15 – Leftovers for lunch, accompanied by conversations to solve the problems of the world
12:45~1:00ish – Meander back to the office to pretend to follow up with any of the work we discussed at our 11am meeting
1:00-3:00 – Drift into a zombified status of half-work, half-drowsy head bobbing.
If Rd. 9, then –
12:15 – Discourse about where we should eat
12:30 – Stroll up and down the active street once or twice waiting for someone to make a decision
12:45 – Go to Lucille’s anyway
1:00 – Sit down
1:05 – Receive menu
1:06 – Order Brinks (a.k.a. drinks, but entertainingly misspelled)
1:07 – Decide to order a delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich
1:08 – Laugh hysterically at the other menu misspellings and comical errors while waiting another 20 minutes for the waiter to remember we haven’t ordered yet
1:28 – Order delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich
1:58 – Double check to make sure they put our order in
2:00 – Receive delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich and pray
2:00:30 – drool over delicious BBQ Chicken sandwich waiting for Kev to finish praying
2:00:31 – Inhale everything on our plates
2:15 – I polish off any remnants of uneaten food and lick the fallen delicious BBQ sauce from our plates
2:30 – Ask for check
2:55 – Waiter remembers to give us check
2:56 – Hurriedly toss L.E. (Egyptian Pounds) as we rush out the door
3:00 – Full out sprint to our meeting with individual youth
3:15 – Nearly barf after arriving at specified meeting location to find youth has cancelled or forgotten but neglected to pass along that valuable information to the other party.
3:30 – Convince a different youth that we are not lame, at least not if no one sees them with us
5:00 – Move some equipment for that evening’s group event
5:30 – Scream at lawless Egyptian drivers from within the safe and soundproof confines of my car for nearly crushing the side of said vehicle
6:00 – Hopefully grab a snack resembling dinner before night’s event(s)
6:15 – Arrive and set up equipment
7:00-9:00 – Event/Program
9:30 – Clean up after numerous unsuccessful attempts to get youth to clean up after themselves
10:00 – Start home
This process, and it is a process basically looks like hopscotch through fearsome, unregulated traffic and mentally omitting taxi honks aimed at my American female friends.
10:30 – Eat dinner for real
11:00 – Bask in the peaceful memories country music helps me reminisce and ponder the problems of the world over a cup of tea.
11:30 – Miss my self-imposed bed time
12midnight – Aimlessly squander time online catching up on American social life (mostly on facebook)
12:30 or 1:00am – Cereal (Breakfast #3/ Midnight snack)
1:15ish – Slink into bed, asleep before I’ve fully disrobed – one sock half off, one shoe still tied on, a single pant leg begging the other to follow, shirt removed up to neck where it simply acts as a sun blocker in the morning.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I can say with a genuine heart, I wouldn't trade this year for anything else. Except Heaven.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Get your life right, and a glimpse of Romania
If you have not yet been to -
mccromania.blogspot.com
- you are wrong.
Go there now for remission of your sin.
mccromania.blogspot.com
- you are wrong.
Go there now for remission of your sin.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Romanian Musings
Beautiful Escape
Purity melted by passionate intent.
A story of contrast,
A tale of paradox,
Ripping and rhyming,
Chiming and chipping.
Where do we go from here?
--
Tin Roof
Beaten into position
Assigned in submission
To a permanent place.
Unchanging.
Rusted by storms
Beyond a capacity for change.
But how noble they are
To protect
The fragile pieces
Broken within,
Awaiting restoration.
Occasionally appreciated,
More often intimidated
To follow orders
Without question;
Not that they ever would.
Purity melted by passionate intent.
A story of contrast,
A tale of paradox,
Ripping and rhyming,
Chiming and chipping.
Where do we go from here?
--
Tin Roof
Beaten into position
Assigned in submission
To a permanent place.
Unchanging.
Rusted by storms
Beyond a capacity for change.
But how noble they are
To protect
The fragile pieces
Broken within,
Awaiting restoration.
Occasionally appreciated,
More often intimidated
To follow orders
Without question;
Not that they ever would.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Rome or Romania, pt. 4
The moment: Romanian youth to the left who had refused to take back his chair, clicking around the computer. Romanian adult on to the right sharing a random story about Microsoft Vista. Right hand index tapping through the slides of a song to the tune. Western words and worship instantaneously transform into international community upon the projection of lyrics on the wall. From half of the room half-heartedly mumbling a melody to a boisterous bombardment of brave barks bellowing bouquets of beauty to our Beloved Being. The Kingdom of God claims no nationality or party line. Or perhaps, more appropriately put, The Kingdom of God claims all nationalities and party lines. Glory and honor and power and praise be our God, the Lord of the Heavenly Hosts.
Why do some people call it Rome and others call it Romania?
Faint alarm of a watch chirps a humble wake up. A chilly breeze wanders the room warmed by the aimless heater. Attention. Out the window, a stream of snow not warm enough to be rain danced horizontally with rain not cold enough to be snow. The morning matured as did the snowfall. Precipitation pauses premeditated plans.
Instead of hands wreaking from raunchy trash, at the end of the day now blisters, bruises, and blood mar the mitts frozen to the chisel and hammer. I love labor that I can look at.
Instead of hands wreaking from raunchy trash, at the end of the day now blisters, bruises, and blood mar the mitts frozen to the chisel and hammer. I love labor that I can look at.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Rome or Romania, pt. 3
3/25
Yesterday, we met an angel named Betty. We didn’t know she was an angel until today when she and her Canadian husband, Hardy (sp?). They bussed us around Medgidia to pockets of poor where the kids we played and prayed with slipped out through holes in these pockets. But at least the city was fortunate enough to have pants to wear. Regretfully, I cannot say the same for some of the children today. Shirt and boots would suffice for multiple children because many of the parents refuse to wake up even to dress their own snot-dried face, let alone their dirty, disfigured bundles of joy. Instead, Betty, Hardy, and on occasion one other couple rise early in the morning to cross the bridge to where these families live in exile. By 7:00 in the morning, these front-liners present the schools with clean, combed, and awake children.
“You can cry in your heart because my heart is always broken,” Angel Betty quips. When you work in these conditions, time lives only as a luxury. These scenes not only beg for money but also beg to argue with Solomon in Ecclesiastes. There is there a time to mourn, unless sadness falls with your head on its way the pillow. Nor is not a time to weep, unless tears roll with each brush through mangled, matted mess of mop.
The puddles on the morning street provided the necessary evidence that God Himself wept the night before as he foreknew what we would watch wearily within the ensuing hours. Open hands welcomed us into open homes more cramped than our adulterous hearts and sparser than our skinny world perspective.
As we crowded the muddy, manured yard our guiding Angel Betty mentioned something about leading a song or two with some of these fine folks. Indeed, I blessed God for giving me the sunglasses covering my eyes that day otherwise the tears resting in my eyes would have been exposed beyond repair. Verbatim, “God, if you make me worship with these people, I am going to lose it.” But instead, the chill of the grueling wind froze that salty water in place, hidden behind my dark lenses. We ended up signing for them “Open The Eyes Of My Heart” (that we had learned before we left Egypt) where I managed to distance myself just enough to keep the dammed tears from crashing through. What a privilege it would have been to worship with those who are so near my Daddy.
“They are my friends, but they steal from even me.”
Daddy, how could you be so cruel as to set before our eyes and in our very hands your Kingdom then leave us actionless? You’ve heard it said that the Kingdom is near, but I tell you, hell yeah it is; its in your front yard.
If you want me hear (here), then I need to know. Bless you Daddy for your faithfulness and persistence after my stubborn, stone(d) heart. May the name of Jesus Christ move swiftly and mightily across this country. Amen.
Yesterday, we met an angel named Betty. We didn’t know she was an angel until today when she and her Canadian husband, Hardy (sp?). They bussed us around Medgidia to pockets of poor where the kids we played and prayed with slipped out through holes in these pockets. But at least the city was fortunate enough to have pants to wear. Regretfully, I cannot say the same for some of the children today. Shirt and boots would suffice for multiple children because many of the parents refuse to wake up even to dress their own snot-dried face, let alone their dirty, disfigured bundles of joy. Instead, Betty, Hardy, and on occasion one other couple rise early in the morning to cross the bridge to where these families live in exile. By 7:00 in the morning, these front-liners present the schools with clean, combed, and awake children.
“You can cry in your heart because my heart is always broken,” Angel Betty quips. When you work in these conditions, time lives only as a luxury. These scenes not only beg for money but also beg to argue with Solomon in Ecclesiastes. There is there a time to mourn, unless sadness falls with your head on its way the pillow. Nor is not a time to weep, unless tears roll with each brush through mangled, matted mess of mop.
The puddles on the morning street provided the necessary evidence that God Himself wept the night before as he foreknew what we would watch wearily within the ensuing hours. Open hands welcomed us into open homes more cramped than our adulterous hearts and sparser than our skinny world perspective.
As we crowded the muddy, manured yard our guiding Angel Betty mentioned something about leading a song or two with some of these fine folks. Indeed, I blessed God for giving me the sunglasses covering my eyes that day otherwise the tears resting in my eyes would have been exposed beyond repair. Verbatim, “God, if you make me worship with these people, I am going to lose it.” But instead, the chill of the grueling wind froze that salty water in place, hidden behind my dark lenses. We ended up signing for them “Open The Eyes Of My Heart” (that we had learned before we left Egypt) where I managed to distance myself just enough to keep the dammed tears from crashing through. What a privilege it would have been to worship with those who are so near my Daddy.
“They are my friends, but they steal from even me.”
Daddy, how could you be so cruel as to set before our eyes and in our very hands your Kingdom then leave us actionless? You’ve heard it said that the Kingdom is near, but I tell you, hell yeah it is; its in your front yard.
If you want me hear (here), then I need to know. Bless you Daddy for your faithfulness and persistence after my stubborn, stone(d) heart. May the name of Jesus Christ move swiftly and mightily across this country. Amen.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Rome or Romania, pt. 2
Is 58:6-7 “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter – when you see the naked to clothe them and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?”
Daddy, I want the Spirit of compassion, perseverance, and service so that others may know you better. But then I start to think about your first requisite: Love the Lord your God, and love your neighbor as yourself. Both. It is not a two-part dictation but I lean towards believing that you instituted the order with purpose.
Daddy, I want the Spirit of compassion, perseverance, and service so that others may know you better. But then I start to think about your first requisite: Love the Lord your God, and love your neighbor as yourself. Both. It is not a two-part dictation but I lean towards believing that you instituted the order with purpose.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Do you hear that? Shh, listen... [inaudible whisper] Can you hear it? Listen again... [shivering murmur] "C...c..com.m.me." and "Bbbbring your fffriendssss..." Do you know what that is? It is the voice of Romania luring us into its frigid, frozen heart - Brasov.
In a few hours, we (the youth staff) will squash 14 youth into an uncomfortable economy-class seat, check all our 30 pieces of luggage, argue or "discourse" with the Egyptian personnel, and nudge into our own airline seats. All this will be followed by a temporary sigh until we land in Bucharest, Romania. Did I mention that we won't meet to go to the airport until 12:00 midnight? Yet the still and quiet voice tempts us, come and play.
From Bucharest, we again compress these vibrant young into a bus upon which we will sleep for a couple hours until we enter a camp in Brasov, Romania (geographically located very near the center of the country). When I checked the weather for Brasov mere moments ago (9:45 p.m.), I kid you not, -11 Celsius; that rounds out to approximately +12 Fahrenheit for all you non-metrics. Are you serious? Since when did the earth get that cold?! I live in Egypt man, temperatures that cold only exist in like Antarctica or something. But still the frosted breath beckons.
Supposedly we will be keeping tabs on our daily events while we wander abroad the Transylvanian mountain range. Should you like to follow along and perhaps pray for our students, the Romanians we'll be with, the country itself, or perhaps your favorite, beloved group of youth staff scurrying to preserve the lives of our blossoming teenagers, the web link is given below:
http://mccromania.blogspot.com/
We pre-thank you for your gracious supply of encouragement and prayer. We're gonna need it.
Let's rock, let's rock.
In a few hours, we (the youth staff) will squash 14 youth into an uncomfortable economy-class seat, check all our 30 pieces of luggage, argue or "discourse" with the Egyptian personnel, and nudge into our own airline seats. All this will be followed by a temporary sigh until we land in Bucharest, Romania. Did I mention that we won't meet to go to the airport until 12:00 midnight? Yet the still and quiet voice tempts us, come and play.
From Bucharest, we again compress these vibrant young into a bus upon which we will sleep for a couple hours until we enter a camp in Brasov, Romania (geographically located very near the center of the country). When I checked the weather for Brasov mere moments ago (9:45 p.m.), I kid you not, -11 Celsius; that rounds out to approximately +12 Fahrenheit for all you non-metrics. Are you serious? Since when did the earth get that cold?! I live in Egypt man, temperatures that cold only exist in like Antarctica or something. But still the frosted breath beckons.
Supposedly we will be keeping tabs on our daily events while we wander abroad the Transylvanian mountain range. Should you like to follow along and perhaps pray for our students, the Romanians we'll be with, the country itself, or perhaps your favorite, beloved group of youth staff scurrying to preserve the lives of our blossoming teenagers, the web link is given below:
http://mccromania.blogspot.com/
We pre-thank you for your gracious supply of encouragement and prayer. We're gonna need it.
Let's rock, let's rock.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Gilligan's Isle, Series Finale
[deep commercial announcer voice] Find your seats ladies and gentlemen. Tonight is the highly anticipated yet bittersweet series finale of Gilligan's Isle: Sands of Egypt. Butter that popcorn; top off your soda because this will be one magnoon (crazy) moment. It just got interesting!
I had fallen asleep at 9:30 the night before, leaving me overly rested. I raced my alarm to 8 a.m. and rose victorious. A day like any other, except I was in the middle of a desert town, somewhere, surviving only by the grace and mercy of the locals and a quirky German speaking Egyptian-wannabe. Good morning, world.
Our rescue vessel, as well rested as I, lounged in its parking spot awaiting our luggage. We piled our bags, pillows, equipment and bodies into the back seat immediately following another imitation breakfast. The sail set for Maadi, we shoved off that tiny desert island.
All of us gazed out our respective windows mused. I don't know what splashed around in the head of my fellow shipmen and maids, but the ripples of the wavy sand drew me into a state of worship. Leaning overboard, I could see my reflection crashing the tides with the rhythm of the craft's bouncing and bobbing. From dust we came, to dust we shall return.
In the distance, I could see enormous, tsunami-sized sand wave that could have been mistaken for a mountain. Repetitions of far off power line towers wobbled in the wake of the ensuing tidals. Mammoth rock formations surfaced to spray out mists of sand from their blow hole.
Smaller, more agile dolphinic dunes leaped and bounded across the tanned expanse. Heat waves added the gloss that transitioned from sea to sky, steps from earth to heaven, Gilligan's Ladder.
My attention rotated back into our vehicle to observe how the rescue captain would give a weary and nearly unnoticeable motion to greet passing travelers. I tinkered through our collection of fossilized and petrified sea shells that had been kicked around by thousands of years of beach bums. Despite the oxymoronic beauty of the desert, the boredom of travel sunk me into a short nap washing me in and out of consciousness.
Startled by the rumble and thump of brick, concrete, and other debris in our path, I reinstated my gaze though this time something new grappled from my peripheral. Glancing left, the colors had changed. A dark gray, perhaps even black now dominated the landscape. Shorter dark waves crested with a light beige floated by on occasion. I rolled right. The same shadowy omnipotence now the glaze. An uniquely extended surf had mutinied for ownership of this shady place. The 40 million year old volcanic rock lingered at the surface to give the same darkness to the wave passively framed by a railroad track (nearly the same age) that foamed a dirty white atop it all. Endless.
The Dark Wave, as I came to call it, exuded old wrecked train cars, land cruisers, and barges that obtruded an drowning warning to any who might attempt to ride the beast. Fierce, merciless, indiscriminate. We past other broken vessels steadily bailing water just to keep afloat. Others thumbing their way home. Nothing was too far from the oil rigs that had been anchored into the inky belly, speckled with trash and veiling oil spills that can only be expected when one crosses the path of "Petroleum Co. -- Welcome to Visitors."
It was about the time my soul started to shake that the tears and traces of attempted communities littered the once purer place. Unfinished or fallen walls. Half piles of bricks forever waiting to be cemented into place. Rod iron bars croaked, hunched out of eroding pillars. It was an combination of Water World and Mad Max with an Arab flavoring. As we inched closer to some semblance of "normal" life, what was once an oasis and sanctuary for burdened travelers had morphed into arid wasteland plundered by garbage, rubbish, sulfur, smoke stacks, and row after row of graying vegetation choked by the popular, prized pollution.
There was a moment when it seemed as if the people we now passed rusted into a functional absorption of the ashen aridity. Even the ruddy flowers tinted of a desert frostbite. Beauty lives by the contrast of a wretched counterpart.
Disgusted, my eyes lifted to notice not only the Great Pyramids of Egypt but also clawing and scratching for attention were the innumerable plastics, papers, and violating trash clustering along kilometers of fence lines. "These people don't deserve claim to such rich culture," I vomited. Just as vomiting relieves the stomach, it also varnishes the mouth with a great distaste for what just spewed.
I tried to secretly steal MaryAnn's ruby red shoes and heal-click my way back to where there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...
I couldn't find them.
We left one desert isle only to find ourselves trapped back on another. Oh, the irony.
I had fallen asleep at 9:30 the night before, leaving me overly rested. I raced my alarm to 8 a.m. and rose victorious. A day like any other, except I was in the middle of a desert town, somewhere, surviving only by the grace and mercy of the locals and a quirky German speaking Egyptian-wannabe. Good morning, world.
Our rescue vessel, as well rested as I, lounged in its parking spot awaiting our luggage. We piled our bags, pillows, equipment and bodies into the back seat immediately following another imitation breakfast. The sail set for Maadi, we shoved off that tiny desert island.
All of us gazed out our respective windows mused. I don't know what splashed around in the head of my fellow shipmen and maids, but the ripples of the wavy sand drew me into a state of worship. Leaning overboard, I could see my reflection crashing the tides with the rhythm of the craft's bouncing and bobbing. From dust we came, to dust we shall return.
In the distance, I could see enormous, tsunami-sized sand wave that could have been mistaken for a mountain. Repetitions of far off power line towers wobbled in the wake of the ensuing tidals. Mammoth rock formations surfaced to spray out mists of sand from their blow hole.
Smaller, more agile dolphinic dunes leaped and bounded across the tanned expanse. Heat waves added the gloss that transitioned from sea to sky, steps from earth to heaven, Gilligan's Ladder.
My attention rotated back into our vehicle to observe how the rescue captain would give a weary and nearly unnoticeable motion to greet passing travelers. I tinkered through our collection of fossilized and petrified sea shells that had been kicked around by thousands of years of beach bums. Despite the oxymoronic beauty of the desert, the boredom of travel sunk me into a short nap washing me in and out of consciousness.
Startled by the rumble and thump of brick, concrete, and other debris in our path, I reinstated my gaze though this time something new grappled from my peripheral. Glancing left, the colors had changed. A dark gray, perhaps even black now dominated the landscape. Shorter dark waves crested with a light beige floated by on occasion. I rolled right. The same shadowy omnipotence now the glaze. An uniquely extended surf had mutinied for ownership of this shady place. The 40 million year old volcanic rock lingered at the surface to give the same darkness to the wave passively framed by a railroad track (nearly the same age) that foamed a dirty white atop it all. Endless.
The Dark Wave, as I came to call it, exuded old wrecked train cars, land cruisers, and barges that obtruded an drowning warning to any who might attempt to ride the beast. Fierce, merciless, indiscriminate. We past other broken vessels steadily bailing water just to keep afloat. Others thumbing their way home. Nothing was too far from the oil rigs that had been anchored into the inky belly, speckled with trash and veiling oil spills that can only be expected when one crosses the path of "Petroleum Co. -- Welcome to Visitors."
It was about the time my soul started to shake that the tears and traces of attempted communities littered the once purer place. Unfinished or fallen walls. Half piles of bricks forever waiting to be cemented into place. Rod iron bars croaked, hunched out of eroding pillars. It was an combination of Water World and Mad Max with an Arab flavoring. As we inched closer to some semblance of "normal" life, what was once an oasis and sanctuary for burdened travelers had morphed into arid wasteland plundered by garbage, rubbish, sulfur, smoke stacks, and row after row of graying vegetation choked by the popular, prized pollution.
There was a moment when it seemed as if the people we now passed rusted into a functional absorption of the ashen aridity. Even the ruddy flowers tinted of a desert frostbite. Beauty lives by the contrast of a wretched counterpart.
Disgusted, my eyes lifted to notice not only the Great Pyramids of Egypt but also clawing and scratching for attention were the innumerable plastics, papers, and violating trash clustering along kilometers of fence lines. "These people don't deserve claim to such rich culture," I vomited. Just as vomiting relieves the stomach, it also varnishes the mouth with a great distaste for what just spewed.
I tried to secretly steal MaryAnn's ruby red shoes and heal-click my way back to where there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...
I couldn't find them.
We left one desert isle only to find ourselves trapped back on another. Oh, the irony.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Gilligan's Isle, Part 3
Like a shy banana*, he peeled slowly the corner of the sleeping bag timidly from its nestled place, tempting a single ray of light to pierce my snuggled hibernation. Slow yet sure, yet quite slow, it let loose a nasty warning snarl keeping away other antagonizing creatures, only to uncover the dismantling warmth of the fresh air. The furry beast simply sat for quite some time hoping the grogginess would fade without initiative. Another more thunderous bellow echoed this time when his sunglasses had gone missing.
The sand, cold and snickering, got a kick out of the stiff old bear watching him stumble and bumble and tip-toe atop its inhospitably chilly grains. Distraught settled in with morning hunger leaving him to forgo the search for his absent sunglasses. He matched a disappointed leg hug with periodic nibbles of slightly burnt and sweaty pita bread. If the rest of the Kingdom did not wake soon he would need to gargle another gutteral guffaw. Lucky for them, about that time the blanket rolled from Kevin, unsealing his cocoon. Others followed.
Much puttering transported the lifeless bodies from tents to "breakfast" back to tents or mats used for laying out (a concept I will never understand). This last long enough for everyone to become sweaty and irritable. By mid-morning, the lifeless mutated into hairy werewolves. Egypt often does things strangely and without explanation so it is not surprising that it took a full sun instead of a moon to transform the staff into illogical mythical creatures. But soon we were on our way.
As instantaneous as Belle's kiss for Beast vanquished the curse, so did the embrace of our team to civilization semblance. In form, everyone took to their resting form - some reading, some sizzling in the hot spring, some back to tempestuous slumber. Ironic, especially since we had only sat and waited all the day long anyway.
Annie casually invited anyone for a stroll through tiny town Bahariya. Up for a run with the locals, I responded and we left the crowds for a quieter place. Misspelled signs and clever postings boasting "Popular Restrunt" or "Cheepest store in town" provide me for the most entertainment and function as perhaps my favorite idiosyncrasy of these Egyptian towns. It took some time but we tracked our footsteps back to the hotel.
An hour later, a monstrous plate of spaghetti intimidated the tomato sauce into one pitiful pile atop its layers of weaving strands. All ended well when our friend Peter lilted us with a welcome back story about the Bedouin people. Thanks Pete, old boy.
*This is only funny to me because "shai ba anana" in Arabic means "tea with mint." It was a bad joke, I know.
The sand, cold and snickering, got a kick out of the stiff old bear watching him stumble and bumble and tip-toe atop its inhospitably chilly grains. Distraught settled in with morning hunger leaving him to forgo the search for his absent sunglasses. He matched a disappointed leg hug with periodic nibbles of slightly burnt and sweaty pita bread. If the rest of the Kingdom did not wake soon he would need to gargle another gutteral guffaw. Lucky for them, about that time the blanket rolled from Kevin, unsealing his cocoon. Others followed.
Much puttering transported the lifeless bodies from tents to "breakfast" back to tents or mats used for laying out (a concept I will never understand). This last long enough for everyone to become sweaty and irritable. By mid-morning, the lifeless mutated into hairy werewolves. Egypt often does things strangely and without explanation so it is not surprising that it took a full sun instead of a moon to transform the staff into illogical mythical creatures. But soon we were on our way.
As instantaneous as Belle's kiss for Beast vanquished the curse, so did the embrace of our team to civilization semblance. In form, everyone took to their resting form - some reading, some sizzling in the hot spring, some back to tempestuous slumber. Ironic, especially since we had only sat and waited all the day long anyway.
Annie casually invited anyone for a stroll through tiny town Bahariya. Up for a run with the locals, I responded and we left the crowds for a quieter place. Misspelled signs and clever postings boasting "Popular Restrunt" or "Cheepest store in town" provide me for the most entertainment and function as perhaps my favorite idiosyncrasy of these Egyptian towns. It took some time but we tracked our footsteps back to the hotel.
An hour later, a monstrous plate of spaghetti intimidated the tomato sauce into one pitiful pile atop its layers of weaving strands. All ended well when our friend Peter lilted us with a welcome back story about the Bedouin people. Thanks Pete, old boy.
*This is only funny to me because "shai ba anana" in Arabic means "tea with mint." It was a bad joke, I know.
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