Inebriated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The Simple Life

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

Riverside

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

We learn and soon find ourselves nearing juniors.


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

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

Turmoil

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


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

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

Growing up

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

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

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

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

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

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