tenshortdays.blogspot.com/

Yep. Another one. This one to chronicle something more specific and concrete than... the life and times of... all those adjectives that would give an idea of who I am. Never mind. This new one is to document the daily of thirteen people to the countless others who support us in various, indispensable ways, and to digest/process/solidify our encounters. Yes. Behind this blog lies another selfish motive: I severely want to remember.

Can someone relay the site to... well, everybody, but specifically to the congregation at Covenant CRC? And all you that I asked if your parents would be interested (assuming that you, Alvin's friend, are interested as well), please let them know. I failed to send out postal letters to the addresses I had collected, and won't be able to from Kenya, but if an email newsletter is preferable, we can do that too.

All right. In five hours, we'll be consolidating our baggage and reconciling our clothes with our equipment. Talk to you soon.

It is four hours and four minutes into Christmas Even 2009. I spent it with Ross and Hani, talking about ourselves by talking about others. I wrote the following several days ago, in attempts to bring some thoughts of the last few weeks to some questioning conclusion. Maybe it has been too long since I last wrote, that it all ran into each other and I left the stove for too long. Maybe still, there are questions worth asking in there somewhere and, with my fingers crossed, that's the best that I can hope for because I don't imagine I'll find any reconciliation anytime soon in poverty, death and beauty and worship. And nor should I -- not anytime soon.

There's a lot of self-serving motives to maintaining a blog, not all of which are despicable or horribly vain. Just one of those is to reaffirm or practice a truth that I am postulating, so I can see this on Christmas Eve in 2009. I want to believe it and, in doing so, I want to embody it.

Everything that we do matters -- regardless of our attempts, and successes, at living Prov. 17, "A friend loves at all times."

---

I noticed that the last few posts share a somewhat similar theme. Biting down and blinking back tears; activity and despondency, looming silently aside; clinging instinctively to someone's sleeve, holding your arm within theirs and walking on. When I take deep breaths, I used to be surprised or frightened even to feel my ribcage cracking, my sternum adjusting itself as if it were restless and unable to fall asleep.

The trailer for Invictus includes a looming and carefully cut montage of Morgan Freeman, Matt Damon and the burdened people of South Africa. Danielle leaned over at a certain point to ask, "Why did they show the slums?" and later unloaded that she expected to be crying the entire time. I don't want to say that there are correct responses to every image and reality that we find ourselves encountering; there are no answers to find, as much as decisions to make. Yet, isn't she right?

In about ten days, we'll begin our departure to Nairobi, Kenya. Remember that fleeting thought on rapid urbanization? An unreliable infrastructure, a government rife with corruption, a fragile economy subject to political struggle... at the risk of assuming I can speak confidently on any of these topics, of course. Our job is to acknowledge that these are enormous mountains to scale, complex processes to evaluate and look at our subjects in the eye and, as she said, cry the entire time. For guilt? For a pleading for justice? Mercy? For the lack of access to clean water, enough food, for a child whose parents dismissed themselves from nurture, for growing up in an environment that perpetuates insignificance and dispensability? During one of the briefing/planning meetings we had recently, the last time our team would gather before we meet in Newark, we spoke of a day without cameras (I wonder if that will actually happen) to explore and become accustomed to our surroundings and to the Kenyans.

If we spent that day meeting our subjects, listening to their stories, living their day and crying and crying.

We feel that welling that might lead to an frantic search for a cathartic and closing response. There is no easy fix for any of these things. Initially, we will have no emotional ties to these people and still we find no words of comfort, or concession to the pain that we find.

These are not necessarily related.

1. What do I need to be happy? (Not that much.)

2. What is my love language? (I know, right? But seriously. Would you like to hear the options?)

3. Why does anybody listen to me? (Sometimes, this astonishes me. It is a blessing.)

4. Why do people tell me things?

5. How often do I go crazy? Why? (Because I am finite, but also because of the first question.)

6. Do I need to be needed?

The celebration of what has been weighing our hearts and shoulders down was somewhat culminated in our common ritual of drink, dance and conversation at that crappy Sioux Center bar that we can not deny will be missed dearly. I'll remember several things, have been turning them over in my mind since. One being Jane and her unabashed anxiety for student teaching, her sorrow for leaving three and a half vivid years behind. Her being who she consistently is to me (speaking briefly, excitedly and in all generosity and honesty), I held her face in my hands and pleaded with her to engage fear and pain with everybody that had gathered that night. And still, dear Jane, we celebrate tonight. Yes? We cry and laugh and shout in revelry together. Jokes are funnier, eyes are brighter, songs are more alarming, drinks are more tasty, hugs are tighter and longer. Emotions are all over the place! You are going to be an amazing, capable and enthusiastic teacher and I am so proud of you. Thank you for showing your joy and wit to me for the last few years of my life. I will miss you. I am happy that you are headed where you're headed and, perhaps this is selfish, but I anticipate hearing about it soon.

Strike up the band to play a song and try hard not to cry. And fake a smile as we all say goodbye. Goodbye.

It's exam week. In fifteen minutes I'll take my Political Studies exam and do my best to perform a basic understanding of developing nations and their challenge to maintain basic civic services in an ever-altering and shifting globalized economy. Also, political violence and its origins. (It's origins: anger.) There are seven chapter outlines to read through and more presentations on faith groups in American politics -- some are more accessible than others, but it's all interesting. (Speaking in generalities, with economic growth comes the challenge of rapid urbanization and a heavy strain on civic utilities and services, usually a rise in crime, and a greater demand for access to goods and a better lifestyle. It has been said that globalization would more accurately be termed Americanization.) A friend stopped by my study space here, my cubicle, to kill some time. "I don't want to grow up." This directly relates to the exam -- I swear. (I'm back from it now.) "I don't want to grow up," is often a stance of anxiety and overwhelming fatigue that... rears it's nasty-ass face at the end of first semester senior year. Also, said friend happens to major in the Humanities, but that's largely erroneous. The Political Studies class is exhausting in its conflicting energies, with which we walk away from every time. We talk of poverty and corruption in developing countries, of nations without states to speak from and we are all, if we are listening, overwhelmed. If we are listening, we are groaning and if we are fulfilled, we think of ways to adjust our lives and alter our post-grad plan to somehow take further what little we've learned. We do this because we are dissatisfied with the current state of the world and not only do we justify our new course of action, we truly believe it will change something.
Or.
We experience every day as a conflict with ourselves and the people that we find ourselves surrounded with. Why can't we digest our anxieties? We hate that our only option -- the best idea we can come up with -- is to feign happiness and normality. Not only do we hate doing this, putting a face of apathy, strength and satisfaction up, we hardly ever believe that we're fooling anybody. And at the same time, we can see that it works. It works on ourselves too... but only when we're on stage, and the audience is roaring in laughter. And when we're not, we're licking our wounds alone and just making it outside to class, to sitting in Political Studies where, if we happen to be awake, if we're listening, we just fall deeper in despair. We're either crying and fighting or crying ourselves to sleep.

I am that cloud that they will finally pierce with a spear, having had watched the buildup for so long now and waiting for a break; a calm and placid steep or an eruption, a flash of light, and how would one be more appropriate? Why might a quiet weeping be more expected, the next assumed step, than the violence and calamity that may just as well follow? I am that cloud, building and waiting. I am here looming silently.

I take it as a challenge. I expect it to happen no matter how I prepare myself. My face will freeze and my senses will lessen their abilities when I step outside where the wind will only, and here's where the challenge comes, beat me back and down, but I will press on, biting and shouting the whole way. Would you believe me if I said that I enjoy the pain, the biting, the shock? That's why I (try to) bite back. Also expected: Unless you bundle up so the only exposed your eyes are exposed, navigating your wary path through narrow slivers between the hood of your coat and a warm scarf, your nose will redden, your eyes will water and we will not be able to tell if you are deeply upset. Maybe you are. Even if the sun is out (like today), even if the weather would be stark beauty, and painless, if not for the wind (like today), even we find each other overlapping onto our own paths and grab hold for the duration of our time together, we still take our steps with pained hearts. A perfect illustration for allowing ourselves to be taken care of and shared. Walk in the comfort of having someone hold you up, and of holding someone up - some might find that more satisfying. Heading to class. And when you arrive successfully and safely (if frozen), let go, thank them and be on your way.

The library is a nice place to come in to, but I wish they had larger windows. From across the way, I only see narrow windows with the snow angrily swirling around. It feels like Grand Rapids, doesn't it? If the staff condoned spontaneous Fleet Foxes performances, for sanity and beauty's sake, I'm sure that everyone would benefit. How about one song every time someone loses their wifi signal?

This summer, I purchased travel insurance for the cancelled Honduras trip. You may also not know/remember that I arranged to produce a promo. video with Prof. Woodbury and Dr. Kok for $500. Today I met with Dr. Kok to see about the least complicated, and most beneficial way, to carry out that travel stipend. I was never really close to traveling to Rome this summer, but I thought I was. Oh, no big deal. Recent college grad. with a paid trip to Rome. Why, yes. I believe I will travel around for two years.

It was not to be had.

Instead, I go searching through emails and transactions to see if the insurance company, AccessAmerica, actually went ahead and processed our claim. Calling home to see if/when we received a check is frustrating because it's not that mom and I speak different languages, but the overlapping portion of the Venn diagram is represents how we communicate is a narrow space when neither of us wants to deal with the matter at hand. Also, it happened so long ago. Mom, remember that ticket to Honduras this summer? Yep. The one we had to print out and mail to the insurance company? ...yes. Did we ever get anything back from them? ...what? Did we get paid back for that ticket ever? ...no. What? What? And so forth. My voice gets louder because the area outside the library is made up only of hard materials and the noises travel from very far away. Also, I get frustrated.

I need to write. Several things. There are analyses, letters, reflections and prompts scribbled in my agenda to flesh out and present, even if only on here. Yet. Lately. I've been wondering if this - writing - is a selfish exercise. Not that it would lessen my desire for it. There are other actions to carry, other ways to serve. Or should I say, there are ways to serve. And I could spend my time with those but I use a few minutes here and there to write even, again, if only on here. Writing, of the non-personal, non-reflective sort... that is, the focused sort. The sort that has a specific audience in mind... not only can it serve and equip, it is necessary for any community to develop and progress.

The larger question circling my existence lately, here, is in reconciling that service and action with aesthetics and beauty. I believe they must be, and always are, but I'm struggling to actively live both seemingly antithetical emphases. I'm constantly asking myself stupid questions because I firmly believe that growing as a photographer requires a mirrored conviction in an area that has everything to do with... sociology, political studies, journalism and so on. (Photography is, after all, decisions to document.) At the same time, those areas of service and documentation are designed to allow the celebration and action of our fleeting and beautiful lives. And so, in addition to singing in the library, and rereading poems scrawled away in our tiny notebooks, we immerse ourselves in carefully composed and focused pieces of beauty (which means, we major in the humanities, where it is expected of us to dwell on how our souls stir). Sometimes, it feels selfish.

"Love KILLS everything."

"No one should EVER fall in love with anyone. Or anything. Seriously."

My friend Sarah doesn't rant often (unless you deliberately provoke her) so you sit up and listen when she starts -- it might go uninterrupted for a few minutes. It was a brisk day in the middle of some tenacious week. We ran out for coffee and lingered to examine some Dutch novelty items and catch our breath before we ran into a new old friend, smiling at us from the day-old bread shelf at the door.

That was the guy, I said as we got in the car. That was the guy I told you about from Thanksgiving who made such an amazing life for himself at our age. "What happened after all those things you told me about?" He came back home to marry his wife. "Argh." And the carefully composed three-word sentence that lends itself to title this post. Subject, verb, object. Love kills everything.

And something more about "losing so much value," "wasted potential," and "Do you know how many cancers would have been cured..."

I wrote it down then. Total monologue moment, and maybe I wanted to solidify all the bold things she said. In panic, she grabbed the paper and pen and, in different, more presentable handwriting, wrote "Love is a many splendid thing..." in order to compensate for another of those terrible and shocking moments, when the speak-filter is malfunctioning. Yes, she smiled through the whole spiel and looked over with expectant and cheerful eyes after solidifying her rant with a triumphant groan of mock-frustration.

Still, I've heard her say these things - variations, but with the same key phrases - for almost a year now -- not all the time, but every once in a while. Whenever stories of friends with not-so-great fiances and intelligent, adventurous women who "settle for" (read: become engaged to) guys that don't treat them right. I think that's what she was channeling.

It's amazing how many things coherently lit up in my mind when she looked over hoping I would know that she was just kidding for the most part, that I would know she believed love to be precious, if elusive.

Carol Reinsma, my Colorado summer mom, was telling me about her kids and how, raising them, she strived for them to confidently and carefully make their own decisions and the one thing she really wanted to tell them was that if it came down to marrying someone or adventure, go with adventure. "Of course, now," she said, laughing that bouncy laugh that I'll always remember her with, "here we are with two full-grown single children."

If it took her five minutes to tell me about this one part of her children, she spent five days talking about her daughter and the amazing life she's leading. How the person she's become, how good and fearless, can't even be fathomed by her parents. And their son, working with a company that renovates dilapidated buildings through sustainable processes to benefit the communities in which they were originally designed for. They spoke of these two with such pride, I bristled to absorb everything I could, to be as proactive and eager everyday, to make my own parents proud of their son and the summer he had.

My own mom, earlier this year, and I driving through Sioux Falls and, while I sang Beatles' "All You Need Is Love" she was telling me that sometimes you think you know, and love, somebody. That sometimes it's not as simple as what you thought you knew for sure. That marriage especially isn't what you think it is and there are plenty of broken homes and neglected children that will speak for that -- for love that wasn't enough, didn't last or was never there in the first place. Relatives even, which, sadly enough, is what it took to make the story real. And I stopped singing to try imagining my little cousin (I've met her twice in my life) coping with the reality of her parents' divorcing. Who, in their youth, didn't go silent in terror at the thought?

And Carl Klumpeen. The man. Studied under Cal Seerveld and knew, but hesitated, that he was to be a preacher his whole life. Mr. Fulbright scholar who opened his home to Korean kids wearing Polo sweaters in pastel colors, Canadian kids with black jackets and Californians with Novembeards on Thanksgiving this year. He sat me down with pie and coffee and told me about his life - I got the feeling, as blessedly, I often do, that he wanted to share something assuring and comforting and maybe even wise. And so he did. We drank coffee and talked about how God worked in his life. Must be strange to chronicle your life to a kid when he's so young. Studied at Northwestern in Canada and went on Fulbright to study at the Free University. "In Amsterdam,"

Hold the phone. You were a Fulbright scholar too?

"Heh heh," the way that happily old people do. "You know, if anybody else got it, it would be a big deal. A great honor. But that I got it, well... it's not such a big deal." But one year at the Free University? After ten minutes telling me about the great conversations you had, the amazing friends and the courses you were taking, you came back after one year?

"You know what brought me back? Do you know?"

He sat up from his post-meal slouch and looked across the room. The soft sun was streaming in through the window on his granddaughter who was being entertained by three Korean Int'l students. At the next table, my roommates and some others were playing a card game, explaining the rules to each other over and over again. Next to that table, his wife - a quintessential little old lady - happily chatting with, yes, more Korean students as if they'd grown up next door, as if they'd been coming over for lemonade and wisdom their whole lives.

Like a child, I mean this, he pointed right at her. "I couldn't be away from her for any longer," and the biggest, most unabashed grin I've ever seen to solidify that, with kids and grandkids, he still loved his wife like some lovesick grad student. Luckily, he hasn't had to spend a day away from her in a long time.

And if he's some lovesick grad student at heart, then I'm a happy, old man because I felt some righteous sort of envy toward him. I don't know that I would believe that he knew about her back in the day. I don't know that I believe any of those stories -- "I saw her and I knew that I would marry her one day." It makes for a good story, and I love good stories because they quiet me down with questions, but I don't know that I can bring myself to believe it. It's better this way because I can argue that Carl put up more beautiful thoughts and ecstatic learning for the very real possibility of deceit, heartache and finding out that he was wrong. He can serve his God, raise confident and capable children and make one other person happy, make one other person feel loved every day, for the rest of her life. With her, he can open his home up and make a bunch of college kids feel at home when there's not enough time or money to go back to their families. And he can look at her after so very many years and still actually feel his heart quiver in joy.

Maybe it's the mere possibility of pain that makes his vulnerability illogical or impractical. His sacrifice offering may very well be rejected -- the lady decides otherwise, God does something you didn't expect, he finds he is unable to accept her whole self and everything else that could happen.

Ain't it hard when you discover that

He really wasn't where it's at

After he took from you everything he could steal

How does it feel?

How does it feel to hang on your own

With no direction home

Like a complete unknown

Like a rolling stone

And maybe he would have fulfilled some different scholarly value, brought some different pocket of academic potential to fruition.

It might have happened.

Do we not seek God desperately when we are tossed and trampled? Terribly beautiful and astounding words have been written by loveless and desperately lonely writers. Agoraphobic writers. Depressed, insane, grumpy and bitter writers. Writers that admitted defeat. I kneel in gratitude and humility for them. I am in awe for what they produced that brought so many others to beauty in such a resonating manner.

And still, one has to wonder if they themselves would have preferred to have experienced love. If they wrote so convincingly and effectively on love's wonder and destructive power, what might they have produced about love's glory?