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?

Wasted and complacent, and you about the same...

That's not exactly how I feel right now, but I'm very sure that it was just playing (Never as Tired as When I'm Waking Up - LCD Soundsystem) in Caribou Coffee at the Mall of America. They just changed to Feist. That's all right.

Thanksgiving didn't "feel" like Thanksgiving usually does. My brothers stayed in Michigan, we didn't spend a few days putting stuffing and potatoes together, brining a turkey, arguing about cranberry sauce... a lot of very "traditional" (read: white people) things to do around that time, but I love that stuff. It's fine that it didn't feel like Thanksgiving, because it still was. We shouldn't feel anxious or upset because we're growing up and our lives are changing. I fought a throat infection and divided up time between stationary friends, fleeting friends and family. The Koreans, my apartment, my house and the Klumpeens shared Korean-American Thanksgiving together. Carl (more on him later) opened the meal with a brief, episodic and erratic description of the origins of this meal. It was somewhat on-the-spot, though he did hold pages of internet research, and objections, clarifications and otherwise colorful commentary was thrown out.

I wonder how I would feel if they played Christmas music.

The "educating" of the young Korean, Canadian and American students on what a "traditional" Thanksgiving meal "should" consist of evoked some... defensive thoughts in me? I don't think that's the best way to describe it, but there seemed to be a large concession made - maybe even an excuse - to the fact that we were merging Korean food with traditional Thanksgiving food on the same plates.

The girl at the table next to mine (very cute) was patiently sitting Indian-style and humming to herself. I thought that she enjoyed existing anonymously and being surrounded by people too. Her friend just came in, a guy with his unda-pants showing. "That's really funny." He's not funny.

If I were younger, and I think I remember my brothers and I complaining about this at some point, I might have protested the fact that there was rice and kimchi next to my turkey. I was really dumb, and I was born in Michigan. Turkey and kimchi is very tasty, and that's not because turkey is largely flavorless.

Wow. Sometimes you can really/easily tell when people like each other?

I don't know that I should have thought the wordless, uncomfortable thoughts I did but I think I was mildly protesting because, well, who cares?

"I need a new phone. I swear, I'm turning Dutch. I swear. Dutch people never buy ANYthing unless there's a sale." Ha!

Who cares that our table doesn't look like a Norman Rockwell? This is America, Jack. And it's 2009. If you want (or if we wanted) a specific and traditional Thanksgiving dinner, well that's fine, but we didn't. Also, we're Americans. And Canadians. And Koreans. Feasting together because we're alive and thankful and celebrating.

"...this mall is huge." "THIS mall?" It's the Mall of America, dude. Come on.

I partially digress - a large part of Thanksgiving food... of all food events perhaps... is reliving the comforting combination of flavors and textures. Stuffing with lots of sage and caramelized onions, mashed potatoes that taste like potatoes and butter and salt, and so forth.*

"... ... ... ...yeah. This mall is big."

My favorite food-specific part of Thanksgiving is making sandwiches with the remaining turkey carcass the next day. Turkey, even with a great gravy, is largely useless in a sandwich. And I get bored a lot. So I usually add a sauce or glaze or additional preparation to that bland, dry meat before stuffing it in a sandwich of sorts. I'm getting hungry again, though we just toured the food court and, as I've come to find lately, any amount of food we eat completely fills us up. It's unhealthy and odd.

"I don't really have a life... I don't really see my friends anymore because they're busy. Doing college things. Being college-y." She really likes this guy.

I don't think anybody protested the... fusion of cuisine? I think everybody enjoyed both and hopefully noticed some new flavor combinations. "Wow, you really do eat kimchi with everything, huh?" "You bet your tasty freckled ass! Chomp, chomp, chomp." We had a great time. Last year's Thanksgiving involved mom doing Korean food and my cooking American food, which was fun and ambitious and an enormous exercise of bonding. We both put our aprons on and sharpened our knives and shared burners, chopped vegetables etc. Oh I wish we had taken more pictures. And it was delicious, but I know if I weren't there, if nobody specifically asked for a turkey or mashed potatoes or stuffing, that they (the parents) would have invited the Korean students over for Thanksgiving and prepared only Korean food. I would be OK with that. And it's not because my mom doesn't like turkey, potatoes etc. She loves white people food. I'm calling it white people food now, not American food. Which could mean anything. You should see her attack a pot roast. The thing is that she's, mom, is constantly perfecting Korean food and she doesn't bother trying to make white people food all that much (though she is pretty good) because she doesn't really have a frame of reference and, I'd argue, that some white people don't either. Having corn and green beans from a can because you think you're supposed to eat corn and green beans on this day. Gross. Unless, of course, your family grew up eating convenient and canned vegetables and that's what you expect/are comforted by. Go for it. Go crazy. I have some friends who grew up on boxed mashed potatoes and they really love them. We didn't, so it'd be a lie, a useless one, to consume it because some fleeting image of a sprawling national holiday demands it.

I have to pee, which means I have to pack up. And find the bathroom.

Much to continue being thankful for. What did you eat? What did you think of over Thanksgiving?

One more!

"So, what's your major?"

"Exercise science."

Nods. "What's that?"

"It's like... the science of exercise."

*Oxford comma. Did you see that? Yech.

Angst.

Or whatever you want to call it that might imply less of a restless, frustrated and wound up young man. Surprising though, today, how motivation and discouragement don't balance each other out. That's how I put it earlier and it still doesn't make... well, not that it has to make sense. The day, weather-wise, was lovely if not the best of mid-November days. Ross and Carmela, a cup of delicious coffee made terrific with a spoon of condensed milk and that smug, comfortable grin in sitting with each other that says, "Hey, I haven't seen you since late last night..." No. I did not have a threesome with Carmela and Ross. It was a good, exhausting morning and early afternoon and Ross and I sat by the window and watched the kids in their bubble-wrap coats jump off the big, yellow schoolbus and run to their waiting moms, waving furiously to their friends as if they just learned yesterday how to use their limbs.

---

I rolled out of bed with a throat of bee stings again. Mom and dad expected the room to come home for lunch. Paul and I found Mark and Henk, in their Sunday gear, napping in the living room. Adam came out of the bathroom in a sweater looking drowsy. And hungry. My voice sounded like the grittiest of the rappers - my mom would not be pleased. But the day was gorgeous, and I grew furious at my finite body and immune system for keeping me unconscious through the fleeting daylight of the season. No call for enormous resolution however; the sun shone and a home-cooked meal awaited.

"The ABCs of Korean barbeque," dad said, as we sat down. Plates of sliced beef and pork in front of two tabletop burners, green lettuce, green onion salad, sesame oil dipping sauce, kimchi and - oddly - a 12-pack of Coca-Cola. I put on some hot water for tea before dinner, but was handed a bowl of miso soup instead and kissed my mom before taking my place at the opposite end of the table from my dad, cooking the meat and throwing the pieces at my roommates. They ate silently and efficiently - shoveling the food in and not putting any thought into facial expressions or conversation. My sisters watched them - the white kids with facial hair and skinny pants fiddling with their chopsticks and eating Korean food! I saw dad stare at them briefly and raise his eyebrows; mom smiled and continued to pile food onto their plates. Matty biked over to fill an empty seat and also went to work. After a bit, after enough meat filled the plates, and the room developed a bit of a haze, I grabbed an onion and a few cloves of garlic to cook with the meat - charring the former and softening the latter. I asked why they weren't out already. Dad agreed, looking playfully at mom as we watched on as she calmly explained, in Korean, that she didn't think our guests would have liked it. Dad and I shrugged, I chopped them up and we all enjoyed it together. Plate after plate of food, several references to how Hani would be freaking out (when we put the kimchi and rice on the burner with the meat) and going to town, lessons in Korean etiquette and language and the ensued laughter. Esther and Sally, whom Val tutors, were walking by outside, enjoying the day and we ran out to call them in and hang out with the white guys. They did. We had ice cream and tea and fruit and worked on digesting the plates and plates of food, the plates and plates of food and moaned for naps and activity and, "Oh look at this food baby. Whoa! Look at yours!" and, "I feel like I should be hungover right now," and "I don't hate my students. They make me hate them." I missed my brothers - they would have had a good time. I missed Joel and Travis who were still in bed when we left the apartment - they should have been there.

---

When do we believe each other? I love you. I'm fine. An embrace. A smile. A shrug. When do we believe what people do as an indication of who they are in light of our looming expectations of them, and how do we reconcile the growing realities with what we hope for? Every interaction is a moment to exercise our mantras - Prov. 17 A friend loves at all times; You may be ministering with every word you say or don't say; Continue being friendly. All words spoken directly to me, recently, by friends of varying intimacy and frequency in meeting. So we act and speak deliberately or I hope I do. I try. At the same time, and as I'm told, and as I claim and use to justify my wardrobe... I'm an English major; I don't like a lot of unnecessary writing, or speaking. I'm not against exploring possible truths or beliefs to be corrected afterwards - Irimi or Ura, for everyone in my Directing class with Prof. Hubbard (They're Japanese for entering the battle and possibly facing pain, defeat or death, Irimi, or continuing to go around in circles waiting, Ura). Does anyone else feel irritated when statements are thrown about without regard not only to who will hear, but to what kind of person you are for saying it? Still, so many more sleepless nights because of insecurity for unspoken words when they cry to be spoken, for facing the walls of our shortcomings, the veils we construct and hope, one day, to believe in. And still more nights of aching. Vulnerability. And honesty and, unfortunately, I'm choosing to keep from expressing specifics here, hoping that you manage to reflect and find something good here anyway, dear reader.

Our work is never over.

As I told whoever happened to ask, this week defeated my finite body and mind by Tuesday. Afternoon.

Why and why and what is with putting on a nice shirt, black pants, black socks, and making sure the tie fits correctly to watch digital reminders that certain people on the other side of the world exist in heartache and strength and joy, just like we do on this side. Except, for the most part, we are kidding ourselves. And they are struggling to feed their children. Aren't we kidding ourselves? Aren't I?

And yet here we are. Trying to make sense of our lifestyles, plans and inhibitions. Justifying them, I guess, to make sense of what's practical, logical and effective... but mostly to adjust them to our own state of being finite. Practical often means watering down our own de-efficiencies to step up to what supposedly moves us. But I've come to terms with that. I think, individually, we expect the most of ourselves and we are the most critical of ourselves and an important step to humility and reality and surviving (mentally) is in acknowledging that we are finite creatures.

Here we are, running in circles, trying to keep tabs on all the people that have made a place in our lives, making room for them, because... here's my defense, what are we supposed to do? We can spend our time picking fights, getting mad and fuming about how we feel neglected from... well, what does it matter? But we do, don't we? We love to tell our friends about it, and they love to feign interest because - and I mean this - they love us, and they're not always feigning interest... they may be listening, they may be able to recall what we said, and they might even (if we're lucky) continue to dwell on what we told them, on what trivial moments took place in our lives that we, for whatever reason, decided to share with them.

And maybe we hear those things because we care and because, sometimes, we can actively aid our friends in addition to patiently listening to them, and perhaps - on some innocent level - there's a refuge of escapism in living vicariously and sympathetically, temporarily, taking on someone else's burdens, even if we continue to bear them after the conversation is over.

It's a game. And some don't stop playing, while others claim (sometimes truthfully) that we're sick of it. That we can't take it anymore! There are so many other issues that shake us to our bones and we are revealing, every day, that we are finite to them. And yet, here we are. Still here, existing and not erased from existence. If the universe made any sense at all, we would be already be erased from existence. Wiped from the Earth. Yet here we are. Calling out when they're asleep, reaching out as they laugh at us, and wrapping our arms around when they doubt us.

GIFT revisited

I went to GIFT again tonight and made an effort to learn every song I didn't know so I could sing to (at least) one chorus and one verse and, as contemporary praise and worship songs are apt to include, one bridge of some sort. Save for the phrase "My God is Mighty to Save," I had to learn every song they played, which was nice - the critical distractions of lyric and melody will be thrust onto another avenue than this blog. If you haven't read the post from... a few weeks ago, you should find it, skim through it and read the comments because they are great. Linsay Vladimirov (who might be reading this regularly now... which weirds. me. out.) and I met a little bit ago to talk about the nodes, trends, practices and design of praise and worship as a student, professional and leader. It's interesting to try and keep track of what goes through my head during praise and worship. Largely, my attempts to focus myself (not necessarily to clear, calm or numb my mind down) on breathing the words from inside and to my lips, with my buddy Mark and the old guy on my other side (which is, by the way, one of the best things - singing next to crotchety-seeming old people with voices from the 60s) along with the rest of the student body and Sioux Center community that gathered together on Sunday evening, bringing their trials and joys from the past week, and expectations for the coming one, in a conscious attempt to worship.* And if the thoughts running through this past week were cast with the veil of Linsay's admonishing of me (yes, that's what she did; she yelled. at me.) to get over myself and wake up and realize, of course, that there will always be flaws and distractions and mistakes and, most of all, decisions that are made largely according to preference. So, in brief, get over yourself and don't let your critical thoughts on how this song should go, how that transition was bad, what they didn't do (exactly like I did in the previous post) get in the way of you worshipping the Lord God Almighty.

And I had this realization mid-song tonight at this terrific point. I even had my arms crossed when I laughed to myself, thinking, "WHY would they do that?" I forget what EXACTLY they did, but I know and will admit that I did this a few times in the evening. Understandably, I stopped singing when I did this, and when I broke from the presence of worship, and stared at the lyrics up on the screen, trying to resolve the actual melody with my understanding of the melody. And I hesitated to start again with the song because, and this is a big deal - believe me - even if it doesn't seem so, I hesitated to start singing the song that I had previously laughed at because I was, of course, much too good for this song now. It had failed the very rigid and temperamental exam of my approval, like so many songs and people before it, but not a lot of foods. And I was too good to worship the Lord God Almighty with this song. It's OK. You don't have to hurl stones; I sang the rest of the song after laughing at myself.

I have a question though - when do you stop singing a song? What are the signs of melody, lyrics or execution from the band that will take you willingly out of the presence and sacrifice of worship?

I don't know that he thinks about it often, but I bet that my dad would enjoy living alone every once in a while. It's six forty on Sunday evening, the first time manipulation of the year, though it is still quite dark outside. Mom and the girls are at evening service and he came back home from the office just a few minutes ago. I'm here after a big Saturday and yet another night of struggling to fall asleep. Dad is downstairs now. I can hear steady, careful chopping and stirring. The TV isn't on and there's no music. I think, I couldn't say for sure, that my parents' marriage is a relationship where they could sit quietly and inhabit the same space peacefully in silence. I can't say whether they do that or not, whether they have that luxury and even if that is the case, it's not the same as quietly and deliberately cooking alone when that's all you want to do. I love my family, and try to see them at least once a week but I would spend so much more time at my house if it were empty. Having a wife and two girls in the house is different from living with six guys and the catatonic friends and lovers that we involve ourselves with. Yes. Yes, the last time the house was empty, there was a party with roommates and friends and lovers, yes and it was very fun. And it would probably happen again, but AFTER that... well, and maybe I would appreciate a change of scenery and pace as well. Being anonymous in a city would be nice, but it is not plausible for a few months yet.