I feel as if I need to start by saying, "Yes. I know we live in Southern California so our paradigm of cold is a little skewed from the rest of the US. But that doesn't mean that I am not allowed to be cold when it's 50 degrees out."
There. Now you have context. It was cold. We were laying on the ground in the middle of Temecula. We had blankets and the thermos of coffee (side note: some day ask my dad about the "Thermos Jug"). We were on an adventure! You see, every 86 years Halley's Comet zooms past Earth. And every October, the orbit of Earth passes right through the trail that the comet left. Typically this yields some awesome views of the cosmic litter left behind as it burns up in our atmosphere. I say typically quite intentionally.
You see, we were out there to witness this shower. We had done all the research. 25-40 meteors every hour, peak viewing time between 1-2am and dawn, Temecula or Crestline would give the best views without having to drive to the middle of nowhere, we knew it was coming from the upper club of Orion when it was highest in the sky...we knew we'd need lots of coffee and blankets. We were READY for our adventure. Alex even made a specific mix on the iPod to play in the car.
So we loaded up the Amigo at 12:30am and headed to Temecula. On the way there, right in front of us a massive blue meteor left a sweet trail and we thought we were in for a great show. An hour or so later we were there, blankets out, jackets on, lights off, meteors....meteors....um...where are the meteors?
We layed outside until 4am. We were determined! There were a couple good ones, then maybe 8-12 pretty wimpy ones. Nowhere near the 25-40 per hour! And there we were, fairly cold, in the middle of Temecula, and I was pretty disappointed. I mean, we deserved a meteor shower! We put all that effort in, drove all that way, gave up sleep, and we were entitled to this show! We earned it!
Wrong.
It's taken me three days to really process what happened that night. I felt entitled. I felt cheated. I felt like I had sacrificed sleep and sanity for something that didn't show. MY meteor shower was not there.
The 400 billion stars were in front of my eyes, yet I was disappointed about my 25-40 meteors that I didn't see. When 400 billion things all at once show you your faults and immaturity, it's a heavy weight to shoulder.
Stars are amazing and wonderous things. They are so large and so far away and so numerous. Even in the darkest of deserts, on the clearest of nights, what we see barely scratches the surface of the immensity of space and stars. Yet every evening, even in the light polluted, smoggy town I live, there are stars above me. Most night I'm grateful for the 6 stars that I can see (sometimes 5 if I realize it's an airplane), yet for some reason on Tuesday night my immaturity and selfishness shined brighter than the stars right in front of me.
I'd like to turn that light off. I'd like to relish the darkness and let what really matters shine through. Sometimes my immaturity dims, sometimes it flares. My hope is that the times it dims will shadow the times it flares.
Maybe by 2061 when Halley comes back I'll be able to fully appreciate it without my selfish immaturity getting in the way. Hopefully.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
my life of eras
While in high school, Alex and I came to the realization that our life passes in "eras." These are different than chapters. Chapters mark changes in life: the passing of loved ones, new births, new or lost homes, careers, graduations, adventures...stuff like that.
The chapters of our life are all enveloped by the greater era. I've been asked, "Well, when do the eras begin? How do you know one has ended?" The answer, for myself, is: I don't know.
It's the sort of thing that I don't realize a new era has begun until I'm well into it. One doesn't wake up and say, "Today is a new era." We walk through life, living out experiences and relationships, and one day realize, "I'm in a new era of my life." I think I've had 4: Pre-crash, Post-crash, College, Marriage.
And today, as I walked into work with my coffee in hand and cloudy sky above, I thought about the recent happenings in and around my life. There have been many changes, many chapters. I'm in the last year of my undergraduate work, I've lost a loved one, new children have been brought into the world, I've spent 429 wonderful days of marriage with the most incredible woman in the world, and my friend has been married for about 18 hours. I have friends that have celebrated more than a year of marriage and friends that have celebrated a few months. We had 7 weddings this year and my wife was [Matron] of Honor in 3 of them (she doesn't like that word, because it sounds old.) One of my friends found his passion and is ardently pursuing it (which I admire and respect deeply.) Others are still waiting patiently for a still small voice to help them find direction for the rest of their life. Some have made decisions about ministry, about schooling, about children, or even about finances.
And with this perspective I thought to myself, "Is this a new era?" Change in-and-of-itself does not necessarily mean a new era. But with the combination off all that's happened in the past months, I feel like I'm in a new era of my life. Passions are discovered, loves are found and committed to, children are born, and Britt and I are surrounded by it. This is our life now. We love it. It's strikingly different than just 2 years ago, but a new era brings with it new possibilities and adventures.
I'm thankful for the path that has been my life. I'm thankful for the struggles and the hurts, the joys and laughter, the adventures and monotony. These times have shaped me into who I am today.
I am thankful for all my eras.
The chapters of our life are all enveloped by the greater era. I've been asked, "Well, when do the eras begin? How do you know one has ended?" The answer, for myself, is: I don't know.
It's the sort of thing that I don't realize a new era has begun until I'm well into it. One doesn't wake up and say, "Today is a new era." We walk through life, living out experiences and relationships, and one day realize, "I'm in a new era of my life." I think I've had 4: Pre-crash, Post-crash, College, Marriage.
And today, as I walked into work with my coffee in hand and cloudy sky above, I thought about the recent happenings in and around my life. There have been many changes, many chapters. I'm in the last year of my undergraduate work, I've lost a loved one, new children have been brought into the world, I've spent 429 wonderful days of marriage with the most incredible woman in the world, and my friend has been married for about 18 hours. I have friends that have celebrated more than a year of marriage and friends that have celebrated a few months. We had 7 weddings this year and my wife was [Matron] of Honor in 3 of them (she doesn't like that word, because it sounds old.) One of my friends found his passion and is ardently pursuing it (which I admire and respect deeply.) Others are still waiting patiently for a still small voice to help them find direction for the rest of their life. Some have made decisions about ministry, about schooling, about children, or even about finances.
And with this perspective I thought to myself, "Is this a new era?" Change in-and-of-itself does not necessarily mean a new era. But with the combination off all that's happened in the past months, I feel like I'm in a new era of my life. Passions are discovered, loves are found and committed to, children are born, and Britt and I are surrounded by it. This is our life now. We love it. It's strikingly different than just 2 years ago, but a new era brings with it new possibilities and adventures.
I'm thankful for the path that has been my life. I'm thankful for the struggles and the hurts, the joys and laughter, the adventures and monotony. These times have shaped me into who I am today.
I am thankful for all my eras.
Monday, October 5, 2009
A bitter cold perspective.
After our movie night last night, the news came on. Headlines: Fire. Again. It's a terrible plague this time of year that truly is devastating. My prayers and thoughts are with the brave fireman (and Firewomen, to be PC, and because I don't know the proper androgynous term...Firepersonel?) who are fighting tirelessly in conditions that I can barely imagine. What they do, really is nothing short of extraordinary.
However...the reporter covering the story was talking about the conditions that the fireman were experiencing: low winds, high humidity. But according to the reporter, the "bitter cold" was making fighting the fire VERY difficult. It was 30. The shot cuts from the reporter wearing a jacket made of something that looked like alpaca and a scarf, to the fireman in their gear, some of the jackets undone at the top while they rested and regrouped or were interviewed.
Bitter cold. It was 30. I laughed. Actually, out loud. I've been in 30 degree weather in jeans and a light sweatshirt. It was 60 here and I was in jeans and a t-shirt. While I may not classify 30 as bitter cold, I stopped to think about that statement for a minute. And thankfully, my wonderful wife brought a better perspective to my thoughts. There I was in jeans a t-shirt, scoffing at the sentiment of "bitter cold", and next to me was my wife bundled up in a blanket.
She often calls me Harry, due to the fact that I have a cynical side that mirrors the character Harry in the movie When Harry Met Sally. At the end of the film he says to Sally, "I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out." 71 for my wife is COLD. 81 for my wife is a little chilly. Unless the temperature starts with a '9' or has three digits, it's cold. And typically, I'm sweating. We laugh in the car because the rule, stated by Brittney, is, "If I'm cold, you're comfortable. If I'm warm, you're hot. If I'm hot, you're dying."
To some, it may actually be bitter cold. Not me, really. But that's just one. That reporter standing on the hillside in 30 degree weather may have been freezing her face off, hating every moment of that report. I would have loved the cold. That doesn't make either of us more correct. While there may be some on the tundra of Tibet that are in 10 degree weather thinking, "Hey it's a beautiful day!", my wife would be a human Otter-pop. It's all about perspective.
However...the reporter covering the story was talking about the conditions that the fireman were experiencing: low winds, high humidity. But according to the reporter, the "bitter cold" was making fighting the fire VERY difficult. It was 30. The shot cuts from the reporter wearing a jacket made of something that looked like alpaca and a scarf, to the fireman in their gear, some of the jackets undone at the top while they rested and regrouped or were interviewed.
Bitter cold. It was 30. I laughed. Actually, out loud. I've been in 30 degree weather in jeans and a light sweatshirt. It was 60 here and I was in jeans and a t-shirt. While I may not classify 30 as bitter cold, I stopped to think about that statement for a minute. And thankfully, my wonderful wife brought a better perspective to my thoughts. There I was in jeans a t-shirt, scoffing at the sentiment of "bitter cold", and next to me was my wife bundled up in a blanket.
She often calls me Harry, due to the fact that I have a cynical side that mirrors the character Harry in the movie When Harry Met Sally. At the end of the film he says to Sally, "I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out." 71 for my wife is COLD. 81 for my wife is a little chilly. Unless the temperature starts with a '9' or has three digits, it's cold. And typically, I'm sweating. We laugh in the car because the rule, stated by Brittney, is, "If I'm cold, you're comfortable. If I'm warm, you're hot. If I'm hot, you're dying."
To some, it may actually be bitter cold. Not me, really. But that's just one. That reporter standing on the hillside in 30 degree weather may have been freezing her face off, hating every moment of that report. I would have loved the cold. That doesn't make either of us more correct. While there may be some on the tundra of Tibet that are in 10 degree weather thinking, "Hey it's a beautiful day!", my wife would be a human Otter-pop. It's all about perspective.
Friday, October 2, 2009
He may speak in their ears and terrify them with warnings.
Sometimes when you go to a website of a movie that's coming out soon there will be a disclaimer saying, "Spoiler Alert," warning readers that there may be something here that you don't want to read. Sometimes on news websites that are covering tragedy or ruin of some country there is a video or slideshow that starts off by saying, "This video contains disturbing images. Use caution when viewing."
This post needs that disclaimer. I am going to talk about death. I'm going to talk about death of loved ones and things so personal that some should not read this. Now you know.
Job 33. I lived that passage last night.
Alex came and picked me up off the ground. We walked. We walked down the road, the pavement ended and the dust kicked up behind our feet. People passed by and everybody had their head down, eyes averted, each engulfed in their own sorrows. I had my own sorrow. How could I spare love to comfort these people? How would I ever be able to sacrifice my own sorrow in a time like this to love and encourage them? I couldn't. I wouldn't. I refused.
And they walked past, dust sticking to the tears streaming down their face, they faded. What their sorrows were, I did now know, and I did not care; I had my own. My father was gone. And then I looked to my side and Alex was gone too. Nowhere. In my own selfishness I had lost my father and my friend...
I was not alone. My wife lay sleeping peacefully on my left, and the soft glow from the street lights shined in the window. I was terrified. I was furious. How could such a terrible dream come to me? And the answer hit with the same force of the loss of my dad: you need to love better. I need to love better.
Sometimes I take for granted the people in my life. I joke and kid. I'm sometimes cynical. I end a conversation with a smart remark, sometimes at the expense of somebody else. And what if that is the last I see of them? What if there is a real-life catastrophe like the one in my dream and that person is gone? Did I love them and treat them like they deserve, like I'm expected to?
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. I need the first area to destroy the other. If you happen to have, at some point, fallen in the latter, then I apologize. I'm sorry for not loving you and treating you like you deserve to be treated.
Each day I wake up, I am given the gift of another heart beat, another breath, another blink, another moment with my wife, with my family, with my friends, and with the strangers that walk around me. I have been given something that's precious.
I know I'm not perfect. I know that nobody is perfect. We all have our demons and struggles. Sometimes God gives us a gentle nudge in the direction He wants us to go. Sometimes He terrifies us in warnings. Thankfully, I have been given another chance.
Next time, I'd really prefer a gentle nudge.
This post needs that disclaimer. I am going to talk about death. I'm going to talk about death of loved ones and things so personal that some should not read this. Now you know.
Job 33. I lived that passage last night.
For God does speak—now one way, now another—Last night my dad had a massive heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital. The family and my wife were out of town together so I was alone with him. One of the top cardiologists was called to help. Unfortunately, he couldn't do anything. Shock, after shock, after shock.... CLEAR!!! His body writhed in convulsions and I watched from behind the glass. The ominous green line fell. Silence. He was gone. My father, whom I love to the core of my being was gone. No longer would I hear his words of wisdom, his laughter, or his signature snore. No longer would I eat his pancake breakfast or share a beer with him on the lake. I had a hole in my being and it burned. The physical pain was unbelievable. How could something hurt so terribly? I turned and ran out of the hospital in a daze. I collapsed to the ground and beat my fists against the pavement. Did he know I loved him? Did he know how much he meant to me? Was I pleasing in my father's sight? Was he proud? Did my strengths outweigh my faults? Did he know that he was the best father ever? Did I show him love? Did he know it, feel it, see it?
though man may not perceive it.
In a dream, in a vision of the night,
when deep sleep falls on men
as they slumber in their beds,
he may speak in their ears
and terrify them with warnings,
to turn man from wrongdoing
and keep him from pride,
to preserve his soul from the pit,
his life from perishing by the sword.
Alex came and picked me up off the ground. We walked. We walked down the road, the pavement ended and the dust kicked up behind our feet. People passed by and everybody had their head down, eyes averted, each engulfed in their own sorrows. I had my own sorrow. How could I spare love to comfort these people? How would I ever be able to sacrifice my own sorrow in a time like this to love and encourage them? I couldn't. I wouldn't. I refused.
And they walked past, dust sticking to the tears streaming down their face, they faded. What their sorrows were, I did now know, and I did not care; I had my own. My father was gone. And then I looked to my side and Alex was gone too. Nowhere. In my own selfishness I had lost my father and my friend...
I was not alone. My wife lay sleeping peacefully on my left, and the soft glow from the street lights shined in the window. I was terrified. I was furious. How could such a terrible dream come to me? And the answer hit with the same force of the loss of my dad: you need to love better. I need to love better.
Sometimes I take for granted the people in my life. I joke and kid. I'm sometimes cynical. I end a conversation with a smart remark, sometimes at the expense of somebody else. And what if that is the last I see of them? What if there is a real-life catastrophe like the one in my dream and that person is gone? Did I love them and treat them like they deserve, like I'm expected to?
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. I need the first area to destroy the other. If you happen to have, at some point, fallen in the latter, then I apologize. I'm sorry for not loving you and treating you like you deserve to be treated.
Each day I wake up, I am given the gift of another heart beat, another breath, another blink, another moment with my wife, with my family, with my friends, and with the strangers that walk around me. I have been given something that's precious.
I know I'm not perfect. I know that nobody is perfect. We all have our demons and struggles. Sometimes God gives us a gentle nudge in the direction He wants us to go. Sometimes He terrifies us in warnings. Thankfully, I have been given another chance.
Next time, I'd really prefer a gentle nudge.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thank you Mr. Townshend, Mr. Daltrey, and you crafty fellows on CBS:
Camera pans over night city scape of Las Vegas as the guitar solo begins. Flash graphic of "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" for a few seconds... cue lyrics:
"Who are you? Who, who...who, who?" (repeat at least 23 times)
My mom and I used to watch this show every week. It was fun. I stayed up til ten to watch people dig up bodies in the desert, blow up apples to solve crimes, and shoot jello to find the culprit.
And every week I would have that song from stuck in my head.
While it may not be the most lyrically creative song ever written (like the great Can-I-Bus line: "Yo, whoever grabs the mic after me'll get booed, and get everything in da club thrown at you and ya crew.") it is definitely a consistently relevant lyric. For everybody, everywhere, all the time.
And this is also the topic of discussion in my head today: who are you? What is your identity? And maybe the bigger question: from where does one acquire/learn/maintain identity? Now, I know that the "good Christian" answer says: "you get your identity from God."
Lame (repeat at least 24 times.) Lame.
I will guarantee that God designed more for us. That's why we have relationships, passions, hobbies, conflicts, angers, fears. We are dynamic people. So, I'll ask again: from where do you acquire/learn/maintain your identity?
Me? I'm a husband. I am a student of Psychology. I am a son to 4 parents (that like each other). I am a reader, a thinker, a lover, a friend, a coffee drinker, a napper, a writer, a speaker, a frisbee player, a small group leader, a learner, a laugher, an adventurer, I'm imaginative, prideful, realistic, pessimistic, introvert, contemplative, playful. I like rain, heat, swiming snow. I love family dinners and brotherly bocce...
The list is long, and possibly endless. But what I'm wrestling with today, and hoping that others wrestle with this as well. Who are you? Where do you get your identity? And how does all that manifest itself into your identity? How does it show? What do you hide? What are you ashamed of? What are you proud of?
I know that this isn't something that I can't shoot a jello mold with a .45, shine a black light, and scrape a few DNA cells off the bullet to find the answer; although that would be nice. So for now I'll just keep singing, "Who are you? Who, who...who, who?" (and keep singing, and keep signing, because now it's stuck in my head.)
"Who are you? Who, who...who, who?" (repeat at least 23 times)
My mom and I used to watch this show every week. It was fun. I stayed up til ten to watch people dig up bodies in the desert, blow up apples to solve crimes, and shoot jello to find the culprit.
And every week I would have that song from stuck in my head.
While it may not be the most lyrically creative song ever written (like the great Can-I-Bus line: "Yo, whoever grabs the mic after me'll get booed, and get everything in da club thrown at you and ya crew.") it is definitely a consistently relevant lyric. For everybody, everywhere, all the time.
And this is also the topic of discussion in my head today: who are you? What is your identity? And maybe the bigger question: from where does one acquire/learn/maintain identity? Now, I know that the "good Christian" answer says: "you get your identity from God."
Lame (repeat at least 24 times.) Lame.
I will guarantee that God designed more for us. That's why we have relationships, passions, hobbies, conflicts, angers, fears. We are dynamic people. So, I'll ask again: from where do you acquire/learn/maintain your identity?
Me? I'm a husband. I am a student of Psychology. I am a son to 4 parents (that like each other). I am a reader, a thinker, a lover, a friend, a coffee drinker, a napper, a writer, a speaker, a frisbee player, a small group leader, a learner, a laugher, an adventurer, I'm imaginative, prideful, realistic, pessimistic, introvert, contemplative, playful. I like rain, heat, swiming snow. I love family dinners and brotherly bocce...
The list is long, and possibly endless. But what I'm wrestling with today, and hoping that others wrestle with this as well. Who are you? Where do you get your identity? And how does all that manifest itself into your identity? How does it show? What do you hide? What are you ashamed of? What are you proud of?
I know that this isn't something that I can't shoot a jello mold with a .45, shine a black light, and scrape a few DNA cells off the bullet to find the answer; although that would be nice. So for now I'll just keep singing, "Who are you? Who, who...who, who?" (and keep singing, and keep signing, because now it's stuck in my head.)
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