A happy new year

What do I write about when I have no incredible inspiration? Do I mention my revelations and meditations, my moments of enlightenment as I lay in the library somewhere between sleeping and reading? They were profound, and I baked in the single thought, "God loves me."

Maybe instead I'll write about the frivolities of being a college grad, having more freedom than I ever had in my life. Possibly I'll write about the look the two old ladies who just walked by gave me and my propped-up bare feet.

A frequent thing I do in my head, and when conversation slows with friends is people watch and write their possible stories. Is it the time for one?

Ahhhh inspiration finally comes... it came through the stereo, singing and giving commemoration to the grandfather of many, Father Christmas.
I am excited for Christmas. Nothing warms my heart like a peaceful rendition of a classic tune that has remained unchanged since my birth; Britney Spears doesn't fit into that category, Sufjan and his hipster favored album comes close but its too much creative liberty for me at traditional moments. Dim lights and a corner placed pine, bricks surrounding a brewing fire to match my cup of joe or cocoa, a warm voice embodying familiar lyrics, a chill to bring out the blessing of heat, a serenity rooted in knowing my Savior has been born, and a nearby well known souls to full up the room - and so this is Christmas.

Thank you for sparing my life everyday.

Paper

Springing from my bed this morning, the glow silhouetting the leaves out my window brought me a spark of excitement rather than the usual weariness of another jobless day. I reached for a fresh set of black boot-fitting jeans, unworn for weeks. Slipping them on, I filled my pockets with the necessities of the West: wallet, cell phone, keys - check. The I flung my arms in the air and leaned back for a long, inverted-cat stretch, thrusting my belly forward.

My hands nestled into my back pockets and I stood, thinking not of the past, nor the day ahead of me, not even the present - just blank. My fingers felt something - a fold of loose paper pressed in my pockets and their wrap on my back-side.

A glimmer of hope, an expectation of something great! Could it be the twenty-dollars I always hear about people finding randomly in their old clothes? Could it be an old note from a friend I had stuck close as a keepsake? Maybe an old to-do list? A supernaturally endowed note with a picture of the girl I am to marry some-day? Possibly some-sort of guide that reveals who I am and what job to pursue. Maybe it is an old treasure map of my childhood, waiting for years to once again throw me into it's mystery, and seeking after lost adventures?
It was a receipt, bland and nearly dissolved, completely white and starchy from at least two terms with my washer and drier.

I long, seek, and expect the prodigious, but keep finding the mundane.

Coping with a Miracle

Written May 17^th, 2010 (a week after the fall)

I feel like it's my fault. I sensed she was scared and uncomfortable, but neglected it and allowed us to push forward. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn't seriously think and consider the risk of our falling and the result, a result which is now a reality. I made so many mistakes - we should not have been climbing that high in that position, I should have been climbing first, I should have turned us back.

There is immense guilt. Guilt which is not affirmed or encouraged by anyone but me. I don't want to let go of this guilt, for fear that I will fail to learn from this experience, from this miracle. For fear that I won't understand the consequences and the seriousness of the reality of our dangerous position, our critically injured condition, and our miraculously preserved livelihood. I know that guilt can give the devil power to damage and destroy, in which case I hope that there I have contrition - the difference being whom one brings there thoughts and prayers to, either themselves or God.

I have been labeled a hero. I am no hero. I don't know what it means to be a hero. If a hero is someone that does what needs to be done when it is necessary, then I am not a hero. I salvaged my mistake of failing to be a hero and turn us back earlier. If a hero is someone acts on what God has naturally gifted them with, and what that person has pushed and grown to be, then there isn't much more heroism to me than many others. I don't think I particularly saved Nadine's life, I did what I thought needed to be done when it was done - I fought the black, sleepy dimness that sought to take over my consciousness, I pushed through pain of what felt like a broken leg, I stayed calm, I kept Nadine awake and talking, I problem solved amongst people with no emergency awareness or common sense, and some other details. Maybe that makes a hero, maybe it doesn't, I'm not to judge. Only the things which align with Christ make a hero.

I am a little thankful for that incident because now, when I hear tragic stories where great feats are accomplished and I ask myself, "Would I be able to do that? Am I strong enough? I wish I possessed that strength." Now, I can confidently say that I can, and I did. But would I trade this recently gifted confidence for Nadine's health and the memories of the fall and her painful cries? Yes.

But the fact is that we did fall, we are both alive, I helped, but God saved us. We are living miracles by man's standards. What does that mean for me? A large part of me says that nothing about this incident is any more miraculous than the breath of a poor man, or the flutter of a butterfly, or the growth of a tree and the falling of it's fruit. Nevertheless, the only way to describe the tragic reality of the incident so that others understand, is to label it as a "miracle."

Have I forgotten what a miracle is? Or has humanity forgotten what a miracle is? Which one is the perspective of Christ? He said he would preform signs and wonders and miracles; but he also said faith like a mustard seed could uproot a tree and replant it in a sea. Divine intervention is real; does it happen all around in every single moment? Or is it only when the physically, statistically, and expected effects are altered by God should a miracle be proclaimed?

Maybe there is something miraculous in the constant, seemingly mundane events like the sun's rising, but I also can't deny that there is something extra miraculous, spectacular, and significant - deserving of a specific label such as 'miracle' - when the laws that we humans study, live, and believe in are stretched by the divine. God must have designed to think and recognized the difference. Or maybe sin has skewed our true vision, skewed us and so we form labels and boxes which don't ultimately exist to God, but currently controls we humans. Can I now say: Therefore, part of joining in His personhood, His divinity, is realizing that those boxes and labels are not eternal realities, only temporaries. Jesus knew and understood the definition of human 'miracles', but lived in the true reality and knowledge that a tree has no real rule about where it can be planted and uprooted.

What should my perspective be? What should my action then be?

I feel like I "should" be more grateful for everyday. I think it makes sense that the air would seem fresher, and I would be more thankful for every waking moment, even more than I was before. But right now I don't. Is there something wrong? What am I missing? I have justified that it is fine and true for me, as a human, to understand that I have experienced a miracle. But I also think that a "miracle" in our terms doesn't quite match up with the eternal reality of God, but only with his finite creation of humanities reality. So where am I? Stuck in the middle?

Do I think my/our survival means that we are destined for great things? Yes. Do I think that before, we were destined great things? Yes. What do I do? How is the "why am I still alive" connected with the "what do I now do?"

The Monkey, Part II

There I sat, crunched up, legs squeezed so tight in angst that I was almost sitting on my feet, despite the lay-z-boy underneath. Guilt was heavier than ever, but he had nothing to say. When I needed a friend, this monkey seemed to care more about his own fur. As I prayed I thought about this load, how dreary all his ideas seemed, and how self entrapped I felt. Then the epiphenomenal moment came.
If I am made free in Christ, and this is true, from where does this enmeshing trap come from? It must be foreign, for I believe my heart and desires come from pure motives, a broken and contrite heart.

I swatted a flea off my fore-arm, and then smooshed another on my knee. A little certitude flickered inside, and I reared my head back with a countenance of disgust and loath.
"Guilt!!! Guilt, you have embodied your name, and emboldened yourself upon my back." Reaching backwards I took a fierce grip and held him straight armed. His attack and squeeks were nothing to the name of Jesus resting on my tongue, heart and mind. I opened the back door, and with a swift boot sent him flying. The door was locked I was resting back in my chair, cross legged and relieved. There I remained pondering, praying, and gracefully ready and free to make some decisions.

I haven't learned as many lessons as I should have by this age, but if nothing else I know I am not Jesus. I have burdens, responsibilities, desires, and convictions, but they do not match that of my Lords. I am not all encompassing, I have a role. That role is contained within the perimeters of time and space, as is my body.

The simplicity of life is reflected in my humanity.
The complexities arise amidst interaction and fronts to that humanity.
To remain simple and focused amidst complexity is an intricate process, and I need not the burden of Guilt, but of divine weights.