Summer, my friends, is ending. It's Aug. 31!
The front page of this week's Two Rivers Times features, among nothing else, a picture of a tree with half green leaves and half yellow -- a sure sign that autumn is on the way.
I generally have a love/hate relationship with summer. In elementary, middle, and high schools, (and college) I was that annoying kid who was glad school was starting again, glad to have structure and busyness. Summer is hot, and you know, you can only take off so many clothes to make yourself cooler. To get warmer, there is an infinite number of vestments to be put on. There are mosquitoes in the summer, and bees, and there's humidity and tornadoes and hurricanes and swimsuits to be borne and tank tops and shorts and all these revealing, awkward pieces of non-clothing.
I'm a fan of green and God knows in March I'll be wishing for it again, but there's nothing quite like fall to make you feel cozy inside -- unless it's the first night of snow.
The thought of September just makes me almost giggly inside. September starts with the same letter as "sweater." And God also knows how much more I'd rather wear a sweater than a tank top. And "sweatshirt." And "shoes" -- won't my boss be glad? And "socks" -- which have nearly been in hibernation for four months.
Soon there will be coats, and corduroys, and cameras (for landscape photos) and...
mittens. It won't be long before you all find out how I feel about mittens. (If you thought I liked sweatshirts...)
Granted, this summer is high on the top ten list of summers past, and I'm moving into the scary unknown territory of life and loan repayment, but...
Hello, autumn. (Three weeks ahead of time.)
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
onion, redesigned
The Onion was late today in publishing its new weekly issue -- because it redesigned its site! I can't tell if there is actually more stuff there, or if I can just find it more easily.
Either way, their archives now go back infinitely in time. It was an ideal opportunity to salvage my favorite Onion story of all time. Courtesy of the Onion (or something), please enjoy.
73 Percent Of U.S. Livestock Show Signs Of Clinical Depression
July 21, 2004 Issue 40•29
WASHINGTON, DC—According to a joint study conducted by the FDA and the Department of Agriculture, nearly three out of four members of the U.S. livestock population show signs of clinical depression, with the vast majority of cases going untreated, government officials said Monday.
"The FDA is charged with the task of preventing potentially disastrous outbreaks of disease within the U.S. livestock population," said Henry Wolcott, Assistant Undersecretary of Agriculture, Psychiatric Division. "I'm afraid that, in this case, our intervention came too late. Our study shows that 73 percent of U.S. cattle, goats, sheep, and swine suffer from serious psychiatric problems."
Signs of clinical depression discovered by the researchers include severe listlessness, lack of motivation, and a flattening of emotional affect marked by glazed eyes and slow movements.
"Everyone is concerned about mad cow disease or the bird flu," Wolcott said. "What the average person fails to appreciate, however, is that mental disorders can be just as debilitating as physical ones. If you look into these animals' eyes, you can see the blank gaze of hopelessness and despair."
"It's tragic," Walcott added. "It's no kind of life, not for man or beast."
Walcott said that millions of animals across the nation wile away the hours unproductively, not moving until forced to do so by an outside factor, such as a farmhand or a milking machine.
"Most of the cows we examined barely had the energy to drag themselves from the barn out to the field," Walcott said. "Once in the field, they tended to spend most of their time quietly brooding and chewing cud, showing little to no willingness to communicate with their herd-member peers. Their depression was so debilitating that they needed to be coaxed out of inactivity through the use of hollering, physical force, and, in extreme cases, trained dogs."
The study also noted the average U.S. cow's tendency to emit low, mournful moans.
Walcott said that the majority of sheep studied rarely moved during the day, opting instead to stand in one place, often avoiding sunlight and acting only when the food supply in the immediate area was depleted.
"Like many undiagnosed depression sufferers, it seems that a lot of U.S. livestock escape the emotional emptiness of their lives by overeating," Walcott said. "Most appear to care nothing about their personal appearance. And, as any ranch-hand who has ever shoveled manure can tell you, they make only limited effort to keep their physical surroundings in order."
Dr. Theodore Nelson, author of The Slow Slaughter: Growing Up Livestock In An Uncaring World, has made combating bovine ennui his personal mission.
"Sadly, much of our nation's livestock feel they have no future," Nelson said. "They see life as short, brutal, and bereft of purpose. They may appear to be functioning normally—eating feed, producing milk, and generating high volumes of fertilizer—but inside, many are just waiting to die."
In his book, Nelson calls for a federal program to provide Selective Livestock Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors to animals in need.
"The signs that these animals are depressed were right in front of us, but too many of us in the food sciences were blinded by narrow-minded agricultural orthodoxy to see them," Nelson said. "But we can't think this problem will be solved through medication alone. Cattle have to learn to believe in themselves. They've got to see themselves as more than walking hunks of meat or they'll never get better."
The government's report also contained preliminary data suggesting a rate as high as 95 percent for severe anxiety disorder among U.S. poultry.
Either way, their archives now go back infinitely in time. It was an ideal opportunity to salvage my favorite Onion story of all time. Courtesy of the Onion (or something), please enjoy.
73 Percent Of U.S. Livestock Show Signs Of Clinical Depression
July 21, 2004 Issue 40•29
WASHINGTON, DC—According to a joint study conducted by the FDA and the Department of Agriculture, nearly three out of four members of the U.S. livestock population show signs of clinical depression, with the vast majority of cases going untreated, government officials said Monday.
"The FDA is charged with the task of preventing potentially disastrous outbreaks of disease within the U.S. livestock population," said Henry Wolcott, Assistant Undersecretary of Agriculture, Psychiatric Division. "I'm afraid that, in this case, our intervention came too late. Our study shows that 73 percent of U.S. cattle, goats, sheep, and swine suffer from serious psychiatric problems."
Signs of clinical depression discovered by the researchers include severe listlessness, lack of motivation, and a flattening of emotional affect marked by glazed eyes and slow movements.
"Everyone is concerned about mad cow disease or the bird flu," Wolcott said. "What the average person fails to appreciate, however, is that mental disorders can be just as debilitating as physical ones. If you look into these animals' eyes, you can see the blank gaze of hopelessness and despair."
"It's tragic," Walcott added. "It's no kind of life, not for man or beast."
Walcott said that millions of animals across the nation wile away the hours unproductively, not moving until forced to do so by an outside factor, such as a farmhand or a milking machine.
"Most of the cows we examined barely had the energy to drag themselves from the barn out to the field," Walcott said. "Once in the field, they tended to spend most of their time quietly brooding and chewing cud, showing little to no willingness to communicate with their herd-member peers. Their depression was so debilitating that they needed to be coaxed out of inactivity through the use of hollering, physical force, and, in extreme cases, trained dogs."
The study also noted the average U.S. cow's tendency to emit low, mournful moans.
Walcott said that the majority of sheep studied rarely moved during the day, opting instead to stand in one place, often avoiding sunlight and acting only when the food supply in the immediate area was depleted.
"Like many undiagnosed depression sufferers, it seems that a lot of U.S. livestock escape the emotional emptiness of their lives by overeating," Walcott said. "Most appear to care nothing about their personal appearance. And, as any ranch-hand who has ever shoveled manure can tell you, they make only limited effort to keep their physical surroundings in order."
Dr. Theodore Nelson, author of The Slow Slaughter: Growing Up Livestock In An Uncaring World, has made combating bovine ennui his personal mission.
"Sadly, much of our nation's livestock feel they have no future," Nelson said. "They see life as short, brutal, and bereft of purpose. They may appear to be functioning normally—eating feed, producing milk, and generating high volumes of fertilizer—but inside, many are just waiting to die."
In his book, Nelson calls for a federal program to provide Selective Livestock Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors to animals in need.
"The signs that these animals are depressed were right in front of us, but too many of us in the food sciences were blinded by narrow-minded agricultural orthodoxy to see them," Nelson said. "But we can't think this problem will be solved through medication alone. Cattle have to learn to believe in themselves. They've got to see themselves as more than walking hunks of meat or they'll never get better."
The government's report also contained preliminary data suggesting a rate as high as 95 percent for severe anxiety disorder among U.S. poultry.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
baking bread
The baking of bread has always seemed like a sacred, religious act to me. Turning out a respectable loaf is something that one cannot do by the seat of one's pants -- it requires study, concentration, practice, diligence, solemnity.
And, bread is the stuff of life, a constancy through the ages and the cultures, though its composition may be varied.
This morning, I set out to bake my first loaf. Please excuse the fuzzy pictures.
1. In the beginning... The first step is to combine flour and yeast in a bowl. Flour and yeast, the simple building blocks.
2. Get it just right. The other ingredients must be combined to an extremely precise temperature in order for the yeast to be activated correctly. I felt I was having quite a time of it on my gas stove, but just imagine if you had a wood one...
3. Kneading Kneading the dough is noisy, physical labor. The dough slaps against the countertop if you have the right vigor to it -- which I do not. I wonder what it sounds like against more "primitive" surfaces. What would a pioneer woman knead her dough on? A wooden cutting board?
4. Rise and Shine There are 2-3 separate stages in the process for just waiting -- letting the dough rest and rise. And the wait is long -- 30-60 minutes at a time. And rising must be done in a "warm" place. What constitutes a "warm" place but an oven on its lowest setting? I thought? Then I hoped that "low" wasn't too warm and beginning to bake the bread.
5. After Something went wrong. I had a feeling it would early on, when it never rose quite enough, and when the dough seemed too stiff before I kneaded it, and when I didn't knead it long enough... after I painted it with margarine, it at least looked pretty. Pretty and stocky.
6. Slice of Life While they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, "Take and eat; this is my body."
Jesus, mighty Jesus, ate something as ordinary as bread. The ordinary becomes sacred.
And, bread is the stuff of life, a constancy through the ages and the cultures, though its composition may be varied.
This morning, I set out to bake my first loaf. Please excuse the fuzzy pictures.
1. In the beginning... The first step is to combine flour and yeast in a bowl. Flour and yeast, the simple building blocks.
2. Get it just right. The other ingredients must be combined to an extremely precise temperature in order for the yeast to be activated correctly. I felt I was having quite a time of it on my gas stove, but just imagine if you had a wood one...
3. Kneading Kneading the dough is noisy, physical labor. The dough slaps against the countertop if you have the right vigor to it -- which I do not. I wonder what it sounds like against more "primitive" surfaces. What would a pioneer woman knead her dough on? A wooden cutting board?
4. Rise and Shine There are 2-3 separate stages in the process for just waiting -- letting the dough rest and rise. And the wait is long -- 30-60 minutes at a time. And rising must be done in a "warm" place. What constitutes a "warm" place but an oven on its lowest setting? I thought? Then I hoped that "low" wasn't too warm and beginning to bake the bread.
5. After Something went wrong. I had a feeling it would early on, when it never rose quite enough, and when the dough seemed too stiff before I kneaded it, and when I didn't knead it long enough... after I painted it with margarine, it at least looked pretty. Pretty and stocky.
6. Slice of Life While they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, "Take and eat; this is my body." Jesus, mighty Jesus, ate something as ordinary as bread. The ordinary becomes sacred.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
classic
classic equals the old clearance jeans with the holes in the knees and a free t-shirt.
and a sweatshirt.
i hereby declare this the sweatshirt appreciation post.
according to "askandyaboutclothes.com," the Champion manufacturers may have made the first sweatshirts around 1919.
the first real non-athletic use of sweatshirts began in the 60s with college sweatshirts.
summer is that one season that we put our sweatshirts into hibernation -- or, maybe we're giving them the rest they so deserve. there's nothing much better than pulling on another warm layer when the fall chill starts setting in.
just think of the comforting fuzzy innards. and the soft cotton outer shell. the friends you have lent to and borrowed from.
a brief history of my favorite sweatshirts:
* in middle school, champion sweatshirts were all the rage. i had a navy blue one.
* freshman year, i bought a zip-up sweatshirt on gap clearance. the outside is almost suede-ish, it's so soft. i am often finding myself petted. the left sleeve now has a noticeable hole in it, and the sleeves are fraying at the ends from pulling them up over my fingertips. gap does still sell the same type of sweatshirt, however they only carry white and black right now. perhaps if i wait a while they'll switch back to blue.
and a sweatshirt.
i hereby declare this the sweatshirt appreciation post.
according to "askandyaboutclothes.com," the Champion manufacturers may have made the first sweatshirts around 1919.
the first real non-athletic use of sweatshirts began in the 60s with college sweatshirts.
summer is that one season that we put our sweatshirts into hibernation -- or, maybe we're giving them the rest they so deserve. there's nothing much better than pulling on another warm layer when the fall chill starts setting in.
just think of the comforting fuzzy innards. and the soft cotton outer shell. the friends you have lent to and borrowed from.
a brief history of my favorite sweatshirts:
* in middle school, champion sweatshirts were all the rage. i had a navy blue one.
* freshman year, i bought a zip-up sweatshirt on gap clearance. the outside is almost suede-ish, it's so soft. i am often finding myself petted. the left sleeve now has a noticeable hole in it, and the sleeves are fraying at the ends from pulling them up over my fingertips. gap does still sell the same type of sweatshirt, however they only carry white and black right now. perhaps if i wait a while they'll switch back to blue.
Friday, August 26, 2005
A. Methuselah lived for nearly an entire millenium.
This thought has not crossed my mind for quite some time. Just think how much he must have known. How his language altered over the course of his life. How much of that time was he a capable worker, and how much of it was he "old"? Why don't we live as long anymore?
B. An interesting blog post.
C. Is it just me, or is Carson Daly lacking in personality? He's just sort of nondescript.
This thought has not crossed my mind for quite some time. Just think how much he must have known. How his language altered over the course of his life. How much of that time was he a capable worker, and how much of it was he "old"? Why don't we live as long anymore?
B. An interesting blog post.
C. Is it just me, or is Carson Daly lacking in personality? He's just sort of nondescript.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
one more toy
Imagine this, only without the cassette and extra outfit. And without the multilingual box.
And then imagine two of them.
And then imagine both of them without heads.
The number of Barbies in this country living with extarordinarily short necks is probably astronomical.
My first Barbie, 1986, Ballerina Edition, could conveniently remove her skirt (with irritating snap at back -- try snapping a tiny snap with tiny fingers) and go straight to the pool in her swimsuit-like leotard.
Thomas the Tank Engine
This morning, I did an interview at a toy store. One of the rooms in the toy store featured Brio wooden train sets, sized just right for the Thomas the Tank Engine line.
Oh, Thomas.
When my little brother was...little, he just loved Thomas the Tank Engine. This was back when Thomas and his little British friends were just gaining their initial fame. Phillip had some of the wooden tracks, and he'd get a couple engines for each birthday or Christmas... when he'd wake up at night and couldn't get back to sleep, Mom (or Dad) would take him downstairs and pop in the dubbed tapes of Shining Time Station (containing Thomas), and that was nearly the only thing to settle him.
So I saw my fair share of Thomas, too. And I can identify him and his friends!
Thomas (blue), Henry (green), James (red), Gordon (blue but longer), Diesel (square), Percy (green but shorter), Edward (another blue one like Thomas that I can never really identify), Bertie (the bus!),
and Harold (the helicopter -- or "Hucka-tucka"). I remember playing with his toy wings. Aww.
Other fun things at the toy store: BrainQuest, Mexican Train Dominoes, 5,000-piece puzzles, ant farms, probably MindTrap, Apples to Apples...
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
O(verreactors) A(nonymous)
It finally occured to me today -- and it's about time, many of you will be thinking --
I'm an overreactor.
**
This morning at 4, I got up.
I volunteered this week for the job of picking up our papers from the printer at Sheldon. Since we are at the very bottom of the printer's totem pole, we get printed anytime between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. I calculated the trip so that I could sleep as late as possible, pick up the papers, and get to work just at 8:15, when the papers needed to travel over to the Post Office.
Plus, I scheduled in a stop at the college to drop off a key.
Humor me with the term -- it was a "surreal" half hour.
And humor me with a lame metaphor, too: It's like I'm a fish, and NW is water. After 3.5/4 years of swimming, the biggest fish (who never have to leave) said sorry, there's not enough water to go around anymore. So we're asking the older fish to evolve, starting...now. Good luck.
In college, the way of life is that education is key, study, study, study. Knowledge is power. Build community.
On the very last day, they cut the cord sharply and your way of life is supposed to do a complete shift from then on out. The new way of life: Here's some bills, here's a job. Keep a balance in this checkbook until you're dead.
So, a short dip in the water felt right. I knew the names of all the streets, where all the back roads went. I knew that car belonged to Titus Landegent. I knew where the scrap paper was kept -- since I put it there. The pen I picked up to scribble a note -- yeah, it was my pen.
Browsed the Informer -- found a want ad for a ride to church. The wanter -- Asha Epp, my church buddy of...oh, two years? And lunch/mail date.
And then, of course, it all felt very wrong, too. The placards on the Granberg doors bore names of people who will say hilarious things I will never know about, who will never teach me. And some names were missing. And in the office? No cereal. A new phone -- on which I had no voicemail account. A clean whiteboard. The cafeteria was open on my way back through town. It would have been natural to go grab the ritual half glass of orange juice, half glass of milk, and bowl of square brown cereal -- but I would have had to pay. And look stupid among all the skanky freshmen dressed up for their first day of MWFs.
It's no use explaining this amputation to students, as it just comes off like a lot of complaining. It's like explaining that depression doesn't mean you're just sad a lot to someone who's never witnessed it -- it means you're crying in the shower when you haven't been awake long enough for anything bad to happen yet.
And it's no use explaining to roommates who are thrilled to be away from homework and closer to their husbands and boyfriends and mission fields.
I wanted to stay and say:
Carl, let's talk F-stops. And I should have gone through with poetry like you told me to.
Mr. Scorza, will you teach me about color separations?
Kim, I want to read more about Kolln and Weaver and basic writers. Keep being amazing.
Dr. VDW, I want to go on ASP, too! And grade government tests. And meet Ron Sider.
Joonna, can I rewrite my theory paper on the rhetoric of Max Lucado? Or the New York Times?
Bob Winn -- just talk for awhile. To Adam Mohr. I'll listen.
Martin...Come back, talk about AM radio and have lunch with Bob Winn. I promise to stop freaking out every Friday morning.
It was then that I realized it -- I have been freaking out for a long time. It wasn't just this summer. It wasn't just last year, or the year before...it's been my entire life.
I have been an overreactor my entire life, and no one has ever had the guts to tell me to my face. Hm. Makes me feel stupid. Sorry, world. I hate overreactors.
Yes, honey, millions of people have graduated from college and all of them survived. And many of them survived well.
Yes, you are replaceable. And you are a replace-or, too. It's called the life-cycle. It's been around a long time. Seems to be working out.
And no, God is not going to leave you around dangling, seemingly purposeless, for the rest of your life. Just be patient.
You are just fine.
Lora Goll: I WILL be patient! I AM being patient!
Blotting before it became illegal
I'm an overreactor.
**
This morning at 4, I got up.
I volunteered this week for the job of picking up our papers from the printer at Sheldon. Since we are at the very bottom of the printer's totem pole, we get printed anytime between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. I calculated the trip so that I could sleep as late as possible, pick up the papers, and get to work just at 8:15, when the papers needed to travel over to the Post Office.
Plus, I scheduled in a stop at the college to drop off a key.
Humor me with the term -- it was a "surreal" half hour.
And humor me with a lame metaphor, too: It's like I'm a fish, and NW is water. After 3.5/4 years of swimming, the biggest fish (who never have to leave) said sorry, there's not enough water to go around anymore. So we're asking the older fish to evolve, starting...now. Good luck.
In college, the way of life is that education is key, study, study, study. Knowledge is power. Build community.
On the very last day, they cut the cord sharply and your way of life is supposed to do a complete shift from then on out. The new way of life: Here's some bills, here's a job. Keep a balance in this checkbook until you're dead.
So, a short dip in the water felt right. I knew the names of all the streets, where all the back roads went. I knew that car belonged to Titus Landegent. I knew where the scrap paper was kept -- since I put it there. The pen I picked up to scribble a note -- yeah, it was my pen.
Browsed the Informer -- found a want ad for a ride to church. The wanter -- Asha Epp, my church buddy of...oh, two years? And lunch/mail date.
And then, of course, it all felt very wrong, too. The placards on the Granberg doors bore names of people who will say hilarious things I will never know about, who will never teach me. And some names were missing. And in the office? No cereal. A new phone -- on which I had no voicemail account. A clean whiteboard. The cafeteria was open on my way back through town. It would have been natural to go grab the ritual half glass of orange juice, half glass of milk, and bowl of square brown cereal -- but I would have had to pay. And look stupid among all the skanky freshmen dressed up for their first day of MWFs.
It's no use explaining this amputation to students, as it just comes off like a lot of complaining. It's like explaining that depression doesn't mean you're just sad a lot to someone who's never witnessed it -- it means you're crying in the shower when you haven't been awake long enough for anything bad to happen yet.
And it's no use explaining to roommates who are thrilled to be away from homework and closer to their husbands and boyfriends and mission fields.
I wanted to stay and say:
Carl, let's talk F-stops. And I should have gone through with poetry like you told me to.
Mr. Scorza, will you teach me about color separations?
Kim, I want to read more about Kolln and Weaver and basic writers. Keep being amazing.
Dr. VDW, I want to go on ASP, too! And grade government tests. And meet Ron Sider.
Joonna, can I rewrite my theory paper on the rhetoric of Max Lucado? Or the New York Times?
Bob Winn -- just talk for awhile. To Adam Mohr. I'll listen.
Martin...Come back, talk about AM radio and have lunch with Bob Winn. I promise to stop freaking out every Friday morning.
It was then that I realized it -- I have been freaking out for a long time. It wasn't just this summer. It wasn't just last year, or the year before...it's been my entire life.
I have been an overreactor my entire life, and no one has ever had the guts to tell me to my face. Hm. Makes me feel stupid. Sorry, world. I hate overreactors.
Yes, honey, millions of people have graduated from college and all of them survived. And many of them survived well.
Yes, you are replaceable. And you are a replace-or, too. It's called the life-cycle. It's been around a long time. Seems to be working out.
And no, God is not going to leave you around dangling, seemingly purposeless, for the rest of your life. Just be patient.
You are just fine.
Lora Goll: I WILL be patient! I AM being patient!
Blotting before it became illegal
Monday, August 22, 2005
words
Create in me a clean heart, O God
And renew a right spirit within me
Cast me not away from thy presence, O Lord
And take not thy Holy Spirit from me
Restore unto me the joy of my salvation
And renew a right spirit within me
And renew a right spirit within me
Cast me not away from thy presence, O Lord
And take not thy Holy Spirit from me
Restore unto me the joy of my salvation
And renew a right spirit within me
Sunday, August 21, 2005
diary of a church hopper (pt. 3)
(We're on Part 3, right? The two RCAs...)
Before
I am attending this third and final RCA church in the area with the highest of hopes. Most likely they're too high.
It is a megachurch, and that fact keeps nagging at me. At megachurches, I assume, the congregation is so big they don't even know each other. How will they even recognize a visitor?
After the last "diary," the question was posed to me whether these churches were good enough for Jesus. I took that not as "are they up to the standards of Jesus?" but more as a reminder that Jesus loves and redeems all of these places and is worshipped in them, some way or other.
Or, "would Jesus go there? Be associated with those people?"
In that way, every church, nearly, would be okay.
Anyhow, this time, I am headed to this church, this body of Christ
a) early/on time
b) without taking a notebook (but I may have one pen)
c) with eyes looking for Jesus in every part of the service and community
d) with prayers for an active young adults group
e) I'd love to see old people there. But that seems highly unlikely as I've heard it's quite contemporary. And that makes me sad (no elderly). Am I willing to be part of a church that does not make an effort to embrace every age group? Am I willing to take advantage of a church just for its young adults? :)
f) with the thought that gaunt, vacant faces may be better than pasted-on smiles. Maybe. Underdeveloped thought.
g) with prayers of feeling welcome. I just can't get off this -- like disciples turning their backs on the cities where they were not accepted.
After
In short, I would consider visiting again.
Somehow, late again. How does this always happen? The sanctuary was pretty full, and dimmer than I expected. But I can understand shutting the shades for the sake of those who get the sun right in their eyes or on their backs.
The building is new, of that industrial, clean architecture. The walls of the sanctuary were about the color of drywall. There were no decorations windows -- just long, flat walls. At the front, there were some fake plants behind a drywall cross built in. I couldn't help wishing the church was old and used and in need of repair. I saw in the bulletin that they're adding on. They have a gym already. I'm too critical of churches with gyms. Kids programs require large rooms, and gym floors are better than industrial carpet rugburns.
I could see a seat next to a couple that looked familiar. She is a new teacher at the school, who graduated (and her husband, too) from NW a couple of years ago. She seems so friendly, so incredibly accepting. And from what I've heard he's very nice, too. But for some reason I didn't want to sit next to her, didn't want them to see me. What's wrong with you, dimwit?
Walked in to the sound of the trap set and the electric guitar. That was expected, and not completely unwelcome. It was good to hear familiar sounds.
Overall, I had the impression I was being advertised to. Someone's selling me the idea of redemption (without using the big word) and selling me the idea of serving in the church. (How do you get people to serve without advertising or guilt-tripping?)
The pastor was shiny and slick and clean. His hair was too blond for someone his age. He reminded me of Jerry Van Dyke (Dutch, ironic?) only taller and in better shape. He looked so clean that he had to be a preacher or a politician or a salesman.
They had some innovative ideas for service and welcoming visitors. For service, they had a program where you could try things out and they'd match you with something best suited to you, on your time availability and gifts. (Though should ministry be convenient?)
For visitors, you could fill out this card and put it in the offering plate, or you could take it back to the coffeeshop and trade it in for a free travel mug.
I knew I should take mine back for the travel mug and be met. But, at the same time, shyness kicks in. It's hard enough to visit a new place, let alone asking the visitors to come out and come to you. I want them to come to me, meet me where I am. I want, I want, I want.
What I want probably shouldn't matter much. What does he want? Perhaps this church and others like it should be applauded for adapting to the culture around them in order to be more attractive and approachable for their visitors. But, Jesus was a radical. Countercultural.
I'm looking for that magic feeling when I find the right place. Just knowing it's the right one. It's the feeling I got visiting Northwestern, the feeling I got the first time I saw my childhood best friend when I was five. Perhaps it's not a good idea to rely on this feeling, but I also believe God can use it, could use it to tell me when I've arrived at the right place.
Or does the place not matter that much, after all? Will one place be just as good as another?
There weren't really any elderly, though curiously they were trying to start a ministry to the bedridden. And there weren't "Bible studies" advertised, per se, but small groups did exist. Is the "Bible study" obsolete?
Before
I am attending this third and final RCA church in the area with the highest of hopes. Most likely they're too high.
It is a megachurch, and that fact keeps nagging at me. At megachurches, I assume, the congregation is so big they don't even know each other. How will they even recognize a visitor?
After the last "diary," the question was posed to me whether these churches were good enough for Jesus. I took that not as "are they up to the standards of Jesus?" but more as a reminder that Jesus loves and redeems all of these places and is worshipped in them, some way or other.
Or, "would Jesus go there? Be associated with those people?"
In that way, every church, nearly, would be okay.
Anyhow, this time, I am headed to this church, this body of Christ
a) early/on time
b) without taking a notebook (but I may have one pen)
c) with eyes looking for Jesus in every part of the service and community
d) with prayers for an active young adults group
e) I'd love to see old people there. But that seems highly unlikely as I've heard it's quite contemporary. And that makes me sad (no elderly). Am I willing to be part of a church that does not make an effort to embrace every age group? Am I willing to take advantage of a church just for its young adults? :)
f) with the thought that gaunt, vacant faces may be better than pasted-on smiles. Maybe. Underdeveloped thought.
g) with prayers of feeling welcome. I just can't get off this -- like disciples turning their backs on the cities where they were not accepted.
After
In short, I would consider visiting again.
Somehow, late again. How does this always happen? The sanctuary was pretty full, and dimmer than I expected. But I can understand shutting the shades for the sake of those who get the sun right in their eyes or on their backs.
The building is new, of that industrial, clean architecture. The walls of the sanctuary were about the color of drywall. There were no decorations windows -- just long, flat walls. At the front, there were some fake plants behind a drywall cross built in. I couldn't help wishing the church was old and used and in need of repair. I saw in the bulletin that they're adding on. They have a gym already. I'm too critical of churches with gyms. Kids programs require large rooms, and gym floors are better than industrial carpet rugburns.
I could see a seat next to a couple that looked familiar. She is a new teacher at the school, who graduated (and her husband, too) from NW a couple of years ago. She seems so friendly, so incredibly accepting. And from what I've heard he's very nice, too. But for some reason I didn't want to sit next to her, didn't want them to see me. What's wrong with you, dimwit?
Walked in to the sound of the trap set and the electric guitar. That was expected, and not completely unwelcome. It was good to hear familiar sounds.
Overall, I had the impression I was being advertised to. Someone's selling me the idea of redemption (without using the big word) and selling me the idea of serving in the church. (How do you get people to serve without advertising or guilt-tripping?)
The pastor was shiny and slick and clean. His hair was too blond for someone his age. He reminded me of Jerry Van Dyke (Dutch, ironic?) only taller and in better shape. He looked so clean that he had to be a preacher or a politician or a salesman.
They had some innovative ideas for service and welcoming visitors. For service, they had a program where you could try things out and they'd match you with something best suited to you, on your time availability and gifts. (Though should ministry be convenient?)
For visitors, you could fill out this card and put it in the offering plate, or you could take it back to the coffeeshop and trade it in for a free travel mug.
I knew I should take mine back for the travel mug and be met. But, at the same time, shyness kicks in. It's hard enough to visit a new place, let alone asking the visitors to come out and come to you. I want them to come to me, meet me where I am. I want, I want, I want.
What I want probably shouldn't matter much. What does he want? Perhaps this church and others like it should be applauded for adapting to the culture around them in order to be more attractive and approachable for their visitors. But, Jesus was a radical. Countercultural.
I'm looking for that magic feeling when I find the right place. Just knowing it's the right one. It's the feeling I got visiting Northwestern, the feeling I got the first time I saw my childhood best friend when I was five. Perhaps it's not a good idea to rely on this feeling, but I also believe God can use it, could use it to tell me when I've arrived at the right place.
Or does the place not matter that much, after all? Will one place be just as good as another?
There weren't really any elderly, though curiously they were trying to start a ministry to the bedridden. And there weren't "Bible studies" advertised, per se, but small groups did exist. Is the "Bible study" obsolete?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
confessions
My name is Ariel, and I like clouds. As with most things I like, I don't like clouds enough to sit and study them or watch them more than a few seconds. But their shapes and textures don't fail to give me a smile.
My name is Ariel, and I have three moles of approximately the same shape and shade in a small isoceles triangle on my right leg. From time to time, the dots have been known to have been connected with the marks of a pen.
My name is Ariel, and I want to meet a little old man with a thick Yorkshire accent who wears overalls and wellingtons and eats meat pies and sips tea from the missus out of big mugs by the hearth.
My name is Ariel, and I have tried to start "Jane Eyre" nearly a half dozen times.
My name is Ariel, and I like to watch "Arthur."
My name is Ariel, and I've never "led someone to Christ."
My name is Ariel. Though I am inwardly judgemental of those who dye or highlight their hair, I have my mom highlight my hair at home a couple of times a year.
My name is Ariel, and I looked up some algebra problems to do online the other day.
My name is Ariel, and I don't like driving next to concrete barriers in the interstate. A couple of times I considered driving into one.
My name is Ariel, and I think roses smell like alcohol. But I still think they look nice. I just don't smell them.
My name is Ariel, and every few weeks I vow to shave my head and never eat again.
My name is Ariel, and I know just how to use my hipbone to hold up a baby and free one hand to do something else.
My name is Ariel, and I only went to chapel seven times last semester. My picture of God is in a limbo between P&W God and the God who hardened Pharoah's heart. And I want to see God correctly. But I'm vainly afraid to see that I disagree with how God does things. I want to see where my vision is distorted.
My name is Ariel, and I didn't think "Napoleon Dynamite" was that funny, after all.
Friday, August 19, 2005
frosh flashbacks
oh, moving day. moving day memories.
it was beginning to pour the day i first met fern. mom and i didn't care -- we were just glad we finally found it. we had disagreed on just how to get to orange city after getting off the interstate. mom said 75 was a better road and therefore quicker. i said 60 was a more direct route, and the one i knew better. mom won, except that somehow we made a wrong turn and added a good hour to the trip.
my room was on the third floor, but conveniently directly across from the stairwell. i knew the name of my roommate and some older girl with a tight bun who came in and seemed to be in charge. she looked like she might be mean. what was an RA, anyway? but she told us to meet in the hall at 3:45, and by gosh, if she was in charge, i would do it. i didn't want to get kicked out.
and we met four other girls in the hallway, other freshmen. one looked kind of skanky, two whiny, the other cheerful. i knew there were some other girls down the hall who looked like athletes or preppies and i was not excited to know them. this was some motley crew i was going to be stuck with. it might just be me and amelia for awhile, i thought, until i was brave enough to meet some more people. pam told us we were going to a chapel service. and there we went.
and it was at chapel that i was reminded i was in the right place. the clue was in the acoustics. i was standing, singing a song i knew, surrounded by other people who knew the song. and the sound of all those voices resonating in that huge room... mm.
(it was funny to think back later to those stereotypes i made. those athlete/preps turned out to be my closest friends in about four months.)
***
noon. the freshmen were finally coming in with the boxes and couches and lamps and hanging clothes. they had been in scouting out their doors for a couple of hours now, while the eight of us ran up and down the stairs asking stupid questions and generally being nervous. we had been waiting to meet these freshmen for five long months, praying for them, decorating for them, planning their wing activities. within minutes we'd know the luck of the draw. in hours, we'd get a hint of our place on the wing.
the strike of noon came and my wing was still devoid of girls. i ran to another part of the building to ask another question, came back, and saw the first one. she was slender and soft and blond and looked a little worried. my first homesick freshman! bless her heart. she looked so loveable.
and then her mother said, "how do we get her room changed?"
and over the course of the next half hour i was plunged into the challenges of my new job.
freshmen would move in and i'd go say hi and introduce myself and meet the parents and then let them get back to unpacking.
and they had met me and said hi and moved on with their lives. it took so much time to remember that though my life was currently focused on them, their lives were currently focused on a few dozen things that did not include me. and this was natural and correct.
and the shy, homesick freshmen i'd been imagining?
the social butterflies of the weekend. they knew all each other's names and had a dozen or so friends outside the wings while i was still calling dana tracy and tracy dana.
the same social butterflies who would hear me opening my door at 12:30 in the morning and automatically (temporarily) shut up.
and who would try to buy non-alcoholic beer and throw me a surprise party for my 21st birthday.
who would make their own snow cones with real snow
and pick up 13-year-old boys at the roller skating rink
and take my possessions on SSPs
and sit an hour for a backrub
and play nertz till 2 a.m.
and learn two-word bible verses for a tootsie roll.
i loved how big the world was for them. they could study anything, were beginning to learn what their passions were and weren't. panicked about little things like majors and professions. they were brave enough to think that college might not be for them and naive enough to think they could just leave that place without feeling it. they broke up with high school boyfriends and flirted in heemstra and coly and organized their own bonfires.
but they just never caught on to study break. why was that?
it was beginning to pour the day i first met fern. mom and i didn't care -- we were just glad we finally found it. we had disagreed on just how to get to orange city after getting off the interstate. mom said 75 was a better road and therefore quicker. i said 60 was a more direct route, and the one i knew better. mom won, except that somehow we made a wrong turn and added a good hour to the trip.
my room was on the third floor, but conveniently directly across from the stairwell. i knew the name of my roommate and some older girl with a tight bun who came in and seemed to be in charge. she looked like she might be mean. what was an RA, anyway? but she told us to meet in the hall at 3:45, and by gosh, if she was in charge, i would do it. i didn't want to get kicked out.
and we met four other girls in the hallway, other freshmen. one looked kind of skanky, two whiny, the other cheerful. i knew there were some other girls down the hall who looked like athletes or preppies and i was not excited to know them. this was some motley crew i was going to be stuck with. it might just be me and amelia for awhile, i thought, until i was brave enough to meet some more people. pam told us we were going to a chapel service. and there we went.
and it was at chapel that i was reminded i was in the right place. the clue was in the acoustics. i was standing, singing a song i knew, surrounded by other people who knew the song. and the sound of all those voices resonating in that huge room... mm.
(it was funny to think back later to those stereotypes i made. those athlete/preps turned out to be my closest friends in about four months.)
***
noon. the freshmen were finally coming in with the boxes and couches and lamps and hanging clothes. they had been in scouting out their doors for a couple of hours now, while the eight of us ran up and down the stairs asking stupid questions and generally being nervous. we had been waiting to meet these freshmen for five long months, praying for them, decorating for them, planning their wing activities. within minutes we'd know the luck of the draw. in hours, we'd get a hint of our place on the wing.
the strike of noon came and my wing was still devoid of girls. i ran to another part of the building to ask another question, came back, and saw the first one. she was slender and soft and blond and looked a little worried. my first homesick freshman! bless her heart. she looked so loveable.
and then her mother said, "how do we get her room changed?"
and over the course of the next half hour i was plunged into the challenges of my new job.
freshmen would move in and i'd go say hi and introduce myself and meet the parents and then let them get back to unpacking.
and they had met me and said hi and moved on with their lives. it took so much time to remember that though my life was currently focused on them, their lives were currently focused on a few dozen things that did not include me. and this was natural and correct.
and the shy, homesick freshmen i'd been imagining?
the social butterflies of the weekend. they knew all each other's names and had a dozen or so friends outside the wings while i was still calling dana tracy and tracy dana.
the same social butterflies who would hear me opening my door at 12:30 in the morning and automatically (temporarily) shut up.
and who would try to buy non-alcoholic beer and throw me a surprise party for my 21st birthday.
who would make their own snow cones with real snow
and pick up 13-year-old boys at the roller skating rink
and take my possessions on SSPs
and sit an hour for a backrub
and play nertz till 2 a.m.
and learn two-word bible verses for a tootsie roll.
i loved how big the world was for them. they could study anything, were beginning to learn what their passions were and weren't. panicked about little things like majors and professions. they were brave enough to think that college might not be for them and naive enough to think they could just leave that place without feeling it. they broke up with high school boyfriends and flirted in heemstra and coly and organized their own bonfires.
but they just never caught on to study break. why was that?
Thursday, August 18, 2005
the randomest post yet
#1 A scavenger hunt I wrote for my chickadees (and about half of Tamara's!) one weekend. They actually had a really good time completing this with their blind dates.
SCAVENGER HUNT! Questions? x1464
Get as many of the items on the list as you can! Each number on the list is worth one point. For every minute you are late returning after 8:40, you will lose one point! The group with the most points wins.
Your group must stay together.
Only one of the items may be checked off on 1st floor Fern, except #36.
No more than 4 items may be checked off on any one wing.
________ 1. Bring back a penny from 1974.
________ 2. Get the signature of a female RA. ____________________________
________ 3. Get the signature of a male RA. ____________________________
________ 4. Bring back nickels from three subsequent years (i.e. 1985, 1986, 1987)
________ 5. Get the signature of an RD. _____________________________
________ 6. Bring back empty cans of three different kinds of Coke.
________ 7. Bring back 10 inches of blue string.
________ 8. Bring back a napkin with a heart on it.
________ 9. Bring back a copy of a Beacon signed by someone whose name is inside.
________10.Bring back a paper cup.
________11.Bring back a sticker from an orange with the number 4013 on it.
________12.Bring back a tootsie roll wrapper.
________13.Write down the first line of hymn # 362 from the chapel hymn book.
_______________________________________________________
________14.Get the signature of the RSC desk worker. _______________________
________15.Get the signature of the person on duty in the LRC. ___________________
________16.How many doors are on second floor Heemstra (total)? ______
________17.Bring back a paper airplane signed by someone who lives in Coly.
________18.Get the signatures of 3 people named Sarah or 3 named Matt.
________19.Bring back a green pencil.
________20.How many tables are set up in the caf? __________
________21.What brand is the piano in practice room 108? __________
________22.Bring back a package slip from the mail room.
________23.Get the signature of someone whose mailbox number is a palindrome.
________24.How many doors are there to the Bultman Center gym? ______
________25.How many washing machines are there in New Apartment B? _______
________26.Bring back four toothpicks.
________27.Write down the first item in the minutes of the last SGA meeting.
_______________________________________________________
________28.Get the signatures of roommates who are not from Iowa.
________29.How many basketball hoops are there in the mini-gym? ______
________30.Bring back one yellow, one red, and one blue M&M.
________31.Bring back 10 inches of dental floss.
________32.Write down James 3:17 NKJV backward on the margin.
________33.Bring back an empty tube of chapstick (any brand).
________34.Bring back four different animal crackers.
________35.How many exits are there to Zwemer? __________
________36.Write down the room numbers of all the Fern RAs in the margin.
________37.How many computers are there in the Fern computer lab? ________
________38.Write down the # of the room in Stegenga to the right of the bathroom on 2S.
________39.How many buttons are there on the TV in the lounge of West? _______
________40.Write down the wing verse of the Hospers basement.
#2 Random grocery store day thoughts and things overheard from over a month ago. In no particular punctuation or grammar or order.
“We don’t need no damn 10-pound bag of sugar.”
On sale, almond joy
‘would you like to keep that out?’ know me too well. Don’t know them. I am a human. Humans are wired so similarly.
“I haven’t made any progress.”
Not enough kids of a certain age
Breakfast is a habit, lunch is a habit
Mint oreos are on sale..a really decent price… most summers mint oreos are my sugar supply. It’s been awhile…
“Fish – It’s so good for you!” not battered and fried.
These products are not part of me. They are not in my routine, not in my memory.
Hamburger Helper. Many people eat Hamburger Helper and go on to lead perfectly ordinary lives. I should really try it. But…I expect to be poisoned with unfamiliar preservatives and disappointed with the taste and texture.
All they are is dust in the wind.
The things I don’t ask
Dennis Quaid will never be too old to be sexy. He will not, perhaps, ever be very bright, though.
John Mayer’s voice. Something in the timbre like he’s telling you a secret – singing just for you, while you’re there in his arms.
(But, the arms are pretty used.)
I feel like I’m wandering.
#3 An intro to an essay I never really started.
Washington, D.C.
June _, 2004
7:35 p.m.: We’re 22 hours from deadline. I want to kill Senator Harkin’s press secretary. I mention it to everyone in the student newsroom for the fourth time today. They keep typing to their friends on MSN or on their amazing stories about hometown connections to President Reagan’s funeral events.
There will be no amazing Reagan article for me to put in my portfolio. No one from Northwest Iowa seems to care that Reagan is dead, because they’re not coming out to D.C. for the procession to the Capitol, the lying-in-state, or the funeral itself, to which our professor says we will not get in. He also said Cari wouldn’t get an interview with Bob Dole, so we take his statements about our plankton-like status with a grain of salt now.
All I have is half a feature-length story about the exercise plan in Senator Harkin’s office. I don’t have the details Tmatt wants -- Maureen, Harkin’s press secretary, won’t let me talk to anyone in the office. There’s no hope for the story. Giving up for the evening, I decide to go next door to my apartment.
SCAVENGER HUNT! Questions? x1464
Get as many of the items on the list as you can! Each number on the list is worth one point. For every minute you are late returning after 8:40, you will lose one point! The group with the most points wins.
Your group must stay together.
Only one of the items may be checked off on 1st floor Fern, except #36.
No more than 4 items may be checked off on any one wing.
________ 1. Bring back a penny from 1974.
________ 2. Get the signature of a female RA. ____________________________
________ 3. Get the signature of a male RA. ____________________________
________ 4. Bring back nickels from three subsequent years (i.e. 1985, 1986, 1987)
________ 5. Get the signature of an RD. _____________________________
________ 6. Bring back empty cans of three different kinds of Coke.
________ 7. Bring back 10 inches of blue string.
________ 8. Bring back a napkin with a heart on it.
________ 9. Bring back a copy of a Beacon signed by someone whose name is inside.
________10.Bring back a paper cup.
________11.Bring back a sticker from an orange with the number 4013 on it.
________12.Bring back a tootsie roll wrapper.
________13.Write down the first line of hymn # 362 from the chapel hymn book.
_______________________________________________________
________14.Get the signature of the RSC desk worker. _______________________
________15.Get the signature of the person on duty in the LRC. ___________________
________16.How many doors are on second floor Heemstra (total)? ______
________17.Bring back a paper airplane signed by someone who lives in Coly.
________18.Get the signatures of 3 people named Sarah or 3 named Matt.
________19.Bring back a green pencil.
________20.How many tables are set up in the caf? __________
________21.What brand is the piano in practice room 108? __________
________22.Bring back a package slip from the mail room.
________23.Get the signature of someone whose mailbox number is a palindrome.
________24.How many doors are there to the Bultman Center gym? ______
________25.How many washing machines are there in New Apartment B? _______
________26.Bring back four toothpicks.
________27.Write down the first item in the minutes of the last SGA meeting.
_______________________________________________________
________28.Get the signatures of roommates who are not from Iowa.
________29.How many basketball hoops are there in the mini-gym? ______
________30.Bring back one yellow, one red, and one blue M&M.
________31.Bring back 10 inches of dental floss.
________32.Write down James 3:17 NKJV backward on the margin.
________33.Bring back an empty tube of chapstick (any brand).
________34.Bring back four different animal crackers.
________35.How many exits are there to Zwemer? __________
________36.Write down the room numbers of all the Fern RAs in the margin.
________37.How many computers are there in the Fern computer lab? ________
________38.Write down the # of the room in Stegenga to the right of the bathroom on 2S.
________39.How many buttons are there on the TV in the lounge of West? _______
________40.Write down the wing verse of the Hospers basement.
#2 Random grocery store day thoughts and things overheard from over a month ago. In no particular punctuation or grammar or order.
“We don’t need no damn 10-pound bag of sugar.”
On sale, almond joy
‘would you like to keep that out?’ know me too well. Don’t know them. I am a human. Humans are wired so similarly.
“I haven’t made any progress.”
Not enough kids of a certain age
Breakfast is a habit, lunch is a habit
Mint oreos are on sale..a really decent price… most summers mint oreos are my sugar supply. It’s been awhile…
“Fish – It’s so good for you!” not battered and fried.
These products are not part of me. They are not in my routine, not in my memory.
Hamburger Helper. Many people eat Hamburger Helper and go on to lead perfectly ordinary lives. I should really try it. But…I expect to be poisoned with unfamiliar preservatives and disappointed with the taste and texture.
All they are is dust in the wind.
The things I don’t ask
Dennis Quaid will never be too old to be sexy. He will not, perhaps, ever be very bright, though.
John Mayer’s voice. Something in the timbre like he’s telling you a secret – singing just for you, while you’re there in his arms.
(But, the arms are pretty used.)
I feel like I’m wandering.
#3 An intro to an essay I never really started.
Washington, D.C.
June _, 2004
7:35 p.m.: We’re 22 hours from deadline. I want to kill Senator Harkin’s press secretary. I mention it to everyone in the student newsroom for the fourth time today. They keep typing to their friends on MSN or on their amazing stories about hometown connections to President Reagan’s funeral events.
There will be no amazing Reagan article for me to put in my portfolio. No one from Northwest Iowa seems to care that Reagan is dead, because they’re not coming out to D.C. for the procession to the Capitol, the lying-in-state, or the funeral itself, to which our professor says we will not get in. He also said Cari wouldn’t get an interview with Bob Dole, so we take his statements about our plankton-like status with a grain of salt now.
All I have is half a feature-length story about the exercise plan in Senator Harkin’s office. I don’t have the details Tmatt wants -- Maureen, Harkin’s press secretary, won’t let me talk to anyone in the office. There’s no hope for the story. Giving up for the evening, I decide to go next door to my apartment.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
(untitled,) part 2 of 2
(see earlier post for this to make sense)
I don't remember it because I didn't have the privilege of being present at my engagement. A friend had to tell me about it after the fact.
Me, and my fiance.
And 250 other people.
Seventy-five of these people were the personnel of the Northwestern College Symphonic Band. The rest were the audience members, our host families for the second night of our three-day tour in the Omaha area. The audience/congregation applauded warmly as lanky, goofy Pete stood before them in his tux and explained how the romance of the Henry Doorly Zoo's monkey house waterfall simply inspired Nathan Willems to profess his undying love for me.
The fact that Nathan and I were stand partners whose depth of communication rarely moved past "Can I borrow your pencil again?" didn't happen to work its way into Pete's speech.
Pete, Nathan and I stood in the middle of the stage in full performance attire at the top of the concert's second half. The congregation clapped their congratulations to me for something I'd just heard about. Seventy-five percent of the ensemble joined the applause and added in whistles and yells.
But I -- I was with the other 25 percent of the band members, who were whispering with heads bent in confusion.
Things would have cleared up so much more quickly if I had noticed that that 25 percent was made up entirely of freshmen.
(Stay tuned for...part 3 of 2. Sorry. It's a long story and I want to tell it well!)
I don't remember it because I didn't have the privilege of being present at my engagement. A friend had to tell me about it after the fact.
Me, and my fiance.
And 250 other people.
Seventy-five of these people were the personnel of the Northwestern College Symphonic Band. The rest were the audience members, our host families for the second night of our three-day tour in the Omaha area. The audience/congregation applauded warmly as lanky, goofy Pete stood before them in his tux and explained how the romance of the Henry Doorly Zoo's monkey house waterfall simply inspired Nathan Willems to profess his undying love for me.
The fact that Nathan and I were stand partners whose depth of communication rarely moved past "Can I borrow your pencil again?" didn't happen to work its way into Pete's speech.
Pete, Nathan and I stood in the middle of the stage in full performance attire at the top of the concert's second half. The congregation clapped their congratulations to me for something I'd just heard about. Seventy-five percent of the ensemble joined the applause and added in whistles and yells.
But I -- I was with the other 25 percent of the band members, who were whispering with heads bent in confusion.
Things would have cleared up so much more quickly if I had noticed that that 25 percent was made up entirely of freshmen.
(Stay tuned for...part 3 of 2. Sorry. It's a long story and I want to tell it well!)
Monday, August 15, 2005
fun with fluffy and photoshop
he liked it so much he put it on his music site. i knew he would. that's why i did it! he has some new music up there.
it's a little overexposed. i tried to hide that with hue and saturation. if anyone has secrets for exposing...
(part 2 is coming...late Tuesday or maybe Wednesday)
Sunday, August 14, 2005
(untitled), part 1 of 2
As I pulled my long velvety concert dress over my head in the crowded church library-turned dressing room that evening, I didn’t expect to end the night an engaged woman.
But if I had been expecting engagement, I’d have expected to be excited about it.
And I would have expected a ring.
And I would have expected my fiancé to be ecstatic, or at least happy, about the whole thing – not denying to his friends that it ever even happened.
And it only seems natural that we would have been dating beforehand.
At least these are the things I imagined about engagement as a little girl, wearing pink plastic jewelry and admiring a turquoise Ring Pop on my right hand.
Granted, many of my five-year-old dreams have been a little off. Take prom, for instance – I told myself I’d attend in a royal-blue leotard dress, black leggings, hoop earrings and a side ponytail. I’d show up at the high school on the school bus like all the other kids.
Even taking the Sleeping Beauty-idealism of childhood into account, I never thought I’d be proposed to in the monkey house of an Omaha zoo – a fake waterfall rushing behind the rope bridge, the gorillas beating their chests in the background, and the orangutans gnawing obliviously on predestined vegetation. Exotic birds drowning out his stumbling words. Impatient zoo-goers pacing behind us as we tie up the passage to the chimps.
Bizarre as it is, that would all be just fine if it were coming from the right man.
At least I don't remember that first proposal.
But if I had been expecting engagement, I’d have expected to be excited about it.
And I would have expected a ring.
And I would have expected my fiancé to be ecstatic, or at least happy, about the whole thing – not denying to his friends that it ever even happened.
And it only seems natural that we would have been dating beforehand.
At least these are the things I imagined about engagement as a little girl, wearing pink plastic jewelry and admiring a turquoise Ring Pop on my right hand.
Granted, many of my five-year-old dreams have been a little off. Take prom, for instance – I told myself I’d attend in a royal-blue leotard dress, black leggings, hoop earrings and a side ponytail. I’d show up at the high school on the school bus like all the other kids.
Even taking the Sleeping Beauty-idealism of childhood into account, I never thought I’d be proposed to in the monkey house of an Omaha zoo – a fake waterfall rushing behind the rope bridge, the gorillas beating their chests in the background, and the orangutans gnawing obliviously on predestined vegetation. Exotic birds drowning out his stumbling words. Impatient zoo-goers pacing behind us as we tie up the passage to the chimps.
Bizarre as it is, that would all be just fine if it were coming from the right man.
At least I don't remember that first proposal.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
virtual vacation
Saturday morning. We could finish washing the dishes, or get dressed, or water the plant...
Come, read the map of South Dakota with me.
We will begin with the northeastern corner, where one should never commence to travel without a full tank of gas.
About ten miles east of Sisseton, the map mentions "the North/South continental divide." That seems kind of far north for that, doesn't it? Is there a sign? A park? How do you commemorate something like that?
Down by Sioux Falls: The edge of South Dakota is straight until you reach the latitude (?) of the Big Sioux River in Sioux Falls. Then it makes a sharp corner west until it actually hits the river. I'd never noticed this before.
And, there's a town called East Sioux Falls.
For 15 miles in Lincoln county on the Interstate, from the Canton exit (where Canton is actually another 10/15 miles) to Beresford, there are no other towns...don't run out of gas.
In the north, just east of the river, near Hoven: Cathedral on the Prairie. That sounds interesting.
Middle of the state, East River: Okobojo Point.
South of Mitchell: New Holland, population 11, where there are more houses than people. Where the man in the general store can teach you to play the saw. Where I was when I found out I was going to SIJ.
A guess at why the Badlands are so named: The Bad River.
There is a square of land in the northwest portion 35 miles by 35 miles where there are no towns at all. Is that bad? No. I wonder what life's like there.
Near Sturgis: Bethlehem.
Several national grasslands. I want to see a national grassland.
Near Rapid City: Keystone, where my family got on a train and the fumes made my dad sick and we had to leave him in a random town and then go back and find the town in the car and my mom cried.
Near Belle Fourche, central west edge: The geographical center of the U.S.
Twenty miles west of there: A Government Experimental Farm.
The moral of the story: never leave a town without a full tank of gas. You never know when you'll find another town, let alone one with a gas station.
But, moral B: South Dakota has a lot of local history.
Come, read the map of South Dakota with me.
We will begin with the northeastern corner, where one should never commence to travel without a full tank of gas.
About ten miles east of Sisseton, the map mentions "the North/South continental divide." That seems kind of far north for that, doesn't it? Is there a sign? A park? How do you commemorate something like that?
Down by Sioux Falls: The edge of South Dakota is straight until you reach the latitude (?) of the Big Sioux River in Sioux Falls. Then it makes a sharp corner west until it actually hits the river. I'd never noticed this before.
And, there's a town called East Sioux Falls.
For 15 miles in Lincoln county on the Interstate, from the Canton exit (where Canton is actually another 10/15 miles) to Beresford, there are no other towns...don't run out of gas.
In the north, just east of the river, near Hoven: Cathedral on the Prairie. That sounds interesting.
Middle of the state, East River: Okobojo Point.
South of Mitchell: New Holland, population 11, where there are more houses than people. Where the man in the general store can teach you to play the saw. Where I was when I found out I was going to SIJ.
A guess at why the Badlands are so named: The Bad River.
There is a square of land in the northwest portion 35 miles by 35 miles where there are no towns at all. Is that bad? No. I wonder what life's like there.
Near Sturgis: Bethlehem.
Several national grasslands. I want to see a national grassland.
Near Rapid City: Keystone, where my family got on a train and the fumes made my dad sick and we had to leave him in a random town and then go back and find the town in the car and my mom cried.
Near Belle Fourche, central west edge: The geographical center of the U.S.
Twenty miles west of there: A Government Experimental Farm.
The moral of the story: never leave a town without a full tank of gas. You never know when you'll find another town, let alone one with a gas station.
But, moral B: South Dakota has a lot of local history.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
house arrest
It's funny, isn't it, how much cars run our lives? Well, not funny, per se. Depressing, perhaps.
For example, "my" car was diagnosed today with one of the most troubling of all car troubles. It was started its little routine at the most inopportune time today, of course, after not acting up for nearly two days. I am placing myself and the poor thing (which, strangely, I don't feel deserves a name) under a limited house arrest. She is allowed to travel to work and to the grocery store (which is in between) when deemed inevitable.
Of course, while I'm talking with the jolly and filthy repairmen, a friend calls and invites me to hang out tonight. At least I could be upset if the problem was JoAnn's -- or at least pretend to be.
Poor us. And poor Dad. And poor family. I'm sure Dad's going to be in the best of moods now. I want to say, "Hey, don't worry. I've got the tab." But it would take me over a month's wages to cover this fiasco...
Who else hates money? :)
:(
Remind us that You are always with us, Lord. Thank You that even our smallest problems concern You. You answer our slightest need.
Jesus, my biggest concern is not the money -- I know it's there. My worry is the attitudes of all those who will be inconvenienced in the next couple of weeks because of me and it. You know how I hate bothering people. Please help joy and patience to surface in the most unlikely of places in their lives. Bless those who have blessed me.
And keep me safe. (Please.)
For example, "my" car was diagnosed today with one of the most troubling of all car troubles. It was started its little routine at the most inopportune time today, of course, after not acting up for nearly two days. I am placing myself and the poor thing (which, strangely, I don't feel deserves a name) under a limited house arrest. She is allowed to travel to work and to the grocery store (which is in between) when deemed inevitable.
Of course, while I'm talking with the jolly and filthy repairmen, a friend calls and invites me to hang out tonight. At least I could be upset if the problem was JoAnn's -- or at least pretend to be.
Poor us. And poor Dad. And poor family. I'm sure Dad's going to be in the best of moods now. I want to say, "Hey, don't worry. I've got the tab." But it would take me over a month's wages to cover this fiasco...
Who else hates money? :)
:(
Remind us that You are always with us, Lord. Thank You that even our smallest problems concern You. You answer our slightest need.
Jesus, my biggest concern is not the money -- I know it's there. My worry is the attitudes of all those who will be inconvenienced in the next couple of weeks because of me and it. You know how I hate bothering people. Please help joy and patience to surface in the most unlikely of places in their lives. Bless those who have blessed me.
And keep me safe. (Please.)
Monday, August 08, 2005
riding in cars without boys
In my opinion, they should not give licenses to people who do not know how their cars work or how to maintain them. The preponderance of these people are women.
And I am one of these undereducated, female people.
Here I am, hours from my mechanic/financial consultant/computer technician, and the vehicle I'm driving is having serious problems. I cannot help her, poor child. (Though I don't think Dad could do much for her, either.) We shall now begin a period of second and third opinions and estimates and phone calls, phone calls, phone calls.
This is my first experience dealing with a real mechanic.
This will potentially be the most expensive investment (aside from an education) that I have made to date.
And just how will I get from the mechanic to work to interview to work to interview to work to mechanic?
...another of those moments I wish I'd taken the job at home.
And also not. I have to do this. I also get to do this.
And I am one of these undereducated, female people.
Here I am, hours from my mechanic/financial consultant/computer technician, and the vehicle I'm driving is having serious problems. I cannot help her, poor child. (Though I don't think Dad could do much for her, either.) We shall now begin a period of second and third opinions and estimates and phone calls, phone calls, phone calls.
This is my first experience dealing with a real mechanic.
This will potentially be the most expensive investment (aside from an education) that I have made to date.
And just how will I get from the mechanic to work to interview to work to interview to work to mechanic?
...another of those moments I wish I'd taken the job at home.
And also not. I have to do this. I also get to do this.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
weekend flicks
It's been two fun-filled days of films. The following will not be reviews as such, but reactions.
saturday: Magdalene and I visited a discount theater and saw The Perfect Man. I chose the "film" because I did not want to see the other option, and the perfect man in question was Chris Noth, former Law and Order cop, old school.
But the publicity characters for the movie were Hilary Duff and Heather Locklear. Heather Locklear is a single mom who has nothing on her mind but men. And when she ends up breaking with them, she moves. Is this a psychotic premise? Yes. It does not even sound possible to me.
Much of the movie takes place on blogs and MSN. Ironically, this makes it more realistic... but for the most part it's farfetched. Hilary Duff sets off the sprinkler system in a four-star restaurant in order to prevent two people from meeting inside. She is never found out or charged and feels guilt for all of 24 seconds.
But reality isn't what the movie was going for -- they were going for a mother-daughter teenybopper chickflick. It did provide for a cheap two-hour entertainment.
In the evening, Bandits was on TV. I missed the beginning so I don't know the premises. It was... along the lines of ... a movie I can't remember right now. Cate Blanchett gets bright red hair. It took me half the movie to realize it was her. There's a crazy love triangle that leaves you unsure of whether they're endorsing polygamy or what.
sunday: Two movies were on TV .
First, Evil Under the Sun, based on an Agatha Christie novel. Let me emphasize: based.
For those of you unfamiliar with Agatha Christie, she was a best-selling British mystery writer from the 20s to the 60s. She has two classic characters. The one featured in this movie was Hercule Poirot, a fussy Belgian private detective in London in the 20s-30s.
Poirot is detailed extensively in the books. Any Christie fan knows Poirot's mustache habits and general demeanor. Actor Peter Ustinov is generally acclaimed as the classic portrayor of Poirot, but let me rebel: he was terrible! At one point, he is pretending to swim in the sea in this crazy swimming getup.
1. Poirot would never be caught dead in anything but a suit.
2. Poirot would never, ever feign swimming in such a manner. It was almost like dancing. And Poirot would never dance. Ever.
There were other manerisms written into this script that were utterly ridiculous. Poirot's pride was not humble enough. David Suchet does a far superior job.
The writer left out some of the classic Christie traits in the storyline, i.e. accusing every character during the closing session before ending with the real criminal. Maybe the fault was the TV editor. But still. They went for the goods right off -- what a disappointment.
In short: one does not make films "based" on Agatha Christie. You either make it to the T or you don't bother to steal her characters.
Last is Deep Impact. I wasn't going to watch it. I was going to be productive.
Deep Impact has emotional ties for me -- a first date movie. Sort of. Close enough. They're happy memories. Though the movie is not happy.
Watching it now, I'm noticing:
1. Tea Leoni is not a convincing news anchor.
2. Morgan Freeman is not a convincing leader of the free world.
3. Leelee Sobieski and Elijah Wood have the same elfin body traits.
4. I'm constantly shocked about how similar Deep Impact, Armageddon, and Space Cowboys are, and how close together they were released. Seriously. It's almost like watching the same movie.
5. There are several future West Wing characters in the film. Leo doesn't have enough hair.
saturday: Magdalene and I visited a discount theater and saw The Perfect Man. I chose the "film" because I did not want to see the other option, and the perfect man in question was Chris Noth, former Law and Order cop, old school.
But the publicity characters for the movie were Hilary Duff and Heather Locklear. Heather Locklear is a single mom who has nothing on her mind but men. And when she ends up breaking with them, she moves. Is this a psychotic premise? Yes. It does not even sound possible to me.
Much of the movie takes place on blogs and MSN. Ironically, this makes it more realistic... but for the most part it's farfetched. Hilary Duff sets off the sprinkler system in a four-star restaurant in order to prevent two people from meeting inside. She is never found out or charged and feels guilt for all of 24 seconds.
But reality isn't what the movie was going for -- they were going for a mother-daughter teenybopper chickflick. It did provide for a cheap two-hour entertainment.
In the evening, Bandits was on TV. I missed the beginning so I don't know the premises. It was... along the lines of ... a movie I can't remember right now. Cate Blanchett gets bright red hair. It took me half the movie to realize it was her. There's a crazy love triangle that leaves you unsure of whether they're endorsing polygamy or what.
sunday: Two movies were on TV .
First, Evil Under the Sun, based on an Agatha Christie novel. Let me emphasize: based.
For those of you unfamiliar with Agatha Christie, she was a best-selling British mystery writer from the 20s to the 60s. She has two classic characters. The one featured in this movie was Hercule Poirot, a fussy Belgian private detective in London in the 20s-30s.
Poirot is detailed extensively in the books. Any Christie fan knows Poirot's mustache habits and general demeanor. Actor Peter Ustinov is generally acclaimed as the classic portrayor of Poirot, but let me rebel: he was terrible! At one point, he is pretending to swim in the sea in this crazy swimming getup.
1. Poirot would never be caught dead in anything but a suit.
2. Poirot would never, ever feign swimming in such a manner. It was almost like dancing. And Poirot would never dance. Ever.
There were other manerisms written into this script that were utterly ridiculous. Poirot's pride was not humble enough. David Suchet does a far superior job.
The writer left out some of the classic Christie traits in the storyline, i.e. accusing every character during the closing session before ending with the real criminal. Maybe the fault was the TV editor. But still. They went for the goods right off -- what a disappointment.
In short: one does not make films "based" on Agatha Christie. You either make it to the T or you don't bother to steal her characters.
Last is Deep Impact. I wasn't going to watch it. I was going to be productive.
Deep Impact has emotional ties for me -- a first date movie. Sort of. Close enough. They're happy memories. Though the movie is not happy.
Watching it now, I'm noticing:
1. Tea Leoni is not a convincing news anchor.
2. Morgan Freeman is not a convincing leader of the free world.
3. Leelee Sobieski and Elijah Wood have the same elfin body traits.
4. I'm constantly shocked about how similar Deep Impact, Armageddon, and Space Cowboys are, and how close together they were released. Seriously. It's almost like watching the same movie.
5. There are several future West Wing characters in the film. Leo doesn't have enough hair.
Friday, August 05, 2005
"three corners"
Enjoy above a view of three states at once: Nebraska in the background, South Dakota in the middle, and the trees from Iowa in front.
Enjoy more views from War Eagle Park.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
secrets
Keeping secrets is the hardest thing, because by their very nature they want to be told. They're thoughts under pressure, and they want to expand.
The wisdom of the cook writing the recipes of life is making it clear that this tidbit is better off in the pressure cooker. Something about it needs to be tenderized, slowly heated. Take it out too early and it will be too crisp, sickening. The most important ingredient is time, and time does not come in an instant dry-mix envelope. Yet.
The ingredients in the pressure-cooker are raw when they go in. But time will bring them flavor.
And a watched pot never boils.
The wisdom of the cook writing the recipes of life is making it clear that this tidbit is better off in the pressure cooker. Something about it needs to be tenderized, slowly heated. Take it out too early and it will be too crisp, sickening. The most important ingredient is time, and time does not come in an instant dry-mix envelope. Yet.
The ingredients in the pressure-cooker are raw when they go in. But time will bring them flavor.
And a watched pot never boils.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
shootin' the breeze
and they don't even know I took this...(so glad Johnny and Kelly recommended I speed up the ISO. don't know what ISO is, but it's making a huge difference.)
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