Depending on a variety of circumstances, some call it a man bag while others go straight for the kill calling it a purse. Regardless, I was recently having an internal conversation about whether or not I could get away with continuing to use mine during our time in the States.
No sooner had I finished the thought, or so it seemed, than in a moment of what could have very well been divine providence, the strap of the bag broke.
OK, so there's my answer. Now on to contemplating the viability of packing a speedo.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Pentecost 4: Source of Grace
He told me of his bout with depression, when life lost all of its interest, all of its flavor.
He said it was humiliating because he'd go to meetings with friends and all of them were smiling and he wasn't. They noticed.
I asked if he was able to read his Bible. "I forced myself."
And he forced himself to do it because the only thing getting him through was his need for God, a tiny thread of hope that he'd lift him out of this pit.
I made the remark, perhaps from my own experience, that it was impressive to me that despite this depression he could still bring himself to go to meetings, force himself to read his Bible, acknowledge his need for God.
He quickly responded, "That was only by his grace."
The response surprised me, shouldn't have, but did. I would probably normally attribute such actions to circumstances that aren't so bad or a person who is stronger than average. And in so doing, I steal glory from God because it's not a couple neurons that aren't as sick as others or a self-discipline that shows up at the right moment. Left to ourselves, we'd hide under the covers all day every day, or worse. Anything otherwise is a gift of his grace.
Galatians 5:15-17 "But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do."
Your flesh wants to hide. Your flesh keeps you from doing the things you want to do. So even if you don't want to hide, you will. Even if you want to leave that house, even if you want to open that Bible, even if you want to call your best friend, left to your flesh, you won't.
But the Spirit. The Spirit gives you the grace needed to keep going. It's the Spirit that opens the front door, pulls out the Bible, dials the telephone. If you are able to somehow keep going, give credit where it is due: to the Spirit and his grace, not to yourself or the nature of the circumstances.
And so today I see this gift of the Holy Spirit as the one who is constantly changing our hearts, bringing about good, gifting us with the grace needed to accomplish God's will in each moment. He is the source of this grace, the source of the good, the source of the fruit we bear in our words, actions, and lives.
And some days that good, gracious fruit is as simple as getting out of bed the morning we don't want to.
He said it was humiliating because he'd go to meetings with friends and all of them were smiling and he wasn't. They noticed.
I asked if he was able to read his Bible. "I forced myself."
And he forced himself to do it because the only thing getting him through was his need for God, a tiny thread of hope that he'd lift him out of this pit.
I made the remark, perhaps from my own experience, that it was impressive to me that despite this depression he could still bring himself to go to meetings, force himself to read his Bible, acknowledge his need for God.
He quickly responded, "That was only by his grace."
The response surprised me, shouldn't have, but did. I would probably normally attribute such actions to circumstances that aren't so bad or a person who is stronger than average. And in so doing, I steal glory from God because it's not a couple neurons that aren't as sick as others or a self-discipline that shows up at the right moment. Left to ourselves, we'd hide under the covers all day every day, or worse. Anything otherwise is a gift of his grace.
Galatians 5:15-17 "But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh, for these are opposed to each other, to keep you from doing the things you want to do."
Your flesh wants to hide. Your flesh keeps you from doing the things you want to do. So even if you don't want to hide, you will. Even if you want to leave that house, even if you want to open that Bible, even if you want to call your best friend, left to your flesh, you won't.
But the Spirit. The Spirit gives you the grace needed to keep going. It's the Spirit that opens the front door, pulls out the Bible, dials the telephone. If you are able to somehow keep going, give credit where it is due: to the Spirit and his grace, not to yourself or the nature of the circumstances.
And so today I see this gift of the Holy Spirit as the one who is constantly changing our hearts, bringing about good, gifting us with the grace needed to accomplish God's will in each moment. He is the source of this grace, the source of the good, the source of the fruit we bear in our words, actions, and lives.
And some days that good, gracious fruit is as simple as getting out of bed the morning we don't want to.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Saturday Morning Indie Music
Forget the cartoons.
Just awake on Saturday morning, I put on a playlist. When the other kid heard the opening guitar strums of Sufjan Steven's "Opie's Funeral Song," he immediately crawled over to the guitar and reached up to strum it with his 11-month old hands.
Now the kid is repeating Joanna Newsom lyrics to me with his 3-year-11-month old inquisitive curiosity.
This is a good sign.
Theeeen as I'm about to click "publish" on this post, the kid finishes his breakfast and marches over to the TV. "I don't wanna listen to music, I wanna watch Mickey Mouse."
"But this is one of my favorite songs of all time," I plead childishly.
"But Mickey Mouse plays music too, Papa."
And with that, he wins the compromise.
Just awake on Saturday morning, I put on a playlist. When the other kid heard the opening guitar strums of Sufjan Steven's "Opie's Funeral Song," he immediately crawled over to the guitar and reached up to strum it with his 11-month old hands.
Now the kid is repeating Joanna Newsom lyrics to me with his 3-year-11-month old inquisitive curiosity.
This is a good sign.
Theeeen as I'm about to click "publish" on this post, the kid finishes his breakfast and marches over to the TV. "I don't wanna listen to music, I wanna watch Mickey Mouse."
"But this is one of my favorite songs of all time," I plead childishly.
"But Mickey Mouse plays music too, Papa."
And with that, he wins the compromise.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
First Bumper Sticker
I've lived here for a year and a half and finally saw my first bumper sticker today.
It read as follows:
Maryland: Live for the Weekend!
It read as follows:
Maryland: Live for the Weekend!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Some (possibly superficial) Reaons for Liking This Country
At the library, DVDs are sorted alphabetically by director's name and in the music section there are quite a few Asthmatic Kitty releases available to borrow.
At a fast food restaurant, I heard Beirut playing.
At a shopping center, I heard Bon Iver playing.
On reality TV, I heard Deer Tick playing.
Posters for the new Wes Anderson movie are on the city buses, and the film is showing at our local cinema even though it only has 3 screens.
At a fast food restaurant, I heard Beirut playing.
At a shopping center, I heard Bon Iver playing.
On reality TV, I heard Deer Tick playing.
Posters for the new Wes Anderson movie are on the city buses, and the film is showing at our local cinema even though it only has 3 screens.
Monday, May 21, 2012
The (not as) New Guy, 8
We walked into the hospital for the first time in a long time today,
taking the other kid to his pediatrician. Driving up, I said, "Man, you
remember this place? It's been a while."
She kinda shrugged it off as if to say, "Don't remind me." But I insisted, "No, think of all we did here in our first six months. Kinda makes me a little proud. Exhausted, but proud."
Sitting in the hall waiting for the doctor was nonstop flashbacks.
"Remember the first time we came for an ultrasound and the kid spilled his entire cup of orange juice all over the floor by the reception desk and 'jus d'orange' was pretty much the only thing we knew how to say and then later he and I got kicked out of the ultrasound because he couldn't keep quiet enough for the overparticular technician and so instead he just wailed right outside her office door?"
Labor preparation courses.
Emergency heart scan when I passed out. (That's a story that still needs to be told here. Or not.)
Visiting the maternity ward.
False labor.
Real labor.
Going to the ER for a sinus infection.
Going to ER for a supposed collapsed lung, chest x-ray.
Being well-known by the ER staff.
Our comical elderly high-pitched franglais mumbling pediatrician.
And so. much. more.
I can't say we'll miss the place, but it sure holds an awful lot of (now) comical stories (and sure, some just downright traumatic) and a big sense of accomplishment...
She kinda shrugged it off as if to say, "Don't remind me." But I insisted, "No, think of all we did here in our first six months. Kinda makes me a little proud. Exhausted, but proud."
Sitting in the hall waiting for the doctor was nonstop flashbacks.
"Remember the first time we came for an ultrasound and the kid spilled his entire cup of orange juice all over the floor by the reception desk and 'jus d'orange' was pretty much the only thing we knew how to say and then later he and I got kicked out of the ultrasound because he couldn't keep quiet enough for the overparticular technician and so instead he just wailed right outside her office door?"
Labor preparation courses.
Emergency heart scan when I passed out. (That's a story that still needs to be told here. Or not.)
Visiting the maternity ward.
False labor.
Real labor.
Going to the ER for a sinus infection.
Going to ER for a supposed collapsed lung, chest x-ray.
Being well-known by the ER staff.
Our comical elderly high-pitched franglais mumbling pediatrician.
And so. much. more.
I can't say we'll miss the place, but it sure holds an awful lot of (now) comical stories (and sure, some just downright traumatic) and a big sense of accomplishment...
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Ascension Day
I have the privilege of living in country that, despite extreme separation of church and state and a near-complete secularization of society, still for some reason gives days off for certain important days on the church calendar. Strange, but kind of nice when the country decides to help me set my focus on the story of Scripture. So today for the second time of my life, I am celebrating the ascension of Jesus Christ, the day where, as Luke the historian described it, "he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of sight."
"Actions speak louder than words," we often say. I don't know if each culture in existence has it's equivalent adage, but it seems like something all human beings could agree on. Why? Because we are feeble and fickle and finite, we break promises, we're dishonest, we fail to say what we mean and mean what we say. And so, we are naturally forced to set our default to skepticism and cynicism. When we hear words, our response is generally at best a we'll see, at worst a yeah right, and somewhere in between a prove it.
It's not surprising, then, that those often become our responses to God himself.
But God's words are not like ours. Followers of Yahweh have always believed that his Words are as good as the Actions themselves. They are one in the same, as he has always worked by and through his Word, and when he speaks, it is as good as done.
He spoke the universe into existence, creating with simple words.
He actively sustains that universe with that same powerful word.
Sometimes his Word works instantly. Other times it's a promise that unfolds slowly. But it is always trustworthy, always dependable, always as good as done.
He told Abraham he would have a son, for example, and Isaac was born, just as he said.
On a bigger scale, he told us he would send a deliverer, a rescuer, a suffering servant. And Jesus came.
He told us Jesus would be born of a virgin. And Mary became pregnant.
Jesus told us he came to die, and he was put to death.
He told us he would be buried and rise again three days later, and indeed, his friends found an empty tomb Easter morning.
He told us he would return to the father, and that's the day we remember today.
And on that day, as the disciples stood looking upward into the clouds, we were told that, "This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven."
Is this promise any different? Have we any reason to say we'll see or prove it or yeah right?
Or can we trust that his Words are Action? Can we put aside skepticism and cynicism and know that when he appears, we shall be like him for we shall see him as he is?
We can believe that he will come again one day just as he left, to be glorified in his saints, to be marveled at among all who have believed, because they believed the testimony of his followers.
"Actions speak louder than words," we often say. I don't know if each culture in existence has it's equivalent adage, but it seems like something all human beings could agree on. Why? Because we are feeble and fickle and finite, we break promises, we're dishonest, we fail to say what we mean and mean what we say. And so, we are naturally forced to set our default to skepticism and cynicism. When we hear words, our response is generally at best a we'll see, at worst a yeah right, and somewhere in between a prove it.
It's not surprising, then, that those often become our responses to God himself.
But God's words are not like ours. Followers of Yahweh have always believed that his Words are as good as the Actions themselves. They are one in the same, as he has always worked by and through his Word, and when he speaks, it is as good as done.
He spoke the universe into existence, creating with simple words.
He actively sustains that universe with that same powerful word.
Sometimes his Word works instantly. Other times it's a promise that unfolds slowly. But it is always trustworthy, always dependable, always as good as done.
He told Abraham he would have a son, for example, and Isaac was born, just as he said.
On a bigger scale, he told us he would send a deliverer, a rescuer, a suffering servant. And Jesus came.
He told us Jesus would be born of a virgin. And Mary became pregnant.
Jesus told us he came to die, and he was put to death.
He told us he would be buried and rise again three days later, and indeed, his friends found an empty tomb Easter morning.
He told us he would return to the father, and that's the day we remember today.
And on that day, as the disciples stood looking upward into the clouds, we were told that, "This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven."
Is this promise any different? Have we any reason to say we'll see or prove it or yeah right?
Or can we trust that his Words are Action? Can we put aside skepticism and cynicism and know that when he appears, we shall be like him for we shall see him as he is?
We can believe that he will come again one day just as he left, to be glorified in his saints, to be marveled at among all who have believed, because they believed the testimony of his followers.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Mix Tape: Good Winter
This post is long overdue. First, I waited a long time to
pick up the album, until I could find the time and space to give it a proper
listening. Then, I delayed writing this, not feeling I could do it all justice.
But listening to the other kid fall asleep to his music just now made me
realize now’s the time.
I won’t blame you if you don’t like Bon Iver. As much as I like him, I continue to be puzzled as to why he’s so popular. Start by taking a bunch of lumberjack guys and make them sing unison in falsetto, already you have what seems to be a recipe of disaster. Make them play synthesizers with tones we haven’t heard since the early 90s: that should only make matters worse, not better.
In one TV appearance, Jimmy Fallon compares Justin Vernon to Bruce Hornsby, to which Vernon more or less agrees. There’s an email sitting in my inbox in which a friend likened him to Steve Winwood. Watching him play backed by a saxophonist reminds me of Michael Bolton and Kenny G. These are not good comparisons. Nobody wants to relive these guys. (OK, I’m sure there are some middle-aged women out there who wouldn’t mind…only further proving my point.)
This is white-man’s R&B. This is music-nerd’s Easy Listening.
But judging by his success, I’m not the only one who agrees that, somehow, oddly enough, it just works, and works well.
How does a hairy, white, indie-music-nerd go from recording an album by himself in a cabin to singing backup for one of the biggest rap stars of our day just a few years later? How does a no-name experimental musician go from playing shows in living rooms to winning Grammys? Besides a whole lot of luck, I’d say the authenticity and a love for the craft help out quite a bit.
But there was something else that helped too, and that’s the legend surrounding the creation of his first album. You couldn’t hear anything about For Emma Forever Ago without hearing the story: broke up with girlfriend, went to cabin, alone, dead of winter, recorded this. It seemed to spin out of control like a giant game of whisper-down-the-alley. The story became bigger than the album, bigger than the man. It was indie legend. It sold the record.
But the main reason that legend worked was simply because of this often overlooked fact: that album sounded like a winter cabin. If he went to that cabin and recorded bubblegum pop songs, no one would have cared. But to create songs that sound so clearly and perfectly like their context, that’s when you’ve done something remarkable.
And in the end, that’s what gets me about Bon Iver. Lately I’ve been enjoying music that communicates a mood and an image. I don’t like your everyday rock band because their songs just sound like an everyday rock song. I like music that sounds like contentment, or hope, or melancholy, or a breezy summer day. When a song takes on texture, takes on atmosphere, takes on something much bigger than lyrics and a melody and a four-chord progression and a verse-chorus structure, that’s when I start noticing. And I guess that’s ultimately why I’ve noticed Bon Iver.
While the song “Holocene” deserves every single bit of attention it has gotten (listen to that rolling snare drum through headphones, would you?!), I’m choosing the album opener as a favorite.
“Perth” from Bon Iver, Bon Iver.
I won’t blame you if you don’t like Bon Iver. As much as I like him, I continue to be puzzled as to why he’s so popular. Start by taking a bunch of lumberjack guys and make them sing unison in falsetto, already you have what seems to be a recipe of disaster. Make them play synthesizers with tones we haven’t heard since the early 90s: that should only make matters worse, not better.
In one TV appearance, Jimmy Fallon compares Justin Vernon to Bruce Hornsby, to which Vernon more or less agrees. There’s an email sitting in my inbox in which a friend likened him to Steve Winwood. Watching him play backed by a saxophonist reminds me of Michael Bolton and Kenny G. These are not good comparisons. Nobody wants to relive these guys. (OK, I’m sure there are some middle-aged women out there who wouldn’t mind…only further proving my point.)
This is white-man’s R&B. This is music-nerd’s Easy Listening.
But judging by his success, I’m not the only one who agrees that, somehow, oddly enough, it just works, and works well.
How does a hairy, white, indie-music-nerd go from recording an album by himself in a cabin to singing backup for one of the biggest rap stars of our day just a few years later? How does a no-name experimental musician go from playing shows in living rooms to winning Grammys? Besides a whole lot of luck, I’d say the authenticity and a love for the craft help out quite a bit.
But there was something else that helped too, and that’s the legend surrounding the creation of his first album. You couldn’t hear anything about For Emma Forever Ago without hearing the story: broke up with girlfriend, went to cabin, alone, dead of winter, recorded this. It seemed to spin out of control like a giant game of whisper-down-the-alley. The story became bigger than the album, bigger than the man. It was indie legend. It sold the record.
But the main reason that legend worked was simply because of this often overlooked fact: that album sounded like a winter cabin. If he went to that cabin and recorded bubblegum pop songs, no one would have cared. But to create songs that sound so clearly and perfectly like their context, that’s when you’ve done something remarkable.
And in the end, that’s what gets me about Bon Iver. Lately I’ve been enjoying music that communicates a mood and an image. I don’t like your everyday rock band because their songs just sound like an everyday rock song. I like music that sounds like contentment, or hope, or melancholy, or a breezy summer day. When a song takes on texture, takes on atmosphere, takes on something much bigger than lyrics and a melody and a four-chord progression and a verse-chorus structure, that’s when I start noticing. And I guess that’s ultimately why I’ve noticed Bon Iver.
While the song “Holocene” deserves every single bit of attention it has gotten (listen to that rolling snare drum through headphones, would you?!), I’m choosing the album opener as a favorite.
“Perth” from Bon Iver, Bon Iver.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
They're back
I don't know if you've heard about their reunion, their record-setting drive on Kickstarter, their first show in over eight years, but this--the first live song of their resurrection--makes me really, really, big-grinned happy...
I'm not the wild and rabid fan that some might be...I didn't donate any money to their Kickstarter drive, for example, nor have I mailed anything in to Conan in hopes of convincing him to invite them on his show...but we all know I was quite a big fan in my day...
I'm not the wild and rabid fan that some might be...I didn't donate any money to their Kickstarter drive, for example, nor have I mailed anything in to Conan in hopes of convincing him to invite them on his show...but we all know I was quite a big fan in my day...
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
Beat Boxer
I forget how exactly it happened, but somewhere along the line when asking the kid what instrument he wants to play when he grows up, he decided he wants to be a professional beatboxer.
I showed him this video, and he was entranced, and I guess that sort of only served to seal the deal.
(if you're impatient, skip to the 4 minute mark.)
That's the necessary background for understanding what was overheard in our living room today:
Me: "Stop spitting on me!"
Kid: "I'm not spitting, Papa, I'm beatboxing!"
That began an important lesson on how most beatboxers prefer to cover their mouths. It serves several purposes: you avoid spitting on your audience, you sound a little better, and you look less silly.
I showed him this video, and he was entranced, and I guess that sort of only served to seal the deal.
(if you're impatient, skip to the 4 minute mark.)
That's the necessary background for understanding what was overheard in our living room today:
Me: "Stop spitting on me!"
Kid: "I'm not spitting, Papa, I'm beatboxing!"
That began an important lesson on how most beatboxers prefer to cover their mouths. It serves several purposes: you avoid spitting on your audience, you sound a little better, and you look less silly.
Advanced Technology
We've been sending quite a few postcards since arriving on foreign soil. Problem is, it's just such a time consuming affair. Time to turn to some more advanced technology, without resorting to such impersonal gadgets like emails and wall posts and tweets...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)