Our university president explained one time how he challenged himself to pick up a new hobby and learn something new every year or so. That year he was learning how to program and play an electronic drum set and he gave a demonstration in chapel one day.
I liked the idea, in part because it was funny to see such a stately older man discovering electronic drums, but perhaps mostly because my range of interests is wide and my attention span short, and so doing something of the sort would allow me to dabble while keeping pressure low, until my collection of hobbies would resemble my collection of instruments that I don't really know how to play.
But then life happens, and things like busyness and stress and a desire for ease and comfort squash such trivial aspirations. If you can't seem to find the time for hobbies, what makes you think you can find time for new hobbies? Not to mention learning takes effort, and effort takes energy, and energy is a limited resource.
In September I decided to go for it. I started saxophone lessons. My wife gave me a needed solid nudge in the right direction, and then as if he knew I would need it even the professor took the initiative and suggested a meeting time instead of waiting for my call. There was no escaping: good thing.
OK so it's not exactly learning something new. But after 15 years (!) of collecting dust it might as well be. It's moreso an attempt to finish what was started, and sometimes that's just as hard, and the process is proving to be just as valuable. I've been thinking that learning something new is a strange sort of spiritual discipline.
Perhaps it's as simple as any discipline being spiritual discipline. The forcing of oneself to do something that doesn't come naturally, there is something deeply spiritual about that. Progressing on the saxophone is at its most basic a matter of finding time, making time, or just taking the time to practice, an activity that is both laborious and boring, a tiring drudgery. And yet, this banality and the discipline required to carry it out are the only means to reach the much more enjoyable and interesting end. It's a striving, an ongoing fight, and that sounds familiar.
When I arrive early to my lesson I hear the professor -- a member of the national orchestra in Versailles -- practicing a few things himself. Or, there are the moments where he plays the piece I'm working on "just to give me an idea." He sounds like a warm silver knife melting through butter, and though I'm no squawking rookie, next to him I am convinced my saxophone sounds something like a hedge trimmer piped through a bullhorn. To make matters worse, I'm trying, he's not. It's work for me and play for him. Do I let his effortless example demoralize me and give up? Or will I let it inspire me and press on? I suppose others might be wired differently, but I know my instincts and in these moments I've got to fight them off. Will I choose pessimism or optimism? Or to put it more spiritually, cynicism or hope?
No matter what the new hobby might be, an inherent humility comes into play. You'll be forced to admit that you know nothing, and you'll be pushed to ask for help. You will have to admit a need. In the case of getting that help from a teacher, coach, or mentor, you'll expose yourself to endless criticism, even if it is constructive, and a submission to their authoritative experience will be required.
I've had my student model saxophone for 25 years and it was bought used. The first question I got was "What kind of sax you playing?" and the quick response was, "Never heard of it. And after so long it's going to need a tune up." But in all those countless critiques -- flat notes, uneven volume, clacking keys -- I'm waiting for him to blame my instrument as a convenient scapegoat. There have even been times I've sheepishly suggested it. But no, apparently the problem is still me, and that's a healthy humble pill to swallow at every turn.
As we get older it becomes increasingly natural to pursue the path of least resistance and remain inside the safety of what we know and what we've mastered. Within our comfort zones, we can pick and choose what we pursue in order to minimize embarrassment and thus reinforce our pride. It's a question of control, and it can be a relatively cozy place to live. But in the Christian life we are called to live by faith, existing in a place of trust, being pushed outward into unknowns, called to weakness so that the Spirit's power might be revealed. This is harder for some of us than others, and these are muscles to be developed in the spiritual discipline of learning something new.
My saxophone case still has a bunch of embarrassing stickers from all the Christian ska, punk, and hardcore bands I listened to last time I played. No respectable saxophonist listens seriously to punk and he wouldn't dare to tarnish a sax case in such a way. To make matters worse, these bands aren't even known, many would say they aren't even good! I hesitated for a moment and almost ripped them all off before my first lesson, then decided to let it go, to own it as a piece of my history. The prof sees them, the smugs at the music conservatory glibly grin at them, I even paraded all over Paris with them when I went to the instrument repair shop (where I noticed nothing but clean black cases on the shelves). Or there was the time the prof asked me what saxophonists I listen to. I knew he wasn't asking about ska bands so I named the first I could think of and had trouble naming a second. I did, but when I got home I looked it up to find he was actually a piano player. He rattled off names and I confessed my ignorance to his surprise. He wrote them down for me to discover them in my own time.
The point is, there will be many moments in learning something new where you'll risk looking stupid and feeling foolish. This is a spiritual experience, for the Christian believes a truth that is foolishness to onlookers. For those of us afraid of humiliation and attempting to maintain a certain image, the Christian life will be inherently difficult. I suppose it's the continual question of basing your identity on what others think of you versus on the security found in what Christ has done for you.
And then, there's wonder. It happens as I walk out of my lessons, or when I left the saxophone shop in Paris: I feel like a saxophonist again, a title I flippantly cast aside at the turn of the century. Since then I've picked up the bass, but have never been a bassist; I've picked up the accordion, but have definitely never been an accordionist, and the list could go on. In those moments, I've had the flashback more than once of opening my new saxophone for the first time and the age of 9 in the family living room. It was shiny, complex, heavy, half my size, and it was mine, and there was a new world to discover. It's good to get that back again, a wondrous homecoming of sorts.
In these experiences, horizons are opened to new dimensions. And each time we learn something new about the world we learn something new about its Creator.
I'd much prefer either sticking to what I know or dabbling in something that comes easily and looks good. Neither are good or realistic options. The other option is at times messy, embarrassing, painful, or tiring. The spiritual parallels are many. The payoff is worth it.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 03, 2015
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Hope in Disorientation
We saw Sufjan Stevens last week. Though it was not quite the performance I expected or hoped for, it was a uniquely strong communal experience, and more impressive than the songs, compositions, or light-show themselves was the way the collective breath of 2,700 people was held, the wind knocked out of us, our stomach in knots. This was more than attending a funeral, this was sitting in silence for the week following, like the friends of grieving Job. No one spoke a word, for they saw that his suffering was very great. It was unexpectedly intense, living loss together.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
This performance by Sandra McCracken strikes me the same way, an expression of loss and disorientation, and it's not difficult to enter into it and live it with her, evident that she's singng from experience. The only difference is a resolute hope, a tenacity that yearns toward the light that surely exists at the end of the tunnel, and that important difference is certainly a tad healthier than the few passing references offered us on Carrie and Lowell.
To be honest, feeling lost has been a recurring and overwhelming theme over the course of the past 4+ years. Many have looked at me as if they don't understand and don't care to understand, but one man listened carefully, lived it with me a bit, and asked me to read Psalm 43:3 to see if it spoke to the feeling.
Send out your light and your truth;
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy hill
and to your dwelling!
It was basically the first time I paid attention to the verse. It's become an anthem since, and in the past few months so has this song, as it captures fully the essence of weary waiting and orients me again in the one and only direction I know is worth heading.
Friday, September 04, 2015
On Consolation
It was early Monday morning when I definitively learned I would help a friend bury his dad the next day. They didn't know exactly what they wanted, but they wanted an homme d'église saying something, anything as they lowered him down. Ils avaient raison. Because saying goodbye to a dad with no one speaking truth by our sides is desperately hopeless indeed.
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
It was another one of those out of body twilight zone moments, as if I'm watching a film of an unlikely story. How did this kid from Pennsylvania end up in a bourgeois home outside of Paris to help lay to rest a man he doesn't know? Ce cheminement avec Dieu est drôlement étonnant, I wrote to a friend. Don't ask questions, count it as the extreme honor that it is.
At midnight the evening prior, I was led to write about the privilege it was to share these moments with this family I did not know. That I was not there to make their grief disappear, but I was there to share it with them, live it with them. And that reminded me of our God who promises the same. I read words declaring who our God is, that he is close to the broken-hearted, that he is merciful, compassionate, full of goodness, an ever-present help. Then I read words of our Jesus, sent to do the same. A man who had a habit of suffering, as it's put in French, a man who sympathizes with our weakness, a man who understands and is ready to share it all by our sides. A man who promises rest for our weary and heavy-laiden souls. A man who wept before the grave of his good friend, because he loved him, because he was overwhelmed with sadness, because he was revolted by death.
We don't have a God distant and indifferent, but a God who understands and shares and enters into pain with us. This is shocking. This is unlike anything we know in this earthly experience. This should surpass our understanding. What king is like this?
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort...
He is the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He is the source of mercy and comfort. And what do we human beings need more in this life than mercy and comfort? We who recoil at hardened dictators, demanding bosses, exigent teachers, we look to this King ready to sit at our side as we sob uncontrollably and know he must be good, he must be true, he must be what we've been seeking all this time.
...who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
And if he consoles us -- and he does -- he does it not just for our own well-being, but so that we can extend this consolation to others when our turn arises. He wants us and expects us and nudges us to pass it on. And here we see the overflowing fountain of generosity that comes from the heart of God: spilling over and onward and outward, using awkward and weak vessels to get the job done.
But don't miss what's implied. If we're passing on consolation that came from God, that means we very likely received God's consolation from someone. The first person you called who dropped everything and came to sit with you, it was not just a friend, it was God himself. The friends that pulled themselves together to order flowers and make you meals, that was more than friends, that was God himself. The person who didn't try to cheer you up, but sat and cried in silence with you, that was the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. And it also implies that if we are not opening ourselves up in vulnerability to allow others to comfort us, if we are hiding our grief or doing it alone, we are resisting the consolation that God offers.
And now I realize what exactly was going on in my presence at the graveside. It resembles only moreso an unlikely story, and all the more an honor.
Bref, consolation comes.
Don’t back down, concentrate on seeing
The breakers in the bar, the neighbor’s greeting
My brother had a daughter
The beauty that she brings, illumination
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
An analysis of pebble beaches in a list of pros and cons
1) no sand castles
2) kills your feet after a while
3) get pelted when waves crash in
4) kids are constantly throwing rocks into the water...in the direction of swimmers' heads
Pros:
1) does not enter your car or travel home with you in all of your belongings
2) kids are not tempted to eat it
3) the sea water makes them magnificently smooth and round and they glisten like gems when they're wet
4) when the water moves out and drops them they make a mesmerizing sound like shaking a sack of marbles
5) makes for a surprisingly comfortable bed
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Wandering
Today I walked the platform among a mass of people descending from the same train as me making the typical pilgrimage to which we've grown accustomed and looked over them feeling the lostness of modern man.
I listened to the fascinating noise that echoes in the center hall of a metro station with the beeps of daily passes clicks of rotating turnstiles clops of hurried leather shoes and the dull drone of confused mutters.
I read about Muslims only having 2,500 mosques in this country with a desire to double that number and thought it a curious statistic knowing we have almost as many churches with a desire to triple the number.
I searched for space invaders and found a few.
I heard a man make a millennium of church history simple in a matter of minutes and wanted to hear more.
I had the luck of falling upon the band of Balkan men with their dulcimer and upright bass and accordion and two full and soaring clarinets whose music has a strange capacity to fill me with life and stopped to listen before stepping on the long rolling sidewalk.
I watched two shots of espresso drip into a plastic cup half-full of tap water and heard the kind Frenchmen warmly call my first name as if I had arrived home from work after a long day.
I peered into the dark windows of an 'exceptionally closed' Burger King to find a ghost-town of lifeless abandoned booths and upon looking closer was surprised to see a Muslim man among them kneeling on a mat to say his mid-afternoon Ramadan prayers. Evangelical church planters are not the only innovative ones and perhaps abandoned fast food restaurants could answer the need for more mosques.
I wrestled incessantly with myself over a variety of trivial matters and tried to feel again whatever it was in the first place that got me to where I am wondering what in God's name could be next and how in the world it might unfold recalling countless dreams and brainstorms that were never pursued largely out of fear preferring to tackle projects that are instead surefire and easy to finish.
The death of self-importance is long, hard, slow, and painful and it's a stubborn zombie of a beast that just when you think has been killed once and for all comes right back to continue haunting you. The cross we are called to bear is a daily one.
I listened to the fascinating noise that echoes in the center hall of a metro station with the beeps of daily passes clicks of rotating turnstiles clops of hurried leather shoes and the dull drone of confused mutters.
I read about Muslims only having 2,500 mosques in this country with a desire to double that number and thought it a curious statistic knowing we have almost as many churches with a desire to triple the number.
I searched for space invaders and found a few.
I heard a man make a millennium of church history simple in a matter of minutes and wanted to hear more.
I had the luck of falling upon the band of Balkan men with their dulcimer and upright bass and accordion and two full and soaring clarinets whose music has a strange capacity to fill me with life and stopped to listen before stepping on the long rolling sidewalk.
I watched two shots of espresso drip into a plastic cup half-full of tap water and heard the kind Frenchmen warmly call my first name as if I had arrived home from work after a long day.
I peered into the dark windows of an 'exceptionally closed' Burger King to find a ghost-town of lifeless abandoned booths and upon looking closer was surprised to see a Muslim man among them kneeling on a mat to say his mid-afternoon Ramadan prayers. Evangelical church planters are not the only innovative ones and perhaps abandoned fast food restaurants could answer the need for more mosques.
I wrestled incessantly with myself over a variety of trivial matters and tried to feel again whatever it was in the first place that got me to where I am wondering what in God's name could be next and how in the world it might unfold recalling countless dreams and brainstorms that were never pursued largely out of fear preferring to tackle projects that are instead surefire and easy to finish.
The death of self-importance is long, hard, slow, and painful and it's a stubborn zombie of a beast that just when you think has been killed once and for all comes right back to continue haunting you. The cross we are called to bear is a daily one.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
You have the words of life.
I ran into these words as I read on the train yesterday. They struck me so strongly that I felt inspired to stand up and, in an act of freedom of expression and something resembling street art, write them in the foggy window with my finger. I didn't. I probably should have.
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
From John 6.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Haircuts
The kid's teacher pulled me aside and told me he had cut his hair in the middle of class. She found little piles of hair on his desk and asked him if that was in fact the case and why he did it. "Parce que ça me gêne," he responded matter of factly. "Because it annoys me." Reasonable enough.
And like most of the things he does, it was not an impulsive act, but rather careful and thought through. He took a few nice straight snips right in the middle of the hair that often hung in his eyes. When it was brushed over, you could hardly notice it.
Instead of being angry, his mother and I were almost proud, even on the verge of being affirming. After all, what should we expect when he's been asking for a cut and he's grown up watching his mother cut her own hair?
And so when it came time to finish the job and finally cut off the impressive locks he's grown over the past year, his mother handed him the hair trimmer and let him do the honors on the sides, teaching him along the way. He opted not to cut the top with scissors, and left that for her to finish.
He's six. If he keeps this up, he'll be able to put himself through college like his mother did, giving 5 dollar haircuts to friends. Why wait? It could start in middle school.
And like most of the things he does, it was not an impulsive act, but rather careful and thought through. He took a few nice straight snips right in the middle of the hair that often hung in his eyes. When it was brushed over, you could hardly notice it.
Instead of being angry, his mother and I were almost proud, even on the verge of being affirming. After all, what should we expect when he's been asking for a cut and he's grown up watching his mother cut her own hair?
And so when it came time to finish the job and finally cut off the impressive locks he's grown over the past year, his mother handed him the hair trimmer and let him do the honors on the sides, teaching him along the way. He opted not to cut the top with scissors, and left that for her to finish.
He's six. If he keeps this up, he'll be able to put himself through college like his mother did, giving 5 dollar haircuts to friends. Why wait? It could start in middle school.
Friday, May 09, 2014
friends doing cool things
There's a lot that's crummy about growing old and being adults, but one great thing is watching friends pursuing dreams and succeeding. The list of those friends doing amazing things is pretty long, but one is the CEO of Flannelgraph Records. He's doing some cool stuff and having a lot of fun in the process it seems, and as has always been his way, it puts a smile on a lot of people's faces. I was about to say he wasn't changing the world, but now I realize he just might actually be...
Best of Boiler Room Classics Commercial from Flannelgraph Records on Vimeo.
Best of Boiler Room Classics Commercial from Flannelgraph Records on Vimeo.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
The Cat's Agenda
Dinner conversation turned towards the events of tomorrow.
"You're gonna eat at the cafeteria tomorrow" we told the kid.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm in a meeting all day and Mama has a doctor's appointment."
"And my brother?" he asked.
"He's going to school too."
"And our friend?" he asked, referring to the friend who's been staying with us.
"She'll be helping, mama."
The other kid, eagerly wanting to be a part of the conversation, continued the interrogation, "And Banjo?" wondering about the cat.
We all turned to look at him in his permanent position, sleeping on his favorite chair.
"You want to know what Banjo's going to be doing tomorrow?" I confirmed.
"Sitting there," the two year old intelligently concluded on his own.
"You're gonna eat at the cafeteria tomorrow" we told the kid.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I'm in a meeting all day and Mama has a doctor's appointment."
"And my brother?" he asked.
"He's going to school too."
"And our friend?" he asked, referring to the friend who's been staying with us.
"She'll be helping, mama."
The other kid, eagerly wanting to be a part of the conversation, continued the interrogation, "And Banjo?" wondering about the cat.
We all turned to look at him in his permanent position, sleeping on his favorite chair.
"You want to know what Banjo's going to be doing tomorrow?" I confirmed.
"Sitting there," the two year old intelligently concluded on his own.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Tuesday, November 05, 2013
harlem nocture
The metro doors closed and a man who had slipped in began playing the song on his sax. It took just a few seconds to recognize and all of a sudden I was no longer in the Paris metro, but on a high school auditorium stage, swinging hard in the background with our award-winning saxophonist wailing up front.
The version in the metro and the versions on YouTube tell me there are a lot of mediocre versions out there, but the one in my mind remains the best-ever-of-all-time-hands-down. We were all incredibly proud of Travis--who doubled as the sax player in our ska band--but we were just as proud to be a part, to play along. Because when we played, we were no longer on a high school auditorium stage, but on the nighttime streets of Harlem.
The version in the metro and the versions on YouTube tell me there are a lot of mediocre versions out there, but the one in my mind remains the best-ever-of-all-time-hands-down. We were all incredibly proud of Travis--who doubled as the sax player in our ska band--but we were just as proud to be a part, to play along. Because when we played, we were no longer on a high school auditorium stage, but on the nighttime streets of Harlem.
Monday, November 04, 2013
Sunday, August 04, 2013
The Odor of Youth
We took the girl to church today.
Getting ready to leave outside, another girl about 8 or 9 years of age came and crouched down to admire her in her carseat. She was smitten, talking of how much she loved little babies, finishing by saying,
"...et puis ils ont toujours une certaine odeur; l'odeur de jeunesse."
"...ce qui te plaît ?" I asked.
"oui, beaucoup."
"They always have a certain odor...the odor of youth." It sounds much more eloquent in French, especially when such a sophisticated 8 year old is saying it. And though a more dynamic equivalent would be something more straight forward like "baby smell," I knew exactly what she was referring to and couldn't agree more.
Getting ready to leave outside, another girl about 8 or 9 years of age came and crouched down to admire her in her carseat. She was smitten, talking of how much she loved little babies, finishing by saying,
"...et puis ils ont toujours une certaine odeur; l'odeur de jeunesse."
"...ce qui te plaît ?" I asked.
"oui, beaucoup."
"They always have a certain odor...the odor of youth." It sounds much more eloquent in French, especially when such a sophisticated 8 year old is saying it. And though a more dynamic equivalent would be something more straight forward like "baby smell," I knew exactly what she was referring to and couldn't agree more.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
The Girl is Here
There's the kid, the other kid, and now the girl. Had I known from the start that three kids would be coming so quickly, I would have given them other more clever or at least more affectionate blogosphere names. I guess they've caught me by surprise. They've all caught me by surprise. Just trying to keep up.
Regardless, she's here!!!!
Née 1h15 -- Born 7:15PM EST
3.430 kg -- 7 lb 9 oz
50 cm -- 19.5 in
Elle est la plus belle au monde.
She's the most beautiful in the world.
No but seriously, three kids. Three. This is madness, is it not? Three and a half short years ago, sure, we had some desires, but no plans. A move to France was on the radar, but not a kid. Not two. Certainly not three.
It's one of many reasons the girl's name means Praise Consecrated to God.
Regardless, she's here!!!!
Née 1h15 -- Born 7:15PM EST
3.430 kg -- 7 lb 9 oz
50 cm -- 19.5 in
Elle est la plus belle au monde.
She's the most beautiful in the world.
No but seriously, three kids. Three. This is madness, is it not? Three and a half short years ago, sure, we had some desires, but no plans. A move to France was on the radar, but not a kid. Not two. Certainly not three.
It's one of many reasons the girl's name means Praise Consecrated to God.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
half life
The joke is often that we were engaged in kindergarden, or something along those lines. It was never that serious, but in celebrating our anniversary this year I realized that we've now been together for half of my lifetime.
There are not many others our age who could say that (although we did think of at least 4 other couple-friends that could...) and it's a sort of mind-blowing thought for which I am thankful beyond what words can express. Because despite all the other craziness that life has thrown our way, this is good, this is amazing.
There are not many others our age who could say that (although we did think of at least 4 other couple-friends that could...) and it's a sort of mind-blowing thought for which I am thankful beyond what words can express. Because despite all the other craziness that life has thrown our way, this is good, this is amazing.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Imaginative Empathy
I taught 5th graders about empathy once. I don't know if they would have understood this video, but I probably would have shown it to them anyway.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Friday, April 19, 2013
On Freedom
For reasons I’m not even sure I understand, I’ve never been much of a patriot. When it comes to celebrating my country’s heritage, especially in light of its wars, I am at best hesitant, conflicted.
But this week I’ve found myself on the beaches of Normandy with my family and I’m realizing a good portion of my patriotic reluctance has simply come from ignorance. For the first time in my 29 years, I’m understanding what exactly D-Day was and why it was important, not to mention the war itself.
And so I surprised myself today, walking through the American cemetery of Omaha Beach with my two boys. I felt like a real American dad, like I was doing my duty in educating them young, a true patriot. It didn’t feel like me, but it felt strangely right, it felt important.
Some of the conflict is still there. I looked at a giant commemorative statue that mentioned something about the Glory of the Lord surrounded by maps of war strategy. And I thought to myself that surely we have made an idol out of freedom. We have made liberty and democracy and security the ultimate thing. Freedom is salvation and the soldiers are our saviors. But what good is it if a man lays down his life for his country, gains all the national freedom in the world, and still forfeits his soul? And surely True Freedom is not constrained to be lived out within the confines of national freedom. National freedom does not equate True Freedom, nor is it a prerequisite.
But there I go again.
I by no means want to belittle the preciousness of our freedom nor the sacrifice of thousands of brave young men. I take that liberty for granted daily and am a shameful coward compared to them. National freedom is not the ultimate, but it is certainly overwhelmingly sweet, meant to be savored and celebrated, and undoubtedly it must be a small part of what God desires in this complex world of his. It is indescribably right and good and beautiful.
And so we left the cemetery and drove to Pointe du Hoc, a central part of D-Day landings high atop oceanside cliffs, now littered with rusty barbed wire, caved-in cement bunkers, and countless craters left behind from the bombing. It is a strange, other-worldly experience. We followed winding paths ducking into one hole after another, exploring one crude concrete barracks after another, trying to imagine it all, trying not to imagine it all.
It didn’t seem quite right to let my boys innocently play here. At least a little morbid, or perhaps worse: disrespectful, like we’re making light of something that is anything but. But I quickly realized the beauty of it, that this is exactly why they fought. They fought to turn bunkers of oppression into jungle gyms of freedom.
And with an image like that, it’s easy to see why we make so much of war and freedom, because it all does indeed point to a much bigger story:
“He shall judge between the nations,
and shall decide disputes for many peoples;
and they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks,
and their bunkers into jungle gyms;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2:4
Lagging behind the rest of the family, I picked up my almost-two-year-old and carried him on the way out of the park. He contentedly stared me straight in the eyes and I saw reflections of white puffy clouds in his striking blue irises. He grabbed my chin with his strong little hands and giggled like only your two-year-old son can. He pressed his cheek against mine. I was filled with joy, and it was then that I said
thank you.
But this week I’ve found myself on the beaches of Normandy with my family and I’m realizing a good portion of my patriotic reluctance has simply come from ignorance. For the first time in my 29 years, I’m understanding what exactly D-Day was and why it was important, not to mention the war itself.
And so I surprised myself today, walking through the American cemetery of Omaha Beach with my two boys. I felt like a real American dad, like I was doing my duty in educating them young, a true patriot. It didn’t feel like me, but it felt strangely right, it felt important.
Some of the conflict is still there. I looked at a giant commemorative statue that mentioned something about the Glory of the Lord surrounded by maps of war strategy. And I thought to myself that surely we have made an idol out of freedom. We have made liberty and democracy and security the ultimate thing. Freedom is salvation and the soldiers are our saviors. But what good is it if a man lays down his life for his country, gains all the national freedom in the world, and still forfeits his soul? And surely True Freedom is not constrained to be lived out within the confines of national freedom. National freedom does not equate True Freedom, nor is it a prerequisite.
But there I go again.
I by no means want to belittle the preciousness of our freedom nor the sacrifice of thousands of brave young men. I take that liberty for granted daily and am a shameful coward compared to them. National freedom is not the ultimate, but it is certainly overwhelmingly sweet, meant to be savored and celebrated, and undoubtedly it must be a small part of what God desires in this complex world of his. It is indescribably right and good and beautiful.
And so we left the cemetery and drove to Pointe du Hoc, a central part of D-Day landings high atop oceanside cliffs, now littered with rusty barbed wire, caved-in cement bunkers, and countless craters left behind from the bombing. It is a strange, other-worldly experience. We followed winding paths ducking into one hole after another, exploring one crude concrete barracks after another, trying to imagine it all, trying not to imagine it all.
It didn’t seem quite right to let my boys innocently play here. At least a little morbid, or perhaps worse: disrespectful, like we’re making light of something that is anything but. But I quickly realized the beauty of it, that this is exactly why they fought. They fought to turn bunkers of oppression into jungle gyms of freedom.
And with an image like that, it’s easy to see why we make so much of war and freedom, because it all does indeed point to a much bigger story:
“He shall judge between the nations,
and shall decide disputes for many peoples;
and they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks,
and their bunkers into jungle gyms;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2:4
Lagging behind the rest of the family, I picked up my almost-two-year-old and carried him on the way out of the park. He contentedly stared me straight in the eyes and I saw reflections of white puffy clouds in his striking blue irises. He grabbed my chin with his strong little hands and giggled like only your two-year-old son can. He pressed his cheek against mine. I was filled with joy, and it was then that I said
thank you.
Friday, March 15, 2013
and by the way...
I forget that when you keep a blog some people are expecting personal updates from time to time, not just YouTube videos of your favorite bands from 10 years ago. I guess it's sort of an obligation that comes with the territory.
And so, for those few readers that may be lurking out there who I haven't talked to in a while or who don't follow my wife on Facebook, there are two important pieces of news to share.
My wife is expecting another baby!
And we now know it will be a GIRL!
And I'm scared, because girls are generally pretty scary creatures!
There, we're all caught up now. Except that you don't have a blog for me to stalk you, so why not take a minute to tell me what's new in your life?
And so, for those few readers that may be lurking out there who I haven't talked to in a while or who don't follow my wife on Facebook, there are two important pieces of news to share.
My wife is expecting another baby!
And we now know it will be a GIRL!
And I'm scared, because girls are generally pretty scary creatures!
There, we're all caught up now. Except that you don't have a blog for me to stalk you, so why not take a minute to tell me what's new in your life?
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Mix Tape: Rhythm Trumps All
My favorite moment in elementary music class was when the teacher would pass out percussion instruments--wooden sticks, sandpaper blocks, finger cymbals, triangles--and give each one of us a certain rhythm to play. I could count to 4 easily enough and knew when to hit my instrument. If the others could do the same, it was always an exciting result. Relatively simple, but always exciting.
It wasn't until my junior year of high school that it went any further. The band director was looking for recruits for the percussion section. Seeing as how most of my friends were the ones goofing around the drums in the back of the room, I was quick to volunteer. They put me on the simple instruments, and it seemed easy enough.
But when I first took those crash cymbals, shoved them into my gut and clapped them together to create a backbeat for the entire band to follow, something special happened. This was a whole new experience. It was something liberating, something powerful, something to be felt.
On the saxophone, I was banished to play the harmonies that were originally intended for the more sophisticated French horns. I liked harmony well enough to not mind if I was a handwritten transposition of an afterthought. But that backbeat. I liked harmony, I loved rhythm.
I didn't understand the depth of it in 11th grade. But I'm growing convinced that our bodies are knit together in rhythm. The heart's constant eighth note lub-dub, blood pulsing in quarter notes to every extremity, the lungs keeping a steady half note lull, the accents of firing synapses, the resulting tempo we keep when we have some place to walk. It's in our very fiber.
So when we hear the right rhythm, we instantly connect. Even if we don't recognize it, our foot does. At the very least, our fingers tap, our heads bob. It's as if the piece of music already knows us and we already know it. That rhythm is already there, it's the fabric and story of our lives, but to tap into it, to find it, to tell it, to translate it, to communicate it, that takes work and talent and luck.
And this is the essay that was written in my head this morning while listening to Anathallo's "All the First Pages." It's been a favorite for a long time and has already found it's way on to plenty of mix tapes. But this morning, especially around the 2:20 mark, all I heard was rhythm.
There's a lot that could characterize the music of Anathallo. But through many years and many albums, they went through a long and careful refining process. In the end the songs and their titles were shorter, but one thing remained unchanged and at the forefront: rhythm. You can hit your notes perfectly, but if you can't hit them rhythmically, you have no place in this band. Every element right down to the poetry of the lyrics serves the rhythm of the music before it serves anything else.
I guess it probably sounds weird, but in listening to a song like this my heart seems to beat a little faster, as though it's trying to catch up and match a rhythm it's already known.
See also: When a kindergartner's stutter about Valentine's Day becomes the perfect syncopated foundation for a surf-jazz song, by Charles Spearin's Happiness Project.
It wasn't until my junior year of high school that it went any further. The band director was looking for recruits for the percussion section. Seeing as how most of my friends were the ones goofing around the drums in the back of the room, I was quick to volunteer. They put me on the simple instruments, and it seemed easy enough.
But when I first took those crash cymbals, shoved them into my gut and clapped them together to create a backbeat for the entire band to follow, something special happened. This was a whole new experience. It was something liberating, something powerful, something to be felt.
On the saxophone, I was banished to play the harmonies that were originally intended for the more sophisticated French horns. I liked harmony well enough to not mind if I was a handwritten transposition of an afterthought. But that backbeat. I liked harmony, I loved rhythm.
I didn't understand the depth of it in 11th grade. But I'm growing convinced that our bodies are knit together in rhythm. The heart's constant eighth note lub-dub, blood pulsing in quarter notes to every extremity, the lungs keeping a steady half note lull, the accents of firing synapses, the resulting tempo we keep when we have some place to walk. It's in our very fiber.
So when we hear the right rhythm, we instantly connect. Even if we don't recognize it, our foot does. At the very least, our fingers tap, our heads bob. It's as if the piece of music already knows us and we already know it. That rhythm is already there, it's the fabric and story of our lives, but to tap into it, to find it, to tell it, to translate it, to communicate it, that takes work and talent and luck.
And this is the essay that was written in my head this morning while listening to Anathallo's "All the First Pages." It's been a favorite for a long time and has already found it's way on to plenty of mix tapes. But this morning, especially around the 2:20 mark, all I heard was rhythm.
There's a lot that could characterize the music of Anathallo. But through many years and many albums, they went through a long and careful refining process. In the end the songs and their titles were shorter, but one thing remained unchanged and at the forefront: rhythm. You can hit your notes perfectly, but if you can't hit them rhythmically, you have no place in this band. Every element right down to the poetry of the lyrics serves the rhythm of the music before it serves anything else.
I guess it probably sounds weird, but in listening to a song like this my heart seems to beat a little faster, as though it's trying to catch up and match a rhythm it's already known.
See also: When a kindergartner's stutter about Valentine's Day becomes the perfect syncopated foundation for a surf-jazz song, by Charles Spearin's Happiness Project.
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