Ugly Americans and other atrocities on the high seas

Well I have, unfortunately, come home A-OK. No pirates, no shipwrecks, no snakebites or jaguar attacks in the rainforest. Ocean liners are singularly tame. Seriously, I think that body of water we were traversing could hardly be called the ocean, since you couldn't even feel the boat moving. Anyway, I have seen many things in my travels which have only further kindled the fire of my love for Americans into a blazing inferno. Bless their pointy little heads, the dears, they ride about in an oblivious stupor upon the ocean blue, eyes glazed, in the deepest of trances because of the fact that they have been spending days doing no more than feeding constantly and lying out in the sun. That sounds like the lifestyle of some sort of mushroom or sea cucumber, not a human being. They shop on the ship and they shop on the shore, not to mention the massive amounts of money that they spent to even get this choicest of vacation opportunities to begin with. However, in spite of the gobs of cash they spent for this opportunity, nothing seems to satisfy this weird hybrid version of human-mushroom. They complain about the food, they complain about the service, they complain about the entertainment, they complain about the excursions, they complain about the accomodations. If there is something in existence within five miles of their personhood, they complain about it. Of course, that doesn't stop them from consuming said goods and services with all the satisfaction and verve of one who is completely satisfied. Then, on said excursions, they journey into foreign lands, unfortunately forced to pass by the "shacks" of the natives ("They're shacks, that's the only thing you could call them" even though those shacks are not actually the worst housing made of corrugated tin and other found materials but the more respectable cinderblock versions--and what gives these cultural imperialists the right to say that those people aren't happy with their "shacks?") So, on said excursions they view with mourning the utterly woeful poverty of those who are our central American neighbors and geographical children (via the Monroe Doctrine) and then they get back onto our big boat and lament this terrible state of affairs over our meal of filet mignon. "If only," they sob into their champagne, "there was some way we could help these poor, poor people. If only we had enough money to help out somehow. But alas, we no more than upper-middle class Americans with tight belts ourselves (Starbucks only three times a week), and there is nothing that can be done, please pass the lobster." Truly, these goodly Americans are victims of having hearts that are too big and pocketbooks that are too small.

Who knows why peoples of other lands despise these kind Americans? They patronize their shuttles in large droves with their big fat cigars smoking up the whole interior and are willing to purchase their Corona necklaces so they don't have to waste a hand holding their beers. Then when they come back to the boat they are quite loud and drunk and jovial as ducks. They are quite warm and friendly to the local women as well. Surely it must remain a mystery to us all why the good people of this land are so persecuted abroad.

(You know, my dear good friend Mr. Hoshaw also told us it was very difficult to write sarcasm effectively. I never really did understood why.)

"For them that go down to the sea in ships..."

Well, this is it folks. Tomorrow we leave for our big luxury trip on the great tin ocean liner. For those of you who haven't already heard, my family and I are going on a cruise this summer as our big vacation-type trip. Yippee. Well, anyway, I just wanted to make this post as a precaution in case I never come back. You know how it is when you go out on the ocean. Anything could happen to you. The ship may be attacked by a group of desperate pirates. I may be taken prisoner and have to beg for my life. The capitan may take me on as a cabin boy, and tell me every night, "I'll most likely kill you in the morning." By the end of that internship, I'll likely be a most excellent pirate. Or, on the other hand, the whole ship could just sink right down into the ocean and we could all just bob around in the frigid waters of the Western Carribean until we are rescued, though half of us may have frozen to death by that point. Or, the rest of the ship may try to maroon me on a tiny island and I'll have to fight for my survival until I can ride away on a raft of sea turtles that I lashed together with hair from my back. Or, the whole ship may crash and we may all end up on an entirely different island and either run away and join the local band of gypsies or have to duke it out for survival and pick each other off one by one. Everything of real interest, you see, happens by the sea. So I should be a great deal happier to head down there, I guess. In any case, if any of those things happen, you will probably never hear from me again. I just wanted you all to be prepared. I miss you all very much. Adios.

"Will Somebody Please tell Protestants that the Reformation is Over?"

Well, first of all I would just to notify everyone of today's great achievement: I made two eggs sunny side up this morning and didn't break either of the yolks.

So, once upon a time a few years ago in a mythical land called Omaha, I was driving somewhere with my family and my best friend Hope. We are rolling along all peaceable-like, when out of the blue my sister, who is riding in the back seat with said friend, turns to her and asks, "Are you Catholic?" Hope laughs a little at the strange question before answering yes. My sister turns her gaze back toward the window and says in the sly, self-assured voice of an inquisitor, "Just as I suspected." Bursts of laughter errupted from all three adults, thankfully including Hope. I swivel around from my position in the front seat and ask her, "Why do you say that?"

"Well," my sister answers, still in the dark as to what has brought about all the mirth, "she looks like a Catholic!" Hmmm... We never could get her to spill what were the precise physical features that marked someone out as a member of this faith.

My sister and I, you see, were raised under the tutelage of a very disaffected Catholic, namely my mother. We will never forget her horror stories of having to pin Kleenexes on her head if she forgot her hat on a Sunday morning, or the infamous nun who wouldn't believe her when she said she broke her arm on the playground. It is no wonder that we had misrepresentations in our minds from an early age. This is a fact that Hope can definitely attest to, since my negative attitudes carried me all the way to high school, where I somehow found myself at the lunch table with a best friend who happened to be Catholic, telling her that Catholics weren't really Christians because they worshipped Mary and believed that good works can get you to heaven. Ouch. Thankfully, Hope was patient and took the time to start straightening me out.

I started to get a lot less bent out of shape when I actually tried going to Mass and a couple of other Catholic services while I was traveling in Europe this past spring. Then I happened to take a Christian theology class this past fall that was taught by a professor who was very knowledgeable of and sympathetic to Catholic doctrine. Now, perhaps five years after that car trip, I have come to believe that not only are Catholics Christian, there is much that Protestants can learn from them. For example, I love the way in which they embrace the arts, and I found the more liturgical, structured style of their worship (which I had been told for years led to spectator-Christianity and spiritual dryness) to be an engaging framework in which personal and corporate expressions of faith could bloom. Don't get me wrong, I am not ready to jump ship, but I am quite fed up with all of the finger-pointing and back-biting. In true Postmodern "smorgasboard" style, I want to be able to learn what I can from that tradition, while still maintaining the good parts of the faith that I've grown up in.

Partially to that end, and partially to feed my own hunger for liturgy, I have been attending a morning prayer service that meets every weekday over at St. Ignatius of Loyola Catholic Community, just about 15 minutes from my house. I love these services and the spiritual food that I get from them, which is so different from my own tradition. My mom doesn't know yet that I've been going. It's not that I'm keeping it secret, it just hasn't come up, and furthermore I really can't tell how she'd take it. Her opinion has not changed much in the past 15 years. I think it's pretty funny that my only instance of teenage rebellion would be going to a church service. Do you think she would prefer it if I took up pot smoking? In any case, I am no longer willing to write off either Catholics or Protestants for their differing beliefs, and will continue to pray for and work towards the knitting of both traditions back into one unified family of God.

How do you like your fruit flies?

So, tonight I'm finishing off a garlic cream sauce to go over fetucinni and chicken for dinner (yes, I'm possibly the most underappreciated gourmet cook in America) and I add just a dollop of yogurt for creamy thickness and tang without all the fat of sour cream. Unfortunately, someone let my family into the kitchen while I was cooking, and my mom sees me and blurts out "YOGURT?!?!" which of course summons the attention of my sister, who loves fetucinni with chicken but subsequently comes to refuse to consume this batch simply because of that little dollop of yogurt. Grrrr... My sister is a notoriously picky-eater. The other night was saying the prayer to bless our food, and my sister happened to look down and see a little fruit fly that had landed on her ear of corn. In the middle of said prayer my sister begins screaming and leaps up from her chair and begins running around the room yelling "Ewww, ewww!" She then decided that she wasn't really hungry for any more of her dinner. All because of a little tiny fly.

So, after tonight's yogurt fiasco, I was fed up. So in my wrath I laid upon her the Curse of the Picky-Eaters. I told her that she would grow up to become a missionary in Africa and eat bugs every day that have been roasted on a spit over a fire until they're nice and crunchy. I think that might have contributed to the subsequent loss of appetite.

Driveway Nights

Greetings loyal readers! In case anyone is interested, we're battening down the hatches for one of those good ol' Texas thunderstorms. My sister and I were going to head down to the courts for a killer badminton match when she pointed out the curiously two-tone clouds that were roiling around like a lava lamp on steroids. Now the rain is pounding down on my window, while I stay warm and dry and feeling comfortably artsy, with my laptop and candles lit and a dog nearby.

But, all of that has nothing to do with what I intended to post. I was driving home a few nights ago from a college bible study that my church has organized (perhaps more on this at a later date). It is probably the first night driving I have done since getting home. Now I must tell you, I love driving at night. The lights flashing past my window in the city or the cool, quiet country sounds floating in with the breeze. Driving with the windows down at night always makes me feel a little antsy, like something exciting could break loose any minute, so I better be ready. I was greatly enjoying my ride home when I pulled into my subdivision. I rounded a corner and saw at a house a few blocks down from ours two meditative teens sitting in the driveway, one a boy with long unkempt hair and one a girl with a ponytail, legs sprawled out in front of her. There was also another very skinny girl kind of dancing around the driveway in a distracted manner.

Wow, what a blast from the past. This sparked sudden flashbacks of warm summer nights lit by the streetlamps and cooled by the breeze. Laying on the hot cement and getting bit by mosquitos. A good philosophical or religious debate that was never really settled because someone was always obfuscating more than the conversation could bear. Walks down to the lake shore or pick-up basketball games in the dark. Many of my best high school memories are connected to driveways. There was the time Eddius came after us with his squirt gun while we waited on the porch for him to answer the door. Or playing horse in Hope's driveway where the ball would roll halfway down the block if it got away because the driveway was so steep. Sitting in each other's cars for hours in the winter, just to get a little privacy. Talking trash to the middle schoolers over our basketball prowess (they may have had the skills, but we had the height). The delivery of Eddius' famous line: "Got any good people to talk about?" That awful night we came back so late from Francis' house that Mom thought we were dead. The day Eddius asked both Hope and I to the prom and we sat out in the rain to pound out the details. And our last conversation, where Eddius reassured us that just to be realistic we should probably expect to never hear from him again. Rolling past that driveway was like looking at a picture of myself from only a couple of years ago (can it be such a short time has passed?) and seeing with mirror-like accuracy the way life used to be.

I look back at my high school self with envy and no small degree of frustration. To the current me, it seems like I had it so good back then, and didn't appreciate it a bit, caught up in complaining about how little there was to do, or how I wished this or that was different. I never appreciated the simple fact that I had friends to sit with me in the driveway until late at night, talking nonsense or searching for the most sublime of truths.

I find myself daydreaming more this summer than ever before about how things might have been if I had chosen to stay in Omaha for college, or if my family had at least not moved away. Because I am definitely a "grass is always greener" kind of person, I think, "Of course, if only this or this would have happened, everything would be lovely." In my thinking brain, I know that isn't true. But I still cringe a little at the sight of someone else enjoying the driveways and summer nights that are no longer mine.

Espionage in Myer Park

Well, I was going to post something deep and intricate here, but then it got to be late, and my brain stopped functioning on that level, so this is lighter fare.

Intermittently, when we forget about the draining and near lethal effects of mid-summer Texas heat, my sister and I decide to take our fitness gig on the road to nearby Myer Park (for those of you who remember the Omaha house: not that nearby, we actually have to get in the car for this one). The funny thing about Myer Park, aside from its near perpetually deserted status, is the behavior of the squirrels that live there. There are not hoardes of them, but there are enough so that you could see from five to seven strategically placed squirrels through the course of one rotation around the park's circumference. They sit on things (trees, benches, grills) like little watch dogs and stare at you menacingly as you make your way past them, sometimes following you a bit down the trail, just so you know who's in charge. Today, one was actually laying flat against the sidewalk commando style and then as we got closer it hopped up and started charging. Fortunately my sister screamed and ran away, disorienting it momentarily and allowing us to make a fairly clean escape. She has designated herself as the official squirrel scout, a bastion of safety and awareness to protect us from the evil schemes of the four-footed furballs. The only hitch is that she never sees the little beasties until we're practically on top of them, so the whole screaming thing is probably as much from surprise as it is from fear.

I think it would be great sport if we brought our dog out and let her tear around chasing after the little critters. But, it's best to remember that it could get ugly, since this dog is about the most vicious 16 lbs. of squirrel-hating frenzy you could ever wish to see. Furthermore, my sister has some only half-comprehendable fears about her getting sucked into one of the rider mowers that roam the park like bottom feeding fish. Ummm...I don't get it either.

My sister, by the way, is convinced that these particular squirrels are all in cahoots in a plot for world domination. This was decided from our very first encounters with them last summer, probably because they do seem at times to be so well-organized. Today the scheme was further refined when she decided that the black birds that you also see intermittently are in on it too, serving as some kind of guard to give the squirrels advance warning of our approach. Keep in mind, the girl is already thirteen, so it's not like these are mere childhood fancies. No, the complexity and vividness of this fantasy life are signs of a sickness of mind that could only mean one thing: she's destined to become a writer someday as well.

Warning

A word to the wise: Stay-at-home moms are one of the most vicious and cut throat groups I have ever run up against. They'd break your arm to get to that last can of half-price tuna fish. I'm thinking of carrying mace with me on my next trip to WalMart...

Thoughts on the Pilgrimage

"They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland."--Hebrews 11:13-14

So right about this point, dear readers, you may be wondering about the title of this blog: why it was chosen, what it means, and etc. For your enjoyment/amusement, I will try to offer an explanation.

During the summer after my senior year of high school, my family moved down to Houston, Texas and I had the delight of being sent down with them. The irony was that I had lived in Omaha, NE for 11 years before the move, hating the whole state ever since we first set foot in it and begging my parents periodically for a move. Well, I finally got one. Unfortunately, it only came right before I was about to move away myself.

It has been difficult coming back to my "new home" in Houston for Christmas and summer breaks. There has not been a time since we moved down here that I have been able to stick around long enough to put down roots or establish myself. Because of this, every time I come back the reality of the situation slaps me in the face. I might as well be a tourist in this city (in fact, my family even refers to me sometimes as a guest). I have not been here long enough to make friends, and time here is spent far away from my old ones. It is still hard for me to find my way around in my car, and I can get disoriented just running errands. I can't get comfortable in the room in which I now live, since I haven't spent more than four consecutive months in it. I could not refer to this place as home by any stretch of the imagination.

Yet, on trips that I have taken back to Omaha to visit my father and my friends, I have found myself unable to return like a prodigal on the way back to the family farm (that was a metaphor, not everyone in Nebraska lives on a farm). That place has my past, my memories. Yet I find it awkward sometimes to be with old friends, catching up on a year's worth of happenings in the space of a few days, not to mention the changes have both gone through in the interim. Our old home was sold to people who put ugly wooden flowers in the yard and don't take advantage of the beckoning wilds of Pinesacott, which stretches behind the house. And of course, West O where I grew up is the building capital of the world, so everytime I go back, acres of new shopping centers have sprung up and rearranged scenery that was once familiar. Hmmm...now what?

Houghton is more my home now than anywhere, but if I ever stop to think about it (which I avoid doing because the thought is painful) I am only passing through in the strictest sense of the words. There are only two more short years in my college career and after that I will be thrust out into the howling wasteland we know as the "real world."

Okay, what exactly is the point of all this? During my Mayterm in Mexico, Profe told us that missionaries are happiest on an airplane, because they don't quite belong in either the culture they just left or the one they are heading towards. On the plane they can look forward to the good points of the culture they are heading too, forgetting all the negatives and the inevitable awkwardness of realizing that they don't fit. But the only time they truly feel at home is when they're in limbo. This feeling of uneasiness lead somebody to coin the phrase Pilgrim Principle, which basically says that this feeling keeps us liberated from being entangled by the things of this world so we can know with greater clarity that our only true home is in heaven.

I say that's crap. While it may be true enough, it is tougher to deal with living it out in flesh-and-blood existence than it sounds when it's so nicely packaged with its alliterative title. I can't speak for everybody, but I truly ache for whatever it is that we mean by "home." I want a place to belong, a place that's safe and familiar. I want a place with people who love me and want to see me grow. When times are tough, it is even harder not to have those things; those are the times that awaken desires in me for freedom, for real life, for fulfillment and purpose. I want to go home.

But for now I know I'm only a pilgrim, and pilgrims have to live with that ache. I set my sights on where the lights are warm and the people are loving, but for now I see that place only as a tiny speck at the end of a long road. All I can do is try to do all the good I can for my fellow pilgrims and for anyone else I meet along the journey. I'm not a fan of those who let themselves get lost in daydreams of flying away to stardust and clouds of glory. All we have to work with is the here and now. And by God's grace, I hope to do the best I can with what I've got, and maybe permit myself just an occassional glance over the River Jordan.

The First Entry

When I was in my junior year of high school, I had my first creative writing class with my dear good friend Mr. Hoshaw. One of the disciplines that Mr. Hoshaw wanted us to get into, at least for the duration of the class, was keeping a writing journal and writing in it every day. While this was not my first introduction to the beauty and grace of life lived inside the composition notebook (thanks to Mrs. Thurber...maybe more on that later?) he did provide us with a revolutionary and very valuable tip. "Open up your journal," he said, as we all sat with our shiny new notebooks lying on our desks, "Take the first page, and turn it over. Don't write anything on that first page. Leave it blank." The reasoning was this: writing on the first page of a new journal can be so intimidating that some people would rather never write anything at all. (Some people may also have nervous breakdowns and run screaming from the room, but that can happen at any stage of the writing process, so we mostably ignore them) You want to sound cool and intelligent from the get go, or at least not make an ass of yourself, and so you can sit there sweating for hours trying to come up with the perfect first sentence. This effect is compounded when you remember that forever afterwards, when anyone opens this journal, these are the words that will stare them in the face. This way, there is no pressure, no attempt to sound more sophisticated and brilliant than you actually are. Suddenly, you are not at the beginning, you are just tossed into the mix, and from there you're liberated to simply write like mad. Welcome, friends, to the beauty and freedom of the blank first page.

Blank Page