on suffering

Becky and I talked for a while last night. About lots of things. We talked about things we wish we could have changed about last semester. There were things in my control that I wish I would have changed: losing weight, overcoming my nicotine addiction, enriching my communion with God, making more friends. But there was one thing out of my control that I wish could have been different: Jessie and I were really good friends, and I made the mistake of telling her that I liked her, and midway through the semester she just up and stopped talking to me. Our friendship died overnight. All I got was an apology. It hurt like hell. I’m sure she didn’t know she was hurting me. But it still hurt a lot. And I grew even more cold and calloused than I was before. 

Becky says she likes suffering because she learns from it and grows. I made the comment, “The question is, what do we learn, and how do we grow? Do we become cynical or more hopeful? Do we become better people, or do we turn into cold and hardened jerks?” I’m afraid of becoming the latter. It’s just so difficult. My life seems to be one constant suffering after another, with sporadic bursts of happiness in between—but never a happiness that lasts. Happiness feels so fleeting, so empty, so vain. Am I becoming cynical? Yes—but I cling to hope even if it hurts. Hope that happiness will come, a happiness and joy that will last. A hope that my greatest dreams will not falter but come to pass—my dreams of laughter, love, friendship, romance. I cling to these hopes so tightly.

creepy dreams

A friend and I had survived the plague and were holed up on the top floor of a warehouse. We had installed titanium plates over the windows that would open at dawn and close at dusk. We had been doing quite well for ourselves, but a gang of survivors wished to take our hideout as their own. They came close to dusk, climbing through the windows and attacking us. We tried to fight them off, but they captured us. They took us outside to leave us for the humans-turned-vampires, but we escaped and climbed ladders to the upper windows. They followed just as dusk began to set. My friend was the first through the window, and I was climbing after him. The titanium plates over the windows began to close. I squirmed my torso through the window, but one of the gang members had grabbed my ankle and was pulling me back, hysterical as she tried to yank me out so she could get in. Terror gripped us all. I remember my friend yelling at me, and me yelling back—“She’s got me! She’s got me!” The windows continued to close. I knew that if I didn’t get free, they would cut me in half, right along the pelvis. But I knew that if I let go, an even worst fate awaited me as night fell. We began to hear them emerging from the shadows of the surrounding buildings, grotesque and unimaginable in their horror. They scurried back and forth below. One of the gang members had been at the bottom, lost in confusion, and her screams met my ears as they overtook her. The ladder began to shake, and I looked down, past the woman holding my ankle, and saw several vampires ascending the ladder. I kicked my ankle as hard as I could. The titanium plates were drawing closer. The woman shrieked at me, “Let me in! Let me in!” I felt my ankle jerk, and then her grip was gone; I glanced down to see one of the vampires grabbing her leg and pulling. She clung to the ladder, face ashen, then the creature won: she tumbled through the air, screaming as she fell, and landed among them at the building—luckily, she was killed on impact. They vampires hungrily yelped and shouted as they tore apart her corpse. The other vampire was right on me; I quickly kicked my way through the window, tumbling along the floor. I scurried like a crab onto my feet, just in time to see the vampire coming through, eyes maniacal, teeth stained a morbid yellow. It gave a shuddering cry, then my friend appeared, swinging a wooden beam. It cracked into the vampire’s skull an sent it tumbling back. The titanium plates closed shut, and we stood panting in the gloom of the upper warehouse floor, our ears ignited with the sounds of the vampires down below, hungrily feasting. 

The dead were returning to life to feast on the living. Becky, Jessie, Scuttle, Lydia and I were holed up at Becky and Jessie’s house in Michigan. We’d been there several weeks. The windows were boarded up and the doors locked. We spent nearly all our time in the house, unless we needed to venture out for food, which one never did alone. So far we had been lucky, but a horde of zombies had found us. They threw themselves against the wooden doors, shrieking, hammering, trying to get in. We rushed upstairs, into Becky’s bedroom. We all huddled together, hearts racing, trying to listen, to see what was happening, but the noises of the rampaging zombies were all but muted by our ferocious heartbeats. We heard the glass windows shatter and the wooden boards splinter. Then they began moving through the first floor, knocking things over in their thirst to find us. We all cowered together, rigid with fear. “They’re coming up,” Jessie said. She had better hearing than all of us. No one doubted her. Becky rushed forward to shut the door to her room; but as she reached the door, a bloated, vein-ridden arm reached through the crack and grabbed her. She let out a scream. Lydia ran forward to help just as Becky was yanked into the hallway. Lydia darted after her, despite Scuttle’s pleas for her to remain with the rest of us. Jessie fell onto Becky’s bed, sobbing for her sister. I stood planted where I was, unable to move. Lydia had disappeared into the hallway; we heard another scream. She appeared in the doorway, leaning in, then her eyes bulged and she was jerked away. The sounds of crunching meat and splitting bones filled our ears. A pool of blood appeared running down the carpet in the hallway. A shadow fell over us, one of the zombies standing there, wearing a bloodied t-shirt and frayed jeans. It had once been a beautiful teenage girl; now it had become a monster. It lunged inside, and then I woke up.

life: the journey

Life is a journey. New chapters are constantly being written, the beginnings and ends unknown until they arrive and pass us by. Our lives are a sequence of scenes and acts, in which we are actors and actresses, each working together to the masterpieces we are writing—on an individual, communal, and global scale. Each scene is laced with foreshadowing we cannot perceive, mysteries we cannot understand, and each scene gives rise to the next. Our lives are comedies, dramas, soap operas, and thrillers. Each of our stories is filled with surprise twists and turns, leaving us outside the realm of control over our own destinies. I have come to view my life as a story. As I look back through all the years I’ve walked on this earth, I come to view my life as an unfolding epic where new actors are born, where nobodies become stars, and where the future hangs in the balance in my decisions here-and-now. There are high points. There are low points. There are beginnings and endings. There are detours, short-cuts, long-cuts, and dead-ends. There are times when life is going at a lightning-fast pace and I can barely hold on; and at other times, life plods slowly along, like a giant dinosaur ambling aimlessly. There are times I want to weep, times I want to laugh; time when I am filled with energy, vigor, and passion; and times when I want nothing to do but curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep. In all of the events of my life, in the good and bad, I am being transformed. I am being molded and shaped, by both my life experiences and by God. At times it feels like nothing is happening; but as I look back on the past, I can see how I have grown, matured, and developed. And I can see that God really did know what He was doing. I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m not sure if I want to know what the future holds. Some days trusting God continues to be a struggle; other days, it comes easy. In the end, we all must do what Tim recommended so long ago: “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” It’s a wild, crazy, unpredictable ride, with tragedies and heartbreakers, with thrills and excitements. We never know what’s around the next curve.

this girl that i like

There’s this girl. That I like. I’ve liked her for a little while now, and I’m torn on what to do. Say something? Say nothing? I’ve perceived flirtatious signals, but in my experience, girls will flirt with boys they have no interest in. Reading girls is a fool’s game. You just have to throw yourself out there and hope you don’t end up shooting yourself in the foot. I’ve talked to my friends about the situation. One friend tells me, “It sounds like she likes you.” Another says, “She’s acting the way she is because she’s close to you and trusts you. It doesn’t mean she has feelings for you.” A lot is at stake; that is, a friendship that I don’t want to ruin. Rob once advised me, “Don’t wait too long to tell a girl you like her, or she’ll play the friendship card.” Gah. I am clueless. She is a wonderful girl. I’d like to date her and call her my girlfriend. I’d be very proud of the fact. But I don’t want to say something, end up realizing I’ve misinterpreted her signals, and then see the friendship flounder. Really good friends are hard to come by, and the idea of losing this friendship—not in the sense of it becoming absent but in the sense of it becoming less than what it is now—is frightening. Any advice would be great.

unleash the beast

I am no casual observer. 

The keys to my future are held in my hand. 

I can either sit on my ass and stay where I am… 

Or I can move forward. 

I’m content, but contentment does not erase the longings within me to be a different person. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally. There is always room for improvement. I have this vision often, a vision that creeps into my dreams, that haunts me when I wake. I’m sitting on the front porch of my yellow cottage-style house, the sun setting over the tops of the trees. I am smoking a cigar, listening to the birds and insects, and inside I can hear my children laughing and my wife washing the dishes. She comes out and joins me, and I snuff out my cigar and we sit on the swing, arms around each other, watching the sun setting. 

I want to be a family man. 

I want to be a loving husband and a loving father. 

Sometimes this dream seems so far away. 

Sometimes it seems as if I had better stop hoping. 

But when it feels like I should embrace resignation, a voice whispers in my ear. 

A voice telling me that I am no casual observer to my life. 

A voice telling me that there is untapped potential within me. 

A voice telling me that there is a beast within me waiting to be unleashed. 

All I need to do is take the bolt-cutters, cut that chain, 

and let the Animal within roam free.

the sunshine retreat

I'm in Sharon, Pennsylvania for the weekend. Helping out with the "Sunshine Retreat" - a weekend-long party for mentally handicapped adults. It's lots of fun. The retreat also serves as a reunion: I get to see several of my old friends again. Jessica, Elizabeth, Margie, Bucci. Amos and Kyle would be included in the mix, but I see them all the time. I have been cuddling with the dogs, watching Animal Planet, and playing in the snow. I have a headache, though, and that's no fun. It's weird being at camp and seeing the trees naked and bare, the snow covering everything. Last time I was here, it was the hottest week of summer. The past four months have gone by so fast. So much has happened. My hopes with Courtney were dashed. My hopes with Jessie were thrown to the sharks. I passed through the dark valley once more, but I came out into the light once again. I'm content to be where I'm at, I'm discovering who I am, and I am making progress as a human being, trying to be a loving person in a world full of selfishness, greed, and indifference. Sometimes I succeed. I'm going to go see if they've cut the cookie cake yet. Bye.

bustin my moves

alex's bar mitzvah

The Temple: the ceremony took place at Temple Emanu-el. It was led by the Rabbi. Several Hebrew prayers and songs were sang, and a message was given on the Joseph story. Alex, being the man of honor, read several Hebrew benedictions. These peoples’ respect for the Word of God is immense. It is a solemn act to withdraw the Torah scrolls from the Ark, and the honor they give the Word of God is something Christians could learn from. The reverence and awe was contagious. I sat back and looked over the murals of the Exodus, the engravings that depicted the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mt. Sinai. This is a culture saturated with tradition and history. They seek to honor their Jewish roots and bring pride to their Israelite heritage. It really is something to ponder. 

Superman: my uncle rented out an Italian restaurant and hired a D.J. for the celebration. It was hilarious to see thirty to forty little Jewish kids wearing their Jewish caps and prayer shawls, dancing to the song “Superman” by Soulja Boy. Sarah told me, “Abraham would be proud.” 

The Kissing Game: The kids played a game during the celebration where the boys sat in a circle. Music was played, and when the music stopped, the girls would have to pair up with a boy and sit on his lap. They would kiss the boys on the cheek, and the one who was too shy to kiss the boy would be the person out of the game. This went on for a while, and then it was the guy’s turn to sit down. The guys went around in the circle, then sat down on the girls’ laps. They said, “We won’t kiss, we’ll just hug,” but the girls were adamant: “Oh, you have to kiss us. And you have to kiss us on the lips!” The boys loved that, seeing as all the girls there were from my cousin’s high school cheerleading squad. It was fun to watch, the preteen awkwardness that shines so bright. 

Alex’s Coming Out: Alex has always been a shy boy, but after the game with the girls, he experienced a “coming out.” He was talking with girls like mad, and he ran around giving them kisses and hugs. My entire family found it hilarious. My uncle was proud of his son: “He’s becoming a man, all right!” 

Never Ceasing Drama: But the drama with this side of the family never ceases. My grandfather had a fit that he had to sit through the Jewish services. “This is garbage!” he kept exclaiming. When the Temple members talked about their practices, which seem strange and foreign to those outside their faith, he remarked hotly, “That’s terrible what they’re doing!” I wanted to sarcastically hiss, “Not everyone’s as narrow-minded and bigoted as you,” but I kept my mouth shut. It’s always better to just ignore him. 

The Bar: Jewish people know how to celebrate. We Christians should take a lesson in that. The bar served a non-ending stream of beer on tap and all kinds of alcoholic concoctions. I didn’t drink, being the Designated Driver, but it was fun to watch much of the family become so drunk they were stumbling around. I danced to the Superman song with my mom and aunt, and my aunt told me, clutching a martini, “You’re going to have the cutest little kids! You’re going to be such a good daddy.” I liked that. I hope I will be one day. Father’s Day is always exciting for me, because it makes me yearn for the day that I can hold my own child in my arms, read my child stories before bed, tuck my child under the sheets, and treat my child like he (or she) is the prince (or princess) of the world.