Up @ Night #8 - The important things that don't matter.

Christian Horizons is a really neat organization. Check them out.

They hired me a little while ago. Last week they said that I would be starting at a house soon. Soon is not nearly as soon as I'd like, though. I've been living here in Thorncliffe for more than a week...and I guess I'm unemployed. I know they'll call eventually (probably). But even then there is the nagging question: what if I don't get enough hours? What if they don't really need me? What if I can't do this thing that I've set out to do? Crash and Burn. Prove all the nay-sayers right. Screw the pooch.

And the scary thing is, failure, as far as I can see, is actually possible. I have a wife and two kids. No job=no rent / food. What if I can't make ends meet? It's possible.

I caught myself trying to come up with get-rich schemes. Well, not get-rich, more like get-decently paid. And right around the time I started toying with the idea of dancing on the street for quarters I remembered something someone very wise once said.

Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness. Then all these things will be added to you

.

Jesus just told us not to worry about food, drink, clothes, rent, Internet, phone. Because the secret is seeking Christ above all. Running after his righteousness. His kingdom. And if we run after it, we can be confident that he will take care of the details.

I'm going to keep waiting for the call from Christian Horizons. I'm going to call them a few times every day until I hear form them. I'm not going to turn away money that comes my way. But I refuse to chase it. I refuse to live for it. Instead of trembling by the phone and staying up at night wondering if August's rent cheque will bounce, I'm going to seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness. If I'm still living here next month, you'll know that it worked.

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Proclaiming #6 - Priorities

Every society generates an unspoken list of priorities. It's not really designed by anyone. It's just the general consensus of the population. It's probably the best way to understand a people. I've been trying to make a list of the priorities of our Canadian people group. Here's a rough list:
- Safety. Death is the ultimate evil. Anything that reduces the risk of death or injury is good.
- Entertainment. Being bored or under-stimulated is almost as bad as death.
- Ease. Convenience as an end in itself, not as a means to save time.
- Independence. Each individual ought to be able to function as an island. This is valued both as it tends toward life-building experiences and as it protects our choices from outside interference.
- Freedom. The ability to choose our own paths without arbitrary interference.
- Tolerance. The embracing of all manners of living as completely as possible.

This started me thinking about what the priority list of the Christian sub-culture might look like. This seemed more difficult because most of them would be the same in some sub-cultures, while in others they might be completely different. I decided to go with the sub-culture I knew best. Fundamentalist.
- Biblical authority. If it is not of the Bible it is bad. This spreads to all levels of life. Even some that many would consider irrelevant.
- Separation. The church is separate from the world. As such the things of the world are evil and practices of the world are suspect.
- Tradition. The way we have done it is good and change is resisted unless for very good reason.
- Solemnity. Quiet, deep worship. Flippancy is considered very bad.

And, of course, all this started me thinking about what a list would look like for a group of people who followed Jesus. This one was hard, because it required me to try to push past the way I ordered my life to see the way I should order my life.
- Love. Love to God and love to man. Nothing higher than this. Nothing. Not safety, not money, not freedom. Love above all.
- Hatred. Seems strange, eh? But hatred of sin, I think, is something high on the list. Hatred of hypocrisy. Of death. Of pain and injustice. Of philosophies that cause these things.
- Holiness. The emulating of the life and love of Christ. The faithful outworking of everything he pointed to. Joy. Discipline. Service. Purity.

I can't think of any more. Can you?

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Up @ Night #7 - Expectations

How long have I been here? How long have I waited to get here? Suddenly I remember the lost, familiar feeling I had in Pakistan.

It's not that this place is actually like Pakistan. It's not, really. Even the people are different, if you look closely. In my area of Pakistan there was a homogeneous feel. Most people were Sindhi. Some were tribal or Punjabi. That was about it. Here there is a metropolitan of South Asian people groups. Not just Pakistani and Afghani and Persian. But deeper cultural differences. Pashto, Gujrati, Sindhi, Punjabi, Mohajir, Dari. The cultural climate is different. TPK is not Pakistan.
So it's not a similarity of people or landscape that makes me feel the same way. It's, I think, a familiarity of expectation.

You know what it's like achieving something you've been pressing after, right? You're sure that everything will turn upside down once you get it.

But things don't really turn over as much as you'd think they should. I'm still me. I still wake up in the morning with a horrible taste in my mouth. What has changed? Not much.

TPK isn't really the holy grail of life. It's a place. A neat place, yes. One of the most interesting places I've ever been to. But it's only a place. I think I was expecting TPK to change me in some way that another area could not.

But places don't change us. Or, they rarely do. People change us. Ideas change us. But places don't. I seek for a radical change in my life that will, in turn, elicit a radical change in the lives of whatever community I'm living in. But the radical change in my own life must first come from either myself or something higher than myself.

I was up at night troubled with the expectations I have in this new place. Expectations about what I can do here. About what can happen here. About what I ought to feel and accomplish here. And so I forget that this is just a place. A place filled with beautiful people who are hurt and broken.

So I let go of expectations. I live the way I preach: not as a missionary or a man with a project, but as a simple lover of Jesus who loves his neighbors. Boo ya.

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

It's about time

For the past two months I think I've been pretty consistent with the blog. A post every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I was feeling like a normal blogger. Like I had slain the beast that devours most blogs before they are a month old. It was a good feeling. And then I missed Monday and Wednesday.

Sorry about that.

In my defense, I only got Internet at my NEW HOUSE last night.

New house, new house. The first time we've lived in our own place in two years. Want a tour?



And here are a few slick action shots:

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Like a Bee

I'm busy.

We move to Toronto on Sunday. Starting a new job. Living on our own for the first time in two years. Very busy. Don't feel like I have time to read, write and work as much as I'd like to. I'm hoping things will be different in TPK (that's Thorncliffe Park, not Toilet Paper Kingdom).

So my wordcount is low. I've finished reading about 2 books since I've been in Canada, and none of my projects (save this blog) are looking any closer to completion than they were three weeks ago. Very, very busy. With what? I'm not too sure.

And I've taken on a hobby. Wanna see it?
T-Shirts. I make stuff out of T-Shirts. It's a great hobby. It requires your fingers and eyes, not much more. So it's easy to multi-task. When I make stuff from T-Shirts I almost feel like I'm not actually that busy. And once I've made something I feel energized and ready to do some 'real' work.

So if any of you have any old T-Shirts you don't want, send them my way and I'll make something amazing out of them.

And that's all I have to say to you this Friday morning. I would have made a deep, thought-provoking post, but I'm just too busy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to turn some second-hand clothing into amazing works of art. See ya Monday.






Peace.

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Ariel's Story #1

   I think I was dreaming.
   Yeah, I must have been dreaming. But I can't get it out of my head. So I tell it to you, and wonder if I'll ever dream again.

   I dreamed a dream and, behold, I was in another world. A land of strange happenings called Isht Drowl. Don't ask me how I knew the name. It was all a dream, remember. A dream...

   It was hot there. Dry. Dust clouds kicked up all over the empty horizon. Tumble weeds didn't tumble, they just fell over and crumbled. There wasn't much there, really. Nothing of value at least. I walked for a while, alone. The crumble weeds seemed to quiver as I went by. Quiver and crumble, quiver and die.
I saw a caravan in the distance. A long way off. Coming closer. Coming nearer. Loud, lush, wet and warm. The sound of music, off-key, danced with epileptic steps ahead of the troop. The bright flashes of colour - red, blue, purple - wreaked havoc on my eyes, grown used to the sand and dirt and crumble. They came closer. I saw them. I knew them.
   The leader was Itaemor, husband of Tithite. Not much could be said about him. And while much could be said of his wife, almost none of it would be useful or positive. Ugly as sin, she dressed in the most expensive clothing she could find. And she was very good at finding. They had their daughter in tow, Marasia, who had her own daughters in a satchel on her back. The three did not speak to each other. They yelled at the servants and musicians, who made up the bulk of the caravan, and trudged through the landscape, leaving tracks in the hard dirt. They did not notice me as they past. With nothing else to do, I followed them.
   A servant walked next to me, carrying a bed on his back and a millstone in his hands. He smiled at me, toothless. We conversed. He asked me about where I came.
   "In truth, I do not know," I replied, the memory of my own world having faded away.
   He nodded, as if he understood and accepted that. "Well, you're welcome here with us," he said. "Just try not to slow us down. We almost got slowed down yesterday and, whew, it was trouble."
   "Itaemor is in a rush, then?"
   "Yep. But more so is his wife. Golly, she don't slow down for nothin'. Why, she killed my brother once for slowing down to piss. Ain't that sad?" he said with a grin.
   I blinked. "It sounds very sad."
   The overburdened porter shrugged (a marvelous feat to see, with that bed on his back). "Not nearly as sad as it would have been if she had killed me. But you know what the biggest problem is?" he asked.
   I looked around at the caravan, struggling through the wasteland. Looked at Itaemor, throwing something heavy at a servant (killing him, I think), and his wife kicking one of her grandchildren for walking too slow. "I don't think so," I admitted.
   "She's inconsistent. Why, she slowed us down horribly this morning. And no-one said a thing! Not a thing! Ain't no justice. And she slowed us down plenty more than my brother did."
   "How did she slow you down?"
   "Labour."
   "Excuse me?"
   "She gave birth. I suppose I ought to give her credit, though. She didn't waste any time on useless sentimentality."
   I was sure I was still misunderstanding. "Sentimentality?"
   "Yeah, she just pushed the bugger out, put her pants back on and kept moving. I guess I gotta give her credit for that. But it took a good hour to get the thing out."
   "Thing?"
   "The baby."
   My heart beat in that strange hot way it does when you have a sudden realization that's either very good and special or very bad and perverted. "She gave birth to a baby this morning?"
   "Yeah. Like I said, slowed us down a bit. Could've been worse, though. I guess she could have tried to keep it."
   "She left it?!"
   The servant raised an eyebrow at me. "'course she did. Time ain't on our side, after all."
   I stopped walking. The servant did not. He didn't even look back. The whole caravan passed me by and I found myself alone. My thoughts pulled me back in the direction the caravan had been traveling from. The picture of a baby in the waste morbidly danced in my head. I turned and ran.

   It was a few hours before reached it. I wished I hadn't.
   It screamed and flailed in its own blood, already caked on its skin. Her cry was hoarse and dry, like something soft and frail being pulled across a rusty bed of nails. Her cord had not been cut. She had not been washed. She was screaming in utter loneliness. I did nothing.

   A man in simple clothing came by. His robe was long and moved in a strange way, almost as if it was against the wind. He stopped beside the infant, still screaming in that unbearable way. He crouched beside her and whispered a word into her ear that I could hear clearly above the screaming and the desert wind. "Live."
   The child stopped screaming immediately. Her body tensed and went ridged, as if a current was running through her. The caked blood on her liquefied and drained into the sand. Her cord was cut and dissolved away in the wind. The man covered her with the corner of his robe. She cooed. He smiled. She lived.

I woke.

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Luke's First Wish

     It was odd that the two notes would arrive at the same time. Odder still that letters of such weight would come immediately after graduating the academy. It seemed that he had been at the academy all his life. Sitting there in the sterile barracks Luke could hardly remember the boy he had once been, dusty and wild-eyed, spending his spare time at Tasha Station or pegging off wamprats in his old T-16.
     What an odd hobby, he thought to himself.
     He couldn't bring himself to regret that rash choice, a year earlier. Biggs was going to the academy and it hardly seemed fair for Uncle Owen to forbid him from joining him. Even though everything had changed between him and Biggs since then (rumors were that Biggs had gone AWOL and joined the rebellion), he still couldn't bring himself to regret. Even with the first letter in his hands.

        Cdt. Skywalker,
     It is with deep regret that we inform you of the tragic events that have recently occurred on Tatooine. Your aunt and uncle have been savagely murdered by the roaming bandits you call Sand People. The tiny Imperial presence in the area has already made it their number one priority to hunt down the murderers and bring them to swift justice. You have my deepest condolences.
          Sincerely,
           Davin Felth

     Out in the cold, dark abyss of space, Luke could not really realize that they were gone. In a way, they had been gone for a full year. He had never actually believed that he would see them again. So the letter, though depressing, could not completely overshadow the other message he had received.

        Cdt. SKYWALKER,
     You are commanded to report to DOCKING BAY FOUR at 2300hrs tonight for transport to your new posting. At the moment this posting is classified TOP-SECRET and you are ordered to share the new of this posting with NO-ONE. Upon arrival you will be awarded rank of FLIGHT OFFICER.
          Wing Commander Jestman

     The sympathy letter from Felth was in his right hand. The posting order in his left. He looked at them both. One seemed brighter. One seemed bigger. One had a future. He put the note in his right hand down on his bunk. Half-smiled to himself.
     That clinches it, he thought, moving out was the right choice. I would have been killed along with them. There never was a future for me on that rock.
     He lay down to sleep what little he could before his post.

     There were no windows in the cargo bay. Only people. Rows and rows of people. Most of them were older, gruffer than Luke. Only a handful had been in the academy with him. And those, he remembered, were near the top of their respective classes, like he himself had been. No one spoke to him as they cruised through hyperspace. Few spoke at all. It was as if most of them had never met each other. Not that it mattered. Their job was not to socialize, Luke knew and understood this. He was a little ashamed of the foolhardy boy he had been, playing around and wasting time with friends when there was such a conflict going on in the galaxy. A wasteful one that refused to allow peace and order to take charge.
Well, at least he was on the right side now.
     Luke felt the ship drop out of hyperspace. They were close. Announcements sounded over the PA system. Assignments were handed out. Luke learned the name of the new post: Death Star.

     It felt like walking onto a starport on a planet, not a space station. The artificial gravity had no fluctuations. The sleek design and brightly-lit corridors were wide open, as if there was plenty of room to spare. And the hangers, oh the hangers!
     Luke didn't pay much attention to the hanger his transport docked in. It was the TIE hangers that drew him. His old T-16 seemed like a child's toy next to these ships. More maneuverable than anything he had ever laid his hands on, the TIE fighters seemed made for him, their quick reactions to every delicate touch thrilled him and told him a deep truth: You belong here with us.
     And, of course, he did not spend all his time staring at them. He flew them. Oh how he flew them! His heart flew when he found out that he had been selected to train with an elite TIE squad. To study under them, fight alongside them, and help bring order to the galaxy. Life could not have been better.

     He trained long. The other pilots became close friends. He went on missions, kept the peace. He even provided escort once when Lord Vader (who lived on that very station!) went out for his weekly flight. Life was good.
     And peaceful. There was not much need for battles after the Death Star began pressing the wasteful rebellion down. The last battle he remembered was at a far-away system called Yavin. A rebel base was lodged there. The Death Star moved in. The rebels reacted with violence. There was a terrific battle. Luke fought in it. On his own he took down four X-wings and a Y-wing (on his own!). The battle fizzled out and the rebel base was removed. The rebellion faded away after that. Faded into nothingness, with no will left to fight.

     On the other side of the galaxy another force was fading. The force residing in a small green creature, once strong and vibrant, drained away. Leaving a shell of despair and sadness and the repeating words, "Why...why?"

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Another time

I don't usually do this. Usually, come early Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning I am not blogging. Even though that's when my blogs are published.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been pretty consistent with three posts a week for about a month now. It's part of my regiment of discipline and my desire to never become...irrelevant. Did you know most blogs and most twitter accounts sit inactive, like cyber-space zombies? I think that's because most of them were irrelevant to begin with. Just a bunch of guys talking about what they did that way in stale, common prose. Not really offering anything of value to the world.

I want to offer something. And I was doing pretty good at it, I thought. At least it had potential. So much potential that my blogs were all being posted a good week after they were written. Not only was I not struggling against a due date, I was ahead of the game.

And then this week started. Things are getting hectic. I'm preaching, moving to Toronto, trying a handful of other projects. So I'm typing this in real-time, and desperately hoping that it'll be the last time.

But I'm going to be true to my resolve. Monday, Wednesday and Friday are blog days. If you stumble on this blog on one of those days and there's nothing new, you have the right to kick my ass (or butt, if you don't want to take it out on my donkey). Just give me until noon.

And in the future, I promise to make these posts more relevant and fun and all that crap that blogs are supposed to be.

Love ya.

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Good resolves and productive envy

You'd probably never be able to guess what my favorite book is. Knowing me, you might assume it would be one of the sci-fi masterpieces like Ender's Game or Dune (both of which were great, especially the latter). Or maybe you'd think I'd go for a fantasy epic like Wheel of Time. Then again, maybe you'd think I'd be down with the modern literary fictions like Kite Runner (which, yes, blew my mind). Or maybe you'd assume I'd give the godly answer and cite a theological work or something by the puritans or CS Lewis. Those would all be good guesses, but you'll never guess what book I name the favorite.

So I guess I'll tell you...

Actually, I think I won't. I'll make you guess. First one to guess my favorite book wins a smiley face. And if you guess the second-favorite you might get a prize as well.

Now, I read this favorite book of mine about two years ago. And when I put it down I had seriously conflicting emotions. The first was a thrill at reading something so beautifully crafted. It was exhilarating to finally sink my teeth into such a juicy, thick piece of literary meat. But it was also depressing. You see, at that time I was halfway through a pretty hefty writing project and I was just feeling like it was coming together. But when I read this book I realized that, next to it, my work was a piece of donkey dung: very common and worth almost nothing. I stopped writing for a while.

I eventually picked myself up, though. I got back on the horse. You know why? I wanted to be like the one who wrote that book. No. I wanted to be better, in my own way. I wanted to present something to the world that would showcase my worldview in a form that was oozing with skill. And I think I wanted it for Christ's sake (and my own, too).

So I resolved. I finished my project. It's still nothing compared to my favorite book, but it's a step in the right direction. My next work also won't be worthy of sitting on the same shelf as my favorite, but it's another step. And one day, who knows? Maybe some dumb kid like me will hold something that's flown off of my fingers and invent a good resolve with it. And maybe someone will know Jesus a bit better. Who knows?

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com

Good times, good times

I bet you've been itching all weekend to know how my anniversary went. Because, of course, you have no life of your own to get on with and you're perpetually yearning for news on mine.

Well, I guess not. But I bet you like pretty pictures. So here's a rundown of how my weekend anniversary part-eh went.

First we cruised over to the Science Centre, where Ben and Melissa were waiting for us (surprise!).
The Science Centre was neat...not nearly as mind-blowing as it was when I was twelve, but I was with people I loved, so it was cool nonetheless.





After bidding farewell to Ben and Mel, we went down to the Gladstone Hotel, the oldest running hotel in Toronto. Each room was specially designed by a different artist. We stayed in the Red Room (sounds too close to Redrum for my tastes...)





And the entire evening was a riot. Karaoke, Ethiopian coffee, good food, and a wonderful wife. Yay for happy!

This is second-hand unless you're reading it at http://www.theilliteratescribe.com