Strangers in a Traincar

Friday night, dear Hannahbeth and I tripped again to Chicago. We had full intention of sleeping on the train ride there to make up for lost sleep the week before. When we got on the train, however, I was much more keen on sleeping than she was, as she had ingested caffeine earlier in the day (naughty, naughty Hannahbeth).
As we sat down in one of those quad seats facing eachother, the man across the aisle had a small radio with a long antennae and explained in an accent I didn't recognize that he was going to try to listen to the debate. As the train rolled on and the car filled up, we had to sacrifice one of the sides of our quad for a man named David that smelled like he'd just had a cigarette. Hannahbeth and I had a discussion recalling her resemblance to Drew Barrymore, which she then deferred to David for his opinion. He said, 'Not really.' Then I said, 'What about me?' And he said, 'Oh yeah, definitely,' then laughed.
He assumed we were from the North Side and asked us about the Sox. We explained we were from South Bend, and he told us he had a sister in Bremen, where I used to work at a church. He then told us about his work fixing roofs of mobile homes, especially in hurricane-torn areas, and of his sick brother, and of his friends that bet he wouldn't make it to twenty five, which is a sobering thought considering he's a month away from fifty. He also told us of his father, who was abusive and negligent when he was younger, who has since become a born again Christian, surprising David very much.
He got off in East Chicago, and I spied on the arm of a young man across the aisle a tattoo of the character Alice from the disturbing video game of the same name. I asked him about it, and he said it was his favorite game ever. I told the story of a dear friend who went to a college where they weren't allowed to watch movies or listen to music, but she and her roommates played that game. He laughed, and then went back to scribbling in his notebook. I asked the man with the radio if he got the debate. He laughed and said he fell asleep. The young man with the notebook (hereafter, Kyle) told us that he had caught the first half, and described it as mostly Obama on the offensive, and returned to his notebook. The man with the radio (hereafter, Brad) asked Kyle if he was a song writer, and he said yes. I exclaimed that I was also a song writer, and Brad said he was too. We then swapped styles and influences, and Kyle even gave us his demo cd, which proclaimed him as Ill Eagle, the Anti-Rapper. I told them I was a sort of folk singer with urban influences, and Brad explained that he sang traditional songs from his homeland, Belize.

I asked why he left Belize, and he said, 'It's kind of a God thing,' at which point I thought, 'of course it is.'
He told us that he believed in God, and that God speaks to us through His word, and that one day, he felt called to the United States. He asked God for confirmation and turned in his Bible to the call of Abraham: 'leave your father's homeland and go to a land that I will give to you.' He asked for more confirmation and turned to a passage in Isaiah that confirmed it. He then came to Miami, but left because of the culture and ended up in Nappannee, Indiana. I asked if he knew Nappannee Missionary Church. He said his son goes there. I told him that my second cousin is the senior pastor. We all marveled at the smallness of the world.

We parted ways after trading information and embarked into the city to meet dear Chelsea at Moody. There, we watched the improv group Informal (featuring my friend Chris), then sat in the plaza where I met and talked with Chelsea's neighbor and friend Anna, who is from France. After a while, we retreated to our residencies. I was set up to stay in the lounge on my friend Greg's floor. Greg sadly wasn't feeling well, so we were unable to talk like we'd have liked. I borrowed his guitar and played in the lounge, where young men came, introduced themselves, and left. After awhile, a young man named Justin who I'd met two years before on my first vist to Moody stopped in and talked for a while, followed by a young man named Enoch from Traverse City. I asked if he knew where Mancelona was. He did. I started explaining the significance of Mancelona Camp in my life, and said, 'Long story short...' He replied, 'no need to make it short. I've got time, and I'm interested.'
And so, I told the story of my calling and my running from it and then back to it, then the release from my improper view of God's providence that happened at Mancelona. He asked to hear a couple of my songs, then bid goodnight.

This is pretty good for a guy who a week earlier wrote a letter to a friend confessing "i'm terrified of strangers." I think I might just be getting over it.
Praise God.

Wellspring

The other day, I unwrapped a Dove chocolate piece and was greeted by the fortune: "Dare to love completely." Now, I've found in my life that love, with all its beauty, truly is a strange and dangerous thing. Most of the pain in my life have been from love--whether it be a relationship that didn't work out, or being hurt by someone I loved, or the tension between a person I loved and they way their life turned out. But I have never been jaded. Even after falling dangerously in love and give everything I had to someone it wasn't meant for, I still believe that love exists in the way I thought it did my entire life.

The thing is, now that this position of Potential Love of my Life is vacant, my mind doesn't exactly know what to do with its vacancy. Questions play through my mind every time I talk to an eligible young woman looking at the different criteria and then playing through scenarios getting far too ahead of myself. Sometimes, it's just a passing thing. Other times, it races through my mind, keeping me up at night.

The worst thing is, I'm pretty much absolutely sure that God has little to nothing to do with it. Or at least it doesn't seem like His way of doing things (don't even say 'it never does,' homes). I don't necessarily care for it, but I have a hard time keeping this flippant heart and mind of mine under control.

There's an attitude of guarding my heart that I need to develop in myself. Put up walls high enough that only the most providential woman can climb them.
Problem is, I never been to good with walls.

On being an Object of Mercy

Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.

I've prayed that prayer several times throughout the day for the past few weeks, but never as earnestly as today. A cycle of selfishness and indulgence come to an apex between yesterday and today, and it plunged me into shame. So I took a walk down to the river.

As I prayed, my words began to sound differently than what I had thought to say.
'In my moments of loneliness, send me to the lonely.
In my moments of hunger, send me to the hungry.
In my moments of thirst, send me to the thirsty.
In my moments of desperation, send me to the to the desperate'

'Have mercy on me, so that I may have mercy on others, and on myself'

'Allow me to embrace Your image in me and in others, and may I honor it in others and myself.'

By the time I'd gotten to the river, there was no shame. Only mercy.

The Line in the Sand

A good friend, whose every word I take with close consideration told me tonight
"You are a musical genius. I mean it. You have a gifting beyond anyone I've ever met, and you need to start taking it seriously."

That scared* me for a number of reasons. First, I don't necessarily feel like I'm writing the kind of music I could be. That is, I don't always feel like I'm applying myself to write the kind of crazy full orchestra concept albums I would be able to if I tried.
But that's not even the real thing.

There's this line between doing music as a sort of giant hobby and doing it as something I'm deeply invested in that I could even make a sort of living off of. And I've straddled that line for the past couple years. In high school, I would have wanted nothing more, but I'm not in high school anymore. I've certainly began playing shows in much greater frequency over the past year, but most of the times, the audience is made up almost entirely of my friends. I've gone from playing solo to playing with different people at different times, to acquiring a full time trumpet player. I've never used the same drummer more than once, and I haven't had any problem with that. If I cross that line, I'll have to find more full time members, and actually have real practices.
Also, to date, playing live has been something that I could pick up and lay down at will. I can book a show here or there, even on a whim, and not worry about having a show after. Crossing that line means having a schedule to fill, and a responsibility to fill that schedule.
Finally...if I cross that line...I'll have to finish my album. It's been a year and a half, and I just now released CDs with five of the eleven songs, and I'm not happy with that. I've been meaning to finish it this whole time, but I've never had a deadline. If I stepped up and got serious about this music thing, I would have to make a deadline, and that scares* me.

Josh (the friend) and his band and my band and his drummer with a solo project are going to start playing a lot more regularly at different venues. Like a mini tour.

I guess that means I'm crossing the line. At least in a small way.


*not necessarily the right word

Thoughts on Humility.

My blog seems to be growing in readership. People I do not know in person are now following my blog. Does it bother me? Nah. That's kind of the idea. But it does kind of change my choice of what to put in here? Probably not. I'll most likely be just as too open about myself as I have been.
Dude in Florida and dude in Ohio, hello.
You, blogstalker Chelsea. Hello.
Everyone else, hello.

I've been noticing lately that American Christians seem to have a mistaken perception of humility. I find myself feeling a strange kind of guilt any time I find myself saying that I love Jesus more than anything, or that I want to do do all I can to please Him. Wait a minute, my humility says. You're scum. You might try to love Jesus, but you're so incredibly selfish. Since your first breath, you haven't had a single selfless thought. Your first and greatest interest is yourself, and Jesus and everyone else gets whatever's left over.

But the truth is, I feel obligated to say those things, because if I claim I'm anything other than that, I've slipped into pride, which is the greatest sin of all, for out of it stems every other sin. Lately, I've been feeling like this American-style humility isn't necessarily a very healthy way of looking at things. In fact...it's not healthy at all. It's defeatist.
And more than that, it's a vote of no-confidence in the Lord's power to change a life.

It is true that I've been known myself to be selfish, manipulative, dishonest, a cheat, a slave to lust, and a champion at justifying myself before men. But the thing is, that's who I was before. Christ got a hold of me and created in me a new nature. Have I wandered back into the same prisons I've been freed from? Yes, but it's a growing process. Habits established over 17 years are going to take a long time to break. So yes, I still sin. But am I still a sinner? Yes, but a sinner saved by grace, and that changes everything.

Also, there's this big emphasis in the American mindset about not deserving salvation. Good job, folks. We don't deserve it. And I'm not saying that we're wrong in that. What is wrong is that our focus is on what we deserve (as if we could do anything ourselves to change the state of our souls) instead of our inestimable worth, which is in us simply because of the Image of God within us.

Look me in the eye and listen to me. You are worth the death of Christ.

I've been reading the book of Acts lately, and I keep seeing the same stupid disciples in the Gospels healing the sick, casting out demons, even raising the dead. They understood that they had power. They understood that Christ gave them righteousness, therefore--they are righteous. And they didn't shy away from it--they embraced it.

And they had power.

Friendship vs. Sanctity

I had a thought today about the hymn 'What a Friend we Have in Jesus,' and that brought my mind to the newer song 'Friend of God,' and then the slew of other things that have come out of that--to be brief, 'Jesus is my homeboy' t shirts, other songs such as the song 'Jesus, You are My Best Friend' that I used to sing in high school, other things.
At times, I'm not sure if this claim of friendship necessarily gives Jesus the respect and honor He deserves. After all, it is His name that has been exalted high above all names; His name at which every knee--Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist, Satanist, Democrat--will bow at the end of all things. It is this same Jesus that the Restored will fall down and worship at the Renewal of all things. This is that same Jesus who, when He answered, 'I am He,' an entire band of soldiers and Pharisees fell backward from the sheer power of His claim. And people have the nerve to reduce Him to friend?

Then I realized.

He reduced Himself from that. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, 'I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from the Father, I have made known to you.'

Wow.

What a friend we have in Jesus
All our sins and griefs to bear
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer.

Musicscapes.

Today was the singer/songwriter chapel. The singer/songwriter was Mark Roach. He's a worship leader in his local church and a recording artist on a major label. He led us in worship, playing songs that he wrote.

He kept using the phrase, 'Bringing people into the presence of God.' And it got me thinking about my own songs...
Do I write with the intention of bringing people into the presence of God? I can assure you...I do not. Even with the few songs I've written that I've thought of as worship songs, they've spoken more about human suffering and bringing Jesus into that.

I asked the question...does that mean that my songs are on a lower level? Am I not fulfilling my duties as an artist of God? I really...don't think that's so. Sure, you wouldn't be able to have a chapel of students stand up and worship God to my songs, but do they have to fulfill that purpose? I don't think so. Sure, there's a place for songs that praise God for who He is regardless of our own insufficiencies and apart from the terribly messed up world we live in. But that's not my place to write.

Mine is the gutter, the slum, the dark corner of life. Mine is confession, hopelessness, and longing. And after all that, I cry out for help.

This is my place in music.
And I wouldn't change it.

Alive and Full of Life

Since Wednesday, there has been a much needed change in me. Not necessarily in things I'm doing or spending my time with...just with things that have been weighing on my heart and bringing my mind with it. But I talked about that in the last post.

I told someone of the decision I made, and how glad I was with it, and she said, 'tell me that again in a week.' Well, it's only been half a week, but I could surely tell her the same thing today.

It's such a strange place for me to be...I still don't understand why things happened the way they did, and why they couldn't have happened any differently, but I've finally reached the point where I'm at peace with not knowing. Also, I've found out that even though they seem the same, there is a complete difference between giving up and letting go. Giving up is done out of hopelessness because nothing can change. Letting go is done out of hope that things will change. I'm eternally grateful that I finally crossed that threshold.

A friend of mine came to me today rejoicing in her baptism this evening. Then, she revealed a secret to me that gave her incredible shame. I wished I could have just sat with her and held her hand and cried, but instead I could only assure her that Christ took our shame with our sin, and that even this will be used for His glory.
She said she wanted to be used for His glory. I told her that was the first step.

It's so incredible how the Lord can take the ugliest, dirtiest, most vile parts of us and use them to aiding others as they seek to be reconciled to Him through Christ. It's amazing how He can take the most misguided of plans and take them and somehow make the times of desperation great times of growth.
I'm in awe just thinking about it.
I've been reading through Acts lately. Every time it mentions Peter, I make a note that says, "foot in mouth Peter." Every time it mentions the apostles, I make a note that says, "same retarded disciples." And then this foot in mouth Peter and these same retarded disciples go throughout Israel preaching the Gospel of Christ and casting out demons and healing sicknesses and even raising people from the dead.

I can't even imagine.

At the End of Hope, At the Dawn of Peace

A lengthy battle of listening and challenging and pushing and paralysis ended tonight with the choice I didn't want to make and the answer I didn't want to hear.

And right now, at this moment, I am truly, really, completely happy.
(never let me forget this)

Praise the God of backwardness and upside downs.

Lessons.

Yesterday was a day of realization and revelation for me.

Un. There is a word in the New Testament that is translated as 'He helps.' This word is sunantilambanetai (I think).
And it doesn't mean help.
Sun-with
Anti-the other side
Lambanetai-he takes hold.

Dr. Morris explained it like this. Suppose that you were trying to lift a long table from one side. You might be able to get your own side up, but that's it. The ministry of the Holy Spirit then is to take a hold of the other side and carry it with us.
"God won't do anything for us that we can do ourselves," he said. We have to do everything we can, and then the Lord does everything that we can't.

Deux. There is a difference between deserving and worth. Just because you don't deserve something doesn't mean you're not worth that thing.
Prime example: No one deserves salvation. But, each and every one of us is worth the death of Christ.
To often, we get caught up in our deserving, as if we could do something to attain some kind of reward when in reality, we need to embrace our worth, which we have simply because we are created by the Master's hand and because His image resides in each one of us.

Trois. Not as much a realization or revelation as it is just something I found in the Gospel of Mark that I keep forgetting. Last night, I read Mark 5 before bed, and I found a theme developing.
The scene opens with Jesus and the disciples coming ashore in Genessaret and being welcomed by a man living among the tombs who was possessed by an army of demons calling themselves "Legion." The word says, "No one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain," and "no one was strong enough to subdue him anymore." The people had tried to help him, and had found their efforts fruitless, and so they had given him to his fate, content to stay away from him, leaving him there in the tombs, crying out and cutting himself with rocks.
Then, Jesus.
Jesus came and cast the demons from him. When the townspeople came, they saw that same men 'dressed and in his right mind.'
Next, a woman plagued with bleeding for twelve years who had been to every doctor, and 'it never got better. Instead, it got worse.' She touches Jesus' cloak and is instantly healed.
A synagogue leader named Jairus has a sick daughter. He brings Jesus to her, and on the way, a messanger comes and tells them she is dead. Jesus says, 'Don't be afraid, just believe,' and when He arrives, she is well again.

Everyone in Mark 5 was at the end of hope. Everything possible had been done, but with no results.
Then, Jesus.

Amen, amen, and amen.

The Gypsy King, from within his Living room

Last night, I took my first walk to the river since being here. It was my first wandering since I've been here, and that's really kind of surprising. Actually, it's incredibly surprising. The gypsy king has settled down in his two story, eight person house with record player, CD changer, tape deck, three foot tall speakers, color television, VCR, DVD player, a myriad of video game consoles, and music, movies, and games to spare.

I've been thinking about a forty day fast. For a few years, actually. I keep finding reasons to put it off, and thinking of reasons not to. Since the summer, my addiction to food has been getting worse. I'm not eating as constantly throughout the day, but I'm eating much larger portions--more than I should ever need. And it's driving me nuts. I'm not making time to work out, either. Instead, I settle onto the couch with friends and watch movies.

And I'm becoming incredibly unsettled.

I need to start doing something about all of these things soon, lest all of these things gnaw at me until the point where I do something radical in a violent reaction to all of this. I have a tendency to do that--the let things like this go on and wear at me until the action I should have taken against them swells up inside me until I burst and do something drastic. And not always is it something that actually has something to do with the problem. In the past, I've cut my hair off, thrown out CDs, done fifty push ups all at once (and then no more until the next explosion), thrown something into the river, etc. This time, I want my drastic, violent reaction to be to finally do something concrete and productive against these things.


(nonsequitur)
Folks keep saying I'm running fool's errands. Truth is, I've always been a fool.

Reminder

Somewhere along the line, I forgot what a perversion it is to think that God wants to take everything I want away from me.

A Tapped Shoulder

I feel it's a complete secret that I have been in a slump recently. All of this waiting for an answer has really been wearing on me, as much as I try to remember [WorshipAttitudeIntercessionThanksgiving], I concern myself with the answers I think I might be getting, and those all get muddled up between where they are coming from, and (sigh).

This morning I was walking to chapel thinking of all of this. I got to the chapel and found a seat, and I heard


'Just because you're waiting doesn't mean I'm not working.'


I haven't actually set aside a time for prayer since coming back from Brown City. I need to do that. Badly.

Flattery

An anonymous friend sent me this message.

How can words convey what the heart feels and possibly articulate the depths of desire and longing? You are more than simple language; you're the personification of bitter mornings under warm blankets, of sunsets burning with cherry and blond, and of a thousand lights touching the expanse of endless void. I hear a calling in the distance, in the deep of the summer night; and my heart turns to listen to the beauty of inspiration, found in you.

And I haven't been sure what to do with it since.

Which Way to Midway?

From time to time over the past few years, I have played the part of taxi for friends going to Midway. It's a nice, easy drive, and at an hour and a half each way, I don't mind it too much. In fact, I quite enjoy seeing the skyline as I pass over the crest of the Skyway and seeing the people in the city as I drive through the different neighborhoods down Garfield Ave, and then having a nice relaxing hour and a half to myself on the way back (once I get out of traffic, of course).

My trips so far have been without incident. Little did I realize when I agreed to drive Hannahbeth that she and I attract incidents.

It started well enough. We bought a near full tank of gas for a (these days) measly forty dollars. Then, I asked ChaCha for directions to Midway--which became very frustrating due to the 160 character limit on the responses they send. I followed them to Garfield Ave, and then turned a direction I saw fit. Now, I'll have you understand that while driving somewhere unfamiliar, I need nearly constant affirmation that I'm going the correct way, such as route signs every couple blocks, or in this case, airport signs--which were conspicuously absent down the few miles I drove before deciding to take a gamble and take a turn in the wrong direction. After another two miles, I asked a man in a gas station how to get to Midway. He said, 'just turn right here on 57th.'
Mind you, the street he pointed to was not 57th.
And yet, I believed him. For about three blocks.
Then I took a chance on a gut instinct and took a turn that got us back to Garfield and found us the way to Midway.

Now, once at Midway, Hannahbeth told me to drop her off at the United Airlines gate. We drove the whole row and couldn't find it. Were we wiser in the way of airports, we would have known that this might be a bad omen. Alas, we are not. She got out of the car and said she would find it once inside, and then bade me farewell, and I drove off.
Ten minutes later, my phone began to sing, 'I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier.' Hannahbeth was calling! And she was calling with a strange question.
'What's the code for Midway Airport?'
'..I'm not sure. Why?'
'My ticket says ORD. Is that O'Hare?'
'...'

Uh oh.

We discuss what she shall do, now that I'm unable to turn back for her. She says she'll try to catch a bus, or something of that nature, and if not, she'll just cancel her flight and take the South Shore back. I say that sounds like a plan, and we hang up.

Fastforward five minutes. I've just merged onto the Stevenson Expressway, and I'm in the far right lane. I see a sign that says 'Skyway to Indiana: Left Lane.' I proceed to navigate my way through the packed lanes so I may not be completely cut off from my exit. I merge one lane over. Excellent. One lane to go. I divide my attention between the traffic in the lane to the left the car directly before me driven by a man named William. Unfortunately for me, while I'm watching what might be an opening in the next lane, traffic in my lane slows down, and I bump into William's car going a few miles per hour faster than he was.

My nerves shoot through me. I see the small bit of damage done to his bumper and hope that this is nothing like the last minor fender bender I was in, in which the man was incredibly overreactive, to the point of asking to be carried off in a stretcher.

We pull over, and I ask him if he's alright. 'I..don't know. You did hit me.' He asks what happens, I explain, and tell him I'll give him my information. I give him my insurance card and registration, and he writes it down in a small notebook. Meanwhile, he's asking me things about me, where I'm from, if I go to college, etc. He then writes down his information for me--all without calling the police to check the situation, which is a refreshing change for me.

After we exchange information, he says to me:
I'm going to be honest with you. I'm a little worried, because I had whiplash a few years ago, and I have to be honest, I don't feel very well right now. But if I feel alright tomorrow, I'm not going to bring the insurance into it. Because that (points to his bumper), that's Mickey Mouse. I'm still going to have my guy look at it, but if it's just a hundred, two hundred dollars worth of damage, I'm not going to bother with insurance, because it will screw you over, and it's a pain in the butt for me. And I'm not out to rip anybody off. You're a young guy; you're in college, you're trying to get home, so I'm not going to bother with any of that right now.

I thank him for being so kind, and briefly explain my prior experience with stretcherguy. He says again he doesn't want to rip me off. He puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me to have a great day and to be careful. As I'm getting into my car, he tells me that the number on the paper he gave me is his cell phone.

I get into my car and drive away, thanking God for William, and that not everyone in the world is a jerk.


A few miles later, I call Hannahbeth explaining what happened. She then tells me that she can't get to O'Hare, so she's cancelling her flight. Several miles later, she calls to tell me she's staying with our dear Chelsea Henion, our fellow Cool Counselor at Brown City. I don't remember if I told her, but I was a little jealous.

They then text messaged me, with much sass.
Then at church yesterday, Hannahbeth's parents said,
'You know Hannah's staying with Chelsea?
How's that for a scary thought. Those two together?

Sometimes, I rethink introducing them.
Not really.