5,211 Miles of Transition [justin]

It’s been three years since moving to the Northwest. A long distance relationship of two years brought me to the evergreen state with its mountains on one side, the coastline on the other, and granola and coffee shops in between. I’ve quickly grown to love this place and look forward to returning to it again, but for now it’s back to Pennsylvania where family lives.

Mom died last year, and though coming back home for a few years was in the plans before all that happened, her death affirmed the desire to spend some time with family. I’m the baby in the bunch, almost an only child by some standards, with a brother 13 years older and a sister a handful more on top of that. Some of my nieces are going to graduate high school this year. When did they grow up and I hit my late twenties? My dad is looking to retire next year from the military and mentions it almost every phone conversation. I left home with parental anticipations of a new daughter-in-law and now return to a widowed father. Things have changed more that expected.

Naomi is leaving her security back on the West, and not being the best with change, we decide that a two-week road trip would aid in the transition. We have a Subaru packed up and weighed down, a few friends to visit, twenty some mixed CDs and audio books, plus 5000 miles before we arrive. There are no jobs on the East waiting for us, just people. And the way life works, saying hello to some friends means saying goodbye to others.

There is no better time to think, reflect, pray, and, of course, nap than over a road trip of this proportion. I’m not overly anything emotionally - though panic skips rocks with its companion, excitement, in the pond of thoughts in my head. We leave the West close to full moon and should be settled in the East once the new moon hides. I wonder to myself what that symbolism could mean about my time of transition.

Circa 397 miles
Tonight I felt small. The pass over the Blue Mountains with its snow and dirt and dark is what did it. Tractor-trailer trucks were pulled over to the side, chaining up. One was even being towed. I felt alone, driving up the pass in blizzard-like conditions, and, though sparse, welcomed the white headlights behind or the red taillights ahead to keep me company. It seemed primitive and mysterious as I clenched the wheel questioning what sight the dark was hiding on the other side of the guardrail I tried not to slide into. It was aweful.

That’s aweful with an “e”, as in full of awe, which I would describe as the genuine sense of fear combined with wonder. The sensation reminded me of what I took from A.W. Tozer’s book The Knowledge of the Holy, which I finished right before the trip. The book drives you to think of God’s character and attributes and if we would take time to meditate on them, we would become awe struck by His otherness, again both with fear and wonder.

When it comes to God, every person, in part, must be agnostic... or better yet, a mystic… for an agnostic can be apathetic while a mystic passionate about the beauty of the unknown. Yet, thanks be to God for sending His Son in the flesh - lest we all be atheists or pantheists. And thanks be to the Son for not leaving us as orphans but sending the Holy Spirit - lest we be left to our own destruction and devices - suffering from dementia and amnesia.

Circa 586 miles
The mountains, though still large, turned into rolling hills. They are laid bare for the most part - covered in white like a bride with a secret; vulnerable with no trees to hide their true nature. They are well defined, whether in youth with curves or age with wrinkles and crevasses; smooth, with no harsh or jagged peaks. Those mountains know who they are.

Before we left, our pastor took us out to lunch and was trying to describe how his concept of holiness has been changing. Morphing from a do-this/don’t-do-this model to an identity issue, he said that the most holy and righteous thing we can do is be who God made us to be. We are to be conformed to the likeness of Christ – uniquely conformed. It is hard to wrap my head around that. How can a jillion followers be distinctively different from each other and yet be specifically like Jesus?

Yet… I believe its true. Maybe the enigma is rooted in a shallow view of freedom. Maybe we’re scared (rightfully so) of who we are as fallen people but even more scared of the freedom that comes with the truth of “Christ in me”.

Circa 2,057 miles
A side trip yesterday put us at the Grand Canyon. As you stand on the edge of the rim and take in the vastness of it, you feel like you are going to fall into it or maybe that it is somehow going to swallow you into itself. Interestingly, however, because of the sheer grandness of it you almost think you can reach out and touch a canvas backdrop that would expose it as fake. But it is sincerely there. I suppose that’s how it is with items more complex than what we can comprehend – we doubt that they are authentic, whether people or events or God. The problem is that the things are the most difficult to explain are also somehow the things that awaken life inside of us.

Circa 3,357 miles
A three-day layover in Houston has us visiting Naomi’s grandma. I got the car checked out and the brakes cost an unexpected 400 smackers… ugh. I sit on the curb next door to the mechanic at a closed down Chinese restaurant waiting for the work to be finished. Financial strain has me thinking about mediocrity again.

I survey the landscape of mediocrity and, though I feel the creeping temptation, I know I do not want to settle there. I don’t want to merely accept a job that pays bills but brings no satisfaction to my soul, or a marriage that is committed but not connecting. I don’t want to have a freedom that looks more like laziness than liberty, nor a life of spirituality that has the form but no substance. I truly value faithfulness and understand that these years on earth won’t always be peaches and cream, but I don’t want to negate the divine spark or breath that turned inanimate dust into a living being. I want those black and white days from It’s a Wonderful Life with its violent lovemaking and passionate necking, where money was mainly important only to help others.

All of us have been sold the American dream, but what we really need is a dream of our own… or better yet, a dream of God birthed into us. And that dream can be confusing because fulfillment could be found anywhere from being a stylish cultural arts director to a godly janitor to simply a father of three and husband of one. The normal Christian life should be anything but mediocre since we carry the Spirit of Christ within us.

Circa 4,628 miles
Damien Rice lowers his tone and sings, “Time is contagious, everybody’s getting old.” For one reason or another, it’s easy to forget that others are changing too. The people I left three years ago are not the same. There has been death, marriage, babies, and everything in between.

Even if it’s what everybody is anticipating, I don’t want to go back to the guy I was three years ago. Nor do I want to hold my friends and family to that expectation either. Changes will come and—whether people, places, seasons of life, or even myself—I should appreciate things for what they are, not criticize them for what they are not.

It’s now Don Chaffer’s voice in my ear, “We’re a strange old pair, me and eternity.” I suppose the whole redemption phase of history is a time of transition. Maybe, looking back from eternity, I’ll somehow miss these times of instability and musings. Maybe.

...continue reading...

Newton Was a Prophet [sean]

Mr. Isaac Newton, why do you always give the hard truths?
I lay out on my bed with my head under the pillow.
Every time I lift my head up, gravity brings it back to earth.
And I’m just too tired to see the good in the ugly and the ugly in the good.

Somewhere downtown on the busy side of Winnipeg,
I got an apartment and tried to make the ends meet for a while.
This girl, she had long hair and one of those old-time movie star smiles.
That girl, she was the best kisser that ever stepped foot into the world.

Oh it’s true what they say that for every thing done, there’s an equal and opposite reaction;
I laid my head down at night without joy and with no satisfaction.
Listening to Cobain and Duritz raging and wailing ‘cause life’s got no meaning;
I spent last night laying awake and observing the ceiling.

There’s a newspaper on my table and a fork in my hand,
And there’s a waitress; she’s asking me about my breakfast plans.
And there’s a waitress; she’s asking me about my dinner plans.
And there’s a waitress; she’s asking me about my supper plans.

…but I just want a friend.

And there were nights of old-time movies (playing on a makeshift movie screen),
But here I am again looking for another pass-the-time routine.
The smoke rises and I lose another game of penny poker, it sets and the night is done.
We’re singing “blessed is he who lives fast, leaves a good looking grave, and dies young.”

Twelve bells ring out and I am done.

“Meaningless, everything is meaningless.”

...continue reading...

On A Lighter Note [guest]

After church the other day, while a few of us were standing around in the sanctuary trying to decide where to go for lunch, two friends whipped out their wallets to exchange some money. I teased them, saying, “Didn’t Jesus tell us not to change money here?” One guy found the joke mildly amusing and chuckled as he moved on. The other, however, told me that I had missed the mark with my interpretation of the biblical passage I was referring to and spent the next five minutes explaining the hermeneutically correct way to understand Jesus’ actions in the temple that day.

As a good Christian girl, I tried hard to listen intently. I made eye contact, nodded and looked pensive. After all, misinterpreting God’s word is a serious thing, and here was someone who earnestly wanted me to know what he knew. But, honestly, I didn’t catch most of what he said because this small voice in my head—that sounded, disturbingly, like Keanu Reeves—kept repeating, "Dude, lighten up."

We live in somber times, and we are all well aware of it, thanks to the news media. There are wars and rumors of wars, warnings of environmental catastrophe and economic collapse. Social injustice reigns supreme, people are hungry, families fall apart and, as the song goes, we are so fragile, and our cracking bones make noise, and we are just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys. There are so many issues that need attention, all of them equally important. There are so many facts to learn, eyes to open and truths to comprehend.

Yes, this is a serious life—but I just can’t believe that an extra measure of gravitas will carry us on to victory. Sure, I could set my mouth in grim determination and soldier onward with the best of them through these dark days, but I am looking to transcend.

I’m looking to lighten up, to let Jesus’ grace wash over me with effervescence, a rush of tiny bubbles lifting me out of the depths. And I don’t mean grace as a profound and weighty concept, which it can be. I mean grace manifest in its lightest, most gossamer form: little birds hopping through piles of dead leaves, a smile shared among strangers, the scent of a freshly cut lemon.

When this kind of grace gets into your system, you can’t help but lighten up. It reminds me of a Volkswagen ad I saw on television a few weeks ago. A guy is driving his VW City Golf around and around in frustration, looking for a spot in a multi-level parkade. He finally reaches the rooftop, sees one spot open and puts on his left blinker. A woman in another car pulls up to the same spot, seconds too late. She looks defeated. But instead of claiming the spot that is rightfully his, the guy gets a funny look on his face, then relaxes, smiles and waves the woman in. The voice over calls it a “blatant act of road joy” because “when you get into a Volkswagen, it gets into you.” I call it marketing genius because, at that point, all I wanted was to buy a City Golf and be a kind and decent person.

It’s all about staying buoyant in the heaviness of life. Buoyancy lifts us outside of ourselves. VW guy, I’m sure, needed the parking spot as much as the woman did, and he certainly could’ve taken the spot with a clear conscience. But he chose to let it go and, in doing so, lightened his load a little. I mean, aren’t we all sick of being anchored to our giant sack of personal wants, needs and concerns? Wouldn’t it be nice to just let a few items fall out and not even turn to see where they’d floated off to?

So, this spring, I’ve asked God to help me lighten up, to help me commit blatant acts of joy, and to help me throw off that which hinders. It’s the right time, I think, as the snow finally melts and our thoughts turn to new life, the return of hope and the wild promise of a risen body.



Teresa Wong lives in Calgary, AB and works with words. She thanks God for spring.

...continue reading...

Exile [matt]

The temperature had finally dropped, making the weather bearable for a new adventure. Taking advantage of the August day were two of my cousins, me, and a new friend. We took to our bikes and went exploring into a wooded area that we had never ventured into before. The forest was buzzing with the sounds of water running and trees rustling in a slight breeze. We found a bubbling spring mixing fresh water with decomposing Washington mud, where the rocks we threw disappeared as if into the center of the earth. We discovered a hidden rope swing that propelled us over a massive ravine, sending us to exhilarating heights. Deer darted through the trees and birds sang overhead while squirrels sprinted and leaped across branches. The woods were alive and gave us life. At the edge of our known world new discoveries seemed to be begging to show themselves. We crashed through the underbrush, yelling and laughing and feeling the sort of goodness that only comes when you are young. Towards the end of our ride, nearly out of the woods, we crossed a creek and stopped to explore. This was the most beautiful spot we had seen all day.

The creek was nearly large enough to call a river, but still quiet enough to feel more like the typical streams you find in the Washington woods. There was moss everywhere with interspersed ferns, Vine Maples, and saplings growing up wherever the larger Evergreens and Cottonwoods let the sun break through. We relaxed and played by the river and would have been on our way had we not suddenly seen an event that too few humans are allowed to witness. With no warning, seeming to come from the earth itself, a salmon nearly three feet in length came crashing through the water heading upstream. Half its body stuck out of the surface, always shining, absolutely glistening when the sun hit it. The racket that came from the stream silenced the birds around us and for a moment we were moving against time, watching something primordial, seeing an ancient ritual reenacted as if only for our benefit. It was a moment of peace, where the abundant generosity of God shines through and reminds you that the world is full of mystery and beauty if only you look. Unfortunately adolescent boys are seldom aware of mystery, grace, or anything else that hints at the boundless beauty of our Creator.

Two more salmon soon came crashing through the water and an idea entered four heads at once. We grabbed sticks and rocks and stationed ourselves at opposing sides and intervals of the creek. Another fish came by, thrashing through the water with little interest for the stones and noise and abuse being hurled its way. Two more came through and I managed to land a large hunk of granite onto the tail of the leader. A cheer resounded through the forest as it careened off path into a muddy pool to the side of the creek. Quickly we built a small wall around the area, leaving no exit for our quarry. It was trapped.

The pool in which the salmon had entered was no more than ten feet long and at most three feet wide. The water itself was never even six inches deep. Yet it had disappeared. Methodically we dropped rocks into the water’s edge, moving towards the center, occasionally slapping the water with a stick, working to draw out our prey. Nothing stirred. After twenty minutes we gave up and sat down. We had been outsmarted. It was time to throw in the towel. We began to discuss what our next adventure might be, where we should go, when seemingly out of nowhere our victim made a mad dash towards freedom. Its speed, strength, and determination were tremendous as it crashed through our dam without losing the smallest bit of momentum. It was on its way to freedom, gloriously fighting and splashing and thrashing and crashing into the larger body of water! But we were determined as well and in a mad rush four yelling boys entered the water and began wildly swinging sticks into the beautiful shining body of an animal once considered sacred. We swung uncontrollably, frantically, with bloodlust in our hearts and joyful hatred in our eyes. The thrill was exhilarating. I had never felt such single-minded determination. My heart pounded and my eyes glazed over with the pleasure and excitement of violence.

The thrill seemed to last forever. Our prey was elusive, tough, and continued to struggle as its body took blow after blow. We surrounded the ancient salmon in the middle of the stream, dropping rocks, slapping it with sticks, kicking and punching, even hurling insults. Even when it was obviously done trying we continued our assault. Finally it quit moving in any sort of natural way and let the water push it into the bank. It writhed and contorted its body, fighting for the past.

I will never forget the sight of my cousin struggling to pick up our prize. It was massive, well over three feet in length. Its face was stoic, its wisdom and moral superiority obvious. Gasping its last breaths, convulsing, the salmon remained awe-inspiring. There was no blood. Its body amazingly looked intact. But it was dying all the same. Nobody wanted to touch it. Mouths agape, we just stared. Finally, letting the awkward silence work as a funeral liturgy, we lowered our olden victim back into its watery home and watched it slowly float downstream. It rolled with the current, bounced off boulders, and disappeared towards the Pacific.

Four adolescent boys climbed onto their bicycles without a word, crossed over the creek and left the woods. They went back to the lives they knew before they entered the forest. And they never came back.

...continue reading...

Markings [liz]

The markings on our body tell a story
Some wish to forget and some grateful you can’t
We fall, get pushed, punched, burned, or worse
Our skin doesn’t forget, recording a testimony with new tissue
When I bare my ankles to the world, my scar reads,
You wouldn’t even have this leg if it weren’t for me.
Others, more mundane:
A mosquito bite in the sticky August air
A quick knick off a sharp corner
The bumpy face of adolescent humility—
They write our memoirs

Sun gives life and takes away our years
Leaving inverted constellations to examine
Choice and a needled pen create art beneath the layers
Metal studs fill holes of emptiness revealing a concealed beauty
These impressions mark time and place
But all they tell isn’t enough
It’s only the surface

...continue reading...