The Battle Cry of the Uninspired

Stages of Being at Home: Grief

2010-10-20T15:47:00.003-05:00

To grieve is to reconcile a sense of loss, re-evaluating yourself in terms of now being without whatever it is you have outlived. But we do so selectively, and surely we have to in the face of all that we could grieve.

Each moment is lost time, lost opportunities or possibilities or potentialities. If one chooses to view it that way, each passing second is the removal of branching potential tracks that life could take, a narrowing of options, or perhaps a fatalistic focusing that approaches something like binding destiny.

But to see things as such is maddening.

So instead we grieve the near-concrete. When I was a child, I understood my great-grandmother's death as not the loss of her, per se (for I have memories! and photos! and heaven to look to!) but rather I understood it as the loss of being able to hug her, to feel her love for as long as I would choose to hold on. That was the threat of death.

While I was at home, I grieved and shared in my family's grief. It hurts to lose and there is a lot of loss we could hurt over. But mainly my family shared the time that is rushing past us, and we love as we choose to hold on.

Grief was just one part of the trip home, and grief is always a part of life going on.

Stages of Being at Home: Rest

2010-10-03T15:33:00.003-05:00

Louisville is an amazing city, especially when you visit. There was no work, no commitments, and no deadlines save the flight out. Everything is familiar, comfortable, and pregnant with memories. The same books yet to be read, the same scholarly articles waiting to be filed, the same guitars to be rejoined with the others I brought to CO, all of this makes me feel like I haven't left this life completely behind.

As I travel more and see the sadly homogenized cityscapes (the same Wal-Marts, same fast food joints, same hotels becoming faux-familiarity-inducing landmarks), it is good to see my home not in stasis but rather following a known path.

Even though friends have grown and changed, they are there and we pick up exactly where we left off. I find myself shocked that their love has not waned, and we exult in time passed and time shared. It feels natural but precious still.

Old love letters, ridiculous photos, awards from school, presents and inside jokes, these all just wait there in my room in no hurry to be found. Friends, familiar trees and birdcalls, old bookstores and coffee shops, my family, they all have kept a spot reserved for me still.

And so I sink into them all, thrill to find that I still fit, and I rest.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

2010-10-02T13:58:00.004-05:00

Remember when I used to write on here? Me neither.

I am in the middle of creating and cultivating new habits to make my life more like I want it to be (thus the Bowie-referencing title, because who doesn't feel inspired to be a better man from listening to David Bowie?). And this is good.

So updates, then! For one: I am now gainfully employed by the city of Grand Junction as a 911 Dispatcher, and my training is going rather well. Also, I have moved into my own apartment and furnished it with such essentials as an 88-key keyboard and a percolator.

Also, I went home this past week to Louisville, KY and was reminded of how wonderful it is. Not quite home, but something quite like it. Its depth, its eccentricity, its history, its ongoing attempts at rebuilding and renovating, these qualities make my steps seem an echo to its heartbeat. Wishing for something more, always.

Returning to Colorado, I decided to take a trip and clear my head (but of course the opposite always results). I went to the Great Sand Dunes National Park and camped in a quickly sand-filled tent that was flattened against me throughout the night by the strong winds. It really was one of the more incredible places I've been in my life.

During my travels, I was with my family, saw old friends, and even made a couple new ones. I listened to some very moving sermons on the road, and see certain things in a new light. What more could one ask from a week and a half of traveling? (well, maybe a razor. I've kinda let that go)

Ha, I don't know if anyone would still bother to read this dumb blog, but if you do I hope I get the chance to catch up with you soon, at the very least over the phone. I think I'm gonna pick this thing back up, and see where it goes.

What an inauspicious return!

Part 1: Solipsism

2010-02-09T23:28:00.002-06:00

I wonder: what is the functional purpose behind keeping a blog? Is it narcissism? Solipsism? A desire for attention, a staking of undefined claims, or perhaps just digital graffiti?

Those who followed my blog while I was in Spain know that I wrote most consistently when going through one of the less-enjoyable times of my life. You all learned far more about my insecurities than you did about cathedrals and castles and the constant questioning of my sandals in winter. My blog came to mirror the Spanish buildings I walked past that still bore bulletholes and broken beams from their civil war, a confusing testament to already-aged injuries.

What was I holding on to? What was I memorializing and making permanent that was worth the effort? How terribly embarrassing!

All this to say: I confuse myself. Perhaps this all came to mind after seeing "Julie and Julia," and finding Amy Adams's self-centered blogging and fame-grubbing nothing short of insufferable. So naturally I am trying to sort it out on a public forum, in some odd confluence of meta and irony.

Maybe this will make more sense in Part 2: Solipsism and Stoicism. Maybe.

Clarity

2010-01-25T17:40:00.006-06:00

Some of you know this and some of you gathered this from my last post, and some of you don't care but the truth is: I am applying to be a 911 Telecommunicator (or dispatcher, if you like) and have been for some time (PHEW what a relief to get that off my chest). I put in my first application when I moved here in June, and have been going to tests and interviews since September, back when I was a wee lad of just 23 years.

Some of you know this, too: I am very ready to have a decent job, and to earn a living. Now that I'm a fully mature man of 24, this seems to be right and proper. I have not written much about this "decent job" that I am seeking because it would be embarrassing not to get hired and then to have this failure memorialized in digital form.

This job really would be a dream come true, though. The job description is "helping people." I would get to talk to a lot of strangers each day, probably often in Spanish. The pay is respectable and more than sufficient. And frankly, it would be a nice end to this losing streak I can't seem to shake.

And so. I had a moment of clarity last Wednesday when we opened 1 Peter (written to a bunch of people stuck in one big losing streak) to read, "set your hope fully on the grace to be given you when Jesus Christ is revealed." It hit me then that I have been putting a bit too much hope into this job, and indeed into a lot of things that are all, simply put, beside the point.

While I still very much want this job and the chance to help people (not to mention the chance to pay my rent consistently), there are better things ahead. It would be easy to become very stressed about this and whether or not I get hired, but when put in perspective of heaven I know it is a want and not a need.

But I DO need a decent job; I will allow that. Hopefully it will come sooner than later, just like heaven.

Honesty

2010-01-16T17:14:00.002-06:00

So I am kicking myself.

Yesterday was going to be a triumphant and productive day. It certainly wasn't the former and possibly wasn't the latter.

First the minor buoy that kept the day from going completely under: I changed my library card into a permanent one after using a "Guest" card for three years. It became clear that I needed to do this when I tried to use my card recently, only to find it again expired. The lady asked if I had a permanent address yet, and I said I did but didn't have a local Driver's License to prove it. That day I happened to be unshaven and wearing an oversized, green flannel jacket that is very warm but not flattering in the slightest, and this combined with my seemingly transient status led the lady to lean in and ask, "This address we have for you. . .is it a shelter?"

I deflated a bit and informed her that I am not homeless. I just don't have a license. So now I have a license and a library card, and I am shaving regularly.

After the library, I had a follow-up interview with a potential employer for a great job. We went to lunch and had a great talk about work, life, and spiritual matters like theodicy and fate. He spoke very highly of me and my credentials, and we got on very well. So he gave me the job, and I was very excited to work for him. But then I felt inclined to be honest (hence the title of this post) and told him that I might, in the future, be offered a job with the city as a 911 Telecommunicator. At this, he decided to reconsider hiring me.

So a job that I don't have and that I may not ever have might keep me from getting a decent job in the meantime.

Then I went to get Colorado license plates. They asked when I first entered the state, and so I told them the truth. Based on my honesty, they charged me an extra hundred dollars in late fees.

Can you put a price on integrity? Because at this rate I may truly be homeless soon.

Amplify

2010-01-07T18:08:00.002-06:00

Recently I've received a few emails with new, encouraging comments that have been posted here on my blog. Whether these are real or merely the well-meaning and unimaginative attempts of my sister to goad me into posting more, they are appreciated.

I've been sick or sick-ish for a few days now which is frustrating for me to reconcile with my typically indomitable immune system.

It is also frustrating in how illness has the odd effect of amplifying all the trivialities and minor impulses that a stronger man would ignore. Be they the unglamorous banality of bachelor life (cue me eating a piece of toast, leaning over the sink so as not to have a plate to wash), the ache for family over holidays, or the bruise of a freshly broken trust covered over by excuses.

And how it amplifies my impatience. I am anxious for a better job that will fulfill, enrich and contribute to Creation (not to mention justify the four years of college). I am anxious to be able to support myself and to be able to support and help others. I am anxious for change in my church, an end to the laziness I see around me and in me. I am anxious.

But at least being sick offers a convenient excuse for all these feelings, which I still will feel when well. Oh, how we all love excuses.

Old Habits Die Hard

2009-10-18T17:30:00.002-05:00

And so this marks my inauspicious return to the world of writing on my blog.

(holds for applause, hides dismay to find none)

The circumstances of my life are rather different from the last time I wrote. A lot has changed, within and without. For example, I now live in Grand Junction, CO and am employed. I am making salads with my college diploma part-time, and pretending not to be embarrassed by that full-time. Also keeping me busy: working with my dear youth group and other plans for the church. Oh, yes. I have plans.

But for now, something bigger: this past weekend I went home to Kentucky for the first time since I moved in late May. My big sister Callie got married and I wanted to see this, so I took a whirlwind trip to be a part of it.

It is beautiful to be a part of things. To witness and to affirm, to join in and share. If only you could have seen how many people were there, all experiencing the same thing and passing around the same joy. Even before the reception I enjoyed stringing Christmas lights and a few other decorations, excited for people to arrive and celebrate my sister and new brother-in-law.

Well, my first return to blogging has left me tired and frustrated at how hackneyed I sound. So until next time!

One Last Thing Before I Go

2009-05-02T00:10:00.003-05:00

And now the final installment of ruminations on the subject of "remembering."

In the Church we speak optimistically of putting our former ways behind us and "pressing on" to a new life. We love Philippians 3, when Paul says that he forgets "what is behind." We love it! We eat it up and pledge to forget, too. It is a believer's duty!

Once long ago I spoke with a believing friend who had sinned and hurt someone, in spite of being a New Creation. He acknowledged the mistake but was largely unrepentant. Rather than make things right or even apologize to the hurt friend, he told me a very ugly thing: "God has forgiven me, and that is enough."

But. . .it is enough for what?

The answer, of course, was "enough" to ease his guilty conscience. It was not "enough," though, to comfort our wounded friend. Or "enough" to repair a breach between believers. So can we really say God is not "enough" to do those things as well? Can we limit the purpose of Grace to relieving regret, and to let us forget?

When Zacchaeus was welcomed by the man Jesus despite being shunned by his fellow villagers, did he ignore this shameful past and embrace a self-justifying theology? By all means no! He immediately swore to right the many wrongs in his life, despite this being "what is behind." And we usually fail to mention that immediately before Paul mentions "pressing on," he talked of his Christian-persecuting past. Apparently Paul had a different definition of "forgetting" than we do.

All to say this: we are not to dwell on our past, but neither can we ignore it. To pretend it never happened does a disservice to the grace that cleansed it. We are freed from our guilt-debt, but what of others that were hurt? Is there some way we can make right what was ruined? At the very least, we are freed from self-righteousness and free to share our past like Paul did, saying, "THIS is what my God is capable of saving. THIS is what my God can do."

(This was a dense post. It may become a sermon one day. But not today, because I am leaving for St. Louis in seven hours.)

More Moments of Beauty

2009-04-28T17:56:00.002-05:00

The days pass quickly as of late, but here are a few joys that left a trace as they flew by.

This past Saturday my parents, grandmother, and I went to Ohio for my aunt and uncle's joint 50th-birthday party. There I saw family that I have missed for too long, as well as friends from my annual visits to Ohio when I was in Elementary School. It had been a decade since I last saw my cousin's friend Amy, but I instantly remembered her as well as the crush I had on her when I was eleven. My relatives asked me cautiously about Spain, and I saw in their eyes that they already knew but asked to show they care.

Sunday morning a husband and wife both decided to be baptized, and I was surprised that more did not weep at the sight. Neither of them knew what to do with their glasses, and the woman began holding her nose even before our preacher asked her confession. Their nervous anxiety and awkward joy were touching.

That afternoon I talked to my friend Meghan for a good while on the telephone. We once dated seriously (but I don't want to call her "my ex," because she is more than that) and I feared after it had ended that we would never be friends again. Now we joke and ramble easily, and freely talk of When We Were Together. We talk with an understanding and care that speaks well of what we once were, and I am honored that she would share with me what we are today.

And yesterday I dug through way too much Kentucky clay so that my father would not hurt his back. My entire body aches as a result but finishing projects gives my father peace of mind. So it is worth it.

These are good for the soul.

Furthermore

2009-04-24T14:47:00.003-05:00

Therefore, in summation. . .nevermind.

Returning to the provisional thesis of my last post, I wonder if it would be better said "to remember is to love." But it is true as it is. To remember is an essential element of love. So what does doing so entail, or even look like?

Deuteronomy 6 shows God instructing the Israelites not merely to know the covenant, but rather to have it "upon your hearts." He goes on to say (paraphrasing): "tell your children! Talk about these commandments wherever you are, whatever you're doing! Let the city, your house, your very body be painted with this Law."

And so to remember is to take your love with you, wherever you go. Within or without a temple, with or without a Bible in your hand, it is to remember. In doing so you take not just your love with you, but also WHAT you love with you.

With the Old Testament prophets, God used memories of past blessing to woo and lure the Israelites back into covenant. "Remember how I showed my love to you?" he would insist. "Remember Egypt and how I freed you, then personally led you for forty years in spite of your unfaithfulness? Will you refuse to remember?

We are a culture that relies on being reminded rather than remembering (like cell phone alerts, palm-piloted schedules, and etc. not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that). How often, at Sunday lunch, do people mention they have already forgotten the day's sermon? And how poorly most of us know the stories of the kingdom we are heirs to. So let us look back as we press on. Let us remember, and let us love.

What Love Is

2009-04-20T19:29:00.002-05:00

I have taken two trips to Searcy since returning to the country and there still wasn't enough time to see everyone I wanted. Surely there are worse problems to have, but what I want to share on here is the latest life lesson learned after seeing many, many dear friends.

Much of what love is, is simply to remember.

This a truth most know instinctively, but one that I came to understand fully when sitting with friends I hadn't seen in years (they graduated before I did) who still laugh at old inside jokes and tell me they missed receiving "Lucas-hugs." I understand more when former say-hi-while-passing friends asked me about Spain and remembered my plan of moving to Colorado. And I understand even more at the fact that so many people smiled and addressed me by name (it would have secretly wounded me if they had asked, "It's Lucas, right?") in spite of time.

Every inch of Searcy is covered in memories for me, and sometimes I fear that thinking back to them is at best embarrassing romanticism or at worst dressed-up denial. But I am comforted when Shelby shows me pictures of us from three years past, of when Jen talks of "the orange barrel incident," or when one of my dearest friends puts my arm around her for me and speaks soothingly of better times.

On my way home I stopped by my grandmother's house and we revisited many of the same stories and memories as always, but then she inquired of my visit, "Dare I ask if you saw Mary?" This took me aback, as it had been a long time since I told Mawmaw all about her. But she remembered.

To love is to remember.

Pictures from Spain, Vol. 1

2009-04-08T14:17:00.006-05:00

I needed to do something with these or I will never do anything with them, so here are some unedited pictures I took in Spain. First an archetypal windmill, found in the town of Mora:
And this is one side of the cathedral in Toledo. It is older than the United States. I was going to meet my friends Greg and Marie in front of it just before leaving for England over Christmas break, but they missed a train and it didn't work out. Another time I went with another professor who had some friends in town. They had never been to Toledo and were taking pictures of the cathedral on their cell phones and I enjoyed seeing Spaniards act more touristy than I did.Finally here is a picture that kind of makes me laugh? It is me, in front of my city (Toledo) for my very first trip there. It was a good day, and sunny, and I remember the feeling of being somewhere I had read about for years. It is an odd thing, to fulfill a Life's Dream, and I would occasionally laugh for no reason at the feeling in my stomach at being a part of something beautiful. I also remember being impatient to share this feeling, this joy, and to somehow send it to the States.

Judging from my face, this was three or four days into my ill-fated decision to grow a beard.

But I suppose there is no other type of decision to grow a beard.

Moments of Beauty

2009-04-04T20:23:00.002-05:00

Lately things have been improving, albeit slowly. I visited Harding this past weekend and it did me a lot of good despite being so stressful. There are still very many people there that I love, and spending time with them was a blessing. While there, my dear friend Bethany told me that she believed that I would be getting better soon, and that slowly but surely beauty would be easier and easier to find in the world. So here are a few that I have felt.

One. Today was a beautiful sunny day that ended with me coated in sawdust. My father and I cut an entire felled tree into manageable pieces, and worked very hard. We talked about my grandfather and his father-in-law, and we talked about our old dog, Rascal. Sometimes my father feels overwhelmed by all of the "projects" around the house, and so days like today help him feel better.

Two. While at Harding, my friend Hannah asked me to play guitar for her. It was touching when I sang some songs I wrote and she knew the words better than I did.

Three. I was very nervous to be at Harding. It has been nearly a year since I graduated, and I am always afraid of being easily forgotten. In fact I did not have enough time to see everyone I love (which speaks volumes of the people there that would still care about me), and so I am returning for Spring Sing.

Four. I applied for a job in town and was delighted by a question in the accompanying personality test which asked: "Have you noticed any sudden changes in your body lately?" I wanted to explain in painful detail the wonderful process of becoming a man, but it was only a Yes/No prompt. If I get called for an interview, perhaps I will ask why hair is growing on my chest. It's a mystery!

Feel free to share some beauty you have noticed, eh?

Catch-Up

2009-04-02T19:26:00.002-05:00

I think it has been long enough since I last wrote on this thing.

I would apologize but you all weren't missing out on anything (see my last hundred-or-so entries for proof, haha). In truth, I just like writing and I can tell myself that updating about my life on here slightly makes up for getting behind on writing friends via Facebook. Also, I am going to post pictures on here from my travels that I always meant to share.

It is a few weeks now that I've been home, and I've been trying to keep busy. That has been accomplished through cleaning my room, playing my guitars and other instruments, seeing friends, and learning to play the drums. Storms in Kentucky left plenty of downed trees and so I cut and carry lumber on our property, which sounds manly. I may begin working soon, or I may move out to Colorado sooner than expected and work out there.

I am doing a bit better, little by little.

More to come.

My Last Day in Sonseca

2009-03-05T12:06:00.004-06:00

This is the last entry I will write on here from Spain. In two days (God and RyanAir willing) I will be home in the United States.

This is hard to wrap my mind around, in truth.

Today was my last day of work and my students surprised me. I entered the first classroom to see the blackboard covered in goodbye scribbles and inside jokes. My students presented me with cards and presents, and I was very touched. They gave me a watch and a bracelet, as well as a package of warm socks. We spent the rest of the time just talking, and they told me to come back to Spain and work as an actor, because I would always pretend to cry or get angry when they teased me.

I went to 2nd A's class, which has always been my favorite. They gave me a silver bracelet with my name on one side, and the other side engraved with "Your students in 2nd A." Next was a picture of the whole class in a very nice and heavy frame. They asked me to read aloud the accompanying letter, and I got choked up (which secretly they had all been hoping for). They were pleased with the proof that I would miss them, and we said goodbye.

Now it is all memories. Or something like a memory.

This has been a very hard five months, as you know. It hit me yesterday that I really feel like myself for the first time in a long time. For so long, my identity couldn't really progress past "wounded," and that was all I felt. It hit me that it must have been incredibly hard to be my friend the past few months, as I was not just far away but also far from who I am. But you all have been here for me.

I received letters. And packages. There was never one day where I hadn't received new messages on Facebook. You listened to me ask questions that no one could answer. You prayed for me over Skype. You wept with me and for me. You wrote to tell me that you liked my songs. You wrote to say that you thought of me when you heard "Great is Thy Faithfulness" at church. You wrote to say that you thought you saw me on Harding campus. You wrote to say that you thought you saw me at church. You wrote to ask when I was coming home, so that we can hang out. You wrote to say (in different words) that you haven't forgotten me. You wrote to say that you love me.

Thank you all. Thank you. Thank you. I was hurting over not being shown love, but you all were doing just that all this time. My life is full of beautiful people. My heart is full of gratitude. And it is healing, slowly but surely.

Thank you.

More Things About Spain, or "Peter Paul and Mary Jesus"

2009-03-03T14:14:00.003-06:00

6) Names are very important to Spaniards. They take them very seriously, in spite of the fact that I have friends named "Mary Jesus" and "Conception."

There are beautiful names here. Some examples from my students include Rocio, Alba, Helena, and Julia. The boys' names are short and punchy, like Sergio, Oscar, Javier, and Manuel.

Others, however, lack such charm and only leave you with questions. Why would any parent name their child "Macarena?" Especially when she was born AFTER the dance craze?

Some names are smooshed together, like "Luis Miguel" becoming "LuisMi." I learned a new name when a man flipped his bike in the middle of the street. We ran into each other a week later at the grocery, and he thanked me for helping him and introduced himself as "JuanJo," which I'm pretty sure is "Juan Jose."

Many names are conjoined religious references, like the two mentioned in the title of this post. Pedro Pablo ("Peter Paul") is a teacher here at the school, but he is not well liked by all. To explain, one day he sat down next to me as I was writing an email. Replace the words "next to" with "practically on top of" in that last sentence to imagine the proximity of our faces as he leaned in to talk. He asked how I was and I managed not to recoil while I answered, "Fine. And you?" As I counted the pores on his nose he replied, "Eh, I'm sick."

I laughed for at least five minutes when the students told me their nickname for this same teacher: Pedo Pavo. This rhymes, and translates literally to "Fart Turkey."

See what we are missing? There is no name in English that can so effortlessly be turned into such a wonderful taunt.

I will end this post with a plea that we not think about the words my name rhymes with. Let's just make fun of Spaniards, okay?

Things You Might Not Know About Spain, Volume 1

2009-03-02T14:16:00.003-06:00

This is my last week here. There are many, many things that I have wanted to write on here but I tend to get distracted by metaphysics and navel-gazing, so this is a catch-all list to inform you on things that you couldn't know without spending a few months here.

1) The art of hairstyles has been perfected here in Spain. The boys wear mullets, and girls have curly bangs. No one thinks anything is wrong with this.

2) Dryers do not exist. Clotheslines do. Draping wet underwear over radiators throughout the house is also an option.

3) Carpet does not exist. This is the one that gets me the most. Every house floor is tile, and thus cold, and thus incredibly depressing when it is the first thing you feel in the morning. If I were Spider-Man I would totally walk on the ceiling and this would not be a problem.

4) In the United States, Chinese restaurants cook cat and dog meat since chickens are so dang hard to come by, right? Well, here they serve the remains of their dead family members. When asked about this, one clever Spaniard responded, "Have you ever seen a Chinese graveyard? Didn't think so."

5) Swear words are not uncommon, nor anything to take note of. In one class of professors, I said a difficult word to pronounce ("this," for crying out loud) and one man was discouraged and said the f-word equivalent. He was sitting next to the town's priest, who did not bat an eyelash.

I hope this has been enlightening for you. More to come, if you like them.

Sun Rise, Sun Rex, Sun Set, Sun Spent

2009-02-26T12:52:00.003-06:00

It takes a while to travel to Portugal, as I decided to do last weekend with my friend Caroline. I was to meet her in Badajoz first, so I had plenty of time to think throughout the day.

I woke early to catch buses and was rewarded with seeing the sun rise, illuminating fog that had crept over and peacefully lay like a blanket on the low mountains of Castilla-La Mancha.

The afternoon I spent waiting on a train in Madrid. I walked through the expansive parks while the sky was overcast, covered only by a thin mask of cloud through which the sun dimly shone. It was a bright white perfect circle without detail, like a hole punched out of heaven. I looked directly into it, as if confidently meeting another's gaze.

As the sun fell that evening I watched, from the train, herds of deer running between the rocky hills of Extremadura. Storks preened in their nests high atop old smokestacks and sheep mated, apparently feeling no shame in the numbers painted blue on their backsides. Some interesting animals later got on the train as well, as wild Spaniards flock to Badajoz for Carnaval. All talked loudly and none was disheartened by the fading light.

In fact, evenings in winter are the sun failing and succumbing to the night, with a deep chill taking over in victory. But lately the evenings are the sun melting into a languid dark, in no hurry to leave behind dying embers of day and content that tomorrow will prove to be even more time to share warmth. The earth is ready for this change.

The sun dipped below the horizon causing the landscape in the window to give way to reflections of the inside of the cabin. My own face came into view, looking foreign. I saw blue blinking back at me and noted that it was the first time in a while that I looked directly in my own eyes, that I had confidence to do so. I saw myself clearly as the dark increased.

I'm ready for change.

Change

2009-02-19T13:33:00.002-06:00

I have seen many things change in the time I've been here. Trees have grown, vines have flowered and faded, construction has ended, buildings have been razed, stores have gone out of business and been replaced, Alberto and Cristina have a new baby, and the United States have a new president.

At the same time, many things have stayed the same. I am reading Genesis once more. My prayers have changed only slightly in wording, although slightly more in strength and in hope. I am still a foreigner. I am still alone. I am still wondering if God will ever get around to making me a good person. I am still hurting for being easy to forget.

It is simple and beautiful to stop hating, for me. An apology ends much bitterness and anger so fast that you do not even remember them, blushed with hope and eagerly expecting new, lovely memories to replace the wounds. What a lovely change.

But to stop loving? How can I? Even when I am the only one in the world who wanted that? (and what a lonely thought that is) Even when I see now that it was never as good as I imagined it?

Why can't I change this? When will this change?

For the Love of God

2009-02-17T14:54:00.002-06:00

One sad thing here that is in no way unique to Spain is beggars. Few things create such a continuous re-evaluation of my faith and how to practically show it as do beggars.

In a huge city like Madrid there are so many. It is a wonder they aren't trampled, as some sit in the middle of huge sidewalks with just a sign and a cup in front of them. Once I saw important people in expensive suits taking large steps over the prosthetic legs of a dour man in dirty clothes, seated in the Puerta del Sol. And others hold in front of them a picture of family to whom they wish to be rejoined but cannot afford to. Others sit in the entryways of cathedrals with their whole body wrapped up in blankets yet shivering furiously nonetheless.

You see no flesh. You only see a cup.

In the bus station I am asked for money by teens covered in piercings or by Romanian men, their nationality recognizable by their characteristic grammatical errors and sadly by the alcohol on their breath. Regardless of if I give them money or not, they ask the next person, too.

I hate the feeling I fet then. The same feeling as when I see the same beggar with the prosthetic legs talking uproariously on his cell phone the next time I pass. The same feeling as when I see one beggar dump her cup of coins into a larger, hidden on almost full of money.

It is insulting to be taken advantage of, but did that ever stop Jesus? He healed and loved people that never confessed him as Lord and God. When did he pass the needy by?

When did he look at a man and see no flesh? When did he see only a cup?

"Great is Thy Faithfulness," and Someone Please Let Me Out of Here

2009-02-12T13:48:00.004-06:00

Here is a song I recorded the other day. I didn't write it.

I have been missing church a lot lately. So I'm singing hymns. This song is very hard to sing some days, but other days it gives me great hope. I sincerely hope this doesn't offend anyone.

Also, two quickies:
1) I shaved my beard last night.

2) I am currently locked inside of my school. I was talking to a friend on Skype and thinking about the test she had to get to instead of the fact that my school was about to close for the night. There are two doors and they are locked. The gate is locked outside, too.

I don't have money on my cell phone to call my roommate, so I am going to climb out of a window. But I might as well post this song before I go.

Unyielding as the Grave

2009-02-11T12:37:00.005-06:00

Two years ago today, my grandfather was dying.

There at the house I sat on the love seat and stared at the hospital bed that had replaced Grandaddy's recliner. Grandaddy would fall asleep and wake back up, over and over to no particular rhythm, and I would try to do my homework for Advanced Intro to the New Testament. Mom and Mamaw talked on the couch, and we took turns getting things that he needed when he woke up. But there wasn't much for us to do. He hardly ate. I played my guitar for him and he fell asleep. When he was awake, he asked me to comb his hair for him.

There wasn't much for us to do.

One day Mamaw brought him a Valentine's Day dinner: a small steak and a baked potato from Tumbleweed, their favorite restaurant in town. He was pleased, ate all of it, and the family was encouraged. Our hopes had fallen with his weight, but this was different. My prayers changed in tone and I was grateful, even allowing myself a few guilty daydreams of a full recovery and a triumph over cancer.

But we knew.

Through it all I watched my grandmother take care of her husband and marveled at her strength. I didn't understand how she wasn't a complete emotional wreck, angry at God and lamenting the ruin that her once-vibrant love had become. She asked no questions about the existence of cancer, or how it could be visited on and take host in a man so beautiful. Rather she humbly, quietly, and lovingly served. Rather she stayed by his side and waited until he left.

I have never seen true "until death do us part" before, and I am only beginning to understand it. This was a love stronger than death. This was true love.

I can't believe it's been two years already

Subject Matter Not Objective Matter

2009-02-05T02:34:00.009-06:00

I am not going to write about her anymore on here.

I woke up this morning from a simple dream, recounting the time she came to see me in Colorado. We watched shooting stars, and she stepped on a cactus. I was stuck and slightly hurt by the needles I pulled from her razor-thin flip-flop, but I was very glad to be there.

Returning to the present: In fairness, the goal in describing my feelings on this blog was never libel. I hoped that she could read my thoughts here when convenient instead of me having to wait for it to be convenient to be listened to. And then she would see how very, very deeply she hurt me. And then she would do something about it. And then it would be healed. And then it all would be over.

But either she doesn't care, or she cares but doesn't want to do anything about it because it would be difficult. In my mind (and in that dream) it is worth being stuck and slightly hurt to fix the injury of another, and how much more so when responsible for it.

This wasn't just a normal break-up. I loved her more strongly than I have ever before, and she was more hurtful than anyone before. But we had made promises and pledges that went beyond words. Union and communions, made and shared. But now there is only sin and guilt to regret, and insults and contempt to forget. And it seems like it means nothing to her. And so it seems like I meant nothing to her. I wish she wanted to correct that assumption, if it is false.

But I suppose I wish a great many things.

I will keep praying for her. Most likely I will keep writing songs about this. But I won't write about her on here anymore.

Te Amas?

2009-02-04T11:31:00.004-06:00

Last night I had another class with the second-year students (14-ish in age) and despite my plans we just talked. They asked later to hear one of the songs I wrote and to see some photos I've taken, so I showed them a bit of what Colorado looks like. We marveled together at Hanging Lake and Mt. Redcloud and jokingly made plans for a class trip there.

A picture of my ex-girlfriend came on the screen and I immediately closed the program. I became quiet and let the students talk for a while before Amaya asked me an incredibly insightful question: "Te amas?"

"Do you love yourself?"

I paused for a second because I had never heard the verb "amar" with agreeing subject and object. It is always "I love her" or "she loves him," never "you love you." I realized what she meant, and then took pause at the question itself. I changed the subject, then thought about it the rest of the night and into the morning.

Yes, is the answer. But it is hard to feel like much of anything these days after being treated like I'm nothing for quite some time. There are echoes of Things She Said that follow me, but these are not true besides being wrong. And there is guilt that she and I share that could have dealt with, but it only went ignored and denied. And there is the simple fact that now it is only too easy to pretend that the entire relationship never existed, just like all those mistakes.

Is this what it takes for some people to say "me amo"?

May One Day

2009-02-03T13:26:00.003-06:00

The other day was a warm one unlike any I have seen since I first arrived years ago in October. Naturally I rode my bike out of the city before my traditional trip to Toledo and soon found myself on the side of the road, watching a construction crew work on a skeleton of a building.

As a child I was never much taken by Tonka Trucks or other facsimiles of heavy machinery, but now I rubberneck at cement mixers like normal people do flipped semis.

A dear friend once told me that she saw in me the gift of dreaming, to see things not as they are but rather as they could be. We were speaking of my youth group in Colorado at the time, and of all the wonderful things I expect of them and how I can't wait to see it.

And so I marvel at pylons and concrete that may one day be apartments full of families and furnishings and will be home to many.

And so many prayers rise that my father's good heart may one day know God's.

And so even a (seemingly) God forsaken relationship was worth waiting on, as it might one day have been a thing of beauty.

And so beauty may one day be in my heart.

And so my heart may one day be as warm as Friday.

Right now it is hard to hope, to dream of what could be. But maybe one day.

Big News

2009-02-02T13:37:00.002-06:00

I am exhausted. (that is not the big news)

My last class was six 14-year-old girls that talk over each other and take pictures of me on their cell phones. One of them comes to class with a surprising amount of makeup that she doesn't wear to school in the mornings. Tonight's lesson began with one girl bringing me socks as a present (the Spaniards are dumbfounded that I have worn sandals throughout this winter) which amused me greatly, continued with them singing Ace of Base which amused me greatly, but ended with the girls telling me what type of whiskey they like to drink. (that is not big news, but it is depressing)

I don't understand why we choose the things we do for our lives. I don't understand the things we allow. I don't understand why we let things get so dark and evil. I don't understand why we choose hate over love. I don't understand why we turn a blind eye to sin. I don't understand how we turn grace into enabling. I don't understand why we treat each other the way we do, and a great many other things. (that is not big news)

This is the news: I am coming home a bit early. I bought the tickets a bit ago, but I fly into Louisville on March 7. There are many reasons for this, but this is the right decision (I am almost sure). The decision was made out of optimism and not out of despair, and for this I am glad.

For what it's worth.

"Playing the Victim," or Another Song Posted in Fashionable Mp3 Format

2009-01-29T11:25:00.002-06:00

Here is a song I've been sitting on for a while and finally recorded. I wrote the lyrics sitting just outside of the walled portion of Toledo a month or so ago.

It's about wanting to believe someone despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary. Keep in mind, I wrote it a while ago, so there is no grudge behind this song. Not all of the feelings are still true.

Just saying.

I Prove My Critics Wrong, or "Lucas Has Class(es)"

2009-01-28T13:26:00.003-06:00

Things have been busy in Sonseca, and that surely is not a sentence often heard.

When I first got here I put up fliers around town hoping to fill the extra hours of the day and perhaps to fill my wallet as well. Now I have to turn people away, as my days are in fact full (although the other has not behaved accordingly).

One new student is Natalia, who studies psychopedagogy at Toledo University. She plays viola in a Sephardic folk band and is trying to make up for a few years of taking no English classes. She always wears a hat of some sort, and we spend a good deal of the class time laughing over her mistakes.

Four hours of my week are now additional classes with my students from the institute, except I am the only instructor and I plan all of the lessons. The students are even wilder than normal, and are eager to turn the time into Sex Ed vocabulary sessions. I somehow managed to change the subject enough that one class ended with us huddled around my Bible, and I was glad.

One of my favorite new classes is with four professors from the Institute who knew absolutely nothing of English before we started. We began with simple things like numbers and salutations, and I have to giggle when I stop to think that I taught the town's priest to say "What's up?" This is how he now greets me in the hall, as well as all of his catechism classes. So far, though, he has yet to begin a sermon this way in Mass.

But I'm keeping my fingers crossed

(no pun intended)

Toledo Again

2009-01-24T09:17:00.003-06:00

Last weekend I went to Toledo three times in two days, each time with or to meet different people. It was a lot of fun and was worth getting no sleep. But this weekend I wanted to take a "different" kind of trip. So I did.

Yesterday was a gorgeous sunny day and I left the house with no jacket, taking only my camera and my Bible with me. I took the same bus as always but got off before entering the city, deciding instead to walk some trails through the pseudo-mountains. I walked slowly and deliberately trying to avoid being thrown off any rocky ledges by the strong wind.

I found footpaths and bridges that I had never taken before, so I followed them into the city. Beyond them were old ruins I had never seen before, so I explored them. Later there were turrets and bastions in the city's wall that I had never entered, so I climbed them and looked out over everything.

There were little villages that the local homeless had taken over and built up, old houses left to decompose artistically alongside the river, and playgrounds that no self-respecting four-year-old would use.

Lately things overall have been different, and for the most part this is a good thing. I am feeling different, and certainly not hurting like I once was. But for all this change and for all these different things I am experiencing, seeing, and feeling, there is just one thing that is no different at all: there is still only one person in the world that I wish I were sharing this with.

"Rocio was Doing Poop." Yikes.

2009-01-21T14:44:00.003-06:00

This is what you get when you play a game with thirteen-year-olds, haha.

Today I had class with a small group of students to focus on using the past continuous tense but they were not in the mood to do work in their books. I suggested we play the game where each person adds one word until you have a semi-coherent story that satisfies all. Towards the end the students began suggesting each others' names for added hilarity. Here are the results:

"I was playing tennis on bed and I was dancing in my house. The dog was running by my bedroom crazy. The dog was crashing to the grandmother. The cat was crashing in the wall with happiness. The object was broken.

"The trees were crazy but I was silly. He is handsome, and I am pretty. We are studying for the competition. Elena is playing with her Barbies and Marta was thinking about the Barbies but she is crazy and silly. Elena was singing and she was sleeping. The rabbit has a tail and it was beautiful.

"Rocio was lying down in the bathroom. She was doing poop. Lourdes was doing poop and she was smoking."

I laughed so hard at the phrase "doing poop" that I decided not to correct them, so as not to spoil the future enjoyment of whatever English speaker they come across many days from now.

Later in the afternoon I used an episode of "The Office" in a lesson, which feels like a moral victory. I pretended not to hear when my student asked the meaning of the phrase "that's what she said."

Another Good Day at La Sisla

2009-01-20T13:58:00.004-06:00

Sometimes I absolutely love my job.

The students at the Sisla are astonishingly excited when we have class together, sometimes cheering as I enter the room if they didn't know I would be with them that day, or asking if I will return next year and making a pouty face when I answer. Today one class asked me to bring my parents back with me and move to Sonseca.

As I walk through swarming and swirling adolescent currents pouring down the hallways they call my name and ask how I am even though they don't understand the answer past my smile. If I leave one building to walk to another they poke their heads out of windows and yell to me in spite of the inevitable reprimand that follows from their teachers. I am slightly embarrassed when I am talking to another professor and the students interrupt us to greet me excitedly. . .and say nothing to the other teacher (who I happen to assist in teaching these exact students).

One day I was taking over a class for a sick teacher and needed to begin by going over a full page of homework. I was going to have each student answer one question to give them all a chance to practice, and this would have taken up much of the period. Instead a girl stood up and read the entire sheet as the rest of the class hurriedly checked answers and scribbled over incorrect ones. She finished in record time, sat down, and said, "Let's talk." They asked me questions for the rest of the period, and we all laughed very much.

The victory of the day came when Maria made a joke and referred to the act of urination as going "whiz whiz."

Yes, things are looking up.

Exile, or "How Vast Beyond All Measure"

2009-01-19T12:38:00.003-06:00

Few things fail to fascinate me like the prophets in the Old Testament. These men who were called to preach to a hostile people who had become as deaf, dumb, and worthless as the idols they worshiped. A people who were anxious for political allies in ongoing wars but cared nothing for the help of the God of their youth. A people who were called and loved, that God never gave up on.

It looked like God gave up on them, though. First the Assyrians destroyed the Northern Kingdom. Judah decided not to learn from this, or from her own past, and so Babylonia came. How could they feel like they were any god's chosen people?

The prophets preach a rage burning with a ferocity so frightening that some wonder how the same God could come as the loving Jesus. The prophets preach the words of a lover spurned, of a God incensed. Amos transfers this message: "I hate, I despise your religious feasts. I cannot stand your assemblies. Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them."

Hosea passes on: "What can I do with you, Ephraim? What can I do with you, Judah? Your love is like the morning mist, like the early dew that disappears."

Jeremiah: "I will enslave you to your enemies in a land you do not know, for you have kindled my anger and it will burn forever."

And yet through Hosea he also says, "How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel? . . .My heart is changed within me; all my compassion is aroused." In chapter 13 God announces, "I will redeem them from death!"

What a telling picture of the personality of God that no one wanted Israel to prosper and thrive more than God did. That no one wanted Israel to be shown love and care than God did! That no one wanted less for Assyria and Babylonia to triumph than God did! That no one wanted less for Israel to suffer, and to go into exile than God did! God wanted peace for Israel more than Israel wanted it.

How deep the Father's love for us!

What a Day!

2009-01-17T13:55:00.004-06:00

Last night Sagrario had a birthday party. The night before she had come to my house to personally invite me, so I felt a little obligated to go. I sent her a text message and she called to tell me that she is sick. I guess I showed too much concern, because she changed her tone and invited me to go with her to Toledo the following morning (today). She had some work things to do for a few hours, so I would have some time to myself like last time.

In the car on the way there, she informed me that she had prepared a picnic lunch for the day and that we could enjoy it from a certain valley that overlooks the walled city.

"Oh good," I responded.

Then she gasped as she realized that she forgot to ask me to bring my guitar, so I could play for her.

"Oh," I responded, thinking: Whatever. This isn't too unbearably awkward. I just want a free ride to the book store.

We met back up later when she had finished her work and she wanted to introduce me to her friend Belen (it means "Bethlehem") who had eye surgery the day before. We entered Belen's dark and seafood-smelling apartment and were immediately served crawfish and cashews, assuaging the fears I had of the picnic but also sadly creating new ones. The shades were all drawn, to protect Belen's eyes.

Belen was incredibly chatty and engaging, and we talked about music and travel. She chided Sagrario for not seeing more of the world, and also for the second-rate potato chips that she had brought with us. Then she ran back to her room and brought out. . .a guitar! For me to play!

I acquiesced, reasoning that there were worse fears for a new acquaintance to play upon. I took the guitar and played an instrumental, hoping that would be enough. They told me to sing. So I did. When I was done, Belen was wiping tears from her face and thanking me. She explained that after the operation she has had to pump "fake tears" into her eye, so that she was actually weeping meant I could trust that she liked it. She kept asking for more songs until we had to leave for an appointment of mine.

We left and Sagrario dropped me off in her usual awkward way. Then my water didn't work, so I talked to my landlord. In the process, his son of twenty-four asked me to hang out with him and his friends tonight. Technically tomorrow, because they begin at midnight. So I am going, in hopes of having one more story to share.

What a day!

"In Those Eyes," Now in Low-Fat Mp3 Format

2009-01-16T12:40:00.005-06:00

This is a new song I wrote and am sharing, and I already see some things I want to change (haha). Mostly I want to change a few words, but in the meantime you can listen to it and tell me if anything else could be improved. I tried to make this a simpler song than "Looking Forward to Loving You," rather than shoving the whole story in there.

This song is about looking back after a failed love (we'll say this is theoretical) and admitting that although the singer's love was offered in truth and completely, it was not pure and he still made mistakes. And in the end what he thinks about from that relationship is not all the horrible things from either side, but rather when things were good.

But this is all theoretical, of course. . .right? Hmm.

Hope you like it.

Back in the Swing of Things

2009-01-15T13:20:00.002-06:00

This week was a return to the semi-daily grind of work. As it is I am working the same schedule I had last semester, but (at least) four extra hours of classes each evening.

Tonight was my first class with two children of a teacher from my school, Claudia and Mario. She is 7, he is 5. They arrived and did not answer when I said "hello."

Sandra toted her children inside and apologized, saying that they are very shy and that she would need to sit in on the class with us. When I sat down the children silently argued over who got to sit next to their mother and at the end both slumped down in defeat.

I spent a lot of the evening laughing, because they are two of the most beautiful little angels you will ever see. Claudia turns red and barely talks until her mother prods her, and Mario hops from seat to seat and goes "huh huh huh huh huh huh huh" when I re-ask him the question that got his attention in the first place. (but he doesn't sound like Beavis or Butthead, and it gives me pause to consider that these might not be pop-cultural references anymore)

So by the end of the evenings I am pretty tired, and I guess that it is for the best to keep myself (and my mind) as occupied as I can.

On This Day in History

2009-01-14T14:17:00.003-06:00

One year ago today was the first day of my last semester at Harding.

There was little worth remembering about the morning except my linguistics class, for which I was very excited until I met the professor. I felt a mixture of horror and pity as he spoke and immediately began plans to drop the class for being lame.

That evening in my room, I received a call from my friends Amanda and Courtney. They asked me to audition for their play, the Mousetrap, and I agreed although I had severe doubts about my acting ability and I was unhappy that I would have to put clothes back on to meet them. There I met a girl who I thought didn't care for me at all but in a few months she would tell me that she loved me, and I would believe her.

That night I went back to my room and listened to Scott Orr and Laura Veirs, wondering what would come.

(This may not mean a thing to anyone else in the world. In truth I suppose a blog is simply a charade of significance, so it is well written here. I have made a lot of decisions since January 14, 2008 and I am wondering if I made the right ones.)

Israel

2009-01-13T13:47:00.003-06:00

It is continually confounding and yet amazing, the mind's ability to choose what it will believe and what it will ignore.

When Israel fell far from God and broke the covenant made with him, God was understandably furious. He tried in every way to get their attention and to bring them back. He sent Assyria and Babylonia in the end, but along the way he sent message after message. In locusts (literal and figurative ones, it seems), in droughts, in sieges, in military defeat. But despite all of his anger he also appealed to the Israelites' hearts, and he spoke tenderly of alluring them, leading his people back into the desert.

The desert, where they walked and complained after being rescued from Egypt. The desert, where an entire generation died without seeing the Promised Land. But this was the desert! The desert where the people were led by God himself! The desert where they saw him as fire and cloud, and saw his presence day and night!

So God speaks to them of "when things were good," hoping that it will matter. But this only matters to an honest heart. A hardened and calloused heart refused to remember this loving guidance, and put it out of his/her mind to avoid past beauty, and past obligations. It's a simple matter to remain positive when you ignore, or just "don't think" about what has been, and what should be.

God confronted Israel with her sin, and the proper response to his offer of love. But they didn't want to think about it, because that would require change. And change hurts.

Is it True?

2009-01-12T12:40:00.002-06:00

The Bible shows that there is always a chance for redemption. There is always a chance for salvation. There is nothing beyond hope.

Is it true?

That is the whole point of the Beatitudes, after all. As if to say, "The Kingdom of Heaven is extended even to those that seem most scorned, cursed, or forgotten by God." The poor, the poor in spirit, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness (but just can't seem to make it there), the persecuted: no one would say that these are the ones experiencing divine favor. But the Kingdom is open even to these. And they don't deserve it for being miserable, either, but God's love rests even on these, the unredeemables.

Israel was brought back from exile! The Temple rebuilt! They even had John the Baptist, after such a long time with no prophetic voice! And then God walked among them in flesh, showing that even the "fallen" human being can be redeemed and holy! God works miracles from the unredeemable.

I have been waiting for months to see something renewed that has been ruined and dismantled. I have even been counseled to give up completely, by just about everyone. I want to see the beauty of redemption. Like Israel! Like Naomi and Ruth! Like Hosea taking Gomer back.

Can this be redeemed? Is it true?

A Lesson Learned

2009-01-11T13:09:00.004-06:00

Next time when I do laundry, I will check the weather forecast for the night's low temperature.

Spaniards don't believe in "dryers" and so we hang up our laundry on clotheslines. This can prove to be an issue in January.

Below is a picture of my frozen jeans, leaned against the wall to display all of the glory:
You should have heard me giggle. I ran back outside to grab a t-shirt to balance on top, but I returned just in time to see my pants crumple on the floor. What a pity!

Another Trip to Toledo

2009-01-10T08:01:00.002-06:00

I think I inadvertently went on my first Spanish date last night?

Some lady here in town invited me to go with her to Toledo and hang out after she did some things at an academy there. I agreed, having planned on going there anyway. While she was busy I got to take a walk and watch the sun set behind the huge, historic walls. I went to a record store and bought a CD that I already own, "Recovering the Satellites" by Counting Crows. (My other copy is back in the States, and this has been one of my favorite albums since fourth grade. AND it was only the price of a meal from McDonald's, in contrast to the $22-ish other albums)

I sat in the Plaza and read Hosea until she was done, and even ran into a friend who used to be a substitute at my school. We talked and renewed plans to make plans to hang out one day, and he went on his way.

Sagrario finished her stuff and we ate dinner. Throughout the conversation I was pleased that she actually laughed at my jokes, even though she wasn't drinking. We talked for a while and then walked to a bar where a local blues band was playing. I was pleased to hear Stevie Ray Vaughan and ZZ Top, topped off with the strained vocals of a guy not much older than I. But who am I to complain about poor vocals, eh?

The drummer was incredible and even took an extended solo through the audience, banging on tables and the bar and working the drunk guys into a frenzy. One guy was VERY into it, dancing with reckless abandon like a two-year-old listening to Raffi. Another (and large) man wiggled his rump while losing not a drop from his snifter (yes, a snifter) of brandy to the delight of the young ladies. We left the club late with our ears ringing and smelling of smoke, and I was glad.

It was nice to be freed of making plans at the mercy of the bus schedule since she has a car, and it was good to have company even if it was slightly awkward at times. I'm going to go listen to my CD now.

Another Posted Song, in Colourful Mp3 Format

2009-01-07T11:37:00.003-06:00

Here is a cover of a Beatles song, which shows my first attempt at multi-tracking in order to do the intro. Also one of my harmonicas makes a cameo. I tried to mix the vocals in a different way this time, so let me know if it sounds okay/better/pleaseturnitoffohgosh.

School starts back up tomorrow, so perhaps I will get back into writing on here more regularly. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

2008 in Review

2009-01-05T13:37:00.001-06:00

This past year was one of extremes, of opportunity and change. One year ago I was looking forward to my final semester at college and wondering how it would end. I did not expect what was, though. It was a blur of food from Sonic, CLEP tests, formals, and hope. My favorite times were either sitting in a tree the day I came back from Hawaii or listening to Gnarls Barkley in my car. The worst was when my best friend's engagement ended. Then I graduated and wondered what it meant.

The summer was warm and lovely, days spent hiking and climbing mountains and eating ice cream with my youth group, preparing lessons and praying they would be worth something, sharing sermons and repainting rooms and wondering why I planned yet another lock-in. My heart was full of worry those days and I spent my free time on my bike, only to find that even riding thirty miles did not exhaust enough to slow my mind.

The summer ended with a sudden shift in something I had been counting on to see me through the coming changes, as a promised love became a mixture of confusion and derision. The lightning-fast flux left me with questions: was the love I once saw the truth or the lie? Then what of the subsequent lack thereof? Which was Jekyll, and which Hyde? . . .and will “her” friends still talk to me?

Soon I found myself in another country. After stepping off the plane it hit me that I was completely on my own. I spent the first two days trying to arrange a means of travel to two different podunk cities and did not eat more than half an apple. All the while my eyes scanned each street for an internet cafe.

Now I am no less a foreigner than when I arrived, and I have never been more tired. My hopes for the near future include preparing a working portfolio of photographs, sharing some original songs, and finishing my current read-through of the Bible that I began in late October. For the far future, I look forward to getting a job that pays in dollars, starting a band, and falling in love.

At the risk of sounding Dickensian, 2008 yielded some of the very best and the very worst that I have known. Some day I will look back on it fondly, but for now I am ready to move on.

What Would We Be Without Wishful Thinking?

2009-01-01T18:14:00.005-06:00

Tonight is my last night in London. I get to leave the hostel at 4:45 tomorrow morning to take the Underground to a bus to the airport to Madrid to Toledo to a house that I rent. But there await me my guitar, my harmonicas, and my toothbrush. I have missed all of these terribly.

Kidding on the toothbrush. I don't even own one!

Being in England has been odd, to be sure. It was a good trip, but I confess that I am tired in body and spirit and am looking forward to resting back in Sonseca. But there are little moments here that felt weighty, that felt significant. Little glimpses of beauty like seeing people spray champagne as fireworks marked the transition to 2009 or drunk people yelling and congratulation strangers, or walking past a young man that had too much to drink and lay on the street in a pose utterly unfaithful to his expensive suit and expensive haircut. Or a girl whose friends were trying to convince of her inebriety and offered to call a cab as the poor rich girl stared off into space with the most depressingly lost gaze I have ever seen.

Or sitting in a bus coming back from Stonehenge and reading Old Testament prophets, and wondering how to show to same love and fidelity that the Israelites refused to accept. Or looking out the window in the same bus and seeing no landscape, only fog. A deep fog like the night I left Searcy for the last time, praying earnestly for engine failure before I left the state.

Or this very night, going to see a show. (God once again blurred the lines between his sense of humor, irony, and cruelty in that one of the only shows not sold out [and in the end the one we saw] was: The Mousetrap.) It brought back a lot of memories of when days and thoughts and feelings were brand new.

Or watching Trafalgar Square erupt with cheers over nothing more than a page turned on cheap wall calendars and being glad in my heart. Just an hour before these people were shoving each other aside, shooting untrusting glances at others standing too near, and booing the police. Now they were united in an optimism that many people need desperately. The foolish ones drank away their chance at sharing this joy.

Those of us who remained sober and smooch-less were caught up in something magical. This was far from home, but this was a time of hope. And I leave with memories of seeing Abbey Road, of winding my way down Baker Street (thinking of Gerry Rafferty makes me long for Colorado mountains, though), of exploring and getting lost and wondering and loving. Yes, this was a good trip.

A (New) Year

2009-01-01T06:23:00.003-06:00

How curious!

Indeed, how very curious. It is a new year, and yesterday was the end of another. Of course there is nothing more "new" about today than there was to yesterday, andour notions of time are relative and arbitrary, but last night I felt the full weight of this relativity replace the load already on my shoulders as I walked alone through the streets of London.

I listened to the Shins, Aimee Mann, and Sufjan Stevens and remembered walking through so many other cities by the same songs. Suddenly before me were little memories, little moments that are long gone but somehow strikingly vivid. Before me were faces of girls I had loved, one beside me as I drove, another guiding me as we walked, another sitting along in the backseat as my father drove us from the airport.

And there were worries in my heart in each of those times, too. And somehow the memories, those time-places or temporal stations, those seasons are beautiful still. I look at them fondly and treasure them. My current worries lost their cumbersome immediacy and with it their power, their weight.

As Sufjan Stevens's "Transfiguration Motif" played in "Chicago," I felt changed myself. I imagined that my problems now will see little resolution regardless of the New Year, and will be with me for some time. But they are no end, in and of themselves! They are no crushing sum total of life and my time here. They are peripheral. Soon I will look back on these days fondly, and they will be beautiful still. I will take the good with the bad.

For the first time in a long time, I am hopeful of the days to come.

Where the Demons Dwell! Where the Banshees Live, and They Do Live Well!

2008-12-30T18:06:00.003-06:00

First off, I respect you if you know what I am about to say judging from this post's title.

Today we went on a guided tour, which is kind of against everything that makes me who I am. I dislike them with the same sentiments I feel towards Guide Books and their amazing powers to make tourists stop suddenly in the middle of sidewalks, disrupting any possibility of natural movement.

Anyhow, the cost of travel and admission was not much less than the tour itself so it seemed a good way to have the entire day planned for us. Sure enough, we were driven around via a heated bus, called "my darlings" by the guide, and it was difficult to suppress my urge to say "baa" constantly as the herd moved from glass case to glass case.

But enough griping. This is a painfully brief walk-through of the day: First we went to Windsor Castle, which was a marvel in its decadence, housing the richest woman in the world (Her Majesty). From there we went to Stonehenge (and hence the Spinal Tap lyrics in the title above), which is hard to describe in words. Lastly we saw Bath and the Roman (wait for it) bath that is surrounded by a museum.

It is late and I am tired (and unmistakably ill), but I will put up photos one of these days, I'm sure. Sometime next year, I imagine.

London Calling

2008-12-29T17:25:00.003-06:00

I am in a new country, on vacation from a country that is not my home. This is almost surreal.

But I am here, in England. Things are different, to be sure. I hear English while I am walking down the street, but I also hear French, German, Italian, and others whose categorical names I don't even know. It is very cold here, and the sun is gone by 4:30 in the afternoon. It seems that I am getting ill, and so my strength is usually gone by that time, too.

But I am seeing lovely things. The architecture is breathtaking, moving me to tears in St. Paul's Cathedral. I recited (most of) the Apostles' Creed there with many, many people and sang in a familiar tongue to God Most High, then heard a sermon in the same familiar tongue. Sitting there, surrounded by gold and decoration and praise and love and wondering how heaven could show all of this up, was one of the most beautiful feelings I have known.

Claire and I have spent a lot of time on the Underground, on buses, and on foot traversing this huge city. And we have barely seen a small portion of it. It is amazing to think of how many souls there are walking through the streets, lighting up the apartments, clogging up and stinking up the tube stations. And then to think that each of them has a fully formed, intricate life full of hopes and pain and love and hate and victories and failures. And then to think that God Most High knows all of this. Even though he feels so far some days, he knows. He is here.

I haven't much to say right now, but there is much on my mind. There are important decisions to be made, so please pray that I make good ones. (And to preempt any questions, I'm not talking about deciding on whom to smooch on New Year's) Yes, there is much on my mind.

A Quick Note

2008-12-23T12:37:00.002-06:00

This is a brief note to mention something that I may not have before. I am going to London on Friday. Has this been said? Even my best friend didn't know until yesterday. But that is where I will be, and I may be posting a bit from there when I get some free time.

I am surprisingly not as bummed as I was about not spending Christmas at home. Make no mistake, there is nowhere I would rather be right now than shoveling the drive with my Dad and listening to Sufjan Stevens's Christmas music with my Mom. But today I received a package from them that made me feel not-so-far-away, for a change.

I have the best parents in the world, it is worth mentioning.

Tomorrow I am off to the town of Socuellamos to spend Christmas with Sha'lon and Claire, and then we fly out of Madrid together the next day.

Aaand I just got a call, with an invitation to go to the local theater and see a concert. So I'm off! Until next time!

Today

2008-12-21T12:22:00.002-06:00

I didn't have to hop the fence to use the internet at the Institute right now because it is torn down for some construction project over break, which begins on Wednesday. And I am writing now because I am not sure if I will be able to tomorrow.

This was a good weekend. The party in Toledo was quite a lot of fun, and I remained sober. I am glad, not least because I would have missed the other teachers getting sloshed. (If you want to quickly learn who the creepy coworkers are, serve wine. Oh, gosh. I will write more on that night some other day.) And yesterday Claire and I went to Madrid, and were almost crushed by the insane crowds. It was absolutely wild, but not in the angry-consumers-beating-each-other way of the US. It was simply crowded and not obnoxiously so, at least until we tried to get onto the Metro.

But today, I was walking back from the bus stop and Alberto drove up with his kids in tow. He asked if I would like to come along for lunch and for a couple of trips, as the weather today was absolutely perfect. And so we went, to the top of a low mountain where we could see much of Castilla-La Mancha, and then to a watch tower built by Muslims in the 9th or 10th century. We climbed things, like men do.

But the real treat was this: all day, I got to watch Cristinita. She is not quite two, but is learning to recognize some words and has so much more personality just since I got here. She walked by my side most of the way, occasionally stopping to pick up a rock to throw at a fencepost. Then she would run up to me, and I would run just ahead of her which inexplicably made her squeal with laughter. I slowed down, and she grasped my pointer finger and we continued the ascent.

At the top, she and her brother became very tired. Cristina lay her head on my leg, and Albertito his on her shoulder. I put my arm around the both of them and we looked across the many miles of Spain. Once we left, I carried Cristina for a while after she got scared by a tiny old-lady dog. To get her mind off of that, I ran and made a sound effect like flying, which she imitated immediately. For a minute or so, our entire conversation consisted of making the same sound effect, back and forth, and throwing a fist ahead of us, and then we laughed.

She pulled the toboggan off of my head causing my instinctual head-shake to put my hair back in place. She found this very funny, and began pulling my hat off and shaking her own head in front of me, trying to get me to repeat the motion. Of course I did, and we laughed together more.

Many of the best conversations require no words. This was a good and lovely day.

El Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza

2008-12-18T13:49:00.003-06:00

Today I went with the second-year students to Madrid with the goal of visiting the art museum named in the title above. The trip went off without a hitch, although I was not pleased at getting up so early. We got stuck in the typical traffic and Prado (our sub-director) got ill on the bus ride, and the students complained about every little temperature variant in the bus ride (have I mentioned yet that Spaniards are whiny babies? It is the truth), but we got there.

And it was special. When Prado announced the groups and their teacher-chaperones, the students cheered at being under my command. We walked through the three floors and I realized that I was having a great time explaining the seventy pieces we focused on. I have always enjoyed fine art and paintings, but I never knew that it was so fun trying to share that enthusiasm. Our art teacher Elena gave the chaperones guides of things to talk about, but my students and I simply conversed.

We saw an incredibly realistic painting of Jesus after his crucifixion and Tanya gasped at the pain displayed. I sighed over El Greco's mastery of color and texture, as I always do. I tried to explain some abstract paintings that were actually quite beautiful, and felt a rush of joy when the students leaned their heads back in realization and said, "Ahhh. . .". They complained towards the end of being tired (we did see a lot of pieces, and they are Spaniard Whiny Babies) but then rushed into the gift shop with renewed energy.

And on the bus ride back the teachers gossiped about who is going to get drunk at the Christmas party tomorrow, how super-sexy Elena is going to dress up for the occasion, and which of the students is dating whom.

And they are still talking about who got drunk at last year's shindig.

I spent most of the ride fielding questions from the students. They have a lot of questions, in truth. About how we celebrate New Year's at home, if I am going home for the holidays (I am not), why I am wearing sandals in December, and so on. They love talking about Obama, and ask me my opinions on absolutely every trivial matter you can imagine. Before I left, Maria asked me if I am coming back to teach again next year, and I was touched.

It was a good day, full of art and far away from the classroom. It was a treat.

Jimmy

2008-12-17T13:42:00.003-06:00

Jimmy is my new student as of this last week, and I think you may enjoy hearing about him.

He called one afternoon as I was just about to go to another private lesson, and he spoke very softly from a "Private Number" on my Caller ID. He asked if I had time for classes, and I asked when he would like to begin, thinking he would try to book a spot for after Christmas break, but he answered, "today." So we settled on a time, and I left my house.

Later that night the hour came around and I didn't actually expect him. He still hadn't told me his name or anything, and part of me always wonders if new appointments are kids from school playing pranks after they get my cell number from the posters around town. But the bell rang ten minutes late (and thus, on time) and we sat at the table.

First he pulled out an English murder mystery novel, and announced that he would read to me. It was understood that I was to correct his pronunciation, but I enjoyed him saying that. I soon realized that he did not need much correction, and after a few pages he stopped and announced that we would talk to each other.

It turns out that he has only been studying English with any effort since one year ago, adding that his father always dreamed that his son would live in the USA.

His father died, one year ago.

Jimmy watches movies in English (which annoys the heck out of his family), listens to American music, and talks to anyone he can just to practice (often his younger sister, who also wants to learn the language). He broke up with his girlfriend so that he would have more time to study. He works daily with his mother as servants in the house of a Count (whose son I may be teaching after break), trying to save money so that he can see his father's side of the family again in Ecuador. Then he is going to be a pilot, in the States.

As he left, I suggested that he bring his sister along next time. His face was clearly showing worry when he asked how much that would cost, for two people, but then broke out in a bright smile when I told him not to worry about it.

As busy as he is, I don't know how much longer he will be my student. In the meantime it is wonderful to see the ambition and hope in his heart. If you ever have a pilot announce softly to the plane that Jimmy is your pilot, bang on the cabin door and give him one more person to talk to.

To Be Loved

2008-12-16T04:06:00.006-06:00

In my head I keep hearing what my grandfather told me almost two years ago as he lay dying, "You can always tell when someone likes you." He said this in response to me telling him that I was proud of the man he was, and that my father thought the world of him. He first replied, "I know it."

To be loved is a wonderful thing. To know that you are loved, truly astounding. Here is a memory that helps keep me warm while Spain keeps getting colder.

This past summer I worked again with my church in Grand Junction, Colorado. I stayed later than normal, as I had no university classes to return to. It was different, trying to plan youth group stuff alongside all their school activities and seeing their attention fade and shift to other things, but it was a treat to be with them longer.

When my time came to a close, I had a lot of trouble in finding a good "last lesson" until deciding to tell them what I realized I hadn't explicitly said enough: that they are an amazing group of people, and I am proud of them. I am always impressed by their excitement in serving God and how good they are to each other, especially in light of the unhealthy aspects of my own youth group in High School. I them to have no fear in sharing the Truth and inviting others to church, because there is no place better for their friends to be welcomed, known, and loved. I added, "That is why I am coming back here, to be with all of you."

. . .and then they applauded?

I was surprised. Taken very off-guard. I hadn't even paused for a reaction, or effect, or anything. It is still confusing to think of. But it was humbling, and wonderful. It was a spontaneous display of love, and nothing could have proven my words about them better. It took a moment to steel myself for finishing the lesson.

It has been a while since I have felt loved. Especially like this. But to have my presence applauded, to be celebrated? It seems ridiculous.

But I suppose love usually does.

Posted Song Number Five

2008-12-15T05:25:00.003-06:00

Here is a cover of a Derek Webb tune, which I remember playing one morning in Little Rock (but I try not to think about that).

Please tell me your thoughts on this song. Specifically, I have questions about one issue. I have never, ever in my life liked my voice. I can follow notes, but I don't like the way I sound. My best friend tells me that it is a good voice, as do some others, but I have trouble believing complements. So this is not fishing for them, as I wouldn't believe you anyway. But please share your opinion. Even if it is that my voice is jarring, but appreciable in a Neil Young sort of way.

I don't know if I will be posting songs over break. Will people still be reading this? Let me know that, too, please.

Thank you for your help. I am grateful, in truth. Thank you.

Changes

2008-12-11T04:04:00.002-06:00

A common question I receive at school is that of where I live in the United States and what it is like there. This is sort of a difficult question, as I have had three homes in the past few years (Louisville, Harding, and Grand Junction). It is slightly more difficult, even, when you take into account that no one here knows the first thing about U.S. geography (and be honest: could you find Santiago de Compostela on a map?).

So sometimes I draw them a monstrous outline of the States, or a teacher will procure a map beforehand. And each time as I go over the map I find myself feeling, I don't know, a longing? a tenderness? a bit of, dare I say it, nationalism?

I never expected this, but I miss the United States.

As I explain the mountains and river in Colorado, the green hills of Kentucky, the. . .Arkansas, I feel closer to my country than perhaps I did while I was there. It is odd.

And so when my plane lands in a few months, I am going to do some exploring. Not any huge trip, but I want to see New York. A bit of New England. Then I want to take a friend along with me down some country roads in Kentucky.

Yes, this sounds right to me.

And two quick meta-notes: (1) I am not posting a song today because the wireless is down at my school and I am using an ancient computer. So maybe next week. (2) Sal, thank you for your comment. I just read it, and would like to keep hearing from you.

That is all for now.

Galicia

2008-12-09T12:50:00.005-06:00

I am exhausted, so here are pictures (unedited, although needing it) and few words. This weekend was a long one due to Constitution Day, so Kristin, Claire, and I went by train up to the northwest. We were directly north of Portugal, which is kind of neat. If you're into that sort of thing, I mean.

We saw churches, and loads of them. We walked on the roof (legally) of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, which supposedly houses the remains of the apostle James son of Zebedee and was begun in 1075 AD. The Mass there was a little ridiculous, with four-fifths of the worshippers whipping out digital cameras to take pictures of the famous censer swinging around, spreading a sweet smell in the church. Here is the front:
And here is a pretty church:
And here I stand triumphant in a pretty stretch of woods as we followed a path of old water mills, aided by a sweet local:

And here is some pretty coastline in front of the Tower of Hercules:
I have nothing more to say, for now.

Posted Song Number Four and Pictures, some in Mp3

2008-12-04T05:57:00.008-06:00

Here is an instrumental song I have had kicking around in my head for a while. The title ("Recently Untitled," I think) is not an attempt to be cute. It used to have a title, but now it doesn't.

I was going to put a cover song on here, but it was a busy week and my voice is tired. Tell me if this track sounds like garbage, please. How do these tracks sound when you listen to them? Do they sound like they are recorded on a headset-microphone into a laptop in my bedroom while sitting on my creaky bed? Because that is what they are. I am trying to create some illusion of production value, though.

Also, can no one see the pictures from my last post on Thanksgiving? The shot of the meal is nothing short of triumphant. I noticed that they aren't on Facebook's import of my post, so I will try to put them up again, right here. First, the meal:
And now the slightly out-of-focus my-face (which is out of focus for your protection):
And also an apple pie baked from scratch:
I'm traveling to the far north of Spain this weekend, and am looking forward to it. Until next time.

Thanksgiving In Spain

2008-12-03T10:33:00.001-06:00

Before I forget the good and little details, I should tell you about my Thanksgiving weekend. It would be hard to have had a better one.

I met Sha'lon in Toledo to find that, due to complications, I would not be able to see my friends Greg and Marie. We went on to Torrijos where Kristin would not be joining us. It looked like the weekend was starting on the wrong foot but the truth quickly took shape.

Loran, Claire, Sha'lon, and I walked to the supermarket and piled a huge amount of food in the hand-cart. Bringing it back to the apartment, we set to cooking a feast. It took a while to cook and coordinate the different dishes, but we ended up with a very satisfying meal, as you can see:

After we ate we walked with Loran to the train station. It began to snow ever so slightly on our heads and in my beard, but it was a joyful thing.

Saturday we went to Madrid so the girls could shop and get Starbucks. I got a Chai Tea Latte there and felt warm, probably to the amazement of the many people asking if I was cold as they pointed down to my sandals. We walked much and talked a good amount, all in English. I wore brown and the girls said I looked like a tree. We watched street performers and saw the opulence that is "Cortylandia," one store's presentation of all things Christmas. It was a good day.

Sunday Claire and I went to her local charismatic-esque church, which was lovely. The people were welcoming, even asking my name from the microphone. During prayer most members murmered along audibly with their own supplications. They drew out the "s" sounds in all words ("ssssanto ssssssanto ssssssanto") creating an odd and sibilant sensation, as if small things were flying past me at high speed. With closed eyes I imagined their impassioned words as those small things, and it reminded me of a dream I had when I was young of standing in a fire and looking straight up to watch all the sparks fly toward heaven.

At home, my bed met me and I went back over all the things that Hannah, Shelby, and others sent me in a package. Here is a blurry picture of me wearing the scarf that they sent that I needed. I made the full image smaller to spare you the sight of a six-foot my-face.

Psalm 101

2008-12-02T05:52:00.004-06:00

I had a few things to write about and there are many things on my mind, but I came across this passage last night and was really quite taken by it.

I have been reading through the Bible since a little while after I got here in Spain, and was continuing this last night at the kitchen table/dinette set thing. Going through the Psalms alternates between an enriching and an infuriating experience, as they are so different that inevitably you cannot relate to many of them at a time. I cringe as the writer asks God to destroy his enemies in warfare, or I roll my eyes as David says "I have led a blameless life," and last night I was getting sick of reading so many calls to "sing a new song" and to "sing for joy to the Lord." God has given me a rich and good life, but right now. . .things could be better. I will not shout aloud to the Rock of my salvation. I barely have a whisper within me.

But then the 101st Psalm.

It is full of promises from beginning to end: "I will sing of your love and justice;/ to you, O lord, I will sing praise./ I will be careful to lead a blameless life. . ." to "No one who speaks falsely will stand in my presence.// Every morning I will put to silence/ all the wicked in the land." But why does the writer make all these declarations of faith and vows of service? Near the start of this fervent yet frenetic fanaticism, he asks the Lord,

"when will you come to me?"

My prayers of late have taken on a pleading and bargaining tone. "How clearly your glory would be shown if you would just [whatever], God!" "What better time to prove yourself to a heart so beaten down?" "I have been mistreated and now left by a girl claiming love. Are you, too, now absent? Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?"

I have no more answers to my questions than I did yesterday. But this poem spoke in words that my heart was struggling to form, and it seemed worth sharing. And perhaps I am reading my Bible more, praying, fasting, making promises, with the goal that God will be far no longer, just as the Psalmist hoped.

I just wish it were that easy.

"Looking Forward to Loving You" and Giving Thanks, all in Mp3

2008-11-27T12:08:00.007-06:00

First, here is a new and original song. I am very nervous to share it. It is longer than most things I write, but it is a story-song and thus merits it. I hope.

Today is Thanksgiving and I would love to be in the United States. But here are some things I am thankful for:

-Talking to my mother, father, and grandmother on Skype today.
-Having such a loving and beautiful family.
-Talking to Hannah on it, as well
-Having the Bible in English.
-Claire, Kristin, and Sha'lon.
-Getting to see Greg (one of my best friends since High School) and Marie tomorrow in Toledo.
-My students applauding me today after a very fun class
-Receiving a package from the United States with gifts from Shelby, Hannah, Jared, and others (one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, and the hardest I've laughed in a while)
-Redemption.

I hope you all are with loved ones today. If you read this, chances are that I love you, and I am thankful for you.

My Eyes Are Dry

2008-11-26T05:41:00.000-06:00

Today I am dehydrated.

My contacts make sticky noises when I blink. I feel lethargic. I cannot clear my throat. I am nothing more than chapped lips and fingertips cracking from the cold wind. I am that and nothing more.

The hard thing about making a decision is the questions after: "Was that the best thing to do?" "Was that correct?" "What if I had done more?" "Is it too late to turn back?"

But then I think of the things she said: "what could never be again." Or to explain our entire relationship: "I didn't think."

There is no more water within me, and so I think back to downpour days in Searcy and watching the sheets of rain run over my windshield. I think of sitting there in my car and wondering when it would take me out of that drainage-challenged town. Now I look up at planes carving paths across sky and I wonder when I will return to the States, and what I will return to.

There, what could be?

Trust

2008-11-25T06:46:00.002-06:00

". . .is difficult," is how the title should continue.

Yesterday began with a bright sun and I left to buy bread in a T-shirt with no jacket. Later that night I went to school and returned home shivering on my bike so violently I feared I would jerk the handlebars and be bucked into a tree. I dismounted to walk under my umbrella when rain started, and after five steps pea-sized hail fell so hard that the ground was covered in half a minute. Then it all stopped.

And as I walked through the village today, the smells change quickly, too. From diesel fumes to barbecued meat, to rotting peaches on the outskirts of abandoned and nearly fallow fields. From sweet baked goods to the local and low-quality wine, to green olives, to manure. All of these as I walk and think and pray to forget what I am thinking.

Yes, how quickly things change.

People change. Much. But with no fault, as there is nothing inherently wrong in it. Why, just a year ago I was. . .disheartened over a failed relationship and wondering when that stage of life would be over. And look at me now?

In the face of all this change, what I wrestle with is what to trust. What to believe. When things change from beautiful to a nightmare, which do you trust? Which was real? How can love and hate coexist? What do I trust? What is the What?

One more change, though: I will not let my stupid heart be broken again.

On the other side of this, I noticed that several people have been leaving encouraging comments on here. It really means the world to me, knowing that people still remember that I'm alive even though I graduated and left the country. It is good to see people make the effort to show me that I am loved. Because love is hard, and it is easier not to try. But you do. So thank you.

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda, Here I am at Camp Granada, or "Worst Post Title Ever"

2008-11-24T02:59:00.006-06:00

It is Thanksgiving break back home, so I doubt many people are reading this. That is fine, as I haven't much to say.

This weekend I went to Granada, in Andalucia. It was beautiful and smelled like Kentucky at times and looked like heaven. I walked much, ran some, saw lovely things and felt romantic feelings in my heart. The Alhambra had roses and oranges and pomegranates and a setting sun behind it. The paths were lined on either side with gentle but constantly flowing rivulets, turning trees, and golden leaves gliding to rest.

More importantly, I made a decision. A decision that is good - and good for me, for a change. It is hard, but the die is cast. The Rubicon has been crossed. Well, just insert whatever trite, overdramatic expression you want. And it's that.

No one pays for what they get for free. And no one will respect what they can take advantage of. So no more.

Here are two pictures from my trip, before editing.

And:

Facing Fears and Shedding Tears, or Posted Test Song Number 2, in Mp3

2008-11-20T03:48:00.006-06:00

Well, I haven't actually cried over posting this song. So that was a lie. (shame-faced) But here is another song, this time with guitar AND vocals. This is "Harvest" by my hero Neil Young, and you will probably hear more of his stuff on here in the future.

Let me know what you think, and thank you for having done so in the past already. It really does mean a lot to me.

And on a side note (but a very important note) a cell phone just went off here in the Teachers' Lounge and Irene unabashedly took her time in viewing who was calling, adjusting it in her hand, and finally answering it after some time. This was impressive, as the ring tone was "Take On Me" by A-Ha. Most people would jump to answer and hide that, but her anti-haste made me glad.

I hope you enjoy the song.

Another Day

2008-11-18T11:52:00.003-06:00

Today's classes were wild. One of them was my first time with the oldest group of students here. It was. . .awkward? The females quickly asked a succession of questions that typically are more spread out in conversation. "How old are you?" ("very young," they responded to my answer) "Do you have a girlfriend?" "Where do you live?" As I tried to decide between honesty and self-preservation, one girl nodded and said, "Yes, this is very important."

I cringed when the teacher announced that I offer private lessons, and that my phone number is on a flier in the main foyer. Then they asked to take a picture of me after class, which I declined. They asked if I prefer Spanish or American women but the bell rang, no doubt by the hand of God.

All this even after I grow a beard.

Thank you all for your comments about the song I posted. I will post another soon. The first was mainly to see if this set-up works, which it does. I will probably post a cover song, as I am working on my own and haven't set a deadline yet. Maybe one original song every two weeks? What do you think? I may put some covers up here and there, too, to try out different styles/ranges/etc. Requests are welcome.

My best friend told me that I am not easy to cast away. That I am not easy to forget, or easy to leave. In light of recent events, though, this couldn't seem farther from the truth. Could I have simply deceived everyone I know?

My First Song Posted as a Test, in Mp3

2008-11-17T11:55:00.005-06:00

Here is a link to a test song. It is not much, mainly to hear from you if (1) it is easy enough to get to, (2) the volume is acceptable, (3) the sound quality is acceptable, and (4) anything you want to say.

Click here, and select to download the file. There is no danger of virus, because I copied that link and everything myself.

Feel free to leave comments here, or to write me on Facebook. I appreciate all honesty, as harsh as it may be. If I suck and need to stop, it would be better to find out from my friends than when I try out for American Idol.

Kidding.

Let's see if this works.

On the Way to Madrid

2008-11-17T05:17:00.007-06:00

Yesterday I went to Madrid again in order to attend a Church of Christ that meets there. Mass is good and all, but no one talks to each other and they only sing one or two songs that people are supposed to just know. And of course I don't. So for the second time this weekend I awoke before the sun after a largely sleepless night. The bus was only late by fifteen minutes, and thus was on time.

While waiting, a man came over to a group of young men and shouted while gesturing wildly. He laughed a hysterical, exaggerated guffaw that brought stares from both sides of the street. In response to his histrionics, the boys laughed hard and exchanged knowing looks among themselves to say what couldn't be spoken in front of the man. Gradually they calmed down and I saw concern grow in their eyes.

The bus came and the man began chanting what sounded like "Royal Road," and I think that was his desired destination that the bus didn't serve. Or it was a drinking song. Whatever the case, the older folks crowded even more closely to the open bus door than normal, anxious to get away from the loud man before they were forced to interact with him. He stopped jumping and stood next to me, making obvious the smell of alcohol on his visible breath.

The boys he had entertained boarded the bus and I hung back to get on last, watching the man's eyes tear up as he said goodbye to us and apologized in slurred Romanian-Spanish for being "just a worthless old drunk." The boys reproached him for saying this and said, "we'll see you soon." He and I shared no words but I did not run from him or avert my eyes, and he gave me a loving clap on the shoulder as we nodded our goodbyes.

As the sun rose, fog from the River Tagus obscured Toledo and gave only faint glimpses of the empty cathedral and cranes anxious to make corrections and cover cracks. We have all got problems to hide, don't we?

This is a wonderful world. But it is a wounded world.

Madrid

2008-11-15T07:04:00.002-06:00

I went to Madrid yesterday, and it was a very good trip in spite of the fact that I had to get up at 7 to catch the bus to get to town in time to see the luthier about my crap guitar. My toes went numb before I even reached the bus stop (no pity expected, as I wear sandals all the time). A few hours later, I reached the store and found that the luthier comes on Mondays. I thought the man on the phone said Fridays, and I silently swore vengeance on Movistar for bad connections.

Rather than wait even longer for a guitar whose sight had begun to repulse me, I returned it and went to a guitar store just down the road. There, I heard some guys speaking English and talked to the backing band of Nick Lowe. I helped the guitarist talk to the clerk, and we chatted for a bit before I bought a much better guitar for not much more moneys (which is excellent, as I haven't got much moneys).

I left the shop with a big smile on my face, only to run into a comic book store. Feeling no doubt at the providence that brought me there (kidding), I went inside and bought a "Patrulla X" (x-men) comic. European reprints of US comics are worth nothing and cost only slightly more than that, which is nice. The clerk noticed my tastes as I looked over other titles, and asked if I liked Neal Adams. Then we talked nerdily about comic book creators and such and I was glad.

Needing a hat for the upcoming winter I stopped by a store called "The English Court," which has about fifteen or so locations in the city. I entered and was immediately overwhelmed by the nine floors of clothing, electronics, and groceries. I looked over the anoraks (as I might need one) and didn't quite know what to do with myself, looking at a price tag of 300 euros. It is a jacket! Sheesh. So I left.

So I went to the Plaza Mayor and watched street performers. I like seeing those living statue performers relax when they think no one is looking, adjusting their costumes while their Converse shoes and sweat pants peek out from under shiny robes. And a couple who were covered completely in mud sat with eyes closed near a Chinese violinist, adding a touch of sweet melancholy to their tiny dances and motions caused by a coin clinking in their cup. Occasionally (I imagined whenever they got lonely from being so close and yet unable to move until someone gave them money) they would lean in to kiss while shuffling their shoes.

Walking around, people asked in Spanish for me to take a picture of them and we made idle chatter. And a pretty lady asked me for the time, which had me singing Chicago the rest of the day. There were couples taking cell-phone pictures of monuments, or others hunched together over maps and guide books, or others teasing and swatting while we all walked along and narrowly avoided being crushed by buses.

It was a beautiful day.

Lucas "Kicks It Up A Notch," or "Bam."

2008-11-13T12:53:00.003-06:00

And thus marks Lucas's inauspicious entry into the foray of topical humor contained in blog post titles.

And thus concludes the same.

Anyhoo, I wanted to share a discovery and a victory with you. Both are the same event: I am a terrific cook! I bought a bottle of sweet sherry, because I read about it in a book about Spain WAY back when I was a student in college. Long story short, I successfully did not vomit after drinking it.

So I cooked it. With a porkchop, potatoes, onions, and carrots (which more or less comprise the accompaniment to every dish I cook, using the term dish lightly). In a skillet. With. . . heat?

Long story slightly more brief, it was really good and now I am anxious to cook it for someone else. So if you come to Spain and visit me, there is a porkchop in it for you.

Also, thank you to everyone that responded to my last post. It is a scary thing to beg for comments, because if no one responded I would have been crushed and retreated into an indefinite blogging hiatus. Or at the very least I would start ending posts with self-deprecating addresses to "the no one that reads this anymore" like I used to on my old navel-gazing, angst-ridden, emo xanga. (Note: is there really any other type of xanga?) I am going to Madrid tomorrow because there is already a problem with my guitar (which is very frustrating) but I hope to have this settled quickly and then I will begin posting songs. Which is a scary thing, just like begging for comments.

But what is life without risk?

An Idea, and Begging

2008-11-11T06:50:00.002-06:00

I went to Madrid yesterday in a hectic day trip after work. The bus ride was long and hot and smelly, just like always. I did some walking and talking and found a decent price on a trustworthy brand, and now I have a guitar. I am very, very relieved to have a guitar.

So now, my idea. I don't normally beg for comments or anything, but I really would like your input on this. Since I have many songs begun but yet unfinished, I would like to end that and get in the habit of writing with deadlines. With my finished and unpolished demo tracks, I would like to share them so you can listen to them and give me some feedback (as in, what you like, what is awful, what reminds you of a song already written, what a certian song needs, stupid lyrics, decent lyrics, Etc).

Options: I am thinking about putting them on purevolume, or posting them on my blog with a link to where you can download the track. Which would you do? Would you prefer to listen to them online, or download them and take them with you? The only thing is that I REALLY WANT FEEDBACK. Will you do this?

If you have read this post, please tell me! Even if you say "I will not listen to anything and I will not post comments," just let me know. Thanks.

Sonseca Life

2008-11-10T03:59:00.003-06:00

I thought it would be a good idea to share some of the smaller details of life here that wouldn't show up in other posts. To add a bit more color to the picture. If it bores you, deal.

I live in a house with another teacher here, Arturo. It is a big house with reasonable rent, the main thing keeping me here in Sonseca instead of moving to Toledo. The floors are all tile, and the windows have the typical persiana shades which completely block out any outside light at night. My bed is a creaky nightmare, haha.

I cook for myself, usually one or two meals a day. I eat a lot of potatoes, carrots, rice, and lentils. Olive oil goes on everything, and is salad dressing here. Wine is cheap and plentiful, and I have enjoyed it in moderation (don't worry, youth groupers; I am responsible). In truth, when I am sad I turn to prayer and Nutella instead of alcohol.

I do not have internet at my house, and it is not possible to have a good connection at any price. Even getting a bad service costs too much, so I mainly use the internet in the mornings at work in between classes. On the weekends I travel and so don't get online very much if at all (this may explain my tardiness in writing some of you back). One weekend I was anxious to talk to someone online, so I hopped the fence at my school and hid in a doorway to use the wireless. Pathetic, no?

Travel is easy, and I have been to Toledo four or five times by now, and Madrid twice. I am going back to Madrid today after school to get a guitar, because my roommate is slow and ruined my chance to buy one on Saturday (he wanted a sandwich, the cad). I am getting a cheap one, because I do not have much money. Hence, the potatoes and rice all the time.

My dear friend Alberto loaned me a bike, which is helpful. Even though it is a small town, I like to explore it and take pictures now and then. It is rare that I do not run into some students from school on my excursions, or friends of friends. I am getting to know people here, and the students are entertained when they see me at Mass (they asked me, and were impressed that I have read the whole Bible).

So I have learned how to live with very little, and that is no problem. I am still surrounded by blessings and luxuries, and indeed material-wise I have everything I need (save the guitar). I miss my church, though, in all of my states. Colorado is a good place to be, and I have never been loved so thoroughly by such a large group of people. Harding is a miracle that I never appreciated enough, densely packed with saints. Kentucky is less of a home to me these days, but I miss my parents desperately. They are two of the best people I know, and I love them.

But it is already part-way through November, and soon I will be traveling for Christmas and then I will be picking fresh flowers to press in my Bible and then I will be back in the States. So I will enjoy this while I am here. I guess I just get tired of forming so many memories by myself.

Ugh.

2008-11-06T04:03:00.004-06:00

Yesterday was awkward.

I talked with some potential students about my private lessons, and their parents told me that they all refused to pay my asking price of ten euros/hour. They said that any more than five is asking too much, because that is comparable to what locals charge for math lessons and the like.

I explained, for one, that my price is set and that it would be unfair to charge less when I am charging this from other students. Also, I am a native speaker of English, which is (to me) a little different than Physics in the local tongue. Moreover, every teacher in my school told me not to charge less than twelve an hour, and that fifteen would be reasonable.

The mother (in particular) continued, though, saying that other local English speakers don't charge as much. I explained again that I am a native speaker, and that it seems curious to me that she refused to pay even half of the advised minimum, which I already lowered. What is more, some of the professors here have spent up to four years in another country just to learn English, and one teacher paid a private instructor thirty euros per hour in Ireland.

I really like these kids, but I can't let people take advantage of me because everyone else will hear about it in this tiny town. But I lowered my price AGAIN to eight, and they said it is not worth it. It became clear that it was now an issue of pride, and if one's pride is more important to someone than their child's education, they have more problems than not understanding English.

Oh, and their house is the biggest I've seen in all of Sonseca.

Vent vent vent. Sorry for a lame entry! I'm still doing well, just couldn't really sleep last night with this garbage on my mind. Ugh.

Congrats, USA

2008-11-05T09:13:00.003-06:00

I am pleased with the results of the election. I won't get very political in here, mainly because it is unnecessary at this point in the election and all. On my old xanga, I used to write about politics very often. The other kids in the youth group made fun of me for being a democrat, and openly denigrated me for my convictions. This didn't bother me as much as it could, though, because none of them knew anything about politics. I did not know everything, but I was reading books by members of cabinet. And I think the past eight years have vindicated me, to some degree.

Mainly, I'm just glad that Palin isn't VEEP. I have this crazy opinion that one should know the functions of the office they are running for. I know, right? Ridiculous!

To tell the truth, before it came down to only Bush and Gore in 2000, McCain was my first choice. Since then, though, I feel he compromised a lot of the integrity I admired in him to appear more Republican-friendly. And inviting Palin as VP totally undercut his main argument that Obama was a poor candidate due to lack of experience. Meanwhile Obama reaching out to Biden seemed a mature response to this same criticism.

That is all I will say, except the main reason I wanted Obama to win is that at the very least we needed to send some sort of message to President Bush. His tenure has been almost a disaster, and a change in party means a lot more to the rest of the world than it does in the U.S. In reality, not much is going to change. I just hope that Obama honors his office and his populace with honesty and integrity, and shows respect to the rest of the world like we haven't done for too long. I look forward to better cooperation with our neighbors around the planet.

Hope I didn't step on any toes. Just some thoughts. Feel free to disagree.

Developments

2008-11-03T11:59:00.003-06:00

It is November, and so that means that I have been here for more than a month already. This is insane to me, haha. And now that my schedule has been chopped up into steady, predictable blocks of work, private lessons, and travel, the now-seven months that remain don't seem all that long.

It is November, and so that means that I received my first paycheck. it would be uncivilized to quote the amount here, but minus rent it is enough for 230 trips to or from Toledo. But instead I am going back to Madrid to buy a guitar. Oh, and I can't cash the check until tomorrow, because banks here run from 8:30-2. Yes, my friends. It is true.

It is November, and so that means that the Presidential election is soon. Tomorrow, in fact. It is all over the news here and people ask me about it all the time. The Spanish make no secret over whom they support, and I am glad that it happens to be the man for whom I voted weeks ago.

It is November, and I am going very well, thank you.

A Very Special Hallowe'en Memory

2008-11-02T07:59:00.002-06:00

Friends, this past Friday was Halloween. The kids here kept asking me about it, imagining extravagant parties and decadent celebrations for this fairly insignificant holiday, so I didn't know what to expect from here.

It turns out that the teens just get together and drink.

For my Halloween, it seemed a much better idea to stay in and relax for one weekend, taking a Sabbath. I stayed at home (except for brief outings followed by regret due to the rain) and read the Bible, and had a lovely evening. Especially since our living room has a table with a heater built into its base, and so it is the only reasonable place to spend any amount of time at our house.

I was reading about the conquest of Canaan when the doorbell rang. My roommate is out of town, so it fell to me and I went to the door, having forgotten that it was Halloween. There before me stood two 12-ish-year-olds holding sacks, who blurted "TRICK OR TREAT" (in Spanish, of course).

I thought for a second, remembered the day and my social obligation to provide them with tooth decay, and thought about how my pantry would yield merely potatoes and lentils. While thinking, the boy asked, "You're not from here, are you?"

I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the only sweet-ish type things I owned, yogurt. However, these were no ordinary yogurts. They were the leftovers from a multi-pack of several fruit flavors, banana and coconut. Both are terrible, but I brought them to the door and apologized for not having candy. They shrugged and said they liked yogurt, and then they left.

My friends, this is how you celebrate!

Lucas Rex

2008-10-31T09:38:00.003-05:00

My friends, I have big news to share with you. I BOUGHT A CELL PHONE. I didn't even hit the caps hey there. My computer was just THAT EXCITED.

Yes, I went to the store, talked to the owner, and bought a prepaid cell phone. All in Spanish! In Spain! AND (get this) the phone has a color screen. You may not feel the full force of this announcement, but this is the first time that I have owned a phone that isn't prohibitively obsolete. When I got my last phone (which I still have), the Cingular guy went out back and unearthed a time capsule to retrieve the apparatus. With it were some buttons for Eisenhower. So, take that for what it is worth. But this one came in a box. One with no dirt on it. I walked home feeling triumphant.

Oh, and I get text messages now. My last phone actually sent messages via cuneiform on clay tablets, so this is a step up indeed.

More good things: with a phone, comes a phone number. With a phone number, I can advertise my private lessons and get some more bank. And travel more, and buy pearls and such.

Included is a picture of my phone. And a burgeoning beard.

Things are bound to be improving, these days

2008-10-29T07:11:00.003-05:00

I have not felt like myself lately.

If you have read this with any regularity, you know I've been a bit down since coming to Spain. I've had more than a little trouble adjusting to being here. In truth, I don't think I have been here much at all. My thoughts had all turned to worry and my heart was far away from me. I prayed for an excuse to leave, hinting especially hard that God give me a temporarily debilitating disease that would leave no trace upon its exit the moment I set foot on a United State. It was not a time of moral or rational victory, indeed.

For your worry I have caused, I am sorry. For your emails, comments, messages, and especially prayers, I am grateful beyond words. For your care, love, and friendship, I thank our God.

I offered the whole-hearted love of a broken-hearted man to a beautiful woman. I became angry at myself, at her, and at God when things didn't go as it could have, and hope was hard to come by when what I wanted wavered continually between possible and impossible.

But then the realization. That simple truth, the love of my youth. How can I be angry? I am a sinner, and God forgave me. How can I rage and whine and waste a heart that could be better spent loving? What other option do I have in light of being forgiven? In light of all the glory that the Lord has made? Surely I cannot be angry. I must forgive, and love, in turn.

And so I decided. I am no longer waiting for what will not come, as doing so has spent and exhausted all hope from inside of me. I am going to return to being who God created me to be. Nothing great, nothing impressive. A simple man. A sinner become sanctified. A man that shows God's love to and learns God's love from every heart. A man that depends on God alone. The Lord will be my portion.

Yes, I think things will be looking up.

A Return to Form

2008-10-23T11:01:00.002-05:00

My hopes are that this entry will be more Spanish and less . . . emo. I thought it would be a good idea to tell you more about my work environment, specifically the teachers and students.

Most of my students are from ages 11-16, although I do meet with some that are older. They are very inquisitive, and seem to enjoy my being around. They ask great questions, like if I like the Family Guy and what alcoholic beverages we drink in the United States. One guy asked if I drink Duff beer, and I had to try really hard not to laugh as I told him that Duff only exists in the Simpsons.

The English program here is still in its infancy, and so we often have a failure to communicate. Even when they are asking English, I try my best not to turn immediately to the professor with desperate, entreating eyes, begging for an explanation. They are fascinated that I would drive so far to work in the summers, and overjoyed that I voted for Obama before I left.

The young ones are a handful, but they are entertaining. One day I wore my purple shirt and tie combo, and I caught a couple of the girls in the back actually doing that thing where they rest their heads in one hand, looking ready to sigh at any moment. Another girl was being teased for being enamored with a much older boy, and as I offered her relationship advice (as a joke, of course) one student fell out of her chair laughing.

The teachers are also fun. One, Elena, tries to show off her English in front of me and makes my day every time we are together. One activity had the students coloring shapes according to warm and cool "families," which Jorge found very confusing and he mixed the colors. Elena came over, looked at his worksheet, and told him plainly, "Your colors are ugly and your family is horrible."

Marta, the P.E. teacher, came in this morning and announced in English, "Good morning. Shut up." Another period I spent teaching the children knock-knock jokes, and they enjoyed the interrupting cow one especially.

My private lessons, though, are hit-or-miss. I began meeting with ten-year-old Andrea the other day, who spent almost the entirety of the hour crying into the notebook pressed against her face as her mother asked me about animal names.

My Spanish is improving and I am going to Toledo tomorrow and the day after. I get paid soon, which will be nice. I am very cold at night, and my pillow is only foam insulation stuffed in a cylinder of ratty cloth. Hahaha. I'll leave you with that visual.

A Decision

2008-10-22T13:04:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I wrote of being unsure what to do. Things have fallen apart around me and I have nothing to show for months of. . .whatever dramatic thing you want to call it. But I know what I will do. I have decided.

I will continue to love.

I will continue to write to her in my journal, to care for her, and to think of her. I will buy a guitar and sing for her, even if she does not yet listen.

Maybe then she will see. Maybe then she will turn and remember her love of old.

For love is greater than time or distance. Love is slave to no power, and will not end as long as my heart beats.

"Place me like a seal over your heart,

like a seal on your arm;

for love is as strong as death,

its jealousy as unyielding as the grave."

Did she wake you up to tell you that it was only a change of plan?

2008-10-21T04:34:00.003-05:00

I confess to you, I feel lost.

My greatest fear has always been that no one would be able to love me. Someone convinced me of otherwise and now. . .this. I thought things were getting better, but I was wrong.

I simply do not know what to do. What to do with the journal I kept for her? Or the necklace I bought in Toledo? What to do with the pictures of myself I collected to send her? What to do with the music mix I was preparing? What to do with the flowers pressed and drying in my Bible, in between poetry and prose and pictures of her? What to do with my Christmas break, since she doesn't want me to visit her?

I don't even want to acknowledge that Christmas will be. It is the holiday to spend with loved ones, and I will be here, alone. Now I have spare time and spare money and I don't want either.

I am sorry to write this depressing mess, but it is all that is on my mind. I cannot get my mind off of it. It is no easy thing to walk a mile and spend three dollars just to hear the One my Heart Loves tell me she doesn't even know how she feels about me anymore. And then to pour my heart out to her and find that she isn't even at the computer, reading what I said.

How can a heart change so much in four weeks? How can distance change a person?

It is all undone.

Lucas Jumps Ship

2008-10-20T06:18:00.002-05:00

I attended my first Mass yesterday.

You have no idea how desperately I miss church. I think back to Searcy where the churches were everywhere and full of loving people. I enjoyed Highway's preaching and singing very much, and there were always many friends to be found there. And the Bible studies on Wednesdays! There were innumerable options. And Dowtown's singing service on Sunday nights!

In Sonseca, there is my Bible and the waiting for Arturo to leave the house so I can sing. I tired quickly of worshiping as an island, and tentatively went to my first Catholic Mass.

Walking there, I saw several professors and students from the school giggled and shouted my name from farther down the street. I entered behind a man and mimicked him as I applied holy water in my first genuflex. I sat with my back straight as the board under me, waiting for signals as to what I should do. Some people were kneeling on the planks attached to the backs of pews (which are simply, like I said, flat boards) and praying, but I sat and waited. The priest came out and lifted his hands like I have seen in many paintings and prayed, inviting the assembly to join in the "Sacred Mysteries" of our Lord.

The choir sang from one side of the nave and it was stunning. Listening to them while I viewed the golden altar and decorations, I understood why cathedrals were built like this for so long. It really feels like some step between heaven and earth. We genuflected more and the rest of the brothers and sisters recited catechisms that I did not recognize, and similar songs. We stood and sat and stood again in a way that would make Harding chapel-goers groan loudly.

The priest exposited the "give to Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's" passage while stressing that our faith is not one of slavery, but of freedom. Freedom through love, freedom because of love, and freedom to love.

I did not participate in the Eucharist, although I miss communion dearly. The priest lifted the plates and someone in the wings rattled jingle bells that I think marked the point of transubstantiation. After, the priest thoroughly and lovingly cleaned the dished with towels before sending them away by the altar boys.

Then it was over. The man next to me bolted immediately, and the rest of the believers crowded and pushed to get out of there as quickly as possible. Outside, the jocularity and idle chatter resumed once more and I headed home.

It was more thought-provoking than edifying as of yet, but hopefully this will change.

Oh, and the title of this post really makes me giggle.

Toledo

2008-10-18T13:48:00.002-05:00

I have now been to the city that I have dreamed about for seven years now. From the first time I saw "Vista de Toledo" by El Greco, I wanted to be there.

I got off the bus and called my friends, getting no answer. I tried to suppress the same fear that I felt when the same thing happened in Madrid, and opted to start walking into the city. The first gate I decided to enter, there were Claire and Shalon! Being reunited is a beautiful thing, and we began to enjoy Toledo together.

We found the Plaza Zocodover and watched bizarre street performers, sitting down at a McDonalds to get a quick drink for the warm day. We caught up on our respective "Spain Experiences" and I was relieved to find that they think about going home every day, just like I do. They had frustrations, as well, but it seems that their school faculties have done more of an intentional job of welcoming them and showing them a good time. We all miss home and shared memories and surprise over the fact that McDonalds serves beer here (we got tea and ice cream, just to note).

We walked past the Alcazar, which is being renovated and is draped in a horrendous yellow construction net, thus ruining about half of the city´s famous skyline. We took pictures and looked like tourists and spoke in English and it was good. I didn´t feel homesick with them. We got lost together several times in the laberinthine alleyways, then I heard my name called.

Three people (one German, two Welsh) that I met at the orientation at the very onset of this trip were doing the tourist thing as well, and they remembered me. I was shocked at how much I had missed the sensation of unexpectedly running into people you know. And considering that it was in a different country, no less, it was special.

We observed a parador (old castles renovated into lovely hotels) and I took a lot of pictures. We went to a tapas bar and ate fried food. We talked relationships and marriage (typical Harding fare) and home and loneliness and it was simple and good. Our day ended at the bus station, eating sweets, Shalon telling me that a girl was checking me out, and a lot of laughing. I haven´t laughed so much in the entire time I´ve been in this country.

I settled into my comfy bus seat on the way back to Sonseca, happy to listen on my mp3 player to songs I had written long ago. I relaxed and ignored the girl seated next to me as she stared at me from time to time. I only smiled as I thought of warm memories.

Disembarking in Sonseca, the best way to end the day was visiting the local Chinese restaurant. I ate "Kun-Bao Chicken" and then found my bill comped by the owners, parents of one of my students from the Institute.

It was a good day, and one I needed.

My Address

2008-10-16T12:33:00.002-05:00

I think I am meeting my friends in Toledo tomorrow, so, I guess pray that they go this time?

Also, here is my postal address, in case you want it.

Lucas Matthews
c/ Pasaje de la Ballesta #4
45100 Sonseca
Spain

I think that is enough, but go ahead and ask the Post Office workers anyway. They never have anything to do.

If You See Something About a Stolen Bicycle on the News. . .

2008-10-15T12:32:00.003-05:00

But first some things to note.

One: I have begun giving private lessons to some people here, in English. The majority of the time is spent in Spanish, as their English is almost non-existent.

Two: I have now entered the local church as well as the shrine to the Virgin Mary. I will be attending the former on Sunday, I believe. I asked Mario what the services were like, and he had no idea what I was talking about until I remembered to ask about "Masses" instead. They are only one hour, in contrast to the stereotypes I heard from TV growing up. I will let you know how it goes.

Three: I have decided to grow my beard. I will post a picture when it is respectable.

So, there are good days and bad days here. Yesterday was a bad day and I wound up taking a walk on a dirt road until I found myself in the next town over, Ajofrin. Judging from the name, garlic must have been very important there at some point. I sat down in front of the church and prayed. I heard Julieta Venegas being played behind me and it made me feel in love. Then the church began ringing its bell, which chimed 83 times. I have no idea why. Then I walked back and read until I fell asleep.

Today was decent. I took my first trip to the equivalent of the post office here, which was something of an ordeal. First, I went by a papeleria to buy an envelope, and then I went to the school for a brief meeting. After getting directions to the P.O., I began walking and saw that I might not have time to get there and back before my class.

So I grabbed one of the bikes that a student left in front of the school and rode there.

It was something totally uncharacteristic of me, which left me giggling the entire way. I completed my business and came back, leaving the bike where it was before. No one was any the wiser, and I kept smiling all the way to class.

After school, some students came by my house for a lesson. We walked and they whispered to each other when they didn´t know what to say, but we talked poetry and had a decent time. Ana has an enormous house, and it is nice to be welcomed into another home always.

I suppose that is all for now. Making it.

A Brief Explanation

2008-10-13T07:09:00.003-05:00

I wrote an entry the other day without knowing that more than a mere smattering of people read this. It turned out to be a slightly substantial smattering, and so I removed what I wrote. But I did not write it with the intent of denigrating anyone. On the contrary, it was written out of a powerful and painful love.

There is not much to say that I haven't already. I miss how good things used to be. I miss talking to her on the phone while I was in Hawaii, still getting to know her, and seeing a shooting star make its path across the sky. Much later, she came to Colorado and on top of mountains we saw several shooting stars together. We walked over rivers and through botanical gardens and watched two butterflies circle overhead.

Creations sings when we are together! Nature celebrates when we are joined! Because, clearly, things are as they should be.

That is what I miss, and what I yet want.

That is all I will say of the matter.

More about Madrid

2008-10-12T16:04:00.002-05:00

In the interest of having something less maudlin meet visitors to my blog, here is more information on my recent trip to Madrid.

I found a local hostel where the owner seemed to see something in my eyes that kept him from conversation. I was grateful for this, paid the fee, and found myself in my room. Finding myself at the door, number 17, it was worth the cost of stay for the mere fact of using the key. It was one of those old, classic, archetypal keys that go in a lock through which you can see into the other room.

Entering, the room was a white 8' by 8' box with a bed that would cramp two people, a dresser, and a sink. I unpacked nothing and got into bed, almost shocked to find myself warm (at my house I haven't had much more than two thin sheets, and it gets very cold at night). I fell asleep very fast with tiny thoughts in my mind about how I should take my contacts out or how I should turn off the light. But I was gone.

The next morning I went to the Prado museum, which was a treat. Sitting in front, a man asked me directions to some Government Ministry and I sent him off still seeking. But I was grateful to be taken for someone who at least had some sense of direction, especially while feeling like I had none.

I wandered into the museum and got to see works by El Greco, Velazquez, Goya, Raphael, Heironymous Bosch, Rubens, and others. El Greco is my favorite painter, and I had to remind myself to blink while looking at his works. Two highlights include "Las Meninas" and "Saturno," the latter of which is one of the most disturbing things I have ever seen.

I left after three hours with very tired legs and resumed my trek through the city. I found myself at a Thai restaurant, where I got to sit by the window. I was amused to watch all of the white men reacting as I did to the menu, stopping and pondering. I was also a bit distracted by the fact that so many couples walked by hand in hand. It seems that everyone in that city has someone, and I was alone.

Madrid is no city to see alone. I was more excited to be going there to see friends than I was to simply be going there, and so my trip ended that night. I walked some more, was almost hit by a bus, and then rode to Toledo and back to Sonseca.

I learned a lot from my trip, at the very least. I learned how to pack better for the next trip. And I learned to wear either shoes or to simply wrap my feet in gauze, because they are bleeding all over the place. And I have never seen so many furniture stores or so much graffiti. And it was nice to speak a slower, more intelligible Spanish for a change.

Some beautiful things I saw: two fifty-year-olds sharing a brief and sweet kiss in front of Goya's portrait of Carlos IV's family, the many elderly pairs walking slowly and hand-in-hand, a young couple sharing a single cigarette between the two of them at the bus station, and a couple leaving the train station with one pack containing both of their belongings, each of them holding one handle of the duffle bag between them, never allowed to stray far from the other as a result.

And then the radio played "Karma Chameleon" on the bus ride back.

My First Trip to Madrid

2008-10-11T08:36:00.003-05:00

"Was decent," is how the rest of the title should read.

I was very excited for this trip, and overpacked accordingly into my backpack and laptop bag. I went to the bus stop twenty minutes early, eager to see new things but even more eager to see familiar faces with which to share these memories.

My excitement and my face fell when the bus still had not arrived twenty minutes after its scheduled stop, so instead I hopped on a bus to Toledo with plans to find a Madrid-bound one at the station. This all happened without a hitch, and two hours after the trip began I found myself approaching a glowing city. The further we got into her, the more perplexed I became that any one city could require so many furniture stores. There were large chain markets like Mercador, Despenso, Leroy Merlin, and Carrefour. The most shocked I was, I am a little ashamed to admit, was when we passed a Burger King. It seemed like something from a past life; it felt like a memory. But it was only bricks and grease.

We arrived at the southern station, so I made expensive pay-phone calls to both the girls I was planning to meet and got an answer from neither. I had no idea what to do, but I knew that I was in the south of the city, so I began walking north.

An hour later I could feel my heels bleeding from wounds received the day before, but I pressed on until I reached a train station I recognized from my first view of the city. I searched for a store that was still open and bought a pack of oreos so that I could use the coin-operated phones and called one of the girls, who then informed me that she and the other girl had decided to wait two days to come to Madrid.

"Oh."

was my response.

You see, we had set out the broad primary plans for this trip last week on a Facebook discussion. There it was suggested that we meet up on Thursday and enjoy the weekend there and stay for church on Sunday. However, the two girls made other plans, I came to find, through private conversation. In the Facebook discussion, there was only a brief mention that they were thinking about a different day, but this was never followed up on or elaborated.

The payphone I was on ran out of money, and I was not unhappy. I have little patience for excuses. The simple truth was that there was a little miscommunication, a bit more noncommunication, and I feel excluded and unimportant.

I hung up the phone and let my hand rest on the receiver for a full minute before I turned to face the great sea of people before me. Then I turned back around and entered a Burger King, hoping that calories would quiet the grumbles inside of me besides just my stomach's.

I decided to stay the night (my only option, as it was already late) and leave the next day. I did not have money enough for so much time by myself, as I had counted on splitting lodging costs. I used that as an excuse rather than the feeling of defeat, which was another very good reason.

I suppose I will write more of the trip later. It was not terrible, just a little painful. So it goes.

El Instituto La Sisla

2008-10-09T09:27:00.002-05:00

I realized today that I have not told you much about my school itself. Before I left, I had no idea what I would be doing here besides teaching English, and I had no idea to whom or how or when or anything, really. All I knew was the order "show up in Spain" and the rest was up to me. It is still a little dizzying to think about all that brought me here.

But: my school is the typical middle and high school, except with some differences. There are six periods in each day with two small breaks, and the weeks are two rotating schedules, A and B. One week is A, the next B, and then A again. Clear? Here the students stay for the most part in one classroom and the teachers rush from class to class. This, I admit, is a bit more logical than my high school, where the hallways flooded and filled at every bell and just barely were cleared in time. But the classes here stay together throughout the day, and it would be silly to herd them around like sheep.

The program that I am in teaches English, but mainly through an immersion-type format. There is an English class devoted to grammar, but classes like Technology, Physical Education, Social Sciences, and Natural Sciences are also taught in English (to varying degrees). French is also taught a bit, as I found some on the board when I entered my class today.

The teachers are very nice and professional, and love to talk. Many are intimidated by me thanks to the edict that they must talk to me in English (so that they can practice), so this has been a little frustrating for me.

The students are very curious, and range from incredibly shy (at trying to speak English, at least) to very adventurous and willing to say anything, even if they sound silly. My students are mainly 11-15, although I go to two classes a week that are not on my set schedule that are usually older, 17 or 18. The younger ones are more proficient at English, except for the girls that giggle when I enter the room and blush when I ask them what is so funny.

I am a minor celebrity here, and the students yell my name in the hallways and say "hello" as they pass, or they wave from their bikes or pound on the bus windows as they leave school and I begin my walk home. It is kind of fun, but I am trying to get them to feel comfortable with me. My goal has changed from "GET THE SPANISH EXPERIENCE!!!" to a real desire to help these students learn English, and in turn to do well in all of their studies. I made a deal that if they speak to me in English in the hallways, I will speak Spanish. They always smile devilishly when I introduce this idea to new classes.

So, this is a brief introduction of where I work, and I am glad to be there. It is a good school, and I hope to be beneficial to the staff and kids. At the very least, it is worth being here to be called "Mister Matthews."

Now I'm off to Madrid! I might write soon, or catch up in a few days.

Alberto, Cristina, Alberto, y Cristina

2008-10-07T13:39:00.003-05:00

I mentioned the other day that I am very sad after leaving Alberto's house, and this is true. I got to the country with no plans and got to my city with no plans, and this man opened up his house when his neighbors think such an act to be foolish.

They gave me a bed, food, and let me be a part of the family for several days. They continually were afraid of being poor hosts due to watching after their two children (named after them, hence the title of this post), but in reality they showed me better hospitality than I could imagine. They fed me well after I went two days having only eaten a sandwich, and they drove me to nearby cities and invited me on walks.

I am so glad for staying there. I learned a lot about the city and country and the people that would have taken me months to learn otherwise, and I learned even more about how to have and to raise and to cherish a family that I could not learn from any other one place.

I watched as Alberto and Cristina smothered their two children in kisses, gave compliments for nothing more than having eaten food, talked seriously but with care about what Alberto Jr. learned in school today, and taught them both to speak better. How they celebrated when Cristina Jr. finished the word "RO. . .JO"! And how they looked at each other when Alberto was misbehaving, and they put him in the carseat in the garage for five minutes, all the while reminding him "I love you more than anything in the world, but you must learn." How they held and helped and hoped for their little ones!

I learned the words for both forms of relieving oneself by their children doing it in the kitchen while I focused much attention on picking bones from my sole (the fish). I watched them eat the last bits of the kids' food when Alberto Jr. turned his head, so that they could congratulate him on a clean plate. I watched Alberto drive and shift with one arm while consoling his fussy daughter in the backseat with his other. I watched them sit and go over the same words over and over, and share the same love over and over.

Alberto and Cristina (Jrs.) began to expect me, and Alberto Sr. told me today that his son asked where I was. After letting me teach him about my camera, taking innumerable pictures of him, and receiving a tiny kiss on the cheek each night before he went to bed, Alberto misses me.

Oh, I cannot wait to have children of my own, to teach them everything I know and to learn more just to share it with them. To love them fully, and to keep them safe. To show them the world and to help them see God's hand in it. To let them fall asleep on my chest. To take them to stores, on hikes, and on drives. To take such pride in my wife and my children, and the fact that there is nothing more in this world that I want beyond that.

I cannot wait to feel this sort of love.

My only wonder is that, in light of their two children being named after the both of them, what will Alberto and Cristina name the one growing within her right now?

Don´t read this if you are prone to worrying?

2008-10-06T14:55:00.002-05:00

Today was an important day, but a hard one. I went to classes and they were nothing to write home about. Then I went home, slept to make up for a restless night, and then moved into my new house.

Normally this would be more of an ordeal, but I simply threw all of my belongings into my two rolly-bags, backpack, and laptop bag, and walked four minutes. Then I was moved? It is odd but this is the truth.

But moving in has made me feel very. . .off. I feel like I did the first night here, when I lay awake all night after desperately hoping to talk to people online in a crappy locutorio. Right now I am in the same locutorio, feeling the same loneliness.

I walked half of the city limits tonight, trying to find something to photograph, to make something lovely. But instead I was mocked by the early-closed restaurants, the couples walking hand-in-hand, and the apartments sealed up with lights inside ablaze. This city is well on its way into living, and I feel like there is no room for me here. There is no University and thus no one my age. There hardly appears to be anyone single, and I am not bold enough to strike up a conversation with a couple making googly eyes at each other.

I keep worrying over the fact that I left behind in the States a woman who cares about me. This seems to me a foolish thing. What if she tires of my being away? Such a good thing surely cannot happen twice, and even if it could I only want her.

And now I moved out of Alberto´s family´s house, and this is a scary thing. They took care of me, explained things for me, fed me, spoke slowly to me, and there were children to play with and draw pictures for. Now I have to buy my own groceries, prepare my own meals, and learn to be even more alone. They had two cars and food and great hearts. What do I have?

As I unpacked for the first time, a sense of semi-permanence fell on me. And the quiet of the house I share with another professor screams louder than the two children whose yelling I learned to sleep to.

I confess to you reading this, and this is no easy thing to type, that I am very lonely. My heart hurts. I do not want to worry you, but I am not a good liar. Please pray for me, I guess is what I´m trying to get to.

Sonseca is for Lovers. . .and old men.

2008-10-04T08:36:00.003-05:00

I am thoroughly convinced that the best way for a foreigner to understand and to know a city is to walk and become lost in her several times. To this end I am making great strides, but found myself today at my intended destination, a large plaza in front of a church. There is an arch, wooden collonades covered in vines, a fountain with children taking pictures in front of it, and many old men talking animatedly.

Now I will tell you a bit about what I have observed in Sonseca, my city. It is a fully Spanish town of 11,000 people, relatively new and still growing. There are some houses here with windows surrounded by bullet-holes from the Civil War that saw limited stagin here, but there are many buildings new and expanding. Driving out of Madrid I counted fourteen cranes in less than 1/2 mile, busy in construction, and here there are perhaps four in the city.

The past thirty years have been good and prosperous for the city, especially in the areas of furniture and fabrics. Lately, though, many of these factories closed to outsource production to China, resulting in a rash of defaulted loans taken out in better times. The city is limping forward but makes no scene of its troubles, and indeed hides them behind a cheery optimism manifest in the many new construction projects.

There is a strong Muslim influence and several smaller operations have arabic writing on the windows. Perhaps a fourth of the city is Muslim, but I do not see much evidence of their great presence besides small touches in the architecture and some women in shrouds.

I have seen no fast food here, and the bars are plentiful. Watiting at one for an acquaintance last night, the bartender looked up at all with a heavy-lidded stare from a downturned face while crashing dishes before people, attempting no conversation. The customers were not overly concerned by this. The other businesses I pass seem opportunistic in their names; I have seen a "Conde de Orgaz" and an "El Greco," but they are both restaurants and not paintings.

The people are garrulous and much taken to passing time in idle chatter, and I hope to be more included in this someday. Or to join the old men walking bent-over with their hands folded behind their backs, or the old men smoking cigarettes and riding bicycles. Perhaps I will be included. For now, I remain a foreigner, and lost.

Arrived

2008-10-01T12:00:00.003-05:00

I got up at seven this morning after two hours of sleep and left my bags with the wife of the owner of the hotel. It took fifteen minutes to walk to and find my school, el IES La Sisla. I went to the secretary where a man entered, sized me up and called me ¨Lucas Matthews.¨

So they have been expecting me. I wondered if they were aware of my existence, much less my arrival! I was brought back to meet the male group of directors enjoying a cafe and incomprehensibly greasy churros. These sounded unappealing to my yet-empty stomach, but I received them and dipped the latter in the former, in the fashion of the men. I was of great interest to them at first but receded into the background as they resumed conversation.

My directora found me and speaks a heavily British English, which is charming. I sat in a meeting of English teachers who seemed intimidated to speak to me in my tongue. They (eight women, one man) asked me how I say my name and laughed saucily at my pronunciaton as if I had said something flirtatious.

I attended two classes where the students were very shy, the young girls blushing and giggling to the point of being unable to speak. I waited and fielded questions, like ¨Do you have a girlfriend?¨ (this was the first question, and is much too difficult to answer in my current situation, so I replied ¨More or less.¨) After introductions Sra. Prado sensed my fatigue and let me go a bit early, so I sat outside to write this.

A bell rang and the school exploded with noise from every open window of scraping chairs and pushed desks and closing bags and idle chatter being picked up only to die out gradually when the bell rings once more. This is a different school than mine, no doubt, but the students are still awkwardly stumbling toward pubescence and still sporting the unfortunate bangs and mullets and windbreakers. They kick and threaten and clap and call out ¨Tu madre¨and tease the opposite sex and perhaps I am not so foreign after all.

But this is not home. One teacher asked me where home is and I almost replied, ¨Harding University until she leaves there¨ but on a quick second thought I decided that ¨Kentucky¨was much simpler, even though their only point of reference for this is the fried chicken of which they are enthusiastic devotées.

The students are yelling at me and waving from windows on the second floor, and merely staring from the third. I do not mind being an oddity, for it brings with it the assumption and usually illusion of being special, unique, and valuable. To these I make no claim, but for now I will correct no assumptions either.

Things are getting better, no doubt. I just ate my first true meal in two days, and I feel strong. Now I just need a decent internet connection that can support Skype.

Feel free to comment, to let me know that you are reading. I have no idea if anyone sees this.

Betraying a Feverish Mind

2008-09-30T13:25:00.004-05:00

Although these are written in succession, I am updating from journal entries I have been keeping the past couple of days. This one is fresh from my mind.

I am in my city, Sonseca. I got here by meeting up with my friend Claire at the orientation, and meeting her friends Dean and Nick. Dean lives here, and drove to Daimiel in his car and would be passing through Sonseca, so they gave me a ride. I am here, still with no contact from my school, but I am here.

Part of the agony I felt yesterday was, no doubt, due to this illness that is now recurring in my body. I woke from much-needed sleep feeling surprised that I am in Spain, and then disheartened at the growing impression which that thought left.

I am exhausted from jet lag, from carrying all of my belongings (about 130 lbs. altogether) down narrow cobblestone paths, and from loneliness. This illness is making it all worse.

I will make it, and I will live. I am running short on cash, and will not be paid until the end of November (I discovered today). I imagine the teachers will help me, or I will sleep at the school or in the streets. I got to my city with no plans or connections, so this will happen, too.

I know that God will provide, but I don´t understand how. I don´t know how God works with prayer, as it seems he has ignored so many of mine as of late. Friends and their families with their cancer and their hurts are all still here. Why would he take care of a clueless, scared white boy when he turns a blind eye to these great sufferings?

This is nothing more than ramblings from a fool. I am nothing before the Lord, with too many words.

But I will not cease praying that he protect Mary.

Reflections on Land

2008-09-30T13:11:00.002-05:00

The airport in Madrid was warm and comfortable, with workers sympathetic to clueless foreigners. I came to appreciate the pitying smiles and simplistic speech.

I landed and realized that I had absolutely no plans to get to my city. I bought a train ticket and then ran into travelers in the station in Ciudad Real. We walked and toted my entire set of belongings a mile to the bus station and got to Daimiel. From there we met two Germans and one Irish, all girls, and we promptly got lost trying to find a school for our Orientation.

Finally we arrived and I went to my room and clasped a perfumed letter and watched videos on my laptop, because it finally hit me that I am here and there is not one person in the program that cares about me. My school has yet to contact me, and these people I meet are friends of convenience and I will not see them after tomorrow. I am all alone, and why am I here? I left a woman that cares for me in Arkansas, and I left a church that cares for me in Colorado, and I left a family that loves me in Kentucky. What could Spain offer me more than this? I already had everything I need. I made a mistake in coming.

I wrote before that it is easier to be the one doing the leaving, but this was a fool´s lie, made out of ignorance. I left a beautiful woman. How could I leave her? Will her love remain, or fade like the weakening perfume off of this letter?

I will wait for her.

Thoughts from a Descending Plane

2008-09-30T12:57:00.002-05:00

We were over land for about a minute before I realized it by small roads, probably more like paths, marking dry ground. Soon I saw, far off, small breaks in a sheet of clouds. It took a moment to see that these were mountain peaks taking the role of Moses, but parting sky rather than sea. As I began to see more roads, small towns, and even the swift rotation of great white windmills, terror began to sieze up within me. I tried to tell myself that this was jitters from little sleep or shudders from the poor coffee they served, but this is fear.

Now the ground beneath me is a brown patchwork, like a fine basket or more like an earthen-clay mosaic. I was unaware there were so many variations on the one brown. These new shapes and contours transfix me, and the country below is great and terrible, indeed. There is so much of her, and so little of me.

Here and there lie outposts with roads radiating out like the spokes of wagon wheels, and yet somehow the towns do seem connected in some as-yet-unidentifiable way. Roads weave improbably and then wind up concurrant like snakes winding about each other.

I am here.

Update

2008-09-27T12:28:00.002-05:00

I am in Louisville right now, leeching free internets from a cafe. I received my visa in the mail on Monday, turned 23 on Wednesday, and am not particularly enthused about either. Receiving my visa was nice closure, but yielded mixed emotions.

I fly to Madrid tomorrow.

I don't know when I'll be able to get online there, seeing as how I don't even know where I will sleep or live or anything. I'll let you know.

Also, look for me on Skype and I'd like to hear from people. One person in particular, but others, too.

This is a lame update, and I am sorry. I'll write more soon. Take care.

Life Lessons from Old Women

2008-09-10T14:22:00.004-05:00

Every other Tuesday, several of the advanced-age women at our church meet here to put together quilts. They give these quilts to sick people, to children pulled out of abusive homes, to families who have lost loved ones, and so on. They also gave me one after my first summer here.

This summer, they have taken to inviting me down for lunch with them when they take a break from working. It is typical potluck fare, including some homemade bread, so I always join them.

And I love it. I try not to talk at all, so I can hear all the more, but I still am fascinated that 60-70-year-old women would talk to me almost as a peer, instead of asking me what I want to be when I grow up.

Sometimes I just sit and listen to them talk over each other detailing their personal ways of cooking oatmeal or what diets they have tried, what items they forgot or lost in the past week, or their gripes over crummy businesses in town (especially automotive services). But my favorite is learning from them.

They talk of the rare times their husbands will do the dishes, the times when husbands are practically obligated to do the dishes, wishing their husbands would let them help with projects around the house, the special vacations they took before they had children, the different-sort-of-special vacations when kids did come along, going camping with the whole family, and all the little day-to-day moments that gradually and then suddenly make up a lifetime.

Frankly, I can't wait to share this with someone. I want to grow old with someone. I can't wait to share stories with friends and grandchildren, to brag on my wife. I can't wait to take a picture with her in front of our first house. I can't wait to debate over names for children and paint colors for rooms and when I am going to get around to fixing the heater. To ask her to hold something while I frantically pound nails into it off-kilter, to work on her car, to surprise her with breakfast in bed (french toast, maybe), to drive across states with her, to serve her.

I am glad that men don't read my blog, haha. Well, I don't think anyone reads it anymore, so my masculinity will remain intact. I'll write about sports next time.

My Dream

2008-09-08T14:39:00.002-05:00

This morning I woke up with the oddest memory in my mind. I was in a hotel room with several people from my church in Colorado, but we were in Searcy, AR overlooking a river. On the other side of the river was Lake City, which we decided to drive through and explore. We were impressed by a large and architecturally impossible bank, and then we returned to the room. We heard that there was a tornado coming, so I looked out the window to watch it traveling down the river. The bank was in the background, with huge plumes of smoke rising from it. I looked down to find that our hotel was right on the river, although I was not overly concerned.

The tornado petered out gradually, but for some reason a boat doing water-donuts in the middle of the river started it back up again. The funnel enveloped our building but left it unscathed.

Soon we were in the same room, but in a cabin in rural Arkansas that had existed at least since the Revolutionary era, judging by the racks of muzzle-loaders just outside the window. I contemplated getting some in case any problem arose, but didn't. My friends all left and I was alone,and I looked out the window again to see a band of well-armed men stalking the cabin.

They opened fire and I grabbed the one rifle inside. The projectiles were small pewter balls, like the ones that Johnny Tremain smelted himself. I blind-shot a few out the window just to send them back, and I heard the leader advise a young man to set fire to the cabin to smoke me out. The boy approached with a rag soaked in gasoline, and I stood up to stare him down. He left, and the volleys continued until I ran into the back room to wait for them to break in, figuring I had a better chance at fighting them hand-to-hand in the smaller space.

I looked down at my bayonet to find that one of my friends had replaced it with a spatula. I grimly reflected that it would have to do, and I awaited my attackers.

Then I woke up.

What could it mean???

Taj Mahal Morgan

2008-09-03T14:35:00.006-05:00

Last night we met at the church building for a small, informal, and topical Bible study. These nights (we call the meeting "Outcasts") have proven to be some of our greatest successes as a group in the past. One night we studied two chapters of Hosea for two hours. Another, we looked at 2 Kings and the group was laughing, wondering, suggesting, wrestling with the passage. They were interested and wanted to know what it means.

Last night was a minor success. I'll call it a moral victory, as we discussed deep questions of the ethics of being a Christian and in the military, then expanding that to all of us having the duty to love our enemies. But the true joy was at the beginning, when Kyle Morgan came up to me and informed me of his recent revelation.

"So, so, so, I found out that I'm like 55% Egyptian."

"What?"

"Yeah. Apparently, my great-great-grandfather's name was like Taj Mahal Morgan."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I looked at an Egyptian Horoscope and it said that my name Morgan was Egyptian."

"Doesn't it sound Irish?"

"Yeah, but they all came from Egypt."

He then proceeded to do the Egyptian walk around the kitchen, and I couldn't breathe.

Oh, Kyle.

My life.

Quickies

2008-09-02T11:17:00.003-05:00

Yesterday held some interesting moments.

I left church to find kitty paw-prints all over my windshield.

I raced to deliver a letter early only to remember that it was Labor Day and the post office is thus closed.

But then I went home, took a much-wanted shower (I just love showering) and sat down in my room to check my email. Then one of the recently arrived guests entered my room. But I was still naked. She left very quickly after I made an inexplicable "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh" sound (I had no idea what to say; I tried to go with "you're about to walk in on a naked man but give me a chance to put on clothes and then you can enter" but all I got out was "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh"). She apologized profusely from the other side of the door, but I just laughed.

Philip, the owner of the house I stay in and the brother of the lady that walked in on me, told me that her face was beet-red.

So I guess it was a decent day?

Hope

2008-09-01T13:15:00.002-05:00

The lock-in has ended by a couple of hours now, and I feel odd. I am not loopy or depressed or confused or punchy. I am determined.

The lock-in was exhausting mentally and physically, and there were the same middle-vs.-high school arguments as there always are, and some new people that have never been to our church before, and some people trying desperately to make out, and way too much sugar. And I have decided. Rather than wait for a decision, I am acting. I have been thinking, and I want to change some things.

I have never reacted to grief in this way. Normally I hide myself away and write miasmatic poems about how I am the worst person. But I am not special, even in a bad way. No, I am making changes. I have already prepared lists and plans, just like Ben Franklin or Jay Gatsby, to make myself into a better person. I am sitting here looking at my body, seeing flaws as potential corrections. I see wounds healing.

There is no literary figure that I understand like Jay Gatsby. His inexhaustible search for improvement borne by an unquenchable love that transcends identity. I first felt this when I became a Christian, being changed and saved by nothing more or less than love. Now I have felt it again, and I am becoming something better. Something good. Anything less would be no fitting tribute for a princess, for royalty.

I have decided.