Things I Recommend 1

Things I Recommend:

www.mcsweeneys.net. This site is fantastic for a witty, ridiculous laugh. I wish I were as funny as its contributors. And this entry is a complete rip-off of their ongoing "things I recommend." An excerpt from that list, updated today:

Gingersnaps
You're in some scene—waiting under an awning outside a café for a friend while it's raining, say; or perhaps you're sitting at the kitchen table after dinner, reading on your laptop; then again, maybe you're standing at the train station one evening, awaiting the arrival of the 8:07—and it's a fair situation, comfortable enough, nothing special. Then imagine the same scene, except someone gave you a gingersnap. Boom—everything is better, everything is sharper and more poignant. That's what gingersnaps add. We recommend them.

Brilliance. Check it out.

Thoughts on Advent

I love advent. We find ourselves reflecting, hoping, and expecting. We find promises fulfilled and the long-awaited coming to fruition. We find an answer to our groaning and sighing in the desert.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel is one of my favorite Christmas songs. It conjures images in my head of an exiled Israel gathered along the shores of the river, longing for home and clinging to nothing but their stories and promises of a Messiah. Can't you hear their cries? Can't you feel their desperation? Exile brings a darkness and loneliness that is only lit by the hope of promises that have lingered thick in the air for generations.

Fast forward to a first century Israel, still waiting, now oppressed by an unjust Roman government. Into this darkness, hope is born in the dark, dank forgottenness of a Bethlehem stable. After a gestation of years of wandering, of Exile, of being overlooked and oppressed, hope was birthed in the feeble cry of a newborn baby. And that hope was fragile, breakable, weak, and needing to be held close and fed and cared for so that it could grow into the fullness of its strength and power and meaning.

I find that advent is time where hope is born anew in my life. It is often a messy business. A birth in a stable is hardly a glamorous beginning-dirt, hay, animals,and the pain of a young girl with only the help of her new husband. We see this precedence hope breaking into the most unexpected of places. And so I am finding hope in response to my exile, in answer to my groaning, and breaking forth in the midst of my unpreparedness. Perhaps I should have been expecting it all along.

Mm mm Good

There are few things in life as comforting and delicious as a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Thoughts on Scars

We talked about Jacob tonight at church, the story where Jacob wrestles with God.

I have always loved this story. It resonates with me on many levels. Any time I revisit this story, I am always struck with a mental image of an aged Jacob, limping his way to his favorite seat as he settles in among all his many grandchildren. "Tell us the story again," they ask, "the story of why you have that limp. The story of when you wrestled with God."

As Jacob retells his story, he knows in the back of his mind that this is not just some story about one fight one night that would have ended in a draw had dawn not broken so soon and his hip not been wrenched out of socket. This is the story of his whole life, his struggle manifested completely that had started when he first grabbed hold of his brother's ankle as they were birthed from their mother's womb. Jacob had wrestled for everything he had every gotten in life, and ultimately wrestled for a blessing from God. And that match left him scarred.

I think we all have our scars; I know for fact that I have mine. Some of them are from fights we've instigated ourselves while others come from experiences in life for which we never would have asked. Either way, these scars tell our stories. They shape our lives, molding us into new people after they've eternally marked our lives.

This weekend has been one when I've thought a good deal about a few specific scars. Suffice it to say that this is an anniversary of an unexpected loss that changed a whole community of people in very difficult ways. In remembering that moment, I find myself marking time and examining how I've changed in the last several years. I find myself remember other difficult moments since that time.

Somehow, all those disjointed yet not so different experiences meld together and leave their mark. I look at myself and I see my scars, plain as day. They begin to diminish slowly over time. But they'll never fade completely. I'll always limp, too. But because of that limp, I am forced to remember and I need to tell my story. I get to mark the events that are ever shaping my life. I, too, can grab hold tightly to the shoulders of God, look him in the face, and demand a blessing, even as my joints are pulled out of place.

In the struggle comes the blessing. There are days I see that clearly and days I feel that I am still waiting. Either way, I have looked God in the eyes and seen that my struggle is not in vain. He meets me blow for blow. And in the end, he calls me overcomer.

1, 2, 3 Strikes...You're Out

I am ideologically opposed to the sacrifice bunt.

And the sac fly, intentional walk, and designated hitter for that matter.

So I sit here watching the Phillies turn a double play in the top of the 8th, fighting their hardest to seal the deal on Game 5 and the World Series as a whole. I am torn on who to root for...I am traditionally for the National League in the Fall Classic, but I am caught up in the miracle story of the Tampa Bay Rays. (I am always a sucker for a redemption story.) What I most want is a seven game series. I want to squeeze every last inch of baseball that I can out of 2008; the longest part of the year as the six month span with no baseball.

I am the consummate baseball fan. I grew up going to baseball games, cheering for the Astros, suffering through the roller coaster that is that organization. I am obsessive, to say the least. To me, baseball is poetry in motion. There are few things as beautiful to watch as a perfectly executed double play, a smooth and easy swing, or a close play at home plate. Baseball is a thinking person's game, made of a small adjustments and behind the scenes strategy...the placement of a pitch, a shift in the outfield, a tweak to the batting order. It is both the prototypical duel of batter versus pitcher and the classic expression of teamwork. Everything must move as clockwork as each player has each other's back.

What I most want out of a game is a good fight. That is why I hate sacrifice bunt and intentional walks. I am honestly troubled when a sportscaster says "he did his job" as the batter trots back to the dugout having sacrificed himself to advance the runner. True, they didn't end the inning, but I am always of the mindset that the job of the batter is not to get out. Draw a walk, hit a single, knock it out of the park, but every at bat needs to truly count for something. Get on base. The same principal goes for pitching. If you can't locate your pitches in a place the draws an out, the batter deserves to get a hit off of you. Intentional walks are for cowards.

I love baseball because I love watching players go out there an PLAY. They run hard into the bases; they swing at the pitches they think they can hit; the gun down runners at the plate; they burn you with a 94mph fastball then confuse you with a 72mph curve ball. It's the beauty of baseball. Somehow sports teams mirror our own common place lives and transcend us into victory. We band together to cheer our boys on to victory. It's the simple but very true joy of a children's game. 162 games a year is not close to enough.

Begin Again

I believe it is time to start writing again. A legitimate endeavor. Hopefully regularly.

This is the first post. Much more to come.