There’s Got To Be A Word For It

There’s got to be a word for it.  You know what I’m talking about.  You’re talking to a friend, and then they pull out their phone.  They peek at it, and then something on the screen captures their attention.  You keep talking, hoping they aren’t actually more involved with their phone than with you.  Then something in your voice triggers something in their brain to command their head to turn your direction.  The look they give next is what I’m thinking has to have a word.  The look which says, “Uh huh.  Yep, I’m listening.  I know you think I was looking at my phone instead of you, but you’re mistaken.  I was listening and can still listen even as I return to looking at my phone.  Promise.”

Oh.  I know.  The word is disrespect.

We all do it.  Let’s all stop doing it.

The only way to get there is together.

Another Vote For Living In The Moment

“But!” he said, finger in the air, ready to make a point, “If Jesus and his message were so important, and God knew we’d invent video cameras eventually, why did God send him in a time period before technology could capture his life?  Heck, not only did he never write anything himself, he probably couldn’t write.  Isn’t that a strike against the whole thing?” he said, not wanting to offend him, but seriously wanting to discuss the issue.  “I mean, all of this could be settled by a single video of him, right?”

“You know, I thought things like that for a long time myself.  I would even go further than you just did and point out that precisely because there is no recording, the story’s fantastic nature was able to gain traction.  I really wanted to believe that Jesus was followed by people and gained notoriety because the people of that time were ignorant and looking for answers etc., etc.,” the man replied.  “But then a thought hit me–what if the timing of his life contained a truth in itself?  What if God purposefully sent Jesus to reveal the gospel at a time before wide-spread literacy, much less technology?

“Starting there, I found something striking.  If the general population Jesus lived among was illiterate and didn’t have TV, movies, or screens upon screens that prevented actual relationship from occurring, surely they had a more grounded existence.  Whether they did or not, Jesus would have had to actually meet and greet people.  Without sound amplification, his audiences would have been smaller.  Without DVR, his speech would have had to be simple and clear.  Without YouTube’s ‘I’ll record myself once and then put it out there for the world to see’, he would have been required to live with perfect integrity daily.

“For all technology’s benefit, we are clearly not reaching our potential as a group.

“Who would argue that talking on the phone is the same as in person?  Who would rather skype than eat a meal together?  And that isn’t even opening the door to the world of nothingness that is tweeting and texting.

“So, that’s what I tell myself to explain why God sent Jesus before things that would have helped ‘prove’ his divinity.  Maybe a video would have helped with the miracles, but I think a lot of his message would have been lost in the process.  As I understand this world and Jesus’ message to it, he was a man who wouldn’t want anything to come between him and us–including time and space.”

The Father of Second Base?

For all the information, misinformation, and controversy surrounding the origin of the game of baseball, one piece of trivia is rarely mentioned.  Whether Abner Doubleday or Alexander Cartwright should be credited as the father of America’s pastime, it seems to me that the more pressing question–the question that nobody is asking–is, “Where would the game of baseball be without second base?”

What you have to understand is baseball began as a competition, similar to cricket, which involved balls and bats and home plate and base.  Initially, there were not four bases, mind you, just one.  The player would hit the ball and run back and forth between two points in space–home plate and base.  What most people don’t bother wondering about is how home plate and this single base (just called ‘base’ as there wasn’t, at that time, another base which necessitated the distinctions “first” and “second”) multiplied into the modern baseball diamond comprised of home plate, first base, second base and third base.

As you are no doubt realizing, the addition of a second base was no trivial matter.  Without adding a second base, there would have never been a reason to add a third base, and without third base, there is no baseball diamond.  So, we must ask how second base came to be.  More to the point, we should want to know who to credit for the addition of a second base.  As fate would have it, it was none other than than “father of American music” himself–Stephen Foster.

Having recently penned such classics as “Oh, Susanna” and “Camptown Races”, Foster was a veritable celebrity.  He was the man of the hour in the mid-1800s.  And he happened to be a bit of a sports nut.  No one knows for certain how it happened, but after some light reflection it should be no surprise to anyone that Foster, who became known for writing songs with special emphasis on the refrain, was the man who suggested adding another base to the playing field.  After all, it was the addition of second base that gave baseball what some might call musicality.

Think about it.  A game where men simply run back and forth between two designated spots offers no real distinguishing excitement, no real flow.  But, as we all know and love, if a player makes it to second base on the diamond of today, he is in “scoring” position.  Reaching scoring position, then, is similar to the unique characteristic of Foster’s own music.  That being, the emphasis on the refrain.  As a verse of Foster’s music concludes, everyone knows the refrain is coming, and still everyone can’t wait for it to happen.  Regardless the amount of listeners singing the verses, everyone in earshot contributes their own voice to “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me!”  Is it not the same when the runner reaches second base?  Maybe the inning is dragging on, maybe it seems all hope is lost, maybe you are lost in thought trying to remember when they stop serving beer–it doesn’t matter.  The minute the runner makes it to second, he might score a run.  And if he does, his crossing home plate triggers another batter and extends the offensive strike; in other words, it acts as a refrain.  Is there anyone who would attempt to argue that there is any quantifiable difference between crowds cheering upon their team scoring a run and crowds singing “Oh, Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me.  Well I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee”?

I don’t know why I feel its important to bring this to your attention.  Not forgetting the little man is just in my nature.  Blame my dad.  The point is, next time you’re feeling a profound love of the game, toss some of it to Stephen Foster; for who knows where America’s pastime would be if it wasn’t for the “father of American music.”

****

Happy Birthday Dad.  Thanks for the memories.

Candles, Flowers, Frustration

Sitting next to me at the table, her little body was shaking, arms bent at 90-degrees, fists clenched.  “You know daddy, when I get frustrated, I smell a floor and blo ow a cannel,” she says so fast I couldn’t quite translate the three-year old speak into English.

“What?” I respond laughing.  “You do what when you get frustrated?  Why are you getting frustrated?”

“You know,” she begins to shake again, “when I get frustrated, at school, Miss Jen says when I get frustrated I smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, thinking she made her point clearly.

“You smell a flower and blow out a candle?” I ask slowly, enunciating.

“Yeah.  At school when I get frustrated,” she reiterates, offering her wide open eyes and nodding head as evidence of her conviction.

“Who taught you this?  Your mother or school?” I ask, more curious to discover if I’ll believe she is telling the truth when she answers than what her answer is.

“Miss Jen said at school,” her arms assume the position, but no shaking this time, “when I get frustrated, I should smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, not showing any signs of actually becoming frustrated during my uncalled for inquisition.

“Smell a flower and blow out a candle, eh?” I mutter to myself, this time widening my eyes as I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth.  “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, smirking.  “What will they think up next?

Review of Mere Christianity, by C. S. Lewis

The back cover C. S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity has the word “Religion” printed in the upper left corner.  This should be the first clue as to who the publishers thought Lewis’ audience would be.  Mere Christianity, which is mostly the printed version of several radio talks Lewis gave, does little more than preach to the choir.  Granted, every writer or speaker must choose a target audience.  And in this book, Lewis chooses Christians.  Throughout the 192-page book, concepts familiar to Christians and lay-theologians abound.  Lewis’ voice is clear and his intent, noble.  When it comes to religion, though, results seem to be more important than intent, and here is where we begin to question Lewis’ work.

At every turn Lewis remarks, “If this is useful, use it.  If not, skip it.”  It’s all very heart-warming until we stop and consider the repercussions of failure.  As a Christian, Lewis relentlessly forces the reader to acknowledge the unpleasant parts of Christianity, most notably–though he never addresses it outright–an afterlife in hell.  We find it disconcerting that a book would be geared towards those who have already avoided this hell.  We can’t but think of Sunday school stories of Jesus seeking out the sinners, not the saints.  Instead of mirroring this trend, Mere Christianity decides to tackle such high-brow concepts as the nature of God, the Trinity, Jesus, predestination, usury and more.  In fact, he offers commentary on such a breadth of topics that it would be impossible for him to come out squeaky clean.  Take the following example.  At one point Lewis tries his hand at explaining why Christianity hasn’t fared better throughout history, assuming it is true.  He writes:

You will find this again and again about anything that is really Christian: everyone is attracted by bits of it and wants to pick out those bits and leave the rest.  That is why we do not get much further: and that is why people who are fighting for quite opposite things can both say they are fighting for Christianity (81).

With this assessment Lewis opens the door to debating why Christianity hasn’t/doesn’t/isn’t (fill in the blank).  Our own unending curiosity already led us to an answer that even Lewis can’t top.  To be specific, in his own attempt at clarity Tolstoy infects his readers with idea that Christianity has continually missed the mark because, as a religion, it harmonizes that which was never intended to be harmonized.

And herein lies our most pointed criticism of Lewis’ “beloved” classic.  Our problem with his enterprise comes after reading many of his eloquent metaphors which do kind of make sense.  A man of his skill should have recognized his limitations.  A man of his skill should have recognized the problem as it stood in front of him, and stands in front of us today.

C. S. Lewis can’t offer us salvation.

Christianity can’t offer us salvation.

There is only one man who can offer salvation–and his name is Jesus.

In the end, Mere Christianity is nothing more than another misguided, divisive attempt to unite a religion seemingly set on a path of unending fragmentation.

****

Lewis, C. S. Mere Christianity: Comprising The Case for Christianity, Christian Behaviour, and Beyond Personality. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996. Print.

Ninety Shades of Green

For Janet.

“Oh God, yes!  I do, I do,” I confessed, closing my eyes tighter.

Opening my eyes, I could see disbelief in his baby blue eyes as they maneuvered to find my eyes through the tendrils that now covered them.  Never having the courage to broach the subject myself, I instantly affirmed his suggestion.  After so many years, I was still unable to resist his eyes–those intense, honest eyes.

Immediately, I regretted everything.  What if I was wrong?  What if this is all he was really after and after he got it he was going to leave me?  No.  He wasn’t like that.  Not this one.  At least that’s what I told myself in order to sustain the warmth that had come over me.

“You ready hon?  I don’t think I can wait any longer,” I half-heard him say.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I answered, trying to hide my excitement.  I wondered if he knew how excited I really was.  I felt like a volcano about to erupt.  Just think of it.  No, I couldn’t think of it.  Just the thought of it was too much.

“Michelle!  What are you doing up there?” I later heard him call from across the house.  I was so thrilled that I didn’t even realize I had stopped buttoning my blouse and taken a seat on the edge of our bed.  Flushed, I stood up, straightened my skirt, finished buttoning my blouse, looked at myself in the mirror, pulled the comforter back to perfect, and headed down the hall to the stair case.

“I’m here.  Sorry, I still can’t believe this is finally happening,” I burst.

“Geez.  If I would’ve known you were into this, we could have been doing this for years,” I heard him say with his decisive, genuine voice; a voice that reminded me why I loved him.

The way he was standing, so far below me, head tilted up, slightly turned–it was striking.

“You’re sure you meant it?” I couldn’t help but double check, feeling ashamed for infecting the moment with doubt.

“Yes.  Wow.  You really are something.  I’m just sorry it took me 35 years to ask.  Why didn’t you ever say anything all these years?” he inquired.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Dirty Car?

For Preston.

“Alrighty.  I’ve got the car towels, window towels, soap, vinyl cleaner, leather cleaner, leather conditioner, window cleaner, gloves, plastic belt, long sleeve shirt, hat, and comfortable shoes.  Most importantly, I’ve got a winning attitude,” he said aloud to no one.  What he wouldn’t utter, even to himself, was his plan.

The roar of the turbine-engine-sounding blowers startled him out of his daydream.  “It’s go time,” he thought to himself.

As soon as the car made its way from the tunnel to his side he went to work.  First the exterior, then the wheels, then the inside.  “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” he proclaimed to himself, whip-cracking the ground with his damp towel.  “Ford, ready!” he called.

A gentleman walked his way.  Standing ready at the door, he surmised he’d get a decent tip.

“Thanks for coming in today.  Have a great day,” he said, his voice without expectation.

“Thank you,” the gentleman replied in kind.

Closing the door, he walked empty-handed around the back of the car.  Checking that the driver wasn’t looking, he ducked low.  He only had a moment to decide.  “Fuck it,” he said, the purr of the exhaust causing his heart to race.  He opened the back door and quickly slid across the back seat until he was directly behind the gentleman.

Noticing the intruder before the pain, the gentleman released a terrified gasp.  Struggling to get a word out, the gentleman realized the trespasser had thrust a knife into his right side and was now yelling, “Drive!  Drive you cheap, ungrateful, son of a whore!”

The tires smoked as the car launched forward.  Forgetting to follow the generally accepted “stay on the pavement” rule, the gentleman sent the car straight ahead.  The incision lengthened an inch as the car jumped the curb.  The assailant felt this unexpected delight and thought, “Serves him right.”  Filled with a boyish excitement, he maintained his grip on the ribbed knife handle and twisted frantically, as if he discovered suddenly that the door to the room in which he planned to hide from an approaching devil was locked.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.  You’re going to drive.  You’re going to drive until you’re dead.  You are dying today, and I am the man who is going to kill you.  There is no chance to change this course of events,” he dictated, calming at the sound of his own voice.

“Wh-what?  Why?” the gentleman asked.

“Don’t ask questions,” he said, pulling the knife and some entrails out of the gentleman’s side.

“Mother!” the gentleman cried.  “I’m sorry kid.  Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“Ha.  Arrogant to the end, eh?  Like anything you did deserves death at the hands of a car wash kid?  No.  Call for your mommy, call for your daddy.  Tell me to pass a message to your wife and kids.  But do not believe that this is about you.  This was never about you.  This is about me.  The only thing I want you to regret is your choice to get your car washed today,” he said, plunging the hunting knife into the gentleman over and over again until the vehicle crashed into a billboard which read, “Dirty Car?  Stop in Today for $10 Off Our Standard Wash’n’Vac Service.”

How To Make Blogging Thrilling

(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions).

Clicking away at the keyboard, he suddenly found himself grabbing the mouse, about to highlight and delete everything.  He couldn’t possibly publish it.  He was a good dude; what would people think?

He sometimes wanted to write some horror posts–he wanted to graphically describe the most gruesome paths out of this life.

He sometimes wanted to write some posts from a women’s perspective–he wanted to have some fun exploring how the female human navigates this world.

He wanted to write without abandon.  He wanted to swear, he wanted to be passionate.  More times than not he wanted to cause people who knew him to say, “I can’t believe he wrote that.”

But as soon as the words manifested themselves on the screen, he’d hesitate.  “What if they don’t like it?  What if they think I went too far?” he’d ask himself.  “Ah, fuck it,” he’d answer, clicking the publish button.  And then he’d feel it–a rush like no other.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

He’d then laugh out loud thinking, “If people only knew how much energy I put into each post…they’d think I was nnnuts.”

And there was something more.  Behind all of this he would tell himself that his daughter might someday read his posts.  And if he guessed correctly, by that time she would be fascinated that he wasn’t quite the man she’d taken him for all those years.  He’d hope that if she wasn’t there yet, this realization would be the weight that would finally and forever tilt the scales of how she’d live the rest of her life towards courageously, without fear, without worry, and without anxiety.  Just the way he strove to.

Instructions for How To Make Blogging Thrilling

Step 1 — WRITE what you think.

Step 2 — DO NOT DELETE what you wrote.

Step 3 — PUBLISH what you wrote.

So You’re Dying To Hear What It’s Like, Eh?

Well, I’ll tell ya.  Working at a car wash–for me–is like listening to a broken record on which is recorded Mr. Miagi’s “Wax on, Wax off,” Improved-George McFly’s “Now, Biff, I want make sure that we get two coats of wax this time, not just one,” and Chris Rock’s “Scrape, scrape, scrape…surely two hours have passed…WHAT?!  Only 15 minutes!!  AHHHHHH!!!!!”

In other words, it’s kinda fun.  Thanks for asking.

Winning’s Shimmer

Before he knew it he noticed he only had one blue and one green ring left in his cereal bowl.  Looking towards her, he saw he was clearly going to win.  Coming at the rings from the side, he lifted them out of the milk with one experienced motion.  After removing the spoon from his mouth he shocked her with the news.

“Guess what?  Looks like I win.”

“Huh uh, daddy.  I’m gonna win.”

“Nope.  I already won.  Don’t you understand?  You can’t win.”

“Huh uh, daddy.  You don’t get the trophy.”

“I most certainly do get the trophy.  I do.  Don’t you see that I won?  You always tell me very clearly that when you win, I lose.  Well, today I won, and that means I get the trophy.”

Her tears really didn’t bother him until the sound of their creation became deafening.  And that only happened as he grabbed the trophy.  Not a total arse, he put the trophy back on the table.  After all, she was only three-and-a-half.  The roar softened to a whimper.

Taking his bowl to the counter, he kept up the banter, making sure she didn’t miss the lesson.  He came back and saw she was finally done.

“Can I have a little bit more?” she asked, making the universal sign for ‘liddle bit’ with her thumb and forefinger.

“You can, but you need to understand that this only further proves that I won.  Having more cereal after I’m already finished means that even if you had finished the first round before me, you still wouldn’t have won today.  Today, I won and you lost.  Don’t worry about it.  There’s always tomorrow.”

She nodded to placate him.

He watched her finish her second helping.   Now carrying her bowl, he made his way around the corner into the kitchen.  Upon returning to the table, he noticed she was gone.  Her bedroom was in direct line-of-sight only 15 feet further from him than the table.  Sensing movement, he peered into the darkness and recognized the little girl.  “Why the hell is she standing in her bedroom in the dark?” he thought to himself.  His eyes adapting, he saw a shimmer of gold–center mass.  Moving only his eyes, he looked down at the table.  The trophy was gone.

“Like they say, ‘If y’ain’t cheatin’, y’ain’t tryin’.’,” he thought to himself in a southern accent, smiling proudly.