Redemption Begins in Iowa

Is this Heaven?
No, it's Iowa.

Well, to political junkies, yesterday they may have been one and the same. To me, however, it's like the innermost layer of hell. Yesterday's Iowa caucuses remind me of the ugliness that is to come in the next 11 months. Of course, like passing a horrific car accident on the highway, I cannot help but stare no matter how much I want to tear my eyes away.
Okay, perhaps innermost layer of hell is a bit of a stretch. Maybe it's more like purgatory. Whatever it's like, I always end up watching election results like most people watch the Super Bowl. I just can't bring myself to turn off the television.
While surely there will be more from me about the subject in the coming months, as this rat race begins to gain momentum, I am reminded of a piece I wrote during the 2008 elections. I find it still holds true. This year, no different from any past elections, I see hoards of people holding up signs, cheering, and chanting belief that this time around, this person will be the one to make all right.   Here it is:

Dear Sirs and Madam,

As your stand there on the podium, beckoning us to believe, we lift our voices and shout our praise. We wave our “hail hosanna” cardboard signs crying victory in your name. We bow and uphold you for the promised change you jingle in your pocket. Change that will feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, provide for the needy, and lower taxes.
Your face glows as you draw us near to you and summon us to hope.
Your messianic voice cries salvation from the sin in which we’ve been forced to wallow. Your face shimmers in divine light with reflections of halos round your head.
You are the answer. You bring redemption.
We dance in the aisles, while tongues of praise pour on you as rain.
Delegates sing hymns of your glory and chant triumphant battle cries.
Your promises ring prophecies in our ears. In you we place our trust. Our hope is in you. Show us your way. Guide us in what you know of truth.
For we know that in you, all will be made right.

We will be restored.

In your name we’ll become The United States of a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come. Save us, O redeemer.
Our children nestle against your neck, raised up rightly in adoration of you. Your redemption will spread through the ages.
Tears of hope for tomorrow fall down our cheeks as you kiss our babies, grasp our hand, and lead us to the Promised Land full of milk and honey and all that we believe us to deserve.
In you, we can. With our hope in you, country first shall be last.
Those who choose you are free indeed. Let freedom ring.
Save us from our enemies. Deliver us from evil.
For yours is our kingdom, our power and glory for years,

Amen.

A Letter to 2011

Dear 2011,

Before you go, I just want to say thanks for being so good to me. You're older brother, 2010, walloped me in the face, kicked me in the shins, and wrenched my guts into a thousand knots. Then you came in, bandaged my wounds, and poured out goodness upon my head near to the point of drowning. What I have done to earn your favor I am uncertain, but my gratitude is yours.

It is doubtful that I can select one instance you brought to me that was best. You returned to me my kitty! You showed me Baltimore, California, Chicago, Washington D.C. You shed a new light upon my own city. What once was dull, grey, and cold is now a mural of color and wonder worthy of the Sistine Chapel. Book Club, education, roommates, family, old friends and new...these things brought to me joy astounding. And this other particular someone might just be tops as well. Frosting on this already sweetened cake. So many more blessings you dropped at my feet go unmentioned. I stand in awe at the goodness and cannot say thank you enough.

When the clock strikes twelve and Auld Lang Syne resounds through the crowd, I'll be a bit sad to see you go. Your little sister, though? 2012? She's waiting just outside the door and her gifts are already piled high. I see them peeking through the window. I've heard her knocking. I think she's getting anxious and wants to come in. I shall receive her with open arms.

Farewell, friend. Thanks for everything.

Balancing Humanity

I've been going to yoga on Monday evenings lately. Last night as I was there, somewhere between my downward dog and pigeon, I decided once a week may not be enough. It occurred to me that I love yoga. My friends have been proclaiming its wonders for years, and I've gone with them from time to time. But it hadn't really clicked until recently. I discovered the poetic nature about it. The fluid motions mimic dance, giving the body both wellness and art. At the same time, I am both weak and strong. My muscles quiver as they work to sustain my posture, feeling both that they will collapse at any given moment yet continue to hold me upright. As I ache to return to a relaxed state, I feel my body grow stronger. Sweat drips from my brow and my body thanks me for the challenge. Afterward, I feel strong to the core and balanced both physically and mentally.

It is the notion of balance that strikes me, I think, and more than just that which I experience from yoga. In several matters in my life, balance has been playing a more important role, and I am oh so grateful for it. I want to say that Christians are terrible at balance, but I am hesitant to throw a blanket statement out there. It could be simply my personal experience, but really, I think that I am not alone in this. Please, correct me if I am wrong and am the only one who has felt completely off balance as a result of modern evangelicalism. 

Here are my thoughts. Christianity, at least as portrayed by modern evangelicalism, scarcely allows for balance. To allow for balance allows for being human, and we certainly can't be having that now, can we? For years and years, my perception was always to strive to "be holy because I am holy." (Lev 11:44/1 Peter 1:16) and to "put to death the self." So, I'm still working out the theological implications of these verses, but from what I've seen and recently experienced, modern evangelicalism has taken them way off course and used them to beat the bloody hell out of those who seek to be holistic followers of The Way. Obviously, "being holy," and "dying to self" aren't bad ideas. The bad idea is that somehow we are able to, and should, do these things on our own. 

This leads to nothing but loss and devastation.

We (Christians, collectively, or perhaps just me) are told repeatedly that we are not doing enough. So we strive continually to do more and more to put to death the self. In the end, we wind up doing just that. When we attempt to kill the self in us, death of self is achieved. Our "self" becomes corroded in our quest for holiness and we end up hallowed shells of who we could and are meant to be.  However, when we stop striving, seek balance, and allow ourselves to be the self God created us to be, there is life...abundantly.

This is something I've been mulling over for quite some time now, but recently has been in the forefront of my mind. It first caught my attention when I was reading C.S. Lewis. I believe it was in Mere Christianity when he states, "We were never intended to be purely spiritual beings." When I read that, it was like a previously unknown window had just been opened in a dingy, barricaded cellar. Fresh air filled my lungs and I suddenly had an inkling that it was possible to be...normal. To be human. To be me.

Despite the fact that our created bodies and minds have needs, modern evangelicalism tells us these needs are bad. We are taught to keep ourselves constantly in check for fear of "falling away." Again, keeping one's self in check is not a bad idea. However, often "keeping yourself in check" ends up simply denying the self most things and starving our physical and emotional selves to near anorexia. Moderation is not in the vocabulary of many evangelicals. The verse "Don't give the devil a foothold," gets thrown around a lot. So in order to keep that darned devil away, it's best to just avoid anything that remotely looks like it might be something he's dangling in front of our face. It's best to just live our lives in a little sheltered box, making sure to stab whatever aspect of human nature dares to raise its ugly head in us and kill it dead. 

No. 

Wait. 

Don't do that!

Live! Find balance! Go to church. Pray. Worship. Fellowship. These are good things. But then...Eat. Drink. Be merry. Taste. Touch. Feel. Listen. Love. Be moved. Experience this life as it unfolds before you. Be yourself. It's okay, it's who you were created to be.

Advent

Ahh, a return to blogging.
So long it's been, friend. It's nice to see you.
I just posted my final paper for my media administration and management class, which means I have no grad school to worry about for the next few weeks. It also means I can return to my normal granola self. It was a quick and unsurprising lesson that business classes and I don't mix. But fortunately, it's now laid to rest and I can spend my sleepless (due to work) nights finally pondering this season of Advent that has sneaked up upon me.
Because, inevitably, this time of year, I'll occasionally catch a fleeting thought of the weight of it all and need to just sit and contemplate the wonder.
I didn't grow up in a church that talked much about Advent. My experience of it was limited to little chocolate treats taken out of colorfully decorated cardboard calendars. But then something marvelous happened: I started studying theology.
During my time as a theology student at the University of Sioux Falls my brain often took in more than it could handle. I would often walk out of classes barely able to speak, in total awe of this new found wonderment I was suddenly allowed to question and mull over. One such class that consistently had me walking out, mouth agape, needing to simply sit and process was a class on Exodus with Dr. Brian Gregg. Thinking back on it, this may have been the most formative class of my entire education and perhaps entire life. There was Israel, an entire nation, wandering in the desert with nothing but some manna and the hope of a promise. Those that know me know well that I suffer from the blessing of wanderlust. Needless to say, Israel and I seemed to have a lot in common.
It was near the end of that semester when I found myself singing "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" in church on Sunday evening. It was a song I had heard countless times before. But this time the lyrics hit me like a truck barreling down the highway. The theological weight of the song bowled me over and it has since become my favorite Christmas carol. Nay, Advent song.
Ransom captive Israel. Mourning in lonely exile. God, come be with us.
What a thought, that God, this unknown, imperceivable, inconceivable, distant thing, decided to become one of us, so that we might have light. We might have hope. We might have home. I'll never understand it and will most like simply sit, this time each year, and contemplate the beautiful madness of it all.

What great Hope is this
That finds us here
In mourning and lonely exile
And tells us to
Rejoice
Rejoice
For though we are captive
We have been ransomed
By nothing less than a
Light that shreds the darkness
Turns mourning to dancing
And brings the exiled home

Rejoice
Rejoice
Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel


This, my favorite version of my favorite Advent/Christmas song. I hope you enjoy it and allow yourself to simply sit and contemplate the idea of God made man.

Dreamers Beware

dreaming is dangerous

as it gives way to hope

and hope

as we know

has a way

of slipping in unnoticed

and lifting one up

high

high

high

off the ground

where distance beyond borders becomes visable

and tiny dirt roads can be seen

careening off to find it

this the most terrifying place of all

for it is a

long

long

long

way down

should you fall

Brothers & Sons & This American Daughter

If I ever write a memoir, the first line is going to be, "I was supposed to be a rodeo queen."
Which quite honestly is the truth. I remember at one point in time my mother mentioned that her plans for me were to "rodeo hard."
Whoops.
I've apologized to my parents occasionally for turning out completely opposite of what they were hoping for. But it seems children have minds of their own and end up doing what they want. Mine (should they end up existing) may want to be, God-forbid, reality TV stars or money-hungry corporate salesmen. Blech!
I was supposed to be a rodeo queen, but then I started going to punk shows. Then hardcore shows. The post-hardcore shows. And now? Very few shows, sadly. But there are a few bands I really must see live someday. Among them include: Mumford & Sons, The Avett Brothers, Fleet Foxes,The Swell Season, and My Morning Jacket. I think you'll see a trend. Beardy boys playing music from their roots. From my roots.
I have to say, I'm a fan of this new folksy, old-timey trend music is in right now. Some argue that bands are focusing too much on where music has been, and not where it's going, but I think these guys, and others, are doing a good job at blending the old with the new. Holding on to what's been great while embracing what's to come, musically.
And it works for me personally as well. My rodeo queen turned hardcore mistress turned borderline-but-hopefully-not-quite-a-hipster self is revelling in this neo-hillbilly style. It encompasses all that I've been, loved, left behind, and look forward to. And it does so rather harmoniously, if I do say so myself. And quite frankly, it makes me want to dance. And perhaps the most exciting bit of all, my mother and I can finally agree on what to listen to!
Here are a few favorites:

What's Your Passion?

I can't really complain about my evening. Aside from getting some concert tickets, I purchased bus tickets to Chicago for $10.50, some self-adhesive mustaches for the yet-to-be-planned mustache party (couldn't pass them up for $1!), perused some used books, munched some tacos, laughed til my side hurt at Jon Stewart, geeked out at Stephen Colbert's Harry Potter reference, and soaked up the imensity of Radiohead on the The Colbert Report. All in all, a good night.
But, even as I sit here,  contented with my evening, my heart swells at the thought of my step-dad and his sister, as about now they are probably opening their eyes, giving sleep the hoof with one final yawn, zipping up their luggage, and heading out for day five of their 11 day European tour. I've said this multiple times in the last 5 days, but I am so excited for them. Jim and Charla work so hard here in the heartland. So hard, they very rarely get to escape it, even to other parts of the U.S. But in a moment of what I'm going to call "clarity," Charla looked around and said something like "Hey. I think there might be more to life. Jim, let's go see the world."
And they went.
And my heart, as mentioned above, swelled.
It swelled because they are doing what I love above anything in the world: traveling. It swelled because their eyes are going to be opened in the way that only travel can. (Mark Twain seems to agree with me.) It swelled because by them taking this trip, somehow I feel more connected to them. And I feel more connected to them because, no matter their thoughts on this trip, they are partaking in what I can only call my passion.
Google (or use one of those cool, old, bulky things known as a "dictionary") the word "passion" and you'll see a heavy relation to the word "suffer." Indeed, the very root of the word means "suffer."
Funny, suffering is not usually what comes to mind when I hear the word "passion."
I blame Hollywood.
But put a "The" in front of it, and you find a pretty intense image of passion as suffering.
Buddhists also link passion and suffering, though their method is to elimante passion (desires) so as to eliminate suffering. Probably why I'm not a Buddhist. Nice temples, though. But I get it. I get why one would wish to eliminate passions/desires. As we've seen in the etymology of the word, to have passion can ulitimately cause suffering. I've seen it. I've been apart of it. I've prayed and cryed and begged for longings to be taken away from me. Having unfulfilled passion hurts. A lot. It hurts so much it often feels like your heart is going to rip itself out of your ribcage, burst through your chest, and hurtle itself to the floor in a temper-tantrum-like protest.
(Reminder-"passion" doesn't only refer to "lusty desire for another person"..or even have to be about a person at all)
But on the flip side, passion, when fulfilled, brings life. The night I broke into the U2 concert. The few precious days I get to be at the ocean. The moment I clear security, strap on my backpack, and for the love that is all pure, holy, and good, get to travel. These moments when passion is fulfilled are the moments that  make my blood pulse in my veins so hard I can feel it. They cause my legs to do unintentional jumping and dancing motions. They make my words come out in a short, somewhat unitelligible manner. (More than they already do.) In short, I am alive, and it is things such as travel, music, writing, the ocean, nature, and yes, sometimes even my bookclub that bring me life.
But I've noticed...
SO many people are content to live a passionless existance. "What brings you life?" they are asked. And they shrug. They don't know. They haven't thought about it. And I'm blown away. I am disheartened and honestly quite sad for them. I mean, I guess if they're happy, fine, go along with what works for you. But I don't get it. I cannot fathom a passionless life. I can't do it. I refuse to do it.
So, if you haven't thought about what brings you life, what you are passionate about, what makes your heart hurt with longing without it and swells to the point of bursting with it, I urge you to think about it. And if you know what you're passionate about, share them here. Or at least with someone. And then, find a way to incorporate it into your life today. Because your life deserves more than a shrug.

Farmer's Market

Oh, the Farmer's Market. There's no better way to spend an autumn Saturday morning than sipping a fresh cup of coffee and perusing the tables chalk full of fruits, veggies, flowers, and bread. A plentiful harvest is truly something to be thankful for. (Now, if only there was a holiday to celebrate such things!)
My kitchen in need of some fresh veggies, I strolled through the market this Saturday last. I was rewarded with the warmth of the sun, greetings from friends, smells so delectable, and a backpack full of goods grown and made right here at home. I'm eager to turn them into something even more scrumptious.
Aside from the standard foods such as cucumbers, zucchinis, and squash (which I no doubt purchased), I decided the sweet potato pasta sounded too good to pass up. Especially when the hutterite patroness gave me a Korean recipe for which it should be used. Sweet potato noodles, some sweet bell peppers from the neighboring booth, steak, and some sesame oil all tossed together to form a world of deliciousness. I can't wait to make it.
Also, good European rye bread can be hard to come by, but fortunately there is a German man who sold me some. Rye bread, butter, havarti cheese, and some cucumbers and you've got yourself a tasty snack. Follow it up with a cup of coffee and let out a contented sigh.
Sure, I could head to the local supermarket and purchase these things. But the freshness is lacking, local farmers aren't supported, and the sun won't shine on my back as I'm sampling the finest heirloom tomatoes around. (FYI-they come from Gilkerson Gardens. Upon eating one, I literally said aloud, "Oh yeah, this is what a tomato is supposed to taste like." But you have to go to the Tuesday market to get those.)
Winter is just around the corner. The stalks and leaves with whither away and we'll be left to eat the much less tasty supermarket vegetables grown in some other country. According to my calculations, there are 5 Saturday morning farmer's markets left. I'd better stock up. And I should really learn how to can. Time to call my grandpa and take some lessons. And run away with his garden veggies. 









My Bounty





Way Back Home

This is amazing.

The World That Lives Just On The News

I just now found this poem I wrote nearly 10 years ago to the day. I had just finished my internship in Seattle (my first foray into the big wide beautifully ugly world) and was taking a poetry class at the University of Nebraska. I only have one copy and I keep losing it, so the fact that I just found it right now excites me greatly. It is the original hard copy I turned in to the professor and has all his notes and commentary, which even today is flattering. The prof also told me to submit it for publication. I never did. Not really sure why.  I'm putting it here so that there is less pressure to not lose the only copy I have, though I need to make a conscious effort to keep this one because it's filled from top to bottom with the professor's comments. The poem is in the form of Sestina, which is comprised of 39 lines with the same words ending the lines in each stanza in varying order. It was my first work outside of high school poetry. I was 19 years old, with fresh eyes and a yearning to save the world.
Here's the poem:

Sadness each night on the five o'clock news
Another innocent victim lies cold
Death and destruction, sickness and pain
Why does the world scream? Anger loves fear
Fear loves anger, each feeds on each other in
a cycle of pain that, my God, I wish someday would

end. A beaten mother covers her bruises. She would
leave if the fear he would kill her would leave. New
bruises every morning. As she drives into
work, she tries to find an excuse. Her child, cold
and hungry, cries in the backseat. Life for them is fear.
As she looks out the window, more pain

is all that she sees. For the man on the corner, pain
is all he knows. A bench of wood
for a bed, his eyes are so vacant they show no fear
No emotion at all. A crumpled jacket that's far from new
is all he has for warmth...and a pillow. Cold
eats away at his frail bones as he stares into

nothing. As the woman drives further into
the city, she tries to block out the pain
while more heartache stands out in the cold.
The foreign man walking out on the sidewalk would
weep if there were any tears left to cry. His new
baby boy and his wife have passed on. His nation's fear

of change has killed them. Most are afraid,
so they hide their beliefs, so they are not forced into
exile...or death. The man has escaped to a new
Promised Land, but not without paying the price. His pain
will live on with each mother and child he would
see on the street, until his own body is cold.

Next to the man stands a woman who's cold.
For not many clothes she has on. Her greatest fear
is her health that is fading, as the disease would
soon take her life. Her time on the streets got her into
a mess, where there was only one way to survive. Pain
had to be ignored, as each new night brought in someone new.

This world lives on the news and it seems very cold
Yet we turn our backs on the pain and the fear
and pretend it's not the world we live in...or ever would.