Good Sams Part 1

How do you flatten a person's life on a blank page, expecting to tell the readers a story? How can you explain the things in life on a piece of paper, the things that really change you: a touch, a smile, a look in their eyes that touches your soul, a feeling? I wish I could make you, dear reader, see through my eyes, and experience the moments I have spent in Good Sams that have meant so much to me. Maybe then you would understand why I would take time to write about people I barely know, people whose lives have apparently ended, who are all secluded in a building waiting for that moment they all dread but realize its inevitable. Maybe I can help you understand why we care, why we go there every week and sing to them, and make their lives a little better.

It was a year ago when I walked into Good Sams for the first time. I had been in very few nursing homes, and never as the center of attention. There were already a few NSA students in the large living room area talking to the residents lining the walls, sitting in chairs or wheelchairs. Around twenty residents, waiting to hear us sing. I was a little lost. Looking around, I saw a lady working on a puzzle. "Hi there, that a nice puzzle you are working on."
"Thank you. I wish it was easier; we've been working on it all afternoon and probably wont finish tonight."
"Maybe if I helped you we could come close."
"Sure, just don't go breaking the pieces forcing them where they don't go. It can be a little tricky."
"Ok. My name is Joseph, by the way. What's yours?"
"I'm Grace. Joseph is a good name. It's easy to remember."

 We worked on that puzzle til it was time for singing. I left her side. "Well Grace, I hope you enjoy our singing."
"I always do, I never miss a day that all of you come and sing."
You should have seen the residents' smiling faces when we sang. They clapped at the end of every song, and some of them joined us in singing the doxology.
I said goodbye to Grace, promising that I would be back next week to help on another puzzle. She thanked us for singing and wished me a good day.

The next week she didn't remember my name. She still knew who I was, and I helped here with a different puzzle. It was a beautiful garden with a well in the center, she had been avoiding the well because the color pattern was too similar. I started on the well. She asked me how school was going.
"It's going well. I love school, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."
"Good, there are too many people that move from one place to another hoping that that new place will be where they will be happy. They don't realize that they are running away from themselves."
Grace was a wise woman. She knew how to make Good Sams a more cheerful place. She could have been miserable, unhappy with living in a nursing home where everyday looks the same, and theres nothing to look forward to. She was a little light brightening other's days. One time I meet her roommate. I was surprised to find out that the residents knew each other. "You know Grace?!"
"Of course I do. Everybody knows Grace, she cares about people."
One day she wasn't smiling. I asked her what was wrong. She had lost her husband two years ago and she was missing him a lot today. She was also in a lot of pain because of some complications with her broken hip. I told her I would be praying for her. She held my hand and thanked my, as she held back tears.
Months passed. Every time Grace would be out there working on a puzzle or playing cards with the events coordinator. She never complained about the pain she had, or told me that she missed her husband. It was only when I'd ask how I could pray for her that she would tell me.
Summer came, and our group of singing college students shrank, but we kept going, and they loved us for it. One day Grace wasn't there anymore. I didn't grow worried til the next week. I asked a nurse about her. Grace had passed away.

Goat dissecting on December 24, 2013

My uncle killed two goats for Christmas dinner, so I had the opportunity to do some dissecting. Since their throats were sliced and their blood was drained, their blood vessels shriveled up so that they are almost indistinguishable from its muscles. It's digestive system was incredible. I had not really understood what the Greater Omentum was, (omentum means "fat" in latin). It is this sort of curtain of adipose tissue that envelopes the GI tract to keep it from getting displaced during peristalsis. I could see the food (chime) in its different stages of digestion until becoming feces.
The pancreas was a disappointment; it got destroyed when the guts were removed from the carcass. The spleen was also an underachiever. Compared with the spleen of the very male cat we dissected in lab, this one was half it's size. The gall bladder has to be carefully removed from the liver, without perforating the sack, so that the liver is edible. If the bile fell on any part of the goat it would render it useless. The stomach was sketchy. I think there were at least two sections. I didn't want to open it since it was rather full.
 The lungs were very pink, showing, I think, that he was breathing hard to the last moment.
They are now roasting in a brick oven. It is a completely different experience to see the whole life cycle than just dissecting a dead carcass in a neat lab: to know exactly how the goats body works, what every organ does and how they function together to maintain the goat's homeostasis, what muscles it uses to run away from you, how it raises it's diaphragm to expel air so it can bleat, what course the blood takes in its body until it is rudely interrupted by a knife slicing its jugular veins and its common carotid arteries. It takes a whole new meaning once you have a simmering plate of tasty meat in front of you. That the goat dies so that your own body might be nourished is a reality that we shouldn't be guarded from. The analogy of Jesus being led like a lamb to the slaughter is renewed in my mind. It is easy to forget the raw and bloody portion of the gospel when surrounded by warm Christmas lights and nativity scenes. Don't get me wrong, I love everything beautiful and adorned with Christmas cheer. I think that it is the sacrifice of our Savior that allows us to have all the warmth and goodness that we enjoy this season. But it is that guttural truth that allows us to be more grateful for the blessings we receive, and covering it up or forgetting it through neglect will also reduce the beauty of  salvation from death.

Ramblings

Make everyday the best day of your life. It is an unexchangeable gift from your Creator; don't spoil it. Bless others by giving of yourself instead of taking to satisfy your selfish desires. God will take care of you. Flee to Him in your troubles. Lose yourself in his presence like a child in his father's lap.

It has been too long. Rip van Winkle has finally risen and feels morally obligated to write. Who knows? Maybe someone is starving for my scribblings. (Which would be weird, since I try to keep this blog a secret. To make me feel a little more accomplished than just keeping word documents; and maybe one day some unsuspecting web surfer will stumble upon it and enjoy.) I think that my writing has atrophied. For the last semester in school I haven't had to be creative with words except for a history paper. My issue with history papers is that they make me feel boring. There's a little voice commanding me how to write, "Regurgitate information! Draw connections! Sound interesting! Don't use expletives!" History papers shouldn't be like that, that was just my natural tendency; commanding those little vowels and consonants to march, march, do my bidding, parade in a circle in a way that makes their poor little legs sore. I, their master, have enslaved them for my selfish purposes.
We used to be friends, language and I, and we shall be again. I'll have the joy of trying to  embody an idea and see a word peep out, fulfilling all my dreams and more. All that just for the reader to quickly glaze over it. There are few authors who deserve their readers' eyes to graze over their writings, seeking those clever hidden treasures that make you a little wiser. A hidden secret once discovered. A moment where the author gives a little more of himself for those more faithful companions, this followed by sadness when you realize how many will go without knowing about this literary morsel.
My problem with writing is that I feel compelled to teach something, distort the story so that an obvious moral is taught, (e.g. the passive voice should not be used!) my older self is starting to realize that the experience of journeying through the story brings one farther, teaches more, and is more enjoyable. It is the diffusion of a lush experience filled with growth, to a starved soul yearning for escape. So no more moralizing! Just adventure! No expletives to make a weak point strong

Forgiveness

I am a Christian, the son of many generations of Christian. My father is even a missionary. If any belong to the elect it is us missionary kids who feed on Bible verses from conception. Grace has surely been bestowed upon me. My Father also serves as pastor, so I sit on the front pew. All eyes are on me, to see if I live sanctified. If anyone is holy it should be the preacher’s kid. I can do this, I can play this game. I will live up to everyone’s expectations; and when I don’t, I will at least look like I do.

This “Christian life” is hard to live. I can quote Habakkuk when called, but did anyone ever ask me if I wanted to be like this? Why am I expected to live differently, better, than the rest of my elementary school classmates who seem to have more fun and slightly worse grades? I get the best grades, and all they say is, “He’s Joseph.” With this explanation they are satisfied. This is sweet poison to me. I hate that they come to see it as normal for me to do better than everyone, but at the same time, I come to expect it, and love it. I am seen as being better, and I enjoy that reputation.

Slowly, I grow and recognize that what I do is called hypocrisy. I do my best to change. I want to be what everyone thinks I am. My perfection mask sometimes cracks and something ugly peers through; there’s a woman on the TV screen, and all she seems to be wearing would barely keep my Chihuahua warm during winter. I look away. How holy I am; but part of me also wonders if anyone noticed that I looked away. That dramatic hand motion to cover my eyes as I turned away should have helped them notice how holy I am. I wake up early to go and pray with other saints. As I leave, I can’t help frowning at my roommates for sleeping in. They should be more like me, who sacrifices sweet slumber for prayer.

I have come to love the praise of men. Do I memorize the liturgy to worship God more fully, or so that I can close my eyes as I sing and look holier? God, look at me, I have done all you have commanded, what you ask in your law. I am not a Pharisee, I am better than them because I actually do what you ask! My cries echo in the darkness of my soul.

Is there hope for me? I saw the light and I did not really understand it. It was too elusive. I would try to obey and, somehow, it always came out wrong

I read Augustine, an older saint whose passion moved me. He awoke in me the desire to find rest from my vain attempts to keep an image I wish was a reality. I wanted what people believed of me, that I was good, to be true. And even then I realized that I shouldn’t want this because of what people thought. I wanted to be loved by God and love Him in return without all those judging eyes telling me if I’m doing it right.

So maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I have misunderstood this gospel, this message that promises freedom, maybe having it thrust to my face all the time has dulled me to it and made close my ears dismissively.

            In Lordship class Mr Appel expounds on the parable of the prodigal son. I begin to see my problem. I am that older brother who does everything the father says, and when your younger brother has been forgiven, I cannot forgive, even though the sin was not towards me. I think, “He doesn’t deserve to be called a son anymore. He should have been dismissed for what he is, a sinner.” And I am right, but I don’t deserve being a son either. I have misunderstood forgiveness, no one deserves it. I am worse than my younger brother because I have come to expect it; it is only the payment for my righteousness, for my success in living the Christian life so well. All filthy rags…

If we began a Pharisees anonymous group, and we were all sincere, we would confess the same sin, pride. We would say it appeared in all areas of our life. When we volunteer to clean the church, to babysit the pastor’s children, doing the actions that would be seen by all, and praised.

“Not of works, lest anyone should boast…” (Ephesians 2:9). A gift is too simple, why would God want to accept something as pathetic as me. Let me work on cleansing myself Lord, so that you can accept me.  

But His forgiveness covers my wretchedness. I hear His still small voice. He doesn’t praise my works or encourage me to greater ones. He tells me what He has been doing all along: “Your sins are forgiven.”

A relationship between a child and his father is not based on the actions of the bumbling toddler trying to measure up to his parents’ expectations; that would be pathetic and I would have been an orphan long ago. Flesh of my flesh, I was made from them. That is why they love me. It is the same with my Creator. I bear His image, however badly, and He loves me.

Gratefulness, this is how I should have carried His easy yoke, but I wanted to drag it with my feet. Now I understand my actions should be a reciprocation of His love, His grace towards me.

My love was misplaced, what I wanted was good but misplaced. I wanted acceptance, but I searched in the wrong place. I wanted love, but I was seeking it in myself. He tells me to stop trying to impress Him with a meal and sit at His feet, and then He feeds me an eternal meal.

Cleansed in Baptism, nourished by Communion, shaped by His Word, and strengthened by prayer, my life is given back to me. He restores it and makes is new once more. Like a child who hugs his parents at Christmas, showing his appreciation for receiving just what he always wanted, I want to give my life back to Him. The prophet Isaiah compares our souls to a dessert that God turns into a river. Only Jesus could do this. “Only the Greatest of a Becoming greatest of all can make Himself small enough to enter Hell.”[1] Becoming greater than I am requires more than what I have. He not only descends to Hell, but raises me with Him. I have a barren field, and nothing grew from it when I was the gardener. But I have ceded I have torn down my barbed wire fence and let a perfect landscaper in. With a smile in his eye, he tells me there is still some hope in me.

He has changed me. Another brother has decided to turn prodigal. I don’t curse his name and wish his death. I run after him, trying to get him to come back. I don’t wish his hurt. In my flight to God I will raise whomever I see, for He did that for me.

            I don’t say I’m perfect, and I am fine with that. It grieves me to hurt His creation, but I can turn to Him and know He will not turn His back to me. When I fail, His grace cleanses me. When I sin, His forgiveness sustains me. I don’t work for it, I can’t, and this keeps my pride imprisoned.

I am a character in a story, and my mistake was believing that I played the role of the hero. Nate Wilson belabors this point in Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl. We are placed in this grand story God wrote. Being prideful, I thought I had center stage. I wanted to be more than a glop of blue painting overlooking some sunflowers. But knowing that I’m not the star brings me contentment. The heavy yoke of trying to achieve something I could never do is taken off my shoulders. This was the answer to my pride. Running away from it would never be enough, it was one speedy beast. Having someone to run to, a hope of something greater than I who would do what I couldn't  to be perfect, succeeded in giving me rest. And in His perfection He raises me with Him. My life is in His hands; the hands that have written my story, and since He loves me, I can trust that it is a good one.    

Poetry to prose- Empty Chairs and Empty Tables from Les Miserables

       There is a grief I cannot bear to utter. There's a pain that never ends. Empty refrigerators and empty pantries, where the food once happily rested like those pixar blue birds before their downfall. At the Belschners they spoke of eating poppy-seed chicken, and we salivated for tomorrow, when Mrs. Belschner would return with her arms full of groceries. But the chicken never came. How could we know that those chips and salsa would be our final supper. Oh my roommates don't ask me, where all the milk has gone. Eric ate it with a pound of cereal. Those froot loops are digested and no more. And those donuts from Rosauer's- Devon ate like there was no mañana. . Oh my roommates forgive me, that I ate fettuccine and you did not. I gaze at those empty shelves. All that is left is that nasty Canadian ice-tea. Phantom bagels on the counter, spectral cream cheese on the floor. As my roommates waste away, hoping for salvation, I secretly eat my scones from wheat berries.

Running off

     It stares at you defiantly, and you stare back wondering what is emptier; the blank page or the brain attempting to fill it. You rack your brain trying to think of the perfect sentence to begin your paper. The truth is, there is no perfect line. "Once upon a time" is too cliche; "the man entered the room" is to postmodern. Everything else appears boring. But in truth, that only reveals your boring imagination. "That stubborn goat had a blue tail..." Now there is a story I would read.
     It is the end of week seven and all that is left is a week of final exams. Time is like a rug that is pulled from under you. You are left rubbing your rear end and wondering where it went. But there is no point in looking back regretfully. Forget the pain, remember the lessons learned from mistakes, and hold on to those dear moments that changed your life. After that, look ahead and change the future. I always thought that was a funny sentence; how can you change something that hasn't happened?
     As you get older, you begin to see your life as a large roll of fabric with a mysterious pattern that you are trying to figure out. The more you unroll, the more you understand and the wiser you become. But it unrolls so slowly. We must be impatient, however, since every moment is a gift and worth living in.
     Enough platitudes, let's get this baby off the air and actually do something with what I'm writing.
     Finals' week, these are the times to try men's souls. Being a couple days before it begins is like standing in front of a precipice you know you must charge into. It's dark and you somehow need to make it to the other side. You search you puny frame for valor. When that doesn't work, you look up and mutter a quick prayer, promising to be a good boy the rest of your life if you make it to the other side alive.
     OK, it's not that bad, but it's fun to imagine so. I shall charge into that darkness, slay the beasts within it, and rise triumphantly on the other side, waving a victory flag.

The Escape Goat

     The snarky goat escaped his pen again. Too long had the trees suffered the abuse of that salivating brute. I braced myself for battle. The land shall feel his terror no more. My skin chilled as I remembered the wet stench of his hide, that stench that had seared my nostrils in our previous encounter ten minutes ago. Many times we had fought, and he always escaped my grasp; but not this day. I would vanquish this villainous albino demon. 

     I tiptoed silently through the dry grass with the dexterity of a ballerina on stilts. The red-eyed savage’s ear pricked. My fingers tingled at the thought of them around the throat of his pestilency. 

     He continued his placid mastication, and I approached. I was ten feet away when his tail stopped moving and he began turning his thick head. 

     The adrenaline made me feel like time was traveling through jello. I leaped. Whoever said man can’t fly did not see me that day. I joined the realm of the gods for an eternity that was too brief. The goat did not know what hit him, but whatever it was wasn't conscious enough to chase after it when it bolted.