seeds [cont'd]

I just started a class on the Gospels today, and one of the first assignments was to read through the book of Mark. Since this whole garden thing started, I've noticed more and more the amount of times the idea of seeds and planting is written about in the Bible--either in actuality or in imagery. My ears have become more attuned to any mention of seeds and planting than they've ever been. It's kind of like owning (or previously owning) a Suzuki Swift. Every time I pass another Swift, I notice it. It's not intentional; it just happens because I was associated with that type of car and immediately take notice of it. Yes. Reading about seeds and planting in the Bible is kind of like owning a Suzuki Swift.

Jesus said, "The kingdom of God is as if a man should scatter seed on the ground. He sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows; he knows not how. The earth produces by itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear. But when the grain is ripe, at once he puts in the sickle, because the harvest has come."

Now I know there are scientific and biological reasons for plants growing and sprouting the way they do. Our beans and our onions are doing this, but my naivetée in the science of plant growth renders me astounded by the fact that actual plants are sprouting out of what were once tiny seeds. I sleep and rise night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows; I know not how.

It seems that one of the current fashionable ideas about the kingdom of God is that it is 1) a present reality and 2) a future reality--that the kingdom of God is here now and is coming soon. It's a complicated theological idea, but one that, even in this short parable, seems to hold some truth: the kingdom of God is a present reality as it grows and ripens and will be a future reality when it reaches full maturity. The coinciding fashionable idea about the kingdom of God is that we are a part of it--that we are in this kingdom even now, and we are a part of its growth and maturity. There was a time when I thought I had all that figured out, but in a sense, I am relearning what this means--that it is more than simply doing what is right but in believing what is right. The "doing" is nothing without a solid foundation of faith. I think. But if there is no faith, than what is the point in doing? Right? All that to say, that this kingdom--this present and future reality--must grow out of something, just as seeds grow out of soil. Maybe faith is the soil from which this kingdom grows.

What if Susan Boyle Couldn't Sing?

By now we've all heard the story, we've all seen the video, and if we're the sort of person, we've cried the tears. But, as Dennis Palumbo asks in The Huffington Post, What if Susan Boyle Couldn't Sing? What a great question.

Palumbo writes, "the unspoken message of this whole episode is that, since Susan Boyle has a wonderful talent, we were wrong to judge her based on her looks and demeanor. Meaning what? That if she couldn't sing so well, we were correct to judge her on that basis? That demeaning someone whose looks don't match our impossible, media-reinforced standards of beauty is perfectly okay, unless some mitigating circumstance makes us re-think our opinion?"

I don't know what my natural reaction would be to the video, had I not watched it already knowing the outcome. But I can guess that Palumbo is right--that had she not been able to sing so well, I would have felt justified to judge Boyle based solely on her looks. Sad, n'est pas? How is it that I--that we--have gotten to a point where looks are all that matter? And I say 'we' because, from the amount of hits her video has received on youtube, it seems that all of us with an internet connection or any access to the media reacted the same way to watching Susan Boyle walk on stage as Simon Cowell and the rest of the audience did. "Don't judge a book by it's cover" is the absolute basic lesson we can all learn from this episode. The cliché doesn't give any justice to the fact that we all, on a daily basis, are quick to judge. And worse yet, we are all capable of justifying it. Truth be told, however, it's easier to judge than to blindly accept.

So what more could we learn from her if the beauty of her voice hadn't blinded our vision? Jean Vanier, in his book, Becoming Human, offers an answer. He suggests that fear is the basis of our prejudice and exclusion. "When we have constructed our lives around particular values of knowledge, power, and social esteem," he writes, "it is difficult for us to accept those who cannot live by the same set of values. It is as if we are threatened by such people." We are threatened by those who don't live up to our "media-reinforced standards of beauty" because it is easier to look down on them than to relate to them. For in relating to them, we become them. And in becoming them, we recognize that on the most basic level of our lives, we are all human. We are all the same.

That is the deeper lesson that can be learned from Susan Boyle. Yes, the story is a feel-good one. It's a story that leaves us full with some sort of joy and contentment. But I don't think it's because we've all taken a bite of humble pie. For when the next contestant walks on stage who looks like Susan Boyle and sings horribly, we will only validate our initial derision, forgetting that Susan Boyle ever existed.

seeds.

We planted a garden a few weeks ago, Sus and I. It was one of those early spring days with a bit of summer flavour--flip flops and all. Perfect for an afternoon of planting. Neither of us have really tended a garden before, so this garden of ours is really an experiment in many ways. It's an experiment in tending nature. It's an experiment in discovering what can grow in our garden. It's an experiment in quantities, as we have no idea how many plants a bag of seeds will bring us--though it did take a little while before I realized that we had enough seeds for several feet of rows, not inches, as I had misread. And it's an experiment in patience.

Today we've begun to see the veggies of our labour. Little green shoots of carrots, onions and peas have emerged from their darkened slumber, breaking through the soil. Grasping their first breath of sunlight. It's a beautiful thing. I am quite amazed by this whole phenomenon called gardening. Three weeks ago the tiny seeds we delicately dropped into little holes in the soil seemed incapable of anything, let alone anything the size of a carrot. Yet, the beginnings of real vegetables are poking through. That vegetables actually grow from seeds only millimetres in diameter confounds me. I know there's a lesson here.

non-emergent

The one hour time difference has brought some minor changes to my morning commute. Six o'clock is once again shrouded in darkness, though by the time I leave for the bus at seven, a bit of light begins to filter through the black. And on the kind of mornings we've had over the past week (bitterly cold and brilliantly clear), the sunrise is in its full glory by the time I start heading Northeast on the skytrain--the perfect vantage point from which to view the silhouetted frames of Mt. Baker and his mountainous friends in the far East. I've taken to simply enjoying the morning nature show from the skytrain until we start heading West and the sunrise continues out of sight--at which point, I pick up whatever free newspaper I'm handed on my way into the 22nd Street station. Or I continue reading my book of choice for the daily commute.

I just finished the book, Why We're Not Emergent (by two guys who should be) by Kevin DeYoung and Ted Kluck. It was lent to me by a friend in perfect condition though now, with a bit of travel under it's belt, I've managed to dog-ear the corners. We had gotten to talking about the Emerging Church Movement and, after explaining a bit of my experiences and questionings in the past, I soon had this book in my hands. Limitied to one hour a day on the bus and skytrain, it took a while to get through the book, but on finishing it I thought I'd offer my unprofessional critique. I often read books uncritically and never actually process what I'm reading, but I want to change that. I'll start with this book.

Within the first chapter I realized that I may relate more to this book than I anticipated. DeYoung is a Reformed pastor in Michigan--the mecca state of the Christian Reformed Church--so he immediately gained my attention. Kluck, a sportswriter, attends the same church as far as I could tell in their writing, so it is obvious that the criticisms in this book towards the emerging movement would be Reformed in nature. DeYoung does an excellent job of thinking critically through the printed words (ie. books, blogs) of some of the major emergent leaders: Brian McLaren, Rob Bell, Leonard Sweet, Erwin McManus. Though (unfortunately) neither author ever had a conversation with any one of these guys, DeYoung is able to pick apart what he believes to be theological unsound statements and beliefs held by the emerging movement. And he does this well, challenging the movement to stop asking questions in some key issues of Christianity [around the foundational aspect of Scripture (The Bible tells us what is true. Our thinking about God, ourselves, and the Word should start with the Bible and never contradict the Bible. In that sense, what's so wrong with calling the Bible our foundation?), the desire for Christ over doctrine (Once we say something about why Jesus is glorious and what His life was like and what it accomplished, aren't we settling back into dogma and religion again? The Jesus-versus-theology mantra is centuries old, and it makes no more sense and no more converts today than a hundred years ago.), propositions, hell, salvation, and others] and to start providing answers. There is too much confusion in all this questioning, and there are some absolute truths that we must hold on to, he might say.

I had a tough time getting through Kluck's writing. While DeYoung wrote from a more theologically sound view (the advantage of being a Reformed pastor, I'm sure), Kluck attempted to draw his reader into various anti-emergent conversations he's had with others along the way. It was distracting and lacked what one might call a Point. And maybe that was his point--to show that non-emergent folk can have intelligent conversations and learn from them, too, just like their emergent counterparts. From the start though, I was distracted by his writing, I wasn't looking for the [churches] with the biggest projection screens, the coolest "gathering place," or the best film discussions, and then proceeding in the same chapter and the next to explain how movies such as Rebel without a Cause, Jerry Maguire and Thank You for Smoking are relevant to his discussion on being non-emergent. That and his use of Wikipedia as a source for his understanding of what "futurist" means. All that to say, if you want to learn from this book and gain some valuable, theologically sound insight into some concerns about the emergent movement, read the chapters written by DeYoung, who finishes the book (and this short book review post) well:

In the end, it all comes back to God. We become what we worship. If God is relational, inviting, and mysterious overwhelmingly more than He is omnipotent, just , and knowable, then the gospel becomes a message overwhelmingly about community, inclusion, and journey. But if God is overwhelmingly holy, righteous, and graciously sovereign, then the gospel becomes a message about sin, justification, and undeserved mercy. To borrow from Jonathan Edwards, what we need to recover is a vision of God in all His "diverse excellencies."

Brandon.

we watched a documentary last night on the fifth estate. when the story of Brandon Crisp came out late last year, i remember feeling a sense of disbelief that a 15 year old boy would run away from home over having his video game taken away. disbelief and sadness, actually. at the time there was speculation about foul play, but when the story wrapped up in the news three weeks later, Brandon's body had been found at the bottom of the tree he fell from. this story breaks my heart.

perhaps a natural reaction to a story like this one is: who's to blame? the parents? call of duty 4? the video game industry? Brandon? to be honest, i'm not sure anyone is to blame. this story is the tragic result of a perfect storm combining all these fronts. that said, however, i am a little disappointed with the entertainment software association (esa) and major league gaming (mlg). while the documentary intentionally left the viewer with a sense that both organizations are solely to blame, it at least opened my eyes to what goes on behind the scenes in the video game industry--and perhaps some things that need to change.

regardless of how a mature-rated game ended up in the hands of a 15 year old, it is obvious that the rating system does not work and is not at all taken seriously. and i don't think it ever will--it's too late for that. but while the esa and mlg portray their organizations as the providers of entertainment, it is clear that they really don't care and are content with the lack of ratings accountability. and it's not because they just really love providing entertainment for a generation of teens and young adults. it's because that generation are easy targets for marketers which, in turn, makes them a huge profit. why try to fix something that's broken in your favour?

finally, let me say this: i love video games. when my brothers and i were growing up, we would go out and rent the latest console (back in the days when the n64 was the coolest) and spend the entire night playing the latest video games. just a few weeks ago we did the same. i know how addicting video games can be. and i know that if we had an xbox 360 , xbox live and call of duty 4 at home, i would have no reason to leave the house. it is that addicting for me. in that sense, i understand Brandon's obsession with the game. but matthew bromberg (mlg) is right: ultimate responsibility should lie in the hands of parents who should have the most say in how their child spends their time--an increasingly difficult task in a world where teens can find their sense of belonging as much on a soccer field as in an online community.

there are no simple solutions to make sense of Brandon's death.

to view the full robbie cooper video, 'immersion', click here. To hear an interview with him on Q, click here.

snowcouver?

It's raining in Vancouver. Hallelujah.

In years past, perhaps my number one complaint about living in 'Raincouver' is just that--the rain. Not this year. With the rain comes some sort of semblance to life once again. I walked on pavement today, perhaps for the first time in a month. Add to that joy, this: the buses are on time, the skytrain is back on its normal schedule, and I'm not pushing our car out of another snowdrift. [We'll not mention who exactly put the car in the drift in the first place]. But this oft-repeated predicament on the snow-covered side streets of Surrey raises a fundamental question in my Ontarian mind: why am I stuck in a snowdrift on a street...again? Back in Ontario, this was never a problem. It was a cycle as simple as this: 1) Snow 2) Plow 3) Repeat.

Vancouver, however, is not known for this white, fluffy precipitation. In a city not used to massive amounts of snow, little resources exist to deal with it when it piles up on city streets. Here, the cycle looks a little lacking: 1) Snow 2) Repeat.

As the snow continues to pile up on the streets of the city, nothing but the smooth summery tires of civilian transport exists to crush it into oblivion. Plows are few and far between here, something everyone east of Abbotsford must be aware of. Heck, in Ontario, my siblings and I even had pet names for each type of plow we'd watch pass our home. They were the A&W burgers of the street: there was Papa, with it's crew of double-bladed, highway-clearing Papa friends; Momma took to the main city streets, leaving a trail of salt in her wake; Sister took care of the side roads; and best of all, there was Baby. I remember hearing the constant drone of Baby as she tumbled up the sidewalks of Grimsby, leaving nothing but a clean patch of cement for the foot commuter. Alas, this family of snow-crushing machinery only exists in areas where...well...where there's snow. A lot of snow. The highways of the Lower Mainland are lucky to have Sister scrape over them.

It seems the snow was a short-lived (albeit month-long) adventure. It won't take long to get used to the rain. I heard my first complaint about it at work today: 'When's it ever going to stop?'

perspectives

The other night we hung out with a couple friends for a late-night coffee and apple pie. We brought the coffee, ready-made in a carafe, and they supplied the coffee. It was swell. During the course of our conversation, I commented on the fact that I had to get up early in the morning in order to catch my bus to work. [Yeah, that's right, a bus. I have joined the throngs of transit commuters who daily cram themselves, like teenagers playing Sardines in daylight, into the tight quarters of a city bus and even tighter quarters of the Skytrain]. With Swift enjoying a shorter drive to Susan's work in the opposite direction, commuting has become my only option. It's really not so bad, except for the early morning rush to catch a city bus which, incidentally, will not wait for you, even if you're just meters away from catching up to it. It was this early morning start that I made a comment about. "It's even worse now that it's getting darker and darker in the morning," I said. To which came the response, "Actually, I kind of like getting up before the sun. It makes me feel like I'm starting the day right." I had to make it clear to him that, for me, getting up before the sun definitely means that I am starting off the day completely wrong. Perspectives.

Over a year ago, I wrote this article about my time spent in Northern Ontario for the online publication, Wrecked for the Ordinary. There were some initial comments to this article, one of which coming from one of the girls I regularly interacted with on the reserve. But over time, as new articles came in, mine was archived and put away, digitally. About a week ago it was found by another person, a parent, from the reserve who did not take kindly to what I had written about my experiences. They were offended. Very offended.

I received an email from Jeff Goins, the editor of Wrecked, who had made some initial responses to the criticisms offered by the parent, and he wanted to make sure I knew what was going on. I was shocked. My initial reaction was a mixture of fear (that I had written something offensive to which I should recant), anger (that I had been misunderstood) and concern (that this parent might share this article with another on the reserve and offer their interpretation of what was written).

Perspectives are interesting. While I can understand this parent's reaction, as one who's life and home have been written about, I am perplexed by their words. I re-read the article to figure out if I had been offensive, if I had insinuated that the children in Aroland are "pathetic" (perhaps the most distressing statement, to me), but have decided to stand by what I've written. I wrote about my experiences and feelings in Aroland and really, the whole point of the article was to bring awareness to a cultural group that in my opinion has been misunderstood, even by myself. By no means is my understanding of First Nations people a complete understanding but my experiences are valid, as is my perspective from these experiences, from which I wrote. While I still value the parent's perspective, my hope is that they would come to a clearer understanding of my intentions for writing.

all apologies.

Today was a momentous day in the Canadian House of Commons as our Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, stood before a gathering of other politicians and, more importantly, a gathering of First Nations members, and apologized. An excerpt:

Mr. Speaker, I stand before you today to offer an apology to former students of Indian residential schools. The treatment of children in Indian residential schools is a sad chapter in our history.

In the 1870's, the federal government, partly in order to meet its obligation to educate aboriginal children, began to play a role in the development and administration of these schools.

Two primary objectives of the residential schools system were to remove and isolate children from the influence of their homes, families, traditions and cultures, and to assimilate them into the dominant culture.

These objectives were based on the assumption aboriginal cultures and spiritual beliefs were inferior and unequal.

Indeed, some sought, as it was infamously said, "to kill the Indian in the child."

Today, we recognize that this policy of assimilation was wrong, has caused great harm, and has no place in our country.

The aboriginal community in Canada has been seeking an apology for a long time, indicating that it will help to put the pain behind them. My hope and prayer is that this apology will be more than a political posture, but will truly bring closure for both sides so that reconciliation can continue.

pillaged!

I knew something was amiss when I noticed my change-holder, expertly crafted from the finest popsicle sticks by one of the girls in Aroland, resting uneasily upside-down on the corner of a stack of picture frames I had sitting on my passenger seat.

Swift has been through a lot in the three years I've owned her. She's had her extremeties ripped off not once. Or twice. Three times. She was once kneed in the back by a teenager while he struggled to climb over her. She's been bumped and bruised several times in Northern Ontario, including a vicious attack by a six-year-old hockey-stick-wielding maniac. She's made it over the Rockies twice while at the hands of two adventure-seekers who refuse to stop her at the edge of a field, simply for the photographic opportunity.

But now, in her retirement years, I have decided she needs to spend the rest of her days in peace, commuting only minutes to work everyday with her evenings spent at the end of a calm, quiet, cul-de-sac. Or so I thought.

I stared at the overturned change-holder in wonder, thinking to myself in typical Steve Urkel fashion, Did I do that? But upon further reflection I realized that, no, I could not have unwittingly done something so obvious. Besides, if I did dump out the contents of my change-holder, would they not be glittering back at me from all over the seat and floor? One would think so, but they were, in fact, gone.

The next thing I noticed was the radio. Um, let me rephrase that...

The next thing I noticed was the lack of radio. It was gone. My sole reprieve from the insanity of BC driving ... gone -- expertly and unceremoniously removed from it's once permanent home in the console. And with it, my latest relaxant: The Verve: Urban Hymns. Gone.

Swift had been pillaged for all she was worth: six dollars in change and a CD Stereo system. Oh, Swift.

some things are worth committing to...

Spring has sprung in the West. I've counted 4 robins so far, seen daffodils rise from their hibernation, and felt the warmth of the sun on those oh-so-rare sunny days in BC. Change is in the air, I can feel it. This isn't going to be one of those foolish posts where I state I will do better in my blogging and then fail to do so. While I have accomplished most of the things on my to-do list, I've become more and more aware of the effect that routine has on one's time. The weeks pass quickly from one to the next. Here we are, mid-March already. Since writing about being complacent, I've discovered that maybe my complacency is more a result of being in routine of busyness than of being lazy. I always found something else to do instead of the things I had on my to-do list. And, I'll admit, I had a lot on my mind dealing with a topic of great fear and struggle: commitment.

There are some things in life that I have committed to out of obligation or temporary desire or need. I've committed to a job temporarily for the security that money brings. I was committed to a certain gas station for the two Air Miles I collected on each fill-up (until I discovered that they profit over $44 billion annually). I'm committed to Apple computers, despite the fact that my previous laptop died due to a defective part and this laptop is on its way out due to the same issue. Incidentally, I'm committed to making foolish, spur-of-the-moment purchases (ie. defective iBooks and snowboards...James?)

And then there is the commitment to end all commitments: marriage. It took a little while for me to get around to this one and it was, in fact, much harder than I expected. Not because I don't love Susan, not because I wasn't convinced that her and I could be together for the rest of our lives (heck, I tried convincing her of that for three years before she caught on), and not because, deep down I knew that part of my reasoning for returning to BC was for her. These things I know, but there was still that part of me that wrestled with the idea of giving up some of my individual freedoms to be with another for life.

We talked last night, Susan and I, about this whole 'love' thing. We both know that there will be times where our love for eachother will be more out of choice than of desire. We both know that love can be tough, that relationships can be a struggle. But the awesome thing about commitment is that we're sold on eachother. And we're committed to eachother, no matter what. I'd like to believe that I know exactly what I'm getting myself into, but I'm learning that life is about learning, about discovering, and yes, about relationships.

memories...

The last few days have been, in my mind, interspersed with memories of the year gone by. 2007.

Reading my post from just over a year ago, I got to thinking of the year that just was. I remember that day, sitting up in Nakina just after Christmas when Amanda asked me what the year 2006 meant to me. And now, one year later, I'm trying to think of what 2007 was. I don't think that when I was asked that question a year ago, I would have thought that just a few months later I would be back in Nakina, spending my summer in Aroland. Already last summer seems like a distant memory. Looking through the photos of last summer bring back some great memories. Aroland definitely stands out in my mind when I think of 2007. I think of baseball, swimming, kayaking, biking. I think of the kids, of Merl and Cody, Brady, Bethany and Tammy, Niki, Tiffany and so many more...there's at least 30 names and faces in my mind still. And I think of Mary, who, only after a few months, miscarried. From that whole episode, I've learned to trust God to do what's best. John and Janet remain in Aroland, continuing to serve the community in any way they can, .

2007 was, for me, a year of experience and experiencing. From the breaking of a heart to it's mending in unexpected ways. From returning to an old life to beginning a new one in a brand new place. From urban life to the almost extreme of rural. New cultures and a new way of life. And finally, settling and constantly learning to be content, whatever the circumstances. There's something to be said about contentment.

what do you want for christmas?

Santa rides the escalator. It's unbelievable, I know. You'd think with his ability to travel the globe in a singular night, he'd at least be able to call in a reindeer when he wants to get to the second floor of a mall. But, no. He rides the escalator. This is what Santa does when he's bored. He wanders. Not that he's been too bored lately. There has been a lot of kids who'd like a word with the man in red. Ah, Christmas. What would it be without Mr. Claus and us elves?

My life as an elf began with a simple, innocent reply to an employment ad on Craig's List: "Wanted: Photographer. Email resume and availability to address below..." Perfect, I thought. Dreams of driving around Vancouver, camera in hand and freedom to snap whatever and wherever filled my mind. Though, in hindsight, I should have been tipped off about the reality of the position by the email address to which I sent off my resume. It consisted of two words: "hyper" and "busy". Dense, Matt. Dense. One week later I found myself behind a camera in a North Vancouver mall, ringing bells in order to attract the wandering eyes of children before snapping their photo on Santa's knee. One by one, the families line up like dairy cows queuing for their daily milking. Then in ones and twos and threes and fours, the kids crowd around Santa, or simply sit on his knee. And await the question.

I'm not sure I ever grew up believing in Santa Claus. Either my parents never properly introduced us, or my older siblings ruined the falsity of it all at too early of an age for me to remember leaving milk and cookies out the night before Christmas. Come to think of it, we never really had a night before Christmas full of expectation. Our night before Christmas was our Christmas, and was always the same: church and then presents. So, unless I was told that Santa came while we were in church, I guess I never believed in the guy. And here I was, day in and day out, reinforcing the lie that the man in the centre of my viewing lens was the Santa Claus. "Say cheese!" Click.

While the image transfers from lens to computer to paper, Santa Claus has a one-on-one discussion of all matters important. He asks them their name and how old they are. He sits them on his knee and whispers gently in their ear stories of life in the North Pole. Watching him at work, watching the look in the eyes of a child as they are told the story of a magic apple almost makes me want to believe in him as surely as the children do. But when all of the formalities are finished, he comes to the moment every child who believes in him waits for. He asks the question.

"And what do you want for Christmas?"

I see this happen over and over again. The question is asked, and the list that has sat so patiently inside the mind spews out of innocent mouths. One child, as Santa tells me later, wants a Robot for Christmas. But not just any robot: "By the way, Santa," he says a few minutes later, "I want the robot to clean my room." I watch this scene play out, child after child, list after list. A young child jumps on Santa's lap and waits to be asked the question.

Enter a young girl, about 12 years old. She is dressed all in pink, and stands beside her father, waiting for a chance to sit on Santa's knee. But she must be patient, as there are many more children with a wish list on their minds.

"I want an iPod," says one child.
"Transformers!" yells another.

You almost wouldn't be able to tell there is something wrong with her, this twelve year old girl, if she only stood still. But then you see her walk. She limps a bit, evidently by her right leg, which seems to be unable to bend as well as the left. And then there's her arm. It doesn't move so well, either. In fact, it seems permanently stuck in an upright position, bent at the arm, holding her slightly contorted hand ever so close to her face. And still, she waits.

"I want a Barbie," a young girl announces.
"I want a Motorola Razr flip phone with a 3 year talk-and-text plan from Rogers." Teenagers.

The girl still waits. Perhaps it is autism that has stolen some of her ability. But she smiles. And when it is her turn, and Santa beckons her to come and sit on her knee, her smile grows ever wider. She will soon be asked the question. And so the young girl sits on Santa's knee. "Say Cheese!" Click. She continues to smile through the small talk, and patiently listens to Santa's reassuring words. Finally, the question. The question.

"And what do you want for Christmas?" he whispers.

"I want ... a new brain ..."


...so, what do you want for Christmas?

100k. settling. & leprechauns.

Apparently, I'm Irish. While staying with a family in Idaho a couple weeks ago, I was questioned by one of their son's girlfriends:

Her: Are you Irish?
Me: I sure am! Blah blah blah. Why do you ask?
Her: Because your ears are pointed. You look like a leprechaun!

It's been a good month.

Almost two months after leaving Nakina, I once again find myself and Swift in British Columbia. And I wonder if it is sad that Swift holds such a high pedestal in my life as to necessitate her mention here. But 100,000km after buying her two and a half years ago and a full 278,000km into her 10 year life, I almost think she deserves some kind of longevity medal. Seriously. Swift rocks. And this was her latest adventure as Jimmy and I once again made the cross-country trek, in reverse. And through the States this time, hence my recent discovery that I can easily pass off as a Leprechaun. ...though I'm still searching for that pot 'o gold.

At any rate, my pot 'o gold must exist in British Columbia, as that is where we traveled, following the rainbow in my mind. And while I have yet to even begin a trickle of financial windfall (a.k.a. a job), I have determined one thing: it's time for me to settle. This is it for me. A couple of days ago I was driving around Abbotsford, and without even thinking the words before they spewed out of my mouth, I said to myself: 'It's good to be back.' The jigsaw puzzle is coming together, piece by piece. And for anyone who knows me well, it may only be a matter of time before I begin the removal of pieces again, but hey. That could just be the Irish in me.

well, it's something.

sometimes, you don't quite know what to do with information. with facts. with statistics.

I just finished reading the book, Race Against Time by Stephen Lewis, the former UN special envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa. It was lying around the house I'm staying at in Waterloo and, what with having little to do, I picked it up and began reading. The reading of this particular book follows closely behind the reading of another fantastic book; one that I must read again: 28 Stories [of AIDS in Africa]. Okay, so it's not a fantastic book. Well, it is. But it's a book that brings the statistical fact that 28,000,000 (that's million) people in Africa live with HIV/AIDS down to an individual level. This woman has HIV, this husband does. This child.

And yet, in this world so far removed from the one in which the epidemic exists, they remain just as they are written: stories. Stories of survival, despair, and hope. Stories of another time, another place, another life. If we choose it to be so. For these stories are of today, and are of our world, and are taking place in our lifetime.

Still, it seems we do nothing. And by 'we', I do not necessarily mean you. Or I. As individuals it is difficult to put a dent into an issue as complex as AIDS in Africa. The issue itself, at the core is not the problem. There are 28 million humans living with HIV/AIDS in Africa. That part is simple to understand. What is difficult for the individual to understand and change is Western government policy, apathy, budgetary commitments, and backsliding. Granted, governments have a responsibility to its own people that it must commit to. And even there, it fails. What government does not have a single complaint against it from one of the thousands of sectors of it's society? But perhaps, what we fail to realize, what I have come to understand further through reading this book, and perhaps what the point of this post is this: our governments have made commitments to the developing world. Commitments that it continually neglects, postpones, and vacillates endlessly on.

There are a few links that I have put up on the side of my blog. They have been there for some time, with the expectation that one might stumble upon it, scroll the cursor over and click. I will now emphasize a few of them. 1) The UN Millenium Goals. Read them to understand what our governments have jointly committed to doing to improve millions of lives in the developing world. 2) Human Rights Watch. Understand a little about what's happening to human lives here and around the world. 3) Micah Challenge. Sign the Micah Challenge to hold the UN and it's member states to it's commitments with the Millenium Goals. If you're not a fan of the Micah Challenge, go to Make Poverty History. 4) Free the Drugs. I was told about this one recently, and am not positive about it's validity so it's not on the sidebar yet. Read it to understand what it's about, and sign it if you understand and agree.

I don't attest to know all the ins and outs of the UN, it's policy-makers or it's member states. Nor do I know a lot about the epidemic of HIV/AIDS in Africa and other developing nations. What does seem to be consistent, however, in the small amount of books I have read that mention these things, is that not enough is being done. And that profits take precedence over humanity. With that in mind, I end with the final paragraph of Lewis' book. I was recently asked if I am a pacifist. Perhaps, for this reason alone, I will become one:

In 2005, the world will pass the trillion-dollar mark in the expenditure, annually, on arms. We're fighting for $50 billion annually for foreign aid for Africa: the military total outstrips human need by 20 to 1. Can someone please explain to me our contemporary balance of values?

kayaking [pt. 2]

Read Part One

We decided to wait until a break in the storm, as the idea of packing up soaking wet gear in the pouring rain didn't appeal to any one of us. Everything seemed secure, and we figured we would be fine until the rains stopped again. Not long after, the sun made it's first appearance of the day. It broke through a small hole in the clouds, and we made our move. The rock became a bustle of activity as tents came down, tarps were folded, kitchen supplies were gathered and kayaks were filled. We each grabbed our wet wetsuits, slid them uncomfortably over our skin, donned our spray skirts and lifejackets, and were ready to go. One by one, a kayak was placed in the water, someone jumped in while two others held it in place, and he was pushed out into the roller-coaster of waves.

Kurt and I were the second last to go in our kayak fit for two. He jumped in the front while John and I held it steady. As Kurt slid his spray skirt around his cockpit, protecting him from any water that would try to infiltrate it, I jumped in the back and attempted my spray skirt. The waves bashed our kayak from both sides, and I was forced to give up as we banged into the rocks. We were pushed off, just as a wave crashed into the side of our kayak, filling my cockpit with water. Paddling as hard as we could, we managed to get away from the rocks before any further damage was done. As soon as we were safe enough in the open water, we swung our boat around and I grabbed my camera. After snapping a few shots of John preparing his escape, I packed up the camera and we, too, headed for safer waters. It was the most adrenaline-pumping fun I have had in a long time. We paddled our way a few hundred feet to the backside of an island. There, protected from the wind and waves, we eventually found a new campsite. The storm seemed to have subsided as the rains stopped and we were able to set up camp and hang some of our clothes on a clothesline. The Coast Guard reported that the storm was only going to get worse as the day progressed, but our area seemed further unphased by the weather.

We ended up on a campsite that had been frequently used over the years. It boasted such amenities as clotheslines, a picnic table, some counter space next to our a well-planned fire pit and a plaque naming our new location. A paddle had been nailed to one of the trees long ago, and either through abuse by human hands or by Lake Superior weather, it had broken in two. The plaque appropriatetly called this place 'Broken Paddle Campsite. It was a little disappointing to be on such a civilized campsite in the middle of Lake Superior, but it was a much-needed reprieve from the worry of the potential disaster we had just averted. We slept in the rain that night.

Sun. The morning met us with the warmth of the sun, and we capitalized on it in order to dry the rest of our damp clothes and equipment. We took our time getting ready that morning for two reasons: we needed to soak up as much sun as we could before jumping into our kayaks, and we had our best breakfast yet. Time has no relevance when pancake batter is mixed and heated over a morning fire. Satisfied with our sweet escape from bland oatmeal, we gathered our gear and prepared for another day of paddling. We left with the sun ahead of us, but were well aware of the clouds that loomed all around, their bottoms darkened by the shadows of their towering peaks. It rained off and on as we kayaked, and the waves once again began to grow. The winds pushed us along, however, and the kayaking was easy. We pulled up to shore for our lunch, where we huddled together in the cove of a cliff while we ate our regular lunch of soup and noodles. The winds persisted.

As the clouds continued to block and reveal the distant sun, we repacked our lunch gear and hit the water. We paddled East with the wind and the ever-growing swells, eager to arrive at the final campsite of our trip. Soon, the land that bordered our route to the North came to an end and we struck for open water, Battle Island in the distance. We had no intention of approaching our lunch site of 3 days before, as it would take us off course, so we continued with the island to our East. As the swells grew, we would at times disappear from each other's view as we became separated by the peak of a wave. We estimated the height of the waves at 2 metres. The further we got from shore and the closer we got to our destination, the larger the swells grew. As the peak of a wave passed beneath the centre of our kayak, it would throw us slightly off course as our rudder would leave the water, hovering above it until our back end was gently lowered back in as we entered the waves' trough.

Soon we could see the opening between two islands that we were aiming for. The waves continued to grow, and soon were at an estimated 3 metres. We would lose each other for several seconds as our kayaks entered separate troughs simultaneously, a mountain of water between us. Apprehension was in the air as our paddles continued their monotonous strokes through the waters. Waves broke ahead of us, and we knew it would be difficult to steer our kayaks through the narrow passageway that lead to the relative safety of a bay. As we approached the opening, it became clear why the waves were breaking so far out in the lake. Rocks. We had to pass between a set of rocks straight ahead and a set of rocks to our right in order to get to the passageway. As we altered our course, the waves broadsided us and water would spill into our kayak. I was with Cody that afternoon, and we knew that all we could do was paddle. And paddle we did. As we passed between the rocks, the set of rocks to our right broke the waves up so that they became much more small and manageable. We were the first ones through, and had not looked back as we steered through the obstacles. Finally, we swung our boat around and I again grabbed my camera to capture the efforts of our fellow paddlers as they navigated the rocks. We all cleared the obstacle safely, though we each had a story to tell of nearly capsizing. Another adventurous day was behind us, and we paddled the calm waters of the bay where we set up our final campsite.

Our final camp was set up in the rain, which came as no surprise. We had taken down camp in the rain, kayaked in the rain, breakfasted, lunched and suppered in the rain, and so it was only fair that we now had to set up camp in the rain. We had our final supper under a tarp, and stood around the fire to warm us in the cool evening. Not long after, each of our three tents were occupied by a leader while the kids stayed with the fire singing Johnny Cash, and a host of other songs we requested. The night was cool as we slept, the sound of a light rain pattering against our tent flies. The final morning of our trip began with Cream of Wheat, and the excitement of knowing we would soon be back in the Suburban on our way to Transformers in Thunder Bay. We had a couple of hours of paddling ahead of us, and we were eager to begin the day on the water. Our site was packed up, our water bottles filled and our breakfast was eaten. We were soon on our way.

Coming out of the straight, we were immediately hit by wind and waves, while rain gently fell on our kayaks. We paddled. The waves battered us broadside as the crosswind had built them up from the open lake to the West. We paddled. We passed by the points of several islands, knowing that each was another island closer to our destination. Rounding the final island, we could see the buildings of Rossport in the distance. We paddled. Each stroke brought us closer to the sandy beach where our trip would end. As our kayak scratched the soft sand of the beach, we jumped out as the excitement of using a real toilet became a reality. Soon we had all of our kayaks emptied, and all our gear lying in wait to be loaded into the truck. I stood staring down the road when an amazing thing happened. A blanket of rain made its way up the street towards us, soaking everything along its path. It poured. The final rainfall soaked everything we had left in wait, leaving not one item dry in its wake. It was the final kick in the pants on this trip, and it came as no surprise. Our week had been plagued by wind, rain and waves, it was only fitting to finish with a good drenching. We threw all our wet gear into the truck and jumped in, leaving the weather, the waves and the excitement of Lake Superior behind us.

More Photos (lots more)

kayaking [pt. 1]

Last week was spent on the waters of Lake Superior. It was a week of rain, hot sun, cold water, and windy days. It was a trip of almosts. We almost lost our kayaks, almost lost a tent, were forced out of a campsite by mother nature, and almost capsized in 3 meter waves. And it was the most fun I have had in a long time.

Our trip began two Saturdays ago, kind of unexpectedly as Jordan and I were not planning on going until the number of kids increased, necessitating our help. So seven of us, John, Jordan, Dillen, Cody, Keith, Kurt and I jumped into the Suburban in the early afternoon and made our way to our launching spot at Rossport, on the shores of Lake Superior. We were met by rain right away. It would become a constant for us, as 5 of the 6 days we were on the water left us wet either in our kayaks or at the campsites. We took it easy our first day, making our way to a sandy bay where we set up camp. It was a relaxing night for those of us who did not have to train in a wet exit (how to get back in your kayak when you capsize). And the sand made for a comfortable night's sleep. The rains poured on us that night, but we awoke late in the morning to a bright sun and wispy clouds overhead. Our morning was spent puttering around the campsite, eating our oatmeal while we walked along the rocks that extended along the sides of the bay to the open water of Lake Superior. At the edge of the bay, we built a monument of rock called an Inukshuk (though the terms Shuknook, Shukshoonk, Nookshuk and Shusk-a-shook-shuk were all used to describe our creation, as none of us were really sure how to pronounce it). We departed our campsite a couple hours after noon and began our days travel.

We lunched on Battle Island. Situated on the opposite end of the island is a large lighthouse, manned over the summer by two senior volunteers. We went for a hike to see it, and spent a few hours on its surrounding large rocks, watching the kids play football and eventually watching the football float away into the vastness of the lake. Continuing on our way, we picked up the football as it floated along our path, something we would grow accustomed to doing during the week. A few hours later, we arrived at our next campsite, a rocky outcropping on the edge of a bay. It was a beautiful afternoon, and not a drop fell from the sky. We got there early enough to give us time for a swim across the bay. Though we camped close to the water, we weren't too concerned about rogue waves sweeping us off our rock. The water was calm and the sunset left us feeling as though we were in a bit of a paradise. We all went to bed early after a long day of paddling.

The next day was the most beautiful day of our trip. The sun shone over us as we cruised the cold waters of the lake. Unfortunately, our attire was meant to suit the water, not the air, and so our wetsuits kept us sweating as we paddled. It was a long day of paddling as we planned on camping on one island, only to find it inhabitable. We continued on our way, hoping to find a site that allowed the evening sun to keep us warm as we set up our camp for the night. An hour later, we found our perfect camping spot -- another rocky outcropping that looked out on the seemingly endless waters of Lake Superior. It was about the most exposed campsite we could have found, but on such a beautiful day and after a great sleep the night before on a similar outcropping, the thought of what could happen never crossed our mind. We spent the afternoon relaxing on the rock, leaving our mark with sidewalk chalk and building a bonfire on the edge of a perfect cliff diving spot. We enjoyed a round of soup, topped off with cherry-covered bannock. It had been a perfect day. We left the flies off our tent as it was turning out to be a perfectly clear night as well. And we slept soundly under the stars on our perfect little campsite.

The next morning, I woke up around 9:30 and looked up. Clouds. They weren't the kind of clouds that cause one to sit and stare at, trying to imagine what shapes they create. They were the kind of clouds that cause one to get out of the tent as soon as possible in order to put the fly on, in expectation of the raindrops that were sure to fall from them. John had been up for a while already, securing our tents and stowing all of the equipment we had left scattered around the night before. Soon we were all up, working frantically to prepare our campsite for the weather. We set up a tarp over our fire, gathered large rocks to tie our tents down to, and attached our flies. We planned on waiting the storm out. The storm, however, had other plans.

Soon enough, the rains came. Our regular morning meal of oatmeal was had under the tarp with much difficulty. While some of us ate, others would stand on opposite sides of the tarp to hold it steady as the winds picked up and threatened to rip it apart. We ate quickly, made a pot of coffee quickly, and then lowered the tarp to the ground, covering our kitchen supplies. While some of the group returned to a tent to stay warm and dry, John, Keith and I remained out to finish off our securing. As Keith and I stood beside our tent, a gust of wind grabbed it and started pushing it towards the water. We chased it down and secured it with even more rocks. The kayaks were covered with a tarp and tied together with the reasoning that if the waves came too high, they would have more difficulty carrying away all five kayaks at the same time. We found as many rocks and ropes as we could to secure our tents and, satisfied, we all retired to our tents to wait out the storm.

The thing about constant wind over a large body of water is that it tends to cause waves to increase in size. We hunkered down in our tents, listening to the sound of the waves breaking all around us, and even coming close enough to touch the corner of one of the tents. During a break in the storm, Cody ran out to go to the bathroom, and on his return he came by our tent, telling us he was going to grab a deck of cards and come back so we could play a game. We never had the chance. A few minutes later, we heard Cody yell, "Our kayaks!" Under normal circumstances, one could assume that Cody was just joking around, as he often does. But these were not normal circumstances. And his scream coincided with the sound of what could only be our kayaks banging into each other as they were being swept into the lake. Sure enough, as I jumped out of our tent, I looked over to where we had docked our kayaks. The spot was empty, except for the waves that had commandeered the kayaks position. Cody had managed to grab onto the end of one of our kayaks and was holding on for dear life, effectively saving them all as they were tied together. Jumping into action, I ran out and grabbed the other side just as Jordan arrived in his polka-dot boxers. Then, joined by John, and with the rain beating down on us, driven into our skin by the forceful winds, we managed to pull the kayaks ashore and onto higher ground. A quick decision was made, and we all agreed to it. We had to get off this rock. Fast. ... read Part Two

pow wow.

A couple weekends ago was another cultural experience for me, as I attended a First Nations Pow Wow on Mount McKay in Thunder Bay. I was spending the weekend with Josh, a friend and young adult from Aroland. He had previously educated me on First Nations culture and traditions, and I was eager to spend a weekend with him in the midst of hundreds of other First Nations people from the greater Thunder Bay area (by that I mean within 10 hours of driving or flying).

We drove into the city in the late afternoon on Friday, and began our weekend with some Chinese Food. It's a real treat to be back in civilization, and I never realized how much I really do miss suburbia. Though Thunder Bay is an old relic town, far removed from the more modern cities such as Toronto or Vancouver, it boasts a population that is 200 times the size of Nakina, where I live. Thunder Bay has the basic necessities of life: a mall, a Future Shop, Starbucks, Tim Horton's, four-lane highways, and stop lights. I've noticed that my driving has digressed as I have become accustomed to small town driving: yield signs, potholes, and no need for signalling turns. With the Chinese sitting weightily on our stomachs, we made our way through the First Nations Reserve at the base of Mount McKay, and winded our way up the road to its plateau.

The Pow Wow didn't officially begin until Saturday afternoon, but already there were people pitching their tents and setting up their snack and souvenir shops around the pow wow grounds. I imagined that, traditionally, there were no vendors selling hot dogs and bannock burgers around the site where the drumming and dancing was to occur. But today's pow wows aren't just for the native culture. They also are a display of how life was before the White People came, and are open to those same people who like to eat hot dogs and bannock burgers. We stayed on the pow wow grounds for a few hours while Josh caught up with some friends from other reserves, and I hung out with some of the kids from Aroland who had arrived on a bus that night. My experience of the pow wow was slightly diminished due to the fact that Josh and I had chosen to not join the tent-dwellers for the evening. We left to find a place to stay.

We arrived late at Keith's place. Keith is a cousin of Josh's, and a former resident of Aroland. He is also an amazing artist. We spent the first half hour in his room, flipping through his drawing book, mesmerized by the life-like characters he created on its pages. Our tiredness quickly overtook our interest, and we were soon sleeping uncomfortably on the two couches in Keith's living room.

The pow wow began in the early afternoon on Saturday with a Grand Entry of all those who had come, dressed in their native regalia. Pow wow's are a step back in time. Each participant made their way around the centre gazebo, where a handful of drummers beat a single drum simultaneously and monotonously. While they drummed, they sang. There never seemed to be any words, only vocal peaks and lows in a well-rehearsed pattern. Meanwhile, the dancers walked, skipped and glided to their beat in a one-two step pattern. This went on for hours. Only once during the day did the drumming and dancing stop.

I had noticed that everything had stopped, and that a few of the older men were all standing in a small circle to one side. Asking the man beside me what was happening, he explained that they were having a ceremony. A feather had fallen. A few of the regalia worn by the men had wreaths of feathers on the back, and one had fallen from its place. A fallen feather represents a fallen relative, and the men were standing over the feather, saying a prayer for the relative. It was a five-minute long ceremony, after which they picked the feather up and gave it to someone else in the group, as it could not be returned to its original owner. Soon the drumming began, and the dancers slowly made their way back out onto the pow wow grounds. The Pow Wow was back into full swing, and it continued that way until late in the evening, as different drumming groups had an opportunity to showcase their talent. The next day was no different. The Pow Wow began with a Grand Entry and ended late in the evening on Canada Day.

While the festivities came to a close, I returned to my car to wait for Josh as he said farewell to his friends and family. As I passed the ridge of Mount McKay, it became clear to me that there was more to see. This night was not yet over, for in the city below, the population was celebrating the birth of a country. I joined and was joined by a number of others who were eager to see the constant display of light and sound from Thunder Bay. We stood there for another half hour, watching as hundreds of fireworks were set off in backyards, followed several seconds later by the sound of each explosion. Canada Day was spent between two worlds. One celebrating a history not-yet forgotten, and another celebrating the beginnings of a country that was then determined to see the end of a beautiful culture.

the coptics. [pt. 1]

They came. And they went. This past week has been busier than any week so far in Aroland. A group of 28 young adults from Mississauga spent an entire week serving the community of Aroland. They are the Coptics. Twenty-eight people from an Egyptian Coptic Church, wanting to serve closer to home than their previous experiences in Africa and Mexico (though perhaps a flight to either country would take less time than a drive from Southern to Northern Ontario. Who doesn't love a road trip though?). It has been an interesting experience in two ways: 1) being on the flip-side of a mission trip and 2) a new understanding of a faith group I had never heard of before.

I have been on a number of mission trips before. Though I have only ever played the role of a leader on these trips (Mexico, Michigan, Ontario, California), there has always been a responsibility on my shoulders for the group I am serving with, as well as those we are serving. Never have I been the 'co-served', so-to-speak. Though the Coptics were directly serving the kids and the community of Aroland, they co-served those of us who have a longer-term, direct vested interest in the community. I have gotten to know quite a number of the youth in Aroland and, in a way, felt responsible for how they were treated and served by these young adults from Southern Ontario. At times, it has felt like I have been running a babysitting service in Aroland, and am simply maintaining control. This past week has shown me that I have been doing more than that...without even really realizing it. I wanted to protect them, and in recognizing that, I learned that I deeply care for the youth in Aroland.

Not that I had anything to worry about. The group worked amazingly with the kids. I observed many handshakes, many high-fives, and many high-energy games. I heard many positive and encouraging words spoken to the kids, and I read them on the backs of their signed t-shirts. And I listened to their questions about the validity of short-term mission trips. That question has been around for a long time. It is a question I have never fully had an answer to, mainly because I have only ever been the short-term missionary -- the one who sweeps in for a week, does some work, and leaves everything behind. The question is a valid one. How can short-term missionaries possibly be effective? Why is it so important to befriend a kid in Aroland, if I only plan on leaving that kid behind?

Yesterday, one of the teenagers told me of an encouraging word he received from one of the Coptics. In a way, it serves as an answer to the question of the effectiveness of short-term mission trips.

"Tamar told me I have potential," he said. "What's potential?"

This ninth grade young man learned something invaluable: That he has potential, something he had never heard of before. To have a group of 28 young adults pouring out their words of advice, wisdom and hope, has accomplished more in one week than one or two of us could have in a month. These kids need to be hearing what the Coptics had to offer -- even if it is just one word that sticks in their minds for years to come, providing constant encouragement and hope. From what I observed in this past week, there are at least 28 youth in Aroland with a word like that. Thanks, guys. ...read Part Two

the driving range.

Today we went to the driving range. The nearest golf course is an hour away from Aroland, which really isn't that bad. The kids are often wandering Aroland with their golf clubs, whacking their balls into the forests.. They are actually really good golf players, but their knowledge of how a driving range work is limited, as I was soon to discover. We got to the range around 6pm, and retrieved our buckets from the pro shop. Now, i have been to a number of driving ranges in the past, and usually one of two things happen: either we are given a bucket full of balls, or there is a ball dispenser that fills our buckets for us. Neither option was available to us at the pro shop. We were simply given our buckets and told that the driving range was across the street. So, the six of us walked over to the driving range, empty buckets in hand. I kind of assumed we would find a dispenser at the range itself, but that wasn't the case either. All we saw was a giant open field with distance markers, golf balls and broken tees scattered about. Odd, I thought. And then I watched. Even odder, thought I. For, as I stood there, I watched three of the boys, buckets in hand, walk out into the open field and proceed to pick up golf ball after golf ball. it was like an easter egg hunt set to the easiest level.

"This is how it's done," said one of the boys. "We have to collect our own balls."

It simply didn't seem right.

And so, while they continued on their golf ball hunt, I trekked back to the pro shop, hoping to get some answers for this peculiarity. Maybe things were really done different up north. Still, come on. There was something fishy going on. The minute I walked into the pro shop, the girl behind the counter smiled and looked at me. She said one word that confirmed my suspicions: "Balls?"

"Yup," I replied. She pointed, and, lo-and-behold, over in the corner was a large tub of balls, ready to be shoveled into the buckets for the driving range. A couple of minutes later, I left the pro shop with 6 pre-filled buckets, a golf cart to deliver them with, and a great story...

dogs.

Dogs abound in Aroland. Many of them are ragged, rough and large. Often you will come across a few of them hanging out together, waiting for a lone dog to come across their path. I have seen several dog fights in Aroland, and have rescued one or two along the way. One dog, Trigger, seems to remember the day I kicked his attackers off of him and brought him in the Shack to lick his wounds while I dripped some hand sanitizer in an open wound on his neck. Now when he sees me driving towards the Shack, he will often sprint along my car and meet me as I get out. It probably helps that I feed him some dog food. He was one that got away.

I attended a dog funeral yesterday. Cody and Brady, two brothers in Aroland, had a little dog called Sebastian. Cody found his body on the side of a back road the other day and threw some logs on it. Apparently Sebastian was a little promiscuous, and the other dogs got jealous. Promiscuity kills in the dog world. As he finished telling us about it yesterday, he asked if we wanted to go see. "Sure," we said. I really don't know why we decided to go check out a dog's carcass, but that's what we did. We brought a shovel along, too. Sebastian needed a proper funeral. There were a couple of interesting elements to this impromptu funeral. Brady, the younger brother, didn't want to see his dog in it's expired state. Cody explained that he might get angry at the dogs who killed him. Brady said he was afraid to look. It took a little coaxing to get him out of the car and, in his own way, say good-bye to his dog. "I'm gonna hit this golf ball," he said. He set down the golf ball that he had hit and retrieved several times over during the day, grabbed his driver and took a swing. The ball was gone. And so was his fear and anger, it seemed. His way worked.

Sebastian was kind of gently lowered into a fresh hole, dug by Cody. Somebody mentioned something about saying a prayer. It was a half-joking, half-serious comment, but nobody wanted to say it. So I simply prayed that God would take good care of Sebastian and that Brady and Cody could get another dog. "Yeah, a better dog," said Cody. And with that, we hopped in our car, and drove away.