EMT

Here's for the "Otherwise"...

I am unofficially an EMT. I've passed all my examinations and only wait for my card in the mail. It's a load off my chest and a huge block of time that is now free. Free to write and pursue more artistic things.

The Boys Next Door

My cold has hung on in my throat more tenaciously than our baby schnauzer does to her bone. It may have something to do with the fact that I've been working every day re-shingling a roof in the cold. So today, I'm not working. At least I'm not working outside. I still have lots to do that has been neglected because of the roof. My National Registry exam for EMT is next week; I am behind on my articles for Christian Press; and I have to arrange to go to Texas next month to attend a film festival.

Meanwhile, my cold defies all reason and cough drops.

Looking to the future, I just got cast in a role that shocked even me. We're putting on The Boys Next Door. It's a two act play about four men with mental disabilities living together, and the man who looks after them. I thought I might play the care giver Jack or the schizophrenic Barry but I got neither. Instead, I play what the script describes as a "large black man." I am a man, but I am neither large nor black in any sense of the words.

Nevertheless, the character is incredibly likable and profound. I've never played a man who has the mental capacity "somewhere between that of a five year old, and an oyster." It's going to be demanding and extremely difficult. I will have to visit and spend time with some people who are like the character in order to be as real as possible.

This show isn't just about the mentally handicapped or even people with any kind of handicaps. It's about them and all who are misunderstood and ignored. I see it as a defense of the widows and orphans of the Bible, the unborn babies and the Terri Schiavos of the world.

Aaron Lee Martin

Aaron Lee Martin plays his instruments as if his life depended on it--as if they were about to kill him and he had to subdue them with his voice. Although he is a very skilled musician, his performances have a true folk quality like he just learned how to play and wants to show his mother what he's learned. He plays to play and not to perform. Even the slow ones feel urgent.

When I saw him last, he succeeded in beating his tambourine into submission. He stuffs his foot into it and raps it violently on the ground. After so much abuse, the thing broke in half during one song so he tossed it away and kicked the rhythm with his moccasinned foot. From a distance, the tambourine rattled back to life through the vibrations of the spongy stage.

Listen to Aaron Lee Martin:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=53463262

http://www.virb.com/aaronleemartin

America

For Thanksgiving I had a Japanese friend over to eat with my family. I explained to him the origin of the holiday, of the pilgrims fleeing religious control and thanking God for help in a new land. He thought it was funny how our history only goes back a few hundred years. His extends back thousands--not only 43 presidents, but multiple dynasties of rulers.

In light of the relative youth of our nation, I can't help but feel optimistic in spite of current political circumstances (I'm a proudly staunch conservative). With socialism growling at our doorstep and the people poised to sell out to a hope-monger who votes in favor of infanticide, I see the future like a broad Kansas plain. Like any great empire before, the United States will change for good or for ill.

"The times they are a changin' " writes Bob Dylan.

Now, irony makes the conservative voice the radical in the media. Irony abounds when activists proclaim the cause of diversity then condemn a peaceful union of European pilgrims and Native Americans that has long been a foundation of our country. When the force of "hope and change" chants class envy and murder of innocents, irony spits in the face of tradition. When the people of California speak in peaceful democracy and the minor opposition violently and hatefully spray-paints their churches and threatens their safety, humanism reveals itself for the ugly monster it is.

Yet, America remains young. America, the land I love, my homeland is still the greatest nation on earth. I will fight for her, live for her, die for her. I do not seek to better my own circumstances, but secure America for our posterity.

Spaces

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation (rather heated but still not an argument) with some friends. We were having trouble talking about more than minor chit-chatty things and someone asked if Adam and Eve had belly buttons. Somehow or other, by pathways del oscuro, we came to the question of the origin of darkness.

Does God make darkness, or dwell within it?

Darkness isn't a thing, but an absence. An absence of light. So our conversation swerved to and fro between issues of matter and time, presence and absence, and parallels to darkness, like coldness, space, and evil.

Evil is the absence of God, right? That's what I have assumed, but how can there be anything outside of God? If God is light, what exactly IS the darkness? From where does it come? At the first creation, before the creation of the earth and mankind, when God first made something, be it angels or the heavenly temple, what was there?

Was it just God? Assuming Light and Dark are parallels to God and the absence of God, was there just light, or was there darkness too? I know that Evil is no match for Good, wherever there is light, darkness always loses.

Always.

So if there was only Light, where did the Darkness come from? On this earth, Light can never create darkness. In fact, Darkness can never be made. It is there when Light dies, or goes away. But the fact remains that if Light fails, Darkness always happens. It is absence.

One idea is that when God first created, He merely opened up voids in Himself. When He created the world, He made spaces between the matter. This theory has problems because it doesn't explain the origin of darkness and space, which is the true question.

In effect, we can never think in terms of Darkness. We only see the presence--the people, not the spaces between them.

Save your breath to cool your porridge.

Burning the roof of the mouth while eating a pastry or drinking coffee is one of the injustices of the world. The bitter irony is that this injustice is self-inflicted. I myself burn my mouth and effectively ruin the rest of my gastric delight. Thereafter, I speak funny, drink cold water, and curse the pocket of boiling jelly that caused this pain.

Perhaps the answer lies in eating only cold foods. I'm told the Italians boil their vegetables but serve them cold. Odd. I am not convinced that this is a good plan. Somewhere, Newton must have discovered the law that states, "For every degree lost while drinking coffee, the flavor declines exponentially." But this law only applies to coffee that began hot. Iced coffee is a different matter.

The worst food to eat cold is potato soup. Nasty.

Time. Time is the key to the perfect temperature. So, I'll blow on my soup and quickly eat my eggs. I'll eat my salad before my baked potato. But I won't wait too long. Look what happened to the three bears when they left their porridge unattended too long.

There's something romantic about the word "freelance".

I've started writing articles for a small monthly press, covering simple topics of interest to the local Christian community. Although journalism has never really piqued my imagination, how can I complain about writing for money? It's like I'm back in school turning in papers to the teacher; only now the teacher is an editor and I don't pay him, he pays me.

Some of the greatest novelists were also journalists--Mark Twain, Jack London, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, to name a few of my favorites.

An old friend of mine just came out and said that he had decided he is an agnostic.

Agnostic is an ugly word to a Christ follower. It doesn't mean, "I don't believe in God." That statement I can face, argue, or fight against. But the word agnostic means, "I believe you can't make me believe." I don't know how to even address that. Only God can do anything about such an idea and even He has limits. The person has to choose, God won't force.

So I'm stuck wading in a tide of sadness and even anger. Sadness because my friend has rejected what I feel is the key to life. He grew up with faith all around him, tried to grasp it, but ultimately threw it away for what he thought were intellectual reasons.

Donald Miller says that "there are some guys who don't believe in God and they can prove He doesn't exist, and some other guys who do believe in God and they can prove He does exist, and the argument stopped being about God a long time ago and now it's about who is smarter, and honestly I don't care."

But I do care. I care because I see myself less as an evangelist or a preacher and more as a fighter. I fight the forces inside myself and the forces outside myself that try to bring other people away from God and into a world of darkness. Often I lose in the fight, but sometimes I win. In the conflict, the good fighters are outnumbered.

My friend imagines that he is an agnostic because his mind finds no proof that the Bible is true or that the world started in six days. I say his heart has turned away from the truth more than his mind. Science can point away from the theory of evolution (fossil record, cellular evidence, etc.) and agree with a worldwide flood; it can also point toward speciation by natural selection. But arguments abound until everything just sounds like the adults on the Peanuts cartoons: wah wah wah.

Essecially, I'm a Christian. I thought he followed the same faith but he has turned away. As the spiritual fighter, I feel like a soldier whose companion has laid down his arms and walked into the middle of the field with is hands up. My heart screams at my friend to come back, to keep up the fight, but he keeps walking. I look around as my comrads continue to cower or turn away in fear.

I look around and I am alone.

These thoughts are not knew. Writers have written of this fight since it began thousands of years ago. Strangly, knowing that my side has always been outnumbered and always will be gives me comfort and another reason to believe. The faith of others, even if they are long gone, reminds me that they fought and died in the same world. In the same war.

I can die for Him too. Even if I'm the last man on earth who believes that Jesus is the Son of God, I can still die for Him. Even though my closest friend or my family may abandon me, I can still die for my Jesus because that's what He did for me.

Hello, God.

Hi, how's it going?

Oh, good grief. As if you don't know. Is that your idea of a joke?

Kinda. I just ask so you can tell me yourself.

Yeah, whatever. Listen, I've been thinking. And I'd like to ask you a question.

Go ahead, I like an inquisitive mind. I designed it after all.

Good, here it goes. I've been thinking, you know, reevaluating some things. I've taken stock of my job, my family, the people I work with and the things that have happened to me in the past few years. Keeping in mind that you control the universe and all that, I'd like to say something regarding my life.

Ok, go ahead.

Here it is: are you KIDDING me?

I don't follow you.

Oh, don't be coy. You know EVERYTHING for crying out loud. You know perfectly well the idiots I have to put up with around here. My wife thinks I'm ridiculous. My boss doesn't respect me. And I don't get paid enough! You call that blessing?

I call that more than you deserve.

I work hard.

True. But I want you to learn something from life and to grow. You can't grow if I don't stretch you.

Oh, what do you know. You're God. It's easy for you.

You're pushing it.

I mean, have you seen my car? I have to pay to fix that!

Are you done?

And what's with my mother? It's like she thinks I'm still in the first grade.

Ever read the book of Job? Deal with it.

This isn't some story, God. I'm suffering here.

I've heard enough.

Would you listen to what I'm trying to say?

I've taken stock of you're life too. Now I realize that you are a selfish, lazy slob, who doesn't love his family. You hate your parents and have dreamed of killing your boss. Yesterday, you cheated on your wife. And you want me to bless you?

Umm, well.

What do you expect me to do?

Have pity?

Pity! Did you have pity on your son when he asked for a second chance? Did you have pity when your brother came to you for help? No, I don't think pity is right for you.

But...

NO! You will say nothing more until I pass judgment! I am the CREATOR, the FIRST AND THE LAST. You are nothing but a stench in my presence.

I'm sorry, I...

In light of your behavior, remembering the laws set forth at the beginning of the world, I have no other choice...

Oh, crap.

...but to die for you. Go in peace.

Amen.

Lilies

The instant I give in to despair, I get what I want.

"Hello, Life Lesson. I'm Stupid."

For the past several weeks I've been bemoaning my lack of steady work. Several sporadic jobs have kept me busy and partially paid, but when I don't have a regular schedule, I hardly get anything done. I don't exercise and I don't write much. So to combat my lethargy, I've been selectively looking for work like a kid who only likes the brown M&Ms. Until recently, I haven't found exactly what I wanted. Now all of a sudden I have steady work with my Dad, which couldn't get more flexible or stress free. I also have a deal worked out in which I work for my rent. On top of all that, I just got a call from a local newspaper saying they might have editing work for me to do. Even if the paper thing falls through, I know that God is watching out for me. He clothes the lilies and all that.

Agent Workshop

The KWA agent workshop not only taught me more about the publication process, but set me in front of a real agent. The lecture sessions kept my interest so well that the only reason I ever looked at my watch was so I wouldn't miss my consultation. I learned that my synopsis is too long, my hook too short, and my book too "narrative". Now I can fix those problems and finish my work, confident that I at least have an inkling of what I'm about.

The agent Joanna Stampfel looked over my summary, discussed my book with me, and read a few of my pages. Although we didn't sign a deal then and there (my book isn't even finished), she gave me some pointers and a huge confidence boost. I now get to send a whole thirty pages to her for her further analysis. Every connection helps; every bit of advice matters.

She also inspired me to read more quickly. How can I more effectively learn about my craft than through reading?