Jumbled thoughts

The following is a series of thoughts that could have each been blog posts in its own regard, but because of the quantity of them, never made it out at their full weight (think Octamom).

1. Why do people have one month or two month or three month parties for their babies when the majority of the time consists of trying console a crying baby who is terrified at encountering 10 to 20x the number of people that he/she is used to seeing?

2. When Christians talk about being encouraged by someone else's testimony, is it because they believe the person who is telling it or is it because the message, regardless of whether the teller is credible, in and of itself speaks to a truth that is undeniable?

3. It seems like it's easier to get upset at the companies that continue to abuse taxpayer money for bonuses than it is to point the finger to the administration that keeps feeding money to these same companies in the first place. Perhaps, even more difficult is to point the money to the millions of Americans who decided that they needed a house when, in actuality, they were in no position to buy one in the first place. My guess is that it's not good for the party.

4. Why haven't the Bulls gotten rid of Joakim Noah, Ben Gordon, and just about everyone else on the team outside of Derrick Rose (and perhaps Brad Miller/John Salmons)? I hope that the Bulls are a lottery team this year because they would be wasting their time getting the butts swept by Lebron (and yes, I only say Lebron because he IS the team).

the pianist

I recently met a fellow who graduated from a small liberal arts school in Minnesota who graduated in English Literature and Piano performance. Part of his music degree required participation in an ensemble and because the piano is one of those instruments that stands alone (especially in the classical realm), he was forced to join the choir.

It would seem natural the piano's size would relegate it to a life of solitude, but, as I think about my own experience with the ivories, I cannot help but feel the twinge of melancholy when I think about all the hours spent alone in the practice rooms knowing that I had no fellow orchestra buddies or larger ensemble to which to look forward.

What more, the sheer size of the instrument only highlights the fact the pianist is a slave to his craft. While others can carry their instruments with them, the pianist adapts his schedule to the availability of his instrument. He must go where his master calls--be it to large echoes of concert halls, the soundproof rooms of practice buildings, or the warm confines of a home. No doubt every art demands a degree of solitary confinement, a social sacrifice of sorts. As his reward, the pianist receives the undivided attention of all his listeners; he has no woodwinds or strings or percussion with which to share the stage; his fate rests only to him. Even in the occasional concerto, there he sits front in center; all glory belongs to him.

At the end of the day, the pianist is left only with the voice inside his head that evaluates and re-evaluates, and he is left to return to his place at the piano bench, alone. As he warms up with scales and drills his passages, his mind immersed in the music, other times worlds away. Yet as he plays through the wee hours of the night there still remains a hope that somewhere out there a passerby might stop and listen, and in that moment where each is aware of the other only in spirit, share an intimacy that is all too often lost in individual recognition; it is music belonging to no one but speaking into the hearts of all.

old doors, old friends

These last few days I've been facebook-ing some old high school friends and aside from drowning under the flood of memories that comes with cracking open old doors, it has caused me to go back and reevaluate the person I have become over these last few years. When I look at the past, it is easy enough to say, "Well, I was pretty immature and insecure back then" or "Wow, I can't believe I was like that." At the same time, there are other areas where I say to myself "Goodness, he/she shared "x" or "y" interests? if only I had known..." Besides looking for changes, it's also intriguing to try to catch glimpses of the person you knew back in high school, recapturing the caricatures that made these people so memorable in the first place.

I think I'm beginning to understand all those writers who compose those "coming of age" novels that I dreaded reading in high school/junior year.

epiphany

I want to be my own person, and so I avoid what i perceive as conformity, even if these expressions of conformity are good or aren't even expressions of conformity at all. Perhaps that is why I avoid being around large Asian groups, be it in churches, youth groups, etc. This is all so silly because this is just another way of saying that I don't want my social circles to define I who I am, when, in reality, this is inevitable.

I also want to be at home, but this is hard because I avoid tight-knit groups that might be considered cliques. This is why I have friends in many different groups but nobody that I could consider my core group. So, just as I want to view myself as an individual, even my closest relationships are with individuals and not group. This is not a bad thing, either--just an observation.

And as I contemplate these things, I know that I cannot possibly be the only one who thinks about these things or thinks this way, but because at times I think that I must be unique for thinking this way, I have a mistaken sense of what makes me different. Unfortunately, even in incorrectly perceiving this uniqueness, I isolate myself from others.

Current Status

Setting: Arts and Sciences Computer Lab Printing Pick-up Counter

Student Clerk: So does anyone have a job that they're waiting on?
Me: Yeah, I do. I printed from the one-sided printing station. It should 11 pages.
Student Clerk: Okay, let me see...is it the one called Russian...Death?
Me: (after slight pause) Yeah, that's it...and I know you're just dying to read it.

Student Clerk smirks

Two exams and one paper to go.

why i need to get a camera phone

I friend of mine at church took this picture of me during church a week ago.

go here to see it

My thoughts?

1. I think I'll give a little drool next time for an added effect.

2. I still remembered the sermon.

3. Who doesn't sleep when they're at home?

Less than a month until graduation.

Goodness.

What Happens in a Pontiac Vibe

In 2003, my parents bought this Pontiac Vibe.
In 2004, I began my university days in St. Louis.
In 2006, I was given this car to use in St. Louis.
Two years later, I'm driving with Dennis on our way to Trader Joe's. He wants pita bread and a specific type of cheese. Ray wants raspberry and strawberry jam. I'm like an giddy kid going to the toy store; I'll grab whatever looks cool.

It's a gorgeous sixty-plus degrees in St. Louis. It has been raining miserably all week. It's supposed to rain tomorrow on Good Friday. Good riddance.

We're driving south on Big Bend about to turn onto Clayton. I realize that something has gotten loose in my window causing it to go all the way down. A bit perplexed I try to bring the window up and it gets stuck half way with the window obviously out of its regular frame. I cautiously tug on the window to see if it will pull up when **KSHHHH **(tinkle tinkle) the window utterly shatters. Small bits of glass everywhere; most of it on me.
I decide not to turn onto Clayton and keep going south.
Dennis and I pause in bewilderment.
The question "What just happened?" is clearly not worth asking at this point.
The window just shattered. Duh.

After about fifteen seconds of sobering silence, Dennis bursts out laughing. I ask him what's so funny, but that's another question with an answer I already know. The peculiarity of the situation is ridiculous. To hell with asking questions that already have answers.
What the heck just happened?

I remember that there's an auto dealership repair shop at Big Bend and Manchester. I continue driving. The three minutes it takes to get there can't pass by fast enough. I miss the first turn before Manchester. I take the next one and circle around. I'm still a bit bewildered. I believe the way I deal with unfortunate events is the exact opposite of hysteria. Sobriety. Bordering on dead wonder.

Eventually, I pick my way out of the car. The guy helping us out (his name is Josh) gives me a rough estimate and tells us that there's a waiting room in the back. Oh, and there's popcorn and soda back there too, hot chocolate and coffee if you want it.

Popcorn and Soda??

The situation is getting more humorous.

Dennis is helping himself to the amenities. First the hot cocoa, then the popcorn. He's making the most of the situation. Apparently he hasn't eaten all day. I call my parents, and that's when the phone games begin. It's back and forth between dealerships and my parents. Looks like the car might be under warranty still. Need to find the nearest dealer. My mom calls me back. Here's the number for the GM driver's assistance. I ask Dennis if he has a pen. "I have my mind," he responds smugly.

I find out the nearest dealer. They close at six. It's 5:45 and my drivers seat is still full of glass. They don't know if they'll cover it. But it's broken because something in the window was loose, I say. Well, they don't have an appointment until Monday. Sigh.

Ray and Joyce have gotten here. Ray's wearing a cutoff and short shorts. I haven't had the chance to say hello. I'm still on the phone.

I try another dealer, they're scheduling for Monday too. Can I get you down for Monday? I'll call you back, I say. I call my mom to explain that even if I did take the car there, it wouldn't be secure in the lot because of the busted window. Isn't that the same as this dealership? Yes. Sigh.

Sometime during this conversation, Ray comes up to me. I ask Ray if he has plans for tonight. He just wants to know what's going on. They're going to have had to wait a little longer than they thought. I'm too busy on the phone to give him a thorough response. It's way past six at this point. Now I can't even talk to the service department at the GM dealerships anymore; they're closed. I call the Driver's Assistance and start to talk to lady. I explain and she arranges for a towing service. I have further questions, but my phone battery is dying. I give her the phone number to the auto center that I'm at but realize that it won't work if it's an automated menu. My phone dies. I need to go find Dennis or Joyce to use their phone. Ray doesn't have his. I find Dennis and Joyce and ask them to use their phone so I can ask my parents what the number is again. Dennis blurts out, "Why don't you just ask me. I have a memory of a monster."

What?

It's the 1-800 #, I say. He dials the rest of the number into his phone and hands it to me.

Lord.

I sit down and talk to another rep. Yeah, she says. We have everything taken care of, they say. The towing company will hold onto the car until tomorrow and then deliver it to the dealership. Okay. Thanks.
I drop off the car key with the guy at the front desk to give to the towing company when they arrive. Dennis wants to go to Riddles. He must go. Or he'll be sad, says Joyce. We climb into Ray's car.

15 minutes later we arrive. It hasn't been 24 hours since last night when I went there with Dennis and Ray to see Ptah Williams and eat homemade ice cream. Fabulous jazz pianist. I find out that Ray's attire is due to his anticipation that he would pick me up right away and go running as soon as returned to campus. No worries, the high school next store to the dealer had a track. He got in a good 15 laps. Imagine that.

Dinner is good. Elias and Lily join us. Dennis dominates the conversation. He might has well. I have no complaints. I remember praying for the food. Thank you for everyone here. I pause.

Thanks.

There's so much to soak in. There are so many blessings to be found in this afternoon that they are no longer disguised. Good weather, a car under warranty, a friend with a freakish memory, with an even freakier sense of humor, a track so that a friend can get in his daily exercise, helpful people at the auto shop, no injuries to report, friends and family on whom I can depend without giving a second thought.

Ray drops me off after dinner. Thanks dude. Let me know when you need to get your car. Handshake that turns into embrace. They should have chest-bumped, I hear Dennis say from the backseat.

Even now, I sit here. A bit overwhelmed. Somber. But for an entirely different reason.
I revisit fall of junior year when my ceiling collapsed. I remember sitting in my room with my head burrowed in my knees thinking about how dreadful the semester had been until then, feeling quite alone. At the end of that semester, I remember finding a care package of fruit from my parents on my front porch after bombing two consecutive finals in the same day and breaking down into tears because I felt so undeserving.

But before I get too lost in thought I remember my family here in St. Louis. And what a family it is. I remember my God, and what a God he is.

Tomorrow is Good Friday. Sunday is resurrection. Today, is grace. Grace revealed, manifested, embodied in bits and pieces of glass. Broken for me so that I might remember the God that I serve, that I might remember my Savior who was broken so that I might be made whole.

Thank you.