Holding Hands

In light of recent events in my life, I began to ponder what can make a certain gesture so powerful. It may be apparent by the title of this post what that gesture is to which I am referring. What is it that makes holding hands special? I can imagine some naysayer expressing his cynical distaste for something which he may find to be petty and uninteresting, and I understand where he is coming from. As people, we long for some idealized vision of love and union, something grand, everlasting, and... big, showy. In fact, I heard a young man express something along those lines at Black Dog Cafe the other day. He said, "I want to have that relationship where years down the line, she and I are not only sleeping in the same bed, but in the middle of it, together." While I consider myself an idealist to a degree, I think I understand reality enough to know that the young man's statement is a description of something that simply isn't possible on this earth. I don't mean that 30 years down the line he won't lay in the middle of his bed with his wife, because that's not what he meant in the first place. What he meant was: "I want to feel connected, I want to have a visceral, spiraling love all the time, from a person." I don't think true love is like that, and whatever it is like, I don't think it can be had in full from a human being. I think love is humble, self emptying, vulnerable, and sublime (read 1 Corinthians 13), and to me, that is what makes a gesture as simple as holding hands one that is honest, intimate, and far more real that what that young man expressed.

Let me explain the situation to you, and hopefully you can share in some way what I mean:

Two people meet, not randomly, but to them it feels that way. They feel some sort of attraction, and decide it's worth a shot. The man has been relieved of a serious relationship for about a year, having a few small, failed attempts at love during that time- awkward situations and dashed hopes, albeit superficial ones- and is understandably slightly cynical, but is trying to keep an open mind. He is chained by inaction, or so he feels, but this time is different. He really is going to do something this time. And the woman has never dated before, so this is new for her, and battling some urges, she goes against herself and plays it cool to let the man do his work. So in the following week after they meet, they hang out three or four seperate times. The next week is similar, but there is a date thrown in, and the third week sees more time spent together. Their time is fun, lighthearted, yet revealing and honest, and they are both on the same page. They are a bit hesitant, because they haven't known each other very long at all, and don't want to rush into anything foolishly. They spend time in prayer, petitioning God for the strength to lean on His promises of peace, and the wisdom to make whatever time they spend together acceptable to Him, because every day, every action, and every decision is an opportunity to glorify God and to make an impact in this life and the next, and a budding relationship is no different.
It has been three weeks, approximately, since they met, and they go on a fine date to a local lake, for a picnic by the water on a suprisingly warm December day. They make sandwiches, fresh and light, with tomatoes, basil, and mozzerella cheese, some olive oil, and salt and pepper, all spread out on a bagguette. They drink fruit nectars and bask in the sun, talking, but also being silent to enjoy Creation and each other's company. On occasion they look at each other, without saying anything, and just laugh. After lunch, they move to another more secluded part of the lake, and she reads aloud a short story for one of her classes, while he sketches in her sketchbook and simply closes his eyes to relax and listen. They are interrupted on several occasions by mysterious splashes in the water, and one of the most beautiful sights they could have seen. The sun was setting, and the golden light was illuminating a line of trees across the lake, and the brilliant white birds which lighted amongst the branches. The sky behind the birds was a darkening grey, and sight was like stars, just... moving, dancing, singing in their own outdoor theatre. When she finished the story, she began to sing, and sprang up from the ground, twirling in circles. The man followed suit, and held out his hands. She held on, and they spun in circles briefly. When they stopped, the light was low, and they threw their jackets on with the declining temperature. They stood there, obviously with things on their mind, and she began to say something, but stopped. He inquired, but did not push. After a few minutes staring into the fading foliage, she asked him what he was thinking. He told her he was wondering what she wanted to say. So she obliged and expressed to him that she was uncertain what to do now, since the mood was obviously becoming more romantic. He voiced his ponderings on the same subject, and hesitantly told her that he wanted to hold her hand, and she wondered if he would attempt to do so that evening.

So he did.

And there, he reached out his hand and slid it into hers, and they embraced, these two small extensions of their conciousness, an outer realm of their physical shell, vulnerable. It was quiet, it was joyous, and it was honest. It was pure and he was nervous, and in that short time from when they first held hands to when he walked her to her doorstep was more real than any overblown love song or Casablanca type film.

And how does he feel since then? Peaceful, content, and trusting the God who gave him this blessing to continue working great things in his life and hers.

In Christ.

Mindful Ramblings at 3am

Perhaps I desire fame of a different kind, a fame in which my inner man excites at the day to day activities of others. Perhaps that makes no sense, and in a way, i mean something completely differnt. What I mean is that there is a time for observation, and a coextisting time to take pleasure in the observed. A day is an odd thing, a construct, given to us by the Creator for some reason or another, and we fail to make use of it. Our failure is limited not to a day or night, but to the activities of our wanton minds, gracefully eloping on fields of dead bodies, words elegant and mild with teeth sharp as a hundred daggers. Wasteful movements. Unwasted energy in the furthering of self and the destruction of others. Pride and gluttony, a farce through which we consume the world. Am I projecting? I doubt that a projection exists in the framework of such a generalization. I'm not so different. I traipze around, forgetting on what fragile ice I stand. Yet I do remember, but do I? Or more probably my Father lifts me with his index figers, grasped tightly by my small, chubby hands.

My talk is not aimless, for what happens in the man's mind is always of importance. And it makes most sense unedited, uncensored. Then it is naked, shameful, easily clothed. She trembles in the cold, wanting. The streets let go their breath, and the evening rain drains slowly through the gutters. the great institution looms behind her, yet she fears the return, and wants it. But for that moment, her need is exposed, painfully clear. "Don't judge me," she says, and rightfully so. We are all a product of that awful place, our minds are all holes in the ground, where the "great men of society" find it proper to neatly dispose of the unwanted burdens of this world. We take it too, with open arms, not knowing why.

I have already forgotten what I have said. But I know it was for the most part mindless, and mindful.

freeslave

My Body, Broken for You. My Blood, Shed for You.

I had a hard time finding a picture that fit my mentality today. I felt like I needed to, though. I stumbled across this one, of my brother, Daniel Lui. He and I, along with our brothers Ryan Campbell, Erek Smith, and Brian Tinley, were working on my car, taking the tint off (a painfully slow experience) and replacing some worn accessory belts. This particular picture caught my eye because of the stark placement of Lui's hands, and the fact that one is dirty, and the other is clean. It really is like life for the Christian. On the one hand, we are dirty, sinful, and unclean, but on the other hand, we are cleansed by the blood of Christ, that perfect sacrifice of the Divine Love. Dirty, and pure, mutually exclusive. How are we to live in this way?

I was confronted with this conundrum at church this morning, as Pastor Eric delivered his sermon on true worship. He talked about the Communion, what it really means to the believer, and to the non-believer. Our hearts must be right with God when we take Communion, when we partake in the sacrifice of Christ, with Him and with our brethren. A lot of times I view this as focusing my heart before I take Communinion, hoping I can stop worrying about my daily life long enough to ingest the bread and the juice, because if I do that at that moment, then I will not "drink judgement unto myself." This is foolishness. Now, there is nothing wrong with focusing my heart, but my reasoning behind my action is the foolish part. Does God look at me and say, "Ah, very well, his heart was briefly focused on doing good, not wandering as normal, and his mind too! Goodness, I suppose he is ready to take Communion now!" I have a hard time putting those words into God's mouth. Maybe if He said them sarcastically. But think about the rediculousness of it. Does God desire performance? No, of course not. Does he require good deeds out of us, to be accepted by Him? If He did, then Christ died in vain. Indeed, our acceptance was purchased by Jesus Christ Himself, apart from our actions. So what can I do day to day to make my acceptance more full or less full?

But on the other hand, I ought to examine my heart before Communion, lest I be chastised. But I pray God chastise me if I partake in the Lord's Supper with my heart focused on what I can do to make myself worthy of it.

I worship God in filth, but He views me as pure, I give Him dirty rags with my righteousness, but with my love, I give Him what He desires. Weakly I pray to my God, knowing that He is my strength, and I will stay by His side the rest of my days, not by my own will but by his power.



And, unrelated as it may seem (it is not, however), can I say I feel indescribably morose and glad at the same time? Is this the Joy CS Lewis speaks of? I think it may be. I am also tired. I have work today, I have a new day ahead of me. God is with me, and He is good.

With Love.

Why Do We Hate?

We don't understand, we are all the same. WE ARE ALL THE SAME.

Arriving home, I found the urge to silence resistable, and meekly enough said what needed to be said, even if it was only necessary to me. My mind was cleared then, and Love could again grab hold of my heart. Oftentimes, in past days, I would take the opportunity to linger about the vicinity of my house, looking into the sky, lit by the dim sparkle of emotionless hot vapors which somehow stir the deepest imaginings of our hardly utilized hearts. And they are not tapped for their potential, at least mine is not, because for some reason I am so dull as to not be absolutely floored by the greatness of the whole entity which is our universe. And I suppose it is not really the matter and the enrgy that is important, but the imperishable Creator of such. A God Untamable, who in His absolute Glory which I am told of and see yet fail to truly comprehend, loves Creatures such as me, with the smallest hearts and the most stubborn, rebellious, and selfish of minds. This concept I do not quite understand for if I did, I know I truly would be in perfect peace forever. But I do suppose I must wait until I am dead to cull that reward. For now the fleeting moments like these should suffice. Sweet and beautiful ironies, like a deadlocked curve of asphalt brimming with life and movement... those should hold me over for now. But my heart yearns for more than that. I know that is what awaits me when I leave here and see my Father, and my Savior, who saved me from this crazy world, from the sure fate of hell. I have done nothing to deserve it, I have nothing of my own! I did not enter this world by my force of will, nor will I leave by it, so what right have I to anything! God I hope I live this way, that my talk is not empty, but pregnant with the hope of things to come, and the assurance of such. I am weak but You are strong. When my heart condemns me, or when my heart fails me, you are greater than my heart, and you are the strength of my heart. You know this already Lord, but I suppose I write this for encouragement for anyone who reads. I don't know if it will encourage, but You can make it so for someone. Oh Lord, what a fool am I for you, I babble on and on, and for that I apologize.

Love you.

Changing Channels

The late night,
also called early morning,
often seen by the two
worn eyes, scratches on
tv screens, marks on glass.
Lightly veiled sentiments
flicker onscreen, a vague
remnant
of what was
in the past,
in the mind,
and heart.
A few smacks on the side fixes it
painful, yes, because the couch is so comfy,
but necessary all the same,
so in a way it feels good
to finally have some control
over what's on,
because there're a lot of
repitition
and on occasion those channels
that are familiar beckon from the black,
but they've been viewed
before,
in "innocent times," which were less so
than now,
and the result is always
the same,
so really what is the point then?
mind numbing and vacuous repitition,
while feeling good, because they were safe,
but not at all what was searched for.