27 Days

Renowned composer George Frederic Handel gave us one of the most influential pieces of classical music in history:  The Messiah.

Anyone who has heard the famous "Hallelujah" chorus - in whatever context - knows his work.  The twinkling harmonies of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" is a staple of traditional Christmas music.  His gift changed our ears forever.

Not only is his daunting musical genius echoed in its frantic interwoven melodies, but also his speed and efficiency.  A professor of mine told me a few weeks ago that Handel composed the entire oratorio celebrating the birth of Christ in less than a month.  I asked him why.  Was it really just that easy for him?  Was he a musical savant of sorts?  Did the music spill out of him as if written by the hand of God?  Was he but a conduit for angelic choruses in heaven?

What prompted him to bless us with such an enduring masterpiece in record time?


Debt.



Handel wrote The Messiah in 27 days to avoid debtor's prison.




Why do some of us crumble under pressure when others excel?

Some of us prefer to take a nice leisurely pace through life, school and work, planning things out methodically so as to never be caught unprepared or unawares.  My sister is like that, always scheduling out her assignments so as to never be behind.  Ever the perfectionist, she thrives on staying ahead of the curve.

Others, however, don't mind putting things on the back burner, only to turn up the heat at the last moment.  I'm afraid in many cases I fall into this latter category.  I've stayed up late working on enough papers due the next day, blowing the glue dry on my way to school on a diorama I'd known about for weeks (sorry, Mom), I even pulled an all-nighter for a project my freshman year of high school.

I had a portfolio review the other day.  This was super important.  Like life-changing, career-affecting kind of important.  It determined when I would graduate, what classes I would take, etc.  I had to include about 20 images of my best work.  I have known about this review for over a year.  I had to print out all of my projects and mount them on mat boards to make them look more professional.  I had worked on several paintings and other illustrations months ago.  But of the 20 images I chose to include for review, I finished putting the final touches on, printing, cutting and mounting about 14 of them.  How's that for preparation?

B. and I have both been known to be up until 3am working on papers and paintings, respectively.  We both seem to thrive when the heat is on.  Grace under fire, efficiency under pressure, we're deadline folks.  I wonder what we could come up with in 27 days if we had prison looking us in the face?


Where do you fall?  Do you have grace under pressure or are you always prepared?

What could you do in 27 days?


S

You Can't Make This Up

There are some stories in our lives that just seem too good to be true.

Our own "it was thiiiis big" fish tales that amuse the skeptical and delight those who want to believe.  It's as if for a brief moment in the mundane minutia of our day-to-day, we get a cosmic fifteen minutes of fame, like God rewrote the screenplay of our lives just to let us know He likes to laugh, too.




Quailman Glee.

In my senior year of high school I broke off from my usual electives and extracurriculars in band and tried two new classes: theater and choir.   Choir was fun, I had done informal rehearsals and stuff for church but I had never been graded.  I didn't think there was much to it.  If you screwed up, you could just blend your mistake in with the others singing beside you, right?  Oh no, the director was a cruel and strict taskmaster, you had to be in perfect synch with the other parts.  She emphasized proper technique, volume control, good breathing, and not to mention memorizing the lyrics (some of which were Latin or Italian).  We were nearing the end of the semester halfway through a grueling rehearsal in preparation for the End of Year Concert.  Our director had broken off to talk with our pianist.  We broke into various hushed conversations and shared complaints at the endless repetition and nitpicking of the rehearsal.

Suddenly some of the more rambunctious guys in the Bass line began doo-wopping, sidestepping and snapping, not to "My Girl" or some other Motown classic - but the opening theme song to the old 90s cartoon "Doug."  For those of you who know it, you know it builds from the bass line and other parts gradually join in until, after one round of all parts harmonizing, the song ends at last with a Bobby McFerrin-esque beatboxing denouement.

As the basses began their doo-wop, the tenors joined in at the next part, soon accompanied by the altos and finally the sopranos' descant.  For less than thirty seconds, we were all snapping and singing in an impromptu a capella rendition of a 90s cartoon theme.

It began suddenly. It ended too soon.  We all broke into laughter.

Even our stern director cracked a smile at our spontaneity.  This was random music, we didn't plan it, but the way we sang... you'd have thought we had.  She applauded our mini-perfomance before returning us to our Latin piece.

It was fun.  It was musical.  It was NOT Glee.  I cannot stress that enough.  Glee didn't exist then.  It doesn't apply, so don't you dare mention it. 




Hot Pocket.

I know this is going to seem very Niles Crane of me, but I carried a pocket watch when I was in 7th grade.

Before you shelf me as the weird kid who chose a briefcase in lieu of a backpack and wore a cravat on picture day, let me explain.  I don't normally prefer the antiquated over the modern (especially in middle school)  I had worn plenty of wristwatches, but my active lifestyle of wall ball, dodge ball, kick ball and other alternative sports had always left their faces scratched to the point of illegibility; fashion repeatedly vanquished by function.  So, one day at Wal-Mart I spied a cheap knock-off pocket watch spray-painted gold for six dollars.  That fit my meager budget, so I began carrying around my new timepiece in my pocket, clipping the chain to the denim belt loop of my jeans.

I know...

Anyway, the watch is only one ingredient in this little experiment.  One day I had stuffed in some new spare AA batteries into my pocket before leaving to catch the bus.  I had noticed my portable CD player had been running low the day earlier, so I snagged some backups so as not to be left tuneless on my ride home.  (kids, a CD player was something we used a long time ago before iPods, iPads and MP3s - we were a simple people)

One day in science class, ironically enough, I was starting to drift off during a lecture after lunch.  Digestive sleepies strike again.

I was suddenly shaken from my drowsy reverie, however, by a sharp burning sensation on my thigh.  Eager not to make a scene, I tried to cover my sudden leg spasm with a yawn and a stretch, surreptitiously trying to put out what felt like a fire on my leg.  The contents of my pocket shifted and the heat died away.  After a few moments I reached in said pocket to see what was burning me.

Nothing but my AA batteries and my pocket watch.

...and the watch's chain.

Some of you might be ahead of me now.

I remembered from a project we did on electricity in fourth grade that if you connect copper wire between a light bulb and both ends of a battery, the electrical current will travel between the battery's positive and negative ends, passing through the bulb and lighting the filament on its way.  As I massaged my burned thigh, I quickly surmised that my watch's chain had done just that; chain and batteries had entangled in such a way that a current was established, but with no bulb to light, the chain and the watch connected to it instead began rapidly heating up, giving me quite a hot shock.

I wasn't the most honest person all the time, but it seemed that fate had at last tried to set my pants on fire.




For Goodness Sake

This last one isn't from my own life, but it's so cute I just had to share.  My parents had taken the young kids still living at home to a church Christmas party.  Lots of games and activities for the children, plenty of candy and goodies, and of course, Santa visited.  Jolly old Nicholas invited all the eager young ones to hop up on his knee and make final revisions to their lists.

My youngest brother, then two years old, waited his turn in line for his chance to divulge his last minute desires and requests.  When his turn at last came he marched confidently up to Mr. Claus.

On his way, Santa proclaimed, "I know who this is. This is Dallin! Have you been a good boy this year?"

Poor Dal froze.  He hung his head despairingly and began to trudge away when Santa called him back and rewarded his honesty with a candy cane.

Whether it be a self-effacing toddler, an impromptu a capella cartoon sing-along, or a fire starter in your front pocket, there are certain moments of  humorous kismet, cosmic irony or comedic timing that leave atheists scratching their heads and the rest of us smiling to ourselves.




What are some of your "too good to be true" moments?


S

Movezilla, or My First "Win"

I'm really proud of my wife.

During our whole engagement/wedding-planning, she never broke down.  She never had a Bridezilla moment. It was a trying experience, throwing everything together in a matter of days.  B.'s mom had a ball planning the reception and it was really great just walking in to see everything set up; we had given her pretty free reign to do what she wanted.  We honestly just didn't care for much of the traditions.

She bought the first dress she tried on for under $200.  We got our own cake, our reception DJ was an iPod, and our "line" lasted maybe ten minutes.  People kind of lingered at our reception, it was a pretty relaxed party setting; we were both pretty ignorant/apathetic about wedding traditions.  She tossed her bouquet, but we snagged our then 1-year-old niece's headband to use as a garter.  Our slicing of the cake quickly escalated into a brief food fight.It was a fun day that could only have been improved by some granola bars in my suit pocket to sustain us during our photo ops after the ceremony.


But the wedding was the least of our concerns that week.

B.'s favorite number is five, so naturally we got married on May fifth (5/5).  On May fourth we moved her and all of her stuff into our new apartment, met with family and friends and got settled into our new quarters.  On May third B. had finals.

The days before that were a chaotic blur of keeping track of what boxes I had already driven up to the house with me from my last visit, her desperately cramming for finals while simultaneously babysitting the aforementioned adorable albeit high-energy niece.  B. was at the end of her rope.  And it showed in her texts.  I tried to be supportive; I've moved enough that I wasn't too stressed about it, I just wanted the wedding to go well.

She texted me about a book she couldn't find.  I found it in one of the boxes I had brought up and informed her.  She told me to put it in the car and take a picture of said book in said car as photographic proof I wouldn't forget it.

I never had a Bridezilla.  But moving brought out her panic.

And finals didn't help either.

In a culmination of stress and miscommunication, she discovered a small moleskine notebook containing journal entries, important memories, a treasured recipe as well as other vital information was nowhere to be found.  Trying to be the supportive fiancee in this her time of distress, I dutifully began emptying the handful of boxes I had stuffed into the car before returning home a week ago, diligently searching for the lost notebook.  I scoured each box, checked inside each one by one, sending her pictures on my phone of each book set out on our carpet.

Still no notebook. 

Now, her camel had been suffering numerous chiropractic issues lately, but this really did break the poor beast's back.

It all collapsed onto her.  She wouldn't pass her finals and would have to pay back her federal grant money, she'd lose all of her stuff in the move, she wouldn't transfer her credits to her new school successfully, she wouldn't find a new job in her new town, she wouldn't fit in her dress, the car would break down, the planets would align to her complete and utter ruin.

Movezilla.

I had had enough of this long distance crap, and I hated hearing her under such duress, unable to do anything myself except check the boxes a fourth time.  When at last I came down to pick her up, move all of her stuff into the moving truck and take her away, we began packing up the rest of her books and clothes.

While B. was in her closet taking down clothes to fit into boxes, I found some old boxes we had packed over a week earlier lined against her bedroom wall.  These I had left behind because I hadn't had room in our little sedan last time.

In a gloriously epiphanic moment, I tore away the lid of the produce box we had pilfered from a grocery store to carry her books.  And there it sat, comfortably nestled between a similar moleskine and a book on hiking.

"Aha!"  I declared triumphantly, snatching it from the box.

B. ran out to see me holding the recovered notebook victoriously over my head.  She had forgotten about those boxes and that they also had had books in them.  Her sheepish embarrassment at having put me through the ringer quickly turned to smothering me in apologetic kisses.  I, the gloating detective, the giddy fiancee, basked in what I remember as possibly my first "win."  Most of our disagreements are my fault.  But this was one where I wasn't in the wrong!  A rare instance indeed.

I don't blame B.  With the week she'd had, no one could.  I just enjoy recalling a moment in time where I wasn't the cause of a fight or a disaster or a misunderstanding.  She's much better than I am, but neither of us are perfect.

I can't really count something like this as a win.  If we're fighting, there is no winner or loser.  We both apologize, we both make up.  We both lose time wasted on fights.  I'm sure there are instances that have transformed me into an insufferable _______zilla.



What turns you into a ______-zilla?



S

You should be ashamed.

Guilty pleasures.

We all have 'em.

The first time I heard this term was when my mom was chuckling at the flaming antics on an episode of Will & Grace.  It's a silly show, she knew that.  It can be risque and stupid, she knew that, too.  But there are some things for which we abandon our usual snobbishness or high-minded preferences.

Let's be clear.  That we all have "guilty" foods is a given.  B. loves her brownies.  I indulge in crappy fast food every once in a while.  We know it's bad for us, but we ignore that fact and pig out.  I'm not talking so much about food here, though.  We all have something non-edible that for one reason or another, we just can't let go of.

What is it about that particular shamefully tasteless piece of junk that pervades our walls of classiness and strikes a chord with us?  It could be a Hank Williams, Jr. album, a Dixie Chicks poster left discarded under our bed, an old Aquaman comic book brought to light, those parachute pants left at the bottom of our drawer, the action figures/dolls we're suddenly too old/cool for... or so we claim.



I'll admit it, I have one.   A few, actually.


I know they look ratty.  I know they're faded and wafer thin.  I know they have holes everywhere and the edges are frayed.  I know I've had them since sophomore year of high school.  But I looooooooove my comfy jeans.  They're like an old friend, fitting the contours of my oddly shaped raptor legs and prominent calves perfectly.  They're baggy where they should be baggy, they fit snugly where I need them to.  It's a dance, it's teamwork.  I love them so.  B. has threatened to throw them out on more than one occasion.  I've thought about hiding them until I can patch them up and start wearing them in public again (they're my Saturday jeans, usually).  Everyone should have some comfy jeans, no matter what Stacey London or Clinton Kelly or Tim Gunn or... ok I'm out of fashion gurus, but no matter what anyone says I will always love those jeans.




I remember buying NSYNC's album No Strings Attached and bringing it to a friend's house.  We started rocking out to "Bye Bye Bye" (come on, who hasn't?) when my friend's older brother scorned us into submission.  The oldest myself, I was new to the "bully older brother" element.  His derision was enough to spoil our fun.

... Until the second track, during which all three of us sat around the kitchen belting along in cracked falsetto, "It's Gonna Be MEEE!"





I've never really watched any Fast or Furious films (it feels like there are enough now to rival the Land Before Time franchise).  I saw The Pacifier and nearly died laughing it was so bad.  XXX should have been nixed from production before ever hitting the box office.  Vin Diesel is a joke.  We all know it... but... Chronicles of Riddick is this weird, space-age acid trip for your eyes.  And there's Vinny, standing in all of his awkwardly stoic theatrical splendor.  But I don't hate it, dang it!  It's so stupid and so cool.  Maybe it's the conceptual design riddled through the film, maybe it appeals to my inner nine-year-old.

...a nine-year-old with a concussion.

I'm fully aware it's a weak movie.  Starring a weak actor who got hired for his biceps and chrome dome.  I know I shouldn't like it, but I do anyway.  Against my better judgement, I don't hate it.  Other guilty pleasure movies I wish I didn't secretly think are cool?  Hellboy.  League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Speed Racer.  Insert other franchise-less sci-fi/fantasy niche here, the list goes on.




Why can't we just enjoy what we like, unafraid of the judgement of others?  




My wife shocked me a few weeks ago by suggesting we go see Pacific Rim.  Even I had dismissed it as just a transparent conglomeration of Power Rangers, Transformers, and Godzilla.  We knew going in that it would be Independence Day underwater.  We didn't expect a moving script or a twisty, convoluted plot.  No depth, just big robots beating monsters senseless with their mechanical, rocket-powered fists.

And we got what we wanted.

We both loved it, ignoring the film critics looking down their noses at our enjoyment.


I think it helps having someone in which to share the burden of others' judgement.Geek out, embrace the corniness of your guilty pleasures, you might just find a kindred spirit in the process.




What are you ashamed to enjoy?  What's your guilty pleasure?

Come on, give.



S

Eden and Mecca

GeoMagnetism.

I’m sure this is an actual scientific phenomenon having to do with the earth’s polarity and such, but for my own purposes I’m going to botch that and make it my own.  This is what I’m calling something I’ve noticed about the places we seem to be drawn to inexplicably.  Some of us feel that life won’t be complete without a pilgrimage to Paris.  Others have to make it to the Big Apple before they die.  Why does this happen?  Why are our souls drawn to a place we’ve never before been?   

Why do we feel so at home in a far away place?

My wife loves to travel.  Being an evolutionary biology buff, one of her several personal Meccas is the Galapagos Islands.  She also dreams of going to Istanbul, Cambodia, New Zealand... the list goes on.  We have a map on our wall that is speckled with stickers indicating our eventual travel destinations.  I want more than anything to be able to take her all over.  I want to give her the world.

She was able to break away from work one Saturday and we made the mistake of buying a National Geographic special issue describing the 100 most beautiful places in the world.  We were depressed the rest of the weekend.  There is so much this wonderful world has to offer, and we can’t afford to break away and have adventures while still in school.

But I digress.   

I think there are two reasons we can be drawn somewhere:  

(1)    We feel like we were made from that patch of earth. (Edens)

(2)    We won’t feel complete until we make it there. (Meccas)

Not the same thing. 

Just because a place is pretty doesn’t mean we feel incomplete without going there.  Reaching one's Eden instills a sense of inexplicable return, as if we belong there, as if we've somehow been there before and have come home.

Not so with Meccas; going there fills a void we were born with.  Going to the Mecca(s) of our souls does more than check off an item on our Bucket list- it fulfills an inexplicable, very personal longing.  I want to kiss my wife underneath the Northern Lights, but I want that for us, not for myself.

I’ve found several personal Edens while I’ve traveled.  A dock by the James River in Virginia.  A brisk pine forest in Colorado’s mountains.  But regardless of where I am, I feel most at peace when I’m near the water and the woods.   

Which is why, if pressed to choose one place, my Eden would be here:

I was fortunate enough to go to Scotland with my family over Spring Break in 2011.  We saw wonderful things, gorgeous countrysides, vast lochs, misty glens, rolling hills, sparse, harsh rocky cliffs… It’s the only place I can think of visiting and hoping for bad weather.   When it’s sunny, it’s a lovely sight.  But in the drizzle and mist and fog and rain – magnificent.  

 I love it there.  I hope when God took the dust with which to make me, He scooped up Scottish soil.

My Mecca, however, is not a tourist hotspot.  I don’t want to vacation there, I want to help there.  This place has held a special place in my heart since I was 16 years old.  I remember learning a lot and growing up a lot when I took a class called Advanced American Studies my junior year of high school (isn’t your disillusionment/fall into Nietzsche-inspired atheism supposed to happen in college?), and in my studies I came across reports about Rwanda, Darfur, the LRA, Sudanese civil war, and the bajillion other troubles Africa has.  I remember seeing a photograph of children captured by Joseph Kony’s LRA trapped behind barbed wire.  I had recently learned a lot about the Holocaust as well, so what kept me up at night was the burning question: 

Why isn’t someone doing something?  I thought we’d learned better.

Then I thought:

Would the world be more upset if the children behind that fence were white?

I remember staying up late telling my poor little brother about it, trying so hard not to cry at the injustice of it all.  I can’t explain why this bothers me more than other problems in the world.  The truth is, I’m still more shaken by pictures of child soldiers in Kenya or news of unrest in Sudan than by a tornado or a hurricane or something that "should" hit closer to home. 

Maybe I’m the racist.

I’ve felt Tyndale’s fire in my bones since learning about the troubles Kony has caused.  I don’t think my soul will ever rest until I am able to go there and physically help these children.  That is my pilgrimage.  That is my Mecca.

There are a myriad of reasons we can be called to the far reaches of the globe.  Some we can trace back to revelatory moments of self-discovery, some are more abstract, slipping through our fingers every time we try to grasp why that particular spot on the map holds more sway than others.


What are your reasons?

Where’s your Eden?  Where’s your Mecca?

S