Confessions of the Cough-Drop Culprit

Mmmkay, last Thursday night when the clock struck midnight I was sitting in a packed out theather awaiting the most recent installment of the Harry Potter saga after standing in the rain for more time than I care to confess publicly (ok, it was about two hours). I know what you are thinking, but HELLO! I am not an HP die hard, let's just get that straight right now. No siree. In fact, I haven't even read the books. So there. Still, my seven other cohorts and I stood in one of eight lines at the Bridgeport theather clustered under a mold of five umbrellas -- five umbrellas perfectly woven together so as to keep everyone dry and warm.

As we entered the theater, I almost had my cough drops confiscated. Luckily and unluckily for everyone else in my theather I was allowed to keep my cough drops. After the show, someone about seven seats away said they could smell my cough drops throughout the whole movie. Sorry, dude. I would have just stayed home, but my ticket was paid for in advance, I was with a large group of friends, and hey, it was Harry Potter after all. Not that I'm a die hard or anything.

So, how was it? Well, I confess I've never really been into Harry Potter. I haven't read the books. After the nightmare-inducing-giant-killer-snake in the second movie, I swore I was done with HP. I would say that the HP movie with the dementors gave me nightmares, but it didn't. That's becuase I closed my eyes during that part of movie. Spared.

A couple years ago (or whenever the sixth HP movie came out), I recall the following conversation:

Bruce: "Hey, go get ready. I'm taking you out tonight. To a movie."
Ann: "Great! Which one?"
Bruce: "I'm in the mood for something light. So, of course, I chose Harry Potter."
Ann: "Something light?! Great. My nightmare quota for the year will be covered."

Oddly enough, we went to the sixth movie (which was good) where I promptly drank too much sprite, ate too many gummy bears, and fell asleep just before the Dumbledore/Snape showdown. I then returned home and spent the next hour throwing up gummy bears and sprite. Then I had a HP nightmare to top it all off. Oh yes. Good times. HP and I have not had a positive history, even though the sixth movie was my favorite. Everyone wanted to know how I lost that 20 pounds of scholarly, seminary stress. Ok, ok. Here's my secret. Deprive yourself of sugar for one month. Go to a movie and while being sucked into the plot stuff your face with gummy bears (this method is more effective if you pick a long movie). Then drink about a gallon of sprite. You can obtain this at the concession for about $200. Wait about an hour after the movie, and if you experience anything even remotely close to what I experienced, you'll never want to look at gummy bears, sweets, or carbonated drinks or dessert again. Forever. I went from drinking a coke almost every day to drinking a coke only in extreme emergencies (i.e. when I was car sick in India). So, basically I have HP to thank for scaring the crap out of me and ridding me of my coke addiction. Simultaneously.

As for the Deathly Hallows, I was completely sucked me into the plot. However, this go I had a steady stream of cough drops because I had been sick the week before. So whether due to the story itself or the cough-drop-menthol overdose, I felt compelled to rush home and request all the books from my lovely sister-in-law, which I will be reading during the winter break. Not that I'm a die hard or anything. I'm dying to know how the story ends, and if anyone tells me, it will get ugly.

Before I wrap this puppy up, I have something else to say. I'm a firm believer that confession is good for the soul. So I have a confession. If you live in Portland and if you were at the 12:20am showing of the Deathly Hallows at Bridgeport, you probably smelled cough drops emanating from the back of the theater. Hopefully you did not notice the perfectly timed coughing fits during the loud action segments. Well, it was me. I was the culprit. I know, I should have stayed home, but I didn't. I guess I'm more of a die hard than I thought. So there. I confess: I'm the cough-drop-culprit-turned-HP-die-hard, and I have to live with that. And so do you (that is, if you follow my blog).

Huh?

Wishing I knew my neighbor down the street well enough to ask about the story behind this.

The Further I Walk...

I was cleaning out the bedroom this morning and stumbled across my journal from our summer trip to Montana. This was my last entry from our trip.

July 22, 2010

Sabbath is essentially the ceasing of all habitual and compulsory attempts to be happy, to perform, to achieve. It is interruption of all the things that formulate the rhythms and traffic and monotony of the week. Hiking these last two weeks has been for me an internal Sabbath, a being wholly present to put one foot in front of the next and breathe in scenery more beautiful than any human concoction. The first few miles evoke much internal noise, but eventually and especially as I get tired, my focus sharpens to a handful of singular thoughts: "Keep moving forward." "Stop and look around." "Sit still for a bit, will ya?"

And in this place of simple thoughts, base thinking and being, something profound takes place. I'm more present to my surroundings, and they are more present to me, and I notice and am more deeply aware of the Presence to which they invite.

Moltmann says that our world is a parable of greater things, of a new heaven and a new earth, of God's kingdom. Embedded in the parable are gems, seeds of hope and promise, as well as remembrance and presence. And God desires that we know this through the vehicle of the sabbath rest: a knowing not to control or dominate but to participate and discover treasures written into things that seem ordinary but come to life to those with ears to hear and eyes to see. They wait eagerly to disclose great things, yet they will not compete for our attention.

I'm beginning to think that this was God's original intent behind the Sabbath observance: a rhythmic interruption beckoning us to step out of life's traffic, sit still and listen, a time to be wholly present in God's presence. This is, in the end, why I'll gladly strap a pack on my back and walk for miles letting go and listening for a voice greater than my own. The further I walk, the more I hear it.

Sonorous Silence

"...Their words aren't heard,
their voices aren't recorded,
But their silence fills the earth:
unspoken truth is spoken everywhere..."

- Psalm 19 (The Message)

I took these photos last weekend as we drove through the Columbia River Gorge. I read Ps. 19 a few days later, and these images came to my mind. And I was filled with awe all over again.

TOWANDA!!

This last weekend we went to a fall conference with a load of college students. Anna, Rainie and I all attend seminary together. In fact, we comprise the entire female student population at our campus this semester. So, the three of us have become very close. So. What we really needed was another bonding experience. One that involved heights. Did I mention that all three of us are terrified of heights? Terrified. We spotted the giant swing from a distance during the free time at the ranch we were staying at. "Let's do it!!" Once they strapped us in: "What were we thinking?!"

Ann: "Hey, I have a great idea. When we get to the top we should all yell 'TOWANDA!'"

Anna & Rainie: "Brilliant. Let's do it!"

Mmmmkay, the plan was set. We were ready to channel Idgie from Fried Green Tomatoes and feel the rush of female power.

Did I mention that I am terrified of heights? Terrified.

Here we are at the top and Rainie is about to pull the rope that will release us from all our fears. Unfortunately, the whole Towanda-empowerment-plan went down the toilet. Anna and I were both so frozen with fear, that we were totally silent as Rainie belted out the most tremendous solo "TOWANDA!!" I've ever heard.

Rainie pulled the rope and down we flew to almost certain death. I had no idea I could scream that loud. Bruce said that he heard me from other side of the ranch: "Is that my wife I hear screaming from so far away? Nah. She'd never get on that swing. She's terrified of heights. Terrified." And with that he went back to his disc golf game with his buddies.

Unfortunately, our photographer couldn't time that initial free fall to capture the terror on our faces, but you can see a glimpse of it on Anna's face.

We've been swinging for a while at this point. The terror has subsided, and now we can't stop laughing.

"Put your feet in the air!" said the dude who was going to lasso our swing to a standstill. He made it sound like we might lose a leg from the force of his rope throw.

Somehow I thought strapping my body to beam high in the air might help cure my fear of heights. I was wrong. It only intensified my phobia. However I must confess, that was way too much fun.

Navigating Global Inequities

Jet-black eyes invite me in evoking
curiosity, laughter and fear.
Curious to know her story, his wants, her name.

Smells of curry and exhaust mingle with sewage
to litter air and earth
pulling me in, pushing me away.
Fear of a world I don't understand,
their endless staring announcing my place:
foreigner, outsider, other.



Horns blast and rickshaws demand passage
through the Red Sea of
buses, livestock, cars, pedestrian.
Curious to know the polio beggar's earnings for the day.
Frustrated by the child beggar
forced to forfeit her earnings
to a greedy, abusive pimp.

A voice pierces the commotion,
"See what I see."
And I'm awakened to deeper things.
Fear that I will see only the obvious:
difference, poverty, injustice.



How can a place so colorful be so dark?
How can a people so spiritual justify such corruption?
How can a people with so little possess so much?
I don't understand.
Fear that I will never understand.

Sitting on the cramped, cockroach train,
ipod in tow, sights aglow
with faces I try to memorize.
Our train rumbles through the slums,
kids playing cricket,
mothers washing clothes,
a young boy dancing alone on his tin rooftop.
I hear it again,
"See what I see. See me seeing this."
I don't know what to look for.



I see these people. I see myself.
Two worlds colliding, learning, listening,
shattering my small thoughts.
God's voice invites me in, announcing my place:
servant, friend, listener, witness.



Back at home. Work. School. Routine. Blah.
I complain about God's silence.
He whispers,
"Seeing and hearing are linked.
You'll never understand what you refuse to trust."
Curious what's on the other side,
Afraid to cross the threshold.

"Come and see," God says.
"Show me, and I'll come," I reply.
Silence.

Why this method, I would like to know.
Perhaps we'll never fully see
where we refuse to walk.
Does coming precede seeing
because trust precedes illumination?
This is the most difficult
tension in my theology.

The truth is I don't trust God as I ought.
Yet I have a deep longing
for a gracious God
to transpose in me old things
into a new song in a new key.
But without the surrender of listening
there is no genuine improvisation.
That's what I see so far.

"See what I see," God whispers to me
while on a double date with a gay couple.
I feel God's compassion burning in my heart.
Two worlds colliding, learning, listening,
shattering all my small thoughts.
Back in the car alone with Bruce I say,
"God is compassionate,
and for this I adore him."

Sometimes listening is
more powerful than speaking.
Listening says that others have
much to contribute and that
I have much to learn.
Listening teaches me how to speak,
how to see,
how to play a new song.
Listening invites others to lower their guard
and reveal valuable things.

"See what I see."
I still don't know what to look for.
But I'll listen.
I'll serve.
I'll try to trust
Until I fully see what You see.

Don't Cross the Streams!

I had a girls' night at my house on Saturday night. We carved pumpkins and watched Ghostbusters and drank yummy, foamy chai and lattes.

I don't know if you can tell from this picture but Anna carved an amazing "Frenchman" pumpkin.

Who ya gonna call?

The Maize Cornundrum

A few weeks ago we went to Sauvie Island with Heather and Dan to wander our way through a corn maze.

We already look lost, and we haven't even entered the maze yet.

Zombiefest

Thriller
Portlanders gathered at Pioneer Square last weekend where countless zombies emerged to dance to Michael Jackson's "Thriller."

A unicyclist zombie with his bagpipes...

Heather recorded the main event....