A couple of months ago and in one of those all-too-frequent moments of temporary insanity, I agreed to revamp my church's website. Recreate, in fact.
You see, the website appeared about a year ago. One of the ladies in the church created it and though her effort is laudable, the result is sad. So when someone at the church found out that I made a website for my previous employer, they asked me to fix the church's. I had no job at the time, and I agreed.
Now, having spent countless hours on it, I can't help being fairly disgusted by the outcome, which I don't even have the guts to upload.
You see, I used Frontpage to create it. I like the program; it's easy to use. I like easy. But when I went on the Microsoft website to check on updates, I was vexed to find that Frontpage is being discontinued to clear the way for Expressions. To quote a fellow blogger, "mother puss bucket bastards."
So now I've been scouring the web for a simple and cheap web design program that I can use to quickly recreate the already recreated website, and that is simple enough for the rather technophobic staff at my church to update themselves when I am in Africa.
So, if you know anyone or any program that can help me, please let me know! I'm ready to shave my head, dress in sackcloth, and cover myself in ashes.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Hope springs eternal
At least once every two years, the sky turns grey, then orange, then brown. A hot haze creeps across the ground like a weed let loose. Warm flaky grey snow falls on us as we exit our businesses and sniff the dark air.
It's always very hot on those days. The air is thick with carbon; our lungs, unaccustomed to it even after several years, rebel against the influx. Sounds fill the atmosphere: fire engines rushing toward the catastrophe, helicopter rotors slicing viciously across the sky, angry drivers cursing each other, each as helpless as the next in the situation.
Fires are part of our culture in Southern California. We're not surprised by their arrival nor are we deterred from continuing our lives. But every time it happens, we get just that little bit concerned. We discuss our escape routes. We plan what to take and what to leave, in case we need to flee the indiscriminate flames.
Rich and poor they displace, violent and ruthless in their fury. The feed on life, on memories, on structure. They consume and destroy; with each piece of fuel the fire grows, but doesn't realize that it's killing itself. The more it destroys, the less there is to destroy. Utter annihilation is left in its path, and it can't retreat across its wasted battlefield.
But when the fires have died out, when the flames become cannibals and vanish, the charred, smoking refuse of their slaughter remains.
Somewhere amidst the destruction, green erupts from the blackened earth. It births a tiny white and yellow sun that begins to sing. The lifesong shakes the earth, sends ripples across the ground, and jolts the great mother back into her life-giving cycle, spilling forth her very being into the grasses, the flowers, the trees that despite the heat have come through and will rise again.
They all join in the song until the sound is deafening. It rocks our hearts and stirs our souls, melts the stars in the sky, pointing us to the Creator.
For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.
It's always very hot on those days. The air is thick with carbon; our lungs, unaccustomed to it even after several years, rebel against the influx. Sounds fill the atmosphere: fire engines rushing toward the catastrophe, helicopter rotors slicing viciously across the sky, angry drivers cursing each other, each as helpless as the next in the situation.
Fires are part of our culture in Southern California. We're not surprised by their arrival nor are we deterred from continuing our lives. But every time it happens, we get just that little bit concerned. We discuss our escape routes. We plan what to take and what to leave, in case we need to flee the indiscriminate flames.
Rich and poor they displace, violent and ruthless in their fury. The feed on life, on memories, on structure. They consume and destroy; with each piece of fuel the fire grows, but doesn't realize that it's killing itself. The more it destroys, the less there is to destroy. Utter annihilation is left in its path, and it can't retreat across its wasted battlefield.
But when the fires have died out, when the flames become cannibals and vanish, the charred, smoking refuse of their slaughter remains.
Somewhere amidst the destruction, green erupts from the blackened earth. It births a tiny white and yellow sun that begins to sing. The lifesong shakes the earth, sends ripples across the ground, and jolts the great mother back into her life-giving cycle, spilling forth her very being into the grasses, the flowers, the trees that despite the heat have come through and will rise again.
They all join in the song until the sound is deafening. It rocks our hearts and stirs our souls, melts the stars in the sky, pointing us to the Creator.
For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.
Beautiful Words
Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Poetry
You expose all memory
You make the most of boundary
You're the ghost of royalty imposing love
You are the queen and king combining everything
Intertwining like a ring around the finger of a girl
I'm just a singer, you're the world
All I can bring you
Is the language of a lover
Bella luna, my beautiful beautiful moon
How you swoon me like no other
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've been thinking about women and poetry and romance. Some women just exude poetry. You see them and things start to rhyme.
How do you become one of those women? No one will ever think of me as poetry; no one will ever write a song about me.
I am not that gorgeous, I don't have a graceful or romantic air, and I don't move with the wind, dance with the breeze. I'm not very poetic. I'm not even prose. I'm the blurb on the back of a novel. I'm a movie summary. I'm the brown paper around a Starbucks cup.
Why can't I be graceful, smooth, beautiful, mysterious, and demure?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Anecdote from Mom
Thomas Edison held a demonstration early in his work with electricity. As yet, it had not become obvious in which way it would be beneficial. An elderly lady came up to him afterwards and asked, "that was nice, but what is it good for?" Edison replied: "Ma'am, do you ask the mother of an infant about its purpose?"
Thursday, July 26, 2007
"Missions is what you do when everyone hates you" and other lies from the pit of hell.
Satan has been whispering in my ear again. This is the real reason you're leaving. No one likes you. The few who pretend to are just nice people having pity on you. Get out of here before you screw up their perfect lives. And say that you're doing it for God. That'll show 'em.
The horror that grips my soul at this thought brings tears to my eyes even now as I consider it. Why do I even consider it? Why does it stick so much?
---------------------------------------
"You're beautiful," he said to me tonight on an uncomfortable bench in the evening heat.
Why can't I buy it? It's so simple. Why do I have to make it complex?
A good friend called me recently to thank me for some help and to say, "You are beautiful. And don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." Yeah, sure. These cynical thoughts come naturally to me.
What's funny is that I can't even convince myself that those statements are remotely true. Some women would think, Ah, he's just saying that so he can get in my pants. But I can't even allow that, because I can't perceive why anyone would want to. Get in my pants, that is.
----------------------------------------
Awkward analogies aside, here's another lie that crept up on me. It bears explaining.
You can't look sexy drinking out of a styrofoam cup.
It came to me when we were at the Marriott the other night. Deanne was dancing with "the heaven guy," as we dubbed him, and I was sitting at the deserted bar, thinking about how pathetic I was. My cup of water was sitting in front of me and as I lifted it to my lips, that thought sprung alive. I glared at the lipstick which had adhered itself to the polystyrene, only to realize that it was entirely true. There is no way to look sexy while drinking from styrofoam.
But why was I trying to look sexy? Why would I want to elicit carnal impulses from ungodly men? Just so that they'll ask me to dance, lead me out on the broken floor, try a few spins and realize that I'm not that great after all, shake my hand, and let me putter back to my lonely spot in the corner, waiting for the next candidate?
------------------------------------
I could think that people just want to manipulate me, but I can't see myself as being worth manipulating.
I could think that people just want to use me, but I can't see myself as being worth using.
And if piddly little people won't use me to achieve their pathetic ends, why on earth would the God of the universe want to use me to achieve His? He doesn't need or want me.
I can reason my way out of any of these, but it doesn't help. The lie is still there.
-----------------------------------
How can I understand that God accepts me for who I am if I can't accept me?
----------------------------------
Whatever he said to her, she felt herself buying into it. His words were honey, and her stomach was starving for their smooth sweetness. But when he told her what he thought of her, she shut down. She couldn't hear it. It was as if the words did not compute in her mind.
She mumbled her thank yous, but even as the tones escaped her lips, her mind negated what she had just heard.
She said kind things to him, and she meant it. But when he took it and accepted it for just how she meant it, she was embarrassed. No, you're not supposed to believe me. You're supposed to brush it off like the nothing that I am.
But when she crawled into her bed at night, she dwelt on it. It echoed in her head. Could he really mean it? Every bone in her body, every fiber of her being told her that it couldn't possibly be true.
Somewhere deep inside her soul, though, a tiny candle flickered. hope. Despite the winds of dismissal and the rains of doubt, the candle burned fearlessly.
It would, undoubtedly, be her undoing.
------------------------------------
I am having a spiritual crisis of sorts. Several, in fact.
I will agree with you that people are evil. People are stupid. People are panicky. People are animals.
But, a person?
For the life of me I can't think of a person as being evil. My automatic assumption is that they have the best for others in mind and have no regard for their own benefit or well-being. I can say it nicely: I assume the best of people. While all those around me live suspicious, tortured lives, I am blissfully unaware of the ulterior motives and blatant disregard for life.
Jesus did not call us to be naive. Or did He? "Innocent as"... a dove, a lamb, a child.
A child.
Children have to be taught not to trust. They, like me, assume that everyone has their best interest at heart.
"Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all."
What does it mean, Daddy?
The horror that grips my soul at this thought brings tears to my eyes even now as I consider it. Why do I even consider it? Why does it stick so much?
---------------------------------------
"You're beautiful," he said to me tonight on an uncomfortable bench in the evening heat.
Why can't I buy it? It's so simple. Why do I have to make it complex?
A good friend called me recently to thank me for some help and to say, "You are beautiful. And don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." Yeah, sure. These cynical thoughts come naturally to me.
What's funny is that I can't even convince myself that those statements are remotely true. Some women would think, Ah, he's just saying that so he can get in my pants. But I can't even allow that, because I can't perceive why anyone would want to. Get in my pants, that is.
----------------------------------------
Awkward analogies aside, here's another lie that crept up on me. It bears explaining.
You can't look sexy drinking out of a styrofoam cup.
It came to me when we were at the Marriott the other night. Deanne was dancing with "the heaven guy," as we dubbed him, and I was sitting at the deserted bar, thinking about how pathetic I was. My cup of water was sitting in front of me and as I lifted it to my lips, that thought sprung alive. I glared at the lipstick which had adhered itself to the polystyrene, only to realize that it was entirely true. There is no way to look sexy while drinking from styrofoam.
But why was I trying to look sexy? Why would I want to elicit carnal impulses from ungodly men? Just so that they'll ask me to dance, lead me out on the broken floor, try a few spins and realize that I'm not that great after all, shake my hand, and let me putter back to my lonely spot in the corner, waiting for the next candidate?
------------------------------------
I could think that people just want to manipulate me, but I can't see myself as being worth manipulating.
I could think that people just want to use me, but I can't see myself as being worth using.
And if piddly little people won't use me to achieve their pathetic ends, why on earth would the God of the universe want to use me to achieve His? He doesn't need or want me.
I can reason my way out of any of these, but it doesn't help. The lie is still there.
-----------------------------------
How can I understand that God accepts me for who I am if I can't accept me?
----------------------------------
Whatever he said to her, she felt herself buying into it. His words were honey, and her stomach was starving for their smooth sweetness. But when he told her what he thought of her, she shut down. She couldn't hear it. It was as if the words did not compute in her mind.
She mumbled her thank yous, but even as the tones escaped her lips, her mind negated what she had just heard.
She said kind things to him, and she meant it. But when he took it and accepted it for just how she meant it, she was embarrassed. No, you're not supposed to believe me. You're supposed to brush it off like the nothing that I am.
But when she crawled into her bed at night, she dwelt on it. It echoed in her head. Could he really mean it? Every bone in her body, every fiber of her being told her that it couldn't possibly be true.
Somewhere deep inside her soul, though, a tiny candle flickered. hope. Despite the winds of dismissal and the rains of doubt, the candle burned fearlessly.
It would, undoubtedly, be her undoing.
------------------------------------
I am having a spiritual crisis of sorts. Several, in fact.
I will agree with you that people are evil. People are stupid. People are panicky. People are animals.
But, a person?
For the life of me I can't think of a person as being evil. My automatic assumption is that they have the best for others in mind and have no regard for their own benefit or well-being. I can say it nicely: I assume the best of people. While all those around me live suspicious, tortured lives, I am blissfully unaware of the ulterior motives and blatant disregard for life.
Jesus did not call us to be naive. Or did He? "Innocent as"... a dove, a lamb, a child.
A child.
Children have to be taught not to trust. They, like me, assume that everyone has their best interest at heart.
"Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all."
What does it mean, Daddy?
Monday, July 16, 2007
A novel idea.
What everyone wants, but no one will really admit, is to be accepted. Nonjudgmentally, unequivocally, unconditionally accepted.
"Hello, world. This is me. Me is a fluid concept. It can (and will) change. It is a combination of inborn personality, uncontrollable circumstance, and relational influence. Please don't criticize me for being who I am."
What if we could just accept each other. What if each of us could get over ourselves and just be open and loving to everyone? What if when Jesus said, "Love your neighbor" and "Love your enemy", HE ACTUALLY MEANT IT?!
Sorry: I'll stop yelling.
Derek Webb lyrics again.
They'll know us by the t-shirts that we wear
They'll know us by the way we point and stare
At anyone whose sin looks worse than ours
Who cannot hide the scars of this curse that we all bear
They'll know us by our picket lines and signs
They'll know us by the pride we hide behind
Like anyone on earth is living right
And isn't that why Jesus died
Not to make us think we're right
When love, love, love is what we should be known for
Love, love, love: it's the how and it's the why
We live and breathe and we die
They'll know us by reasons we divide
And how we can't seem to unify
Because we've gotta sing songs a certain style
Or we'll walk right down that aisle
And just leave them all behind
Theytll know us by the billboards that we make
Just turning God's words to cheap clichés
It says "What part of murder don't you understand?"
But we hate our fellow man
And point a finger at his grave
When love, love, love is what we should be known for
Love, love, love: it's the how and it's the why
We live and breathe and we die
They'll know us by the t-shirts that we wear
They'll know us by the way we point and stare
Telling them their sins are worse than ours
Thinking we can hide our scars
Beneath these t-shirts that we wear
"Hello, world. This is me. Me is a fluid concept. It can (and will) change. It is a combination of inborn personality, uncontrollable circumstance, and relational influence. Please don't criticize me for being who I am."
What if we could just accept each other. What if each of us could get over ourselves and just be open and loving to everyone? What if when Jesus said, "Love your neighbor" and "Love your enemy", HE ACTUALLY MEANT IT?!
Sorry: I'll stop yelling.
Derek Webb lyrics again.
They'll know us by the t-shirts that we wear
They'll know us by the way we point and stare
At anyone whose sin looks worse than ours
Who cannot hide the scars of this curse that we all bear
They'll know us by our picket lines and signs
They'll know us by the pride we hide behind
Like anyone on earth is living right
And isn't that why Jesus died
Not to make us think we're right
When love, love, love is what we should be known for
Love, love, love: it's the how and it's the why
We live and breathe and we die
They'll know us by reasons we divide
And how we can't seem to unify
Because we've gotta sing songs a certain style
Or we'll walk right down that aisle
And just leave them all behind
Theytll know us by the billboards that we make
Just turning God's words to cheap clichés
It says "What part of murder don't you understand?"
But we hate our fellow man
And point a finger at his grave
When love, love, love is what we should be known for
Love, love, love: it's the how and it's the why
We live and breathe and we die
They'll know us by the t-shirts that we wear
They'll know us by the way we point and stare
Telling them their sins are worse than ours
Thinking we can hide our scars
Beneath these t-shirts that we wear
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