On August 26, 1964, the Beatles played a show at Red Rocks Amphitheatre.
On August 26, 2011, they came back.
My daddy and I had a date last night. He surprised me with tickets to go see "1964," a Beatles Tribute band.
IT WAS RIDICULOUS MAN.
One of my great regrets in life is that I will never see the Beatles play. That would've been something else. However, seeing as George and John are no longer with us, it's a dream far beyond my reach.
1964 is the next best thing. Seriously.
They wear costumes so they look like the Beatles. They play the exact same instruments. They sound just like the Beatles. They move just like the Beatles. THEY ARE THE BEATLES.
And maybe the best part is that they play early Beatles stuff (pre-Sgt. Pepper's), which is in my opinion their better music. They ended up playing literally all my favorite songs (Ok, maybe they missed a couple, but they can't sing the whole catalog). I don't remember the order anymore but they played these songs:
-"I Want to Hold Your Hand"
-"Please Please Me"
-"From Me to You"
-"All My Loving"
-"This Boy"
-"Act Naturally"
-"Ticket to Ride"
-"When I Saw Her Standing There"
-"Can't Buy Me Love" (!!!!)
-"Twist and Shout"
-"And Your Bird Can Sing"
-"Taxman"
-"I Feel Fine"
-"You Can't Do That"
-"Hard Day's Night"
-"Drive My Car"
-"In My Life"
-"Til There Was You" (maybe my all time favorite just because it's in The Music Man)
-"Eight Days a Week" (the first Beatles song I ever heard)
-"Day Tripper"
-"She Loves You"
Yeah. It was just generally fantastic. I don't know how to explain it better.
And the thing about the Beatles is they're so anti-age-gap. I'm a teenager, there was a six year old sitting next to us, 20-somethings behind us, and 60-somethings a couple rows down. Modern music doesn't do that. Even your basic classic rock doesn't to the same extent. Only the Beatles, man. Only the Beatles.
ANYWAYS.
I've decided that I'm starting a feature on the blog called "Eight Days a Week." Every eight days I shall post the Beatles song of my choosing, whether for current relevance or just 'cause I like it. Today is appropriately "Eight Days a Week."
That is all.
(If you ever get the chance, go see 1964.)
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Superman at Home
You’re maybe the very last person on earth I expected to see
At a humdrum neighborhood Walmart on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t know where I expected you to purchase your boxes
Of cereal or your socks or your five dollar movies.
You seem like the kind of person who would buy your movies
For twenty dollars, or eat the organic super-deluxe
Two-calorie multi-vitamin cornflakes from Sunflower.
Maybe the white shelves, the ceilings, the fluorescent lights
Drain and diminish your super powers until you’re only
Just as good as me or anybody else on Krypton.
Did you know your nose is a just a smidgen
Too big for the rest of your face?
I think I’ll say hello.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Usually I write poems about things that happened to me. Or people I know. Or feelings I feel. And this is none of the above. I really couldn't tell you where on earth this came from. But it's cute anyway. I guess it's about realizing that everyone's human, no matter how much of a pedestal you put them on in their head. Everybody goes to Walmart.
And it has a fun superhero metaphor and on-purpose line lengths. I like it. :)
Aaaahhhh! I'm turning into one of those obnoxious tell-a-story-that-never-happened poets!
At a humdrum neighborhood Walmart on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t know where I expected you to purchase your boxes
Of cereal or your socks or your five dollar movies.
You seem like the kind of person who would buy your movies
For twenty dollars, or eat the organic super-deluxe
Two-calorie multi-vitamin cornflakes from Sunflower.
Maybe the white shelves, the ceilings, the fluorescent lights
Drain and diminish your super powers until you’re only
Just as good as me or anybody else on Krypton.
Did you know your nose is a just a smidgen
Too big for the rest of your face?
I think I’ll say hello.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Usually I write poems about things that happened to me. Or people I know. Or feelings I feel. And this is none of the above. I really couldn't tell you where on earth this came from. But it's cute anyway. I guess it's about realizing that everyone's human, no matter how much of a pedestal you put them on in their head. Everybody goes to Walmart.
And it has a fun superhero metaphor and on-purpose line lengths. I like it. :)
Aaaahhhh! I'm turning into one of those obnoxious tell-a-story-that-never-happened poets!
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Miss Lissa's Encyclopedia of Music Fandom
The Bandwagon Fan. Your favorite band has been on the scene for ages, but they haven't exactly been at the top of the charts. Then one number one single changes everything. Suddenly all your friends claim to love this band too. The Bandwagon curse has befallen you. Now, it's not impossible to truly discover a love for an artist that happens to have just recently gained popularity. But if you ONLY KNOW THE NUMBER ONE SINGLE, you're probably not a true fan. It's not their best song anyway. I promise. One must not judge Bandwagon Fans too harshly, though, or one risks the danger of becoming a Music Snob (see below).
The Faux Fan. This person is closely related to, but not exactly the same as, the Bandwagon Fan, as the Faux Fan usually carries an association with classic rock. This is the obnoxious kid that owns fifteen Beatles shirts, but has never heard "Penny Lane". The one that lists Journey as one of his favorite bands, but only knows "Don't Stop Believing." This person wants to go against the grain of typical teenaged music tastes (just like every other person you know of) but really carries no affection for whatever band or artist he professes to love. This is a heinous crime against music. The only appropriate sentence for such a person is a full listen-through of the ENTIRE Beatles catalog. Twice.
The iPod Judger. The iPod Judger is one who, after asking to look through a friend's music player, finds herself constantly saying, "You have that? You have that?! A word to the iPod Judger: you are the visitor here. Would you walk into Parliament and tell the Brits that a House of Representatives, a Congress, and a President would work much better? No. It is not your position to judge another's tastes, even if he does have Miley Cyrus on his iPod. Nobody likes an iPod Judger.
The Lady Gaga Fan. There is no hope for this person. End of story.
The Long Play Fan. This is the music lover who is appalled at the single song nature of modern music. The one who believes firmly that albums were meant to be continuous works of art rather than piecemeal scraps thrown together to be torn apart by $1.29 purchases. The one who buys full albums whenever possible. The one who ends up with a whole lot of songs she doesn't really like and a whole lot less money. See also Miss Lissa.
The Marry Me Fan. This is the person, usually of the feminine persuasion, who loves an artist not because of his musical prowess, but exclusively because of his hair, eyes, abs, or general good looks. See also Justin Bieber Fan.
The Music Snob. This is the exact opposite of a Bandwagon fan. This person takes immense pride in always being ahead of the trends... WAY ahead. As soon as more than three people become fans of the Music Snob's favorite artist, that artist instantly becomes "uncool." See also hipster, indie.
The True Fan. This is the music fan all music fans should aspire to be. The one inhales melodies and exhales lyrics. The one who feels the kinship of all humanity in the lyrics of a song, the oneness of emotion, the I'm-not-alone-ness. This is the one in whom wellsprings of emotion rise at the sound of a favorite song, who dances in the rain, who sings at the top of her lungs. This is the music lover. This is the True Fan.
"Music is the universal language of mankind." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Faux Fan. This person is closely related to, but not exactly the same as, the Bandwagon Fan, as the Faux Fan usually carries an association with classic rock. This is the obnoxious kid that owns fifteen Beatles shirts, but has never heard "Penny Lane". The one that lists Journey as one of his favorite bands, but only knows "Don't Stop Believing." This person wants to go against the grain of typical teenaged music tastes (just like every other person you know of) but really carries no affection for whatever band or artist he professes to love. This is a heinous crime against music. The only appropriate sentence for such a person is a full listen-through of the ENTIRE Beatles catalog. Twice.
The iPod Judger. The iPod Judger is one who, after asking to look through a friend's music player, finds herself constantly saying, "You have that? You have that?! A word to the iPod Judger: you are the visitor here. Would you walk into Parliament and tell the Brits that a House of Representatives, a Congress, and a President would work much better? No. It is not your position to judge another's tastes, even if he does have Miley Cyrus on his iPod. Nobody likes an iPod Judger.
The Lady Gaga Fan. There is no hope for this person. End of story.
The Long Play Fan. This is the music lover who is appalled at the single song nature of modern music. The one who believes firmly that albums were meant to be continuous works of art rather than piecemeal scraps thrown together to be torn apart by $1.29 purchases. The one who buys full albums whenever possible. The one who ends up with a whole lot of songs she doesn't really like and a whole lot less money. See also Miss Lissa.
The Marry Me Fan. This is the person, usually of the feminine persuasion, who loves an artist not because of his musical prowess, but exclusively because of his hair, eyes, abs, or general good looks. See also Justin Bieber Fan.
The Music Snob. This is the exact opposite of a Bandwagon fan. This person takes immense pride in always being ahead of the trends... WAY ahead. As soon as more than three people become fans of the Music Snob's favorite artist, that artist instantly becomes "uncool." See also hipster, indie.
The True Fan. This is the music fan all music fans should aspire to be. The one inhales melodies and exhales lyrics. The one who feels the kinship of all humanity in the lyrics of a song, the oneness of emotion, the I'm-not-alone-ness. This is the one in whom wellsprings of emotion rise at the sound of a favorite song, who dances in the rain, who sings at the top of her lungs. This is the music lover. This is the True Fan.
"Music is the universal language of mankind." -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Monday, August 8, 2011
When the English Language Lived
Below is the letter of Major Sullivan Ballou of the Union Army's Second Regiment, Rhode Island Volunteers, to his wife Sarah days before he was killed in the Battle of Bull Run. Ballou wrote the letter on July 14, 1861 while awaiting orders that would take him down to Manassas, Virginia where he was killed on July 28. Ballou, 32, was a lawyer and father of two small boys, Edgar and Willie, who volunteered to fight for the Union Army.
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days -- perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure -- and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done.
If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter.
I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing -- perfectly willing -- to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows -- when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children -- is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us.
I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me -- perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been!
How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -- always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood.
Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters.
Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them.
O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan
Remember the days when people actually put thought into writing? When proper word choice actually mattered to the average man? When men were men and women were women?
Yeah. I miss those days. Oh for the 1800s...
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days -- perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure -- and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done.
If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter.
I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing -- perfectly willing -- to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows -- when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children -- is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us.
I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me -- perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been!
How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -- always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood.
Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters.
Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them.
O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan
Remember the days when people actually put thought into writing? When proper word choice actually mattered to the average man? When men were men and women were women?
Yeah. I miss those days. Oh for the 1800s...
Monday, July 25, 2011
Ice
After dinner tonight my brother and I started our usual job of clearing the table, rinsing the dishes, and emptying the dishwasher. Tonight it was a little more exciting then usual, though. Tonight there was leftover ice.
I couldn't tell you where this excitement came from, this fascination with melting ice between our fingers under a hot stream of tap water, but ever since dish-washing became our job rather than Mom's we've liked it. You turn the faucet as far to the right as it will go and make sure it's on a continuous stream instead of a spray. You can't allow the stream to get too heavy, though, or the fun will be over before it starts. Keep it just above a trickle. Hold the ice between your thumb and your forefinger. Watch the dent turn into a hole, into a crevice, into a wide open space. Listen hard for a hint of a crackle, a dying breath. Watch it disappear. Feel the nothingness between your fingers. Swear something was there a split second ago.
That's the weirdest part, really. I can never pin-point the exact moment the ice becomes water. One second there's something between my fingers, and the next there's not.
My brother looks different tonight. He's been complaining of poor vision for months, and his glasses finally came today. He came home with a haircut as well. He looks much older than he is, but then again, he's getting pretty old. As of last month he's taller than me by a good inch. And he's five years younger.
Harding University sent me an application packet today. It's not my first choice, but I figure I better apply anyway in case my first choice falls through. It said "Apply early!" No kidding. Way too early.
I don't know if I mentioned that this was my second to last year as a Kamper. I went to the banquet with a little boy named Ethan. I kinda fell in love with his excessive knowledge of Spiderman. :)
Anyway, in conversation I asked him what grade he was going into, and I figured it had to be fourth or fifth, because he was so stinkin' cute and little. But I was wrong. He's going into SEVENTH.
I remember when seventh grade seemed old. When Lizzie McGuire was in seventh grade. MIDDLE SCHOOL. The land of lockers and multiple teachers. Remember that feeling? Remember thinking algebra had something to do with the order of the letters in the alphabet? Remember not knowing about the existence of bottom lockers? Remember innocence?
I stopped thinking middle school was old in about sixth grade. At that point it was high school. High school's where you really started figuring everything out. That theory disappeared in about ninth grade. At that point senior year felt old.
Guess what guys? I finally feel old.
"Graduate" doesn't sound that old. It just sounds kinda... kinda terrifying. Because in about a year, real life starts.
And I'm sitting here wondering where my childhood went. Realizing how much of it I have absolutely no recollection of. I have a few very vivid memories. Leaving the theater at the beginning of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" because Cindy Lou Who was surely being violently cut to bits by the wrapping machine. Fighting valiantly for my belief in Santa Claus out in the parking lot at my elementary school. Getting a rug burn playing in the foyer after church.
I can picture the sights, smell the smells, tell you exactly what the lighting in the room was like. I remember. That was yesterday. But it was really forever ago. My life's disappearing before my eyes.
But maybe it's not disappearing. Maybe it's melting.
Someday I'll be all gone. The faucet of time will continue to rush down on my life and in a blink, in an indeterminate second, I'll be washed down the garbage disposal into eternity. But you know what? I get a few seconds to let the water run between my fingers and feel the inexplicable joy that is living.
I'm excited to melt my ice.
I couldn't tell you where this excitement came from, this fascination with melting ice between our fingers under a hot stream of tap water, but ever since dish-washing became our job rather than Mom's we've liked it. You turn the faucet as far to the right as it will go and make sure it's on a continuous stream instead of a spray. You can't allow the stream to get too heavy, though, or the fun will be over before it starts. Keep it just above a trickle. Hold the ice between your thumb and your forefinger. Watch the dent turn into a hole, into a crevice, into a wide open space. Listen hard for a hint of a crackle, a dying breath. Watch it disappear. Feel the nothingness between your fingers. Swear something was there a split second ago.
That's the weirdest part, really. I can never pin-point the exact moment the ice becomes water. One second there's something between my fingers, and the next there's not.
My brother looks different tonight. He's been complaining of poor vision for months, and his glasses finally came today. He came home with a haircut as well. He looks much older than he is, but then again, he's getting pretty old. As of last month he's taller than me by a good inch. And he's five years younger.
Harding University sent me an application packet today. It's not my first choice, but I figure I better apply anyway in case my first choice falls through. It said "Apply early!" No kidding. Way too early.
I don't know if I mentioned that this was my second to last year as a Kamper. I went to the banquet with a little boy named Ethan. I kinda fell in love with his excessive knowledge of Spiderman. :)
Anyway, in conversation I asked him what grade he was going into, and I figured it had to be fourth or fifth, because he was so stinkin' cute and little. But I was wrong. He's going into SEVENTH.
I remember when seventh grade seemed old. When Lizzie McGuire was in seventh grade. MIDDLE SCHOOL. The land of lockers and multiple teachers. Remember that feeling? Remember thinking algebra had something to do with the order of the letters in the alphabet? Remember not knowing about the existence of bottom lockers? Remember innocence?
I stopped thinking middle school was old in about sixth grade. At that point it was high school. High school's where you really started figuring everything out. That theory disappeared in about ninth grade. At that point senior year felt old.
Guess what guys? I finally feel old.
"Graduate" doesn't sound that old. It just sounds kinda... kinda terrifying. Because in about a year, real life starts.
And I'm sitting here wondering where my childhood went. Realizing how much of it I have absolutely no recollection of. I have a few very vivid memories. Leaving the theater at the beginning of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" because Cindy Lou Who was surely being violently cut to bits by the wrapping machine. Fighting valiantly for my belief in Santa Claus out in the parking lot at my elementary school. Getting a rug burn playing in the foyer after church.
I can picture the sights, smell the smells, tell you exactly what the lighting in the room was like. I remember. That was yesterday. But it was really forever ago. My life's disappearing before my eyes.
But maybe it's not disappearing. Maybe it's melting.
Someday I'll be all gone. The faucet of time will continue to rush down on my life and in a blink, in an indeterminate second, I'll be washed down the garbage disposal into eternity. But you know what? I get a few seconds to let the water run between my fingers and feel the inexplicable joy that is living.
I'm excited to melt my ice.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
You know you've been to Kamp Koinonia if...
- The word "Hummingbird" makes you think of fright rather than a small winged creature.
- You can play "Clocks" and "Heart and Soul" on the piano but you can't play anything else.
-You've been in heated speculative discussions about what the Jewel Hunt theme will be.
-You've wondered how they're planning on using chopsticks in the Jewel Hunt.
-You know who the most beautiful man in the room is.
-You sing "Row Row Row Your Boat" a little bit different than everybody else you know.
-You've heard legends about both the Korean Mafia and the nearby "insane asylum."
-You've been dared to touch the door of the Bear Cabin.
-You know that if you ever go spelunking, the answer is NOT to tie yourself to your spelunking buddy.
-You've ever found it ironic that you take a long hike to Devil's Head at church Kamp.
-You have been marked wrong on one of those "What I Did This Summer" papers for spelling Kamp with a K.
-You find yourself laughing really hard at puns that normal people probably wouldn't find that funny.
-You've heard stories that make your cresh fleep and give you poosegimples.
-You've felt a little bit guilty about holding hands with someone of the opposite sex during a prayer... because you don't have a stick...
-You hope someday you'll meet a man who'll be willing to carry your purse.
-You've cheered at the top of your lungs for a little girl playing "Hot Cross Buns" on the piano.
-You know that no matter how many horrible tragedies befall her, the cat will come back.
-You know the difference between Bret and Bre-tuh-tuh.
-Tornado warnings make you want to sing a certain song.
-The phrase "Byron Clause" fills your heart with terror and foreboding.
-You've literally been sentenced to water torture.
-You've eaten wild raspberries despite being warned that they could possibly kill you.
-You were a little bummed when the lodge remodeled because even though those orange and purple chairs were heinously tacky, they were COMFY.
-If you're a girl, you've been terrified to use the other bathroom even though the sign says it's a girl's right now.
-You've started about a million lanyards and finished none of them.
-You've heard the same orientation jokes for eight years and you still laugh at them. Every. Single. Year.
-You've sat in the same spot for Quiet Time every year for as long as you can remember.
-You know exactly what a napkin check is.
-When people start cheering during a meal you just kinda go with it. Even though you have full knowledge that there's probably no point to it whatsoever.
-You have a VEHEMENT opinion when it comes to which color is better, green or blue.
-It took you a few years of coming to realize that Bret and Julie are brother and sister.
-You know that if you read Scripture in Tom Walker's class, he WILL interrupt you.
-You've been beaten, tortured, chased by a motorcycle, and sprayed with ketchup all in the same night.
-You've walked into the parlor to find at least three people sound asleep. And it's only Tuesday.
-You started shaving your legs immediately after winning the "girl with the hairiest legs" point in Scavenger Hunt.
-You want to be Bret Carter/ Julie Oehlert when you grow up.
-You've randomly started singing devo songs with several other people outside assembly or campfire.
-You owe some of your closest friends in the world to your years at Kamp.
-You have a box of caregrams that you read when you need a little extra encouragement.
-You've been astounded at the eagerness of a boy younger than twelve to lead a prayer or a song, or at the intelligence and relevance of a younger kid during Man to Man/ Woman to Woman.
-You have actually seen chivalry and have faith in its ability to stay alive even in the present world.
-Words people have said to you at the campfire Thursday or Friday have stayed with you for years.
-You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Christians can have real fun-- in fact, more fun than the rest of the world.
-You've cried over an Underground Church cop and the fact that you couldn't convert them... only to start crying harder, because you realize that in real life you don't care about REAL lost souls half that much.
-A class/assembly has brought you to tears with its relevance to your life.
-You've tasted a little slice of Heaven.
Kamp Koinonia 2011-- Thank you for teaching me how to better fight the good fight! I love you all and you encourage me more than you will ever know this side of Heaven. Somehow we always manage to keep the perfect balance of total silliness and deep spirituality and it always results in the next best week of my life. Stay strong in the Lord. Tan Kalon Agona.
<3
- You can play "Clocks" and "Heart and Soul" on the piano but you can't play anything else.
-You've been in heated speculative discussions about what the Jewel Hunt theme will be.
-You've wondered how they're planning on using chopsticks in the Jewel Hunt.
-You know who the most beautiful man in the room is.
-You sing "Row Row Row Your Boat" a little bit different than everybody else you know.
-You've heard legends about both the Korean Mafia and the nearby "insane asylum."
-You've been dared to touch the door of the Bear Cabin.
-You know that if you ever go spelunking, the answer is NOT to tie yourself to your spelunking buddy.
-You've ever found it ironic that you take a long hike to Devil's Head at church Kamp.
-You have been marked wrong on one of those "What I Did This Summer" papers for spelling Kamp with a K.
-You find yourself laughing really hard at puns that normal people probably wouldn't find that funny.
-You've heard stories that make your cresh fleep and give you poosegimples.
-You've felt a little bit guilty about holding hands with someone of the opposite sex during a prayer... because you don't have a stick...
-You hope someday you'll meet a man who'll be willing to carry your purse.
-You've cheered at the top of your lungs for a little girl playing "Hot Cross Buns" on the piano.
-You know that no matter how many horrible tragedies befall her, the cat will come back.
-You know the difference between Bret and Bre-tuh-tuh.
-Tornado warnings make you want to sing a certain song.
-The phrase "Byron Clause" fills your heart with terror and foreboding.
-You've literally been sentenced to water torture.
-You've eaten wild raspberries despite being warned that they could possibly kill you.
-You were a little bummed when the lodge remodeled because even though those orange and purple chairs were heinously tacky, they were COMFY.
-If you're a girl, you've been terrified to use the other bathroom even though the sign says it's a girl's right now.
-You've started about a million lanyards and finished none of them.
-You've heard the same orientation jokes for eight years and you still laugh at them. Every. Single. Year.
-You've sat in the same spot for Quiet Time every year for as long as you can remember.
-You know exactly what a napkin check is.
-When people start cheering during a meal you just kinda go with it. Even though you have full knowledge that there's probably no point to it whatsoever.
-You have a VEHEMENT opinion when it comes to which color is better, green or blue.
-It took you a few years of coming to realize that Bret and Julie are brother and sister.
-You know that if you read Scripture in Tom Walker's class, he WILL interrupt you.
-You've been beaten, tortured, chased by a motorcycle, and sprayed with ketchup all in the same night.
-You've walked into the parlor to find at least three people sound asleep. And it's only Tuesday.
-You started shaving your legs immediately after winning the "girl with the hairiest legs" point in Scavenger Hunt.
-You want to be Bret Carter/ Julie Oehlert when you grow up.
-You've randomly started singing devo songs with several other people outside assembly or campfire.
-You owe some of your closest friends in the world to your years at Kamp.
-You have a box of caregrams that you read when you need a little extra encouragement.
-You've been astounded at the eagerness of a boy younger than twelve to lead a prayer or a song, or at the intelligence and relevance of a younger kid during Man to Man/ Woman to Woman.
-You have actually seen chivalry and have faith in its ability to stay alive even in the present world.
-Words people have said to you at the campfire Thursday or Friday have stayed with you for years.
-You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Christians can have real fun-- in fact, more fun than the rest of the world.
-You've cried over an Underground Church cop and the fact that you couldn't convert them... only to start crying harder, because you realize that in real life you don't care about REAL lost souls half that much.
-A class/assembly has brought you to tears with its relevance to your life.
-You've tasted a little slice of Heaven.
Kamp Koinonia 2011-- Thank you for teaching me how to better fight the good fight! I love you all and you encourage me more than you will ever know this side of Heaven. Somehow we always manage to keep the perfect balance of total silliness and deep spirituality and it always results in the next best week of my life. Stay strong in the Lord. Tan Kalon Agona.
<3
Thursday, July 7, 2011
My Hero
I love super heroes.
As a people, as a species, we've always loved a hero. It goes clear back to Greek and Roman mythology. Look at Hercules, Achilles, Aeneas, Odysseus. They were children of the gods, endowed with some sort of power, sent on a mission from heaven. At the same time, though, they were human, prone to human faults and failures.
Flash forward to the 20th century. Superman, Batman, Captain America, Green Lantern, the Flash, Spider-Man, Thor, just to name a few. Each, no matter their source of power, no matter their protective domain, no matter their secret identity, have been burdened and yet blessed with a singular mission...
TO SAVE THE WORLD!!
Is it really any wonder we love them? Yeah. I didn't think so either.
But it does go deeper than that. At least for me it does.
Of course, we love super heroes because they're, well, super. They play with our imaginations. They do everything we wish we could do. They can fly. They have super strength. They can move faster than the speed of light. They're invincible. Who hasn't wished for a super power? I mean, really. You love the idea. Whether you admit it or not, you wish you were a super hero sometimes. Admit it. :)
But we also love them because they're human. They have problems and weaknesses. Batman is literally, 100% human, totally vulnerable (except for his armor, but... that doesn't prove my point so I'm not acknowledging that). Spider-Man can hardly afford to be a super hero. The Hulk and Thor both have to learn to conquer their anger. Iron Man has heart problems, for crying out loud! Even Superman cringes at the sight of Kryptonite. And, of course, whether it be Lois Lane, Mary Jane Watson, Jane Foster, or anybody else, nearly every superhero falls prey to the number one vulnerability: a love interest.
We like vulnerability. We understand vulnerability. Vulnerability makes us think of ourselves.
But really, truly, in our heart of hearts, the central reason we love super heroes is that they're just that. Heroes.
No matter how a hero acquires his power, he chooses to use it for the good of humanity. Sure, for some the choice is easier than others, but they kind of all hold to Spider-Man's philosophy: "With great power comes great responsibility." (Good grief, that was a nerdy sentence.) Mankind must always come first, no matter what other conflicting personal desires he may hold. Self-sacrifice is no stranger to the super hero. Even motives become subject to this strict code of super hero-dom. Revenge and hate must be absent in a super hero's mentality, though it's a constant battle to achieve this pure mindset.
So you place these supers in a very real world, surrounded by very real problems along with the fantastically exaggerated ones. You give them a responsibility, a vulnerability, and a sense of extreme morality. The result is inspiring. Super heroes remind us that maybe, just maybe, we can do it too. Can we swing from buildings or fly or lift cars or summon lightning? Of course not. But we can hold to this higher code of morality. We can use our talents to help mankind. We can stand up for the good of humanity. We can MAKE A DIFFERENCE. And that's encouraging to say the least.
"Kids like Henry need a hero, courageous, self-sacrificing people, setting an example for all of us. Everybody loves a hero. People line up for them, cheer them, scream their names. And years later, they'll tell how they stood in the rain for hours just to get a glimpse of the one who taught them how to hold on a second longer. I believe there's a hero in all of us, that keeps us honest, gives us strength, makes us noble, and finally allows us to die with pride, even though sometimes we have to be steady, and give up the thing we want the most. Even our dreams." -Aunt Mae, Spider-Man 2
Gonna be a hero?
As a people, as a species, we've always loved a hero. It goes clear back to Greek and Roman mythology. Look at Hercules, Achilles, Aeneas, Odysseus. They were children of the gods, endowed with some sort of power, sent on a mission from heaven. At the same time, though, they were human, prone to human faults and failures.
Flash forward to the 20th century. Superman, Batman, Captain America, Green Lantern, the Flash, Spider-Man, Thor, just to name a few. Each, no matter their source of power, no matter their protective domain, no matter their secret identity, have been burdened and yet blessed with a singular mission...
TO SAVE THE WORLD!!
Is it really any wonder we love them? Yeah. I didn't think so either.
But it does go deeper than that. At least for me it does.
Of course, we love super heroes because they're, well, super. They play with our imaginations. They do everything we wish we could do. They can fly. They have super strength. They can move faster than the speed of light. They're invincible. Who hasn't wished for a super power? I mean, really. You love the idea. Whether you admit it or not, you wish you were a super hero sometimes. Admit it. :)
But we also love them because they're human. They have problems and weaknesses. Batman is literally, 100% human, totally vulnerable (except for his armor, but... that doesn't prove my point so I'm not acknowledging that). Spider-Man can hardly afford to be a super hero. The Hulk and Thor both have to learn to conquer their anger. Iron Man has heart problems, for crying out loud! Even Superman cringes at the sight of Kryptonite. And, of course, whether it be Lois Lane, Mary Jane Watson, Jane Foster, or anybody else, nearly every superhero falls prey to the number one vulnerability: a love interest.
We like vulnerability. We understand vulnerability. Vulnerability makes us think of ourselves.
But really, truly, in our heart of hearts, the central reason we love super heroes is that they're just that. Heroes.
No matter how a hero acquires his power, he chooses to use it for the good of humanity. Sure, for some the choice is easier than others, but they kind of all hold to Spider-Man's philosophy: "With great power comes great responsibility." (Good grief, that was a nerdy sentence.) Mankind must always come first, no matter what other conflicting personal desires he may hold. Self-sacrifice is no stranger to the super hero. Even motives become subject to this strict code of super hero-dom. Revenge and hate must be absent in a super hero's mentality, though it's a constant battle to achieve this pure mindset.
So you place these supers in a very real world, surrounded by very real problems along with the fantastically exaggerated ones. You give them a responsibility, a vulnerability, and a sense of extreme morality. The result is inspiring. Super heroes remind us that maybe, just maybe, we can do it too. Can we swing from buildings or fly or lift cars or summon lightning? Of course not. But we can hold to this higher code of morality. We can use our talents to help mankind. We can stand up for the good of humanity. We can MAKE A DIFFERENCE. And that's encouraging to say the least.
"Kids like Henry need a hero, courageous, self-sacrificing people, setting an example for all of us. Everybody loves a hero. People line up for them, cheer them, scream their names. And years later, they'll tell how they stood in the rain for hours just to get a glimpse of the one who taught them how to hold on a second longer. I believe there's a hero in all of us, that keeps us honest, gives us strength, makes us noble, and finally allows us to die with pride, even though sometimes we have to be steady, and give up the thing we want the most. Even our dreams." -Aunt Mae, Spider-Man 2
Gonna be a hero?
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