As I was washing up a few dishes after supper last night, I overheard Josiah talking to Mom out in the porch:
"Wow, the dog had really bad breath tonight! Yuck! But don't worry--I knocked him out with mine."
Yeah, well, thanks, bro. I'm totally getting you a bottle of mouthwash for Christmas.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Thursday morning, I was in a bit of a rush as I hurriedly rustled around the kitchen, throwing together a portable lunch to carry along to work.
Thea, I muttered to myself as I sawed off a slice of bread, you desperately need to work on this whole ‘scheduling-my-life’ thing...your scheduling, at this point, is pretty pathetic, as demonstrated by current time crunch...
I zipped over to the cupboard to find a plastic bag for the sandwich I had constructed. It wasn’t a work of art, by any stretch, but it would have to do. As I pulled the bag out of the cupboard, however, some writing on the front of it caught my eye. In big, black letters, scrawled boldly in permanent marker across the front, it read “Frankenstein’s Brain.”
I laughed.
There is only one explanation for this sort of thing at our house: Josiah.
Life would be so much less interesting without little brothers.
As I packed everything into the car and drove off into the sunrise, with my youngest brother’s fancy piece of artwork on the seat beside me, I was suddenly struck by a new side of the equation—one which I hadn’t really considered in the initial encounter.
My sandwich was, as far as I could tell, a simple combination of bread, cheese, and cold turkey. However, according to the bag, it was something entirely different. In fact, it was a bona fide specimen of cerebral tissue from the cranium of Frankenstein himself.
Such an incredible amount of power in labels! I mused, flicking my fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.
Just then, a massively overweight cat appeared on the right side of the road up ahead. He blinked intelligently at me, shook his whiskers slightly, and then hoisted his heavy self up out of the ditch with a prodigious effort.
You know, he’s kind of cute...for an obese critter. I cocked my head to match his, and grinned slightly.
I guess the grin scared him, because the next instant, that massively overweight cat was gallumping across the road right in front of my car as if he could feel the breath of Jack the Ripper on the fully erect hair that covered his ugly tail.
What a retarded animal! I found myself thinking, as I instinctively slammed on the brakes.
And then I laughed. “Speaking of the power in labels...there goes a case in point.”
Was the cat stupid? Possibly. But did my calling him stupid make him so? Most likely not. (And I don’t think he heard me, anyway.)
Did the magic marker on my bag transform my sandwich into Frankenstein’s brain? I’d like to think it didn’t...because I ate it.
But the bigger point that I was left to ponder during the next forty-five minutes of my drive was this:
As humans, we’re quick to slap labels on everything, and often, we construct neat categories into which we can put the people we meet.
“Oh,” someone will say knowingly, “I know why he’s like that! He’s from New York.” And we smile, and nod understandingly, because we all know how those New Yorkers are—they raise such strange breeds out on the East Coast!
“He’s Indian? And he’s a student? Ah, yes. Probably going for his doctorate. Those Indians are such a brilliant group!”
“She was the youngest child? Little wonder she’s spoiled. Probably explains the buck teeth, too.”
“Ah. A Methodist. Well, then, we really can’t be friends. I don’t work well with Methodists.”
“You’re reformed? And post-trib? You must be a Piperite!”
The list is truly endless, and the effects of labeling are as multitudinous as the labels themselves.
Too often, however, I fear that it is the act of categorizing itself which blinds us to the truly unique and significant aspects of the people who may cross our path. When I get hung up on the fact that my friend is of a different faith than I am, I allow a label to get in the way of relationship, and perhaps I rob both of us of the blessing that God intended for our friendship to bring. When I dismissively walk past the bum who is puffing on his filthy cigarette outside a rundown bicycle shop, I am missing the fact that here is a human being—a special creation made in the image of God—with deep emotional, spiritual, and physical needs.
As I parked the car and headed inside, my brain continued to turn over this concept of creative labeling.
“I need to give my labeling tendencies to God for revision,” I mumbled, twisting the key in the lock of the store’s front door.
After all, someone could look at me and think, ‘Wow, there goes a blonde...one who apparently eats Frankensteinian brains for lunch! That explains a lot.’
And they might be right. It probably does explain a lot. But it doesn’t explain everything. Because within every monster-brain consuming blonde, as well as every other individual on the planet, there is a uniquely designed human being created by an all-loving, all-powerful heavenly Father. And it’s that unique human being that we can’t afford to gloss over lightly.
The key clicked in the lock with a dull-sounding thud just then, and the door swung open. My day had begun. But as I crossed the threshold, and was greeted by the lovely smell of cinnamon, and lilacs, and newly-made paper, I offered up a silent prayer asking for the grace and wisdom to see the real person in each customer who would follow me through those doors.
And then I went to put Frankenstein’s brain in the refrigerator for safe keeping. Just because.
Thea, I muttered to myself as I sawed off a slice of bread, you desperately need to work on this whole ‘scheduling-my-life’ thing...your scheduling, at this point, is pretty pathetic, as demonstrated by current time crunch...
I zipped over to the cupboard to find a plastic bag for the sandwich I had constructed. It wasn’t a work of art, by any stretch, but it would have to do. As I pulled the bag out of the cupboard, however, some writing on the front of it caught my eye. In big, black letters, scrawled boldly in permanent marker across the front, it read “Frankenstein’s Brain.”
I laughed.
There is only one explanation for this sort of thing at our house: Josiah.
Life would be so much less interesting without little brothers.
As I packed everything into the car and drove off into the sunrise, with my youngest brother’s fancy piece of artwork on the seat beside me, I was suddenly struck by a new side of the equation—one which I hadn’t really considered in the initial encounter.
My sandwich was, as far as I could tell, a simple combination of bread, cheese, and cold turkey. However, according to the bag, it was something entirely different. In fact, it was a bona fide specimen of cerebral tissue from the cranium of Frankenstein himself.
Such an incredible amount of power in labels! I mused, flicking my fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.
Just then, a massively overweight cat appeared on the right side of the road up ahead. He blinked intelligently at me, shook his whiskers slightly, and then hoisted his heavy self up out of the ditch with a prodigious effort.
You know, he’s kind of cute...for an obese critter. I cocked my head to match his, and grinned slightly.
I guess the grin scared him, because the next instant, that massively overweight cat was gallumping across the road right in front of my car as if he could feel the breath of Jack the Ripper on the fully erect hair that covered his ugly tail.
What a retarded animal! I found myself thinking, as I instinctively slammed on the brakes.
And then I laughed. “Speaking of the power in labels...there goes a case in point.”
Was the cat stupid? Possibly. But did my calling him stupid make him so? Most likely not. (And I don’t think he heard me, anyway.)
Did the magic marker on my bag transform my sandwich into Frankenstein’s brain? I’d like to think it didn’t...because I ate it.
But the bigger point that I was left to ponder during the next forty-five minutes of my drive was this:
As humans, we’re quick to slap labels on everything, and often, we construct neat categories into which we can put the people we meet.
“Oh,” someone will say knowingly, “I know why he’s like that! He’s from New York.” And we smile, and nod understandingly, because we all know how those New Yorkers are—they raise such strange breeds out on the East Coast!
“He’s Indian? And he’s a student? Ah, yes. Probably going for his doctorate. Those Indians are such a brilliant group!”
“She was the youngest child? Little wonder she’s spoiled. Probably explains the buck teeth, too.”
“Ah. A Methodist. Well, then, we really can’t be friends. I don’t work well with Methodists.”
“You’re reformed? And post-trib? You must be a Piperite!”
The list is truly endless, and the effects of labeling are as multitudinous as the labels themselves.
Too often, however, I fear that it is the act of categorizing itself which blinds us to the truly unique and significant aspects of the people who may cross our path. When I get hung up on the fact that my friend is of a different faith than I am, I allow a label to get in the way of relationship, and perhaps I rob both of us of the blessing that God intended for our friendship to bring. When I dismissively walk past the bum who is puffing on his filthy cigarette outside a rundown bicycle shop, I am missing the fact that here is a human being—a special creation made in the image of God—with deep emotional, spiritual, and physical needs.
As I parked the car and headed inside, my brain continued to turn over this concept of creative labeling.
“I need to give my labeling tendencies to God for revision,” I mumbled, twisting the key in the lock of the store’s front door.
After all, someone could look at me and think, ‘Wow, there goes a blonde...one who apparently eats Frankensteinian brains for lunch! That explains a lot.’
And they might be right. It probably does explain a lot. But it doesn’t explain everything. Because within every monster-brain consuming blonde, as well as every other individual on the planet, there is a uniquely designed human being created by an all-loving, all-powerful heavenly Father. And it’s that unique human being that we can’t afford to gloss over lightly.
The key clicked in the lock with a dull-sounding thud just then, and the door swung open. My day had begun. But as I crossed the threshold, and was greeted by the lovely smell of cinnamon, and lilacs, and newly-made paper, I offered up a silent prayer asking for the grace and wisdom to see the real person in each customer who would follow me through those doors.
And then I went to put Frankenstein’s brain in the refrigerator for safe keeping. Just because.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
My sweet younger sister, Michelle, left this morning for Romania. (Surprise!) Ok, we knew that was coming...but that still doesn’t make “goodbye” a happy word in my vocabulary. ;-)
It has been completely and totally wonderful to have her here for the past two weeks, and there were definitely many memorable moments—thank you so much to all the wonderful family and friends who made it all the more special!
I miss her already...phew, and it hasn’t even been a day. But I’m grateful to have such a sister, and grateful that God has provided this opportunity for her to learn, grow, and minister on the opposite side of the pond. Praying for you, Chelle.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Eskimo Invasion in Midwestern United States
Reports have been trickling in from a certain little bird--ok, it was actually a trio of rather large birds, actually--that Eskimos have been sighted in Wausau and surrounding areas. Since this was, obviously, exciting news for those of us who have never seen a real, live Eskimo, we sent out our scouts with their cameras at the ready.
After several days of slogging through slushy snow, enduring frigid temperatures, and being repeatedly chased out of homes by broom-wielding old ladies, one of our photographers found the genuine article. That's right, ladies and gentlemen! One of our photographers, an incognito agent who sneaks around under the guise of being a home schooling student, was able to find and capture this good-looking young Eskimo on film. Of course, he was rather surprised by the camera's flash, because they don't have such things where he comes from, but he's recovering well from the mild case of fried-eyeball syndrome that resulted from the taking of this photo.
If you see this young man during your next Christmas shopping expedition, please do make sure to say hi and tell him how glad you are that he has come to liven up the social scene here in Wausau.
After several days of slogging through slushy snow, enduring frigid temperatures, and being repeatedly chased out of homes by broom-wielding old ladies, one of our photographers found the genuine article. That's right, ladies and gentlemen! One of our photographers, an incognito agent who sneaks around under the guise of being a home schooling student, was able to find and capture this good-looking young Eskimo on film. Of course, he was rather surprised by the camera's flash, because they don't have such things where he comes from, but he's recovering well from the mild case of fried-eyeball syndrome that resulted from the taking of this photo.
If you see this young man during your next Christmas shopping expedition, please do make sure to say hi and tell him how glad you are that he has come to liven up the social scene here in Wausau.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Last night in my medical terminology class, we watched a bit of graphic video footage on the effect that smoking has on your lungs...and the effect that eating cheesecurds and French fries has on your aorta...and the effect that drinking has on your liver...and the effect that candy has on your diabetes. (ok, so it was a clip from Oprah. Whatever.)
But it really made a deep impression on me. Deeper, that is, than some of the other horror stories that I've heard in whispers from well-meaning grandparents, who lean over their Thanksgiving pumpkin pie with wide eyes to warn you about the dangers of going out into public without first checking to make sure that your shirt has all its buttons and your pants are zipped.
So today, as I was meandering from one class to another, I was more struck than usual by the number of people that you find outside puffing away on cancer sticks in subzero degree weather. What's up with that?!
Every time I walked by one of these benevolent individuals who was so dutifully helping to counteract global cooling by emitting as much environmental pollution as possible, I was picturing the alveoli melting away inside of their lungs, and the nasty black tar getting a little thicker and a little nastier with each puff...and it was rather disturbing, to be perfectly frank.
So disturbing, in fact, that I began to think of making a modern rendition of the old Tar Baby/Brer Rabbit stories, only the Tar Baby would be played by a smoker in the new version. And perhaps I'd give the Easter Bunny a speaking part and let him take on the role of Brer Rabbit if he agreed to donate his eggs to the Salvation Army in exchange--I'm pretty sure they're way past their expiration date anyway--he's been carrying them around in that same ol' basket since ten years before I was born...
Any and all script ideas will be given due consideration, and I thank you kindly in advance for your time in this regard.
But it really made a deep impression on me. Deeper, that is, than some of the other horror stories that I've heard in whispers from well-meaning grandparents, who lean over their Thanksgiving pumpkin pie with wide eyes to warn you about the dangers of going out into public without first checking to make sure that your shirt has all its buttons and your pants are zipped.
So today, as I was meandering from one class to another, I was more struck than usual by the number of people that you find outside puffing away on cancer sticks in subzero degree weather. What's up with that?!
Every time I walked by one of these benevolent individuals who was so dutifully helping to counteract global cooling by emitting as much environmental pollution as possible, I was picturing the alveoli melting away inside of their lungs, and the nasty black tar getting a little thicker and a little nastier with each puff...and it was rather disturbing, to be perfectly frank.
So disturbing, in fact, that I began to think of making a modern rendition of the old Tar Baby/Brer Rabbit stories, only the Tar Baby would be played by a smoker in the new version. And perhaps I'd give the Easter Bunny a speaking part and let him take on the role of Brer Rabbit if he agreed to donate his eggs to the Salvation Army in exchange--I'm pretty sure they're way past their expiration date anyway--he's been carrying them around in that same ol' basket since ten years before I was born...
Any and all script ideas will be given due consideration, and I thank you kindly in advance for your time in this regard.
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