(There are a (lot) of par(en(the)se)s) in this (one)!!!

First of all, I feel an update is in order. No, I'm not pregnant. I have had so many of you asking about whether I was, and I figured I owed both of my loyal readers an update. Oh, and also my computer and other things have NOT been found. Well, at least not found by anyone of repute, specifically anyone in law-enforcement or anyone with an over-inflated sense of justice.

So yeah, I was looking forward to saving up for a lot of the software and things I'll need for video/audio editing, software I didn't have because of a recent (if short-lived) switch to a new Apple MacBook Pro. Alas, for some reason still unknown to me, my computer, iPod, an external hard-drive, and my lovely Peterson tobacco pipe were all stolen. Perhaps this is some sort of incarnation of having all your eggs in one basket, though because of the cost of the equipment lost, these eggs may have to be Fabergé eggs in a basket made from the soft bone of baby Pterodactyls, painted with a mixture of gold-leaf and the blood of Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius by Captain Gladys Stoutpamphlet and her Intrepid Spaniel Stig Amongst the Giant Pygmies of Beckles. (My most insincere apologies for that last statement, but I think I've made my point.) Irregardless (to be said with a thick Boston accent) I lost a lot of things all at once, and while I must admit some rather unpleasant words were said in the chill of the moment, I have decided to take this all in stride. (Fortunately I have long legs, so I can take a LOT in stride.)

I've had a couple weeks to think about the loss of my valuables, and have come to a series of scattered conclusions. First and five-most, I am much more American than I would like to admit. By that, I mean I love my stuff, and feel entitled to having nice and expensive things. Within the first few hours of losing my Fabergé eggs, I lamented the loss of my iPod because I couldn't have every scrap of music I owned with me at all times. Good grief, Charlie Brown. How ridiculous is that? (You may take the question rhetorically or otherwise. Sometimes Captain Obvious comes to town with humorous results.) As much as I wish I were above this ridiculous commercialism, I'm right in the thick of it, taking it all in. (Greed is so often described in visual terms, green-eyed, black-hearted, but I think it may be best described as a pile of rotting meat drenched in saccharine perfume. Or like air-freshener in the bathroom wherein a large deposit has been made, and in a frantic attempt to hide their business, the depositor has not covered anything up, but has added extra foulness to the already-pungent aroma.) This sense of entitlement is a killer.

I do not claim to have problems of Biblical proportions, but I feel like I have a new understanding of the book of Job. God allows what we would deem an injustice to take place in the interest of testing the individual. God allows the devil to take everything of earthly-meaning from Job, injust by our standards, but he doesn't curse or turn his back on God, despite having done nothing to deserve the pummeling he receives. Then physical aliments, boils and such, and still no back-turning to be found. And all the while, he has this wonderful support structure of friends telling him he must have done something to deserve this, and that he needs to repent so it'll all go away. (Nothing like chastising those we care about when they could use some support.) So I was telling my mother about how I was feeling the tiniest bit like Job, except that I hadn't produced any boils or sores. She quickly reminded me of my physical ailments due to a certain recent cycling-accident, the repercussions from which I'm still daily feeling. So that confirmed my decision to change my name to Job, and replace my fantastically supportive friends with ones who know better than I do, and chastise me at every turn. I'm looking into putting out a bulletin on Craigslist to that effect:"Wanted: friends to lend me goofy theology and kick me when I'm down. Also must have experience with boils." So it feels like I'm being tested, and I'm actually a little excited about it. Not so much excited about the testing, but excited to see how far God has taken me in recent years so that I'm actually a little surprised to see how I'm taking this negative turn of events. I'm becoming more convinced that God tests us not for His benefit, but for ours. Seriously, we're talking about the omniscient, omnipotent king of the universe who not only created us, but KNEW us before we were conceived. He knows where we are, spiritually speaking. I, on the other hand, don't always know where I am, spiritually speaking. (Sometimes physically speaking too, especially in the nonsensical labyrinth that is North Portland.)

If someone were to take my reactions to negative experiences in my life and analyze those reactions, the expected response to losing my dream-computer would be falling into a deep depression, which would not only consistently affect me, but would cast a pall on anyone brave enough to try to be around me. My good friends know exactly what I'm talking about. In a pivotal moment of darkness in my own life, someone told me "You bring death into the room." Now that may not have been a particularly compassionate thing to say (perhaps recommendation to see a counselor or look into drugs for clinical depression would have been more constructive) but it stuck with me, as you might imagine it would. So my life graphed to an average would predict long-lasting depression from this kind of loss, this kind of blow to my own productivity. However, much to my surprise, my depression was a little less than 24 hours, followed by disappointment and bewilderment of a lesser nature for the following days. God tested me, and I got to see the results. It's like one of those "progressive" schools where students grade their own work (Anyone remember the episode of Arrested Development where we got to see Maybe's self-given grades, pictures for grades. Brilliant.) and on the other side of things I've had to give myself a B+ (An A seems a little too generous.)

Now that this blog is reaching brobdingnagian proportions, I should stop and say that things are good. My dad is letting me use his laptop until I can afford a new one, I have several opportnities to potentially make money using my gifts, and the sun is shining. I have some exciting things that really should wait for a new blog, so I'll save them. Thanks so much to the network of people who so diligently prayed for me in this loss, and thanks to the creator who says that nothing he created can bring death into any room. (And extra special thanks to whoever created parenthetical statements, as they let me whisper funny little rabbit-trails without going too far off the beaten path.)

Please pray...

Hey everybody.

My new computer was stolen out of a vehicle this evening. Please pray that I would get it back. I know God has done much more impossible things, so I know it's possible, though my brain tells me otherwise. Thanks.

Home?

So right now I'm midway through a week-long trip up to Alaska, and it's a little strange.

Because I did showings of "Bible Camp" in December and March, I've actually been up here more recently, which ends up meaning that I have less news, less to share with people. It's a strange position to be in. I suppose I have new solid information when it comes to what direction my life is taking, but other than that, things are pretty much how they were last March. One of the best parts of visiting my home-state is usually the fact that I have a lot of catching up to do with a lot of people, and this time around this is just not the case. In fact, the difference in this trip extends beyond the realm of just catching up with people.

"Alaska will always be my home," has been a phrase I've used with my non-Alaskan friends. And while it is likely this statement will always have a bit of truth in it, I'm no longer sure how far it goes. I think most of us have a place in our hearts for the "halcyon days of old," but when push comes to shove, rose-colored glasses seem only to come with blinders. So now that I'm back in my favorite state, the blinders are gone and I'm suddenly in a whole different place. Maybe I've grown accustomed to the ridiculous amounts of sunshine afforded by central-Oregon, but the constant overcast skies are as far away from an idyllic Alaskan summer as I can possibly remember. Friends have moved on, things have changed, and while it always seems like things should stay the same while I'm gone, they don't. It's like watching a TV show for years without missing an episode, and then missing nearly all of a season while I start watching a new show. I don't know what's going on half of the time because I've missed a whole set of inside jokes, relationship shifts, and characters growing up. A strange feeling, for sure.

So while it's great to be back where I grew up, it's not quite as I left it. And perhaps it's supposed to be that way.

My Trip to Kenya, Part 3

In my injury-excused lethargy, I was able to crank out another part of my Kenya videos. So far I've taken a slightly different approach to each part. We'll see what happens with the next part. Cheers.

A Tale of Two Tales

Sometimes a story is more fun with a little embellishment. I had a bit of an accident on my bike this last Sunday, and I’d like to try a little experiment. I’m going to tell the story of my battered body in two accounts. It’s your job to figure out which is true, and which is not. Also keep in mind that I may never let anyone know which account is which. It just may remain one of the great mysteries of our time.



Account 1

As the afternoon slipped slowly into evening, I was still riding my bike. It had been three days so far, trying to cross Oregon’s formidable Cascade Range, and I was beginning to lose my nerve. It was not like me to lose anything but patience. My steely nervous system was a byproduct of my rugged, often extreme lifestyle, and not subject to the wear and tear of daily life. But after seventy-two straight hours of cycling, anything can happen, even to an amazing man such as myself.

Evening’s cooler air was refreshing, invigorating, but as I began to get my twenty-second wind, another kind of wind began. Real wind. It started as a light breeze, nothing to even think twice about. But as the black clouds began to sneak into my golden-blue evening light, I felt the birth of a gale. This portion of the mountains is known for its extreme changes in amplitude, a fact I was well aware of, and one for which I was prepared. However, despite my extensive training, the gathering wind at my face not only slowed my ascent of each uphill, but virtually halted my plan to coast down the downhill portions of this tumultuously treacherous terrain. I was losing steam fast, and there was no turning back. You see, the road had been blocked off to automobile traffic because of an extreme landslide, which not only necessitated my mode of transportation, but was the real reason I was riding so hard.

In a small village nestled in the folds of the Cascades, little Gertrude Twitter (those who know her call her Trudy) had been waiting for the postal service to deliver her insulin, a delivery made impossible by the recent landslides. I became a one-man postal service, and neither sleet nor snow nor the impending doom of a storm was going to sway me from my noble end: to deliver the goods and save another life.

My ally, good weather, would soon be overpowered by the awesome force of black clouds, wind, and torrential rain-pour. I was only a few miles from Trudy’s village, but my luck had begun to turn sour as layer upon layer of black clouds rolled in like some kind of thing that rolls a lot. I shifted quickly, methodically into my easiest gear, and stood up as I climbed what should have been the last hill of my arduous journey, flexing my impressive quads with each stroke of the pedals. I knew I couldn’t keep it up forever, but I could also see little Trudy’s face in my mind, her eyes screwed up as she fought back the tears as she imagined nobody would becoming with her life-saving medicine. Tears which had formed from the incredible wind in my eyes began to mix with tears from the dust that was being stirred and blown into my eyes which mixed with tears from the sheer mental strain I was under which in turn mixed with tears from the pain in my worn legs which ultimately mixed with tears from knowing Trudy was waiting, waiting, waiting for her knight in shining biker-spandex to come and save her. Also there were tears from the mountain onion farm I was slowly passing. It was harvest time, and the onions were being minced on site.

As I rounded the last bend, I could see Trudy’s village squatting on the mountainside. I made my final push toward the village when I saw something move in the corner of my eye. I whipped my head back just in time to see the herd of elk closing in on my position while the rain began to dump bucket on me. I couldn’t go any faster, and in hopeless agony I watched as hundreds, nay, thousands of soaked elk blasted past me. I knew it was a matter of time before I was trampled to death amid the cacophonous roar of the elk and thunder. This situation dictated my next move, a daring move indeed. I leapt from my bicycle, just as it was destroyed in a sickening crunch, and I landed on top of one of the younger elk, riding it easily into town. Caribou-riding was also part of my training, which turned out to be exactly the same as elk-riding. I steered my wild steed into the village, hopped gracefully to the ground and began shouting, “Trudy! Trudy! I’ve come to save you!”

Trudy’s mother came rushing out of a nearby thatched hut, screaming at her two dogs, and also for me to come quickly. I sprinted into the house, taking care to remove my wet shoes, and spotted Trudy lying quietly in bed, apparently at death’s door. I flung my helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, mouth-guard, shin-guards, and shoulder-pads to the dirt floor of the hut, and pulled out the refrigerated cylinder which held Trudy’s salvation. Tearing open the container, I quickly read the instructions several times, at which time I grabbed the syringe, plunging it into the exact right location. Immediately Trudy looked me in the eyes and said, “My hero!” I told her she needed not thank me, and that I must be on my way. On my way out the door, as I looked back at Trudy’s beaming face, I tripped over one of the dogs, landing on my right side, which injured my foot, thigh, and shoulder all at once. I quickly got up, covering my embarrassed face with my hand, bade them a final farewell, and limped out of town as the storm disappeared and sunset’s rays peaked their last from under the receding storm-clouds.

And that’s how I injured most of my right side.



Account 2

I went mountain-biking on an easy trail fairly close to home with a couple friends. I was following too close to one of the friends, when he made an unexpected move. I tried not to hit him with my bike and hit a tree instead. We were less than a quarter-mile from the parking lot.

And that’s how I injured most of my right side.



Now seriously, nobody will ever know the truth. Each story has its own merit grounded in reality. Tough call for most. Regardless, I messed up my right foot, quad and shoulder. The first day I had trouble walking, and now I’ve traded my inability to walk with a gnarly set of bruises and scrapes. But really, which account is true? Which story do you believe? The world may never know, and I’ll certainly never tell.

The Blob

My friend Fritz (he's a fantastic photographer - fritzphoto.com) invited me to Younglife's Wildhorse Canyon for the day. It's an amazing place, out in the middle of nowhere. There's a pretty amazing story behind its becoming a camp, though I only know second/third-hand info, so it's probably better to get it elsewhere. So we went out and played like a couple of kids. One of the more fun parts of the day was launching Fritz on the blob. I weigh 80 pounds more than him, which has a spectacular effect. Enjoy the video.