NOTE: I found this in one of my document folders. I wrote it last year.
I attended a new church this morning with a friend of mine. He attends the church and in my current status of between churches he invited me to go in the hopes that it may become my new church home. Now, I go to a Bible College where we attend a church-type
service every day of the week. The worship and atmosphere in this church was ultra-contemporary, even more so than the chapel services at our school which consist only of college-aged students and generally lacks aged folks. The church was mostly college age to early thirty-somethings in my observation. At some point in the service I actually found myself wishing for a more traditional styled service.
My high-school aged self would kick the crap out of me if he'd heard me say that.
I would have been in heaven had I attended when I was in youth group. 5 days a week I am in a youth group-type worship setting (that is, contemporary worship based on the most recent publications of Matt Redman, Israel Houghton, etc.). So I found myself thinking that maybe attending one service per week that was a little more traditional would be nice.
The second thing that struck me this morning was how emotional the service was. The first half of the service was worship, which was fine, and I enjoyed it. I actually haven't been in such an emotional setting in a long time. I honestly felt out of place. Why? Because I am not an emotional worshiper. I'm not really an emotional guy.
This thought process made me think of my college psychology professor, Mr. Williams.
Before transfering to Bible College, I spent my first year out of high school at a community college. One of the first class periods he talked about Lancelot of all people. Lancelot, he said, was the most noble of all of King Arthur's knights. The reason he was so noble was because he was truly a terrible, ruthless person. He enjoyed hurting people, but he wanted to be a knight. Knights, though, were noble and caring, so therefore, Lancelot did not allow himself to do what he truly wanted.
Having said this, I must point out that I am not a very emotional person. Being in situations with an excess of emotion puts me a little on edge, even in worship. I cried and wept when I was saved and again when I returned to the faith, and again here and there, but all in all I am not an emotional worshiper nor a really emotional person. Why is this? Kinda like Lancelot, I am actually a very emotional person. I actually have a deep rift of emotion flowing through me, but I do not let it show. At times it comes out in the form of a poem, story, or painting, but generally the tumultuous waves of my emotion stay neatly inside of me. Why? I don't know, I guess. Maybe because I've grown up in a household that wasn't emotional, maybe because I've been raised in a society where men are taught to with hold their emotions. Either way, I am a quiet rock emotional. Strong, but jagged nonetheless.
It's hard to be a rock when you really know you are a river.
9.02.2006
9.01.2006
Norton
One of the aspects that went along with living off campus is the drive to and from classes everyday. This was generally an enjoyable event for me, an opportunity to spend a few minutes alone (to go along with the several hours alone I spend at other points in the day), listen to whatever CD I'm listening to (I listen to a CD for about a week at a time ), and just drive.
And this drive, it's always full of adventure. After a nondescript intersection, I drive around one of those "Suggested Speed 15 MPH" 90 degree turns. I have trained myself to be able to take that baby (and every on/off ramp) at 50 MPH, which my roommates did not appreciate, but I live for stuff like that. The one time that it has really snowed there in southwestern MO one lady apparently forgot that the white
stuff on the ground is snow and took that turn at her normal speed (which is generally 20-25 MPH for most people) only to lose control of her grey SUV and run off the road, barrel over a concrete fencepost, and rest gingerly on top of a grave. It had apparently just happened as I concededly drove by at a balmy 15 MPH as she was outside in the ankle-deep snow, looking at the car, then the fence post, then the grave, wondering what happened. Yeah, I don't know what happened either, lady.
Yes, a grave. All around the turn is a beautiful cemetery that is pretty old. On just the other side is the funeral home, where nearly every day there is a funeral where a lot of morose people I'll probably never know take one last opportunity to glorify someone I'll certainly never know. One of the first times we took the drive back to our apartment, our roommate and I were making our way up to the turn when we noticed the truck in front of us awkwardly pull of the road at a strange angle. We didn't even think about this as we passed them until we saw what he saw. We kept driving and pulled right into the little traffic jam that had built up around this turn. This little traffic jam was a funeral procession, and we were right in the middle of it. The looks on those old people's faces...
Over a hill from the funeral home is an intersection where I turn. The first house on the right is unlike any of the other houses on the drive. The back yard isn't so much a back yard as it is a back pasture. No more than a quarter acre, this yard has a rickety fence spanning around it to keep in the only thing in the yard. A horse. Contents of the yard/pasture: One horse, lots of grass. This ranch house on Norton is certainly noteworthy, but the best part about this is that one lady. Nearly every day when I drove down Norton road I saw the same woman, no matter what time of day. She must spend hours there at the side of that fence. Always reaching her hand out as far as it will go, always trying to connect to the most exotic thing on the road. I never saw it come anywhere near her. Maybe she should try holding out an apple instead of an empty hand. One day, maybe, the horse will, for no more reason than to do something more than standing, come over to her to be patted on its head. That will certainly be a good day for that lady.
On down the road is a retirement community. This wass generally of little concern to me, except for the glaring fact that I must drive past it. Undoubtedly, every time I was a few minutes away from the start of my class and still out on the road I would pull up behind a grey or beige or maroon variation of a Crown Victoria with one or maybe two little grey heads sitting just higher than the seat backs. I don't even bother to look down at my speedometer to look and see what ridiculous speed we have decided to go because I already know. We are going 25 MPH. We always do. Sometimes I think about driving around them, passing them in that middle lane (I've heard it called a suicide lane [Springfield loves those suckers]), but I dejectedly avoid it because I know that I will most likely scare them and make them jerk the wheel suddenly to the right and plow their car (though not at any excessive speed) into a light pole/mailbox/jogger.
One house I passed had a strip of grass maybe three by nine feet in front of its house between the driveway and the sidewalk. In this patch of grass there are maybe 15 to 20 sticks. Light colored, dowel-rod type sticks stuck into the ground. And on these sticks is generally an assortment of windmills. They run a very large gamut from little cartoony football players to a cartoony old man and woman on a swing to looney tunes with their legs spinning all around, comically running for their lives but never quite getting anywhere. They are generally not all put out every day; apparently the lady wakes up every morning and decides which and how many of the windmills characters to put out and which sticks to put them on. So on most days there spins maybe a half dozen windmills amidst six or so naked sticks. The first time that I saw these I laughed, possibly to myself but most probably out loud. At first glance they look so ... southern. Something about them just seemed to fit in with the surrounding area, which isn't exactly the best part of Springfield. But after a while, seeing them every day, they grew on me. One day I looked and saw only sticks in the yards. No windmills. I found myself actually saddened. I've come to really like these goofy things, and not seeing them on my daily drive puts a bit of a damper on the day. I like these people; I don't know them but I like them. I imagine the lady is maybe seventy to seventy five and wears a faded apron with worn edges, not because she's cooking anything in particular but because that's what she's done for the past 45 years. She makes a pot of coffee and goes out and puts out whatever windmill seems to be smiling brightest at her. It only takes a few minutes because she's been doing it for twenty years ever since she got her first windmill. She started taking it in for fear of it being stolen or damaged and she couldn't imagine not having it anymore. After several months, she comes across another one and puts it up so the other wouldn’t be so lonely out there all day in the yard. So she's finished putting out ten or so of the windmills (they seemed especially smiley today) and walks back inside where the smell of coffee has awakened her husband, who is pouring a cup for both of them just like he has for every morning since their first morning together all those long years ago. I like him too, not because he has much of anything to do with the windmills, but because he supports her in her hobby, taking her to craft shows and bringing home supplies so she can make her own. He would never admit it, but he's pretty fond of them too. Especially the one with the old man and woman that rock in the wind. He thinks of it as a picture of the two of them.
Or maybe, a 30 year old guy lives there that just likes cartoon windmills.
And this drive, it's always full of adventure. After a nondescript intersection, I drive around one of those "Suggested Speed 15 MPH" 90 degree turns. I have trained myself to be able to take that baby (and every on/off ramp) at 50 MPH, which my roommates did not appreciate, but I live for stuff like that. The one time that it has really snowed there in southwestern MO one lady apparently forgot that the white
stuff on the ground is snow and took that turn at her normal speed (which is generally 20-25 MPH for most people) only to lose control of her grey SUV and run off the road, barrel over a concrete fencepost, and rest gingerly on top of a grave. It had apparently just happened as I concededly drove by at a balmy 15 MPH as she was outside in the ankle-deep snow, looking at the car, then the fence post, then the grave, wondering what happened. Yeah, I don't know what happened either, lady.
Yes, a grave. All around the turn is a beautiful cemetery that is pretty old. On just the other side is the funeral home, where nearly every day there is a funeral where a lot of morose people I'll probably never know take one last opportunity to glorify someone I'll certainly never know. One of the first times we took the drive back to our apartment, our roommate and I were making our way up to the turn when we noticed the truck in front of us awkwardly pull of the road at a strange angle. We didn't even think about this as we passed them until we saw what he saw. We kept driving and pulled right into the little traffic jam that had built up around this turn. This little traffic jam was a funeral procession, and we were right in the middle of it. The looks on those old people's faces...
Over a hill from the funeral home is an intersection where I turn. The first house on the right is unlike any of the other houses on the drive. The back yard isn't so much a back yard as it is a back pasture. No more than a quarter acre, this yard has a rickety fence spanning around it to keep in the only thing in the yard. A horse. Contents of the yard/pasture: One horse, lots of grass. This ranch house on Norton is certainly noteworthy, but the best part about this is that one lady. Nearly every day when I drove down Norton road I saw the same woman, no matter what time of day. She must spend hours there at the side of that fence. Always reaching her hand out as far as it will go, always trying to connect to the most exotic thing on the road. I never saw it come anywhere near her. Maybe she should try holding out an apple instead of an empty hand. One day, maybe, the horse will, for no more reason than to do something more than standing, come over to her to be patted on its head. That will certainly be a good day for that lady.
On down the road is a retirement community. This wass generally of little concern to me, except for the glaring fact that I must drive past it. Undoubtedly, every time I was a few minutes away from the start of my class and still out on the road I would pull up behind a grey or beige or maroon variation of a Crown Victoria with one or maybe two little grey heads sitting just higher than the seat backs. I don't even bother to look down at my speedometer to look and see what ridiculous speed we have decided to go because I already know. We are going 25 MPH. We always do. Sometimes I think about driving around them, passing them in that middle lane (I've heard it called a suicide lane [Springfield loves those suckers]), but I dejectedly avoid it because I know that I will most likely scare them and make them jerk the wheel suddenly to the right and plow their car (though not at any excessive speed) into a light pole/mailbox/jogger.
One house I passed had a strip of grass maybe three by nine feet in front of its house between the driveway and the sidewalk. In this patch of grass there are maybe 15 to 20 sticks. Light colored, dowel-rod type sticks stuck into the ground. And on these sticks is generally an assortment of windmills. They run a very large gamut from little cartoony football players to a cartoony old man and woman on a swing to looney tunes with their legs spinning all around, comically running for their lives but never quite getting anywhere. They are generally not all put out every day; apparently the lady wakes up every morning and decides which and how many of the windmills characters to put out and which sticks to put them on. So on most days there spins maybe a half dozen windmills amidst six or so naked sticks. The first time that I saw these I laughed, possibly to myself but most probably out loud. At first glance they look so ... southern. Something about them just seemed to fit in with the surrounding area, which isn't exactly the best part of Springfield. But after a while, seeing them every day, they grew on me. One day I looked and saw only sticks in the yards. No windmills. I found myself actually saddened. I've come to really like these goofy things, and not seeing them on my daily drive puts a bit of a damper on the day. I like these people; I don't know them but I like them. I imagine the lady is maybe seventy to seventy five and wears a faded apron with worn edges, not because she's cooking anything in particular but because that's what she's done for the past 45 years. She makes a pot of coffee and goes out and puts out whatever windmill seems to be smiling brightest at her. It only takes a few minutes because she's been doing it for twenty years ever since she got her first windmill. She started taking it in for fear of it being stolen or damaged and she couldn't imagine not having it anymore. After several months, she comes across another one and puts it up so the other wouldn’t be so lonely out there all day in the yard. So she's finished putting out ten or so of the windmills (they seemed especially smiley today) and walks back inside where the smell of coffee has awakened her husband, who is pouring a cup for both of them just like he has for every morning since their first morning together all those long years ago. I like him too, not because he has much of anything to do with the windmills, but because he supports her in her hobby, taking her to craft shows and bringing home supplies so she can make her own. He would never admit it, but he's pretty fond of them too. Especially the one with the old man and woman that rock in the wind. He thinks of it as a picture of the two of them.
Or maybe, a 30 year old guy lives there that just likes cartoon windmills.