November 17, 2003
Uh oh. Time to clean it up.
I foolishly mentioned to my mom that I have a blog. I must have been tired. To describe what followed as a torturous interrogation is gross understatement. It started with the usual bright lights and vicious threats, but I wasn't intimidated. When she strapped my arms to the chair and taped electrodes to my temples, I braced myself and took the voltage like a man. When she burrowed the pepper-laden needles of fire into carefully selected nerve fibers, I screamed inside but didn't divulge one letter of that url. But when she pulled out the "you'll-tell-me-because-I'm-your-mom" treatment, I cracked, and the next thing I remember she was asking "and is there an 's' on the end of that?" So exhausted I couldn't speak, with tears streaming down my face, I just nodded. Since this ordeal took place over the phone, she refused to accept this, demanding an answer from her vanquished victim. With my last ounce of strength, I managed a feeble "yes," and woke up the next morning in the middle of a forest several miles from home, cold, parched, and racked with pain, but thankful to be alive.
Every man has his breaking point, and every mom knows it.
November 10, 2003
Sure, we all know it
The superficiality of the world we live in is a common topic among writers. It's no secret that we are submerged in a vat of tastes, fashion, music, tv, food, and desires cleverly designed to distract and appease the masses while filling the coffers of the privileged few. We all know this, right? And to a certain extent, we can accept this for what it is and swim around the vat for a bit without feeling too bad about it. After all, it doesn't necessarily hurt us, and a lot of it tastes good. No?
But every once in a while, each of us has one of those poignant moments where we ponder our lot in life from that distant vantage point, see how we fit in the big picture, and then respond by repudiating the fake and proving that we care about what's important. I can't speak for everyone, but for me, thus begins the cycle, followed by the subsequent donning of the blinders, the inevitable return to tunnel vision, and the contented doggy-paddling around the vat. Repeat.
This week a young man I knew committed suicide. He wasn't a friend, but I'd played ball with him a few times. Meanwhile, I've been getting swallowed in work, my ministry and study have suffered, my back hurts, and I'm tired. I've been spending too much time on the keyboard, as worthy as that hobby is. I'm not complaining, just observing how easily a preoccupation with the inconsequential has overtaken my routine. While I stayed up late into the night programming away to meet a deadline, a young man unraveled, finally dragged to the ground by the manic depression he'd battled for years. Of course there is nothing I could have done, but the wake up call is still resounding.
Sure, I am tired. Hey, I should be. With so much important stuff to do, so many big issues to face, so many lives to care about, there just isn't enough time in the day. I love to comment about the grandiose prospect of eternity, but that's one luxury we don't have at the moment, at least not for what we need to do today.
