So what do you guys think of my new blog title? I think it's kind of pretentious and more serious than I wanted to be. So I don't know. But I really like what it means. I'm kind of realizing that my life means something way bigger than just what it means to me. It's an ebenezer, a monument to the faithfulness of God- and it's also... how can I say this? It also confirms what I've been told is ultimate Truth. I mean, people can tell you things but until you see experience confirming what you hear there's no reason to beleive it. My experience is confirming the Truth of the Gospel all the time, in a way that convinces me way more than all the scientific proofs for creation or anything like that.
I've got a story to tell, but it's not a story about me, it's a story that's being told through me. I think. Maybe this is why God made me love to write. Maybe? I don't know. But I hope so. I think that would be really cool.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
there, i finally said it.
Okay, so sorry, but I have this thing with continuity and proving myself to be not irrational and stuff, so I have to post this and then we can drop the subject for good.
I think this is the long and short of it. On homeschooling:
I don't know, it's just not something I want to be a part of. Despite it's merrits. The thought of trying to provide my children with enough of a well-rounded education to make them succesful drives me bonkers. I don't think I'm cut out for it.
But mostly it's because I do NOT beleive in secluding ourselves from the world, and if there is one thing I want to teach my kids it's how to be in the world WITHOUT being of the world. If they can do that in high school, they can probably do that anywhere. And if they can't, maybe I'd have to re-consider. But in theory, that's the idea, just like in theory homeschoolers are supposed to ace SAT's and read three hundred pages a day. I'm comming to realize that the most important thing is being willing to change as soon as you see that what you're doing isn't working.
Are we agreed?
I think this is the long and short of it. On homeschooling:
I don't know, it's just not something I want to be a part of. Despite it's merrits. The thought of trying to provide my children with enough of a well-rounded education to make them succesful drives me bonkers. I don't think I'm cut out for it.
But mostly it's because I do NOT beleive in secluding ourselves from the world, and if there is one thing I want to teach my kids it's how to be in the world WITHOUT being of the world. If they can do that in high school, they can probably do that anywhere. And if they can't, maybe I'd have to re-consider. But in theory, that's the idea, just like in theory homeschoolers are supposed to ace SAT's and read three hundred pages a day. I'm comming to realize that the most important thing is being willing to change as soon as you see that what you're doing isn't working.
Are we agreed?
Sunday, August 3, 2008
paper bags and plastic hearts, all our belongings in shopping carts- it's goodbye, but we've got one more night
tonight will change our lives
it's so good to be by your side
we'll cry
we won't give up the fight
we'll scream out at the top of our lungs
and they'll think it's just because we're young
and we'll feel so alive
We go down to the beach in three cars, weaving through the trafic like performers in a giant circus. The people in the grandstands watch and cheer, knowing that we are the show and all of the other cars are just props. Pulling into the parking lot we pile out and lock the doors, pulling sweatshirts over our heads or tying them around our waists as we quickly meld together into one group again. Our spirits are high; we laugh, we sing. Every joke holds more humor than it should as we trail down the path towards the water.
The beach is crowded tonight, and the fireworks have already started. There is a feeling of comoradory between everyone here, the kids throwing frisbys behind the fire pits running to meet one another and combine territories. Marshemllows are being passed around. We find an empty fire pit and a large piece of driftwood (probably illegal) and start a blaze. We take a few pictures, of the darkening sky and of ourselves. They will come out blurry and we all have hair in our eyes. But we are happy, and nothing exists outside of here and now.
For a while we sit and watch the other fireworks. They are shooting off all around us, sometimes whizzing by in front, sometimes exploding behind, and always shooting straight up into the air with wistles and shrill cries to burst into electric showers right above our heads. They rain down on us and sometimes the hot sparks land on our skin. The smell of gunpoweder is sharp and the smoke hangs heavy in the air. It is getting darker by the moment, and with the darkness more people are arriving, pouring down to the water in ones and twos, tens and twelves. Canopies are set up, barbaques are started.
We huddle together to keep warm. Our conversation is cautious, but excited.
"I think there's a lake behind us."
"Look at how the fireworks reflect on the water!"
"I wonder what those lights are, way over there?"
"Isn't that the theater?"
"Or maybe a radio tower."
"I think it's a theater."
...
"How do you make fireworks?"
"I wonder."
"That would be an interesting school project."
"Mmm, much better than volcanoes."
...
"They're probably illeagle to make."
"Yep. Probably illigal."
One of us stands up and pulls a lighter out of his pocket. The girls scramble for the sparklers. We spell our names in the air, leaving trails of smoke drifting off in the wind. When they burn out we stare at them in deep sorrow before tossing them into the fire and watching them curl up and then disinigrate into ashes. We turn; the boys have already gone down to the water with the bottle rockets. They borrowed a beer bottle from the guys next to us to set them off. Wondering down to the waters edge we poke our toes in, then yank them out sqealing and laughing at ourselves. Pulling socks and shoes back on, we retreat to the pile of drift wood at the tide line.
We climb up onto the wobbly logs and sing songs from musicals, laughing as we fudge through the parts none of us know. The boys bend over their work down in the gravely sand, the water laping close to and splashing the thin log where their bottle is propped. Finally there is a crackling sound and they come scrambling backwards across the slippery sea weed and turn just in time to see the firecracker whizz out over the water spreading a firey red trail behind it and then bursting into a spark of yellow light. We cheer as though it were the greatest thing we'd ever seen; as though it were the olympics. We laugh again.
Self-pleased, the boys take us down to the shore one at a time to teach us how. We all light off a bottle rocket, sometimes two at a time. Sometimes they go up in a puff of smoke and never come down, always on the times when the lighter didn't work until the thirty-second try. We are pathetic amidst the roar and bang of roman candles, rockets, and fountains going off all around us, but we are so proud when our bottle rockets go off perfectly, soaring in a glorious arch high above our heads and then exloding at the peak of the curve before the chared remains fall top-over bottom, twisting and turning into the gently laping waves. It like a magic trick, like the greatest show on earth. People laugh at us and we laugh back.
When the bottle rockets are gone we all gather on the logs, straddling them or balancing criss-cross on top like indians. Someone has an ipod and we each take a turn with one ear of the head phones. When our eyes meet across the blueish glow from the little screen they reflect the fireworks going off behind us, turning the pupils to brilliant bursts of red, yellow and blue.
all of the wasted time
hours that were left behind
answers that we'll never find
they don't mean a thing
tonight
It is getting cold. We pull our hands into the sleaves of our sweatshirts and our hoods over our cold ears. It is almost time to go home, but there is one thing yet to do.
The boys have saved the best for the last- four round roman candles waiting at the bottom of the fireworks box. Their eyes are gleaming as they move back to the waters edge. They set the first one off and it soars up almost soundlessly until it is almost out of sight. We hold our breaths in expectation, and then there is a brilliant splash of green across the sky blocking out everything else above our heads, followed a split second latter by a deafoning boom. We can feel the revirberations deep in the pits of our stomachs and our cheers this time are real and reverent. The boys are whooping and screaming, clamping one another on the shoulder and congradulating themselves. They run back to the smoking remains of the firework and choose one of the girls to go with them. Every one of the roman candles goes off perfectly, every time we feel the noise and hear the light crackle as much as we hear and see it. They are red, purple, and a 24-carrot gold.
And then it is done and we are packing up to go. Our voices are heavy with exaustion.
"Who's blanket is that?"
"Oh, that's mine."
"This one?"
"Yeah."
...
"Well it's been fun,"
"It sure has."
"We'll do it again."
"Every year."
"K."
"Goodbye!"
"Bye..."
We wonder back towards our cars in different directions, we climb in and we drive towards our homes and towards the stops we'll make along the way, dropping people off. We don't say a thing as we drive through the darkness with the radio singing softly over the hum of the wheels and the engine, but we're all watching the fireworks going off on either side of the road, escorting us home.
watch it burn
let it die
cuz we are finally free
tonight
it's so good to be by your side
we'll cry
we won't give up the fight
we'll scream out at the top of our lungs
and they'll think it's just because we're young
and we'll feel so alive
We go down to the beach in three cars, weaving through the trafic like performers in a giant circus. The people in the grandstands watch and cheer, knowing that we are the show and all of the other cars are just props. Pulling into the parking lot we pile out and lock the doors, pulling sweatshirts over our heads or tying them around our waists as we quickly meld together into one group again. Our spirits are high; we laugh, we sing. Every joke holds more humor than it should as we trail down the path towards the water.
The beach is crowded tonight, and the fireworks have already started. There is a feeling of comoradory between everyone here, the kids throwing frisbys behind the fire pits running to meet one another and combine territories. Marshemllows are being passed around. We find an empty fire pit and a large piece of driftwood (probably illegal) and start a blaze. We take a few pictures, of the darkening sky and of ourselves. They will come out blurry and we all have hair in our eyes. But we are happy, and nothing exists outside of here and now.
For a while we sit and watch the other fireworks. They are shooting off all around us, sometimes whizzing by in front, sometimes exploding behind, and always shooting straight up into the air with wistles and shrill cries to burst into electric showers right above our heads. They rain down on us and sometimes the hot sparks land on our skin. The smell of gunpoweder is sharp and the smoke hangs heavy in the air. It is getting darker by the moment, and with the darkness more people are arriving, pouring down to the water in ones and twos, tens and twelves. Canopies are set up, barbaques are started.
We huddle together to keep warm. Our conversation is cautious, but excited.
"I think there's a lake behind us."
"Look at how the fireworks reflect on the water!"
"I wonder what those lights are, way over there?"
"Isn't that the theater?"
"Or maybe a radio tower."
"I think it's a theater."
...
"How do you make fireworks?"
"I wonder."
"That would be an interesting school project."
"Mmm, much better than volcanoes."
...
"They're probably illeagle to make."
"Yep. Probably illigal."
One of us stands up and pulls a lighter out of his pocket. The girls scramble for the sparklers. We spell our names in the air, leaving trails of smoke drifting off in the wind. When they burn out we stare at them in deep sorrow before tossing them into the fire and watching them curl up and then disinigrate into ashes. We turn; the boys have already gone down to the water with the bottle rockets. They borrowed a beer bottle from the guys next to us to set them off. Wondering down to the waters edge we poke our toes in, then yank them out sqealing and laughing at ourselves. Pulling socks and shoes back on, we retreat to the pile of drift wood at the tide line.
We climb up onto the wobbly logs and sing songs from musicals, laughing as we fudge through the parts none of us know. The boys bend over their work down in the gravely sand, the water laping close to and splashing the thin log where their bottle is propped. Finally there is a crackling sound and they come scrambling backwards across the slippery sea weed and turn just in time to see the firecracker whizz out over the water spreading a firey red trail behind it and then bursting into a spark of yellow light. We cheer as though it were the greatest thing we'd ever seen; as though it were the olympics. We laugh again.
Self-pleased, the boys take us down to the shore one at a time to teach us how. We all light off a bottle rocket, sometimes two at a time. Sometimes they go up in a puff of smoke and never come down, always on the times when the lighter didn't work until the thirty-second try. We are pathetic amidst the roar and bang of roman candles, rockets, and fountains going off all around us, but we are so proud when our bottle rockets go off perfectly, soaring in a glorious arch high above our heads and then exloding at the peak of the curve before the chared remains fall top-over bottom, twisting and turning into the gently laping waves. It like a magic trick, like the greatest show on earth. People laugh at us and we laugh back.
When the bottle rockets are gone we all gather on the logs, straddling them or balancing criss-cross on top like indians. Someone has an ipod and we each take a turn with one ear of the head phones. When our eyes meet across the blueish glow from the little screen they reflect the fireworks going off behind us, turning the pupils to brilliant bursts of red, yellow and blue.
all of the wasted time
hours that were left behind
answers that we'll never find
they don't mean a thing
tonight
It is getting cold. We pull our hands into the sleaves of our sweatshirts and our hoods over our cold ears. It is almost time to go home, but there is one thing yet to do.
The boys have saved the best for the last- four round roman candles waiting at the bottom of the fireworks box. Their eyes are gleaming as they move back to the waters edge. They set the first one off and it soars up almost soundlessly until it is almost out of sight. We hold our breaths in expectation, and then there is a brilliant splash of green across the sky blocking out everything else above our heads, followed a split second latter by a deafoning boom. We can feel the revirberations deep in the pits of our stomachs and our cheers this time are real and reverent. The boys are whooping and screaming, clamping one another on the shoulder and congradulating themselves. They run back to the smoking remains of the firework and choose one of the girls to go with them. Every one of the roman candles goes off perfectly, every time we feel the noise and hear the light crackle as much as we hear and see it. They are red, purple, and a 24-carrot gold.
And then it is done and we are packing up to go. Our voices are heavy with exaustion.
"Who's blanket is that?"
"Oh, that's mine."
"This one?"
"Yeah."
...
"Well it's been fun,"
"It sure has."
"We'll do it again."
"Every year."
"K."
"Goodbye!"
"Bye..."
We wonder back towards our cars in different directions, we climb in and we drive towards our homes and towards the stops we'll make along the way, dropping people off. We don't say a thing as we drive through the darkness with the radio singing softly over the hum of the wheels and the engine, but we're all watching the fireworks going off on either side of the road, escorting us home.
watch it burn
let it die
cuz we are finally free
tonight
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