notes from ground level

vietnam updates

2006-08-14T15:04:00.000-05:00

Current news will be on www.vietnamtyler.blogspot.com

I may still post on this blog once in a while, if inspiration strikes.

a year in a bag

2006-07-13T22:27:00.000-05:00

Tuesday the packing began and was finished. It didn't look like much when it was all laid out on the bed--and some of it I think I'll be mailing back from LA before I go to Vietnam. I have the feeling that it isn't really possible to pack for a year. I'll simply have to wait and see how it works out. At least I know I won't have overpacked.

out on the country

2006-07-01T19:40:00.000-05:00

At almost 8 o'clock tonight I cast a glance outside to the dimming light, and felt the stagnant air come through the window, and felt a sudden urge to go cycling. So I followed it, as isn't always the case. But Mom and Dad were headed out for the evening, and Grandma and Grandpa were occupied on the internet (peering at the screen so cautiously, like grandparents do), and I felt free and unneeded.

Off to the east, pedaling up Morgan Horse Farm Road I saw the Green Mountains' ridgeline, stationary and buried in a blue haze, beyond the pasture and the greenest hedgerow I've seen. Only a few cars passed. I went left on Hamilton Road, facing a pink sky, and felt a few countable raindrops. The farmland smelled like farmland, with the narrow road draped across the shallow hills, lined with fenceposts which were gray and weathered, and the hayfields freshly cut.

I went left on a dirt connecting road, passing a pen of sheep behind a row of brush and fence. The sheepdog saw me and barked up and down the row until he was sure I wasn't going to stop. I wasn't.

Around the next corner I saw a crouching cat first, then the two rabbits it was hunting, who were paused in the road ahead. The cat changed its posture but eyed me with accusation anyway, and the rabbits darted and weaved in front of my wheels before plunging into the underbrush.

Further the road swarmed with blackbirds and more rabbits. And the farmhouses stood squarely and quietly, and the light continued to fade.

I wondered to myself why calm cycles weren't a part of my routine; but it always seems that giving myself the license to pedal off would steal my mind from the things directly at hand. In reality, it focused my mind on the things that are really important. I understood again why some people are so committed to their jogs or walks or workouts. In my mind, anway, the means are the excuse to remove oneself from the busy world.

As I coasted down the last hill on Route 23, I thought I saw headlights over my left shoulder. I craned and looked, but it was only the sunset lighting up a patch of yellow sky.

deconstructing construction talk

2006-06-09T17:00:00.000-05:00

I just finished my first week as a full-fledged construction worker. ie- a hardhat, coffee in the job trailer at morning break, and porta-poties. It's a large enough job that walking through the building I pass different crews about their own work--the drywallers, the electricians, the plumbers, the carpenters--with their own zones of radio stations and chit-chat. On breaks they stand outside the gate and smoke, or sit in their trucks with their crews and eat. And smoke.
It's been an ear opening week. I thought I'd jot down a few notes about what I've heard.

Vague use of pronouns: "put it right to it" for instance, might mean, "apply a considerable amount of force to that fastener with the screw gun." The context is everything.

Excessive vulgarity: Substituted for any part of speech. It adds credibility, I guess.

Femeninity of nouns: Usually refers to tools or building materials. "Set her down over there."

Second-person voice: When two are working together, the ownership falls on the person receiving the commands, ie, "hold it to your line"; "give me your sheet"; "line it up with your stud." That way, if anything goes wrong, it's your fault.

In general, the contruction worker's speech tells that he (or she...hypothetically) has authority over his domain, a casual but hardened attitude, and a fashionable distaste for the work week.

But seriously, I've had an interesting and thoughtful week. I'm starting to see why people care so much about getting good benefits and why people save up for their vacations and retirements. An occupation starts to become who you are. I see it in the lives of the older men doing their work as if its second nature, embedded in their routine. I wonder if they think, "I was a young kid like him yesterday, and now I'm fifty. Where did the time go?"

flops

2006-06-05T15:06:00.000-05:00

So I made myself some pancakes last night, going for a nice, soft food, still feeling a little pang where my wisdom teeth used to be. I loved the way it sounded: "I'll just whip up a batch of pancakes," as if I would pick up that ladel and work magic.
But instead I found every way to go wrong. I could never quite get the heat on the pan right. Some were hard, some were doughy in the middle. They came out all odd shapes and sizes, and I was dropping things all over the place.
I felt like such a helpless child. "What's my problem?" I asked my parents, all flustered. I thought I had the hang of this by now.

Humbled by a batch of pancakes.
That sums up where I've been in other parts of my life lately. I had forgotten how much error can be in simple things, how unwise I can possibly be. I thought I was smart and capable. And I thought that, for pete's sake, twenty-two years would have taught me a thing or two.

2006-05-31T21:41:00.000-05:00

I've been learning a lot about myself in these last few weeks. A kind of wholesome not always good tasting but good for you food to the soul.
I have these moments where I realize how stunningly much I have to be thankful for. Like when I was making a pbj a few minutes ago, and it occurred to me that not much of the world has the luxury of snacks. Or how I keep receiving support from friends, family, and strangers, toward my time in Vietnam next year. Or when I wake up in the morning and hear my grandparents downstairs, who are staying with us for the summer. I wish I could remember this all the time. I have a feeling things will get harder. Not just with physical discomforts (like getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow) but with the bleak, challenging times of life. I can't really say I'm ready for them. Or am I?

just details

2006-05-09T12:54:00.000-05:00

The cherry blossoms are all pink and bursting, and the tent caterpillars are descending like little streamers en masse. In fragrant spots on the way to the library, I can hear the bees buzzing all together.
This morning outside my window I saw a squirrel and a crow in a little fighting match. The crow would sneak in, and the squirrel, poised like a sprinter, would lunge at it with abandon. Eventually it chased the crow back into a tree.

I just brought back all my library books. I unfolded the dog-eared pages but didn't erase my pencil marks.

2006-05-06T12:32:00.000-05:00

Your love never can fail
to pierce me--
hammers and nails

rhythm of passion
louder than hell
thunder of heaven
hammers and nails

-Mark Heard

odd ends

2006-05-05T15:33:00.000-05:00

These days I've been coming to the ends of things. My shampoo won't last another week, nor will my mouthwash or laundry detergent. I've almost run out of loose leaf paper, and I only have a few coffee filters left. It would be a shame to buy all these for one week's supply.

This afternoon I attended the last class period of my education. My professor brought flowers to the graduating seniors: for each, 2 tulips and forget-me-nots. She handed out our class evaluations and left the room, and like usual, I was the last person to finish. In the empty room with a cool breeze coming through, I sat there for a minute extra. It felt right to be there alone, to have a moment with myself in that place. This is it, I thought, here I am. I tried to have big thoughts of this symbolic end of the line, but it was simpler than I had imagined. I dropped off my evaluation in the folder, turned off the lights, and looked into the empty classroom once more as I left.

up close, but not too personal

2006-04-30T21:18:00.000-05:00

A beaUtiful Sunday, which started with a good time in church and a lunch out at Caroline's Diner with some friends:

Afterwards I knew I had to get out of my room, so I walked down to the riverbank and found a spot on an old tree, hearing the thrushhh of the rapids. I brought a book with me, but my camera also--which consumed a fair chunk of the time.

View from a dandelion.

What's up?

re-reading and re-viewing

2006-04-28T20:02:00.000-05:00

Trying to scrape up some creativity for my senior writing project, I just read through most of my old blog posts. I came across plenty of things I had forgotten about, some things that surprised me. How cool is it to be able to look back at the last 8 months of your life and see the snippits you thought were important enough to keep? Pretty cool, I'd say.

I got inducted into the Phi Beta Kappa academic honorary tonight, which is a pretty big honor, they say. I'm not sure how it happened, because I have felt like I've just done what I could--sometimes working hard, sometimes not as much. Plenty of credit goes to my Grandfather, my Dad, my Mom, and other people in my life who have taught me to take pleasure in doing a job well. And the praise goes to God for giving me a sound mind and always giving me enough grace to get through.

I hope I can write more soon. It's a reflective time, with only one week of classes left in my college career.

spring sweetness vs. sugar headaches

2006-04-19T20:48:00.000-05:00

Today was one of those with a cloudless sky and no breeze. The air was room temperature, meek to the lungs and kind to the spirit. I walked around in a state of thankfulness that really surprised me. I never remember being this happy for the spring. The buds are about to burst. Squirrels are frisking. People are tossing frisbees. Friendships seem easier; joy seems more natural.

Around dusk I ate a large chocolate chip cookie, an orange, and drank a bottle of sweetened iced tea. It was a good illustration of the difference between joy and pleasure, between a gift and something grabbed. Good in the mouth, but I had forgotten how it sickly lingers. I feel like I need a drink of clean water and a breath of fresh air.

Tea time in the i-house again tonight.

wine tasting and the gospel

2006-04-06T22:27:00.000-05:00

I usually go to the I-house kitchen on Wednesdays at 10 for "tea time." The kitchen is the locus for internationals, and anyone who ambles in for the company and refreshment, which is usually a simmering pot of coffee, tea-bags, and leftover treats scrounged from some university function that day. I enjoy the company.

Last night there was someone new. He had an athletic build, an intense face, and looked over the the kitchen counter with a commanding stance. In front of him was an assortment of wine glasses and a small notebook. I was intrigued. He swirled the glass with a deft wrist, eyeing the color, sucked each sample through his teeth. I saw only one bottle of wine, but from what I could tell he sampled it in different glasses, breaking to rinse his pallete and try again. Then he would look away for a seond, in thought, and mark something in a pocket-sized notebook.
I struck up a conversation. "I don't think I've met you. I'm Tyler."
He exteneded a businesslike handshake, and spoke quickly. Soon I learned he was a senior, and had just gotten back from a semester in France.
"Are you taking a class in wine tasting?" I asked.
No, he said--this was just a lifelong interest. And part of his senior project for French and Enlgish. I didn't ask the details. I'm not sure I could have, anyhow, because he launched into a passionate monologue.
"My whole philosophy is that people should learn the right frameworks they need for appreciating wines and forming their own tastes" he said, his energy rising. He maintained a stern expression. "I'm sick of all this elitist bullshit. All the ratings, the labels, the names." People didn't appreciate wine, he said, and it was a travesty.
I didn't expect what I had stirred up. But I listened, and tried to offer a word here and there.
"I still don't know the difference between boxed wine and real..." I started.
He got even more excited, and took me on an enlightening tour of wine vocabulary and trivia. Season, region, pallette. I've forgotten most of the technical terms already.
By now he had invited me to a tasting seminar he had organized for next week. 6 wines: 3 red and 3 white, from 6 parts of the world, with instruction in basic tasting etiquitte and procedure. He never wound-down, but eventually we shifted topics enough for me to excuse myself.
"It means to much to me" he said, convincingly, "and I'm sick of people who don't get the chance to appreciate it."

Back in my room, copying my Chinese characters, I heard his words again. "I'm sick of people who don't understand..." Yes I thought. Why didn't I feel a huge empathy, and see the bridge that came right in front of me? I repeated the words that I wished I had said: yes, I know how it feels to have something that means so much to you misunderstood by so many people. Immediately a voice inside me mocked the thought, telling me it would have been a desperate stretch. No, I don't think so. I saw his passion, and I could have shared my own.

recognition

2006-04-05T13:30:00.000-05:00

Isn't it amazing--tell me how this happens--when your eye catches a glimpse of a person through a window or across the crowd, taking them in all at once, and even if they are the most minimal acquaintance, the friend of a friend who you have hardly spoken to, there in a split second you can place exactly who they are. You don't need to see much: a hairstyle or a half a stride, the color of a coat or a swing of the arms. The tiniest signs give them away.I think of how nice it would be to have this skill of immediate recognition with everything else. To be able to know the truth from a lie, or a poor judgment from a good one. Maybe we do have this ability, but we don't trust it. We don't want to be the person who yells out "hey Susan!" across the room and find out we were wrong.

p.s. more snow this morning, and in the 30s.

It snowed today

2006-04-04T16:12:00.000-05:00

Not a few delicate flakes, either, but a wet spring squall. When I went to sleep it was raining. When I woke up the rain was mixed with little flecks. By the time I went to class it was pure white, coating hard surfaces and clumping on the grass.
It had disappeared before lunch.
I don't mind those spring snows, but it's hard to accept after days like last Friday, 70 degrees.
Maybe this weird weather is why all my joints have felt stiff these two days. I think I need some exercise, a steam bath, and a full body massage.
Instead I'm off to two seated activities: dinner and reading!

short revivals

2006-03-31T13:29:00.000-05:00

My first day of 2006 wearing shorts. I found only one pair on the floor of my closet, forgotten and rumpled from the winter.

I always feel a little younger when I wear shorts and a tee shirt.

There's something distinctly refreshing about sleeping with a window open, and waking up to a slight breeze and the sounds of traffic.

When I leapt out of my econ exam this morning at 10:15, the air was so nice I wanted to shout.

If this day were a song, all the static in the world could not keep me from shaking my head and tapping my feet.

life is...

2006-03-25T00:28:00.000-05:00

I don't know how to describe it. I know what I sense and feel. Like tonight, how I sat in a restaurant listening to a jazz quartet: the way the bass and keys and drums and vocals blended together in something whole and full and satisfying. But the singer had a forced smile. I sat with three people I care about--my cousins Phillip and Adam and my friend Kristen--and saw how we were not just bodies in the same place but memories and futures. None of it has ever been guaranteed, and yet here it was. I was thankful. My friend Cory played bass in the quartet, (which is the reason we went there at all) and I thought at the blessing it was to see three friendships connected in that one room. It was satisfying to be the connecting piece between friend, family, friend.
But I also felt really small in that place, as my one little life with family and friends. Perching in that little restaurant with the brick floor and the few others nodding their heads to the music and couples with wine, I felt so trapped in the singleness of that place and time. It was guilt, almost, (though I know it shouldn't be), for being so content and comfortable and settled in life. It seemed like it should be bigger, harder. Looking around I thought that probably no one else in the room saw outside their own lives like that at the moment, and it was like stepping out of time.
It was a late dark drive home. I had a hard time focusing on the road and felt an urgency to arrive, but I also felt a settled contentment that right at this moment, forgetting everything else, God is good.

How do I end up writing things that I don't even understand?

vileness

2006-03-10T23:44:00.000-05:00

Is hate always a bad thing?

I hate hearing the word fuck (and all its forms) spat out from every passing group in the hallway, and the way that consonnance clings in the air with a foul scorn. I hate other words, too--the remarks between guys about the girl they want to get with. Such a slut, they say, their grins even audible.
I hate the trash left here and there, the food mashed into carpets, the cans haphazard in the grass, that seem to bear the careless delight of snubbing others' service. All this makes me want to lunge at someone and hold them by the collar and throttle them until they understand their offense. I hate that reaction in myself.

I saw an empty 40 oz. bottle of malt liquour in the bathroom, all covered in duct tape where someone's hand had been.
Walking back to my room this evening, in the damp air, I heard a car rev and squeal by through the center of campus. My jaw clenched. "You idiot," I thought. "You're going to hit someone." The car rumbled away, and the song I had been humming was interrupted. And for a few seconds, no matter how I focused, I couldn't find the right note.

pictures new and old

2006-03-04T12:04:00.000-05:00

Last night I uploaded some new pictures to my webshots. (It was foolish of me to do this until 2 in the morning--but I can't change that now.)

I feel like I have the posting-fever today, but instead I have a pile of things to do. Doesn't it always seem to happen that way?

when in rome (and getting there)

2006-03-03T19:34:00.000-05:00

It's 7:30 on Friday night. Another Friday night. I just came back from a small meeting to pray for our fellowship with my friends Charlotta and Meghan. We walked through the bitter cold to a new restaurant in town. Meghan and I had chicken noodle soup. Charlotta had frozen yogurt.

I've been reading the book of Acts these days. God is patient with my attention and interest that taper back and forth; this morning I had a particularly clear, new picture of something. Paul is starting to come up off the page as a real person. The last eight chapters of the book catch me the most. They tell the story of an apostle who lives like he has been "bought with a price" serving a God who does "work all things for the good" and a faithfulness to his task.

For a while, Paul's been traveling around doing apostly things like planting and discipling churches, but now he has a new message from God. He gets a bee in his bonnet to go preach the gospel in Jerusalem. Sometimes I wonder if Paul was just addicted to creating controversy. He was like a magnet for it.
His friends tried to disuade him: "Through the Spirit they urged Paul not to go on to Jerusalem." But Paul wasn't about to turn back. "Why are you weeping and breaking my heart?" he said. "I am ready to not only be bound, but to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus. ... The Lord's will be done."

The Spirit had predicted correctly that Paul would be bound. After preaching in Jerusalem for a few days, a full-scale riot erupted. "The violence of the mob was so great he had to be carried by the soldiers. The crowd that followed kept shouting 'Away with him!'"
I can picture the scene: safe next to the soldiers, Paul stands up and begins to speak in Aramaic. The crowd goes silent. He is one of their own.

Paul shares his whole testimony of his history, his conversion, and the mission that God gave him. And as if he can't help telling the whole truth, he tells this gathering of Jews the news that God has sent him to the Gentiles. Hell breaks loose again in the crowd.

Had it not been for the centurion with him, Paul would have been killed in the uproar. Wanting to do something responsive, the centurion orders him flogged--but as the whip is raised, Paul announces he is also a Roman citizen, and the centurion halts in surprise.

The next day an assembly of the Chief priests and Sanhedrin come to make a formal accusation against Paul. Paul acts shrewdly, pitting one sect against another. "I stand on trial because of my hope in the ressurrection of the dead." The assembly breaks into argument, and again a Roman soldier removes him from a violent scene.

"The following night the Lord stood near Paul and said, 'Take courage! As you have testified about me in Jerusalem, so you must also testify about me in Rome.'" Little did Paul know that it would be through severe hardships, and that he would be a prisoner the rest of his life.

A group of Jews plots to ambush Paul, but a young boy, Paul's nephew, overhears and leaks their plan. By now, the local Roman authorities are scratching their heads at the controvery. Paul appears a stable, intelligent person. They transfer him to Ceasarea with a legion of Roman soldiers to protect him from ambush. Only God could work out something like this.

In Ceasarea Paul makes the case for his innocence eloquently before the governour Felix, again sharing his testimony. No doubt, people in the court heard him and turned their heads. Instead of action, Felix keeps Paul in captivity for two years. I wonder if Paul began to doubt God's plans for him. In God's grace, Felix allows Paul's friends to visit and take care of him.

A new governour, Festus, takes Felix's place. Paul's trial continues where it left off. The sanhedrin come to make their accusations against him. Festus decides that Paul should return to Jerusalem for a trial. Paul makes a bold appeal, using his rights as a Roman citizen, to be heard in Caesar's court. His heart is still set on God's promise--Rome.

Festus is at a loss for words to send with Paul to Caesar. King Agrippa happens to come to pay his respects to the governour Festus. Paul's case is re-hashed, and Paul's gives to Agrippa his boldest testimony, with his two years' inactivity built to a climactic passion. (Read Acts 26, if you haven't in a while).

Agrippa concludes, "This man could have been set free if he had not appealed to Caesar." It reminds me of something Jesus said: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me and for the gospel will save it." (Mark 8:34-35).

Finally, Paul is put on a boat for Rome. I wonder if Festus was relieved to have him off his hands.
The journey would be fraught with storm and shipwreck, and take more than 4 months--through which God uses Paul as a witness of his power. "So keep up your courage, men," Paul tells the other prisoners and crew on the ship, "for I have faith it will happen just as he told me." On the island where the boat is repaired after the wreck, the natives see God's grace on Paul.

When Paul arrives in Rome, the news has preceeded him, and he has an audience of Jews and Gentiles eager and curious to hear what he has to say. "Some were convinced by what he said, but others would not believe."

It seems like Paul could not escape being a witness. Wherever he went, in danger and in peace, God used Paul's testimony. He died in Rome, most believe, after at least two years under house arrest with visitors coming and going, receiving Jesus and dispersing through the world.

Well, that was a little longer than I intended. But I'm glad I've written it. Now it's time to make some other use of this Friday night.

a friday night song

2006-02-24T20:05:00.000-05:00

Something new is breaking
like hope gone underground
outlasting all its enemies
and coming up again

I don't know what to say
And not sure what I'll see
It's a good thing
this doesn't depend on me

on the way

2006-02-11T16:12:00.000-05:00

Chapter 36

Concerning how our young hero plots his escape from the undisciplined life

Today I took a step in the right direction. Charlotta graciously offered to help me plan out my assignments for the next few weeks and block out my weekly schedule. Seeing classes and meetings charted out on paper gives me such a better idea of how much time there is(n't) in a week. I sectioned off a few blocks for my independent study.
Something about scheduling out the week down to the quarter hour sounds terribly appealing and practical to me, yet when I meet the reality of things, I'd rather leave it loose. By default, I let myself believe that time goes on hold while I sit down to relax, that the important things will somehow get done. It will be a love-hate struggle toward discipline.
For now, I'm off to the library to research. Maybe I'll go to the bookstore first to get a folding file to keep my research in. Saturday is good for making up for lost time.
I went into town today for two purposes: to mail a package, and to get my hair cut. Both were stifled: the barber's and the post office were closed. I'd better schedule some time on Monday to try again.

writing

2006-02-07T19:09:00.000-05:00

Thinking these days about walking into the academic planning office and saying, "hi--I've been here for three years and I'd like to have some help figuring out how to get my work done." I think I'll give it another week before that.

Here's something I ran across doing reading for a class today.

"Writing is thinking that can be stopped and tinkered with. It is a way of making thought hold still long enough to examine its structures, its possibilities, its flaws. The road to a clearer understanding of one's own thoughts is travelled on paper. It is through the attempt to find words for ourselves, and to find patterns for ourselves in which to express related ideas, that we often come to discover exactly what we think."

From "Why Write?" by John T. Gage.

I like that, because I'm not a fast thinker. I like being able to make a thought with just the right shape and flow that I want. And yes, when I finally spend the time to write something I learn whether or not I acrually think it.

In other news:
Classes are well. Chinese exam today was a success. Economics 100 feels worthwhile. Fires need lighting under my senior independent study. The weather has gotten cold. My sore throat hasn't come back. I am still waking up with enough time for some study and prayer. InterVarsity feels alive. The dining hall is making Asian food on Mondays. The Lord is still good.

winter runs

2006-01-28T20:35:00.000-05:00

I went for a run today, the second within two weeks, which for me is a new record. It wasn't a really long run--maybe a mile and a half--but it felt wonderful to get outside. I should do this more often. It was in the mid-40s and sunny today, and when 2:30 came around and I was still sitting by my desk, I realized the days wasn't going to last forever.
Almost as happy as I was to get out in the fresh air and remind myself of that simple rhythm, I was pleased that I had shown some decisiveness. I really hope to work on that.

There's a trail that winds around our athletic fields, concealed by a grove of firs and bordered on one side by a river. After some gravel it gives way to roots and pine needle beds, and today, some ice. Under those trees with a western sun coming through, and the green boughs that had fallen, and the ice crystals sparkling, it made a beautiful sight. So after the loop I trotted back to my room and got my camera and ran back. Then I cut back to a stroll and had some fun taking photos.

sleepy

2006-01-24T21:50:00.000-05:00

I've been tired since classes started on Monday, and I don't know why. I've had plenty of sleep. As soon as I sit down to study, I feel it.
So, I'm off to bed and it's only 10:00. The East Asian history will have to get finished tomorrow before class.

There, that was a simple little post. I hope I can find time to write real stuff on here amidst all the other pages I'll have to read and write. I can see it starting to swell already, and I'm praying for dilligence and joy in it all--that I won't be trying to enjoy the end before it's over. But it's hard.

One of those thoughts you have when you're brushing your teeth

2006-01-20T11:31:00.000-05:00

During this five week vacation I have slept in eight different beds: seven in different houses, six in different towns, and three in different states.

Here they are, in order:
Middlebury, VT (home) - 1 bed - several nights
Hot Springs Village, AR (Grandparents' house) - 1 guest bed - 4 nights
Conway, AR (Friend David's house) - 1 bed (one night) and 1 couch (3 nights)
Conway, AR (Friend Kristen's house) - 1 bunk bed - 1 night
Ludlow, VT (Cousin Adam's house) - 1 piece of foam on the floor - 1 night
Manhattan, NY (Friend Kwabena's apartment) - 1 futon - 3 nights
Clifton Park, NY (Friend Charlotta's house) - 1 guest bed - 1 night

I hadn't really been keeping track, but when I thought back it startled me in a funny way. I started at 5, then remembered another and another. I feel like a real sojourner.

NYC

2006-01-16T20:59:00.000-05:00

This morning I returned from a visit to New York City. What a place. The city is a different world than everything else I'm used to. Space and proportion and motion all take on radically new meanings in that pile of structures and sounds and lights and people. Up here in the simple country I can expect to enter a restaurant without contorting through a crowd; I can expect to pass recognizable faces on the street; I can expect to hear a car rumble by every few minutes; and most of all, here I can expect not to see anything that surprises me. I tried not to be rude, but in the city, I felt like every person I saw was a fascination to me. What is that one like? What makes him dress that was? Why is her face so sad? I almost had to catch my breath, walking those wide sidewalks brushing past so many individual faces. Thinking about the size of all those people's lives and stories all at once made my head spin. And it still does, as I remember they still exist--all in different places than when I saw them, all at their jobs or asleep in their beds or full of pain or joy.

It was a fun trip. I had some good time for conversation with friends, ate some good food, and felt the strain of relaxation and sightseeing as we tried to coordinate 3 or 5 or 7 people's schedules. Thank goodness for cell phones. Thank goodness for friends who know the subway system and the good places to eat. And thanks to Kwabena for letting me stay on his futon.

I'll have pictures soon here

post # 30: about redemption

2006-01-09T22:03:00.000-05:00

This morning something crystalized for me that had until now just been vague ideas. Now they're connected, and I feel like I can say it. I hope it isn't in that category of "too personal."

I am able to look back across the last ten years and see them as a kind of time when I've moved from one unhealthy fixation to the next. From 12 to 15 or so it was mountain biking. I drooled over the catalogues, watched the videos, hung out at the bike shop. Somewhere in there I met the Beatles and grew an unstoppable appetite for their albums, trivia, lives. That brought me into a long period of soaking myself in music in general, in whatever I liked the sound of and could discover. This coincided with a mini-obsession with stereo and computer equipment, and with my own computer, before Napster was shut down, it was trouble. In late high school years I spent literally hours every day in front of my computer plugged into headphones, endlessly downloading and organizing and listening. I had at the same time been learning to play guitar with a similar kind of instant-gratification mindset, and plucked away at the things I could easily learn. Guitar met computer, and my time was consumed with experimentations and fiddling. I didn't have much to record, though, because songwriting was too much work. And all of these chapters in my life, from 13 onward, were connected and soaked though and through with a wildly lustful thought life. There were good and positive things in there, but mostly its nothing to be proud of.

Leaving home for college, finding Jesus on my own, things have changed. In my life now I see a real picture of what redemption is: God has redeemed my interest in music, allowing me to fall in love with the good and to develop healthy appreciation of all kinds, showing me moderation and truth. He has redeemed my guitar hands to bring me and others real joy, and to bring attention to Him in worship. He has pulled me out of the quicksand of lust and is helping me understand what He means by Love. Of my life that was so often defined by fixations, he has helped me learn to fixate on the One deserving worship. "Not that I have already attained it," like Paul says, but thanks be to God for setting my feet on the right path. That's redemption.

So this was my 30th post, according to blogger. Not much for 8 months, but it's fine with me.

pictures from Arkansas trip

2006-01-07T16:50:00.000-05:00

Right here.
When I got back I realized I'm not a very thorough picture-taker. Maybe I'm embarrased to always be pointing a camera at things. Maybe I'm forgetful. Lessons for the future, I s'pose.

winter walks

2006-01-06T17:58:00.000-05:00

My mom is an avid walker. She works at an elementary school, and when she comes home it's usually, "I think I'll go out for a nice 4-miler. Want to come?"
I usually do--and these days I make sure I'm bundled up with wool socks and long johns. It's a tough balance, because you work up a sweat fast.
We had to leave Oliver behind today, because he's had a lame leg for a while. Poor guy.

I like the excercise, but the real reason I go is to share the time with my mom. Walking always stimulates good talks. I think the best conversations happen side by side, moving in a common direction, instead of sitting at a table or looking eachother in the eye. I can't explain it, but they do. Words and motion seem to act together nicely.

We talk about difficulties and fears, mostly, and family, and about spots we're wearing thin and showing our frailness. There's just the steady pace of walking and words.
I feel I've gotten to know my mother in a new way, like a real person instead of a mother and all that role entails. I start to see my sister and my dad through her eyes, and this increases their humanity too. I start to see myself through her eyes, and see again the miracle and wonder of generations and inheritances.

Today we got back to the house in the dark, in a calm snowfall. The lights were on inside and a fire was roaring in the woodstove. I peeled off all my sweaty layers and had a glass of water.

Coffee

2005-12-29T21:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been visiting my grandparents in Arkansas for the last 4 days.
My Grandfather is 74. He says he’s been drinking coffee for the last 65 years. That’s 47,450 cups of coffee, at an average of two 8 oz. cups a day. That’s about 370 gallons, if I figured it right. That’s a lot of coffee.
He takes 2 teaspoons of sugar in every cup. That’s 94,900 teaspoons, or 1,977 measuring cups, which works out to about 175 ¾ pounds. That’s a lot of sugar. Granted, the last 20 years he’s been using artificial sweetener.
We were just finishing up our chili and cornbread when we got on the subject. It struck me that Grandpa has lived a long time, and he’s always had his coffee. At first it seemed a silly question, but then we really got into answering it. Grandma reached for a pencil and pad of paper. When our heads started to spin, Grandpa dug around in the drawer for the calculator.
A day doesn’t feel like so much, but they add up before you know it. I’m at 1,825 cups of coffee. (But I don’t take sugar).

new favorite novel

2005-12-16T15:13:00.000-05:00

I don't read many novels, but this one came well-recommended from my English advisor, who I respect considerably.
It's not a normal novel, either. The entire 250 pages is a letter an old man is writing to his young son, unfolding a rich story of his life and the history of his town, meandering through insightful comments on human nature and theology. It was very, very well worth the read.

Gilead. Read it!

a day

2005-12-10T21:04:00.000-05:00

Today I made pancakes and scrambled eggs for the people in my dorm.
Today I didn't go outside until 6:30 pm. It was long since dark.
Today I drank coffee, grape juice, and green tea.
Today I fixed the vacuum cleaner. It had so much hair and lint wound onto pulleys that it had thrown the belt.
Today I ate dinner with people from Angola, Lesotho, and Nepal.
Today I talked to my grandparents.
Today I reserved plane tickets for a trip to Arkansas. Dec. 26th to Jan. 4th.
Today I thought about what it will be like to come back and visit this school in five years. I thought about my sister. I thought about what faith is. I thought about alot of things, while I was doing all this.
Tomorrow will be something else.

where do babies come from?

2005-11-25T18:22:00.000-05:00

I'm just back from a feast.
Two of my cousins are in the snow plowing business. The big meal was to be at their parents' house, so on Wednesday when the forecast called for Thursday snow showers, my aunt moved Thanksgiving.
The older of the cousin brothers, Phillip (24 yesterday), is married with 11-month-old twins. Besides the food, those kiddos stole the day. The cameras were trained on them, tottering on unsteady knees, eyes soaking in worlds of information, little gummy smiles and wispy hair. They wore matching plaid onesies and shiny black shoes. Picking up Abigail, a little smaller than her brother Phillip Jr, and feeling her heft and motion against my chest, I started to enjoy babies. To tell you the truth, I had never been very interested in babies before these two came along. But these are hitting close to home.
It's an appropriate time. I was thinking just the other night about the miracle of life--about how people, and all the mind and personality they are, can just start to exist at a certain point in time. Something infinite springs to life out natural matter. How does that happen?
When I thought about this aloud, my cousin Adam laughed and offered to explain the process. That isn't really what I meant.
I don't think we can ever run out of miracles to wonder at.

Look at the photos!: http://community.webshots.com/user/tasmit02

moonrise and sunset

2005-11-14T17:52:00.000-05:00

It's been more than a month. I was afraid this would happen.

The sky has been incredible these days, in the flat north country.
Today I came out of the library shortly after 5:00. The chapel bells had just started their daily chimes. (They play songs everyday from 5-5:30). Looking up I saw, as if resting on the chapel's ridgeline, the moon as full and bright as I have ever seen it--brighter, even--glowing against purplish clouds in a richly navy blue sky. The lamp posts gave their own glow, but it was still on the cusp of darkness, not late enough to see the stars. I was surprised to see the moon like this, like an unexpected visitor, and paused on the sidewalk to stare at it for a while.Someone else bustled out of the library, and not wanting to appear a fool, I let go of my stare and kept walking. But coming around the corner of the long library I had to blink once more at the western sky, still pink from a sunset. How wonderful.

creative worship

2005-10-15T19:53:00.000-05:00

Sing sing sing...this song is so familiar.

Hold the phone...is this a verse I've never heard?

As the fish panteth for the water
As the mouse hungers after cheese
As the chimp longeth for banannas
So my soul wants to worship thee

Compliments of my friend Gospel at Middlebury College IVCF last night.

good intentions

2005-10-12T21:08:00.000-05:00

Should I call it failure, neglegance, or grace? The past two mornings I've been a victim of good intentions gone awry: my alarm was all set, ready to go, but something went wrong. I sleep past 7:00, past 8:00, when the sleeping is rich and the dreams get more vivid. It must be around 8:30 I get an inclination that I'm too rested. I open my eyes; the light behind the blinds is a little too brights; the voices in the hallway are too busy. Craning, then, to peer at the clock, I find it's 9:00.
I know I set my alarm, I think, rehearsing the memory of the night before. But good intentions aren't enough. Stepping out of bed, I feel a mixture of regret and luck.

The times, they are a changin'

2005-10-07T19:00:00.000-05:00

Come gather 'round people wherever you roam
and admit that the waters around you have grown
and accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone
if your time to you is worth saving
And you better stat swimming or you'll sink like a stone
foe the times, they are a-changing
...
The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast
The slow one now will later be fast
as the present now will later be past
The order is rapidly fading
And the first one now will later be last
for the times, they are a-changing.

That's the Bob Dylan song Derek Webb opened with two weeks ago at Middlebury College. (Has it really been two weeks??) He blared those words in 120-grit tenor over big 3/4 time strums.
It took me a few minutes to get past the thought, "hey...this is the guy I've heard in all those songs. " A few times during the show I would come back, "no. wait. yes. that's his voice...that's him." I'm scared of that celebrity mentality, that euphoria you get when you see someone famous. It's as if you're suddenly ushered into the presence of the divine--as if all the attention ever given to that person has saturated them, as if it sticks out past the stage and bumps into you.

He played his last song and vanished behind the curtain. And it was good for me to see him. A real person, singing words with no studio in between us, hitting a guitar with his hand, just like I do.

Too bad you weren't there! (I'm sure you would have liked it, Kristen).

Here's the start of something. Or maybe it's the middle of something.

2005-09-16T22:42:00.000-05:00

There was a picture book in my third grade classroom, by William Steig, I think—I remember it almost vividly. I might retrieve the title if I think long enough, but the story was about a donkey who found a magic pebble. Did he know it was magic? I can’t remember—but only that when it was in his hand (or hoof) he could wish to be changed into anything he wanted. One day out in the countryside a lion crossed his path, and in a panic the donkey wished he was a boulder. You can guess the dilemma he was in next, like I did in my eager wisdom of eight years, shaking my head as I turned the page: the donkey now trapped in inanimacy couldn’t pick up his magic pebble to wish himself back. What could he do? I forgot how the book ended.

It was a powerful moral tale at that time in my life, setting a precedent in my forays of imagination. And it was this, I believe, that cautioned me never, if given the chance, to wish I could become my dog, because even as I itched with curiosity to experience his dogness—just for a few minutes—I risked locking myself out of humanness for good not knowing if, as a dog, I would be able to wish myself back. Once between his ears, would I have the sense to take up again that pebble, as it were, to reverse the effect? I tried to sidestep the issue by imagining a clause that guaranteed a two-way trip. But in the end I couldn’t get around it, and the thought haunted me.

thoughts

2005-09-15T16:01:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since my last post, hasn't it? I need to get back in the swing of writing, though; my first big creative writing assignment for my nonfiction class is due on monday. Please send suggestions. :)

I had an eerie, semiprofound experience today in the early morning hours of sleep. For a minute, as if half-conscious, I remember being aware of myself sleeping. I guess that happens all the time. But then, be it the news radio of my alarm or a dream, I was caused to imagine for a second that I was not between soft sheets but in a violent, war-stricken place, curled up on a hard surface, dozing without peace from the thought that I might be in harm's way. My heart leapt and I opened my eyes to be sure of myself.
Embracing sleep again, I had never been more thankful to be in a comfortable bed. Likewise I felt a tight knot of shame that I have always accepted a soft, warm, safe place to sleep as fact. But how many millions in the world were started awake last night with a shiver, or hunger pains, or a dread of danger, or a fear of demons?

doctrine

2005-09-03T13:32:00.000-05:00

Since June I've been reading through the Prophet Jeremiah. It's difficult at times, like today, with lots of repetition and gloomy promises. I'm in chapter 50, where God pronounces judgment on the Babylonians (just like He promised). Then I get to wondering, "would the Word be just as complete if one chapter of this was missing? How about one verse? How about one metaphor?'' I wouldn't want, I wouldn't dare, to say yes to that, but I still wonder.

groaning

2005-09-02T10:29:00.000-05:00

Voices on the NPR news with Rene Montaigne pulled me from sleep this morning. I lay in bed for a while, hoping to be hearing dreams and not real voices reporting "the tens of thousands still stranded on rooftops and piers without food and water," the "rotting bodies" and "overcrowded hospitals where infectious diseases are becoming a serious risk," where they "have started to use an empty stairwell as an extra morgue," where "at night you hear gunshots and people are frantic." The national guard has orders to "shoot to kill" to ward off looters; the governor of Mississippi is disgusted with how little help has come. Three days after Katrina, the aftermath swells like an infected wound.
I stood up and took a few steps in the half dark and didn't know what to do. I just stood there, looking at the radio and at the wall, my night's rest outweighed by a tired heart.
"Father" I groaned.

ahh

2005-08-31T10:31:00.000-05:00

This is the first steady, soaking rain we've had in a long time. Actually, it's the first I remember in months, having spent the summer in parched LA. It was raining when I switched off my reading lamp last night. It was raining harder when I rose to turn off the alarm this morning. It's an assertive, unquestionable rain, the take-off-your-coat-and-stay-a-while kind, and it's wonderful. The unmet anticipation of humidity is done with; the gray sky forces the moisture from the atmosphere and pushes it into the puddles.
The rain makes everyone equal for a little while. We all come into class shaking off our backpacks, shoes squeaking on the tile floor, we dart between buildings pretending to dodge raindrops. But there is no issue of belief, of preference, or decision. Somebody else has decided the rain to be here, a truth that no one underneath considers to deny. We either get wet or stay inside. I choose to be wet!

drafts

2005-08-29T23:17:00.000-05:00

I was reading tonight in Patricia Hampl's I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourns in the Land of Memory. She talks about the memoir form being how the writer grapples with and understands memory, and somehow gives it meaning. But one thing she said caught my attention: "a careful first draft is a failed first draft." It caught my attention becasue my self-conscious impulse is nothing BUT to create a careful first draft. Especially with the advent of the blog, when I press the "publish post" button to release it to be read. It's a bit exciting, and the excitement makes my fingers careful on the keys, and make me comb back through to make sure everything is the way I like it. The one thing a blog makes me unable to be is spontaneous and undirected, which is exactly what Hampl would call a failure and inhibition to memory.
There, that was more or less spontaneous. But is that something worth reading about?

2005-08-24T08:40:00.000-05:00

Driving through the Adirondacks

big things

2005-08-24T08:03:00.000-05:00

These days are the beginnings of big things. Making first impression, re-befriending old friends and re-acquainting old acquaintances, brainstorming with IV leadership with a fresh and unfrustrated vision. The possibilities are overwhelming...I can't wait to see how God will sieze them.

Busyness is the enemy that hovers in the gap of meantime. It pushes the Most Important to the fringes, pretending its temporary aims to be the real thing. And selfishness is the cause of busyness. It tells me to please as many people as often as possible, to polish my reputation so my own face will reflect. What could a schedule be like without the upkeep of this image? I hope I learn this fall. I hope I can be like Jesus, who did enough. People tugged at his robe and asked him to stay, but he left them. He was probably offered money and better accomodations, but he wasn't concerned. "I must preach the good news to the other towns also, because that is why I was sent" (Luke 4:43).

My time is not my own. I was bought with a price.

stuffed up

2005-08-12T10:24:00.000-05:00

I started packing for college last night. Here's what I discovered: 45% of my property is things I'm saving from the past--books, clothing, papers, old gadgets. I don't use them anymore, or I need them only often enough to forget where I put them. Then 45% are things that I may use in the future. Most of the books I'm bringing to college, for instance, I probably won't read, but find security in the idea that I'll have them with me. The remaining 10% of my stuff is actually useful in the present. Or less. Crazy? Even more, that small sliver of earthly baggage flows constantly to either the closet or the moving box. Always we must have something new, and we must save the old. Sowing and reaping and storing away in barns.
"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" Matt. 6:28-30

Finished the follow-up letter!

2005-08-10T08:17:00.000-05:00

Here's the text:

How can I describe what this summer was like? To answer the most popular question: yes. I loved the California weather! But in fact, I might have had an equally good experience in a ring of tents on the Alaskan tundra. What counted was that God changed my heart. Let me tell you how.

I won’t forget the way milk looks washing down over a black stone, filmy and shimmering white. Three weeks ago I saw it, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Hindu temple, peering into an inner chamber where a seven-foot tall stone idol was dimly lit. Our group observed worship that day as guests of the Hindu devotees, normal people like you an I—mothers and children, old men and women, fathers and teens. The entering worshippers withdrew gallons of milk and bunches of bananas from plastic shopping bags and passed them to the front. Two priests wrapped in bath towels waist-down began to chant, and poured pitcher after pitcher of milk over the head and shoulders of their idol, ceremonially bathing their god. Every drop of milk brought that day, I’d say 40 gallons, splashed off the stone and ran out the gutter. The sad news is not wasted milk, but that these people loved by God believe their sacrifices to Vishnu will bring blessing and prosperity. And if they know enough, have done enough, have been devoted enough, they can hope to be reincarnated into a higher position in life.

The purpose of our temple visits and seminars was to become acquainted with the major world religions, most of which are predominate in places where people have never heard the Gospel. (See map on separate sheet). I learned that the country of India alone contains 2,300 distinct “people groups, ” out of which over 2,000 have no practical access to a Christian witness. The world is home to 10,000 distinct language/culture groups. A political nation-state is not a single group of alike people, but a collage of languages, histories, religions, affinities. Of the 10,000, over 4,000 have not heard the news of Jesus. These are the “nations” the Bible speaks of, that God will bless with redemption. Each will see Jesus through their own cultural eyes and worship him in their own tongue!

In all their many stripes, the religions of the world have much in common: Muslims, by living up to the Five Pillars of Islam, rest on the faith that in the end their good deeds will balance out the bad. Hare Krishna devotees renounce the material world and recite the names of Krishna at least 1725 times daily to experience a higher existence. Millions in Africa, South America, and Asia live with animistic worldviews, fearing the demonic and taking their chances to manipulate spirits for protection or power. These are manmade distractions from the problem of sin that we are helpless by our own strength to overcome. They share the hope that somehow, through mantras, through goodness, through knowledge, we might change ourselves—we might even get to know the Divine. But these billions do not know the One God who made the universe, or His Son, who died in their place to free them from the hopelessness of sin and the hypocrisy of self-help (as he needs to no less for us). They don’t yet know the Jesus who can heal their families, cast out their demons, and give them a new heart of love and hope. I learned this summer how astonishingly little the Western Church as used its vast resources to reach the unreached. Instead, we have often added the Gospel to the American Dream and pursued comfort and security. We are no less needy for the Gospel. The only difference is we have heard it.

But here’s the enlivening news: missions is not our concoction. It is the heart of God. He has always had his heart and His promise set on the entire world. We look toward worship in heaven with “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language” (Revelation. 7:9). The Bible reveals that since the creation of language and culture (Genesis 10 & 11) God has been actively reaching the nations. God tells Abraham that he will be blessed so that “all the peoples on earth will be blessed through you” (Gen. 12:3). The Old Testament bulges at chapter and verse with references to God’s desire for all peoples to know him. Even through Israel’s rocky history the fame of their true God spreads to the surrounding nations. The Psalmist writes “May all the nations be glad and sing for joy. / … God will bless us, / and all the ends of the earth will fear Him” (Psalm 67). Habakkuk paints this picture: “The earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea” (2:14). Before Jesus walks the earth, God is clear about what He will accomplish, and the New Testament fulfils what God had promised all along. Two thirds of Jesus’ major miracles were done for non-Jews. And Paul writes, “He redeemed us in order that the blessing given to Abraham might come to the Gentiles [any non-Jew] through Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:14). The Gospel has always been on its way to somebody else. It didn’t stop with Israel, and it doesn’t stop with America. Jesus tells his disciples how it will end up: “This Gospel of the Kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.” Who will take it there?

One of my deepest-set convictions from this summer is that human beings are truly not content without the fulfillment of being reconciled to God through Jesus Christ. For some reason, maybe because I’ve grown up with Christ commonplace, that stunned me. He is the longing of the human heart. And God is active in His creation, reaching the lost and giving light to earnest seekers. It’s been estimated that half of all Muslims who place their faith in Christ do so after they have a dream of a man in a white robe saying “follow me.” Another example: a man spoke to us who had worked among a tribal people called the Iteris (ee-teddies) in Papua New Guinea for twenty years, beaming to recount how eager the tribe was to learn the Word of God, and how passionately they knew they needed a sacrifice in their place—before they were even taught about Jesus! Now this tribe has a vibrant, indigenous and growing body of believers.

I have realized that the wealth of knowledge I gained this summer will only fester if I don’t act on it. I must take the Word of God as basis enough to work, believe, and pray that all the nations know Jesus, the one who told his very ordinary, fearful followers “All authority on heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey all that I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matthew 28:18-20).

I wish I could say more than what fits in this letter! Thank you once again for supporting me this summer. It was more than a plane ticket and lodging for seven weeks. Be encouraged to know that you are directly involved in not only my growth, but in whatever impact my life makes in the future! I would love to talk with you more, whether in person or long distance, to answer questions, share resources, or hear your thoughts. Just ask!

For God’s glory among the nations,

Tyler Smith

“If Jesus Christ be God and died for me, then no sacrifice can be too great for me to make for Him.” - C.T. Studd, college student in the 1880s who gave up stardom on the Oxford cricket team, a widowed mother, his father’s fortune, and the family estate to join the China Inland Mission.

Take a look:

www.thetravelingteam.org
The Traveling Team is dedicated to mobilizing college students to fulfill the Great Commission. They coordinated the summer project. Check out “Becoming a World Christian” and “Resources.”
www.perspectives.org
Home site for Perspectives on the World Christian Movement. A class every Christian should take!
www.joshuaproject.net
A wealth of colorful data on all the world’s peoples to inform praying, giving, and going.

Fixing my eyes

2005-08-10T08:10:00.000-05:00

2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

summer mornings

2005-08-08T09:56:00.000-05:00

Summer mornings are beautiful and fragile things--as soon as one is in your ears and eyes and warms you enough to be inspired, it starts to escape. Rise too early and you feel nocturnal. Rise too late and you feel like you're already chasing the school bus as it drives away down the road.
Behind my house is a small bank and a slow brown creek. The water is nearly blocked from sight by fast-growing weed trees and ingrown underbrush, except where it is maintained as a hard-beaten track by my dog's daily watch. It looks east. In the early morning the sunlight is still clotted by the treetops, and crosses the back deck before coming into the house, where I will sit facing north, with a warm right leg.
As the light gets hotter and the cicadas warm up to their song, and as coffee passes through my teeth, I relish the few minutes of real morning. But soon the day's possibilities start to knock and pry and enter, and no matter how many times I look at the clock, it is already getting late.

"Let the morning bring me word
of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I lift up my soul."
Psalm 143:8

"Turn my heart toward your statutes
and not toward selfish gain.
Turn my eyes away from worthless things;
preserve my life according to your word"
Psalm 119:36&37

Hometown

2005-08-04T12:22:00.000-05:00

You can't ever change your hometown, can you? Mine has seemed a great static force in my life. Always existent, always a reference point. I leave and come back a different person, but it's always the same. Stores go up and come down, paving is replaced, the town green goes through its seasons, college students enter and exit, but this place is still the same persistent snapshot in my memory.
I drove into town to pick up a pizza the other day, and was suddenly conscious of myself in the third person, driving my mother's car, feeling the town's knowledge of who I am peer through the window and re-estimate me--the Smith boy, the MUHS grad, my sister's brother. But that isn't the self that I know, that I feel, setting the brake and jogging into the restaurant. I am learning to be discontent with them. I never thought I would be.

2005-08-03T21:22:00.000-05:00

God is not threatened; rather, He is immeasurably saddened by false worship. When people worship anyone or thing else besides Him, they become like it. God has better intentions for people. - Steven Hawthorne

false prophets

2005-08-02T08:11:00.000-05:00

I don't want to be one. The snag is that it's much easier to tell people what they want to hear than the Truth of God. In Jeremiah chs. 28-29, Hananiah and Shemaiah prophesy good things for the Hebrew nation. While Jeremiah prophesies 70 years of exile in Babylon, the more popular prophets are saying "soon God will bring you back home. Don't worry." God punishes them with death, and gives this message to Israel through Jeremiah: "Do not let the prophets and diviners among you decieve you. Do not listen to the dreams you encourage them to have. They are prophesying lies to you in my name. I have not sent them" (29:7). Most people want to hear only good things, too. But God's Truth is better in the long run. He says "I will discipline you, but only with justice" (30:11). The best intentions, if they aren't based on truth, are deadly.

Meet my IT project friends

2005-08-01T08:53:00.000-05:00

new bros and sistas (Thanks Amanda for the photos).

on working

2005-08-01T07:11:00.000-05:00

Gearing up for a day of work around the house. Carpet is going downstairs next week before Mom gets home, and I told dad I'd be his contractor this week to get it ready. Ah, yes...nothing like it. Hands are busy while the mind is free to wander. I think better when I'm working. I talk better while I'm working too. Ever notice that? Maybe it's a male thing--but talking and only talking can be a little awkward. Feels more natural to have some common purpose at the same time, like it gives validation to the relationship or something.

IT

2005-07-31T12:20:00.000-05:00

I'm convinced to start using this thing. Inspiration courtesy of my new friend Chris Poteet from IT project 05!

Seven weeks in Pasadena, CA has changed my life. Not the location, really. The first question people always ask me is "oh, California? Did you like the weather out there?" Yes, I say, I did like the weather, (75 and clear 50 days in a row) but I might have had an equally great experience in Boston, or some rainy middle-of-nowhere place, or in tents on the Alaskan tundra. What counted was that God changed my heart. Christ showed me anew what it means to follow him. By God's grace and design, I gained lifelong brothers and sisters in His family. Since that happened in Pasadena, California--yes. I loved it there.
(Photos courtesy of Amanda Wilson!)

beginnings and endings

2005-06-06T18:46:00.000-05:00

A funny way to start this off. Last friday I made this blog in order to be able to post on someone else's. After a little deliberation I decided to use the address "tylers news etc" (minus spacing). Turns out I wrote "tylers new sect" instead. So that blog was deleted. Don't want people getting the wrong ideas. :)