Tonight I was hanging out with some friends who wanted to watch a movie. Angie said that we should watch 7 Pounds because I needed a good cry and probably hadn't had one in a while. I, perhaps taking the comment beyond its humorous intent, retorted that I had watched 7 Pounds and it hadn't made me cry the first time. And that, in addition, I had already had something of a cry earlier that very day. First of all I was told I had to have had a heart of stone to have watched such an emotional movie and not be moved to tears. Secondly, I was questioned as to what would, then, have brought me to the edge that very day. I didn't answer, but I'll try now:
It seems like cynics are easy to foster in our culture. I'm a good example. We become cynical of our governments, cynical of things we don't understand, and cynical of ourselves because we know that our society is the most successful failure we've ever seen.
Recently Canada was accused of covering up a placement of Afghan detainees that knowingly resulted in their torture. All I seemed to hear about it from Ottawa is whose job should be lost as a result and who gets to fill it once they're gone. Nothing about morals. Little about making things right. Never an apology (that i heard). "What has happened to our humanity?" one might be heard to ask. "At what point is this not a game anymore?" See, it's easy to be a cynic.
Over the past decade, those US officials responsible for pushing the war in the middle east have been accused of doing it for the oil rather than for domestic reasons. Amid conspiracy theory a population grows apathetic and stone heartened to the "propaganda" that floods their televisions. Perhaps we all are cynics.
Perhaps my heart has been cold as anyones.
but this is what happened:
I drove to victoria and back for something- i don't remember what. On the way there i saw the sign emploring everyone to donate to Hati relief. I think the dj on the local rock station was talking about it too. Everybody, it seemed, was talking about it- and trying to do something about it. Even one of my employers young daughters had just told me a day or few earlier that she was doing a bake sale.
I decided to listen to CBC 2 on the way home. The entire day on air was dedicated to Hati. There was related music and massive fundraising. It seemed like this was not simply a marketing push, the sound of its voice didn't allow for me to believe in less than genuine compassion. I was touched by the programming, but what really pushed me to the edge was, as i was still listening, i passed under an overpass on which a handful of people were waving signs to give to hati and how to do it. As I drove underneath I knew i wouldn't, for my current situation, go donate right then, but i gave the a thumbs up as i drove underneath. A communication that connected. I knew what they were doing, how important it was, and they knew that i knew and that i was right there with them in spirit. I felt a connection. I felt a belief in humanity, and among the reality that hung over this disaster I begin to cry for the gain that hati seemed to have made in our humanity. As if, even as we were helping her, that she was saving us.
Maybe if Victoria could unite, if Canada could unite. Maybe if all these nations were pouring in millions upon millions to a country that probably did nothing for them, then there was hope. Maybe there's still hope for us as people; as humans.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Church
I had a beautiful run in with church recently.
The service that I had normally been attending (and loving), The service that might be responsible in part for making me love church (in its institution?) again, was coming to an end. The service took place on saturday nights and was not a thing apart from the congregation that met in the same building on Sunday mornings. The saturday night service had been something of an experiment in expansion and a trial of creativity. It was not a separate church from Sunday morning if you take my meaning. It was, however, a different format that i found myself very engaged in. The sunday morning formats were different, and I hadn't been regularly attending them, for various reasons, for 2 years. I had actually been frustrated with it all about 2 years earlier, and felt at the time that I needed to take a break- not from resentment perhaps as much as from a sense of needing something fresh which i could give and take more to and from. Now, with the saturday night services ending, which i had started attending consistently about a year earlier, I knew my next move.
I had showed up on the occasional Sunday morning here and there, but things were entitled to have changed. Would people even remember who I was? I wanted to make sure they did.
The Saturday night before I would be making a comeback to the sunday morning service, I was driving home with a friend from Victoria. She was going to be staying at my family's place overnight and i was going to drop her off at her church service in the morning before going to mine.
"Won't you be late for your service then?" she asked.
"I don't mind being late actually." I countered. "actually, to tell you the truth, i've shown up late on purpose lots of time to church. No-one seems to mind if I do, and it sometimes just makes it much easier."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't know. I guess i just get closterphobic when i'm sitting in a room full of people for more than an hour. I start getting fidgety and scetching out. Especially if the Pastor decides to speak overtime, as he often does.
"Oh"
"Plus, i guess there's also the fact that sometimes the music just drives me crazy at the beginning. I mean, it depends and it sounds terribly rediculous or selfish i'm sure, but i can't get around it driving me crazy sometimes."
"Oh i see" she says, "So if you're only here for a few weeks more before you leave" (this is a few weeks before my departure to the Philippines, which is supposed to keep me away for about half a year) "...and if you don't like your church that much... why don't you just go somewhere else?"
The question was fair. But my own indignancy suprised me.
"Go somewhere else?! What?! I don't think you understand me at all! This is my church. This has been my church since i was 15! I cant just walk out on that! No, i might not like the pastors speaking sometimes and sometimes i even disagree with points, and i might not like the country ballad versions of songs that proceed it- but the pastor and the music leader are my church. They are guys that love me! I leave in a few weeks and i need to be at church to remind them (for those that haven't been attending saturday night services) that I'm still around, I'm still one of their family and that I need them now as much or more than ever!"
As an aside, this conversation is a paraphrase, and i should apologize to my friend because its probably an unfair depiction of a conversation that this friend really helped me process with... and i hope it didn't seem like i was yelling at you. Anyways, thanks for listening.
Next day at church was amazing. I felt so at home. I felt so supported. Two or three old ladies whose names i can't even place came up to me and told me how nice it was to see me back around again. It was a great time with a great family with definite quirks (but we're all human?), and i think it might have marked a healing step in coming back to church. I wasn't alienated or resentful, and i was a part of that church (just in a different setting with different people) but I might have been a little lost. A conversation solidified in me what was important. The important part as i see it now is the fact that the people who make up My Church are the people who have been there the whole time; loving people, as faithful as the ocean when you return to it for peace.
post concieved Jan 10. written mar 1
The service that I had normally been attending (and loving), The service that might be responsible in part for making me love church (in its institution?) again, was coming to an end. The service took place on saturday nights and was not a thing apart from the congregation that met in the same building on Sunday mornings. The saturday night service had been something of an experiment in expansion and a trial of creativity. It was not a separate church from Sunday morning if you take my meaning. It was, however, a different format that i found myself very engaged in. The sunday morning formats were different, and I hadn't been regularly attending them, for various reasons, for 2 years. I had actually been frustrated with it all about 2 years earlier, and felt at the time that I needed to take a break- not from resentment perhaps as much as from a sense of needing something fresh which i could give and take more to and from. Now, with the saturday night services ending, which i had started attending consistently about a year earlier, I knew my next move.
I had showed up on the occasional Sunday morning here and there, but things were entitled to have changed. Would people even remember who I was? I wanted to make sure they did.
The Saturday night before I would be making a comeback to the sunday morning service, I was driving home with a friend from Victoria. She was going to be staying at my family's place overnight and i was going to drop her off at her church service in the morning before going to mine.
"Won't you be late for your service then?" she asked.
"I don't mind being late actually." I countered. "actually, to tell you the truth, i've shown up late on purpose lots of time to church. No-one seems to mind if I do, and it sometimes just makes it much easier."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't know. I guess i just get closterphobic when i'm sitting in a room full of people for more than an hour. I start getting fidgety and scetching out. Especially if the Pastor decides to speak overtime, as he often does.
"Oh"
"Plus, i guess there's also the fact that sometimes the music just drives me crazy at the beginning. I mean, it depends and it sounds terribly rediculous or selfish i'm sure, but i can't get around it driving me crazy sometimes."
"Oh i see" she says, "So if you're only here for a few weeks more before you leave" (this is a few weeks before my departure to the Philippines, which is supposed to keep me away for about half a year) "...and if you don't like your church that much... why don't you just go somewhere else?"
The question was fair. But my own indignancy suprised me.
"Go somewhere else?! What?! I don't think you understand me at all! This is my church. This has been my church since i was 15! I cant just walk out on that! No, i might not like the pastors speaking sometimes and sometimes i even disagree with points, and i might not like the country ballad versions of songs that proceed it- but the pastor and the music leader are my church. They are guys that love me! I leave in a few weeks and i need to be at church to remind them (for those that haven't been attending saturday night services) that I'm still around, I'm still one of their family and that I need them now as much or more than ever!"
As an aside, this conversation is a paraphrase, and i should apologize to my friend because its probably an unfair depiction of a conversation that this friend really helped me process with... and i hope it didn't seem like i was yelling at you. Anyways, thanks for listening.
Next day at church was amazing. I felt so at home. I felt so supported. Two or three old ladies whose names i can't even place came up to me and told me how nice it was to see me back around again. It was a great time with a great family with definite quirks (but we're all human?), and i think it might have marked a healing step in coming back to church. I wasn't alienated or resentful, and i was a part of that church (just in a different setting with different people) but I might have been a little lost. A conversation solidified in me what was important. The important part as i see it now is the fact that the people who make up My Church are the people who have been there the whole time; loving people, as faithful as the ocean when you return to it for peace.
post concieved Jan 10. written mar 1
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Alice Vs. Captain Hardy
Sunday
Mike wants to know if I'm still willing and wanting to go to Port Hardy to Visit Ried
"lets shoot for four o clock tomorrow."
It is decided.
Monday
"Want Coffee?"
"Yea, that'd be sweet"
"Snacks"
"For sure"
Werther Originals and Twizzlers accompany bad tasting gas station coffee as we pull out from filling up in mill bay. Five hours to go.
We are warned of Elk before we get to Cambell river. We discuss the immensity of Moose and I imagine how awful it would be to hit one- and how much the moose would notice if you did.
We call Reid when we get cell service. This is about 10 km out of Port Hardy. Mike has neglected to tell him that we were coming so he sounds confused when we tell him that we're just outside of town. Ried has the ability to shake his head with his voice. He's a cop. But he lived by practical street sence long before that. He wouldn't be one to drop in unanounced to a friend who may be working one of any uninteruptible shifts at the time when he expected homage. Fortunately we expected nonesuch, and fortunately Ried knows us. He'll shake his head with his voice and be glad to see us at the same time.
"we just figured we'd light a garbage can on fire or something if you were working."
"Yea that'd be great" Ried returns unconvincingly.
Conveniently, Ried has the next couple days off.
"So what do you want to do?" Ried offers, "We could go see Sharon."
Fortunately Sharon does not live far away. We hop into Ried's car and drive to her place. Partially thanking the fact that Port Hardy is a large abandoned parking lot, we can still see my Toyota from her place. She greets us with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for kids on the last day of school, turned up a few notches.
We decide to Visit Caleb. He lives in Port Alice. Port Alice is a stones throw by thrown stone and 40 minutes of windy narrow road by car. Caleb doesn't expect us either.
We sit at his place and chat untill its considered late enough to trek back to Hardy. When i hit the floor I stay there until late the next morning.
Tuesday
Breakfast, shooting range, Salmon burger, Hockey Juniors for the gold, Canada Juniors take silver, Pie, Game Cube, twenty minutes of M*A*S*H*, Loosing to sleep, Lost.
Wednesday
Nobody serves breakfast after eleven. However, there are cinnamon buns left at the diner, and they are big ones.
Ried wishes me well, I said goodbye to Caleb and Sharon last night. More gas, more coffee, more junk food. We make the trip in five and a half hours. Its beautiful how much ground you can cover when you don't have to take a ferry. Its a beautiful drive.
Mike is home and I am home; tired but unready for sleep. I take my time and begin to plan my next trip. A target from a tactical set at the firing range reminds me of this one.
It was good. It was very good.
Mike wants to know if I'm still willing and wanting to go to Port Hardy to Visit Ried
"lets shoot for four o clock tomorrow."
It is decided.
Monday
"Want Coffee?"
"Yea, that'd be sweet"
"Snacks"
"For sure"
Werther Originals and Twizzlers accompany bad tasting gas station coffee as we pull out from filling up in mill bay. Five hours to go.
We are warned of Elk before we get to Cambell river. We discuss the immensity of Moose and I imagine how awful it would be to hit one- and how much the moose would notice if you did.
We call Reid when we get cell service. This is about 10 km out of Port Hardy. Mike has neglected to tell him that we were coming so he sounds confused when we tell him that we're just outside of town. Ried has the ability to shake his head with his voice. He's a cop. But he lived by practical street sence long before that. He wouldn't be one to drop in unanounced to a friend who may be working one of any uninteruptible shifts at the time when he expected homage. Fortunately we expected nonesuch, and fortunately Ried knows us. He'll shake his head with his voice and be glad to see us at the same time.
"we just figured we'd light a garbage can on fire or something if you were working."
"Yea that'd be great" Ried returns unconvincingly.
Conveniently, Ried has the next couple days off.
"So what do you want to do?" Ried offers, "We could go see Sharon."
Fortunately Sharon does not live far away. We hop into Ried's car and drive to her place. Partially thanking the fact that Port Hardy is a large abandoned parking lot, we can still see my Toyota from her place. She greets us with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for kids on the last day of school, turned up a few notches.
We decide to Visit Caleb. He lives in Port Alice. Port Alice is a stones throw by thrown stone and 40 minutes of windy narrow road by car. Caleb doesn't expect us either.
We sit at his place and chat untill its considered late enough to trek back to Hardy. When i hit the floor I stay there until late the next morning.
Tuesday
Breakfast, shooting range, Salmon burger, Hockey Juniors for the gold, Canada Juniors take silver, Pie, Game Cube, twenty minutes of M*A*S*H*, Loosing to sleep, Lost.
Wednesday
Nobody serves breakfast after eleven. However, there are cinnamon buns left at the diner, and they are big ones.
Ried wishes me well, I said goodbye to Caleb and Sharon last night. More gas, more coffee, more junk food. We make the trip in five and a half hours. Its beautiful how much ground you can cover when you don't have to take a ferry. Its a beautiful drive.
Mike is home and I am home; tired but unready for sleep. I take my time and begin to plan my next trip. A target from a tactical set at the firing range reminds me of this one.
It was good. It was very good.
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