September 3, 2007
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opps.
people asking me how I am is normally my cue to ask them how
they are. But 3/4s of the time I get so glad that they asked that I start one
of my stories of me and then never have time to even get to them.most problems are really rather simple, it just takes us
getting to the end of our rope to be honest with ourselves and others and
realize what we need to do.I am learning about love. The kind of love that I know seems
to make me choose one and reject the other. Like I am a fairy that can only hold
one emotion at a time. I choose to love one person and then anyone who hurts
them I hate. Sounds natural. But that isn’t how it works. I am supposed to love
that person too. It is easy to love the rapped woman, but what about loving the
rapist? I am called to love. To love both. My love does not go that far. To
love the unborn baby I hate the abortionist. To love my country and freedom, I
hate Iraq
and terrorists. To love the ghetto I hate suburbia. Maybe hate is too strong a
word…dispise, look down upon, be apathetic towards…but whatever it is, it isn’t
love. And if I am not loving everyone, am I really loving anyone?Ok…so Stardust is right up there with Princess Bride, and gets brownie points since the main character shares names with Karianne’s little darling. Quotes:
“But never mind how he became a boy, this story is about how
Tristan became a man, which is something of much larger consequence.”“A philosopher once asked ‘are we human because we look at
the stars, or do we look at the stars because we are human?” but the bigger
question is ‘are the stars watching us?”“nothing says romance like a kidnapped, injured woman”
“there are shop boys and there are boys who happen to work
in a shop for the time being. Trust me Tristan, you are not a shop boy.”What is love? How do I love? How does someone feel love?
I’ve sat in church long enough to where I was sure there were villages waiting
for me…that needed me or would die and wither away…on the way to Timbauba the
bus stops at one such villiage—Alianca. There is a catholic church and I think
an assembly church. in the interior of Brasil there is city after city like
that. towns of 6,000 people where maybe 20 or so profess to know Jesus. Or
less. They must feel so alone. So I sat in Alianca, inside the bus, and looked
at this town. They looked happy enough. They sure didn’t look in need. They
looked like they would lead pretty normal lives. They would cry some days and
laugh others. I realized they didn’t need me. they didn’t need my message or my
sympathy. What did they need? Jesus, of course, those words have been planted
in my head since Kindergarten. Why? So they won’t go to hell. Yes, but…there
has to be more…something that matters for this life. The abyss of hell isn’t
staring them in the face, and I don’t want to guilt them into a decision so
they can have fire insurance. Oh yes…satisfaction, fulfillment, answers that
only come through Christ. Love. Of all the junk in my head that I am sorting
out…this is one answer I know I believe. They don’t need me, they need Jesus,
and they would never see that unless they felt it, and they can only feel it
through love. They don’t need me to preach—they need me to love. So now I know
what they need. And what I need to give. But how do I love? How does one love
so that someone else can feel it?**
The man had a white beard. I saw it because I saw him stand
up to get on the combie. Once he got closer I turned away. Combies are old vw
buses, cheap transportation around town. They stuff us in to get their gas
worth and days wages out of the trip. He came in the combie and moved to the
back. right next to me. He stank more than anyone (ok, there was a drunk on a different bus once,
but…) and my whole concentration was turned to breathing through my mouth. I
asked Karine to open the window, just as we passed an animal food factory.
Surrounded by horrid smell, I felt trapped. I felt sick. I didn’t look at the
man, squished next to him in the back. We got to our stop and I stepped over
him carefully. I looked down at his toes. He had horribly ugly toes. I took a
big breath of fresh air and felt calm again. I don’t know how to love. I didn’t even look at him
once.Shout out to my amazing parents, who love me and hold their hands over my wounds. they would hold me, if i were in the same country. I love you.
“It makes you feel that as a parent the most important thing
you can do is love your kids, hold them, and tell them you love them because,
until we get to heaven, all we can do is hold our palms over the wounds.” –Don
Miller
