Dan's Mexico Stories

God Moves in Mysterious Ways

2009-08-09T22:55:00.003-04:00

This was my friend Shank's hymn for last week and it really spoke to where I am right now. Thought I'd share it with you all so that it could be a blessing!

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Reduce! Reuse! Reflect! At last!

2009-08-09T20:11:00.004-04:00

In case you were worried, I arrived safely and soundly in Raleigh last Monday evening at 7:30 (on time! Thank you God / Continental!) I have since been on a whirlwind soak-up-every-last-second-of-freedom tour of the Carolinas, moving to Greenville, NC on Tuesday and going down to Hilton Head Island, SC from Wednesday to Saturday. Today, I have been reading, readying and steadying myself for a big day tomorrow of meeting people and getting oriented to a new school-- a new life! This process of orientation has already begun in my own life, and my only wish is that I had a road map to all the emotions I'll be going through in the coming months-- something of a nice, linear Kubler-Ross "five stages of grief" kinda thing. The closest comparison I have in my own life is my entrance into college, though I'm less neophytic now than I was four years ago. Then as now, I was frightened yet intrepid, melancholy yet infinitely expectant, weary yet bursting with vigor, thinking clearly yet consumed by paradox. I'm really little different at heart than I was then, I've merely learned some useful (or not) things such as how to solve differential equations (not useful and since forgotten), the motifs in "Merchant of Venice," the hormones secreted by the pituitary gland, how to love campers, how to be vulnerable with my close friends, and how to not care what the rest of the people think. I believe I'm a little more sensitive, though I have a long way to go in that category. I know the demon that lurks within me a little bit more personally than I did. And I have a fairly clear sense of where God is pulling me, which I completely lacked four years ago. Yet all those lessons, those experiences, all that life tries to delete itself off of my memory when I start something new and unfamiliar. The enemy (or my own sin) is always seeking for a thing as simple as a conversation or as momentous as a new life stage to set me back on the path of self-seeking worldliness... and though on occasion the Spirit triumphs, I sometimes give in without a fight. Oh God that I would take this opportunity to lose myself in God-honoring service!

Farewell Mexico

2009-07-31T19:24:00.002-04:00

Firstly, I´d like to share that I´ve thoroughly enjoyed almost everything about this week. It actually started last Saturday evening when I went to a soccer game-- wearing my new Tigres jersey-- with Michael Lee and Mauricio, a friend I´ve made down here. Though I missed the one goal the Tigres scored when I got distracted by a bird, I really enjoyed the game. During halftime, Powerade sponsored what can only be called a Most Extreme Elimination Challenge Obstacle Course (ok, I suppose it could be called something else), in which volunteers would try to run across spinning logs and almost always bust, then proceed to a series of ascending spinning cylinders, bust again, then run to an eight-foot platform-- if they made it that far, which they usually didn´t, grab a gigantic baloon, and jump off of the platform and try to bounce off the balloon onto the ground. Only one contestant managed this part successfully, and many missed their balloon completely and landed on their face, no doubt sustaining minor injuries. If they survived this, they were rewarded with the privilege of kicking a penalty kick. The game was good too.

That night, I moved into the hotel, and proceeded Sunday morning to meet the group of about 25-- 4 doctors, some nurses, a physician assistant, a physical therapist, a medical techologist, and some ¨normal¨ people. Monday, we went to a nice Christian nursing home and cared for the residents there until about 2 o´clock, the usual quittin´time this week. That night, two 18-year old guys who are on the trip and I played a pick-up game of soccer until about 11:30, which we have done every day this week except Thursday (we stayed at a restaurant until 11:30 and it was raining). On Tuesday, some of the group went to a different nursing home, while the rest of us stayed at the hotel to give a clinic to some of the Federales who have been staying there. The rest of the week, we were at Bethel Presbyterian Church (where I´ve been for two other weeks) running a clinic with our doctors, an optometrist, and a dentist from the area. We´ve also traveled to the hill with the gigantic Mexican flag in the middle of the city (Asta Bandera), as well as to Chipinque, where I went with Robert Bristol my first week here.

The doctors on this trip (a Navy flight surgeon, an internist, a pathologist, and a doctor of emergency medicine) were all incredible examples to me of what it looks like to be a Christian man and a Christian doctor. I learned a lot from them, and feel much more prepared and at peace as I enter med school in just over a week from now. Thanks so much for all of your prayers and support! I´ll post here a few more times in the coming week or two, then will probably let it r.i.p. See you all soon!

Pictures of Week 8

2009-07-31T09:26:00.002-04:00

My final week in Mexico has quickly come to an end. Here are a few snapshots that capture the variety of stuff I got to do and see this week. Reflections to follow as soon as I get a chance.

This is the whole group on a hill with a gigantic flag (not shown) that overlooks the city (Asta Bandera)

Here we have a shapshot of the clinic in action at Bethel Church, where we were on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.

What we have here is the impromptu clinic some of us gave on Tuesday to the Federales who are staying at our hotel. The doctors instructed them on emergency medicine and general health then checked blood pressure and glucose and anything else they needed.

This is a shot of the clinic we gave on Monday to the residents of a nursing home.

Mauricio and me at the Tigres game we went to on Saturday. The Tigres tied with Puebla 1-1. I missed our goal because I was looking at a bird. But the halftime show was one of the funniest things I´ve ever witnessed.

Pictures of Week 7

2009-07-24T17:29:00.003-04:00

Here are a few photos of this week´s campamento de verano. Lots of kids, heat, fun, dirt, songs, and sweat.
The girls who always wanted to play a hand-slap game with me.

The santuario jam-packed with munchkins.

My charges, plus Michael Lee.

The dusty, dusty courtyard behind the church.

The singing children.

I continue to enjoy my time here and am counting down the days. Until next time!

Rescue!

2009-07-21T17:11:00.010-04:00

With this post, I hope to rescue my blog from the stagnation which has engulfed it the past couple of weeks. VBS last week really took a lot out of me: we were at the church or the nearby park from 8:30 in the morning to 8:30 at night, sometimes longer. And it was over 100 degrees every day, with no air conditioning outside of the pastor´s office. But that being said, I had another great week deepening my relationships with the people of Bethel Presbyterian Church and forging new relationships with the teams. One team of about eight hailed from Chattanooga (I think from First Presbyterian Church) and another of about seventeen from Muncy, Indiana. In the mornings, we ran a clinic at the local park that consisted of basketball drills, pick-up games, a couple short object lessons by the team members, and a couple hours of pick-up soccer. After lunch, we helped run the Campamento del Verano (VBS), which drew fifty to sixty image-bearers from the neighborhood. After a chaotic first day, I and the youth leader from Indiana took over the games and had a lot of fun with the kids. The final day, I gave an object lesson to the kids at the park in Spanish. Friday night, we had a despedido, or send-off, and the people of the church chose superlatives gave out little wrestler (luchador) trophies-- I got ¨best at Spanish,¨believe it or not. But I´m not content with my progress so far and hope to imprint much more Spanish on my brain in my last two weeks here.

This week, I´m working with a team from New Jersey who is doing VBS in the morning and building a concrete wall in the afternoon. Fortunately, I´ve been able to opt out of the manual labor, which is nice since my back still hasn´t recovered from an intense 2 weeks of nonstop disc golf in early May. But I´ve found myself in charge of about twenty fantastic nine- and ten-year-olds, and am really enjoying my time with them. In the afternoon, Michael Lee (a pastor with whom I´ve hung out a lot the past few weeks) and I head back to the house where we´re staying or figure out something to do. We have had some great talks and get along really well-- he´s an answer to prayer. Yesterday, we decided to go downtown to buy a couple soccer jerseys (which are really expensive here) and almost succeeded in getting lost. This afternoon, we´ve just been hanging out at the MTW office getting stuff done. The rest of the week looks about the same-- I hope to get lots of reading and Spanish study in.

The Medical Brigade comes in on Saturday and will open up their clinic back at Bethel on Monday (as far as I know). I´m really looking forward to meeting some doctors and nurses and hopefully getting a lot of hands-on (or at least eyes-on) experience. This type of work is really what I wanted to do all summer, but the Lord had his own plans. Pray both that I learn a lot of practical things and that I will also come to a better understanding of how medical missions works and whether I would be interested in doing some of it down the road.

As I near the end of my summer (I fly out on August 3rd and start medical school on August 10th), I am so thankful for a chance to see what missions is like first-hand. At times (especially on the off-weeks), it´s been very boring, and there are people I´ve met with whom I simply have nothing in common and with whom I would prefer not to be. On the flip side, last week I was stretched too thin, with no energy for reflection, mitigated desire for spiritual cultivation, and a reflexive neglect of the mind of Christ. Yet between these extremes, I have had stretches of days and even weeks where I´ve read great books every night then found myself on my knees, thanking God for His Spirit, praying for others, and asking for wisdom for decisions I face. Francis Shaeffer has been tugging my worldview back to a more Biblical place, Soren Kierkegaard has been showing me the despair that we all mask when we don´t submit to Christ, Dr. Abraham Verghese has been telling me about what it looks like to be an internist, and my buddy Kirk Norris (via his blog The Kingdom in Thailand) has been showing me what it´s like to feel God´s call to missions in the midst of ministry yet experience the uncertainty of how to get there in this complicated world. Though for several reasons I have not experienced a call to be a missionary to a foreign land, I think I´m ready to minister to my neighbors over the next year, who will mostly be med students. It´s become trite to say that we´re all missionaries, but the fact is that we all have the same call placed upon us, and professional missionaries aren´t any more spiritual or any more obligated to share the Gospel than anyone who has submitted to Christ´s call. Yet my failures teach me that I am far from capable of having the mind of Christ, his consciousness and mindfulness and perfect union of soul and body. My prayer today is that God would give me the will to not just think, but to do. That is what I do feel called to, which is only different from the call to be a missionary in the specifics.

I hope this post has been edifying. To that end, I´ll drop a Kierkegaard quote on you from his preface to The Sickness Unto Death that has not left my mind for the past two weeks:
¨All Christian knowledge, whatever formal rigour it betrays, should be concerned. But what edifies is just this concern. The concern is the relation to life, to what a person actually is, and thus, in a Christian sense, it is seriousness. In a Christian sense, the superior elevation of disinterested knowing, far from being greater seriousness, is frivolity and pretence. But again, what edifies is seriousness.¨

Even in our most mirthful and mindless moments, we are called to have this concern, this seriousness about the spiritual well-being of others and ourselves. How convicting is this obligation! Nevertheless, may this concern enlighten our minds with ever-increasing brightness as we live out our faith in the the One who was concerned enough for our lives that he gave us His own.

Palabras VI

2009-07-21T15:31:00.002-04:00

Sorry it´s been so long, but here is a sample of the words I´ve picked up in the last couple weeks:
papalote = kite or windmill
peluche = stuffed animal
thatched hut = palapa
liga = elastic band
panza = stomach
cierra = saw
chongo = ponytail
turkey = pavo or guajolote
taller = workshop, lab, studio
acero = steel
crayola = chalk
tapa = cap, lid
tapa rosca = twist-off bottle cap
ballena = whale
mariposa = butterfly
abrazar = to hug
trampar = to cheat
junta = meeting
sarten = frying pan
stripas = intestines
rasgon = rip

And my two favorites for the past two weeks: tocallo, which means namesake (there are a lot of other Daniel´s down here) and carne de gallina, which literally means hen´s meat but usually means goosebumps (though I haven´t had goosebumps a single time in this oppressive heat!)

Pictures of Week 6

2009-07-20T22:12:00.002-04:00

Last week was the most exhausting week of the summer, but the kids were a lot of fun and the team was solid. Here are 5 snapshots of the week:

Those kids got nothin on Daniel... which is incidentally the name of this guy, who can also run really fast.
That kid is about to get dominated.
One of the many little things that just make my day. Not sure whether you have to wait for a normal urge to become urgent before you can enter. My guess is yes, you do.
The team walking around the waterfall at the start of the Riverwalk downtown.
Most of the group after a rollicking morning at the Parque Estrella, a combination of zoo and amusement park that would be about $60 in the States and is $6 here.

Pictures of Week 5

2009-07-14T21:16:00.004-04:00

At last, the promised pictures of English Camp.

Javier and me. He's the man. Helps out alot at the church.

The real-life mariachi band that showed up at our fiesta on Friday. Hot.

The kids.

The kids at the park.

The church.

I'll post more later. Sorry, I always seem to be in a hurry.

English Camp

2009-07-11T11:21:00.002-04:00

This week, I had the privilege of working with 3 young teachers, 2 seminary students, and 1 teenager from Charlotte, NC. It was an answer to prayer to have people all more or less my age to be with for. We were joined by a missionary here, Carol, as well as another soon-to-be missionary here, Mike. Each of the team had wonderful and unique gifts that really came out through the course of the week, in which we did an English Camp for kids during the day (we had about 55 kids) and a basketball ministry in the evenings in a local park (approximately a million kids come out for that). The team members helped me in the ESL class I taught in the afternoons, which varied from 4 to 15 people throughout the week. Last night, we had a true Mexican fiesta at the church, with a surprise visit from a legIT mariachi band. Pictures to follow.

Though I was very busy this week, I did have a little time to reflect. Among other things, I´ve really been impressed with the Mexican culture this week. I was talking with a really neat guy named Javier yesterday and he pointed out that it´s ¨no problem¨to live in your parent´s house your entire life. He lives with his grandmom, his parents, his brother and sister, and his dogs, and he sleeps on the couch every night, and it´s ¨no problem.¨ Rather, it´s a part of their approach to life, in which family almost always comes first. We Americans are so much more individualistic, materialistic, and independent than our neighbors to the south, and though it has made us richer, it´s also sapped our spirit, which is fed by by fellowship, by family, by community. As I think about my own life, I am most thankful for the times of true community I´ve experienced (such as at Ridge Haven and in RUF), while at the same time I grieve for what could have been so much more, and for the millions of people who have less community that I do. Young people are seeking to reinvent this paradigm via facebook and twitter, but these things... and anything else that isn´t real... are poor substitutes for having a dinner party, a barn raising, or (more remotely) a village fair. There are a lot of reasons why we don´t do these things (or do them much) anymore, not the least of which are a misplaced and overwraught sense of privacy, an underappreciation of fellowship, simple time committments, and the simple fear of man (and the corresponding insecurity). I am always encouraged when I see people getting together, making community, forging bonds, and my challenge to myself and to you readers is to be more intentional in your relationships. Indeed, the same can be said for our relationship to the Lord.

I have some more things I´d like to share, but I´ll close for now. Thanks for your prayers!

Palabras V

2009-07-10T11:50:00.003-04:00

Great week of Español, even though it was an English camp! Try these words out next time you get a chance!
escopeta = shotgun
¡chale! = oops
lagartijas = push-ups
verguenza = pain or embarrassment
sombrilla = umbrella
cuerda = rope
bato = dude
descalzo = barefoot
abanico = fan (the kind that moves air around)
manga = sleeve
sarten = frying pan
encestar = to score
cavar = to dunk
bandeja = tray
burro = donkey
borroso = fuzzy, blurry
¿a poco? = seriously?
planta del pie = sole of the foot
cinta = tape, shoestrings
moralla, feria = coins
sabana = sheet
colcha, cobertor = covers
pensamiento = thought, on purpose
banqueta = sidewalk

And my favorite word of the week: tentempie, which means snack!

Team Number 3

2009-07-03T22:50:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow morning I greet my new team at Monterrey International Airport. There will be 5 of them, and I was told they are from the Old North State. We´ll be doing English camp at a church named Bethel, which for me means playing with kids then teaching their parents English. Pray that our efforts would encourage the church, which happens to be situated in the one of the poorer parts of town.
This week, I´ve spent a lot of time here at Pablo´s house reading. I wrote half of my short story, but I hit a wall and have shelved it. I know you´re all disappointed ;-) I´ve also hung out with the youth of Cumbres, including a good ¨cell group¨ (Bible study) last night (we were supposed to go bowling today but it didn´t happen). I´ve enjoyed the time off, especially since I´ll be in a different hotel and with a different team for each of the next four weeks. I´ve really felt your prayers... keep it up! With love. Dan

Palabras IV

2009-07-02T14:20:00.003-04:00

I`ve got some good ones this week:
Carcel = prison
¿Te rindes? = Do you surrender?
almohada = pillow
bateria = drums
ojala! = wow!
abanico = fan
guacala! = gross!
tentar = to tempt
enfrentarse = to confront
adivinar = to guess
taladro = drill
sancudo = mosquito
totompos = tortilla chips
pozo = well or hole
morder = to bite
meta = goal
al azar = by chance
a la carrera = in a hurry
granero = barn

A new friend

2009-07-01T00:17:00.005-04:00

Just wanted to share a little about this evening. I just got back from hanging out with Pablo´s nephew, a 21- year old guy. He and his brother got me supper, so I went over to their house to eat with them and hang out. I watched the Simpsons; it´s probably funnier in Spanish than in English. Anyway, since this guy plays the guitarra, I asked him if he wanted to jam. So, for the first time in a month and a half, I busted out my harmonicas and had a good time playing along with Spanish worship songs. We then got to talking, and he ended up sharing his story: he had started drinking at age 14 because he had gotten caught cheating on his first girlfriend and had seen movies where people turned to alcohol to make them feel better. However, he quickly became addicted to it, and also did some drugs. He tried to quit many times, but he never could. Finally, he decided to check into rehab (a place called Centro de Rehabilitacion), where over the course of six months God began a work in his heart and he eventually got cleaned up. The rehab center was charismatic, and he saw many healings and a lot of speaking in tongues. Since his uncle had explain the doctrinal errors of many charismatics, he started going to Cumbres with his family once he got out of rehab, and has really been growing as a Christian the past 6 months.

Coming on top of hearing Jose Luis´ story yesterday on the hike up Cerro de la Silla (he also became a Christian in the last few years), I was really refreshed by seeing the work God is doing right now in people`s hearts. The church really is growing, and I have an opportunity to be a part of this if only I can get out of the way of God and let Him call the shots. My prayer for myself is this, and I now have a new friend for whom I can pray the same. Gracias a Dios!

Cumbres

2009-06-30T00:56:00.003-04:00

Last week was the best and busiest week I`ve had in Mexico so far. The team I worked with was from Clover, SC, and was a very mature and experienced group. We had more work than we could possibly do in one week, but we succeeded in building the walls of a sactuary for the new location of Cumbres Presbyterian Church and moving the church from its old location to the new. The first service was great and I experienced yet another moving sermon, this one on Psalm 36.

I don´t have much time to tell you all about everything I did, but it was refreshing to get into a regular schedule every day. Before I went to sleep every night, I would read a chapter of Francis Shaeffer`s Genesis in Space and Time, Abraham Verghese´s A Doctor´s Story, Colossians 2, then pray. This weekend has been too hectic to find time to read, but I hope to stay on this kind of schedule as much as possible.

I´m preparing this week to teach a ESL class to about ten adults at a church called Bethel on the outskirts of Monterrey. I´m excited about this opportunity and am starting to prepare the five 90-minute lessons I`ll be giving. Pray that the people who come to the class will be encouraged.

I´ve experienced much-needed brokenness the past few days and am thankful to see God continuing to make my heart more focused on His Kingdom and less on mine. Pray that I would continue to be drawn away from my selfish desires.

One evening last week, I had a brainstorm in the shower and came up with what I think is a solid outline for a (Kafka-esque) short story. I can`t wait to write it on here, but it`s midnight and I have yet another early morning tomorrow. It`ll just have to wait. Thank you all for your prayers.

Pictures of Week 4

2009-06-30T00:35:00.003-04:00

On the hike this morning to the top of Cerro de la Silla (Saddle Mountain), we encountered this awesome- looking rodent, and I still have no idea what it was. Probably the coolest animal I`ve ever seen. The picture doesn´t do it justice.

The view of part of Monterrey from the top of Cerro de la Silla. Smoggy, but still breathtaking.
It took us 2.5 hours to get up and half of that to go down.

The other part of Cerro de la Silla.

Me, Jose Luis, and Noah at the top of the mountain.

Posing about halfway down the mountain. The trails here are all dotted with shrines of different kinds, many of them to the Virgin Mary / Guadeloupe.

Pictures of Week 3, part 2

2009-06-30T00:21:00.003-04:00

Pablo giving a little speech after we finished (kind of) the work on the sanctuary.

After: The semi-finished sanctuary of Cumbres Presbyterian Church.

The South Carolina team in their blue shirts plus everyone else.

Basically the same exact picture.

Me, Stephanie, Andres, Ruth, and the South Carolina team.

Pictures of Week 3, part 1

2009-06-29T21:45:00.003-04:00

Cumbres Presbyterian Church at the beginning of the week.

Jeff and Tim, members of this week´s group from Clover, SC, putting in the metal studs that will become the walls of the new sanctuary.

Me, Griffin, Jose Luis, Marcela, and Yolanda at one of this week´s fiestas.

Me (Speedy Spackler), Griffin (Count Spackula), and Jose Luis (the architect) in front of a heck of a spackling job.

Me, Griffin, Jose Luis, and a bunch of other people at the small group that met Thursday night. We went through Acts 2:40-47, the marks of the church.

Pictures of Week 2

2009-06-29T21:22:00.002-04:00

The dudes of the Pinewood PCA, FL team plus Noah plus Benito plus me outside of the orphanage that we painted (Casa Hogar).

Marta (the founder of the orphanage and a truly incredible woman) and me in the orphanage.

Juan (the oldest boy at the orphanage) and me. Great young man, he looks out for the younger kids and is a good student.

Me representing the Wolfpack outside the Cave we went to with the Pinwood group.

Noah, me, Michael, Richard, and Scott Craig at the bottom of the mountain near the Cave. Michael, Richard, and I raced down the mountain on a very rough trail. I won.

Pictures of Week 1

2009-06-29T21:02:00.002-04:00

Sorry it took so long, but for all of you visual people, here are a few pictures I´ve taken of my first month here. These five pictures are of my first week here: Here´s a picture that doesn´t do justice to the beauty of the Chipinque trail.

Noah and I atop the abandoned mountain home of a General high on Chipinque.

Noah, Stephanie, and I on the Chipinque trail.Robert Bristol (a missionary who just left to go back to the States), Noah, Robert`s daughter Sophia, and Stephanie at the park in Chipinque.

The polished concrete slide at the park in Chipinque.

Palabras III

2009-06-21T18:12:00.003-04:00

I brought my little notebook and dictionary with me to church this morning and wrote down a bunch of words I wanted to clarify in my own mind. I`ll share them (and some other ones) with you all here:

talavera = pottery

rostro = face

rizo = curl

cabello = hair

hospedar = to stay (i.e. at an inn)

fijar = to fix, fasten

titulo = degree

beca = scholarship

tinajas = jars

farmaceutico = pharmacist

muebles = furniture

ahorrar = to save (saw it on a Wal-Mart billboard)

yeso = chalk, plaster

alcalde = mayor

coger = to catch, seize

pila = battery or basin

zacate = grass or hay

red =net or network

cereza = cherry

suegro = father-in-law

tonto = stupid

derramar = to spill

carmesi = crimson

anhelar = to pant, to long for

digno = worthy

alabadle = praiseworthy

Padre Celestial = Heavenly Father

hacia = toward

La Tierra Prometida = The Promised Land

castigo = punishment

semejar = to resemble

juicio = judgment

Casa Hogar

2009-06-18T12:44:00.002-04:00

Finally, I have a chance to tell you all a little about what I did last week. I worked for four days at a local orphanage called Casa Hogar, which literally means "House Home." I spent most of the time either painting or hanging out with the kids. I got to know the team pretty well, especially the four high school guys who came. I also had a couple impromptu ESL classes with a wonderful elderly lady named Marta who cared for the kids. She would read the Bible in English, I would follow along in a Spanish Bible, and I would correct her pronunciation and explain any words she didn't know. Apparently she reads the Bible in English every day, which was encouraging to me on two levels (that she found time to do it despite her busy schedule and that she was able to have a quiet time in another language). I also had the privilege to sit in on several of the team's devotions, in which one person would share their testimony and something that God had taught them.
This Sunday was another good worship experience. The service was much shorter and the sermon was more simple, but it was still a good experience, and I'm really coming to appreciate worshipping in Spanish, since I have to concentrate in order to understand what is being sung or said.
Ben, my friend from NCSU, was here for a few days over the weekend, and we had a good time catching up and sharing with each other. Right now, I'm in the middle of a four-day break, and will head down to a place called Saltillo on Saturday morning for a week of working with another team on a construction project and an after-school program (or something like that, I'm not exactly sure!). I would appreciate prayer for my health, which has been spotty this past week, for the work of this next team coming in, and for peace about all the changes that I'll be coming back to in the fall. God has really confirmed my direction towards medical school, but my priorities are going to have to undergo some major shifts.
And as always, pray for the Kingdom.

Palabras II

2009-06-16T12:09:00.002-04:00

The little kids at the orphanage taught me a lot of words this week, but didn't actually write any of them down. Here are as many as I can remember. I also learned a lot from church the last 2 weeks (but I'm cheating by looking at a bulletin right now).

lentes / anteojos = glasses
brincolin = trampoline
brincar = to jump
guaraches = sandals
columpio = a swing
tubo = pipe
trapo = trapo
parpado = eyelid
cejas = eyebrows
llanta, neumatico = tire
palmear = to clap

projimo = neighbor (from the sermon about the Good Samaritan)
alabadle = praise him (alabar = to praise, alabanza = to praise)
gozarse = to rejoice (gozo = joy)
alegrarse = to be glad
rendir = to render, to pay tribute
lino = linen
cordero = lamb
coro = choir
brotar = to sprout, to spring, to come up
incoparable = incomparable
consuelo = consolation (consolar = to console)
para majores informes = for more information
boletin = bulletin

And the word of the day is...
hermoso, which means beautiful. As in Jesus.

That's all I have time to write right now. It's been a pretty good week so far. I'll try to write more later.

Cabin Fever

2009-06-10T22:46:00.002-04:00

Looking on the bright side, I should now have immunity to at least one local strain of intestinal flora. On the other hand, I've lost two days in which I had hoped to meet this week's team and start working at the orphanage. And in lieu of the actual fever that kept me awake all last night, I now have a bad case of cabin fever.

Through sheer probability, brief little realizations have puctuated the inordinate amount of time I've spent languishing in the past couple days. Firstly, I've realized through reading the blog of a buddy of mine that my time here is really whatever I make of it-- and the relationships I make can be as superficial or as deep as I (and the other person) decide. However, I'll be spending most of the summer with people who are either much older or much younger than me. Though I desire fellowship with people who are at the same stage of life as me, I'll have this fellowship for at least the next four years, and probably for the rest of my life. I'm not sure what God has to teach me by putting me in this situation, but I know that it'll become clear sooner or later. Last summer, it took me a while to figure out that I was in Guatemala so I could come to a fuller understanding of the difference between living with unbelievers (which is what I did) and Christian fellowship. If you don't think there's a big difference, talk to me and I'll change your mind. I pray that this summer, I'll learn more about what Christian fellowship really should look like.

I've also been reading a lot of Franz Kafka (the guy who wrote The Metamorphosis), who wrote a lot of pretty dark stuff about the weakness and helplessness of man. But as I continued to read, I kept getting the feeling of there being a way out-- out of insanity, of captivity, of self-delusion, of ignorance. Indeed, these are the ever-present plagues of humanity, infecting us all like the culture in which we live-- insidiously, from the moment we are born. Yet Kafka's characters (and Kafka himself), just like most people, never find this way out, and often don't even realize their real problem. Our role as Christians is to be salt and light to people who are perishing in this darkness.

Anyway, I hope to be back on the job tomorrow, and to have lots of stories to tell by this weekend. Much love.

My first Sunday in Monterrey

2009-06-07T23:19:00.002-04:00

This morning, Noah and I went on a 2- 2.5 mile run up the mountain behind our house then back through the neighborhood. It was a bonding time and was the start of a number of good conversations with him today. At noon, I went to Cumbres, the Presbyterian church in the neighborhood of the same name where I've been staying. It was about 90 degrees in the cramped church (really a converted house), and the service lasted about 2 hours. I sweated like a pig, but it honestly didn't really bother me because I've been in a lot of hot weather over the past month and a half and have become acclimated.
So despite the heat, I had the best worship I've had in a long time. Part of it was that I had to really pay attention to every song, the announcements, and the sermon to be able to catch what was being said. But I was really blessed in that the preacher enunciated his Spanish well, so I understood about everything he said (although I missed some words and phrases and zoned out for a period of 2-3 minutes). He preached on Luke 10:22-37, which is the passage about the scribe who questioned Jesus about the greatest commandment and Jesus' parable to him about the Good Samaritan. It was honestly the best sermon I've ever heard on this parable, and believe me, I've heard a goodly number. He pointed out that Jesus said that the scribe was right that the greatest commandment was to love the Lord with your whole being and your neighbor as yourself (which probably made him quite happy), but immediately followed it with, "Do it, and you will live--" which brought him back down because in a couple words, Jesus transferred the discussiong from theology-- religion de la mente-- to a religion mas abajo, de la corazon (of the heart and will). The parable of the Good Samaritan was the logical follow-up that exemplified this love in action, the love that provides for the physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial needs of one's neighbor (anybody that you encounter in your life).
I can think of several other sermons and talks that have permanently taken root in my heart, and I know that this one will be one of those. Also, hearing people praise God in another language makes God bigger to me and helps me see His love for all his creatures. I'm meeting some great brothers and sisters here and have been really encouraged over the past few days even though I've contributed little to the ministry so far. Indeed, the best thing that can come out of my presence here would be relationships in which I encourage people and am in turn encouraged, and share the Gospel in both word and deed.
I continue to pray for most of you reading this, and am greatly appreciative of all your prayers for me and the church here in Monterrey. May His love reign in your hearts.

Palabras I

2009-06-06T18:37:00.002-04:00

I'm probably going to misspell some of these, but you'll get the idea:

machos y embros: males and females (animals)
colchon: mattress
chido: cool
manda?: what did you say?
remolque: tractor-trailer or trailer
llevar a remolque: to carry in a trailer
estacionar: to park
chabo: dude (I think)
pegamento: glue
vale la pena: worth the pain
disponible: available

Word of the Day: mostaza: mustard (ketchup = catsup and mayonnaise = mayonesa)

First 3 Days

2009-06-06T01:04:00.003-04:00

Well, it's midnight here and I've finally gotten around to posting something after reading a powerpoint about HIPAA protocols and catching up on some other stuff. During the last few days, I've gotten to know Noah, a 15-year-old guy from Baltimore who will be an intern for the next few weeks, Stephanie, a 17-year-old intern who will be an intern here all summer, most of the missionaries, and a couple of the local pastors. We don't have a team come in until Tuesday, and that one is only 5 or 6 people, so the next few weeks shouldn't be too busy. I've learned some Spanish, picked up a few games from Ben, painted some stuff, helped move some stuff, and hiked on a mountain with some beautiful vistas of the metropolitan area of Monterrey. The size of the city is mind-blowing-- buildings stretch almost as far as the eye can see from even the top of the mountain. But despite the sprawl, the beauty of the city still comes out if you can get far enough away from it to see it in its context of rugged mountains and expansive pancake-flat valleys. Monterrey encircles several chains of mountains like an ocean surrounds islands, and juxtaposes nicely with the natural greens and greys and contours of the mountains. I like it here.
But it's hot. I was drained this afternoon after painting in the sun all morning, and am thankful for the tradition of siestas from 2 to 4 every afternoon. There are a lot of differences here, as you would expect. For instance, lunch and dinner are eaten at about 2 and 9 here, and there are absolutely no traffic laws. The people are very friendly and more relational than people from the U.S., and as a result, time is much more fluid here.
I've got to go to bed here, but I'll leave you all with a couple prayer requests:
-The grandson of Scott and Cathy, the couple I'm staying with, sustained a head injury today and was taken to Johns Hopkins (he's 2 months old). Pray for his quick recovery.
-My relationships with Noah and Stephanie. I am seeking to serve them and ease their transition to their new situation here in any way I can.
-The church here. That it would grow, and that we interns and the short-term teams would properly serve its spiritual and physical needs.

I love you all and am praying for as many of you as I can think of!

Pray

2009-06-02T21:23:00.004-04:00

Here is a thought on the eve of my departure:

-Pray. Right now. For others, and for yourself.

"Remember my chains." -Paul

"Above all, look well to your own hearts, and to the lusts thereof, for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked." -Pilgrim's Progress

Pre-field Thoughts

2009-05-26T10:58:00.002-04:00

Last summer, I spent five weeks in Guatemala with a group of 30 NC State students. Throughout that trip, I kept a blog-- my first-- which was an extreme fictionalization of my experiences there, interspersed with reflections and posts of other kinds. Over the past year, I added a few of my short stories to this blog. All of these past posts are available for your consumption, if you have the time and the pluck. This blog will simply be a continuation of all that-- I plan to post a digestion of my experiences in Monterrey each week if possible, which will include my thoughts, my new experiences, the new Spanish words and expressions I pick up, and perhaps a short story if I get in the zone one late night.

It will all begin when I arrive at my new home in Monterrey. Though I don't know exactly what to expect from the Regiomontanos (the inhabitants of Monterrey) I'll be meeting, I have a decent idea of what I can expect from myself while I'm there. Firstly, I'll be challenged to confront my own sin, which will no doubt manifest itself in new ways in my new environment. I'll also be challenged to give of myself more and think of myself less, which will be a welcome (but difficult) assignment. I also plan to learn as much Spanish as I possibly can in these two months by talking about everything with everyone I meet. I'll probably miss you all and the sense of home which I've experienced in Raleigh, Marion, and Ridge Haven. Yet I hope to experience fellowship and fulfillment as I labor with fellow Christians in a new context. I also expect to be confronted with situations which I could never foresee, and ask that you pray I would have the grace to respond in truth and grace to everyone and everything that comes my way.

Thanks so much to all of you who are praying... for me and for everyone and everything else you pray about. I went to a seminar on prayer a couple weeks ago at Summer Conference, and God really used the speaker to teach me that prayer is far more important and powerful that I realized. I harbor the hope that I will be able, through God's grace, to become more reliant on prayer this summer for my daily needs of strength, wisdom, love, joy, peace, and gentleness. I'll be memorizing Colossians this summer, which I got a head start on in January when I memorized the first chapter. My prayer for myself and for you all is that we would see the Bible as less a book of tips on life and more a launching-point for communion with the divine. The difference is vast- tips are suggestions to make one's life, one's romance, or one's food better to the degree that one implements an exercise schedule or adds parsley. Communing with God changes the way one thinks about all these things, so that you realize how terribly trivial all of these things are in comparison to the joy of knowing God and living your life in His service. I admit I've doubted this and forgotten this many, many times throughout my life, especially in the past few years. But I know that God's love is unchanging, and will continue to guide me into paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

Christmas Burn Sauce

2008-12-23T23:51:00.004-05:00

This is my 2nd annual Christmas story for the Goble-Talley household. It's got a lot of inside jokes and references to Star Wars and The Chronicles of Narnia, but should be enjoyable for everyone with Christmas spirit!

Chapter 1

David stood admiring his Christmas tree, absentmindedly cutting yet another paper snowflake from his special nativity paper he brought out only on Christmas Eve.
“Dear brothers, do you think mother would let up stay up all night and sing Christmas carols like we did last year? It was so much fun! Remember when we sang the ‘12 Days of Christmas’ for hours and hours?”
Clapping his hands with holiday glee, Thomas replied, “Oh gracious, that would be simply fabulous! And I just finished memorizing the text of A Christmas Carol, which I can totally recite in less than 8 hours!”
JD stopped knitting his twentieth Christmas sweater of the season to add, “And let’s not forget to build a fire and watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and make cookies for Santa! And snuggle!”
“I just bought 10 industrial-strength snow makers,” I chipped in, “so we could probably coat both sides of Mount Ida in a few hours before everyone in town wakes up! It’ll be the best Christmas yet! Let’s go ask mother!”
I had, in fact, purchased 10 industrial-strength snow blowers the week before (from a defunct ski lodge called Maple Mountain) and was toying with idea of starting my own Christmas-themed ski lodge on Mount Ida.
We were just about to frolic down the hill to mother’s house to ask her permission when David reminded us, “Don’t forget your Christmas scarves!”
Opening the wardrobe, David was knocked back by a blast of warm air that shattered the serenity of his little house. The sound of rushing wind and jingling bells was deafening, and before we could react, we were hurled screaming into the wardrobe.
But instead of crashing into wood, we flew into darkness-- a darkness blacker than the heart of Ebenezer Scrooge.

Chapter 2

Though I knew all about portals (also known as dimensional hiatuses) from reading CS Lewis, the unexpected transport to another dimension still caught me a little off-guard. As I flew through the void, I brought to mind the rules of inter-dimensional transportation, and readied myself for a new world:
- Rule #1: If transported to the World Between the Worlds, mark the pool that you come out of.
- Rule #2: If transported to Narnia, find Aslan and he will help you out if he’s so inclined.
- Rule #3: If transported to the world of the White Witch, don’t ring the bell.
I thought I was ready. Unfortunately, there were no rules about what to do if transported to a dressing-room, which is where I soon found myself.
I took stock of my environment: no elven runes adorned the walls, the carpet and chair were unremarkable, and the door stood at normal human height. Stepping out of the cubicle, I found myself in a bustling American Eagle store adorned with holiday trinkets, lights, and trees, and filled with… just normal people! I didn’t spot a single mythological creature! I hoped I hadn’t fallen into one of those boring parallel universes in which almost everything is the same.
I made my way through the store, searching for a sign of David, Thomas, or JD. Finding no one, I stepped into the mall, my mind racing. I glanced across to Abercrombie & Fitch, where I beheld JD waving frenetically to me through the window. Shouting with joy, I ran across the way to him, only colliding with three or four shoppers on the way.
“Dan! What just happened?” JD asked.
“Have you never read ‘The Chronicles of Narnia?’ No? Well, we just got sucked through a portal to another world. It’s probably a parallel universe, from the looks of it. Happens all the time in books.”
Before he could respond, I heard Thomas call from across the mall, “Daniel! JD!”
I turned to see him emerging from a neighboring Hollister. JD called back, “Tomcat! Glad you made it!”
When Thomas arrived, JD observed, “Well, that makes three out of four! Now where’s Dave?”
I said, “We should probably stay here and let him find us. We’ll see him any second now.”
We waited for ten minutes, but with no sign of Dr. Dave, we decided to launch our search party. JD suggested that we make an exhaustive search of the nearby Victoria’s Secret, and Thomas and I agreed. We soon found him there, waylaid by the Winter Catalog. When he saw us standing near the entrance, he quickly put the catalog down and walked our way with an innocent look on his face.
“Find anything your size?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, chico.” Quickly changing the subject, he said, “Is it just me, or did we just get sucked into a dimensional hiatus?”
“Something like that.” JD replied. “Dan thinks we’re in a parallel universe.”
“A parallel universe? What’s different about this one? It seems the exact same. At least, the Victoria’s Secret does.”
“It could be just another place in our world,” Thomas offered. “Maybe we teleported.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied. “We should look around to figure it out.”
We began our tour with the Food Court, and determined that the quality of McDonald’s burgers and fries did not differentiate this universe from ours. We then proceeded to the Santa exhibit… and that’s when it dawned on us.
As we walked up to the exhibit, Thomas commented, “Hey, maybe it’s Santa Toby who’s different in this world. That sign there says ‘Santa Claus’ instead of ‘Santa Toby.’”
“You’re right!” David said. “Let’s get closer to see if he’s any different that Santa Toby.”
We edged closer to this Santa Claus character, who turned out to be a complete buffoon dressed up in a ridiculous red jumpsuit. Yet one thing he kept repeating gave us all pause. After each child got down from his lap, he would repeat, “Merry Christmas! May your home be filled with Christmas presents this season!”
Santa Toby would never voice such shallow, materialistic sentiments! Yet no one at the exhibit, not even the children making the wishes on Santa’s knees, seemed to take any note of this incongruity! In fact, instead of asking for more imagination and compassion and joy, all they asked for were toys and trinkets. Even their parents preoccupied themselves with buying gifts and making sure their spouses knew what they wanted for the holiday, instead of focusing on the things that really matter.
“Well, we figured out what makes this world different,” I said. “Now what?”
Though I had been in this world for over an hour, I was only beginning to comprehend that we were truly in dire straits. A flood of questions inundated my mind: Where exactly were we? This world’s version of Asheville Mall? How do we get back to our world? Where should we go?
As David, Thomas, JD, and I deliberated, unheedful of our surroundings, I felt an odd sensation. The others apparently felt it too: it felt as if my Christmas cheer was being sucked out of me, causing me to lose all my will-power. I spontaneously began to walk towards the nearest candy store to-- gasp!-- shop! David was right beside me, while Thomas had silently wandered off to a neighboring flower boutique and JD was headed for a nearby Hallmark.
“David, what’s happening? What’s come over us?”
“We must have let our guard down! We weren’t using the Goble Legacy! How could we have been so careless?”
The Goble Legacy-- G-L for short-- is the collective term for the superpowers akin to the powers of the Force that dwell within all Goble men. JD’s powers, directly inherited from Santa Toby and known as the T-L, are similar but more unstable and unpredictable. At any rate, we had all been suddenly overcome with a new, unfamiliar power that was making us more weak-willed and materialistic by the second. If we didn’t turn on our powers soon, all would be lost!
“Quick! Put on your G-L shades!” I said with the last of my strength. No Goble man ever goes anywhere without his G-L shades, known in other circles as aviator glasses. Among other powers (such as superhuman Christmas spirit), the G-L shades allowed us to repel any feminine advances at will or, conversely, instantly attract them. We could even employ our powers to physically move objects and people. Yet we never used this power of telekinesis except in the hour of utmost need.
With the last bit of my will-power, I put on my shades just before I would have forked over money for a useless box of heart-shaped chocolates. David had gotten out his shades, but his strength had failed when they came within a foot of his face. He was paying for a gigantic Hershey’s bar when I intervened with new-found self-control and pushed his G-L shades up over his eyes.
“Wow, thanks broseph. That was a close one!” David said as he placed the chocolate bar back on the shelf. “What was I going to do with all that chocolate?”
“I don’t know, and I have no idea what I would have done with mine either.” Yet as we walked out of the store, we were confronted with our answer. Two of Santa’s elves were sitting on the bench outside the store, their girly shades sending powerful waves of hotness directly at us. They were clad in green, and judging from their beauty and their realistic pointy ears, they very well may have been real elves. Quickly scanning across the walkway for signs of Thomas and JD, I noticed them in the arms of two other elves. They had succumbed with nary a fight.
Regardless of the shades, David looked like he was about to throw out a pick-up line, so I exhorted, “David, we can’t give in! Sure, they’re beautiful, but all they care about is getting us to buy them stuff! They don’t have any Christmas spirit!”
“You’re right,” he replied, shaking his head. With renewed determination, he said, “Let’s send these chicks packin’!”
Focusing our Goble Legacy powers on the pair of elves, we sought to send them flying to the nearest exit via telekinesis as we had done so many times before. Yet they didn’t budge. I redoubled my efforts, straining every cell in my body to make them move, but neither of them stirred an inch. One of them finally spoke up.
“Sorry boys, but we’re elves-- from Michigan and South Carolina, no less. Your G-L mind tricks don’t work on us.”
The news was not much of a shock once I realized they were real elves. Yet I worried I had lost all of my powers in this world. As a test, I decided to telekinesize a Christmas tree. I launched the one near the Santa exhibit into the line of eager children, taking out the entire group and sending the parents into a stampede. It worked better than I expected, and I took advantage of the commotion to attempt a quick getaway from the elves.
Grabbing David’s arm, I whispered, “Let’s get outta here!”
We began running down the walkway toward some nearby stairs, putting a quick thirty yards between us and the elves. But as we neared the set of stairs, I noticed that the walkway beyond had been transformed into a bubbling cauldron of burn sauce. A number of shoppers began sinking into the lava, their cries echoing off the glass windows and filling my ears. We had to do something!
David was one step ahead of me. He was using his Goble Legacy to lift shoppers out of the burn sauce to safety one by one. With my help, we had soon rescued all ten shoppers who were facing certain death. But how had the walkway been transformed into burn sauce in the first place?
The elves! I turned and searched for them among the crowd that had gathered, and found them still sitting on the bench, smirking at us.
“They’ll stop at nothing to get us in their power!” I remarked to David. “We’re gonna have to deal with them before they ruin anybody else’s Christmas.”
David replied, “You’re right. Maybe we can bury them beneath a pile of clothes from Belk’s.”
“Let’s do it!”
We immediately began telekinesizing entire racks of clothes from the adjoining Belk’s and sending them towards the elves. Yet each rack completely melted before it reached them, and rained down lava sauce onto more innocent shoppers, prompting hysterical screaming. The collateral damage was really starting to add up.
“Let’s stop before anybody else gets hurt,” David said.
“Ok,” I replied dejectedly. “But there’s got to be some way of defeating them! I mean, they’re GIRLS! They’ve got to have some weakness!”
“But that’s just it, they’re not just girls, they’re elves! They can melt everything with their hotness! Girls usually have a weakness for the Goble Legacy, but elves must be different.”
As David was speaking, Thomas and JD appeared from around a corner, with brand new Oakleys on their faces and female elves at their sides. They all carried bags from various stores around the mall: Banana Republic, Hollister, Foot Locker, Lids, Ann Taylor. I threw up a little in my mouth.
“Dave! Dan!” JD exclaimed. “We’ve been looking for you guys! I want you to meet Claudia. We just got engaged!”
“You… just… what?” David asked, his voice laced with shock. “You met her less than two minutes ago, and you’re engaged?!” The diamond ring on her finger confirmed the tidings.
Thomas then spoke up, “Lindsey, these are my brothers David and Daniel.”
“So are y’all engaged too?” David probed.
“Yep. Just got engaged a minute ago.” With pride, Lindsey’s displayed the sparkling ring of diamonds around the ring finger of her left hand.
“Where are Trisha and Sarah?” Claudia asked. “I thought y’all would have been engaged by now, too.”
I replied, “If you’re talking about the mind-controlling elves who like to melt stuff and maim innocent bystanders, we’re not really into them. Too stuck up… and kinda scary.”
A voice came from behind Thomas and JD. “Oh, I think you’ll change your mind.” It was Sarah, the elf for whom I had narrowly avoided buying chocolates. She was walking toward us in lockstep with Trisha like two of Charley’s angels, their hair down and their eyes fixed on David and me. Sarah was again trying to control my mind, sending subliminal messages for me to buy her jewelry.
“False.” I replied rather too loudly. Thinking quickly, I used my powers to hurtle a nearby potted plant toward her head, intending a hospitalizing blow. However, she ducked just in time, and the pot went crashing through the front window of The Gap for Kids, causing more injuries to innocent young bystanders.
A moment later, the adjoining window exploded into a volcano of glass lava, raining down scalding glass lava onto more innocents. Had David and I not used our Goble Legacy to block the lava, it would burned our sunglasses right off our faces, leaving us helpless.
“Congratulations,” I sarcastically intoned, “You just severely burned more Christmas shoppers. I hope you’re happy.”
“We haven’t even started, mister.” Sarah replied.
I immediately felt a searing pain above my ears. I reached up to adjust my aviators, but recoiled at the intense heat of the metal on my fingers. Beside me, David flung his shades off his face onto the ground.
“No!” I cried. “Don’t give in!” Yet I was quickly nearing the last of my endurance. The pain in my head felt like nails being driven into my skull. Just as I was about capitulate to the agony, a flash of light and a tintinnabulation sounded in my ears.
I hoped we were being spontaneously transported back to our world, away from this world of vanity and spite. But what to my wondering eyes did appear, but Santa Toby, Nanna, and eight reindeer!

Chapter 3

Santa Toby was parked proudly atop his sleigh, Nanna nestled at his side. Their faces were flushed from the dimensional hiatus, and Christmas joy positively radiated from their face. The sight of them every Christmas always gave me a fresh infusion of holiday cheer, and this year was no different. Either because of their presence or because my burns had progressed to the third degree, the pain above my ears diminished to a mere pinprick.
Santa Toby’s voice boomed through the mall. “Well, Nanna, it looks like everything’s going more or less according to plan. Merry Christmas, boys!”
Befuddled, I replied, “According to plan?! This was your plan, Santa Toby? For these elves to bewitch us and take our powers?”
Surveying me with a twinkle in his eye, Santa Toby replied, “Your powers were entrusted to you for you to do good-- and you certainly have, in my world. Christmas is celebrated better in Marion, North Carolina Interiors, than any place in the world!”
“So why did you send us here with these elves, where our powers are useless?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to show these people that comfort and joy can’t be bought or sold. Even without your superpowers, you’ll always know this. People in this world, starting with these lovely elves, will see how much more merry you are than they, and they’ll wonder how you got that way.” He paused, then added with a twinkle in his eye, “And that’s when you show ‘em that the only things worth enjoying are God and other people. Everything else is dust and ashes.”
How had I been so blind? Santa Toby had reminded me that it was always possible to spread tidings of comfort and joy, no matter how vain people may seem.
“Thanks, Santa Toby!” David exclaimed. “I’ll start spreading Christmas cheer right now! Trisha, would you like to learn how to make the most incredible snowflakes?”
“I’d love to, Dave!”
With that, David and Trisha walked off, arm in arm, towards a nearby craft store.
I looked after them, amazed at the swift transformation and forlorn without David at my side. But then I heard Sarah ask, “Hey Dan, do you like to ski?”
I marveled: how could she know that skiing was my favorite thing in the world? I replied, “I love to ski! You’re a skier, too?”
“Oh man, I learned to ski before I learned how to walk!” she replied, with enough conviction to preclude me from questioning such a ridiculous statement. She continued, “I know some good slopes nearby…”
“Done.”
Taking her hand, I gazed up at Santa Toby and Nanna one last time. There were tears of joy in Nanna’s eyes, and satisfaction was writ large across Santa Toby’s face. He wryly noted, “This is a big relief for me, lads. You don’t know how many times I’ve wondered if you all were gay. Too much of anything-- even Christmas spirit-- just isn’t good for you. Remember that, boys. Now, Nanna and I have more Christmas cheer to spread before the night is over. Rudolf, take us away!”
Nanna finally spoke as the reindeer prepared to engage “portal speed”: “You all look after each other, now. We’ll be back soon. I love you boys!”
A moment later, the sled and reindeer seemed to implode in the sound and fury of jingle bells and gale-force winds. Yet through all the commotion I heard Santa Toby exclaim, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Merrrrry Christmas!”

Afterward

David, Thomas, JD, and I spent the next thirty minutes trying to convince the girls that no, Toby had not just called them ho’s. We then argued about where we would go out to eat, with us guys trying to save some money by eating at the Food Court and the girls wanting to go out somewhere. We finally settled on a nearby steakhouse, but Sarah got in a wreck on the way there, so everybody had to wait for a couple hours for her car to get towed. When we finally got our steaks, they were cold and too fatty for the girls, so we had to cut off the excess fat and get them sent back to be re-warmed. That night we went to Lindsey’s house and watched “It’s a Wonderful Life,” at least until the part where George Bailey got kicked out of the bar, where the tracking on the old VHS got so bad we had to stop it. Fortunately, Thomas saved the day by quoting the entire text of A Christmas Carol, and we all finally had someone to snuggle with. I woke up near the end of Thomas’ story at around 6 AM (apparently only Lindsey stayed awake for the whole thing), clocking it at 7 hours, 59 minutes, and 33 seconds.
At dawn, I looked past the Christmas tree through the bay windows to see snow as pure as silver blanketing the ground and falling gently from the sky. It was going to be a good day for skiing, snowball fights, and making snowmen. Though it wasn’t the best Christmas ever, it was a good start in our new world.

THE END

Sins of the Father rewrite

2008-12-16T19:09:00.003-05:00

I rewrote "Sins of the Father" for my final project in Intermediate Fiction Writing. Since nearly everything is different, I decided to put it up in case any of you got bored over Christmas break! It's a happier story... but still, not that happy!

Chapter 1

Even now, thirty years later, the memory of receiving the sign reflects onto the mirror of my mind as clearly as if it had just happened. I was five years old and Abel was nearly two, and we were reclining around the low-set table after a meal of goat and lentils, listening to Father’s ursine voice recount the now-familiar story. The firelight flickered against the mud-and-straw walls, reflecting the sadness of Mother’s eyes as she held Abel to her bosom.
“God created the Garden of Eden as a perfect home for your mother and me. He took us out from among the Lazara and set on us the sign to mark us as his own seed, the beginning of a royal priesthood, a people for his own possession, a holy, fair-skinned race among the dark savages. All we had to do was not eat from the Tree of Knowledge.” The nostalgia in his voice melted into bitterness. “But the Lazara became jealous of us, and banished us from the Garden. God gave us this place away from the Lazara for a home and cursed them for their sin. Even now, all who enter the Garden’s sacred realm without the sign are slain by serpents. And one day, the Garden will be ours once more, and the Lazara will be destroyed.”
As if on cue, a presence silently entered the hut behind me. Sensing it, I turned from the table and beheld him for the first time. A shrieking sound filled my ears: I was later told it had come from my own mouth. The figure consumed everything else in my field of vision, and even now my other memories dim as I recall the utter dread that gripped my soul. God-- more appropriately, the incarnated God-Beast-- had the head of a snake, the horns of a goat, the mane of a lion, and the body of a bear. I couldn’t take my eyes off the monstrosity. He stood just inside the door, his head brushing the thatched roof, waiting for my cries to subside.
Bowing to the creature, Mother nevertheless tensed when he finally drew air to speak. A blast of hot, sharp-smelling air filled the tent, and the sound of his voice was how I imagined dragons would sound, if they could talk.
“The hour has come for the firstborn to receive the sign of the serpent.” Stepping over to the fireplace, the God-Beast crouched and thrust his right paw into the hottest part of the flames. The hair melted, the flesh began to sear, and in a moment, his long claws glowed red-hot.
“Let the firstborn son of Adam take his place beside God to receive the sacrament.”
I ran to Mother, thinking that she would protect me as she always had. Yet this time, she held me at arm’s length and whispered, “You can’t deny him, dear child. Do what he says and you’ll be fine. This is a moment you’ll remember the rest of your life.” The encouragement seemed forced, however, and her distressed expression did not match up with her words. Yet I had to go.
I stepped forward, head lowered and visibly shaking. The odor of seared flesh filled my nostrils.
“What is your name, son of Adam?”
“Cain,” I replied in a very small voice.
“Cain, what powers does the Sign of the Serpent impart?”
“The power to enter the Garden and have dominion over every living thing,” I recited.
He firmly clasped my shoulder with his unburned paw. “You have been well-instructed. Now receive the mark.” As he spoke, he raised his charred, smoking paw and touched a glowing claw to my forehead. Then all went black.

Chapter 2

Four years later, the God-Beast returned to give Abel his sign. I watched the entire rite, secure this time in Mother’s arms. The serpent-head took shape on Abel’s forehead, and by the time God had finished his meticulous work, a snake’s body lay slithered down the side of Abel’s face and neck, terminating in a coil on his chest just like mine. Tears dripped onto my hair from Mother’s eyes as she looked at the result.
After a few more years, Abel began to accompany me on secret midnight treks into Lazara territory to explore the land that we planned to reconquer one day. We climbed out of our room’s window after Mother and Father had gone to sleep, shirtless to ensure that the sign would protect us from harm. Our ankle-length calf-skin pants kept us warm and our sandals protected us from hazards underfoot in the darkness. One night, trudging through the forest under a full moon, we found it.
At the time, Abel was entreating me to turn back. “Cain, this is farther than we’ve ever explored. Let’s get back before Father and Mother wake up!”
“Wait, what’s that over there?” I had just glimpsed a large clearing in the direction we were headed.
I took off running towards the open space, unheedful of Abel’s complaints that he couldn’t keep up. Reaching the clearing, I knew at once that it was the Garden. Trees and shrubs of all kinds were planted in concentric circles, and the ground was carpeted with luxuriant forest-green grass. As I surveyed the grove from its border with the forest, Abel by my side, I noticed that the Garden was under siege by encroaching saplings and weeds.
Nearby shrubs began to rustle, and I heard a distinct hiss. Abel said, “Father always said the sign will keep us safe from serpents, right?
I replied, “Yes, but watch your step anyway.”
We began to walk, dodging serpents with every step. As we progressed, a feeling of invincibility began to wash over me. I began to step on the heads of serpents and kick them for sport. Soon, a desire to see the Tree of Knowledge stirred in me, quickly becoming irresistible. Staring longingly towards the center of the Garden, I said, “Let’s find the Tree of Knowledge!”
We made straight for the center of the grove, running past row after row of fruit-laden trees and shrubs. Finally, we neared the hillock in the midst of the Garden where the tree stood like a sentry, lustily proffering its ripe orange tespry fruit.
The smell-- oh, how could I ever forget that smell!-- grew stronger as we approached, pulling us to its very trunk. A soothing, ethereal song seemed to pulse in the air around the tree. I chose the most perfect tespry I could spy, and a somber feeling reminiscent of the one I had when Abel received the sign washed over me. I glanced at Abel to see if he was ready to eat his tespry. He nodded solemnly, and we ate of the fruit.
I only remember the first bite. A moment later, the moon seemed to break through the tree branches and illuminate the Garden with white light. At the same time, the tespry juice began to course through my limbs, empowering me. Yet when I tried to walk, dizziness overtook me and sent me reeling down the hillock, coming to a rest beside a pile of cobras that remained undisturbed. I could hear Abel giggling, and he too was soon on his back. Both of us became mesmerized watching the stars move through the tree branches. Finally, God came and spoke to us, quietly whispering his secrets, the mysteries of the universe.
Somehow, we made it home before daybreak. My memories of the previous night were shrouded in fog, yet both Abel and I knew that we had been changed. Mother and Father soon noticed the change as well. Our appetites grew man-sized overnight, and each of us grew about five palm spans in the months that followed. We quickly became expert hunters and trappers, and I soon matched Father’s ability to harvest the lentils, bitter vetch, emmer wheat, figs, and almonds that grew on our lands.
Later that autumn, after the yearly sacrifice, Abel and I decided to return to the Garden. We snuck out our window again and began to jog silently on the path towards the stream that separated Lazara territory from ours. We made record time; we did not need to take any breaks because we had grown stronger and our sense of pain had dulled since eating the tespry. In fact, I felt everything less: life had become more like a dream than reality. As we finally neared the stream, we spied a boy about my age in nothing but shorts crossing the creek, coming directly toward us. I was shocked, for he had dark brown skin and long black hair. He looked up, his eyes widened, and he slipped on a rock and fell backwards into the water. At that moment, I understood. We had encountered a Lazara.
“Hello,” I greeted reservedly as I slowed to a walk. I was nearly at the creekbank, and Abel had also slowed just behind me.
“Who are you? Where have you come from?” he snapped, once he had regained his footing.
Taken aback by his defensiveness, I replied, “I’m Cain, son of Adam, and this is my brother Abel. We live back there,” I gestured behind me, “about a quarter-day’s walk away. Who are you?”
“My name is Arpeh, son of Joses, son of Hesped, of the tribe of Lazara. I have heard tales of your father Adam: he was once a Lazara. Now, we call him the White Serpent.” He added, “I see that you two are also white like your father, and carry the mark.” Though as wary of us as we were of him, Arpeh seemed willing enough to talk, which was a good start.
Still standing on the bank, I replied, “Yes, the Sign of the Serpent gives us the power to enter the Garden of Eden, which is actually where we’re headed. Would you like to come?”
Fear flashed Arpeh’s eyes. “The Garden is cursed. Many of my people have been killed by the snakes that dwell there.”
“The mark will keep us safe. Anyway, we don’t have much time; would you like to at least run with us for a while?”
After mulling over his options, Arpeh elected to join us, and we took off without further dalliance. Although I kept up, his endurance was impressive, and Abel had to yell at us several times to slow down. After a while, Arpeh admitted to me that he had planned on exploring our land that night. I didn’t hold it against him; after all, Abel and I were doing the same thing on his people’s land.
When we neared the Garden, Arpeh called a halt to the jog.
“This is as far as I dare to go. I hope you find what you are looking for in the Garden. My people will be excited to hear that I met the sons of Adam. We must meet again soon.”
I replied, “That’s a good idea. Let’s meet seven nights from now, back at the stream.”
Nodding, Arpeh turned and was gone. I walked the rest of the way to the Garden with Abel, wondering what exactly it was I had returned to the Garden to find. Inevitably, we found ourselves at the base of the Tree of Knowledge. I ate, yet it took two fruits this time to have the same effect as my first bite. Abel took only a bite or two. Though the God-Beast did not come to us, I saw visions of the future. I saw Arpeh die, I saw Abel’s murder, and I saw my own fate. When I finally awoke, I was screaming.
I remember the long trek home that night, my heart heavy with dread. It was the first of many such nights. The feeling lingered and bled into the following months, never totally leaving me.

Chapter 3

Arpeh, Abel, and I met up again, but we spent nearly the entire time arguing about whether the Lazara were right in banishing Father and Mother from their land. He said, “Your Mother and Father thought they were children of God because they were born with white skin. But other Lazaras have been born with white skin, too. Your parents are just crazy people, and they worship an evil god we rejected years ago.”
He was right about the Lazaras rejecting God. Father and Mother were not yet born when the people decided to replace the God-Beast with another, no doubt weaker, god. According to Father and Mother, this was the reason why they were chosen to start a new race of people.
Furious, I replied, “God is not evil. He’s just angry because you rejected him! If you submit again to him, he’ll probably let you enter the Garden. Would that convince you that he’s not evil?”
I knew this was a lie, that one who entered the Garden without the mark would die. Arpeh replied, “Maybe I’ll try to enter the Garden, just to see if you’re right!”
Part of me wanted to take it back. If Arpeh tried to go into the Garden, he would most surely die. But a bigger part of me was calloused to the Lazara, even Arpeh.
On our return, Abel was completely silent. Finally, I inquired what was bothering him.
He responded, “I just can’t believe you tried to make Arpeh think he could enter the Garden! Just think: if he dies, it’s your fault!”
Suddenly defensive, I lashed out, “Why do you care what happens to a Lazara? They’re not real people anyway! Let him die!”
“You don’t mean that,” Abel said softly. His words burned in the part of me that still felt. I remembered the vision I had of Arpeh and Abel at the Tree of Knowledge, and I wept silently as I walked. I desperately hoped the vision was a lie.

Chapter 4

Father was becoming more and more eager to kill Lazaras and take their land. He could see in my and Abel’s growing power the fulfillment of God’s promise to bring the Lazaras to justice. Apparently, God had come to him in a vision and told him that the time was almost ripe for him to destroy the Lazara and return to the Garden. Every night around the table, he would animatedly describe the plans he had begun laying. The conversation would go something like this:
“First, we’ll wait for the dry season, when everything is ready to go up in smoke. Then we’ll sneak into Lazara City with torches and set fire to their temple and as many homes as we can. We’ll also catch a pack of wolves, nearly starve them, then release them on the Lazara as they rush out of their burning houses. We could come back a few days later and do it again to finish the job. What do you think of that idea, Eve?
Mother: “It sounds dangerous and risky, Adam; but we must do what God tells us to do.”
“That’s just the problem. He hasn’t told me exactly how he wants me to destroy the Lazara. And there are over a thousand people in the City. I’ll keep working on it.”
So it went for weeks, until finally he settled on a complex plan involving torches, foxes, wolves, drums, beehives, honey, and bears. Regrettably, I have forgotten the exact details. We all began work on the preparations, building traps and holding pens and ox-drawn carts and making torches. I was always shocked at Mother’s passive acceptance of such violent schemes. I do recall that the date of the attack was only a week away when Abel and I decided to return to the Garden for good luck-- and a third experience of the tespry.
We had just entered the Garden when I saw it—the body of a boy. Although I had never seen a human corpse, I knew instantly that this one had long since expired. His flesh was rotting and snake-infested and a rancid stench pervaded the air. My worst fears were confirmed as I drew near to glimpse the remains of the face: it was Arpeh. I had foreseen it in my vision.
Abel exclaimed, “What did I tell you? This is all your fault! You should have never told him to come here!” He began to sob as I stood by awkwardly, the fear of the vision returning. I had known this would happen! Why hadn’t I done something? I had just let him die. A fellow human being. An acquaintance. A potential friend.
Confusion, regret, and dread warred within me, and I couldn’t bear the weight of it. Blinded with tears, I staggered off towards the tespry tree to clear my muddled emotions. Abel remained behind, grieving. When I reached the tree, I ate ravenously until a dozen tespry cores lay at my feet. The fear within me died, along with everything else. I felt nothing. The God-Beast finally appeared, just as I was turning to go. He was walking towards me, a sneer across his serpentine visage.
The eyes of the beast shone yellow as he spoke, “The tespry tree can do nothing for you now. You have the knowledge of the future; you must now decide what to do with it. You can try to stop Abel’s death or you can run away and hope it doesn’t happen, but you can’t change fate.”
The vision still lingered in my mind, and suddenly it came rushing back. I fought the images, trying to escape the horror. Rage suddenly bubbled up within me from some unknown fount as I thought about how my life had been wrecked by this creature. “You knew all along that this Garden would ruin our lives, didn’t you?! You knew it when you set the mark of your curse upon us! You knew it when you planted this tree all those years ago!” My voice, which had deepened over the preceding months, seemed to echo off the very stars. “Go! I renounce you! You’re the Father of Lies! I renounce this Garden and I renounce the hate of my father!”
A deep laugh issued from the creature’s mouth, becoming more malevolent as it fed on itself. “You wish my visions were lies, but you’ve already seen otherwise! Go ahead, run. Begin your wanderings, cursed son of Adam!”
I fled, tripping over saplings and snakes as I sought to escape my past, my future, and the Garden. Yet it all rushed in around me and smothered me as I ran. His menacing laugh echoed in my head as I fell to the grass in despair, utterly out of breath.

Chapter 5

I had fallen, as providence would have it, on top of Arpeh’s corpse. Yet I awoke to the feeling of being dragged by the arms—by Abel, as it turned out. I smelled like death. Feeling a wetness on my exposed feet, I noticed we were crossing the stream.
“Abel, I’m alright!” I called out. “Let me go.”
Unfortunately, I was unprepared to be let go at that exact moment, and I fell limply into the cold tide with a great splash.
Rather than rising, I let the water rush over my body for what must have been only a moment, but seemed an eternity. The cold sharpened my senses, and the gentle force of the water seemed to wash away the smell of the corpse and my fear of the Beast. I finally rose, and began to run towards home.
“Let’s go, Abel.”
Catching up to me, Abel said, “I’m sorry for dropping you, brother! I thought you meant for me to let you go right then.”
“It’s alright; it really is. Thanks for bringing me this far.”
We ran like we had never run before, side-by-side, following the narrow road that led home. We made it home just as the first rays of dawn lit the skies.

Chapter 6

That very day, Adam took us boar hunting. Wild boars had been killing the sheep and goats, and he wanted to practice his spear-aim before the big attack only six days away. The only things he now talked about were his plans and preparations for the conquest: the bear pens and fox pens were filling up, and we had just captured an entire wolfpack. Even Mother had lent a hand in the preparations, and planned to drive one of the ox-drawn carts.
We were walking across a clearing with spears in our hands, tracking two boars, when Adam brought up the conquest. “In a few days, we’re going to kill a lot of Lazara. Are you boys prepared to do that?”
After the previous night’s experience, both Abel and I knew we could never kill a Lazara. I was about to respond noncommittally-- out of fear of Adam-- when Abel spoke up.
“Father, we can’t kill the Lazara. We’ve met one of them, and he was just like us.” His voice broke, but he continued, his voice growing in emotion. “I can’t go along with any of your plans anymore-- they’re so hateful! Give it up, Father. Let it go. If you must hate to serve God, give him up too.”
I began to back up several paces, searching Adam’s face for a portent of his coming wrath. I saw it in his disbelief. Glancing between me and Abel, he said, “Is this a joke?” Grasping Abel’s right arm, he commanded, “Look at me and tell me right now: are you really going back on your own father?”
“I’m going back on your hate, Father.”
Adam’s face reddened and the veins in his forehead showed through his skin. Clenching his jaw, he looked over at me and asked, “Are you in on this, too?”
I lowered my head for a moment. I knew what was coming.
But this time I acted.
I looked up and quickly said, “Watch out, Abel.” Simultaneously, I raised my spear and flung it towards Adam’s chest.
The spear glanced of his shoulder impotently: he had dodged it just in time. His face was flushed with rage as he drew his knife and slit Abel’s throat in one smooth, swift motion, as if he were sacrificing a goat. Abel grabbed his neck, and the bright arterial lifeblood began to spurt through his fingers, following the body of the snake onto his chest and flowing down his torso. Without a second glance at Abel, Adam focused his wrath on me. I reached for my knife, but before I could draw it, he had flung his spear at my head. My reaction was too slow by a fraction of a second. The sharpened flint tip tore into my forehead and nearly penetrated my skull. Nearly blinded by blood and disoriented, I began to run. I could hear Adam’s heavy footfalls racing to catch me. The will to live and the sharp taste of blood propelled me back across the clearing and through the woods. But Adam kept pace, his disturbing silence broken only by his increasingly heavy breathing. Encouraged, I roused myself to a long burst of speed, and his footfalls finally receded. Though torn by the desire to go back for Abel, I kept running towards home. I knew that he would be dead by the time I returned.
Mother was feeding the wolves when I broke out of the forest into the wheat field. I stumbled across the field, weak and out of breath but calling to her. She ran to me and began to help me towards the house.
“Son, what happened? Did a boar do this to you?”
I could barely bring myself to tell her, but she had to hear it from me. I stopped halfway to the house, still breathing heavily, and looked at her. “Mother,” I said solemnly, “Abel’s dead. Fath-- Adam killed him. Abel told him we weren’t going to help him attack the Lazaras, and he slit his throat. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t. I’m so sorry, Mother.”
The horror on her face said it all: her worst fears had come true. She removed her arm from me and stepped back, burying her face in her hands. It was the picture of grief. A choked wail of despair issued from her lips. I embraced her and wept as well.
Adam was probably getting very close. I cut short my grieving and asked Mother to come with me. I had to flee: Adam would be ready to tear me apart.
She responded, “Son, I made a vow a long time ago to God and to your father. I can try to change his mind, but I can never leave him.”
I entreated, “Mother, you have to leave! You can’t stay with him! He killed his own son, he may try to kill you!”
Indecision contorted her face as the power that God and Adam held over her wrestled with her instinct of self-preservation. I noticed at that moment that she was with child. She stared off into space, as if listening to a far-off voice, then looked at me, hopelessness in her eyes. She was resigned to her fate.
“Mother, don’t do this! Break the curse and come with me!”
“Go, son. Here, I’ll give you food for your travels.”
I quickly cleaned myself up and packed everything I thought I would need to survive into my leather sack: a bowl, unleavened bread, almonds, dates, a blanket, a wool coat, and an assortment of flint knives.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“I’ll first warn the Lazaras, then… I’ll go somewhere far away, where I can be free of the curse of the beast.”
“You have his mark on your body, Cain; you’ll never fully escape him. But I hope you find peace.”
“I hope the same for you, Mother, and for your future children. Please, don’t let the curse fall upon them!”
She lowered her head, and with a heavy heart I embraced her and walked out the front door, the first steps of my wanderings.

Chapter 7

I walked for years, wandering towards the rising sun. Avoiding other humans, I slew wild beasts and crossed raging rivers. My beard grew long, my skin became as tough as leather, and my muscles grew as taught as a drum. My forehead healed into a jagged scar that obscured the head of the snake. Sometimes at nights, I heard the voice of the beast, ridiculing me and telling me to end my own life. I had to plug my ears to keep from giving in. My failure to save Abel’s life ate at my spirit.
One day, I climbed a mountain and came across an ancient garden around its summit. Day-old flowers grew among weather-worn, intricately hewn stone walls, and whimsically-shaped shrubs grew at the feet of trees a thousand years old. The greatest of the trees appeared to be a tespry tree, or something very similar. I plucked one of its fruit and tasted it. Immediately, every part of my body seemed to grow a little younger.
On the summit stood a house with walls of marble and precious stones, and primeval vines ascended the walls to form the roof. I climbed the steps leading to the structure and came to a stop at the door. I was about to call out a greeting when I heard the voice of an old man behind me. The lilting sound of his voice was enchanting. “I’ve been waiting for you, Cain. Welcome to Mount Zion.”
I turned to catch a glimpse of the man. He stood clothed in a white robe at the bottom of the steps. His beard was perfectly white and much longer than mine, and his eyes held a type of mirth I had never encountered. I was speechless.
“You’re wondering who I am, of course. I’m what you’ve been seeking, Cain, though you didn’t know it. I brought you here so that--”
“You brought me here?”
“Yes; in fact, I have used everything in your life to bring you here so you would receive the prophesy.”
“What prophesy?”
Smiling, the man ascended the steps. He stood in front of me and placed his soft, wrinkled hands on the top of my head. “Cain, son of Adam, you have eaten of the tree of life. I replace your curse with a blessing: your seed will crush the head of the serpent, and through him, death will be swallowed up in life.”
Though I wanted to stay, the man said I must leave the mountain and find a place to end my wanderings. So that is exactly what I did. I write this from that place, a home of warmth and love within sight of Mount Zion. In the middle of the night, the voice of the beast still sometimes comes and tells me that his curse is still upon me. But I remember my blessing and the tree of life of which I ate, so I simply turn over in my bed and go back to sleep.

The Masters' Call

2008-11-05T16:28:00.004-05:00

Here it is, the much-anticipated new story, at least to the 6 of you who follow this blog.
What to say about this one? Well, it took me many sittings, sweat, tears, and even a little blood (when my pen ran out of ink) to write, and it's a few pages longer than "Sins of the Father." Yet it's also a little more light-hearted and, I think, fun to read.

**Just kidding about the blood, to those of you who may be in the bad habit of taking what I put on here seriously!

The Masters' Call

Chapter 1

The members of “The Castaways” sat upright around the coffee table, gravely contemplating how to rescue the band from obscurity and financial ruin. The bad press about the band being “specist” and increased competition from upstart bands like “Caterwaul” and “Blue Sty Blues” had cut their number of gigs down to a fourth of last year’s. Last week’s show at Uncle Remoo’s Bar in Cornshire’s main town, Acadox, had finally shaken them out of denial: their most ardent supporters while they were at the top of the music world, the bovines at Remoo’s had mooed and booed them off the stage before they had even played a song.
“I really don’t understand why the rabble still thinks we’re specist after bringing on ole’ Harry boy,” growled Chester, an exceptionally curly-haired Old English sheepdog who played-- in fact, invented-- the doghammer dulcimer, as well as every brass instrument that existed in Panimalia. Harry, an eight-year-old chimpanzee with a ready and rather toothy smile, had joined the band two months ago to play the ukulele.
“I dare say it’s those bloody mewing calicoes tarnishing our rep,” griped Britt. “They’re jelly of us, I tell you.” Britt was a bright but cynical English foxhound whose habit of designating cats as “calicoes” in denigrating mid-show cat-calls had transformed the term into a pejorative. Nevertheless, he was widely regarded as the greatest drum, cajón, and bongo player in living memory.
Artagan, a nine-year-old Border collie pianist and the undisputed leader of the band, finally barked up, nearly dropping his stubby unlit cigar in the process. “Britt, we’ve all discussed the feline issue-- multiple times, in fact-- and we’ve concluded that there wouldn’t be an issue at all if you could keep your yapper shut on-stage and just drum. The same goes for all your other bigotries. But the damage is done, and now we have to decide how to fix it. Murray, what do you think?”
Murray, an excitable West Highland white terrier who played the washboard and the cowbell, responded earnestly, “I’m afeard we’re gonna hafta resk a tourrr into the Perserrrve.”
The Preserve, of course, was the territory allotted to the humans after the Uprising of 1011. Although legend had it they were the first talking animals and had taught the others how to speak, the humans’ violent nature and intractable specism had given the other animals little choice but to banish them. After the establishment of the Preserve, there had been little violence in Panimalia apart from sporadic attacks by humans from the Preserve known as Barsavians-- which the elephants and bears always handled-- and a longstanding feud between the tortoises and the hares. Yet the Panimalians, especially the College-educated ones like the canines in “The Castaways,” maintained their dogged hope that someday the humans would renounce their violence and be united with their brethren in Panimalia.
As he observed the profound effect his idea had wrought on his companions, Murray realized he had struck a chord. Of course, the band was also always deeply moved by the sound of F major on Harry’s ukulele, which Murray had just strummed. Either way, the other three pooches settled their heads on the table with a collective whimper and uncertainty in their eyes. Less disturbed (or just more selfish) than the others, Harry snatched his ukulele from Murray’s hand while he was distracted.
Ever ready to start a discussion, Artagan shifted his cigar to one side and said, “Well, the obvious drawback to your suggestion is that the humans may not view us favorably and might actually attempt to kill us with their weapons. If I recall my Panimalian history lessons correctly, the last time a group of Panimals entered the Preserve was thirty-five years ago in 1199, when a group of horses and buffaloes went in there to stop the Great War. The humans apparently killed them or took them all captive, because they never came back.”
Chester responded with a howl. “Hot soyburgers! We don’t really want to go there, do we chaps? I’d almost rather brave the Hinterlands! There’s some other way, isn’t there? There’s got to be!”
“The Preserve, dear Chester,” Artagan responded, “is the only place where we might be able to land some good gigs at this point. All we’ve got lined up for the next six months are meerkat burrow shows and beaver pond parties.”
“And playing for rodents,” Britt snarled the word, “is very much like playing for dumb Hinterlanders. I dare say they have absolutely no appreciation for the finer things.”
“Now Britt,” Murray gently chided, “meeeerkats and beaverrrs are full Panimalians just like we are.”
“That’s true, Murray, but Britt’s right,” Artagan continued, “and we also know that humans have-- or at least had-- the most sophisticated musical tastes of any species, including canines. So not only could we pack human theatres or bars by being the first Panimalian band to play in the Preserve in ages, we could be exposed to their music. We may even be able to open up the Panimalian-Human dialogue that hasn’t been open for years. Just think of all the good we could do, if only we conquer our fears! What do you say?”
Groups of dogs rarely take more than a few minutes to decide anything, and the rest of the dogs nearly always followed their charismatic leader. Harry, as usual, had not taken an interest in the issue, preferring to play his ukulele or perhaps tantalize an insect he had discovered. So the triumphant howls from the four dogs settled the issue: they were headed into the Preserve to change their fortunes and remake the world.

Chapter 2

It was mid-morning on the second day of the journey when the pooches began to feel the effects of carrying saddlebags of instruments and emergency provisions. Chester had chosen to bring only his trumpet, and Britt carried his set of three lightweight bongos. Artagan’s small traveling piano was the heaviest by far, and the straps had begun to wear blisters on his sides. Harry, on the other hand, had only a ukulele and a sack of bananas to carry, and was amassing quite a diverse butterfly collection in another burlap sack. By noon, Harry’s ukulele playing had completely lost its charm, and as they ascended a small grassy hill Britt asked him,
“Harry, why don’t you help Artagan with his piano instead of chasing after butterflies?”
Harry frowned for a moment before replying, “Who plays the piano in our band?”
“Uhh, Artagan has always played the piano… where have you been the last couple months?”
Embarrassed at the revelation of his cluelessness, Harry begrudgingly consented to bear Artagan’s load. Though Artagan harbored serious misgivings about Harry’s sanity, his suffering compelled him to impart his precious piano to Harry’s dubious care.
The band of seven travelers made their way along the Eastward Path over hill, dale, forest, plain, and stream toward the Outer Preserve, a swath of forestland that separated the Preserve from Panimalia. The daily rate of dents inflicted on the piano leveled out to two, and Harry’s fresh apologies and promises that followed each new mishap became as routine as breaking camp. Every morning after a quick breakfast and Artagan’s daily exhortation for Harry to “be careful with my piano,” the band would set out toward the rising sun until their empty stomachs halted them at midday. The canines, now with equal loads to carry, reminisced about their Cornshire College years and the glory days of “The Castaways.” At towns along the path, the dogs posted letters to their mates and other family members while Harry played his ukulele, stopping only to add to his bug collection. They played a few impromptu roadside gigs that earned some eggs from kindly chickens and a large batch of corn from a few pig farmers who were long-time fans of the band. Britt wrote a fantastically specist song-- which the band refused to ever play-- called “Casting Pearls Before Swine.” At night around the campfire, the dogs and Harry would stare into the flames and talk about what they thought they’d encounter in the Preserve, and whether the humans were still violent or if they had become more peace-loving. When the fire finally consumed itself, the animals gazed at the stars until silence and sleep descended, lifted only by the dawn which roused them as it had their ancient forebears.

Chapter 3

The afternoon of the twelfth day of the journey, the leaner, more confident travelers reached the end of the Eastward Path in a sparse evergreen forest in eastern Howelshire. A large boulder marked with archaic lettering formed the emphatic exclamation point to the trail. It read:
“Entry into Outer Preserve must be approved by Howelshire fox office.”
Below this was scribbled:
“I always say no, so don’t even ask.”
Pointing at a nearby straw-thatched hut, Murray piped up, “D’ya reckon that wee hovel is the fox office? It looks nothing at all like our fox office.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Britt chimed in. “The fox-sheriff in this shire would be lucky to have one case in a week!”
As Harry looked on, the dogs entered the hut and found it empty except for a desk, a cushion behind the desk, and a wide assortment of swords and hats. After a moment of searching and sniffing , Murray barked out excitedly from on top of the desk, “Look up herrre at this sign! It says, ‘Prowling. Will return when I feel like it. Sheriff Carlos.’” Murray exclaimed, “Carlos! That doesn’t sound Panimalian!”
Britt disdainfully replied, “He’s probably one of those half-breeds. I’ve heard that animals in these provincial regions sometimes interbreed with dumb Hinterlanders.”
“Britt, ole boy,” Chester said, “you always assume the worst. This Carlos is our ticket into the Preserve, so do keep a lid on your wild speculations when he comes round.”
A sly, mellifluous voice from the door shocked them out of their deliberations, causing Murray to yelp and scurry underneath the desk.
“You got speculations, Holmes? What speculations you got, big guy?” A vulpine silhouette darkened the doorway, and there was no mistaking that this figure was Sheriff Carlos.
The fox entered the room with a distinguished air, adorned in a cowboy hat, epaulets, and a belt with a sword and scabbard. He stared at Britt, awaiting a reply.
“Cat got your tongue, Mr. Sheepdog?” Carlos prodded.
“Sorry, Good Sheriff, I misspoke. If I had known the great eminence of your, er, eminent personage, I would have forborne my crude speculation.”
“No doubt.” With a stern look, the fox locked eyes with each of the dogs in turn, except for Murray, who remained under the desk covering his eyes with his paws. Finally, the fox spoke again, this time to Artagan.
“You’re the leader, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And lemme guess, you all want to go to the Preserve, right, Señor Cigar?
“Yes, sir… and my name is Artagan, sir.”
“Well, Artagansir, did you read the boulder?”
Artagan and Chester exchanged a portentous glance. They both felt the conversation crashing down around them.
“Yes; as I recall, sir, someone had written, ‘I always say no, so don’t even ask.’”
“Mm-hm. That someone was me,” Carlos intoned, smiling at Artagan. He walked around his desk and planted himself on his cushion. The air thickened as he prepared to pronounce his judgment.
“The Preserve’s a war zone, and I don’t let any adventure-seekin’ chicos in. A long time ago, I let in some horses and buffaloes when the Great War between the Feralians and the Barsavians had just flashed up again. They were book-learned Cornshirites who they thought they knew everything to know about humans. Thought they could somehow bring the war to an end, but of course they never returned, and the war rages on, thirty-five years later. After a month, I went in after ‘em myself, but all I found were hombres-- mostly soldiers, actually.”
“Did you talk to any of them? What were they like?” Artagan asked.
“Talk to a man! Ha! If you tried to talk to a man, he’d put an arrow through you like wild Hinterland game and eat you for supper! The humans aren’t like they were before the Uprising, if those old stories are true. They can still speak and build things, but all of their creativity now goes into making war.”
“Do they still listen to music?” Artagan asked.
Carlos gave him a quizzical look. He replied,
“Well, I’ve never heard any music in my travels near Feralia-- that’s the city on this side of the Preserve-- but that doesn’t mean it’s completely died out. Who knows?”
Perceiving his chance, Artagan made his pitch. “Sir, we’re musicians-- the best musicians in Panimalia, in fact. We’ve walked twelve days to get here, and we intend to keep walking until we make it to a human city. We’re going to play the best music they’ve ever heard, then we’re going to find out how to bring our two peoples back together. That’s what we intend to do… with your blessing or without it.”
After a tense moment, the fox finally cracked a wry smile and emitted a low chuckle before replying, “Ya know, you’re the first hombres with the determination to cross me. I kinda like it, actually. Maybe it’s because I’m getting old, but you chicos make me want to believe that change can happen. My whole life, entering the Preserve has been the greatest fear for most Panimalians. If anyone can change this, I think it’s you hombres; although I have my doubts about that white mop quivering under my desk.”
“So you’ll let us go?” Murray piped up, finally coming out from underneath the desk.
“I’ll take you as far as the first sentry outpost, almost two days’ trot from here. We’ll start tomorrow at daybreak.”
Only Harry slept well that night, dreaming his favorite dreams of Bananaland. Thoughts of the history they were about to make consumed the others until dawn.

Chapter 4

The animals smelled smoke as the light faded on the second day. Carlos whispered, “We’re almost at the first Feralian outpost. The smoke must be from the sentries’ campfire.”
After another minute, a high stone wall half-covered by ivy appeared through the leaves. Smoke rose from the enclosure beyond. Just before they reached the wall, Carlos bid them adios, with final instructions to “be veeery wary of the humans, especially the Barsavians.” A moment later, he was gone.
As they reached the wall, which was no more than fifty feet long, they noticed a thick oak door standing agape. After warning the others to be silent, setting down his gear, and handing his omnipresent cigar to Chester, Artagan peered inside.
A crumbling, small stone house stood along the left wall, surrounded by a courtyard of stone, grass poking through every fissure as if to reclaim its former property. A weather-beaten moss-covered statue stood in the midst of the small space; Artagan made out two stone legs, the lower half of a harp, and the remains of a torso, while a head lay propped against the base of the statue. A single wood chair stood to one side of the sculpture, and beside it a small fire sent up smoke. A solitary human figure tended the fire, partially blocked by the flames.
Turning to the others waiting expectantly for his report, Artagan whispered, “It’s a human! He’s just beyond the fire.”
“Let me see!” Harry responded, much too loudly.
“Quiet, he’ll hear us!” Britt whispered. Looking back through the door, Artagan saw that Harry had already given them away. The man looked up, grabbed his bow and quiver, and slowly advanced toward the door, shouting,
“Who’s there?”
Artagan swiftly replied, “Don’t shoot! We come in peace!”
In another moment, the man was at the doorway, and a puzzled look came over his handsome face as he realized who his visitors were.
“What do we have here? Panimalians?”
“Yes, sir. We, ‘The Castaways,’ bring greetings from Cornshire, Panimalia,” Artagan replied.
Lowering his bow with a sigh of relief, the man exclaimed, “Castaways, eh? I thought you were Barsavians!” Pointing at Artagan, Chester, and Britt, the man said, “Now, you three are most certainly dogs. And you, little white one, you’re… a rabbit? No, a meerkat!”
Insulted and trying to salvage his wrecked dignity, Murray restrained his ire and replied with a forced smile, “Sirrr, I am also a canine, a terrierrr of the West Highland clan, Murray by name.”
“My deepest apologies, Murray of the West Highland clan. Now you,” the man said, pointing to Harry, “you are a monkey of some sort, are you not?”
“Chimpanzee! Chimpanzee! CHIMPANZEE!” Harry screamed, hopping up and down and swinging his arms. The human warily took a step back and re-raised his bow.
“Harry, control yourself!” Artagan ordered. Then, to the man, he said, “I’m sorry for that one, sir. Chimpanzees just hate being called monkeys, that’s all. I promise he’s harmless.”
Satisfied with Artagan’s explanation and Harry’s regained composure, the man replied, “Again, my apologies, Harry the Chimpanzee, I meant no offense. My name is Vestigius, son of Verilonius, of the Feralian Corps of Messengers. I don’t think I caught your three names,” he said, pointing to the larger pooches.
“I’m Artagan, and these are my companions Chester and Britt. We’re musicians, come to the Preserve to renew the relationship between Panimalians and humans and to enjoy music with your people.”
Vestigius’ blue eyes lit up. “Is that right? I’ve always wanted to learn how to play an instrument, but I’m afraid it’s become a lost art in Feralia.” Noticing the fading light and the encroaching cold, he continued, “Come in and let’s talk about it around the fire. Would you like some rice and beans? You must be starved.”
With that, Harry and the dogs made their way into the outpost, Harry still brooding over the insult he had received. As they settled around the fire, Artagan, Chester, and Murray exchanged excited glances, and even Britt seemed to appreciate the historicity of the moment. They had made contact.

Chapter 5

That night, Vestigius, the dogs, and even Harry (once his wounded pride had healed) stayed up for hours comparing stories. Vestigius regaled them with the human version of the Uprising of 1011, when humans reacted against the full citizenship that had been accorded to every talking animal.
“The moment” Vestigius said, “when we decided we were better than other Panimalians, was the moment I believe we lost our humanity. The arrogance of some humans caused them to take you animals too lightly until you defeated them, battle after battle, driving them into what became known as the Preserve. The rest of my kin you relocated here as well, out of fear of similar uprisings. We humans sealed our own fate all those years ago by turning against you, our brothers, and we’ve been paying the penalty ever since. Today, few of my people can even read, the arts have been forgotten, and human children are brought up to be killers, brutes more savage than the Hinterlanders.”
“What about the war? How did that bloody mess start?” Chester inquired.
“Well, the 90,000 or so humans who first settled in the Preserve established two major cities, Barsavia and Feralia, and a number of smaller ones. All the leaders of the Uprising settled in Barsavia, and after a generation or two, they began to plot to re-take Panimalia. Most of the other humans were less inclined, but the Barsavians drove them out from the towns surrounding the city. Eventually, in the year 1043, we Feralians reached the end of our forbearance, and marched against Barsavia. Unfortunately, the Barsavians had been arming for war against the Panimalians and were more prepared than we anticipated, so they routed us in battle outside the gates of the city. Thus began what we humans call the Great War, which has dragged on for nearly two hundred years. Sometimes truces are called, but one side or the other always reignites the war. Both Feralia and Barsavia have become impenetrable fortress-cities, so the fighting inevitably reaches an impasse.”
The canines raptly listened, entranced by the story and even more by the real human who stood before them. He was taller than they had anticipated, with locks of dark blond hair that hung down to his broad shoulders. He spoke more clearly and easily than any Panimalian they had ever heard (even Artagan or their former professors), as if he had been created to talk.
Murray piped up with a question that had been plaguing him the entire time. “Vestigius, if humans have become so brutal, how have you managed to acquirrre your education?”
“Ah, well, I was fortunate to have a father who still read and appreciated art, a man of rare conscience. Mother was the same way. My first six years, he taught me to read and to think as best a child can. Yet when war broke out again in 1199, he was sent to the front lines as a General in the Feralian Army, and I never saw him again. I still remember his final instructions to me as he said goodbye. They were simply, ‘Read.’ We were later told that as his dying wish he requested that I should be brought up as a scholar to keep the old memories alive, and to never fight on the front lines. That’s why I’ve been here for most of the past twenty years, keeping the area secure and spending most of my time reading books I’ve rescued from deserted libraries, school,s and houses nearby.”
“So hardly any humans can read anymore?” Britt asked.
“I’m afraid not, for the most part. Once-proud Feralian culture crumbled long ago, before living memory. A few literate elderly people still live nearby, but most Feralians have gone off to aid in the war effort. We now number only five thousand, and Barsavians little more than that. Yet they keep fighting the same old battles, ignorant of the history they are repeating.”
Troubled by this news, Artagan replied, “Quite a distressing state of affairs, considering humans were the first ones to talk, read and write, build houses, and play music. Why, none of us Panimalians would be able to do any of that if you humans hadn’t taught us.”
After much more conversation, the animals finally settled into a contented slumber. Yet Vestigius, reclining in his chair with crossed legs, gazed into the fire until dawn, contemplatively smoking his pipe. Occasionally, he would squint at the stars and wonder if there was some force in the universe that had brought these animals to his doorstep, or if this was another false hope in a trail of tears.

Chapter 6

Harry and the dogs awoke to Vestigius’ baritone voice.
“I’ll be back in an hour. I’m going on my morning reconnoiter. The rice and beans should be ready in a few minutes.”
After they had eaten their fill of breakfast, the members of “The Castaways” held a short conference to determine what their next step should be. Murray led off.
“I say we should keep goin’, but-- no offense Artagan-- I’d be a lot morrre comfortable if Vestigius were to lead us.”
Britt voiced his agreement, which Chester echoed. As was often the case, Artagan had to draw Harry down from the stratosphere into the discussion. Harry said,
“Ah, we don’t need that man, Artagan. Are you afraid to lead now? Take us in there yourself, like we planned!”
Artagan found himself torn by a familiar will to lead and an alien desire to follow this human. Yet as he reflected on this novel difficulty, understanding slowly dawned on him. Trying to put it into words, he said,
“Do any of you see what’s happening here?”
Receiving blank stares, Artagan elaborated, “Remember Panimalian History 101, freshanimal year? The humans and the dogs were always the two closest Panimalians before the Uprising. Even after the humans were banished, some dogs followed them here until the fox offices cracked down on them. That very thing is happening to us right now! We’re meant to be friends with humans, it’s in our blood! Maybe that’s even the real reason we came here.”
Understanding spread across the dogs’ faces, though Harry appeared nonplussed. Yet this realization only complicated matters. The question shifted to whether they should follow Vestigius or strike out on their own. Eventually, a compromise was reached: they would head towards Feralia later that morning, whether Vestigius decided to lead them or not.
Upon his return, the canines inquired whether Vestigius would be willing to lead them toward the city. Confident he had secured his region, he accepted without hesitation. To get ready, Vestigius merely had to put an impressive foot-long knife in his belt, top off his quiver, and pack enough food for three days’ travel. They set out on the final leg of their long journey, the dogs carrying their instruments in high hopes of soon using them.

Chapter 7

The next day as the band of travelers crossed a meadow flanked by an abandoned farmhouse, the animals saw something they never expected to see: a pair of Panimalian horses. They stood near a small shed grazing and talking to one another in low voices. Vestigius explained,
“Those two are probably the only Feralian Panimals, Clyde and Cymbal, good friends of mine. They came here from Panimalia with others many years ago to help my people put an end to the war. The Barsavians treacherously slew their companions in a diplomatic meeting, yet they survived and kept working for peace for many years. A few years ago, they received honorary citizenship.”
“Can we talk to them for a moment, Vestigius?” Murray queried.
“Of course.”
The horses noticed them when they were halfway across the meadow. When Harry and the dogs reached the horses, they nickered loudly, the traditional Panimalian horse greeting. Barking back excitedly, Murray immediately began chatting with the horses. While Vestigius waited nearby, the horses recounted dramatic stories of close encounters with specist Barsavians and even Feralians which enthralled Harry and the canines. When Vestigius called for them to go, the horses left them with some hard-earned advice.
“No matter what you experience, don’t ever lose your faith that someday Panimalians and humans can live in harmony once again. Always challenge them to remember who they are. They were once called “Dogs’ Best Friends.” And never forget who you are, either. You are Panimalian dogs; a natural love for humanity is your birthright.”
As they continued on the day’s journey, the animals reflected on all they had learned from Clyde and Cymbal. Yet their meditations were soon cut short by another encounter.
They were passing between a couple rocky hills when the dogs heard voices echoing off the rocks ahead of them. Alerting Vestigius, the group halted and listened. As the voices got louder, Vestigius’ eyes widened and his body tensed. Sensing fear, the animals waited for him to act. After a moment, Vestigius made for the closest hill, and the animals followed behind. He whispered one word over his shoulder: Barsavians.
Finding cover behind a fallen log halfway up the hill, the group watched as a patrol of ten Barsavian soldiers appeared from around the bend on the path below them, talking and grunting loudly. At the pace they were headed, they would encounter Clyde and Cymbal in less than an hour. Vestigius’ breathing was now controlled and Artagan thought he could glimpse Vestigius’ mind calculating the odds of success. His jaw setting in determination, he rose silently from his crouch, drawing, notching, and aiming his first arrow in one fluid motion. The animals followed the arrow’s path as it sailed through the air into the exposed neck of the patrol’s leader. Before he had even fallen, another arrow pierced the second Barsavian in nearly the same location. A third had fallen before the patrol began to scatter towards a grove of trees at the base of the hill they occupied. After a short pause, Vestigius released a fourth arrow that found its mark in the exposed side of another Barsavian. When the next arrow lodged into a tree inches from another soldier, the brutes finally seemed to determine where their assailant was located. A moment later, the six remaining combatants burst from their cover with barbaric sound and fury. After the first one out had taken three steps, Vestigius sent an arrow through his lower abdomen, but he kept charging and Vestigius had to waste another arrow to finish him off. Making a quick calculation, he dropped his bow and pulled his long-bladed knife from his belt.
As Vestigius leapt over the log to meet the Barsavian hun, Artagan’s mind’s eye spontaneously moved to the imagined future. He was leading “The Castaways” in a montage of their greatest hits in front of a concert hall packed with humans and Panimalians. Every member of the audience was smiling, and some were clapping, laughing, mooing, yapping, nuzzling, holding hands, or dancing… and the humans were their biggest fans.
Snapping back to reality, he saw he no longer had to lead his companions. They had already followed their leader over the log into the fray, barking and howling furiously. Even Harry had dropped his bug collection and had sprinted off down the embankment, wielding his ukulele like a battle axe. Remembering his birthright, Artagan let ring a primal howl as he burst out from his protection to meet the foe.

Sins of the Father

2008-10-13T23:22:00.004-04:00

The following is my second short story of the semester. This one is a milestone for me, as I sense myself finally putting together the necessary pieces for a good story. This is a "reappropriation" of the tale of Cain and Abel from Genesis 5.

Sins of the Father

Even now, I can hear Adam’s ursine voice recounting the same familiar story as we reclined around the table, the firelight flickering against the familiar mud-and-straw walls. He and mother lost paradise because they ate the fruit of the most beautiful tree in the garden. Mother was always quiet and detached during these story-times, and she never added much to his tale despite my and Abel’s curiosity. The moral of the story was always the same: listen to God, and no matter what, don’t eat those juicy orange tespries.
I listened without question and without doubt until one day during my twelfth year, I was working in the field and heard a song. My heart leaped! I hoped it was the voice of God, finally come back to us after years of waiting. Yet I quickly recognized that it was the voice of a boy, singing a lighthearted tune in an unfamiliar accent. In fact, the sound was so light and airy it seemed to converge on my ear from all places at once. I looked across the field where Abel might have been; no one. I peered into the shadowy forest; no one there, either. Yet the song got louder… it was definitely coming from somewhere in the forest. Despite my fear, I couldn’t let this opportunity escape. So I plunged into the forest on the far side of the field in search of the mysterious singer.
In my twelve years, I had encountered plenty of beasts that made me fear those primal woods. The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot seemed to me to have been a dinner bell for man-eating carnivores. My heart beat in my ears and my eyes strained to make out the form of a living creature in the shadows. For comfort, I looked back at the sunlit field every other step I took. Then I saw him.
Many years have passed and I’ve met many other people, yet the memory of this moment stands apart from all the rest in my mind. It’s as if my brain knew to catalogue every smell, every color, every shadow, and every thought during that moment in time, and preserve them as perfectly as an insect in amber. I still smell the musty decay of leaves, the dust in the rays of light surrounding the boy still catches my eye, and I still wonder at the far-reaching effects of his appearance.
He nearly collided with me before he saw me, and the shock of my presence seemed to disable his power of speech. He must have thought I had appeared ex nihilo, for his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he inspected me from head to toe. I could now tell he was a boy about my age, yet the violent black and green tattoos that marred his face and chest gave him the appearance of a man. I asked in a tone of mixed fear and boldness,
“Who are you?”
He held my gaze but did not respond. I was relieved to see he did not grab the flint knife tucked in his leather waistband. However, he began to warily edge away, stepping gingerly backwards in the leaves. Though certainly afraid of him, the last thing I wanted was for this novelty to get away before I knew who he was. I stepped towards him.
“No, don’t go!” I pleaded. “I won’t hurt you!”
He ran, barely even touching the forest floor. I started to give chase, but was cut short after a few paces by a bramble bush that gashed my calves and forearms. By the time I had extricated myself, he was gone.
I listened for any sounds of his retreat, but all I heard were birdsongs. As I tramped back to the safety of the field, I considered who this intruder might have been. I desperately wanted to believe he was some long-lost brother. Except for his black hair, he bore a striking resemblance to Abel. Yet even then I knew deep down this was no brother. The boy who fled like the wind from me was proof that the story Adam had always told me, the story that explained everything, was a lie.

#

At sundown, I trudged across the field to the hut for food and rest just like every other day. I could barely wait for Adam to bless the food before I blurted out how I had come across another person. Not mother, not Adam, not Abel and not me. Someone else. A boy my age who sang in a different accent. He had black and green markings on his face and chest and ran away when he saw me. I promise.
Mother looked at Adam, and I can’t remember whether it was just her expression or if she actually whispered,
“I told you this would happen, Adam.”
Neither she nor Adam seemed surprised, a development I found astonishing considering I had just discovered other people. Abel, on the other hand, began to pepper me with questions. A sharp look from Adam drowned his enthusiasm.
After clearing his throat in a sound that reminded me of an angry bear I’d once encountered, Adam shifted his piercing gaze from Abel to me and spoke with feigned parental disapproval.
“Son, your mother and I won’t tolerate you making up these lies and getting little Abel worked up over nothing. Now, what did God say about your mother and me once he made us?”
I replied, “God said that you were the parents of all mankind.”
“Exactly. Did he make anybody else? Did God forget about somebody?”
Shifting to a monotone, I answered “No, God made all things and knows all things, and everything he made was good.”
“That’s right,” Adam responded in raised tones. “So you can just forget what you think you saw in the forest today… because as surely as God lives, there is no one else.”
I nodded my head in submission, having learned my lesson well: never tell Adam anything important. His unexpected reaction made me feel alone and unloved, and even mother’s attempts to comfort me later that evening couldn’t undo the damage.
Despite my disappointment, I felt confident as I lay awake in bed that night that I would see the boy again, and perhaps others like him. I somehow knew I was on the verge of a great discovery.

#

Despite my vigilance, no one came the next few days. Yet on the Sabbath of that week, the boy returned. He called to me as I was resting in the shade of a cedar tree near the edge of the field. I awoke from my slumber and followed his voice to where he stood a few paces into the forest.
“My name is Arpeh, son of Joses, son of Hesped,” he said, “Of the tribe of Lazara.” He stuck out his hand.
As I had never met anyone before, I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was supposed to put in his hand or what to say. Deciding the safest route was to copy him, I responded,
“My name is Cain, son of Adam, son of God… and if you don’t mind me asking, what do you want in your hand?”
“Uh, I want to shake your hand.”
Though he seemed to take it for granted, this strange concept initially frightened me. Why did he want to shake my hand? But then I realized he must have seen something on my hand and wanted to get it off for me. Although I couldn’t find anything on either of my hands, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Um, ok, here you go.” I limply placed my right hand in his and he violently shook it up and down twice. Still holding my hand, Arpeh remarked,
“You’ve got weak handshake, Cain son of Adam.”
Perceiving that he wanted me to shake his hand too, I grabbed it and shook it as hard as I could, even though I was pretty sure his hand didn’t need to be shaken off.
“Is that better?” I asked.
He smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, Cain son of Adam son of God. What tribe do you belong to?”
Feeling very small, I asked, “Um, what’s a tribe?”
It took a long time, but I slowly gathered that there were whole groups of people called tribes that went around killing each other in things called wars. The Lazara apparently were nearly all killed by another tribe called the Allyrians, most of whom then perished in a thing called a plague that I only vaguely understood. Horrified by this reality, I asked Arpeh what they had done to make God angry. He responded,
“God? What does your grandfather have to do with it?”
Dumbfounded, I said, “He’s not just my grandfather, Arpeh, he’s… he’s God, he’s the one who made all things and knows all things.”
“How could your grandfather make all things and know all things? He’s probably only sixty years old!”
I replied, “You really don’t understand?”
“All I know is there wasn’t a guy named God around when we fled our homeland. Our cities were destroyed and our land was contaminated by the plague, and now we’re here building a new village… and hopefully a new life.”
“Where is your tribe building its village?”
“Only a tenth of a day’s walk from here. You should come visit.”
“I’d like to do that… but it’s too late today. Can you come back in seven days, in the morning?”
He replied that he would try, then shook my hand again and disappeared into the forest. I couldn’t wait to meet other new people and to see what a village looked like. Adam would never believe this!

#

The next week was the longest of my life as I anticipated the coming Sabbath. Though the desire to tell someone nearly burst out of me, I kept the coming rendezvous to myself. From the way Adam looked at me after I told him about the boy, I knew my leash was short.
The morning of the next Sabbath, I met Arpeh in the woods on the far side of the field, and we set off through the forest along the Tigris towards his village. Arpeh’s blistering pace made it the hardest hike of my life, but it was actually a very flat and smooth walk, interrupted only by the occasional tributary. We finally arrived at a newly-cut clearing with about a dozen half-finished one-room huts very similar to my own. I saw probably thirty or forty people hard at work, mostly women, old men, and children our age and younger. Everyone had at least one black and green tattoo on their body, and most of the old men were covered with them. I thought the women all looked just like my mother, and was struck by their quiet beauty.
I stood ignored at the edge of the clearing, overwhelmed by the bustle. Thirty or forty people might as well have been a million, and for the first time, I felt the smallness of insignificance. After I had been completely overwhelmed, I motioned to Arpeh I was ready to go. He accompanied me back to my home and we said good-bye for the week.
Arpeh and I spent the next few Sabbaths hunting and exploring. One particularly warm afternoon, Arpeh and I happened upon a grove of fruit trees and wildflowers on the banks of a tributary a long walk past the Lazara settlement. The grove was in the process of turning wild, and saplings and weeds were slowly crowding out the brilliant flowers and the verdant shrubs. Some fruit trees I recognized-- dates, pomegranates, coconuts, apples, oranges, lemons, pineapples, and bananas-- but many others I had never seen. The trees were planted in concentric circles that converged on a hillock with three trees. Some internal force drew us there. Although neither of us had ever seen a tespry tree, I immediately recognized the extravagant white flowers, the sweet, alluring smell, and the voluptuous orange fruit that I’d heard about in the story so many times. Just as in the story, the three trees stood in a line, separated just so that none of their branches touched. Only the middle, larger tree bore fruit; the two flanking trees seemed to stand guard.
“What is this place?” Arpeh whispered. He had the same frightened look on his face as the first time we met.
“I think it’s the garden, Arpeh. See, there’s the tespry tree. My parents always said not to eat from it. It was why they said they got kicked out of the garden, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
The week before, I had told Arpeh the story. He had reacted with total disbelief, and since I had recently come to disbelieve it as well, I didn’t try to convince him. Yet here stood proof that at least part of the story was true.
For a moment we stood quietly at the edge of the clearing, listening to the song of the stream and the rustle of the leaves and a nearby mockingbird, both of us deciding. Yet I had really made my decision when I chose to disbelieve the story. All that remained for me to do was act. As I strode into the shade of the tree of knowledge, I thought: this will be my first sacrament.
In a public rejection of my old identity, I ate of the fruit.
Arpeh also partook, but I think it was more because he was hungry. The tespry tree was just another source of food for him, and he chewed loudly, desecrating his fruit. But I ate it with reverence, and as I finished circumnavigating my orange sphere, I felt a wave of energy rush over me.
“We’ve got to take some of these back to the village,” I said with excitement.
Arpeh was about to respond when the first rush from the tespry juice hit him, knocking him back a couple steps. That first time, the effect of the fruit was positively dizzying, empowering, enchanting. Everything was bright and warm and loud.
“Yeah, there is definitely something special about this fruit,” he responded, both of his arms spread to maintain his balance. Yet he began to laugh, and a moment later he clumsily fell backwards onto the grass. I collapsed beside him, suddenly wracked by laughter.

#

From that day onward, I stopped respecting Adam and pretending I believed his story. Although the tespry juice’s rush quickly wore off, it left a residue of satisfaction and a feeling of increased knowledge and strength, as if eating one fruit had aged me a year. When I returned to the hut just before sunset that Sabbath, Adam took note of my changed demeanor. A violent frenzy overtook him and I was forced to run outside the hovel to escape his blows. Although I always returned by sunset in the following Sabbaths, Adam began to hate me. Although he had no proof, I think he suspected me of doing the one thing he had always told me not to do. Though he didn’t always turn to violence, his rants at the dinner table became unbearable. When mother tried to intervene, Adam would shout her into submission. I began to live for the Sabbaths when I could get away from it all.
I intentionally missed the yearly burnt offering. When I returned that Sabbath evening, Adam’s rage had turned inward and festered. He calmly informed me God would never accept me.
The next week, I returned home with the juice of the tespry still flowing through my veins, having taken several fruits to eat on my hike home. It made me feel courageous and rebellious, and I entertained the idea of telling Adam to his face that I had been eating tespries for nearly two moons. But as always, his imposing presence in the fire-lit hovel quelled my false courage. As was his custom, he lay beside me at the table, his head only inches from mine. That was when he smelled the tespry on my breath.
His voice was slow and deep, like the sound of God. “Cain, did you eat of the tespry tree this afternoon?”
He was staring at me as if he had never seen me before, as if I were a freak creature God had forgotten to bring to him to be named. He waited for me to answer.
“I…” My voice trailed off as I tried to think of an excuse. There were none.
“Yes, sir. I ate.”
Even in the dim light, the jerk of my mother’s head caught my eye. Her mouth was agape and she looked in horror at first me then Adam. She always recognized when Adam was about to lose control. Adam’s voice was low but laced with anger.
“Abel, get the butcher’s knife.” He kept our collection of flint knives in a leather satchel on the wall behind Abel’s place. But instead of grabbing a knife, little Abel fearfully latched onto mother’s arm. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she spoke the words she had been storing up for years.
“Adam, how could you even think it?! You can’t kill your own son! Just admit it, for God’s sake! Why can’t you just admit it’s all a lie? Why can’t you tell them we ran away like cowards from your people in the middle of a war, war that you caused after you had been made a fool from too much tespry fruit?” Mother’s voice was bitter. “Then you lied to the children as if that would undo your folly!”
“I had a vision!” Adam roared. “God told me we would be the only survivors. And we are! Oh yes, I went back! I saw great Lazara City burned and desolate; I saw the bodies of my Allyrian subjects in the forest, consumed by plague! God didn’t lie! We are the only ones left! How dare you call me a coward!”
Overturning the table as he rose to his feet, Adam fell upon mother with savage fury, pushing Abel away. In a moment, I was pulling at his arms, yet he threw me to the dirt, knocking the air out of me. Little Abel pulled out the butcher’s knife. I tried to say something to stop him, but I still couldn’t draw any air. I could have reached up and stopped him, though. Yet out of my hate for Adam, I let him go through with it. I watched him clumsily stab at Adam’s back, who felt the glancing thrust and turned upon poor Abel with blind rage. In a moment, Abel was lying at his feet with the knife in his chest, choking in a surging tide of blood. The knife, the scarlet, pungent blood, and Abel’s shaggy blond hair reminded me of the lamb we sacrificed to God every dry season, the sacrifice I thought I’d missed. As I lay in the dirt reeling from the tespry and gasping for air beside my dying brother, I understood what it was like to be sacrificed.
I turned on my side and grasped Abel’s hand as mother knelt down and cradled his head, sobbing, both of us willing him to live yet comforting him on his passage to the great unknown. I’ll never disentangle myself from the memory of those final breaths. That moment stretches to now, as if my life is a string of fabric snagged on that point in time. My responsibility for his death crushed me, crushes me as I sit in my own hovel all these years later and record my memories. Mother felt the same way. I’m sure that if his sanity returned, Adam felt guilty as well, even more guilty than he had felt for starting a war and running away. That evening, he stalked out of the cursed structure with bloody hands and never returned. I picture him wandering the earth, his blood-stained hands the marks from God that keep him restless. For my part, I vowed never to eat of the tespry tree again.
The Lazara were very kind to us after the murder and even allowed us to build a hut in their village. After all, mother had been a Lazara princess before the war. Yet even after half a lifetime, the Lazara still don’t fully trust me since I am a child of Adam. His treachery is burned into their memories: how he took mother as a sign of peace then stabbed them in the back by attacking them. They vowed that if they ever caught Adam, they would make him suffer before sending him to eternal judgment. I once shared their sentiment, but after all these years, I now say, let him live. Enough Lazaras and Allyrians have died; perhaps Adam truly is the only one of his kindred left. His insanity or (worse) his guilt is recompense for his crimes.
I pray every night to whatever God controls the fates of men that He will keep the sin of my youth from being visited on me or my sons. The day my wife gave birth to my firstborn, I took a thick flint machete out to the garden and hewed the tespry tree to the ground. One day, I will take my sons there and tell them the true story of what has caused so much suffering. But despite all my efforts to do good, I still feel the curse of the tree of knowledge flowing through my veins, waiting.

Religion and Politics

2008-10-07T12:36:00.002-04:00

The following is a body paragraph and the conclusion of my midterm in Religion and Politics. The subject is "We are the Problem," and I reference a few books we've read for class. But even without having read those books, most of the points I make are about the state of American culture, something with which we're all familiar. I put this up because I hear too often people projecting the fault for America's problems on some "other" rather than our own prejudices, ignorance, and thoughtlessness. Any comments you may have are welcome (I think I now have it set so that anyone can comment).

At its core, the continued success of American constitutional democracy is dependent upon the level of public reason applied by normal citizens. Our ability to think rationally, pragmatically, and dispassionately about the issues is the factor that will determine America’s future. Of course, no one can perfectly go beyond John Rawls’ “veil of ignorance,” but he implies that a certain level of objectivity-- leaving one’s moral convictions at the door-- is necessary for a proper public conception of justice. The proper level of this objectivity is the divisive issue in the larger public conversation. Although Susan Jacoby’s objectivity is certainly more limited that Rawls’, the two views overlap considerably. Jacoby emphasizes throughout The Age of American Unreason that public reason can only come from individuals who read, engage in culture-sustaining conversations, and have open and rational minds that reject junk thought and embrace rational propositions (such as, presumably, Rawls’ “justice as fairness”). Perceiving “fundamentalists” as closed-minded and anti-rational-- a misperception of the nature of faith-- Jacoby errs by other-ing a large portion of Americans. Nevertheless, her jeremiad about the sad state of American intellectual life insightfully delineates the necessary characteristics of a true citizen—characteristics with which Rawls would agree.

We are the problem because we find more psychological reward in muddying the waters of justice as fairness with our identity. We dissent, yet view dissenters as others. We refuse to compromise our personal preference but regard other preferences as unholy or unpatriotic. We refuse to set aside our identities and work for the greater good. If the jeremiahs speak truly, these are signals of a society teetering on its last leg. We have become more narrow-minded, more gullible, less attentive, and less cultured. For example, we often don’t even notice when television commercials run for ten minutes straight, and those commercials are often the subject of much dialogue the next day. This is but one sign of America’s endangered political life. In politics as with television programming, we contentedly take the bad with the good, and sometimes leave out the good altogether. But is this any different than it’s ever been? James Morone tells us that these jeremiads are the expression of America’s ingrained Puritanical streak, implying that although everything may not be ok, at least we are treading on familiar ground. On the other hand, Susan Jacoby opines that plucking American culture from the rapacious jaws of ignorance and infotainment is a fool’s hope. In fifty or one hundred years, will cultural observers merely be chroniclers of cultural wreckage, or will American culture play the phoenix and rise from the ashes of its self-imposed privations? It is not an abstract question, and the answer depends on us.

Application 3

2008-08-15T21:14:00.000-04:00

I am finally home and recovering. For those of you who didn't hear, it took me 3 days to get to Raleigh instead of the anticipated 1, due to several flight cancellations. And I was (and am) sick with a cold virus that got to my lungs and a stomach / intestinal virus. So, the last few days have been the most miserable days I can remember...
God just had one last thing He had to teach me before I left Guatemala.
The choice to be patient and rest in God's Providence or succumb to rage or bitterness is clear in such an unfortunate situation. Many of my fellow passengers chose the latter route. I remember overhearing another guy about my age who, when he found out about the second cancellation, became totally unintelligable, except for inarticulate bursts of profanity as he paced back and forth in his hooded sweatshirt. I wondered whom or what, if anyone or anything, he blamed for his misfortune. An airline is such an impersonal thing to blame for anything so particular as a mechanical failure. To me, God seems to be the most logical target for anger in such a situation.
Anyways, one instance of the ordeal I would like to share occurred when my group and I arrived at Guatemala Airport the second day. We were met by a nice woman (who was returning from a mission trip) who had a box of muffins she had bought just for us, saying that she "wouldn't want her daughter stranded in an airport without anyone to look out for her." This was a wonderful reminder (for me, at least) of grace and selflessness in a situation in which everyone (including myself) seemed consumed with their own ruined plans. In so many instances, this seems to be the way God works in each one of our lives, for we are all consumed with ourselves so much of the time. He changes our plans, allows us to experience pain, and makes us slow down until we know we have no choice but to rest in His provision... unless we want to end up like the guy in the hooded sweatshirt.
Granted, it wasn't a good experience and I would change it all if I could. Yet I am reminded, as the Holy Spirit reminded me a number of times as I sat in the Guatemala airport, that we are like trees, in a way so eloquently put by Dr. Randy Adams, a missionary friend of my family. It is only during droughts that the roots of trees go deep.

Reflection 6

2008-08-10T19:33:00.000-04:00

Right now, I am sitting in a wet bathing suit in a very nice restaurant at a quite respectable hotel on a most spectacular lake, se llama Lake Atitlan. One and a half more days here, and then I regresare a los Estados Unidos. I plan to chill, read, and pray. Nothing too exciting really. I did get chased by a feral dog on my run this morning. And bought some sweet traditional Mayan pants in Red and White. This afternoon was hot tub, lake, hot tub, lake, pool, sauna. Not to make you envious or anything. I am hoping to hike another volcano tomorrow.
This is probably my last post before I come home, so I hope everyone who has read all or part of it has enjoyed it and profited from it in some way. I made it as interesting as I possibly could. Stay tuned for more poetry and a wrap-up in a few days. Soli Deo Gloria.

Story 5

2008-08-06T22:45:00.000-04:00

"Dang, Carlos puede manejar!"
Not recognizing the whisperer, I cocked my head around the passenger seat headrest of the 15-passenger van. Patrick stared back at me from the second row amid a sea of tense faces. I appreciated the effort the reduce the anxiety, and acknowledged it with a comment to the effect that yes, Carlos could drive better than anyone I've ever met and was perhaps on par with Jason Bourne and the Transporter. Looking through the back windows, the scene of destruction on the main artery from Guatemala City to Antigua looked eerily like the wrecked set of one of those action movies. I hoped his heroic efforts would be enough to get us out with only the wounds we were already carrying.
Chewing on my own comment, I fancied myself on par with Jason Bourne in another way: nearly infinite capacity for destruction. Driving away from the scene of my crimes amid a storm of angry Mayans, I reflected on what I had done right over the past year. And all that had gone so terribly wrong.

The first inkling that I have given power to something I cannot control hits me in the form of the handle of an M9 Beretta pistol. It makes the odd sound of "thack" as it meets the frontal bone of my cranium. I have a very strong hunch that this particular pistol originated from a shipment of handguns destined for California by China, diverted 2 months ago by members of Club de Drogas on a hijacked Guatemalan navy speedboat, and distributed to inmates of Prision Federal Numero 7. The sinking feeling of being double-crossed by the prison crime bosses hits me just as a right cross catches me near the temple- a nearly fatal blow. Now I am bleeding from a deep gash on my forehead, and as the blood trickles over my eyes, I think of the victims- my victims- on that cargo ship. And the prison guards who had been overwhelmed (just yesterday) by the most violent prison uprising in Central American history.
In this moment, I recognize the phenomenon of the intellectual, even philosophical reaction to pain that contrasts so sharply with that of el cuerpo. Although I'm not sure, I detect a foreign train of thought that may be approaching remorse. Remorse! I know intrinsically that remorse inevitably leads to one of two attitudes: a blind bunker mentality or a weak, broken, downright Christian posture of repentance. This heretical train of thoughts must be stopped.
Yet with each blow, the remorse awakens my latent conscience with increasing insistence. Soon I find myself trying to slither away from the assailant- and my thoughts- clawing through the dirt. My remorse couples with the calm, calculating center- the will- that every boxer knows so well. It dispassionately proclaims, "We are getting beat up quite badly at the moment. If something is not done, soon we will be unconscious." In response (and with an agility that surprises even myself) I peek through a window through the blood that has briefly opened up and catch a glimpse of the killer stroke, meant to propel the ethmoid bone at the bridge of my nose into my frontal lobe. I reach up and grab- punch and hold, really- the dark descending hands. Three seconds and eight heartbeats later, he lies dead at my feet.
Killing a man is not an effective remedy for remorse.
Fortunately for me, this vinctive fugitive renegade was apparently a foolish, impatient vindictive fugitive renegade. Had he waited a few more minutes, he and his friends could have surrounded my compound (se llama La Union) and taken out half of the leadership of the Club de Drogas and one-sixth of the leaders of the various Clubes de Lucha. We had to move fast to avoid burning alive. I grabbed the megaphone.
"Todos en el van! Ahorita! Corran! Corran! Corran!"
Grabbing the 9 and stuffing it in the front of my pants, I yell for Carlos to drive. I spend the drive in fear, pain, and confusion. It feels like Guatemala.

Carlos whisked us to safety. That night, safety meant a local converted shoe factory that had been converted to an "assimilation station" for Mayans, modeled on Australian's successful program of assimilating half-Aborigines during the first seven decades of the last century. In my muddled state, it seemed like all 500 unhappyMayan children stared out their windows at our headlights as we pulled up. Couldn't they understand they were getting a better life? I resolved to give them a good speech on the superiority of Western culture, once I got cleaned up. Yet as I looked myself over en el espejo, I saw the chilling eyes of a calloused killer where once there had been love.
I didn't even try to get any sleep that night. Or the next seven nights. I survived on a constant flow of chicken-and-rice tortillas and horchata. After a week of unceasing labor, executing the long-term plans of Club de Drogas, I finally lost my conscience in the fog of insomnia.

That was the high point of my effort. I lost my soul at about the same time as I got back into the good graces of the criminal warlords who now ruled the cities. This reversal of fortunes stemmed from my ability to forge an agreement between the army and the various mob bosses that had ascended to power in the major cities. The mob bosses got the cities they wanted, and the army got everything else- mostly pueblitos and the open countryside. The former government managed to escape to Panama, to the angst of the army's big-shot generals.
I only acted like I cared about the balance of whatever Guatemalan political power was to had. Yet ironically, I had become the most powerful man in Central America almost overnight.

Naturally, the United States issued their usual list of statements they always brought out against movements they did not understand. Yet apparently nothing can make Americans really care about Central America, at least not at this low point in their history.

It happened while I was giving the acceptance speech at that National Parliament Building to the first annual "Humanitarian of the Year Award" sponsored by Guatemalan organized crime. It had been over a month since I had slept, yet I launched into a spiel emphasizing "cultural deconstruction" - I coined the admittedly euphemismic phrase on the spot- in characteristic Spanglish. Judging from the gunfire and applause (most gunfire), my extemporaneous comments were really rubbing the ganglords the right way. Then it happened.
When one has insomnia, one is never quite awake and never really asleep. I had spent hours looking at myself from a few feet above my head, watching hours tick by on an imaginary wall clock as I accomplished another goal of Club de Drogas. My only release from this state was one especially brutal thrashing by a large black man named Rufus at Club de Lucha. I had the vivid impression of being mauled by a panther. Fortunately, he was a former paramedic. Yet I did increasingly more stupid things without realizing them, and several crises had rarely been averted in the preceding couple of weeks.
As I watched myself stand at the podium, delivering the speech of my life, the audience in my periphery morphed into a sea of brown faces. As I leveled the gaze of my mind's eye on the curious phenomenon, I suddenly became distracted and distraught. I lost the magical "flow" that all orators would kill to have for just a few minutes. I began making comments such as "Guatemala es un pais de ladrones y rameras" and "Your country is dooty," when I meant to say that "Guatemala is a country of beauty and promise" and "You have a duty to your country."
The audience in my head precipitated my distress.
It was an audience of all the people who had died because of me. Chinese merchantmen, courageous prison guards, resistant Mayan parents, big-wigs of Central American pharmaceutical companies.Yet I felt not a tinge of regret. I felt only a loss of control, a powerful drainage of my life-force, as if the souls I had sent to judgment had come back to me in my finest hour and exacted their vengeance on me by preying on my mente.

This is why I now sit in the passenger side of a 15-passenger van fleeing the cronies of angry mob bosses. We are headed for Antigua, yet up ahead is a roadblock of flaming 18-wheelers.
"Pull off."
Carlos was already turning the wheel onto a deeply rutted agricultural track that led straight up the nearby mountains.
"Vaya hasta no puedes ir mas."
We drove in the fading light of dusk until the stars illuminated the path. The front headlights were somewhere on Guatemala Highway Numero 1.
We drove until the transmission began to fail.
Then we drove some more.

The van finally sputters to a standstill near the outskirts of a godforsaken Guatemalan (or Honduran) pueblito, coming to its final rest after a nearly endless ordeal of constant jarring and dull, pulsing pain. I open the door and smell the midnight air. Carlos lights a cigarette on the other side of the van, and the surviving remnant of the Club de Drogas spills out of the back seat. The jungle is dark and dense and I feel its desire to consume this creaking, smoking metal intruder into its age-long repose. I take a cold chicken-and-rice tortilla and a sealed taza of horchata out of the front console and settle myself on the warm hood of the van. My thoughts begin to turn to possible Plan B's. Perhaps I could stay in this pueblito; I may be able to hide out here for years before getting discovered. Maybe start a touring business or an internet cafe. Yet I am startled out of my reverie when I glance up from my repast and lock eyes with a very large and very close jaguar.
I will myself to recognize the sight as a hallucination.
Then I wake up.

Reflection 5

2008-08-05T20:13:00.000-04:00

Quick recap, for those of you who want to know what I´m actually doing: I went to the beach this weekend and it was hhamasing. I was able to just run and walk on the beach to my heart´s content, read, pray, think, and get beat up by some ginormous olas (waves). I had a couple good conversations with unbelievers too. My final week of class and volunteering is going well, although I did not volunteer today because of a sore throat.
The last two days have been unremarkable except for the fact that last night I watched a bootlegged copy (which I bought for 2 bucks at the local market 5 days after it hit theaters) of Batman, Caballero de la Noche (the new one). Best movie I´ve seen in a long time. If you like a non-gory pure action flick (without any sex) that has a great story line, see it.
The story is complete, in my head at least. Now I just have to see how well it translates to blog form. I´ll probably get around to that tomorrow night. ¡Feliz noche!

Application 2

2008-07-30T23:33:00.000-04:00

All I´m doing here is applying what I´m learning. It´s a great way to learn Spanish. It´s also a wonderful way to charge my spiritual batteries before heading into what I´m sure will be an emotionally trying year. I´ve found myself spontaneously praying that I would learn the fruits of the Spirit, plus humility, which is a pre-requisite to any kind of learning.
Not knowing where you´ll be in a year has a way of making one´s faith (if one has faith) grow. I´ve found peace by trusting in Christ for my daily bread, and to order my days. I can honestly (and with as little pride as possible) say that I am trusting more in Christ and have more peace than any other time I can remember. This is the first period in my life when I´ve sat down to most meals and been truly thankful that I have food to eat. In Guatemala, this is not a given, and the small portions of meat are a reminder of that fact to this spoiled American.

Pray that God would make me (and you) a better scholar. William Romaine outlined how to do this in Letter Fifth in the book Select Letters of William Romaine, which I am now recommending to everyone reading this blog (Thanks Jeff!). He writes,

Read and pray for more self-knowledge: God´s Word and Spirit will teach you nothing about yourself but what will humble you to the dust, and keep you there. Read and pray for more knowledge of Jesus, of His person God-man -- His salvation-work infinitely and everlastingly perfect; He is yours, now He is received; and all He has, and all He is, as Jesus, yours in title; and so far as you believe, yours now in possession.
Read and pray for more faith, that what you have a title to, you may take possession of, and so make constant use of it. Your estate is great, immensely great. Use it and live up to it: as you do in temporals so do in spirituals. Your money, your land, your air, light, your meat and drink, and house and clothing, these you use; but you have not them in you; only being yours, they are used by you. So do by Christ. When the Spirit would glorify Jesus, He humbles you; when He would glorify His fulness, he makes you feel your emptiness; When He would bring you to rely on His strength, He convinces you of your weakness; when He would magnify the comforts of Jesus, He makes you sensible of your misery; when he would fix your heart on His heaven, He makes you feel you deserved hell; when He would exalt His righteousness, you find you are a poor miserable sinner... let Him be your salvation and all your desire.

Lord, humble us, help us see Jesus, and give us ever-increasing faith. This is the gospel. Repent and believe.

Story 4

2008-07-30T22:06:00.000-04:00

Prison is only as boring as you let it become.
I speak not as an inmate, but as a worker tasked with a job worse in many ways than the life of an inmate.
But I only work enough to keep my ´´job.´´ The vast majority of the time I spend developing contacts, handing over anything the more powerful inmates need that I can get my hands on. My blooming relationship with the Guatemalan Army ensures that one of those things is weaponry (armas), a violent prison rebellion the presumed aim.
Guatemala is such a fun place.
In the past few weeks, my methods have shifted like the afternoon clouds of the rainy season. Among other things, I´ve learned to feel an audience out and to tailor my message accordingly. If you were to overhear one of my private meetings with a ganglord and a roundtable with a platoon of army regulars, you would probably think I take both sides of every issue. Yet I am merely diversifying my ideological portfolio.
Ideology is my currency.
What are these ´´issues?´´ you may be asking. For starters, we have the balance of power in a country with little power and less balance. For 90 años, until the mid-´80s, Guatemala was locked in a deadly and intractable guerra civil. Even now, drive in the wrong direction and you´ll run straight into a ragtag band of ex-freedom fighters who will query you to forfeit every dollar and quetzale.
These people really want power.
Most will follow anyone who convincingly promises them more power than the competitors. Ideological capitalism. Right now, I am Wal-Mart. Yet I couldn´t care less about the money. Or even the power. In fact, more and more, I found myself caring about... Mayans.
Many are so poor that they have never had enough money at one time to buy a decent cigar. I wanted to do everything to help them, to improve their lives, to bring them into the 21st century, to impose my culture and ideology on them with relentless energy and undiminished resources.
I will be the first to admit to mixed motives. The humanitarian in me lives in uneasy paz with the ideological imperialist. Yet aren´t we all walking ambiguities?
Health is another issue I´m tackling. I´ve mentioned my effort to educate every citizen in emergency medicine, better (and more euphoniously) known as Club de Lucha. A sister effort that is quickly taking hold here in Antigua and in a few other major cities in Central America is the Club de Drogas. Pharmaceutical companies, mostly Central American firms, drive up prices beyond the average citizen, soldier, and inmate´s ability to pay. Mayans can forget about anything but traditional remedies. Club de Drogas is my plan to fix that.

En Club de Drogas, hay 7 reglas.
I do not say this while standing on the edge of a packed dirt courtyard at twilight. Neither is it said on a daily basis. Women and men are both present, seated, and fully clothed. In black.
Regla Numero 1: No hablas sobre Club de Drogas.
Sometime past midnight on Thursdays, a hand-picked group of ex-patriots gathers in the old wine cellar just off the blood-stained, packed dirt courtyard, still warm from the evenings luchas.
Regla Numero 2: No hablas sobre Club de Drogas.
If you brought an outsider to Club de Lucha, all the newcomer had to do to clear himself of doubt was to fight, then treat and/or be treated for injuries. If a member of Club de Drogas was to bring an outsider, they and the newcomer would be promptly picked up, carried to the nearby horse manure compost pile, and rotisseried en caga.
Regla Numero 3: Traiga una arma.
No one has ever brought an outsider to Club de Drogas.
Regla Numero 4: Lleva negra.
The clubs are mostly Americans but a few Euros have been let in too. After a week, every member had broken federal -and some international- laws to advance the cause.
Regla Numero 5: Llega con un proyecto completo.
Every meeting started with a review of the previous week´s proyectos. These had to be considered as helpful to the cause of taking control of the Central American Pharmaceutical Industry. And they had to be complete. A few long-term proyectos were exceptions.
Regla Numero 6: Llega con dos proyectos en mente.
The meetings subsequently moved to nuevos proyectos para la semana. Everyone always came with two. Everyone always left with one, randomly selected from a hat at the end of each meeting.
Regla Numero 7: Nunca es fuera limite.
Nothing is out of bounds.

A few more weeks of arming inmates and priming the long-term proyectos for detonation, and Central America will explode in a flash of ideology.

Reflection 4

2008-07-26T01:18:00.001-04:00

Preface to current Ridge Haven MOIs: I had a dirty blonde stache in honor of stache week all this week. Magic Max lives on in Central America!

Everybody else, sorry for that inside joke.

Update on Med School applications: I got UNC´s secondary application today. I also just filled out Wake Forest´s secondary application. Anyone know how to get a $55 money order in Guatemala?

Today´s main event was a soccer game between Antigua and a Guatemala City team named the Comunicaciones. Antigua fell, 4-2. A blocked PK did them in. But the real entertainment came from the borachos (drunks) who were sitting right beside us at midfield. One of them threw up so much it was reminiscent of Central Park´s fountain, one yelled, danced, sang, chanted, and beat a drum the ENTIRE time, and one kept having to urinate... directly onto the field at midfield. With thousands of fans and no one doing anything but throw beer cans at him. He also faceplanted directly into the other boracho´s vomit. Sorry if that´s gross. Todo es verdad. It was funny to me in a sad kinda way. Like a lot of other stuff that happens, like high-schooler fistfights.
I also learned how to make chiles rellenos from my house mom, Ana Luisa.
Anyways, tomorrow I´m off to Copan, rumored to be the most well-preserved Mayan ruin.

Sorry all, Story 4 is gonna have to wait a few days... I´ll give it a lot of thought in the 12 hours I´m in the van. It´s 11:33 here and I´m beat. Buenos.

Reflection 3

2008-07-25T01:00:00.000-04:00

I am now literally taking a deep breath and trying to reflect on the second week of volunteering (which is now over... tomorrow is an Antiguan fiesta, sort of their version of Independence Day). Firstly, I am thankful that I finally got a better volunteering assignment. This morning was fairly interesting, at least for the first hour of the four hours. I took blood pressure and weighed patients. Not exactly surgery, but it`s better than standing around in a 2-room clinic hoping I get a chance to take out a couple stitches or give a few shots (which I did... but only a few).
The afternoons have also been long at the school. ``La Union`` is basically a converted old courtyard-style house a few blocks from the Central Park of Antigua (where everything happens and where I am right now). There are a bunch of little tables everywhere with 2 or 3 chairs around each one of them, mostly filled by Guatemaltecas, Americans, and Europeans chatting away at some level of español. I am paired with another guy from State named Alex who is at about the same level as me. We talk Spanish for 4 hours, although there`s a 30 minute break in the middle. We mostly just talk about random stuff, writing down words that we come across that we don´t know. We also go over some verb tenses.
I realized early on how amazingly hard it is to become good enough at Spanish to be able to actually understand most of what native speakers say. They are working from an incredibly large database of words and with a comfort and familiarity with verb tenses and constructions which a gringo like me will simply never attain. I just have to keep telling myself that I need to focus on building my vocabulary one word at a time and not try to think too much about the big picture. Kinda like life.
Tonight I had a first-bench seat in Central Park for a high-schooler fist-fight among a group of Antiguan high schoolers whom I had been besumingly observing off and on for about half an hour. It`s just amazing how they are exactly like McDowell High students and high school students I`ve seen everywhere I`ve been in the U.S. They apparently even have emo kids down here.
Kinda funny, considering their great-grandparents were probably Mayans living in the hills just 50 years ago.
Speaking of my views of the locals, I want to figure out how much ``real`` Christianity is actually down here. There are tons of old cathedrals or ruins of cathedrals (from an earthquake in 1773 which still has not been cleaned up...), and everyone claims to be catolico. Yet much like catholicism everywhere else I`ve been, the Catholics only half-believe their own church. It`s as if they don`t really buy what the church is selling, but are content to rent- for a lifetime- an identity, comfort, and social network from the church. Which is about like the state of mainline evangelical churches in America today.
I asked my Spanish teacher, a catolico, today (in the future conditional tense) what he would like heaven to be like. His answer included a lot of feel-goodery but not God. I pointed this out to him. He said of course, it`s all about God, too.
God is apparently just a footnote.
I have seen a few evangelicals and pentecostals... basically, non-catolicos. It`s distracting in a funny way that their word for the Lord is El Señor. Anyways, I will hopefully get a chance to talk to some of them before I leave, but we are doing stuff every Sunday so I don`t know if I`m going to get a chance to go anywhere. This weekend, we`re going to the Mayan ruins of Copan. Next weekend, the Pacific beach. The next and last weekend, Lake Atitlan, which is surrounded by three volcanoes and apparently one of the most breathtaking spots in the hemisphere.
Tomorrow I watch Fight Club at a local theater. So get ready for some more ridiculosity. Story 4 is gonna be extra-special, I can feel it.

Story 3

2008-07-19T22:33:00.000-04:00

The jungle air, coupled with arduous days of hiking, gave me time to do some major thinking. The vast tracts of fertile rain forest made me believe that a return to nature was possible, that it wasn´t just the pipe dream of hippies and cultists. Yet rather than adopt their hermit ethos, I planned on engaging the enemy who dressed in the alluring robes of Progress. Mayhem was the order of the hour. All-out warfare against an ideology. Bringing back the guillotine and decapitating materialism, that`s what this is about.
On the week-long hike back to Antigua, we only lost Meredith. To malaria, mostly. Jaguars finished her off. Oh yeah, everyone also lost an average of 20 pounds and toned up what was left. I took advantage of their status as a captive audience. As we walked along, I would recite, ``We do NOT seek redistribution of weath. We do NOT seek redress. We do NOT seek justice. We seek to turn restlessness into reaction, ideology into an imperialism, frustration into fighting.`` Though they may not have understood everything at the moment, they would.
At nights, I would send them out individually with one candle, raw meat, and a machete to attract whatever jungle animals lurked in the darkness. There were a few maulings of the Guatemalans, but the total bag for the 6 nights in the jungle was 18 jaguars, 12 coyotes, 4 wolves, 2 foxes, and an albatross. Madeleine killed the albatross, and subsequently contracted face cancer. Lesson learned: leave albatrosses alone. She should have read Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
It has now been 7 weeks since the return to Antigua. Our first order of business was to sell the pelts of our prey on the black market. The first night in town, we tried to find the black market, but learned that all of the real business was done from inside large Guatemalan prisons, where even guards don´t dare venture. Prision Federal Numero 7 half an hour south of Antigua was such a prison.
Yet one does not just walk into a Guatemalan prison and ask a few people if they would like to purchase 18 jaguar pelts. No, one had to have contacts to even get in. To develop contacts, one needed currency.
Ideology is my currency.
On Monday of the first week, I traveled to the prison and began a conversation in my fluent Spanish with the disgruntled day manager of the prison. It took several days of conversation, but finally he relented and granted me a job as a janitor at Prision Federal Numero 7. The fruits of my labor there are multiplying each day. I am also getting more and more time as a speaker at the local army base in Chichicastenango. These crucial elements of the plan will be described in a later post.
I return to Antigua by camioneta each day, usually arriving at our courtyard-style compound just after 6. I spend precisely 15 minutes eating the meal prepared for me by my classmates-turned-guerillas. At dusk, which starts at about 6:30 here, ``Club de Lucha`` begins.
In the jungle, you can pick a fight with wild beasts and kill them with a machete. In the city, you must pick fights with other human beings,.
The most productive fights have always been physical. Mano a mano.
This is something that postmoderns have never learned. Men spend their lives cramped in cubicles, staring at computer screens and taking their anger out in far less satisfying ways. Journaling. Litigation. Verbal abuse. Drugs and alcohol. Some make themselves believe they don´t have any anger, and drift through their lives with a plastered smile on their faces, preoccupied with making their houses pretty, their kids obedient, and their bodies stronger with less work.
Maybe those ab vibrators can take off that 10 pounds from last winter.
This is how bad your life has become.

Just like Spanish, Club de Luchar has a lot of rules.
En Club de Lucha, hay 7 reglas. I say this every day at 6:30, as I stand in the fading light of the packed dirt courtyard.
Regla Numero 1. No hablas sobre Club de Lucha.
The first week, the only ones who knew about Club de Lucha were my guerillas. Yet despite Regla Numero 1, new people began showing up.
Americanos.
Europeos.
Guatemaltecas.
Las semillas de revolucion.
Regla Numero 2. No hablas sobre Club de Lucha.
After the first week, men and women had their separate fight clubs. Becca led the females. I led the first group of males. Yet by week 4, both groups had to split up into 3 different clubs.
Regla Numero 3. Dos hombres (or mujeres) por lucha.
At Club de Lucha, you fight someone until one or both of you has a medically significant injury.
Regla Numero 4. Una lucha a la vez.
Everyone else watches and waits their turn. The more spectators, the better you fight. Boxers have always known this.
Regla Numero 5. Si tu eres nuevo, necesitas luchar.
No one is a spectator for long.
Regla Numero 6. La lucha continua hasta un luchador dice ``Cesa`` o va inconsciente.
It`s the same in the jungle. Someone always wins, and someone always loses.
Regla Numero 7. Los dos luchadores asisten el uno a otro.
Unless one of the fighters dies on the spot, it`s the responsibility of the person who inflicted the wounds to heal them on the spot as best they can. There are plenty of medical supplies available from a few pilferings the guerillas have done at the Hospital Viejo and other clinics.
At first, they fight like they are just beginning to learn Spanish, clumsily, so ineffectually it looks deliberately careless. Yet as the weeks crash by, their minds become trained to recognize a right uppercut (just like an irregular future imperfect verb) in time to dodge right and take advantage of the position with a right cross to the side of the face.

The violence at fight club is a picture of the warfare that is in the making. Nothing can stop it. It`s going to be bloody, but at the end, if you survive, you`ll be meaner, calmer, faster, stronger.

Application 1

2008-07-19T22:15:00.000-04:00

In life, like in the Ridge Haven Low Ropes Course, a useful exercise is to occasionally pause for spiritual applications. Here are mine:
The beauty of the Guatemalan landscape, formed by prehistorical geological upheaval and topped by a diversity of species presumably millions of years in the making, sharply contrasts with the squalor of the tenements built by agricultural laborers that consist of mud, block, metal siding, and rotting wood. I`ve seen pigeons, chickens, pigs, and cows (yes, vacas) living inside homes no bigger than the room you`re sitting in right now.
This contrast is a picture of the way humanity has been for untold millenia: we just don`t seem to fit in too well, just like a cow in a house. Look around: something inside your soul tells you that pre-fab housing material is not what you were meant to live in. Something true somewhere in your psyche tells you that, unlike the ruminations of beasts, your thoughts matter, cosmically. We all have a sense that we are fully responsible for the choices we make, unlike the behavior necessitated by Kingdom Animalia`s genetic programming.
Something inside me makes me ashamed of the bad choices I`ve made. Like that one presuming structure that mars an otherwise breathtaking Appalachian overlook, humanity`s frailties- my frailties- anger me, sadden me, and spark a sense of unfulfilled longing that C.S. Lewis refers to as ``joy.``
We should ask ourselves why we have these feelings. Why is my heart so stabbed at the memory of dad, who has now been gone over 10 years?
God has put these reminders in our hearts to keep us dissatisfied with what we have, with this fallen world. When a person loses this sense, he becomes like an animal and enters his own hell, never to feel joy again.
My prayer for the church today (in addition to my prayer that we would become readers and thinkers) is that we would become less comfortable with ourselves; that God would give us the grandly nostalgic yearning for Something and Someone, which is the only thing that can stir us to love and good works, works that God will accept because they have actually been offered to Him.

Poetry 1

2008-07-19T22:03:00.000-04:00

These are the first haikus I`ve written in years. My apologies.

It is the desert,
Not the fruitful oasis,
Which is the mirage.

Brine-surfaced waters
And crowded exhaust-choked streets
Still reflect heaven.

Labor and trouble
Topped by disease, fear, and loss:
Sin outside and in.

Who wants to be him?
Poor, Scowling moto Mayan.
I can´t see myself.

Minds sharp as a blade
Open my envious side,
Wish I could. I can?

Bacteria wait;
Most parasites are patient.
They`ll outlive us all.

We labor to sleep,
We sleep to work or sleep.
We must escape this.

We can´t escape this:
Our failures become our norms;
Dying, are you surprised?

Living, are you surprised?
Quick, find out what separates
You from animals.

Reflection 2

2008-07-18T20:11:00.000-04:00

So I´ll just hit the high points. This week I´ve learned a TON of Spanish, since I´ve had to function in Spanish about 75% of the time. Picking up a lot of words has been the best thing about the experience so far. I´ve been really bored at my morning volunteering at a ¨Puesto De Salud¨north of Antigua in a community calleed Pastores. It is basically a 4-room, 1-nurse, ill-equipped clinic in an economically depressed part of an economically depressed nation. So, lots of paracitismo y infecciones. I have gotten to give a few vacunas (vaccinations) and take out a few stitches (quitar puntas) which have been cool experiences I couldn´t have had in the States without a little training.
Two days ago, a classmate Lee and I moved to another house, and it has turned out to be a good decision. The family we live with now is really cool and talks to us all the time. I am finding I love Guatemalan food, which is basically tortillas or pan (bread) with everything. However, I´m still scared of the bathroom at the house. Fact: the toilet bowl has not been clean for several generations. On that note, lots of classmates have been coming down with diarrhea and other mild sicknesses this week, but I´m still holding out. I´m feeling like I might be getting sick now, so I´m going to take it easy tonight and finish reading Fight Club. And study if I feel so inclined.
Yeah, the reality is a lot less exciting than the fiction. So I think I´ll go back to fictionalizing for a while... ¡Feliz dia a todos!

Reflection 1

2008-07-15T22:12:00.000-04:00

I think it´s time to take a break from my creative writing pursuits and let everyone know what I´ve been doing the last 8 days. My first 1.5 days were spent in Antigua getting familiar with the city and with my classmates. The next day, last Wednesday, we trekked to Semuc Champey, a rough 7 hour drive to north-central Guatemala. We stayed at a rugged outpost called Las Marias and did some hiking, swimming, jumping off stuff, swimming, and spelunking. I appreciated the opportunity to simply relax and get to know people. We made the return odyssey to Antigua on Saturday.
Saturday night was an odyssey of a different sort. Since there are only 8 guys on the trip and 25 ladies, we men had a lot of females to take home at 1 AM, which wouldn´t have been so bad if they had known where they lived. It was also raining. So we basically wandered around Antigua for a while until the guys (like me) figured out where some of the girls lived. To be fair, some of the girls knew where their house was...
Anyways, the last two days, I´ve been volunteering in the AM and learning Spanish in the PM. Volunteering has been a huge struggle because I´m super bored while other people got much better assignments. I´m hoping I can change but I´m not sure if the leader will let me.
Tonight, I´m watching Kite Runner. More later.

Story 2

2008-07-13T00:16:00.000-04:00

I admit, I was nervous. My twelve gangsters- turned- jungle guerrillas were in position around the porch, but our radio silence necessitated perfect timing. An easy task during broad daylight, but fraught with difficulty at 10 PM. Radio silence, a necessary prerequisite to any ambush, was especially necessitated by our lack of radios. I couldn´t have understood them anyway. Guatemalans talk way too fast. And in a language I don´t actually understand, at least not very much. Even if I could, I felt viscerally-- and racistly-- that I should never trust Guatemalans. That this particular group of twelve Guatemalans was adolescent, perfectly godless, circumspectly nonhygienic, meticulously unscrupulous, and addicted to various pharmaceuticals did not help their case. Perhaps that sentiment was why I felt like I needed to add at least as many civilized gringos to my incipient militia to balance matters.
The erudite reader may find himself wondering, ¿why would a self-respecting American ever want to join a rag-tag band of roving Guatemalan thieves? I dismiss this question, however, by pointing out two facts which I have not yet mentioned. One: I have an appealing ideology. Two: I also have guns, and they didn´t.
The ^they^ in question you have met before, dear reader. My target was the same group of college students on a study abroad trip with whom I, in another life, was supposed to be classmates. Because I had their entire itenerary, I knew that they were finishing up a relaxing stay at the Hotel Las Marias, a rustic hostel near Semuc Champey, an area of beautiful waterfalls, pools, and caves. On their last night, they debaucherous late adolescents would be partying large on the porch of Las Marias, and the lightly armed staff would be distracted by the steady stream of Gallo and other merriments. Sitting ducks.
Yet in my moment of crisis, I realized that if my chicos` timing was off, the mistakes- and bodies- would begin to pile up. Loose college students in the jungle. Dead locals. The involvement of authorities. And, worst of all, despite my most extreme injunctions, dead American students and an international incident.
It wasn´t until the ball was already rolling that I seriously considered these distinct possibilities. One would think that, at some point on my four-day hike through the rugged badlands of central Guatemala, I would have thought through some contingency plans. Yet, visionary that I am, I had no time for anything but Plan A. In Guatemala, after all, Plan B was always quite simple. ¡CORRES!
My tardy prescience, though offering no practical advantage, nevertheless prepared me psychologically for the unravelling of my plan. Only moments before I was going to give the signal for the attack, Las Marias` large perro, Polka, woke from his slumber on the front porch, gave off three distinct woofs, and made a beeline for my second-in-command Juan Carlos, hidden in the bushes off to one side of the party porch. Once he fired his weapon at the animal, the night`s glassy reverie was shattered. Automatic gunfire, oddly reminiscent of Gideon`s 300 clay pots, set off a panic among the employees and clientele of Las Marias upon which volumes of social commentary could be written. Friends who may have just expressed their fondness for one another immediately began using each other as human shields or, as the case may be, rugs to be trampled. Ironically, the kitchen became the destination of choice for the group, which was exactly where I was headed.
I emptied a few rounds into the back door to clear a space for me to enter. When I closed the door behind me and turned to face the panicked fray, I saw the light of recognition dawn upon about half of the faces before me. Rhett and Lee, in positions reminiscent of mother hens, seemed to barely believe their eyes. Alex, David, Patrick, and Andrew all peered around various kitchen implements with varying degrees of trauma registering on their pale faces. John was screaming hysterically in the back of the kitchen, but was quickly silenced by the butt of Juan Carlos` rifle. The screams of females seemed to fill the air to bursting, until finally I settled them down with a few dozen rounds into random porcelain and stainless steel pots and pans. I spent the next few hours in impassioned discourse about such diverse topics as drugs, guns, infectious disease, jungle medicine, pollution, violent crime, and other forms of pillaging, eventually taking every conceivable stance on each of these topics. Although the college students had long lost any discernible train of thought, I felt my passion sway them to my cause at about 5 AM.
Mission accomplished. As I write this, it is now time to head back to the peaceful city of Antigua, a city rife with ideologies and ripe for pillaging.
Although daylight would prove that I had lost half of my Guatemalans, I recovered enough automatic weaponry from the area to arm my new recruits.

Story 1

2008-07-08T12:33:00.001-04:00

As I stepped out of the airport double-doors onto Guatemalan pavement, diesel exhaust stung my nostrils. I took in hectic, rushed panorama of this hectic, rushed environment, yet from the faces of the people asking me if I wanted a ride to Antigua or illicit drugs, I sensed a calm, almost perfunctory acceptance of Guatemalan life. No one seemed to mind the air pollution, litter, stray dogs, or murders. The guy who got stabbed two paces in front of me wasn´t even surprised at the development, and gangsters across the street firing rusty pistols at each other seemed almost bored with the enterprise. As I drew near to the study abroad group with whom I was supposed to rendezvous, the sounds of gunshots faded. Yet it was not because the gangsters were moving away. They were actually approaching me... sprinting at me, in fact. No, the sound of gunfire receded in my ears because my sense of time and space had slowed down for what must have just been a split second. For me, it was almost an eternity. I was having my first epiphany.
In my dreamlike (and perhaps narcotics-induced) state, I sensed a dark, foreboding Question that gradually took the incarnate form of a dark brown genie on a gilded throne. It posed a question to me from which I had no escape: Who will you follow? I knew what it meant... and I knew what it wanted me to do. Rashly, I replied to the fiend, ¨They will follow ME!¨ Stopping in my tracks, I ignored the cries and screams of my study abroad classmates. I slowly turned to face the gangsters with a calm I had never previously known. I called them to follow, and they silently complied. Shifting from a sprint to a jog, they followed my lead into the adjoining jungle. One of them handed me an assault rifle. I had made my choice.