"The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of other things..."

“…of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages, and kings…”

…and popes.

I was going to refrain from commenting about the Catholic Pope’s demise…however, since the media are all in a frenzy about it, and I am in the middle of a church history course, I suppose I’ll deign to express some thoughts on the matter. ;o)

Okay. So, in my previous post, I told y’all about the church history course, for which I spent a week in Bremen. The details of that terrific week are too many for me to give now—suffice it to say that I enjoyed it immensely, I learned a lot, and I’m still trying to process all the information that Jim gave us. After I returned to Chemnitz, I promptly got sick again and have spent the past few weeks recovering and trying to get back into a schedule of sorts, so that’s why I haven’t blogged recently.

And now, the whole world is talking about nothing so much as the death of Pope John Paul II and who his successor will be. It seems that most people have expressed shock that he actually passed away, as though his dying was completely unexpected.

Friends, I have news for you. He was always going to die. How do I know? Well, he was human.

Now, before I go any further in what will probably be a diatribe, let me assure you that I don’t mean to attack John Paul personally. Many years ago, I read a biographical article on him, describing his thoughts and actions when he was first elected (named? commissioned? the correct terminology escapes me) Pope. What I read in that article caused me to have respect for the man, as he seemed to be a genuinely kind, caring, and generous individual. My opinion of him in this respect has not changed. Furthermore, I saw him in person (from a distance!) in Rome several years ago, and his frailty—coupled with the weight of his man-made responsibilities—caused me to pity him. He carried a burden no individual human was designed to bear.

Which, of course, is the crux of the matter. The heart of the problem. I hope some of you have steel in your boots, ‘cause I’m about to stomp all over your toes.

After learning what I have about church history, 33-500 A.D., I can say with absolute certainty that the Catholic Church really screwed up. I won’t give you a history lesson on it, but what basically happened is this: Christians started listening to human teaching instead of focusing on the word of God. They ignored II. Timothy (which describes the leadership of the church) and passages such as Ephesians 4 and Colossians 1, which describe Christ as the head of the church. In the 4th century, Emperor Constantine had the brilliant idea of making Christianity required by law. Of course, when you have an emperor running things, you gotta have plenty of pomp and circumstance. And with pomp and extra ritual comes the necessity of someone special to maintain the ritual, hence, you gotta have specially ordained priests and so forth. Never mind that I. Peter 2 describes *all* Christians as a priesthood.

Meaning, if you’re a Christian, you’re a priest. I’m a priest. You, if you’re a Christian, are priest. We’re all priests together. No more clergy vs. laiety. God did away with that when he gave us Jesus as our ONLY high priest (see Hebrews).

Anyway, back to the happy people of the first few centuries. When they started calling all these Rome-connected churches the “Catholic Church,” they had some great unity all right. You know what “catholic” means? It means “universal.” Basically, it means that instead of diversity, you’ve got lots of little churches that are carbon copies of the big one in Rome. Instead of individuals’ taking responsibility for their own salvation, you’ve got a bunch of people listening to priests and bishops interpreting scripture for them, while the people themselves don’t have a clue what the scriptures actually say.

And heading it all is the Pope, also known as “pontifex maximus.” This is a Latin term meaning “greatest bridgebuilder.” According to Catholic theology, the Pope is the bridgebuilder between humanity and God. He’s it. He’s the summit. He’s the one we should all be following, because he’s our only link to God.

There’s nothing I can say to this. Someone else said it better than I ever could:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Jesus spoke those words. They’re recorded in John 14:6.

The writer of Hebrews says of Jesus: “The Lord has sworn and will not change his mind, 'You are a priest forever.' This makes Jesus the guarantor of a better covenant. The former priests were many in number, because they were prevented by death from continuing in office, but he holds his priesthood permanently, because he continues forever. Consequently, he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them. For it was indeed fitting that we should have such a high priest, holy, innocent, unstained, separated from sinners, and exalted above the heavens” (Hebrews 7:22-26).

The Catholic Pope is in no way qualified to be a bridge between me and God. Why? Because he is sinful. Yes! The Catholic Pope is just as much a sinner as you and I and any other human who walks this earth! He is sinful, he is stained, he is not separated from sinners, and he is not exalted above the heavens. He is prevented by death from continuing in office—this fact was obviated by John Paul’s death less than two weeks ago. THE POPE IS ONLY A MAN. Imperfect and impure, unqualified to be a high priest for anybody. “…(T)here is no distinction: for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:22-23). This includes every archbishop, every bishop, archdeacon, deacon, priest, preacher, teacher, every so-called “saint”…and every Pope.

According to the passages of scripture quoted above, only Jesus Christ is qualified to build a bridge between me and God. Only Jesus is qualified to intercede for me. Because he is the only one who is perfect, unstained, eternal.

As a side note, the Papal title “pontifex maximus” has interesting origins. History tells us that this title belonged to the Roman Emperors, who were considered the “high priests” of the Roman state cult. You know, the cult that worshiped the pantheon of gods, including Jupiter, Mercury, Mars, Diana, etc. As “pontifex maximus,” the Roman Emperor functioned as the high priest and bridge between his subjects and the gods. So, “pontifex maximus” was a pagan and political title. Eventually, thanks to Constantine’s gifting the head of the Roman church with so much power, the Popes took that title for themselves. It’s no accident that the pagan and political title “pontifex maximus” is nowhere to be found in the Bible. And neither is the title “benedictus papa” or “Pope.” “Papa” is Latin for “father.”

Jesus said, “And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven” (Matthew 23:9).

As I hear of the media frenzy over the Pope’s death, and as I read online that thousands have already visited John Paul’s tomb to pay homage to this sinful human, I can only shake my head in disgust and sadness. This is not what God intended! This is a perversion, a mix of politics, pagan beliefs, twisted scripture, and wishful thinking.

Today, I read in a Yahoo! news article that many people visiting John Paul II’s tomb believe that he is a “saint.” They are praying to him and asking him to perform miracles in their lives. If it weren’t so sad, I would laugh at how ridiculous this is. Why aren’t they praying to Jesus, as the above-mentioned scriptures command? John Paul II was a great activist for human rights and morality, but he was not holy. He didn’t sacrifice his life to save the world. He didn’t function as the bridge between God and one single human. He didn’t do anything to deserve all this attention. Frankly, he’s just not worth all the fuss.

In closing, allow me to pose the following. Think about it carefully, and try to answer yourself honestly.

If Jesus, the homeless, penniless, dusty, dirty, ugly, unpopular, simple carpenter walked into the Vatican today, would he be welcomed? Would he fit into the grandeur of the Catholic cathedrals? Would he fit into the splendor of the church buildings “Christian” religions like to build today?

Thousands of people are honoring the Pope’s grave, and they are praying to the Pope. Would so many thousands of people turn out to honor Jesus Christ?

I think we all know the answer to that.

Another Away Message

Dearest Friends and Neighbo(u)rs and Occasional Lurkers!

Well, it’s that time of year again, when a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of cleaning cars and slinging a baseball across a field….

Oh— …Wait a sec….. Wrong season. It’s still winter. And wrong gender, considering the fact that I’m female.

Okay, so, I’m writing this to let you all know that I’ll be without Internet access from tomorrow until next Saturday. Tomorrow, after worship service, I’m taking a train to Bremen, a city in northern Germany. Jim and Elsa Springer, who’ve worked with the church in Bremen for about thirty years, offer a Christian leadership training program in German, with one class in the spring and one in the fall. Ed and I took their introductory course last fall, and I’m now taking one of the advanced courses.

Every spring course is different; this year’s happens to be Church History of the First Five-Hundred Years. The class officially started two weeks ago, and we students have been working on assignments at home. During the coming week in Bremen, we’ll have class with Jim eight hours per day (probably about four hours on Saturday). It’s called an “intensive week.” Hmm, I wonder why. ;o) I’ll return back to Chemnitz on the train next Saturday evening.

So far, the at-home assignments have been challenging. For one thing, I’d planned to get a head-start on the reading (a 350-page church history book); on the 50-word glossary we have to compile; and the leadership interview we have to do. But when I was sick for two weeks in February, my brain just wasn’t functioning well enough to do anything intellectual. Thus, I’ve spent the last two weeks frantically trying to catch up, and I’m still not finished. Hopefully, I’ll be able to complete my glossary on the train tomorrow, provided reading-while-moving doesn’t make me sick at my stomach.

For those of you who are the praying type, I’d appreciate your prayers—not just while I’m in Bremen, but also for the duration of the course. Please pray for my health, which is a near-constant trial to me, and for my clarity of thought, so that I can make the most of this opportunity to learn. Over the last few years, I’ve discovered that I enjoy and covet the challenge of being a student, and I’d like to be able to learn this new material well enough that I can use it to help teach more people about Jesus and the truths in God’s Word.

See you on the other side of the week!

seasonal peculiarities

*deepthoughts by Courtney*

So, it's about one o'clock in the morning here in Chemnitz. That's 1:00 a.m., in case the previous wasn't clear enough.

I looked out the window a couple of minutes ago. It's 1:00 a.m., it's snowing, and a man just skied past our apartment building outside.

A man just skied past our apartment building outside.

Am I the only one who's weirded out by this?

*/deepthoughts by Courtney*

Flap your wings....see what happens.

Finally, after much wait and debate, I have found / made an opportunity to watch the movie “The Butterfly Effect.” Ed and I just finished watching it a few minutes ago, and I know it’s going to take me awhile to process all of my impressions. One initial thought is that I’m glad Ed and I watched this without anyone else present. There were some sex scenes in there that I sure wouldn’t want to watch in mixed company. Call me prudish if you will, but it just would have been weird. Plus, the language definitely made me wish we owned one of those TV-G (TV-Guardian?) devices, the things that bleep out whichever words you program into it.

However, I’m not trying to write an epistle on the rightness or wrongness of Christians’ watching R-rated movies. That’s a topic for another post, another day.

What I’m really trying to do is sort out my thoughts. The movie was pretty much what I expected—unfortunately, the previews give away most of the plot and the concept. (By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie but plan to see it, don’t keep reading. I’ll spoil it for you.) However, it still delivered quite a lot of food for thought.

Just to recap: Guy has blackouts as a kid; as an adult, figures out how to project himself into the past and change bad things that happened to him during those blackouts; ends up doing more damage than good; keeps going back over and over to try to fix things, but just ruins friends’ lives and his own life in the process; finally realizes that the only way to set everything right is to shut out of his life the one person who means the most to him.

So…of course, the question is: Could you ever change something for the better if you went back and altered something in the past?

We all have regrets, don’t we? I don’t think I know one person who has no regrets. I know at least one person who claims not to have any regrets. But that person has also told me of things in his life he wishes hadn’t happened, and that sounds like regret to me. Each of us has done and said things we wish we could take back.

But if you could take it back….what would it be?

What would I change? It’s hard to say, because I know that who I am and where I am today are a direct result of everything that I have done and said in the past. Were I to change something, it would be with the knowledge that I would be changing my present and my future as well. And that’s a frightening thought, because I can think back on a few choices that might have led me down different paths had I chosen differently—and some of those paths aren’t very pretty.

I’ve been sitting here, sifting through memories, wondering which one of them would be worth changing. Instead of a fistfight, a kind word to a younger kid when I was eleven? Instead of ignorance, giving a definitive answer for my faith when I was eighteen? Instead of passivity, a decisive “no” when I was twenty? Instead of criticism, a word of support to a friend when I was twenty-seven?

And my answer must remain: I don’t know. I don’t know if any of those incidents, altered, would be enough to change my life or another’s. Either for better or for worse. In the film, the main character made his life and his friends’ lives worse every time he went back and changed something. Each small alteration led all of them down a different, darker path than they would have walked had he left the past alone. Though he meant well, he entered a horrid, vicious circle that spiraled him and his friends down into despair and evil and madness. And the only thing that brought them out of it was his willingness to give up the love of the one person he loved the most. Hm. Somehow, loving sacrifice always ends up being the saving grace of every flawed hero.

Changing my past would make me a different person. And if I were a different person, I would have a different effect on those around me. Who knows what negative influence my smallest actions might have if I were a different person? Who knows what negative influence I have even now, without knowing it? Certainly, a change in the past might result in a better present Me, a better future Me…

…but then again, it might not. What are the chances that a change would turn out better? I’m no math whiz, but I’m guessing the odds are not particularly good.

God knew what he was doing when he gave us humans a linear, finite sense of time and the inability to move freely along the timeline. He knew what a mess of our lives and each other’s lives we would make if we could change our pasts. He knew that no matter how much we tried, we could never set right the things we’ve done wrong in the past. I’m grateful that he doesn’t expect us to.

Can the flap of a single butterfly’s wing cause a typhoon? One action you take, one word that you say, always leads to a reaction in someone else. You might never know about it…but that’s your influence on those around you. And your smallest action, your most insignificant word, could turn into something monstrous or something wonderful in someone else’s future. Your smallest good deed could turn into an heroic act of kindness by someone else somewhere continents away and years down the line. Conversely, your smallest meanness could turn into an atrocity by someone else, far away, far in the future. Either way, you’ll never know about it.

Either way, we’re all part of each other—all of us humans, who are butterflies causing typhoons.

If you could go back and change something…would you?

Church Couture

(Sorry, y’all, this is gonna be a long one. Watch—see what I’m doing? ….I’m draggin’ out a big ol’ soapbox. Hang on to your hats, kids.)

There comes a time in almost every woman’s life when she feels the driving need to confess. (Actually, if you ask Robert Heinlein, *every* woman has that need *all* of the time, but I think Heinlein, though an excellent and very enjoyable science fiction writer, was a macho, chauvinistic, over-sexed pig, so we won’t pay any attention to his opinion. If you want me to digress on *my* opinion of *him*, please ask. I’ll do so.)

Anyway…the need to confess. Ladies and gents, I’ve got it. And, so, I am going to confess. Brace yourselves.

…...

I wore jeans to worship this morning.

Breathe, people. Please. You’re turning purple.

Okay, all joking aside. Why am I being so silly about this? Why the sarcasm? Well, according to communication experts, sarcasm is merely a tool used by people who are passive-aggressive in their communications with others. When they are upset or angry about something, they don’t display their anger openly and clearly. Instead, they needle the issue in a roundabout, manipulative sort of manner. Sarcasm is their way of addressing the problem without having to stand up strongly for their opinions and without having to take responsibility for their own anger.

So, I’m gonna drop the sarcasm. I’m upset. I’m angry.

I’m angry at those who would turn worship to God into a social event. I’m angry at those who use gimmicks—whether it’s in the seating, in the lighting, in the “order of worship” (and where in the world did *that* holy phrase come from, anyway?), in the technology, in the shape of the auditorium, in the clothing, in the decoration, in the song books, in the cool new Bible translation, just in the fact of constructing a building—gimmicks to enhance the worship artificially. I’m angry at those who turn worship to God into a staged event, something the audience can enjoy and admire and leave, feeling “pumped.”

This has been building up in me for a long time.

Right now, let’s put aside my anger about lighting, “order,” décor, etc. That’s all news for a future post. Perhaps, from my first outrageous remark, you have already deduced that tonight, my anger is directed at the so-called “clothing issue.”

Most Sunday mornings, I wear a skirt. Sometimes knee-length, sometimes ankle-length. I’ve given up wearing high heels because, let’s face it, in Chemnitz, it’s too cold. I get sick often enough already. So my black boots suffice. On rare occasions, when I’m feeling particularly classy, I might wear my black slacks. With the boots. A nice shirt or blouse to go with skirt or slacks, some jewelry here and there, and voilá, I’m fancy.

But what for?

Though I haven’t taken down any statistics—no head counts or anything—I would guesstimate that maybe a third of the Chemnitz church “dresses up” for Sunday morning worship. Skirts, slacks, ties, suits. Shiny shoes. What does the rest do? Take a wild guess. Yes. Jeans. Sometimes, not even “nice” ones. Ragged ones. With holes. And they’re low-rise, too.

And the thing is, nobody cares.

They’re not there for a fashion show. They’re not there to advertise their new clothes. They’re not there to look at one another and think, “Hmm…should she be wearing that? Couldn’t he have pressed those pants? What’s with the frayed pant legs?”

David danced naked. Now, I’m not advocating that we turn the church into a nudist colony. But Moses worshiped God barefoot. Philip taught a Bible study out in the desert—and you know he wasn’t wearing his Sunday best. Think dirt and hot sun and sweat. Peter was a fisherman, and though I don’t know much about the culture of Jewish fishermen in the first century, I seriously doubt he owned any item of clothing we would call “nice.” And Jesus wasn’t wearing a tie during his last supper with his apostles.

Recently, I was present for a “Bible class” in which the topic of clothing came up. I put “Bible class” in quotation marks, because that phrase would indicate that a study of the Bible was taking place. But—and I say this with no sarcasm—it wasn’t a Bible study so much as an exchange of opinions based on anything but scripture.

I won’t tell you who the people were, what city they were in, or even what country. It doesn’t matter. These kinds of attitudes are prevalent in societies throughout the world…and if you can find it in the world, you can find it in the church.

This “Bible class” carried the title “A Biblical Study on the Subject of Worship.” The study focused on Jesus’s conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4. The leader of the study pointed out that the Samaritan woman was focusing on the physical water, whereas Jesus was trying to show her the value of spiritual water. She was concerned with the place of worship (on a mountain vs. Jerusalem’s temple), but Jesus was trying to show her that true worship of God includes the attitudes of the heart, as well. In every aspect, her focus was on the physical, while he emphasized the spiritual.

I won’t digress with a point-by-point rendition of the class. But I was following along, agreeing with what was said, taking notes, looking up scriptures, when the discussion on worship took a turn that I just couldn’t believe. Long story short (yeah, right), the individual leading the study made the statement that people who “wear jeans and T-shirts to church” are not showing proper reverence for God.

I was floored. Flummoxed. Flabbergasted. (Yes, that’s a real word. And here’s the passive-aggressiveness coming out again.) People began speaking up all over the room, voicing their shock that their fellow Christians could be so disrespectful, so irreverent, so uncaring. Now, don’t get me wrong: the issue was not modesty. No, I don’t think mini-skirts and spaghetti straps and other major skin-baring items are appropriate for worship—some clothes are designed for catching attention, and a Christian should think twice before donning such. But modesty wasn’t the issue. Appearance was the issue.

Their point was, anything other than “Sunday-morning-best” just looks bad, and God doesn’t like it.

Well, I’d had about all I could take and was getting antsy, so I raised my hand. I tried to be diplomatic, I really did. I asked Ed later, and he said I kept my cool. But at the time, I wasn’t sure how cool I kept. Anyway, I made some remark about how interesting it is that culture varies from church to church, and I explained about the various styles of dress in the Chemnitz church. I finished with, “Many Christians there wear nothing but jeans and casual shirts, and their worship is no less reverent than ours is here today.”

The leader didn’t miss a beat. Without saying it outright, he communicated to me that I was wrong and that my thoughts on the matter were not welcome. I noted that during the rest of the class, he prefaced several statements about clothing with, “Well, I know the scriptures don’t say anything about this, but…”

Since when is it acceptable for a Christian to form ANY sort of opinion that’s doesn’t have its roots in the word and will of God?

I didn’t say any more. I grumbled and fussed to myself and wrote furiously for a few minutes. I wondered what this group of Christians would say to the African woman who, wearing the single, ragged garment she owns, walks four hours just to reach the church “hut” and then breast-feeds her baby during the sermon. You think I’m kidding. I’m not.

And I wondered what they would say to the couple sitting three rows up from me: The two of them were dressed in jeans and casual shirts. Wonder what those two thought?

If the focus is so trained on clothing, then what are “nice” clothes but a gimmick to enhance the worship service artificially and turn it into a social event?

Some of you, reading this, will think that I am being judgmental of that Bible study group. Perhaps I’m a little too angry. Perhaps I’m a little too vocal about it. But in return, I would ask… If I choose to be angry (and yes, I believe anger is always a choice)—then shouldn’t false teaching be something I choose to be angry at? And if someone is teaching that God cares about skirts and slacks and button-down shirts…doesn’t that qualify as false teaching?

I remember one particular point the leader of that study made. He said (and I paraphrase), “If Jesus were sitting in a chair on the stage behind me, you would want to look your absolute best. You’d bring out the best of everything for him, and you’d want to look as good as you possibly could.”

I’m sorry, friends, but that is false teaching.

What would our reactions be if Jesus were physically present during our worship? As for me, various ideas come to mind. Most of them involve cold sweat and weak knees and crumpling into a sobbing heap on the floor. Honestly, my clothing would be the last thing on my mind.

And would Jesus ask me why I’m wearing jeans? No. He spoke to the Samaritan woman about living, spiritual water. He wasn’t interested in the appearance of her clothes; he was probing the condition of her poor, sinful heart.

She focused on the bucket and the H2O. The physical. “Clothing” would fit nicely into that category. Jesus focused on the living, spiritual water that he wanted to send flowing through her soul.

I’m not on this soapbox because I think I’m better than those Christians I disagreed with. No, I’m no better. I sin, so I’m no better. But I say these things because I choose to be angry about and speak out against false teaching. And because I’m concerned about false teaching in God’s church.

This morning, while I worshiped God with my fellow disciples, I wore jeans. I really don’t believe that God cared.

“…[W]e look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.”

-- II Corinthians 4: 18

communication

Well, friends and neighbors, I'm gonna attempt the heretofore unattempted--by me, anyway. Yes, indeed, in an effort to be more communicative, I'm going to go through my entire blog and answer all comments.

So, here I go, donning my pith helmet and strapping on my machete, ready to plunge into the dense undergrowth of the jungle known as Commentland. Be ye warned.

Later:

Well, I lost my trusty pith helmet somewhere along September, and the machete just broke right in half when I tackled mid-August, but......I made it! I have emerged on the other side of the jungle, victorious over The Daunting Task of Answering All Comments! I made it! I'm finished! Whoo-yah!

So, what does this mean for you, Dear Reader? It means that if you've ever commented on any of my blog posts, you can now turn back, face the jungle yourself, traverse the gnarled vines of blog-posts, brave the leech-infested pools of links and words and punctuation marks, and eventually arrive at Your Comment, where you will find My Reply In All Its Weird And Witty Glory.

And now, I bid thee all good evening. All this jungle-hacking and polite chit-chat has worn me out. ;o) Fare thee well!

Dream #70

Pythonpeople

recorded October 2, 2004

Last night, I dreamed that I was someone other than myself. I had been dating a guy who did a circus act with a green python. I think the python’s name was Cleo or something like that. My relationship with Cleo’s owner was about to end, because I had realized that I wasn’t really attracted to him at all, neither by his personality nor his physical appearance. He just wasn’t a nice person at all—for instance, I knew that he often partially starved Cleo, just to keep the snake aggressive so he would be more interesting for the circus act.

I went to the guy’s apartment building with the intention of breaking up with him and telling him he was no longer welcome in my life. When I opened the apartment door, I knew something was wrong. Furniture was overturned, glass was broken, the whole apartment was just in disarray. I stepped through the debris and headed for the livingroom, already sure of what I would find there. When I went in, what I saw confirmed my suspicions: There was my former boyfriend, sitting in his recliner, dead. Obviously squeezed to death.

I looked for Cleo and finally found him in his cage. Just a glance told me that he had grown considerably larger since I’d last seen him, and he was shedding his skin. Somehow, just squeezing his owner to death had given him nourishment enough to grow. I was afraid of how large he would become once he consumed his owner, which I knew he would do soon.

Before I could even think about being shocked or horrified or revolted, something even weirder began to happen: Cleo began to transform into something else. At first, I couldn’t tell what was happening—it seemed like the space around the snake became blurry, and I couldn’t look at it. Then, when details sharpened again, the snake was gone, and a man stood there in his place.

I couldn’t really determine what he looked like, but even so, he was very attractive and somehow seductive. He beckoned to me, and I found that I moved forward almost against my will. He was drawing me forward, toward him, and I couldn’t resist. And didn’t want to.

I suppose I would’ve walked right into his arms and let him squeeze me to death, but I tripped over something on the floor and broke eye contact with the strange pythonman. No eye contact, no spell, and I started backing away from him in a panic. I ran out of the apartment, and he came after me. He couldn’t move very fast, though: Because he changed from snake to man before completely shedding his skin, his skin was somehow still attached to his dead owner like a rope that bound the pythonman’s feet. While he was still struggling with the rope of skin and the dead weight of his former owner, I fled to the stairs.

Once outside the apartment, I realized my problem was more dire than I had thought: I not only had Cleo to contend with, but also Cleo’s mate. Apparently, circus man had purchased a female python without telling me, and she had undergone the same mysterious transformation that Cleo had. She came after me in the form of a woman, while Cleo changed back into a snake in order to complete his molting.

Somehow, it ended up with Cleo slithering up the stairs in human form, and his mate doing the same from the top of the stairs, with me in the middle. I vaulted the stair railing and made it out of the building, but the two of them were close behind me: first the female, then Cleo bringing up the rear of the chase. I ran through the streets, dodging people and traffic, but I wasn’t able to leave the two of them behind. I was starting to slow down, and I couldn’t breathe. I knew they were about to catch me.

I rounded a corner and saw a policeman halfway down the block. In a final burst of speed, I reached him and gasped out, “He’s after her, and he won’t leave her alone!” Then I kept running. When I looked back, the policeman had stopped Cleo and the female, since he thought the two of them were involved in some kind of domestic dispute. I knew this had bought me only a little time, so I kept going. Eventually, I reached a different part of town and slowed to a walk, safe for the moment but aware that I needed to find a good hiding place. Then the dream ended.

I give up

Well, I've tried to post something here three times in the last hour. Either through Blogger's inteptitude or mine, all three posts have managed to disappear before I could hit the "publish" button. Apparantly, I'm not meant to post any of my own thoughts in my own blog today. So I give up. I surrender. Cardinal sin, according to "Galaxy Quest," but I don't care. I've had enough, I tell you! ;o)

So here's a nice poem instead. Enjoy.

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

Reverse Reverse Reverse Culture Shock

Okay, so, as most of you know, Ed and I are in Oklahoma right now. And, as expected, I have been experiencing some weird culture shock moments:

The other day I was in Wal-Mart, and all I wanted to buy was a bottle of nail hardener for my fingernails. Doesn't sound all too complicated, right? Wrong-o, buddy! So, I'm standing there, looking at the nail polish section, and they have about three billion different kinds of nail hardener. Okay, so it wasn't three billion. Maybe more like twelve. Not twelve billion. Just twelve. And I'm thinking, "Who needs twelve different kinds of nail hardener? Why are there so many? Why can't there be just one? How long will I be standing here, staring at bottles of nail polish, while eternity approaches?" (Not "Eternity" the perfume, although I wouldn't have complained. I love that stuff!)

Yeah, so, back to nail hardener. They've got one kind with sea water minerals, one with acrylic, one with nylon, and one that says "Hard as Diamonds," and I don't know if that means it's got pulverized diamonds in it or what. So I stand there for a few minutes with my mouth hanging open, sweating buckets in my long, black coat designed for Chemnitz winter weather (and yeah, it's 20 degrees Celcius today, in JANUARY!!!), wondering how in the world I'm supposed to make a choice. I finally grabbed two bottles--the sea minerals and the acrylic, I believe--and harangued the girl stocking shelves into helping me pick one. She'd never used either one of them, but she recommended the acrylic. So I bought both. Go figure.

Okay, so I didn't harangue the shelf stock girl. I asked politely. I just wanted an excuse to use the word 'harangue.'

The most recent moment of shock came yesterday, when Ed's thirteen-year-old nephew Wes walked into the house. And yes, he was carrying a dead rabbit by its back feet. He'd just shot it himself, with a 12-gauge shotgun. Its little rabbit head was just wobbling back and forth on its little dead rabbit neck. Then Wes skinned it and cleaned it and stuck it in the refrigerator. I explained to Wes that I am a city girl, and that was probably the closest I've ever come to a freshly killed rabbit before. He grinned.

That raft in the middle of the Atlantic is looking pretty good right now. ;o)

a few things that tick me off

My wacky, inadequately functioning immune system. For my reasoning on this, see previous blog entry. ;o) [The smiley is to show you that I’m making *this* post in good humor, not in anger or bitterness.]

Snow is currently falling in Chemnitz but refusing to stick to the ground.

Undisciplined children. Actually, the parents of undisciplined children.

I ran out of vanilla flavoring today, so I can’t finish baking the last three batches of chocolate chip cookies I wanted to make this weekend.

The exchange rate from dollars to euros. It’s getting worse.

A friend in Texas seems to be mad at me but doesn’t have the guts to tell me upfront. Instead, I get ignored. This is both unfair to me and insulting.

The last batch of cookies I baked today got slightly scorched. The kitchen and I are grudging friends, at best.

I don’t want to admit how much time has passed since my last personal Bible study time.

“Religious Christmas songs” sung only at Christmastime. I guess I’m a stickler for being happy year-round that Jesus was born. ;o)

Otherwise excellent science fiction stories ruined by superfluous sex.

My white sugar addiction.

Email money-making scam forwards. And that’s all one noun phrase!

I can’t seem to rid my houseplants of gnats. On the bright side, though, they keep Ripley entertained.

Reactionary people who believe everything they read and attack before thinking. And without warning. And I’m talking about your “next-door neighbor,” not global terrorists.

Humans dislike coming right out and saying what they want. If you want me to do something, listen to you, shut up, hold forth, laugh, be serious, or make like a tree and get out of there, please tell me. Don’t make me guess, and don’t expect me to read your mind. My telepathy hasn’t developed that far yet. (But I’m working on it. See blog entry on August 8, 2004: “Telepathy; Or, Love: How Far Are You Willing To Go?”)

The nail of my left big toe is ingrown and hurts.

Our white curtains are no longer white and need washing, but I don’t really have time to do it. I guess I could do it now, while I’m sick, but… blech. :oP

I can’t find the “Peanuts” (Charlie Brown) comic strip where Linus counts up how many partridges in pear trees through twelve drummers drumming the guy actually gives the girl in the whole song.

I can’t decide what I really think of stem cell research.

Ripley won’t stop attacking Ed’s feet.

I’m gonna have to compile a list of positives to make up for this one. ;o)

Sick

What's inside you?

Every other Thursday night, a group of us meets for a Bible study. This one is somewhat informal, because we use the time to discuss certain Christian literature designed for practical application of scripture to daily life. For the last ten months, we’ve been reading and discussing Gordon MacDonald’s “Ordering Your Private World” (auf Deutsch “Ordne Dein Leben”).

MacDonald’s book is one of the most practical books I’ve ever read. He tackles one of the problems I think most of us can identify with: our seeming inability to “find” time for intensive study of the Bible and deep, private communion with God. We complain that we can’t “find” time to read the scriptures; we can’t “find” time to pray; we’re too tired at the end of the day to think about anything save supper, TV, and, finally, bed.

Without going into detail (if you want detail, read the book), I’ll tell you that MacDonald discusses why we make all these excuses; the fact that they are excuses; and how we can reorganize our priorities and our lives with the goal of deepening and strengthening our relationship with God. If you’ve ever longed for that kind of relationship with God, but you haven’t been able to figure out how to make it happen in your life, I recommend this book to you.

No, it’s not a magic cure-all. I’m living proof of that. I’ve read the book, and my spiritual life is still woefully lacking in the depth I desire. MacDonald is not a God-inspired writer; and I encourage any reader to measure all of his ideas against scripture. But most of his ideas are good, and he gives an interesting, refreshing perspective…things that make you go, “Hmm.” ;o) I’ve started using a few spiritual “exercises” he recommends, and when I use them regularly, I can see a difference in myself.

Really, it’s just a matter of MacDonald’s words giving me a kick in the rear. He’s not telling me anything that God hasn’t already tried to teach me. It’s only that MacDonald is knocking me on the head and yelling into my ear, “Hello? Hellloooo, anybody home? Think, McFly! Think!”

MacDonald’s main premise is that each of us has—or, rather, should have—a place deep inside our souls where there should be stillness. Peace. Quiet. On the outside, more and more people, things, situations, conflicts, pressures, stresses, worries are screaming for our attention…but deep inside, in our inner world, we need to have a place to which we can retreat. A place where we can forget, for many moments or for just a few, those things which seem so pressing. A place where we can learn to recognize that the things which clamor for our attention are usually the things that aren’t so important in the grand scheme of things.

We need a place where light reigns and shuts out the darkness of our outer world. We need a place where we can listen to God’s voice.

Here are a few quotes from MacDonald’s book that really hit me hard, especially concerning the difference between our inner and our outer worlds:

“In our pressurized society, people who are out of shape mentally usually fall victim to ideas and systems that are destructive to the human spirit and to human relationships. They are victimized because they have not taught themselves how to think; nor have they set themselves to the lifelong pursuit of the growth of the mind. Not having the facility of a strong mind, they grow dependent upon the thoughts and opinions of others. Rather than deal with ideas and issues, they reduce themselves to lives full of rules, regulations, and programs.
“ V. W. Burrows wrote, “One of the saddest experiences is to awaken at old age and discover that one has been using only a small part of self…’”

“I like to refer to this center as a person’s spirit; others call it the soul. You can’t physiologically locate the spiritual center of a person’s private world, but it is there. It is eternal, and it is the point at which we most intimately commune with our heavenly Father. The spirit can never lose its eternal nature, but it can exist in a state of such disorganization that almost no communion with God is possible. That usually leads to a general chaos in other parts of one’s private world.”

“We are naively inclined to believe that the most publicly active person is the most privately spiritual. We assume that the larger the church, the greater its heavenly blessing. The more information about the Bible a person possesses, we think, the closer he or she must be to God.”

“Natural gifts such as personal charisma, mental brightness, emotional strength, and organizational ability can impress and motivate people for a long time. Sometimes they can be mistaken for spiritual vitality and depth. Sadly, we do not have a Christian culture today that easily discriminates between a person of spiritual depth and a person of raw talent… The result is that more than a few people can be fooled into thinking they are being influenced by a spiritual giant when in fact they are being manipulated by a dwarf.”

MacDonald quotes Proverbs 4:23,
“Watch over your heart with all diligence, for from it flow the springs of life.”

Then he goes on to say:
“[The writer of the proverb] wants the reader to understand that keeping or guarding the heart…is a deliberate and disciplined choice a man or woman must make. Am I being heard? We must choose to keep the heart. Choose! Its health and productivity cannot be assumed; it must be constantly protected and maintained.
“…In the New Testament, Paul made the same sort of observation when he challenged Christians to ‘not be conformed to this [outer] world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind’ (Rom. 12:2). He’s talking heart here…
“…Are we going to order our inner worlds, our hearts, so that they will radiate influence into the outer world? Or will we neglect our private worlds and thus permit the outer influences to shape us? This is a choice we have to make every day of our lives.
“…We will know that we have learned this significant principle when we come to the point at which the development and maintenance of a strong inner world becomes the most important single function of our existences.”

Work-In-Progress

Wow, three blog entries in one day! I must be getting soft in my old age. ;o)

Anyway, here's a shot of that painting I'm still working on. I thought there might be a couple of people who'd be interested in seeing what I've done with it. Which isn't much...but I like the dunes better, now that they have a more definite shape. I think they add an interesting dynamic to the picture. The original isn't this dark. I took the shot with the digicam, but couldn't use a flash because the paint is still wet and would reflect in a rather irritating manner.

I hope to finish this one soon! And it's about time, too. ;o)

Court and Edney

In the Dresden woods in late October? early November?

I can't remember. ;o)

The Odyssey

Greetings, Fellow Travailers and Paint-Covered Ones!

By popular demand, I'm posting again, though I can't promise anything coherent. I've thought about this blog a lot over the last few months, just never got around to putting thoughts into action.

-- Wait a sec-- Oh-- Mm-hm. Yeah.... That there was a fairly telling statement on one of my major sources of trouble. Instead of e = mc², Einstein should've worked out an equation relating to the difficulty of "thought not always = action."

So anyway, on to the news......

Since my blog last heard from me, I've partaken in and been subjected to a serious of interesting adventures, happenstances, crises, and opinions. I'll give you a short recap, since it's probable many of you have not yet heard of some of these latest reports in the Varied Conglomeration of Whatevers That So Often Make Up Courtney's Life...

Since my last post, I have...

...spent a wonderful week in the Austrian Alps, learning more about how the Holy Spirit works in us; leading my first German Ladies' Bible Discussion Group (the CAPS make it sound more intimidating than it really was); enjoying both the gorgeous scenery and our wonderful hotel; and, together with Becky, Joy, and April, singing Bavarian "Dreigesang," the dialect of which was so hilariously and wonderfully confusing, we didn't know what we were singing half the time and ended up giggling most of the other half.

...spent ten days in Bremen, located in Northern Germany. Ed and I are taking an evangelism training course with Jim and Elsa Springer, who've worked with the church in Bremen for about 30 years. Except for that one intensive week, the rest of the course is by correspondence. I highly recommend the course to anyone who's fluent in German. We've really focused on what our individual talents are and how best to use them for the church, and it would be another five blog posts for me to describe how thrilled and fascinated I am by everything I've been learning.

...gained about 5 pounds because I don't have the self-discipline to lay off the sugar and the late-night snacks. I've been eating more veggies, though--tomatoes and cucumbers, yum!

...had something of a showdown with an alcoholic.

...started to learn that I am in no way responsible for the messes other people make of their own lives.

...been accused of being under the occult influence of evil/demonic spirits, the main symptoms of which are, allegedly, my artwork and my writing.

...decided I can compromise with people to a certain extent without burying the talents God has given me.

...apparently lost a good friendship, because the friend in question has broken off communication with me and refuses to tell me why.

...started to learn how to say "no" in a nice way and mean it, because I can't do everything, I can't take care of everybody, and it's ruining my health and my spirit to continue trying.

...been plagued more and more by people who can't seem to get it through their heads that when Ed and I are ready to produce offspring, we're not necessarily going to broadcast it to the world anyway, so there's really no point in asking us repeatedly.

...wondered how I'm going to restrain myself from smacking people who come up to poke and prod my stomach uninvited once I do get pregnant in the (distant?) future.

...seen Sting live in concert! Oh YEAH!

...prayed more often and more intensively than I ever have in my life to date, though I must admit that I've slacked off again lately. (Elsa, thank you for the smileys and rainclouds.) ;o)

...started rediscovering that quiet place within myself where God lives in me and soothes me when I slow down and pay attention to what he's trying to tell me.

...listened more. I think.

...decided I'm going to try to take Steffen's Greek course in the coming Spring, provided there are enough students for a course.

...read "The Notebook" and "The Wedding" by Nicholas Sparks ("Wedding" was better) and a whole bunch of Dean Koontz and Robert Heinlein books.

...written about 50 English lessons on the book of Acts, and I'm not done with the book yet.

...thought a lot about the future.

...created three of the best poems I've ever written.

...thought a lot about family and friends stateside.

...met two published writers--one by letter, and one in person.

...entered NaNoWriMo 2004. But the time and the emotional energy weren't there this year--I only managed about 12000 words of the 50k goal.

...done and thought and said and learned and laughed and cried and anguished and rejoiced and fled and hid and reemerged and fought and given up and joined the battle again and railed and comforted and screamed and danced and imagined and wondered and created and destroyed and circled and climbed and reached and lost and won and and and.

And now I'm going to bed. ;o)

Away Message

Greetings, Fellow Sojourners!

Starting later today, I will be in Austria for a week! There I will make my temporary dwelling-place amongst the Alpine mountains in the little town of Filzmoos--which, directly translated, means "feltmoss." 'Tis a strange world in which we abide.

I bid you all a spiffy week!

The Christmas Song For The New Millennium

Matt (see Blogadocious link on far right) and I have decided to put our linguistic creativity to good use and try to make a little extra cash on the side by entering the lucrative world of songwriting. If you care to read below, you'll find our first attempt. I'll admit, we're still a bit shaky on writing music, so we're temporarily borrowing someone else's tune. If you hum "The Christmas Song" to yourself as you read, you'll get a hang of the melody and rhythm. Enjoy!

The Christmas Song For The New Millennium

Chestnuts roasting on open fires,
Jack frost nipping at status quos,
Yuletide carols being flung by choirs,
And folks dressed up apropos.
Everybody's nose,
Some turkey has a middle toe
That helps to bring the season's blight.
Tater tots made out of cookie dough
Will find a farty sleep tonight.
Paul knows that marmot's on his way,
He's loaded pots and pans and cooties on his sleigh.
And Paul's mother's child is going to fry,
And flee the reindeer who ate all the pie.
And so, he's offering this entrails' phase
To kids who cannibalized not a few.
Although they've been fed mini-guys many ways,
Some fried crustaceans will do.

by Marmot Boy and Court-knee

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

In the news....

On Saturday I went to my first alternative rock concert. Since I know the lead singer of the band and am aware of some of the struggles he's going through, the whole concert inspired a lot of thought. I understand now, to some degree, the temptation to lose oneself in such intense, throbbing sound. I'm not ashamed to admit that this understanding is a bit frightening. It was an interesting experience, and I haven't yet digested all of it.

Ed and I are taking a sort of leadership training course that starts Oct. 1 and goes through mid-December. Since I'll be at the European Ladies' Retreat in Austria next week, I've started working on the homework required for the training course. Today I realized that I've quite forgotten how to study. Apparently, being a student is a learned art...and I seem to have unlearned it. :oP

Ripley knocked over the Love Fern again last night. I was not pleased, especially since most of the spilled dirt ended up in Ripley's litter box. I gave in and moved the fern into what will hopefully be a more stable spot. This past summer, I thought I was finally showing Mama's genes and developing a green thumb, but alas and alack, that thumb is turning black again. My Venus flytrap is struggling and seems ready to throw in the floral towel. And my beautiful, bright red begonia has decided to perish utterly. I despair.

Also this week: Everybody in the world is either having babies or wanting babies, and I wonder if I've got alien heritage, since all I really want right now is more time in each day so I can write and paint.

*sigh*

Dream # 14

Kendera, your wish is my command. I'm posting this one because you requested. ;o)

I'm Not Pregnant!

November 30, 2001

Last night, I dreamed that Ed and I were going to have a baby. But I wasn’t pregnant; instead, Kendra was the surrogate mother. I was out of town on a business trip. When I called home, Ed informed me that Kendra had given birth to our child, a 17-lbs. boy. I didn’t even register the “17-lbs.” part—all I said was, “A boy? But I wanted a girl!”

Then the dream ended.

Blogged For The First Time Ever: The Cantrell Domicile

Well, here's what you've all been waiting for: pics of our apartment posted online. For your viewing pleasure, I bring you images from our dwelling-place here in the great Land of Deutsch. You will see digital photographic representations of every room in our home, with the exception of the kitchen and attic, neither of which is currently in publicly presentable condition.

So fasten your seatbelts, strap on your safari hats (Does one *strap on* or *don* a safari hat? I wonder...), and grab the helping hand of the person sitting next to you (Yes, even if it's a stranger in an Internet cafe--what's life without a little adventure?), because you're entering...

The Zany Zone...

...or something. Would someone humor me with a drumroll, please?

To kick off our tour, I'd like to show you the section of our hallway that is supposed to be my reading nook. Someday, when I get to buy a comfy chair, the dream of a reading nook will become reality. Until then, I shall content myself with perching on this uncomfortable, yet lovely chair with its genuine walnut armrests. ;o)

A second picture of our rather peculiarly shaped hallway. In the other hallway picture, the front door was toward the left side of the image. In this picture, the front door is behind me and to my right, and the "reading nook" is behind me and to my left. If you're now completely confused, then my work here is finished.

Please notice the small, black feline in the foreground. Ripley, in her ever-growing awareness of life beyond the confines of her small feline brain, decided that it would be interesting to follow me around as I took pictures of the apartment. She makes for a fairly good model, though she's not particularly receptive to suggestions that she pose. In pictures, she much prefers the "freestyle" or "natural" look.

Next, I'd like to direct your attention to the bedroom. I particularly enjoy the sheer mosquito netting that adds a romantic touch, though Ripley has been responsible for several large holes in it. She seems to think it's a great climbing opportunity. If this were a panoramic shot, you'd see a wardrobe on the left and another wardrobe on the right, but they're not very pretty, so I'm skipping them.
Hopefully, I'll soon be able to start working on the bedroom walls, which I've wanted to do for at least two years. A deep maroon appeals to me, though I'm still debating on whether or not that would be too dark. On the other hand, a bedroom should look cozy and dark and romantic, so I'll probably just go with my artistic instincts on this.

A second shot of the bedroom. If Clint's stuff ever arrives from that black hole known as London (check April's blog for further info), we'll soon be the better-sleeping owners of a queen-sized bed (courtesy of Clint) instead of this double. Yay for more restful sleeping!!! 

Please turn your attention over here and enter the realm of the apartment-indigenous feline. This is Ripley's room, in which she generously allows us to do our showering and grooming and so forth. Today we had our first major mishap with the fern beneath the window. (Yes, Kendra, it's the Love Fern!!!) ;o) I don't know just what the cat did, but the fern ended up on its side and there was dirt everywhere. Ripley and I had a bit of an altercation over it. 

Ripley loves to stalk humans from the protective and secluded confines of the empty bathtub. 

Moving right along on our tour, we come to the livingroom, in which quite a bit of living occurs. This is also where we have most of our one-on-one Bible studies. The couch pictured left isn't really discolored--that's just an effect of the flash, I'm glad to say. ;o) Most people tend to comment on the comfort and warmth of our livingroom. I appreciate their appreciation, but I'm hoping to do something with the walls that will make the room feel even more inviting. I'm tired of all-white walls, so I'm considering something in a pale-but-warm yellow to match the throw pillows. 

Another shot of our livingroom. Notice the fun, jaunty angle of the crooked tablecloth. That is *so* characteristic of how things go around here. ;o) 

If I may direct your attention here, you will be pleased to note that two other beings besides Ripley also currently occupy our abode. Ed and Clint were sufficiently occupied with computers that they weren't aware of my picture-taking ambitions. Please disregard the general disarray visible in this pic. The office functions as office, art studio, and catch-all room, so it's difficult to keep it better organized than this. Usually, it's worse.

To conclude our tour, and just for fun, let's venture into the depths of the office-computer-lab-catch-all, emerging on the other side in Courtney's art studio. Here you see what's been my work-in-progress since May. When I finally finish it, I'll blog an entry of it. Working title of this piece is "Soldier's Dream: Sweet Desert Rose."

Well, that's the end of our tour. I hope you've enjoyed it. If you lagged behind at some point and found yourself taking a rest on one of the comfy couches in the livingroom, I don't blame you. ;o) If you've made it this far with me, then I salute you and dub thee Longsuffering And Persistent, and I thank thee for thy bountiful patience. You get a cookie. ;o) Stay tuned for future broadcasts featuring The Kitchen and The Nefarious Realms of Attic-dom!

simplicity

If you meet me and forget me, you have lost nothing.

But if you meet Jesus Christ and forget him, you have lost everything.

~Author Unknown

What's *your* story?

This morning, together with several others, I sang at the funeral of Rosi Kallus. Rosi and her husband Karl have lived in nearby Zwickau and worked with the church there for many years. I’ve never really known very much about Rosi—during the seven years I’ve known her, she has never been in good health. The few times I saw her, it seemed as though she didn’t have the strength for a long conversation; she and Karl never stayed late anytime I saw them at church or social functions.

Rosi was diabetic; unsteady on her feet; and in need of frequent medical attention most of her life. During the last few years, she suffered thirteen brain embolisms. These health problems were one thing I knew about her. The other thing I knew about her was that she never complained.

This morning at the funeral, Reiner Kallus, Karl’s brother, gave the eulogy. Reiner told us two things about Rosi that I didn’t know. And when I heard what Reiner said, it reminded me of something I think might be important.

Reiner told us that even before Rosi was born in 1940, it seemed that dark forces wanted to prevent her from coming into the world. Rosi wasn’t supposed to have been born. Her mother was in the process of having an abortion, when something went “wrong,” and instead of having an abortion, the woman had a baby. That was Rosi.

In 1945, Rosi was on a ship that was fleeing from the Russians. A Russian submarine torpedoed the ship, and the ship sank. Rosi and her foster mother were two of the very few people who survived.

God had a purpose for Rosi’s life, and he was determined to keep her alive, even when evil tried to take the upper hand and force her out of this world. I won’t go into the influence she had on those around her—for with her sweet, uncomplaining nature, that influence certainly was profound. Especially considering that her husband, Karl, wrote that her life is responsible for who he is today.

But what all of Reiner’s words reminded me of was this: Every person I meet has a story. When someone is present in my life, I probably take that presence for granted, without giving enough thought to what shaped that person into who he or she is today. But every person has a story, and every person’s story is fascinating in its own way. It seems to me that a great service would be simply to invite someone for a cup of coffee and a chat and say, “Please, tell me your story.” Inviting someone to share their thoughts, feelings, experiences, moments of clarity, moments of confusion and sadness…inviting someone to tell the story from the heart…. Wouldn’t that be an amazing gift to give someone?

And, if we all remained conscious that each of us has a unique, fascinating, and breathtaking story as part of who we are, wouldn’t that bring us to a better understanding of one another? Wouldn’t that help us recognize the value inherent in each of us, the special quality that sets us apart from all other creatures? If we made it a habit to ask each other for our stories, wouldn’t that create a soul-to-soul bond that would strengthen us as a whole?

If a small act of kindness is like a ripple in a pond, covering more and more area as it widens from the point of origin, then a small act of kindness can turn into a great act of selfless courage and sacrifice and love, years down the line and far away. If asking one person for his or her story is a small act, then that one small invitation could become a great empathetic, compassionate, unbreakable spiritual bond years down the line and far away.

If you do that one small act today, you take part in all great, loving, self-sacrificial acts that result from that point of origin. By connecting on a soul-level with even only one other person, you are changing the immediate area around you. By issuing one small invitation—tell me the story of your soul—you are a spark of light, driving out the darkness. And since that light will spread—the act of kindness, like the ripple in the pond, becoming great acts of courage far away—by illuminating the little corner around you, you are lighting the entire world.

You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.

~ Jesus
Matthew 5:14-16

a thought or three

I know I've been negELcting my blog (that one's for you, Mr. Gambill). So, no reminders necessary. ;o) I will try to post more soon. I've been in an anti-writing mood again lately: every time I sit down with the intention of writing something--blog, email, novel, lessons--anything, I get this overwhelming sensation of tiredness. However, I'm well aware that the only way to banish that feeling is just to grit teeth, handcuff self to desk, and put the thumbscrews to self until self gets her butt in gear and does what she needs to do.

So, now that you have that lovely mental image, let's move on.

This isn't going to be a long post. In fact, I'm almost done. I have only two more thoughts to share:

One is a gripe. It frustrates me when people write "definatly" or "definately." The word is definitely. As in, de-finite. No longer finite or in question. Whatever the issue is, the possibility of finiteness has been taken out of it. I know that's not the correct etymological explanation for definitely; however, it helps one remember the correct spelling.

Yes. I know I'm a total grammar and spelling snob. What can I say, I was raised on My Fair Lady. ;o)

Second and final thought is a quote I'd like to share:

"There is a way of perceiving that leads to cynicism and divisiveness, a closing off of possibility; and there is a way that leads to a higher faith and love. To 'believe all things' means always to orient yourselves toward the highest possible outcome in any situation and strive for its actualization."

~Cynthia Bourgeault
Love Is Stronger Than Death

Dream # 49

Scarlett O’Hara Goes Antiquing

recorded May 6, 2003

Two nights ago, I dreamed that I was in Darmstadt in the American military housing area. I was on my way to the home of David and Margaret Hall to tutor their son, Clayton. (In the dream, I was 26, while Clayton was still 12; in reality, he’s in his early 20s, married, and has a kid.)

When I arrived at the Halls’ apartment, Clayton was going to let me in the door. But Margaret got upset with him, because they had just sold most of their furniture, and no one was supposed to know about it. I could see that their apartment was nearly empty. I thought it might be better if I weren’t there, so I left.

When I got outside, my friends Randy and Bri joined me, and we started walking through the apartment complex. We came to a building that had an empty apartment on the ground floor. We looked in the windows and saw that someone had left some antique furniture inside. We opened a window and climbed through to get a better look at the furniture. I thought, “I wonder if I can get at this furniture before Larry does.” (Larry is really into antiques in real life.)

When we finished looking around, we climbed back through the window. Then, the dream shifted, and I was in a recording studio. I was supposed to be doing a voice for a cartoon. The cartoon was of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler from “Gone With The Wind,” and I was doing Scarlett’s voice. But the story was different from GWTW. Scarlett and Rhett were in a hot air balloon, and she pushed him out because she wanted to kill him. When he fell, he dropped a really fancy ring that was some sort of family heirloom.

Then I left the recording studio and went to a family reunion. Everyone from both sides of my family was there. We were sifting through old belongings of our ancestors, trying to divvy up the loot. It was strange because a lot of the ancestors were present, and they floated around the table like ghosts. There was a box full of old jewelry that I really wanted, because it included some beautiful antique rings. Some of th rings were transparent, too, as though they were ghost rings. Rhett Butler’s fancy ring was one of them. I was trying to think of ways to get those rings before anyone else could. Then, the dream ended.

Dream # 36

Run! It’s Eugene Victor Tooms From The X-Files!!!

March 8, 2003

Last night, I dreamed that I was someone else, though I don’t know who. I was vacationing at some kind of ski resort. Strange things began happening, and it turned out that one of my fellow skiers was really a monstrous creature bent on killing and eating me and the rest of the resort patrons. (The creature looked like Eugene Victor Tooms from the “Tooms” episodes of The X-Files.)

The other skiers and I were running toward the ski lodge, trying to get away, but the creature came after us in some sort of sailplane. He killed a great many of the other skiers. While he was eating them, ten of us managed to reach the lodge. We gathered up a few supplies and headed for the back of the lodge, because we knew the creature would be after us in a minute.

The lodge was built into the side of the mountain; at the back of it was an access panel leading to the ventilation system and a deep ventilation shaft. By climbing through the shaft, we could reach the old abandoned mines in the heart of the mountain.

As we climbed into the shaft through the tiny access panel, we could hear the creature coming after us. I felt jagged rock scraping my bare stomach as I pulled myself into the ventilation shaft.

When we reached the mines (which, strangely enough, were well-lit with fluorescent lighting), we tried to hide behind some equipment. But as I lay on the ground, trying to stay as still as I could, the creature caught sight of me and came after us again. We ran into another section of the mine, but the thing ambushed us. Eyes glowing and mouth frothing, it tried to reach us and bite at us. One of the guys managed to pull a gun on it.

Everything became very still as the guy confronted the creature. It glared at us and growled. We all yelled at the guy to shoot it, but for some reason he couldn’t. I grabbed the gun from the guy, but it was some kind of high-tech laser gun, and I couldn’t figure out how to fire it. I yelled, “Somebody tell me how to shoot this thing!”

Stupidly enough, one of the other women stepped between the gun and the creature. I guess she wanted to show me how to work the gun; but she left herself unprotected. The creature immediately attacked her, knocking her to the ground and raking its claws down her back. She screamed and passed out; I knew she would be dead in moments.

The creature ran off, and we pursued it; but somewhere in the mines, it found allies: a large, bald man with a mustache, and a dark-haired woman in a skin-tight, red leather bodysuit. Between the three of them, they began killing off everyone in our small group.

I smeared someone else’s blood all over myself and lay on the floor, pretending to be dead. Four of my companions did the same, so we were able to escape with our lives. But the three evil creatures sang bloodthirsty songs as they slaughtered the rest of our group. Then they left, and the five of us still living picked ourselves up out of the carnage.

Someone at the resort had brought along a pair of greyhounds on vacation, and the dogs had tracked us through the mines. They could now lead us further in, aiding our escape. We began the next stage of our long journey. Then the dream ended.

When I woke up, I had a hard time convincing myself that the Tooms-creature was not in the room with me.

Cute Ed, The Former Bookstore Man

Woo hoo. How consistent I am! I said, "Let the pic-posting begin," and lookit me, I've posted a grand total of 1 pic so far.

So here's a pic of Ed and me in a pseudo-Texmex restaurant in Prague. Sounds like I'm saying that tongue-in-cheek, but really the food was excellent. No, it wasn't the gen-yoo-ine Texmex we prefer...but it got the tastebud-pleasing job done. Yay for cultural diversity in food! ;o)

Plus, since I already narcissistically posted two pics of myself, I figured I should let people know what my sweet husband looks like. So here y'all go. ;o)

libera me

To see what we have never seen,
to be what we have never been,
to shed the chrysalis and fly,
depart the earth, kiss the sky,
to be reborn, be someone new:
is this a dream or is it true?

Can our future be cleanly shorn
from a life to which we’re born?
Is each of us a creature free—
or trapped at birth by destiny?
Pity those who believe the latter.
Without freedom, nothing matters.

--Dean Koontz
The Book of Counted Sorrows

my most random blogpost to-date

I’m bored. What a perfectly terrible state to be in. Also, I’m extremely tired and unable to think straight, yet strangely reluctant to go to bed. I have this irritating feeling that something else is supposed to happen today, although I don’t know what that could be.

Maybe this mix of weird emotions and physical exhaustion simply means that I did a lot but didn’t quite accomplish everything I needed to today.
I haven’t a clue.

In the meantime, some Random Thoughts By Courtney, Accompanied By A Few Quotes From Other People:

I’ll bet my hands would look a whole lot nicer if I could rid myself of this compulsion to pick at my cuticles.

I don’t think time travel will ever be possible via any sort of machine. If we ever figure out how to do it, it’ll be something more along the lines of “mind travel,” an entirely mental process that somehow relates to Einstein’s theory of relativity. (Anyone who has read “Dune” by Frank Herbert will know what I’m talking about; see: “Navigators” and “foldspace.”)

There’s nothing like the dusty, exciting smell of an old book.

“The great acts of love are done by those who are habitually performing small acts of kindness.”
--Anonymous

“I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.”
--Edward Everett Hale

“Art for art’s sake does wonderful things to you. It makes you laugh. It makes you cry. It makes you want to take naps and go places wearing funny pants.”
--Author Unknown

I heard a fantastic German tongue-twister yesterday:
Der Zweck hat den Zweck, den Zweck zu bezwecken, und wenn der Zweck den Zweck nicht bezweckt, dann hat der Zweck überhaupt keinen Zweck.
Roughly translated: The purpose has the purpose of purposing the purpose, and if the purpose doesn’t purpose the purpose, then the purpose has no purpose at all.
I think it makes more sense in German than in English.

“Ignorance is bliss. Knowledge is power. Power corrupts. Cheese corrupts. Therefore, knowledge is cheese.”
--Author Unknown

I think I’m done for now.

Atoms, Quarks, and the Meaning of Light

This one's gonna be a doozy. My admiration goes to whomever has the patience to read this entire entry and actually comment on it. These are some of the typical things that go through my mind at random times. And people wonder why I have a hard time sleeping. ;o)

‘…It’s what you said about atoms…what is it you can’t cut into smaller pieces? And then I thought—why, if it’s got any size at all, it can be cut. So an atom, it’s nothing more than just a place, one exact place, with no width at all.’

‘Euclid’s geometric point.’

‘…if it’s got no size, then it’s nothing. But it isn’t nothing. It’s a place. Only then I thought, it isn’t a place—it just has a place. If you see the difference. An atom can be in one place, one pure geometric point like you said, but then it can move. It can be somewhere else. So, you see, it not only has place, it has a past and a future. Yesterday it was there, today it’s here, and tomorrow over yonder.

…‘See, I start thinking, if this atom’s got no size, how can anybody tell where it is? It’s not giving off any light, because it’s got no fire in it to give off. …Just suppose this atom’s got no size, but it’s still got some kind of mind. Some kind of tiny little wit, just enough to know where it is. And the only power it has is to move somewhere else, and know where it is then.

‘…Say you got thousands of them just lying around, just going any which way. How can any of them tell where they are? Since all the others and moving any which way, nothing around it stays the same. But then suppose somebody comes along—and I’m thinking about God here—somebody who can show them a pattern. Show them some way to set still. Like he says—you, there, you’re the center, and all the rest of you, you just stay the same distance away from him all the time. Then what have you got?’

…‘A hollow sphere. A ball. But it’s still composed of nothing.’

‘But don’t you see? …(E)verything’s mostly empty. That anvil, it looks solid, don’t it? But I tell you it’s mostly empty. Just little bits of ironstuff, hanging a certain distance from each other, all patterned there. But most of the anvil is the empty space between. Don’t you see? Those bits are acting just like the atoms I’m talking about…’

‘You’re saying that what we see as solid objects are really nothing but illusion. Little nothings making tiny spheres that are put together to make your bits, and pieces made from bits, and the anvil made from pieces—‘

‘Only there’s a lot more steps in between, I reckon. Don’t you see, this explains everything? …

‘…The point is that everything is alive. That everything is made out of living atoms, all obeying the commands that God gave them….

‘…The atoms were nothing, just places that didn’t even know where they were. It’s God who put them all into places so he’d know where they were, and so they’d know where they were—and everything in the whole universe is made out of them.’

--Orson Scott Card
“Prentice Alvin”

“For by him all things were created: things on heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

--Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ
Colossians 1:16-17 (emphasis added)


My thoughts on these things:

Everything we see is composed of atoms. Atoms are composed of neutrons, protons, and electrons. And protons and neutrons, which form the nuclei (centers) of atoms, contain smaller “particles” called quarks.

Keep in mind, my comprehension of this stuff is very limited. But from what I’ve read, it seems that scientists aren’t really sure exactly what quarks are; in fact, some might say that quarks don’t actually exist. They seem to be nothing more than particles of light.

To the Christian, this begs the question: If through Jesus, all things hold together, and quarks--particles of light--are the smallest particles of everything that exists, then quarks are……?

From a scientific standpoint, I know I’m oversimplifying. But the thought fascinates me. The power of God infuses everything that exists. Whether you believe in God or not, you carry his power around with you, inside the atoms that make up the cells that make up your entire body. Your physical body is held together by the power of his will.

And what if his will is materialized in a particle of light that science doesn’t know how to define?

Kind of gives a new meaning to the phrase “light of the world.”

"The Passion of the Christ"; Love; and What Matters

We just got back from seeing “The Passion of the Christ” for the second time. First time was back in March, and tonight we went to the German version of the dollar-theater: the 1.50€-theater.

I’m not sure what I’m going to write about this. All I know is, I have the urge to write about it, so I’m just going to say whatever is in my head.

The first time I saw the movie, I started crying during the first scene and didn’t stop until the whole film was over. My thoughts as I watched provided quite the paradox: Through the whole thing, as the film depicted Jesus’s being beaten and flogged and spat upon, I remember thinking, Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this to him. Please stop. I call those thoughts a paradox, because in my mind I was speaking to people who’ve been dead for two thousand years, about brutalities that were done then and are in the distant past. It’s a paradox to ask someone in present tense to stop something from being done in past tense.

One of my main reactions the first time I saw the film was to acknowledge my own responsibility. I had an overriding sense of my own guilt. Some of you will accuse me of being too hard on myself; of tormenting myself with my own failures; of making myself into my own martyr. But I honestly don’t believe that was the case. And it still isn’t. I simply acknowledge that everything Jesus went through (my words are inadequate, so I won’t try to describe it), he went through for me. Every moment of pain he suffered, he suffered for me. In every moment that he chose to endure those horrors instead of allowing himself the release of death, he made that choice for love of me. He did all of that because he loves me, and he didn’t want me to suffer.

That’s not my guilt talking. That’s my unending and wholly inadequate gratitude.

Tonight, as I watched the film a second time, the tears were still there. If I can ever watch that, knowing that it really happened and that Jesus, my innocent savior, truly went through all that two thousand years ago…if I can ever watch that and remain dry-eyed, I’ll know my heart has grown cold and hard. Tonight, the tears were still there, and the paradoxical thoughts surfaced once or twice.

But right now, I’m dwelling on the final scene, the moment in which the stone is rolled away from the tomb and we see what happened next. Without the resurrection, the crucifixion is meaningless. And right now, I have an overriding sense of gratitude that God designed his plan in such a way that his son came back from death. I know myself to be so very blessed to have Jesus in my life, to have Jesus as my life. I mean this in the sense that I know that because I participated in Christ’s death, burial and resurrection through baptism, when God looks at me, he sees his son. That means more to me than I can express. When God looks at me, he doesn’t see my soul stained with sin—he sees his son. I have life because he has life. To me, that’s the most amazing fact in the universe. I can’t imagine anything more amazing. Or wonderful.

I think that when Jesus first sat up inside that tomb, as he opened his eyes and took his first breath as a living being again, as he realized that he was breathing and alive…I think he smiled. I think he smiled as he stood up, and I think he smiled as he walked out. I would love to know what he was thinking in those moments….but I imagine that he was excited. Because he knew something new and extraordinary was beginning—the worst was behind him, and this was the start of God’s new relationship with humanity. Finally, the bridge was built, the gap was closed. Everything God had ever done had finally culminated in Jesus’s death and resurrection, and now the new era could begin. From that point on, Jesus could call his followers his brothers and sisters and truly have communion with them. And I can well imagine that knowing this made him so happy and so excited, he walked out of that tomb with a great smile on his face.

How can I not tell people about this? How can I not tell people about him? How can I not let them know that he loves them so much, he allowed humans to torture him to death? How can I not let people know that he loves them so much, he stood up and walked out of a grave, smiling at the prospect of being with them in heaven forever?

I can’t remain quiet about this. If I tried, it would burn me up from the inside out. If I shouted it from the rooftops, it wouldn’t be loud enough, the sound wouldn’t carry far enough. I can’t not talk about this. It’s emotionally, physically, spiritually impossible for me not to talk about it. Nothing else matters.

There have been times in my life when I wanted to die. I wasn’t suicidal—I would never condemn myself by taking my own life. It’s not mine to take. (Another nifty paradox, but I like this one.) But there have been times when I looked around me and saw the pain of those around me, and I just didn’t want to see it anymore. I was sick of seeing people I love get hurt. And my reaction was that I wanted to die. I decided that the best solution was for me to be in heaven with God, where I could receive comfort and wouldn’t have to watch people suffer anymore. I was tired of seeing pain, and I wanted to be in heaven where I’d find rest.

I still want that. I still long to be in the presence of God forever, where I’ll find complete rest. But I add this to my reasons: I love Jesus, and I want to be with him. No love can equal his; there’s no personality more attractive; there’s no presence that gives more comfort. I love him, and I want to be with him more than I want to be with anyone anywhere else.

Telepathy; Or, Love: How Far Are You Willing To Go?

“To approach telepathy, you start with empathy and crank that up as high as you can. You care about each other. You feel each other’s joy and pain. You make each other laugh, and help each other cry. You work hard at trusting each other, so that it’s safe to dismantle the fortress around your ego. You forgive each other anything that stands between you, and try to bring out each other’s best, you work very hard at hosing all the [junk] out of your head so that it’s clean enough for guests, silencing all the demons in your subconscious so that it’s quiet enough to hear somebody thinking at you, and most of all you finds ways to make that work so much fun that you keep on working. You stick together and love each other and keep on growing.”

--Spider Robinson
The Mick of Time
in “The Callahan Chronicles”

“The Callahan Chronicles” is a collection of Robinson’s science fiction short stories all based around a bar where “shared pain is lessened and shared joy is increased.” Robinson’s stories are some of my favorite writings ever—not because of the sci-fi element, which always fascinates me, of course…..but because the basic message and principles behind his stories are essentially godly--in the same way that J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” and C.S. Lewis’s “Narnia” chronicles are essentially Christian works. I’m not sure what Robinson’s beliefs are—actually, a dim memory of something I read tells me he doesn’t necessarily believe in God. However, just based on the message behind his stories, I can say this: He gets it.

And regarding the quote above: I firmly believe that if we humans could ever figure out how truly to “love one another,” we would accomplish the kind of telepathy Robinson is describing.

Dutch lawmakers mull banning toe licking

Isn't the world a fun and zany place??!!?!?!?!??!?!!?!??!!!!!! LOL

Sunbathers bothered by toe-licker, but man not charged

The Associated Press
Updated: 1:11 p.m. ET Aug. 6, 2004

Toe-licking could become a criminal offense in the Netherlands after a man who licked the toes of several women was released by police without charges. The toe-licker, whose name was not released, was arrested in Rotterdam earlier this week after a woman who had been sunbathing said he unexpectedly licked her bare foot.

Other women had also complained, and the 35-year-old man has reportedly been pursuing his fetish for years, but prosecutors in Rotterdam said they are powerless to stop him.

“A lick over the foot doesn’t qualify as a crime: there has to be some kind of objective sex act committed,” said prosecution spokesman Cees van Spierenburg in the Rotterdam Daily newspaper. “That’s the way the law is.”

Lawmakers Peter van Heemst and Aleid Wolfsen, members of the leading opposition Labor Party, asked Justice Minister Piet Hein Donner in a formal complaint to change the law.

“How can you explain that we can prosecute someone for throwing a cigarette butt or soda can on the ground, but not for this kind of misbehavior?” the men wrote.

yeehaw! let the picture-posting begin!

Well, this is my first attempt at using this Hello software. As is usual when I start using a program that's new to me, I have no clue what I'm doing. Ah, the story of my life. ;o) Anyway, assuming this works, here's a recent picture of me. ;o)

EDIT: 08:15 p.m.
Hey, whaddaya know, it worked! Wow, that pic is way huge. I'll have to scale 'em down a bit in the future.
And wow, somebody sure was smart to invent software like this. And wow, I bet somebody's makin' a ton of money off it, too. Somehow. Even though it's free for the user. Hmm.....

Dream # 65

Things That Make Ya Go……What The ?

February 22, 2004

Last night, I dreamed something that’s going to be very difficult to narrate, but I’ll give it my best shot. The dream started out with this man who had recently been in all the news reports and papers. He was accused of kidnapping or murdering his 1-year-old daughter—at any rate, the baby was missing, and nobody knew what had happened to her. The man was out on bail, and he was proclaiming to one and all that while he and his daughter were at the zoo one morning, he turned his back on her for just a second. They were standing in front of the lion cage. When he looked back, one of the lions had stuck its head through the bars and swallowed his daughter whole. There was no blood, and nobody saw it happen, so the man couldn’t prove this accusation. Nobody would listen to him, and although he tried to sue the zoo, the judge had thrown the case out.

So this man had decided to take matters into his own hands. He was crazy with grief and anger and the need for revenge. I was some sort of neutral observer, and I watched the man as he snuck into the zoo late at night and waited for the security guard to pass by the lion exhibit. Once the guard was gone, the man climbed into the lion pit carrying a huge butcher knife. I guessed he was planning attack the lion with it, or try to cut his daughter out of the lion’s stomach or something. He was muttering nonsense as he passed me, and I couldn’t understand anything he was saying.

Then the dream shifted to the path leading away from the zoo. The man with the knife came out of the zoo. I thought he must have been successful in whatever he had wanted to do, because he was still alive and was also covered from head to foot in the lion’s blood. By now, it was early morning, and the man started across the city, back toward his home. I followed him. In the distance, I could see someone jogging. The man recognized the jogger as a friend of his, so he hid, because he didn’t want his friend to see him with blood all over his clothes.

The dream shifted again, and now I was a woman whose name I don’t know. I was talking to Melanie, the mother of the baby girl who was missing. Melanie was sitting in a park, resting against a fallen tree and reading a book. When I asked what she was reading, she showed me the book. I couldn’t make out the title; and now I don’t remember what the book was about. All I know is that when I read a small section of it, I was horrified. Something about the book was deeply disturbing. Somehow, I knew that whoever read this book cover-to-cover would end up completely and irreversibly insane. I said, “There is something seriously wrong with this book!”

Melanie just sat there looking at me with this horrible, ear-to-ear grin on her face. Her lips and gums were bright red, as though she had been eating raw meat and her mouth was full of blood. I asked her if her husband (crazy lion guy) had read this book, too. Melanie didn’t answer me, but I already knew that she and her husband both had read the book and gone insane. I was sure that the little girl was dead somewhere and that these two crazy people had killed her.

I started to feel really disoriented, and I knew it was because I had read a small portion of the book. Suddenly, I remembered that a dozen copies of this book were lying around at my school (which one, I have no idea), just waiting for unsuspecting students to pick them up and read them. There were also a few copies at the church building. (?) I started running, trying to get to those books so that I could destroy them before anyone else read them. Then the dream ended.

??????????????