unchained

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Another day, another book.

6. James by Percival Everett. A quick read but certainly not an easy one. This book is one that is eminently readable and hard to put down, as the story moves quick and true and without mercy, much like the big river that features so prominently. It is hard to go into this book without expectations, as the book that inspired this one is so well known (and indeed, one I read again several years back so it is fresh in my mind). So I knew this book was a companion piece with Huck Finn – a parallel re-telling, so it might be thought. And well. Yes? But this book is quite different in both tone and style. Everett certainly doesn’t have as light a touch with his prose. Whereas Twain’s tale bobs and floats along and written masterfully as a biting commentary on contemporary society, Everett’s book isn’t trying to win any awards for beauty. The writing is hard-edged, concise, utterly direct. There is an elegant brutality to Everett’s prose, as surely as he lays bare the utter brutality of 19th-century America’s peculiar institution. Do not expect any hands to be held or any guns to go unfired. This book will not coddle you. Yet this book very much is in dialogue with Twain’s masterpiece. They are telling the same story with the same basic aim, yet in very different fashions. Twain’s tale is the story of a boy told through the eyes of a boy, with all the wit and sparkle that Twain can muster. Everett’s narrative is the story of a man told through the eyes of a man, with all the pain and rage and sheer disbelief for what one man can do to another. Both of these books dissect the idea of the nature of man and the humanity of such (or lack thereof) but the focuses are different. For how could they not be? The story of a white boy vs the story of a black man. How do they compare? Huck Finn – even with all the darkness that lurks and shrieks – is a story of a boy growing up. James is the story of a man grown who has seen too much.

Why am I talking so much about Twain’s novel? I think Everett demands such. He is consciously writing in response to Twain and he is very deliberate in how he tells (and re-tells) the story that Twain first put to page. Because at the end of the day, as much as Twain does what he can to show the shocking inhumanity of those who proclaim to be so pious, Everett can and does do so much more as he both highlights the humanity of blacks while laying bare the utter inhumanity and animality of whites. There are quibbles I could make. I’m not sure all of Everett’s changes to the narrative quite work (especially Huck’s origin story – seemingly attempting to redeem him from the sin of whiteness?) and while I find myself amused by the way Everett uses language to highlight the demarcation between black and white society, the conceit eventually wears bare. Yet I think Everett’s attempts to portray the Other in race-essentialism-fashion hammer home the point of the evils of a race-based society. There is a tinge of discomfort at the depths Everett goes to show the amorality and evil of white society. Yet that is proper and I don’t think needs to be excused. The ending of this book is difficult to read. You could argue that Everett’s work lacks nuance, but well…nuance isn’t the point here. This is supposed to be a hard book to stomach. We should be frankly shocked and horrified at the tale Everett tells. This is not an easy book to read. Nor should it be.

Definitely Full of Wind

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A little book review of a big book.

5. Wind and Truth by Brandon Sanderson. I am disappointed but not surprised. This book was enjoyable enough in its own right and I read it fairly quickly, all things considered. Yet? This book, the ending to the first major arc in Brandon Sanderson’s magnum opus series, was not a book I found joy in reading. The plot hooked me well enough! If anything, this book has reinforced my belief that Sanderson is a magnificent plotter. He has his story and he knows where he’s going with it. The ending of this book was actually thrilling and the climax caught me genuinely off guard. Yet it fit so well (and was even well sign posted earlier in the book if I’d been paying attention!) and I am actually intrigued to see how the latter half of the Stormlight Archive plays out. The plot is all there. Yet. Do I actually want to read the latter half of the Stormlight Archive? Honestly? I may pass. The reading experience is getting more and more excruciating with each successive book. This may be worse than Rhythm of War. And that was the previous low, in my opinion. Am I being overly harsh? Possibly. Am I just being contrary? Also very possibly. I think I’m just frustrated because I care. I want Sanderson’s books to be great. I’ve seen and read his books that are! Yet this book has little of the charm, whimsy, creativity or gravitas of his earlier books. The character beats are starting to feel rote, even as the plethora of one-liners and italics proclaim the important moments just to make sure that we don’t miss them. (I’m sorry. The italics are something that I just continue to roll my eyes at as they grate me so) And the prose – while Sanderson’s prose has never been great – has continued to decline in quality? Maybe I’m being overly harsh. I know I can’t write like Sanderson and I’m grateful that he has a story he wants to tell. But his characters are continuing to sound more and more similar to each other and less and less like real people. The character moments Sanderson is trying to highlight are straining to be real and vivid yet for all that the author is doing to tell, I struggle to see the show. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just starting to burn out on Sanderson? Way of Kings and Words of Radiance were two books I much enjoyed. The next two? Less so. And this one? It’s similar. Not abysmal yet…not great. Not even good. Average? Yes, I suppose so. As stated earlier, I really did enjoy some of the ending beats. Dalinar’s decision caught me by surprised and propelled things far more forward than I was expecting. I could talk about the other characters but I don’t really want to bother. Except Adolin. Adolin continues to be awesome and I will always love him.

At the end of the day? I read this fairly quickly because I was genuinely interested to see where Sanderson was going. Not sure if or when I’ll want to re-read though, with the journey being such a slog. There is little beauty in this book, little that I will want to return to. Also the truth – as grandiosely self-proclaimed as it is – is somewhat barren in this one. The philosophies espoused are humanistic in the extreme, self-centered and self-glorifying. The grand truths unveiled are trite and simplistic. There is very little in the base philosophy of this book to enliven and hearten the soul. Many books lack true vigor of truth and beauty. I know this. Maybe with this one it grates more simply because of how loudly the book protests the worth of which it contains. Maybe. Or maybe I’m simply becoming slightly less eager to read works that don’t encourage my soul. Maybe this book truly is the pinnacle of modern fantasy. If so, that makes me sad. This may be the last Sanderson for me.

Table Talk

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The windows glow golden in the early evening light. Sunlight trickles past the curtains and falls shyly on Isabel’s hands as she slices the cheese. It’s the simple things that bring her pleasure these days, the way the sharp knife falls through the cheddar and gently kisses her favorite wooden cutting board. It’s the way the hearty pieces of cheese tip over onto the board and make a pile to the side of her hands working on autopilot. These autopilot tasks can be dangerous things sure, as Isabel generally does not enjoy slicing into her fingers in tasks such as these. But for now? Isabel delights in the good work that is preparing food in her kitchen as the late winter light filters inside. There are too many tasks of late that have tasked her cerebral abilities and it is kind of nice to just use her hands and make something that will go to a good purpose. In this case, sandwiches for an adventure. Because of course, adventures demand sandwiches, as everyone knows. Because at some point in the adventure when all goes wrong and the adventure goers are cantankerous and hungry, that’s when the plucky heroine will remember – we’ve got sandwiches! And they’ll pull them out of the knapsack and pass them around. Instantly moods will be improved. Thus it has been, thus it always will be.

The door shakes a bit as a knock sounds once, twice. Thrice. And Isabel knows that pattern and she stops her slicing and tells Harry he can enter. The door opens noisily – she really must get Dad to oil those hinges – and Harry enters in beaming bright. It’s time, Isabel! Are you ready? This is it.

Isabel smiles and turns to him in reply. I can’t say that I’m ready. But I’m here.

Harry frowns at that – usually she is the eager one. But why? What’s the matter? I’ve got the paper and the pens, the compass and the old-style camera. And the raincoats. And a bunch of water bottles in this backpack. And power bars. And two flashlights. And yes extra batteries before you ask. What else? Isabel notices that he at last slows down his spiel as finally picks up on the absent vibe she’s giving off. She’s not trying to space out, it’s just her mind is whirling with deeper mysteries. Harry deserves to know. Why does she always shut him out in the moments when her soul is crying the loudest?

Harry I’m sorry. Isabel sets down the knife and turns to him deliberately this time. I think I’m a bit afraid of what’s to come. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, but now? I’m just a little scared. Sorry.

Of course, no matter. I’m sorry, Isabel. Have I been rude and pushy? I know I probably have been. I’m sorry.

Oh Harry! Don’t say sorry again. It’s not your fault. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, about the future and us and this world and my dreams and church and God and your parents and my parents and…well everything.

Harry sighs as a cloud passes across his eyes. He sits down on one of the stools at the island and sets his elbows on top. Ok. Yeah. Ok yeah I get it. There’s a lot going on. Even today. My dad and my mom. Well. You know.

Is she ok?

Yeah, she’s fine. I mean no. But she’s used to it. She shouldn’t have to be. I swear, Isabel, one day I’m really going to talk to him. Maybe it’s my fault.

No Harry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. Hey do you want a sandwich? I think I’ve cut too much cheese.

Harry laughs – only a little forced – and a sparkle returns to his eyes. Sure, I could eat something now. I’m starving since we didn’t even eat anything after church. What do you got? Cheese, cheese and more cheese?

We have some deli turkey too. Let me knock something up. Mayo and mustard ok?

Sure he replies absently as he’s gone back to gazing at the glazed tiles on top the island. Yeah those are fine.

Isabel’s face drops. She’s brought him down to her mood. Well, maybe she ought tell him what she’s really thinking about. For there is more in her head than the universe can contain. This day of all days. She slices a few pieces of bread off the sourdough loaf that Mom made earlier and then goes to the fridge to find the condiments. Turkey, mustard, mayo…and yes, there is some lettuce and even a tomato. She takes the sandwich goods back to the counter and begins assembly of Harry’s sandwich. Mustard on one side, mayo on the other. Turkey, a generous sprinkling of pepper and salt. Lay on a thick slice of cheddar, then the tomato and then the lettuce. Gently press the other piece of bread on top. There. Oh please help this make Harry feel better.

Sandwich in hand, Isabel walks over to Harry. Here you go, good sir. Your afternoon snack as requested. Harry’s head turns up from his studious examination of the counter top and a smile slowly creeps onto his face. You’re aces, Isabel. You know that? He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. He leans back, feet tapping on the floor in rhythm with the branch tapping on the window. That’s a delight, love. Pure culinary bliss there.

Isabel breathes a quick prayer of thanks and sits on the stool next to him. You know what I’m really thinking about, Harry? You were at church today, right?

Harry swallows a bite honestly larger than anyone should ever take and nods. Yeah, we were there. We sat in the back and left early. But we were there. Little good it did dad.

Well you were there for communion yeah? The Lord’s Supper. Isabel let her eyes lock onto Harry’s. This was important and she felt as if it were beyond her ability to communicate. I know me and my family have been going to church since before I was born so maybe it’s just routine for me sometimes. Today was anything but. Do you understand communion?

Harry nods then kind of shakes his head back and forth. Maybe? I know it’s about remembering Jesus on the cross and his sacrifice. It’s not as pomp and circumstance as it was when we used to go to catholic mass. But it still seems like a pretty big deal at Trinity. Definitely wasn’t going to walk up to that table today though. My parents didn’t either, we just watched. I saw you walk up there. You looked so solemn and serious.

Isabel smiled. Yeah. It was a moment. And I’m glad you didn’t go up. It would have not been right. You know.

Harry smiled. Yeah. I know.

Isabel closed her eyes briefly before continuing. Well the bread is there for the body of Christ – broken for us. The wine is for the blood of Christ – shed for us. I say us but you know what I mean. It’s for you if you only believe. We’ve talked about this, I won’t keep saying it again and again. Just know you only need to repent and believe and this gift of Christ is yours. Eternal life and more than just life. Eternal joy in the presence of perfect divinity and love. And the wine and bread at communion – they represent what Christ did for us. And so today…hey is this too much? Isabel bites her lip.

No, Isabel. I…you know I’m trying to figure this out. And I like hearing your passion. Please keep going.

And so she does. Well, Harry – today I was thinking about all this in a different way and it just struck me the sheer reality and power of what Jesus did. The bread we took and broke was real bread. It had substance. I was able to hold it in my hand and eat it and taste it on my tongue. The wine we took and poured was real wine. It had substance. I was able to smell it and sip it and feel it on my tongue. The bread and the wine were real and had real substance. And then I thought – this physical reality that the bread and the wine inhabited and bore witness to – well, so too does Jesus inhabit the real plane of existence. Jesus is just as real and solid and verifiable as the bread and wine on that table. The body of Jesus was able to be touched and hugged and looked upon. And then subsequently it was able to be whipped and beaten and pierced and stabbed. And it was hung on a tree. And this real body of Jesus hung on a real tree and this Jesus that was real died for ones such as you and me. And just as I today at church ate and partook of the bread and wine so too in mystery have I taken and partook and now bear witness to the real Christ who actually in reality walked on this earth. Jesus was real, Harry. You get it? He’s real. He’s not a figment of imagination or a storybook character or some lame religious icon. He’s real. And not past tense. Jesus is real. He lives again. He lives now and someday I will get to see this reality that is more real than anything in this room and I will look at his face and hug his feet and feel his body that died for me and I think I will cry because I can’t help it. Why would God send his son to die for someone like me. I’m pretty terrible sometimes. Why would the God that is real send his son – also real and also God in some incomprehensible mysterious reality – to die a terribly real death for someone like me? This is the meat and potatoes of Christianity, Harry. Jesus is a real person – and by person I mean God and man in perfect divine harmony and reality – and this real person died for me. How can I not weep at that? How can I not want to sing in bliss at the very thought? The infinite God of all grace and love and justice and holiness and perfection and mercy and wrath and patience…this God is my salvation because of the real life that died a real death that day on that terrible and wonderful tree. This is real. This is the true God and eternal life for all that would believe. And that’s me. That’s me. My mind shakes at the thought. My soul quivers in joy. Oh Harry. This is real. Not some vain philosophy. So now wherever we go or whatever adventure you join me in? I want you to know the realest reality that was ever divinely gifted me. It is life with my Jesus for all eternity. Know this is my core and this is my truth. This is more real than any thing you can imagine.

Isabel breathes in quick. And then sighs. Her hands press down on the table as she looks into Harry’s eyes. He has been listening this whole time. What does he think? His mouth opens.

And as he starts to speak the thunder grumbles outside. The storm had come quicker than Isabel thought it would. Where had the golden light gone? Or no. The windows glow a bit brighter now with the flashing of the lightning.

Isabel I…Harry stumbles over his words. You are the best person I know. I still don’t fully know if I can go all the way to being a Christian here. It still is a bit much for me. But. I get what you’re saying. I think. It’s real to you and I don’t deny that.

Harry. Isabel interrupts. That’s the point though. It’s not just real to me. This truth is reality incarnate. This truth is real to everyone, whether people want to believe or not. And you must reckon with that truth. Either you deny it in its entirety or you accept it in its entirety. There’s no going halfway here. It’s not some religion you can kinda just keep what you want and we all agree to disagree. This is life and death.

Harry’s eyes widen. Oh no, did she frighten him in her intensity. But this was real and the words that had come pouring out of her mouth could only have done so with Spirit assistance and Isabel didn’t think she was sorry for anything she’d said. Her spirit felt free and clear and she felt energy pulsing through her in harmony with the songs of stars. But Harry. Are you ok?

I think so Isabel and I want to continue the conversation but…look outside. Isabel glances out the window over the sink. The light pours through. But it’s not night anymore and it’s not storming. It seems as if midday. And she sees a grove of pine trees out beyond. A quick intake of breath. It’s time, Harry. Oh it’s time. Get your backpack. Isabel rapid fire stacks sandwich upon sandwich in the drawstring bag she had prepared. And then she turns to Harry. You’ll follow me? Harry nods, eyes wide. Ok. Hold my hand. Let’s open the door.

And Harry and Isabel walk up to the door as the daylight dances through the curtains draping the window. Isabel looks at Harry. Remember what I’ve said today. That’s all real. And Harry? So is this. They open the door. There is a moment of music spiraling around them and a flash of light. Isabel hears a voice calling her name. Then she is somewhere else. And she feels Harry’s hand in hers. We made it.

Laresnova

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She’s dreaming of lighthouses again.

Still and silent in her bed she lies yet her mind rages in beauty as images of seas crashing on rocky shores flash vividly in black and white. There is a cliff that reaches higher than the rest of the surrounding land and sea and on that cliff points a lighthouse up to the heavens. At the base of the lighthouse is a little path that winds to the edge of the cliff. On this edge stands two figures silhouetted against the grey sky. These figures, one taller and one smaller, are slightly angled towards one other, as if to protect each other from the winds swooping down on them from above. Down at the base of the cliff the sea pounds relentlessly in rhythm that the spray echoes back in delight. Back on the top of the cliff the two figures huddle closer together. Wrapped in long and bulky outerwear, these figures still seek to conserve warmth in a hug that lingers in its intimacy. Dark clouds move closer to the island yet there is no rain. The sea spray calls louder in sweeter harmony with the low percussion of far off thunder. One of the figures raises a hand pointing to the heavens. The other figure moves closer still to the first. Symmetry of sea below and sky above as both reach to meet the other in stormy union. The two figures break apart and pull up their hoods. They stay a moment longer as the rain washes down upon them in sheets, the pure water washing down upon the rocks and lighthouse and figures alike. One figure laughs out loud, her laugh joining the song of skies and rocks and seas. The other figure pulls her close and together they walk up the path back towards the lighthouse. The light next to the door burns cheerily. The figures pull open the door and enter in. The lighthouse now stands alone on a cliff. The lightning flashes once, twice. Again it flashes. The seas below roar in delight and dance towards the cliffside in chaotic beauty. There is light behind her eyes as she opens them wide. Still and silent in her bed she lies thinking on these things she’s dreamed and wondering what they mean.

She doesn’t mind these lighthouse dreams that call back memories so aching sweet. And she sighs in harmony with the song of that sea spray.

Teatime

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I have been trying to write winter poetry and failing miserably. Alas it is not to be this night. Hence I switch to prose, the last resort of the poet who refuses to believe his muse is dead. Or temporarily incapacitated. One hopes only temporarily. But sometimes the fire burns within and one simply must write or else he feels as if his soul will crumple in on itself like a big ball of wadded up notebook paper that is scrunched so tight that it may yet yield to the tendency to become a black hole. Yes, that is the correct feeling, finally put in words to burn in their very temporal state. But where was I? Ah yes, talking of poetry and poets and their unsurprising failures. As for me, switching to prose often feels like a defeat, yet I long to snatch victory from its jaws yet. I too am a shepherd boy – or at least I attempt to model myself after one such – and so I too can fiercely extricate this prized lamb from the lion’s jaws. Scratch that last. Dreadful metaphor, quite mixed in theme and usage. To continue. Sometimes prose pieces are fun, sometimes they turn out dreadful too. This one feels whimsical and experimental enough, I am actually somewhat pleased. It amuses me, I will allow it to live. Oh how merciful am I. Now for the piece at hand.

I really did mean to write some winter poetry as I just returned from a lovely walk on this January evening. Finally my humble southern state has been blessed with weather that feels like winter. Temperature in the mid-40s and a nice dry air and a stunning sunset to boot? What have I done to be blessed with such beauty? Well, nothing of course. It’s not all about me. Instead, the glory belongs to another. Musings such as this rolled around in my head as I walked down the sidewalk in my little neighborhood. I thought of the interplay of the small neighborhood with the sky above. The small old houses seem so feeble when compared with the majesty of a winter sunset sky. The clouds stretch up and up, set on fire by the last triumphal notes of the setting sun. The trees contribute a chorus, their branches finally shed of their overly ragged autumnal garments. The branches stretch up and out and contrast nicely against the blues and purples and oranges. But the houses? They seem a bit timid and bashful, their structures not at all suited to be seen in company with the artistry of heaven. An outlier though? The power lines. The power lines start on poles which masquerade nicely as slender wintry trees…and then the lines swoop gracefully, firm and delicate and subtle all at the same time as they highlight the brilliant colours of the twilight. Seeing the power lines hug the sky just as I hug my own arms to myself – well, it brings me a cosy satisfaction. I find delight in the way the mundane creations of this world complement the creations of the one who existed before this world began. It is a thrill to think on such and imagine that just as the power lines point to something greater, so too am I privileged to rest my eyes on the fires of heaven and sing praises to the one on high. Am I also allowed to compliment this moment as my figure somehow complements this scene in which I walk? What does it look like, this frail and faded creation walking on the sidewalk this winter night? Am I too allowed to be thought of as the mundane that points to the beautiful a bit beyond my mortal sight? My temporal hand stretches forth to the eternal. The power lines continue to vibrate in holy tension and I sigh. The sliver of dusk shivers in anticipation of resurrection glories and the waxing starlight sings of a story not yet done. The book is written and the ending sure. But for now, turn one page at a time. Faithfully I read on, now a candle lit beside me as I let my mind slip back to the present. Yet still I remember the stark beauty of that cold and perfect winter sunset sky.

Snowdrifts

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A book review this Monday afternoon.

4. Surprised by Oxford by Carolyn Weber. A worthy read, this book both encouraged my soul and delighted my heart. I came into this book expecting something I would resonate with, and indeed I did. It is a possibility that I had my expectations for this book set perhaps too high (expecting something similar to “A Severe Mercy” or “Surprised by Joy” – really, the title is asking for such!) and so I was initially a bit disappointed at how this book played out. Not quite the beautiful thoughtfulness of Vanauken or the bracing clarity and wit of Lewis, but well…there are few books that can compare with those. As I’ve considered this book more as I’ve finished it over these last few days, I’ve come to appreciate this book for what it is – a beautifully honest telling of one woman’s journey to faith in Jesus Christ. Yes, the Oxford bits are a delight to read (and if you are at all similar to me and have a wistful longing to go to Oxford and wander the streets and even perhaps study there, then this book will simply increase that desire – be warned!!) and yes all the discussions of art and poetry and music made me smile (as much as I got a bit tired of all the U2 references!). But at the end of the day, my favourite part of this book was seeing the unashamed joy the author has in the knowledge and peace of Christ. This book felt a bit disjointed at times and I wished for maybe a more prolonged prologue explaining the book and setting forth the author’s purpose. And the premise of the book left no doubt as to the outcome, so there is very little tension in the author’s journey. We know she will end up a Christian! But how will she get there? And that’s what this book is about.

It is not perfect and like I said, some of the episodes felt a bit superfluous. But this book demands a re-read and to be read more slowly I think. There are some truly lovely moments and some of the wordplay is simply fantastic. The literary references will make you smile and think (when you catch them). And yes, probably I would enjoy this book much more if I liked U2 and understood all the author’s song references. The more I slowed down as I read this, the more I enjoyed it. There are moments where I felt a bit uncomfortable or annoyed at some of the characters’ interactions. Not sure if that was entirely intentional by the author, but I had to remind myself that this book was placed almost thirty years ago now, when standards and norms were a bit different. I wished the secondary love story in this one (the author and her TDH – “tall, dark & handsome”) hadn’t had quite as much screen time. But regardless of all my little quibbles, I did enjoy this book. It encouraged my soul and I found my eyes watering near the end as the author professed her faith and got baptized. It is remarkable and always a joy anew reading of a person’s encounter with the God that is real. The author is vulnerable and not telling this story to proclaim her own virtues and talents. No, the author here tells the raw and messy story of her journey to God and the real and persistent joy she now finds in a real and vibrant relationship with Him.

Doxology

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She lays the table with precision
a fine china plate here and there
and there and there
and above the glasses
then the napkins
and in appropriate places the silverware
for soon will whirl in the guests rosy cheeked
and proceed to drop with delight their winter coats
and they admire the table and offer rapturous praises
as they give warm hugs to everyone else in the room
and then they ask what smells so good
roast chicken and buttery mashed potatoes
sage and bacon dressing
and carrots and onions of course
properly rings out the all important question is it time for food
and he answers first let’s gather and pray and toast
and then sing a song together
but when is the chicken coming out of the oven
and he smiles as he takes off his apron
don’t worry dear friends
soon.

That Scotland Sky

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The day turns just like that. I was wearing my blue and green striped sweater and she had on her dusty pink sweatshirt and we walked side by side. It was so warm and nice she bemoaned. Why must it now be cold? I grinned to myself, secretly – oh who are we kidding, she knew full well – thrilled at this turn of events. Our hair windblown, our shoulders slightly damp from the January rain, we walked hand in hand. I gleefully informed her that due to the fact that it was winter, even though in this southern clime, it was fully right and proper that the freeze should be upon us. She huffed mildly. I would like to say she saw reason at that previous statement of mine, but alas she still groaned that it should come to this. The arctic breezes danced around us as the palm trees tossed their heads in fruitless protest. And in silence now we walked, she and I. Hot chocolate when we get home I asked at last? And then finally those words got a smile. Her eyes sparkled and she said yes yes yes. Homeward we go and I raised my arms in welcome embrace to the wintry blue and dappled sky. The day has turned out rather fine.

Hike and Bike

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I enjoy watching people’s faces. Before you go and haul me before the local magistrate of common decency, hear me out. People watching, right? We all do it, we all enjoy it. Some more surreptitiously than others. And so when I’m out on a walk and seeing so many walk past me from the other direction…of course I let my glance brush their faces. I’m not prying into their innermost thoughts, though that is what fascinates me so. What are they thinking? What are they pondering? What images kaleidoscope within their minds? For just as my thoughts race to and fro in the frantic tossing of the neurons of my brain, all the people that pass surely have lives just as full and varied and yes even scary as my own. Hence I wonder…how many grocery lists tumble? How many blushing daydreams of crushes blossom? How many replays of cringe moments blare forth? I smile to myself as I think thus and then wonder – how will they interpret such? For yes, surely some of their glances touch me. I fear to live in a place where all fear to look at the face of another, to inhabit a society in which only a cold screen can truly receive our full blooded gaze. I wish to express just a bit of joy that we live in a moment where we all – me and that jogger over there and that mom and stroller ahead of me and that singing biker behind me – walk this small patch of vibrant growing singing earth. (Well perhaps the earth is paved over just here, but you get the point) I smile knowing that I walk with fellow men and women and little children that are souls as full formed and image bearing as myself. It is a wondrous thing to let myself ponder. So yes, next time you’re out and about and surrounded by people? Give it a whirl, watch some people. Don’t be creepy about it. Just be a person. And while you’re at it, say a prayer.