This One's For You, Jackie

With Christmas coming so soon, I’ve been listening to Christmas songs here and there. One stuck out to me the other day when I actually listened to the lyrics. The song, “The Prayer” starts out, “I pray you’ll be our eyes, and watch us where we go…Lead us to the place, guide us with your grace To a place where we’ll be safe.” This song reminded me of an important lesson I learned in an Anglican cathedral in Liverpool, England. Call this my Christmas message.

This incredible cathedral is the largest in England, and the fifth largest in the world. It is fairly new as well, completed only in the 1970’s. Needless to say, it was a beast of a building. Upon entering, I saw a sign professing the purpose of the building—to proclaim Christ. Then, I passed by the coffee stand, the gift shop, a collection of football (soccer) memorabilia, and booths where people sat asking for donations before I finally reached a figure of Christ hanging from a cross far in the back of the cathedral. As I explored this giant church, I found a smaller room with a mural of Christ performing the atonement while the song, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for” ironically played in the background.

Wandering through this huge, dimly-lit structure I felt an uneven mix of awe and disappointment when I came upon a small room tucked back off to the side labeled the “Prayer Room.” Curious, I stepped inside.

The room was deserted. There was a small table with a three-ring notebook of blank white pages in which people were invited to write their prayers. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but curiosity overcame me. I started to read some of them.

I smiled at, “Dear Lord, please help the L.F.C [Liverpool Football Club] win this season,” and, “Dear God, Please help me with my resident application.” I was humbled by the prayers seeking forgiveness and courage to be a better person. The prayer written in a child’s handwriting that ended with, “…and please tell Nanny I miss her,” made me want to pat a little girl on the head and tell her it was alright. She would see her nanny again.

Suddenly, I turned the page and had to choke down the lump in my throat. There it was.

“Dear God, Look after Jackie.”

That’s all it said. It was so short, yet so sincere. It was a desperate plea for a loved one who had reached the end of her rope. I don’t know who Jackie is. And I don’t know why this person felt she needed special help from God, but I felt compassion for the both of them.

I’m confident God heard that prayer. He loves Jackie and I’m certain he gave her a little extra special attention that day.

I wish I could know these people; their ages, where they’re from, their relation to each other and what inspired that pitied request. I know nothing about them, and yet, they touched me. They taught me about the love of God for all of his children, not just the rich or the poor, or just the Mormons or the Catholics, or the just the Americans or the English. They showed me that maybe I should stop thinking so much about myself all the time and should start looking around to help poor Jackie who is struggling.

As I stood in that little prayer room with my heart broken, I said my own little prayer of thanks. Thanks for looking after all of us, just as You look after Jackie. Thanks for loving us all the same, and thanks for giving us what we need just at the right time and in the right place, even if that place is an Anglican Cathedral.

Finally, the parking meter chased me out of that special hiding place tucked away in such a monstrosity of a church. I walked outside a changed person.

And so this Christmas, I pray that God will “be our eyes, and watch us where we go.” Because he looks after all of us, maybe we should try to look after the Jackie’s out there too.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

The Day I Challenged a Bowling Master

When I lived in Salt Lake over the summer, I went bowling with a few friends one evening. We had a great time throwing that ball down the lane, celebrating each time it wasn’t a gutter ball. A rare spare or (heaven forbid) a strike practically qualified us for a moment of silence and a national holiday dedicated to our names.

This whole time we were bowling, however, I kept getting distracted by the guy one lane over. The score board showed his name, “Bill.” There was nothing special about his appearance. He was playing by himself and was probably in his early 20’s. He was kind of stocky, kind of hunched, wore glasses, and seemed maybe a little shy, but man this kid could bowl.

Nearly every time he rolled, it was a strike. His score board showed more X’s and /’s than numbers. When he’d roll a nine, he’d shake his head in disgust before picking off that last pin with a direct shot straight towards it. After four or five turns, he surpassed my high score.

After watching him for a few games, I couldn’t take it any longer. I challenged him.

“Hey, Bill,” I said.

He looked over a little confused, “Yeah?”

“You’re really good! Do you come here a lot?” I soon found out he was on a bowling league for his school and came to practice as often as he could. His high score is a 300.

Yes, a perfect score.

These were just minute details, however, for what was about to be the ultimate showdown. Bill didn’t know what he had coming for him. “Alright Bill, I challenge you to a duel,” I said with my best sneer.

He looked at my current score of 64, raised an eyebrow and replied with an, “okay?” You could practically taste the fear in his voice.

No real challenge ever goes without its specific regulations though, so I set a few minor ones, “You give me 150 points for free, and I’ll take you on.” I sounded really tough, I promise.

“Wait, so like I give you a 150-point handicap?”

“Uh, yeah.” Okay so it sounded less and less cool every second.

He wrinkled his brow and then, “Okay, let’s go,” said Bill.

And so, our battle commenced. After some initial stretches and trash talking, we were ready to go. I think by this point my friends were probably slapping their foreheads wondering why on Earth they let me come with them. But it was game time.

We rolled the first ball. Bill got a strike. I got a gutter ball. I was warming up.

We took our second turn. Bill got a strike. I got a three. See?

As the game went on, I could tell Bill was starting to sweat. My fours and fives were adding up quickly. Besides, he got a few nines and eights that were practically pointing and laughing at him. How embarrassing. Just when he thought he had it in the bag, bam! A seven. Take that, Bill.

Bill was getting nervous. His little laughs and head-shakings were just his way of faking me out. It didn’t work.

Finally, we were down to our last roll. Bill had just ended his game. His total? 235.

I could totally take that, right? My score was a whoppin’ 79. All I needed to do was roll a seven.

I picked up that ball, took a deep breath and give it a little air kiss for good luck. I held my breath in anticipation as I let it slip through my fingers and watched that ball float down the lane to the pins. I could barely take the suspense. Some crashed down, some didn’t. I looked up in desperate hope, and practically cried. Five.

I lost…?

I lost.

Oh no I lost! By two points! Oh, my life was over. Over! 150 free points and I still lost! Well, I suppose bowling is just not my calling in life. Bill was a gallant winner though. He didn’t even rub it in my face that he just destroyed me.

A few months later, I went back to that bowling alley, with the same friends in fact. Who should be behind the counter handing me an old pair of ugly size 7 shoes, but Bill himself. “Hey, Bill!” I said, “Remember me?” He raised that eyebrow again. “Remember when I challenged you and you totally crushed me even with a 150-point handicap?”

And then, his face cracked into a smile. “Oh yeah. Hey.” Well, if I can’t have a sworn enemy, at least I have a friend.

Dear Ceiling, Hang In There

This past semester I lived in an apartment complex on the bottom floor. The girls who lived above me were a group of highly-motivated individuals who were deeply concerned about their levels of physical fitness. For this reason, they each pitched in to buy an exercise program set of DVDs called “Insanity.” I’m a big fan of working out and everything, and I completely admire their determination; however, my roommates and I found their exercise regimen to be a bit problematic. Their floor (our ceiling) isn’t the sturdiest thing ever built. When this whole group of girls simultaneously jumped, stomped, power kicked, etc. to the beat of the rockin’ music and breathless voice of the guy on the video, we experienced quite the racket below.

Every day, we stood with fear in our hearts as we gazed up at our pulsing ceiling, watching it flex an inch or two with each beat of the music. Our mini chandelier shook noisily, threatening to crash to the floor at any moment due to excessive rattling. We thought once a day would be sufficient treatment, but as we know, students have crazy schedules that don’t always coincide, meaning we got to endure a shaky apartment, two, often three times a day.

No problem though. I’ll just close the door to my room and hide, right? No! They stomped so hard, our door rattled! My roommate said, “Julie, I think the devil’s trying to get into our room.” Sometimes they would have long days but would still try to squeeze in their workout at the end of the day, so they would begin at 12:30 at night when we’re all in bed. It was a calming lullaby that always helped us drift off to sleep.

Just when we thought they were finished, their roommates decided to spice things up a bit, and would begin clogging! Just in case you were wondering, metal colliding with tile makes for very good sound resonation underneath, especially in the middle of the night.

I visit taught one of the girls upstairs. When I went up there last time, we had a wonderful conversation. She was a lovely girl. Before we left, I couldn’t help it. I kindly inquired how the exercise program is going.

“Great!” she replied enthusiastically, “It’s a two month program and we just finished our first month!”

I tried to keep my eyes from bulging out of my head, and my smile plastered to my face when I said, “Oh…great…good for you!” When really, I was crying, “NOOOO!! We have another whole month of this madness?!”

It really gives new meaning to why they call that program “Insanity.” I think it refers to how it drives the neighbors underneath.

The Pitfalls of Night Sledding

When I was home a few weeks ago over Thanksgiving break, it snowed. This is a rare phenomenon in Poulsbo, so it’s kind of a big deal. At about 9:30 at night, my little brother, Tyler, and I looked out into the dark abyss, and realized it was snowing again. Hard. We looked at each other and had the same thought.

Yes. It was time to go sledding.

We bundled up, strapped on our headlights, dug the sleds out from under the house and trekked out to the road near our house. I live in the woods where there are no streetlights, and with the clouds overhead, it was completely dark except for our headlights and the lights of a few houses tucked into the trees.

We had a great time zooming down the hill through the darkness. With ski goggles and a head light shining on the snow falling, it made me feel like I was in a Star Wars movie traveling at light speed.

At one point, we were climbing back up the hill when Tyler said, “Aw man! My sock fell off in my boot.” Once he reached the top of the hill, he plopped himself on his sled, took off his boot and his glove and proceeded to retrieve his sock from the depths of his boot when suddenly, he began to slide.

“Oh no! Oh no!” he cried as his sliding slowly picked up speed. He desperately tried to stop himself with his elbow and non-bootless foot, to no avail. Since he only had one good foot to drag in the snow, the physics of the matter, combined with the speed increase sent him whirling into a spiral.

As I mentioned, it was completely dark out there, but it just so happened that his headlight was shining directly on the instigator of this whole ordeal—his bare foot.

So there I was, sitting on my sled at the top of the hill, witnessing in much amusement as a glowing white foot sticking straight in the air spiraled down the hill through a snowstorm with ever increasing speed, all to the sound of Tyler’s muffled cries.

This, my friends, is my kind of sledding.

A Few Photographs of the Semester

Just a few pictures I've taken for my photography class this semester.

The Pathetic Boat Saga: Episode 1

Speaking of boats, my family owns a boat, and let me tell you, it is a source of much envy in the harbor where we keep it. It is 22 feet long, about 40 years old, and covered in cracks and dents that have turned a lovely shade of brown. The homemade safety rail, built from metal pipe, is bent from where the mast fell on it, and the stays in the sails are made of 15 year-old broken yard sticks. The cabin is adorned in brownish, yellowish carpet with orange swirling accents, and the floor is constantly covered in about 2 inches of water, depending on the rainfall. The motor only starts half of the time, and has been known to leave us stranded, paddling home in no wind with our single broken paddle; and yet, with the help of much lovin’ and lots of prayers, the thing floats, and it is fun.

Every summer, we put that blessed little soul in the water in about June and leave it in until the end of August. Sounds simple enough, but with our boat, there’s always adventure lurking underneath every seemingly simple task. Last summer was no different. We decided to put the boat in on a Monday night in early June. My dad had tested the motor with his sophisticated method—the garbage can full of water—on Saturday and, incredibly, all systems were go. The boat ramp is about a mile away from the marina where we keep it, so our plan was to drop it off, motor to other marina, and meet my mom there to drive us home.

Well, we got the poor dear in the water and to really no one’s surprise, we found the water pump in the motor broken. Dad figured as long as he didn’t run it too long, it wouldn’t get overheated and we’d be good. So, we said goodbye to my mom and she left the boat ramp to make her way to the marina where we would soon meet her.

So, Dad and I start our one-mile sojourn. We made it about 50 feet before the motor died. That might have been fine except we were heading straight for a bunch of logs floating in the water. Not wasting any time, I jumped underneath to grab a paddle with which I could try to lessen the impact by trying to stop us with it. Going along with the theme of the rest of the boat, of course the paddle was broken, and the buoy that I also grabbed in my haste was not only tiny, but was connected to a 30-foot unmanageable rope.

Willing the motor to start and encouraging Dad to hurry it up over there, we drifted right on into those logs, and try as I might, I’m not sure my paddle-pushing-on-the-logs did anything at all. It was okay though, no damage. With a little bit of tuggin’ and a little more lovin’, that pitiful motor coughed a bit but came to just as we hoped it would. With spirits flying, we soared out of that little marina and into open water—well, you know, sort of. Not thirty seconds later, however, that stupid engine fell silent once more. Instead of heading for harmless logs, however, we were within the vicinity of anchored boats which caused a considerable amount of stress. As the blessed heavens mercy rained down upon us and the motor started again, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. My little brother, Tyler, wanted to know what on earth was taking so long. Yeah…about that.

To condense this story a bit, I will just say that by the time we finished our mile-long journey, the motor had died 8 times. Miraculously, we did not collide with any other boats. The dock however, did not get off quite so easily. In one of our last motor-dying instances, we were close to the dock of our final destination, and we caught a side wind. The boat was just so excited to be home it went careening towards it. It got a bit of a side bashing, but nothing that boat can’t handle. After all, it has been dropped from 3 ft. in the air. That’s a story for a different time. I’m telling you, I could write a whole book about this poor boat.

Once we got to the dock, we realized our slip had been leased to someone else and we were left homeless. No worries though, Kathy the Boat Lady found us a home in no time with an, “Oh honey, I’m sure we can find a place for you.” That was directed to my dad. Our boat’s so small we can squeeze in anywhere.

I feel very strongly that that poor boat’s purpose in my life is to teach me humility and my dad patience. Either that, or a really good sense of humor. I can’t help but find that each time I am near it, I find words such as ghetto, pathetic, and embarrassing continuously slipping out my lips. It’s like it’s the little boat that tried but couldn’t. Whatever, I guess it’s just living up to its name.

No wait, it doesn’t even have one of those.

Harbor Haven

Having lived near Seattle, Washington my entire life, I have a special place in my heart for the water inlets that flow through the area. I grew up in the historic Norwegian town of Poulsbo. It is a quaint little community dotted with beautiful marinas where locals and tourists dock their boats. I never realized how special these boat marinas are to me until I moved away to the middle of Idaho where salt water is simply nonexistent.
During the summer, I would spend a lot of time at the boat docks waiting for my dad to wash out the motor after an evening sailboat ride, put away the sails, or perform routine maintenance tasks. I would entertain myself by watching the tentacles on the sea life retract at my touch, or throwing old mussel shells in the middle of a school of minnows to watch them scatter. I would gaze at the beautiful yachts, admire the perfectly-formed rope coils on the docks, and squeal in delight at the sight of a basketball-sized sea jelly pulsing just feet away.
For me, this was a place of discovery, excitement, and mystery. At the same time, it was a place of peace and serenity where I could reflect on life surrounded by the salty sea breeze flapping the sails, the distant cries of sea gulls, and the melodic rocking of the waves as the tide drifted in and out. There, I never worried about deadlines, responsibilities or upcoming events. It was just me and those gentle, slumbering yachts, creaking among the docks.
There exists among the boating community a level of understanding that one can’t find anywhere else. Each person shares that same love of the water and passion for the ever changing atmosphere it provides. The pace of life is slow. It’s where Kathy the Boat Lady, wearing her white shorts and anchor necklace, calls everyone “honey” whether they are six or 60. People look out for each other there. At the marina, everyone is family.
The marina is a sanctuary for boats and people alike. It’s where we all rest safely out of the world’s storms, and for a little while revel in the haven of the harbor.

Love in an Orange Peel

These are my grandparents. They are perhaps the cutest couple I have ever seen. I love these people to death. Having been married for over 60 years, I think they have the love game figured out pretty well.

My grandparents travel thousands of miles every year to attend weddings, baptisms, graduations, blessings, you name it. They pack up the car, and drive non-stop until they get there, smiling all the way. They always pack an abundance of meals and snacks for the road and believe me, nobody goes hungry.

My grandparents grew up during the depression. Needless to say, they don’t waste anything. Ever. They use and reuse and can probably find something to do with whatever’s left after that. On one particular drive from Idaho to Washington, my grandma began peeling an orange. She split it in half and handed the rest to my Grandpa in the backseat. “Here Daddy Bear. Have an orange.”

My Grandpa feebly reached forward, taking the orange. “Oh Wheezy Bug [her name’s Lousie] I don’t need the fruit part.” He then removed the orange from its peel and passed the fruit back up to the front where Grandma was happily chewing away. Then, completely content, he began nibbling on the peel.

If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.

Suddenly, Grandpa got a twisted, disgusted look on his face. “Louise! You left me the sticker!”

Okay, well maybe love can only take you so far.

Plane Friends

For those of you who don’t me very well, I’ll just say it. I’m kind of a freak. One of my favorite parts about Thanksgiving break happens before I even get home. It happens on the plane ride there. I just can’t help it. I love making plane friends.

Airplanes are one of the very few places where we can talk to complete strangers for a few hours straight without seeming like too much of a creeper. These people sit next to us, strapped in even, and before they know it they are spilling their whole life stories. People don’t think they like to talk about themselves, that is, until you get them started. Then, they just can’t stop. I sometimes pity the soul who ends up next to me. He sits down unsuspectingly, thinking he’s going to have a nice, quiet two hours to get a good chunk of his Harry Potter book read, when suddenly the plane lands and he’s read a whoppin’ two pages. This is what happened to my latest plane friend. We’ll call him Taylor.

When I sat down next to Taylor, he gave me one of those sort-of-look-at-you, half-smiles with a mumbled “How’s it goin’?” There was nothing terribly remarkable about him. He was probably 27 or so, wore jeans, a dark fleece jacket and carried a backpack. The average traveler. It didn’t take long for me to discover he was traveling home to California after attending the Boise State/Fresno State football game the night before. This also explained his rather glum expression, as his beloved team got smashed by a pitiful 51-0, not to mention the abundance of Boise State hoodies, hats, and jackets that decorated the surrounding passengers on the plane. It was not a good place to be Fresno fan, nor was it a good time to be the brother of Fresno State’s starting quarterback. Unfortunately for Taylor, he was both.

After some prodding, Taylor told me all about his brother’s football career, or hopes of one. He told me what football means to him and his family, and what it feels like to stand on the sidelines watching one of his guys get tackled—again. I had no idea when I was watching the game on TV at my uncle’s house the night before that I was looking at my future plane friend.

Taylor told me he was a dairy nutritionist. I almost said something about how my roommate is allergic to milk so she was probably thankful for people like him, and then I praised the heavens that I didn’t when he said, “Yeah, so basically I figure out what cows should eat to make the best milk for the lowest price.” Cows. Right. That would have been embarrassing.

This here, my friends, is the secret to making plane friends. Who cares about dairy nutritionists, or even knows they exist? I didn’t. What I thought was a disgusting, boring, cow-touching, poo-searching, lame job was, to him, exciting, important, and needed. So, for those two hours, I let him believe that I thought a dairy nutritionist was the coolest job on Earth. And oh, did I learn! Did you know cows have four stomachs, and after you get past the first three it’s basically human nutrition? Or do you know how much it costs to feed a cow for a day? Go ahead, ask me.

It costs $5.91.

We started talking about what music we like, and before we landed, he offered me a couple CD’s of music (which, for the sake of this story, I will spare the ethical issue that presents) and showed me more artists I need to look up. When the plane landed, we both grabbed our bags, wished each other the best, and said goodbye.

So what is the point of this story? I’m never going to see Taylor again. I’ll probably never know if his brother gets signed or how his business does; and yet, because of him, I was changed. For two hours, this stranger let me glance into his life; into what he knows and feels. He expanded my view and sharpened my vision of the world out there.

He reminded me that the next time I’m on a plane, I should really take a second to say hello to the fellow traveler sitting next to me. Besides, it’s a whole lot more fun than awkward silence.