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.