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When Gary told me he had found Jesus, I thought, Ya-hoo! We’re rich! But it turned out to be something different.
-Jack Handey
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I received this email today:
THIS IS BEYOND BEAUTIFUL!
One rainy afternoon I was driving along one of the main streets of town, taking those extra precautions necessary when the roads are wet and slick. Suddenly, my daughter, Aspen, spoke up from her relaxed position in her seat. “Dad, I’m thinking of something.” This announcement usually meant she had been pondering some fact for a while, and was now ready to expound all that her six-year-old mind had discovered. I was eager to hear.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“The rain!” she began, “is like sin, and the windshield
wipers are like God wiping our sins away.”
After the chill bumps raced up my arms I was able to respond.
“That’s really good, Aspen.”
Then my curiosity broke in. How far would this little girl take this revelation? So I asked… “Do you notice how the rain keeps on coming? What does that tell you?”
Aspen didn’t hesitate one moment with her answer:
“We keep on sinning, and God just keeps on forgiving us.”
I will always remember this whenever I turn my wipers on. Isn’t it distressing to know that when you forward this message you will not send it to many on your address list because you’re not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it to them.
Funny how we can be more worried about what other people think of us than what God thinks of us.
..
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Damn! Analogies are the cruelest thing a person can do to me!!! My brain just won’t stop!
…if sins are like raindrops and God is the windshield wipers, what the hell are those little sins in that little ’shark fin’ area at the bottom of my windshield? Why doesn’t God forgive them?
…does that make me a windshield?
…what about the squeegee at the gas station, is that also God? Because, frankly, it does a much better job.
…what about when God gets old and brittle? You know, when we have to replace him, but haven’t yet? He’s not actually forgiving our sins really well, just kinda smearing them around.
…and when we do go to replace God, does it matter if we buy the discount Wal-Mart $3.99 forgiveness, or should we just fork out the full $12.99 for name-brand forgiveness?
…why is God in two different sizes these days for driver’s and passenger side forgiveness?
…come to think of it… why are there so many styles of God, depending on the make and model of your windshield, you have to buy a specific kind of God. Is this kid using Thomas Kincaid to endorse polytheism? The little heretic brat!!
I read the other day that Nick Hornby’s “A Long Way Down” will be made into a movie soon. I’ve liked other movies that have been made from his work (”High Fidelity” & “About a Boy”… though I’ve neither watched nor read “Fever Pitch”). I’m sure this one too will be a good flick.
“A Long Way Down” is a great story, one of my favorite contemporary novels, but I find myself worrying about it as a movie. How can the cinema possibly capture the rythym of the book, the richness in the perspective of the characters? And what a tragedy that some people will never read the book, watching the movie and missing out on half the story! Quick! If you haven’t already, READ THIS BOOK!!!!!
Here’s a quick excerpt from a chapter told from the perspective of one of his characters Maureen (she’s British, so whether you read it silently or aloud, do it with a British accent):
Frank is Matty’s father. It’s funny to think that might not be immediately obvious to someone, because it’s so obvious to me. I only ever had intercourse with one man, and I only had intercourse with that one man once, and the one time in my entire life that I had intercourse produced Matty. What are the chances, eh? One in a million? One in ten million? I don’t know. But of course even one in ten million means that there are a lot of women like me in the world. That’s not what you think of, when you think of one in ten million. You don’t think, That’s a lot of people.
What I’ve come to realize over the years is that we’re less protected from bad luck than you could possibly imagine. Because though it doesn’t seem fair -having intercourse only the once and ending up with a child who can’t walk or talk or even recognize me- well, fairness doesn’t really have much to do with it, does it? You only have to have intercourse the once to produce a child, any child. There are no laws that say, You can only have a child like Matty if you’re married, or if you have lots of other children, or if you sleep with lots of different men. There are no laws like that, even though you and I might think there should be. And once you have a child like Matty, you can’t help but feel, That’s it! That’s all my bad luck, a whole lifetime’s worth, in one bundle. But I’m not sure luck works like that. Matty wouldn’t stop me from getting breast cancer, or from being mugged. You’d think he should, but he can’t. In a way, I’m glad I never had another child, a normal one. I’d have needed more guarantees from God than He could have provided.
And anyway, I’m Catholic, so I don’t believe in luck as much as I believe in punishment. We’re good at believing in punishment; we’re the best in the world. I sinned against the Church, and the price you pay for that is Matty. It might seem like a high price to pay, but then, these sins are supposed to mean something, aren’t they? So in one way it’s hardly surprising that this is what I got. For a long time I was even grateful, because it felt to me as though I were going to be able to redeem myself here on earth, and there’d be no reckoning to be made afterward. But now I’m not so sure. If the price you have to pay for a sin is so high that you end up wanting to kill yourself and committing an even worse sin, then Someone’s done His sums wrong. Someone’s overcharging.
It’s still officially winter, but the bulbs are emerging and the trees are in bloom… Spring is in the air. Give it another week or two the bees will be about, pollinating the flowers and providing a structure for thousands of parents preparing to talk with their kids about sex. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The flora is getting it on.
While flowers are beautiful, I’ve always preferred the trees. I prefer blossoms to bulbs, and actually the leaves of trees also trump flowers for me… in some cases even the bark. I’m odd in this way (as well as other ways), but I have a special place in my heart for trees. I find such peace amongst them. I love shapes of the leaves, the intricacy of their lacy framework. I love the ferns and moss that grow on the branches of trees. I love the rustling of the leaves in a breeze… It’s the essence of tranquility for me. Conifers or broad leaf, evergreen or deciduous, there’s no tree that rises above the rest. Fir, Apple, Alder, Walnut… they’re all perfect. There is but one exception… Cottonwood… I don’t care for Cottonwood trees.
Aside from being abundant in my back yard, Cottonwoods are proliferate along lakes, rivers and creeks. You can tell where a source of water is by looking for groves of these trees. Cottonwoods are known for their quick growth. Their cousins, the poplars, have similar traits which they’ve marketed and are now being grown on tree farms for a harvestable source of wood.
Unfortunately, as a result of their quick growth, the Cottonwood is weak and often can’t support its own weight. They’re short-lived trees and they are constantly dropping off limbs and branches. This tree drops everything… In addition to the customary autumn disposal of its leaves, cottonwoods are also famous for their seeds, which are -get this- cotton-like! Every spring, the ground around our city is fluffy from the seeds of these trees. In some places, it appears to have snowed.
But my complaint against these trees, isn’t their cotton. Being the time of year where every plant is in the mood, the four trees in my back yard all suddenly think they’re Barry White. They have shed their buds and are all dangling about their catkins waiting for some action. My entire back yard is covered in catkins and the petals of the discarded buds. I sweep my back porch every day, but within minutes it’s covered again. The buds are covered in sap, which not only make it hard to sweep, but also get stuck to shoes and tracked into the house. To top it off, the sap leaves a yellow residue on our skin, clothes and floors which we’re constantly trying to scrub off before it stains. Dealing with Cottonwood bi-products is too large a part of my life. And although I don’t want to sound too much a prude, I have to admit that I find myself uncomfortable in constantly dealing with the sticky droppings of a horny tree.
If last year is a good example, I estimate that I’ll be sweeping and scrubing the sappy pods for another few months. The cottony seeds are expected shortly, and I wonder how this will interact with the sappy resin, can I expect to be tarred and feathered regularly? I anticipate some relief mid-summer but the autumn leaves will follow shortly thereafter. After I rake all the leaves up, winter will come again and the wind storms will tear another few branches off for me to cut up. This tree is pathetic! It’s the leper of the hardwoods.
In that light, it’s hard not to have some pity for the poor Cottonwood. His magestic bretheren sit strong and beautiful as he tries to stand tall while his seeds float to the ground like dandruff and his limbs crack and drop.
Cherry won’t even look at him, she busies herself, fluffing her blossoms and admiring her iridescent bark.
“Can’t believe he has the nerve to call himself a hardwood!” Maple spouts.
“The gall!” Oak echoes.
“Just look at him over there, using all the space along the water bank.” Willow complains, flipping her tresses irritably. “Who wants to rest in HIS shade, I mean really!”
Birch, in his polished white suit, smirks. “It looks like he’s just lost another limb.”
Cottonwood turns from them in shame. On his other side, he sees Holly wink at him. “Don’t sweat it, handsome,” she says, “you’ll grow another branch in no time.”
Cottonwood considers this. Sure, she’s a little prickly, but he heals fast and he likes her style. He imagines the two of them together, their offspring… hundreds of downy thistles. Yeah. Yeah, this could work. He smiles back at her.
I did indeed work today, armed with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of hand sanitizer. I’m happy to report that I’m not nearly as pessimistic as I thought. Had I been a pessimist, I would have seen this coming. But as it is, I had no clue that it could have possibly been this miserable.
The cold medicine they have on the shelves nowadays, now that they’ve hidden all the pseudoephedrine, is total crap. I was popping pills every hour, and I only seemed to get worse. My nose is red and raw, along with my left cheek and eyelid from constantly dabbing away sinus-induced teardrops. My sneezing and hacking fits rocked the building.
I didn’t even think about it at the store, I just picked up what was on the rack. But all the good stuff is in the pharmacy or at the customer service desk now because they’re afraid that I’ll cook meth with it. Half-way through the day, I thought ‘Hey! I work in a police department, they probably have plenty of seized Sudafed in the property room!’ Hell, toward the end of the day, I would have taken a shot of methamphetamine, just for the pseudoephedrine inside it. But our property department isn’t willing to hand out even so much as a pill of DayQuil… some “Chain of Evidence” bullshit.
My co-workers did indeed glare at me and say things about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. “Why did he come to work today? He really needs to leave.” They can be damn cold, but really, who can blame them? I’m basically a walking vat of unstable mucus. We’re taught very young to avoid such things.
But had I stayed home, they would have complained of my absence. At least if I call in tomorrow, they won’t think I’m faking it.
I did work again today, and it was much better, but I’m still nowhere near 100%. I’m going to cheat again tonight and rely on someone else’s wit to get me through. I’ll use David Sedaris again, as I’m going to see him read next month, and I’m trying to lather up a manic excitement.
I tried finding some good audio or video clips of his, but I was disappointed at those that I found. They cut good parts out of stories, had odd visuals, or had someone else reading the story… While I love the written works of Sedaris, I’ve found the ultimate David Sedaris experience is listening to him read his work (I know not all my friends would agree with me on this). He has that odd voice and a slight speech impediment. I guess I enjoy speech problems, as it seems that the writers and jornalists that I love listening to all have various vocal flaws. Sedaris… Sarah Vowell… Starlee Kine…
So here’s a short quip from Sedaris’s essay “Diary of a Smoker” in his book “Barrell Fever”. It’s not his funniest piece of work, but it’s been on my mind lately:
[at a doctor appointment]
He started in by asking a few preliminary questions and then said, “Do you smoke?”
“Only cigarettes and pot,” I answered.
He gave me a look. “Only cigarettes and pot? Only?”
“Not crack,” I said. “Never touch the stuff. Cigars either. Terrible habit, nasty.”
I received my yearly review at work last Wednesday. It went quite well… I was very flattered at what people said about me. After reading the written review, my boss took the time to express her appreciation of my work, and my reliability. She mentioned in particular, the progress I’ve made in my sick-leave hours (I’d had a hard previous year and my leave-bank had almost been empty). It really made her happy that she knew that she could depend on my presence here at work.
At least, I think that’s what she said… It was hard to concentrate, since my ear had started throbbing that morning. It was unfortunately ironic timing that I left sick shortly thereafter and took the next two days off with an ear infection. Now, the ear is feeling better, but I’ve come down with a terrible cold. Oh well… I don’t intend to miss work this coming week for a simple cold. I’ll drag my raw & chapped little nose into work and stick it to the grindstone (Okay, alright… raw & chapped BIG nose!). My co-workers will all glare at me, worried that my contagions are threatening their sick-leave bank, but I’ve got far too much work waiting for me. I can’t afford to rest further.
Also, coincidentally timed right after my review, will come my memo to Administration, asking for a re-evaluation of my position. An anonymous co-worker has taken me aside and suggested that I should be making a lot more money. I’m not greedy, but this person has a great argument, and since I’m at the top of my pay-scale, it’s the only way I’ll see another raise short of finding another job.
I’ve thought a lot about this for the past few days. Why is it that, if left to my own devices, I never would have thought to do this? Why am I always content to work within the confines of the world around me? Some of the most interesting events of my life have happened when I’ve chosen to veer off-course… you’d think I’d rock the boat more often. But no, I always go with the flow.
Rock the boat… Go with the flow… Why are there so many nautical clichés? I suppose it’s a fairly good comparison. Billy Joel and Garth Brooks have both gone platinum with singles about a river of dreams. And if you buy that a dream is like a river, then it’s not too far a stretch to admit that life is like an ocean. This ocean of life is sometimes calm and sometimes stormy, and with a little skill and experience you can navigate through the waters and lead a great life. But event the best sailors are cautions, knowing that the ocean is perfectly capable of capsizing any vessel that’s in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If life is an ocean, then I’d like to think of myself as a sailboat upon it. “Going with the flow” or capturing the winds to pull me toward my destination. Not all of us are sailboats… my anonymous co-worker, she who gave me the aforementioned advice, is much more like an Arctic Ice-Breaker, plowing through all obstacles relentlessly toward her goals. There are also plenty of jet-ski-ers, they all go super-fast and have lots of fun, but have to stay close to shore and require a lot of fuel. And we all know the occasional oil-barge, who eventually will crash and hurt not only themselves, but will also pollute our waters.
I realize that I’m flattering myself with this comparison. While some people may hope to be a yacht, a cruise ship or maybe even a schooner, I think most of us would prefer to be sailboats. Nobody wants to admit to being a rowboat or the Titanic. If I were to be honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I might just be life-raft adrift at sea, completely at the ocean’s mercy. …Or that I’ve been below-deck so long, ignoring the world above, that I have no idea what type of boat I’m in or where I’m headed.
Well, wherever I’m going, it’s clear that I’ve exhausted too many supplies trying to catch this metaphor… I’d better head into port and re-stock.
Cheers!
Adam
