[Part 1]
I live in Los Angeles county for nine out of twelve months. In mild traffic, it takes forty-five minutes for me to drive to Skid Row.
Tonight, I accompanied my RD and my five fellow RAs to Skid Row and served meals to the homeless there by helping a group called Monday Night Mission. The closest I'd ever come to the homeless was a few day trips into the inner city of Phoenix, giving out Christmas presents and doing light landscaping for a nonprofit organization. The contrast between those trips and this trip to LA is difficult to describe; suffice it to say that my comfort zone is located far away from the dimly lit alleys of Skid Row, where trash and rainwater decorate the sidewalks and you get the feeling that you're always being watched because you are so out of place.
The group of volunteers we helped tonight is composed of both "regulars" and new volunteers, and the success of each night literally depends upon the number of volunteers that show up each night, Monday through Friday. We meet at a Burger King a few streets away from Skid Row (incidentally, a decent part of town) and consolidate our food and our workers; then we drive to the corner of San Pedro and 6th St, set up the folding tables and the food, and serve the line of people waiting. The "regular" men stand around the group in a sort of perimeter, and the volunteers inside of the perimeter rotate so everyone helps serve in some one of the tasks.
I learned a lot tonight. Although I cannot articulate much of it at present, below are a few thoughts.
A person is not human because he possesses things, has an education, or sleeps in a bed. There is actually a lot of debate about what makes a person human: productivity, cognitive ability, quality of life, fulfillment of a certain role or purpose.
I know that every human is made in the image of God. As one of my team members so eloquently said, "we are all image-bearers. We gawk at God's creation of mountains, but we forget to recognize that every person is a creation." I saw a lot of faces tonight that saddened me or-at times- made me uncomfortable, but the fact that they made me uncomfortable does not make them inhuman. The fact that they sleep on the street also does not make them inhuman. While we were serving food to the people, a volunteer at the front of the line was constantly yelling "Say hi to Joey. Say hi to Frankie. Say hi to Gomez. Say hi to Gabriela." People asked us why we'd shout names in unison; one man look concerned and asked if we were a cult. We had been told by the founder of Monday Night Mission that the residents of Skid Row do not often hear their names spoken to them. Lack of interaction does not make someone inhuman either.
According to the founder of MNM, Skid Row has existed for the past eighty years because the homeless and mentally ill of LA are deposited there, for various reasons. When a police officer is called to pick up a homeless person, he does not arrest the person but drives him or her to Skid Row, where unimaginable perils await. Also, hospitals, after treating the mentally ill and keeping them for the required seventy-two hours, deposit them in front of Union Rescue Mission (located on San Pedro). A smaller group of us walked half a block to this mission, where we were told that it has six hundred beds. I glanced to both sides of me and saw more homeless people on the sidewalks, presumably the "leftovers" who hadn't come in time to get a bed at the mission. Around the corner was the Midnight Mission, which also gives beds daily to those on Skid Row. I hadn't been under any illusions that every homeless person magically ended up with a bed each night, but I had no idea that so many had to be turned away.
All of this, despite its complexities, boils down to the simple truth that Skid Row doesn’t have to exist. This is the most heartbreaking thing. It’s easy to think that places like these are inevitable and can never change. I’ve often rationalized their existence with the basic idea of human sin—that their bad decisions landed them there. What I hadn’t considered was that human beings are deposited to Skid Row, sometimes from a hospital where they were battling a mental illness, and left there with no friend to call, no family member to ask for help, no idea of how to survive in that dark place, and the threat (and reality) of violence permeating the air.
After wards, I came back to Biola (an island of peace in a sea of insanity, it seemed now), put on a sweater, pajama pants, and warm fuzzy socks. I poured myself a tall glass of ice cold water and used a restroom with perfectly functioning plumbing, running water, and soap. One of the paper towel dispensers didn’t work—an inconvenience at which I frowned.
Do not mistake me. I do not believe in validating the reality of hard situations by lamenting the comfort of good ones. God does not hate me for my comfort. Satan, on the other hand, knows that he can use my comfortable life to cause me paralyzing guilt and even despair. God tells me that as I have been given much, of me much more will be required, and as I have been entrusted with much, more will be demanded of me (paraphrased from Luke 12:48). God does not want to guilt us into doing good things. He wants us to be thankful for all we have, and from that place to offer it back to him by sharing with others. I daresay God is above “guilting us.” I don’t think he will settle for that. What we can give to God is ourselves, our souls and bodies, in obedience to Him. And while we’re doing that, we can love our neighbors.
I hope to offer more ways, in subsequent posts, that we can love our neighbors in LA. For now, we must spread awareness about the tragedy that is Skid Row and the fact that it is not necessary. While we do this, we should pray.
O GOD, Almighty and merciful, who healest those that are broken in heart, and turnest the sadness of the sorrowful to joy; Let thy fatherly goodness be upon all that thou hast made. Remember in pity such as are this day destitute, homeless, or forgotten of their fellow-men. Bless the congregation of thy poor. Uplift those who are cast down. Mightily befriend innocent sufferers, and sanctify to them the endurance of their wrongs. Cheer with hope all discouraged and unhappy people, and by thy heavenly grace preserve from falling those whose penury tempteth them to sin; though they be troubled on every side, suffer them not to be distressed; though they be perplexed, save them from despair. Grant this, O Lord, for the love of him, who for our sakes became poor, thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Amen.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Ducks + Graham Crackers - The Recipe for Happiness
I spent one day last week in the company of a very animated two year-old boy, and our morning mainly consisted of feeding an entire package of graham crackers to some very grateful ducks swimming in a pond. Having gone quite a few years without feeding ducks, I had forgotten the inherent happiness in it. When you've surpassed your early years, you begin to recognize some drawbacks- the gooey, soggy graham crackers floating in the murky pond, the uncomfortable position of kneeling in the wet, muddy grass beside the pond, and the chill in the air as you work to disperse each cracker in the water; and yet, the little boy's enthusiasm fueled me despite my complaints. Perhaps he believed that without our help, the ducks wouldn't have eaten all morning- or perhaps he merely enjoyed watching the ducks race each other to get the cracker pieces. Regardless, I realized that sometimes, age clouds our ideas about happiness. We forget that there is contentment in simple things; indeed, we look to insufficient- and sometimes wrong- means for our happiness. Or, most gravely, we mistake happiness for joy. I do not maintain that there was joy in feeding the ducks; because as pleasant as that experience was, I think more highly of joy than to limit it in that way. However, little pockets of happiness, among which lies this sweet memory, seem to somehow create a joyful life. The laughter that bubbled up from this little boy as he hurled the crackers toward the ducks was a happy moment, and I am thankful for it because it added to the joy I have in spending time in the company of children.
I am obliged to this little boy for teaching me something I had lost and am very glad to have found. I am hardly surprised at the lesson I learned from this child so much my junior- for what else greater gift do children give us, than that of re-discovering the meaningful things in life?
Monday, June 4, 2012
"Will Ye No Come Back Again?"
Lately, as summer comes and the hours are free for such things as reading, I find myself increasingly drawn to reading other blogs. Perhaps on account of missing Torrey, and all connected with it, I wandered over to the Scriptorium (see fourth link on my “Favorite Links” column). To my pleasant surprise, I saw that the featured essay had been written recently by my mentor, Dr. Robert Llizo. During the spring semester particularly, but throughout this entire year, I have learned valuable lessons from him; and so I read his post See here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/what-i-learned-from-john-mark-reynolds/
Maybe Dr. Llizo’s voice affords readers a certain advantage, because in my mind as I read, I imagined him reading it aloud, as he often does from the Vulgate (or, early this semester, from the Aeneid) in session. Also typical of Dr. Llizo, I found myself obliged to look up words such as pedagogy (the function or work of a teacher) and, of course, the lyrics to “Bonnie Charlie” (see below).
It was the last paragraph, however, that meant the most to me. How relevant to our lives, and written so succinctly! In it, Dr. Llizo ruminates on teaching, which has often been an interesting subject to me as it relates to Torrey. I often find myself wondering what goes through our tutors’ minds as they lead us, or (quite courageously of them) allow us to lead ourselves.
“Effective teaching begins with knowing who you are, what your limits are, and where the possibilities lie in those limits. Education is best done in the context of a great conversation, one that probes deeply into our assumptions about life and the cosmos. This conversation invites us to lay open these deeply-held beliefs, to cultivate humility in casting off what is false, and the resolve to build on what is true and lasting. This conversation must begin with love, not only of ideas, but of the people with whom we are in dialogue. People are more important than ideas, for in the encounter with another human being, we come face to face with immortality. We touch eternity in the meeting of minds and hearts,” writes Dr. Llizo.
I almost swell with gratitude for such an opportunity to learn in this way. It gives me hope that maybe I can teach my children something. It offers profound freedom, to recognize that learning does not require four walls and a handful of desks, but is found in the well-informed “great conversation” of God’s Word and the classic works of His people. Principles of love, humility, and resolve are evident in our tutors, and Dr. Llizo treats them here with the care that I believe can only come from someone who truly finds God’s purpose in the job he does every day. Having had a decent share of teachers who cared much less, I want to recognize his post.
In the words of the aforementioned “Bonnie Charlie,”
Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing,
Unto the evening sinking down,
Or merl that makes the wood to ring,
To me they hae nae other sound
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be,
Will ye no come back again?
Looking forward to see us all come back again, and in the meantime, I am learning to more fully appreciate what we’ll be coming back to.
For more on Education from Torrey faculty, see Dr. Peters’ post: “An Invitation to Education” (http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/an-invitation-to-education/).
Maybe Dr. Llizo’s voice affords readers a certain advantage, because in my mind as I read, I imagined him reading it aloud, as he often does from the Vulgate (or, early this semester, from the Aeneid) in session. Also typical of Dr. Llizo, I found myself obliged to look up words such as pedagogy (the function or work of a teacher) and, of course, the lyrics to “Bonnie Charlie” (see below).
It was the last paragraph, however, that meant the most to me. How relevant to our lives, and written so succinctly! In it, Dr. Llizo ruminates on teaching, which has often been an interesting subject to me as it relates to Torrey. I often find myself wondering what goes through our tutors’ minds as they lead us, or (quite courageously of them) allow us to lead ourselves.
“Effective teaching begins with knowing who you are, what your limits are, and where the possibilities lie in those limits. Education is best done in the context of a great conversation, one that probes deeply into our assumptions about life and the cosmos. This conversation invites us to lay open these deeply-held beliefs, to cultivate humility in casting off what is false, and the resolve to build on what is true and lasting. This conversation must begin with love, not only of ideas, but of the people with whom we are in dialogue. People are more important than ideas, for in the encounter with another human being, we come face to face with immortality. We touch eternity in the meeting of minds and hearts,” writes Dr. Llizo.
I almost swell with gratitude for such an opportunity to learn in this way. It gives me hope that maybe I can teach my children something. It offers profound freedom, to recognize that learning does not require four walls and a handful of desks, but is found in the well-informed “great conversation” of God’s Word and the classic works of His people. Principles of love, humility, and resolve are evident in our tutors, and Dr. Llizo treats them here with the care that I believe can only come from someone who truly finds God’s purpose in the job he does every day. Having had a decent share of teachers who cared much less, I want to recognize his post.
In the words of the aforementioned “Bonnie Charlie,”
Whene'er I hear the blackbird sing,
Unto the evening sinking down,
Or merl that makes the wood to ring,
To me they hae nae other sound
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be,
Will ye no come back again?
Looking forward to see us all come back again, and in the meantime, I am learning to more fully appreciate what we’ll be coming back to.
For more on Education from Torrey faculty, see Dr. Peters’ post: “An Invitation to Education” (http://www.patheos.com/blogs/scriptorium/2012/05/an-invitation-to-education/).
Monday, May 28, 2012
A Five Year Old Lady
First of all, I apologize for not writing for almost a year. I have no excuse, save the pace of college life. Thanks for following :-)
The inspiration for this post came from a certain evening with two lovable children. The little girl taught me a lot about how I can better be a lady. Here is what I found:
1. A lady is not anxious.
Drawing pictures, she has not a plan, but goes with whatever idea comes to her.
“I’ll start with a line,” she says, and turns the picture into a heart. From there, she needs no more suggestions. She makes me feel the idea behind Matthew 6, that we need not be anxious about what we’re going to wear, or whether or not our drawing will be received well.
2. A lady is polite.
She compliments my drawing of a tree, and makes suggestions such as adding a sun in the corner. She sees me drawing apples on the tree and mistakes them for acorns, but upon seeing my reaction, she guesses correctly and makes me smile. A lady is edifying.
3. A lady is sweet.
She takes the babysitter’s ponytail out during a “make over,” and says “your hair looks so pretty down like that.” The babysitter came without makeup, with a t-shirt and jeans, with no expectation of a compliment- let alone one from such a lady.
4. A lady knows the ways of her little brother.
One day, we’ll use the word “insightful” or “knowledgeable” to describe this aspect of the little lady. She knows what her brother is actually saying when he mumbles a string of words out, and she knows how to make him stop crying. She knows when he needs her to make a funny face at him, to make him laugh.
5. Indeed, a lady loves to laugh.
She laughs as she runs around the house with her brother, she laughs as she plays “monkey in the middle.” She laughs as her babysitter twirls her around in the air and she laughs at the exhausted babysitter afterwards. Her laughter is never mocking or fake. It bubbles forth from her like a little fountain.
6. A lady sleeps like an angel.
She curls up with her little brother in a big chair, and drifts to sleep in front of the TV. She snores slightly, rustling around every once in a while.
One imagines she is having peaceful, very ladylike dreams.
The inspiration for this post came from a certain evening with two lovable children. The little girl taught me a lot about how I can better be a lady. Here is what I found:
1. A lady is not anxious.
Drawing pictures, she has not a plan, but goes with whatever idea comes to her.
“I’ll start with a line,” she says, and turns the picture into a heart. From there, she needs no more suggestions. She makes me feel the idea behind Matthew 6, that we need not be anxious about what we’re going to wear, or whether or not our drawing will be received well.
2. A lady is polite.
She compliments my drawing of a tree, and makes suggestions such as adding a sun in the corner. She sees me drawing apples on the tree and mistakes them for acorns, but upon seeing my reaction, she guesses correctly and makes me smile. A lady is edifying.
3. A lady is sweet.
She takes the babysitter’s ponytail out during a “make over,” and says “your hair looks so pretty down like that.” The babysitter came without makeup, with a t-shirt and jeans, with no expectation of a compliment- let alone one from such a lady.
4. A lady knows the ways of her little brother.
One day, we’ll use the word “insightful” or “knowledgeable” to describe this aspect of the little lady. She knows what her brother is actually saying when he mumbles a string of words out, and she knows how to make him stop crying. She knows when he needs her to make a funny face at him, to make him laugh.
5. Indeed, a lady loves to laugh.
She laughs as she runs around the house with her brother, she laughs as she plays “monkey in the middle.” She laughs as her babysitter twirls her around in the air and she laughs at the exhausted babysitter afterwards. Her laughter is never mocking or fake. It bubbles forth from her like a little fountain.
6. A lady sleeps like an angel.
She curls up with her little brother in a big chair, and drifts to sleep in front of the TV. She snores slightly, rustling around every once in a while.
One imagines she is having peaceful, very ladylike dreams.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Adventures in the Iliad: The First Two Books
From August 4, 2011
Location: Anthem, Arizona
Condition: Determined (Okay, striving to be determined)
I have long since returned to my quiet life in Arizona, and yet the Iliad has not yet become as central of a focus as it needs to be in order to complete the task at hand. I will admit: I should have begun reading it earlier.
And yet, my goal is to finish. I'm very dedicated to goals, especially those that I know are valuable to my future. From what I've heard from current Torrey students, having completed the reading of the Iliad largely determines my quantity (and probably quality) of sleep during Torrientation.
Sleep is a strong motivator. When I think of putting Homer down in favor of another book (or perhaps a movie), I remind myself of the need to sleep well during my first week at Biola...who knows when I will sleep that much once classes start...
Certain things help sustain me through the ugly transition between carefree summer and legitimate learning. In all seriousness, prayer is the main aid. I know God has led me to Biola, and to Torrey as well, and I want to use my time in college wisely.
God also created cocoa beans, which are made into chocolate, and for which I am quite grateful. Becoming a member of the Torrey community before I even set foot on campus, through the Torrey Class of 2015 Facebook page, largely contributes to my determination as well- from these people have come encouragement and laughter, and most importantly a sense of unity. As difficult as it may be to fight procrastination's grasp, the Iliad represents the beginning of my life at Biola- a life that I greatly anticipate.
I must admit that, upon reading the Iliad, there are things one learns about oneself that are quite astonishing. For instance, I have begun to notice how often I calculate the number of pages I have yet to read- and, sadly, have observed the fact that doing so will not magically make the reading quicker. My notes have also taken a rather surprising turn- I see myself altering portions in my notebook when I find an answer to a question previously proposed, or an addition to one still waiting for resolution. And, at some points, I find I have buried myself so deeply in the Iliad that I read more efficiently, with less mental complaints and a deeper understanding of why Homer's works are classics.
The Iliad still pulls me down a long and winding road, dense with figurative language and immense detail, with lists and accounts that elapse multiple pages. The Iliad remains a challenge to my summer-steeped brain, but I believe there may yet be a light at the end of the tunnel.
Location: Anthem, Arizona
Condition: Determined (Okay, striving to be determined)
I have long since returned to my quiet life in Arizona, and yet the Iliad has not yet become as central of a focus as it needs to be in order to complete the task at hand. I will admit: I should have begun reading it earlier.
And yet, my goal is to finish. I'm very dedicated to goals, especially those that I know are valuable to my future. From what I've heard from current Torrey students, having completed the reading of the Iliad largely determines my quantity (and probably quality) of sleep during Torrientation.
Sleep is a strong motivator. When I think of putting Homer down in favor of another book (or perhaps a movie), I remind myself of the need to sleep well during my first week at Biola...who knows when I will sleep that much once classes start...
Certain things help sustain me through the ugly transition between carefree summer and legitimate learning. In all seriousness, prayer is the main aid. I know God has led me to Biola, and to Torrey as well, and I want to use my time in college wisely.
God also created cocoa beans, which are made into chocolate, and for which I am quite grateful. Becoming a member of the Torrey community before I even set foot on campus, through the Torrey Class of 2015 Facebook page, largely contributes to my determination as well- from these people have come encouragement and laughter, and most importantly a sense of unity. As difficult as it may be to fight procrastination's grasp, the Iliad represents the beginning of my life at Biola- a life that I greatly anticipate.
I must admit that, upon reading the Iliad, there are things one learns about oneself that are quite astonishing. For instance, I have begun to notice how often I calculate the number of pages I have yet to read- and, sadly, have observed the fact that doing so will not magically make the reading quicker. My notes have also taken a rather surprising turn- I see myself altering portions in my notebook when I find an answer to a question previously proposed, or an addition to one still waiting for resolution. And, at some points, I find I have buried myself so deeply in the Iliad that I read more efficiently, with less mental complaints and a deeper understanding of why Homer's works are classics.
The Iliad still pulls me down a long and winding road, dense with figurative language and immense detail, with lists and accounts that elapse multiple pages. The Iliad remains a challenge to my summer-steeped brain, but I believe there may yet be a light at the end of the tunnel.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Adventures in the Iliad: Introduction
From July 17th, 2011
Location: Daytona Beach, Florida
Condition: Semi-Panicked
It is summer. I am in a condo, approximately a five minute walk to the nearest ocean, with family and food and various means of entertainment.
I am reading.
It is not on account of the aforementioned entertainment that I am reading. I am reading because I have homework.
Homework. The word is taboo even though I am no longer in high school. Still unaccepted- I am not supposed to be doing homework. It is summer!
And yet, I have plunged headfirst- quite irresponsibly, actually- into Homer's Iliad, and am nearing the end of the forty-three page introduction as I write this. The journey begun with much trepidation, for I was not aware of what expectations I was approaching, or meeting, or failing to meet. We are required to keep a notebook, which sounds simple enough. Yet as I sat down to begin my notebook I remembered quite vividly being the girl whose notebook- or annotations, etc- was always wildly overdone, and met with disbelief. Why would that girl put so much time into her notebook? What possessed her to annotate so extensively? At times I believed I was one of three people in my class period who could claim to have read the material at all. So I sat at the table, in the condo by the beach, with a bright pink notebook in front of me that had suddenly become very intimidating. I stared at it, then at the Iliad, then at the ceiling, hoping that some sort of revelation would come to me regarding the protocol for such a thing. The question was not "how do I handle homework in the summer?" Nor was it a qualm about the Iliad, for I had loved reading Homer in high school. But perhaps that was just it: I could not look at any of this in any context except that of high school; and high school, by default, had become something I believed myself to be far beyond. Now, looking at the assignment before me, I realized that I saw it through the lens of my high school experience- so there the change must begin.
Alright, easy enough. I would resolve to see my assignment as it really was: college work. But that was not much of an improvement, because college work is ever more intimidating than high school work. What does a good reporter do to get the whole picture? Research. So I visited the Torrey Honors Institute (THI) website to review the guidelines for the notebook. Thinking I would not remember them later, I taped them to the inside of my notebook so I could refer back to them at any time during my note-taking process.
The time came to actually begin the book, and so I began. I flipped the first few pages, past copyrights and title pages and acknowledgements and contents, and came to a rather lengthy introduction. Forty-three pages, to be exact. I stopped cold. Introductions were tiresome enigmas that I learned to dislike at an early age. When I was younger, I developed my now rather acute thirst for reading, and so when I began a book, I read straight through the introduction and then got into the actual text. It didn't take but a few novels to reveal the hidden horror of introductions: they spoil the book. While eloquent, and intellectual, and very useful in hindsight, introductions give much information about the book that the author wished to keep a surprise until the reader came to the point of revelation. I learned, for instance, from reading the introduction to Sense and Sensibility (my favorite novel), that Willoughby is a dirty, selfish crook, and that Edward Ferrars never marries Lucy Steele. (By the way, to anyone who hasn't read S&S, I apologize). I was so heartbroken that these truths had been revealed before Austen intended them to, that my attitude turned strictly against introductions.
Thus I sat, staring at Richmond Lattimore's introduction to the Iliad with a mixture of displeasure and hesitation. Besides my past encounters with introductions, I recalled that they had never significantly aided me in high school (sorry Mr. Hickman!). So why should I read this introduction?
College work...oh yes, I was doing college work. I was attempting to read a foundational text, translated from Greek to English, for an Honors College in which I am blessed to be a member. Whether or not I liked it, I was going to read that introduction.
Location: Daytona Beach, Florida
Condition: Semi-Panicked
It is summer. I am in a condo, approximately a five minute walk to the nearest ocean, with family and food and various means of entertainment.
I am reading.
It is not on account of the aforementioned entertainment that I am reading. I am reading because I have homework.
Homework. The word is taboo even though I am no longer in high school. Still unaccepted- I am not supposed to be doing homework. It is summer!
And yet, I have plunged headfirst- quite irresponsibly, actually- into Homer's Iliad, and am nearing the end of the forty-three page introduction as I write this. The journey begun with much trepidation, for I was not aware of what expectations I was approaching, or meeting, or failing to meet. We are required to keep a notebook, which sounds simple enough. Yet as I sat down to begin my notebook I remembered quite vividly being the girl whose notebook- or annotations, etc- was always wildly overdone, and met with disbelief. Why would that girl put so much time into her notebook? What possessed her to annotate so extensively? At times I believed I was one of three people in my class period who could claim to have read the material at all. So I sat at the table, in the condo by the beach, with a bright pink notebook in front of me that had suddenly become very intimidating. I stared at it, then at the Iliad, then at the ceiling, hoping that some sort of revelation would come to me regarding the protocol for such a thing. The question was not "how do I handle homework in the summer?" Nor was it a qualm about the Iliad, for I had loved reading Homer in high school. But perhaps that was just it: I could not look at any of this in any context except that of high school; and high school, by default, had become something I believed myself to be far beyond. Now, looking at the assignment before me, I realized that I saw it through the lens of my high school experience- so there the change must begin.
Alright, easy enough. I would resolve to see my assignment as it really was: college work. But that was not much of an improvement, because college work is ever more intimidating than high school work. What does a good reporter do to get the whole picture? Research. So I visited the Torrey Honors Institute (THI) website to review the guidelines for the notebook. Thinking I would not remember them later, I taped them to the inside of my notebook so I could refer back to them at any time during my note-taking process.
The time came to actually begin the book, and so I began. I flipped the first few pages, past copyrights and title pages and acknowledgements and contents, and came to a rather lengthy introduction. Forty-three pages, to be exact. I stopped cold. Introductions were tiresome enigmas that I learned to dislike at an early age. When I was younger, I developed my now rather acute thirst for reading, and so when I began a book, I read straight through the introduction and then got into the actual text. It didn't take but a few novels to reveal the hidden horror of introductions: they spoil the book. While eloquent, and intellectual, and very useful in hindsight, introductions give much information about the book that the author wished to keep a surprise until the reader came to the point of revelation. I learned, for instance, from reading the introduction to Sense and Sensibility (my favorite novel), that Willoughby is a dirty, selfish crook, and that Edward Ferrars never marries Lucy Steele. (By the way, to anyone who hasn't read S&S, I apologize). I was so heartbroken that these truths had been revealed before Austen intended them to, that my attitude turned strictly against introductions.
Thus I sat, staring at Richmond Lattimore's introduction to the Iliad with a mixture of displeasure and hesitation. Besides my past encounters with introductions, I recalled that they had never significantly aided me in high school (sorry Mr. Hickman!). So why should I read this introduction?
College work...oh yes, I was doing college work. I was attempting to read a foundational text, translated from Greek to English, for an Honors College in which I am blessed to be a member. Whether or not I liked it, I was going to read that introduction.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
The Road Not Taken
I've always admired people who knew exactly what they wanted; to have a resolute decision and know that it is right- that is something that, with me, has always been easier said than done.
In the pool tonight after dinner, we met a man who told us that it took him thirty years to know what he wanted: to join the Coast Guard. As he tells it, he says he was on a boat about 35 miles off of the Florida shore, and the boat began to sink. Another boat nearby saved him and his fellow passengers, and although it wasn't the most heroic rescue, he thanked God for it. And it led to an epiphany. He wanted to save people from drowning, as he might have had not the other boat been nearby.
Excited to fulfill his dream, he went to enlist in the Coast Guard. Apparently to be in the Coast Guard, one must enlist before his or her 27th birthday. He was thirty.
Stories like these tend to fire up the rusty, semi-functional gears in my brain and make me evaluate what I want in life. After all, I need to know what I'm going to do, or else it might be too late. The hard part, though, is that life does not work this way- at least not for most people. We may plan our entire lives, but end up on a completely different path than we ever expected. We may be called to do something extraordinary- or quite ordinary- when we never expected to be called at all. As I've been reading in McCullough's excellent book, John Adams, sometimes a common, unsuspecting man ends up forging a new nation.
The cure for this unpredictable life we lead is simple: trust in God to lead you in the direction you are meant for. I've learned firsthand that the worst mistake we can make is to think that we have it all figured out- indeed, that we control it, that mysterious stuff that constitutes our future.
The poem "The Road Not Taken" comes to mind (see below). It hails the peculiarities of life that render us traveling down roads we never could have asked for or imagined.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
Dream- know what you want to do. But always remember who is in control.
In the pool tonight after dinner, we met a man who told us that it took him thirty years to know what he wanted: to join the Coast Guard. As he tells it, he says he was on a boat about 35 miles off of the Florida shore, and the boat began to sink. Another boat nearby saved him and his fellow passengers, and although it wasn't the most heroic rescue, he thanked God for it. And it led to an epiphany. He wanted to save people from drowning, as he might have had not the other boat been nearby.
Excited to fulfill his dream, he went to enlist in the Coast Guard. Apparently to be in the Coast Guard, one must enlist before his or her 27th birthday. He was thirty.
Stories like these tend to fire up the rusty, semi-functional gears in my brain and make me evaluate what I want in life. After all, I need to know what I'm going to do, or else it might be too late. The hard part, though, is that life does not work this way- at least not for most people. We may plan our entire lives, but end up on a completely different path than we ever expected. We may be called to do something extraordinary- or quite ordinary- when we never expected to be called at all. As I've been reading in McCullough's excellent book, John Adams, sometimes a common, unsuspecting man ends up forging a new nation.
The cure for this unpredictable life we lead is simple: trust in God to lead you in the direction you are meant for. I've learned firsthand that the worst mistake we can make is to think that we have it all figured out- indeed, that we control it, that mysterious stuff that constitutes our future.
The poem "The Road Not Taken" comes to mind (see below). It hails the peculiarities of life that render us traveling down roads we never could have asked for or imagined.
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
Dream- know what you want to do. But always remember who is in control.
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