To the ones who are suffering...

My grandma was one of the most amazing women who has ever lived on the face of the earth. Before Jesus took her home at the age of 88, she was the most joyful, vibrant, and kind woman you could meet. But her joy wasn’t because everything went right in her life. Her joy came through suffering.

I’m glad my grandmother had a stroke.

A little background. My grandma, Anno Mann Montgomery, suffered from a stroke at age 37. Her oldest child and my mother, Claudia, was 12 years old. For a while, Anno was in a vegetative state. The doctors said she would never talk again, but one day, she did. The family was ecstatic at her first words, none more than her husband, Charlie. He died the next day of a heart attack. Suddenly my mom was left without a father and a mother whose entire right side of her body was paralyzed. I can say that I’m glad my grandmother had a stroke because I didn’t live through the pain and suffering of those times. But I’m sure they were hard. I’m sure that to my mom, my aunt, and my uncle, their entire world was shattered. That even when they managed to hold back the tears, that feeling in the pit of their stomach didn’t go away. I’m sure that when they asked why, there wasn’t a clear answer.

And I’m not sure I have the answer. I didn’t live through it, so I don’t know if what happened down the road redeemed what happened to my mother’s family. I don’t know if it’s up to us to say when somebody else’s suffering is worth it. But I do know what happened next, and if anything, it gives me hope.

Because my grandma had that stroke, I grew up in a home where I saw sacrificial love being lived out every single day. I saw my mom care for Anno in a way that defied the values of our messed up, selfish world. I saw family step in to help when the burden was too great. I learned early on that what makes someone valuable isn’t what they contribute to society. My grandma received social security and required constant care. If all you were looking at was the bottom line, Anno was a burden to society.

Fortunately, that’s not how God sees our worth. I think He maybe sees us something like this. Like I see her.

I see her as a woman who loved. Oh my goodness did she love. And laugh. And cry. And smile. Here was a woman who had lost so much, but chose to focus on what she had found. Children and grandchildren who helped care for her. Friends who waited to see her at church each week just to bend down to her wheelchair and give her a hug, and to see her smile from the joy that it brought her. Sometimes I wondered where all that joy came from, but the answer was pretty clear. She wasn’t just reading that massive bible that she would spread out on the dining room table. She soaked it up. Every word.

And when things started getting worse that last year, she didn’t see the weekly hospice chaplain visits as a grim reminder. No, she welcomed him with a warm smile each week and listened to him sing hymns. She couldn’t hear him, but his singing still brought her joy. I can still hear his deep, booming voice drowning out her out-of-tune yet enthusiastic attempts to sing along.

It was one of my last memories with her, but it’s one of the most vivid. I’m tearing up right now as I write this, and I’m not even sure why. It was just a conversation in the kitchen. I can’t remember how it started, but somehow we got to the topic of why she was so at peace with knowing that the next time she laid down very well could be her last. She said it was Jesus. She knew that she was loved by her saviour, and that’s all she needed. But then she started to reflect on how there were so many around the world who had never heard about Him. She started to choke up. She gestured down at her frail, broken body and said “and I can’t tell them”.

So many things that went wrong in this woman’s life, and one of the only things I’ve ever seen her cry about was that her disabilities kept her from telling more people about Jesus.

She died on June 20, 2012. My 21st birthday. I’m glad it was on that day, because now every year I’m reminded of the hope she had as she stared death in the face, and knew that it held no power over her. I’m reminded of a spiritual birthday that same day, because someone wanted that same hope. At her funeral, the hundreds of people who gathered to bid farewell to this beautiful daughter of Christ got to hear not only her story, but the greatest story. She left behind a legacy of faith. A legacy of joy. A family that despite all our shortcomings and faults, loves each other.

Would all this have happened if she didn’t have that stroke? I don’t know, maybe. But it did happen, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Whatever you’re going through right now may seem impossible. You may think that you’ll never conquer the pain, or grief. This isn’t a trite message to look for the silver lining. This isn’t even to say that all the suffering is worth it. I don’t know if it is.

But I’m begging you, please, stick with it. It may be half a century down the road, but you might change someone’s entire life.

She changed mine.

Back to the grind

After a lovely week of rest and relaxation in Texas, I once again find myself back at a little christian college campus in Northwest Arkansas. Times like these remind me that time is quite a strange thing. It seems like forever since my lovely lady arrived here for her spring break a couple Saturdays ago, but it seems like no time at all since I arrived at this campus for the first time. I don't think the human mind truly interprets time linearly.

Of course, my mind is hardly an accurate summation of human minds in general. I'm much too scatterbrained for that. I think that people do tend to list events in their minds in order of importance and emotional significance however, not just on a chronological timeline. What I ate for breakfast this morning may not inhabit my memory nearly as clearly as that time that a pretty little Texas girl rested her head on my shoulder on a bus in Florida.

I don't even know where all of this is going. Right now I'm just posting something on my blog because I really don't want to write my three page analysis essay that's due tomorrow. Three pages and I can't seem to get more than a couple paragraphs squeezed out of my brain. I want to just go to bed and do it in the morning, but that seems somewhat scary to me, because I don't know if I'll have time to complete it before class at 11. Ah well. I think that's what I'm going to do. My eyes are starting to blur.

Tootles!

Hot Springs brain spasm!

Fall Break 2010. 5 hour drive to Hot Springs. Car full of cinema majors. Nuff said.

Michael farted uproariously and smells lovely tonight. Meadows are the place to frolic when kids and monkeys convene to eat Vanessa vigorously. Unexpectedly I appeared with sticks upraised beating michael until coconuts emerged from the house in the forest to eat boogers and set around green tables. Paradoxically, Jesse jumped down into the river and fell face first sideways on an apple named George, who liked bicycles named Sylvester from Hawaii with Vanessa and Jonathan to three four otherwise back at him. Turtles crouch under the rock, named Al, that loved another penelope the fine look fangoriously superstitious obnoxious, obsessed with jelly named Bo. Peanut butter with tooth paste smeared all horses doesn’t justify murder. Judge punished some carnivores arbitrarily for misbehaving without shorts or turtles.


Also, for your amusement:

Senioritis

I'm beginning to feel the effects. There's a high possibility the condition has been exacerbated by the fact that I'm only taking 12 hours this semester, and 12 hours the next. Homework assignments and art projects that formerly dominated my life and carried the full essence of my self-worth are now eclipsed by the realization that in 301 days, I'll have a college degree in my hand and no clue what I'm going to do with my life. Getting a C on my latest paper doesn't seem that earth shattering any more.

It's time's like these, these sobering moments of self-reflection and pondering the future that it's important to remember the sovereignty of God. When my relationship with God grows stale and He seems so distant, I forget that He is intimately involved in every aspect of my life. I begin to worry about whether or not I'll be successful in my chosen career path, will I actually be able to make it on my own or will I miserably fail at life. Will I even choose the right direction? All those worries are complete and total drivel, because I have absolutely nothing to worry about. The one thing that should occupy my thoughts and have my undivided attention is whether or not I am loving God with all that I am, submitting to Him as my King, and trusting Him as my Father. The rest will fall into place, and my life will be something that I can look back on with no regrets.

To live would be an awfully big adventure.

Fatty gobbetts...

Semi-serious injuries are quite entertaining. For example, I cut my hand open while sledding yesterday. When you live in a building with 180 other people, all stuck inside because of the snow, a little bit of blood and some dramatic screaming always draws a significant crowd. Anyways, I was stupid (as any 19 year old in college has a right to be) and decided it would be a good idea to hurl myself down the death slope next to the 100 steps without a sled. One of those "here, hold my beer" moments. Except there wasn't any beer involved. I'm not sure if that makes it even more pathetic.

I guess "cutting my hand open" might be a little overstatement. Whatever decided to attack my hand during my rapid descent thought it decent to only go fat-deep. Not all that serious, though time will tell whether or not I should have gotten stitches. Still, seeing one's fatty tissue peeking through several layers of skin to blubber out "hello!" is enough to make one nauseous.

I would like to say that I have wonderful friends. Specifically, my sister-in-law who took incredible photos of all the blood, and my brother who gutted it up and scrubbed my hand as hard as he could. Oh yeah, that dramatic screaming I was talking about? That was him.

Okay, I'll admit, I might have screamed too, but considering the amount of blood that was pouring into the sink, I believe it was entirely justified. So, nearly 24 hours later, the wound has ceased to ooze bodily fluids and appears to be on track to recovery.

Moral lesson? ... Well, the best thing I can think of, if you're going to do something idiotic, I would advise being under the influence of alcohol. At least then you'll have a decent excuse, unlike me.

Humdrum de dum...

And yet I'm still writing, and you're still reading, which probably means you've been afflicted with "it's week two of Christmas break and I don't have much else to do other than write on my blog...or read someone else's blog".

The coffee was quite excellent this morning...

Oh yeah, and I had a biscuit. So apparently I have nothing witty or useful to contribute to your life today. I hope this has at least been a pleasant distraction for two minutes of your life. Now go check facebook and see what your 326 other friends are not doing while they're bored out of their minds. Good night, and good luck.

Oh wait, it's morning. Frowny face.

Making progress...

In February of 2009, I started taking apart my Dad's old SR500 that was sitting (rotting, really) out in the barn. I had every intention of putting it back together, hopefully in better condition than I found it. I pulled off every piece of that thing, the engine, the wheels, the swing arm, everything. Once I got it down to the frame, I decided that given the extent of the rust and corrosion, it should be sandblasted and repainted. It took a few weeks of just trying to get the sandblaster working to realize that I had nowhere near the expertise necessary to do the job. Frustrated, I put the project on hold.

More than a year later, the project has been revived. Just this morning I took the frame, swing arm, kick stand, and a few other parts in to get sandblasted and powder coated. The engine got pulled out and was given a thorough cleaning, toothbrush and all. It still has a good deal of dirt, grease, and grime to be removed, but it looks worlds better than it did. If I stay on track this time, I may have this thing roadworthy by the end of summer.

Big if.

And it's done.

Tonight we had the premiere for the JBU COAST film The Crossing. After two semesters of work, many long nights, and countless occasions of freaking out realizing that I'm also a college student and have other responsibilities...it's done.

And what a way to finish.

We showed the film in Bynum theater, the largest room on campus with a projector. We thought 151 theater style seats would be enough. Ten minutes before it started, we were setting up about twenty five extra chairs, and there were still people standing up in the ailes. Needless to say, having almost 200 people show up to watch your movie is a good feeling. A really good feeling.

And now I shall sleep. Precious sleep. It's good to meet you again.

What it means to fall on Jesus

I love flying. Since I was six years old,I've been fascinated with things that soar through the atmostphere. I've flown in massive military cargo planes, small economy jets, tiny high performance gliders. I love the feeling of acceleration as a plane takes off down the runway and is literally sucked into the sky. Despite the fact that I know WHY a plane full of a hundred people and thousands of pounds of cargo is able to overcome the forces of gravity and soar through the atmosphere, it never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes it seems like being a Christian is like stepping onto a plane. You know where it's going, you know it's worked for other people before, and you know the pilot has gone through years of training to do this job. No matter all these facts though, there's still an element of faith. Faith that the wings will stay attached to the plane, that the engines won't give out, that the very aerodynamic forces that keep the plane aloft won't mysteriously cease to exist.

But there's an even deeper form of faith. I didn't understand what it was until last summer, when I and several of my best friends not only got on a plane, but left it midflight. I still didn't understand it 'til days later, when I thought more about what had happened. I'm not saying that me jumping out of an airplane made me a better Christian. I'm saying that it helped me understand just a little more of what Christ wants from us.

When I jumped out of that airplane I had only known my instructor for about an hour. I didn't know how many times he had jumped, if he was mentally stable, I didn't even know his last name. But I trusted him with my life. Why? I don't know. I was so excited about getting to jump that I didn't think about that 'til afterwards. But thinking about it, I realized that having a relationship with Christ is kind of like going on a tandem jump. When we trust Christ completely, we don't have to know how to do everything he ask us to do. We don't have to understand why the parachute keeps us from plummeting to our deaths. We don't have to know how to operate the cords that steer it down. We don't even have to know where the landing zone is. All we have to do is hold on to Him, and jump. He will do the rest. That's what we do when we become a Christian.

Why do I write this? I keep thinking about what we as Christians do so often. I don't know how many times I've heard someone say "well I need a Bible degree before I can go into ministry", or "after I get out of school, I can start serving God". We think that we need a piece of paper, some flimsy certificate, to qualify us to be a servant for Christ. I'm not saying education is bad. I say it's not enough. If we put our trust in our own earthly knowledge, even earthly knowledge about heavenly things, we'll only be getting on the plane. But if we put our trust in Christ's awesome power to save, and in the Holy spirit's guidance, and the Father's love, we will experience the thrill of jumping OUT of the plane. The thrill of losing control, abandoning safety, and falling through the air with the wind on your face. And only when you're at a complete loss to do anything for yourself can you experience the feeling of having Christ catch you.

I think that God calls us to do great things. And so often, we reply "God, I don't know enough yet!" But He doesn't care. Don't waste your energy on the future, it will never come. All God wants us to do is to trust Him here, and now.

It's dusk right now, so I wrote this.

I like making pretty pictures. Motion pictures that is. It's hard to tell someone who's never experienced it what it's like to stare through a viewfinder and see your lighting, composition, and dynamics all come together into a beautiful harmony that tells a story without the need for words. I love being behind a camera. That said, here's a picture of a fish.

"Sitting, Waiting, Wishing" doesn't get you anywhere

It's obviously been a while since there's been a post about the SR500. Mostly because at the moment there isn't an SR500. Just a frame and a bunch of parts. It's almost overwhelming looking at everything that needs to be done, knowing my only workspace is in the middle of the Texas heat and humidity. If I could just get past the first step of sandblasting and painting the frame, I'm pretty sure that the rest would come together pretty easily. Anyway, here's a picture of what it should look like when it's done. I'm hoping this might be motivation to get to work...

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

I found out firsthand this past week that the Suzuki GSX-R 1000 is fast. Very fast. In fact, I don't think the word 'fast' can really do it justice, because it's not just top speed that makes the GSX-R 1000 a thing of beauty.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no expert on sport bikes by any means whatsoever. However, I have been riding motorcycles (mostly dirt bikes) since I was about nine, and I know a demon when I see one. So why am I writing this? Well, I went to Austin...

After hanging with Ruth and Jesse for a few days, kayaking on Lady Bird lake, swimming at Emma Long Beach, and just enjoying the relaxed Austin atmosphere, I think something got to my head and I wasn't thinking straight.
I went over to my oldest brother's place on Saturday, planning to just hang out and have a good time. I got there and he apparently already had plans to try and get me on the speed demon sitting in his garage. I was pretty nervous since the only bike I had ever really ridden on the street was my Yamaha 225 Serow, aptly named after a Mongolian mountain goat. It's a good off-road bike, but not exactly thrilling on pavement. After a few minutes of trying to talk him out of it I realized it was hopeless and agreed to take the bike out around the block a couple times. As soon as I got a taste of the power at my disposal, I quickly realized the 30mph roads of suburbia were not going to be enough. I made a quick pass by Josh's house again to let him know I where I was going before heading out onto Southwest Parkway. With that much open road ahead of me and six gears to play with, I had a time of it behaving. A bike with that much raw power can't help but go fast; it almost has a will of its own. Any rider that claims something is the bike's fault, however, doesn't have any business riding one. The bike still only did as much as I told it to. So I struggled to keep from launching it into orbit and made it back to Josh's house without committing any moving violations of Texas law.While Josh has always seemed to have a strange desire for me to wreck every single one of his vehicles, the last thing I expected was for him to offer to loan me the bike for a couple weeks. But he did. And while I was trying to refuse, the next last thing I expected was for Ruth to encourage me to accept, which she did, and I did. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't. Anyway, instead of driving home in the 2000 Century Buick like I had planned, Monday morning found me sitting on a purring Gixxer 1000, oh so ready for the 150 mile ride ahead. It occurred to me that my parents might be somewhat miffed that I neglected to ask for their blessing on my trip, but I hoped my mom would understand that I was merely following her advice "better to ask forgiveness than permission".

As expected, I did get a bit of a...scolding, for not consulting them in my decision. Screaming down 1488 the next Saturday, though, just behind my dad's Honda Interceptor, I figured things were probably back to normal. Or maybe better than normal...

ugh...

Whew! I'll tell you what, some of those bolts can be a real pain. I got the bike stripped down to almost nothing but the frame, not counting of course the twenty pounds of grease and grime so closely attached, I didn't have the heart to seperate them. Well, maybe I'm just too lazy. Coming inside and writing this post took a lot less energy than firing up the power sprayer and hosing down the frame.Anyway, at this point the SR500 is almost unrecognizable as a motorcycle, and I'm starting to wonder if I'll be able to remember how to put it back together. I may have to break down and actually read some instructions online. Blech.
I'm really starting to enjoy having a dedicated space to work in. Big improvement from the driveway in front of the garage. There's something to be said for working in the shade with all your tools easily accessible. Having my homemade iPod dock playing Frank Sinatra and Norah Jones doesn't hurt. Music is just about the best thing God ever thought up. So far it's shaping up to be a great night. Motorcycles, music, and now I think it's time for some ice cream and a good book.

Resurrecting a Memory

So I've been working over the past few weeks trying to get my dad's metal construction building in order, throwing out the useless junk and organizing the less useless junk into some semblance of order. I finally got everything just about how I wanted it last Thursday, so my cousin Noah and I decided to pull out an old Yamaha SR500 I'd tinkered with before I left for college in 2008. It'd been over a year since I had cleaned the carburetor and at least six months since I last started it, so I had no expectations that we'd get it running. Engine starting fluid works miracles. About fifty unsuccessful kicks and half a can of starting fluid later, the thing roared to life. Needless to say, I was ecstatic. Of course, the fuel mixture was way off and it wouldn't idle for more than five seconds without a lot help from the choke, but my hopes were high.

I wasn't going to put a bike that looked as bad as this one did on the road, though, and I figured with the amount of rust and grease I was dealing with I'd probably have to go with completely taking the whole thing apart. I've never really done much mechanical work beyond cleaning carburetors, changing oil, or replacing brake fluid, so I figured this would be an opportunity for me to learn something new. It hasn't been that much of a challenge, but so far I've only been taking things off. My next step is to finish stripping it down, then sand and repaint the frame.