"A Small Crime, And I Got No Excuse"

                In the first couple weeks of Uni, I was in the kitchen with a guitar and a small audience (I don’t remember how this came about, but that’s not really important) and I played and sang a song I’d written about a year ago or so.  Since then, I’ve been told numerous times how much they liked it, and how I simply have to record it for them before I leave for the States.

                Then, about a week ago, some friends and I were hanging out in a lounge on the second floor.  I had my guitar handy, and I performed a song for them that I’d just finished writing.  I wasn’t sure how it would be received, but they loved it.  They loved it so much, in fact, that I heard about it almost every day.  A couple of them later told me they had cried, or almost cried.  One friend asked to see the lyrics some three days later.

                 I liked the attention and the validation.  I had new confidence in my abilities.  I started thinking about my unfinished songs, and how I should get around to finishing them.  But I also felt like they’d have to be as good as the last one I’d written, or else I’d let my friends (and myself) down.  About that time, I found a song by Damien Rice (called 9 Crimes) that I still figure is one of, if not the, most beautiful and haunting songs I’ve ever heard, and suddenly, my own songs weren’t good enough, and probably never would be.  Every hour, I was thinking about lyrics, characters, chord progressions, timing, anything and everything I could use to make a song that can recreate the effects I’d given my friends, the feelings I’d experienced when I heard 9 Crimes for the first time.

                I’d have thought that with my history of obsessive tendencies I’d have seen this progressing, but by the time I did, I was already feeling the effects.  I felt drained, stressed, and restless.  Others could tell I wasn’t myself, either.  Once I realized where I was heading, I decided to take a break from guitar until I get my head together.  It worked.

                I’ve thought about what happened for long enough to see why it happened.   Most of the songs I write are not peppy songs.  Generally, I use songwriting like I use journaling; to make sense of things I don’t understand, to come to accept the things I don’t like, and to express things I can’t express any other way.  So the subjects aren’t always happy.  But they’re the things I’m working through.  They’re the things I talk about with my close friends.  So by letting others into my songs, I felt like I was connecting with my new friends in a real, deep way.  By finishing my songs, I could continue to show myself to my friends.   And that’s something I desperately need.  And I’m not ashamed of that.

                And that’s just the way it goes.  We have a serious, legitimate need, and we set out to meet that need, but so often we do it in the wrong ways.  Writing songs is a great, but it is not meant to accomplish what I wanted it to accomplish.  I was abusing it.  And in that abuse, we find ourselves in a whole new host of troubles, often worse off than when we started.  It’s like drinking sea water when you’re thirsty.

                If you know me, you know the punch line by now:  Jesus is the good water.  He calls himself the living water, and those who drink of him will never thirst again.  So I’ve taken a break from song writing, and I’m trusting in God to give me what I really need; community, acceptance, and love.  Since then, people have come up to me, offering to talk.  I’ve seen that my friends care about me, and that they do want to know me better.  And that was what I wanted all along.

Meditations on a Beach Run

                I have run on streets and country roads, sidewalks and tracks, forests and corn fields and deserts, but my favorite place to run is the beach.  Disregarding the beautiful scenery, the run itself is better; the sand acts as a great cushion for the limbs, but it also works you harder.  Running barefoot through soft sand and shallow water works muscles differently than you’re used to, which is an important step to a great workout.  The slant of the beach also makes you work on your balance more.  Plus, if/when you get too hot, you can just take a quick dip in the surf and keep running.

                 A couple nights ago, I took my bike down to the mouth of the Hopkins to photograph the sunset.  I got some shots I liked, but when the sunset was over, I wasn’t ready to leave.  The air was perfect, and my legs were feeling fresh, and I knew I had at least a half an hour until it was too dark, so I hid my backpack and shoes behind a rock and took off towards the breakwater.

                As I ran, I started thinking.  I thought about how I have to do this more often.  I have the bike, I have the legs, I have the time and the continent and everything.  It’d be a shame, a waste, if I didn’t come out here to run at least weekly.

                I thought about the waves.  The sound of them was a better running mate than my iPod (at least as good as Explosions in the Sky and Olafur Arnalds).  The sound was both changing and constant, and in the waning light, they were terrifying.  The first time a wave caught my foot, I gasped.  At one point, somewhere near Granny’s Grave, the waves hit some sort of underwater rock shelf, and they plume up into the air.  I knew I was safe, but I imagined the danger of being out there in the surf.  I knew I’d be toast.  It was at that moment that I came to respect the waves.

                I thought about a verse in the Bible that says that you can learn about the qualities of God from creation; the sky, the mountains, the critters, everything.  I’ve learned about God from the cornfields and the summer sun, thistles and butterflies, all the things I’ve grown up with, but I’d never seen God in a wave.  I thought I’d like to.

                I thought of another place in the Bible where a man (Isaiah) had a vision where he saw God on his throne, in all his glory and power.  The first thing Isaiah said was “Woe is me, for I am ruined!” which basically means, “I’m toast.”

                By the time I got back to my backpack and shoes, I’d made the connection I was looking for:  I saw that in some significant ways, God is like the ocean.  God calls people to himself, like people feel the call to visit the ocean, to see something vast and powerful and beautiful and beyond themselves.  But just seeing the ocean is not enough; so we go to the beach, and we stand and wait for the first wave to break around our ankles, and right then we feel the ocean for the first time, an experience that shocks us awake, simultaneously satisfying that desire and feeding it, calling us in deeper, to the knees, to the waist.  So little water does so much in us, and then we look out at the far reaches of the horizon, and we know that there is more in this ocean than we can gather or expend, more than we could ever imagine, enough to crush us or carry us away to be lost forever.  As the wave retracts, we can feel the sand fading away beneath our feet.  I thanked God for the new perspective and climbed the rocks back up to my bike.

                Now, as I sit here typing this, I have another thought; I wonder how most people see God?  As a powerful, untamed, breath-taking ocean?  Or maybe as a mighty river?  No, I would guess people see God more as a pond; small, quiet, suitable for weekend picnics and baby playgrounds, either past its prime or man-made, but either way unimpressive and insignificant.  Let me tell you, God is not a pond.  This is the God who saved me from depression and pornography and fear and self-loathing, who loved me so much I actually came to love myself too, who made me new, the God who offers salvation, not just in the afterlife, but right now, right in the middle of whatever battle you’re fighting, and I know you’re fighting one.  He is not an old white man with a beard on a cloud.  He is merciful, but righteous, and he hates evil, hates it so much he died on the cross to beat it forever, so you can be free too.  He is the most satisfying thing you can give yourself to, and all you have to do is ask.  I want to spend the rest of my life in this ocean, and when I finally slip below the foamy surface, I’ll only sink deeper into his presence.

                As I’ve said before, I’m not trying to preach.  I’m not doing this for brownie points at church, either.  This is my heart, these are the thoughts I’ve been tossing around, this is what’s happening in my life.  Even if your worldview is totally opposite of mine, I’m sure you can appreciate my desire to express myself and to be known for who I really am.

                Thank you for reading.  Nothing makes a blogger happier than a bloggee.  Without you, this is just a journal.

The Cost

                I spent my night at the Gal for what I hope is the last time in a long time.  It wasn’t my plan to go there in the first place:  DUSA (the student union) was holding at dance party at C59, but nobody went to it.  I was later informed that a “dance party” is just your run-of-the-mill club dance anyways.  But I was there, and everyone was going to the Gal, and a few friends begged me to come.  So I did.

                And I won’t claim that I didn’t have any fun.  I love doing the robot, the “zombie rising” (a move I’m still working on), the box wave thing (credit to Chrissy Schoenrock for teaching me), the stanky leg, and occasionally making the girls look foolish by getting them to swing dance with me.  I have a number of good friends that I get to catch up with, and lots more new friends I'm still getting to know.  And I love being the American that everyone wants to know, although the conversations can get a bit predictable (yes, Nebraska is cold, yes, I like Australia, yes, I’m having a good time).  I love Red Bull.  I love loud music.

                But I don’t think I have enough fun to justify the time and money involved.  Obviously, others do find enough in the bars and clubs to make it all worthwhile.  It’s a biweekly occurrence, at least.

People can tell that I’m not fully engaged, though I try to hide it.  They say it’s because I’m not drinking.  If I drank, I could “cut loose” and “let go” and enjoy myself.  Which sounds nice.  They also say it will help me with my social dancing.  See, I do my robot solo, whereas most others find someone to do the robot with.  When girls have tried to do the robot with me, I’ve inconspicuously but quickly robot-ed away.  If I drank, I could just go with it.

I can think of plenty of times hearing from adults that the party scene brings nothing but pain.  After being an observer for just a few nights, I can tell you that that is false.  If it brought only pain, people wouldn’t go out for six hours a night and spend all their money on it.  They do it because it feeds them in some way.  They find life in it.  You can see it in how they act and talk; there is something in the clubs that fills them.

I’ve also heard the message that everyone is looking for Jesus.  I used to disagree with that; obviously not everyone is looking for a closer relationship with Jesus.  But I understand now that everyone is looking for something to fill them.  They are looking for a deeper realm, something free of pain and worry and shame and loneliness.  So there is alcohol, and loud music, and dancing, and social connection.  And for that time, there is a glimpse of fulfillment.  Though I’ve never been drunk, I imagine that it is the grease that makes the machine work smoothly.  Whereas I feel alone in large crowds, maybe with alcohol, I wouldn’t.  Where I feel uncomfortable with being approached by girls that want to do the robot with me, with alcohol, I wouldn’t.  And so it works; the loneliness, the shame, the worry, all of it goes away.

The flip-side, of course, is the aftertaste.  The hangover, the missed classes, the walk of shame, or more seriously, criminal trouble, pregnancies, addictions, health risks, lingering guilt, etc.  The party scene is not all pain, but it certainly brings its share in the end.  I wonder how many men and women can attest to that.

But the pain’s not the issue; it’s the hole, the void in our lives that we simply have to fill.  We can deal with a headache, but we cannot live without love and acceptance and passion.  If partying is the best way to fill our lives, then by all means, we should go wild; the pain is just a necessary evil, the cost of life.

But here’s the full-circle:  Partying is not the only option.  There is a better answer.  There’s a better way!  You don’t build up an immunity to it, it doesn’t get old, it doesn’t taste bitter on your tongue, but it does free you from all the things that hold you back, all the guilt and loneliness and fear and boredom.  It’s Jesus!  A relationship with a God that saved you, that loves you, that has a glorious adventure planned for your life.

But I won’t say that Jesus is free.  His gift is free, but the cost of following him is our life.  But let me tell you, not as an observer but as a participant, that the cost is worth it.  I don’t know from experience, but I wonder if anyone can say that when all the parties are over, years later, when the whole of the cost is measured, the gain is worth the cost.  I wonder if anyone is ever really satisfied by the things at the clubs.

And no, this is not religiosity wrapped in a thin veil of the travel blogosphere.  And yes, I understand that the idea of a relationship with Jesus (not just belief in his existence, but a personal daily intimacy with him) is incredibly foreign, if not foolish, to most everyone I know.  But guess what, if you’ve read this far, you probably either agree with me already, or you’re at least a little interested in this idea.  Either is fine.  For those of you who don’t understand what a relationship with Jesus is like or what it can do to your life, I don’t blame you; most Christians I know don’t get it either, at least for a while.  But you should ask me about it.  It’d make my day.  Or, keep checking for new posts; I’m sure I’ll hit on this topic again.

Until then, I have to hit the hay.  It’s after 4 am, and I have footy practice tomorrow.  At least I won’t be hung over.

Answered Prayer

                One month into my stay in Australia, and I have accomplished one of my goals:  To find a simple, reliable, cost-efficient way to the beach at night.  This doesn’t sound so hard, but keep in mind that the beach is a good distance away (at least an hour or two to walk), I do not have a car, buses do not run at night, and I’m too cheap to buy a taxi every time I want to go down.

                This goal was made possible tonight by a very kind and generous gift from some friends at church.  It was after church as we were eating lunch and I had just mentioned in passing that transportation was a bit of a problem for me, how I was considering buying a bike, when they offered me to lend me theirs.  Now, granted, the bike was in a state of disrepair, but their dad, the pastor, had WD-40, a wrench, and an air compressor, so we had it up and running in fifteen minutes.  They even gave me a helmet.

                But let me be clear; it’s a bike.  Not a teleportation pad.  It still takes a fair amount of work to get from res to the beach.  Much more work than I expected.  I had to stop to catch my breath more than once.  The ride down was fine (aside from a few wrong turns), but the ride back was mostly uphill and against the wind.

                The reason I was so excited to go at night should be fairly obvious to anyone who loves the outdoors.  I had the place to myself.  No distractions.  And the stars were out in full bloom. There was no moon tonight; all I had was the stars, a few lights from across the bay and, faintly, two or three spots where the horizon glowed a bit from south across the ocean (perhaps from boats or small islands, but I just don’t know).  I love looking at the Milky Way.  And I found Orion, my favorite constellation (except here, he’s usually upside-down).  Next time, I’m going to look for the Southern Cross.

                So I lay on the beach, looked at the stars, and talked with God.  It was exactly what I needed.

                But it was not the coolest part of my day.  The best part of my day was getting to sit and talk with my friends at lunch.  That was when God talked to me.  I don’t yet have friends at uni (university) with which I can talk freely about God with.  In fact, aside from online communications with friends back home, I hadn’t had a conversation about God with anyone who knows him the way I do in about a month.  That’s been the hardest thing about being here.  It’s one of the things I pray for all the time.  Today, God lifted some of that burden.

For the First Time

                Footy (Australian-rules football) practice began today.

                Let me tell you about the difficulty of walking without use of your quadriceps.  Forward leg extension at the knee is painful.  Even more difficult is the act of lifting the leg at the hip.  Laying on the ground, trying in vain hope to stretch my quads back into operation, I wanted to cry.  Later, walking down the halls back at res (on-campus residences), I moved slowly enough to admire the pattern in the carpet for the first time.

                I don’t kick things.  Even back in secondary school, when I played gridiron (football), I didn’t kick the ball.  I was a lineman.  I didn’t even touch the ball, except to dive on the occasional fumble.  I guess I used to kick a soccer ball back in primary, but I guess my right leg forgot about this.  And I wouldn’t have believed it until I experienced it myself, but when you kick a ball for an hour or so, you feel it.  You feel it very much.

                And it’s more than just kicking.  We ran.  I’ve been running a few times a week to get in shape for footy conditioning, but I clearly did not do enough.  Plodding along for 30 minutes at a time is not the same thing as 90 minutes of sprints.

                I wonder how I’ll feel when we actually start hitting.

                But I am okay.  I walked off the field (they call it the Pond; apparently it floods when it rains) and am here sitting at my computer.  Tomorrow I will know how okay I really am, but right now, I feel fine.  And actually, the reason I’m sitting at my computer right now is that I feel more than okay.  I realized that when the coach called us together after our last drill, as we were all encouraging each other and giving high-fives, for the first time, I felt like an Aussie.  I felt like I belonged.  I wasn’t surrounded by people asking “oh, Nebraska, it’s cold there right?” or “so, why did you come here?” (a question that always throws me).  My mates and I, we’d made it through a rough day of practice together, as a team, and I was a part of it.  That makes all the impending soreness very much worth it.