What We Try to Do If Loss May Happen
We think our baby may be too small.
Last Tuesday, Lindsay had a Doctor’s appointment, and we learned there may be complications with the pregnancy. It is a wait-and-see proposition, an indispensable element of medicine.
“You’ll have to wait,” says the doctor, “Until we can get you an advanced sonogram.” That will happen on Monday. So the past week has been spent, well, waiting.
Waiting is active. You read a book or study or watch the Jayhawks. You talk—about life, about hoops, about whatever—with a friend. You pray, out loud, for as long as you can. You remember that sorrow may be on tap, but that the tap has not been turned. It could be hot water or cold—but now you’re waiting, and this takes an effort.
Waiting could be a gift, I think.
::
At the approach of unforeseen disaster, my impulse, at first, is to conclude, If God hands out pain now, in such large doses, he must have a unique endeavor in the works. Adventure lies ahead. Then I can smile in spite of aching, and feel, with a bright childlikeness, that hidden avenues of meaning wait to unveil themselves nearby. Some plants will only grow in the dark, and some journeys can only be carried out after nightfall. I see it everywhere in the Bible: If Christ wounds you deeply, he often has a paramount battle for you to fight.
The pain has a glowing surreality, a stinging bittersweetness.
All this comes at the first prick, at the premonition of tragedy. Then the ceiling comes crashing down and the lights go out. That fragile understanding of honored adventure gets lost in the dark confusion.
I picture the secret knowledge like a shining disc, a silver circle that reflects the sky, and my own pain in light of the sky. But the crystalline sphere gets dropped and broken in the melee of pain. The pieces are crushed and slivered underfoot. They lie there forgotten until the next bout with tragedy, when I find myself kneeling instinctively, scrabbling in the dirt of memory for the strangely polished shards.
They’re eroded and slim, sharpened by time and friction, and the main form of the object has broken down, has been worn away. They look and feel vaguely familiar.
I seem to remember that they formed a disc: a luminous sphere that reflected a hidden meaning for pain. Gingerly I fit the fragments together, and hope I will not forget, this time, what the completed puzzle looks like.
::
I debated whether to post about this, and eventually decided to go for it. Lindsay and I are deeply concerned, obviously, about the health of our baby, and painfully aware that a huge sigh of relief or gaping disappointment is right around the corner. That makes it awkward to talk about.
But this strange view of pain, a medium forcibly taken by Christ for purposes of his own, is so central to the message of this blog that I decided I wanted to write about it. Pain opens doors, mysteriously changes us, and makes us more like Christ if we can kneel instead of curse. I need to remember this.
I also know that pain is something we grapple with, live in, and rarely defeat with an ‘intuitive leap.’ That doesn’t mean, though, that we can’t learn from past ‘adventures.’ Whatever happens next, that’s one thing I hope we will do.
Now that I’ve mentioned this situation, I will most likely continue to blog about the usual things—books, thoughts about God, KU hoops, bittersweetness… Don’t feel like you need find ‘the right words’ to mention our baby—that can be ridiculously hard, and we’ll be fine with any thoughts and prayers that come our way.
Take care! Every loss or gain is in God’s hands.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Hidden Meaning for Pain
Hoops Love and Jayhawk Brags
The KU-OSU segment of the Big 12 tournament turned out to be must see television. After I watched the Jayhawks grind out a rugged, one-point win over Oklahoma State last night, I went to bed with basketball on my mind.
Specifically, I remembered the images: blood gushing down Russell Robinson's face after Jameson Curry threw an elbow, and Darnell Jackson aggressively chest-bumping David Monds and telling him what was on his mind after Monds dealt out a hard foul. "This is a man's game."
This morning when I got up and looked outside to discover a sunny, 65 degree day, I really, really wanted to hit the blacktop. I guess you could call this pent-up aggression. Or triumphant élan after last night's victory. Probably a combo, which would correspond to my guard play.
Unfortunately, I'm not in a position to go find a pick-up hoops game today. Problem being, there aren't any around here. Downtown KC has a 'hood, sort of. But only in a very diminutive sense. You won't find any jivin', tattooed cats mixin' it up on the asphalt. This is one of my major gripes with city life around here. Apparently no one is cool enough to know that downtowns exist primarily to host rapid-fire hoops action.
So instead of playing hoops, I did what I could to move in that direction. I went shopping for a basketball. Now, before you misinterpret: I've had many basketballs in my life. I actually own one now, but it's camped out at my parents house, the scene of many a competitive sibling rivalry game. Admittedly, I could have driven over to my parents' place and reclaimed my old ball. But that seemed like such a tacky thing to do. That ball was old. Years old. What was needed was a new ball, with that new ball smell.
So I did it.
As I type, the aroma of my new Spalding outdoor model is helping to console my landlocked blues. I want to be out on a court RIGHT NOW. I know my own neighborhood is too lame to offer any real games...but now I have the means to go cruise around further afield, ball under arm, looking for pickup action. Maybe after the KU game.
After the KU win, that is. I'm calling it right now:
Jayhawks 77
Cornhuskers 61
This will be the third time KU and NU have matched up this season, and the 'Hawks have developed an endearing habit of winning by 20+ points (margins of 42 and 21). But Nebraska's Jamel White lit up the Oklahoma Sooners for 22 points last night, and the Huskers have everything to play for. That's why I'm adjusting the KU margin of victory to a mere 16 points. Call it generosity. Provided in part by that new ball smell.
Related post: A Place Where I Can Hoop
Friday, March 10, 2006
Jayhawks Need Big Men to Outduel Cowboys
Over at Phog Blog, I just posted a quick preview of tonight's Big 12 Tournament match-up. Which game, you ask?
Well, the premiere game, obviously.
The Jayhawks, having drawn the toughest second-round opponent after a first round bye, square off against Oklahoma State at 6 p.m. this evening. The glimpses I caught of the OK State win last night were disquieting, with big men Boggan and Johnson exploding for 23 points and 20 points respectively. As I note in my article, this could cause problems for KU's inconsistent big men.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Beautiful Evil People
A Material Problem
If you are a materialist, you should probably not make comments like “Things are not always as they appear.” This would be disingenuous. “What you see is what you get” is a central tenet of the naturalistic worldview.
The problem is how do you (as a die-hard materialist) explain things that you undeniably don’t see—but still get? The ‘mind’ is an obvious and often cited example. But I'm thinking of something a step further down the road. How do we explain lovely, evil people?
We glance at a good-looking person, and our gut feeling is that a loveable, well-developed animal stands before us. Think again. How do some of the planet’s most egocentric, underhanded specimens get off with being so gorgeous?
The obvious answer is to say that those who generated a smiling façade for their treachery fared best in the brute race of natural selection. But then we are confronted by the fact that those who can so countenance their evil are a slim majority. Not only do the beautiful and bad do well, but so do the ugly and bad—not to mention there are more of them, and they progress just as ‘beautifully’ in their badness.
We may as well say that the world should be peopled exclusively by the beautiful by now, since physical appeal is such a conferrer of benefit. But the facts don’t correspond. Evil people pop up everywhere, incarnated as both hunks and slobs, divas and ne’er-look-wells. Likewise the good.
If atoms and quarks are the fundamental reality, the world should be a much more straight-forward place.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Controversy and Buzz
Thought I'd mention that controversy still swirls around the recent post, The Imaginary Life. My friend Scott, who I called out in the post, has done an admirable job defending himself, triggering more debate in the process. Not bad, not bad at all. Should Scott ever venture into the blogosphere, we expect a knock-out blog about Math, Coding, and the beauty of the Quadratic Equation. Oh yeah, and Illinois hoops. (How much imagination does it take to root for Bruce Weber, who was recently seen wearing a lurid, bright orange sports coat? The verdict is still out...)
On another front, I've been thinking about the implications of comments. Some posts draw rapid-fire remarks almost from the moment they appear. (In the context of this blog, 'rapid-fire' would suggest a comment count in double digits.) Other posts maintain an uneasy silence. The obvious conclusion is that some pieces are more provocative, more helpful, more interesting than others. These ones generate the buzz.
I only question this hypothesis because occasionally I've read a post so brilliant that it leaves me searching for words. (This frequently happens at www.kusports.com, the best Jayhawk hoops venue around.) Could it be that there is more than one cause of a comment deficit? 1) The readers are confused and embarassed for the post's author, and kindly keep quiet. 2) The readers are deeply moved, and their heartstrings are humming so loud they can hardly find the right words to respond.
If this was the case, assuming you were trying to evoke commentary, you would want to aim for a kind of middle ground. You would have to avoid both confusing flights of fancy and unspeakably inspiring posts. A catchy lucidity would be the best compromise. Interesting.
I'd like to wrap up this wandering post by giving a nod to several new faces that I've enjoyed seeing around here lately. Their blogs are certainly worth a look.
Almschrift-Stellerin of Almschrift
Jessi of they pay to kiss your feet
Dustin of Imaginations in Unity
Chosha of a little east of reality
And an oldie-but-goodie: Colleen of Ardamar (Check out the post on the toad)
A few other blogs are begging to be included in this list, so I'll have to do this again sometime soon.
Peace, I'm out.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Life is Complex and Simple
I think most of us have an ongoing vulnerability to people who will tell us that life is more simple than it really is. We like it. It feels good. Consider this popular therapy:
- If you just buy this product and wear it prominently when you hit the town, the girls will line up.
- If you just think about yourself more positively, life will straighten itself out.
- If you just trust Jesus, everything will go well.
- All desire is bad, but stop wanting anything and life is beautiful.
In every act there is a component—call it inclination—that determines whether real work, real good, has been accomplished or whether the exertion was utterly wasted. This means, in a very significant sense, that life is not simple but complex.
There is this dimension of thought-act that can make everything I do futile and invalid. I can make money hand over fist and be living, spiritually, a contradiction. I can win every game I enter and be engaged in self-annihilation. I can volunteer my time and sell my soul.
By the same token, there’s a dimension that can transform the most putrid duty into a glorious engagement with reality, a poetic affirmation of my identity as God’s man. I can pick up trash from the gutter and revel in my creaturehood. I can lie sick in bed, apprehend my disease, and still understand that God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world. I can even die happily.
The ultimate act of self-destruction, for the materialist, may be the greatest act of worship for the Christian. That’s why Christ is either a pitiful laughingstock or a thing of awful beauty. There is a hidden dimension in life, underlying every weekday, turning every act to gold or ashes.
It is because of this spiritual reality that I can say with Paul, “For me to live is Christ (even in prison or when beat up by Jews on jihad), and to die (even painfully) is gain.”
Once this realization dawns, in its distilling brilliance, the shadows of complexity fade into the background and simplicity takes center stage again. As Kierkegaard said, “Purity of heart is to will one thing.” Worship—praying, talking with, and pursuing God—brings a clarity, a center, a refreshing focus.
Life is complex, but worship can trace the unifying strands that weave throughout the bittersweet.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Perks of Postmodernism
As people like Brian McLaren are quick to point out, Postmodernism is here to stay. This has a number of important side-effects. For example, I’m careful to remember that truth is no longer lingual and propositional, it’s more experiential and intuitive.
When I go to McDonald’s, and the server asks me what she can get for me, I frown perplexedly and rub my chin. Then I gesture tentatively in the direction of Value Meal #4. Usually she gets it. When she asks me if I want to super-size my order, I just say, “Well, what do you think?” She smiles and says, “Well, it seems like a good idea!” There’s something very beautiful and refreshing about this arrangement.
But on to more important things. There’s no doubt that postmodernism has left us with definite benefits. This is especially true for men.
I was considering this recently as I rushed toward a late substitute teaching assignment. In the old days, the accelerated journey toward the door would have been forced to detour in front of the mirror to preen a businesslike hairstyle into place. Thanks to postmodernism, this is no longer the case.
A handful of hair glue, few careless scrunches with all ten fingers—the more careless the better—and the professional young man is ready to face the day. Girls, I’m sorry that this advantage of postmodernism hasn’t reached you yet. It’s still struggling to transcend the cultural glass ceiling. This is wrong, and I’d be the first to say so, but there it is. Give it a few more years.
We men, on the other hand, owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to postmodernism for its emphasis on spontaneity and authenticity. When such a credo meets a hairstyle, the result is magnificent. At least it is for us, as we rush out the door.
As this is one of the cardinal virtues of postmodernism, I guess it goes without saying that I am all for it. I’m convinced, right along with McLaren, that postmodernism is here to stay. Postmodernism is the new truth. (Pardon the momentary relapse into propositional statement.) You can put up the dictionaries and pull out the hair glue! Farewell ‘facts’! Goodbye grammar! PMism is here to stay!
Unless I’m wrong.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
The Imaginary Life
Ultimate Reality Calls for Imagination
If you do not like dragons you are lacking as a person.
Whenever possible, I like to begin a post by aggravating or at least interesting most of the audience. Thus, the above sentence. What it lacks in precision it makes up for in verbal kick. Here's what I'm getting at: Imagination—personified by the 60-foot dragon with gray-green scales and teeth like iron daggers—is not a negotiable element in life. It is vital, even central, to healthy living.
How can this be? Well, it’s hard to adjust your life to the contours of reality without imagination. Lots of it.
The argument begins like this.
AJ: Hey! Hey you, the guy in the Linux T-shirt.
'Realist': Yeah?
AJ: I've got a question. Call it a Physics question. Is everything that exists visible to the naked eye?
'Realist': Do you always start conversations this way?
AJ: Oh, come off it. Stop playing to the audience and answer the question.
'Realist': Uh, ok. No, not everything that exists can be seen. Atoms, wind, the multiple dimensions of reality (maybe as many as 39)--you can't see these things.
AJ: Right. Because they're invisible, so to speak. And yet you believe these invisible things exist?
'Realist': Of course.
AJ: Would you say you have some concept of these things, a kind of familiarity with their workings? Do you have, say, 'pictures' you associate with them?
'Realist': C'mon, man. Obviously. I majored in computer science and read books on Physics in my spare time. There are various models that attempt to depict atomic structures, wind can be thought of as 'blowing' or even 'flowing' like water. And Brian Greene visualizes some amazing theories about the 'fabric of the cosmos.' Even the quadratic equation has a kind of beautiful shape to it.
AJ: Right. That all makes sense, except for the bit about the quadratic equation. So you admit that it takes imagination to reconcile yourself to reality?
'Realist': Huh?
Considering that even the law of gravity is accentuated by imagination ("Don't go too close to the edge, or else!") it's no great leap to suggest that all sorts of unseen reality will not be hit upon without similar work.
Of course, a materialist might be able to make a convincing case that using one's imagination is escapist and delusional. (Unless he chooses the opposite course and deliberately advocates imagination because reality is so undesirable.) But someone who believes in a spiritual world, and most especially a Christian, will have a hard time defending the absolute necessity of a healthy, well-oiled imagination.
How else will we begin to live as if Christ is nearby, and walking through life with us? How else will we adjust for the reality of heaven--the priorlife--and the startling weight of eternity? How else will we pick up the little hints, the small clues, the shattered pieces of glory that make up the bittersweet mosaic of life now? How else will we cope with mystery and loss?
As G.K. Chesterton says, "Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess players do." I have a couple friends who are working their way down the road toward mental health. One of them, Rob, has come to the point of candidly admitting the fact that he 'doesn't read fiction.' When confronted with the implications of this, he confessed his deficiency. "Yeah, I need to read something besides nonfiction," he admitted. There is hope for Rob, because he knows his faith can use a shot of imagination, and he is seeking help.
Other cases are more serious.
Scott, my other friend, is still in denial. Scott is still struggling to admit he even has an imagination because he has a hard time with 'stuff that couldn't really happen.' Dragons for example. Dragons make Scott roll his eyes. He would much rather draw the quadratic equation on a chalk board. Because it 'could really happen,' you know.
Scott has yet to realize that the quadratic equation was discovered by someone who was using his imagination. But, with the help of the Lord of the Rings movies and incremental trips into books that are not about programming, there is even help for people like Scott. At least we can hope so.
For the rest of us, it's good to remember that those trips into Narnia, down Baker Street, or through Middle Earth, are not wasted. A person living hand in hand with reality would be someone who was not overly impressed at what could merely be seen with the eyes.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Swann's Way - Marcel Proust, A
A Flash-Review 
Swann's Way – Marcel Proust, A
This blog has suffered the last several days as I have suffered from a tenacious bout of the flu. Other than attend classes and go to work, I've been trying to do as little of anything as possible. Funny thing about being sick. At any moment, you can slip into a state of altered consciousness, half-awake, half-asleep, and start having reveries about the apple trees behind your house when you were seven years old, or the early days of your hoops career, or whatever. Having the flu is conducive to re-opening a window to your past.
And that thought provides a segway to this very brief review of Swann's Way by Marcel Proust. As far as I know, Proust was not sick when he wrote this book, but he did live in a room with cork-lined walls, which gives you the impression of a man seeking security. An invalid, if you will. And Proust couldn't think of any one thing, seemingly, without swimming down streams of connotation to the ocean of the past.
It's hard to do justice to Proust's descriptive ability. Swann's Way is a collection of lovely, painstaking observations loosely held together by an ethereal storyline. The result is evocative, nostalgic, and wandering. Proust requires patience, but every so often he rewards you with a rapier-like observation. Like this one: Just as it is not by another man of intelligence that an intelligent man will be afraid of being thought stupid, so it is not by a great lord but of a country bumpkin that a man of fashion will be afraid of seeing his elegance go unappreciated. Three quarters of the expenditure of wit and the lies told out of vanity that have been squandered since the world began by people who in doing so merely diminish themselves have been squandered on inferiors.
Some of Swann's passages I would like to read and reread. Others demanded more prolonged attention than I could muster for, say, the storied lineage of a cathedral window. But Proust writes with unparalleled lyrical beauty, a miraculous memory, and a knack for idealizing and polishing the world by describing it.
::
Listed on the Master Book List
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A 'Sub' By Any Other Name...
In a class today, one of my students was telling her classmate how happy she was to have a sub.
"But he's not a sub. His badge says 'Teacher Associate.'"
"Well yeah. But at my job they call 'em 'Service Associates' and they're still dish-washers."
I don't think she realized how fitting the parallel was, but I was quick to compliment her analogy. I'm pretty sure that other Teacher Associate would appreciate her observation as well...
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