Over Christmas, the scope of my hoops life had become sadly limited.
Yesterday, while making a Post Office visit (see previous entry), the guy who went and searched for my package thought I looked familiar. Of course I did, since I’m at the PO every other day,* but he thought I looked familiar for more than the usual reasons. He looked familiar too. Him being a big black guy, about 6’3”, one context for an acquaintance was obvious.
“Do you play pick-up ball?”
And so the full story emerged. We’d played a few times at UMKC, our local metro college, where I’d been in the habit of hoopin’ it up Saturday mornings. Until Christmas break, that is.
Some of you have probably been wondering what’s happened since my last hoops update. Did I bust a knee out pullin' a move? Torque my ankle beyond all recognition? Sprain my index shooting finger? Or finally get that spot in the NBA developmental league? Sadly, nothing so dramatic. The currents of the urgent just grabbed me and pulled me under, and what with one Saturday morning engagement or another, hoops had taken a back seat.
What can one do in response to a providential, divine encounter like the one yesterday at the PO? Only one course of action, really.
I repent. I repent. I repent.
* I exaggerate slightly. And yes, I'm fully aware that this is the latest in a string of fairly lite posts...with any luck I'll get something more substantial up soon. It's the plan.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
A Lay-Up Call
Friday, January 21, 2005
Err Mail
One of the joys of living downtown is my ongoing relationship with the USPS. Some of you suburbanites probably won’t understand the close symbiosis of this bond, so I thought I would explain. It works something like this.
1) I order something—usually a book. Or two books.
2) During the next several days, the USPS “rushes” to deliver my item in a timely manner, usually failing; but it’s the thought that counts.
3) On an appointed day, the friendly ‘hood mailman comes by while we're gone. Sensing the damage that might occur if he stuffs a 5” by 8” book into a 4” by 6” mailbox, he compassionately writes us a brief note of explanation and motors away in his little Jeep/golf-cart.
4) The next day, or the one after, I drive to the Post Office. A number of the employees there know me on sight, which they acknowledge by a slight inclination of the head and sympathetic looks.
5) I present my note and pick up my “package”—i.e. my book. The personnel take a quick look at my driver’s license, just for kicks. I have yet to become, in their estimation, a real danger to society. Nonetheless, they keep hoping.
6) Often, to show my appreciation for the USPS’s relentless nondelivery of packages to my apartment, and to acknowledge the personal responsibility they feel for my possessions, I buy a few stamps.
7) After the customary remarks, I drive home, checking the mailbox on the way inside to see if I’ll be visiting my friends at the Post Office again tomorrow.
And you're just wishing you had this kind of connection with your PO.
Searchlight
This is for a friend of mine who has been in the woods awhile.
And I said, “Why do you have to go?
I don’t understand this.
How can I walk without you when
This rain is hiding the way?”
And I don’t know,
When I walk down this way,
I can’t be sure.
I wish I knew the path to choose.
Rising sunshine may light
My steps through forest darkness.
I hope so.
In my mind I see the sun come up,
Brushing aside these misty fingers.
Oh, things could be different.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Missing Heroes
Reading great fiction combined with a healthy intake of Great Nonfiction has various effects on a person. One of them is something we occasionally label "hero worship;" but this is often a simplistic way of dismissing an impulse we all experience in various forms and can't very simply explain. The foundations of "hero worship" could appear fantastic when examined closely, especially when the heroes we so admire are either 1) fictional, 2) dead, or 3) inherently flawed people like us.
Actually, though, I didn't set out to analyze hero worship. Maybe later. For now, I'm only expressing something inextricably "native" to each one of us. I want heroes - or a hero - too.
Missing Heroes?*
I saw you laugh in the face of the law,
and as I watched you walk away,
I wondered what secret you’d stumbled on,
what caused your smile.
Freedom?
‘Cause you weren’t living by the dictates of this world anymore.
You weren’t living in this world anymore.
You’d found a different set of rules
and in the light of your eyes
we all looked like fools,
our hearts all shriveled from disuse.
And the next time I bent to the world’s routine
my soul said, What’s the use?
I want to go
where men like him have gone.
This world seems empty now
or lacking anyhow.
I’d like to follow in Elijah’s footsteps,
where men like him have gone:
ride a fiery chariot, win a starry crown.
* And now, after you've read it, the disclaimer. This is one of those "rag" poems that would work better as a spoken word piece than on the page...
© 2004 Ariel Vanderhorst
Metaphysics & Basketball
The Coalescence of Life and Hoops 
What secrets does this round, orange symbol hold?
Several days ago I watched a hoops game featuring a 2-guard “type” shooter who couldn’t handle the ball to save his life. Throw him the rock with a little space and he’d knock down the J. Throw him the ball in traffic and he’d get knocked down, or fall over, or dribble out of bounds—whatever it took, in fact, to turn the ball over. Baffling.
Having a mind ridiculously predisposed to analogies, I started thinking, What’s the life-equivalent to being able to nail open looks but butcher your dribbling duties as a matter of course? In metaphysical terms, what is a shot?
Seems like a “shot” is that instant in the limelight where you take center-court, all eyes on you, where the clear expectation is that you will perform. The “shot,” in other words, is that shining moment that most of us live for, where you look really good while everyone happens to be watching. Is it any surprise that most people go out of their way to manufacture situations like these? We do it with a certain subtlety, perhaps (or perhaps not, if you’re in high school), but almost without a second thought. Most of us are obsessed, like incoming prep-stars, with creating our own shots.
And therefore, so the story goes, solid ball-handling gets the knock. Since we’re planning to let fly at any given opportunity, we don’t see the need to cultivate good handles. Dribbling—the not-so-glamorous, game-long necessity—require more tenacity than it does showmanship. There’s something so boring about ordinary competence. That’s why we think we can always work on it later. The big moments, the “shots,” those are what matter. The nitty-gritty maintenance stuff, right hand/left hand work, crossover dribbles, that’ll come in time. Right?
That’s what you think until you’re stumbling all over yourself, trying to control the ball without success. And just like that, the game is eluding you, the ball is bouncing away in someone else’s sweaty palms and you’re about to get posterized. Turns out that dribbling, steadily moving the ball up the floor, was important after all.
The problem wasn’t that “shots” were bad, or overrated. We just have to take ‘em in the flow of the game, even though they’ll likely be unexpected—and not pass up an open look when it stares us in the face. Real opportunities, as opposed to the manufactured kind, have a startling quality to them.
As I was sitting there, watching that game, something in me was saying that we see a lot of shooters these days, but only a few “players” who can really protect the onion down the stretch.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
So Throw The Book At Me
Lindsay and I were “stuck” at home again today, our expertise as substitute teachers not having been called upon this morning. It's their loss.
Among other things, this interlude gave me a chance to polish off some assigned reading for my recent J-term class. Which, in turn, caused me to reflect on the feast I’ve enjoyed in the last several weeks, Reading What I Want To Read. Since going back to school, this is an experience I haven’t had regularly, and it’s been luxurious.
Now, I realize that listing these titles would not actually qualify as a “post of substance.” More horrible to consider, some might consider it intellectual preening or literary one-upmanship. But it’s really neither. Instead, it’s just me leaning back in my chair for a moment, closing my eyes and smiling…before I’m demolished by a flood of Hebrew syntax, textbook definitions and desperate memorization. Just a brief moment of peace, savoring the days I stole from the specter of cold academic expediency.*
So then, the books I’ve devoured during break:
Out of the Silent Planet – C.S. Lewis
Perelandra – C.S. Lewis
That Hideous Strength – C.S. Lewis
The incredible “Space Trilogy” by Lewis melds metaphysics with story and does it flawlessly. The philosophy is the story. God appears awfully great and I feel small, yet crucially significant. Awe, horror, and romance are invoked; the glory of creation, the banality of evil, the “truth” of myth—for Lewis, nothing is off limits.
Rumors of Another World – Philip Yancey
Yancey’s intentional foray into skepticism attempts to lure seekers toward faith with evocative “rumors” of deity. The resulting book is conversational and thought-provoking, but something less than an intellectual (or spiritual) tour de force. One could level the criticism that Rumors pushes one toward “transcendence” as much as toward Christian faith, as Yancey’s evidences aren’t always singularly Christ-centered.
Reed’s Beach – Bret Lott
Lott tackles pain and loss in this sympathetic story of a grieving couple. Their counterparts (another couple with “scars”), who serve as conduits for healing, are beautifully atypical in their sustaining beliefs. A great story where faith is more seen than heard.
Seeing & Savoring Jesus Christ - John Piper
Classic Piper, focusing on key aspects of Christ’s person. This was a vision-renewing book. The chapter dwelling upon Jesus’ eternal happiness was my favorite.
I have the sinking feeling that I’m forgetting someone—or someone’s book, which is very nearly the same thing. If so, there will be an update. In the meantime, enjoy whatever reading leisure you have to the fullest! And if you have none...eat your heart out. I will be...in about a week.
*This is what you call hyperbole, or dramatic exaggeration. I actually like my classes.
Monday, January 17, 2005
A Dangerous Game
Moments ago, against my better judgment, I fixed a broken clothespin. Yeah, believe it. In the past I've replaced light bulbs, but this... I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, or at a trailhead where trees hide the destination. Sure, the initial descent looks innocent enough, but who knows what it will lead to? Start fixing any little thing that Lindsay brings me, and where will at all end? In fact, I can only guess what—
Unbelievable. In an incredible expression of irony, Lindsay just interrupted this post, pleading with me to cut her hair. I did it, disproving that old adage, A lack of preparation on your part doesn’t necessarily mean an emergency on my part. And as you might guess, her bangs came out looking pretty good. Sigh. But come to think of it, I’ve been coasting down this slippery slope for days, weeks now. Just last Friday I fixed the broken door on our dishwasher. Calls to mind my coworker back in my brief stint in information technology. One day I watched him wire a phone outlet for DSL and he noticed my curiosity. “Believe me,” he said, “this is the kind of thing you do not want to know how to do.”
So, as I was saying… Actually, I guess this post doesn’t really have a point anymore.
The Silent Treatment
A Parenthetical Subject
Yesterday at church I was talking to a friend and the subject of interpersonal relationships came up. (Incidentally, this friend deserves props because he’s a statistical analyst with an eye for superior literature; one meets a mere handful of such people in a lifetime, if one’s lucky.) The gist of the conversation was how to live with each other in a united, understanding way—a tenet of Jesus’ teaching. (In a mere two verses on the subject, Paul the philosopher-theologian, uses the terms “humility,” “gentleness,” “patience,” “tolerance,” “love,” “unity,” and “peace.” (Sorry for the excessive parenthetical statements, I’ll try to restrain myself.)) The standard Christ passed down is one of caring, interactive community, face to face.
Our talk, however, hinged on a specific difficulty in trying to maintain such openness: What should one do in response to the proverbial “silent treatment?”
Say you had a friendship that was, to all appearances, relaxed and healthy. Then the moment came when, for no perceptible reason, the aforesaid “friend” started regarding you with a cold eye, as if they had caught you in the act of some revolting crime. (Say, on the same depth of petty awfulness as stealing a two-year-old’s sucker or furtively kicking someone’s dog—deeds for which you could despise someone and feel justified.) But to you, the awful misdemeanor penciled to your account is shrouded in mystery.
During my junior year of college, when I was Editor-in-Chief of the Campus Ledger at Johnson County Community College, there was a girl on my staff who hated my guts. It was obvious. It was so obvious that even I noticed, which is saying a lot for a guy who was going to school full-time, trying to run a newspaper, and completing a correspondence course, all while in love.
I came up with various theories explaining her extreme dislike, most of which, no doubt, were ridiculously wrong, a few of which probably contained some fragment of the truth. I let it lie as long as I could. How do you deal with an issue that is never actually vocalized? But finally (like Ben Folds in "Rocking the Suburbs"), I got tired of the hate-hate-hate vibes coming my way, so I finally brought the matter to a head. I’d hired this girl, for crying out loud. The irony of it. Finally there was a moment in the office when the two of us were alone.
“Hey, Jen.” (Name has been changed to protect the…innocent?)
“Uh, yeah?”
“I’ve been hoping to get a chance to talk to you… Uh, I’ve been wondering lately if there’s something I did to offend you.”
“OH NO.” (As if this idea strained the very limits of credulity.)
“Well, I think I must have done something or said something. It seems like you’ve had some kind of issue with me lately. And if I did something wrong, I’d like to apologize.”
“Oh no…I’ve just been tired and grumpy lately.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, ok. I’d really like to get this straightened out.” An awkward smile. We both turn back to our monitors and silence ruled the newsroom. But the silence was not therapeutic…
A few such experiences are enough for anyone. As my friend suggested yesterday, all one can really do in a situation like this is to maintain a love for that person. And this can be a struggle, especially if they reject overtures of friendship or look frostily on your attempts to act “normal.”
Personally, I can think of one such person* I’d place in this category right now. And I may as well give credit where credit is due—if you want to get under my skin, this is the way to do it. If someone verbalizes their issue with me, I can write her off as a vitriolic lunatic or deal with her as an authentically injured friend, one or the other. But just stare at me with silent detachment and I’m left to stew.
In the end, the final option for this type of person is to relinquish them to the dubious joys of their silent bitterness. Loving someone from a distance is hard, but you try to do that as well, and learn to cope with the persistent stress it places upon you (like a nagging splinter). In the end, I think a clear conscience will obliterate even this nagging “detraction by implication.”
It would be a mistake to assume, based on someone’s determined silence, that you’ve committed the unforgivable sin. Thankfully, we’re only expected to rectify visible shortcomings, the ones we’re made aware of.
But just the same, in answer to the question, “Is something wrong?” the most hair-raising response conceivable has got to be “OH NO…nothing!”
*In case some of you armchair-Sherlocks are wondering, No, it’s not Lindsay. As everyone knows, these things don’t happen in marriage. He heh.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Car-Wrecked Conscience
Has your conscience "made you" a faker?
Some time ago, Lindsay and I were stopped at an intersection, poised to make a left turn. The red light changed and traffic began to lurch forward. Then, as we watched in suspended horror, another car rumbled into the intersection, apparently trying to “beat” the red light. But the light had already changed. The first car from our side of the light smashed into the luckless vehicle with a resounding crunch. Bull’s-eye, broad-side, almost dead center.
It was strangely satisfying. How many times have you watched some fool totally blow a red light as if he’s colorblind and myopic? Cars who have the right of way are forced to brake or swerve to miss him. Possibly worse still is the casual disregard for the laws that exist to govern such contingencies—as if they were made to be broken, and specifically by this joker. The arrogance. The vulgar, thuggish savoir-faire.*
All to say, this surprising incident was almost enjoyable. Finally, a wiggy** king of the road who got his comeuppance.
It was only upon reflection that I began to remember the various occasions (accidental, of course) that I had run red lights. On none of those days was “justice” carried out in the form of a smash-mouth broadside. If it had been, I would have felt, no doubt, pitiable and victimized in the extreme.
It’s funny how we’re willing to explain away laws of all sorts unless they apply to someone else—in which case they ought to be enforced at all costs, the sooner the better. In fact, we may even deny that “laws” exist—except when we are losing out by their abuse or stand to benefit from their enforcement.
In the end, Conscience makes fakers of us all. And maybe alerts us to the Laws, civil and otherwise, that we’d just as soon not recognize.
These words appear in association with the Vocabulary Association Project.
I know, I know, I’ve never brought in two conversation-killers at one blow before. I apologize, but who could resist “wiggy?”
*Savoir-faire: As with most words of French derivation, the idea is one of polish, sophistication, class. I used the word in an inverted sense (often a good use for French terms), of course. Synonyms include culture, breeding, refinement, even urbanity (which would’ve also worked nicely, with a pleasing sense of irony—“thuggish urbanity”—but I like to be international).
** Wiggy: A cut-to-the-chase term for someone who’s stuck on himself—hoity-toity. Synonyms include arrogant, bloated, self-important, stuffy. This is one of those words that should definitely be used in conversation as often as possible.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
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