Not too long ago, I was sitting here responding to some emails and laboring through some homework when I was suddenly overcome with nagging guilt. I really need to update that blog, I thought to myself, but I'll do it... later.
I began to mentally revisit all my experiences of the past month, burying myself deeper beneath heaps of shame. I thought remorsefully of you, my loyal loved ones, eagerly checking the page for a new post, but as the days turned to weeks, your fingers seldom brought you back. My life has blasted onwards, but nothing of it has remained for you to read. I regret that the days of my blogging bliss are long gone, when I could write two posts in a week on even the most mundane things!
As with all my hobbies, such feverish devotion cannot last. You, however, mean more to me than any pastime. So here it goes again.
Okay. Enough rambling. Here's what you came for.
The month of March has been marvelous. As with all of you, I'm sure, there has been plenty to keep me busy. Friends have been friendly, teachers have been teaching, and schoolwork has been steady but not overwhelming. I've played in a few chapels (more on that later) and been challenged in a number of ways.
I went to an alternate chapel a few weeks ago in which we watched a movie entitled, The Day My God Died. Depressing, you think? Pretty much. The movie was an International Justice Mission production documenting the stories of girls trapped in brothels in Bombay (Mumbai), India. In essence, it was the same terrible story I've heard many times -- young girls kidnapped by family friends, sold to traffickers in Bombay, housed in unbearable conditions separated from all friends and family, beaten into submission, and forced to "serve" dozens of men a day. The girls in these brothels (there are thousands of them) refer to the day they were abducted as 'the day my god died.'
After the movie and short discussion, I waited until the auditorium had emptied and approached the man who had been leading it. I didn't really have anything to say to him, but I just couldn't bring myself to enter into the lives of these girls, talk about the hopeless existence of millions of women, and then saunter back outside to my friends and comfortable bed. I feel like now, more than ever, I have the opportunity to do something or get involved somehow. So I did, to an extent. Right now I'm on another mailing list, waiting for more information. But what else can I do?
I mean, is it wrong to live as I always have when I am very much aware of the conditions that others are trapped in? I don't know. Probably not. But I do think it's wrong to pretend that everything is okay. These girls are abducted as young as 8 years old, raped until they agree to cooperate, and cannot escape because they have nowhere to go. If they get pregnant, they endure hasty and unsanitary abortions and head right back to work for the next customer. They either die in captivity or are rescued and ostracized by their former communities.
And I get upset when I'm out of laundry detergent...
I have no conclusions to draw from all of this. I'm pretty convinced that God doesn't want these girls to be living like that, but he has yet to extend his mighty hand from the heavens to alleviate their pain. That, I believe, is where we come in. Somehow.
Oh boy. Everything else I was going to write now seems trivial and trite. Bear with me.
Well, on March 8, I went to New York City with a few friends on a school-sponsored trip. It was a college kid's dream excursion: we paid only $15 to get there, ate bagels stolen from the school cafeteria, and entertained ourselves feeding ducks in Central Park. Who says you have to spend money to have fun!?
As previously mentioned, I've been asked to play in chapels more frequently as of late. Any of you familiar with the Contemporary Christian Music scene might know the name Charlie Peacock. He's a producer and artist who has worked with everyone from Switchfoot to Amy Grant to DC Talk. He came to Messiah as a guest speaker/worship leader and yours truly got to play with him! Here's the best part: my favorite DC Talk song is In The Light, Charlie Peacock wrote the song back in the 90s, and he performed it at a Messiah chapel service with me on guitar! Thank you, thank you very much.
In other news, I just returned from Spring Break in Florida with my lovely family. We spent 5 days at Disney World doing everything the park has to offer and a few days at Grandma and Grandpa Goodman's house. We ate copious amounts of delicious food, walked many miles, and even kayaked 7 miles down the Weeki Wachee River. Anyone interested in more information should talk to Mama or Papa. They were there too... and they have lots of pictures!
My favorite part was, oddly enough, doing my homework. Now, before you gasp in shock (or swell with pride), let me explain. My final article for Magazine Writing is supposed to be 2000 words on something completely unrelated to Messiah. When I told Dr. Larry Lake that I wouldn't be going home until Easter and had absolutely no leads in Grantham, PA, he asked me what I was doing over Spring Break. From there, I developed a proposal for an article on the "faces behind the magic." At Epcot's World Pavilion, I interviewed four international employees to explore what it's like to work for America's largest theme park, and how/why they travel around the world to represent their countries to tourists in Florida. I talked to a Canadian, Norwegian, Japanese, and Morrocan. I left with an incredible appreciation for the diversity and culture found in this corner of a theme park, eager to write my article. I'll keep you posted on how it turns out.
There was more I wanted to say, but I have to head to an "All Callers Meeting" for Phonathon. I have no idea what it will be about, but it's absolutely mandatory. I'll keep thinking of things and add to this post as I remember.
Thanks for everything.
Out of time to edit.
jmb
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Spell check?
I am a Martin Scholar.
I am a recipient of the Lloyd and Lois Martin Multicultural Scholarship, awarded to those who exhibit significant leadership and service in their communities and who promote ethnic diversity and reconciliation.
The requirements for those who receive this helpful financial support are somewhat ambiguous. I have heard next to nothing about the status of this scholarship since I arrived on campus, and I have, on occasion, felt slightly anxious that dear Mr. and Mrs. Martin had forgotten me.
Thankfully, the dreadful silence was finally broken when I was invited to visit a nondescript boardroom to write and sign a Thank You card for the Martins this afternoon. After classes and a hearty lunch (no use writing a card on an empty stomach), I descended into the depths of Eisenhower Campus Center to locate the appreciation party.
Upon entering the room, a jolly middle-aged woman approached me and asked me my name. She then handed me large envelope and explained its contents. "These are the instructions for writing the card and some information on the scholarship. This is a reminder about the Martin Scholarship Dinner in April. This is the card itself, and this is a blank piece of paper."
Before I had a chance to inquire about the presence of scrap paper in such a neatly organized packet, she winked at me and laughed, "Spelling counts!"
Needless to say, I was somewhat surprised with her lack of faith in my writing skills. Where did she expect me to err? "Um, excuse me, Miss. How do you spell 'thank you' again?"
Nevertheless, I took my seat next to a number of fellow "Scholars" already in progress and began to write. Admittedly, I actually found the scrap paper quite useful as I painstakingly crafted what I hoped would be the most eloquent expression of gratitude Mr. and Mrs. Martin would ever receive.
A short time later, I heard some whispering to my right. I looked up to see one girl leaning over asking another, "Umm... is "truly" spelled "t-r-u-e-l-y" or "t-r-u-l-y?"
As the first girl stammered between nervous laughing that she is a "really bad speller" I listened for the correct answer. To my dismay, the second girl paused for a moment and leaned back in her chair to think. "Um, no. Yeah I think it's the second one. Right?"
I mean, I can understand that some people are naturally bad spellers, but "truly"?
Oh, wait. There's more.
After resolving the first great dilemma, the second girl smiled meekly and said, "I'm really bad too!" A pause, and then, "Um, does completely end in 'e-y' or just 'y'?"
At this point, I was staring shamelessly; though, I doubt they would have noticed, so intently were they thinking. Of course, the other girl didn't know either, so the two of them, relieved to have found a friend with similar 'disabilities', began to chuckle softly. The girl who asked stared into space, clearly trying to picture the word with all possible spellings and evidently getting nowhere. Her partner-in-literacy-crime was scratching away furiously on her (now essential) scrap paper, but also gaining no ground.
Finally, I could take no more. Out of the goodness of my heart, I reached out and rescued them from their soon-to-be spelling purgatory. For all I knew, they might sit there for eternity, guided only by whatever modest and rudimentary spelling education they had received. I could not let them suffer so.
"It ends in a 'y'." They both looked up, their expressions a mixture of shame and intense gratitude.
"Ha ha. Is it? Alright, thanks!"
I finished my card shortly after and went on my way. I guess the skeptical assistant-lady really knew what she was talking about after all. Who am I to think that college-educated Americans should be able to spell with nothing but a pen and paper? Stripped of our self-correcting word processors and online dictionaries, can we really be held accountable for whatever atrocious spelling errors we commit?
I don't mean to sound too negative. I'm sure those two girls are wonderful people, and, for all I know, they could be excellent writers. I just think something is wrong when we become functionally illiterate in the absence of our gadgets.
Somehow, I don't think Lloyd and Lois would be impressed.
I am a recipient of the Lloyd and Lois Martin Multicultural Scholarship, awarded to those who exhibit significant leadership and service in their communities and who promote ethnic diversity and reconciliation.
The requirements for those who receive this helpful financial support are somewhat ambiguous. I have heard next to nothing about the status of this scholarship since I arrived on campus, and I have, on occasion, felt slightly anxious that dear Mr. and Mrs. Martin had forgotten me.
Thankfully, the dreadful silence was finally broken when I was invited to visit a nondescript boardroom to write and sign a Thank You card for the Martins this afternoon. After classes and a hearty lunch (no use writing a card on an empty stomach), I descended into the depths of Eisenhower Campus Center to locate the appreciation party.
Upon entering the room, a jolly middle-aged woman approached me and asked me my name. She then handed me large envelope and explained its contents. "These are the instructions for writing the card and some information on the scholarship. This is a reminder about the Martin Scholarship Dinner in April. This is the card itself, and this is a blank piece of paper."
Before I had a chance to inquire about the presence of scrap paper in such a neatly organized packet, she winked at me and laughed, "Spelling counts!"
Needless to say, I was somewhat surprised with her lack of faith in my writing skills. Where did she expect me to err? "Um, excuse me, Miss. How do you spell 'thank you' again?"
Nevertheless, I took my seat next to a number of fellow "Scholars" already in progress and began to write. Admittedly, I actually found the scrap paper quite useful as I painstakingly crafted what I hoped would be the most eloquent expression of gratitude Mr. and Mrs. Martin would ever receive.
A short time later, I heard some whispering to my right. I looked up to see one girl leaning over asking another, "Umm... is "truly" spelled "t-r-u-e-l-y" or "t-r-u-l-y?"
As the first girl stammered between nervous laughing that she is a "really bad speller" I listened for the correct answer. To my dismay, the second girl paused for a moment and leaned back in her chair to think. "Um, no. Yeah I think it's the second one. Right?"
I mean, I can understand that some people are naturally bad spellers, but "truly"?
Oh, wait. There's more.
After resolving the first great dilemma, the second girl smiled meekly and said, "I'm really bad too!" A pause, and then, "Um, does completely end in 'e-y' or just 'y'?"
At this point, I was staring shamelessly; though, I doubt they would have noticed, so intently were they thinking. Of course, the other girl didn't know either, so the two of them, relieved to have found a friend with similar 'disabilities', began to chuckle softly. The girl who asked stared into space, clearly trying to picture the word with all possible spellings and evidently getting nowhere. Her partner-in-literacy-crime was scratching away furiously on her (now essential) scrap paper, but also gaining no ground.
Finally, I could take no more. Out of the goodness of my heart, I reached out and rescued them from their soon-to-be spelling purgatory. For all I knew, they might sit there for eternity, guided only by whatever modest and rudimentary spelling education they had received. I could not let them suffer so.
"It ends in a 'y'." They both looked up, their expressions a mixture of shame and intense gratitude.
"Ha ha. Is it? Alright, thanks!"
I finished my card shortly after and went on my way. I guess the skeptical assistant-lady really knew what she was talking about after all. Who am I to think that college-educated Americans should be able to spell with nothing but a pen and paper? Stripped of our self-correcting word processors and online dictionaries, can we really be held accountable for whatever atrocious spelling errors we commit?
I don't mean to sound too negative. I'm sure those two girls are wonderful people, and, for all I know, they could be excellent writers. I just think something is wrong when we become functionally illiterate in the absence of our gadgets.
Somehow, I don't think Lloyd and Lois would be impressed.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
How to Read the Sound of Settling
Some of you have inquired about the new title, so let me explain. This most mysterious of monikers is, in fact, a clever concoction of my own loaded with multiple layers of meaning... sort of.
One of my favorite bands is Death Cab for Cutie. One of my favorite songs of theirs is called The Sound of Settling.
I am a poor and lonely college student stranded in a foreign land, forced to fend for myself and forge my own path in the world. Well, it's not quite that dramatic, but all this new-found independence leads me to ponder some of life's biggest questions: What am I doing here? How can I make the most of these "best years of my life?" Why do I feel pulled in so many directions? What does God want from me in the midst of this safety and fun?
This blog, therefore, is simply my personal-yet-public thought-receptacle. I'm trying to "settle" into this new environment and ... adjust to a new life, if you will. All the confusion and rambling that results could be described as "the sound of settling."
As for the reasoning behind the full title, I just figured that in visiting this blog you are "reading the sound of settling." Ha, but of course it's impossible to "read a sound" -- that part is just a product of my brilliant wit.
Anyways, there's the story. I'd also like to post a little heads-up that I will probably be writing about things outside my mundane daily activities. Expect to find a plethora of trivial musings and rants, a few responses to noteworthy experiences, and perhaps the odd tidbit of insight.
While I'm at it, I might as well give you a little update on some things.
So I haven't had any tests all Spring semester. Great, right? Sure, until I have two big tests on the same day. Ever wonder why work seems to cluster and attack in waves? I do. Tomorrow I will write a Spanish unit test, sit through an hour of riveting Philosophical discourse, and then take our first of three CCC exams. If you get this in time, I'd appreciate a quick prayer! Or even if you don't get it in time, I suppose you can still pray about it, seeing as God exists outside of time and all that.
In other news, I had a great weekend. I watched a movie or two, hung out with friends, ate a lot, made $40 at work on Saturday, did plenty of homework and studying, and got caught up on some sorely missed sleep.
On Saturday night two friends and I went to a virtually empty on-campus theater to watch "Bigger Faster Stronger" -- a documentary on steroid use and American perceptions of male body image. A shockingly depressing two hours later, I left in silence, scratching my head and thanking God that I'm not American.
Ha, well that's not entirely true. Clearly the problem is with the West in general, and it is a grave problem indeed. The film aimed to present the use of Anabolic Steroids not as a problem in itself, but as a 'side-effect' of American culture. There was cause for laughter at everything from ridiculous Hulk Hogan commercials telling kids to "eat your vitamins and say your prayers" to the juxtaposition of G.I. Joe in the 1960s with the unrealistic, strapping beast that he became in the 90s. What are kids supposed to do when their lifetime heroes are bodybuilders and pro-wrestlers that spend most of their adult lives pumping iron and steroids (often in equal proportions)? And what are they to think when those heroes shamelessly admit that they use performance-enhancing drugs and still rise to the top? (Case in point: Arnold.)
But why do steroids receive such a negative reputation? What about Tiger Woods and his laser-eye surgery that boosted his eyesight to 20/15 in both eyes? Is superhuman eyesight in golf any less of a performance-enhancer than anabolic steroids in body-building?
In conclusion, the whole thing got me thinking about body image in general. I can't stand another Bowflex infomercial, with their professional body builders and highly doctored "before and after" photos. Even more appalling is the fact that these ridiculously contrived advertisements are somehow effective. People still drop hundreds of dollars and hours on gym memberships and the latest and greatest "legal" enhancers. The film profiled a 50-something "gym rat" living in his van and spending everyday at the legendary Gold's Gym that was once home to Arnold the Great, and a 30-something weightlifter who has sent dozens upon dozens of audition tapes to the WWE waiting for his contract and his shot at "happiness" -- he is rejected every time. For these two men, all they know is muscle. They have no means of defining themselves apart from their benchpressing records and dreams of stardom. Unless something changes, they'll die even more miserable than they already are.
I guess I'm just glad I have something more to base my life on. I have a shot at a great education and a chance to make a difference in the world. I have a family and friends who care about me and want what's best for me. Best of all, I have a relationship with the God of the universe -- a God whose love for me has nothing to do with the size of my biceps (thank goodness for that). It's a depressing thought for me to think that people spend their entire lives obsessing over how they look on the outside, when God has given us so much depth and beauty to enrich our "insides." I have no problem with people who like to work out or lose weight, but just how much of our time and energy should be spent on something that will turn to dust one day anyways? How much more valuable is the beauty of God's creation -- in the arts, music, knowledge, nature itself, and, most importantly, in each other?
There is an unending amount of knowledge out there, and more beauty on earth than any one person could ever lay eyes on. I get so excited about the potential of all I can accomplish and experience if I just turn my focus off myself. With eyes on things above and outside ourselves, I think God can really use us to impact and restore the world.
That's all.
jmb
One of my favorite bands is Death Cab for Cutie. One of my favorite songs of theirs is called The Sound of Settling.
I am a poor and lonely college student stranded in a foreign land, forced to fend for myself and forge my own path in the world. Well, it's not quite that dramatic, but all this new-found independence leads me to ponder some of life's biggest questions: What am I doing here? How can I make the most of these "best years of my life?" Why do I feel pulled in so many directions? What does God want from me in the midst of this safety and fun?
This blog, therefore, is simply my personal-yet-public thought-receptacle. I'm trying to "settle" into this new environment and ... adjust to a new life, if you will. All the confusion and rambling that results could be described as "the sound of settling."
As for the reasoning behind the full title, I just figured that in visiting this blog you are "reading the sound of settling." Ha, but of course it's impossible to "read a sound" -- that part is just a product of my brilliant wit.
Anyways, there's the story. I'd also like to post a little heads-up that I will probably be writing about things outside my mundane daily activities. Expect to find a plethora of trivial musings and rants, a few responses to noteworthy experiences, and perhaps the odd tidbit of insight.
While I'm at it, I might as well give you a little update on some things.
So I haven't had any tests all Spring semester. Great, right? Sure, until I have two big tests on the same day. Ever wonder why work seems to cluster and attack in waves? I do. Tomorrow I will write a Spanish unit test, sit through an hour of riveting Philosophical discourse, and then take our first of three CCC exams. If you get this in time, I'd appreciate a quick prayer! Or even if you don't get it in time, I suppose you can still pray about it, seeing as God exists outside of time and all that.
In other news, I had a great weekend. I watched a movie or two, hung out with friends, ate a lot, made $40 at work on Saturday, did plenty of homework and studying, and got caught up on some sorely missed sleep.
On Saturday night two friends and I went to a virtually empty on-campus theater to watch "Bigger Faster Stronger" -- a documentary on steroid use and American perceptions of male body image. A shockingly depressing two hours later, I left in silence, scratching my head and thanking God that I'm not American.
Ha, well that's not entirely true. Clearly the problem is with the West in general, and it is a grave problem indeed. The film aimed to present the use of Anabolic Steroids not as a problem in itself, but as a 'side-effect' of American culture. There was cause for laughter at everything from ridiculous Hulk Hogan commercials telling kids to "eat your vitamins and say your prayers" to the juxtaposition of G.I. Joe in the 1960s with the unrealistic, strapping beast that he became in the 90s. What are kids supposed to do when their lifetime heroes are bodybuilders and pro-wrestlers that spend most of their adult lives pumping iron and steroids (often in equal proportions)? And what are they to think when those heroes shamelessly admit that they use performance-enhancing drugs and still rise to the top? (Case in point: Arnold.)
But why do steroids receive such a negative reputation? What about Tiger Woods and his laser-eye surgery that boosted his eyesight to 20/15 in both eyes? Is superhuman eyesight in golf any less of a performance-enhancer than anabolic steroids in body-building?
In conclusion, the whole thing got me thinking about body image in general. I can't stand another Bowflex infomercial, with their professional body builders and highly doctored "before and after" photos. Even more appalling is the fact that these ridiculously contrived advertisements are somehow effective. People still drop hundreds of dollars and hours on gym memberships and the latest and greatest "legal" enhancers. The film profiled a 50-something "gym rat" living in his van and spending everyday at the legendary Gold's Gym that was once home to Arnold the Great, and a 30-something weightlifter who has sent dozens upon dozens of audition tapes to the WWE waiting for his contract and his shot at "happiness" -- he is rejected every time. For these two men, all they know is muscle. They have no means of defining themselves apart from their benchpressing records and dreams of stardom. Unless something changes, they'll die even more miserable than they already are.
I guess I'm just glad I have something more to base my life on. I have a shot at a great education and a chance to make a difference in the world. I have a family and friends who care about me and want what's best for me. Best of all, I have a relationship with the God of the universe -- a God whose love for me has nothing to do with the size of my biceps (thank goodness for that). It's a depressing thought for me to think that people spend their entire lives obsessing over how they look on the outside, when God has given us so much depth and beauty to enrich our "insides." I have no problem with people who like to work out or lose weight, but just how much of our time and energy should be spent on something that will turn to dust one day anyways? How much more valuable is the beauty of God's creation -- in the arts, music, knowledge, nature itself, and, most importantly, in each other?
There is an unending amount of knowledge out there, and more beauty on earth than any one person could ever lay eyes on. I get so excited about the potential of all I can accomplish and experience if I just turn my focus off myself. With eyes on things above and outside ourselves, I think God can really use us to impact and restore the world.
That's all.
jmb
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