If you had asked me a few months ago to create a list of important life milestones that have either already passed or that are still to come, that list likely wouldn't look all that different had you asked me to do the same task ten, fifteen, or even twenty years ago: graduate high school, graduate college, move into own apartment/home, get married, have some kids, get a job, get a better job, retire, watch kids go through all those same events, grandchildren.
However, as is common for the younger generations, I've forgotten to look back at how my parent's life still affects mine. Very soon my parents will retire (for good, hopefully). My dad retired from the military a while ago, but all that meant was he stopped working for the military and started working for the post office. This retirement, however, is real, and both parents are doing it. This milestone affects me in two ways.
The first is the more obvious physical changes. I'm excited to see them more often. I'm excited for Berkeley, especially, to see them more. In addition, it makes me happy to think about them enjoying the freedom that comes with leaving 8-plus hour work days behind.
The second thing was unexpected. I've spent my adult life feeling incredibly child-like. Checking off all those milestones on my list--surprisingly, even having a child--didn't change the fact that I still fail to feel grown up. I feel an imposter in the adult word. I'm sure it's not a unique feeling; I imagine many of my friends feel the same way. I do wonder if it's a generational thing, I've never heard anyone my parent's age or older admit to these types of feelings. Whether or not it is common, I still feel out of place when mingling with people my own age. I feel like I have more in common with the kids at Berkeley's preschool than the adults, some of who are probably even younger than I am. They seem like real grown up people. It's like being a member of an audience who inexplicably finds himself on the stage mingling with the actors.
And now my parents are retiring and suddenly I realize I'm 34 years old, my body is already on the decline, I have a child in preschool, I've been married for ten years, my parents are RETIRED, and we're all one step closer to the inevitable end. What does it feel like? It's weighty. I don't know how else to explain it. And yet, not much has really changed here. The sun still sets in the west. I still get up and do the same job. Berkeley is a day older. Robyn is as pretty as ever. And I might blow the entire underpinnings of the post by logging onto World of Warcraft after I hit "Publish." But dammit, today I feel like an adult.
Enjoy your retirement, mom and dad!
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
On Writing Well
That title sure does sound presumptuous. But you're reading it all wrong. And I likely said it all wrong. One of my New Year's Resolutions is to be a better writer. It's actually been a resolution of mine going on five or six years now, but I never quite verbalized it before.
How does one become a better writer? I actually do have some insight here.
When I was in high school I loved math. I was really good at it, but that wasn't why I loved it. I loved it because it was easy, which is quite different than deriving pleasure from something due to mastery. And it's a shame I loved it for the wrong reason; I could have been really good at it had a applied some energy to it. And it's funny how similar mastery and ease can feel. How close, yet how far apart, hard work and laziness are. On the other hand, I hated writing. I hated writing because it was hard. My grammar was poor, my spelling was horrible, and I felt I had nothing to say, much less any way to say it. To write well, or even passably, I'd have to work hard at it. And hard work was the last thing I wanted to do as a teenager (this hasn't actually changed too much, even into my 30s.)
When I went to college one of the top three reasons I picked computer science as a major was because I was almost certain I could get away with writing a very minimal number of papers while acquiring my degree. And I was right! After four years of college I had exactly three classes that made me write papers, two were required English classes that couldn't have been avoided, and the last was an elective that I took pass/no-pass partially to insure that my lack of enthusiasm for writing wouldn't hurt my GPA.
But here I am now saying things like, "My New Year's Resolution is to write better." Alas! What has become of me? It's a good question. The short answer is, "The Internet happened to me." And the long answer?
I got a job after college. It was a sweet job for a kid fresh out of college. One thing I had to do at this job was communicate with people via email. I quickly became embarrassed by my inability to communicate effectively with my coworkers. It wasn't that I couldn't put an idea together; it was just that I was clueless about where commas and semi-colons should go. I never capitalized words. Paragraphs were a foreign concept. If one could puke words onto paper that would be a very close representation of my process of composing an email. One day I decided to take writing emails very seriously. No more throwing thoughts down. No more writing and hitting the send button. Everything was read at least twice if not more, even the shortest responses. It took longer but it was worth the effort.
Then things became more complicated. Then I stumbled across a website (affectionately called SWAB) where people shared their thoughts and ideas. I loved it. And I wanted to share my thoughts and ideas, but I was still horrible at it. That didn't stop me from writing. No, I dove in and wrote paragraph upon paragraph of ideas. I crafted long and likely odious posts about any topic that was remotely interesting to me. I wrote literally thousands of these posts, over eight thousand of them. These posts didn't help my form too much, but they gave me a passion for writing, and they gave me a voice and style that slowly emerged. Also, not to be under appreciated, the site exposed me to many other writers who not only could put together a sentence but who could do it in beautiful ways.
In the early days most of my posts were either about philosophy or politics. But one day I sat down and decided I would do something artistic on SWAB. I decided that I was ready to brandish my pen as not just a simple tool of communication but as something akin to a paint brush. I was about to put love into my writing. I can still see this post in my head, it's something I'm still proud of, even in its imperfections (which it had no lack of). It was well received and a great feeling came over me. It was the feeling that comes with accomplishing something because of hard work. I'd sort of unintentionally worked really hard and reached a level of mastery at something I'd avoided for so long. Sometimes I kick myself for the late start, for all that avoiding I did. Where could I be, I wonder, had I tried harder when I was younger, when my mind was more agile?
But more importantly, I'd found a voice! From that day forward my writings on SWAB slowly changed. The shift can most accurately be described as a change from concrete to abstract. I was putting feeling where before only lived words. And I was loving writing. I still sucked at aspects of it. I'd still never gone back and given grammar the proper respect it deserves. Recognizing this deficiency I found my way to Strunk & White (of course) and read it twice. If you've read this far, you're likely aware that reading the book twice hasn't exactly made me a grammar expert, but knowing I've read it twice in great earnest might at least let you imagine how poor I was at it previously. I've read a handful of other grammar books by now and an assortment of books on other aspects of writing and story telling. I've come a long way.
So how does one become a better writer? By writing. There are other methods I'm sure, and I'll likely partake of some of them as well. I believe reading is equally important in honing your writing craft, but I've been easily and gladly devouring books for years. The consumption of books and other's writings is the easy part for me. It's the math. The writing is the hard part. It's the part that still scares me. It's the part that I still doubt I'm good at. It's the part that brings me the greatest joy when someone praises it. It's the part I love. It's the part I hope to improve. And to do so, I must write more. There are a couple specific things I'll be doing this year to improve my writing. First, I plan on finishing a set of short stories. In my head the idea of these short stories, and the few I've started, will result in something good enough to be published by someone other than myself (this is very lofty, I know). And secondly, I plan on writing here more. I see people often taking the 52 books a year challenge; I instead will be partaking of the 52 posts a year challenge. I hope during that time I write a thing or two you enjoy. That I move your soul. That we are drawn closer together. And that I take a few more willful steps toward my goal of writing well.
How does one become a better writer? I actually do have some insight here.
When I was in high school I loved math. I was really good at it, but that wasn't why I loved it. I loved it because it was easy, which is quite different than deriving pleasure from something due to mastery. And it's a shame I loved it for the wrong reason; I could have been really good at it had a applied some energy to it. And it's funny how similar mastery and ease can feel. How close, yet how far apart, hard work and laziness are. On the other hand, I hated writing. I hated writing because it was hard. My grammar was poor, my spelling was horrible, and I felt I had nothing to say, much less any way to say it. To write well, or even passably, I'd have to work hard at it. And hard work was the last thing I wanted to do as a teenager (this hasn't actually changed too much, even into my 30s.)
When I went to college one of the top three reasons I picked computer science as a major was because I was almost certain I could get away with writing a very minimal number of papers while acquiring my degree. And I was right! After four years of college I had exactly three classes that made me write papers, two were required English classes that couldn't have been avoided, and the last was an elective that I took pass/no-pass partially to insure that my lack of enthusiasm for writing wouldn't hurt my GPA.
But here I am now saying things like, "My New Year's Resolution is to write better." Alas! What has become of me? It's a good question. The short answer is, "The Internet happened to me." And the long answer?
I got a job after college. It was a sweet job for a kid fresh out of college. One thing I had to do at this job was communicate with people via email. I quickly became embarrassed by my inability to communicate effectively with my coworkers. It wasn't that I couldn't put an idea together; it was just that I was clueless about where commas and semi-colons should go. I never capitalized words. Paragraphs were a foreign concept. If one could puke words onto paper that would be a very close representation of my process of composing an email. One day I decided to take writing emails very seriously. No more throwing thoughts down. No more writing and hitting the send button. Everything was read at least twice if not more, even the shortest responses. It took longer but it was worth the effort.
Then things became more complicated. Then I stumbled across a website (affectionately called SWAB) where people shared their thoughts and ideas. I loved it. And I wanted to share my thoughts and ideas, but I was still horrible at it. That didn't stop me from writing. No, I dove in and wrote paragraph upon paragraph of ideas. I crafted long and likely odious posts about any topic that was remotely interesting to me. I wrote literally thousands of these posts, over eight thousand of them. These posts didn't help my form too much, but they gave me a passion for writing, and they gave me a voice and style that slowly emerged. Also, not to be under appreciated, the site exposed me to many other writers who not only could put together a sentence but who could do it in beautiful ways.
In the early days most of my posts were either about philosophy or politics. But one day I sat down and decided I would do something artistic on SWAB. I decided that I was ready to brandish my pen as not just a simple tool of communication but as something akin to a paint brush. I was about to put love into my writing. I can still see this post in my head, it's something I'm still proud of, even in its imperfections (which it had no lack of). It was well received and a great feeling came over me. It was the feeling that comes with accomplishing something because of hard work. I'd sort of unintentionally worked really hard and reached a level of mastery at something I'd avoided for so long. Sometimes I kick myself for the late start, for all that avoiding I did. Where could I be, I wonder, had I tried harder when I was younger, when my mind was more agile?
But more importantly, I'd found a voice! From that day forward my writings on SWAB slowly changed. The shift can most accurately be described as a change from concrete to abstract. I was putting feeling where before only lived words. And I was loving writing. I still sucked at aspects of it. I'd still never gone back and given grammar the proper respect it deserves. Recognizing this deficiency I found my way to Strunk & White (of course) and read it twice. If you've read this far, you're likely aware that reading the book twice hasn't exactly made me a grammar expert, but knowing I've read it twice in great earnest might at least let you imagine how poor I was at it previously. I've read a handful of other grammar books by now and an assortment of books on other aspects of writing and story telling. I've come a long way.
So how does one become a better writer? By writing. There are other methods I'm sure, and I'll likely partake of some of them as well. I believe reading is equally important in honing your writing craft, but I've been easily and gladly devouring books for years. The consumption of books and other's writings is the easy part for me. It's the math. The writing is the hard part. It's the part that still scares me. It's the part that I still doubt I'm good at. It's the part that brings me the greatest joy when someone praises it. It's the part I love. It's the part I hope to improve. And to do so, I must write more. There are a couple specific things I'll be doing this year to improve my writing. First, I plan on finishing a set of short stories. In my head the idea of these short stories, and the few I've started, will result in something good enough to be published by someone other than myself (this is very lofty, I know). And secondly, I plan on writing here more. I see people often taking the 52 books a year challenge; I instead will be partaking of the 52 posts a year challenge. I hope during that time I write a thing or two you enjoy. That I move your soul. That we are drawn closer together. And that I take a few more willful steps toward my goal of writing well.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Les Miserables, Defending Russell Crowe
I probably shouldn't do this.
I'm here to put up a very small defense of Russell Crowe as Javert.
Why shouldn't I do this? Because my ear isn't refined. I've seen a single musical; I've performed in zero. And generally Russell Crowe isn't one of my favorite actors. People much smarter than I about music seem to hate his performance.
First, I wholeheartedly believe those who say he can't sing. I, even with my limited listening skills, recognize that he was the least skilled singer in the cast.
That being said, without Russel Crowe's part in "One More Day" in the preview I probably wouldn't have been excited to hear the movie--I still would have been excited to see the movie because I love the themes it works with, but musicals are somewhere near the bottom of entertainment events I want to see. And his voice continued to please me throughout the movie, especially when sung in concert with other characters. His solo I could have passed on but there was something I greatly appropriated about the way his voice weaved amongst the other character's.
This defense, again, requires that I openly admit to a lack of skill of mine: the ability to appreciate fine singing voices. With that stated twice, I'll now get to the crux of my appreciation. Most of the other voices sounded so similar to me. They feel like they're sung in a higher scale, that seemed unnatural for the singers to me, (and the women especially sounded all the same to me). They all lacked a certain amount of character to me. In contrast, Crowe's voice is distinct, not just in quality, but in timber.
This distinction not only added to my enjoyment of the music but made sense in another way Javert is a unique character within the story (let us forget about the characters whose main purpose is comedic relief and storytelling foil). The other characters are all on the verge of becoming saints--they're at risk of being translated to heaven before they even have a chance to teach us of their great moral compasses--while Javert sits in stark contrast to all their perfections. And as his demeanor is different so too should be his voice.
In addition to this I think he did the best acting in the movie. So many others depended upon their voices and their closeups of anguished faces to move the audience. But Crowe runs a gamut of emotions with his face (at a reasonable distance) where his voice isn't up to the task. And although Javert is written as an archetype as much as any other character in the story, he feels the most human to me, which is to say he feels the most real, which I credit to Crowe's acting.
Now, let the beasts loose. Let them destroy my words. Let them scorn and scoff at my lack of refined tastes. Or, grant my weaknesses a mercy worthy of Jean Valjean.
I'm here to put up a very small defense of Russell Crowe as Javert.
Why shouldn't I do this? Because my ear isn't refined. I've seen a single musical; I've performed in zero. And generally Russell Crowe isn't one of my favorite actors. People much smarter than I about music seem to hate his performance.
First, I wholeheartedly believe those who say he can't sing. I, even with my limited listening skills, recognize that he was the least skilled singer in the cast.
That being said, without Russel Crowe's part in "One More Day" in the preview I probably wouldn't have been excited to hear the movie--I still would have been excited to see the movie because I love the themes it works with, but musicals are somewhere near the bottom of entertainment events I want to see. And his voice continued to please me throughout the movie, especially when sung in concert with other characters. His solo I could have passed on but there was something I greatly appropriated about the way his voice weaved amongst the other character's.
This defense, again, requires that I openly admit to a lack of skill of mine: the ability to appreciate fine singing voices. With that stated twice, I'll now get to the crux of my appreciation. Most of the other voices sounded so similar to me. They feel like they're sung in a higher scale, that seemed unnatural for the singers to me, (and the women especially sounded all the same to me). They all lacked a certain amount of character to me. In contrast, Crowe's voice is distinct, not just in quality, but in timber.
This distinction not only added to my enjoyment of the music but made sense in another way Javert is a unique character within the story (let us forget about the characters whose main purpose is comedic relief and storytelling foil). The other characters are all on the verge of becoming saints--they're at risk of being translated to heaven before they even have a chance to teach us of their great moral compasses--while Javert sits in stark contrast to all their perfections. And as his demeanor is different so too should be his voice.
In addition to this I think he did the best acting in the movie. So many others depended upon their voices and their closeups of anguished faces to move the audience. But Crowe runs a gamut of emotions with his face (at a reasonable distance) where his voice isn't up to the task. And although Javert is written as an archetype as much as any other character in the story, he feels the most human to me, which is to say he feels the most real, which I credit to Crowe's acting.
Now, let the beasts loose. Let them destroy my words. Let them scorn and scoff at my lack of refined tastes. Or, grant my weaknesses a mercy worthy of Jean Valjean.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Lancelot, In Brief
Recently I read The Once and Future King, a retelling of King Arthur tales. I'd never been fully exposed to these stories, and I'm not sure how close the book stays to the more "original" sources, but I felt the story was as much if not more about Sir Lancelot as it was Arthur. His and Guenevere's story was an unexpected treasure amongst what I expected to be a story full of magic and swordplay. I believe I cried when I reached the end of it.
This Christmas Robyn asked that we all share a Christmas story on Christmas eve. I don't have any story I'm particularly fond of but the story of Lancelot and Guenevere had been lodge so lovingly in my head for the past few months that it kept coming to the forefront of stories I could share. The problem is it's not exactly a Christmas story. I do wholeheartedly believe it's a story about God and Christ and in the spirit of retelling and Christmas I decided to retell it myself. And although this is not my story, writing it has been one of the most fulfilling things I've ever written. And, as my family can attest, I definitely cried when I reached the end reading it to them.
---------------------------------------------
A thousand years ago the world was a different place. Back then even grown men believed in miracles the way children still do today. It was common at the time for a person to believe that if they were virtuous enough and righteous enough they would be blessed by God by being allowed to not only witness a miracle but perform one. This story is about a man with such a belief.
When Lancelot was a child, on the verge of becoming a man, he sailed from France to England with his father, a French nobleman and knight. They sailed to join Arthur, the new King of England, in a great battle against the old ways of English nobility. They fought against brutality and privilege. They fought for the rights of peasants and a new kind of goodness. During these battles it soon became obvious that Lancelot was skilled in the art of war far beyond what was normal for his age.
When the war was over he met Arthur and instantly loved his goodness and majesty. He swore on that day that when he arrived back at home he would train and live with an eye single to the goal of becoming the greatest knight in the entire world so that he could return to Arthur's court and spend his life striving for goodness and protecting the weak.
Crucial to this task was the belief that he must remain pure and chaste before the Lord. For the Lord would never allow the greatest knight in the world to be a bad man. And secretly, in his heart, he hoped that in addition to being the greatest knight he would one day be allowed to perform a miracle. He held to this future miracle like a treasure of endless value.
Back in France he trained and fought and trained. Day in and day out he practice sword and shield, he rode his horse, and spent countless hours jousting against any man willing to sit in a saddle opposite him. At eighteen he left home to return to Arthur. Arthur lovingly embraced him and quickly Lancelot became the head knight at Arthur's famous round table. He defeated all foes in tournament and in war. He saved countless other knights and always made his king proud. He and Arthur became the closest of friends.
But no man is perfect, and Lancelot had his own weakness. On the day he returned to England to join Arthur’s court he also met Guinevere, Arthur’s beautiful young wife. At first he despised her because of her closeness to Arthur. But soon he realized he slighted her with his coldness and determined himself to be more kind and gentle with her. Eventually the two fell in love. Their love remained pure for years but one day Lancelot was tricked by a witch and their love was consummated. He had committed a sin against his king, his best friend, his country, and his God. The sin was a secret they kept unto themselves. But it caused him internal grief, sorrow and pain. He fought this temptation as often has he raised sword against foe, but with always the opposite outcome: defeat. Although he was the greatest swordsman in the world, he had no defense against his own heart.
As time went by his sin continued to worry his soul. He worried he'd soon be dethroned as the greatest knight in the world. He worried about losing his friendship with Arthur. He worried about the damage that would be done to Guinevere if their tryst was uncovered. And he worried that he'd never be able to accomplish his miracle. One day he slunk away from the kingdom and Guinevere, and he repented of his sin, turning his face fully toward God. As a reward for his repentance God blessed Lancelot by allowing him to set his eyes upon the Holy Grail, one of only a handful of people to ever do so. And to humble him, God put before him a noble knight whom he could not defeat in combat. This knight disappeared with the Grail into God’s great and mysterious mists soon after defeating Lancelot; neither the Grail nor the Knight have ever been seen since.
Lancelot eventually returned to court knowing he'd turned a corner. But before long he returned to Guinevere's side. This time he fell even deeper into despair, knowing how far he'd fallen after being so close to God. Lancelot was so depressed that he stopped competing in battles--he didn't want anyone to know of his sin, and he knew that his sins would cause him to lose in battle, that it was impossible for him still be the greatest knight in the world given his moral flaws.
His friend Arthur worried greatly about him. He'd never seen Lancelot so removed. He constantly kept looking for something to draw Lancelot out of himself. The people attributed Lancelot's refusal to participate in tournaments as a sign of him getting old, but Lancelot knew better.
Then, one winter another knight in Europe was cursed by a defeated foe’s mother. The curse bestowed upon him kept his wounds from ever healing. Instead he remained in eternal pain and constantly bled. With the curse was also foretold the cure: the greatest knight in the world would be able to heal his wounds by a simple laying on of hands. The bleeding knight searched all of Europe for the greatest knight but time after time the knights who tried to heal his wounds failed. After many such failures a knight from England told him that if the greatest knight in the world was what he sought then he should make his way to England and speak with Sir Lancelot. This he did and when he arrived at the shores of England Arthur caught word of his approach.
Thinking this was the perfect opportunity to pull Lancelot out of his shell he insisted that the knight come on Christmas day, and on that day a tournament of might would be held but without a single sword being raised. Instead, each knight would have their chance to bless the bleeding warrior, with Lancelot being the last, and of course, in Arthur’s mind, the only one to succeed at the task.
When Lancelot heard of the event he dreaded its approach. He knew that soon everyone would know of his sin, of his lowly state. But he couldn't refuse his king, and above all else he knew it would be his punishment--worthy of his sins--to be rebuked by the Lord in front of all the kingdom. He was so despondent that he considered taking his own life rather than be a part of the tournament.
Christmas arrived. Lancelot sat in his own room listening to the celebrations. Everyone knew Lancelot would be the last one out and that he would succeed, for they all knew in their heart of hearts that he was still the greatest knight in all the world, and that today they would be seeing a miracle. Their cheers depressed him more. A man who had never known fear now buckled at the knees with each knight’s failed attempt, as his time of denouncement grew nearer. Finally a guard entered his quarters and told him it was his turn. Lancelot put on his white cloak and white shield and walked through the door and toward his destiny.
He walked out into the courtyard. There he saw his king, as radiant as ever. He walked between rows of knights on revert and bent knees. The courtyard was full of bright flags whipping amongst the wind and light snow. With a bowed head he approached the platform where the suffering knight lay bleeding in great pain. He ascended the steps. Standing before the knight, Lancelot shed a tear before placing his hands upon the man. And there, on the Lord's birthday, all of England witnessed a miracle. The bleeding stopped and the man was saved from his curse.
The people of England thought that the curing of the curse was the miracle, but in his heart, Lancelot alone knew that the real miracle was that God had allowed even him, the lowest of the low, to heal the man.
One might argue that this isn't a true Christmas story, sure it's a story about God and Christ, but not about Christmas. But like Lancelot, Christ was a savior from the most unlikely of places. The Jews of the time looked toward the rich, the powerful, and the noble for their savior. Instead Christ came from the most unexpected of places.
God works through us and this story is a reminder that all of us have a reserve of goodness within us. Sometimes the place we least expect to find goodness and greatness is from ourselves. We have not only endless opportunities to share goodness, but also the ability to do so, even when we don't think we do. To be an agent of God we need not be kings or prophets or presidents or saints. We need not be perfect or without sin. We simply need to act.
This Christmas Robyn asked that we all share a Christmas story on Christmas eve. I don't have any story I'm particularly fond of but the story of Lancelot and Guenevere had been lodge so lovingly in my head for the past few months that it kept coming to the forefront of stories I could share. The problem is it's not exactly a Christmas story. I do wholeheartedly believe it's a story about God and Christ and in the spirit of retelling and Christmas I decided to retell it myself. And although this is not my story, writing it has been one of the most fulfilling things I've ever written. And, as my family can attest, I definitely cried when I reached the end reading it to them.
---------------------------------------------
A thousand years ago the world was a different place. Back then even grown men believed in miracles the way children still do today. It was common at the time for a person to believe that if they were virtuous enough and righteous enough they would be blessed by God by being allowed to not only witness a miracle but perform one. This story is about a man with such a belief.
When Lancelot was a child, on the verge of becoming a man, he sailed from France to England with his father, a French nobleman and knight. They sailed to join Arthur, the new King of England, in a great battle against the old ways of English nobility. They fought against brutality and privilege. They fought for the rights of peasants and a new kind of goodness. During these battles it soon became obvious that Lancelot was skilled in the art of war far beyond what was normal for his age.
When the war was over he met Arthur and instantly loved his goodness and majesty. He swore on that day that when he arrived back at home he would train and live with an eye single to the goal of becoming the greatest knight in the entire world so that he could return to Arthur's court and spend his life striving for goodness and protecting the weak.
Crucial to this task was the belief that he must remain pure and chaste before the Lord. For the Lord would never allow the greatest knight in the world to be a bad man. And secretly, in his heart, he hoped that in addition to being the greatest knight he would one day be allowed to perform a miracle. He held to this future miracle like a treasure of endless value.
Back in France he trained and fought and trained. Day in and day out he practice sword and shield, he rode his horse, and spent countless hours jousting against any man willing to sit in a saddle opposite him. At eighteen he left home to return to Arthur. Arthur lovingly embraced him and quickly Lancelot became the head knight at Arthur's famous round table. He defeated all foes in tournament and in war. He saved countless other knights and always made his king proud. He and Arthur became the closest of friends.
But no man is perfect, and Lancelot had his own weakness. On the day he returned to England to join Arthur’s court he also met Guinevere, Arthur’s beautiful young wife. At first he despised her because of her closeness to Arthur. But soon he realized he slighted her with his coldness and determined himself to be more kind and gentle with her. Eventually the two fell in love. Their love remained pure for years but one day Lancelot was tricked by a witch and their love was consummated. He had committed a sin against his king, his best friend, his country, and his God. The sin was a secret they kept unto themselves. But it caused him internal grief, sorrow and pain. He fought this temptation as often has he raised sword against foe, but with always the opposite outcome: defeat. Although he was the greatest swordsman in the world, he had no defense against his own heart.
As time went by his sin continued to worry his soul. He worried he'd soon be dethroned as the greatest knight in the world. He worried about losing his friendship with Arthur. He worried about the damage that would be done to Guinevere if their tryst was uncovered. And he worried that he'd never be able to accomplish his miracle. One day he slunk away from the kingdom and Guinevere, and he repented of his sin, turning his face fully toward God. As a reward for his repentance God blessed Lancelot by allowing him to set his eyes upon the Holy Grail, one of only a handful of people to ever do so. And to humble him, God put before him a noble knight whom he could not defeat in combat. This knight disappeared with the Grail into God’s great and mysterious mists soon after defeating Lancelot; neither the Grail nor the Knight have ever been seen since.
Lancelot eventually returned to court knowing he'd turned a corner. But before long he returned to Guinevere's side. This time he fell even deeper into despair, knowing how far he'd fallen after being so close to God. Lancelot was so depressed that he stopped competing in battles--he didn't want anyone to know of his sin, and he knew that his sins would cause him to lose in battle, that it was impossible for him still be the greatest knight in the world given his moral flaws.
His friend Arthur worried greatly about him. He'd never seen Lancelot so removed. He constantly kept looking for something to draw Lancelot out of himself. The people attributed Lancelot's refusal to participate in tournaments as a sign of him getting old, but Lancelot knew better.
Then, one winter another knight in Europe was cursed by a defeated foe’s mother. The curse bestowed upon him kept his wounds from ever healing. Instead he remained in eternal pain and constantly bled. With the curse was also foretold the cure: the greatest knight in the world would be able to heal his wounds by a simple laying on of hands. The bleeding knight searched all of Europe for the greatest knight but time after time the knights who tried to heal his wounds failed. After many such failures a knight from England told him that if the greatest knight in the world was what he sought then he should make his way to England and speak with Sir Lancelot. This he did and when he arrived at the shores of England Arthur caught word of his approach.
Thinking this was the perfect opportunity to pull Lancelot out of his shell he insisted that the knight come on Christmas day, and on that day a tournament of might would be held but without a single sword being raised. Instead, each knight would have their chance to bless the bleeding warrior, with Lancelot being the last, and of course, in Arthur’s mind, the only one to succeed at the task.
When Lancelot heard of the event he dreaded its approach. He knew that soon everyone would know of his sin, of his lowly state. But he couldn't refuse his king, and above all else he knew it would be his punishment--worthy of his sins--to be rebuked by the Lord in front of all the kingdom. He was so despondent that he considered taking his own life rather than be a part of the tournament.
Christmas arrived. Lancelot sat in his own room listening to the celebrations. Everyone knew Lancelot would be the last one out and that he would succeed, for they all knew in their heart of hearts that he was still the greatest knight in all the world, and that today they would be seeing a miracle. Their cheers depressed him more. A man who had never known fear now buckled at the knees with each knight’s failed attempt, as his time of denouncement grew nearer. Finally a guard entered his quarters and told him it was his turn. Lancelot put on his white cloak and white shield and walked through the door and toward his destiny.
He walked out into the courtyard. There he saw his king, as radiant as ever. He walked between rows of knights on revert and bent knees. The courtyard was full of bright flags whipping amongst the wind and light snow. With a bowed head he approached the platform where the suffering knight lay bleeding in great pain. He ascended the steps. Standing before the knight, Lancelot shed a tear before placing his hands upon the man. And there, on the Lord's birthday, all of England witnessed a miracle. The bleeding stopped and the man was saved from his curse.
The people of England thought that the curing of the curse was the miracle, but in his heart, Lancelot alone knew that the real miracle was that God had allowed even him, the lowest of the low, to heal the man.
One might argue that this isn't a true Christmas story, sure it's a story about God and Christ, but not about Christmas. But like Lancelot, Christ was a savior from the most unlikely of places. The Jews of the time looked toward the rich, the powerful, and the noble for their savior. Instead Christ came from the most unexpected of places.
God works through us and this story is a reminder that all of us have a reserve of goodness within us. Sometimes the place we least expect to find goodness and greatness is from ourselves. We have not only endless opportunities to share goodness, but also the ability to do so, even when we don't think we do. To be an agent of God we need not be kings or prophets or presidents or saints. We need not be perfect or without sin. We simply need to act.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
I'll Never Let Anything Hurt You
"I'll never let anything hurt you." I look into her eyes and I mean it. And she believes it. And I know it can't possibly be true, but I mean it. I really do. Let's disregard all the little bumps and scrapes she'll undoubtedly acquire throughout life. We can even skip over broken bones and other more serious but non-life-threatening injuries. With all that put aside, it's still possible there are loose electrons flying through her body right now; she might already be her own cancerous time bomb. It's possible one day a car will fly off an overpass and land on ours. It's possible a psychopath will mistake killing children for some form of bravery or vindication and do the unthinkable. It's true I can't even guarantee my own safety; I can't prevent so many others from hurting me. Even so, I look her in the eyes and without flinching I say it again, "I'll never let anything hurt you." And in case she doubts me, "Ever."
Some nights I lay awake thinking about the possibilities. If someone were to break in, what would I do? What could I do? They'd have a gun, of course. In these moments the space between her bedroom and mine stretches out before me. Twenty feet, tops, between her crib and my bed. The intruder would see me streak across the hallway like a lightening bolt and hear the doors open and close like thunder. Then what? We jump out a second story window? I hate guns. But shouldn't I own one just for this scenario? Somewhere else, in a small corner of my mind, I see her finding it and a different Godforsaken tragedy, the cure becoming the disease.
Somewhere there is an electron rattling around the insides of a skin-cell, and a bullet ricocheting around the insides of a rib-cage, and a car bouncing around a freeway like a pinball. So what? I still won't let anything hurt her. I put the idea away, like a man filing his favorite novel amongst his non-fiction books--because it's absolutely true, somehow.
Yet, on a day like today, it's not enough. There is no solace in the thought. Instead I wrap my body around hers. A lead blanket that deflects cosmic rays. A bullet proof vest that rejects bullets. An invincible force-field that can stop anything. A simple hug, nothing more. A single, frail human body protecting another, yet frailer human body. This is the tool I have. I lift my heart to God and hope it will always be enough.
And peace unto those who have been shown it's not nearly enough.
Some nights I lay awake thinking about the possibilities. If someone were to break in, what would I do? What could I do? They'd have a gun, of course. In these moments the space between her bedroom and mine stretches out before me. Twenty feet, tops, between her crib and my bed. The intruder would see me streak across the hallway like a lightening bolt and hear the doors open and close like thunder. Then what? We jump out a second story window? I hate guns. But shouldn't I own one just for this scenario? Somewhere else, in a small corner of my mind, I see her finding it and a different Godforsaken tragedy, the cure becoming the disease.
Somewhere there is an electron rattling around the insides of a skin-cell, and a bullet ricocheting around the insides of a rib-cage, and a car bouncing around a freeway like a pinball. So what? I still won't let anything hurt her. I put the idea away, like a man filing his favorite novel amongst his non-fiction books--because it's absolutely true, somehow.
Yet, on a day like today, it's not enough. There is no solace in the thought. Instead I wrap my body around hers. A lead blanket that deflects cosmic rays. A bullet proof vest that rejects bullets. An invincible force-field that can stop anything. A simple hug, nothing more. A single, frail human body protecting another, yet frailer human body. This is the tool I have. I lift my heart to God and hope it will always be enough.
And peace unto those who have been shown it's not nearly enough.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Once and Future King
I picked this book up recently from the bookstore because of a strange familiarity I felt toward the title. I still can't place why it rolls off my tongue like some common phrase I hear or use all the time. Even so I didn't have high expectations for the book, and after reading the first few chapters it felt kind of silly (it's a retelling of the King Arthur stories, the first section being the basis of the Disney movie The Sword and the Stone. So it's tone reminds me more of a Prachet book or a Monty Python movie or Princess Bride, as opposed to Lord of the Rings which is more akin to the sort of fantasy I normally read). But something happened a hundred pages in where I noticed I really loved the writing, especially the scenes that deal with Wart turning into animals. The author does a great job of getting into the minds of the animals and relating how they experience the world in what feels like a very meaningful and accurate way. But I probably wouldn't write this post at all if not for some of the beautiful descriptive prose. I really just wanted to share this description of a flock of geese fly through a cloud (Wart being on of them during a magical transformation courtesy of Merlyn):
"Sometimes, when they came down from the cirrus levels to catch a better wind, they would find themselves among the flocks of cumulus--huge towers of modelled vapour, looking as white as Monday's washing and as solid as meringues. Perhaps one of the these piled-up blossoms of the sky, these snow-white droppings of a gigantic Pegasus, would lie before them several miles away. They would set their course toward it, seeing it grow bigger silently and imperceptibly, a motionless growth--and then, when they were about to bang their noses with a shock against its seeming solid mass, the sun would dim. Wraiths of mist suddenly moving like serpents of the air would coil about them for a second. Grey damp would be around them, and the sun, a copper penny, would fade away. The wings next to their own wings would shade into vacancy, until each bird was a lonely sound in cold annihilation, a presence after uncreation. And there they would hang in chartless nothing, seemingly without speed or left or right or top or bottom, until as suddenly as ever the copper penny glowed and the serpents writhed. Then, in a moment of time, they would be in the jewelled world once more--a sea under them like turquoise and all the gorgeous palaces of heaven new created, with the dew of Eden not yet dry."It might not be the best stuff ever written but if far exceeds anything I expected to find in this, or really any, fantasy book.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
