Sunrise on Firth of Forth

11/14/2007, 9:30 am -- by Chloe | 2 Comments

There is no smell in the air, none at all. There is no lingering cigarette ash or swirling car exhaust, no rotten garbage or fetid water. And it is quiet, only the sound of the water slurping up the rocks and the wind rustling the waves like a dancing woman’s skirt. Scotland’s wind is not pushy and impatient, but mischievous, catching and teasing the tendrils of hair that have slipped my fist. Here there is respite from noxious cars and obnoxious horns, from people muttering, “Sorry,” and salesmen tugging at my sleeves. Here there are only the croaking calls of seagulls and the chatter of wind and waves.

There is a storm brewing off to the north, big and tumultuous, yellow and blue like a bruise, and when it breaks, everything in Scotland will turn greener than it was. In London, the plain almost-gray sky never quite rains, but drizzles unremarkable specks of water into unremarkable puddles of muck. When this storm breaks, the writhing clouds and turbulent ocean, the heavy blue hills ambling out of the water towards the southeast, all that will be washed in tacky greens not fit for painting. Maybe, when it breaks, the neon sunrise lurking beneath the horizon will decide to wander in.

I settle on a rock, where brine has anchored conical shells to the sides of the massive black boulder, and they scrape my legs each time I swing them back and forth with the rhythm of the tide. I face the east, where the sun will make its entrance and wrestle with the waves for the stage.

The sun rises uncertainly over the harbor, budding baby yellow on the hills, melting into confused greens and deepening shades of blue up into the sky. As it gains confidence, though, it throws out against the clouds an armory of pinks and oranges, bold and embarrassing colors to the Prussian blue ocean. The sky is flaming now, no longer shy yellows and greens, but bright shades of gold against the clouds.

And then the tides change. The clouds begin to recede. Those bullying masses were only testing the waters, looking for a reaction, and meant no harm, after all. They give ground to the sun, taking with them the chill wind and white waves, leaving in their place ripples on a placid surface, and shallow pools reflecting the boulders on which I perch. And then a final flourishing bow from the clouds splashes vibrant greens all over the opposite shore.

Scotland is green once again.

Quote of the Day, 11/14/07

11/14/2007, 7:00 am -- by Bweinh | No Comments

“If we wanted to simulate conditions in Beijing, [U.S. marathon] athletes would run behind a large diesel bus through the streets of New Orleans in the dead of summer.” — G. Latimer

Boaz Bloom and Tumble-Down Row, Part Three

11/13/2007, 10:30 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

The last of the Best of Job, continued. Lost? Read part one and part two.

I didn’t mind the work at the sawmill actually, except there was absolutely no talking or singing while you worked, or you’d spoil your appetite on quarts of sawdust. But it was solid work, the kind that builds muscle with power.

“Localized power,” a friend in Maine used to tell me. “When you get attacked by a man in your home,” he said, “you’re not going to settle it by asking him to see who can bench more weight. You’re gonna wanna get his blood flowing into his eyes so he can’t see, and then you’re gonna want to work him over real good, top to bottom, so he can’t run very far. And you’ll need power for that. Localized power.”

Lifting wood at a steady pace is pretty local. And while I enjoyed the opportunity to think, I sorta began to dread lunchtime a little — the only time during the day when the drone of the saws died down, and everyone could talk about last night’s game or whatever. We’d all gather around Dean’s truck bed to eat, but I found their conversation hard to engage.

They went to pretty good lengths to let me join in, but in the end, my presence was a little disconcerting for everyone, what with my choice of somber silence or lame attempts at noise. I didn’t want to eat apart, but still at the mill (lest they get the impression that I thought I was better than they were), so I elected to simply make myself scarce for the 45-minute break.

And that’s where I met Boaz.

The mill was built into a hillside (or what passes for a hill in Missouri), and behind its sheds was an old portion of the town — abandoned, I was told, because an earthquake 80 years prior had shifted the ground in such a way that almost every foundation had been ruined. Roofs had collapsed and entire structures softened. I guess the Midwest does have a pretty big fault line under it. I read about it at the library once, but those kinds of books need more pictures.

Devastation requires more than Times New Roman, if you ask me.

The buildings had been scuttled of their valuable parts, with siding and shingles taken down to the lower portion of Chap and put to use — but frames and some of the cracked foundations of the old homes and bank were left. Over time the town came to refer to this area with equal amounts of affection and embarassment as “Tumbledown Row.”

I had a good doorstep, covered in shade by an oak that must’ve slept with one eye open (with the mill chopping up her kin right behind her), and this was my lunchtime throne, from which I surveyed my 45 minutes of quiet kingdom. Sometimes I’d see the carcass of a beer party strewn about an old well ten paces to my left. It did have that quality. If this were New Hampshire, my friends and I woulda claimed this place too for such things. It had the romance, ya know?

I enjoyed Tumbledown Row. The devastation must have been shocking and tear-worthy back then, but what was tear-worthy then was a punchline of a picnic table for me now.

My third day eating lunch on the Row, I heard some jangling coming up the hillside. It had a musical quality with a steady rhythm, and I didn’t feel imposed or intruded on in the least — which is a good way to remember first seeing and meeting Boaz. The jangling was the chain on a bicycle, and the rhythm was Boaz’s steady pumping of the pedals, as he crested the “hill” and entered the Row. What a sight.

The going rate in town for his age was 67, and he was pure bald, with an upper torso that must’ve weighed an easy 200 lbs. alone, full of a big, bulbous gut that was far too curious-looking to be repulsive. I only knew Boaz in the summertime, so I can only dress him for you in the series of Navy blue T-shirts, tube socks, thick glasses and gray Ocean Pacific shorts he always wore. And my noon hour interactions with him were always after he had pedaled himself into a red, flushed face.

But this man’s legs were massively powerful, and with every stroke he took on his bike, every step he strode, his legs came to life with a flurry of muscle and vein. This was a man who lived on his bike, and he was an interesting composite of its ill effects and positive benefits.

Boaz rode his bike on an obsessive-compulsive path that I later learned was his own creation, from years and years of riding the same route. It was a solid, packed length of earth about 4 inches wide that spread around Chap’s upper half. I’d run into a section of it once behind the IGA, when I went to get some ice from their machine, and I saw the trail cut straight through the field, then disappear as it ran into Fair Street.

I distinctly remember ignoring it; I figured it was a Missouri thing. Something religious, or mule deer, an old boundary or something.

Indians maybe.

Oh, and the ice was for my shoulder. Localized power, dontchaknow.

–TO BE CONTINUED–

Joke of the Day, 11/13/07

11/13/2007, 7:00 am -- by Bweinh | No Comments

A sailor met a pirate in a bar, with a peg leg, a hook, and an eyepatch. Intrigued, he asked the pirate how he got his peg leg.

“Matey, I was washed ashore in a great gale, and a shark came and bit off me leg!”

Astonished, the sailor went on. “How did you get your hook?”

The pirate answered, “We was in a fierce fight boardin’ a ship, and darned if they didn’t chop me hand clear off!”

Finally the sailor asked, “And the eyepatch? How’d you get that?”

“A seagull pooped in me eye,” the pirate said.

The sailor was stunned. “You lost an eye from seagull poop?”

“Well, it was me first day with the hook.”

An All New Chick Tract!

11/13/2007, 12:00 am -- by Steve | No Comments

{democracy:163}

A Question For You

11/12/2007, 12:45 pm -- by Steve | 3 Comments

I’m not yet ready to throw myself onto the sword that will be a wholesale attack on libertarianism, so I’ll take a brief detour and ask you all about something I’ve noticed lately.

One of the most interesting, yet disturbing, things about our advertising program, run through the monolithic soul-destroying Google corporation, is how the ads are chosen — a combination of our own content and advertisers’ desires.

For instance, if you look around the front page of our site right now, you might see dating site advertisements for observant Catholics and respectful Muslims. The Mormon/Muslim clash, as I mentioned in the comments, has attracted several religion-specific ads, for temple garments and Muslim Girl magazine, which I might order and have shipped to Job in the near future. These things are harmless and humorous — and if they interest you in any way, I urge you to click on them!

But I’m concerned that the religious and political content of our site attracts a certain class of advertiser, whose desire is not so much to peddle goods to a discreet group of people as it is to proselytize the world. And this is fine — we do pretty much the same thing — but given the size and placement of our ads on the page, I feel uncomfortable giving what amounts to our editorial approval to ads like “What is Real Faith?,” “How Can I Be Saved?,” “Seven Questions Your Pastor Doesn’t Want You to Ask,” and similar alluring titles.

I’ve checked a few (but not by clicking on them; our policies allow YOU to click on them, but NOT me), and some of these ads are doctrinally sound and backed by legitimate organizations, like Campus Crusade for Christ. But others lead to long, blundering screeds that cross the border of heresy and paranoia and make doctrinal arguments to which we would never attach our name.

You’re smart, and you can understand the difference between the content we publish and the advertisements interspersed within it. But I have this feeling that our responsibility extends to anything that appears on the site, which necessarily includes inadvertent (and paid) links to false teaching and nonsense.

What should we do?

The Council’s Ruling — Most Enjoyable Sport

11/12/2007, 12:00 pm -- by Bweinh | No Comments

This and every Monday, the Bweinh!tributors, having convened in secret for hours of reasoned debate and consideration, will issue a brief and binding ruling on an issue of great societal import.

This week’s question — What is the most enjoyable sport to play?

Mike delivers the ruling of the Council, joined by Erin, Steve and David:

Basketball — a great combination of brute physical endurance and delicate hand-eye coordination.

Tom dissents, joined by Connie and MC-B:

Beach volleyball. You’re never too far from the ball in an exciting game, and never too far to heckle the other team in a boring one.

Djere dissents, joined by Chloe:

Blood sport — you don’t know thrill until you hunt a man through the jungle with nothing but a bow and arrow.

Josh dissents, joined by Djere:

Dodgeball — you get throw stuff at people!

Job played no part in the determination of this issue.

Next week: What is the best toy of all time?

Ask Bweinh! Poll — Foreign Languages

11/12/2007, 10:00 am -- by Bweinh | No Comments

Today’s Ask Bweinh! poll, brought to you by Air Transat: the worst airline in the world! As one satisfied customer put it — “Air Transat, for me, is low-quality, dangerous, cheap (in other ways than money), and their staff are saddening, rude, and careless.”

Air Transat! Saddening, rude and careless!

Rank	Language	Points
1.	Spanish	40
2.	French	19
3.	Italian	15
4.	German	13
5.	Russian	7
6.	Greek	6
7-10 (tie)	Pig Latin; Mandarin Chinese; Latin; Esperanto	5
Other	Scots Gaelic; Irish Gaelic; Hebrew; Arabic; Portuguese; Korean; Klingon; Latin; Canadian; Xhosa; Clicking; Albanian	1-4

Quote of the Day, 11/12/07

11/12/2007, 7:00 am -- by Bweinh | 1 Comment

“How I hated mushrooms as a kid. They looked slimy and inedible, like stiffened slices of ruminant sputum.” — J. Lileks

Football Results (Week Ten)

11/12/2007, 12:38 am -- by Bweinh | No Comments

This year, the Bweinh!tributors shall compete each week by proxy on the mighty gridiron!

The tenth week’s results
Dallas def. New York; Chicago def. Oakland; St. Louis def. New Orleans
Denver def. Kansas City; Green Bay def. Minnesota

Bweinh!tributor	This Week	Overall	GB
Mike	4-1	37-13	—
Steve	2-3	36-14	1
Josh	2-3	33-12	1.5
Djere	2-3	35-15	2
Tom	3-2	34-16	3
Connie	3-2	33-17	4
Erin	3-2	22-8	5
MC-B	3-2	32-18	5
David	2-3	29-21	8

By category
Avid fans: 118-47 (.715)
Slight fans: 64-36 (.640)
Uninterested: 144-86 (.626)

Why We Believe: Vol. 5

11/10/2007, 9:00 am -- by Djere | 3 Comments

This and following weekends, we will share the brief salvation testimony of each Bweinh!tributor. So far we’ve heard from David, Steve, Tom, and Connie. Next in line is Djere.

“Now salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of His Christ have come, for the accuser of our brethren, who accused them before our God day and night, has been cast down. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death.”
–Revelation 12:10b-11

There’s an old self-actualization exercise professors use in just about every field of coursework — writing your own obituary. It’s supposed to help you focus your studies onto long-term goals and help get you there quicker.

I was reflecting on that verse Friday, thinking that of all the verses in the Bible that I want to be true in my life, that’s one of them. And when all is said and done, I earnestly hope to God that is my verse.

As much as a three-year-old can understand sin, damnation, repentance, and eternal life, when threatened by my older brother with eternal hellfire, I made my first — and last — tearful bedside conversion. But the problem with being second of six siblings is that I quickly got fed up with the crowd. My “rebellion” was not simply agreeing to whatever I was told. I wanted to explore it first, tear it apart, chew it, and discover it was as true for me as the Bible said it was.

Early one summer Dad told us, matter-of-factly, that his sons were all to be baptized. No discussion, no debate — just a cool statement of fact. But unlike my ovine brothers, I wasn’t letting my father — or anyone else — make my decision for me. So baptism day came and went with a sopping wet Stephen, a sopping wet Thomas, and a remarkably dry Jeremiah. Once I had made up my mind, I was baptized the next summer.

My teenage years were spent learning about spiritual leadership from our pastor and leading a youth small group. Once I left home for Oswego State University, I helped re-grow the BASIC college ministry from a sparsely-populated club to one of the largest organizations on campus.

But a testimony is more that a recollection of facts — it’s how we overcame and how we overcome. I’ve seen healings, I’ve seen miracles, I’ve seen lives changed. And I will see more.

Here lies Jeremiah ‘Djere’ Maxon (1983 – 2023)
Beloved Prophet, Pastor, Missionary, Itinerant Worker of Miracles — all around hep cat.
Revelation 12:11

Sparrow

11/9/2007, 12:00 pm -- by David | No Comments

So I plummeted to earth,
Rushing,
Headlong to meet the ground.
Wondering where this world ends,
And where the Heavens begin.

Unsure,
If I had even flown,
Or just postponed,
The inevitable fall,
Reserved for all,
Enslaved in this corrupted flesh.

Confused,
About the nature of this flight.
About gravity and other things,
Like human hearts and angel wings,
And if the two could mesh.

Saying,
To myself and You,
What must I do?
What must I do?
What must I do?
To live above like You.

And can we fly?
Or is it just a treat,
Held high,
To coax me to my feet?
To rush headlong,
Where angels have not trod.
A man,
Called to live like God.

Soaring high,
Against his nature’s grain.
Breathlessly awaiting
His chance to fall again.
Wondering aloud,
Where this world ends,
So Heaven can begin.
To take its shape outside of him,
Instead of just within.

And I watch,
And am alone,
Like a sparrow,
Atop of this, my house.

I dare not brave the sky,
With these two wings,
More broken now than I.
Too shattered,
To ever be repaired,
Assuming that I cared.

For my heart is broken too,
I guess like You
Were broken in the bread.
Poured out like wine,
For the free among the dead.

And where does this world end,
And the next one start?
And where does flight take place?
In Heaven?
On Earth?
Or somewhere in the heart?

And if it is not Heaven,
Nor Earth this freedom brings,
Then maybe you could heal my heart,
And forget about these wings.

For men are not angels,
Were never meant to be,
And who knows, Lord, but You,
What likeness we shall be?

Joke of the Day, 11/9/07

11/9/2007, 7:00 am -- by Bweinh | No Comments

A very excited man went to his barber. “I’m heading to Rome — I’m flying over on Alitalia, staying at the Hilton, and I’m going to see the Pope!”

His barber laughed. “Alitalia’s almost as bad as Air Transat, the Hilton is a dump, and you’ll probably have 10,000 people between you and the Pope!”

So the guy went to Rome and came back. His barber asked, “How was Rome?”

“Great,” said the man. “The airline was perfect, the hotel was wonderful, and I got to meet the Pope!”

“You met the Pope?”

“I kissed his ring.”

“Wow! What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Where did you get that terrible haircut?'”

Epilogue

11/8/2007, 1:00 pm -- by Chloe | 2 Comments

I wanted to share this with everyone. I volunteer at Salvation Army Homelessness Center on Wednesdays after class. This week I went in, and the boss, Andy, said, “Oh, Chloe! You have a message!”

A message? For me? I’m not important enough at Salvation Army to have a message! But there was a little yellow piece of paper with the name “Jean” on it. I don’t know a Jean, and certainly not one who works at “Islington Home Health Care.”

“What’s the message?”

“Well, apparently she found your driver’s license on the street. She sent it by post, so it should be here by tomorrow.”

(In my head, I’m still jumping up and down, yelling, “Praise God, praise God, praise God!”)

What are the odds? Really, what are the odds that in all the 7.5 million disenchanted, apathetic, tunnel-visioned people in a big city like London, a decent person would spot my stolen driver’s license and pick it up? More than that, what are the odds that the card I have from Salvation Army would be chucked out with it, land in the same place, and stay there with all the wind London had Wednesday? And, honestly, what are the chances that, in calling that number, the angel named Jean would get in touch with someone who knows me in a church as big as Regent Hall?

There aren’t any.

Praise God, praise God, praise God!!!!!

Ask Bweinh! Poll — Prepositions

11/8/2007, 11:30 am -- by Bweinh | 1 Comment

Today’s Ask Bweinh! poll, brought to you by the loud guy outside my door who won’t stop laughing!

WHAT’S SO FUNNY, BUDDY?

One of the most wonderful parts of our language is the preposition. And these are the best of the best!

Rank	Preposition	Points
1.	Among	15
2.	With	13
3.	In	11
4-6 (tie)	Over; At; Beyond	9
7.	For	8
8-14 (tie)	Beneath; Across; Around; On; Through; Athwart; Under	5
Other	Without; Aboard; Above; Toward; Into; About; Against; Except; From; By; To; Betwixt; Via	1-4