My Mother

I really miss my mother. Tomorrow I'm going to the farmer's market to buy stuff to make supper for Sunday evening. I haven't had supper but three or four times since I've been here. Sure I've eaten dinner, and lunched, and supped, but I haven't had supper. Supper is what we eat at home; in the good ol' South where I was raised and where I'll die. [If I have anything to say about it of couse.]

As I was writtin' the email to the Global Domination Club settin' the official date and time of our Penultimate Battle of the Universe for Sunday Evenin' at 7:00 pm. See, we have a group of us here who sort of play what we call "Personal Engagement Risk". {I think I've mentioned this before.) And see, I've decided I was going to cook supper for everyone involved. Mostly because when I cook, it reminds me of home.

Home just isn't McAllen where my parents are, but also Abilene - the last place I called home. I remember all the fun times I had with my friends and crew there. I cooked many a meal for them. Perhaps I should take the advice of a dear friend: "Make this your home, while you're here." I could try.

But as I get ready to go to bed [actually I have another couple hours to go] I decided to make my list for tomorrow. I realized how much I miss my mama. I miss antique stores, and home-made ice cream, and HGTV. I miss learning to make dolls, and needlepoint, and doiles. I miss porkchops with apple sause and bread pudding and fried chicken and potatoes. I miss music at the crack of dawn in Elementary School to wake me up and I miss watching Rachel Ashwell.

I'll never be as good at running a house and workin' as my mama, or as good at being a mom, but I'll sure try. Clean house, good food from scratch, crisp clothes, good table setting, and a big smile. And of course, a good prayer before the good eatin'.

This Sunday supper is for you mama - just like you taught me.

I Miss Mayberry

Pie is the answer to all things wrong with life.

This morning I went down the market. While I was driving through the parking lot, I put my car to a stop to allow an elderly gentlemen to cross the parking lot over to the area where the cars were parked. After he had crossed where my car was, he fell down. Face first ladies and gentlemen, he fell into an island of grass and rocks and flowers. He had to be at least 85, and alone.

No one cared.

Everyone kept on walking, kept on driving.

Everyone.

Everyone except me. After I saw him fall, I stopped my car to help him. Everyone was honking and someone almost hit me trying to go around. So fine, I parked my car and went to find him to see if I could help. None, I repeat none of the people rushing by him in the busy busy town of Malibu, felt the need to help him. I could already see that he had a newly developed hobble and a bruise. As I assisted him to his car, he said he didn't need anything. As I watched him drive away, I cried a little inside. I cried for California - for people who don't have "home" even in a place they have lived in all of their lives. I cried tears of joy for Texas, where everyone would stop for him, and a tear of seperation from my home. All of these tears were only on the inside of course, but as I searched for a gallon of 2% milk for supper tomorrow, they nearly surfaced.

Oh well, I need apples for pie. Ah, pie!! There's the rub!

A dear young man here I have had the opportunity to make friendswith once told me that if I ever got to busy to hang out, he'd just make me a pie. He said because I am who I am, he would never assume at my failure to answer his phone calls that I was ignoring him or otherwise being rude. He would know that I was simply too busy, or maybe ill. If I were ill, he told me, he'd bring me soup. If I were busy he said he'd make me a pie - from scratch. A pie from scratch - that reminds me of Abilene, where we'd make each other pies and cookies and the like. What he said is true, pie makes the busy slow down, it makes the cranky smile, and it makes the lonely belong.

Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps everyone in California is so cranky, and rude, and un-friendly because they don't have pie here.

I hope I have enough flour.

What To Do About Oneself Vol. II

When I guess I must admit that I was wrong, I mean to say I never really knew what it was I wanted. That's not true either I suppose. I suspect that what I really mean to say is that I didn't actually know the full ramifications of what I prayed for.

I believe that I can be fairly certian of the accuracy of the following statement: most people do not automaticallly assume the relevence of a debate about the linear quality of Human Rights along a progressive spectrum to a conversation about their friends only trying to obtain a girlfriend.

Fundamentally, the problem is not that I cannot judge on a sliding scale, or that my friends aren't allowed to make mistakes, or even that I cannot hold them accountable. The real issue is how or why did I notice? Perhaps I am learning the difficult lesson of Christianity [or at least one of many]: that the Christian lifestyle can be silently radical and peacefully radical; but radical none the less. As I grow and slowly obtain the memory of God for oppressed, and seek to see things through his eyes, ever once in a while: I DO. I see things as no other around me does. This means that the general level of discomfort I have is steadily increasing everyday not just about things I see around me, but perhaps even things I say.

I was wrong: discomfort has inherent value. It means I don't belong here.

What To Do About Oneself

Have you ever stoped to thinka bout what makes yourself tick? I often do, think about inner self that is. Perhaps so much so, that it is what makes me tick. Maybe I am an entity that operates entirely on the products and energy from introspection.

My mind is always racing at a pace of 100 miles an hour, and I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be able to stop. I was always taught that introspection is healthy, so I spend time each day thinking carefully about what I have said and done that day, what I think and why. Why did I have that argument with that person? Why did I feel naseaus at that thought or comment, but not at that one? Why did I say that word or those words? Why did I cry? Why do I weep?

Let's talk about an example. So tonight, Tommy showed me a website that he says he makes use of sometimes when he is boerd. I mean, it's harmless enough. It's just sort of a community switchboard website, so you can get information about garage sales, community events etc. There is of course, also the requisite dating for singles category. He told me that sometimes he goes to the dating for singles, searches for women aged 20-25 and then, and after he gets results, begins to read some of the profiles. Ok, so fine. But here's where something that was said really bothered me: he says that he clicks on the one's with photos, looks at their photos, and if he likes it, he'll read their profile.

That really bothered me. Why?

Let's talk about linear theory here for a second. So, we begin at point "A" where no woman anywhere is objectified. The ending point, point "Z" is where women are enslaved in a world of complete mysoginy. Now, as theory would predict, every point of increasing objectification moves us farther along the linear progression toward complete opression in the woman-hating world. So, what is it that makes point "B" different from point "Z" or even point "M"?

What's the difference between joking about the "Old Ball and Chain", oogling women at a bar, using their pictures to make decisions about their worthiness, and chosing girls from a catalog in Thialand? What's the difference between paying women less for their labor by 75% than men, and making them wear burqas? The simple answer? Everything. The difficult truth: nothing.

Because mysogeny and the opression of women is a linear progression there truly isn't a difference. Each one of the abuses is worth an extra point as we move towards the end of the alphabet because we are farther along in linear progression. But, each indiviudal abuse is only worth one point, one movment along the line: one unit of injustice. This is incredibly difficult for us to comprehend becuase we don't wish to excpet that severe oppression is linked to the jokes we tell at the water cooler. But if it is true that freedom and equality are both subjectively and objectively valued, then we must accept what Martin Luther King Jr. truly meant when he uttered that "and injustice committed anywhere is an an injustice against everyone"

Something as little as saying "I will only read their profiles if they are cute" may not immediately create the same scale of maifested oppression as the Taliban in Afghanistan created for its women citizens, but it is on the same scale of injustice in that it is on the same linear scale of hatred towards women.

That's true, ok. So why does it cause me to be so conflicted? So this allows me to say that Tommy is the same as a sex trafficker or patron of a child brothel? That doesn't sit well with me. But the truth of the matter is that the exact same phrase with the same mindset uttered elsewhere has HUGE ramifcations. Uttered in a room while going through a catalog of Russian mail-order bride prospects in the Ukraine, those same words sicken us because their context gives us enough of a sense of disgust that we would feel the same whether or not they had said a single word.

But then I guess I have to admit that I was wrong.

The Words To Say

Have you ever heard the song "Speak For Me" by Jaci Velasquez? Consider some of thse lyrics:

What have I to offer to a world in need
Yet for some unknown reason
You have chosen me
Lord, you've set my journey
You've prepared the way
Still I'm desperate for the words to say
All I am is willing
All I have is in your hands
Speak for me, this my plea
Say the words I can't express
Sing for me, a heavenly melody
that the people will be blessed
Speak for me

This coming Sunday I am supposed to speak for a Church Youth group about Justice, and I seem to have lost my words. I am visiting Tommy at Walnut Creek, and his youth group will start their journey to learn about God's Justice this Sunday. He ordered the "Justice Mission" ciriculum for his kids [as any good youth minister should] and will doing an introduction to the study this week. It is my job to introduce the basics of God's Justice. What is it? Why should we care? Why don't we normally care? I usually have so much to say on the subject but as of now, have almost nothing.

I am on a breif 4 day vacation from Law School and couldn't be happier about gettiing to spend time with him here. But I will tell you one thing, I am absolutely exhausted. My brain is completely toasted. In order to avoid studying for my Crim Law Midterm on Tuesday, or even work on my lesson for Sunday morning, I have been cleaning Tommy's office. [And as those of you who have seen it know, it's not as if it didn't need it...u know?] So compeltely toasted am I that I am not sure how to communicate the wrenching in my heart I feel for God's love of the oppressed.

How do you even start? Do I start with startling statistics? A quote that strikes people's hearstrings? Do I ask them where thier shirts come from? None of these seem to be appropriate. It seems almost wrong to communicate what I truly believe to be a theological concept by tugging on people's heartstrings to get them to listen. Perhaps that's all one can do though.

What verses am I supposed touse? The Psalmic Triad? The charge of Isaiah? The True Fasting Doctrine? THERE IS JUST SO MUCH...

But God will come and sit beside me and the spirit will give me the words if I could just be still and remember HIm. That's it, the memory of God. That's the key. I know now where to begin...

Adam

Perhaps not all know of the story of the discovery of my faith; my "faith story". I was raised in the Church of Christ, and was baptized very young on June 10th, 1996, at the age of 12. It's not that I wasn't a faithful Christian, but that I hadn't yet discovered what that which was to make my faith my own.

I remember when I was a senior in high school. I knew I wanted my major to be International Relations. I knew I had a passion for those in other countries who were suffering. I had just completed my 1 year internship with a local attorney, and for my senior capstone had authored legislation for the United Nations creating a court to try Diplomatic crimes, thus abolishing the traditional understanding of diplomatic immunity. My parents quizzed me carefully before I left home to make sure that I was choosing the right major. I was. But I didn't know why...

Freshman year at ACU, I was alone and confused. I still hadn't found the manifestation of my choice to something about the state of the world. I met a boy, his name was Jason Mida. He was my first college debate partner, a senior, and the president of the Student Government [The Students' Association - SA]. I didn't want anything to do with ACU's social life in any way shape or form. It wasn't until he introduced me to IJM, that made the difference. That's another story for another time. But IJM and God's call to seek His justice as per the suffering of the world made my faith my own.

I always wondered what it would be like to change someon'e's life forever. Would I be able to tell?

I met this wonderful young man here at Pepperdine. He's an undergraduate from Passedina. I must confess I do not know much about him, and yet, I know enough. Let me tell you the story.

I met Adam at debate practice the first week of school. And alhtough I knew he was on my team and part of my small section [parli/limited prep/CA], I will admit that at subsequent team meetings I - sorry for the pun - didn't know him from Adam. But all that was soon to change. Some three or four weeks ago, our parli debaters had their first tournament. My compatriat coach for my small section, Gavin, was already at the tournament so it would be my job to drive the kids up for the weekend. Adam was the first one to show up at the meeing area, and the first one to put his stuff in the car, and the last one of my kids I will ever forget. While waiting for the other kiddos to show up, Adam began to ask me questions about why I decided to go to Law School in the first place. I asked him if he was sure he wanted to hear all about it After assuring me he did, I breifly told him about the calling God has placed in my heart to rescue the oppressed and protect the weak and the helpless. ***Now, let's just take a break from this story to say that I often try to exercise a measure of self-control when talking about my thoughts on God's concept of Justice. I recognize that most people simply don't want to hear about, at least not to the degree I'm willing to tell them about it. I feel the twinge of in my heart to comment on so many everyday statements I hear [such as "I'm starving" - no you're not: children in Africa are though...], and yet I try to restain myself. I loud and constant gong soon becomes white noise thereby ceasing to sound the alarm when danger approaches. But for Adam, this small tidbit wasn't enough. He wanted to know more. *** Although I certainly didn't ignore the rest of my charges, as Adam rode shot-gun to the tournament, we talked of Justice. After I checked them all in and fed them, and went to my room [FINALLY, AFTER EIGHT YEARS OF DEBATE MY OWN ROOM!!! HECK YES!!!!], soon there was a knock at the door. Adam was there, wanting to know more.

And of course, I was ready and willing to tell him more. He walked out of my hotel room that night with a copy of Gary Haugen's book "Terrify No More," a puzzled look and a thirsty spirit. It had begun.

Adam and I stayed up talking just this past Tuesday night from 9:30-1:00 am. And when finally we realized what time it was we were both awed. It seemed so strange that we could talk for so long so effortlessly. The only answer I have for that is: It's a God Thing.

Adam and I have talked multiple times since that night, about God's Justice and other things. I know that Adam's favorite colors growing up [and still] are pink and red. He's half Mexican [on his mom's side - his dad is Italian] and grew up here. His extended family lives in Brownsville believe it or not. He is a triple major in Philosophy, Communication, and Political Science. He loves C.S. Lewis, and Southern cookin'. He could listen to Al Green & Lionel Richie forever. His mom is Catholic, and his dad was disciple of Christ. He's never seen Office Space or House, never kissed a girl, and never been to Africa. He is most afraid of: getting Alzhiemers or some other dehibilitating disease. He loves to read, but never read Kafka. He is intrigued by the South, and thinks that my accent is quote "distinguished" [I have an accent...what do y'all think?] He thinks that the most attractive thing in the opposite sex [and about himself] is Chkristianity. After all, he says, what else matters? What else indeed Adam...

It is in this spirit I think, that we seem to get along so well. He is just like me - mixed blood and raised in a culture of mixed signals. But like me as well, Adam seems to have put all that and the identity crises that arise therein behind him in search of a greater identity: the one he has in Christ. So I wonder, why is it that he so readily grasped onto the concept of Biblical Justice we talked about?

I found out on Tuesday night that somewhat like me, Adam has a passion for the oppressed and the afllicted. It turns out that without knowledge of another way to manifest this passion, he almost joined the peace corps. After his parents "talked him out of it" he relinquished that had simply yet to find that which God has chosen for his calling. When he heard about IJM, he said, he just knew. He was finally able to put a name on a calling; a goal to a purpose, a destination for his journey. So much so in fact, he called home and told his parents about what he had learned, and what he could do and would do for those he had longed so desperatly to help for so long.


"I know dark clouds will gather round me. I know my way is rough and steep. But golden fields lay out before me, where God's redeemed shall ever sleep."

These words from ZOE's woeful "I Am A Poor Wayfaring Stranger" are what landed it at the number two spot on my iTunes mix "My Justice Quest Vol. 1". I have carefully become aware of how difficult it is to have a different world view. It isolates me and my thoughts from the pervasive ebb of society's pop culture flow. It is sometimes lonely. The week and a half before we graduated from ACU, one of my dearest friends, Layne Rouse, and I were talking late in a car after having seen a moview that poignantly reminded us of "Justice". Somehow the conversation got around to what we would be and what we would do. Eventually we both came the realization that my vocational choice could cost me my life, and very likely would. "I know you'll always call when you leave the country, and when you come home again. But I also know that one day the calls will stop." And yet, somehow I feel oddly at peace. Giving up my fear of death and secuirty and even of bugs and a world without Sonic to God pulls me so close into Him, that there is no safer place I could be. Facing danger and uncertainty by the terms of the world is certainty of purpose and life in God. This is my meaning for "he who shall gain his life wil lose it". So be it. The eye of the storm is always the most beautiful

And yet, I do not wish to say that God intended for us to be creatures without community. That is simply not true. The ever popular creed of the "deer-blind" Christian, that "I don't need a Church body or fellowship, God and I got this covered" will not suffice. As i listend to Adam's words I felt comforted the same way a weary traveler does when, whilst resting at a crossroads in the dark, he realizes that the ominous figure in the distance is not a threatening nightmare, or even worse, a person who's gaze he wil not catch, but another weary traveler looking also for the same unmarked path.

God is amazing. There really is not much else to say on the subject. Still, there is so much more.

The memory of God.

My Kids Are So Great

So we went to team lab last night. Every Thursday night we have practice as a team. This week, the first thing that we did was to fill out what we call a Ballot Review form. Each student who competeted at a tournament this weekend takes his or her ballots, and reads them. Then, they fill out a form where they answer the following questions:

1) What things did I do well this weekend that I would like to continue doing?
2) The most helpful coaching events I got this weekend was:
3) The most unhelpful coaching advice I got this weekend was:
4) Things I would like to improve upon before the next tournament are:
5) Things on my ballots that are repeated by multiple judges and that I should work on are:
6) Things I would like to learn before the next tournament:
7) The coach or coaches I would like to meet with before the next tournament is [are]:

Those are the basic questions on the sheet. We take up the sheet and use it to construct and adapt our coaching paradigms for each student in order to help them suceede. I'm so excited because my kids all put how much they love me and how helpful I am...etc. One of my kids even put little hearts on my name! I'm so special.

One of my kids threatened to start me a fan club on facebook. Interesting...although flattering.