And, Now, A Story

“Do you love me?”

He had no idea what to say.

“Do you love me?” she repeated.

He had often pondered what it meant to be in love with someone. Time and time again, he realized that he hadn’t the vaguest clue.

“I mean, like that, you know? I’ve always thought of love as agape, like the unconditional love thing. Well, at least when I say it that’s what I mean. But it seems like there is something else for when a man loves a woman. You know? I’m a woman. You’re a man. It just seems like when we say that we love each other there should be something else too. Like, an ideal. Agape and being in love.”

Still, he could think of nothing to say to her. He thought of the Greeks and their many words for love and how lucky they were and how they would have never had this conversation. Even if they did, he wondered, what would they say? Do you eros me? Strange, but not unthinkable, he supposed. The only thing that he could do was look into her blue eyes, touching her face with the back of his hand. His hand would find her stomach, and he noted its softness and how much he enjoyed her bellybutton. But still, he had no answer to her question.

“It’s just that, for most couples it’s a pretty big deal when they start saying ‘I love you’ and I don’t know that it was for us. I don’t know,” she continued.

He thought of the way she looked in the morning – makeupless and glorious. He remembered the first time he woke up next to her and how, for once, he was glad to be awake. She laid beside him, still asleep. He recalled admiring the curve of her nose and the little bump it had toward the top, closer to the brow. He remembered the way her lips parted as she breathed – he thought them to be the most kissable lips he had ever seen. The scar below her right eyebrow was a true beauty to him. The freckle on the bottom of her right earlobe, just below her piercing, came to mind. He thought the sound of her breath when her mouth was close to his ear and the resulting shivering sensation that flooded down his back.

“Will you ever tell me if you’re in love with me?” she asked.

He didn’t know that he could because he didn’t know what this meant. What he did know was how she looked as she explained the contents of her room to him. He knew that she had treasures from childhood. She shared them generously with him, omitting no detail, and he knew that she was beautiful. He knew the sound of her laugh and knew when she was on the verge of announcing, “That’s what she said.” He knew they had inside jokes that would always be funny to only them. He knew that he would forever think Oprah was in every limousine he saw. He knew that she was, without a doubt, one of, if not the, funniest women he had ever known. He knew that when she smoked, she was transcendent. He knew the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her speech, and had learned that scathing sarcasm was her love-language. She insulted him a lot.

“I mean, obviously you will, but will you make sure that I know it’s in love with?"

He couldn’t make that promise. But he knew that she celebrated and respected him. He knew that he was his true self when he was with her. He knew that he could sit with her forever.

He loved her.

And she knew.

Tradition

It fills me with utter joy to know that right now I am not a part of Arena Theater's Strike of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Beyond this room, there are many people who, together, are celebrating and saying goodbye to 7 intense weeks of work on a play. I did so for four years and have now seen four strikes come and go in my time out of school. For some reason, knowing that there is something in the space - some vivacity - that sustains the tradition of strike and has nothing to do with me is comforting beyond words. The work that happens in that place - that wonderful, flawed place - is compelling enough to keep people coming back, greeting plays, and then saying goodbye to them. Fantastic.

I thought that it must have been abnormal while I was there. I thought that I was unusually blessed to encounter such a group of people at such a time in my life so as to offer me such joy. Now I realize that Arena Theater is the unusually blessed one. It continues to receive and send out wonderfully beautiful people, and so, the glorious traditions - Strike, Workout Christmas, et al. - continue. I am not unique to the place, and this thought, of sharing the beauty of the space and its traditions with so many people - past, current, and those to come - is the true blessing that falls on this side of Arena Theater.

I spent so much time last year thinking about how I was missing out on so much; the community, the work of a place, parties, friends; and I spent so little time thinking about how blessed I was to have been commissioned from such a place to "serve the Lord with gladness and singleness of heart." The time I spent wallowing in my distance from the space and its work was time that I could have spent celebrating the common experience that I have with so many beautiful people. Now I know. Now I see. Now I, again, rejoice with those who rejoice.

The Real Question Is...

...what does it mean to be good? Not nice, not pleasant. Good.

I was talking with one of my buddies just a little bit ago, telling him, "I try to be a good guy." As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn't have any real idea what exactly I meant by that. I try to be kind to people I can hardly tolerate? I try to buy my friends fast food when I drive? I try to mostly stay out of people's way by not upsetting them? Sure, I do all these things, but does that really constitute goodness? The only answer that seems true is: no.

Goodness, I've been told, means that you do the hard thing. You have the conversation that no one wants to have because it's related to someone's health. I've also heard that it means never getting drunk. From what I can put together, goodness looks like a Baptist congregation. Not that I have anything against Baptists (I don't), but they seem to be fairly renowned for keeping-it-down. That just seems boring. While I know that goodness is not necessarily something that comes easy to Man, it must at least look somewhat fulfilling, right? And the angelic choir boy image is not, in the least, appealing. It's actually sort of annoying. So what, then, does it mean to be good? I mean, truly good. It can't comprise of a list of non-deeds. "I've never been in a fight,"; "I've never had sex,"; "I never drink more than I know I can hold." Wrong. Goodness can't be not being bad. It simply can't. Not being bad is simply that; not being bad. So, then, what? How does one live a life that can be called "good?"

It must be a matter of alignment of heart. Intent to bless and lift up is good, while flying under the radar to not piss people off is just not bad. Right? But how do I align my heart so that I might consistently be a source of love and comfort to my brother? What does that heart even look like? It can't be the heart that just sits around and feels worthless everytime it violates a commandment. That's just an over stimulated guilt complex. If we sat around and thought about how often we screwed up, it would be a lonely life. A lonely, unforgiven life. So goodness must be a turning towards something else. Not a turning away from. It's looking at the past, and turning towards repentance. I suppose that's the key to goodness: repentance. If repentance is turning the heart toward God, it must be. So why do we only wait until we feel that we've transgressed far enough to make that final leap to God's forgiving grasp. Are we not, at all times, fallen creatures? Are we not creatures who always need constant reminding of his good, most loving heart? But how does this realignment with God's forgiving heart manifest itself practically? How? What does it look like?

I don't want to be a nice guy - they finish last - I want to be a good man, repectable and kind.

How?

What To Do? Oh, What To Do?

I finally know that I will never be satisfied with an occupation unless it involves working with a group of actors - writing for them, directing, or acting beside. I don't know what all this means just yet, but I know that it's true.
This last year I have spent an ungodly amount of time in front of the television. In the last twelve months I have watched.

3 Seasons of Arrested Development. Several times.
7 Seasons of Scrubs. Some of them twice.
2 Seasons of The Office.
Several seasons of The Simpsons.
4 Seasons of Lost.
1 Season of 30 Rock.
2 Seasons of Heroes.
2 Seasons of Weeds.

Needless to say, I have seen some episodes from each of the shows more than once.

There is a certain spark between the actors themselves and their dialogue. I don't know what it is, but it's what makes them fun to watch. It's what's compelling. It's what keeps us coming back to them week after week, or, in some cases, what makes us watch "just one more" until 7 in the morning.
I want, no, need to be a part a group that does this sort of work. I don't necessarily mean television, but I do mean a group of people that come together to work for a common product. I don't want to write novels. I don't want to write short stories. I want to create stories. I want to be a part of a team that brings them to life. Embodies them. I realize now why novel writing, poetry, short stories have always been so hard for me. It's hard for me to get them anywhere without bodies. I suppose poetry does present a different case than story writing, however. My writing needs bodies. The stories I want to tell need to be spoken, not just read.
It's finally coming together.

But now...
...how?

The Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer

After much deliberation, I have decided that it is time to post my "Top 10 Of The 2008 Summer." I know everyone has been waiting with baited breath to find out what exactly I would list in my top 10 - music? memories? people? It could be any of these. You have all proven to be truly loyal friends and underlings, and I have no doubt that my approval or recognition of you or some moment we shared would be enough to give you a lifetime of satisfaction and be righteous cause for you to die happy. You can't, however, all be winners. And now, for the first time, I present to you - Christian's Top 10 of Summer '08.

10) On one of the early weekends in the summer, about ten of us walked from the girls' townhouse to the Dairy Queen in DT Wheaton. While this is not necessarily a spectacular event in and of itself, I would like to recount some of the highlights. A) Alyssa Keysor with her cement breaking knees. B) Cori and Amanda singing to everyone about themselves in turn. C) Dog pile on College Avenue. Truly, this was an event for the history books.

9) Home Run Derby in the Little League Field. While I do not necessarily like to toot my own horn, I must recount the fact that I slaughtered my opponents with nine home runs while the nearest runner-up followed with a mere two. After him, zero home runs. Game. Set. Match. Homer.

8) A night of joy at the Anderson household. While my friendship to the parties involved does not allow me to relay the intimate details of the night I will list several words that come to mind in light of this evening; mantime, sparks, nail polish, David Spade, cannabis, techtonique, MacGruber. And finally, glory.

7) Attending the Prairie Ridge High School Baseball team's championship game (as well as semifinals) to cheer on Cori's little brother. Needless to say, the Wolves dominated and emerged gloriously with the state championship title. I recall heckling the other team. That was when I knew I was destined to be a bleacher dad.

6) Cooking dinner for friends with Nathan Stewart. One night we got tired of everyone staying in and worrying about what they were going to eat. So we went out and bought a bunch of food and decided to have a several course meal with some of the ladies that were in town. Too bad we can't make a life out of it. Nate-dog and I made a good team, I think.

5) Any number of SBFF phone calls that I got from Amanda Joy Reider. While "SBFF" may not have been played out the most practically in the end, just knowing that I had a SBFF this summer made everything all the better and more wonderful. I highly suggest that everyone pick up a Summer Best Friend Forever.

4) Seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull with Nathan Stewart. Wonder why? Here's your answer.

3) Friday movie mornings with Alan (and Ellie). Best. Tradition. Ever. We saw so many movies this summer it was out of control. Wall-E, Get Smart, Step Brothers, The Happening, Hancock, The Dark Knight, Tropic Thunder, Pineapple Express...amazing. All during opening day. Not only did we practically have the theaters to ourselves, but for a low, low price of $5 a ticket. Truly a tradition one wouldn't want to let go of.

2) Cubs game with Cori. Best birthday gift ever. We had incredible car rides both to and from Wrigleyville, hanging out with Cori's parents' small group. We got two pairs of seats. One in a skybox (where we got to eat free food and enjoy the delay from live action to television) and the other put us right behind the first-base side dugout allowing us to taunt the Florida Marlins as they returned from the inning. I was able to let Dan Uggla know exactly how I felt about his performance in the All-Star Game. Derrek Lee stood 30 feet away from us. I got to see Big Z pitch. We saw Mark DeRosa make an amazing, diving catch. Ronny Cedeño and Henry Blanco both homered. In the end, the Cubs won. And I bought a Fukudome headband. Truly a fantastic evening. I also got a beer out of the deal.

And the number one joy of the 2008 Summer is....

...TONGUE BEAR!

Friends, thank you so much for being a part of this summer. You all made it a fantastic three months. Let's keep it going this fall, whaddaya say?

Tonight I Walked Through The Empty Streets

Five years ago I attended my first class at Wheaton College. Baffling. I figured out that since then, I have had over 150 million heartbeats. Amazing. What did I do with so many heartbeats? Some I slept through while others occurred while hurting people. Some happened while I was telling a friend I loved him and others while I was cursing a stranger under my breath. Even in the constant change that is life on earth, my breath and heart were sustained. God, time and again, proved his mercy and love by providing the blood that allowed me to fail as well as get it right every now and then. His goodness remains ever with me and the joy of his world continually at hand. I so rarely, however, stop to soak in the glories of the day or the emensity of his splendor. His love endures. Always.
I walked through the streets of Wheaton tonight remembering. I remembered what happened here, what happened there. Each memory seems so distant but still so near. In each instance the person I was then seems so unlikely. I don't know how I survived some of the days in the last five years. I don't know where the time has gone and how it has ended up here. I remember how painful and joyful the last half-decade has been. In that time, so many friendships evolved, some disintegrated. How is it possible that so much can change so seemingly quickly? How is the person that arrived in Wheaton in 2003 the same person who stands before you now in 2008, only not the same as before. The same, but different. The events that have happened in the time from being eighteen to twenty-three must be enough to fill several books, but why is it that I can't find any words to give the time? And why am I so afraid of forgetting? Or am I afraid of being forgotten?
But still, while everything is tumultuous and finite people are forgetful, walking barefoot down Main Street brings to mind the unchanging and eternal God in whose memory I will live forever. Like the thief on the cross, I cry to him, "Remember me, O Lord, in thy Kingdom." My one hope is to hear the same words he uttered to the man on his right. And sometimes, when it's especially quiet and I listen especially hard, I can almost hear his breath. I can almost hear his voice. He exhales through me, looking at the clouds, and, gladly, I shout "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

And Now, A Poem

"As We See" by Scott Cairns

The transfiguration of our Lord - that is, the radiance in which he was bathed at the pinnacle of Mount Tabor - did not manifest a change in Him, but a change in those who saw Him.
- Issac the Least

Suppose the Holy One Whose Face We Seek
is not so much invisible as we
are ill equipped to apprehend His grave
proximity. Suppose our fixed attention
serves mostly to make evident the gap
dividing what is seen and what is here.

The Book there on the stand proves arduous
to open, entombed as it is in layers
of accretion, layers of gloss applied
to varied purposes, hardly any of them
laudable, so many, guarded ploys
to keep the terms quite sitll, predictable.

Which is why I'm drawn to - why I love - the way
the rabbis teach. I love the way they read -
opening The Book with reverence for what
they've found before, joy for what lies waiting.
I love the Word's ability to rise again
from chronic homiletic burial.

Say the One is not so hidden as we
are kept by our own conjuncture blinking,
puzzled, leaning in without result. Let's say
the meek, the poor, the merciful all
suspect His hand despite the evidence.
As for those rarest folk, the pure in heart?
Intent on what they touch, they see Him now.