The Sandbox

For lack of anything better to do during sermons, I doodle and write. Every once in a while, something decent pops up. Like in this case. Feedback is appreciated. I'm always interested to see how people interpret my poetry. Now, without further ado, I present to you:

It isn't much...but here's some thoughts and blurbs from Wild at Heart, by John Eldredge, which I am currently reading.

Eve was created within the lush beauty of Eden's garden. But Adam, if you'll remember, was created outside the Garden, in the wilderness. In the record of our beginnings, the second chapter of Genesis makes it clear: Man was born in the outback, from the untamed part of creation. Only afterwards is he brought to Eden. And ever since have boys never been at home indoors, and men have had an insatiable desire to explore...As John Muir said, when a man comes to the mountains, he comes home. The core of a man's heart is undomesticated and that is good.

I smiled when I read that bit. There's a little place in southern Alberta called Crowsnest Pass, where I've spent chunks of my summer, either at Bible camp or camping with family. Every time I go there, I can feel the excitement building as I thread my way through the foothills, the mountains looming higher and higher on the horizon, 'till finally I break through and a sense of peace and happiness overtakes me. Turtle Mountain on the left, the giant boulder field a sobering reminder of how small and insignificant we really are...Crowsnest Mountain herself peeking up out of a valley...passing Coleman and looking at the ranges in the distance, trying to remember all the names. I can't. I know I've climbed McLaren; it's multiple peaks are deceptive up close; you never know which one is the final summit 'till you're on it. While a gypsy at heart, "the Pass" will always be home.

As I said, this'll be a short one, and I wasn't kidding. I'll leave you with this passage to ponder and possibly even comment on:

Society at large can't make up its mind about men. Having spent the last thirty years redefining masculinity into something more sensitive, safe, manageable and, well, feminine, it now berates men for not being men. Boys will be boys, they sigh. As though if a man were to truly grow up he would forsake wilderness and wanderlust and settle down, be at home forever in Aunt Polly's parlor. "Where are all the real men?" is regular fare for talk shows and new books. You asked them to be women, I want to say. The result is a gender confusion never experienced at such a wide level in the history of the world. How can a man know he is one when his highest aim is minding his manners?...The problem with men, we are told, is that htey don't know how to keep their promises, be spiritual leaders, talk to their wive, or raise their children. But, if they will try real hard they can reach the lofty summit of becoming...a nice guy. That's what he hold up as models of Christian maturity: Really Nice Guys. We don't smoke, drink, or swear, that's what makes us men. Now let me ask my male readers: In all your boyhood dreams growing up, did you ever dream of becoming a Nice Guy? (Ladies, was the Prince of your dreams dashing...or merely nice?)

What, in your mind, defines a real man? Do you know any?


Next time, in the Sandbox: Sticks, Stones, and Bazookas - Why little boys love their guns

Today, I captured a sliver of happiness. You too, can capture your own sliver of happiness, by following these simple instructions:

Step One: Dress warm! Boots and gloves and mittens are a good idea, but the jacket and snowpants are optional.

Step Two: Find a large field, preferably away from major roads, and preferably untouched, previous to your impending intrusion. Oh, and it has to be covered in snow. If you're especially brave, try this on a clear night, when the moon is full. First, stop to admire the way the snow sparkles, catching the moonlight and scattering it across the field like a glittering blank canvas. While you're at it, take a deep breath, and hold it. Now, just listen.

I've come to the conclusion that happiness is a mathematical formula. The amount of happiness is directly in proportion to the lack of noise, both immediate and background. I have found, on more than one occassion, that snow acts as a sound dampener. You too, will discover this, when you visit your field. Were you to visit that field in the summer or fall, the air would be bustling with activity, alive with life. In the winter, the snow blankets everything, deadening sound. If you're lucky, the world surrounding you is so quiet that the only thing you can hear is the sound of your heart beating in your ears. In fact, it may be so quiet that your brain is too scared to even think, lest the spell of the quiet stillness be broken. This, my friends, is true peace. The highly sought Zen, the perfect bliss. Savour this moment, for they are few and far between.

What's that you say? Peace does not equal happiness? How very true. That's why there's a third step.

Step three: If you're anything like me, your Zen attention span will last all of about a minute and a half before the ADD kicks in and you get distracted by the way the snow sparkles. Once your moment of peace has been broken, commence step three – start running. This field, this untouched piece of nature's canvas is ALL YOURS! Happiness is breaking virgin snow, knowing that you are the first living creature to leave its mark upon this patch of peace-laden earth. What you do, and the amount of happiness you derive from the experience you are about to embark upon is limited only to your imagination and willingness to make a fool of yourself in the quest for true happiness.

Happiness can be found in anything; from the way your lungs burn with cold fire as you are doubled over gasping for breath after running in circles for twenty minutes. From the sudden and not entirely unpleasant sensation of snow creeping up your jacket (or lack thereof, if you were gullible enough to believe me when I told you it wasn't necessary) and melting against your bare skin. From the somewhat lopsided snow angel in the middle of the field, to the large “SOS” written in boot prints that spans the entire upper half, and disappears into the treeline. From the sudden end of footprints and the large impact crater four feet after that, serving as both reminder and consequence of the tree root you discovered five minutes into your twenty minute circular-shaped run.

Happiness, my friends, is subject to your own reality. Go forge it, and don't forget to giggle.

Oh yeah. That's right. Gramps, you ain't got nothin' on this punk. 11.5km, uphill (both directions, seriously), IN. THE. SNOW.

Yup. I biked to work. And then back home. I hate not having a car. Perhaps it's time to start looking for a house that's considerably closer to my place of employment. But, now nobody can complain about me sitting on my derrière all day, because hey! I walked 23km today.

Pretty soon, I should be winning the Boston Marathon.

What if Death were sentient? What if there actually was a grim reaper, harvester of souls? Personally, I would hate to have that job. First off, 'cause of all the whining, blubbering fools who really don't want to die, but have to 'cause their number's been called - which brings me to another thought: what if God and Satan were locked in a game of Celestial Bingo, and every time a number was called, the soul with that number on it was harvested? It would make the term "your number's up" more feasible. And then whomever called "Bingo" first got to keep all the souls currently inked on the bingo cards.

But, I digress. Harvesting whiny people would be annoying, because not only do you have to kill them, you have to escort their still-whining (and probably still-sobbing and terrified) soul to either heaven or hell. The bigger problem, however, is those who would not go gently into that good night. Guys like Chuck Norris. Sure, as the Reaper, it's the job to kill, but some people tend to be a little more tenacious in their hold on life than others. I can't imagine the robe being conducive to fast-flowing hand-to-hand combat, although it would be quite easy to conceal both body armour and heavy weaponry underneath it. And a scythe, while awesome, is no match for the chainsaw rifle that Marcus Fenix would surely be wielding when God finally dabs his number.

Some tragedy is so great that even death stays away I've heard it said. What if that were the case? What if one were to endure so much trauma at one time that the Harvester of Souls were to take pity on that person and choose to stay his blade? Or maybe both God and Satan were smart, and knew that to end that one's life now would mean an eternity of un-sated vengeance. That would be hell to put up with, for sure.

If the reaper were real, it would explain a lot about death, and near-death. If the reaper were a woman, it would explain even more, like Darwin Awards, and other stupid male deaths. Especially the sadistic ones.