My father is under the false impression that this is a missionary blog. I am currently setting out to correct that impression. True, this blog documents my experiences as a missionary, serves as a way for me to share my thoughts on my relationship with Christ, and gives an accurate picture of the struggles I face as I attempt to witness, but it's not a missionary blog.
No, this blog is how I let off steam.
So, the girl from yesterday's post brought her sister to church for the first time today. I was really happy for this, especially since she seems to have an honest interest in the things we discussed in Sabbath school. I was very glad that Brandon's dad was visiting. He saw that the lesson (on the mark of the beast) didn't fit the audience (a bunch of new visitors) and took them on a crash course in God's love instead, though he also managed to stitch the two together quite nicely.
I went skating with some friends who are running an aviation ministry in the afternoon (pics soon), then came back to help the two girls with their sociology essay. I was relieved to see that they really had written an essay, or rather an outline for an essay. Unfortunately it was all in Mongolian. We spent about three and a half hours working on writing an English version. I spent most of that time rapidly scanning the textbook, wiki articles and book summaries so that I would have some clue what she was telling me.
I can tell you one thing, Herbert Spencer was a pseudo-intellectual sadistic git.
So I did learn a few things about sociology, though I still don't understand the definition of "grant system" and how it compares "allotment system". I have an idea, but I can't find enough examples on the internet to test my idea.
At about 10:30 I made the mistake of practicing my Mongolian by saying I was a little tired. This made her feel guilty, so she said she would do the second half of the essay herself. I think she'll probably copy it from the internet. Their eyes lit up as I quickly scanned articles on each new topic. I have caused sin, lol.
The great thing about the whole three hours is that one of the girls really reminded me of a girl I knew in high school: really hot and slightly ditsy. It was wonderful, because I could make fun of her constantly in exactly the same way I'd always wanted to make fun of the girl from high school, but she'd never understand what I was talking about. Rather, she'd understand everything except for the important bits, like such:
Me: "Ok" -deep breath- "Go away hormones, we have to study social darwinism"
Girl: -innocently quizzical expression- "Hormones?"
Me: "Yep, hormones are things that keep us from concentrating on social darwinism"
There was a bit of flirting that she probably did understand, and I feel a little bad about that since I have no intention of ever seriously pursuing her. The pathetic reality is that it really wasn't flirting, just the manifestation of an irresistible drive to do SOMETHING involving people. A fist fight probably would have done just as well, though I think that if I had to chose between flirting and a fist fight I'd chose flirting.
I discussed my plans for the future with my friends this afternoon. My plans for the future always make me think of marriage, and thinking of marriage always brings a wandering, amorphous need for contact to my mind. Contact is a mutual need, contact is warmth, contact is two souls and two minds, each bringing the other to a level they could not reach alone.
Marry in haste, repent at leisure.
I don't know if that's an English saying or a Mongolian one, since I found it as an example in the Mongolian - English dictionary, but it certainly is true. I can't let myself seek out an emotional candy bar at the expense of the meal.
Still, I have briefly tasted contact, enough to grasp the idea.
And it's been more than two years.
____________________________________________________
Being a missionary means learning the difference between your twisted addictions and your God-given needs. Don't jump to conclusions about how this relates to the post.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Of culture and perspective - this post is not meant to entertain (5/10)
I have officially been here for two months. The main thought in my head at this moment is sadness that I'll be leaving in another six months... it's odd.
However, I do have a difficulty. My difficulty is that I feel like a complete jerk. If you think about it, most of our difficulties are like that. It is not the problem itself that vexes us so, it is the emotion that said problem causes. This is why hard work and drug addictions are about equally popular as a means of dealing with life.
...but I digress.
The thing that is causing me to feel like a complete jerk is as follows:
About a month ago someone came to me and asked me to help them write an essay. They were hoping to get into a university in China, and the essay was in English. I weighed the ethics of such a proposition, and agreed. I asked them to bring a copy of the essay they had already written to the school the next day.
We sat down at the computer the next day and I read the essay. It was appalling. The quality of the English itself was admirable, though the style of writing was not very academic. The main problem lay with the fact that the content and organisation of the essay was simply terrible.
We set to work.
Please try to picture what I mean by "we set to work". I mean that I tried as hard as I possibly could to bring about the creation of a reasonably good essay without putting in any of my writing style or ideas, and the Mongolian guy tried as hard as he possibly could to get me to just write the essay.
In the end I think he won. I'm not sure if that was a good thing from his point of view, because the University had already rejected an essay he had submitted, so they had a copy of his writing on file. I kept some of the poor phrasing from his original essay, but that made me feel even more deceptive and immoral.
To make myself feel better, I reasoned that I had simply taken his original essay, separated it into a series of statements, re-ordered the statements so that the logic flowed nicely, and corrected some grammar. This was, unfortunately, a complete load of crap. For one thing, one of the purposes of these essays is to demonstrate English proficiency, so correcting grammar is probably unethical in and of itself. For another, changing the order of a series of statements is just a fancy way of changing the meaning of the essay as a whole.
Today one of the church members asked me to help her with an essay on sociology. She took out her sociology book, showed it to me, and said she didn't understand it.
Brilliant. I can do that.
I told her that I would explain anything she wanted me to explain and help her with her essay. She brought the sociology book, a stack of notes, an English - Mongolian dictionary, and a Mongolian - English dictionary into the staff room. I sat down and stared at her expectantly.
Things started well enough. She asked me several questions about sociology... rather basic questions... and I answered them. She then asked me to explain a passage from the book, and I explained it. She asked me to explain some major theories of sociology. I flipped through her book, scanned the major schools of thought in sociology, and then tried to condense the ideas down to sentences composed entirely of monosyllabic words.
...which, by the way, was incredibly difficult.
After about half an hour I finished explaining everything she asked me about. I then opened Word and stared at her, expectantly.
After about 10 seconds of silence I suggested we make an outline, and asked her what we should write about first. This too went well, and we soon had a perfectly respectable outline for a paper on the history of sociology and it's purpose in helping us understand systems functioning both within and between societies.
Suddenly her cellphone rang. She answered it and began talking to someone in Mongolian. Understanding Mongolian is like doing algebra for me: I can usually do it if the topic is ordinary and mundane, but it takes thought and makes my head hurt. Because of this I paid no heed to the conversation. I played a game of freecell instead.
When she hung up she turned to me and said "My sister say it's ok if the paper has not very good English because she doesn't speak very good English".
This statement took a moment to process, but then I finally realized why I had spent so much time waiting expectantly, and why she had been asking such basic questions. She hadn't taken the sociology class, her sister had. She just wanted me to write the essay.
I tried to explain the ideas "unethical" "intellectual property" and "lie" using a 10,000 word English - Mongolian dictionary. This too was incredibly difficult, and I soon realized that I was dealing with concepts that were culturally foreign. At one point she said "My sister and I are same!".
So, to keep myself from feeling like a lying, essay-mill running, friend hurting jerk, I have delayed the matter. The paper is due on Monday. I said that if her sister writes a paper in anything resembling English and comes here herself tomorrow night I will help her with the grammar.
I just hope that's what will happen. That's what I have thought each time, and so far it just hasn't turned out that way.
What is one supposed to do in situations like this? People expect favors to be repaid with more favors here. They value individual friendships and family highly, and have little regard for society as a whole. I'm an English teacher, so I'm supposed to return favors by helping people with difficult things involving English, even if those "difficult thing" are entrance essays and term papers. No matter what I do I'm going to feel like a complete jerk. How does one deal with situations like this?
________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means finding the rock that kind old ladies stand on.
However, I do have a difficulty. My difficulty is that I feel like a complete jerk. If you think about it, most of our difficulties are like that. It is not the problem itself that vexes us so, it is the emotion that said problem causes. This is why hard work and drug addictions are about equally popular as a means of dealing with life.
...but I digress.
The thing that is causing me to feel like a complete jerk is as follows:
About a month ago someone came to me and asked me to help them write an essay. They were hoping to get into a university in China, and the essay was in English. I weighed the ethics of such a proposition, and agreed. I asked them to bring a copy of the essay they had already written to the school the next day.
We sat down at the computer the next day and I read the essay. It was appalling. The quality of the English itself was admirable, though the style of writing was not very academic. The main problem lay with the fact that the content and organisation of the essay was simply terrible.
We set to work.
Please try to picture what I mean by "we set to work". I mean that I tried as hard as I possibly could to bring about the creation of a reasonably good essay without putting in any of my writing style or ideas, and the Mongolian guy tried as hard as he possibly could to get me to just write the essay.
In the end I think he won. I'm not sure if that was a good thing from his point of view, because the University had already rejected an essay he had submitted, so they had a copy of his writing on file. I kept some of the poor phrasing from his original essay, but that made me feel even more deceptive and immoral.
To make myself feel better, I reasoned that I had simply taken his original essay, separated it into a series of statements, re-ordered the statements so that the logic flowed nicely, and corrected some grammar. This was, unfortunately, a complete load of crap. For one thing, one of the purposes of these essays is to demonstrate English proficiency, so correcting grammar is probably unethical in and of itself. For another, changing the order of a series of statements is just a fancy way of changing the meaning of the essay as a whole.
Today one of the church members asked me to help her with an essay on sociology. She took out her sociology book, showed it to me, and said she didn't understand it.
Brilliant. I can do that.
I told her that I would explain anything she wanted me to explain and help her with her essay. She brought the sociology book, a stack of notes, an English - Mongolian dictionary, and a Mongolian - English dictionary into the staff room. I sat down and stared at her expectantly.
Things started well enough. She asked me several questions about sociology... rather basic questions... and I answered them. She then asked me to explain a passage from the book, and I explained it. She asked me to explain some major theories of sociology. I flipped through her book, scanned the major schools of thought in sociology, and then tried to condense the ideas down to sentences composed entirely of monosyllabic words.
...which, by the way, was incredibly difficult.
After about half an hour I finished explaining everything she asked me about. I then opened Word and stared at her, expectantly.
After about 10 seconds of silence I suggested we make an outline, and asked her what we should write about first. This too went well, and we soon had a perfectly respectable outline for a paper on the history of sociology and it's purpose in helping us understand systems functioning both within and between societies.
Suddenly her cellphone rang. She answered it and began talking to someone in Mongolian. Understanding Mongolian is like doing algebra for me: I can usually do it if the topic is ordinary and mundane, but it takes thought and makes my head hurt. Because of this I paid no heed to the conversation. I played a game of freecell instead.
When she hung up she turned to me and said "My sister say it's ok if the paper has not very good English because she doesn't speak very good English".
This statement took a moment to process, but then I finally realized why I had spent so much time waiting expectantly, and why she had been asking such basic questions. She hadn't taken the sociology class, her sister had. She just wanted me to write the essay.
I tried to explain the ideas "unethical" "intellectual property" and "lie" using a 10,000 word English - Mongolian dictionary. This too was incredibly difficult, and I soon realized that I was dealing with concepts that were culturally foreign. At one point she said "My sister and I are same!".
So, to keep myself from feeling like a lying, essay-mill running, friend hurting jerk, I have delayed the matter. The paper is due on Monday. I said that if her sister writes a paper in anything resembling English and comes here herself tomorrow night I will help her with the grammar.
I just hope that's what will happen. That's what I have thought each time, and so far it just hasn't turned out that way.
What is one supposed to do in situations like this? People expect favors to be repaid with more favors here. They value individual friendships and family highly, and have little regard for society as a whole. I'm an English teacher, so I'm supposed to return favors by helping people with difficult things involving English, even if those "difficult thing" are entrance essays and term papers. No matter what I do I'm going to feel like a complete jerk. How does one deal with situations like this?
________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means finding the rock that kind old ladies stand on.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
If God didn't intend us to be vegetarians he wouldn't have made soybeans (9/10)
Mongolians, as a group, tend to be good at horseback riding, wrestling, and doing absolutely anything with a bundle of wire and some duck tape. They are also good at languages; their English pronunciation is much better than that of the Chinese or Koreans. They are not, however, known for their fine cuisine.
Two of the church members asked me if I wanted to eat horshur today. Horshur are fried dough pockets stuffed with meat, potatoes, or boiled cabbage. I like horshur, so I said I would go. I was somewhat dismayed when, instead of going upstairs to the school kitchen, we went to the restaurant across the street.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!! NO! NO! NO! NO! AAAAAAAAAAghhbleeeeee......-faint-
-That kind of somewhat dismayed.
We started the meal off with a thermos of dovestay tsai. Dovestay tsai is salted milk tea with a thick layer of melted butter on top. I really don't mind dovestay tsai, in fact I enjoy it's odd familiarity.
Brandon and I have noticed that Mongolians drink boiling tea immediately without blowing on it. We had always wondered how on earth they accomplish this. I think I've finally figured it out. I watched as the people I was with drank their tea and noticed that they slurped quite energetically. I think that they draw the tea so far up the cup with their slurping that it loses most of it's heat on the way to their mouths.
No, slurping is not rude here.
The horshur arrived just as we were finishing our tea. I got a plate of three of the biggest horshur I have ever seen stuffed with mutton and onions. I began to eat them, trying not to think about oil and melted sheep fat dripping out the bottom and onto my plate.
SSSSSSTHLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP!!
One of the church members sucked the melted mutton fat and hot oil out of her horshur as if she were trying to get phlegm from high in her nasal cavity. I slowly put my horshur down.
SLUUUURP!! slurp slurp slurp SLUUUURP.
The other two joined her. I looked at my horshur, and suddenly found myself wondering how anyone could possibly think of "marbling" as a positive thing in meat. The dovestay tsai was settling poorly too. The milk that was used had been too little milk and too much cow sweat.
SLUUURP!
They looked at me quizzically, wondering why I was not eating. I picked the horshur up again, pictured things that didn't involve dead sheep bits, and ate it bite by bite.
I then looked at the other two horshur, weighed my rising bile against my (nonexistent) social standards, and decided that if they asked I would just tell them I'm a vegetarian (which I am).
They did ask.
I explained that no one in my family eats meat. This confused them greatly. They asked why my family couldn't eat meat, as if being a vegetarian was a genetic disease. I explained that we COULD eat meat, and sometimes did, we just generally chose not to. This too confused them greatly.
This is why I love the language barrier. Both talking and listening are optional. If I want to be understood I can be. Sometimes I have to act like a complete fool to do so; using terribly constructed sentences, hand motions and illustrations, but in the end I generally get my point across. If I really just want to drop the conversation, all I have to do is shrug my shoulders and smile. IT'S GREAT! I should learn fluent German... or something, so that I can pretend not to speak English when I'm in the US.
_________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means clearing away everything you've become, and starting over as what you were meant to be.
Two of the church members asked me if I wanted to eat horshur today. Horshur are fried dough pockets stuffed with meat, potatoes, or boiled cabbage. I like horshur, so I said I would go. I was somewhat dismayed when, instead of going upstairs to the school kitchen, we went to the restaurant across the street.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!! NO! NO! NO! NO! AAAAAAAAAAghhbleeeeee......-faint-
-That kind of somewhat dismayed.
We started the meal off with a thermos of dovestay tsai. Dovestay tsai is salted milk tea with a thick layer of melted butter on top. I really don't mind dovestay tsai, in fact I enjoy it's odd familiarity.
Brandon and I have noticed that Mongolians drink boiling tea immediately without blowing on it. We had always wondered how on earth they accomplish this. I think I've finally figured it out. I watched as the people I was with drank their tea and noticed that they slurped quite energetically. I think that they draw the tea so far up the cup with their slurping that it loses most of it's heat on the way to their mouths.
No, slurping is not rude here.
The horshur arrived just as we were finishing our tea. I got a plate of three of the biggest horshur I have ever seen stuffed with mutton and onions. I began to eat them, trying not to think about oil and melted sheep fat dripping out the bottom and onto my plate.
SSSSSSTHLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP!!
One of the church members sucked the melted mutton fat and hot oil out of her horshur as if she were trying to get phlegm from high in her nasal cavity. I slowly put my horshur down.
SLUUUURP!! slurp slurp slurp SLUUUURP.
The other two joined her. I looked at my horshur, and suddenly found myself wondering how anyone could possibly think of "marbling" as a positive thing in meat. The dovestay tsai was settling poorly too. The milk that was used had been too little milk and too much cow sweat.
SLUUURP!
They looked at me quizzically, wondering why I was not eating. I picked the horshur up again, pictured things that didn't involve dead sheep bits, and ate it bite by bite.
I then looked at the other two horshur, weighed my rising bile against my (nonexistent) social standards, and decided that if they asked I would just tell them I'm a vegetarian (which I am).
They did ask.
I explained that no one in my family eats meat. This confused them greatly. They asked why my family couldn't eat meat, as if being a vegetarian was a genetic disease. I explained that we COULD eat meat, and sometimes did, we just generally chose not to. This too confused them greatly.
This is why I love the language barrier. Both talking and listening are optional. If I want to be understood I can be. Sometimes I have to act like a complete fool to do so; using terribly constructed sentences, hand motions and illustrations, but in the end I generally get my point across. If I really just want to drop the conversation, all I have to do is shrug my shoulders and smile. IT'S GREAT! I should learn fluent German... or something, so that I can pretend not to speak English when I'm in the US.
_________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means clearing away everything you've become, and starting over as what you were meant to be.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunny with a high of 10 (4/10)
This week is going to be something approaching winter. On Wednesday the high will be around 10 (F), and the low will be in the negative single digits. This isn't "cold" but it is beginning to approach a temperature that one might call "winter".
So there's nothing going on.
I'm sorry, I really am. I have all these people who follow my blog, some of whom have actually clicked the "follow this blog" link and shown up on my blogger dashboard as followers, but there's really not much happening.
There are a few things though.
On Saturday night we had a party. "We" did not include Brandon, since he was out with a stomach ailment. A bunch of church members showed up, including some people from the central church. I made pizza (which turned out quite well) and we had loads of clementines and soda. We played cards and ping pong, though the pizza making seemed to consume a lot of attention.
The following morning I heard voices upstairs, so I went to check it out. I found two church members (girls / women) eating in the school kitchen. I asked them what they were doing, and they replied that they were eating breakfast.
I was slightly confused.
It suddenly dawned on me that the front door was locked, so I asked them how they had gotten in. "Oh, we never left last night" they said. "We just slept in the church. Could you unlock the door and let us out?"
On the whole the party was nice, but I don't think I'll do it again soon. I think the whole thing cost me about $30 or $40. Not bad for feeding a dozen people, but wearisome on a volunteer salary when I'm supposed to be saving for school.
So, because there isn't much going on I am thinking. Why did God create us with needs?
Being a 20-something male surrounded by exotic girls, I find myself craving a relationship full of trust, passionate kissing and good conversation.
No, seriously.
I am, however, rather confused. My life to this point has taught me that girls don't like to feel that someone "needs" them. I find this somewhat odd. Personally, I like the idea of feeling needed. The thought that someone would be sad if I was gone implies that they find joy in my presence, and that thought makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.
Granted, I have only been in two relationships, but in both of them I was told something to the effect of "If you're sad when I'm gone you're being too obsessive". Am I just attracted to girls that dislike obsession? I'm finding that I have a knee jerk reaction of telling girls that I dislike a bunch of things about them as soon as I feel some attraction, just so they don't think I'm obsessing.
I hate knee jerk reactions. I always end up regretting them.
God created us so that something outside himself would love him. He created us to need each other so that we would be able to understand how he feels towards us.
It is not good for man to be alone. To that man says AMEN!
I think about things too much. I'm going to end up sooooo screwed up.
________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means getting in God's way as little as possible.
So there's nothing going on.
I'm sorry, I really am. I have all these people who follow my blog, some of whom have actually clicked the "follow this blog" link and shown up on my blogger dashboard as followers, but there's really not much happening.
There are a few things though.
On Saturday night we had a party. "We" did not include Brandon, since he was out with a stomach ailment. A bunch of church members showed up, including some people from the central church. I made pizza (which turned out quite well) and we had loads of clementines and soda. We played cards and ping pong, though the pizza making seemed to consume a lot of attention.
The following morning I heard voices upstairs, so I went to check it out. I found two church members (girls / women) eating in the school kitchen. I asked them what they were doing, and they replied that they were eating breakfast.
I was slightly confused.
It suddenly dawned on me that the front door was locked, so I asked them how they had gotten in. "Oh, we never left last night" they said. "We just slept in the church. Could you unlock the door and let us out?"
On the whole the party was nice, but I don't think I'll do it again soon. I think the whole thing cost me about $30 or $40. Not bad for feeding a dozen people, but wearisome on a volunteer salary when I'm supposed to be saving for school.
So, because there isn't much going on I am thinking. Why did God create us with needs?
Being a 20-something male surrounded by exotic girls, I find myself craving a relationship full of trust, passionate kissing and good conversation.
No, seriously.
I am, however, rather confused. My life to this point has taught me that girls don't like to feel that someone "needs" them. I find this somewhat odd. Personally, I like the idea of feeling needed. The thought that someone would be sad if I was gone implies that they find joy in my presence, and that thought makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.
Granted, I have only been in two relationships, but in both of them I was told something to the effect of "If you're sad when I'm gone you're being too obsessive". Am I just attracted to girls that dislike obsession? I'm finding that I have a knee jerk reaction of telling girls that I dislike a bunch of things about them as soon as I feel some attraction, just so they don't think I'm obsessing.
I hate knee jerk reactions. I always end up regretting them.
God created us so that something outside himself would love him. He created us to need each other so that we would be able to understand how he feels towards us.
It is not good for man to be alone. To that man says AMEN!
I think about things too much. I'm going to end up sooooo screwed up.
________________________________________________________
Being a missionary means getting in God's way as little as possible.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
No Common Thread (3/10)
< I wrote this because I felt like writing, not because I had something to say. Your time would probably be better spent elsewhere >
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As I walked through the ger community surrounding the Gandan temple I noticed a dog turd.
For those who are not familiar with Mongolian dog turds, or with dog turds in general, I will give a summary. There are three types of Mongolian dog turds. First, there are the "normal" dog turds: brown to black with consistency one would assume to be crumbly, though few test this assumption. The second type comes from dogs which subsist mainly on bones. This type is a powdery white, and is probably very useful for sidewalk art (also an assumption few test). The third type is fresh. This last type is exceedingly rare, because the temperature tends to turn fresh dog turds into frozen ones within minutes, if not seconds.
In my view, none of these types of dog feces are worthy of conscious consideration. No doubt I am wrong in saying this. Perhaps there is a cure for aids lurking in Mongolian dog turds, just as there is a cure for obesity lurking in the content of this post.
Then why, you ask, did this particular piece of dried excrement draw my attention? Quite simply, it was the largest dog turd I had ever seen. I drew closer, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of a dog large enough to create this marvel. Then, suddenly, it dawned on me. I was not beholding a dog turd, but rather a human turd.
The ger communities aren't the cleanest places. Over the course of the winter layers of ice build up. Large quantities of liquid are poured all over the road, where they instantly freeze. The ice is then covered with dust, and then covered with more ice, until by spring there is plenty of filth to melt.
I had always wondered about where these layers of ice came from. It's too much to come from spills, and it couldn't possibly come from melting snow. My question was answered a few days ago when I saw a woman step out of her hashaa (ger with a fence around it) and casually throw two buckets of dark grey-brown water out onto the road.
Ah.
Humanity in general has an odd way of getting rid of that which is not wanted. As I walk across the "holy hill" Gandan (not to be confused with the monastery complex), I often encounter dead puppies. Dead puppies are not unusual. There are lots of stray dogs, which create lots of puppies, which tend to die in large numbers when the temperature plummets down to -40. The thing that is unusual about the puppies on Gandan is the condition I find them in. They tend to be carefully laid out on rags, or even blankets, with a bowl of frozen milk or cheese curds placed next to them. Their position indicates that they die before they are placed on the blankets.
As I was walking across the hill today I found two live puppies nestled at the base of the ovoo (rock pile / shrine). The hill is large and bare, so they certainly wouldn't go there on their own. A mother dog would not bring them there, since it is exposed and far away from any place a dog might intend to go. This leaves the option that they were brought there by a person.
I know nothing about Mongolian animism, but for some reason I find it hard to believe that anyone would go through all the trouble of hauling puppies to the top of a holy hill (where they will inevitably die) just because they don't want them. Sacrifices are often left at the ovoo, but I don't think live puppies (or dead ones) are acceptable for this purpose. This leads me to the conclusion that all the dead puppies on Gandan were allowed to die there out of sympathy for the puppies themselves.
I'll ask around, but the people that come to the school tend not to know much about animism.
Obviously I wanted to take both of the puppies home with me, especially when they dashed out from the partial shelter of the rock ovoo to lick my shoes and jump about. What do you do?
There are thousands of puppies, but more importantly, there are thousands of people. While I have never seen a person lying frozen by the side of the road, I anticipate that I will at some point. I have seen plenty of drunks collapsed in refuse heaps and lying against fences, and I can't imagine that all of them will fare well if they keep drinking when it's -40.
The world is not in the state to take the trouble that is coming. Pray.
One must accept God before the one accepts the Bible, because the authority of the Bible is based on the fact that it is God's word and not vice versa. This week I have been faced with a long series of Bible verses that have challenged my beliefs. This, combined with the things I see, the things I am, and the things I do, have caused me to ask. Why do I believe in God?
I have come up with a list of reasons.
1. Because I can feel the Holy Spirit, and it is nothing like me (so the two are not easily confused)
2. Because the concept of God does not make sense to the human mind. I find it hard to believe that humans "thought up" God. The nature of God lacks that human touch. If humans had thought up God he would have had a better reason for making us than "love". We would have to be of some practical use to him.
3. Because I have seen God's power in myself and in the world around me.
4. Because, while I can see the logic of life evolving to higher forms, I can't see the logic of life beginning in the first place without some outside force. A "force" that creates an ordered complexity (one that is not dependant on the structure of it's subunits, as in crystals) must have an intelligence, or at least an instinct. One simply cannot go so far as to say that the universe has a "drive towards life" (as some forms of the gaia hypothesis suggest) without saying that there is a God.
5. Because, when all is said and done, there's no point to the discussion if it turns out I'm wrong.
I'm just a chemical soup singing songs based on ratios of sine waves
And I'm thinking chemical thoughts that are speeding electrical highways
What is love?
---------------------------------------------------------
As I walked through the ger community surrounding the Gandan temple I noticed a dog turd.
For those who are not familiar with Mongolian dog turds, or with dog turds in general, I will give a summary. There are three types of Mongolian dog turds. First, there are the "normal" dog turds: brown to black with consistency one would assume to be crumbly, though few test this assumption. The second type comes from dogs which subsist mainly on bones. This type is a powdery white, and is probably very useful for sidewalk art (also an assumption few test). The third type is fresh. This last type is exceedingly rare, because the temperature tends to turn fresh dog turds into frozen ones within minutes, if not seconds.
In my view, none of these types of dog feces are worthy of conscious consideration. No doubt I am wrong in saying this. Perhaps there is a cure for aids lurking in Mongolian dog turds, just as there is a cure for obesity lurking in the content of this post.
Then why, you ask, did this particular piece of dried excrement draw my attention? Quite simply, it was the largest dog turd I had ever seen. I drew closer, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of a dog large enough to create this marvel. Then, suddenly, it dawned on me. I was not beholding a dog turd, but rather a human turd.
The ger communities aren't the cleanest places. Over the course of the winter layers of ice build up. Large quantities of liquid are poured all over the road, where they instantly freeze. The ice is then covered with dust, and then covered with more ice, until by spring there is plenty of filth to melt.
I had always wondered about where these layers of ice came from. It's too much to come from spills, and it couldn't possibly come from melting snow. My question was answered a few days ago when I saw a woman step out of her hashaa (ger with a fence around it) and casually throw two buckets of dark grey-brown water out onto the road.
Ah.
Humanity in general has an odd way of getting rid of that which is not wanted. As I walk across the "holy hill" Gandan (not to be confused with the monastery complex), I often encounter dead puppies. Dead puppies are not unusual. There are lots of stray dogs, which create lots of puppies, which tend to die in large numbers when the temperature plummets down to -40. The thing that is unusual about the puppies on Gandan is the condition I find them in. They tend to be carefully laid out on rags, or even blankets, with a bowl of frozen milk or cheese curds placed next to them. Their position indicates that they die before they are placed on the blankets.
As I was walking across the hill today I found two live puppies nestled at the base of the ovoo (rock pile / shrine). The hill is large and bare, so they certainly wouldn't go there on their own. A mother dog would not bring them there, since it is exposed and far away from any place a dog might intend to go. This leaves the option that they were brought there by a person.
I know nothing about Mongolian animism, but for some reason I find it hard to believe that anyone would go through all the trouble of hauling puppies to the top of a holy hill (where they will inevitably die) just because they don't want them. Sacrifices are often left at the ovoo, but I don't think live puppies (or dead ones) are acceptable for this purpose. This leads me to the conclusion that all the dead puppies on Gandan were allowed to die there out of sympathy for the puppies themselves.
I'll ask around, but the people that come to the school tend not to know much about animism.
Obviously I wanted to take both of the puppies home with me, especially when they dashed out from the partial shelter of the rock ovoo to lick my shoes and jump about. What do you do?
There are thousands of puppies, but more importantly, there are thousands of people. While I have never seen a person lying frozen by the side of the road, I anticipate that I will at some point. I have seen plenty of drunks collapsed in refuse heaps and lying against fences, and I can't imagine that all of them will fare well if they keep drinking when it's -40.
The world is not in the state to take the trouble that is coming. Pray.
One must accept God before the one accepts the Bible, because the authority of the Bible is based on the fact that it is God's word and not vice versa. This week I have been faced with a long series of Bible verses that have challenged my beliefs. This, combined with the things I see, the things I am, and the things I do, have caused me to ask. Why do I believe in God?
I have come up with a list of reasons.
1. Because I can feel the Holy Spirit, and it is nothing like me (so the two are not easily confused)
2. Because the concept of God does not make sense to the human mind. I find it hard to believe that humans "thought up" God. The nature of God lacks that human touch. If humans had thought up God he would have had a better reason for making us than "love". We would have to be of some practical use to him.
3. Because I have seen God's power in myself and in the world around me.
4. Because, while I can see the logic of life evolving to higher forms, I can't see the logic of life beginning in the first place without some outside force. A "force" that creates an ordered complexity (one that is not dependant on the structure of it's subunits, as in crystals) must have an intelligence, or at least an instinct. One simply cannot go so far as to say that the universe has a "drive towards life" (as some forms of the gaia hypothesis suggest) without saying that there is a God.
5. Because, when all is said and done, there's no point to the discussion if it turns out I'm wrong.
I'm just a chemical soup singing songs based on ratios of sine waves
And I'm thinking chemical thoughts that are speeding electrical highways
What is love?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Why me? Why now? Why them?
Tonight's Bible study is going to be on 2 Kings 2:23-25.
That's probably meaningless to most of you. It certainly didn't mean anything to me before I started searching frantically for a way to explain the story. The student's copied the story and took it with them yesterday, which means they have had 12 hours more to think about it than I have.
The story reads as follows:
From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some boys came out of the town and jeered at him. "Get out of here, baldy!" they said. "Get out of here, baldy!" 24 He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the boys. 25 And he went on to Mount Carmel and from there returned to Samaria.
Here's the same story again, only this time it's shown as someone will read it when they are introduced to it for the first time:
Some kids made fun of a bald guy. God killed them all.
Now, while this version may resonate with people who are moving rapidly toward bowling ball status, the rest of us have to think. Why would God do that?
I never realized just how bloody the ministry of Elisha was. A few weeks ago we read 1 Kings 19:16-17:
Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet. 17 Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu.
I was completely confused. Prophets aren't supposed to run around killing kids. Prophets aren't supposed to encourage people to smash babies against rocks (Psalms 137:9). While we're at it, prophets aren't supposed to use language I can't read in front of a church without having stuff thrown at me ( Ezekiel 23:20). Prophets shouldn't tell pronounce death upon people who refuse to cut them up with a sword upon request (1 Kings 20:35-36). It's just not nice.
Not nice at all.
Apparently the Christian world agrees with me. Most of the sources that I turn to when I need an explanation for things like this (i.e. internet sources) were silent on this passage. In their place hundreds of anti-Christian sites jostled for space on the search page. I found two sources that claimed to be Bible studies on the passage. One was a parody site. The other was an atheistic historical analysis.
The Bible commentary said something to the effect of "don't make fun of bald people", which I found to be overly simplistic. The E.G. White search page is too complicated to bother with, especially when you don't know what term to search for.
However, as I pondered this text a thought came to me. There are really only two ways to view this story. Once one has chosen a view the question is no longer one about God's nature, or his authority to do things like maim (or kill) people with bears. I'll let you decide what the new question is.
The first view is that there is no God, and that the story is purely a work of fiction meant to be used as a moral tale, or perhaps as a tool to influence society's view of the classical prophet. In this case it really doesn't matter what the story says, because it's a work of fiction. No matter how much we may dislike it when the "good guy" in a work of fiction does something bad, it's still a work of fiction, and therefore it's contents are only as important as we make them.
Most of the people who discuss the story at all have chosen to take this view. I don't. If someone chooses to take this view then the question "is it wrong to kill rude kids with bears" is moot in the first place, since by calling something "wrong" you are saying that one way is more inherently moral than another. This stance implies an absolute standard of morality; a standard which the more moral thing can be closer to. A godless universe cannot have such a standard.
The other view is that there is a God. If you start from this view, the mind takes an altogether stance. What kind of power does this G0d have? All power. What kind of guy is this God? He is love. What's our current standing with this God? Well, technically we're condemned criminals, but for some reason he's decided to call us sons... it's really confusing actually.
We may then re-read the story, keeping in mind what God had said to Elijah back in chapter 19; that he was going to send three people who would kill the Baal worshipers in Israel. Why? Because they had refused plea after plea, gentle and harsh punishment, rewards and logic, signs from heaven and their own consciences. If you view these boys in that light, as part of the group that had rejected God's prophets; the group that was calling Israel to offer their children as sacrifices, commit adultery, and ultimately die lost.... it might make a little more sense.
Or, if you prefer, you could say there is a God and he hates us all. If this story stood alone that logic would explain it. However, one would have to reject the rest of the Bible to think that way, and why would you toss out a book just to keep a paragraph?
Plus, I think that if God hated us we'd be gone by now.
For some reason I have the feeling that someone's going to throw verses at me for this post. I hope not. I dislike being smacked over the head with verses. I'll take what I must take though.
I dare anyone, ANYONE to read the Ezekiel verse up front. ROFLOL!
(my roflolcopter goes lololololololololololololololololololoaBOOOOOOM)
...yea, no one's going to get that. Even the people who IM.
That's probably meaningless to most of you. It certainly didn't mean anything to me before I started searching frantically for a way to explain the story. The student's copied the story and took it with them yesterday, which means they have had 12 hours more to think about it than I have.
The story reads as follows:
From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some boys came out of the town and jeered at him. "Get out of here, baldy!" they said. "Get out of here, baldy!" 24 He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the boys. 25 And he went on to Mount Carmel and from there returned to Samaria.
Here's the same story again, only this time it's shown as someone will read it when they are introduced to it for the first time:
Some kids made fun of a bald guy. God killed them all.
Now, while this version may resonate with people who are moving rapidly toward bowling ball status, the rest of us have to think. Why would God do that?
I never realized just how bloody the ministry of Elisha was. A few weeks ago we read 1 Kings 19:16-17:
Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet. 17 Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu.
I was completely confused. Prophets aren't supposed to run around killing kids. Prophets aren't supposed to encourage people to smash babies against rocks (Psalms 137:9). While we're at it, prophets aren't supposed to use language I can't read in front of a church without having stuff thrown at me ( Ezekiel 23:20). Prophets shouldn't tell pronounce death upon people who refuse to cut them up with a sword upon request (1 Kings 20:35-36). It's just not nice.
Not nice at all.
Apparently the Christian world agrees with me. Most of the sources that I turn to when I need an explanation for things like this (i.e. internet sources) were silent on this passage. In their place hundreds of anti-Christian sites jostled for space on the search page. I found two sources that claimed to be Bible studies on the passage. One was a parody site. The other was an atheistic historical analysis.
The Bible commentary said something to the effect of "don't make fun of bald people", which I found to be overly simplistic. The E.G. White search page is too complicated to bother with, especially when you don't know what term to search for.
However, as I pondered this text a thought came to me. There are really only two ways to view this story. Once one has chosen a view the question is no longer one about God's nature, or his authority to do things like maim (or kill) people with bears. I'll let you decide what the new question is.
The first view is that there is no God, and that the story is purely a work of fiction meant to be used as a moral tale, or perhaps as a tool to influence society's view of the classical prophet. In this case it really doesn't matter what the story says, because it's a work of fiction. No matter how much we may dislike it when the "good guy" in a work of fiction does something bad, it's still a work of fiction, and therefore it's contents are only as important as we make them.
Most of the people who discuss the story at all have chosen to take this view. I don't. If someone chooses to take this view then the question "is it wrong to kill rude kids with bears" is moot in the first place, since by calling something "wrong" you are saying that one way is more inherently moral than another. This stance implies an absolute standard of morality; a standard which the more moral thing can be closer to. A godless universe cannot have such a standard.
The other view is that there is a God. If you start from this view, the mind takes an altogether stance. What kind of power does this G0d have? All power. What kind of guy is this God? He is love. What's our current standing with this God? Well, technically we're condemned criminals, but for some reason he's decided to call us sons... it's really confusing actually.
We may then re-read the story, keeping in mind what God had said to Elijah back in chapter 19; that he was going to send three people who would kill the Baal worshipers in Israel. Why? Because they had refused plea after plea, gentle and harsh punishment, rewards and logic, signs from heaven and their own consciences. If you view these boys in that light, as part of the group that had rejected God's prophets; the group that was calling Israel to offer their children as sacrifices, commit adultery, and ultimately die lost.... it might make a little more sense.
Or, if you prefer, you could say there is a God and he hates us all. If this story stood alone that logic would explain it. However, one would have to reject the rest of the Bible to think that way, and why would you toss out a book just to keep a paragraph?
Plus, I think that if God hated us we'd be gone by now.
For some reason I have the feeling that someone's going to throw verses at me for this post. I hope not. I dislike being smacked over the head with verses. I'll take what I must take though.
I dare anyone, ANYONE to read the Ezekiel verse up front. ROFLOL!
(my roflolcopter goes lololololololololololololololololololoaBOOOOOOM)
...yea, no one's going to get that. Even the people who IM.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Do unto others, or others will be totally ticked at you
Mongolian money is color coded. Bills range in value from 10 Tugriks to 50,000 Tugriks, but the design for the bills between 500 and 20,000 is pretty much the same. The only difference is the color of the bills and the number showing the value.
This poses a bit of a problem for me. I'm color blind, so when I look at the carefully organised chaos in my wallet, it takes about 10 seconds just to figure out whether the order is ascending or descending. After that I have to leaf through the bills to find the desired note. There are numbers on each corner, but for some reason the Arabic numbers are always upside down, torn off, or otherwise obscured. The Cyrillic numbers all seem to be exactly the same for all values. It's really confusing actually.
I went to the store today, and as I saw the total adding up on the register I tried to anticipate what it would be. I guessed that it would be 20,000, and selected a 20,000 Tugrik bill. The last item pushed the total over 20,000.
DANGIT!
The cashier turned her zombie like face toward me and asked for the money. I tried to dig through my wallet for the correct bill, but I couldn't seem to find it. Finally, I grabbed another 20,000 in frustration and handed her 40,000. She asked me if I had anything smaller. I told her (in English) that there was no way I was going back down into that pit of chaos to find the correct bill, and that she would just have to give me change for the 20.
She nodded, her blankly polite face betraying a bit of annoyance. She then began counting out my change, in tens.
10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110, 120, 130...
Several minutes later I left the store with a carefully counted wad of bills the size of a softball. Never, ever, ever take your annoyance with the world out on a store cashier. They practice these things in their heads.
While we're at it, I should probably mention that it's wise to not take your annoyance out on the world in general. If you're going to blow up at something, blow up at something that doesn't have any say in the matter, like a tree. Things that can move away from a rant usually do, unless they are people listening to talk radio. Trees, while they may be more cognizant than talk radio listeners, are firmly rooted to the ground. They are therefore a captive audience for you as you scream about how much you hate your life.
I observed the consequences of not heeding this advice a few weeks ago. Mongolians have tried to apply capitalism to every area of their lives. The only problem is that the ideals of free-market capitalism simply don't apply to many things other than markets, hence the term free MARKET capitalism. Free road capitalism is amusing at best.
Free road capitalism works thusly: if you have a big car use it as a shield to block traffic, thereby creating a path for yourself. If you don't have a big car, give your car a really loud horn so that you can deafen the person in the big car and slip by as he slouches, drooling and dazed, over the steering wheel.
There are two intersections near my house. One of them is a free-for-all, the other has a policeman who stands in the center blowing a whistle constantly. As far as I can tell, the only purpose of the whistle is to make drivers aware of the presence of the policeman so he doesn't actually have to pay attention to traffic.
Traffic slows to a crawl around these intersections as drivers attempt to apply free-road capitalism to the best of their ability. I observed one interaction in particular that demonstrated this.
Cars had formed a line several hundred yards long going up a hill towards the intersection. There was a snarl at the top, so the line wasn't moving, and the opposite lane was completely empty. One of the drivers at the bottom suddenly had a bright idea. He pulled into the empty on-coming lane, and gunning his car, headed to the front of the line. He then turned on his blinker and waited for someone to let him in. Several other drivers decided that this was a very good idea indeed, so they too drove to the front of the line. Just as they got there the snarl at the top was sorted out, and cars started coming down. There were two lanes, but when the cars tried to go around each other they managed to clog both of them. Then then sat there, angrily honking at each other with no particular objective in mind other than to tell the world what they thought of it.
See? This could all have been avoided if the policeman hadn't had a big fight with his wife this morning. As I said, don't take your anger out on the world, because the world isn't in the mood to deal with it.
_______________________________________________________
So help me, I will belong.
This poses a bit of a problem for me. I'm color blind, so when I look at the carefully organised chaos in my wallet, it takes about 10 seconds just to figure out whether the order is ascending or descending. After that I have to leaf through the bills to find the desired note. There are numbers on each corner, but for some reason the Arabic numbers are always upside down, torn off, or otherwise obscured. The Cyrillic numbers all seem to be exactly the same for all values. It's really confusing actually.
I went to the store today, and as I saw the total adding up on the register I tried to anticipate what it would be. I guessed that it would be 20,000, and selected a 20,000 Tugrik bill. The last item pushed the total over 20,000.
DANGIT!
The cashier turned her zombie like face toward me and asked for the money. I tried to dig through my wallet for the correct bill, but I couldn't seem to find it. Finally, I grabbed another 20,000 in frustration and handed her 40,000. She asked me if I had anything smaller. I told her (in English) that there was no way I was going back down into that pit of chaos to find the correct bill, and that she would just have to give me change for the 20.
She nodded, her blankly polite face betraying a bit of annoyance. She then began counting out my change, in tens.
10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110, 120, 130...
Several minutes later I left the store with a carefully counted wad of bills the size of a softball. Never, ever, ever take your annoyance with the world out on a store cashier. They practice these things in their heads.
While we're at it, I should probably mention that it's wise to not take your annoyance out on the world in general. If you're going to blow up at something, blow up at something that doesn't have any say in the matter, like a tree. Things that can move away from a rant usually do, unless they are people listening to talk radio. Trees, while they may be more cognizant than talk radio listeners, are firmly rooted to the ground. They are therefore a captive audience for you as you scream about how much you hate your life.
I observed the consequences of not heeding this advice a few weeks ago. Mongolians have tried to apply capitalism to every area of their lives. The only problem is that the ideals of free-market capitalism simply don't apply to many things other than markets, hence the term free MARKET capitalism. Free road capitalism is amusing at best.
Free road capitalism works thusly: if you have a big car use it as a shield to block traffic, thereby creating a path for yourself. If you don't have a big car, give your car a really loud horn so that you can deafen the person in the big car and slip by as he slouches, drooling and dazed, over the steering wheel.
There are two intersections near my house. One of them is a free-for-all, the other has a policeman who stands in the center blowing a whistle constantly. As far as I can tell, the only purpose of the whistle is to make drivers aware of the presence of the policeman so he doesn't actually have to pay attention to traffic.
Traffic slows to a crawl around these intersections as drivers attempt to apply free-road capitalism to the best of their ability. I observed one interaction in particular that demonstrated this.
Cars had formed a line several hundred yards long going up a hill towards the intersection. There was a snarl at the top, so the line wasn't moving, and the opposite lane was completely empty. One of the drivers at the bottom suddenly had a bright idea. He pulled into the empty on-coming lane, and gunning his car, headed to the front of the line. He then turned on his blinker and waited for someone to let him in. Several other drivers decided that this was a very good idea indeed, so they too drove to the front of the line. Just as they got there the snarl at the top was sorted out, and cars started coming down. There were two lanes, but when the cars tried to go around each other they managed to clog both of them. Then then sat there, angrily honking at each other with no particular objective in mind other than to tell the world what they thought of it.
See? This could all have been avoided if the policeman hadn't had a big fight with his wife this morning. As I said, don't take your anger out on the world, because the world isn't in the mood to deal with it.
_______________________________________________________
So help me, I will belong.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Then, inexplicably, it failed to fail (9/10)
For the past two days non-church members have been coming to the Bible study I teach. I wasn't really sure what to do with them, to be honest. I'm just starting to get the hang of teaching people who already believe, and so it's very difficult to lead a class that is mostly Buddhist and atheist.
When the class was entirely church members the structure was simple. We would read Bible stories from a series aimed at adolescents, because the English was simple. We would then read the same story out of the Bible, pausing every few verses to discuss it. Lastly, we would try to figure out lessons and concepts by comparing the story to other stories / verses.
When the class is made up of non-church members with basic English the structure is, regretably, even more simple. We spend the entire hour reading the three page children's story, looking up terms and filling in background information. This doesn't take any preparation on my part, but it's not very conducive to deep spiritual conversation.
During the first class I was nervous, and slightly depressed. I had never thought about what I would do when people started coming to class. I guess I had always assumed that the hard part was getting them there, and that once they were there a light would shine, a voice would speak from heaven, and they'd instantly start discussing the finer points of eschatology.
I sent up a frightened prayer and tried to listen for the still small voice. I definitely felt comfort, but I'm not sure about the whole voice bit.
The story was about the miracles that God performed though Elisha. I started by asking them if they'd had any miraculous experiences. There was a unanimous response of "no", so the church member who was there and I each shared a recent experience. I then asked them if there were any stories like this in Mongolian history. I got a no on that too, though one person told me about miracles in Buddhism. There was a little more discussion, but I left class very discouraged. How do you share God with beginner students? More importantly, how do you share God with students who have no interest?
After the Bible class I had another class. At the beginning of class I told the students that I would be available for free conversation after class, since the following day was Friday and I didn't need to prepare for anything the next day. Three students said they would like to do conversation after class, and one said he would come the next day at 2:00.
The conversation was fun. We talked about hobbies, goals, and other such things. It was somewhat difficult to keep everyone involved, since I was the only native English speaker and there were three students to converse with. At 8:45 we ran out of things to talk about, and I so I called it a night. I was wondering what on earth I could say in the next Bible class that would be meaningful in some way.
The next day the remaining student came for conversation promptly at 2:00. He's an air traffic controller, so we spent some time talking about his job. He told me about the work he does, and told me that 200 planes go through Mongolian airspace every day (didn't know that). I told him about the experiences my family had with MIAT (Mongolian Airways) during it's early days, and he said that it has improved greatly since then.
He then told me he was going to come to church the next day.
Due to the fact that classes are rather boring, I have developed a semi-professional mask. Most people see me with the "mask" on, and have gotten used to it. Itgil (the front desk worker) even asks me what's wrong when I don't have my happy mask on. When the student said he was going to check out our church service, and that the other members of the Bible class were coming too, the mask cracked. I was surprised, and slightly confused.
How had I failed to fail?
I then realized something. I cannot save someone. I cannot even convince someone. There is no silver bullet; no magical theological factoid that I need to discover. Being a missionary simply means getting in God's way as little as possible: clearing out all the noise and static, letting go of the insecurity, and following the Master.
When the class was entirely church members the structure was simple. We would read Bible stories from a series aimed at adolescents, because the English was simple. We would then read the same story out of the Bible, pausing every few verses to discuss it. Lastly, we would try to figure out lessons and concepts by comparing the story to other stories / verses.
When the class is made up of non-church members with basic English the structure is, regretably, even more simple. We spend the entire hour reading the three page children's story, looking up terms and filling in background information. This doesn't take any preparation on my part, but it's not very conducive to deep spiritual conversation.
During the first class I was nervous, and slightly depressed. I had never thought about what I would do when people started coming to class. I guess I had always assumed that the hard part was getting them there, and that once they were there a light would shine, a voice would speak from heaven, and they'd instantly start discussing the finer points of eschatology.
I sent up a frightened prayer and tried to listen for the still small voice. I definitely felt comfort, but I'm not sure about the whole voice bit.
The story was about the miracles that God performed though Elisha. I started by asking them if they'd had any miraculous experiences. There was a unanimous response of "no", so the church member who was there and I each shared a recent experience. I then asked them if there were any stories like this in Mongolian history. I got a no on that too, though one person told me about miracles in Buddhism. There was a little more discussion, but I left class very discouraged. How do you share God with beginner students? More importantly, how do you share God with students who have no interest?
After the Bible class I had another class. At the beginning of class I told the students that I would be available for free conversation after class, since the following day was Friday and I didn't need to prepare for anything the next day. Three students said they would like to do conversation after class, and one said he would come the next day at 2:00.
The conversation was fun. We talked about hobbies, goals, and other such things. It was somewhat difficult to keep everyone involved, since I was the only native English speaker and there were three students to converse with. At 8:45 we ran out of things to talk about, and I so I called it a night. I was wondering what on earth I could say in the next Bible class that would be meaningful in some way.
The next day the remaining student came for conversation promptly at 2:00. He's an air traffic controller, so we spent some time talking about his job. He told me about the work he does, and told me that 200 planes go through Mongolian airspace every day (didn't know that). I told him about the experiences my family had with MIAT (Mongolian Airways) during it's early days, and he said that it has improved greatly since then.
He then told me he was going to come to church the next day.
Due to the fact that classes are rather boring, I have developed a semi-professional mask. Most people see me with the "mask" on, and have gotten used to it. Itgil (the front desk worker) even asks me what's wrong when I don't have my happy mask on. When the student said he was going to check out our church service, and that the other members of the Bible class were coming too, the mask cracked. I was surprised, and slightly confused.
How had I failed to fail?
I then realized something. I cannot save someone. I cannot even convince someone. There is no silver bullet; no magical theological factoid that I need to discover. Being a missionary simply means getting in God's way as little as possible: clearing out all the noise and static, letting go of the insecurity, and following the Master.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
This thought will self destruct on sight (6/10)
There is hunger
For what I do not know, though I have carefully marked it’s boundaries by the emptiness it has left in my mind.
It has left the thrilling joy of wild sadness, rushing at such speeds that it loses both form and familiarity. It laughs in the face of logic, and as an evanescent mist it traces the outlines of lost memory.
There is a need, and by this need I know I am alive, for it is need that defines our waking moments, and satiation that defines repose.
And now, as the silence comes to a crescendo, the void is filled with color, and I know.
I want a pizza.
That, and perhaps something else. But God has made the universe to despise all voids, so I know it will be filled.
For what I do not know, though I have carefully marked it’s boundaries by the emptiness it has left in my mind.
It has left the thrilling joy of wild sadness, rushing at such speeds that it loses both form and familiarity. It laughs in the face of logic, and as an evanescent mist it traces the outlines of lost memory.
There is a need, and by this need I know I am alive, for it is need that defines our waking moments, and satiation that defines repose.
And now, as the silence comes to a crescendo, the void is filled with color, and I know.
I want a pizza.
That, and perhaps something else. But God has made the universe to despise all voids, so I know it will be filled.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Leaning into the wind (5/10)
I just witnessed the force of nature known as "angry parent". The anger was directed squarely at me, along with a constantly pointed finger, but I say 'witnessed' because it passed through the comforting filter of Itgil, the secretary and trilingual translator.
After teaching for a term and a half, I had come to the conclusion that one of the students needed to move down one class. The others had more experience with English than he did, and I was making the grammar / vocabulary worksheets to meet their skill level. This one student copied off of other people on his good days, and on his bad days he just sat at his desk swearing at me in Korean.
It's an understandable reaction, honestly. He never had a chance to get up to that skill level. Because of this I decided to move him down one level.
Today when he came to class I asked him to go to the classroom next door, saying that I was trying to split him and his sister up since they always talked. This was entirely true, though I admit I said it because it was the least insulting of my reasons for switching him. He contemplated this, saw through my BS, and asked me why I was sending him down a level. I tried to explain that he simply couldn't understand the work... but obviously he couldn't understand the explanation either. He called his mom, and she came running over to the school.
One small thing: I would like to point out that before I did this I consulted the teacher of the other class and officially switched the student's registration from one class to another in the system. The classes meet at the same time, and they're the same age groups, so it's not like this was a spur of the moment decision with massive consequences.
But like I said. The mother came running over. She was... a fiery woman. I felt sorry for poor Itgil. She got so flustered that she kept on forgetting to switch languages. She would speak to me in Korean, the woman in English, and Mongolian to both of us. I don't think that the woman ever understood my reasons for switching the student, but she understood that her child was causing problems in class (a thing that I view as a secondary problem, not a primary one). She told him to apologize to me, and I tried to tell her that he didn't need to. Not sure how much of it got through, but she apologized to Itgil and said he would go to the other class as I had suggested, so whatever.
-sigh- It's so odd when someone is pointing their finger at you while yelling in Korean at someone else. It made me feel sub-human and all grown up at the same time. I have come far enough to be ignored. I am part of the system. Yay! Party!
For this week I will match any donations made with money from my salary. This advertising fund is important. Two more people (non-church members) will be coming to my Bible class this week, pushing the total up to 10. Total enrollment is about 40 this term. Imagine how many would be there if we had a total enrollment of 500, as the school is supposed to.
-edit- the goal amount has been reached (and passed). Thanks for donating!
After teaching for a term and a half, I had come to the conclusion that one of the students needed to move down one class. The others had more experience with English than he did, and I was making the grammar / vocabulary worksheets to meet their skill level. This one student copied off of other people on his good days, and on his bad days he just sat at his desk swearing at me in Korean.
It's an understandable reaction, honestly. He never had a chance to get up to that skill level. Because of this I decided to move him down one level.
Today when he came to class I asked him to go to the classroom next door, saying that I was trying to split him and his sister up since they always talked. This was entirely true, though I admit I said it because it was the least insulting of my reasons for switching him. He contemplated this, saw through my BS, and asked me why I was sending him down a level. I tried to explain that he simply couldn't understand the work... but obviously he couldn't understand the explanation either. He called his mom, and she came running over to the school.
One small thing: I would like to point out that before I did this I consulted the teacher of the other class and officially switched the student's registration from one class to another in the system. The classes meet at the same time, and they're the same age groups, so it's not like this was a spur of the moment decision with massive consequences.
But like I said. The mother came running over. She was... a fiery woman. I felt sorry for poor Itgil. She got so flustered that she kept on forgetting to switch languages. She would speak to me in Korean, the woman in English, and Mongolian to both of us. I don't think that the woman ever understood my reasons for switching the student, but she understood that her child was causing problems in class (a thing that I view as a secondary problem, not a primary one). She told him to apologize to me, and I tried to tell her that he didn't need to. Not sure how much of it got through, but she apologized to Itgil and said he would go to the other class as I had suggested, so whatever.
-sigh- It's so odd when someone is pointing their finger at you while yelling in Korean at someone else. It made me feel sub-human and all grown up at the same time. I have come far enough to be ignored. I am part of the system. Yay! Party!
For this week I will match any donations made with money from my salary. This advertising fund is important. Two more people (non-church members) will be coming to my Bible class this week, pushing the total up to 10. Total enrollment is about 40 this term. Imagine how many would be there if we had a total enrollment of 500, as the school is supposed to.
-edit- the goal amount has been reached (and passed). Thanks for donating!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
This post was composed on a massage table (7/10)
From time to time my dad warns me of the evils in the world. The advice he gives serves to open my mind up to he possibility of vices I had not previously considered, and is a useful tool in guiding me to new sins of all kinds. It's not that my mind is naturally clean, it's just that I'm not very creative.
When I told my dad that I was planning on trying out a massage / health complex near the school, he warned me that there were about 10 places in Asia that offer legitimate massage, and the chances of finding one of them in Mongolia was slim. So, with his fatherly caution in mind, I headed off to the massage place, my young male mind focused entirely on the health benefits I was about to get from a highly trained, professional masseuse.
I was slightly disappointed therefore, when I found that the staff were indeed highly trained, professional, and (for the most part) over 40.
Ok, ok, that was a joke. I read all about the place before I left, so I wasn't surprised at all.
I got to the Gobi Sauna complex, and discovered two things I hadn't expected. The first was that no one spoke English. The place had been so highly recommended on the internet that I had just sort of assumed someone would speak a little English. The second surprise was the European influence. There was a communal shower and sauna (for the men, I assume it was the same for the women) with clothing discouraged and shoes prohibited in all areas.
After the shower and sauna, I was given a light cotton t-shirt and shorts and told to go upstairs to the main saunas. There were three saunas: Amber (40 C or 104 F) Amethyst (44 C or 111 F) and Salt (54 C, 129 F or blaaaaa....). After the series of saunas there was the "Oxygen Room" where oxygen bubbled through water, creating an atmosphere soaked in both oxygen and moisture. It was all quite lovely, but there was one downside. After going through the series of saunas, I wasn't sore any more. This would usually be a good thing, but I had been looking forward to having the soreness removed more forcefully.
Still, it would be kind of dumb to go to a massage place and not get a massage, so I decided to press on. There was a choice between a "Mongolian" massage and a Thai massage. I chose the Mongolian massage for the simple reason that it was $5 cheaper and I didn't have any money left in my wallet.
The massage was good, though it would have been better if I had needed it. It definitely said something about the current state of Mongolia though. Many things here are advertised as "Mongolian", but there's nothing particularly Mongolian about them. Mongolians are re-defining themselves, and writing the script as they go along. Something is called "Mongolian" when a Mongolian person creates it, not when it has any significant ties to Mongolian culture or tradition. It's just as well. To my knowledge the Mongolians have no great tradition of massage.
The massage was hard, but not too hard. The only downside was that it was designed for someone with no significant body hair. The masseuse used some kind of mild muscle rub, and from time to time she would press down while rubbing vigorously. This was all well and good on my back, but on my legs it felt like a thorough waxing... I think, I've never actually had a thorough waxing, just accidental partial ones. There was also a wonderful foot rub (uniquely un-Mongolian concept) and general just about everything else one would expect. I think next time I go I'll go on a Friday, when I'm good and sore. That, and I'll pay the extra $5 for a Thai massage. The Mongolian massage kept on making me feel like I was a batch of dough being kneaded for horshur or bolds.
For the next week I'll match donations out of my sallary (up to the goal amount). Really, this is a need. My Bible study class has grown from a starting group of two church members and now includes six non-church members, or about a third of the first-term (new) students.
When I told my dad that I was planning on trying out a massage / health complex near the school, he warned me that there were about 10 places in Asia that offer legitimate massage, and the chances of finding one of them in Mongolia was slim. So, with his fatherly caution in mind, I headed off to the massage place, my young male mind focused entirely on the health benefits I was about to get from a highly trained, professional masseuse.
I was slightly disappointed therefore, when I found that the staff were indeed highly trained, professional, and (for the most part) over 40.
Ok, ok, that was a joke. I read all about the place before I left, so I wasn't surprised at all.
I got to the Gobi Sauna complex, and discovered two things I hadn't expected. The first was that no one spoke English. The place had been so highly recommended on the internet that I had just sort of assumed someone would speak a little English. The second surprise was the European influence. There was a communal shower and sauna (for the men, I assume it was the same for the women) with clothing discouraged and shoes prohibited in all areas.
After the shower and sauna, I was given a light cotton t-shirt and shorts and told to go upstairs to the main saunas. There were three saunas: Amber (40 C or 104 F) Amethyst (44 C or 111 F) and Salt (54 C, 129 F or blaaaaa....). After the series of saunas there was the "Oxygen Room" where oxygen bubbled through water, creating an atmosphere soaked in both oxygen and moisture. It was all quite lovely, but there was one downside. After going through the series of saunas, I wasn't sore any more. This would usually be a good thing, but I had been looking forward to having the soreness removed more forcefully.
Still, it would be kind of dumb to go to a massage place and not get a massage, so I decided to press on. There was a choice between a "Mongolian" massage and a Thai massage. I chose the Mongolian massage for the simple reason that it was $5 cheaper and I didn't have any money left in my wallet.
The massage was good, though it would have been better if I had needed it. It definitely said something about the current state of Mongolia though. Many things here are advertised as "Mongolian", but there's nothing particularly Mongolian about them. Mongolians are re-defining themselves, and writing the script as they go along. Something is called "Mongolian" when a Mongolian person creates it, not when it has any significant ties to Mongolian culture or tradition. It's just as well. To my knowledge the Mongolians have no great tradition of massage.
The massage was hard, but not too hard. The only downside was that it was designed for someone with no significant body hair. The masseuse used some kind of mild muscle rub, and from time to time she would press down while rubbing vigorously. This was all well and good on my back, but on my legs it felt like a thorough waxing... I think, I've never actually had a thorough waxing, just accidental partial ones. There was also a wonderful foot rub (uniquely un-Mongolian concept) and general just about everything else one would expect. I think next time I go I'll go on a Friday, when I'm good and sore. That, and I'll pay the extra $5 for a Thai massage. The Mongolian massage kept on making me feel like I was a batch of dough being kneaded for horshur or bolds.
For the next week I'll match donations out of my sallary (up to the goal amount). Really, this is a need. My Bible study class has grown from a starting group of two church members and now includes six non-church members, or about a third of the first-term (new) students.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Puppy (5/10)
It was inevitable I suppose. We are far from home with few really good friends, and surrounded by puppies that probably won't make it through the winter. I resisted, knowing that I'd be leaving in a year, that technically we aren't allowed to pets in our apartments, and that I hate cleaning up pee every morning. Brandon, however, could not.So White is now with us. The name was pretty much randomly chosen. We went to the vet's, and the receptionist asked for Brandon's name. Kholan translated, and Brandon gave his first name. She asked for 'name' again, and since Kholan didn't translate I assumed and told him she wanted his last name. He said "White". The receptionist looked confused, and said she wanted the puppy's name. I picked out the phrase "puppy's name" the second time and tried again. This caused a short discussion, which resulted in Brandon deciding to name the puppy White. I don't think it will stick for some reason. I like my suggestion of 'Stupid' much better.
In other news, winter has yet to set in. However, this doesn't mean that the city can't work up a good loogey of coal smoke to cough up every morning. No, that's not something screwy going on with the camera, that is visibility of half a mile on a cloudless day.
Today I set off through this smog to do my grocery shopping, as I do every Friday. I made a withdrawal of a hundred grand from the ATM, and spent it all. Well, not quite all of it. I had ten thousand left, but give me a break, I tried. I bought food for the next week and two dictionaries (Mongolian-English and English-Mongolian). Both of them were large dictionaries that included technical and archaic terms, since I'm always needing such things in my classes. I had to go back to the ATM again and take out another fifty thousand so that I could buy jeans. The jean's weren't bad though, only twenty-five grand. Hopefully they'll last, though I doubt they'll be very stylish if I wear them in the US. Very... um, whatever the style here is called.
Yes, the point of that paragraph was to use big numbers. The exchange rate is 1200 - 1, if anyone wants to calculate.
Ok, Ok, I know, everyone wants me to shut up and show more puppy pictures. Here you go:
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Why I Don't Meditate
I sat in the early pre-dawn stillness, feeling the cold wind blow softly on my face. As I listened, I could almost hear the earth speaking to me. It spoke directly to the yearnings of my soul, asking me "Would you like a can of Big Franks?"
Yes, yes I would. I would like them placed, still sizzling, on a bun with a little ranch dressing, with some finely diced jalapeños and cilantro.
And you know what? The crazy thing is that I can get all those things here. Yes, even here, at the center of what was once Chinghis Khan's empire, I can get some fresh cilantro, jalapenos, dressing and buns. The big franks are a bit harder, but I brought two cans with me from the US. One is for Thanksgiving, the other is for Christmas.
There isn't much dietary deprivation though. I'm not craving anything. Well, that's not true. Right now I'm hungry, but that's just because a massive block of classes has forced me to move supper to around 4:00, so I get hungry before bed. What I'm craving is some rice and diced cabbage with tofu and a little mayo wrapped in a seaweed square and sliced into rounds... i.e. kimbap (or something like it). I'm definitely going to be making that stuff when I get back home, because I became addicted to it in Korea and THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE IT HERE!
So, about that massive block of classes. At the beginning of this term I was supposed to be teaching four classes a day, which is a light load. Somehow after the first day I've ended up with seven, which is insane.
On top of this, two of them are classes that I have to actually prepare for. I've stopped using the Korean curriculum for the junior class, because it was designed to be used by a Korean-speaking teacher with all Korean students. Instead, I'll be making 2-3 pages of grammar activities, puzzles and other such nonsense for the kids to do every day, in addition to copying the story book and writing quizzes (no tests).
The other class I have to prepare for is the Bible class. We are reading out of children's storybook series (thanks mom) to get concepts, then reading the original chapters / verses in the Bible. To prepare I have to read through the story in both places and anticipate what questions will arise, then find the verses that I will need to answer those questions. So far it's been fun though.
Teaching Sabbath school, in contrast, has been something akin to hell. Perhaps I need to prepare more, but I just get the feeling that I don't know my Bible well enough, and that I haven't the foggiest idea how to lead out in a discussion. The class always ends up being at one of two extremes, either I say everything and everyone else stares at me, or I say nothing and everyone else stares at me.
Wait... those aren't extremes... those are about the same.
Whenever someone else teaches people get involved, but I can't seem to get the knack for encouraging involvement like they do.
I suppose this has been a somewhat more normal blog post, in that it involved me writing about my boring life instead of attempting to write a semi-humorous story. Oh well. You just wasted five minutes reading, I just wasted 15 minutes writing.
THE DONATION LINK WORKS NOW!
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We only need $100 more to reach our goal! That means that if I get one dollar for every view this week, we'll leave it in the dust!
Yes, yes I would. I would like them placed, still sizzling, on a bun with a little ranch dressing, with some finely diced jalapeños and cilantro.
And you know what? The crazy thing is that I can get all those things here. Yes, even here, at the center of what was once Chinghis Khan's empire, I can get some fresh cilantro, jalapenos, dressing and buns. The big franks are a bit harder, but I brought two cans with me from the US. One is for Thanksgiving, the other is for Christmas.
There isn't much dietary deprivation though. I'm not craving anything. Well, that's not true. Right now I'm hungry, but that's just because a massive block of classes has forced me to move supper to around 4:00, so I get hungry before bed. What I'm craving is some rice and diced cabbage with tofu and a little mayo wrapped in a seaweed square and sliced into rounds... i.e. kimbap (or something like it). I'm definitely going to be making that stuff when I get back home, because I became addicted to it in Korea and THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE IT HERE!
So, about that massive block of classes. At the beginning of this term I was supposed to be teaching four classes a day, which is a light load. Somehow after the first day I've ended up with seven, which is insane.
On top of this, two of them are classes that I have to actually prepare for. I've stopped using the Korean curriculum for the junior class, because it was designed to be used by a Korean-speaking teacher with all Korean students. Instead, I'll be making 2-3 pages of grammar activities, puzzles and other such nonsense for the kids to do every day, in addition to copying the story book and writing quizzes (no tests).
The other class I have to prepare for is the Bible class. We are reading out of children's storybook series (thanks mom) to get concepts, then reading the original chapters / verses in the Bible. To prepare I have to read through the story in both places and anticipate what questions will arise, then find the verses that I will need to answer those questions. So far it's been fun though.
Teaching Sabbath school, in contrast, has been something akin to hell. Perhaps I need to prepare more, but I just get the feeling that I don't know my Bible well enough, and that I haven't the foggiest idea how to lead out in a discussion. The class always ends up being at one of two extremes, either I say everything and everyone else stares at me, or I say nothing and everyone else stares at me.
Wait... those aren't extremes... those are about the same.
Whenever someone else teaches people get involved, but I can't seem to get the knack for encouraging involvement like they do.
I suppose this has been a somewhat more normal blog post, in that it involved me writing about my boring life instead of attempting to write a semi-humorous story. Oh well. You just wasted five minutes reading, I just wasted 15 minutes writing.
THE DONATION LINK WORKS NOW!
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We only need $100 more to reach our goal! That means that if I get one dollar for every view this week, we'll leave it in the dust!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Ramblings (3/10)
I stared at the single hair lying on the bathroom floor. It confused me, as no hair has ever done. Hair seems to have an almost mystical ability to be where it should not be. This particular hair was black... which is odd, because my hair is brown. It was also about eight inches long. My hair is significantly shorter than that.
The hair lay there, defiantly declaring its opposition to one of my cherished assumptions: the assumption that no woman had ever been in my bathroom, even briefly. It's not that the bathroom is utterly disgusting or anything like that. Water pools on the floor of my bathroom, and forces me to mop it (or engage in an activity greatly resembling mopping) at least once a day. This is due to an avaunt-guard design known as uphill drainage, where the drain is carefully placed a solid inch above the lowest point on the floor. I know that the drain was "carefully" placed thusly because the drain in Brandon's apartment is identical. I am not sure what end the workers had in mind when they laid the tile in this manner, but I'm sure it would make sense if they explained it.
It's not that I really dislike the idea of a woman using my bathroom, it's just that I like to know whenever someone enters my apartment. Supposedly there are two keys to said apartment. One of them is in my pocket, the other is currently in South Korea. This knowledge gives one a certain lonely security.
Perhaps lonely is the wrong word. I am not lonely. I find it difficult to feel loneliness, as if it was a talent that required either great skill or infinite practice. I feel starved, starved for eyes with a mind behind them and a mouth that can express that mind, specifically in English. I feel empty, like a pot that has been scrubbed until it shines, and is a shell by design and definition.
Until quite recently there was an electrifying spark, a drive of pure energy as I felt the omnipotent power of God feed directly into me. I tried to find the spark, to capture it, but it seemed to be the kind of thing that disappears when you look straight at it. In it's place a more familiar power came, a shallow and empty drive of unnatural energy that burns like the fire of a burning house, illuminating the faces of the frightened family gathered on the street. The light and warmth, such good friends during better times, consume their hope for the future, and memories of the past, but they can neither stop them nor shut them out.
And soon the house is turned to ashes, with the whitened panes of glass sticking up through the smouldering dust, broken and jagged. I try to find the spark again, to bask in it's warmth, but I am greeted only by the mindless smile of the raw fire, the internal drug that sells itself on the street corners of my mind.
Could be worse I suppose. I could know who's hair is that lays on the floor of my bathroom. I could find a person, and cling to them as the world around me rages. Surprisingly I have no desire to know, or to create such a knowledge. I know that nothing is more stable than it's foundation, so how could I both depend on such a person and support them?
In either case, my mind is full of the dull roar of emptiness, drowning out my please for an orderly return to sanity.
And at this point, I fall on my knees and cry to the Lord, saying that I've given all I have, and lost the rest to my foolishness."But I never asked you to give all you have" He says. "I asked you to give all I have."
I clean the floor, and dispose of the single strand of hair.
---------------------------------------------------------
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
The hair lay there, defiantly declaring its opposition to one of my cherished assumptions: the assumption that no woman had ever been in my bathroom, even briefly. It's not that the bathroom is utterly disgusting or anything like that. Water pools on the floor of my bathroom, and forces me to mop it (or engage in an activity greatly resembling mopping) at least once a day. This is due to an avaunt-guard design known as uphill drainage, where the drain is carefully placed a solid inch above the lowest point on the floor. I know that the drain was "carefully" placed thusly because the drain in Brandon's apartment is identical. I am not sure what end the workers had in mind when they laid the tile in this manner, but I'm sure it would make sense if they explained it.
It's not that I really dislike the idea of a woman using my bathroom, it's just that I like to know whenever someone enters my apartment. Supposedly there are two keys to said apartment. One of them is in my pocket, the other is currently in South Korea. This knowledge gives one a certain lonely security.
Perhaps lonely is the wrong word. I am not lonely. I find it difficult to feel loneliness, as if it was a talent that required either great skill or infinite practice. I feel starved, starved for eyes with a mind behind them and a mouth that can express that mind, specifically in English. I feel empty, like a pot that has been scrubbed until it shines, and is a shell by design and definition.
Until quite recently there was an electrifying spark, a drive of pure energy as I felt the omnipotent power of God feed directly into me. I tried to find the spark, to capture it, but it seemed to be the kind of thing that disappears when you look straight at it. In it's place a more familiar power came, a shallow and empty drive of unnatural energy that burns like the fire of a burning house, illuminating the faces of the frightened family gathered on the street. The light and warmth, such good friends during better times, consume their hope for the future, and memories of the past, but they can neither stop them nor shut them out.
And soon the house is turned to ashes, with the whitened panes of glass sticking up through the smouldering dust, broken and jagged. I try to find the spark again, to bask in it's warmth, but I am greeted only by the mindless smile of the raw fire, the internal drug that sells itself on the street corners of my mind.
Could be worse I suppose. I could know who's hair is that lays on the floor of my bathroom. I could find a person, and cling to them as the world around me rages. Surprisingly I have no desire to know, or to create such a knowledge. I know that nothing is more stable than it's foundation, so how could I both depend on such a person and support them?
In either case, my mind is full of the dull roar of emptiness, drowning out my please for an orderly return to sanity.
And at this point, I fall on my knees and cry to the Lord, saying that I've given all I have, and lost the rest to my foolishness."But I never asked you to give all you have" He says. "I asked you to give all I have."
I clean the floor, and dispose of the single strand of hair.
---------------------------------------------------------
Please consider donating to the advertising fund of the school. We need to reach a wider audience with the gospel. Right now most of the students are Korean expats and friends of school staff.
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