Lost and All That Jazz

For those of you who are Lost fans and haven't watched last night's season finale episode yet, STOP RIGHT HERE!

That being said, allow me to rant and rave a bit, my friends.

WHAT!? CHARLIE?

They did warn me. I knew it was going to happen, especially when Charlie asked about Desmond getting a flash and Desmond said no. Dead-um, bad word choice-giveaway. I'm very upset. I really like Charlie's character: the musician, the one who developed in his understanding of what it means to be human more than any other character.

Of course, Chris (my hubby, not the misfit) said that the actor (Dominic something-or-other - actors and actresses don't interest me outside of their characters) must have found something else to do and quit the show. That is completely beside the point.

THEY KILLED CHARLIE!

So other thoughts beside that: um, yeah, Penelope just happened to be by some video broadcast signal the moment Charlie entered the code. I suspend several beliefs for this show, but even that was outside the range. And Walt? Funny how they've been on the island 90 days (or something to that effect - I think it's around a month for every year), but this boy has aged three years and looks like he might be hitting puberty. Speaking of, whatever happened to the dog?

And the flash forward. That was disturbing. My theory: it was Locke's funeral (is his name a play on the philosopher?), which is why no one was there. No family. No Oceanic people because he tried to stop them from getting off the island (also explains Kate's hostility). The "he" Kate referred to who would be wondering where she was: Sawyer? And poor Jack who can't move on and now has a ruined life. Just disturbing.

Okay, I've vented.

Almost. You know, while I'm on the thread. Let's talk Gilmore Girls. I still haven't seen the SERIES finale (and that popped up out of no where) because stupid Verizon can't seem to get it through it's DVR brain to record the show, even if it was set. Ten minutes into the encore performace, it occurred to me to check to make sure stupid (or stupit, as I say when really irritated) Verizon was recording. It wasn't. So I'm missing the first 15 minutes. I haven't watched those last 45 minutes yet because I think I need to be a little more emotionally stable to be able to handle it. My parents just left from all that mess, but will be returning in a couple weeks for an appointment with a surgeon (the next Crohn's step). And, though I got some great critique from Genesis (which encouraged me to work on rewrites yesterday based on their feedback, in between taking care of my sick niece, that is), I'm disappointed in the outcome. All that to say, don't say anything about what happens. I'll watch it sooner or later.

One more thing: a movie rec. Volver. Loved it. Loved the colors, the dialogue, the relationships, the strength of women. But talk about not having a single good male character!

More Misfit Merits

What a stellar writer's group I've managed to sneak in! Besides the accolades I've mentioned afore, more kudos are due. The finalists list for Genesis is out! And on that list are:
Angie Poole
Chris Mikesell
Jenny Cary
My chest swells with pride. I feel proud that I was able to read these excerpts on the ground floor (and told them first how much I love them). Good job, misfits!
Oh, I don't think I ever posted that, in addition to all this (for only $19.99), Chris also won the Jesus Vs. Cthulhu contest in Coach's Midnight Diner (an offshoot of Relief). Cthulhu is some creature that sci-fi/fantasy people know. I had to be told, and I'm not sure I remember. But I know this: the story is good. Funny. Poignant. All those words you're supposed to use.
And don't forget to watch those bookshelves in 2008 for Mike Snyder's upcoming book! (I'd link to his blog, but let's be honest here. He never posts. Too busy writing actual books that publishers fight over, so I'll save myself the trouble.)

Blaise Pascal and Christianity

Regarding Christianity, Pascal said something to the effect (paraphrase ahead) that if you come to the end of your life, and you were wrong, you haven’t lost anything. This may feel lovely when you live in Christendom (and by that, I mean a world in which Christianity is popular and has influence by political or economical means), but it’s not true and it shouldn’t be true. I’m sorry, but Christianity is neither a crutch or a stuffed animal to hold tightly during the thunder and lightening (although I do love thunder and lightening and I do love my stuffed animal, Big Foot, much to the chagrin of my husband, but I’ve had Big Foot since before I was born, so what can I do?).
Paul says in 1 Corinthians 15 that if not for the resurrection, meaning both Christ’s and our future resurrection (without one, the other does not exist), our faith would be one big joke (which some of you out there believe it to be—and some of us live as the straight man for that joke). This same Paul was imprisoned many a time, stoned and left for dead, shipwrecked, beaten, and eventually killed for his belief. Um, if he were wrong in the end, I don’t think he would simply shrug his shoulders and say, “Ah, well.”
Christ told us to expect hatred from the world, and then he was killed. Crucified, to be exact, a painful and humiliating death. Of course, he was resurrected, and those of us who depend on him will be someday, as well, which is my point. A survey of the other apostles: crucified (upside down), exiled, beaten to death, beheaded, other sundry deaths including a combination of the above. Others? Well, Steven was stoned, others were speared. There was Jan Huss and Wycliffe and Joan of Arc and Jim Elliot (and his crew). More people have been killed for the Christian faith in the twentieth century than all other previous centuries combined. Of course, sitting in our recliners flipping through TBN and other such channels, we don’t remember that. We go to church to make business contacts or shelter our children (more on that one later).
Personally, I’m not so okay with the idea. I’m not saying Chris and I are martyrs or persecuted, but we have made choices based on our Christianity. Given up things that we’d rather have. I would love to travel. See the world. But when you work in ministry, the budget doesn’t support those desires. And you know what? I’d rather explore the new earth. But if that new earth doesn’t exist, man, I’m kicking myself for these missed opportunities. Sure, we have Christ’s peace and joy now, but the root of that peace and joy is the hope of a future with him in a harmonious community and perfect nature.
This whole thing shouldn’t be a half-hearted why-not decision. It shouldn’t be some heck-it-feels-good thinking. It’s deciding to serve a kingdom now that is underground and will eventually win. It would be like shuttling slaves through the underground railroad before the Civil War.
Just so you know.

What does it mean to be human?

For those who haven't been to Sandi's blog today, you might want to follow this link to hear Bono's acceptance speech at the NAACP awards. Now, before you get all up in arms with me (I know some of you have differences with Bono and some of you think the NAACP a desolation), the reason I think this speech is so good is because he draws out our responsibility to love our neighbor as ourselves.
Plus, I just like Bono.

Share and Share Alike (and Other Platitudes I Dislike)

Camping Story #2—Another Pot Story
So the next morning a representative from Xena’s site comes over to ours.
“Hey, you guys got anything to boil eggs in?” he asks.
Chris jumps up. “Sure. Will a coffee pot work?”
What? My coffee pot? The one I just bought two days before? My first actual camping coffee pot? And let me reiterate—COFFEE pot! Coffee, people. Do you know how much I treasure this? But I smile.
“Uh, you guys smoke?”
We shake our heads no.
“Your friends?” He gestures to Patty and Charl.
Another no.
“Cuz we could do a trade.”
And become the next Wandering Lady of Turner Falls? I don’t think so.
“Don’t worry about it,” Chris says.
“I’ll have it back in an hour.”
It takes an hour to boil eggs? I set my mental stopwatch.
An hour passes.
“Babe, do you think we’ll see our coffee pot again?” I really like that coffee pot. Sentimental value. My first camping coffee pot.
Chris shrugs. “Probably. But if not, oh well.”
But we’re poor! Whadya mean, oh well? Still, I smile.
Another hour passes. I want my coffee pot.
Not too much longer after that, the guy from Xena’s campsite returns the coffee pot. “Thanks. Sorry about the mess. I didn’t have anything to clean it with.”
Still smiling, I wait until he leaves before examining said mess. I open the lid. A thick layer of red grease bubbles on the top. Since when do eggs have red grease? I remove the inside percolating devices. Black, burnt food sticks to the bottom. I take it over to the river, rinse it as best as I can, then grab a spoon and start scraping.
My new coffee pot. Chris isn’t worried. It’s still usable. Get off what we can. It'll still boil water.
But it’s my new coffee pot. I scrub, and I scrub, and I scrub.
If a man asks for your cloak, give him your tunic as well.
Man, sometimes I dislike being a Christian. I like my tunic. Chris seems to get this no problem, Bob. He’s the most generous man I know.
Clink-clink, goes the spoon against the bottom. More burnt food (who knows what food) gathers in the water swishing in the pot.
Me, I get sentimentality attached to things. So-and-so made this tunic for me, or I wore this tunic when I first met Chris. But share I must.
I examine my pot. About two-thirds gone.
Share and share alike.
Hey, the guy was willing to share with us too.
So back at home, some of the burnings remain after cleaning and cleaning, but maybe these burnings can be the scars that remind me to share my tunic.

Oh, what a beautiful morning

This weekend we went to O-O-O-O-Oklahoma where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. We camped at Turner Falls, and for those of you who camp, I would suggest trying this area. The front area (more day trippers—I’m just full of songs today) was more commercialized, but the fall itself was magnificent. Swimming areas, a small stretch of sandy beach, and of course, a castle. Why not have a castle in O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A Oklahoma, yeah? Apparently, in the thirties an English professor at Oklahoma University built it modeled on middle ages English castles. It was his summer home. I guess profs made a bunch more back then. The tent camping area is more secluded. We found a spot right on the rushing river. You don’t really see the other campers. And you don’t see any lights except for the stars, which explode in the sky after the sun goes skinny dipping.
Saturday night, after dark, long after dark, a girl appears by our campfire. The guys were off to the side I think cleaning up something, maybe tying up the trash bags because of the raccoons. This girl, with eyes that didn’t focus anywhere just stands there until my friend Patty asks, “Are you okay?” with her South African accent.
“I’m looking for Xena. Is Xena here?” the girl draws in a breath of cancer from her cigarette.
As in the warrior princess?
“No,” Patty says, “Sorry.”
“I must be at the wrong campsite.”
Ya think?
She wanders away with a dim flashlight. The guys return, and we relate the story. Patty’s reaction: I hope she’s okay. If she’s lost, she’ll be lost all night.
My reaction: maybe she’s the Wandering Lady of Turner Falls searching for Xena’s campsite from the 1930s. The castle-professor had fallen in love with her, but she did not return the emotion, and now she’s doomed to search for Xena forever (because Xena saved her from his clutches in the 30s, or course).
My sweet, caring husband, upon seeing her flashlight again, goes out to help her.
Scenario number two: It’s a ploy. A trap. She lures away the men in the camp to torture them. Meanwhile, others come in and kidnap the women and children. I start praying. Please return my sweet, caring husband to me. And I don’t even watch sci-fi. (Although you should have seen my nightmare last night. Bruce Willis was my father, and he was not a good guy.)
Chris returns. What’s the story? we ask.
“She’s stoned,” he starts. We got that. “I asked her where she came from [cotton-eyed Joe, to keep up the songs]. ‘You know that area where you’re not supposed to drive?’ she said.”
We nod. We know.
Chris continues. “‘We drove there.’ I knew exactly where she was cause I saw that truck earlier. She said Xena—not the warrior princess—did you actually ask her that?” Chris asks me. I hadn’t. She must have come up with it all on her own in her drugged stupor. “Xena the Russian-” okay “-was with a group that jump started our car today and now we’re the best of friends and camping together.”
And they probably had a stash of something.
“When we got to this tiny stream, she turned her flashlight off, told me she knew where she was, and didn’t go any further until I had turned around,” Chris says.
I jump in. “So if it was scenario number one with the Wandering Lady of Turner Falls, she knew that anyone who crossed the tiny stream (River Styx?) with her would be doomed to Hades. If scenario number two, then she grew to like you because you were caring and didn’t try any hokey-pokey business and so she decided to let you go and return to the camp unharmed and in time to save us.” Of course, Patty’s husband, Charl, was still there to prevent aforementioned kidnappings.
Rolled eyes on all sides.
So back to the beautiful morning, Lisa Samson started it all, Mary DeMuth emailed me—along with several others—about it, fellow Misfit Michelle participated, and Robin participated then tagged me. Wshoo. That’s a lotta links, folks, especially considering the pic-in-a-post, too. Morning faces. Pure morning. And I took the picture. Second morning of our camping excursion. Pre-coffee. Unwashed hair. The whole business. But, I can’t bring myself to post it. It would take out the intrigue, and I need just a little mystery (for those of you who do know what I look like, just pretend). So here’s me enjoying the falls. Note: hair is unwashed and unfixed and in an awkward growing-out stage. And I rarely wear make-up anyways, so can this count? And pic was still taken pre-coffee.

New Links

If you scroll down my sidebar, you'll see I've added some new links writerly related - articles I've found interesting and a few sites.
Here, just cuz I wanna, I'll highlight a few paragraphs from an article that's at least 6 mos old but still interesting from the byFaith magazine. The article is "New Direction for Christian Publishing" by Stephen McGarvey.

"Parochialism is a spirit that demands that we create only for the safely defined boundaries of our ethnic, ideological, and spiritual community…Parochialism has been a problem in the evangelical, Christian Booksellers Association universe of fiction, contributing to a perception … that the phrase “Christian fiction” identifies something narrow and artificial." Terrell continues, saying that Christians’ aversion to the depiction of sin in the arts damages the realism of Christian fiction. "The desire to avoid offending sensibilities in regard to dialogue and human situations often results in plastic, smoothed-over characters, and a holding back from the kind of writing that may evoke true inspiration and authentic villainy."
The evangelical community has balked at the depiction of sin in the arts. Rather than wrestle with it, evangelicals have largely expunged it, erasing anything from “Christian” novels that was difficult to deal with. As a result, “Christian” publishing began to carve out a niche separated from the secular publishing houses.