The Reggae Concert and the unseen behaviors of the upper-middle class

Last night, a good friend and I found out about a concert that was held downtown. It was supposed to be "the most popular reggae group of Central Florida". I know what you're thinking, Why didn't you immediately jump at that opportunity? I have no idea, but we decided we'd go there as a last resort. After eating dinner, we decided that there wasn't anything else exciting happening, so we'd head out to the concert. Expecting a few dozen Jamaican-loving people, we were surprised to see multitudes of folks sitting on the lawn, clapping and jiving to impressive covers of "Hotel California" and "Killing me Softly". Moreover, these were not just young people, they were certified AARP, upper-middle class white folk. And they liked it. They got into it. It was kind of awkward to see a middle-aged grandmother, obviously under the influence of some substance, gyrate off-rhythm with a young Jamaican, Bob Marley-look-a-like. Based off hearing inappropriate innuendos, we were pretty sure we sat next to a group of fifysomethings who constituted a swingers' group. The music was actually good, I became a more well-rounded person because of the experience. But the excitable audience was somewhat off-putting.

Faith: The Great Pain

I've heard it said that faith is the confident assurance of things not seen, but I say faith is a huge pain. It's great when it gives you hope to carry on and such, but as I am seeing lately, faith is a large hurdle. For years I have been telling myself the same pie-in-the-sky answers: God will turn my sorrow, my pain, into a reward; it will all be worth it all. I'm not saying that I don't trust God, because I do (I am compelled to do so). What I'm saying is that there comes a point when faith isn't just comfort during hard times, it can turn into a hard time all on its own. But I stubbornly hold onto the confident assurance that one day, I will be redeemed for my spiritual pain. Faith will eventually turn into a bonafide symbol of painful growth, but growth nonetheless. It sounds almost oxymoronic -- faith is supposed to edify and be good and fun. Yet the faith that God most desires (see Hebrews 11) is the kind that is filled with this paradoxical trust in him, categorized by wrestling with angels and trusting prostitutes to provide shelter. It doesn't always turn out the way you want, which is ultimately the best for mankind.

One of the few times that I am certain that God has given me a vision occurred my freshman year in college. I had one hell of a year -- I literally mean that the year will always be characterized by its hellishness. Believe me when I say that it was not a good place to be. But one Friday night I was praying as my roomate slept. I began to see a dream-like thing -- a vision. I was standing on one section of grass atop a large cliff, when suddenly I was made aware of the beautiful valley below. I saw the whole picture, despite the fact that I was still on this one piece of earth. All I had to do to see the entire valley was to look up, to change my perspective. I knew then exactly what that meant.

As time goes on and each day passes, I forget about this revelation when I'm irritated with the Lord. I can only see the present and it makes no sense. However, I must adopt the viewpoint that looks at my current situation as merely a puzzle piece of a large, elaborate work of art. Many of the guys listed in Hebrews 11 did not live to see their faith promises come to fruition, but God still counted them righteous for their faith. These people weren't just happy-go-lucky believers, they fought and struggled with God's promises and even tried to make his will come true through their own ideas and actions (with disastrous results, of course). This can give me strength to know that I am not forgotten. What God has said would come true will come true, I must endure, even if it means not ever getting to see the fruits of my labor. That is the nature of the kind of faith that God most desires. Just look at Abraham and Sarah, the once-childless elders who were told would be the ancestors of many nations. It came to pass, but was not filled with easy trust along the way.

Faith's not easy, but it's God's only way.

Random thoughts

Here are some things that have been rolling through my mind lately. I want to see if other people think the same thing. Mostly they are rants.

• I don't like Windows Vista. The school recently got a new contract with Dell, so we all have new computers this year with Vista installed. I still have XP, which has been a good operating system since I first got familiar with it in 2002. I'm no computer genius, but I think I own enough common sense to operate a computer. Yet Vista seems to go against all logical thought (well, at least its Office program does). Instead of having a clear "File" option to save and print, it has a stupid (!) little round circle with a Windows logo. How are we supposed to know that the circle means "File"?! I can't tell you how many people in the library have asked me how to print or save. The programs still freeze up. And of course, here's the big one: since everything is all jazzed up in a new file format, you can't open documents on older operating systems that were first saved in Vista. Did the Microsoft people not test this stuff out? It's not too inconvenient because I have access to Vista and a printer in the library, but if I didn't, I wouldn't be able to open attached documents.



• The gym is a very unique place. Everyone just goes there to plainly focus on themselves, their bodies. Yeah, you have spotters, but the main point of the gym is to work on yourself, even if you are occassionally helping someone else lift. It's funny because you have people of all shapes and sizes joined together with the common goal of becoming more fit. Now, what "fit" means to one person may mean something completely different to someone else. You've got the bodybuilder fellas who all crowd together around a bench and sip their protein shakes while discussing BMI. There's the young lady who is furiously running on a treadmill, like a little hamster on its wheel -- going nowhere fast. You've always got someone who is at the machine you want, taking an infinite break before the next set. Occasionally you will see a woman pumping iron, putting many guys to shame. Then there are those who seem to work out all the time, yet you never see a difference on them, which is unfortunate. But these next people really get under my skin: When I used to go to the YMCA, the trainers or attendants (I tend to think they were the latter because they never did much of anything) would stand around chatting it up with the regulars. They were always just so friendly and full of kinesthetic energy. They would never chat it up with me because I was closed off, listening to my iPod, focusing on hitting my high intensity point (whatever weight that would be just enough to make my muscles shake from strain). Maybe I was jealous because I was not social with these people, but these attendants really irritated me. They would hog up the gym space, particularly near the areas I would want to work out on. They just needed to go away and measure someone's body fat percentage or wipe down the machines. Anyway, it was and still is very interesting to study the ecclectic people who go to the gym:the cliques and the loners, the beginners and experts, the lifters and cardio-folks.



• I've been reading two very odd books, both for children and teens. The first, The Light Princess is for a lit class and it's by George MacDonald, a very famous Christian author from the 1800s. The story is a "fantasy" fairy tale, about some princess who is cursed with the inability to be held down by gravity and is eventually freed from the spell by the act of a "selfless" young prince who is enamored by her beauty (now that's surprising for a fairy tale, isn't it?). Without going into details, I saw the Christian symbolism, but I was just wondering, "How the heck did he come up with this crazy idea?!" A friend let me borrow The Perks of Being a Wallflower, about the woes and wiles of being a teenager. The main character is indirectly affected by the following issues that are faced by his friends and family: death, homosexuality, teenage pregnancy, suicide, both homo- and heterosexual sex acts, abuse by family and abuse by boyfriends, some spirituality, and of course, love. Did I mention that all of this happens within one school year?! I'm having a hard time relating to the narrator. I guess I really sheltered myself when I was a teenager, because I hardly heard about any of these things happening, let alone experience them (I obviously knew these things existed). I guess that's just the life of a "real" teen. I'm interested in it because it raises a lot of social issues, but it's still weird for me. I guess I can see it as expanding my worldview.

Why I have the best internship...

I realized today why I have the best internship: We employ a licensed massage therapist who gives massages to the staff bi-weekly (her main job is to massage patients). After doing some home/school visits, I was able to get a free massage for fifteen minutes. I know that I'm the only one in my social work cohort to be placed in that kind of site. Other than that, I'm learning a whole lot about counseling and working in a medical health care setting. I enjoy the staff -- they've really treated me well as an intern. It's going well. And that is why I have the best internship.

The storm

I'm caught in the rain again, even though the sun was shining just a moment ago. Without an umbrella, most of my being is covered -- no, saturated -- in an unexpected shower. This deluge is not warm and suitable for running and recreation like it usually is in the Florida summer. No, the water is cold and unpleasant, worthy of hailing pneumonia. I can't see in front of me, my surroundings appear like another dimension where the rainfall is my only sky and water is my only oxygen.

In the desolation of this downpour, I'm frustrated, lost, disoriented, and shamefully afraid. This shouldn't be happening to me, I usually prepare for storms! My socks symbolize my dignity, for they are the only part of my clothes that are not sopping. But that soon changes as I blindly step into an ankle-deep puddle, splashing away any iota of dryness. I'm left with nothing, not even a hope that I'll find shelter. Hopeless and wet -- hopelessly wet -- I begin to cry, figuring no one will notice my tears among the infinite droplets of this incessant rain.

Minutes that seem like days go by as I aimlessly search for warmth or shelter. In my pridefulness (the only sense of character that I had left), I tell myself to stop this pointless crying: I'm a grown man, in the prime of my youth! My misty eyes cloud my vision more, until I reach out my hands to feel my surroundings. At long last, I feel the rough stucco siding of an unfamiliar house. I feel around until I reach a covered porch, which feels more like the beautiful sanctuary of a European cathedral -- warm, intact, and timeless.

I dare not knock on the door, for fear that the home's inhabitants will kick me asunder. As I settle under the strength of the awning, I notice that the downpour lessens in intensity. Minutes that now seem like seconds go by, and now the last drop has fallen. The dark clouds separate like theater curtains that reveal a majestic actor, the Sun. He reflects himself in the shallow puddles that are now the only afterthought of the monsoon. With the newfound light, I soon realize that this unfamiliar home is none other than my own house, the house of my childhood. I had felt lost and worthless of redemption while in the midst of the epic storm, yet I was only in my own front yard the entire time.

Realizing that I had no need to knock, I entered my own front door, greeted with the warmth and familiarity that welcomes every person when they reach their own home. I am shivering from head to toe, stricken with water, mud, and lack of humor. Yet in the aftermath of my struggle, I am exuberant -- never have I been so happy to be home and indoors! My house, which had always felt too familiar, too mundane, had become a sanctuary once I had endured a seemingly endless damp night of the soul.

Never was I more thankful for what I already had than after that fateful storm, where I thought I had lost every sensibility. I again left my house without checking the weather, I was to remain vigilant, lest another tempest overtake me.