The ocean is too big for there not to be a God.
Look at it. Tonight the scene stares from a top story balcony toward the breaking tide beneath. A person walks along the sand. Minuscule, this form of humanity all but recedes with the pulling current.
If one person stood in that same distance for all the space covered by sea, all creation would be collected. Yet that one indistinguishable person walks softly atop the sand, larger than the lapping foam beneath.
No person who looks upon it could deny God. Man simply is too small. Creation is too big. The difference between the two, too great. And God is too much to consider letting anyone go too long thinking otherwise.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
And The Winner Is
For anyone who still may not know, the verdict is rendered.
The test came Friday, the results Saturday with a tucked envelope and a greeting card that spoke mouthfuls without the first word. All based on a tiny picture of someone not yet born. Amazing in its simplicity and yet still its ability to draw families and friends together like little else, that anticipated image held almost every breath present.
And what a present it was. Boy or girl, two parents were exceedingly happy just to have a child entrusted by God. Each with their own challenges and triumphs, this revelation was one of knowing what joys lie ahead more than hoping for anything above another. But it had to be only one. And it was.
The gold sticker pulled from its grip. Both envelopes--one stuffed within the other to hide any sign of what shown beneath--peeled back and there was the color that introduced a coming child to the world.
I am no more a father today than I was a week or month ago. It only seems so, knowing a little more of what I know. There will not come a time when I forget the feeling of opening that card, and just how much I already loved my new child. I hope he always realizes it.
The test came Friday, the results Saturday with a tucked envelope and a greeting card that spoke mouthfuls without the first word. All based on a tiny picture of someone not yet born. Amazing in its simplicity and yet still its ability to draw families and friends together like little else, that anticipated image held almost every breath present.
And what a present it was. Boy or girl, two parents were exceedingly happy just to have a child entrusted by God. Each with their own challenges and triumphs, this revelation was one of knowing what joys lie ahead more than hoping for anything above another. But it had to be only one. And it was.
The gold sticker pulled from its grip. Both envelopes--one stuffed within the other to hide any sign of what shown beneath--peeled back and there was the color that introduced a coming child to the world.
I am no more a father today than I was a week or month ago. It only seems so, knowing a little more of what I know. There will not come a time when I forget the feeling of opening that card, and just how much I already loved my new child. I hope he always realizes it.
Monday, March 3, 2008
March Madness
Honestly, would you want to be a basketball player at seven feet, eight inches tall?
The thought arose after watching one such monstrosity recently at the Winthrop Coliseum. Initially, the spectacled blessing of such size seems an incomparable gift for a basketball player. Is it, though? Consider. You make a great play, like dunking the ball without jumping or blocking a shot with your armpit, and everyone laughs. Make anything less than a great play and everyone laughs uncontrolably.
Never mind that no one ever looks at you like a normal person. Never mind that, at more than 90 inches, you are tall enough to ride some rollercoasters twice. Never mind that you are too tall to ride any rollercoaster once. Never mind that beautiful women in the stands could put your basketball shorts on at the shoulder and still sport a modest, though unique, floor-length dress. Never mind that those same women could wear your jersey after the game and mop the floor as they go.
Maybe there is something to being that tall. As for me, though, keep the knee braces. Keep the carnival attraction basketball shoes. Keep the ducked doorways, the custom clothing and the strange looks you have to bend your neck unnaturally to see. Keep it all.
The thought arose after watching one such monstrosity recently at the Winthrop Coliseum. Initially, the spectacled blessing of such size seems an incomparable gift for a basketball player. Is it, though? Consider. You make a great play, like dunking the ball without jumping or blocking a shot with your armpit, and everyone laughs. Make anything less than a great play and everyone laughs uncontrolably.
Never mind that no one ever looks at you like a normal person. Never mind that, at more than 90 inches, you are tall enough to ride some rollercoasters twice. Never mind that you are too tall to ride any rollercoaster once. Never mind that beautiful women in the stands could put your basketball shorts on at the shoulder and still sport a modest, though unique, floor-length dress. Never mind that those same women could wear your jersey after the game and mop the floor as they go.
Maybe there is something to being that tall. As for me, though, keep the knee braces. Keep the carnival attraction basketball shoes. Keep the ducked doorways, the custom clothing and the strange looks you have to bend your neck unnaturally to see. Keep it all.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Leap Day
Leap Day. If ever an occasion warranted such infrequent occurence, this conjured up holiday does.
And it should be a holiday. It should be celebrated wildly for not only what it is, but what it can be. Leap Day should be a time when high school shadows ask out homecoming queens. Closet faith should open itself to a world of aquaintances in need. Couples poor only in wealth should choose to become parents despite it.
All these changes of direction should happen because once every four years is neither too long nor short a time to accomplish what should take place daily. People should leap.
How often does the next step go untaken? How many times does the path stop at the foot of fear, regret, reason or remorse? But there always must be that one way of overcoming such still steps--by leaping. And there should be a day set aside for it.
Today is as good a day as any.
And it should be a holiday. It should be celebrated wildly for not only what it is, but what it can be. Leap Day should be a time when high school shadows ask out homecoming queens. Closet faith should open itself to a world of aquaintances in need. Couples poor only in wealth should choose to become parents despite it.
All these changes of direction should happen because once every four years is neither too long nor short a time to accomplish what should take place daily. People should leap.
How often does the next step go untaken? How many times does the path stop at the foot of fear, regret, reason or remorse? But there always must be that one way of overcoming such still steps--by leaping. And there should be a day set aside for it.
Today is as good a day as any.
Fatherhood
People sometimes say I will make a good father. Probably they are trying to be nice. What exactly, after all, is a good parent?
Is it that the child survives to adulthood? No parent holds that control. Is it that the child thinks his or her parent good? Children would dart into streets and soil themselves for years if left to their versions of good.
Is it that the child transitions into a functioning member of society? Is it that the child is loved? Does anyone actually know, or are flattering statements only another way of skirting cluelessness and avoiding worry?
Truth is, people tell me I am a pretty good guy, too. A pretty good son, worker, writer, thinker, teacher--I have heard them all. Yet I know better. I know more of myself than to believe these half-truths.
I am only anything worthwhile at all when I truly realize just how hopeless a son, a thinker, a teacher or a writer I am. Only then do I rely on a strength beyond my own.
So if these people who say I will be a good father are to be proven right, I would do well to remember as much.
Is it that the child survives to adulthood? No parent holds that control. Is it that the child thinks his or her parent good? Children would dart into streets and soil themselves for years if left to their versions of good.
Is it that the child transitions into a functioning member of society? Is it that the child is loved? Does anyone actually know, or are flattering statements only another way of skirting cluelessness and avoiding worry?
Truth is, people tell me I am a pretty good guy, too. A pretty good son, worker, writer, thinker, teacher--I have heard them all. Yet I know better. I know more of myself than to believe these half-truths.
I am only anything worthwhile at all when I truly realize just how hopeless a son, a thinker, a teacher or a writer I am. Only then do I rely on a strength beyond my own.
So if these people who say I will be a good father are to be proven right, I would do well to remember as much.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Rolling
A proper Pinewood Derby track costs $95 up to several thousand, but one can make due with $40 and a little elbow grease. A car costs $4, plus the time to make it roll. Enough cars to host a race comes in at $60. Then comes paint, woodworking tools, weights and the like.
But now, more than a dozen family members are pumped about a race only happening because we decided it should. Adults will race children, mothers against sons, grandfathers against unborn fetuses. Trash talking already sounds like a clanging symbol. One cousin claimed his car would be so fast it would catch fire. Another said his would change color. One car promised a rearview mirror to see the competition, another a metal chain to keep the racing close.
So, is it worth it? Somehow, yes. In perhaps the only family strange and close enough to make it happen, it is undoubtedly worth the hundred dollars and month of preparation. Amazing that such little things could play such a role in keeping a family together. Then again, what else would?
But now, more than a dozen family members are pumped about a race only happening because we decided it should. Adults will race children, mothers against sons, grandfathers against unborn fetuses. Trash talking already sounds like a clanging symbol. One cousin claimed his car would be so fast it would catch fire. Another said his would change color. One car promised a rearview mirror to see the competition, another a metal chain to keep the racing close.
So, is it worth it? Somehow, yes. In perhaps the only family strange and close enough to make it happen, it is undoubtedly worth the hundred dollars and month of preparation. Amazing that such little things could play such a role in keeping a family together. Then again, what else would?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Crazy
Two of the unlikliest suspects insist on promoting themselves as insane, and I want to know why. How many commercials air for "Crazy Charlie's" or "Wacky Wayne's" used car lot? And how many fireworks stands are operated by "Twisted Ted" or "Slippery Fuse Jackson" or "Weird Willy Boom Boom McBroome"?
Car dealers and firework shops? Really? There are some professions I could see operating out of poor mental health. Rodeo clowns, trapeze artists and daredevils immediately come to mind, mostly because participating in such activities shows in itself--at a minimum--a propensity or inclination toward being unfit for society.
But car dealers and firework sellers, these people must maintain some working level of cognizance. Otherwise bystanders get hurt. I do not want my car bought from or serviced by the Wacko Jacko Auto Mall, where the deals are so good they must be lower level primates. And I do not want my or my neighbor's fireworks coming from the Loopy Rocket Emporium, regardless of whether the inventory is so huge it promises, literally, to blow my mind.
Call me crazy.
Car dealers and firework shops? Really? There are some professions I could see operating out of poor mental health. Rodeo clowns, trapeze artists and daredevils immediately come to mind, mostly because participating in such activities shows in itself--at a minimum--a propensity or inclination toward being unfit for society.
But car dealers and firework sellers, these people must maintain some working level of cognizance. Otherwise bystanders get hurt. I do not want my car bought from or serviced by the Wacko Jacko Auto Mall, where the deals are so good they must be lower level primates. And I do not want my or my neighbor's fireworks coming from the Loopy Rocket Emporium, regardless of whether the inventory is so huge it promises, literally, to blow my mind.
Call me crazy.
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