The Millenium-scapade.

Friday

12:18 pm

I'm getting changed after my photo shoot, looking at my phone like it was a heart monitor and I had a few minutes to live. I need to get to that 12:45 train. I grab my bag and I'm down the stairs. I do my routine pat down. I’ve got my phone, wallet, and computer. Now for my phone charger. Where's my phone charger? I drop my bag on a chair and grab sheepishly grab the next elevator to the 4th floor. I grab my charger and fly down the stairs, almost knocking down the poor soul who was unlucky enough to be in my fire trail. Grab the backpack and I'm off towards the El. My awkward run/jog is not helping my already frazzled look.

12:24 pm

I make it up the obnoxiously large flight of stairs to the train to catch the Brown Line right as it arrives. Luck be a lady tonight. Now the long trek to my safe haven: Randolph Street. It is taking forever and a century to get there. I am driving myself mad waiting after every stop, so mad that I convince myself to get off 6 blocks before the station and sprint because "I’m fast enough". 

12:35 pm*

The good news is I am fast enough. The bad news is that it is 6 blocks and it’s been 2 years and some change since my last basketball practice. I get back to my awkward freshman-that-is-late-for-the-first-day-of-class charade and I’m off. Zigging, zagging, huffing and puffing. I just took a deep breath as my legs are reminded off this while I type.

12:38 pm

Anyways, I make it to the station. It’s a few minutes till that :45 train and I am content and proud of my supreme hustle . I walk briskly through the heavy doors to the platform and look for that glory train to paradise.

*While Jess is running through Chicago, I am the train that is leaving at 12:35. He should have checked, re-checked, and then checked the schedule again.

12:47 pm

Dang it. 

A week later, still a blubbering mess.

More of this

One Act

“…DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE SPAWNED, SIR? She is a spider. She is a diabolically devious as Medusa. Her capacity for compassion extends only as far as her immediate periphery. She uses her charm in the same way the Borgias used poison. Her wit is an epic in trivia. She conforms to civilized conduct with all the morality of a traffic light. Her empathy is as deep rooted as her mirror. The lip service she pays to the social amenities has all the sincerities of a Hindu kissing the Pope’s ring. She is a pot of poisoned honey…”

from the play "Integrity" by John Patrick.

I silently performed this at my desk. I would suffice in doing that for the rest of my life.

I'm in an Advanced Drama class this semester. I am assigned to pick out a one act play, cast and direct it. I have never directed before, so I am looking forward to something new. I picked a show written by the same man who wrote the monologue above called "Fettuccine". It's a fast paced argument of a play between a husband and wife over the welfare of their only son. I have been blessed to have made friends in the "drama scene" here at Moody and I already have three pristine actors in mind. Hopefully I'll be able to successfully direct them while at the same time have them direct themselves. If I were a wagering man, I would bet that this is going to be a great semester.

Whenever I am reading, especially a non-fiction textbook, if something is under-lined or in bold, my head voice yells it. 

Memories from the summer

9/11

Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. I was 10 years old in 4th grade at Jimtown Elementary School. I was in Mr. Miller's class working on a project that I don't remember, but I do remember that at around 9 AM, our Principal, Mr. Stout, came on to the loud speaker and called all the teachers and faculty members to the office. No one told the students that day about what was happening in New York. I see that they didn't want to frighten us, but I am somewhat embittered still.

I got off the bus at my house on CR 26 and walked in the door to find my mother with tear stains on her face and an abnormally worried look in her eyes. "Are you ok?" she asks. I am clueless. "Uhh, yeah. Can I have a snack?"

""Do you know about the attacks?"

"...uhm, what attacks? No I don't know about any attacks."

"Jess, there were two planes high-jacked and flown into the World Trade Center buildings in New York, and two others elsewhere."

I didn't quite grasp all that had happened. Maybe it was better that I didn't fully understand. You see, I kow more about Amillenialism and Postmillenialism and doctrines on the book of Revelation at that age than I kew about football or legos. I may have lost my mind in fear of the return of Christ. Yeah, fear. I didn't want to leave. I sometimes still don't. But that's another blog post.

Throughout that day we were, like every other capable American, glued to the TV. It was such a confusing and fearful day, and many more were to come. My dad came home later that night and proclaimed that "Gas was 5 dolla'gallon in Indi!" and I think we had visits from family, maybe not.

Days passed, then weeks, then months, a year, two years, etc. We are now two days from a decade passing since that interesting day. 10 years. I went from a weird little boy to an almost drinking adult in that time. Children of fallen heros and victims that were born on the day or near to it are the age that I was when the attacks happened. Mind blowing.

I am sitting here at my desk in Crowell Hall at Moody Bible Institute basically weeping at the pictures of all the destruction physically and emotionally. I don't know why this affects me so much. Maybe because heroism inspires me. Maybe i am just a sorry sobby sammy. Whatever it is, I am proud to be, not necessarily an american, but to be apart of a nation. A group of people that are communally affected by the same thing.

I wish I was more proud to be a Christ Follower. Our version of Spetember 11th happened when Christ was seemingly defeated by man at Golgotha. The discipes and everyone else who was in the community of believers was devestated, searching among the ruins for his clothes, hist likeness, anything that would bring him back to them. For three days that were at a worse place than those who have lost family and friends in 9/11. They lost GOD. Utter darkness was with them for that time.

Easter morning came, and we were refreshed. He has proven himself God and we are now rescued from that debris.

There is not a redeeming comparison for 9/11, unfortunately. I wish there was. Families of lost ones are still lost and in need of Easter. Everyone needs Easter. Pray for them.