Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

Sleepless Night, Holy Night

“Myron, you need fi go to you bed!”

 My mother’s angry words rang painfully in my mind as I rolled around miserably in my sleeping bag. She had spent half the summer barking the sentence at me while I was at home, and as I now jealously listened to the sound of my soon-to-be co-workers snoring away happily, I cursed my nightly decision to ignore her.

The moment I got home from college, sleep became a matter of opinion. Since it was no longer necessary to sleep in order to restore my brain for the following day’s classes, being totally inactive for seven to eight hours seemed like a complete waste of time. Despite my mother’s persistent objection, I spent the extra time reading, writing, and watching television. Soon enough, a majority of my schedule revolved around the night hours, and with all the things I was doing, I thought very little of the consequences.

I groaned as I wearily squinted at the time on my phone. It was almost four a.m. I knew that I had to be up at seven for the first day of my training as a kitchen aide at Camp Victory Lake, a summer camp that I was working at for the second year, and I wanted to be well rested so that I could learn to perform my duties to the best of my ability.

Letting out a silent sigh, I sunk deeper into my sleeping bag, closed my eyes, and decided to give sleep one last try. Half an hour later, I realized that it was a lost cause. All hopes of a good night’s rest lost, I solemnly trudged out of the dormitory.

“God, please help me,” I breathed into the cool night air as I rubbed my eyes. “I need you.”

All of a sudden, I was hit by the strangest urge to look up. I lifted my gaze to the heavens and was immediately mesmerized by the brightest star that I had ever seen. Mouth ajar, I took a step back to admire the night sky. Encamped around the bright star was a vast army of less luminous but equally magnificent stars.

“I’m here,” God said to me as I stood in awe at His masterpiece. I wanted to say something – to whisper a thanks or sing a praise – but I couldn’t find the words. I had totally forgotten how beautiful the sky was away from the city.

Before I had time to fully contemplate God’s grandeur, something amazing caught my eye. Bubbling with excitement, I raced back into my room, threw on a hoodie and some jeans, and trekked halfway across the camp to catch a glimpse of the wondrous sight.

Coming from the east was a wide array of colors that preceded the sun. I grabbed a chair, planted it in the perfect spot, and watched the magical blend of fiery reds, bold oranges, and soft yellows grow closer and closer, slowly lighting the sky from a deep-shaded purple to its usual joyful blue.

Amazed by the work of His hands and away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I cleared my mind and reconnected with God. I apologized for neglecting Him during summer vacation, and He showed me how miserable I had been without Him. I told Him about my struggles, and He showed me how He could help me overcome them. I thanked Him for allowing me to spend time with Him, and He told me that that was the reason He hadn’t allowed me to sleep.

Eyelids growing heavy, I sunk into my hoodie and reverently sang praises to God until, one by one, the stars disappeared, swallowed whole by the oncoming daylight. Then, surrounded by nature’s beauty, I fell into sweet, sweet sleep.

 

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

“Yup,” I said as I leaned back into my seat and put my feet up on the dashboard. The school year had ended, and as my friends Aaron, Mike, and I pulled away from Southern in the moving truck we had rented, I was looking forward to having an exciting road trip. “This is the life. The open road, the wind blowing through our hair – what could possibly go wrong?”

As soon as the question left my lips, Aaron abruptly yanked the truck off the main road with a sharp twist of the steering wheel and screeched to a halt at the curb.

“Why would you say that?!” he squealed. “You never ask what will go wrong because then everything will go wrong!”

Mike nodded in agreement. “Yeah, bro. You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, trying to suppress the amusement in my voice. “You guys seriously believe in that stuff?”

“Yes!” they both shouted in unison.

“So you’re saying that if the truck flies off the road, down a cliff, and explodes in a fiery inferno, then that would be my fault?”

“Look,” Aaron said as he pulled back onto the road. “All I know is that when something bad happens, I’m blaming you.”

After a few minutes of debating whether or not the phrase “what could possible go wrong” held supernatural powers, the matter was, for the most part, forgotten. We spent the rest of the evening stocking up on deliciously deleterious snacks and teasing Mike about his unhealthy obsession with Golden Oreos.

After spending the night at Aaron’s aunt’s house, we were back on the road again, blasting music on the stereo and singing as if no one could hear us. Whenever there was a lapse in music, we talked about how much we were going to miss Southern and joked about the crazy adventures we had had.

Eventually, we ran out of gas and had to stop to fill up. As we pulled into the gas station, our cheerful chatter was suddenly replaced by the deafening roar of metal violently grinding against metal. Aaron quickly stepped on the brakes, and we all hopped out of the truck to see what damage had been done.

The moment Aaron saw the large chunk of metal that had been ripped from the truck, he smirked in my direction. “So I guess we know who we can blame for this.”

“Really?” I laughed. “You’re the one who turned too early and rammed against this –” I pointed at the looped steel barrier that protected the gas pump and tried to figure out what it was called “this… gas… thingy.”

“Uh-huh,” Aaron chuckled. “I hope you know you’re paying for gas.”

For the next few hours, I was continually blamed for every little thing that went “wrong.”

When we stopped at an unexpected toll booth…

“Six dollars?! Myron, why did you have to say those words?”

When we spotted the Weinermobile…

“Mike! Wake up! You’ll never guess what you just missed – but I bet you can guess whose fault it was.”

When we passed a larger truck…

“Can we all agree that if that thing turns and hits us it would be Myron’s fault?”

Though they were harmless, I was glad when the quips died down, and as we got closer and closer to our final destination, I became increasing thankful that nothing bad had actually happened.

But, of course, we weren’t home just yet.

“Thirty more minutes and we’ll be home, guys,” Aaron informed us as we drove down the Grand Central Parkway. It was three o’clock in the morning, and from the sound of his voice, I could tell that he already had his mind on sleep.

“Good,” I yawned as I shifted around restlessly. I was sitting on the middle seat we had made from pillows and bags to fit three people into a truck that only seated two. “This ‘seat’ is really starting to hurt.”

Without warning, Aaron jerked the truck to left, sending Mike tumbling into me.

“What happened?” Mike asked.

“That bridge we just passed was too low for the truck at the side so I had to get to the middle,” Aaron responded.

“Wow.” Mike’s eyes widened. “Praise God. If we had run into that it would have taken off the roof.”

Aaron smiled devilishly. “And then you know who we would have blamed for that?”

I put my hand to my face and sighed. “Are we really still doing this? You know –”

My retort was cut short by flashing red and blue lights in the rear view mirror.

“License and registration.” the cop demanded coldly after we had pulled over.

Aaron quietly handed him the documents.

The cop looked at the papers and then back at us. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Because of what happened over by the bridge?” Aaron guessed.

“Exactly.” The officer suddenly became enraged. “Do you know how many people you could have hurt?! You can’t drive so recklessly – you’re not even supposed to be driving a truck on the parkway! Did you know that?”

“No I –”

“And look at this guy,” the uniformed man nodded in my direction. “He’s not sitting on a real seat, so I’m guessing he’s not wearing a seatbelt!”

I darted my eyes around nervously, unsure of whether or not it was appropriate to make eye contact.

The cop rubbed his temples and sighed. “I’ll be back.”

The truck was filled with an uncomfortable silence.

“This is your fault,” Aaron said accusingly. I could tell he was no longer joking.

“You can’t blame me for this!” I whispered, afraid that the cop – who was most definitely out of ear shot – would hear me. “We would have driven on the parkway regardless of what I said!”

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t have gotten pulled over.”

I threw my hands up in defeat. “Okay, fine. This is my fault. Might as well blame me for the recession while you’re at it.”

After the cop left, we found out all the things that could possibly go wrong. No longer able to drive on the parkway, we were left to navigate through the streets of New York. When we realized that the GPS was only trying to take us back to the parkway, we turned it off and tried to find our own way. We wandered around hopelessly for an hour, accidently running two red lights and getting flashed by the built-in cameras in the process.

Depression struck when the sun began to rise. We were lost, tired, and extremely annoyed. Instead of giving in to the agony, however, we found ourselves rejuvenated by our jokes and conversation. We imitated the grumpy police officer and relished our new, and rather confusing, surroundings. Despite the misfortune that befell us so close to home, we found that we could rely upon each other.

 When we finally arrived home, I looked at my two friends and decided to say a few words. “Gentlemen. This road trip truly has been an adventure. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong, Mike found true love in Golden Oreos,” Mike rolled his eyes “and I think I can say in all honesty that we really learned the true meaning of friendship.”

 

 

 

Paging Dr. Madden

“Comma,” I said, holding out my hand while keeping my eyes on the patient on the operating table.

Without a word, the surgical assistant pressed the object into my hand, and I carefully inserted it into the proper place.

“Citation,” I held out my hand, and the assistant placed the new object on my outstretched palm.

We continued this way for a few hours – stitching up loose ends, removing portions that may have been detrimental, and inserting apostrophes, semicolons, and the occasional period. Just when it seemed like we had everything under control, something went wrong.

“He’s flatlining!” I yelled, glaring at the ringing EEG monitor. “Get me the defibrillator!”

The assistant quickly grabbed the tool and shoved it in my direction.

“Clear!” I slammed the defibrillator down on the patient’s chest, and two hundred volts of electricity surged through his body.

His eyes shot open and he looked around, completely dazed. “Wha?”

“Roy, get up.” I said, shoving his shoulder again for emphasis.

Roy looked up at me, his eyes red. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah. You might want to hurry up and finish that essay. All you have left to do is the conclusion.”

Roy rubbed his eyes and looked at the papers strewn all over the hallway floor. His edited essay sat on one side of him and his sources sat on the other. “Dude, aren’t you tired?”

“Sure,” I glanced at the time on my computer. “It’s almost four a.m. But you need to finish this paper.”

“Okay,” he nodded as he went back to work.

I smiled to myself. I may not want to go into the medical field, but I had been playing doctor all week.

During this school year, I’ve watched my editing skills grow inside the class – as I studied the Harbrace for Comp 101 and 102 – and outside the class – as I helped my friends with the essays they were struggling to complete. One by one, they would show up at my door, convinced that being an English major was all the credibility I needed to help them improve their various papers.

As much as I enjoyed helping my friends, I wasn’t expecting what happened this week to occur. With research papers and final essays due either this week or the next, EVERYONE suddenly wanted my help all at once.

I soon found myself nursing wounded essays back to health, handing out prescriptions for Harbrace chapters, and even helping writers “push” to deliver the perfect thesis statement. I was on call 24/7 – no time was off limits. With calls for help arriving constantly, I found myself assisting my friends by day and trying to complete my own homework and research paper by night.

It was mentally exhausting – but I loved every second of it.

Before this week, I had been asking myself what good writing would do in the world. The way I saw it, if we all crashed on a deserted island writing would be the least useful tool for survival. Medical skills would be necessary to help the injured, science and mathematical skills would be necessary to use the environment for shelter and rescue, and even business skills would be necessary to allow for some sort of management and/or organization. Writing about it all wouldn’t really help anyone.

I know it’s an extreme scenario, but these are the things that I think about.

This week showed me, however, that we all have a place somewhere. For some, it’s slaving away in an operating room, trying to save lives, and for others, it’s helping those people learn to write an essay so that they can pass Comp and save those lives one day.

Little by little, Southern is teaching me that no matter what anyone does – regardless of how miniscule it may seem – they have a place in society. We all fit in somewhere and if we don’t all work together, then society will fall apart. 

Believe it or not, we really are the future.

No pressure.

Lights! Costumes! SonRise!

“Myron… I don’t think we’re at Southern anymore.”

I gazed at the transformed campus and nodded. I couldn’t disagree. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought that we had actually been transported to first century Jerusalem.  

Sheep, goats, llamas, camels, chickens, and a donkey were present on school grounds – some roaming free and other locked in pens for “mess control.” People everywhere were dressed in the tunics, mantles, and sandals appropriate for the time. Some walked around as spectators, while others stood in shanty-like stands, advertising the wood, fruit, bread, beads, oils, and animals that they were supposedly trying to sell. Their eager voices rang out from every corner, along with the blacksmiths’ pounding of metal and the cries of goats being chased by small children. Roman soldiers, armored and carrying heavy-looking shields, marched back and forth between Pilate’s Palace (Wright Hall) and Mount Golgotha (the little hill behind Hulsey), all the while being monitored by their comrades on horses.

Southern had pulled out all the stops for SonRise.

It was my first time attending the annual walkthrough of Jesus’ death and resurrection, and I have to say, I was impressed. What really got me was the resurrection scene. I knew that it would be special when I read the sign outside the gymnasium that warned of the use of strobe lights, a fog machine, and pyrotechnics.

I took my seat and the scene began. After a sad burial, a startling firework signaled the entrance of the angel who had come to wake Jesus up after his three day’s sleep. As she made her way to the tomb, the devil, dressed in black with a rippling dark cape, snuck up behind her and the two became locked in an epic battle. They moved around the stage in fluid movements, occasionally shoving each other down and throwing more fireworks, until, finally, the devil was defeated when the angel summoned a sudden outburst of flames. The stone on the tomb was then rolled away and out of the fog came a white-clad Jesus. The moment he stepped out of the tomb, an explosion of light and fire rocked the room. Children and angels surrounded Jesus, music blasted from the speakers, and the curtains closed as Jesus rose into the air.

As darkness fell over the cheering crowd, I chuckled and whispered to my friend, “So that’s where my tuition went!”

Despite the climatic conclusion to event, however, I left feeling a tad bit disappointed. Don’t get me wrong – I really enjoyed the performance, but it left me with one question: when did we become so desensitized that we needed fireworks and fog machines to help us experience the awesomeness that was Jesus’ resurrection? I watched the people in the crowd as they went from scene to scene and found their reactions just that: desensitized.

The scene with Pilate at Wright Hall, for example, was extremely interesting. Actors were planted in the audience to scream out things like “crucify him!” and “give us Barabas!” while Pilate was contemplating what to do with Jesus. Everyone looked at the folk screaming with amusement and didn’t take it too seriously. I suppose we all just figured that it was just a play and that there was really nothing we could do about it. When I stopped at Wright Hall a second time a while later, I saw something that interested me.

“Give us Barabas!” one of the actors yelled, his fisted hands waving around the air. “Barabas!”

“No!” a little girl, maybe about six or seven, screamed in response. “Give us Jesus!”

“Yeah! We want Jesus!” the girl next to her agreed.

The actor, unfazed, continued to yell. “Come on everybody! Ba – Ra – Bas! Ba – Ra – Bas!”

“No!” the girl yelled again in dismay.

“What’s wrong with you?!” the other added.

As funny as I thought the two girls were, I soon realized that they probably had not yet been desensitized. Regardless of whether or not they understood that the scene was only a reenactment, they saw Jesus’ sentencing as a tragedy, while the rest of us looked on with nonchalance.

It saddens me that we needed livestock, costumes, makeup, narrators, monologues, strobe lights, fog machines, and pyrotechnics to convey the simple message that Jesus died for us because he would rather lose his life than lose ours. It’s like the guy who played the devil said: the human race will always fail Christ. We don’t deserve Christ’s love at all. We didn’t deserve his life either. Fact is, however, that Christ gave up his life for us – undeserving sinners – because he loved us far, far more than we deserve.

We can watch dramatic scenes, be blinded by eye-catching explosions, and experience climatic battles, but if we leave not understanding the true message of Christ’s ultimate sacrifice, then the entire event would have meant nothing.

Soldiers, Retreat!

Two warring armies were in the heat of battle. Swords and spears sliced through the air, some being deflected by heavy shields and others piercing straight through unshielded armor. The sound of metal hitting metal was drowned out by cries of rage and pain. The bodies of the slain were spread all across the red-tinted field, and the metallic smell of blood hung in the air.

With more and more of his men dropping by the second, the centurion of the losing army blocked an oncoming attack with his large red shield and yelled, “Soldiers, retreat!”

As soon as the command left his lips, many of the soldiers who had seen that they were at a disadvantage peeled away from the battle and fled. Some left more reluctantly, trying to finish off one or two of their enemies as they slowly backed away. A few soldiers, either too prideful to retreat or cemented in place by a sense of duty, continued to fight and soon fell where they stood.

As the remaining soldiers scattered away, they could hear their enemies rejoicing in the distance. Mingled with their yells of victory, however, was laughter. It was it was a crude, harsh laugh that was meant to mock the cowards that ran for their lives. The laughter echoed through the valley, reminding the retreating soldiers that escape was one of shame, dishonor, and cowardice.

One of the soldiers threw down his helmet and pointed an accusing finger at the centurion. “You fool! Why did you make us retreat? We had everything under control!”

Night had fallen, and the few men still alive after the battle had regrouped at their camp.

“Our men were falling left and right,” said the centurion, shaking his head solemnly. “It was either retreat or meet the same fate.”

“We would have died with honor!” another soldier chipped in. “As heroes!”

Many of the soldiers rose up and shouted in agreement.

“And what good would that have done?” the centurion asked, rising from the stone he had been sitting on. “Would being named a hero keep your wives safe? Your children?”

Silence fell on the camp.

“We may have lost the battle, but we are not defeated!” the centurion yelled. “We will give our wounded a chance to recover, then we will study what we have learned about our enemies and strategize the best plan of action. We did not retreat to save ourselves; we retreated to regroup and retaliate. If we take this small portion of time to renew our body and methods” the centurion met the eyes of his soldiers “then no one will be able to stop us.”

Many of us look at the Sabbath as an act of cowardice. We seem to think that if we put away the work we complain about all week, then we are being lazy or giving up. Though I never really talked about it, I have thought of the Sabbath as such a few times, as well. I would try to get all of my work done, nipping away at the edges of the Sabbath, and spend the twenty-four hours allotted for rest thinking only of the work I would complete when the sun once again left the sky.

This weekend forced me to get out of that mindset.

After enduring his continual insistence, I finally agreed to follow one of my friends to a Student Ministerial Association Retreat. Though we were surrounded by all of nature’s beauty, the only thing I could focus on was the homework that I needed to do. I had made many mistakes during the week, and I knew that I had to stay on task. I had to start a project, finish an essay, and put in hours of study. That was all that occupied my thoughts when Ron Smith, president of the Southern Union, started preaching. Soon enough, however, his energetic preaching style got my attention, and with no electronics or notepads to distract me, I was hooked.

For the rest of the weekend, I felt isolated from the world. All the problems, all the worries and all the work had been left at school, and I intended to let them stay there. I communed with old friends and new, and we spent the Sabbath hiking, canoeing, and simply enjoying what God created. When I returned to Southern, I felt the weight of my responsibilities jump onto my shoulders, but I knew that I could handle it because I had been refreshed and revived by spending the Sabbath the way God intended.

Which brings us back to the soldier analogy.

God is the centurion. He has not ordered us to “retreat” from the things of the world one day a week to cripple us, but rather to strengthen us. He understands that the battle can get rough and that it might seem like we are about to lose, so He calls us away from the daily war in order to allow us to recover from the stress, regroup with the church and loved ones, and be reenergized for the upcoming battle that is the following week.

Of course, not everyone is eager to allow the cares of the world to melt away. Some, like myself, try to continue the battle while they retreat, while others refuse to retreat and sacrifice their spiritual lives. For this reason we need to look at the Sabbath as a gift, not a religious duty or a lifeless ritual. If we put everything away and focus only on God, then no one will be able to stop us.

Major Problems

I used to hate it when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I would think to myself, “I’m only seven – can I worry about it later?” Unfortunately, the persistence of teachers, parents, and family friends to think ahead soon made it evident that the answer was “no.”

So I constructed a plan.

I figured that adults simply wanted to amuse themselves with the crazy aspirations that kids would come up with, so I set out to find the craziest of them all. And I did.

Whenever adults would ask me what I wanted to be, I would give them a toothy smile and say, “A computer technologist.”

“What is that?” they would always ask, their eyes usually growing wide with interest.

“It’s a person who fixes peoples’ computers and stuff.”

For a few years, it worked. Eventually, I found out what a computer technologist actually does and lost all interest in the job, but for that short period of time, the future was not an issue.

Flash forward to high school – junior year.

I used to hate it when people asked me what I wanted to major in when I got to college. I would think to myself, “I’ll figure it out later – I’ve got plenty of time.” Unfortunately, I was wrong. Junior year wrapped up very quickly and with the start of senior year came worries about college. The fact that I couldn’t see beyond high school made me nervous, and when I’m nervous, I do research. I would spend hours in the library after school doing research on various majors and careers, but none of them seemed to interest me.

So I constructed a plan.

I liked to write, and my mom kept badgering me about being a teacher, so I chose to major in English education. I knew that it wasn’t what I wanted to do, but it made everyone else happy, so I went with it. Whenever I thought about it, however, I felt trapped, so I tried not to think about it.

Graduation came and went, summer flew by, and soon enough, I found myself throwing all of my possessions into the car for the long drive to Southern. While on the road, I tried to imagine college life. Somewhere between Maryland and Virginia, I opened Pandora’s Box – I thought about life as an English teacher. And I hated it. All of a sudden, I started to feel miserable. The car seemed to get smaller and smaller and I couldn’t sit still. When we pulled over to a Burger King a few minutes later, I hopped out of the car, trying to suppress a panic attack.

It was there and then that I decided that I had to stop focusing on what other people wanted for my life and focus on what I wanted for my life. I spent the rest of the trip doing research on my brother’s phone. By the time we hit Tennessee, I had a whole new plan drawn up.

I knew that I wanted to write, and I knew that there were two majors that allowed for me to work on my writing skills: English (without education) and journalism. Since I couldn’t pick which one I liked better, I chose to major in them both. I still had no idea what exactly I wanted to do, but it felt good to know that I had made the decision for myself.

Just when I thought the battle was over, I found out that people are extremely interested in what career you plan to have when you graduate from college (almost finished, I promise). They wanted to know whether I planned to pursue English or journalism. Soon, I realized that one man cannot have two majors: for either he will hate the one, and love the other, or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other (Matthew 6:24). So I repeatedly asked God which one He thought I should pursue, but He didn’t answer.

At least, not until yesterday.

I went to Sabbath School for the first time yesterday, and though the teacher didn’t know it, what he had to say ended a lot of my inner conflict.

“I have people in my office all the time saying ‘I don’t know if I want to be a nurse or a doctor!’” he said. “You think God cares whether you want to be a nurse or a doctor?”

I raised an eyebrow, convinced that the man was speaking blasphemy.

“They’re both two good jobs!” he continued.

I lowered my eyebrow and relaxed.

“God respects our power of choosing. You’ve often heard it said that God has a plan for your life, and He does. God has a plan – but he has multiple plans according to what you want to do! If you want to be a nurse – He has a plan! If you want to be a doctor – He has a plan!”

By the end of the day, I had, for the first time since I was seven, let go of every worry that I had about my future career. I realized that the choice was mine and that God would stand by me no matter what my decision was.

So what about you?

I’m pretty sure that I am not the only one who has struggled with the future and those who are trying to control it. I’m also sure that I’m not the only who has asked God to make a decision that I was too afraid to make for myself.

So what are you waiting for? Just stop, take a breath, mute all of the other voices playing in your head, and figure out what it is YOU want to do.

After all… the choice is yours.

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered incredulously as I walked into the room where all of the volleyball teams were supposed to meet.

“What?” Aaron asked, a knowing smile on his face.

I opened my arms in the direction of the numerous Southern students waiting for the meeting to start. They were all lean, tall, athletic-looking types. “They’re going to destroy us!”

“If you tell yourself you’re gonna lose, then you’re gonna lose.”

I opened my mouth to say something else, but decided against it. I rubbed my temples and chuckled. “How did you get me to join a volleyball team?”

“Hey,” Aaron pointed at me. “You were the one who said you wanted to join.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” I let my eyes wander around the room a second time. “You know that someone in here is going to spike the ball into my face a break my glasses, right?”

“Quit worrying!” Aaron said. “Help me come up with a name for our team.”

Reluctantly, I followed Aaron to some empty seats, and we started brainstorming. As more of our team members arrived at the meeting, more possible team names were thrown onto the table. Just when we were about to pick between “Swag Surfers” and “Spartans,” another one our teammates walked in wearing a t-shirt whose blue Sesame Street character would decide our team’s name.

I looked from Aaron to the shirt and back again. “Please don’t…”

Aaron put on a sly grin and nodded slowly. “Cookie Monsters.”

So we became the Cookie Monsters, and as the name of this blog suggests, we weren’t all that great. Our first game was terrible, but fun. We all scrambled around, clearly confused as to our placement, and joked about how badly we were getting beaten. I was having such a good time that I didn’t even mind when the ball smashed into my face, bending my glasses out of shape.

Having been locked up in the library for ages, the volleyball intramural allowed me to get out and do something different. It was really helping me to burn off some stress. I would always leave the gym feeling energized and ready to get back to work. Whenever the day got tough, I knew that I could look foreward to volleyball. It was always on my mind. After dozing off in class once, I even awoke when I threw my arms up, trying to bump an imaginary ball. 

Regardless of how much I loved the sport, however, we were on a losing streak. No matter how often we met to practice and how much we improved, we just couldn’t seem to beat any of the other teams.

Finally, our chance came – we were scheduled to play against the only other team that had yet to win a game. We strutted into the gym feeling confident, ready to emerge as the victors…and emerged instead as the losers, feeling defeated and discouraged.

 After that game, things became a little bitter on the court. We accused each other of missing easy volleys, argued about who said called a hit first, and allowed entire games to pass in solemn silence. For a short period of time, volleyball became a chore. We all claimed that we were only playing for fun, but our faces said otherwise.

I don’t know who or what triggered it, but we decided after another losing game that since we were going to lose anyway, we would lose as a team. Newly motivated, we started to practice before games, making sure to encourage each other instead of put each other down. We tried to think positively, and at the request of a few of my teammates, I even stopped using verbs like “destroy,” “annihilate,” and “obliterate” to describe how badly the opposing teams would beat us.

Over time, we begun to overlook faults and focus primarily on strengths, making us a stronger team. We cheered each other on, didn’t get upset over a few missed volleys, and even gave a few teams a run for their money. Though we continued on a fairly impressive losing streak, we actually started to enjoy ourselves again.

When the day of the final game arrived, four of us marched onto the court and assumed our battle stances. We were outnumbered and missing teammates, but we were all determined to go out with pride. The game commenced and we played like warriors. We jumped to block enemy strikes, dove to save the falling ball from hitting the floor, and shouted things like “Mike Strike!” (Mike had a great serve) and “Eat that!” (a Cookie Monster reference). No matter how hard we fought, however, the other team had better organization and got the ball right back over the net without breaking a sweat. Just when it seemed as if all was lost, two of the missing members on our team ran onto the court – late but ready for the final battle.

I’d like to tell you that we, the underdogs, defeated the obviously experienced team and jumped around in slow motion while confetti fell from the ceiling and the credits began to roll, but that’s not what happened. Despite our best efforts, we lost the final game. What happened next, however, was truly deserving of a Hollywood ending. Rather than hang our heads in shame, we congratulated the other team for their awesome victory and congratulated each other for the effort put in. The compliments we gave each other were not empty – they were genuine. We were proud of each other even though we had once again emerged defeated. With broad smiles on our faces, we grouped together and shouted our slogan one final time.

All throughout the gym, it could be heard: “Num! Num! Num! Num! Num! Cookie Monsters!!!”

What Happens in Vegas?

My entire trip to Las Vegas had been a disaster. My flight had gotten cancelled, leaving me stranded at the airport for four hours while Delta Headquarters struggled to rebook my flight; my ticket had lied to me, telling me that the flight would be an easy two hours when it was really an uncomfortable five; my family members had refused to answer their phones when I reached my destination, forcing me to aimlessly wander the airport for two and a half hours; and, worst of all, the jet lag was horrible.

When I finally collapsed into bed at four in the morning, I had to use every ounce of mental strength I had left to remind myself that the trip was not about me. It was about my brother, Murice, and his fiancé, Valencia. They were getting married and I was there to support them. I kept that thought in mind and hoped that the trip would get better.

But, of course, it didn’t. It just got a whole lot worse.

My sister and I spent a majority of the week trying to get our mother to listen to the GPS. Though she did not know the area, she was convinced that she had a better sense of direction than the satellites in space built for navigation, causing us to get lost every time we got into a car. At first it was funny, but it soon became unbearable. Ten-minute trips turned into hour-long odysseys, and we were late for pretty much everything.

As if driving around under the desert sun wasn’t bad enough, our mother, who had the car keys and therefore had the power, insisted on visiting Walmart, Target, and Payless instead of trying anything new and exciting. Believe it or not, we had flown across the country to explore stores that we could have explored at home. When my sister told me that she would answer whoever asked her about the trip with the popular slogan “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I raised my eyebrow and asked, “What happens in Vegas? We haven’t done anything.”

Preparing for the wedding promised to brighten up the trip, but the promise was broken by the mass confusion. No one had any idea what they were supposed to be doing or if they we supposed to be doing anything at all. It wasn’t until the wedding rehearsal that we received some clarification. My role as the best man, which I had only been informed of the day before, finally began to make sense and I felt like we were making progress. Halfway through the rehearsal, however, the bride disappeared. When we discovered that she had been carted off to the bridal shower, we were forced to postpone the rehearsal until a few hours before the actual wedding. It seemed like a valid plan, and had the following day not been characterized by chaos, it might have actually worked.

No one was ready during the time scheduled for rehearsal. Valencia’s family ran back and forth desperately trying to cook, bake, and decorate while the youngest kids chased each other around, refusing to shower and get dressed. The chaos lasted for hours, and when it was time for the wedding to start only a few people were ready.

Finally relieving my mother of her driving duties, my father dropped the family off at the church where the guests had already arrived and were waiting for something to happen. We had little time to go over the game plan and soon started marching people in the way we had practiced the night before. When we reached the extent of our practice, the maid of honor and I stood in front of the church periodically shooting each other glances that said “what do we do now?” We stood in place, unsure, until my brother and the pastor walked onto the stage. The four of us now standing side by side, we continued the waiting game.

At last, it happened. The music started, the guests rose to their feet, and the bride walked in wearing a beautiful white dress.  I looked at my brother, who was also white-clad, and found that his entire face had lit up when she had entered the room. He looked at her and she looked at him and their smiles broadened. At that moment, everything else melted away. All the things that had gone wrong no longer mattered. The long flight didn’t matter, the continual boredom didn’t matter, the mass confusion didn’t matter – all that mattered was that he loved her and she loved him.

The rest of the wedding went by smoothly. The pastor gave a short message and started to recite the vows.

“Murice,” she said, looking at my brother. “Do you take Valencia to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Murice responded.

“For better or for worse? For richer or for poorer?” the pastor continued.

“I…still do.” Soft laugher rippled through the church.

“In sickness and in health, ‘til death do you part?”

“I do. I do, and I always will.”

The pastor then repeated the vows for Valencia. Her face overcome with emotion, she said “I do” at the same intervals that Murice had.

Then I watched my brother have his first kiss. Since he and Valencia were visibly nervous and a tad bit shy, they approached each other timidly, both trying to suppress a laugh. The kiss was awkward and funny-like, prompting the wedding guests to chuckle loudly. A few silent words were exchanged between the giggling couple and they leaned in to try again, this time being applauded by a chorus of “awws.”

Newly married, my brother and his wife walked hand in hand out of the church with numerous cameras flashing, each one trying to document the beginning of a journey that would last a lifetime.

 

Tornado Warning

I sat on the floor of the basement level of Talge surrounded by the guys who hadn’t left for Spring Break. The recording of a woman’s voice telling us that a tornado was spotted in the county and advising us to stay low with our heads covered played over and over in the background. Despite the incessant warning, no one was really taking the tornado seriously – but why should they? The sky hadn’t turned a sickly greenish color nor had the winds picked up. By the looks of it, we weren’t really in any danger, right?

The next morning, I woke up to a text message from my sister. “Helloooo! R u all dead??!!!??” the message read. Confused, I sent back a sarcastic remark and went back to bed, only be woken up a few minutes later by a phone call from my mother who was also worried about my well-being. Apparently, while we had been joking about the possibility of a storm the previous night, several tornadoes had ripped across seven states, taking the lives of thirty-nine people.

I know this sounds cliché, but that could have been us. One of those tornadoes could have easily roared across Southern’s campus leaving destruction in its wake. It is not my intention to send anyone on a guilt trip or start a mass revival – I only want to suggest that we obtain an attitude of gratitude. God protected our school because he has a purpose for us that we have not yet fulfilled. It is very easy to take life for granted, and we often forget that we have a purpose. If we understood these things, however, then maybe the car breaking down or the one bad quiz grade wouldn’t seem so important – maybe we would finally be able to stop noticing the one or two things that go wrong in a day and start focusing on the numerous things that go right. 

The Ghetto Preacher

Everyone had something to say about Willy Ramos’ sermon. Obviously, being called the “Ghetto Preacher,” some issues were going to arise. While many students really enjoyed his high-energy sermon, others thought his methods were a little out there. They complained that he sounded as if he was speaking at a comedy club rather than at a vespers service, that he hadn’t used enough scriptural references, and that his actual message was unclear until the very end. I’ll admit that even I had a few problems with his sermon. I winced every time he made a grammatical error – especially when he started using the word “distant” when he meant “distance.”

Regardless of whatever slight issues I may have had with his grammar, however, one thing was very clear: Ramos was doing God’s work. It was never said that one must be articulate and eloquent in speech to do God’s work – in fact, the Bible says just the opposite. One of Moses’ many excuses for not being fit to free the Israelites was that he was “slow of speech, and of a slow tongue” (Exodus 4:10). God promised to be with Moses’ mouth and teach him what to say (Exodus 4:12), but Moses still refused. Though Moses’ ultimately had his brother speak for him, God’s promise to teach us what to say holds true – even if we aren’t the most persuasive speaker or are physically unable to speak up around large groups of people.

As for Ramos, all I can say is that no matter how much his message was complained about, he was preaching from the pulpit while we were sitting in the pews. His unique method of preaching has brought many to God, and allows him to easily share the message in places that we would think twice (and thrice) about going. Ramos has allowed God to work within him and through him, and we should all do the same. If it starts here, maybe others will realize that they don’t have to be able to give a speech like Barak Obama or Doug Bachelor or Moses’ brother Aaron to share God’s words – all they need is God, who has promised to be with them and teach them what to say.