The Many Misfortunes of Mister Madden http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com Most recent posts at The Many Misfortunes of Mister Madden posterous.com Mon, 02 Jul 2012 12:00:00 -0700 Sleepless Night, Holy Night http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/sleepless-night-holy-night http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Tue, 22 May 2012 00:00:00 -0700 What Could Possibly Go Wrong? http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/what-could-possibly-go-wrong http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.”

 

 

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 15 Apr 2012 12:00:00 -0700 Paging Dr. Madden http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/paging-dr-madden http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 08 Apr 2012 12:00:00 -0700 Lights! Costumes! SonRise! http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/lights-costumes-sonrise http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 01 Apr 2012 12:00:00 -0700 Soldiers, Retreat! http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/soldiers-retreat http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 25 Mar 2012 12:00:00 -0700 Major Problems http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/major-problems http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Tue, 20 Mar 2012 12:00:00 -0700 The Way the Cookie Crumbles http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/the-way-the-cookie-crumbles http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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!!!”

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Tue, 13 Mar 2012 12:00:00 -0700 What Happens in Vegas? http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/what-happens-in-vegas http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Mon, 05 Mar 2012 12:00:00 -0800 Tornado Warning http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/tornado-warning http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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. 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 26 Feb 2012 12:00:00 -0800 The Ghetto Preacher http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/the-ghetto-preacher http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/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.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Tue, 21 Feb 2012 12:00:00 -0800 Operation: Bent on Change http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/operation-bent-on-change http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/operation-bent-on-change

http://bent4president.webs.com/

I tore down another one of the tiny flyers I had illegally posted all over Talge. I looked at the inscription and let out a chuckle. “Michael Bent 4 President,” it read. Smiling to myself, I stuffed the paper into my pocket and thought about how innocently this whole fiasco had begun.

“Hey. If this guy ran for president, would you vote for him?” I asked, pointing at Michael.

“Yeah!” my friend Aaron exclaimed. “He would win too – he knows like one-third of the people here!”

“Guys, I don’t know that many people!” Michael laughed.

“Yes you do!” I responded. “You can’t walk to the lobby without saying ‘hi’ to someone you know! You would be able to talk to the people and hear what they have to say about the issues!”

All of a sudden, Aaron’s face lit up. “Dude! I got it! We could say ‘Vote for Mike: He’s BENT on change!’”

Later, after all the laughter and talk of presidency had subsided, I retired to my room and stared at my wall in thought. I considered the possibility of Mike actually running for president and assessed the usage of the great campaign slogan Aaron had come up with. After a while, I had an idea: I would make a “Vote for Mike” poster and stick it to his door. Excited, I began to comb through his Facebook pictures for something that looked moderately presidential. After looking through all of the photos, however, I realized that I could do more than just make a poster. I thought to myself: “why stick a miniscule amount of information on his door when I can stick a massive amount of information on the web?”

With that, I decided to create a website. The next day, I began to lay out the groundwork. I collected photos from Facebook, edited them for size and quality, and strategically stapled them onto various webpages. I added captions to the pictures that were meant to establish Michael’s credibility and scribbled down ideas that might later benefit the site. After three hours, I leaned back and smiled at my work.

As soon as I hit the “publish,” I went down to Aaron’s room and gave him a tour of the site. When he finished laughing and stating his disbelief, he offered his services. After showing the site to anyone I could find, I went over to Michael’s room to swindle some information from him for the “About Bent” section.

“So Mike,” I said as I entered his room. “How’s it going?”

Michael looked up from his computer. “Fine. I went to Advent Home today. It was cool, man. You should come next week.”

“Sure… sure…. So Mike,” I said tentatively. “When’s your birthday?”

“Why?”

“Uhm…” Why? I asked myself. Luckily, just then a conversation I had had with my sister about how many of my friends I was older than popped into my head. “My sister and I were talking about which one of us was older.”

“Oh,” he said. He gave me his birthday and I scribbled it down surreptitiously.

“Cool. So Mike….”

After a few questions, Michael got suspicious and eventually figured out my ploy. I had no choice but to show him the website.

“You guys were serious about this?!” Michael laughed when he saw his face plastered on the computer screen.

I shook my head and smiled. “You should know by now – you really can’t make jokes around me.”

Though he was reluctant, I eventually got enough information out of Mike to write a quick synopsis of his life. His roommate, Benson, and I then spent the rest of the night brainstorming and putting small plans into action. Benson made fan pages for Michael on Facebook and Twitter and got some of his friends on Skype to talk to Michael about the “issues” (apparently, many of the girls on campus would like the president to somehow provide better men). While Benson and I busied ourselves with the campaign, Michael paced back and forth, contemplating whether or not he should take us seriously and run for president. All this continued until we finally decided to call it a night at six o’clock in the morning.

The next morning, I couldn’t help myself – I checked the website.

“Okay Mike,” I said, ready to click the button to view site traffic. “If you have more than ten views, then we’re in business.”

“Alright, bro,” chuckled Michael, who still hadn’t come to terms with his presidential destiny.

I clicked the button, expecting to see a number between eight and fifteen, but what I saw totally blew my mind. Without thinking, I jumped up and raced down to Aaron’s room, where he and Benson were working. I shoved open the door and shouted, “Fifty views!”

My friends’ eyes widened and I ran back to my computer grinning like a maniac. After gaining the knowledge that the website was actually being looked at, the campaign went into full swing.

“It had started off as a joke – but it was no longer a laughing matter.”

With that statement I started off the Presidential Blog, and in all truth, the matter had actually become very serious.

We had a whole production team. I worked on bettering the site and the outgoing messages, Aaron helped with the website and promoted it the through the Facebook and Twitter fan pages, Benson designed eye-catching graphics, a guy named DJ gave us a crash course in online programming, and Joel, who we met through the site, worked on stationary promotion. Pretty soon, a group of essential and nonessential personnel had gathered in Aaron’s room to work on what we were calling “Operation: Bent on Change” (copyright pending). While tapping away on separate computers, we yelled out ideas to further the campaign.

“We should let people tell us what they think on the website! We can call it ‘Open Mike!’”

“We should add music so that people stay on longer and remember the site!”

“Let’s make a presidential video that ends with Mike saying: ‘I approve this message!’”

“We could add a pre-page that compares Mike to Bush and Obama!”

For the entire day, we complained about the amount of homework we had to do, but continued to work, comparing the experience to the creation of Facebook. All illusions were ripped away, however, when a pessimistic Abraham said, “You guys know that Michael isn’t really running for president, right?”

For a moment, all production stopped. Silence filled the air of the crowded dorm room – a repressed truth had finally been brought to light.

“Well then, I guess there’s only one thing we can do,” I said, closing my laptop. “Let’s get Mike in the running.”

Joel and I spent the next hour or so stealthily posting tiny flyers all over Talge. We tacked them on bathroom doors, kitchen doors, and main hallway doors from the first floor to the fourth. We then went to the cafeteria and attempted to hand out the left over flyers.

By the end of the day, the site had gotten 141 views. The number may not have seemed large for a school of almost 3,000 students, but it made us feel pretty good. Word also got around pretty fast. Students’ responses to our campaigning soon went from “Who’s Michael?” to “You mean that guy who is ‘supposedly’ running for president?”

Though we were told that Michael was too late to become a candidate only a day after the campaign’s inception, and though we were forced to remove the tiny flyers from the doors of Talge two days later, we all felt like we had done something significant – especially since almost everyone Michael bumps into still thinks that he’s actually running for president.

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 12 Feb 2012 12:00:00 -0800 Titanic http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/titanic http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/titanic

I hopped up the last step, glad to have finally reached my destination. I quickly walked/ran into McKee Library and sat at a computer, constantly reminding myself that time was of the essence. I had just enough time to edit my essay, print it, and study for the oncoming quiz, and I knew that every second was a precious gift from God. I opened my email account, expecting to see my essay waiting for me, but instead found an empty inbox. I blinked. Could what I was seeing be real? Did I really forget to send my essay?

Mentally kicking myself (over and over), I jumped from my seat, jogged out the door, and raced back down the steps. As I sped walked back to Talge, I couldn’t help but think of what a lousy start my day had gotten off to. It hadn’t just been the email incident – it was the essay itself that I had to worry about.

I had woken up at three a.m. after two and a half hours of sleep to work on my essay. After summoning the strength to pull myself out of bed, I frowned at my messy prewriting, hoping to find an essay somewhere among the tiny scribbles and arrows. I wrote slowly, but I was glad that I was writing at all. A page and three quarters later, I read over my essay… and discovered that I hated every single part of it.

Trying to prevent panic, I reminded myself that actually having an essay was all that was important and continued writing. Then I hit a road block. Frustrated that writers’ block had chosen the worst possible time to kick in, I leaped unto my bed and announced to my bleary-eyed roommate that I quit. It was only then that I remembered that I had a quiz in the same class and had to, once again, summon the strength to get out of bed.

I struggled to add more to my essay, hoping to at least give it the illusion of fullness, and when the sun began to rise, I developed a plan. The plan was simple: finish one more page, rush to the library, edit and print, and study with the time left. I was proud of myself. I had developed a foolproof plan that would stop me from wasting time by trying to multitask. Now all I had to do was put the plan into action. What could possibly go wrong?

I ran up the steps to my dorm room, bitterly snickering at how easily my supposedly foolproof plan had failed. It was like the Titanic: my pride had blinded me to the fact that one unseen obstacle could have disastrous effects. Now the ship was sinking and there was nothing I could do about it.

Or was there?

In the midst of rushing to send my essay to my email, I saw a Bible text that I had pinned on the wall and stopped. “I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies” (2 Samuel 22:4). If my enemies are anything that causes me stress, I thought to myself, then this essay is the worst of them all. Deciding that the ship would only sink if I took the wheel, I got on my knees, forgot about the time, and prepared myself to talk to God.

There were so many ways I could have talked to God. I could have started with some Old English praise – you know, throw in a couple of “thou arts” and a maybe an “O Lord, who reigns on high!” or two. I could have quoted Scripture – just to let Him know that I was reading and holding Him to His promises. I could have even started with a thesis statement, supported it with evidence (stories, facts, imagery, and quotations), and wrapped it up with a tasteful conclusion. But why go through all that trouble? It was just Him and me. The Creator of the universe was willing to listen to little, insignificant ol’ me, and He cared about what I had to say – not how I said it.

With that in mind, I bowed my head and told God exactly what I was feeling: “God, this day sucks – and it hasn’t even started yet!” I poured out my heart to God. I let Him know how hopeless and lost and weak I felt, and I asked for help. I got up off of my knees not necessarily feeling better – I still had a terrible essay to print and a quiz to study for – but feeling a bit more confident. I then rushed out the door, interested in, and truthfully, a little doubtfully about, what God had in store.

I can honestly say that that day was the best day I had had in weeks. I had time to study after running back to the library, aced the quiz, got advice on how to fix my essay from my professor, followed my professor to Brock Hall where I met other English-lovin’ folk, finally had a break-through on my article for a journalism class, hung out with some friends, somehow ended up joining a volleyball team, and got, for the first time in weeks, eight hours of sleep.

Do you know what I notice? We don’t really use the adjective “titanic” anymore. Believe it or not, the word refers to more than just a British luxury liner that met its end in 1912, taking the lives of 1,517 people and inspiring a movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The word titanic means enormous in size, strength, and power. The Titanic may not have been as titanic as advertised, but God is, and even more so. The fact that we can talk to a God who is so strong, so powerful, so titanic should be more than enough to inspire the awe of many.

That just might have been the point that the singing puppets were trying to get across during Week of Prayer.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 29 Jan 2012 12:00:00 -0800 H_dd_n Bl_ss_ngs http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/hddn-blssngs http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/hddn-blssngs

“Edgar!” I yelled.

My roommate continued frowning at his textbook, obviously oblivious to my call.

“EDGAR!” I yelled again, making sure to increase my volume. He looked in my direction – he had finally heard me over the loud hip hop music emanating from the room next door. “Should we do something about the noise?!”

He shouted a reply. His words were muffled by the roar of some rapper “busting” a rhyme, but the confused look on his face told me that he had not heard what I said. Just as I was about to repeat the question, the rapper was replaced with heavy bass beats. The wall vibrated and my teeth rattled with every beat.  I looked at Edgar and he looked at me. We both knew that we had a problem.

My neighbors like to play music. No – that’s an understatement. My neighbors like to BLAST music. I’ve been patient over the last few weeks, trying to understand that the guys next doors were young adults experimenting with the boundaries of their newfound freedom, but as the music got louder, my patience got weaker.

Straying away from music for a moment, have you ever heard the stories about people who are happy even though they know that death is near? I’ve heard many, and after the speaker at worship told us another one, I went back to my room thinking about my attitude. Quiet contemplation led me to conclude that my attitude could use a little work but was fine overall. I gave myself a pat on the back and was about to go back to work when a techno beat started from next door. Before I could stop myself, a few impure thoughts raced through my mind, giving me a glimpse of my real attitude.

I decided right there and then that I needed to change my perception of certain things – starting with the music. I paced back and forth (involuntarily marching to the beat of the music) trying to figure out how I could achieve this change.

“A positive attitude comes from thinking positively, right?” I asked myself.

“Right,” I answered.

“Okay, so I should focus on the positives of music playing all the time.”

“Fine… fine…” I was skeptical. “But what are the positives of music playing all the time?”

“I don’t know. It’s free entertainment…?”

“Yeah, but it stops you from focusing on your work.”

“Okay, but –”

“And it keeps you up at night.”

“Yeah, but –”

“And it woke you up that one time.”

“Aha!”

“What?”

“The music woke me up! What would have happened otherwise?”

“…You would have been late for class.”

“Yeah! And I would have missed church that other time!”

“You can’t seriously think that –”

“Oh! And covering my ears makes it easier to stay focused when I read my notes!”

“That has nothing to do with –”

“Not to mention I’ve gotten a lot more homework done since I started going to the library to get away from the noise!”

As the voice of negativity was slowly cancelled out, I began to realize that the music, though annoying, was not a curse but a hidden blessing. The ordeal got me thinking about the all the annoyances in life that can be a blessing in disguise. The problem is that we’re so used to looking for the bad in everything, that we often overlook the good. I think that instead of being bitter about everything, we should all stop, think positively, and try to find those hidden blessings.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 22 Jan 2012 12:00:00 -0800 Bible Time http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/bible-time http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/bible-time

I yawned and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I tried to focus on the words in the Bible that depicted the life of Ruth. I quickly read through one chapter, said a prayer, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. I tried to go to sleep, reminding myself that I had class first thing in the morning, but I felt uneasy. It took me a while to realize that my discomfort came from the way I had read through the Bible. I tried to think about what special meaning I had taken from the reading, only to find that I barely remembered what I had read at all. I thought back to the last few chapters I read and came to the same conclusion. Unsatisfied with my spiritual meal, I asked God to help me find a better way to read the Bible.

A few days later, long after I had forgotten the prayer, I was sitting in the back of my Christian Beliefs class furiously scribbling notes. I’ll be the first to admit that I had not taken the class hoping to find some divine revelation – I just needed a religion credit. However, the more I heard about the Bible, the more interesting it became to me. I copied the Bible verses from the screen and turned my attention to Professor Jacobs, eager to hear what he had to say next.

“The Bible was not originally meant to be read,” he started. “It was written for the ear rather than the eye. That means it was meant to be heard – not just read.” Professor Jacobs went on to explain that the Scriptures were written on scrolls and read to the people in the synagogue during biblical times. He told us how his own reading had been enriched by hearing and encouraged us to read the Bible aloud.

When I returned to my room later in the day, I opened my Bible and decided to give reading out loud a shot. As I read aloud, I began to see things in the Bible that I had never seen before. The stories were no longer limited to the pages – they were real. My mind and heart raced as I excitedly tried to figure out how God would protect His people, and I was always baffled and completely awed by God’s methods. As I got deeper and deeper into the Word, I kept gleefully whispering to myself, “Why haven’t I ever seen this before?!”

The most surprising thing about the Bible was that every verse revealed a little more of God’s character. Some parts took a little digging, but God was always in the text. The more I found out about Him, the easier it became to talk to Him and want to serve Him. As I asked for the Holy Spirit to guide me as I read, God began to show me, though the Bible, the many kinks I have in my character and how I could work on them to more effectively reflect Him.

Even though reading the Bible has become a priority to me, I still find that it is extremely hard to start. When I get to my room after classes have ended, all I want to do is start my homework so I can finish early and go to bed. If it isn’t homework, then it’s a distraction of some sort – hanging out with friends or going online. Although it is difficult, I take a deep breath, put away the textbooks and the computer, whisper “its Bible time,” and dig into the Word.   

Opening up the Bible can be difficult at times, but I believe that what can be found inside is absolutely worth it.

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:00:00 -0800 New York, New York http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/new-york-new-york http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/new-york-new-york

The plane rocked violently thousands of feet in the air. I clutched my armrest, bit my tongue, and patiently waited for my demise. I had come to terms with it – death was inevitable.

I cringed as I felt the plane drop weightlessly a few feet. A little girl sitting about three rows before me threw up her hands and laughed as if she were riding a rollercoaster. The poor child did not understand the gravity of the situation.

“Dear God,” I whispered from my seat in the back of the doomed aircraft. “Thanks for allowing me to live a good life. I’m not mad at you or anything – I had to die sometime. I just ask that it would be quick. You know how much I hate pai –”

The plane shook and fell once more, causing a number of passengers and even one of the flight attendants buckled in behind me to gasp. Although the thought was morbid, I couldn’t help but wonder if the next drop would be the one that sent us plummeting at spine-shattering speeds to a fiery death.

The plane was silent. All the chatter had died down and was replaced with grave expressions and knowing glances. The plane stayed stable for a few moments, then began to rattle viciously, signaling the end.  I closed my eyes and prepared myself.

The plane hit the ground thunderously, slid for a bit, and skidded to a halt.

I opened my eyes. I was still alive. The passengers began to clap. I looked out the window expecting to some kind of grassy plain that we might have crash-landed in, but found an airport runway and a city silhouetted in the distance instead.  

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Welcome to New York.”

Did that capture your attention?

I hoped it would as I scribbled it into a notepad somewhere over Detroit. Although it made the guy sitting next to me a bit uncomfortable, writing about the event that initialized my fear of planes kept me from freaking out as I flew home for Christmas Break.

While I was changing planes, I made the most interesting discovery: New Yorkers are easy to spot. When I boarded the plane from Chattanooga to Detroit, everyone was extremely nice. Strangers helped each other with luggage, then sat and got to know each other. For a majority of the plane ride, the voices of happy travelers filled the fuselage.

When I boarded the plane from Detroit to New York, however, the environment changed entirely. As I walked past the first class section, a group of people in business suits scowled at me as to say, “I have to ride with that?” As I shuffled farther into the plane, I found that everyone was looking in random directions to avoid eye contact. I could tell because avoiding eye contact was exactly what I did during my first two weeks at Southern. The plane defined everyone’s stereotypical view of New York so much that I began to smile (which no one else was doing either).

Being at Southern for so long definitely changed me. When I got off the plane, I found that I could not stop myself from nodding at people or saying hello. Since making eye contact was a sin in itself, greeting someone was an abomination. Half the people I greeting looked at me funny, while the other half looked like they were cornered and didn’t know what to do. One lady returned my greeting warmly, but she, of course, had a southern accent.

From the moment I boarded the New York bound plane, I had a smile plastered on my face. While living in such a literally and figuratively cold environment might not be an attractive option to most, three words kept prancing around the back of my mind: Home Sweet Home.       

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 11 Dec 2011 20:31:00 -0800 Revenge of the Classes http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/revenge-of-the-classes http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/revenge-of-the-classes

It’s past midnight. Everyone on campus is either wandering around the dorm aimlessly or sleeping.

Everyone except you.

While everyone is warm and safe in their rooms, you are running down the Promenade on a chilly winter night, hoping to lose the man dressed in black who has been chasing you from Hickman to Miller Hall.

You look behind you only to find that the man is quickly gaining on you. You turn your head back around and see your last hope: Brock Hall. With your last bit of energy, you sprint to the door and yank it.

It doesn’t budge.

You look over the railing – it’s too high to jump.

Now panicking, you scurry into a shadow, draw your legs to your chest, and hope to disappear.

You can hear the man’s heavy footsteps getting closer. And closer.

Finally, they stop. You can see the man clearly from where you sit. He is big-boned, has a thick goatee, and is wearing a trench coat that somehow compliments his scowl. He looks around, momentarily confused, and then spots you cowering in the shadows. His scowl morphs into a wicked grin.

“W-what do you want?” you whimper as the man approaches menacingly.

“Revenge,” he growls, his voice deep and hoarse.

You try to move farther back as he comes closer. “I-I haven’t done anything to you – I don’t even know you!”

The man’s grin broadens, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches into his front pocket to retrieve what you assume is a weapon. You close your eyes and wait for the end to come.  
            It doesn’t.

You feel something fall at your feet and open your eyes to take a better look. Before you lays a thick stack of papers filled with unrecognizable names and dates.

“What is this?”  

“Revenge.”

“I don’t understand. How can this be –” before you can finish your sentence, something on the paper catches your attention. You look up at the man, your eyes now filled with understanding and fear. “No… please, no! Anything! Anything but this!”

Your begging does nothing more than please the man. His work now done, he leaves you wailing over the stack of papers.

You continue to beg as the man walks away, your eyes fixated on the two words that strike fear into your heart:

Final Exam.

The final exams are upon us, and while they may not chase us down the Promenade in the middle of the night, they do want their revenge. This week, your classes will be slapping thick sheets of paper before you and saying “This is for not paying attention,” “This is for not studying,” “This is for all the times you crammed,” or “This is just because I don’t like you.”

 Whatever reason your classes are angry at you, get ready, because if you aren’t prepared, they will have their revenge. 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Mon, 28 Nov 2011 20:15:00 -0800 Home Alone http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/home-alone http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/home-alone

“No,” my friend Evan said after I made a casual comment about going home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We were working as kitchen staff over the summer when the topic of college breaks arose. “You don’t want to go home for Thanksgiving.”

I looked up from the stack of dirty pots before me and raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll waste a lot of money.”

I put down a newly-rinsed skillet and leaned on the edge of the sink. Evan had already had a year of college, so I was interested in any piece of advice he could offer.  “What do you mean?”

“Last year I spent like two hundred dollars on a flight home and back, and then I had to pay another two hundred to go home two weeks later for Christmas.” Evan picked up the skillet and started scrubbing it with a soapy sponge. “The way I see it, you should either go home for Thanksgiving, or go home for Christmas, and since you can’t stay at school for Christmas…”

“I should probably stay at school for Thanksgiving,” I told my mom over the phone a few weeks ago, months after Evan had given me the budget-saving advice.

She wasn’t very happy to hear that. Though she tried to find holes in my reasoning, I eventually wore her down, convincing even myself that staying on campus was the best option.

As the holiday crept closer and my friends planned their trips home, I began to plan how I was going to divide the work I had to complete over the three days I wouldn’t have to go to class. I looked over my schedule with anticipation – ready to complete as many assignments as humanly possible.

On the first morning I the break, I crawled out of bed after a beautiful eleven-hour sleep and wrote three reports for Earth Science and two papers for Cycling. Then I slacked off. Instead of spending the remainder of the day doing work, I spent it watching multiple hours of television. I tried to get back on track, but I just couldn’t. My brain had shut down and it had no intention of turning back on.

Thanksgiving Day was… interestingly depressing. My mother called me repeatedly to tell me what she was cooking, who was coming, and to make sure that I was still alive. My sister and I spent the entire day texting each other innocuous insults (she disowned me – that was actually the highlight of my day). And when someone called around dinner time, I could hear the whole family talking around the table. I felt like I was the kid from Home Alone. He thought that spending the holidays alone would be great, but found out that he’d rather spend it with his family instead.

Unfortunately, my story didn’t come with a pair of dim-witted thieves and an arsenal of imaginative booby traps.

Though it isn’t going to be one of the most memorable Thanksgivings, the one I spent on campus allowed me to see all that I had to be thankful for. Its cliché, but you really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

I find it interesting that that epiphany rose from a state of complete boredom.

Maybe I should be bored more often.

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 20 Nov 2011 12:00:00 -0800 Turkey Day http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/turkey-day http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/turkey-day

It’s that time of year again.

The time of year when millions of Americans sit around a table and share they’re thankful for while trying not to salivate at the festively decorated feast sitting before them. With the sweet aroma of a roasted turkey stuffed with bread crumbs, onions, celery, salt, and pepper now invading you’re nostrils, when asked what you’re thankful for, all you can think off is, “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

And, of course, by “you” I mean “me.”

I’m not a huge fan of being put on the spot in front of a bunch of people I’ve never seen before and asked what I treasure most in the world. Being put on the spot makes me nervous, and the food begging me to dig in make me hungry. Nervous and hungry is never a good combination.

For that reason, when it’s time to share the thanks that we’ve all been bottling up for about a year, my stomach does somersaults. I know that when it’s my turn, I’ll say something humorous but stupid, granting me a disapproving frown from my mother.

Don’t believe me? One Thanksgiving, I got so nervous that I said the first thing that popped into my head. With distant relatives and their unfamiliar friends peering at me from all angles, I innocently said, “I’m thankful for cheese.” I realized later that a bowl of macaroni and cheese sitting before me might have played a small role in my choice of words.

So what are you thankful for?

A break from school?

The semester’s soon coming end?

Friends? Family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?

The Indians that taught you how to survive the winter?

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

Cheese?

Whatever it is that you’re thankful for, I hope that you’re ready to share it despite the nervousness and hunger. And I hope that God is at the top of your list – not of things to be thankful for on Thanksgiving, but of things to be thankful for all 365.242199 days of the year.

Last, but not least, thank the turkey in the middle of your table. Though it may simply look like a decapitated delicacy, roasted to perfection and stuffed to your delight, the turkey gave its life so that students can get out of school, people can get out of work, families can come together, and everyone can get great deals at Walmart.   

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Tue, 15 Nov 2011 12:00:00 -0800 Mary & Joseph's Excellent Adventure http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/mary-josephs-excellent-adventure http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/mary-josephs-excellent-adventure

“I’m driving in the car with Myron!” Amber sang at the top of her lungs as we sped away from campus on a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

I raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Wow. Just – wow. That song’s gonna be a big hit. Especially among the teenagers.”

Amber flashed me a huge smile and started another verse. Despite her narrative singing, I was really glad that she was helping me with this project. Realizing that it would be a while before we reached our destination, I sat back, looked out of the window, and allowed my mind to drift back about two weeks….

Dr. Wentworth, my Personal Finance professor, paced back and forth with excitement as he explained the project that he wanted us to do.  The project was relatively simple: we were to visit an open house, talk to the realtor, look around the house, collect information, go to a bank, discuss a loan, collect more information, go to an insurance company, get a quote, and then write a report about it all.

Okay…

Maybe it wasn’t all that simple, but as I would soon come to find out, there’s nothing simple about buying a house – even if it’s only for a project.   

 Getting more and more excited by the minute, Dr. Wentworth covered all the bases of “buying” a house for the project. “Make sure that your house is located in Southeast Tennessee or North Georgia! And don’t go to First Tennessee Bank for a loan! Some students went there a few years ago and made it seem like they were really interested in getting a loan. When the bank found out that they were just students, they were mad! Because of that incident, Southern students have been politely asked not to go there.”

I smiled. Dr. Wentworth was the only person I knew who could make taxes, insurance policies, and mortgages seem even remotely interesting.

“Is there anything else…? Oh! One More thing – this is very important!” I leaned forward, eager to hear the vital information. “When you go to the open house, make sure to bring someone of the opposite gender with you.”

My smile faded. That was going to be a problem.

The only person I could think to ask was Amber. Not only did she have a car, but she just so happened to be of the opposite gender. The problem was that I couldn’t just go up to her and say, “Hey, you wanna buy a house with me?” That would be weird.

Instead, I did what any rational individual would have done in that situation.

I sent it by text.

Me: this is gonna sound weird, but would you by any chance be interested in buying a house with me?      

Amber: Bahahahaha sure i would love to buy a house with you! lol!!!

Me: wait... are you serious??? lol. you just accept? don't you even wanna know why I asked??

Amber: Hahaha yeah im serious!! i mean i would like a little explaination to what it means but yea!!!

 “We’re here,” Amber said, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced up at the pleasant brick house that looked surprisingly similar to all the other pleasant brick houses on the block.

“Great,” I mumbled as I lifted myself out of the vehicle. “Are you nervous?”

“Nope! This is gonna be fun!” she replied. “What am I supposed to do again?”

I started walking toward the front door. “Just evaluate the house, really. According to Dr. Wentworth, girls will see things that guys won’t and vice versa.”

Amber nodded. “I can do that.”

“Ready?” I asked. Unlike her, I was actually nervous.

She nodded again.

I rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, a short man wearing a dark blue suit opened the door. “Can I help you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Talking to people really wasn’t my specialty.

Luckily, it was Amber’s.

“Yes,” she replied confidently. “We are students from Southern Adventist University, and we were wondering if we could take a look at the house for--”

“No! No!” the man yelled, tossing his hands as to say “shoo.” “Get out! I don’t like Seventh Day Adventists! Get out!”

I began backing out of the door slowly. “Well, thank you anyway for your time. We’ll just--”

To my surprise – and confusion – the man started laughing. “I’m just kidding! I’m a Seventh Day Adventist, too! Come in!”

Amber followed the man deeper into the house with a smile on her face, leaving me standing in the doorway trying to figure out what had just happened. Once I got past the fact that the man had been joking, I realized that of all the houses for sale in Tennessee, we had gone to the one with an Adventist realtor. Thanking God repeatedly, I closed the door and wandered deeper into the house.

The realtor, or Freddy, as he preferred we call him, was extremely helpful. Unfortunately, he may have been a bit too helpful. Instead of showing us the house, Freddy sat us around the dining room table and started throwing facts at us faster than we could catch them. In ten minutes, he had covered everything I had learned in Personal Finance so far, and he clearly had no intention of stopping.

“Now, you always need to have a backup plan,” Freddy explained. Amber and I nodded in agreement. “And when you have a house, the most important backup is an emergency fund.”

More nods.

“Let’s say, for example…” Freddy pointed at me, but suddenly realized that he didn’t know my name. Instead of asking me what it was, however, he decided to give me a new one. “Let’s say Joseph here had an accident, and now he can’t work. Guess who has to pay all the bills?” the realtor pointed at Amber, whose name he didn’t know either. “Your wife, Mary.”

I stifled a laugh, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Amber/Mary struggling to do the same.

When the realtor finally concluded his lecture, Mary and I were allowed to check out the house. Everything about the house could be described as “pleasant.” It was a pleasant size, with pleasant bed and bathrooms, a pleasant kitchen, and a pleasant porch in a pleasant backyard. I thought the house was okay – or pleasant, rather – but Mary had a totally different opinion.

Where I had seen “pleasant,” Mary had seen “problematic.” At first, I thought she was just being overdramatic, but when she gave me a tour of the house through her eyes, I started to understand why the asking price was so low. There was a high school directly behind the house, which seemed like a good thing until Mary, who grew up in the area, told me that there would be noise-polluting sports events every Friday night. As if the noise wasn’t bad enough, there was the possibility that teenagers would roam into the yard, as the only barrier between the properties were a cluster of short and feeble bushes. The lack of a proper barrier became even more a problem when Mary pointed out that the house was right next to a street that would be busy two times a day. If a child were playing in the backyard and his or her ball rolled into the street during rush hour…

All of a sudden, the house didn’t look so pleasant. It looked dangerous. Mary and I quickly said goodbye to the realtor and hightailed it out of there.

The next house we went to was much, much better. There was a huge yard for playing in and the house was surrounded by thick trees and an iron fence. The house itself consisted of reasonably-sized bedrooms, a home office, and a bar. Every room was amazing, but none could compare to the kitchen. The fact that the kitchen was stocked with all the latest gizmos and gadgets was impressive, but what really set it apart was its size. The marble kitchen was at least two times bigger than my dorm room (I measured).

The first thing Mary said after she picked up her jaw from the floor was, “We are getting this house.” After she familiarized herself with the marvelous kitchen, I decided that it was time to find out the price. We searched the house and found the realtor standing over a table examining some documents.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Is it possible that you could tell us how much this house costs?”

“Sure,” the gray-haired realtor smiled. She flipped through the papers before her and pointed at a number. Mary and I leaned forward eagerly to see the price. What we saw took both of our smiles away.

As we drove back to school, a slight depression hung in the air. The second house we visited was better than the first by far, but it was also way out of the price range.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?” Mary asked for the third or fourth time.

“Nope. The limit is $175,000. I can’t really change that.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “I guess I’ll just buy the first house. The professor told us that we didn’t have to like the house we bought.”

“Okay.” She sounded disappointed.

“The house isn’t so bad,” I said. “The only thing we really have to worry about is Baby Jesus getting hit by a car while he’s playing in the backyard.”

Mary burst into laughter. “You know that I’m gonna call you Joseph from now on, right?”

I smiled. I had expected nothing less.

The single most important thing I’ve learned during the project is this: with all the taxes, insurances, and mortgages payments involved in buying a house, it’s probably a good thing that the real Mary and Joseph gave birth to Jesus in a stable.   

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King
Sun, 06 Nov 2011 12:00:00 -0800 Procrastinators Pseudonymous http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/procrastinators-pseudonymous http://mistermaddenblogs.posterous.com/procrastinators-pseudonymous

“That was great, George,” said Albert, who seemed to be the leader of this whole Procrastinators Pseudonymous (PP) meeting. “Thanks for sharing.” George, a short and rather fidgety young man, offered a quick nod and stared intently at his feet.

“Anyone else want to share?” Albert asked. No one spoke. I dared to look up and found that his eyes were fixated on me. “How about you? Would you like to share?”

“Not really,” I mumbled.

“Come on, pal. Everyone has something to share.”

I sighed and decided to tell my story before he used the word “share” again. “Fine. Uhm. My name is Myron, and I’m a procrastinator.”  

“Hi Myron,” the people sitting in the small circle recited in unison.

I gave a little wave. “Hi. Uh, well there isn’t really much to tell. I started procrastinating in high school, but it didn’t really hurt me until I got to college. It started with a television show or two during lunch – you know, nothing serious – but it escalated to two or three hours of television with every meal. Things got worse when I found a nice little library within walking distance of the school that had the most incredible selection of books…”

My voice drifted as my mind focused on the books that had captured my attention. “Watching TV is great, but there’s nothing quite like getting into a good book. You can go anywhere – do anything! You can get lost between the pages and never want to ask for directions…” I blinked, suddenly remembering where I was. “Anyway, I got so lost in television and books that I didn’t notice that my grades were plummeting. I had begun to put off doing homework and studying to watch the latest TV shows and read the newest books. I always figured that there would be more than enough time in the future to get my work done and usually threw together some half-baked product at the last minute. When my poor grades were brought to my attention, I tried to stop the procrastination, but it was too late. Procrastination had become a way of life. It grew from plotted entertainments to hanging out with friends, doing meaningless tasks, or wandering aimlessly around campus. Soon enough, I realized that I couldn’t sit down and do honest work for more than ten minutes, so I dropped out of school.

“I used some money that I had saved up to rent a run-down apartment, and I got a minimum wage job at one of those fast-food places. It didn’t take long for me to get fired. I got to work late every day because I never took the time to get ready, and I dilly-dallied when I was supposed to be delivering orders. I knew that if I didn’t make money, I would eventually be kicked out of my apartment, so I decided to write. Whether it was because I really liked to create stories, or because I was too lazy to look for another job, I decided to write short stories and try to find someone willing to buy them. It seemed like a great idea, until I realized that my constant procrastination stopped me from writing any more than two paragraphs.

“I lost the apartment about a week ago, and I’ve been sleeping in the park ever since. I only came to this meeting because I knew that there would be donuts afterwards.” I looked around. All eyes were on me. I shrugged. “That’s… about it, I guess.”

All at once, everyone thanked me for sharing.

“That was great, Myron,” Albert smiled. “Thanks for sharing. Anyone else want to share?”

I woke up with a small yelp to find myself, not in a “PP” meeting, but in one of Herin Hall’s bathrooms. Extreme procrastination had prevented me from studying for the two tests I had that day – Personal Finance and General Psychology – and I had spent the night before studying (cramming effectively) for both of them.

I had just completed the Psychology test, and I was pretty sure that I had aced it, but I was concerned about the Personal Finance test. I hadn’t spent as much time studying for it as I had Psychology. I was angry at myself for wasting a majority of the week fueling my procrastination rather than studying. Exhausted, I dragged myself into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, but fell asleep instead.

The dream scared me. Was it possible for procrastination to mess up my future that badly?

I wasn’t about to find out.

On Thursday, I did the one thing I swore I would never do: I made a schedule. I’ve always hated schedules. I felt like they limited my ability to be spontaneous. It was only after the Personal Finance test that I realized that being spontaneous and procrastinating were one in the same.

Sitting at my desk, I begrudgingly plotted out everything I had to do, how long it would take to do each thing, and in what order I would do them. I hate to admit it, but it was kind of fun – like putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The next day, I set out the follow the schedule, and surprisingly enough, I did. Though I did not complete every task, in that one day, I accomplished more than I had during the entire week.  

The present is ripe with opportunity. Why put off till tomorrow what can be done today?

 

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http://posterous.com/images/profile/missing-user-75.png http://posterous.com/users/n4Km8SgXcwIJk Sherina King mistermadden Sherina King