jonah Complex

There's a whole strand of disappointments that have wound through the beginning of this week.

Up until last week, I was overly confident in my control of things.

Things. Things. Things.

Seconds and hours, and all those things that somehow added into a past for my Mr. David Vincent Goodwin, resident of 1400 Bemis, Grand Rapids, MI, student of three years and one half of a semester at Calvin College, son of Karen and Lloyd, and older brother to Julia and Natalie.

But what am I really?

About a year ago, I knew it all. And while all of my adventures as of late have been something, where does my identity fit into all of this?

The weekend before this week was really wild. On Friday, I spent a lot of time with a bunch of people I was very happy to see. The next day, I cleaned sheep skins with Alexander, helped in cleaning the house, and then went with the same people as the night before to explore Art Prize. Sunday flew by as well. Church was useless, only redeemed by a great breakfast with some good friends.

And then yesterday. Seriously, where does one begin? There was the frigid rain, the numerous mental mix-ups making me late, a healthy load of house tensions, a mis-communication ending in my feeling rejected, and a total stranger challenging my running from God. Does God want me so badly? Or am I just stuck in a place where I can't escape busybodies?

I don't deny the completely wonderful smell of Autumn that fills my lungs everytime I step outside. And yesterday Henry was kind enough to go with me to the Hookah lounge and just listen. There was healing somewhere or another in the midst of those experiences.

But it is never easy to hear that the person who was once a massive part of your identity is now moving on to become part of someone else's. And that kind of hurts.

It certainly only rehashed my wrestlings with God from the day before. If I ever become a Christian again, I'm changing my name to Israel. Because God's hand is reaching for my hip, and I'm holding him until morning.

Ears to Hear

"What do you value in your God?"

That was the question of yesterday morning.

The night before yesterday, I stayed up way too late working on my studies. I didn't feel like sleeping in my bed because there's some sort of r.o.u.s. taking residency above it in the attic. Instead, I pulled out my sleeping bag and favorite blanket and curled up on one of the couches in the family room.

Six hours later--around eight in the morning--one of my housemates came pounding down the stairs. He was late, and he was in a hurry. The couch I was sleeping on was right next to the stairs, so naturally the noise emitting from his descent sounded like lighting in my ears. I sat up in surprise, looking around to make sure had taken an early morning tumble.

Henry was flustered but fine, yelling an apology for waking me up as he ran out the front door. I laid back down, but sleeping wasn't an option anymore. My options were stay up or move upstairs to my bed and risk awaking later with a giant rodent on my face.

John woke up soon after, and seeing me in my usual morning stupor, asked if I would join him for a morning smoke on the porch. I don't smoke, but I love hanging out with people who do. They always have great conversations while smoking, and you can learn a lot from them.

This morning was no exception.

I don't recall what began the conversation, but we ended up on the topic of God's grace versus his justice. John insisted that our main focus should be on God's justice. I disagreed, and no matter how either of us put it, the other would not change views.

But the question of the conversation prevailed, "what do you value in God?" It seemed to be the main cause for differences in opinion between John and I.

I was suddenly reminded of a time when I was studying the story of Joseph in Genesis last year. I had the incredible revelation that God blesses those who work hard for Him. Each time Joseph was thrown into a new situation, he'd work diligently, and stay obedient to his boss, and the Lord would in turn bless him for his faithfulness and hard work.

This revelation was so moving for me, that I called one of my closest friends, Eric Peterson, to tell him about it. I was in the middle of saying how encouraging the story of Joseph was, and about to explain the part about diligence and obedience when Eric cut me off.

"Yeah," Eric said, "because God protects and provides for Joseph."

"Um, well, yeah," I replied, "that too. But I was really more talking about how Joseph's diligence and obedience to each of his employers."

I explained myself further, but Eric didn't agree. He said he felt as though the protection and provision by God was the main focus of Joseph's story. I insisted it was the honoring of diligence and obedience. We eventually agreed to disagree and hung up, leaving me with a sever dissatisfaction with our conversation. But then a thought dawned on me.

At the time, Eric was living at home near Chicago, struggling through a period of great need and uncertainty. I, on the other hand, was an R.A., and really wrestling with whether or not to be diligent in my work and faithful to my employer.

I realized that what we often don't see within disagreements of theology is how our perspectives are manipulated by our situations and needs.

With that in mind, it's a curious experience discussing views of God. One starts to wonder what the situation is of each person, and a light is shined upon what they require in life.

Ultimately, that should be our focus, anyways, when talking about God with one another. We should be learning each others' needs. It is a whole different motive. Instead of asking how you can convert someone, ask how you can meet that person's needs. Care for people. Listen to their stories.

John and I continued in our conversation, but I no longer argued my point, I listened. And the best part is, I learned a lot. God taught me something through the needs of someone else. After all, we are all broken.

In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful...

The Adventures of Lewis Beacon: Part 1 - Three's a Crowd

It was instinct that brought him to this point. There was no other explanation for such an action. And in all honesty, his reaction felt somewhat shameful.

Lewis Beacon had just hopped into a shower stall as three young men tumbled through the door to the men's locker room. One of them was fighting to break the grip of the other two. Pulling the curtain almost completely shut, Lewis left only a small opening through which to watch the fight. Lewis, twenty-one, had just finished dressing and packing up, having completed his daily workout and shower. He was about to leave when he overheard commotion outside the door and had hidden himself just in time. The young men passed right by Lewis without even noticing him. Usually no one was in the locker room at this time of day. Lewis loved working out alone, while everyone else was at dinner. It was a surprise to see someone enter the locker room, let alone three in a fight.

"Let me go," shouted the middle guy as the other two managed to get control of his arms.

Lewis watched as the other two dragged the young man into one of the locker stalls. He could hear the slam of a body against rattling metal.

"What were you saying," shouted a voice. It was one of other two men. "You sure that's something you're prepared to do?"

Lewis could hear their movements. One of them walked back into view, facing away from the other two. He looked a year older than Lewis, with more muscle too. Obviously an athlete, he was dressed in all-black sports wear. He stared at the wall as he spoke.

"Listen Brad," he said, "that article can't get sent to Chimes. It's that simple. Doug didn't know what he was talking about before. He's just stupid. That's all."

"Yeah," came what must have been Brad's voice. Lewis could tell because the speaker was panting and sounded weak. "And I bet Vandenberg was just being stupid too."

"We don't really know what happened to Vandenberg," said the man in black, "but we do agree that your article is pointing fingers in bad directions. It was a good thing Turk over here got wind of it beforehand."

The man in black turned around as he said this, walking back out of sight.

"So now what," said Brad.

"Well," Lewis heard the man in black say, "you're going to swear not to ever tell anyone about that article, or we're going to beat the shit out of you in the showers until you do. And when we get back, we're going to smash your computer."

"Go to hell" Brad spat.

"Suit yourself," said Turk.

Then Turk kicked Brad hard in the ribs and dragged him, now writhing in pain, around the lockers and over to an open shower. But he stopped short in front of Lewis' stall.

"Hey, Brent," Turk said. "I think we've got a witness."

Brent, the man in black sportswear, walked over to Turk.

"What do you mean?"

Turk cocked his head towards the handicap shower stall, the only one with a curtain pulled shut. Brent frowned, and in one motion yanked back the curtain. No one was there. Brent looked back at Turk.

"You pussy. No one's here at this time of day. Now let's finish with him. The longer we take, the more likely someone's going to find us."

Brad looked up at Turk and Brent.

"Someone's going to find out," he said.

Turk punched Brad in the face, and Brad fell back unconscious.

"No they're not," Turk grunted.

Lewis quietly shut the door to the locker room and ran down to the atrium of the Field House.

You Keep What You Kill

On a lighter note from my yesterday's anxiousness, I had a very funny experience on Saturday. Two weeks ago, Byron and Henry and I all went fishing out in Ada. It was a very relaxing day, eating junk food while reeling in all sizes of fish. Byron of course caught the biggest and the best. Henry and I got a few too, but nothing to brag about.

When we returned to the house that day, bucket full of half-dead but freshly-caught fish, Byron revealed to Henry and I that he had no intention on taking the fish home with him. Something about his refrigerator being well-stocked. But Henry and I both lacked the experience of ever killing or gutting an animal, our closest experiences being Halo, and the Saw series.

After a few minutes of awkwardly passing the fish back and forth, Byron agreed to return at some point in the near future to teach Henry and I how to gut the fish, but until then we had to keep them. Henry was still very squeamish about the whole ordeal. Even cutting off the one fish's head so that we could store it wasn't going to happen with him.

Last Saturday, Byron returned. Henry was conveniently occupied, and I was too naive to realize what I had gotten myself into. First, the fish had to thaw. We put the fish under water for about an hour, occasionally running fresh water over them until they were soft enough to come out of the baggies. Pulling them out of the bags reminded me of something in MIB, or any of those other goo-filled, disgustathon, Science Fiction pictures. Slime gratuitously flowed from the bags along with the fish.

Producing a spoon, Byron then instructed me to grab a fish, and hold it tightly, while forcefully scraping the lip of a spoon against the grain of the scales. Scales began to shoot everywhere as Byron began on one of our captives. I was thankful it was dead; I'd hate to hear a fish scream. I looked around the sink at the other prisoners, their eyes wide with horror, and mouths gaped open in shock at their comrade's fate.

I chose one and picked it up, trying to dodge the shrapnel from Byron's handiwork. As I lifted the captive out of the sink, something clear and viscous oozed out of its mouth. My stomach winced. I picked up the spoon and began to descale the internee. It wasn't hard work, and everything went smoothly, save the almost constant backfiring of scales, as they showered forth in all directions, retreating from the attack of my spoon.

After a while, ooze and scales clogged the drain cover, and the running water filled the sink. Before us was a pool of the most disturbing soup I had ever witnessed.

"Now comes the fun part," Byron reassured me. He had obviously done this so much, the nature of the activity no longer vexed his nerves as it did mine. But I was there to finish what I started and learn from my friend.

Carefully, Byron showed me how to cut into our prisoner, just above the head, running the blade down its neck region, behind the fins, and stopping about two centimeters before a complete decapitation. We then each pulled the heads off our victims, bringing along with them a long strand of innards. It's amazing how even on something as non-human as a fish, its innards still look like innards.

By this point, my stomach was as wrinkled as a prune, and I could feel it twist and turn every time I looked at the sink. The next, and final step was to finish cleaning out everything inside of the ribs. We did this by first further slicing into the bottom of the ribs to open up the meat more. Then we rubbed our thumbs along the spine and ribs, all under running water, clearing out any reluctant pieces of Lord-knows-what-they-were.

Then the meat went back into the freezer, ready to be cooked on a later date. I thanked Byron for all his help, and for his patience in teaching me the ways of preparing fish to be eaten. Although I doubt they were prepared for it.

After Byron left, I took to cleaning, and sanitizing, the kitchen. First I had to dispose of the evidence-the leftover heads. My housemates and I agreed that I should bury them under our compost. I dug the prisoners' heads a grave and threw them in. Then I turned my attention to the guts, scales and ooze clogging the drain. With my stomach now completely tied in a knot, and butterflies tickling the bottom of my esophagus, I collected as much as possible and threw it in the grave. It was reminiscent of the Pharaohs of Egypt, buried with all of their earthly possessions. I said a few words over the grave, and then covered them up, left to the worms and raccoons of our neighborhood.

About an hour and a-severe-case-of-hand-crampage later, the sink was scrubbed in bleach and completely removed of leftover scales. No sign remained in the kitchen of any war crimes. Only the shine of polished steel, and the smell of a clean kitchen. But my stomach took a while to un-knot, and it still winces every time I think about those fish. I'll still eat fish, but I might have to give the ones in my freezer to Byron. I don't know if I can eat what I kill.

Feeling Gravity

The last few days have had more than their fair share of excitement. Friday was strange at the start. I started having this feeling of restlessness. Like I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. Even now, in the lull of the day, I feel very uneasy. But Friday I wrestled with this feeling all afternoon until I went to Nate's place. After that, things picked up, as they always do when I visit Nate's house. Many songs and bottled messages later, we all settled down at Steph's house for a sleepover.
I slept until Susie offered to drive me home, where I continued to sleep until the early afternoon. That evening I visited JJ's pad, where he lives with Grant, Micah, Nathan, and Sam. They were hosting a game night, which was pretty fun, save that I had to leave before even the first game had ended. But I hadn't hung out with my favorite Wealthy House in a while, and we were planning a Dirty Dancing Marathon. Ironically, we only watched the first one. But everyone was tired (myself very much included), so we called it a night.
I slept again until the afternoon. I've probably been tired because I've been fighting a cold. And I imagine, I feel restless because I'm doing less due to my cold. But I'm really praying there isn't more of a reason. My mind is definitely not dualistic. My flesh and my spirit are one. I just wish that I felt more at ease right now.
Sometimes--in moments like these--I feel as though I hear the Earth yawning and groaning as it hurls around the sun. As though the whole motion does involve me, and my being is aware of its speed and its gravity. As though, at any moment I will be called to help in its turning. Am I the only one who feels as though the universe is watching me? As though it's waiting on my action? And what if I don't move? What if I let the Earth carry itself?
Is this what the voice of God sounds like?

Something about Magic

Today I talked about my belief in magic for my introductory speech in my Oral Rhetoric class. Unfortunately, I never really got to the point of my speech because I was running out of time. It may have been a very charming introduction into my life, but I felt very unsatisfied with the logic (or lack of logic) which I used to convey my main point.

My main point was that pagan animism used to teach through folklore the creatures of mysticism, which we now attribute in western civilization as creatures of fairy tales. But even those notions of woodland spirit creatures must come from truth. A person must have at one point witnessed a single-horned, four-legged, horse-like creature.

Someone must have seen small, bearded men, and giants, and something must have inspired half-animal people. Our imagination is not built on the mystery of the unknown, but the adaptation of what we have already seen and known.

We cannot ignore what our forefathers have seen and interacted with. I am not a Neo-pagan, but I believe there is definitely a lot more that exists than what we have seen, and science has accredited as fact. That being said, I believe in magic.

Maybe not Harry Potter, or even Wicca. But we do interact with unseen forces, and more than the dualistic, Christian image of angels and demons, although those may exist as well.

The Christening of Merlin

Okay. So I know I may sound completely obsessed, but I named my car the other day. I've never really had a thing for cars. But they get me from A to B, and they're generally reliable (as long as you excuse all of my sister's stories, of course).

My car is a red Saturn. I think Saturns are by Honda... maybe. I don't really know, and I could care even less. The point is, that my Saturn, is magic.

"The Days Are Just Packed" mentions my endeavors while in my Saturn slightly, and particularly how its trunk is capable of containing a fairly large bookcase without any trouble. It's getting awesome gas mileage so far, it rides pretty smoothly, and it's never without the perfect piece of wisdom to improve my day. That all being said, I have officially named my car, Merlin.

Truth be told, any inanimate object that I find myself spending time with on more than a regular basis I usually name. I've named pencils, trapperkeepers, backpacks, cameras, and even computers. For example, my computer's name is "Elias," and my guitar's name is "Joyfully." Something about naming an object brings out its personality and its value in one's life.

Losing that object will be worse once it's named. But George Gray has a response to such things. The truth be told, fear of loss cannot, and should never prevent us from doing what will enrich us, ultimately. Edgar Lee Masters plays the medium for George Gray's voice from beyond when he says:

"And now I know that we must lift the sail	10
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—	15
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid."

For the full poem:
http://www.bartleby.com/84/64.html

A Poem

So, I don't exactly remember why, but I ended up posting a lot of poetry on Facebook over the course of my Freshman and Sophomore years. And it's kind of funny to me because the poetry at times was some of--at least I thought--the best. One of my favorites was about the Knight's tale in the book, Canterbury Tales. I figured it might be good to post it hear as well.

If Pluto’s Rings

Arcita is dead,
and Saturn awaits
To take his soul
to Pluto’s grip
and thirsty cold.

What fight there was
of brothers’ tiff.
I saw them take their step,
And into misery they flew,
fighting for the love of life.

They know Not what
they leave behind;
But Palamon, life’s chosen you,
and Arcita is dead.

The cold;
The fire;
The truth;
And black are the eyes
of he who has passed away;
God has favored he who remains;
but cold are the lands
He leaves behind,
barren as a concubine;
With Midas touch
it’s frozen dead,
The land where Arcita
did rest his stead;
And Palamon - the better man -
Mourns the loss
But loves the absence.

So Palamon, Do Rise!
And take your loss with open eyes;
Your life is a key to
the door of destiny
And it screams your name.

PALAMON! ARISE!
And breathe the air of victory;
This is what we waited for!
The prison’s down,
Smile upon your fertile ground.

PALAMON! Victorious Man!
Grab your stakes and cast a tent
to milk the honey from this land;
And feel the warmth of truth,
the fire burns ever through.

Palamon, remember your friend
in Hades you will make amends
and finally thank him for his death
You have been freed - Hatched from slavery
Now Arise.
________________________________________

I wish I had the time to write more right now. It would be great to talk about naming objects, and how I just christened my car. Or even get into grudges and cold shoulders. But unfortunately, I'll have to keep those on the back burner until Islam readings are done.

A Midday Break

That car is amazing! My folks have lent it to me for a while, and boy has it been fun! It's a red Saturn, and pretty much the most versatile vehicle I've driven yet. This morning I fit an entire bookshelf (probably 3' x 3') perfectly into the trunk, without moving the back seats, or even leaving the trunk open.

The bookshelf came from an estate sale I found by mistake while lost. As much as I hate East Grand Rapids, and all of the ignorance it represents to me, from time to time, it has its uses. This morning, I was supposed to go to a mansion I visited yesterday, where a set of cups and plates had been laid aside for me. But my window of opportunity was only in the hour of nine o'clock.

The house was in the neighborhood between the intersections of Breton and Lake, and Hall and Lake. And guess what intersections were closed this morning so that half a million white people could pretend they're athletes? The very ones I needed to go through in order to pick up my dishes.

Frustrated, and cursing some teenage girls under my breath (for being particularly rude to me when I tried to sneak onto Lake from a side street), I eventually found myself reading a bunch of estate sale signs lining the road, all pointing towards one house a good distance from where I was supposed to be. But knowing I had lost the dishes from yesterday, I had to redeem my morning.

So I went to the sale and truthfully found some great wares. Although my pocket did not support the acquire everything I wanted, and I had to drag myself away from some very retirement-home-esque decorations, I managed to procure not only a great book shelf for $12, but I also got a very large set of plates and and bowls for $5, and a fully-functional sewing machine for $15! I mean this may be terrible to say, but I'm kind of thankful that that woman had passed on. She left behind some great, and very cheap things.

Of course, things always seem worse when one is suffering from a massive hang over. Maybe I'll elaborate on last night more in a different entry. But let's just say my first "kegger" was one of the best parties I've ever been to. That's what you get for having quality friends.

Speaking of which, the rest of the day up until now, I've also gone to a free pancake breakfast at the Koinonia house; met up with a great friend of mine, Brian Wallace; went with Wallace to the Annual, Calvin Apartments' Mudbowl; got into about fifty mud fights; yelled compliments off of a balcony to people passing by; danced like a goofball; caught up with another good buddy, Jeff Stern; gurgled apple sauce; got spewed on with applesauce by Brian; harvested peppers; and only now just sat down. Later, I'm going to wash a car with my good friend, Annie Nelson; have dinner with Andy Zeigler and Nate Dejong; maybe go to a bar with them; and then meet up with some other people at a bowling alley for Ashley Willaim's birthday party.

The days are just packed!

Coldplay in the Kitchen

The one thing I didn't mention about yesterday was that a lot of my old friends came by the house for dinner. It was a great time of fellowship and storytelling. Of course, I insisted on cooking. This recipe I found for beef and chickpea stew has been a big hit each time I cook it. Really, the stew should be called the beef and augerbine (or eggplant in my case) stew, because there's definitely more eggplant in it than anything else.

I doubt my joy in experience that followed dinner can be conveyed to anyone outside of my own shoes. However, my musings began when all of my guests had left. I guess I could have asked them to help with the dishes, but many of them only offered as they were halfway out the door in order to seem polite. I hold no grudge against them. There were a lot of people, and very little space. I'm surprised the old floors of our house even supported us.

So low and behold, I found myself in the kitchen immediately upon saying, "Goodbye," to my final guest. Unfortunately for the rest of my evening, and the dismay of my very soar feet, the quantity of dishes that were left in my possession to clean was prodigious. And my house only has a one-basin sink for all kitchen purposes, including dish washing. However, cleaning was not as bad of an experience os one might suspect.

While I was doing the dishes, Coldplay's Glass of Water, popped into my head. It's probably not a normal experience for most people, but I listen to music a lot in my head when I'm not thinking about something. And considering how often I find myself in thought, that little brain jukebox is usally muted. But contemplation requires more attention than can be allotted when dishes are eclipsing the ceiling light. So I soon found myself thinking through almost an entire album by Coldplay. And I don't really even know why it was Coldplay that my subconscious chose.

It just was. And it was wonderful

I mean, how often do we actually practice such things as silence, or even silence of the mind. I know that so often, my mind is more like an over-motivated mouth than a brain. But to be so silent, and yet so content, that one finds himself lightheartedly dancing to the music in his head. That is an experience that can only occur a few times in life. All though I do hope it happens more.

Good Mourning

I don't know if it's legal to write two posts in one day, but seeing as this is my blog, I'm going to do what I want to do.

And technically, it's the next day anyways.

Three days ago I had a conversation with someone that has meant a lot to me for a very long time, and that person told me something I had wanted to hear from her for too long indeed. Amidst the relief and the sadness, I finally broke down and released my grief and anguish from the loss of my experiences with her; the companionship we had shared; and the plans we had made for the future.

There was definite loss, but I would not have realized that loss without the perspective of Dan, my counselor. Until Dan and I talked yesterday, I had not fully acknowledged my grieving as progressive. As it goes with every ended romantic relationship, it is a terrible struggle discerning between feelings of loss and mourning, and feelings of missing and wishing to return.

It is as hazy as close platonic friends, who have a tendency to mistake the bond of caring affectionately for one another with that of romantic love. They can seem similar, but confusion can be fatal. And if one returns to a broken relationship thinking that what they're mourning for can be obtained in new immersion, only the problems of the original mistakes await him.

But what about when I spend time with my other, and we really seem to click? Does that mean it's better? Yes and no. The relationship itself is in an altered state, and you may find that your needs are finally starting to be met by your significant other. But what that really points to is not that it's time to go back. It more likely means that you two compliment each other much better as friends, and are in fact more capable for positive interaction without the romantic side of things.

From what I understood from Dan, however, that doesn't mean I should go and attempt a close friendship with her. But it does bring light into why, when we interact now, it feels much better than it used to. As far as romance is concerned, I must look forward, and search for someone who's strengths compliment my own. And that's not even most immediate. Before I do that, I need to make some friends.

Why are there owls in the atrium?

In the name of God, most Gracious, most Merciful...

This is my first blog. I feel as though I should start strong, and hopefully it will strengthen my resolve and perpetuate something more durable than a fad.

Today I was told that I must begin determining what it is that I am good at; what I would love to do; dreams; etc. I must also determine my strengths, and what I am able to bring to a relationship, as well as what I want from someone else in a relationship.

It is definitely a blessing that we have the Broene counseling center. I met my counselor, Dan, after one of my employers on campus recommended him personally. I had been to Broene Counseling Center in the past, and had a very negative experience with a different guy. But I trusted the advice of my employer and so I tried Dan out. Now I'm certain I will look back on this time and thank my God for Dan's perfectly placed presence in my life.

The advantage of having someone like Dan (and I do recommend everyone find a counselor, or shrink) is that he has about forty years of experience and study, which he utilizes while listening to me, in order to deconstruct the problems I'm having, and provide good direction.

Right now, my biggest struggle is the question of "Who?" After attaching my identity to my faith for so long, losing faith hasn't just been a loss of God's identity, but a loss in morality, direction, and ultimately my own identity as well.

So I now resort to the owls in my atrium. The bits of wisdom that fly and flutter about, in and out. Those that have come from others, and those that are my own. And this will be where they land.