sorely vexed

"Vexed. I'm sorely vexed,” said Commodus to his sister.

No, not really. That's just one of the lines in Gladiator that cracks me up. Don't know why I thought of it. Maybe Joaquin Phoenix (who's set to play Johnny Cash alongside Reese Witherspoon in this fall's Walk the Line.) was on the brain. Who knows?

I'm not vexed, but I am a little worried. Mike and Seth (Mike's best friend), are heading out to New Orleans to do some relief work this weekend. I wish I could go! I feel like I’ve invested so much energy in trying to pull things together in my own little world—getting a good job, planning a wedding, finding a place to live, attempting (and failing it seems) to maintain relationships with my friends and the church—that I’ve felt self-involved and small-minded. I would’ve liked to go, get away, and help somebody else. Maybe the Lord has something else in store. And please Lord, keep them safe.

musings

Mornings can be brutal. Especially when you seem to be caught in a pointless hurry. I arrived at work thirty minutes early in order to set up for a breakfast meeting, but when I got there, it was already done. Thirty minutes may not seem like a lot to you, but when you commute an hour and a half to work every morning, and thirty minutes earlier involves getting up before 5 am, thirty minutes seems like a lifetime of sleep to be had. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or curse. Well, at least I finally had time to redeem that free chicken biscuit coupon at Chick-fil-A that's been forgotten at the bottom of my purse for months.

It just occured to me that I haven't written anything about Hurricane Katrina. I don't know if I can. I am sad. I cried. I'll try to help where I can. I wish it didn't happen. "Lord." The word is full, and He is all I really have to offer.

don't fall asleep at work jasmin, don't fall asleep...

What's the most random place you've been hit on? I can now say at a red light.

We were both stopped at this light, and our windows were down.
"Bonsoir," came a French accent. (I know this sounds completely cheesy, but it happened).
I glance over out of curiosity, and he asks me if I knew what it meant.
"Good evening," I smile, glad that my years of French don't leave me looking like a complete idiot.
His eyes light up. "I'm Hans...What's your name?"
I just smile coyly.
"Are you picking up your kids from school?"
The light is turning green and we both start to drive...I'm turning left, he's going straight.
"Trust me, I'm a nice guy! We could get together...!" he's calling as I drive off.
I just laugh and wonder how in the world a guy would think that he could pick up a girl literally off the street like that. And I'd be inclined to think that his accent was fake if he didn't appear foreign...

I'm sorry that this is a completely insipid post, but it was just a funny thing that happened one day. At least I got a rise out of Mike. :)

Sigur Ros

I had a delightful surprise last night. Practically free tickets to see Sigur Ros at the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra at 8. Nevermind the fact that I had to get up for work at 5:30 the next morning, forget that crazy stomach flu that I’d been harboring, and I laugh at something as minor as car problems and inflated gas prices—Mike and I were on our way!

First things first. Hearing (and seeing too) Sigur Ros live was a spiritual experience. I mean, what else could it be when you mix Icelanders, cellos, and a falsetto to die for? The more I hear about Iceland, the more I become begrudgingly fascinated with their culture and the “other-ness” of it all. Why can’t I be a cool Icelandic gal? Or at least one of these cool artsy people that attended the concert? I have no body piercings besides the two in either ear, my hair isn’t short and/or spiky and/or colored blue and/or in dreds, although I could manage the dreds quite easily. And I wasn’t dressed in all black. Wait, I was. Whatever. Am I destined to feel out of place wherever I go, even if I probably do (or could at least) belong? That’s another question for another time, but I do love the neo-hippie types and the tattooed all over types and the “I’m so casual I’ll just wear jeans-and-a-t-shirt types.” I guess I fit in somewhere between them all.

Anyhow, seeing Sigur live was like being enveloped in a surreal painting that had been given a voice. I’m not sure if this makes any sense, but most of their music feels like love, and I couldn’t help finding Christ in that, which reminds me of something I’ve been reading in “Velvet Elvis” as of late about beauty. Bell reminds us that if we as Christians find something to be beautiful, embrace it because its essence is our Lord. Everything lovely and amazing (sorry, that’s a movie title) finds its origins in God.

There I was, a little cranky, sick, and tired, but in the midst of that I found that their song has the capacity to resonate so deeply within you; it’s like the music I imagine when the universe was created, and I feel as though somehow, we’ve all always been a part of it. It’s a paradoxically ancient and fresh sound that’s sometimes whimsical, sometimes haunting, and sometimes energetic, or a mix of the three. And any band that can make its crowd go wild with the sound of just one note and without once speaking that crowd’s language is a band definitely worth seeing.

So ended our night, and we began the sleepy drive down I-20 with the remnants of Sigur Ros echoing through us.

the wafer Christ

I've been reading "Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith," by Rob Bell, and though it comes as a surprise to me, I'm very much enjoying it. Never one to read much Christian non-fiction, I'm finding myself caught up in it, as I'm also reading Anne Lamott's "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith." Reading books about Christian spirituality had never really appealed to me because I found most of them to be poorly written and/or boring. I didn't want to read some "authority" claiming all this insight, when they were really just saying the same things everyone else was, but with a flashier cover. But I'm loving this growth spurt of Christian memoirs I've come across. Don Miller, Lauren Winner, Anne Lamott...good writers who've given me a story of their spirituality instead of distancing me with cold language and a Christ who is as stale and plastic as the communion wafers you struggle to swallow with a swig of grape juice.

Though "Velvet Elvis" isn't a memoir, the title was interesting enough to at least make me want to take another look, and by the end of the preface, "welcome to my velvet elvis," I was hooked. Bell compares exploring faith to the creation of art. If an artist decided that he'd painted the ultimate painting, the painting to end all paintings, the IT thing, and then announced for all other artists to simply quit because there was no more reason for further artwork, we'd think he was crazy (nevermind an arrogant, deluded, fool). Bell says that it's the same way with our faith:

...I embrace the need to keep painting, to keep reforming. By this I do
not mean cosmetic, superficial, changes like better lights and music,
sharper graphics, and new methods with easy-to-follow-steps. I mean
theology: the beliefs about God, Jesus, the Bible, salvation, the future.
We must keep reforming the way the Christian faith is defined, lived, and
explained (12).

Sound a little dangerous? Exploration usually is. But is also sounds like an adventure and a mystery. There is so much of Christ to discover and keep discovering. I'd much rather live my faith as an Indian Jones-like adventure. How much more intriguing, and exciting, and wonderful is Christ as an adventure versus Christ as a plastic wafer narrowly passing for bread?