Wretch.

Sometimes, I seriously hate myself.

I say this because, for one, it's the truth. It doesn't take much for me to get down on myself. One mistake, whether it's a minor verbal slip or a major lapse in judgment, and I'm growling at myself inwardly. When I give my best effort, and it isn't enough - or worse, my best effort only makes the situation worse - I want to punish myself for being such a screw-up.

The main reason I say this is because I've seen several of my friends post similar comments on their blogs, and I want them to know they're not alone. Not by far.

I have a lot to learn about how to love myself, particularly being able to forgive myself for mistakes. God is teaching me, and I'm slowly learning. It's not easy. As it turns out, there's a reason we sing Amazing Grace. The title of the song isn't "Well-Earned Grace." No such thing. It's amazing that God dispenses his grace to us, even though we mess up so very often.

Here's my problem: I focus so much on the "amazing" part, I miss the essence. Grace.

"Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." -Paul, Romans 5:7-8

I do God a grave disservice by beating up on myself. The only place for guilt and shame in my life is as an indicator that it's time to repent. That's it. Learn, turn, and move on.

God's love is greater than my failings. In him, I have hope to learn from my errors and grow beyond my own miniscule power.

I'll be praying. That our attitudes toward ourselves won't hold us back. That our anger toward ourselves will be momentary and constructive. And that God himself will show us a love greater than our mistakes.

How sweet the sound.

Upcoming Releases (updated)

I'm excited. Today, I recorded my addition to the Pipeline Devotions podcast: a reading of the devotional I wrote for the Pipeline MySpace page. If you're interested, follow the link above and look for the episode entitled "The Purpose of Religion." Don't miss the other good stuff there, too.

Update: My devotioal is up on the Pipeline Devotions podcast! Follow the link above to subscribe, or just download individual episodes. All of this is free.

If you're listening to the podcasts, please also take the time to leave comments in the iTunes Music Store. Just navigate to the podcast's site in the store, and scroll down until you see "Customer Reviews." Click the little arrow to add your own feedback.

The Razorclown Returns

Brainstorm:

[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.

game on.]


Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.

He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.

And that thing.

The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"

"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.

Naw, it's not worth the risk, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.

The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.

Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.

Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.

"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.

"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.

Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.

To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.

~

The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.

Silence.

"...what?" he asked.

"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"

"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.

The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"

Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"

Silence.

"...which was full of fish..."

A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"

Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"

The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.

The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.

"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.

"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"

The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."

"Yup." Zippy smirked back.

~

The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.

Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.

Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.

He sneezed at the dust.

Behold!

What? A post? How is that possible?

Big news. The college group at my church has begun a podcast. I'm excited.

Check it out in the iTunes Music Store. Search for "Pipeline Ministries," and you'll find one with a black logo with little red stars. That's us. It's free, and full of good content: daily devotionals, mini-messages, and the lesson from that week's Sunday's Cool (don't blame me. i didn't name it).

Also, for more devotionals (some written by myself), audio and Pipeline news, check out our MySpace page. We're putting that blasted social networking site to good use!

Expect more soon on this particular site. Apparently, I'm supposed to be writing.

A song isn’t just a song when it’s attached to a story.

People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”

They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.

I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.

Second, they were playing the radio.

Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.

I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.

I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.

I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”

They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.

She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”

I really enjoy putting together playlists. Something about establishing a mood with music, then elaborating on it. There's an element of storytelling there for me - I get a lot of story ideas while listening to music, and I always visualize action to go with a song.

Here's a CD I put together recently. I looked through my collection for different shades of alternative rock and assembled them into something of a flow. Expect other playlists in the future. But for tonight, DJ Razorclown presents:

One Alternative or Another

1) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

2) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

3) Bush, "Jesus Online"
   from The Science of Things

4) Switchfoot, "This is Your Life"
   from The Beautiful Letdown

5) The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"
   from Bringing Down the Horse

6) Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe"
   from Songs About Jane

7) Green Day, Oasis, et. al., "Boulevard of Broken Songs"
   from www.partyben.com

8) Foo Fighters, "New Way Home"
   from The Colour and the Shape

9) Imani Coppola, "Legend of a Cowgirl"
   from Chupacabra

10) Incubus, "Stellar"
   from Make Yourself

11) Damien Jurado, "Ohio"
   from Rehearsals for Departure

12) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

13) Stone Temple Pilots, "Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart"
   from Thank You

14) Gorillaz, "5/4"
   from their self-titled CD

15) Fuel, "Walk the Sky"
   from Godzilla: The Album

16) The Refreshments, "Mekong"
   from Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

17) Sarah McLachlan, "Possession (Live)"
   from Mirrorball

18) Bush, "Letting the Cables Sleep"
   from The Science of Things

19) Cold, "Sad Happy"
   from Year of the Spider

20) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love (Studio Mix)"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Original Soundtrack

For once, I have an excuse for not posting recently. Ironically enough, that reason is also a good occasion for a blog post. And thus, once again, I'm left without a defense.

I started working full-time at JPlus Architects last Tuesday. It's quite an adjustment to go from relative idleness to getting up at 6 am and working over eight hours... and loving it. My time feels more precious now, which I greatly appreciate. I know I've done something in a given day, though I have much to learn about my craft.

God continues to bless. Life is good.

More to come soon!

“You keep laughing at me,” she said, because I did. She was chuckling herself.

She had stories to tell, and I was glad to listen. She’d managed to pay for our coffee, as my female friends tended to do somehow, and there we sat - indoors in Adirondack chairs, tall coffee cups just short of spilling over. We’d last happened upon each other in the True Love Coffeehouse, not long before it evaporated. Even before then, it had been a while.

Kelly (her pseudonym for this post) and I had been friends in high school, and behold, we still were. She had lived in interesting, unforeseen ways since I last knew her well, and I struggled not to compare. I imagine myself to be an extraordinarily boring guy, when it comes right down to it, so I was more than content to listen. And as she told her stories, I laughed.

It always annoyed me in English class when irony was broken down and defined as juxtaposition: when expectation and reality are far removed from each other. But with Kelly and me, this was exactly the case. Our lives are completely dissimilar. The fact that we’re friends at all kind of baffles me, but I love it.

So, I laughed. And thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. I hope she actually didn’t.

When she asked me what I’d been up to, I was fairly embarrassed to describe my life for the past couple of years. Whereas she has been working in politics, making contacts and advancing her career, I’ve been… well, certainly not doing that. Only recently have I found full time work, and that through a full-on conspiracy of the Holy Spirit. No kidding. The circumstances surrounding my employment are miraculous in their timing.

We talked about the times. About the various choices and circumstances that lead so many of our generation back to their parents’ houses (as I myself have done). About politics and economics. Briefly, about elephant tattoos. And we talked about old friends we had and hadn’t seen. More stories there, some wonderful, some downright depressing.

Eventually, we said goodbye for the evening. I waited for her to pull out of the narrow parking lot before I backed out of my space, still smiling. It had been a while since I had sat down and had a cup of coffee with an old friend, let alone Kelly. For all the nostalgia, the evening felt somehow new.

I worked an eight-hour day for the first time in a long time today. And I saw a dear friend I hadn’t caught up with in years.

There is a momentum shift at work in my life. I feel in plainly now. And I love it.

Praise God! who makes living worthwhile. Amen.

Here’s the difference.

Man-made gods tend not to make too many demands (not always true, mind you, but a strong tendency nonetheless). Quite the other way around. It’s man that goes to the idol with demands, and sacrifices to appease. A little blood to grease the wheels, to keep the days carefree and the crops coming in. If things get tough, throw more blood on the altar. And if things don’t improve, maybe it’s time to find a new idol.

“When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their teachers of the law.” –Matthew 7:28-29

Jesus, on the other hand, sets standards. Draws lines. He makes demands. He says he doesn’t want sacrifices, but obedience. As it turns out, he knows our hearts, our intentions… so we can’t appease him. We can’t get away with giving him lip service, because he knows when it’s just lip service.

Idols get any power they might have from belief. If no one worships them, they’re just another ugly little sculpture. This is not true of Jesus. He does not need anything. He is the author of the universe, and that will never change, no matter what we believe.

Yet, even though he does not need us, he loves us. To the point of death, and beyond, to life again. No graven image can claim that.

The difference is, Jesus is worthy of worship. Man-made gods are not.

Apparently, this is not as obvious as it should be.

I'm back.

Or, as Drake would say: "FINALLY! The Rock... eh, Brian... has come back to Sacramento!"

I'm currently staying at Mum's, in order to save up cash for a few months and then find a place to live.

For my new phone number, please contact me through e-mail (found on my Blogger profile), MySpace, or what have you.

Woot.

I've posted a short prose poem at Nights Awake 2.0.

On the WWE website is a little section called Foley is Blog. As it turns out, Mick Foley (see also his profile on WWE.com) is an excellent writer, and something of a humanitarian. I found the February 22nd entry to be particularly inspiring, and wanted to point it out. The entire entry is good, but check out the section under the heading Herma Grace.

I found this on Liesel's blog, and was intrigued. I've always been curious about what people really think of me. Not an uncommon thought, I'm sure. But this is an interesting device to discover just that.

Behold. The Interactive Johari Window and its counterpart, The Interactive Nohari Window.

If you decide to participate, perhaps the use of a nondescript, anonymous pseudonym would be in order. Something like "X1," so the next person can take "X2." That way, there will be no reservations about being totally honest. Just a thought.

I've made a couple posts over at Nightsawake 2.0. Be thou informed.

Also, I'm greatly enjoying Mark Buchanan's Your God is Too Safe, a well-put-together treatise on how wild, dangerous, and loving God really is. He is, you know. Thanks, Mum. Good Christmas gift.

And finally, Amanda has introduced me to a softer world, a very artful project indeed. Please, browse the archives and find your favorites.

I remember being advised to stay within the lines when I was coloring as a child. It’s not like anyone was trying to limit my creativity; it’s just that if you don’t stay within the lines, the picture is totally incoherent at the end. The lines blur under patches of color, and the image becomes something else.

Today, we in the modern West are presented with an increasingly abstract image. Long-familiar lines have become blurred and obscured.

The line between life and death – should it not be clear? – is disturbingly ambiguous. Medical technology permits us to prolong a failing pulse… indefinitely? How alive is the comatose woman, devastated by a car accident a decade ago, sustained only by life support? And who decides when to turn off the machines? Somewhere, there is a line between life and unlife, but where? As a nation, we still cannot agree on whether a pregnant mother carries within her an unborn child, or merely a fetus. The difference cannot be overemphasized.

Gender lines have been drawn and redrawn. A thousand maps exist, a thousand theories on who is who and why. I told a friend that I’d never met a transgender person, and she told me that I had, naming them. That, I realized, was why I’d had a problem figuring out whether they were male or female: they were in-between. Even for those who remain in their natural sex, gender roles are continually rejected and recast. Homosexuality moves into the mainstream, and the questions continue to pile up. What happens to parenting, or romance, or family, when male and female are all but interchangeable?

The private blurs more and more into the public. People worry about the prevalence of surveillance technology, the constant monitoring and tracking of their day to day lives. They then proceed to post deeply personal information – thoughts, gripes, vendettas – on the Internet. (I am sharply aware that this blog is accessible by a startling number of people throughout the world, but it seems that many bloggers are not.) While on the Internet, they can easily find descriptions, pictures, and video of the most explicit and intimate personal acts imaginable. Sex and more. This trend is reflected not only in the dark (and light) corners of the Internet, but in practically every other form of mass media. Is it permissiveness, or openness?

Truth and falsehood slip increasingly into obscurity. Spiritual beliefs have been assigned their own corner of reality: they cannot be right or wrong. Everyone believes what they believe, and everyone is right. Even if their beliefs contradict. I posed this question to a friend: if she didn’t believe in trucks, would she die if a truck hit her? “No,” she said. I hope she was an extreme example.

Change is afoot.

And the price? Confusion, at least, and on any number of levels. Loss of innocence. Some of our social experiments, I think, shall fail. All that remains to be seen is which, and how badly. Some, however will be great boons to society. I am cautiously optimistic about the advent of the blog, and the idea of bringing wide scale publishing to the masses. I think a certain level of openness on the subject of sexuality is quite healthy.

But when I read in the first chapter of Genesis about the Earth being formless and covered in darkness, I think of a world with no lines, no boundaries. Everything is permitted, supposedly. But the Holy Spirit still hovers over the face of the waters, eagerly awaiting the day when the darkness will be utterly removed, and the lines that have always been there will be undeniably clear.

Because in the end, some lines cannot be erased by man.

Every so often, there's a survey or somesuch making the blogging rounds that's worthwhile. The following is a list of questions you ask a music player set on random. Given my extensive iTunes playlist, I had to give it a shot.

In the end, it seems that iTunes is generally a poor oracle. I hope.

Here goes.

~ ~ ~

Q: What do you think of me, iTunes?
A: “A Stray Child” by Akira Ymaoka, from the Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

Either I’m a street urchin, or I’m doomed to whack horrid abominations with a lead pipe. Cool.

Q: Will I have a happy life?
A: “Skyway” by the Replacements

Hmm. The song is about an imaginary transportation system. This does not bode well. And the girl gets away.

Q: What do my friends really think of me?
A: “P5hng Me A*wy” by Mike Shinoda and Stephen Richards, a remix of “Pushing Me Away” on Linkin Park’s Reanimated.

Oh, grand.

Q: Do people secretly lust after me?
A: “Tonight” by the Orange County Supertones

A song about the end of the world. So, maybe if I were the last man on Earth.

Q: What does [insert significant other] think of me?
A: “Technicolor Jackets” by Blood Has Been Shed

Whoa. A hardcore rock song. Whatever they feel, apparently they feel it strongly. The lyrics suggest that I have a lot to learn. About… something.

Q: How can I make myself happy?
A: “Stalker Goes to Babylon” by the Pillows

*laughter unto death*

Q: What should I do with my life?
A: “Good King Joy” by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, a medley of “Joy to the World,” “Good King Wenceslas,” and some blues action.

Make a joyful noise. On it.

Q: Why must life be so full of pain?
A: Track 2 on Nick Cates’ “Jesus Songs”

Amen. Heh. Y’all gotta hear Nick’s stuff. Ask me about Track 4 sometime.

Q: How can I maximize my pleasure during sex? (hey, it was on the list.)
A: “Until It Sleeps” by Metallica and the San Francisco Orchestra

*fighting back chuckles* Note not only the name of the song, but the fact that it’s fom a CD called S&M.

Q: Will I ever have children?
A: “H.” by Tool

If that’s the case, I hope not. Yeesh.

Q: Will I die happy?
A: “Prayer” by Disturbed

A resounding no.

Q: Can you give me some advice?
A: “Battle, Scene II” by the Black Mages

Cool. I’ll get my sword.

Q: Do you know where your children are?
A: “Ghost Love Score” by Nightwish

…kids! Time to come inside! KIDS? Uh, oh.
Good think I have my sword.

Q: What do you think happiness is?
A: “Sad Happy” by Cold

Dang, iTunes. You okay?

Q: What's your favorite fetish?
A: “Death Star Canteen” by Eddy Izzard

Turn-ons: Black plastic armor, asthma. (A Drake running gag.)

For me, every day is Christmas. Though the official feast day has passed, Jesus continues to invade.

Today, a repost of a story I composed and put up last year. I hope it will remind you of miracles.

The First Noel, 2004

    The Hanukkah travel rush was over, and Bethlehem was quiet again. Hence, the corner where Ben Simon worked the graveyard shift hadn’t seen a car pass in ten minutes. He looked up from his English textbook and peered across the street, to the small booth where his friend Isaiah worked. They had both gotten late-night jobs at gas stations at about the same time, and frequently used faux company loyalty as an excuse to pick on each other. Diagonally across the intersection from Ben was a third gas station manned by Mordecai Steinberg. While Ben and Isaiah had the occasional squeegee fight in the middle of the empty road, Mo usually stuck to his booth dutifully, reading the Torah.

    Tonight was too cold for squeegee fighting, and the batteries had just run out in Ben’s Game Boy. His parents were mad at him for working on the Sabbath, and he had homework due on Monday.

    Ben was all but dozing off when someone knocked on his Plexiglas window. He started and sat up on his shop stool.

    “Sorry. What do you need?” Ben rubbed one eye with his palm as he looked up.

    Outside the window stood a young woman wearing a military dress uniform. She was all straight lines – vertical spine, squared shoulders, and perfect uniform creases. And yet her face was gentle, hinting at a smile. Ben had no doubt she could take him apart in a hand-to-hand fight, and no one would make fun of him for getting beaten up by a girl afterwards.

    Her eyes grabbed his, very pale and very clear, and she smiled. “What are you doing here?”

    All at once, the world burst open. Light poured through the dingy windows of the gas station, and left no shadow. Ben Simon’s ears popped, his eyes widened, and he threw up his hands in terror. The woman outside the window threw light like a pure white sun, her smile only growing wider.

    “Don’t be afraid!” she whispered to Ben. “I bring good news. The best news the world has ever heard. An hour ago, right here in Bethlehem, a Savior was born. The Messiah, Ben. Right here.”

    At her words, the fear began to drain away. Ben lowered his hands and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and full of joy, and they stole his breath away.

    The Messiah. Here.

    He found his breath, struggled to pull it in. “Wh-“

    “Not five blocks away. Down the street,” she said, lifting her arm to point, “you’ll find a newborn, wrapped in cloth. He’s in the laundry room of the hotel, lying in the sink.”

    Ben barely had time to picture the King of Kings in his makeshift cradle before the angel looked over her shoulder, laughing. A battalion of soldiers in the same uniform, burning brighter than the day, swept in on wings of gold and silver, filling the intersection and the surrounding streets. Their voices shook the walls of Ben’s booth as they shouted, “Hallelujah in the highest! Peace on Earth to the favored of God!” There voices were as joyous laughter, filled with love and zeal.

    The angel looked back to Ben, her wings unfolding like the sunrise. “Go, go!” she shouted giddily, and he lifted herself from the ground. Behind her followed the rest of the brilliant soldiers, shouting their chorus again and again. Moments later, the night was quiet again, and Ben could hear only his own riotous pulse. He stumbled out of his booth, staring at the sky, until he finally looked down to see Isaiah and Mordecai standing next to him.

    “You... you heard that. You saw it,” Ben stammered.

    “I know which hotel she meant,” Isaiah started, stealing glances at the stars. “We should... I mean, we’ve gotta- Mo! Wait!”

    Mordecai Steinberg had turned and run headlong back toward his gas station, pumping his arms like an Olympian. He spun about breathlessly and shouted back:

    “I’m getting my car! Don’t move!”

* * *

    “Fernando! Is it refreshing?”

    “Crap, I’ve got no bars. We hit a dead pocket... no! Wait, there it goes. What does it say?”

    “Turn around! Shaun, turn around!”

    The van halted sharply, and the young man and woman in the back braced themselves as best they could. Bina Zarafshar clutched at the notebook computer on her lap as the monitor swung forward and down. The cord running from the computer to their team’s cell phone snapped taught, and Bina caught her breath.

    “Ai!”

    Fernando noticed at the last second and pulled down his hand, slackening the cord. He chuckled nervously and sat down. “That was bad. Almost tugged it right off your lap.”

    “It’s okay. It’s fine. Wait. Did we-“

    “Yes, yes, we got dropped. But we’ve got good reception here. Good spot to reconnect.”

    Shaun parked the van and climbed into the back.

    “How close are we?”

    Bina looked to the chart. The latest data from the feed had been factored in, and the numbers were huge. Monumental.

    “Oh, we’re close.” She couldn’t help but laugh. They were almost on top of it. “Try turning right back at that last intersection.”

    Fernando nodded and grinned eagerly. “This is too good. Too good. You should redial now.”

    “Oh! Right.” Bina double-clicked the link to her ISP, and the cell phone began dialing. None of them considered the absurd charges they were racking up, connecting to the Internet through an international call. The signal shot through the atmosphere, and a few moments later, the connection was up again.

    “Good,” said Shaun. “You let me know if we get dropped again, okay?” His eyes grinned every bit as much as his mouth. He hopped back into the driver’s seat.

    “Of course. Just brake easier!” Bina looked back to her screen. She logged back into the University network, and the feed began again. “All right, we’re receiving data... yes, definitely turn right back at that intersection. The stream was almost off the chart right there.”

    “Let me see,” Fernando said, leaning in to see the screen. Bina turned it toward him, and he laughed aloud. The graph, which read “Divine Particle Density,” showed a spike in an already remarkably high, steady level at about the time they had passed the intersection.

    “When we show this to the Nobel committee,” Fernando smirked, “do you think they’ll mind the name ‘divine particle?’”

    “It’s as good a name as any for what they are,” Shaun shouted from the front, putting the van back in gear. He swung the vehicle around as fast as he dared and headed back along the road. “Tell me the convergence hasn’t moved.”

    Bina shouted back, “No, it hasn’t moved for hours! And it has to be in this town... where are we?”

    “Bethlehem!”

    “No, what country?”

    They all laughed. For all they sleep they had gotten in the past week of tracking and traveling, they should have been exhausted. But sleep was far from their minds.

* * *

    No one was doing laundry this late, thankfully. There was a slight draft from under the door, but other than that, the room was warm enough. Joseph leaned on the wall by the sink, sleeves rolled up, looking down at his son. He hadn’t stopped grinning for hours. He couldn’t help but think that there was a better place to put him, but he had dried out the basin well enough. And besides, the child had been sleeping peacefully since the doctor had left.

    Joseph sighed happily and threw a glance at Mary, who stirred on her cot. A few thin, dark curls still stuck to her wet forehead, and her face was still ever so slightly flushed. Joseph knelt by her side, by his wife’s side, and let himself just stare at her face. Her mouth was barely open, her breath steady and calm. A nice change of pace from... had it only been an hour ago? He shook his head in awe and smoothed Mary’s hair back from her face.

    “My God,” he breathed, “you’re amazing.”

    Her breath drew in sharply, and her eyes flickered open.

    “Oh! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry...”

    “No, no, it’s okay,” she said sleepily, squinting her eyes and stretching. “Is the baby still...”

    Joseph nodded. “Yeah. Still asleep in the... sink.” He chuckled despite himself.

    Mary smirked, shaking her head from her prone position. “The sink. Oi.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s, catching his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

    Joseph squeezed her hand and held her gaze. He merely nodded, and leaned in to kiss her.

    It was then that the doorknob turned. The couple looked up sharply as a young man poked his head into the room.

    “Hello?” he said.

    “Hello,” Mary replied. There was suddenly no sleep in her voice, and she sat up on her cot.

    The young man was jostled forward by someone behind him. He stepped through the door, and two other teenagers followed, all scanning the room expectantly. They all wore blue uniforms with the logos of three different gas stations on their breast pockets. Their eyes settled on the sink in the corner at the same time. The one in the back gasped. “Is that... is the baby...?”

    Joseph threw his wife a confused look, and found her doing the same. “How do you...”

    “This way! It’s got to be right here!” came a woman’s voice from outside, speaking English.

    A moment later, three Americans burst into the laundry room, carrying a laptop hooked up to a cellular phone. They all wore wrinkled, lived-in shirts and jeans, and were watching the screen of the laptop with awe in their eyes. The only light-skinned one of the three, who had nothing in his hands, looked urgently to all those assembled in the small room.

    “Please, tell me one of you speaks English.”

     The three gas station attendants, Mary, and Joseph, all began speaking at the same time, in English.

    “Oh, thank God. Look, there’s a completely unique quantum event happening in this room, right here! We’ve been tracking it from America for the last nine months, and... what is it?”

    Bina had set down the laptop and walked over to the sink, almost in step with Ben. Joseph took a step toward them, but Mary put a hand on his arm. The Jew and the gentile peered over the edge of the basin.

    And there, wrapped in three of his father’s old t-shirts, was the child, his breath whistling softly through his nose. If peace were a child, it could be none other than this. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and Bina’s eyes lit up.

    “It’s him.”

    “It’s a child,” Bina gasped.

    Joseph breathed deeply, still uncertain. “How did you know we...?”

    And all at once, the rest of the new arrivals realized that they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly they were all laughing in delight. Ben knelt by the sink, eyes locked on the Anointed One. Shaun grabbed Fernando by the shoulders, tears in his eyes. “A child! Of course it’s a child!” He turned to Mary and Joseph to explain just as Mo Steinberg did the same, and they launched into their stories as one.

    “Wait, wait, wait!” It was Ben, who only now looked back up from the sink-turned-cradle. He held up a hand for silence, and turned reverently to Mary and Joseph. “What is his name?”

    Mary met his gaze, slowly beginning to smile again. “His name is Joshua.”

    They all took in the name in silence. Fernando grinned and nodded in approval. “Joshua. Jésus in Spanish. It means...” His voice trailed off.

    Mary nodded with him. “The Lord saves.”

Christmas Morning

It's been decided.
For a change of pace,
it will be the stars
that will shine down
on God.

There's been an interesting discussion on existentialism on Chase's blog. Check the comments on the Friday, Nov. 18th post.

I am contemplating becoming a student again, this time at William Jessup University in Rocklin. Those of you readers who pray, please do pray for me. My plans are only the most basic at the moment, but I'm hopeful things will come together soon.

I'll bet you'd never have guessed my next post would be about artificial sweeteners.

Not long ago, my Mom and I attended a nutrition class at our church. The instructor loaned Mom a video entitled Sweet Misery: A Poisoned World. Mom was so impressed with the movie that she had me watch it.

As it turned out, is was a documentary on the harmful effects of aspartame, commonly markeded at Nutrasweet. I took the information to heart and have since been telling people, offhand, that aspartame is dangerous. I didn't really questioned the documentary until last night, when Liam raised some objections to the chemistry behind Sweet Misery.

So, I leapt this morning into Wikipedia, and found their article about aspartame, which, incidentally, confirms the content of Sweet Misery.

I encourage you all to at least take a brief look at the findings before having another diet soda. A quick summary: when digested, aspartame breaks down into methanol, aspartic acid, and phenylalanine. All of these substances are potentially harmful to the human body, though to what degree remains controversial. That said, please note the heading "Recently published research" near the bottom of the article.

Heh. Also note that from here on out, you will be seeing a lot of Wikipedia citations in my posts. It's an amazing site, and I encourage you all to visit it frequently. Poke around, and see what you can find.