Acrostic Fun and Nerdiness

Bringing the masses
Under and around
Stationary places.

A Quotable Friend

Whether we are diligent or not, time will pass and pay us no heed. But in our perseverance, we may reflect and see that our daily efforts have culminated to something beautiful, and our labor has not gone without fruition. That's what this much of summer has taught me. -Omar Mahmoud

Must Read

As much as it makes me squirm:

http://www.cardus.ca/comment/article/1032/

While Listening to Switchfoot

All the riches this world has to offer me will never do.
Bedrooms, staterooms,
Arcades, theatres, clubs, pool halls,
Oceans, mountains, deserts, forests,
Wide open grassy swell upon swell;
Sun falling down into the valley,
White, white roses,
Blades of grass,
Crashing waves,
Limitless galaxies,
Score upon score of human hearts:

I don’t belong here.

Daily Bread

Oh, the purely sensual delight of baking your own bread (and cinnamon swirl raisin bread, at that!)

It’s a great deal of work, you know. Especially for me. It takes three to four hours before the finished project. And it’s strenuous: standing on one leg (the other being broken), hopping from cupboard to cupboard, mixing, kneading, rolling, baking.

Did someone say the word breadmaker? Aha, no!

The problem with breadmakers is that they eliminate one of the most pleasurable steps in the bread making process: kneading the dough. If you’ve never done it perhaps I can help you understand. You are up to your elbows in a soft, floury mixture, dotted with raisins and swirled with spices. Your hands make a steady rhythm as you push, fold, and turn the dough. With every push, a sweet cloud scented with bread yeast, sugar, and spices, floats upward to rest under your nose. You could go on forever, but that might ruin the bread.

With the kneading process complete, the dough of course had to rise and that requires waiting. I could write essays on waiting, but now, of course, is not the time. Yet another pleasurable aspect of bread preparation awaits: the scent of the bread as it bakes. It’s baking right now. And shortly, I will remove the loaves from the oven and bless their little golden brows with some melted butter. And we all know what comes after that.

Perhaps we underestimate bread, and lose more than we think by not baking our own. Breads (or similar) have served as a staple in the diets of civilizations for thousands of years (explain to me the Atkins diet in light of that fact). Sliced bread is supposed to be great, but is it really? Jesus made reference to bread when He taught His disciples how to pray.

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

In our fast-paced world, where there isn’t time to bake bread or really make anything and the best substitute comes both pre-sliced and pre-packaged, I wonder if it is easier to forget the richness of God’s provision for us. If we were to slow down, I think it would be much easier to remember. This is the blessing buried deep in my injury and my current inability to keep pace with the world. Right now, I smell the bread baking in the oven and listen to my parent’s voices as they work and watch as the rain falls on freshly mown fields.

And I worship.

Nocturne

Humans lie
Crumpled and sprawling in the grass.
Not conscious, not remembering,
Their chests are rising and falling
With unseen breath.

Shirts soak up the sun
And drench the green
With bright reds and blacks.
So open to every attack,
And yet they sleep.

“Why does everyone have to die?”
You had asked me
And I had no answer.
But now I remember
Nobody dies for nothing.

I watch your chest rising and falling,
Rising and falling.

Adventures

Deborah took me out last night. Just out. We had plans but they didn't really work out, so she just piled me, crutches and all (yes, I was in an accident), into her shiny little car and we took off for a drive through the countryside.

We live in farming country in Ontario, so when we left town most of all we could see out our windows was miles and miles of rolling green and brown: plots of land either lushly clothed in grass or plowed and overturned to their rich, dark depths. Hemming in these plots of land are rows of trees that serve as windblocks: maples, oaks, a lacing of birches. There might be the occasional farmhouse. And then! Before you know it, we are within the vicinity of yet another small town. Shops, stoplights, and gas stations clamour for immediate attention.

As we drove, we listened to everything from country music to various flavours of rock to hip hop and back again. We sang frivolously until we turned down the music so we could talk. And talk we did. Deborah is one of those rare souls who listens as well as she talks.

We ended up driving north to Uxbridge, where the wide open spaces are wider and the hills in the road plunge deeper and the ice cream is more for cheaper. It was raining when we walked into the ice cream shop, but by the time we had made a decision and left, it had stopped. The most brilliant sunset was colouring the sky, and as a man outside the shop pointed up, we saw an enormous rainbow.

"And God said, 'Never again will I destroy the world by flood.'" I muttered under my breath.

Back in the car, at some point during our journey, I was struck with this thought: I am alive. I was in a life-threatening motor vehicle accident, but God chose to spare my life.

I am alive. I looked over at Deborah, I looked out the window, and I gave thanks.