Journal of an Awakening

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In about an hour I'm going to meet a friend named Carlos. I don't know Carlos very well yet -- I can recall talking with him a few times after church, and going out for coffee once, but not much more. I call him a friend rather than an acquaintance because in the interactions we've had, I've felt something much deeper than the usual shared interests. I hesitate to say that I 'like' him, for the same reason that I would hesitate to call a rose 'pretty'. The words are too shallow. He's the sort of quiet person who is easy to overlook, easy to ignore, and has a big heart that you'll never forget once he's touched you. Carlos is Hispanic, and his culture takes friendship very seriously -- far moreso than American culture, where most of what are called friendships should really be called acquaintanceships. I'm pretty sure that if I were to ask of him, he would give me more than he could afford (be it of money, or time, or emotional energy, or something else).

As I was sitting, watching my little brothers play Monotony, and chatting with Matthew, who is studying at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and not around very often, I felt a prompting to look for a gift to give him. What gift could I pull up for him in an hour? Well, I reasoned, I have my creativity back, so I'll probably be able to think of something. So I started thinking, and paced a bit (which is what I sometimes do when I'm thinking), and thought of this journal -- and quickly dismissed the thought, for several reasons. It is the project I'm presently working on, and when I'm working on a creative project I want to tell the whole world -- and so I send it to all sorts of people I know, including some who probably shouldn't be bothered. (Sometimes I do it for the wrong reason; I am doing it less to share than for an emotional desire for the praise I receive.) I also sometimes give gifts, or big gifts I've put too much work into too quickly -- before the relational context has been built up for a gift to have its proper meaning; it has somewhat of the same thing wrong as buying love. This journal-in-progress is not the sort of gift that is appropriate to give to an acquaintance whom you have only talked with for two hours.

I said that I dismissed the thought; it would be more accurate to say that I fought it with the same energy that is in defensiveness: Qui s'excuse, s'accuse. I fought it, and thought of another gift to give, a signed printout on nice paper of one of my poems. And I will give him that, too. But throughout the time, I had a feeling that I really should give him this journal. Finally came the words, "Think about who you are going to see."

When we first met, Carlos paid for the coffee, and (when I was feeling guilty about not doing a better job of fighting for the check, something I do badly) he said something; I don't remember the exact words, but he said that it tastes better if you don't argue about who's going to pay for it. Not fighting for the check can express a trust and acceptance of the other party's generosity, and letting someone else be generous and pay for it is as kind as paying for it yourself. Before that point, I felt bad about not knowing how to fight for a check; after that conversation, I have had some doubts about that custom -- it embodies some virtue, but doesn't go all the way. Love should be generous and willing to pay; it should also honor others' generosity. It is more blessed to give than to receive, and a holy heart should be willing to let others have the greater blessing. I might ask him to buy me a rice crispies treat when I get there.

Then I realized exactly what Carlos will do when he receives this. He will read it carefully and with interest -- probably making time for it soon after he receives it. He will feel honored to receive it, love me more for it, and use what it says when he thinks about what to pray for when he is praying for me. (Carlos, could you pray that I grow closer to my brother Matthew?) And for a friend like Carlos, even if I've only talked with him for two hours, this gift is perfectly appropriate.

My meeting with Carlos seemed a disappointment at first, but now I'm glad for it. He was interested in me, and asked questions about myself, but when I asked him questions about himself, he wasn't very talkative. I was disappointed at that, as one of the main things I had been looking forwards to in the meeting.

Carlos was feeling sick after work, and almost called to cancel our meeting. That was why he didn't say much; I caught him when he wasn't doing well. He treated me to a good steak burrito and a bottle of guava Jarritos. (When he asked how the burrito was, I told him that it seemed good, but I'd need another one to be sure.) And he said that he was glad we met.

There was one C.S. Lewis short story where several people were at a colony in space. After a number of events, the story ended with a monk asking in prayer, "Can you forgive me, Father, for thinking I was sent here for my own spiritual convenience?"

I was thinking primarily of myself and my own spiritual growth when I asked Carlos to meet for coffee, which there was nothing wrong about. We should place a great emphasis on our own spiritual development: what does it profit a man to gain the entire world and lose his soul? Here, though, God was calling me to the next step: to meet Carlos not for my own benefit, but for his. It was good for me, though, but in a different way: another step in maturing.

It'll be a good lesson to keep in mind as I see relatives today at Thanksgiving.

I prayed and went to bed early last night -- more slowing down instead of always moving. I woke up today feeling relaxed and truly refreshed for the first time in a while. I'm in the family car, moving up, and plan to get some sleep now.

I am writing this on a laptop which I am quite fond of. I use it for programming, writing, and other things. I wrote the above entry, shut it down to sleep, and when I next tried to turn it on, it wouldn't go on. My heart was placid; I expected a non-functional computer to be a disruption to what I do, but I wasn't upset. I think that's a good sign. I tried to turn it on just now, and it worked. I'm a little worried now, because of an intermittent failure, but I'm glad that this happened. I thought I was much more attached to this possession.

I think I might know what is wrong with the laptop; the switch may be bad. If so, that shouldn't cost much to replace.

I have struggled, and felt guilt about, a dislike for the aged. For a while, I haven't liked my grandmother, because her mind is going and she looks old. I remember some frustrating conversations in which I was unable to think of anything to ask or anything to say that would elicit a response which could appropriately be called normal adult conversation. I did not sin in having a dislike to deal with, and I do not think my guilty feelings were called for, but my displeasure at her presence and that of other seniors distressed me.

There is an element of beauty that is culture independent, but cultural conditioning can affect what is perceived as beautiful. Ideals of beauty vary from culture to culture. The American ideal of feminine beauty could be caricatured as a pre-pubescent boy with silicone implants. A healthy woman's body will tend to have thicker legs and bigger hips than most women on TV, and the Venus de Milo looks almost flat next to them. Many cultures would find our supermodels to be sickly, and nowhere here would we find a comment like one made by Marco Polo in the Travels, that a nation's women had breasts four times as large as those of normal women, and they were exceedingly ugly. Our culture's icons of feminine beauty are also very young. There is no chance that someone the age of Patrick Stewart or Sean Connery would be voted the sexiest woman in America. When an older adult appears in advertising, he is usually portrayed disrespectfully; many of the disapproving adults in Tropicana Twister ads were elderly, far older than anyone shown heralding a product other than something like Depends undergarments. It is disturbing that one way of promoting a product is to show a wrinkled nun making a face that would curdle new milk saying "We don't approve of Tropicana Twister." Would such a thing be done with a bosomy young nymph? We have very little sense of what it means to revere the hoary head, or why someone would refer to the aged as 'venerable'.

Tonight, amidst the fellowship, I was able for the first time in as long as I can remember to look at my grandmother and see her as truly beautiful. Yes, she is an octogenarian; yes, she is wrinkled, yes, she was sunken in her wheelchair. She still looked beautiful to me. And it was good, not only to be able to enjoy looking on her, but to realize that something had healed in me. It was something like what I realized as I wrote about Andy at the church office and my time with the Palestinian high schooler -- good to see an unmerited, God-given grace.

At most family gatherings, I have not connected with the other people, not clicked, not jived. (I was once kicked out of a frat party for that reason.) At this gathering, I wandered around a bit, initiating a few conversations (I had a good talk with my uncle Doug; he's a good listener), told a few jokes (Jenna had the most delicious expression on her face as she got them), and finally after sitting down with the adults talking realized that there was a relaxed synergy going; I had clicked, and was in the conversation. It felt a little like a campfire.

There was a poster I saw on the wall at Wheaton College's Computing Services, that talked about becoming a Unix wizard. It was in the form of a miniature catechism, and had questions like, "How many kernels do I have to take apart?" and "What books should I read?" The last question was, "How will I know I know when I am a Unix wizard?" Its answer was profound: "Never mind about when you will become a wizard. Just walk along the path, and someday you will look over your shoulders and see that the mantle of the Unix wizard has lain upon your shoulders since you knew not when."

I mentioned "In the Silence" in a letter to Grandma, saying that I would sing it to her at Christmas. She has a broken hip, and probably won't be around for that much longer. I hope that the expectation helps give her the strength to hold on, and that she will be able to hold on gracefully until then. She is very lonely in the nursing home, where she is to heal.

I have not had only blessings; I had to try over a dozen times to get my computer to boot this time, an old knee injury has been acting up (and keeping me out of martial arts), and there have been moments of sorrow, even at the gathering. Christianity does not on this earth promise escape from suffering, but rather joy in suffering. Does the thornbush have roses, or the rosebush have thorns? Before, I felt that the thornbush had a few roses; now, the rosebush has thorns.

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