Becoming Korean #5: The right time for foot massages, mentoring, etc.

Last night, I went to a special dinner with the Koreans.* David (second youngest and most energetic of the boys) rode with me, while the others drove in the van.

“In America,” David said, “what age can you get a driving license?”

“Sixteen,” I replied.

“In Korea, any age can get a foot massage license.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Even five-year-old,” he added. “But tiny hands, so maybe not.”

I have been tutoring Korean students for a year and a half now, and I am still caught off guard by these strange and precious moments.

I suspect that I am not the only teacher who is on the lookout for “moments.” Hollywood has trained me to expect sudden breakthroughs of insight or connection, in which the student suddenly blooms. The gangbanger teeny opens up about his abusive father. The school outcast stands on her desk and bursts into song. These are the moments a teacher/mentor has been taught to expect.

I’ll admit, I’ve tried to force one a few times. Early this year, while helping Daniel with his homework, I came across a question that asked, “What would you like your friends to remember you for?”

Daniel had written, “Math.”

“I think it’s asking for something a little different,” I said, seeing an opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty (yes, I am using my Nacho Libre voice here).

I explained, “Like, maybe I would want my friends to remember me for being a nice guy. Or caring about them. You know what I mean? Is there anything that you would think, ‘I hope my friends will remember me for that?’”

He lit up as if struck by sudden inspiration and said one word: “Scientist.”

It’s real-life epiphanies like this that make you realize life isn’t as dramatic as the movies. The “moments” we stumble upon are mostly ordinary, accented with comedy.

But then again, some moments are awesome.

Some moments, you take two Koreans to your sister’s orchestra concert.

Daniel is enthralled by the orchestra, and Paul has brought a camera to document the concert. Taki, who is the boys’ guardian while the house parents are out of town, is enamored. Throughout the concert, Daniel whispers to me twice, once to ask me if this is a Christian school (no), and second to ask if I know that he will turn 13 in February (didn’t know that either).

When the concert is over, I introduce the boys to my grandma.

“This is Paul, and this is Daniel.”

“Daniel,” my grandma says, and she stares into the distance. “That’s what we were going to name…”

My mom gives her a warning look, and she trails off. I’m left standing on the brink of a mystery—that’s what you were going to name WHO?—and Daniel is left stranded on half an introduction. On my list of the awkward ways Grandma has introduced herself to my friends, this claims second. (Number one was when she introduced herself to some college friends by wiggling her fingers toward their feet and saying “Ticky, ticky.”)

Later, my mom introduces Daniel and Paul to a Korean girl from the orchestra who is friends with my sister. While Paul and Ju Yung converse in Korean, I overhear my grandma asking Daniel, “Is ‘Konichiwa’ Japanese?”

Daniel says yes, and then goes to inspect the snack table.

A friend touches Ju Yung’s arm and says hi, and Taki takes advantage of the opportunity to lean close to Paul, cup her hand next to his ear, and ask, “Is she a Christian?”

“Of course!” he whispers back.

As we’re walking out, I say in a playful manner, “That was a good concert. Nice cookies, nice girls…”

“Nice cheese balls,” Daniel adds.

In the car going home, Daniel asks me if I am good at math. Daniel is a math wiz.

“I was good at algebra and calculus, but it’s been eight years, so I don’t really remember much.”

“If you were a maniac for math, you would remember.”

“That’s true,” I say. (“That’s true” is my go-to response when I’m dumbstruck by the awesomeness of something Daniel says.)

I ask Daniel, “Are you a maniac for math?”

“Yes. And for Toby Mac.”

Without exaggeration, we have had no fewer than 15 conversations about Toby Mac, each of which begins with Daniel asking if I have heard of Toby Mac. Other recurring questions include “Have you heard of John Steinbeck?” and “Did you know Of Mice and Men has swear words in it?”**

“If you could be a car,” Daniel says, “what car would you be? Not like, you could drive it, but like you are the car.”

“I don’t know. I guess a Jeep Rangler or something.”

“I would be a Rolls Royce,” Daniel says.

“Your grandma very nice lady,” Taki says.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Josh, I saw a Rolls Royce commercial… Mr. Josh?”

When we drive at night, Daniel often thinks I have stopped listening if I keep my eyes on the road.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“I saw a Rolls Royce commercial, and there were three characters, and they were all holding up their M-I-D-D-L-E finger.”***

Moments like these are some of the highlights of my life right now. They are unplanned, unexpected gifts that make me surge with gratefulness and a certainty that life is indeed good.

Yet, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention that being a tutor can be a fearful endeavor. Not fearful in the way that being an ER nurse or a foster parent would be fearful. More like an uncle who suddenly realizes his responsibility to his nieces and nephews goes deeper than being the fun-initiator.

Some days, Mrs. Joy has stepped onto the porch with me as I leave, shivering in her slippers and clutching her arms against her stomach. She tells me how worried she’s been about the boys, how some of them have been getting into trouble. She asks me to pray for them, to be a good example. She asks me to help. Only Daniel is her son, but she calls the students “my boys.”

During a time of frequent uncertainty, restlessness, and melancholy, the Koreans’ home has been a source of unexpected grace. Yet, I’ve become increasingly aware that this is more than just a blessing to me, that I am meant to be a blessing to them, and I feel my inadequacy. I am not a dad. Neither am I a trained teacher. I don’t know how to encourage these boys. I want to invite them to do things with me, to go bowling, to get coffee, but I find myself shy and insecure.

Some insecurities I face:

1.                    Is this creepy? (There’s this kid next door whose family is pretty messed up. I recently asked if he wanted to play basketball or go hiking or something, only to be told later by my family that my “reaching out” may have sounded regrettably close to, “Hey kid, want some candy?”)

2.                    Will I be rejected? (What if they would rather I left them alone?)

3.                    Do I have anything to offer? (I can barely keep my own life together, so what makes me think I could mentor others?)

Several of my friends and I have been talking lately about the verse in Malachi that says, “God will turn the hearts of the fathers to the sons and the sons to the fathers.” Many of us have had the experience of reaching out to spiritual fathers and mentors, only to feel frustrated when the vulnerability isn’t reciprocated. I am not old—I relate more to the son than the father—but even in my small way I’ve encountered fears that I imagine many fathers face, ones which hinder the Biblical movement of father to son. I am now of “mentoring” age, and I find myself second-guessing every interaction. Do I have anything to offer?

I cling to the same hope that inspires most of my interactions with friends and family—that somehow merely loving them will be enough.

A few months ago, as I was struggling to overcome my insecurity in loving these boys, Paul sat down beside me and said, “I respect you.”

I thanked him and laughed it off awkwardly, but he punched me in the arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, “No, I respect you.”

I was shocked at how vulnerable he was being with me, how much courage he displayed. Could I be that vulnerable, not only when I’m the younger one, the one in need, but when I’m acting as a father?

There are people in my life who may secretly be longing, if not for a father, for an older brother to come alongside them. If I quietly decline to engage with the young people in my life, no one will call me a coward.
But let's be real here: the people in my life are not hard to love. God has seen fit to surround me with incredibly lovable people. So why not start taking those risks now, while the sacrifice is small?

*Incidentally, I use the term “the Koreans” because I can’t think of a better way of naming this ragtag group of people. They are not all from the same family or attending the same school, but they are all Korean. So, at the risk of reducing them to their lowest common denominator—the Koreans.

** Daniel once opened to the final page of Of Mice and Men and read the final sentence aloud to me: “Curly and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, ‘Now what the h-’” at the word “hell” he breathed out an “h” sound and then mumbled the rest of the line. He looked at me to see if I was scandalized. I was not.

***While blogging, I often wonder if people would care if they knew I was mentioning them online. I have had several conversations with my mom that conclude with her saying, “Don’t put that in your blog!” This has become a bigger concern with this entry in particular, as I have recently become friends with Paul and David on Facebook. I don’t think they’ve read any of my blogs, and I wonder what they would think if they did. The ethics of blogging is something I’ve thought about a lot, and I still haven’t come to a conclusion. I hope that anytime I write about another person, any resulting humor or empathy arises from a shared humanity, not alienation or a violation of trust. What do you think about the ethics of blogging? Leave your opinion in the comments!

Becoming a Writer

The past several months have brought considerable change in my life. September 30^th was my last day working at Every Home for Christ. I left on good terms, and although two or three co-workers questioned my decision to quit during such a poor economy, I was blessed with the support of my friends and family. I had enough of a financial buffer to go a few lean months without a job, and I was looking forward to some time to pray, seek God’s vision for the future, and write.*

I have decided to become a writer.

For many, this so-called “decision” will sound a bit silly. After all, I’ve been writing (although not finishing) novels since I was in junior high. I have a degree in English. I read a lot, and then I talk a lot about what I read. Of course I’m a writer!

But there has always been a safety net, one which isn’t immediately apparent to others. You wouldn’t know it, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I am whispering to myself, It doesn’t really matter. I enjoy writing, but it’s just a hobby. I’m only playing.

This shrinking away—where nobody knows it but me—keeps me safe if I fail, protects me from the vulnerability of full commitment. Secretly, I have been holding out.

I’m tempted to wait until I know I’m a writer, deep in my gut. I want 100% certainty. I want a renowned writer to press his hallowed fountain pen into my hand and pronounce, “Son, you’ve got what it takes.”

Unfortunately, this mystical passage into writerdom has yet to take place. “I am a writer” is a statement I can only breach with a deep breath and a running start. I’ve read dozens of interviews with writers, and they all say the same thing: insecurity is part of the job. Even after being published, many writers wonder if it was a fluke. The more writers I read, the more I realize that the only thing uniting them is a decision to write, a decision that has to be made day after day after day.

I am a better writer than most people I know, a sentiment that sounds proud until you consider that your garbage collector is a better garbage collector than most people he knows. But I am not a better writer than most people I read, which is where insecurity comes in.

Not to mention the social implications.

Every time someone asks me what I’m doing these days, it’s with a certain sheepishness that I admit I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid they might associate me with that pale dude who lives in his parents’ basement, constantly mentions dead writers, and sometimes wears a Batman onesie. (Wait a second… that’s me.)

Consider: I am 25 and living with my parents. I am 25 and single. I am 25, and I just quit my full-time job with benefits to work at a coffee shop and write a novel. From day to day, I can hardly keep up the confidence that I am doing something worthwhile, let alone explain this to someone else.

The greatest encouragement I’ve found comes from (surprise!) Flannery O’Connor. She writes in a letter to a friend, “No matter how just the criticism, any criticism at all which depresses you to the extent that you feel you cannot ever write anything worth anything is from the Devil and to subject yourself to it is for you an occasion of sin. In you, the talent is there and you are expected to use it. Whether the work itself is completely successful, or whether you ever get any worldly success out of it, is a matter of no concern to you… You [must write only] for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit. Resignation to the will of God does not mean that you stop resisting evil or obstacles, it means that you leave the outcome out of your personal considerations.”

I could write an entire blog on this idea alone, but I believe that we will all be held responsible for what we have been given. Whether it is much or little, we must all bear increase to God. That’s why I have chosen to be a writer. I’ve allowed ample time for the desire to desert me, time to realize that writing was merely a schoolboy’s dream. I don’t know that I am “called” to be a writer. But this desire, and the skills the desire has honed, aren’t going away.

So I choose. And I am thankful for the grace God has given me to keep that choice, with the encouragement of my friends and family.

Choosing to pursue writing has been difficult—more than I expected. But it is a choice I am free to make, whereas other choices have not been opened to me. I have been reading Ecclesiastes, a book of unlikely comforts, and it reminds me that we go through seasons. Yes, I have decided to become a writer, but I will not always have 10 hours a week to write. Seasons change. I hope to get married someday (soon?!) and have kids.

But I have been given this space, today, to write—and I don’t want to have to give an explanation as to why I squandered this time. Life offers seductive halls of ornate locked doors, all of which must be ignored in favor of the few that are open.

The only commonality between writers is that they write. And I think by choosing to write—in whatever capacity I am able—I am entering territory that many so-called “writers” have declined to tread. (How many artists, intercessors, entrepreneurs have yet to follow the most basic necessities of their pursuits?) I must write. I must sit down before a literal computer and type physical keys, and through this process I must suffer the dry feeling that comes when all the advice and all the theory and all the mysticism surrounding this mysterious endeavor is peeled away. I am only writing.

I have committed to create for at least 10 hours every week, a goal I have only come short of twice. Most days I write for two hours—which takes three hours, because (similar to other important endeavors) the first step is to surmount the distractions, insecurities, and impediments to the work. This takes more or less time, depending on the day, but I do not include that extra time in my weekly count. If there seem to be fewer blogs lately, it is because I fear anything that might make me lose momentum on my novel. There are many momentum killers. I follow the advice my friend John Mark has posted next to his easel, which reads, “Don’t think. Just work.”

I don’t know if I will ever be published. I would love to sell millions of novels, to win a Nobel Prize for literature. Heck, I would love to get a good review on Amazon. But being published isn’t something I can decide. Writing is.

Of course, writing is but one of the many things I give myself to, all of whose outcomes “are best left out of my personal consideration.” To be a writer, or intercessor, or lover of God, or lover of people—these are decisions which must be reawakened each new day, dressed, and snapped to attention, to await what grace God will give.

*This is an impossibly brief recap of the past several months. I will probably write more soon. Blogs aren’t optimal for describing all that goes into a big life decision, but I’m happy to talk in other forms if you’d like to hear the full story.

Becoming Korean Part 4: Things You Don't Say to a Korean Momma

Never tell a Korean momma that you don’t feel good.

I walked into the Kim’s house last night with a sore throat and stuffy nose. When Joy, the mother of the house, asked how I was, I told her I was good but feeling a little sick.

Five seconds later she was pouring me a thick tan smoothie from the fridge. “Homemade!” she said. “Whole grain, vitamins, seafood!”

The moment I finished it, she swapped my empty glass for a full one, this one filled with a dark brown liquid. “Drink!” she commanded. As I raised it to my lips, she added, “Tastes bad!”

I hesitated, but she urged me on, and I took a sip. It did taste bad. I couldn’t nail down any of the flavors, and I didn’t have time to try, because Joy Kim was not done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She pressed her finger against the base of her throat and motioned for me to do the same. I did, pushing my finger into the soft space beneath my Adam’s apple.

“Press hard,” she said.

I shoved my finger deeper into my throat and tried not to wince. This was made more difficult when she insisted I continue drinking. Finger lodged deep, I tipped the cup back and downed the rest of my glass.

For a few minutes we made small talk. Much of our talk is small, even when I’m not cutting off my respiration. Mrs. Kim is not as good at English as Mrs. Choe last year. Talking with her is good practice for using short sentences and inventing new sign language. Here’s a short conversation I recently had with her:

Joy: “John Wesley?” [grins and nods vigorously]

Me: [nod]

Joy: “We see where he die.” [clutches throat and lolls head, still smiling]

Me: [smile]

Joy: “In Fiji…” [makes outline of an island] “…people eat… other people” [brings her arm to her mouth and gnaws, tilts head, smiles]

Me: “Yeah. Cannibals?”

Joy: “Yes, yes! Cannibals! John Wesley, they eat him.”

Me: [smile and nod]

When talking to Joy, I always feel a pressure to smile as big as she does. I don’t want to seem unengaged. After many grand attempts, however, I’ve decided that I simply cannot equal her smiling power.

Still standing in the kitchen, I tried removing my finger from my throat.

“Joshua,” she said, her voice stern. “Keep press.”

I keep press another five minutes.

While we talked small, she mentioned that she did acupuncture. I nodded and smiled, but then I realized she was offering to do it to me and I quickly said, “No, that’s okay.”

Disappointed, she released me to go tutor the students.

When I came back up an hour later, she asked, “You feel better?”

“A little,” I lied.

“Not better?” She seemed shocked. But then she smiled. “I do acupuncture after dinner.”

“Okay,” I said. Why did I say that? I don’t know.

“I put needle in throat and ear.”

“Okay,” I said.

She studied my face. “Fear?” she said.

“No.” I lied again.

Throat and ear? Before yesterday, I’d had no experience with acupuncture. The pictures I had seen were all of people lying facedown on a clean white sheet, needles protruding from their backs. On the list of places I wouldn’t want a needle, throat is third (eyes and crotch claiming gold and silver, respectively).

Dinner was a short reprieve from the building tension. We were having one of my favorite Korean meals—Bulgogi, a kind of Asian barbeque lettuce wrap. (Note: Don’t verify this definition with a Korean.)

Joy finished eating last, which meant that I had a lot of time to observe her deft use of chopsticks. I kept imagining her plunging one into my neck.

She ate with careless delight, and I began to hope she had forgotten. But after rinsing her plate, she washed her hands and said, “Ready?”

She motioned for me to wait on the couch, and a few minutes later she returned with a tray, loaded with foreign instruments and needles.

“Fear?” she asked again.

“No,” I laughed.

She gave me a container of vitamins, and I ate one. She gave me another container. I ate another vitamin. She gave me a small packet like one Americans would use for sweetener. I tore off the top and choked down a chalky substance. She gave me another packet, this one bigger. I tore off the top and tipped it back, spilling tiny beads into my mouth. She told me to hold them in my mouth for one minute, then chew and swallow. Then she added:

“In one half hour, you will… very sleepy time. Your nervous system… down.”

It was at this point that I began laughing uncontrollably. It was like a case of the laughing hiccups for the next fifteen minutes.

She prepared her instruments, removing tiny needles from a package as she described how she had learned acupuncture. “In Korea, I am healer,” she said. Later, she added, “I do five years ago.” I wasn’t sure if this specified the last time she’d done acupuncture, or the year she graduated from healing school in Korea.

“I learn healing from Dr. Wong,” she said.

Ah yes. Dr. Wong.

I know all about Dr. Wong.

Dr. Wong is to South Korea what Steve Jobs is to America. His name has popped up in conversation throughout the year I’ve worked with the Koreans, always spoken with a hushed sense of awe. Throughout the house, you will not find a single picture of the Kim family—but you will find several of Dr. Wong and his family. When you eat dinner, Dr. Wong looks over your shoulder like the dining room’s own personal Chairman Mao.

Somehow, Dr. Wong was the one who had taught Mrs. Kim acupuncture. I didn’t know what to feel about that.

“How does it work?” I asked.

She tilted her head, confused.

“The acupuncture. How does it work?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How do you do it?”

Nothing. I tried again. “What happens when you do the acupuncture?”

“Huh?”

“Like… what does it do to make health come back?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It make blood cells come together and heal you.”

Thank you, Dr. Wong. I watched Joy compile the needles. Have you ever taken apart and reassembled a pen? It was kind of like that. She loaded each needle into a metal socket, and then affixed a spring over it, followed by a metal, torpedo-like canister. Each was about the length of my thumb.

Watching her, I felt myself getting light-headed, and I remembered how many times I’d passed out because of needles. (Three times. Twice while giving blood. Once in health class watching a video of a heroin addict shooting up.)

Assembly complete, she brought the first torpedo toward my neck. She whispered, “Very dangerous!”

I burst out laughing and pushed her hand away from my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm down. She looked at me, confused. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Be very still,” she commanded.

I felt the metal tip against my throat, which was still sore from finger pressure. Four quick needle stabs burst through my skin, and then it was over. I cautiously reached to feel the needles protruding from my neck, but there was nothing there. Apparently, this kind of acupuncture only pierces with the needle, but doesn’t implant it.

Next, she started applying tiny needle pads to my ears. These are like miniscule Band-Aids, with a needle protruding from the center. The pain was minimal, and after a few minutes my ears were covered in the little things.

She looked at me straight on and grabbed an ear in each hand. Then she squeezed so hard that I felt the pain in the back of my neck.

“Hurt?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

She seemed pleased. Perhaps this is the Korean version of a knee reflex test.

She brought the needle-torpedo to my left ear and punctured the top. Then she fled from the room and returned with a paper towel. “Bleeding,” she said.

She did the same to the right ear, but this time she looked concerned. “Dark blood.” Her face dropped, and she gazed at my ear as if seeing a bad omen. “Daaark blood.”

I nodded solemnly to show her I appreciated the gravity of the situation.

She replaced her tools in the tray and grabbed my left hand. She singled out my index finger and stared intently at it. After several beats, she met my eyes and said, “Intestine, not very good.” This she said with a motherly, scolding tone. I almost wanted to apologize. But then she looked at my pinky and smiled. “Kidney good.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Finger shape… color…” Trying to reassure me about the intestines, she said, “Many Korean, their intestine very bad. Yours, a little bad.”

“Oh good,” I said.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. "I feel good."

Why Flannery?

Describing herself to a friend while struggling with the disease that eventually took her life, Flannery O'Connor writes, "I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face... I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship." Unhappiness with her physical appearance, coupled with a natural camera shyness, led her to submit a painted self-portrait to her publishers for the dust jacket of an upcoming novel. You can imagine her publisher's shock at receiving the above portrait, which she painted with a palette knife because she felt disinclined to wash brushes.

Her publisher refused to use the portrait and soon sent a photographer to her farm in Georgia. After the photo shoot, Flannery writes, "I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. The one I sent looked as if I had just bitten my grandmother and that this was one of my few pleasures, but all the rest were worse."

Which is how we get gems like this:

This is how I usually imagine her. There's something guarded in her posture. Her eyes are aggressive in the manner of an animal aware of being observed. In many photos she is smiling, but even in her smile, one notes a barely restrained mischief, coupled with an intensity of perception. It's this perceptive quality that marks both her personality and her work. Never leaving their perch, her eyes reach farther than her arms, grip harder than her fingers.

At this point, you're thinking, Wow, this guy is really into Flannery O'Connor!

Congratulations. You caught me red-handed.

When I reach that point in a friendship where I feel safe enough to confess that I am infatuated with a dead Catholic writer of Southern Gothic literature whose house was guarded by an army of peacocks, I always receive the same response: "Oh my God! Me too!"

But just in case I someday meet someone who doesn't share my obsession, this blog entry is an attempt to shed light on the question, why Flannery?

It wasn't immediate. When I first read her work, I was equal parts impressed and confounded. Mystery and Manners enlightened and fortified, but Wise Blood completely mystified me, so much so that I never finished it. I started reading her short stories. A traveling Bible salesman steals a girl's prosthetic leg. A boy drowns himself in an attempted baptism. Each story, I would turn to the last page and have no idea what I had just read.*

My admiration didn't truly solidify into something more until I began reading her letters. You see, I'm not as much enamored with her work, as with Flannery herself.

Condensing her mission statement into one sentence, Flannery writes, "You have to make your vision apparent by shock--to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the blind you draw large and startling figures."

This has become a sort of creed for me. Increasingly I am certain that, for those who desire such an aim, to live righteously requires an act of violence.

Flannery O'Connor lived by this violence. She lacked that useful camouflage, by which most of us distort ourselves to fit in more easily with those around us. Whether by choice or some kind of innate deficiency, Flannery lacked this adaptation mechanism. She was undiluted.

Fellow Southerners were scandalized by her writing. When she published Wise Blood, people hid copies in their closets, embarrassed to own such scandalous material. One cousin even sent her a note with just one sentence: "I do not like your book."

And yet, she was not revered by the writing world either. Initial reviews were scathing. Even the positive ones could be condescending. "If this is really the unaided work of a young lady," one author wrote, "it is a remarkable product." To which Flannery's mother irately responded, "Does he suppose you're not a lady?"

The key facets of Flannery's identity were rejected by those to whom she was most dedicated. To fellow Catholics, she was offensively profane. To fellow writers, she was offensively Catholic.

But really, she was just Flannery. Obstinately so.

Every age makes its own war against the godly. One generation will attack them for being too merciful, while the next attacks them for being too harsh. One age condemns Jesus for calling Himself God, while the next despises Him for calling Himself a man. Decades pass, while humanity proves that saying of GK Chesterton, when he writes that "there are many, many angles at which one can fall, but only one angle at which one can stand straight."

In response to a humanity that is always changing, most of us choose one of two options. One: we submit, mimicking the specific limp of our age until it becomes our own. Or two: we revolt, falling left when those around us fall right, painting ourselves black to combat an aggressive white.

One submits, the other revolts, but neither stands fast.

Spiritual violence is to laugh in grave situations, to be kind when kindness is out of season, to stand in silence when accused, to cast out demons in an age of materialism, to defend beauty against brutal efficiencies, to pray small prayers in secret while big men make shows of doing good, to marry for life, to make peace, to value others before yourself... to write very, very long sentences.

I aspire to be like Flannery, to live as a "startling figure" for the blind.

I know that she wasn't perfect, and I readily admit that the Flannery in my head is a mere caricature of the historical figure. Ms. O'Connor is merely one bold soul among a host of men and women who in every age have taken hold of a kingdom by violence.

I have many answers to the question, "Why Flannery?" But on this day in particular, July 24th, I must admit that my admiration for Flannery largely stems from her strong resemblance to another bold soul. In all of her coy humor, her bravery in the face of fearful circumstance, her keen sight, and her goodness, I know that one chief reason I love Flannery is because she reminds me of my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!





*If you are interested in checking out the literature of Flannery O'Connor, I recommend you start with "Revelation" or "Parker's Back," which are two of my favorite stories, both of which can be found in the collection, Everything that Rises Must Converge. If you are a writer, I also recommend a collection of her essays and speeches on the craft, entitled, Mystery and Manners. Either way, let me know what you think. I'd love to discuss!

Too Soon?

A few life rules: Don't read See Spot Run to a child whose dog has just died. Don't sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" to a friend whose girlfriend just broke up with him. Don't watch Nacho Libre with a family who has recently been terrorized by a luchador.

And don't write a funny blog piece about wildfires in Colorado Springs.

One year ago, on June 26th, I started working on a blog about the wildfire which was then sweeping through the region. Few homes had yet been affected, and the entry is light-hearted and comical. A few hours later, the entry became unpublishable, as the fire destroyed over 300 homes. What had been amusing was now devastating, and the last thing a fire victim wants is a blogger making light of a heavy situation.

But a few weeks ago, I thought to myself, "Maybe enough time has passed, and I can pull that blog out of the archives as an anniversary piece."

Enter: Black Forest Wildfire. The night it began, I tried driving to a friend's house to help her evacuate, but was met by policemen guarding her neighborhood. Seeing the way blocked, I parked a half mile away and sprinted through backcountry to get to her house, barely able to breathe through all the smoke and my crippling lack of fitness.

In between loads to the car, I watched the fire grow in the distance and said, "I don't think this one will be as bad as last year's."

But my friend's cousin knew the truth. A tattooed sage, he gazed into the distance and exclaimed, "F-, this sh- is about to f-ing explode!"

The sage was right. The most devastating fire in Colorado History, the fire burned down 500 homes in my city. The most trivial result being, my light-hearted blog was once again unpublishable.

But you know what? Screw it. I'm posting it anyway.

Enjoy!

Fire! Brimstone!

The house smells of smoke (and has for days), and I can hear planes overhead, rushing to dump water on the Waldo Canyon Fire, which just two miles away has “literally erupted,” according to news reporters. I literally have not heard so many uses of “literally” or “erupted” in my life.

It started on Saturday. I was swimming at a lake in Boulder and relaxing on the beach (non-Coloradoans should probably imagine a pond with a sandbox, but to us it’s a beach). When I returned to my phone, I had twelve missed calls and a voicemail from my brother. Panting as if he’s sprinting mere feet ahead of the fire, he yells: “Josh Skaggs, ANSWER YOUR PHONE! FIRE. BRIMSTONE. We’re evacuating. We’ve tried to call you a million times. Answer your phone. Bye.”

I called him back, and he relayed the news that a fire was burning near our house, and our neighborhood was under “suggested evacuation.”

I took off my floaties and changed out of my Speedo. Time to go home.

On the two-hour drive home, watching plumes of smoke smother the skies and wondering what to pack once we reached my house, John Mark, Kandilyn, and I began to discuss related matters—namely, the apocalypse. Right now, smoke towered above one mountain, but what would it be like when the very sun was blotted out of the sky? And what would we grab from our houses? Water, food… what else? Paper towels? An iPod?

John Mark, who had already considered this question, was fully prepared with a list of packing items for when the last days began. I mentally scolded myself as he reminded me of such items as knives, a fire-starter kit, a tarp. He concluded by sharing his plan to break into the local library and take its books on surviving in Colorado.

This is why John Mark and I are friends: when the end times hit, and everyone’s busting up grocery stores and Best Buy, he’s going to loot the library.

Shortly after I arrived home, my grandparents pulled up in front of my house with a trailer hitched to their SUV. I didn’t know whether to roll my eyes or start hyperventilating. I was upstairs, and I heard the front door open and then Grandma’s voice shakily calling: “Is there anyone in this house? Is anyone HERE?”

I came down and helped them go through the house, instructing them only to pack the most necessary items. During the next hour, Grandma continually consulted me about such items as “these towels” and “a pile of old shoes in Victor’s room,” to which I repeated, “Only what can’t be replaced.”

Anna, my seven-year-old sister, could barely restrain her excitement at the adventure of fleeing the house. As we scoured our home for anything important, she directed us to what she considered to be valuable, at one point handing me a quarter and two pennies and soberly telling me, “We should probably take this.”

...And that's it. I never finished this blog entry, because that afternoon a fire came roaring down the mountain, and cops were suddenly patrolling my street, ordering everyone to evacuate. It was two days before I heard news that my home was safe. I let go a sigh of relief, one which was shortened by the news of a friend whose entire neighborhood had burned, just one mile away.

This year, just as I am settling into my normal state of complacency, good ol' Colorado reminds me that life can change in an instant, that even with all our technologies and the buffers we think keep us safe, we are at the Lord's mercy. How much time will pass before I forget again?