On Light

He dipped the pen into the ink jar and wrote a few lines. The lonely candle cast flickering shadows. His head leaned toward the paper. His eyes strained to read his writing amidst the dancing shadows and weak light.
He smiled as he looked down at his work. He picked up the last blank page. After three months and countless notes, he sat completing his first chapter. His breath quickened, and his pen danced on the paper. He reached for his mug with his free hand. He drank the last drop of his fourth cup of coffee. He began putting his mug down, but his excited hand bumped against the candle stand. The candle fell to the floor. His hands jerked in reaction. His skin grew cold and white. The candle went out, and he sat there in the dark. His skin regained its normal tone. He sighed deeply and let out a muffled grunt. He rose from the table gingerly. With outstretched arms, he advanced slowly towards his bed. He crawled under his covers. With a final deep breath, he tried to find some sleep with tosses and turns.
At his printing press, each day consisted of work for Henry. As he worked, he incessantly wrote out further aspirations and dreams. Between presses, he would transcribe down notes of locations, characters, and plots for his stories. He awoke at sunrise, and the press churned out newspapers until the sun set. He would then rush home to write before the sky grew dark.
His father’s house burned down after a candle set a drape aflame, and a friend’s house nearly burned down by a newly acquired gas lamp. Henry did not own a gas lamp, and he used candles sparingly. His hands shook under the ideas in his head. The paper suffered silly typos. Food and coffee stained his notes.
“I can’t continue to live like this,” said Henry with a sigh.
“And how are you living?” asked his friend. His smile never left his face. He gazed aimlessly into the sky. His hands always fiddled with something. He twirled a pencil in his hand.
Henry said, “I have all these ideas and stories I long to express about, but all the sunlight is spent at work.”
“It seems that darkness is the enemy of your ideas. You need safe, dependable light.”
“I suppose I could dream of that.” Henry joked.
Henry’s friend’s hand stopped with the pencil. His entire body stiffened, and his eyes stared at the glass of lemonade. Henry looked on for a few moments before interrupting the trance. “What’s got your fancy?”
“Just something I’ve been toying with recently.”
Both sat silent.
“Henry, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll stay in contact.”
“Yes indeed. Do take care, Thomas.”
They stood up and shook each other’s hand farewell.
Years passed. Thomas experimented, and Henry wrote piles of notes. One day Thomas ran up Henry’s front porch and pounded on the door.
“I’ve found the solution, Henry!” he said unable to stand still.
He reached into his pocket and brought out a hollow, glass, rain-drop-shaped gadget. “With this your stories can finally be written without the worry of fire or regard to the sun’s wishes. I call it a ‘lightbulb.’”
Six months passed. Henry knocked on Thomas’ door. Thomas opened the door.
“It’s finally written.”
“What?” asked Thomas.
“My first book.” From behind his back, Henry presented a leather-bound book. The title read, The Telegrapher and His Friend: The Beginnings of Thomas Edison.
“I feel like I already know this story,” said Thomas, with a chuckle.
Before going to bed, Henry shut off the electric lamp at his desk. He wrote no notes before he slept.

Subway Scene

The subway came to a jolting stop. A mass of travelers scooted out of the train, while others bumped into each other to enter. A few people plugged into their iPods. A group at one end of the train engaged in loud debate and frequent laughter. The rest of the train remained quiet and somber. Steadily, the train gained speed to a cruise. The air-conditioning whispered overhead. The tracks rumbled underneath.

The door between cars opened. A thin boy around eighteen trudged into the train-car. His hands were leathery and dirty. His forearms bore two smudged tattoos: a spider web and a fading cross. His face was blank. His eyes stared ahead, perpetually. His head tilted down. New Yorkers continued reading their newspapers. Tourists peered at the curious sight. They whispered to each other.

He recited with a pitchy voice, “Hello, everyone. My name is John.” Taking off his hat, he continued, “I’m in a rough spot in life and I could really use the help. I’m broke. I’m homeless. I don’t have anyone to go to for help.” Pausing in the middle of the train, his head motioned from side to side aimlessly. “All I’m asking for is a little help.” His voice pitched at the end and the plea sounded like a question. “Anything will help.” He faced the train’s passengers with his empty eyes. He swallowed hard, as his head gradually fell further.

As he walked down, he offered his hat right and left. One women, sitting cross-legged, whirled her head away. Her hands tensed around her purse. The hat continued down the train. One anonymous dollar made its way into the hat. He stood before the travelers one last time. His eyes broke from their stare and darted from one person to another. No eyes met. His shoulders sunk. Turning, he put on his hat. He drew in a breath tediously. His hands gripped the handle to the door between the trains. He hesitated for a moment. Then, raising his head, he pulled the doors apart.

The train came to a jolting stop. A train-car emptied and filled with more quiet and somber travelers. The door between cars opened. A boy emerged from the previous car. His head angled down. “Hello, everyone. My name is John.”

A Scene of my Father

The graying clouds and dim kitchen lights made for a somber scene. The younger children sat in dining chairs while the older siblings stood around. They exchanged perplexed glances. The eldest shifted his fingers incessantly. The parents walked in, silent. The father sat down, facing his children. Taking time to look at them, each individually, he smiled. His thumbs fumbled in his folded hands. The wife took her place in the chair next to him. Her eyes were on him. A gentle smile lingered on her face despite the faintest quiver at the corner of her mouth. The children sat motionless under the silence. It began to rain.

“Kids... I’ve lost my job.” The father looked at his children. He noticed them shift in their seats. His youngest boys gazed blankly. He noticed the older boys grow stiff. He felt the touch of his wife’s hand grip his. Their eyes meet and locked. He then turned back to his children.

“The next few months will be difficult. But we’re going to make it through.”

A few months grew to eighteen. Savings emptied. Friends brought groceries. Resumes squandered paper. Appointments wasted time. Quite dinners followed unsuccessful interviews. Prayers grew longer. The father noticed the cloudy days more than the sunny ones.

Another day meant the hour-long drive back from a temporary job. It barely payed for itself. Steering the car into the driveway, he noticed squealing children spill out of the front door. They ran to the car laughing. The father chuckled to himself as they chased the car into the garage. As he walked out they told him about their day, interrupting each other incessantly. He listened, ignoring the worries rattling inside his brain like a hundred tacks. Their grins seemed oblivious to his weary face. He detected a hint of Lasagna in the air as he opened the door to the kitchen. He embraced his wife. They held each other for a moment. He went into his office and sighed, setting his briefcase down beside resumes, bills, and food-stamp forms. The phone rang. He answered it casually.

“Yes, Mr. Carman? The company we spoke of -- They’d like to make you CEO.”

The parting clouds and warm office lamp made for a rich scene. He stood there, unsure whether his heart would stop beating or bust through his chest. A breeze swept through the trees.

Thoughts on the Porch

My family moved into our house 3 years ago. My parents designed it with our family in mind. They yearned for a final resting place. The blueprints always included a wrap-around porch. Friends thought we would hardly use it. The contractor agreed. My parents stood firm. After moving in, my siblings and I spent most of our waking hours on that porch.

The left side over-looked the garage, curving underneath the house into the basement. The right side faced a wall of trees towering around a valley formed by the wandering vein of a distant creek. The front embraced all-comers with a spacious staircase at the center. A garden sat below in the yard, and beyond a forest trail beneath a canopy of countless windows of sunlight. I occasionally napped outside on a rainy day. I would rock back and forth, reading a book. I enjoyed snacks with friends. In the back, I occupied my time studying.

Us kids once all owned a pair of roller blades. We scooted around the porch, laughing and screaming with glee. When we slept on the porch, the wonder of creation kept us awake as the crickets serenaded under the shimmering moon. Last summer we added a table for meals in the gazebo. After the corn harvest, we devoured sweet cobs dripping with butter, pepper, and salt. My hospitable mother often invited people over for parties, reunions, birthdays, dances, socials, or merely dinner. The back porch routinely served as the buffet line while the front and sides furnished space for conversation.

The porch holds a spell of pleasant memories. I chased my siblings around the porch. I laughed and cried with my parents. I absorbed philosophy from my mentor. I conversed with God. I opened the letter of acceptance to The King’s College. I descended the steps leaving for college. I wish to walk back up when I return.

The door normally functions as the entrance into a home. It locks up and keeps out. Our house has such a door, yet also a porch. The porch does not shut or lock, but remains open and unlatched; forever wrapping around as if to embrace all the sheltered merry souls. New York lacks wrap-around porches. I miss that season of life with the joyous giggles and marvelous freedom.

On Language

I love my mother. Back in grade school, I would study homework, albeit often sidetracked, and my mother would walk into the room doing whatever a mother of seven children does. Then, quite randomly, she would turn to us children, look deeply into our eyes and say “my children, that you would know God, that you would know God.” Even now, it freezes me where I sit. That phrase continues to inspire me to live my life a certain way - with a yearning for God.

Some things take time to sink into one’s head. I once heard one must hear something seventeen times to remember it. Before high school, I had not heard this phrase from my mother seventeen times yet. It just confused me. Why does she say it with such passion? Why do her knuckles turn white and her tone serious? I could not grasp it. I would work on math, rather struggle with math, and in the middle of teaching me she would stop, and her attitude would grow serious. “Charles, that you would know God, that you would know God.” I would sit still and swallow hard, struck with an emotion I did not fully understand. It seemed as if something attacked me forcefully on all sides amidst a stream of almost painful love.

I finally heard it the “seventeenth” time as a junior in high school. My younger brother struggled with math like me. I noticed my mother push the math homework aside and bend down close to my brothers despairing face. The room fell silent and the air heavy by the strain of the pivotal movement. “Joseph, that you would know God... that you would know God.” The sweetest arrow tore open my heart. Her reality shocked me: seven children to raise in a world teeming with doubt, darkness, and death where, at the end of the day, knowing 2 + 2 was not near as important as knowing Him who gave us 2 + 2. In that moment, life made such dreaded and wonderful sense, and my mothers inner longings became my own through one small, simple phrase.

Of Revelationary Living

Lately I had another heart to heart with my mentor. It was deep and, though I didn't show it much physically, somewhat emotional. I came with a query and left with two answered. I had struggled recently with what to do, how to achieve said doing and then how to find sufficient peace and satisfaction in the doing for my life. I told Kyle (mentor) that I (mentoree) that I was struggling with this idea that was still ingrained in my head despite the test of years and the tension of ideas - the idea of a glorious achievement. Not merely one achievement but a life of glorious achievement, one that went down in the books, one that was studied, applied to others, used as a citation for research, and the topic of debate and respect by the philosophically virtuous. I have seen so many people dream of that life when they were younger but it seems they all slowly erased it from their life goal to replace with something more benign and innocuous. But here I was with this idea of a wonderful life still in my head with the voracity of a a tiger, the potency of an expresso and the beauty of it's golden streams filling a small shot. I was on the edge. It seemed that time was closing in on me and my dreams and that it was only a matter of an event to change my life from one of a wonderful life of fullness to a ordinary room of gray. I expressed this growing fear to Kyle who in-turn blessed me with sage wisdom as only a brother of wiser thoughts could. I shall paraphrase, "Charles, I too once wanted a life of glory and wonder and awe, one that people would point at and say 'that is who I want to be'. But I realized, with time alone with God and with my own mentor that there was a fault within me - I wanted those things for myself. Did that stop my pursuit of glory? No. I am reminded when I read and study those great men before us what that life truly is. I have a more refined idea of what that life looks like: it's a life with countless hours of unrecognized effort and toil over something that seems daunting and quite impossible. It's a life that must remain selfless unless the self takes advantage of the glory. And most of all, it's a life only God can give you. I talked to D'Souza once and he gave me some powerful wisdom. He said, 'I never wanted to be known as I am, if I could be whatever I wanted, I would life in India, eat curry every day, sit on the street and write books. But God has given me this life and I will do with it what He wills.' Charles, study like your life depends on it, live a life of virtue, that is know some things for the pure joy of themselves. Love people. And use whatever God gives you. If it is glory, let that glory never stick with you but all flow to God. If it is study, let it be thorough and honest. If it is writing, let it be diligent, excellent, and applicable. And if God gives you a house, a wife, and a family let that occupy all your time with all your heart and joy. Life is fullest when God is known most. And to know God is to fear Him. And to fear Him is to be used by Him. And to be used by Him is exactly what you were made for."

Do I still wish for glory? Yes. But through books like Humility (Mahaney), Just Do Something (DeYoung), and Liberal Learning (Schall) I am coming to a certain and mesmerizing conclusion - God would have me do something. Something wonderful. Something for His glory.

If that something is merely to have a family, there will be nothing "mere" about it. If it means a life of fame, let my humility and love for God be my shield. If it means slaying dragons let my sword be ever sharp and my wits keen. It means solving the unsolvable cases of this world, let my wisdom and insight be from God for His glory. If my life is full of coffee grinding, it'll be heaven worthy. If it writing, I'll make some crazy awesome books by God's grace. Whatever life has in store, I've got a few things in store for life.

I haven't lost my passion for the whimsical, the fantastic, the overwhelming, the full life, but that passion is slowly and surely finding it's home in something other than my wishes and fantasies. This life is something for a someone I would die for. And my all things given to me be for Him.

This is true life. This is a full life. And this short small event in my life with my Mentor was small in size but as powerful as any new-clear device.

Of Those Not Sisters

A recent thought:

I might be close to a breakthrough, in the very least, my life. I have idea in my head from years of repetitive assurance, consecutive examples, and constant reminders from myself that I ought to treat all girls like my sisters. “They are to be love as a dear sister” is how the idea often goes. This has been so engrained in me and I would say with confidence that it has greatly benefited my relationships with both my sisters and those who are treated as such without being such. But I have recently questioned the assumptions that this idea presents and has possibly ensnared me with.

Why does this phrase draw a distinction between girls and sisters? Why can’t there be a girl and we treat them as we treat all girls? What is it about a sister that makes it more special a category of girl than simply all girls? As I write this the idea becomes clearer and I hope that I can relay this idea smoothly and not catch up with myself too quick and thus skip valuable steps to the finale.

The basis of this phrase is dangerous when dissected. I have found the pouch containing the dangerous poison of such an idea while at the same time respecting the intention of the carrier. There is this idea that all men have about there sisters that is both crucial and unique: don’t like your sisters. Now the humor in that phrase is that, in one moment you all would raise your hands and protest and then in the next instance you understand in what sense I am using the word like. Side note: I think it is that fleeting refinement of sense that we often move behind before it has time to develop and therefore find ourselves in awful conundrums of our making. So at last you understand; “like” in a romantic way, a pursing, shy, confident, and beautiful way. Sisters are dear imago dei’s of the opposite sex that we can neither gawk at except to compliment their hair nor ask out for coffee (again I ask you to give the fleeting sense time to mature). And herein is the claw. We must understand and embrace the magnificent difference between our dearly loved sisters and our dearly respected sisters in Christ. This is where I have found myself in grave fault and danger. Of late I have simmered my mind in the idea of that phrase and now, when the time of one chapter is coming to a close, I find myself grasping for a rope of security that i am finding is not there. I hope I have not lived the wrong mindset of sisters for too long and become too good at living that way.

I must stand in a different sense upon a different paradigm. All these girls are of great importance, and I am obliged to be a respectful gentlemen to them all. But they are my dear friends. They are not closed off from pursuing more as my sisters are but they are all viable (though in varying degrees and granting those already taken as non-viable). Assuming I am a Christian man with all virtue and capable and willing to express in a right and true way my more-than-friend-and-sister affections towards girls, what is stopping me? But myself: that dangerous villain ever wishing to usurp the power given a greater man for worse action.

One day I will have to make a stand and, knowing who I am and what I, as a true man of God can do, must run, nay, run with such voracity as to trip up over my own legs, towards a girl with all love and patient tempered desire.

It is not fear of rejection that stays my mind and confidence but the fear of mistake. Not the protection of myself but the protection, respect, and first thoughts of the girls well being.

God give me the strength to deny myself and become him who is ever within me and more like your son by your grace and blessing.