View from the top

Life is like a trail. Full of rocks, steep scrambles and just plain long sometimes. It can be hard to keep going. So turn around and take a look at how far you've come. Then keep on climbing.

#fromwhereyouwouldratherbe 

A Bible Story

Disclaimer: This is a fictional short story about a real character. Based on events recorded in Luke 23:39-43.


My Name is Daniel. 
In Hebrew, my name means, "God is my judge."
I've lived a hard life. Jerusalem is not the place it once was now it is under Roman rule. I am a fishmonger, or rather, I was a fishmonger. With my partner, Amit, I would catch the fish by night and sell them on the street by day. This left little time for my family or for sleep. We had always been good friends, although we didn't always see eye to eye. It was after all, him who introduced me to thievery. Business had been hard and we were struggling just to feed our families. The Romans, with their taxes and discriminatory practices, were no help either. They humiliated us in the streets, just for sport. But worse, they took what they pleased and the law held little sympathy for the Jews. Once upon a time I had 2 daughters. A year ago, a Roman soldier took my eldest at night. My wife and I got outside just in time to see a Roman horse riding swiftly away from our home. He threw one furtive glance back at us as they rode away. My eyes will never forget his face, nor will my ears forget her screams. We never saw either of them again. The law did not help us.
Our families lived in a small set of run-down shacks on the outskirts of Jerusalem, while Roman guards lived in the city barracks, well fed and even entertained. When they gambled, laughed and made merriment in the streets, they would often leave their horses unattended. These horses often had a few valuable trinkets attached to their saddles. Coinpurses, little flasks of wine, sometimes daggers. In a crowd, and when the Romans were preoccupied, it wasn't terribly hard to quickly untie one of these valuables and slip back into the crowd. Amit did it all the time, casually, automatically, on the way back from the market. He had to press me to do it the first time. I knew what the Law of Moses had to say about stealing. But I hated, despised, loathed these Romans. It got easier, the more I did it. But then it happened. The day I ruined my family, Amit and myself with nothing more than a simple brick.
That day, there was an unusual stir in the crowd of people on the streets. I asked a passerby what the commotion was and he told me that they were trying a heretic. In hearing this Amit and I exchanged glances and without a word, left our fish stand to join the crowd. Trials always meant distracted Romans. It would be a good chance to fill our pockets. We entered the square where the trail was already taking place. I saw the man standing next to Pilot. He had a strange air about him. He looked exhausted, as if he had born the weight of the world on his shoulders. He definitely didn't look like a crazy heretic. But no matter. There was business to be done. I found a near-by guard and carefully pilfered his coin purse, which was in one of his saddle bags. Amit parted from me and casually followed a Roman who had just arrived. I moved to the next guard and found a beautiful bracelet in his saddle bag. But something kept drawing my attention to the trial. I worked my way closer to the front of the crowd and asked a man who it was that stood before us on trial. The man turned to me, his face lined with worry and tears streaming down his face and said,
"It is Jesus Christ. The Son of God."
My eyes darted up to look at the man next to Pilot. And I was surprised to find him looking at me. Our eyes locked and in that split second I saw my childhood, heard my name, all of the lessons I received from the Rabbi, the time I spent learning the Law of Moses from my parents, the day I was betrothed to my wife, the years I spent working for her and my family. And I remembered the times I had stolen from the Romans. Every angry, vengeful thought I had for the man who had stolen and killed my daughter. Those thoughts still swirled somewhere in the back of my mind. I hated him. I had not forgiven, nor would I forget. Christ's eyes saddened.
Daniel.
The coinpurse suddenly felt heavier. My conscience churned and my soul shrunk within me. I was ashamed to hold his gaze and looked down at my feet.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. It was Amit.
"Everything ok?" He asked.
"Yes" I lied.
And then something caught my eye. A Roman standing over by the outer wall. Something was familiar about him. No. It was THE Roman. It was him. How could I ever forget that face. He was standing by his horse, watching the trial. I turned and strode through the crowd toward him, my eyes focused only on him. The experience I had just had suddenly behind me, all I could see was revenge, all I could hear were my daughters screams. Somehow, a brick on the ground caught my attention. It appeared to have fallen from the wall. Since I was unarmed, I picked it up and continued toward my target. A few feet from him I lifted my weapon, aimed for his stupid, surprised face, and paused. Forgive him. I felt a voice.
Forgive him Daniel. He doesn't know what he's doing.
My emotions raged inside me and I stood frozen in indecision, my brick raised high, tears running down my face. I saw terror in his eyes, his hand reaching for his sword.
I love him like I love you Daniel.
My arm collapsed. I dropped the all-important brick of revenge. The guard looked confused for a moment, then drew his sword and held it to my throat. He obviously didn't recognize me. He didn't know what had just transpired. Amit, who had followed me, hastily tried to intervene by conversing with the guard but to no avail. Other soldiers were called to us and we were searched, our crimes discovered. I saw the rage and indignation on their faces when they discovered our stolen goods. Our fate was sealed.
What happened next was a blur of shouting, beating, and dragging until we were thrust into a temporary prison. We sat, huddled in terror, for a while. Then we were called before a Roman official, judged of our crimes, and condemned to crucifixion. Upon condemnation, Amit snapped. He turned on me and began screaming obscenities as he strained against his bondsmen. I had betrayed him, blown our situation, ruined our families. But for some reason I felt different. Lighter. The burden of my hate for that Roman seemed to lessen. I felt sadness for him. And confusions as to our situation and what I was feeling.
"Traiter! You betrayed me! You got us caught! If you would have just stuck to the plan, neither of us would be here right now!"
Amit writhed in the grip of his guards until a blow to the head cut him short.
We were stripped, beaten, humiliated. Each of us carried our cross to the hill Golgotha as blows rained down upon us. There we were raised up into the air, swaying precariously as we prayed for death to relieve us quickly. Amit was in a state of absolute distress. He cried for his family. He cried for his sins. He cried that we had gotten caught. He cried till he was short of breath. I was in as much pain as he was, the reality of my sins bearing down upon me. But I had forgiven. For that one deed was I hopeful.
The world was buzzing with pain, my head swam and I could barely see. But I noticed that Amit and I were arranged on either side of another man, condemned to a crueler fate than we. He had been nailed to his cross, his head cut and bleeding from a crown of thorns. It was the man they had called Jesus Christ.

Luke 23:39-43
And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him,saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.
But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?
And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.
And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.
And Jesus said unto him, Very I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

I closed my eyes, my heart lightened, my cross forgotten. I had dropped my brick.

A Hopeful Missionary

I've searched for you every day. Ever since I turned sixteen I've looked high and low, dated girls I hardly knew, broken the ice thousands of times.

Some of them had your smile. 

Some of them had your eyes. 

Some of them laughed the way you do. 

Maybe one of them was you.

 Whether or not I've met you, I will continue to search. And not just search but prepare. Because I know that you are looking for me too and I'm scared that our eyes will never meet in the right way if I'm not everything that you dreamed of as well. I'm taking a two-year training course on how to live with another person for twenty-four hours a day, how to serve and how to work. I'm told that these are qualities that you will expect from me. 

I'm told that you will have high standards. 

I hope to meet them. 

I pray that I will meet them. 

And I pray for you. 

Nearly every day. 

It's hard for me to keep searching at this point, knowing that whatever relationship may arise will have little time to grow before being put on hold for two years. 

But I don't want to miss you by giving up now. 

Just in case.

So I keep looking for a pair of eyes to get lost in, a laugh that will take me above the clouds, a smile that will melt my heart. 

Someone who loves to watch the stars, try weird foods and have pillow fights at one in the morning. Someone with so much personality that she is bursting at the seams.

Someone who talks all the time and sings out of tune.

Someone who isn't afraid to try ziplining or yoga or Thai curry.

Someone who gets lost in a good book and is late for school.

Someone who will stay up all night with me while we make cheesecake just for the heck of it.

Someone who talks to God every night.

Someone who respects herself.

Someone who is praying to find me.

To that girl: Perhaps nearly everything that I've said so far doesn't describe you in any way. That's ok. Because the song is always better in concert, the book is always better than the movie and you will be so much better in person than anything I can conjure up on paper. Just know this: I won't rest until I find you and can hold your hand for Eternity. My heart doesn't know it's lonely yet. But it will see what it's been missing once I've found you. I think I love you already. If I've already met you, please be patient with me. Two years is a long time. Wait for me. Search for me.

I will find you. 

Ramblings of an Insomniac

When sleep won't happen, I leave myself lying there in bed and go for a walk. I go downstairs, grab a packet of fruit snacks, strap on a backpack and head outside. I break into a jog. As I turn the corner on my street, I speed up. As I do, I start keeping pace with the cars on the road. So I join them, weaving in and out of lanes as I continue to accelerate. Pretty soon I'm at a dead sprint and I'm whizzing past cars, hurdling over-passes and swinging from streetlights as the night slides on. I hop up and catch hold of an airplane with both hands. It's not much bigger than a large chicken and so I just hold on as we dodge stars and fireflies in the night. I look up and realize that my airplane has changed color. And grown feathers. It really is a chicken now. It looks down at me, gives a brief squawk of alarm and then we tumble down through the wispy, cotton-candy clouds as we plummet to our deaths. As we fall, my chicken/airplane ejects an egg that gets in my hair and makes a mess. We land in a jungle. Somehow there is now a nest in my hair with a baby chick inside. I remove the nest, leave it and the chick with the chicken and continue to run. The leaves of the jungle wave at me, beckoning me to come and play but I continue to run until I reach a cliff. Without a hesitation, I throw myself over it and dive headfirst into the ocean of fruit punch waiting for me at the bottom. My friends, the dolphins, toss me up on the powdered-sugar beach. To say thanks, I grab a piece of the moon out of the sky and throw it to them, then race a shooting star back to the jungle. But after the race, I continue to run. I crash through hazelnut trees, papaya bushes and marshmallow weeds. The sweet smelling coconut grass sticks to my feet as I continue to sprint. My backpack became a sloth. I paused to set it down and watched it wander off. More running. Presently, I reach the sunset. Curious, I walk up to the sun as it slowly descends between a few stray clouds. I realize that the sun is nothing more than a hole in the sky. The light from the hole looked warm and inviting so I crawled through and stood up. It was cozy but the light was dimmer than I expected. Probably because the light was emanating from a small nightlight in the corner. I felt myself being drawn up the stairs and soon stood at my bedside, watching myself lie there. I was rather disappointed by what I saw. There was little light in the face that I saw before me. But no matter. The already dim light in the room faded even further, the warm stillness of the night wrapping it's arms around me like a blanket of stars. I bid the chicken, sloth and jungle goodbye as I finally began to drift off.
Tomorrow I would awake to a world where airplanes were big scary things, marshmallows didn't grow in the jungle and I had never actually seen the ocean, but I imagined it wouldn't be much like fruit punch. I would no longer be able to run on the freeway or race shooting stars. I was only 7 years old after all. I would dream of my sloth backpack and all of the wonderful things like the stars and fireflies while the day lasted, then I could visit them again at night. Because life is so much more exciting when one isn't tied down to reality.

Logically

Logic.

Logic says that I need to be a politician. 

A lawyer. 

An engineer. 

A dentist.

A surgeon. 

A student. 

I must program myself to become something that will make a lot of money. Because money buys food. And food is batteries. Therefor, logic says that I need math and science and binders and notes and a haircut and college prep classes and to just forget my dreams so that I can fit in with all of the other kids that will be going to a college, getting a job and working so they can buy food. Logic tells me I shouldn't dream of cotton candy sheep or run through the forest barefoot or spend my time trying to invent the perfect pancake. 

Logic says I can't be anything other than a little, grey piece of paper in a grey, paper world. 

But what's life if I'm only a single digit in a hundred terabytes of other sad, unfulfilled people? We spend our lives worshiping this god of money because money tells you that it is your best friend and that you need a lot of it to be happy. Money tells you that you must give more time and attention to it than your friends, family or dreams. Money is made of numbers. Numbers mean statistics and business calculus. 

Pure logic.
But say I don't want to be a bit in a terabyte, a drop in the ocean, a little, grey piece of paper. Because I don't. I want to live, rather than just exist. I want to feel rather than calculate. I want to be noticed rather than just be seen. I want to be human. But not just another human, in a world full of humans. That would just make me a statistic. A grey piece of paper. A robot. Just like all the others.

I want to be an anomaly. Abnormal. Different. Weird. Myself. Human.

So what if it's illogical? Just because the other humans aren't doing it doesn't mean that you can't. In fact, I think you could become more human by pursuing things most other humans don't. That is a defining trait of humanity. Doing stuff that others can't or won't do. Whether that's being a better doctor, or just being a doctor with a very unique skill set. Or being a skydiving trainer or a volcano photographer. So long as you're not like the others. Unique, special, illogical even.

Praise for Waffles

Praise for Waffles

When you think about it, waffles are among the most perfect things to ever exist. Well made ones that is. Nutella ones especially. 

Let us follow the life of a waffle. Just for fun. First the batter is created. Created from the simple ingredients of life: eggs, flour, butter, milk, love, vanilla extract. This heavenly mixture is then poured onto a waffle iron and cooked to perfection. The steaming, crunchy product is then removed, smeared with happiness (aka: Nutella) and eaten. The average waffle only lives for a couple minutes. But they cause such joy in the lives of everyone they touch. Just think, if a something as simple as a waffle can produce so much happiness and do so much good to everyone in it's short lifetime, what kind of lousy waste of space have I been? 

I came off the iron 18 years ago. Have I made as much difference as a common waffle? Do I make people as happy as a crunchy, delicious, syrup-dowsed confectionary delight? Granted, I have been slightly more useful than a waffle in my long existence I suppose. But with all of the negative things that I have brought with me, does my good still measure up to even that of a simple waffle? All of the hard times I have caused my parents, all of the insensitive things that I've said to my siblings, my selfish actions that have left my friends in the dust. Do my positive qualities even equal the sum of my mistakes? Do my goods measure up to my bads? Probably not. If I could break even and then some, maybe cause a little more good than I have bad, perhaps I could cause as much happiness as a waffle.

Ps: Is it true that if a girl makes you waffles that she likes you? And if she makes you CHOCOLATE waffles that she's crazy over you? Maybe I watch too much YouTube... Anyway, let me know in the comments!