Canada has changed

My mother found this book (one of many in a series) while cleaning out the house of my recently deceased aunt. I had to laugh, "homes made of a Father and Mother..." How silly and narrow our country once was. Frankly, I'm shocked to hear that anyone, let alone the government of Canada, would just assume that a mother works at home. The language is just so hateful, refering to women as servants. And what is with the quote on the left inside cover?

When to be radical

I was standing in line for food the other day at York with a dear brother. I overheard a girl in line talking about some notable details from the most recent Pub Night. The guy making our pasta said, "did you get wrecked?" She was like, "I sure did." She proceeded to tell about how some people were outside standing on tables singing and how some other person had pulled the fire alarm, forcing everyone outside, at which point everyone joined in the table standing and singing. I sorta chuckled and thought about how all of these things can also be done when sober.

Now, pulling a fire alarm, and dancing on tables, and singing are all good times. I was struck with a Piper-esque vision of hundreds of wasted lives. I felt sick thinking that the truth and joy that I have found in Christ is completely unattractive and grossly offensive to the souls standing around me.

When are we to be radical? How much would sharing the gospel with all the people in line and the guys making the pasta do? We are in such a desperate situation. What are we to do with our message when most people would deny that they were drowning even when their breath ran out and they started to inhale water? If you have two minutes in the pasta line with someone whose eternal destination is torturous, what do you say? Do you ask a challenging question? Do you say something like, "that singing and alarm pulling sounds fun, but for halloween, I am getting together with a bunch of my Christian buddies to watch the game, and listen to a testimony from a guy about how Christ gave his life true purpose and his soul true comfort and his heart true forgiveness."

My question is, how can we be radical enough, and desperate enough. And when must we be?

My buddy said something good. He said, "dude, just make sure you don't confuse not speaking up because you don't want to turn people off and not speaking because you are afraid."

Not quite Petronius' Sybil

York isn't really the Cumaean Jar. It just feels like it sometimes.

DH wrote:

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself

I do feel a bit like Aengus:

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

Must stop: First Figging because ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-- the light is not lovely.

I will find out where she has gone/and kiss her lips and take her hands/and walk among dappled grass/and pluck till time and times are done...

The Wasteland

Yes, Son of Man has been a wasteland for a week. I couldn't help it. I had to write a descriptive piece the other day for my Literary Nonfiction class. I thought I'd post it since I don't really have much else to say. Sorry about the inconsistent font. I am not sorry enough to do anything about it though...

The loosely fastened and freely swinging screen door gave entrance directly into a small, cluttered living room. Fruits of a lifelong love of trains and train culture overlaid every surface and occupied every corner. The room is dimly lit by one bulb covered by a dusty flat brown shade. Photographs and paintings of various types of trains travelling through snow-covered plains or ever-green hills covered most of the space on the white walls. The book shelf opposite the door held most of Farley Mowet’s work as well as many large hard covers about the Avro Arrow and was littered with trinkets: a rail spike, a train ticket hole-punch, and at least a few glass balls with similarly themed insides. In one corner there was a bell in its mount, presumably from an old steam engine, standing twenty-five or thirty centimetres wide and as many centimetres tall. The bell mount rested on a matted and faded, once goldenrod shag. This carpet, along with living room couch and chair, contributed to the mild odour of animal feces and stale urine in the house. Between the living room and the kitchen a massive cat laid in its bed made of an old M&M’s Meat Shop box, the edges of which had been knocked flat by the sheer inadequacy of the box to hold such cat. Yellowed, decade-old sheets of newspaper surrounded the box and blended almost seamlessly into the discoloured linoleum.