All in the line of duty...

When I first started working as a crew leader with the U.S. Census Bureau, I suspected I'd be talking on the phone and crunching numbers most the day. And I have done plenty of those things. What I didn't know, however, was that I'd be "forced" to drive into the wilds of Wyoming...in the line of duty. All peeps, no matter how remotely located, have to be accounted for, right?

Recently, my Dad and I took the Jeep for a spin to find those reclusive sorts in our state. The roads started out innocently enough...gravel, dirt, rutted two-tracks. We pushed on...all in the line of duty, of course.

The roads became lakes. But we pushed on...all in the line of duty.

The lakes became muddy rivers. But we revved up and plowed through, pushing on in the line of duty.

The rivers became...well, crystalized. Snowy. Glaring white. Dare I say it?

Impassable.

We pushed...the camera's shutter button, capturing mountain, sky, father, daughter, unexpected bliss.

Look what adventures we had today...all in the line of duty, of course.

Two Roads

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--Robert Frost

I was out doing some rural field work for the Census Bureau this week. At this fork in the road, I couldn't help but think of Robert Frost's oft-quoted poem. And so, I quote it again here, surprised at how something that runs the risk of being cliche can still speak to my adventure-seeking spirit.

Truth is, I took both roads that day...for the sake of duty. Both were little traveled; on the right fork I saw bear prints, and on the left, I shared the path with elk prints and a tiny, slithering snake. Trees creaked in the wind, the sun warmed my skin, and views of Laramie Peak, still veined with snow, called me ever onward. If I hadn't had a job to do and a worried mother to report back to, I think I may have just kept walking...

1 : 6,776,988,185

* The population of my small town is around 5,500 people. The population of abandoned street children in Guatemala City is about the same.

* The population of my entire state is about 550,000. If I multiplied that by 73, I would get the number of children living and working on the street in Latin America -- an estimated 40 million according to UNICEF -- who steal, kill and prostitute themselves to survive, who do drugs to forget their hunger and their loneliness.

* My two best girlfriends in town -- Sarah and Becky -- mean the world to me. If we lived in Afghanistan, one of the three of us would be guaranteed to live life with physical, psychological or sexual violence. And we'd all die at the ripe old age of 44.

* My house has 8 windows upstairs. If I built 49 houses identical to mine, and put red lights in every window, my neighborhood would glow like the Red-Light District in Amsterdam, whose more than 400 windows house thousands of prostitutes. I would have to build 300,000 houses to employ the 2.4 million worldwide victims of human trafficking. Or I could just sell the entire city of Chicago into sex slavery.

* I have two sinks, one shower and one toilet in my house. On average, I use 400 liters of water per day. More than half of the world's population uses 10 liters per day. And 884 million of those people don't have access to safe water, leading to the infection of millions with preventable water-borne diseases and the death of 5,000 children per day.

* I am one person. One out of six billion seven hundred seventy six million nine hundred eighty-eight thousand one hundred and eighty-five people in the world.

* But I have one mouth to tell all those people I care about them. I have two feet to carry me to where they live. I have two eyes to see what I should -- no, what I must -- do to help. I have two hands to work to relieve their pain. I have two ears to listen to their stories -- and ten fingers to write them for the world to read.

* I have one heart. And I'm learning, as I read and hear and see stories of pain and injustice and poverty, that a heart can hold an awful lot of love. Now I just need to learn to give that love away -- to family, friend, stranger and foe. That is my prayer.

* God help me love. God help me move. God help me. God help your people.

--Statistics and wake-up call taken from Relevant Magazine, March/April 2009 issue. Visit www.relevantmagazine.com for more information and to read "Reject Apathy" by editor/publisher Cameron Strang. Additional statistics taken from Living Water International.

--www.RejectApathy.org
--www.actionintl.org, www.unicef.org, www.compassion.com
--www.amnesty.org, www.wapha.org
--www.ijm.org, www.notforsalecampaign.org
--www.worldrelief.org, www.freeforlifeministries.com, www.catholiccharitiesusa.org
--www.water.cc

Coastal living in Tanjung Balai, Karimun, Indonesia. Behind me, as I took this photograph, was an open sewer, the stench of which burned my nostrils and made my stomach churn.

Riverfront property on the Chao Phraya river in Bangkok, Thailand.

This woman gathers garbage from the Chao Phraya river in Bangkok, Thailand.

Children in Vang Vieng, Laos.

Typical housing in Vang Vieng, Laos.

It was love at first snowball

Mr. and Mrs. Snowman (original, huh?) met early this morning. Mr. Snowman rolled into existence first. Like any proper bachelor, he was content to claim his corner of the world and give the Wyoming wave to all passersby. (That's a friendly nod and finger lift, for those who don't know the Way of the West.) The sun was out, but not burning hot enough to cause him any trouble. His trouble started when Mrs. Snowman rolled up next to him, smoothed her skirt and cast him a shy glance. It was love at first snowball. She had a trim waist and thick, curly hair. And a smile sweet as candy. Mr. Snowman made his pass. She swooned. He grinned. She moved closer. He took her hand. They wed just then and lived happily ever after.

Bloom

I love flowers. And yes that's a hint to any man who may try to woo me. These shots came from a basket of tulips a friend gave recently.

Jiaozi!

Yowza! My mom and I made jiaozi! (That's potstickers for those who don't know them by their Mandarin name.)

It took three hours and lots of kneading, rolling, filling, pinching, boiling and frying, but it was so worth it. Oh, I miss jiaozi. I miss China.

Animal crackers

This post is, pure and simple, a tribute to the animals in my life. I grew up in a house full of pets. My childhood would have been very different without their presence. Pepper the dog. Tinsel the calico cat. Natty Gan the beta fish. Jake the parakeet. Mac and Susie the box turtles. Ma-ki-a the canary. Maxi the gerbil. Hamilton the hamster. Sandy the golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix. Hermit crabs. Jumping beans. Strays. These are all gone now, but their memory remains.

Now, we have Flipper the dog and Dodger the cockatiel. And a stray Tom cat named Oliver who sleeps in a ghetto we made on the front porch. They make each day a little more joyful, relieving stress with a nudge of the nose or a pretty song. Though I'm sure I take their presence for granted sometimes, I am grateful God gave us critters to care for and laugh about.


Flipper the dog stayed faithfully by my feet when I was writing my novel.


Dodger bird gets in on some pancake action.


Oliver our stray cat plays with yarn and settles in for the night in his cat ghetto.

FOTFOTP

Help. I have fallen off the face of the planet. Someone please save me.

Heel-toe, heel-toe

Just a quick update: I am loving Lent.

I love the sacrifice. It has helped me look away from myself toward the needs and feelings of others and toward God's ultimate sacrifice of his Son.

I love the prayers. I don't know why we make relationship with God so...awkward...most the time.

I love the community. It is good to be in accord with fellow Lent-ers. May we all remember why we fast and pray and give.

Today, as I walked home through a thick Spring snowfall, I was struck by the joy of movement. It felt so good to swing my arms and turn my gaze upwards. To feel each snow flake turn to dew on my face. To hear the slush squish beneath heel-toe, heel-toe. To think nothing, and yet to be.

March Madness

The drifting begins.

Ironic.

Weathering the storm.

Just playing with the camera.

Blasted by wind.

Scott and Sheila, my heroes.

The Polaris Ranger can plow through almost anything.

Twinkie the dog enjoying the ride as we all enjoy digging out.

I'll bet this is how Moses felt parting the waters...

The Leach clan gets me to the interstate safely.

Sorry sports fans. The title of this post is misleading. It has nothing to do with sweet sixteen, final four, college hoops battles. But...may the best team win. (Since my UW Cowboys aren't even in the running, Go Sooners!)

This post has to do with spring in Wyoming. In some parts of the country, March brings...tulips, sunshine, maybe some light rain showers. In Wyoming it brings...snow, mud, ice, wind, 10-foot drifts, blizzards, unintentional off-roading, power outages. March brings madness. One day we're all out enjoying evening bike rides with friends, and the next we're stranded in a white out and very, very late for work. Ever heard of cabin fever?

Earlier this week, I had to drive to a town about an hour away to lead a training session for the Census Bureau. When I left at seven in the a.m., it was raining. Eleven miles later, it was snowing. Hard. Fast. The interstate was coated with about four inches of icy slush. The icy slush coated my radiator. My car froze up. I went off roading for the first time that day.

I got back on the road. The snow turned to a blizzard with 50-plus mile an hour winds. My windshield wiper shredded. I off roaded a bit more. A kind fellow helped me duct tape the wiper.

I got back on the road. I couldn't see past my hood. I decided to turn around and call off training. I couldn't see the exit. I off roaded onto the next exit and flipped a U-turn.

I got back on the road. Nine a.m. Thirty miles down. Still couldn't see past my hood. Went off roading. Got stuck. Got passed by a lot of cars. Started to cry. Two men came over and pushed me out. Two miles back to Glendo.

I got back on the road. Zigged. Zagged. Went off road again. Cried some more. Pulled myself together. Snow plow drove by. I stalked it.

I got inside a gas station and got some coffee. Ten thirty a.m. Thirty-eight miles in over three hours of driving. Whew.

Roads closed in entire Eastern half of the state. Everybody was snowed in.

But, being snowed in has its advantages. I was rescued by Scott and Sheila, two people who attend my church but whom I didn't know. We became fast friends.

Scott and his son drove in from their ranch 14 miles away. It took them 45 minutes. We had to dig out the truck three times to get back to their home. Sheila fed me and gave me a warm bed. I played games with their son and daughter. I felt safe.

Though training was cancelled for four days to allow the storm to pass, I don't regret the time lost. Because it wasn't lost. It was a gain to get to know my heroes. Everyday ranch folk became extraordinary in their hospitality. I am grateful.

* See above for photos of the storm and photos of Scott and Sheila's valiant efforts to get me home through nearly impossible conditions.

Beautiful in the faces of my friends

John Stuart, photo

Sometimes it's nice to get away. Several friends and I were able to do just that last month. We carpooled to Centennial, Wyoming, an artsy community nestled below the Snowy Range Mountains, and holed up in a cabin that was on loan from a generous couple in our church.

Wow. Even now, a month later, I barely have words to describe the peace and joy I experienced that weekend. We sat by the fire and dug into each other's lives, something Christians don't do often or honestly enough anymore. We laughed. We played games. We cooked together, finding nearness in small spaces, in creation, in pure guttural enjoyment. We skied and snowboarded, meeting God and each other in the raw wilderness. We read, and we talked about what we were reading. We slept.

What simplicity. In a culture of connection via screens, buttons, and 160-character text messages, it was refreshing to connect via touch, vision, real conversation, and even silence. I felt as close to my friends giggling over a game as I did curled up on the floor sleeping at their feet. My comrades are teaching me that God often reveals Himself and His character through humanity. He is beautiful in the faces of my friends.

John Stuart, photo
The gang hangs at a cabin in the woods, courtesy of a very generous couple in our church.

John Stuart, photo

We couldn't find a muffin pan, so we made a muffin man.

John Stuart, photo

I'm ready to ride.

John Stuart, photo

After skiing and snowboarding all day, we ate pizza at the Beartree Tavern in Centennial, Wyoming. Sweet company. Awesome pie.

Woke up to this sunrise on snowboarding Saturday. Wow.

Sarah and Dave coming in from the snow.

Becky and I thinking lofty thoughts.

Aspen grove outside the cabin.

A rousing game of Pictionary on Sunday morning.

Go to bed

My mind is three tonight. Like a stubborn toddler, it refuses to stay in bed. I've laid it down, tucked it in and kissed its forehead, but it keeps leaping from beneath the covers and running into the living room. Stark naked.

And so, I write. Or, it writes. If I let it play a little while longer, maybe it will tucker itself out and crash on the floor. Then I'll pick it up, tuck it in again, and rise in the morning to make it pancakes. Chocolate chip ones if I'm feeling kind.

It's been an odd week.

My Uncle John died Monday in Frankfurt, Germany. We received notice he had about two days to live on Saturday afternoon. My Dad secured plane tickets for he and his sister (with the help of a very generous friend) that night and left at 4:30 Sunday morning to catch his flight.

From Wyoming, though, Germany is a long way away. Too long. My Dad and my aunt arrived two hours too late. Two hours.

I was not close to my Uncle John. But no one should die without family by his side. Now all that remains of him are lingering memories and lingering regrets.

I remember his eyes. They were deep set, hooded by his lids, and dark. I remember his cologne. He wore too much. I remember trinket gifts he gave me as a child. I remember he liked cars. And old televisions. And that's about it. I regret not knowing him more.

Still, a death always leaves some kind of hole. Some holes are carved by pangs of sadness so sharp one can barely breathe. Many members of my community have experienced such holes this week with a double homicide/suicide and another suicide within a span of days. Other holes are carved more by the wish one felt...sadder.

That is a strange wish. But I feel it. My sadness at this death comes more for my Dad, for the fact my uncle died alone, for the distance in the relationship. I do not feel the loss of a man as much as I feel the realization I did not know the man.

This bothers me. And I become keenly aware of how important people are in life. I feel guilty for glossing over relationships or taking time with another for granted. Perhaps that is what I must learn from this death. Each person in my life deserves my care, commitment and candor. I need to be honest to keep the relationship real. I need to honor my word and desire to spend time with them. If a "better" offer comes along, too bad. I am with this person. And I need to care about them. Really care. Every time I see them and in between.

Oh, there is more. My mind has more thoughts about life, dreams, fears, men. But, as I hoped, it's getting tuckered out. I'm going to usher it back to bed. Maybe after a rousing breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes, it will feel like playing again.

Goodnight Neverland.

Batter my Heart, John Donne

The first time I read John Donne felt like love at first sight. I was smitten by his Olde English language, by his passion, by his metaphor, by his daring to explore spiritual purity and rape in a single poetical line. Reading his poetry took my 19-year-old mind in directions it had never before gone. I don't remember much else about that Introduction to English Literature class, but I am grateful for every minute we spent in the metaphysical realms of this poetical great's work.

John Donne was born in London in 1572, the third of six children. His father died when he was four years old, and he lost three other siblings before he was ten. His mother was a great-niece of the Catholic martyr Thomas More. In fact, many of Donne's closer relatives were executed for religious reasons. His brother Henry was arrested for harbouring a Catholic priest and died in prison as a result of bubonic plague. This event, it is said, lead Donne to begin questioning his Catholic faith. In his early forties, Donne converted to Anglicanism and became an ordained chaplain in the Church of England. Much of his later poetry reflects his deeply held religious beliefs.

Donne is considered one of the most profound metaphysical poets to put quill to parchment. His mastery of the metaphysical conceit, or an extended metaphor that combines two vastly different ideas into a single idea by use of vivid imagery, is displayed in many of his works ranging from erotic love poems to emotional explorations of faith. But, like many great artists and writers, his skill was not noticed until after his death in March 1631. Most of his poems and sermons were published posthumously. Still, his work impacted future literature greats, including Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Merton. Both men derived titles for their works from passages in Donne's "Meditation XVII." Perhaps you know them:

* Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

* No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

Beautiful, no? I leave you with the poem that first grabbed me, in both English and Italian (thanks to a friend who bought me a book of John Donne poetry in Italy). Poetry is so grand in such a romantic language.



Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, 'and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make mee new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely'I love you, 'and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.



Sonetti Sacri XIV

Sfascia il mio cuore. Dio in tre persone! Per ora
tu solo bussi, aliti, risplendi
e tenti di emendare. Ma perche io sorga e regga,
tu rovesciami e piega la tua forza
a spezzarmi, ad esplodermi, bruciarmi e farmi nuovo.
Userpata cietta, dovuta ad altri, io mi provo
a farti entrare, ma ahi! senza fortuna.
La ragione, in me tuo vicere,
mi dovrebbe difendere ma e
prigioniera e si mostra molle o infida.
Pure teneramente io t'amo e vorrei essere
riamato. Ma fui promesso al tuo nemico.
Divorziami, disciolgli, spezza il nodo,
rapiscimi, imprigionami: se tu
non m'incateni non saro mai libero,
casto mai se tu non mi violenti.

Sleeping sonnet

I was going through some boxes last night, looking for a book, and I ran across a folder of my old poetry. What a kick! It was like looking through a photo album of past emotions and thoughts: high school infatuation, first love, first break up, bewilderment at the process of growing up. Not every poem was teenage angst, though. This sonnet was written for a college poetry class. If I remember right, I based its form and metaphysical nature on the works of John Donne, my all-time favorite poet. I will have to share some of his works some time on this blog. I have a long way to go to match his literary skill, and will likely never match it, but here is a taste of my beginning inkings.

Sonnet

The nighttime sky loops my dust-formed body
like the bursts of light left when writing
my name with sparklers. God, can you even see
my clay vessel, my tiny soul fighting
to wave at You tonight through blazing stars?
You must see. You rustle my hair with wind
and cradle me to soothe my ugly scars,
my wounds from slipping, sinning, falling again.
If I could I'd leap and grab a comet's tail,
then swirl the stars around and write our names
to say thanks for holding this dusty, frail
body together when it should crumble in the games
of earthly life. You made the starlight bursts
that remind me You quench my dust-soul thirsts.

Bliss

I don't feel a need to explain this much. Let's just say I got some much needed coffee shop time this weekend. The beautiful "Hot Snow" drink was enjoyed by my good friend Becky. The breakfast was shared between us. Life is so good. I leave you with this quote by F.J. Huegel:

When God gives, it is always in a multiplied fashion, something akin to the unnumbered millions of shining worlds in the boundless firmament of heaven.