The Blog I Never Use

Blogger just violated me. That's right, I was minding my own business and blogger forced me . . . I'm having trouble saying it . . . it forced me to move to the new blogger. I don't care how much better it is, I should have a choice. I really hate them now, maybe I'll get a Word Press blog.

Gina is pushing now. Get ready, cause Tank is onb his way.

Correction: Tank is here. I'd tell you his real name, but I'll bet Gina wants to do that herself. So far Unculatude is great.

“When I started getting interested in politics and national affairs, I once again was brought up short by the claims of Jesus. To affirm that Jesus Christ is Lord is to acknowledge that no political leader, party, flag, nation, or ideology can share lordship over my life. The one who confesses Christ alone as Lord cannot simultaneously affirm utmost loyalty to another idea or person.”

David Gushee via Mike Cope's blog

Gina should pop after 7 am and before 6pm (I hope) tomorrow. I put the car seat in the car and now I wait: an insomniac in front of the computer, soon to be "Uncle Ty." I'm really nervous for Tank and for Gina.

Sorry that I haven't gotten the pics up yet, the camera has to stay in the car, just in case.

When we moved from Paradise to Milwaukie, we left behind the joys of childhood, the thrill of adventure, and an unfinished tunnel to china we had begun to excivate using garden trowels. In return for my greatest joys and dreams, I found a tree and a pole.

The rusty old pole, the lone survivor of a forgotten age when wind roamed freely on the earth and dryed those garments suspended between her and her long-forgotten partner, before the light of progress pushed them aside.

The tree was dark and intimidating at first: a blackwalnut apparently cold and severe, but for his closeness to the cedar that held him tight. I often spent the afternoon in his branches, a shelter from the noise and silence below, and from the rain, for a while at least.

The greatest gift of that kind old tree was not the spiritual retreat of his branches, but the branches themselves. It is the service of the pole, though, more intimate and enabling than the simple loss of a limb, that carried me through the age of abusive peers and insensative teachers, to stand on this side, bruised and scared, but strong.

For years she stood, my demons' proxy, as I struggled through the pain. My ritual beatings left her marked, but never dented by countless blows with branches, the sacrifice of the tree. All my fears, my angers, focused -- swinging, smashing, till at last they broke, leaving me worn and panting, but stronger than before, still hurting, but moving on.

So, my friend, keep on swinging, with all your pain, and hurt, and fear, and may tomorrow find you moving on, healing, changing, a better you, scars and all.

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So, I've had a bad day, not as bad as Gina's, but she probably shouldn't talk about that. So here's how my day went:

1. Got up early, went to the OHSU Dental Clinic, they took X-rays and left me waiting for a tooth extraction . . . they came back ten minutes later and told me I need to find a dental surgeon because the tooth is too close to the nerve (whatever that means).

2. Mom and I called dental surgeons and dental organizations, in the process we discovered that it will probably cost more than we thought and that the Oregon Health Plan, for which I just applied, will probably be worthless, since an OHP employee told mom that they don't actually have funding for adults. Yeah, that does me a lot of good. Jerks.

3. I was really excited about getting to go see the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit in Seattle . . . the tickets are sold out . . . I guess I'll have to wait until next time.

4. I called Gina to whine, and she's having a worse day than I am. If it wasn't bad enough that I have no room to complain after hearing about her day, I also feel upset, angry, and defensive of her --I'm glad Killer is such a good guy and can be there for her. Maybe it's good that I'm gone, I don't take mistreatment of my sister, by people who should know better, very lightly, I doubt I'd bloody anyone's nose, but I might just try to make anyone's life more miserable than it already is.

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We read some Catullus in Latin class, but I'm sure I missed this one back then; I'm glad that I saw it today in Burton Raffel's essay, "Translating Midieval European Poetry," in The Craft of Translation (eds. Biguenet and Schulte):

odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

My translation (poetic licence obvious):

I hate.
And I Love.

You must wonder why I do.

I don't know,
But it is happening.

And I do know that it is tearing.

me.

apart.

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I just received an email from my good friend, Rush. You might know Rush or his dog, Sharkdog, from their insightful, sometimes sarcastic comments on my blog, or for the work his team is planning to do with the Vienna Team's missions project.

Rush wrote:

I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, if you could maybe put a post on
your blog about Whit and Adrienne Gatewood. maybe just link to their new blog so
your bloguminity will be aware of them, pray for them, and offer them
encouragement. They need it. Whit and Adrienne are dear friends of ours and what
they're going through is breaking my heart...it's breaking me. http://seekthefather.blogspot.com/

I'll
let you read their story for yourself.

loverush

So, if you would keep the family in your prayers, I'm sure the family would appreciate it.

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