Define God

I made a post along these lines of Facebook, but the feedback was extremely limited. So I appeal to you, the smaller but more motivated (maybe?) readership.I would like to collect short essays by Manchester College students and graduates answering the question, "who (or what) is God?" You can run in whatever direction you like with this question, talking about how you see God, how you communicate with God, what characteristics define God... how you answer is entirely up to you. And I'm not looking for any target group to respond; it's the diversity of faith that interests me, whether it be within the Church of the Brethren, throughout Christianity, in other religions or in the absence of religion altogether.

If you can find the time, I would love for you to write a short essay and e-mail it to me. If you don't have contact information for me, sending it to nmkauffman (at) manchester (dot) edu will suffice. Or, particularly if your answer is extremely short and you want to share it here, you could just comment on this entry. My ultimate goal is to collect enough of these essays to make a small book, which I will self-publish and give to the chapel and library (I can also have copies printed for anyone who wants their own).

The strike continues

Nyssa's comment notwithstanding, I am still officially on strike. But for one comment, I suppose I can write one entry.

I write this blog for everyone. It's public. It's not hidden, password protected, or restricted in any way. And there's no one I don't want to see it. Still, it's funny how knowing that particular people have joined your readership can change your writing. Can cause censorship, or even an utter failure to create.

I guess it's like some of the shyest people still being able to act - the public audience is a faceless one. But knowing one face in the crowd can make an amateur actor forget his lines... or an amateur writer lose his sting.

Me and the writer’s guild

Have you ever had someone mad at you, refusing to talk to you, and you didn't know why? That's no good for anyone, and I make sure to communicate better than that.

I am on strike from this blog until I get comments on my entries. Otherwise I assume I am writing merely for my own amusement, and I have a hardcover journal for that.

A photographical treat

I was thinking about making this a big long post with lots of photos and stories, but then I decided I just couldn't choose a handful of photos and leave all the other ones out. Also, my internet is being real slow. So here's another photo:

We had just come back from hiking up the mountain in Tepotzlán and had set off looking for some pulque, an alcohol older and more traditional in Mexico than tequila. That was a bad idea, but that's a story for another time. During our quest we found a touristy little shop that sold, among other things, about 857 different flavors of creamy alcohol, of which they were only too happy to bring us unsolicited free samples as long as we stood around pretending to consider buying things. Eventually they brought out these fancy goblets fashioned from a ram's horn, as you can see in the picture. We thought about waiting around to see if they'd bring us a cloak and sword, but as our wise BCA director Rob said, "We should leave before we get drunk and start buying shit."

Sandpaper

Shards of broken glass scatter on all sides as I hit the ground rolling, then running, hating and loving all at the same time and wondering where all the wine that used to refill itself in the empty glass went, because it's not here anymore, unless you count the purplish stain on the tablecloth in a suspiciously convenient location.  But that never did any good but to the dogs, and I'm not about to wring out cotton over my glass, so all I can do now is pick apart the words spoken by someone who never meant them and try to find a deeper significance to explain to the students and teachers, hoping and praying that the world will see some genius that has been missed by all others since the first time the window broke.

Breakout

Careening off the interstate seems to be a theme for the battered blue Toyota that never dies, though it slashes through guardrails and rolls through ditches.  I am in invincible, bulletproof, on the verge of being able to fly and leave this stupid car in the dust behind me, never again worrying about the money that spews forth from the exhaust pipes or the blood that pools on the ground behind, too much for survival but too little to account for everything, so you know there's a broken body still hidden in a shallow grave somewhere along the road.  I can still be brought down by the right shot and the woman in the lab coat knows how to take it, and for all my abilities I can't break through the cold steel of handcuffs or the harsh iron of prison bars or even the one disparaging glance of the man in tan, all conspiring to hold me in and keep me from doing a shred of good.

Sacrifice

What must I have felt?  A strange question, I'm sure, but I promise you I'm looking at videos that show me in a place of which I remember nothing.  There's the man in the perfectly pressed business suit, standing with his hands upraised as if in prayer, receiving some guidance or strength from above, or perhaps simply in reverence for himself and his sacrifice.  Hollow thumps of polished shoes echo against the shiny wood floor as his enemies bear down on him, their knives and guns at the ready, but he offers no protest as they take him away to be burned.

Switchblade

The cool touch of the night twists through the narrow gap of the window, ducking under the curtains like a creeping tendril searching for a tidbit to bring back to its owner.  I see it, of course, sitting still as could be on the bed, staring out at whatever it is I can't see but feeling it calling to me and not knowing whether I'm on the verge of seeking a new and important truth or just about to become somebody's next lunch.  The friend beside me smiles up, knowing no more than me but entirely unworried for my safety or his, because as far as he's concerned I can do no wrong, and I realize that underneath his furry features is hidden the very essence of friendship, and I finally understand what it is that keeps me on course on such a tumultuous river.  The steady hand on the paddle and the constant vigilance of the crow at the stern guarantee that I will not stray no matter how much I do, for the divisions and the flood-plains and the inlets all re-converge, carrying an uncertain me to the magical pond with that perfect log for sitting and watching owls.  And right there, right here, right now, in this exact moment I realize that the majesty of such a creature is far beyond my humble sins, but that I will spend my lifetime drowning any who have the arrogant audacity to so much as look where their eyes don't deserve to look.  I will be the guardian of my fellow sinners, and together we will cross streams with our eyes downcast, as much to hide them from the sun as to watch our footing.

Some countries are islands

Mexico is not an island. It has a massive northern border with the United States and a smaller southern border with Guatemala. Mexico has vibrant (if not healthy) trade relations with the U.S. thanks to NAFTA, and immigration from Mexico to the U.S. is the largest country-to-country immigration in the world. In fact, more Mexicans are living in other countries than are any other nationality. But sometimes you can still feel really alone here.

I don't write about my feelings based on the theory that nobody has the slightest interest in spending their time reading a website on which someone writes about his or her feelings. But as this blog is supposedly about frosting, cake, Mexico and me, I think in this case it applies.

I think there's a difference in attitude between year-long and semester-long BCA students. The semester students can't wait to get home. Some of them hate being here. Some of them talk eagerly of their upcoming returns to the United States. In contrast, the four year-long students love it here. We can't imagine ending our Mexican life in just two weeks. We're just getting started. Hell, we're still getting on our feet - how could we leave now? As such, I think homesickness has been more an issue for the short-termers, while we're more likely to just accept that we're building a life here.

I have not once felt homesick since I got to Mexico. Our BCA director at Manchester has this whole elaborate theory of the homesickness pattern, but I haven't found that it applies to me. Sure, I miss Manchester. Sometimes I get crazy and even miss Goshen (don't get me wrong, I love Goshen as a place - I just don't have much of a life there). But I never wish I weren't here, nor do I ever feel any pangs or longing to be somewhere else. No homesickness for me.

That is, until last night. I had an unpleasant conversation with my mom that left me feeling rather upset and alone. I couldn't talk to Dad, because he was really busy. I thought through my friends I felt I could talk to, and unfortunately several of them are, like me, in other countries and unreachable by phone. I tried a few friends in the U.S., but nobody picked up their phone. I was very, very alone. And it sucked.

I talked to Mom today, and things are looking up. Connection-wise, anyway. The fact remains that I literally have no money - an ATM stole my last $100 from the bank yesterday, and I have my doubts as to whether the bank is going to pay up. I'm getting back from BCA too late to secure a summer job, which means I'll be going into next year - renting an apartment and paying for food - completely broke. I hate money. I hate that a lack of it can threaten my plans - my ability to stay a second semester in Mexico, my ability to have an apartment next year. Going to annual conference is definitely out.

There is one bit of good news from last night, though. I stumbled across (okay, ruthlessly hunted down) this study. I'll quote the last paragraph for you: "These findings suggest that complete abstinence from alcohol during the acute and convalescent phases of viral hepatitis does not influence the final outcome of the disease in patients who are not chronic carriers. Moderate alcohol intake does not seem to be harmful."

Word.