Life is a Piece of Toast, and I Am the Butter

I remember 5 years ago driving in my Civic on the 25 South heading home to my Winridge Apartment # 307 on Paris Way in Aurora, Colorado. I remember thinking, praying in my head,

Lord, I don’t like to think too much.

My head hurt, felt heavy like lead, and thoughts like bombs whistled constantly down into it before they gave a big bang. I had been thinking a lot lately and mentally and physically felt like Bilbo Baggins probably did, like butter scraped thin over toast, bothered and ready to find a quiet place where he can rest and finish his book.

I needed peace but took the time to recognize I was being stretched. It was good for me. As I rethink those times I’m left with the impression life is a big piece of toast and I am butter spread over it. And that’s fine, but I wonder who is doing the spreading, naturally, though it doesn’t take long to know the answer.

These days are the same except for one thing: I enjoy the spreading from time to time. Some of the time, though, is too much to take. For example, I have been writing my memoir for the last four years roughly. What a process of discovery, taking me there and back again. I get to re-live my fondest memories and paint them in words on paper—spread them, if you will. The view over my ‘piece of toast’ (my life) is overwhelming and deeply rewarding.

I have learned so much about myself and the toast I embody, this delicious toast I complement. Maybe that’s what my life is about, for others to taste, take a big yummy bite. This book, I imagine now, is my piece of folded toast and in each page I am spread thin for people to know me.

I just finished watching a remarkable documentary titled 180º South. It’s about a guy who decided to journey south to Patagonia in South America (duh, that’s south too-oh, redundancy) and climb its highest peak. His journey takes him by car through Mexico and then by sailboat, whose mast, because of a storm, is broken at sea, and, do to low fuel supply needs to divert course 400 miles west to Easter Island (Rapa Nui), where they made repairs and refuled before setting off again toward his mountain.

I found myself enwrapped in wonder, pleased at how his journey was so eclectic and often surprising as he made new lifelong friends and fostered some of the best experiences one could have. I couldn’t help but think of my own life. Surprised, I also found myself relaxing, as if for the first time in a very long time I had unplugged from society. I didn’t have to think anymore, just explore with him. It was a truly compelling hour and a half for me as I felt so immersed in his adventure as if it were my own. I realized that corner of his piece of toast was very tasty and nourshing. The sights and sounds ministered to my senses and freed me from myself and society.

Additionally, I just returned from a cruise out of Longbeach, California to Catalina Island and down the coastline to Ensenada, Mexico. What a time! A tasty corner of my own. I made some of the best friends in the world. I feel as if I should stop writing because I don’t know if I can scrounge up the words to describe the blessing these people are and the refreshment I experienced.

After roughly four years of writing, which, in its own way is so internal and lonely, the cruise reminded me that my life was in fact tasty after all. With all the thinking I’ve been doing it feels as if my life has been un-normal the last four years. I have thought too much, too deeply, too widely, too highly. Seemingly endlessly I’ve been mentally swept places I’ve physically been before. There have been lots of highs and lows, valleys behind and ahead that cause me to drop my head and wonder how and when.

There are times that I am glad I am on the journey, that it is a pleasure for me and I would rather not be doing anything else. But I know more completely now I need rest, and I haven’t given myself enough of that all this time. Things suffer because of that. I do, first of all, then my relationships and outlook. It can all seem so daunting when it all surrounds my mind and programs it to believe nothing else is real but the book. And it can result in certain misunderstandings within myself and amongst friends. Writing a book is a hard thing. O’Connor was right when she said,

I find that most people know what a story is until they sit down to write one.

I wish sometimes I were normal again—without the burden of this work on top of other responsabilities keeping my full attention from the things I would like to give it to—like friendship, for I am far from the better manager of life, finding it ever difficult to balance everything I would like to keep harmony. Writing, after all, is a sudden inspiration, a non-respector of places I would like to be and people I would love to be with.

Before the documentary and cruise, I found myself saying again,

Lord, I don’t like to think too much. My head hurts, feels heavy like lead, and thoughts like bombs whistle constantly down into it before they give a big bang. I have been thinking a lot and mentally and physically feel like Bilbo Baggins probably did, scraped thin like butter over toast, bothered and ready to find a quiet place where I can rest and finish my book. And can it be?

I think that when my own book is done—finally done like Bilbo’s—I myself will take one big bite and say,

Too much thinking is wearisome. A little dash here and there is a lot of work for one man who has already lived it once to re-live it a hundred-thousand times in his head. Such things should not be but for the exception, as is this case. But now that it is done and I have taken my portion and others can too, whether they like it or not, I am satisfied and can rest my weary bones and weary mind with my friends and family for eternity. I am happy.

The Voice of My Martyr Friend, Phil

I had—have—a friend, Phil, who was martyred in the 2008 Colorado YWAM and Colorado Springs church shootings here. We were regular with our witnessing in downtown Denver. He had such a sincere compassion for people and love for Christ. Just a little background on Phil. He used to be a skinhead, sat on the back of busses and despised everyone. After he met Jesus he hit the streets and eagerly shared his testimony. He even since sat on the back of busses and shared the Gospel with people, a complete 180 from his former self. He always felt strongly that the people in the back seat of the bus were like he was, hard, hurting, lost. He made it his mission to reach those in the dark places he had once lived.
We got cussed out one night on 16th street mall here by a buddhist teen girl after we witnessed to her. It was quite the scene. The outside restaurant cafè looked on, wondering what we had “done” to this girl. After she walked away and screamed profanities at us, I felt the words in my mouth (“but God loves you and provided you a way out”) helplessly linger in the space between the roof of my mouth and my tongue. I felt anger at her deception and I felt in my heart like I would go to the ends of the earth to destroy the veil of lies she had subscribed to. I was so heartbroken for her—we both were— and felt so helpless, though one of her friends was really receptive. (You could see in her eyes she was hungry for the words “For God so loved the world”—which would mean her, too). But she left, looking back at us once more, a regretful look on her face, as if to say to us, “I have to go with my friends, but I really wanted to hear some more. I want to hear that God loves me! Talk to Him for me! I want to know! I want to know Him!”
Phil’s heart was to immediately pray for them, as was mine, even while I was so drunk with discouragement. We huddled against the wall of the pavilions there and prayed. I was a mess of emotion. One thing we focused our prayers on was that the Holy Spirit would go with them and convict them and draw them to Jesus in repentance and trust, for true love, forgiveness and hope. That they may know Him.
Phil died, was shot, while hanging Christmas lights at the Denver YWAM missions center. He loved Jesus, and I’m so mad that he’s already Home with him. I miss him. I miss my friend today. It was a tragic loss felt deeply by our entire evangelism team, a hard time for us, but he lost his life (gave his life) in the service of Jesus to others, so we found great cause to rejoice! I’m glad Phil is an excellent example to me. I still remember his voice sharing Jesus with those teens with me. I remember the compassion behind it even as we prayed.
Lately I’ve felt void of compassion for others. It has been a tremendously trying time for me emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. My close friends are aware of this now as we’ve had time to talk. I find it appropriate that this morning Jesus would remind me of Phil. His voice (the voice of a martyr) echoes in my head, “Give them love Tony, give them the compassion of Jesus. Give them the Truth, Jesus, so they can have hope.” Even now, as often I do, I see Phil in my mind on the back seat of a bus. He has a pure smile across his face, and kind eyes. His shoulders sway side to side in rhythm with the buses’ unpredictable movement. He scans all of the seats then leans over to the person next to him and says, his voice full of compassion, “Hi, I’m Phil. Did you know that Jesus…”
I can’t wait to see my friend. I will see him one day, but not yet. For now, I’m praying for compassion.

“When he [Jesus] saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. He said to his disciples, “The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields.” -Matthew 9:36-38

The Incredible Melting Man (book chapter excerpt)

Side note: the word pyramid is in reference to my childhood home. By this time in the book that would have been made clear.

It’s my mission today, November 3, 2010, to finish watching the movie I started in 1984: The Incredible Melting Man.
In 1977, the same year I was born, there were ramblings in the press regarding an epic motion picture releasing in America that summer. It purported to be the movie everyone was waiting for. Funny how, even though I started watching it in 1984 when I was seven, I had to wait even longer—26 years later to be exact—to finish it. The problem with the movie’s release was 1977 was also the year another unknown movie was pending release: Star Wars. Sadly, for the melting man, Star Wars eclipsed all anticipation of his arrival to earth. More on that in a moment.
So what happened to the promises of epic proportions? Unbeknownst to the world, it was truly epic in the Young household. So epic we couldn’t finish it! Not wouldn’t, couldn’t. Here’s why; it may not be why you think.
Just another day in the pyramid, and the boys took their usual places on the dark living room couch and armchair. Dad had brought home some videos and he popped one into the VCR. Our first color sixteen by sixteen inch tube blared “DON DON DON DON DON!!” and the title The Incredible Melting Man announced his impending arrival across the screen into our living room. My heart shook as I looked at Matthew and Junior next to me on the couch. Dad sat in his armchair, arms rested comfortably without interruption.
Realizing I was the only one exhibiting signs of fear, I straightened out, stiff, projecting the image of one unaffected by a space man’s intrusion. Astronaut captain and crew were on mission in outer space and fast approaching the rings of Saturn. Saturn is an extremely hot planet, in case you didn’t know. I didn’t at the time, so I just assumed it was the Sun.
For whatever reason they couldn’t divert course, and over the microphone space command could do nothing to assist. The flashing lights on the space ship console was out of batteries or something. I don’t know, that’s just what I thought. “We’re out of batteries, Houston! We’re out of batteries!”
Soon, everybody’s faces began so sag. They sagged lower and lower. Their faces soon looked like pizza, like the face of the unsightly character Pizza-the-Hut (a spoof of the Star Wars character Jabba-the-Hut) from the movie Spaceballs. Not a movie I recommend, by the way.
The ship somehow diverted course before crashing into Saturn and crash landed instead on earth in a wooded rural town. Astronaut Steve West was the only miraculous survivor, waking up in the hospital with bandages on his hands and face. He was beside himself. He managed to stand and discovered the bandages, then, in his jangly walk, found a mirror in his room. He ripped the bandages off his hands and went to work on the one around his face.
The sight disgusted him, and me. “DON DON DON DON DON!!” Our tube blared again. At that moment, a burly nurse entered the room to discover her patient before the mirror. When he turned she screamed at his unsightly complexion and wraithlike phalanges. He was a walking nightmare, far as she was concerned. Her continued screams were faint behind her. She had run out of the room, and the incredible melting man was after her, and me.
And this is when things turned epic. Quite suddenly, as they ran through the echo-laden hospital hall, smoke rose from the back of our tube like the pillar of cloud that led the Israelites through the wilderness. In a poof the tube blanketed to gray and the room smelled of burning parts. We were in shock and awe. I jumped from the couch and looked over at the boys and said in my tiny Pinocchio-like voice, “The incredible melting man melted our TV!!”
My brothers had lost it by now, clutching their stomachs from the cramps created by their voracious laughter. Dad rocked off his armchair, grunting, and cussed a storm at the melting man. Epic, yes? America didn’t know. They were too busy watching Star Wars. Which is probably a good thing because there would have been many television sets lost to the hand of “DON DON DON!! The Incredible Melting Man!“
Tonight I plan on finally finishing the movie, twenty-six years later. Here’s to hoping my iMac doesn’t melt. I hear they’re pretty solid.

The Voice of My Martyr Friend, Phil

   I had—have—a friend, Phil, who was martyred in the 2008 Colorado YWAM and Colorado Springs church shootings here. We were regular with our witnessing in downtown Denver. He had such a sincere compassion for people and love for Christ. Just a little background on Phil.  He used to be a skinhead, sat on the back of busses and despised everyone. After he met Jesus he hit the streets and eagerly shared his testimony. He even since sat on the back of busses and shared the Gospel with people, a complete 180 from his former self. He always felt strongly that the people in the back seat of the bus were like he was, hard, hurting, lost. He made it his mission to reach those in the dark places he had once lived.
   We got cussed out one night on 16th street mall here by a buddhist teen girl after we witnessed to her. It was quite the scene. The outside restaurant cafè looked on, wondering what we had “done” to this girl. After she walked away and screamed profanities at us, I felt the words in my mouth (“but God loves you and provided you a way out”) helplessly linger in the space between the roof of my mouth and my tongue. I felt anger at her deception and I felt in my heart like I would go to the ends of the earth to destroy the veil of lies she had subscribed to. I was so heartbroken for her—we both were— and felt so helpless, though one of her friends was really receptive. (You could see in her eyes she was hungry for the words “For God so loved the world”—which would mean her, too). But she left, looking back at us once more, a regretful look on her face, as if to say to us, “I have to go with my friends, but I really wanted to hear some more. I want to hear that God loves me! Talk to Him for me! I want to know! I want to know Him!”
   Phil’s heart was to immediately pray for them, as was mine, even while I was so drunk with discouragement. We huddled against the wall of the pavilions there and prayed. I was a mess of emotion. One thing we focused our prayers on was that the Holy Spirit would go with them and convict them and draw them to Jesus in repentance and trust, for true love, forgiveness and hope. That they may know Him.
   Phil died, was shot, while hanging Christmas lights at the Denver YWAM missions center. He loved Jesus, and I’m so mad that he’s already Home with him. I miss him. I miss my friend today. It was a tragic loss felt deeply by our entire evangelism team, a hard time for us, but he lost his life (gave his life) in the service of Jesus to others, so we found great cause to rejoice! I’m glad Phil is an excellent example to me. I still remember his voice sharing Jesus with those teens with me. I remember the compassion behind it even as we prayed.
  Lately I’ve felt void of compassion for others. It has been a tremendously trying time for me emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. My close friends are aware of this now as we’ve had time to talk. I find it appropriate that this morning Jesus would remind me of Phil. His voice (the voice of a martyr) echoes in my head, “Give them love Tony, give them the compassion of Jesus. Give them the Truth, Jesus, so they can have hope.” Even now, as often I do, I see Phil in my mind on the back seat of a bus. He has a pure smile across his face, and kind eyes. His shoulders sway side to side in rhythm with the buses unpredictable movement. He scans all of the seats then leans over to the person next to him and says, his voice full of compassion, “Hi, I’m Phil. Did you know that Jesus…”
   I can’t wait to see my friend. I will see him one day, but not yet. For now, I’m praying for compassion.

When he [Jesus] saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. He said to his disciples, “The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields.” -Matthew 9:36-38

Now Available for Your Reading Pleasure

I just added a new page to my blog titled “The Possible Book”. In it I’m including what I feel are the “better” fruits of my writing labour, though there’s always room to improve. Check it out (above) and let me know what you think. I would surely appreciate your honest feedback. Thank you, and don’t worry, you won’t hurt my feelings.

More coming soon…

…coming soon…

Proof in a Sticky Backpack

So in my last post I spoke briefly about superheroes, specifically Spiderman. To be more specific-me, the wishful lyrical Spiderman. “I’m going to web in THIS word and THAT word! No word is out of THIS guy’s reach!” Yes, I feel silly comparing myself to Spiderman. You would too, I know. But I was really only making the comparison of symbolism. That one moment where it clicks, where it all begins to make sense, uninterrupted. I was in an interesting place upstairs (in my mind), so it seemed to fit.

Today after leaving the gym I stopped to pick up some groceries for the week when I couldn’t help but notice someone wearing a Spiderman backpack. One of those embellished sorts with the red and blue trim. It made me smile, per my last post. Now I know what you’re thinking, but the very strange thing to me was that it wasn’t on the back of a little boy, but a grown man. And yes, he was alone and acting perfectly normal, as if it were no strange thing. I rather enjoyed the sight of him, and I thought to myself that I am perfectly normal to want to do extraordinary things, and, yes, to even be someone extraordinary, even if it meant looking strange. What I mean is, to not give in to those internal voices that say it is impossible to do the things I love, for fear that I do not know who I would become. I do think it’s interesting though, why I would hesitate. I mean, don’t I want to become, in every way, who I should be? Don’t I want to be me? And why should that seem so extraordinary?

I decided not long ago that yes, I do, and have been making a lot of progress in that direction. I’ve also learned, and am still learning, what I like and don’t like. What’s important, and what is not. One very important thing is that it is perfectly okay to be me. I like that idea very much. So I will be.

Goodnight fear. Forever. And to my friendly neighborhood Spiderman, wherever you are, thank you. Today you were my hero. And for that, you will always be real to me.