One of those moments

Everyone has those moments. You know, the moments when they have to stop and say, "okay, now why did I say that?" While a question in intention, this line is a declarative statement admitting a blunder of word choice, yet still a bugging inquiry to oneself, asking perplexedly why you hadn't employed cautiousness. Such an expression is usually muttered to one's self in exasperated frustration and is often paired with at least one palm covering eyes that are shut tightly.

Today, I had one of those moments. :P

It was hot. It was humid. It was downright despondent. The air felt miserable, yet the stuffy air of the enclosed hallway was far better than the scorching temperature of the air out of doors. I was walking down the hallway of a psychiatric hospital, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sweat-drenched sleeve. I slowed my pace to a trot, allowing my coworker to catch up. My coworker's name was Tim, and on this miserable day, we had been commissioned to install wireless thermostats on VAV units overhead. Bribed with a contract, our company had taken on the task of converting the hospital's units to a wireless, smart controls system, and so the company had assigned Tim the job supervisor, and I was tagging along to help.

Peanut Gallery Detour: Timothy A. Short is probably one of the most difficult coworkers of mine to figure out. He has a great personality that takes a few days to work itself out into visibility, all the while causing the hapless younger technician like myself to worry over whether or not the veteran takes keenly to or absolutely dislikes him. Bind that with regular physical assaults he dishes out regularly, playful or not, and it all tends to drive a mind toward parnoidity. After a few months of working (and worrying) with Tim Short, his real personality broke free, and the talkative, playful young-gun emerged. Tim and I are half-decent friends now, though my morale and standing with him as a coworker depends much upon acting like a ‘guy.’

Allowing Tim to take the lead, I followed him into a small room where we found the box of equipment we were there to install. Tim picked up a box of something or other, gruffly saying something to the effect of, “You’ll need these.” Regrettably, I cannot quite recall what Tim was calling my attention to, as I caught notice of something when I had reached my hand out for a box of parts; rather, my finger had caught ‘notice’ of something. Drawing my hand closer, I realized that I had a problem. My fingernail was split at the end, and I had a deep hangnail, hanging with hazard off the top of my thumb.

It was an impressive hangnail—about an inch wide. Simply writing of it now causes a large shudder to engulf my body as the photographic memory of it crowds my mind.

I realized after a few seconds that Tim was staring at me, and I immediately ceased staring at my thumb and began staring at him. I allowed my eyes to focus more precisely before he asked me, “What’s the matter with your finger?” At this point, what I thought and what I actually said are two entirely different sentences. What I thought was, aw, nothing is wrong. I’m just getting some dirt off. Instead…

“I…I broke my fingernail.”

*facepalm* Why in the world had I..?

Evidently, it was his turn to stare again, and he did so with one eyebrow raised. “You…you broke your—” —he never finished his sentence as a hearty laughter erupted from somewhere behind his belly-button. Wiping tears from both eyes, he chuckled and mockingly asked if I needed to go home. Answering a shameful ‘no,’ I trudged away from him and his never-ceasing laughter and made my way back through the now even warmer hallway, accepting my lot in life as the jobsite’s wimpiest technician.

Leaving the jobsite hours later with Tim, we drove toward another jobsite for what was to be an afterhours frenzied push to help close down the jobsite. Upon arrival, we met up with 4 technicians and 2 engineers from our company in a small computer room. Bidding the others farewell, I grabbed a few parts and left to install a few override dials. I pocketed the previous shame and buoyantly started down the hallway, eager to start my task.

Returning ten minutes later down the same hallway feeling a bit proud of myself after a job well-done, I heard feverish laughter as I approached the computer room. Walked into the room, I discovered it to be filled with 5 technicians collectively and quite literally sitting, all but one, doing absolutely nothing.

Well…almost absolutely nothing.

Standing in the doorway, the collective attention turned upon me and the laughter died to faint giggles erupting every few seconds. A tall, dark-haired technician named Lance spoke up, eyes sparkling and teeth showing beneath his all-too-wide smile:

“We were just talking about you.”

*facepalm*

I was having one of those moments all over again, and I hadn’t even opened my mouth.

Hammer and Nails

*Bang*

 *Bang*

*Thump.*

Ouch. I'd done it again. The sixteen penny rink-shank nail previously held steady by my ever so steady hand, was now abandoned—left to fall two stories down to the concrete reality of concrete patio below as I pulled my throbbing left thumb nearer to my face for a closer examination. Throbbing wildly back and forth in synchronization with my pounding heart while systematically gracing between deep lavender, dark red, and pale white colors, my thumb emphatically protested; openly opposing its lot of opposability.

Inspecting my thumb for signs of intolerable stress as this was not the first time my hammer had struck my thumb in such a fashion, I realized that this was the third time this morning that I had inflicted such pain upon my thumb, a notion that worried me further as I discovered a stress line growing on my nail. I also realized that all three times thus far, my left thumb had been the blunt of my hammer’s fierce kinetic energy—a perfect 3-0 record. How very odd…

Peanut Gallery Detour: I am undecided pertaining to word choice at this point, which is not a position that I find myself in often. To say that the sudden consciousness my left thumb’s sudden stroke of terrible luck puzzled me, might be slight embellishment, as my mind was still at least half-heartedly focused upon the stout pain which had engulfed my thumb and began to spread down toward my wrist by this time. To simply shake the following thoughts away as never having occurred, however, would be terribly uninteresting and underly dramatic, almost like reading a 12 page synopsis regarding the function of chicken bouillon cubes. Yeah, drama is my weakness…

Plagued with incredulousness, I wondered in speculative awe as to why my poor left thumb was the lone one of two to suffer the hammering punishment dealt by a hammer. Calculating the mathematical odds, I concluded that the odds of my left thumb being hit all three consecutive times was 12.5%, or about 1 out of 8 odds. For you mathematically deficient, that’s a so called ‘fat chance’, a find that was all the more perplexing.


Slightly bothered by life's great mysteries, I stared off into the far reaches of the front yard, searching for the door of wisdom. After a long pause, I blinked and checked my phone and realized that I had been staring blankly at a tree for two minutes. Rats. Realizing that I was still a few brain cells short of an answer, I terminated my search and shrugged off the overwhelming grasp of mystery, remembering all at once that I was still standing on the roof of a tall house and my task was still to fasten trim to the edge of the eaves.

*sigh*

I unimaginatively selected another nail from the box of screws (don’t ask) with my left hand and reaching for the hammer with my right…

…the door of wisdom opened unto me and enlightenment imparted: You're right-handed stupid. There, standing atop wooden shingles and under both the fierce Oklahoma sun and the stark weight of realization, I realized that my right thumb was far too busy being opposable and holding a hammer to be bothered by being hit with it. My right thumb’s mathematical odds of being hit: 0% , 0 out of 10, and, for you knuckleheads out there, absolutely none.

*facepalm*

Slightly worried about the affect the sun was seemingly dealing to my intellectual prowess’s former glory, I closed my eyes…

…and immediately began to wonder why it was so dark inside my eyelids.

Perplexingly Simple

It's...complex. It is difficult to explain what complexity means. Emotionally, it is when you know what to say, but you can't put it into words. Mentally, it is the inability to completely wrap your mind around something because it isn't quite what it seems, or possibly it is everything and all that it seems. Spiritually, it is when life and circumstances are not quite as easy as just knowing. Mortally, complexity is insimplicity that breeds an inability to feel immensely anodyne in what once was or what now is. Complexity—it is life.

Beautifully, and in seemingly sheer defiance of life's complexity, love is so simple. No, I am not referring to the bubbly, warm feelings of emotional love. Neither am I denoting the warm thoughts of mental love, nor even our unfaithful, undedicated 'love' toward a greater, spiritual being. These fore-mentioned 'loves' are more complex than prevalent, which they are exceedingly. These 'loves' are not what I write of, because love, real love that is, is not a mortal emotion.


The love I speak of is immortal, all-powerful and unfailing; a love only an immortal, all-powerful and unfailing being can give. The love I speak of is the love that can create, in all complexity, simple peace. The love that makes life so worth the effort is the love that our Creator, our God, our Father gives freely to all. I think I shall start capitalizing this form of love, as it is divine. How wonderful life is, knowing that the most complex being ever, would give His children a Love so simple.

As The Moon

Moon. Such a dynamic word, it is, though not nearly as dynamic as the moon itself. When mentioned, this word brings to mind the notion of peace, the feeling of serenity, and an overwhelming sense of joy that only accompanies the ability to grasp seemingly immortal beauty in its purest form.

Also symbolically mysterious, the moon's past is riddled with wonder and speculation upon its meaning and purpose.

Inspiring, the moon has influenced the human race to exceed their gravitational boundaries and push for greater purposes, almost as artfully as it influences the waves.

The moon, though merely a reflection of something greater, has found its meaning, its purpose; it's essential self, in simply being the reflector of a greater light. The moon, dark and cratered on its own, finds it's light by reflecting the Sun's. The moon shines, not of its own accord, but by reflecting light omitted from elsewhere. No, the moon is not original, but the need to be isn't there. The moon's light is cleanly beautiful, and generations upon generations have marveled wondrously at the beauty of this light.

I pray that I would be, in this way, as the moon. Instead of striving to be original or cool or something of that like, I pray that my life would wholly reflect my Creator's light. I pray that when people see me, they do not see a hip, cool, funny, _____ (<fill in the blank) individual; rather, I long that people would look at my life and see the Creator.

From now on, my life will reflect beauty in its purest form; the form of perfect love.

From now until I die, my life will be a light that lost souls speculate of, that sad hearts look to in wonder, giving me the opportunity to further glorify my Savior and my Creator.

My life will influence the ones around me to push for something greater, to pull away from the 'gravitational pull of bondage, sin and life without Christ.

From this day forward, I will be as the moon, reflecting a greater light. Unlike the moon, I will be reflecting the greatest light.

The Train of Thought Serves Toast?!

The oddest thing happened to me this morning. After my morning ritual of taking a shower...


...what's wrong? Don't you take one every morning?! THEN ITS A RITUAL!! Shakes head, scowling with mouth half open 


*ahem* Aaaanyway...


...Hair wet and clothes new, and garnered with the minty freshness only a toothbrush can brandish, I opened the bathroom door, and immediately felt quite strange as the warm steam poured out from the bathroom, seemingly pursuing me. I stood in silence for a moment, trying to place why this morning air felt so very strange. I poked my head into a bedroom, warily, not quite sure of why I was being wary. The room was empty. I walked cautiously into the living room, and 'it' hit me:


It was quite cold in the living room.


Frowning, I walked into the kitchen wishing that I had donned a sweater. As I punctured the invisible separating line between the living room and the kitchen which existed somewhere within the doorway, I was hit by yet another realization--It was quiet.


Too quiet.


I had a nagging thought, trying to enlighten me, yet I couldn't place it. Suddenly, the exhausted realization that had been trying valiantly to board my morning train of thought since my leaving the bathroom, climbed aboard, made its way to the train's caboose, and whispered enlightenment into the conductor's ear.


Peanut Gallery Detour: Isn't it just annoying to have a thought, word, or witty line on the tip of your tongue, the outskirts of your mind, the essential perimeter of your being, yet finding a profound inability to summon it close enough for practical useage? This sort of occurrence is one that overtakes me far too often, and I believe I know why. I believe  the frequency of these phenomena is directly affected by the frozen-dairy related brainfreeze. 'Nuff said for now.


The train picked up speed, fueled by a sudden realization. I realized, as I stood into the kitchen, that I was quite alone. Slightly confused as my loud and busy family had occupied the house's grounds, even as I had jumped into the shower. At this point I felt kinda...well kinda...


...it was then that I caught smell of something absolutely delightfully pleasant. I looked down, as I found myself standing over the table. There, on a small plate, was a warm and buttery piece of toast, which was complimented nicely with the brim-filled glass of orange juice that was sitting beside it.


Mmm...


Delighted, I grabbed my newfound company, and strolled out the door, absolutely forgetting the sense of lonliness that had accompanied what I had realized just thirty seconds before.

Responsibility...

This is a story. More specifically, this is a story with a principle. Moreover, this is a story (with principle) about four individuals, aged respectively, named Everyone, Someone, Anyone, and No One. Now these four individuals were a valiant bunch, strong and brave and smart. So it was only fitting that one day, the four were given a special task to complete; one of upmost importance. Upon convening with one another to sort that task out among one of them, Everyone was asked to complete this task. Now, dear Everyone was sure that Someone would do it, so he lazily ignored the job, as he was eldest. While Anyone could have worked this task, finally, No One completed it. This notion angered the fiery middle-brother Someone, because it was, after all, Everyone's task. It was quite obvious, however, to Everyone that Anyone could have done this job just as well as he. Alas, keen No One understood that neither Everyone, nor Anyone, would not do it. The final result? Everyone blamed Someone when No One did what Anyone could have done.


The End

It rains in my Father's world.

The noise of the Kordsiemon household quietly fades away as the screeching cracks of lightening and epic booms of thunder pierce the air. The afternoon sky has, over the last few hours, gradually become dark—a harbinger of impending rain and an excuse to burn softly lit candles. After a dramatic opening, the rain is pounding the windows and roof and...mmm, very possibly my dog…

Peanut Gallery Detour: My dog is a Schnauzer. She is pretty much spoiled and has adopted the paradigm that she is the last remaining defense, the essential dividing line between her family (us) and the great evil that surrounds us (the neighbors apparently). Our valiant defender with the shrill bark, e.i. Havi, is afraid of nothing. *ahem* Almost nothing. Her deepest fear involves the other lady of the household (mother), and bathtime. Any variation of these elements are equally frightening to her. On this particular day, whilst the rain gives the hard soil a bath, our poor guardian looks in the window angrily, as she as well  is having to participate in an unscheduled bath-period. Anyway...

Even on a splendid day like today, where I'm found sleeping in for once and otherwise enjoying a splendid and rare day off, in the back of my mind, my troubles exist quite loudly. Even this lovely afternoon, when one could see me proudly reading over my work in bliss, what could not be seen was how my heart broke at the mere mentioning of a dear friend in a casual conversation. Yet, as I pick up the pieces and prepare to immerse myself in the imaginary world in which my only troubles are simply finding the perfect words to convey brilliancy, my troubles still distress me as I start to plug in my headphones and prepare to dive off the cliff of imagination. And then...

...the rain falls, and I remember. While listening to the thunder roar, the rain fall, and my dog yelp, I remember comfortingly that yesterday, right now, tomorrow, and forever, my God is here. As my troubles scream all around me, He puts His hand on my shoulder. As I’m in tears on the floor, he’s sitting beside me, offering His shoulder as a place to bury my head. Even now, as I write down this inspired blogpost, with the rain beginning to calm down, He smiles down on me. He is my constant. He never fails me; He never leaves me. Father, I am so sorry that I become so wrapped up in my little world, and forget that I’m in my Father’s world. Yes, it rains here--not always the good kind of rain, but in my Father's world, He makes oceans from the rain. 

If you haven’t put two and two together, this sort of weather has a very calming effect on me. As I press on writing, I take the earphones out of my ears, choosing instead to listen to God's background music. Silently, with my trusty coffee mug sitting beside me, and God’s love with me, I take a breath and a moment to thank God for all that He has created for and given to me. Days like this remind me that with all my troubles and fears, all my worries and problems, all my sadness and never-ending pain, He is here. Be still and know I'm here, He says gently. In an inconstant world where the grounds shake, the earth quakes and emotions lose themselves, He is constant. 

"All my life, you have never left my side. You are my constant." --Francesca Battistelli

This is My Father's World--Song
                  vvv
http://youtu.be/byIpfEVxhs4