Category: essays

• holy roller

  The 1997 Toyota Corolla has never failed me. I believe in that car like I believe in breakfast. It has been faithful to me, enabling me to flee, find, and roam since my junior year of high school. It often pops up in my personal essays and short stories as an instrument of freedom. I wouldn’t say driving it is a sacrament, but through it I do experience a kind of grace that says you did not design me, build me, buy me nor pay for the gas that is inside of me, but I will go because you say “go” and I will stop because you say “stop” and I will heat you when you are cold and cool you when you are hot, bring you news when you are detached from the world and sing to you when you are sad. The word “love” means many things in the English language. I think it would accurately describe the appreciation I have for the Corolla.

  The neighbors across the street love their cars, too. When my family moved to Michigan, we were quite impressed by the intimacy our neighbors share with their automobiles. They know everything about their cars’ inner workings and how to fix them when they fail. I, on the other hand, know nothing about what goes on inside the Corolla. I know how to put gas in it, which is more than I can say for most of my friends from Oregon, and I know how to pop open the hood—what the British call the “brassiere,” according to one of my middle school teachers. (I had to google “brassiere” in order to spell it properly. Lord have mercy.) Once the brassiere has been popped open, I know how to stare at its contents while looking completely lost and confused. I’m an English major.

  It was this car that I drove to my orthodontist appointment yesterday. The lovely ortho people sent me a postcard last summer telling me that I really should come in just to make sure that my mouth hadn’t imploded or something since my last checkup. I didn’t go. But a month and a half ago, while in Seattle, one of my permanent retainers popped off. I figured I should have it looked at.
  (more…)

• love wins

  I have never lost a close friend or relative, so I don’t feel qualified to comment on the grief that is instilled into the hearts of those who have. However, there is a grief that is stirred in anyone who hears stories like those that have arisen from Newton, Connecticut, or Clackamas, Oregon, or Aurora, Colorado. This resonating grief is common to every person. With it come confusion, anger, and a longing for peace and healing.

  Bear with me as I reflect and stumble through some thoughts.

  (more…)

• to fly, to leap, to soar

  Who will love a little Sparrow?
  Who’s traveled far and cries for rest?

  – “Sparrow” by Simon & Garfunkle

   

  A small house in southern New Hampshire, close to an airport. A record of someone playing the organ is blasting in the modest living room. In the center of the room is my father, holding my hands as he swings giggling toddler me round and round and round in the air like the blades of a helicopter or the hands of an old clock that is speeding furiously just to prove it can still tick or a raucous pas de deux between God and child, creator and created, his hands dwarfing my wrists as I fly over the carpet screaming with delight.

  When I shared this memory with my dad he denied it ever happened. It could be a dream that I’m remembering, as many of my early dreams were about flying out of my bedroom and down the stairs like Peter Pan—because if you could fly, isn’t that the first place you would want to go, downstairs?
  (more…)

• the Leonard Cohen concert

  It is Day Two of a three-day weekend. On Friday night a friend and I bussed down to lower Queen Anne to watch Leonard Cohen play at the Key Arena. It was a fitting prelude to what has become the most sedentary few days of this year. Between paragraphs of All the Pretty Horses, I’ve stayed up late watching Doctor Who, played Halo 4 with my 3rd Hill brothers, absconded to a 24-hour breakfast joint, and listened to Christmas albums with friends while sharing the parts of our lives that need a Christmas the most. The skies begin to dim by at least 4:30 pm, making more than half of the day night. Veni, Domine Jesu.

  After my friend and I exited the bus at our stop, picked up some Americanos at Caffe Zingaro, and browsed a wonderful used bookstore, we walked a couple blocks to the arena. A cloud of white hair had descended in front of it and was slowly being sucked in. My friend took a final drag of her cigarette and puffed out the smoke before we entered the cloud.

  It wasn’t just old people. There were middle-aged people, a few other college students, and we even saw one young family with two kids that had to be under ten. After picking out our tour t-shirts—mine with a sketch of a very haggard looking Leonard, hers with a beautiful bird perched on a branch—we found our seats in the upper ring. Out came the man with his old school backing band, Sharon Robinson, and the Webb sisters. The speakers weren’t blasting like most concerts I’ve attended, and the audience was fairly dead (we clapped in time for one song and most people only sang along in the chorus of Hallelujah, when the sound technician kindly aimed the stage lights at us for a queue.) (more…)

• heavy heavy

  My first examination of the school year was last week. It covered Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen and Gilead by Marilynne Robinson—both of which I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned here. The test was two short essays and one long essay. There were several options of what to write on for the long essay. I didn’t write on empathetic suffering in Mariette in Ecstasy, and I partially regret that. Take two.

  My personal experience with nuns is minimal. I attended a Catholic elementary school in New Hampshire, but there were only two of them left in the teaching faculty. The sister that taught music retired form teaching during my time there. The other sister was my first grade teacher. The main thing that I remember about her was her love of whoopee pies. I’m not sure if that is how you spell the word for the two chocolate cakelets with cream in the middle, but autocorrect made it that, so I’ll take its word. My Mac is obese.

  The lunch table was the central point of middle school life. It was a market of junk food and crude jokes. Cold lunchers like myself eyed the platters of hot lunchers with gut-shriveling envy. On the rare occasion I would slip into the cafeteria area and grab some garlic bread or a plate of pasta after everyone had settled into their place at a table and after my bagged lunch was depleted. I felt a bit foreign approaching the lunch ladies, but they quickly became allies. “Just take it. No one should leave the lunch room hungry.” (more…)

• opus one

  Every day is a symphony.

  The first movement opens with a shrill beepbeepbeepbeep beepbeepbeepbeep beepbeepbeepbeep, followed by the rustling of sheets, the rustling of clothes, a fountain, a flush, a backpack’s zipper, and the squeak of a door being closed slowly as to not awaken the roommate who woke up with the first beepbeepbeepbeep but is kind enough to pretend that he is still asleep.  Rubber-soled shoes squeak on linoleum and patter on stone.  The pattern of the patter is altered as staircases are descended.  A silent door is opened and for the first time a low murmuring of voices can be heard.

  The tenor opens his mouth in a brief solo.

  “Good morning.”

  A lower voice responds.

  “Good morning.”

  Silverware jingles and plates clink.  A chair scraping against the floor marks the end of the first movement.  The soloist sits down to breakfast.

  (more…)

• art songs

  For Mom, on her birthday:

  My mom told me that when she was pregnant with me I would kick her in time with the church organ.

  My mom told me a story that I now tell anyone who will listen.  It is about me when I was a toddler.  I didn’t like being alone.  If I was bad, my parents would threaten to close the door during nap time.  This achieved its desired result because to me a closed door meant being cut off from the world.  During this stage of my life, Mum and Dad sang me to sleep every night after the Lord’s prayer and final bathroom run—which had various code names like “Ooka laka.” (Don’t ask.)  After this ritual, Mom often rested on the rug next to my bed until I fell asleep.  If she didn’t, I wouldn’t.

  On this specific occasion, my mom thought I was asleep.  She got up and started to quietly leave the room.  I noticed and said, “Mommy, back to your mat!”  That was the last time Mommy slept on her mat.

  But the singing didn’t stop.  I don’t even remember what my parents sang to me besides Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. There were a good number of hymns, like A Mighty Fortress is Our God, often sung in harmony.  I remember one non-hymn that Dad sang by himself.  It went: (more…)

• being back

  Dad and I flew out of Grand Rapids yesterday morning and arrived in Seattle yesterday morning.  It was a pretty long morning.  I started a new journal on the plane and wrote a good six pages in it.  Rainier from the plane…

  

  Dad helped me settle into my room a bit and headed out.  I should mention that I came early because I will be serving my residence hall as president this year.  Nearly every minute since Dad left has been leadership training, eating, or preparing for Welcome Week—the half-week when all of the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed freshmen come in and we inject excitement straight into their veins.  Busy, busy.  But good busy.  Busy with the really fantastic people in Hall Council with me.  It will be a great year. (more…)

• The Coffeeshop.

  While interning, reading, playing, and hanging out in Michigan, I’ve missed out on what I’ve heard has been a very beautiful summer in Seattle.  Maybe I’ll live there next summer…

  The following is a piece written by my future roommate about his summer in Seattle.

  ---

  The Coffeeshop.

  by Jake Wiebe

  There is a coffeeshop in my city. There are many, actually. I live in the most caffeinated city in America. I live in the most “coffee’ed” city in, arguably, the world.

  Welcome to Seattle. My city.

  (more…)

• search and rescue; call and response

  The college search is hard for many people.  Some lucky duckers know what they want to do and where they want to do it, only apply to that place, get accepted and attend.  Others, like myself, have a vague sense of what they’d like to study and maybe a lead on a school they could be interested in.  I thought that I’d like to study one of the liberal arts and I applied to eleven or twelve schools.  Halfway through application season (January or so), I switched my intended major to music.

  Some of my Christian friends have a strong sense of God’s will for their lives.  Whether they use the phrase or not, you can tell they know—or at least think they know—which school God wants them to attend, what career God has prepared for them, etc.  “God has a plan for you, and that is so beautiful and exciting!”  This sort of language, although well-intended and true, confused me during my college search, and still does.  The idea of ‘God’s plan’ wasn’t very comforting either, because I thought that it meant I had a one in twelve chance at choosing the Right School, and a similar chance at choosing the Right Major.  There was a lot at stake and I didn’t want to screw my life up.

  All right, close your eyes.  Raise your hand if you think that sounds ridiculous and a little melodramatic.  I see many hands in the air, belonging to agnostics, atheists, and believers alike.  Oops, I raised my hand, too.  Ok, hands down, hands down.

  I still don’t understand the concept of God’s will, although I’ve learned that it involves a lot more freedom than I had previously thought.  But I couldn’t see that in my senior year of high school.  The fear that I could permanently remove myself from the Right Trajectory of Life added to my depression and anxiety, and was the cause of a couple panic attacks.  I didn’t speak to anyone about this because I felt alone.  Who would listen? (more…)