.one of my favorite pictures in my parents house = a toe-headed little boy sitting on a rough wooden T-shaped pier with a cane pole between his legs.
one of my earliest memories = walking out to my granddaddy's shop where all the men stood in a long assembly line. .orderly they beheaded. gutted. scaled. and .fried. enough fish for our huge family.
.these two stories, of the millions of other memories, set the stage for my love of fishing. .a love claire had confirmed we held in common on our early dates. .then came the testing time.
.it was memorial day weekend and claire's good friend ashley was getting hitched in the mountains outside hendersonville, nc. .i promised to attend based on a few conditions. .i didn't have to wear a shirt except to the wedding. and .i could fish on memorial day. .she agreed.
.so the wedding came and i brought my fishing gear. .mid-day claire joined me after her bridesmaid breakfast. .it was beautiful. .about ninety degrees. .sunny. .fish were everywhere under the trees on the banks. .i brought her an extra fishing rod with an effective lure. .she smiled and said she'd rather watch for a while. .no problem. .she sits down in the front seat of our two-person kayak (in retrospect a canoe would have worked better) and we paddle out. .fifteen minutes later i hook my first blue gill and reel in a little prize. . i slide the rod beside me and hold the fish to free the hook from its mouth.
!WHAT IN THE ?! GET THAT THING ?! OFF OF ME ?! WHAT ARE YOU ?! OH MY GOSH ?! claire has a bonafide freak out right in the boat. .as she screams unfinished words in an inaudible high pitch voice and attempts to turn around in a narrow boat. ?! WHAT !? i.m holding the fish in my left hand but she was convinced i had dangled it all down her back.
.trying to compose herself. .she proceeds to explain that she loves fishing. BUT .she hates baiting hooks. .hates seeing fish. .hates catching fish. .hates touching fish. .hates gutting fish. .hates cooking fish. BUT she loves fishing.
.interesting.
.since then she has mysteriously been busy every time i've been fishing since. .wonder why.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Story O' Day: One Day Without Sleep
my eyes rise from behind my computer screen , as the sun breaches the horizon. my gaze falls like rays on the beauty of creation and my heart stirs as my energy slumps. this creation is no globe but she is becoming my world. twelve pages down. two to go. many an all-nighter decorates my academic resume, but this is a first. this is my first job all-nigher and it is my first all-nighter in a church. you see. last night was my favorite all-time all-nighter. a phone call yesterday afternoon. a novel idea. Claire's studies also required an all-nighter. so we decided to join one another in our scholastic vigil. vigil is most appropriate as the agreed upon locale for our all-nighter was the sanctuary of her church. spectacular. what a better place to do homework than a church.
work and time passed quickly between lingering glances and coy smiles. theological papers flow like love letters.
around four, Claire settles beautifully into a couch and falls peacefully into sleep. dave matthews repeatedly sings over her, "i wonder this, 'could tomorrow be any more wondrous than you sleeping.'"
and so it was that Claire and i worked through the night at a small table in the back of her church. as i finish this night without sleep, i would stay awake another three days to sit at that table and steal smiles across a sleepy circular table.
work and time passed quickly between lingering glances and coy smiles. theological papers flow like love letters.
around four, Claire settles beautifully into a couch and falls peacefully into sleep. dave matthews repeatedly sings over her, "i wonder this, 'could tomorrow be any more wondrous than you sleeping.'"
and so it was that Claire and i worked through the night at a small table in the back of her church. as i finish this night without sleep, i would stay awake another three days to sit at that table and steal smiles across a sleepy circular table.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Story O' Day: I'm Marrying a SuperStar
He won't admit it of himself, but Andrew Ruth is a super star. This guy goes above and beyond all calls of duty, it's almost ridiculous. But that is not a complaint on my part, no. I am purely thankful and excited to be this star's wife.
This stardom of Andrew's is no new hat. He's owned it since before we met. This good looking guy always had the best moves on the dance floor, the most school spirit leading cheers from the stands, the most convincing sales pitch on the Gospel truth or cars or idea-of-the-moment, the most caring heart for his huge family and large schools of friends, the most brilliant thoughts and studious capabilities, and a fun-loving soul that can't help but evoke smiles and laughter from anyone within earshot. That's my superstar, Andrew.
This superstar loves me incredibly well. My first birthday that we celebrated as an official couple, he arranged a camping trip with me and my closest friends. What was intended to be car-camping turned into a camp site that was 2 miles up the mountain, off the beaten path. Andrew miraculously found his way up the dark mountain with no directions, and hauled 80 pounds of food, ice, and gear to create the best birthday party I've ever had. My Eagle Scout boyfriend built a huge fire, pitched our tents, and proceeded to cook all 9 of us a delicious meal of hobo pies (pockets of aluminum foil, filled with ground beef, veggies, and sauces that ends up tasting like a wonderfully sloppy meatloaf). The fun didn't stop with dinner. Andrew insisted that his birthday girl have a cake, and so he baked me a cake in a dutch oven over the fire. He not only iced that cake, but even made ice cream in zip lock bags to go with it!! All of that after only a few months of dating! What a guy?!
Today, he reached a new level... I got sick beyond words last night while at dinner with some of my girlfriends. Upon receipt of my complaining text message, Andrew offered to leave his homework duties and drive downtown to bring me medicine. I was too sick to say no, and he arrived just in the nick of time to drive me home to recover. Today, Sunday morning, rolled around and I was still too sick to move 20 steps. So Andrew, being the superstar that he is, went to church without me to perform all of my duties there. Now, he is there every weekend with me, as my right-hand man, making my life easier. But for him to go without me today, in my stead, nearly baffles me. His work didn't stop at the church. He returned to my house afterward, geared with 4 types of gatorade, saltine crackers, and two movies to aid in my recovery. That's my superstar.
This guy, Mr. Andrew David Ruth, shows me the love of Jesus Christ in more ways than I can count, or express to you in these little story blogs.
This stardom of Andrew's is no new hat. He's owned it since before we met. This good looking guy always had the best moves on the dance floor, the most school spirit leading cheers from the stands, the most convincing sales pitch on the Gospel truth or cars or idea-of-the-moment, the most caring heart for his huge family and large schools of friends, the most brilliant thoughts and studious capabilities, and a fun-loving soul that can't help but evoke smiles and laughter from anyone within earshot. That's my superstar, Andrew.
This superstar loves me incredibly well. My first birthday that we celebrated as an official couple, he arranged a camping trip with me and my closest friends. What was intended to be car-camping turned into a camp site that was 2 miles up the mountain, off the beaten path. Andrew miraculously found his way up the dark mountain with no directions, and hauled 80 pounds of food, ice, and gear to create the best birthday party I've ever had. My Eagle Scout boyfriend built a huge fire, pitched our tents, and proceeded to cook all 9 of us a delicious meal of hobo pies (pockets of aluminum foil, filled with ground beef, veggies, and sauces that ends up tasting like a wonderfully sloppy meatloaf). The fun didn't stop with dinner. Andrew insisted that his birthday girl have a cake, and so he baked me a cake in a dutch oven over the fire. He not only iced that cake, but even made ice cream in zip lock bags to go with it!! All of that after only a few months of dating! What a guy?!
Today, he reached a new level... I got sick beyond words last night while at dinner with some of my girlfriends. Upon receipt of my complaining text message, Andrew offered to leave his homework duties and drive downtown to bring me medicine. I was too sick to say no, and he arrived just in the nick of time to drive me home to recover. Today, Sunday morning, rolled around and I was still too sick to move 20 steps. So Andrew, being the superstar that he is, went to church without me to perform all of my duties there. Now, he is there every weekend with me, as my right-hand man, making my life easier. But for him to go without me today, in my stead, nearly baffles me. His work didn't stop at the church. He returned to my house afterward, geared with 4 types of gatorade, saltine crackers, and two movies to aid in my recovery. That's my superstar.
This guy, Mr. Andrew David Ruth, shows me the love of Jesus Christ in more ways than I can count, or express to you in these little story blogs.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Story O' Day: The Valentine of all Valentines
I have always loved our dates, but props must be given to our first official one as a couple in 2008. In the least cliché way possible, it was Valentine’s Day. Andrew picked me up around 7, got us drinks (from the McDonald’s drive-thru, of course) on the way out, because as he explained, “we were going on a little drive to get where we were going.” Once we got to the Cleveland County line, he explained he was taking me to his lake house, to avoid the over-crowded and loud restaurants where he just feels bad for the people who have to work there. Upon arriving at his family’s house nestled in the woods on Lake Montonia, he pulled a big chair in front of the fireplace and put a blanket over me and handed me a glass of wine. The night could've stopped right there, and I would've been content. Instead, he went to work in the kitchen. After he had set up everything and put music on, he got me to come in and "have some fun" by making chocolate chip pancakes and scrambled eggs. Fun we had, which continued as we moved the sofa to face the fire and ate there. Then we watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and talked for a while afterwards. On our way home, in the least redneck way possible, I sat in the middle of the truck next to him. Once to my house, he gave me a CD of songs we'd been listening to the whole night – our soundtrack to our date. He’s since given me a soundtrack to our whole first year of dating and more, but that’s another story…
Story O' Day: Church in a Bar?
Last semester in seminary, we talked about the Pastor's role to lead the liturgy of the church. We talked of the importance of liturgy. In our readings for class, Barbara Brown Taylor worked through all the pieces of her traditional Episcopalian worship service and the importance that each piece held within the whole. I couldn’t help but think of a scene from just a few weeks ago.
It’s just before midnight. I pick up Claire at her house, we both throw on boots and jeans. She looks great as always, a green blouse, hair pulled back because of the heat. I look like normal with jeans, a worn-out blue t-shirt from a thrift store, my hair frizzy from driving with the top laid back on the Jeep. We ride over to the Double Door Inn in Charlotte, NC. As we push through the historic and worn double screened-in doors that guard the cathedral constructed from two Siamese shotgun shacks, I smell cigarettes and spilled beer. I hear the music I have come to love. We are here to hear Atilla’s Honey, a bluegrass band from Concord, for which my cousin H.L. plays banjo, but it feels like church. We are here almost weekly. We walk in, and the usual suspects are in their usual vestments and positions. H.L. has on jeans and ostrich-skin boots he found in a dumpster on Selwyn Ave and carries an all black Derring banjo, which he refers to as “murdered out.” Zac wears jeans and his navy Converse All-star High-tops, and picks a red Takamine guitar. Mogely sporting the traditional long hair and beard stands against the speaker stack greeting all the patrons. Quincy sits on her barstool towards the back. John is behind the soundboard. Everyone has his place like families in an old Southern church.
We all take turns visiting the bar, which serves as an altar, where we present our offerings and receive the Eucharist of Pabst Blue Ribbon and the traditional Benny the Bartender’s blessing. This place has its own liturgy. All the parts of worship, presented by Barbara Brown Taylor are here. Mogely is our greeter. We sing hymns together - some we wrote and some that were inherited. There is call and response liturgy that we all know. “In time she ran out of tricks,” the band sings and the congregation replies in unison, “Silly Rabbit.” “Robert was a submariner of submariners, you know he wasn’t now wiener,” they sing and the congregation responds, “Oscar Meyer.” We pass the peace between songs. We perform our elaborate dances. We spot each other a few bucks at the end of a rough week. There is a final hymn and a benediction and then we leave.
The two services are so similar, but do they accomplish the same thing? I hope not, because $60,000 buys a lot of guitar lessons, PBR, and studio time. The bar has liturgy and tradition, but it lacks meat. It’s Eucharist of PBR and peanuts confer the common grace of happiness, but cannot elevate us to our supernatural end. The god of that place cannot save. It cannot forgive sins or break the chains of bondage. The God of Israel and Jesus can, and He is present and works in places like the Double Door if we pay attention. The Church has the words of eternal life, it has the Body and Blood of Christ to offer a lost and hurting world, but it often lacks the intimacy and community of that smoky bar. If we could combine those two we would have a church, much like the First Century community of rough-handed but wise fishermen loving broken and battered folks, desperate for abundant life.
Here is a video from a similar show of what used to be Attila's playing one of our favorite tunes. "You Ain't Going Nowhere" a hymn we inherited. The video is rough, but it is real - maybe that is exactly what we should strive to be.
It’s just before midnight. I pick up Claire at her house, we both throw on boots and jeans. She looks great as always, a green blouse, hair pulled back because of the heat. I look like normal with jeans, a worn-out blue t-shirt from a thrift store, my hair frizzy from driving with the top laid back on the Jeep. We ride over to the Double Door Inn in Charlotte, NC. As we push through the historic and worn double screened-in doors that guard the cathedral constructed from two Siamese shotgun shacks, I smell cigarettes and spilled beer. I hear the music I have come to love. We are here to hear Atilla’s Honey, a bluegrass band from Concord, for which my cousin H.L. plays banjo, but it feels like church. We are here almost weekly. We walk in, and the usual suspects are in their usual vestments and positions. H.L. has on jeans and ostrich-skin boots he found in a dumpster on Selwyn Ave and carries an all black Derring banjo, which he refers to as “murdered out.” Zac wears jeans and his navy Converse All-star High-tops, and picks a red Takamine guitar. Mogely sporting the traditional long hair and beard stands against the speaker stack greeting all the patrons. Quincy sits on her barstool towards the back. John is behind the soundboard. Everyone has his place like families in an old Southern church.
We all take turns visiting the bar, which serves as an altar, where we present our offerings and receive the Eucharist of Pabst Blue Ribbon and the traditional Benny the Bartender’s blessing. This place has its own liturgy. All the parts of worship, presented by Barbara Brown Taylor are here. Mogely is our greeter. We sing hymns together - some we wrote and some that were inherited. There is call and response liturgy that we all know. “In time she ran out of tricks,” the band sings and the congregation replies in unison, “Silly Rabbit.” “Robert was a submariner of submariners, you know he wasn’t now wiener,” they sing and the congregation responds, “Oscar Meyer.” We pass the peace between songs. We perform our elaborate dances. We spot each other a few bucks at the end of a rough week. There is a final hymn and a benediction and then we leave.
The two services are so similar, but do they accomplish the same thing? I hope not, because $60,000 buys a lot of guitar lessons, PBR, and studio time. The bar has liturgy and tradition, but it lacks meat. It’s Eucharist of PBR and peanuts confer the common grace of happiness, but cannot elevate us to our supernatural end. The god of that place cannot save. It cannot forgive sins or break the chains of bondage. The God of Israel and Jesus can, and He is present and works in places like the Double Door if we pay attention. The Church has the words of eternal life, it has the Body and Blood of Christ to offer a lost and hurting world, but it often lacks the intimacy and community of that smoky bar. If we could combine those two we would have a church, much like the First Century community of rough-handed but wise fishermen loving broken and battered folks, desperate for abundant life.
Here is a video from a similar show of what used to be Attila's playing one of our favorite tunes. "You Ain't Going Nowhere" a hymn we inherited. The video is rough, but it is real - maybe that is exactly what we should strive to be.
Monday, March 22, 2010
. These Stories .
So you know where this story-telling idea came from? I thought I should fill you in. Andrew and I told all kinds of stories to my dying grandfather last weekend, while hanging out in his hospital room. In an effort to show PawPaw how much we love him, we tried to think of stories that would make his heart happy, even if he weren’t able to respond with even a smile. It was in telling the stories to him, that we were reminded of how precious our memories are. I don’t want to think that I take our stories for granted, but there bloomed a new appreciation for the importance to share them. Our intention isn’t to give you readers a spoon-full of romantic sugar that’s gag-worthy, we promise.
. Andrew Sightings .
Andrew told so well the story of the night we first officially met at the Young Life Super Bowl party in 2007. What he did not include, however, is how I had noticed him a few times before that night. No, I wasn’t his stalker, but I did admire him from a distance.
. The Djembe Hottie .
Let’s start from the very beginning… it’s a very good place to start…
I was in between volunteer and staff status for Young Life and attended a beginning of the year kick-off event at our very own Joe Gibbs’ house at Lake Norman. The day was full of fun water sports, and hanging out with good company. This is also the first day, to my knowledge, that I ever saw Andrew, my djembe hottie. Definitely distracting me from the complete worship experience, Andrew struck an intriguing beat that still lures me today. I didn’t have enough nerve to approach this longhaired boy wearing madras plaid shorts on this summer day, but I had another opportunity several months later.
. The Edgy Redneck .
Just months after the summer event, Young Life hosted a region-wide event called the Turkey Bowl. It was on this evening that many staff members and volunteers gathered to celebrate finishing a fast with a huge meal, and then flag football tournaments followed. I walked by Andrew seated at a table, and almost pawned him off to my curly haired girl friend who was with me since she liked fellows with heads of curls. At the time, I was denying my own curls’ existence (something that he’s since taught me to embrace) and need for companionship. I retracted my offer to my friend later that night when I saw Andrew drive up to the fields in his huge truck. I was again intrigued. This good looking, eccentric, musically inclined, southern, and redneck guy was thoroughly catching my attention. Yet, we still didn’t get to talk that night. My team may have beaten him in flag football, though…
Another few months passed before our first official words were exchanged at the Super Bowl party.
. Andrew Sightings .
Andrew told so well the story of the night we first officially met at the Young Life Super Bowl party in 2007. What he did not include, however, is how I had noticed him a few times before that night. No, I wasn’t his stalker, but I did admire him from a distance.
. The Djembe Hottie .
Let’s start from the very beginning… it’s a very good place to start…
I was in between volunteer and staff status for Young Life and attended a beginning of the year kick-off event at our very own Joe Gibbs’ house at Lake Norman. The day was full of fun water sports, and hanging out with good company. This is also the first day, to my knowledge, that I ever saw Andrew, my djembe hottie. Definitely distracting me from the complete worship experience, Andrew struck an intriguing beat that still lures me today. I didn’t have enough nerve to approach this longhaired boy wearing madras plaid shorts on this summer day, but I had another opportunity several months later.
. The Edgy Redneck .
Just months after the summer event, Young Life hosted a region-wide event called the Turkey Bowl. It was on this evening that many staff members and volunteers gathered to celebrate finishing a fast with a huge meal, and then flag football tournaments followed. I walked by Andrew seated at a table, and almost pawned him off to my curly haired girl friend who was with me since she liked fellows with heads of curls. At the time, I was denying my own curls’ existence (something that he’s since taught me to embrace) and need for companionship. I retracted my offer to my friend later that night when I saw Andrew drive up to the fields in his huge truck. I was again intrigued. This good looking, eccentric, musically inclined, southern, and redneck guy was thoroughly catching my attention. Yet, we still didn’t get to talk that night. My team may have beaten him in flag football, though…
Another few months passed before our first official words were exchanged at the Super Bowl party.
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