Anchors Aweigh!

Remember last week’s post on waiting?  Well, last Thursday I got a text from my recruiter saying that some jobs might be opening up and that I would know for sure on Friday or Monday.  Friday happened, I got down with some friends, but I didn’t hear anything regarding Navy jobs.  Saturday happened, Sunday happened, and while I wasn’t expecting to hear anything over the weekend, doubt still managed to creep in.

Come Monday morning all kinds of reasons as to why I shouldn’t get in or hear anything were jumping around in my head like a herd of poisonous toads.  But then shortly after noon I got the message: “Hey Cliff, you’re on the schedule to process tomorrow.  We just got the word that you’re good to go.”  I just happened to be on a call when the text came through – and no, I don’t make it a normal habit to read text messages while on phone calls, but I was a bit jittery, plus the caller at the time was looking for his bill to give me his account number.

As soon as I read the text I had to suppress a “Whoopee!”  However, what started out as an average, good-natured call on my part suddenly turned into an enthusiastic and exciting experience for my customer.

When break time rolled around shortly thereafter, I made contact with my recruiter and details were ironed out for that evening and the next day: I’d crash at the hotel again and drive over to the Military Entrance Processing Station (MEPS) the next morning and since I wouldn’t need to do anything else but process, I’d probably be done by noon.  And by process, of course I don’t mean “dealing with issues”, but rather being processed into the military.

Tuesday morning my roommate and I woke up at 4, went down for breakfast at 5, then I followed the bus to the MEPS at 5:30 and I was ready to rock and roll by 6.  All I needed to do was wait to clear up a couple issues with the security clearance folks (pay your parking tickets on time), then wait to meet with the job classifier.  I was ready to rock at 6AM.  By nine, my enthusiasm had wavered just a bit – but I was able to watch some fascinating programming on tanks, submarines and jet fighters on the Military channel in the lobby.

About 9:45 I was called back and got the security clearance issue cleared up (pay your parking tickets immediately!  It will come back to haunt you!), and was told that if the job classifier didn’t call me back by 10:30 to go get some food in the cafeteria.

10:30 rolled around – I was hungry.  I went and got some food in the cafeteria.  Now, heh, they say it’s free.  They say that staying at the hotel the night before, the breakfast and then lunch is all free.  I appreciate the idea, I do, and I like not having to fork out five or six bucks at a time or whatever it cost to stay at the hotel.  However, I pay my taxes every year.  If you want a return on that investment, join the military. ;)

But I digress…

By 11 I was back in the lobby waiting to hear from the job classifier – well, one of two classifiers.  What would happen would be I’d go back and talk with her about the available jobs and see which ones would be the best fit based on my personality inventory, job history and ASVAB score.  It was about 1:15 when I was called.

There were no options.  Well, I should say we didn’t discuss any options because the job I was hoping to get was available.  I’m going to be a journalist for the Navy.  I actually get to use my original degree in Communication (media production and such) for a career!

By 2PM I was sworn in as a sailor for the United States Navy.  I ship out for nine weeks of basic training in November followed by six months of training in my specialty.  And that’s that!  God’s been working every step of the way.  I was not expecting things to happen so quickly.  But I see the delay from last week as a chance to take care of those parking tickets (pay ‘em!) and get everything squared away before the whole process would engage.  When it’s time to move on God’s schedule, things get crackin’!

So what does that mean for the blog?  For the time being, nothing.  I’ll continue along the normal schedule.  I have ideas for stories and things to share which I’ll have posted in my absence during basic.  Of course, at that time I won’t be able to respond, but I’ll see about having someone moderate comments and such on my behalf.  Plus, a couple of folks have said they’d still be interested in writing guest posts so you’ll get to enjoy the likes of Danny from Connective Tissue, Sharon from She Worships, and more (definitely some more Grady Nutt – his talks are just a gold mine of good stories!).

And I reckon that’s all I have to say about that.  Happy Wednesday!

RIP GPT

RIP GPT

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

I got the idea for Guest Post Thursday from Jon Acuff, the guy who writes the Stuff Christians Like blog (you still haven’t read it?  What are you waiting for??!).  In his book, Quitter (which I highly recommend you read, by the way), he talks about developing a platform for whatever dream it is you have to fulfill in life and to share that platform.  That was the whole point of Guest Post Thursday.

Thus far I’ve had two weeks where actual, living and breathing people guest posted and the other two weeks I’ve posted transcriptions of performances of a Southern Baptist minister who passed on 29 years ago.  This week I’ve got nothing and really nothing on the docket.  And that’s okay.

This is a learning experience.

Right now isn’t the time for Guest Post Thursday, I suppose.

Right now isn’t the time for a lot of things.  I’ll keep the option open in case anyone does want to, but frankly, I think maybe I was somewhat putting the cart before the horse in just starting up the blog with the GPT component already set as a foundational piece. 

In the meantime, I’ll continue my regular posts on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and figure out what to do with Thursdays. 

I mean, hey, the blog is a month old today. J  This is the longest I’ve kept a consistent blog going with a definitive purpose.

So, we’ll see what happens to Thursdays – jury’s still out on Fridays in my opinion, though some of y’all have said you like the current format.

I still want to do something with video….

Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors

It's Guest Post Thursday!  Today's guest is Rachel of http://becomingrachelmeitl.blogspot.com/.  Rachel is a wife, a very creative interior decorator and cook, and most recently a new mother.  

Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors - by Rachel Meitl

The gospel of grace calls us to sing of the everyday mystery of intimacy with God instead of always seeking for miracles or visions. It calls us to sing of the spiritual roots of such commonplace experiences as falling in love, telling the truth, raising a child, teaching a class, forgiving each other after we have hurt each other, standing together in the bad weather of life, of surprise and sexuality, and the radiance of existence. Of such is the kingdom of heaven, and of such homely mysteries is genuine religion made. Grace abounds and walks around the edges of our everyday experience. - Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel

A couple of months ago my husband and I moved into our "new" house (built in 1991) with a very pregnant belly.  A couple of weeks later we brought baby Audrey home.  Walking around the house the floors squeak and I'm starting to learn the spots.  I'm learning where to step and where not to step when tip toeing around the sleeping baby.

The baby is sleeping right now so I have some quiet time to do "me" things.  I'm working on a slipcover for a crummy old ottoman I got for $20 off of craigslist.  Walking around in the room with the ottoman I found a new squeaky spot and I smiled to myself.

This house immediately felt like home to me, and the squeaky floors are part of that.  They remind me of... home.  They remind me of the home I spent my first 18 years in and they make me want this to be the home baby Audrey spends her first 18 years in.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 5-year old self waking my mom in the middle of the night for a snack.  Sitting at the kitchen table with her, a little bit of pepsi, and some cheese crackers.  Loving that we were up while the neighborhood slept.  

The squeaky floors remind me of my 7-year old self racing through the house to the restroom in the middle of the night.  Racing, because I was scared of what lurked where it was too dark to see.  

They remind me of playing rummy by flashlight or candlelight when the electricity would go out.  

They remind me of dragging furniture from my room to my brothers room and from my brothers room to my room... weeks after he had gotten new wallpaper... now my wallpaper.  Blue, with little white seagulls I think.  They remind me of dragging the same furniture back to their original rooms months later. 

Waking up and tip-toeing to my dad's brown lazy-boy chair.  Curling up with my head on one of the arms and looking into the kitchen until someone noticed I was up.  My parents stirring their coffee and chatting.

The one window that always let in water when it rained.  At least it was the bathroom window!  I can even hear the sound of the wooden shutters that hung on the inside of that window.

Sitting on the back porch in a wet bathing suit, wrapped in a worn-thin beach towel, water dripping onto the floor from my dangling feet, eating a tomato stuffed with seafood salad, squeezed with lemon, and surrounded by triscuits.  

They remind me of my 9-year old self knocking on the shower wall, signaling my mom that I was ready for the towel that had been warming by the wood-stove.  Sitting with my back to that wood-stove to dry my long hair.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 17-year old self coming home late after everyone had gone to bed. Coming home to find a "mibb" warming the bed where my feet would go and a sweet note from mom on my pillow.  

The things that were normal and mundane have become the things that shape the memories of my childhood and they have become the things that bring to mind happiness when I look back.  

The squeaky floors in our new old house bring to mind happiness when I look back.  I pray that Audrey's normal and mundane experiences in this house become happy memories of her childhood one day.  I pray that she finds love in the ordinary things and I especially pray that she finds God in the ordinary things... that she recognizes all the blessings that so many of us tend to overlook.  

"Sirrah, Do You Need a Ride?"

Benjamin Marsh is the Pastor to Youth at Cary Alliance Church in Cary, NC. He has worked various and sundry jobs throughout his short life, including: Washington Director of the Dalit Freedom Network; SAT tutor; South Asia Analyst for the Institute on Religion and Public Policy; author; fry cook; pet owner (it is a job). He is married to Olivia Marsh (www.marshpatents.com) and the father of two little'uns, Aurora and Alice. His first book, Rules for Dating My Daughter, is available on Amazon.com and lulu.com.  Personally, I like to claim him as a really good friend I've had the privilege of knowing for several years now.  I think you'll enjoy his story.

****************************************************************************


So there I was in India. It was my first time. It was quite a time, too. At the end of my ten-day trip I got such a bad case of food poisoning that I could not leave my hotel room. I had to cancel a few important meetings. I spent a great deal of time in my bed watching overdubbed Bollywood flicks. When I called the hotel to ask for a refund on the meal that made me sick (there were some unwashed onions in a curry), they sent flowers instead. And charged me for it...

But that is how India works. Everyone there is trying to make the extra Rupee by hook or by crook. Before I came I was warned of the White Man's Tax, a levee placed on every good and service by the seller to white folks from foreign countries. Where a napkin might cost ten cents to a neighbor, from me they asked two dollars. Bargaining is a way of life in India.

Scratch that.

Bargaining is THE way of life in India.

My rude awakening to this truth came when I took an auto rickshaw from my hotel to the place of my meetings, a distance of about five miles. I came forth from my (soon-to-make-me-ill) hotel with my chin held high and my chest out, ready as Alexander to conquer India. I was going to important meetings with important people to accomplish important things.

A diminutive older Indian man with a dirty white linen shirt and a red rag wrapped around his head walked to me, his head stooped. "Sirrah, need a ride?"

My chariot awaits!

I said I did and told him my destination. He quoted me 100 Rupees, a small sum by American standards. I nodded in agreement and we took off. 

I will save a full description of driving on Indian roads for another day because completeness requires words that far exceed the abilities of this humble author. Imagine a lone bird in flight. Now imagine that lone bird in flight in the middle of a pack. Now imagine the bird is going one way and the pack is going another. Add to that scene a pack of 747's flying in every which way around the wrong-way pack of birds into which you are flying. On top of all of that add a few flying cows (cast into the air, perhaps, by a trebuchet), and you have a fairly accurate picture of Indian traffic. 

I arrived at my destination having suffered only a mild heart attack and paid the man his money. 

Meetings came and went. Important things happened. I went home weary and slept the deep sleep of a champion.

The next morning I strode out from the hotel, my head held high and my chest protruding with pride. I had more important things to accomplish in this mysterious and ancient land.

"Sirrah, do you need a ride?" 

It was the diminutive driver from the day before.

"I do, indeed," I replied, looking over his head with some pride.

As we got into the car I noticed a black box affixed to the backside of his seat.

"What is that?" I asked my dear driver.

"Nothing."

"Is that a meter?"

He said nothing. He shook his head in the mysterious Indian way that means yes and no at the same time.

"Turn it on," I said.

He shook his head again and made to take off.

"Turn it on," I said again, louder.

He shook his head and said nothing. After a brief impasse I made a motion to exit.

"No no, OK."

He turned on the meter. Our hellish ride through the Indian streets proceeded as it had the day before. When we arrived at the destination, the meter read 43 Rupees, less than half of what I had paid the man in my "expert" negotiations the day before.

As I got out of the car and handed him the money, he looked at me with a massive grin. I was confused. He had made less than the day before. I waved him off. As he left, he called back:

"Yesterday you pay one hundred AH AHAHAHAHA!"

He grin had nothing to do with the little amount I paid him. It had everything to do with the fact that he would have a story to tell to his fellow rickshaw drivers, a tale of ripping off the man. He would lord over them with his extra 57 Rupees he culled from the soft fleshy hands of the proud white man from America.

My head sank to my chest. I was a stranger in a strange land.

Guest Post Thursday: Grady Nutt - The Quiet Quakers

Grady Lee Nutt (September 2, 1934–November 23, 1982) was a Southern Baptist minister, humorist, television personality, and author. His humor revolved around rural Southern Protestantism and earned him the title as "The Prime Minister of Humor."  Below is a transcription of Grady Lee telling a story from the recording, "Grady Nutt's Favorite Stories From Hee Haw."  I used to listen to this guy as a kid with my family.  An Unofficial Grady Nutt Page actually has links to a great deal of his audio which is a lot more fun to listen to than to read.  Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this.

Different kinds of religious groups get wonderful reputations and some of it is stereotyped.  You know, Baptists are supposed to be, “Haaa!” Hellfire and brimstone, all that kind of stuff; and the Methodists are supposed to be kind of laidback and cool and the Catholics are supposed to swing a lot of incense.  We have just, you know, typical stereotypes of each other. 

Our Quaker friends are called “The Friends” and they worship in silence.  Now Baptists know nothing about that; there has not been an acknowledged silence in a Baptist church since the first century.  The minute it gets quiet, somebody’ll leap back on the organ bench and start playing until somebody finds their bulletin.  You know, we just don’t trust silence.

Well, our Quaker friends worship in silence and they have a very different kind of touch and one of their characteristics that we know about is they’re pacifists.  They do not believe in violence and they believe that the way you take the stinger out of war is not to retaliate.

There was a wonderful Quaker family that had a grocery store in a little community, and two guys decided one night they’re going to rob it.  And so we’ve got the brains of the group driving the getaway car and he sends his, “Heheh, hyuk!” helper, sort of a Woody Woodpecker variety into the store to rob the safe.  Now the Quaker family lived in the back of the store.  And so the guy that’s driving the car says to his dumb accomplice, “Now all you’ve got to do is go in, break open the safe and just get the money and come out.”

He says, “But what if they, what if they find me?”

He said, “You’ve got nothing to worry about; these people are Quakers.  They don’t believe in violence, they’re pacifists, they will not harm you.  They’ll try to talk you out of it, but they will not lay a hand on you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m certain – they’re Quakers.” 

“…okay.”

So the guy goes in, breaks the lock – *tingchaling* - gets inside – doo, de-do-de-doo – he’s in the back, “clank”, and working on the safe…

About four minutes later he comes barreling out that front door, leaps in the car, “GET OUT OF HERE!”

He said, “Where’s the money?”

“GO!”

*VROOOOM!*  And they roared down the street, “Man, what are you doing?”

“Get out of here!”

“Where – is – the – money?!”

“I didn’t get the money!”

“Why not?!!”

He said, “I got the safe open, and I was raking money in a sack, and I looked up and there was this fella, with a goatee, and a nightshirt, and a shotgun!  And he pointed it right at me.  And he said, ‘Sir, I wouldst not harm thee, but thou standest where I am about to shoot.’”