HALO PSA

I was looking through some old stuff on my computer and I came across this ‘Public Service Announcement’ that I created freshman year.

Ah yes, HALO 1, with it’s primitive local networking, realistically powerful grenades, and that freaking pistol with a scope. Those indeed were the days. Evidently this was also before I became enlightened to the truth that Comic Sans is an absolute no-no.

Figments

“I bet if I made twice what I’m making now, that would be enough.”

I’m pretty good at lying to myself. I often imagine scenarios in which I think I would be made satisfied, complete, whole. Last night’s discussion was primarily about figments.

In discussing figments with some other guys, it was pretty crazy to realize how often I’m guilty of believing in these lies. Even if I don’t openly admit it, I do take comfort in figments. Some of them are fairly easy to identify, but most of these are pretty tricky little lies. I think they’re tricky because they mimic the truth so well.

Just as a counterfeiter tries really hard to make what looks like real money , I think the enemy tries really hard to give us false securities that feel right. The struggle is rejecting falsehood without also rejecting the truth that it is based on. The man who completely avoids the pursuit of a woman because he knows he’ll never be ‘made whole’ by her is just as as lost as the one who consistently bounces from one woman to the next, looking for the mythical perfection. The person who places too much value on their physical well-being is just as confused as the person who neglects their health. It’s easier for me to use third person here, but rest assured, I’m guilty as hell.

So the questions that I’ve been pondering are these:

  • How do we reject figments and live in the truth?
  • Is it always bad to dream about what might be?
  • What is the appropriate mental attitude towards the unknown future?
  • Are there elements of my faith that are figments? How do I balance faith/figments?
I would love to know what you think.

 

The Invasion of Irene’s Home

Today, an estate sale took place at the house next door to where my parents live. Irene used to live there. She recently died from a blood clot during a surgery. Robert, her husband, had died some years back. The doors opened at 9am, and an incredible amount of people rushed in to find great deals on some sweet items.

Aside from a few books and old records, I took this thought away from the sale this morning: Someday, all of my stuff is going to be sold off to deal-hungry treasure-hunters. Or it will sit there and rot. I’m not going to take any of it with me. This is an obvious truth, yet that’s not how I tend to think from day to day. I thought of Robert and Irene. If they could see their home, full of their things that took a lifetime to acquire, being raided by a bunch of strangers, how might they feel.

The Evil Gazpacho

This story happened to me when I was about nine years old. I guess I should preface this story by saying that my mother was and still is one of the biggest health freaks on the planet. Of course, I’ve never appreciated that as much as I’m starting to now…

Well one warm  summer evening, it was decided that our family should eat out on the back deck. This is a tradition in our family when the weather is nice. I don’t recall much about what we actually ate that night, except for the one vile item. GAZPACHO! Gazpacho is, first of all, an actual word. It’s a cold soup that some Spaniards came up with made with ingredients such as stale bread, garlic, olive oil, salt, and vinegar. All blended together in this “soup.” If this somehow doesn’t sound absolutely horrendous to you, then try to remember what your taste buds were like when you were nine.

I tried gulping down a few mouthfuls of the stuff and almost blew everything back up. It was horrible. I tried to tell my mom, but she somehow thought I could deal with it. In fact, she and my dad dictated that until I had finished the whole cup, I couldn’t leave the table. Oh yeah?

Three hours later, there I sat. Staring into the half-empty cup of the vile substance. My family had long since abandoned me to the usual evening activities. I hated that stupid Gazpacho. I tried it again, BLECH!

Something had to be done. Suddenly, a gurgle came from the vomit-looking soup. Out came a voice! “[gurgle/gurgle] David, I don’t like you either, take me over to the edge of the deck and toss me into the bushes.” I considered what the Gazpacho said for quite sometime. I was an honest boy. I really did hate lying, but you should have tasted this stuff. How could anyone think ingesting this was a good idea?

So, after taking a careful look around, I went for it. I walked slowly to the edge of the deck, very aware of my surroundings. I bent down and tossed the Gazpacho underneath the deck so that it would never be discovered. I quickly took my place again at the table. I’d done it! I’d done the deed and gotten away with it. After a few moments, I went inside and reported to mom that I had finished the Gazpacho. She congratulated me and hugged me. It was at this time that my dad came downstairs and reported to my mom his version of the story as reported from the upstairs bathroom window! I was caught!

And so, as I spent the rest of that beautiful evening alone in my room, thinking about what I had done, I could hear a faint laughter, coming from below the deck out back.

Honesty has been a good friend of mine ever since.