Hints of Failure Part 4

Part 4: Earthquakes and Turkey Soup

I went to see The Chariot when they stopped at Studio Seven in Seattle during their farewell tour in November. This was a momentous occasion for my husband and I. Our first date as an official "long distance" couple was a meet up at a The Chariot show several years ago. We've seen them about five times since. 

We mosh and thrash and scream, worshiping Jesus with the band. They jump off the stage onto our heads and hands. We pray with them and they invite us to eat with them after the show. We listen to their albums all year, eagerly anticipating our next joyous worship session together 

This show - the final show we'd share with them - was not like the others. 

More people attended this show than ever before. A beautiful sight.

As we waited and listened to the opening bands, I started imagining an earthquake and wondering what I'd do in the event one occurred in this crowded, stuffy place. Too many people, not enough doorways, I thought. But as soon as The Chariot began setting up on stage, my misgivings were forgotten.

---

Jeremiah and I spent Thanksgiving together, just us and the dogs. We cooked all the things we look forward to all year- a turkey, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, two pies, a cake - and ate as much as we could.

Needless to say, we had ample left overs.

The following day, we boiled the leftover turkey bones and made broth. With our broth, we made turkey soup. Again, we ate as much as we could.

We had ample left overs.

Our friend Kendal (who you read about in Part 1) is a culinary artist. I am not particularly fond of seafood, and the thought of eating anything besides fish makes me squirm. But when Kendal made seafood gumbo, complete with shrimp, clams, muscles, and octopus, I ate it up. And asked for seconds.

Being rendered essentially immobile by the breaks in his leg, Kendal has been reliant on others to cook meals for him; in particular, Jen. Though I know he is grateful for every bite (he has an unparalleled gift of gratitude), I also know it can be tiring to be the person stuck cooking and cleaning every day.

It was Jeremiah's idea to pack up our abundance of soup to The Keep, where Kendal and some other friends live. We had enough to feed all four friends who were home. And thankfully, they ate the chocolate cake we brought over too.

While they ate, we shared stories from our Thanksgivings. I found my mind wandering, taking note of the number of doorways and people in sight, again wondering what I'd do if there were an earthquake. My thoughts were jolted back to the present when Kendal began to catch us up on the state of his leg. He'd just gotten X-rays and a new cast, so we were eager to hear of his progress.

Turned out, there had been no progress.

Not slight progress. Not mediocre progress.

None.

Despite all the healing I could have sworn Jesus and I were giving, after a solid month of rest and immobility, there was no visible improvement to speak of. His leg was exactly the same.

I knew what I had to do.

---

Jeremiah is a musician. Most often, he plays the guitar.

For a year, he was the guitarist and vocalist for a band called Simon the Leper. We lived in The Yellow House with Simon the Leper's drummer, Jared Bugg. The band practiced in the basement of The Yellow House, and even recorded an EP there.

Simon the Leper broke up last spring. For nearly nine months, Jeremiah has been stuck playing guitar alone in our apartment, amp turned low as possible. As of November, Jeremiah was invited into two bands almost simultaneously. In one, he plays bass. In the other, guitar.

The bands have been progressing in parallel since their respective inceptions. Both began practicing the same week. Both named themselves during their third practice.

One of those bands, "A Friend," was formed by Jared Bugg. They practice in the basement of The Yellow House, where the drummer now lives. A Friend had their first show December 17. They played at Le Voyeur, a restaurant and bar in Olympia where Simon the Leper played countless times.

Le Voyeur is kind of a dive, though they have surprisingly delicious food and an excellent beer selection. We like the venue in part because the shows happen in back, and Le Voyeur patrons can choose to come watch rather than be bombarded with something they're not in to. Also, shows there are both all ages and free.

At least, every one of the dozens of times I've been there before to watch my husband and friends play a show, it's been free.

---

Thirty seconds into The Chariot's set, while I stood at center stage close enough to touch their vocalist, Josh, I had an anxiety attack. Overwhelmed, I tried to shove my way out of the pit but was unable to budge an inch in any direction. I turned to Jeremiah in a panic. His first instinct was to boost me onto the crowd so I could surf out. He was nearly trampled in the process, though. Instead, he shoved backward through the sea of thrashing kids and pulled me to a place I felt safe. 

From our safe place, we could hardly see what was happening on stage. We were separated from the worship we'd been craving, like wine-os with a new bottle and no corkscrew.  

We went to our car for a smoke, trying to tell ourselves we were still part of the show... We could hear   the band loud and clear anyway...

When we went back into the venue, I stood at the back of the crowd, well outside the mosh pit. Jeremiah made it to the front again, crowd surfing and thrashing to the end. 

Hints of Failure Part 3.5

If you haven't read them yet, catch on up with Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Part 3.5: The Knees Continued

On the second day of the tournament, I watched my sister's team win another game. While them play, stepping periodically into the spirit to make the blanket of clouds recede, I noticed five or six girls with knee braces either playing, warming up, or watching. I reflected on my own knee injuries. I thought about the first time my friends and I laid hands and witnessed healing - an ACL.

I want to heal every knee I touch, I thought. 

Then you’d better start touching knees, Dad replied. 

Just then, as if cued by a script I wasn't given, a girl entered the gym on crutches witha familiar looking brace on her knee. She wore the colors of Blue Mountain Community College - a team well favored to win the tournament (and did, in fact, go on to do so).

Blue Mountain was cheering for Spokane from the sidelines, shouting in support of Eastern WA. The girl on crutches sat down several rows in front of me, surrounded by a boy and friends and parents. You'd better start touching knees...

After Brittany’s team won, and before I said my goodbyes, I pulled Brittany aside. “Let’s go lay hands on that girl with the crutches,” I said. 

“That is the coach of Blue Mountain’s daughter,” she said. Apparently this was reason to shy away from appearing crazy in front of her. 

“Do you know if she tore he ACL?” 

“Yeah, she did. A week ago. And she’s still on crutches. Isn’t that weird?”

“Did your doctor give you crutches?”

“No, he told me not to baby it.” We laughed, and I made my way to the girl on crutches. By now, Blue Mountain was on their own court warming up. The girl was standing near the bleachers, bearing no weight on her left, braced leg, still surrounded by a gaggle of people. 

I put my hand on her should to get her attention and said hello, trying to look friendly. “What happened to your knee?” I asked. 

She smiled, trying to act like she knew me, because I was acting like I knew her. “Tore more ACL right in half,” she said.

“So do you play for Blue Mountain?”

She didn’t, she explained, but helps her dad. She tore her ACL hitting with the team during practice. While we talked, none of the surrounding gaggle paid us any attention. They turned to each other and let the girl on crutches talk with this other girl no one knew. 

“We don’t know each other,” I said brightly. For a moment, relief replaced the girl’s well-masked confusion. The confusion returned quickly, though, when she realized that didn’t explain why we were talking.  “I’m Kaylani, I played for your assistant coach in high school. My sister plays for Spokane. I actually need practice healing knees, oddly enough. My sister tore her ACL too, and I’ve done damage to my own. Do you want some healing?”

From Corpse to Bride Part 2

The Rise 

I don't want to encourage a bunch of daydreamers to avoid living and hide in fantasy worlds. That's not the point of this pair of posts.

I want to release new identity over you. If you are reading this, it is because you are a prophet, a healer, an artist, and, if you'll receive the Kingdom that is your inheritance, a king/queen.

I want to see our imaginations restored and healed. I want to stop seeing our imaginations brushed aside  as fanciful merriment by our teachers and leaders, and start seeing it taught as a vital skill.

I want to tell you a story. It's a fun story about a dear friend. It's packed full of prophetic imagery. I tried to interpret it for those reading and for myself, but I'm not satisfied with my attempt (although I pretty much left it down there if you want to read it). So, I'm hoping if there's imagery to interpret, we can do it together. Otherwise, we can simply experience the power of testimony that demonstrates the force of imagination made reality.

---

Kendal is one of my dearest friends. He is an Olympian, through and through. Raised in the wild and beautiful Capitol Forest, he relishes our drab, ever-rainy environment. When the rainy season begins and the heat of summer fades, his burden lightens and a smile is never far from his face. Grey skies and the heady smell of damp earth have much the same affect on him that sun and pina coladas on a Hawaiian beach would have on most. 

Few can match Kendal’s meticulous, diligent approach to his work and his art. It’s not perfection he seeks with his methods. And though rarely disappointed with the outcome of his efforts, be they cocktails or knit caps, the finished products are not his greatest joy. 

His grandmother passed on great wisdom to him early in life when, as the oldest child of nine, he was tasked with maintaining the dinner dishes every day. “You can worship God anywhere, doing anything,” she told him. “Even while doing dishes.” Taking the wisdom to the depths of his heart, he learned to savor labor with the passion of King David stripped to skivvies and dancing in the streets before God. 

He’s quite weird. When we first began working together, I found my patience tested. I hadn’t heard his grandmother’s wisdom yet, and wouldn’t likely have brought it anywhere near my heart if I had. It’s a finished product I like: a mopped floor, opposed to mopping. A cooked meal, opposed to cooking. Nearly four years in Kendal’s presence has rubbed off on me though. While his patience is that of a giant redwood, mine has at least increased from squirrel to some sort of large bird. 

Kendal’s green Volkswagen is a testament to his redwood nature. He’s had the little beast since he was sixteen, and after five years of loving labor he finally took it to a mechanic. Even at the mechanic’s experienced hand, it took several months to get the car running reliably. 

Kendal has driven joyfully and mischievously ever since. He’s learned the car inside and out - how to smoothly shift into first, which parallel spaces he can crank into, and exactly how far off asphalt he can venture. 

It was dark, in the earliest part of a late August morning. His vision was limited just enough that he didn't see the little yearling dear heaped pitifully in the middle of the road until it was suddenly directly in front of him. Knowing his car, though, he didn't flinch.

After driving directly over the deer, well clear of causing further harm, he eased to a stop and turned around. Dying or dead he couldn’t tell. Concerned and curious, he walked up to the dear and checked for vitals. It was breathing still, but the breaths were shallow and labored. Carefully, he eased the creature to the side of the road and sat next to it. Cradling its head in his lap, he stoked its neck until it was calm. Together, they waited.