Toy Story Theory

I guess my problem with science has just been that I am an alleged hopeless romantic. We just don't get along. Our relationship isn't hostile. We are merely two different sorts of people. I like looking at the world in one way and they like looking at it in another. There are ways of reconciling the two, but I as long as I like scientists I don't have a real need to like science. Some of it is fascinating, but I just don't like how much it explains. Water isn't as beautiful if you think of it as two hydrogens and one oxygen. I don't want to know what things are made of. I like to think that things have essence and aren't entirely material. I like to think that humans have souls. If you tell me that a rock is sedimentary I usually want to bust your chops. I am annoyed sometimes that we can see the bottom of the ocean and the inner works of the body and that we can logically go into space. All the wonder has been explained away hasn't it?

It's not all bad. I could talk on the other side if I were a scientist, but since I am on the philosophizing, romantic end (ironic I would call this post a theory) I am going to contest the scientific explanations of all time.

I suppose it is only fair I explain the title. If you have seen Toy Story, you know that the toys are very much animate and all living out these intense dramas in their own miniature world. That is until the humans come around. Then they drop whatever they are doing and become ordinary pieces of plastic only brought to life by the imaginations of children.

Now, let's take an example from science. The human eye will do just fine. Science tells us that eyes are organs that detect light and convert it to electro-chemical impulses in neurons. It is a pupil, a cornea, an iris, and a lens and an optic nerver among other tiny structures. If you take the eye out of the skull you will find a blood shot orb with a little flagellate tail that once sent signals to the brain. If you look what was behind that it is just a big compression of cerebral mush. There isn't anything inside that eye. You can disect it and you won't find other worlds. It's no portal. No Shakespeare, or Da Vinci or whoever said that it was the window the soul. No it's not because you see when we tear open a head we can look and see that there is nothing back their but organs and blood. So there you have it. That would seem to explain it.

But you can't ever be sure.

Because maybe, maybe, there are some things we humans aren't meant to see. Maybe it is only when we leave the room that the toys come to life. Maybe the moon's face turns to craters when we put a telescope to its lunar lips. Maybe the sea lays out a carpet of sand to hide the fact that it is bottomless as the divers get nosy. Maybe our eyes turn to limp lumps of light-lapping lenses when we try to pull back the curtains on the windows to the soul. I think eyes go much much deeper than that. I know when I look in someone's eyes that what we see behind the drapes cannot be what is actually going on inside there. Fire is not a chemical reaction, it is more of a miracle. It is an element. Trees are wise, photosynthesis is not how they dine. They are classier than that. The universe is a work of art. You can't explain these things. It's alive. I bet you really could journey to the center of the earth.

I think that the world has a heart of its own and the real stories are going on behind our back. Those that don't believe don't get an inside scoop. Much closer to the actual action is not the textbooks and dissertations or anything that you can see under a microscope. Much closer are the fairy tales and the madness of poetry. Much closer are the philosophers and the supernaturally inclined. Something is going on in another context, but we don't know it. We are like the children who can only make up the stories with our imagination. We play with the toys but never see them at play without us. They are in hiding. They don't want to be discovered.

Then where would the mystery be?

Bravery

The road takes you a lot of places. There isn't much of a science to it. You just get on it and get to moving. The destination, more often than not, has nothing to do with where it takes you and what it shows you and teaches you. Roads are escape artists and navigators and smugglers and homes and journeys. That's why bards still borrow from its books and young people will attend its lectures.

Deification is what I call the above paragraph. A derivative of personification, it involves giving qualities of God to other things. It is probably a nifty resource for atheists everywhere. But it is also appropriate for allegory. What I mean to say is that it wasn't the road that took me somewhere with certain people, it was God.

As fate would have it, I was riding down the freeway one day to attend an outdoor Christian rock concert with three of my brothers (not by blood) Daniel, Samuel, and Wesley. When we arrived at the extra small town we saw a classic cameraman and pretty young newscaster duo. We all got sorta happy as we slowed down and lowered the windows thinking it had something to do with the concert.

"Put us on the news?"

"You don't want to be in this story."

Curiosity thus piqued we drove on ahead postulating amongst ourselves about what happened. Postulating so much that, in the unfamiliarity of the town, I passed the filling station that my friends wanted to stop at, seeing it as a justifiable place to use a restroom as opposed to the portable lavatories available concert-wise. They yelled at me to turn around so I pulled into a dirt driveway (apparently the only kind of driveway in style around these parts ) in order to back out and continue on in the opposite direction.

Upon pulling in, that sound we so often shrug off as background noise peeled the soundpaper of our scene back to where it could command our full attention. By gosh I tasted, felt, smelled, and saw that siren before I realized I was only hearing it. There were at least three emergency vehicles wasting no time getting where ever they were going.

Completing our vehicular 180 we found the engines to already be out of sight if not sound. We carried on our way only find a freeway fricasseed with frenzy. The epicity seemed operatic. Determined not to get caught in the turbulent metal black reflectionary snake of cars I pulled off at the median.

Action.

We surveyed what we now obvioused to be a wreck. Significant was a little purse of people all squatting in the grass. We agreed that they were huddled around a victim. What degree of victim that person was we did not yet know. Daniel announced that he was going to pray for them and unfastened his safety belt.

I cannot explain to you what happened in my spirit except that I didn't want him too. Maybe because I knew he was doing what was right and I knew that I didn't want to step up and do what was right.

Heroes do what's right.

"I don't think we are supposed to do that. I don't think they'll let you"

"They'll just turn me back then."

"Do something!" went the conscience's coax And still I sat. I watched him walk over slowly. I wondered if he had hesitation and a tinge of fear in his heart. If he did I couldn't have admired him more or been angrier (as a scapegoat for my own cowardice).

I saw other officials approaching so I pulled to the other side and parked flipping the hazards on. I watched Daniel from afar.

My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and who but Daniel was on the caller I.D. I picked answered.

"Yeah"

"Give Samuel the phone"

I did just that. Samuel threw the phone down and started running towards the scene. I deduced that they needed a Spanish speaker. I finally emerged from the vehicle taking hurried steps frustrated for my inactivity up until now.

I guess it was about a tenth of a mile away and when I got there Samuel was bent down holding a large woman's hand. Her eyes were shut tight and perspiration pickled her dark skin. Her foot was immediately noticable with blood and she complained about it most (in Spanish). She and her husband had been ejected from the car. Her husband had a white sheet over his face. Dead. I didn't find out that was her husband until later.

Sam was talking to her and I tried to pick up on what he was saying. I know he asked her how old her kids were. She said they were both twenty. Two men. Twins I suppose. I prayed and at length paramedics arrived with a stretcher. They asked questions through Samuel and we finally rolled her on to a sort of towel and lifted her onto a stretcher. Samuel kissed her brow and walked over to the ambulance with her talking to her all the way.

The four of us carried on back to the SUV. We were all sobered by the grit of the scene. It is hard to see. Samuel was sobered most. Across the highway I noticed the news reporter and cameraman we saw earlier. Samuel approached them and said a few things and we all went back to the car. We were quiet.

I could see Samuel was still upset. I told him he did good. I told him you could tell a difference between people who do good just to get a pat on the back and people who do good because they love people. Then it was quiet again and I prayed aloud.

Later at the concert as three of us sat under a tree, Samuel finally spoke on the matter.

"I lied to that woman"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I told her that everything was going to be okay and that her husband was going to be okay when I knew he was over there dead. I feel really bad about that."

...

"What did you tell those news people?"

"That is something you won't ever know Mitch" he smiled a little as he said this.

I think people like Daniel and Samuel are heroes because they take action and they get out of their comfort zone and they love people. I love people but I don't act on that. I know the two are destined for greatness in their own ways. They both have their own ambitions.

But I still feel guilty. For a little while now I have been shooting my mouth off about being brave and how Christianity requires it. It demands it. I am a critic of the hypo variety. I always say that I want to do ministry and I want to be involved in it. Several times I have said that I wanted to be a pastor. But I should know that pastors don't just stand in a pulpit and make good theological speeches. People in ministry are supposed to be brave. They are supposed to show love to the world. If they aren't doing that, they aren't doing their job.

I am not fully aware of the future plans of my friends. If they plan to be doctors or architects or movie producers or bankers they are still more of ministers than I. If they plan to be ministers then they have the right idea.

I need to be a Christian. I need to be brave.

Medlin!

For a very long time I have heard tell of the virtues of team sports. I have heard how they instill comraderie, selflessness, loyalty, courage, and a variety of other virtues. And I have never argued with that. It is something I always knew and agreed with. But I have never experienced it.

Until I came to Lee.

Out of the many dorms at Lee I was slid into the last minute, last choice, infamously ramshackle Medlin Hall. I had no complaints. It is pretty clean and comfortable. But it is, come to find out, a lot more than that. On the Leevitical island across the street from the rest of landlocked Leeland there exists a bond and a brotherhood not yet experienced by me.

The Hall is not a sports team, but sports play a huge role in the social lives of we Leevites. I, for one, have never been good at athletic activity. I have always loved it. Truly. But we just aren't all born with the required machinery. I don't know what it is in some guys that make them so sharp at everything.

My short time in Medlin has seen an immediate pride. The hall is divided into four floors which each have a west and an east side. I am on (and proudly so) 1st floor East. But we all are chanters of Medlin. Whenever it is mentioned hands go up with thumbs touching and upside down making and M and a manly "Medlin!" is let out. Everybody knows Medlin when they see them.

Last night. That is, the 24th of August, the Medlinites all marched to the arena for a dodgeball tournament amongst themselves. Each floor had it's own wardrobe. I was elated to find that ours was a black out. We walked across the campus to the arena, leading us was a caped lodger. There was all sorts of oddities in the uniform department. Facepaint notwithstanding.

We got there and my team caught those 3 zillion m.p.h. balls like they were butterflies and all I could do was dodge like the unathlete I am. I finally said to God that I needed to be brave and jumped up to the front lines and caught one and there is no way I can dictate the exhileration that accompanied that. Even though the catches were practically worthless to the victory it was like being part of a team, an army. And when 1st floor East won (which of course we did) that rally in the middle was something you have to experience.

I have always known that team sports were something great, but I had never realized it. That makes all the difference.

Medlin!

A Fairty Tale World

"You are about to enter a Fairy Tale World..."

These are the exact words of the nurse as a handful of Lee University freshmen and transfers prepared to enter the alzheimer's wing of the Bradley Healthcare & Rehabilitation Center. Amidst admonitions regarding giving them food or opening doors ("because they will ask you to let them out") she told us that they have created another world and she told how it was a blessing that they let us in even for a moment.

She punched in the pass code on the door and in we went. Through the wardrobe, down the rabbit hole, second star on the right and straight on till morning.

We waved our way down the aisles of invalids and wheelchairs. One dark lady with white permed hair wheeled around in the hallway, not saying much. The nurse was sunny and greeted her warmly as Louise.

In a sort of recreational room we smiled and waved and were cheery. It was somehow natural there. No one seemed to be overwhelmingly awkward. The nurse introduced us to Macy, clearly the most energetic of the bunch...and the most far gone. She bounced up and down in her chair joyously and gave the nurse a sloppy kiss. All smiles. She sang for us and hummed it was not very clear what she was singing but it sounded like pure childlike happiness. The nurse also brought a little light up spinner widget which she took too right away. I saw an old old man with his son sitting next to him. They were arguing with a gentleness that seemed playful, though it really was a valid argument. The old man was trying to grab his son's ear and the son, as if he were coaxing a child, told him he couldn't do that. The same went on with his glasses and with the buttons on his shirt. The old man kept arguing, "No, you know that I...let me...you know why...it's my..." I only heard snatches. It's not very funny how life switches around on us.

I held down the button on the light up toy and Macy just kept looking on at it and singing. I had to guard the cart for a second while the nurse stepped out and I kept pushing it behind me as she became interested in it. Finally I found the suitable distraction of a baby doll. I gave it to her and she took it and hugged it and mothered it.

Then a man that who was halfway cognitive grabbed my attention. I walked up to him and asked him how he was:

"Good good, I love it when you young people come in to visit," he placed his hand on my shoulder. I asked him his name.

"My name's Jimmy Brown." he knew that well.

Jimmy Brown had a son and a granddaughter. He didn't like to hunt because he didn't like to hurt things. He never played sports much. His son is a mechanic. He has lived in Cleveland, Tennessee all his life. He would have liked to have done more schooling but when he was fifteen his father left him and his mother and he had to do farmwork so they could get by. That day he had been watching Little House on the Prairie and when asked if it came on everyday he said "pert near everyday." On the front of his walker is a girraffe neck and head structure painted and made of wood that he calls Christy after his granddaughter. He loves gospel music and he likes Elvis, he has an Elvis CD but not one of his Gospel ones so I am going to buy him one when I get the chance. He also likes "hillbilly" music sometimes. He says he loves to dance and they have dances every week on his floor. He used to work for a group of people who cleaned houses. For fun on the weekends, he and his wife would go out to dinner. He couldn't remember the name, but told me it was right in front of the courthouse. I told him I might check it out. He also told me the name of his church. I might also visit there.

He began talking to Macy, "Is that your baby? That's a pretty baby! That's a pretty baby..."

I watched him as he ate the tomatoes they brought in. I told him my great-grandfather plants tomatoes and they are awful good. He said he didn't like the ones in the store as much because they were kind of hard. I agreed with him.

We both like John Wayne. He said that was one of his favourites. As we coloured a picture we talked of it. It was a picture of a deer. He had a hard time coloring because his hands were shaking. He said he liked to color but he wasn't the best at it. I told him he wasn't the worst at it either and he got a big kick out of that.

One of the things that impressed me the most about Jimmy Brown is that he never complained. I made it a point after so many optimistic answers to see if he ever would. Not once.

Another thing that impressed me most about Jimmy Brown is that he was learning how to read and write. Apparently he was working very hard at it. When I saw his room later there were word labels on everything and worksheets on his nightstand.

He said his family didn't come around but the very rare occasion but he only had good things to say about them.

Jimmy Brown had a Cocker Spaniel once, apparently it lived for fifteen years! He forgot it's name but it was "a real pet to him."

Another splotch local color on the alzheimer's front was Regina. She had yellow-shaded sunglasses on. She loved history. We always tried one way or the other to ask her what her favourite era in history was and she would always confusedly say "I like the history that happened in the past" or "I like the history you read about in lesson books." She said she hoped her father would let her go to school. I told her my brother might be teaching history. She told me she was seventeen. I told her she didn't look over sixteen.

Jule? That was what the named sounded like. She fell asleep a lot. Once holding one of the students hands.

Bedford? I think that was it, he kept trying to talk to the lady beside him with the headphones on. He didn't want to play ball.

And by ball I mean beachball. Several of them started tossing it around. They could catch and throw, every one of them.

After while another fellow and I went to Jimmy Brown's room to play checkers. He seemed to have a lot of fun with that. He kept trying to move the wrong piece. He hadn't played in so long. On his bed was a stuffed menagerie that he had won playing BINGO. I saw pictures of his family. The other fellow playing him in checkers said towards the end of the game that "I've only got two kings and a soldier" and Jimmy Brown got the biggest kick out of that.

Another woman named Boots (she actually had a long list of names, this was the consensus) was dancing with one of the girl students. They walked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and sat down for a second and then back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. She would sing songs. They sounded really good to me. Really.

I think the nurses there are the true heroines in the world. Could these be "the least of these" Jesus talked about? They will not remember us, most cannot remember their names or the names of their family. We just had to do it because it was the right thing to do. To care for these people and to love them.

There is a Fairty Tale World in the Alzheimer's wing at Bradley Healthcare. All you have to do is walk in and if you can let go for a second and try to dip a toe in the pool of their postulations then you will get what they get. All the Wonders from Wonderland and all the Nevers from Neverland.

It's what we are supposed to do.

I can't forget any of that.

Secret Passage

I always imagined this hidden cave that went deep into nowhere. Like a portal. And at the end of this cave their was a room filled with cloth-bound books, tomes really, and the lettering was all in cursive and ink and the room was lit by wax candles. And all the posses of the past couldn't find this place nor could the falconer's of the future tame it's wild hope.

And in the books were memories so vivid and dreams long kept. And if I kept my eyes on those pages and kept a focus on those words I couldn't lose anything. I wouldn't feel sorrow, I wouldn't write laments, I couldn't miss anyone.

But that place isn't real.

And when I see an old friend, even old as in I haven't seen them in a few months, and I see the change in their face and hair and dress and manner. I become very sad. Because one day I will be in there life no more, and when they see me they won't run up and hug me or shake my hand, if they acknowledge me at all. Not because they are snobs or apathetic, because as time passes so does circumstance from one cache of allowances to the next.

Because people do eventually get a driver's liscence, and graduate, and get jobs and spouses and they move away and they die. These are the things that I fear because they require an all too often dull and lifeless exeunt of that character from my stage that I so loved sharing with them.

Part of me hates choosing favourites. I don't want a favourite. I want a community and I want to love every person in it and respect their oddities and their niche in the great social habitat. I don't want them to have favourites either, but I know they eventually will as this is part of life. And it isn't wrong I don't suppose.

The passage of time is a secret one. It does it's work and before we know it we are too deep in to retreat. We all make the same mistake.

I think it's funny how I hardly ever think of my sense of smell in the same way I register sights and sounds and tangible touch (perhaps the only sense less noticeable than scent is taste). But, whenever I remember I always have this overcoming sensation of what seems like a sort of smell. Memory has a pleasing aroma. Nostalgia is what is smells like.

When I think about Heaven, as I sometimes do, one of the biggest beauties I think of is the fact that we will all be together and I think we will all feel in love and we won't have any favourites, but we'll all enjoy each other and every moment will be better than the last and the Throne of God will be the reason.

And there won't be any real need for memory because it's all there and it's all going to stay there and we won't have to see all we've missed in a friend's face and we will never again have to say goodbye.

And that's all the hope I have.

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