Altar. Alter. Two similar words. Not just in the way they sound, but in the process they initiate.Lately I've been contemplating both the place and the process of altar/alter. The hymn declares, "I'll drop my burden at His feet, and bear a song away." (How Gentle God's Commands, Hymns 125) Although I know He graciously exchanges our baggage for His blessings, I see that that kind of process is a little too cavalier. How could any reciprocal friendship function in that manner? If the only time I come to Him is to abandon a trial I have grown weary of carrying, I will only know His feet.Looking to Abraham as an example, I see that the real opportunity to know the Lord completely, from head to toe, comes from placing something precious on the altar. My natural man becomes changed, altered, when I put everything on the line and endure to the end in faithfulness. Somewhere in my telesital tutoring, I learned that each one of us, if we hope to sit down with Prophets, must endure our own customized Abrahamic test. Like the trusting patriarch of old, am I willing to give what it is I treasure most–and not just what it is I no longer want? (A new way to consider how/what I donate to Deseret Industries.) Realizing that everything is already the Lord's, and I am just a selfish steward, my outlook on offerings has shifted.One of my favorite definitions of charity is: giving away something that is good for you, that is better for someone else. Charity is the pure love of Christ. And what is it that He purely loves, but us? He willingly laid down His perfect life that we might gain eternal life. So, instead of bringing an offering of frustration, as I am often wont to do–I will place faith on the altar. Rather than confusion, anger, and upset–most of all, I bring hope before Him. Like obedient Abraham, I will bring my best to Him–and He will do His will with it all.
Who needs kids when you can drop your own cell phone in the toilet?
Growing up in the city, spending more time inside with sketchbooks than outside with shovels–who would have thunk it? I am a tractor boy. I love manuevering the riding mower, much like the Autopia car ride at amusement parks, over the rural acreage. I love being outdoors smelling the fresh cut grass. And perched on top of a noisy machine, with gears and grease, I love embracing the sometimes overshadowed part of my still rugged soul.
I was a little amazed when I was asked to help with my 20 year high school reunion. Although I spent years with these folks–the cheerleaders, the jocks, the scholars, the stoners–I always felt like an outsider. In my own personal version of "The Breakfast Club," I suppose I would have been the geeky "Brian" character...perhaps a little more arty than brainy, but I definitely would have been the one stuck with writing the report while the rest of the group hooked up. Back then, I think I could have called all 370+ of my classmates by name, but could not with confidence have counted even a handful as close friends.As a result of the house fire a few years ago, I literally have no physical evidence of those formative years...no dance pictures, yearbooks, report cards or awards. And over the years, many of the memories have also dissipated like smoke. But, being a loyal Highland Ram, I got over my social anxiety and agreed to assist with the reunion. I emailed and telephoned my fair share of names on the missing classmates list. I gathered items, printed and planned. I drove 3 hours roundtrip to weekly meetings at our class president's house. And the more we met, the more I seriously contemplated the possibility that I must have been home-schooled. Other than walking the same locker lined hallways, I didn't have the same memories of High School that all of those moms and dads in the room did. At 7:00 sharp, on the Alumni night of the reunion, all of the popular kids walked in, pressed and poised–even smelling expensive. Stinky and sweaty, dirty and dreary from schlepping tables, chairs, food and memorabilia out into the courtyard, for hours in the August afternoon sun...Lisa (my one social confidant) and I faded into the back. Distant hugs reminded us we were a little out of place, back then, and now again, 20 years later.But, more than dwelling on the feelings of my introverted misfit past, I found that I was sincerely interested in these familiar strangers. Many had been dealt some difficult hands in life. All were interesting, and I was sincerely happy to see each and every one. I got "out of my 16-year-old head" and as a result, was able to see who these people were for me. Collectively, we provided the background, the context, for all of us stepping out into the world. We prepared each other with skills to deal with life's adventures. And amazingly, produced some incredibly accomplished and resilient souls. So, to that I say, more than thanks for the memories–thanks for the experience. High School really was the training ground for life.
The most expected and dreaded part of a high school reunion, by tradition, has to be addressed–the awards for who "traveled the farthest," has the "most children," is the "most" or "least changed"...you know the list. After hearing horror stories of reunion-going classmates being re-traumatized in front of their eternal peers, and how awkward the moment of judgement can be, we carefully considered how to approach this part of the evening when planning our 20th year get-together.
For us, the solution was a presentation of a series of beautiful gift certificates to our favorite high school haunts. The joke was that all of the featured places have closed since our glory days. So, the premise of the presentation was something like, "How embarrassing. We had some great prizes to award tonight, but just realized that all of these certificates expired in 1988! But just so you know what you could have won for having the Most Tattoos, you would have received..." It kept that part of the evening nostalgic and light-hearted, without forcing people in or out of the spotlight. I think it worked well. There were passes to Xenon dance club, and gift certificates to places like Snelgrove's ice cream parlor, Castleton's department store, Granite Furniture in Sugarhouse, the food court at Crossroads Plaza, and Bill and Nada's Cafe.
When the event was over, one classmate asked if she could take home the gift certificate to the 7-Eleven on 21st and 21st. She said that whenever she drives by that location with her kids in the car and points out that building as being her favorite high school hang out, her kids reply, "Mom, you are so lame. You hung out at the dry cleaners?"
Life moves on, but good times never expire.
Twenty. Years. Ouch.
Have you ever "googled" your own name? When I tried it the other day, I didn't know quite what to expect. Just how many of me are there in the world anyway?
The results came up with links to news stories about the chabin fire; quotes I had said regarding the "First Harvest" event at This is the Place Heritage Park; my "why I'm a Jed" profile on jed.com; my appointment to the Ogden Landmarks Commission; a poem I had written to a girl I didn't know; results of a track race I had won in a junior high school back east (when I followed that link I was disappointed to learn that it really wasn't me); my entry in the county fair as an 11-year old 4-H participant who "built a catapult powerful enough to loft a bowling ball a few yards and accurate enough to hit the head of his sister’s suitor with a tennis ball from 60-feet" (again not me...how disheartening to learn in one day that not only am I not athletic, but I am not scientific either. Quite a shocker–good thing I was sitting down); in addition to being a native Utahn, that I also currently reside in Alabama, Pennsylvania and New York; and a random blogspot.
Curious, I also followed the link to the unknown blog (a potentially dangerous practice) and found that I was in someone's personal list of blogs that I didn't recognize. I didn't know quite what to think. When you discover that you are being watched from afar, should you feel flattered or self conscious? I guess it's payback from being a blogstalker myself sometimes.
Altar. Alter. Two similar words. Not just in the way they sound, but in the process they initiate.
