“How about if you take me to tea?”
It was a response to an innocent question I had asked my wife. Little did I know what it would involve. We had asked each other what kind of activities we would most like to do, regardless of whether the other liked them or not, and then we each determined what we would be willing to do from each other’s list.
I wanted to go to a restaurant that served a lot of red meat.
My general disposition is: Meat, potatoes, Soda; don’t bother me: I’m eating.
My wife has daintier tastes. I chomp, she nibbles.
So we’re talkin’ tea, huh? I can do that.
“Sure I’ll take you out to tea. I know this great little neighborhood coffee shop that serves tea too. We can go there…..”
“No, no, no. Not just going and having tea anywhere. There is a special place to go for it. This is High Tea.”
This was beginning to sound ominous. High Tea? With Capitol Letters? Are there drugs involved? Do they spike it or something? Hey, is this legal?
“High Tea is a Victorian tradition.”
“Do I have to wear a tie?” I whined. I hate ties. I don’t even know where the last tie I bought about 10 years ago is anymore. I would have to clean the closet for that. Cleaning the closet could take weeks, maybe even months. Maybe there was a way out of this after all.
“No you don’t have to wear a tie.”
Curses! Foiled again.
“You go ahead and call the place. I think you have to make reservations.”
Reservations? To drink tea?
I called the place, and sure enough you had to make reservations.
“Do you have any openings for this Sunday?” I asked.
“Oh no. Our weekends are booked up for the next 4 months.”
What is going on here? We’re talkin’ tea, for cryin out loud!
“Uh, ok. Well, do you have anything available during the week?”
“Oh yes. We should have some available then.”
“Good. How about Tuesday?”
“Yes we do. We have tables available in all of our sessions that day.”
Sessions? Does this include psychoanalysis or something?
“What are your “sessions”?”
“We have eleven to one, one to three, and three to five.”
“Uh, ok. How about the three to five on Tuesday?”
Two hours? How much tea do they expect you to drink?
“All right. We have you on our books for Tuesday from three to five.”
I thanked her and hung up. This was getting curiouser and curiouser.
I told my wife, and she was very happy to be going. She had apparently wanted to do this for a long time.
The day finally came, and we arrived at the tea place. It was a Victorian kind of gift shop as well, and in the middle of the store was a large gazebo type garden setting. There was a mural painted on the back wall that showed a peaceful garden. Several tables were set up with china tea cups and saucers.
I felt like a bull in a china shop. I was afraid if I moved too suddenly I would bump a shelf that would fall over with a domino effect and destroy the store. However, the hostess saw us and asked us if we had reservations. We were the only ones in the place at that point so I didn’t really think it made much difference anyway. We were seated at a table for two and given menus. There were a lot of teas. Usually I just opted for whatever was available as long as it wasn’t herbal. Herbal tastes like last weeks lawn clippings. This time they had some that sounded ok, and it was different from the usual teabag. I ordered my tea and a cheese and fruit plate. Sue ordered her tea with a dessert plate.
The tea came first. They gave each of us our little tea pot. I almost started singing that teapot song I learned as kid, but it doesn’t really sound good in bass.
I have always laughed when I would see someone pickup a tea cup and stick their pinky out, but here I was faced with a dilemma. The handle on the teacup was too small for me to fit any of my fingers through. I tried, but there was just no way to force my finger through that handle without breaking it, and the china looked expensive. I am used to handling a coffee mug that has room for me to get at least two of my fingers through the handle. I found that if I held the handle of the cup between my thumb and forefinger I could manage it ok, but then I didn’t have any place to put my other fingers. And guess what happened to my pinky? It stuck out! Grrr. I was trying to figure out some way to drink this tea in a masculine style. I briefly toyed with the idea of just taking the lid off the pot and drinking straight out of that, but that would have embarrassed Sue. I found a solution when I realized that the teacup was well suited to the palm of my hand, so I just held the whole cup rather than the handle. It was hot and somewhat painful, but, by golly, my pinky didn’t stick out.
Then our food plates were served.
By this time I was getting used to the concept that this was a “dainty” event.
Sue’s “dessert plate” consisted of about four cookies, a chocolate candy, and a miniature turnover. It was very tastefully arranged and looked very nice, but in terms of actual food content there was probably about 2 ounces on the plate.
My plate consisted of several varieties of cheese, fruit and crackers. At least my plate was full. It actually wasn’t bad. There was only one cheese on there I didn’t like. It was brie. It just tastes too weird for me, and when it melts it looks like something the dog coughed up.
They had listed on the menu another item called “tea sandwiches”. I had been warned ahead of time by a friend that these were in no way to be considered “sandwiches” in the sense that I thought of them. They were “dainty”, and were not to be confused in any way with the normal deli sandwich that I was picturing. I saw the truth of this when I looked to see the waitress standing behind the counter duck down and stuff a whole sandwich in her mouth.
“Wow you got a lot more than I did.” Said Sue.
“Yeah. Guess I lucked out on that one.” I replied.
After we were done eating she asked, “So are you full?”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. It was only cheese and crackers after all. Not even any meat. How could that be filling? There is no such thing as a filling meal to me if it does not contain meat. I was ready for the main course, but that was all there was.
This presented a problem for which I had a quick solution.
“Let’s go to a restaurant for dinner.” It was 5:15.
“You just ate!”
“That was just an appetizer! I have to have more than that.” This is where my mom would have started telling me about all the starving kids in Africa when I was a kid. The last time she said that to me I took the rest of the sandwich that I didn’t want to eat and put it in an envelope addressed to “all the starving children in Africa”. I wasn’t joking either; I really wanted it to go to them. I doubt the mail man appreciated the sentiment when he opened the mailbox that I had dropped it in.
But before I could even think about going to a restaurant I had to figure out how to get out of the store. This was a challenge.
My wife has always loved the “Victorian” style of decoration, and since this was that kind of store there was no such thing as a straight line to the exit. They had specialty teas of course, and soaps and candles and stationary and utensils and flowers and china and clocks and baskets ….and…and… I forgot the rest. We brought some of it home (sigh). This was pretty expensive tea.
Well, we made it out of there a few minutes after they closed. They locked the door behind us.
Now it’s my turn. There’s a steakhouse in a neighboring town that I’ve been hearing about for years. All they serve is steak. Big steak. Nothing but steak. Really good steak. There’s sawdust on the floor. They don’t serve tea or anything remotely similar. They have big knives and forks. They have big mugs that I can hold with all my fingers!
Probably after that I’ll be ready to handle another High Tea.
©Dan Bode 2002
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Commando Basketball
I was watching a basketball game on TV the other day, and I saw a scene during that game which took me back many, many years to junior high.
One of the players jumped up for the slam-dunk and on his way up he swung an arm out and hit a player on the opposing team in the face. It looked like he got him right across the bridge of his nose. The stricken player went down holding his nose, and in all the close up slow motion shots afterwards you could see his eyes clearly watering. The look on his face seemed to say, “I will NOT cry on national television! I WON’T!” Apparently he was successful, because he didn’t. His eyes just watered and he went on playing.
Now generally speaking basketball is not meant to be a game in which blows are intentionally struck, although that does occasionally occur in all sports, except for tennis or golf. At least, I’ve never seen it in tennis or golf. It really is hard to imagine violence in a golf game. I can hardly stay awake when golf comes on. If I try really hard I can imagine a flare up during a golf game. The announcer doing the play by play (or maybe it should be the “short play long walk by short play long walk”) is always speaking in a voice barely above a whisper. “Okay here he comes. He has his ball all teed up, and he’s selected his driver. This is a new caddy for him Bob, but they seem to be doing pretty well together out here.”
Bob: “Yes they do seem to work well together Jack.”
Jack: “He is addressing the ball now. Wow the concentration on his face right now is impressive.”
Bob. “Okay here comes the swing, it looks good.”
Jack: “Ooooh! Look at the slice on that one! (Announcers voice rises as he talks) It’s going completely off the fairway Bob! It bounced off that oak tree! It’s way over in the high grass! He’ll never find it out there!”
Bob: (voice rising as well) “And he knows it too! Oh man is he mad! He’s going after the caddy! Jack it appears he blames the caddy for selecting the wrong driver! He’s running after him! The crowd is parting to let them through. Wow, are his knickers in a bunch or what?! Look at that! He’s wrapping the driver around the caddy’s neck! Jack I have never seen anything like this before!”
Jack: “The security people are just standing around! They don’t know what to do! They’ve never seen anything like this either! Oh boy, I don’t even want to think about the penalties on this one! He's gonna get at least four strokes added for this!”
Of course this would never happen in golf. I think golf players secretly want violence in the game. That’s why they wear such outrageous pants; they want to assault the eyes of the spectators.
Anyway as I said, this incident brought to mind an experience from junior high. Specifically gym class. Coach Gray was our instructor, and he definitely had some unique ideas about physical education. He tended toward the pugilistic school of thought, which is not bad, as long as you are the pugilist rather than the pugilee. Coach Gray introduced us to a new form of basketball that took the game to a completely new level. He called it Commando Basketball. In Commando Basketball the rules were essentially the same as regular basketball with three notable exceptions. One: there were no fouls. Two: every player had one hand free to dribble the ball, and on the other hand he wore a boxing glove. Three: the players of the opposing team were allowed to punch the player who had possession of the ball with their gloved hand.
These conditions tended to create some interesting situations. Many times there were guys on opposing teams who did not harbor warm feelings toward each other. In these cases it was not uncommon to see a player on one team purposely pass the ball to the player he didn’t like on the other team just so he would have the opportunity to hit him.
There were other rules designed to save us from serious injury as well. Headshots were not allowed, nor could you hit anyone below the belt. For the most part these rules were followed. To this day I am still amazed that we were even allowed to play this game, but no one ever complained about it so we all happily pummeled each other in the spirit of good sportsmanship.
One of the nice things about this game was that it seemed to equalize everyone in the class. Anyone could swing his arm in a general melee without a great degree of skill required. I was no exception to this rule. I was always considered tall for my age, and as a consequence people naturally assumed that I played basketball. The truth of the matter was that I avoided it at every opportunity. Basketball requires coordination. I don’t have any. Therefore, I hate to play basketball. Watching it is fine, but playing is a no-no. There were some guys in our class who were more athletically inclined than the rest of us, and they were typically classified as “jocks”. They were the ones who actually played on the school basketball team, as opposed to the rest of us who sat in the bleachers and watched. While there were a few of the jocks that thought more highly of themselves than they should have most of them were pretty nice guys. On this particular day during our commando basketball game things had been pretty intense on the court. We had played the game several times now, and we were all increasing in our skill level so we were able to actually “play” the game instead of “play at” the game. I never bothered to get the ball because I knew I’d lose it to the other side pretty easily, but being one of the bigger kids and having a pretty strong right arm I learned that I could be pretty effective against the actual possessor of the ball. I went out of my way to stay within the rules though, because it was no fun when someone got seriously hurt. One of the jocks had the ball and he was on the opposing team. He was a friend of mine so I usually would try to hit his arm or something to make him lose his grip on the ball rather than someplace where he might get more seriously hurt. I found myself right in the middle of the mass of players that always concentrated around the ball handler which meant I was right next to my friend on the other team. I had to swing. He was getting ready to take his shot and his arms were already raised to shoot the ball so I swung at his stomach. I knew he could take a stomach shot so I felt pretty safe except that at the last minute as I was swinging my arm toward his midsection he decided to jump to improve his shot. What this meant was that the swing that was already on its way was no longer going to hit his stomach. The perspective had suddenly changed. I was about to break the rules. I was now going to hit him BELOW THE BELT. I saw where my swing was going too late to stop it, and as the punch landed I heard my friend say, “Oooooff!” After which he promptly curled up in a little ball and lay on the ground, moaning.
Many in the group had actually turned away from us toward the basket to see if the ball made it through the hoop. The ball, of course, was rolling on the ground not far from my friend. This, and the fact that everyone in the general vicinity had been throwing punches, I realized contributed to the fact that no one but myself was aware that I had struck the offending blow. As I thought this I said, “Oh man! He’s hurt! What happened?” He hadn’t been looking at who hit him either. By unspoken agreement we all respectfully turned our backs on him surrounding him and blocking him from the view of the girls PE class across the field. In junior high school when a guy got hit below the belt it was considered bad form to stand around and watch him writhe in pain. It was REALY bad if a girl was there to see it. There was a certain etiquette even at that age. At this point Coach Gray began to wonder why everyone was standing around on the court facing outward while the ball rolled aimlessly away from us.
“Hey what’s the problem gentlemen? I did not call a time out!” He yelled as he approached the group. As he got closer he saw my friend on the ground, moaning.
“Oh. I see the problem. Okay Jeff why don’t you get up and walk it off and sit on the bench for a while? You’ll be back on the court in no time.”
Jeff just looked up at him for a moment before he started to move. When you’ve been hit below the belt with any serious force the last thing you want to do is walk. Coach Gray followed the Drill Sergeants philosophy that if you made someone hate you enough they would do as they were told.
I reached down to help him up and walk him over to the bench. As we walked I whispered, “Man, I’m sorry. It was me that hit you. It was supposed to be a stomach shot, but you jumped.”
“Why did you have to hit so hard?”
“I didn’t think I was. I was trying to go easy.”
“Try harder next time okay?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Okay.”
I went back to the game after that, and after a short while he got back in as well, but I definitely watched how hard I hit from that point on.
That was the last time we played Commando Basketball. We all missed it. We really missed it when it was raining and they made us do square dancing in the gym, although at least we got to dance with the girl’s PE class. Sadly Commando Basketball never came to be accepted as a regular sporting activity, and I have never heard of it being played anywhere else. That’s probably just as well, there would be too many guys standing around in outward facing circles if it did, and sooner or later I would have been the one on the ground moaning. I guess self-preservation still has its uses.
©Dan Bode 2000
One of the players jumped up for the slam-dunk and on his way up he swung an arm out and hit a player on the opposing team in the face. It looked like he got him right across the bridge of his nose. The stricken player went down holding his nose, and in all the close up slow motion shots afterwards you could see his eyes clearly watering. The look on his face seemed to say, “I will NOT cry on national television! I WON’T!” Apparently he was successful, because he didn’t. His eyes just watered and he went on playing.
Now generally speaking basketball is not meant to be a game in which blows are intentionally struck, although that does occasionally occur in all sports, except for tennis or golf. At least, I’ve never seen it in tennis or golf. It really is hard to imagine violence in a golf game. I can hardly stay awake when golf comes on. If I try really hard I can imagine a flare up during a golf game. The announcer doing the play by play (or maybe it should be the “short play long walk by short play long walk”) is always speaking in a voice barely above a whisper. “Okay here he comes. He has his ball all teed up, and he’s selected his driver. This is a new caddy for him Bob, but they seem to be doing pretty well together out here.”
Bob: “Yes they do seem to work well together Jack.”
Jack: “He is addressing the ball now. Wow the concentration on his face right now is impressive.”
Bob. “Okay here comes the swing, it looks good.”
Jack: “Ooooh! Look at the slice on that one! (Announcers voice rises as he talks) It’s going completely off the fairway Bob! It bounced off that oak tree! It’s way over in the high grass! He’ll never find it out there!”
Bob: (voice rising as well) “And he knows it too! Oh man is he mad! He’s going after the caddy! Jack it appears he blames the caddy for selecting the wrong driver! He’s running after him! The crowd is parting to let them through. Wow, are his knickers in a bunch or what?! Look at that! He’s wrapping the driver around the caddy’s neck! Jack I have never seen anything like this before!”
Jack: “The security people are just standing around! They don’t know what to do! They’ve never seen anything like this either! Oh boy, I don’t even want to think about the penalties on this one! He's gonna get at least four strokes added for this!”
Of course this would never happen in golf. I think golf players secretly want violence in the game. That’s why they wear such outrageous pants; they want to assault the eyes of the spectators.
Anyway as I said, this incident brought to mind an experience from junior high. Specifically gym class. Coach Gray was our instructor, and he definitely had some unique ideas about physical education. He tended toward the pugilistic school of thought, which is not bad, as long as you are the pugilist rather than the pugilee. Coach Gray introduced us to a new form of basketball that took the game to a completely new level. He called it Commando Basketball. In Commando Basketball the rules were essentially the same as regular basketball with three notable exceptions. One: there were no fouls. Two: every player had one hand free to dribble the ball, and on the other hand he wore a boxing glove. Three: the players of the opposing team were allowed to punch the player who had possession of the ball with their gloved hand.
These conditions tended to create some interesting situations. Many times there were guys on opposing teams who did not harbor warm feelings toward each other. In these cases it was not uncommon to see a player on one team purposely pass the ball to the player he didn’t like on the other team just so he would have the opportunity to hit him.
There were other rules designed to save us from serious injury as well. Headshots were not allowed, nor could you hit anyone below the belt. For the most part these rules were followed. To this day I am still amazed that we were even allowed to play this game, but no one ever complained about it so we all happily pummeled each other in the spirit of good sportsmanship.
One of the nice things about this game was that it seemed to equalize everyone in the class. Anyone could swing his arm in a general melee without a great degree of skill required. I was no exception to this rule. I was always considered tall for my age, and as a consequence people naturally assumed that I played basketball. The truth of the matter was that I avoided it at every opportunity. Basketball requires coordination. I don’t have any. Therefore, I hate to play basketball. Watching it is fine, but playing is a no-no. There were some guys in our class who were more athletically inclined than the rest of us, and they were typically classified as “jocks”. They were the ones who actually played on the school basketball team, as opposed to the rest of us who sat in the bleachers and watched. While there were a few of the jocks that thought more highly of themselves than they should have most of them were pretty nice guys. On this particular day during our commando basketball game things had been pretty intense on the court. We had played the game several times now, and we were all increasing in our skill level so we were able to actually “play” the game instead of “play at” the game. I never bothered to get the ball because I knew I’d lose it to the other side pretty easily, but being one of the bigger kids and having a pretty strong right arm I learned that I could be pretty effective against the actual possessor of the ball. I went out of my way to stay within the rules though, because it was no fun when someone got seriously hurt. One of the jocks had the ball and he was on the opposing team. He was a friend of mine so I usually would try to hit his arm or something to make him lose his grip on the ball rather than someplace where he might get more seriously hurt. I found myself right in the middle of the mass of players that always concentrated around the ball handler which meant I was right next to my friend on the other team. I had to swing. He was getting ready to take his shot and his arms were already raised to shoot the ball so I swung at his stomach. I knew he could take a stomach shot so I felt pretty safe except that at the last minute as I was swinging my arm toward his midsection he decided to jump to improve his shot. What this meant was that the swing that was already on its way was no longer going to hit his stomach. The perspective had suddenly changed. I was about to break the rules. I was now going to hit him BELOW THE BELT. I saw where my swing was going too late to stop it, and as the punch landed I heard my friend say, “Oooooff!” After which he promptly curled up in a little ball and lay on the ground, moaning.
Many in the group had actually turned away from us toward the basket to see if the ball made it through the hoop. The ball, of course, was rolling on the ground not far from my friend. This, and the fact that everyone in the general vicinity had been throwing punches, I realized contributed to the fact that no one but myself was aware that I had struck the offending blow. As I thought this I said, “Oh man! He’s hurt! What happened?” He hadn’t been looking at who hit him either. By unspoken agreement we all respectfully turned our backs on him surrounding him and blocking him from the view of the girls PE class across the field. In junior high school when a guy got hit below the belt it was considered bad form to stand around and watch him writhe in pain. It was REALY bad if a girl was there to see it. There was a certain etiquette even at that age. At this point Coach Gray began to wonder why everyone was standing around on the court facing outward while the ball rolled aimlessly away from us.
“Hey what’s the problem gentlemen? I did not call a time out!” He yelled as he approached the group. As he got closer he saw my friend on the ground, moaning.
“Oh. I see the problem. Okay Jeff why don’t you get up and walk it off and sit on the bench for a while? You’ll be back on the court in no time.”
Jeff just looked up at him for a moment before he started to move. When you’ve been hit below the belt with any serious force the last thing you want to do is walk. Coach Gray followed the Drill Sergeants philosophy that if you made someone hate you enough they would do as they were told.
I reached down to help him up and walk him over to the bench. As we walked I whispered, “Man, I’m sorry. It was me that hit you. It was supposed to be a stomach shot, but you jumped.”
“Why did you have to hit so hard?”
“I didn’t think I was. I was trying to go easy.”
“Try harder next time okay?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Okay.”
I went back to the game after that, and after a short while he got back in as well, but I definitely watched how hard I hit from that point on.
That was the last time we played Commando Basketball. We all missed it. We really missed it when it was raining and they made us do square dancing in the gym, although at least we got to dance with the girl’s PE class. Sadly Commando Basketball never came to be accepted as a regular sporting activity, and I have never heard of it being played anywhere else. That’s probably just as well, there would be too many guys standing around in outward facing circles if it did, and sooner or later I would have been the one on the ground moaning. I guess self-preservation still has its uses.
©Dan Bode 2000
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
In His Image
In His Image.
What does it mean to be made in His image?
Are there scars upon my brow, or was it sculpted to don a crown of thorns? Was my side made to accept the spear? Were my hands created to receive the point of a nail? Or are there scars to show they were there?
No.
My wounds were healed before I had them. My sins forgiven without a memory of their occurrence. And yet I bear a cross daily. I still suffer a small portion for my responsibility in my sin. Yet He endured to insure my survival, my freedom.
What is the image of God?
He is perfect. Am I? No.
Can I be? Only when He perfects me. Perfection is a process.
Isn’t it odd how the crown of thorns, when we picture it on His head, seems to fit so well, even having been pushed down upon His head? As though the thorns were grown to fit His brow alone? As though, because of His great love for us, His very flesh knew He took it willingly?
Did the nails pierce His hands and feet and separate the tissues as though they were meant to be there?
I see His pain, and I wonder at His endurance, and then I find His peace.
Like Thomas I doubt Him, and I doubt what I see and what I touch. Every part of my life is a process of eliminating my doubt. I am shown repeatedly that I am loved, that I am cared for, and because of this I discover that while His crucifixion is a daily occurrence in my life, so is Easter, and all I can ever hope to be is His image.
A mere reflection.
A shadow.
For only Christ is Truth and Love Incarnate.
The sad fact of the matter is that even though God has done so much, I still try to take it back. While God’s word on the issue is final, because it is indeed “finished”, I keep trying to do it over until “I get it right” once and for all. I don’t want to be the cause of His pain because I am convinced that His sacrifice leaves me in His debt, and I can’t stand that! I hate debt! I hate obligation! Why? Because it forces me to admit my incredible, all consuming need for a Savior.
“by his wounds we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5
So do not come to me for comfort in your pain for I stand useless in shock, in horror, in awe and in love at His sacrifice. I have no words that would be adequate to match His actions on our behalf. Only His open wounds can fulfill our need, and He is waiting for us to touch them. The greatest joy in Easter is that He is greater than all the pain of my sins to kill him. Every wound He took is one more I don’t have to bear.
And what that proves, in the end, is that there is not enough blood in my veins to cover the sins of the world.
©Dan Bode 2004
What does it mean to be made in His image?
Are there scars upon my brow, or was it sculpted to don a crown of thorns? Was my side made to accept the spear? Were my hands created to receive the point of a nail? Or are there scars to show they were there?
No.
My wounds were healed before I had them. My sins forgiven without a memory of their occurrence. And yet I bear a cross daily. I still suffer a small portion for my responsibility in my sin. Yet He endured to insure my survival, my freedom.
What is the image of God?
He is perfect. Am I? No.
Can I be? Only when He perfects me. Perfection is a process.
Isn’t it odd how the crown of thorns, when we picture it on His head, seems to fit so well, even having been pushed down upon His head? As though the thorns were grown to fit His brow alone? As though, because of His great love for us, His very flesh knew He took it willingly?
Did the nails pierce His hands and feet and separate the tissues as though they were meant to be there?
I see His pain, and I wonder at His endurance, and then I find His peace.
Like Thomas I doubt Him, and I doubt what I see and what I touch. Every part of my life is a process of eliminating my doubt. I am shown repeatedly that I am loved, that I am cared for, and because of this I discover that while His crucifixion is a daily occurrence in my life, so is Easter, and all I can ever hope to be is His image.
A mere reflection.
A shadow.
For only Christ is Truth and Love Incarnate.
The sad fact of the matter is that even though God has done so much, I still try to take it back. While God’s word on the issue is final, because it is indeed “finished”, I keep trying to do it over until “I get it right” once and for all. I don’t want to be the cause of His pain because I am convinced that His sacrifice leaves me in His debt, and I can’t stand that! I hate debt! I hate obligation! Why? Because it forces me to admit my incredible, all consuming need for a Savior.
“by his wounds we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5
So do not come to me for comfort in your pain for I stand useless in shock, in horror, in awe and in love at His sacrifice. I have no words that would be adequate to match His actions on our behalf. Only His open wounds can fulfill our need, and He is waiting for us to touch them. The greatest joy in Easter is that He is greater than all the pain of my sins to kill him. Every wound He took is one more I don’t have to bear.
And what that proves, in the end, is that there is not enough blood in my veins to cover the sins of the world.
©Dan Bode 2004
Saturday, February 14, 2009
True Beauty
We come, and we go.
A simple statement of fact, yet a great deal occurs between those two words. We walk a great journey between the lines that mark the beginning and the end, start and finish. Whether our tread along the way is heavy or light, no step goes uncounted by Him who made us.
We are sometimes granted the honor of making the journey with someone, sometimes a longer portion, more commonly the shorter. More often than not the length of time we have together is the least important property of it. The presence is itself enough, for those of uncommon beauty bring us joy.
The joy is in the journey we live between the lines.
We live too often by accident when we should be living with intention.
How many times have I missed the joy in the journey by waiting for things to happen rather than pursuing what is clearly before me? How many times have I chosen complacency over action?
At some point in my life I innocently embraced the comfort of a “routine”, and in so doing somewhere, in the process of living, I became a man of sorrow. The loss of someone or something along the way caught me off guard. I began to concentrate more on what I’d lost than on all that I had gained in the presence of the beauty God provided in that relationship, however unfairly brief I thought it to be.
I think too much about what “might have been” if I’d said or done something just a little bit differently, but “might have been” never happened and never will and it would never have been as perfect as our imagination allows. Hindsight is a useless thing sometimes.
I feel sorrow at my loss, but I must always remember that there would be no sorrow had joy not been there first, but remembering as well that joy does not depend on sorrow for its existence. It is in the beauty of an uncommon nature that joy is inspired. It is not the youthful face and form that offers True Beauty, but the joy and love that is reflected from within and visible on the surface of whatever form we happen to have. Oh, the rest of the world would have us believe otherwise, but that is only their attempt at establishing standards that allow them to dictate the standard of our own worth. If the focus of beauty is maintained externally it can then be marketed and controlled. It becomes a commodity to be used to conform us to some random ideal, and at the same time rob us of our individual natures. I found that it was the presence and pursuit of True Beauty that brought me joy and gave me depth.
Far too often I am overcome by sorrow in my relationship with God because I think so much of all that He has had to forgive in me when I should be overcome by joy because He has forgiven me. Furthermore, He has forgiven me intentionally, by design, with a desire to bring me joy. That is True Beauty.
I became a man of sorrows unintentionally. I must become a man of joy intentionally. I must actively pursue that which does not come to me by nature. I must actively recognize uncommon beauty, and allow myself to be surprised, no – astonished-, by joy. In this I honor those who are lost to me by allowing their gift to me to be recognized.
In this I also honor my God, for this was His gift to me through them, and it is His astonishing Beauty that is reflected in them.
So here is the truth I have discovered:
True Beauty is the reflection of God in His creation.
I have a friend who was married to his wife for 59 years when she died. There was never a doubt of the depth of their love. As she lay dying he told her, “I fell in love with you all over again.”
They saw the Beauty of God reflected in each other. Beauty resides in their love, not their bodies. We are but mere reflections of the source of beauty. It is for us to reflect the beauty of God into the darker corners of the hearts of this world. And it should be said here that this kind of love is truly the stuff of legend. We look at famous relationships and exclaim how good they are without ever seeing anything beyond the superficial shell of the reality that leads to the breakdown of that same relationship. The romantic stories we have grown up on are usually tragic or artificial. We make a relationship important because of the celebrity involved, and at the same time we ignore the relationships that have existed longer than you or I have been alive. I know so many marriages that are the image of the example I want mine to be. They have lasted for a lifetime with an ever increasing love. We see little flashes of history and emphasize what we see in the briefest point that represents the climax of centuries of effort by all those who remain nameless. Henry Fabre once said, “History celebrates the battlefields whereon we meet our death, but scorns to speak of the plowed fields whereby we thrive; it knows the names of kings' bastards but cannot tell us the origin of wheat. This is the way of human folly.”
In our relentless pursuit of our future we ignore what we see as the shackles of our past rather than a foundation on which to build it. We have taken a devastating turn for the worse when we ignore True Beauty in favor of the worthless and inconsistent imitation that this world has to offer.
Love is beauty, and God is Love, therefore He is also the source and definition of Beauty. The recognition of Beauty is the “calling to which you have been called.” (Ephesians 4:1) Love is the knowledge we are called to put into practice. Beauty is in the intangibles. It lies not in face and form, but in action, in relationship. It is not the person we love, or who loves us where beauty is found. No, it is in the love itself. The love we choose to take part in.
When we see beauty as something outside of ourselves we can be more confident in the beauty we have. We are each capable of reflecting True Beauty because we were all made in His image. We were not meant to hold anything in. We were made to overflow. When we choose to partake in the Beauty He supplies we become vessels of the Uncontainable. The flaws we perceive within ourselves are irrelevant to our ability to reflect True Beauty. Are you concerned that your hair is the wrong color, or that someone else’s is better than yours, or that someone else has hair? Is there a scar you’re ashamed of? Are you too thin or too fat? Is there a pimple on your face that is changing the course of your life somehow? Have you been abused or misused somewhere along the way?
I wonder; are we afraid to love beyond our own shame because we are afraid that others will be unable to as well, and thereby emphasize our own perceived shortcomings in the process of pointing out theirs? Have I not been guilty of this in my own life? Of course.
The problem lies in the fact that we perceive our flaws as limiting our potential for beauty, but we do not realize that we are not the source of the beauty we have. True Beauty is revealed in our flaws, because we have learned to express love to one another despite, or even through, the flaws. That is where the love and beauty of God are truly reflected in us. When Paul says “when I am weak then I am strong” (2Corinthians 12:10) I think he speaks of an aspect of this beauty, for it is in our own weakness that the strength of God is evident. When we reach the end of our resources, whether it is in the area of strength or beauty, God takes over so that whatever we cannot finish He does. But we must see the success of it through His eyes, not our own. It is the direct result of the touch of God. In the recognition of the Source of Beauty we come to that final threshold where a single step across will bring us into the presence of more than we could ever know, but all that we could not survive without.
You see God made True Beauty to be given and taken. He made it to be freely shared. No cost was attached for our sake, because the presence of True Beauty in us is the only way we will ever live beyond our deaths.
The day will come when we will all be sitting quietly together. We will gaze upon one another, and see gray hair, wrinkles, liver spots, and joints swollen and disfigured by arthritis. And given all that, we will at last realize that even then, each of us is still, and will always be, Truly Beautiful. For each of us is cast in the image of God Himself, and there is no Other worthy if imitation.
©Dan Bode 2003
A simple statement of fact, yet a great deal occurs between those two words. We walk a great journey between the lines that mark the beginning and the end, start and finish. Whether our tread along the way is heavy or light, no step goes uncounted by Him who made us.
We are sometimes granted the honor of making the journey with someone, sometimes a longer portion, more commonly the shorter. More often than not the length of time we have together is the least important property of it. The presence is itself enough, for those of uncommon beauty bring us joy.
The joy is in the journey we live between the lines.
We live too often by accident when we should be living with intention.
How many times have I missed the joy in the journey by waiting for things to happen rather than pursuing what is clearly before me? How many times have I chosen complacency over action?
At some point in my life I innocently embraced the comfort of a “routine”, and in so doing somewhere, in the process of living, I became a man of sorrow. The loss of someone or something along the way caught me off guard. I began to concentrate more on what I’d lost than on all that I had gained in the presence of the beauty God provided in that relationship, however unfairly brief I thought it to be.
I think too much about what “might have been” if I’d said or done something just a little bit differently, but “might have been” never happened and never will and it would never have been as perfect as our imagination allows. Hindsight is a useless thing sometimes.
I feel sorrow at my loss, but I must always remember that there would be no sorrow had joy not been there first, but remembering as well that joy does not depend on sorrow for its existence. It is in the beauty of an uncommon nature that joy is inspired. It is not the youthful face and form that offers True Beauty, but the joy and love that is reflected from within and visible on the surface of whatever form we happen to have. Oh, the rest of the world would have us believe otherwise, but that is only their attempt at establishing standards that allow them to dictate the standard of our own worth. If the focus of beauty is maintained externally it can then be marketed and controlled. It becomes a commodity to be used to conform us to some random ideal, and at the same time rob us of our individual natures. I found that it was the presence and pursuit of True Beauty that brought me joy and gave me depth.
Far too often I am overcome by sorrow in my relationship with God because I think so much of all that He has had to forgive in me when I should be overcome by joy because He has forgiven me. Furthermore, He has forgiven me intentionally, by design, with a desire to bring me joy. That is True Beauty.
I became a man of sorrows unintentionally. I must become a man of joy intentionally. I must actively pursue that which does not come to me by nature. I must actively recognize uncommon beauty, and allow myself to be surprised, no – astonished-, by joy. In this I honor those who are lost to me by allowing their gift to me to be recognized.
In this I also honor my God, for this was His gift to me through them, and it is His astonishing Beauty that is reflected in them.
So here is the truth I have discovered:
True Beauty is the reflection of God in His creation.
I have a friend who was married to his wife for 59 years when she died. There was never a doubt of the depth of their love. As she lay dying he told her, “I fell in love with you all over again.”
They saw the Beauty of God reflected in each other. Beauty resides in their love, not their bodies. We are but mere reflections of the source of beauty. It is for us to reflect the beauty of God into the darker corners of the hearts of this world. And it should be said here that this kind of love is truly the stuff of legend. We look at famous relationships and exclaim how good they are without ever seeing anything beyond the superficial shell of the reality that leads to the breakdown of that same relationship. The romantic stories we have grown up on are usually tragic or artificial. We make a relationship important because of the celebrity involved, and at the same time we ignore the relationships that have existed longer than you or I have been alive. I know so many marriages that are the image of the example I want mine to be. They have lasted for a lifetime with an ever increasing love. We see little flashes of history and emphasize what we see in the briefest point that represents the climax of centuries of effort by all those who remain nameless. Henry Fabre once said, “History celebrates the battlefields whereon we meet our death, but scorns to speak of the plowed fields whereby we thrive; it knows the names of kings' bastards but cannot tell us the origin of wheat. This is the way of human folly.”
In our relentless pursuit of our future we ignore what we see as the shackles of our past rather than a foundation on which to build it. We have taken a devastating turn for the worse when we ignore True Beauty in favor of the worthless and inconsistent imitation that this world has to offer.
Love is beauty, and God is Love, therefore He is also the source and definition of Beauty. The recognition of Beauty is the “calling to which you have been called.” (Ephesians 4:1) Love is the knowledge we are called to put into practice. Beauty is in the intangibles. It lies not in face and form, but in action, in relationship. It is not the person we love, or who loves us where beauty is found. No, it is in the love itself. The love we choose to take part in.
When we see beauty as something outside of ourselves we can be more confident in the beauty we have. We are each capable of reflecting True Beauty because we were all made in His image. We were not meant to hold anything in. We were made to overflow. When we choose to partake in the Beauty He supplies we become vessels of the Uncontainable. The flaws we perceive within ourselves are irrelevant to our ability to reflect True Beauty. Are you concerned that your hair is the wrong color, or that someone else’s is better than yours, or that someone else has hair? Is there a scar you’re ashamed of? Are you too thin or too fat? Is there a pimple on your face that is changing the course of your life somehow? Have you been abused or misused somewhere along the way?
I wonder; are we afraid to love beyond our own shame because we are afraid that others will be unable to as well, and thereby emphasize our own perceived shortcomings in the process of pointing out theirs? Have I not been guilty of this in my own life? Of course.
The problem lies in the fact that we perceive our flaws as limiting our potential for beauty, but we do not realize that we are not the source of the beauty we have. True Beauty is revealed in our flaws, because we have learned to express love to one another despite, or even through, the flaws. That is where the love and beauty of God are truly reflected in us. When Paul says “when I am weak then I am strong” (2Corinthians 12:10) I think he speaks of an aspect of this beauty, for it is in our own weakness that the strength of God is evident. When we reach the end of our resources, whether it is in the area of strength or beauty, God takes over so that whatever we cannot finish He does. But we must see the success of it through His eyes, not our own. It is the direct result of the touch of God. In the recognition of the Source of Beauty we come to that final threshold where a single step across will bring us into the presence of more than we could ever know, but all that we could not survive without.
You see God made True Beauty to be given and taken. He made it to be freely shared. No cost was attached for our sake, because the presence of True Beauty in us is the only way we will ever live beyond our deaths.
The day will come when we will all be sitting quietly together. We will gaze upon one another, and see gray hair, wrinkles, liver spots, and joints swollen and disfigured by arthritis. And given all that, we will at last realize that even then, each of us is still, and will always be, Truly Beautiful. For each of us is cast in the image of God Himself, and there is no Other worthy if imitation.
©Dan Bode 2003
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Bread
Bread is an essential element in every society. I read somewhere that in almost every culture ever discovered evidence of bread making existed in some form. There are breads for every occasion: breakfast, dessert, dinner, midnight snacks, you name it there’s a bread for it. When I was a kid I loved coming home to the smell of baking bread. My mom baked bread at least one day a week, and she always did several loaves at once. I would hang around and wait until she had finished mixing all the ingredients and emptied the dough onto the kneading board and then pick out all the little pieces of dough that were left behind. When that bread came out of the oven I was right there. As soon as it was barely cool enough to touch I had a piece cut and buttered. There just wasn’t any substitute for homemade bread. It was also really good for French toast, and dipping in hot chocolate. Bread made up a major part of my diet, but mainly I think the greatest impact it had on my life was the association it had with my concept of home. The smell of fresh baked bread always meant a nice, warm and welcoming place to be.
Mom died and I grew up and I didn’t get to have that same association anymore. I tried making it a few times, but it just wasn’t quite the same. My sister Diane always made a good loaf though, but it was a lot of work and she didn’t have time to do it very often. So it was with a great deal of hopeful anticipation that my wife and I decided to purchase the latest technological kitchen wonder: a bread maker.
Some of our friends had bread machines and loved them. From the day we brought it home I faithfully put the ingredients in, and a few hours later it dutifully gave me a hot fresh loaf of bread. The aroma reached every room in the house. I adapted my mom’s bread recipe to work in the bread maker and it was just like coming home from school when I walked through the door as a child. Perfect.
I became accustomed to being able to use our bread machine on a regular basis. We eventually relied on it for all of our bread needs. We no longer bought any bread at the store, except for an occasional bag of sourdough rolls.
Then one day the unthinkable happened. I opened up the bread maker and pulled out a bread brick. It was so hard and dense I could have used it to construct a wall.
SOMETHING was WRONG. My connection to my childhood was damaged. The bread smelled the same, but it was as dense as, well, a brick. I stared at it for a good long minute trying to figure out what went wrong. I had done everything exactly as I had done it so many times before. I repeated the process with two more loaves of bread with the same result.
I thought again about anything I might have done differently. Nothing. Then I realized who the true culprit was: the manufacturer of the machine. My anger began to rise as I thought of all the anguish this would cause me. I ran to find the receipt to find out if it was still under warranty. I found I had two weeks left. HA! They thought they could beat me on this one! Well they didn’t know whom they were dealing with! No one stands between fresh bread and me and survives.
I found a box big enough to hold the bread maker and packed it ever so carefully. I then sat down to write a very heartfelt letter to the manufacturer explaining the problem and kindly requesting their assistance. The package was sent, and the waiting began.
Several weeks later the package came back. I opened up the box and pulled out the machine. I eagerly set it up and loaded the ingredients in expectation of the wonderful aroma. Three hours later I opened it up and pulled out … a brick.
Now I was really torqued. I pulled out the invoice to see what repairs had actually been done. I read the following: “Plugged machine in. It ran fine.”
Was I supposed to be impressed with their diagnostic capabilities? Sadly, they did not achieve their goal.
Once again I sat down to write a letter of explanation to the manufacturer, only this time I was not quite as calm and collected. I questioned the quality of their work. I questioned the intelligence of their technicians. I questioned whether they had even bothered to bake a loaf of bread in the machine. I threatened to call the president of the company and report their shoddy workmanship, and lack of attention to detail. It could almost be described as venomously poetic.
Once again I repacked the machine and sent it off. I sat back to await its return several weeks later.
In the mean time I had to buy store bought bread. It was a truly humbling experience. I watched others in the store buying their bread with no idea of what they were missing. I lived a tortured existence until the day came when I received the machine back.
I quickly tore open the box and found the invoice. It read: “Replaced motor. Baked two (2) loaves of bread. They came out perfect.”
OK! Finally someone had listened with compassion to my plight! Once again I was on the path to a state of bliss as I loaded all the ingredients in the machine. I turned it on and waited for three hours. The smell was wonderful. It had been so long! The machine beeped, signaling the end of the baking cycle. I ran into the kitchen and opened the machine. Reaching in with my oven mitt covered hands I pulled out…. a brick.
First, my anger started to flare, but then I actually decided to think about the situation – quite a novel idea on my part. Okay, they said they baked two (2) loaves and they came out perfect. They get loaves, I get bricks. Hmmm. I looked at my ingredients. The flour looked fine, the sugar looked fine. I knew the water was ok, well as ok as tap water can be anyway. The only thing left was the yeast.
When I was in grade school I had done an experiment with yeast. I forget what the point of the experiment was, but it required mixing a spoonful of sugar into some warm water and then adding yeast to watch it grow. I, of course, couldn’t do exactly what directions said to do. If I was going to grow something I wanted it to grow more than anyone else’s did. To achieve that end I added extra sugar and extra yeast. The yeast grew and grew and grew. It grew right out of its container and all over the kitchen counter. The house smelled like a beer brewery. That was good yeast.
You know how you always asked your teacher the question: “When am I ever going to use this in real life?” Well, here’s a case in point. Of course, I usually asked this question in algebra, which I honestly don’t think I have actually used in real life yet but that’s beside the point.
Anyway, I readied my experiment. I got out a container and put some warm water mixed with sugar in it. I took a few spoonfuls of yeast and added it to the mix. The water turned a light brown. I waited a few minutes waiting for the telltale bubbles to form and fill the container. The water stayed brown. There were no bubbles.
I was a victim of bad yeast.
Now as I sat thinking of this it occurred to me that I had put a lot of effort into placing blame on the people that worked in the repair shop, and their apparent lack of ability.
Oops.
I thought about writing them a nice note of reconciliation and apologizing for my incorrect assumptions, and being a stand-up guy and taking the blame for my mistakes. I thought about it for quite a while, as a matter of fact. Then I forgot about it until just now.
I don’t have that bread maker anymore and it’s been several years now. I don’t think anyone there remembers me anymore, so for the sake of keeping the peace I think I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie, and pay tribute to their fortitude and technical skill with a silent prayer of thanks whenever I smell the aroma of fresh baked bread.
©Dan Bode 1998
Mom died and I grew up and I didn’t get to have that same association anymore. I tried making it a few times, but it just wasn’t quite the same. My sister Diane always made a good loaf though, but it was a lot of work and she didn’t have time to do it very often. So it was with a great deal of hopeful anticipation that my wife and I decided to purchase the latest technological kitchen wonder: a bread maker.
Some of our friends had bread machines and loved them. From the day we brought it home I faithfully put the ingredients in, and a few hours later it dutifully gave me a hot fresh loaf of bread. The aroma reached every room in the house. I adapted my mom’s bread recipe to work in the bread maker and it was just like coming home from school when I walked through the door as a child. Perfect.
I became accustomed to being able to use our bread machine on a regular basis. We eventually relied on it for all of our bread needs. We no longer bought any bread at the store, except for an occasional bag of sourdough rolls.
Then one day the unthinkable happened. I opened up the bread maker and pulled out a bread brick. It was so hard and dense I could have used it to construct a wall.
SOMETHING was WRONG. My connection to my childhood was damaged. The bread smelled the same, but it was as dense as, well, a brick. I stared at it for a good long minute trying to figure out what went wrong. I had done everything exactly as I had done it so many times before. I repeated the process with two more loaves of bread with the same result.
I thought again about anything I might have done differently. Nothing. Then I realized who the true culprit was: the manufacturer of the machine. My anger began to rise as I thought of all the anguish this would cause me. I ran to find the receipt to find out if it was still under warranty. I found I had two weeks left. HA! They thought they could beat me on this one! Well they didn’t know whom they were dealing with! No one stands between fresh bread and me and survives.
I found a box big enough to hold the bread maker and packed it ever so carefully. I then sat down to write a very heartfelt letter to the manufacturer explaining the problem and kindly requesting their assistance. The package was sent, and the waiting began.
Several weeks later the package came back. I opened up the box and pulled out the machine. I eagerly set it up and loaded the ingredients in expectation of the wonderful aroma. Three hours later I opened it up and pulled out … a brick.
Now I was really torqued. I pulled out the invoice to see what repairs had actually been done. I read the following: “Plugged machine in. It ran fine.”
Was I supposed to be impressed with their diagnostic capabilities? Sadly, they did not achieve their goal.
Once again I sat down to write a letter of explanation to the manufacturer, only this time I was not quite as calm and collected. I questioned the quality of their work. I questioned the intelligence of their technicians. I questioned whether they had even bothered to bake a loaf of bread in the machine. I threatened to call the president of the company and report their shoddy workmanship, and lack of attention to detail. It could almost be described as venomously poetic.
Once again I repacked the machine and sent it off. I sat back to await its return several weeks later.
In the mean time I had to buy store bought bread. It was a truly humbling experience. I watched others in the store buying their bread with no idea of what they were missing. I lived a tortured existence until the day came when I received the machine back.
I quickly tore open the box and found the invoice. It read: “Replaced motor. Baked two (2) loaves of bread. They came out perfect.”
OK! Finally someone had listened with compassion to my plight! Once again I was on the path to a state of bliss as I loaded all the ingredients in the machine. I turned it on and waited for three hours. The smell was wonderful. It had been so long! The machine beeped, signaling the end of the baking cycle. I ran into the kitchen and opened the machine. Reaching in with my oven mitt covered hands I pulled out…. a brick.
First, my anger started to flare, but then I actually decided to think about the situation – quite a novel idea on my part. Okay, they said they baked two (2) loaves and they came out perfect. They get loaves, I get bricks. Hmmm. I looked at my ingredients. The flour looked fine, the sugar looked fine. I knew the water was ok, well as ok as tap water can be anyway. The only thing left was the yeast.
When I was in grade school I had done an experiment with yeast. I forget what the point of the experiment was, but it required mixing a spoonful of sugar into some warm water and then adding yeast to watch it grow. I, of course, couldn’t do exactly what directions said to do. If I was going to grow something I wanted it to grow more than anyone else’s did. To achieve that end I added extra sugar and extra yeast. The yeast grew and grew and grew. It grew right out of its container and all over the kitchen counter. The house smelled like a beer brewery. That was good yeast.
You know how you always asked your teacher the question: “When am I ever going to use this in real life?” Well, here’s a case in point. Of course, I usually asked this question in algebra, which I honestly don’t think I have actually used in real life yet but that’s beside the point.
Anyway, I readied my experiment. I got out a container and put some warm water mixed with sugar in it. I took a few spoonfuls of yeast and added it to the mix. The water turned a light brown. I waited a few minutes waiting for the telltale bubbles to form and fill the container. The water stayed brown. There were no bubbles.
I was a victim of bad yeast.
Now as I sat thinking of this it occurred to me that I had put a lot of effort into placing blame on the people that worked in the repair shop, and their apparent lack of ability.
Oops.
I thought about writing them a nice note of reconciliation and apologizing for my incorrect assumptions, and being a stand-up guy and taking the blame for my mistakes. I thought about it for quite a while, as a matter of fact. Then I forgot about it until just now.
I don’t have that bread maker anymore and it’s been several years now. I don’t think anyone there remembers me anymore, so for the sake of keeping the peace I think I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie, and pay tribute to their fortitude and technical skill with a silent prayer of thanks whenever I smell the aroma of fresh baked bread.
©Dan Bode 1998
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Fears
It has been said that if you name your fears they are easier to deal with.
I fear electrical work, so I named it Beelzebub.
I do love the benefits of having electricity in my home, and pretty much everywhere I go, but I’d really much rather leave having to work with it to the experts. The problem with that is every time I’ve needed someone to work on an electrical problem I can’t afford to pay the experts to do it. And every time (and I do mean EVERY time) that I have done any remodeling work in my home, when I encounter any portion of the electrical system that needs to be worked on, it just doesn’t look right.
Our house was built in 1952. It’s not big, but it has always served our purposes. On the other hand it had some properties that, when viewed with kindness, are described as contributing to the “character” of the house. When viewed by my eyes the description that came to mind was “demo project”.
My wife insists that I am having fun when I swing the hammer or crowbar to break through the drywall. Probably because of the maniacal grin that appears on my face while I’m doing it. I have to admit there is some satisfaction in the release of destructive force; however, it is tempered by the thought of what I will find on the other side of that drywall. It can be like opening a time capsule sometimes. This is a space that hasn’t seen the light of day in 56 years after all. The phrase “they don’t make them like they used to” always comes to mind when I start one if these projects.
Several years ago we remodeled our kitchen. I had some friends helping me on that one, and I learned a lot from them in doing that.
Things like “measure twice cut once”. I’ve modified that to “measure 10 times, cut once an inch more than measured, and then trim down by 1 millimeter at a time until you get the right length, and then when it’s still a millimeter too long, force it in to the desired space.”
Or, “Plan out your project ahead of time”. I revised this one to “plan it out in general terms and then run to the big box hardware store 20 times in the course of the project for other materials and always, always make sure you buy a new tool before you leave”.
A little while after we finished the kitchen I started on one of our bathrooms. It wasn’t in bad shape or anything, but our house is short on cabinet space and this bathroom had no cabinets whatsoever. So we ordered cabinets and I started pulling everything out of the bathroom.
I also needed to replace the shower walls as well so I was ripping out tiles that were made of aluminum. I had never seen anything like that before.
In order to put the new cabinets in I had to relocate the light switch. I was also installing a fan and another set of outlets.
I read all the books on wiring your own house. They had great pictures.
I like pictures. Just show me what it’s supposed to look like in the end and I’m good.
So I tore out the drywall to get to the wiring.
It didn’t look anything like the pictures.
I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, and things inside of me started to seize up, but I had unfortunately already torn out the toilet.
I looked at the pictures again.
I held the book up to the wall and tried to identify what I saw.
No luck.
So I turned off the light and shut the door to the bathroom and went to bed.
Surprisingly, it was all still there the next morning.
I looked at the book and found that the pictures were still the same too.
I had no choices left to me so I went out to the electrical box in the back yard and I turned off the electricity to the bathroom. Then I went in and cut a couple of wires.
No sparks, no fires.
That’s one of the things about electricity that I don’t like: if there’s not a little light attached to whatever you’re working on you never know if it’s there or not. It’s an invisible menace waiting to jump out and grab you just as you get comfortable in its presence.
As I got more comfortable with it I cut a few more wires until there was basically nothing left of the original wiring in the bathroom. Then I got out my picture book and put in new wiring to make it look like the pictures. Then came the moment of truth: it was time to turn the electricity back on.
So I went out to the box in the back and flipped the switch.
I was gratified that there were no explosions, and that the electricity did indeed stay on for the rest of the west coast. I was worried about that.
I went back inside to see what was happening.
Everything looked ok.
I approached the light switch that I installed and very cautiously flipped it on.
Both the light and the fan came on. I only wanted the light to come on.
I turned that switch off and flipped the fan switch on.
The fan and the light in the hallway came on.
Beelzebub.
I went into the hallway and flipped the hallway light switch (which, by the way, I hadn’t even touched) and the hallway light and the bathroom fan went off.
So I went back outside and turned off the electricity, and then I cut some more wires and started over again. Eventually I got it right. Or at least as right as I had a right to expect it to be right.
It has been a few years since that happened and the time came when the other bathroom had to be torn apart. I approached it with more confidence than the last time for the simple fact that I now had more experience, and the pictures in the book still hadn’t changed.
I got out the hammer and the crowbar and started in again.
I knew what I thought should be there, but when I stepped back and let the dust settle I found that I was looking at the same nightmare as before.
Beelzebub.
It didn’t match the pictures!
I really hate it when that happens.
There was extra stuff. Why do you need extra stuff in a bathroom?
So I did what I always do.
I shut the door and went to bed. I knew without a doubt that it would still be there when I woke up.
The next day I called my good friend Dave Nelson.
Dave is an electrical genius.
He is the high priest of electrical knowledge.
He is the one with all the electrical answers.
Dave is also one of those guys who are always on a quest for knowledge. When he wants to know about something he just jumps right in and finds out what is needed and does it. He is always working on something at his house. I can pretty much guarantee that if you walk into his house at any given time there is a project being worked on. I expect that the worst form of torture you could inflict on Dave would be to tell him that he had to sit down and relax and never visit another hardware store again.
So I called Dave and sent him a picture of what I was looking at. He looked at the picture and we talked about it, and he concluded that in this case everything appeared to be the way it was supposed to be.
He concluded his remarks with, “I don’t really see a problem. I think you’ll do fine with it.”
That’s another thing about Dave; he’s an eternal optimist.
In my head I was saying, “YOU don’t see a problem? I still see a problem! This is BEELZEBUB we’re talking about here!”
With my mouth I was saying, “Yeah, I think I understand it now. I should be ok.”
So I turned the electricity off and cut some wires. No explosions.
I finally got it finished and went on to finish the drywall, install the sink and paint everything.
Now that it’s done I have a new issue.
When we were deciding on the color my wife wanted yellow.
I did not want yellow.
We compromised on a kind of golden brownish color that seemed to fit the room. So we got the paint and I finished the job.
Then the paint dried.
It’s yellow.
In fact it’s actually YELLOW!
It’s so YELLOW! that you don’t even have to turn on the light to see at night because it pretty much glows in the dark! And if you turn on the light you're gonna go blind.
YELLOW! does not belong in a bathroom. It’s too strongly associated with something else that you will find in a bathroom that is also yellow which I shall not name here to save those of sensitive dispositions. It is also often associated with the number 1.
After having to sit in the YELLOW! room for a while I have now discovered that I truly hate YELLOW!
On the other hand, the light switch only turns on the light in the bathroom so maybe I’ll just leave it that for now.
©Dan Bode 2008
I fear electrical work, so I named it Beelzebub.
I do love the benefits of having electricity in my home, and pretty much everywhere I go, but I’d really much rather leave having to work with it to the experts. The problem with that is every time I’ve needed someone to work on an electrical problem I can’t afford to pay the experts to do it. And every time (and I do mean EVERY time) that I have done any remodeling work in my home, when I encounter any portion of the electrical system that needs to be worked on, it just doesn’t look right.
Our house was built in 1952. It’s not big, but it has always served our purposes. On the other hand it had some properties that, when viewed with kindness, are described as contributing to the “character” of the house. When viewed by my eyes the description that came to mind was “demo project”.
My wife insists that I am having fun when I swing the hammer or crowbar to break through the drywall. Probably because of the maniacal grin that appears on my face while I’m doing it. I have to admit there is some satisfaction in the release of destructive force; however, it is tempered by the thought of what I will find on the other side of that drywall. It can be like opening a time capsule sometimes. This is a space that hasn’t seen the light of day in 56 years after all. The phrase “they don’t make them like they used to” always comes to mind when I start one if these projects.
Several years ago we remodeled our kitchen. I had some friends helping me on that one, and I learned a lot from them in doing that.
Things like “measure twice cut once”. I’ve modified that to “measure 10 times, cut once an inch more than measured, and then trim down by 1 millimeter at a time until you get the right length, and then when it’s still a millimeter too long, force it in to the desired space.”
Or, “Plan out your project ahead of time”. I revised this one to “plan it out in general terms and then run to the big box hardware store 20 times in the course of the project for other materials and always, always make sure you buy a new tool before you leave”.
A little while after we finished the kitchen I started on one of our bathrooms. It wasn’t in bad shape or anything, but our house is short on cabinet space and this bathroom had no cabinets whatsoever. So we ordered cabinets and I started pulling everything out of the bathroom.
I also needed to replace the shower walls as well so I was ripping out tiles that were made of aluminum. I had never seen anything like that before.
In order to put the new cabinets in I had to relocate the light switch. I was also installing a fan and another set of outlets.
I read all the books on wiring your own house. They had great pictures.
I like pictures. Just show me what it’s supposed to look like in the end and I’m good.
So I tore out the drywall to get to the wiring.
It didn’t look anything like the pictures.
I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, and things inside of me started to seize up, but I had unfortunately already torn out the toilet.
I looked at the pictures again.
I held the book up to the wall and tried to identify what I saw.
No luck.
So I turned off the light and shut the door to the bathroom and went to bed.
Surprisingly, it was all still there the next morning.
I looked at the book and found that the pictures were still the same too.
I had no choices left to me so I went out to the electrical box in the back yard and I turned off the electricity to the bathroom. Then I went in and cut a couple of wires.
No sparks, no fires.
That’s one of the things about electricity that I don’t like: if there’s not a little light attached to whatever you’re working on you never know if it’s there or not. It’s an invisible menace waiting to jump out and grab you just as you get comfortable in its presence.
As I got more comfortable with it I cut a few more wires until there was basically nothing left of the original wiring in the bathroom. Then I got out my picture book and put in new wiring to make it look like the pictures. Then came the moment of truth: it was time to turn the electricity back on.
So I went out to the box in the back and flipped the switch.
I was gratified that there were no explosions, and that the electricity did indeed stay on for the rest of the west coast. I was worried about that.
I went back inside to see what was happening.
Everything looked ok.
I approached the light switch that I installed and very cautiously flipped it on.
Both the light and the fan came on. I only wanted the light to come on.
I turned that switch off and flipped the fan switch on.
The fan and the light in the hallway came on.
Beelzebub.
I went into the hallway and flipped the hallway light switch (which, by the way, I hadn’t even touched) and the hallway light and the bathroom fan went off.
So I went back outside and turned off the electricity, and then I cut some more wires and started over again. Eventually I got it right. Or at least as right as I had a right to expect it to be right.
It has been a few years since that happened and the time came when the other bathroom had to be torn apart. I approached it with more confidence than the last time for the simple fact that I now had more experience, and the pictures in the book still hadn’t changed.
I got out the hammer and the crowbar and started in again.
I knew what I thought should be there, but when I stepped back and let the dust settle I found that I was looking at the same nightmare as before.
Beelzebub.
It didn’t match the pictures!
I really hate it when that happens.
There was extra stuff. Why do you need extra stuff in a bathroom?
So I did what I always do.
I shut the door and went to bed. I knew without a doubt that it would still be there when I woke up.
The next day I called my good friend Dave Nelson.
Dave is an electrical genius.
He is the high priest of electrical knowledge.
He is the one with all the electrical answers.
Dave is also one of those guys who are always on a quest for knowledge. When he wants to know about something he just jumps right in and finds out what is needed and does it. He is always working on something at his house. I can pretty much guarantee that if you walk into his house at any given time there is a project being worked on. I expect that the worst form of torture you could inflict on Dave would be to tell him that he had to sit down and relax and never visit another hardware store again.
So I called Dave and sent him a picture of what I was looking at. He looked at the picture and we talked about it, and he concluded that in this case everything appeared to be the way it was supposed to be.
He concluded his remarks with, “I don’t really see a problem. I think you’ll do fine with it.”
That’s another thing about Dave; he’s an eternal optimist.
In my head I was saying, “YOU don’t see a problem? I still see a problem! This is BEELZEBUB we’re talking about here!”
With my mouth I was saying, “Yeah, I think I understand it now. I should be ok.”
So I turned the electricity off and cut some wires. No explosions.
I finally got it finished and went on to finish the drywall, install the sink and paint everything.
Now that it’s done I have a new issue.
When we were deciding on the color my wife wanted yellow.
I did not want yellow.
We compromised on a kind of golden brownish color that seemed to fit the room. So we got the paint and I finished the job.
Then the paint dried.
It’s yellow.
In fact it’s actually YELLOW!
It’s so YELLOW! that you don’t even have to turn on the light to see at night because it pretty much glows in the dark! And if you turn on the light you're gonna go blind.
YELLOW! does not belong in a bathroom. It’s too strongly associated with something else that you will find in a bathroom that is also yellow which I shall not name here to save those of sensitive dispositions. It is also often associated with the number 1.
After having to sit in the YELLOW! room for a while I have now discovered that I truly hate YELLOW!
On the other hand, the light switch only turns on the light in the bathroom so maybe I’ll just leave it that for now.
©Dan Bode 2008
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