funny, stories

Guatemala is a land rich in culture and history. There is war and violence, poverty and pain, pride and love and more variety than you can shake a stick at; its anthropology is deep and rich.

With this deep and rich anthropology comes a particular thing: you generally can’t tell a Guatemalan by hair color or skin tone–there’s lots of variation. There’s only one quick way to tell if someone’s not of Guatemalan heritage: eyes, brown eyes. There are immigrants, African or North American, but they’re not too common.

Today was absolutely stunning. This weekend was a national holiday weekend for Guatemala, along with many other Catholic countries of the world. My unofficially-adopted Guatemalan Uncle, Profe Jorge, invited me to travel with him for the weekend. Not wanting to be stuck alone in Barillas, I traveled with him. Today we went to Santiago Sacatepequez, which I guess is the go-to place to see the celebration of Dia de Todos los Santos: they have an absolutely wild and beautiful crazy kite-festival celebration in the cemetery each year. Of course, there’s also delicious and cheep food aplenty.

We parked about a half mile away from the downtown area and began to walk. Not five minutes later we passed a pretty blonde and blue-eyed girl walking the other way. “Well that’s curious” I thought to myself–a little part of me inside said “hey Dave! There’s a good chance she speaks English. Go talk to her!” It’d been a long time since I’d talked with a pretty girl in English. “Nah, that’s silly, I won’t bother” I thought to myself. We kept walking, and a few minutes later made it to the downtown area.

Not more than ten minutes later, I saw a group of three that didn’t quite look Guatemalan, but I wasn’t sure–they were at least thirty feet away and I couldn’t see their faces with the way they were standing. Two of them, a guy and a gal, were dressed somewhat tourist-ly. The third, another gal in a rose colored shirt, looked less like a tourist then the other two but didn’t seem dressed like a local. All three were fair-skinned, so I figured they were probably not from these parts…but I couldn’t see their eyes so I didn’t know. I should also add that (even though I don’t ever think think much of how a girl looks without having seen her face and smile) the gal in the rose colored shirt, she looked pretty.

Just as I was turning away, something caught her attention and she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder. I saw her face and her eyes and my jaw dropped. I was mildly paralyzed for a moment or two, jaw dropped. Think of that one time when you were walking along and noticed that the sun was getting low. You turn to look at the sunset behind you and see the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life, and your jaw actually drops and you gasp a little bit. Yup, it was like that. This girl had the prettiest eyes.

A few moments passed and my mind was still in “pause” mode. In all my life I’ve never seen a girl with eyes like her eyes. This girl’s prettiest eyes were somehow a glimpse of her self, a little bit of curiosity and contentedness and happiness. I don’t remember if she was smiling at the moment, but I do remember that her eyes were.

“Ok Dave. You need to go talk to this girl, right now” I told myself with conviction.

I didn’t.

Half an hour later I knew what I had to do.

I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper and held it in my pocket. My hopes, jittery, unsure and unsecure, written on a little piece of paper in my pocket. Eight digits. Maybe by some wild providence, maybe by a miracle or other act of God I would get a second chance. Is it okay to pray to God to get to talk with a pretty girl? I wasn’t sure, but I might’ve prayed just a tiny bit. One hour passed, I didn’t see her again. Two hours passed, I didn’t see her again. We left the cemetery where the incredible kite-festival celebration was and began the slow return to the downtown area–the road was packed with people.

We were walking on the right side of the road and there she was on the other side. Somehow I’d missed her when we passed and now she was a ways up the road from us. I saw her and my mind started to spin like a wobbly top. Shoot shoot shoot, she’s all the way over there. I can’t get over there in time, there are too many people. She was a long ways away, and I would’ve had to suddenly take off  running and pushing, chasing through a very dense crowd and–

“Ok Dave, you know what? You missed one chance at what might become the most beautiful thing that’ll happen in your entire life and you’re about to loose your second chance because you don’t want to get pushy in a crowd. Man up Dave, man up.”

I threw myself into the crowd, people glaring at me left and right. One man cuffed me in the back of the head as I stumbled by him. Well, ok..I may have actually crashed straight into him when I was acrobatically avoiding body-checking an old woman. I got close to the girl with the prettiest eyes, close enough for her to hear me.

The crowd was noisy, I had to almost shout: “Excuse me! Miss!”

She turned and looked around, only mildly confused, saw me and said with a smile: “Why hello! Another gringo!”

“You have the most wonderful eyes and smile I’ve ever seen!”

She looked at me, eye contact for a moment that seemed longer than a moment, and with her smile said: “and you do too, chico!”

I just about lost my balance again, but recovered and reached over the sea of people between her and I, the piece of paper in my hand, that scrap of paper with my hopes and thumping heart scribbled on it, 8 little numbers.

She stood up on her toes, reached and took the piece of paper, glanced at it and slipped it in her pocket. The crowd had gotten noisier. I shouted my name to her over the noise, and she shouted hers to me. She turned to keep walking, but then paused for a moment to glance over her shoulder and wink at me.

I definitely nearly lost my balance again.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Every single bit of this story is true, all the way up to the part where I saw her again.

The End.

——–

*I don’t know much of genetics or anthropology, but I’ll hazard a guess anyways. The indigenous people have brown eyes, so maybe in the world of eye-color-genes the brown gene is most dominant and the others are recessive.

other

PACKING/CLEANING/THROWING-STUFF-AWAY!

There are a few things I’ve been working on getting written these past few weeks and I may try to get one or two up before Tuesday. Maybe I’ll post one from Miami (layover on the way to Guatemala City)? Here’s a rough list:

1. The salvation of a century old Bohemian gypsy violin
2. Football (yes, I’m using USA-English here. Pigskin, first downs and hail mary passes, that football)
3. Old hearts breaking
4. The surreality of reality-setting-in
5. Batch of film pictures
6.  Three languages every soul speaks
7. Facebook, and more importantly why I won’t be using it for a while
8. Why math and music are legit and photography rarely is
9. Coffee-mug-problems
10. A bittersweet farewell letter to two bicycles
11. Why I believe what I believe about life, the universe and everything (that one’s a humdinger. I really want to git’er done though, it’s long overdue)
12. Stitched-up panoramic photos
13. The most powerful lesson I’ve ever learned from a coworker
14. My short lived MLS soccer career (well..um..not really. but kinda.)
(Edit: two more)
15. Film vs. Digital
16.  What it’s like to fly away from the city I’ve lived in for all of my 22 years (another humdinger)

Shoot, that list is longer than I thought it’d be (and there are yet more rough drafts laying around, too). Fourteen things–I’ll aim to finish them all by November. *crosses fingers*

stories

My friend died a year ago.

The phone call I received at 8:30am one year ago lasted less than twenty words, and it’s etched deep and forever in my heart. I can’t say much more–I wrote about it some months ago, and what I wrote then for memorial day was all I had to say, and still is all I have to say, about that day and that phone call.

After an IED claimed his body and life here on earth, it was months before I could sleep right. Nightmares? No, and I thank God for that. I honestly don’t know if I could’ve handled nightmares without spiraling downwards with utterly crippled emotions and mind. I simply couldn’t sleep right. I would try to stay at school and do homework, but couldn’t focus; I don’t mean that I wouldn’t, or didn’t want to..literally I could not focus. Months passed, and than one night I slept and woke up rested.

That was the single most bittersweet morning I’ve known in my life so far.

Some time later, one night after a long week and one particularly long day, I was still awake in the early morning, really troubled.

Joe believed and understood more than I do and likely ever will who God is, what redemption is, and the both heart-crushing and soul-saving beauty of the death of God himself, in human form as the carpenter’s son. I knew that Joe was in a better place.

Somehow I didn’t have peace about his death though. “Why the hell wasn’t that me?” I would ask. I could’ve joined the army, I could well have been in that Stryker instead of him. He was married and wanted to help troubled kids after he finished in the army. Joe White was larger than life.

I didn’t have peace.

That night, restless and painful, I sat on the deck stairs looking up at the stars as the wind spoke through the trees, and peace came.

Peace came.

Like the small wave that reaches just further than the rest, to where you’re standing, cool fresh salty water splashes over the tops of your feet cleaning off the sand, and it comes far enough past your heels to even wash away the footprints behind you.

Peace came.

Joe loved and he loved with more depth and soul and power than most folks will ever imagine could be..except for the folks that knew him. Those who knew him knew that there must’ve been something bigger, something else. It was something more, oh you bet it was something more: it was god. Full, real love–something so damn big that it doesn’t fit in this universe, but sometimes when someone actually realizes it, gets it, and decides to live by that, when you meet and come to know one of them, you catch a glint of this light, a blinding beautiful shimmer. That was Joe. His life shone with a glimpse of eternity.

I can’t write anything else, but I want to put something else here: notes he wrote. I copied these off of his facebook account, and they’re some of the most moving things I’ve read in my life–because he poured himself into what he wrote, and he had a lot of soul to pour into things. Some of them are also some of the funniest things I’ve read in my life.

I’m going to have a Rockstar, today, for Joe. He always had one in his hand–everybody’s got their vices, his was Rockstar. At the end of the day was it even a vice? I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. You should have one for him today, too.

BOB! go to sleep.
Tuesday November 18 2008

at first i considered him a mouse problem (i’m assuming he’s a dude mouse because i’m uncomfortable with the thought of sharing the room i get naked in with a female). anyway anyone (even if it is a mouse) who steals cookies that my girlfriend makes for me is a problem. but he just helped himself to them like his mother never taught him manners. so i trapped him under a pillow one night and punched it as hard as i could (it was on my couch and i’d rather get rid of a couch pillow then have mouse guts all over my hand.) i heard something pop and thought it was the mouse but i’m pretty sure it was just my knuckles now because when i lifted the pillow he was no where to be seen. i took it as a sign to leave him alone (well more like i didn’t want him thinking i was a problem and bite my johnson off while i was sleeping at night… well sleeping anytime really i’m not sure why i put at night.. whatever. i have serious ADD) so i named him bob and told him to help himself to MY cookies. i’m such a nice guy. i’m sure bob’s forgiven me for trying to turn him into mouse sauce with my fist. at least i hope he has. i am sharing my cookies after all.

Simple?
Monday April 7 2008

God is good. God is merciful. God is faithful. and God is love. sometimes it’s just that simple. everything else is only matters for the brief moment it is relevant and then disappears for the rest of God’s eternity.

other

This song is so incredible. It has been hanging out on the “song” page for a while now and I’ve decided it just deserves it’s own post. Is it not so much of life? No matter what you believe, I bet something stirs deep inside when you hear this song.

Taking what I can see from where I am, I’m convinced this is a great part of all that really matters: one day after another, each day a step closer, closer to love, to god, to others, each day one step closer.

One Step Closer by U2

I’m ’round the corner from anything that’s real
I’m across the road from hope
I’m under a bridge in a rip tide
That’s taken everything I call my own

One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing

I’m on an island at a busy intersection
I can’t go forward, I can’t turn back
Can’t see the future
It’s getting away from me
I just watch the tail lights glowing

One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
Knowing, knowing

I’m hanging out to dry
With my old clothes
Finger still red with the prick of an old rose
Well the heart that hurts
Is a heart that beats
Can you hear the drummer slowing?

One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
To knowing, to knowing, to knowing

funny, photography

When love comes to town gonna catch that train, when love comes to town gonna catch that flame.

Ironically, in the flight of the moment he failed to realize that this coal car had seen neither engine nor caboose in 13 years. It has indeed come to town, has been in town for a while and likely will be in town for a while to come. Smooth move, man, smooth move.

Nikon F3, E-series 50/1.8, Ilford HP5+

stories

We people like to remember stuff about our big accomplishments, especially lasts. I had a cool job last summer; I was given a big project and got to drive around a cool car. That’s a good feeling. I don’t recall my first day on the job, but I do very well recall my last day. I had some final stuff to do: tie up loose ends in my company email account, finish a final status report for my supervisor to use, get all my company equipment together, clean out the aforementioned cool car, et cetera. But that is not all. That last day is forever etched deep into my heart. My friend died.

At around 8:30am, I got a call; it was my older brother Jason. I stepped outside.

Hey Jason, what’s up?

Uh–Dave–just…something to pray for…

His voice wavered and was slightly gravely. Something was wrong…something was very, very wrong. A horrid cold fear set in; my mind flew: what happened? The first thing I wondered was what could’ve happened to his girlfriend/fiance, Meggan. I knew they couldn’t have broken up. Fear set harder in my bones; maybe Meggan was injured or worse, dead. Jason spoke again after a brief silence, before I had time to think any more; his voice cracked badly as he spoke.

Joe White died in Afghanistan

There was a silence on both ends. We each knew there was nothing else to say;

OK–bye Jason.

Bye Dave.

I hung up. The horrid fear in my bones, realized, curdled to shock. I forgot to breathe for a bit, then took breaths, slow shallow breaths. I prayed, but I can’t remember what I prayed.

I stood outside the office. I don’t remember hearing any noises from the shop or the yard or the freeway. Nothing. Deathly still. I walked over to a rock wall, set down, and cried and cried and cried; I don’t know how long I cried for. I called a few friends to ask for prayers for Joe’s family, but realized I couldn’t make it through a call like that. I called a few other close friends, but sent text messages to the rest. I sat down again and cried more. All at the same time I could not get my mind around it and it hurt like hell and I was cold and numb. I prayed more as I cried; I don’t recall what I prayed then either.

My friend had died in war serving his country; he left behind his newlywed wife and brothers and sisters and mother and father and many dear friends. He left behind a church and youth group that loved him. He left a gaping hole in countless hearts and knit communities. He died a soldier at war for his country.

Joe, I hope you can see this; today so many of us down here remember you, love you, miss you, and weep for you; I hope you can hear it all, or even just a little bit of it; Joe, I don’t feel worthy to say it, but if you can read this, thank you.

U.S. Army Specialist Joseph V. White was born on July 24th 1988 and killed in action in Afghanistan on September 24th 2009; husband, brother, son, friend, good man, follower of God,  paintball and ultimate frisbee extraordinaire. He was Airborne certified and loved to jump out of planes.

Joseph and Jessica White
ideas, stories

Tuesday May 25 3:30am

Could God be real?

Could love, pain and beauty, true and deep and human, be real?

I sit outside on the last stair down from the back porch to the yard. A light breeze (the type that sets a sailboat to drifting almost-imperceptibly on a glassy-calm bay at night) rustles through the leaves of nearby Cottonwoods. Inhaling deeply I smell a mix of rain, dew, fragrant flowers, and fresh cut grass–it’s May. Looking to the East I can barely make out the faint orange glow of dawn coming, only an hour or so away. Grandma’s gone now, my buddy Joe has been gone for just over 8 months. My oldest brother is joyfully wedded to the love of his life, and my other brother is near there.

Is jesus christ real?

Are love, pain and beauty real?

Storm is wild enough for sailing
Bridge is weak enough to cross
This body frail enough for fighting
I’m home enough to know I’m lost

Land unfit enough for planting
Barren enough to conceive
Poor enough to gain the treasure
Enough a cynic to believe

other

Advent

Two thousand years go by while while on the Cross
Our Lord is suffering still–there is no end
Of pain: the spear pierces, nails rend–
And we below with Mary weep our loss.

The chilling edge of night crawls round the earth;
At every second of the centuries,
The dark comes somewhere down, with dreadful ease
Slaying the sun, denying light’s rebirth.

But if the agony and death go on,
Our Lady’s tears, Our Lord’s most mortal cry,
So, too, the timeless lovely birth again–
And the forsaken tomb. Today: the dawn
That never ended and can never die
In breaking glory ushers in the slain.

Sheldon Vanauken

other, stories

Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

-Coldplay

stories

I’d come around
In the early winter evening.
The skies were cloudy, but broken enough
To let through some of the golden light,
As the sun began to set
Over the Northern Sea.
All the times I’d come here to be
The peace had always helped.
It was never quiet,
Not with the waves, always
Breaking over the rocks below,
But so it was, and it was peace,
and it had always helped.

I set the diamond on a rock,
It blazed in the golden sunlight;
It didn’t seem right, though.
An eastern wind blew through the grass
On the bluff where I sat and listened;
I listened to the tranquil place where I was.
A moment passed, maybe more than that;
Here, time had always meant less.
Looking over the sound,
I could see the other two islands
And the Northern Sea, where I was.

I picked up the last piece, and held it
Up to the dying light of the sunset.
All the others I’d thrown into the wind
As a heavy gust blew out over the sea.
It had only taken one careful swing
Of a good sized rock
To shatter the diamond.
Now I held the only piece left
Of what was.
It didn’t blaze at all, but was beautiful.
It glimmered simply in the last light;
it was right.

stories

“My God, why have you forsaken me?!” he cried out, a dying man. His blood was running out–the wood had opened the gashes on his back, from flogging that had nearly claimed his life earlier that day. After the long hours of hanging by nails through his wrists, his lungs had nearly filled with mucus and fluid. They offered him some sour wine. He cried out again, with a loud voice, and yielded his spirit.

So Jesus died, in more excruciating physical, emotional, and above all spiritual pain than any one of us can grasp.

His mother and brothers watched him die. That pain I can begin to try to grasp; I think of my loved ones, and tears fill my eyes. I wonder about the pain his mother experienced, and it shakes me to the core. How did it not break her soul? The single most painful moment of my life was at my friends funeral, seeing his mother weep. I think that pain is etched into my heart and soul for as long as I will be. How did Mary’s soul not break? Maybe it did, come to think about it; maybe it did and was healed. That would surely take a miracle.

I turn, and I look up at God.

“Why did you make me like this? Why do I do evil? And even more, why would you forgive me? Forgive a better man! I’m a horrible person God, maybe you’ll change your mind if I tell you about me, the hurt I’ve done to others…and you love them too!…just by being selfish and prideful me.”

He smiles a little smile, shakes his head, and sighs a bit.

“I love you, child.”

“Well sure, but I screw up! I hurt other people that you love! What about them? What about the relationships I have with others, that I’ve ruined? What about you? I haven’t done a very good job of getting to know you, I usually spend more time doing homework than with you. Not only do I screw up and hurt people, I screw up and hurt you! Some days I wonder if I’m even sane to believe that you’re here!”

He nodded his head, still smiling a little bit.

“Yeah, you do screw up a lot, but don’t worry about that for the moment. I made you to richly, deeply, truly be, son. That means relationships, and relationships in a world where everything’s perfect…well, think about it. It would be a rehearsed act, lip syncing. Relationships are meaningless without right, and downright horrible when there is complete lack of peace. Right needs law and peace needs justice. My relationship with you, above all, is like that.”

“But can’t you just somehow make it right? I would take anything…just…can’t things be right and good for a little while Couldn’t I just be punished? Wouldn’t that make things right?”

“I love you, child. I don’t want to have to punish you for all you’ve done, I’d like there to be another way. Remember the good friend you hurt the other year, and you cried? When I saw your pain, I cried.”

“But…God…can’t you do something?! Anything?”

“I did, my child, I did. Ask Christ about it, he’ll tell you more.”

He still smiled a little bit, and gave me a big hug as I began to sob.

other, stories

The Imperative of Love

You have heard this message from the very beginning:  love one another.

~Yohanan Zibhdi, circa 100 AD