The Beautiful Escape

"Allowing God To Be In And Beyond The Text" -Paul Corrigan

Lectio Divina

Lectio Divina is Latin for divine reading, spiritual reading, or "holy reading," and represents a traditional Christian practice of prayer and scriptural reading intended to engender communion with the Triune God and to increase in the knowledge of God's Word. It is a way of praying with Scripture that calls one to study, and ponder.
Lectio

This first moment consists in reading the scriptural passage slowly, attentively several times. Many write down words in the scripture that stick out to them or grasp their attention during this moment.

Meditatio

The Christian, gravitating around the passage or one of its words, takes it and ruminates on it, thinking in God’s presence about the text. He or she benefits from the Holy Spirit’s ministry of illumination, i.e. the work of the Holy Spirit that imparts spiritual understanding of the sacred text. It is not a special revelation from God, but the inward working of the Holy Spirit, which enables the Christian to grasp the revelation contained in the Scripture.

Oratio

This is a response to the passage by opening the heart to God. It is not an intellectual exercise, but an intuitive conversation or dialogue with God.

Contemplatio:

This moment is characterized by a simple, loving focus on God. In other words, it is a beautiful, wordless contemplation of God, a joyful rest in His presence.

This is my reaction to this art and my reflection of the story we read called
Sunny's Blues.

Everyone is the same. There is no line between sinner and saint, abstractly speaking. We all have some sort of escape whether good or evil. We all experience the same. We are he same. Meditation on the connection we have together should take front seat if we are ever going to accomplish anything. "There is nothing new under the sun", is what my poppy told me one time, and in this story it reigns true. Our lives are beautiful connected together as a whole; They are all made up of the same things. Love, trouble, dispair, and triumph. Each one is made with more or less the same "ingredients". Life is made up of experience. Yet, we have lost our faith in hope.

My Prayer:

Open our ears to listen. Quiet our minds to hear. Provoke our hearts to love. Open our eyes to the revelation of you. Let us lay our lives aside and simply wait on you. Help me become sensitive to a hurting world.



This is the portion of the story we read if you would like to try this exercise or just follow along:

"On the sidewalk across from me, near the entrance to a barbecue joint, some people were
holding an old-fashioned revival meeting. The barbecue cook, wearing a dirty white apron,
his conked hair reddish and metallic in the pale sun, and a cigarette between his lips, stood
in the doorway, watching them. Kids and older people paused in their errands and stood
there, along with some older men and a couple of very tough-looking women who watched
everything that happened on the avenue, as though they owned it, or were maybe owned by
it. Well, they were watching this, too. The revival was being carried on by three sisters in
black, and a brother. All they had were their voices and their Bibles and a tambourine. The
brother was testifying and while he testified two of the sisters stood together, seeming to
say, amen, and the third sister walked around with the tambourine outstretched and a
couple of people dropped coins into it. Then the brother's testimony ended and the sister
who had been taking up the collection dumped the coins into her palm and transferred them
to the pocket of her long black robe. Then she raised both hands, striking the tambourine against the air,
and then against one hand, and she started to sing. And the two other
sisters and the brother joined in.It was strange, suddenly, to watch, though I had been seeing these meetings all my life. So,of course, had everybody else down there. Yet, they paused and watched and listened and I
stood still at the window. "'Tis the old ship of Zion," they sang, and the sister with the
tambourine kept a steady, jangling beat, "it has rescued many a thousand!" Not a soul under
the sound of their voices was hearing this song for the first time, not one of them had been
rescued. Nor had they seen much in the way of rescue work being done around them.
Neither did they especially believe in the holiness of the three sisters and the brother, they
knew too much about them, knew where they lived, and how. The woman with the
tambourine, whose voice dominated the air, whose face was bright with joy, was divided by
very little from the woman who stood watching her, a cigarette between her heavy, chapped
lips, her hair a cuckoo's nest, her face scarred and swollen from many beatings, and her
black eyes glittering like coal. Perhaps they both knew this, which was why, when, as rarely,
they addressed each other, they addressed each other as Sister. As the singing filled the air
the watching, listening faces underwent a change, the eyes focusing on something within;
the music seemed to soothe a poison out of them; and time seemed, nearly, to fall away
from the sullen, belligerent, battered faces, as though they were fleeing back to their first
condition, while dreaming of their last. The barbecue cook half shook his head and smiled,
and dropped his cigarette and disappeared into his joint. A man fumbled in his pockets for
change and stood holding it in his hand impatiently, as though he had just remembered a
pressing appointment further up the avenue. He looked furious. Then I saw Sonny, standing
on the edge of the crowd. He was carrying a wide, flat notebook with a green cover, and it
made him look, from where I was standing, almost like a schoolboy. The coppery sun
brought out the copper in his skin, he was very faintly smiling, standing very still. Then the
singing stopped, the tambourine turned into a collection plate again. The furious man
dropped in his coins and vanished, so did a couple of the women, and Sonny dropped some
change in the plate, looking directly at the woman with a little smile. All I know about music is
that not many people ever really hear it. And even then, on the rare occasions when something
opens within, and the music enters, what we mainly hear, orhear corroborated, are personal, private, vanishing evocations. But the man who creates themusic is hearing something else, is dealing with the roar rising from the void and imposingorder on it as it hits the air. What is evoked in him, then, is of another order, more terrible
because it has no words, and triumphant, too, for that same reason. And his triumph, when
he triumphs, is ours. I just watched Sonny's face. His face was troubled, he was working
hard, but he wasn't with it. And I had the feeling that, in a way, everyone on the bandstand
was waiting for him, both waiting for him and pushing him along. But as I began to watch
Creole, I realized that it was Creole who held them all back. He had them on a short rein. Up
there, keeping the beat with his whole body, wailing on the fiddle, with his eyes half closed,
he was listening to everything, but he was listening to Sonny. He was having a dialogue with
Sonny. He wanted Sonny to leave the shoreline and strike out for the deep water. He was
Sonny's witness that deep water and drowning were not the same thing-he had been there,
and he knew. And he wanted Sonny to know. He was waiting for Sonny to do the things on
the keys which would let Creole know that Sonny was in the water.And, while Creole listened, Sonny moved, deep within, exactly like someone in torment. I hadnever before thought of how awful the relationship must be between the musician and his
instrument. He has to fill it, this instrument, with the breath of life, his own. He has to make
it do what he wants it to do. And a piano is just a piano. It's made out of so much wood and
wires and little hammers and big ones, and ivory. While there's only so much you can do with
it, the only way to find this out is to try; to try and make it do everything......And Sonny hadn't been near a piano for over a year. And he wasn't on much better terms with his life, not the life that stretched before him now. He and the piano stammered, started one way, got scared, stopped; started another way, panicked, marked time, started
again; then seemed to have found a direction, panicked again, got stuck. And the face I saw
on Sonny I'd never seen before. Everything had been burned out of it, and, at the same time,
things usually hidden were being burned in, by the fire and fury of the battle which was
occurring in him up there.Yet, watching Creole's face as they neared the end of the first set, I had the feeling that
something had happened, something I hadn't heard. Then they finished, there was scattered
applause, and then, without an instant's warning, Creole started into something else, it was
almost sardonic, it was Am I Blue? And, as though he commanded, Sonny began to play.
Something began to happen. And Creole let out the reins. The dry, low, black man said
something awful on the drums, Creole answered, and the drums talked back. Then the horn
insisted, sweet and high, slightly detached perhaps, and Creole listened, commenting now
and then, dry, and driving, beautiful and calm and old. Then they all came together again,
and Sonny was part of the family again. I could tell this from his face. He seemed to have
found, right there beneath his fingers, a damn brand-new piano. It seemed that he couldn't
get over it. Then, for a while, just being happy with Sonny, they seemed to be agreeing with
him that brand-new pianos certainly were a gas. Then Creole stepped forward to remind them that what they were playing was the blues. He hit something in all of them, he hit something in me, myself, and the music tightened and
deepened, apprehension began to beat the air. Creole began to tell us what the blues were
all about. They were not about anything very new. He and his boys up there were keeping it
new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness, and death, in order to find new ways to make
us listen. For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may
triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only
light we've got in all this darkness. And this tale, according to that face, that body, those strong hands on those strings, has another aspect in every country, and a new depth in every generation. Listen, Creole seemed
to be saying, listen. Now these are Sonny's blues. He made the little black man on the drums
know it, and the bright, brown man on the horn. Creole wasn't trying any longer to get Sonny
in the water. He was wishing him Godspeed. Then he stepped back, very slowly, filling the air
with the immense suggestion that Sonny speak for himself. Then they all gathered around Sonny and Sonny played. Every now and again one of them seemed to say, amen.
Sonny's fingers filled the air with life, his life. But that life contained so many others. And Sonny went all the way back, he really began with the spare, flat
statement of the opening phrase of the song. Then he began to make it his. It was very
beautiful because it wasn't hurried and it was no longer a lament. I seemed to hear with
what burning he had made it his, and what burning we had yet to make it ours, how we
could cease lamenting. Freedom lurked around us and I understood, at last, that he could
help us to be free if we would listen, that he would never be free until we did. Yet, there was
no battle in his face now, I heard what he had gone through, and would continue to go
through until he came to rest in earth. He had made it his: that long line, of which we knew
only Mama and Daddy. And he was giving it back, as everything must be given back, so that,
passing through death, it can live forever. I saw my mother's face again, and felt, for the first
time, how the stones of the road she had walked on must have bruised her feet. I saw the
moonlit road where my father's brother died. And it brought something else back to me, and
carried me past it, I saw my little girl again and felt Isabel's tears again, and I felt my own
tears begin to rise. And I was yet aware that this was only a moment, that the world waited
outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky.
Then it was over. Creole and Sonny let out their breath, both soaking wet, and grinning.
There was a lot of applause and some of it was real. In the dark, the girl came by and I
asked her to take drinks to the bandstand. There was a long pause, while they talked up
there in the indigo light and after awhile I saw the girl put a Scotch and milk on top of the
piano for Sonny. He didn't seem to notice it, but just before they started playing again, he
sipped from it and looked toward me, and nodded. Then he put it back on top of the piano.
For me, then, as they began to play again, it glowed and shook above my brother's head like
the very cup of trembling. (Sunny's Blues)"

Joel

"I know that there are parts of your life you do not want to hand over to me, but that is alright. I have a plan anyway. Do not ever think that your plans or my plans are aligned. My will finds its way out. You may choose and not choose, and irregardless I AM. I am going to take the portion of your life you HAVE given me and do something so amazing, so unlike anything you could ever imagine, that you cannot help but give me everything you have or ever could dream of having. You will want to seek out things to place in my hands. Watch and see."




These were the words that God was speaking to me as I was driving back to college today. I recognize there are parts of me that I, for some reason, cannot seem to just let God work out. I think this is such a clear revelation to my painting and what God was saying in Joel, yet it is something applicable for me and my own life. I recommend you read the book of Joel personally and to understand the thought behind the painting and my blog. God was sending a message to his people about giving there lives to him. The majority of them only gave a portion of there life to him, and so they were going to be punished...BUT, the most beautiful characteristic of God is that is an unlimited being. My decisions do not limit him or his plan in anyway. He can either work through me or around me. The same goes for the people in Joel. God could still do an amazing even through their denial of him.

This quote is from the first chapter.

"The Devastation of Locusts The word of the LORD that came to Joel, the son of Pethuel:

Hear this, O elders, And listen, all inhabitants of the land Has anything like this happened in your days Or in your fathers' days? Tell your sons about it, And let your sons tell their sons, And their sons the next generation. What the gnawing locust has left, the swarming locust has eaten; And what the swarming locust has left, the creeping locust has eaten; And what the creeping locust has left, the stripping locust has eaten. Awake, drunkards, and weep; And wail, all you wine drinkers, On account of the sweet wine That is cut off from your mouth. For a nation has invaded my land, Mighty and without number; Its teeth are the teeth of a lion, And it has the fangs of a lioness."

This is part of the inspiration for my painting. The locuts that devour the land are discribed as a band of soldiers. They even go on to say that when they come they sound like chariots approaching. I imagined looking at the locusts and painting what I would imagine seeing. From far away they would seem like soldiers but the closer they flew, the more they became like locusts.

"Their appearance is like the appearance of horses; And like war horses, so they run. With a noise as of chariots They leap on the tops of the mountains, Like the crackling of a flame of fire consuming the stubble, Like a mighty people arranged for battle. Before them the people are in anguish; All faces turn pale. They run like mighty men, They climb the wall like soldiers" (This is part of chapter two)

There is always hope with God. He promises it to the people who seek His face:

"Then I will make up to you for the years That the swarming locust has eaten, The creeping locust, the stripping locust and the gnawing locust, My great army which I sent among you. "You will have plenty to eat and be satisfied And praise the name of the LORD your God, Who has dealt wondrously with you; Then My people will never be put to shame. "Thus you will know that I am in the midst of Israel, And that I am the LORD your God, And there is no other; And My people will never be put to shame."

Pass #1

Creeping Death

Today’s field trip to the cemetery reminded me of that feeling. Death, to me, has a very distinct feeling, one of a creeping sort. The song titled Creeping Death by Metallica puts this feeling into perspective: “Die by my hand I creep across the land…. Rule the midnight air, the destroyer Born I shall soon be there, deadly mass I creep the steps and floor, final darkness Blood” Even though the song is talking about a much different subject, the same still remains true. Certain things are associated with death, and every time I set foot on a cemetery or a hospital, I am immediately reminded. It was when I was walking down the main sidewalk of the cemetery when I had a flashback. One of the most recent funerals I have attended was my father’s mother Mimi. She was my father’s only and closest family besides his sister who was born before him out of wedlock, and consequently put into adoption due to the circumstances. They never knew each other until later in life when they finally met up. She is in the music industry and she is very famous now, fortunately she was not yet famous when they first started forming a relationship. When Mimi died is was not a huge emotional blow to my dad but also my aunt Faith (My dad’s sister). They immediately started making funeral arrangements but the weight of her death had already taken a huge effect on my father. She died completely unexpectedly from cardiac arrest, and she was quite young in her early fifties. I have not ever seen my father in a state like that. He cried constantly and locked himself in his room for almost three days straight. My father never cries. Ever. I said all this to say that when I was in the cemetery today I had a flashback to the actual gravesite of her funeral. There were so many people there, but I think it was more for them to see my aunt Faith than to actually morn my grandmothers passing. People can be so shallow. Unless you have ever experienced loss, I guess it is hard for you to empathize with it. It is so delicate and it affects everyone so differently. You yourself have no idea of knowing how you will react to it until it creeps into your own life. That is how it was for my father. He had no idea of knowing she was even close to dying. It just showed up. If I have learned anything from these experiences and these reflections it is not to take death lightly. It is very real and it has no rules. It creeps along. And you never know where it will turn up. Be careful with your intentions and with what you say around death and grieving. You could end up bruising an already painful spot. Reflect on your own life and it’s direction. Let not traditions of men get in between you and your goals; do not ever let fame take the front seat. Not only in your own personal life, but also in your intentions like the minds of the many heartless people who attended Mimi’s funeral just to say they saw a celebrity. Everyone experiences death and grief. What will you do with it?

When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

A.) My Favorite Line Of The Poem:

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;	30
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

I love the contrast of the beautiful scenery and the somber coffin traveling through it. It just reminds me of how death looks to us when it passes our way. Our lives, good or bad, seem beautiful in contrast to death. When it creeps into our lives it affects us, just like the beautiful countryside. It is almost like a big colorful painting and all the sudden someone begins to paint black smudges all over it.


C.) History On Walt Whitman's Poem

"Between the publication of the third edition of Leaves of Grass in 1860 and the fourth in 1867, Walt Whitman's (1819–1892) life and the life of the country underwent major changes revolving around the outbreak of the Civil War. In December 1862 Whitman traveled from New York City to Fredericksburg, Virginia, to find his brother George, who had been wounded in the battle there. Whitman stayed for nearly two weeks, searching for his brother in the hospitals of the capital and eventually finding him in Fredericksburg. In January 1863 he moved to Washington, D.C., in order to visit the wounded, sick, and dying soldiers in the military hospitals. In three years Whitman visited thousands of young men, dispensing small gifts and writing letters for the badly wounded and illiterate. Meanwhile the poet managed to find a part-time position as a copyist in the Army Paymaster's Office; eventually he would become a clerk in the Interior Department and in the Attorney Generals Office, remaining in government service until he suffered a paralytic stroke in 1873. In the little free time he had left, Whitman walked along Rock Creek with a new friend, the naturalist John Burroughs (1837–1921), who would become his first biographer and lifelong defender. Whitman's aesthetic revolution, both in subject matter and in technique, led to censorship, dismissal from government service, and moral outrage, but Burroughs was a steadfast critical voice from 1865 to his own death in 1921."

(http://www.enotes.com/american-history-literature/when-lilacs-last-dooryard-bloom-d)


D.) History On Elegy

Funeral Poems: The History of the Eulogy & Elegy

"The funeral eulogy or elegy is one of the most popular formats used in funeral and memorial services today. This article provides an interesting history of this poetry writing format and how it has come to be prevalent for saying goodbye to a loved one.

People almost exclusively associate a funeral eulogy or elegy with the passing of a friend or loved one. While it is true that the modern versions are indeed most often used to lament someones death, the two distinct literary styles have a long and surprising history. A Eulogy is used to describe nearly any speech or writing that pays tribute to a person or people that have recently passed away. The word is derived from the two Greek words for "you" and "word." Eulogies can also be used to praise a person that is still alive; this type of eulogy is often used at birthdays and other special occasions. While eulogies are considered appropriate in most funeral situations, some cultures and religions, like Catholicism prefer not to include them in services. The elegy dates back to classical Greek poetry. The elegiac meter contains two lines, known as a couplet and combines many of these couplets to create the funeral poem. One of the most influential early elegiac writers was Callimachus whose writings had dramatic impact on such classic Roman poets as Catullus, Propertius, Tibullus and Ovid. Catullus' 85th poem is one of the better know Latin elegies. Written for his lover, Lesbia, the poem expresses conflicting emotion of both love and hatred:

"odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio, sed fieri sentio et ecrucior."
"I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you might ask?
I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured"

The feeling of helplessness express here is still very prevalent in modern elegies. Elegiac poetry was originally championed as simply a way to express the beauty and grandeur of what we consider a classic roman epic poem in a shorter but equally noteworthy manner. Eventually, Roman authors also began to use the elegiac form to express strong emotion as well as tell stories. The use of elegiac poetry is evidenced in some of the works of Ovid, Propertius and others who used it to tell stories like the origin of Rome and the Temple of Apollo. It was some of the English poets like Lord Tennyson and Thomas Gray that gave the elegy the characteristically somber tone we are now accustomed to. "Lady of Shalott" by Tennyson retained the elegiac tone and paired the praise it offered with a very mournful tone. Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Courtyard" inspired many poets of the time to take up the elegy. Most of these other poets used the format to express solitude and mourning in a very general way. Poets of the Romantic era attempted to use elegiac poetry in a lyrical way. Samuel Taylor Coleridge claimed the elegy was "most natural to the reflective mind." After the Romantic period, however, the elegy became more and more synonymous with lamentation. Eventually, the form settled into its common modern use as a way to mourn and celebrate the dead. The eulogy and elegy both have a long, varied history that has led them to become the most popular poetry form for expressing loss, love and sorrow. Though they differ in origin, age and versatility, both forms of funeral lamentation can be a touching and heartfelt tribute to a newly departed loved one. These memorial poetry formats can be used as a farewell or a way to help the bereaved find comfort and closure in incredibly difficult times. Whether used in a speech, obituary or epitaph, eulogies and elegies are beautiful ways to find the beauty in sadness, the laudation in mournful observance. "

(http://www.ask.com/bar?q=History+about+a+elegy+poem&page=1&qsrc=2417&ab=0&u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.buzzle.com%2Farticles%2Ffuneral-poems-the-history-of-the-eulogy--elegy.html)

Condolance

When we were reading the poems in class Thursday I was immediately reminded of something I experienced lately. My grandma died about a year ago. She was basically my dad’s whole family, so her death was very devastating to not only my dad but also to our whole family. My dad’s father died when he was very young, and he had no siblings, that he knew about…but that’s another story. My family has been a part of lots of churches in the area so we were visited by many “religious” people, and all I can remember is every single person one after the next trying so hard to come up with something “spiritual” to say. Anyone who has ever experienced loss understands what I’m talking about.

“She is in a better place”
“You will see her again someday”
“The Lord calls everyone at their time”
“Everybody has to die someday”

All the while all being the farthest thing from what I wanted to hear…

“I love you and I’m here for you if you need anything.”

What has happened to this phrase? Do people not realize that grief hurts? I’m tired of “religious people” trying desperately trying to fit stereotypical phrases into a broken heart. It does not fit.

I was invited to a retreat to sing this summer for teens and college kids. A friend of mine had invited a girl to come with her that was not saved, so maybe she could experience Christ on the trip. The second day into the trip there was word from our hometown that three very well known boys on the community had been in an accident and they were all killed. They happened to be best friends with the lost girl and she was in immediate hysteria. After that I heard everyone trying to feed her the same lines. I do not want to come off heartless, I mean I know that in grievous times you are not what to say in condolence. All I know, is that when I was in that situation those phrases made my hurt sting. When you experience pain, you are very vulnerable and not quite open to receive spiritual doctrine.

In these circumstances, let us not try to create such a spiritual persona. I propose that we come to each other in love, and love on the people, and forget the “traditions of men” and the traditional sayings. Sometimes saying nothing at all is best. Let Jesus speak the loudest. He always knows what to say. And he always knows when the person is ready to receive.

Growing Up

Lately things in my life have had the appearance of "crashing down". I could easily attribute that to a word I am becoming increasingly familiar with called change. I am a very happy person, so being sad is one thing I try to avoid and generally have never had to deal with. I've been going through some things lately in my own life and in my newfound college life. I have even thought to myself, out of everything I have ever thought about knowing or established as concrete in my life, nothing has truly been the way I had come to accept it to be. I had constructed this concept or picture, if you will, of what my life looked like, and that may or may not incorporate into the new life I was taking and will continue to take on. This relates directly with the article we were just reading in Literature in many ways. The article “The Wild Man of the Green Swamp” entices such a well thought point at the end evaluation that ties together also with theme, which is the title of the entire chapter. It says, “Even though Hong Kingston does not paste a moral at the end of her story, the story may inspire us to ask whether we too often read the world in a childish way when we experience it through the limited lens of media.” Not only had I naively “constructed” my life’s “picture”, but upon examination I came to realize my original blueprints had been constructed by too many opinions of others. I had built my previous life around what had been portrayed to me by other people. That is a very frail system, and its weakness is starting to show. I have to be weak so he can be made strong. I can't count on anyone or anything. Last night God showed me something I thought I already knew and literally made to become real to me. You can't put your trust or hope on anyone but him. Life, people, everything will fail you in this life, even yourself or your perception of yourself. The theme of my life should be based on my journey with him, and I should not be focused simply on the plot and outcome or “product”. This blog is to anyone who's ever felt like giving up or giving in. Trust in God, it is part of growing up and understanding your own life’s theme.

"The steps of a [good] man are ordered by the LORD: and he delighted in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the LORD uphold [him with] his hand." Ps.37: 23,24

The Things They Carried

"The Things They Carried", written by Tim O'Brien, was such a vivid depiction of war. Maybe the actual "things they carried" has been a somewhat less elaborated part of war literature, or this was my first exposure to it because I never knew quite the extent or even close to what they actually carried or were even required to. When I was reading this story, I was first quilted by my own ignorance towards war literary and slang terms, war effects as far as on the actually soldiers, and maybe an overall ignorance towards war in general. In other words, my response to this reading was more of shock than anything else. Yes, I know some things about wart, but not quite like this. The way the story described the just the walking conditions of the soldiers was enough to make me appreciate the fact I do not have to “watch my back” in some respect when walking here in America anywhere.
I cannot imagine the constant feeling of never being safe, even in a somewhat happy moment. This is depicted so splendidly at the part of the story when they all draw straws to be lowered into some sort of enemy tunnel system. They lowered a fellow soldier by the name of Lee Strunk down into the tunnel and he did not return to the surface for what seemed to them a long time. They almost accounted it in the story to a cave-in. When he finally returned to the surface of the tunnel the story seems to take a dramatic turn. They went from being almost numb and life-less walkers, to smiling, clapping, making jokes, and for a moment having a “safe” happy moment. When suddenly, right in that safe moment, Ted Lavender is shot.
I think overall the story is describing not the carnal things the men carry but the spiritual and emotional “things” the men carried. They all carried more than just bags, guns of every sort, and assorted personal items; they carried who they were and what meant something to them. To some of them, it was a family token, and to some of them letters or anything that reminded them of being back home.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

In reading this story, I cannot help but be reminded of my own relational disasters. I have tried to rush things, or I have tried to make certain relationships work, only to see it's consequential downfall. I have come to the conclusion that love is messy. It has no reason. You cannot make it, buy, or conjure it up. Love happens. But true love only comes from one place, and that is from Jesus. "No greater love than this, than for a man to lay down his life for a friend". While I was reading this story it brought to mind the frailness of "human love". All the love we could ever show to one another put together would not even be a drop in the bucket compared to God's love. So I painted this, not so good, picture of the image that comes to mind which is what I talk about when I talk about true love.