The Life and Times of J. A. Drake

Of Mowers, Simple Pleasures, and Kitchens...

2008-07-24T17:35:00.000-05:00

7/24/08
Of Mowers, Simple Pleasures, and Kitchens…

We’ve got three-quarters of an acre of grass. Some of it is grass, actually, the rest is plantain, clover, and who knows. Regardless of genus affiliation, the stuff grows, and gets thick, and up until just recently all I owned to keep it trim was a small push mower I bought for thirty-five bucks at a garage sale. Frankly, I’ve got better things to do than spend the two and a half hours it took me to mow the stuff, and although I enjoy sweating and hard labor like the next man (notice I’m actually defining what masculinity is), I’d rather devote that sweat to something more constructive.
To ease my pain, my father-in-law has loaned me one of the riding mowers that our church no longer uses. It’s been sitting for several years, and although in its heyday it was rambunctious and celebrated, it grew old and decrepit. Every nook and cranny was completely packed tight with old grass clippings, and the battery had leaked its acid and corroded the fittings. The tires were flat, and a thick layer of dust had settled.
Eight hours later, spread over a couple of afternoons, it roared to life and once again burned through grass like a terminal hippy. I cleaned all the grass, at least that I could get a hold of, greased the joints and bearings, changed the oil, replaced the battery, and nothing. The key wouldn’t even go click.
I don’t know much about engines. Some online forums provided me with a basis to start digging around and troubleshooting, but all that knowledge in my head was like a mule with a spinning wheel…not sure how he got it, and darned if he knows how to use it. Heh heh…mule. Anyway, I was pretty much wasting my time until my nosy neighbor, Keith, came over and gave me a crash course in small engines 101. It’s amazing the little tricks and stuff that you can learn over time. I’m glad I know some of them now. It turned out that one of the safety switches was shot, and so power wasn’t getting to the starter. After some coaxing and priming of the carburetor, the seventeen horses came to life, and the old machine was back.
Fifteen or so minutes later the entire lawn was mowed. Compare that to the two and a half hours. I now look forward to the next time I mow.
Aside from being able to mow so quickly, the simple fact that I was able (with help) to resurrect that thing gave me intense pleasure. Sara can tell you that I was quite pleased. I must’ve told her how happy that made me a dozen times. Ahh…simple pleasures.
Our kitchen is a mess right now. All the cabinet doors are removed, cleaned, and sanded and await a layer of primer. We’ll paint them white, and the nasty copper colored hardware is being replaced with silver. Sara picked out the paint for the walls, which will be a light, pleasant blue. I’m excited to see the finished product. The current estimate is within the next couple of weeks or so. It might be faster, though, because I just finished the summer semester and have over three weeks of complete free time.
In all that free time I hope to get a huge amount of work accomplished. After the kitchen, I hope to rip out the wall in the dining room and install a sliding glass door to the backyard. That’ll eventually step out onto a deck. Right now there is no efficient way to access the backyard, which is unfortunate because it is so peaceful.

More later.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Homeownership, Recreational Burning, and Neighbors...

2008-07-24T17:07:00.001-05:00

7/18/08 – Friday
[I wrote this before we had internet at the house, so I wasn't able to post it]

Well… we own a house, and we’re living in it. I decided to write again, and after dusting off my blog, I noticed that it has been just over a year since I last blogged on my blog (I really hate that word…see my first blog ever).

I haven't had all that much to talk about, really. I know, I know, being married is worth talking about, right? And school, right? Yeah...well...ahem...

I'm writing again because I've now got an ongoing project to record. It is more exciting than the day to day humdrum, although, don't get me wrong, my life is super exciting all the time... It's just this house project is more along the lines of my 13,000 mile motorcycle trip (chronicled in archived posts), in that each day, or week, something new is bound to happen and be worth remembering, at least to me.

On June 24, 2008, Sara and I signed the tower of papers and became 'owners' of 3391 N Brett Ave. For the both of us this is our first house, and as such it has been quite a learning experience. After having been snatched up, munched upon, partially digested, and spat back out by the real estate world, it is no wonder that the housing industry (and mortgage industry) is in the dire straits that it is in. Of course Government bailouts and all that nonsense doesn't help the situation... but I digress.

We've learned that not all real estate agents have a pressing urge to be truthful, not all that glitters is gold, and trusting God during stressful times is like having a good set of needle-nose pliers in your toolbox; handy when you think you 'don't' need them, and indispensable when you do. The whole experience has served both of us well by forcing us to depend more on each other, and then together on our awesome God.

Some of you have seen pictures on Facebook of our house already, but the details are absent. It is a ranch style home with around 1500 square feet, three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, detached two car garage, and it sits on a pristinely flat three quarters of an acre. We've got a few oak trees, a black walnut tree, a gum tree, a couple of maples (one of them is over two feet in diameter), and an assortment of others, including conifers. Our lot is a corner lot, well shaded by our canopy of green. Even when it is really hot, our lot is a few degrees cooler and pleasant. The house stays cool, almost like it has natural air conditioning. That is until it gets humid… then it is not pleasant. Not in the least. But that’s okay.

It is a fixer-upper, the most glaring blemish being a defunct septic system. As I write, the drone of a backhoe fills the air. We’re getting the whole system replaced. No more wincing every time the toilet flushes, hoping that that was the last time we have to see that again. We were originally going to wait until the septic was finished before moving in, but one thing kept delaying another, and we finally just moved in (our stuff was already moved in) this past Monday evening. Sara's parents were our hosts for the two weeks of transition. (I think they keeping thinking…wait, wait, wait...I thought once the kids leave the nest, they aren't supposed to come back...)

We've owned the thing since the 24th of June, and here it is nearly the middle of July. I've barely scratched the surface. I've got excuses... I had mono. Yes, mono. I was out of town for Jordan Niednagel's wedding. It's been raining...er...I'll think of more later.

Regardless of delay, I've now begun the biggest project of my life (besides my wife...I'll get punched in the arm for that one), and I am thrilled to my very core.

The house has been vacant for a good while, so the yard was slightly overgrown, my gutters were gardens, and my grass a jungle. There was a large pile of brush and sticks in the backyard that needed to be disposed of, and my garage roof is leaking like swiss cheese. With the three inches of rain in the past week and a half or so, the last item is rather concerning.

The plumbing in the full bathroom was a near disaster...still is, actually, although I'm in the process of the remedy. The shower/tub and the vanity sink were both disconnected under the house. Yes, the showers and face washings of the previous owner ran freely down to the soft and sandy soil in the crawlspace. If it wasn’t unintentional (I hope), then it would be akin to sweeping the dust under the nearest rug, then soaking it with the hose. In the past couple of days, I've descended twice under my subfloors, and wallowed in the putrid muck. As my father-in-law aptly stated, "Plumbing projects are always longer than you mean them to be." So true. The important stuff is working now. That bathroom will be getting a facelift fairly soon.

Although I really like the guy who is working on my septic, he scores low on the ‘communication’ scale. If you don’t pester him with phone calls then he simply forgets to pass on important info…like, hey, I’m here this morning at 7:15 to do the work now. Oh. Today was one of two possible days he’d come, so I wasn’t too surprised. Still, it would’ve been nice if he had called last night and let me know for sure. Anyway, due to his efforts with the normally cranky and obstinate health department I don’t have to install a more expensive system, so I can’t really complain.

To get the yard ready for him to work I had to deal with the large pile of brush (which was right in the way). One of my neighbors, Keith (or Mr. Nosy, as Sara suspiciously calls him), informed me of a pleasant loophole in the city's burn policies. "Just call the city and tell them you're having a weenie roast...a recreational burn." He talks lackadaisically, and a cigarette is usually slowly burning in one hand; a coffee mug warms the other. Although Sara doesn't like his questions and curiosity, Keith has turned out to be one of those old fashioned, good neighbors, whose nose finds him out all sorts of useful and helpful things.

While we talked Joe walked up, grinning his completely toothless grin, his fat dog Rosie in train. Joe and I have talked since, while I was having my 'weenie roast', and I still can't understand but a small fraction of what he's talking about. Makes sense to him, I guess. He's friendly, and like everyone else, offers help when needed.

Ubie is a nice guy. He lives around the corner. Bob Walker is directly across the street north of us, and he has been a deep well of info on the previous owners of our house. Evidently, there has been some drama in our house's past. I won’t bore you. I will say that it felt quite weird to be talking to my neighbors. I’m nearly twenty-five, I’m married, I now own a house, but I just don’t feel old enough to be talking to my neighbors as equals. It just seems weird.

The other day I finally got around to mowing the lawn in its entirety. Three-quarters of an acre is a lot for a twenty-one inch push mower. My father-in-law is going to let me borrow one of the riding mowers that the church used to use. It needs some TLC to get it working again, but anything is worth cutting down the two and a half hours, and three gallons of sweat it took with me pushing. Mostly, I just don’t like taking time away from the more important projects, such as the kitchen, which I’ll get to later.

So, I’ve been initiated into homeownership. Cleaning out nasty gutters. Clipping the overgrown bushes. Mowing the lawn. Neighbors. Plumbing. The facts of life these days.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Prayer, Misguidance, and Wow...

2007-07-12T21:19:00.000-05:00

Although the vast realm of information on the web is available to me whenever I sit at my computer, I generally hover around a set number of sites and, unless provoked otherwise, rarely deviate from my practice.

One is the weather channel's website. It is an obvious choice for me as my current vocation is construction, and as ninety percent of what I'm doing is outdoors, checking the weather is paramount.

One of the other's is the Drudge Report. It is on this news venue that I found an article, with a video, that showed the first ever Hindu prayer being offered to open the US Senate. Evidently some of the observers found this repugnant and began to heckle the Hindi chaplain, so much so that the Sergeant At Arms was called on to remove them.

Some of the comments thrown down were loud prayers to the effect of, "Lord Jesus, please forgive us for allowing the prayer of the wicked, which is an abomination in your sight..."

Now, I personally think that the prayer of the Hindu chaplain was a bit on the ridiculous side. I do not think that Hinduism is right, and I do not think that a person can be reconciled to God by following those religious rituals.

However, the people who took it upon themselves to disrupt the activity displayed a peculiar misunderstanding of the role of Christianity as it pertains to the government of this country.

This is not a Christian nation. Our government is not Christian. The values and principles held by the majority of our citizens, as evidenced by their conduct and lifestyles, do not reflect that which could be attributed to 'divine inspiration'. Think of government protected murder of innocent babies. Think of government interference in the internal affairs of other countries, going so far as to carry out assassination of foreign leaders. Think of government funding of less-than-savory foreign leaders who later turn out to be a thorn in the flesh (ala Saddam Hussein). Think of government participation in the removal of symbols of Judeo-Christian values (Ten Commandment monuments). Think of a grossly out-of-control tax code that punishes people who work hard and rewards those who do not.

Think of government singing and praying "God Bless America" to a God who opposes the proud, and then slaps on bumper stickers that say "The Power of Pride." Think of government elbowing their way around the world as if they owned it, trampling on local cultures, sapping foreign resources, and taking part in a world banking system that forces third world countries to plunge further into debt, thus enabling corrupt and evil leaders. Think of government calling those who kill a few thousand of us terrorists, but calling the death of hundreds of thousands of foreign civilians in a war we are fighting 'human collateral'.

Now, I am not saying that terrorist attacks are somehow good and defendable, but let's call a spade a spade. War and death of any kind is terror.

Since when has it been 'Christian' to cheer for any side in war?

But I digress.

A hindu prays to open the Senate. How is a hindu prayer any more an affront to God inside the Senate chamber, as it is outside it? How is that prayer any more an affront to God than a nation that is endowed with unimaginable wealth daily asking God to bless it further when daily we, as citizens of that nation, take part in actions that spit on His mercy, thus supremely blaspheming His name?

I say, "Wow." You want to be relevant in this bizarre culture? Quite condemning the culture. It is condemned already. That is what Jesus says. Do what you've been told to do and revolutionize it with supernatural love. Get off the high horse of spiritualism and get down in the muck and mire of a lost world.

...

Of Return to the Work Force...

2007-06-28T16:24:00.001-05:00

After two weeks of unemployment, I have at last secured a job. I am returning to the world of construction, drawing upon my experience in that field, and it all begins Monday.

I put out seven or eight applications, mostly in the shipping and receiving world, but so far this is the only position that has been offered. There was a promising lead for a job driving a forklift, which I would have really enjoyed (and might still do once I begin school), but that failed to materialize in a timely manner.

In keeping with normal construction procedures the hours are relatively early, 7:30am to 4:30, but my first job is less than five minutes from our apartment. I have never actually applied for a construction job before, as my previous experience has been through my own projects, or through working with friends. It was nice to sit down in the interview and answer positive to the questions regarding my experience, "have you ever worked with metal studs?" "Have you ever done wooden framing?" "Remodeling?" etc.

The pay is decent, at least for this area, and they told me that once school starts they'll be willing to be flexible on hours. As the weather cools off and the bottom drops out of the mercury, I'll look indoors for employment, but for now being outdoors in a physically demanding job suits me just fine.

blog test

2007-06-25T21:21:00.000-05:00

blog, blog, blog...

Pulpit Helps Article # 3

2007-06-25T12:12:00.000-05:00

Sixteen Months in Darfur Part Three
Jonathan Drake

[If you wish to read the previous to installments of this series, simply scroll down on my blog at http://lifeandtimesjad.blogspot.com]

Ten months into my time in Darfur, the war-torn Western region of Sudan, I was faced with a situation that didn’t necessarily shock me, but was, in a good way, warming to me. Faisal, the head supervisor of my three food distribution teams, came into my
office and sat down. I was accustomed to him coming in and sitting down, as my office was not a place that I preferred people to ‘hang out’ in, and thus create noise, and as such it was a quiet place to retreat to when the boisterous social
interactions of Sudanese people became tiresome.

“Mr. Jonathan…” Faisal’s addressing me in this way was something I had had to grow used to when I first arrived in Darfur. I was just shy of twenty-one years old when I stepped off that plane for the first time, and I suddenly found myself in charge of a group of men, all of whom older than me, who chose to call me “Mr. Jonathan.” Some were old enough to be my own father and it was something that I laughed at, and still laugh at, at first, but grew to be fond of. What first was a sign of respect out of duty, I was their boss, grew to become a sign of respect of our relationship as a bizarre family, struggling together to help the helpless. They called me “Mr. Jonathan”, and I called them brother, father and sister, literally.

Faisal is a man who, four months prior to my arrival, was driven from his village by the Janjaweed after two times of successfully defending their homes. He saw his sons gunned down, and his wife was brutally tortured, raped and left to die. His village was completely destroyed. At one point he pulled up his pant leg to reveal a nasty scar where a bullet had ripped through his calf. Yet in spite of these things, Faisal is the most joyful man I know. His laugh is deep, his smile is wide, and his face shines with some untold joy that I don’t find in many Christians here in the States.

I knew these things of Faisal as I pushed my computer back, taking a break from the piles of reports I was responsible for submitting to the World Food Program about our operations.

“Yes Faisal?”
“Mr. Jonathan, I have a question.”
“Yes sir…”
“I have worked with other NGO’s, and other international staff, and I have seen the way they are. I am Sudanese, I know my own people. I know the way they behave. All of those, they are people who get angry, who lie and who steal. It is nothing to them. But you…you are different. You and Mr. Andy, and Mr. Matt, and Mr. Dickson, and Mr. Coy, and Mr. Tim. You are different. You do not become angry with us, or with each other, you love us and you love each other. Why?”

The question of ‘Why?’ is one that we as Christians long for those around us to ask. Why are you different? When I hear that question I automatically think of when Peter tells us to “always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have (1 Peter 3:15).” This is it. This is that moment. What do I do? Faisal comes from a cultural background that is as different than mine than Frito chips are from knockoff brand imitations (believe me, the difference is drastic). My understanding of the Gospel is rooted in my ‘grid’ of understanding, a grid that is shaped and formed from my youth, by my parents, my friends, my church experience and anyone I encounter. It comes from the joys and sorrows of my life, as trivial as they may seem in comparison to those in Darfur. My understanding of how to present the Gospel also comes from this root, and I feared, in that moment, as I had before, that what made perfect sense to me would completely fly by Faisal’s radar. Not that the truth of the Gospel is diminished, or its power, but that the way that it is understood would be different, and I was not sure how to break off from my personal ‘grid’.

As I entered into the conversation, I knew that I had ten months of relating with this man. Although it is illegal for me to share Christ in Sudan, Faisal and I had discussed religion, usually in the context of both of us asking simple questions, and so I knew that he knew the Gospel, in a purely academic sense. I knew also that Faisal had had ten months of watching me as a man, in how I related to those around me. He noticed that the Samaritan’s Purse team was set apart. We showed love to each other, and then, he commented, we showed love to him, as a human being, by eating at his house, meeting his family, helping his people. He could see Christ in us, and he wanted to know what ‘that’ was.

I told Faisal the answer to ‘why’. I told him that when a man is made right before God, through the sacrifice of Jesus, he becomes the host of the Living God, and becomes the physical representation, the ambassador, of the fullness of the Godhead on earth. Having the Creator of the universe dwelling inside of you and living through you causes a man to live a holy life.

Faisal listened, as he had before, and he seemed satisfied with my answer. As a muslim, his concept of justice and forgiveness is different from mine, as a westerner, and I knew that the description I gave to him was not fully digested. But Faisal knew that what he saw was special, and his heart resonated with it, and he was seeking the truth. I recognized that, and thought of what C.S. Lewis wrote in the Last Battle, about the Tash warrior, and how Aslan rewarded the warrior’s truth-seeking heart when everyone else would have condemned him based off of outward appearances. It made me wonder about how we determine, as Americans, who gets ‘into heaven’, and that maybe, somehow, we have deviated from God’s true character.
Because of that, I am not worried that my Sudanese brother did not drop to his knees and say a pat prayer, sign a card, walk an aisle, raise his hand, and stand and say to the world, “I am a Christian.” I realized what it means for God to know the heart, and I figured that if I could see the desire for truth, and rightness with God, then God certainly could. I placed my faith in the character of the Lord, knowing that He knows the heart and rewards those who ‘earnestly seek Him,’ and that He will judge rightly towards Faisal. I realized that I could not be the judge, and that I could not apply my finite understanding of what it means to follow God to this man.

When thinking on this situation, even now, I apply the single greatest thing that I learned while I was in Darfur. I say, “I don’t know.” I learned, after seeing vicious evil, and having my world view turned upside down, that I could not, in good conscience, go forth and claim to know all that I claimed to know before. My world of ‘black and white’ truth was shaken up, and what I was left with was a rumpled patch of grey. The overarching truth that remained was that God is God and that what His word says is true, but beyond that I would not be as rudely dogmatic as I had been before.

Pulpit Helps Article # 2

2007-06-22T09:14:00.000-05:00

Sixteen Months in Darfur - Part Two
Jonathan Drake

In part one I introduced you to, at least as best I could through the medium of written word, to the foreign world I encountered when I traveled to Sudan. Due to my experiences growing up I was not prepared for the mental, physical and emotional challenge that it was going to be. The cultures were just too drastic for me to have had anything that would have helped me to formulate valid expectations, and, in fact I was counseled, by a friend who also worked for Samaritan’s Purse in Sudan, that I should not bother myself with creating expectations because whatever I came up with would only be disappointed. It was good advice, and I entered the experience with a clean slate, as it were.

My work when I first arrived in Darfur, the war-torn western region of Sudan, was to travel with the food distribution teams to each distribution and monitor the goings-on and make sure that the standards were being met. We were given guidelines from the UN’s World Food Program, with whom we were partnered, and from whom we got the food. As a result of this job, I spent the majority of my first eight months out in the field, coming back to our base town of Nyala, the capital of South Darfur (Darfur being divided into three, North, West and South), only on the weekends, which in the Sudanese Muslim culture was on Friday. Living and working in the field had its major advantages, such as being completely immersed in the language, Arabic, and the culture and thus being able to learn the nuances much faster, provided, of course, you cared to learn. Sleeping under the stars every night was also quite amazing. Out in the desolate and unpolluted desert of sub-saharan Africa the stars are unimpeded by any unnatural light, making them sparkle and shine like I have never seen before, or seen since. Each night I was privy to a spectacular show of shooting stars, some igniting at one horizon and burning brightly until the other. Once all of the animals in the surrounding village quieted down for the night, something which took a while, there was a deafening silence that enveloped you and the heavens became a sounding board for deep thoughts. There is a lot of time to think when you are trying to fall asleep under such a canopy, especially when sleep came reluctantly due to the intensity of the heat, something which waned, but did not disappear at night.

Time to muse was both welcome and unwelcome. Welcome in that the full-throttle nature of our work did not allow for much time to digest what we were doing, and moments where we could think things through and put the pieces of the puzzle together allowed us to try and make sense of the madness. Unwelcome in that when you paused to think, the hugeness of what we were living in the middle of overwhelmed you, and the doors of emotion shattered under the weight of pressing awareness. Generally the work was fast-paced enough that the brutality of every day life around us could go unnoticed by our hearts, a disconcerting thought, but a necessity when a person could fall to pieces were they to dwell fully, and fairly, on the evil and suffering. The importance of being able to continue to work outweighed the luxury of feeling appropriately about the surrounding circumstances. Having been removed from Sudan for several months now I allow myself to think and feel, but I wouldn’t have dared while I was there. We were not robots, we just learned to gauge our reactions. It was stored until such a time when we would be able to properly deal with our emotions.

Much of the time I would think of the things that I had seen. I took many thousands of digital pictures, and in spending many hours trying to organize them I was able to rehash much of my experience and begin to develop opinions from them. When I first arrived in Darfur, I was naïve, and it was a several events that occurred during my tenure, the first a month after my arrival, that dramatically shook off my youth and made me to realize what it was that I was getting into.

We used a town called Marla as a field base as it was central to many of our locations. It was a rebel stronghold and was ‘home’ to roughly 13,000 people, the majority of whom were IDP’s (internally displaced people). On December 8th, 2004, I was driving the lead truck in our two truck convoy of food distribution staff on our way to finish a food distribution in a camp near to Marla. The road took us through that town and we had plans to stay at our compound that evening. At midday we approached the town, but less than two kilometers from Marla we encountered a halted convoy of troop transport vehicles stuffed to the brim with young and terrified looking soldiers. Due to the rebel control of the area we assumed they were SLA soldiers, but on closer inspection we discovered that they were actually Government of Sudan. Halfway up the convoy, which held roughly 500 troops, we stopped and I and my translators hopped out to find out what the situation was.

Before we found someone to talk to, and about a hundred yards from my truck, small arms fire erupted from the town, spreading rapidly in a half circle to our right. Immediately the wide-eyed soldiers began piling out of the trucks, loading their weapons and returning fire, running right by me. I stood shocked for a second, then, realizing what was going on, turned and booked it for my truck. No Olympian can hold a candle to my hundred yard dash back to the truck. Spraying sand like a madman I spun that truck around and quickly put the fight behind me.

Marla was burned to the ground. All of the residents were driven off, the wells were poisoned, possessions looted. The host population suddenly found themselves in the same boat as the IDP’s, with nothing but the clothes on their backs. In mere moments thousands had become destitute.

Attack helicopters strafed the village, and flew ominously around the area for days to dissuade hopefuls from returning.

I had never seen anything like this before.

My colleague, Dickson Hendley, was returning from a trip to the field when he was ambushed by the Janjaweed who opened fire on his trucks. Windows were shot out, and bullets barely missed Dickson and his staff.

A week before I returned from Darfur I lay awake in my bed around one in the morning, unable to sleep because of the heat, when suddenly a fierce firefight broke out just outside my window. Factions of a rebel movement had gotten into a drunken ‘brawl’ with Government soldiers, and the machine gun fire alerted all in the area to their disagreement.

These things, coupled with the constant display of suffering, challenged me to consider the things I believed about the world. I determined that I was not taught the reality about this world, at least in a way that made the reality real. The reality is that the world is overrun by evil people. As an American youth I knew that evil existed, but I had never encountered it. I had never seen it in the eyes of a man as I did when I encountered a Janjaweed scout. I realized that God has every right to smear us all for even allowing such men to persist, and that His mercy is far greater than we understand.

I realized that my understanding, as an American Christian, of the Gospel was limited, and that it was too naïve, too formulaic, and too ‘box-like’.

I realized that I did not have everything figured out, and that it is okay to say, “I don’t know.”

I realized that whatever “Christianity” is, it must be compatible in such a screwed up place as Darfur, and not just in the air-conditioned and cozy churches devoid of conflict greater than budget squabbles that are strewn and scattered across the States.

I realized that in this world there is no room for lukewarm, and it took such a drastically real place as Darfur to teach me that reality and honesty about life, and all that it encompasses (especially faith), is paramount. I was able to compare my life to the stark and contrasting background of war and determine what was important.

In my last piece, I’ll show you how these things translated into actual life, and how the love of Creator God, the Word of Life, was able to penetrate the hearts of the men around us.

Pulpit Helps Article # 1

2007-06-20T17:50:00.000-05:00

Sixteen Months in Darfur
Jonathan Drake
12-14-2006

In November of 2004, I stepped through the door of a plane and into a world drastically different from my own. I was raised in a conservative Christian home, was homeschooled all of my schooling years and lived in a beautiful and comfortable part of America, the Appalachian Mountains, in Boone, North Carolina. I approached life from the perspective of someone who had never experienced suffering, true hardship, or had ever really had anything not go my way. My family had gone through some lean years, when my father was switching careers, but we had never not had food on the table, we’d always lived in a comfortable house, surrounded by loving friends and family.

Thus, when I stepped into the sweltering heat pulsating from the sunbaked tarmac of the Nyala airport in South Darfur, in Sudan, I was totally ill-equipped and unprepared for what would soon become my life.

In 2003, the world became aware of potential genocide occurring in the Darfur Region of Sudan, the largest country in Africa. To boil down the complex issues to a tangible point, Arab tribesmen, known as the Janjaweed, were being aided by the Sudanese Government, based in Khartoum, in their marauding and systematic attempts to exterminate African tribes. Aided being defined as training, equipping, supplying and even fighting in conjunction with, using Russian Hind-24 attack helicopters, Antonov 12 bombers, etc.

Black tribes villages were burned to the ground, women were raped, men and children murdered, farms destroyed, and the surviving people fled for their lives, abandoning all earthly possessions. It is estimated that around three and a half to four million people were displaced, becoming IDP’s (internally displaced persons). Fleeing to areas considered to be safe, the IDP’s formed large camps, congregating around water points and existing villages. This, in turn, put huge stress on the local economies and Darfur, already a strenuous place of survival, was plunged further into poverty and hardship. The international community was slow in responding, but Darfur soon became the ‘hot spot’ for humanitarian work and hundreds of non-government organizations (NGO’s) showed up on the scene to help alleviate suffering and keep people alive.

Franklin Graham’s organization Samaritan’s Purse, arrived on the scene in September 2004 with a small group of expatriates to set up a project in the food distribution sector, partnering with the United Nation’s World Food Program. Operations were based out of Nyala, the capital of South Darfur and a city of close to a million people. Throughout the course of my time, the project grew to include an emergency education project, a water and sanitation project, non-food item distributions (shelter material, cooking utensils, soap, etc.) and women’s protection projects. I was hired in October for the food program and arrived on the project in early November, having signed a year-long contract. For the first seven months I was out in the field six days a week, managing our Sudanese national food distribution team and monitoring our monthly food distributions that serviced over 80,000 people.

At the end of those seven months our Food Program Manager left the project and I, being the only other staff member involved with the Food Program, became the manager by default. My responsibilities suddenly doubled, as far as workload was concerned, but the magnitude of the consequences of my decisions as Food Program Manager climbed to a point that truly terrified me. I realized that my decisions, my work quality and my ability to ‘get the job done’ directly affected the survivability of what became over 100,000 people.

During my tenure I learned to keep extensive journals, recording, real-time, the events that were happening around me. Here is an excerpt, taken from March, 2005, that might help you picture a food distribution:

“Our work has been started and has seen already almost two hours of progress.. Order and organization do not come naturally to the locals and we have had a nightmare of a time trying to impose it. At every distribution we set up a large perimeter and only allow registered people to enter. Most camps know our system well enough and are easier to manage. However these people have provided the greatest challenge so far…For about 45 minutes it was utter chaos. Imagine 5,000 people all shouting and pushing to get in. Madness, sheer madness. These people [due to their tenuous situation] are thickheaded and narrow minded and have few things on their minds other than survival. To survive you must be the strongest, the most cunning, the most cut-throat even. Weakness means death.

Gazing out over the crowd I was struck with the realization that I am the sole white person for many miles. There is a boy staring intently at me. Kind of annoying actually. You'd think I would be used to it but there is a point where you long to be ordinary and to not stand out like, well, a white guy in a sea of black people. I have a great view of the scene. I'm perched on a pile of wheat sacks 10 sacks high. From here I can see everything. I face West and directly in front of me is the waiting area. It is about 75 yards long and 15 yards deep. A rope on the edge keeps people out and they are lined thick along all points. At three points we have tables where my guys are checking people in.

Thirty or so men work quickly in carrying the food out and their behavior reminds me of a stirred up ant's nest. Constant chatter clutters the airwaves…kind of inspiring, this whole scene.”

I could never have imagined, or been prepared for what such an event would have been like. Being exposed to suffering and desperation on a level not easily found in America caused me to rethink a lot of what I had grown up believing and expecting to be true. Even the heat, a constant and persistent aspect of life there, contributed to the mental ‘wrestling’ that took place, as it made me very aware of my circumstances, even when I was away from a distribution, resting in the ‘quiet’ of my room in Nyala.

Over the next two articles, I hope to share with you some of my ‘wrestlings’ and include you in on some of my resulting paradigm shifts, using some of my experiences and the personal lives of some of my Sudanese friends to provide context. I thank the Lord for my encounters and look forward to being able to share some of the things that I learned through them.

Of Syriana...for real this time...

2007-06-19T16:43:00.000-05:00

I just realized that I said Of Syriana in the last post, but completely forgot to make mention of what I intended.

Syriana is a film of deep implications and possesses a dark charm that compels the viewer to rethink the way world politics is handled, that is, of course, provided that the viewer currently possesses a way of thinking about world politics and the way they are handled.

At first glance the easy reaction is to do the film the gross injustice of brushing it off as one more attempt by Hollywood to raise its star-studded fist (George Clooney and Matt Damon for starters, Christopher Plumber and Bill Cooper as well) and paint an over-imagined landscape of intrigue with the US Government at the helm of deceit and evil. If you don't like this country, then leave. We all have felt that way at some point or another towards the entertainment elite.

However, when viewed through the perspective that this country is not at all the lone saint and champion of all that is good and sacred, that there are evil men afoot, and that things are not always what they seem, then Syriana rises above the usual political protest clamor and sets itself apart as the spokespiece of 'mostly-truth'.

I say 'mostly-truth' because I am not so naive as to believe that every aspect of the film is true to fact or reality.

So what is it about? Oil/US Government interests clash with oil-rich Middle East Royalty, who is bent on reform of his country, which would be at the detriment of Western willpower. It provides a glimpse into the mind of the violent Muslim (as opposed to the peaceful Muslim, they do exist), and into the workings of behind-closed-doors US foreign policy of the last fifty years, with a focus on king-making and CIA assassination programs.

It is intense at times, of great depth (and sometimes a little difficult to follow) and 100% worth watching and digesting. It isn't a mind vacation.

There you have it. This is what I intended with 'Of Syriana'.

Of Marriage, Syriana and Corn Fields...

2007-06-19T09:09:00.000-05:00

We're back from our honeymoon. Which means Sara and I are married. The whole thing is rather difficult to realize. Marriage was so much looked forward to, thought about, talked about, and planned for, and to suddenly be married...it is kind of weird. Good weird. But still weird.

Our wedding took place on a beautiful day. Warm and sunny in the morning, a hard rain in the afternoon, then more sunshine. It worked out nicely for pictures in the morning, which we had done before the ceremony. The rain worked out as well, as it cooled off the afternoon. Then it cleared and dried up, again working in my favor as our get-away vehicle was my motorcycle. I don't mind riding through inclement weather, I have certainly seen my fair share, but riding off in a torrential downpour kind of puts a damper on the carefree nature of the whole thing. It was perfect though, and the slow ride through the pelting shower of birdseed proved a painful and prolonged experience, prolonged as we discovered birdseed in every place imaginable.

Seconds after riding away we both realized the same thing. We forgot the key to our apartment. I had left it on my key ring to my truck, which my Dad was going to use that evening. Talk about stupid. There was no way in this life or the next that I was going to turn around and go back. How anti-climactic...so Sara called her brother John. Twenty minutes later he met us with the key, intensely embarrassed and prepared with the greeting, "This is awkward. I was never here. This didn't happen."

Two weeks later we're back from the honeymoon, presents are opened (thanks, everyone), things are unpacked, apartment is organized, life is getting to normal. I'm in process of finding a job and preparing for school, and we're focusing on settling down into a manageable routine. It is different getting used to living with a woman in the house. It isn't the same as living in the same house as your Mom. I mean, I never got a pillow in the face when I snored before. Actually, I don't snore...Sara does. :-)

Anyway, life is good.

Justin Lonas, a good friend, is the editor of a publication called Pulpit Helps, and he recently requested that I write some articles about Darfur to spice up his, admittedly, rather boring magazewspaper (it's kind of a cross-breed). Justin is doing everything he can to revitalize Pulpit Helps, but is hindered by the age-old irritation of staunch adherence to tradition even when it is clear that the tradition is detrimental to spiritual health. Oh well, such is humanity.

I wrote three articles, and they were published March, April and May. Over the next couple of weeks I'll post them here, but for now I'll sign off and wish you all a happy day.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Six Hundred and Eighty-Six Miles...

2007-05-01T13:51:00.000-05:00

This did not happen to me.

Last week I rented a uHaul trailer, loaded everything I could find that I own, put my motorcycle in the bed of my truck, and hit the road, destination Decatur. Sara and I decided that I would move up to Illinois the month before the wedding for various reasons, and it seemed quite surreal that it was actually, and now, has actually happened.

The whole distance relationship proved to be most burdensome, and so my six hundred and eighty six mile move was designed to relieve the stress of that burden. It has. The move went quite well, with no incidents, and the fourteen hours of travel melted by with the monotony that fly-over country has to offer.

I am still settling into our apartment, which Sara found and rented about a month ago, and right now it could be defined just short of a disaster. Moving is such a pain, but the end result is quite nice. I'll take some pictures once it is presentable, and show to you our endless view of...cornfields.

I am going to start a part-time job with a friend of Sara's from church, doing odd jobs around his plant nursery. I begin work tomorrow, building a fence and a retaining wall. I'm glad for it, as without something substantial to do I would go batty.

At this point I am still learning my way around a new town, getting lost here and there, but mostly just getting my bearings, and doing a fair job of it.

We're at the one month mark, and getting excited.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of California Dreamin'...

2007-03-25T12:56:00.000-05:00

The greasy aroma from the McDonald's fills the airport terminal here in San Diego. I am sitting here, with nothing to do for the next couple of hours until my flight, and I thought I might remember my blog and put up an entry. It has been a while, but then, there has not been much to report. I do not wish to bore my readers with the exposition of the mundane details of my life, although, I assure you, this engagement I am in has been anything but mundane.

With all of these perfect people strolling around here, with their perfect fashion, crisply cut hair, bug-eye sunglasses and shoes worth a month's salary for the average Sudanese, it seems odd that such a place as McDonald's could gain a foothold. With movies such as "Supersize Me" that reveal the atrocity that is fast food, the dependence that America continues to grow on this food amazes me. But I digress...

Sara and I were treated by my Dad's parents, known to me as Papoo and Yiayia, the Greek aliases for granddad and grandmom, to a weekend here in the land of the fruits and nuts of marriage counseling and a chance to 'get to know the new daughter'. Sara had not yet met my older brother, Brian, so this also turned into an opportunity to remedy that, and add to Sara's growing list of 'firsts' with me. She has never been to California, and has never seen the Pacific ocean. This is no longer the case, as for one of the evenings we went out on the town and strolled the beach briefly until the chill of the night air and the freeze of the water compelled us to seek higher ground.

Our travels began early on Thursday, mine flowing smoothly from Charlotte, but hers gaining complications from the outset with delays from weather, and then in Chicago from a broken seatbelt for the pilot. Evidently such accessories are not kept in close supply on United flights, and the weary passengers were made to wait for over an hour in their seats until the problem was resolved. Thus she arrived quite tired and grouchy (not really), several hours late, hungry, but like myself, very happy to be together again.

The next several days were filled with late nights, late mornings, long and deep conversations, learning, laughing, smoochin', and datin'. Friday night saw us out on a date, with the highlight being Sara not being able to find a Carnival Cruise ship docked in the harbor. "Where?", she said. "Whaddya mean 'where'," I said. "Oh." She said. That wasn't really the highlight, but it was quite funny to me. I'll probably earn a slap for telling this, but oh well.

After finishing our study book on what it means to be married, and how to pull it off well, we grabbed free passes from Yiayia and took off for the San Diego Zoo. Sara, of course, had never been, and I had not been since I was a wee little'un, so it was quite special. Mostly I just enjoyed being somewhere with the woman I love, doing exciting things, and eating ice cream together.

God gave us a brief thunderstorm Thursday evening, but the rest of the time was gorgeous and typical San Diego. We walked each morning along a trail near to the house, coming back each time to a great meal provided by Yiayia.

The best part, in my mind, was the way that my Grandparents received my bride-to-be, making her feel loved, a welcome new member of the family, and so on. I was proud to present her, more proud to be with her, and the time together served only to bring us closer together, adding to the longing we both share for June 2 and beyond. Papoo is going to perform the ceremony, a desire of mine as he performed my parent's wedding, my Dad's three brothers, and recently my only older cousin. It seemed fitting to me, and I'm glad that it is going to work out.

So now I'm back at the airport, having kissed my lady goodbye, the weekend is over, and we now face another period of being away. This time it is only for eleven days. On April 5 I am sliding back into the saddle and riding cross-country to see Sara in Decatur for Easter weekend. We can handle eleven days. Insha'allah.

There you have it.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Churches and Visits...

2007-02-06T21:22:00.000-05:00

Greetings

Eleven-fifty on Monday night found me touching down in Charlotte, having just flown from Decatur, IL via Atlanta. I flew to see Sara over the weekend, a short visit, but something we have to make ourselves used to due to this whole distance thing. Our time together was well spent, well felt, and of course turning myself over the the idiots in the Transportation Security Authority after having said goodbye to my fiancee was most distasteful. I wasn't nearly arrested this time.

Among other wedding mumbo-jumbo (don't tell Sara I called it that), we settled down on the location of our wedding and reception. Sanner Chapel is a Methodist church set in the middle of several vast fields. There aren't any buildings for at least a mile. It is all alone and stalwart out there, beaming with the character familiar to old country churches, and it wears its crooked steeple like the dapper GI's in World War II wear their hats in the nostalgic photographs from that time (my own Grandfather included).

The picture I have here does not show this old soldier's crooked hat, but it shows the charm of the place. The interior shots do not do justice to the charm, so I will save those.

We'll be able to hold the small reception following the ceremony in the back of the church, setting up tents and tables and enjoying the privacy provided by being 'miles from nowhere' and a stand of evergreens planted to protect the church from the sweeping winds of the plains.

After checking out the church, we went and registered, settling on Kohl's and Target. Our registry can be found online.

Anyway, Sara told me that today (Tuesday) Decatur was doused with six inches of snow, which effectively shut down the roads and surrounding airports...just one day too late...bummer.

Touching down at eleven-fifty in Charlotte left me still with a two and a half hour drive back home, and by the time I finally got situated it was after three that I finally fell asleep. Work will not wait for those with heavy eyelids and money doesn't grow on trees, so when the morning came, which was too soon, I marched off to my daily duties with Samaritan's Purse in their warehouse in Wilkesboro, a fifty minute drive.

After getting back to Boone this evening, I met with my new landlord and signed papers declaring me as the new tenant of a small apartment in Boone. It is much more convenient for me and I'm looking forward to being on my own.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Roses and Artistry...

2007-01-27T22:14:00.000-05:00

Roses are red...
Sara's favorite flower is the red rose. I asked my Dad to paint a rose for her. Beautiful eh?

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Being Engaged...

2007-01-20T11:22:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

As I told you all, I proposed to Sara Davis on January 6 and became officially engaged to her.

As an engagement gift the members of my church gave us a session with a professional photographer, also a member of church, so that we could have quality portraits to remember this time by. Kristin Espinosa, at Elias Photography, did a masterful job. It was a lot of fun during the session and the outcome is simply marvelous. This particular shot is our favorite and is going to be our official engagement portrait.

Evidenced from the picture, the proof is in the pudding. I strongly suggest using Kristin (if you can) for any photographic needs that you have.

Part of my proposal 'scheme' was tossing aside the cheap, velvet covered metal box that Sara's ring came in. The diamond was given to me when I was fifteen by my Grandmom, for the purpose to which it went, and once I became sure of Sara I set about having it set. A local jeweler named Morgan Shaw (Morgan's Jewelry on 105 Extension) performed the work. To plug another local business...if you have any jewelry needs, new purchases, custom work, repairs, etc. go see Morgan.

Anyway, I wanted Sara's ring to have more of a personal touch from me, so I discarded the box and made my own ringbox. I used the velvet insert from the original box and built the box around it. I present herewith:

She was, and still is, quite pleased. The ring fits her well.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Being in Love...

2007-01-14T22:48:00.000-05:00

Greetings...

Sara Davis and I are engaged to be married. On June 2, 2007, we will say 'I do' and embark on a great adventure, my most thrilling one yet. I proposed to her on January 6, a Saturday, in a beautiful chapel in Blowing Rock. It was absolutley perfect. Sara was completely oblivious and happily surprised, and afterwards we walked to Kilwins for ice cream, but were so excited that neither of us could eat any.

The wedding will be in her home town of Decatur, IL. There will likely be a reception of sorts a couple of weeks later in Boone, NC, for those that won't be able to make it to corn country. I will keep you all updated.

I'll post pictures soon...

God is good.

Jonathan

Of Typical End of Year/New Year Ponderings...

2006-12-31T20:25:00.000-05:00

It is nearly 2007. This is the time of year when everyone sits back and ponders the year before, makes impossible resolutions for the next year and heralds the steady march of time with giant parties and loud noises. Last year I was in Khartoum at the Belgian Embassy with some friends and we shouted and cheered as the clock struck midnight. I wasn't too sure how I felt at that time, whether or not I was happy for another year, as I was just a few days shy of leaving Sudan after fourteen months of living amongst its destitute and marginalized. Still I cheered, whistled loudly, and clinked glasses with my buddy as we both cerimoniously took puffs on our cuban cigars.

This year is much more quiet. I'm at home. I didn't have the heart to go out and frolic the night away, spending money that I really shouldn't spend, so I decided to stick it out here with the fam. I've got a bunch of things to save up for in this next year, so saving money is a good idea. There are other reasons I want to be with my family, but I won't go into them here...at this point.

Most of you are aware of my adventures in 2006, but for posterity, and because it is the thing to do this time of year, I will list them here:

I came home from Sudan. On the way I met my younger brother Jordan in Frankfurt and we took a train to Rome for a week. As a tour group of two we walked the streets of Pompeii, marveled at the pomp and circumstance of the Vatican, stood in awe in the Pantheon and wandered the streets of a city worn with the hustle and bustle of the ages.

I bought a motorcycle.

I rode my motorcycle thirteen thousand miles around the United States visiting friends and family. There were several times where the only thought running through my mind was "this is the end." Well, it wasn't, although many people on their cell phones and in way too much of a hurry did their best to try and make it 'the end'.

I returned to Sudan, but was only there for a month and a half as I returned to the States to be best man in a close friend's wedding. Due to the tenuous relationship of the Sudanese and US governments I was not able to return to Darfur and instead sat in limbo, waiting and hoping that the tide would change and I would be able to return.

I met Sara Davis at my friend's wedding. She was the maid of honor. One thing led to another and now we are dating...well, not really...I can't call it 'dating' because I am not taking her out on dates. She lives in Illinois, a fact which makes 'dating' rather difficult. As she has told me many times about me I say now about her, "I think I'll keep her."

There are many other things I could list, but I'm not going to.

Happy new year! Mobrook al senna jadeed...

Jonathan

Of Life Observing the Fast Lane, Holiday Cheers and Developments...

2006-12-13T18:27:00.000-05:00

Greetings my readers,

Life still rumbles on and I am finding that time is steadily sifting through my fingers like grains of sand and that in spite of intense desires and lofty plans (which, in my experience tends to cause time to drag on slowly) it is passing in such a manner that when a day is over I am left in awe at how quickly it came and went. There is much on my mind these days and I am staying busy and distracted with a steady job.

Operation Christmas Child, Samaritan's Purse's shoebox ministry, hired me shortly after I discovered with certainty that I would not be returning to Darfur, and for the past month or so I have been working as Dock Manager for the warehouse/processing center here in Boone. For the majority of the season I was privy to working hours that were delightfully pleasurable, coming in at 10:30am and leaving at 7:00pm. I was the only one working this 'swing shift', and served as continuity between the first and second shifts. Although it has ceased now, we were working six days a week, and hand in hand with thousands of volunteers our center received and cranked out around 500,000 shoeboxes.

Operations are still in progress, although it is greatly diminished, and I have been told that I'll be kept on until at least the end of the year. This is good news for me as I was not looking forward to having to find another job, but even now I am keeping my eyes open for something that will occupy me until summer.

One of the reasons that it is good news for me is that Sara comes on January 6 for eight days, and I won't want to be working during the time that she's here. If this job ends right before that, then I can relax with her for the week she's here, and then start right after she leaves.

Working in the warehouse has been a great job, full of fast paced days. My responsibilities were for all incoming and outgoing materials, the mounds of paperwork involved with that, and 'managing' a crew of guys charged with unloading and loading trucks. As often as I could I pitched in with unloading as it was a chance to stay active. Unloading a 53 foot trailer filled with 750 large boxes weighing 30-40 pounds a piece is a great workout.

Even though it was a pleasurable experience, something I can say largely because of the people I worked with, I'm fairly exhausted from it as for the entirety of the day I was standing and moving around on the concrete warehouse floor. I remembered how brutal concrete is on the human body from my hot dog stand days and forked out some dough for some shoes that really saved me.

Anyway, I'm finding it hard to comprehend that it is halfway through December, and nearly another year. I'm glad to be staying busy, and am not really disappointed that Darfur is no longer on my itinerary. God closed that door rather clearly, and so I now rest in the knowledge that I am where He wants me to be, doing what He wants me to do, and trusting Him for the future.

Merry Christmas

and

Take care,

Jonathan

Of Firesides, New Biker Babe and Beyond...

2006-11-07T12:39:00.000-05:00

For a day that seemed like it would never come, Friday the 3rd came and went with all the sluggishness of a wild rabbit fleeing its demise. The days preceding passed like mud, although I tried my best to enjoy the anticipation of picking Sara up at the airport and spending a long weekend with her.

It was a weekend of meeting lots of people (sorry Sara), spending time with close friends, late nights talking, and most importantly giving Sara her first motorcycle ride, an activity which we did for the first half of Saturday.

Justin and Rachel Lonas (the ones responsible for Sara and I meeting) came up for the weekend, and Saturday night was spent at Justin’s parent’s house sitting around a fire talking and watching the frost settle in for the night. Although the fire and anti-oxidants tried their best to keep us all warm, they eventually proved to be insufficient and shivering and beating time with our teeth we scrambled up to the warm house to finish out the evening.

Growing up, Justin, Boone Berlin and I were known as the “three Amigos”, and in keeping with tradition Boone also came up for the weekend for a reunion of sorts. He was unable to make it to our ‘fireside chat’, but the five of us (two women added to the mix now) spent a great afternoon together on Sunday. His parents and mine also came over for lunch (hosted by the Lonas’s) and the afternoon was spent in great conversation, eating, and such. Poor Boone…we all went for a walk and feeling somewhat left out Boone proclaimed that he was the ‘fifth wheel’, and to make himself feel better took my suggestion and held his own hands. Not quite as romantic, but what the hey…

Sara had never seen Groundhog Day. Can you believe it? So we remedied that serious problem Sunday evening. Problem solved.

It was hard letting Sara leave. The drive back down to the Charlotte airport was way too quick, although it was spiced up by Sara suddenly realizing that she had accidentally neglected to grab her photo ID and credit card at my house. The flight was scheduled to leave in just over an hour and a half, and we were two hours from the house. Sara prepared a sob story for the check-in clerk, and was geared up to let it fly when the calm clerk responded, “that’s not a problem.” Oh…how nice. So we checked her in and sat for a while, neither one of us wanting to be the party pooper. Eventually the ticking clock came in to disrupt our moment and we had to walk away from each other. Nothing I have ever done has felt so completely wrong. Oh well. All in due time. Insha’allah.

So now we settle in for a long while of emails and such.

This past weekend was absolutely glorious. God is good.

Of Developments...again

2006-11-06T15:38:00.000-05:00

Sara came for the weekend. I will give a recap later. For now, enjoy another great picture...

Of A Curious Life and Anticipating Weekend Pleasures...

2006-10-31T23:43:00.000-05:00

My life has been rather curious of late. Overseas adventure, being in limbo with my job, and a sudden and delectable romance, blossoming, as it were, overnight and with such fervor and sweetness that I and my entangled maiden are struck with simple awe at the developments. Neither she nor I could have possibly imagined as we awkwardly met at our friend's wedding, just three and a half weeks ago, that the first weekend in November would be spent with Sara actually wanting to come and see me and my family. And further, that this particular weekend would have followed three weeks of prolific emails and a visit to her home town to spend time with her and meet her parents.

Truly, truly amazing.

So, this post is to make it known that the fair Sara Davis will be making an appearance in Boone this weekend. I would love for as many of you that can to meet her, but I also want to make it clear that time is like precious stones...it is precious and limited. If some of you would like to meet her, we'll be attending Alliance Bible Fellowship on Sunday. Can't guarantee much...

Darfur is still on the agenda, although the hopes of ever returning there are fading. When I consider this weekend, I cannot help but realize that God has moved the heart of a king (president Bashir of Sudan) to make it possible. It is his decision about Americans traveling in Sudan that is keeping me in the States. I know that is a selfish perspective. But I'm entitled to my opinion, and Sara is worth moving the heart of a king for. So, thanks God.

By the way, I put the photo I took of bougenvillae blooms with this post because they are beautiful, and this weekend is beautiful and Sara is beautiful. Makes sense to me...

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Politics...

2006-10-26T13:21:00.000-05:00

As far as I know, I am registered in the State of North Carolina as a voter in the Republican party. Voting is easy for me, if I want it to be, as all I have to do is push one button and, like magic, all the boxes next to the names of the Republican sanctioned candidates are checked, and my powerful voice as an American voter is made known. I don’t really have to pay attention to the plethora of names that litter our highways on the ‘coraplast’ signs that dutiful ‘party gnomes’ scatter liberally. I can just check the box. Not that I do that...but it is an option.

I don’t really like to pay attention to the political world anymore. Part of my reasoning behind this is that there is ample postulating and posturing by the candidates to try and prove their sincerity in ‘helping’ their constituents, but the fruit of their actions proves, eventually, that they are just as easily sucked into compromise as any other man, and all their words come back to haunt them as a gigantic ‘humble pie’ that they usually refuse to eat. It also bothers me that the masses are easily swayed by a speech that A. the candidate didn’t even write (he pays people to make him look good), and B. is filled with fancy rhetoric designed to create an emotional appeal and attachment to their cause.

I also don’t like the political world because it allows people to take valid issues, such as helping the poor, abortion, land conservation and so on, and hijack them for their own political purposes. The issues that the Church of Jesus Christ should be on the forefront on are instead heralded by greedy men who, once they reach office riding high on the confidence of those they have duped, abandon their ‘base’ in favor of a better pension plan, or political positioning that guarantees their re-election.

I know that there are exceptions to the rule. I think that all political candidates should be required to watch ‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington’, with Jimmy Stewart. If you have not seen it, then you must rent it and watch a man of integrity stand up to the ‘establishment’, and the ‘party machine’, and take part in an action that constitutes a true ‘filibuster’. It is a rousing performance and a good lesson in standing up for honesty and integrity. Would that there be more men in Congress and the Senate like Mr. Smith…

I say “as far as I know” about my political ties because today I received in the mail a political advertisement ‘paid for by the North Carolina Democratic Party.’ Cullie Tarleton is appealing for my vote in favor of State Representative Gene Wilson. He says that:

“Gene Wilson can’t solve our problems if he’s more interested in getting gifts from lobbyists and powerful special interests.”

“Gene Wilson should spend more time working for us and less time enjoying perks.”

“Cullie Tarleton is interested in solving problems, not taking gifts.”

Well, he’s got my vote. After all, he’s got a catchy campaign slogan, “He’ll move Western North Carolina forward – the right way.” Really? What does it mean ‘the right way’?

I suppose that a person’s decision about politics might be swayed by a handsomely designed campaign flyer. Mine isn’t. I guess that being a cynic about the integrity of anyone with political power or who aspires to political power keeps me from being simple minded about what they say. I could be wrong in my approach, and I’m sure that as I grow older and more savvy about the ways of this world I might alter my views and become more interested in what goes on in the sancta sanctorum of the legislative gurus.

Until then, I don’t want to hear about ‘moving forward’, as I believe we should ‘move backwards’ and fix our social problems from the ground up.

Oh, and I don't want to receive unsolicited campaign propoganda in the mail. Democrat or Republican. Just for the record...

Of Developments...again

2006-10-25T10:22:00.000-05:00

Of Sara...
Sara and I met at a friend's wedding. She was the Maid of Honor, I the Best Man. She was strikingly beautiful, I devilishly handsome. One thing led to another and shortly after the wedding we began to write to each other and have since cumulatively produced over 65 pages of correspondence, as our desire to get to know each other blossomed and bore the fruit of prolific communication.

After a little over a week, it became apparant that there was more than just a 'surface' friendship in the works, and so I called her to explain myself and where I was on the page of this bizarre adventure. She was at the same place, and before we knew it I was buying a ticket to fly to see her and her family.

We spent the weekend together, something which proved to be supremely good, and now we are settled into enjoying our courtship as best we can over distance. As I said, we are both blown away at what is happening, thanking God for what is happening, and looking to trust Him for the future.

Of Sudan...
I am currently in limbo about my return to Darfur. Due to the infantile nature of current international politics, Americans in Sudan are restricted to the city of Khartoum. As my work is solely in Darfur, this means that I cannot get back to work. I was going to travel and hang out in Khartoum until this situation blew over, but my superiors decided it would be best if I do said 'hanging' in the comforts of my own home, and more importantly, not on Samaritan's Purse's tab. I am still being paid according to my contract, but meals and such, which are covered for us while on the job, are not included while at home.

I have a buffer of two weeks, and if I cannot get back to Sudan in that time, then I will have to seriously consider contingencies. I have a few options open to me, and I am currently investigating them, but right now I cannot plan anything definitive. It is frustrating to be held in such limbo, but I have no doubt that God brought me back from Sudan, and I certainly am not dissatisfied for having to have come back, so I can take what I see to be Divine intervention and then trust Him to provide similar guidance for my future. I could play the 'if I had not come back...' routine, but the outcome of that venture would leave me in a position that is distinctly less pleasant than the one I find myself in now. Alhumdel'allah.

Developing...

Jonathan

Of Developments,

2006-10-24T19:11:00.000-05:00

This is Sara Davis. We are officially courting. We are happy. She is awesome, beautiful and smart. We are thanking God. It was very cold when we took the picture. More to come...

Of TSA, Idiots and One and the Same...

2006-10-24T18:54:00.000-05:00

I was traveling recently. And I almost got arrested while doing so. Air travel has become increasingly ridiculous to me since the advent of the terrorist and his evil schemes. There seems to be an urgency to make sure that something devastating doesn’t happen again, and while maybe in the higher echelons of the committees designed to ‘keep us safe’ there are people who demonstrate intelligence and a sense of intuition that would render my concerns about the supposed security measures void, there certainly is not displayed such ‘character’ on the ground or in the fingers of the poorly paid and tired hands that rifled through my bag at the Chicago airport.

I was sore already from having to have left a lady who has grown very dear to me, and was not in a disposition to look on idiocy with the grace and perseverance that I normally exude. The gloved hands snatched my bag from the scanner belt and a worried expression on her face revealed that she thought she just might be in possession of something supremely dangerous. There was also probably a glimmer of glee hidden in there, born from the desire for something, anything, to break the monotony of dealing with the public all day long in a very personal way. After all, I think that one of the most detrimental aspects of the job as a TSA agent would be to discover time and time again what brand of deodorant each passenger prefers, or what toothpaste they employ. Some things deserve to left private.

But that glimmer of glee shone through, ever so slightly, and the announcement went out that, yes, there are liquids in this bag and we will now perform a full search. My poor backpack. It has been around the world with me, from the shores of Galilee, the winding streets of Old Jerusalem, to the sandstorm afflicted wastes of Darfur, to the grinding miles of my trek around my country on my motorcycle. It has been the faithful bearer of my belongings since I was fifteen years old, and now this TSA cretin was desecrating its holiness by prodding and probing like it was just some ordinary ‘carryon item’.

Vindicated and proud of herself, the TSA cretin pulled with a triumphant flair a small bottle that contained Olive Leaf Extract, a natural antibiotic and a member of a large array of alternative health products that our country is fast falling in love with. “Sir, you cannot have liquid on the airplane from outside of the sterile area. If you want you may put this in a Ziploc bag and then you will be allowed to take it with you.” I did not have one and inquired if I could get one from her. No. Oh.

So what this boils down to, in my mind, is that Ziploc has gone in with the government and has somehow convinced a committee somewhere that the safety and security of all US passengers rests solely on their product. The evils of liquids on an airplane are alleviated and rendered harmless when they are clad in plastic with a nifty closing mechanism.

Oh the look on her face. A bullet! “Sir, you cannot have a replica, or any part of a bullet or a firearm in your carry on bag. It is against federal regulations.” What she had found was a keychain made from a spent pistol shell. It is not a bullet, or part of a bullet, as a bullet is the object that is projected down the barrel of a gun. The casing is harmless by itself, especially when there is a hole drilled in one end and a key ring is stuck through it. Oh, but you cannot have this.

I was getting irritated. Finally I was allowed to have the ‘bullet’, but I started grousing. Then I was threatened with a call to the police to arrest me. Can you stand it? The sheer idiocy! What I had in my possession possessed all the harm-causing agents found in an empty tube of lipstick. Walking away without speaking my mind entirely was so hard. It was so tempting to let go of a five minute rant about the inadequacy and tepidity of the TSA that I would have probably ended while being cuffed and dragged away by dutiful men in blue uniforms. It would have been worth it.

Of Visas, Stress and In the Meantime...

2006-10-11T09:50:00.000-05:00

Something so simple as a piece of paper with a stamp. That’s all I need. A visa for Sudan. So simple, and yet so complicated. The arena of international politics seems very childish to me right now, except that instead of a ride on the swing the stakes in these playground antics are people’s lives. Life is easy to dictate when you’re living in an office and never encountering the dust and grime of the real world. Being a jerk and refusing a visa is such an easy thing, and it is easy to be heartless. But when you get your toes in the sand and stick your nose in the stink of life, donning that heartless attitude isn’t as easy.

It always frustrates me that a government that is dubious about the safety of its own people refuses access to people who want nothing but to help those in need. I have no political agenda, I have no sway in the international scheme of things, so why should you blame me for international policies? Give me the visa. I’m learning your culture, your language, I love your people, many of them are like family to me, I’m facilitating the improvement of the way of life for thousands of your people…so I’ve got two words for you: come on.

Before Sudan, I would have poo-pooed the affects that these kinds of situations have on the human psyche. Being held in limbo is stressful. Stress hurts. I have learned this more deeply in the last two years than I could ever have imagined. Stress is real. I’ve decided not to ‘mess around’ with it anymore.

So here’s the deal: I am supposed to fly out of the country this Friday, the 13th, but due to the fact that I do not have a visa yet, I will probably not be sticking to that itinerary. I really do not know when I shall return to Sudan. It is my hope that it will be soon. I’m already itching to be back at work, I miss my team, I miss the sense of adventure, I miss being in the thick of it all. Insha’allah I will be there soon.

In the meantime, I am home, seeing folks I care about, riding my motorcycle, reading the news on Sudan (www.sudantribune.com is a good one by the way), enjoying the fall colors, trying to relax, reading, etc.

I’ll keep you all updated as I know it.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Super Glue Highs, Darfur Lows, and Yet Another Problem ala Sudan...

2006-09-27T01:47:00.000-05:00

Read this article:

*Sniff...ahhhh*
In my experience in Sudan, I have grown accustomed to seeing filthy 'street rats' begging, but more often demanding money, wearing clothes that look like oil rags and that barely give them a decent cover. If you walk down to the market here in Nyala, as a white person, you will be accosted by some scrawny child who hounds you until you either give him what he wants, or someone in the market pulls him away from you. Sometimes as we sit at some local restaurant, children will come up to the table to beg.

Most of the time the preferable action is to simply ignore them. It sounds harsh, I know, but the tragedy is that if one of these children is given money they will run off and buy glue and the cheap high that it offers. While I was still in Khartoum, I was eating at a restaurant late in the evening, and a boy of about 14 years came up to our table and asked for money. We offered him food. He said, "No, give me money." I was rather shocked as I had never seen a street kid turn down food before. The kid was high, probably coming down, and he wanted money to prolong the experience. When he refuses food, what do you do?

There is a small kid in the Nyala markets that we've all encountered on several occasions. He is probably seven years old, wirey as a paper clip, and the most persistent beggar I have ever seen. Aaron and I were in the market shortly after I arrived and this kid came up and began to demand money, mixing arabic with the only english that he knew, "Adeeni money." (give me money). He does not have pants, only a shirt that falls halfway down his thighs, and his face and nose is crusted with dried glue and mucus. His hair is caked in dirt, his hands are the same with glue and grime, and his eyes have a wild flare. He grabbed my arm as I walked away, and tried to pull me back. For such a runt he was surprisingly strong, but I pulled away and kept walking. He grabbed me again, all the while demanding money. Finally someone in the market grabbed him, and he immediately began screaming as though his fingernails were being plucked...clever kid. We see him all over Nyala.

Darfur has its many problems, deadly tribal feuding, full-scale military conflict, banditry, rape, oppression of women, etc., and to add to the sad list is a generation of street children stuck on glue. It is a sad reality, and one that is generated by the lack of abilities of families to care for their children, a direct result of being forced from their villages and barely being able to pull enough resources to keep hunger at bay.

While it is a good thing that there are homes such as the one described in the article, and that they are saving children from a living hell, they are not the solution to the problem. The sad reality is that that home is full and will always be full as long as the deep rooted issues of this society and culture are not addressed from a grass-roots level. I am not naive enough to say that I have an answer, I wish I did, as I know that you cannot take societal traits that run centuries deep and turn them over with a simple solution.

Of Khartoum Traveling, The Team, and Security...

2006-09-12T09:09:00.000-05:00

August 29, 2006 - 5:50am
I would say ‘the familiar sights and smells,’ but the face of the Khartoum Domestic Airport has changed so much that that would not be accurate. Well, the smells are familiar, but not like smelling a German Chocolate with coconut icing on my birthday, or Christmas cookies, or the decorated tree in our house. They are, the smells here, familiar because I have smelled them before, even though I showered, I smell it on me now, contributing to the thick that push and elbow their way to the ticket counter. Take a long sniff *** Ahh, good old B.O. At least some thing never really change. So I sit and wait, counting the minutes and the number of times that man across the room picks his nose. Some Chinese, oilmen here, gab on their mobiles; a Saudi, businessman of some kind, sits to my left counting prayer beads and looking austere with his tablecloth hat and ‘someone notice me’ white gown.

Later - Enroute to Nyala
Just outside my window I am privy to the sights of the flooded Nile. Thousands of homes are under water, their owners ‘evacuated’ to who know knows where. The water is mirky and looks as if it hosts all sorts of parties thrown by diseases. I heard that bodies from the Ethiopian floods have reached even Khartoum.

Late in the Evening - 11:39pm
Well, I am here. I won’t say much but to say that it was a day of effusive reunions, much hugging, and meaningful moments with people I care about. Sarah Mosely, Coy Isaacs, my old staff, and so it goes. I will begin in the Wat/San sector as there is no one to fill the place of the guy, an Ethiopian, who just quit. A lot of responsibility, but I’m excited.

August 30, 2006 - 7:29am
I’m not sure when I woke up, but the power was out and my fan wasn’t keeping off the mosquitoes. The high pitch whining buzzed my ears, but I somehow fell back to sleep. I got back up at 7am, made some oatmeal, sprinkling cinnamon on top from the stash Mom bought for me. Jim, the Kenyan, walked through the kitchen, and we grunted greetings. After my first night back in Darfur I do not yet have a strong assessment as to the future. From my experience last time, I know that a rhythm develops eventually and I look forward to that. I really felt for Aaron with his not having a job up to this point, and I am glad that I’ll be jumping right into baby-sitting Wat/San. The team are as follows: Coy Isaacs - PC, Angie Turner - Finance, Scott Aronson - Education/Protection, Jim - Food, Aaron Adkins - Education officer, Beyene - Agriculture. One of the big changes is that this is a multi-national team and also that the average age is much higher.

September 5, 2006 - 11:13am
It isn’t blistering, but it is still rather warm in the office. Today, for about half of it anyway, we’re bound to stay indoors, precautions made due to the tensions around town which are evidenced by protests of UN agencies and rock-throwing at NGO’s in general. This is the first time I have seen it get to this point. When you couple today’s activity with the impending expulsion of the AU, the fresh influx of GOS troops, the splintering of rebel groups, the tribal squabbles, a UN resolution to employ 20,000 peace keepers in the region, and a dozen other indicators, you have a picture of Darfur that spells ‘bleak’ in a clarity not previously seen. With the exception of a few, these indicators have been regular items of interest at various intervals, but now they are all thrown in the caldron at once, and for the first time, with any seriousness, evacuation is being prepared for. So we sit in the office, planning as though flowers bloomed peacefully outside, knowing with a measure of certainty that we shall soon be viewing Darfur from 10,000 feet as we are carried up to Khartoum.

September 6, 2006 - 8:47am
We’re still in Nyala. I just pulled a big beetle off my neck. The demonstrations yesterday fizzled out, the muzaharat, but overall tension level remains high. I’m still sorting through my job as Wat/San manager, struggling to make sense of another man’s lack of organization and create a system and workflow. A frustrating aspect is having a staff who looks to me for daily duties and not being able to oblige them. This factors into my plans; I am going to set up this project in such a way that empowers my team supervisors to draft their own schedules, and then provide them with a system of reporting that allows me to know exactly what is finished, what is in progress, and what we have to look forward to. In that sense I’m glad for this lockdown, as it gives me a breather and time to get the gears in place and turning.

September 6, 2006 - 4:09pm
I was able to send a team into the field today. It feels good to have work being done, even when I myself am limited to office work. I’m trying to set it up so that I’ll be able to spend at least a week in the field per month. If I am stuck in the office ‘kulu zummin’, I’ll go batty. Right now the big task directly ahead of me is to provide Angie in Finance with a projection of funds requests for the whole year, broken down by quarter. In order to complete the task by the tenth I need a host of questions answered by Coy. Once I have that info, the actual planning will go ‘like buttah’. Insha’allah.

September 9, 2006 - 2:51pm
It is a warm day, a sign that the Darfurian rainy season is closing shop and making room for the less hospitable dry season. As familiar as the bleating of the roving bands of goads, and awkward rhetoric of lone donkey’s, the whir and squeak of my ceiling fan and gentle hum of my floor fan set a lazy tone to the afternoon, which is being spent recouping from the last several hours of working with Coy, Scott and Aaron to prepare this evening’s meal. With little to do in Nyala other than work, read, watch a movie, or, in my case write, we try to fraternize with the other expats stranded here by arranging dinner parties such as tonight, or wait until someone else puts out the effort and invites us over. These events display how mundane the life of an aid worker truly is. Hollywood has, of course, sprinkled glamour on the vocation with movies such as ‘Tears of the Sun,’ which display a gorgeous - clean - aid worker (Played by Monica Bellucci) combatting evil and dodging bullets in such a way that makes you think she is ‘Queen of the World’. It just ain’t so. It’s dirty, smelly, and sometimes the only break in monotony is having to find a dry path through the mud puddles on my walk to the office after a night of rain. Even the sketchy power grid ceases to provide excitement, and the disappointment caused by my collection of fans suddenly winding down becomes less and less acute. The throaty hum of a city of generators kicks in and provides the background music for the remainder of the day.

I’ve maintained a steady output of poetry, finding that meter and rhyme offer a solace not obtained otherwise. Reading poetry and earthy philosophy keeps me thinking beyond my daily bath of sweat, and my thoughts and plans for my future are reaffirmed with each page I turn.

The horror of the military build up and flexing penetrate our lives only at security meetings and market hearsay, provided by our staff, as Nyala remains untouched by the tense events ‘outside’. It does not trouble me that my heart is not broken every time a scraggly street kid asks for money, because I know it has been broken before, will break again, and that the child’s plight, and that of his country, will not be remedied by the breaking of hearts. Such a concept is not easily understood by the American mind which, when confronted with pictures and stories of such children, quickly donates money, not realizing, or maybe even caring, that that child won’t see it, and if he does will spend it all for the fleeting pleasure of sniffing glue. The world’s problems are not solved with money, nor by the temporal things money buys. The millions of dollars flowing through Darfur illustrate that with a morbid point.

September 11, 2006 - 9:22am
Five years have gone by since the World Trade Center towers crumbled and fell to the horror and disbelief of the world. This is my second anniversary of the event while in Darfur, although on the last one I wasn’t paying much attention as just two days earlier I had arranged a helicopter evacuation for my team after the town they were in was attacked by the Janjaweed. Even now, away from the sensational, I’m sure, ‘remember 9/11’ reports on US television, and the emotional appeals of the ‘victim’s’ families, it is hard to view the day as somehow anymore special than tomorrow, or yesterday. Of course, one thing I do reflect on today is the attitude of the world towards America and the policies the Bush government embraces and carries out each day. There isn’t a single person that I’ve met that speaks favorably, and this ranges from Palestinian, to Lebanese, to Jordanian, to European. All of them have American friends, were friendly with me, but display great distaste for US government policies.

[Of course, the flipside of that is that their own governments are not without blemish and that it is easier to criticize your neighbor than to objectively evaluate yourself. I am not an advocate of laying aside personal convictions just to make someone, or a group of someones, happy. However, I am learning, more and more, to not be quick to devalue someone else’s opinion. My basis for this is that I cannot understand the experiences they have had that have led them to hold onto their current beliefs. This does not mean that I validate their views, or accept them as equal or ‘right’, it just means that I am lest hasty to pass condemnation. It is not possible to view life through a lens free of bias, anyone who claims such is either themselves deceived, or they are deliberately deceiving others. It is possible to view life through a lens seasoned with grace, and approach each conflicting idea with respect, not based on the value of the idea, but on the value of the person holding the idea. A recurring theme with the people I’ve talked to from the countries named is that they smart from the cold shoulder they seemingly receive from those they criticize.

I am foolish if I think that everyone thinks as I do, and that they should easily understand ‘where I come from’. The truth is my background is singular to me and the way I think, the things I believe, they are derived from, and easily so, the way I was raised, the luxuries I enjoy, etc. Things that make sense to me do not make sense to other people. That was classically illustrated when I was trying to organize the crowds during my times as the Food project manager. Getting people of Darfur to get in, and stay in line was nearly impossible. It did not register with them that waiting patiently was better than crowding to the front. The paradox there is that both of our views on the subject were 100% ‘right’ in their own context. In the Darfurian culture, if you wait patiently in line you will not get what you need, you must be the first hand in the pot. In the American culture, if you wait patiently in line, you have your number, and ‘54’ will be called after ‘53’, and ‘56’ will not be served before ‘54’.

It does not make sense to me why someone would join a group like Hezbollah. Why should they, when the organization clearly targets innocent people? What I need to understand is that to that person signing up, who has grown up in the culture, who has heard ‘Hezbollah’ all of his life, it makes sense. This is not assigning a moral value to his decision, but in order to get him to listen to me, I cannot barge in and tell him he is wrong, evil, etc., because it will only make him turn off his ears to me. Jesus even says not to condemn people because they are condemned already. It is my job, especially as someone who claims the name of Jesus, to approach any interaction with another person with love. We are to be salt and light. We need to be careful that we are the salt that makes people thirsty, not the kind that stings the wounds it is cast upon. I submit that in order to make people thirsty they must know that we are loving and friendly to them in spite of what they believe. If we do that, then when we do get into a conversation of moral values, there will be a weight to our words that is substantiated by a history of respect and love.

I experienced this in my conversations with one of my staff last year. After I had been in country for around ten months, he approached me and asked me why we, the expat team, treated each other with love, treated our Sudanese staff with love, as demonstrated by building relationships with them, their families, etc, and why we did not lie, react with anger, and a host of other qualities he saw in us. When I shared with him how our relationship with God compelled us to live in the way he saw, he listened to me with ears that had been prepared by ten months of history with me. There was more respect for what I said than there would have been if I had immediately, after stepping off of the plane for the first time, ‘shared the gospel’ with him.

There is also the frustration of encountering radically different concepts of reality than our own. Here in Sudan, the concept of justice that I have does not exist. Take this as an example: If one man borrows his brother’s mobile phone and drops and breaks it, he is not obligated to repay his brother. Even if he offers money to pay for a new phone, the ‘offended’ is obligated to not take the money. All that is required is a paltry ‘sorry’. This translates over into their view of their relationship with ‘Allah’. If they sin, they are required only to say ‘sorry’, and ‘Allah’, because he is ‘merciful’, will forgive them. My concept of requirement of penalty for transgression does not apply here. Another example is a tribe in the south in Sudan. I was told that a missionary was working there to translate the Bible into the local language and he encountered a situation where the locals praised Judas for what he did to Jesus, but condemned Peter for open denial. In their opinion Judas was ‘clever’, a quality that they admired. To deny someone behind his back is clever, but to openly deny them was stupid. How do you communicate with that?

The overall point is that I have learned that I must approach a discussion of world views entirely different from what I was raised. Even if I am not offered the same grace and respect, I must be willing to offer it to whoever I encounter, otherwise their experience with an ambassador of the Creator will lead them to reject words of truth.]

Of My Duties, My Security, and My Request...

2006-09-04T02:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

My literary outputs over the last week or so have been sparse, at best, and I offer this missive as a chance to explain.

In preparation to come back to Darfur, I was under the impression that I would reintegrate with the food program, not in my former capacity, but in one that would lend me many opportunities to grow in my knowledge and experience. Upon arrival in Khartoum, I was informed that, due to the sudden resigning of our Wat/San (water and sanitation) program manager, I was to assume the duties he left behind.

Thus, my last few days have been rather interesting as I have been sifting through the piles of paperwork and files of my predecessor, trying to pull out a description of my duties and objectives and determine a course of action for a wad of cash under my jurisdiction that dwarfs, many times over, any amount that I have previously been responsible for.

Adding a bit of spice to that already hard-to-digest task are the recent developments that we are currently experiencing in the realm of security, things that are readily available from any trusted news source. Having the experience and background that I do in Darfur, I can say, without hesitation, that we are facing an unprecedented situation, and that tensions are beyond previous levels, and the outlook is less and less stable.

Another set of purposes for this communiqué is to assure you all that I am in no personal danger, the team is safe, and also to urge you all to make use of the avenue of prayer, available to all of those who call God ‘Abba Father’, and to implore those of you who desire peace for the world to not forget to daily call upon the Almighty to intervene on behalf of the downtrodden and oppressed.

It is not glamorous, but there is a part of me that revels in the chance to be on the front lines of serious history in the making, and I wonder for what reason I have been afforded such an opportunity. Time will tell.

So, like Walter Mitty, I stare the danger and adventure straight in the eye, take one last drag on my cigarette, and step forward to my meeting with destiny. (okay, that was a little sensational, but I figure I’m allowed some creative license.)

Regards,

Jonathan

Of a Sunrise, Meetings, and roving boys...

2006-08-28T13:11:00.000-05:00

August 28, 2006 - 6:37am
Like a crimson flood the clouds ignite
Wreathed in shrouds of early morning
Sleep and darkness escape from the light
The city asleep in the wind no more.
As messengers of cheer little wings in bands
Dip and rise mid cubed surroundings
Speaking in tongues of foreign lands
The dust and flies cling as before.
The clouds are blood sent from on high
An offering of peace for people rebelling
Forgiveness such mercy for deeds of the night
Covered and remembered in time no more.
Now the sun in glory lifts from the mire
Silent and swiftly with purpose climbing
Perfectly round in flaming attired
Vengeful for some loving Father for more.

When I awoke this morning it was still dark. Not yet had the sun rounded fully the earth, and comfortable on my bed in my icebox of a room, I knew that there were some hours still before my alarm tolled the moment of my waking. I lay still for a while, trying to resurrect and complete a dream from moments before. It was a good dream. I was getting married. At one point I grabbed my wife-to-be by the hand and pulled her quickly away from the madness of the preparations, and just held her close to me, telling her that I loved her. I could not see her face, but her body so close to mine created in me such a strong feeling of love that I was loathe for the vision to end. It was around five, and I knew it was useless to try and sleep further, so I rose and prepared an omelet Khartoum. It was quiet but for the wind, and the breeze felt cool and familiar. I sat and read Isaiah 1 -

“Why do you persist in rebellion?...your
whole heart afflicted. From the sole of
your foot to the top of your head there
is no soundness - only wounds and welts
and open sores, not cleansed or bandaged
...though your sins be as scarlet, they
shall be white as snow; though they are red as
crimson, they shall be like wool...For the
mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

I wrote the poem above with those words in mind and continued to sit and watch the sun rising. Now I am back in my room, about to take a shower and go to the WFP headquarters here for a training session on Phase II of IOM camp registration. Tomorrow I expect to return to Nyala to my adopted family, and to the daily hell that controls the people’s hearts.

Same day - 9:33am
As I sat in the conference room at WFP, the same one I was in almost a year and a lifetime ago, it quickly became evident that I was the only non-arabic speaking attendee. Awkward. The packet of info, one in English was given to me, contained all I need to know anyway, and as I briefed through it I realized that I already knew it, and that it was all ‘pretty theory’ that shattered easily the moment the sweat and grime of the reality of the field was encountered. So I departed, called the office for a ride, and sat by the road to write and wait. A group of boys stopped for a quick chat and wanting flame for a musty, half-consumed cigarette. Barely twelve. Disappointed, they sauntered off. Ah, here’s my ride.

Of Transition, Power poles, Perspective, and the Future...

2006-08-26T23:28:00.000-05:00

When a person is confronted with debilitating heat every day for months on end they are forced to learn to cope. Each day is a struggle, never seems easy, is full of comments about how hot it is, remarks at the growing sweat marks on shirts (or rather shrinking dry spots), but work always gets done, attitudes usually stay intact, and progress in heat management is truly realized when the mercury drops below 90 and the body feels a slight chill. I think I'll wear long sleaves today...it is 82 degrees...and I feel slightly cool. At moments like that you come to grips with what you are used to and are amazed at what you've learned to put up with.

Tuesday, August 22, was just like the week preceding it, very comfortable in the 70's, or what you would call a typical day in the Appalachians. Eighteen hours later I step off of a plane and am confronted with an evening temperature at least in the 90's. Manageable, not bad really. Maybe I still had it in me. Pull up at the familiar SP house in Khartoum, soak in the air-conditioning, feel the cool tile floor storing up the chill...very nice. Thursday evening a storm swept through Khartoum, pushing ferocious dust and rain ahead of it, and whipping through the streets on the wheels of a wind that surprised some locals with its fury. A colleague and I were in a small restaurant when it happened and did not realize how strong it was as we watched it through the large glass windows.

Returning to the house we discovered that the concrete power pole in front of our house had been shattered and lay sprawling its wires across the road. The windows were dark, and as we stepped inside realized the design misfortune that relies completely on conditioned air to maintain comfort. There exists no circulation and so immediately it becomes a stifling oven. Even outside was slightly more comfortable, the only advantage to indoors was the shelter from the sun. Last night, Saturday evening, the power was finally restored. Those were some of the most miserable moments of my life. As I have just arrived, and am still only in Khartoum, I have not yet started my job, and as such have nothing constructive to do. I am still dealing with jet lag, and the inability to sleep at night (for fear of drowning in sweat) has not helped with that at all. During the day, rest is very difficult, although I have managed a few hours in spurts.

As such we, my colleague and I, spent many hours in some of the cafe's around town, enjoying the cool air, international company (such as Lebanese business men, Jordanians, well educated Sudanese, etc.), and so on. Some of the friends that we have made have proved to be quite amazing, being some very influential members of Khartoum's upper class.

Still, as we'd walk around town, hopping from one cafe to another, and then back to the house, I was struck with the surreality of it all. We begrudged the fact that we would return again to a house deprived of electricity, but I knew that the men who were working on fixing it could only ever expect such a thing. The lanky teenager who approached us at an outdoor local restaurant late at night, addled because of the glue he got high sniffing (a huge problem in Africa), wandered the streets twenty-four hours a day in scraps for sandles and rags for clothes, and was too messed up in his mind to take the food we offered him. He wanted money instead. In a place like this, there is no hope for him. That is not a statement westerners want to agree with. But he will never experience the life that I have, or that many of his countrymen experience in the city. A boy like that won't even experience the real joy that a peaceful village or region in Darfur has. It does make you ask, 'Why?'. And while I have seen this countless times before, the perspective of our darkened house freshened the point a little. Enough at least to feel again the sadness that, if left unchecked, could eventually drive you into deep emotional trauma. It felt right to feel that again, and to let that experience help shape my attitude as I prepare to return to the troubled region of Darfur. I probably won't feel that again while I am here, not as acutely at least, and it is good that way, otherwise I would become useless in trying to help. As I've experienced in the eight and a half months it has been since I was here last, there are ample moments later to let the grief and shock and anger and anguish escape. If the mind refuses the body eventually finds ways to release the pressure.

On a note of 'business', I am to attend a seminar here in Khartoum on Monday, and then on Tuesday I expect to take off for Darfur.

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Airports, Jews, and airplane neighbors...

2006-08-23T15:00:00.000-05:00

August 22, 2006
I just stood in a line at the Lufthansa gate for twenty-five minutes to find out if I could carry the two bags I have with me. One, my laptop case, I was not concerned about, but the other, my guitar, a small backpacker model, produced some concern. For alleged security reasons carry-on items were being strictly limited, but before I reached the culmination of my wait, it was announced that all that was desired was accomplished, and I walked away to find a seat, both bags in hand.

I had noticed them before the ‘line episode’, but during my wait I was slightly entertained by a Jewish family managing their three strapping Hebrew sons. The eldest appeared to be around five, the youngest was learning to walk (or stand rather, using his stroller as support), and the third son fit somewhere in the middle. In my heart I felt an affinity for them and, in all honest, a sense of honor to be near them – a family of the chosen people of God. Although the parents were rather plumply substantial, I was struck by their attractiveness. It would not be untrue to say that the woman was beautiful, possessing a beauty that is inherent to peoples of the Mediterranean – darker skin, sharply defined eyes, noble nose, proud mouth, and a nature described as both coy and gregarious. The man was less glamorous but obviously capable of producing sons of notable strength, both in appearance and personality. It was a pleasure to watch their interactions, hearing their language flow effortlessly from their lips, seeing their love for their sons, and then noticing the unspoken communication via the meaningful glances of a man and a woman who are intimately acquainted with each other.

Later – enroute at 37,000 feet somewhere over England
There remains less than an hour before I reach Frankfurt. We have flown east through the night searching, as it were, for an early sunrise and have found it, ahead of schedule as planned. The sitting position does not work well for me when it comes to sleep, so I have spent the last seven hours conversing with my neighbors, surfing the web and writing emails, eating, and just sitting still to allow time to march on as it wills.

My neighbors provide some interest, and they are: Dan, sitting in front of me, Steve, to my front right, and John, two seats to my right. There would be more, but the ticketing agents failed in their advertising and many seats remain cold. Of the four of us there is only one traveling for ‘pleasure’, but combined we represent an eclectic array of destinations. Greece, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Sudan. Dan and Steve, Kazakhstan and Ukraine, are going on missions trips, Dan for a year, Steve for three weeks. Dan, a conservative looking twenty-two year old Lutheran sporting a leather strap necklace with a Christian fish pendant, has never been overseas, but appears to have remedied that by diving in headfirst [with such a long commitment]. He seems scared and unsure of himself, probably using some of these tedious hours to question what it is that he is doing. Steve, a nice and pleasant person, fancies himself a dashing, part-time overseas missionary, clocking a couple of weeks every couple of years. During the day, he teaches Sunday school and does something in the financial world. Before takeoff and prior to cruising altitude we heard his life story, and for a while afterwards he ‘dazzled’, as he may have thought, us with stories of Jabez praying and ‘no way that could be coincidence.’ John retreated into the world of Bose Headphone induced silence, and I confess for a while I envied him. Later on he and I struck up some words, querying each other of the other’s business and discussing world politics. In the course of things I presented my world view and gathered that his was somewhat emotion-based and irritated towards US foreign policies. He’s a fan of President Carter and is something of a wannabe humanitarian. I don’t begrudge him that, though.

Later – Frankfurt
I am very weary now. Due to the raised security cautions for flights bound for the states there are security lines almost a quarter of a mile long. Then, due to my error, I stood in on for half an hour before I realized my mistake. Then I found my gate and waited for another twenty or thirty minutes at the check-in counter just to ask a simple question. That complete I searched for a place to sit down and came up only with the marble floor. My body and mind are exhausted and I have difficulty keeping time sorted out in my mind.

Book of Being Update...

2006-08-10T13:01:00.000-05:00

"The Book of Being" has been entered into the film festival that was targeted and now we wait to learn of its fate. Insha'allah taybeen.

Also, the website for the movie has had a face lift, thanks to Jordan Niednagel's web prowess. Visit the changes at: www.bookofbeing.com

Regards,

Jonathan

Of Jury Duty and Small Towns...Part Two

2006-08-01T23:15:00.000-05:00

And after all of that the entire week of jury duty was cancelled. I am bummed. I was actually looking forward to it, but my reaction is also bittersweet as I now have regained precious moments. Masha'allah.

Of Jury Duty and Small Towns...

2006-08-01T09:18:00.000-05:00

“The General Assembly hereby declares the public policy of this State to be that jury service is the solemn obligation of all qualified citizens, and that excuses from the discharge of this responsibility should be granted only for reasons of compelling personal hardship or because requiring service would be contrary to the public welfare, health, or safety.”

Thus speaks the North Carolina General Statutes. Early in the month of July, soon after returning from cruising the country, I received, for my first time, juror summons. Failure to respond as directed results in being held ‘in contempt of court’ and a 50 dollar fine. The summons is actually a directive of the court and is no different in severity from a subpoena. It is a ‘solemn obligation of all qualified citizens,’ and according to the instructional video I was shown we do not ‘have to’ but we ‘get to’ take part in Jury ‘service’. We should not look at is as ‘duty’ but as ‘privilege’, etc., a way to take part in the great judicial system of our country. In the overall scheme of things, having seen some of the rest of the world, there is truth to that outlook as we still have the best thing going here. It is hard, though, to maintain that perspective when I am scheduled to leave in twenty-one days, making each day precious to me, and an entire week is consumed by the uncertainty of being on jury duty.

Uncertainty well describes the experience thus far. My first day was yesterday, Monday, and I arrived early to the affair, joining approximately forty other would-be jurors in waiting to discover whether or not we would be used. It was mostly harmless and comprised of patient waiting, something I accomplished all the more easily by losing myself in a book I brought (that is called ‘planning ahead’). After about an hour and a half the judge determined that we were not needed for that day and that we should return in the morning. Upon checking a recording at the courthouse via telephone I discovered that even that has changed and that I should check the recording again this evening about tomorrow (Wednesday).

The difficulty I am having is that I want to make plans with people this week but am restricted from doing such as I can’t be sure what each of my days will look like. I might be selected and strapped to a trial and thus unavailable for socializing, and then I might not. It is like being on hold with technical service, name the company, for a week. You can’t really leave the phone because the representative might answer at any minute, but so far you’ve been at it long enough to begin to singing along with the looped hold music.

In spite of my grouching I am intrigued by this whole process. Sitting on a jury is something I cannot claim to have done and after considering the situation I determined that that is something I want to change. Even as I sat there in the courtroom I was taken by the official stature displayed and the regal judicial 1970’s styling of the courtroom. I wanted to be on the team. Just for a week though.

Occasionally I glanced up from my reading and in doing so discovered the true nature of jury duty. In my small town and county it is not as much ‘judicial’ as it is ‘social.’ Going in for my ‘solemn obligation’ I suspected that I would encounter people that I knew, and, from the numerous warm greetings I observed others taking part in, I figured that I was not the only one bringing such ideas to the day. I recognized half of the forty people there. Of those twenty or so, there were only a handful that I had had personal encounters with, but in that group were folks that I consider friends and during moments when reading was not viable I was free to catch up a bit with them.

Even as I experienced the phenomena of the small town, I was reading about it in my book. E.B. White, the celebrated essayist and author of such classics as ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and ‘Stuart Little’, had this to say:

“On the day before Thanksgiving, toward the end of the afternoon, having motored all day, I arrived home, and lit a fire in the living room. The birch logs took hold briskly. About three minutes later, not to be outdone, the chimney itself caught fire. I became aware of this development rather slowly…I phoned the Fire Department as a matter of routine, dialing a number I had once forehandedly printed in large figures on the edge of the shelf in the telephone closet, so that I would be able to read it without my glasses. (We keep our phone in a closet here, as you might confine a puppy that isn’t fully house-trained)…
My call was answered promptly, but I had no sooner hung up than I observed that the fire appeared to be out, having exhausted itself, so I called back to cancel the run, and was told that the Department would like to come anyway. In the country, one excuse is as good as another for a bit of fun, and just because a fire has grown cold is no reason for a fireman’s spirits to sag. In a very short time, the loud, cheerful apparatus, its red signal light blinking rapturously, careened into the driveway, and the living room filled rapidly with my fire-fighting friends.
My fire chief is also my barber, so I was naturally glad to see him. And he had with him a robust accomplice who had recently been up on my roof installing a new wooden gutter, dry and ready to receive the first sparks from a chimney fire, so I was glad to see him. And there was still a third fire-eater, and everyone was glad to see everyone else, as near as I could make out, and we all poked about learnedly in the chimney for a while, and then the Department left.”

The excerpt is taken from “Points of My Compass” and the chapter entitled, “Home-Coming”. As I read those words for the first time in that courtroom, surrounded by hearty handshakes and the affable conversation of friends in a small town, I laughed, knowing that I was also included in this affectionate mixture and that this week just might promise to be an experience that I will enjoy and remember. After all, how can you not when surrounded by the cart-boy from Wal-Mart, the father-in-law of a former employer, the librarian, former Franks-A-Million customers, co-members of church, and a collection of other good-natured citizens of this fine county. I rest my case.

Of Darfur and Travel Dates...

2006-07-30T22:55:00.000-05:00

Within the last week I have learned of the date on which I shall embark again to the war torn 'hell hole' that is Darfur. August 22. At 2:35pm my plane, operated by Lufthansa or a subsidiary, will take off from the Charlotte airport and after around 18 hours of travel (not bad...shorter than last time) and several different aircraft I shall step off the aircraft staircase and back into destiny. Catchy, huh?

Also within the last week I have been sick, a phenomena that I have not truly experienced since Darfur, and, among other things, I have scraped my motorcycle pegs going around corners with my youngest brother Justin on the back (he loves it). I have also seen a close buddy get married. Cheers to Doc and Amber.

I've had some revelations in my personal life in regards to how God relates to me. Why do we say 'personal' life? Shouldn't I just say 'my life'? Isn't it the same thing? As opposed to 'impersonal life'? I endeavor to work against redundancy. I digress.

I have been reminded of the phenomenal literary genius E.B. White and have been given more of his writings to enjoy. "Points of My Compass" is like reading my own autobiography...at times.

In my return to Darfur I ask that my readers would remember to pray for me and to remind and tell others to do the same. Darfur is a place where very bad things happen daily and all it takes is one doped up, teenage, rebel soldier to get weird ideas and start shooting, to make mine or my teammates day really unhappy. There is the issue of illness to pray for. In the 14 months I lived in Sudan I was more sick more times than in my entire life. There is the mental, physical, and spiritual fatigue that occurs when the whole situation just starts to bear down on you. In order to function you create emotional barriers to what goes on around you but the strain of not letting your heart react naturally causes cracks and thus we take rest periods on ocassion. So please pray for me in that regard and remember not to pray only for me but for the rest of the Samaritan's Purse team there.

As an encompassing request, call out to God for peace to reign in Sudan. There is only one source of true peace and due to the religious and cultural barriers He, Jesus, is being resisted. We are not allowed to carry out open 'evangelism' in the context familiar to Americans, but we are able to 'witness' with our lives and our hearts as we live the words of Jesus before and to our hosts. You can pray that that message would speak loud and that people would turn to God because of our lives, not just our words.

Stay current with what is happening in that country and daily go before the Lord with your requests. During my first 14 months I learned first-hand the power of prayer as there were times when the worst should have happened but did not.

Continue to check this blog site as I will be posting often.

Regards,

Jonathan

"Hail" to the chief...

2006-07-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

In the recent couple of years of my life I have had the unique experience of having several things happen to me and thinking, while it was happening, “Well, this is the end.” Or could be the end. I must have a purpose beyond myself otherwise I don’t suppose that I would be here right now to write this. In my past posts to this blogging website I’ve highlighted some of these occurrences as they manifested themselves on my cross-country motorcycle adventure but there were also times during my tenure in the Sudan where I realized that the level of danger in which I constantly existed provided enough threat that those thoughts entered my mind.

It is a curious thing to have such a thought run through your head. I can’t honestly say that my life ever really ‘flashed’ before my eyes, although there have been moments that happened in slow motion, or at least they appeared to. The minutes following such a juncture are where your life begins be recalled and you realize that in just a mere second all of your memories could have all been just the middle chapters in a story that now has a beginning and an ending. Thankfully, the last pages of my life don’t seem to have been written yet. There are more adventures I wish to live.

I suppose you can gauge where you are in your life as a man (I’m more comfortable with that perspective) by examining your reactions to such experiences. It would be a safe bet to assume that at my current stage of life I am exuding the ‘I am invincible’ attitude with a propensity for wanting to live on the edge. Later in life I guess I’ll be more toned down, especially when I have dependents. However, at this point I confess that I am slightly crazy and it appears that I am getting more so. It is indicated by responses to adverse situations.

My older brother recently entered the world of skydiving (he brought me along as described in an earlier post) and for the past several months has been working hard to train and become licensed and certified as a skydiver. Directing yourself to stand at the door of an airplane 12,500 feet above the earth and then to take the step of faith into literally nothing requires a certain amount of steel that not everybody possesses. Recently my brother had an experience on his 24th jump that brought him face to face with the reality that the afterlife is just a failed parachute away.

Due to a malfunction during the opening of his parachute while falling at 120mph and around 4000 – 4500 feet above ground he was left with a canopy that had significant parts of it that were tattered and ripped. He was forced to cut it away and open his reserve parachute. There are skydivers who have jumped multiple thousands of times and have never had to do that (comforting, isn’t it?). His training kicked in and he didn’t panic but did exactly what he needed to do. Kudos. What is his response? Get back in the plane and go again, the same day. Isn’t that cool?

I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant as it happened but I know that there was a part of him that was pleased, even as it was happening. I would call it an excited disbelief that this is really happening.

I had such an experience on Wednesday night. Thankfully I wasn’t plummeting to the earth but riding my motorcycle. Earlier in the evening I had attended a Bible study/church meeting that I am a part of. After the meeting I hung out with our group’s venerable ‘spiritual head’ and finally headed for home around midnight. In the distance a fantastic display of lightening set the sky on fire and I suspected that I would soon be experiencing whatever those storms had to offer.

I live about 10 miles outside of town down a delightfully windy mountain road. Great fun when dry but cautiously unnerving when wet. A quarter of the way home I began to feel drops and then the thunder began to outshout my motorcycle and the rushing wind. I slowed and rounded a corner and plunged into a wall of water. Instantly I was soaked and taunted by more thunder. The rain was huge and I was amazed as I watched it fall through the beam of my headlight. By this time I was crawling, using the reflectors in the middle of the road to guide me on account that the fog and rain were too thick to see anything else. Then I noticed larger falling objects and the sharp sting and thunk of something heavy.

I could feel the hail bouncing off of my helmet. I could especially feel it collide with my legs and arms and hands. It was tremendous. At this point I could no longer see the reflectors and it felt as if I were riding through a river. I stopped and put my feet down discovering a flood that rushed over my shoes. I was cold. It hurt.

A car pulled up alongside. The driver offered to let me sit in his car while the hail stopped. He was having trouble seeing enough to drive as the hail and rain were so thick. As it turned out I knew the driver from a few years back and he remembered me. Small world. The hail quit and I thanked him and climbed back outside proceeding to crawl forward again. Again the road was just not visible and I had difficulty imagining myself completing the four miles remaining between my location and the warmth and comfort of my parent’s home. So I opted to pull into the driveway of a friend of mine whose house was a mere hundred yards beyond me.

Robb Stewart and his wife Danielle had been up on account of the storm and dripping profusely I knocked and was let in. Dry clothes later Robb gave me a lift home and I was forced to leave my bike in their driveway. Even in the truck the road was difficult to navigate as the hail had shredded millions of leaves and they had been cast upon the pavement. It was a solid blanket.

How thankful I was to walk through my front door. Alhumdel’allah. In the midst of the storm and the lightening popping directly overhead I was not concerned for my welfare. Instead I was thinking about what a great adventure this was and how crazy I was to be out riding. It would have been real easy to just tap the break a little too hard and end up tangled in a tree. It would have been just as easy for the quarter sized hail (and larger) to come down and put out an eye. In spite of all that I was living in the moment and thoroughly enjoying every second. I don’t think that that would have been the case a few years ago. This time I didn’t think that it was the end and maybe I’m naïve but I never really felt as if I were in any great danger. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Samaritan’s Purse hires people like me to work in civil war zones…

For what it’s worth…

Shorn and Darfur...

2006-07-10T15:21:00.000-05:00

The folks in Boone all know what I look like now and I hope are getting used to the 'new me'. However, those in the regions that I swept through still have a picture of me that blends well with that of the 'roughian' and scruffy biker. The picture of my mother and I sort of shows what I look like but I have now a clearer shot to show you all.

It feels so good to not have long hair. Long hair is hot and it gets tangled. Coupled with the full beard I had I was very warm on certain days.

Many of you heard me say that I was planning on returning to Sudan after this summer. As of this moment I have a verbal agreement with Samaritan's Purse and will be signing on the dotted line in the next couple of weeks. I am scheduled to return to Darfur in the early 20's of August and I am committing to at least six months with the possibility of extending a couple of more. I am excited at this opportunity for me and I look forward to reuniting with many of the Sudanese men with whom I became as brothers.

As always, I shall keep you all posted.

Regards,

Jonathan

Biker Babe...

2006-07-09T15:39:00.000-05:00

I'm making a biker babe out of my mother. Sweet lady turned 50 on June 21st and today I took her for a ride on my bike to church...her first since a short ride in college. She loved it and now wants to take a safety course to learn how to ride motorcycles! My Dad thinks it is a great idea and is very likely to join her. How cool is that?

End Act 2...

2006-07-01T23:04:00.000-05:00

My Readers,

Today marks the end of my life as a vagabond. I set off from home in North Carolina on March 30 and three months and a day later returned from whence I came having added 12,025 miles of adventure and many great memories to my collection.

I will enjoy the comforts of home and family for the rest of the summer and then hopefully engage again in humanitarian work in Darfur.

I don't really view my blog as a place for me to rant and rave about whatever bothers me or even as a place to explore ideas and thoughts. Rather I see it as it has been so far and that is a place for me to post my journals of my adventures. Therefore you will not be hearing much from me over the next couple of months as I do not wish to bore you with the day-in day-out details of my life. Personally I wouldn't want to read the journal of someone who is living a life similar to mine here in the States. What intrigues me, and I hope you as well, is a life filled with adventures that the average person has only experienced through the writings of the one who has truly experienced them. Thus, when I return to Darfur, I shall begin again to translate the happenings of my life into words and pass them along to you.

I am grateful to those of you who have been reading these past months and also for those of you who passed along comments. I am still available through email and, while it lasts, in person here in Boone.

Regards,

Jonathan

Some Pictures...

2006-06-26T23:43:00.000-05:00

Greetings,

Here are some pictures of the three of us guys who are the main characters in our movie:

My character is the top picture and
is named King Kardia

The second picture is of my friend Jordan as Moria

The third character is my friend Nathan as Asthenes but for some reason I couldn't load his picture. Some other time.

Check out more at www.bookofbeing.com

Cheers,

Jonathan

Of Ping Pong and Shouting...

2006-06-26T23:41:00.000-05:00

Of Ping Pong and Shouting…
Tonight was a night to remember. I am still hot and sweaty from it even though this evening was nice and cool at 62 degrees. We played ping pong like you wouldn’t believe and in the entire evening we probably played somewhere around 15 games. Jeremy, Nathan, Jordan and I all smashed little orange balls back and forth for probably an hour and when the dust settled it was shown that I emerged wearing the champion’s belt having lost only one game. The only way to describe it is that I was in some sort of indestructible groove. It was glorious.

I think in the last two weeks of being here we’ve played close to 500 games of ping pong. It is a great break from the stress of filming and gives us a chance to let fly the angst and vigor we’ve built up after hours and hours of being stuck in our costumes. Thus our games are always very loud and exciting. We’re planning to video tape an evening with several cameras to catch the craziness.

I shall be cutting my hair on Thursday. This is monumental as I have not applied scissors to my hair since the middle of November, 2004. That is 20 months of growing. It started out as an experiment in the freedom of Darfur to see what I look like with long hair. According to some folks I look good with it but frankly I have come to despise it. It is always in the way and getting tangled and yada yada yada. I would have cut it long ago if it weren’t for this movie. Our characters are all long-haired men and so I have kept it long for this filming. As soon as we are finished I shall race to the scissors and start hacking away.

Considering how hot is has been I am very glad to see it all go. I’ve also got a full beard and combined with my super thick hair (thanks to my Greek heritage) I am like to heat up quickly and stay hot. We’re planning to have a beard cutting day where we all part with our facial hair in humorous and video taped fashion.

Of Mud and Trucks...

2006-06-24T01:24:00.000-05:00

Of Mud and Trucks
Even horses will get stuck in the mud. It happens. Didn’t you ever see ‘The Neverending Story’? Man and beast have been conquered by the elements as long as there have been elements to be conquered by. When it rains, it pours and when it pours on dirt it makes mud. When that mud is created in places where man must travel then a lack of travel occurs. I encountered this phenomenon rather intimately while I was in Darfur. The miles and miles we covered in our Landcruisers came with the price of many long and sweaty and grimy hours of having to dig our trucks out of the sand or, as was the case in the rainy season, mud. It is so helpless and hopeless to be driving along and then suddenly be deprived of motion. The spinning and whining tires unsuccessfully claw at the mud which just gives way like New Orleans levies. Man and beast are stilled conquerable by natural forces, even when that beast is replaced with a roaring, combusting machine on wheels.

I say all of that to set the stage for our adventure this morning. We got stuck. Yesterday’s ample rainfall turned the back-country tracks we’ve been driving on into narrow ice-skating rinks with occasional deep soups waiting for the unsuspecting motorist like the eternally digesting Sarlac. My friend Jordan was driving at the time and one of those soups took advantage of a slight loss in forward momentum and thus our tires were set spinning in place. Jordan handed the wheel to me and suddenly I was back in the bush of Sudan trying to free myself from the clutching ground.

Even in four-wheel drive the hefty 1987 Ford Bronco with semi-bald tires wouldn’t budge. We were looking at a very disappointing day and it was only eleven in the morning. Jordan had gotten stuck crossing a creek about two weeks earlier and had to walk for seven miles back home to get help. Unlike that experience we carried a cell phone but still the prospect of having to ‘limp’ home via cellular communication didn’t seem very appealing and so we set to removing our vehicle from the mud with dedicated fervor.

I was glad for my Darfur driving training and soon I was rocking the Bronco back and forth trying to gain some momentum to push past the muddy bog. That only served to dig me deeper and I stopped when I realized I was almost up to the chassis. We didn’t have a shovel (standard truck equipment in Darfur) and so digging out was to be accomplished with hands and sticks. Jordan dug mostly and Nathan and I piled sticks under the tires to provide traction. After several attempts our efforts were rewarded and groaning and screaming the Bronco burst free in reverse.

We still had to push a little farther on up this ‘road’ to our film site and so I backed up the two rut track to get some momentum to carry me through. Keeping it in 4-wheel drive I smashed the gas and shot down to the mud patch. There was a patch of dry ground to one side so I stuck my left side on that and punched through. Fishtailing and sliding I came free and was able to swerve in time to avoid a tree. Success.

I truly felt as if I were back in Darfur and it was kind of fun. It is nice to be the ‘expert’ and my numerous adventures of this kind certainly qualified me. Alhumdel’allah.

We ended up having a great day of shooting and although I am staying up late to write this I am dog tired. So I sign off...

Raindrops are falling to Rational Phobia

2006-06-22T18:20:00.000-05:00

Raindrops are falling on my head
It is raining. Relief of relief. As the rain descends it seems to bring with it the quiet temperatures from high altitudes and settle them here in reality. Standing in the rain with a costume is thus a relatively enjoyable experience. We each have cloaks that go with our costumes and they actually serve well as raincoats. The effect is achieved of weary travelers, rain-soaked and beset by many troubles.

This late afternoon is quite a contrast, however, to this morning which began at 5am. We wanted to capture some sunrise sequences with my character and the only way to effectively do that is to, well, get up and watch the sunrise. I am not a morning person, at least I choose not to be. If I have to get up, or if I have reason to get up while it is still dark then I will do so and be ready for anything. This morning was not one of those cases. I was to put my costume on and after the past few days of filming that was the last thing on my list of ‘exciting’ things to wake up to.

Nevertheless we rose and we filmed and the sunrise was perfect. Sunrises have been overdescribed and we all know what they look like anyway, but the shots we took were really quite impressive. Viewing them later created further excitement on my part in anticipation of the completion of this project.

The sky was clear but for a few clouds and those that were present swirled and twisted in the warmth of the rising sun appearing red and pink. I was reminded of the age-old adage, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.” As sure as the sun rose this morning the red sky predicted the afternoon thunderstorms which cruised in and began to unleash their spite on the earth. We wanted to have some shots in the rain and therefore were glad to have the chance.

After standing out there for around an hour and quite wet we decided to call it quits with the option of coming back out if the rain diminished. So far it hasn’t and thus I am sitting at my laptop writing.

The slight itching on my neck worries me. My hope is that it is a mere bug bite. It may seem odd that I would wish such thing but in light of my fear of poison ivy the wish is thoroughly rational. That loathsome and pathetic excuse for a creation of God grows lush and beautiful in all corners and holes in this place. I am hyper-allergic to it, the mere thought of it causing me to break out in wretched rashes. In my short life I have had many encounters with it, each as despicable as its predecessor and powerful enough to send me scratching myself into misery for two weeks. So far I have been careful where I step and what I touch and my efforts have paid off.

The field we were shooting in had loads of the three-leaved demons but there were places I could stand that seemed safe. Time will tell of course. Insha’allah, as it were.

Right now we are semi-confident that we shall finish shooting in the time allotted. Nathan, the third character in the film, is scheduled to leave next Wednesday and if all goes as planned that will work fine. In light of the kind of delays and issues that we have had though he is checking into what it will take to extend his flight by a few days in order to give us a more comfortable buffer. Again, insha’allah, as it were.

Elation...

2006-06-21T00:35:00.000-05:00

Elation
A lollipop to a child. The sheer joy and fulfillment on a child’s face when they receive such a thing is a priceless picture. Nothing seems to bother them. It is just the sweet candy mingling in the mouth to create the delicious juices and color the tongue. The sticky goo slips down their little fingers and gets in their hair and all over their face. Pure joyful involvement.

Well, I have conquered. No longer am I anathema to Kalea. The other day I got a smooch. Today I have built trust and have had my dance. We had been out for a long evening filming and returned hot and sweaty. Jeremy had decided to put together a ‘Book of Being’ Party to celebrate what we are doing and so as soon as we got back we just changed clothes and splashed cool water on our faces and prepared to go over to Jeremy’s house. Kalea was over visiting her Grandma and we offered to take her over with us.

Putting out my hands I asked her if she wanted me to take her to see her ‘ma ma and da da’. She took two steps over to me and then suddenly snapped out of my momentary spell. “What am I doing?” was written all over her face. I promised her that I would take her to her parents. Dragging Jordan into the mix I had him grab her and then in the car ride over I kept telling her that I was taking her to see her parents. Then we arrived.

In the driveway Jordan stood holding her and I again offered to carry her inside. With a semi-confident smile she consented. I was elated. Such a small thing but to make me happy. So I waltzed with her through the door. Triumph. She can trust me now. A few minutes after I handed her to Jeremy she reached out for me! So I held her again and danced to the music playing. Wow.

Candy, my friend, candy. I don’t know of a time recently when I have been so happy.

Jeremy set up a great party. He had beforehand called mine and Nathan’s parents to find out old history and put together a ‘how well do you know so and so’ game. It was a lot of fun. Then he gave us gifts of embroidered polo-shirts with the Book of Being logo and Book of Being hats personalized with our character names. It was very special.

My day has been one of struggle with the elements and then pure joy and fun.

River Shooting to Table Conquest to A Smooch on the Cheek

2006-06-18T23:05:00.000-05:00

Of Ping Pong and such…
Today, Sunday the 18th of June, we spent about five more hours filming a scene by a river. As it has been the sun was ovenlike but much of my scenes were filmed with me standing in the river. The water was so deliciously cool. Glory be.

After dinner and several games of boggle (the Niednagel’s love boggle, as do I) we retired to the Ping Pong table where in spite of Nathan’s, Jordan’s and Jordan’s brother Jeremy’s efforts I reigned as king. I can’t remember how many games we played but I was just impossible to unseat. There were even games that seemed as if my opponent would emerge victorious but somehow in the end I conquered. I had a tremendous amount of fun but I imagine there are some folks going to bed tonight feeling very sorry for themselves. Eventually I’m sure I’ll crack, but right now I’m in the groove. It feels good.

Jeremy and his wife Danielle have a little girl named Kalea who is just under two years old. She is your above average cute little girl and quite well trained. Believe it or not she actually loves to eat ‘Cod Liver Oil’ and zucchini, and squash and all those things that parents have tried to cram down their children’s throats for ages. With most of the people here she is very personable and charming and loves to be held and cuddled with by them.

With me, there is a different tale. The first time I was here back in April she expressed great concern every time I drew near and it took the two weeks that I was here to finally get her to start being comfortable with me at least being near her. This time I have taken it upon myself to pull out all of the stops and get this girl to like me. I am persistent and such endurance is beginning to wear off.

I think it is my hair and beard. I am kind of scary looking. At first when I arrived she would have nothing to do with me. Then it progressed to a morbid fascination with me. Then it elevated to a smile here and there. Then it escalated to laughing and smiling and being pleasantly fascinated with me. That was the case as long as I stayed about ten feet away. She would be laughing and giggling and pointing and such but as soon as I stepped past that imaginary line she would freak and run around a corner.

Lately I have been trying to get her to dance with me. Her parents like to play classical music throughout the day and so there is always some song to waltz to or something. So while she watches I will pretend to ‘dance’ around the room and then dance over to her and ask her to dance. “No’. Okay, maybe later. I shall prevail.

Today, when we were all leaving her house after dinner I gave her kisses on her hand and scratched my beard on her arm and she giggled. I asked for a kiss and leaned in…at first she leaned away but then as I pouted and pulled away she eagerly leaned forward and planted a big one on my cheek. Success!

I shall get a dance out of her before I go.

On Location to Musings...

2006-06-18T00:27:00.000-05:00

On Location, Filming of ‘Book of Being’
It is already several days into this adventure of a different kind. I’ve never been in a movie before. Granted, this isn’t your big Hollywood production with a projected audience of millions but we’ve realized that whether or not you put out less-than-admirable films or quality stuff the same amount of work is involved and the same amount of ‘little details’ are involved.

Each of us involved, Nathan Daher, Jordan Niednagel and myself, along with the support we’re getting from Jordan’s older brother Jeremy, have put a lot of effort into this film, some much more than others. The projected venue is a Christian film festival in San Antonio, TX. Our film has a website: www.bookofbeing.com. The plot, a teaser trailer, and some other media is available for viewing.

Today, Saturday, we are taking a rest from our efforts of the last couple of days. Missouri, our location, is very humid and hot this time of year and the amount of clothing we have on for our costumes only serves to amplify our toasty surroundings. So far we’ve been able to get some key things filmed and I’ve been pleased with my acting ability. There aren’t very many actors with my particular brain type and so I was a little worried that I might not be able to pull this off, but so far I haven’t had too much difficulty.

Jordan Niednagel lives in the Ozark “mountains” right on the border of the Mark Twain National forest. There are huge tracts of land that are pretty much untouched and are available for public access and would-be film crews. The scenery is very beautiful with rolling hills smothered in trees and winding valleys cradling wide streams.

Our movie is an allegorical story depicting the life and struggles of Believers in Christ and is set in a fantasy/medieval world called Being. There are elements similar to John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” as the three different kingdoms in Being are called Mansheart, Mansmind, and Mansstrength. As each kingdom falls away from the other and begin to worship their own abilities darkness and evil, represented by characters called the Aphel (ah-fell) which is greek for ‘darkness’, begin to take over their lands and they experience hardship and turmoil. The king of Mansheart, the head kingdom and one which hadn’t began to fully experience the same problems as the others, decides that a quest must be embarked upon to find “The Prince”, the founder of all of the kingdoms and ruler of the Western lands. Three warriors from each kindgom are beckoned to join in on this quest and together they set off to seek the solution to the danger.

As is the case with 90% of all low-budget films ours is mostly shot in the woods, the cheapest and most abundant of set options. However, we do have great costumes, each of them designed and put together by their prospective wearer. Our equipment is of great quality as well and the footage we have looks very realistic. So far I’m proud of what we have been able to pull off, although of course the final edit is that which shall determine success or failure.

The film festival is one of such a nature that the large bulk of the entries are not ones that we need be concerned of. There are a few that have been announced and that have provided trailers that we have some reason for trepidation but overall we are quite confident of our chances. I am definitely the most optimistic of the three of us, being the good-natured bloke that I am, and there is constantly occasion for me to proclaim my firm belief in our abilities and to call each of us to lay aside our doubts and enjoy these moments we have together and relish the future surety of our victory.

I do believe that I shall be fully exhausted by the time we are through though. While I am used to the heat that assaulted us each day in Darfur I was not accustomed to heavy clothing and certainly not very often the intense humidity and daily barrage of venomous and stinging insects. One must be careful to perform full body searches often so as to locate and extrapolate and exterminate the numerous ‘ticks’ that nestle into the warm crevasses provided by the average human body. Disgusting, but necessary. It is all part of the game I suppose but it further convinces me of the need to eventually settle in a part of our country where these annoyances can altogether be avoided.

Through the course of this fantastic journey I have indeed been exposed to the variety we have within our shores and have noticed several places where I would like to live. Growing up as I did for the five and a half years or so that I lived full-time in North Carolina was a joy (my family has been there for almost seven years) and I wouldn’t have it another way, but I have seen places now that pique my interest and I know that I would like to live there for a time.

One of the other benefits, as I see it, of this trip and the direction that my life has taken over the last two years (i.e. Sudan, et al) is a sudden desire for adventure an ‘non-normalcy’. There has been tapped within me an urge that I did not know existed before and although it is in its infant stages I believe it could be likened to the drive that caused such explorers like Ernst Shackelton or adventurers like Lewis and Clarke to embark on the journeys that changed their lives. I know it is folly to compare myself to such great men but I don’t think it is too bold of me to say that there might exist between us a bond in the form of our desire for the extraordinary.

When I realize these things about myself I then look to the source and understand that God, in His wisdom in preparing me for His plans, has placed a desire in me to go out and lay hold of experiences which will deepen and broaden me as a person. I cannot claim to know what use they will have for me later in life but I know that I can enjoy them while I have them and pray that someday the things I learn from them can be used to encourage others.

There are already brewing in my mind adventures to take that further excite me. I’m not going to divulge what they are right now but they will become known in due time. I’d rather not be a cloud that promises rain but never delivers.

According to Plan to Midnight Journey to Darfur Buddy to Hollywood in Missouri

2006-06-16T23:39:00.000-05:00

Sycamore, Illinois
The lights of the sleepy towns we are passing drift calmly by the windows giving way to the black chasms of nothingness in between the next one. I’m sitting in the backseat of a Jeep Cherokee with my laptop and I’m on interstate 43 heading south from Milwaukee and I’m with Matt Cain my old chum from Darfur and his newly acquired bride the former Besty MacIntyre now Besty Cain.

I came to be here from where I was in pretty much the way I laid out my plans in the last epistle.

Kicking up the dust on the road from Camp I was again on the road and feeling down right good about it. In all truth I’ve come to love getting back on the road. Being with folks I know and love is great and I have enjoyed each stop on this adventure of mine but there has been awakened in me a need to move. Thankfully I’m not so possessed by it that think of nothing else. Those that are consumed by the itch to travel constantly can’t ever really enjoy where they are presently as they are thinking about the next stop before truly stopping at the one before. I think that I have been able to make the most of each of my stops and be content in them. During each one I’ve been able to slow down and rest a little and reconnect with people that I haven’t been able to see in a long time.

Such was Camp and such were the last few days.

It was a short drive to Little Falls, MN and it was right on my route down to Minneapolis and so stopping to see Keelan Diehl for lunch was an easy thing. His dear mother prepared a tasty home cooked meal and I had a pleasant visit. Keelan and I are planning our mutual friend Justin Lonas’ bachelor’s party for his October wedding. I’ve never had the honor of best man bestowed on me before and so I’m sort of having fun figuring out what to do. Justin is the first of my group of friends from growing up to get married and so up until this point there hasn’t been much of an occasion to be apart of such an event.

There were large storms tromping about and although I avoided their moist mischief I felt the cool air they brought with them. Before hitting all of those nasty storms in Washington I had pulled over to a Wal-Mart and bought two cheap sweatshirts and the added layers has really helped to keep me warm. I was glad to have them.

Minneapolis was just a hop, skip and a jump from Little Falls and so I actually arrived a lot earlier at my cousin CJ’s house than I had planned. As I pulled into his neighborhood I met him coming the opposite direction on an errand. I forgot to call and let him know I was early. Oops. We went back to his house and I was set up with my room and reintroduced with his darling of a dog, a Golden named Winnie. Sweetest dog. Exuberant. Coy. Soft. She really made me miss my own dog Skipper.

Anyway, CJ is JP’s son and thus my mother’s cousin. He and his wife Terri live with their daughter Kelly in a handsome suburb of Minneapolis and also have built a cabin up on the same lake as Camp Chippewa and just two doors down from my family’s cabin. As I grew up I would see them almost every year and they’ve watched me grow up from a pipsqueak of a kid to whatever gruff ruffian I’ve become now.

During my tenure in Darfur CJ and Terri followed my stories through my updates and they were eager to hear stories first hand. Also watching and listening was the exchange student that CJ and Terri have hosted for the last 10 months. Maryanne is a girl from Norway and was here in the States to finish highschool. This trip has really proved to me how good of an idea it was to put my pictures into a presentation and then to bring my laptop with me. I’ve been able to show it to many people along the way.

From Minneapolis it was about 7 hours down to Monroe, WI. I was driving down to see my Great Aunt Helen and at her recommendation I took the scenic route along the Mississippi River. It was mostly two-lane country roads that cut along the river bank sometimes darting inland to race over fragrant farmland and dairy farms before switching back to the serenity and curves of the river. The depth of summer has pretty much taken over this area and so everywhere there is richness to the green that makes you feel alive and fresh. Passing banks of wildflowers on a motorcycle is quite a sensual experience with more than just your eyes taking in the pleasure. The smells waft their way into your helmet.

The southern part of Wisconsin is full of huge farms that wrap around the low hills and all across the horizon are pictures of the agrarian skyline, countless grain silos. For this biker the two lane country roads that dipped and swerved with the terrain was a joy. I was trying to make good time and so I was opening the throttle pretty wide and really leaning into the turns. It was glorious. I love riding a motorcycle.

My Aunt Helen has worked for the Swiss Colony for many many years as the resident artist. She has been a family institution as many of us have prints of her artwork framed and hanging in our homes. I grew up seeing her at family get togethers at Camp and was always called by her “Jonathan Seagull”. The last time I saw her was three years ago at my Grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary celebration.

I pulled into her driveway and as I have made custom revved the engine to allow the roar to announce my presence. Killing it I hopped off and unstrapped my helmet. At that moment Aunt Helen came out the door, all smiles and followed by her happy dog Moxy. Many people haven’t been told of my current appearance and so she expressed some delighted shock upon seeing my long hair and thick beard.

Her neighborhood in Monroe is a quiet and pleasant one with lots of new families taking residence in old, regal houses and filling the parks and sidewalks with laughter and squealing that comes with lots of little children. We took a walk in the cool evening while the coals for our steaks got hot. Aunt Helen’s dog really liked me and accompanied me on our small trek.

I ended up burning the steaks and slightly under cooking the corn on the cob but with some delicious white wine and some salad our meal was well rounded and the conversation of things important made it all the better. After dinner some neighbors of hers came over and I again showed my pictures and talked of Darfur and of my experiences.

For a send off the next morning we ate a heaping pancake breakfast at the ‘Corner Cafe’, a greasy spoon joint that Aunt Helen likes to frequent. It’s the kind of place you find in the movies where all the old timers in a small town gather in the mornings to drink coffee and talk of the harvest or of the ‘durned things these youngsters do’. With that I was off again.

It only took me an hour and a half to get to Matt Cain’s house in Sycamore, IL, which brings me back to watching the lonely lights of sleepy towns drift by the car window. Betsy Cain, Matt’s wife, mentored a young girl who was in the 8th grade and the day I arrived happened to be her highschool graduation. Rather than hang out at the house I opted to just tag along for the ride and to spend time catching up with my good pal.

Matt is a real good friend and he really helped me to stay sane while we were in Darfur together. It was so good to be with him again after almost a year of being apart. Just as it was when Andy and I got back together it was with Matt. Thus the two hour car drive to Milwaukee was quite enjoyable.

I stayed with them as they spent time with the girl and her family prior to the graduation but then as I wasn’t ‘invited’ to the show I decided to head over to a movie theater and catch a nighttime show. Five minutes before seven I bought a ticket for a seven o’clock showing of ‘Cars’ and as soon as I walked into the theater the previews began to roll. I must say that I very much liked the movie and found myself laughing hard many times. As it worked out, as soon as the film ended Matt and Betsy pulled up to pick me up and thus I am in the backseat of the car on the way back to their home.

Some days later
Unfortunately I didn’t have much time the next morning to spend more time with Matt as I needed to hurry down to my friend Jordan Niednagel’s house in Missouri. I had about 540 miles ahead of me. Matt cooked up a hearty breakfast and after a hug and a handshake I fired up the trusty machine and again had the feel of the open road under me.

Illinois is a fairly boring state. Sorry to any of you who care about it. It just is. Lots of farms, grain silos and the like, but there just isn’t anything to get the ol’ heart racing. So I made up for it by cruising at a cool 80 mph and rolling up my sleeves and catching a deep tan in the hot sunshine. There was ridiculous traffic in St. Louis due to some construction and I was reduced to gobs of sweat in the stop and go traffic. Towards the end of that I started to cut in between cars some and get in the front when a car that was stopped opened its door right in front of me. I hit the breaks and swerve around it, cutting into a lane closed off by cones. So I was doing a bit of cone swerving action at about 40mph. Cool.

Lots of Missouri is pretty bland as well. Then I hit the road that Jordan’s house is on. I hit it farther north and rode a lot of it that I hadn’t seen before. It was very curvy and had lots of ups and downs that was really fun to do on my bike. However, due to the very worn nature of my rear tire I had to take it kind of slow. My mother, I’m sure, is happy to hear that.

So now I am with Jordan Niednagel and our friend Nathan Daher as we endeavor to film this movie we are doing for a Christian Film Festival in San Antonio, TX. The grand prize is very handsome and I am very confident of our chances to win. So far we’ve already had two days of shooting and they have proved to be very difficult. It is quite hot and our costumes do not lend to cooling us off but rather to accentuating the sweltering temps. At the end of the day when we rip our costumes off they are drenched with sweat and we stink like men. Missouri is full of all sorts of biting insects too, mosquitoes, chiggers, ticks, little hornet like things, biting flies and the like. It makes it all very interesting.

Well, there you have it. I must forewarn my readers that from here on out my updates shall be sparse although I shall try and record the goings on that are of import. I am fixing to be returning home shortly and thus conclude this amazing chapter in my life.

Dragonflies to Dakota Drowning to Camp Chippewa to What's Next?

2006-06-11T23:53:00.000-05:00

Camp Chippewa, Minnesota
Dragonflies hurt. The poor little guys. There they are flitting along enjoying the feast of bugs along the highways and here comes this guy on his motorcycle. Suddenly it is all over. They hurt the worst on the hands. I can handle them smacking my knees and shins and thighs but when they are plastered to my hands then I am truly disturbed. When they explode I get wet too. Then for a while my hand is slimy with whatever goo they were comprised of. My pant legs are covered in bugs and my windshield has a protective layer of smashed insects. It is kind of a testament to my length of my travels.

I started running into the dragonflies in Northern Minnesota where I am currently staying. They were as thick as...well...flies. I don’t like hitting them. Sure it hurts, but they also consume millions of mosquitoes. So a lost dragonfly means life and liberty to countless demons of the air (refer to my comments on Astoria, OR) and thus pain and misfortune on would-be happy vacationers in this beautiful part of the country.

My last few days have been ones that have tested me considerably. I have not been found wanting, thankfully, and have proved to myself and to whoever needs proving that I possess determination and endurance. Today my butt is truly sore for the first time. Monday I trekked about 770 miles from Snoqualmie Pass, WA to Billings, MT. Tuesday was from Billings to Mt. Rushmore...about 400 miles. Wednesday was spent covering 750 miles from Mt. Rushmore to Cass Lake, MN.

Those many miles stretch over very stunning parts of the US. I’ve described some of it but there was so much that I really struggle with even remembering all of it. Montana is called ‘Big Sky Country’ because there are parts of it where there seems to be more of it than anything else. While much of what you see is a clone of the previous sights it is still enjoyable to look at and I find myself paying more attention to what I am passing by then watching the road. Out there the highways are mostly straight and there aren’t that many fellow travelers to be worried about.

Wednesday was hard not only because of the sheer number of miles I covered but also because for several hours I plunged headlong into a massive thunderstorm system. I stayed dry under all of my leather and was able to keep cruising fairly quickly and so most of the time I was just trying to outrun the rain. South Dakota is quite large and flat and many miles before I hit the rain I could see it as a large and ominous mass in front of me, the strutting tops of the system rising like giants out of a fog. Enjoying the last fleeting rays of sunshine I pulled over and donned my gear and then resumed the march to battle.

There was a strong sense of accomplishment when I finally began to break free from the clutches of the storm. I opened my visor again and took off my gloves. Unlike the rain in Washington in which I felt cold, the rain across South Dakota was warm and I was burning up inside my little leather world. It was still overcast and gloomy but I could see breaks in the clouds up ahead and that the road aimed straight for them. Above me the sky appeared like it was a lump of bread dough that had been stretched and twisted and spread out too thin. It was as if all the rain that could be squeezed out had fallen and what was left over was the fragile and wispy remains of a once proud thunderhead. Such is life.

I have been coming up to what we refer to as “Camp” since before I was even a thought or the definite gleam that I’m sure I was in my parent’s eyes. Camp Chippewa is in my blood and many of my boyhood adventures took place here. Set on the shores of two lakes, Cass Lake and Buck Lake, Camp has been a haven for our family since its conception in 1935 by my great-grandfather Otto Endres. His sons built their own cabins next to the camp and each summer there is a reunion of sorts as the sons, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gather to enjoy the benefits of Camp.

Arriving at around 8:45 Wednesday evening I was inundated with snapshot memories. With each turn down familiar roads I was thrown back to specific memories of that spot. It was like riding down memory lane with an extra dose of nostalgia. Describing Camp is a difficult thing to do as there isn’t a way to break it down into simple words. It is more feelings. Memories. And ideas. It is something that helped develop me in ways that have even prepared me for the journey I’m currently on and as I mentioned Brian and I were constantly remembering things from our days as campers.

For the most part my time here has been another series of relaxing days. I have not had concentrated time with my Uncle John (JP as he is affectionately known around here) and Aunt Cammy (JP is my mother’s father’s brother) for a very long time. JP was the director of the boy’s camp here but has since turned over the office work to a guy who has been coming to camp almost all of his life. JP now gets to enjoy the spirit of camp but without worrying about paying the bills or doing the paperwork.

The first camp session hasn’t started yet and there are only a few of the staff here helping with getting things ready. As a result it is very quiet and I can walk down the trails and hear only the chirping of the birds and the swaying trees in the wind. Several times I’ve glanced up and caught views of the majestic bald eagles that nest in one of the large trees on camp property. After my long dash from Washington I have been grateful for these couple of days to unwind in a place that is dear to me and that provides such deep reaching peace. On Friday I decided to take a half-hour nap right after lunch and thoroughly enjoyed it. They had to wake me up though and I was startled to be informed that I was to get ready for dinner. My half-hour turned into around 5 hours. As we surmised I sorely tried my endurance the first part of this past week and I hadn’t allowed for my ‘batteries’ to recharge. I shirk away from the thought that those three days could do such a thing to me but I suppose that when you combine the vagabond status that I’ve maintained, and a steadily moving one at that, with those three days then I can allow for fatigue to truly set in.

Being in Sudan taught me that the body does have limits and that if you are not smart you’ll shoot past them and then seriously regret it. I can remember being skeptical of the sheer exhaustion complained of by one of our international team members. I had just arrived and was green as I could be and didn’t understand what happens to your mind and your heart and your body. As my time there evolved into months and months I quickly began to see the folly of my naivete and realized that exhaustion is real and debilitating.

That being said I am glad for these breaks that I have. Being able to just sit and stare at the water of the beautiful lakes, watch the eagles, write, play tennis with JP...it is all part of a great package of ‘rehab’. I’ve also been able to show my pictures of Sudan and answer questions about my time there and offer my comments on the things that go on there. I enjoy that every time I talk about it as it gives me opportunities to keep it fresh in my mind and to be able to revisit in thought some of my dear friends there.

This evening, Saturday, I spent with some close friends of mine who are mennonites in this area. Several of them have worked at one time or another at the camp and one in particular has done much of the construction and renovations over the years. The pastor of the local mennonite gathering and his family are particularly close to us and I actually lived with them for three months a little under ten years ago. They have children that were a little older than I was and I suppose the idea was to have me experience life on a small farm and learn life skills that would serve me later on. It was there that I learned some basics in construction and also hunted for the first time and with some help bagged my first deer. I was a punk 12 year old (I turned 13 while I was there) from the suburbs of Southern California and probably didn’t appreciate what opportunity I was being given. When I look back on it I see it as a very good thing in my life and there are many developments now that could probably be traced back to that time.

Their family has grown quite a bit since I was there with the older children getting married and poppin’ out grandkids and the evening was an interesting one with all them toddlers and little kids running around. With my current appearance of long hair and a full beard I was probably a little frightening to them and it took a little while for them to warm up to me. I don’t bite and am generally pretty good friends with little kids but I can imagine that for a three year old I could be huge and scary looking.

My plan is to leave tomorrow morning after breakfast and shoot south down to Minneapolis. Another of the Endres family (my mother’s father’s side), CJ and his wife Terri live there and so I will be stopping in for the night and to catch up with them. I’ve seen them up here at camp over the past few years (although it has been two since the last time I was here) but it has been 12 years since I was last at their home.

Before getting that far south I’ll be stopping at a friend of a friend who has become my friend and who is also involved in the wedding of our mutual friend. Keelan (the friend of a friend who has become my friend) is one of the guys who went camping with my friend Justin Lonas (the mutual friend who is getting married) when I was with him towards the beginning of my trip in Tennessee. He lives on the way to Minneapolis and so I’ll stop for a couple of hours.

From there the plan is to shoot over to Monroe, Wisconsin to see another member of the Endres family, my Great Aunt Helen. It has been a long time since I have seen her and I am more than thrilled to swing through her place.

Then I’m going through Chicago and there is a possibility that I’ll be able to see Matt Cain with whom I worked in Darfur. Insha’allah.

Then it is back to the home of my friend Jordan Niednagel in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Missouri. I’ll be there until I leave which will probably at the end of June.

Vancouver to San Juan to A Bout With Reason to A Long Dash Across Montana to Mount Rushmore

2006-06-06T23:35:00.000-05:00

Brian left early the next morning. He wanted to make it back to LA in three days so as to be able to get back to work. Thus ended an exciting chapter of my trip and the only part of it in which I have been accompanied.

The reunion that I had with my fellow adventurers in Darfur was deeply fulfilling. When you live with someone in an environment like Darfur and learn to rely on them for encouragement and strength and they on you there is a bond formed that is difficult to find elsewhere. With Andy Shaver, who was our team leader, such a bond formed and we enjoyed the closeness of it during the year we lived together. We even shared the same office room together and so our contact was constant, either in the office or the house. It was thus very hard to see him go when he finished his contract because it was an all of the sudden ending of what was so vital to my mental stability. After not having seen him for seven months it was a good thing to be with him.

Another aspect of it is that I have never known Andy outside of Darfur. To be able to see the place he calls home, meet the girl he calls honey and hang with the guys he calls hombre’s was a good thing as well.

Also with us in Darfur was a guy named Chris Rae. Chris is from Vancouver and I arrived just a week or so before he is scheduled to go work in the Congo. Perfect timing. Chris is one of those guys who has an educated conversational opinion on everything. He loves philosophy and talking with him is like reading a dictionary. Big words. Deep meanings. He arrived in Darfur in July of last year and succeeded Andy at the helm of the project.

During the time that Andy had to work Chris took me for walking tour of Vancouver. We caught a bus down to China town and walked all over it making out way down to Gas Town, the shipyards, the financial district and the beaches. Chris is a great guy to talk to and over the course of those many hours we rehashed the things we both experienced in Sudan. It was relaxing to be able to sit in the sand and watch huge boats move into the harbor and talk of the things that once gave me anxiety attacks (literally).

I was there from a Thursday to the next Tuesday and was able to spend a lot of that time writing and doing some research on things that interest me. On the whole it felt to me as if the whole pace of my trip dropped to low gear and I was content at the suddenness with which it happened. The people that form the community that Andy and Chris subscribe to are people who live and work in the nitty-gritty of the city and who have a desire to show Christ’s love to those who don’t know it. There is a strong sense of reality there and it is very attractive. When involved in conversations with the group (several of them all live in the same house together, including Andy) I felt as though we were wrestling with issues that shook the world. I was thankful for the glimpse into their life, but was ready to move on when Tuesday came. That desire to move on stemmed not from discontent with their company, but more of an anxiousness to finish my trip.

At that time I was a vagabond for two months and I suppose it was beginning to wear on me.

I’m really impressed with the US Customs checkpoints coming back into the States. I told them that I had a backpack full of drugs and loaded weapons and plans for a Jihad and they just smiled and said, “welcome to America sir.” They did give me weird glances though when the only identification I presented was my driver’s license. You should have your passport, they said. Sorry, I said.

It was only a short hop down to the ferry at Anacortes and once again I found myself headed for the island paradise found in the San Juans. What was going to be just a four day stay turned into five and a half as my hosts prodded and pleaded for me to stay on. I must say that I was sorely tempted to follow their advice and get a job on the island and stay the summer. But I am previously obligated and thus I finally tore myself away mid-day Sunday. Uncle Brian and Aunt Joanne (Brian is actually my mother’s cousin) are marvelous hosts and I really could have stayed forever.

San Juan island is fairly large and there is much to explore. Among that ‘much’ is a glacier-scarred rocky coastline with many inlets and bays inviting the roving sea-kayaker to investigate. One of the things we did was to put one of their kayaks in the water (a two -seater) and go for a two hour cruise. I was introduced completely to the deathly chill of the water on our return leg as we encountered choppy seas (referred to in this case as ‘clapotis’) and several large swells splashed up on the boat and got me wet. All in good fun.

There was a running competition between Uncle Brian and I and it took place on the ping pong table and on the dart board. At first I was bested at both but gradually began to edge my way into the victor’s circle. I still have a hard time on the ping pong table (we were having matches that were absolutely incredible) but I soon became, as the heckler on the electronic dart board says, “the undisputed champion.” It was galling for mine opponent. I wear the title with pride.

My cousins, Brian and Joanne’s daughters, were all there for a while, two of them having entered into a half-marathon being held on the island. The run was on the Sunday I departed and all that morning as they ran I rode alongside of them on my motorcycle offering cheer and good natured encouragement...very comfortable encouragement...for me at least.

The first day that I was there, we had a picnic on the shoreline and shortly after consuming our food one of the resident pods of killer whales passed by and put on a show. The males breaching and splashing and the females coming to the surface and blowing lots of air. One aspect of the males’ show was that we would watch them shoot up completely out of the water and then come down in a huge splash. Then a split second later the thud and rush of the water would reach our ears. We all enjoyed that part of it.

So far, I freely admit that my time on San Juan island has proved to be most cherished by me and it has planted in me seeds growing towards the affect of me someday becoming a northwesterner. We shall see.

The Sunday I chose to depart on was overcast and dreary. Aunt Joanne tried again to dissuade me from going saying that I couldn’t start my journey again on a day like that. However I knew that were I to stay I would probably never leave (I wouldn’t complain) and so I pushed my feelings aside and hit the road.

Ah the open road again. There is a seldom duplicated feeling that you get during the first 30 minutes of the road. Your butt is fresh, the engine roars, and the white lines flash by like Seabiscuit on the home stretch. There is simultaneously a feeling of greatness at what you’re doing and a sense of incredible smallness when vastness of the land swallows you like a drop of water in the ocean. It churns within you and gushes forth in a song, a spasm of shouting or a feeling of excitement that pushes at every seam and causes you to squeeze the handlebars till your knuckles turn white.

Then the hours click by. You shift in your seat to slowly work your way around your butt wearing out each angle in succession. Feet up on the foot pegs. One foot up, one foot down. After a stop for gas and shaking of the legs freshness is returned. The boredom of the road can last for hours sometimes, but then you hit a corner and are forced to lean, scraping the pegs at 75 miles an hour. Or the monotony is broken by the sudden stab of pain as a butterfly or a beetle collides with your leg. Then you might round a corner or come over a hill and be presented with the sprawling majesty of a rugged mountain range, or rolling grassy hills littered with great herds of cattle or giant plateaus rimmed with jagged cliffs. There is always something.

At night you cannot see the road kill. You smell it. The odor of rotting flesh left over from the merciless sun and incessant picking of scavengers is thrown like a wall across the road and it exacts a toll from anyone not employing their recycled air feature...or from each biker that passes. One of the beauties of riding is that you are almost one with your surroundings. You feel the slightest changes in temperature, you feel the gusts and puffs of an indecisive wind and you smell the earth and creatures that you pass by. The dirt clings to your face, the sun bakes your skin and the wind chaffs your hands into brawny clamps.

All that is well and good, the real challenge comes with the rain. Heading east on highway 20 from Anacortes I made for the mountain passes which would lead me to the Grand Coulee Dam and then on down to Spokane on the far side of Washington, the evergreen state. I never made it that far. The dreary clouds pushed and shoved and built themselves up against the mountain range and began to unleash their fury as I myself pushed eastward. The road I was on was quite articulated and as the rain came down in increasing strength I began to worry for my safety. I made it about 60 miles and pulled into a gas station to shake myself dry and get something warm to drink.

I had noticed the climb in elevation and steadily dropping temperatures and worried that further up the road I might meet something which would spell my demise. Two local men struck up a conversation and when they found out I was heading eastward over the pass they warned me otherwise. Talk of hail today...maybe some snow. You don’t want to go that way.

Hmmn...part of me wanted to prove them wrong. Then, the other part of me, which in the past two years hasn’t had much of an audience spoke up. All it takes is one slick patch of road and those pretty cliff-like drops you were admiring will put an end to your plans of family and love...and further adventure. Sound counsel. I turned back down the road. I supposed that I might miss these pestilent storms if tried crossing the mountains to the south and so I dropped back down to Seattle and caught I-90. It was going along swell until it stopped being so. The rain began lightly around 8pm and increased in volume. I was determined to push on knowing that once I got through the mountains I would be in the more desert-like regions of Washington. I needed to make it to Spokane.

I-90, although it passes through the mountains, offered me a much straighter path and I was less worried about the turns in the rain. However, when you can no longer see because of the thickness of the rain (it was stand room only for the water) and the ensuing darkness...continuing on becomes folly. My leather had up to that point proved useful in the rain but even it began to crack leak moisture. Again thinking of my future family I pulled into a hotel.

But I was so far behind schedule! I had half of the northern part of the United States to cross and in order to get where I wanted to go and have time to spend with the people I care about once I got there I needed to be in Billings, Montana by the next night. This would have been Monday evening (or last night from when I’m writing this). That was 767 miles away from Snoqualmie Pass, WA (55 miles east of Seattle). Very well. So be it.

One in the morning on Tuesday this weary traveler rolled into Billings having conquered the carving roads through the mountains, the desperately long straights, the stench of road kill, the spite of other drivers, the grueling imprisonment on a small seat for 14 hours and the cold of Montana nights. Grrr…

And so now I’m in Mount Rushmore nearly 400 miles of road from Billings. I’ve seen it. Didn’t buy the t-shirt. And I don’t have a picture of me in front of it. The thing is impressive, worth seeing, and I shall probably return. But now I’m sitting here writing this missive and looking forward to the morning when I shall rise early and be on my way. I have another long day ahead of me that will potentially rival my dash to Billings in length. This time it is all on flat, flat and straight South Dakota and Minnesota.

So far on this trip I have gone through: North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and am now in South Dakota. Here here.

Oh, and there should be a law against billboards.

The Da Vinci Crud to Fire Mountain to Partial Vancouver

2006-06-06T02:39:00.000-05:00

The Da Vinci Code
A few days before I set Boone in my rearview mirror I had my bike in the Honda Dealership to check fluids and get a North Carolina inspection. Part of the inspection process is to check the tires and if they are not above a certain tread level then they do not pass. My rear tire needed replacing and the front tire was projected to have something less than a thousand miles left on it.

6500 miles later Brian and I pulled into Fortuna, CA and I forked over 125 bucks to replace my front tire. Up until that point we hadn’t experienced rain en-route and so I wasn’t worried too much about traction. But we were breaking into areas that received rain regularly and I didn’t have faith in the gripping abilities of a bald tire in turn on slick pavement.

On our way into town we had passed a theater. The marque boasted the Da Vinci Code and we decided that we’d like to give it a shot. It was opening day. Thanks to the small town the crowds were limited. We settled into our seats and waited for the two hours of tripe that were sure to follow.

What irritated us the most wasn’t the factlessness of the story but the manner in which the movie was executed. Tom Hanks was cardboard, the dialogue was weak and contrived...it was painful. I remember sitting there in the first 10 minutes and thinking to myself, “I’ve read the book so I know there are some good parts coming up...so this has to get better...I hope it gets better.” Brian and I would look at each other and roll our eyes, not at the content of the message but at the atrocious acting.

The film will make the bucks based off of the hype alone, but once people step out of the theater and are greeted by their interested friends the recommendations to see the film will be few and far between. Those Christians that were freaking out have nothing to fear. All they need to do is do a little bit of reading and digging for the message and then a grounded sense of good filmmaking to counter this cultural phenomenon.

Mosquitoes
I grew up looking forward to every summer when my family visited my Mom’s parents at their summer home in Northern Minnesota. That side of the family inherited a summer boy’s camp from its patriarch, Otto Endres, my great-grandfather. I eventually became a camper there and would then stay beyond the camp sessions to enjoy family gatherings and fun times with the equipment of the camp.

What always presented a challenge for me was to resist the urge to scratch the inflictions caused by the innumerable mosquitoes that loved to feast on our flesh. Invariably each year my arms and legs looked like battle zones.

I say all of that to say this: I know mosquitoes. So when I say that our campsite in Astoria, OR possessed the largest and most ferocious demons of the air (mosquitoes) there is weight to my comments. I really have never seen anything like it. Their bite was incredible. Thankfully the buggers were slower and so swatting them out of the air or reducing their 3-D qualities with a quick slap of the hand proved to be easy. But there were so many that one would tire themselves in the space of five minutes. Brian produced some bug repellant that worked to the extent that they no longer felt compelled to bite but the swarms would dart in and out still trying to find a suitable lunch spot. So still they annoyed.

Astoria is the top left corner of Oregon.

Mount St. Helens
It was just shy of closing time when we pulled into the handsome visitor center located at a distance from the famous active volcano. After a quick scan of the inside and realizing that we didn’t have time to see what we wanted in the five minutes until close we decided to head to our campsite which was just down the road and come back in the morning.

Brian had planned our trip pretty detailed-like and had used the bottomless resources online to locate and provide directions for each of our campsites along the way. He had printed out the directions and maps for each day and put them in a three ring binder. After each day was finished we’d tear out the pages and prepare for the next day. It was very convenient and helpful and made our trip flow quite smoothly.

So following the instructions we found our campsite without any hitches. Those were reserved for the actual campsite. It was quaintly nestled on the shores of Spirit Lake which is in view of the volcano but not on the cloudy day in which we arrived. Not a soul was present. There were a few campsites designated and numerous trailer homes and an office with a shrill yapping dog but not a human could be found. It was actually kind of eerie. I looked at Brian with deliberate doubt written on my face. He saw it and hopping on our bikes we quickly departed.

We had something similar a few days earlier when we arrived at a campsite that contained absolutely zero tenants except for ourselves. There was a heavy fog moving in from the ocean which was just a few hundred yards west and 150 feet down from us. It pressed in with great speed and just brushed the points of the sleepy pine trees that were thickly scattered throughout the campsite. From our vantage point on the ground sitting around a roaring fire which was fueled by piles of free wood it appeared as though the trees were endlessly tall as they simply disappeared into the mist. There was a sense of creepiness at being the only people there and it was that feeling that compelled us to flee from the campsite with the shrill dog.

A state park was situated adjacent to the visitor center and it had many vacancies desiring occupation. We were happy to oblige. Around 6:30pm it began to rain. Bummer. The only place to be dry was within the confines of our tents. I enjoy my tent. It is perfect for what I need; it is light, packs up small, and it is just big enough to comfortably fit all of my gear and leave room for me. But it isn’t a place to ‘hang out’. That is now what we found ourselves having to do.

There was plenty of light left in the day so we set about keeping ourselves amused. Reading, napping, etc. I had my computer with me so I set about working on my trip log. I haven’t reduced myself to calling it my ‘plog’ yet and I don’t suspect that that ‘yet’ shall ever be fulfilled.

15 hours after crawling into our tents it finally ceased to rain. I slept quite well and actually left my tent before the rain quit as I had ignored a certain call for far too long and the caller was getting impatient. No it wasn’t my cellphone ringing.

We were possessors of thoroughly soaked equipment and thought as much as we rolled up our tents and stuffed our sleeping bags into their compression sacks. Whatever was in the tent escaped moisture intrusion but the droplets falling from the trees succeeded in doing during wrap up what they couldn’t do during the evening hours. It really didn’t matter though. We were going to be staying with my Dad’s brother and his wife, Uncle Wesley and Aunt Johnena at their home in Spanaway, WA. Showers, laundry and such were just around the corner. But first we had to find out what kind of racket was being run over at the visitor center.

It was a racket alright. Actually, it was one of the nicer visitor centers managed by any form of government that I have been to. Modern and clean architecture, comprehensive and tasteful display of information and several films that sought to take the viewer down a path of utter fear and loathing at the thought of living in the crosshairs, and it is the crosshairs, of a series of vengeful ‘fire mountains’, Mt. Saint Helens, of course, being one of those.

We were geared up to actually head over and see the mountain and the other visitor center at its base but learned that it is a 45 mile ride and the chances of there being a break big enough in the low lying clouds to see the crater were slim to none. We decided to eat the extra cost it took the see both centers and hit the road.

Spanaway, WA is a nice town south of Seattle and is reached by taking Interstate 5 up from near Mount St. Helens through a series of rainstorms and a network of other smaller state highways. Up until this moment we really didn’t know what wet was. The comfort of our family’s home was more than welcomed and our reunion was most enjoyable.

It had been four years since our last gathering with this branch of the Drake family and there was much to catch up on. My cousin Johnena is recently engaged and left the next morning to visit her fiancee. She is number two of twelve grandchildren, Brian being number one and me being number three. I was able to show my slideshow from Sudan and talk about my experiences there which I always am eager to do.

Overall it was a good visit and bidding farewell until the wedding date we departed mid morning after one night.

Seattle
The fifty miles from Spanaway to Seattle pass by quickly. It is a nice drive when it is dry. Too bad we didn’t experience it dry. Getting rained on isn’t that bad. I’ve got my leather jacket and pants which keep me well taken care of during a downpour. What gets difficult is being stuck behind other traffic. The entire freeway becomes a misty cloud and on top of complete immersion you have severely reduced visibility. Riding a two wheeled machine in such conditions taxes you, mentally and physically. The whole time you are expecting that one of the tires will hydroplane and you will slide down to a watery death. Wiping out probably wouldn’t actually kill you, it would be more likely that the drivers behind you wouldn’t be able to see you and would only realize their mistake as their otherwise smooth ride would abruptly take on a crunching bump. It would all be over in a matter of seconds. Still those thoughts crossed my mind. So I purposed not to wipe out. I’m writing this report so neither I nor Brian experienced such misfortune.

Our cousins Kelsey and Caitlin live in Seattle and so we stopped for lunch together. They are the daughters of Brian and Joanne Endres, Brian being my mother’s cousin. We’ve been close to them growing up as both of our families spent considerable time up at Camp Chippewa in Northern Minnesota. Camp Chippewa was founded by my great-grandfather for boys who need a place to experience nature and encounter themselves whilst in the midst of great adventure. After the camp sessions the rest of the family would come and enjoy each other’s company and the beauty that is readily available up there.

It had been a few years since either Brian or I had spent time with Kelsey or Caitlin and the lunch we had was a great time to catch up. That night we then traveled up the coast a bit to Anacortes where we caught a ferry which took us over to the San Juan Islands where Brian and Joanne recently acquired a house and are currently living.

I’ve been around. I’ve seen beautiful things. I’ve been in places where the beauty is so intense that words are folly. The San Juan Islands are one of those places where I am so taken by its appearance that I am speechless. It is so pleasing. Of the many islands San Juan island is the largest and we were on the ferry to Friday Harbor. Aunt Joanne and Becky (her daughter) met us as we roared off the ferry and led us back to their ‘Walden’. They even live on a road called ‘Wold Road’. Sounds similar.

It is a slice of heaven. Quiet. Serene. Beautiful. They’ve got a small house that is perfect for what they need and it is surrounded on one side by a tall deer fence to protect the vegetable garden. Behind the house about 30 yards are three green bee hives full of activity and promise of sweet honey. They’ve got five acres and they are situated in the bottom of a large valley which serves as home to other farms, bed and breakfasts and other quaint homesteads.

There is also a shop building on their property where they have set up a quality ping-pong table and the home theater. Attached to that building is the ‘boat house’ where their three sea-kayaks rest between voyages. My brother and I were seriously impressed by this entire place and it was with regret that we left the next day. I consoled myself with the thought that after 5 days in Vancouver I would take up the offer to return and stay for a while.

Vancouver
Having lived and traveled Interstate-5 for the 16 years we lived in California I was only ever exposed to the sections that commute from LA down to San Diego and in between. It is mostly pretty ugly. Construction everywhere, bland hills, ugly buildings, etc. I knew that it extends all the way up to Canada but I had no idea that it could actually be considered pleasant to the eyes. The hour and 20 minutes it takes from Anacortes to the border is one of the more beautiful interstate highway sections in the United States. Lush and vibrant farmland lies all around and in the East massive snow-capped Mount Baker dominates the horizon. On our way up to the border we could not see it because of a devilish looking storm system was piling up against that mountain range and spewing its venom on the earth. For several minutes the highway pointed right at it and I was thinking, as I’m sure Brian was, that we were about to be plunged into that churning froth.

At the last moment the road took a turn to the northwest and we barely brushed the outskirts, getting a slight soaking. I have never seen such dark and evil looking clouds. It was during late afternoon which around here is usually still quite bright but the thickness and heaviness of the clouds blocked all light from penetrating. Truly amazing. On top of that display of natural power the colors were made all the more rich because of the eerie lighting and overload of rain.

By the time we snaked through some mountains and arrived at the border checkpoint we were dried out and the sun was shining brightly. Canadian Border Patrol didn’t bother us much and soon we were on our way up the Canadian version of I-5, Highway 99.

Canada is a stunning country. When I was younger and going to the boy’s camp my great-grandfather started I took part in the canoe trips that we took up into the Canadian shield. The trips were at least a week and they were excursions into complete wilderness. You can imagine how much trips like that would shape a young boy and give him a confidence in himself, especially after he carried a canoe all by his lonesome on his shoulders for the ¾ of a mile that most portages between lakes comprised of.

All of my experience in Canada was in the province of Manitoba and I had never seen the other parts of the country which I have now found to be breathtaking as well. Even with cities and people the surrounding area overwhelms the man-made objects and dominates the horizon every-which-way.

Vancouver is plopped on a large bay and has an active shipping port. Huge cranes loom over the water to unload the gargantuan tankers and container ships that cruise on in. Just north of the city across the water is a mountain range that has some snow on it and at night you can see the ski resorts lights. Brian was startled the first evening because he forgot about the mountain and was suddenly confronted by the lights. He is not a believer in the paranormal but for just a split second there was some doubt...oh, right, the ski resort.

More on Vancouver later...

A Flat Tire to An Interview to The Golden Gate to Rain

2006-05-28T19:12:00.000-05:00

California
I don’t recall what hour I finally got up Sunday morning. Just the day before I had ridden back to LA with Brian from the desert and that was the day after riding out there in the first place which was the day after I arrived in California after a 10 hour ride. Does that make sense? One thing about riding a motorcycle is that you don’t feel tired (usually) while riding. This is great for long trips as you aren’t fighting to stay awake. However, the moment that boot slips off the foot peg and the rumble of the engine is silenced and that rump cautiously rises from the molded seat the weariness retraces the hundreds of miles just traveled and abruptly registers.

So I justify sleeping late. My sleeping quarters at Brian’s apartment weren’t super comfortable, but his carpeted floor is vastly superior to the ground of Darfur on which I have passed many somber evenings. So I actually didn’t notice any discomfort. My stomach grumbled, protesting the lack of attention I had doled out the previous evening. I thus resolved to remedy the situation by taking the 2 block trip to In-N-Out burger. I need say no more.

In actuality, the two weeks I spent at Brian’s apartment kind of blend. There are spots of recognition and detail; a weekend with my Grandparents in San Diego, an evening with my Uncle Kirby and Aunt Karol and cousin Chelsea, a drive through my old neighborhood and a walk through my childhood haunts, and so on.

I did make sure to make it to Royal Pastries. The best doughnuts bar none. Pure piece of heaven.

I was able to show my Darfur pictures to several people and relate my experiences in a more personal manner. I am always glad to do such a thing as people need to remember what is going on. Just before Brian and I headed up the coast I gave a video interview for a documentary being created about Darfur for the Sundance Film Festival. The producers know someone in Samaritan’s Purse who put them in touch with me and so I went and was interviewed for an hour.

I mentioned this to Andy Shaver, who I am now with in Vancouver, BC, and I remarked at how as I would describe the situation (and all aspects of it) the look on the interviewer’s face was one of incredulous shock. Even though I know that what Darfur was and is is wrong and terrible I am no longer shocked by it. My description of it is rather matter-of-fact and it intrigued me to see someone being faced with it for the first time. Made me realize again that what I take in-stride is actually quite distressing for the average American.

They are trying to get to Darfur to film and according to them should be finished with the film by September. If it passes muster with the Film Festival then it will be revealed in February of 2007.

One continuing thing of interest is that my brother’s motorcycle has provided us with many adventures:

We were returning from skydiving and were within five miles of his house when his rear tire struck a metal object and subsequently became flat. We were riding in the far left-hand lane and had 5 lanes to our right. Traffic was thicker than fleas and crawling at 10 mph. There was a shoulder on the left, however, and so we pulled into the five feet of protection it offered. Up until that point I had been riding in the lead but as we neared Brian’s abode I became less familiar with the directions and motioned for Brian to surge past me. Moments later I noticed his problem.

He didn’t catch it at first and it took me riding up right next to him and telling him to pull off. Brian used my cell phone and called Triple A. To his chagrin he discovered that the plan he was on didn’t cover his motorcycle. Still they put in the call for a tow truck. We needed a flatbed so that the motorcycle could be safely towed. What showed up 45 minutes later was a regular tow-truck whose driver claimed that he was just ‘scouting’ it out, the flat bed was coming. Fair enough.

By this time multiple thousands of cars had crawled past us and only three people had stopped or slowed to ask if we were alright. Los Angeles county is world-renowned for its hospitality. Twenty minutes after he arrived the regular tow truck driver came upon the brilliant idea of trying to repair the tire. He began to work. Then came the bees.

I suppose God ran out of locusts and had to send bees. At first we thought that it was flakes of ash from a nearby fire. But when one of them hovered in front of Brian’s face we realized their identity. For the next 10 minutes we were enveloped in a swarming cloud of bees. The driver shrieked for fear of his allergies and ran into his truck. Brian and I put our full face helmets on and turned up the collars of our jackets the whole time staring at each other in disbelief. Then they were gone.

Two or three hours after the initial pull-over we were finally sorted out. Brian was missing an arm having paid for the tow and his bike was in the shop for repairs of damage done to the rim.

Then we were riding back from San Diego where we had spent the weekend with our Grandparents and I noticed that the front exhaust pipe on Brian’s bike was flapping in the wind. He noticed a sharp increase in volume and definite loss of power. I again pulled up next to him and pointed at the problem. Stopping at a hardware store we purchased a pipe clamp and put the pipe back in place. Problem temporarily solved.

Moving along. “Brian, how about I continue to take the rear in case your engine falls off?” A short while later I am almost compelled to duck to miss the plastic cover for his battery area. The clasp had cracked at some point in the bike’s history and finally reached the give-up point. Nothing operationally serious but only the aesthetic quality is damaged. A quick stop at the Honda dealership and the discovery that a new one would be over a hundred dollars. For a piece of plastic 12 inches long and 10 inches tall. Wow. As my grandfather says of personal aircraft, if you were to build an airplane from scratch with spare parts it would be vastly more expensive than just going out and buying one. The irony.

The pipe got welded. I changed the oil in both of our bikes and we were finally ready to go.

Due to some work issues and my video interview we decided to postpone the trip for one day. Sunday, May 14th we bade farewell to Los Angeles and began our ‘climb’ north along the coast.

I was born in Orange County in Southern California...I even passed by the hospital where I was born on this trip, but never in my 16 years of living there did I ever venture up past Monterey. I had absolutely no idea about the wealth of beauty that is contained along the coast. Our first day had us both reeling in amazement with every bend in the road. As we’d stop for gas we share our shocked impressions.

Prior to setting off we had determined a system of hand signals which had the total effect of getting the both of us to be aware of one or the other’s intentions of pulling over. We didn’t have two way radios (which we regret) and so the only way to discuss things was to pull over. If our hands got cold one would wave his hand over his head, get noticed by the other and then receive a corresponding signal. We’d pull over.

Without discussion and en-route we agreed that pumping your hand up and down vigorously meant some kind of thrilled declaration of amazement and excitement. Our trip was punctuated hundreds of times in such a manner as we’d round a bend and be confronted with mountains dropping off immediately into the ocean which beat itself relentlessly on the rocky cliffs. We’d swoop around a sharp bend and find a steep canyon had wound its way around the peaks and found the ocean. We’d slow and stare back up the canyon’s mysterious pathway realizing that more beauty lay beyond those bends too. Too bad we could ride over there.

Our first night was in a place called Big Sur. We found a campground that was inundated with huge trees that hugged each campsite and towered above like vigilant sentries. We lay awake discussing and not believing at the incredible things we had encountered. Post-trip now we both agree that that first day was one of the top three experiences of the whole adventure.

I won’t go into too much detail about each day of the trip. We had good campsites and bad ones. Mostly good days, although there were cold moments and being socked in with fog and mist. Those things made it all the more adventurous though. Not being able to see the road more than 50 feet in front of you is exciting. Challenging.

The intensely meandering coastline highway provided great enjoyment for us motorcyclists, but after the third and fourth and fifth day of the stuff it proved to be hard work. Enjoyable still, but we began to long for straight roads where we could consume more blacktop and arrive in our campsites with more daylight to spare.

I can say now that I have been to San Francisco and have personally driven across the famed Golden Gate Bridge. It was a beautiful time of day with a late afternoon sun casting warmth and shadow and making for more character on the bridge. Ships cruised in the bay beneath us and the city sprawled out to our right. We didn’t take the tour but we could see Alcatraz sitting menacingly also to our right.

Then it turned chilly and the next two hours of riding were interesting. Climbing into my small tent and sleeping bag were welcomed luxuries at the end of the day and each morning I was thankful for the waterproof qualities of my tent as we were rained on everyday. We’d just lie there for a few hours until it stopped and then quickly rise and pack up and leave.

San Antonio to El Paso to The Grand Canyon to LA to 12,500 feet to an unfinished progression

2006-05-27T04:30:00.000-05:00

It is Monday, the 22nd of May and I am at a campground adjacent to the visitor center for Mt. St. Helens. The visitor center is quite a few miles from the actual mountain and I suspect that I know why. You can figure it out. I am here with my older brother, Brian, and we have just spent the last week cruising up the west coast on our motorcycles. Unlike James Taylor we havenÌt seen fire and rain÷just rain. Almost every night in fact.

IÌve been obsessing about this motorcycle trip for well over a year and my experience in Darfur served only to cause the sparks and fan the flame. In the course of discussing the details of the trip my brother decided that he wanted to join me when I made the trek northwards from his home in LA. He had never ridden a motorcycle before and that remained the case until about a month before we were scheduled to leave.

A friend at his work recommended a motorcycle training course offered as part of a licensing program in California and so Brian opted to take it. Prior to the course he was planning on keeping the bike he would buy only for the trip and then sell it afterwards. However, according to him, after getting into the course and leaning into the turns he decided that this newfound thrill was too good to pass up. Plus the ridiculous price of gas these days really makes a mid-forties per gallon vehicle enticing.

When I rolled into LA he had ridden somewhere around 200 miles on a bike that he had only owned for two weeks. And we were then planning a trip that would require from us 1500 miles up a coastline road that due to twists and turns keeps you down to an average of maybe 30 mph. What fun.

I was with my friends in San Antonio through the weekend and Sunday morning I again hit the road. Soon I encountered the sheer vastness of the state of Texas and it truly seemed as if it would never end. There were several times where I began to sweat it when the miles began to stretch longer than I was comfortable with the size gas tank I have. Mile after mile of nothing but massive rolling planes surrounded by bizarre rock formations and jagged mountain ranges. Then there were hundreds upon hundreds of gigantic wind farms with windmills that have blades 150 feet long. They were stacked thick as fleas and dutifully captured the wind as they spun around in slow motion.

The placement of the wind farms there was a good one and I realized that with each blasting gust that hit me from the south. There were several gusts that truly terrified me and one in particular that actually nearly succeeded in unseating me from my iron horse. My route was along I-10 which snakes along the US border all the way to El Paso. I rolled into said town early evening as dog-tired traveler baked by the sun and bored witless by the truly unexciting scenery.

My grandfather had provided me with 8 stays at a Marriot Courtyard and as I didnÌt have the energy to find a campground in the waning light I pulled into one and gratefully slumped on the comfortable bed in my room. I then discovered a peculiar thing. In the middle of my back I found a large lump that protruded out from my spinal column. I was immediately awake and nervous not knowing what it was.

I was quite sure that it wasnÌt there that morning and I began to rack my mind trying to figure it out. I called my parents to ask them what they thought it was and even called the local hospital. My room had internet and so I started scouring the medical websites trying to find out what this thing on my back was. It didnÌt hurt and was kind of hard but wasnÌt solidly attached under my skin. Thus I could sort of manipulate it. Not much could be done and so I went to bed quite shaken. I awoke the next morning to find that it had gone down considerably and by that time I had figured that it might have been caused by pressure. All the day before I had been leaning up against my backpack and there was a strap that protruded right at that spot. I suppose that 10 hours of constant pressure would cause some sort of swelling.

Well that was scary but IÌm glad it wasnÌt anything serious.

From El Paso I hoofed it all the way to Williams, AZ. I passed through Tuscan and Phoenix and took I-17 north to Flagstaff. Williams is 35 miles west of Flagstaff and is situated right on the road that leads to the Grand Canyon. I got kind of a late start and so it wasnÌt until almost 10pm that I rolled into the campground I had made reservations at. During the day it was quite warm but as the sun began to dip and I began to climb the air suddenly grew quite cold. I pulled over and put on all of my layers and pressed on.

The two hours from when I put on my warm clothes until I pulled into my campsite were probably the coldest two hours of my life. I didnÌt realize it but I was at 7000 feet and it was somewhere in the 30Ìs. My hands were frozen and my body was so cold that my shoulders were involuntarily heaving and shuddering. My legs were doing the same thing. I truly had a hard time feeling my fingers. I-40 shoots west out of Flagstaff and I followed it for the 35 miles it took to get to my campground. It is long and straight. I took advantage of that and was soon flying along at around 100mph. I hunched over behind my windshield and sang real loud in my helmet to keep myself sane or it was an outburst of insanity caused by hypothermia not sure which.

I lay that night in my tent not believing what I had just done. I thanked God that I hadnÌt wiped out and spread myself out on the road but also prayed that I would warm up. My sleeping bag isnÌt that great and I continued to shiver and lay awake most of the night trying to get warm. I donÌt know when sleep finally overtook me but I was at last warm when I awoke÷to warm. The mid morning sun beat down upon my tent creating an oven-like effect. I crawled out to discover the terrain that had escaped me during my midnight dash.

I was situated in a large valley. Scrubby trees were everywhere and in general I wasnÌt all that impressed. The real eye-candy lay 45 minutes to the north.

The crowning event of the three days I spent camping there was the half day ride I took along the rim of the Grand Canyon. I had been there once before but still I was not fully prepared to comprehend the vastness of the geological anomaly that cost me 10 dollars in park fees to come and stare at.

The Grand Canyon is truly massive. It is so big that when you stare at it you really have to pause and consider whether or not what you are looking at is real. I got that sensation when I first saw the cruiseliner the Queen Mary which is docked as a museum in the Long Beach Harbor in California. It is something that is so big that from a distance you could almost be convinced that it is a backdrop painting or something and that by walking forward you might hit the wall that it is set upon.

The time of day that I arrived at the GC was just right as well as the shadows cast made for crisp edges and stark contrasts. In some places the road is only a few feet away from the edge where the ground gives way to the air and there is nothing for 300 feet straight down. There are many places to pull over and observe and I took occasion to eat lunch at one of them.

I sat on a boulder on the edge for half an hour just soaking in the serenity.

The rest of the ride followed an easterly route along the canyon until it eventually peters out in vast plains straight from the set of a John Wayne movie. It was pleasant and sunny and the two lane road wound its way down from the plateau height of around 7000 feet where the grand canyon is to the lower planes a few thousand feet below. Then it snaked around large buttes and small mountains as it climbed back up to Flagstaff.

I was planning on staying a day later in that area but having exhausted the things ëto doí I decided to go ahead and get to my brotherís place in LA a day early. With stops and such it is about 8 hours and so mid morning on Thursday the 27th of April I hit the road, closing another chapter in this trek of mine.

I almost ran out of gas. There was a long stretch where there were no gas stations and I was down to fumes. Iíve been there a few times already with my 3.5 gallon tank and I slowed down and took it real easy trying to squeeze just a few more miles out of the bone dry tank. You can imagine my complete relief when that station sign loomed on the horizon. Relief even in the shocking face of over three dollars for one measly gallon.

As I neared California I began to see small groups of bikers heading the opposite direction. Customarily we waved to each other (a part of biking I really enjoy, the comradery with complete strangers based off the single bond of being a fellow rider. Then small groups grew into huge groups and then for the next 150 miles I was presented with a constant stream of roaring bikers. As far as the eye could see up I-40 the eastbound lanes were choked with Harleyís and everything else all intent on reaching a huge rally in Arizona. I felt out of place heading West.

I finally arrived at my brotherís place. I had to pass through the San Bernardino mountains and was confronted with scenery I didnít remember California possessing. It is really beautiful north of Los Angeles.

Navigating rush hour traffic in and around Los Angeles reminded me why I love living in the seclusion offered by the small mountain town of Boone. Boone is getting crowded but at least it isnít with the cutthroats that swarm the freeways coursing through LA. Several times I was nearly run into by willingly blind motorists. Then you have the motorcycles which zip up in between the lanes. That is quite convenient for motorcyclists but I didnít have the guts at first to partake of that shortcut.

What lay ahead of me was two weeks with my brother and a chance to catch up on sleep that I feel I havenít fully caught up on from being in Sudan. I could probably sleep for the next year and still not regain the energy I lost while being there. Having just ridden almost 5000 miles (granted over a month) didnít help for that and so I was thrilled to be able to completely relax.

I had to wait for a few days though. The day after I arrived (Friday) Brian and I hopped on our bikes and headed for the desert where Brian has, within the last few months, taken up the hobby of skydiving. We had scheduled jumps for both of us and also there were several guys from Brianís workplace that promised to come.

I had gone skydiving once before with Brian back in February but that was jumping tandem or strapped to an instructor. What I was gearing up to do was jump out of an airplane with my own parachute and would thus be responsible for maintaining a stable descent and pulling the rip cord at the appropriate altitude. Then I would pilot the airfoil parachute to the ground and, guided by radio on the ground, make a landing.

I admit that I was nervous. Especially considering that before jumping I had to complete a 5 hour ground school, something I was able to do Friday night, the night before our jumps. I was worried that I would freak out midair and that something would go wrong. I wasnít worried about the equipment failing as I had already experienced what it felt like. My main concern was ëdiver errorí. Fears are usually unfounded though and throughout the freefall you are flanked by two instructors who if need be could deploy my parachute.

The company that runs the drop zone provides for and allows people to sleep on the premises so Brian and I were able to stay right at the airport. The hustle and bustle of moving the twin engine airplane out of the hanger that took place just outside the rooms we were in woke us up. My mind immediately latched upon the concept of what I was soon to be experiencing and resorted to the mental and even physical drills taught in the ground school.

There is a flight option called the ‘early bird’ and it takes off at 6:30am. The sky was perfectly clear and there was a slight crispness to the air made special by the glancing morning sunshine. I munched a ‘Clif’ Bar, sipped my water and patiently waited.

Brian had convinced a contingent of his colleagues from his office to push aside their truly unfounded fears and join us that day for the thrills. The four of them planned to jump tandem and a few others decided to show up with their cameras, each certain that they would be capturing the grisly ends of their friends.

By the time I suited up, checked the gear and climbed into the harness to which my parachute was attached the group was still absent. With the ‘Fanfare of Man’ blaring poignantly in my mind and picturing myself in slow motion I strode over to the plane and stepped aboard with the ten other people on that flight. It was around 8:30am. To reach the jump altitude of 12,500 feet it takes about 25 minutes of steep ascent.

Those minutes are revealing of the crowd that makes up the addicted skydivers. A brochure provided this comment, “25 dollars for the ride up, free inflight entertainment.” Very enjoyable. As altitude markers are ticked off double and triple checks are performed on each other’s equipment and the adrenaline begins to flow. Except for the laughs and small conversation shouted over the roar of the engines the early stages of the flight are pretty unemotional. Once jump time is moments away the excitement begins to permeate the plane until it feels as if the plane itself could make its flight sustained by it.

Then it is scooting down the bench seats along the side as my predecessors vanish. Then it is the door. The gaping mouth of the sky breathing its icy blasts on my face. Step up to the edge. One hand flat against the inside. One hand flat on the outside. Facing forward. Knees slightly bent. My two jump masters securing their grips. “CHECK IN!” I can hardly hear myself. The JM to my right shakes me to affirm his readiness. “CHECK OUT!” My left shakes affirmation. Square shoulders to prop blast. Down. Up. Down. And a simple step of faith to my left into nothingness.

ARCH! Falling. Stomach in throat. Deafening roar of the wind rushing by at 120 mph. Check horizon. I’m stable. Check altimeter. Shout to JM, “ELEVEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED.” Practice touch to my ripcord. Enjoy the ride. Check altimeter. Watch it for a five seconds and watch it eat a thousand feet. Jumpmaster signals to arch more. Good...thumbs up.

Altimeter. Six thousand feet. No more maneuvers. Wave arms over head to signal immediately pending parachute deployment. Jump masters let go. Five thousand five hundred feet. Showtime. Reach, pull.

Rustling and unfurling. Poof. Arrested development. Complete silence. I am a spot in the sky. I look and see that I have a perfect parachute. Reaching up I grab my control toggles which, when individually pulled, warp the shape of the wing causing specific drag and redirecting airflow thus causing purposeful alterations in bearing. Now I can hear crackling in my radio earpiece and an instructor on the ground calls in,

“Jonathan, congratulations. Control check please.” Does the parachute actually work? A hard pull on the right toggle produces sudden downward spiral to the right. Alternating to the left I get the same result. The sudden surge downward and I feel the rush of acceleration. Good. Level flight now and pull smoothly on both toggles causing a ‘flare’. Putting on the breaks. Release. Marvelous. I now know that I can steer and slow the parachute down. Now I relax and look around and relish the serenity and beauty of the desert from 4000 feet.

Ground instructor cackles in directing me into a landing pattern that will have me landing into the wind. I can see my brother standing on the ground at the landing site. He is with his friends. They have just arrived.

It is very difficult to know when exactly to flare. You are essentially putting a severe halt to forward motion and thus legitimate flight. It is thus useful for landing in complete control and for providing a truly soft touchdown but many people make the mistake of flaring too early and suddenly dropping to the ground. Or they flare to late and may end up injuring themselves. The majority of skydiving accidents actually happen during the landing.

However, the instructor guides novice students in every step of the way. In the earpiece, “hold...hold...hold...” The ground is rushing up to me. Faith in the instructor. “Hold...hold...and flare.” The flare is practiced on the ground at the right cadence and to my satisfaction I was able to pull it off perfectly. With the ease of stepping down from a two foot wall I safely connected my feet with the ground and watched my parachute, my life-cradle, gently crumple into the dirt.

There was my brother and his compatriots with cheers and adulations. If I could do this then they certain could. Fears subsided on their part. Inner triumph on mine. Glory be.

Dayton to Thornfield to Tulsa to Dallas to Austin to San Antonio

2006-05-25T02:58:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, April 4, 2006
After nearly freezing to death last night I broke down and stopped at a Days Inn. This area experienced a late spring frost and I was caught in the middle of it. I decided to give in to my shuddering and twitching body and call it and night. This morning I awoke and quickly loaded up my things so as to hit the road early.. I had stayed the night in a town called Hardy, as in the Hardy Boys. Hardy is located in the Northeast of Arkansas and is just 20 minutes from the Missouri border.

My destination is the house of my friend Jordan Niednagel. He lives in the middle of nowhere, Missouri style. I shall be seeing him in the next few hours. I won’t go into too much detail about what we are doing at this point in my narrative as later in my trip I’ll be coming back to his house and there will be more to share.

Friday, April 21, 2006
Well, much has transpired since I last sat down and wrote something out. I am currently in Bulverde, Texas which is just north of San Antonio. I arrived yesterday amidst a downpour. Thankfully my things stayed dry but I certainly was not. I am staying with the Goforths, friends of our family who used to live in Boone. I helped them to move 5 years ago, something which constituted my first long distance driving adventure (with me driving).

On my way to their house I had my first real close call…well, second actually, but this one was actually a lot more serious than the first. Close call as in nearly becoming road paint. The first happened just the day before when I was in Austin driving around trying to find a grocery store. A woman started to pull out from a car dealership and made clear eye contact with me. I began to slow thinking that she was going to stop and wait for me to pass but it quickly became evident that I was the only one doing the thinking. She just continued to slowly sneak out into the road and ended up covering one and a half lanes directly in front of me. Had I not immediately swerved around her I would have plowed into her. I laid on my horn and gave her a dirty look. This all happened quite fast actually and I was quite thankful for quick reflexes.

So the second thing that happened really shook me up. I was carefully moving along Texas highway 46 looking for Old Boerne (bur-nee) Rd, the road on which the Goforths live. Earlier it had been raining like there was no tomorrow and I had pulled under large archway that served as a ranchÌs entrance. I was able to wring out my shirt and put on my leathers (hadnÌt been wearing them because it was hotter than the inner sanctums of hell) and once it eased up from being torrential I hit the road again.

Soon I came upon Old Boerne Rd. What happened next was stupid and it is GodÌs grace that I am alive. I didnÌt remember to think that the roads would be slick and so I put on the brakes to slow down for the turn. My wheels locked and all of the sudden I was sliding and slipping down the road. It felt like it was going in slow motion and the whole time was I fully expecting to go down. But I fought it and suddenly found myself righted and safe. I pulled over and caught my breath÷calmed down and then turned around and headed down the right road. Phew.

Prior to being here I have been in Missouri for two weeks, Tulsa, Dallas and Austin. In Missouri I was with my friend Jordan Niednagel working on a film we are making for a small time Christian film festival in San Antonio. He owns two jetskis and so we hit the lake once it got warm enough. One of them wasnÌt working so we hopped on the double seater and took turns trying to throw the other guy off. That was the first time that I had ever ridden on one of those things and I had a complete blast. We took turns riding single and during my time I rode vigorously enough to throw myself twice. It was some of the most fun IÌve had in a long time.

I left from Missouri mid morning on Monday the 17th and arrived in Tulsa late afternoon. I stopped along the way at AmericaÌs largest McDonalds. This has been my only Îfast foodÌ stop other than Subway for this whole trip and until I get to In-N-Out territory I plan on keeping it that way (those of you not from In-N-Out territory wonÌt understand). While I was waiting in line to order my artery concrete (to use the term of Coy Isaacs) I heard a child screaming his head off and I was annoyed. Annoyance turned to intrigue when the childÌs parents kept telling him, ÏhalassÓ, which is Arabic for Îthat is enoughÌ. I turned around and saw that indeed it was a Sudanese man with his family. I struck up a conversation, part Arabic and part English. Elhad has lived in the States for several years and used to live in Khartoum. He was excited to meet someone who had been to Sudan. I was likewise.

Tulsa serves as the home of my Great Uncle Bob and Great Aunt Esther. Uncle Bob is my motherÌs fatherÌs brother. For many years of my life my mother and brothers stayed with my grandparents at their cabin in Minnesota and Uncle Bob and Aunt Esther were usually there as well in their cabin next door. So it was great to see them again as it had been about two years. Aunt Esther made sure that I was well fed and taken care of and I was able to show them some of my pictures from Sudan.

The next morning I hit the road early and was well on my way to Dallas before the scorching heat reached its full force. The day before on the way to Tulsa was miserable and reminded me of some days in Sudan. Having contained explosions continuously exploding between my legs and adding to the heat around me made things all the more sweltering. In Tulsa I had quite a few stop and go traffic stops and those were the worst. Once you begin to fly down the road the wind carries most of the heat away.

While I was enjoying the road I ended up making a wrong turn and found myself about two hours east of where I wanted to be once I reached the same latitude as Dallas. I pulled out the trusty Atlas and found a country highway that ran from Paris (Texas) over to near Dallas. It was longer in actuality that it appears on the map and stretched for miles and miles through the sprawling plains just teeming with evidence for ‘over-population’ (indicated sarcasm). My Great Aunt Miriam lives in Dallas (the older sister of Uncle Bob) and so I stopped in for a short visit. Unfortunately the amount of time we had was quite limited but we had a good time with what we had.

By this time my arms were nice and burned but by now they have transitioned nicely over to a deep tan. I dare not take my watch off though… the white would be blinding.

From Dallas I headed south along I-35 towards Austin, a 5 hour drive. When I was about 2 hours outside of Austin I was able to see the massive thunderhead system that was approaching from the south. I had checked the weather and knew that I would be possibly running into something like that but I just kept praying that I would avoid getting dumped on. As the day ‘waxed old like a garment’ and the sky got darker the atmosphere grew gloomier and scarier. The lighting was ripping through the sky and all in front of me and increasingly around me was the thrilling display of the crackling light.

As I drove around searching for my hotel in Austin the sky appeared to me like it does in the movie ‘Independence Day’ when the alien spacecraft break through earth’s atmosphere. It seemed to be tearing apart. There was an oppressive force to the clouds and an immanency to them that encouraged speed in my search. Just a minute or two before I pulled under the awning of the entrance of the hotel where I was staying the heavens opened up. I was only slightly wet and escaped the next several hours which contained torrential downpours and hail literally almost as wide as a 20 dollar bill. Helmet or no helmet that would put a dent in your plans.

The next morning I rode to downtown Austin and arrived early for a scheduled tour of the campus of the University of Texas at Austin. I am hoping to eventually attend school there with the goal of studying Hebrew and Arabic. I am not sure what that will lead to but that is what I am excited about doing. The campus is very handsome and well laid out. It actually has the largest student population of 50,000. Lots of kids running around.

Anyway, that was all very interesting and exciting. One more night in Austin and then yesterday morning I left around 11:30 and headed down to see my friends here in San Antonio.

Boone to Troy to Dayton

2006-05-24T11:18:00.000-05:00

Troy, North Carolina 3-30-2006
At long last I have commenced my journey. I have talked of this trip for over a year and now I cannot believe I am doing it. For months I had visions of the road as it appears over my handlebars and now my mind is filled not with desired scenes from the future but now relished scenes from my first day of travel.

On my way out of town I stopped to see if my concealed carry permit had arrived at the SheriffÌs office. Although, as I found out, it had been issued on the 23rd it still hadn’t arrived and I was forced to leave town packing heat that was hindered by a cable lock and stored not on my hip but in my bag. Pride slightly marred.

I was therefore on my way at last leaving town around 12:15 and beginning my descent off the mountain via 421. Not wanting to attract the blue lights I kept it nice and easy and hovered comfortably at 65-70mph. I stopped in Wilkesboro to pick up my new boots from the HD store and bought some gloves while I was at it. Roughly four hours later I rolled into Troy, the adopted home of Boone Berlin, student of Montgomery Community College and aspiring gunsmith. Boone and I go back as long as I’ve lived in the town of Boone (no relation) and I was pleased to make my first stop at his humble abode.

We enjoyed each other’s company, the local food scene (pretty pathetic) and the free access gun range available within the confines of the Uwharrie National Park. We duly heated the barrels of his .22 pistol and .22 Mag rifle and made the other shooters jealous wielding my recently acquired .40 caliber Walther P99, James Bond’s and Jack Bauer’s handgun of choice. Drake, Jonathan Drake.

As I write I prepare to bed down and will be leaving BooneÌs house in the morning. My destination is Dayton, TN. Justin Lonas, my buddy from Boone and co-highschool graduate is currently enrolled at Bryan College there as a senior. I’ll be staying with him for the weekend. Then, if my permit has arrived on Monday I will drive back to Boone to pick it up. From there it will be off to Missouri and so on.

Dayton, Tennessee 4-1-2006
I arrived in the town of Dayton on Saturday. My trip was without incident and was for the first time faced with an almost all day travel. I must say that I was indeed wiped out and do not know how I survived the buffeting and rush of the wind. However I do enjoy it. The freedom of the road is exhilarating.

My purpose for coming to Dayton, and you must have a purpose as there isn’t anything here to attract your average traveler, is that my good friend Justin Lonas has dwelt here for just under four years as a student of Bryan College. Bryan was founded in honor of William Jennings Bryan, a statesman, multiple timed presidential candidate and the famous lawyer who stood in defense of the law restricting the teaching of evolution in the infamous Scopes Monkey Trial.

During this stay Justin showed to me the courtroom in which the trial took place and drove by the unassuming house that served as the stage for Bryan’s death within a week following the completion of the trial. Very interesting. I personally enjoy being in places of great historical significance.

Saturday night we headed off to some local wilderness and with two of Justin’s school buddies went camping. It was a glorious evening and we enjoyed each other’s company and conversation into the wee hours of the night. Good guys.

I was aroused the next morning by a light tapping sound that I initially took for the crackling of the fire that Justin had promised to create. Of course it wasn’t and dodging the now realized dropping rain we ate a quick breakfast and rolled up our wet things and hurried out of there. It continued to rain for most of the day laughing, as it were, in the face of the previous day’s forecast of light clouds and sunshine.

Justin and I sought out his future mate (previously decided on), a certain Rachel Gentry, and spent the rest of the afternoon talking to her and relaxing. Justin and Rachel became engaged in the early part of this year and have set their wedding date for October 7. Justin is the first of our tight group of friends to forsake singleness but he does so with a smile on his face and a song on his lips.

Our evening was spent in the sweat and cussing that usually accompanies a good game of bowling. My best score for the evening was a measly 133. For shame.

Inaugural Address...

2006-05-24T01:10:00.000-05:00

I don't like the word 'blog'. I know it is from 'web log' but it conjurs up images for me of an overstuffed person sitting on an overstuffed couch overstuffing themselves with potato chips and just whimsically clacking the keys on their computer and posting nonsense for the rest of the world to read. I mean...come on.

However I realize the usefulness of such a medium and how it allows one to communicate with untold millions without ever invading the increasingly infringed upon privacy that a personal email account used to offer.

So I have finally broken down and set up my own blog as I expect that as long as I have adventures to live there will probably be some people who will want to know if I have survived them and the manner in which I do so.

The first one is going to be quite long as I have a build up of descriptions of what I have gone through so far on my cross country motorcycle trip. Most of it is just basic relating of what I've done without much flair but I suppose that now that I have means with which to continually update then I might be more faithful to post.

Pass this along to whoever you think might want to find out what I am up to and feel free to post comments or shoot me an email.

Regards,

Jonathan