From the Mouth of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"It is not enough to say, 'We must not wage war.' It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it."
December 1964.

Shellshocked (or, Random Rant II)

In the Hot Zone: One Man, One Year, Twenty Wars, by Kevin Sites. Finished, 11.23.11, 11:48 AM.

I really don't know what to feel. I don't know what to think, really. This book will haunt me for a long time, and will end up in my library once I get money to buy it since the copy I have is borrowed. Mr. Sites' experiences really did fuel my want to go out there into the real world (which is found right out my front door) and see it all, stop being so whiny about trifles. Here I am, Thanksgiving eve, with all the feast almost ready. Am I really going to enjoy this gluttonous holiday? I don't know. I'm not sure I want to eat until not one more bit fits when there are many out there who do not have anything. If anything I learned from In the Hot Zone is that really I live in a "wealth of information and a poverty of knowledge." After I see that in the Democratic Republic of the Congo one military life is lost to sixty-two civilian lives. Like Kevin says, "War poses as combat but is really collateral damage." Thanksgiving, that I don't have an idea of what problems are. Maybe this Thanksgiving I won't be so gluttonous; maybe I'll be more thankful.

From the Pen of John Steinbeck

"Results, not causes. The causes lie deep and simply--the causes are a hunger in a stomach, multiplied a million times; a hunger in the soul, hunger for joy and some security, multiplied a million times' muscles and mind aching to grow, to work, to create, multiplied a million times. The last clear definite function of man--muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need--this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and the wall and hose and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man--when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it. This you may know when he bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live--for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live--for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know--fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe."

--The Grapes of Wrath, Chapter 14.
He's my favorite author, and this is my favorite chapter in my favorite book. Everyone should read the book, and if not, read the entire chapter 14.

Without Mouths

"I believe that anything, a story, a novel or a piece of art, has a place for you in it. A place that is yours to decide."

Last time we left our hero, Kevin Sites, he was in Africa. Well, not anymore. He's in the middle east, and he has come across a Syrian artist who likes drawing heads. Heads, in may different poses, styles, and manners. There are some carved out, watercolored, and all in different stages of emotion.

However, they are all missing one major anatomical feature: a mouth. Kevin tries to gather the reason, but to no avail. Desperately, he asks if it is the pain of not being able to express something, but the artist only smiles and says "It's whatever you see, whatever it tells you, that's what it is."

Mr. Sites reflects,
"It's a thought that, like the stone walls outside, transcends this moment and makes me wonder if that is too generous a concept for most people. many choose their place as quickly as they can without trying to understand, seeing only the garbage on the streets rather than the art inside."

Maybe we should do that more often. See past the superficial, and, as cliche as it may sound, stop judging books by their cover. The world would have more peace if we would learn to understand what the other is fighting for.

Random Memory with a Moral...

It was getting close to Christmas-time and I must have been in fourth grade, if not younger. My family has never had a huge extravagant Christmas, and I am glad I never did (just so much easier on the wallet there...). But this once my mom decided to have us pick out our gifts. So she packed us up into the van and took us to the nearest clothing store. Now, before I go on, I'd like to say that my parents are really smart--actually, that's an understatement--and my mom had something up her sleeve. She told us that at the school where she works there were little children--one in each of mine and my sibling's classes--who were really poor and they were not having Christmas that year, so each of us would pick a gift for them. Immediately, a person I knew was poor and had siblings in my sibling's classes came to mind. However, I didn't really like this kid because he made fun of me, so I immediately found the ugliest shirt I could find, gave it to my mom, and didn't think much of it afterwards. Now it all worked out that the boy and I wore the same size clothes, and somehow my mom got me and my siblings to get clothes of our own size. Lo and behold, Christmas Eve came, and to the Hispanic culture we opened our presents at midnight. I got the usual sweaters from my grandparents, a cool something from my "rich" uncle (I saw him that way in those days....), and clothes from my parents. But what struck me was my mom's box. Inside, there was that ugly shirt I picked out.

Playing Captain Hindsight over here, I realize that that is true humility. We can only be Jesus followers when we give to others that which we would give ourselves, if not better. This is true Christianity.

What I Learned about Happiness, Hardships, and Humanity from broken Women in the Congo and a Vietnam Veteran

"But some, who like one old man whose name was called, had no problem sharing the joy of the moment by performing a little impromptu dance for my camera, making this crowd of people laugh with abandon. Everything had been taken from them--but their humanity."
                                                                                                       --Kevin Sites, In the Hot Zone
I realize that there is really no reason to be sad sometimes. In the last chapter I read, Kevin goes to the Democratic Republic of the Congo attached to a low-key humanitarian aid organization. He encounters boys not old enough to drive legally in the US who have been recruited by the various militias with confusing acronym names. These little boys have stories of how they have killed several people--not because they want to, but because they're being shot at. One of the boys talks about how he is haunted in his dreams by a man he killed for food.

I don't think I'll ever say "I'm starving!" when I mean "I'm a little hungry" again.

Mr. Sites then heads off to a women's shelter. As an aside, I've volunteered going door to door asking for donations for the local shelter and received good responses from people who have been there. For the women in the Congo, their shelter is the banana plant groves. There they hide from raping rebel soldiers, because if they were all in one place it would be horrible. Some of them have gone through several rapes and widowing experiences, yet Kevin Sites always describes how calm they talk about their experiences. He talks about their singing, their laughter, their dancing.

I don't think I'll ever complain about Mondays again.

Later in the day, I sat down with a professor who is a Vietnam veteran. He told me about several people who went through Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD. He tells me how he once sang old songs with his guitar at a veterans convention, and how those suffering from PTSD were able to open up. He told me, "I knew God had sent me to do this, and now I do it in prisons and I always get the same effect."

I don't think I'll ever complain about how hard something is if I PTSD is not a common consequence of that action.