Grey's the New Green

There are less Christ-seeking Christians than you would think. 

Old Bear and Theatre

It's Friday night, 7:19. Some of the guys on my floor are playing a game they call "birdcage," which apparently involves throwing (and breaking) a frisbee. I have no plans for tonight because I know hardly anybody here. Right now my closest friend's name is Adam. He's in a band and I've never met him, but we hang out a lot. 

Yesterday I talked to my professor, Dr. Folsom, after my Walt Whitman class. We talked about the forming Creative Writing undergraduate program and I mentioned Flannery O'connor, an amazing writer who graduated from the workshop here. Dr. Folsom went on to tell me where she wrote when she was here and, being the artist I think I am, I went to that same spot. 

After a lunch date this morning with the RUF pastor I walked (barefoot) from the downtown area to the city park, where an outdoor theatre stands, backed against the woods. Before this theatre existed there was a zoo. In the zoo there was an old bear. Flannery O'connor would walk to the park and sit and watch the bear, and write. So I followed, but in classic Hunter style I felt too arrogant to be exactly where she was so I walked about 50 yards from the theatre to a wooden picnic table, which stood under the shade of a bent willow tree, and overlooked a rippling pond. I wrote about half of a new short story and sparked another one, the second one is really weird so when I write it and you are offended I'm sorry. 

So, since I sit here now with no plans, I think I will go finish these stories as my friend Caroline has suggested, and maybe I will get in the Lord's Word as well.

Ciao. 

Every Time She Sneezes

It's late and I just played basketball and I have class at 7:30 so lets make this quick:

I walked into my science class and sat down in the third row. I felt slightly nerdy because it is a lecture class so there are maybe 30 or 40 rows and I was near the front. But it was okay. A hot girl sat four seats to the right of me and a girl with pink hair sat three seats to my left. We sat and the hot one listened to her iPod. The teacher walked in and he was black which already made me happy. He started talking and you could already tell he wasn't from here, and somehow I felt like I vaguely recognized his accent. I shunned the notion and kept listening. He went on to tell us that he was from the great country of Nigeria! The city I spent two weeks in during June! After class I approached him and asked him what part of Nigeria he was from, JOS NIGERIA! The CITY I spent most of my two weeks in! We said goodbye and I emailed him. He had told me that he wanted to get lunch or something because he would love to talk to someone who had been to Nigeria so I (in the email) gave him good times for me and he replied saying:

Hello Hunter,
It was a great surprise for me, a very pleasant one at that. I am very pleased to meet someone who has been to Jos. I am sure I have heard of these Missionaries in Nigeria. Are they in Florida or Texas? May be another one.

Well, I want you to know that I will be very glad to have lunch with you sometimes to discuss. Just also for you to know I belong to a fellowship here in Iowa City which is organized by the Navigators for international students mainly Africans. The navigator couple were in Nigeria for more than 20 years and in Jos for about half of that time. So Jos is like home to them and they go back there everyday. They will be glad to meet you. I will invite you to one of the fellowships so you can meet many other Nigerians and my family too, or actually we can have you in our apartment. But we have a potluck on labour day so if you don't plan to go home or have other plans you will be warmly welcomed.

We have a lot to talk and I am looking forward to it.

Thanks again Hunter and let's see again on Thursday after class
Sunday

Wrapped in Strands of Fist and Bone

Once again I'm listening to A Long December by the Counting Crows. Once again I'm at my computer ready to divulge any revelations or knowledge that I think I might have had. But this time I'm not at the Crooked Tree. I'm not at Borders or at home or Barnes and Noble. No, this time I'm in Iowa City, Iowa, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from everything I know, missing the ones I love and praying for the ones in need of prayer.

I've made a few friends, through either church or pickup basketball at the Iowa Field House. One of my friends is Jay. He is from a mid-sized city in Iowa and went to a Catholic school, although he told me he is Presbyterian. I met Jay at the Field House last night when I was playing ball with some really cool Asians and a few other people. When we finished playing last night around 11 we said goodbye and I didn't get anybody's number so I could hang out with them again. But then this morning, as I returned to the cereal-heaven portion of the Hillcrest Marketplace (Hillcrest is my dorm and Marketplace means glorified cafeteria) I saw Jay once again, and we ate together this time. It was nice. So I got his number and I hope to get to know him more. 

I also met two really nice guys at Parkview EV Free church yesterday, there names are Jonathan and Ben. Ben wears brown converses and has blonde hair and is shy and doesn't speak firmly. But he has a kind heart. Hank and I bought our books with them yesterday. 

As I said, I went to an EV Free church yesterday. It was okay but my friend JD from Dallas helped get me in tough with the RUF (Reformed University Fellowship) pastor here in Iowa City so I'm meeting with the pastor later today. So I'm really excited about that and I hope to find where God wants me in terms of churches. I like church. 

Today I started an amazing book. I've only read the first two and a half pages but I already know it's an amazing book because I've been told by my pastor and worship pastor. It's called Reason for God and it was written by Timothy Keller. It's great because he outlines (in the introduction) some different barriers God enabled him to overcome in college to truly see the truth, grace, and beauty of Christ. 

I want to find a group of believers who live what the Bible says. I want to find a "band of brothers" (and sisters) who throw themselves at the feat of the needy. I want to find people like Jesus. Who love and adore Him. 

(I really need a raincoat.)

Wedding Toast

by Richard Wilbur

St. John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast,

The water-pots poured wine in such amount

That by his sober count

There were a hundred gallons at the least.

It made no earthly sense, unless to show

How whatsoever love elects to bless

Brims to a sweet excess

That can without depletion overflow.

Which is to say that what love sees is true;

That this world's fullness is not made but found.

Life hungers to abound

And pour its plenty out for such as you.

Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine, 

I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.

May you not lack for water,

And may that water smack of Cana's wine. 

The Crooked Tree

I'm at the Crooked Tree once again and the AC is blowing and making me very cold. I'm listening to A Long December and thinking about how weird it is that I'm going to school. It's not weird that I'm leaving my family because I've already done that, and it's not weird that I'm leaving Dallas because I don't like Dallas. It's weird because I have friends here. Some that I want to keep and some that God just bumped me into for whatever purpose. And now I'm about to go to a big public university where I will actually choose my friends. And then, to further complicate things, there will be the ever-ridiculous substance of alcohol. And drugs too. And then there will be the issue of finding a church (which I think God has already resolved for me which is nice). So here's the deal: there are many things that I should probably be worried about or afraid of or at least thinking about, but I'm not. This past week I've said goodbye to most of my Covenant buddies and many of them seem worried about something that I'm not. Am I missing something? 

Over the past few months, as I've been thinking about the circles of friends I will be forging, I've tried to determine what a passionate follower of Christ would do, or what Christ Himself would do. But then I thought that we all have different callings in terms of missions and evangelism and such, so I prayed to God and read the Bible and listened to Him because I figured He's probably the best guy to ask. And now, with the spiritual guidance of the Crooked Tree, I have formulated a basic outline for the friends that I would like to make (which is funny because God will probably tell me that I'm wrong and He has some bright idea instead). 

I think that God wants me to have friends, close friends, really close friends, who are not Christians. I also think that God wants me to have close friends who are Christians, because without the constant sharpening fellowship then we become complacent, stagnant, like a pond in a desert. And, now that you have read my great epiphany, you might think "Wow Hunter you are an idiot every Christian knows that," or something like that. But this is why I am so excited about making non-Christian people my friends: I always grew up in a private school and I went to church and all of my extracurriculars were connected to the school or church so I didn't have have much of a chance to engage culture at a Christ-like level. But I don't feel that I was in the wrong attending all these Christians because I think it was a time of preparation and equipping. I was being armed to engage culture. And now the battle begins. With love, sacrifice, humility, selflessness, faithfulness, loyalty, joy, mercy, and grace. 

Maria Came from Nashville

The last day of ministry in Nigeria tore my mind apart like shrapnel ripping the bodies of young, helpless soldiers. Spurts of reality spat like the blood in the battlefield of my existence. Artillery shells exploded all around me, deafening my ears to the petty worries of my previous American life. I crumbled.

In the afternoon of our last day we were invited to make a decision: return to Blind Town or experience a ministry called Bad Boys. We selected Bad Boys. We hopped into the vans and drove to a poor part of the city. We parked. We got out. Divided into groups. Each a group of three or four with a Nigerian leader. When my foot met the ground outside the van I thought that the ominous experience wasn't going to be much different than the things we had done before. I had been to Blind Town, a fairly wretched part of the world. I had seen the poor orphan boys of Gidan Bege and I had watched crippled men give their lives for other crippled men. I looked around and wondered exactly what our ministry was, because we were still on a street, lined with shops and such. My group assembled and our leader began to explain the pending duties and expectations. Even when he explained what we were going to do I felt safe. I felt as if it would be relatively tough (when compared to my American leisure) but would still be similar to most of our ministry in Nigeria. I was led (along with Luke and Cici) in between two shops and into a tightly-packed cluster of houses, huts, walls, or whatever you would like to call them. 

Now, if you have been to Africa, and to a poor part of Africa (not just the elephant scene), you might have a firm visual grasp of what I'm talking about. But, as is the case for most of my (few) readers, I should probably assume that you have not been, and need some sort of mental picture for the rest of my journey with the Bad Boys. In order to put such a picture into words I think one needs the talent of Ernest Hemingway or Joseph Conrad, obviously a talent that I do not possess, but I will give it a try. 

The sky was bright, reflecting the sandy-dirt color of the leftover deserts from the dry season. A few clouds lie scattered in the blue. I stood, surrounded by huts with ceilings only about eight feet tall, and looked closer at the shelter directly in front of me. Over several tables hung a sheet metal roof, which created an outdoor patio for the locals. The people at the tables were a sight most exotic to fashion-sensitive American eyes: brightly colored shirts with dirty, pinstripe pants or blue jeans or brown pants with holes in them. Or green shirts, grayed from the pollution, with khakis. And everyone wore flip-flops. Hats from America with collegiate or professional sports logos. On the table was a large, circular pan, piled with hunks of chicken, beef, and dog meat. The Nigerians reached and grabbed chunk after chunk and picked the stringy meat from their teeth. To be sure the diners conversed and laughed, but because of a lower substance.  The tables themselves were simple and wooden, set with all different types of chairs: large and small, wood and metal, black and brown. And as I watched the feast I began to notice the drink (with both my nose and my eyes) which slid down their throats. Large gourds had been cut in half so that they made convenient bowl-cup contraptions. In the gourds was a liquid. It was a tannish gray color and inside it was the pulp of unfermented yeast and any other foreign particle able to find its way into the brew. Women around the patio straddled huge cast-iron vats of yeast and water, stirring the foul mixture over a fire in order to ferment the potion into alcohol. Hundreds, thousands of flies buzzed round and round the liquid, with a few not-so-lucky bugs drowning in the fatal concoction. The gourds filled and emptied the homemade repeatedly, filling the minds and stomachs of the directionless Nigerians.

When our group first assembled our leader handed us gospel tracts in English that we could give to the people and, when I remembered this, I awkwardly stopped my gawking and pulled the pink and blue sheets of paper from my pocket and offered them to everyone who I encountered. And since I was white (a giraffe in a heard of elephants) people accepted what I gave them. Honestly, I felt my publicity was being used in an unfair way. But that thought soon dissipated and we walked past the patio-restaurant and crossed the threshold into one of the huts. The room we had entered was dark and small. Around the square's edge was a bench connected to the wall, and on the bench eight men sat, holding gourds that were refilled periodically by the previously-mentioned women-brewers. The eyes around the room turned up to look at the giraffes, and when I returned the look I saw hopelessness manifested in the bloodshot orbs. An empty existence seeks anything to fill. And although this existence, this need for love, may realize that its attempts (alcohol or drugs or sex or relationships or music or art or family or marriage) are futile, it persists in unprecedented stubbornness, refusing to admit need for a higher form, and refusing to tell others how much it hurts. All that He needs is for the existence, the blood-eyed Nigerian, the CEO American, the cigarette-smoking Frenchman, the wave-surfing Australian, the maize-farming South American, the ice-ridden Eskimo, the hard-working Asian, the lonely man, the downcast child, the burdened woman, to say the word: "help." 

The remaining time spent in the "Bad Boys" territory was spent in repetitions of this scene. The familiar drowned itself into familiar and my heart sunk deeper and deeper as I beheld so many men, women and children with absolutely no hope. There was nothing for these people to hold on to, and there will never be. 

I can only trust God. And after reading this you might think to yourself, "How the hell can this nut trust God while God lets people suffer like this." Yes, people suffer. And I don't know why it is this bad. But I do know one thing: that the suffering is not God's fault. It's my fault. It's your fault. It's the CEO's fault. It's the surfer's fault. THE PAIN IS OUR PROBLEM. WE DID THIS, NOT GOD. 

Take action now. 

Black and Blue. Red.

Sorry it's been so long, I'm at the Crooked Tree and I heard some girls talking about blogging so I ran to my car and got my journal. I might be a little rusty but here it goes:

It's now Tuesday morning and I'm beginning to adjust to the Nigerian way of life, namely the joy and thankfulness of little things. I missed AC and my car and Tex-Mex but I didn't want them (even now, August 11, I wish I was there, without the AC and without the meaningless comforts This American Life brings). That morning I stayed at the compound by myself. The Dwight Schrute family was busy and so was the rest of my group, and I wanted a few moments to gather the fragments of my mind. So I drew. I remember my favorite drawing of that day. It was a sad drawing but I suppose it spoke about my "inner self" or some bullshit like that:

I ripped a page out of my journal for my canvas and pulled three pens from my backpack. Black and Blue. Red. I took the blue pen and let my hand wander. It drew two monochromatic flowers, one using the positive space for the petals and the other using the negative space for the petals. The flowers were drawn in opposite corners (top left and bottom right) corners of the small piece of journal paper. Then I grabbed a black pen. I wrote down the lyrics of the Counting Crows song Miami, a song about getting close to somebody and then having the terror that, if you get too close, they will hurt you. Then I grabbed a red pen. I wrote down the lyrics of A Long December, also by the Counting Crows. The song is a melancholy reflection of the previous year and all its disappointments.  But it also looks forward to the next year with limited hope and desire for a better and more meaningful future. The lyrics with the red ink were diagonal in respect to the edges and the black-inked lyrics stood perpendicular to the vertical edges of the paper. It was a sad piece of work. When I was doing it I didn't really think about what I was doing, I just let my hand flow and my mind wander, and that is what popped out, and I even still have the paper if you would like to start bidding for it. 

When God's workers returned around lunchtime (Bumper, Papa, Cici, Audra etc...) we prepared to visit, for the last time, Gidan Bege. This was the Gidan Bege back in Jos, the first orphanage we visited in our tour. Faces and names--Samson, Silas, Musa--returned for both joy and pain. As we walked through the threshold into the cement courtyard the boys flooded into our arms. Their smiles humbled me. Lord why am I so selfish? We played football (soccer) for a bit and danced and sung and clapped and laughed, and then we had to say goodbye. But this was the first of several "goodbyes" that I had never experienced before. I'm only 18 and I'm not accustomed to breaking an embrace that might not be forged again in this life. I was saying goodbye to these dear boys possibly to never see them again. Before long I was sitting in the van, with the window half open staring at the orphan boy who had just helped me carry my backpack and his little friend (Musa) who carried my camera. I forced a smile. The crackling and crunching of the gravel beneath the tires splashed reality into my face like a bucket of water on a lazy sleeper. Goodbye boys.