Weighty Matters
It's January, which means that everyone in America is on a diet. According to a recent video on CNN, that's especially true for the children of a certain school district in Anytown, USA. The said school district--I can't recall the location, but it can most likely be located through seismograph activity during recess--has begun including a BMI rating on its students' health screening records. This means that along with providing the traditional screenings, such as the one for scoliosis, that schools have performed for some time, they are now sending home a weight notice for parents: "Your kid is fat." Of course, all the parents that were interviewed for the video were in an outrage...because their kids are "fat."

The parents of the skinny children did not seem to be upset about the decision and stood silently in the background as the parents of the fat children wondered aloud how such a label could be assigned to their young ones. One fourth grader was interviewed while struggling to hoist himself into his mother's Hummer. "I'm excited about my report card and health screening because my parents buy me one Big Mac for every A," announced the hefty hellian, while biting into a Twinkie.

I'm always amused at the way we decide to go on diets after New Year's but that we make this decision sometime around the end of November when we're about to endure a Thanksgiving feeding. I can't figure out if we're genuinely discouraged about our holiday habits and are trying to recover or if we are simply delaying the inevitable so we can justify gorging ourselves for a month and a half. Either way, the scenario plays out like an extended version of Mardi Gras (sans the beads), where you allow yourself a period of debauchery because you know you'll have to repent soon enough during Lent anyway.

With all the "weighty" matters that are being discussed, I like the approach that has been taken by the company I work for. A few weeks ago, we were all supplied with a free pedometer. For me, the thing has become more of an experiment than a health apparatus. The e-mail that we received accompanying the gift informed us that "you will be surprised at how many steps you actually walk in one day." After using the pedometer for a couple weeks, I can say that I am surprised. I am surprised at how few steps I take. According to my pedometer reading, you would think that I was actually rolling to the bathroom during breaks rather than walking because I take fewer steps each day than a Civil War veteran. Don't be surprised if you see me being interviewed one day on national news because of my fat kid.

God's a Lot Smaller than He Used to Be
My girlfriend and I were in New York for New Year’s Eve this year. As you may expect, the trip was indescribably exciting. Neither of us had ever visited the city before, and if the sights themselves weren’t enough to keep us thrilled, the view of several security helicopters constantly weaving in and out of the Manhattan skyline on December 31 provided a reminder that we were probably in the most important place in the whole world at that moment. I won’t go into the details of the weekend in this entry, except for one observation that got me thinking.

The flights into New York and the train ride into Manhattan went rather smoothly and without incident. Even finding the correct subway line and purchasing the proper tickets into town occurred without any hitches, and Ashley and I found ourselves very quickly taking an escalator up from the station on 5th Avenue. Suddenly and without warning, New York hit us. This was the evening of December 30, and it seemed that at least half the world had the same idea that we had—to stroll down 5th Avenue, buy a hotdog, and look at some buildings. After a lazy day of traveling, we were suddenly in the middle of a mob of people and were fighting to get across the sidewalk, to buy the hot dog, to take a picture, to throw away the hot dog wrapper. I’m not sure who uttered the phrase first vocally, but it resonated with both of us: “These people aren’t going anywhere.” They’re going. But I don’t think they had anywhere to be. I don’t think there was a pre-determined destination. Wherever they saw other people going, they were following. If someone pushed them, they pushed back. I’m not implying that there was any rudeness being displayed by all the tourists or that we were somehow more entitled to be in Manhattan at that time. I was simply amused by the way that so many people were rushing around within that five-block radius.

Looking back, I wonder how many of us live in this same manner. Is there any intentionality with the decisions we make, with the places we go, or with the people we spend time with? Too often I feel like I have to fill my life with things—every ounce of it—so that time is not “wasted.” And I feel like I’m compelled to do this more and more because the people around me are doing the same thing. You may ask, “What’s the problem with being industrious or active?” The problem does not lie in being those things. However, if we are nothing but industrious, if we book up our schedules so that we’re always looking ahead to the next thing, how can we honestly examine what we’re doing right now and realize its significance? Or, how can we make time to help someone in need if we leave ourselves no time to sacrifice? I’m convinced that we manage our time backwards. We fill up our schedules and see what thing we have to give up in the end instead of opening up our schedules and seeing what needs to be done

If God is to become the dominant force in our lives, we must allow him some time to use. This goes beyond the traditional “time with God” that we learned to practice in Sunday school. It means to live each day with an awareness of our place in God’s redemptive plan. It means to live more simply. It means to stop seeking self-significance in others, in activities, and in status and to acknowledge something greater than our own lives.

Two centuries ago, a poet was concerned that we may be getting too wrapped up in the minor concerns of society:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth was most likely not spouting off some Christian rhetoric or calling readers to “come back to God.” However, he did realize that there is some power in this world greater than ourselves, and by consistently ignoring it, our perceptions grow more and more self-centered. Ancient Greeks could look at the ocean and see a myriad of supernatural workings. It gave them a proper sense of self and a proper sense of the universe. It seems that our modern world has an explanation for everything—or more than one explanation for anything. If it’s not this it’s this. As a result, we see nothing supernaturally. This poses a major problem for Christians, for God is supernatural. And if we fail to see God as such, we have lost a proper perception of the universe.

Writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien lamented their observation that the fairies seem to have disappeared from England. It used to be that you could find one under any rock or behind any tree. Today, we hardly notice the trees. If we do, it’s likely because one’s gotten in the way. “Better cut this branch. It’s getting too close to the power line.” Our lack of vision for the supernatural makes me realize that God’s a lot smaller than he used to be. We figure we’re doing well if we slot off twenty minutes to read the Bible in the morning, yet we sometimes do that and then live the next twenty hours without an awareness of his indwelling Spirit. It’s my hope that today and tomorrow and the next day this Spirit will dance more freely in me with its counterpart in Creation so I will not be unaware that a dance is taking place. In the meantime, I’ll try to see where I'm going in this city and pay a little more attention to the trees.

Housecleaning at the Capitol
During my daily internet-clicking this week, I came across a few articles of interest concerning national politics. I claim no real understanding of the political process except for acknowledging the significance of voting to "exercise one's rights," although I'm still not entirely sure why our rights need exercising. And I try not to align myself with any political party in particular...this is because I feel like outright loyalty to a party would somehow alienate me from the other half of the nation's population, with whom I am equally trying to establish a relationship. Thus, I do not normally comment on political matters.

However, I was intrigued this week when I read of Nancy Pelosi's first "major" decision as Speaker of the House. Pelosi has flexed her newfound political muscle to forbid smoking in the famed Speaker's Lobby, which is an ornate hall located just off the House floor, somewhat of a lounge in which our legislators can relax, discuss, make shady agreements, etc. (In other words, it's an informal version of the House chamber itself.) Apparently, the hall has been renowned for its hazy appearance and even the House Minority Leader, John Boehner, has been instrumentable in adding to its infamy by puffing on a cancer device within its walls at nearly every recess.

According to the CNN article, Pelosi triumphantly declared, "The days of smoke-filled rooms in the United States Capitol are over." Thank God our legislative branch has come under the leadership of such a liberator. Pelosi has also vowed to continue "getting this Capitol into shape" by making sure the legislators get the dishes cleaned right after dinner and by not allowing anyone to go out and play before these clothes are put away. "This house is a wreck, and I'm not busting my butt or wasting my time any more until these folks learn to appreciate the things I do," said Pelosi. She then plopped down on the sofa and watched "Days of our Lives."

Talking Trucks

As I was driving to work on Friday morning, I pulled to a stop at a traffic light just behind what appeared to be a delivery truck for our local McDade’s grocery store. Since McDade’s was only a block away, I figured the driver had just made a morning delivery, and I didn’t plan to give the vehicle a second thought. (I do remember briefly reflecting on the irony that the advertisement on the back of the truck was for McDade’s produce and that I am never impressed with McDade’s produce selection. It seems that the bananas are the only items that I’m continually satisfied with.)

Anyway, shortly after drifting off into another thought, my attention was abruptly forced back to the delivery truck because as sure as night follows day, the advertisement for McDade’s produce transformed before my eyes into an ad for some New Age-looking kitchen appliance. I stared in amazement for a few seconds wondering when McDade’s started carrying fancy appliances before realizing that the back of the truck was not a pull-up cargo door but a solid wall of rotating triangular prisms. Once again, the advertisement transformed—though I cannot recall at this time the name of the business that was privileged to receive the third spot in the rotation, or first or second, depending on when the rotation started.

Admittedly, I was a bit overly curious at this vehicle since I had never seen one before, so I purposely drove behind it for a few blocks before pulling beside it at a later traffic light. The ads on the sides were constantly changing just like on the back. Perhaps the most surprising ad came when it advertised itself: “Admobile.” As if McDade’s advertising fresh produce weren’t ironic enough, here we have an ad company making advertisements. Moreover, can you imagine the commotion this will cause drivers if such practices become common? Not only must drivers now keep themselves from being distracted by the millions of billboards that interrupt the shoulders of highways—they must now beware of those billboards jumping onto the road and dancing around their vehicles like some deranged elf, coaxing them to rush to the nearest exit to buy produce and the New Age-appliances for processing it.

Of course, this isn’t my own embellishment of the situation. I checked out Admobile’s website just to see it says about itself. Its declaration? “Admobile advertising cannot be ignored, tuned out, crumpled, recycled, or thrown in the trash. Guaranteed.” I see their reasoning. After all, look at the effect it made on me the first time. However, if I were Admobile, for the future, I would seriously rethink this strategy for affecting drivers in Jackson, Mississippi, who have a propensity for ignoring virtually anything on the road that they should be aware of...including large delivery trucks that are trying to talk to them at 80 miles per hour.

The Weather Radio
I haven’t posted anything new for awhile—a bad habit in my case, which normally means that I’m finding some other psychological outlet for my inane thoughts, some method that may or may not include talking to gummi bears. Anyway, I’ve decided that instead of waiting until something really gets at me, causing me to pour out some isolated essay on a given topic, I’ll try to begin posting some shorter amusing observations…the sort of thing that really keeps me going day after day. So, here we go.

My roommate, Ben, has a weather radio. Before living with Ben, I had never actually seen a weather radio, and I’m still a little confused over how it works and how its listeners are supposed to respond to it. Previously, when I had a third roommate, the two of us would take turns unplugging the thing whenever it went off because it disturbed our studying, working, television watching, and video game playing…or because it simply annoyed us. When Ben would return to the house, he would have to plug it back in if he wanted to hear the latest report.

Probably most annoying about this device is that it doesn’t just alert us to local area severe weather; no, it may interrupt us on some days just to let us know that it’s drizzling in Oklahoma. “Thanks Mr. Robot Voice. Do you think you could wake us up again to advise us of the current humidity reading in Taiwan as well?”

Last night, however, we were experiencing severe weather all across the state. The Weather Channel reported that heavy thunderstorms would be moving across the Louisiana border in the early afternoon and that the rain would most likely last, with varying degrees of severity, until 2-4 a.m. The typical flash flood advisories and tornado watches were in effect. Of course, these conditions are nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve seen storms that are far worse, and I certainly wasn’t going to worry about going about my normal business. So, I met some friends for dinner in Clinton and went bowling afterwards.

When I arrived home around 11 p.m. the weather was still somewhat inclement and the weather radio was in full operation. Mr. Robot Voice was giving all the Doppler radar details that anyone could notice for himself by just looking out the window: “Severe weather advisory for areas of central Mississippi with [beep] periods of heavy rain [pause] and possible tornadic conditions [static] are expected until 2-4 a.m.” Sometimes the voice stops talking, and a nerve-shattering squeal comes out of the speaker, apparently to make everyone within hearing range pee their pants.

After several intermittent slices of non-information from this thing, its alarm sounded again and I heard Ben mutter something and promptly turn it off. Chuckling to myself at this prospect—an alarm device that we consistently turn off instead of taking to heart—I asked Ben explicitly, “So, what’s the point of this weather radio anyway?” He said, “To wake you up.” I laughed. He must have taken issue. “I’m serious. It’s to wake you up in case there’s a tornado.” Although I didn’t laugh anymore, I thought this prospect was even more humorous than the first one. Do we sleep so heavily that a tornado, which is often described as sounding like “a freight train,” cannot stir us? If so, I guess it’s a good thing that we have Mr. Robot Voice to sound his alarm when the tornado comes so we can pee our pants in bed right before we are killed tragically by the freight train tornado that we somehow failed to hear amidst all of the flash flood advisories and tornado watches. I think I’d rather chunk the radio and die in my sleep.