V
KA OS Con ne ct
+
Cr e at e
FA L L
2 0 1 0 :
+
C ult ivat e
H O M E
A CREATIVE ARTS PUBLICATION OF THE GORDON-CONWELL THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY COMMUNITY
+
V
KA OS From the Editors Home
( pronounced ka-los )
John Meinen, Senior Editor
The Greek word meaning “good” or “beauty.” A creative arts publication of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary community.
For many of us, “home” refers to an actual place. Spoken of in this way, “home” is the physical structure in which we lived, a street or city block
where we “grew up,” or even an entire neighborhood or community. “Home is ‘10315 Blake Lane.’” “Home is my ‘stomping ground.’” “Home is Port William, Kentucky.” When we talk about “going home,” it is this place we have in mind—wherever “it” may be.
John Meinen Senior Editor Christopher Anderson Design Editor
For others, “home” is less a place and more a feeling or mood. Curiously, when we describe home in this way, we typically avoid adjectival descriptors (e.g., cozy, chaotic, etc.) and employ nouns instead. For example, “Home is my mom’s White Linen perfume, cracked screen doors on a summer’s day, Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’ playing in the background, tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.” “Home is slamming doors and a dresser drawer filled with sweatshirts, the better to conceal the bruises on my arm and chest.” “Home is messy countertops, forts made out of couch cushions, grace before meals, and dinner with the TV on.”
Patricia Anders Copy Editor Fall 2010: Home Each issue of the journal will feature the visual and literary artwork of the community in response to a given theme. A list of all contributors can be found on page 31.
Finally, there are many of us for whom “home” is not so much a place or a mood but rather an idea or an ideal. It is a place we have yet to fully experience, or something we ourselves are trying to build, or perhaps a destination we are trying to reach.
On the Cover (from left to right) Facets of the Familiar • Megan Hackman
Place, mood, idea or ideal, our conception of “home” can mean all of these at once. As this fall 2010 issue of Kalos can attest, “home” is a complex subject and difficult to describe. If home is somewhat nebulous, it is also elusive. We all know the experience: you go back “home” and everything looks different (“I remember the sledding hill to be a lot bigger than this!”). What was once a school has become a gas station, and your next-door neighbor has moved to Delaware (“…though nobody knows why”). You open an old box and a particular smell ignites a flood of memories—but the scent, like the memories, fades. You finally build a home, and you live long enough to raise a family, but time ticks and tocks, and old age takes its toll.
Gateway • Beth Saavedra City • Andrea Madden Gateway • Amanda Cannon Contact Kalos Journal kalosjournal@gmail.com Kalos Journal 133 Essex St. South Hamilton, MA 01982
+
2 • KAΛ OS Connec t
This is the tension we all feel, Christian and non-Christian alike. Sure, “home is where the heart is,” but sometimes this tension proves too much, and our hearts break. That is why the message of the gospel is so important. Only the truth of the gospel cures our deep-rooted homesickness. Home is not a figment of our imagination. It is the vestige of a very real place—a Paradise Lost—but, equally as true, a Paradise Regained. God is the Shepherd who is guiding us there, and when we arrive we will find our rooms already prepared. And who knows, maybe there’ll be some hot cocoa on the stove and warm cookies waiting for you and me.
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
Berg Stugan • Sara Giguere I stumbled across this cabin as I was hiking along the border of Norway and Sweden; you can only reach the house by hiking to it. When I saw this cabin, I thought “What a place to call home!”
Orchard View • Molly Long I was born and raised in rural Middletown Springs, VT, where the pace of life is slow and steady, and all your neighbors know you. Convenience stores and movie theaters are few, the dirt roads occasionally turn to mud, but the beauty and the simplicity of life is treasured. This is a view one summer late afternoon looking up toward Middletown’s Burnham Hollow Apple Orchard.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 3
PROSE
N e br a ska by Joel Ruark I love the land. Not in the same way that I love my wife of course nor in the way that I savor hot coffee in the morning or a long hike up the side of a tall mountain. This love is not as full as the one but deeper than the other. I discovered it by digging, digging, digging until I held broken tools in dirty hands to match a broken heart. It was in that place—there in the soil—and in that moment—when the wind was the most still—that the sun rose above the land into space and shone bright, right in my eyes. I sneezed, then I wept and laid down to rest.
At that time the land was strange to me, but not unfriendly. I came to it as an alien might land on a distant
shore—naive, inquisitive, impatient, and a bit frivolous. In return, the land showed me its mystery, its wonder and, as all who tread upon it must experience sooner or later, its dry harshness. After making our introductions we got on cordially enough, the land and I, but we were never close enough to be considered lifelong friends. There just wasn’t enough time.
I came here when I was seventeen, to this place so different from where I came from yet reminiscent of
my early youth. I had come from the city, where glass and steel had long ago begun to sprout from the earth instead of corn and beans. There, life had been full of friends and cars, as every teenaged boy’s is, racing from one day to the next but never winning anything. All the same, life was good there.
But here, in Nebraska, I was alone. Here in Nebraska, I was unknown. And here, in Nebraska, I was home.
And as strange as it may sound, all these things were true at the same time. For—as it is with everyone, I suppose—it was in leaving that I arrived; in standing still that I leapt forward; and in dying to self that I was raised to life anew. Because though I had lost my way, it was here, in Nebraska, that I was found. There is healing in the land—and rest.
4 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
POETRY
HOME
Rem inded
by Jeffrey Niehaus
by Jill Barlow
It was a place in the Ohio Valley
It seems only yesterday I used to believe in
Called Martins Ferry, my home town, a place
monsters in the closet,
Where I could walk a long and winding road
imaginary friends and tea parties,
Past gravestones in a cemetery ‘til
the shelter of my tree house,
I reached the top and sat down with my lunch
kisses as cures of bumps and bruises,
And saw the whole broad valley far below.
and tiaras that crowned me princess.
It was a place just south of West Palm Beach,
Gazing out my window today
Palm Springs, a new development back then
it seems I doubt more than believe.
Before Castro, when I was just eleven
I hang my head and as I do
And Florida seemed Paradise to me,
I trace with my finger
A land of lizards, rattlesnakes and ‘gators
the aged scar on my knee
Who did no harm even when I was close.
from a kickball game in my backyard. And once again, I believe.
I have not seen it since, for I was young And could not know that earth was not a home But just a garden where I had grown up And would grow older ‘til I understood That someone better would one day transplant me To somewhere better but unknown to me. So now I find it, if at all, alone With him, as anyone must do who knows That he alone is home for everyone Who dares to trust his love, and that he will Be home for us forever on that day When all familiar homes have passed away.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 5
6 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
POETRY
M anif e s to of a Hom e le s s M a n by Spencer Pierce
My home dwarfs yours. You see, this is my city, my streets. Everywhere you look, this is mine. Its mine ‘cause I live here. You walk my sidewalk without permission and think it belongs to everyone. You are wrong. You see, long after you go back to your home, tuck in your children, I will still be squatting right here where you ignored me. Yeah, I saw your subtle glance, that peripheral fleeting glare. I saw you sitting at the traffic light, rolling up your window at me. My skin is tougher than the elements and the spurning that made it that way. You’ll never get used to me. I disquiet you. I throw off your morning. And the funny thing is, I didn’t do anything. I just sat here on my bench. Once a year, I make you feel pity instead of fear. When the snow flies in late December, you let me see your stare. You may even smile at this slovenly Santa, though my beard looks like April snow and my black sack is filled with the gifts you leave me under the street lamp. I used to be like you once. You believe that? When I was a child, street people frightened me too, like I now frighten your kids. But I’m not all bad. A guy once told me to get a job. I wanted to ask him where I was supposed to get money for a razor, a haircut, a nice shirt, a pair of shoes without any holes, a phone so my potential boss could reach me, and a mailbox so I could apply… I try to save up, but I gotta eat too. You know I’ve been robbed twice? I try to invest in things for a job…the guy at Bridge and Elm invests in a knife! People don’t trust my cardboard sign. There’s a guy off Valley Road with a sign that says, “Why lie? I need money for booze and cigarettes.” You know he makes more money than I do? Off Valley Road! I may never escape these streets, though I am trying. Though, if you’re reading this, I guess I didn’t make it. But hey, at least there’s one less of me, right? Oh, and I guess you can have my street back.
Opposite Page: Untitled • Andrea Madden
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 7
POETRY
Thi s W or l d S h a ll S oon Be Their Territory by Stephen McAlpin Be still and see the captives bound in chains, With broken bodies, waiting for freedom. How bold is their love that dares to survive, For by its living hope they remain true Amidst enemies, lies, and temptations, Which make prisoners of us all in life. So gather yourselves from around this world, All those of you with the hearts to believe And who desire a home for the estranged. Behold what has given hope to the weak, What has released those under lock and key, Redeeming even the least of all these. Love is a conqueror who is at war, Subtly fighting to make rich the poor Until the day when the beloved are home. Love has come and is building a kingdom For the outcasts, the exiles, and the meek, Where in ceaseless bliss shackled hearts are free.
8 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
Orion by Robin Giberson Lawrenz Orion, can you tell me how to get home? I could always see you from my driveway. It’s strange to see you here So far from where my mother prays for me. Orion, bend your bow and send an arrow, But wrap it first with a message that I have changed— But tell her not to fear. This is the world she wanted me to see. Orion, send a star for little Meri. Let it fly, let it fall on Jersey, And tell her I’ll be home Before you are gone again for summer. Orion, please be careful not to aim low For fear that my message will be misread And misunderstood. I never meant to hurt her when I grew. Orion, let her see what only you know, What you have seen from watching over my head, How I have tried to be good. I only did what she told me to do. Now you’re the only one who knows my name. Isn’t that a sad little twist in the story? I cursed the sun every time it came. Could you shoot it down and shine brighter for me? Orion, send a star for little Meri. Let it fly, let it fall on Jersey, And tell her I’ll be home Before you are gone. Oh, tell her I’ll be home Before you are gone again for summer.
Gateway • Beth Saavedra I took this picture in Boston’s Beacon Hill neighborhood last spring.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 9
PROSE
Home Is How the Heart Is by John Dao
Have you ever seen something so beautiful that you could cry? I have. When you open your eyes and really look around you, you’ll see it too. That’s what I see when I look at the clouds and how they are brushed with light, swirling in the sky, entranced in some sort of heavenly dance. That’s what I see when I look at a father walking down the street with his daughter hand in hand, enjoying some banter or perhaps not even talking at all. That’s what I see when I look at my mother’s face, covered in tears (what often happens when one stands before the Lord open and exposed), weeping with her son in reconciliation. For just one moment, the world is as it should be and nothing else matters. It’s a beauty no painter can paint, but to see it means to have seen death. I never used to think about love when I thought about home. When I wasn’t home, I never thought about going back, and when I was home I thought about being anywhere else but. My home was a prison, not just because I wasn’t allowed to come and go as I pleased (at least without some clever excuse), but also because it was the place where I kept my emotions locked up. All the pain and hurt no one ever saw but me and my siblings huddled in a corner, crying not for forgiveness but for each other, locked up at home. Could you blame me for wanting to get out? Could you blame me for not wanting to go back?
Suffice it to say that home was the last place I wanted to be and I know I am not alone in this.
I remember sitting in class, watching videos on child abuse. I remember the shock as the little boy on the screen turned into the little boy inside of me. I remember the pain of every “How could they do that?” and “That’s not how to raise a child.” I wanted to disappear. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream out, “Stop! They love me! You don’t understand!” until I slowly came to realize the truth: I was abused.
Despair, anger, and blame: the fallout of revelation. My past would not let me forget it and my lies wouldn’t
cover my wounds anymore. I wanted to run away and ditch my life. I had just become a Christian—the church was all the family I would need (for some of us, the church is all the family we have). It would’ve been easy to run away and start a new life with Christ and mother and brothers and sisters. Jesus would have none of it. “Try reconciliation first,” He chided me, “then we can talk.”
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Willingly go home and face my demons? Knowing full well
what awaited me, what I had locked up there, I was afraid. A dear friend of mine comforted me with a story he told so well: There was a man who guarded a closet. Inside the closet was a horrible demonic monster so insidious that it struck fear into the heart of any man who dared approach it, and it was breaking out. The man stood alone, fighting to keep the door closed as the demon fought to get out. The man’s arms, clawed and scratched by the demon’s claws and fangs, dripped with blood. He was terrified, but even more afraid of what would happen to him if the demon got out. And there they stood, neither side backing down. As soon as he was at the brink of exhaustion, Jesus appeared in the room and called out to him, “Let go of the door and take my hand.” The guard replied, “You are too far away! The demon will kill me before I reach you!”
10 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
“Let go of the door and take my hand” was all Jesus said, to which the man replied, “I can’t! I just can’t!” Finally, beaten and completely fatigued, the man collapsed by the door and reached out for Jesus with the last of his strength. His arm was caught by Jesus who had been standing right behind him the entire time. Looking around, now securely in the arms of Christ, he saw that the demon was not a demon but just a pile of dirty clothes. He had no wounds on him and was dressed instead in dazzling white. “Why were you afraid?” replied Jesus. “I have been with you always.”
That is what happened to me. The problems that seemed so big are dirty socks to Jesus. Jesus saw
what I could not because he was not the one holding the door. Jesus saw the beauty in my family through the brokenness, the kind of beauty no painter could paint. I understand now just where I have been and where I am going despite my sufferings. What was once weakness I can call strength. What was once suffering is now my character. I would not trade my childhood for anything because the Lord Jesus Christ has revealed his glory in my life through them. They are me and I am His. By his blood I have been set free—after all, what is freedom other than the ability to be what God has made you to be?—and by his blood I can return home. Indeed, I am home at last.
“
I’ve never used to think about love when I thought about home. When I wasn’t home, I never thought about going back, and when I was home I thought about being anywhere else but. My home was a prison...
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 11
Step Into the Big World • Goran Kojcev
12 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 1 3
POETRY
Sacr e d Gr ou nd
Tom orr ow W ide
by Roslyn Darr
by Jordan Easley
Wide-eyed, I stand poised on a stony cliff, compelled to dance into the leaping lights licking the ocean’s vast swaying surface.
Tomorrow is far as heaven and as wide, our smiles and sorrow wide. Now you and I, we borrow time until both you and I are we.
Behind, black brooding trees whisper, sighing that their fallen, dead leaves offer sodden paths for feet not intended to swim. Still, I would plunge into ecstasies— Haven’t I already missed drowning twice? Surely, I won’t shatter ‘gainst rocky pricks, breaking up like those burgundy droplets which now fall fast into the frenzied foam. A white male killer whale moans passionately, enticing me into a searing sunset for a party with powerful sharks tonight. What is this I feel, holding me back? Love can’t survive in this crazy world! Peace comes gliding over the still forest floor… In amazement, I see a cross in its shaft. “Me? Tend an earthy hole, learn from centipedes?” Yet, casting off shoes, I dig my toes deep— deep into a nurturing womb of life. Gentle rain eases my fever away… Wide-eyed, I stand firmly on the path, thrusting new roots into sacred ground. Surefooted snails walk softly on the path, telling me to step out in patient hope. “Learn to walk rather by trust than by sight.” Peace wafts His fresh scent across my hot brow, brushing my lips with His delightful breath. Breathing deep, I walk on into the trees.
14 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
As we, we are a home and wide. And heaven is a coming home. Heaven, wide, at once now and tomorrow, is we coming home to He.
W hen You Lea st E x pect It… by Suzanne Carter And there He is, door wide open, Standing there, Standing there with that smile. “You can have all you want,” He says. “All the life you want, all the hope you want, All the adventure, all the delight you want, all the freedom.” And with bursting heart I stand there. Waiting. He tries again, this time stepping nearer, coming closer. Swinging the door wider, Smiling bigger than ever, He says, again, “It’s here. I’ve got it. It’s yours for the taking. You can have all you want. All the joy, all the love.” I’m standing there—still. Admiring the offer. Still. Mesmerized. Definitely. That Smile. Irresistible, when you really, really think of it. “Just come in. Just come in,” He says. “Or I’ll come and get you.”
GRAPHIC DESIGN
The kingdom of heaven is like a grain of mustard seed that a man took and sowed in his field. It is the smallest of all seeds, but when it has grown it is larger than all the garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.
—Matthew 13:31–32
Church Plant Logo • Collaborative Project: Chris & Jen Anderson, Bradley & Meda Barnes, John & Megan Meinen
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 1 5
Gateway • Amanda Cannon This picture was captured from a bus in Honduras. Not only is home a place where we can just be ourselves and hang out our “dirty laundry,” but this picture made me think of the fact that the good deeds we do are nothing more than dirty rags and only Christ can wash us clean and give us a hope for our true eternal home.
16 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 1 7
The Lake • Lee Schwamb
Home Is Wherever You Are • Amanda Cannon To me home is wherever my husband is. Family is the essence of home even if you feel far away from the place, country, or physical building you know to be your home. Who you come home to at the end of the day is more important than any physical place.
18 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
POETRY
A Homing Pat h By Dean Borgman Gurgling sounds and gently swaying motions, A distant murmur becomes familiar, Stretch, kick, sleep…in a comfortable fetal Home. Awakening sense of mother, persons, and voices, Space and things, toys that are mine. Daddy, Mommy and big brother, too; Distinct aromas; outside, Grandma’s house, familiar smell of Home. My house, my family, school, and my friends, New activities, challenges, and fun. My group finding a world ever new. Chores, arguments, do’s and don’ts, Breakfast, supper, hate them, love them, my Home. I’ve left it…for this room, these roommates? I can always go back, but meanwhile for now… There’s so much to do, new worlds of the mind. Things to ponder, paths to tread, home away from Home. Back home, but not the same. Dad and Mom different, better, I feel strange and better, but who? Finding my way, falling in love, “I” to “we,” and “our” Home. Babies we hold; how quickly they grow. Years become months, months seem like days. This house, now empty, has served us quite well. Strange cycle, somehow right, seems almost complete. Do we need a new house to call Home? He’s died; they’re distant and busy. Living alone… A place I can’t quite call home. A longing clear, now more than ever… For a place I can really find HOME.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 1 9
PROSE
Home birt h by Mark Jacobson
Living Room
Kitchen
My Son’s Room
This is my small, cluttered living room. It’s so dark the carpet doesn’t look stained. Futon: It’s a futon. It’s brown. It’s ready to become a bed. My sister’s overnight bag: A canvas tote bulging with clothes and toiletries. A Dan Brown novel rests on top. Changing table: It’s black and sleek and elegant with a ripped-up changing pad on top. It’s stuffed underneath with little girl clothes and diapers from BJ’s Wholesale. Midwife’s bucket: The white bucket is empty except for a coiled siphoning hose, and the bottom couple inches are stained brown on the inside. Books: The birthing books are my wife’s. I’d been meaning to read them, but I hadn’t had time. The piles of Left Behind are mine. I was planning to set them on fire and take a picture, but I hadn’t had time. Mail: From two weeks ago, and we still haven’t opened it. Maybe there are bills in there.
This is the only room in the apartment that actually has its lights on. There are Cheerios and dried-up clumps of mac-and-cheese under the table. Dishes: Teetering piles of dirty plates, bowls, and sippy cups fill the counter. Recycling: Toilet paper tubes, crushed-up milk jugs and apple juice bottles, and stacks of cans fit into other cans continue waiting to be taken to the recycling bin. I tried taking it a week ago, but the bin was full, and the bin’s still full. Trash: One bag is family trash. One bag is diapers. They both stink, and I promise I was planning on taking them out when I got off work today. Except I got called home early because of the contractions. Frying pan: On the edge of the pan, there are still some burnt-on scrambled eggs. Inside the pan, you can see the outlines of about a halfdozen different scissor-y implements that the midwife’s assistant boiled in there to sterilize them. Mountain Dew cans: All over the counter. I had promised myself, “No more Mountain Dew,” but then I had a bunch of papers to write, so, you know, what am I going to do? Glass bowl: A big, glass bowl sits in the sink. I usually use it for soup, but right now it has a plastic Toys R Us bag sitting inside it in a little bit of blood. Inside the plastic bag is a placenta: deep, deep red and dark blue, and it smells strongly of iron. Spilled Maalox: I just took Maalox, and I dripped some on the counter, but I didn’t clean it up, because who cares?
This is the room of my two-year-old son. But he’s at his grandparents’ tonight. So his room is filled with all the junk we had to quickly clean out of other rooms in order to clear space. There’s a rocking chair, and a hassock, and a big pile of dirty clothes. It’s not worth trying to find a way in there.
20 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
Bathroom
Bedroom
There’s no exhaust fan on top of the building, I guess, so the hot, wet air just stays in here after a shower. That accounts for the mold. The dirty toilet and overflowing trash can are my fault, though. Stepstool: It has construction equipment painted on it. My son uses it to reach the sink. Buckets: Sitting in the tub are the buckets my sister and I used to fill up the inflatable swimming pool with 97-degree water so the baby would have an easy transition.
The bedroom is dark, except for one light, dimmed in the corner. The air is so hot and moist and smells so strongly of blood that breathing feels more like drinking, filling your throat, choking you. The pool: The inflatable swimming pool has round, sturdy walls about three feet high, and it took me forever to blow up. The pool’s walls have cartoon fish painted on the inside and outside. The calm water inside just looks dark, but when the midwife’s assistant runs her flashlight over it it’s red with blood. Dead-fish net: We bought it at a pet store. It’s for scooping chunks out of the pool. Towels: A ring of towels sits on a tarp around the pool, just in case the water spills. The midwife: The midwife has long black hair and speaks only in whispers and only to her assistant, who nods and smiles. The midwife’s assistant: She’s younger, with long, brown, curly hair, and she just got back from a rescue trip to Haiti. She’s nodding and smiling. My sister: She’s a trained EMT, staring through the dark for signs of a medical emergency, ever alert to my wife’s needs, politely not rebuking the midwife. My wife: Her eyes are closed. She’s sweating. She’s cradling her baby. My daughter: It’s hard to see her in the dim light, but she has dark hair and she’s all covered with the stuff that babies come out all covered with. Her umbilical cord has been cut and clamped and tied off. She’s quiet. Everybody’s so damn quiet.
Outside the Apartment Building There’s a cool breeze outside. There are birds and insects making noise, and there are moths banging at the streetlights. Me: I’m sitting on the front steps, glad for the fresh air and the solitude. I know I should be thanking God that everyone is healthy and praising him for the miracle of life and how he knits in wombs and everything, but I’m just really tired, and I can’t get the smell of blood out of my nose, and I don’t have any money; but if I did, if I just had a buck thirty-five, I’d walk up the hill right now and get a Mountain Dew out of the machine.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 2 1
Facets of the Familiar • Megan Hackman I found photographing home as one single entity impossible. Instead, these snapshots are glimpses into the familiarity of home that I seek: sweet tea on a humid day, friends on the porch, and a shared morning coffee.
22 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 2 3
24 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
BA C K HOM E: A C R EPUSC UL AR JOUR N E Y by Pablo Polischuk The journey is coming to an end, leaving behind all endeavors. The sweat is drying—the working brow’s essence. The mark of the curse’s sentence, the ephemeral, yet indelible display of stressful labors, now fades away… or lingers as presence in absence? The sojourners are casting their shadows as the receding day is absorbed by the night. Yet, the hope of the dawn is in sight, fostering a redemptive perception, embedded in the crepuscular procession aiming at home, after a long day. Home, a place of rest superseding dismay. A place to shed burdens, a final destination.
Crepuscular Journey Back Home • Pablo Polischuk
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 2 5
E S S AY
Hom e by Zach Arnstam
I remember it well, that house on 15th street. There were mornings when my wife and I would be woken by the sound of thunderous raindrops hitting like a thousand drums on the roof. As soon as we realized it had been raining through the night, we rushed into the kitchen, towels in hand, flinging cups and pots everywhere to catch the array of silver streams piercing through the ceiling. One unfortunate leak always seemed to erupt in a place that forced us to balance a cup on the edge of the counter to catch it. Another, quite possibly the most immense leak, always let loose above the center of the kitchen floor, requiring the aid of a five-gallon paint bucket to resist the downpour.
I can recall, quite humorously, a particular morning when I had left the study to get a cup of coffee. As I
walked through the kitchen, I found myself standing amid a room of plastic reservoirs strategically placed across the floor. I gradually moved across the kitchen to avoid the numerous areas of dripping water, poured a cup of coffee, and walked back to the study. For some reason, the leaky ceiling never bothered me, and I am certain it never bothered my wife. She never once complained. On certain inclement mornings she would simply walk into the kitchen, empty out the bowls and cups, place them once again in their designated areas, and then quietly go back into the room where she had been reading. The rain fell, the ceiling would leak, we’d set out our empty pitchers in unpredictable evolving places, and then move on.
Aside from the leaks in the kitchen, there were indeed other perplexing attributes of the house that succeeded in baffling the both of us. One late August, after having barely moved in, we began to hang myriad portraits and art on the walls. In our bedroom, we displayed a sundry of black and white photographs commemorating our very recent wedding. In our kitchen, we hung a canvas painting of a taxi cab sitting at a street light in New York City, as well as a masterpiece that conveyed a stoic man and woman driving a classic Bugatti along a hillside. In our living room, we hung pictures of memories past and photographs that revealed the joy of our family; pictures of life itself as we had lived it thus far. Something strange happened, however, after our memories and moments took their place on the walls. As early morning moved into evening twilight hours, we noticed that the pictures seemed to move. Day after day, by nightfall they gradually tilted; they swayed, teetered, and adjusted themselves accordingly into a crooked position. I understand that the prospect of crooked pictures can often escape the attention of a nimble mind; but for myself, I can honestly say this has never been true. In other words, some may not
26 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
mind crooked frames dangling throughout their corridors, but for others this is not so. Unfortunately, I happen to be one such individual who will spend an extended amount of time in order to calibrate and arrange the perfect balance of a picture on the wall. Quite possibly this is one parental trait— whether good or bad, I do not know—that has been passed down from my father. For him, everything had to occupy its exact and proper place. As a lieutenant commander in the Navy, he was a man of order. Period. His desk was always immaculate and strangely lined up with its surrounding furniture, the floors had a rather uninviting and sterile glow, and his bed was pressed and made by 5:00 a.m. Perhaps the one area of his life that manifested the greatest perfection was his garage. Sadly, I would even go so far to say that throughout the years it became the linchpin of his existence. His garage was nothing short of a large filing system marshaled to perfection! The cars always occupied their exact position, their windshields appropriately touching the fur of the dangling tennis balls. The shelving system he employed to orchestrate his tools was perhaps one of his finest trademarks. And above all, the floors were
always, at all times, pristine. But the one element I seem to remember most vividly as a young boy, which seemed to complete the glorious scene of my father in the garage, was the sight of the steaming coffee cup that rested on top of his toolbox in the early mornings. If I were to wake up early on any given day, I always knew that the light in the garage would be on and he would be out there. He typified the behavior of a creature of habit flawlessly. At sunrise sharp he would be in the garage reading the paper, listening to the radio and working on the cars. In my own estimation, his very gait, movement, and presence, the oil on his hands, the way he wore his boots and tucked in his shirts always seemed to embrace the mechanics of a unique symmetrical atmosphere. And so it is that my own attempt to hang a picture on the wall has shown that I have retained a portion of his compulsivity. Aside from the rain and tilted pictures, however, there was much more to our little house than could ever meet the eye as one passed by the outside. We lived in what is known as the Linen District of downtown Boise, Idaho. The Linen District was one of the last corners of the city that had not been completely purchased by commercial real estate. As a result, one could easily walk a few steps from amid towering buildings to the site of an old secluded dirt lot: this was our home. It was old, it was surrounded by dirt and it was terribly crooked, and because of this the inside door jams and walls occupied differing angles and patterns. In short, it was a rather unique place to live as a newly married couple. Given the fact that our home was surrounded by an acre of dirt, it afforded a culture of insects the opportunity for shade and dwelling. Spiders were naturally our biggest problem. While my wife could handle the leaky roof and swaying pictures, the prospect of our house daily falling into the possession of spiders forced her into a deeper kind of bravery. Looking back on it now, I can honestly say that given the peculiar circumstances of that home she did well to demonstrate her intrinsic will to live. She grew accustomed to shaking out the sheets before bed, and she mastered the art of spotting six-legged shadows that scampered across our walls in the middle of the
night. And for this, among other things, I am greatly fascinated by her. While it is certain that a fine novel could be accredited to the unconventionality of that home, I feel it necessary to give only a glimpse into the things that took place as we lived there. That home was one of the more humble places my wife and I had ever lived; it was affordable but old and possessed many qualities that might perhaps convince anyone else it was not suitable to be classified as a “home.� It was odd, lowly, and existed well below what many Americans would consider an admirable place to raise a family. But at the outset of our relationship, that house served as the structure in which my wife and I would begin to understand just what it meant to make a home.
That house became the place where she and I were forced to see the depths of one another ... Its walls saw the best of us as well as the worst. It was indeed the setting where the intricate parts of our human capacity truly began to grow.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 2 7
Home ( continued... )
There was the Walmart table that took me almost three hours to assemble with an Allen wrench, which nonetheless became the centerpiece of our memorable evenings as we sat down to enjoy a glass of wine and a meal. Given my wife’s heritage in the Mexican culture, one of my favorite times of day was when I came through the back door and smelled the kitchen filled with hints of cilantro and cayenne pepper. Even now, I can almost feel the rush of solitude that overcame us as we sat on our front porch watching the sun disappear over the buildings. And there was that time on the 4th of July when we climbed up onto the roof to watch the bursting fireworks span the sky in a spontaneous retro luster. I can still remember the majestic moment when our son and I took a bath together. Lost in the madness of splashing water and youthful excitement, we were surprised when the woman of the house entered the bathroom, lit numerous candles and began to read the pages of Moby Dick. At the time it was our favorite story, and as we sat there in the confines of that small bathtub, we reveled in the thoughts of what it would have been like to be in pursuit of that legendary white whale! There was that lone tree in the backyard, under which I placed my desk in the summertime. It quickly became the venue, as the fog of the early morning began to lift from the ground, by which I was able to tread among some of the world’s finest literature. I suppose if I set my mind to it, I could easily allow the faults of that house to rob my imagination of the capacity to reminisce of those things, which were grand. If I were to succumb to the temptation to drop my perspective a little lower, I suppose my ability to remember would miss the good altogether. I do not think anyone would ever claim that the things that served to change their lives were the structures in which they lived; rather, it was always the experiences that took place within them that compounded the most extraordinary effect upon their lives. For a time, my family and I lived in a house certainly deemed unattractive by the world’s standards. Yet it became the place where a reservoir of magnificent memories surfaced amid the monotony of life. That house became the place where she and I
28 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
were forced to see the depths of one another; where we began to see the fragility of human nature working itself out through the pulse of a covenant relationship. It became the place where the memories of our best arguments will always be traced, and the place where the first monumental outworking of our best love will always be reminisced. Its walls saw the best of us as well as the worst. It was indeed the setting where the intricate parts of our human capacity truly began to grow. In those ancient writings of history, we’re told of a timeless eschatological hope that resides within the heart of every believer. We’re told of a better world to come, a postmortem dwelling that will embrace the struggling sinner at the end of the age. That at the consummation of history, as the heavens and the earth are being branded by fire, we will be caught up to the destiny of a new eternal residence—one not made by human hands! Of all the words that John chose to include in his gospel account, I am often beyond gratitude he did not forget those timeless words that our Lord spoke to fearful hearts: “Let not your hearts be troubled. In my Father’s house there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” These few words have done well to send every manmade ideal and preconceived notion of “home” to its collapse. Just when Christ could have expounded on all the illustrious and staggering features of that eternal dwelling, he chose to be swift with his words and exact with his description of that very place. To his disciples, the essence of that kingdom resided within one proposition: “that where I am you may also be.” Throughout their short time with him, the disciples had been given something they had never before possessed. Christ showed them that while the Son of Man had no place to lay his head, it was upon his own bosom that they could indeed lay their own. He persuaded them that in the end an individual’s legacy will not be marked by an investment in things that are seen but in things that are not! It’s said of that great patriarch Abraham that he went out into the unknown because he “was look-
ing forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God.” We’re told that Moses was prohibited from entering the Promised Land, and we are told that the Lord showed him the land with his eyes but never allowed him to touch it with his feet. If our perspective is too low, we might be tempted to consider this a tragedy; however, I would argue that the true tragedy took place among the Israelites who saw the land of promise, entered it, and forgot it was merely a type, a foreshadow of that great unseen country to come. Jesus redefined the underlying rubric of heaven. It was nothing more and nothing less than the place where he was! Heaven can be defined as the place where Christ is! And along with him comes a world of immensities and mysteries, which cannot be contained by the human mind. This is why Paul himself, that great theologian of our church, could provide no other definition of heaven than by quoting the utterances of Isaiah: “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no heart of man has imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him.” Every hero of the world succeeded in shaping history only because they grasped this delicate truth— that they were merely drifters across the plains of time and that their home was simply defined by the presence of Christ. To every family in American culture, it can be only Christ in the midst of them that offers a home on the horizon of the world. It was Major Dick Winters, a member of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment and the commander of Easy Company, who survived more than two years in WWII because he promised himself that if he ever survived the war he would build a house, stone by stone, in his native state of Pennsylvania. It was the prospect of his imminent return home that girded his heart as he faced a world at war. The image of David Livingstone, the missionary who shook the African continent with the message of Christ, is forever branded in my mind. As a mere teenager, he prayed that prayer that would forever change his life: “Lord, send me anywhere only go with me. Place any burden upon me only sustain me.
Severe all ties, but the ones that bind me to your heart and to your service.” The consequence of this prayer resulted in the ongoing awareness that the smoke of a thousand villages would burn within his heart. In the midst of his missionary travels, he would lose his first wife to disease the moment she set foot on African soil. He suffered the loss of children and companions and was afflicted with pain. At one point he wandered into a tree branch, which blinded him in one eye; he was attacked by a lion, which mangled his shoulder and caused him pain for the rest of his life. Throughout the years, the African sun had so worn the skin on his face that he was almost unrecognizable to those who knew him. When I think of him, there is only one way to reconcile the fact that he would leave the prestigious halls of academia in order to give his life for the sake of an uncharted country. For Livingstone, it was not so much the reoccurring prayer that he uttered throughout his life but the transcendent voice that always came after it, “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” He lived as a man without a home because he was mindful of the presence of the one who was ushering him to a better one. One might be tempted to ask: What then are we to make of our moments here in this life? C. S. Lewis once commented about the good experiences we often enjoy—an evening with our spouse, a good ball game, the smoking of a cigar, a drive along the hillside; that all of these experiences are simply inns along the way. We must not mistake this life for home; we must not see our current living as the destined Promised Land. Any hue and color cast upon our lives in the here and now can only be interpreted in the light of the next. Only by an appropriate longing for that eternal dwelling can we live this life as it was meant to be lived! What is home? I suppose that outside the person of Christ, definitions may vary and will undoubtedly occupy strange assumptions. In Christ, however, there is one sufficient answer, “That where I am you may also be.”
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 2 9
Why Birds Fly South for the Winter • Bert Hickman I had never thought about what happens to birds’ homes in the winter until I saw this one. Obviously I did not grow up in New England! It’s easy to feel for the poor birds, but the sight of a snowball (looking somewhat like a giant egg) filling a nest is pretty humorous as well.
Pr ay e r f or Pat ie nc e in Fathering by Jeffrey Arthurs Lord of all, if penguins can, can’t I?— The plodding march, the hunger, pain, and trials. They shuffle, stand, and shield their juveniles With only instinct, hope, and feathers dry. If they can nurture chicks in wind and trackless Ice with predators, besides the wild And mindless straying of the hatchlings beguiled By shape and sound, can’t I? Do I have less Instinct? Less hope? And surely human brain Can compensate for flightless feathers. Yet, I lack the penguin’s patience, just to let Him molt, mature, and muddle in his vein. Help me to wait, the penguin emulate; He knows his role, his place, Your time, time’s state.
30 • KAΛ OS Connec t
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e
Contributor Index Chris & Jen Anderson * 15
Jordan Easley • 14
John & Megan Meinen • 15
Zach Arnstam • 26–29
Sara Giguere • 3
Jeffrey Niehaus • 5
Student, M.Div. (Chris)
Student, M.Div.
Jeffrey Arthurs • 30
Student, M.Div.
Controller, Murray & MacDonald Insurance Services, Inc. Married to Caleb Giguere (student)
Student, M.Div. (John)
Faculty, Professor of Old Testament
Faculty, Professor of Preaching and Communication Dean of the Chapel
Student, M.Div.
Megan Hackman • 22–23
Spencer Pierce • 7
Jill Barlow • 5
Bert Hickman • 30
Pablo Polischuk • 24–25
Staff, Director of Admissions Student, M.A. Theology
Bradley & Meda Barnes •15
Student, M.A. World Missions & Evangelism
Staff, Research Associate, Center for the Study of Global Christianity Alumnus, M.A. Religion
Faculty, Professor of Psychology and Pastoral Counseling
Alumnus, 2003, M.Div (Bradley)
Staff Alumnus, 2010, M.A. Religion
Mark Jacobson • 20–21
Joel Ruark • 4
Dean Borgman • 19
Goran Kojcev • 12–13
Beth Saavedra • 8–9
Amanda Cannon • 16–17; 18
Robin Giberson-Lawrenz • 9
Lee Schwamb • 18
Faculty, Charles E. Culpeper Professor of Youth Ministry
Nanny and photographer Married to Josh Cannon (student)
Suzanne Carter • 14
Student, M.A. New Testament
Married to Jason Lawrenz (student)
Service Manager, Hendrick Mfg. Corp. Married to Bryan Long (student)
John Dao • 10–11
Andrea Madden • 6
Roslyn Darr • 14
Stephen McAlpin • 8
Student, M.Div.
Student, M.A. Counseling
Student, M.A. Educational Ministries
Molly Long • 3
Staff
Student, M.Div., & M.A. Counseling
Alumnus, 2010, M.A. Theology
Alumna, 1997, M.A. Church History
Student, M.Div.
FA L L 2 0 1 0 : H O M E • 3 1
“Yet, although [Christians] live in Greek and barbarian cities alike, as each man’s lot has been cast, and follow the customs of the country in clothing and food and other matters of daily living, at the same time they give proof of the remarkable and admittedly extraordinary constitution of their own commonwealth. They live in their own countries, but only as aliens. They have a share in everything as citizens, and endure everything as foreigners. Every foreign land is their fatherland, and yet for them every fatherland is a foreign land.”
32 • KAΛ OS Connec t
—Unknown Author, Letter to Diognetus, 2nd century AD
+
Cr eat e
+
Cult iv at e