Whatever it is that’s rattling in the darkness must be silenced. I reach out a probing hand to my desk, daring not to open my eyes and soak in even a drop of the muted, morning sunlight prying its way through my blinds and eyelashes. The task of silencing my phone’s panicked dancing pulls me far enough into consciousness to brave a glance at my enemy, the light. It’s blinding—much too bright for 8 a.m., the time I set for my alarm, the latest possible time I could wake up and still meet my fiancée and her family for church at 9:30.
Oh no. It’s 9:30. And that’s not my alarm; it’s Katie calling.
“They will put you out of the synagogues. Indeed, the hour is coming when whoever kills you will think he is offering service to God. And they will do these things because they have not known the Father, nor me.” John 16:2
I won’t even pretend to be a pastor. I’m no Timothy Keller, nor have I had any technical seminary or theological training. I didn’t even stay at a Holiday Inn Express® last night. Therefore, I hope this blog comes off more as an inviting exposition than a sermon, especially to my friends who are all like, “What is a Jesus?”
Recently, my fellow North Tower RA’s and I created some yearbook-style keepsakes to give one another. We all took turns quickly writing affirming messages on group photos in order to commemorate our year together. It was really nice, and I plan on tracking down a frame that actually fits mine soon.
Anyway, I noticed a common theme among the comments written about me: contentment.
I hate the winter. Let me rephrase: I despise the winter, and wish it would die in a horrible, fiery car wreck. Normally I wouldn’t resort to numerical blog hysterics, but I feel it is the only way for establishing the full extent and reasoning of my, and possibly your, disdain. Sure, I could just move somewhere warmer and/or stop complaining. But why should I have to move? Those little white shuriken and below-zero temperatures only stick around part-time anyway! Maybe THE WINTER should leave—and stay out!
posting this up for a friend to read.
It has been said often and loudly, both in and out of our classroom, that a discerning pro-life person will withhold the imposition of his or her beliefs on others in the public forum. Many who are convinced of this philosophy say things like, “I strongly oppose abortion, myself,” then hasten to add a “but…” clause that explains why they are pro-choice, despite their feelings. This document will demonstrate that such beliefs (I will not distinguish among them) are logically irreconcilable with the majority of common worldviews. Next, it will investigate the oppressive cultural habitat from which these claims arise. It is not within the scope of this paper to debate the morality of abortion itself, but only the framework in which that conversation takes place. My contention is specifically that the “I am personally opposed, but…” (hereafter “IPOB”) arguments within said dialogue are politically regressive as well as rationally untenable for the most common modes of thought.
A short, creative non-fiction story. I don’t normally do this, but enjoy.
You can always count on the elevators in my dorms for some much needed intrigue. You can also always count on them to be broken, and consequently slow and packed full of college kids. Anyway, there is some insight to be gained from being forced into spatial intimacy with perfect strangers. It confronts us with humanity in others as well as in ourselves. And if nothing else, it’s just great to watch how different people handle it. Coming down from my 21st floor during the morning rush to class, it is a virtual certainty that I will find myself in that very situation.
Is there anything more self-aggrandizing and pretentious than the convention of written band biographies? I can’t think of a time when a band bio clarified something important or essential to understanding the group’s music. Yet, we never seem to be completely rid of them. Of course, in an environment as competitive as the underground hardcore/metal scene, one has to at least try to stand apart from the swelling ranks of breakdown-clones on the internet.
“Brevity is the soul of wit,” wrote Shakespeare in his timeless Hamlet. Were he alive today to see the magnitude of his enduring observation reverberating through our virally connected, global culture; he might well withdraw his claim with an aptly placed “JK.”
Indeed, I’m finding that brevity is also the soul of something else entirely: Internet English. Also dubbed Netglish, Internet English is a form of what linguists call International Colloquial English. It may seem harmless enough, but there are deeper, more global ramifications than the annoying intrusion of “LOL” into real-life conversations.