I am an Officer’s Kid. I’m OK. I’m also more commonly known as an Officer’s Brat, or OB. Which reminds me of BO, but that’s a different subject. Anyway, what does that mean? Well, in its simplest form it means that my parents are Salvation Army Officers. But what does that actually mean in my life? Well, I have come to realize that I am a strange Officer’s Kid. The stereotypical OB is arrogant, spoiled, lazy, rebellious, falsely righteous, and counterproductive to their parents’ work. Despite the fact that I have probably been all these things during at least at one point in my life or another I seriously doubt that would be how most people who know me would describe me, yet I know too many OBs who give the title “brat” a new meaning. I don’t say all this to brag. I actually say all this just to point out that I’m not trying to say what an Officer’s Kid should be like, because the stereotype is already set and many would reject me from it, I’m just trying to say what it means in my life.
The biggest thing being an Officer’s Kid has done to change my life is to make me work. Until going to Houghton I never had a paid job in my life, and even at Houghton both my jobs are easy sitting jobs. But all my life I’ve worked with, not for, my parents. We moved recently and our new corps is kind of a mess. In some parts it’s just trashed (today I had a box I was about to add to the 120 I had already stacked when it fell apart because it was decomposing due to the fact that it had been sitting in a dirty wet corner so long…) and so we’ve been doing lots of cleaning and work. When I came home to Estonia for summer “vacation” I had some wild dreams about spending my time curled up with my laptop playing video games, and even having so much free time that I would rearrange my whole computer and external hard drive, and then because I would still be rolling in free time I would read books and sleep all day. My dreams never turn out to be true.
Of course pretty soon after returning to Estonia I had to start helping my family pack to move. None of it was MY stuff. I had already moved out and just had a couple of suitcases. But it had to be done, so I did it. Then we got to our new city, Narva, and we had to start unpacking, rearranging furniture, fixing broken furniture, etc., etc. Then we still hadn’t (and haven’t yet) finished that when we started on the corps. Cleaning room after room, emptying out so much stuff, hanging up and giving away clothes, carrying furniture up flights of stairs, doing whatever needed to be done. For a week and a half now every night I’ve gone to bed with my back hurting and woken up with it having gone from a flaring ache to more of dull ache which would flare up again by lunch time after a morning of work. It’s crazy. I’m tired. But why do I do it?
Some people have commented that this situation isn’t fair. Some of the stuff is family stuff, so maybe that’s a little more fair, but still. It’s not my stuff I was packing for Narva. It’s not my stuff I’m helping move and unpack now that we’re here. And this isn’t even where I live for more than a month or so and then I’m off to America. So some people would say that’s a little unfair. Now, the corps stuff is definitely just unfair. This isn’t my corps in any way, shape or form. I don’t know the people and I have no way of doing so because I don’t speak their language. I’m not a soldier of this corps and I never will be and I will never be here for long and there is no way any investment I make in this corps will ever pay off for me. I will never use these rooms I’m cleaning. In fact I’ll never get to see what they are used for once I’ve cleaned them. I’m not doing any work that will ever pay off for, or even have results seen by me. This is terribly unfair. This is supposed to by my summer vacation! I’m supposed to be spending all my time at the beach flirting and tanning, on my laptop gaming and surfing, or just lying around reading! So what the heck am I doing all this work for?
Well, when my parents first became officers and first started asking me to help them I considered it terrible slave labor and fought them to do as little work as possible. But as I’ve grown older I’ve started to have a slightly different perspective. I don’t do this work for me. I do this work for love. When I work I think of three loves that I work for, in order of importance to me. 1: I love God. If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess that’s worth it. I love God, and so I want to serve him, whether that be by sharing the gospel or by cleaning and moving boxes out of rooms that will be used for sharing the gospel or otherwise serving God than I’ll do it. 2: I love my parents. I really do. So if I can help them than I will. This only goes so far though. When somebody said my situation was unfair my mom said of course I was helping because I wouldn’t just sit at home and let my mother work so hard at the corps without help. I found this funny. I really would have no problem with sitting at home doing a second play through of Mass Effect while my mom slaved away doing her chosen work at her chosen profession where she has been called by God and gets paid. But loves 1 and 3 collaborate with my love for my parent’s to make me work. 3: I love The Salvation Army. I feel called to serve God. And at least at this point in my life I feel called to serve God through The Salvation Army. So I just love The Salvation Army. Salvationists are usually great people, and I really have a heart for the work the Army does. I just feel at home with the Army. Of course the Army has its flaws, and as an Officer’s Kid I know them better than I’d like to, but I still love it. So even though this technically isn’t my corps it’s still my Army. So, to serve God, my parents, and The Salvation Army I work.
Now I just realized one thing I should add. Earlier I typed “If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess I’m glad to do it.” I changed that to say it’s worth it because I realized that’s not true. I’m not always glad to do this work, not matter how much love I have. My back hurts, my arms ache, my whole body is physically tired, I’m not glad for any of that. But that’s why it’s called serving. If it needs to be done and if I love those who need it done then I’ll do it. I don’t have to enjoy it, but I’ll do it.
So anyway, this is probably the first blog post that I’ve been sort of asked to write. I wasn’t really asked to write it, I was just asked to get this message out, and I thought my blog would be the best way to do it. I think a lot of people could think about what they love and what they can do for that love. Well, I must be off now. I hope you’re glad I’m blogging again. I know I am.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tales from Narva, or Two Tales of One City
Even though I have been whining about it for several months now I have realized that some of you may not have realized my change of location. If you never noticed me leaving Tallinn to go to Houghton then you’re WAY behind, but if you didn’t notice me returning to Tallinn only to move to Narva a month later than I guess I can forgive you, seeing as how I’ve only been negative and whiny about it up until this point and so haven’t thought it worth blogging about because it would just make the whole, if I may be so bold as to use the term, “blogosphere” so much more depressing by being filled with me fussing. Aren’t you glad that I’m kind and have waited until I had some nice stories to tell? So today I would like to tell you two tales. Not one tale of two cities, but two tales of one city. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but France is not involved, nor are there any revolutions in these tales. I’m sorry if I confused you, or if in fixing your confusion with my literary jokes I have instead simply confused you more or confused those not familiar with what I’m talking about. So anyway, on to my two tales.
The Tale of the Bridge and the Bombs
On a dark and stormy night, which just so happened to be last night, I went over to my friend Anneli’s house to play Age of Empires 2. Between my home and Anneli’s there is a foot bridge which crosses over a bunch of train tracks. It’s a big bridge, and I rather like it. Every time I walk on it I feel cooler just for being walking on a bridge. It’s a strange life I lead, but that’s just the way I feel. Anyway, because the rain was beginning to soak through my hoody and get my hair wet I bolted over the bridge, tightly clutching my towel covered laptop bag. The towel actually worked extraordinarily well in protecting my laptop bag, and when I arrived at Anneli’s I was please to see how dry my laptop bag was, despite the rain.
Six hours and eighteen minutes of mad back-and-forth combat, gloating, bragging, taunting, and shoving down snacks later Anneli and I decided to just end in a tie. It was an amazing game. Anneli’s strength is a nearly impenetrable defense, and she had designed her city to be very close in defensive design to that of Byzantium, whereas mine is an insane all out offense, and I had attacked like the golden horde. You can see how this could go on a while if neither of us truly got the upper hand. So after a little more chatting with Anneli I headed out to hear a terrifying noise.
Don’t mention 1941. I don’t like it. 1939 to 1943 were just especially bad years for Estonia, not to mention up until 1991. The Soviet Union, being the big jerk it was, occupied us for fifty years, starting right here in Narva. I live five minutes from the Russian border. If I get bored I can go make faces at Ivangorod, the Russian castle, or at random Russian men fishing in the river. Russia is literally a stone’s throw away. This city is 97% Russian, which is the cause of most of my whining. I don’t speak Russian. Also, I have become very patriotic. Not of America, of course. American “patriots” tend to irritate me. I feel very patriotic about Estonia, so I feel a little sore when it comes to Russia, Russians, the Russian language, Schweppes Ruscshian drink, all of it, but especially the idea of Russia invading. Remember Georgia? Remember T’bilisi? What T’bilisi? Exactly. So now that I live on the Russian border the last thing I want to hear are explosions…
As far as I can tell the only redeeming quality of the Russian city across the border is the Ivangorod castle, but last night even that high quality was negated. Some genius decided to set off fireworks right over the border. They looked nice, but as I stepped out of Anneli’s apartment building the echoing blasts of the fireworks sounded terribly like tank shells exploding, and the fizzling out of the fireworks sounded quite like machine gun and small arms fire. As I walked down the empty street the effect was disturbing. It felt as if the city had been evacuated and I got left behind, and now I could hear the sounds of the resistance trying to defend the border. All I could think was, “was this what it sounded like when they invaded the last two or three times?”
So that’s just some of what my life in Narva is like. That tale wasn’t as fun as I’m sure you might have liked, and the punch line was terribly unfunny, but I think sometimes in life the punch line just isn’t funny. Anyway, enough of that depressing anti-Russian crap that’s going to get me kidnapped and silenced. My next tale is considerably more entertaining, so I hope you’re happy.
The Tale of the Birds and the Book
One of the very nice things about where we live in Narva is the fact that we live 5 minutes from a nice playground. Though in Tallinn we lived 5 minutes from two nice playgrounds and 10 minutes from a very big and very nice and new playground it’s still quite wonderful to have a playground so close. Because Peter is an energetic young five year old the best remedy for his insane amounts of energy seems to be going to the playground, so I take him a lot. I also enjoy the opportunity to sit out in the fresh air and read, listen to music, or just sit and think. Lately I’ve been reading John Leax’s book, “Grace Is Where I Live” which is quite good, despite the fact that it makes me feel like a suck up to read a book written by the newly retired head of the Houghton Writing department.
So the other day I was sitting on the bench, enjoying the beautiful weather and the sound of kid’s playing while I read some inspirational things about being a Christian writer. Despite the fact that the book had completely engrossed me the birds seemed considerably less thrilled with it. I was sitting under a tree, and apparently I was directly under the favorite perching place of some pigeons. The pigeons, being quite intent on making me aware of their presence, defecated straight onto my book, only very narrowly missing my face. It took me a moment to understand what had gone whizzing past my face and why my book was suddenly disgusting, but once I did realize I kind of freaked out.
I realized pretty quickly that if I closed the book I would ruin it, but if I were to try to go home to clean it up I could not open the locks and doors without closing the book. This seeming dilemma turned out to be easily solved. While carefully cradling the open book in one hand I called home with the other, asking my sister to bring me tissues. Once my sister arrived with the tissues I commenced cleaning off my book, as well as gesturing angrily at the birds and making derogatory comments about them and their whole species.
This apparently touched a nerve in the pigeons, or maybe in the old Babushka, who I personally believe was Baba Yaga, because very quickly the birds decided to assault me again. It was a very well planned out maneuver, I’ll give them that. To my left, as I stared up into the tree making my insulting opinions known to the birds who had first attacked me, was an old woman with a bag of bread. On my right was a flock of pigeons, poised and ready to defend their honor.
As I was getting to a really good part in my tirade, the part where I comment on the quality of the eggs they hatched from, rather like we humans insult each other’s mothers, the Babushka A.K.A. Baba Yaga in disguise released a handful of bread crumbs. Within seconds the flock of birds on my right was all around me, flying straight past me to get to the bread crumbs. Being the manly man I am my response to this was to cover my head with my now clean book while spinning in a circle and shrilly screaming “Oh my God, Oh my God!” This of course drew some dirty looks from the Babushka and the parents at the playground, because when you see a man screaming in English at a flock of birds you know he’s either insane or American or both.
So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my tales. Life in Narva is very different, but overall it’s okay. But I just need to say one last thing. I don’t think the Estonian birds in Tallinn would have attacked me like that! It’s these darn Russian birds, they’re out to get me…
The Tale of the Bridge and the Bombs
On a dark and stormy night, which just so happened to be last night, I went over to my friend Anneli’s house to play Age of Empires 2. Between my home and Anneli’s there is a foot bridge which crosses over a bunch of train tracks. It’s a big bridge, and I rather like it. Every time I walk on it I feel cooler just for being walking on a bridge. It’s a strange life I lead, but that’s just the way I feel. Anyway, because the rain was beginning to soak through my hoody and get my hair wet I bolted over the bridge, tightly clutching my towel covered laptop bag. The towel actually worked extraordinarily well in protecting my laptop bag, and when I arrived at Anneli’s I was please to see how dry my laptop bag was, despite the rain.
Six hours and eighteen minutes of mad back-and-forth combat, gloating, bragging, taunting, and shoving down snacks later Anneli and I decided to just end in a tie. It was an amazing game. Anneli’s strength is a nearly impenetrable defense, and she had designed her city to be very close in defensive design to that of Byzantium, whereas mine is an insane all out offense, and I had attacked like the golden horde. You can see how this could go on a while if neither of us truly got the upper hand. So after a little more chatting with Anneli I headed out to hear a terrifying noise.
Don’t mention 1941. I don’t like it. 1939 to 1943 were just especially bad years for Estonia, not to mention up until 1991. The Soviet Union, being the big jerk it was, occupied us for fifty years, starting right here in Narva. I live five minutes from the Russian border. If I get bored I can go make faces at Ivangorod, the Russian castle, or at random Russian men fishing in the river. Russia is literally a stone’s throw away. This city is 97% Russian, which is the cause of most of my whining. I don’t speak Russian. Also, I have become very patriotic. Not of America, of course. American “patriots” tend to irritate me. I feel very patriotic about Estonia, so I feel a little sore when it comes to Russia, Russians, the Russian language, Schweppes Ruscshian drink, all of it, but especially the idea of Russia invading. Remember Georgia? Remember T’bilisi? What T’bilisi? Exactly. So now that I live on the Russian border the last thing I want to hear are explosions…
As far as I can tell the only redeeming quality of the Russian city across the border is the Ivangorod castle, but last night even that high quality was negated. Some genius decided to set off fireworks right over the border. They looked nice, but as I stepped out of Anneli’s apartment building the echoing blasts of the fireworks sounded terribly like tank shells exploding, and the fizzling out of the fireworks sounded quite like machine gun and small arms fire. As I walked down the empty street the effect was disturbing. It felt as if the city had been evacuated and I got left behind, and now I could hear the sounds of the resistance trying to defend the border. All I could think was, “was this what it sounded like when they invaded the last two or three times?”
So that’s just some of what my life in Narva is like. That tale wasn’t as fun as I’m sure you might have liked, and the punch line was terribly unfunny, but I think sometimes in life the punch line just isn’t funny. Anyway, enough of that depressing anti-Russian crap that’s going to get me kidnapped and silenced. My next tale is considerably more entertaining, so I hope you’re happy.
The Tale of the Birds and the Book
One of the very nice things about where we live in Narva is the fact that we live 5 minutes from a nice playground. Though in Tallinn we lived 5 minutes from two nice playgrounds and 10 minutes from a very big and very nice and new playground it’s still quite wonderful to have a playground so close. Because Peter is an energetic young five year old the best remedy for his insane amounts of energy seems to be going to the playground, so I take him a lot. I also enjoy the opportunity to sit out in the fresh air and read, listen to music, or just sit and think. Lately I’ve been reading John Leax’s book, “Grace Is Where I Live” which is quite good, despite the fact that it makes me feel like a suck up to read a book written by the newly retired head of the Houghton Writing department.
So the other day I was sitting on the bench, enjoying the beautiful weather and the sound of kid’s playing while I read some inspirational things about being a Christian writer. Despite the fact that the book had completely engrossed me the birds seemed considerably less thrilled with it. I was sitting under a tree, and apparently I was directly under the favorite perching place of some pigeons. The pigeons, being quite intent on making me aware of their presence, defecated straight onto my book, only very narrowly missing my face. It took me a moment to understand what had gone whizzing past my face and why my book was suddenly disgusting, but once I did realize I kind of freaked out.
I realized pretty quickly that if I closed the book I would ruin it, but if I were to try to go home to clean it up I could not open the locks and doors without closing the book. This seeming dilemma turned out to be easily solved. While carefully cradling the open book in one hand I called home with the other, asking my sister to bring me tissues. Once my sister arrived with the tissues I commenced cleaning off my book, as well as gesturing angrily at the birds and making derogatory comments about them and their whole species.
This apparently touched a nerve in the pigeons, or maybe in the old Babushka, who I personally believe was Baba Yaga, because very quickly the birds decided to assault me again. It was a very well planned out maneuver, I’ll give them that. To my left, as I stared up into the tree making my insulting opinions known to the birds who had first attacked me, was an old woman with a bag of bread. On my right was a flock of pigeons, poised and ready to defend their honor.
As I was getting to a really good part in my tirade, the part where I comment on the quality of the eggs they hatched from, rather like we humans insult each other’s mothers, the Babushka A.K.A. Baba Yaga in disguise released a handful of bread crumbs. Within seconds the flock of birds on my right was all around me, flying straight past me to get to the bread crumbs. Being the manly man I am my response to this was to cover my head with my now clean book while spinning in a circle and shrilly screaming “Oh my God, Oh my God!” This of course drew some dirty looks from the Babushka and the parents at the playground, because when you see a man screaming in English at a flock of birds you know he’s either insane or American or both.
So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my tales. Life in Narva is very different, but overall it’s okay. But I just need to say one last thing. I don’t think the Estonian birds in Tallinn would have attacked me like that! It’s these darn Russian birds, they’re out to get me…
Saturday, July 25, 2009
My struggle
Sometimes I struggle with what seems the two realities in which I live. On the one hand I have the seeming “real” world. I have the laptop I’m typing on write now. I have my college education and textbooks that need to be paid. I have a life after college that needs to be figured out and planned for. On the other hand I have what might be called the “spiritual” world. I have my commitment to God. I have my desire to follow his calling. I have my faith that He will provide for my future. I feel like I have a great struggle between these two realities. I feel like I want to fully give myself to one or the other, but just can’t. Sometimes when I’m on FaceBook I browse the profiles of old friends, acquaintances, and crushes. Yes, I am that creepy. I see things on their profiles that make me think two things, both “there is a person enjoying their life!” and “there is somebody who has fallen away from God/never known Him at all.” I look at these people, and on the one hand I look at my life and I see how boring it is. When do I go to crazy parties? When do I have wild sex? When do I make out with beautiful women? When do I live selfishly and just enjoy life? On the other have I look at these people and I look at my life and I see how fulfilled my life should be. I have good friends that help me to live a good life. I have a wonderful and loving girlfriend who, even though we don’t have sex or even kiss, is amazingly caring and who I can talk to about absolutely anything. I see the way God takes care of me in little ways all the time, from just having safe travels to having the ability to go to a good college without a fear of too large a debt.
When I look over that last paragraph I just have one thought, one way of describing myself. I am a terrible ingrate. I have a wonderful life, not by my own doing by any means, but just because God loves me. Yet I don’t know what causes this ingratitude and this terrible struggle of discontentment. Maybe I’m just an ungrateful person, but I’d like to think not. I think sometimes, maybe most of the time, I focus far too much on what many would call the “real” world. I focus on the present. I focus on myself. I focus on what I can touch and feel and enjoy. Life is so much bigger than that. It’s terribly frustrating. I need a better focus. I need to look at what’s real, what’s important. But somehow I just can’t. I can’t see beyond today to see myself in three years, knowing that the struggles of today are worth it. I can’t see through to myself when I am truly a man, having found my calling and purpose. I can’t see through to myself when I am married. I can’t see through to the big picture, and it’s so frustrating. I know there’s a big picture, I know life is bigger than what I can see right now. It’s just that I don’t see it right now.
2nd Corinthians 4:17 and 18 say: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” I know that this is true. It’s just so hard to truly live it in the day to day. What I see is temporary, but it’s all I see. What is unseen is eternal, but I don’t see that at all. Life is hard. But God is strong. I just need faith.
When I look over that last paragraph I just have one thought, one way of describing myself. I am a terrible ingrate. I have a wonderful life, not by my own doing by any means, but just because God loves me. Yet I don’t know what causes this ingratitude and this terrible struggle of discontentment. Maybe I’m just an ungrateful person, but I’d like to think not. I think sometimes, maybe most of the time, I focus far too much on what many would call the “real” world. I focus on the present. I focus on myself. I focus on what I can touch and feel and enjoy. Life is so much bigger than that. It’s terribly frustrating. I need a better focus. I need to look at what’s real, what’s important. But somehow I just can’t. I can’t see beyond today to see myself in three years, knowing that the struggles of today are worth it. I can’t see through to myself when I am truly a man, having found my calling and purpose. I can’t see through to myself when I am married. I can’t see through to the big picture, and it’s so frustrating. I know there’s a big picture, I know life is bigger than what I can see right now. It’s just that I don’t see it right now.
2nd Corinthians 4:17 and 18 say: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” I know that this is true. It’s just so hard to truly live it in the day to day. What I see is temporary, but it’s all I see. What is unseen is eternal, but I don’t see that at all. Life is hard. But God is strong. I just need faith.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Some thoughts on blogging
I haven’t blogged in a REALLY long time. In fact, I feel that it’s been too long. I hope to make blogging a regular habit again, but for the time being I’m not so sure that will happen, and allow me to explain why. I am a writer, and I have a deep primal urge to write. I don’t understand why I have such an urge to write, but I just have a great desire to put down my thoughts, feelings, and life experiences down in words. It’s a gift and a curse, because when I don’t have my laptop with me but I’m filled with desire to write then I try to hand write the thing and then I feel fussy because I hate hand writing things. But it’s also a gift because writing so improves my life. I used to fulfill these writing cravings through my blog, finding a sweet pleasure in every single post. But this summer have I not been writing? Has my writer’s spirit been killed? Not at all. I merely have had a different writing outlet. This summer I have been having almost daily e-mail correspondence with Jenny, my girlfriend. When writing her I write more than I would in my average blog post because I know she cares to read it. So, because I’m already writing about my thoughts, feelings, and life far more intimately and intricately than I normally would on my blog I just haven’t felt like blogging about anything.
But now I think it’s a habit I need to take up again. Last year when I was at Houghton I just couldn’t find time to blog, and I would only blog when I was in an extreme, either extremely triumphant or extremely morose. So now, in the interests of blogging regularly at Houghton, I would like to start that habit again now. Ideally I will start blogging daily, but I may have to work my way up to that. Anyway, I will definitely blog later about Mayerm and how my summer has gone, because my life has actually been pretty eventful and I am quite sad to know that you have been missing out on it. I need to fill you in! You must be going crazy! All my crazy screaming fans from here to Mars must have been having panic attacks thinking I was dead! Don’t worry fan girls, I’m still alive! But I have a girlfriend now, so I guess none of you have a chance anymore. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll write a lot more this summer, because I quite enjoy it and I know there are at least some people in the world who do too.
Until next time,Your beloved Chris
But now I think it’s a habit I need to take up again. Last year when I was at Houghton I just couldn’t find time to blog, and I would only blog when I was in an extreme, either extremely triumphant or extremely morose. So now, in the interests of blogging regularly at Houghton, I would like to start that habit again now. Ideally I will start blogging daily, but I may have to work my way up to that. Anyway, I will definitely blog later about Mayerm and how my summer has gone, because my life has actually been pretty eventful and I am quite sad to know that you have been missing out on it. I need to fill you in! You must be going crazy! All my crazy screaming fans from here to Mars must have been having panic attacks thinking I was dead! Don’t worry fan girls, I’m still alive! But I have a girlfriend now, so I guess none of you have a chance anymore. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll write a lot more this summer, because I quite enjoy it and I know there are at least some people in the world who do too.
Until next time,Your beloved Chris
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