You ask if I have any questions. To question you means you haven’t explained properly and it would bring you shame if I am direct. You have to ask me at least three times. I will find a round-about way to ask my questions and, out of respect, I will usually wait until the end of the meeting to show you that what you have to say is more important.

You represent the government that brought me to freedom. I’m thankful and still so confused. I might not tell you until five or six months into my refugee program that IOM* spelled my name wrong when they tried to find English letters to correspond to the sounds of my language. And about names…Karen people don’t have last names. It’s funny to hear you say the Paw family or the Htoo family. All the syllables of my name are my whole given name. Each syllable in a Karen name is infused with meaning. For example, Paw means ‘flower’ and is often added to a girl’s name. It’s pretty. But we rarely call each other by our given names. Nicknames or status order are more common. My little sister usually calls me older sister. I call older men “uncle”. And you? I will always call you tharamu (teacher) even though you are younger than me. I have so much to learn in this new culture.

Sometimes I see you looking at me and I can see the question in your eyes. I carry the towel to cover my nose when the smell becomes more than I can handle. The nausea crawls up my throat, threatening to launch my rice breakfast. Americans smell like rotten, curdled cheese and…you stink. You wrinkle your nose at our fragrant fish smell. It will take time to adjust to this.

Before I came to the USA, life was just that – life. Even though I lived for years in a camp, it became routine. Now I have high blood pressure. Everyone seems to be a slave of the clock, watch, iPhone. Time is a harsh master and it steals my joy. To rise with the sun and birds is best and to rest in the heat of the day under the bamboo…I remember home. Here I am on and off the bus. You’ve told me I have to join the rat race if I am to survive. I’m already tired and I feel like I just got here.

No, I am not trying to be rude, I promise. It’s a sign of respect to keep my head and eyes lowered. Eye contact would be a sign of a challenge. But now you tell me I must hold my head up and look at you directly. I will try, for I do want to get a job but I will always have that nagging feeling of disrespect.

You’ve told me that you have assessed my skills. From refugees who have been here a few years, I’ve learned that my “skills” are worthless for retail, construction or medicine. Where I am from I can transplant a rice field in record time – it takes precision, patience and planning to earn a healthy harvest. I can feed my nation. I know where the buyer is who will give the best price for the goods I have planted and weaved by hand. In the dry season, I can repair any bamboo hut. I always helped my husband with the new thatched roof before the rains began. And you know what? The jungle is a living pharmacy. If you have an ailment, chances are the trees and plants have provided relief. My grandmother taught me well. But here…I have so much to learn.

Every month I sit in this room with my family and with you. We discuss the necessary things – how are my food stamps, are the kids okay in school, am I learning English, where have I been applying for work, etc, etc. My short quiet responses are typical of me so you don’t notice that my mind is not with you in the meeting. Right now, back home, it’s the beginning of the rainy season. I sign my name on an application you push across the table but my hands are working my fields. I appreciate that you have been to my part of the world. Sometimes I look up, briefly, and I see that you know…you try to understand…if only in part.

 ★                    ★                    ★

They sit in our office week after week, month after month and year after year. As a case worker for resettlement, the faces and names change but the culture of the Karen remains the same. Sometimes I honestly try to put myself in the flip-flops sitting across the table. What is going on inside that mind? What questions remain unanswered because they have never been asked? How do they learn to adapt, adjust and acculturate to not only survive in this new place but to thrive.

I think about I Corinthians 13:9 & 10 –“For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears” (NIV). I am one of those renegades who are thankful for God’s decision after Babel to mix up language and disperse the peoples. The mystery and challenge of such diversity is stunning; most days I eat it up. But other days crawl by where I can’t wait until He sets it right again. Only part is seen right now. You see from your side of the table and I see from my side. It’s reassuring that the Maker sees both sides.

*International Organization for Migration

I was apprehensive about participating in a small group because I literally don’t know more than five people at this church. That meant that the cluster of humans would ultimately be a grab bag of characters with whom I may or may not share some sort of commonality. Honestly, I love everyone with the love of Christ, but I don’t always have much more than that for a lot of people*, so I feared landing in the middle of a group of strange Christians. Because they’re everywhere.

Jon Acuff already made a list of people you’ll encounter in a small group, but that was nearly two years ago and my list is entirely different because I’m meaner than he is. So, here’s my take on kinds of Christians you might meet in a small group.

1- The new leader- This person hasn’t even been at the front of a line and they clearly don’t know what to do with a group of spiritually hungry Jesus-people. They can’t stop awkward humans from over-sharing and don’t know how to direct a conversation. They totally believe that Twister is a great way to get to know someone new. Their bottom lip may quiver when put on the spot and other, overbearing people from the group might treat them like a doormat. This person grows with experience unless they freak out and quit.

2- Your new best friend- This guy or gal thinks you’re the best! They can’t believe you have so much in common! You two should get coffee someday soon! How about tomorrow?! Where do you live?! They live over there too! You two should go running sometime! What’s your phone number? What’s your email address? Are you on the Facebook? Are you on the Twitter? You should totally follow them, and they will happily follow you back! They’ll be heartbroken if you decide to leave the group or file a restraining order.

3- The quiet person- This human doesn’t say much, but when they do, everyone in the room squirms because awkward is as contagious as a yawn. One person starts it and next thing you know, there isn’t a person around who isn’t suffering. In my experience, these people avoid eye-contact, but don’t mind leaning over your shoulder and breathing from their mouth directly into your left ear.

4- The person who was tricked into showing up- You probably won’t meet more than one of these people every couple of months and you won’t see them more than once. They expected beer, hot girls or guys or didn’t know they were actually invited to a church event where they were supposed to share with other people. They won’t admit to being angry that they’re in a small group, but they won’t really participate in a meaningful way, either.

5-The person who brought beer- You’re actually all grateful for a drink, but at the same time, don’t want to be part of  that small group (Every church has one). The new leader can’t say anything, the person who was tricked is always the first to crack one open and you need one because you’re on edge since you’re surrounded by the weirdest strangers ever.

6- The small-group ho- That sounds worse than I mean it to. This person attends a different group every night of the week, leaving the rest of the crowd wondering, “How do they manage to get anything else done?” The answer is, they’re probably unemployed, or they have a disturbingly filthy house. Either way, this person is nice enough, right?

My small group may have also contained a real-life cougar and someone as old as Moses. Honestly, it felt like a poorly-casted sitcom. That said, Jesus loves all the people I got to hang out with more than I ever have to*, which is convenient, because I don’t really want to go back, but I just may out of guilt.

*I’m kidding. Get over it.

Are you surprised that she left like she did? I mean, she was a floozy before they got married, you know.

Of course she was, but don’t act like you weren’t the town bicycle for a while before you finally settled down. Personally, I feel bad for Hosea. He doesn’t deserve to be treated that way. He offered her so much more than any of those other jerks in town ever wanted to.

I think he’s ridiculous. He should have known better. And you leave me out of this. Can you believe he took her back? She was legitimately a prostitute this time around! She just gave it away before they got married, but she had a line going out the hotel door not three weeks ago! I hope she didn’t give him a disease. Regardless, he’s not fit to be a prophet and this scandal proves it. 

You act like it’s his fault she ran out on him and the kids! She’s responsible for her own actions.

It probably is his fault. I bet he beats her. Or he’s a drunk. Maybe he doesn’t put out for some weird reason and that’s why she had to go looking in other places. And you know he’s got to be crazy. He thinks he speaks for God, but really, he just wants to control us and get us to live by his ridiculous standards- too bad they failed, eh?

Wow. You really think that? He’s good to his kids and he treats her so well, too. Get over it. This crap happens. Besides, they’re back together now. I think she finally understands that no other man is going to take care of her like that.

She doesn’t deserve it either. I think I’m going to petition for a new prophet. Can we do that? I bet I could coerce Yahweh into replacing him, I’ll just have to fast and pray about it for a few weeks. It almost always works.

When was the last time you listened to Hosea preach? He’s been comparing Gomer to Israel from the start. He..

Compares himself to God, I heard that. It doesn’t bother you at all? I think it’s the most pompous notion in the world!

He’s illustrating God’s love and forgiveness. I need to go, I’m sure I hear one of my kids calling me and I left some stuff on the stove or whatever.

I’ll be over in the morning, I’m not done with this conversation!

Umm, I won’t be there. I’ve got this… thing. Bye now!

★                    ★                    ★

Sometimes, it’s hard to recognize God’s part in day-to-day happenings, especially when you don’t want to see what he’s doing.  Not that any of us are ever there, right? Does Hosea’s story ring true with you, or does it just make you worry about marriage, like it does me?

]]> http://verymuchlater.com/2012/05/gomer-israel-the-church-same-diff-right/feed/ 8 http://verymuchlater.com/2012/04/irresistable-offers/ http://verymuchlater.com/2012/04/irresistable-offers/#comments Sat, 28 Apr 2012 19:46:18 +0000 jake http://verymuchlater.com/?p=4270 His shirt was too big for his skinny frame. The giant tie dropping down the middle of his chest didn’t make matters any better, but it seemed to be the standard for what he was doing. He hated when the stupid thing flopped around in the wind between houses, but he detested it less than the suitcase he lugged around with him. The old, tan canvas box got heavier as the day progressed, even if he made any load-lightening sales.

He was young and energetic. That’s how he got the job- and something about his baby-face complexion made him convincing, especially to older women.  Door-to-door sales were less than desirable, but everyone had to start somewhere. He imagined that after he’d become a seasoned vender in his “item of the month job”, he’d transition into real estate or car sales.

The briefcase probably only got heavy because every time he talked about what he was pushing, he realized he didn’t believe in it. He wouldn’t buy this garbage for himself. Initially, he thought he liked the idea of the challenge, but several months of laborious conversations on stoops and in front doors led him to the understanding that he had to lie to unload crap, which he didn’t like.

The young man knew that salesmen were supposed to get excited about things. It was their zeal and ability to communicate it that was supposed to win people over and get money out of their pockets. But it just wasn’t happening for the poor guy. But he kept at it. He had pressure to succeed. Bills urgently needed to be paid and he wanted to save up for a down payment on a house. His boss frequently insisted that he meet his daily quotas. The other salesmen did the same, though they all envied and mocked anyone who actually hit the mark. None of them believed in the products they sold. Success in this industry was earned by weasels.

★                    ★                    ★

Who hasn’t experienced pressure to push Jesus? Church leadership sees empty seats on a Sunday and desires nothing more than to fill those spaces. So they put it on the congregation to fill them. Some print touch cards and tracts (terrible ideas, if you ask me). Others have classes on evangelism. Still more put on programs and events, hoping that an excited congregation will invite their co-workers and friends. I’ve even seen prizes for the man or woman who can get the most people to show up.

I can’t say whether or not any of this is wrong, but I will tell you that I believe genuine evangelism comes from an excited heart. After hearing and believing John the Baptist’s testimony about Christ,

The first thing Andrew did was to find his brother Simon and tell him, “We have found the Messiah” (that is, the Christ).  And he brought him to Jesus. (John 1:41, 42 NIV)

Finding the Messiah is a big deal. Or at least, it was to these young men, so they told those closest to them about their discovery. Ideally, it should be no different for you or me, or any other Jesus-person out there, but many of us would describe ourselves as more of a Willy Loman than a Billy Graham when it comes to sharing our faith with others. This is terrifying, because when it comes to proselytizing, people seem to be able to tell when you’re faking it, just like horses and small children can perceive the fear of those around them.

Why?

Are people that unexcited about God, or are we just focusing on the wrong things? I think the push to get people into churches and out of hell might be part of the problem. I mean, avoiding eternal flames is exciting, but truly, that’s beside the point, isn’t it? I could be religious and cite a lack of actual relationship with the Christ as another problem, and it might be true for some people. Fear of man is a great excuse, but we stand up to each other about the stupidest crap all the time, so how could that be the reason? It’s complicated and there probably isn’t any answer that works for everyone.

Have you ever had a hard time sharing your faith?

I recently saw a quote that I know I’ve encountered before, but for some reason, it really bothered me this time. It goes,

Religion is like a penis.

It’s fine to have one.

It’s fine to be proud of it.

But please don’t whip it out in public and start waving it around,

and PLEASE don’t try to shove it down my children’s throats.

I don’t have a source for this little gem, but I bet that whoever conjured it up is incredibly proud of their symbolic creativity. And my immediate response would sound something like, “Your face is a …”

Here’s the deal: I could think up a million retorts, but they wouldn’t promote healthy conversation. For the purpose of making my point, I’m going to say that politics and other beliefs are just as phallic as religion.

Unfortunately, people start thinking this way because they’ve encountered humans who don’t know how to have a conversation about faith, who to vote for in the 2012 presidential election, or about whether or not global warming is a farce. My goal right now, is to foster communication about these subjects with a short list outlining what we should do and what we should avoid when talking about sensitive subjects.

1- If you plan on talking, then you ought to listen just as much. People are less offended by what we share than our resistance to hearing their position. Believe me, this can be painful, especially when someone drones on about something so vapid that it makes you want to die, but you owe it to them to hear it out.

2- Don’t insist on being right. More and more, it seems like people are doubting absolute truth, so insisting that your way is singularly correct will likely make you look like a closed-minded idiot. You may actually be right, but nobody will believe that unless you have a way to show them instead of just telling.

4- Don’t attack. Beliefs stem from worldviews- literally meaning the framework on which a person’s existence stands. Do you really think telling them that’s wrong is a good idea? It’s like attacking a castle gate with a pointy battering ram. They will pour hot oil on you then do everything in their power to set you on fire to protect their perspective.

5- Don’t yell. This probably belongs under attacking as a sub-topic, but sometimes we raise our voices as a means of protecting ourselves. Personally, I enjoy yelling at people. I think it’s fun, but that only works in certain contexts. If you stay calm, the person you’re speaking to is more likely to keep their cool too.

6- Don’t insist on winning. Life is only a competition when you’re driving to the supermarket and you are not a professional debater, so you do not have to have the last word or prove someone is wrong. This doesn’t influence anyone as much as it turns them off.

Not every opinion is right, nor is every belief. In fact, there are a crap-ton of ridiculous notions in the world. We have to share with each other so we can weed out the garbage and find something worth holding on to. Ideally we’d get rid of everything except the absolute truth, but this won’t happen until we’re willing to listen to each other. And by the way, I need to practice this, too.

Forgive me but these images remind me that there are more important issues in life than eye make-up and hair highlights. Sometimes the images haunt my dreams but more often they pop up during daytime trivial life. The sewing machines whir twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Burmese hands keep the machines going. Little Kalah bare-feet tread on trash – the floor of the family’s tarp shelter is the garbage dump. The local Burmese-speaking church emails out a newsletter. The sweet pastor and his wife are my dear friends and this is all they ask for? – Please pray for the kids to have strength to learn and to know God and…and…that they will have enough to eat. Perspective is everything. The lack of or over-abundance of experience makes our vision what it is.

My culture chips away at my resolve to not be sucked in to the “needs” of richness. Relatives, friends, co-workers, church, the media – everywhere I look the implied or direct plea to conform whispers or screams in my ear. You should purchase this spring’s latest sundress. You should get the latest sparkling Tom’s shoes. You should get an iPhone, cannot live without one. You’re in your 30’s and, you know, you really should invest in a home. You should have that career established by now. And why are you still single? You really should be married and be starting a family. As if all these choices can be decided and purchased from a website. My generation of online shoppers forgets that some of these scenarios are not purchasable.

I feel should-ed to death and, just like Katy Perry, I want to throw my (cheap flip phone) away. Instead I just turn it off for the weekend and pray God will get me back to a community of poverty without sinking into it myself. I long to be part of the solution; I dread adding to an already heavy problem.

Every New Year I have a habit of asking God for a theme, a focus, a direction. Silly? Maybe but I think I would sink into depression without His guidance. I am weak and honestly believe that I can’t do this life without the Divine leading me. The last half decade reveal one-word mantras scribbled on scrap paper – jump; adventure; preparation; healing. And this year? My greediness was hoping for another adventure but instead I got “perspective”.

Perspective – remember this physical life is temporary but has eternal ramifications. Perspective – you really are an alien, a refugee, a traveler in a land that is not your true home. Perspective – what is love? God loves me (Eph. 3:14-19) and to love him back is to feed His sheep (John 21:15). Perspective – when I see with God-glasses, I can view situations with true joy.

It’s the Thai and Burmese New Year. Revelers just spent the last few days soaking each other with buckets of water to ring in the coming rainy season and the growth of new life. Daw Aung San Sui Kyi followed Britian’s Prime Minister with a speech of hope at democratic reform for her country of Burma. She ended with the advice to enjoy thuh-jan and wash your sins away…that is, if you have any. She laughed. He laughed. The reporters and the crowd quietly joined in. It was not a laugh of mockery but of knowingness. Ethic murder still occurs in the villages. Child soldiers still wear guns over their shoulders instead of backpacks. But….perspective would choose to hope that refugees can return home, that love and joy are possible here and now and not just in the after-life.

Forgive me. My perspective has been “damaged” by too many images and experiences. Some days I fight to be “normal” and fit into the culture I was born in. Some days I fight to hang onto to the big picture of a world that lives in utter poverty while I wallow in my richness. But most days I just beg God – I beg Him for His perspective because He sees from the top down while my half-blind eyes squint from the bottom up. “I once was blind but now I see.” It’s a dangerous line to pray for to see His perspective rocks my boat. Sometimes I’m sea-sick from the view but I would have it no other way.

The wolf was giddy. He was ridiculously happy all the bloody time. He even laughed at his own jokes, which was fascinating, because most of them were terrible. Every day was like this- it seemed as though nothing ever got him down. The beavers didn’t want to talk to him because they were afraid he’d distract them and they wouldn’t get their work done. The deer, who should have feared him because of his eternally carnivorous appetite mocked him- they simply had to say something funny as he pursued them and he’d fall over laughing. The bear of the forest didn’t respect him because he never seemed to focus. One day, he asked the wolf, “Why the hell are you so happy?”

The wolf looked at his neighbor seriously and said, “I have two wolves living in me. The happy one you see most of the time and a different one- who prefers anger and violence.”

The bear was immediately annoyed. He didn’t like it when other forest creatures got all philosophical on him. But he played along. “Well, why does the stupid one that laughs so much always seem to be around?”

The wolf, still somber replied, “I feed that one more often.” Then he ran off.

The bear smirked and decided that the contentious wolf must be a terrible hunter. Then he meandered off toward the river to find some fish.

I’m no different from the wolf. As a Christian, I sometimes feel like I am actually two men- The spirit-filled Jesus-follower, who laughs a lot, loves people and who desires nothing more than God’s perfect will and then there’s the Old Man. He’s grumpy and his favorite activities include stabbing people and setting things on fire. He’s carnal, but kind of funny. The spiritual man laughs more, but his sense of humor is kind of immature.

Every day, the two wrestle. Clearly, the spiritual man is stronger, or at least he should be. The carnal man? If he’s well-fed, he puts up a hell of a fight. He’s sort of a fat kid that always wants one thing or another. The result isn’t necessarily dualism, but sometimes, it feels like it.

My goal has been to learn how to feed only one of these men. I also want to kill the other- he’s kind of a pain, anyway. Admittedly, I’m not entirely there and sometimes, the bad guy wins. It’s no fun and truthfully, it’s awkward when this happens. Oh well. The good guy is continually plotting the death of his nemesis.. It’s going to be awesome and should hopefully involve a falling piano.  I just have to keep feeding him and I think he’ll succeed someday and will end up running the show around here.

Have you ever felt this way?

“I have work to get done. It’s just piling up lately and I’m getting buried.”

The truth of the matter was that I wanted to write. I had crap to design and wanted to clean my room. I wanted to produce content, not go see The Lorax. That’s not entirely true. I had an incredibly strong desire to see the movie, but hadn’t been getting my words out like I wanted to, so I had to stay home and write.

Part of me wishes that I could just do this all the time- not worry about having a social life and really work to share the great ideas and stories that pile up. I think about Charles Dickens, C.S. Lewis, Ayn Rand and other greats and wonder how they wrote so much- they must not have had friends. So I don’t answer calls, decline invites and hang out with my laptop and a thesaurus for an evening or six.

After a while, the words begin to dry up. The stories become forced. It all feels so plastic and unreal that I’m annoyed to read my own words. That’s a big deal because honestly, I really like a lot of what I’ve written, so for me to not feel that way about something means that it has to be lacking the integrity that I love so much. Yes, I’m that egocentric- that isn’t the point right now though.

I can’t just write and do nothing else, which sucks. Every now and again, I have to go out on an adventure, I want to get into a fight or at least need to feel like I want to stab someone because it’s these human interactions that give me stories and put reason to my words. Human passion doesn’t live in a vacuum. Without others, I turn into a creative zombie, in the worst sense possible. I might have a brain, but it doesn’t do much more than keep me alive.

And just like my writing, my faith can’t survive in a void. I can talk to Jesus every single hour of every single day and it’s wonderful. I know that I’m heaven-bound when I die and that the Holy Ghost directs my thoughts and words, but the meaning doesn’t extend far beyond that. I’m not one of those influence-obsessed Jesus-people. I think half of the men or women who tout the necessity of Christian notoriety secretly mean fame when they say influence- as in they want the world to know who they are then they’ll slather a little Jesus on whatever they do and call it the Lord’s work. Then again, I’m forever skeptical- of everything it seems. I say all that because I know that God wants us to impact the lives of others, even if it’s only a few people at a time.

We need other humans to challenge our faith, convictions and ideas. Occasionally, they’ll reinforce them and other times, they’ll lead us to doubt and I think it’s all entirely necessary. Jesus told us to love the Lord our God with all our heart soul and strength but in the same breath, explained that we have neighbors who deserve as much love as we have for ourselves (remember, I’m egocentric- that means I have to love everyone else as much).

So I can’t become a shut-in and write all the time. None of you would like that anyway, because I’d probably lose it and this blog would really start to suck. But I still have the desire to write and write and write, so I’m left with tension. Which might be important, because it’s when I’m in the middle of two things that pull me in opposite directions that I find I’m where I need to be.

Good Friday brings tidings of relief and comfort to those of us living on this side of Christ’s resurrection, because we understand the substitutionary atonement and the events that led up to it. For everyone who was there, they had a horrible weekend of doubt, remorse and mourning. Christ’s followers experienced what could have been the end of their movement, they saw weakness in their Leader as He was crushed and if they put all their eggs in that basket, they probably felt like they’d made a mistake. The only people who had any assurance on Good Friday were those who beat Him, nailed Him to the cross and opposed everything He was.

What they didn’t know, is that Jesus is a ninja.

I don’t imagine the trip to hell being a pleasant one, especially when he showed up and demanded the keys to death and hell from the one who’d held them for such a long time. He had taken names long before then and was now officially kicking… butt. Other than the spiritual powers that go largely unseen, nobody else was aware of what was going on. That’s how ninjas work. They get the job done without anyone knowing what’s happening. Their efforts go unseen until the right moment, which makes it so much more fun and dramatic.

Saturday passed and Sunday came along and early on, it still seemed as if the story was over and evil had won. People back then didn’t have decades of awful movies where they were led to believe that someone is dead but they come back at the end- they didn’t anticipate Sunday’s resurrection.

We live in the new life that Christ offers. We know how the story ends. We don’t doubt when good Friday rolls around, but instead, awkward Jesus-people run around yelling, “He is risen!” prematurely. At this point in the narrative, Jesus was doing things unseen and working toward the positive end that we all celebrate. For the latter portion of Good Friday and whatever you call the following Saturday, Jesus was a ninja. And don’t you forget it.

By the time we arrived at Depoe Bay, the horizon was beginning to glow. We parked, made our way down steep, rickety stairs and got in line. We were going deep sea fishing. I was dubious about the experience, but I have a proclivity toward vomiting. We paid, donned poles and baskets and boarded the Lady Luck- “Yes,” I thought, “I’m going to puke off Lady Luck’s backside.”

I’d prepared for this as much as I could. I wanted to believe the Dramamine would help me, but I also knew that I had a problem. We exited the bay on waves of doubt and apprehension.

The boat rocked a lot. We had to motor out nearly a mile before we’d start fishing, but the captain and others were dropping crab pots along the way. I focused on the cold, moist ocean air and tried to inhale at slow, steady intervals.

We got to a place where we could finally cast our lines in. I nearly tiptoed to the side of the boat, pulled my hook and lure loose and let it fly. I hadn’t fished in years and at this point was almost excited to catch something.

The waves continued to roll. Sometimes, they were larger and everyone on the boat clung to the railing with their free hand. An older lady actually fell backward at one point. She was alright, but her daughter stuck close after that. My stomach felt heavy when my side lifted, but it immediately jumped to my chest every time I dipped back down again. I knew what was coming. I just wanted to be on sure, steady land.

Several people had caught large mouth bass. All I’d managed was to drag up a bright orange jellyfish, which my hook and strange little lure sliced right through as it neared the surface. I pulled my line in and thought about casting it out again, but then it happened. A shot of hot fluid burst up my esophagus and out through my lips, right into the ocean. The jellyfish was still just floating there and probably felt as though insult had been added to injury.We’d only been on the water for forty-five minutes of the six hours we’d spend out there.

I looked around. Nobody saw, or at least was responding, I felt like I could still pretend to be a seafaring man. I reached back to cast when it happened again. This time, my father saw. He looked concerned and annoyed, but didn’t come over. He’s a vicarious puker. I lost it about every fifteen minutes for four hours. By the time I was done, I was mostly dry-heaving, because I had nothing left in me.

I was basically hungover from deep sea fishing for the rest of the day. It wrecked me to the point that for longer than was necessary, I ate saltines and only drank water.

★                    ★                    ★

I went twenty years without faith. I’ve now lived eight with it and though my foundation is still strong and I know exactly where to look for everything I’ll ever need, I still experience the occasional fit of doubt. It feels like ocean waves under my feet and leaves me reeling, dying to get back to the blessed assurance I’ve come to depend on.