Tsundoku

Everytime someone asks me how’s life in Bintulu, I unwittingly mention that I’m doing well and also that Bintulu is a very quiet place (not that quiet is bad, in fact, I think it has been very good for me). Then people inadvertently ask if “I’ve picked up anything new?” and my reply would be, “gosh, where are your manners, you can’t go around referring to people as things..”

Jokes aside, I have not been very productive due to several reasons: I just subscribed to Netflix and the fact that I’ve watched close to nothing prior to Netflix. So there’s a lot of catching up to do and now, I kinda have time. Terribly unproductive- but then again, I realize that the preoccupation with productivity seems a better fit for them city-lot than us here in the provinces. I myself am adapting and seem to have adopted a more phlegmatic approach to life these days (could be a bad thing, I don’t know).

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I’m doing this thing where I actively attempt to instill some discipline into my life at the moment- some miniscule effort to defy the flesh man (perhaps one day, this little rebellion may turn into a coup, who knows?). So I’ve started going to the gym, trying to sleep well, trying to eat healthy, trying not to spend too much time on Netflix, etc. In other words, self-improvement. Then there’s this pile of books at home, purchased online in a moment of passion now left lying unattended. Part of the guerilla warfare against the self is to complete reading some of these books.

Anyway apparently there’s a Japanese word that describes this pile of books that people buy but never read.

Tsundoku (Japanese: 積ん読) is acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up in one's home without reading them. The first half of tsundoku comes from the word tsundeoku 積つんでおく, which means "to pile things up and leave them." The second half (doku 読どく) comes from dokusho 読書どくしょ which means "reading."

What a brilliant word- we should have an English equivalent. Or perhaps we could borrow it into the English language.

Anyway, here are the books on my Tsudoku list; I’m fairly certain I won’t get around to finishing all of them by the end of this year, but I’ll at least try.

• Lord of the Flies by William Goldring
• The day the world came to town by Jim Defede
• Unscripted by Ernie Johnson
• Living out Loud by Craig Sager
• The curious incident of the dog in the night time by Mark Haddon
• Brave new world by Aldous Huxley
• Pilgrim at tinker creek by Annie Dillard
• The living by Annie Dillard
• Unfinished tales of Nnumenor and middle earth by Tolkein
• The children of Hurin by Tolkein
• The call by Os Guinness
• Siddartha by Hermann Hesse

Bintulu musings

It doesn't feel like it, but it's been 3 months here in Bintulu. Considering that my assignment is only 13 months, 3 months is pretty significant- in other words, I'm almost a quarter through the stint in Bintulu. 

One of my earliest thoughts was that 13 months could be as short or as long as I want it to be- it could be terribly significant, or not. 3 months in- it feels a little bit of both, thankfully, it feels more significant than not.

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Not gonna lie, work has been tough but I'm learning to love the hustle. Some days I just dread it, but I'm learning to realize that a little stress does a whole lot of good when channeled correctly. Keeping the positive mental attitude through the hustle however, does drain the juices.

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It's weird to have this feeling of being blessed beyond measure; there's so much good that is happening for me at the moment that I've done nothing to merit. I don't understand it at times. It almost feels unfair and unnatural that things turn out the way it does for me and not for others- I really didn't do much at all. I'd like to blame God for all this goodness.

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Here's one of those recommended songs by Spotify based on my musical playlist: You matter to me from Waitress the Musical

Year 2017

Not a single post in 2017. Well, not till now. Thought I'd sneak in a quick post before the new year to keep this blog fresh. 

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It's weird that work is (and I suspect, also for the large majority of young adults) the major deciding factor for what happens in their life, in a year. Not that work is a bad thing, in fact, it is a very good thing. I will quickly admit however, that as a young un' (not too long ago), I always thought that work wouldn't feature as much as it does in how life plays out. Again, nothing wrong with this, but it sure makes a boring highlight reel for one's new year reminiscing. 

I had to tidy up my CV some weeks ago (again, work related) and couldn't help thinking that some of these things I've got listed down is pretty impressive. Boring, but impressive. Couldn't help thinking that I'm a very blessed person to have had such a wonderful and enjoyable working experience. Not many people enjoy their work as much as I do. So I guess where I'm going with this is that I'm thankful this year end. 

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Some recent Christmas thoughts: 

• Christ came to us, but his own did not receive him. 
• This is not by his own doing, but by design.
• Humans however, are not absolved from wrong doing because we rejected Christ.
• He wasn't a Christ that they wanted in the past, and neither is he a Christ that is wanted now

I know this because, I can very easily tell that my sinful self doesn't want this Christ. I suspect this wasn't very different in the past: he came neither with the pomp of a savior nor the splendor of a king; nothing worth a second look. And today, I can understand that people don't deem Him worth a second look either- He's really not the type of Savior they're looking for. Yet He is. 

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Happy new year everyone! (a disjointed post, but I guess not writing in a year does that to you)

Valentines

Seated by the pier, they watched as the night sky filled with light- streaks of blue and red blazing across the expanse, effervescent yellow sparkles raining to the ground. The Wilsons cozied up against each other; New Year’s fireworks are always a sight to behold, even on a cold winter’s night. 

George whispered to Martha, “Nights like these are a gift.” 

“Mmm.. they are,” Martha agreed as she nestled her head on his shoulders. 

They sat in silence observing the fireworks in the distance. Little Dennis stood up and ran in circles completed wowed by the amazing display of fireworks exploding in the sky, lighting up dark chasm above, then fading away into darkness. Celebrations in silence are commonplace in the Wilsons- the New Year was no exception. 

George stared into the distant sky, seemingly deep in thought- “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..” 

“It does seem like an appropriate night to recite Kerouac.” 

“More appropriate that I found you- or that you found me” he replied, his arms over her shoulder pulling her close. 

“Mad. Both of us.” 

They laughed at themselves- they knew the madness of falling in love, they knew the madness of falling out of love and they knew the madness of keeping the oath they made to each other in all circumstances- "till death do us part". 

They pondered on the many obstacles and deep waters they had overcome thus far in their marriage and were filled with thankfulness to God; it had almost been a decade that they had spent as man and wife. Marriage- the roots are deep, the covenant is solid, the love is sweet. Life is hard and God is good.

little by little everyday

Laughter filled the hallway. Of the sounds on earth, a child’s laughter is perhaps the closest to that of heaven, thought George. He looked at Dennis from afar with fatherly affection and said a quiet prayer for Dennis. It was one of those days, where he felt exceedingly blessed to have Dennis- his treasure, his heritage. Indeed, blessed is the man whose quiver is filled with them!

Of course, the highs are never without the lows and there are just as many tough days as there are good ones. Could so much devastation and delight co-exist in the gift of a child? It could. But Wilson also knew that sometimes blessings come through raindrops and to George, Dennis was mainly blessing than raindrop.

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Dennis had just learned to read and he found books immensely interesting. He’d take books, papers, anything with words on them and traced his fingers across the alphabets. 

“K-I-N-D-N-E-S-S. What does that mean Pa?”

“That is when you do something nice for someone. Like when Ma gives me a neck massage- that is an act of kindness”

“Oh”

Most of it didn’t make sense to him but that didn’t stop him from asking. Words were exciting and he found it peculiar that almost everything he could see or feel or touch could be described in words- of course, most of the time he didn’t know what the word was. He was eager to make new discoveries and spent significant amount of time with books, especially books with colourful pictures.

His favourite was a picture dictionary that depicted the different things and people one might find in different places. He especially loved the section in a carpenter’s shed and would look through the list of tools one would have if he were a carpenter.

“H-A-M-M-E-R. Hammer!”

Martha smiled at Dennis.

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Martha, George and Dennis made up the Wilsons. Martha and George met in school but it didn’t occur to her that one day she’d be a Wilson. Mostly showy and borderline obnoxious, George wasn’t her type. He’s mellowed down significantly since then, it may be that men mature at a later age when compared to women. Martha wasn’t his type either- Martha was as modest in her looks as in her ways but George had a penchant for the popular. Either way- they made it.

And now. Now, there was Dennis.

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Martha sat beside Dennis as he read his picture dictionary.

“Mom, I want to be a carpenter, fireman, astronaut, policeman and doctor when I grow up!”

“That’s lovely sweetie, which is your favourite?” she asked gently.

“They are all my favourite”

“Well, you can be anything you want to be, sweetie.”

She smiled again at Dennis, but found herself continuing in her head “.., but you can’t be everything you want to be”.

merry christmas

it feels good to have made it home for Christmas. I thank You for home, and I thank You for Christmas. 

On the east and of Fitzgerald

This is a first for me- a post on a movie. But I felt like writing today, and this is the first thing that came to mind. 

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I recently watched The Great Gatsby (2013) by virtue of many days at sea and the hard drives being passed around (I had missed it in the Cinemas). I hadn't read any reviews nor had I watched any trailers (though I did see posters/adverts of it), so I had little or almost no expectations. I had read the book before, so it pleased me to be able to interpret the movie with a reference point. 

I had imagined Gatsby to be more of a gentleman and less of a maniac. A maniac of course, but a maniac in control; more soft spoken, more gentlemanly and more 'Oggsford' like. So, I had pictured Gatsby to have been someone along the lines of James Franco instead of that Dicaprio. And I had imagined all the parties and music to have been more big-band-charleston like. 

Of course, all these are just a matter of interpretation and it's inescapable that everything we read is colored very much by our experiences and cultural background.  

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I also had the opportunity to be in East Malaysia for a few days sometime in September, which was an interesting time for me because I had observed that the people were remarkably different from that in the west (of Malaysia). And though (or because) they were extremely accommodating and friendly, I couldn't help feeling slightly (and strangely) out of place. It appeared to me that I have now become what they call a 'city boy' and there was a need to adapt.  

So it made me very happy to have found that the closing lines of Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby seemed to sum up my feelings of the east and of home: 

That's my middle-west--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns but the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family's name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all--Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

And if the Lord leads me, maybe I'll have another go at the east. 

Travel log- Burma pt 1

Square one

One of the randoms that happen every now and then- Siew’d been in Burma for a week for em’ pro bonos, typical white collared pro bono- nothing out of the ordinary except for the fact that this was in Burma, of all places, ol’ Burma, land of green livery, neatly pressed and matching shiny waxed shoes that em’ greenies march around and lord over other people in, but never in the sacred places, never in the shrines and golden temples and never before Buddha, the unmoving Buddha with his palm across his lap as a sign of peace that so deludes the land, Burma. 

I had no intention of being there, but Siew said he’d book a room for two anyway- that I’d be welcome to join him but I wasn’t sure when the sea would summon me, still I told him I’d be there-nevermind the sea, it’d be waiting for me today, tomorrow, and the many weeks after like a lover waiting for the return of her beloved, knowing not the hour or time of day he might return but always expecting, never relenting- demands too much of a young man with little to waste living for corporate giants with their agendas- world dominion and constant churning of liquid gold- makes the world round they say- but only round in some parts of the world whilst the rest of the world at large remains an untouched squalid square, like the land they call Burma. 

Still, the giants compensate well to play the cog and that is an end in itself- to earn to keep a living and sufficient to allow little travels like these, but sufficient is a relative term and bears different meanings under different soils; to have more than sufficient in Malaya makes you rank close with the Gods in Burma, not that they believe in God- Karma and Nirvana but never God- which in some ways, make them seem like nicer people (than Christians or Muslims) because striving to do good to others is their salvation, a salvation defined by an eternal state of peace and nothingness after many cycles of buddhistic sanctification- but God forbid that salvation is attained by works and that sufficiency be a measure of fulfillment. 

And so, after pulling a forty-winker (rather, thirty-nine: sleep never suffices), I stood in Yangon in open-eyed wonder at the magic of coloured paper sheets and what it can do for you: intrinsically of little worth (save what it symbolizes), but trade it in and in return, gain the experience of being attended to by beautiful people in a cabin hovering over the clouds whilst having a siesta to wake up in different world altogether. Different worlds! Only separated by two hours and a half but worlds apart- not just the people, or the buildings, but the air, the sun, the smell and gravity- I didn’t take steps in Burma, I bounced- and the colors: so much red, so much gold, so much black and so much death; ask lady history, but she demands a serious audience- I’m no good for that. 

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It is always the first glimpses of a new place that confuses- everything is new, everything is amazing and everything is novel- blinded by the lust of newness, I spent (too many) worthless frames capturing the mundane and ordinary and think to myself what exotic people they are- heavenly handsome savages- poor souls, they must be defended at all cost, don’t let the imperial capitalists in, save your people and save your nation and build yourselves a heavenly utopia- I’m glad frames don’t immortalize thoughts, because the romanticism wears off and all that is left are just frames- mundane and ordinary, with many longyis to spare. Don’t get me wrong, they are special people nonetheless, only less so with thoughts put on a leash, but I like freedom, and I am ill in that way. 

Longyis- similar to the Malaysian “sarong”, but both men and women don it, almost as a matter of national pride- it bothered me not knowing if it were offensive that I wore shorts in a land of cloth people, but we shouldn’t live to please people, then again, neither to offend them (and I prefer to be at peace with all mankind), so I had secretly intended to get myself one- maybe plain, maybe tartan, maybe floral- but then I spotted the young of some cloth people donning shorts, and thought to myself- ah, they are less of the savage I think they are, maybe they even speak English (which I later found out that they do and further tarnished my romantic obsession with the natives), so I settled for being the normal tourist- shorts, trainers and a huge, shiny camera. 

The coloured sheets bartered in Burma is pronounced “chart” with a silent “r” (spelled as chat). Seven thousand of em’- that’s how much it takes to get from the airport to the city centre to where I’d rendezvous with Siew- he said he’d leave the keys at the counter, but when I got there, they told me that he’d be in his room- I wasn’t too sure what to expect, it’d been, what, three years (?) since we’d done a trip together; we’re stiffer now (he was stiff even then), and perhaps less game for adventure- who knows what age does to the soul?- but if this is gonna be anything like the last, it’d be a blast (we jumped Adam and Eve and became freemen of Tryfan our last trip). So in my mind, I dismissed age, but my limbs begged to differ.

On seasons

You could see it in their eyes: what it feels to be normal, to be kicked out of routine- a routine of twelve hour shifts, thirty consecutive days at a time, living on a floating vessel a (few) hundred miles from land. Coming from an upper middle class society, I’ve been spared from much physical labour and I find it strangely enchanting to watch the labourers at rest, and in watching them, too, be at rest. Half-days off for Raya has done all of us a lot of good in becoming more human (albeit, not so good for project progress). 

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I’ve always found seasons one of the most  brilliant of God’s abundant creation, and found it rather unfortunate that we don’t get seasons in tropical countries. Brilliant mainly because: 

• I love how seasons give different flavours to the same scenery. 
• I love the diversity in the way people dress and look- there are ways the weather can help us look pleasant, but being a one-season nation, we have not understood this- we are a nation of shorts and tees and slippers and jeans. We will never understand summer dresses and we will never understand cardigans. 
• I love snow. A lot. 

Apart from the immediate foreseeable benefits - there’s the added benefit of time keeping. I mean that life, when measured by yardstick of days, could easily spiral out of control and leave us in a rut. And what’s to stop us from doing so? 

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It’s crossed my mind, that the closest thing we might have to seasons (in Malaysia), is the month of Ramadhan (that happens once or twice each year, depending on the Hijrah calendar). Obviously, its a whole lot different from seasons as understood in temperate countries, but it bears some resemblance in the fact that it imposes a change to life (as it normally is), for a certain duration each year for the fasting muslimeen. But for the kuffars like myself, it is all bazaars, rendang, ketupat, ayam percik and serunding. 

Still so much practice to notice God in each and every season. 

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Disclaimer: Second bullet point does not absolve the reader’s responsibility to practice grace in addressing my lack of taste and fashion sense.

On returning

Took me by surprise- internet usage is being regulated on the barge: website filters on facebook, whatsapp, etc. It feels weird to be so disconnected. Just imagine, about a decade ago, none of these existed- I wonder how they survived. But they did, and I suspect that I will too. 

So, it’s back to the books for me (too many movies- they’re starting to wear me out). Thank God I brought along some of my favourites- Lewis, Morrison. And I guess, there’s writing; haven’t been writing (and journaling) much, as you can see from the blog (maybe I’ll finish up a short piece on my trip to Burma earlier this year). And there’s hanging out and chatting with colleagues. And there’s day dreaming, just like in the old days. So I guess, there’s plenty to do. 

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Spent a greater part of the past two months offshore which is quite new for me. Juggling commitments that I’ve made outside of work is significantly harder due to limited resources (connectivity for example), and the fact that I cannot be physically present elsewhere since I’m- here. And though I try very hard to be present at significant events, alas, I can’t. So I’m beginning to understand the thrill of sailors returning home, military personnel from lengthy missions, Ulysses from his odyssey. But our citizenship is in heaven. And here is Lewis to say what I came here to say. 

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy

 and crown, stand firm thus in the Lord, my beloved. – Phil 4:1

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Read the rest of Lewis' weight of glory here.

elections for all

For the pessimist:

   

For the optimist:

   

For the Christian:

As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her. Untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, say that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away.” This took place to fulfil what was spoken through the prophet: “Say to Daughter Zion, ‘See, your king comes to you, gentle and riding on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’” The disciples went and did as Jesus had instructed them. They brought the donkey and the colt and placed their cloaks on them for Jesus to sit on. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Hosanna in the highest heaven!” When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred and asked, “Who is this?” The crowds answered, “This is Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.” 

For those observing:

  

For those involved: I have a dream

funky town

I played Archer in the closing paragraphs, and looking up, I walked up the stairs instead- all five flights. Archer, oh Archer, you had it all wrong- it would've been as real as you imagined!

I guess, London is home too in some ways and this reminds me that the best is yet to be!

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Words to describe my recent UK shindig (in no particular order):

• Fellowship 
• Friends 
• Gospel 
• Luther 
• Lion King 
• Tube 
• Warrington 
• Jacket potatoes 
• English breakfasts 
• Old Trafford 
• Crosby Beach 
• Cold 
• Trains 
• Coffee 
• Plan

Went without a plan, did nothing, and ended up doing everything I went there for. Priceless.

why we should read the OT

Reblogged from and all 10 got eaten by a werewolf

This is my favorite scene. 

If you’ve read the Silmarillion, you know who Fëanor was. If you don’t, Fëanor was the great elf who created the Silmarils: three indescribably beautiful and magical jewels that contained the light and essence of the world before it became flawed. They were the catatlyst for basically every important thing that happened in the First Age of Middle Earth. 

It is thought that the inspiration for the Silmarils came to Fëanor from the sight of Galadriel’s shining, silver-gold hair. 

He begged her three times for single strand of her beautiful hair. And every time, Galadriel refused him. Even when she was young, Galadriel’s ability to see into other’s hearts was very strong, and she knew that Fëanor was filled with nothing but fire and greed. 

Fast forward to the end of the Third Age. 

Gimli, visiting Lorien, is also struck by Galadriel’s beauty. During the scene where she’s passing out her parting gifts to the Fellowship, Galadriel stops empty-handed in front of Gimli, because she doesn’t know what to offer a Dwarf. Gimli tells her: no gold, no treasure… just a single strand of hair to remember her beauty by. 

She gives him three. Three. 

And this is why Gimli gets to be an Elf Friend, people. Because Galadriel looks at him and thinks he deserves what she refused the greatest Elf who ever lived—- and then twice that. And because he has no idea of the significance of what she’s just given him, but he’s going to treasure it the rest of his life anyway. 

Just look at that smile on Legolas’s face in the last panel. He gets it. He knows the backstory. And I’m pretty sure this is the moment he reconsiders whether Elves and Dwarves can’t be friends after all.

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Sometimes I feel like Legolas when I discover hidden meanings in the NT when reading it in light of the OT- reasons why we should get a balanced diet of OT and NT. You know what they say: a text without a context is a pre-text for a proof-text. Dive in.

mobile

Off the shore, off the coast, 
O’er miles and miles of sea, 
An edifice made of nuts and bolts- 
A home away from home for me. 

There’s a chest of gold for souls willing to be whisked away at dawn, not knowing if dusk’ll bring them home. Time is precious, and mobility is highly rewarded. Gold for gold! And keel over its weight. Better Gold, than gold, and choice is a luxury fit for kings.

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Say me a little prayer, while combing your hair now.

twenty-thirteen

there once was a lad named p'er,
h'made a promise to keep fo' d'new year-
to lose some fat,
and gain a six-pack,
and ne'er t'touch a pint' o'beer.

Don't you love these funny resolutions? =) keep it real.

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Here's to the year ahead, have a laugh:

In Christ

In Christ- made more sense today.

It's akin to the hope I had when Chong Wei made it to the finals, won the first set and was ahead of Lin Dan for part of the third set- he would've been our (Malaysia's) best chance at bagging a gold at the Olympics. And so, I completely cast my hopes on this man to deliver for me; every point he scored or conceded mattered to me. The subsequent loss mattered to me. 

But Christ is victorious. And this is how I ought to see myself in relation to God- to be found in Christ. To identify with every thing that Christ has done; death, ressurection, glorification. The bible means a whole lot more (to me) when read this way. Especially these bits: 

• I have been crucified with Christ
• Being made alive with Christ
• Being made children of God,  in Christ Jesus
• Having freedom in Christ
• All the promises of God are yes in Christ

Not the best analogy, but helpful. 

July randoms

Sometime last year, I blogged rather glibly: "I want to be dancing when I’m wrinkled and grey. First things first- I’ve got to learn to dance now." Of course, there wasn't any intention to actually go for dance lessons; I had been (to my shame) cheap with words. And who would've thought that I'd be seeing my careless blog through? But life has its way of handing you opportunities without even trying; one day a friend invited me to join him for free swing dance lessons (courtesy of LindyKL), and so I did.

The experience was thrilling to say the least. And over the course of two weeks, I've learnt alot, of, resilience to shame- and apart from that, in general, learning a lot.

I'll have to say, swing isn't an elegant dance. Graceful, but not elegant. And that too in a different way. There is so much interaction between the dancers- dance routines aren't planned, but are done impromptu based on body language. There are different roles in the dance; leaders must lead and followers must follow. It takes so much understanding and cooperation for the dance to work. But when it does, Voila. It really is a sight to behold.

I'm a slow learner, but I'm really enjoying it. And at the moment, only one desire that’s left in me, want the whole damn world to dance with me.

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Big bad wolf booksale is back! And this time, it's back in time for Christmas! ;) Gather your sons and daughters everyone. It's time for war!

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Sorry for such a disjointed post. But here's something to add to it (so much win!).

 Alright then, stay safe and don't do drugs (unless you're really ill and must absolutely have it).

June

Perhaps the weirdest dream in a long time, but I had dreamt last night that our Lord had returned. I was terrified, but overjoyed and I was playing the ukulele in London by the Thames singing you never let go. Yeah, I know right..

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Thank God for frisbee (and sports in general). I think it's been instrumental in making me feel more human/alive; if what the world needs are people who come alive, I oughta be doing more of it. And if you're game, frisbee pick ups are every tuesday & thursday nights.

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It's been such a blessing to have people run alongside you in your walk with God; I thank God for those who are back for summer and I thank God for those who've just left. Keeps things in perspective and reminds me that people come and go and life is a long race to the end. 

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It's been a tough season, and adapting (to new and ever changing work/social obligations) is a slow and painful process. So pray with me for grace for each day, and a continuous realization that I can't live a day without it; to depend on it with my life and likewise, to show others how to depend on it with their lives. Pray with me that at the end of the day, Christ is magnified. 

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I haven't been reading as much these days, but I do try to squeeze as much as I can in the sporadic pockets of time which appear and disappear in the same mysterious and abrupt fashion. And I thank God for technology which enables me to do this.

Here's a little something for those who are:

• Lethargic/worn-out: the resolutions of Jonathan Edwards (a huge portion written when he was 19 years old). May his resolve to live for God inspire you on your journey. Here are some of my favorites:
• Resolved never to lose one moment of time; but to improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.
• Resolved, to live with all my might, while I do live.
• Resolved, to endeavor to obtain for myself as much happiness, in the other world, as I possibly can, with all the power; might, vigor, and vehemence, yea violence, I am capable of, or can bring myself to exert, in any way that can be thought of.
• Needing encouragement in their battle of faith: You may feel that you have prayed the last prayer you’re ever going to be able to pray about the need that is pressing you. You are exhausted but you must stay in the fight. Don’t stop praying and don’t give up. Yes, it has been a long day! Nighttime is coming and inside you are saying, “It’s time for me to sleep.” But instead God says, “No, no, the fight is just starting.”

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IBA unplugged is back. And this year we hope to go beyond just music. I hope to express more on our visions for music and worship in the near future, but in the mean time, find out more at IBA unplugged's facebook page.

Another bites the dust..

To those going through the valley and shadow of death, hear this word: Weeping will last through some dark, awful nights—and in that darkness you will soon hear the Father whisper, “I am with you. I cannot tell you why right now, but one day it will all make sense. You will see it was all part of my plan. It was no accident. It was no failure on your part. Hold fast. Let me embrace you in your hour of pain.


-David Wilkerson's last blog post before a fatal car crash.

May

Three weeks. Clean and fair elections and convictions with roots that sprung overnight? Perhaps. But don’t let time play you out. There’s much to believe in, much to hope for. And as with many things, bearing fruit takes time. Don’t give up just yet because God is good and He is in control.

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It’s also been a little more than three weeks since Labor Day and I’ve been thinking about work and rest and it seems that work is good and rest is good but too much of either can be bad. But holiness and righteousness and faith on the other hand, can only come from a place of rest in God. He bids all who are heavy laden to come to him, for his yoke is easy and his burden is light. And we must strive with reckless abandon to enter that rest.

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Emma has been writing tons on great stuff and let me share a little with everyone because I benefit so much from her writing. Here’s an excerpt on a piece which I think depicts sanctification really well:

God is not Paul Daniels.  And getting better is not magic – ‘shazzam! All fixed.    When things break, my instinct is to chuck ‘em out and get a better model.  But people aren’t vacuum cleaners.  And God works with what’s already there.  I’d like a shiny new airbrushed Emma.  But instead, he’s redeeming the limping, snot-nosed girl I’ve always been. He’s taking the bits I hate about myself and making them into something he can use. Something I can’t keep despising – even though that’s the easy option.

So.  Recovery –  process And event.  But the power behind both is not mine.  It’s His.  And that’s what makes it all worthwhile.

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And here’s a century old shoutout to all super moms from spurgeon:

The devil never reckons a man to be lost so long as he has a good mother alive. O woman, great is thy power!

Happy belated mother’s day to all moms! =)

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You don’t know it, but I do. And it’s a secret I’m willing to share: Butterflies giggle jazz riffs. Take me at my word and your ears are in for a treat =)

If you haven’t yet heard of the weekend projects, here’s a brilliant short they did. Well done Diaz, Fei and VeeVian. Absolutely brilliant!