You were deceived.

Ok. So. I went to this soccer game over the fourth of July. Blah, blah, blah. It was great. Kansas City and Dallas tied. Dallas was the better team and Kansas City soccer players are a bunch of woosies. It was fun. Blah. 

But here's the real kicker. I had this bizarre craving for the wonderful little temperatureless balls of summer---Dippin' Dots. So, what do I do? I wander around Dr. Pepper Stadium alone to find this hopeful mini refreshment. 

I remember being this little kid, seeing these creations of enjoyment for the first time and thinking...

"Oh my goodness golly gee (Yes, I said it just like that) is ALL of our ice cream going to look like this in a couple of years?!?!"

It was along the same lines as the question I used to ask about whether or not we would have flying cars by the time I turned twenty and remote control children. All in the same. 

And truly, I feel deceived. I mean here's the thing. This random guy named Curtis Jones stumbles across this incredible idea to provide animal feed in the form of little frozen yogurt balls. This new innovative scheme goes mainstream, catches on, and now we have the promising little animal appetizers at every Cardinals game and Six Flags attendance. It's beautiful really...and interesting to see what a love for microbiology can lead to. 

I mean, don't get me wrong. I looooove dippin dots. But, I feel like it's false advertisement in the way that it appears misleading. Is this really the ice cream of our future? I haven't seen anything else like it...which, in a sense, is great. I mean, he did something truly unique...and for that he should receive some kind of nobel ice cream prize or whatever. 

I mean, I'm sure they patented it or something. But really.

I called my friend Samantha in such distraught, because, genuinely, I felt mislead as a child...and it wasn't until now that I realized I was mislead. Which was, in part, kind of painful. You and I were lied to. The children of this generation are being deceived. Dippin' dots has NOT become the ice cream of our future. Not yet at least. And maybe it's just because I am impatient. 

Well, the good of my character flaw is this...actually the good natured soul of my friend Samantha shared in entrepreneurial creativity...anyways---we thought of making our own invention. I told her that I think we should make our own kind of ice cream...she said miniature square shapes. I said it was beautiful. She agreed. 

But our marketing tactics are different than Sir Jones. We would start our business selling to third world countries, or creating some kind of market economy over there...in all of them...and in that way, we could benefit the world and serve as an aid to obesity in other countries. We even thought to get Bono to eat the ice cream or something...a real kicker. 

So, if it's cubed, you say, "what would you call it?"

Well, we are still working on this. It's "ice cubed" for now. And, I mean, there are still a lot of momentary flaws in our thinking of how this business would function. But, we are working through those....with my Creative Sciences degree and her...well, her other degree. 

Goo. 

Food for thought...hahaha!

i can't believe i'm sharing this...

Ok. It's time for confessions. 

Big confessions.

Part of me hesitates sharing this...at all...because it is so wretched and hilariously disgusting. I feel like my blogs would be difficult to read. Maybe I should make two separate ones. One with a pen name and just write out embarrassing moments. Then the other one can be my more serious and thoughtful collection. I just feel like I am confusing people. Oh well, I guess this isn't for anyone in particular...so here goes....

Like this is ridiculous and anyone, if anyone, who reads this might be so bothered that they stop. And that's ok.

So here's the deal. We're in Jamaica right? It's our last day right? 

Let me just preface this by saying that I am pretty consistent in my bodily flow, meaning I average about 5 stool passes per day. That's an average. (I know. We thought it was a problem. But the doctor said it was ok.) So, knowing that I tend towards that kind of high number, any number less than that, is, well, kind of painful. 

I get to Jamaica. The first day my average is pretty low. That's ok. All is well. At least I'm doing it. Well, two days pass...and no flushing for me...To say the least it was quite painful and I will never take a laxative ever again. I hate them. But I mean, understanding that I was rather "backed up" before, any opportunity I received to process human waste, I took in strides of glory with shouts of mass exodus. (Matt Dingler may or may not have prayed over me.)

So. When I had to go. I would go. There was no holding back. Preface concluded.

It's the last day. We get to Ocho Rios. I'm pumped to snorkel. I'm actually an incredible snorkeler. I wish there was a snorkel sport. Baseball is America's past time. Snorkeling is Emily's past time. 

Here's the deal though. To really see anything of real use, you usually pay an extra 5 flat to get this humdigy boat to take you out about 1/4 to 1/2 miles off the beach. I thought to just swim out there. And to stay out there for 3.5 hours. 

I'm floating out in the water. I took/tour guided this high school-soon-to-be-couple out to where the real coral was at. I took full ownership of this truly authoritative snorkel leadership, swimming ahead to make sure that they would be safe. So, I'm sitting there just acting like I'm not watching or whatever, treading water and such...and this revolving washer like pain swirled in my stomach. 

It was coming. I had to go. And bad. Real bad. 

There was no way I could get back. I mean that was like a .5 mile swim, and it may have been worse to leak. THERE WAS NO OTHER OPTION! So, I made the necessary adjustments and let loose the human canon.  

Well, as we know from physics, salt water causes a floatation effect. I mean this human waste was rather hefty in size and firm in character and it plopped up right behind me. Right behind me! 

So, I swam away from it...a little to the left. I look up to see the two students swimming underwater toward me. Kelsey was coming to my left....and "nameless" was coming to my right...to my far right...getting rather closer, and closer, and closer, and closer to the....."oh my gosh, did he just swim into my....oh my gosh...no. no no."

I went into a frantic as I saw this high school students head literally knock my waste, propel my waste forward...it was awful. 

And worse. Right after he hit it, he popped his head out of the water. 

I'm thinking of all these lies...all these things I can say...I was going to LIE to this student's face, to his stained forehead. 

"Oh, whoa, that's an odd looking string....uh chunk...of seaweed."

"Oo buddy, I think you hit some of the coral up...Yeah that is an odd looking piece of coral..."

I mean, I am running through every creative thought and they all seem negligent. I mean, I can't lie to this student! That's like a triple sin. First, I stained the ocean. Then, I allow this student to swim into it. Third, I LIE and tell him it's just a J-shaped coral! 

Wrong. Everything just seemed wrong. 

But he popped his head out of water and looked at me, while this piece of...well...waste...is bobbing right below his peripheral vision. It's just bobbing there! 

"So, uh Emily, where should we go next?"

HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE!!! 

I mean there it was, sitting, bobbing, floating in the waves right below his chin...and he had NO CLUE what he hit...

I was shutter shocked. How did he miss it? But ok...."Uh, yeah, right this way....follow me..."

Oh my gosh. I am the worst of the worst. I am so low on self esteem because I, literally, stunk as a snorkel tour guide. The only thing I guided him into was human Jamaican turd. 

It hit him in the head! And he has NO idea! 

That is so horrible. I should be banned. I feel like I should apologize...but what would I say..."uh hey man, remember the other day that I led you into fields of beautiful coral and tropical fish....well, uh....I may have led you into a little more than that....uh...."

Can I ever be forgiven for such a heinous sin?!

No Words Necessary

I'm learning to speak less and less. It's been a progression of sorts. There used to be this need I had to fill every silence with "love" or "ministry" or "story" or some kind of probing noise. I'm learning, slowly, to find love and some kind of brilliant hope in speechless moments---where tongue loses it's ability. 

I just got back from Jamaica. I want to say  that somehow this trip "completely changed my life." But it didn't. Because of a variety of circumstances, I have had the opportunity to serve and experience similar things like Jamaica before. Apart from any kind of trip, my life has been a rough progression in growth. This trip has deeply aided in that journey...but it did not, in any way, ignite a journey or "re-stimulate" it. 

We went to the infirmary when I was in Jamaica.I didn't quite know what it was or what the infirmary meant. All I was told was that it would require a 45 minute bus ride home in silence. We arrived though--and I was waiting to be shocked. And I was. I was shocked at the deprivation, at the disconfiguration, and the mild care for the elderly escalation. It was tear striking, if that's the word that fits. (Language, my language, has some kind of limitation that falters in accurate conveyance.) 

I wandered at first, until I found an awkward place that seemed fitting, sitting on the ground--the red concrete and hard earth...next to her. Legs crossed, her bones had adjusted, or broken, to the criss cross position on the ground. Toes overgrown, mangled. Eyes lazy and fallen. Dress open and her chest falling through the thinly simple material. Her body had the misfed representation of a small 12 year old, and the toddler coincided when I noticed the large yellow diaper, suited for her adult use. No teeth, but this one that loosened itself from any kind of gum gripping and just sat, dangling. 

She sat, and when I came down beside, she retreated in a number of concentric circles---which seemed to translate--"go away." So I stayed. I felt like I was at a museum exhibit, or worse, at a corrupt zoo, watching this frightened animal turn towards a comforting block wall, afraid, seemingly, of the person. It was the most painful feeling.

I didn't know what it was that drew me to stay, but something ached every time I thought to go. We both sat there, her refusing to take notice of my eyes, but rather shook and grunted in some kind of misunderstood pain. 

I reached out to stroke her boned leg. She swatted me away. I tried again. She turned to the wall. I kept trying. And trying. And she let me, and then timidly lifted her head towards me to catch one of my eyes. 

This kept happening. 

She would draw back in circles to hug the wall. I would touch her leg. And she would wait, almost fearfully, to make an association with my eyes. 

We were supposed to bring our Bibles. I guess to read to them. But she was mute...and from what the nurse said, could hardly understand words. 

She started moving closer to me. She saw my Bible and she picked it up, upside down. She opened it and began grabbing at the pages. I suppose she found Psalm 119 entirely unnecessary.

The page fell to the dirty floor, but her anxious hands grabbed for more. Next was my journal. She picked up the pages of a month of empty writing and held them at an unreadable slant. She then tore at the bindings, and I thanked God that my words could be few. 

Another lady living in the infirmary walked up. An elderly woman, with communicative and demonstrative abilities. She saw my nameless friend with my upside down Bible and holding my ink filled pen.  The lady spoke to me, or rather, rebuked me and my friend sitting on the ground. She told me that she should not be touching my Bible, the Holy Book. She said that she would ruin it and was going to destroy the Holy Book by ripping out the pages. This elderly woman seemed offended at the lack of regard for the Words of Scripture and continued by explaining to me that this woman was mute and that she couldn't understand me. The only thing I could say was that it was ok. She kept telling me that I should stop. But all I could say was, it's okay. Thank you ma'am, but it's okay. 

There was something painfully beautiful about this interaction. The elderly woman walked away and I was left with my friend on the floor. No talking. No words. No language. No stimulative thought. We sat in concentric turned explorative silence. 

I said one thing. It was the only thing that I could think to say. I was embarrassed that tears filled my eyes, but I looked at this woman and the only words that were misunderstood but poured were, "We are the same." It seemed to be the only thing slightly fitting. Both, we are broken and mangled and unresponsive(at times) and disabled and timid and fearful and in need.  Both. We are. At different levels and to uniquely separate degrees. 

My nameless friend and I sat in silence, with occasional simultaneous clapping when I would sing in this tuneless voice amazing grace. And she would smile. And that was it. But there was such a hopeful beauty in the more persistent absence of sound. Our interaction, thought some may call slight, lasted the entire duration of the groups' time at the infirmary. Maybe it wasn't worth it to some because she was just one of the many. But maybe the many wasn't as important as the one. And maybe, probably, tomorrow she'll forget. But the stillness of sound exceeded the ability of voice in volumes. At least for me.

"We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence... We need silence to be able to touch souls. " Mother Theresa