Sacrifice of Thanksgiving

I will offer to thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and will call upon the name of the LORD. Psalm 116:17

I suppose I've never seen thanksgiving as a sacrifice because sacrifice, by its denotation, entails that something valuable is willingly given at a cost to its owner, and thanksgiving, by its connotation, is what you find in the fridge on Friday morning -- the leftovers.

But thankfulness is more than the memorized words we utter under our breath after Aunt Thelma's stomach-moving potato paste passes us by; it is an act of understanding that we have been given something that we don't deserve. When we look at our gratitude in the truest glass, we see what we are without the gift we've been given. This glance can be rather scary, which is why, when we take the time to look, when we sacrifice our pride and self-deceit, we recognize that we must decide whether or not we will call on His name for grace.

OF COURSE he would.

 


The bell hadn’t rung for dismissal yet, and while the rest of the high school was finishing the last class before lunch, my senior economic students were outside learning nothing about economics. Instead, they were learning about the power of prayer, the faithfulness of our God and His grace to us. Well, I hope they were learning these things. I certainly was as I stood and watched.

Their faces shone as they surrounded one of their fellow classmates and welcomed him back to school, even if it were just for a visit. German was in the middle of them all, soaking in the attention and greeting each one them. He couldn’t contain his excitement, and the sound of his loud, unsure voice, which would have made so many other teenagers run away, was eagerly absorbed by all.

German, you see, isn’t supposed to be alive. Although he was in classes just a year ago, during his summer vacation he was involved in a serious bike accident that left him in a coma. German, the best soccer player in the school, was no longer playing a game. He (and his loved ones) were struggling for his life.

Throughout the first few months of his injury, the prognosis worsened. He was moved from a good hospital to one of the worst – a hospital in which medications are prescribed but not given and care taking is left to the family, not provided by trained medical professionals.

People all over the world prayed for German, no one more than the people whom knew him best, and with weary delight, they were thrilled as he came out of his coma. Of course, they met the negativity of the educated world, but step by step they watched as they watched impossibilities facilitate.

Certainties in such situations cannot be given.

“We’re not sure if he will be able speak.” (He speaks.)
“We’re not sure if he’ll be able to eat.” (He eats.)
“We’re not sure if he’ll be able to walk.” (He walks.)
“We’re not sure if he’ll be able to remember.” (He recognizes.)

Each not sure was attacked by prayer, and each not sure has been thrown to the side in attempts to meet the next one.

As I watched the seniors talk with German, I couldn’t help but wonder who would get the credit for his recovery. Some of my first deep conversations with the students were about the bleak situation, and they sought God for His strength. Now that the situation wasn’t as desperate, will they still seek Him for His help?

German’s journey in front of him is long; he is by no means back to where he was last year, but God has been gracious. He has taken a situation that seemed hopeless and breathed life upon it. God is faithful to answer our prayers, although sometimes in conventional ways. I wonder, though, how many times we fail to see God’s answers because we fail to give Him the credit for the organization of intricate circumstances.

So often we entreat Him boldly with requests that we do not have an answer to, and at times even dare to think ourselves full of faith when others cease to pray. But I wonder, where is that faith when the request has been answered, when the answers are explained, and the “We knew all alongs” begin to pop into our lives? Todays miracles, it seems, take more faith after they occur than before simply because we have room to reason.

“He would have died, but new technology...”
“I wasn’t going to be able to pay the bill, but I got my tax return statement...”

We are a generation that begs God for signs, but at the very appearance of those signs we attempt to explain them and Him away and are left at a loss when we don’t see Him working. He reaches out to show us His existence, yet we, by defiance or laziness, will not open our hearts to His miracles. We expect Him to do the extraordinary and lose the fact that He can work in the ordinary just as easily (though perhaps more amazingly).

But He is patient. He does the ordinary and proves His practicality knowing full well that He may be taken for granted. He does things that embrace reason, despite our attempts to reason away His interaction in our lives away. He heals the sick. He teaches us to know that He is God, a God that's not bigger than today.

He answers prayers. Whether or not we acknowledge the means by which He answers those prayers, well, that's a whole other prayer in itself. 

Effect and Cause

They stumble forth from binding blindness
Drawn not by light seen but by light felt.

R-O-U-S-es

After spending the morning on the Amazon Queene and adapting to the people with whom I'd be spending the next few days, I grabbed a journal and headed to a quiet spot where I'd be able to peacefully enjoy the brillance of the setting sun on the river.

I pulled up a chair to a small cliff, propped up my legs, and began to write. I say write, but it was more like thinking about writing, for the sunset was gorgeous, and, as all sunsets are, I knew that it would go ahead and sink immediately if I didn't patiently watch it progress.

Just as I was getting comfortable in my thoughts and absorbing the different noises of the jungle, a new noise envaded my supposedly withdrawn-from-mankind spot. It sounded as if someone was clucking his tongue, as if he were purposely trying to get my attention. I ignored it for a while, but finally, I turned around. The perpetrator was this.

 



Never having encountered an ROUS (Rodent of Unusual Size) before, I was a little taken back. On top of that, Wesley was no where to be found, and I had forgotten my sword. So, I did what any normal person would do. I stared right back at it and stood perfectly still, trying to blend in with the background.

We probably stood at attention for twenty seconds or so, until a man, searching for a cell phone signal staggered onto the path.
"What is it?" he asked, after taking the same freeze or die approach that I took.
"Don't know," I replied.

He then pulled out a sword from I don't know where, deftly grabbed a vine and swung himself between me and the beast, slaughtered the ROUS, and announced that he was now ready to marry me.

We (ROUS not included) lived happily ever after.

An Interlude

 

To past hopes that launched present realities. Thank you. Both. 

The Rat Race

Humans 2; Rats .5 (We lost three brooms in the ordeal.)

It IS a Jungle Out There

  


1. Parents allow their children to play outside after the sun sets.
2. Community isn’t a noun. It’s a verb (but don’t try to use it in a sentence).
3. Television consumes fewer than the average eight hours a day. As a matter of fact, most households don’t even own one.
4. Education and educators are valued.
5. Families don’t mind spending time together.
6. Locks, securities systems and doors aren’t necessary. People trust each other with their things.
7. Good exercise is part of the lifestyle, not something that is prescribed.


I remember sitting in Sunday school, being threatened with the prospect that I might be one of the few destined to end up in some jungle in Africa, with nothing to eat but a bowl of living slugs and the dread of coming home to a world that accidentally had forgotten I existed.

Well, I’m not in Africa (yet), but I had the privilege to catch a swift glimpse of the jungle here in Peru, and I can’t help but feel that the jungle isn’t quite as dangerous as we would hope to think. We’ve often prided ourselves in our clean streets and claims to leave no child left behind, to protect our citizens by taking away their personal protection and to let the irresponsible speak without consequence, but have we missed something?

I do love America, I truly do. But when I stepped into one of the villages near Iquitos, I couldn’t help but feel that it had, in its own way, encapsulated many of the nobilities that the United States once determined to have. To be sure, there weren’t white picket fences and mothers and fathers paired with one son and one daughter, but there were hard work and beliefs and togetherness. There were diligence and patience and friendliness. There was something that a person would be willing to fight for, something that he would be destitute if he lost. In short, there was the sacred feeling of home.

But no meals of living slugs.

The Least of These

I don’t remember looking down, but I suppose I did. I know that the road wasn’t paved and that the rickety bridge had gaps large enough to see the shallow river slushing beneath it. I must have looked up too. Pictures confirm that the mountains lorded over the little village, but I don’t remember looking up either.

I don’t remember seeing anything else, just him. For a minute in both of our lives, we were in the same place: the outskirts of Huaraz, wrapped in the Cordillera Blanca of the Andes.

There are safety precautions that you must take in a foreign countries, and I have been given more than one speech about things that happen when people don’t respect cultural boundaries in Lima. I wasn’t in Lima, anymore, though, and it was as if God took His finger and wrote on my heart, “Him. Help him.”

He was mid-stride, making his way across the bridge. I’m not sure how old he was. By his stature and mannerisms, he couldn’t be older than twelve, but his eyes indicated that he had been through enough to be older than I. He had brown eyes. They all have brown eyes. They’re all a little dirty and they’re all a little too slow to smile. It’s easy to look away from most of them. They walk alongside of you, buried under a mass of candy or scarves or drinks, and, with pleading voices ask you to buy something. They tag along at your heels, looking for money.

But he was different. His eyes didn’t beg. His mouth didn’t utter a noise. His hands didn’t carry things to sell. His eyes caught mine.

We both maintained our pace, walking towards each other yet going two very different ways, I with my North American sense of “You’re not going to rip me off” and he with his unassuming manner.

I looked at him again and noticed that he was still looking at me. Not staring, not begging, not sizing me up, just looking. It was somewhere along here that I noticed why he wasn’t trying to sell me anything, why he hadn’t been at the corner with the other boys. He had no hands.

If ye do it to the least of these, ye do it unto me.

The words of Christ resonated in my heart. Practicality, however, soon fought back. If I stopped for this boy, others would swarm around. If I stopped for him, I would hold the rest in the group up. If I stopped for him, I would be inconvenienced. Besides, how could I be sure that he wasn’t just trying to make me feel sorry for him?

We walked closer still, losing then regaining eye contact. I tried to rip my gaze from his eyes, but it felt awkward as my eyes fell to his hands, not the bridge. His arms maintained a jogging position, and both functionless stubs were in the air. His left hand had two dwarfed fingers coming out of it, and the right had one. I diverted my eyes upward again and found that he was still looking at me.

As the distance between us lessened, my thoughts quickened. My mind became a blurred mess of the information I’d been given, a mix between “Just don’t look; keep walking,” and the thought that God puts people in our lives so that His name can be glorified.

If ye do it to the least of these, ye do it unto me.

I had a split second to make the decision, a second that would reveal if I would let Christ’s love outshine my selfish arguments.

I let him walk by.

And this, ignoring a handicap child, is how my actions defined Christian charity that day. This is how I acted as His feet, His eyes and His hands. What manner of love is this? Of course, I tried to rectify my response after I climbed into the bus, and the excuses were comfortable. I know I was wrong, though.

I’m not recording my actions as a form of penance – I’ve been graciously forgiven. It’s more of an attempt to show how irrational we act in the name of rationality. We do a pretty thorough job of deceiving ourselves, and instead of recognizing Whom the deception is effecting, we applaud our street smarts and go on our merry way. We are the body. How many times have I (do we) let people walk by?


If ye do it to the least of these, ye do it unto me.

"But you must learn to lose, child. The Lord teaches the old to lose. The young don't know how to learn it. Some people is born to keep. Some is born to lose." William H. Armstrong

And response.

"What appears to me to be man's decline is, to His eye, advancement; what afflicts me is acceptable to Him." de Tocqueville

Dinner Is Served

 
When I first heard about the Pachamancha, I thought it was a pretty good idea. Dig a hole, throw some food in, and BAM dinner is ready with relatively small clean-up efforts. I mean, do you really have to clean that much when you're cooking with dirt?

Circumstances worked out in such a way that I pulled a DC in the whole matter, which, being interpretted, is not only to go early to help set up, but also to stay until the last dish is dried and oh, wait, there's a spot on it, let me wash it again.

The Pachamancha itself seemed to be quite the success. About 200 hundred showed up. Two hundred hungry people. Not to fear, though. We were prepared.

Half a pound of meat
two potatoes
a handful of beans
+ two delicious corn wraps
------------------------------
A good meal.

As I said, we were prepared. We were just prepared a little later than suggested. That's Peru for you. You plan on showing up two hours late to a wedding so you only have to wait thirty minutes until the bride shows up. I'm gradually adjusting, having come from a college that insists that if you're only nine minutes early you're late.


During the meal, I was responsible for divvying up meat portions. I'm not going to lie: that's power in one of its purest forms, and we all know that power, especially in its purest form, corrupts. As I stood there, I could taste the corruption flowing over my poor little soul.

Could you blame me?
I wasn't constricted by bulky, unnatural utensils. Strength and honor were in my own dexterous hands. The only reason I was told to wear gloves was because "it's going to be hot coming out."

Amber was my left hand woman, whipping potatoes on plates with such determination that the children's line was lacking for a while. Her job was vital. Since the potatoes were the first in the hole, they were the last ones out, so we had to wait for the 5'6" men to reach to the bottom of the 3'6" hole and retrieve the tubers. Once she finished her job, she passed the plates to me, where I slapped on meat.

And by slap I mean pile, and the piles seemed to grow as I got hungrier. The line began to dwindle, but as it is with all buffet style serving, there was about twenty minutes worth of one person coming at a time and requesting our services. I began to eye the pachamancha holes, hoping that they would become Jacob's well in respect to their output. They did.

Most of the day's events were ordinary, and since is life has nothing to do with the ordinary, we'll skip over them.

As we were cleaning up, though, there was a moment when language barriers and nationality and comfort zones were bulldozed.

The Pachamancha preparation began weeks before, right after the property sale was finalized. There was a team of us that dedicated a portion of our Saturdays to demolishing the pre-existing buildings on the property. Among the team was Lydia, the woman whose family is now living on the property for security reasons.

For weeks we worked with each other without having a deep conversation. Once it was evident that our ability to communicate was minimal, we settled for wheeling cement and dragging trees across the terrain together, but separately.

While we were cleaning up from the Pachamancha, we finally found a way to communicate. Perhaps it arose from the weary happiness that accompanies service, but it seems to me that it was not unaffiliated with the bond that the acknowledgement of God produces.

We (Amber and I) were recently introduced to song whose angelic melody is enriched only by the power of the words. Since the song is an "echo" song, it welcomes more than two voices, especially when one of those voices is mine.

//Fuerte Dios//
//Consolador//
//Principe de paz//

We got to Consolador, and quietly, almost questioningly at first, Lydia began to sing. The joining voice was a most delightful surprise, and we continued to sing, until we couldn't remember the words.

We spent a few minutes racking our brains trying to figure out the rest of the words, and when we finally gave up, all we did was smile. For once, the language barrier was helpful. We enjoyed the simple moments of contentment that are often muddled by the presence of words. 

Friday Nights

We sit and watch, and while watching happens,
All else stops.
We remember. We recall. We remain
inactive.
We die. Slowly enough to watch.

Gained in Translation: Sunday Morning Entertainment

 
Cooking directions:
Frying Pan: (Pan)
1. Mix two eggs, add 16.90 FL OZ of water, then dissolve the content of one package and mix it until obtain an homogeneous consistence.
2. The preparing has to be done using middle fire to low, in a medium frying pan, slightly oily and previously heated.
3. Put 3 to 4 tablespoons of the mixed and spread until cover the most part of the surface.

The product must be stored in a fresh place, clean and well ventilated. 

Character

Character Defined:
What you are when nobody's looking.

My character:
Two more scoops of ice cream.

March Madness

There is a certain vibe that resonates in sports fans everywhere. Your team may not be the best; they may be up against odds insurmountable, but the feeling, the devastation that comes after a loss (as was the case just a few seconds ago) dictates that the loss could have been avoided, if only you were able to watch the game. It sounds bizarre. It is bizarre. It's connection. It's unity. It's madness. Complete and utter madness.

I'm sorry, UCONN, that I couldn't have been there for you.
If, instead of watching the delayed statisics (that showed up a few seconds before the audio kicked in), I was able sit in front of the T.V. in a room full of Duke fans (sorry, boys, but at least we made it to the Elite Eight) and throw a fist in the air as George Mason missed the all-important free-throws,
If instead of concentrating on missing the last three pointer, Denham, you could have seen me, in front of my laptop, geography book thrown to the side, Peruvians wondering what in the world has overtaken me,
If you could have known that I wanted to hear the swish of the net be swallowed up by the stampede of the crowd,
If you didn't need me to watch the game to come away victorious,

Then you'd be a man, my friend.

"Even the best fall down sometimes."

Be Strong

If Someone were writing my life story, those words would be unveiling themselves as a theme. So far, they’ve struck twice, and the second surfacing seems somewhat premature in light of the fact that the circumstances that surrounded the first proclamation continue to haunt me.

Be strong. My dad forced them out before I left to come down to Peru, and I kind of got the feeling that it wasn’t for me as much as it was for him. It is he who has to be strong, who has to be as motivated to engage life as he taught us to.

But they are the words that reappear in my life, not his.

The first time I heared the words, Meremere said them as I left one of my best friends. I’m not sure what impacted me more – losing a far-seeing confidant or hearing the challenge to be strong from a woman who experienced things more difficult than I can imagine – but I walked onto the airplane a changed person, and for the better part of two years I confused being strong with being desensitized. I’m sure that people looked at me and somehow thought that I was a strong person, but it is a weak person indeed who willingly turns her back on truth.

It took an aged book and the song of an imperfect king to make me realize that strength is found in the revelation of weakness, and that if we willingly open up to a God who wants to know us, He will not mock our ways, but mend our heart.

There is no king saved by the multitude of an host: a mighty man is not delivered by much strength. An horse is a vain thing for safety: neither shall he deliver any by his great strength. Behold, the eye of the LORD is upon them that fear him, upon them that hope in his mercy. Psalm 33:16-18

There was a time when I thought that I was strong, but circumstances uncovered the whited sepulcher, and I’ve since discovered overwhelming weakness. Such an understanding has given me much strength, for in seeing my weakness, I have found His mercy. I will be strong, but not because I’m covering wounds. I will be strong because His blood rushes over those wounds, burning at first, but balming in the end.

So I hope. Not in people; not in circumstances. I hope in the weaknesses that He providentially gave me. I hope in His mercy.

Forgive my broken heart;
Forgive, and soothe the pain.
And I will watch the wound
until I can touch the scar.

Our Regrets

Dear Mrs. Frisby,

Perhaps he had the wrong house; perhaps he thought that the hamburger sitting on the counter was reason to sneak in and jeopardize his life. Better yet, he probably thought that a house of girls would stand incompetent in the execution of, well, him.
Unfortunately, he’s joined a plethora of beings who’ve underestimated us, and he will no longer be able to help in the transfer of your house. I’m sorry for your loss, but know that he died surrounded by those that were screaming for him.

Humans 1; Rodents 0

It's all fun and games

You think games in the US and you think of sitting around a table or relaxing on some couches. Taboo. Scrabble. Cranium. Nice games. Nice, impersonal games.

Not here. Not at a twenty-somethings Bible study at Vida Nueva.

"Whom do you like?"
"Where do you want to get married?"
"Who's the best person in church?" (Ruben, of course)

Yeah, I tried to laugh it off too, but you had to answer. Outloud. If not, you took the risk of being asked a more ridiculous question. Politics, religion, relationship problems -- nothing was banned. It was kind of like what a Presidential debate should be. No predetermined material, no time to talk about the war in Iraq, just enough time and pressure to force you to give the exact answer for exactly the question that you were asked. (It blew my mind too.)

Another interesting game is what I'd like to call "Highschool Yearbook."

We were all given an envelope with a piece of blank paper inside. The directions: Write your name on the envelope and the paper and pass it around the room. When you get someone else's paper, write your opinion of them. At the end of the allotted time, you'll get your paper back and get to see what other people think of you.

You can imagine my apprehension to play this game with a group of people I'd never met before, but then again, I figured that it might be better to play with them before they know me rather than afterward.

Being sucked into playing, I took as long as I could to write in each one so I don't have to write in as many. I mean, how much could I say about person whom I'd never met, and for crying out loud, don't even fully know the language that he speaks? Hablas ingles bien or hablas bien ingles? No se.

My favorite "opinion" given was one of Amber's. An arrow pointing to the reply someone else wrote, and "el mismo" written below. Short, sweet, and very American. No personal responsibility if the message was offensive, and a default person to pass the blame on to.

Anyway, Moises informed us that these games were quite mild in comparison to some other ones that the GPS group play, and from what I gather, he's not exaggerating.

Mariposa

Orbitz left: 2 ½ packs
Sunburn level: Scratch and Peel
Encounters with death in the last 22 hours: 2
Survival rate: 100%

My past would have me believe that truly thrilling experiences should be found in contained locations. Go on a roller coaster to experience a rush of adrenaline. Mind you, be sure to buckle in tight, google the reputation of the theme park, and make sure that the person in front of you didn’t chuck his or her cotton candy just before getting on the ride. Then ride for 3 minutes and feel like you’re stretching yourself to the limit.

Today I was introduced to an adrenaline rush that wasn’t held in place by metal bars and millions of dollars of advertisement.

There’s something about uncontrollable running that makes me nervous. There’s something about uncontrollable running down an undefined mountain path that makes me nervous. There’s something about uncontrollable running down said path holding someone’s hand that makes me nervous.

Just nervous enough to try it.

We reached Mariposa’s summit after about an hour and a half of mostly uphill hiking. There’s something to understand about mountains here. They’re not made out of rock. Most steps result in a puff of what we hope is dirt, dirt that if swallowed, doesn’t taste like dirt. There are no trees, and vegetation is nonexistent, excepting the two small cacti we discovered on Mariposa’s top.

That being said, the steeper the climb up, the faster the going down. Hence, the exhilaration. There comes a point when you pick up so much speed that you simply cannot stop. All you can do is hope that the ground you pound on doesn’t give out. It’s kind of like a free for all, and you don’t know if you’re going to make it. The wind smacks against your face, the horizon disappears in the dust of the people that you’re following, and you never know when the path you’ve chosen to run down is just going to drop. That’s why Mark went first. Kidding, of course. The first people have the pleasure of seeing the latter people run down the hill, a price which seems to be worth the risk.

We did have one wipe out, which kind of ruined the fun, but God’s hand definitely protected us from a “Princess Bride”-as-you-wish scene. For one, there was no Wesley, no skirt, and nobody who said “as you wish,” but as all falls are, Amber’s wasn’t at the best location. Daniel and Mark initially thought that they might have had to slide down after her, and Heather and I, temporarily oblivious to what happened, were quite glad that nothing of the sort happened.

The wounded was the one who name the second mountain we conquered. (La Primera was the first. Original, eh?) Mariposa. Butterfly. And odd name for a mountain in Peru, especially since I hadn’t seen a butterfly here until our walk home today – after Amber named the mountain. Daniel pointed out a crushed butterfly that was being plastered to one of the paved streets by the blistering sun. Morbid, I know. A few steps farther down the road, though, we were entertained by two sunshine yellow butterflies that playfully flitted through the air.

Mariposa.

I’ve never noticed butterflies in amusement parks.

"Life is going to be an awfully big adventure." Peter Pan

2/4
You’ve probably heard it before. Maybe a professor said it to a student. (Or, less likely, but perhaps more appropriately, maybe a student said it to a professor.) Of course, the place you heard it most often was at the dinner table when your mother placed that dish you hated right down in front of you. Cauliflower. Sixteen bean soup. Spinach souffle. You choose. It was the meal that made meatloaf look good. A meal, that, were you given an option of a last meal, you would choose because death was a suitable follower. Naturally, every reasoning power in your little frame attempted to show her the injustices of such a disastrous dish, and naturally she responded with something like, “If you don’t like it here, why don’t you go to a poorer nation and see what it’s like?”

We all know that we’re not suppose to actually go to a different nation and try it out – we're just supposed to eat our food and be quiet – but I’m getting the chance to live the opportunity every American child has heard about. Right now I’m sitting in the court yard of a house that is happily situated in the middle of six or seven mountains. (Picture Mordor’s coloring and you’ve got it about right.) I’m told, though, that the mountains aren’t mountains at all, they’re hills. Big hills.

I’ve made it to Lima and have found that I’ll be by no means “roughing it.” My room is beautiful, the people seem nice, and I can now verify that the world is bigger than North America. That being said, electricity and water supposedly aren’t reliable, taxi and bus drivers are crazy and infatuated with their horns (and green cards), and I’m not sure what I can say for their school system if I’m going to be a teacher. Fortunately, I'm loaded with Dead Poet’s Society.

Carpe Diem.

circumcision (and other New Year's Revelations)

For the last sixth months, there has been one date that has guided the stars and tides and, well, yearnings for New Jersey and Montana and wedding dresses held up in China. Finally, after a semester of weekend trips and hours of conversations, Jayme and Tim won’t have to say goodbye again. Congrats and best wishes to the lovely couple! (Now that I’ve tried out your new couch, I may have to use it.)
While the two of you may think that the weekend was about you, let me note that the 20+ hours spent in the car and airport offered different evidence. I, for one, learned many things.

- Montana really has more than 15 people. Really. Kelly just had a baby, remember?
- No matter where I go, I will find friends in love with country music.
- Said friends will determine to change my NE inborn intolerance for the twange. And they MAY succeed. (Just the other day I was almost inspired to write a song about a dying dog.)
- Leave the steaming of the wedding dress to professionals.
- You shouldn’t drive a bus to go skiing, especially when there are no guardrails. Especially when it’s just snowed.
- When “you know,” you know. If you’re Tylar and Christie. If not, well, then you may know, or you may think you know, but you’ll only know if you don’t know when it’s too late to know...
- Virgins trim their wicks, with a capital “W,” and that’s all that means. Right, Mrs. K.?
- Even chemistry professors stand unwilling to verify the big bang theory.

It was an educational weekend, indeed, and hopefully it won't be too long until I'm able to visit the Rockies again (armed with a guitar and a love song).