The Space Between the Start and the Stop...

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind

and another

his mother called him "Wild Thing!"
and Max said "I'LL EAT YOU UP!"
so he was sent to bed without eating anything

That very night in Max's room a forest grew

and grew-

and grew until his ceiling hung with vines
and the walls became the world all around

and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max
and he sailed off through night and day

and in and out of weeks
and almost over a year
to where the wild things are.

And when he came to the place where the wild things are
they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth

and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

till Max said "BE STILL!"
and tamed them with the magic trick

of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once
and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all

and made him king of all wild things.

"And now", cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start!"

"Now stop!" Max said and sent the wild things off to bed
without their supper. And Max the king of all wild things was lonely
and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.

Then all around from far away across the world
he smelled good things to eat
so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.

But the wild things cried, "Oh please don't go-
we'll eat you up-we love you so!"
And Max said, "No!"

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth
and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws
but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye

and sailed back over a year
and in and out of weeks
and through a day

and into the night of his very own room
where he found his supper waiting for him

and it was still hot.
(Where the Wild Things Are: Maurice Sendak)

This poem is of the most precious nature. On the surface and childish understanding of this story, Max realized where his home was. But on a more thought provoking level, how and why did he realize this? Do you realize that between the wild rumpus starting and stopping there is one space? Everything was going great for Max until the rumpus started, then he yelled stop! Why? What changed? That space doesn't tell us anything about the complications of royalty, the realization, the desire in the little boys mind and heart. Maybe, though, it is what is not there that reveals to us exactly what that void means.
Here's my theory.
In this child's mind, he wanted to be his own authority because he didn't like being told what to do. The mother of this monster-clad child, knew that it was not good for him to make decisions and rule his own soul because he didn't know better, he was still a child. The mother wisely and lovingly punished this child by sending him to bed without any supper. As his imagination grew, he went to a far off land where he was the king of all the little monsters and himself. He was the authority and everyone worshiped him. He didn't have to obey anyone. His first decision as king? Make a ruckus.
I know I've just explained about the little boy Max, but travel with me for a moment to a different idea: that this is not a children's book. It is actually an insightful book to parents about when their children grow up into... well... teenagers. Think about the separation that teenagers experience when coming to their own and learning to distance themselves from their parents. Sendak describes this disassociation as "over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day". That's a lot of distance. That's a long way to travel away from that authority we think we hate.
The truth is we need a wise ruler to guide our steps. That's why the wild things couldn't stand to be left, because Max was the only authority they knew. But Max couldn't do it, he didn't know how to be a wise ruler. All he could do was make noise and dance, and be wild. Something happened during that space that made him realize that he needed someone to help and guide him and be the loving authority in his life because he was too foolish to do it by himself.

Sendak also makes us think of the three types of parents, there are those parents who will not allow their child to distance themselves from the "ever-wise" authority, thinking that the foolish teenager will make terrible decisions and destroy themselves. The teenagers are so suffocated that freedom is what they think they've always wanted and once gone, they'll never turn back... even when "freedom" becomes less than ideal. Then, there are the parents who set no boundaries or expectations for their children, they let them go on the wild rumpuses of their lives so that they don't realize their folly till it is much too late. The hurt is cemented, the choices uncorrectable, and the mind too far from home that it will never fit again.
The third is the mean between the two extremes. These parents set boundaries complete with discipline but most of all love. The mother lovingly stands by as the hormonal teenager sails over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day away from them to experience for themselves what the parents have always known and made clear to be true all along. The mother lovingly beckons but never demands... never fails to bake cookies for her beloved and is always ready for a conversation, a hug, a tear, a cup of tea, a story, a love letter.
What happened between the start and the stop of the rumpus was that the boy realized that he did not know how to rule himself or the wild things that essentially lived in his mind... these can be compared to the roaring opinions, ideas, feelings, emotions, impulses, attractions, and every other kind of drama and ruckus that goes on in the life of a teenager. He needed his moment as he was growing in to his own to see for himself the truth. But the parents loved him enough to not let him go too far away so that he wouldn't not come back to home and his own discovery drew him back to the lavished love that was offered freely and unconditionally.

The real authority and true wise ruler of our lives ought to be God, but God has placed our parents in our lives to help us enter in to that conversation with our heavenly father... to help us listen and hear his voice speaking to us. It's the time when our faith is becoming our own, and not just an extension of our parents belief. God is using them as symbols and tangible representations of his love for us. We must listen, and respect, obey, even when we do go on adventures to discover the truth for ourselves... but never too far from home that we forget what it smells like or what true love, grace, and good food is.

I love you mom and dad.

It's the Smell

This is not a book. A book has pages. A book has a smell. A book doesn't process text, it is text. A book doesn't manage data, it IS data.
This might sound funny coming from the Business major with an emphasis in the technology of business who doesn't like books very much. But let me appeal to the emotional imagination for a bit.

You walk into a bookstore and you know exactly what you are looking for. You walk to the fantasy section and pick up Phantastes. It's weighty and colorful. Moderately thick. You open up the cover as if taking the wrapping off of a present. You hold it close to your face and breathe in deeply the scent of fresh paper and binding glue. You pay the twelve dollars for the book and you walk out. You put it in the front seat of your car as if a passenger. Then you wait a week till it rains. You light the fireplace and brew yourself some tea and sit on the couch near the fire. You turn to page 1. If you are me, you'll skip the introduction... and the forward. Chapter 1. Ah There is nothing like the opening lines of a book usually on the left side of the layout. Then you turn the page. You keep turning... each rustling sound gives you the feeling that you are moving through and with your story. Like the whispering swish of each turn down the ski slope, you enjoy each rhythmic up-down movement of your knees as you steadily gain speed, but your goal is the end. So it is with books.
You cannot do this with a Kindle. You cannot see or experience the end as it draws near. Maybe there's a page number but you can't feel the weight of the book, or the manner of your success in finishing. You can't visualize the length, or write in the margins. You can't be friends with a Kindle. Maybe I'll change my mind one day when I actually get the opportunity to enjoy the convenience of one... but I don't think so. Books are timeless and beautiful, Kindles are a result of man's need to save space and time and have the most convenience possible that is available to them. You can't be friends with convenience.

All Time Favorites

Casey At Bat - Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.

Biola Chapter

Hello there!
I haven't written in a while. Life is picking up speed again as the Spring semester at Biola University is in full swing. Many warm reunions with dear friends have occurred and the reality of the difficulty of this semester is setting in. Yummy. I say that sarcastically but there is a sense of warmth and rhythm to the chaos. There is the sense of simplicity when you wake up in the morning and greet the sun with a smile knowing it's going to be a beautiful day. Sometimes all you can do is breathe. Fresh breaths each one deeper than the one before, and for a moment all is still in the quiet of the morning. And life is good. If you let that moment carry you through your day, life is still good even though one must bustle around to do the tasks ahead.
There's no real point to this post, just an note on how wonderful life can be and how blessed I am. Paul tells us so many times to be grateful in all things. I have prayed long and hard for this attitude to fill my very being to the brim. And it is. Slowly and ever so error-filled, I am learning to take nothing for granted and to thank God in all things for the many blessings he has lavished upon me. Not just the things that He would have for me, but the things that please me as well.
My prayer now is that I will be able to carry this attitude throughout my life and look in the face of the storms when they come and shout praises to the Lord of gratitude... thanking Him for the rain that will make everything more fertile than it was before.
I am so greatly looking forward to this semester as I will have the opportunity to read some great books, both for the expansion of my knowledge and the furthering of my journey upward to maturity in Christ. I will have the opportunity to be in the presence of great people, those who challenge me to walk closer and dearer to my Savior. I will have the opportunity to be under the influence of intelligent professor who are helping me to grow so that I can further my accomplishment in the discipline of Business.
I am very glad to be back for my Sophomore Spring semester and will be updating my blog with something a little more insightful soon!
Erica