River Rats

Two weekends ago Mark and I went with my Dad, stepmom, Uncle Stephen and several of his friends to New Braunfels to float the Guadalupe. We left on Friday morning after rigorous negotiations with the realtor over our new house (more info later) and arrived at our hotel slightly after 3 pm. The original plan was to go to Schlitterbahn, but that didn't pan out as most of our party was running late.

So we later decided to hang out and chill on the patio. The hotel we stayed at overlooks the Comal River, which is apparently a shorter ride than the Guadalupe. It was nice to sit and watch the river go by, though. I never cease to be amazed at how unbelievably clear the water in Central Texas is. I miss it.

Later that night, after everyone had gotten there and settled into their hotel rooms, we went to Gruene to eat at the Gristmill and visit Gruene Hall, which is reported to be the oldest dance hall in Texas. The wait at the Gristmill was an hour, but we passed the time by drinking margaritas as listening to some guy play guitar in an outdoor waiting area while hostesses milled about, frantically writing names on a chalkboard and shuttling people in and out of the waiting area.

Dinner was, as expected, interesting. Of course with Dad and Stephen, one cannot expect it to be boring. Stephen even introduced my dad to his friend Josh as Henry, also known as "bitch". You can infer from the comment how the rest of the night went. Mark had a 'wurst burger and I had a grist burger, which is their basic hamburger smothered in queso. Both were exceptionally good.

After dinner we shuffled over to Gruene Hall, which is in the same outdoor complex as the restaurant, where Zona Jones and the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash were playing. Now, I'm not much of a country music fan, but I did appreciate most of the music and even danced a few times with my dad. I couldn't, however, get Mark to dance. The atmosphere was nice despite the heat (it wasn't air conditioned but boasted several large fans). We stayed there for several hours and drove back to our hotel, whereupon Stephen, Dad, and several others went swimming in the river at about 1 am. I crashed.

And now for the river. We got out on the river sometime between 10 and 11 am. The day started out with confusion caused by someone getting one too many extra tubes for coolers. Somehow, we ended up with four extras despite having only three coolers. It ended up for the best, however, as one of our party members lost their tube on the second set of rapids.

And so we set out on our six hour adventure trip down the river. The river was pretty low, only flowing at 200 cubic feet per minute (anything below 100 results in river closure) so the trip ended up taking longer despite our best efforts to paddle a good part of the way. In some places, we were even pushed backward by vengeful wind gusts coupled with nearly stagnant water. The pileups that resulted were horrendous. It was a good thing I was in a good mood, or I would have been quite agitated at being so close to so many strange people. The trip was mostly nice and calm with few mishaps.

There is one particularly unfortunate incident that occurred as the result of inebriation. Toward the end of the river Mark went down a group of rapids rather drunk and ended up rolling down the rocks and coming out at the other end sans (400 dollar) sunglasses. He was quite upset. I was just glad he was okay. I tried somewhat desperately to pull him along with me so that he wouldn't drown, but succeeded only in tumbling into the river myself. I now have a large and painful bruise on my ass from literally bouncing down the river.

In any case, we finished the excursion with only a few minor scrapes and bruises and no one drowning. I am still blistered from the sunburn. Go me for being stupid and wearing a two-piece despite the fact that I am too fat.

In the belly of Sheol...(warning: religious content)

So I went to church yesterday for the first time in...well I can't honestly remember. Mark decided last week that he should use his expertise to help the church with their audiovisual ministry, so he went to the early service to help and then the two of us went to the late service. One of Mark's chief complaints about running sound or recording the service has always been that he can't worship the way he knows he needs to. He's too concerned with the way it sounds to listen to what's going on. My response to that complaint is that he's always concerned with how it sounds no matter if he's behind the mixer or not. But that's not what I really wanted to talk about. I wanted to make a comment about why I haven't been in church and hope that someone out there can at least sympathize with me, if they can't help me overcome it.

Ever since I graduated from ETBU, I've had this conviction that true Christians should live a life that reflects Christ in us. Now, I know what you are going to say. You are going to say that that's old news and that in any case I'm not living that life, so I don't have room to talk. Here's the difference though. I truly believe that living a life reflective of Christ does not mean living a moral life. If that's all there was to it, then we might as well hang it up because in terms of morality mainstream Islam has us beat hands down. I do believe morality is a part of it. But I believe most people stop there. They think that as long as they don't commit any aggregious sins that they are ok. But I believe the measure of a Christian is the condition of his heart, not the condition of his life. If we follow the letter of the law but do not help a brother or sister in need, then what are we? We are hypocrites. It seems to me that the majority of Christians are so concerned with living in their little bubble of morality, away from the dirt and grime of the world that they fail to see the people that are really hurting outside. I have found that the best ministry is a cup of chicken noodle soup and a couch to sleep on when the rest of the world has turned its back on a friend. My husband tells me all the time that I stop to help people that he doesn't even notice anymore. It seems like Mark isn't the only one that doesn't see them anymore. If we all took time out to look around and see that those people we call "sinners" are not that different from us, that they have real needs and real pain, the world wouldn't be so hardened against us.

The title of this post came from Bobby's sermon yesterday. He preached on Jonah and how God gives us second chances. The reason I titled this post the way I did is that it took me many months in the belly of Sheol to come to this realization. I didn't feel like I was getting any fulfillment from warming the pews every Sunday morning. And even though right now I probably am not living the way you think I should be, I'm more fulfilled dining with the tax collectors than I ever was sitting in the temple with the Pharisees.

Calling all google nerds

Anyone out there as much of a google nerd as I am? The reason I ask is, well, I have this google shared page and no google friends to share it with. So, yeah. If you're out there hiding, it's ok. There are others like you. Or, maybe I'm the only weird one.

Childhood Memories

Like most of you, I found myself Friday evening sitting on an uncomfortable piece of ground waiting patiently for the annual Fourth of July fireworks display. Mark, unfortunately, had to work, so Mom drug me around forcibly throughout most of the day despite her insistence that, even though I said it wasn't, that my leg was hurting and I shouldn't be walking. Moms are great like that. So Friday evening we drove downtown and parked, in spite of our suspicions that there would be no parking, behind the bank and walked down to the park on South Fredonia. I knew I was in for an interesting evening when my aunt upon being asked where they were located, not only could not name the street they were on but also specified that both of her grandkids were crawling around in the creek. I suppose it's a natural thing for kids to want to explore, but I found it humorous that these two children, born and raised in the city, felt it so necessary to play in a creek that one of them threw a fit when told to come up and watch the fireworks. I digress. The point of being there was to watch the fireworks, not wrangle children.

As the evening grew darker and the show finally got underway, I found myself in a sort of trance. It later became somewhat humorous to me that a 26-year old sat entranced by the flashing, booming balls of light that exploded into the night, heralding the day we declared ourselves independent. I felt almost like a child, watching wide-eyed and listening amusedly to Caleb's cooing and shrieking as each explosion filled the sky with sound and color. It was a much-needed trip back in time to when the fireworks were quite literally the most important event of the entire week. I remember not so long ago when I became excited knowing that the 4th was around the corner. I remember waiting the long, seemingly endless hours for the day to wind into night so that I could watch the display. Now the fireworks are almost an afterthought, an inconvenient end to a long day spent cooking, eating, cleaning, and worst of all, putting up with relatives. But despite its inconvenience, the fireworks still fascinate the child inside that is hidden by the dutiful adult.