Crash Gordon

If I was a superhero, my name would be Crash Gordon.

I had two minor, bloodless crashes in the span of 1.17 hours today. If I would have crashed once more that would have been a hat trick...

Crash #1

During lunch break, Werner and I decided to bike to Helen's to sup and sip free coffee (if you know the person who invented Free Coffee Mondays, give him / her / it a hug for me). I, astride the glorious steel steed: the DeLorean, am pedaling fast yet wisely. I am turning left, a car perpendicular to me is turning right. He thought I was going to brake. I thought he was going to brake. He did brake, a little late, but better than nothing. I swerved so as not to harm the DeLorean (DeLorean first, shiny 2011 black Audi second). As I swerve to my right I find myself pedaling at an oncoming bus. To preserve the DeLorean’s 1947 glory, I swerve left again and save my life but in doing my right handle bar forcefully and screechily introduces herself to the bus door. I didn’t fall to the pavement, but caught my balance with something other than grace. The bus stopped and the bus striver seemed rather peeved, but I just rubbed off the scuff with my finger and smiled (40 percent of the time, the smile works all the time). He stared at me for a few seconds muttered something scathing under his breath (probably commenting on how my socks don’t match my face) and drives off. I boarded my faithful steed and discovered I lost 97.8 percent of my brake responsiveness, so I’m currently perfecting the “Flinstone Shuffle.”

Crash #2

Approximately 1.17 hours later that Monday afternoon, Werner and I were pedaling out of Helen’s, free coffee sloshing in our stomachs, we turn the corner and I gently slam into this biker who decided not to adjust his course upon seeing a large gringo donning aviators. Our front tires politely collided, we made eye contact, both sort of chuckled and pedaled off. Definitely the best crash I’ve ever had.

It’s only thanks to His protective hand that I am alive and perspiring now. It’s sort of surprising that there aren’t more collisions in this city – with the amount of humanity pedaling and honking on those streets, weaving amongst each other like ants in a hurry.

Thank you Father.

Well, the hat trick will have to wait for another day.

Cloud Planting

I had no idea that clouds could be planted.

Planting clouds, you would think it’s something from a Dr. Seuss book – but it happens here in the Orient. If the government wants there to be a smog-free day (national holiday, Olympics, Mr. Ed appearance, etc.) the government shoots a rocket containing silver iodine within, which seeds clouds and brings about rain to dissolve the smoggy veil. Too insane to be true.

I bet He is simply giggling (a manly giggle of course) at us ants below thinking we’re somebodies because we plant clouds. Check out Job 38 and be humbled you cloud planters…

Anyway, thanks to my cloud planting friends we had two days of a beautiful blue sky here in the Big B. It was so liberating and refreshing. It wasn’t quite a Utah blue Dad, but it was a fresh smog-less blue. I love Beijing. It is my new home. The food, people, sites, and mission is unbeatable – but the smog is the one grey flaw. It is like a moist colorless sheet that covers your face with suffocating laughter.

Vision – hazy.

Breathing – choppy.

Me – trapped in a loaf of colorlessness.

But, for two days the sun smiled and the blue army of the sky fought the good fight against the forces of the hazy grey legions. And it was glorious. My cloud planting friends planted clouds which rained for two days before the Mid Autumn Festival – a celebration of the full moon. And so, we could see a full moon and few brave stars for two nights. It was liberating.

In the morning, Mike (FOC legend and brother) and I biked to Tiananmen Square – 16ish mile ride round trip. It was the perfect day to saddle up the D’Lorean and pedal like there was no tomorrow. It’s kind of comforting to be living in the Big B, on my bike, with my cell phone in my pocket, in my city; and to see tourists with their back packs resting on their stomachs, sunglasses propped on their skulls, maps blowing in the wind with a look of rushed look on their faces that screams, “I just want to shower, sit down, and have a brew.” It’s kind of nice to not feel rushed, to see the touristy things when I see them – not trying to squeeze them all in within 49.2 hours.

Mike and I stopped by some hutongs: what Beijing used to be – a maze of homes surrounding a courtyard. They are fascinating – kind of like a subdivision but 1/13^th the size. Shrunken mazes of living. Mike told me that Beijing is bulldozing these hutongs faster than you can say, “kung pao chicken.” By razing these living connections to the past in place of high rise apartments – cement towers standing tall but not knowing why.

So as we were exploring this hutong right across the street from the Forbidden City, we bumped into a man who lived there. Mike and him were talking in Mandarin, so I picked up the occasional “kung pao and General Tsao” but other than that I was merely a mute observer. After about 13 minutes, I realized that I was witnessing a witness. And as I looked into the blue sky I thought of the cloud planters, and I thought how much I would rather plant this kind of seed, a seed that lasts, a seed that doesn’t smog over, a seed worth planting a thousand time over.

Thank you cloud planters; but I’d rather plant something more.

- m -

Orbits Collide

There are times when orbits collide. It is no coincidence. It is the hand of Him.

Last week at Beida (where Matt and I teach) we were holding our bowls of vittles in the teacher's cafeteria, standing awkwardly looking for a place to sit - socially naked, like two freshman girls on the first day of high school.

There were no tables open.

So Werner and I sidled up to a man eating kung pao chicken in solitude. We introduced ourselves, but it was clear that the Kung Pao Chicken Man was not an English speaker. Plus, even if he was a Shakespearian scholar and was as smooth a speaker as George W. Bush, it still would have been a quiet meal. You see, Beijing men don’t just eat, they eat with purpose. Both elbows are anchored to the table for stability, back bent at 72 degrees to ensure a quick bowl to mouth voyage, neck bent southward, eyes focused on the prize. These men do not eat for enjoyment, they do so for survival – there is a primal competitiveness in how they slurp, suckle, and swallow. I am in awe. Anyway as the Kung Pao Chicken Man is inhaling his food, a young lady stops by our table and starts talking to the Kung Pao Chicken Man.

They must be friends.

She introduces herself to us. She speaks in near flawless English. Her name is Nancy (not really, but I’d rather not use her real name). Nancy sits down with Matt and I as we chat about everything from our favorite Beijing foods, to her year abroad in England, to our families. I told her about studies that we lead, how we speak English and talk about Him. She said she was curious.

We ate lunch with Nancy two more times that week. I asked if she would be interested in coming to Tuesday night study. She said, “Giddiup.” (Actually she said, “Yes,” but “Giddiup” has a bit more pizzazz.) So I picked up my friend from the subway and brought her to our study and we sat in a circle of 17 friends and explored a beautiful story about a rebellious son who leaves home in a fit of arrogance and returns smelling like a pig; and his father is waiting for him, and when he’s a long way off the father runs to him with tears streaking down his cheeks and embraces the one who had spat in his face and whispers, “Welcome home.”

There were no tables open in the cafeteria that afternoon.

It was no coincidence that Matt and I sat with the Kung Pao Chicken Man. He wanted us to sit there, so that our orbits would collide with Nancy’s. Hopefully there will be eternal ripples…

- m -

Ten Hopes

1. I hope Russell Crowe is a good fullback.

The other night I called some basketball buddies to nibble on some noodles from the Noodle Shop (I think I'm officially a regular there - it's the restaurant three stone throws from the Cloister (our manly apartment), smiles, waves, waitresses remembering what I ordered last time - it's comforting to have an island of familiarity in a sea of anything but). I supped with Tony and Tommy, two quality gents who I met on the basketball court. After dinner we migrated up to the Cloister to watch Gladiator. We talked a little bit about God at dinner, but didn't really explore Him - so I'm hoping and praying that Russell Crowe can be a fullback for the HS. I think outreach is 100 percent relational. You have to make friends in order to tell them about their best Friend.

2. I hope I can videotape my students during "Sounds of the USA."

I thought it would be fun and enriching to start each class period (after the Good Morning / Afternoon salutes) with an American soundbite, aka: Sounds (bum, bum, bum) of the USA. This week's sounds sounded like this:

"What's up?"
"Nothing much. What's up with you."
"I'm having a good day." (or some other factoid as long as its brief)
"Sweet."

Hearing 440 students repeat have this extremely American conversation with their extra chunky (not quite smooth) English is sort of like watching Barbara Bush and Gilbert Brown do the moonwalk - it's awkward, rigid, and impossible to watch without smiling.


3. I hope I can survive my new teaching schedule.

Our teaching schedule has officially doubled in weight. We went from teaching 10 hours a week to teaching 20 hours a week. It seems as though lunch in bed will no longer be a tradition... It's only two preps a week; really this is a pretty gravy schedule. Compared to student teaching or what my brothers and sisters in the ministry are doing right now - this is like walking into Chipotle and ordering a chorizo burrito compared to slaying the swine yourself armed with nothing more than a dish towel, a dime, and a Louis L'Amour novel.


4. I hope I improve my guitar skills.

Right now I am trying to play guitar when we sing songs before studies and for the occasional hymn during worship. At this moment my guitar skills are in puberty. I'm hoping to be post-puberty in 9 months.


5. I hope to be a camel cowboy soon.

For October Festival (1st - 7th) Ted (my other roommate, Apple employee, very white, jolly and dear friend who has a Beijing driver's license) and has rented a van and we are going to make an 850 mile road trip west to Yinchuan, where we will ride camels and camp in the Gobi Desert for three days. Needless to say I’m rather pumped to be a camel cowboy.

6. I hope to share some Water with these kids.

I was blissfully wondering around our apartment on Saturday (see #7) and bumped into these kids. They were fantastic. Look at those faces. One thing I’ve learned in my travels is that kids are kids in every country, culture, burb, and hood on this planet. You don’t need to be proficient in Mandarin or English to communicate when you can smile like this. I’m hoping I can offer them a bit of Water.

7. I hope there will be more blue skies in Beijing.

After it rains here – the smog lifts for a few hours of blue-sky glory. It’s like the rain is my savior, giving me just enough blue sky and clean-ish air to momentarily quench my thirst for those wide open spaces America has nestled in her wing. There was a blue sky on Saturday. It was a good day.

8. I hope to order McDonald's delivery only twice.

Once on Super Bowl Sunday – to celebrate as the Packers battle the Jets for football immortality.

Once on February 23^rd (the birthday of Ray Croc, Jesse Metzger, and Mr. Ed).

9. I hope that this moldy cheese doesn’t mess with my colon.

I opened the fridge yesterday and was slapped with a smell that would make Rambo blush. We located the source of the stench – Buck Hill cheese. So Ted decided to eat it with crackers. I ate one cracker clothed in the rancidness that is Buck Hill; Ted may or may not have eaten more. I’m hoping that this gastronomical experiment doesn’t toy with my digest

ive system – on second thought, maybe eating rotting cheese will help me achieve my #10 hope…

10. I hope to stop urinating from the rear.

I love Chinese food – but I think the MSG is causing me a little bum-pain at the moment. Biking everywhere isn’t helping the situation. But there’s nothing wrong with a rigid waddle, it’s not like I “blend in” with a normal stride. Maybe I’ll start a trend – the Chaffed Shuffle.

- m -

Post Script

P.S. - I am defying my Amish roots and have become a rather talented text-er.

P.P.S. - Matt's rogue turtle is still on the loose...