I used to be terrified of Fireworks.
When I was little, the fourth of July seemed like nothing more than a great big torture-Mark competition. With my dad being a fireman, I had the 'beware of ashes' teachings drilled into me very young, and therefore spent every 4th of July trading time between hiding under the blankets from the noise to peeking out to make sure no stray ashes from the explosions had come to set my poorly constructed fort on fire.
Looking back, I realize that this annual celebration is tough to fully appreciate at such a young age. From that phase, I know I went straight to the, "this is stupid, why do we drive into a crowd, sit on a blanket for 20 minutes to watch lights in the sky, and fight traffic for hours trying to get home?" stage.
But the past few years, I think I've finally come to appreciate the ritual. In fact, I'd like to narrow that down to this year, this night.
Maybe it was the fact that they chose not to play the local radio station to coordinate music with the show, or maybe it was my extra-busy schedule that led me to appreciate the free time even more.
Whatever it was, when I sat down on the blanket inside the group of four other families, our close friends, any possible troubles or worries or stresses melted away. And as the first firework exploded above the tree line, I was immediately able to tune out the annoying group to our left, and focus on the pure beauty of the moment. It was those 20 blissful minutes that I felt truly free, safe and happy... that small moment of time I could lay back, look up at the lights, and feel nothing but satisfaction (which, I may add, is no small task following a crushing defeat at the annual croquet tournament with the relatives...).
And as the finale hit, with almost more noise than light, followed with clapping, whooping and whistling, my mind wandered to the country's first celebration, to the absolute shock and joy those Americans must have felt. And at that point, in that single moment, surrounded by good friends, laying on top of the blanket instead of hiding beneath it, I recognized to the full potential, the greatness that is a 4th of July celebration.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
How I miss my hometown church services
Going to church today, I couldn't help but realize how easy it is to miss the quirks of small town, home life... Walking into the door, I was greeted with an excited handshake from one of the old ladies of the church, and a few how-ya-doin's from others before finding my seat.
As the choral introit begins, I can't help but enjoy listening to the soothing sounds of my pastor's familiar old voice drowning out the rest of the choir because he forgot to turn his microphone off, and watch with satisfaction as a young teen suddenly realizes that they were supposed to be lighting the candles, and rushes to the back of the church to grab the lighter. That used to be me, and now, I can rib them about it later.
Then, another surprise memory hits, as we are welcomed with a rare visit from one of the people that also preach from time to time, helping the pastor out with the call to worship and call to confession, among other things.
Up the man creeps, leaning forward towards the microphone, ready to start the service. But he's not quite close enough yet, his eyes judge as they dart quickly from the microphone in front of him to the audience not 20 feet away. Just a little further, his eyes say, and he strains his neck and reaches with his lips to make sure he gets the best possible use out of the microphone.
"GOOD MORNING" he booms out, waking anyone still asleep in the surrounding communities.... "PLEASE FOLLOW ALONG IN YOUR BULLETINS..."
Having a terribly hard time not falling over with my laughter at the memories of this man and his troubles finding the right volume, I accidentally bump my dad, who knows exactly what I'm laughing about. He has a hard time holding it in, biting his tongue and failing to hold the laughter as well. I guess the call to worship was going to have to go by unread by us today
As the choral introit begins, I can't help but enjoy listening to the soothing sounds of my pastor's familiar old voice drowning out the rest of the choir because he forgot to turn his microphone off, and watch with satisfaction as a young teen suddenly realizes that they were supposed to be lighting the candles, and rushes to the back of the church to grab the lighter. That used to be me, and now, I can rib them about it later.
Then, another surprise memory hits, as we are welcomed with a rare visit from one of the people that also preach from time to time, helping the pastor out with the call to worship and call to confession, among other things.
Up the man creeps, leaning forward towards the microphone, ready to start the service. But he's not quite close enough yet, his eyes judge as they dart quickly from the microphone in front of him to the audience not 20 feet away. Just a little further, his eyes say, and he strains his neck and reaches with his lips to make sure he gets the best possible use out of the microphone.
"GOOD MORNING" he booms out, waking anyone still asleep in the surrounding communities.... "PLEASE FOLLOW ALONG IN YOUR BULLETINS..."
Having a terribly hard time not falling over with my laughter at the memories of this man and his troubles finding the right volume, I accidentally bump my dad, who knows exactly what I'm laughing about. He has a hard time holding it in, biting his tongue and failing to hold the laughter as well. I guess the call to worship was going to have to go by unread by us today
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