Vive la revolution?

I'm going to be honest and say that I have done a fairly poor job of keeping up with the Egyptian Revolution, which is ironic, because Egypt is one of the countries I want to visit the most (note: please see grade 9 "dream vacation" project for ample proof). One would assume that by wanting to travel to a particular country, one would at least pay attention to what is happening there (especially if that something was a big deal).

Nope.
I didn't.
Egypt was having a revolution, it was rad, and that's all.

My husband loves the idea of a revolution, and told me that he'd like to be a part of a revolution some day. I think I asked something like "where are you going to do that?" Silly, practical, safe Christie... I'd rather just, well, not need a revolution, you know? In my perfect socialist utopia, everyone would get along and everything would be wonderful! :) All that to be said, I just didn't pay attention, other than to be confused as to whether Mubarak was going to step down or not.

The point I am trying to get to, however, is that I read a great article in HuffPo today by an author that I learned to respect at some point during my undergrad: Brian McLaren. The summer after my third year (while my new boyfriend/now husband was on a travel study in Australia), I took a two-week Religious Studies course, in which we read McLaren's The Secret Message of Jesus. Considering it was summer, I was barely twenty-one, and I was taking the course with one of my best girlfriends, I don't remember too much about that class. What I do remember, however, is McLaren's ability to change my way of thinking about faith.

We discussed McLaren as one of those "emergent" Christians (which is still a term that I only vaguely understand), someone who didn't do what everyone else did or think what everyone else thought. And, being who I was at the time (twenty-one, flighty, having the typical undergraduate life crisis), I liked that. So I retained some of the basic tenants that McLaren wrote about into my later life, and he's on my list of 'thinkers' to get reacquainted with.

All that to be said (and "all that" was quite a lot of possibly-erroneous background information), I really appreciated Brian McLaren's article on the parallels between the Egyptian Revolution and the Protestant Reformation. I really think that McLaren has a heart for unification of people, and for being who Jesus was: a man who loved. I have to ask the same question that McLaren poses in his article:

What would happen if Christians (who make up about 33 percent of the world's population) and Muslims (who make up about 24 percent) were to join with Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, atheists, and agnostics in this shared spirit (or Spirit), risking ourselves for one another, working together for the common good, opposing the tyranny of political war-mongers and economic elites, united for the sake of the planet, for the sake of the poor, for the sake of peace?

Really though.
How could our world be transformed and redeemed?

Long post made short: please read Brian McLaren. :) I'm really looking forward to finally getting my hands on Everything Must Change, which I'm sure will be phenomenal in light of my more recent desire to work overseas. Speaking of which, the husband and I are considering a stint with CUSO-VSO after he finishes his Masters in summer of 2012. Or, rather, a stint overseas somewhere doing something. CUSO-VSO is just one of many well-known/reputable organizations that would actually put our collective professional experience to use.

--- chRistie

Animals of the small variety.

Baby animals are one of my favourite things in the entire universe. My internet weakness (aka: the website I spend the most time browsing) is ZooBorns, a website dedicated entirely to baby wild animals. Just a warning: this post is not going to be thoughtful in any capacity. It is, however, going to have an excessive amount of baby animal love. All photos, by the way, snagged from the ZooBorns website. Oh, and if you aren't able to ascertain this from the photos below, baby felines are my favourite.

Baby lion reluctantly learning to swim. I love his little scrunchy nose!

Sleepy little cheetah!

Amur Tiger. Just want to cuddle!

Baby Amur Leopard. There are only 40 Amur Leopards left in the wild!

And, for my husband, a baby Chimpanzee. My husband loves monkeys.

Baby Fennec Fox with the most gigantic ears (and a frowny face).

My favourite non-feline animal, Red Pandas! They look more like a fox/raccoon hybrid...

If I didn't despise science so much, I would likely consider going back to school to study zoology. Interestingly enough, I wanted to be a veterinarian for most my life, a dream which was dashed when I realized I could not handle seeing a sedated animal be sliced! I nevertheless find it hard to believe that it is someone's job to cuddle baby tigers. Really? I would pay to do that.

A more thoughtful/less cute post to come in the near future. For now? Delight in the cuteness!

--- chRistie

Michael Crichton.

My husband got me a first edition hardcover copy of Michael Crichton's Disclosure for my birthday. I cannot begin to express how much I adore Michael Crichton. In some ways, I feel I should refer to Crichton as my 'guilty pleasure' reading, as his works aren't "classics", don't transcend time, and generally read like a good suspense movie. On the other hand, however, I completely and totally respect Michael Crichton as an author, because he was a highly educated (read: Harvard for med school) man, and wrote about what he knew.

The first Michael Crichton book I read was in high school, and was--interestingly enough--for my English class. Thankfully, I had an English teacher with slightly obscure taste in literature who was unwilling to compromise on picking the books that he thought we should read. So, in grade 11 I believe, I read The Andromeda Strain. Having read this book so long ago, I have to admit that I only vaguely remember the storyline. What I do remember, however, is that I couldn't put it down. And I've felt the same way about almost* every book that Crichton wrote.

In most cases, I'm a fairly big proponent of reading for the sake of reading (aka: if you are reading a book, that is better than not reading a book). I tend to run against the grain when it comes to hugely popularized fiction (though Harry Potter is indeed the exception), but I know all too well that there are too many people who do not read. And, for those who are actually capable of reading, there are too many who simply will not be bothered with picking up a book. All that to be said, there is something about the way that Crichton writes that just dazzles me. Maybe it's the short chapters, maybe my intrigue for all things scientific and technological is growing... I'm not sure. What I do know, however, is that I love reading Michael Crichton.

--- chRistie

* I started reading Pirate Latitudes shortly after it's posthumous release and haven't finished it yet. I'm not sure if the content is too different, or if the editing done after Crichton's passing changed his style... it's just not my favourite.

Birthday(s).

Four years ago, I was tortured blessed by some of my closest friends on my twenty-first birthday. One of those friends is now my husband, pictured below (grimacing with tape in hand). Graeme, my "friend" at the time, had the foresight to chivalrously lend me his shirt... and then proceeded to tape me to a wall and stand idly by as five gallons of water were poured on my head.

And then we started dating less than a month later.

I've been trying to think of a relevant and/or legitimate twenty-fifth birthday post for the last week or two, and I just didn't know where to begin. I haven't been feeling particularly reflective or nostalgic about the whole thing (although a lot has happened since my birthday last year). I've only come to recognize that I am now--officially) in my mid-twenties... and there is no turning back.

I had an interesting conversation with a couple at Chapters a few weeks ago, which began--innocently enough--because of an Archie graphic novel. The endless dilemma: will Archie marry Betty or Veronica (and, more importantly, will he ever get any older)? I make a comment about how Archie comics have been around since before I was a kid, Couple marvels at how I am "a baby", standard age-related small talk ensues. Then they ask me:

What do you think will be the best age? 

What a fascinating question. I responded, mumbling something about now being good in a lot of ways (which it is), but adding that I imagine my mid-thirties will be good too, because I will have done a lot of cool things by then. Couple (who are likely in their mid-fifties) collectively decided that forty was the best. How immensely encouraging.

So today, on my twenty-fifth birthday (which I will enjoy), I look forward to the birthday I will have in another fifteen years... because apparently, it is going to be the best. :)

--- chRistie

What happened then, part one (subtitle The Beginning).

In light of other things that have come to pass, I am beginning a series of posts by starting with one previously written. My hope is that by re-posting (and thus revisiting) some of my old entries, I'll be able to properly illumniate the metaphorical darkness of my experiences. Some five or six years ago, I wrote this post, and--modesty aside--I think it is one of the most authentic and well-articulated pieces of writing that I have ever produced. Emphasis on the autheticity I suppose, as I hope that my writing has improved at least a little in more than half a decade. Convolulted and vague as the introduction to this post may seem, I think this is the way it has to be, in the interest of continued authenticity and avoiding anachronistic posts. All that being said, a journey back to May and/or June of 2005 (with no additional editing):

A quote taken from a recently written journal entry in a newly acquired journal to start things off: "It began with a phone call. A simple phone call at work has changed the entire course of my life and the lives of those around me."

Italics seem appropriate. Enjoy reading them. My father has parkinson's disease. I recently came to the realization that ten years have passed since his delayed diagnosis. Tuesday morning, he went to CR to run some errands. He was standing on a friend's step and it was hot outside, and he passed out. He fell off the step, four steps above the ground, and hit his head on the cement.

The ambulance was phoned, as was my mother, and my father was taken to the nearest hospital... 30 minutes away. He may have lost consciousness for a short period of time, but he was awake soon after falling... just quite confused and tired.

*deep breaths*

Because my mom is an RN and is so used to taking care of my dad, the doctor let her take him home. She tried to get him to eat or drink something, but he was so tired and lethargic that he just couldn't. All this time, I was at work, living in a bubble of semi-contented happiness.

My mom got worried. My dad was very confused. She was afraid so she called a friend to help her get my dad to the hospital again. She called me at 4:50 pm, numerous hours after things had happened. I remember making a very loud exclamation of "No!" when my mother told me in a trembling voice "this isn't good news."

I stayed at work until I was done, though I was free to leave. I, lacking a head injury, did not understand what was happening. In reality, I was a polite and concerned daughter. In my head, I was screaming profanities at the incompetent hospital staff who didn't know enough information and couldn't make me understand.

My father was taken by ambulance to Royal University Hospital to Emerg to eventually have a CT scan. Mom and I returned home to pick up some things (I neglected to bring an actual change of clothes) and then drove the 3.5 hours to Saskatoon.

He was put in a casting room. My old pastor met us at the hospital. The doctor eventually told us that when he fell, his brain bounced in his head, which resulted in two bruises, or two small bleeding areas. I believe this means my father has a concussion (which sounds okay) or a brain injury (which sounds not okay).

I am tired of writing. After moving from the cast room to the CT scan to the cast room again to curtain four to the hallway to the fifth floor to the sixth floor (finally. Neurology and Neuro surg), my father was more confused and more tired. My mom was a complete mess. I don't know what I was. I thought we were waiting to see a doctor and then to get a room upstairs, but it was just to get a room upstairs. My father would be seen sometime and would have some tests. No specifics, no actual information. Granted the Neuro nurses are much better than the nurses of the proverbial walk-in clinic that is emerg in reality. They cared more... were more personable and real.

Conclusion: Tuesday night to Wednesday night ran together into one very long hell. My crying comes erratically, and for no particular reason. My mother's crying is almost constant and is like that of a woman who has lost her true love forever. My soul is exhausted. I am attempting to cling to what faith I have left, but I believe I lost my grip somewhere in between finding out the bad news and hearing the possibility of my father having alzheimer's disease. He is 56 years old.

This is probably the longest entry I have ever written, and rightly so. I don't know what to do, cannot seem to be comforted by anything but avoidance. The one resounding thought that passes through my mind is that my father will not be able to walk me down the aisle if I am so blessed to be married one day. My father may end up in a nursing home. My mother is no longer capable of working, thus as soon as I graduate with a B.Ed, I shall have to help my parents financially.

Once upon a time, a little girl and her father played catch, rode four-wheelers, fed cattle, had fun. But then something happened. It didn't happen quickly, even though it seemed quite sudden, but the little girl's father disappeared. So now she sits alone, staring out a very small window of hope, encaged in a castle of darkness and ever-wondering if her father will be returned.

Aye, there's the rub: will I ever get my father back?

"I wish I hadn't cried so much!" said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. "I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears!"

--- chRistie