Last night something familiar happened. I came home and the door to the apartment was locked. No one was home. I didn't have my keys. The night was cold and the wind was sharp. No shelter was found in the lounge, people were watching a movie, and another group was studying in the kitchen area. I walked one loop around the complex before resigning to my fate that I would have to sit on the cold stone by the fire. The brick was hard and chilly. The fire kept my feet warm but did not spread heat to the rest of my body. I was alone, I was cold, I was locked out.
As I peered behind me at every noise hoping it was a roommate with a key to let me in, a thought entered my head.
"This is how it would feel to be denied at the door to the Celestial Kingdom."
I sat stunned. The power of this realization pounded my heart and squeezed my stomach. What if I was rejected from entering back into Heavenly Father's presence? Since I was not going to be doing anything out in the cold, I took the time to reflect on how I felt and the emotion that was flowing through me.
The cold didn't just enter my body it entered my spirit. What a distressing, chilling, and agonizing feeling. To be blocked from returning to live with your family, how terrible! How truly, truly terrible. The sad thing, the thing that really sunk this all home, is that I didn't know when people would be home to let me in. Time inched by without any indication of when my suffering would end. I was literally left in the dark.
I was left in the cold, to ponder my error of not bringing my keys. Yet, as I pondered, other errors and short comings in my life started to come to mind, things I need to fix. Things that need to be corrected in order for me to enter the door to where Heavenly Father is.
This real experience illustrated something that I really needed to learn. A locked door like the virgins without oil. Am I lacking oil? Will I miss the Bridgegroom? Will I knock and knock only to be told that He does not know me?
Faith to overcome fear allows individuals to make necessary changes by trusting in the Lord and his atonement. Through that, human nature is altered and drawn closer to His example. We can make the changes necessary to hear, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Don't let a locked door stand between you and the comfort and safety of where you really want to be. Whether is be a warm bed, or an eternity with your family in the Kingdom of God.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Monday, March 2, 2015
Success: The Middle Finger to Oppression
I was asked today, "How famous do you want to be?"
How does one answer that? Those of fame and fortune in the spotlight stumble and fall only to have the wolves crawl over their bodies picking their bones clean. That isn't fame. Perhaps fame, but not success. Fame is then what, the praise of man? Recognition on the street or in a mall? Fame is not to be desired, fame is the elevator that when entered, ascends to a certain height, to snap and plummet. Why would anyone want to be famous? Bono said once, "There must be something wrong if a person needs a stadium full of people yelling their name to feel loved and alive."
Hopes and dreams are fickle threads that catch fire. No matter how resolved, how determined a person is, the casting down, shredding, cynicism, jealousy, and plain old being a dick sets flame to dreams. Like those high school jocks destroying our dream to play music. The mere mentioning of something above working at a fast food chain brings ridicule and distain.
People hate to see others succeed. Why should someone climb out of the swamp when the rest of the snakes and toads are stuck in the mud. If we escape it is because we are stronger, more persistent, and thankfully have been able to develop a resolve when others have merely dissolved. A town is drenched in a aura of damnation for no one can ever rise above the prejudices and norms that have been established throughout the past decades. Generations of alcoholics, drug abuse, and selfish consumerism locked the gate and barred the escape.
The secret to life is not fame. Fame can be taken away, fame is squandered by the fickle and the weak.
Success. Success is the key to unlock any door, any gate, any obstacle that stands in the way of further achievements. Success does not mean a stuffed bank account or a garage full of Bugattis. No, success comes from within. Success in and of itself is what drives you to see the vivid visualization of your dreams become a tangible thing you can hold in your hands or behold with your eyes. As success expands, the very desire of pursuit will lead to action. Revolutions will not just be started from war rooms, but in high school English classes, the playground, a library, a college dorm room, the office cubicle of an accountant who doesn't want to balance numbers for someone else.
Examine your life. What are you doing? What do you want to do? Why aren't you doing it now?
The gate was locked to me for so long. People shut doors and locked me in. Unique ideas were not wanted. The standardization of school meant that we were trained and reprogrammed to be robots. Imagination. Remember that? I bet very few of us do. Creation, imagination, and expression were done away with. Everyone loves reading these stories about dystopia societies. Open your eyes, we are living in one.
So what do we do? How do we escape the grey and find a place to build?
Keep fighting. Don't give up on yourself. YOU have the power to create anything. Whatever vision or image you see in your head of what you want to be or what you want to exist, hold onto it, cling to it when those forces of oppression come knocking. Don't give up on your dreams. Let them be the fuel that burns within you, motivating you, guiding you, inspiring you, and encouraging you to do better.
The feeling of breaking water and taking the first breath after so long below the surface is so close. If you haven't enjoyed it yet, don't give up. Never give up. Keep chasing that horizon. Build, create, inspire, develop, design, write, paint, sculpt, let whatever inside of you become the reality you always wanted.
Don't ever settle for anything other than what you've always wanted.
TSR
How does one answer that? Those of fame and fortune in the spotlight stumble and fall only to have the wolves crawl over their bodies picking their bones clean. That isn't fame. Perhaps fame, but not success. Fame is then what, the praise of man? Recognition on the street or in a mall? Fame is not to be desired, fame is the elevator that when entered, ascends to a certain height, to snap and plummet. Why would anyone want to be famous? Bono said once, "There must be something wrong if a person needs a stadium full of people yelling their name to feel loved and alive."
Hopes and dreams are fickle threads that catch fire. No matter how resolved, how determined a person is, the casting down, shredding, cynicism, jealousy, and plain old being a dick sets flame to dreams. Like those high school jocks destroying our dream to play music. The mere mentioning of something above working at a fast food chain brings ridicule and distain.
People hate to see others succeed. Why should someone climb out of the swamp when the rest of the snakes and toads are stuck in the mud. If we escape it is because we are stronger, more persistent, and thankfully have been able to develop a resolve when others have merely dissolved. A town is drenched in a aura of damnation for no one can ever rise above the prejudices and norms that have been established throughout the past decades. Generations of alcoholics, drug abuse, and selfish consumerism locked the gate and barred the escape.
The secret to life is not fame. Fame can be taken away, fame is squandered by the fickle and the weak.
Success. Success is the key to unlock any door, any gate, any obstacle that stands in the way of further achievements. Success does not mean a stuffed bank account or a garage full of Bugattis. No, success comes from within. Success in and of itself is what drives you to see the vivid visualization of your dreams become a tangible thing you can hold in your hands or behold with your eyes. As success expands, the very desire of pursuit will lead to action. Revolutions will not just be started from war rooms, but in high school English classes, the playground, a library, a college dorm room, the office cubicle of an accountant who doesn't want to balance numbers for someone else.
Examine your life. What are you doing? What do you want to do? Why aren't you doing it now?
The gate was locked to me for so long. People shut doors and locked me in. Unique ideas were not wanted. The standardization of school meant that we were trained and reprogrammed to be robots. Imagination. Remember that? I bet very few of us do. Creation, imagination, and expression were done away with. Everyone loves reading these stories about dystopia societies. Open your eyes, we are living in one.
So what do we do? How do we escape the grey and find a place to build?
Keep fighting. Don't give up on yourself. YOU have the power to create anything. Whatever vision or image you see in your head of what you want to be or what you want to exist, hold onto it, cling to it when those forces of oppression come knocking. Don't give up on your dreams. Let them be the fuel that burns within you, motivating you, guiding you, inspiring you, and encouraging you to do better.
The feeling of breaking water and taking the first breath after so long below the surface is so close. If you haven't enjoyed it yet, don't give up. Never give up. Keep chasing that horizon. Build, create, inspire, develop, design, write, paint, sculpt, let whatever inside of you become the reality you always wanted.
Don't ever settle for anything other than what you've always wanted.
TSR
Thursday, February 26, 2015
MTC: Missionary Testing Center
In the center of Provo, Utah there is a cluster of buildings. Named after important figures in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, these buildings are homes and classrooms for thousands of young men and women. From anywhere between 1-9 weeks fresh newly called missionaries cram onto this piece of land to be taught how to teach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
My own adventure in this haven were mixed with high emotion and spiritual moments I will never forget.
A young, 19 year old from the Canadian prairies, I was ready to get out of the wheat fields and away from the hockey rinks for a stretch. A few months previous, I received my very own letter addressed from Prophet Thomas S. Monson. Excited and anxious, my fingers slid open the envelope and I carefully excavated the letter, using the envelope to cover the text, as to not ruin the surprise.
I read. It is something all LDS are familiar with, whether they have served or not. The diction is very specific. My voice cracked when my eyes reached my destination and my mind froze. The Dominican Republic. Spanish. Whoa.
But there I was, before I realized, sitting on a plane to Utah. Dressed in my suit, which was too big for me, I felt like a kid going to kindergarten, leaving Mom and Dad at home, not sure how to find my way back.
The most tender and loving people greeted me at the airport in Salt Lake City. When my luggage was retrieved we loaded into the vehicle and carried on. To this day I cannot explain what storm was happening inside. I had been waiting to be a missionary since I was five. I wanted to serve with everything that I could. I didn't speak Spanish. How was I to do this? My stomach dropped even further when I saw that Provo was only a few miles away. I blinked and the building was in front of me, we were parking, walking in. Photo ID, and that was it.
I turned to these marvelous human beings and smiled. They were the first tender mercy the Lord had in store for me during those two years. I hugged them, not wanting to let go, not wanting to face the unknown that my uninhibited imagination was having difficulty processing. I turned, scooped up my luggage handles and rolled off to begin the greatest adventure I have ever had.
Normally, LDS missionaries are always to have a companion. Because I arrived at almost midnight, everyone was already asleep so I carried on alone with the security guard. We stopped for a quick snack where I picked up a yogurt and a banana. My stomach cannot handle food when wound into knots of anxiety. My temporary room was bare. Two bunk beds, some desks, and drawers. Sleep didn't come to me for some time. Insomnia is also stress induced.
All the stories I heard about the MTC were these glamorized, picturesque, incidences that seemed too good to be true. Perhaps that is what the MTC really is, and I attended while it was under construction and that feature was put on hold. I am not sure. The main feeling I recall from my visit was that it was stressful and emotional.
The first time I logged onto myldsmail.net to check my missionary email I came up with a blank webpage. In a rage I complained to my family that this is hard, I am struggling, this isn't for me.
There is a saying at the MTC, "If you can make it to Sunday you will make it all the way through." That replayed and replayed in my head. Thursday night was excruciatingly long. Friday was more tolerable with our first batch of service. By Sunday, the clay that was me was almost ready to be molded. There was more pride and selfishness to be wrung out of me before the Lord could have his way.
What instituted that change was an interesting experience. A letter I received from home touched my heart above anything else I had experienced in those buildings. A tender, loving, and genuine plea for my wellbeing was typed and sent. Sitting in the hot, stuffy, crowded laundry room using the computers my eyes flooded and eyelids fought to keep the dam from overflowing.
The Lord knows what we need when we need it. That is something I didn't have a testimony of back then.
That email cracked what final bit of shell I was clinging to and had me stand there, vulnerable, innocent, and exposed. In that moment I was beginning to be what he needed of me.
Following weeks of classes, study, and service, not to mention gym and meals were different. While still difficult, I could understand how the Lord was pushing me to get to where He wanted me.
The MTC taught me nothing about missionary work, nothing about preaching the gospel, nothing about the scriptures. In the difficulty of the time I was there it was test after test, trial after trial. I am under the impression that the Lord has set up the MTC not for people to walk in as naive Mormons, and leave with a PhD in preaching. But to walk in naive, scared, insecure children of God and leave with a solid testimony, an understanding of prayer, a love for the scriptures, the confidence that they can do hard things, and a slight appreciation for what matters in life.
When it comes down to it, preaching the gospel isn't about flipping through the scriptures, reciting things in foreign languages, knowing the lesson word for word, nor even about tactics. Preaching the gospel is about me. And it is about you. You can't recommend a good restaurant if you haven't eaten there. You cannot suggest a good book if you haven't read it, nor compliment a song without listening to it. Such as the MTC provides the environment for young men and women to experience and live the gospel without distraction for a space of time before going into the streets of Chile, or Japan, or the Dominican Republic to share with strangers how the gospel blesses their life.
After the short time in Provo passed, I couldn't speak a word of Spanish, I didn't know where any powerful or relevant scriptures were found, and I didn't know how to approach strangers on the street or on their doorstep. I did know that I had a testimony. I did know that I could live up to the call the Lord chose for me. While still wrapped in fear of what was to come in the Dominican Republic, I was sure I was doing what the Lord needed of me.
The scariest times of life are when we leave the comfort and joy of the well lit reality, and walk into the dark of the unknown in faith. May we all have faith to do so as life and Heavenly Father so demand. Be not afraid, only believe.
Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father love us. The experiences we have, though difficult and seemingly unfair are all necessary for our progression. And don't think that your experiences are to be the same as everyone else's. That is not the design.
As only the first step in the staircase of my mission, the MTC was the proving ground to myself, that I could be a missionary. There will be more stories to illustrate how I continued to be molded and shaped through the Lord's hands.
TSR
My own adventure in this haven were mixed with high emotion and spiritual moments I will never forget.
A young, 19 year old from the Canadian prairies, I was ready to get out of the wheat fields and away from the hockey rinks for a stretch. A few months previous, I received my very own letter addressed from Prophet Thomas S. Monson. Excited and anxious, my fingers slid open the envelope and I carefully excavated the letter, using the envelope to cover the text, as to not ruin the surprise.
I read. It is something all LDS are familiar with, whether they have served or not. The diction is very specific. My voice cracked when my eyes reached my destination and my mind froze. The Dominican Republic. Spanish. Whoa.
But there I was, before I realized, sitting on a plane to Utah. Dressed in my suit, which was too big for me, I felt like a kid going to kindergarten, leaving Mom and Dad at home, not sure how to find my way back.
The most tender and loving people greeted me at the airport in Salt Lake City. When my luggage was retrieved we loaded into the vehicle and carried on. To this day I cannot explain what storm was happening inside. I had been waiting to be a missionary since I was five. I wanted to serve with everything that I could. I didn't speak Spanish. How was I to do this? My stomach dropped even further when I saw that Provo was only a few miles away. I blinked and the building was in front of me, we were parking, walking in. Photo ID, and that was it.
I turned to these marvelous human beings and smiled. They were the first tender mercy the Lord had in store for me during those two years. I hugged them, not wanting to let go, not wanting to face the unknown that my uninhibited imagination was having difficulty processing. I turned, scooped up my luggage handles and rolled off to begin the greatest adventure I have ever had.
Normally, LDS missionaries are always to have a companion. Because I arrived at almost midnight, everyone was already asleep so I carried on alone with the security guard. We stopped for a quick snack where I picked up a yogurt and a banana. My stomach cannot handle food when wound into knots of anxiety. My temporary room was bare. Two bunk beds, some desks, and drawers. Sleep didn't come to me for some time. Insomnia is also stress induced.
All the stories I heard about the MTC were these glamorized, picturesque, incidences that seemed too good to be true. Perhaps that is what the MTC really is, and I attended while it was under construction and that feature was put on hold. I am not sure. The main feeling I recall from my visit was that it was stressful and emotional.
The first time I logged onto myldsmail.net to check my missionary email I came up with a blank webpage. In a rage I complained to my family that this is hard, I am struggling, this isn't for me.
There is a saying at the MTC, "If you can make it to Sunday you will make it all the way through." That replayed and replayed in my head. Thursday night was excruciatingly long. Friday was more tolerable with our first batch of service. By Sunday, the clay that was me was almost ready to be molded. There was more pride and selfishness to be wrung out of me before the Lord could have his way.
What instituted that change was an interesting experience. A letter I received from home touched my heart above anything else I had experienced in those buildings. A tender, loving, and genuine plea for my wellbeing was typed and sent. Sitting in the hot, stuffy, crowded laundry room using the computers my eyes flooded and eyelids fought to keep the dam from overflowing.
The Lord knows what we need when we need it. That is something I didn't have a testimony of back then.
That email cracked what final bit of shell I was clinging to and had me stand there, vulnerable, innocent, and exposed. In that moment I was beginning to be what he needed of me.
Following weeks of classes, study, and service, not to mention gym and meals were different. While still difficult, I could understand how the Lord was pushing me to get to where He wanted me.
The MTC taught me nothing about missionary work, nothing about preaching the gospel, nothing about the scriptures. In the difficulty of the time I was there it was test after test, trial after trial. I am under the impression that the Lord has set up the MTC not for people to walk in as naive Mormons, and leave with a PhD in preaching. But to walk in naive, scared, insecure children of God and leave with a solid testimony, an understanding of prayer, a love for the scriptures, the confidence that they can do hard things, and a slight appreciation for what matters in life.
When it comes down to it, preaching the gospel isn't about flipping through the scriptures, reciting things in foreign languages, knowing the lesson word for word, nor even about tactics. Preaching the gospel is about me. And it is about you. You can't recommend a good restaurant if you haven't eaten there. You cannot suggest a good book if you haven't read it, nor compliment a song without listening to it. Such as the MTC provides the environment for young men and women to experience and live the gospel without distraction for a space of time before going into the streets of Chile, or Japan, or the Dominican Republic to share with strangers how the gospel blesses their life.
After the short time in Provo passed, I couldn't speak a word of Spanish, I didn't know where any powerful or relevant scriptures were found, and I didn't know how to approach strangers on the street or on their doorstep. I did know that I had a testimony. I did know that I could live up to the call the Lord chose for me. While still wrapped in fear of what was to come in the Dominican Republic, I was sure I was doing what the Lord needed of me.
The scariest times of life are when we leave the comfort and joy of the well lit reality, and walk into the dark of the unknown in faith. May we all have faith to do so as life and Heavenly Father so demand. Be not afraid, only believe.
Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father love us. The experiences we have, though difficult and seemingly unfair are all necessary for our progression. And don't think that your experiences are to be the same as everyone else's. That is not the design.
As only the first step in the staircase of my mission, the MTC was the proving ground to myself, that I could be a missionary. There will be more stories to illustrate how I continued to be molded and shaped through the Lord's hands.
TSR
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Ce'Nedra
Remember a few days ago I posted about the pronunciation in fantasy novels being the biggest turn-off for breaking into the genre. I finished Queen of Sorcery last night and it happened... the first name with an apostrophe was introduced, Ce'Nedra. I saw it, I couldn't believe it, yet it happened. I guess it was only a matter of time. An interesting thing occurred, I wasn't upset. Maybe because the joke had already happened, maybe because the author had won my trust, maybe because out of all the names in fantasy encountered with an apostrophe this is actually pronounceable. Ce'Nedra, is a simple name, basic syllables, no harm no foul. I stand by my previous post, some fantasy authors are careless and egregious with their use of the apostrophe. Eddings delivered a high five with his simple and appropriate name choice for his character. Spot on my good fellow, spot on.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Celine Dion + Baking = Christmas
I grew up in the rank and file cluster of farming communities encircled by Indian reserves on the desolate Saskatchewan prairies. Many morning I walked to school, it wasn't a long stretch, it wasn't one of the up hill both ways kind of things your grandparents talked about from their childhood. The cold, however, was penetrating and a vile form of violation, no matter how many layers encompassed my frame, some poor appendage was grieved with the loss of feeling. Frequently, during these short treks, my eyelashes would freeze together preventing me from seeing where I was going. I would slip one hand out of its toasty glove to rip the lids apart and restore my site, not that was anything really to see, this was more a safety measure to avoid the moving trucks that obnoxiously backed up without any disregard for what poor ice-blinded child was behind them.
The days leading up to the holidays were filled with seasonal crafts, practices for the Christmas concert, and games. Specifically, my elementary school followed a tradition that roots back to the origin of the school. The last day of classes before the break we all file into the gymnasium, sit crossed-legged like good teacher abiding monkeys and belt carols from our tiny high pitched voices till our throats were ripped raw. My favourite was The Twelve Days of Christmas. We stood up and followed a ridiculous set of actions as the days counted up and back down. We shuffled back to our classrooms, the excitement causing us to be a little too giddy and jumpy. No one could sit still in their desks. I remember many kids just dancing around with anticipation of the break and what Santa would bring them. Teachers would open presents, I don't think I ever brought them anything. What could I possibly buy my teacher? "Here's a Lego pencil holder! Oh... you already have a gold one... Dang."
The real treat of the day was being released early at 2 rather than fight all the way to 3:30. I would run home back down the block and burst into the house...and every time I did the most amazing thing would be waiting for me. The porch was spotless, freshly mopped with a clean rug to absorb the melted snow, the whole house smelt like bread, cupcakes, peanut brittle, turtles, and vanilla candles. I jumped the three steps from the porch up the entry room and the smell hit me more powerfully. The kitchen was flooded with baked goods of varying levels of sweetness. The flood of baked goods would always escape the boundaries of the kitchen counters and overflow onto the kitchen table. And I survey the scene of gluten gloriousness a familiar and long lost sound fills my ears... from the living room comes the sound of Canada's jewel, no not Michael Buble, Celine Dion. Her voice at Christmas is the same as the angels who announced Christ's birth. She may have even been one, with the voice that she has I wouldn't doubt it in the slightest.
The combination of all these items, the cleaned house, the baked goods, and the musical selection equals, well it means my sister Tovah is home from university and sent my dad off to nap while she takes over the reins for a while, and it also means that it is Christmas. That is the equation for Christmas magic. I don't care how many presents I get, I don't really want physical things anyway. When my family was home and we packed around the table to fight over that last sausage, that is what I remember about Christmas. Grandma's caramel popcorn she brought in grocery bags, why were all her gifts signed from Grandma and Pup, did the dog have a say in what we got? That's why they were all shabby! The midnight snack spreads on Christmas Eve, Mother inhaling popcorn while Chevy Chase sleds to his death in Christmas Vacation, the fight to see who washes dishes after the Christmas Eve meal, hanging stockings, Dad reading Twas the Night Before Christmas, and most of all the magical and inexplicable feeling of walking into the living room Christmas morning and seeing what Santa left and the stamp of happiness and whimsy that marked our house.
After years and years, after spending two Christmases on a tropical island, after Christmas finally making sense that what the Grinch was saying all along is true, my search is no longer for the perfect gift, it is no longer about stacking my "Wish List" with as many expensive items as I can... It is to help others feel the love of their God, whichever religious paradigm they subscribe to, and to feel that humanity still has good in it.
If you are feeling alone, or unloved, or barren, or left behind, I offer you these words. May my memories of the happiest times of my childhood bring you a smile. May they motivate you to think outside yourself this season and reach out to others. As you strive to lift others and take away their worries, I promise you will find that same joy and happiness you feel vacant in your life.
Cheers!
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
TSR
The days leading up to the holidays were filled with seasonal crafts, practices for the Christmas concert, and games. Specifically, my elementary school followed a tradition that roots back to the origin of the school. The last day of classes before the break we all file into the gymnasium, sit crossed-legged like good teacher abiding monkeys and belt carols from our tiny high pitched voices till our throats were ripped raw. My favourite was The Twelve Days of Christmas. We stood up and followed a ridiculous set of actions as the days counted up and back down. We shuffled back to our classrooms, the excitement causing us to be a little too giddy and jumpy. No one could sit still in their desks. I remember many kids just dancing around with anticipation of the break and what Santa would bring them. Teachers would open presents, I don't think I ever brought them anything. What could I possibly buy my teacher? "Here's a Lego pencil holder! Oh... you already have a gold one... Dang."
The real treat of the day was being released early at 2 rather than fight all the way to 3:30. I would run home back down the block and burst into the house...and every time I did the most amazing thing would be waiting for me. The porch was spotless, freshly mopped with a clean rug to absorb the melted snow, the whole house smelt like bread, cupcakes, peanut brittle, turtles, and vanilla candles. I jumped the three steps from the porch up the entry room and the smell hit me more powerfully. The kitchen was flooded with baked goods of varying levels of sweetness. The flood of baked goods would always escape the boundaries of the kitchen counters and overflow onto the kitchen table. And I survey the scene of gluten gloriousness a familiar and long lost sound fills my ears... from the living room comes the sound of Canada's jewel, no not Michael Buble, Celine Dion. Her voice at Christmas is the same as the angels who announced Christ's birth. She may have even been one, with the voice that she has I wouldn't doubt it in the slightest.
The combination of all these items, the cleaned house, the baked goods, and the musical selection equals, well it means my sister Tovah is home from university and sent my dad off to nap while she takes over the reins for a while, and it also means that it is Christmas. That is the equation for Christmas magic. I don't care how many presents I get, I don't really want physical things anyway. When my family was home and we packed around the table to fight over that last sausage, that is what I remember about Christmas. Grandma's caramel popcorn she brought in grocery bags, why were all her gifts signed from Grandma and Pup, did the dog have a say in what we got? That's why they were all shabby! The midnight snack spreads on Christmas Eve, Mother inhaling popcorn while Chevy Chase sleds to his death in Christmas Vacation, the fight to see who washes dishes after the Christmas Eve meal, hanging stockings, Dad reading Twas the Night Before Christmas, and most of all the magical and inexplicable feeling of walking into the living room Christmas morning and seeing what Santa left and the stamp of happiness and whimsy that marked our house.
After years and years, after spending two Christmases on a tropical island, after Christmas finally making sense that what the Grinch was saying all along is true, my search is no longer for the perfect gift, it is no longer about stacking my "Wish List" with as many expensive items as I can... It is to help others feel the love of their God, whichever religious paradigm they subscribe to, and to feel that humanity still has good in it.
If you are feeling alone, or unloved, or barren, or left behind, I offer you these words. May my memories of the happiest times of my childhood bring you a smile. May they motivate you to think outside yourself this season and reach out to others. As you strive to lift others and take away their worries, I promise you will find that same joy and happiness you feel vacant in your life.
Cheers!
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
TSR
Friday, December 19, 2014
Top 5 Comics of 2014
Come one come all. Step right up. Feast your eyes upon the greatest comics of the year! Feel free to leave responses and you can find every book linked to Amazon.com.
5. Miles Morales Ultimate Spider-Man
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5. Miles Morales Ultimate Spider-Man
I love Spider-Man. The ultimate universe is a really fun alternate reality to the traditional 616 universe. I was first introduced to Miles Morales in Bendis' Spider-Men. He isn't a Peter Parker, his background and youth contribute to a read that is different than what you will find in Amazing Spider-Man. Miles has a great supporting cast of family and friends. This volume has been dealing with some fallout from the previous volumes involving Peter Parker. The great nemesis, Norman Osborn, is back and with a threat that Yrl gna brn, (You're all gonna burn.) The great responsibility that comes with great power falls on Miles and he rushes to the scene. Let's jump back a bit, Miles' story is so different than that of Peter's. That's what makes this story interesting. Miles' family situation is the complete opposite of Peter's. No longer does an orphan run the show. Miles does live and study at a boarding school which allows him to sneak around at night but still have someone to go home to on the weekends for a home cooked meal. The villains that are introduced when Miles dons the suit are fresh and fun reinventions of classic Spider-Man villains. Most notably, Scorpion makes his way up from Mexico to deal with a matter in NYC, establishing a territory and give Kingpin a run for him money. Traditional Spider-Man fans will find enough common ground here to stay for the ride that Bendis crafts for his readers. Interested readers can begin the journey with Miles at the beginning.
4. Black Science
Rick Remender handles science fiction like a milk maid handles udders. Care, expertise, and finesse are evident with everything that Remender touches. From my early reads of Uncanny X-Force to Fear Agent and his Venom book that was my doorway to comics, I have enjoyed everything that Remender has put out. Black Science is a fresh take in science fiction. Protagonist Grant Mckay leads a team of Anarchist League of Scientist through a plethora of dimensions using a machine cleverly labeled the Onion. The real story is the characters. The situations they found themselves in draws out the personality of each. There is a few tales going on in this book. Grant has his tale, Grant's kids, Nathan and Pia, and the boss Kadir. Remender's writing is fast and gripping. Each issue is packed full of glorious story and the art work is amazingly complimentary. Matteo Scalera provides detailed illustrations of these great characters, not to mention the actual sci-fi worlds these people are transported to. I love the way that Scalera draws. His characters are unique and fun. They are expressive and vibrant. Each scene is packed with detail and little things to look at. In the first issue alone I spent more time scanning the art than reading the dialogue. This tale moves fast and once Remender establishes the norm, he quickly tips the boat and leaves everything clinging to the side. Black Science is an amazing read and just keeps on getting better.
3. Nailbiter
Nailbiter fills me with such joy. Joshua Williamson blends genres together with such talent that it makes the card Polymerization obsolete. Nailbiter melts horror and mystery together with a sense of thrill to form a delicious dish that is best read in the dark. Now, I hate horror movies, I was even scared of The Mummy when I was a kid. This book totally grips me. The mystery of Buckaroo Oregon starts the story off and more is piled on each issue. Buckaroo is the town where 16 of the worlds' most vile serial killers were born. What is it about this town that causes these people to become killers? That is the mystery! Williamson's characters are fun to read and when they die, still a joy. He crafts characters that you can connect with and an environment that feels like it is straight out of a Hollywood production. I haven't had this much fun reading a comic in a long time. Each issue flows well together and carries the story along well. The art is also beautiful and not gory in the slightest, yes, there are bodies and violence, yet I do not find it upsetting. Nailbiter is a really cool book that is doing some really awesome things with this medium. If you like horror or are even up for a good mystery check this book out!
2. Invincible
Before I use my words....take a look up there ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Just look at how beautiful that is. Imagine that beauty represented in story, art, colors, EVERYTHING about this comic. I started reading Invincible two summers ago. I devoured the ultimate collections like bags of peanuts. Robert Kirkman is a master of this trade. When it comes to writing, Kirkman is a genius. The amount of threads that lay dormant to be picked up issues and issues later shocks me. The trash bag still makes me crack up! I love this book. The art is fantastic! Ryan Ottley is a beast. I love his characters and the action he draws is so engaging. I love his fight scenes; fists, blood, guts, and gore fill the pages and it looks amazing. Everything in this book is just great. The twists and turns are like a waterslide and you get swept right along with the current. Don't hold back just go with the flow. Invincible truly is the only superhero comic you will ever need. Start the adventure here.
1. East of West
Speaking of glorious writers, Jonathan Hickman, am I right? This Image crafting genius brings forth the sci-fi western that is East of West. Imagine the four horsemen of the apocalypse, and then imagine Death is really Clint Eastwood. Now, with that idea picture an alternate USA with distinct territories divided up between different parties. Now imagine that a leader of each territory is part of a group trying to bring about the end of the world. The Chosen are these leaders and make up one side of the chess board while Death and those opposed to the Chosen are on the other side. The environment is an interesting reimagining of America. Politics play a huge part in this book and can be kind of confusing until you understand who all of the players are. I like that this comic jumps back and forth between all of the parties involved. I love stories where you get small snippets of everything all jumbled together. Hickman is joined by Nick Dragotta doing pencils. The mixture of sci-fi and western is really evident in the art. The horses of the horseman are so interesting! Technology is essential to the story and it is designed so well! Whether you are into sci-fi or into westerns this books is worth the read. Try it out. I guarantee that you will find something to grab ahold of.
Whether you are a seasoned veteran or want to start a new hobby, any one of these books is a great choice. Have fun exploring these universes! There is something to love in each. Thanks for reading and happy comics!
TSR
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Prayer.
What a divine gift we all, every one of us, may engage in to converse with our creator. Imagine that you have a cellular device, no requirement for credit, no monthly plan, and no roaming charges, service is better in the mornings and the evenings, though that should not limit your use. Prayer is this miraculous communication with the Maker of all. A fantastic forum opens when knees are placed on floor, hands resist the itch to text or type, and eyes shut out the continuous conflict of “which distraction will capture me next?” In reverence, hearts blossom with honesty and memories nourish the soul, while engaged in communion with The Most High.
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