You all are wonderful, but I'm pretty much done with Xanga.

If you're interested, I'm taking on a semester-long project at Wordpress.com. Each day, I'm picking out something that I'm thankful for and writing about it. So! I miss you, and if you miss me too, follow me at,


http://thankingoutloud.wordpress.com


Hope you all are well. You are loved and missed.



Always,

John

Eating your own words is like vomiting in a public place.

It's just a bad situation however you look at it, and no matter how optimistic you are, there is not going to be a happy ending. You are either going to make a scene and project your insides all over what happens to be closest to you, or you are going to swallow your own vomit.

When you eat your own words, everybody loses.

In order to eat your own words, you must first have words to eat. You are not going to vomit unless you have already eaten. In the same way, you are not going to eat your own words until you have made a statement and found an audience for your thoughts.

I say all these things as a writer, because writers are quirky little people that live inside their own heads, and never leave them until a keyboard is sitting in front of them, or there is some paper nearby.

There is this theory I learned about in a Psychology class once where someone thinks that the world is watching them, when in reality, the world remains completely oblivious. I can't remember what the term is called, but it was compared in my class to wetting one's pants in a public place. While exceptions occur, the only person that tends to notice the wet pants is the person wearing them.

Within minutes of sharing my thoughts on the intimate life, I felt as though my own life was suddenly cast underneath a blacklight. People that I hadn't approached in months started appearing out of nowhere, at a speed that was everything but downright eerie. I am not sure if all this talk of the intimate life has made me simply more aware of the world before me, or if God really is testing me.

Feeling uncomfortable isn't fun. Even the most halfhearted attempt lets you know how unappealing the intimate life really is.

Lately, I've really been feeling it with Awkward Kid.

Awkward Kid must weigh no more than one hundred pounds, and couldn't be anymore awkward if it were humanly possible. There is no other way to describe Awkward Kid. You probably would have to meet him to understand. If you know Awkward Kid, then you absolutely know what I am talking about.

See, Awkward Kid clings. There are people that cling, and then there is Awkward Kid. Once Awkward Kid figured out that the sole purpose of my existence is to not humiliate him, Awkward Kid clung, and has yet to let go. There is nothing glamorous or desirable about spending time with Awkward Kid. I won't call it “babysitting”, though that term is really not too far from the truth. Awkward Kid is not pretty like Trendy Girl, and Awkward Kid does not listen to good music.

I am so shallow for this, but you have no idea how incredibly difficult that makes it for me.

When all the cool kids are gone doing cool things, and all I have to keep me company is Awkward Kid, I can still feel God's smile no matter how bored out of my mind I might be. And when I look in Awkward Kid's eyes deeply enough and long enough, I can see God winking at me.

It's the little things like that that keep me from throwing in the towel. The fact that so many of my friends have thrown the towel in makes it harder. It makes you feel alone.

My friend Tall Hair Taylor is one of these people. I love Tall Hair Taylor as much as anyone in my family. Unless my sister is in the picture, Tall Hair Taylor probably comes before my family. He doesn't come before Matthew Freaking Schroeder, but then again, who does?

Tall Hair Taylor wants to be loved. Tall Hair Taylor comes to me sometimes with a sour look in his face and an agonizing look in his eyes, as he tells me that a girlfriend is what he is missing. He talks about the people on campus with girlfriends, and how no one will ever “find” him. Every time this conversation comes up, I tell Tall Hair Taylor that he has to continue to pursue friendships knowing that he may get nothing out of them. Tall Hair Taylor knows this, but Tall Hair Taylor does not want to hear this. Tall Hair Taylor wants an easy answer, as I do. As we all do.

I both dread and feverishly wait for the day that Tall Hair Taylor gets his heart broken. This is not because I want to see Tall Hair Taylor hurt. It is because I want Tall Hair Taylor to know that what he is looking for is not to receive, but to learn how to give.

Last Sunday, Matt the Indie Pastor talked about the what the apostle Paul writes in his second letter to Timothy. In this letter, he shares with Timothy how alone he feels as a result of spreading the word of Jesus. Matt the Indie Pastor talked about how he often feels this way, and I really connected with that. I too, feel very alone in doing what I know to be the right thing.

Doing the right thing is a blessing and a curse, because someone is always watching. Being looked up to scares me to death. Literally Brilliant Lizzy wrote to me the other day to let me know how unintentional she had been with those around her, and how hypocritical she felt. I read what Literally Brilliant Lizzy had to say, and it encouraged me. I sent encouragement back her way, and went on about my afternoon.

That night, Awkward Kid came up to me and asked me if he could do homework in my room. I told him that I was really behind in my own work, and that it would be best if he did homework elsewhere. I invited him into the lobby, but clearly stated that he was not welcome in my room. Afterwards, I made the mistake of looking up in his eyes, where I saw God again. Let's just say that God wasn't winking this time.

No homework was done. I ended up watching television that night.

For two days, I avoided all human contact. I couldn't talk to anyone. I think I left my room once to eat dinner. I spent those two days instead eating my own words.

It's cool to help others. You can buy T-shirts and wear bracelets to let others know that you are “green”, “red”, and whatever other colors are associated with globally aware organizations. I hear words like “social justice” and “grassroots” tossed around all the time. And all the cool kids eat that stuff up. The glory of the hard, socially conscious life is appealing, and then you take a first step.

When the dust settles, what's left?

This is what I've been having to ask myself lately. I've been finding what Tall Hair Taylor so dearly fears. I have been finding that the intimate life looks like what Caring Chris from Ohio does. Caring Chris lives in an apartment complex and makes just enough money to keep the lights on. Caring Chris is thirty-five years old and lives alone. He is a social worker that deals exclusively with AIDS victims. Caring Chris told me that his work is rewarding, but lonely.

I've been finding that the intimate life is less about dreadlocks and more about loneliness. About what Caring Chris goes through.

See, my halfhearted attempt to live out the intimate life makes me eat my own words. And gives me more questions than answers.

I don't think that I'll stop eating my own words anytime soon. But this doesn't mean that I can't keep stumbling up the hill. I am searching for honesty. I am searching for myself. I am searching for only God knows what. I don't know if I'll ever find it in this life, but maybe that's the point. Perhaps this is the point for all of us, as my friend Meaningful Mags keeps telling me.

I think that that the beginning of intimacy is discovering the inner depths of your own soul. I think intimacy is when you see just how far you can fall. Intimacy can stop there, or intimacy can continue when you get back up. I'm constantly struggling, and I feel that for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid to let you know that. Please forgive me as I continue to learn to do my best to show you this, in my eyes, and in my days.

I don't know what's up there, at the end of the road. I've read pages in books written by people who have it figured out. And I've read pages in books written by people who think that those people were wrong. I don't know what's at the top. I believe in what might be up there, and I've only just been learning how I might get up there. But to think! Oh, to think of what we will see. It's beautiful, and it's enough. It's just enough to keep me going.

For the longest time, I never understood why God always would refer to Himself as the “bread of life”. I, for one, don't really eat a lot of bread, living in the United States. At home, the word “bread” makes me think of what bookends a piece of meat and some vegetables, or a side dish to go along with a really fancy meal. There are other times that “bread” makes me think of bakeries and coffeehouses, but I often don't have enough money to eat at those places. And even at those places where bread is the main attraction, it often is because of the special condiments inside the bread, such as cheese, fruit, sweets, and so on. Bread is always an afterthought at home; something that gets butter or jam slathered across its surface, or topped with cheese, before being halfway eaten and given as leftovers to the family pet. No one in middle-class America cries over a lost piece of bread. Why? Because it's bread, and if you really want some, you can get some for a little over a dollar at your local grocer. Even if you're homeless, and don't have that dollar, it's not hard to find a soup kitchen or shelter that has some handy.

But this was all before I came to Ecuador. I'm not going to tell you that I live in a little thatched hut surrounded by trees, where half-naked people with bones through their noses serve me bread. Because while that would make for an entertaining story, it would also be a big fat lie. I live in a nice home here, with bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and so on. But here, bread is life. I've never been much for bread back home, because the words “carb-conscious” or images of overweight people always swim around in my head every time my eyes find themselves staring upon a piece of baked goodness. I often will take off the bread in a sandwich, to cut back on calories and get rid of the fat on my body that never seems to go away. Living here changed that for me, though, because I'm served foods with carbohydrates four times a day, and if I don't eat, then I starve. Breakfast often consists of bread, juice, and coffee. Sometimes eggs are served, but even when they are, two eggs are cooked for the entire family, which are then divided equally for each member. Lunch often consists of pasta soup, an entree with rice, potatoes, a portion of fish or chicken, popcorn, bread, and juice to drink. Merienda (an evening snack) is more bread, served with coffee. Finally, dinner consists of the little meat that is leftover, served over rice, with potatoes, bread, popcorn, and juice to drink.

As someone who grew up obese, and to this day has a slow metabolism, there were many times when starving seemed like a very desirable option. But my host family would have none of this. My host family would go so far as to try to convince me in Spanglish that there were certain kinds of bread that would help “carb-conscious” people lose weight. At home, I live on a diet of fruits, vegetables, a little bit of lean meat here and there, water, tea, and coffee. With the exception of the occasional cookie, I virtually eat no sweets at home. I don't put sugar in my tea or in my coffee, and I don't eat bread. Not only do I feel better from living on this diet, I have lost a lot of weight from it. So when my family gave me the the “carb-conscious” bread to eat, I didn't really believe them. As far as I was concerned, I was beginning to think that my host family was part of a conspiracy that involved finding out what I ate at home, choosing the polar opposite of those foods, and making everything that I do not eat the national diet of a small country.

But as I watched the way other people eat here, I began to realize that everyone is not eating this way because they are a part of a national conspiracy. Everyone is eating this way because this is the food they have. “Variety” is not a part of the language or the consciousness in Ecuador. Life and diet are simple here. Living in America makes me forget this at times, where life and diet are not so simple. The main diet here is a supplementary side dish on the family table at home. Growing up with variety has made me come to expect it. Whenever my family has leftovers from a previous meal, we save it in the refrigerator for days, so that variety is preserved. Here, the leftovers from lunch are dinner served, and no one says a word. Whenever my family goes out to eat, we make sure to choose a restaurant that we have not eaten in a while, so that variety is preserved. And as variety is preserved by going to these different places, we choose different items off of the menu than before. Here, my host family takes me to the same restaurants, and we order the same things. Even at different restaurants, the menu is virtually the same: some form of meat with rice, potatoes, bread, and juice. Because of this, many restaurants don't even have menus.

It took me a while to figure out that variety comes from wealth. And it was after I finally understood this that the menus and similar entrees made sense. The wealth we have as Americans gives us access to variety. And when all we understand is variety, we forget bread. We forget what we have to have to live day-to-day, because we are all so busy looking up and down long menu lists and salad bar options, trying to decide what we want. I think it's sad that we waste our time with such trivialities while people in other countries starve, simply wanting bread. It wasn't until I went to another country that I understood why people would want bread. Bread is universal. It is the most basic of sustenances, and is easy to make. It doesn't cost much, either. Bread is accessible to anyone with flour, yeast, and a stove. It fills you up, and it gives you energy to go on and about your life. Bread gives you life, and anyone can have it.

I think it's interesting that the more money people seem to have, the less bread they choose to eat. I think it's also interesting that the less money people seem to have, the more they choose to talk about God. This is not to say that money in of itself is bad. Neither is the variety that comes with having money. But I do think that having these can be bad in that it gives us so many options and so many choices; so much variety, that we don't know what to do with it, other than to live with variety. I don't know anyone with money that chooses to live on bread alone. They move on to bigger and better things, like fine wine and steak. Bread sits in a basket on the table behind the fine wine and steak, like God in a Church service on Sunday. This is when I realized why God constantly reminds us that He is the bread of life and not the steak of life, or the multivitamin of life. God is simple like bread, and is available to anyone, regardless of wealth. He may not make our lives a world of flavor, but He's really all we need to live. We need Him not as a supplement, next to steak and fine wine, or only on Sunday. We need Him all the time.

Many of my friends talk about what they are going to eat when they return to the States. I've been dying for sushi, to be honest, but other than that, I've gotten used to the food here. Even though I got sick of seeing potatoes, rice, bread, and juice at first, I've learned to become content. I've even learned to enjoy bread. And another thing I've discovered is that living on bread alone does not make me gain weight. I've lived on this diet for a month, and I'm not any different than I was before. What made me gain weight when I was younger was variety. The variety of healthy and unhealthy foods I had in excess caused me to gain weight. I always thought that the reason that I lost weight was because of a variety of foods without lots of fat and sugar. But I now see that the real reason that I lost weight was because of a lack of variety, by living on a strict diet of vegetables, fruit, lean meat, water, tea, and coffee.

This is not to say that variety in of itself is bad. Variety is wonderful. Variety expresses the creativity of God. Variety is only bad in excess, when you have so much of it that you forget what is important. This is not all to point fingers at you. I'm pointing just as much at myself, if not more so. We have all lied to ourselves, saying that we are fine with God as a side dish, or one day a week. What I am saying is to enjoy variety for what it is. But don't let variety make you forget the essentials. Don't let variety make you forget what matters for day-to-day living. Don't let variety make you forget the simple life. For food and God are about continuing life. It was never about the variety or the religion. Both were always about a means directing us towards what we need to live, and not the end. But I think I've said enough about this. It's probably about time for us to eat. Who's ready for some bread?