Hope, Happiness and Socks

My school recently had a community outreach event. We were split up into four groups. Lead by Ian Bailey, my group hit up downtown Portland to pass out food and socks to the homeless roaming about Saturday market.

Upon arriving, we found several homeless men and women sitting on the sidewalks and roadsides. I went over to one man to give him a sack lunch. My friend, Aaron and I prayed for him, as he drifted in and out of sleep. His lunch sat by him for the rest of the day as he continued to doze off. His name was Bill.

Another woman with several piercings, spiky blond hair,  and markings on her knuckles that read “scum” and “F”, barely acknowledged us. She had the look of tragedy on her face, and her eyes mirrored a pain-ridden past. Her cardboard sign cried out for help. The last words were, “Please help. This really sucks.”  My friend, Aaron, prayed for her and told her of her value in God’s eyes. She didn’t respond. Her name was Colleen.

I kept wishing there was more we could do.

As we walked away from the market, a man approached us and asked, “You guys got any juice?

Ian: “I think there’s some apple juice in the sack lunches. Do you want some?”

“Yeah! Can I have an extra one for my girlfriend?”

Ian gave him two bags.

The man, overjoyed that he got his hands on some juice, hugged Ian and rubbed my head. His long curly hair and a bright smile made him impossible to forget. We’re not sure how he made it from Iraq, but we do know he deeply appreciated our street outreach. His name was Mohammed.

We continued passing out lunches and socks to everyone who looked needy. Having an excess of socks remaining, Ian and I walked by the Portland Rescue Mission where many homeless people grouped together. We intended to give the socks to the Mission, but on the way, we met so many in need that we ended up giving away all we had.

As we walked by the Mission, I passed a familiar face. It was Mohammed! I waved to him and his face lit up.

“I prayed to God this morning, and here you guys are! ” he said with euphoria.

Pointing to us, Mohammed said aloud, “These men are messengers from God!”

His friend, Jon, happened to walk by, and Mohammed stopped him.

“Jon!” he said. “Have you been drinking again? Repent! Repent of your wicked ways!

In between his pretend-rebukes, he would chuckle and assure us that he was totally joking.

After his pretend guilt trip to his tipsy friend, he began talking about God, as he understood him. It all built up to this point:

“God came to bring us hope and happiness…”

Jonny then interjected, “And socks! God came to bring us hope, happiness and socks!” pointing to the two pairs we had just been given.

Mohammed introduced us. “His name is Jon, Jonny 9 for short.” Johnny 9 showed us his 9 fingers and one nub, as explanation for his nickname. Then he began his own rant, which was more like a comedy standup. His punch line was always the same, though, every time ending with the word, “Bam!”

At one point he said, “When I get to Heaven, Peter will standing at the gate, and he’ll say, “Wait, let me see them socks! And my socks will be brand new. Bam!”

And then, “When I get to Heaven, I’ll be standing buck naked, but at least I’ll have my socks! Bam!”

We started echoing him.

Johnny 9: Bam!

Ian: “Bam!”

Me: “Bam”!”

So be thankful for your socks. You might need them at the gate. Bam!

Forget Bond! Give me Bolt!

Seven things you ought to know:

1. I’m a magnet for nicknames.

Ever since I was a kid, people have always given me special, aka, weird names. Check these out.

Jon Drabnis used to call me, “Gabmino” like Bambino, Babe Ruth’s nickname, as well as Gambo like, yes, you guessed it, “Rambo.” On my eighteenth birthday, my friend, Jake, gave me a Rambo-like red bandanna to wear as I opened my gifts. That day everyone, including my Dad, was wearing a red bandanna. One of my most memorable birthdays.

Will Harding calls me “Gabe the Babe” or “The Babe” for short. That name is now standard. Will always chuckles after saying it, too, as if it were a new joke on the tip of his tongue. It’s fresh to him every time. Sometimes the absurdity of laughing at something that’s never been funny is, in itself, funny. I laugh because he laughs. If I don’t laugh, he laughs harder, and I then can’t resist.

Audrey calls me “Gabraham”, the Gabe version of Abraham, and often breaks out in an opera voice and sings out “Gab-ra-ham!” Enunciated exactly like that. I learned early that I would forever be referred to this way. “Gabraham, that’s your name. No one else can call you that. You hear me?”

“Okay” I told her. “Anything is better than ‘Gabe the Babe.’”

I see it like this. My name is like play-doh, in that people can  stretch it and roll it and sculpt it to take on many shapes. Because of my background, I consider myself fairly adaptable and find it easy to relate to about anybody. It helps to have a name that is flexible enough to represent a picture a person might like. I know what you’re thinking. I really don’t want to know what Will’s picture of “The Babe” looks like.

2. I’m in the habit of imagining worst possible scenarios.

At work, for instance, I’ll pass by a stroller and suddenly imagine tripping and spilling my bus tub and its contents on top of the baby. I usually cringe at that point, because I’m visualizing the parents’ horror-stricken faces.

When carrying my 64lb guitar amp down the third floor stairs, I imagine slipping on the steps when its icy and losing my grip on my amp. I can see the amp slam me to the ground before crashing on the concrete. Perhaps it’s a bad habit, but it does make me careful. I haven’t spilled anything on a baby, though I accidentally elbowed a lady in the head once.

3. There’s no way to say “sorry” to another car while driving.

I wish there was an “I’m sorry” blinker that I could flash sometimes. Beeping definitely has the opposite effect, and waving makes it look like you meant to do it. (Only jerks wave after cutting someone off.) All you can do is sink into the seat, or pretend to talk on the phone.

4. Kids have a special power — they can make you melt.

There’s some kids that will ask me for things, and I can’t resist them. Normally, there’s no way I’d let 12-year-old Angelita use my iphone. But when she gives me the pout face (the you’re a horrible human being if you don’t give into my cuteness routine face) and I melt. At this point, I’d give her my wallet. Kids have powers because adults have weaknesses.

5. Kids like to say funny things

As I write this, a young girl called Emily somersaults in the dining room. She stares in the mirror and makes conversation with herself, sticking out her tongue and examining it from every possible angle. Clinging to her pink barbie, she roams around the restaurant and approaches random guests asking, “Have you seen the milk man?”

6. One of my friends is like a kid.

One of my friends is great with kids, because in a lot of ways, he’s a big kid. I told him that.

“You know, you’re really good with kids.”

“I don’t know what it is” he tells me. ” I just understand kids and they get me. Now if only I could understand women. I totally understand where kids are coming from, but I don’t get women.”

I think he does get women. But the more you understand women, the more you realize you can’t predict their next move.

7. Superhero Dogs are Cooler than James Bond

After watching Quantam of Solace last night with David, he told me, “We totally should have rented Bolt!” David had been insisting that we rent this kid’s movie about a dog named Bolt who’s the star of a TV show but escapes the set and thinks he really has super powers out in the real world.

In retrospect, David was actually right. The Bond movie was terrible. We should have watched Bolt!

Some stories should be boarded up in the attic of our subconscious, much like Brandon’s medieval weapons made of ductape should stay locked up in his shed. But like Brandon’s weapons, called “Boff”, some stories refuse to stay pinned up. Instead, they beg to be told with great persistence. That said, let me tell you about last Thanksgiving break at Brandon’s house in Salem, Oregon.

One night, Justin, Chad, Brandon, Spencer and I succumbed to our nerd tendencies and began fighting each other with the boff weapons. I, like a lamb at the slaughter, was annihilated every game. Chad, on the other hand, proved to be a naturally skilled fighter and, in one moment of triumph, shouted boldly, “I’m Hercules!” No one disagreed because Chad was indeed unstoppable, like one of the gods.

After the warring had subsided, we devised a plan in which we would frighten our friend, Will, as he drove up to the house. The plan was to hide atop the school roof next door, and hurl the boff weapons on top of him, to get a horrified reaction, or something equally as funny. Before any of this could take place, however, Brandon’s neighbors called the cops on us for disturbing the peace…with our duct tape weapons. Perhaps they looked real in the dim street light.

All of a sudden, we saw flashing blue lights in the distance, and two cop cars came whizzing round the street corner in our direction. Impulsively, we dropped and lay still on the rooftop. A large spotlight surveyed the roof and in a matter of seconds, we were no longer concealed under darkness. “Get down now, or you’re going to jail!” shouted one policeman. At first, we were so stunned, we said nothing. Then Justin wisely responded, assuring the officers that we were coming but had to do so by climbing down the back of the school. The officers agreed to meet us on the other side. (Brandon and Spencer had something different in mind, but I’ll leave it to them to tell.)

Meeting them on the other side, the policemen proved to be friendly and reasonable, though one insisted on handcuffing Brandon – to establish his power, I suppose.

As we stood outside Brandon’s house, looking like criminals, the lead policemen, a gruff and irritated man, interrogated us about our trespassing. We explained our story, and the more we told it, the more laughable it became. Justin later confessed to Chad, “Man, I wish you hadn’t told him about the boff weapons! That made us look ridiculous.” And it did.

The head policeman enjoyed his intimidation routine and at one point, yelled to his partner, “Hey twenty-two! Twenty-two!” Officer twenty-two looked perplexed. Finally realizing he was number twenty-two, responded, “Yes sir!”

“Let him out”, said the head cop, pointing to Spencer. After releasing Spencer from the cop car and uncuffing Brandon, they let us off with a warning. With one last stab of irritation, he told us, “Go away.”

We stood in the street, shaken up by what had just happened. After running over the story from every possible vantage point, we went inside Brandon’s house and made sure not to wake his dad. But the guys soon dismissed the thought of staying quiet and started up a game called, “bulldozer”, which involves wrestling each other to the ground till there’s a big pile up. The guy crushed under the weight of everyone else is, of course, the loser. The game really doesn’t live up to its name unless someone is crying out in pain, which happened on multiple occasions. More than once, I heard a nervous soul say, “God, I almost broke something!”

It’s hard to be a bulldozer champion because it’s like King of the Hill — one moment you can be on top, and the next you’re experiencing bone crushing defeat at the bottom of the pile. So no one is favored to win. And believe me when I say, everyone got bulldozed that night — even “Hercules.”

That’s definitely the last time I’ll climb a school roof, and that’s probably the last time I’ll fight with duct tape swords, axes and shields. But it won’t be the last time I attempt to scare Will. So long as it doesn’t panic the nighbors into calling the police. Whenever I think of Salem, I think of our encounter with the law. And I remember the look on Will’s face as he found us surrounded by men with guns.

Mary’s Joy

One bright afternoon in Jacksonville, North Carolina, I took to the beach with my Aunt Mary Ann, her boyfriend, Todd, and my brother, John. Mary Ann and I share a mutual love for the ocean.

Arriving at the beach, we each went our separate ways. Trudging along in the sand, I noticed couples holding hands and a few teenage girls cartwheeling. They would race up the sand dunes and then rush down, intentionally falling on their knees and collapsing on the ground. The girls would fall into fits of unreserved laughter and lie on their backs in a look of euphoria.

After a while, I returned to find Mary relaxed in the sand, snapping pictures of the ocean lapping the shore. The rhythm of the sea matched her calm breathing. As we engaged in conversation, I couldn’t help but have one prominent thought: Mary enjoys life. Despite her ordeals, she has chosen joy.

At times, I’ve pictured joy as an elusive quality that few can hold onto; a fleeting emotion that stays out of reach for many. Recently though, I’ve read several articles on the topic and even did a study on the Greek word, (chara), which have highlighted different factors that contribute to a joyful person. One principle I observed is that of appreciating the gift of life. Oftentimes, what hinders us from treasuring life is self-focus. To be overly self-involved robs a person of their connection to other people. This connection provides the missing elements that one cannot personally manufacture.

Ever since I was young, Mary Ann would always take my siblings and me to do fun things. This amazed me because I knew she had her own life to keep up with, her own kids, family, job. But she was selfless in her kindness to us.

I make this point to say, there is great freedom in being selfless. It’s not a command Jesus gave to make us miserable. On the contrary, there is great joy to be obtained in leaving what you know to share in another’s life. At first, it’s like fasting food, in that there’s this gnawing hunger to fill yourself. But eventually, you get over that hurdle and begin to see that we weren’t created to be self-indulgent, but rather to develop a lifestyle of reaching out to other people.

Thank you, Aunt Mary Ann, for knowing how to have fun and never losing your excitement for life’s simple pleasures.

Justice vs. Sacrifice

In Decision Making class, we were assigned a project to create a fictitious scenario in which the main character is forced to make a difficult choice. We were split up into six different groups. Here’s a revised version of what my team came up with:

[Gerard Mucogruso is an Italian immigrant to the United States in pursuit of American ideals and a successful life. Antonio Florio is Gerard’s long-standing family friend who lives a double-life on the edge of being exposed. Gerard is aware of Antonio's connection with the mob, but has chosen to nurse the hazardous relationship so to avoid a stir and unnecessary family tension.

On one particular day, Gerard helps Antonio move stock from the basement of a restaurant. Antonio leaves for a moment to smoke. A few minutes later, Gerard overhears commotion coming from outside the room. Peering through the basement window, he spies Antonio arguing heatedly with a stranger.  The argument escalates to physical, and Antonio strangles the man to death. Antonio gathers himself, unshaken by the event, and his eyes fall on the basement window through which Gerard has been spying; the two lock eyes. Realizing there’s no escape, Gerard emerges to meet his friend, who stands over the strangled body. His eyes are hollow and his countenance has turned unusually sinister. To prevent Gerard from turning him in, Antonio ferociously threatens him:

“If you tell anyone what you’ve seen, I will kill your family!”

Gerard keeps quiet for a couple years, and murder slips through the ready hands of justice. As time progresses, Gerard’s conscience starts to plague him. To make matters worse, an unfortunate turn of events has befallen Gerard: he, the witness, is now the suspect! Presently under investigation, Gerard faces his haunting past and is forced to grapple with a mind-splitting decision: confess Antonio to be the true murderer and run the risk of losing his family, or plead guilty and secure the fate of his loved ones.

What will be Gerard’s driving force: justice or self-sacrifice?]

If you were Gerard, what would you do?

The More Bizarre, the Better

I was once compared to singer/songwriter James Blunt. The person who told me was very drunk, but convinced nonetheless. Turning to his girlfriend he continued, “This guy looks just like James Blunt! Dude, you must get chicks. Do you play the guitar, too? (I nod.) He plays guitar too!” Several obscenities followed in his astonishment to my apparent resemblance to James Blunt.

The Red Robin where I work gets lots of business whenever there is a convention in town. Not too long ago, there was an Anime convention and all Portland’s freaks ceased to play dungeons and dragons and crawled out of their basements for one special day to expose their weirdness to the world. Some of them walked in with fake swords and axes, while others had crazy hair that stuck out like jet wings. (Fortunately, no eyes were poked from their sockets.) To the strange, there is little left to be called “weird.” In their case, the more bizarre, the better.

Last time I was in Edwards music, there was a little girl around 8 or so, hanging around the store, not doing anything, but looking cute. As I was scanning the place for metronomes, I heard her in the background make a statement that is not in the least bit true, but still quotable. She said, with sense of certainty in her voice, “Chocolate is made out of peanut butter!” No one corrected her because it’s cruel to crush the hopes and dreams of little kids. That’s like telling a five-year old boy, who’s intentionally left milk and cookies out on the table, that there is no Santa Clause. That only works in Scooby Doo episodes where the guys are crooks dressed up to disguise their identity.

My friend, Bernard (who I’ve mentioned before) brought something to my attention: people hate the “double-goodbyes.” You know how it goes. You say farewell to your friend at work, and then you realize: “Oh man, I forgot my scarf! But I can’t go back in now.” Or you make a last-minute run to the bathroom, and there he is…the person you just hugged goodbye, who’s now not making eye contact and gives an awkward head-nod. The person is thinking, “What are you still doing here! I don’t have the emotional energy for a second parting! You’re on your own, buddy. From here on out.”

I believe one day, every person on earth will be on facebook. I have friends in Haiti who don’t own personal computers, much less have internet access, yet still have a facebook account. Regardless of whether that day comes, my friend, Charlie Stout, will never, ever join. I don’t know what’s worse to him: creating an account on a semi-hip website, or purchasing a Death Cab for Cutie album. He’d prefer Chinese water torture before choosing the lesser of two evils.

Unexpected Events

My flight to Phoenix was canceled yesterday due to plane malfunctions, so all passengers were deplaned minutes after getting situated. Everyone was severely irritated: businessmen missed their meetings, one daughter was delayed in seeing her ill mother, and I had to leave much later than planned. Not a big deal for me, but everyone was inconvenienced.

Hoping to arrange new connecting flights, we stood in line for an hour. Everyone was trying to get out before the snow storm expected to hit the following day. Luckily, I was able to catch a red eye that put me in Raleigh, NC by the next morning. I was so relieved to have a flight out that I forgot to haggle a partial refund for flying me into a city an hour and a half outside my original destination. To compensate, US Airways put me in first class for all my flights and gave me a food voucher that I used at Quiznos.

The flight change gave me seven hours to blow, so I called my friend, David. It was his day off, so he picked me up to hang out. After getting some sushi, David asked, “So what do you want to do? I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” After some indecision, we both decided on Multnomah Falls.

Having only one hour of sleep the night before, I yawned the whole drive like a bear awakened from hibernation. I struggled to make conversation. It helped that David did most of the talking.

Before arriving at the Falls, Dave made a detour to show me a look-out point of Mt Hood that he discovered last time he got lost. The scene was beautiful. Hood stood tall and white and we admired it in all its glory. We looked through the viewfinder that, at first, only revealed a magnification of our eyelashes, which was quite gross. Dave then had the bright idea to wipe the fog from the lens. Through the scope, the snowy mountain looked like a monster. “I want to hike it” Dave told me. I believed him because he is a serious outdoors person. He once got lost in the Olympic mountains and nearly died, only surviving by following the river back to civilization. (That’s why no one wants to hike with you, Dave. You’re extreme. )

Looking out on Mt. Hood, I closed my eyes and listened to the river hum its peaceful song. “God, I’ve missed the mountains”, I thought to myself.

From the look-out, we drove to Multnomah Falls and parked at a particular fall. We bundled up and watched the half-frozen waterfall pour over the newly formed icicles like hundreds of falcons diving into the pool. It poured down an enormous rock face that bled patches of green moss resembling alien blood. The grounds were blanketed in snow, and if not for Dave’s exceptionally warm coat (we exchanged jackets) my ears would have ached from the blistering cold. I don’t know how well he did; he just kept telling me his fat kept him warm. (He exaggerates; he’s not really fat.)

We returned to the car and cranked the heater. Before leaving the area, we ate dinner at the cafe next the main fall. We sat at a table next to the fireplace, and I discovered that both Dave and I are time Nazis. So we were antsy as we waited for our food. Dave, the time Nazi got me to the airport with plenty of time to spare, so we walked around the shops. Dave stopped by Stanford’s, his work place, to pick up tip money, as I made conversation with the hostesses, one of which goes to school with me.

From there, we went by Brookstone, a toy store that captivated us. We were instantly taking away by a remote control helicopter being guided by one of the store workers. I got to fly it around and nearly hit people, crashed it in other stores, and banged it on the ceiling. All in good fun. The man then showed us to a robot who danced. Unimpressed by the dancing robot, we moved on.

After walking around a bit more, we said our goodbyes and I went through security. Fifteen hours of travel would land me in Fayetteville, NC.

I’m extremely glad to be out of the airport. At least US Airways didn’t lose my bag. Oh wait. They did. My Granddad had to drive to another airport and pick it up.

I’m here for the next three weeks, so give me a call and we’ll hang out!

Gabe’s Top Ten Songs of 2008

I know this is somewhat redundant with a previous post, but my friend, Luis wanted me and some friends to post all our lists on the same day. Though I was unimpressed with this year in music, these songs stood out.

In no particular order…

1. Viva La Vida (Coldplay)
2. Cath (Death Cab for Cutie)
3. Baptize My Mind (Jon Foreman)
4. Washington Square (Counting Crows)
5. Gobbledigook (Sigur Ros)
6. I Don’t Need No Doctor (John Mayer)
7. House of Cards (Radiohead)
8. The World is Gone Wrong (B.B. King)
9. The Girl (City and Colour)
10. Bright Lights Big City (Willie Nelon & Wynton Marsalis)

If I were to make a Worship Music top ten, “Whisper His Name” (Jonathan Stockstill) and “Healer” (Hillsong) would be included. Phenomenal songs.

Check out Luis’ Top Ten albums.

Progress

I recently preached a sermon for my homiletics class entitled, “Progress.” I won’t include my sermon outline, but I’m posting a personal entry on “Progress” that sparked the idea for the sermon topic. (My sermon was adapted from the reflections below.)

As a kid, I had an endless reservoir of energy. I stayed occupied playing kickball on the dusty hill down from my house, pulling my wagon fiercely through the woods, building forts, and whatever else presented itself as an adventure. Every day was a new story to write; at the day’s end, I bound up my mental copy and filed it away. The joy of my youth was having good health. I was known as the child who never got sick.

At age twelve, however, I contracted a virus that doctors weren’t able to cure. For several months, I was bed ridden.

Within a few months, I partly recovered my strength, though the symptoms of tiredness and poor concentration lingered. I remember trying to work high school algebra and being so unable to focus that I’d bury my head in my arms as the fatigue clung to me like a leach. My frustration intensified when I wasn’t able to explain it to others, who often scoffed at my problem because it appeared to be an excuse to justify poor work ethic or laziness. And it was perfectly rational to do so. How would you respond to someone who claims to have no energy, yet has no proof? That’s like crashing your friend’s car and blaming it on your imaginary friend.

Eventually, I lost all incentive for school, and spent most of my time playing guitar and making home recordings. I finished high school in a roundabout way, and then enrolled here at PBC.

Indeed, I’ve had to learn a lot through living with the fatigue: dependency, discipline, perseverance. But what has sustained me the most is the reward of progress. Progress has been a kind voice assuring me that the price of all my efforts will pay off in due season.

It’s a biblical principle to “remember where you came from.” Israel was commanded to remember their bondage in Egypt so that they could appreciate where God had brought them. Surely, Moses urged them to recall God’s marvelous works, such as the Parting of the Red Sea, and to pass it on to their children and grandchildren (See Duet 4:9).

David and the other Psalmists pick up on this same theme. In Psalm 77, an anxiety-ridden poet declares, “I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your miracles long ago.”

I’ve talked to a few of my friends about their journey of faith, and they each describe a season in which they could not hear God’s voice. One soulfully reflected, “It was the scariest time of my life; I’ve never felt so alone. But God has brought me a long way. Now, I can go to Him with my problems, and he just fixes me.”

Another friend expressed the pain of growing up without a father figure. His mom was a strong disciplinarian and had difficulty showing affection, and his father a workaholic. But then he said something beautiful. “Though I was raised in a dysfunctional family, God is revealing himself as Father…and he’s bringing restoration to family, too.”

It’s impossible to view progress and not feel deep gratitude. To see God’s hand in our life forces us to shift our eyes off ourselves and fix them on Jesus. Honestly, I would have given up a long time ago had I not made Christ the focus of my life.

The older I get, the less I like to give concrete answers. Answers can be misleading and give false hope. As the unrelenting fatigue persists, trust is exposed in its raw form. Do I really believe God is who he claims to be?

As you wrestle with your own unanswered questions and perceived injustices, remember this: if we are becoming more like Christ, there is purpose in the struggle.

Obama!

Regardless of who you voted for, you should find this funny. I sure did.

This proves that rap artists can work with anything.