Why Calvin?

I was 18.

My dad said something like "you should go to Calvin. I would like it if you went to Calvin, and we will help you."

Calvin College had a chemical engineering program, and at the time I told people that I wanted to study engineering at a Christian college. I told them that. I probably thought it. Probably.

I definitely went to Calvin because it offered chemical engineering, and I probably went because it was a Christian college--I grew up in a Christian community you see.

At this moment [actually a few years ago now], Calvin College is conducting Vision 2029. Vision 2029 is a college-wide program and forum aimed at asking good questions regarding the role and trajectory that Calvin will adopt.

Today I attended the panel discussion: “Will Calvin be a Comprehensive Liberal Arts College or a Liberal Arts University?”

Question that arose were "why Calvin?" and "what makes Calvin distinctive?" and "what are our non-negotiables?" with the required (and hopefully not overlooked) subtext: "what are the preceding for an 18 year old?"

I don't pretend to speak for the rest of 18 year olds in the history of 18 year olds considering Calvin, but for my part, that list contained three items:

1. chemical engineering*

2. attractive (reformed) women**

3. residence in the Christian bubble***

*Ok. Yes. Still very pleased about this one
**"The basis of optimism is sheer terror" --Oscar Wilde

***Not the desire for growth in my faith or a deep connection with Christ--more of a cultural imperative

Fortunately for me, I did attend Calvin despite a less than impressive (and retrospectively embarrassing) rationale.

There are many reasons I count myself fortunate for attending Calvin despite being an idiot 18 year old (many would say still an idiot 28 year old [I wrote this in the fall of 2017 and now return to publish it]). I value:

the paper I wrote (truly, truly) poorly analyzing Biblical themes in the 'Russian Primary Chronicle' for History of the West and the World I,

the physics seminars I attended to earn honors credit, and for which I wrote an insipid description of gravitational lenses in Introductory Physics: Mechanics and Gravity,

the immediate, thoughtful (and truly mind-blowing) criticism of the Bible, and exposure to a diverse body of scholarship and views regarding who Jesus was, as a first-semester freshman taking Biblical Literature and Theology,

attacking (engaging really) secular and Christian philosophy directly, with abandon, and without fear in Fundamental Questions in Philosophy with a man who gave us students dignity and the best example of a Christian intellectual I ever met,

an international internship which had me training, training, and planing about Europe and learning sophisticated industrial organic chemistry development in a foreign language (driving my eventual pursuit of graduate study),

and

a broad, functional knowledge of not just my own discipline of chemical engineering, but the ability to speak and work intelligently and effectively with other engineers and scientists in different fields.

As a senior in high school, I question that any of these would have thrilled me as they do now, even if I could now posit their existence to a past self. I recognize them now, after completing graduate study, and taking up teaching.

I certainly would not have relished the thought that, most importantly, Calvin prepared me well to lose my faith in graduate school. For that I am grateful--putting together the pieces of a shattered mess has given my resurrected faith a life it never had.

Vision 2029 will fail if it only addresses "why Calvin" and "what are our non-negotiables" for parents of prospective students that want them to come here. I believe that everyone will agree with me on that point, but to me it bears crying from the rooftops and not treating as a polite, obvious observation. Calvin was truly transformative for me in the most dramatic way after I left.

However it wasn't transformative in any of the ways I would have wanted it to be, or expected it to be as a prospective student.

We cannot foist perspective onto students, we can only give them the opportunities to earn it themselves--that begins with their introduction to Calvin as high school seniors. I wonder if it will take walking a line between humble self-promotion, and vulnerability rendered salient.

[2020 perspective]
The move to 'university' has been completed. Let's add ", or just calling ourselves a university." to the last sentence.
I just read a flowery and not particularly substantive vision of the university structure written for the internal Calvin community, and all it did was to confirm my bias against an ever expanding corps of college administrators projecting a disconnected vision. The questions posited in the aforementioned panel appear to be foregone conclusions looking back. I still value Calvin and the place it is, but I've been struck lately by a lot of self-congratulation and lip service paid, when simply creating relationships between departments and companies, organizations, etc. doing similar work (as an alternative to saying) pays the real bills to establish community and inclusion and brings value to students.

Acknowledgment r02

You were cruel to me,

rancorous in singling me out.

As I worked more and more,

in excess of 80 hours each week,

you advised me to seek counseling

instead of treating me with respect;

you contributed to my waking dread

through every sneer and disdainful stare

and howl during weekly face-to-face dress-downs.


I don't know why you needed to treat me

like dirt--if it was the pressure of being

a new faculty member, or the shadows cast

over you by your partner and other young faculty,

or if it was the stress of motherhood in the academy,

but it showed me a wonderful way not to treat

any person I will ever come into contact with,

especially those in my care or supervision.


Investigation capability in spades does not make

one kind or understanding or capable of managing

effectively. I only wish that I had not worked in your lab.

I could have learned what I did with significantly less pain

and without worrying that my confidence would be ruined

forever. A shame you needed to crush my dream with your insecurities.

Wrinkles like these don't quickly smooth--don't fade with time.

You can't always get what you want

...but you just might find that you get what you need.

It's graduation season.

GVSU is already done, Calvin finishes up soon, Unity will be a little bit yet. Fine.

...but it's the Penn State graduations that are giving me intense, conflicting feelings.

This is the time and year that my cohort begins en masse to graduate with their PhDs.

I'm very happy for them and extremely proud of what they've accomplished. It's a big deal. They've done groundbreaking research that matters and have done it brilliantly, with excellence. They're the smartest, most resilient folks I know, and I miss them--they solved some intractable problems with patience and intelligence. Some of them have even been recognized by their government and by ChE's American Institute.

It's incredibly painful too though, because I also entered the program at the same time they did, with PhD aspirations. I earned my M.S. after three years and left almost two years ago. I left because I wasn't sure how much longer I'd be able to take the anger, coupled with verbal and emotional abuse, from my advisor. I was worried that it would affect who I was as a person and that was non-negotiable for me.

I'm not walking across a stage this month and no one will call me Dr. I won't lead a fancy pharmaceutical lab or drive a fancy car.

But I also don't wake  up with an immediate, deep sense of paralyzing dread every morning. I don't have to face the sneer of a supervisor who with every glance, breath and word tells you that you're scum and get different treatment. I don't have an eye tick from the stress of facing another human being.

Most days I'm very content to be doing what I'm doing--I love it in fact! It's the infrequent reminders that bring pain.

Naming the specific opportunities and good, good things in my life helps. I just re-read the documentation I made of my former supervisor's behavior for the first time in over a year--it was surprisingly helpful to remember the former days of insanity that I dealt with. I don't feel like a failure after reading it.

The beauty of the consolation prize M.S. that I earned (most days that's how it seems to me), is that I can teach college, and maybe even lead independent, novel research with undergraduate students in a new direction--one without the former baggage of a past research life. I can teach science to high school students and walk alongside others, talking about the things that matter. Even if a person decided that I wasn't worth their time, I learned the art of research and studied ChE with some of the best in my field--that can't be taken away.

Mine is not a prestigious life. But it's mine to give, and I'd rather give it to people who are deserving.

Love you, Grandma Pohler

Growing up, I was fortunate to spend a lot of time with Grandma. She was THE baby sitter.

I remember the beautiful old brown toy box in the den with green carpet and all the photo albums. We used to go to her house for Sunday dinners with the whole family when I was little--playing with plastic balls and bats in her yard after lunch. I remember the constant supply of lemon drops in her refrigerator, for you see, Grandma had a sweet tooth.

Since we lived close, Jeff and I spent a lot of time in her yard making exorbitant sums mowing her lawn, picking up sticks and caring for her well-tended flower garden when she couldn't do it herself anymore--$5 was generous!

Grandma raised a family and lived in that house with green canopies and shutters for as long as the block has been there. She was a fixture, and could hardly bear to leave when it became clear that she needed more care--that was her stubbornness.

When I think about who Grandma is as a person though, I don't think about the delicious butterscotch pies she made, or the tomatoes she would eat with sugar, or the myriad gifts she loved to provide her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, or even the way she talked about Grandpa. What comes to mind is how Grandma prayed for and remembered and wrote her family all the time. Even last week, she asked with concern, if I had gotten the card she sent me for my birthday. I don't doubt that we were constantly on her mind.

There was also the way she worried, which I inherited from her in spades. Worry for family. Worry for our well-being, happiness and health. Worry and thought were some of the ways she knew to show love. I know from her eagerness to sit with us and hear about what was new in our lives that each of us had a place in her heart.

I think of that quiet consistency as one of her most salient qualities.

I'm not sure how heaven works. I don't know what she thinks about or how her memory works now--but I'm sure that now her love is free of worry and that it's full for us.

Remembering Grandpa Split

I remember Grandpa for his handshakes.

I remember his firm grasp and smile when he greeted his grandsons--he shook our hands like we were men, even when we were yet boys; I remember him insisting on grizzled face kisses from his granddaughters.

I remember Grandpa for his sounds before and during sleeping, during and after eating, and for the Homeric voicemails he left. Grandpa's style of communication, verbal or otherwise, was unique and unfiltered, much to the consternation or delight of our family.

I learned from Grandpa too--I learned what pickle juice tastes like, and that I don't completely dislike it. I learned the value of saving, and by contrast how important it is to be judicious.

Grandpa lived his life confident in many things. His confidence wasn't arrogant--it displayed the logic and belief in his mind about everything from politics to faith and love. Grandpa's surety could be affirming or it could be maddening, but it was sincere and it came from the same place--even if you didn't agree with him, you could be sure he was being straight with you.

As his grandson, I was always sure that he loved me. He loved doing things with us--making things out of wood, going fishing off docks and in a boat that barely deserves the name. Say what you want about that boat, but it wasn't wasted, and we were never in want of one to use--Grandpa made do with what he had.

There was never a lack of material that couldn't be made up for in work or scrounging. The fruits of that labor stand tall, melodically and well oiled in the homes of his children. Grandpa loved us best through his labors. He knew best how to communicate his love for his family in the works of his hands and his deeds. Grandpa passed that on to his son and daughters and to his grandchildren--his and Grandma's legacy is in our giving and thoughtful hearts. In a family that loves spending time together and doing things with and for each other.

Grandpa and Grandma did it together.

It was the best thing he could do--it's the best thing any of us can do.

I wrote about Grandpa before, here.
And he describes his clocks here:

Just jam it all in there--God

This September is the start of another semester.

If I were playing life safely I would have no business thinking on the semester timeline.

But I'm not.  I don't believe that to be a satisfactory or responsible way of life.

I've mentioned this to some friends before, but I want my tombstone to read:

"He did as many of the hard things as he could."

That doesn't mean I succeeded at the hard things--haha, no definitely not! Lordy, no!

It means that until you/I try to do the things you/I think are too difficult for God to work through with you/me, we won't do the things.  The things are waiting for you.  All of them.  Every last one of them.

I thought that the things were chemical engineering and graduate school.  And then I left graduate school with a measly M.S.  The PhD has eluded me.

Certainly that stung.  But percolating in the back of my mind had always been Young Life.  Ever since I left high school I had wanted to be a leader.  In college I immersed myself in my studies (same for graduate school).

Now that I had a normal job that didn't dominate 95% of my time, I decided to jump back into it.  Not the hardest thing--certainly not an easy thing--but something definitely worth doing (my own life was changed in HS due to the love of my leaders).

Sounds like I was game to follow God reasonably and do what some goody twentysomething might do with their time.  How gosh golly prosaically nice of me.

BUT WAIT!

God had other things in mind.

I'm not one for putting words in God's mouth.  But right now, it looks like God might want me to teach engineering to college students at a Christian college.

Two years ago, the two previous sentences would have caused me to give a wry smile then burst into laughter.  Here's what I would have said:

"I'm earning my PhD to manage a lab in pharmaceutical development!  I might teach at the end of my career. 

And I don't even know if I'm a Christian, or what that should even mean."

I'm not going to lie--these are some of the hardest things I've ever done (if not in technical skill but at very least in combination).  But I'm not drained nor do I feel like I'm dying inside (like much of grad school).

The work is hard.  The work is good.  God has way crazier and bigger plans for you than you might expect--that's what's so cool.

Maybe you'll find yourself leaving the continent, fostering a 5 year old in your twenties, teaching college or working quietly in the lives of those in your community faithfully.

God wants to use the life you're living now--that's what you've got.  That's all we're given.

the scattered pieces

We all change in many ways throughout our lives--many changes are borne about slowly through time and we never notice them.  The laugh lines deepen in our faces, our skin becomes weathered (or chemically altered...oops!).  Some changes happen in an instant and our very outlook on life is shattered at a new revelation.

In more ways than I could have imagined, I am a radically different person from who I was only four years ago.

In junior year of college (2010) my roommate at the time, Mark, asked me very sincerely on the way to Founders one Monday night:

"Are you happy Steve?"

At the time, my answer had been something along the lines of:

"Yes, mostly.  Sometimes I wish I didn't spend so much time studying.  Sometimes I wish I had gone out and done more stupid stuff, but I don't regret the choices I've made."

I've since gone back to that question periodically and re-evaluated my life.

My answer during the last three years has been:

"Um. Yes?"
"Hmmmmm..."
"No.  Kinda yes?  In many ways yes...but permeated with suffocating dread."

There came a point at which my ability to put up with circumstances, people and being healthy emotionally hit a wall.  My self-confidence had been gradually eroded away and crushed months before this point.

The only things really holding me together were my family (as best they could from 500 miles away), my friends (who I would have crumbled to pieces without) and whatever tattered and paltry faith in God I was unsure I wanted to cling to.

When that moment came, I made a decision.  Many people make this same decision, for many and more reasons: to leave graduate school.  In a way I was lucky--I left with a well respected degree in a field I love from a great school.  I struggled with the initial perceived failure of what that choice meant for months.  I don't regret it any more, though I did at first.

August of 2014 began my struggle to pick up the pieces of what I thought my life would become.  It was when I began to try and find meaning in who I was, what I wanted, and who I would become.

Looking back over the last 11 months, I evaluate again that inexorable question:

"Are you happy Steve?"

This time, my answer is longer, more nuanced, and accompanied by an Oxford comma.

Now I can say that I am happy.
I can say that I'm not looking helpless and confused at the floor and the pieces scattered there.
The person in the mirror has deeper laugh lines, and lines from anxiety (the stress tic has been gone for over 6 months!), but there is a new kind of confidence there--not naive and stupidly brave, but rebuilt and with experience.

I have many people to thank for this change; many to thank for happy, confident, peace:
Close friends, new and old.

They challenge me, they love me, they hear me and they know me.
We talk together, eat together, we drink together (way too much!).
We grieve many things together--death of the very old and the impossibly young, infidelity, and shattered friendships--and we come through to the other side.

Supervisors that see the good and better in me--that let me figure out how to be more excellent.

They give me crazy opportunities I would have never imagined.
They trust me to take on projects seemingly too big for me too soon, that were just right.

Mentors that remind me of my strengths and encourage me in my weaknesses.

With that, today I can say I'm the person I want to be--satisfied with who I am--looking to do the next hardest thing I can find, and simultaneously terrified at the prospect!
I'm not anxiously looking for anyone to 'complete' me (even though people love to ask if I'm seeing anyone, haha!), because they'll be pretty obvious to me when I see them.
My emotions are healthier.
My people are beautiful--they are the friends that I have always wished for.
My family is finally close to me.
My faith is a work in progress, different, shrunk and grown, expanded and with punctures and scars--but I still have it.

Sloats and Frains: Johannisnacht memories

It is tremendous to recall,
     at any instant,
          the way you felt and the atmosphere and the warmth of a summer night
               and the wine and the conversations that became fluid yet deep and the wine
          and the second languages that somehow transcended fluency and the wine
     and the two next to you who started spontaneously yet sloppily making out
and the wine and a great rendition of "American Pie" at a Mainz festival and the wine
     and the train you missed as you were stumbling back helping to half-carry
          the woman who made out with someone she never would have 3 hours prior
               and the wine and the expensive taxi ride back to Ingelheim
          and offering to save some money by running back from Gau-Algesheim to Ingelheim
     but that being shot down because you were being stupid though chivalrous.
          Of course memory has two edges, and the other edge can make you bleed
               5, 10, or 1000 times
                    from the same raw wound--

that is why humans share with those we care about.

"And to the glorious past:

You've opened my window but broken the glass.
And I beseech thee, 'shed thy beauty.'
For as a child leaves the womb and learns the cold,
you have taught us perils in the present,
and you will bring us peril in our surely-soon-to-be. Unless…

The river's not flooded this time."
// La Dispute, Said the King to the River

Sloats and Frains: Genesis

I wake up in my one room apartment with the sun drenching my face, prying my eyelids open. Yesterday was a whirlwind of miles in cars and planes, across timezones and an ocean.

My supervisor, Dr. Heckmann, came by in the evening to make sure that I had arrived and was settled. We went for a bit of a walk, and found a payphone for me to call my family and reassure myself with their voices. I went to sleep feeling more comfortable with the unknown...now that it was a little more known. And Nutella. They bought me some food for the weekend, giving me my first experience with the rich, creamy, chocolatey, smooth Haselnuss perfection that is Nutella. In fact, supper on jam and Nutella sandwiches was not uncommon...

The morning was warm, bright and sunshiny. I leave the apartment a few minutes after 9, to do some of the exploring I had been too tired for the night before. I walk along a stream, over a bridge, along a meadow bursting with yellow wildflowers and past some barns. The path goes over the road into town and is paved with cobblestones, trimmed with cement. The Selz burbles along joyfully before breaking from the path that opens into green, scrubby fields mottled with fluffy, sheepy shapes. The picturesque path will later accompany me on many a run during warm summer nights to Groß-Winternheim and back.

As I walk back into town, St. Remigius' bell tower rings loud and bold, imploring, beseeching and celebrating with parishioners arriving for Pfingsten Mass. The bright, cheery mood fills me too, as I begin to decompress from the terror of exams and the immediacy and rush of a good friend's wedding just days before. There is no rush here. We are on holiday, and I am becoming part of this quiet town, if only for the summer. I glory in my status as local-wannabe.

Goodbye again Grandma Split

I said goodbye to my Grandma Split again this weekend. Home for a wedding, I stopped by her room with my mum and sister, to visit her and Grandpa, who hadn't left her side in days. We talked with Grandpa for an hour or so, and I held her hand and stroked it while listening to her labored breathing. She never opened her eyes, and to be honest I was kind of glad, because the lifeless stare would have been through her eyes, but it wasn't her anymore. I told her I loved her, and that I was back from Pennsylvania to visit her. They said she could hear us, so we talked to her, and with Grandpa too.

Alzheimers had already robbed Grandma of her mind years ago and it had now come back to take her life. It still hasn't quite hit me that she's passed and gone now, but when it does I'll grieve again. I'll grieve for the finality and to know that all of which was her is gone, save what lingers in our memories and the pictures that captured her in time.

I can remember Sunday dinner at their home with the pot roasts, potatoes and gravy, beans and corn with pepper sprinkled over them. I can remember going to her house while mum worked and coloring with her, playing in the den with the shag carpet under her watchful eye while she sometimes played the piano. I remember the camping and the crocheting and the puzzles, crossword and 1000 piece alike. I remember impossibly good baked beans at picnics. I'm thankful for all that I can remember, and I remember grieving with her when memory became hard.

Hers was the story of a dutch girl from Iowa who moved with her family to Grand Rapids and went to Grand Rapids Christian HS when it was the only 'Christian High' in the area and so deserved the moniker. A beautiful young Maliepaard bride, she married my dashing Grandpa and started a family, raising four children and knowing the heartbreak of losing another. Not an extraordinary story, but a true story and a good story. Her story is of faithfulness, faith and family that she carried on her back in an unassuming manner. Her story is echoed and carried on in the hearts of all the honeybunches that she had and held and loved, and who loved her back, and in Grandpa's heart for over 60 years.

Grandma won't get posthumous awards or prizes (as far as I know). Her quiet story is one of many like it but that doesn't make it any less unique or powerful.

Her confusion is gone now. Grandma's not concerned about when she'll go home, or about where home is any more. She is home now. Her mind is at rest with the knowledge of her Savior and she's in his presence. Her mind isn't worn and torn anymore--it's been fixed and renewed.

We love you Grandma and we miss you. We're glad you have your mind back and that it's better than it ever was. We love you bunches and we remember you as the vibrant, creative woman of God you were always meant to be.


I was able to get the audio of her funeral service in which I read this. It was beautiful and it's still a little hard for me to listen to, but it means a lot, so I think it's worth sharing. My cousin plays the piano starting at 22:20. I try my best to read this post at 24:55 and my brother and sister play piano and viola at 28:25.

I'm no fisherman, but I'd love to be fishing, man

This memory of mine does not take place at Lake of the Clouds, pictured above. That lake is some miles west, in the Porkies.

The point of fishing is rarely ever about the fish themselves. Granted, the taste of pan-fish in the fryer after a long day is enough for me to toy with remaining north of the Bridge for the rest of my days. Expansive, clean, clear woodlands lie in the U.P., constantly calling to trolls such as myself.

One of many chances I've been given to explore the exquisite north was during high school, on a fishing trip with a good friend of mine and his father. Outside of traveling and camping with my family I hadn't spent much time with friends or classmates on trips. The feeling of being invited was fantastic in itself, pristine location notwithstanding.

Typically, when traveling long distances, my constant companion was the Gameboy Advance--an electronic siren. Our drive through the lower peninsula consisted of copious amounts of Advance Wars 2 and Super Smash Bros. thanks to a robust cigarette lighter. This combo got us through much of the nondescript farmland in mid-Michigan. Until you get roundabout Cadillac, there's not much special to observe on the interstate, but boy-o does it increase in majesty northwards. There is something magical about the drive up north. I've done it with many people over the years: family and friends, during the summer, winter and spring, but each time it feels like I'm going back to a place of special belonging, where more exists than can be observed. The unseen is the history and lore, the French, Natives and British, our family's camping over twenty years, the experiences that pile high and anew, during each unique foray...and the Gameboy.

The energy, building in the aether, climaxes at a very specific point, some miles south of the peninsular apex. Necks crane, non-driving activity stops and eyes strain to behold the sight of sights. We've been trained over the years for one task alone--to see the Bridge first. I have it down to which overpass I need to start paying attention at, and wait patiently for this concrete signpost to show me the way to victory. It rarely fails (provided you remember which overpass it is). I remember craning to see the bridge on this particular trip and being overzealous in my prediction of when it would appear. So anxious to show that I knew the area well, I fell flat on my face. The feeling faded quickly though, because while I was wrong, we were still on the way north.

We passed through the city fairly quickly, stopping briefly for some KFC, before our passage over the deep-emerald, diamond encrusted waters that are the Straits. The shoreline is rocky and sandy, beige in color--clean and transparent, sand covered over completely by myriad stones. It deepens near the first tower, changing from jade to malachite and back again, passing over the span, beneath which barges and freighters travel on their watery highway.

The land rises quickly into St. Ignace proper, the last bastion of civilization and ubiquitous fast-food, before the vast nothing, dotted by towns named after French explorers, missionaries and colonialists. Mere minutes on the road and the city is left behind, miles of pine bordered highway ahead to gaze at, and wildlife to scan for. The trees rise as sentinels along the road, home to bird nests and cover for deer to bed under during the heat of the afternoon.

Once you're in the U.P. and driving along, the miles tend to look alike, and you drive along very, very straight stretches of concrete. The car sets a constant, ceaseless beat as the tires pass over each separate segment of road. There's very little to cause the road to bend along its trajectory. The occasional lake and pond will cause some deviation, but little else is in the way of whatever destination you might have in mind. And it's flat. Until you meet the Porcupine Mountains in the west, you might confuse the U.P. for a Nebraska, producing large Christmas trees instead of corn and grains.

Towns (more properly villages) dot the road, appearing just when you think you had already passed the last bit of tamed land in the world an hour ago. Many are merely collections of hunting and fishing cabins, but true Yoopers you will find in and among those who call civilization in the south home.

We walked into a tiny diner in town to "pay da Yooper who mows da lawn in da summer, before headin' to da house, eh?". My friend's dad asked to whom he owed money, and the whole diner lit up, each man there making the same claim to the money. There were no women if I remember correctly. Yooper women are like the Entwives, they cannot be found.

We could have been doing anything at all in the U.P. for those few days. It so happens that of fishing, hiking, disc golfing, biking, swimming, canoeing or any of a host of pursuits common to the area in the summer, we had chosen to fish. Fishing, of the sort we did, consisted of sitting in a boat on a beautiful lake all day (often falling asleep), in the sun and in the shade, waiting for bluegill, bass and other sun/panfish to happen upon our lines. We would routinely bring in 15-30 fish per outing, from the littler lakes, and have delicious fried supper of them at night. I can't underscore enough how delicious some fresh perch, bluegill and bass taste, after you've spent the day catching them on an inland lake in the U.P. with tall pines rising up next to you on shore, and a fresh breeze cooling your sweat covered face on a sunny afternoon.

The spruce, jack and white pines unfurl their spiny umbrellas and carpet the ground with prickly rust that feels soft beneath your feet. It's carpet for a king and queen and whole court of woodland creatures.

The big lake has fish in abundance as well, and different customs by which she's approached and fished in. We go north to Superior for the day to catch walleye in a bay near the Keweenaw peninsula. Walleye are a completely different animal from the small panfish we were hunting before. They're larger and live nearer the bottom, in deep water. Not caught merely by dropping down a line and hoping they'll see it, we troll for them. Our boat constantly, slowly, smoothly moves, back and forth across the water. The surface is grey, like the clouds above. The overcast sky is welcome to burned skin, though the life preservers still chafe, even over shirted backs. Our lines go deep, weighted by a variety of sinkers in all sizes and shapes, to keep the thin translucent cord in the deep water. Again, I fall asleep. At the time I'm a little ashamed to be falling asleep, but my future self wishes to be back there, asleep in the boat, floating on one of the greatest lakes, without a care.

My friend catches a walleye that day. It's exciting! The fish is much greater in size and feisty on the line. It took a few tense minutes of fighting and clever line work to reel in and must have been 5 feet long! The aquatic craniate's will is not honored that day and we pull it into the net alongside the boat...success! (In addition to the success that having the time to spend fishing for fun already is.) We spend hours out on the water, but have only one big hit, one dose of excitement to punctuate the wonderful monotony. His dad later filets the finned beast to freeze at home for delectable winter meals.

After a few days, our time north comes to a close and we must leave. We must go back to our lives and our jobs, the suburbs and the cities, the cars and the noise. However, no matter how far south one may go, the North, her fish, her timber and her lakes ceaselessly beckon.

Sloats and Frains: Preface

I'm playing with the idea of releasing this as a series of vignettes; I want to write it as a reflection and anecdotal account, in addition to the more thorough account I wrote while in Europe.

Preface
Slow boats and fast trains hold the key to my heart. The two mark a time in my life when I didn't have to be somewhere punctually, mostly, and when I could savor moments spent with scenery and thoughts. A summer counting car rides on one hand, and writing a book with train ticket stubs. A new pair of sneakers stepped off the plane into a Mercedes wagon in May and left dilapidated and broken, by train to the airport in August.

MittelrheinBahn is my favorite. It snakes from the Mainz main station, along the glittering Rhein, bends north past Bingen am Rhein at the Knee, up through Koblenz and Bonn, to Köln. Little castles dot the landscape, some sit in the middle of the river--having taken ancient tolls they now smile with age upon the young generations passing by. The slopes above the Rhein are home to expansive vineyards, providing the leaves with a second dose of sun, reflecting off the water. It was this stretch of land that I explored, with two compatriots, most thoroughly in Rheinland-Pfalz during the South-African-World-cup summer of 2010.

I was joined by fellow foreigners, tourists, business people, drunk soccer fans, school-children and families on trips near and far, now scattered to the corners of the globe. That summer changed me. I became more independent, confident and added a language to the bag of things that nothing but time can strip from me (at this point I would like to apologize to everyone that didn't want to hear stories from "when I was abroad" because that can be ever so annoying). I was given time to connect with my ancestral roots and meet distant relatives in the Fatherlands. Summer dripped gold over the sheep speckled hills, chemical reaction mixtures and crumbling castles.

This was inspired by #93 on this post from red Ravine.

That's Mr. Prosaic Confabulation to you...

A good friend told me about how excited she was to teach college students the next unit in her writing course: memoir. Her students write about their favorite memory in as much detail and nuance as they can. Their stories pop with detail, bubble over with spicy particulars and sizzle with meaning when she's through.
It got me thinking about some of my favorite memories, one of which is completely fabricated. I'm not delusional about this memory--I know it never happened, but it feels as real as if it had. In fact, it seems more real than some memories which actually happened. Brains are so funny sometimes.

This memory is about time with my grandfather at my grandparents house, bordered by a small crick in the back yard. There's an old, rusting, wrought iron and cement bridge which crumbles at the edges in places and spans a very shallow sandy bed no more than 10 feet wide. Neighborhood kids have taken a dirt path to the bridge and crossed to school for generations. It's very unassuming, with simple chain links running along its profile, room enough for two children to pass, perhaps. Growing up, the boy cousins made boats from sticks and leaves to drop from the bridge and race until the end of the property, a mere 50 feet downstream.

One day when my little brother and I stay with my grandparents for the day, while our mum is at work, we decide to make boats with Grandpa. It means we get to go downstairs and work with him in his shop. Grandpa's shop had nearly everything in it. This is by virtue of the fact that a good dutchman throws away nothing if it can be of some use later, real or imagined. Waste not, want not, he always says. The dark side of this is his pickle "juice" drinking habit, balanced by the beautiful grandfather clocks my aunts and uncles all sport in their houses, which he constructed from kits he saved from dumpsters over the years. Grandpa's shop also has Werther's candies.

The boats we make are simple and flat, made in a boat-shape of course, with little keels on the bottom. We sand them down together and Grandpa helps us glue the keels to them. With the keels attached, we're faced with a decision, sail the boats now in the sofly burbling crick, or paint them and wait for them to be christened. Funnily enough, in the part of the memory that transpired in real life, I don't remember who made the decision, but we paint them. Mine is painted red and black; the little bro chooses blue with red. He writes our initials on them of course. That way they match every other item in our toy chest back home.

The painting was the point at which events passed from fact into the realm of fiction, constructed from desires in a child's mind. I don't know at which point the following became entrenched in my memory, vivid as the sun on the dull red brick outside my window, but my tangled mess of neurons holds onto it tenaciously and naïvely.

In my memory, we take our painted boats to the back yard instead of piling into our old and worn, red minivan. We drop the boats in the crick with Grandpa and walk along the bank through neighbors' backyards as the boats slowly drift along the current. The sun shines through the pine trees leaving dappled patterns on the brown, soggy leaves that are left in the spring after the snows finally melt. The afternoon feels golden, lit like the artificial set of a movie. My little brother isn't even part of the memory at this point, poor fellow. In fact, no boats float in the stream, we just walk. It ends there--my Grandpa and me, strolling along the bank. A simple pleasant memory.


The detail about the lighting is probably what tipped me off initially about the falsity of the memory. That and the speed of the crick. In the spring, the crick becomes a creek, moving swiftly and bone-chillingly from the snows dripping in; wade after boats at the peril of your warm tootsies.
Though it's fraught with errors and inconsistencies, I treasure this memory of my Grandpa. This is the memory I wanted to have with him. I wanted it so much that in my mind, it happened.

I shelve it in my brain along with the real memories of my Grandpa. It sits next to us fishing for catfish with my cousins on the side of a channel (We ate those terrible, bottom-feeding fish later. Boiled. I didn't have fish for years because of this.), sits next to camping trips with him listening to Rush on a picnic table with kids cavorting loudly around him, next to uncles and aunts skiing behind us in his ancient, rickety, underpowered fishing boat, next to Sunday afternoons eating pot roast, green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, and hearing him pray for the "lost and sorr'ing (sorrowing) ones".

I don't know why I fabricated this memory, or even if it was on purpose. I'm going to leave it there though, because if I had asked him to, Grandpa would have walked that crick for miles with me.

Cinci update: ramblings

It's raining and thundering and lightninginging right now, which makes me giddy. Adam and Rachel were married tonight despite the weather, and I pray that their road together is long and storied. Those things are wonderful, but my time in Cincinnati is currently at the forefront of my brain.

This was my sixth visit to Cinci in as many years, so I knew what to expect generally, but I couldn't have known what God would accomplish this week. The small group that Justin assigned me to was the 8th grade/Freshmen guys, with him and Cam. The guys didn't really know each other that well, with a few exceptions, and I didn't know them either. Throughout the course of the week, were were able to have some good discussions. This was especially surprising, since not only were the other guys unfamiliar, but these were guys either entering or just finishing their first year of high school. I know when I was that age, conversation and sharing were not high on my list of things to do. I'm not sure that would have happened without the power of God.

This trip was bittersweet. Justin will be leaving for Pasadena (Fuller Sem.) in August. It was likely his last trip with us to Cinci. I know that he is going on to bigger and better things, but I'm going to miss him a lot. He and Dawn have been with us for five years now, and he's become a powerful example to me. I'll probably write more about Justin in later months.

During the course of the week, and painting and such things, I was able to hang out with Wiechel quite extensively. We made some very inappropriate jokes, and had a good time putting some paint on walls. Prematurely of course. "I'm a hip-hoppapotamus and my lyrics are bottomless." "Did Steve tell you that? Steeeeeve!"

Though I didn't work with the kids this week, I was able to see Bruce and Jonathon. Bruce didn't talk much when I sat by him, but it was good seeing him and the other kids that I got to know last year. I don't know if we can ever know the impact we will have, but I am confident that the seeds we plant are nurtured and God will do good things with these kids.

It just doesn't seem like the right time to blog about this, but I will risk sounding silly. I might update this with a more concise and cohesive report later. Right now I just want to sleep.

Winter Camping

Got back from Mackinaw City last night (I prefer the French, Mackinac though). It was cold, but not as cold as last year. The birthday gifts I received this year (Mummy bag, socks and boots) really came in handy, and made this trip a much warmer one than last year. My cousin Nathan went again this year, as well as my friend Sungmin. We did a little bit of skiing, much of the snow had already melted, on a trail that we skied last year. Turns out there were some geocaches on it that I didn't know about before. Speaking of geocaching, we did quite a few, both in the city, and in Wilderness State Park. The water and ice was amazing to see this year though. It was not thick enough that we could confidently walk far onto the lake unfortunately. We did find a great view of the Mackinac Bridge from the Lake Michigan side however...and saw some amazing houses on the shore. These dwellings must have cost a fortune, but are probably worth it due to the amazing view. There is one in particular just east of the park by the Bridge that is just immense. It might be the biggest house that I've ever seen, and in the best location that I can think of. I think that it's been under construction for at least 8 years now, but when it's done it will be epic. Maybe by the time it's finished I will have achieved my dream of owning the beautiful lake-front, bridge-view lot next to TeePee, or some property east of town...who knows? I can dream...yes, I can dream.

Special thanks to the Cooleys for letting us stay at TeePee for free again this year.

Aha

So in middle school and high school, I was involved in Science Olympiad in region 12 doing a variety of powder and chemical analysis events. I never really understood the chemistry of it until now. In O-Chem lab, we started integrating chemical analysis of substances with the normal IR, GC and NMR methods that we usually use, and it's all coming together. It's kind of sad that it took me until my second year of undergrad to understand why the things I did in 8th-12th grade worked, but let's not dwell on that. Kudos to David VanDyke for instructing middle schoolers in identification chemistry.

Reminiscence

Now playing: George Frideric Handel - No. 1: Overture/The Messiah [Explicit]
via FoxyTunes
----------------
Strange as it may sound, I'm currently listening to Handel's Messiah. I guess I just needed a classical fix or something. The thing that struck me though, was the opening overture, because the instant I heard those notes it brought me back to riding in my dad's old Plymouth Acclaim, with the windows cracked yet too hot because it had no air-conditioning. It may have been uncomfortable and annoying then, but today it serves as a huge comfort to know that times indeed were simpler and less chaotic. There were no employment worries, concerns about future endeavors, all I had to worry about was readying myself for piano lessons...ha. Of course times weren't perfect, and certainly there was turmoil, but I guess the comfort in looking back, is that the unimportant things can be forgotten. Maybe I'll look back on today and think comforting thoughts about my simple college life. I hope so.

As an aside, I think it's hilarious that the overture was tagged explicit by whatever software processed it.

Dear Don,

Don, you were one of those people that I got, and that I think got me back. Sarcastic, spouting comic genius, always good for a laugh. We knew what was ok to joke about and what wasn't, where the line was. You flirted with the line, coached our team well as we were developing and gave us confidence. From trivia to friendly derision, lunges to the T.C.U. and M.S.U. drills, you encouraged us to be our best. Your smile was contagious, your laugh even more so and your wit inspired. As a tennis coach, friend, owner of sting-rays, psychology enthusiast, tennis player and much much more, you will be missed. The angels are rejoicing, and you're at peace, but I just can't believe that you're gone...

Excerpts from my boss this summer (Timisms)

1. Literally

The word literally is ok to use literally whenever and wherever possible. It's best if there are no elements of the statement that can be taken figuratively...literally. (e.g. "my dad literally played with my two dogs")

2. Cannibalize

This term can be responsibly used to reference taking apart anything...you don't even have to be consuming the corpse of a member of your own species. (e.g. "we'll just cannibalize ground timmer")( bonus example..."i'll just cannibalize that vacuum)

3. Misnomer

It's just another word for misconception, mistake or problem. Heck he'd probably even use it for misname if he got the chance. (e.g. "we've got a big misnomer on our hands gentlemen")

4. Sergio, did you get with Mercy on those mattresses?

Self-explanatory...and of course out of context, but still merits mention.

5. Worked for 100+ years

The man has worked 3 factory jobs for eight years each, JCPenney security, the military (instructor, soldier, musician various branches), construction worker, Catholic school janitor, security consultant and of course Calvin College building services supervisor...there are more, I just can't remember them all. (this just in...following Calvin, he could be doing some cattle ranching down in Texas)

6. Repelling

He always repelled out of helicopters for his sniper jaunts with his 70 lb rifle, never once did he rapel like normal people.

7. Beaner, bitch

It's ok for supervisors or anyone to refer to people from Mexico as 'beaners' and female workers as bitches.

8. Cattle prods

He gives them to his babysitters...for protection.

9. Lisa, Shay-Wen, Leia

There were never people named Lisa, Shay-Wen or Leia on the crew this summer...way to be good sports Alisa, Chia-Wen and Leah.

10. Jeez o' Pete
The misnomer here is that he combined two common exclamatory phrases. Literally.