Spirit-Kite

The traffic pulsed. Pushing forcefully through asphalt and cobblestone arteries; ebbing and flowing with the vitality of man's spatial will. Animated steel purred and growled, as the metallic pack pursued disparate goals. The combustion river flowed around shallow stony fingers. Perched on one of these islands a boy teased the winds. Sable hair bobbed to a rhythm, but not the terrestrial pulse of the motorized sea surrounding him. The dark skin of the celestially favored moved with the skies. String coiled around his fingers as tugged at the artificial butterfly only three or four feet from his form. The canvas butterfly like a creature caught by the tail tried desperately to escape the boys control, twisting and flaying with audible hissing. He teased the kite, as it expressed to him an ethereal sea. The spirit tides spoke desperately, as the metal embrace of traffic promised death. Will the Heavens touch an Indonesian heart? Will he fight divine movement or join it?

Surreal Destination

[Written in an airport waiting room in Taipei].

Another floor of white titles below a ceiling populated with florescent lights. My eyes lose focus and the grout lines bend. Another room full of benches and waiting people. A purgatory for those that are not in the air. The air is another purgatory for those who have not yet found a destination. People all around me escape their purification underneath the light pale embrace of ipod ear buds. I find different consciousness under the quick flashing electronic trance precipitated pixels and an innocuous frame rate. I long for the escape of paper, but my heavy lids protest . . .

One of the most commonly asked questions!

Q: Do they have Chipotle in Indonesia?
A: Nope.
Response: (Shock dismay) How will you live?

Expression: Both Deep and Wide

[Reflection on Canoeist Camp]

A husky wind brusquely hissed brushing the rivercraft shoreward. I impale the water, scraping desperately to regain the little control I had. A single fallen ivory shaft reaching like a skeletal finger from the bank. I needed to straighten our little craft or play tag with the large wooden finger blocking our thoroughfare. “I need your help, Genny,” I begged. Our combined efforts demonstrated the vast difference between our power and the power of the elements. The river dismissed our efforts with disdainful waves. Desperation. I beat desperately at the dingy aquarion serpent, but am helpless in its tumbling coils. Change of plans. Instead of fighting the coils, I submit to the current. I back-paddle turning ahead the naval clock from bow at 8:00 to 2:00. We spun languidly away from the rigid finger.

Blue Eyes
. . . Ice blue pools, both cold and vulnerable, blink like clouds veiling a morning sky. A sky stark and strong with no gentleness . . .

Brown Eyes
. . . Intensity welling out of large chocolate orbs, drown those that meet them in palpable shock. They are articulate and expressive and yet frightened. Conveying an almost bestial terror; the prison of an isolated soul . . .

A forceful ethereal hand pushed the bobbling canoe towards the long groping fingers of a Russian olive. The tame teal leaves do not suggest the vicious bards that lurk beneath them. My heart sank as I my paddle found no purchase in the tumbling liquid. Genny, had not been having a fun time. Despite the depth of my desire to protect her, I was powerless. It was perhaps the slowest collision I have ever experienced. Genny put up a defensive hand with all the drama and terror of an extra in a horror flick; the kind that find an especially gory end. But the tree attacked her with surprising patience, leaving a horrible splinter in her hand. A wall of thorns was headed my way. I attempted matrix style evasion, while struggling not to fall out the back of the canoe. But arching in the middle of the prickly tangle the canoe came to a stop. "Paddle, Genny, Paddle," I cried in earnest from the midst of the thorns. "I lost my paddle," Genny related in a paniced tone. With a sigh I began to contort writhing like a snake inside the Russian olive. The paddle hit with timid strokes as I attempted to pull away from my pokey prison . . .

Losing at Vechicular Tag

Oh man, I forgot my tent. I sighed inwardly. Can I make it in the morning? Will they have enough room in their tents. Crap. I have to drive right back over to my parents house and get it. Pressing the plastic receiver to my ear, I listened to the electronic chirp.
“Hello”
“Hi Dad. It's me. I hope I did not wake you up! I couldn't find my tent, earlier. I meant to ask you when, I came up stairs, but the Nuggets game distracted me. It is so exciting.”
“Isn't it in your car?”
“The Amigo? No.”
“Is it still in the box?”
“I dunno. I looked around down there, but couldn't see it.”
“Have you used it recently?”
“No. I have never used it.”
“Then it is still in the box. If you have not used it. We haven't. . . Ah here it is! I found it. What do you want me to do?”
“Leave it by the front door. . . , I mean inside the front door. I'll just come by and get it. Thanks, Dad.”
“Your welcome, son.”

The dark skies cried softly. I bumped the intermittent, to low, and then to high as the tears became more insistent. The violent hand of wipers blades slashed at the pooling liquid, fighting the aquarian distortion of the truth beyond the window. My headlights chased each other like frisky will-o-the-wisps until exhausted they faded on the garage door of my parents house.
I got out of my tan Toyota Corolla leaving the door wide. Swinging strides carried me around the hood of my car. I had bought the car through a friend of my father's we had replaced the hood and the bumper and they remained a dull black. Upon rounding the patchwork front, I met leonine creature. Willie ,the neighborhood cat, that adopted my parents. He was a big Tom with a majestic flecked mane. My Mom had always called him Katza, before he made rounds with a note attached, written with the unconscious gravity of a child: “This is my cat, Willie. Sometimes he is gone for four days! I love, Willie.” After that my Dad took to calling him “Willard the Wimp” and I called him “Wilhelm”, pronounced with a German “V”. The name came to me, because once my stern Grandfather, whose name was William, parroted the calls of his parents, “Villie, Villie” and I laughed at the thought. I bent double and stroked his matted fur.
Anyone who knows me knows, I am a sucker for cute furry animals. I finished sating my clinical cute-and-furry animal addiction, and retrieved the tent from inside the front door. Hmmm leaving the door open with Willie around might not be a great idea. Sigh. Smart move there hot shot. Oh good there he is! Whew.

There was nothing ominous about the intersection or my approach. I had broached the intersection a thousand times. Nor did the lights of the car in front of me (in the left turn lane) appear nefarious. I pierced the heart of the intersection pursing the green on the other side. The lights of the car to my left moved tilting on top of me. A loud crash and the sound of grinding metal. A second of white before their purity shriveled leaving my lips stinging from their unchastened kiss. I looked out at a shattered world; all around me fragile and broken. I questioned the lights sternly with my eyes. But they only blinked expansively from green to yellow. I looked down the smashed nose of my car, surprised to see my my tire while still sitting in the car. So compact. I feel like I could reach out the windshield and touch the front of my car.
I stepped awkwardly from my sadly diminished car. My first thought was “get out of the intersection you might get hit again.” On the way to my light pole sanctuary, I asked a man with a cell phone smashed against his ear, “Are you calling 911.” He nodded soberly. I breathed a sigh of relief, as I hear someone ask the girl in the damaged scarlet car, “Are you ok?” She responded in a hushed affirmative.
I turn on my phone. The batteries are low. I dial but forget to press send. I finally hear the voice of my Dad on the line. While I am explaining that I got in an accident and where, a jeep commander arrives on the scene. Like a lightening bolt he explodes from his jeep. “Who was in that car,” the young man asked wildly indicating my car. “Was it you?” he asked a man gesticulating wildly. “It was you!” he declared scathingly, leveling an accusatory finger at me. I shyly raised my hand in acquiescence. “Get off the phone please, sir,” he said impatiently. “Sit down over there,” he ordered.
“I am fine,” I vainly attempted to reassure him.
“Have you seen your car!” he refuted me, framing the car with his out stretched arm and open palm.
“Sit up against the pole,” I preceded to sit against the light pole, where I would remain for the next 45 minutes while adrenaline pumped through my body. “Where are you bleeding?” he demanded. I looked down surprised to see that my left leg was covered with large blotches of blood. He grabbed my left arm finding the leak had sprung my elbow. I could not see it at the time. I later pieced together the fact that my arm broke the drivers side window and my elbow had grated along the broken remains of my window. The young man from the jeep explained that he was a firefighter, and his name was Josh. I continued to watch him wrap my arm with the incredible intensity that was apparently his nature.
“Do what you got to do.” I affirmed him, trying to be encouraging and calm as possible. A Jeff-Co. police office assisted Josh. For the next 40 minutes, they both took turns holding my neck in the advent that I might have spinal damage. I had two challenges: Answering questions without nodding. And trying to sit still while adrenaline pulsed through my body.
Josh asked me a series of concussion questions: “Where are you?” “What is todays date?” “What day of the week is it?” The funny thing was that Josh asked me my name at least three times and my age twice. Finally, he started to write down the info on his latex glove, so he would not forget. He asked me my favorite color then wrote it down and told me he would ask me again. He forgot. Sometimes his comic intensity lead me to ask myself, which of the two of us had more adrenaline pumping. I also got tons of yes/ no questions: “Were you wearing a seatbelt?” “Did the airbags deploy?” “Were you using drugs or alcohol?” “Do you have any allergies?” The urge to shake or nod my head was insurmountable. Of course, Josh and the Sheriff both tried to discourage me from nodding, because they feared spinal damage. I soon found myself apologizing for nodding, “Oh. I just nodded. I am sorry” and “Dang it. I nodded. Sorry. I just cannot help myself.”
Because of the slope of the side walk and my inability to slouch, which is my natural element, my leg was not touching the ground between my tail and my heel. Adrenaline and trying to maintain that position based on muscle strength caused my leg to shake. The first response to this stimuli caused the kind police officer to ask if I was cold. I wasn't (eventually she brought me blankets just in case). The second was “Oh no, his leg is shaking. He is going into shock.” I tried in vain to assure them it was adrenaline that I could not walk off. Man, I really want to just get up and pace! I thought with a sigh.

I reflected on several things, while being trap against the pole by my kindly attendants. I thought of all the ways my night could have been different and not lead me to the moment of the collision. It was a matter of fractions of a second. What if I had not not forgot the tent? What if I had not petted Willie? Either would have lead me away from the destined second. But what if it did not happen? During one of my yes/ no questions I gathered that although I had not had any alcohol, she had. What if she hit somebody else with a less hardy constitution? What if getting hit by her kept her or somebody else alive? If either of that was true, then I would have gladly volunteered.
My other reflections centered around the girl. She seemed to cling to her red car. Her hair was short and feathered. She looked like a lost chick with her blond hair and bewilderment. I heard her cry out, “I am sorry.” She did not say it to me. She seemed to cry out into the cold dark night. Being pinned against the pole, I was unable to ask if she was, ok. I think I asked Josh and he said, “Oh yeah, she is ok,” in the most dismissive tone. I knew her life was going to change. Fortune had turned on her. But maybe virtue would find a way to teach her lasting happiness. Maybe God was calling her name.

When the EMT showed up they let me get up. Moving was an ecstatic experience. I filled out my police report, while my counterpart did a sobriety test. I felt embarrassed to see her lead to the police car in hand cuffs. I was thankful that she was put in the front seat, which seemed sensitive and humanizing of the state patrol officer.

Josh in his excitement locked his keys in his jeep. Three fire men's hats shouldered each other as they crowded against the windows. The police officer that gave the blankets said that destiny had kept him away from the party he was going to. I approached him. “Hey Josh, thanks for taking care of me. Sorry about your keys getting locked in the car.”
“Sure. Oh you heard about that did you . . .” Josh sighed a bit disheveled. I shook his hand.

I stared at my car. Looking at the benign decorations left on the windows by my student. The smiley face that had said, “This isn't Mr. Schaffer. He is the one driving,” was destroyed by my gory elbow. A festive wreck. I smiled. I was in much better condition than my car. I got six stitches in my elbow, the seat belt cut into my shoulder, and one side of my nose is red (for the record airbag burns feel a lot like a sunburn). All in all a throughly entertaining (and edifying) Saturday night.

Support

WHY?
The school pays me. The pay is great for Indonesia, but not so good states side. I have lived on much less and do not, actually, need support, but it might be nice to have money so I can travel back and forth.

HOW?
1. Make your checks out to NICS/OASIS. (Which is the missions organization).
2. Put this number in the memo line 003262. (Which is my project number).
3. Send to:

Network of International Christian Schools
3790 Goodman Rd E
Southaven, MS 38672

Brief Description of Ministry

DESCRIPTION: I will be serving on a missionary staff at an international school in Indonesia, Bandung Alliance Academy(BAIS). The school has both Christians and non-Christians and teaches American curriculum, in English, and a Christian worldview.

PLACE: Nation: Indonesia, Island: West Java, Greater Metro Area: Bandung, Suburb: Kota Baru, School: BAIS.

TIME: I will be leaving in the end of July probably the 30th.