I was reading this today, and it really struck a chord with me. Not quite sure what it is, but most of Seamus Heaney's poetry stands out to me.

Casualty

I

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another rum
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.

Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.

But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.

II

It was a day of cold
Raw silence, wind-blown
Surplice and soutane:
Rained-on, flower-laden
Coffin after coffin
Seemed to float from the door
Of the packed cathedral
Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral
Unrolled its swaddling band,
Lapping, tightening
Till we were braced and bound
Like brothers in a ring.

But he would not be held
At home by his own crowd
Whatever threats were phoned,
Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned
In that bombed offending place,
Remorse fused with terror
In his still knowable face,
His cornered outfaced stare
Blinding in the flash.

He had gone miles away
For he drank like a fish
Nightly, naturally
Swimming towards the lure
Of warm lit-up places,
The blurred mesh and murmur
Drifting among glasses
In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe's complicity?
'Now, you're supposed to be
An educated man,'
I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
The right answer to that one.'

III

I missed his funeral,
Those quiet walkers
And sideways talkers
Shoaling out of his lane
To the respectable
Purring of the hearse...
They move in equal pace
With the habitual
Slow consolation
Of a dawdling engine,
The line lifted, hand
Over fist, cold sunshine
On the water, the land
Banked under fog: that morning
I was taken in his boat,
The screw purling, turning
Indolent fathoms white,
I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul
Steadily off the bottom,
Dispraise the catch, and smile
As you find a rhythm
Working you, slow mile by mile,
Into your proper haunt
Somewhere, well out, beyond...

Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.

unlovable

You turn away from them, stab them in the back, then watch them run away.
everything feels just fine.

You turn away from them, stab them in the back, then watch them come running back to you.
it hurts so much more.

As Christians, we are not only supposed to, but we are commanded to love. Love everyone.

I write this as a failing Christian.

What do you do when you yourself have contributed to the hypocritical stereotype of the church, where you turn your back on those who don't have the perfect record? The church is supposed to be a refuge for all, most especially sinners. If the church is closed to them, where can they go but back to their sin, that welcomes and embraces them?

We are not taught to only love those who are easy to love.
We are not taught to feed the satisfied.
We are not taught to embrace the beautiful.

We are taught to love the unlovable.
We are taught to satisfy the hungry.
We are taught to embrace the wretched.

What purpose is the house of God if not as a haven for those steeped in their sins? Have we lost sight of the true ministry? Jesus didn't avoid the company of the unrighteous, he relished it. He sought out the miserable, the sickly, the pitiful. He held company among the adulterers, the whores, the liars, the beggars. And here we are, with barely the ability to reach out to even one soul in need.

I'm guilty of a crime of omission.

The Bible says that if you know the right thing to do, and still you do not do it, then you have sinned.

I am so guilty.

Tired

I'm tired of being told how to live. I'm tired of having social expectations. I'm tired of people always looking to blame anyone but themselves. I'm tired of Political Correctness. I'm tired of everybody being afraid of offending someone. I'm tired of the silent majority and its counterpart, the screaming, and unfortunately irrepressible, minority.

Get out.
Say what you believe.
Offend someone.
Become the majority with a voice.

The knotted stomach,
The shaky hands,
The persistent nausea,
And of course,
The inability to focus on any task at hand.

Then you wonder,
Have you been given an opportunity,
Or a get out of jail free card?
(The latter please...)

Calculus + Grrrr

Call it what you will (peer pressure anyone?), but I too have felt a compulsion to unleash my innermost thoughts on you, my most evil rival, calculus.

I'm just gonna have to say that I don't get it. I mean, I don't get calculus, as is apparent by my ever declining grades in class, but I don't get why it is so difficult to understand. Until this year, I would have been quick to tell any who would listen that I was indeed a math-person. I got math. I liked math. I liked the challenge. I liked the ease with which I grasped new concepts, while others around me began to faulter and fail.

I liked math.

I'd like to take this moment to put into words a conversation that I had. It was between me, and a certain faceless character named Calculus. This was the conversation that took place:

Me: Hi, I'm Spencer, I like math, I'm smart.

Calculus: Oh yea, let's see what we can do about that.

Me: Ouch! That hurts, you are crushing my head with nonsensical symbols and formulas that everyone insists I may need, but everyone knows they never will!

Calculus: So, what do you think of math now?

Me: I hate it! I hate you! You're a monster! Damn you! Damn you to Hell! Burn! You spawn of Satan!

It wasn't really a good day dream, but I like to think that if Calculus was a person that he (because everyone knows calculus couldn't possibly be a girl since girls have brains much too small to be able to comprehend such a manly topic) would be such a douche... But maybe, just maybe, we're too hard on Calculus. Maybe, he's a bully because that's all he knows...

Calculus: [Sob] Mom! Nobody gets me! Everybody hates me! I have no friends!

Calculus' Mom: Honey! That's not true! I'm sure lots of people like you!

Calculus: Oh yea!? Who?

Calculus' Mom: Well... Uhh... I'm sure that smart young Tilley child likes you!

Calculus: No... He just wrote a blog, and it said he didn't like me. They say I'm a bully and that I'm too hard and difficult to understand...

Calculus' Mom: Well, are you? I wasn't going to say anything, but I did get some calls from kids at school's mothers, and they weren't to happy about what you were doing to their kids. Honey, maybe you should just ease up on them, you know, drop the random symbols and algebra. Maybe you should start hanging out with Algebra 1, he might rub off on you.

Calculus: You think?

Calculus' Mom: Of course honey! You just need to loosen up and be nicer, then they'll be sure to love you!

Calculus: Okay, I'll try mom. Thanks for talking with me.

Calculus' Mom: Anytime honey, you know I'm here for you.

Maybe one day, a conversation like that will actually happen, and the world will be filled with Calculus-lovers not Calculus-haters. Until that day, FIGHT THE POWER!!