I Know Two Things about Burns, or A Tale of Two Burns

Before I write the actual post, let me again express my contempt for holidays: any day that we close the library is not a good day in my book. Seeing as my computer is out of order (have I mentioned that I'm long-term computerless?), the lack of a library means that I'm sitting here, tapping out this entry on my iPod Touch. Also it means I can't pick up the book I have on hold.

The following is a true story. Set your face to not quite bored.

Saturday night I was closing at work. I was mentally putting together a blog post that I was planning to begin getting onto paper that night. It had been a crazy day, but we were almost out the door, albeit 15 minutes late.

One of my coworkers was rinsing the coffee urns. Full of 200 degree water, they sat on the sink draining. One was sitting a bit too close to the edge. As the water drained, the weight shifted. Suddenly, I see the urn begin to tip.

I know what happens if the urn hits the ground. I don't want us to be down one urn, so I lunge, catching it by one of the handles on top. The urn stops falling, but inertia seeks revenge: water covers my hands, as well as one sleeve of my shirt. I quickly run to the back and cover my hands in cold water while taking my shirt off.

My coworker blames herself, but it's not her fault at all. In an attempt to make her stop crying, I ignore my burns. There was really nothing more I could do at the sink anyway. Wearing my undershirt instead of my now drenched long sleeve shirt, I attempt to console her as we apply burn cream. We bandage it up and all go home.

The next day my wrist is sore, swollen, and very red. If you're looking for it you can definitely tell that I've been burned. However, there is very very little blistering, and I have general use of my hand. I am sure people are wondering, as I bandaged my wrist after work, but this is just to keep it clean in order to reduce the risk of infection. Staving off infection is now the primary goal, as it does hurt, but it's otherwise certainly going to be ok.

It took me back to a few years ago, whn I got a similar but much worse burn in a kitchen in Guatemala. On this occasion, in God's grace I was treated by an ER nurse with several years of burn ward experience.having her on that trip with us was such an amazing blessing She told me several days later that as she bandaged me she was praying I'd have very few third degree burns scattered among second degree burns, when in actuality I had very few second degree burns in a terra of first degree burns.

My general experience with burns has taught me two things. Firstly, I don't like burns. If I have to get hurt, I hope it's a laceration, as I can usually see the severity, healing, and so on. Secondly, when we say that God's grace is sufficient, we don't realize quite how much we need it nor how amazing grace really is.

Before I write the actual post, let me again express my contempt for holidays: any day that we close the library is not a good day in my book. Seeing as my computer is out of order (have I mentioned that I'm long-term computerless?), the lack of a library means that I'm sitting here, tapping out this entry on my iPod Touch. Also it means I can't pick up the book I have on hold.

The following is a true story. Set your face to not quite bored.

Saturday night I was closing at work. I was mentally putting together a blog post that I was planning to begin getting onto paper that night. It had been a crazy day, but we were almost out the door, albeit 15 minutes late.

One of my coworkers was rinsing the coffee urns. Full of 200 degree water, they sat on the sink draining. One was sitting a bit too close to the edge. As the water drained, the weight shifted. Suddenly, I see the urn begin to tip.

I know what happens if the urn hits the ground. I don't want us to be down one urn, so I lunge, catching it by one of the handles on top. The urn stops falling, but inertia seeks revenge: water covers my hands, as well as one sleeve of my shirt. I quickly run to the back and cover my hands in cold water while taking my shirt off.

My coworker blames herself, but it's not her fault at all. In an attempt to make her stop crying, I ignore my burns. There was really nothing more I could do at the sink anyway. Wearing my undershirt instead of my now drenched long sleeve shirt, I attempt to console her as we apply burn cream. We bandage it up and all go home.

The next day my wrist is sore, swollen, and very red. If you're looking for it you can definitely tell that I've been burned. However, there is very very little blistering, and I have general use of my hand. I am sure people are wondering, as I bandaged my wrist after work, but this is just to keep it clean in order to reduce the risk of infection. Staving off infection is now the primary goal, as it does hurt, but it's otherwise certainly going to be ok.

It took me back to a few years ago, whn I got a similar but much worse burn in a kitchen in Guatemala. On this occasion, in God's grace I was treated by an ER nurse with several years of burn ward experience.having her on that trip with us was such an amazing blessing She told me several days later that as she bandaged me she was praying I'd have very few third degree burns scattered among second degree burns, when in actuality I had very few second degree burns in a terra of first degree burns.

My general experience with burns has taught me two things. Firstly, I don't like burns. If I have to get hurt, I hope it's a laceration, as I can usually see the severity, healing, and so on. Secondly, when we say that God's grace is sufficient, we don't realize quite how much we need it nor how amazing grace really is.

I Know Two Things about Burns, or A Tale of Two Burns

Sweaty Jenny

(I wrote this based on something I heard a friend say, taken completely out of context. It was Jenny's second line, liberally)

William hated speed dating. As he walked into the room, he asked himself, "Why do I always come to these things? I never meet anyone I like." Twelve women, each of whom William wound sit down and talk to for ten minutes - one-hundred twenty minutes of his life that William knew he'd never get back. 

Christina, Andrea, Susan, Lulu, Jackie - five names beside which William checked the "no" box. He sat down at Jenny's table and began mentally counting down the ten minutes. 

"If you could only tell me one thing about yourself, what would it be?" asked William. He tended to ask questions in a grandiose and intimidating way in order to keep people at arm's length, especially at singles events. 

Jenny was not one to be intimidated. Looking him square in the eye, she said, "I sweat a lot. Even when I'm taking a cold shower, I'm sweating."

William was pretty sure this was a joke, but Jenny wasn't laughing. Joke or not, William was disgusted. He ran out the ten minutes exchanging as few words as possible and avoiding eye contact at all costs. A shame, he thought, because she does have beautiful eyes. Afterwards he placed a large, bold X in the "no" box next to her name. 

Kathryn, Annie, Nikki, Olivia, Claire, Alicia - six more X's taking their places in "no" boxes. Twelve "no"s, which William had taken to calling a perfect score. He gave the list one last glance. 

His eyes caught on Sweaty Jenny. He was disgusted. However, he was also intrigued. As the time had gone on, he found that he was actually becoming less disgusted and more intrigued. He changed his "no" to a "yes." Perhaps it was time to try something courageous and new. Perhaps it was time to give Sweaty Jenny a chance. 

(I wrote this based on something I heard a friend say, taken completely out of context. It was Jenny's second line, liberally)

William hated speed dating. As he walked into the room, he asked himself, "Why do I always come to these things? I never meet anyone I like." Twelve women, each of whom William wound sit down and talk to for ten minutes - one-hundred twenty minutes of his life that William knew he'd never get back. 

Christina, Andrea, Susan, Lulu, Jackie - five names beside which William checked the "no" box. He sat down at Jenny's table and began mentally counting down the ten minutes. 

"If you could only tell me one thing about yourself, what would it be?" asked William. He tended to ask questions in a grandiose and intimidating way in order to keep people at arm's length, especially at singles events. 

Jenny was not one to be intimidated. Looking him square in the eye, she said, "I sweat a lot. Even when I'm taking a cold shower, I'm sweating."

William was pretty sure this was a joke, but Jenny wasn't laughing. Joke or not, William was disgusted. He ran out the ten minutes exchanging as few words as possible and avoiding eye contact at all costs. A shame, he thought, because she does have beautiful eyes. Afterwards he placed a large, bold X in the "no" box next to her name. 

Kathryn, Annie, Nikki, Olivia, Claire, Alicia - six more X's taking their places in "no" boxes. Twelve "no"s, which William had taken to calling a perfect score. He gave the list one last glance. 

His eyes caught on Sweaty Jenny. He was disgusted. However, he was also intrigued. As the time had gone on, he found that he was actually becoming less disgusted and more intrigued. He changed his "no" to a "yes." Perhaps it was time to try something courageous and new. Perhaps it was time to give Sweaty Jenny a chance. 

Sweaty Jenny

I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won't Celebrate Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is named after St. Valentine. This is obvious and common knowledge. That being sad, who was St. Valentine, and what did he do to deserve a holiday, particularly the one he has?

According to Wikipedia (the ultimate source of human knowledge), St. Valentine could be any of 14 different people. Valentine was a common name, being Latin for "strong." However, he is believed to probably be a man who was imprisoned for illegally performing Christian wedding ceremonies and later killed as a result of his attempt to convert the emperor to Christianity. It seems obvious that he would then have the love holiday. 

But let us consider this holiday: it is generally focused on a man performing an annual big gesture for his woman of choice, whomever she may be. This big gesture often takes the form of a romantic evening, along with perhaps roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. 

And then the day ends. For the next 364 days, the couple will not go on a date. The flowers need not fear, as they have 364 days before they will again be cut. And the chocolate will now take the shape of eggs and rabbits, looking forward to the next chocolate-based gift-giving holiday, Easter. And somehow I simply don't think this is a love for which St. Valentine would have been willing to be imprisoned. 

Ephesians 5:25 says, "Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Christ gave his very life for the church. Loving is not something to do one day a year. Instead, it is a perpetual matter. And when this becomes part of your lifestyle, suddenly 14 February is just another day in which you love your wife. 

Bonus:
Here is a video of a poem that in my mind is related, in that trying to love your wife only one day a year is as ridiculous as trying to repay your mother with a lanyard. 
The Lanyard, by Billy Collins

Valentine's Day is named after St. Valentine. This is obvious and common knowledge. That being sad, who was St. Valentine, and what did he do to deserve a holiday, particularly the one he has?

According to Wikipedia (the ultimate source of human knowledge), St. Valentine could be any of 14 different people. Valentine was a common name, being Latin for "strong." However, he is believed to probably be a man who was imprisoned for illegally performing Christian wedding ceremonies and later killed as a result of his attempt to convert the emperor to Christianity. It seems obvious that he would then have the love holiday. 

But let us consider this holiday: it is generally focused on a man performing an annual big gesture for his woman of choice, whomever she may be. This big gesture often takes the form of a romantic evening, along with perhaps roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. 

And then the day ends. For the next 364 days, the couple will not go on a date. The flowers need not fear, as they have 364 days before they will again be cut. And the chocolate will now take the shape of eggs and rabbits, looking forward to the next chocolate-based gift-giving holiday, Easter. And somehow I simply don't think this is a love for which St. Valentine would have been willing to be imprisoned. 

Ephesians 5:25 says, "Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Christ gave his very life for the church. Loving is not something to do one day a year. Instead, it is a perpetual matter. And when this becomes part of your lifestyle, suddenly 14 February is just another day in which you love your wife. 

Bonus:
Here is a video of a poem that in my mind is related, in that trying to love your wife only one day a year is as ridiculous as trying to repay your mother with a lanyard. 
The Lanyard, by Billy Collins

I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won't Celebrate Valentine's Day

Elevator Girl

Tonight in the elevator from the light rail station I saw a beautiful young lady. There was a novel hidden in her eyes. The foreword was in the way she wore her hair. Her half  smile hid the afterword. 

I didn't talk to her. This was for the best. We just rode the elevator together, along with three other people.

Tonight in the elevator from the light rail station I saw a beautiful young lady. There was a novel hidden in her eyes. The foreword was in the way she wore her hair. Her half  smile hid the afterword. 

I didn't talk to her. This was for the best. We just rode the elevator together, along with three other people.

Elevator Girl

Burnt (out) and Ernie

[note that I wrote this yesterday but am posting today due to Internet connectivity issues]

I have today off work. That really is a beautiful thing. Don’t get me wrong: I’m incredibly thankful that I have a job, and even more thankful that I have two. But working 6 days a week is tough. It’s even worse when you cover a shift on your day off and work 13 in a row. 

It’s a bit frustrating, because I was so burnt out after only 13 days. Previously I worked 18, and I felt far worse on day 11 this time than I did at day 17 last time. Perhaps I’m getting old. But I’m not even 30. 

Those numbers in the previous paragraph add up to 89. As I age, I have to do things to keep my mind sharp. Not really. It’s just a lot of numbers, so I added them. This paragraph isn’t particularly interesting. 

Anyway, this brings me to a question: when you work a lot, how do you stay fresh? And how do you keep yourself in your art? I wrote and painted very little. Perhaps this is what brought me down. I mean, I do recall that I spent a lot of time doing both when I worked 18. Was that really relaxing my brain that much? Or is it a different matter altogether? We were much busier at both jobs when I did 18. Did the slowness give me more time to think about it? Too many variables, too few controls. 

So what do you do? Give me your tips. 

ps Don’t try to figure out the title. There is nothing there except it sounding like Bert and Ernie. 

[note that I wrote this yesterday but am posting today due to Internet connectivity issues]

I have today off work. That really is a beautiful thing. Don’t get me wrong: I’m incredibly thankful that I have a job, and even more thankful that I have two. But working 6 days a week is tough. It’s even worse when you cover a shift on your day off and work 13 in a row. 

It’s a bit frustrating, because I was so burnt out after only 13 days. Previously I worked 18, and I felt far worse on day 11 this time than I did at day 17 last time. Perhaps I’m getting old. But I’m not even 30. 

Those numbers in the previous paragraph add up to 89. As I age, I have to do things to keep my mind sharp. Not really. It’s just a lot of numbers, so I added them. This paragraph isn’t particularly interesting. 

Anyway, this brings me to a question: when you work a lot, how do you stay fresh? And how do you keep yourself in your art? I wrote and painted very little. Perhaps this is what brought me down. I mean, I do recall that I spent a lot of time doing both when I worked 18. Was that really relaxing my brain that much? Or is it a different matter altogether? We were much busier at both jobs when I did 18. Did the slowness give me more time to think about it? Too many variables, too few controls. 

So what do you do? Give me your tips. 

ps Don’t try to figure out the title. There is nothing there except it sounding like Bert and Ernie. 

Burnt (out) and Ernie