Sometimes a bad day is actually a bad day more as a result of our responses or lack thereof in any given or seemingly negative situation. I'm not denying that fact that situations do go wrong, and that things happen that do just 'push our buttons', but in each of these situations, we are still the ones who should have control over our emotions to determine just how this is going to effect me. I've always assumed that I fall into the range of what is considered normal of a person who is both mentally and emotionally stable, but this week, my flesh betrayed me, and has shown me to be a sadistic, deranged megalomaniac, who probably needs a couple sessions of the couch with Dr. Phil. Allow me to explain.
One of the assignments that the kids have been given at school this week, is to imagine that they were omnipotent and had control and influence over all the world, and then to write an essay on how they would make the world a better place for everyone. I would love to say that I threw myself heart and soul into the project by putting pen to paper, explaining how I would fill the earth with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, bring about lasting world peace, find cures for all diseases, stop all whale hunting and clubbing of seals, ensure that re-forestation projects reclaimed all that has been damaged and deforested, but truthfully, the best I could come up with was to wipe out about three quarters of earth's population. And the remaining quarter, well, I had them maimed just to teach them a lesson.
The reason for my diabolical responses, I'm somewhat embarrassed to say, are seemingly trivial situations and yet somehow they just seem to send my blood pressure soaring and leave me muttering away under my breath, while clicking my tongue as I walk away. For example, I do not understand why it is that people feel the need to stand in a door way and have a conversation, blocking both the entrance and exit to the room. Is there something comforting or cosy about the surrounding door frame that facilitates or offers security to those to those engaging in door way chit chat? No matter how many times you say excuse me, clear your throat or give fake coughs, they remain entrenched in their position. And for the life of me, I cannot fathom how, when they can see you hopping from one foot to the next like a cat on a hot tin roof, with a line of other people also wanting to enter the room forming behind you, they don't think that maybe they are obstructing the way. And then it all turns nasty when you start standing on tippy toes to see over them into the room, at which point they normally say something inane like, 'Excuse me, we're trying to have a conversation here,' or 'Oh, would you like to enter the room?' And should you politely respond with, 'Get out of my way, NOW!', they give you that look of dejection and hurt and tell you that there's no need to be ugly about it. In my animated thoughts, because these people won't move of their own volition, I zap them with my imaginary ray gun and make them disappear.
Another group of people that I would probably have wiped out in my moment of frustration, are those who cause unnecessary delays. I encounter at least one of them a week. Morning rush hour sees about 2 million people commute on Madrid's Metro system which I am told is the world's most efficient and user friendly underground transport system - eclipsing even Japan. The rush hour performance of the people is equally efficient and can only be described as a synchronous ballet of entrance and exit as people with ticket in hand pass through the turnstiles. But then there is always one, who has a bag bigger than the one that I arrived in Madrid with and which carried all my possessions, who only when in the turnstile decides to rummage through her bag to find her ticket - and yours truly is normally next in line behind her. There is no retreat from a situation like this, only a frustrating wait as she scratches through her bag like a hen scratching for worms pulling out shopping receipts and then shaking her head disapprovingly that it's not the travel ticket, then squealing with delight at finding the missing top to her lipstick and holding it up in triumph for all the world to see as if she's carrying the Olympic flame before opening another bag within the bag (a bag of equally chaotic cosmetics), to replace the lipstick top on the lipstick, then finding 'a' ticket which turns out to be invalid because it's last month's travel pass. Once those unfathomable depths have been fathomed, and the bottle-neck has now grown to almost out the door, she unzips the side pocket and eureka, finds the travel pass and smiles in victory as she sails through the turnstile. I too smile back through gritted teeth, though my victory is that I didn't drop kick her over the turnstile.
So, I guess we can all breathe a sigh of relief and be grateful that I am not God, and that neither is any other human being for that matter. I also guess that we shouldn't think too highly of ourselves, because at some point we are either the one frustrating somebody else, or the one devising malevolent plans to solve the crisis. Think about this: Our God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love. He does not accuse us, nor remain angry forever. He does not punish us for all our sins, nor does He deal harshly with us as our sins deserve (Ps. 103:8-10 NLT). That's something that we all need to remember. Next time you read the news and find yourself 'responding' to something about a politician, or something someone did to you, or a situation you find yourself in, let's try the godly response: being slow to anger and not accusing and I'm sure you'll have a wonderful week.
God bless
Saturday 24 September 2011
Wednesday 7 September 2011
Four Weddings and a Funeral
So, in all the time I have spent here in Spain I have attended 4 weddings - and now a funeral. All of them have been eventful in their own right, but this week's funeral was, both figuratively and literally, a trip down the road less traveled.
The Spanish have never been a people who beat around the bush, as demonstrated on Tuesday morning, when I was woken up by a text message that read: 'She's dead!' Still scraping the previous night's sleep off my congealed eyelashes to make sure I was reading correctly, I was greeted by another text that read: 'Tanatorio Tres Cantos 7pm' (Tres Cantos Mortuary 7pm). Considering myself to have been notified, as well as invited to the funeral, I set about making plans and preparations to get to this place as it's quite a way out of the city. A simple train journey, with three interchanges, would get me to my destination ... or so I thought. According to Google Maps, the mortuary in Tres Cantos was located behind the train station, but on the other side of the highway. But according to real life, as well as the people who live in Tres Cantos, there wasn't any mortuary in this town. After clarifying this fact with several people, I was eventually told that there was a cemetery outside of town, and the man working at the petrol station gestured that if I continued along 'this road', I would eventually get to it. Looking back, what I also should have clarified, was just how far out of town along 'this road' the cemetery was. 'This road' was, coincidentally, soon to become the on-ramp to the freeway, and in no time at all I found myself power walking in a black suit next to trucks, buses, cars and motorbikes. Four kilometers later, with no cemetery in sight on either side of the freeway, I reached the off-ramp to the next village and had to do an about turn to return to Tres Cantos singing 'I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more' all the way back. As a fool returns to his folly, and a dog returns to its vomit, so Linton returned to the same man, at the same petrol station, to ask the same question, to get to the same place as requested before, but this time the man said, 'Oh! It must be in the other direction then, down this road.' And again he gestured down the same road, but this time in the opposite direction. This time, after confirming the existence of my destination, I took a taxi.
The mortuary itself, I can only describe as being grandiose in every sense of the word, with seventeen venues for the memorial services. Just like in an airport, there is a screen in the entrance hall where you check the starting time and venue of the memorial service you will be attending. As I had now arrived late, I briefly glanced at the screen before dashing off to venue seventeen to attend the service, and this was where the drama began. With the service already underway, the doors to the venue were closed, so I tried pulling them to get in. Nothing. So, I tried pulling them a little harder. Still nothing. Well, if they're not pull doors then they must be push doors, so I tried pushing them open. Nothing. Always game for a second attempt, I tried pushing them a bit harder still, at which point I heard a person on the other side, and then the doors miraculously slid open sideways. Standing in front of me was a man dressed in air force uniform, but this didn't surprise me in the least, as the family to whom the deceased belonged, are highly influential in the Spanish government. The chapel was jam-packed with people, so, shrugging my shoulders and apologising profusely as I went, I pushed my way through the people standing at the back and settled into a free space in the third to last row. After about five minutes, a military colonel took the podium to do his eulogy, and began to comment about what a wonderful pilot the deceased was and what a huge loss his passing away is to the force. I sat dumbstruck and horrified at the realisation that I'd entered the wrong chapel, but that was soon overshadowed by the bombardment of thoughts as to how I was going to get out through the throng of people I'd just pushed my way through in order to get in. As this was a military funeral, I opted for a more discreet method of withdrawal and decided to practically leopard crawl my way out, and was almost past the last pew when it happened, my cellphone rang. I receive on average two phone calls a month, normally from my mother, and now of all times my phone had to ring. To make matters worse, my ringtone is the chorus of Funky Town by Lipps Inc. So there, hobbling on my haunches, I broke the solemn silence with 'Won't you take me to ... funky town ... won't you take me to ... fuu uu uunky town!' The rest was a blur to me. I have no recollection of how I got out of there, needless to say it was roughly at the speed of light.
The rest of the evening's events did proceed normally. I did manage to find the right venue in the end and sit through the last ten minutes of the funeral mass. I even managed to view the coffin. I also managed to eat a couple tuna mayonnaise sandwiches with the coffin a mere metre an a half away, although I did turn my back on the deceased out of respect. I don't know why these things always happen to me, but when I used to tell Ernestina (the student of mine whose funeral I was attending) stories of my life and travels, she used to give me a look that seemed to question whether or not I was exaggerating the events.
You see now Ernestina, it's all true. I'm really going to miss you but will always cherish the wonderful memories of our times together and your care and concern for my well-being here in Madrid.
God bless
Linton
The Spanish have never been a people who beat around the bush, as demonstrated on Tuesday morning, when I was woken up by a text message that read: 'She's dead!' Still scraping the previous night's sleep off my congealed eyelashes to make sure I was reading correctly, I was greeted by another text that read: 'Tanatorio Tres Cantos 7pm' (Tres Cantos Mortuary 7pm). Considering myself to have been notified, as well as invited to the funeral, I set about making plans and preparations to get to this place as it's quite a way out of the city. A simple train journey, with three interchanges, would get me to my destination ... or so I thought. According to Google Maps, the mortuary in Tres Cantos was located behind the train station, but on the other side of the highway. But according to real life, as well as the people who live in Tres Cantos, there wasn't any mortuary in this town. After clarifying this fact with several people, I was eventually told that there was a cemetery outside of town, and the man working at the petrol station gestured that if I continued along 'this road', I would eventually get to it. Looking back, what I also should have clarified, was just how far out of town along 'this road' the cemetery was. 'This road' was, coincidentally, soon to become the on-ramp to the freeway, and in no time at all I found myself power walking in a black suit next to trucks, buses, cars and motorbikes. Four kilometers later, with no cemetery in sight on either side of the freeway, I reached the off-ramp to the next village and had to do an about turn to return to Tres Cantos singing 'I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more' all the way back. As a fool returns to his folly, and a dog returns to its vomit, so Linton returned to the same man, at the same petrol station, to ask the same question, to get to the same place as requested before, but this time the man said, 'Oh! It must be in the other direction then, down this road.' And again he gestured down the same road, but this time in the opposite direction. This time, after confirming the existence of my destination, I took a taxi.
The mortuary itself, I can only describe as being grandiose in every sense of the word, with seventeen venues for the memorial services. Just like in an airport, there is a screen in the entrance hall where you check the starting time and venue of the memorial service you will be attending. As I had now arrived late, I briefly glanced at the screen before dashing off to venue seventeen to attend the service, and this was where the drama began. With the service already underway, the doors to the venue were closed, so I tried pulling them to get in. Nothing. So, I tried pulling them a little harder. Still nothing. Well, if they're not pull doors then they must be push doors, so I tried pushing them open. Nothing. Always game for a second attempt, I tried pushing them a bit harder still, at which point I heard a person on the other side, and then the doors miraculously slid open sideways. Standing in front of me was a man dressed in air force uniform, but this didn't surprise me in the least, as the family to whom the deceased belonged, are highly influential in the Spanish government. The chapel was jam-packed with people, so, shrugging my shoulders and apologising profusely as I went, I pushed my way through the people standing at the back and settled into a free space in the third to last row. After about five minutes, a military colonel took the podium to do his eulogy, and began to comment about what a wonderful pilot the deceased was and what a huge loss his passing away is to the force. I sat dumbstruck and horrified at the realisation that I'd entered the wrong chapel, but that was soon overshadowed by the bombardment of thoughts as to how I was going to get out through the throng of people I'd just pushed my way through in order to get in. As this was a military funeral, I opted for a more discreet method of withdrawal and decided to practically leopard crawl my way out, and was almost past the last pew when it happened, my cellphone rang. I receive on average two phone calls a month, normally from my mother, and now of all times my phone had to ring. To make matters worse, my ringtone is the chorus of Funky Town by Lipps Inc. So there, hobbling on my haunches, I broke the solemn silence with 'Won't you take me to ... funky town ... won't you take me to ... fuu uu uunky town!' The rest was a blur to me. I have no recollection of how I got out of there, needless to say it was roughly at the speed of light.
The rest of the evening's events did proceed normally. I did manage to find the right venue in the end and sit through the last ten minutes of the funeral mass. I even managed to view the coffin. I also managed to eat a couple tuna mayonnaise sandwiches with the coffin a mere metre an a half away, although I did turn my back on the deceased out of respect. I don't know why these things always happen to me, but when I used to tell Ernestina (the student of mine whose funeral I was attending) stories of my life and travels, she used to give me a look that seemed to question whether or not I was exaggerating the events.
You see now Ernestina, it's all true. I'm really going to miss you but will always cherish the wonderful memories of our times together and your care and concern for my well-being here in Madrid.
God bless
Linton
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