"It's a bomb!"

Earlier this evening, I was alone in the living room.  Night had fallen several hours before, and the housemates were off in other parts of the house. A few “bleeps” drifted down the hall from someone watching a late night talk show.  The whole house fan whirred in the distance.  I was reviewing a few questions from a recent exam.  Nothing to disturb me but my own academic, existential, and self-doubt.

That, and a few noises from the outside.  The neighbors wheeled their trash outside.  A car door slammed shut.  A few birds rustled in the bushes.  But all in all, nothing too distracting.  I settled into a concentrated study.

Then an animal rustled outside, a bit louder than my inner dialogue.  A few seconds later, another rustle.  It seemed to be coming from outside the patio screen door, opened to let the cool air inside.  Then again, another rustle, this one lasting about four seconds.  I looked up from my screen, and peered out the door.  Nothing.

Returning to my laptop, I scrolled the page down and settled back into study mode.  But a half minute later, there came a few more rustles, this time from the dining room window.  “Two animals must be fighting,” I thought.  And then more raspy sounds.  “They’re fighting over the compost!” We keep our compost near the dining room window, and Jack told me that if we put the wrong scraps in, we’d get all kinds of critters.  Of course that’s what was happening.  Two critters must have gotten into the pile and started fighting over all the glorious tidbits of rotten melon, egg shells, human hair, and at least one old pair of Hanes.  Then one low snarl from the same direction.  More internal dialogue – “uhoh, should I go shut the door?”

Standing up from the chair, I set the laptop aside, and moved towards the window.  Silence.  Then a scuffle from outside the kitchen window.  Wait… no.  Not the kitchen window.  From the pizza box on the kitchen counter.

I stopped dead in my tracks.  Was there a sound really coming from the pizza box?  I waited ten seconds, and another ruffling sound came from the box.  “Oh my god, my roommates brought back cockroaches in their takeout pizza!”  Then another sound, but this time from the watermelon in front of the pizza box.  Then a shadow moved behind the watermelon – or was my mind just playing tricks on me?  Another raspy sound, this one like from an animal that’s been cornered.  My eyes grew wide.  My heart sped up a few paces.  Whatever it was, it sounded bloodthirsty, and I was next on the list.

Quickly, I moved to the other side of the kitchen, looking for the critter, keeping off my heels should I need to escape.  I threw glances at the pizza box and the watermelon.  No creature.  Fifteen seconds.  No sound. 

I moved the pizza box, and it rasped.  My heart skipped a beat.  But the sound didn’t come from the box.  It came from the other side of the counter.  Then a sizzling sound like from a shorted electric outlet.  “Oh my god, the house is going to burn down.”  I leapt to the other side of the counter, fully expecting blue arcing sparks, white flame, and a whole lot of explaining to do, but there was nothing.  Then the sound again.  From the watermelon.

My eyes widened in disbelief.  Was I going crazy?  We had drawn a face on the watermelon a few days before, put a fedora on it, and named it “Lawrence.” It had a peculiar roaring 20s gangster feel about it.  “Lawrence is speaking to me?” At that moment, I was sure anthropomorphizing the watermelon was the wrong thing to have done, I knew I would never do it again, and the joke had gone too far.  No, too much studying and not enough sleep.  Lawrence couldn’t be communicating; it was a watermelon.

The raspy sound again.  It was the watermelon.  Thoughts filled my head, “it’s a bomb!” being among the loudest.

Then I noticed the watermelon was sitting in a pool of liquid. Lawrence had sprung a leak on his right chin.  More noises.  A small, but high-pressure stream of juice came squirting out of the watermelon, making noises along with it.  “Wow!  That’s what’s making the noise.” Then putrid juice started taking over the counter.

I ran to get Brenda.  “Uuh, Brenda, your watermelon’s exploding.”  By the time we got back, the juice had taken over much of the counter and was spilling onto the floor.  And this was no trickle; it was a constant stream, as if the watermelon were the source of some extraterrestrial spring.  I laughed.  Brenda grabbed paper towels and heaved Lawrence into the sink.  Removing the fedora, she quickly stabbed Lawrence behind the right ear with a kitchen knife, and a “whoooooosh” of gas rushed out.  And stench.

Upon further dissection, the inner 2/3rds of Lawrence’s head was found to be gone to mush, juice, and space.  Not only was he a melon-head, he was an airhead too.

Jack diagnosed Lawrence as having a kind of watermelon encephalitis – bacteria must have gotten into the melon in the field and later fermented the sugars into carbon dioxide.  When the pressure had built up high enough, the gas took the path of least resistance out.  I happened to be in the right place at the right time to observe this gas escape happening.  I thought it was an animal out to get me - nope, it was just a watermelon passing gas.

We gave Lawrence a quick, unceremonious burial in the dumpster, and we eagerly await the stinkbomb’s rapid departure from our house.  We’re spooked.  At least I am.

And whatever I do, I can’t get this image out of my head.  It’s too close (to reality) for comfort.

A Summer to Remember

Several years ago, I got my first science-focused job.  The position was a summer internship at my university and the stipend meant it was the biggest gig I had ever landed.  However, since I had to move out of the dorms, I was considering all summer housing options for my young and newly professional self.  On-campus rent looked expensive - it would have eaten up a good third of the stipend – and many friends weren’t sticking around for the summer.  Off-campus room subleases were another option, but most left a great deal to be desired.  Forced to choose between potluck roommates on-campus and potluck roommates off-campus, I desperately turned to word-of-mouth recommendations.

Hearing this tale of woe, a local friend asked his parents if they could spare me a room in their family house for the summer.  The parents said “yes”.  Their oldest son would be gone for the summer; they had the space.  I imagined myself having a separate bedroom, cooking my own meals, and paying some rent for their troubles – what any professional person would do.    I awaited the big move.

But when I arrived several weeks later, house plans had changed.  As it turned out, the older brother was coming back home for the summer after all, and his basement room would be occupied.  Instead, I would share my friend’s upstairs room.  I also learned that I would not pay rent - the family would not accept it on account of being helped by others when they were in college and merely asked that I pay it forward.  I was openly invited to every family meal and was given free reign of the house.  I was even invited to their lakeside cabin when I could make it.  This was not the summer I had imagined but in a good way.

Yet the most important difference about living in a family house versus one shared with college-age strangers was neither in the financial nor spatial logistics but the personal welcome I received from every family member.  It was these relationships that made the family house inviting and wholly different than anything I had ever experienced.

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After my first full day in the house, my hosts invited me to their family dinner.  Truth be told, I was slightly terrified.  What would I say?  Was speech even expected?  Would I make a fool of myself?  Suppers back home were mostly somber affairs with little talk and less conversation.  At suppertime and with mild trepidation, I took a chair as a pot of bow tie casserole was set down.  After a brief “Our Father”, we dug in and relished the inexplicable pleasure of a first bite of good food.  Mmmms and aaaahs murmured about the table.  Then my wait to observe the family dynamics began, but I didn’t have to wait long.  No sooner than the first breath of post-swallow air had been gasped, the witty banter began – smart wisecracks about their days, endearing burns towards the picky eater, cliché jokes that were somehow reanimated by the teller and their eagerly receptive audience.  I was surprised anybody could get a bite of food in edgewise with all the talk.  Yet I didn’t say much, smiled a little when appropriate, and just tried to act like everything was normal.

Then the dog showed up.  Finn was a miniature Schnauzer with a big bark and big appetite that betrayed its petite stature, and most importantly, was the center of the family’s jests.  He, if not quite human, was nevertheless a full-fledged family member, berated with all the belittling remarks a furry, foot-tall humanoid is entitled to.  Finn was certainly accustomed to joining the family for dinner and while he was not allowed to have a full plate, was deftly slipped a few bites off nearly everyone’s side.  I was intimidated by this small dog, mostly by the bark, probably due to a childhood trauma involving a neighbor’s menacing poodle and wetted pants.   Whatever the cause, Finn sensed a weakness in me and spent that entire meal growling at my feet.  Finn and I later befriended each other, but at this time, I was scared.  Sympathetic laughs ensued.  The family shushed it and pushed it away, but it always made its way back to my feet.  I quickly finished the rest of my food to try and silence it.  Even with the food gone, the dog continued growling.  More laughter.  In retrospect, I’m laughing too.  It was such a tiny dog.

With dinner over, Finn demanding food from their terrified dinner guest reminded everyone of a hilarious YouTube video.  Without leaving our seats, we watched Ultimate Dog Tease

Everyone chuckled.  I made a weak smile - the video was sort of funny.  Finn looked offended.  Then we watched it again.  This time laughter.  I laughed along too.

Then someone said, “Wait! Let’s watch Orchestra Fail!”

WHOOPS!  HOWLS!  My friend’s mother doubled-over from laughter on her chair, face as red as a beet, gasping for air.  Finn barked.  I wheezed along myself – it was too funny to comprehend.  To this day, that video is the funniest thing I have seen on YouTube, and I now double-over in laughter as well.  We laughed for minutes afterwards especially at the trumpeters desperately and dutifully trying to hit their notes.  I suppose it was better to try and fail than never try at all.  And the same went for that family community.  Better to try to be a part of the family than be anything else.  After that video, I was an official unofficial member of the family.

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That summer turned out well, with plenty of humor along the way.  One time, five of us “kids” and friends packed into my ’93 Corolla on the way to a distant beach, the muffler barely above the asphalt.  One of us got terribly sunburned, ached for a good week after, and evoked a subconscious “lobster” connotation that entire summer.  Another time, my friend and I decided to start running for personal fitness and “fun”. We stopped after the first run, too sore to walk up stairs for a good week.  On another occasion, my trusty Toyota broke down on the way to the family’s summer cabin with the entire family inside.  We barely made it back to their house, sputtering the whole time.  We later found that a squirrel had twisted my spark plug wires and turned my plucky 4-cylinder into a heaving, 3-cylinder, off-kilter mess.  The squirrel didn’t even clean up its walnut shells littered under the hood.  We never caught the culprit.

Due to the family’s grace and hospitality, that summer is one my favorite memories of community.  Awkward at first, humorous throughout, even trying now and then.  They were always incredibly supportive of each other, open and honest, supportively patient or necessarily impatient when required, and so very welcoming – an ideal vision for a community of any size or predicament.

And here I sit years later on the dawn of a new intentional community, headphones playing Also Sprach Zarathustra, and I envision our year together.  I half-joked that the first lawn décor we should get was a replica of the Monolith for our front yard to symbolize both pop culture and a great step forward.  You know, right next to the mailbox where all the neighbors would see it and hear Also Sprach Zarathustra and envision the Star-Child or long scenes of cascading colors – or something like that.

*cue audio*

But in all reality, I believe the next great evolution of the human race lies not with a biological change, technological leap, or even a Monolith appearing from nowhere, but with a simple idea people everywhere are trying to live out – respect each other by treating others how you desire to be treated, lifting them up and encouraging them when times are rough, and making them feel like their own family.  This is the idea my hosts invited me to live out that summer not too long ago, the summer I was looking for a professional independence and found myself more dependent on others than I dared believe.  This is the idea they asked me to pass on.  This is the idea behind Agape.  We might not hit all our notes right, but we will try our best and live out this vision all the while.

First post!

On a Tuesday evening in April, we decided that our search for a house was not going well.  My friend Jack and I had been intensely scrutinizing local ads for rental housing, specifically an affordable, 2 bed/2 bath stand-alone rental house for three: Jack, myself, and Brenda (Jack's fiancée).  It was an interesting idea for sure, but whether the plan was motivated by a real desire to share living quarters and getting-to-know-each-other-better-ness or merely reduce rent by having a live-in third wheel (that's me) no one could say.

If there were any available houses in our Central Valley college town, they certainly were not presenting themselves.  The local newspaper gave promising leads with disappointing results; the university housing website lead to musty apartments with cheap rents but even mustier roommates staying on for another year; Craigslist offered many houses beyond our current financial station, which, I'm told, is down the line from Dead Broke but a few stops short of Middle (Class) America.  After all, who wants to pay $1800 a month for a dump that hasn't been renovated since the Summer of Love, when the landlords left for Haight and Ashbury and never quite returned...?

In short, the long-awaited rental house, despite our best intentions, was slipping away.

Enter David, a mutual friend from our church. On this Tuesday evening, Jack, David and I were sprawled around an acrid hookah discussing the times when Jack brought up our lack of rental housing for the next year.  I added that most houses in the area were 3 or 4 bedrooms, and with another roommate, we could make it work.  Jack, a rather spontaneous fellow, asked David if he and his wife, Cynthia, would be interested.  David replied, "If you find a house that would work for the five of us, we'd consider it."  And thus began our next chapter in house-hunting.

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Fast forward three months, and the five of us are eagerly anticipating our move-in next Thursday.  The house is tentatively being called "Agape" to reflect our knowledge of Ancient Greek (limited), experiences in the house hunting process (funny, and the subject of another post) and our commitment to each other (Hallmark moment right here folks).  There has certainly been a lot of talk and preparation going into this move, far more than I've ever had before.  And we hope to share this talk and preparation with you all.

So what is it that you, our readers, should expect to get out of this blog?  We've got a few ideas how this site could be useful to you.  First, we want to keep an open record of the events and happenings at our place as a kind of journal.  We have lots of family and friends that are interested in our comings and goings, and this is an easy format to share our communal life.  We're a bunch of characters, that's for sure, and we might provide decent entertainment value.  We won't even charge.

Related to that idea, this record is also for those who are interested in community life.  Readers approaching from this angle might ask questions like, "How do you manage to live with married people?" or "What sort of shenanigans go on there?"  While we were researching these questions ourselves, we were thoroughly underwhelmed by the Internet.  This blog should help fill in that information gap.

Second, we hope to think about the concept of community life.  In a culture which prioritizes independence over mutuality, skepticism over trust, and the self above all, how can five people manage to cobble together not just a house but a home?  We don't yet have the answers, we don't really ever expect to have them, but we might just get a few hints along the way.

Third, we hope this will be an interactive format for discussions of community life.  We know we aren't the only ones who have asked questions like, "How do you fit five people in a three bedroom house?", "How do you split rent fairly?", "What are great pranks to pull?”  We're interested to interact with you all via comments, suggestions, ideas, and questions about community living.  We know we aren't the only ones out there; please share your thoughts!

Last, tying all the above points together, what does it mean to live together as the body of Christ, both within our home and in a global context?  What does it mean to love your neighbor as yourself?  Being the hands and feet in this context is humbling and remarkable.

No doubt about it, our living situation is demographically interesting, perhaps counter-cultural but certainly just plain odd.  Five people have willingly and intentionally chosen to live together, and at least one of them will be blogging about their experiences in the year ahead.  And who knows what could happen?  I'm eager to start our Adventures in Agape.