Another Christmas

The excitement about Christmas I experienced as a child has been on the decline. I'm less ecstatic about the smorgasbord of delectable holiday treats than I once was. I don't much care anymore whether we string up Christmas lights or decorate the exterior of our house. I stayed up late on Christmas Eve, but it wasn't out of anticipation—rather, I watched Clint play Call of Duty 4 and then talked late into the night with Justin. My sister made me get out of bed to eat the wonderful breakfast my dad prepared.

Isn't it sad when you realize that the child in you has grown up and dissipated into adulthood? What used to be inconceivable to me when I was a child now makes perfect sense; I can understand the adult perspective because I am an adult. I'm not a child behind enemy lines scoping out the lay of the land; I am the "enemy". I know the mindset, the motive, the excuses firsthand. I'm here. I'm not sure if it's better or worse this way.

One thing I have grown out of is cheesy Christmas songs. The tried-and-true carols come on the radio and jingle around in my ears, but some of them now strike me as flat-out stupid. What's with that song talking about Santa Claus coming right down Santa Claus Lane? Maybe it's because I was never one of Santa's believers, but I think the song is dumb. Now that I mention it, I can't think of a single song that includes Santa that I really like. Allow me an apathetic shrug.

Becoming older hasn't unveiled any new insights into the song The 12 Days of Christmas, though. It has always puzzled me. Why would anyone want any of the gifts besides the five golden rings? Perhaps the song hearkens back to a simpler time, when people were satisfied with more basic gifts. You know, like when people gave each other eight maids a-milking. Wait, what? Hmm—I guess it doesn't quite make sense in any era. In any case, the song provides ample material for Christmas-themed jokes and videos.

After making this week's video, I've found myself asking frequently, "Are you insecure?" Ask yourself this question and ponder your motives for the way you act in various situations. You might surprise yourself, if you're painfully honest. I think insecurity accounts for much more of my behavior than I'd like to admit.

I hope your Christmases were happy and secure!

Love,

Jordan

Welcome to Earth, Jesus

Yo, bros! As you may have guessed, it is I: JoPo. I bring you good tidings of great joy that shall be for all viewers. Unto us is filmed this day, in the region in which I live, a video series which is rather humorous. And this shall be a sign unto you: you shall see the first one posted on Saturday.

Yeah ... all that was to say that I will be posting a very short Christmas-themed video every day leading up to Christmas starting this Saturday. They are each under 30-seconds. Consider them bite-sized morsels for the eyes.

Disclaimer: the videos are not making fun of any of the events surrounding the birth of Jesus!

As I was thinking about "the first Christmas" (i.e. when Jesus was born), I had an interesting thought. This time of year ushers in a surplus of whimsical, magical feelings and glowy images. We see the nativity scene in soft colors with serene looks on every face and tender messages typed underneath. Our music reinforces the feathery, nebulous aura surrounding the event: the song "Silent Night" paints the night as encapsulated in unearthly calmness, untouched by the various tremors and disruptions of normal nights.

It's truly wonderful that the Christ child was born—but was the night really so undisturbed? Didn't thefts and rapes still happen? Didn't the cattle low (as even the song Silent Night says, ironically)? Didn't frazzled innkeepers become gruff? Chickens still squawked, mosquitoes still bit, people still sweat, spouses still had tiffs. In other words, the moment wasn't suspended in time, free from all the bothers of life. Jesus didn't come to earth in a bubble of mystical, luminous tranquility. That, I think, is one of the beauties of it: for all of the world's grime, bickering, backbiting, stealing, and turmoil, Jesus still came. He was born into the midst of it. He entered real—albeit sometimes ugly—life because He really cares for us.

"For God so loved the (dirty, sinful, raucous) world, He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life." (John 3:16; italicized words added)

I can't say exactly how that first Christmas looked; I wasn't there. But whether or not a halo of angelic light gilded Jesus's infant brow, He was born of a virgin and wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger inside a stable. That is the point of the short Christmas videos: I want to remember that Jesus's birth is a reality. He was born. He was born into this real world as a real man surrounded by real people doing people things, and real animals doing animal things. Remember Him this Christmas.

Jordan "Raw and Real" Powell

Howdy, I'm Flynn Buckly

Everybody likes videos that follow the "My Five Tips" structure. You know, like "Ten things to do before attending a Britney Spears concert" or "Five ways to rile diehard Twilight fanatics". These videos are usually funny. They don't press any one point for very long; they jump from tip to tip, so they appeal to the attention-deficient persons in our midst (that includes me sometimes).

They're fairly simple to make, too. Brainstorm funny ideas about your selected topic, and BAM—you practically have your script. Since each tip isn't itself very long, they don't require much writing or planning. Film tip #1 and then pause and think about tip #2; film tip #2 and pause as you think about tip #3; and so on. You can plan on the fly as you record.

My video is about Flynn Buckly and his list of Yuletide "If'n You Don'ts". I had a lot of fun portraying Flynn; the outfit really helped me think Flynnish thoughts and get into character. I wish I was a little more consistent with the accent, though.

Look out for an interview of Flynn coming soon. I want to start another channel where I can post videos of me interviewing my characters. I already have some in the works!

Until next time,
Jordan

It's Autumn

Happy Friday, folks! It's video time. This week I bring you a Jordan Powell original song called The Fall. I wrote it, played the piano, and sang the vocals (hence why it is *cough* not the greatest). You might well ask yourself: what does it mean? It's basically about autumn, and how it makes me nostalgic to no end. Other than that, it's open to interpretation.

The Fall lyrics:

It's autumn

So many thoughts come

They snow down around me

Like brittle, parched leaves

It's cold out

And so I hold out

My hands to the fire

Of all that my little heart believes

I'm falling

(You're following)

We're falling

Into the past

It's cold here

(But bright and clear)

And all the tears fall up

As I duck

Into the past

I called ya

Head full of nostalgia

And we lost ourselves in things

That we'd proven good

It was cold there

But all the old cares

Had toppled and now only

All the pleasant things stood

I'm falling

(You're following)

We're falling

Into the past

It's cold here

(But bright and clear)

And all the tears fall up

As I duck

Into the past

This autumn air takes me somewhere else

It smells like memories and years gone by

Hot chocolate and fire places add their spells

And the tears fall up into the sky

It's cold out

And so I hold out

My hands to the fire

Of all that my little heart believes

I Hope You Dance

Hello there, people of earth. I have descended once again from my lofty seat in the illustrious clouds to grace your thirsty brows with yet another ridiculous video. It's a tough job full of nit, grit, and maybe a little bit of spit—but someone's got to do it. Happily I comply.

This week is an old fashioned, honest-to-goodness dance party. My behavior may seem outlandish to you, but that shows how much you have to learn about who I am. I routinely dance like this at home, throwing caution to the wind, but only for select audiences. But no more! In this video, I let you in on the dancing side of me.

Dancing is one of my favorite forms of exercise. It's a blast and lets me channel my creativity into thinking up new moves, but it is a workout at the same time. I filmed the dancing yesterday, and I woke up very sore this morning. Oof—I need to dance more often. I'm not exactly a spring chicken anymore. I'm more like an early-summer chicken ... or duck. Or platypus.

I will include a song list sooner or later whenever I get around to it. I think I want to make this a regular feature; I will try to write a blog post to accompany each video I shoot.

I really like the large headphones I wear in the video. Awesome stuff. I haven't been able to find any others like them, although I did find these on Amazon.

Song list:

1. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik — Mozart

2. Everybody Dance — Chic

3. Jump Jump Jump — True Vibe

4. DotA — Basshunter

5. Out of Control — Capital Lights

6. Axel F — Harold Faltermeyer

7. Scatman — Scatman John

8. Blue — Eiffel 65

9. Strawberry Avalanche — Owl City

10. Every Time We Touch — Cascada

11. Light of Love — Music Go Music

12. Bündner Jodler — Berner Liedertafel

13. Castle in the Sky — DJ Satomi

14. Dragostea Din Tei — O-Zone

15. Butterfly — Smile.dk

16. Don't Stop Believin' (dance remix) — George Lamond

17. Dancing Queen — Abba

18. Better Off Alone — Alice Deejay

19. Every Time You Need Me — Kindervater feat. Nadja

20. Colors of the Rainbow — DJ Skeptik

Big Mommy: Loving Hands

Big Mommy, my great-grandmother, is in heaven now. We had her funeral yesterday. I read to everyone at the service. I hadn't planned on participating, but several nights prior to the service, I sat up in bed thinking, unable to fall asleep. I started writing my thoughts down, and they congregated into a cohesive page of thoughts about Big Mommy. I hadn't shed a tear about Big Mommy's death before this, but as the words came to me, so did the tears. Putting on paper what I thought about Big Mommy unleashed the feelings I had inside. I shared the page with my mother, and she asked if I wanted to read it at the funeral. I said yes. Here is what I wrote that night and read to attendees of Big Mommy's celebration service:

Loving Hands

It is uncanny how someone’s departure can shed light on what their life has meant to you. It is like this: Every home possesses its own peculiar smell, and the members of each home are steeped in a signature scent. While living in the midst of this scent, the householders gradually cease to notice it. It is when they are removed from it and return to it that their senses are awakened to the aroma, and they can then appreciate its sweetness. Again: A stamp leaves a mark, but the stamp itself must be drawn away in order for one to perceive the imprint. In the same way, we all bear an imprint from Big Mommy and are beginning to see the mark more clearly than before. As we reflect on who she was, we can breathe in anew the fragrance of her life. It is a good fragrance.

I think back on her phrases that used to be humorous to me. These sayings of hers mean so much more to me now; once they amused me, but now they inspire me. I’m sure I’m not alone when I confess that when she prayed for God’s blessing on the food, I enjoyed listening for the wrong reasons. I would smile to myself as she thanked the Lord for our family being gathered together in “the bonds of love” and for the food prepared by “loving hands.” She would revisit both of these phrases any number of times within the span of a single prayer. Sometimes, it seemed to me, she did this for the sake of continuity in the prayer: if she fumbled for words, she resorted to these tried and true phrases to patch things up. At other times, she seemed to have simply forgotten mid-prayer what ground she had already covered and unwittingly repeated herself. After she had finally cinched the prayer off with an “amen,” I would chuckle about what a doozy of a prayer it had been this time.

But now I can smell the sweetness of those prayers. Whether because of forgetfulness or something else entirely, the reason she said those certain favorite words again and again was they were at the top of her heart; they were the true words overflowing her inner being, and they spilled over onto her tongue and into our ears and down into our lives. I don’t think she really revisited the same words so much as the words revisited her. She kept finding them in her heart, and so she kept thanking God with them.

I now find the same words in my heart. I am thankful for Big Mommy. I am thankful for her loving hands that cooked and cleaned and caught flies at the dinner table. I am thankful for her loving hands that shucked peas, canned tomatoes, and shelled pecans. I am thankful for her loving hands that crafted napkin caddies, knitted dishrags and afghans, and gave them away. I am thankful for her loving hands that trained up younger hands to love. I am thankful for her loving hands that helped in ways big and small to weave all the fibers comprising the bond of love we have now.

A smile still splashes involuntarily across my face when I remember Big Mommy’s prayers, but the smile no longer flows from amusement. It is a smile of fond gratitude. It is a smile of loving memory. And it is a smile of radiant joy at the thought that Big Mommy feels no pain in her shoulders when she raises her loving hands to praise the God who made her, sustained her, and now holds her close in His bond of love.

Owl Eyes

I should have been in bed hours ago, but I am awake. It's not an accident. My eyes sting; my head hurts; my thinking is muddled and slow. My body gave me signals along and along, trying to alert me to my need for rest; but I disregarded the warnings. I chose this. The truth is, I like staying up.

I don't use the bathroom during these silent watches of the night. Instead, I go outside when nature calls. I like the coolness of the night and the openness of the sky above my head. I revel in a world at rest. My soul puffs up and fireworks of joy throw muted bangs around in my chest.

The night frightens people, I think, because they envision dusky shapes lurking in the half-light. Night is to them a veil for things that prowl and skulk. They much prefer the visibility of daylight and the safety that daytime's bustle extends.

Night has beguiled me because it is silent. It is at rest. I can feel the quietness of it. Some people can listen to music while they do homework or work on projects, but I can't; noise clogs my mind and retards my thoughts. I can think full-on about the music, or I can turn it off and think about something else—it's as simple as that: either or, not both. Night is a realm of solitude where thoughts can take main stage. The noise of color and movement and sound is tranquilized, making room for thoughts to light up the the darkness like a thousand fireflies whirring and blinking amidst tall, whispering trees. The night sky is stretched across the heavens like a giant connect-the-dots sheet, and each new thought draws a line from star to star.

But night is also lonely. I would never be able to enjoy the night if I knew I was utterly alone. I can enjoy the night because I know I am never alone; my Lord stands beside me and sees my every thought. And He doesn't have to break the silence to speak to me.

Last night as I stood outside and searched the sky, I had the crazy idea to write a book called Owl Eyes. It would be about a boy who loved the night in all it's purest forms. He was made that way, and he had a unique purpose to fulfill in that capacity. He loved the night because the world was asleep, and he could focus. Or something like that. He habitually wakes up and wanders around under cover of darkness. One night he wakes up and night never ends; the other people never wake up. It's up to him, of course, to bring back the dawn.

I think his name is Oliver, because it sounds close to "owl".

Goodnight, baby bear scouts.

The Quiet Individual

I know, I know—this is two posts in one day (what a waste of creative resources, right?). But when something bugs you like something is bugging me, it's better to get it out instead of leaving it internalized. This is not to say that you shouldn't use restraint in things you say; words are powerful and should be wielded with care. But I am compelled to write this down, so prepare to read it up.

(Whoa—I just got a really cool picture in my mind of eyes shining rays of mystical light onto a page and beaming up the words from off of the paper. Reading as alien abduction. Awesome.)

Anyway, I want to gripe about society's fear of the quiet individual. I happen to be a rather quiet chap. As a recovering peoplephobe, I resent the attitude some loud people develop towards me. "You're being too quiet," they say; "You should talk more." The attitude is this: they feel that people owe it to everyone else to be as loud and as talkative as they are. Perhaps I am too quiet sometimes, but where it is possible to err in one direction, it is usually possible to err in the other direction too. If I'm too quiet, they are too loud.

What if I said, "You're being too loud; you should talk less"? This seems reasonable to me, but I never hear anyone say it—probably because those of us who think it are too content staying quiet.

Many people spout rivers of speech, but who will take the time to listen? Where do those rivers of speech flow? Does anyone stop to care?

There are different reasons behind my episodes of quietness. I called myself a recovering peoplephobe, and that's what I am. Afraid of people? Yes. Why? I don't know; but many people are afraid of spiders, whereas I am not. You feel uninhibited chatting with strangers; I feel uninhibited in close proximity to a spider. Fear is fear, and we are all fearful of different things.

Sometimes I feel restrained from speaking by self-consciousness: will I come off as stupid? Sometimes I feel restrained by attraction to the opposite sex: girls have a way of making me nervous. Sometimes I feel restrained by hierarchy: as a younger or less experienced man, I should respect the speaking authority. Sometimes I am restrained by fatigue: my mind is taking a nap. Sometimes I feel restrained by track record: I didn't make an initial impression of talkativeness, so nobody leaves room in the conversation for my comments (I have to butt in awkwardly). Sometimes I feel restrained by the sheer volume of words in a crowd: with so much speech flying around, someone should listen instead of adding to the chaos. Sometimes I am merely shy—is there any further explanation necessary?

In any case, do not tell a quiet person to talk more. It doesn't work, whatever their reasons for being quiet may be. In fact, it usually makes them more self-conscious and less motivated to interact. Don't put your burden of loudness on their shoulders. Instead, maybe you should consider quieting yourself down. Try talking with a quiet person in a quiet way without drawing undue attention to the fact that you are doing it. Don't call them out—draw them out.

Later.

Contemplations On Direction

It seems remarkably hard to get on in the world when one disbelieves in accruing mountains of debt. I can't decide whether to give up on debt-free living or to give up on getting on in the world. Maybe there is a happy balance in the middle somewhere, or maybe I just haven't tried hard enough to "get on". Or maybe I am looking entirely in the wrong direction.

Common wisdom follows a train of thought similar to this: "If you love to do something, it will not matter how much money you make. It's better to be yourself and love what you do than to be rich and miserable because you hate your job." I was struck just now as I wrote this that such a train of thought seems rather self-centered—it's all about personal fulfillment. It bypasses my selfishness detectors because it seems to shun money, but in the end it's all about my own satisfaction. "How can I get the most for me out of life? Money is a dead-end, and fame is too. But who can fault me for simply doing what I love?"

It's not necessarily wrong to do what I love; this I know. But neither is it necessarily wrong to earn money by doing something that doesn't rank as my favorite pastime. Neither route will of itself bring me fulfillment. If I engage in activities I love because I think I deserve the freedom to pursue any interest I may have, or because I feel I am entitled to happiness through indulgence in personal whims, it is selfish and ultimately not fulfilling. By the same token, if I ignore my own skills, giftings, personality wiring, and general bent of mind in the pursuit of monetary success,—besides being a disservice to the God who formed me in such a way as He saw fit for His sometimes inscrutable purposes—it is, of itself, empty.

I will find fulfillment in carrying out the will of the Father. Jesus was a carpenter, but carving wood could never bring fulfillment in His life unless it pleased the Father at that particular time. There was a time for Jesus to carve, and a time for Him to minister. Each activity seems to be a container that can either be filled with God's good pleasure and blessing or else hollow, empty, and purposeless. I suppose I seek that path which will be a container into which the Father will plentifully pour His blessing. I present my vessel to Him. Guide my steps, O God.