Storygram - Four Sweaty Men

stuffy stuffy stuffy why is the sun bearing down on us so mercilessly, no reprieve from this heat, i’m breathing in my own sweat, it’s so hot, sticky moisture rolling down my nose

but it is not raining, the heat is also good, the Sevillian sun makes the streets beautiful, entices tourists out of the cafes, i love the streets full of tourists, good atmosphere and perhaps fuller pockets too

they like the entertainment, something different they say, they laugh at us admiringly, some drop in a little euro or two, some shake their heads, wondering what is going on in our heads, some walk on by without sparing a glance, they think we’re faceless, but that does not mean we don’t exist, inside we’re still men, four sweaty men trying to earn a living, but it’s okay, i don’t mind playing the fool, as long as someone laughs

this suit is reeking from my sweat, Miguel would be cooler, i think, inside the dress, i wonder what his sister would say if she knew what he uses it for, i hope she will not call her husband, her husband i hear works in a butchery

oh no, someone brought a barking dog, through my eyehole i see it is only a small one, but what energy it has, it won’t stop, doesn’t like the accordion, he’s no lover of music, but it’s okay, Rafael is having fun with the crowds today, they like his accordion-playing and his jokes, well, i don’t mind so long as someone laughs

Storygram: Metropol Parasol

Standing proudly in the La Encarnación square, the Metropol Parasol mushrooms up in the Sevillian skyline amongst the cluster of old buildings surrounding it. He had been told that it was built by Jürgen Mayer H., and took six years to complete. The criss-cross pattern of the structure left shadowy imprints on the undulating pathway. The geometrical shapes, assuring in their rigidity and regularity, went on endlessly and drew him into a vortex.

He wished to do the same. Throw himself into a project that would wrench out of him all his heart and effort. Lovingly craft something magnificent, painstakingly putting the pieces together till it evolves into something else altogether. Except while Jürgen Mayer H. used wood to build his megastructure, he would use words.

Yes, he would use words. They would be words that have sat within his brain for so long before they were extracted so delicately, so painfully from the vapours of his imagination and placed forcefully down on the white, lined pages of his notebook. They would be words that quickened the blood and pierced the heart. They would be words that sharpened people’s sensitivities and arrested their mind.

He didn’t have six years, however. He was told that he only had a few months before he…

The words he wanted to speak would decay before they ever made it to the pages of his notebook. And he had to live (or, to be accurate, to die) with the satisfaction of silence. 

Training in Righteousness

I really admire people who can pick things up straight away. People who can understand certain principles quickly, and in fact, put them into practice quickly as well. I admire (even envy?) people who seem to do something so effortlessly, people who seem to have it all sorted, all figured out. 

Me, usually I feel like I'm a lumbering slowpoke; I can grasp ideas fairly fast, but when it comes to applying them - it takes me a while. So I tell myself, "ah they're so naturally talented" or maybe "they're predisposed to be so-and-so; I'm not like that."  It's okay to say that, I think, for certain things. But I find myself saying these words when I see someone who appears to be "running the Christian race", as it were, better than I am.  

But the idea of them being "naturally" better than me at being a Christian is, I'm starting to realize, wrong. Such thinking stems from the misperception that sanctification occurs overnight. When Jesus invites us to "take up our cross" daily (Luke 9:23), when Paul tells us to "put to death our old selves" (Colossians 3:5-17), God is telling us that sanctification is a continuous act, it's a habit developed from discipline. Like in any sports training, we will stumble and fall sometimes. There'll be days when we miss the mark. A whole lot of days, in fact. But we still keep running, and we still keep pressing on towards the goal. The failures in my training won't mean I'm not an athlete anymore, but they remind me to get up the next morning and to keep going forward.

When I tell myself that such-and-such a Christian is better at xyz, and I can never hope to be like that, I'm adopting a defeatist attitude. And that very attitude displays a lack of trust in God. Because underlying it is the notion that our Christian journey is dependent on my own motivation, personality, or what-you-may. When in fact, it's about relying on God's strength, it's about remembering Jesus's work on the cross - it is remembering these truths that I am spurred on. 

The moments I am inclined to feel that I can't strain towards holiness, are also the moments I forget that God is faithful, and God has promised us the Holy Spirit, our helper and counsellor aiding us in this battle. Instead, there is the tendency to fall into the trap of thinking that because I'm not living up to God's standards, the only conclusion must that the Holy Spirit is not working in me. But to think that would be to forget that God gives the Holy Spirit to His children who ask Him! (Luke 11:13)

I believe and trust in the God of the Bible. And when he says that He is faithful (Exodus 34:6; 1 Cor 1:9), He means it. So next time, when I see a brother- or sister-in-Christ who is growing in sanctification, I'm going to train myself not to think "wow, if only I could be like that", but to think "wow, that's the amazing power of God's work! It'll mean hard work for me, but by God's grace, I can aspire to be like that too!"

Storygram: Caminito del Rey

Sorry for the late update! Had been kind of busy haha.

----

It had looked like a gigantic knife had sliced through the landscape and scooped out a piece from the rocky mountain range. Tilting her head upwards, she saw the sudden 90° decline from the mountaintop down to the deep gorge below. The Guadalhorce river cruises serenely, its turquoise waters soft and creamy as they curl through the craggy pockmarked formation.

She descended from the cliff overlooking the Caminito del Rey, the gravels and pebbles crunching beneath her hiking boots. As the wind rips through the trees, her glance eventually wafts towards the white pristine hotel she was staying in. The pool glittered under the Spanish sun, and though at a distance away, she thought she could make out the polite clatter of fine dinner plates at the restaurant.

 

The glitzy hotel stood at odds with its surroundings. A rugged, worn-down village couched nearby, its houses perched almost desultorily over the undulations of the mountain. A lone local bar was lodged aside the silent train station. The green tarpaulin covers of the bar flapped noisily in the wind, almost in tune with the music blaring over the radio.

It was strange seeing the bar wedded to the cushy resort next to it. But with the deep ravines and the dizzying peaks of the place, she supposed contrast was part of the life of El Chorro. 

Storygram: The River Wear

The river wears on – from the beginning, till now, till the end.

She regarded the waters slipping by, quietly and unobtrusively. No one paid any attention. No one
saw. Yet, how deceptive it all was! She watched as the rowers carved out powerful strokes across the
cool surface. All in sync, all in beautiful motion.

They look so strong. Each second the oar strikes incisively into the water’s body, cuts across its
insides, pulling it back up again in a disintegrated mass of fine mist and spray. They seem like masters of the waters.

But she knows.

People will marvel at its beauty and laud its quietness. They will see the river and think it befitting the quaint town. But they don’t know what she knows. The resilience, the weightiness, in its reticence.

The river wears on, in a stream of time.