The Cup Of Silence


This Old Croat
June 17, 2007, 1:33 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

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My Dad and I are so alike. I think about our similarities often. We both love being different than everyone else. We like to laugh. We cry at movies. We both like Beethoven. We both love God, and sometimes don’t know how to live like it. We both get angry (sometimes at each other). We both are quick to reconcile. We were both lost in our sins, and now have been found by a Father that doesn’t disappoint. We both like fishing and we both really need to get out to the lake soon.

My dad was the first person to ever stick up for me. He was the first person to show up at my hockey games, and the only person you could hear from the stands. My dad taught me the alphabet, something I have used quite often. I remember sitting with him at his desk, learning how to draw the letter D.” (“The lower case d is tricky because it looks different, unlike the lower case C, and its upper-case counterpart”).

My dad has the beard that I wish I could grow. He has a smile that reveals a twelve-year-old boy, who just can’t see the logic in behaving himself. My dad is the best dad I have ever had. I wouldn’t trade him for a new model.

Happy fathers day, pop.



The Cracks
June 10, 2007, 12:26 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

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It splinters from a single impact, increasing its reach across the whole pane of glass. Like Bosnia? Like me? You?

Some of our neighbors here are a family from a small village in Bosnia, who moved to Sarajevo to find work. They have little to no money, as jobs are scarce. Two days ago, they were blessed with the birth of their third child. At the hospital, the medical staff encouraged this newly mother of three (during labor) with the words “push, you heap of shit.” Whats worse, it didn’t even phase the one pushing, like she has heard it all her life. Whats once more to a poor Bosnian woman from some unknown village?

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I don’t know if Bosnia is the most forgotten country in the world, but it sure isn’t getting the attention it used to. As far a social status is concerned, Romas are at the bottom here. They are gypsies who beg, steal, and dig through garbage cans for food. Their parents pass on these traditions to their children.

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I’ve been reading Philippians this past week. In chapter two, it talks about others, and how we should regard them as more important than ourselves, just like Christ did for us. This City is beautiful. It is full of rich traditions, wonderful architecture, and people. Yes people. Humans who were knit together in their mother’s womb. Maybe they were born to a poor family, from a small village. Maybe to parents who pass their helplessness on to their children. Or perhaps they were born to the corrupt politician, who pockets war relief money, to buy a new Hummer. All imago dei.

Bosnia has cracks. They started small. They have gotten bigger. I have cracks too. What will it take to heal?