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I know that some high school yearbooks include a baby ad page, where seniors can place pictures of their childhood to commemorate their accomplishments, or something. It's cute and kitschy. That's normal, right?

In the Anadarko yearbook, however, the baby ads actually display the infants birthed by students at Anadarko High School.  It's like dozens of Junos, but more Native American, and without the snappy dialogue.

Is this normal?

Is it May yet?

Some mornings, when I'm half awake, listening to Mumford & Sons over and over for two hours without realizing it because I'm zoned out trying to study for that linguistics quiz while driving from Anadarko to Edmond, I wonder why I'm doing this. In case you didn't catch the implication, that happened today, Tuesday, which I like to affectionately refer to as "gross."

I think I feel like this because after nearly two semesters, it seems like senior year will never end and this weird nomadic existence will be my life until the end of time - which is a lot longer than I want to spend at UCO or in Edmond, a place I love to hate.

Then, of course, I remember all the people at Oakridge whom I love dearly, and the work I'm blessed with the opportunity to do for Jesus, and the girls from our youth group who have given me the chance to invest in their lives and also to experience public high school vicariously through them. Ha.

And if I didn't have anything else to be thankful for, at least I didn't have a root canal yesterday, like Michelle behind me. Sad day, Michelle. Sad day.

Carrying the cross.

What would you do if, while driving down the highway, you saw a man dragging a full-size one-wheeled cross behind him on the shoulder of the road?

I pulled over. Well, the seven of us from Oakridge Camp who were headed to the medieval fair yesterday pulled over. The cross-carrying man, Joseph Vasquez, told us that he often takes his custom-built cross out and walks lengthy stretches of highway anywhere within 100 miles of the metro - from Sayer to Pink to Comanche to Verden, where we saw him a few miles outside the town itself.

Why?

"It's a witness for Jesus," Vasquez said. He gave each of us a chance to heft the cross, which boasted a sturdy weight. He does it simply to remind passers-by to consider their spirituality.

I've had numerous theological conversations over the past few years, and I've shared my faith, I think. But this little encounter really forces me to stop and wonder - do I display my own convictions, whether perceived by others as right or wrong, with the same visceral impact that Vasquez gets from something as elementary as lugging a cross down a highway?

Do you?



Vasquez, third from left, invites roadside conversations with his
conspicuous conversation piece.



Anadarko.

Hopelessness tastes

like red dirt

and it

smells like

cigarettes

and asphalt

on Fridays

in empty parking

lots with empty

nights and empty

pockets and empty

minds.

Helplessness looks

like a mirror

and it

tastes like

silence.

Young art in the land of the red man.

Have you ever wondered what the word would be like if buffalo had become the dominant species?
This question has also burned in my mind.
Thankfully for us, the Oklahoma Visual Arts Coalition has resolved to answer that question for us in Momentum, an art exhibition Saturday, March 5 at the OKC Farmers' Market. For $10 online and $15 at the door, it's worth a peek at that buffalo dominance.

Starts at 8, features a couple of bands that sound maybe decent (from Myspace). I'll be there, seeking emotional fulfillment through alternative buffalo history and garlic skins in pouches.

Don't get it? You must not appreciate art.