Are you the type of person to watch a two-hour paid program from World Vision Canada, Operation Smile, or Christian Children's Fund of Canada? Do you cry? Do you open wallet and donate?
Or are you the person to quickly change the channel? Well, Watoto Children’s Choir sent 19 orphaned kids and adults to perform at Springs Church to raise money for their charity. They are working their way across Canada—east to west. Watoto is a charity responding to the large number of orphaned children and vulnerable women in Uganda due to HIV/AIDS, death, and abandonment. Looking at the 2000 seats that are filling up quick, there is a sponsor sheet on every third chair next to the tithes and offerings form that says, “Blessed to be a Blessing.” Five minutes before the second service is about to start, people scramble to find one of the last seats. The house lights dim, and the stage lights go on. The countdown on the big screen works its way down to zero. Dennis, a seven-year-old orphan, and MC for the show, shares how his parents both died from AIDS when he was younger. He says he was sad but isn’t anymore because of Jesus’s love, and his new family now—Watoto. Without sponsorship, Dennis says he would probably be dead—if not physically, spiritually. He said Watoto helped him get an education, have a home, feed his belly, and most importantly find God. He is tangible child standing in front of thousands of people asking for help, not a character on a television screen. The choir started singing and dancing in ways this Spirit Contemporary church hasn’t seen in a long time. They were beating on empty jugs, bongos, and wood blocks. The choir didn’t change anything about their traditional way of worshipping, except they sang partly in English. Half way through the first song, you see a middle aged woman on the far right side of the sanctuary stand up—eyes closed—with both arms lifted, saying, “thank-you Jesus.” One-by-one, people started to stand and sing. By the end of the song all 2000 people were standing, giving glory to God and their Lord and Saviour, Jesus. Half way through service, the tithes and offerings bucket went through the isles and were quick to pile up. The tiny white buckets were overflowing with the blue and white envelopes that say, “Blessed to be a Blessing,” on them. While people were filling the sponsorship sheets, Dennis introduced all the members of the choir. Each member had a different story. Like many charity programs, the main focus is to raise money or get sponsorship, but Watoto Children’s Choir asked for prayer more than money. The choir’s leader even thanked people for sponsoring children from World Vision Canada and other charities. She says, “It doesn’t matter who you donate your money to, because we’re all working together to fix this world.” But that didn’t stop people from donating money. She introduces the last song. The tithes and offering bucket comes through the rows again, and the bucket is more full than the last time. Assuming most of the envelopes are gone from the first round of tithes and offering, this bucket has more unclaimed twenty and fifty dollar bills. Church is dismissed and people are encouraged to visit with the choir outside the sanctuary. A few days later, Springs Church said they couldn’t quote how much they made that day, but all the money that came in was donated directly to Watoto, including tithes. For more information about Watoto, check-out: http://www.watoto.com/the-choir I made a 15 second video for my media production class--Check it out.
Wee Film Let me know what you think. Leave a comment. -T I just downloaded the Vine app about two months ago, and no one told me how amazing Vine is. If you don't have it, get it now, because Vine is VERY underrated.
Now, I'm not one to photograph or video my entire life, even the hilarious moments, but I made a Vine for my advertising class. The assignment was to make a Vine video that promotes a product we use. Take a look and tell me what you think. "Revitalift is all about results!" My Vine Thanks, -T Blood
2,581 drops. The darkness is smothering me. I think it’s tampering with my soul. Not surprising though, I’ve been in here for 2,582 drops. 2,583. The cold from the cement floors is creeping up my feet to my ankles. It wasn’t bad before, but the cold drops are collecting around me. I shouldn’t complain because my hands are completely numb. I would rather have cold hands than numb hands. If there is anything worse than cold feet and numb hands, it is being cuffed to a fucking pole with cold feel and numb hands. My fingers are probably turning black—I can’t see them, I just know that’s what happens when you lose circulation for a long time. Who ever put me in here didn’t even have the decency to let me sit. 2,584. I pull my arms down four times, but the pole above my head stops them. I pull again. The metal pole is stronger than the cuffs, and the cuffs are stronger than my wrists. A drop hits my temple. 2,585. “Two-thousand-five-hundred-and-eighty-five” I stop pulling and stand there. The drop slides down to my cheekbone, across to my nose and to the corner of my mouth. I stand motionless. This is the first drop to touch me since I woke up. I open the corner of my mouth to meet the drop with my tongue. I thought would taste metallic like the awful smell in here. Maybe taste like blood but surprisingly it tastes like water. Maybe who ever kidnapped me drowned some woman in the bathtub upstairs and left the water running, so now it’s dripping in this closet place. 2,585. Or maybe who ever put me in here is taking a hot bath to relax their muscles. I don’t remember how I got here, but I imagine I put up a pretty good fight. It’s not like me to give in to anyone. 2,586. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I yelled. The echo was short; it bounced right back. 2,587. 2,588. I think I heard another woman scream--first time hearing something other than those fucking drops. “I can hear you! Please, please yell again!” I replied. “My name is Cassie, I wont hurt you. What’s your name?” I called for hours. I don’t know why she didn’t answer. 2,584. 2,583? Or was it 2,584? Did I lose count? I can’t lose count. I need to know how long I’ve been in here. The handcuffs get tighter and tighter. A blood stream drips from my wrists down my elbows. I have no control over any aspect of my life. I would give anything to remember how many drops—I need to know how long I’ve been in here for. I put my head down and started to cry. “Fuck!” I yelled. I can’t hang myself and I can’t put a gun to my head. I doubt who ever put me in here is actually going to kill me. My kidnapper’s probably going to leave me here to rot. I lick the blood off my elbow. I don’t swallow; I just let the blood run down my throat. When people are supposed to die they bleed to death, and the people who are supposed to live don’t bleed. If they do it’s nothing a Band-Aid cant fix. I’m bleeding enough to know death is close, but not enough die. I want to die. I clench my numb black hands around the metal bar and lift myself up, like I’m ripped guy at the gym doing pull-ups. I brought my blood stained crusted lips to my right wrist. I turned my head so my top teeth could line up with left side of my wrist, and the bottom to the right. I slowly bit down. Blood melted out each side of my mouth, like ice cream on the edge of a waffle cone on a summer day. This is the first time I felt pain in two thousand and something drops. I lift myself again and bite down—this time a little faster. It tastes less like helplessness and more like freedom. I lift myself up again. I bite down and pull the flesh away from the bone. I swallow it. “Two-thous” I mumble. “two thousand and something drops.” I close my eyes. My body starts trembling. Blood pours down my body. It reaches my frozen feet, but the warm blood is satisfying. I open my eyes to see black. Nothing has changed. A bright light comes from my left and I see a silhouette of a large man. He runs toward me and lifts my body to the bar. I can’t see much, but it feels like he’s trying to take me down. I whisper “two thousand.” My body drops to the ground and everything goes black again, except this time I feel at rest. -T She Didn’t Deserve You
I guess it’s inappropriate to insult someone and call them a lying whore at their funeral. “The wonderful Loretta Jones. Loyal wife to Vern Jones, mother of three successful children, and grandmother to one.” This is what it says on the funeral program. The picture in the program looks beautiful. A woman. Maybe a mother of two beautiful children—a boy and a girl—who go to Richmond Public School, and eat dinner at six o’clock sharp, in their suburban three bedroom, three bathroom bungalow. Not a woman who cheated on her husband. The first time I saw Lori cheat on my grandpa was when I was nine. We were having a grandma-granddaughter date like we did every few weeks. Lori loved having me over because Grandpa was a trucker, and he would be gone for weeks at a time. We went to her house to bake snicker doodles and watch Loonie Toons till we’d pass out. At least, that was the plan. That night, we did bake snicker doodles, but when we were about to watch cartoons Lori said it was going to be an early night because she had a migraine. I passed out after the third episode, or maybe the second—it’s hard to tell because I seen them all 100 times. I woke up in the guest bedroom, not Lori’s. I remember checking her room. The door was open, the bed was still made and her navy slippers weren’t by the door. I heard voices downstairs—two voices. I sat on the stairs and slid my bum from one step to the next till I could hear laughing in the kitchen. I slid until I could see around the corner with my left eye. Lori was sitting in grandpas seat at the kitchen table, with her shirt off and her legs spread open like she pulled her groin and was trying to stretch it out. I remember her breasts hanging there like two raw pork chops—the right one, slightly bigger—just teasing the neighbourhood mutt. His eyes were latched like a newborn baby feeding off his mother. I ran up the stairs into the guest bedroom and hid under the blanket. I closed my eyes and all I could see is Lori sharing her boobs with someone other than Grandpa. She came upstairs and whispered in my ear “I’m sorry hunny, I made a mistake. This will be our little secret.” She walked out my room and closed the door. Lori and I never talked about what happened that night. The funeral was almost over when grandpa took the microphone from Aunt Ethel and said, “I’m sorry Loretta. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the husband you deserved. You were the purest woman a man could find. I love you.” -T |
teneshamarleyTell me what you think by leaving a comment! Archives
April 2015
Categories |