Raw Confessions II

It is time again for some Raw Confessions - the Ex-pat version, not to be confused with the Malaysian version. Malaysian Raw Confessions might include items like, "I only mopped my floors five times last week." or "I left my carport gate open for an hour." Or yet, "I let a customer walk through my store without trailing him or getting close enough to trip him."

Items which would never make the Malay list are things like how many people I cut off on the highway last week, or how many parking places I stole from the person patiently waiting with her directional signal on. No one wastes any time agonizing over that kind of thing.

Now, if this were the sushi version - really raw - it might include such delicacies as why my van now has a dent on the right side. . . .but these will actually only be half-baked confessions, or as they say here, half-boiled.

So, first, I let my face show what I thought of the food at the corporate retreat, after warning my children not to turn up their noses at anything. I didn't show what I really thought, I just allowed a pained, long-suffering, "I wish there were something edible in this whole buffet" look to cross my face - more than once. I am not proud of this, but it is true.

Second, I said a word in my nine year-old's presence last week that she has never heard cross my lips. This was the third time in a week I had been the victim of circumstances in a carpark. My huge white whale of a van is too tall to fit under the barriers in any parking garage, so I have to fight minis and other toy-sized cars for a spot in the tiny outside lots. In order to get into the lot you have to take a ticket; in order to get out you have to pay at the auto-pay station which is located inside the shopping center. So, if you circle the lot 20 times without finding a parking space, you still cannot leave, because you need a paid ticket in order to make the exit gate go up, and you have to park in order to pay! The perfect catch-22!

Third, I have not taken every opportunity to meet people in my new community, something I feel guilty about at least once a day. Yesterday I walked past my neighbor trimming her rose bushes without so much as a "Selamat Pagi." I have never chatted with anyone in the exercise room and I have not stopped in the park to meet the mothers at the playground. I do smile at people, bit I'm not sure that counts.

Fourth, I fed the stray cat outside our back door for at least two weeks after my husband asked me, politely but firmly, to stop. I just could not bear her pathetic face hissing at me every time I opened the door to check on the dryer. I even tried to do it when the children were not around, since they were also under orders not to feed stray animals - thus covering my transgressions. . . Ivy blew my cover.

I think there is a pattern here. It seems that living in another culture has become an opportunity to commit all kinds of offenses I might not have fallen prey to at home! Wouldn't you know it! There is all manner of impurity in my heart just waiting for the opportunity to be revealed. Life in another culture has given me new opportunities to be self-centered, proud, impatient, rude and wilfull!

I sang Joy to the World last week in church with a new appreciation for the emphasis upon the nations, thrilled to look around and see so many non-Western faces, but I also had a fresh appreciation for the reminder of how just far the curse is found! And how well it travels!

This morning I read a Puritan prayer which ended:

The memory of my great sins, my many temptations, my falls,
bring afresh into my mind the remembrance of thy great help,
of thy support from heaven,
of the great grace that saved such a wretch as I am.
There is no treasure so wonderful as that continuous experience of thy grace
toward me which alone can subdue the risings of sin within:
Give me more of it.

That is my prayer for the upcoming New Year.

"only from himself."

This was always one of my favorite Christmas poems when I was a child. I can still recite it word for word, as can most of my siblings! Several times this year I have thought (with a smile) of the lines, "And round about December, the cards upon his shelf, which wished him lots of Christnmas cheer and fortune in the coming year, were never from his near and dear, but only from himself." One of my favorite Christmas traditions is hanging up the cards we receive in some unsophisticated manner, on a string across the kitchen or stuck with masking tape around a door frame. . . but this year I am a loss at what to do to properly showcase the ONE card we have received! Perhaps I will have it matted and framed. . . .

I thought about taking a page from King John's book and hanging up some cards I bought myself, but Malaysian Christmas cards are pretty unattractive to my discerning eye, so we're just making do with paper chains this year. Enjoy the poem.




King John's Christmas
AA Milne

King John was not a good man --
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air --
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon...
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They'd given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,
He lived his live aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
"TO ALL AND SUNDRY - NEAR AND FAR -
F. Christmas in particular."
And signed it not "Johannes R."
But very humbly, "Jack."
"I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don't mind oranges,
I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man --
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to this room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
"I think that's him a-coming now!"
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
"He'll bring one present, anyhow --
The first I had for years."
"Forget about the crackers,
And forget the candy;
I'm sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don't like oranges,
I don't want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man,
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: "As I feared,
Nothing again for me!"
"I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts!
And, oh! if Father Christmas, had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all ...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!
AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED,
INDIA-RUBBER
BALL!

traffic in the tropics

If I were a poet I would write about the roads in Malaysia,

Paradise of lane-changers, Graveyard of pedestrians.

I would write of ubiquitous U turns

numberless speed bumps

the lack of directional signals;

of merciless merging and lurching and inserting.

I would write of lane-sharing scooters whose drivers wear their jackets backward

of belching, barreling trucks with no cab doors

with molded plastic chairs where a driver's seat
used to be,

Of teksis that drive with equal abandon on either side of the road .

I would write of Double Parking and Double Passing

of Legendary Jams.

I would speak of interposition, interjacence, intercurrence,

intervenience, interlocation, and interjection.

I would write about interpolation, interlineation, interspersion,

intercalation, interpenetration, permeation

and infiltration.

Of intervention, interference, obtrusion, insinuation, insertion,

of intruders and interlopers in my lane.

Of drivers who come between, get between, intervene,

slide in, wedge in, edge in, jam in,

worm in, foist in, run in, plow in, work in.

How they interpose, interject, interpolate, and interline,

interleave, intersperse, and interweave;

sandwich in, fit in, squeeze in;

dovetail, splice, mortise,insinuate,

infiltrate, ingrain, interfere.

How they thrust a

nose

in;

intrude, obtrude and introduce

the thin end of the wedge.

I would muse upon

how one can only hope to survive between, betwixt, among, amidst;

in the thick of, betwixt and between,

sandwich-wise

or

parenthetically.

I would write of Forcible Ingress, of Insertion,

Implantation, Introduction and Insinuation.

Of drivers who dovetail, obtrude, thrust in, stick in,

ram in, stuff in, tuck in, press, in,

drive in, pop in, or whip in.

But since I am no poet,

but only a fan of the thesaurus,

I will not write of the roads

in Malaysia.

A Day in the Life of an Ex-Pat Wife

Madam had a hard day today. First she had to work the electric auto gate by hand, since it does not work half the time. The half of the time it does work is when the property manager comes by to fix it. Then there is no problem.

Then she had to take life and limb in hand and drive to the Giant Hypermarket to use the ATM which she knows is there. It was still rush hour, which was a new experience for Madam. When she arrived, however, she discovered that the Hypermarket, in true Malaysian style, did not open until 10:00, which was the time Sir had told her the workman who was pledged the money would arrive.

So, she headed out on the highway again to go to Bandar Utama Centrepoint, the next closest shopping center where she was sure an ATM would be located, but there was none. So, she drove back to Giant, which had unlocked its doors at least, so she could use the ATM.

Back home again, she met Mr. Satiyah, the unexpected landscaper, who had heard she wanted some landscaping done. Mr. Satiyah was large and not very patient, and spoke nearly unintelligible English. He was quite frustrated with Madam since she seemed so stupid and kept asking him to repeat things, and wanting plants in pots that he thought should go in the ground and appearing unable to understand why he wanted to put down sand before he cut the grass.

While they were talking at each other, the Pest Control man arrived in his little yellow car and asked Madam if he could inspect the house. Mr. Satiyah immediately recognized a translator and began speaking rapidly in Bahasa to the Pest Control man, who translated for Madam. Meanwhile, the property manager's assistant arrived, apparently having heard that Madam was talking to a landscaper. He kindly informed Madam that if she replaced the weeds in her yard with lovely "carpet grass" that in two years when she moves out the owner may ask her to pay to have the nice grass removed and put back the straggly groundcover that was there when she signed the rental agreement. Madam had not realized that.

Mr. Satiyah made full use of both translators present to try to convince Madam that she should do things his way, while Madam valiantly tried to convince him that she could make no permanent changes without the consent of the owner. When he could get a word in edgewise the property manager's assistant reminded Madam that the nice Pest Control man would come by every month to get rid of the ter-MITES. "The mice???" asked Madam. "No, the TER-mites', he patiently explained before Madam could tell him that her cat would do that.

Mr Satiyah left his briefcase with Madam so she could show pictures of his work to her husband, who promptly called him and told him to cancel the order Madam had placed, after hearing the amount of money she had agreed to pay.

Madam also learned today, from a native speaker, what the parking ticket on her windshield yesterday meant - it was written completely in Bahasa. She had not put money in the meter. Never mind that there was no meter in sight; apparently she should have hiked to the end of the block and made an offering to the blue box there. (All the instructions on the blue box are in Bahasa, also.)

Madam did not feel like cooking after her exciting day, so she went to Marco's Pizza, for the first time, to pick up pizza for dinner. There was nothing on the menu that did not have fungus or anchovies or beef on it, so Madam did the best she could to find something her children might eat, and headed home through the rush hour traffic. She successfully navigated the U-turns and many speed bumps and stopped at the 7 eleven to pick up coffee- flavored Pepsi and some Kickapoo Joy Juice to make up for the fungus on the pizza.

Madam will probably go to bed early tonight.





.

All I Want for Christmas

Ivy is singing Jingle Bells again in that wonderful Broadway Baby voice of hers. She has an incredible vibrato for a five year old and her voice has always been, well, Big. As a three year old she used to ask me with a puzzled face, “Why didn’t God give me a girl’s voice?” She doesn’t ask that any more, but she sings vigorously and often.

She just asked me, in all seriousness, “Should I just keep singing Jingle Bellls or should I sometimes switch to something else?”

“Well, you sing Jingle Bells really well, but it would be nice sometimes tossing in something else, too, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.”

She has a birthday coming up in two weeks and then Christmas, and she has diligently pored over the Toy R Us catalog for weeks, crayon in hand, carefully circling and and writing her name beside every item she likes. She returns to the catalog again and again and considers her choices with an expert eye. A few items have been crossed out while others have been highlighted with more black crayon circles or rays emanating from the original circle.

Last night she inititated an earnest discussion about what she really wanted for her birthday - a baby doll, a doll’s bathtub, a bottle and some doll clothes. Maybe a stroller. She has always used very adult-looking hand gestures, fingers extended and close together, first one hand, and then (“on the other hand. . ." ), the other. Her eyebrows are very active when she hits the urgent points.

The doll is important, but not the one pictured in the bathtub, “because its eyes are kind of weird, but maybe that is just because the person who drew the catalog (it is all photos) didn’t do a very good job, so if I had to have that doll it would be OK, I guess, but I really want the bathtub and a bottle to feed the doll with.” Then she worried that her presents would not be a surprise if I bought exactly what she had just asked for. But, she decided, again gesturing earnestly, that would be OK if I did not tell her which one she was getting for her birthday and which one for Christmas. “Don’t you think that would be OK?” Yes, I think it would be OK.

I also have a birthday coming up, five days before hers. I don’t look forward to mine quite as eagerly as she does, and I have neglected the pre-birthday ritual of circling items that I want and calling them to the attention of the appropriate person – I know he can’t afford a diamond this year, either! But my best gifts are either already here, or soon on the way. Six years ago Ivy was my best late birthday present and early Christmas gift – a gift to last a lifetime, as they say. I don’t remember how I celebrated my birthday that year, but I vividly remember the day my favorite gift arrived.

This year my big present will also be belated, though, I hope, by only one day. My firstborn is booked on a flight that arrives in Kuala Lumpur the morning after I turn “the new 30.” We have begun discussing how we will greet her – the best suggestion so far came from P who thinks we should all wear those black plastic glasses with the fake noses and mustaches. Just in case we don’t stand out in the crowd sufficiently already. But the details are entirely incidental. This gift, welcoming my daughter back from her first extended stay abroad, has been nineteen years in the making and, I’m sure, will be worth every minute of preparation and waiting.

So this Advent season I am enjoying the gift of an unexpected child who arrived long after I thought Anyone would give me that kind of gift, and I am waiting patiently for the homecoming of another child. I think of the carol I love, “Come Thou long-expected Jesus,” though I am really thinking of Anna, but I know that God is pleased to use our human longings and experiences to remind us of heavenly realities. During this month of reminiscense and anticipation I can remember another birth, even more remarkable and unexpected by the mother. . . I can look forward to the arrival of another Person I love and long to see, whose flight plans are not yet known.

Come, Thou long expected Jesus

Born to set Thy people free;

From our fears and sins release us,

Let us find our rest in Thee.

Israel’s Strength and Consolation,

Hope of all the earth Thou art;

Dear Desire of every nation,

Joy of every longing heart.

Born Thy people to deliver,

Born a child and yet a King,

Born to reign in us forever,

Now Thy gracious kingdom bring.

By Thine own eternal Spirit

Rule in all our hearts alone;

By Thine all sufficient merit,

Raise us to Thy glorious throne.

-Charles Wesley

i love this poet. . .

The More Loving One
- W. H. Auden


Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

just along for the ride

Malaysia has a distinctive smell. I especially notice it in the morning when I first open the door to check on the laundry and the stray cat who frequents our yard, or to say goodbye to my husband as he leaves for his hour-long commute to work. It’s not a pleasant smell, but not unpleasant, either. It just is. And I imagine myself as an old woman some day catching a whiff of something and saying nostalgically, “That smells like Malaysia.” By then these two years will be a faded, fleeting memory, but today they are not, and they stretch ahead of me like a blank canvas waiting for the artist to begin his work. He has given me no hint of his plans, his style, his medium, his vision.

Our house is on a corner, on a sort of cul-de-sac, really a dead end with a wall. So to drive anywhere you have to go around three sides of the block to get to the street that leads out of our gated community. I realized this morning that you can clearly see the third corner of that progression out our back kitchen window. I glanced out idly just as my husband rounded the corner on his way to the office. I thought that if I were a newly-wed I would have discovered that window view weeks ago, and stood there to watch every morning after he left the house for one last glimpse of him, but I am not a newly-wed. I am a wife about to turn fifty after twenty-two years of kissing my husband good-bye most mornings. Sometimes he leaves for work before I am out of bed. There are some things which a global move has not changed.

It surprises me how quickly I have become used to the subtleties of the weather here. I imagined the climate as one long, unbroken stream of hot, humid air, and laughed when I heard that people distinguished between 85 and 88 degree days - I, who was accustomed to days when the temperature may vary 40 or 50 degrees between 5 AM and 2 PM - but I find my thermostat has already become more fine-tuned. I hear myself saying things like, “Oh, it’s not as hot this morning” with an element of true surprise in my voice. But I find myself still expecting the thermometer to observe a Northern schedule, albeit in a severely truncated range; I am still surprised to step outside at 11 PM and find it has grown hotter than it was at 8. Things are supposed to cool off overnight and heat up in the morning. Not so in Malaysia.

I am also learning to sweat gracefully. Well, maybe not gracefully, but a little more graciously. I come from a long line of pale complected English sorts who turn red in the face and wet all over when the humidity begins to rise. I have always hated heat for that reason and made sure anyone within earshot knew it. Now that I cannot escape it (if I'm outdoors - there is always air conditioning), I find I am beginning to make peace with the sticky dampness. I seem to spend less time fretting over the heat when there is no hope of it abating in a day or two, and I am getting better at ignoring the moisture that is dripping off my nose and down my shirt. Besides, I console myself, I could be wearing a head scarf and long sleeves like half the women in Malaysia.

I cooked my first “Indian” meal two days ago – not very good, really. It was nothing like the food at Al Awahz on the corner (I always want to call it Al Jazeerah since they always have that on the TV when we are there.) Both dishes I cooked were OK, but neither had the real bite of true Indian food, in spite of the fact that I had just filled fifteen spice jars with seeds and powders never before seen in my kitchen. I have a lot to learn.

As I write one of my daughters is downstairs picking out the melody to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” on the piano. I am surprised every time I write the date to realize that November is drawing to a close. It feels like August – in more ways than one. Christmas seems like a long way away still – maybe two years away. I don’t even find myself nostalgic about Christmas, at least not yet, because it seems like mid-summer, and who dreams about Christmas in August? Yesterday I hung up the primitive wooden snowman inscribed with the words, “Let It Snow” next to our front door, on the wall in between the shoe cupboard (no shoes in the house), the mosaic and the heavy dark wood door. He looks good there, though I am afraid his words will not seem prophetic like they always did in New Hampshire.

One of the many things that has changed since we moved is the size of our family; not because we moved, just coincidentally at the same time, but we sit down to dinner at the table we had custom made for 12 and sort of huddle toward the middle, a small company of seven some nights, only six the nights Claire works at the restaurant. The room is huge, the sounds echo off the marble floors and bounce back from the twelve foot ceilings. We feel as small and insignificant in our own house as we do outside. We miss the days of bumping elbows around a crowded kitchen table with ourselves and our guests; we miss chatting with each other while we wait in line for the shower on Sunday mornings or the bathroom before bed. We miss complaining about how long so and so is taking. Now we can all linger in the shower and no one cares.

This morning as I showered in my huge tiled bath the words from an old Keith Green song somehow slipped into my mind, "Nothing lasts except the grace of God." And I realized that even if we had never made this move, if we had hung onto the security of our lives in small-town New Hampshire, still nothing would last, everything would still change. A and R would still have flown away to India and New Zealand,would still only come home for a brief hiatus before going to college - the prelude to going away for good. My "baby" would still learn to read and to swim and to take care of herselfvery well, thank you. Nothing lasts, but that one fact; nothing is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow but that one Person.

I've decided that the best advice I've heard this year was the last thing my pastor said to me when we left Vermont, "Enjoy the ride." Some parts are more exciting than others, some stretches fly by, some will give you whiplash, others seems to climb endlessly. Once the train starts there's no jumping off, so you might as well enjoy the ride. I'm trying to.

Thanksgiving past and present

Thou hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, - a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart whose pulse may be Thy praise.
~George Herbert

I can scarcely believe tomorrow is Thanksgiving - a day which is not associated in my mind so much with giving thanks as with family traditions, some happy and some not so pleasing. I have spent most of my 50 thanksgivings with family, though I can remember one when I was 21 that I spent at a restaurant with a date. But most have been some variation of the theme, "Over the river and through the woods."

The first Thanksgivings I can remember were spent at my grandmother's house, an urban bungalow in Massachusetts to which we repaired early Thanksgiving morning. Nanny, as we knew her, was always busy in the kitchen in a flowered apron, her iron gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, tempered with crimped waves made with an old fashioned curling iron on the sides of her temples. She was lean and energetic and opinionated. I always found her intimidating.

My mother would pitch in to help and we kids would roam around the tiny house, studying the china dogs on the knick knack shelves, watching the hours strike on the Black Forest cuckoo clock, sitting on the scratchy, maroon chenille sofa, and looking through the drawers in the small roll-top desk in my mother's old bedroom. The Macy's Thanksgiving day parade was always on the small black and white TV, but it never lasted long enough. It always seemed an eternity till dinner, and there was nothing to do but wait.

The 1930's vintage table always had the extra leaf in and filled the small dining room. It was set with Nanny's best china and with the traditional turkey and pilgrim salt and pepper shakers. The dinner plates always had a pressed glass cup in their centers full of my grandmother's homemade fruit cocktail. We dreaded that fruit cocktail. It was nothing like the syrupy sweet kind you bought in cans at the A & P; this was tart and made with grapefruit! My mother always warned us not to complain about it and to eat it all if we hoped to have the good food, so we all choked it down every year, exchanging knowing, sympathetic glances across the table, and sighed with relief when it was gone.

Then we could dig into the real food. There was turkey, of course, and mashed potatoes, gravy in a fancy gravy boat that only came out at Thanksgiving, carrots, peas, sweet potatoes, stuffing, banana bread, cranberry bread, butter, jellied cranberry sauce from a can and my grandmother's cranberry-orange relish that she made in the old-fashioned food grinder. When we had eaten all we could the table would be cleared and the real treat appeared - Nanny's steamed pudding with hard sauce. I never remember eating this any day but Thanksgiving, although it is one of the most heavenly flavors I remember from childhood. Even though it was incredibly rich and came on the heels of a huge dinner, I always felt as if I could eat it all day.

AFter dessert my mother and grandmother cleaned up and washed dishes while the rest of us watched the early dark fall and waited for the last tradition of the day. We always drove to Shoppers World, one of the first suburban shopping centers in Massachusetts, to see the animated Christmas decorations in the plate glass windows. The big, brightly lit windows were always filled with scenes from Santa's workshop where elves worked away at making toys and Santa and Mrs Santa watched approvingly. The nearly life-size elves hammered and sawed and nodded and sewed in an amazingly life-like way. We were spellbound every year. When we got too cold to watch any longer, (it was always cold on Thanksgiving), we piled in the station wagon and headed for home, sleepy and stuffed and breathlessly excited about the advent of the Christmas season which could now officially begin.

That was how I remember Thanksgiving until I was 12 years old. Always the same, with the same thrills the same expectations, the same challenges. Not completely happy, since there were always tensions between my grandmother and my father, with my mother taking her mother's part, but still comforting in its predictability, its sameness.

Sameness is what the season lacks for me this year. We are in Malaysia, only three weeks into a nearly two-year stint. We left New England just before the snow flew, and landed two days later in 80 degree weather complete with palm trees and geckos. We know no one, have no family to spend the day with, no turkey, no traditional china or serving bowls, no pumpkin for pies, no Jack Frost nipping at our noses, none of the trappings which make the day FEEL like Thanksgiving. No one else even KNOWS it is Thanksgiving, and my husband will be working all day Thursday and the next day. There are not even any Black Friday sales to avoid.

So this year we can celebrate the day with true thankfulness. All the usual trappings which distract us from the day's original purpose are missing, and all that is left is the name and the history of this day. We can perhaps feel a bit what the founders of the feast felt as they gave thanks far from home and loved ones in a strange land with strangers for guests. We can practice being thankful when it does not please us to be so, and thus capture more of the true meaning of the day than perhaps ever before. I don't think tomorrow will feel like Thanksgiving at all, but I hope it will live up to its name anyway.

Unemployed in Malaysia

Sonnet: On his blindness

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best, his state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.

I don't have a lot in common with John Milton, would that I did, but I have always loved this sonnet. It was one of the first poems I memorized to present in Freshman Speech class at BJU. It's one of the few poems I can still quote. It came to mind this morning when I was reviewing my last two weeks. I feel as useless as Milton must have when he considered his blindness.

Moving to an utterly foreign culture has wiped out any sense of usefulness I ever felt. At least I can speak the language here (or, rather, they speak my language), so I guess it could be worse, but I hate the feeling of living in a place where taking care of myself (and my family.. . ) is a full-time job. I hate the fact that the small talents I have are "lodged with me useless." I feel as if I am not only shirking reaponsibilites "at home" in my land of origin (taking care of ill relatives, helping friends in various extremities), but I am not contributing anything here.

I feel a bit like Will in About A Boy - my day is spent doing things like calling a taxi, waiting for a taxi, telling the taxi driver "No, I don't know how to get there; that's why I called you." Shopping for groceries, and realizing at the checkout that I don't have much in my full cart that I can actually cook or anyone can actually eat. . . at least there is peanut butter here. Walking to the exercise room, waiting for the treadmill, sweating gallons on the treadmill, walking home, taking a shower. Then it's time to call another taxi to run a different errand. . . . and finally going out to eat because I have no dishware to cook with yet and my oven has not been delivered.

I guess there is an element of pride in my discontent. I like to think of myself as a worthwhile person, a worker not a Queen Bee, a producer not a consumer. I am having a hard time becoming a student, not a teacher. I don't like feeling like a child, like a less than competent grown up! There is probably a lesson in humility I need to learn, a lesson in my own dispensability, a lesson in waiting to be shown the next step. This is not what I expected to find in Malaysia, but it appears to be my first lesson: They also serve who only stand and wait.

toto, we're not in kansas anymore

It's 10:30 PM in Petaling Jaya. We all fell asleep aboaut 4 PM. Kevin and I just woke up; we have turned off the kids' room lights; I wish they would all sleep till morning, but that seems nearly impossible.

There's a loud, metallic band playing ourside our hotel - somewhere in the strange theme park which seems oddly unthemed; I can see a Native American chief on a mountaintop, a volcano, a castle, a dozen life-sized carved elephants from my balcony. On the other side of the entrance (through a shopping mall complete with an ice-skating rink) is a three story tall sphinx-like creature with a lion's head. Welcome to Malaysia.

The internet connection in our room hasn't been working; the toilet would have overflowed just now if I had not pulled off the tank lid and stopped it. We've discovered that the "everything" store in the mall does not carry any non-prescription pain killers or decongestants, though you can buy something called "Essence of Chicken" and various Indian-looking potions which give no indication of what they are meant to treat. I guess you just know that if you live anywhere they are sold.

M just woke up. She took her Tin Tin book out on the balcony where she is sipping coconut milk through a straw from a whole coconut. The sound of the man-made waterfall in the water park can be heard when the band takes a break. The really long hanging walkway stretching from one side of the park to the other (think of the Emperor's New Groove. . . ) is strung with lights.

Our five year old saw her first burkha today. The sight is always made doubly strange by the fact that the men accompanying these shrouded figures are so often wearing shorts and t-shirts. It feels so different than encountering an Amish couple, for example, who are at least a matched set. These pairs always have a whiff of domination and servility about them.

Ivy also tried guava, mango and watermelon juice today. She's remembering to point with her thumb, not forefinger, and is taking most most things in stride. She's a pro on a plane by now - reminding us about the seat belt lights and tray tables if we miss the cues. She knows when to pull out her passort and boarding pass and grabs her own bin for her shoes and bag at security checkpoints.

She's trying to figure out the difference between "staring" and "looking," which is not an easy distinction for me to explain. At a Thai restaurant at lunch today she was interested in the women in traditional costumewho kept hovering around our table, but also noticed the large fish tank in the center of the room. When I asked her if she wanted to go look at the fish she declined, but correctly noted that, "The fish wouldn't mind if I stared at them."

All in all, the trip was amazingly smooth. We only lost one bag out of 14, the one with my clothes and toiletries, of course, and made all our connections easily. The 16 hour flight was a breeze- between sleeping and eating non-stop, and watcing videos on their personal screens, no one was even bored. I manged to finish a novel I've been working on for weeks - reading, not writing. We have, by the grace of God, gotten along pretty well, too, with only a few minor squabbles despite frayed nerves and bloodshot eyes.

One ongoing disagreement is over the ontoloogy of "home." We find we are all constantly defining and redefining the word "home" in our conversations, which is not, I guess, unlike what happens on an extended vacation; but we keep reminding each other that we are NOT on vacation. The casual phrase, "when we get home. . . . " has acquired an ambiguous context. The speaker is required to to clarify whether he means, "back to the hotel room," "moved into our new house," (though I don't think anyone has actually used the phrase that way yet), or, "back to New Hampshire." P is the strict constructionist among us; "home" has one and only one meaning for him. He even took us to task in the restaurant today for telling the server we'd like to take some of the leftovers "home with us." They would no longer be worth eating if we did that, he pointed out.

So here I sit in a lovely hotel room on the far side of the world, away from almost everything and everyone I hold dear. I freely confess that I don't know why I'm here, though I am holding onto the memory of that morning in June when I felt as if God had punched me in the solar plexus (that's really how I felt; I don't know why), and the decision to move here became a matter of simple obedience, no longer a choice that was up to me to make.

I dread moving into our beautiful, sterile new house. I dread the morning just 4 days away when K drives off to work and leaves the rest of us in a huge, empty house with nothing on the schedule, no friends to call, nowhere to go - a van in the car park but no one to drive it, bereft of our familiar comfort objects, bereft of the novelty of just having arrived.

Then I remember that I have often longed for the experience I have had in the past of having to cling desperately to God and to my feeble faith in Him when there was nothing else to sink my fingernails into. In recent years my soul has grown fat and comfortable (alright, not just my soul!). My church and friends have been a safety net, my children have been happy with their lives, our parents have been in relatively good health. I have had my little niches and my familiar haunts so I have not really needed to hang onto God for all I was worth. But I sense that is no longer the case.

And I wonder if that's really why I'm here - if it's not for some "ministry" I fancy I might have in someone else's life, but if might be primarily for me, to save me from my self-centered, self-satisfied, self-sufficient, self-serving life. If that's God's purpose, in part or in the whole, He is off to a great start.

When she got there, the cupboard was bare

Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house.
-Henry Ward Beecher

I feel like Mother Hubbard and the cupboard is bare. My books are all packed away; about 70 boxes have gone to storage, another dozen are sealed up and marked with purple duct tape, part of our shipment to Malaysia. They are not all MY books, of course, but I probably know them best, and surely love them most.

I have been surprised at how many times in the last week something has triggered a thought and I have headed for an empty bookshelf - the particular one where the poetry book I want always stands, only to realize it is not there. A lot of the poetry I could find on the web, of course, but it's just not the same. First, I would have to stand in line behind three teenagers for computer time, and then, even when I found the poem I couldn't take it up to bed with a cup of coffee and read it as I snuggle under the aptly named comforter. I couldn't flip a few pages to that other poem I love, and close the book when my eyelids begin to close of their own accord.

I miss knowing where I can find almost any volume - I, who cannot find a pen or a hairbrush when I need one - confident that the passage I want to reread will be easy to find because the pages have been deliberately dog-eared. I miss sorting through the stack of books on my bedside table, deciding which of the five books I am currently reading will fit my mood tonight. I miss trying to figure out where I left off because I fell asleep before I finshed the chapter last time.

And I wonder if electronic media will indeed replace books, if the convenience of holding an entire library of books in the palm of your hand will take the place of the old paper and cardboard objects people have been clutching for the last 400 years or so. I wonder if the book as a physical object will go the way of the phonograph and whether people will be satisfied with disembodied ideas. In some ways that is an appealing idea; I mean, the important thing, the "real" thing about a book is the ideas it creates in one's mind, not the heft of the recycled wood product on which it is printed. But I, at least, feel wedded to the physical object as well.

I remember carefully placing the frightening books I read as a child (and even a teenager, I confess) outside my bedroom door at night and closing the door shut against the fearful object. There were some books I could not have in the room after the lights went out! I have several Bibles from different periods in my life, and sometimes I need a particular one to read when I am looking for comfort. Of course I know that the real comfort comes from the words of God recorded there, not the book itself as some sort of talisman or charm. . . but still, I have so much history with the book, with the page, with tearstains that wrinkle the paper in certain places. . . My husband has shared our bed with books over the years, ones I fall asleep reading and drop somewhere in the blankets. I have grown accustomed to the thunk of a book falling off the bed in the middle of the night when someone stretches in their sleep, and I like the sound.

So, this separation from my comfort objects may be just the thing I need to wean me from their physical presence; I may find the web is faster and easier to search, that anything I really need can be downloaded and carried effortlessly in my purse, that it's freeing not to have to worry about the book I left out on the blanket in the yard under my favorite tree when the rain starts. But I doubt it.

fashion dilemma

Ivy was trying to decide whether to wear a sequined cape from an older sister's ballet perfomance to her ballet class. She kept eyeing it, wondering outloud if the other girls would laugh at her if she wore it. She was obviously capitivated by it, however, and could not take it off. Finally she decided it was just too much. "I would be a glittering disaster!" she pronounced, and left the cape at home.

the uses of suffering

We had two dear little girls live with us for half the year. Their Mom is in prison; their dad is in and out of correctional facilities. We would pray for their parents every night, and we would also pray for my brother, Uncle P, who is incarcerated. It made their own heartache a little more bearable, a little less unmentionable to know that I had a loved one in prison, too.

I saw the girls this weekend. They are living with a lovely foster family who hope to give them a permanent home. My other brother happened to be visiting for the weekend, and came along with me to visit with the girls. After they both leapt in my arms and whispered a few secrets in my ear they wanted to know "who that guy is." I told them he was my brother, Uncle D. J was puzzled, "How did he get here?' she asked. I said he drove to my house for the weekend. Then she challenged me, "How did he get out of jail?" I realized her mistake, told her this was my other brother, and we laughed together about her mistake.

And then I had a curiously warm feeling that took me a moment to decipher. I was happy to share that misfortune with these little ones. Was I glad, I asked myself, that my brother was in prison? Of course not. But I was very glad I could understand some of their own sadness because I had the same grief. And that felt like a small revelation. The phrase from Hebrews 4 immediately came to mind in the King James Version I grew up with and love so well:
For we have not a high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities. I realized I was touched with the feeling of their infirmities, and it was a sweet fellowship.

I found myself pondering what other infirmities I have been touched with that have become a bridge between me and another hurting soul, and I thought of a young woman I know who has a painful relationship with her mother through no fault of her own. The mother has some hard issues of her own which this particular daughter brings to mind. My own mother's issues are completely different, but she has rejected me because of demons that plagued her before I ever existed. I just became the lightning rod that attracted their fury. So, I can sympathize with my young friend, and understand the particular hurt and frustration she feels. I am one who can be touched with the feeling of her infirmities. And that is good.

I remember distinctly the first time I felt I understood the passage in I Corinthians 1 which reminds us that it is "the God of all comfort Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God." It gave me a ray of hope in a hard, painful place to realize that NOW I could comfort someone else hurting as badly as I was.

I have never, however, understood the clause in verse 6, "but if we are afflicted it is for your comfort." In what strange (or even sick) way could one person's affliction be the comfort of another? But today I marveled at the wisdom of God who works all things together, and was amazed to think that in the midst of hurts I suffered 30 or 40 years ago, God had my young friend in mind; He knew our paths would cross and she would need the comfort I could give her. How inscrutable are God's ways; how infinite his wisdom. How skillful and deft his weaving.

We all know the platitude, "Misery loves company," but I don't think that really applies to what the little girls and I share. I think Paul's phrase, "the fellowship of . . . sufferings" is far more lovely and apt. It describes the heart-bond that grows from a shared experience, and points us to the sweetness that can be gleaned even from heartache. It reminds us that nearly all experience can be redeemed in one way or another, and that there is indeed comfort in knowing we are not alone. Someone else has been touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and that makes all the difference.

Psalm 103

Bless the Lord, O my soul,

and all that is within me, bless his holy name!

Bless the Lord, O my soul,

and forget not all his benefits,

who forgives all your iniquity,

who heals all your diseases

who redeems your life from the pit,

who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,

who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.
The Lord works righteousness and justice for all who are oppressed.

He made known his ways to Moses,

his acts to the people of Israel.

The Lord is merciful and gracious,

slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

He will not always chide, nor will he keep his anger forever.

He does not deal with us according to our sins,

nor repay us according to our iniquities.

For as high as the heavens are above the earth,

so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;

as far as the east is from the west,

so far does he remove our transgressions from us.

As a father shows compassion to his children,

so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.

For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.
As for man, his days are like grass;

he flourishes like a flower of the field;

for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,

and its place knows it no more.

But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,

and his righteousness to children's children,

to those who keep his covenant

and remember to do his commandments.

The Lord has established his throne in the heavens,

and his kingdom rules over all.

caught in the middle

I have always preferred "both/and" to either/or." I have ever and always been fascinated by paradox, by oxymoronica. Contradictions in terms have always intrigued me. I wrote my Masters' thesis on one of the central paradoxes of the church, her existence as an entity "in the world, but not of it." So, I am not really all that uncomfortable finding myself neither here nor there, betwixt and between, saying hello and goodbye in the same breath.

In more than one area of my life I feel like the gentleman in the naughty British humor skit. Named Mr. Bottocks, he was chided for being "neither one nor the other."As a middle-aged mother of a kindergartener and two young adults I often feel uncertain about what universe I belong to. I show up at the doctor's office for some very middle-aged health concerns wearing shiny stickers on my shirt which my 5 year-old carefully affixed. I sit beside the young Mums at beginners ballet; they are watching their first ballerinas while I am cherishing my last. They chat about diapers and feedings; I mentally tick off the items left to do before my eldest boards a plane for India. I talk with the college admissions rep on the phone and stumble over the difficult question, "Is your son a junior or a senior?" She laughs indulgently and makes some comment about how quickly passes; I pour Trix into a red plastic bowl.

But my children are not the only part of my life that keeps me feeling as if I am living in limbo. I am a physical resident of New Hampshire, but mentally I am in Malaysia much of the time. I am surrounded by cues that say winter is coming, but I am preparing for a long, long summer. My eyes are beginning to glaze over when people talk about upcoming events if they are more than three weeks in the future. I feel as I did when I first got bifocals (did I admit that?) - I have to figure out which lens to look through to properly focus.

But I think this is all good practice. It is a good reminder that we are all aliens and strangers here - denizens of earth but citizens of heaven. We all live day-to-day in one place while looking forward eagerly to another. We must cook meals, keep appointments, pay bills and repair cars, all the while knowing none of this will last; it will all be subsumed one day by a greater reality. We have to daily, hourly adjust our focus from close to distant in order to rightly number our days and present to God a heart of wisdom. We need to remember the admonition of the old hymn to "Turn your eyes upon Jesus; look full in His wonderful face; and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace. "

Appalachian Melody

Appalachian Melody

Mark Heard

Appalachian melody drifting softly down
Instruments of gold and red and brown
Do not need no dulcimer or banjo-fiddle sound
For right now I'll watch these leaves come down

How peculiar liking old dead leaves against the sky
There is something more than meets the eye
Funny how I sit and watch these leaves come down from high
But these things are music to my eyes

Such a pretty song I see, have I been beguiled
This day is not imagination's child
Every time the leaves come down I've just got to smile
For they sing a melody so mild

How peculiar liking old dead leaves against the sky
There is something more than meets the eye
Funny how I sit and watch these leaves come down from high
But these things are music to my eyes

Cinderella season

Fall is here, and will be gone before I embrace it if I hesitate at all. The most ephemeral and the most lovely of seasons has always been my favorite. It's the time when the trees finally come into their own. After serving as a foil for the flowers of spring and summer they are for a brief time on center stage. Like Cinderella, they magically shed their common garb for the jewel tones of topaz and amber.

As I ran my usual errands the other day I felt as if I had stepped into a picture postcard. The drab little town where I do my grocery shopping had disappeared. In its place was a scene from a Robert Frost poem or a Maxfield Parrish painting. The Revolutionary War era churchyard lay under a blanket of brightly stained leaves, guarded by towering red maples. Over them all was the spire of a clapboard Colonial church, bright white against a blue sky that looked like a Della Robbia creation.

My daily walk up a dirt road overhung by maples and birch resembled nothing so much as a pointilist painting, tiny dots of color in great drifts along the side of the road. The slightest breeze would shake loose a flurry of yellow leaves which drifted litingly toward the ground, dancing to the unheard music of some autumnal symphony, a lovely prelude to the snowstorms to come. Sometimes a whisper of a breeze would dislodge only one or two which would pirouette gracefully to the earth, like dancers who had the stage to themselves for a fleeting moment.

Tourists flock to New England for these two weeks, but I think those of us who live here year round are even more amazed by the transformation the familiar landscape undergoes. For eleven months of the year we live amid the stark grays of November and December, the cold white of January and February, the muddy browns of March and April, the yellowy green of May and June, and the deep emerald of July, August and September. Every year October is a surprise. It is impossible to remember the brilliance of these short weeks.

It is also impossible to capture the scent of autumn, the deep, loamy perfume that belongs only to this place and this time. It is a mixture of the sweetness of pine, the musty smell of wet leaves, the spicy scent of moss. If it were possible to bottle this smell I would spray it on my pillow everynight, bury my face in it and dream of yellow woods and sapphire skies. It is as distinctive as the landscape but far more evocative than a photograph.

There are places on earth where it is always summer, and places where it is always winter. But nowhere is there eternal fall. It is by necessity fleeting, floating, evanescent, transitory. As the transition from summer to winter, the dying passage, it cannot last. It is a time to seize the day or to rue the lost opportunity.

learning all the time

I am a firm believer in the theory of trickle-down education. As my homeschooling career has progressed, or regressed, over the years I have found I spend less time with my younger children than I did with their older siblings at a similar age. Much less. It's a problem I share with every other homeschooling mother I have ever met. The younger children have to pick up a lot more on their own since their parents are too busy driving older kids to sports, music lessons, jobs, drivers ed, etc. We all, to a woman, feel guilty over this situation, and worry that our later children will fulfill every NEA prophecy and turn into the village idiots.

So, I am ever so happy to se any evidence of precocity on the part of my five year old, although I know she owes little of it to me. Watching and listening to her older siblings she has picked up an amazing amount of information, most of it actually useful. One day when her little friends wanted to do a play of Peter Pan, a respectable classic in its own right, my five year old was agitating for the legend of Icarus and Daedalus instead. When she arrived at the pond beach another day she rushed over to her dam-building friend, brandishing a shovel and shouting, "Do you need assistance??" Today when I was running out to the grocery store I told her which of her older siblings was in charge. Wishing to cover all her bases she asked about the next child in the pecking order, "Does M have authority over me while you are gone?" Have authority over me??

What else trickles down at our house? Taste in movies, for one. Although our eldest children never saw anything more frightening than Beauty and the Beast until they were 9 or 10, our younger children are fans of Ocean's Eleven, The Patriot and AirForce One. My five year old loves old I Love Lucy shows and can even appreciate much of Hogan's Heroes though the humor is aimed at adults. She will even watch Monty Python in a pinch.

Taste in music seems to trickle down, too. Our youngest sings songs from The Phantom of the Opera and Wicked as often as she regales us with Raffi or Sharon, Lois and Bram tunes. She recognizes Santana playing at the grocery store and will happily listen to old Beatles music in the back seat. I have been glad to see that good taste in clothing seems to be catching as well. Playing the SkyBreeze online dressup game today she rejected several articles of teenage clothing as "not very modest." I doubt if she could define the concept, but she knows it when she sees it, (don't we all!).

But seriously, it is reassuring to see that what I have always spouted as the homeschooling company line, that children learn all the time, still appears to be true. Though Miss Independent doesn't want to practice her handwriting when I finally do guiltily drag out a workbook, she has decided she likes to copy words off the globe; today she presented me with a page reading "Botswana" and "Namibia" and asked what she had written. She's gotten pretty good at finidng Malaysia, as well. When my eldest was her age we were earnestly beginning piano AND violin lessons, but the baby of the family has not taken a music lesson. She has, however, learned how to play the melody of the old country song "I'm Not Lisa" on the piano. No, it's not Mozart, but it is recognizable.

So amidst the moving boxes, doctor's visits, trips to the airport, phone calls from Dad, constant visitors, and drives to ballet she continues to learn. I'm not spoonfeeding anymore; some days I just leave the brain food lying around the house, but somehow it finds its way into her inquisitive little mind. Will wonders never cease.

a prayer

"Grant, O Lord my God, that I may never fall away in success or in failure; that I may not be prideful in prosperity nor dejected in adversity. Let me rejoice only in what unites us and sorrow only in what separates us. May I strive to please no one or fear to displease anyone except Yourself. May I seek always the things that are eternal and never those that are only temporal. May I shun any joy that is without You and never seek any that is beside You. O Lord, may I delight in any work I do for You and tire of any rest that is apart from You. My God, let me direct my heart towards You, and in my failings, always repent with a purpose of amendment."
--St. Thomas Aquinas

gratitude

I love my church; I love The Church, the body of Christ. Although I know many people have been injured and harmed by individual groups calling themselves a church, I cannot imagine my life outside the bounds of the lovely body of Christ.

This morning I was renewed again by the beauty of our worship service, baptisms and sharing the Lord's supper together. Through the week my vision had grown blurred; I was tempted to focus on and yearn after things which can never really satisfy the longings of my heart. I was like the Psalmist, my feet had almost slipped, but this morning I felt as if cool clear water was splashed in my face to wake me from a stupor. And it happened in our small, small-time, small-town gathering of the members of the body of Christ.

This morning seven people chose to be baptised in a public affirmation of the change of heart they had already experienced. A more varied group would be hard to find. Two women in their 70's and 80's, another perhaps 60, a 40ish divorced and remarried career woman and mother of four, a sweet, shy woman in her 30's who could hardly speak without crying, a newly-wed couple, he, burly and tattooed, she shy of the microphone nervous about being in front of people but glowing with anticipation.

I wrote that entry a week ago, but yesterday was equally moving for me. My eldest son, the one we named before we were even married, the one who taught himself to read at age four, who used to creep down the stairs at night after his sisters were asleep and sweetly ask if he could stay up and do some math pages, the one who was so excited the night we brought home the trundle bed that he lay down in it, pulled up the covers and said, "Now push me in." - that son stood up in front of our congregation and told briefly of his plans for a five month backpacking and discipleship program in NZ. He is leaving the day after tomorrow on his own, flying from Boston to LA to Sydney to Christchurch. He'll miss his first Christmas at home in 17 years.

So of course, I will miss him tremendously, heartbreakingly, if that is even a word. But I was reminded yesterday that I am not the only one. After he spoke our pastor prayed over Ransom and many "Amens" were heard from the congregation. Then at greeting time and after church men shook his hand and clapped him on the back, women hugged him and wiped tears from their eyes. Nearly everyone I encountered commented on how much they would miss him, and teared up again. Our children have grown up the last ten years in this cradle of love, this web of encouragement and care. They have been praised, teased, fed, loved, encouraged, taught, admonished and cherished by this extended family who have never failed to be there when we needed them.

I am certain my children would not be who they are today without this part of the lovely Body of Christ. Parents can only do so much; there are so many other influences that combine to shape our children, for good or for ill. The predominant influence in my childrens' lives has been this matchless group of people who seem to love my family almost as much as I do. I really don't know how to begin to be grateful enough. My children don't know how rare their experience has been, but they soon will. What they have taken for granted as "the way things are" will seem like a fantasy world when they hit the "real world."

I think of Paul's description of the church, how God called not many mighty, not many powerful in the estimation of the world, and that describes our church. No doctors, no lawyers, a handful of graduate degrees, but many who never went to college at all. Our wise, godly elder board contains a farmer, an electrician, a groundskeeper, a camp director, a forest ranger. But these men are CEOs in the economy of the kingdom; men who know how to lead by serving, just like Jesus did. The rest of the body has been shaped by their example.

Soon after Ransom leaves the rest of our family will be moving on, also. God has called us to Malaysia for two years, though I do not know just why. It breaks my heart to think of leaving our church family here, but I am encouraged to think that we can find brothers and sisters on the other side of the globe waiting to welcome us into their fellowship and share their lives with us. I couldn't go if I did not have that hope. When I was a child I could not imagine Heaven would be very enjoyable. One long church service for all eternity without anyone to pass out Lifesavers midway seemed unthinkable. But now I can't wait because I have known a little taste of heaven here in Windsor, VT.

newspaper envy

I just learned that a friend of mine reads newspapers for a living. Granted, that's not all he does, but apparently it's a significant part of his job. I mean no disrespect at all for this public servant, but this strikes me as a little like drinking coffee for a living. I mean, I can think of nothing I'd rather be obligated to do each morning, unless it's drink coffee. How nice not to have to rush through the paper in a guilty fashion, so I can get to my real work. How heavenly not to even have to choose which paper to read; I gather he has to read several, poor guy.

I, on the other hand, often agonize over which paper to spend my dime and my time on. I sometimes spend five minutes in front of the newspaper rack picking up first one, then another paper, comparing headlines, weighing the thicknesses, debating between the .50, .75 and 1.00 options. I find myself asking,"Is there anything worth reading in the Valley News today (or a feature on one of my children's activities), or can I skip it and pick up the Boston Globe" - meatier and better-written, with some regional news, but heavy on the metro Boston area which I'm not really interested in. USA Today often gets my vote, though I think it's kind of a lightweight when it comes to the news - sort of the People Magazine of the newstand. Once in a great while I buy The Eagle Times which features front page headlines like "Wolf-dog hybrids get loose" and "Women's pottery supports animals."

I sometimes bring The WallStreet Journal home with me because I like the editorials and the writing is good, though the business slant is not my cup of tea. Once in a while I have to get the Manchester Union Leader though I find its tone a bit rabid; occasionally there's some state news I just can't pass up. The New York Times has the strongest appeal, though I abjure its liberal bias. The wide-ranging interest of its stories, excellent journalism and depth of reporting often coax me to lay down a full dollar for a sheaf of newprint that will end up in the recycling bin by the next morning - if I even have time to read it.

If this sounds a bit neurotic, I want to point out that have made a lot of progress in regard to newspapers over the years. I can think back to the time when the Lancaster Intelligencer Journal was a daily necessity for me. We lived in a huge, gray stone rowhouse in a small, mid-Atlantic city with our growing brood of babes and toddlers. We tried subscribing to the paper for a while, but in those days of lots of diapers and little money we could never seem to come up with 18.00 when the paper boy was at the door to collect. So we cancelled our subscription (or maybe it was cancelled for us; I can't remember.)

Besides, we didn't need to subscribe because right in front of our house was a bus stop and a newspaper box. The bus stop was peopled by various regulars and exotics who sat on our stone wall while waiting for the bus. One was heavily tattooed before tattoos were mainstream, and usually arrived with a boa (live, not feathered) draped about his neck. Another suffered from some kind of delusion that he was a secret agent. He looked like a leaner version of Arnold Schwarzenegger and carried a large radio around on his shoulder into which he frequently spoke. He often ran several laps around the block before arriving warily at the bus stop. My children were fascinated by the bus patrons and their wildlife, but I was fixated on the newspaper dispenser.

The Intelligencer Journal was .35 a copy. Any combination of nickels, dimes and quarters would do, though the machine gave no change. Like any self-respecting addict I did not plan ahead; I never kept a stash of coins for the express purpose of feeding the machine; I deceived myself into thinking I did not need my newspaper fix - I could get through the day without it. But every morning after my husband left for work and the kids finished their Cheerios I began hunting for the requisite coins. I usually checked my husband's pants pockets first, especially the little coin pockets in his Levis. Then there was the tray on his dresser where he sometimes emptied his pockets. My purse usually was next. I have been known to look under chair and sofa cushions as well with varying degrees of success.

My last resort was always a huge glass water cooler jug that sat in the corner in our bedroom collecting loose change. We had begun filling it with pennies years before; it weighed maybe 20 lbs and was about half full. When it was full we were going to do something special with the money. Though it was known as 'the penny jar" we occasionally dropped other coins in. As a last resort I would dump the pennies out on the faded blue carpet, sorting through them for that last nickel or dime I needed to send my pre-schooler out to the paper box.

When I finally found the right combination of silver I would entrust one of my older children (they were all under six) with the precious coins and the responsibility of getting the paper for Mommy. Sometimes by the time I sent them out the dispenser would already be empty and my hopes were dashed. It could really wreck my morning! Other times, though not often, the heavy, spring-loaded door would get away from my four-year old and slam shut before he got the paper out! I was always understanding, but keenly disappointed.

So, I think I have made a lot of progress in my newpaper habit. I often go two or three days a week without touching one. It helps that the local papers where we live now are not nearly as good as the Intelligencer Journal. . . I may also have a bit more of a life, but I'm still intrigued by the idea of finding some way to get paid to read the news.

another all-time favorite poem

As the Ruin Falls

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.
Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.
Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

-C. S. Lewis

when yes means no

I read a passage from Paul Tournier today with a sentence that jumped out at me: "Sadness and joy kiss at every moment." It captured exactly what I am feeling right now - in so many parts of my life.

There is my children's increasing independence and imminent leave-takings - exactly what we have been training them for these 18 years. They are ready to fly, literally, and I can see it so clearly. I am proud of them, excited for them, jealous of them. . . but I know I'll ache when they really go. I welcome the busyness of preparation in the same way that I welcomed the mediocre artwork on the walls of the phlebotomy lab today; anything to look at instead of the vial filling with my blood.

Then, too, there is an upcoming reunion with friends who were once exceedingly dear to me, with whom I have only recently reconnected after a long absence. The thought of spending time with them is wonderful, but poignant, too, fraught as it is with the reminders of the decades gone by, and the way life has changed us all.

And of course there is our upcoming move, which is in many ways a dream come true. We have always wanted to travel with our kids but never been able to afford to. We have always wanted to live and work in another culture. (Dare I say we have always wanted a dishwasher??) But now that the tickets are bought and our house is rented and the boxes are piling up in the breezeway I am so very sad to be saying so many goodbyes - to friends, to our house, to our way of life, to our present selves, who will be forever changed by this move.

I have a cowardly streak running through my heart; I am tempted so often to avoid even joy because of the sadness that inevitably accompanies it - or to suspect joy because of the inevitable sadness that travels with it. I wish I were not so careful to protect myself sometimes - still so afraid to feel, because there are always two sides to the coin of happiness.

I have known all my life that every "yes" is also a "no" - or a thousand "no's." I have recognized the terrible power of a single "yes" to outweigh an infinite number of other possibilities. I can never forget that every choice is also an abnegation of the not-chosen. I can't seem to help a certain regret for the things I have said "no" to - even when the "yes" is good and right.

Has there ever been unalloyed happiness in a choice in this life?? Can there be? Tournier thinks not, and I agree. I cried at my own wedding for heaven's sake because of all the "Now I never wills" that I silently said when I said the words, "I do." Sadness and joy kissed at the same moment as the bride and groom.

Tournier's consolation is the hope of heaven, and I hope he is right - that one day we can know pure joy without a tinge of sorrow, that our "yes" can be all "yes," unencumbered by any sadness. That when God wipes away all tears from our eyes we will never again see sadness and joy kiss each other. But today they are as close as they could be.

Penitent

"Penitent"

Once I stood alone so proud

held myself above the crowd

now i am low on the ground.

From here i look around to see

what avenues belong to me

I can't tell what ive found.

Now what would You have me do

i ask you please?

I wait to hear.

The mother, and the matador,

the mystic, all were here before,

like me, to stare You down.

You appear without a face,

disappear, but leave your trace,

i feel your unseen frown.

Now what would you have me do

I ask you please?

i wait to hear

your voice,

the word,

you say.

i wait to see your sign

would i obey?

I look for you in heathered moor,

the desert, and the ocean floor

how low does one heart go.

looking for your fingerprints

i find them in coincidence,

and make my faith to grow.

Forgive me all my blindnesses

my weakness and unkindnesses

as yet unbending still.

struggling so hard to see

my fist against eternity

and will you break my will?

Now what would you have me do

i ask you please?

i wait to hear

your voice,

the word

you say

i wait to see your sign

could i obey?

-Suzanne Vega

First impressions

Well, I am finally over my jet lag. Yesterday was the first day since we've been in Malaysia that I made it past 4:00 PM (Malaysia time) without feeling like I needed to either throw up or fall asleep. Then I actually slept 5 hours in row last night. I have two more nights before I head home to do it in reverse.

So, things look a bit brighter today in spite of the haze which hangs over Kuala Lumpur from the burning rainforests in Indonesia.

This morning we left our hotel room, executing, as usual, the traveler's macarena - touching evey pocket top and bottom, right and left, front and back, to make sure the necessary documents, keys and wallets are in their appointed places. After a while it takes on a little rhythm of its own though it's still not foolproof and you have to make yur own music.

KL is about as different from New Hampshire as it could be. Densely populated, tropical, urban, ethnically diverse and chock full of shopping malls! The only thing people here like to do more than shop is eat. By their own confession, Malaysians live to eat. One older gentleman cheerfully told us, "That's all we do. That's all we talk about!" Hardly anyone here is obese, but they put away enormous amounts of food - round the clock, I'm told! So while there is no real weather to make small talk about, there's always food - Balinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, North Indian, South Indian, Malaysian and more. Two nights ago we had dinner in a tiny open air Italian restaurant, with a real Italian chef!

We're starting to pick up on some of the local idioms; an overpass is a "flyover," food ordered to go is "take away," and a parking garage is a "car park." We're also getting used to the local fashions - full length black burkhas don't startle me any longer, even when they are worn in the wave pool of the resort! Burkhas aren't all that common, but nearly half the women here wear head scarves covering their hair and necks.

There are desperately poor people in Malaysia, some living in virtual servitude, but there are many very wealthy ones. I can hardly believe how much money there is around here. Some of the houses we have looked at to rent would cost close to a million dollars near where we live. Today we visited three "Smart Houses" in a new development. Lights, fans, power, etc. can all be controlled with a cellphone! But most houses still do not have hot water in the kitchen. They all have a bathroom for every single bedroom (including the maid's room), but hardly anyone has a clothes dryer. Just very different than what we are used to. But I don't think we'll be suffering here!

I have already run the gamut of emotions - I hate it, I love it, I can't stand this, I love that, I'm homesick, I'm fascinated by everything new. I can imagine the next two years will be the same way - lots of ups and downs. Right now the driving seems to be the biggest challenge for me. The roads here are so random; no exit numbers or route numbers on the highways, just signs saying where you can get to from the exit. There are so many ways to get to the same place that you see the same destinations on the signs over and over again. Which to take? They LOVE U-turns here. A lot of them are built-in to the system. Just beacuse you see the building you want to get to on the left doesn't mean you should get in the left-hand lane. It's as likely that you are expected to exit right and drive till you get to a U-turn. Then the joke around here is that "All roads lead to Ipoh" since you constantly see signs for it, whether you are traveling north, south, east or west!

The most terrifying part of driving for me (I have not gotten behind the wheel once, though I keep opening the driver's side door by mistake since it's on the right!) is the "hell-drivers" - the millions of motor-scooters that weave in and out of traffic, passing on both sides, sharing lanes with cars, seemingly coming out of nowhere to zip in front of your car. They are everywhere. They all drive to the front of the pack at every traffic light or jam. I am sure I will kill at least one of them in the two years we are here. Then I read in the newspaper about an accident between an SUV and a taxi where the taxi driver was killed. The incident was treated as a hit and run because the people in the SUV fled on foot after witnesses to the accident pulled them out of their car and began beating them. The witnesses were not charged with anything. Apparently righteous indignation is an acceptable motive. Fortunately "teksis" are cheap. I plan to live in them.

Well, those are enough first impressions. We are about to sign an agreement on a house today, probably in a country club (sigh). It has a lovely guest room (nudge, nudge knowwhatImean?)overlooking the pool. I hope it gets well-used!

getting tough on crime

I held my brother's hand in the prison visiting room last night. His long, slender fingers were very pale and smooth. My husband's hand, resting on the table across from us, was calloused from yard work, the fingernails chipped and darkened in places from working on the car. My husband's hands lay motionless on the table, but my brother's hands were never still, fidgeting, playing with the coins on the table, illustrating what he was saying with small, quick gestures.

My brother used to keep his family's cars running, too. He renovated several houses for them, painting, plastering, refinishing antique woodwork. He used to coax gorgeous floods of perennials from the rocky new England soil and chop wood to stoke the kitchen woodstove. His hands used to heal, as well. His gentle touch and kind, humorous manner made him a beloved family physician for many years. His hands delivered babies, stitched up wounds, administered healing medicines, made dyng patients more comfortable while they lingered in hospice care.

But those hands have been idle for seven years now - never motionless, but idle nonetheless. He can still paint the pictures which have hung in many exhibits, he can still write the poetry which has won awards more than once, he can still play the guitar beautifully in prison worship services and sing in the tiny Catholic choir , but he can do nothing to help his family, or to make any kind of restitution for the crime which landed him here. He has been sentenced to ten years of idleness.

I look around the visiting room and wonder how many of the men I see playing with their children, chatting with their parents, trying desperately to be cheerful for their wives are really such a danger to society that they need to be locked up in a cage, because that's what prison is. I know a small percentage of the 1500 men at this state "correctional" facility do need to be isloated from society, but many, if not most, could repay whatever debt they owe by actually doing something productive rather than rotting in a cell for years and years till they come to believe they really are as worthless as the lives they lead behind bars.

They could work for non-profit agencies, they could care for AIDS patients and the indigent elderly; they could renovate low-income housing, they could work at animal shelters. They could do real work for a real paycheck so their families would not need to live on public assistance, which vastly increases the cost of incarceration. Here in NH they used to be able to teach college classes inside the prison walls, but the warden vetoed that because it gave inmates too much power (read "self-esteem") so no one can teach any longer, and no one else can learn. By locking people up behind bars for years we not only insure they can do no more harm; we insure they can do no more good.

Many of the punishments that our enlightened society would consider "cruel and unusual" are far less cruel than the system of lengthy imprisonment that we have come to use as a "one-size-fits-all" punishment for any crime. Many of these men languishing in prison for years would far rather have had a hand cut off or an eye gouged out and go through life with a physical handicap than to have their spirits destroyed through years of enforced worthlessness and humiliation. Most would much rather work for years to make restitution to a victim than to be condemned to sit idle for years with no way to act upon the remorse they may genuinely feel. Most would choose a public flogging any day over the thousands of naked body searches and daily humiliation from guards who call them losers, and much worse, and treat them like so many unruly animals they can order about as they please.

I wonder if there were a reality TV show about daily life in prison whether we might see some changes. But there never will be one, because the whole system can only continue out of sight. No one knows what life is like behind the bars except the families of the men there, and they are the least able to agitate for any change. They have all they can do to pay legal bills, make ends meet without the primary breadwinner, drive hundreds of mile to visit their loved ones as often as possible and pay exorbitant phone charges so they can keep in touch. They have no time or money to put into an unpopular crusade to educate their neighbors who keep voting for the "get tough on crime" candidates.

It seems pretty hopeless to me. I can only imagine how it seems to my brother.

in my own words

All that each person is, and experiences, and shall ever experience, in body and mind, all these things are differing expressions of himself and of one root, and are identical: and not one of these things nor one of these persons is ever quite to be duplicated, nor replaced nor has it ever quite had precedent; but each is a new and incommunicably tender life, wounded in every breath and almost as hardly killed as easily wounded: sustaining, for a while, without defense, the enormous assaults of the universe."
-James Agee

I did a lot of reading on vacation - not the books I took with me but "found words." I am one of those people who can hardly be without reading material, and can hardly be around words without reading them. So although I took a stack of books with me to Gooney Lodge this week, I ended up discovering The Claremont Review of Books, several copies of which were in an old crock used as a magazine holder. In that publication I read reviews of many more books I want to get my hands on before we leave for Malaysia - a collection of the writings of Samuel Johnson, a new critical biography of W. H Auden whose poetry I have always loved but whose life I know nothing of, a study of the idea of Evil in its manifestations "from Beelzebub to Bin Laden."

But I also found myself despairing over how little I have read, how little time I have to read, how narrow my perspective is, how pedestrian my own thoughts are compared to the wealth of words penned by others. I wondered if I should ever bother write at all, if my time would not be better spent in reading, contemplating the words and thoughts of better minds than my own. This week, for example, I came across W. H. Auden's comments on the essential loneliness of man and also his thoughts on the superiority of marriage over a passionate affair, and was incredibly moved by both. I, too, spend a lot of time thinking about loneliness and about marriage, but I wondered if I should be "quick to hear and slow to speak," if I should "let my words be few" in the presence of poets and philsophers wiser than I.

Then I read the quotation above by James Agee and stepped back to ponder it. I believe it is true that I (like each of us) am indeed unique in the universe, in all of time. While the issues of life have been considered and discussed for thousands of years, while lovers since Eden have felt similar longings and heartaches, while marriages- happy and unhappy- have always shared certain elements, while mothers and daughters have loved and fought and cried and separated in similar ways; no one in all of time has ever lived my life, or ever will. No one else will ever live the exact life I have lived, with the precise combination of influences, with the same DNA, with the same soul. Although there is much that is shared by all humanity, there is as much or more in each of us which is utterly unique, never known before and never to be experienced in exactly this way again. So it is possible that I might have something to say that is unique to my voice, my heart.

I thought, too, about John Updike's poem, Perfection Wasted in which he likens each of our lives to a stage performance with a sympathetic audience. I don't like the poem; it's tone is all wrong for me, but I do appreciate the metaphor. Each of us has his own audience made up of people whose place in space and time intersects our own in sometimes mundane and sometimes dramatic ways. The chemistry between each of us and our respective audience members is not reproduceable. It will not happen again. Ever.

I thought about some of the implications of that truth. Although I am not the best mother in all time - what a laughable thought - I am the only mother seven people will ever know. While I may not be the wife of every (any?) man's dreams, I am the only wife my husband has. My thoughts and words may be feeble, awkward, inelegant or stumbling, but they still have an audience and a venue no other voice shares.

The author John Gardiner reassures aspiring writers that even if a thought, a metaphor, a word choice is not absolutely unique (could there still be "virgin metaphor" after thousands of years of human thought and experience?) a writer may yet be original in the sense that he finds his own words, "never before thought of as far as he knows."

As far as he knows. . . which is about as far as any of us can go. His own words . . . earned through hardship, purchased by experience, lived and cried and suffered for, etched upon the one soul which is different from all others for all time and eternity. If we speak from our hearts none of us need fear committing plagiarism or unoriginality. So I guess I'll write some more.

_____________________________________________________
*"In every man there is a loneliness, an inner chamber of peculiar life into which God only can enter." W. H. Auden

"Like everything which is not the involuntary result of fleeting emotion but the creation of time and will, any marriage, happy or unhappy, is more interesting and significant than any romance, however passionate." W. H Auden

serpents and doves

My dancer daughter spent our week of vacation braiding her long, blond hair into tiny braids - around 75 she says. She had recently come back from a pilgrimage to the home of Bob Marley (actually it was a missions trip) exclaiming how beautiful the Jamaican people are; since I exercised my parental veto over dreadlocks, she did the next best thing and covered her head with miniature snakes. My husband calls her his little black child, pale as she is!

We have lived a pretty monochromatic life here in northern New England. (Which is one of the disadvantages of living here.) My children know exactly four persons of color in our town. This has had a curious effect upon them; they are intrigued by people who are different than they are. They have no preconceived ideas or prejudices, but they also do not have any of the politically correct caution about noticing (and commenting on) the ways in which people differ. They don't pretend everyone is "just like us," but they don't feel the need to make value judgments about the differences.

On vacation we saw more "people of color" than we do at home, and my five year old was fascinated. We passed two black women and their children in a store who were having a lively, friendly conversation. When we were hardly out of ear shot my daughter exclaimed, "Mommy, did you HEAR how those black people were talking?"
"Yes, honey," I muttered, hurrying her along before she said whatever was coming next!
"They talk different!"
"Well, yes, they do. . . " I began, thinking I would give her a little socio-linguistic lecture about cultural differences, but she was way ahead of me.
"Maybe I could make friends with them. That little girl looked nice. . . but they didn't really notice us, did they?" she said with a disappointed sigh.

My fifteen year old has not had much more experience with cultural diversity. After her two weeks in Jamaica, she attended Earl Mosely's Summer Dance Intensive. Mr Mosely is an incredibly talented black choreographer and dance teacher. Most of the students were from the NYC area, with the exception of C and two other students from northern New England. (They were in the highest level ballet class, but when it came to hip-hop they were pretty much pre-K! ) Nearly all the dancers were black or Hispanic.

One of her friends found the atmosphere at the camp a little initimidating; she felt like the other dancers resented them, even "hated" them. She felt excluded, ignored and shunned. C, however, refused to take offense. She wasn't sure she even felt what M was talking about, but if she did, she was certain it was just a misunderstanding. She could not imagine that anyone meant ill by things that were said or done. She kept reassuring her friend, "They just do things differently than we do, that's all. Besides, how do we seem to them?" She chose to describe her feelings as "shy" rather than "intimidated."

Sometimes I worry that someday her guilessness will get C in trouble; that perhaps she'd be better off a little more suspicious, a little more guarded. But I know I am dead wrong. She is not stupid, but she is generous. She is not a pushover (well, maybe she is. . . ) but she thinks the best of people. She approaches the world with open hands and an open heart and expects that people will treat her the same way. She disarms them so thoroughly they usually do.

I don't know what C will be when she grows up, but when I grow up I want to be more like her and her little sister. No matter how old we are, the Scripture still exhorts us to grow, and even to grow up. Perhaps what we need to be growing into, however, is best exemplified by children. Jesus himself pointed to children as our example in the matter of humility.

As look at my children I realize that so much of what I have learned as a "grown-up" inclines me to be judgmental, mistrusting, sometimes even cynical. I may not discriminate on the basis of race, but discriminate I do. My heart is often guarded rather than open; I am probably more practiced at rejecting than accepting others. I am a master at snap judgments (I call it "the gift of discernment"). I find it so difficult to be that strange creature who possesses the head of serpent but the heart of a dove, to be at once wise and innocent. Maybe I have as much to unlearn as to learn because Jesus was not fooling around when He said, "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 18:3-4)