short days and long nights in new hampshire

This is one of those northern New England days when it 's hard to believe the sun is shining anywhere. At 7:30 the sun has not shown its face yet. The steady drizzle and low hanging clouds make my headlights necessary, but the lights do little to illuminate the scene. The lovely yellow and red leaves that carpeted the ground the last few weeks have turned brown and slick and heavy in the rain. I try to remember the hot sun of my last two years living in the tropics, but it seems more like a different planet than a different hemisphere. I feel sure the sun is not shining anywhere real this morning.

We have entered the refrigerator season in our house. I have an unheated pantry off my kitchen in our 1796 colonial house. In the summer I use it for canned goods and baking supplies, but in the spring and fall it doubles as a cooler. Extra jugs of milk, blocks of cheese, eggs and even leftovers from dinner share the shelves with soup and crackers. Already, however, I need to remember not to leave anything that might be damaged by freezing in there; we have already had two heavy frosts and it's only a matter of days till the pantry becomes a deepfreeze overnight.


My seven year old became accustomed to the unchanging rhythm of life on the equator and is confused by the dark mornings and darker evenings. As each day starts later and ends earlier than the last she is never sure of the time. She arrives downstairs in the morning with her thoughts as tangled as her hair. "Is it really early? Should I go back to bed?" And on the other end of the day she wonders, "Why are we eating so late?" when she looks up from her play to see that the sun is gone.

I vividly remember the first year we lived this far north. This was our dream house, our dream place where we would raise our brood of children in pastoral bliss, with a huge maple in front of the ancient homestead, the sound of a waterfall just outside the kitchen door. We moved in during the deceptively lovely first week of October. The sun was shining, the trees were still hung with brightly colored leaves, the nights were crisp, but not unnaturally long.

By November first, nearly half our waking hours were spent in darkness. I drove dark, winding country roads, still unfamiliar to me, to do my grocery shopping in the middle of the night, leaving my husband to clear off the dinner table from what had begun as an early dinner, but must have gotten caught in some kind of timewarp and ended at what was surely midnight. I remember pushing my cart through the fluorescent light of the market, fighting the nausea of an early pregnancy, and emerging into the cold, dark of winter come too early.


I learned in subsequent years to welcome the early dark, to enjoy gathering my family together in the circle of light that was our kitchen table, eating comforting winter foods and warming our hands with mugs of coffee or cocoa afterwards. I learned to find pleasure in the way my body gradually warmed to the task of a brisk walk on a biting cold day, eventually breaking a sweat under the many layers I peeled off one by one. I remembered from my own childhood the smell of wet wool after sledding and came to tolerate, at least, the mountains of wet coats and mittens and scarves and boots that dominated my kitchen for three or four months. I grew to really love the darkest time of the year right around Christmas, when the lights of the tree made the darkness feel like a blanket around our family, drawing us together in a warm, bright corner of the deep, dark universe.



I need to learn those things again this year, to treat my sojourn here like a long marriage, reminding myself of the things that drew me here in the first place, what I found enchanting and endearing when we were new to each other, this place and I. I suspect it may take some work, some intention on my part, but I'm willing to try. Bring on the snow. . . . just not quite yet.

My Life as a Dog

I have been reading the Old Testament stories to my seven year old at bedtime. It's our second time through this year. First we read the ancient and venerable Hurlbut's Story of the Bible, now we are reading the more modern and poetic prose of Walter Wangerin's Bible for Children. The stories are the same but her questions, like God's mercies, are new every morning (or evening). Today it was, "Does God have a really bad temper?" Not a bad question, actually, though one I've not asked for a while, having learned the "right" answer years ago and never revisited the problem. She has also wondered whether God is actually selfish – “Why does He always want everybody to praise Him?” Some of these are quite challenging to field at bedtime when my critical faculties have already shut down for the day. But another question which I have thought about more recently is, "Why do the Israelites keep going away from God?”

As a child I was also puzzled by the Israelites. I did not understand why they never seemed to learn, why they committed the same sins over and over again, why they seemed to have such short memories. I heard sermons on verses like Hebrews 3:9and 10, "Your fathers tested and tried me and for forty years saw what I did. That is why I was angry with that generation, and I said, 'Their hearts are always going astray, and they have not known my ways.'" Or Psalm 78: 21-32, "In spite of all this, they kept on sinning; in spite of his wonders, they did not believe. " Even more damning was verse 36, "But they deceived Him with their mouth And lied to Him with their tongue. For their heart was not right with him, neither were they steadfast in his covenant." "What was wrong with them?" I wondered.


Now, however, having lived longer than the Israelites wandered in the wilderness, I understand them all too well. I used to to try to justify myself to myself, noting the differences between me and the Old Testament sinners. I used to think, “If God spoke to me in an audible voice. . . .” or “If I saw the water gush from the rock, if I had waded through the stinking quail carcasses, if I had seen the Egyptians utterly destroyed in the water of the Red Sea, then I would not find it so hard to be faithful, so easy to stray.” But I don’t buy my own excuses anymore. I know the truth of Jesus words that “even if one came back from the dead” it would make no difference.

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love” is the theme song of my life. And while I understand the fickle Israelites better than I did as a child, I still do not fully understand the mysteries of my own heart. When I think of all the loves of my life I wonder if there is any other relationship like the one I have with God. It seems to be utterly unique in my experience. What other relationship is such a mixture of love and wandering, desiring intimacy but requiring vigilance? Is there anyone else I say I love, or even want to love, but continually walk away from, deceive, hide from or ignore? I don’t think so.


As I puzzled over this, I found myself remembering a dog we had years ago. He was a Golden Retriever who loved us passionately. He obviously spent all day every day longing for our return; he tore down walls (literally) to be near us during thunderstorms. He mourned when we left him and rejoiced when we returned. Yet, through it all, he kept his eye on the open road. He became a master at opening the backyard gate. He was incredibly devious; he could look innocent as a lamb lying at your feet on the porch, but the minute your attention was diverted he'd be down the steps and around the first corner he could find. If you caught him in the attempt he would switch gears real fast and try to look like he was just stretching his legs or changing positions. We knew, however, he was really just biding his time till the next chance. Afterwards, he was always so happy to be found - at the pound, on the front stoop of a house miles away, or sometimes, hot and tired and panting, on his own porch. The day after an escape he'd stay close to home, tired and hungry and content, but the wanderlust would always return. I know the feeling.


The Old Testament reading Sunday was from Psalm 32. One verse caught my attention: "Don't be like the horse, or like the mule, which have no understanding, who are controlled by bit and bridle, or else they will not come near to you." At first I thought God was giving the general caution, "do not be like a beast" and I worried about my canine soul, but I believe He is singling out stubborn animals who can only be controlled by force rather than love. God Himself has, in another place, reminded us that it is the goodness of God that leads us to repentance, that while we are indeed like foolish, wayward animals, He is the Good Master who welcomes us home again and again. Like an old hymn says, "Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, But yet in love he sought me, And on his shoulder gently laid, And home rejoicing brought me. "



Probably none of this would make sense to seven year old Ivy, who is still wondering why the Israelites kept disobeying God. I can only trust that if God gives her the grace to become one of his flock she will, one day, understand. For now, maybe we should buy a dog.

voting for the Muslims

I am realizing again how black and white everything becomes in an election year. Shades of gray are hard to find, especially in a close, hard-fought election like this one promises to be. The lines seem to be particularly harshly drawn this year, and the contrasts are stark. From age to experience to skin color, we are presented with an either-or choice. No one is in any mood to compromise or seek a middle ground before the election.

So I am especially glad that my children spent the last two years outside the US in Southeast Asia where US events and issues appear more nuanced and less polarized. People, groups, nations or philosophies that may be painted with a single stroke here show in a different light outside our country's borders. My youngest children are at the age where they are just becoming aware of world events; their main exposure to newsworthy occurrences comes from dinner table conversations between their parents and older siblings. In Malaysia they imbibed opinions and attitudes along with lemon grass curry, butter naan and tandoori chicken, washed down with ice-blended mango smoothies, of course.

So this morning over breakfast my seven year old was paying close attention as I explained a map of Europe during the Middle Ages to an older child, pointing out which areas were controlled by Franks, Angles and Muslims. I didn't realize she was listening until she piped up cheerfully, "If there are no Christians, then I'm voting for the Muslims."

I was delighted. I'm so happy that she has had the opportunity to know many Muslims as kind, caring individuals, that women in headscarves don't frighten her and that she has had the opportunity for so many friendly, teasing chats with the dark=skinned young men who weigh produce at the market or serve heaping plates of rice at a favorite neighborhood restaurant. I'm so glad that Siti and Hazlini and Mustafa sound like normal, everyday names to her, and that the sound of the call to prayer does not seem strange or threatening. I know as she grows older she will learn the distinctions between peaceful Muslims and militant ones; her views about Islam will necessarily become more complex and cautious, but for now, I am happy to hear her speak from her own experience and be able to love and embrace the people she lived happily among the last two years.

When she does become old enough to vote, I hope she will not have forgotten the kindness and the generosity of the people we were privileged to know in Malaysia. She probably won't decide to "vote for the Muslims," but I hope she will still love them.

an apt poem by Bonhoeffer

Who Am I?



Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a Squire from his country house

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which
other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself
know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick,
like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though
hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colours, for flowers,
for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness,
for neighbourliness,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends
at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying,
at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once?
A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still
like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me,
these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God,
I am Thine!


Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Tegel Prison
Summer 1944

disembodied voice

My husband has a new cellphone for work. It arrived in the mail the other day; he'd been watching for it. It has internet access and some other slick capabilities. He referred to it as "sexy," an adjective that I don't care for when it's applied to things. (In fact, I don't care for it applied to human beings, either, if my husband is the speaker.) The first morning he had the phone it began ringing in an unfamiliar tone which he did not immediately recognize as a summons. By the time he realized the cheerful little blast of electronic music was his phone, found the phone, and figured out how to answer a call, the caller had hung up. And then any aura of sexiness that still clung to the clever little device evaporated when a very unsexy woman's voice said, "I'm sorry, the voicemail box for this number has not been set up yet."



Overhearing the voice, I began to wonder why the disembodied voice was female. Was it a nod to the days when executives all had female assistants instead of sexy hardware? I remembered then the female voice of my sister's GPS unit, the one who tells her where to turn and when to stop, who announces when she has arrived at her destination, sometimes in the middle of a cornfield. Perhaps the gender of the voice is a nod to motherhood, the dashboard version of the backseat driver, always ready to tell the driver what choices to make and when he has arrived. Hmmm, maybe buying a GPS reveals a deepseated need for a mother figure.



But my real interest this morning is my husband's phone. I wonder if I could record the messages on his phone myself. (After all, this whole phone thing may not even be healthy; do I really want my husband to get in the habit of doing what some other woman tells him to? Isn't that my province?) If I rerecorded all the stock messages he could hear my pleasant voice instead of this sterile, automated woman. I could tell him when his mailbox is full, or when he has messages waiting. I could also be the one who tells bothersome callers that he is too busy just now.



Perhaps I could expand to recording his reminders, like when his laundry is ready to be picked up, or when payments are due. I could even record my own suggestions and reminders; he might forget which were his own like -"Take the Toyota for inspection" and "Call garbage service," and which were mine, "Bring home flowers" or "Leave work by 6:15 at the latest so you can make it home in time for dinner." Let's see, I could add "Fix that leak you've been promising to to get to, Clean out the garage; Assemble the grill before Saturday." I've heard these devices have phenomenal memory capacity. The possibilities are virtually endless. Actually!



Suddenly I remember a passage in the book I'm reading that takes place in Zimbabwe. It mentions the Shona word for cellphone, which being literally translated is "the screaming in the pocket." And I think it may be the modern equivalent of the ancient "constant dripping on a rainy day," to which Solomon likened a contentious wife. I am reminded again of the ways that we inexorably bend technology to serve our human nature, which never changes. So while the ancient Israelite woman had to content herself with being " a constant dripping on a rainy day," and that metaphorically, I can become "the screaming in the pocket," literally.



So, on second thought I don't think I'll be recording any new messages today. And maybe I should edit some old ones before they get replayed. I think I've got my work cut out for me.

found while carrying a box

This morning I found a ring I lost two years ago. I was unpacking boxes – carrying something from the kitchen to the pantry. I happened to look down and saw, there in the crevice between the kitchen sill and the pantry floorboards a small, shiny circlet. Stooping down, I retrieved a tiny ring I had not seen since we moved out of this house nearly two years ago. I don’t know if it had been lying there the entire time or if it fell out of the box I was emptying. I didn’t hear it fall, but it might have, or perhaps I stepped on a board in the just the right place to dislodge it from a hiding place. Our house was occupied while we were away, so it seems unlikely that it had lain there unnoticed for the entire twenty-one months. It is a mystery to me, but it fit my smallest finger perfectly once again.

I could not help but think of all the rings I have lost over the years; I love rings, but I seem to have terrible luck with them. There was the dark, square cut garnet my parents gave me for graduation and my high school ring, the tiny emerald with a diamond chip which was the first ring my husband ever gave me and my wedding ring which actually fit my finger 23 years and seven children ago but was misplaced for years after I removed it during a pregnancy that made my hands and feet swell. I found the wedding band in a drawer during our last move, but the others have never been found though I have searched for them and prayed over them (once I knew the name of the patron saint in charge of lost items) and turned couches and car seats upside down and inside out. Despite my best efforts, accompanied sometimes by my tears, most of the rings have remained lost to me. So it seemed doubly strange that I should find this small, insignificant one that I had forgotten about, that I was not even looking for.

It reminded me of wisdom, and how it shows up in unexpected flashes, a bright, silvery gleam that catches the unsuspecting eye. Sometimes I have felt as if all my seeking and praying and crying out for guidance, for wisdom, for enlightenment have been utterly ignored. Like Milton, I have “troubled deaf heaven with my bootless cries,” and come up empty handed. No matter how diligently I seek, how late I burn the midnight oil, how earnestly I hope for the treasure to appear, so often I find nothing.

And then, when I least expect it, when I have forgotten to look or even to care, I stumble upon a treasure, a truth, a comfort, a clue. In an odd place, from a strange source, Truth quietly catches my attention, and I recognize it. God can use anyone, any situation, any old crack in the floor to teach or instruct, comfort or challenge us. He can be silent and unfindable for reasons I do not understand, but He can also show up in unexpected places. I have learned I need to keep my eyes open. All the time.

blessings and woes in the cameron highlands

This weekend we made our fifth and perhaps final visit to our Malaysian Indian brother Jeshua in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, the "cooling highlands" atop the mountain range which runs like a spine down the center of peninsular Malaysia. The highlands are accessible by a single winding road through the jungle which climbs higher and higher past waterfalls and thatch-roofed villages until it reaches Ringlet, Tanah Rata and finally Brinchang, the three scrappy towns which cater to farmers, tourists and Orang Asli, the indigenous peoples who inhabited these mountains long before the British built a hill station here some 90 years ago. Tour buses, trucks loaded with fruits, vegetables and flowers and hundreds of ancient land rovers share the roads here. Tourists, immigrant farm laborers and local people share the sidewalks, night markets and open air restaurants. It's a lively place, with breathtaking scenery and almost perfect climate. There is plenty of local color here - most of it bright green.


Monday morning I sat on a rusty, metal chair outside of "Peacehome," the bungalow where Jeshua houses the guests who come to visit and assist in his ministry. I studied the open-air kitchen on the side of the house - a roof but no walls. I took in the cracked, mismatched dishes drying in the deformed dish rack, the old dented pots and pans, the dull tin sink, the concrete floor and drains which collected the water straight from the hole in the sink; no drain pipe was strictly necessary, so none intervened between the drain and the concrete trough below. Beside the sink there was a newish washing machine, an old refrigerator, 2 gas burners and a dingy table. Scattered about were plastic basket-like covers, once brightly colored, which served to keep flies off the food. Inside the bungalow was clean and comfortable, but decidedly shabby.



I thought about bringing Jeshua new blankets, replacing the ancient "Smurf" sheets (you could probably sell them on e-bay), faded and pilled from years of washing; I considered buying some pretty towels and new curtains to spruce up the place. But I realized Jeshua wouldn't want us to spend money on that. He covets any donations to buy rice for the refugees hiding in the jungles nearby, to purchase socks, charcoal tablets, ibuprofen for village children who suffer from diahhrea and fever, who shiver through the chilly damp nights in unheated bamboo huts. He would prefer to purchase corrugated metal and concrete to build a tiny sanctuary in an Orang Asli village that requests a church building.



Unlike me, Jeshua lives in a place where he cannot forget that a few dollars spent on personal luxuries, however modest, takes rice away from hungry people or denies medicine to sick children. Unlike me, he must consciously decide each day whether to upgrade his house or try to save a child's life. Unlike me, also, he does not appear to experience this awareness as a burden, but as a joy. Nearly every sentence he speaks is punctuated with a chuckle or a "Ha-ha!" He laughs as he mimes the caning to which he could be sentenced for helping Burmese refugees who are considered illegal aliens in Malaysia. Jeshua cheerfully reminds us often of the blessings God promises those who love the poor such as those named in Psalm 41:1-3. The blessing of health is one he often names, though he reluctantly spends money on blood pressure medication made necessary by the stress of caring for endless needs with limited, uncertain resources. He finds 7 hour trips into "the deep, deep jungle, ha-ha!" increasingly hard on his 55 year-old knees, but he keeps going nonetheless.

This weekend with Jeshua I saw something I had never seen in my life -a community of homeless, stateless Burmese immigrants living in makeshift plastic shelters on the edge of the jungle. These men, women and children had escaped terrible persecution in their homeland only to live in fear of vengeful Malaysian vigilante forces who burn refugee campsites and capture any unfortunates who are not able to flee into the jungle. Babies as young as six days old have been taken to brutal detention centers. Refugees within weeks of being resettled in the US have been detained as illegals. Those not sent to detention centers may be deported or sold to human traffickers who prey on Asia's desperately poor. Yet this illegal camp was orderly, clean and well-run, established and maintained entirely by the "campers" as they called themselves. The children were bright-eyed and interested in visitors. They recited Psalm 121 together and sang the old chorus, "He is Able." The adults greeted us with smiles and handshakes, many spoke excellent English. Unable to work for fear of arrest, they were utterly dependent upon Jeshua and his supporters for rice to cook with the vegetables they harvested from the jungle.



I met the young man who has taken on the role of pastor for this group of nearly 100. We had only a little opportunity to talk in between our handing out blankets for the children and singing praise songs together. But he made a point of looking me squarely in the eye as we were leaving and saying, "Don't forget about us." His words were not spoken as a plea, but as a challenge, a charge. I felt as he might be just fine if I forgot about him, that he had supernatural resources I knew little of, but that I would never be fine again if I forgot what I had seen. I was reminded of the Old Testament prophets who pronounced Woes upon Israel if they forgot what God had commanded them or refused to obey His commands.


So I have in my mind today both the blessings promised in the Psalms and the woes pronounced by the Prophets. I remember the words of our Lord Jesus which seem to encompass both - the warning that at the end of the age the Father will welcome those who spent themselves and their resources to serve the least of these, but will fail to recognize those who failed to recognize His Son in the guise of the poor. He promises eternal blessing to the one, eternal woe to the other. I wonder which group I belong to.

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Psalm 41:1-3

1 Blessed is he who has regard for the weak; the LORD delivers him in times of trouble.

2 The LORD will protect him and preserve his life; he will bless him in the land and not surrender him to the desire of his foes.

3 The LORD will sustain him on his sickbed and restore him from his bed of illness.

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Matthew 25:31-46

31"When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his throne in heavenly glory. 32All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.
34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'
40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
41"Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.'
44"They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'
45"He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'
46"Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life."

Secrets: A Parable

We had a problem in our house last year. It first showed up in December soon after my eldest daughter got home from working in an orphanage in India. She confessed as soon as we got her into the safety of the family van that she had brought something besides gifts home with her. We thought it might be embarrassing if other people knew about it, so we decided to keep it under our hats, so to speak.


The very next day we visited our sad-faced parmacist, a mild-mannered Chinese man who shook his head dolefully and murmured, "very common in the tropics," - which is what he says about everything, and gave us a small bottle of foul-smelling liquid which was supposed to be all we needed. And for a while we forgot about the problem. Until one day we realized with horror that it had spread and was now affecting other members of our household as well.


We tried everything we could think of ; we read advice columns on the internet, researched the topic, tried this remedy and that - though we never spoke with anyone personally about it.
We spent lots of money and lots of time trying to solve this problem, but we never told anyone outside the family. It was just too embarrassing. Nothing like this had ever happened in our household before, and while we heard it was fairly common among the population, we still did not want to seem like the kind of people who needed help dealing with this issue.

Although at first the problem was fairly small and seemed manageable, over time it grew, till sometimes it distracted us from everything else. Somedays I spent hours dealing with it; some days we had to rearrange our schedules because the next treatment was due and if we postponed it a day we might be back to day one. Through it all, however, we went to great lengths to keep it a secret, which was not always easy to do since some of our behaviors must have aroused suspicion.

During the months we were dealing with it we went to church camp, participated in a missions trip, had friends stay with us for lengthy visits, and generally carried on our lives, but we did our best to make sure no one ever knew what we were dealing with. We kept it strictly under wraps. Outwardly we looked, we hoped, like nothing was wrong. We didn't want people to start avoiding us or examining us a little too closely. And we knew they would.


Keeping secrets can wear on you, however. At one point my 10 year old asked plaintively, "Can we talk about this when it's over?" "Sure, honey," I replied. "We can laugh about it when it's not a problem any more. It may even be a good story to tell. But not yet."

So, I guess I can talk about it now, though I still can't quite bring myself to use the "L" word, if you know what I mean. Because I do care what you think about me. And I do have the tiniest worry in the back of my mind that it could happen again. That I'm not invulnerable. Or perfect. And I do still live in the tropics.

So instead of talking about my problems I'd rather talk about something uplifting, like what I read in the Bible this morning. Like James 5:16 that says, "Confess your sins to one another and pray for each other that you may be healed."

You go first.

Bottom's lament

I had to laugh at myself last week - well, it was more like a grimace than a laugh. We were strolling up our street reminiscing about our recent week in Thailand and the conversation turned to Judy, the lovely, funny, slightly irreverent missionary we met in Bangkok. She and her husband run The Well, a shelter for bargirls interested in leaving prostitution. My 17 year old daughter was saying how much she loved Judy, how absolutely wonderful she thought she was. I felt a slight pang, because Judy is a completely different personality than I am; we're like night and day. In case you are not sure which is which, I can tell you that no one in my immediate family is wearing sunglasses.

True to form, I sighed and confided to my husband that I'd always wished I were lighter, happier, more fun than I am. More like the woman my daughter currently admires. He laughed knowingly and said in his own lighthearted way, "You'd like to be all things to all people, wouldn't you?" He's right; I would.

I think I must be rather like Bottom in the rehearsal scene in A Midsummer Night's Dream, wanting to play every part in the play. He is a ludicrous character, of course, with his constant interruptions and his earnest attempts to be the best at every part. He can't be content to watch someone else shine. He wants to do it all; he wants to be it all. And even at this late date in my life, I still often want to play a different part than the one I've been assigned. Or best of all, every part when the spotlight is shining on it. You'd think I'd know better by now.


We have an inside joke in our family - one of hundreds - from the days when we had two little "foster" girls living with us. They were both starved for attention and jealous of missing any that might be going around. If anyone ever said to S, "You look really pretty in that dress," J would sigh emphatically in resignation and say dolefully, "I guess I don't look pretty today." Or maybe it would be, "Thank you for helping me with the dishes, S." J would quickly interject, "I guess you don't think I helped you today." And so on. It became a favorite mode of response among our children. I hear an echo of little J at least once a week.


When I try to look honestly at my feelings I think I still react like J sometimes, though I am careful not to be so obvious about it. I feel uncomfortable when someone else is praised - someone who is not at all like me. I worry that I am somehow less worthy, that perhaps I should have become an entirely different sort of person than the one I am - that maybe my role in the play (Did I choose it or was it assigned to me? I can't remember) is a lesser one, and I won't earn the applause that someone else will enjoy. Maybe there is still some way to change parts.

But of course this is no dress rehearsal, but the real play, and I'm well into what must be third or fourth act by now, playing this introspective, somewhat moody character who is prone to frown when everyone else is laughing, who gravitates to sad movies, serious books and hopelessly idealistic causes. It's too late too late to change roles at this point; furthermore, it's impossible. I've been typecast.


As always, the wisdom that I need to hear is waiting in the Scriptures. The Apostle Paul sagely warns against the danger of comparing ourselves with each other, of wondering if another has been assigned a better role. He reminds us that to our own Master only will we stand or fall. We are playing to an audience all our lives, to be sure, but it is an audience of One, the same one who wrote the script, assigned the parts and is even now directing the action. Thousands of years ago David acknowledged that "in Your book were all written, the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them. . . You have taken account of my wanderings; Put my tears in your bottle; Are they not in your book?" God wrote this part just for me, tears and all. I would be a fool to wish to play a different role.

Using a completely different metaphor, Paul wrote of the "multi-colored grace of God," conjuring in my mind an image of a prism through which the pure light of God's grace is broken into many hues, looking different as it is displayed in each life, through each personality. The rainbow colors that dance upon the wall or the floor are all lovely, equally beautiful, all reflecting the sunshine that pours through the glass. A pure beam of sunlight entering a room is lovely, but it is never so fascinating or enchanting as the sparks of color created by a crystal in the window. God demonstrates His grace in every hue as it works throughout our unique lives, our indispensable appearances in the play He is directing.



Will I never be jealous of the limelight again, never wish to be loved for my sunny disposition, to be yellow or orange instead of blue? Of course I will. That's one of the challenges I face in my role. Will I remember the stage manager's directions and throw my whole heart into the one part I've been assigned no matter what anyone else is doing? I hope so, but that remains to be seen.






"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the LORD, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken."Psalm 16:5-8

rules to live by

My husband is in the US this week. He called from his cell phone the other night/morning as he was driving back to his hotel. As he was talking with our ten year old he abruptly said, "Uh oh. . . Oh no. . . . Just a minute.. . . . Whoa" or something like that. She could hear car horns blowing in the background and Dad's voice disappeared for a moment. Thankfully he was back in a few seconds, to explain that he had inadvertently turned into the wrong lane on a divided highway, used as he was to driving on the other side of the road here in Malaysia, and distracted as he was by talking on the phone. He got a lot of angry horn-blowing and dirty looks, but the incident ended without accident. He decided to call back when he got to the hotel.


We had a good laugh over the situation, which seemed almost inevitable after 18 months driving on the "wrong" side of the road (I get my turn in a few months), but then my thirteen year old made the funniest observation of all. She said, "You know, if he had done that in Malaysia nobody would have cared." And she's right. Other drivers might have been annoyed at the inconvenience, but people regularly drive on the wrong side of the road here if they just need to do it to get somewhere quickly. . . and other drivers, for the most part, understand. Hey, we all need to drive on the wrong side at one time or another, right? Just do it quickly and get it over with.


When we first moved here we did not understand the rules of the road - I don't mean the laws, I mean how things really work. And I found driving very frustrating - infuriating, even. But now I don't use nearly as many bad words behind the wheel, and I sometimes even enjoy the give and take that is part of Malaysian road etiquette. I just got back from driving the 5 km or so to my daughter's ballet studio and was smiling to myself about how much I've learned about life on the road.


And I was thinking about Jesus. One of the things you've got to love about Jesus is that He could use anything to teach a lesson - an unfruitful fig tree, a bird's nest, a wildflower, a reluctant wedding guest. If He were here among us today He might use the internet, a Starbucks cappucino, a "Made in China" label or anything else part of everyday life. Like traffic - He might use Malaysian traffic.


Here in Kuala Lumpur you need to drive boldly. If you hang back you'll never get anywhere. Driving here is like a perpetual game of chicken; you can never let on that you might slam on the brakes for cars entering from side streets or you will be stopped at every cross street. If you see a potential opening in the stream of cars you have to make it an actual opening, or it will close up and you'll be waiting another five minutes. If someone is doubleparked in your lane, and there are oncoming cars in the other lane more than three car-lengths away, you need to move quickly and grab that lane before they get too close. Seize the lane (how do you say that in Latin??). It's not your fault that your lane is blocked, so you can assume you have as much right to that other lane as the oncoming traffic does. You need to take to heart the encouragement of Proverbs 28, "the righteous are as bold as a lion."


And sometimes you just need to make a move, trusting that a space will open up as you believe for it. You have to drive by faith and not by sight - not really as scary as it sounds! There's an odd dynamic that happens here: although it seems like it's every man for himself I have never really needed to get into a lane and not been able to in time for my exit. What looks like a bumper to bumper jam is surprisingly flexible, and the waters do part when you really need them to. Driving here is a faith building experience, in more ways than one.


A cardinal rule on the road here seems to be that it's OK for you to bend the rules, but you have to give other drivers the same permission. We're not under the law but under grace, therefore we need to remember to forgive others their transgressions as we hope to be forgiven ours. Jalan Sahala - one way street - is really just a suggestion, and sometimes really impossible to slavishly observe. Remembering that, you should not fly off the handle if you encounter someone traveling against the mandated flow of traffic when you happen to be in the right. As long as you can both squeeze by, what's the problem? Remember that you will be judged by the same standard you use to judge others, so just let it pass.


Driving in Malaysia is also a daily reminder that you cannot control or count on the future. You must hold your expectations lightly when you venture onto the highway. That's part of sharing the road with a million other drivers. Say like your Muslim neighbors, "If God wills" whenever you set out on the highway. Leave plenty of time, because you are clearly not the only one who needs to use the road, and don't lose your cool if you still get caught in a jam and are late to your destination. You can ALWAYS blame traffic, ALWAYS. No one will think any less of you, and you'll be happier and more relaxed if you just expect to be delayed. Come now, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go into this or that town. . .' You do not know about tomorrow. . . You ought to say instead, “If the Lord is willing, then we will live and do this or that.


Another precept of the road that has broader life application is never forget to use your side mirrors, i.e. watch out for those who are smaller and more vulnerable than you. The roads here are filled with motor scooters who travel by their own rules. They switch lanes with abandon, weave in and out of traffic, zip through traffic jams like nobody's business. By driving scooters instead of cars, their drivers are actually reducing the congestion on the roads - and they get all kinds of incentives to do just that from bypassing tollbooths to special parking places - but you can take them out in an unguarded instant if you are not constantly on the lookout. Although he'd never driven in Kuala Lumpur the Apostle Paul described exactly this kind of caution as each fixing his attention, not simply on his own interests, but on those of others also.



And give each other grace. There does not appear to be much, if any, road rage in Malaysia. Things I'd expect to be cursed at for in the US - like changing lanes at the last minute because I made a mistake or parking in such a way that someone else cannot move his car - are no cause for comment or rude gestures here. Occasionally someone will tap their horn for you to hurry up or get out of the way, but I've never heard anyone lay on the horn in anger, scream out the window or use obscene sign language. It's pretty amazing. Doubleparking is epidemic here, and you can expect to occasionally come back to your legitimately parked car to find someone else parked behind you. Don't panic. The driver is probably sitting in the open air restaurant nearby drinking tea tarik with his buddies. If he does not see you immediately you just touch your horn lightly and he'll come running over to move his car, and take your parking space. People here make allowances for things like that.


A final spiritual lesson one could glean from the road here is to just keep moving on, any way you can. If your lane is blocked, make another. If the intersection appears clear, don't waste time with a complete stop. If the car ahead of you slows down to make a turn just slip right past him. Don't let anything hinder your progress. Remember the unspoken maxim, "The queue must be passed." Accept no obstacle, bow to no roadblock. Forgetting those things which lie behind, press on. I think that's pretty good advice.

the holy task of pardon

I just finished reading Alan Paton's novel, Too Late the Phalarope. It was one of the saddest and truest books I have ever read and I feel like sending a copy to everyone I know. It is a tragedy in the classical sense - a story of a good man, " master of all things save one," whose fatal flaw destroys him and his family in the end.

His temptation and fall is a sexual relationship which is both illegal and immoral, so the consequences are civil and societal as well as personal and private. Although the particular act he committed would not be illegal for the same reasons today,(he was a white South African male who had an adulterous relationship with a black woman in the 1940's), we do have laws that circumscribe similar encounters. A powerful man who takes advantage of a woman who occupies a subservient role might still run afoul of the law in 2008 in the US. A boss, a teacher, a superior officer, a doctor, a judge or a law enforcement official could all be prosecuted for abusing their positions of influence or authority with a vulnerable female. Our society has little tolerance or understanding for men who offend in that way.


Paton, however, creates such sympathy for his flawed hero that we are drawn to see him through a very different lens. We watch him wrestle with his demons and find ourselves praying he will not give in. We observe how many times he resolves to tell someone of his terrible temptation, hoping to defuse some of its power over him. We almost cry when he goes home without ever voicing the darkness in his soul. We read his thoughts, written months later in a prison cell, and wonder with him why his prayers seemed to go unanswered, why an angel never came to him and showed him the consequences his children would face if he did not turn from his destructive ways. In short, we sympathize with Lt. Vlaanderen. We see him through the eyes of a narrator who loves him, and we come to love him as well.


We fear for him, we want to save him, and, failing that, we want him to be restored. We feel the second tragedy of his father's inability to forgive when he closes the door of his house to his own son forever, when he decrees his eldest son's name must never be spoken again. We grieve when Lt. V is treated with loathing and disgust by the same young men who once idolized him, who seeming ly know nothing of the anguished struggles he knew as he wrestled within himself before he plunged into darkness and committed the one act that would forever mark his future. We do not understand what drives him to destruction - he does not understand it himself - but we recognize his fall as a tragedy, and we feel no impluse to gloat or to hate.

Of course Lt. Vlaanderen is a fictional character, not an actual person, although he has many counterparts in the real world. But the truth that Paton speaks in the form of a story is a Truth in the real world - "for God is both Lover and Judge of men, and it is His commandment that we join Him in loving, but to judge we are forbidden." And in a later chapter, ". . . an offender must be punished, I don't argue about that. But to punish and not to restore, that is the greatest of all offenses."

That is a truth all but forgotten in our culture - perhaps in most cultures. We clamor for punishment, but we have little interest in restoration. Our society has developed institutions to punish, but none to restore. Restoration seldom happens, and most likely will not happen unless it is accomplished by the church to whom God has entrusted the ministry of reconciliation. As someone whose family has been badly shaken by the fall of a great but flawed man, I desperately wish the church would remember that mercy triumphs over justice, that grace trumps law, and that restoration is a nobler work than punishment.

Paton's narrator concludes speaking wistfully of "the holy task of pardon," which the church must undertake "that the body of the Lord might not be wounded twice, and virtue come of our offences." I could not have said it so well myself.

prophet without honor

What homeschooling mother has not felt like the prophet without honor in her own country on at least one occasion? Like the underappreciated loyal servant, the unacknowledged expert, the unrecognized genius in her own home, her own family. What stay-at-home mom has not felt like the person who is just always there - like the sagging couch in the living room or the perpetual laundry waiting in the hamper? The person whose humble origins are are all too well-known by the masses, the person who has been observed all too often scrubbing the toilets, cleaning the catbox or trying to camouflage last night's leftovers for today's lunch?

Can I be the only one who has noticed that her children's father, on the other hand, is like the bridegroom whose friends cannot help feasting when he is present. His daily advent at 6 or 7 or 8 pm is always a cause for festivity. He gets to return every day to great rejoicing. While Mom is probably the first person the kids laid eyes on today - like every other day, Dad is able to maintain a certain aura of mystery, of the unknown. Mom's every waking moment is open to (and subjected to) the scrutiny of childish and teenage eyes. They see her at her worst as well as her best. No public persona clings to her - the public and the private have merged in her case.

And Dad knows things Mom doesn't know; he has years of experience "in the real world" that Mom has clearly never known. How could she? She's always here. The kids have heard that Mom had a job for awhile, before they were even born, but no one is too sure what she actually did. What did anyone do that long ago? Dad has an important job he goes to everyday - and even has to sequester himself behind closed doors two evenings a week to take important phone calls. Mom's phone calls are from people like the piano teacher and the tennis coach. Or other homeschool moms. Her calls never require quiet or privacy, which is fortunate. Sometimes Dad is away for weeks at a time, flying business class across the world. He brings home special things for everyone and has fun stories to tell about where he's been. Mom seldom goes anywhere for longer than four hours, and then it's usually the grocery store. She does bring things home, but they're not much fun. Not much exciting happens in the checkout lane.

I was feeling like the dissed prophet yesterday. Dad had a holiday - the Prophet Mohammed's birthday. Dad's days off are always happy events for the kids. They get to skip schoolwork for the day - that unpleasant chore that Mom always imposes on them - and do fun things: go out for breakfast, play tennis, go shopping, watch The Terminator with Dad (again). I was OK with that - really - but then things got a little out of hand. I was happy to have engineer Dad be the math expert and do SAT prep with second daughter. I am, in fact, thrilled to play second fiddle to him when the topic at hand is advanced math. I even slip into the audience and applaud loudly when the virtuoso performance is over and the last strains of quadratic equations fade away. But there was a literature kind of question that also came up during the day, and Dad got to field that one and be the advisor to that project, too. They took his advice over mine, even though I am the degreed and credentialed Liberal Arts major in the house. What was that about??

While I was considering this slight in my own mind I remembered the proverb about the prophet who was not without honor except in his own country. "Who said that anyway?" I wondered? Of course, it was Jesus himself. So He knew how I was feeling! Perhaps I was not alone in my aggrieved state - perhaps it was OK to feel that twinge of distress that stopped just short of envy. Perhaps I could even expect a little heavenly commiseration. Jesus is, after all, not a high priest who cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted as we are. . . . yet without sin. . . .Oh. I knew there was a catch somewhere.

So, I had to ask myself how did Jesus react when He knew He was not respected, not properly esteemed? Did He sulk? Go to his room? Grow ominously quiet? Did He even let it bother Him? No, it appears He did not. He certainly noted what was happening, but then He just moved on. I wonder if He even may have laughed when He quoted the proverb to His disciple-friends. Maybe He clapped John or Peter on the back, shook His head and said, "Come on, let's roll." He does not appear to have skipped a beat. He had work to do elswhere and He did it. Probably with a cheerful attitude.

Any justification I had felt for my own self-pity seemed to have evaporated when I considered how little Jesus cared for honor that was rightfully His. Whether my perceived grievances were real or imagined made no difference, and by now I was having trouble remembering why I had felt so offended in the first place. And that still, small voice was whispering in my ear the exact words of profound wisdom I needed at the moment, "Get over it." So I did.


Then Jesus told them, "A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his relatives and his own family." - Mark 6:4 NLT

Mr. Mike and Saint Deborah

We went out to dinner with Mr. Mike last night. Mr Mike is a tall, slim Texan who travels the world for my husband's company. Though he claims to hate traveling, Mr. Mike seldom spends more than two or three days in the same time zone. He usually arrives in Malaysia just before or after spending the weekend with his younger son who works in Singapore. He's generally on his way to Ningbo, China or Australia. When you ask him where he's headed next he usually gives you his itinerary for the next three months - which is always mind-boggling. Last night he told me he's heading to Ningbo, then (I can't rememember the order) to Australia, Germany, Roanoke, New Hamsphire, home to Texas for "spring break," then Mexico, Brazil, Beijing and one more US city - all between now and the end of May. In June he takes his wife to Paris and Rome, stopping along the way to watch one of the uphill segments of the Tour de France. His wife is, by his account, an avid cylclist, horse breeder, championship rider, middle school teacher and amateur vet.


Our kids love him. He's like a favorite uncle. He quizzes my 17 year old about her political opinions - then chastizes me, her homeschool teacher, because she has none! He talks cars with my son, discusses Border Collies with my 10 year old and clinks banana smoothie glasses with my youngest. He's the only one of my husband's colleagues who greets me with a hug the two or three times a year we meet.


So dinner was fun. But after making the rounds of the table chatting with each child he asked me a question I always hate, no matter who is doing the asking: "So, what have you been doing lately? I mean for yourself, not for the kids." I hate that question because first of all, I can never think of an answer. I mean, unless you regularly appear on talk-show TV, who has an answer ready for that kind of question? And secondly, it invariably leads to a lecture about how you have to take care of yourself to be a good mother or wife or human being. That always leaves me tongue-tied and embarrassed, feeling like I must be the single most uninteresting woman on the planet. I already don't have a real job, for heaven's sake. Now I reveal I don't even have any hobbies or sports that legitimize my continued existence. I also hate that my fumbling answers make me look like some kind of self-sacrificing saint instead of the self-absorbed person I know myself to be. So I mentioned a book I'd recently finished reading (Thank God I remembered the title! I read all the time but can never remember book names), and managed to get Mr. Mike talking about his current reading. The conversation flowed on, away from me and my so-called life.

It's hard to choose the worst of the pop-psychology maxims believed and espoused by the average American, but the belief that we all need to love and cherish ourselves first has got to be the most annoying to me. It's the most insidious as well. Jesus' command to love your neighbor as yourself is often invoked with the implied or stated corollary that we all need to work first on self-love. Once we make ourselves happy, serene, beautiful, fulfilled and comfortable-in-our-own-skins (another troublesome phrase) we can do as much for others, if there's any time or money left over. "If you don't take care of yourself you can't take care of your kids or husband!" we're constantly reminded. Remember the sage advice given on every flight: put on your own oxygen mask first.

Ever since Adam we've been genetically programmed to save our own skins first. Adam and Eve both tried it in the garden - he blaming her and she the snake. When confronted by God they each grabbed the closest oxygen mask. As their true descendants, none of us need to be reminded to love ourselves, though we may need some education about what's good for us. As C.S. Lewis wrote in one of my favorite poems, "All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you: I never had a selfless thought since I was born." If I'm honest I have to confess that my initial motivation toward this "selfless" homeschooling life was a selfish one. I loved having all my little ones at home and was not ready to hand my six year old over to someone else to enjoy all day! I wanted her home with me.

Since then I have, on many occasions, had to count the cost of the choices I have made, and have indeed put my children's best interests before my own, but I have never harbored any illusions about my own self-effacing nature. I have learned that by God's grace we can resist the pull of self-love and serve others, but it is not because we don't love ourselves enough. In His wisdom and grace God has even tied most parents hearts to their children in such a way that making them happy can feel like making ourselves happy - which is what we naturally want to do anyway.

I do appreciate Mr. Mike's interest, and I know the motivation behind his nettlesome question was kind. But what I really need is for someone to ask me on occasion, "Who have you laid your life down for lately? What unnecessary weight have you laid aside so that you can better run the race set before you? When was the last time you esteemed someone better than yourself?" Those are the questions that really get to the heart of the matter - and encourage us all to do the things that will ultimately make us truly happy with our lives.

Ash (Wednesday) Blonde

I am from the old school of haircoloring; I admit it. I grew up in the time when no woman would admit she colored her hair, when "only her hairdresser knew for sure." I have always thought that the determinant of a good coloring job was that it looked natural. Maybe you were not born with little golden highlights peeking out demurely from under your brown tresses, but you could have been. Who knows? The biggest compliment I could pay someone recently emerged from the salon is "It looks so natural."

I realize times have changed. I go to church with a young woman who changes her hair color almost weekly, just for fun. I know a beautiful Iranian woman with 2 inches of nearly black roots that somehow fade into platinum blonde. She looks great, but she certainly does not look "real." She is a hair stylist by profession and obviously enjoys playing with the effects – she frequently has little touches of pink or green around her face. She looks like a cross between a china doll and Marilyn Monroe.

She recently moved to Malaysia and is in the process of getting a business license and setting up a salon here. She misses her work and her culture – a feeling I can relate to. She needs friends to encourage her in her new walk with Jesus. Her English is halting but really amazing for the short time she has been studying. She offered to do my hair and we talked in hesitant words about color, highlights, length, layers. I really thought she understood the word "subtle," I thought the term "highlights" was kind of a universal term in the hair stylist's lexicon, but maybe not.

Yesterday she spent 6 hours at my house, bending earnestly over my dark brown hair with scissors, razor comb, and brushes. She worked in the living room where there is no mirror, which was fine with me. I have always hated those huge mirrors in salons where you are forced to see yourself at your worst before you can enjoy yourself at your best – if all goes well. She mixed several potions, and there were numerous times of checking color, waiting another 20 minutes, then 20 more. She did give me a mirror to see the base color, which was a little lighter than I'd hoped for – but not too bad. There was not too much hair on the floor. I relaxed. Then she covered my head with a huge blue rubber cap through which she pulled dozens of strands of hair. This part was kind of fun. My children kept coming in and laughing and even snapped a picture or two, but it seemed to take a very long time. She kept checking strands and saying, " Longer", and I began to feel uneasy about what was happening up there. When my 10 year old gasped "It looks like spaghetti!" I felt decidedly queasy, but my friend just laughed and agreed, - "Yes, spaghetti!" in her charming Persian accent.

Finally it was done – all the rinsing, blow drying, scrunching with gel and pulling little strands of hair this way and that. She was obviously pleased with her work – kept exclaiming how lovely it was, and led me to the mirror. I had steeled myself – I always hate a new haircut and was ready for the initial shock, but this was unlike anything I've experienced before. The crown of my head was platinum blond – all the way to the roots – a solid block of shimmering yellow, right down to my decidedly brunette complexion. Farther down there was a lot of dark hair left under the spaghetti strands, but the colors made no attempt to blend. This was not the "natural" highlights I had envisioned, this was a look that made no pretense of being homegrown – the kind of look that says. "Look at the cool things you can do with your hair!"

My son grimaced sympathetically , telegraphing in a look that he felt sorry for me but he would not be seen with me in the near future just the same. My little girls just gaped, and my teenaged daughters smiled gamely and said something like, "Wow" before making themselves scarce so they would not have to comment further. My husband, a serious devotee of the natural look, is in the US for another week, so he hasn't said anything yet.

I slept on it, and got up this morning thinking it would not be so shocking, but it was. Neither the cut nor the color look anything like me, or like any look I have ever aspired to. I decided this morning that I could do a pretty good imitation of a perky talk show host- but I can't do me. What to do? I considered adopting the tudung – the Muslim headscarf – for the next few months. Muslim women are not allowed to show any hair at all and have a tight little band that goes across the forehead to catch any stray blond wisps, but somehow that seems a more unnatural look for me than even platinum blond. I could have it colored again, but I would risk hurting my new friend's feelings, and I really don't want to do that this early in our friendship.

This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. Raised as a Baptist, I have never observed Lent, though I have always wished I were a Catholic during this season of the year. I have never known how to "do" Lent –all I could think of to give up was the traditional chocolate (which I've pretty much given up for my health anyway!) or what my Catholic friends are giving up this year –which seemed like kind of a copy cat sacrifice. This week I prayed that God would show me something I might give up for the season . I think He has. I think maybe I need to give up my vanity - to go to church this morning and lie to my sweet friend who so recently escaped the tyranny of Iran and found freedom in trusting Jesus. I think for sake of the cross I need to forget about who I want to be and what I want to look like and embrace the gift she gave me in my oddly colored hair. I think when I catch sight of my bright blond crown in a mirror or window I need to remember that my life is not about pleasing myself, any more than my Lord's life was - and also that my hair will grow in time.

The Day of Small Things or How I Spend My Time

I wake to hear the shower running. It's about 7 o'clock, I know, because it is just getting light outside. The streetlights automatically switch off around 6:45 every day of the year here. Living close to the equator gives new meaning to the phrase "regular as clockwork." I realize I slept hard though I went to bed late; I talked with my daughter in Chicago till about 12:30 am and then read news online for a while. I find it hard to go to bed when I am the only one still up. It's so rare that the house is quiet; I want to enjoy it a little longer, even though I know I'll regret it in the morning.

I lie in bed for another 15 minutes, wondering what the fragments of dream I remember signify, then get up and wander into the schoolroom to check email. There's always something in my box every morning, even if it's only a devotional or news update I subscribe to since the workday in North America is just finishing as we are waking. I read the headlines, then spend nearly an hour writing to two friends: I owe replies to about a dozen more from the last couple of weeks, but I can't afford any more time this morning. I do check out a favorite online clothing store to see what's on sale. .. my husband is going back to the US for business sometime in the next month and I'm hoping to order a few things for him to pick up and bring back. I can buy some clothes here, but I get tired of buying XXXL - which is my size in Malaysia. My husband stops in to kiss me goodbye before he leaves for work.


As I minimize the page to come back to later I hear my seven year old - she always wakes up sniffly. She is padding around the landing outside the schoolroom clutching Ted, her wellworn bear. Her waistlength hair is always matted and wild in the morning - she just has hair that wants to grow in dreadlocks, and probably would if we let it go a week or two without brushing. Her eyes are sleepy and heavy-lidded. She's always the first child up, no matter how late she went to bed.

We walk down the wide staircase, 8 steps to the first landing, 3 to the next, then another 8 into the living room. Bins of Christmas decorations still stand by the window; there's one leftover strand of blinking lights still flashing on top of the stereo cabinet. One of the chairs is piled with laundry someone removed from the dryer last night and just dumped in a heap. Cards and letters I've been trying to get in the mail for three days litter the dining room sideboard and a plastic bin overflowing with craft supplies sits directly in front of the front door, just waiting to be tripped over. Another day of homeschooling has begun - well, actually it's just more of the last day. That day appears to be unfinished.

I start the coffee - noting that I badly need to mop the kitchen floor. While the coffee is brewing I fold the laundry on the dining room table, sort the books and magazines piled on the coffee table and put on a worship music CD. Ivy has disappeared upstairs and reappears with her t-shirt full of Littlest Pet Shop figures - she just calls them "Littlest Pet Shops." She drops them on the floor and pulls out a tiny jar of Vicks VapoRub which she cherishes. She's still sniffling. I ask her if she needs some Benadryl, but she prefers the Vicks which she rubs on her chest, and immediately stops sniffling. I don't know how it could work that fast.

She settles on the floor to play with her Littlest Pet Shops, I pour a cup of coffee and begin sweeping the huge, marble living room floor. The piano teacher is coming today and I need to sweep and mop before she gets here or she will notice the floor is not clean. She is the one who told me that it is not enough to vacuum the floor and then mop; only sweeping will work, and she's right.

Laura and Claire have arrived downstairs by now - it's about 8:45. Laura shuts off the CD so she can practice the piano; Ivy is talking soto vocce the entire time, narrating Littlest Pet Shop events. They were performing the worship music, but now she moves to the craft box to construct a few aliens out of styrofoam balls and feathers, then she wanders upstairs again singing some orchestral sounding music with lots of drums.

9 AM - Claire is sitting on a blue painted stool at the kitchen island drinking coffee and eating an apple. She's reading Walden for her AP English class. Ivy comes back and wants breakfast. I offer her Strawberry Instant Oatmeal which she says is OK until I empty the packet into the bowl. She peers into the bowl and announces that's not strawberry; it's not pink. I assure her it will turn pink, and it does, assuring me it must, indeed, be a healthy breakfast.

I pick up a few last books before mopping - The Indian in the Cupboard, which Mary read in one day, On Beauty and Being Just which I ordered when I felt ambitious enough to read some philosophy, and Fig Pudding, our current read aloud. I fill my bucket with water and Floor Master cleaner, a milky pink liquid whose label proclaims it to be a cleaner, disinfectant, mosquito and cockroach repellent and much more. Malaysians love multi-talented products. It's not enough to clean floors well; a product must do more. Juice comes with aloe vera bits floating in it; milk comes in different varieties with additives appropriate to every age group, floor cleaners must also repel insects.

I spend the next hour mopping the floor and clearing the downstairs bathroom drain. Ivy got a clever little gift of "real snow" for Christmas - made of those super absorbent particles that disposable diapers are filled with. You just add water and it fluffs up to beautiful snow - sort of how Pampers fluff up in the swimming pool. Unfortunately Ivy did not read the caution on the original package that says not to put it down the drain since it will puff up in the pipes. She confesses in a mournful, "it's all my fault" tone. Fortunately the drain cleaner works almost instantly. I am glad I don't have to try to explain that problem to a Malaysian plumber.

The piano teacher is here. I leave her singing and playing some song about "I wish I were a teabag" with Ivy and come upstairs to type this, and to provide moral support for my 10 year old while she does her long division. She knows how to do it; she just always wants me in the room when she does it. I don't know why, but I'm flattered that she still needs me.

Soon Ivy's lesson is done and she wants more breakfast, but first she draws a picture of the entire cast of Gilligan's Island. Ginger Grant is especially lifelike. I make her a peanut butter sandwich and she asks if she can eat it while she watches an episode of Gilligan. I should say, "No, not during schooltime," but instead I help her find the one with Wrongway Feldman and close the door so as not to disturb the piano lesson.

I go upstairs to the schoolroom again, to see if anyone needs help. Laura narrates her American History reading to me - a rather cursory rendition of the causes of the Civil War, then I sit down with Claire to talk about how her research on the cultural components of anorexia is coming. We talk about how to evaluate sources and whether she is finding enough material. I check my email (again) and delete a few messages. Philip is playing his electric guitar behind the closed door of his room in between algebra and world history reading.

Laura is now in her piano lesson and I go back to the kitchen to think about lunch - which makes me think about dinner, as well. I decide to bake bread for dinner and mix up the dough. Ivy wants to knead it, so I get her started. Just as she gets really messy, the piano teacher wants to talk to me. I decide not to wash the flour and crumbly bits of dough off my hands so I won't have to talk long. It works. No lessons next week because of Chinese New Year.

While the dough rests I make spaghetti for lunch; Ivy and Mary peel carrots and cut them into sticks. We all sit down to lunch together. I try to finish quickly so I can read a chapter or two aloud before the older kids get back to work. I coax Claire to stay for one chapter, Laura and Philip last for two. The little girls want to hear one more and I am happy to oblige. After lunch is cleared away I am surprised, as always, to see how late it is. I put the bread dough in the pans for the second rising.

Laura, Claire and I get ready to go to the exercise room in the clubhouse of our neighborhood. It's only three blocks away and we have a date with the treadmill several days a week. Just as we are tying our shoelaces on the doorstep (no shoes in the house here in Malaysia) the little girls decide they want to go to the pool, so we wait for them to don their bathing suits and find towels. By the time we leave the house it's 2:30, we don't get back till nearly 3:30. I shower and come downstairs to put the bread in the oven. Ivy and Mary Rose are having an apres- swim snack of apples with peanut butter, carrot sticks, leftover spaghetti, popcorn and yogurt smoothies - in other words, anything they can get their hands on. They sit at the dining room table while I lie on my back on the cool, smooth marble floor and read the final chapter of Fig Pudding to them. This is my favorite reading posture. After reading I try reviewing the children's Catechism with them, but we go about it in a rather half-hearted way today and don't stick with it for long.

It's now time to start dinner. Laura and Mary are looking for something to do, so they join me in the kitchen chopping onions, celery, potatoes and tomatoes for minestrone. Philip appears long enough to insist that the potatoes must be in cubes, not wedges, and takes over that job. We only need four potatoes, so he's not around for long. The girls decide to set a special table for dinner with a pretty tablecloth, candles and Kenny G on the stereo. While they do that I unload the dishwasher, move laundry to the dryer and start another load, sweep and mop the kitchen floor and take the bread out of the oven. I watch the neighbors Indonesian maid out the window as I cook . She is carefully sweeping up fallen leaves from their perfect lawn as she does around dinner time every day. She uses a short-handled straw broom and a dust pan on a long handle.

My husband walks in around 6:30 to cries of "Daddy's home!" and lots of hugs. These homecomings always seem like one of the perks of being away all day. Hardly anyone squeals when I walk in the room! We sit down to dinner around 7 - seven of us at seven o'clock. We don't take up the whole table which easily seats 12, and we still feel small and diminished, even though our two eldest children, "the Americans", have been away for six months.

After dinner Kevin takes over kitchen clean-up and I walk to the pool with Ivy and Mary Rose. They are meeting their friend, Esther. I take along a book, paper and pen, not sure if I will swim. It's hot tonight. The weather is changing from the cooler, overcast "monsoon" season to hotter, more humid days. There is less rain and more sun. Even the early morning and the late evening can be steamy. I end up reading my book in the whirlpool - though I don't read for long. A group of Chinese women linedancers is hosting a New Year party with loud, perky music blasting from the speakers. I head back to the other side of the pool for a better view. This is too good to miss.

Kevin arrives with coffee for us both, but he has missed most of the dancing - which I will describe in another post! We read and chat till about 9:30 when we call the little girls to go home. They get ready for bed, we all gather in the schoolroom for prayers, and then Mary and Ivy climb into bed for their Bible story. I am reading through an ancient copy of Hurlbut's Story of the Bible - the book my parents read my brothers and me when we were small. Tonight's story is about Elisha. The story is over and I kiss them goodnight; they remind me, as always, to send Daddy in to say goodnight and to turn on the hall light outside their room.

I remind the older kids not to stay up too late, and head to bed myself. "Oh Lord," I pray, "Establish the work of my hands." Nothing I've done today will have any lasting significance if God does not bless it. As I sift through the days events they seem pretty insignificant - like a few loaves and small fishes. Not much there to work with, it seems.

I remember another old King James admonition from a long-ago sermon, "Do not despise the day of small things." I remember the admonition of my Catholic friend to "offer it up" to God.
I remember that what is required of a servant is that he be found faithful - faithful in the small things. Then I don't remember anything else.