My first son just turned 18. He is not my eldest child, but he's my first potentially draftable one. His sister preceded him by 18 months, so this birthday was not a "first" for us as parents, but he is the first young man we've raised. The day felt important to me.

We celebrated in a way none of us would have anticipated 12 months ago - at a Lebanese restaurant in Bukit Bintang, the Times Square of Kuala Lumpur, eating hummus and shish kebab while enduring the undisguised stares of the heavily disguised young woman in a burkha sitting across the room from us. We do make an imposing party, I guess, when all nine of us occupy the same space on the planet. Which happens all too infrequently now for my taste. My son and his slightly older sister are leaving for six weeks of backpacking in SouthEast Asia tomorrow, after which time they will be home for a week or two here or there until college, until life. We'll all have the same address for college bills, but not for much else.

So I wrote him a letter. I wrote it quickly, and did not even have a chance to proofread it, since by the time I was finishing it someone else was clamoring for breakfast, and someone else needed a ride to ballet, and I was afraid if I read it again I might decide parts of it were not just right and I would save it for a rewrite which I knew would never happen. So I sealed it in blue airmail envelope - the only kind I could find at the moment - and tucked it in a drawer where it sat till cake and presents time. I gave it to him along with his gifts of ear pods, hemp bracelets handmade by his sisters, a travel-size sketch book and pencils, his smallest sister's sacrificial cache of Legos, a CD called something about the Wretched Exiles recorded in someone's family room, and some DVDs from the neighborhood pirated movie store.

I wanted to say something to him as he walked out my door, figuratively as well as literally. The literal part is not so hard; it's the figurative part that's killing me. I don't say wise things well, and I don't have really personal talks with my kids often, like Bill Cosby and Meredith Baxter-Birney do on the old TV shows we've been watching lately. Sometimes I even find myself hoping my kids are listening when the wise parents on the show say something significant - parenting by sit-com, I guess. But my son has spent the last seven months on the road already, seeing movies we'd never watch in our living room, and rubbing shoulders with people who won't give such wholesome advice, so I wanted to seize the moment and say something that he might remember sometime when he had a choice to make.

What I wanted to say first of all was be brave rather than safe. That's not an original thought, I read an address a few months ago with this idea as its central theme. But it seemed like the best piece of advice to give a young man on the verge of everything. Be wise, be circumspect, be careful about which countries you hitchhike in, register your presence with the US Embassy, but in the big life choices, choose brave over safe. Dare to do what is good and noble even if it feels risky and it scares you and everyone else you know is making the safe choice.

Take care of the poor and needy; speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, share your bread with the hungry and your clothes with the naked. Don't turn your back on or just forget about the many, many people in the world who do not have the blessings you do. Remember Micah 6:8 - do justice and love mercy. Make it your life's work.

Understand that life is short and that you have only one chance to spend the time you have been given. Time is not like money - if you squander it you cannot repent of your foolishness, pay off your debts, work hard and replenish your bank account. There is no way to get more time once you have spent what you have. So spend it wisely, even now when it seems like you have forever at your disposal. Remember that is an illusion.

Fianlly, remember your true citizenship is in Heaven. No earthly loyalty, ideology, political alliance or cause should ever cause you to forget that you are a stranger and pilgrim here, an ambassador for a kingdom that will never build an embassy in any of the world's capital cities. Don't confuse your loyalties or lose sight of your true allegiance.

And although I didn't say this, I hope he can read between the lines: Don't forget to call your mother every now and then.

She did what she could

Lately I've been thinking a lot about a familiar Bible story from Mark chapter 14. It's an "old one" . . . I've known it since I was a child in Sunday School in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, where I used to wonder why grown-ups still read the Bible, since I was only 7 and I pretty much knew all the stories that were in there already. Preacher's child that I was, I wondered what there could possibly be left to learn after 8 or 10 years of Sunday School and a dozen years of Hurlburt's Bible Stories every night at bedtime.

Now past the midpoint of my life I wonder at how little I have learned of what the Scriptures contain, and if I will ever do more than scratch the surface. I understand a little better what the Apostle meant when He described the Word of God as living and active - that the words of God, like His mercies, are new every morning. So I often find myself shaking my head over some familiar verse or account, wondering, "Why did I never see that before?" I catch my breath when I glimpse some lovely gem that has apparently been there all the time, but I never really saw it. This passage in the gospel of Mark struck me that way when I read it several weeks ago.

Speaking of Jesus, Mark writes:
While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head.

Some of those present were saying indignantly to one another, "Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year's wages and the money given to the poor." And they rebuked her harshly.
"Leave her alone," said Jesus. "Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me.

And then Jesus says the words which have been haunting me for several weeks:
She did what she could.

An introvert by nature, blessed or cursed with an interior monologue that just won't quit, I have spent my life second guessing my choices, comparing my life to any and everyone else's and always coming up short. I have wished and wished I could just lighten up, that I could be happy with who I am and where I am and what I've been given, but I find at the end of the day it is never enough. I have spent a lifetime shivering in the winter of my discontent. . . all the while feeling guilty because I have been snowed under with blessings that I struggle to enjoy. I am my own worst critic and my own harshest judge. So that is why Jesus' words to the woman whom every one condemned sounded so sweet in my ears: Leave her alone. She did what she could.

No, I have not held down a fascinating job while simultaneously raising lovely, talented, smart kids like some women I know; being a full-time Mom was about all I could handle. I have never served on the rescue squad or coached a team, or run the women's program at the local mission or even led a successful, well-attended Bible study. I've felt happy many days to just get dinner on the table and a load of laundry half-done. I have never run a marathon or been the state power-lifting champion like some real women I actually know; I feel like I've won a great victory if I manage to get in a walk most days of the week. I'm not a musician, not a philosopher, not an author, not a beauty, but Jesus appeared to be happy with the woman who "did what she could." She didn't resue the poor or realize huge profits on her investment; she did what she could. She didn't do what Jesus' other disciples would have done with the resources she had, but Jesus told them to leave her alone - she did what she could.

What sweet praise for someone who was trying so hard to do good, but was criticized all round for her choices. For a woman who may have had limited resources, and perhaps limited imagination, who could not see beyond the moment, but really loved Jesus. For the woman who may have felt she had only one thing in her hands, only one thing to offer. For the woman who did not fund the homeless shelter or volunteer in the hospital, or do anything that seemed to have lasting significance. Jesus recognized that she did what she could, and it was enough for Him.

what's so great about six

The End

When I was One,

I had just begun.

When I was Two,

I was nearly new.

When I was Three

I was hardly me.

When I was Four,

I was not much more.

When I was Five,

I was just alive.

But now I am Six,

I'm as clever as clever,

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

There are a lot of things in my life that make me smile. I live in Malaysia, down the streeet from a business with a large banner reading, "foot sense hot dip"- your guess is as good as mine. I deal with people like the lawncare man who arrives in his beat-up old car with golden idols on the dashboard, and smilingly asks my daughter, "Is Mother home?" I still get a charge out of being adressed as Auntie by children I have never even met. I absolutely LOVE ending up in a traffic jam behind a police car bearing the official bumper sticker. "Don't Bribe Me."

But what makes me smile most often these days is having a daughter who is six. I love six. I love six year old teeth, with their huge gaps and crazy angles - the quintessential "homeless person" mouth. I love the lisping and the constant wiggling of teeth with the tongue. I love helping write notes to the tooth fairy asking her to please leave the tooth AND the money.

I love answering six year old questions, and contemplating the really important issues of life that they so often raise. In the last two days I have been asked: "Aren't you ever sad, Mommy? Because I never see you cry." "Does God know I am afraid to die?" "Why is drawing so much fun?" "Why are geese afraid of foxes?" "Then are animals afraid to die?" "Where is the Garden of Eden?""When did people start talking in different languages?" "Do you think I am spoiled because I live in Malaysia?" "What does being spoiled mean?"

I love six year old books. I love getting to read Little House on the Prairie again, and Just So Stories and A Little Princess. I love Beatrix Potter and fairy tales and Bible stories that are still exciting and new. I love six-year old songs - the original ones which she croons while she plays and the old standards like The Fox Went Out on a Stormy Night which everyone in my house is singing these days.

I love watching a six year old discover the mysteries of reading. I love having to wait in the grocery store while she puzzles out a word on the back of a cereal box. I love finding phonetically spelled messages all over the house.

I love living with a person who gets excited about playing in the huge mud puddle left in our yard after a thunderstorm and tells me stories with homemade sock puppets. I love getting invited to secret places like the jungle behind the living room curtains with a waterfall made from a sparkly blue scarf, a stuffed monkey swinging from a scarf-vine, a crayoned dragon fly suspended with masking tape between a chair and the window. I love making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and going to the zoo and listening to earnest bedtime prayers.

I wish six could last for more than just twelve months!

I Do, I Will, I Have

How wise I am to have instructed the butler
to instruct the first footman to instruct the second
footman to instruct the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and a
woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between
flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam,
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people
one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other
who never forgets them,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all right,
it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
-Ogden Nash


What happens when an engineer marries a liberal arts major? Somewhere down the road somebody writes a memoir entitled, “Engineers are from the US; Liberal Arts Majors Might Feel More at Home in Malaysia.” It will never be a best seller; it has little movie potential, but I suspect there may be a niche market out there.

I’ve been considering possible plot outlines for just such a thriller since I caught a glimpse of our marriage in a microcosm. A while ago our entire family, at least what was left of it, was roaming around the Kuala Lumpur International Airport, trying to get our second daughter on a flight to Boston. For several reasons incidental to this account, we still did not have a ticket in hand when we arrived at the airport, though we had, we believed, a confirmed reservation. At the last moment - 40 minutes before her flight was scheduled to leave - we decided some things about her itinerary were too uncertain and we bagged the flight. Which left us in the position of needing to find another available flight with acceptable connections for a 16 year old flying alone, preferably within the next several hours.

We discovered the single available public computer terminal and both of us, engineer and spouse, sat down to hunt for the elusive ticket. It was a recipe for disaster: me at the keyboard and him looking over my shoulder. I don’t need to script this part; you can imagine how things went as Mr. Systematic and Ms Random attacked the problem from within their respective frames of reference. The drama inherent in this clash of worldviews was heightened by the shortness of time and multiplied exponentially by the number of children waiting for us to take them home.

Two hours later over lunch, having eventually purchased a ticket and checked our daughter’s heavy suitcases, we attempted to debrief. However, as happens in so many diplomatic encounters, the tension refused to evaporate. We each, as it turns out, not only had different ideas about how the ticket search should have proceeded, we also had vastly different interpretations of “what happened back there.”

Me: “You know, I would really have preferred it if you had just taken over instead of coaching me from behind.”

Him: “But I didn’t want to take over! I just wanted to help you. I wanted to do this with you.”

Me: “Well I think we approach problem solving so differently that we should NOT try to work on something pressured and last-minute together. One or the other of us should do it alone.”

Him: “It’s true; we do approach problem solving differently. I approach it like an engineer and you.. . . “ something inaudible ending with the word “housewife.” (He was not trying to be patronizing; he was just, once again, at a loss for words to adequately describe me.)

Me: (outwardly calm, but with the last word reverberating in my head), “I do have a Master’s degree in Rhetoric. I know how to think.”

I think that was the end of the conversation; at least it should have been!

Before I take this any farther, there are a few things you should know. First, the real question here is not “Can this marriage be saved?” (The marriage is fine; the conversation, however, had to be scuttled.) ; The real question, it seems to me, is why don’t we do this a little more smoothly after 25 years of practice?! Sometimes, not often, I try to think past the immediate interaction and look for some underlying dynamic.


And, as I reflect on our marriage I have to say that the bane of both of our lives has been the lack of proper “systems” in our house. The engineer feels like whenever he comes in the door each evening he enters Chaos in its truest modern day incarnation, and he may be right, considering that mythical Chaos has three main characteristics: it is a bottomless gulf where anything falls endlessly; it is a place without any possible orientation, where anything falls in every direction; it is a space that separates, that divides: after the Earth and the Sky parted, Chaos remains between both of them That’s not a bad description of the home in which I have been homeschooling 7 children, 24 hours a day for nearly 15 years.

I, however, never feel the lack of systems except when I read it in his eyes. To his everlasting credit he has spent 23 years biting his tongue, but I do still know. . . . You see, I am the kind of person who has never had a place for everything, so that everything could stay in its place, though I can usually find a utensil when I need one, or improvise with the next best thing. You’d think an engineer could appreciate that kind of resourcefulness and creative thinking, but no. Lately he has even told me (and our children) about a Japanese management tool they are implementing at work to keep things in their places, a simple five step process with an accompanying mnemonic mantra to be repeated as you do the task. I can't remember what the system is called, or even what the five letters are, never mind what they stand for. I'd rather just grab that spatula and use it instead of the tool I was originally looking for. You see what I mean.

He, however, has not been promoted to be Director of Global Engineering for no reason. He is an extremely talented man, and a systematic one, at that. He knows in his heart of hearts that there is nothing wrong in our lives that could not be fixed with a better system, and the only thing standing in the way of a better system is. . . . you guessed it, me. I know that his expertise in making things run smoothly is exactly why we find ourselves here in Malaysia, where nothing is systematic, systematized, streamlined, methodical, orderly, efficient, logical or regular. The entire reason my husband was called in was to make the company’s Malaysian operations work smoothly and profitably. And he’s doing a wonderful job! The factory personnel here appear to be considerably more tractable than his wife, which is a good thing for us all. And while I find a lot of things about Malaysia frustrating, I have to admit that I understand how a country could have ended up like this. .. . all I have to do is look at my kitchen!

Is there a moral here? Not really, unless it's that the real key to a successful marriage must be the ability to laugh at oneself more often and more heartily than one laughs at one's spouse! Or that the real oil that keeps the machinery running is not the right system, so much as the right attitude - esteeming one another better than ourselves. Fortunately, my husband is an expert at that, as well. When we exchanged rings at our wedding we read the words from Ecclesiastes 4:9, "Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor." Which is, I guess, the inspired version of, "It takes two to tango." I think I'm going to go put on some dance music right now.

After Prayers, Lie Cold

After Prayers, Lie Cold

Arise my body, my small body, we have striven
Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven.
Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go,
White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow,
Undress with small, cold fingers and put out the light,
And be alone, hush'd mortal, in the sacred night,
-A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup
Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up,
Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness
By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness.
Be not too quickly warm again.
Lie cold; consent
To weariness' and pardon's watery element.
Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death;
Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath.
C S Lewis

Home Thoughts, From Abroad

Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Robert Browning


Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

I'm Nobody Without Facebook

What would Emily Dickinson do with facebook? I wondered that yesterday when reading yet another staus update from a "friend." Once you join a social network you feel almost compelled to offer blow-by-blow descriptions of your everyday life - what music you are "currently listening to," your "status", your photos, your favorite this and that. If you never update you risk looking like the biggest bore in the blogosphere; if you once begin you can never stop.

I thought of Dickinson' while reading updates on what all my "friends" are currently doing, and feeling like I had better change my "status" soon lest people think I have spent the last seven days "waiting for someone to make me a cup of coffee", (which I sort of have, but that's the story of my life).

From my persepctive, grounded as I am in the last century, social utility networks are wonderful for seeing pictures of what distant friends and family members are doing, for dropping a quick note to a loved one far away, for instant encouragement and fun repartee, but they can easily turn people into frogs who tell their names, and the details of their everyday lives, and their most mundane thoughts the live-long June to the entire bog (which sounds curiously like "blog.") That's just what I think. I'll let Emily speak for herself.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!

How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!

Good intentions

I have been following, albeit from a distance, a long distance, the progress of a South Carolina bill which passed the House last month by a huge margin. The bill requires women requesting an abortion in South Carolina to view an ultrasound image of their child before they agree to the abortion. I am about as pro-life as you can get - a real litmus-test voter on this issue, but I have to confess I just don't get this bill.

I have watched over the years the restictions which pro-lifers have tried to enact into laws in order to by any means save some babies - requiring "informed consent", waiting periods, parental consent for minors, etc. And I have hoped, along with all others who deplore the taking of innocent life in the womb, that the provisions will, indeed, keep some women from making that fatal mistake of terminating a pregnancy and a life. I have sometimes been embarrassed by the rhetoric which surrounds these issues; don't we all, pro-life and pro-abortion, know that making abortion more rare is what they are really all about, not just helping women be better informed or simply giving them time to think about an important decision. The availablility of over the counter abortifacients has, I am sure, seriously limited the impact of such restrictive laws, but they may still save the occasional baby who has made it past the first six weeks, and so I applaud them.

This South Carolina bill, however, seems wrong-headed in the extreme, even to me. First of all, the very presumption that anyone can make someone else look at something they don't wish to see is ridiculous. It reminds me of those gory Driver's Ed films they used to show in high school in the 70's. I remember sitting through an entire class period with my eyes closed while everyone around me groaned and gagged at the images on the screen. No one was allowed to skip the class period when they were shown, but even in my South Carolina high school no one pretended they could make us watch. And I never did. Who is to keep a woman who has already agonized over the decision to seek an abortion from simply looking away or closing her eyes? And don't we all know it is possible to look without really seeing?

The supporters of the bill also, I believe, attribute more power to the grainy ultrasound image than it really possesses. Representatives talk about letting a woman see the face of her baby. Now granted, the last ultrasound I had was about 14 years ago, and I know from images on friends' refrigerators the technology has advanced somewhat, but I would never have been able to make out the face, or the heart, or the tell-tale gender markings of any of my children without a very patient ultrasound technician pointing everything out to me, often more than once. And I really wanted to see what was there! Assuming that most abortions take place in the first trimester, there is not much easily seen on the ultrasound screen, though a beating heart is usually hard to miss. I would sooner vote for a bill that required the mother to hear the heartbeat magnified by a Doppler than to look at a blurry picture. It's harder to close your ears than your eyes, too.

But the biggest problem I have with this bill is the question of how it can be enforced. Short of having an armed officer in each clinic examining room, I can not possibly imagine how this regulation could be enforced. Neither, apparently, can its sponsors, who have said they will figure out at a later date how to enforce it if/when it becomes law. Just imagine the scenario. A clinic worker who has no incentive to dissuade the patient from having the abortion, a patient who has most likely nerved herself for what is to come and just wants to get it over with - and the two of them are expected to cooperate in this joint venture of taking the time and effort to obtain a clear picture of the baby and then examine and appreciate it together. It boggles the mind. It seems to me the state can require a signed piece of paper saying the client has seen the ultrasound, but there is no way they can guarantee the truthfulness of the claim.

I deplore abortion. I weep for every baby who is sacrificed on the altar of convenience, poverty, fear or desperation. I have sheltered unwanted little ones in my home, and I would take a dozen more if I were allowed to (I have too many children to be considered for adoption or foster care in my state.) But I can't see how this bill could possible have any effect on the number of abortions performed in South Carolina, though it can certainly add fuel to the fires of abortion proponents across the country who already believe pro-lifers are not living in the real world. Let's not confirm their suspicions.

Prove It

Kids say it often - "Prove it!" Or they ask scornfully, "What have you got to prove? " In my case the answer is everything.

Scripture talks about the proof of our faith, being more precious than gold, even though tried by fire. Most trials come unbidden like tragic accidents, physical illness, the horrors of war, the rapes of Burmese women and girls, the attacks on Somali believers, the beating of Indian believers , the imprisonment of Chinese pastors. No one asks for them, though they may receive the grace to welcome them as friends like the Apostle Paul did.

What about we soft Americans? How do I prove that I don't just love God for what He has given me - which is staggering - as Satan accused Job of doing. I know that death is the final proving ground for the Christian unless he's taken suddenly, but short of my dying moments, how do I know if I really believe the words I've spoken so often, both inside my heart and through my lips. How do I know that don't love father and mother (or sons and daughters and husband) more than Christ, and so become unworthy of Him? Jesus Himself made the test of true repentance and belief, for the rich young ruler at least, selling all one has and giving it to the poor. He said the ones whom His father would ultimately recognize as His own were the ones who had given food to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, shelter to the homeless, clothing to the naked, comfort to those in prison.

Wasn't He in essence saying, "Prove it"??

Am I going to go to my grave remembered as a nice woman who raised a happy, healthy family - no small accomplishment in this day and age - but still wondering if I have done "no more than sinners do" - loved those who love me.

We denigrate or question the wisdom of people who take outlandish, radical actions "just to prove something," but is that necessarily foolish? How else can you know? You can spend your life waiting for the extraordinary moment to arise - the child asleep in the burning building you happen to be passing, or the person falling through thin ice - or you can become an Army Ranger or a rescue swimmer, or sell all you have and give it to the poor, or choose to share the sufferings of the poor and oppressed of the earth, or take up your cross which is heavy and hurts to carry and may actually cause you to fall under its weight like our Lord's did.

These days I keep seeing in my head the classic bully scene from a clicheed movie where the tough guy asks, "Hey kid, you got something to prove?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

states of residence, states of mind

I have felt largely unable to write since I moved to Malaysia. I'm not sure why. I have a few theories, but no way to judge the worth of any of them. I realized this week that most of my pre-Malaysia thinking was done on my daily walks, that I would often sit down at the keyboard as soon as I arrived home from a walk to record ideas which had come, seemingly unbidden while I walked. I don't walk here: it's too hot, for one thing, and too urban for my taste. I try to keep my heart in shape by walking on the treadmill at the community exercise room, but it does nothing for my thought life.

I miss my daily 45 minutes in the fresh air, charmed by the subltleties of the seasonal changes which made the same route through the woods a different walk every day. A favorite pastime of mine was to take a mental snapshot of some stretch of the path and ask myself if I would be able to guess what month of the year it was from this photograph alone. I loved searching for the minute cues of color, angle of light, bough-dressing and ground cover that I had over the years come to intuitively associate with each page of the calendar on my kitchen wall. Here such a game would be pointless and unwinnable. Each day looks like the last looks like the next. I have been told in the market that certain fruits are seasonal, but I believe they are fruits imported from China, not ones grown here.

A weekend trip to northern Thailand suggested another hypothosis to me. My daughter and I sat beside a charming street musican on the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Chiang Mai. Richie had shoulder length, thick wavy black hair closely shaved about the temples, dark eyes framed with thick black lashes, the whitest teeth I have ever seen and a soft but animated voice. He and Anna and I talked non-stop the 2 hour flight and hour long wait in the immigration line. A Colorado native of Cuban descent, he'd spent the last ten years or so travelling, playing music and busking to support himself through Barcelona, Croatia, Mexico, Germany, the UK, Thailand and Malaysia.

He clearly loved his music, and as we chatted he asked what I loved - what I did for pleasure. I said I wrote. . . or used to, and mentioned how I had stopped writing the last few months. He assured me that I was going to the right place. He told me how many painters came to Chiang Mai to create the works they sold elsewhere, how many people wrote there, how Chiang Mai had released the songwriter in him. I didn't know how much credence I put in the powers of place to foster creativity, but I did remember those walks in the woods.

We absolutely loved the three days we spent in Chiang Mai; I was reluctant to come back to Kuala Lumpur at the end, though I wonder how much of my hesitance was just not wanting to face my responsibilities again after three days chilling and drinking great coffee! I've thought a lot this week about place and atmosphere and and how they tend to support or squelch creativity. I've even remembered my first mid-wife walking through our 200 year old log house and affirming that yes, this felt like a good place to have a baby - as opposed to the sterile hospital room I gave birth in on another occasion (both babies were fine.) I've pondered Kuala Lumpur and Chiang Mai ad nauseum, and weighed them against each other, and decided maybe Richie was on to something.

I think Kuala Lumpur is hard. Not difficult, but unyielding. Not rigorous so much as rigid. While the houses in Chiang Mai were made of soft, dark weathered wood, homes here are constructed of concrete, marble and tile. Chiang Mai was full of deep shade and quiet temple gardens, colorful, rustic benches under drooping trees, and dusty by- ways bordered by walls just high enough to obscure the sight of what mysteries lay within. KL is characterized by gardens which are beautiful but sterile - full of clipped, controlled plants, carefully situated around golf-course neat lawns which dare you step off the manufactured stone pathways. Every house has a concrete wall with steel gates around it, gates which are either locked elctronically or with a large padlock.

Chiang Mai was full of street bazaars and shops selling goods created by local artisans - hand-woven cloth, hand-carved wood, locally made garments and hammocks and jewlery. Granted, Chiang Mai had its share of copied goods - Birkenstock sandals complete with tages printed in German which had actually been manufactured somewhere down the road, cheap toys from China that broke the first time a child played with them - but the majority of items in the stalls were locally made, as opposed to the famous Kl markets which are overflowing with manufactured goods, often imported ones, which are largely cheap copies of Western brands.

Chiang Mai was a clean city, but not ritualistically clean like KL, where you cannot walk through one of the many mega-malls without encountering dozens of immigrant floor moppers. Chiang Mai actually smelled of flowers, not disinfectant. The roads were full of motorbikes and tuk-tuks, the tiny open-air taxis that look a bit like a Jeep Landrover mounted on a motorbike. In the heat of the day their drivers nap in the back seats while waiting for a customer.

People walked in Chiang Mai and rode bicycles. You could rent a bike to get around town and hope to make it back to your guesthouse that evening. KL is so jammed with cars that bicycles are practically unheard of and legendary traffic jams are a fact of life. Cars here are shiny and new; a status symbol and a point of pride. They also seem to be a way for Malaysians to vent the frustrations inherent in life in a big, crowded, noisy place. Going anywhere is a wearying, irksome ordeal involving a lot of rudeness and risk-taking. There's so such thing as the Sunday afternoon drive in KL.

A more subltle difference, but one which was probably fairly significant, was the religious climate. Northern Thailand is primarily Buddhist, while Malaysia is officially Muslim. Disregarding the truth claims of competing religious systems, you can classify some as friendlier, softer, nicer than others. I found the monks intheir orange robes and babyish bald heads friendly-looking. They hung out in nice temples with big, shady courtyards that were open to anyone for a nap or a rest. They appeared humble and poor, whether or not they were, walking the streets in their sandals and loose garments. Malaysia, however, is a land of religious enforcement officers, of religious courts and judges, of official religious ID cards and of strict laws . The enforcement officers don't bother me, in the sense of harass me, since I am clearly a hopeless infidel, but they do bother me in the sense of irritate or annoy me. I don't like knowing they are there.

Last, but far, from from least, I noted the prevalence of books and coffee. As far as I am concerned these are the staples of the creative life - the life worth living - and Chiang Mai was full of them. Used book stores are everywhere and most are next door to cafes with real, Western style coffee which invite you to sit for hours reading, chatting, discussing the meaning of life. Malaysians are known for their disinterest in books; they freely admit it and always talk about how they should read more, but they don't like to read. Bookstores here are perfunctory; they exist chiefly to sell school texts, and just include some other books for effect. Chiang Mai is full of shops lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves divided into satisfying categories for easy browsing. I spent three times as much on books as I did on lodging the three days we were there, and I left so many books I really wanted on the shelves for another day (yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.)

Just when I am tempted to excuse my lack of creativity on my environment, I remember how many of the most beautiful works ever penned came out of prison, poverty, war and deprivation. I think of the British WWI poets, of Pilgrim's Progress, of Solzenitsyn and my own brother, and know that one's inner life can be beautiful and rich and productive, no matter what circumstances one finds oneself in. So, I don't get a pass on writing just because I live in KL. But I know where I'm headed on my next vacation!

losing weight

I've been thinking lately about losing weight. And not in the usual way. As the calendar reads Spring, I've discovered that one of the benefits of living in a climate without seasons is that you don't have to endure all the get- ready- for -your- bikini articles. But I have more weight-loss issues than the ones my scale and mirror create.

This morning I experienced again the relief I always feel at the airport when, after struggling with luggage whose wheels never run smoothly, whose handles never fit my hands just right, whose weight and bulk trip me up over and over again, I hoist it onto the conveyor belt and watch it disappear into a dark tunnel, knowing I will not see it again till it magically reappears at the end of my journey. As I leave the check in counter I always fumble around for a moment, feeling as if I have forgotten something, feeling too light, too unencumbered for the trip I'm taking. Then I remember that I am no longer responsible for that weight. I can take the escalator, go to the restroom solo, squeeze into a tiny booth at the coffee shop, browse in the bookstore; it's not my responsibility any more. Someone is taking care of it for me.

The weight of all the things I could not leave home without. . .things which seemed so essential as I crammed them into my suitcase; Now I find I can scarcely remember what is in the bag I just checked. If I had to make an inventory I might forget half of it. Even if it never shows up again, I'll probably be just fine. I'm so happy to surrender it to the man behind the counter; I just don't want to fight with it anymore.

Why is is so hard for me to travel light? Why do I never remember when it's time to set off again what I learned last time. . . that, in the words of Jesus, "only a few things are necessary". Why can I not remember the relief of being relieved of my baggage, both literal and figurative?

As I was shaking my head over my reluctance to shed those pounds, I remembered a picture which has been in my mind for several years now. . . a scene I witnessed once at the small Vermont lake where my children used to swim. I sat on the beach and watched as an elderly woman with a walker slowly approached the water. She made her way across the gritty sand in an old, faded bathing suit, moving her walker forward step by step right into the cold water. She leaned hard on the walker for stability until the water reached her hips or so, and then she slipped into the dark coolness and was free, the ugly walker left standing in three feet of water looking utterly out of place in the glow of the late afternoon sun reflecting off the deep green surface.

For a time she was free - weightless and graceful as a girl again, no longer hobbled by the walker, by the aching joints and the feeble bones, buoyed up by the water which carried her as easily as it carried the children splashing nearby.
I could not shake the image of rebirth, of rejunvenation I had witnessed. For nights I actually lay awake wondering at it. I imagined how she must have hated to come back; to give up the liberty of the water for the weight of her aging body on the shore. I wondered if she would ever decide not to return - to just stay in the water and let someone else retrieve the symbol of her weakness and frailty, to just let it rust. I wondered how she could ever bear it again.

I felt as if I had watched something very profound, something almost like a revelation. I felt as if I were watching a preview of her death, and my own, a final laying aside of every weight and infirmity and slipping into the comforting depths, feeling the years slip away and the weight of mortal flesh which has become increasingly hard to carry dissolve, becoming bouyant once again.

So I've been considering these two stories about weight which seem to have little in common, but are really just a few more earthly images of heavenly Realities - opportunities to stop and remember yet again that the things which are seen are not the only things that Are. It is good to be reminded of the need to lay aside the weight that so easily besets us as we journey through this life- the things we can't seem to bring ourselves to leave home without. Life maybe a series of lessons about the weight of all those things we can't seem to leave behind, leading up to that day when we may ,through Christ, finally achieve a lovely weightlessness - free from the weight of our sinful flesh that has dogged our steps for all our lives.




All That You Can't Leave Behind
U2

And love is not the easy thing
The only baggage you can bring...
And love is not the easy thing...
The only baggage you can bring
Is all that you can't leave behind

And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for a second you turn back
Oh no, be strong
Walk on, walk on
What you got they can’t steal it
No they can’t even feel it
Walk on, walk on...
Stay safe tonight
You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom
Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't deny it
Can’t sell it, can’t buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight
And I know it aches
And your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Home… hard to know what it is if you’ve never had one
Home… I can’t say where it is but I know I'm going home
That's where the hurt is
I know it aches
How your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on
Leave it behind
You've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you steal
All this you can leave behind
All that you reason
All that you sense
All that you speak
All you dress up
All that you scheme...

If I Could Tell You

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Wystan Hugh Auden

two by Gerard Manley Hoplins

Two poems I love by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Spring and Fall:

to a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves, líke the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Áh! ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves -- goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;

Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is --

Chríst -- for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

metaphorically speaking

I seem to be suffering from the proverbial writer's block. Though in my case it would be more accurately described as a thinker's block. I’ve hit a really dry spell – dry, and aimless.

I said once I could endure anything if I just found the proper metaphor in which to think about it – and that is what I am searching for just now - a metaphor, or even a rubric to describe my life, to center it and animate it. I feel fragmented, no longer all of a piece.

Yesterday in church we were given the opportunity for a few quiet moments to “confess our sins of omission and commission. . . “ I felt like maybe, given enough time, I could manage to confess my sins of commission, but I felt as if my life were one big sin of omission. What could I even say about fifty years worth of omission. What are the words to even make that kind of confession? Do they exist?

A large part of my current angst revolves around my family, by which I mean my children. I have young adult children, which causes me look toward a childless future and think, who will I be when the children are gone?? (How cliche. . . just like a women's magazine article.) It is frightening, but creates a restlessness as well. I still have a lot of energy left, as well as a sense that the clock is ticking more loudly. Where should I invest this limited store?? What have I never done that I still want to do?

But then I remember I have a kindergartener and a fourth grader who still have YEARS at home; a seventh grader who needs lots of guidance and reassurance and love. . . I don’t know how to be the right sort of mother for them all - how to adequately deal with the older ones leaving and doing young adult things while still reading Beatrix Potter and Charlotte’s Web often enough. I feel I am not being a good mother to anyone these days – the thing which has always made me feel like my life was justified – no matter what other sins of commission or omission I was guilty of, at least I was a good mother. Right now I don’t feel like a good mother to any of my children. . . and I don’t know how to fix it. It’s not as simple as, “I need to focus more on . . . . ". I can’t focus on anything.

I am similarly torn between friends and loved ones in the US – how to stay close and somewhat involved in the lives of people I love and hope to not be forgotten by, since one day we will be coming back. . . . not as strangers, I hope - and the need to make friends here and become involved in a real life, not a temporary assignment in Malaysia. I feel like I am split down the middle - no, that is too clean. I feel like I am shredded in a hundred bits - each too small and ragged to be any good.

Making friends has always taken a huge amount of emotional energy for me; I am by nature a recluse, I believe, and I have to force myself outside myself to spend time with people, to make connections. I have always felt guilty about this; all my life I have been conscious that I am not a good friend. I have always known people perceive me as aloof and rude. I know my own heart, that I have kindly intentions toward nearly everyone I know; I just can’t muster the emotional energy sometimes to be with them. I wish I could love everyone from afar. . . be a good friend, a nice, caring person from the relative quiet and solitude of my own space. Which sounds pretty selfish when you think about it. I just wish I enjoyed socializing a bit more. . . some people I know would always choose company over solitude.

I think that is why the venue for most of my friendships and my “ministry” if you can call anything I have ever done in my life that, has been my own house. I am usually quite happy to invite people in – I just find it very hard to go out to meet them. I don’t mind having a houseful; I’m happy to have houseguests and extra people for dinner. Anyone can live at my house. I can (usually) deal with people stopping by for coffee, but I have consumed a hundred cups of coffee with friends in my own kitchen for every cup I have taken in someone else’s. . . and I have consumed many cups of guilt as well for being who I am and not one of my more open, friendly, sociable counterparts. How is it one can get so far in life and still feel like Woody Allen: “My one regret in life is that I am not someone else. “

So I don’t have anything to write these days because I can’t figure anything out and I am wasting precious hours not doing anything well. I am swirling in a whirlpool looking for some anchor to grab hold of which can help me to stop going in circles; some way to climb out, but I have not even seen anything yet that looks stable or remotely comforting. I have to keep looking if I hope to ever feel firm ground beneath my feet again, but I’m feeling a little discouraged about the prospects just now.

I began by saying I felt dry – now I’m in over my head. If there’s anything I hate it’s a mixed metaphor. This is a measure of how lost I feel right now. What was it the Apostle Paul said in his flawless King James English: “Oh wretched man that I am. Who can deliver me from the body of this death?” I know there was an answer, but it doesn’t make sense to me at the moment. I can’t get past the question

the marks of the shackles

"Even the Congo has tried to slip out of her old flesh, to pretend it isn't scarred. Congo was a woman in shadows, dark-hearted, moving to a drumbeat. Zaire is a tall young man tossing salt over his shoulder. All the old injuries have been renamed: Kinshasa, Kisangani. There never was a King Leopold, no brash Stanley, bury them, forget. You have nothing to lose but your chains.

But I don't happen to agree. If chained is where you have been, your arms will always bear the marks of the shackles. What you have to lose is your story, your own slant. You'll look at the scars on your arms and see mere ugliness, or you'll take great care to look away from them and see nothing. Either way, you have no words for the story of where you came from." The Poisonwood Bible - Barara Kingsolver


I recently read The Poisonwood Bible, a book I had been meaning to get to for years. I was not disappointed. Barbara Kingsolver tells a compelling story of American missionaries caught up in the drama of the Congo's precipitate independence from Belgium. The story is masterfully told, or rather revealed, through the voices of five women, the wife and daughters of a brash, passionate, tormented southern Baptist (not to be confused with "Southern Baptist".) As a child of a Baptist minister I found some elements did not ring true (can there be a Baptist on earth who actually uses the Apocrypha?), but these were not enough to detract from the narrative, or from the author's considerable skill in creating five consistent personas with distinct voices.

There were several pages I dog-eared, but the passage I have come back to several times is this one. Kingsolver is commenting on the wholesale renaming of every place in the Congo/Zaire when the country was finally emancipated from Belgian control. In an effort to erase all vestiges of colonialism the new government apparently abolished the old place names and created new, African names to take the place of any names that made reference to Europe or Europeans.

I don't believe renaming is really the issue here, though it is a fascinating subject - how the ways in which we name things do or do not alter how we think or feel about them -. People have always chosen new names at baptisms, confirmation, taking Holy Orders, and other life changing moments in order to affirm that something new is beginning.

But I think the real question this passage deals with is what to do about wounds, injuries, injustices suffered in the past. Is it better to try to forget, to wipe out the memory, or to allow it to see the light of day; is it better to efface or to embrace our pain, our history, the scars that have made us who we are today.

A case can be made for either approach. Scripture itself encourages us through the example of the Apostle Paul to forget those things which are behind, to run the race before us; yet it also tells us to boast in our weaknesses, and reminds us to not forget what we used to be; to remember that we have been washed, cleansed, healed, made holy.

While there is nothing necessarily wrong with renaming places, people, events, (contemporary historians make a regular practice of it), we need to understand when dealing with our own history that calling something by a different name does nothing to change the underlying reality of what has been and what is. God is still the only one who can speak things into existence.

And I believe there is something to be said for scars. Even Jesus in his resurrected body retained his scars. They became part of his glory. We might do well to learn to love our own scars, even as we embrace our Lord's. If we forget, if we try to cover up where we've been, if we whitewash the past or hide it somehow we are left with the choices the narrator of this passage gives us: seeing ourselves a maimed and ugly, or spending a lifetime turning our faces away.

Christians have a quaint word for "the story of where you came from" - it's called your testimony. It's a story we should not be afraid to tell; a story we should embrace; a story we need to remember to know who we are today. Christ made it clear that he came as a Physician for the sick, the lame, the halt (I love that archaic term), the blind, the lepers. There is no inherent virtue, no glory in being uninjured, in having escaped somehow.

In The Poisonwood Bible Kingsolver describes an African man whose face is covered with ritual scars which are unpleasant to the the narractor at first, but come to seem so much a part of who he is that they become beautiful in her eyes. I like to think that we might all come to the place where we can treat our own scars, and those of others with reverence and tenderness, since they remind us that chained is where we all have been.



*The present Democratic Republic of the Congo has changed its names several times throughout history. It has been Congo Free State (1855-1908), Belgian Congo (1908-1960), Congo-Leopoldville/Democratic Republic of the Congo (1960-1966), Congo-Kinshasa (1966-1971), Zaire (1971-1997).

on our own in Malaysia

Last week I was sitting in traffic (again) behind a car with an intriguing bumper sticker in the back window - which is where bumper stickers go in Malaysia. It had a picture of a golden buddha on a blue-sky background and announced, "Anyone can go to heaven. Just be Good! " In small print it said justbegood.net.

I mused about this cheery announcement the rest of the way home. Although it was meant to appeal to me by its egalitarian, affirming message, I find the exhortation to "just be good" extremely depressing. What person over 12 years old actually labors under the delusion that he can "justbegood." "If that's the way to Heaven", I decided, "I'll never make it . Of course, I'll be lucky to make it home in this jam."

As I navigated the LDP highway, watching carefully for signs for Puchong, Putra Jaya, Taman Tun Dr Ismail (T.T.D.I. to locals), I found myself idly concocting a theology based not on bumperstickers, but on the trafffic itself - like, it doesn't matter which lane you choose; we'll all end up in the same lane eventually. . . . unitarian, I suppose. It's true for traffic, at least.

A few days later our family embarked one morning upon a long-planned trip to the US Embassy in Kuala Lumpur. We had several errands to perform there: changing my husband's new passport to read "Male" rather than "Female", registering our presence as Americans in Malaysia , getting a NH residency form notarized for a college application, and correcting a piece of misinformation on my daughter's passport. KL is not far when considered in kilometers, but it can easily take over an hour to drive there (not allowing for any wrong turns) and nearly as long to find a parking space. So we decided to avoid the traffic and take the train into the city. We would then hike the few blocks from the train station to the Embassy.

My husband took the day off work and we left the house at 9:30, carrying all our critical documents. I found I was inordinately excited about the prospect of setting foot on an outpost of the US; I was all ready to be thrilled by the sight of the Stars and Stripes flying in the hazy tropical sky.

We drove to the LRT station near our house, purchased tickets to Ampang Park and sat down to enjoy the ride. Since our station is the last one on the line we can nearly always find seats. We arrived at our stop about 10:15 and got our bearings. We figured the embassy was about a 1/2 mile from the station and we guessed at the direction in which to head. Everyone immediately noticed how many non-Asians were about in the embassy district. We see very few non-natives in our neighborhood. It's a funny thing but Westerners tend to pretend not to notice each other here; if you accidentally make eye contact you both look away as if there is nothing notable or interesting about the other person. I'm not sure why.

When we arrived at the Embassy after walking the half mile from the monorail along a busy road in the blistering sun, we found it shut and barred. There was no sign of Old Glory anywhere. We quickly checked the time to make sure we had not missed the window of opportunity. The US Embassy is open all of two hours a day, five days a week for any business any Americans in Malaysia might have. (I hope there is never an emergency. . . .) But we were well within the 9-11 AM time frame. Apparently there was a little booth you had to register at first. My husband approached the Malaysian (how disappointing) manning the desk and was about to ask which entrance to use, when we saw the sign, "Closed for Martin Luther King Day, January 15th, 2007"

But it's not even Martin Luther King Day in the US yet, we wailed. It's still Sunday night!! Then we saw the other sign noting that the US Embassy closed for ALL public holidays, Malaysian and American! When you consider how many holidays the two countries celebrate, the place must be open an average of 8 hours a week, not even 10!! I was ready to renounce my citizenship then and there, except I probably couldn't do it until the embassy opened! We felt annoyed that all our efforts were for naught, but we also felt abandoned here on foreign soil, as if we didn't matter anymore. "That's what you get for moving to the other side of the world, you ingrates," was the message the locked gates and unwelcoming signs seemed to convey.

So, we went to the Canadian Embassy instead, which is open 35 hours a week, where we picked up applications for Certificates of Canadian citizenship for all our children, (I was born in Canada, so they all can claim citizenship), and they even offered to give the kids all 1 year passports while their Citizenship Claims were being processed!! So there. (We didn't go out of spite; we had planned to do this anyway.) We lounged around in the air conditioned Canadian waiting room for awhile before we headed back out to the hot sun and the train and the traffic. We felt slightly less offended; at least some country wanted us!

Then we went to the beautiful old Central Market for shopping and lunch, where we avoided eye contact with many more Westerners and ate wonderful clay-pot black pepper chicken and rice. We were back home by 3 PM, though we felt as if we'd been away a lot longer. We turned on the air-conditioning, sent the little girls off to the swimming pool and decided we'd let some time go by before we tried to visit our Uncle Sam again. Maybe he'll decide he misses us after all.

Far away is only far away if you don't go there. . . .

I am finally feeling uprooted. All week my dreams have been about packing up houses in time for moving trucks to arrive, taking long rides on buses which were headed for airports. My children were always with me, and they were usually more on task than I was. I was always caught up doing something else and then feeling unready when the time for the truck to arrive or the bus to leave came.

I am surprised to be dreaming these things now, now that the move is "over", but I guess it's not over after all. I am still coming to terms with what we have done and where we are and what it's all about.

I have always been a dreamer. It's probably the only thing I have in common with John Lennon. I used to love waking up in the morning to my own stories, so real they sometimes seemed more like memories - I still do. I have always felt sorry for people who claim they never dream (though experts say we all do); I have always dreamed vividly and frequently, sometimes several times a night so it feels like I have been asleep for days when the clock tells me I woke up just an hour ago from a different dream.

Sometimes I try to go back to sleep to reenter the dream if it was a particularly wondrous one, if it gave me a feeling I did not want to lose in the light of day, but that seldom works. Even if sleep comes, the dream I am seeking is usually gone.

I have finally gotten over the habit of repeating my dreams to other people (usually the first person I see when I wake), since I know how completely bored I am by other people's dreams,
but I always want to hang onto them, knowing how quickly they will fade if I do not reinforce them in my memory by repeating them over and over. Even when I do, I find that most times the details are gone within minutes;later in the day I may not even remember the subject matter, but only retain the strange feeling the dream gave me.

For a while when I was in graduate school I kept a dream journal by my bedside where I recorded things immediately when I woke up. Later the stories surprised even me: I no longer remembered the things I had done and seen in my dreams, but there they were on the page, recorded in blue or black ink in my own hand.

When I reread the accounts, the details then seemed oddly important - the things I would forget even if I remembered the main story of the dream. One week, for example, my two brothers were in every dream I had; they were usually on the sidelines, maybe just walking through a scene, but they were always there. What did that mean? I never figured it out, but I feel sure it meant something.

So I am not sure what my dreams of moving, packing, trucks, buses, airplanes and children mean, but I suspect they have something to do with the fact that deep inside I realize I am not at home, I am still in motion. I don't know if Malaysia will ever feel like home, but then I don't know if New Hampshire will feel like home after our sojourn here. Someone has said that, "travelling in the company of those we love is home in motion," and I agree. I may never feel settled in a particular place again, but that's not all bad, as Mr. Baggins discovered.

two poems I like by Stevie Smith

Valuable

(After reading two paragraphs in a newspaper)

All these illegitimate babies...
Oh girls, girls,
Silly little cheap things,
Why do you not put some value on yourselves,
Learn to say, No?
Did nobody teach you?
Nobody teaches anybody to say No nowadays,
People should teach people to sayNo.

0 poor panther,
Oh your poor black animal,
At large for a few moments in a school for young children in Paris,
Now in your cage again,
How your great eyes bulge with bewilderment,
There is something there that accuses us,
In your angry and innocent eyes,
Something that says: I am too valuable to be kept in a cage.

Oh these illegitimate babies!
Oh girls, girls,
Silly little valuable things,
You should have said, No, I am valuable,
And again, It is because I am valuable I say, No.
Nobody teaches anybody they are valuable nowadays

Girls, you are valuable,
And you, Panther, you are valuable
But the girls say: I shall be alone If I say
‘I am valuable’ and other people do not say it of me,
I shall be alone, there is no comfort there.
No, it is not comforting, but it is valuable
And if everybody says it in the end
It will be comforting.
And for the panther too,
If everybody says he is valuable
It will be comforting for him.


Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

ambiguity and faith

"Ambiguity tolerance describes how a person perceives, interprets and reacts to ambiguous situations. These are situations that are unclear either because of lack of information or because of incoherence in the available information. "

I remember my family doctor telling me that I apparently did not have quite enough ambiguity tolerance to serve me in good stead as a mother. Whenever one of my children was ailing in any way - fever, rash, intestinal distress, swelling or wounds - I would follow an identical course of action. I would question my husband incessantly about whether he thought the child was OK, whether a doctor's visit was in order, whether he thought I could wait till the morning, whether he thought things were looking better, worse or the same. Very often I would wake him in the middle of the night to request his expert opinion. Amazingly, he nearly always obliged and did so without using any bad language, though I nearly always suspected his motives if he thought things were improving. I thought he would say anything to shut me up. . . I don't know now why I even bothered to ask since the only answer I believed without question was, "Yes, I think she looks worse."

Then, waiting till daybreak, at least, I would call another mom who had children near the same age and rehash the whole condition with her, asking what she thought I should do; what she would do if her child looked/felt/acted like this. If it was a Thursday night or a Friday morning these conversations had an added urgency to them, since no one wanted to make the wrong call with the weekend looming; no one wants to end up in the emergency room with a sick child because they neglected to visit the doctor's office when they had the chance.

Finally, I would call our family doctor, request the first possible appointment, and wait anxiously for the time to pass. Then it would happen. Invariably, the child would take a turn for the better during that period of time. The fever would break, the swelling would go down, the rash would begin to fade, the vomiting would abate. So when we arrived at the appointment I had spent two days deciding upon, the child would be on the mend and I would be left saying, "She started to get better right after I made the appointment. It always happens that way." If I were not so relieved my child was on the mend I would probably have been annoyed with her for making me look like an idiot.

That is when our doctor, who was also a friend of mine, would smile and tell me I did not have quite enough tolerance for ambiguity. That if I had been able to wait just a bit longer things would have resolved themselves. She was not reproving me, just making an observation.

Things have not changed much since those days. A few weeks after we moved to Malayasia I was mentally preparing myself to send our 16 year old to boarding school in the US since she could not apparently find a suitable ballet school here; two days later she was established in a good studio not ten minutes drive from our house. The same week I "finally" hit the bookstore in desperation, spending many tens of ringitt so that I would "at least have something to read," and the next day our shipment of books arrived.

One night in December I nearly slept on the couch because I was SO unhappy with my long-suffering husband over the uncertainty of our eldest daughter's travel plans from the US to Malaysia. We had only twelve hours left to lock in her reservations, and I could not understand or tolerate my husband's equanimity in the face of a looming crisis. He assured me that he had made the proper phone calls and the travel agent would let him know when things were settled. I would have called the corporate agent and harassed her myself had I any standing to do that, but being only the spouse I could not do anything, and my husband was not inclined to breathe down her neck. (You would suppose I would think that was a good thing. . . )

When my husband arrived at the office the next morning (we are thirteen hours ahead of the US office) he found that Emily had purchased the tickets while he slept and I fumed, and everything was taken care of. Once again, I saw the "low tolerance" light flashing on the dashboard. After the fact, the crisis suddenly shrank to tolerable size and I was left thinking, "I wish I knew then what I know now."

I wrote the first part of this post a few weeks ago. Many things which appeared ambiguous at that time are now clear - but one ambiguity is only resolved to make room for another; some are never resolved. Has a day ever dawned in which nothing is "unclear because of lack of information or because of incoherence in the available information." In fact, I think this phrase fairly well describes life; certainly it describes the future, the outlook for the new year. We lack information about almost every aspect of the new year - where the next earthquake will strike, what plots and intrigues will succeed, which wars will end and what new wars will break out, which disesases will be declared cured and what virulent new strains will emerge.

There is only one individual to whom nothing is unclear because of lack of information, and He, for His own reasons, does not always choose to lift the fog in which we find ourselves groping. He does, however, offer the antidote of faith - the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. This is not an easy solution, nor usually a comfortable one, but it is often our only choice. We can lose sleep over the uncertainties of the present and the future, or we can learn to tolerate, and even embrace, each ambiguous, trying situation as an opportunity to exercise something far better than tolerance - faith.

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