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.

Stream of Consciousness During Prayer

I'm sitting in tears trying to pray - trying to untangle my thoughts which are, as usual, twisted and knotted and unruly. Like the disciples, I don't know how to pray - it seems I always end up here, not even knowing how to begin. The metaphor of tangled threads shapes my request - I am tired of confusion and lack of direction - I want things to be clear, simple, straight - untangled. So I ask God to untangle my thoughts, to sort them out, to separate them. But then a nagging thought occurs - perhaps that is not the right way to pray . Perhaps I should ask God to weave them into a beautiful tapestry instead, perhaps that is what He wants to do. . . like that old metaphor popular during my Bible college days. Which is the right way to pray?

And then I reflect that I am thinking, praying in metaphor anyway. My thoughts are not actual threads, are they? Does it matter how I talk about them? And should I pray in figurative language at all? But can I even begin to speak to God or anyone else about my present difficulties without any figures of speech? All this runs through my mind within sixty seconds of my first whispered request. By now my prayers have been completely derailed - another metaphor. Should I just start over and forget the metaphor altogether?

I step back mentally and try to think what I know of God's "speech" as He has accomodated Himself to man. He appears to love figurative language; He repeatedly chose poets to write His message. The canon we have accepted is full of symbolism, metaphor, anthropomorphism. Is there, I wonder, a single literary device discovered by man that cannot be richly illustrated from the Bible? And what about visions? God often "talks" in pictures, even - to Abraham, to Ezekiel, to the minor prophets, to John the Apostle, to Peter. The Scriptures are full of stars and sand and wheels and dry bones, of watered gardens and stony ground, of tarpaulins full of animals and of weird, frightening beasts. He certainly has no hesitation about using metaphor in His own communication to us.

But, returning to my original prayer, my problem is that I don't know how to think about things anyway - what if I choose the wrong metaphor. What if I ask Him to untangle when I should ask Him to weave, or to dissolve, or to secure the knots more tightly - or . . . the possibilities are endless. Now I am really not sure what I want to ask for, anyway. I cast about for anything in the Scripture that might inform or instruct me.


I recall the admonition in Ecclesiastes 5 to "Be not rash with thy mouth.. . .let thy words be few" and wonder if it is a rebuke. But I am also encouraged by the behind-the-scenes glimpse into the mechanics of prayer that the Apostle Paul provides in Romans 8:26, Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmities: for we know not what we should pray for as we ought: but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Can I trust the Spirit to translate my prayers, however dim or ill-chosen the words, or even the thoughts?


I remember the word picture David used once to describe his posture before the Lord, "Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child." and I think that perhaps what I need to do this morning is just to sit quietly and wait for the Lord to make sense of what I cannot make sense of - to be like Hagar who found herself in the desert, found by "Him who sees me." Maybe the right words don't matter so much. Maybe they don't matter at all this morning.

Thanksgiving

There are only two eye- witness accounts of the the first Thanksgiving feast in Plymouth, 1621. Both are brief, and both are, appropriately, grateful. Edward Winslow ends his account this wish:
And although it be not always so plentiful, as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.


Like the Pilgrims, my small company of sojourners has also just passed a first year in a new land. As I head downstairs to my large, air-conditioned kitchen in order to prepare our frozen turkey for dinner today I am aware of how little I have in common with our New England forbears. . . except, perhaps, the conclusion of a first year in a distant land, and the gratitude in my heart for the way God has led us and sustained us through the last twelve months. By the goodness of God we are so far from want, that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Now thank we all our God,

with heart and hands and voices,

who wondrous things has done,

in whom this world rejoices;

who from our mothers' arms has blessed us on our way

with countless gifts of love,

and still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God

through all our life be near us,

with ever joyful hearts

and blessed peace to cheer us;

and keep us still in grace,

and guide us when perplexed;

and free us from all ills,

in this world and the next.

All praise and thanks to God

the Father now be given;

the Son, and him who reigns

with them in highest heaven;

the one eternal God,

whom earth and heaven adore;

for thus it was, is now,

and shall be evermore.

Dear Santa

I ve heard it said that no two children ever have the same parents. I know that is true when I have conversations with my adult siblings; sometimes when I discuss my mother with my brother I come away thinking we were talking about two completely different people. He and I are next to each other in age - only 14 months apart - both middle children in a family of four, but we know our mother in completely different ways. This must be true for my own children, as well.

Even more obvious in a large family is the truth that no two children have the same childhood. I look at my six year old now, and remember life in our home when my eldest, or second or third was six, and realize how different my children's experiences are! My fifteen year old is acutely aware of this, remembering far more spankings than he sees administered; I am acutely aware of it when I realize that regular bedtimes, rigorously monitored movie watching, long, messy craft projects at the kitchen table and hours of reading aloud every day are things of the past. My youngest daughter's life is full of teenagers and ipods and almost-adult conversation at the dinner table. She lives in a large, Asian city instead of an old New England farmhouse with a brook and climbing trees; she does not get to listen to Winnie the Pooh audio CDs on long car rides, but endures hours of U2, Bob Marley and Counting Crows.

The shape of her childhood - youngest of seven - is clearly reflected in her carefully written Christmas list which appeared on the refrigerator two days ago. I'll reproduce it here, and let it speak for itself.

1. Floaty Canoe

2. Roller skates

3. A Blanket

4. Slippers

5. Candy

6. Squirt Gun

7. A Surfer Suit

8. Iguana

9. Violin Lessons

10. Hair Spray - the DVD

11. Henna

12. Sling Shot

13. Surf Board

14. Cell Phone

15. Stationery

16. Laptop

17. Rabbit

18. Littlest Pet Shops

19. Littlest Pet Shop House

20. Baseball Hat

21. Dress Ups

22. Night Light

23. Frisby

24. Incense

25. Wallet

26. Marbles

27. Sleeping bag

28. Hot Weels cars

Different ways of seeing the world

I found myself talking to my dad last Father's Day from Batu Ferringhi, a beach on Penang Island. I called him about 7:30 in the morning my time; it was 8:30 PM the previous evening for him. He was home alone, as he is most of the time. I was only alone for the moment - my children were still asleep and my husband was having coffeee at the only cafe on the beach that was open at such an early hour.

I walk up and down the beach as I talk with my father, imagining him in his tiny bedroom off the small, cluttered kitchen in the house on the hill overlooking Port Mouton Bay. We cover the usual subjects first - where I am, how he is. I am on vacation for a long weekend with my husband and children, he is getting around OK but has a doctor's appointment later in the week to check into some recurring symptoms that have been bothering him again. Neither one of us knows that he will never return home from that appointment, will spend months in the hospital, nearly die and then wait long weeks for a nursing home placement. Although I may return to Penang Island some day, he will never return to his bedroom, but we do not know that on Father's Day.


So I think as I watch the brown water, murky from a weekend storm, that he is on the coast, too - the rugged coast of Nova Scotia with its icy water that forbids swimming. His house is less than a kilometer walk to a white crescent beach and we talk about the beach, but I realize he has probably not been there for months - perhaps more than a year. He's been too unsteady on his feet and tires too easily to attempt the rocky descent to the beach. He can see the ocean from his backyard, but has not felt it or stepped in it for years.

Our conversation moves beyond my location and his health, and I am conscious as I always am these days, that he is still clear, articulate. I struggle for the occasional word, he never does. I mention Burma and he begins quoting Kipling, "O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!" He tells me that he has always thought the best example of onomatopoeia in the English language is the line, "Elephants a-piling teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek."

We talk about Penang, and he tells me about early missionary work here. I have read the Lonely Planet and Rough Guides to Malaysia, and recently a child's biography of Hudson Taylor to my girls, but he knows details about the history of the gospel in Penang that I've never encountered. Frankly, I'd never heard of Penang until we moved to Malaysia last year, but he is conversant with the history of the Malay Peninsula as well as the island. Rangoon, Mandalay, Georgetown, Malacca are all familiar names to him.


Our conversation leaves Southeast Asia and moves to Europe. He tells me that my cousin's son has recently been to Dieppe with his middle school French immersion class, and that he actually looked up my Grandfather's cousin's grave. My dad tells me about Dieppe, and how many Canadians were killed there. He reminisces about Cousin Harry's visits to his home in Windsor, Ontario, when my dad was 7 and Harry about 14, how Harry played catch with him in the back yard. Harry was only 22 when he died. His young widow remarried and had more children with her second husband. Harry's one son, the only Horner in his family, looked up my Aunt many, many years later in Toronto. My dad remembers it all clearly.

Our conversation shifts again and he tells me he's heard about political demonstrations in Bangkok and wonders if my two eldest children- his grandchildren- who are traveling in Thailand are safe. We talk about where they are staying, where the political unrest is located, how long they will be there and what they are doing. He prays for them daily.

Finally we speak of his recently composed plans for a memorial serivce after his death. He tells me the three hymns he wants: When All My Labors and Trials are O'er, another one so old and unfamiliar I am not sure I know it, and his all-time favorite, The Sands of Time are Sinking. That one I could have predicted. He tells me the names of the people he would like to speak at the service; I am one of them. We do not mention his son who may not be out of prison before he dies. If he is, he will not be able to attend the service since it will be in Canada and he will be on parole in the US.

We talk for nearly an hour, then say goodbye - he to prepare for bed in his cramped bedroom, easing his old frame into his small bed which has been moved to the first floor to avoid the stairs, I to wake my children, have breakfast at the cafe on the beach and pack for the trip back to Kuala Lumpur. My mind is cluttered with things like wet bathing suits, room keys, checkout times and traffic. But I imagine his ranging wide as he waits for sleep - across the globe, through time, over the faces of long dead cousins and traveling grandchildren, through Burma, Penang, Rangoon, Dieppe, Mandalay, Siam, Heaven.

daily bread

I was talking with my daughter in Chicago the other night as she was trying to make it to the library before it closed at midnight; it was nearly lunchtime here in KL. She was telling me about things she had been hearing, reading, thinking lately, and she said, "I just love it when everything really starts to come together in my mind, you know?" I do know - that moment when the connections begin to emerge, when thoughts which had seemed disparate and unconnected begin to arrange themselves into a pattern and a bigger picture - maybe still just a sketch - begins to appear. I had one of those moments this morning as I was kneading bread dough.



I was debating whether to double the recipe - it seems to make sense to use the same amount of time and end up with four loaves of freshly baked bread instead of two. It takes no longer to measure ten cups of flour than five, the kneading, rising and baking times are the same, and I have four pans. Besides, my family usually devours two loaves of homemade bread in one sitting so a little backup would be nice. But I decided not to make extra. Homemade bread is so wonderful because it is fresh, because you can eat it while it's still warm and the butter melts while you spread it. Extra loaves are only as good as good bakery bread.



As I kneaded I thought of the Bible story I read my little girls a few nights ago - how the manna from heaven was only good for one day, how it lost its sweetness and freshness if it was hoarded against the morrow, how it must be eaten with faith to be fully appreciated. Then I thought of a note I had just written a friend about how the future looked like a blank screen to me - that I have no idea where I will be a year or two from now after our time in Malaysia is finished. As I turned over the warm dough and forced it down with the heel of my hand I saw how the three threads were woven together - the dough, the manna, my future.



The bread could be made ahead, but I knew it would not be as good, as satisfying, as daily bread would be. The manna was sent not only to provide for the Israelites, but also to teach them their dependence upon God and His absolute faithfulness to them. My unknowable future is not only acceptable, it is actively good for me, it is part of God's love and faithfulness to me. I not only do not need to worry about the next day or week or year, I can trust that what God sends will be better than what I might plan and provide for, had I the opportunity or means or supposed wisdom to do so.



The bread is ready to go in the pans. There will be another waiting time before it is baked, and then we can enjoy it fresh from the oven. I like to think I may enjoy the future fresh from the hand of God, revealed to me at just the right time. It will be worth the wait - I'm sure of it.

23 things I love about my husband

My husband and I passed our 23rd anniversary this year. We've been married long enough that people coming to our home for the first time look at our wedding picture and ask, "Who is that?" We've been married long enough to have seven children, two high school graduates, one surgery, more than a dozen emergency room visits and several very memorable family vacations. Long enough to often read each others thoughts, though also long enough to know which thoughts are best left unspoken. Probably long enough to have a few secrets as well.


I wanted to write this post for our anniversary, June 30, but it was a day like many others we've shared - we were preparing for a houseful of company arriving the next day! The company stayed for a month, I left hurriedly for a family emergency and we all spent a month traveling, so I am just now writing 23 things I love about my husband, nearly 3 months later!

Here they are, in no particular order.

1. He drinks coffee in bed with me late at night, and sleeps soundly anyway.

2. He believes I could write a book.

3. He can fix anything from cars to washing machines to bikes to plumbing disasters.

4. He has the best moustache since Joshua Chamberlain in the movie Gettysburg.

5. He's not afraid of blood so he can handle all the stitches, loose teeth, bloody noses, injured pets and worse that occur in our family.

6. He encourages me to be much braver than I feel. If it were not for him I would never have parasailed, gone rock climbing, taken a three week bike trip, or had a baby!

7. He never complains about my family.

8. He loves my children as much as I do.

9. He doesn't let me get away with stuff. Sometimes I wish he would just stick up for me, but he loves me enough to call me on things if he thinks I am wrong. He wants me to be holy, not just happy.

10. He cares about my hair. He would be really disappointed if I cut it.

11. He likes my vegetarian cooking.

12. He makes flattering comparisons. Often he'll lean over and whisper, "Your bottom is much smaller than hers," or some such comforting comment. These days I especially like, "You were the youngest-looking woman in that room."

13. He buys and maintains our awesome fleet of bikes.

14. He still has all his thick, curly blond hair.

15. He likes it when I read books outloud.

16. He is a musical snob.

17. He is wise and fair and never jumps to conclusions.

18. He has the best work ethic of anyone I know. I don't always love this at the moment when it is interfering with my plans, but I really admire his integrity.

19. He does not begrudge me the Sunday New York Times.

20. He is completely trustworthy.

21. He lets me buy (almost) all the books I want, and provides me with (nearly) endless bookshelves to store them.

22. He is a really faithful friend to all his friends.

23. He knows me better than anyone and still loves me.

supersize

I am back in Asia, trying to compress my large American life into the confines of Malaysian society. The challenges are both physical and psychological.


On a purely physical level, we loom large in our surroundings. I am of average height for an American woman and seem to be about the same size as most of my middle-aged friends - not as thin as I used to be, but well within the healthy range. My husband is tall, though not inordinately so, my children are fairly normal sized American teenagers. But here in Asia we are massive. We do not easily fit into Malaysian clothes, cars or restaurant booths. We block the view when we sit in front of people at movies or in church. We spread widely on the seats of trains and buses, feeling as if we take up more than our fair share, unable to compact ourselves small enough to fit into Asian personal space.

It doesn't help matters any that we drive an enormous van in a country where most of the cars are subcompact or smaller. The minivan is relatively rare here, and even then it is an abridged version of the American one - narrow and tight. Parking spaces here are sized for Toyotas, Hondas and their miniature sized cousins - tiny little cars that look like they might have come out of Christmas stockings. People double and triple park along streets which already have parking spaces along both sides, leaving narrow passageways for drivers who are expected to be driving narrow cars. Turns are tight, hurricane gutters are wide and deep, upping the ante for the careless driver or the rare one with a wider wheel base.

We are large in other less tangible ways, too. We laugh a lot, we are familiar, we do not know when to show proper respect (though we try) and we are excessively casual. We sprawl too much, we lounge and slouch, we extend ourselves beyond our neat, electric gates too freely. We fool around at the swimming pool while most other families swim laps or take swimming lessons. We do cannonballs and have chicken fights, we lie down on the poolside benches and stare up at the sky while other people sit properly in the chairs.


I have long been familiar with the theories that suggest Americans are like they are because of their peculiar geography and history - that we spread ourselves wide because we live in a big land, that we are still looking for elbow room centuries after Daniel Boone moved West. I paid scant attention to such musings when I encountered them, mostly in academic journals or the occasional Atlantic Monthly type magazine. I figured they were primarily final projects for American Studies majors who later parlayed them into money making opportunities. But my year in Asia and brief visit back to the US has made me a true believer. We are a large people because we are from a large and spacious land. We have no idea how the rest of the world lives, and we can hardly imagine it.

While back in the US we took my daughter to college in the MidWest. We drove for 18 hours across the northeastern states, the width of New York, across northern Ohio, Indiana and into Illinois. The weather was perfect and the landscape was lovely beyond belief, even along the interstate. Most of the time the roads seemed nearly empty to me, used, as I had become, to driving in Kuala Lumpur. Even the 18 wheelers, unknown in Malaysia, did not seem too large for the road. the sky stretched out vast and blue; clouds floated high, even the airspace seemed huge and spacious.


If the St Lawrence Valley was grand, the MidWest was endless. Farms houses and silos looked miles away, with nothing but fields and empty space between them and the highway. Entrance and exit ramps were long and sweeping, profligate in their use of space since there was seemingly no end of land to be used up. Humble rest stops along the highway were vast, roomy caverns; the Ohio Welcome Center looked like a ballroom. Even the fullest parking lots had plenty of wide spaces to choose from. One could nearly always swing wide.


I have always nurtured what I believed was a healthy cynicism about the United States; I have never been a "my country right or wrong" kind of person; I have always tried to see things from a broader perspective than my own cultural lenses, and I welcomed the opportunity to live elsewhere for a year, to leave at least some of my cultural trappings behind and try in some small way to see my own world from the outside. I see that a year in Asia has changed my perspective the tiniest bit, but it has also made me realize that my culture is woven in and through every molecule of my being. I love being back here where everything seems larger than lifesize.

And yet, driving through the heartland my husband and I shook our heads over the amount of money, energy and resources required to sustain even the most frugal American lifestyle. Choosing to live where we used to, for example, requires us to spend more on gasoline in one month than many people live on for an entire year. And having seen another kind of life, we realize that is, indeed, a choice, not a fact of life. But at the same time I found myself longing to be home to stay, vowing I would never take anything for granted again, almost in the spirit of a foxhole conversion. "God, just let me move back to the US and I will send all the money I can spare to the Third World and never forget how blessed I am."


For now I am back in Asia - a expat version of Asia to be sure, with a big house, big car, plenty of money to dine out and travel - but close enough to rub shoulders daily with real people who know a very different life, and I find myself wondering if it is possible to have too much freedom, too many choices, too much space, too much money, too many rights, too much land. I don't really know, though I am certain it is possible to be much too attached to that kind of life.

I have before me a year to think about it, a tidy, compact, polite, manageable Asian year. I hope to think some big thoughts.

Jet lag

Madam is back and jet-lagged with a vengeance. She has decided that jet-lag is a lot like PMS: it doesn't actually make anything bad happen, it just makes it seem like everything that happens is bad. And that is not good.



She was only in the Western hemisphere for five weeks, but that was apparently long enough to throw off her groove - her recently acquired, rather shaky Asian groove, that is. So when she stepped off the plane in Singapore after a 36 hour trip she was not really prepared for the incident in the cafe. She ordered drinks and Chelsea buns for her family - a latte for herself, which she left at the table her older children occupied while she quickly checked to make sure she had received plenty of junk in her email box while she was cruising at 900 mph. She was not disappointed.



When she returned to the table her children had just left (presumably to check their own email), a zealous cafe worker was already clearing off the table - coffee and all. Fortunately her husband at the next table was perceptive and realized her coffee was in danger. Knowing what would happen to madam if she were denied her coffee, he snagged the cup before the busboy- girl did.



So, Madam gratefully took the now lukewarm latte, along with her two small daughters, and sat back down at the shiny, clean table. Several Chinese businessmen were getting settled at the next table. Just as Madam sat down with her back to them, a hand reached over her shoulder and grabbed her latte, still with the lid on. Striving for the "I'm-sorry-there-must-be-some-mistake-here" tone of voice, Madam smiled thinly through her headache and said, "But that's my coffee" and took it back, expecting perhaps a mumbled, emabarrassed apology for the rudely executed mistake. She forgot, of course, where she was. The man, who evidently did not speak English, made some comment to his fellows, and reached again for her coffee, putting it back on his table with not so much as a glance at Madam, who was, after all, only a female.



As luck or Providence would have it - or perhaps owing purely to genetics - her husband, who happened to be at least a foot taller than the coffee-snatcher, intervened and retrieved the coffee in dispute a second time. Madam foolishly thought that at this point everyone would have begun apologizing in their native tongues, claiming to be at fault, offering to buy fresh coffee for all concerned, but in this case only muttering and grumbling ensued next door. Her husband's efforts to be magnanimous were not appreciated. Madam did get to keep her latte, but she found she could not enjoy it. Welcome to Singapore.



The rest of the trip was mercifully uneventful, though the airport van driver was unhappy that he could not see out the rearview mirror since Madam's large family had so much luggage. After her month's absence Madam discovered her house had been reclaimed by giant cockroaches, that her cat had somehow acquired a blood parasite while boarding at the vet's and cost 50% more to retrieve than the price she had expected, that her mail was wet and soggy and mildewed after four weeks in a leaky box. Madam forgot about the remote parking meters when she ran into the vet's office to pick up the expensive cat, and came out to find a parking ticket flapping on her windshield while the cat tore at her linen shirt. Welcome to Malaysia.



Madam still had grocery shopping to do since the cupboard was bare except for cockroaches. She wandered through the grocery store in a haze, pushing the cart with a sticky wheel. She wondered, as she always does, what is being said on the loud, monotone recording that always plays in the meat department, chanting the same phrase over and over again. She avoided the aisle with the Durian fruit which smelt like old garbage. She looked in vain for several products which the market often carried, and learned they were out-of-stock, or "finished" as they say here. She was grateful to find a checkout queue with only three people in it and paid for her groceries with pink and blue and peach colored notes.



Madam drove cautiously home, being careful to stay on the left side of the road. She felt unready to resume her parallel life here on the other side of the globe, but she knew that things would look much better in a few days time. All she needed was time, and sleep -lots of sleep.

Road trip to Chicago, part one

For the last 20 years our family has chosen to live in places that are hard to get out of. We have ended up far from the interstate, accessible only by circuitous routes over secondary, rural, winding roads. While we didn't do it on purpose, I think that says something about our preferences, our habits of life.


When we lived in Lancaster, PA we could go south easily, but our destination was most often northeast, and that required two hours of small town main streets, tobacco fields and roadside vegetable stands before we reached the interstate. We made that trip dozens of times - seldom traversing the exact same route. We always, it seems, spent half the trip wondering if we were on the right road, looking for vaguely remembered landmarks, trying to decide if things looked familiar. In those pre-Mapquest days we studied oddly unhelpful maps that gave us a rough idea of which towns we needed to hit, but always seemed to leave off route numbers, or mark the same thin, black line with two different numbers. It was impossible to estimate how long the trip would take since the first, or last 80 miles never looked the same and some small town was always doing road maintenance.

Northern New Hampshire is the same story. Straight north or south is no problem, but traveling west (usually our destination of choice) requires 2-3 hours meandering through small- town VT, over mountains, past ski resorts, through tiny college towns with their landmark pizza joints ("I remember we ate there once. Which trip was that? Well, this must be right. . . .") war memorials and tourist shops. Once we cross into NY we are guided by the trail of Stewart's convenience stores which we have also frequented on many late night trips. My sister's family from Iowa, flatlanders that they are, claim they have never made the trip to our house without someone throwing up on the snaky roads in VT.

So, today's trip to Chicago to deliver our first daughter to college began with a wandering three hour tour through the lovely Green Mountains of Vermont, just now at the height of their greenery. In a week or two things will begin to wither, drop-off, change to a new palette of reds and oranges. But today the hills are lush and green.


The names here are as rich as the views - we could have taken any number of roads less traveled -Hells Peak Road, Burnt Meadow Road, Muddy Lane and Bank Run Road. Within a single mile we passed businesses named Equinox, Ekwanok and Akwanok. We did not take Squashville Road or Nine Mill Tree Road, but we crossed over Meander Reservoir and felt drawn by the mystery of signs to Lake Desolation.

We stopped twice to study faded state maps posted on Tourist Information boards, hard to decipher under cloudy plexiglass. We passed Stonehedge (a misspelled allusion or a play on words???) and signs for Missy's American Fried Chicken which saucily proclaimed, "This chick has all the pieces." We stopped at Bills' Bait Shop for directions, and were guided to a road under construction through a heavily wooded area. But eventually we found Interstate 90 and began the serious work of driving cross-country, which would lead to the serious work of saying goodbye.



It seemed strange to make a long road trip with only one passenger in the back seat. Nearly every other time we have taken to the Interstate for long trips we have had anywhere from three to seven kids packed in the back of the van, ususally coexisting with mounds of luggage and snacks and books and travel games. Today there was only A reading and dozing in the back seat she had all to herself. Even though she was taking everything she expected to need for a year in the dorm, there was plenty of room for extra luggage in the back, nothing fell out when we opened the doors at rest stops. It felt lonely and very, very quiet.


After a day and a half on the road we arrived at the college during a storm of Biblical proportions. The last three miles we could barely see the road in front of us. The last 10 minutes we pulled over repeatedly for emergency vehicles, their lights flashing dimly through the driving rain. Several roads near the college were closed for fallen trees while houses and businesses stood dark in the late afternoon gloom, their power out for the first of three days. We later learned that a tornado had skipped through the town minutes before we arrived - was this an inauspicious day for the class of 2011 to begin their career? Could it be used as an excuse to take my eldest back home - to keep her a little longer?

But there is no home to take her back to these days, at least not in the contiguous states. She had packed two of her three enormous suitcases in Malaysia before heading to Thailand for three weeks. We had all stopped briefly in New England, staying with friends before this trip across the incomparable US landscape; we, with our diminished family, would be boarding a plane for the other side of the world in six days, and she didn't have a ticket for that flight. She had to stay here, natural disasters nothwithstanding.

Forgotten things

We've been "home" for two weeks now - at least I think we have. We're back in New Hampshire/Vermont - the Upper Valley of the Connecticut River where we own a 1796 post and beam moderately dilapidated house, but it is occupied by tenants at the moment, so we are not staying there. Just visiting for several weeks after a year in Malaysia, we have been, like Goldilocks, trying out one bed after another in the homes of our dear, long-suffering friends. I am frankly amazed at how many people we know who have offered to have the nine of us with our eighteen international-size sutcases invade their tidy homes and consume their foodstores like so many locusts. It is humbling and incredibly comforting.

Last night as we climbed into our rented vehicle after a campfire in friends' backyard/meadow our ten year old sighed happily and said, "I'd forgotten how nice it is to have friends." I had, too.

I had also almost forgotten how lovely it is to walk through northern forests, past small horse farms, under bright blue skies with just a hint of autumn in the cool air. I had nearly forgotten how it feels to drive almost unconsciously, traveling roads whose every curve and pothole I instinctively know. I had forgotten how soothing a good mug of coffee can be with just the right amount of cream, how relaxing it is to read the Sunday New York Times, how pleasantly exasperating it is to work the crossword with my friend who always knows all the answers but occasionally leaves an easy one for me.

I had also almost forgotten the feel of cold, wet sand underfoot on a North Atlantic beach, the chill of the wet fog, the speed and the silence with which it seeps in to envelop the beach. I'd forgotten how small the circle of visibility can become, or how disorienting it can feel to be caught in the mist. I'd forgotten how tiny the rooms under the eaves in an old, maritime house are, how soft and worn are the ancient pine floors in my parents' house.

I had nearly forgotten how it felt to have to close a window in the night because the night air is too chilly for the light summer blanket on the bed. I had almost forgotten globe thistle and black-eyed susans, pansies and hollyhocks, and how lovely it is to sit in the sun when the air is a comfortable temperature. I had forgotten the need to check the weather report when making plans and the smell of wet grass.

I had also forgotten how overweight many of us are, or how much stuff there is to acquire and how hard it is to keep it out of your shopping cart. I had forgotten how many clothes you need to own for the changing seasons, and how heavy and clunky fall and winter shoes look compared to flirty sandals and flip flops. I had actually forgotten how much gas costs, and how many cars even small families have in their driveways, how rare and expensive public transportation is and how few places of business are accessible without a car. I had forgotten how wide parking spaces are, and how large yards are, even in town.

I'd forgotten how many red heads live in New England, and how charming tanned, freckled faces can be. I had never noticed how wrinkled and leathery aging Caucasian skin looks, or how many women wear work boots or clogs. I had forgotten how comfortable it is not to feel like an oddity, but I never realized how dull it is never to see a face of a different color or shape - to see my own ethnic reflection in nearly every face that passes. I had forgotten how fast the internet is here, or how large a load the washing machines can handle.

I had forgotten that my dreams of home were just that, that you can never really come home again, at least not to the same home you left. I had forgotten that while so many things would be warm and inexpressibly comforting in their sameness, that I would never see them again through the same eyes I had last year. I had not realized that although my friends and I could pick up our conversation like we had never parted, there were some things I could never explain to them. I had forgotten that life deosn't work like science fiction - you can't travel for years and come back to the same moment in time that you left.

Sister Act

My life and my only sister's have converged for a few weeks on the Southshore of rural Nova Scotia. Over the past thirty years we have only been toegether perhaps a dozen times, maybe less. Her marriage took her to Iowa, my life has been lived primarily on the East Coast. We have both been busy raising children - 13 between us - and cutting the financial corners familiar to large, single-income families. We've had little time or money for travel.


But my Dad's cancer has brought us here at the same time, at a similar point in our lives. We both brought our youngest, pre-school aged daughters with us, but we both have to return home soon to take older children to college.



As I drove to the hospital this morning for my daily visit with my dad, I was struck not by the similarities between us, but our differences. I am the elder, and definitely have the wrinkles to show for it, but I have felt young and uncertain of myself often this week. Here's how we stack up:


I am older, but she has been married longer.


I've had more babies, but she's endured a c-section.


She's far more computer-literate, but I have traveled more.


We both struggle with our weight.


She's exacting about doctrine and theology; I have forgotten most of the finer points I learned in Bible college - anyone who says "Jesus is Lord" feels like a brother to me.


We both read voraciously, though not, I think, the same books.


She is organized, capable; I am random and sometimes, I think, annoyingly passive.


She seems to know the right thing to do; I am seldom completely certain.


We both like politics, but don't always fit in the same camp.


She has her own bank accounts and manages them online: I call my husband late at night on the other side of the world to ask (again) which account I'm supposed to choose at the ATM when I'm using the Green card. He stifles a sigh when he answers.


I lie awake at night worrying about my dad's existential angst as he confronts his own death; she realizes he probably could get around better if he had a different pair of slippers and goes out to buy him some.


She chats companionably with the neighbors who stop by; I disappear for long walks on the beach.


She willingly assumes Power of Attorney for my Dad to help with his finances; I am secretly glad I live in Asia so I cannot offer.


She is undeniably my mother's favorite daughter; I think I have always been my Dad's. . .


She just left for the hospital to discuss bank accounts and statements with my dad; I am writing this blog.

Rainy afternoon in Penang

The rain is loud on the tin roofs. The floor of the balcony of the Baba Guesthouse is painted a deep, glossy burgundy. Faded blue roll-up blinds lined with fraying, floral silk scarves keep out the gusts of wind, but not the sound of the rain or the roar of the surf across the narrow street. The brown plastic stacking chairs around the laminated plywood table have their legs sheathed in segments of black bicycle inner tubes meant to muffle the sound of scraping on the floor during late night card games. The bead board inner walls are painted a cool aqua, the color one imagines the sea should be but seldom is.

The cement courtyard of the house next door - Shalina's Guesthouse, "A Home Like Home" -looks like every Malaysian courtyard: the ubiquitous rubber hoses, plastic buckets and tubs - some hanging from nails, others sitting about upright or upside down. Wire coathangers dangle from the chain link fence next to gray, cotton mopheads and twining vines. Besides the ever- present laundry hung hopefully out to dry, the space contains a stack of pock-marked styrofoam coolers and some rusty corrugated metal panels and pipes leaning up against the side of the concrete house.

Between the two guesthouses winds a tiny lane, filled with several inches of water despite the metal roof which shields it from the rain. The roof is red with rust. Everything in sight except for this cheerful balcony, is rusted, dented, faded or torn.


Despite the rain, people constantly pass in and out of the narrow lane - a man on an ancient bike holding a woman's blue geometric print umbrella in one hand weaves unsteadily along the alleyway. A darkskinned, Ghandi-like man with skinny, bow legs and a green plaid traditional skirt and mud-colored polo shirt picks his way carefully across the wet, pitted pavement in black rubber slippers, taking his time under a red and white striped, feminine umbrella. A thin, dusky man in flip-flops, his blue workpants rolled halfway up his calves, passes slowly on the road, clutching a black garbage bag closely under his chin, wearing it like a cape over his shoulders and back.



On the other side of the crowded, one- lane road, across from the ancient metal sign, Baba Guesthouse, Nice, Clean, Simple - See to Believe, scrubby grass lines the beach. The ocean, the same muddy gray color as the sky, though a slightly darker hue, heaves and rolls with swells that start far out and break in opaque, tan foam high on the deserted beach. All the beachfront cafes have pulled down their metal doors against the steady rain, the tables on the cement courtyards and on the sand under the huge, dense foliage of ancient trees are empty. Their wooden chairs with peeling paint or mildew-stained plastic seats look dreary and cheap in the dull afternoon light. Lat night they were charming under the strings of lights and neon signs, but their enchantment has dissolved in the rain.

On the balcony we read, doze or play games idly, waiting out the rain. It's not a bad way to spend an afternoon on vacation, and rain in Malaysia seldom lasts more than a few hours. The cool wetness of the air is a pleasant reprieve from the usual steamy atmosphere. We're in no hurry. We can wait.

You know you've been in Malaysia too long when . . .

Several months ago my son joined a group on Facebook called, You know you've been in Malaysia too long when. . . . . At the time he was hating Malaysia, and it was a good way to vent his feelings! Misery loves company and all that. He has come to terms with his new home, and has even told me the first thing he wants to do when we land in Boston is visit a Malysian restaurant he's heard of. Sounds to me like he's been here too long.

A few days ago as I was navigating the narrow corridor that passes for a street in our neighborhood of shops I realized that I, too, may have been in Malaysia too long. I still find driving here frustrating, but no longer surprising. I never remind any of my children not to splash water on the bathroom floors, in fact, I encourage it. I can't remember what fresh milk tastes like, and I don't like ice in my drinking water anymore.

It seems that so much of adjusting to a new culture involves adjusting one's expectations. When people or places or events are far from what we expect, we easily become disillusioned, discouraged, offended or even hostile. Somedays it feels like nothing is right - and that's a pretty fair assessment if we are using the wrong yardstick. Once we know what to expect, life becomes easier, but that does take time. You have to encounter a situation or an attitude or a food enough times to know what it is, and to avoid being disappointed because it is not what you expected it to be.

During this time of adjusting our expectations, we have been reading a lot of Bill Bryson's essays. We have found him to be the perfect companion, since so much of his writing involves his impressions of cultures foreign to him - a mixture of appreciation and mockery into which we find ouselves often slipping. Plus, he hails from Hanover, NH, just down the road a piece from our home town. When he mentions the Four Aces Diner, we know just what he talking about. One of my favorite observations of his is that every culture has things they do very well, perhaps better than anyone else, and then things they just don't get, and probably never will. Just accepting that simple truth goes a long way toward making peace with a foreign culture.

With that in mind, I've compiled my own list of indicators that You may have been in Malaysia too long. . .

• you no longer expect drivers to stop at the stop sign
  
• you can remember which side of the road you belong on even when there are cars coming toward you in both lanes
  
• you know that one way streets don't really mean one way, and you drive in whatever direction you need to
  
• you think of smog as a viable alternative to sunscreen
  
• you know there are two ways to write the date, but you can't remember which way is used in the US and which in Malaysia
  
• you are not shocked to look down at your food and see it looking back at you
  
• you refer to ringitt as dollars
  
• you can navigate a squatty potty with impunity
  
• you can't imagine how people drive when the steering wheel is on the left
  
• you remember to pick up the toilet paper before you enter the stall
  
• you can't figure out why Americans think all Chinese look alike
  
• you don't necessarily expect a shower stall - a shower head sticking out of the wall somewhere between the sink and toilet works just fine
  
• you are tempted to say "la" at the end of certain words
  
• mamak (local Malay/Indian fusion cuisine) food feels like comfort food
  
• 100 Plus is your soft drink of choice
  
• you can't remember why pirated movies are bad because they are obviously so good
  
• you actually consider double-parking when you have a short errand to run
  
• you not only understand the signs that ask you not to stand on the toilet seats, you appreciate them and hope people heed them

where morning dawns and evening fades

I am sitting on a beach in Malaysia looking out over the ocean. I am not facing the open sea, but the Straits of Malacca. Between me and "home" are Sumatra, the Indian Ocean, the Indian subcontinent, more Indian Ocean, Africa, and the Atlantic Ocean. If I were on the east coast of peninsular Malaysia I could imagine North America far off beyond the horizon, but I am on the west Coast, looking in the wrong direction.

Behind me huge trees with broad, low-hanging branches make deep pockets of shade along the beach. From them, and from the dense, tangled foliage of a steep hillside comes the high-pitched, irregular static of insects, sometimes vibrating in a hum, sometimes escalating into a screech. Low thunder rumbles behind me, interrupting the steady sound of the washing of small waves on the sand.

On my left a thickly forested point juts out, a deserted crescent beach in its center. To the right is the skyline of the city of Port Dickson, littered with tall vacation apartment buildings and communication towers. All along the beach old concrete and stone stairways curve down to the sand, some ending in stone walls, some in crumbling concrete platforms. Their origins are uncertain, overgrown as they are with vines and creeping plants. It would be easy to imagine a castle at the top, though there is more likely an aging bungalow or camp.

There is no familiar ocean smell here. The crisp, pungent, marshy flavor I am so used to on the North Atlantic coast is replaced by the tang of damp foliage and the fragrance of flowers, heavy and cloying. The water is warm, not refreshing, but still somehow soothing. It feels thick with salt.

The straits are a pale, murky green instead of the bright blue of the open sea. I can count at least sixteen ships on the horizon, trading places with each other as they move up and down the busiest shipping corridor in the world. Freighters with cranes and smoke stacks pass enormous barges looking like huge bricks. Some, obviously empty, ride high in the water.

The shallow waters near the shore are filled with bathers - Muslim girls in long sleeved shirts and track pants, their colorful head scarves bobbing about in the water, children in shorts and t-shirts or white underpants, men and boys in anything from long pants to speedos. There is not a woman in a bathing suit on the beach. Everyone is swimming in street clothes.

Between the bathers and the cargo ships speedboats weave, pulling "banana boats" - long, orange torpedo shaped inflatables, with yellow and blue striped pontoons on either side. One is ridden by seven Muslim girls in orange life jackets, straddling the torpedo and hanging onto the pommel-like handles provided. The climax of the ride is always when the driver slows the boat suddenly and flips the banana, toppling all the riders into the water. They scream appreciatively at the proper moment.

The roar of the speedboats and the laughter and cries of the bathers are broken occasionally by the bicycle bell of the Good Humor man who rides up and down the beach on his motorbike equipped with a small freezer cube on the back. He carries sleeves of ice cream cones behind him. Like all proper Malaysian bikers he wears a helmet in the scorching sun, even on the trafficless beach. He does not appear to have much business, though he is just now stopped by two girls in long sleeved shirts and track pants, one with a head scarf and one bareheaded, who choose ice cream bars out of his freezer, pay him 2 ringitt each from a small zippered purse, and retire to the shade under the trees.

The sky is hazy at the horizon, becoming brighter blue as it stretches farther from the ocean. A single, three-dimensional bank of cumulus clouds rises like a genie from the sea, surrounded by wispy, smoky cirrus clouds. The sky looks hot. I feel anonymous and very far from home.

I think of the verses from the Psalms I read this morning, "You answer us with awesome deeds of righteousness, O God our Saviour, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas. . . Those living far away fear your wonders, where morning dawns and evening fades, you call forth songs of joy." I don't feel exactly joyful, but I am content to be here for now, sitting on the edge of the farthest seas.

Good grief! It's Mothers Day! -Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown has pretty much summed up my Mothers Day sentiments! That's about all I have to say about the day. Though I appreciate John Erskine's take on the day as well :

Woman in the home has not yet lost her dignity, in spite of Mother's Day, with its offensive implication that our love needs an annual nudging, like our enthusiasm for the battle of Bunker Hill.

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.