Who Am I?
Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a Squire from his country house
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really that which
other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself
know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick,
like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though
hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colours, for flowers,
for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness,
for neighbourliness,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends
at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying,
at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.
Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once?
A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still
like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me,
these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God,
I am Thine!
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Tegel Prison
Summer 1944
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
disembodied voice
My husband has a new cellphone for work. It arrived in the mail the other day; he'd been watching for it. It has internet access and some other slick capabilities. He referred to it as "sexy," an adjective that I don't care for when it's applied to things. (In fact, I don't care for it applied to human beings, either, if my husband is the speaker.) The first morning he had the phone it began ringing in an unfamiliar tone which he did not immediately recognize as a summons. By the time he realized the cheerful little blast of electronic music was his phone, found the phone, and figured out how to answer a call, the caller had hung up. And then any aura of sexiness that still clung to the clever little device evaporated when a very unsexy woman's voice said, "I'm sorry, the voicemail box for this number has not been set up yet."
Overhearing the voice, I began to wonder why the disembodied voice was female. Was it a nod to the days when executives all had female assistants instead of sexy hardware? I remembered then the female voice of my sister's GPS unit, the one who tells her where to turn and when to stop, who announces when she has arrived at her destination, sometimes in the middle of a cornfield. Perhaps the gender of the voice is a nod to motherhood, the dashboard version of the backseat driver, always ready to tell the driver what choices to make and when he has arrived. Hmmm, maybe buying a GPS reveals a deepseated need for a mother figure.
But my real interest this morning is my husband's phone. I wonder if I could record the messages on his phone myself. (After all, this whole phone thing may not even be healthy; do I really want my husband to get in the habit of doing what some other woman tells him to? Isn't that my province?) If I rerecorded all the stock messages he could hear my pleasant voice instead of this sterile, automated woman. I could tell him when his mailbox is full, or when he has messages waiting. I could also be the one who tells bothersome callers that he is too busy just now.
Perhaps I could expand to recording his reminders, like when his laundry is ready to be picked up, or when payments are due. I could even record my own suggestions and reminders; he might forget which were his own like -"Take the Toyota for inspection" and "Call garbage service," and which were mine, "Bring home flowers" or "Leave work by 6:15 at the latest so you can make it home in time for dinner." Let's see, I could add "Fix that leak you've been promising to to get to, Clean out the garage; Assemble the grill before Saturday." I've heard these devices have phenomenal memory capacity. The possibilities are virtually endless. Actually!
Suddenly I remember a passage in the book I'm reading that takes place in Zimbabwe. It mentions the Shona word for cellphone, which being literally translated is "the screaming in the pocket." And I think it may be the modern equivalent of the ancient "constant dripping on a rainy day," to which Solomon likened a contentious wife. I am reminded again of the ways that we inexorably bend technology to serve our human nature, which never changes. So while the ancient Israelite woman had to content herself with being " a constant dripping on a rainy day," and that metaphorically, I can become "the screaming in the pocket," literally.
So, on second thought I don't think I'll be recording any new messages today. And maybe I should edit some old ones before they get replayed. I think I've got my work cut out for me.
Overhearing the voice, I began to wonder why the disembodied voice was female. Was it a nod to the days when executives all had female assistants instead of sexy hardware? I remembered then the female voice of my sister's GPS unit, the one who tells her where to turn and when to stop, who announces when she has arrived at her destination, sometimes in the middle of a cornfield. Perhaps the gender of the voice is a nod to motherhood, the dashboard version of the backseat driver, always ready to tell the driver what choices to make and when he has arrived. Hmmm, maybe buying a GPS reveals a deepseated need for a mother figure.
But my real interest this morning is my husband's phone. I wonder if I could record the messages on his phone myself. (After all, this whole phone thing may not even be healthy; do I really want my husband to get in the habit of doing what some other woman tells him to? Isn't that my province?) If I rerecorded all the stock messages he could hear my pleasant voice instead of this sterile, automated woman. I could tell him when his mailbox is full, or when he has messages waiting. I could also be the one who tells bothersome callers that he is too busy just now.
Perhaps I could expand to recording his reminders, like when his laundry is ready to be picked up, or when payments are due. I could even record my own suggestions and reminders; he might forget which were his own like -"Take the Toyota for inspection" and "Call garbage service," and which were mine, "Bring home flowers" or "Leave work by 6:15 at the latest so you can make it home in time for dinner." Let's see, I could add "Fix that leak you've been promising to to get to, Clean out the garage; Assemble the grill before Saturday." I've heard these devices have phenomenal memory capacity. The possibilities are virtually endless. Actually!
Suddenly I remember a passage in the book I'm reading that takes place in Zimbabwe. It mentions the Shona word for cellphone, which being literally translated is "the screaming in the pocket." And I think it may be the modern equivalent of the ancient "constant dripping on a rainy day," to which Solomon likened a contentious wife. I am reminded again of the ways that we inexorably bend technology to serve our human nature, which never changes. So while the ancient Israelite woman had to content herself with being " a constant dripping on a rainy day," and that metaphorically, I can become "the screaming in the pocket," literally.
So, on second thought I don't think I'll be recording any new messages today. And maybe I should edit some old ones before they get replayed. I think I've got my work cut out for me.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
found while carrying a box
This morning I found a ring I lost two years ago. I was unpacking boxes – carrying something from the kitchen to the pantry. I happened to look down and saw, there in the crevice between the kitchen sill and the pantry floorboards a small, shiny circlet. Stooping down, I retrieved a tiny ring I had not seen since we moved out of this house nearly two years ago. I don’t know if it had been lying there the entire time or if it fell out of the box I was emptying. I didn’t hear it fall, but it might have, or perhaps I stepped on a board in the just the right place to dislodge it from a hiding place. Our house was occupied while we were away, so it seems unlikely that it had lain there unnoticed for the entire twenty-one months. It is a mystery to me, but it fit my smallest finger perfectly once again.
I could not help but think of all the rings I have lost over the years; I love rings, but I seem to have terrible luck with them. There was the dark, square cut garnet my parents gave me for graduation and my high school ring, the tiny emerald with a diamond chip which was the first ring my husband ever gave me and my wedding ring which actually fit my finger 23 years and seven children ago but was misplaced for years after I removed it during a pregnancy that made my hands and feet swell. I found the wedding band in a drawer during our last move, but the others have never been found though I have searched for them and prayed over them (once I knew the name of the patron saint in charge of lost items) and turned couches and car seats upside down and inside out. Despite my best efforts, accompanied sometimes by my tears, most of the rings have remained lost to me. So it seemed doubly strange that I should find this small, insignificant one that I had forgotten about, that I was not even looking for.
It reminded me of wisdom, and how it shows up in unexpected flashes, a bright, silvery gleam that catches the unsuspecting eye. Sometimes I have felt as if all my seeking and praying and crying out for guidance, for wisdom, for enlightenment have been utterly ignored. Like Milton, I have “troubled deaf heaven with my bootless cries,” and come up empty handed. No matter how diligently I seek, how late I burn the midnight oil, how earnestly I hope for the treasure to appear, so often I find nothing.
And then, when I least expect it, when I have forgotten to look or even to care, I stumble upon a treasure, a truth, a comfort, a clue. In an odd place, from a strange source, Truth quietly catches my attention, and I recognize it. God can use anyone, any situation, any old crack in the floor to teach or instruct, comfort or challenge us. He can be silent and unfindable for reasons I do not understand, but He can also show up in unexpected places. I have learned I need to keep my eyes open. All the time.
I could not help but think of all the rings I have lost over the years; I love rings, but I seem to have terrible luck with them. There was the dark, square cut garnet my parents gave me for graduation and my high school ring, the tiny emerald with a diamond chip which was the first ring my husband ever gave me and my wedding ring which actually fit my finger 23 years and seven children ago but was misplaced for years after I removed it during a pregnancy that made my hands and feet swell. I found the wedding band in a drawer during our last move, but the others have never been found though I have searched for them and prayed over them (once I knew the name of the patron saint in charge of lost items) and turned couches and car seats upside down and inside out. Despite my best efforts, accompanied sometimes by my tears, most of the rings have remained lost to me. So it seemed doubly strange that I should find this small, insignificant one that I had forgotten about, that I was not even looking for.
It reminded me of wisdom, and how it shows up in unexpected flashes, a bright, silvery gleam that catches the unsuspecting eye. Sometimes I have felt as if all my seeking and praying and crying out for guidance, for wisdom, for enlightenment have been utterly ignored. Like Milton, I have “troubled deaf heaven with my bootless cries,” and come up empty handed. No matter how diligently I seek, how late I burn the midnight oil, how earnestly I hope for the treasure to appear, so often I find nothing.
And then, when I least expect it, when I have forgotten to look or even to care, I stumble upon a treasure, a truth, a comfort, a clue. In an odd place, from a strange source, Truth quietly catches my attention, and I recognize it. God can use anyone, any situation, any old crack in the floor to teach or instruct, comfort or challenge us. He can be silent and unfindable for reasons I do not understand, but He can also show up in unexpected places. I have learned I need to keep my eyes open. All the time.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
blessings and woes in the cameron highlands
This weekend we made our fifth and perhaps final visit to our Malaysian Indian brother Jeshua in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, the "cooling highlands" atop the mountain range which runs like a spine down the center of peninsular Malaysia. The highlands are accessible by a single winding road through the jungle which climbs higher and higher past waterfalls and thatch-roofed villages until it reaches Ringlet, Tanah Rata and finally Brinchang, the three scrappy towns which cater to farmers, tourists and Orang Asli, the indigenous peoples who inhabited these mountains long before the British built a hill station here some 90 years ago. Tour buses, trucks loaded with fruits, vegetables and flowers and hundreds of ancient land rovers share the roads here. Tourists, immigrant farm laborers and local people share the sidewalks, night markets and open air restaurants. It's a lively place, with breathtaking scenery and almost perfect climate. There is plenty of local color here - most of it bright green.
Monday morning I sat on a rusty, metal chair outside of "Peacehome," the bungalow where Jeshua houses the guests who come to visit and assist in his ministry. I studied the open-air kitchen on the side of the house - a roof but no walls. I took in the cracked, mismatched dishes drying in the deformed dish rack, the old dented pots and pans, the dull tin sink, the concrete floor and drains which collected the water straight from the hole in the sink; no drain pipe was strictly necessary, so none intervened between the drain and the concrete trough below. Beside the sink there was a newish washing machine, an old refrigerator, 2 gas burners and a dingy table. Scattered about were plastic basket-like covers, once brightly colored, which served to keep flies off the food. Inside the bungalow was clean and comfortable, but decidedly shabby.
I thought about bringing Jeshua new blankets, replacing the ancient "Smurf" sheets (you could probably sell them on e-bay), faded and pilled from years of washing; I considered buying some pretty towels and new curtains to spruce up the place. But I realized Jeshua wouldn't want us to spend money on that. He covets any donations to buy rice for the refugees hiding in the jungles nearby, to purchase socks, charcoal tablets, ibuprofen for village children who suffer from diahhrea and fever, who shiver through the chilly damp nights in unheated bamboo huts. He would prefer to purchase corrugated metal and concrete to build a tiny sanctuary in an Orang Asli village that requests a church building.
Unlike me, Jeshua lives in a place where he cannot forget that a few dollars spent on personal luxuries, however modest, takes rice away from hungry people or denies medicine to sick children. Unlike me, he must consciously decide each day whether to upgrade his house or try to save a child's life. Unlike me, also, he does not appear to experience this awareness as a burden, but as a joy. Nearly every sentence he speaks is punctuated with a chuckle or a "Ha-ha!" He laughs as he mimes the caning to which he could be sentenced for helping Burmese refugees who are considered illegal aliens in Malaysia. Jeshua cheerfully reminds us often of the blessings God promises those who love the poor such as those named in Psalm 41:1-3. The blessing of health is one he often names, though he reluctantly spends money on blood pressure medication made necessary by the stress of caring for endless needs with limited, uncertain resources. He finds 7 hour trips into "the deep, deep jungle, ha-ha!" increasingly hard on his 55 year-old knees, but he keeps going nonetheless.
This weekend with Jeshua I saw something I had never seen in my life -a community of homeless, stateless Burmese immigrants living in makeshift plastic shelters on the edge of the jungle. These men, women and children had escaped terrible persecution in their homeland only to live in fear of vengeful Malaysian vigilante forces who burn refugee campsites and capture any unfortunates who are not able to flee into the jungle. Babies as young as six days old have been taken to brutal detention centers. Refugees within weeks of being resettled in the US have been detained as illegals. Those not sent to detention centers may be deported or sold to human traffickers who prey on Asia's desperately poor. Yet this illegal camp was orderly, clean and well-run, established and maintained entirely by the "campers" as they called themselves. The children were bright-eyed and interested in visitors. They recited Psalm 121 together and sang the old chorus, "He is Able." The adults greeted us with smiles and handshakes, many spoke excellent English. Unable to work for fear of arrest, they were utterly dependent upon Jeshua and his supporters for rice to cook with the vegetables they harvested from the jungle.
I met the young man who has taken on the role of pastor for this group of nearly 100. We had only a little opportunity to talk in between our handing out blankets for the children and singing praise songs together. But he made a point of looking me squarely in the eye as we were leaving and saying, "Don't forget about us." His words were not spoken as a plea, but as a challenge, a charge. I felt as he might be just fine if I forgot about him, that he had supernatural resources I knew little of, but that I would never be fine again if I forgot what I had seen. I was reminded of the Old Testament prophets who pronounced Woes upon Israel if they forgot what God had commanded them or refused to obey His commands.
So I have in my mind today both the blessings promised in the Psalms and the woes pronounced by the Prophets. I remember the words of our Lord Jesus which seem to encompass both - the warning that at the end of the age the Father will welcome those who spent themselves and their resources to serve the least of these, but will fail to recognize those who failed to recognize His Son in the guise of the poor. He promises eternal blessing to the one, eternal woe to the other. I wonder which group I belong to.
..........................................................................................................
Monday morning I sat on a rusty, metal chair outside of "Peacehome," the bungalow where Jeshua houses the guests who come to visit and assist in his ministry. I studied the open-air kitchen on the side of the house - a roof but no walls. I took in the cracked, mismatched dishes drying in the deformed dish rack, the old dented pots and pans, the dull tin sink, the concrete floor and drains which collected the water straight from the hole in the sink; no drain pipe was strictly necessary, so none intervened between the drain and the concrete trough below. Beside the sink there was a newish washing machine, an old refrigerator, 2 gas burners and a dingy table. Scattered about were plastic basket-like covers, once brightly colored, which served to keep flies off the food. Inside the bungalow was clean and comfortable, but decidedly shabby.
I thought about bringing Jeshua new blankets, replacing the ancient "Smurf" sheets (you could probably sell them on e-bay), faded and pilled from years of washing; I considered buying some pretty towels and new curtains to spruce up the place. But I realized Jeshua wouldn't want us to spend money on that. He covets any donations to buy rice for the refugees hiding in the jungles nearby, to purchase socks, charcoal tablets, ibuprofen for village children who suffer from diahhrea and fever, who shiver through the chilly damp nights in unheated bamboo huts. He would prefer to purchase corrugated metal and concrete to build a tiny sanctuary in an Orang Asli village that requests a church building.
Unlike me, Jeshua lives in a place where he cannot forget that a few dollars spent on personal luxuries, however modest, takes rice away from hungry people or denies medicine to sick children. Unlike me, he must consciously decide each day whether to upgrade his house or try to save a child's life. Unlike me, also, he does not appear to experience this awareness as a burden, but as a joy. Nearly every sentence he speaks is punctuated with a chuckle or a "Ha-ha!" He laughs as he mimes the caning to which he could be sentenced for helping Burmese refugees who are considered illegal aliens in Malaysia. Jeshua cheerfully reminds us often of the blessings God promises those who love the poor such as those named in Psalm 41:1-3. The blessing of health is one he often names, though he reluctantly spends money on blood pressure medication made necessary by the stress of caring for endless needs with limited, uncertain resources. He finds 7 hour trips into "the deep, deep jungle, ha-ha!" increasingly hard on his 55 year-old knees, but he keeps going nonetheless.
This weekend with Jeshua I saw something I had never seen in my life -a community of homeless, stateless Burmese immigrants living in makeshift plastic shelters on the edge of the jungle. These men, women and children had escaped terrible persecution in their homeland only to live in fear of vengeful Malaysian vigilante forces who burn refugee campsites and capture any unfortunates who are not able to flee into the jungle. Babies as young as six days old have been taken to brutal detention centers. Refugees within weeks of being resettled in the US have been detained as illegals. Those not sent to detention centers may be deported or sold to human traffickers who prey on Asia's desperately poor. Yet this illegal camp was orderly, clean and well-run, established and maintained entirely by the "campers" as they called themselves. The children were bright-eyed and interested in visitors. They recited Psalm 121 together and sang the old chorus, "He is Able." The adults greeted us with smiles and handshakes, many spoke excellent English. Unable to work for fear of arrest, they were utterly dependent upon Jeshua and his supporters for rice to cook with the vegetables they harvested from the jungle.
I met the young man who has taken on the role of pastor for this group of nearly 100. We had only a little opportunity to talk in between our handing out blankets for the children and singing praise songs together. But he made a point of looking me squarely in the eye as we were leaving and saying, "Don't forget about us." His words were not spoken as a plea, but as a challenge, a charge. I felt as he might be just fine if I forgot about him, that he had supernatural resources I knew little of, but that I would never be fine again if I forgot what I had seen. I was reminded of the Old Testament prophets who pronounced Woes upon Israel if they forgot what God had commanded them or refused to obey His commands.
So I have in my mind today both the blessings promised in the Psalms and the woes pronounced by the Prophets. I remember the words of our Lord Jesus which seem to encompass both - the warning that at the end of the age the Father will welcome those who spent themselves and their resources to serve the least of these, but will fail to recognize those who failed to recognize His Son in the guise of the poor. He promises eternal blessing to the one, eternal woe to the other. I wonder which group I belong to.
..........................................................................................................
Psalm 41:1-3
1 Blessed is he who has regard for the weak; the LORD delivers him in times of trouble.
2 The LORD will protect him and preserve his life; he will bless him in the land and not surrender him to the desire of his foes.
3 The LORD will sustain him on his sickbed and restore him from his bed of illness.
.............................................................................................................
Matthew 25:31-46
31"When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his throne in heavenly glory. 32All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.
34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'
40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
41"Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.'
44"They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'
45"He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'
46"Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Secrets: A Parable
We had a problem in our house last year. It first showed up in December soon after my eldest daughter got home from working in an orphanage in India. She confessed as soon as we got her into the safety of the family van that she had brought something besides gifts home with her. We thought it might be embarrassing if other people knew about it, so we decided to keep it under our hats, so to speak.
The very next day we visited our sad-faced parmacist, a mild-mannered Chinese man who shook his head dolefully and murmured, "very common in the tropics," - which is what he says about everything, and gave us a small bottle of foul-smelling liquid which was supposed to be all we needed. And for a while we forgot about the problem. Until one day we realized with horror that it had spread and was now affecting other members of our household as well.
We tried everything we could think of ; we read advice columns on the internet, researched the topic, tried this remedy and that - though we never spoke with anyone personally about it.
We spent lots of money and lots of time trying to solve this problem, but we never told anyone outside the family. It was just too embarrassing. Nothing like this had ever happened in our household before, and while we heard it was fairly common among the population, we still did not want to seem like the kind of people who needed help dealing with this issue.
Although at first the problem was fairly small and seemed manageable, over time it grew, till sometimes it distracted us from everything else. Somedays I spent hours dealing with it; some days we had to rearrange our schedules because the next treatment was due and if we postponed it a day we might be back to day one. Through it all, however, we went to great lengths to keep it a secret, which was not always easy to do since some of our behaviors must have aroused suspicion.
During the months we were dealing with it we went to church camp, participated in a missions trip, had friends stay with us for lengthy visits, and generally carried on our lives, but we did our best to make sure no one ever knew what we were dealing with. We kept it strictly under wraps. Outwardly we looked, we hoped, like nothing was wrong. We didn't want people to start avoiding us or examining us a little too closely. And we knew they would.
Keeping secrets can wear on you, however. At one point my 10 year old asked plaintively, "Can we talk about this when it's over?" "Sure, honey," I replied. "We can laugh about it when it's not a problem any more. It may even be a good story to tell. But not yet."
So, I guess I can talk about it now, though I still can't quite bring myself to use the "L" word, if you know what I mean. Because I do care what you think about me. And I do have the tiniest worry in the back of my mind that it could happen again. That I'm not invulnerable. Or perfect. And I do still live in the tropics.
So instead of talking about my problems I'd rather talk about something uplifting, like what I read in the Bible this morning. Like James 5:16 that says, "Confess your sins to one another and pray for each other that you may be healed."
You go first.
The very next day we visited our sad-faced parmacist, a mild-mannered Chinese man who shook his head dolefully and murmured, "very common in the tropics," - which is what he says about everything, and gave us a small bottle of foul-smelling liquid which was supposed to be all we needed. And for a while we forgot about the problem. Until one day we realized with horror that it had spread and was now affecting other members of our household as well.
We tried everything we could think of ; we read advice columns on the internet, researched the topic, tried this remedy and that - though we never spoke with anyone personally about it.
We spent lots of money and lots of time trying to solve this problem, but we never told anyone outside the family. It was just too embarrassing. Nothing like this had ever happened in our household before, and while we heard it was fairly common among the population, we still did not want to seem like the kind of people who needed help dealing with this issue.
Although at first the problem was fairly small and seemed manageable, over time it grew, till sometimes it distracted us from everything else. Somedays I spent hours dealing with it; some days we had to rearrange our schedules because the next treatment was due and if we postponed it a day we might be back to day one. Through it all, however, we went to great lengths to keep it a secret, which was not always easy to do since some of our behaviors must have aroused suspicion.
During the months we were dealing with it we went to church camp, participated in a missions trip, had friends stay with us for lengthy visits, and generally carried on our lives, but we did our best to make sure no one ever knew what we were dealing with. We kept it strictly under wraps. Outwardly we looked, we hoped, like nothing was wrong. We didn't want people to start avoiding us or examining us a little too closely. And we knew they would.
Keeping secrets can wear on you, however. At one point my 10 year old asked plaintively, "Can we talk about this when it's over?" "Sure, honey," I replied. "We can laugh about it when it's not a problem any more. It may even be a good story to tell. But not yet."
So, I guess I can talk about it now, though I still can't quite bring myself to use the "L" word, if you know what I mean. Because I do care what you think about me. And I do have the tiniest worry in the back of my mind that it could happen again. That I'm not invulnerable. Or perfect. And I do still live in the tropics.
So instead of talking about my problems I'd rather talk about something uplifting, like what I read in the Bible this morning. Like James 5:16 that says, "Confess your sins to one another and pray for each other that you may be healed."
You go first.
Bottom's lament
I had to laugh at myself last week - well, it was more like a grimace than a laugh. We were strolling up our street reminiscing about our recent week in Thailand and the conversation turned to Judy, the lovely, funny, slightly irreverent missionary we met in Bangkok. She and her husband run The Well, a shelter for bargirls interested in leaving prostitution. My 17 year old daughter was saying how much she loved Judy, how absolutely wonderful she thought she was. I felt a slight pang, because Judy is a completely different personality than I am; we're like night and day. In case you are not sure which is which, I can tell you that no one in my immediate family is wearing sunglasses.
True to form, I sighed and confided to my husband that I'd always wished I were lighter, happier, more fun than I am. More like the woman my daughter currently admires. He laughed knowingly and said in his own lighthearted way, "You'd like to be all things to all people, wouldn't you?" He's right; I would.
I think I must be rather like Bottom in the rehearsal scene in A Midsummer Night's Dream, wanting to play every part in the play. He is a ludicrous character, of course, with his constant interruptions and his earnest attempts to be the best at every part. He can't be content to watch someone else shine. He wants to do it all; he wants to be it all. And even at this late date in my life, I still often want to play a different part than the one I've been assigned. Or best of all, every part when the spotlight is shining on it. You'd think I'd know better by now.
We have an inside joke in our family - one of hundreds - from the days when we had two little "foster" girls living with us. They were both starved for attention and jealous of missing any that might be going around. If anyone ever said to S, "You look really pretty in that dress," J would sigh emphatically in resignation and say dolefully, "I guess I don't look pretty today." Or maybe it would be, "Thank you for helping me with the dishes, S." J would quickly interject, "I guess you don't think I helped you today." And so on. It became a favorite mode of response among our children. I hear an echo of little J at least once a week.
When I try to look honestly at my feelings I think I still react like J sometimes, though I am careful not to be so obvious about it. I feel uncomfortable when someone else is praised - someone who is not at all like me. I worry that I am somehow less worthy, that perhaps I should have become an entirely different sort of person than the one I am - that maybe my role in the play (Did I choose it or was it assigned to me? I can't remember) is a lesser one, and I won't earn the applause that someone else will enjoy. Maybe there is still some way to change parts.
But of course this is no dress rehearsal, but the real play, and I'm well into what must be third or fourth act by now, playing this introspective, somewhat moody character who is prone to frown when everyone else is laughing, who gravitates to sad movies, serious books and hopelessly idealistic causes. It's too late too late to change roles at this point; furthermore, it's impossible. I've been typecast.
As always, the wisdom that I need to hear is waiting in the Scriptures. The Apostle Paul sagely warns against the danger of comparing ourselves with each other, of wondering if another has been assigned a better role. He reminds us that to our own Master only will we stand or fall. We are playing to an audience all our lives, to be sure, but it is an audience of One, the same one who wrote the script, assigned the parts and is even now directing the action. Thousands of years ago David acknowledged that "in Your book were all written, the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them. . . You have taken account of my wanderings; Put my tears in your bottle; Are they not in your book?" God wrote this part just for me, tears and all. I would be a fool to wish to play a different role.
Using a completely different metaphor, Paul wrote of the "multi-colored grace of God," conjuring in my mind an image of a prism through which the pure light of God's grace is broken into many hues, looking different as it is displayed in each life, through each personality. The rainbow colors that dance upon the wall or the floor are all lovely, equally beautiful, all reflecting the sunshine that pours through the glass. A pure beam of sunlight entering a room is lovely, but it is never so fascinating or enchanting as the sparks of color created by a crystal in the window. God demonstrates His grace in every hue as it works throughout our unique lives, our indispensable appearances in the play He is directing.
Will I never be jealous of the limelight again, never wish to be loved for my sunny disposition, to be yellow or orange instead of blue? Of course I will. That's one of the challenges I face in my role. Will I remember the stage manager's directions and throw my whole heart into the one part I've been assigned no matter what anyone else is doing? I hope so, but that remains to be seen.
"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the LORD, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken."Psalm 16:5-8
True to form, I sighed and confided to my husband that I'd always wished I were lighter, happier, more fun than I am. More like the woman my daughter currently admires. He laughed knowingly and said in his own lighthearted way, "You'd like to be all things to all people, wouldn't you?" He's right; I would.
I think I must be rather like Bottom in the rehearsal scene in A Midsummer Night's Dream, wanting to play every part in the play. He is a ludicrous character, of course, with his constant interruptions and his earnest attempts to be the best at every part. He can't be content to watch someone else shine. He wants to do it all; he wants to be it all. And even at this late date in my life, I still often want to play a different part than the one I've been assigned. Or best of all, every part when the spotlight is shining on it. You'd think I'd know better by now.
We have an inside joke in our family - one of hundreds - from the days when we had two little "foster" girls living with us. They were both starved for attention and jealous of missing any that might be going around. If anyone ever said to S, "You look really pretty in that dress," J would sigh emphatically in resignation and say dolefully, "I guess I don't look pretty today." Or maybe it would be, "Thank you for helping me with the dishes, S." J would quickly interject, "I guess you don't think I helped you today." And so on. It became a favorite mode of response among our children. I hear an echo of little J at least once a week.
When I try to look honestly at my feelings I think I still react like J sometimes, though I am careful not to be so obvious about it. I feel uncomfortable when someone else is praised - someone who is not at all like me. I worry that I am somehow less worthy, that perhaps I should have become an entirely different sort of person than the one I am - that maybe my role in the play (Did I choose it or was it assigned to me? I can't remember) is a lesser one, and I won't earn the applause that someone else will enjoy. Maybe there is still some way to change parts.
But of course this is no dress rehearsal, but the real play, and I'm well into what must be third or fourth act by now, playing this introspective, somewhat moody character who is prone to frown when everyone else is laughing, who gravitates to sad movies, serious books and hopelessly idealistic causes. It's too late too late to change roles at this point; furthermore, it's impossible. I've been typecast.
As always, the wisdom that I need to hear is waiting in the Scriptures. The Apostle Paul sagely warns against the danger of comparing ourselves with each other, of wondering if another has been assigned a better role. He reminds us that to our own Master only will we stand or fall. We are playing to an audience all our lives, to be sure, but it is an audience of One, the same one who wrote the script, assigned the parts and is even now directing the action. Thousands of years ago David acknowledged that "in Your book were all written, the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them. . . You have taken account of my wanderings; Put my tears in your bottle; Are they not in your book?" God wrote this part just for me, tears and all. I would be a fool to wish to play a different role.
Using a completely different metaphor, Paul wrote of the "multi-colored grace of God," conjuring in my mind an image of a prism through which the pure light of God's grace is broken into many hues, looking different as it is displayed in each life, through each personality. The rainbow colors that dance upon the wall or the floor are all lovely, equally beautiful, all reflecting the sunshine that pours through the glass. A pure beam of sunlight entering a room is lovely, but it is never so fascinating or enchanting as the sparks of color created by a crystal in the window. God demonstrates His grace in every hue as it works throughout our unique lives, our indispensable appearances in the play He is directing.
Will I never be jealous of the limelight again, never wish to be loved for my sunny disposition, to be yellow or orange instead of blue? Of course I will. That's one of the challenges I face in my role. Will I remember the stage manager's directions and throw my whole heart into the one part I've been assigned no matter what anyone else is doing? I hope so, but that remains to be seen.
"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the LORD, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken."Psalm 16:5-8
Friday, April 04, 2008
rules to live by
My husband is in the US this week. He called from his cell phone the other night/morning as he was driving back to his hotel. As he was talking with our ten year old he abruptly said, "Uh oh. . . Oh no. . . . Just a minute.. . . . Whoa" or something like that. She could hear car horns blowing in the background and Dad's voice disappeared for a moment. Thankfully he was back in a few seconds, to explain that he had inadvertently turned into the wrong lane on a divided highway, used as he was to driving on the other side of the road here in Malaysia, and distracted as he was by talking on the phone. He got a lot of angry horn-blowing and dirty looks, but the incident ended without accident. He decided to call back when he got to the hotel.
We had a good laugh over the situation, which seemed almost inevitable after 18 months driving on the "wrong" side of the road (I get my turn in a few months), but then my thirteen year old made the funniest observation of all. She said, "You know, if he had done that in Malaysia nobody would have cared." And she's right. Other drivers might have been annoyed at the inconvenience, but people regularly drive on the wrong side of the road here if they just need to do it to get somewhere quickly. . . and other drivers, for the most part, understand. Hey, we all need to drive on the wrong side at one time or another, right? Just do it quickly and get it over with.
When we first moved here we did not understand the rules of the road - I don't mean the laws, I mean how things really work. And I found driving very frustrating - infuriating, even. But now I don't use nearly as many bad words behind the wheel, and I sometimes even enjoy the give and take that is part of Malaysian road etiquette. I just got back from driving the 5 km or so to my daughter's ballet studio and was smiling to myself about how much I've learned about life on the road.
And I was thinking about Jesus. One of the things you've got to love about Jesus is that He could use anything to teach a lesson - an unfruitful fig tree, a bird's nest, a wildflower, a reluctant wedding guest. If He were here among us today He might use the internet, a Starbucks cappucino, a "Made in China" label or anything else part of everyday life. Like traffic - He might use Malaysian traffic.
Here in Kuala Lumpur you need to drive boldly. If you hang back you'll never get anywhere. Driving here is like a perpetual game of chicken; you can never let on that you might slam on the brakes for cars entering from side streets or you will be stopped at every cross street. If you see a potential opening in the stream of cars you have to make it an actual opening, or it will close up and you'll be waiting another five minutes. If someone is doubleparked in your lane, and there are oncoming cars in the other lane more than three car-lengths away, you need to move quickly and grab that lane before they get too close. Seize the lane (how do you say that in Latin??). It's not your fault that your lane is blocked, so you can assume you have as much right to that other lane as the oncoming traffic does. You need to take to heart the encouragement of Proverbs 28, "the righteous are as bold as a lion."
And sometimes you just need to make a move, trusting that a space will open up as you believe for it. You have to drive by faith and not by sight - not really as scary as it sounds! There's an odd dynamic that happens here: although it seems like it's every man for himself I have never really needed to get into a lane and not been able to in time for my exit. What looks like a bumper to bumper jam is surprisingly flexible, and the waters do part when you really need them to. Driving here is a faith building experience, in more ways than one.
A cardinal rule on the road here seems to be that it's OK for you to bend the rules, but you have to give other drivers the same permission. We're not under the law but under grace, therefore we need to remember to forgive others their transgressions as we hope to be forgiven ours. Jalan Sahala - one way street - is really just a suggestion, and sometimes really impossible to slavishly observe. Remembering that, you should not fly off the handle if you encounter someone traveling against the mandated flow of traffic when you happen to be in the right. As long as you can both squeeze by, what's the problem? Remember that you will be judged by the same standard you use to judge others, so just let it pass.
Driving in Malaysia is also a daily reminder that you cannot control or count on the future. You must hold your expectations lightly when you venture onto the highway. That's part of sharing the road with a million other drivers. Say like your Muslim neighbors, "If God wills" whenever you set out on the highway. Leave plenty of time, because you are clearly not the only one who needs to use the road, and don't lose your cool if you still get caught in a jam and are late to your destination. You can ALWAYS blame traffic, ALWAYS. No one will think any less of you, and you'll be happier and more relaxed if you just expect to be delayed. Come now, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go into this or that town. . .' You do not know about tomorrow. . . You ought to say instead, “If the Lord is willing, then we will live and do this or that.
Another precept of the road that has broader life application is never forget to use your side mirrors, i.e. watch out for those who are smaller and more vulnerable than you. The roads here are filled with motor scooters who travel by their own rules. They switch lanes with abandon, weave in and out of traffic, zip through traffic jams like nobody's business. By driving scooters instead of cars, their drivers are actually reducing the congestion on the roads - and they get all kinds of incentives to do just that from bypassing tollbooths to special parking places - but you can take them out in an unguarded instant if you are not constantly on the lookout. Although he'd never driven in Kuala Lumpur the Apostle Paul described exactly this kind of caution as each fixing his attention, not simply on his own interests, but on those of others also.
And give each other grace. There does not appear to be much, if any, road rage in Malaysia. Things I'd expect to be cursed at for in the US - like changing lanes at the last minute because I made a mistake or parking in such a way that someone else cannot move his car - are no cause for comment or rude gestures here. Occasionally someone will tap their horn for you to hurry up or get out of the way, but I've never heard anyone lay on the horn in anger, scream out the window or use obscene sign language. It's pretty amazing. Doubleparking is epidemic here, and you can expect to occasionally come back to your legitimately parked car to find someone else parked behind you. Don't panic. The driver is probably sitting in the open air restaurant nearby drinking tea tarik with his buddies. If he does not see you immediately you just touch your horn lightly and he'll come running over to move his car, and take your parking space. People here make allowances for things like that.
A final spiritual lesson one could glean from the road here is to just keep moving on, any way you can. If your lane is blocked, make another. If the intersection appears clear, don't waste time with a complete stop. If the car ahead of you slows down to make a turn just slip right past him. Don't let anything hinder your progress. Remember the unspoken maxim, "The queue must be passed." Accept no obstacle, bow to no roadblock. Forgetting those things which lie behind, press on. I think that's pretty good advice.
We had a good laugh over the situation, which seemed almost inevitable after 18 months driving on the "wrong" side of the road (I get my turn in a few months), but then my thirteen year old made the funniest observation of all. She said, "You know, if he had done that in Malaysia nobody would have cared." And she's right. Other drivers might have been annoyed at the inconvenience, but people regularly drive on the wrong side of the road here if they just need to do it to get somewhere quickly. . . and other drivers, for the most part, understand. Hey, we all need to drive on the wrong side at one time or another, right? Just do it quickly and get it over with.
When we first moved here we did not understand the rules of the road - I don't mean the laws, I mean how things really work. And I found driving very frustrating - infuriating, even. But now I don't use nearly as many bad words behind the wheel, and I sometimes even enjoy the give and take that is part of Malaysian road etiquette. I just got back from driving the 5 km or so to my daughter's ballet studio and was smiling to myself about how much I've learned about life on the road.
And I was thinking about Jesus. One of the things you've got to love about Jesus is that He could use anything to teach a lesson - an unfruitful fig tree, a bird's nest, a wildflower, a reluctant wedding guest. If He were here among us today He might use the internet, a Starbucks cappucino, a "Made in China" label or anything else part of everyday life. Like traffic - He might use Malaysian traffic.
Here in Kuala Lumpur you need to drive boldly. If you hang back you'll never get anywhere. Driving here is like a perpetual game of chicken; you can never let on that you might slam on the brakes for cars entering from side streets or you will be stopped at every cross street. If you see a potential opening in the stream of cars you have to make it an actual opening, or it will close up and you'll be waiting another five minutes. If someone is doubleparked in your lane, and there are oncoming cars in the other lane more than three car-lengths away, you need to move quickly and grab that lane before they get too close. Seize the lane (how do you say that in Latin??). It's not your fault that your lane is blocked, so you can assume you have as much right to that other lane as the oncoming traffic does. You need to take to heart the encouragement of Proverbs 28, "the righteous are as bold as a lion."
And sometimes you just need to make a move, trusting that a space will open up as you believe for it. You have to drive by faith and not by sight - not really as scary as it sounds! There's an odd dynamic that happens here: although it seems like it's every man for himself I have never really needed to get into a lane and not been able to in time for my exit. What looks like a bumper to bumper jam is surprisingly flexible, and the waters do part when you really need them to. Driving here is a faith building experience, in more ways than one.
A cardinal rule on the road here seems to be that it's OK for you to bend the rules, but you have to give other drivers the same permission. We're not under the law but under grace, therefore we need to remember to forgive others their transgressions as we hope to be forgiven ours. Jalan Sahala - one way street - is really just a suggestion, and sometimes really impossible to slavishly observe. Remembering that, you should not fly off the handle if you encounter someone traveling against the mandated flow of traffic when you happen to be in the right. As long as you can both squeeze by, what's the problem? Remember that you will be judged by the same standard you use to judge others, so just let it pass.
Driving in Malaysia is also a daily reminder that you cannot control or count on the future. You must hold your expectations lightly when you venture onto the highway. That's part of sharing the road with a million other drivers. Say like your Muslim neighbors, "If God wills" whenever you set out on the highway. Leave plenty of time, because you are clearly not the only one who needs to use the road, and don't lose your cool if you still get caught in a jam and are late to your destination. You can ALWAYS blame traffic, ALWAYS. No one will think any less of you, and you'll be happier and more relaxed if you just expect to be delayed. Come now, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go into this or that town. . .' You do not know about tomorrow. . . You ought to say instead, “If the Lord is willing, then we will live and do this or that.
Another precept of the road that has broader life application is never forget to use your side mirrors, i.e. watch out for those who are smaller and more vulnerable than you. The roads here are filled with motor scooters who travel by their own rules. They switch lanes with abandon, weave in and out of traffic, zip through traffic jams like nobody's business. By driving scooters instead of cars, their drivers are actually reducing the congestion on the roads - and they get all kinds of incentives to do just that from bypassing tollbooths to special parking places - but you can take them out in an unguarded instant if you are not constantly on the lookout. Although he'd never driven in Kuala Lumpur the Apostle Paul described exactly this kind of caution as each fixing his attention, not simply on his own interests, but on those of others also.
And give each other grace. There does not appear to be much, if any, road rage in Malaysia. Things I'd expect to be cursed at for in the US - like changing lanes at the last minute because I made a mistake or parking in such a way that someone else cannot move his car - are no cause for comment or rude gestures here. Occasionally someone will tap their horn for you to hurry up or get out of the way, but I've never heard anyone lay on the horn in anger, scream out the window or use obscene sign language. It's pretty amazing. Doubleparking is epidemic here, and you can expect to occasionally come back to your legitimately parked car to find someone else parked behind you. Don't panic. The driver is probably sitting in the open air restaurant nearby drinking tea tarik with his buddies. If he does not see you immediately you just touch your horn lightly and he'll come running over to move his car, and take your parking space. People here make allowances for things like that.
A final spiritual lesson one could glean from the road here is to just keep moving on, any way you can. If your lane is blocked, make another. If the intersection appears clear, don't waste time with a complete stop. If the car ahead of you slows down to make a turn just slip right past him. Don't let anything hinder your progress. Remember the unspoken maxim, "The queue must be passed." Accept no obstacle, bow to no roadblock. Forgetting those things which lie behind, press on. I think that's pretty good advice.
the holy task of pardon
I just finished reading Alan Paton's novel, Too Late the Phalarope. It was one of the saddest and truest books I have ever read and I feel like sending a copy to everyone I know. It is a tragedy in the classical sense - a story of a good man, " master of all things save one," whose fatal flaw destroys him and his family in the end.
His temptation and fall is a sexual relationship which is both illegal and immoral, so the consequences are civil and societal as well as personal and private. Although the particular act he committed would not be illegal for the same reasons today,(he was a white South African male who had an adulterous relationship with a black woman in the 1940's), we do have laws that circumscribe similar encounters. A powerful man who takes advantage of a woman who occupies a subservient role might still run afoul of the law in 2008 in the US. A boss, a teacher, a superior officer, a doctor, a judge or a law enforcement official could all be prosecuted for abusing their positions of influence or authority with a vulnerable female. Our society has little tolerance or understanding for men who offend in that way.
Paton, however, creates such sympathy for his flawed hero that we are drawn to see him through a very different lens. We watch him wrestle with his demons and find ourselves praying he will not give in. We observe how many times he resolves to tell someone of his terrible temptation, hoping to defuse some of its power over him. We almost cry when he goes home without ever voicing the darkness in his soul. We read his thoughts, written months later in a prison cell, and wonder with him why his prayers seemed to go unanswered, why an angel never came to him and showed him the consequences his children would face if he did not turn from his destructive ways. In short, we sympathize with Lt. Vlaanderen. We see him through the eyes of a narrator who loves him, and we come to love him as well.
We fear for him, we want to save him, and, failing that, we want him to be restored. We feel the second tragedy of his father's inability to forgive when he closes the door of his house to his own son forever, when he decrees his eldest son's name must never be spoken again. We grieve when Lt. V is treated with loathing and disgust by the same young men who once idolized him, who seeming ly know nothing of the anguished struggles he knew as he wrestled within himself before he plunged into darkness and committed the one act that would forever mark his future. We do not understand what drives him to destruction - he does not understand it himself - but we recognize his fall as a tragedy, and we feel no impluse to gloat or to hate.
Of course Lt. Vlaanderen is a fictional character, not an actual person, although he has many counterparts in the real world. But the truth that Paton speaks in the form of a story is a Truth in the real world - "for God is both Lover and Judge of men, and it is His commandment that we join Him in loving, but to judge we are forbidden." And in a later chapter, ". . . an offender must be punished, I don't argue about that. But to punish and not to restore, that is the greatest of all offenses."
That is a truth all but forgotten in our culture - perhaps in most cultures. We clamor for punishment, but we have little interest in restoration. Our society has developed institutions to punish, but none to restore. Restoration seldom happens, and most likely will not happen unless it is accomplished by the church to whom God has entrusted the ministry of reconciliation. As someone whose family has been badly shaken by the fall of a great but flawed man, I desperately wish the church would remember that mercy triumphs over justice, that grace trumps law, and that restoration is a nobler work than punishment.
Paton's narrator concludes speaking wistfully of "the holy task of pardon," which the church must undertake "that the body of the Lord might not be wounded twice, and virtue come of our offences." I could not have said it so well myself.
His temptation and fall is a sexual relationship which is both illegal and immoral, so the consequences are civil and societal as well as personal and private. Although the particular act he committed would not be illegal for the same reasons today,(he was a white South African male who had an adulterous relationship with a black woman in the 1940's), we do have laws that circumscribe similar encounters. A powerful man who takes advantage of a woman who occupies a subservient role might still run afoul of the law in 2008 in the US. A boss, a teacher, a superior officer, a doctor, a judge or a law enforcement official could all be prosecuted for abusing their positions of influence or authority with a vulnerable female. Our society has little tolerance or understanding for men who offend in that way.
Paton, however, creates such sympathy for his flawed hero that we are drawn to see him through a very different lens. We watch him wrestle with his demons and find ourselves praying he will not give in. We observe how many times he resolves to tell someone of his terrible temptation, hoping to defuse some of its power over him. We almost cry when he goes home without ever voicing the darkness in his soul. We read his thoughts, written months later in a prison cell, and wonder with him why his prayers seemed to go unanswered, why an angel never came to him and showed him the consequences his children would face if he did not turn from his destructive ways. In short, we sympathize with Lt. Vlaanderen. We see him through the eyes of a narrator who loves him, and we come to love him as well.
We fear for him, we want to save him, and, failing that, we want him to be restored. We feel the second tragedy of his father's inability to forgive when he closes the door of his house to his own son forever, when he decrees his eldest son's name must never be spoken again. We grieve when Lt. V is treated with loathing and disgust by the same young men who once idolized him, who seeming ly know nothing of the anguished struggles he knew as he wrestled within himself before he plunged into darkness and committed the one act that would forever mark his future. We do not understand what drives him to destruction - he does not understand it himself - but we recognize his fall as a tragedy, and we feel no impluse to gloat or to hate.
Of course Lt. Vlaanderen is a fictional character, not an actual person, although he has many counterparts in the real world. But the truth that Paton speaks in the form of a story is a Truth in the real world - "for God is both Lover and Judge of men, and it is His commandment that we join Him in loving, but to judge we are forbidden." And in a later chapter, ". . . an offender must be punished, I don't argue about that. But to punish and not to restore, that is the greatest of all offenses."
That is a truth all but forgotten in our culture - perhaps in most cultures. We clamor for punishment, but we have little interest in restoration. Our society has developed institutions to punish, but none to restore. Restoration seldom happens, and most likely will not happen unless it is accomplished by the church to whom God has entrusted the ministry of reconciliation. As someone whose family has been badly shaken by the fall of a great but flawed man, I desperately wish the church would remember that mercy triumphs over justice, that grace trumps law, and that restoration is a nobler work than punishment.
Paton's narrator concludes speaking wistfully of "the holy task of pardon," which the church must undertake "that the body of the Lord might not be wounded twice, and virtue come of our offences." I could not have said it so well myself.
Friday, March 21, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 16, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
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.
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.
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