A fun event for ESL learners over the last few years has been a cookie decorating party at Christmas. Most of these internationals come from Asia or the Middle East and did not grow up with ovens. Thus, they do not know how to bake and Christmas cookies, that essential of American Christmas, are a mystery to them.
We gather at our house on a mid-December evening and turn the kitchen into total chaos. Each of the ESL teachers brings plain cookies and decorating stuff, and the families all gather around the big center island and decorate the cookies to take home. Last night we had 12 adults and 8 children ranging from 10 down to 3. You can imagine the amount of colored sugar and icing that hit the floor!
The kids last about 30 minutes and then spin off to the Lego in the family room or the games in the living/dining room, bouncing back in turns to do another cookie or two. There is much consumption. The husbands, brought along to enjoy the fun, last about as long as the kids. Most are engineers, and they drift off to the dining room for a little more adult conversation. This leaves the women in the kitchen and conversation – the whole goal of the class – ranges far and wide.
Yesterday one of the Chinese women had a minor car accident on the icy roads. A Middle Eastern woman is on her third winter in Michigan and three of the Chinese women listen intently as she describes how to drive on ice and not slide into the ditch. Fascinating to hear this described by someone who has learned winter driving on the fast track. Lots of new vocabulary!
Cooking practices always surface in the conversation, and a lot of parenting discussions. Two of the ESL teachers are moms of younger kids and great mentors to these women struggling to survive, keep house, speak English, and raise children in a totally new world.
The children are a delightful mix of cultures, blond heads alongside dark ones. English is no problem for them, nor is social interaction. They are the next generation of new Americans, and cookies are to be consumed – no matter who made them or decorated them.
By the time the evening ends, I am quite ready for it to end. But as each family walks out the door bearing freshly decorated cookies of their own design, chatting merrily with each other in somewhat fractured English but English none the less, the value of the event takes root. This is not about sugar on the floor or icing on the cupboards – it’s about community.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Push back the darkness
It is December, the darkest month of the year. And the most celebrated. I wake in darkness and start the day. The afternoon is dark before it is over, and we settled into darkness long before supper. We light candles and put up twinkle lights and push back the darkness.
We celebrate the birth of the Savior with joy, but always in the corners of our hearts lingers sadness at those who are not with us this Christmas. Even in the delight of the coming of Light, we know that He came to a dark world, and we know why.
We know why because we live in it.
Yesterday the Dreamer and I stood in line at a funeral to speak to a young couple who lost their stillborn daughter last week. Entering the church I was transported back decades to a simple funeral at a barrio church in the Philippines. I can still clearly see the grieving mother, veiled, throwing dirt on the little coffin.
Yesterday’s mother is American born, but she is also Filipino, and the obligatory funeral black was worn by all her family and friends.
Beside us in line was a friend who lost his daughter just two years ago this month, a young mom snatched with sudden cancer. “It never gets easier, does it?” he said. “I will never be the same.” Then he looked at the Dreamer and said, “You know.” The same words the grandmother of the little one who didn’t live had said a few minutes before. “You know.”
Yes, we know. The Dreamer knows especially. On the way she handed me a book written by a mom who carried a child she knew would not live. Delivered and buried a child who survived just a few short hours. Poignant, powerful book. She readily admits that she does not have answers. She shares her struggle and grief. And she believes that God also shares our struggle and grief.
When Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, Mary and Martha were also weeping. But theirs was the wail of loss, while his was the weeping of pain for the hurt hearts of his dear friends. He knew in a few minutes he would call Lazarus out of the grave, but he also knew Lazarus would die again and there would again be pain and tears.
This week another little one, another grand of mine, will have doctors open her heart to repair what is not what it should be. I enter the week with deep fear because I know that what is considered routine is never routine when it is your own child. I enter the week with trust because, without speaking flippantly, I know that God understands our fear, her heart, and holds the hands of the doctors.
This is a dark world. Not just in December, though somehow at Christmas all the darkness comes rushing back to haunt us and whispers fear into the deep recesses of our hearts. Yet it was into this world that God sent Light, and the darkness did, and still does not comprehend it.
In this dark month, I choose to stand in the light.
We celebrate the birth of the Savior with joy, but always in the corners of our hearts lingers sadness at those who are not with us this Christmas. Even in the delight of the coming of Light, we know that He came to a dark world, and we know why.
We know why because we live in it.
Yesterday the Dreamer and I stood in line at a funeral to speak to a young couple who lost their stillborn daughter last week. Entering the church I was transported back decades to a simple funeral at a barrio church in the Philippines. I can still clearly see the grieving mother, veiled, throwing dirt on the little coffin.
Yesterday’s mother is American born, but she is also Filipino, and the obligatory funeral black was worn by all her family and friends.
Beside us in line was a friend who lost his daughter just two years ago this month, a young mom snatched with sudden cancer. “It never gets easier, does it?” he said. “I will never be the same.” Then he looked at the Dreamer and said, “You know.” The same words the grandmother of the little one who didn’t live had said a few minutes before. “You know.”
Yes, we know. The Dreamer knows especially. On the way she handed me a book written by a mom who carried a child she knew would not live. Delivered and buried a child who survived just a few short hours. Poignant, powerful book. She readily admits that she does not have answers. She shares her struggle and grief. And she believes that God also shares our struggle and grief.
When Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, Mary and Martha were also weeping. But theirs was the wail of loss, while his was the weeping of pain for the hurt hearts of his dear friends. He knew in a few minutes he would call Lazarus out of the grave, but he also knew Lazarus would die again and there would again be pain and tears.
This week another little one, another grand of mine, will have doctors open her heart to repair what is not what it should be. I enter the week with deep fear because I know that what is considered routine is never routine when it is your own child. I enter the week with trust because, without speaking flippantly, I know that God understands our fear, her heart, and holds the hands of the doctors.
This is a dark world. Not just in December, though somehow at Christmas all the darkness comes rushing back to haunt us and whispers fear into the deep recesses of our hearts. Yet it was into this world that God sent Light, and the darkness did, and still does not comprehend it.
In this dark month, I choose to stand in the light.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Rescue centers
Recent Sundays have found me in rescue centers. The people who go there call them church, but they are, in fact, places where those people have been rescued.
The first sits atop a rocky hill in northern Massachusetts, close to the ocean. The town is as rocky as the hillside, full of rough and tumble families who either have known the hardship of the sea for generations, or who are new immigrants looking for a place to call home.
The anniversary of the church – the rescue center – was occasion for testimonies. After a meal where far more people came than anticipated but all were fed, we gathered in the upstairs meeting room. Pine timbers line the walls, wide windows opening onto the woods and rocky hillside. Member after member, some still there, some who have moved away, stood to tell how they came to this place. Their lives were a saga of alcohol, abuse, bad marriages, unwanted pregnancies, despair. Again and again I heard, “I came and I was welcomed, and I found the Lord here. Jesus has changed my life completely.” Everyone wanted to be there and share the victories.
The highest corner of the church building is a replica of a lighthouse. It is symbolic of the rocky coastal town, but it is far more. It represents why this is a rescue center.
This past weekend it was a much older church on the coast of New Jersey. The city is hard, gritty, and sinful. Yet the old stone church stands in the midst of casinos and on the roof are the words, “Christ died for our sins.”
The folk who come are a rainbow of colors and a babble of languages.
Saturday night the woman beside me told me, unasked, about her abusive, drug-dealing husband, how in desperation one afternoon she knocked on her landlady’s door when he locked her out, and how she was invited in to a warm meal, taken to church, and led to Christ. Sunday noon another woman told me that she comes because it is a safe haven in her pain-ridden life. “I went to the pastor when I first came and said I needed a safe-house. He told me I had found it.”
Sunday morning we sang an old hymn about keeping the lower lights burning. Sending a beam across the wave. The pastor reminded us that we are the lower lights, gleaming for people who are struggling in the dark.
Rescue center churches are messy. People often don’t dress well, and they may smell of smoke and booze and other substances. Their teeth tend to be missing, and they are brutally honest about their lives. Downright uncomfortable at times but rescue center churches are good for me.
Jesus is in the rescue center business. Am I?
The first sits atop a rocky hill in northern Massachusetts, close to the ocean. The town is as rocky as the hillside, full of rough and tumble families who either have known the hardship of the sea for generations, or who are new immigrants looking for a place to call home.
The anniversary of the church – the rescue center – was occasion for testimonies. After a meal where far more people came than anticipated but all were fed, we gathered in the upstairs meeting room. Pine timbers line the walls, wide windows opening onto the woods and rocky hillside. Member after member, some still there, some who have moved away, stood to tell how they came to this place. Their lives were a saga of alcohol, abuse, bad marriages, unwanted pregnancies, despair. Again and again I heard, “I came and I was welcomed, and I found the Lord here. Jesus has changed my life completely.” Everyone wanted to be there and share the victories.
The highest corner of the church building is a replica of a lighthouse. It is symbolic of the rocky coastal town, but it is far more. It represents why this is a rescue center.
This past weekend it was a much older church on the coast of New Jersey. The city is hard, gritty, and sinful. Yet the old stone church stands in the midst of casinos and on the roof are the words, “Christ died for our sins.”
The folk who come are a rainbow of colors and a babble of languages.
Saturday night the woman beside me told me, unasked, about her abusive, drug-dealing husband, how in desperation one afternoon she knocked on her landlady’s door when he locked her out, and how she was invited in to a warm meal, taken to church, and led to Christ. Sunday noon another woman told me that she comes because it is a safe haven in her pain-ridden life. “I went to the pastor when I first came and said I needed a safe-house. He told me I had found it.”
Sunday morning we sang an old hymn about keeping the lower lights burning. Sending a beam across the wave. The pastor reminded us that we are the lower lights, gleaming for people who are struggling in the dark.
Rescue center churches are messy. People often don’t dress well, and they may smell of smoke and booze and other substances. Their teeth tend to be missing, and they are brutally honest about their lives. Downright uncomfortable at times but rescue center churches are good for me.
Jesus is in the rescue center business. Am I?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The orchard
Like a siren the orchard calls me this afternoon. The day is as crisp and clean as the first bite of a Granny Smith, and I need to be outside. I load boxes into the trunk and head north. This orchard is relatively small and family owned. On a weekday we have permission to simply arrive, park, and pick up any apples on the ground. The windfalls can’t be used for anything, so they are there to be gleaned. I find the owner sorting pumpkins and check in.
Then I see that road I usually take back beside the barn is blocked.
“It was muddy so we had a load of crushed ashphalt dumped,” she tells me in good Michiganese. Does anywhere else put an extra h in asphalt? We ponder how to get my car into the orchard since, unlike the tractor and wagon, I can’t just drive over the newly dumped piles. At her suggestion I take down one of the split rail fences, drive across the lawn, between massive pines, back around the cider press building, down between a row of apple trees and onto the road that leads across the hill and the orchard.
I drive to the back, knowing from experience that the trees in the back drop later than the trees in the front. Applesauce is best if made from a mix of apples, so I make no attempt to pick and choose specific breeds. My goal is to glean, fill boxes, and head home.
The seductive sunshine, the faint smell of fallen leaves mixed with apples, and memories slow me down. The siren has called again. In the distance I hear a highway, a dog barks faintly, but for all that I am alone in the world with just a few yellow jackets for companions. Many times I’ve come to this orchard. Hot September days with Keren in a stroller, a sunny morning with just the Bear – so small she could hardly get her boots through the long grass. Two years ago we had a gaggle of little cousins ranging from Boy Blue on a blanket on up. Little hands helping gather, then joining the applesauce process with glee. Some years it has been pouring rain and we come home soaked to the skin and covered with mud. Always an adventure. But time is flying and I need to get the apples home.
I take a bucket and head up a hill, down a long row of trees. Toward the back I find a treasure trove of bright red dotting the ground under two trees. One by one my bucket fills, gets emptied into boxes, and fills again. Soon the trunk is loaded with red and gold.
I head back the lines of trees, past the cider press, wave to the pumpkin sorter, weave under the pines and through the split rail fence. Then, relishing the final moments, I choose the gravel roads wherever possible so I can drive under canopies of gold and red. Autumn will pass and this glory will fade into winter, but before I start making applesauce, I want to revel in the color a little longer.
Then I see that road I usually take back beside the barn is blocked.
“It was muddy so we had a load of crushed ashphalt dumped,” she tells me in good Michiganese. Does anywhere else put an extra h in asphalt? We ponder how to get my car into the orchard since, unlike the tractor and wagon, I can’t just drive over the newly dumped piles. At her suggestion I take down one of the split rail fences, drive across the lawn, between massive pines, back around the cider press building, down between a row of apple trees and onto the road that leads across the hill and the orchard.
I drive to the back, knowing from experience that the trees in the back drop later than the trees in the front. Applesauce is best if made from a mix of apples, so I make no attempt to pick and choose specific breeds. My goal is to glean, fill boxes, and head home.
The seductive sunshine, the faint smell of fallen leaves mixed with apples, and memories slow me down. The siren has called again. In the distance I hear a highway, a dog barks faintly, but for all that I am alone in the world with just a few yellow jackets for companions. Many times I’ve come to this orchard. Hot September days with Keren in a stroller, a sunny morning with just the Bear – so small she could hardly get her boots through the long grass. Two years ago we had a gaggle of little cousins ranging from Boy Blue on a blanket on up. Little hands helping gather, then joining the applesauce process with glee. Some years it has been pouring rain and we come home soaked to the skin and covered with mud. Always an adventure. But time is flying and I need to get the apples home.
I take a bucket and head up a hill, down a long row of trees. Toward the back I find a treasure trove of bright red dotting the ground under two trees. One by one my bucket fills, gets emptied into boxes, and fills again. Soon the trunk is loaded with red and gold.
I head back the lines of trees, past the cider press, wave to the pumpkin sorter, weave under the pines and through the split rail fence. Then, relishing the final moments, I choose the gravel roads wherever possible so I can drive under canopies of gold and red. Autumn will pass and this glory will fade into winter, but before I start making applesauce, I want to revel in the color a little longer.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A home on the hill
We start up the hill a sense of anticipation, turn after turn, and finally pull into the driveway at the very top. Initially it seemed impossible to find this house, but now it is second nature. We park, look out over the valley, smell the fresh country air, grab our bags, and head inside. Through the garage, into the little back room, through the long room that is living, dining, and kitchen all in one. Around the corner and up the stairs, and down the hall to our suite of rooms.
A certain scent belongs to this home away from home. It could be the continuous supply of fresh fruit on the butcher block in the kitchen, but more likely it is the scent of fabric. This is a quilter’s home and there are quilts for wounded military and homeless kids always in progress. Interesting country crafts are tucked in the corners, baskets on the rafters, vintage country furniture that looks and feels comfortable.
When the host family is home we enjoy their company, go out for sushi, play Settlers, talk long into the night. But the house is ours when needed, whether or not they are home.
Home, a word that evokes deep visceral emotions. Home -- and this is just one of many.
Another home away from home is near a college campus. The routine there similar. We know where our beds are, where to set up our computers, where the coffee will be brewing in the dark of early morning. The hosts are friends of decades, and their home has been ours on three continents.
A third is a suite north of Boston. A full apartment set off a house where the grandmother lived for a time. Now it hosts visitors, ministry people like us who need a place to land that offers sleep, respite, quiet, and no people. Here the relationship stretches back even further.
Yet another is a wide windowed home facing out on a great lake. No neighbors ever intrude the solitude except for deer, turkeys, fox, and other creatures of the wild. The silence is deafening.
In all these places, and many more, we are at home. The generosity of these host families offers us more than a clean bed. In each place we have the freedom to come, to go, to live, to think, to be – with no strings attached.
I’m heading out the door of the house on the hill in the early morning when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and hear a friend’s voice, “Hey, I’m looking for the car keys.” I tell her where to find them and realize that, while I am at the house on the hill, another of our home-away-from-home hostesses is at my house, ready to drive off in my car.
Home away from home is a lifestyle.
A certain scent belongs to this home away from home. It could be the continuous supply of fresh fruit on the butcher block in the kitchen, but more likely it is the scent of fabric. This is a quilter’s home and there are quilts for wounded military and homeless kids always in progress. Interesting country crafts are tucked in the corners, baskets on the rafters, vintage country furniture that looks and feels comfortable.
When the host family is home we enjoy their company, go out for sushi, play Settlers, talk long into the night. But the house is ours when needed, whether or not they are home.
Home, a word that evokes deep visceral emotions. Home -- and this is just one of many.
Another home away from home is near a college campus. The routine there similar. We know where our beds are, where to set up our computers, where the coffee will be brewing in the dark of early morning. The hosts are friends of decades, and their home has been ours on three continents.
A third is a suite north of Boston. A full apartment set off a house where the grandmother lived for a time. Now it hosts visitors, ministry people like us who need a place to land that offers sleep, respite, quiet, and no people. Here the relationship stretches back even further.
Yet another is a wide windowed home facing out on a great lake. No neighbors ever intrude the solitude except for deer, turkeys, fox, and other creatures of the wild. The silence is deafening.
In all these places, and many more, we are at home. The generosity of these host families offers us more than a clean bed. In each place we have the freedom to come, to go, to live, to think, to be – with no strings attached.
I’m heading out the door of the house on the hill in the early morning when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and hear a friend’s voice, “Hey, I’m looking for the car keys.” I tell her where to find them and realize that, while I am at the house on the hill, another of our home-away-from-home hostesses is at my house, ready to drive off in my car.
Home away from home is a lifestyle.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Chinese, croquet, and cuisine
The new croquet set from Lehman’s hardware is accurately laid out across the lawn, the gas grill pulled nearer the back door, and the fire pit set up beside it. Chairs culled from various spots around the house and garage scatter across the patio. Dogs and burgers, buns, stowed in the fridge. Vats of drinks and ice.
At 4:30 the first car pulls in the drive and the fun began. Families who are all new Americans, mostly Chinese with a sprinkling of other ethnics, and a few long term residents gather for a late summer picnic. Soon the kitchen island groans with a wide assortment of food – homemade dumplings beside pasta salad, noodles beside vegetable dishes, garden fresh melon and tomatoes, hummus and pita chips. The grill is cranked up and soon the aroma of burgers and dogs mixes with the international flavors.
Levi, 16, long, and lean, arrived back yesterday from a summer visiting his grandparents in China. After his fourth burger, I stopped counting. Must have been a long summer for his now very American tastebuds. In contrast, Jon-boy, only a year old, consumes three large pork filled baozhi. A Chinese granny sits in front of him to pick up the pieces and hand him more, charmed that a little blonde and blue eyed boy would eat her dumplings with such obvious relish, both fists holding the treasures as he tosses them off one after another.
The men and boys take on croquet – Chinese, American, and Jordanian competing in mostly English and learning the rules as they go. The Chinese women cluster, disperse, and cluster again to talk. They have all known each other since they were young brides and new in this country but they rarely get to see each other now that they have settled all around the city. I look at the teens chowing down on all the food and remember their births, one by one, over a decade ago.
The girls, fifteen down to five, flit around from the food, to Frisbees, to Lego, to talking, and finally settle down around the fire pit with me to roast marshmallows. They knew they liked marshmallows, but they had never roasted them alone without parents hovering nearby. Their dads are playing croquet and their moms are far too occupied with seeing old friends to worry about the kids and the fire. We have a lesson in the fine art of gently golden marshmallows on old camping forks.
The Bug, sitting beside me on the grass with hot dog in hand, comments, “There are a LOT of Chinese kids here.” Interesting that at three she knows they are Chinese but it is neither unusual nor a problem. Soon she’s off running with the youngest one, blonde hair flying behind the dark hair of her new friend.
Just a late summer night in Michigan. A reunion that crosses cultures and years. A last fling before the fall school schedule cramps everyone into a rigid pace of life. Smoke rises from the fire pit as the sun drops low in the sky. Tired and a little sticky, children and teens pile into cars with their parents and head home. Well worth the effort.
At 4:30 the first car pulls in the drive and the fun began. Families who are all new Americans, mostly Chinese with a sprinkling of other ethnics, and a few long term residents gather for a late summer picnic. Soon the kitchen island groans with a wide assortment of food – homemade dumplings beside pasta salad, noodles beside vegetable dishes, garden fresh melon and tomatoes, hummus and pita chips. The grill is cranked up and soon the aroma of burgers and dogs mixes with the international flavors.
Levi, 16, long, and lean, arrived back yesterday from a summer visiting his grandparents in China. After his fourth burger, I stopped counting. Must have been a long summer for his now very American tastebuds. In contrast, Jon-boy, only a year old, consumes three large pork filled baozhi. A Chinese granny sits in front of him to pick up the pieces and hand him more, charmed that a little blonde and blue eyed boy would eat her dumplings with such obvious relish, both fists holding the treasures as he tosses them off one after another.
The men and boys take on croquet – Chinese, American, and Jordanian competing in mostly English and learning the rules as they go. The Chinese women cluster, disperse, and cluster again to talk. They have all known each other since they were young brides and new in this country but they rarely get to see each other now that they have settled all around the city. I look at the teens chowing down on all the food and remember their births, one by one, over a decade ago.
The girls, fifteen down to five, flit around from the food, to Frisbees, to Lego, to talking, and finally settle down around the fire pit with me to roast marshmallows. They knew they liked marshmallows, but they had never roasted them alone without parents hovering nearby. Their dads are playing croquet and their moms are far too occupied with seeing old friends to worry about the kids and the fire. We have a lesson in the fine art of gently golden marshmallows on old camping forks.
The Bug, sitting beside me on the grass with hot dog in hand, comments, “There are a LOT of Chinese kids here.” Interesting that at three she knows they are Chinese but it is neither unusual nor a problem. Soon she’s off running with the youngest one, blonde hair flying behind the dark hair of her new friend.
Just a late summer night in Michigan. A reunion that crosses cultures and years. A last fling before the fall school schedule cramps everyone into a rigid pace of life. Smoke rises from the fire pit as the sun drops low in the sky. Tired and a little sticky, children and teens pile into cars with their parents and head home. Well worth the effort.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Life
“Ten fingers, ten toes - our most popular model!” comments a friend on the other end of the country on a picture of little Mei Mei’s feet in her mother’s hands. Something we take for granted. A normal, healthy child.
I don’t, actually. Each normal child reminds me that the first grand was different, her first week lived with held breath, and life forever changed. Yet, even we who have lived that trauma tend to get lulled into complacency when all goes well.
This birth, and the brother two years ago on the other side of the world, done so simply, so quickly, a knife, a lift, a baby. Yet, how different it would be if there were not good hospitals and skilled doctors. In a different world, in a different generation, we could easily have lost the baby, or the mother, or both.
Which brings me back to life. Ten fingers and ten toes. Little head, ears, nose, mouth. All parts in place and functioning well. Perfectly made and precisely positioned. No errors, no displaced parts, all systems go.
How often do I stop and ponder the wonder of it all?
A little lump of humanity is curled up comfortably in my lap sound asleep. She is so small she doesn’t cover my lap, but curls over one leg and tucks her tiny feet down the middle. Only five days old, she hasn’t stretched out yet except when her legs are deliberately pulled out. The “fetal” position has new meaning. She’s out in the real world, but she’s not yet sure that out is all that wonderful.
And yet, in five days she has established herself. People come to visit her. Her brother kisses her feet goodbye. Gifts arrive for her. Occasionally she even raises her voice and makes a statement. In between she snuggles, or wriggles, or snuffles, or yawns.
Seven pounds of humanity bundled into a little body. Seven pounds of unlimited potential.
Life. Nothing like it. Ten fingers and ten toes. Our most popular model.
I don’t, actually. Each normal child reminds me that the first grand was different, her first week lived with held breath, and life forever changed. Yet, even we who have lived that trauma tend to get lulled into complacency when all goes well.
This birth, and the brother two years ago on the other side of the world, done so simply, so quickly, a knife, a lift, a baby. Yet, how different it would be if there were not good hospitals and skilled doctors. In a different world, in a different generation, we could easily have lost the baby, or the mother, or both.
Which brings me back to life. Ten fingers and ten toes. Little head, ears, nose, mouth. All parts in place and functioning well. Perfectly made and precisely positioned. No errors, no displaced parts, all systems go.
How often do I stop and ponder the wonder of it all?
A little lump of humanity is curled up comfortably in my lap sound asleep. She is so small she doesn’t cover my lap, but curls over one leg and tucks her tiny feet down the middle. Only five days old, she hasn’t stretched out yet except when her legs are deliberately pulled out. The “fetal” position has new meaning. She’s out in the real world, but she’s not yet sure that out is all that wonderful.
And yet, in five days she has established herself. People come to visit her. Her brother kisses her feet goodbye. Gifts arrive for her. Occasionally she even raises her voice and makes a statement. In between she snuggles, or wriggles, or snuffles, or yawns.
Seven pounds of humanity bundled into a little body. Seven pounds of unlimited potential.
Life. Nothing like it. Ten fingers and ten toes. Our most popular model.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A second soul
“When you learn a second language, you gain a second soul” says an old proverb. I suggest that when you live extensively in a second country you gain a second soul, whether you conquer the language or not. Re-entry to my own native country is never easy, though deeply appreciated.
I am certainly not alone in bi-country living. There are people all over the globe who do it and do it well. Doing it, though, I would posit, is never seamless.
My first days back my mind races, slows, and races again. In the market the only people who look “normal” are Asian. I find myself searching their faces for recognition. Life in recent weeks has been such a routine of meeting familiar faces on the street to and from places, in the stores, stopping to chat and catch up. I am at a loss because these faces look “right” but none of them are people I know. Where did my neighborhood go?
Snatches of Chinese stick to my brain. I go so say something and the words come out wrong. It’s not because I speak good Chinese, but because terminology for life changes when one changes countries, and the Chinese term for what is in front of me has moved to the front of the brain, pushing the English to the back.
When I lay down to sleep, my mind goes into overdrive. I’m walking the streets of the city I have left behind with friends I will not see again for months and months. I can’t quite catch the conversations, but the places are real and I am visually and mentally 12 hours and thousands of miles away – until I wake and find myself at home.
My granddaughter, the Bear, now a very articulate five, tells me, “You were gone to that China place a very long time.”
“Yes, Bear, I was.”
I am glad to be home, no mistake about that. This is space, comfort, familiar. But that also became space, comfort, and familiar. A different normal. A different familiar. A second soul.
I have said before and will say again: part of me never comes back. Part of me is still tasting a new tea with my tea expert buddy, striding the hot streets to the subway with a fellow teammate, listening to the heart of a university teacher who struggles with the restrictions they face in their work world, laughing at situations that simply don’t translate to funny back here.
Bear realizes that I will disappear at times to that China place, or other equally distant places. She’s old enough now to know that her grandparents, both sides, live in several worlds, but continue to return to hers. Some day, I suspect, she too will take off and explore other worlds and gain other souls.
That’s the heritage I’d like to leave behind. This world is not my home, nor is that other one, but only the eventual, eternal home. I want to see the next generation be world citizens too because in so doing, they will understand that people are more the same than different, and that their God is not a western God nor their faith tied to their culture.
I am certainly not alone in bi-country living. There are people all over the globe who do it and do it well. Doing it, though, I would posit, is never seamless.
My first days back my mind races, slows, and races again. In the market the only people who look “normal” are Asian. I find myself searching their faces for recognition. Life in recent weeks has been such a routine of meeting familiar faces on the street to and from places, in the stores, stopping to chat and catch up. I am at a loss because these faces look “right” but none of them are people I know. Where did my neighborhood go?
Snatches of Chinese stick to my brain. I go so say something and the words come out wrong. It’s not because I speak good Chinese, but because terminology for life changes when one changes countries, and the Chinese term for what is in front of me has moved to the front of the brain, pushing the English to the back.
When I lay down to sleep, my mind goes into overdrive. I’m walking the streets of the city I have left behind with friends I will not see again for months and months. I can’t quite catch the conversations, but the places are real and I am visually and mentally 12 hours and thousands of miles away – until I wake and find myself at home.
My granddaughter, the Bear, now a very articulate five, tells me, “You were gone to that China place a very long time.”
“Yes, Bear, I was.”
I am glad to be home, no mistake about that. This is space, comfort, familiar. But that also became space, comfort, and familiar. A different normal. A different familiar. A second soul.
I have said before and will say again: part of me never comes back. Part of me is still tasting a new tea with my tea expert buddy, striding the hot streets to the subway with a fellow teammate, listening to the heart of a university teacher who struggles with the restrictions they face in their work world, laughing at situations that simply don’t translate to funny back here.
Bear realizes that I will disappear at times to that China place, or other equally distant places. She’s old enough now to know that her grandparents, both sides, live in several worlds, but continue to return to hers. Some day, I suspect, she too will take off and explore other worlds and gain other souls.
That’s the heritage I’d like to leave behind. This world is not my home, nor is that other one, but only the eventual, eternal home. I want to see the next generation be world citizens too because in so doing, they will understand that people are more the same than different, and that their God is not a western God nor their faith tied to their culture.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Give it to God
It was the end of an email from a friend who doesn’t do much of the God thing, but the advice was right on target for this week. “Tough choices today,” the email said, “as there have been tough choices before. You do what you can, you make the calls as you see them, and give it to God.”
It’s a week of giving it to God.
Packing to leave for the other side of the world and the piles are beginning to mount up in the room where I pack. I keep thinking of things I still need to find, or uncover, or locate and it becomes a blur. So I give it to God.
An elderly aunt has landed in the hospital this week with serious heart issues. I can’t stop what I’m doing and go to be with her. I’d like to do that, but it just isn’t possible -- so I give it to God.
The Driver and Tech are waiting to hear about a potential job but no word is coming through. There’s nothing I can do to help but listen, and I give it to God.
My husband has a pinched nerve in his back. This is NOT the best week for a pinched nerve. Why does this stuff happen when we are under pressure? Oh, probably because we ARE under pressure, it happens. So, since I cannot fix his back, I give it to God because after all, God made his back and knows all about it.
That’s the whole point, isn’t it?
I opened Isaiah this afternoon and landed on these words:
“I am the one who creates the light and makes the darkness. I am the one who sends good times and bad times. I, the Lord, am the one who does these things. Open up, O heavens, and pour out your righteousness. Let the earth open wide so salvation and righteousness can sprout up together. I, the Lord, created them.” (Isa 45:7-8)
When I get overwhelmed and feel like the choices in front of me are too much, swirling around me, pushing me down, I need to stop and remember who is in control of eternity, and today’s choices.
The heavens opened a little while ago and poured out rain. I cannot make it rain or make it stop, so I simply watch it happen, and wonder at the power of it all. There is a gaggle of robins prancing around in the dusk on the soaked grass, finding worms and grubs for dinner that the rain brought to the surface. I bet they wake up every morning and give the day to God.
I’ll do that tomorrow with them.
It’s a week of giving it to God.
Packing to leave for the other side of the world and the piles are beginning to mount up in the room where I pack. I keep thinking of things I still need to find, or uncover, or locate and it becomes a blur. So I give it to God.
An elderly aunt has landed in the hospital this week with serious heart issues. I can’t stop what I’m doing and go to be with her. I’d like to do that, but it just isn’t possible -- so I give it to God.
The Driver and Tech are waiting to hear about a potential job but no word is coming through. There’s nothing I can do to help but listen, and I give it to God.
My husband has a pinched nerve in his back. This is NOT the best week for a pinched nerve. Why does this stuff happen when we are under pressure? Oh, probably because we ARE under pressure, it happens. So, since I cannot fix his back, I give it to God because after all, God made his back and knows all about it.
That’s the whole point, isn’t it?
I opened Isaiah this afternoon and landed on these words:
“I am the one who creates the light and makes the darkness. I am the one who sends good times and bad times. I, the Lord, am the one who does these things. Open up, O heavens, and pour out your righteousness. Let the earth open wide so salvation and righteousness can sprout up together. I, the Lord, created them.” (Isa 45:7-8)
When I get overwhelmed and feel like the choices in front of me are too much, swirling around me, pushing me down, I need to stop and remember who is in control of eternity, and today’s choices.
The heavens opened a little while ago and poured out rain. I cannot make it rain or make it stop, so I simply watch it happen, and wonder at the power of it all. There is a gaggle of robins prancing around in the dusk on the soaked grass, finding worms and grubs for dinner that the rain brought to the surface. I bet they wake up every morning and give the day to God.
I’ll do that tomorrow with them.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Faster than a...
Computer in lap, I sit in a chilly airport, waiting for a flight. Attendants deployed to Buffalo. Searching for more. Fog and rain persist outside the window, but this is an island of total calm in a week faster than a speeding bullet, or light, or any number of other ragged, worn similes.
Change is life. Life is change. No change, end of sentence.
There are days when I stop and ponder if I can possibly cram more learning into my brain. Days when my fingers hover over the keys, searching the screen for clues, plunging into uncharted territory. Did I get the URL in the right spot? Does the link work? Did I remember to translate the data to a neutral pad before posting it? Will I crash the whole website?
And yet, my world has rapidly become more nimble and multi-dimensional; hence I must too
Other questions hover close by during this, my yearly planning week. What systems work best in 2010? Where should I invest my time? Which projects are high priority among the many clamoring for attention? Is my blood pressure up because I’m balancing too many plates in the air, or does this pace just keep my mind alive and well?.
And then, the ultimate question. As I move forward, sometimes at warp speed, have I allowed space for the Holy Spirit in my own life, and in my workday? I’m not trying to suddenly go spiritual – illustration, question, plunge in the knife. I am not questioning the need for change. I’m simply examining my heart.
God is more than capable of keeping pace with change. The God who designed the speed of light and the mechanics of the speeding bullet is far greater than my time and space. I would say God is the author of change. Change is not a moral quantity. Good and evil are not inherent in technology or lack thereof, in systems, in methods. It is how we use the tool that adds the value.
I also believe that God makes us as we are. God made some who contemplate while others are designed to move. Marys and Marthas. Yet Mary received the commendation while Martha was both the scolder and the scolded.
So while moving at warp speed, I need to seek Mary moments, and remind myself not to have a Martha tongue. I am forced to examine whether it is the excitement of change and speed that brings me a high or the fact that the new system, new accomplishment, new learning is something God has put in front of me for His use.
Flight staff arrive and are deployed. It’s time to board and fly. I’ll move my contemplative spirit from the terminal to the plane, put away my technology and saturate myself in something that is older than time but changes daily to meet the new demands. There’s a little Bible in my bag.
I think I need some Mary time while I fly.
Change is life. Life is change. No change, end of sentence.
There are days when I stop and ponder if I can possibly cram more learning into my brain. Days when my fingers hover over the keys, searching the screen for clues, plunging into uncharted territory. Did I get the URL in the right spot? Does the link work? Did I remember to translate the data to a neutral pad before posting it? Will I crash the whole website?
And yet, my world has rapidly become more nimble and multi-dimensional; hence I must too
Other questions hover close by during this, my yearly planning week. What systems work best in 2010? Where should I invest my time? Which projects are high priority among the many clamoring for attention? Is my blood pressure up because I’m balancing too many plates in the air, or does this pace just keep my mind alive and well?.
And then, the ultimate question. As I move forward, sometimes at warp speed, have I allowed space for the Holy Spirit in my own life, and in my workday? I’m not trying to suddenly go spiritual – illustration, question, plunge in the knife. I am not questioning the need for change. I’m simply examining my heart.
God is more than capable of keeping pace with change. The God who designed the speed of light and the mechanics of the speeding bullet is far greater than my time and space. I would say God is the author of change. Change is not a moral quantity. Good and evil are not inherent in technology or lack thereof, in systems, in methods. It is how we use the tool that adds the value.
I also believe that God makes us as we are. God made some who contemplate while others are designed to move. Marys and Marthas. Yet Mary received the commendation while Martha was both the scolder and the scolded.
So while moving at warp speed, I need to seek Mary moments, and remind myself not to have a Martha tongue. I am forced to examine whether it is the excitement of change and speed that brings me a high or the fact that the new system, new accomplishment, new learning is something God has put in front of me for His use.
Flight staff arrive and are deployed. It’s time to board and fly. I’ll move my contemplative spirit from the terminal to the plane, put away my technology and saturate myself in something that is older than time but changes daily to meet the new demands. There’s a little Bible in my bag.
I think I need some Mary time while I fly.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Priceless
The toy that defaults to the youngest in the family is a collection of fist-sized chunky plastic discs in yellow, white, and green, housed in a blue Lego bucket. The older children learn quickly that positioning the blue bucket in front of “Baby” means Baby stays out of the more interesting stuff: vintage Fischer Price, wooden blocks, and serious Lego.
Give the baby the bucket!
Jon-boy has the bucket. Some discs are stacked on top of the coffee table and some tossed on the floor to give him options. He pulls up to standing, enjoying the ups and downs of life pre-walking. The discs are easily grasped by small hands and can be dumped out, chewed, stacked, rolled, or dropped back into the bucket. They are substantial and noisy. What more could a small boy want?
Finally bored, he howls for help and Poppa leaves the table to check on him. Poppa sits down and handles the discs. Somewhere in the neighborhood of forty are in the bucket, on the table, and on the floor.
Memory kicks in and mists over the room. Each disc represents 100 feet of slide film, hand-rolled, shot, developed, catalogued, in print and still on the web. One blue bucket and thousands upon thousands of slides from all over the world. Fifty plus countries, forty years.
Images crowd out the little guy in a red sweater. Vivid green rice terraces climbing to the Philippine sky. Jammed Chinese and Japanese train stations with confusing signs. Narrow European streets dripping with cold rain. Blazing Spanish sunshine. Bitter Siberian and Kazak steppes swept with snow. African plains with herds of elephants. Snowy mountains driving north to Sidney. Babbles of languages. Faces, faces, faces of every color and ethnic mix. Fascinating people, each with a story.
A howl brings Poppa back to the present as a small boy climbs up his pant leg looking for attention. The memories fade gently into the present as he picks up the little guy.
“Do you know this is the most expensive toy in the house, Jon-boy? Each of those discs of film that I hand-rolled cost about $100. That’s $4000 you’re stacking on the coffee table.”
The promise of the future in Poppa’s arms crowds out the past. There will be time down the road to share memories with the big eyed little boy in the red sweater. He may never see all the pictures, but he’ll reap the benefit of where the discs took his grandfather.
Priceless.
Give the baby the bucket!
Jon-boy has the bucket. Some discs are stacked on top of the coffee table and some tossed on the floor to give him options. He pulls up to standing, enjoying the ups and downs of life pre-walking. The discs are easily grasped by small hands and can be dumped out, chewed, stacked, rolled, or dropped back into the bucket. They are substantial and noisy. What more could a small boy want?
Finally bored, he howls for help and Poppa leaves the table to check on him. Poppa sits down and handles the discs. Somewhere in the neighborhood of forty are in the bucket, on the table, and on the floor.
Memory kicks in and mists over the room. Each disc represents 100 feet of slide film, hand-rolled, shot, developed, catalogued, in print and still on the web. One blue bucket and thousands upon thousands of slides from all over the world. Fifty plus countries, forty years.
Images crowd out the little guy in a red sweater. Vivid green rice terraces climbing to the Philippine sky. Jammed Chinese and Japanese train stations with confusing signs. Narrow European streets dripping with cold rain. Blazing Spanish sunshine. Bitter Siberian and Kazak steppes swept with snow. African plains with herds of elephants. Snowy mountains driving north to Sidney. Babbles of languages. Faces, faces, faces of every color and ethnic mix. Fascinating people, each with a story.
A howl brings Poppa back to the present as a small boy climbs up his pant leg looking for attention. The memories fade gently into the present as he picks up the little guy.
“Do you know this is the most expensive toy in the house, Jon-boy? Each of those discs of film that I hand-rolled cost about $100. That’s $4000 you’re stacking on the coffee table.”
The promise of the future in Poppa’s arms crowds out the past. There will be time down the road to share memories with the big eyed little boy in the red sweater. He may never see all the pictures, but he’ll reap the benefit of where the discs took his grandfather.
Priceless.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Good Friday
Good Friday begins in the soft dark before dawn. How different to rise and be warm! I wander down and put on a pot of coffee, then sit and enjoy the fragrance of the hot brew while I read through Luke and John’s descriptions of the day of crucifixion. Whether or not it was actually a Friday is incidental to the meaning of the day.
Exercise with the “girls” is vigorous, followed by breakfast together at the little café down the way from Curves. They do a thriving breakfast business by providing cheap good food and being in the middle of a busy neighborhood. Conversation buzzes around the table from dogs to books to travel to Good Friday and its meaning.
Later I head to the library to exchange books and pick up Ben Hur. Years ago the Dragon and I watched Ben Hur for several years in succession on Good Friday. She’s watching it today far from me, but I will watch it sometime this weekend just for the sake of the shared memories.
People are just beginning to trickle into the library and I am struck again by the multi-ethnic blend of this community. There are head coverings of all sorts and before I check out I’ve listened to half a dozen languages. The park surrounding the library is bursting with spring. Ducks waddle across the roadways, geese honk overhead and splash into the ponds, while little boys follow their dads with fishing poles in hand.
A quick stop at the market puts me in line behind a middle-aged German couple. Again, the blend of cultures is striking.
At home I put on the classical radio station full blast and open the windows to let in the sunshine and warmth. We change out glass doors for screens and the sweet smell of almost spring is as delightful as the bright yellow of the forsythia bursting across the back of the yard.
Home. A wonderful place to spend the day, even with the routine of cooking and housework. Mikey from next door brings his son over to inspect the “chalet” out back. “Hey, Jeff hasn’t had a chance to see this place.” I chat with Jeff and find he’s married and gainfully employed. Is this the little red-haired kid who used to borrow my movies, hit me up for $$ to clear my drive using my snow blower and my gas, and generally cause mayhem in the neighborhood. Time is a wonderful thing. Living in one place long enough to see kids grow up is another boon. The next generation has taken over the cul-de-sac out front and a soccer game is bouncing around.
Tonight we’ll have friends for dinner – pilots from Africa, Afghanistan, Alaska, and Russia. Only two pilots. Lots of planes, flights, and countries in their corporate pockets. We’ll listen to crazy stories and share life. Then we’ll all head to church and take time to consider the solemn price paid for our lives.
It’s a good Friday.
Exercise with the “girls” is vigorous, followed by breakfast together at the little café down the way from Curves. They do a thriving breakfast business by providing cheap good food and being in the middle of a busy neighborhood. Conversation buzzes around the table from dogs to books to travel to Good Friday and its meaning.
Later I head to the library to exchange books and pick up Ben Hur. Years ago the Dragon and I watched Ben Hur for several years in succession on Good Friday. She’s watching it today far from me, but I will watch it sometime this weekend just for the sake of the shared memories.
People are just beginning to trickle into the library and I am struck again by the multi-ethnic blend of this community. There are head coverings of all sorts and before I check out I’ve listened to half a dozen languages. The park surrounding the library is bursting with spring. Ducks waddle across the roadways, geese honk overhead and splash into the ponds, while little boys follow their dads with fishing poles in hand.
A quick stop at the market puts me in line behind a middle-aged German couple. Again, the blend of cultures is striking.
At home I put on the classical radio station full blast and open the windows to let in the sunshine and warmth. We change out glass doors for screens and the sweet smell of almost spring is as delightful as the bright yellow of the forsythia bursting across the back of the yard.
Home. A wonderful place to spend the day, even with the routine of cooking and housework. Mikey from next door brings his son over to inspect the “chalet” out back. “Hey, Jeff hasn’t had a chance to see this place.” I chat with Jeff and find he’s married and gainfully employed. Is this the little red-haired kid who used to borrow my movies, hit me up for $$ to clear my drive using my snow blower and my gas, and generally cause mayhem in the neighborhood. Time is a wonderful thing. Living in one place long enough to see kids grow up is another boon. The next generation has taken over the cul-de-sac out front and a soccer game is bouncing around.
Tonight we’ll have friends for dinner – pilots from Africa, Afghanistan, Alaska, and Russia. Only two pilots. Lots of planes, flights, and countries in their corporate pockets. We’ll listen to crazy stories and share life. Then we’ll all head to church and take time to consider the solemn price paid for our lives.
It’s a good Friday.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Israeli monk
Day is ending as we come to Kiriath-Jearim* west of Jerusalem where a solid old Crusader church is nestled in a neighborhood of an Arab city. The garden inside the gate envelopes us as we walk in.
Our goal is a low door to the crypt, deep underground, but as we gather at the doorway, a small cluster of white robed monks walk down the garden. One sees our group and turns our way to greet us. “Ah,” says our guide, “It is Father Olivier.” His French pronunciation of “Oh-LIV-ee-ay” clues us to the monk's home country.
The two men greet each other warmly as old friends, and our guide explains that this is a group of biblical students.
“Perhaps you could tell them about yourself?”
“My English is not good,” the monk demurs in excellent English, but he proceeds. “I am a Benedictine monk. We spend our days in song and prayer. And we make pottery and liquor from lemons to sell.”
Our younger guide says, “Very, very good liquor.” The monk grabs him and rubs his shaved brown head. “You!” he laughs in obvious enjoyment of friend to friend.
Father Olivier continues. “I came from France. I am 62 and I have been here for 33 years. My family were not believers. In fact, my father was very anti-clergy. But my parents took me to see a movie when I was about twelve called Exodus and the story captured me. It’s a real story, you know, about some of the refugees coming here to Israel after the war.”
“After my military service, I joined a monastery in Normandy. As I sang the Psalms of David and read the Bible, I remembered the Exodus movie and it seemed that every page of scripture spoke of Jerusalem and this land. So I came, and I will never leave.”
“You know,” our older guide says, “Father Olivier is an Israeli citizen.” They look at each other with pride, both immigrants, both standing tall and sun-burnished with a look of freedom in their eyes that we have come to appreciate in this young country.
“Yes,” says the monk. “Young military boys and girls come here in small groups as part of their learning about Jerusalem.”
Our guides are both military guys of two different generations. So is the gentle monk. He goes on, “Benedictines are a hospitality order. We have people come to stay – Jews, Christians, Arabs, from the neighborhood. It is our mission.”
His English picks up as he shares his passion, even though he stumbles and asks for some individual words from our older French-speaking guide. “We are French mostly, but one man is from the Congo. And among the sisters there are French, German, Canadian, and also one from Congo. There are differences, yes, but we look past the differences. We are much the same, like those of this country.”
“I will stay here all my life,” he concludes. “Our commitment is not for a time. It is for all time.”
We leave Olivier and wander the simple lofty church left by the Crusaders. The faces of the frescoes were battered off by one of the Muslim invasions. The church stands, damaged, but solid. Father Olivier will keep his promise. Like the rock of the old church, differences and conflict will not move him. We sing a simple hymn before we leave the nave and the sound echoes off the walls and back to us.
“He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ arose.”
It is a fitting end to a journey back in time. A stop on the way to a modern world, a refuge from the busyness outside the gates, a reminder that commitment brings stability and stability is eternal.
* “And the men of Kiriath-jearim came and took the ark of the Lord and brought it to the house of Abinadab on the hill…a long time passed, some twenty years, and all the house of the Israel lamented after the Lord.” 1 Sam. 7:1-2
Our goal is a low door to the crypt, deep underground, but as we gather at the doorway, a small cluster of white robed monks walk down the garden. One sees our group and turns our way to greet us. “Ah,” says our guide, “It is Father Olivier.” His French pronunciation of “Oh-LIV-ee-ay” clues us to the monk's home country.
The two men greet each other warmly as old friends, and our guide explains that this is a group of biblical students.
“Perhaps you could tell them about yourself?”
“My English is not good,” the monk demurs in excellent English, but he proceeds. “I am a Benedictine monk. We spend our days in song and prayer. And we make pottery and liquor from lemons to sell.”
Our younger guide says, “Very, very good liquor.” The monk grabs him and rubs his shaved brown head. “You!” he laughs in obvious enjoyment of friend to friend.
Father Olivier continues. “I came from France. I am 62 and I have been here for 33 years. My family were not believers. In fact, my father was very anti-clergy. But my parents took me to see a movie when I was about twelve called Exodus and the story captured me. It’s a real story, you know, about some of the refugees coming here to Israel after the war.”
“After my military service, I joined a monastery in Normandy. As I sang the Psalms of David and read the Bible, I remembered the Exodus movie and it seemed that every page of scripture spoke of Jerusalem and this land. So I came, and I will never leave.”
“You know,” our older guide says, “Father Olivier is an Israeli citizen.” They look at each other with pride, both immigrants, both standing tall and sun-burnished with a look of freedom in their eyes that we have come to appreciate in this young country.
“Yes,” says the monk. “Young military boys and girls come here in small groups as part of their learning about Jerusalem.”
Our guides are both military guys of two different generations. So is the gentle monk. He goes on, “Benedictines are a hospitality order. We have people come to stay – Jews, Christians, Arabs, from the neighborhood. It is our mission.”
His English picks up as he shares his passion, even though he stumbles and asks for some individual words from our older French-speaking guide. “We are French mostly, but one man is from the Congo. And among the sisters there are French, German, Canadian, and also one from Congo. There are differences, yes, but we look past the differences. We are much the same, like those of this country.”
“I will stay here all my life,” he concludes. “Our commitment is not for a time. It is for all time.”
We leave Olivier and wander the simple lofty church left by the Crusaders. The faces of the frescoes were battered off by one of the Muslim invasions. The church stands, damaged, but solid. Father Olivier will keep his promise. Like the rock of the old church, differences and conflict will not move him. We sing a simple hymn before we leave the nave and the sound echoes off the walls and back to us.
“He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ arose.”
It is a fitting end to a journey back in time. A stop on the way to a modern world, a refuge from the busyness outside the gates, a reminder that commitment brings stability and stability is eternal.
* “And the men of Kiriath-jearim came and took the ark of the Lord and brought it to the house of Abinadab on the hill…a long time passed, some twenty years, and all the house of the Israel lamented after the Lord.” 1 Sam. 7:1-2
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Old City
By day the Old City is packed with tourists of every stripe. As we push our way from the Temple mount toward the Jaffa gate, we mingle with a group of Filipinos carrying a cross and singing, Germans stopping to shop, and a gaggle of middle-aged coffee drinkers chatting in Yiddish.
There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.
The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.
A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.
The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.
Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.
Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.
Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.
“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”
We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.
There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.
A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.
A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.
Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.
We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.
Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.
Ageless, timeless, eternal.
There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.
The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.
A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.
The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.
Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.
Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.
Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.
“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”
We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.
There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.
A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.
A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.
Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.
We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.
Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.
Ageless, timeless, eternal.
The Politics of Perfume
Roman had a problem. A huge city, people living on top of people, crowded streets and alleys. People who eat, sleep, and well get rid of what they ate through natural processes.
People who live in rural settings have space and fields and can bury today’s problem one place and tomorrow’s another. But city dwellers have no where to put their waste. In Rome, citizens emptied their chamber post out the window to the street. Streets were washed with water from the top down. But water is a precious commodity and doesn’t always cover the smell. No wonder the higher off the street living quarters always cost more money.
Something is needed to counteract odor. Perfume. Perfume in the ancient world became as precious as gold, maybe more.
The best source of perfume was in Yemen, down the Arabian Peninsula from Israel. Traders brought perfume up the road of the kings, across the Edomite kingdom, past Petra, past the Dead Sea, and north to the ports.
He who controlled the route of the perfume controlled the economy. Herod the Great was brutal, braggadocios, and brilliant. He was also the most outstanding architect of antiquity.
It was Herod who built a huge seaport at Caesarea where there was no natural harbor. It was Herod who took the top off one mountain and put it on another to build his Herodium. It was Herod who took the stronghold in the desert and built the fortress that is called Masada. Put a ruler on the map and these architectural wonders lie in a straight line from the source of perfume to the seaport.
Was Masada built originally to control the perfume trade? Who knows? It stands in the wilderness as a stronghold with many stories – the most famous happening long after Herod’s death. The final rebellion of the Jews was squelched by Rome at Masada in the early ‘70’s AD. It is at Masada that the Roman forces seiged for almost two years, finally breaking through the ramparts to find that the rebels had taken their own lives freely to escape slavery. There was food and water left in abundance, but Rome was cheated out of victory. Herod was long gone when this happened.
Power is a strange idol. Herod definitely worshiped power and perhaps controlling the perfume trace was one of his power plays. However the story is told, Herod, like the Roman forces, was cheated out of a victory.
He heard there was a king of the Jews born in Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, smack beside his Herodium fortress. He told the kings from the east to go find the king and come back to tell him where he was so that he “could go and worship also.”
The kings found the young king, worshipped, and left by another route without telling Herod anything. Infuriated, Herod ordered the massacre of all the little boys under two and the mothers of Bethlehem wept in bitterness.
But the little king and his parents had slipped away to Egypt. They financed the escape with perfume.
People who live in rural settings have space and fields and can bury today’s problem one place and tomorrow’s another. But city dwellers have no where to put their waste. In Rome, citizens emptied their chamber post out the window to the street. Streets were washed with water from the top down. But water is a precious commodity and doesn’t always cover the smell. No wonder the higher off the street living quarters always cost more money.
Something is needed to counteract odor. Perfume. Perfume in the ancient world became as precious as gold, maybe more.
The best source of perfume was in Yemen, down the Arabian Peninsula from Israel. Traders brought perfume up the road of the kings, across the Edomite kingdom, past Petra, past the Dead Sea, and north to the ports.
He who controlled the route of the perfume controlled the economy. Herod the Great was brutal, braggadocios, and brilliant. He was also the most outstanding architect of antiquity.
It was Herod who built a huge seaport at Caesarea where there was no natural harbor. It was Herod who took the top off one mountain and put it on another to build his Herodium. It was Herod who took the stronghold in the desert and built the fortress that is called Masada. Put a ruler on the map and these architectural wonders lie in a straight line from the source of perfume to the seaport.
Was Masada built originally to control the perfume trade? Who knows? It stands in the wilderness as a stronghold with many stories – the most famous happening long after Herod’s death. The final rebellion of the Jews was squelched by Rome at Masada in the early ‘70’s AD. It is at Masada that the Roman forces seiged for almost two years, finally breaking through the ramparts to find that the rebels had taken their own lives freely to escape slavery. There was food and water left in abundance, but Rome was cheated out of victory. Herod was long gone when this happened.
Power is a strange idol. Herod definitely worshiped power and perhaps controlling the perfume trace was one of his power plays. However the story is told, Herod, like the Roman forces, was cheated out of a victory.
He heard there was a king of the Jews born in Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, smack beside his Herodium fortress. He told the kings from the east to go find the king and come back to tell him where he was so that he “could go and worship also.”
The kings found the young king, worshipped, and left by another route without telling Herod anything. Infuriated, Herod ordered the massacre of all the little boys under two and the mothers of Bethlehem wept in bitterness.
But the little king and his parents had slipped away to Egypt. They financed the escape with perfume.
The sound of coffee
The Bedouin leads a lonely life on the edge of the desert. There are no hotels or restaurants, no news media bringing up to the minute reports. So a visitor is welcome because he brings news – news in exchange for hospitality.
When a visitor arrives, a traveler, he is welcomed. “Sit, sit,” says Achmed the nomad. “I will make coffee.”
Achmed puts a skillet on the fire and throws a handful of coffee beans in to roast. Coffee is a valuable substance, but Achmed will pay for news. He makes small talk with his visitor while the coffee roasts.
When the coffee is roasted, Achmed takes it off the fire. He brings down his mortar and pestle and begins to pound the beans. Achmed is methodical – boom, boom, taka, taka, taka. Boom, boom, taka, taka, taka.
At some distance Hamid, another nomad, hears the sound of coffee. He listens. “Ah,” he says to his brother, “That is Achmed. If it were Nabeel across the way it would be boom taka boom taka boom.” Each man has his own sound of coffee.
The men begin to arrive at Achmed’s tent. There is some jealousy that the visitor chose to stop with Achmed but the scent of news is stronger than the distrust, and the sound of coffee draws them. The visitor is served first. The routine is like the rhythm of the generations. A bitter cup first because it is lonely in the desert. Then a sweet cup because the visitor brings news. And then a bitter cup because he will leave soon.
The small talk is over now. While the women, hidden from view but listening in, prepare a meal, the news is shared.
It may not be earthshaking. A man a days’ walk to the east has a daughter he wants to marry. Ah, Nabeel has a son who needs a wife. Another man, a little close says the visitor, has a herd of sheep he’d like to divide and sell. Achmed’s son wants to enlarge his flock and Hamid’s brother also needs sheep. Then there is news that the tribe to the south are arguing over water. Water is always the source of trouble.
The meal is finally ready and the men sit to eat. A visitor has come and it is an occasion for celebration. The sound of coffee is sweet in the bitter loneliness of the desert.
(Tito’s story told while climbing up the Shephelah from the Dead Sea)
When a visitor arrives, a traveler, he is welcomed. “Sit, sit,” says Achmed the nomad. “I will make coffee.”
Achmed puts a skillet on the fire and throws a handful of coffee beans in to roast. Coffee is a valuable substance, but Achmed will pay for news. He makes small talk with his visitor while the coffee roasts.
When the coffee is roasted, Achmed takes it off the fire. He brings down his mortar and pestle and begins to pound the beans. Achmed is methodical – boom, boom, taka, taka, taka. Boom, boom, taka, taka, taka.
At some distance Hamid, another nomad, hears the sound of coffee. He listens. “Ah,” he says to his brother, “That is Achmed. If it were Nabeel across the way it would be boom taka boom taka boom.” Each man has his own sound of coffee.
The men begin to arrive at Achmed’s tent. There is some jealousy that the visitor chose to stop with Achmed but the scent of news is stronger than the distrust, and the sound of coffee draws them. The visitor is served first. The routine is like the rhythm of the generations. A bitter cup first because it is lonely in the desert. Then a sweet cup because the visitor brings news. And then a bitter cup because he will leave soon.
The small talk is over now. While the women, hidden from view but listening in, prepare a meal, the news is shared.
It may not be earthshaking. A man a days’ walk to the east has a daughter he wants to marry. Ah, Nabeel has a son who needs a wife. Another man, a little close says the visitor, has a herd of sheep he’d like to divide and sell. Achmed’s son wants to enlarge his flock and Hamid’s brother also needs sheep. Then there is news that the tribe to the south are arguing over water. Water is always the source of trouble.
The meal is finally ready and the men sit to eat. A visitor has come and it is an occasion for celebration. The sound of coffee is sweet in the bitter loneliness of the desert.
(Tito’s story told while climbing up the Shephelah from the Dead Sea)
The Vultures of Gamla
The vultures are swirling overhead as we walk out the point of land that overlooks Gamla. They gather here at the intersection of two rivers that eventually flow in to the Sea of Galilee. A sanctuary for the birds who feed on death, and Gamla is a stark death memorial.
Gamla is a triangular camel humped peak with sharp, steep sides rushing down to the rivers on both sides. Thousands of Jewish rebels fled to Gamla just before the 70 AD destruction of Jerusalem. This “Masada of the North” appeared to be self-sufficient and impermeable. There were fields of grain, vineyards, olive trees. Homes and a synagogue nestled inside the gates.
We hike down a steep hill and out a ridge to the city gates, now smashed and broken from battering rams. The Romans held Gamla in siege for several years. Finally, when there was no longer hope for victory, the Jewish men took their families to the crest of the peak and threw them down. Then they themselves jumped to death in a mass suicide of 5000. Rome breached the gates, but like Masada, the victory was hollow. Men who have deep hope of eternal life will chose that alternative to slavery and Rome.
We wander the ruins, look at the olive press, ponder the thoughts like food and water supplies, cisterns and storage. We climb the peak and look down the steep sides to the river below. The sound of rushing water rises hundreds of feet to us.
Hiking back up the steep fact opposite Gamla, we talk about life. Are we so comfortable that we would chose to be captured over taking our lives to be spared from slavery to an enemy?
The vultures continue to circle overhead, though the city is deserted, and we head off across the plains to Mt. Carmel leaving them to their search.
Gamla is a triangular camel humped peak with sharp, steep sides rushing down to the rivers on both sides. Thousands of Jewish rebels fled to Gamla just before the 70 AD destruction of Jerusalem. This “Masada of the North” appeared to be self-sufficient and impermeable. There were fields of grain, vineyards, olive trees. Homes and a synagogue nestled inside the gates.
We hike down a steep hill and out a ridge to the city gates, now smashed and broken from battering rams. The Romans held Gamla in siege for several years. Finally, when there was no longer hope for victory, the Jewish men took their families to the crest of the peak and threw them down. Then they themselves jumped to death in a mass suicide of 5000. Rome breached the gates, but like Masada, the victory was hollow. Men who have deep hope of eternal life will chose that alternative to slavery and Rome.
We wander the ruins, look at the olive press, ponder the thoughts like food and water supplies, cisterns and storage. We climb the peak and look down the steep sides to the river below. The sound of rushing water rises hundreds of feet to us.
Hiking back up the steep fact opposite Gamla, we talk about life. Are we so comfortable that we would chose to be captured over taking our lives to be spared from slavery to an enemy?
The vultures continue to circle overhead, though the city is deserted, and we head off across the plains to Mt. Carmel leaving them to their search.
Cows of Bashan on the Golan Heights
Scaling the Golan Heights is no small feat. The roads run straight up into the sky from the shores of Lake Kinnesserat. Our first stop at the top is where battlements stood looking down on the settlements nestled along the shore. From here Syrian troops regularly picked off settlers in their fields. A long and complicated history between the French and the British divided the land along peculiar lines until the ’67 Six Day War.
Since then the Golan Heights have been in Israeli hands and they are rich. Orchards and vineyards blanket the slightly rolling plateau. Cattle graze, the sleek “cows of Bashan” from Amos 4:1, for this is Bashan.
It looks incredibly peaceful and that is the deception. The mines that still dot the fields don’t show through the thick grass but are deadly. The bunkers and occasional leftover bombed out tanks are mostly covered with trees. Eucalyptus groves disguise the battlement. Mountain tops bristle with communication devices.
It’s a tense and uneasy peace brought with blood. For now there is a veil of safety but it could change quickly.
But life has taken hold in the Golan Heights and a people who are tough and aggressive are willing to hedge their bets, plant, tend, and harvest the rich land. Tomorrow may bring destruction, but what is new about that?
Since then the Golan Heights have been in Israeli hands and they are rich. Orchards and vineyards blanket the slightly rolling plateau. Cattle graze, the sleek “cows of Bashan” from Amos 4:1, for this is Bashan.
It looks incredibly peaceful and that is the deception. The mines that still dot the fields don’t show through the thick grass but are deadly. The bunkers and occasional leftover bombed out tanks are mostly covered with trees. Eucalyptus groves disguise the battlement. Mountain tops bristle with communication devices.
It’s a tense and uneasy peace brought with blood. For now there is a veil of safety but it could change quickly.
But life has taken hold in the Golan Heights and a people who are tough and aggressive are willing to hedge their bets, plant, tend, and harvest the rich land. Tomorrow may bring destruction, but what is new about that?
Shrines and the Green Tour
Something there is in me that hates shrines. Mobs of tourists, matching scarves or caps, sleek bubble buses, guides babbling a potpourri of languages.
A shrine makes me feel I’m being played or fed a story. Even the bare fact that most of the shrines have historical evidence for their existence doesn’t put a better taste in my mouth. I am not a groupie, a follower, a shrine worshipper.
Give me Susita or the cliffs of Arbel. Let me wander with some Israeli teens on a school outing darting down the path in front of me, faces flushed with laughter. It’s the “pilgrims” I detest, however devout they are.
I seem to remember Jesus rebuking Peter when he wanted to build a shrine on Mt. Tabor, if that is actually the right place. There’s a shrine there now. Obviously, the pilgrims that have walked this land for centuries didn’t bother to read the script.
Thanks goodness I took the “green” tour where the grass amid ruins is our usual lecture venue, far from the pilgrims and groupies.
A shrine makes me feel I’m being played or fed a story. Even the bare fact that most of the shrines have historical evidence for their existence doesn’t put a better taste in my mouth. I am not a groupie, a follower, a shrine worshipper.
Give me Susita or the cliffs of Arbel. Let me wander with some Israeli teens on a school outing darting down the path in front of me, faces flushed with laughter. It’s the “pilgrims” I detest, however devout they are.
I seem to remember Jesus rebuking Peter when he wanted to build a shrine on Mt. Tabor, if that is actually the right place. There’s a shrine there now. Obviously, the pilgrims that have walked this land for centuries didn’t bother to read the script.
Thanks goodness I took the “green” tour where the grass amid ruins is our usual lecture venue, far from the pilgrims and groupies.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The city set on a hill
On the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, a ruined city rises into the Golan Heights from En Gev. It is called Susita in Aramaic or Hippos in Greek – the place of the horse. A small volcanic outcrop.
We wander off the main road onto a track labeled “farm use only.” Our guide suggests we all moo to give some legitimacy to the venture, but behind the jest he as a permit to take us to this place no one else seems to bother to visit. What they miss!
The bus climbs up a switchback road as high as possible and then we set off on foot up a rocky track. Brimming the crest we find ourselves on a street paved with smooth basalt blocks, neatly set together. To the side are hollow rocks that are the remains of the siphon system that drew water up here from another nearby mountain.
We wander Susita marveling at the remains of four Byzantine churches, a cistern system, a wide marketplace, and tumbled ruins of shops and homes.
This could have been the city set on a hill that cannot be hidden from Matthew 5:14. Certainly it would have been visible by day and night from all around the Sea of Galilee. Rising in the Hellenistic period about 300 BC, it remained until it’s decline after the Arab invasion of 749 AD.
Hiking down later, another woman and I ponder what might have been the rhythms of this place. Isolated and quiet, yet filled with imported marble and granite, one of the Decapolis cities right in the path of the Via Maris – the way of the sea that led to Damascas.
Who lived in Susita? Why? The stones only hint at answers.
We wander off the main road onto a track labeled “farm use only.” Our guide suggests we all moo to give some legitimacy to the venture, but behind the jest he as a permit to take us to this place no one else seems to bother to visit. What they miss!
The bus climbs up a switchback road as high as possible and then we set off on foot up a rocky track. Brimming the crest we find ourselves on a street paved with smooth basalt blocks, neatly set together. To the side are hollow rocks that are the remains of the siphon system that drew water up here from another nearby mountain.
We wander Susita marveling at the remains of four Byzantine churches, a cistern system, a wide marketplace, and tumbled ruins of shops and homes.
This could have been the city set on a hill that cannot be hidden from Matthew 5:14. Certainly it would have been visible by day and night from all around the Sea of Galilee. Rising in the Hellenistic period about 300 BC, it remained until it’s decline after the Arab invasion of 749 AD.
Hiking down later, another woman and I ponder what might have been the rhythms of this place. Isolated and quiet, yet filled with imported marble and granite, one of the Decapolis cities right in the path of the Via Maris – the way of the sea that led to Damascas.
Who lived in Susita? Why? The stones only hint at answers.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Cliffs of fear
We arrive at a farm in Galilee about 1:30 in the afternoon and are met with tea smelling of cardamom and baklava on trays. It’s a donkey farm. Soon we set out, half mounted on little donkeys while the other half of the group lead the burdened beasts. The girls in front of us dub their donkey “Hadassah” so we call ours “Deborah.” This, after all, is Israel.
Hadassah and Deborah have only two thoughts – see how much greenery they can snag along the way and see if they can dismount their riders. Our feet almost drag the ground, and the weeds cut into our legs. Halfway up the thistle bound path to the cliffs of Arbel, we trade places, rider and leader, and proceed to near the summit where the donkeys bid us farewell and hasten back down while we climb higher.
The view from the Arbel is dramatic, even on a misty day. We linger at the summit taking in the fresh green hills of spring, reaching down to the Sea of Galilee. Then we turn to descend a narrow track.
It is rugged but passable for the first few minutes. Then it gets dicey. Iron handles are hammered into the cliffs with stiff chains between them. Hand over hand, foot after careful foot, we creep down a hundred feet or more of steep cliff. The younger ones dance their way ahead but others of the group struggle.
My friend, extremely phobic of heights, is caught between her desire to turn back from a steeper climb than she anticipated and no way to do that. A team forms around her, one man above and one below with a third to coach and encourage. Slowly they creep down the cliff above me. I marvel at the procession. One stands above her hands and talks while the ones below move her feet one at a time from rock to rock. The bonding is palpable.
Finally they drop to a level spot and everyone cheers. The final descent is merely a steep path through pastureland. At the end of the day it is not just the cliffs of the Arbel that have been scaled. It is fear faced, dealt with step by step.
And conquered.
Hadassah and Deborah have only two thoughts – see how much greenery they can snag along the way and see if they can dismount their riders. Our feet almost drag the ground, and the weeds cut into our legs. Halfway up the thistle bound path to the cliffs of Arbel, we trade places, rider and leader, and proceed to near the summit where the donkeys bid us farewell and hasten back down while we climb higher.
The view from the Arbel is dramatic, even on a misty day. We linger at the summit taking in the fresh green hills of spring, reaching down to the Sea of Galilee. Then we turn to descend a narrow track.
It is rugged but passable for the first few minutes. Then it gets dicey. Iron handles are hammered into the cliffs with stiff chains between them. Hand over hand, foot after careful foot, we creep down a hundred feet or more of steep cliff. The younger ones dance their way ahead but others of the group struggle.
My friend, extremely phobic of heights, is caught between her desire to turn back from a steeper climb than she anticipated and no way to do that. A team forms around her, one man above and one below with a third to coach and encourage. Slowly they creep down the cliff above me. I marvel at the procession. One stands above her hands and talks while the ones below move her feet one at a time from rock to rock. The bonding is palpable.
Finally they drop to a level spot and everyone cheers. The final descent is merely a steep path through pastureland. At the end of the day it is not just the cliffs of the Arbel that have been scaled. It is fear faced, dealt with step by step.
And conquered.
Caesaria’s lasting legacy
Caesaria stands bleached in the blazing sun, the Mediterranean pushing up against the old wharf, a lasting memory of Herod the Great. Herod may have been arrogant and brutal, but no one else in his world built a massive port city where there was no natural bay or harbor.
The theater is partially restored and the hippodrome stands waiting for horses. You can close your eyes and almost hear the crowd of men roaring, the hooves pounding the sand as horses pulling chariots make the sharp and dangerous curve in front of the Roman rulers.
Marble and granite columns lie scattered on the ground brought from north Africa and Turkey, two or three to a ship. Some are recycled into Crusader walls that rise behind the ruins.
The sea has done it’s work and most of Herod’s harbor lies beneath the waves. Tsunamis and harsh weather tossed his cement and walls into the air, and then buried them deep. The great port didn’t survive the waves and earthquakes.
All except the broken pieces. But the name of Herod remains today in our minds and world, and after all, isn’t that a fair measure of greatness?
The theater is partially restored and the hippodrome stands waiting for horses. You can close your eyes and almost hear the crowd of men roaring, the hooves pounding the sand as horses pulling chariots make the sharp and dangerous curve in front of the Roman rulers.
Marble and granite columns lie scattered on the ground brought from north Africa and Turkey, two or three to a ship. Some are recycled into Crusader walls that rise behind the ruins.
The sea has done it’s work and most of Herod’s harbor lies beneath the waves. Tsunamis and harsh weather tossed his cement and walls into the air, and then buried them deep. The great port didn’t survive the waves and earthquakes.
All except the broken pieces. But the name of Herod remains today in our minds and world, and after all, isn’t that a fair measure of greatness?
Jaffa, port of the world
POST REFLECTS RECENT TRAVEL IN ISRAEL
Against the sea, the daylight is going rose while the lights of the new-old city of Tel Aviv twinkle in the gathering dusk. There is still enough light to see the crashing surf from where we stand in what was once Joppa, or Jaffa.
A prayer call rises from a nearby mosque and sings a counterpoint with church bells. Far below us are the remnants of city walls, centuries, millennia deep.
This was the crossroad of the ancient Middle East. Trade from Egypt came north toward Babylon on the Via Maris or “way of the sea”, took an east hook here at the river Yarkon, went across the Shephelah, took another turn to the north, right to Meggido, and then across Galilee to Damascus and the East.
Solomon and Ezra imported cedars to Joppa and then schlepped them up to Jerusalem. From Joppa Jonah tried to head west, only to return and take the Via Maris to Nineveh. Peter was served his first non-Kosher meal on a rooftop here. Greeks, Romans, and all the invaders of the centuries have come ashore at Joppa. Early pilgrims of more modern times landed here; there are still visible remains of German, Russian, and African settlements.
Today Jaffa is largely Arab, a split from the war of independence when Israel claimed Tel Aviv, just beside, and left Jaffa behind.
It is all one city now, ruin on ruin with gleaming modern blocks capping the top. The church bells linger against the call of the imam. An Israeli bride poses for a picture on the hillside, white dress gleaming against the ruins.
Darkness falls and we head north to the new old city.
Against the sea, the daylight is going rose while the lights of the new-old city of Tel Aviv twinkle in the gathering dusk. There is still enough light to see the crashing surf from where we stand in what was once Joppa, or Jaffa.
A prayer call rises from a nearby mosque and sings a counterpoint with church bells. Far below us are the remnants of city walls, centuries, millennia deep.
This was the crossroad of the ancient Middle East. Trade from Egypt came north toward Babylon on the Via Maris or “way of the sea”, took an east hook here at the river Yarkon, went across the Shephelah, took another turn to the north, right to Meggido, and then across Galilee to Damascus and the East.
Solomon and Ezra imported cedars to Joppa and then schlepped them up to Jerusalem. From Joppa Jonah tried to head west, only to return and take the Via Maris to Nineveh. Peter was served his first non-Kosher meal on a rooftop here. Greeks, Romans, and all the invaders of the centuries have come ashore at Joppa. Early pilgrims of more modern times landed here; there are still visible remains of German, Russian, and African settlements.
Today Jaffa is largely Arab, a split from the war of independence when Israel claimed Tel Aviv, just beside, and left Jaffa behind.
It is all one city now, ruin on ruin with gleaming modern blocks capping the top. The church bells linger against the call of the imam. An Israeli bride poses for a picture on the hillside, white dress gleaming against the ruins.
Darkness falls and we head north to the new old city.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
March Madness
The Dreamer and the Driver both have March birthdays. Over the years we’ve often celebrated their birthdays together as a family gathering. Memories flood my mind of parties. Eating cupcakes, high in the rice terraces of the Philippines, perched on the edge of the world. Gauze drapes turning the living room into a middle-eastern tent while girls feasted on hummus and lamb, or kimonos, chopsticks, and a low table turning the family room into a Japanese restaurant. A gaggle of Chinese teens eating spaghetti in Hong Kong. Lots and lots of fun memories over the years.
Tonight is March madness 2010. With two of the three daughters nearby, we decide to celebrate birthdays early. The table, decked with candles, is a mix of fine china and IKEA plastic reflecting the age span across decades. It’s Friday night, there’s traffic, and everyone is late getting to the house. At close to seven the four small gremlins are tired and hungry. The Dragon has Skyped in and everyone stops by the computer to chat with her before we hit the table and she heads to a volleyball game. Sticky fingers hug her through the screen.
Bug, beside me, howls loudly all through grace and then gets a stern reprimand from her father. “You don’t need to howl during grace. Get some food in you.” Almost instantly she’s engrossed in her plate and the howling ends. Ever the gourmet, she wants hollandaise on her broccoli and several refills of sparkling apple juice. Bear, the purist across the table, tucks in with equal vengeance but scorns hollandaise and sparkling juice. Jon Boy inhales carrots faster than either parent can get into his mouth until he’s finally willing to gnaw on a tough bread crust and give them a break. Food that missed small mouths piles up on the floor around the booster chairs and high chairs. Boy Blue, who ate enough lunch to satisfy an army, is drooping in his chair to sweet dreams of airplanes or FAY-GEE as he calls them. Our house, in the flight path of the airport, is this boy’s dream. Adult conversation bounces around the table. There’s a Mac vs. PC discussion on the male side while the women are busy feeding themselves and the kids. Main course accomplished, the Driver opts to put Boy Blue to bed before cake and cards.
Bug and Bear are excused to wash and play till dessert. I am clearing dishes when Bug, coming on three, grabs me in the kitchen. I kneel to her level. “Grammy, I have a terrible belly ache.”
I suspect a ploy but reply solemnly, “Oh, do you?”
“Yes, Grammy,” she says with blue eyes wide, “but I think cake would make it go away very fast.”
“Bug, whose birthdays are we celebrating this month?”
“Mine?”
“No, yours is next month. This month it’s your mom and Aunt Jessie’s. Don’t you think we should wait for cake till she’s finished putting your cousin to bed?”
“Well, I guess so, but cake would really help my belly ache.”
Back at the table, we present the cake, a favorite of German sweet chocolate. We're poised to begin but Poppa has a new camera and he’s fiddling with settings.
Bear, beside him, pats his arm. “Poppa, can we begin? I want cake and I’m not allowed to start till you pick up your fork.”
March madness. A maelstrom of activity and noise and food and chaos. Someday we’ll all sit quietly around a beautifully set table and nothing will fall on the floor. No one will howl through grace. It will be civilized and polite and adult.
No wait. This is our family. That will never happen, even if we're all adults, and by then there may be another generation falling out of the booster chairs.
Tonight is March madness 2010. With two of the three daughters nearby, we decide to celebrate birthdays early. The table, decked with candles, is a mix of fine china and IKEA plastic reflecting the age span across decades. It’s Friday night, there’s traffic, and everyone is late getting to the house. At close to seven the four small gremlins are tired and hungry. The Dragon has Skyped in and everyone stops by the computer to chat with her before we hit the table and she heads to a volleyball game. Sticky fingers hug her through the screen.
Bug, beside me, howls loudly all through grace and then gets a stern reprimand from her father. “You don’t need to howl during grace. Get some food in you.” Almost instantly she’s engrossed in her plate and the howling ends. Ever the gourmet, she wants hollandaise on her broccoli and several refills of sparkling apple juice. Bear, the purist across the table, tucks in with equal vengeance but scorns hollandaise and sparkling juice. Jon Boy inhales carrots faster than either parent can get into his mouth until he’s finally willing to gnaw on a tough bread crust and give them a break. Food that missed small mouths piles up on the floor around the booster chairs and high chairs. Boy Blue, who ate enough lunch to satisfy an army, is drooping in his chair to sweet dreams of airplanes or FAY-GEE as he calls them. Our house, in the flight path of the airport, is this boy’s dream. Adult conversation bounces around the table. There’s a Mac vs. PC discussion on the male side while the women are busy feeding themselves and the kids. Main course accomplished, the Driver opts to put Boy Blue to bed before cake and cards.
Bug and Bear are excused to wash and play till dessert. I am clearing dishes when Bug, coming on three, grabs me in the kitchen. I kneel to her level. “Grammy, I have a terrible belly ache.”
I suspect a ploy but reply solemnly, “Oh, do you?”
“Yes, Grammy,” she says with blue eyes wide, “but I think cake would make it go away very fast.”
“Bug, whose birthdays are we celebrating this month?”
“Mine?”
“No, yours is next month. This month it’s your mom and Aunt Jessie’s. Don’t you think we should wait for cake till she’s finished putting your cousin to bed?”
“Well, I guess so, but cake would really help my belly ache.”
Back at the table, we present the cake, a favorite of German sweet chocolate. We're poised to begin but Poppa has a new camera and he’s fiddling with settings.
Bear, beside him, pats his arm. “Poppa, can we begin? I want cake and I’m not allowed to start till you pick up your fork.”
March madness. A maelstrom of activity and noise and food and chaos. Someday we’ll all sit quietly around a beautifully set table and nothing will fall on the floor. No one will howl through grace. It will be civilized and polite and adult.
No wait. This is our family. That will never happen, even if we're all adults, and by then there may be another generation falling out of the booster chairs.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Two Words
I often get asked, “How do you do what you do? All that flying and traveling and going so many places? Don’t you get tired?” The easy answer is “Yes, I get tired.” But the deeper answer to all the questions has struck me forcibly this week.
How do we do this? One word. Prayer. Oh, and one more word. Technology.
Not our prayer, though of course we too pray. It’s the prayer of God’s people that we request and receive. The women like Katherine who toddled up to me last weekend at a meeting in Lancaster with a huge smile. My husband says she was old when she ran his middle-school camps, so who knows how old she is now. But Katherine is a warrior who prays. “Oh, I was hoping you would be here,” she said. “I love getting your email and I pray you through.” Then she proceeded to ask specific questions about our recent travel to Asia. Who said older people can’t enjoy the internet?
Tuesday it was a note from Kay telling me that she and her sister are praying for us this week. “Just love having the news regularly. We go everywhere with you.” Then there’s Jo who “stalks” us on Facebook and travels the world with us even though she doesn’t like to fly. Wednesday night it was Marian, Sam, Jay, Gladys, and a crew of others who wanted to ask questions because they read, and then, they pray.
There’s no magic to this. No formulas. No incantations. No hocus pocus. Prayer does not change the plans of God, but I firmly believe that prayer pulls us alongside God’s will and helps us understand His plans.
Thursday night I sat in the middle of hundreds of students at the end of several days of concentrated focus on God’s heart for the world. We had requested prayer for this week, for these students, for our interaction with them. God worked in their hearts and all of us who were there to represent the world had deep and frequent conversations with students seriously asking how to know what God wanted in their lives.
The speaker asked those who had done some “business with God” this week to come forward. He wasn’t asking for commitment to overseas service, but for commitment to follow the heart of God -- wherever that led. Probably half the students streamed to the front and knelt together across the front.
Later they stood in silent lines, moving forward to serve themselves in communion. At the close, they gathered around the speaker and his wife to pray for them as they prepare to return to Europe.
Most of these students will not serve overseas as missionaries, but they will be senders. They will be the prayer warriors of a distant generation. They will toddle up to younger missionaries in 60 or 70 years and tell them how much they enjoy whatever communication they get at that point in time. Maybe they will be able to virtually visit “their missionaries” on the screen, better than Skype and all we have now. I don’t know what it will look like, but prayer has always moved people to follow the heart of God. The Apostle Paul asked for it and got it from his friends too.
Technology just makes it happen faster, and brings huge blessings both directions – to the warriors at home and the warriors on the front line.
How do we do this? One word. Prayer. Oh, and one more word. Technology.
Not our prayer, though of course we too pray. It’s the prayer of God’s people that we request and receive. The women like Katherine who toddled up to me last weekend at a meeting in Lancaster with a huge smile. My husband says she was old when she ran his middle-school camps, so who knows how old she is now. But Katherine is a warrior who prays. “Oh, I was hoping you would be here,” she said. “I love getting your email and I pray you through.” Then she proceeded to ask specific questions about our recent travel to Asia. Who said older people can’t enjoy the internet?
Tuesday it was a note from Kay telling me that she and her sister are praying for us this week. “Just love having the news regularly. We go everywhere with you.” Then there’s Jo who “stalks” us on Facebook and travels the world with us even though she doesn’t like to fly. Wednesday night it was Marian, Sam, Jay, Gladys, and a crew of others who wanted to ask questions because they read, and then, they pray.
There’s no magic to this. No formulas. No incantations. No hocus pocus. Prayer does not change the plans of God, but I firmly believe that prayer pulls us alongside God’s will and helps us understand His plans.
Thursday night I sat in the middle of hundreds of students at the end of several days of concentrated focus on God’s heart for the world. We had requested prayer for this week, for these students, for our interaction with them. God worked in their hearts and all of us who were there to represent the world had deep and frequent conversations with students seriously asking how to know what God wanted in their lives.
The speaker asked those who had done some “business with God” this week to come forward. He wasn’t asking for commitment to overseas service, but for commitment to follow the heart of God -- wherever that led. Probably half the students streamed to the front and knelt together across the front.
Later they stood in silent lines, moving forward to serve themselves in communion. At the close, they gathered around the speaker and his wife to pray for them as they prepare to return to Europe.
Most of these students will not serve overseas as missionaries, but they will be senders. They will be the prayer warriors of a distant generation. They will toddle up to younger missionaries in 60 or 70 years and tell them how much they enjoy whatever communication they get at that point in time. Maybe they will be able to virtually visit “their missionaries” on the screen, better than Skype and all we have now. I don’t know what it will look like, but prayer has always moved people to follow the heart of God. The Apostle Paul asked for it and got it from his friends too.
Technology just makes it happen faster, and brings huge blessings both directions – to the warriors at home and the warriors on the front line.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
White space
Returning from Asia a few weeks ago, a friend in Japan encouraged me to “get some white space” in my life. As fellow publications writers and editors, she and I appreciate white space on a page. White space in life is harder, but without it, the spirit, mind, and body collapse into chaos.
Today is a white space day.
The alarm hasn’t gone off yet when I rise in the dark at 6:45, but I’m done sleeping. For me, the first order of life is coffee, and the kitchen is my favorite spot in the house. However, last night we found evidence that we’d been gone too much and we set a mousetrap under the sink. I check it first thing and yes, there's small mouse in trap. The house is ours again.
Coffee started, I create a simple breakfast before calling the man of the house to come. His first order of business is to dispose of the mouse. It’s not that I’m afraid of mice but if this is my white space day, he can deal with disposal of mice. He’s also working at home today so we sit at the counter talking for a time over the second cup of coffee, then reading in two different directions. I’m in 1 Peter this week, and he appears to be in Ecclesiastes.
The next white activity is shoveling a few inches off the driveway. Perhaps it’s a strange affection but I love shoveling fresh snow on a cold morning. There’s a rhythm to plowing back and forth across the drive that is both relaxing and exhilarating.
A white space day includes the normal drill of life – laundry, cleaning, catching up on email, but today I take time to browse a store in search of a few specific items for travel next month. I hate shopping, but today I wander, try things on, text the Dragon with a question about a sweater she might like, retrace my steps, chat with the woman hanging shirts. Next is the library to drop off books. Two weeks ago I actually sat with a cup of coffee in a corner among the stacks, book in hand. A good white space activity, but today I don’t need books so I go on to a second store where again I do more than search, grab, and fly. There is absolutely no one here today and it’s fun to just explore. Maybe the sheets of white fluff falling outside have discouraged the crowds, or maybe I’ve never been here on a Tuesday morning.
Home again I unload the car, put things away, grab a handful of almonds, and again sit and watch the snow falling outside. I open my computer and catch up on some correspondence. Later we’ll go out for a late lunch/early dinner since we both have meetings tonight.
White space. On a page it gives the sense of rest and balance while focusing attention on what is really important. In life it does the same thing. In my life, it doesn’t happen enough, and since I am a confessing workaholic, that is largely my own fault. Today is a day to step back, breathe, think, read, and focus. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.
Today is a white space day.
The alarm hasn’t gone off yet when I rise in the dark at 6:45, but I’m done sleeping. For me, the first order of life is coffee, and the kitchen is my favorite spot in the house. However, last night we found evidence that we’d been gone too much and we set a mousetrap under the sink. I check it first thing and yes, there's small mouse in trap. The house is ours again.
Coffee started, I create a simple breakfast before calling the man of the house to come. His first order of business is to dispose of the mouse. It’s not that I’m afraid of mice but if this is my white space day, he can deal with disposal of mice. He’s also working at home today so we sit at the counter talking for a time over the second cup of coffee, then reading in two different directions. I’m in 1 Peter this week, and he appears to be in Ecclesiastes.
The next white activity is shoveling a few inches off the driveway. Perhaps it’s a strange affection but I love shoveling fresh snow on a cold morning. There’s a rhythm to plowing back and forth across the drive that is both relaxing and exhilarating.
A white space day includes the normal drill of life – laundry, cleaning, catching up on email, but today I take time to browse a store in search of a few specific items for travel next month. I hate shopping, but today I wander, try things on, text the Dragon with a question about a sweater she might like, retrace my steps, chat with the woman hanging shirts. Next is the library to drop off books. Two weeks ago I actually sat with a cup of coffee in a corner among the stacks, book in hand. A good white space activity, but today I don’t need books so I go on to a second store where again I do more than search, grab, and fly. There is absolutely no one here today and it’s fun to just explore. Maybe the sheets of white fluff falling outside have discouraged the crowds, or maybe I’ve never been here on a Tuesday morning.
Home again I unload the car, put things away, grab a handful of almonds, and again sit and watch the snow falling outside. I open my computer and catch up on some correspondence. Later we’ll go out for a late lunch/early dinner since we both have meetings tonight.
White space. On a page it gives the sense of rest and balance while focusing attention on what is really important. In life it does the same thing. In my life, it doesn’t happen enough, and since I am a confessing workaholic, that is largely my own fault. Today is a day to step back, breathe, think, read, and focus. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Celebrating Keren’s life-day
Months ago the Dreamer said to me, “I’d like to do something special on the anniversary of losing Keren. Something that would celebrate her life, and all we’ve learned. Not a sad time, but a good time.” We brainstormed and it happened. A life-day celebration.
Sunshine blazes in the windows all across the back of the wide ranch, even though snowflakes are falling outside. It is bitter cold, but inside the warmth of celebration covers us all. An honorary auntie brings Mardi-gras beads and the Bear hands a bright string to each person as they arrive. “Cause Keren loved beads, you know.” Everyone comes bearing food and soon the kitchen counter is blanketed with a family-friendly brunch. By the time we all get there, I think there are 25 – family, friends, teachers, former classmates of Keren’s from Old Village.
There is no agenda except to talk and enjoy each other. With half of the guests under seven, it is not quiet – and that’s the point. Quiet solitude is for reflection but we are here to celebrate life.
Over in the big recliner the “other Poppa” holds court with the kids. Somehow he is a magnet for little people, and every one of the children seems to find his lap at some point. A year ago he and his wife came to help the day Keren died, friends in time of need. We were gone, but they were home. I can still picture him in his bright red sweater, following a little white casket born by young uncles. An honorary Poppa. By the end of the brunch he’s got the youngest child, a mere six weeks, draped over his shoulder, fast asleep.
I see the Engineer with the little guy who was Keren’s best school buddy. A year ago these two shared hugs and tears. Today they share smiles. The little guy’s wheelchair looks very familiar, and the Engineer keeps going back to touch what is familiar. At the end I see the Engineer carrying the small child out to his mom’s car, another flashback to the past.
The teachers circulate and talk. These women have all taught special needs children for 34 years. “Sometimes we realize we’ve got over 100 years experience in the classroom,” one quips. Listening to them I learn so much about how children communicate when they can’t speak. They are masters in lighting the match in each individual child. Conversations flow freely around the room as clusters change places.
A wave of small children dashes through the living room bent for the kitchen. Their very energy says life, and life is good. Looking forward, we find strength from the past year.
At the end of the time, a group gathers in the entryway. “We didn’t share what we learned this year,” the speech therapist says, reminding us of the Dreamer’s assignment to come with something to share that we learned this year.
“I’ll tell you what I learned,” she continues. “When we lose a child – and we lost three this year – the hardest thing is losing the whole family. Today was wonderful because we haven’t lost Keren’s family.”
“We’ll do this again,” the Dreamer promises. “There’s no reason to stop celebrating life-days.”
Sunshine blazes in the windows all across the back of the wide ranch, even though snowflakes are falling outside. It is bitter cold, but inside the warmth of celebration covers us all. An honorary auntie brings Mardi-gras beads and the Bear hands a bright string to each person as they arrive. “Cause Keren loved beads, you know.” Everyone comes bearing food and soon the kitchen counter is blanketed with a family-friendly brunch. By the time we all get there, I think there are 25 – family, friends, teachers, former classmates of Keren’s from Old Village.
There is no agenda except to talk and enjoy each other. With half of the guests under seven, it is not quiet – and that’s the point. Quiet solitude is for reflection but we are here to celebrate life.
Over in the big recliner the “other Poppa” holds court with the kids. Somehow he is a magnet for little people, and every one of the children seems to find his lap at some point. A year ago he and his wife came to help the day Keren died, friends in time of need. We were gone, but they were home. I can still picture him in his bright red sweater, following a little white casket born by young uncles. An honorary Poppa. By the end of the brunch he’s got the youngest child, a mere six weeks, draped over his shoulder, fast asleep.
I see the Engineer with the little guy who was Keren’s best school buddy. A year ago these two shared hugs and tears. Today they share smiles. The little guy’s wheelchair looks very familiar, and the Engineer keeps going back to touch what is familiar. At the end I see the Engineer carrying the small child out to his mom’s car, another flashback to the past.
The teachers circulate and talk. These women have all taught special needs children for 34 years. “Sometimes we realize we’ve got over 100 years experience in the classroom,” one quips. Listening to them I learn so much about how children communicate when they can’t speak. They are masters in lighting the match in each individual child. Conversations flow freely around the room as clusters change places.
A wave of small children dashes through the living room bent for the kitchen. Their very energy says life, and life is good. Looking forward, we find strength from the past year.
At the end of the time, a group gathers in the entryway. “We didn’t share what we learned this year,” the speech therapist says, reminding us of the Dreamer’s assignment to come with something to share that we learned this year.
“I’ll tell you what I learned,” she continues. “When we lose a child – and we lost three this year – the hardest thing is losing the whole family. Today was wonderful because we haven’t lost Keren’s family.”
“We’ll do this again,” the Dreamer promises. “There’s no reason to stop celebrating life-days.”
Monday, January 25, 2010
A letter to Leslie
Last week, Leslie's 25 year old daughter was killed in a car accident on her way to work. I was just with Leslie a few weeks ago.
Dear Leslie
I opened the email in my hotel room in Beijing and recoiled in shock. Reading out loud of Aimee’s accident and the extent of her injuries, we looked at each other and shook our heads. Hope against hope, I was reading a death toll. Hours later, when I got the final news that she had not survived, I was not surprised, but the pain we felt for you was intense.
This was Aimee, of the bouncing hair tinged with honey, the bright eyes, and most of all, the wide, wide smile. Your smile, Leslie, so much yours. It is not that I have known Aimee deeply over the years, but like so many of “our” shared kids, she’s walked through my life many times. A child, a teen, a college freshman, and an adult.
Our hearts ache for you and Scott. Words are totally inadequate. The loss is so deep and permanent. The hole will forever be there and no one can fill it. The edges will heal and you will go on, but the hole remains. Flying across the Pacific last night I thought and prayed for you again and again, knowing you had just made that trip two days before, returning to plan a funeral. What is it about Pacific flights that drive us to prayer?
It was just a year ago this week -- after another Pacific flight of my own -- that I looked up from a casket, my granddaughter’s, and saw you and Scott coming across the room. I didn’t even know you were in the country, scarcely remembered that Scott had come for meetings. It was a different situation, totally different, but the memories flood back.
Would that I could stand beside you as you lay Aimee to rest. Bitter cold of January is a terrible time to lose a child, any child, an adult child. We’re supposed to bury our parents, not our children.
It seems like years since we slipped away for a brisk walk up the Sai Kung Road in Hong Kong, but in fact, that was less than a month ago. That was a good walk, a sharing of life, a sharing of the road we both walk that isn’t stable and comfortable. We talked of our children, catching up on all of them, seven between us, and you told me how well Aimee was doing in finding her way as a young teacher. Who would have thought of today?
We talked of your mentoring of the women we both know across Asia. How to know their needs, how to touch their hearts, how to be a shepherd to them. How to live this life of constant transience, and yet be strong and stable. How to be on the move but keep a home base gives a compass to our lives.
God has just ramped up your ability to understand pain in the lives of others. It’s a terrible way to do it, but you will never be the same, and the women you touch will benefit from your brokenness. Like little Laina that final night in Hong Kong, wailing in the hall, “I don’t want to say goodbye,” we don’t want to say goodbye to Aimee. But in the brokenness of saying goodbye, there is healing for others.
This morning I stood singing among over a thousand young Chinese gathered in a church in Beijing. As they went on in Chinese, the English words washed over me and brought sense of justice to my mind:
No guilt in life, no fear in death,
This is the power of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath.
Jesus commands my destiny.
No power of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home,
Here in the power of Christ I'll stand.
Aimee stands in Christ, not by her own choice, or by the power of hell or the schemes of man, but by the Lord who loves her, and in whose power she was called home. In whose power you too will stand, broken and frail, saddened and sorrowful, marked and scarred by pain, but alive to know and share God’s glory and strength.
Dear Leslie
I opened the email in my hotel room in Beijing and recoiled in shock. Reading out loud of Aimee’s accident and the extent of her injuries, we looked at each other and shook our heads. Hope against hope, I was reading a death toll. Hours later, when I got the final news that she had not survived, I was not surprised, but the pain we felt for you was intense.
This was Aimee, of the bouncing hair tinged with honey, the bright eyes, and most of all, the wide, wide smile. Your smile, Leslie, so much yours. It is not that I have known Aimee deeply over the years, but like so many of “our” shared kids, she’s walked through my life many times. A child, a teen, a college freshman, and an adult.
Our hearts ache for you and Scott. Words are totally inadequate. The loss is so deep and permanent. The hole will forever be there and no one can fill it. The edges will heal and you will go on, but the hole remains. Flying across the Pacific last night I thought and prayed for you again and again, knowing you had just made that trip two days before, returning to plan a funeral. What is it about Pacific flights that drive us to prayer?
It was just a year ago this week -- after another Pacific flight of my own -- that I looked up from a casket, my granddaughter’s, and saw you and Scott coming across the room. I didn’t even know you were in the country, scarcely remembered that Scott had come for meetings. It was a different situation, totally different, but the memories flood back.
Would that I could stand beside you as you lay Aimee to rest. Bitter cold of January is a terrible time to lose a child, any child, an adult child. We’re supposed to bury our parents, not our children.
It seems like years since we slipped away for a brisk walk up the Sai Kung Road in Hong Kong, but in fact, that was less than a month ago. That was a good walk, a sharing of life, a sharing of the road we both walk that isn’t stable and comfortable. We talked of our children, catching up on all of them, seven between us, and you told me how well Aimee was doing in finding her way as a young teacher. Who would have thought of today?
We talked of your mentoring of the women we both know across Asia. How to know their needs, how to touch their hearts, how to be a shepherd to them. How to live this life of constant transience, and yet be strong and stable. How to be on the move but keep a home base gives a compass to our lives.
God has just ramped up your ability to understand pain in the lives of others. It’s a terrible way to do it, but you will never be the same, and the women you touch will benefit from your brokenness. Like little Laina that final night in Hong Kong, wailing in the hall, “I don’t want to say goodbye,” we don’t want to say goodbye to Aimee. But in the brokenness of saying goodbye, there is healing for others.
This morning I stood singing among over a thousand young Chinese gathered in a church in Beijing. As they went on in Chinese, the English words washed over me and brought sense of justice to my mind:
No guilt in life, no fear in death,
This is the power of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath.
Jesus commands my destiny.
No power of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home,
Here in the power of Christ I'll stand.
Aimee stands in Christ, not by her own choice, or by the power of hell or the schemes of man, but by the Lord who loves her, and in whose power she was called home. In whose power you too will stand, broken and frail, saddened and sorrowful, marked and scarred by pain, but alive to know and share God’s glory and strength.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Mukha na mahirap
Mukha na mahirap, the face of poverty and hardship, has been staring at me for days. Slowly I am recognizing what I see.
The face of poverty is patient. When there are few choices, and poverty is defined by no choices, poverty waits for a slim chance. The old man who needs a nebulizer treatment waits for two hours while a missing part is purchased in town. The young moms with tiny children wait patiently in lines till their number is called. A visit to the medical clinic probably will take their whole day but they have no resources to go where they could be seen more quickly.
The face of poverty is accepting. At lunch time Kuya Steve makes an announcement that there will be a one hour break for the doctors and other staff to get lunch. Anyone with a number over 145 needs to come back at one o’clock. There is quiet acceptance and no complaining. Some wander home to get some food themselves, but others simply sit and wait till the doctors return. Babies are nursed, children play back and forth to the beach, men sit and talk in the shade, teens banter.
The face of poverty is resilient. One young mom brings her little son who a week ago was covered with boils. He still is not healed, but last week the team was able to start him on some mild antibiotic. Today the doctor starts him on a much more intense antibiotic. Meanwhile the little guy is happy and cheerful.
The face of poverty trusts. Moms, dads, teens, and children listen patiently time after time to the instructions given by the nurses in the pharmacy. Scabies, for example, is rampant. The treatment is lengthy, and must be done carefully. Face after face watches the nurse carefully as he or she walks them through the treatment plan, how to store the “pretty” purple poison jar high above little hands, how to wash bedding and air it out in the hot sun. There are few questions. A nurse in a uniform, a doctor with a stethoscope, a public health specialist, surely they know what they are talking about more than mukha na mahirap. And because the people sponsoring the clinic have lived and worked here for years, they have earned trust.
The face of poverty is wary. Medicine is needed, medical help is welcome, but there’s a wariness in some eyes that says, “Do you have any idea how hard my life is?” No, we inherently don’t, but standing in the middle of your community, we get a good dose of reality.
The face of poverty is gracious, at least in these desperately poor communities. Every package of medicine is received with a warm smile and a deep thank you.
The face of poverty is beautiful. It is not what we have that makes beauty, or ugliness. It is God who creates beautiful people and puts them in this paradise, even if they are mukha na mahirap.
The face of poverty is patient. When there are few choices, and poverty is defined by no choices, poverty waits for a slim chance. The old man who needs a nebulizer treatment waits for two hours while a missing part is purchased in town. The young moms with tiny children wait patiently in lines till their number is called. A visit to the medical clinic probably will take their whole day but they have no resources to go where they could be seen more quickly.
The face of poverty is accepting. At lunch time Kuya Steve makes an announcement that there will be a one hour break for the doctors and other staff to get lunch. Anyone with a number over 145 needs to come back at one o’clock. There is quiet acceptance and no complaining. Some wander home to get some food themselves, but others simply sit and wait till the doctors return. Babies are nursed, children play back and forth to the beach, men sit and talk in the shade, teens banter.
The face of poverty is resilient. One young mom brings her little son who a week ago was covered with boils. He still is not healed, but last week the team was able to start him on some mild antibiotic. Today the doctor starts him on a much more intense antibiotic. Meanwhile the little guy is happy and cheerful.
The face of poverty trusts. Moms, dads, teens, and children listen patiently time after time to the instructions given by the nurses in the pharmacy. Scabies, for example, is rampant. The treatment is lengthy, and must be done carefully. Face after face watches the nurse carefully as he or she walks them through the treatment plan, how to store the “pretty” purple poison jar high above little hands, how to wash bedding and air it out in the hot sun. There are few questions. A nurse in a uniform, a doctor with a stethoscope, a public health specialist, surely they know what they are talking about more than mukha na mahirap. And because the people sponsoring the clinic have lived and worked here for years, they have earned trust.
The face of poverty is wary. Medicine is needed, medical help is welcome, but there’s a wariness in some eyes that says, “Do you have any idea how hard my life is?” No, we inherently don’t, but standing in the middle of your community, we get a good dose of reality.
The face of poverty is gracious, at least in these desperately poor communities. Every package of medicine is received with a warm smile and a deep thank you.
The face of poverty is beautiful. It is not what we have that makes beauty, or ugliness. It is God who creates beautiful people and puts them in this paradise, even if they are mukha na mahirap.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Village Clinic
The day begins before light with a few roosters crowing, a quick breakfast of cereal, fruit, and yogurt, and the packing of vehicles. By 7 AM we are on the road to run a medical clinic an hour to the north of the city. About 25 staff are involved -- long term, short term, and volunteer medical personnel who are giving their time three days this week to clinics.
Arriving at the site, we find the clinic almost set up already by those who arrived first to the community center. There are four small rooms around a square and a platform with cover where we set up the pharmacy. One room is for health lectures, a second for counseling to determine needs broader than simply physical, a third houses the doctors, and a fourth will be the afternoon dentist’s office. Registration takes place outside, and men of the village have erected a multicolored tent that gives shade to plastic chairs underneath.
Everyone has a job, even the students who are visiting. One takes blood pressure for the first time and finds she can handle it. Another counts pills in the pharmacy, a third moves people in and out of the counseling center, and the final one helps with the health lectures even though she can’t understand a word that is said. Her smile radiates her joy.
In the shade of a large tree are a cluster of heavily armed military men, borrowed by the village leader to ensure calm. The crowd of nearly 200 who pass through the gates seem far more interested in getting medical help than in any kind of incident. Most of them are young women and little children but there are elderly sprinkled among them as well. It’s only in the afternoon that their husbands come by, perhaps having worked in the morning, or maybe because it took till then to get up the courage to admit to illness.
Once registered, a patient goes to a health lecture, to the counseling center, to the doctor and then to the makeshift pharmacy to get medications. All is free, time and medications donated or purchased by the generosity of others. The order and patience of the crowd attest to their grateful thanks for the day’s opportunity to see competent doctors.
Midday we take turns in shifts riding to a home nearby where several of the staff have prepared lunch of chicken adobo, rice, mixed green beans and carrots and asparagus, pineapple and mangoes. It’s a welcome break from the heat and intensity of the clinic and a chance to mingle and chat with others who are working the clinic. I find myself with a middle aged Filipina who gives me the scoop on the family issues she learned counseling that morning. The women often have had arranged marriages at 14 or 15 by twenty may have several children. The hard work of life falls to them – house, food, children, survival.
Afternoon brings the dental clinic and more doctor visits. A slight glitch keeps the dentist from extracting as many teeth as he planned – the Novocain he brought isn’t the full strength marked on the packaging, not unheard of in this part of the world. He triages those waiting and, disappointed, has to send away the more severe cases.
As we wrap up the day in a slight drizzle, the military guys gather around to help carry boxes and equipment back to the trucks. They pull out their cell phones to take pictures of the doctors and staff. We were well protected all day by their broad smiles. The village leader is delighted and wants more clinics for his people.
Heading out, we agree to all meet back in town for a chicken dinner, but as we leave the area, one of the vehicles develops a clutch problem. Plan B emerges with chicken dinner nearby at Naty’s Chicken House for all of us while the clutch is repaired. An hour later we’re full of roasted chicken, rice, hot chilis, and kalamanci juice and the vehicle is ready to go. We head back to the city, dropping staff along the way as we go.
Home again, we unload quickly and hit the showers to wash off the dust and perspiration of the day. Tomorrow is another clinic and we’ll be up and crowing with the roosters.
Arriving at the site, we find the clinic almost set up already by those who arrived first to the community center. There are four small rooms around a square and a platform with cover where we set up the pharmacy. One room is for health lectures, a second for counseling to determine needs broader than simply physical, a third houses the doctors, and a fourth will be the afternoon dentist’s office. Registration takes place outside, and men of the village have erected a multicolored tent that gives shade to plastic chairs underneath.
Everyone has a job, even the students who are visiting. One takes blood pressure for the first time and finds she can handle it. Another counts pills in the pharmacy, a third moves people in and out of the counseling center, and the final one helps with the health lectures even though she can’t understand a word that is said. Her smile radiates her joy.
In the shade of a large tree are a cluster of heavily armed military men, borrowed by the village leader to ensure calm. The crowd of nearly 200 who pass through the gates seem far more interested in getting medical help than in any kind of incident. Most of them are young women and little children but there are elderly sprinkled among them as well. It’s only in the afternoon that their husbands come by, perhaps having worked in the morning, or maybe because it took till then to get up the courage to admit to illness.
Once registered, a patient goes to a health lecture, to the counseling center, to the doctor and then to the makeshift pharmacy to get medications. All is free, time and medications donated or purchased by the generosity of others. The order and patience of the crowd attest to their grateful thanks for the day’s opportunity to see competent doctors.
Midday we take turns in shifts riding to a home nearby where several of the staff have prepared lunch of chicken adobo, rice, mixed green beans and carrots and asparagus, pineapple and mangoes. It’s a welcome break from the heat and intensity of the clinic and a chance to mingle and chat with others who are working the clinic. I find myself with a middle aged Filipina who gives me the scoop on the family issues she learned counseling that morning. The women often have had arranged marriages at 14 or 15 by twenty may have several children. The hard work of life falls to them – house, food, children, survival.
Afternoon brings the dental clinic and more doctor visits. A slight glitch keeps the dentist from extracting as many teeth as he planned – the Novocain he brought isn’t the full strength marked on the packaging, not unheard of in this part of the world. He triages those waiting and, disappointed, has to send away the more severe cases.
As we wrap up the day in a slight drizzle, the military guys gather around to help carry boxes and equipment back to the trucks. They pull out their cell phones to take pictures of the doctors and staff. We were well protected all day by their broad smiles. The village leader is delighted and wants more clinics for his people.
Heading out, we agree to all meet back in town for a chicken dinner, but as we leave the area, one of the vehicles develops a clutch problem. Plan B emerges with chicken dinner nearby at Naty’s Chicken House for all of us while the clutch is repaired. An hour later we’re full of roasted chicken, rice, hot chilis, and kalamanci juice and the vehicle is ready to go. We head back to the city, dropping staff along the way as we go.
Home again, we unload quickly and hit the showers to wash off the dust and perspiration of the day. Tomorrow is another clinic and we’ll be up and crowing with the roosters.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Life on foot – Philippine style
We leave the gate and head to the market, opting to walk the few blocks to see the town. I’m quite accustomed to being stared at, but here we are a genuine novelty. I tower above even the tallest men, and furthermore, I’m “old” and out walking with young people.
The side street where we are living is lined with multi-family wooden houses set on lots, most surrounded with fences and gates. We look through the fences to yards where women wash dishes, men squat to talk, and children are running everywhere, calling out to each other. Chickens scuttle under banana plants at the side of the road but glossy roosters are tethered by one foot to a bush or pole. These are treasured fighting cocks and don’t get free roaming privileges. They are also the raucous voices we hear day and night, not only at dawn.
Little sari-sari stores are positioned every few houses – a mere front room on the street with open bars selling tiny amounts of food and toiletries. Neighbors gather in front of the sari-sari stores, and we are the topic of conversations as we pass. I lift my eyebrows in greeting and get quick smiles and lifted brows in return.
At the corner there is a series of furniture makers selling rattan chairs, tables, beds, and cribs. Across the way is Chooks Roasted Chicken. We turn the corner and the market begins with the informal outside vendors selling a wide variety of vegetables and fruit. My companions ask about things they don’t recognize: tiny purple fingers of eggplant, wrinkled bitter melon, bright orange kalabasa squash, papayas, mangoes, durian fruit, and more. The smells of this part of the market are a delightful mix of onion and garlic and fresh vegetables. Each vendor has their own stash, often identical to the vendor squatting beside them.
Pushing into the formal market, we are surrounded with hundreds of stalls divided by narrow paths. Big bins of rice and dry beans are beside dishes and clothes and shampoo. There’s a loose organization, but it’s very loose. Claustrophobics wouldn’t do well in this market, especially since we are again the novelty of the day and comments about us are all around. There’s a lively fun to it all, and the comments are lighthearted but I’m a little glad my young companions can’t understand it all.
Deeper into the market we hit the “wet” stalls of chicken, beef, and fish on white ceramic tile counters with hoses keeping things fresh and flies at bay. The floor is slippery and wet as the water moves toward drains. The smell, amazingly, isn’t bad – or maybe I just have learned to breathe lightly. It beats the stalls of dried fish!
Our host stops at his chicken “suki” and she cuts whole chickens into pieces for him, tossing the necks and wings into trays for purchase by those with fewer pesos in hand. His chicken legs and breasts are tossed into a clear plastic bag, weighed on a hanging scale overhead and handed to him. He’s also picked up papaya, pineapple and mangoes on this trip.
We’ve reached the deepest stalls and turn to go back out, winding our way through row after row of family owned stalls. The amount of goods seems limitless. At five in the afternoon I ponder what and how all this is kept overnight.
At the end of the market, we wander back through the open vendors, smiling, greeting, and enjoying the slightly cooler breeze of late afternoon. We pass Chooks and the furniture makers. We walk the dusty street back to the house and let ourselves in the squeaking gate.
Entering the living room, clean and very western in the midst of this neighborhood, we leave our shoes at the door. The noise of the street follows us through the open windows, but we are off the street. A cooler of water stands on the sink in the dining room and we get cold drinks.
Tomorrow we’ll hit the streets again but for now, it feels good to be out of the bustle.
The side street where we are living is lined with multi-family wooden houses set on lots, most surrounded with fences and gates. We look through the fences to yards where women wash dishes, men squat to talk, and children are running everywhere, calling out to each other. Chickens scuttle under banana plants at the side of the road but glossy roosters are tethered by one foot to a bush or pole. These are treasured fighting cocks and don’t get free roaming privileges. They are also the raucous voices we hear day and night, not only at dawn.
Little sari-sari stores are positioned every few houses – a mere front room on the street with open bars selling tiny amounts of food and toiletries. Neighbors gather in front of the sari-sari stores, and we are the topic of conversations as we pass. I lift my eyebrows in greeting and get quick smiles and lifted brows in return.
At the corner there is a series of furniture makers selling rattan chairs, tables, beds, and cribs. Across the way is Chooks Roasted Chicken. We turn the corner and the market begins with the informal outside vendors selling a wide variety of vegetables and fruit. My companions ask about things they don’t recognize: tiny purple fingers of eggplant, wrinkled bitter melon, bright orange kalabasa squash, papayas, mangoes, durian fruit, and more. The smells of this part of the market are a delightful mix of onion and garlic and fresh vegetables. Each vendor has their own stash, often identical to the vendor squatting beside them.
Pushing into the formal market, we are surrounded with hundreds of stalls divided by narrow paths. Big bins of rice and dry beans are beside dishes and clothes and shampoo. There’s a loose organization, but it’s very loose. Claustrophobics wouldn’t do well in this market, especially since we are again the novelty of the day and comments about us are all around. There’s a lively fun to it all, and the comments are lighthearted but I’m a little glad my young companions can’t understand it all.
Deeper into the market we hit the “wet” stalls of chicken, beef, and fish on white ceramic tile counters with hoses keeping things fresh and flies at bay. The floor is slippery and wet as the water moves toward drains. The smell, amazingly, isn’t bad – or maybe I just have learned to breathe lightly. It beats the stalls of dried fish!
Our host stops at his chicken “suki” and she cuts whole chickens into pieces for him, tossing the necks and wings into trays for purchase by those with fewer pesos in hand. His chicken legs and breasts are tossed into a clear plastic bag, weighed on a hanging scale overhead and handed to him. He’s also picked up papaya, pineapple and mangoes on this trip.
We’ve reached the deepest stalls and turn to go back out, winding our way through row after row of family owned stalls. The amount of goods seems limitless. At five in the afternoon I ponder what and how all this is kept overnight.
At the end of the market, we wander back through the open vendors, smiling, greeting, and enjoying the slightly cooler breeze of late afternoon. We pass Chooks and the furniture makers. We walk the dusty street back to the house and let ourselves in the squeaking gate.
Entering the living room, clean and very western in the midst of this neighborhood, we leave our shoes at the door. The noise of the street follows us through the open windows, but we are off the street. A cooler of water stands on the sink in the dining room and we get cold drinks.
Tomorrow we’ll hit the streets again but for now, it feels good to be out of the bustle.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Values
Yesterday Kuya James taught us Filipino values like pakikisama – or getting along with each other. The values of hospitality, of sharing space, of taking care of each other. The value of addressing our elders with terms of respect, like Kuya or older brother. He taught well, and today we watched those values in action.
Leaving the guesthouse in the morning, our driver is Ed, a man who owes us nothing, but as a friend of a friend, is willing to drive us for the day. His English is impeccable, and his driving even better. Driving in Manila is a skill, a culture, a value. It’s probably the only place where a Filipino is culturally allowed to be aggressive. And if one is not aggressive, one is lost. But if there is space, it is to be shared – that’s a value.
We head south through traffic, through squatter villages, through beautiful subdivisions that shriek money, and eventually arrive in a community given to the minority people of the south. Here we connect with anotherman, G, who gives us a summary of his organization that exists to give micro-loans and help people in this community of abject poverty.
After a quick lunch, we walk with G through the community. At one door he checks to see if the family is home, and finding them there, we are invited inside. We leave our shoes at the door and crowd into the tiny sitting room/kitchen that is the entire first floor. Seven people live in this home of about 300 square feet. Ate Jura, the mom, makes us welcome while her grown son and his new wife tell us about their work abroad.
We see Ate Jura slip out the back of the room, purse in hand, and know from James’ talk yesterday that she is going for snacks. The students give each other knowing glances. They are getting savvy to culture. Soon she returns with two bottles of cold soft drinks and finds enough glasses for all the visitors to have a drink. Not to serve guests a drink would be unthinkable. We carefully leave a half inch at the bottom of our glasses to show we had enough, and refuse the seconds proffered. Later we see the younger children slipping a glass of soda too – a real treat for them that would not have been had we’d drunk seconds.
After much discussion and a prayer of blessing on the newlyweds, we head out again, walking the streets with G as he introduces us to shopkeeper after shopkeeper who are his clients. Everyone knows Kuya G. Two little girls attach themselves to my husband, and he gently takes them with us, chatting in a mix of Tagalog and English.
As the afternoon wanes we bid G goodbye and head north through the city. Our goal is to see the American Cemetery before it closes, and we barely make it. So much has been built in this south end of the city that we struggle to find it. A breakfast discussion on WWII had piqued the interest of the students, and now they walk the wide marble monuments with huge mosaic maps of the Pacific Theater. Across the gentle grassy hills are white crosses, shadowed in the falling sunlight. A little slice of America, polished and sparkling clean, but a reminder that those who lay in the graves and who are named on the walls fought anything but a clean and polished war for our freedom.
Quietly we leave to find our way back to the guesthouse. A full day, a day of exploration, a day of learning. A day to look ahead and a day to look back. A day of history, and a day of community.
Pakikisama.
Leaving the guesthouse in the morning, our driver is Ed, a man who owes us nothing, but as a friend of a friend, is willing to drive us for the day. His English is impeccable, and his driving even better. Driving in Manila is a skill, a culture, a value. It’s probably the only place where a Filipino is culturally allowed to be aggressive. And if one is not aggressive, one is lost. But if there is space, it is to be shared – that’s a value.
We head south through traffic, through squatter villages, through beautiful subdivisions that shriek money, and eventually arrive in a community given to the minority people of the south. Here we connect with anotherman, G, who gives us a summary of his organization that exists to give micro-loans and help people in this community of abject poverty.
After a quick lunch, we walk with G through the community. At one door he checks to see if the family is home, and finding them there, we are invited inside. We leave our shoes at the door and crowd into the tiny sitting room/kitchen that is the entire first floor. Seven people live in this home of about 300 square feet. Ate Jura, the mom, makes us welcome while her grown son and his new wife tell us about their work abroad.
We see Ate Jura slip out the back of the room, purse in hand, and know from James’ talk yesterday that she is going for snacks. The students give each other knowing glances. They are getting savvy to culture. Soon she returns with two bottles of cold soft drinks and finds enough glasses for all the visitors to have a drink. Not to serve guests a drink would be unthinkable. We carefully leave a half inch at the bottom of our glasses to show we had enough, and refuse the seconds proffered. Later we see the younger children slipping a glass of soda too – a real treat for them that would not have been had we’d drunk seconds.
After much discussion and a prayer of blessing on the newlyweds, we head out again, walking the streets with G as he introduces us to shopkeeper after shopkeeper who are his clients. Everyone knows Kuya G. Two little girls attach themselves to my husband, and he gently takes them with us, chatting in a mix of Tagalog and English.
As the afternoon wanes we bid G goodbye and head north through the city. Our goal is to see the American Cemetery before it closes, and we barely make it. So much has been built in this south end of the city that we struggle to find it. A breakfast discussion on WWII had piqued the interest of the students, and now they walk the wide marble monuments with huge mosaic maps of the Pacific Theater. Across the gentle grassy hills are white crosses, shadowed in the falling sunlight. A little slice of America, polished and sparkling clean, but a reminder that those who lay in the graves and who are named on the walls fought anything but a clean and polished war for our freedom.
Quietly we leave to find our way back to the guesthouse. A full day, a day of exploration, a day of learning. A day to look ahead and a day to look back. A day of history, and a day of community.
Pakikisama.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Grant us peace
A child’s voice echoes down the hall in a plaintive, “I don’t want to say goodbye…” By tomorrow night she and her best buddies in the world will be in three different countries. Ten days of connection and fun have crashed to a close for this child, and a gaggle of other little ones who have few playmates where they live who speak their heart language.
I’m with you, little Lanna, I don’t want to say goodbye either.
This afternoon at the country park I sat by a fire with Lanna and her little friends, roasting sausages and German bread, a small green oasis in the midst of a huge city. Beside me was a young Chinese woman who lives in the far north and across from us an American who commutes back and forth to handle finances. At each fire pit the gathering was a veritable stew of cultures -- English the primary language, but sidebars of Cantonese, Tagalog, German, and Mandarin crossing into the conversations.
The children took off to play in the open glade and woods while the adults gathered with a guitar. Then a hike up into the hills, over crests, through bamboo forests, and finally down to the car park where the bus waits to take us back to the conference grounds. New Year’s Day in Hong Kong, amidst good friends.
I don’t want to say goodbye either.
Tonight we gathered for communion, for presentations of thank you gifts, for final connecting thoughts. Looking around the room my eyes washed over the faces of new friends, and of other friends of decades. Families with little ones, couples whose children are grown, singles.
Bright, vivacious Ruthie holds my hands and tells me her dreams. The three young American moms each hug me in turn and tell me how much they appreciate having someone older come to join them. “We have no older models,” they say. “Thank you for being with us.”
Later I help two friends clean up the snack area, chatting companionably as only women do who have years of history. We too go our separate ways today, three countries by tomorrow night. Helma presses bananas and granola bars into my hands. “You leave early to travel. You get no breakfast. Here, something to eat. You have coffee in your room?” Ever caring, ever the German Frau to all of us, no matter I’m her senior by many years.
We end the evening singing a blessing.
“May the peace of the Lord be with you, my friends.
Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world,
Have mercy on us, grant us peace.”
We separate, but not forever. I don’t want to say goodbye, so I will just say, “until the next time.”
I’m with you, little Lanna, I don’t want to say goodbye either.
This afternoon at the country park I sat by a fire with Lanna and her little friends, roasting sausages and German bread, a small green oasis in the midst of a huge city. Beside me was a young Chinese woman who lives in the far north and across from us an American who commutes back and forth to handle finances. At each fire pit the gathering was a veritable stew of cultures -- English the primary language, but sidebars of Cantonese, Tagalog, German, and Mandarin crossing into the conversations.
The children took off to play in the open glade and woods while the adults gathered with a guitar. Then a hike up into the hills, over crests, through bamboo forests, and finally down to the car park where the bus waits to take us back to the conference grounds. New Year’s Day in Hong Kong, amidst good friends.
I don’t want to say goodbye either.
Tonight we gathered for communion, for presentations of thank you gifts, for final connecting thoughts. Looking around the room my eyes washed over the faces of new friends, and of other friends of decades. Families with little ones, couples whose children are grown, singles.
Bright, vivacious Ruthie holds my hands and tells me her dreams. The three young American moms each hug me in turn and tell me how much they appreciate having someone older come to join them. “We have no older models,” they say. “Thank you for being with us.”
Later I help two friends clean up the snack area, chatting companionably as only women do who have years of history. We too go our separate ways today, three countries by tomorrow night. Helma presses bananas and granola bars into my hands. “You leave early to travel. You get no breakfast. Here, something to eat. You have coffee in your room?” Ever caring, ever the German Frau to all of us, no matter I’m her senior by many years.
We end the evening singing a blessing.
“May the peace of the Lord be with you, my friends.
Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world,
Have mercy on us, grant us peace.”
We separate, but not forever. I don’t want to say goodbye, so I will just say, “until the next time.”
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