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?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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.
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