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.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)