Then you see them

Scars make for good stories. I know, I have two of them. One on my knee from a surgery due to a soccer injury in college and one on my face from a bus accident in Thailand. Good stories because they speak of catastrophes diverted. Good stories because of the healing that followed. Ultimately good stories because the ones on His feet and in His hands are salvation.

Scars make for good stories. But maybe not always. In South Africa there are many scars. You see them all around - on the bodies of the young and the faces of the old, on the countryside covered with shanties and in the cities where the make-up of wealth simply brushes over like a pale powder rouge.

When you ask the children their favorite part of the day at Camp South Africa, often they say the pool time. Buying a swimsuit is an expense that many of them can not afford so they jump in the water in tattered underwear. And then you can see them, the scars on their bodies. In the evening times, we sing songs, dance and listen to testimonies of God's love and grace. The kids jump up and down and shout but when the stories come, most listen in that way that only those that share similar pain can. And then you can see them, the scars on their hearts. Merv, the South African man who leads up Camp South Africa, stands before them and asks who would like us to pray for them. Small hands are raised. Cyndy crawls onto my lap and wraps her arms around me. She begins to cry as she speaks of her daddy leaving her mommy. Johnbane and Deolyn's tears fall as they too talk of their fathers.

South Africa has been torn apart by the evils of apartheid. The wounds of separation are deep in not only the social and economical structures of the country but also in the spirit of the land and it's people. Scars make for good stories because they speak of healing. But not always as they also are a reminder of pain, that something has been marred, and can never be made quite right again.

His scars though are different, for not only are they marks of memory but an assertion of redemption, for in His scars, that which has been broken is not only healed but restored and made new. These are the scars that the children need to cover their wounds, that South Africa needs to find healing in, for in His scars alone are salvation. His scars are the good story.

(Picture by Angela)

Silver Tongues

The scriptures were read aloud to the elderly that would gather in the frost of those early Sunday mornings.  I found that many of the older generation who came to belief in the Chinese villages were illiterate but longed deeply to know the holy word.  Before the official service time would begin than, portions of the Bible would be read aloud. And they would gather just to hear despite the below freezing temperatures outside, despite the lack of heat in the building, despite the hour or more it took to get to the church.  Just to hear.

My sister Shari has been joining us for dinner and a movie each week. Tonight we dined on a chicken stuffed with fetta cheese, lightly seasoned, wrapped delightfully in prosciutto - a delicious creation.  Last week we watched a children's movie called Ink Heart. It was not very good but I was captivated by the thought of the story.  The premise goes something like this: there are these people called "silver tongues" for when they read a story aloud, the characters actually come to life in the real world. The catch is that someone from the real world is than transported into the story world as if it were reality. Some of the gifted are aware of their gift; others are not. At the beginning of the movie, the silver tongue's wife goes into the story and the evil villain comes out. You can see where the story goes from there. In a terrifying scene (and it was quite terrifying for a children's movie) in the end, the daughter is forced by the villain to read out the worst of all evils, the Shadow, into the real world. She does but in a dramatic twist she begins to add to the story by writing on the pages and speaks the sentences out. When there are no more pages, she writes on her arm for she must read the events in order that they would happen. Speaking truth and love and beauty into reality, she brings salvation to all. The characters return to their stories and she is reunited with her mom.

I think about the elderly in China that long just to hear the Word spoken aloud. To hear it proclaimed before them, warms them in a way that even if there was heat could not do. There is power in spoken word be it scripture or even the words we exchange with one another. "Sticks and stones may break my bones but your words will never hurt me." Regardless of what children may taunt on the playgrounds it is true and we all know it. Words spoken aloud have the power to hurt or to heal.  I love that the creation story begins with God speaking the world into existence. I love that Jesus himself is called the Word and he was with God and he was God when God said "Let there be light."   And when the most terrifying of all moments happened, when God was killed by His own creation, that Word spoke it was finished and on His body, in his blood, with his blood was written the story, our story. We are all silver-tongues of a sort. After all, we are made in the imagine of our Creator.  Let us read aloud than and bring life to another.

Red Light, Green Light

Waiting at red lights is when I am most aware of the lives of other people. It is not that I just notice other people but I seem to come to this snap consciousness that other people have lives. That sounds utterly ridiculous and so self-centered, but admittedly it is true. Being aware of someone's presence and being aware of his/her life is, I think, all together different. I am not just talking about eye contact when buying groceries or saying thank you to the gas station attendant, I am talking about a real awareness that the people in the cars around me are returning home to a family of five or running late to a doctor's appointment or hoping that their dad will finally call them. Perhaps it is the rolled up window and the view into the compartmentalized space that really emphasis the point. It is the overhearing of conversations taking place without sound. All of us waiting, looking straight forward, or fiddling with the stereo or checking out that thing on our face, aware there are people around us but pretending they're not. It is in this brief moment before the red light that we are all halted in our individual momentum and as I take a look to my left or to my right there is another life if I allow myself to briefly look. In my mind, I see this large maze and all of us cars are crossing over and around and behind and on top of another but never actually intersecting.

In Romania on the hillside, we played a silly version of Red-Light,Green-Light. I gave directions in simple sets as we were playing in another language. I asked, “When driving a car, how does someone know how to stop?.” Right when I finished the question, I laughed at my insensitivity. The kids arrived in wagons. Their village is made up of dirt roads. “When someone or an animal is in the way,” one little boy offered so I changed the question to “In the city when people drive cars...” This got the answer we were looking for. It was understood then for the game that “green” meant run around like crazy and “red” meant stop and freeze. Eventually we were going to play from one side of the hill to the other with one person acting as the light but the children were having so much fun just running around we kept it simple. I added making a silly face or doing a funny pose when a red light happened. It was great fun. It was simple and fun. I obviously don't have that much enjoyment though when I am actually stopped at a red light. Here it wouldn't be appropriate to make a silly face but at least I can acknowledge my neighbor. I am kind of embarrassed to admit how it is a little unnerving for me looking to my left or right. Like I said before, it is here at the intersection that I most aware of my self-centeredness. Maybe I just need to freeze, stick my tongue at myself or the person next to me (or maybe just smiling would do) and when the light turns green continue to run around like crazy. Maybe I can just invite others to do this with me. Simple and fun. Green!

Owl Pellets and Big Lips

"So it's the compressed and indigestible parts of a rat that get regurgitated,” Ben concludes as we continue on our hike to Red Hill. He has just explained owl pellets to me. And all along I thought these things I avoided on the path were simply furry wolf droppings! I need to get nature's body functions straightened out. Good thing Ben is around for this.

In college, there was this dating seminar. I really don't remember anything about it save one piece of advice: if you don't like how the person eats on the first date, don't continue to date them. “The goal of dating should be finding your marriage partner so there is the distinct possibility that you will be sitting across from this person for the rest of your life. Make sure you can stand the way they ingest,” they warned. I believe the essential point was “Don't go into dating thinking you can and will change someone” but nevertheless I really started becoming more attentive to the way people ate, the way I ate. And let me just say that I am thankful humans don't eat like owls.

The seminar also encouraged making a list of that which you wanted in a partner. I fought making that list and thought I was above it; I would not belittle God by putting parameters on Him, turning Him into that cosmic vending machine. He knows what is best and in this I would trust; besides I should focus on being the partner. It turns out though that such thinking of mine was also quite self-centered and prideful. I was too “spiritual” to admit to God that there was indeed things I really wanted, really hoped for and was too embarrassed to say. After all, I was an independent content-with-my-relationship-with-God girl and was going to change the world with my singleness. If God wanted me in partnership, He would do so in His timing, however He saw fit.

Then an event happened in my life that overrode my self-pride and replaced it with another type of self-righteousness so I succumbed to making the list. In secret, as I contemplated my items, I vowed I would marry the “right” man, that I would not go against my standards even in a time of desperateness. The directions were to label the list into three categories: non-negotiable, negotiable, and desirable. Loves the Lord with all his heart, non-negotiable. Athletic, negotiable. Loves the outdoors, non-negotiable. Big lips, desirable. I don't remember the whole list but I remember these. Throughout the years, I wish I could have forgotten about it because, honestly, I still am a little embarrassed by it, but now I look at Ben and I am continually amazed. Amazed not by the thought that we are so “right” for each other because I don't believe in that but rather I am simply amazed by grace and am daily grateful. Knowing how animals digest their food, absentmindedly humming “Do you know the muffin man?” as we walk down the street in the drizzle, the ability to work through a problem until it is solved because he knows there is a solution, these were not on that list but they should have been. And for those of you that are curious, yes, I do like the way Ben eats. (And I am glad he is not an owl.)

Cut the Cake

“Make the pieces nice and straight!” the children bring the hand-in-hand formed circle and the mumble of this foreign English song to a stop. The “knife,” the little boy dressed in traditional Romanian shoes made of tire tread in the middle of the circle, cuts the “pieces.” “Run, run, run!” we yell in Romanian as the “pieces” break apart, one giggling little girl in one direction and one confused but happy little boy in the other. Finally they reach the starting point again and the little girl becomes the knife. We resume the song, “Cut the cake! Cut the cake!” This was more fun than when I played it as a first grader. Here we were on the hillside of the village school house; all else seemed so far away, the messiness of politics experienced in the bigger cities, the cold of the coming winter chill, the poverty that threatens their way of living. “Nice and straight!” we yell. And I think about broken pieces. Romania is a country trying to put the pieces back together but jagged edges do not mend so easily nor do shattered parts. How do you make things nice and straight again? Often a nation looks to the next generation, the children to rebuild but what might be asked of them is rather resurrection. This requires faith. The sentiments expressed among the people are shared; they are frustrated with the idea that the new politicians are merely the old regime with new attire; they are dismayed as the educated and the youth flee to other countries when presented the opportunity. Dennis and Carol Way, the founders of Romania: Rebuilding the Next Generation, see this need and are bringing inspiration. Through the building of a youth ministry house and providing camp experiences for the valley's youth and orphans, the organization partners with a local Romanian family to instill a sense of longing for their nation built upon the eternal Hope. This is the redemption the country needs. The world needs. On a simple hillside, we march in a circle singing a song about cake. How does this offer such truth? They giggle and laugh and this cheerfulness perhaps is what is necessary for hope to ignite. The pieces are being put back together. Maybe they are jagged, the wounds still fresh as the bullet holes are seen in the building frames, but I remember the Promise is not just to be made straight but to be made new. We will feast one day, all of us broken pieces together. Cake will be in abundance I am sure.

What it sounds like..

Dragon. If I had to choose an animal or mystical creature to associate myself with, dragon would not be the first that came to mind. I do not breath fire out of my nostrils nor do I want to. In Romanian, the word for “dear” (as in loved one) is “draga” which in Ben's ear sounds like “dragon.” Being that I lived in China, Ben thinks that “dragon” is more than a suitable term of endearment and is actually quite proud of himself for thinking of it. But what is so loving about a fire breathing slayer? The image I think of is the one depicted in the cartoon Shrek where the female dragon captures the talkative donkey. I don't want to be that dragon or the donkey for that matter. But “draga” does sound like “dragon” and that is a sufficient enough of a connection as there apparently needs to be. When I studied Chinese, I too was fascinated by the associations that words would bring to mind and often such connections created pictures and meanings that spoke of the deeper or the ridiculous. Often times they pointed to both. The word for "blood" in Chinese is pronounced “xue” as well as the word “snow.” The image of the purity of white snow and the scarlet of blood red poured brilliantly forth in beautiful contrast as I attempted numerous times to produce the sound.

In Romania, we walked down the village streets where Ben once lived. He pointed out places and told stories. When we passed the church called the House of Prayer, he told me the word for "pray" is “rugaciune.” “It sounds like a dance,” he says and proceeds to do a little jig in the street. And that association again brought forth a truth of the word. When Ben “rugaciunes” down the street and I respond with a laugh, I wonder at prayer being a dance – a waltz, a salsa, a jitter bug. I hesitate to write about it since the dance metaphor is often used but I am not above thinking that it very well should be. Timothy Keller says that God himself is a dance - the Son, the Creator, the Spirit – because they are three moving in one love for He is love, each glorifying each other. Maybe prayer allows us to be conscious of the movement around us sometimes in smooth fluid steps and others in pronounced jarring stomps with a swivel of the hips. The deeper and the ridiculous. Dragon and draga. Afterall, love is refined by fire. Maybe that is deep. Or maybe it's ridiculous. “Dragon,” Ben calls me and smiles as my face crinkles in hidden approval of his charm. “You're ridiculous,” I say.

Wool Socks and Flip Flops

The flip flops were displayed directly across from the wool socks. This bothered Ben. And again I am happy for what marriage brings. A new perspective, your joys double as well as your annoyances. We spent the day packing, in between other simple things on our to-do list. (I added a few just so I could have the pleasure of crossing them out. Yellow legal pads, the only way to task.)  Tomorrow we will leave for Romania.  For years I have packed and traveled all by myself. Friends lately have been asking what is the best thing about marriage so far. "When we went on our honeymoon, Ben could hold my stuff. I didn't have to drag it all into the stall!  Marriage is awesome!" And as it was coming out of my mouth, I felt like a floozy as if what was to follow was "So I could apply my lipstick and retouch my make-up and use my free hands to only think about me, me, me."

"And there is so much more, Sandra," my friend Andy responded somewhat teasingly and somewhat correcting me.  Should I attempt to talk about the deeper meaning in what I was saying or would that just prove even more how self-centered my view is?  But I let it go and thought about the men who carry their ladies' pursues and what I think about such couples.   So as Ben and I packed today, all our things together in one fifty pound bag and a carry-on, it was clear what I meant by, "Marriage is cool because he holds my stuff when I got to use the bathroom." 

I have longed to be in this with someone together for awhile now.  This packing, this planning, this going here, and this going there.  Even my thoughts have a tendency to venture out alone when they should not be unsupervised and they for years have brought back home with them mischievous companions of doubt and condemnation.  But in marriage, Ben is here to confess such thoughts to and in his love they immediately flee whereas before there would be mouths of journal writing and conversations and prayers with friends.  And even things I didn't realize I was carrying, he has lifted from me just by sharing his differing perspective.   The flip-flops do not belong across from the wool socks. This is what marriage helps you see, places in your life where you have just operated on automatic,  just dealing with its inconvenience and incorrectness. Marriage brings a reordering of all of that, an unpacking and a repacking, a tearing down to build up, a death of self to bring life of otherness.  I was already tired of getting on a plane alone but tomorrow I don't have to.  Ben, I am sure, will even offer to hold my bags when I need to use the restroom and I will do the same.

A Big Lady and Black Cats

When something happens in a series of three, I pay attention. Ben once mentioned I should move to Africa because of my superstitious tendencies. Apparently he thinks there is a large mass of superstitious people on the continent that I would get along with. I think (and I am sure Ben would agree) there are plenty of superstitions among us here in democratic,modern, capitalist America (And just to note, yes, I realize the Americas consist of South America, central America, and Canada as well but with the constraints and development of language, I am apt to call the nation America and feel no shame in doing so. This in no way shows my arrogance as an "American" or my ignorance for that matter. On the other hand, perhaps it does as I just spent a whole three sentences on a parenthetical thought. Forgive me.)

As I was saying, plenty of superstitions. I am not just talking about the walking under a ladder (I first I typed "lady," that's a funny typo, and one big lady), breaking a mirror, or coming across a black cat on your fanciful way to Starbuck's to get a pumpkin-chai-latte type superstition, I am talking about the ones we hold to in the church. If I do my quiet time each morning, my day will be happier. If I pray and my will lines up with the Father's, all will be answered. I have often wrestled with James' thoughts, "You ask and do not receive because you ask amiss..." or in his last chapter "And the prayer of faith, will save the sick and the Lord will raise him up..." (James is the brother of Jesus so he must know what he is talking about.) But when I ask, and I don't receive, I have often slumped into self and started to contemplate my sinfulness, wondering where my heart has gone astray. But what is so self-serving to want a friend to feel the love of a husband she longs for after years of singleness? Or a baby to be healed of sickness? Are these not the desires of our good Creator's heart? And in faith my friend Tammy prayed (we all prayed) for her twin infant boys to live and they died, three months later they died. Did we not have the faith?

I began this entry talking about things happening in a series of three and I ended up here in these muddy waters but they do relate for the series of three I am speaking of now is the hearing of the untimely sudden death of three young ladies' mothers - two new friends from church and one on the movie we watched last night. And it is one of those days where the tragedy and the weight of this world seems to out darken the momentary joys.

Tammy loves to speak of her boys. She told me she prayed for their healing, their complete healing. "In this," she said, " I know God answered my prayer. Not in the way I wanted him to but he answered my prayer. You see, for only in heaven, we are truly complete, truly healed." I can get caught up in all this - what is faith? what is superstition? what is prayer after all? But Tammy reminds me of the eternal perspective. I need not to look for meaning in the series of three but rather look to what happened on day three, that third day, where death became life forever, and all was made right and will be made right.

Paul reminds the Corinthians not to lose heart while facing persecution, "For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal." I love the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. It was necessary for that eternal weight of glory but Jesus still cried. Some say that the translation is lost, that these tears where not only sad tears but angry ones. So as I look to that third day, I can rejoice for the redemption that is unseen but with Jesus and my girlfriends I can cry now and still have faith without superstition.

Gender Neutral

I was first introduced to the idea when I was twelve years old. My soccer team went to Japan through a sister-city exchange program. The following summer their girls team came to Los Angeles. Where they took us to ancient shogun palaces and extravagant Asian gardens, we paraded them around fake movie sets and introduced them to oversized talking mice. The girls who my family hosted wanted noodles of course and my mother made them spaghetti, not the kind they were hoping for.

But it was in Nagoya, that I first met the squatty potty, the toilet bowl in the ground. As adolescent girls, we found this difference in style to be silly and something to giggle about. Years later,when I lived in China, my American friends and I actually had a discussion once as to which style was more sanitary. Regardless, the squatty potty is gender neutral. Both male and female use this type, no other exists except in large urban areas where you can occasionally come across "Western Style" stalls.

As Ben and I venture into marriage, inevitably one of the things that would come up was the issue of the toilet seat. Believing I was beyond the cliche of those first year arguments that couples have, I boldly convinced myself that we would not argue about this one. It was pride, not selflessness that brought me to such arrogant confidence. I would not give-in to being bothered by the fact that he would constantly leave the seat up. Why should I be annoyed? He has lived this way for thirty three years (minus the years for potty training of course) and I should not insist that he changes just because I am female. But alas, I am not the selfless one I want to be and it got the better of me. Besides, my culture says I have the right to be upset and I was agitated.

"Who is to say that the toilet's correct position is with the seat down? Why should the female be the one who defines the proper presentation of the toilet?" was Ben's argument. To which I retorted, "It's our culture, an action of courtesy, Ben. It says, 'I am considerate of others.'" And I annoyingly found myself getting more agitated with his desire to defend himself. Ben went on, "Why is it the man's responsibility anyway when a woman falls into a toilet? Why don't you look before you sit down?" By this point, I was feeling as if I was the defender for women everywhere.

But marriage is not about man verses woman, it is not even about man and woman. It is about man with woman, woman with man, becoming one. I want to be considerate of Ben just as he desires to be considerate of me. So in this way, he is right. Love and respect is equally the man and woman's responsibility to each other. We both are the protectors of our covenant. Our culture will not define for us how we are to love and respect each other and I cherish this about Ben. He seeks to transcend this in the way he loves me. How can I not honor him? Since there are no gender neutral toilets this side of the hemisphere, we decided we would both put the toilet seat cover down, both actively change our lifestyles to consider the other. There have been days where we have forgotten but mostly we have kept to our promise. And it's silly, I know, but each time I go into the bathroom, it's like a silent way of saying that we desire to put one another before ourselves and I feel loved and that's a good feeling to have no matter where you are.

Funerals and Weddings

Marriage is a tomb for love. It is not my favorite Chinese saying. When I asked my students once to talk about their thoughts on love, I repeatedly heard this phrase. Needless to say, it really bothered me. But now well into my second month of marriage (a seasoned veteran, I know) I can see there is truth to it. This death- love connection.

The days leading up to the wedding people kept saying that I wouldn't really remember the day. It would all go by in a blur. It won't really matter who was there and who was not there. I adamantly disagreed and now that the wedding is over, I still hold to that thought. It did matter and it does matter. What a unique time a wedding is! Besides a funeral, it is the only time in one's life where all your family and friends from every aspect of your life over years gather together in one place. I mentioned this to my brides ladies driving home from picking them up at the airport, "Isn't that kind of morbid Sandra? Comparing your wedding to a funeral?" I guess that was the comparison I was making but there is some truth to it. This death-love connection.

They say that when you are in love everything is brighter, clearer, more effervescent. This happens too, I am told, when you are facing death. Ben and I are reading Gilead by Marilynne Robinson in the evenings. The story is an old preacher's memoirs written to his little son. In the first entries, he speaks of not knowing what is beautiful anymore for all is beautiful, even the two men who work at the garage covered in grease engaged in a simple conversation.

In love and in death, all is made beautiful. This death-love connection.

When I returned home to southern California after that first date weekend with Ben, Emily, the mom of the family I was living with, picked me up from the airport. She knew. I knew it too. Before we went into the house, she paused, after taking the keys out of ignition, and turned to look at me, "I just have one question." I smiled at her. "Are you ready, Sandra? Ready

to die to self?" she asked. And without hesitation my hear leapt for the joy that was before me, "Yes, for the first time in my life, unreservedly, yes." I think I hugged her, we prayed in the autumn sunlight that streamed into the car, and walked into the house.

Marriage is a tomb for love. Yes, I agree. A tomb for self-centered, self serving love, and as this love dies, a new love is birthed, a sacrificial, unconditional, life giving, divine love. He is found in such love, for He is this love. This death love connection.

Ben started it. And there really is no one to finish it. So here we are - Ben, my husband of about a month, and I - hoping to commit to writing twenty minutes each day. Maybe this will turn into memoirs of newlyweds in their first year or the blabberings of unemployed educated early thirty year olds - choose your poison.

Ben read the synopsis of Donald Miller's new book to me yesterday. A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Miller "attempts to edit his life journey into a better story." Leonard Sweet, in a review of the book says, "It shows us how stories define us even more than our genes do." (I really do hope this is the case because my jeans are currently on the verge of a hole where they rub together between my legs and they are embarrassingly designer ones I got a two for one sale). I think of this as Ben and I venture into writing these blogs.

Last night, while eating the remaining rhubarb cobbler Ben baked, we watched "The Brother's Bloom," rented from that glorious Red Box at the local Lucky's. And this "living in the story you choose to write" theme emerged as the movie is about an elder brother who writes the cons like stories for his younger brother to play the central role. The con becomes the reality and everyone gets what they want. Perhaps it's the memory of our lives that shape it more so than the actual events themselves, if one can make such a distinction.

I have been fascinated for a long time now about how we remember our lives, recall our own stories. The story of remembrance shared over a cup of wine and broken bread captivates me. How do I daily live out and live in this memory? Mostly I write to remind myself. I write to remember the in between it all and I invite you - whoever you are- to do so with me.