See Differently

“And what are we celebrating tonight?” It was a genuine question. Sincere. I truly think our waiter was really interested. Even included himself in our party as noted by the personal pronoun. Maybe he doesn't see too many people like us at Red Lobster - “like us” meaning that our faces shone giddily with the knowledge that we don't spend money on seafood very often, or often, or at all, for that matter.

“Sea food differently” is the current advertising gimmick by the company and Ben and I have taken to it, seeing that we could split their four-course feast offered for only $14.99 and get an awesome meal for both of us rather cheaply. So as we sat down, Ben in his button-down-not-ironed shirt and me in my new jeans purchased at a second-hand store, perhaps we did give off a sense of excitement that the waiter equated with celebration. We were out on our own without baby and we were about to “cheat the system” so it was rather exciting. Although the food itself was in the end rather forgetful, the waiter's opening question has remained with me. And what are we celebrating?

Before each dinner Ben prayers the same prayer - short, succinct, and to the point. “Thank you God for all the good things you do for us. Amen.” (Sometimes he adds “including my lovely wife” and kisses my hand for good measure.) Banner has begun to join us as he can now sit up in a high chair. He is our good thing, the good-est thing in our lives right now. Each day I surely celebrate him. I sing and dance around before him as I make dinner and he giggles in delight. As a new mommy, I admit though that I am a little neurotic when it comes to putting him down to sleep. He cries almost every time and then when he stops, I panic a little wondering if he is okay and go to check on him.

When we pray at night, I thank God for letting us keep him one more day. Letting us keep him.... It is a strange way of saying it. I have often nuanced words, stumbled over semantics, and wrestled with word choice. Ben and I have been lately discussing the verbiage we use to describe God and our relationship with him. Such musings have worked their way into every conversational exchange. When asked what we were celebrating, I wanted to say, “Life. Each other. Eating” but maybe because I was thinking a little too much about the question, or maybe because I didn't want to be over romantic, and maybe because simultaneously with the happy-go-lucky response there came that wave of fear that this simple life that I treasure so much will crumble into the brokenness of the world around us, both Ben and I simply responded “nothing” and smiled.

To some, the celebration of life, food, and relationship might be darkly overshadowed by present circumstances. But no matter what is going on, these things are a good a cause as any to celebrate. It might not be as easy of a response though. Maybe the waiter's inquiry is a good question to ask ourselves every day. And what are we celebrating today? Yes, there is a time for everything – everything good and bad, tragic and celebratory, barren and fertile, dead and alive– but all of it in the end will together be redeemed. And in this hope we can always, always celebrate. Ben says it all comes down to trusting that God is good. We daily thank Him for good things but mostly we thank Him because He is good. We celebrate the good things but we celebrate Him for He himself is Love. “Sea food differently” commands the advertisement and they invite you to come and eat. See differently and come to a wedding feast for the final celebration. In the end, there is always and will always be dessert to share.

Water and Blood, Bread and Wine

    The nurse came running after us. “You forgot these,” she happily pronounced her friendly salvation act as she handed us the two small shot glasses. “I figured they were for your contact lenses.” Uh, huh. Contact lenses, right. I am the only one in my family with nearly perfect vision. Ben's had Lasik surgery. Along with a miniature bottle of red wine, we had smuggled the glasses into the delivery ward of the hospital. (Forgot our essential overnight bag – the one with changes of underwear and toothbrushes -- but we did not forget the alcohol. Oh no, we did not. We have our priorities straight you see.) It had been nine months of abstaining and I wanted to celebrate properly. In the quiet dark of the hospital room then, on the beautiful December night of our first born's birth, we broke bread and gave thanks, sweet precious Communion. In covenant love, we would begin our journey as parents, as father and son, as mother and child, as a family. Holding this marvel of miracle to my chest, Ben wrapped his arms around us and prayed, “God, may we love each other profoundly. May Banner know he is loved beyond measure. May your banner over him, over us, be love.”

    After about twelve hours of labor, Banner Benjamin Maki entered this world. It was Easter that we found out we were pregnant and three days after Christmas, December 28,2011, that our baby boy was born. The celebratory seasons spoke to me as to the significance of what incredible endeavor laid before us - the pregnancy, the labor, parenthood. We hoped to have a natural birth experience without any drugs and we were able to - despite the need of oxygen and the possibility of pulling Banner out in the end as his heart rate had dropped significantly. The last two hours of pushing were extremely difficult. Banner was in posterior position nearly the whole duration which lent to much back labor. Ben was an amazing partner and coach through it all. He held my hand and relentlessly pushed on my back. The counter pressure brought much needed relief as he whispered stories to keep my mind from the pain, “We are on the beach at Point Reyes. It is dark and there is a camp fire that warms us.” After, I was shocked when I looked in the mirror to see that the blood vessels in my face, eyes and around my shoulders all had burst. I had heard about this happening to women before but could not have imagined such exertion.

     One of the reasons I desired natural birth was that I wanted to fully be mindful of the spiritual journey of labor. It seems to me that there are many allusions connecting the experience of birth and death that they almost seem to be one in the same. Jesus said in order to find life, we must lose it. We must take up our cross daily and follow him. “Be born again,” he says. The Hebrew word for compassion includes the word for womb. The Greek word lends to the same idea, Splagxnizomai. It is as if this virtue is conceived in the very place where precious life is formed and is connected to the living breathing heart of the Creator. Brennan Manning, author of Abba's Child, purposes that compassion exists then in the very womb of God. And it is because of this divine compassion, this love for His creation, that He sent His one and only Son. The night before Jesus died, on the night he broke bread with his disciples, he communed with His Father in the garden. It is written that he prayed so hard, he sweat blood. He labored in prayer for the incredible endeavor that was before him - the trail, the beatings, the crucifixion. More so, for the joy set before him, Christ labored. He labored for us. And in such exertion to bear life, to bring life, to be Life, his blood vessels perhaps burst. I believe it was birth pains he experienced in that garden that early morning for on the cross that day His death brought forth life. And from His side, poured water and blood, the very fluid of rebirth. Drink wine. Break bread. Do this in remembrance, he tells us. This is the day you were born. Celebrate in covenant. His banner over us is love.

Baskets and a Baby Banner

A Princess Leia slave costume, a Magic Bullet, and a broken-printer-but-working-scanner – the three items I listed on Craig's List last week. Ben and I are making room for the baby. Yes, baby, arriving January 3^rd. Now we can effectively fit him into a storage box if we wanted. (Granted, that slave costume didn't have much to it. Don't ask. It was a bridal shower gift from my baby sister.) As we reshuffle things around our little camp cabin here -selling and giving away things all the while purchasing deals on baby stuff and gratefully receiving hand-me-downs – that concept of “making room” begs to be noticed. Do we live our lives in such a way where it is simple to recognize what needs to go? Or more so, do we live life in a way where there is already room and will always be room for the important stuff? And I'm not just talking about material possessions.

Ben and I have a running argument – mind you, our arguments are more like running jokes – about baskets. When we were first setting up the studio we lived in that first year, I insisted I needed a basket to organize our clothes. He thought it was a ridiculous use of funds. He relented though and I got two baskets as a result – one for sweaters, one for socks. Last week, I came home with a basket and a storage box. Hence, an “argument” over the value of baskets returned. (I have yet to bring up how valuable a basket was in the life of Moses. Life savers those baskets are.) So the new basket holds papers from the desk (which is really an IKEA table that will now find a home in the shed) and the storage box - all my newsletters, pictures and memorabilia from China. And again, that “making room” mantra resounds. As I placed the lid on the albums, it seemed a little too significant, a little too dramatic as I put the China box on the shelf and closed the shed door behind me. But it is moments like these that clarity seems to emerge. All my China stuff was out because I had just been given a chance to talk about my experience with the women's retreats here at camp. I entitled the session, “Three Women, Three Lives, One Story.” The last of the women's lives I shared was my own but I stopped the story simply with my return back to the states. But the women at the retreat knew better than I, know better than I in their years of wisdom. They insisted that I continue sharing, they insisted that the story continue - How did I meet Ben? How did I fall in love?How did we get here? ...

When I put that China box away, I knew that it was not gone, it is not over for ultimately that time is stored up in heaven, but with its placement there I can now make room for the narrative to continue. Here and now. And when Baby Banner Benjamin Maki arrives, there will be much room in heart and mind and soul for that Great Story to go on for it is all apart of the One story, is it not? Naming our boy after the Song of Solomon verse ,“I am my beloved and He is mine and His banner over me is love,” we will always be aware of what is most important. I label the boxes and put titles on Craig's list items all the while under this banner, this knowledge of love. Do I need to make room for Love? The story continues despite the lack of space sometimes (or the pressing need for baskets). It works its way through those cracks we are susceptible to and then it expands and expands till we can not help but to drop nets and sell all we have and live in the freedom of less is more in the Name of Love. 

http://www.ted.com/talks/graham_hill_less_stuff_more_happiness.html

Sing and Keep Going

Once I caught him humming “Do you know the muffin man?.” Another time it was “Baby are you down, down, down...” Most often, it's a catchy chorus or a praise refrain. Wether we are walking, hiking, driving, or simply just on our way to somewhere, even if that somewhere is only across the room, Ben can't help but make a melody of some kind. It is a characteristic of his that I love. Anytime, anywhere, Ben simply sings.

When the devastating earthquake happened in Sichuan, China three years ago, the government church decided to not worship that Sunday. Honorably, they thought such loud, joyful music would be interpreted by the culture around them as a sign of disrespect and disregard. In moments like these, is this not when we must, despite the aches and pains in our spirits, persist in singing within? Our organization's director circulated this quote by Augustine to lift our faith in the face of such unexplainable tragedy, “Let us sing alleluia here on earth, while we are still anxious and worrying, so that we may one day be able to sing it there in heaven, without any worry or care.”

Little En Ze, my Chinese daughter by friendship and spirit, is now two years old. To persuade toddlers to continue walking, most Chinese parents mimic the march of the soldiers, “One, Two. One, Two. One, Two!” They shout and snap their arms up and down. But En Ze's mommy, from the moment she was born, sang to her. Yu Hong sang over her, one could say, or even into her. “Glory to the new born king!” The Christmas hymn is unmistakable. When I visited, last year, Enze was a few weeks into the walking stage. Yu Hong sang and Enze would march. Her little feet worshipping as she went toddling. This year, Enze now is singing. Her little voice giving glory as she proclaims peace on earth. The words are indistinguishable at best but the melody is unquestionable. She does not know the words she speaks are foreign. All she knows is the song. And this song keeps her going. “Light and life to all He brings.” There is healing in His wings. So with Enze, let us sing! Even when we do not know the words or even when we are unsure of the truth of them, let us sing and keep going for He is the one who sings over us! 
 

Dirty Jesus

I think I have seen Jesus three times. Once in a a dive bar in Monte Rio. Monte Rio, California that is, on the Russian River. It's called the Pink Elephant and it is a great place to do, what my sister Shari affectionately refers to as, the hippie dance. She catches a star and puts it into her pocket, then sways to the feel of the music. Leather jackets, bandannas, drunken slurs in abundance, the night we were there held much promise. And it did not disappoint for half-way through our cup of spiced cider, we saw him. There, at the end of the bar, was Jesus.  Slouching over the leather rimmed top, hand absentmindedly on top of an emptied glass, long disheveled, half-dreaded hair in front of face, sat the man from Nazareth. "Look," I interrupted Shari's star catching, "It's Jesus." I swayed my head over my left shoulder in beat to the music. Shari gasped. I turned to see Jesus making-out with a woman who looked about fifty for the years of the streets reflected in her face, her messy hair and his all tangled into one. She could barely stand on her feet as she leaned into the sloppy interchange. "Dirty Jesus," I chastised. We laughed and put the stars in our pockets.

The other two times I saw Jesus were not as interesting. Once, when we were leaving the gas station, he was standing at the entrance with a blanket wrapped around him and a Bible in the envelope of his arm.  The other time was just today in Starbucks but it really doesn't count as I didn't verbally point it out to friends who were with me. I just couldn't decide if he looked like Jesus or Bob Dillon. He was a tall man with an untucked, oversized flannel shirt and jeans, very long unkempt hair, who oddly enough, was wearing a brand new, tag still attached, pair of yellow oven-mitt gloves to hold his coffee.  As I contemplated if he resembled the Son of Man or not, I started to think about how I determine if a man looks like Jesus or not. What is my criteria based on?

Jesus tells a parable about those who stand before him in judgment. He tells the righteous that when he was hungry, they fed him. When he was thirsty, they gave him a drink. "When did we see you Lord?" they insist. "When you did so unto the least of these," he responds.  So is Jesus the poor, the discarded, the ignored? Or is Jesus everyone who has need? And that means everyone, right?  In every situation, right?  From the biggest to the smallest. The glass of water in the middle of the night for my husband and the well dug for the people in the middle of Malawi.

I can see Jesus more clearly in the unruly hair than the clean cut shave of the business man. And culturally and contextually, yes, there is reason for this.  But I do this with the parable as well. Sometimes, for me, those that we have come to define as the "least of these" are easier to give to. But maybe this is just the starting point. This, in the very least, is what I should do, how I should see. Whatever form Jesus takes I want to be able to see Him wether that is at a run-down bar or at a gas station or in an over-priced coffee house. There is no criteria. There is only Jesus...everywhere.

Time in my Pocket

All the time in the world. I love this phrase. Does that include the past, the present, the future?  All the time in the world tied up and put in my pocket? Can I have it, really? Can I? Can I? But do I want it? That's a lot of minutes to account for.  Right now Ben and I do have mostly all the time in the world.  My mind for the first time, in a long time, has nothing to fixate on besides myself (which I do fixate on a lot anyway) and Ben (God help him). No lesson plans to prepare, papers to grade, presentations to make, studies to follow, lists of people to call, ministry to focus on, overwhelming inbox of emails, or wedding to plan. So what am I to do with all this time? I know people tell themselves over and over again that they would do this-or-that if only they had more time so what would I do? The answer is really I don't know what to do. With all the time in the world before me, I can't remember, for the life of me, what I have said I would do and I honestly really don't know what I want!

The pressure is almost unbearable but thankfully the the local massage therapy school offers free bio-mat sessions.  ( Side note: to make the most of our first year freedom and to build a strong foundation, Ben and I have been watching www.sonomaonthecheap.com.  Today's event: the bio mat! Tomorrow, Denny's free grand slam breakfast!)  Ben has picked up Biblical Greek and is enthusiastically studying like it is his job.   If it is not for a class though, I just don't have the motivation to discipline myself like that.  I think I would like to study Chinese more but when it comes down to it, I don't.  How about exercising? And the truth is that I just don't want to and on top of that I don't like to.

I have therefore come to the conclusion that we are all disillusioned. I know that it is a big statement, but I believe I do mean all of us.  If we had more time, we really won't do all those things that we say we would do because when it comes down to it, if we really wanted to do those things, we would do them. We would make time for them, somehow, someway.  (Maybe those with children are an exception to the "all" assumption I have made above. Children change everything including theories.) So this is what I have done with this gift of time so far: I have begun to write more, read more, respond to friends' emails  and phone calls quicker. I cook with Ben, we go to museums and city events, I have signed up for a writing workshop, we watch a lot of movies, we discuss and discuss and discuss, we take road trips, hike when the weather is nice, watch the sunset, invite friends over for dinner, and when I am not obsessing about the responsibility of time, Ben and I are simply together, fully together. Free of any time constraints, my mind is truly not wandering to all the things I should be doing or could be doing for there is nothing and we can truly engage! When I release the obsession with time equating to money and allow myself to simply be (I still am trying to figure out how to do that), Ben and I are together. This is my favorite thing that all this time has allowed, we get to be together. Really together and that is worth all the money and all the time in the world.

Maturity

Ben had just made the bed. In response, I immediately marched across the top of it and stared him in the face (a rare occasion as my husband is 6'5"). My playful eyes were met with a highly annoyed yet handsome hazel pair, only furthering my delight in my deviousness. "Why do I find immaturity so much fun right now?" I laughed a laugh of a young girl caught between princess and witch.  I kissed him, jumped off the bed, and hopped back to the kitchen where I resumed my grown-up duties.

Tuesday was the free day at the De Young museum in San Francisco.  My cousin James joined us. As we walked among the art and the artifacts, our conversation moved us through our own personal time-lines as well. We stopped in the sculpture garden and sat in a rounded room reminiscent of Star Wars, the home where Luke grew-up. James spoke of the design of the structure allowing for relationship between the horizontal and the vertical. I have always appreciated our talks. At lunch, over smoked turkey sandwiches and minestrone soup - a great deal for six dollars, we ventured into the topic of maturity. James' artist friend had joined us; he spoke of how he honestly feels "retarded in the maturation process" at least in the terms set by society.  The lifestyle that the professional artist often must succumb to before his/her endeavors are meet with financial recognition does not allow for one to put away money for retirement, make a down payment for a home, or even just pay off one's loans for that matter. Does a job that makes such an adequate income equate maturity?  If so, Ben and I are definitely immature as well.

I shared that as a woman coming into my thirties I felt that I too felt impeded in my maturing process. Not yet married as I left the twenties and not having any potential prospects at the time, I wondered how I would define that next stage of my life. No, I do not think that marriage equates maturity but this is what I was sensing around me.  Without marriage, what was the next marker in my life as a woman? (I know many very mature single women and I wonder how they would answer the question.)  James spoke of our natural physical development as well and how that plays into maturity. It was noted too that marriage does cause one to constantly think of someone other than oneself so this brings on a forced maturity in some.  Not to mention having children, the full responsibility of another life...We talked about equating maturity with the degree of responsibility you have.  Our conversation was very brief on the subject but it did leave me wondering about how we define maturity.

In my undergraduate studies, I focused on early adolescent development, ages 12-14 - the middle school years.  I think we go through a similar cycle with more developed variations again in our late twenties, a second adolescence of sorts,  or maybe the process has just been retarded. (I don't know where I heard this but it is said that today's thrity-year-olds were a few years ago twenty-year-olds in terms of level of maturity. Maybe it was just a group of moms who came up with this in order to understand why their boys were still living at home.) I also have recently been thinking about spiritual development, by this I mean how we come into our understanding of God and who we are in relation to him. Perhaps the growth in spiritual understanding can be parallel to what we experience as adolescents.

Early adolescents tend to identify themselves by their surroundings or rather who they surround (or don't surround) themselves with.  Moving away from the identity of "I am so-and-so's child",  they move towards "I am So-and-So's friend."   This is why adolescent groups are so strong and very cruel at times. They define themselves by saying "I am like you" and "I am definitely not like you!"

I see Christians doing this as well with their Christianity,  including me. Ben and I recently had a conversation with someone who no longer calls herself Christian because she does not see herself matched up to her parents' Christianity.  She also points to others she is not like. And eventually, I am sure, she will find a group that she is like. "This is me!" she will conclude and through it she will find her own understanding. When I first started thinking about the adolescent development in parallel with spiritual development, it was right after Ben and I had breakfast with her. As I shared my thoughts with Ben,  he asked me about the next stage, the final stage of development. According to the studies, adolescence ends around 21. In this stage, they may now seek their parents advice and even begin to relate to them more as friends. Their peer group becomes smaller with a few close friends.  They have answered the "Who am I?" question.  It is almost as if they now have a true sense of belonging for they can belong without that desperate need to belong for one's own self preservation - with their parents or with their peers.  And maybe this is the way with my relationship with Christianity. When my faith moves away from self-identiy and survival and acceptance, maybe I am on my way to maturity and I can relate to God as my friend and love others who are not like me rather than be threaten by them....

But these are just the beginnings of these thoughts and the topic is making me just want to go jump on the bed again. Maybe I will do it just to test Ben's grace towards me.  Perhaps my marriage needs to go through a process of maturing too.