Happy First Birthday, Dad

My memories of my dad come in hues of blues and shades of green and vibrant warm reds and oranges. In one of my favorite young adolescent novels, The Book Thief, death is the narrator. He states at the beginning of the story:

“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.” 

Death brings about the living vibrant colors of a person’s life.  I recall moments with Dad and the shades hidden within the spectrum and beyond bring forth a man that was large in love, loyalty,faithfulness and strength. 

I see iridescent fluorescent blue: 

Dad sitting on the carpet  in the Woodland HIlls house, that spot between the L shaped couch, ankles crossed one foot lifted on top of the other,  his big toe scratching a itchy spot, clad in his white t-shirt invariably stained with chilli dog,watching Late Night with Johnny Carson waiting for his girls to come home.

I see fresh-cut-grass green  with early morning dew:   

Dad driving his  bank Oldsmobile listening to NPR on the way to Winketa Park for Saturday soccer, the traditional breakfast stop at McDonalds… he never missed one game.  

My four year old self standing akimbo on the mid line in opposition but obedience to my daddy who told me to go after the ball but no further than the midline.

And dad, through college, my biggest fan and greatest coach, standing  on the sideline of my hospital bed after knee surgery, helping to me to see myself as a young woman apart from my soccer identity. 

I see brilliant orange and faithful sacrificial red: 

Dad collecting  every single story written and every email exchanged from my time in China. Binders full.  The pride of his father’s heart when he spoke of each of us girls.

 Dad, hobbling out to the dance floor in desperate need of hip surgery, yet swinging me around in my white wedding gown dancing the movement of a father and a daughter’s love.    

 I see soft sweet heavenly  baby blue:  

Waking to nurse my  newborn, my house the sacred quiet of an untouched night  save the click of computer keys coming from the kitchen where the screen illuminates  Dad’s face. “Hey kiddo,” he says. He coos at his grandchild and with his daughter speaks of the sweetness of life and the miracle of a child.   

The dad of my childhood was big not only in physical presence but in love. His squeezes along with his sneezes called for attention.When he would come home from work, we would attach ourselves to his feet and he’d drag us around the rooms and into the kitchen asking mom where the girls had gone.  His handsome suits and the smell of Old Spice and his freshly shaven face before he left for the day never missed a chance to give us a kiss… In all ways, the big and the small he was faithful. 

Before I left for China, I had snuck onto the closed soccer field at Wheaton College, late at night.  I needed a sacred place to pray and the pitch had become that for me. I was hesitant of what was ahead in my life, I was afraid of making the wrong decision, I didn’t know if my faith and my love were strong enough.. I asked God in his fatherly tenderness, in his love, to grant me a covenantal sign, something that when I saw it, I would be reminded that He was with me, always. And just as I finished praying the words, a train. Not an approaching train in the distance,  but a train instantly passing furiously fast on the tracks next to the field.  

A train, by no accident, has been the symbol  my God’s love and presence in my life. And it goes without saying you can see the connection... 

My mom and dad gave us girls such priceless gifts:  a beautiful home to grow up in, a steady marriage of 48 years, family meals together, wonderful vacations, a college education, beautiful weddings….but the greatest gift, the one I am most thankful for, is the strength and humility  to love and be loved, to love God and be loved by Him.

The month dad was on the final leg of this journey, the Hallmark Channel was featuring Christmas in July.  The simple overstated yet addicting love stories of the season played in the background as I held my dying dad’s hand.  I was taken back to our Woodland Hills home where on Christmas Eve we would always sing Happy BIrthday to Jesus. Although Dad’s passing came in July, according to Hallmark and I believe the Gospel story, it is always Christmas time for in Christ’s birth, God’s Incarnation,  Dad’s death is a birth. A rebirth. A New Life. 

Happy birthday, Dad.  May your memory be Eternal.   

Theory of Colours – Goethe observed that colour arises at the edges, and the spectrum occurs where these coloured edges overlap. Theory of Colours (German: Zur Farbenlehre) is a book by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe about the poet's views on the nature of colours and how these are perceived by humans. 

Researchers have long known that the mantis shrimp eye contains 12 color receptors, but they had no idea why. Humans and most other animals use three color-receptors to see the spectrum of light.

The Flip (Revisited)

It’s in the little things. The half cup of coffee abandoned abruptly on a random bookshelf to be found two days later. The forgetting of the placement of phone, keys tablet, wallet. The annoyance felt toward a left out judge of juice for the umpteenth time. Signs of the primary parent. We are over half way through this flip year and with each and every day, diaper change, meal served, off to work and school drop off kiss exchange, our perspective has widened and our love deepened.


This sweet place of not a word exchanged and we know the need of the other. Not even a look, just simple knowledge of the common toil compels. It was a Monday. Ben was sick and getting sicker. “I’ll probably feel better tomorrow, “ he assured me. Say no more. I was able to arrange for a substitute to watch my class on the next day. Good thing, Tuesday morning Ben was worse. He slept the day away, between frequent visits to the bathroom. I spent the day checking off tasks on his daily to-do list (yes, the professional did "coordinate the sh*t" out of the housework. See blog post “The Flip”) and ventured into his next day of chores. When Ben’s fever broke and he was able to join us in the evening, the look of relief on his face was a shared joy. I know what it means to be sick with housework and children clamoring in the wings. The day after is often worse when it means catch up while you are still feeling so weak and worn. Say no more…

I started to make looking at his housework app a thing I did on the weekends to help him out and get him ahead of the game. I did it for one weekend, maybe two. Then one Saturday I asked him about it. “Hey, did you get the chores done already? There are none on here.” He just kept looking at the book he was reading, “You need a weekend too, you know.” Say no more.

Ben was offered a camp job a few months back. We talked about it. But this is where we want to be presently. Life is simple. The struggle and worry has passed for now. We are truly enjoying this stage.

We may or may not have chosen this path here on our own but we are grateful. The perfect house for us came on the market right when we needed one. I walk to school in the morning and home for lunch. The proximity brings such peace. This flip doesn’t feel disruptive like one might think it would have been. It’s more like the turning of one of those calming bottles we made with the boys. One abrupt movement but yet all of the pieces slowly float, flow and fall among the glitter into place.

“Just because we flipped doesn’t mean you can not to be the hot one in bed!” Ben says as he curls his six foot five freezing frame around me under the covers. “Wait. What did you just say?!” I laugh hard and place frigid feet against his calves. These expectations of ours. What we are to be in our lives, in our homes, in our cultures… in bed. (Side note: I don’t mind being known as the hot one, by the way.)

I am this one. You are that one. What if we were to be just one instead? Truly one. Where no words need to be exchanged, no role division needs to be hashed out, we simply were just one. I’ll pick up the forgotten coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher for you. You’ll put the orange juice jug away for me, again. I’ll remember where you put your keys and you’ll find my phone. Say no more. It’s in the little things. Flip.

The Flip

I came home to piles of laundry on our bed. Folded piles of laundry. Folded coordinated piles of laundry on the made bed.  And so the flip has begun.  Ben and I will be switching roles for the next

year. He will be the "primary parent" (a term he recently discovered and proudly owns) and I'll be the working parent. I'm actually not certain what to call what I will be and this seems to be pretty much what I have been feeling as of late.  I think all of us moms go through this. This identity shift and change continually in moments and through seasons - mom, wife, friend, sister, daughter, employee. We have an understanding, it seems, of before I was a mother and after, before I became a wife, when I was single, when I was working, I was...

I will be a classroom teacher once again. Eighth grade.  I love the angst of the early adolescent years. This struggle to define themselves and discover who they are and who they want to become.  I identify with it, maybe a little too much. Lord have mercy on this perpetual puberty. Approaching this school year, I am equally excited and hesitant.  My babies are five years old, three, two and one.  I anticipated going back to full time teaching someday but someday came sooner than we expected. 

On a Tuesday afternoon, before the boy's swim lessons, Ben was fired from his Outdoor Education Coordinator job. We were given three weeks to pack up our home, our life and move on. To what? Everything shifted. Everything flipped.

Ben needed time, needs time. With my degree and the timing of the "shift" it seemed obvious it would be me who would pursue an income.  Not even a week after Ben lost his job, I had my first interview for the job I was offered. There has been no time really to reflect or think or feel even. You put your head down and do what you need to do. Pack bags, wrap up treasures, take snapshots in your mind of the place you hoped your children would grow up and with the help of dear friends you move on and into the first floor of a gracious family from your church.

People wonder how we are doing with all this. I wonder!  They mainly ask about Ben. How is he really with staying at home? Answer: To quote Ben, "I'm going to coordinate the sh*t out this!"  There already is little pictures of clothes on drawers so the boys know where to put their laundry.  He already has found a more efficient app for meal planning and grocery shopping.  He has even already signed up to take a meal to someone in our church.  I think people should rather ask how I am doing with my husband showing me up as Super Mom, I mean, Super Primary Parent. 

Honestly, it makes me so proud and so thankful. I am humbled by this gift of my man.  We always held to this egalitarian understanding of our marriage and the way this flip has been so fluid thus far shows the depth to how sincerely we hold the truth of that ideal.

And sure, there has been some stumbles, some arguments, some bruised feelings  and there will be more as we continue to figure this out. The unofficial first week of me working, I came into the kitchen just to grab something so I could continue to write my parent letter in the other room. Banner asked for a frozen yogurt tube. "Of course, baby," I say and grab one without even thinking. Ben looks at me aghast. "Seriously? Dinner will be on the table in five minutes!"  He's angry but I secretly loved it. Flip.  

This use to be my "domain."  Granted, Ben never, ever once stepped into my "territory" and assumed charge. It was more like me throwing babies at him, begging for him to take over, the minute he walked into the house.  But now, how much more of an opportunity to really step into each other's shoes, to really appreciate one another, to really grow in our understandings of how much it really takes to be true partners in life and in love.

He has even washed the sheets already. For the love. Really, for the love. I can honestly say there is no hidden envy or "You just wait, Ben, after weeks of this" or "Yeah, of course you can because you didn't have little people literally sucking your brain capacity out of you for the last five years..."  None of that. Don't believe me?  Watch us. It is quite impressive.  I can't even fathom how it's working.  I think it has a lot to do with how we identify ourselves. Are we defined by our roles? Our work? The amount of our income? Where we live? 

Jesus' last prayer in the garden was that we would be one as He and the Father are one.  The union of the divine.  Separate but one. Each constantly seeking to give glory to the other.  This is our prayer in marriage that we would be one. And I hope to give glory, to honor Ben in whatever role we play. And He feels the same. In this submission to one another, we find one ourselves and our identities are made true in love no matter who is bringing home the paycheck or folding the piles of laundry. 

My Dangerous Territory, My Quest

She is fidgeting.  Shuffling through the basket of makeup on her lap in the passenger seat.  It's early morning and the sun has not even come up yet.  Her fingers are nervous, everything about her is anxious, unsettled.  She is high. She must be high.  "He called me dangerous. I know what that means, Sandra,"  she says as she rummages through the pile for the umpteen time. "I am going to write a book about that word, you know? I started yesterday."  Up all night, Sarah was not ready when I arrived at her grandma's house to take to her court appointment two and a half hours away. "They say I'm crazy and they love it at first. But when they call me dangerous.  That's when they leave me. And they always do." 

I think of the new book  DangerousTerritory - My Misguided Quest to Save the World by friend Amy Peterson.  Sarah is my dangerous territory. She is my quest. Everything about her unravels me and reveals my heart full of conflicted self righteousness, Is this really love or my misunderstood Christian obligation in attempt to be awarded some holy badge? If love truly perseveres, how far must I go?  Dear God! How do I even ask such a question when you went to the cross?  

When we first started the foster care/adoption journey, there were a few people in our lives that were concerned, rightfully so, about the safety of our babies and the disruption of our simplistic ideal lives. And honestly, I was one of them.  I tested myself by playing out awful scenarios in my head.  What if an emotionally disturbed child pulled down a book case crushing my two month old while I was in the laundry room? Would I take responsibility for the decision I made for having brought "that" into "our" home?  Foster care/adoption would mess everything up. And it should.  Often our kingdoms need to be turned upside down...

"I use to climb this one tree when I was little," Sarah tells me as she puts in yet another CD.  "I would sit on one of the top branches with my nose to the sky. My uncle would ask if I was a bird. 'No' I'd say 'A dolphin. But I want to go up not down. I want to swim in the sky.'"  Her words make my heart ache. So much has happened to that little girl in such a short time. She is only eighteen and has had a more than a lifetime of pain and tragedy.  I imagine Lily in The Secret Life of Bees. She is standing in the middle of  a swarm.  She calls upon her love to overcome her fear and to ease the bees. "I love you. I love you. I love you," she whispers under her protective covering .  "I love you. I love you. I love you," my soul reaches out in the dark of the car.

The day is long. The drive back home even longer.  We return just as it gets dark.  My two year old adopted son - Sarah's son -  runs out to meet me.  I hold him tightly. Many people enter into adoption to save children.  I don't think we can. I don't think it should be our goal or even our calling.  But to love, to persist in love perhaps is the Cross we are to carry.  This is salvation. Amy's book concludes with Saint John Chrysostom's words, "Our mission is to put love where love is not."   It has been a week since I heard from Sarah. She is on the run now.  My soul continues to shout into the darkness, "I love you. I love you. I  love you. "  And hope she hears and is healed.

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.

One hundred and Thirty-Five Glasses

It is a little ridiculous. Okay, a lot ridiculous, I admit.  As I pile the tomatoes, cream of mushroom soup, and  the ninety-nine cent napkins on the grocery store's conveyer belt, my eyes wander over to the breaming bride on the front cover and I can't help it; I still look at bridal magazines, pick-them-up-and- look kind of look. It has been five months since the event has taken place and I can't let go.

Friends of ours, a recently engaged couple,  joined us for dinner last week; he teasingly asked, "So when will I get my Rachel back?"  Darts from green eyes shot across the table. Wrong joke to make. But you know what is really not funny? The answer is never. You will never get her back. I know. I know because I will never be back to that person I was before the whole blessed event (and please read that adjective as its true meaning and not a curse) began to take motion. Certainly I am not the same person since I planned the wedding and this is a good thing. A very good thing.

My friend Lauren sent me paint chips so I can find a bride's maid dress of a matching color for her wedding in April. "Ohhh," my older sister Stacey teased, "After all you put her through on your day, you better be ready to serve your booty off." (Or something more or less refined to that affect). And I am excited to be on that side again. On the phone with Lauren the other day, I hear her exhaustingly express what most brides wonder, "Why should we not just go away? It would be so simple."  She doesn't really mean it; most of us don't. I reminded her, as she reminds herself, about the meaning of it all.

Even for simple weddings, there is a lot to be done, many decisions to make, and many people to keep informed. We are told over and over again that this is the bride's day, a once in a life time moment, the day little girls dream about all their lives.  Not really true, but sometimes you are told this so much that you begin to think it yourself and there are the price tags to prove it.  What is the wedding day really about? And all these traditions? What is with the garter toss anyway? What is the meaning of it all?

I had collected (with a little help from my mom) over one hundred and thirty five various drinking glasses, wine glasses, dinner plates, cake plates and mugs from various thrift stores in California. It was quite the work but little by little with help along the way, I had my treasure ready for the wedding day. Reluctantly, I listed them on Craig's List just a few days ago. (Really, what was I to do with them in our studio apartment?) In an hour, I already had a contact and by the evening, seven emails.  One of the brides came over the following day and I showed her all the details of our wedding in the woods. I also gave her the table runners I had made in China.  She gushed over it all and couldn't believe how much I was generously helping her, sparing her from all the time and agony of thinking through such and collecting it all herself. She even insisted on giving me the scones she made that morning from her peach tree and promised that she would pass the collection on to the next bride. I told her I hoped she would.

And this is what I pass on to the next bride: You will not be the same once you start planning your wedding. You will look at the world differently, look at yourself differently.  I go hiking and see flowers that would make a good bouquet. Patterns on a wall would make for good table cloths. Such observations might fade in time but what is lasting, I think, is that I am more aware of beauty and the beauty I bring. Honestly, I feel more beautiful myself. I also came to the shocking realization of how self-absorbed I truly am and this is a great confession as one ventures into a life long covenant. All the details agonized over, all the energy spent, all the money expended, was all well worth it for the greater lessons of what it means to celebrate life and love with the ones you love and love you.  We are made up of so much more than ourselves and a wedding, including all its details, is a reminder of such and so much more.  I can't let it go for I am not the same. For better or for worse. And hopefully better, despite my obsession with bridal magazines.

The Buoyancy of Citrus

It is a classic exercise. The teacher tells the students to take out a blank piece of paper. "Don't write on it until you have heard all the instructions,"  he directs. "First put your name in the upper right hand corner." Some eager students pick up their yellow Ticonderogas and begin to scribble. Teeth over lower lip, one leg tucked under the other, back bent over the top of the desk, focused. "Next, draw a circle in the middle of the paper."  Pencils move. In the front row, the smallest kid in the class begins to wave his arm to ask how big of a circle. The teacher goes on, "Now, ignore everything except step one."  Hands shoot up into the air as if they were all under arrest. Confusion spreads across the room. The teacher smiles, "Turn in your papers..." 

One of my favorite things about having all this time in our first year of marriage is the space we have to cook together. We set up menus on www.recipezaar.com, create shopping lists, print out the recipes on card stock, and invite friends to join us occasionally when the food preparation has taken longer than value of just two people dining. Although the kitchen in our studio apartment can hardly be called such, we somehow manage to maneuver around each other more fluidly than frantically. The knockings, scootings, bumpings and pushings are followed by genuine apologies and are even part of the fun. (Truly signs of newlyweds, in more ways than one!) 

Tonight we made these simple tuna cakes, that in the end, surprisingly, could be mistaken for something quite fancy on a restaurant menu--if I do say so myself. (Perhaps it is just the word "hollandaise" that makes it sound more uppity than it really is.) As Ben and I were floating around each other in our newlywed world, throwing cups of this and tablespoons of that into the bowl like it was a recipe for love (yes, I will stop here before you gag), Ben shouts,hands proceeding his words, "Nooooo! Not yet with the hollandaise!"  I abruptly tip the opened can back into an upright position. "But," I begin to argue, sauce still dangerously poised over the bowl, "Look: step number one clearly says, '1. Mix all ingredients.'"  I scan the recipe knowing Ben had seen something I hadn't.  Number seven brings enlightenment, the brightness of which is as yellow as the sauce itself. "Drizzle prepared hollandaise sauce over cakes." 

"Well, why did they put it that way! It's totally like that thing teachers do to make kids know that they should  listen to all the instructions first. There's a life lesson in here somewhere..." I drone on. We go back to twirling and spinning around our 4x8 foot wonderland.  

  

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.