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.