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)