Author Archives: Life is For Living book

Two Good Stories

Posted in books, Poland, recommendations by

1. This is a book recommendation for the next time you’re at the library: The Soloist, by Steve Lopez, a journalist for the LA Times. It’s about the redemption and power in friendship and music. It’s a true story, and happened in LA.  You can watch the movie, and it’s good, but the book is really worth your time and thought. It was born out of Mr. Lopez’s search for a story for his column, and how he bumped into Nathaniel Ayers, a homeless musical genius. There’s more than one unlikely hero in the story, and maybe that’s part of why I like it.

2. I live in a flat that has 4,000 English books on its walls. This is in a town where the average adult doesn’t speak English, so this flat is exceptionally exceptional. About once a year our landlord hires a lady to dust all the books. This morning she came, a pleasant, patient lady.  We chatted a little bit now and then. My Polish is slow and childish, but functional. She said this is a happy place, and I agreed and said I feel like a princess in it.

At one point in her work, she peered into the room to ask me what the date is today. I glanced at the calendar to make sure and said it’s the 95th. The cleaning lady, God bless her, never flinched or smirked. Then I heard what I’d said, and quickly cancelled it and stumbled out the correct number and explained that numbers are so hard for me. (Never mind that I learned them in the first week of Polish classes three years ago; I still stutter out most numbers higher than 11.) The most amazing part of this story is how graceful the woman was, and how she listened calmly and patiently til I finished what I wanted to say. I guess if you have the patience to carefully dust 4,000 books, you can also wait for the foreign girl to sputter out and self-correct her Polish mistakes.

Bits of Grace

Posted in life by

I follow Rachel Devenish Ford’s blog, called Journey Mama,  Her words and life and children with beautiful hippy names inspire me.  She started recently to post about five things every day:

These things can be bits of grace, they can be funny things, they can be frustrating things.  These are the things you pull out of your pocket, at the end of the day, and arrange on your night table. These are the thoughts and memories you gather throughout the day. These are the things you paste in your journal. There are no rules, really, I just want to write about five things, to jog my brain and memory and not forget– it’s the not forgetting that’s the most important— these years are an avalanche of challenges and gifts and I want to remember it all.

I loved Rachel’s last story about going out to get donuts for her family’s breakfast and waiting for the singing man to make them while she sat with a woman who was stroking a rooster under her arm to calm it. The incredible thing about life is that while it’s daily and relentless, it has these bizarre, stranger-than-fiction moments that deserve to be shared and savored. It made me think it would be fun to try something like Rachel’s five points a day, only to make it more do-able, I’ll start with two things. Maybe not every day, but maybe more frequently than has been my tendency.

1. Yesterday our friend gave us a bag of coffee her friends from Jordan gave her. Well, we think it’s coffee. We can’t read the language on the package. It smells like a mixture of coffee and tea, and has leaves like tea in it and a lot of cardamom. We made some this evening, with milk and sugar in it. I sipped it while I read Anne’s House of Dreams to Jewel. It had the consistency of tea, maybe because I made it too weak, but it was a comforting drink with a lovely strangeness. My motto is that I’ll try to taste anything at least once, and like most new flavors turn out to be, it was a pleasure.

2. This week’s project-on-the-go is making a pumpkin out of a discarded book. Great fun for my inner child who loves cutting and pasting and messing around with paint. Today I sat in an open doorway, letting sun and (unseasonably) warm breezes in while I painted the rounded edges of the pages. Later in class while I was being a semi-dignified, semi-knowledgeable ESL teacher of dignified adults, I happened to glance down and see that my right palm still had a carrot-orange tinge on it. Like the self-tan spray that some girls use. This girl, however, gets her tans honestly, and the orange sheen felt so foreign. But it amused me and I didn’t regret having painted in the sunshine.

 

I Am From

Posted in Family, life, words by

I am from woven rag rugs by the sink and stacks of table boards. I am from orderly and punctual, the taste of raisins and garlic and whole wheat bread. I am from plants in macrame hangers in the living room and the swing in the tree whose long-gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I’m from morning devotions and shelves of books and baskets of magazines, from reading in silence as a form of socializing and from holding hands for prayer before meals.

I’m from singing for the tape to start playing, God walking with me in the dark, and “It’s always right to do right.”

I’m from camping on Skyline Drive and walking with a hissing lantern and 12-hour road trips to Grampas and countless airport trips.

I’m from Virginia and Germany and Ireland and molasses cookies and canned peaches.

From younger siblings playing church and showing slides, from a typewriter and fabric scraps in the sewing room, from toy poodles, and a world map on the wall.

 

This is based on the poem “I Am From” by George Ella Lyon. The template for this kind of fun writing is here. Try it!

 

 

Living Gifted

Posted in life by

Most mornings, the easiest thing for me to do would be to curl up and stay out of sight for the day, much like my hamster does in her toilet paper roll hide-out.

I love brainstorming and dreaming big and flinging color into life.  But most of my ideas and ideals get so muddied up in the reality of living that I get tired of even trying again, so I respond by wanting to hide.

I want to hide when I’ve failed again. Snapped at someone. Gossiped. Let circumstances determine my behavior. I won’t say more here because this is not a public confessional, but believe me, it gets ugly. Those living closest to me know.

Sometimes all I can see are my failures, the past with all the blotches and blemishes.

But living with regret and hiding means living without grace.

And if there were no grace, no eraser of mistakes, no forgiveness, I would go out and kill myself.

But there is marvelous, infinite, matchless grace. Free. Poured out. Lavished on all creation. The past is in the past, covered, gone, for every repentant. This is what my friend reminded me of this summer, and she’s right.

“You are so, so gifted,” she said. She meant that I’ve been given so much–everything I have has been given, and mustn’t be denied or clenched tightly.

If I live as though my failures (and others’) are too big to release, it is to say that Jesus death wasn’t enough to satisfy God’s wrath, as if His grace isn’t as big as He said.  Which would be living in unbelief, and God has stern words for that kind of person. And I don’t want Jesus’ death to have been in vain, because I do love Him awfully, awfully much.

So I’m taking baby steps toward living in grace. It feels presumptuous to even say it but it’s true. Grace is charis, a gift given from a source outside ourselves, something to embrace and share, not try to produce it or hide from it.

Taking that gift with open hands is the only way to really live.

The Secret Life of Ministry

Posted in life by

“So, what’s your ministry?”

She asked me this as we got acquainted at a Christian writer’s weekend.

“I work in a store,” I said.

But as soon as I’d said it, I saw it was the wrong answer. I was supposed to have said I’m leading women’s groups, or mentoring teens, or writing music, or teaching mentally handicapped children or something else amazing and important. This country bumpkin just said what her job was.  That’s not ministry.

Or is it?

That vignette often replays itself in my mind , even though it was years ago, and I still feel the tension of the lady’s unasked questions. I often feel the tug of war between doing what’s labelled as ministry and just doing the next thing that needs doing. The labels and expectations of public service for God countered with the hidden, thankless reality of service. The praise that’s poured out on numbers and responses, and the silence that accompanies faithfulness and setbacks.

Jesus saved us, Paul said,  so that we wouldn’t live for ourselves but for Him.  I suggest that, just as submission isn’t submission until we disagree, ministry isn’t ministry until it’s forgetful of self, or until it cuts across the grain of our bent to look out for me, me, me and keep ourselves comfy.

There might be a place for styled hair and sound amplifiers and  whitened teeth and glossy posters and impressive numbers of followers. But it seems to me that Jesus’ kind of ministry has more to do with dusty feet and glasses of water and holding children.  Or saying ‘hello’ and smiling at a bus driver. Or changing the trash cans at church.

Ministry isn’t reserved for the ones who have it all together, the ones who’ve built their platform, the ones who have a dramatic story to tell the world. Ministry is for every person who has walked across the line to the Kingdom of Light and wants to serve the King from sheer gratitude and awe at being rescued from the Dark Side.

Because Jesus the Servant is our hero, and this is the upside-down kingdom where the last becomes first. Where, with God’s mysterious exchange, the cracked ones are the healed ones, and the most light comes from those who are most broken.

I find this both convicting and comforting.

Rates and Over-Rates

Posted in Ireland, life, words by

According to the numbers, I lost more than half of my blog readers when Google Reader finished. Am I supposed to do something about this?  I’m a little sad about it, but not too much because I’m not writing/blogging these days anyhow. This is the season when teachers rest their brains and give themselves permission to be dormant. At least this teacher does.

I think mostly in single words or lines these days.

Over-rated:

first impressions

clothes’ brand-names

color-coordination. So why doesn’t blue and green work?

silk ivy leaves

whitened teeth

chevron stripes

blog stats

bloggers’ opinions

Can’t over-rate:

going barefoot all day every day

babies’ peach-skin cheeks

wild fuchsias in hedgerows

spicy nachos and cold Coke

breakfast in the sun

swimming in a wild sea cove

To mull:

Most people, most of the time, are doing the best they can.

“The cure for everything is saltwater–sweat, tears, or the sea. “–Isak Dinesen

Good relationships come from large helpings of grace and redemption mixed with a little amnesia.

 

Story of a Hymn

Posted in music, words by

George Matheson went irreversibly blind when he was 20. His fiancee said she could not see herself be the wife of a blind man. So she broke their engagement shortly before their wedding date. From that point, his younger sister helped care for him and George went on to become a pastor and seminary lecturer.

Twenty years later, his sister was to be married and would leave him.  On the eve of her wedding while he was alone and his family was celebrating in another house, these lines came to him.  He said the words came quickly, as if inspired. They reveal a broken, weary man’s agony. The only thing in his heart that was larger than his pain was his deep, sure faith in God and His promises; He was confident that things wouldn’t always be the way they were now.

Mim, this post is for you. Sorry you had to wait this long for it…

 

1. O Love that wilt not let me go, (there once had been a love that did let him go)

I rest my weary soul in Thee;

I give Thee back the life I owe,

That in Thine ocean depths its flow

May richer, fuller be. (he knew God would value his contribution; he believed he had something to offer)

 

2. O Light that foll’west all my way,

I yield my flick’ring torch to Thee; (a reference to his blindness)

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in Thy sunshine’s blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be. (again, he had something to give God—a humble, faithful act of offering)

 

3. O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to Thee; (it is easier to close your heart in the presence of pain)

I trace the rainbow thru the rain, (in his blindness, he couldn’t see it, except through his fingers and then only in faith)

And feel the promise is not vain,

That morn shall tearless be. (his faith knew his what his sight couldn’t: that sunshine comes after rain)

 

4. O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from Thee; (the human response to pain is to fly from it)

I lay in dust life’s glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be. (his faith knew there would be color someday)

 
Lyrics: George Matheson
Music: Albert Lister Peace, arr. by David Phelps

Redemption Keeps Its Own Calendar

Posted in life, music, Poland by

Some years ago, my pastor and his wife would frequently invite a depressed, lonely lady to their house. Her husband was an alcoholic and life was dark and difficult on every level for her. They would sit at the kitchen table and listen to her talk, and tell her about life in Jesus, and then they’d sing “God Will Take Care of You.” She’d  cry, and they’d cry with her. It was her song, the one she always asked for.

Now she’s my friend, my Polish mom, and more importantly, God’s child. We laugh and cry together a lot, but mostly laugh because her joy and peace is so effervescent.

This morning in church our pastor’s family was gone. One of the ladies in church, Maria, couldn’t come to church because of her high-risk pregnancy but was listening to the service via Skype. Maria’s husband Nate led songs and asked for suggestions from the (small) group. My Polish mom said she wants us to sing “God Will Take Care of You” especially for Nate and Maria.

As we sang of course I cried, because I saw it had gone full circle. What she had been given years ago, she is able to give to someone else now.

When I talked with her later about it, she said she doesn’t remember the words our pastor said in her visits to their kitchen, but she remembers their warmth and what they sang.

Tribute to Grampa

Posted in Family, life, travel by

This is what I wrote on the plane coming over, and read at the funeral yesterday:

My first memory of Grampa was a scary one. I was three and outside the house on Williams Street. My parents and strangers were around me on the sidewalk and this tall black-bearded man crouched down and spread out his arms to me. Everyone around me was laughing and telling me to go to him. “Go–it’s Grampa!” But I was scared and refused. It was the thick black hair that did it.

Now I know the occasion was that the family was home for furlough and we were visiting from VA. In a day or two, I saw that Grampa was actually a nice man but I was stubborn and refused to let him hold me.

After that initial scare, Grampa became a normal part of my life in our visits to IN. He was always jolly and his gruff voice belied his soft heart. I loved watching how he treasured Gramma Mabel, and later, Gramma Barbara. He’d always give Gramma a kiss when he came home, and hold her hand when they walked together. Even though I was a child, it felt significant to me that a man his age was so openly affectionate.

I remember at Susan and Delbert’s wedding, he read Proverbs 31 and I Corinthians 13, and the way he read made it sound like poetry, and I dreamed he’d do the same at my wedding. I remember several times when he read poetry to the family. What impressed me most was how he’d unashamedly choke up at some particularly meaning words.

Now when I write and wrestle with words to make them do what I want them to, I sometimes wonder if one reason words affect me so deeply is because he valued words. Maybe it’s in our genes. After all, family lore is proud of his winning the county spelling bee in grade school in KS.

I last saw Grampa this past February. It had been four years since I’d last seen him. I think I’d taken him for granted and thought he’d always be the strong, stalwart man I knew. But when I first saw him in February, I wanted to weep for the stooped, halting body that trapped his expansive mind. The Parkinson’s made his speech slow and slurred. He told me the words don’t come like they used to. He knows them but they don’t come out. “Is that frustrating?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It would be if I’d let it.”

To this emotional, impulsive girl, those were wise words to digest.

I was in Rome when Grampa died. I had one day there instead of the long weekend I’d planned. In the scrambled plans, buying new tickets, and foreign, unfriendly airport agents, all clouded with this abrupt loss, I tried hard to stay calm and remember what he said: “It’s frustrating if you let it be.”

Leaving Rome, the plane took off over the coastline and I saw the smooth, deep curve of the gulf that forms the sole of Italy’s boot. It was thrilling to see, and I knew that some of my itchy feet comes from Grampa who also loved the far horizon. I know I’m shaped by his love for new places that took him from KS to IN to Central America where he became Papi Juan to dozens of children and adults. I saw how happily and easily he entered that world as often and as long as he could.

Now the tables are turned. All his children and grandchildren have pushed away from their geographical roots for Kingdom work for some part of their lives. The two grandchildren who aren’t here today are in Poland and Thailand. Grampa gave to us a love of learning, expanding, exploring. He was always asking questions, reading, and quick to learn. He even learned from Gramma how to sing better. It was easy to see that his life motivation was to serve and be useful because He loved Jesus simply and completely, and cherished the gift of salvation. It wasn’t so much what he said. It was the shape of his life.

Now it’s me who comes back home from living in another country and the small children are shy and don’t know me anymore. It’s bittersweet. Mostly, it’s sweet because of the enormous legacy we have of a bearded man whose heart was big and his arms stretched wide.

 

Scattered

Posted in Family, life, travel by

I lost my heart to Italy. I’m completely smitten.

Finally I’ve found a place where it’s ok to have a raised voice in normal conversation. Where I found a market and bought the best pesto I ever had, plus real ciabatta and vine-ripened tomatoes and the lemons and oranges still had their leaves attached. Where the espresso and cappuccino is first-rate and the gelato is beyond words.

Thursday night I went to Rome with a friend and her son, with plans to spend four days there. Yesterday was a fantastic day of getting our bearings and relaxing and being charmed by the way the Italians enjoy life. We did a bus tour then sat at the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain and soaked up the sun and atmosphere. The crowds–I never saw so many people– were happy and not too obnoxious.

All I could think to say was “It’s really real.” The ruins, the faded walls of the houses, with geraniums and greenery on the balconies. They’re real. The cafes where four men at a table all talk at one time. I saw/heard them. It’s not just in stories and pictures. It’s real. The smiling clerks who never hurry. The lack of a personal bubble of any size. It’s how they live. The crazy driving and the crazier pedestrians and the parking that’s so tight you can’t walk between the cars. It’s a mad, happy chaos that could become addictive.

All the pomp of the pope and his attachments are pretty much lost on me. It made me sad to hear that the Vatican is considered the heart of Christianity because I know what Jesus would say about the wealth and power it wields. But I had my heart set on seeing the Sistine Chapel, and paid a deposit yesterday to join a tour this morn.

Then in the evening my sister called while we were meandering toward a park. It’s my grandpa. A brain hemorrhage. He’s got only several hours.  Later the text: he died during the night.

Today I spent all day alone, travelling back from Rome to Warsaw. The map worked and I could walk to the right street for the bus. (You have no idea how huge this is to me.) I had an espresso in a simple cafe and read Psalm 90 in a piazza while waiting for the airport bus. I cried and read by turns during the hours but I cried when Wizz Air said they’d charge 10 euro for the cabin baggage, but the agent said it no, they charge 20. And then no, it’s 30 because the airport gets a commission. It felt like extortion and deceit to me, and my tolerance was in short supply.

But finally I’m home and  doing laundry and packing to leave for Indiana with my sister in the morning. I’m glad and sad to go. The week will have tears and laughter. There will be grandma and parents and aunts and uncles in grief, babies to cuddle, stories to re-tell and reasons to laugh. I want to celebrate my grandpa whose itchy feet I inherited. Whose solidity and faithfulness gave us a legacy that I don’t even realize fully.

I guess it figures that tonight I feel completely scattered.