Category Archives: life

Happy, Fractured Dreams

Posted in Ireland, life, Poland by

I used to insist that Christians should be happy all the time. They’re the ones living without condemnation from sin, they have joy and peace and fulfillment in Christ, they have everything! Why should they squander a perfectly good day by talking about difficulties and disappointment?

Thankfully, I think I’ve grown up a little bit since then. Or life has knocked me around and showed me some things.

I still don’t have answers for this crazy, surprising life. I just know that when you talk with emotionally-healthy people, you can be having a normal conversation and then only a word will trigger tears you didn’t know were coming. And I’ve learned that tears don’t mean something is terribly amiss. It just reveals the fact that tears are often just under the surface, even for people who deeply love Jesus and know His joy. Maybe this is true especially for those people, because they are the ones who can be better equipped to have emotional integrity and deal with pain and discomfort and grief and don’t need escapes from that.

In others words, I can say that my world shifted when I heard a widow speak with tears running down her cheeks: “You know, life really stinks sometimes. It really, really stinks.” Then over her tears, her eyes lit up and she talked about God’s nearness and love and wisdom in her desperate grief.

So I’m trying to give up insisting that life feels good all the time. Because it’s not going to happen, but it doesn’t mean that life is all bad.

This morning I met a student for coffee. She’d asked if we could meet, and I said my brain isn’t working to have a lesson during vacation, but we could go for coffee, and we did, and it was lovely, and she wants me to come to her house next week to look at her vacation photos and eat food. Last Sat. morning I was in Ireland and met an old friend for coffee too, and I felt so loved and cared for and relaxed and happy. And it was at the end of a week with my whole family, in which we didn’t do much more than take care of little children and make food. And swim and go canoeing.

I’m living a lot of happy dreams. Of course good coffee always makes me happy anywhere, but living in Europe, meeting with women who want to meet just because they like me, having a student-teacher relationship grow to a dear friendship–this is the stuff of my dreams.

Which means that other dreams haven’t come true (because–surprise!–you can’t have everything) and my life stinks in places, and I cried pretty much every day this week.  Life is wonderful and terrible, and that’s about all I know about it, and for now, it’s ok.

Celebrating True Love

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This morning I saw a photo of my cousin posing with his bride. He was radiant, and she was laughing, and seeing them gave me a burst of joy and delight. They are gifted, wise people. I know they will serve each other and their world like Jesus would, and it’s so wonderful and beautiful to see that it makes me cheer.

The mysteries of love are a mystery to me (to everyone else too, I guess) but when a man and woman find each other and settle deeply on far more than fluff and feelings, and commit to loving and serving in the nitty-gritty for the rest of their lives, it has to be one of the most beautiful things in the world.

Which means that divorce is probably the worst thing in the world. Maybe because it desecrates the symbol of God’s choosing us and faithful betrothal to us.

I bumped against the divorce word so often this week, maybe it’s why I was particularly sensitive to the happy wedding picture.  I heard mothers talking with each other: “You don’t have a husband either? Me too, I’m happier this way, being lonely, than being with my husband.” I read a woman’s words about how everyone else liked her husband but she couldn’t live with him so she left him. It all made me want to weep.

My friends tell me that marriage is hard work and demanding in surprising ways. (I say that singleness is too but in different aspects.) When I see couples promise their lives to each other, and each is whole and and focused on and sacrificial for Kingdom priorities, it gives me hope that some things in this ravaged world are as they should be.

It isn’t always like that. There are moments when I watch girls give their hearts to unworthy men who are happy to take them, and I want to shout “Oh,no,no,no,no,no, please no.” Not that I’m an expert match-maker, but I think that at this stage I have a pretty good idea of what a girl’s heart is worth.

So, to Caleb and Sandra out there ready to do life together for always, here’s one voice who’s cheering for you, proud of you, and wishing you everything beautiful!

Quick Energy

Posted in life, words by

This week I got a darling, hand-made card from teenage sisters I never met. They wrote that they’d seen my prayer card on a mutual friend’s fridge and wanted to let me know that they’re praying for me.

It blew me away, the tangible gentleness and love and care. I depend on email most every day, and value it hugely. But I still love seeing my name and address on an envelope in the post. This surprise card motivated me to write a letter, and drop it in the postbox down the road. I’d been thinking about writing that letter for months, and the card was the final push to do it.

It’s easier to complain or seethe or stay silent during each day’s wear and tear. But no matter the situation, encouragement is never out of order, on this side of heaven. Who have you been thinking about and who could use your words?

“A wise person gets known for insight; gracious words add to one’s reputation. Gracious speech is like clover honey–good taste to the soul, quick energy for the body.” (Proverbs 16:21, 24, The Message)

 

Nobody Knows the Trouble

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I was telling a friend that I think that if any five of us were standing around the table, and we had our problems in our hands and put them all–ALL of them– out on the table for each other to see, we wouldn’t choose anyone else’s problems. We’d take back our own again.

She wasn’t so sure. She said she wished she had her friend’s problem instead of her own that were consuming her energy.

It made me think of other scenerios. A girl complaining to her friends that she had no free day to pack for her 2 week vacation to a Greek island. A bride trying on her dress and saying that her shoes weren’t the color she wanted. A homeowner complaining to a homeless man about the heating bill. To someone on the sidelines looking in, these all look like good problems to have.

I maintain that if we knew everything–everything– about our friends’ lives, and saw all their troubles, we would take back our own. But I am young and my life is good. I have problems and issues that make me sad and cry, or that I tell to only the closest to me, but most days, my life isn’t defined by problems. When I look at my friends who appear to have beautiful, enviable stories, I am jealous for half a second before I remember that they have problems that would have completely derailed me.

There are surely people who wouldn’t take back their own troubles if they were out on a table. I think of the widow raising eight children. My lady friends whose husbands have betrayed them on every level, week after week, year after year. The beautiful girl with cancer, another friend with Chronic Neurological Lyme Disease. Life is not fair and trouble is spread wide and without respect to age or talent or wealth.

Friends walk with, support, believe in each other. So her problems look silly or petty to you? They might be, but to her they’re huge. It’s really ugly when friends get together and compare their troubles and try to impress each other with the amounts of pain each is suffering. Sometimes we can give each other a splash of reality or perspective but most times it’s best to listen and not say much.

So I’d love to be going to a Greek island, and I wouldn’t complain about having little time to get ready for it. But, well…

There’s a difference between stuff you complain about and serious life experiences. Maybe I’m naive, but isn’t it generally true that at the end of the day we’d still choose our own troubles?

Beauty and a Blog

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I’m a bit of a blog junkie, but don’t comment often on them. You’re supposed to get your name out there and comment on lots of blogs so that people find your link and discover your blog. My book needs publicity, but I don’t, and I don’t feel a compulsion to get my name out there, so I’m not driven to do lots of commenting.

What I like best is to have friends who blog, and when they post, I like knowing their email address, and being able to connect via email or Google Chat and have this dialogue going behind the scenes. I like that hugely.

That’s what’s happening with me and my friend Shari these days. Years ago, we were in the same writers’ critique group, and I always liked her pieces, plus her input and advice on what others wrote. Now she’s writing again, and I love to see it.

I think she’s brave and compassionate, intelligent and insightful. She blogs for love of words, and in that she’s able to speak for those who don’t write, but who feel the things deeply, and are happy to find someone who is walking with them who understands. Which is, I think, what our blogs are–not publicity so much as a way to communicate and identify with each other and not feel so alone.

A couples weeks ago, Shari wrote a post on beauty that gave me deep things to think about. I know it’s true that every woman wants to know she’s beautiful, and Shari put into words what is true–that our soul reveals itself and make us beautiful or otherwise, and no creams or colors can hide that. It makes me hope that my wrinkles are/will be from smiles and laughter.

As we mature, we find our inside becoming slowly, inexorably etched on our outside. I know this is true. I have seen it over and over. I love reading faces, and have case-studied this as extensively as possible in my small 29 years, particularly in the 28 ¾ in which I’ve been aware of beauty. People start to look more and more like who they are. It scares the willies out of me.

Each of us is given the wonderful opportunity/ terrible responsibility of painting our own faces. Before 30, only a glimpse of our work shows. After 30… oh boy. Then the peace of my heart begins to take a permanent place on my forehead. Then the bitterness of my soul finds a lasting home in the shape of my chin. Then joy begins to cling to the corners of my mouth. Then anger-in-private carves deep lines in public, to be seen by all. Then humility and confidence awaken visibly, like a halo around my face.

At first, it’s apparent only to those with sharp eyes. Soon, any casual observer can read it. (Isn’t it ironic that many of us find spouses before our souls start to show? Oh boys, beware, beware.)

If you like honest women’s blogs, you’ll like Shari’s. You’ll agree sometimes and giggle other times, like a recent post and its ensuing comments amused me.

Proud of you, Shari, and someday we’ll talk in real space and time again over coffee!

Dusty Feet

Posted in life, Poland, teaching English by

“Why did I say I’d do this?” I asked of  Ria who works and lives with me and has to pick up the pieces when I over-commit. I was scurrying to prepare a lesson for a new child whose English level I didn’t know, and was (again) out of my depth. “I knew I have time, but I’m not sure that I have the energy for this.” I like a challenge but I’d forgotten that energy is as precious a commodity as time. Ria shook her head and tactfully reminded me that she had tried to tell me I had enough commitments without adding more.

That morning I had known every minute of my day was committed to something, and I didn’t know if I could do everything. But during the prayer time at staff meeting, God invited me to just walk alongside Him for the day, and join along in what He’s doing. Immediately, the pressure was off. I didn’t have to perform, only stay in touch with the Spirit’s direction. I didn’t have anything to prove, no agenda except His.

I met beautiful people that day. Met one new friend in her home with her family, and saw her care well for her children and pets. Met my vet friend in her home, drank her coffee, ate yummy scrambled eggs and pickles, and watched her vaccinate a client’s dog with expertise and finesse. Had delightful lessons with various students who made me laugh and pushed my creativity to stay ahead of them.

Even so, it was a frazzling day. My emotional elastic was stretched beyond comfort and I dissolved into tears that night in prayer meeting, asking God for my friends’ salvation and as we were going home, Ria said “You sound tired out or fed up” and I said I was both. Not a good combination, but it was remedied with some quiet, some conversation, tea and a book.

I don’t want to think of how fractured I’d have been if I’d have been following my schedule that day. Instead of feeling pressured to fill a schedule with frantic energy, it felt freeing to me to ask how I can fall into step with what God is planning and doing. The focus changed from me to Him. A good change. Amazing, that He lets fallible people join Him in His designs.  Amazing, how He refreshes and restores daily after a day’s rigors.

So often I wish for a chance to walk beside Jesus and ask Him questions like the disciples did. In those days, students aimed to walk so close to their rabbi that the dust from his sandals would fall on their feet as they walked. I wish we could still do that.

What would happen if His children in every country would ask Him how to fall into step with Him? His Spirit is waiting to show us when we ask. I think it would change the world. We should recognize each other by our dusty feet.

Taken Care Of

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She stayed for several nights, my friend without a job and without a place to live. I hugged her before she left, and whispered in her ear, “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” she said. “I have to.”

Because no one else will take care of her, she has to, and sometimes she can barely manage to do even that.

She has mountains to climb and dreams to fight for, all alone. I think about her and feel  that I have the riches of a millionaire compared to her. I have all the connections, all the friends (not on Facebook) and relations that a girl could ever want.  Much of who I am is because of what others have poured into me, the conversations and questions and time friends and family gave, and still give, me.

Some words I will never forget:

I think maybe you aren’t quite ok. Do you need to talk?

When I called to tell her I feel bothered and bewitched, she said, Shall I come over so we can talk? I’ll come right away.

In an email: Tell me everything—the good and bad and ugly. I want to hear it.

And there was the girl who saw my tears and wiped them away with her fingers and sent me flowers the next day.

I know that I have multiple support groups in place any time I need it. I live in the reality of having safe places to go to all over the globe any time I need an ear and advice, a cup of coffee, or a place to stay. It’s such an integral part of the fabric of my life that I often don’t acknowledge it or realize the wonder of it–

Until I’m with my lonely artist friend and I see again that everything I have is given to me, and for some mysterious reason, I’m not in her shoes even though I have the same potential and tendencies toward self-destruction and alienation that she does.

It is true that relationships go both ways. In response to my family and friends’ generosity in taking care of me, I have opened my hand to accept the love they offer. It’s humbling to be weak; it’s embarrassing to admit need. But I’m not willing (usually) to refuse a hand that’s offered to help me walk a little straighter. It’s a lot less lonely this way, too.

How Many Hours in a Mile?

Posted in books, life, recommendations by

Last week, for no reason except that it was in front of me,  I picked up Lewis’ A Grief Observed. Douglas Gresham’s introduction took me in and it wasn’t long before I’d read all four chapters of the short book.

But not without being profoundly shaken. It’s a raw, intimate book, like reading someone’s journal, as Lewis walks  through debilitating grief after his wife’s death. Reading it is like watching the writhing of a man in agony. I barely had the emotional fortification to take it in. Parts of it made me cry, and drew me back to re-read them, as a kind of catharsis and soothing.

Living in a broken, groaning world, even without feeling the deep grief of death, I ask God lots of questions. It calms me somehow to know that He hears and understands and cares, and that’s enough, even though the questions don’t have answers.

Am I just sidling back to God because I know that if there’s any road to H. it runs through Him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can’t be used as a road. If you’re approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as the means,  you’re not really approaching Him at all.

Lord, are these your real terms? Can I meet H. again only if I learn to love you so much that I don’t care whether I meet her again or not?

When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of  “No answer.” It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, “Peace, child; you don’t understand.”

Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably half the questions we ask–half our great theological and metaphysical problems–are like that.

Heaven will solve our problems, but not, I think, by showing us subtle reconciliations between all our apparently contradictory notions. The notions will all be knocked from under our feet. We shall see that there never was any problem.

Hope, A Thing With Feathers

Posted in life, teaching English by

She was one of my teen students last year and wanted to interview me now for her school project about the political conflicts in Ireland. But most of the time, while we walked to the coffee shop in wind and dust, and while we sat inside, over my hot chocolate and her (healthier) fresh orange juice, we talked about everything outside of Ireland.  The stuff that girls talk about when they’re relaxed and happy: life and love and dreams.

“I’m scared of my future. I don’t want to grow up and make big decisions.”

You don’t have to make those decisions now, I said. Enjoy today. And you can always be a little girl inside. You know how old I am, and you know what? I still feel like a little girl even though I’ve done some adult-sized things.

“I know, that’s why I feel you can understand me, and really, you’re cute!”

Never mind that her command of English didn’t let her know how to use ‘cute’. Hearing it from her was priceless.

“Do you believe in true love? Like Romeo and Juliet?” Smarting after a break up that was friendship but not love. “I think we’re too young for love now, but do you believe in true love?”

Yes, I do! I don’t know know if Romeo and Juliet had real love, but I believe in true love and that it is commitment. Do you know this word?

“No.”   It’s a long word for a language student.

Maybe love can be like Romeo and Juliet. I don’t know, because I’m still waiting for true love. But I think true love is commitment. That means he loves what’s inside you, your heart, not only your hair or your face or body. And it means even when you are disappointed, or angry or impatient, you will love him, and he will love you. That’s real love.

“Yes, because when I’m old, I won’t be beautiful. True love, commitment, that’s what I want.”

I finished my luscious chocolate and we walked back to her street in gusts of wind, and I was happy beyond words that being an English teacher gave me the chance to have this conversation with this beautiful, thoughtful young lady. I was glad that even if I didn’t have a colorful, amazing story to prove something, I could tell her with confidence that true love does exist. If I couldn’t give her anything else, I could give her hope.

Sometimes this is the most one person can give another.

A Writing Meme From Dorcas Smucker

Posted in life, My Book, words by

Let’s be clear about this: I don’t do chain stuff or forwards. For various reasons. Two recipes or 50 questions about yourself to forward to 51 of your friends or email poems that have 152 emoticons in them that you MUST  forward unless you want to be attacked by a billy goat? I don’t do it. Life is too short. But Dorcas tagged me in a meme, which is (or can be) a different thing, and I answered her questions because they were about things I care about, and I had time to answer them.

(A meme is an idea or theme that spreads like a virus in the blogging world, and this one is about writing and I’m breaking the bendable rules by not preparing a list of more questions or bloggers.)

1. How long have you been blogging, and how often do you post?

I started the blog in ’08 when my book came out. Before that, I had a xanga site, which was more social to me than serious writing. There is no rhyme or reason as to how I often I post. I refuse to write just so that I get more hits on my site, or because it’s been awhile since I last posted. I only write when I feel there’s something inside that needs to get out. This is my 201st post here.

2. Have you had anything published, and if so, what and when?

Some devotional/inspirational articles in CLP’s “Companions” some years ago. I published my own book, written especially for single women, in ’08.

3. Who is the author who best speaks your language and who you would most like to be like, in style and message?

Philip Yancey speaks my language because of his honesty. I admire the way he explains his conclusions with words that are carefully chosen but still carry a cadence, a kind of rhythm.  I admire CS Lewis for the way he connects the spiritual and the tangible world. I’m relishing Les Miserables  but would NOT want to mimic Victor Hugo’s style.

4. What do you see as the unique message God has given you to share with the world ?

It has something to do with exposing beauty and truth. Also, I want to be a voice for those who have none, and an ear for those who those who have found none. In other words, be a facilitator, which may not necessarily mean writing.

5. Who or what has made you believe in yourself as a writer?

A teacher at school (Rosalind McGrath Byler) and a Calvary Bible school teacher (Ervin Hershberger).

6. Who or what has done the opposite?

Men who refused to market my book, were opposed to it because it didn’t fit their theology and disapproved of my using quotes from writers in other denominations.

7. Besides blogging, what types of writing have you done?

Journaling. Letters. Dabbled in verse and music composition but wasn’t willing to stick to it. In my head, I’ve written travel articles about my local area in Ireland.

8. Where would you like to be, writing-wise, in five years?

Working on my 2nd book.

9. What would need to happen to move you from here to there?

A lot of things that God and I keep discussing.

10. Any advice for beginning bloggers/writers?

Don’t write if you can help it. But if you can’t help but write, do! Read all the time, always have several books on the go, and don’t read rubbish.

11. Just for fun: what’s a skill you have that almost no one knows about? (example: I know how to develop black and white film in a darkroom.)

I can read and write words upside-down, across the table from my English students.