Category Archives: life

A Curious Blogger

Posted in life, recommendations, words by

The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, “Why?” and sometimes he thought, “Wherefore?” and sometimes he thought, “Inasmuch as which?” and sometimes he didn’t quite know what he was thinking about.  — A. A. Milne

I’m most decidedly not an Eeyore, but blogging can carry its own kind of angst. I’ve learned to be pretty ok with what I put out here. I basically know what I can’t do, what doesn’t feel authentic, what isn’t ‘me.’ While I like to see the hit counter go up, that’s not what motivates me, because I’m not out to rope in new readers just for the sake of more eyes reading this. I don’t have the mod gushy, glossy lingo that lots of bloggers do, and I don’t care. It feels good not to have to prove anything. I don’t post pictures even though all the good bloggers do, because in this visual era, I like the challenge of trying to make words work for me.

There’s a lot of things I could write, but choose not to, because while I don’t have much (!) to hide, I value modesty, discretion, and mystery. I can keep secrets. I take joy in living a wonderful moment and savoring it in real time with real people without compulsively sharing it with the world.

I think it’s true that the blogging world has a gazillion narcissists (that’s a funny word to spell) and I don’t think that I blog just to talk to myself about myself, but neither am I looking for lots of dialogue and Q&A. I don’t ask readers for feedback, because I figure they’ll let me know if they care enough to say something. Although I really do love comments, even negative ones. Maybe someday I’ll want more interaction, but not now–even though my book needs publicity–because I don’t have the energy  to be an MC on a virtual stage.

But in describing my blog and its goals, it’s not fair or accurate to define it by what it’s NOT, and for a long time I didn’t know how to  verbalize what this blog IS. Finally, yesterday, I think I found it. It was when I was reading Mere Orthodoxy which referred me to Trevin Wax’s post about curiosity in a blogger that the penny dropped, and I said “Hey, that’s me! That’s why I blog–because I’m curious.”

I’ve seen some things, and heard a lot of stories, but I like to think that I’m not jaded, and that I still can be easily surprised, and that I won’t lose a sense of wonder about whatever’s around me. I want to keep asking why, and wherefore, and whither to.

I’m a pilgrim on a narrow road, with nothing to prove about myself, but now and then the exhort-er in me wants to say “Hey–look what I found! I wonder why–” to  other pilgrims. And I think that’s why I blog.

Warning

Posted in life, words by

Warning:

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

–by Jenny Joseph

He Leadeth Me

Posted in Ireland, life, Poland, travel by

I’m in that twilight zone of being back in Poland, feeling at home but not home. I was home in Ireland for the last month. Now, these familiar smells and sounds flood my senses, and it’s as if I was never gone. Except that it’s all better because I was gone. I am refreshed and revived, my head feels clear, and my soul is calm. Maybe it would’ve happened here, but the break helped me see things with new eyes, and it’s good.

At home, things were incredibly, wonderfully comfortable. I fell in love again with everything–the lush scenery, (July, in Ireland, in the sunshine, is heaven–sunshine being the important qualifier there). The accents–I couldn’t believe the wonder of understanding the bus drivers and shop clerks, and always wanted to talk with them as long as they had time because it felt like such a novelty. The food–I’d only mention that I’m hungry for something, and mom would cook it. My church family–their support and love overwhelmed me. My family–especially the littles who I couldn’t fully get to know in 1 month because they are so deep and fascinating.

It’s not logical that I prefer living in a place without those aspects, but it’s reality. I guess it has something to do with being called to fill a place, and knowing without any niggling question that I belong at this place at this time. Even if there is no ocean down the road, and no shopkeepers with whom to make small talk. I am being led here for some reason, and somehow, it is good.

At my sister’s wedding 3 weeks ago, the ensemble sang an exquisite arrangement of “By His Hand.” As the words and harmonies washed over me, I felt deepest awe, mystery, and confidence: by His own hand He leadeth me…His faithful follower I will be.

It suits me to live somewhat in transit: at home but not rooted, fulfilled but not complacent. I’m led by a hand that is big and wise, by a will that is higher than mine, and I stumble and get distracted, but He keeps leading, and that is my confidence.

Yes, Gideon Yutzy is Married

Posted in Family, Ireland, life by

My blog dashboard tells me the terms people write when they come across my blog. Usually the phrases are normal and predicable, like ‘gift to receive’, or it’s an author’s name or some poetry line. This evening it cracked me up to read one search term: is gideon yutzy married.

The question deserves an answer, and besides, other readers have been wondering about it, so even if this isn’t really a newsy kind of blog, I’ll say a little bit. I’d been thinking about writing about the wedding, but didn’t know how, because it was so special and intimate that I didn’t feel like gushing or blabbing about it.

But yes, Gideon Yutzy married my sister Esther just over a week ago.

For a long time, I’ve thought that to celebrate a wedding for only one day isn’t nearly long enough. Now I’ve discovered the solution: the bride’s family must be in a more remote place like Ireland, to ensure that guests arrive before the day. The wedding was Sunday, and the first relatives came Tuesday, with more guests arriving every day after that. Our house was the hub of action to serve meals and socialize. Oh, yes, and to play volleyball in the evenings.

I soaked up the hours of seeing Esther and Gideon surrounded with their friends and relations, eating and talking and laughing. It was as it should be.

The day before the wedding, I cut blooms and buds of antique-white roses from one of mom’s gorgeous, over-flowing rose bushes, and walked down the road to cut flowering privet greenery from a lane. I played with roses and greenery in the sun for the morning and had way, way more fun than anyone else had that day. Esther’s bouquet had a few red roses added to the white ones like the bridesmaids carried. It felt idyllic and right: roses from mom’s garden, greenery from the lane. Less is more, and simple is better.

The wedding was in a lovely old church in the village. You could see the sea from it, and hear the gulls crying. The entire service was weighty with significance, beautiful and sacred, happy and holy. Afterward, I even had a little turn with the bell-pull, but I had a nephew in one arm, and couldn’t manage the rhythm very well.

That evening, our house and yard were alive with people socializing and playing and eating and discussing. I loved it. And I had a priceless conversation with my four-year old nephew about the wedding, the flowers we’d been carrying and where we’d been sitting in the church.

Me: And I saw you and you were sitting pretty close to me, weren’t you?
He: Yes, but why were you crying?
Me: Because I was happy AND sad, and so I cried. Does that ever happen to you?
He (very seriously): No, I’m just happy.

Yes, Lord

Posted in books, life, recommendations by

Yes, Lord. Yes, to anything You ask of me, anytime, anywhere.

When I was much younger, one of my aunts loaned us a recording of Ann Kiemel. The title of her talk was “Yes, Lord” and I must have listened to it about 500 times, folding the towels, mopping the floor, whenever.

Later, I found her delightful books. Ann’s books break the capitalization rules. They’re written in a kind of blank verse poetry, telling her simple stories of how she sang to taxi drivers and took children out for ice cream, telling them that Jesus loves them and together, with Jesus and love, they could dream and change the world.

I could never quite place her accent, but it fascinated me, and I liked her stories and her raspy little voice singing little songs at any time. “Something beautiful, something good, all my confusion He understood…”

She grew up in Hawaii and never fit into that world, but her pastor dad kept telling her “It pays to serve Jesus” and she’d say “Why, Daddy? I’m nine years old and ugly and hardly anybody likes me. Why does it pay to serve Jesus?” Then her dad would say “Give God time.”

When she was a junior in college, she was asked to be an administrator at Cornell University. They’d never offered the job to someone so young, or to a woman. It sounded so glamorous, her chance to be somebody, but she felt God saying “No.”

I remember kneeling by a little couch and opening my hand and putting into my hand all the things that I really loved: my family, good health, ambition, dreams for a husband and a home. I put them all right there. ‘Yes Jesus, you can take anything out or put anything in that You see I need. Yes, Lord.I want to be your woman more than I want anything else in the world.’

But dreams are made from mountains, and her dreams led her through dark valleys. After the years she had been a teacher and youth worker and dean of women at Easter Nazarene College, she was a speaker and writer. She found herself unable to keep up with demands and said, “I can’t go on. I can’t be a dreamer. I’m just not cut out for this. I can’t handle the criticisms. People don’t even know me and they make judgements about me and it’s harder than I thought to change the world, and I’m not strong enough.”

At 3:00 in the morning, weeping in my little apartment, again I opened my hand. ‘Jesus, I give all of this to you. I just started out to dream for my neighborhood. I didn’t ask to be a messenger to the world. But Jesus, here it is. Here’s my future, here’s my loneliness, all the pressures, the criticisms, the books, the dreams. Take me again. And I will try to make Yes, Lord the continuing motto of my life.’

Ann has written over a dozen books but these are the ones I’ve read:
I’m Out to Change My World
Yes
I Love the Word Impossible
I Gave God Time (the story of her marriage at 35)
Taste of Tears, Touch of God (the story of many miscarriages and adopting 4 sons)
Search for Wholeness

I found her “Yes Lord” speech on the internet today, and loved how all the stories came back to me as I listened. Now, as an adult, I hear her differently, with more understanding and empathy, not so much with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. I know she put me on a path to living with a ‘Yes, Lord’ motto, and with His help, I intend to keep my hand open.

Yes, Lord. Yes, to anything You ask of me, anytime, anywhere.

God’s Slowness = Salvation

Posted in life, recommendations, words by

Because I have no original words right now, and because I want to share some amazing, wise words from someone else, I’m cutting and pasting part of Margaret Manning’s recent article in Slice of Infinity.

The piece reminds of a great John Piper quote I saw recently: Beware of hurry. Beholding glory begs for lingering. I know that I often miss seeing glory because of my rushing, and the loss is real.

More often than I’d care to admit, I find that I am in a hurry. Now, it’s not the typical kind of hurrying—rushing to get into the “15 items or less lane” at the grocery story, speeding through traffic, or running around juggling four or five tasks at a time. It’s more an inability to be present to my life as it is right now. So often I find that no matter the circumstances, I’m hurrying through, wondering or worrying, as the case may be, what is next.

Living in an efficiency-driven society doesn’t help the propensity towards hurrying through life. We live in an “instant” society, and our increasingly rapid technological developments only add to our impatience when things are not achieved instantaneously.

While technology has greatly improved many aspects of our lives, the ever-quickening pace of development coupled with my own propensity to hurry can be very repressive to the spiritual life. Perseverance atrophies like an unused muscle, and there is no space left for quite contemplation and reflection. Impatience fills my heart with disappointment when answers don’t come quickly, or interruptions slow my “perceived” achievement of goals, or the “improvement” of others doesn’t move at my break-neck speed.

From a human perspective—particularly for humans living in an “instant” society—it is difficult to understand why the Bible depicts the slow unfolding of God’s redemption; both of God’s promises to individuals and of the redemption of the world.

The long, slow, work of God is not to torment those of us who find ourselves in a hurry, wondering what’s next. Rather, the “slowness” of God is seen as a good gift [in 2 Peter 3:9, 14-15]. God’s seemingly slow movement gives ample opportunity to be present to our lives allowing the journey to shape us and mold us into the people we are designed to be. In addition, a spacious timetable gives more opportunity to grow in understanding the multi-faceted implications of God’s rescue—not just for ourselves but for the world.

Dreams, Fear, Story

Posted in life by

One of Don Miller’s recent blog posts asked what our deepest fears and dreams are, because they have to be addressed in order to live a good story.

I’m all about good stories, but I wonder sometimes what my story is. There doesn’t seem to be a definite pattern in it, which makes it both mysterious and puzzling. It definitely has something to do with people and words, and an amazing Shepherd-King. It also involves following pursuits that are counter-inutive and counter-cultural: thankfulness vs. complaints, creativity vs. banality, modesty vs. flagrance, worship vs. selfishness.

It takes big amounts of courage for me to look squarely at both fears and dreams.

Don says:

We don’t normally face our fears willingly. Usually, God has to woo us into the desert. We are either chasing love or some other desire, and we find ourselves in the midst of a situation in which we have very little control. And when we lose control, we go into a mild form of trauma. But the good news is the greatest stories are lived in the desert. The great lives are lived in the places we most fear.

I don’t know how my fears and hopes fit into the story I’m living. I don’t know the pattern or the plot of my story because being in the middle of it, I have no accurate perspective. I don’t want to live a fear-based life nor do I know what I can DO to make my impossible dreams come true. So I don’t know anything. Only that I am my Lord’s, and I know His heart, and His heart is…well, neither boring nor predictable.

So it’s going to be a good story.

Jezus Kocha Mnie

Posted in life, Poland by

Last night at Bible study I chose the song ‘Jesus Loves Me’. Sung in Polish, it still means the same as the words I grew up with.

‘Ah!’ my friend said beside me. ‘Why you want to sing this–because you feel like a child today?’

‘No. Because I like to sing it,’ I said. I carried an adult-sized load yesterday, not a child’s.

But Jesus said we are to be like children to be part of His kingdom. I like that about Him, because it means He will take me in my simplicity and helplessness. I think part of my soul would die if I’d feel too grown-up to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’

Today’s Thanks

Posted in life, My Book, Poland by

We talked long as we ate black currents from her bushes, my friend and I, soaking up the sun.

She told me of her friend: “She was older when she married, and their marriage is ok, but she’s not happy. She doesn’t like to be with my children, and she never comes to visit us. She wanted to have children, so maybe it hurts too much to be around them. She loves to give gifts, but says she hates to receive them. I don’t know how I can help her. She’s so alone, and has always been. What do I have that can help her? What’s the best way I can show her I love her–make her donuts every week? What do you think I should do? I wish you could talk with her. I wish she could read your book.”

I wanted to weep because I could be that lady except for God’s scandalous grace and my choices.

I said, “I’d love to talk with her–someday when I learn Polish better. But the thing she needs most is to give thanks now. You and I both know that both of us have a wonderful life, but there are still things we cry about. We’ll always have imperfections to deal with no matter where we live or who we’re married to or what dream has come true.

The one thing God asks is that we thank Him. Just this last Saturday, He told me very clearly You must thank me for this season of aloneness, these responsibilities, this experience. It doesn’t mean that I’m always dancing and laughing. I can be honest with God. David often did that. But always the rant must end in trust, rest, and thanks, even if we have to take ourselves by the scruff of the neck to say it.”

It’s good for me to hear myself say these things, otherwise sometimes I’d forget them.

Last night a friend and her son dropped in at school just to see if I was ok, or if I was too lonely. I’d have talked longer with her but another friend was coming to my house, who ended up staying til midnight. Life is very good. A long bike ride, eating berries in the sun, watching children play in water, drinking tea, a rich, absorbing book, a non-English-speaking friend who gave me a ride and was most gracious with my stumbling Polish.

My Thanks Journal is still the best discipline in my life. Tonight the list will be long.

To My Long-Ago Friend

Posted in life by

Dear Shasta,

Happy birthday! You’re one of the rare friends who was born in the same month I was. I can’t keep track of most of my friends’ and relatives’ birthdays, but somehow I can always remember yours. I wonder how you’re being celebrated today. I wonder if you, like me, denied at first that you’re in your late thirties?! I wonder if your life is full and beautiful,
and if you feel weary or excited about living another year.

I wonder where you are, what you’re doing. It’s been 20 years, you know, since those last letters. We lived in separate states and somehow drifted apart after being best friends. But I still miss you and wonder where you are.

I wonder if you became a hotel manager, and if that got you onto cruise ships like you wanted. I wonder if you went on to study other languages after you aced Spanish in high school. I wonder if you married the young man you last told me about. I wonder if you still play on a volleyball team.

The first time I met you was when you were enrolling at the school where my dad was teaching. My family had just moved to Michigan. You and I were both new to the school, we were both the same age, and we became instant friends. You told me your dad wasn’t there that evening and I asked if he was at a meeting. In my world, if the dad wasn’t with the family, he was at a meeting. But you said your parents divorced, and you didn’t know where your dad was. I didn’t care; I had no prejudice or emotion, I just knew that you and I were friends.

Remember the fun, carbon copies we laboriously filled out in our spare time in school, playing we were secretaries taking phone orders? We felt so grown up, and you were completely accepting of my naive, country-bumpkin ways. You were opinionated but always soft-spoken, graceful and elegant with your long blond hair. I was perfectly comfortable with you, but still always felt a little in awe of you. Probably because you came from such a different world from mine, I thought you knew so much more than I.

When my family left Michigan, we exchanged photos, and you wrote on mine: “Thanks for being the kind of friend I could tell things to. I hope we always stay this way.” We were twelve, and what do twelve year olds know about how life changes? Nothing. But what makes me sad is that there was a kinship that was real and I think we could find it again.

But I don’t know where you are. You must be like me in that you don’t seem to have a Facebook account. And because of confidentiality issues, I don’t want to expose your surname or your mom and sister’s names on this world-wide invasive web. We’re both pretty much grown up by now and I’d be so happy if we could find each other and share our stories.

It would probably be my best birthday gift ever.

love to you, my long-ago friend,
Anita

PS–If anyone out there knows where Shasta is, please let me know!