Happy Returns

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I crack up every time I think about it. About six months ago, I was at work, and a business man was outside talking with my dad. I guess they were talking about their families, as family men do, and then they came in and dad introduced me to the man as his oldest daughter.

“Oh, nice to meet you–how old are you?” the man asked me.

In this country, you don’t ask a lady her age, and if you have the audacity to do so, she would still never tell you. So his question took me aback because I’m not used to the question, plus for a couple seconds, I honestly couldn’t remember my age.

So I stammered a little bit, and finally remembered which of my thirties I was in, and because I don’t always abide by protocol, I didn’t mind telling him I was thirty-five.

And then he stammered and hemmed for a couple seconds, poor man. I guess the men had been comparing children and ages or something, and he explained that he thought I was in my upper teens. Which of course was very flattering if unbelievable.

But now every time the big man bustles in, I want to giggle at the funny, awkward memory. But I think I’ve refrained so far.

So yesterday I couldn’t say I’m thirty-five anymore. I still quite enjoy birthdays, and think June is the best time of year for them. I like the chance to look at a milestone and try to take stock of the year, and think about what I’ve learned in the last twelve months, and what I want to aim for next year. I proudly count two new white hair, which I’ve gained by honest means. I’m glad I’ve learned uncountable, intangible things that will shape me for life, and hopefully I unlearned other things.

It was a lovely birthday. My sister worked for me in the afternoon and freed me to go to town and meet two friends for a long, leisurely coffee. In the evening, four of us went to Dunmore, got locally-caught fish, and chips (with salt and vinegar–ahhh!), and ate them on the cliffs in the wind and song of the sea. Back home, we took a good long walk then played a fun round of Scrabble, and at the end, a family from church walked in, carrying a strawberry-decorated bun with a lit candle, singing Happy Birthday, once in English and once in Polish.

I think it will be a good year, being thirty-six. Even if someone asks me how old I am.

What do you do for fun?

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When I was writing my book, I let myself buy books in the name of research. When I was studying massage therapy, I allowed myself a massage now and then in the name of research. And of course I benefited from the good, necessary things that I might otherwise have called indulgences.

Now I am headed to Poland to teach English and with that package comes the necessity to study Polish, and I haven’t found anything indulgent about it. Unless it is to grab random moments to sit in the sun and review vocabulary. I am not like any of my three sisters who have had language hobbies for years, and happily sat in the living room with grammar books and recordings in various languages. I always said I was still trying to master English.

It’s a love-hate phenomenon, this language study. I expect that I’ll keep toeing this delicate dance for the next two years. I’m scared. And out of my depth. Happy for a change of career, and reveling in a challenge.

Taking on a challenge is something I do for fun.

Something to Think About

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When I read this article, it both convicted and inspired me.

It starts with this:

Spiritual formation occurs primarily in the context of community. Persons who remain connected with their brothers and sisters in the local church almost invariably grow in self-understanding. And they mature in their ability to relate in healthy ways to God and to fellow human beings. This is especially the case for those courageous Christians who stick it out through the messy process of interpersonal conflict. Long-term relationships are the crucible of genuine progress in the Christian life. People who stay grow.

People who leave do not grow.

I don’t have any good answers or solutions, but I think Hellerman’s words define much of where we are, and where we should be going as spiritual families who are committed to each other for the sake of Christ and His reputation.

This convicted me:

It is our individualism—our insistence that the rights and satisfaction of the individual must take priority over any group to which one belongs—that has seriously compromised our ability to stay in relationship and grow with one another as God intends.

A Little Bit Goes a Long Way

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It was probably about ten years ago, in a long, dark winter when SAD and normal life threatened to swallow me into its vortex, and I decided to decisively, consciously think about the things I was thankful for. Every night I listed at least one thing that showed me God’s smile that day. It became part of my going-to-sleep routine, and I’ve filled several notebooks of dates and lists.

One season, I thought I was beyond that exercise, was mature enough to rise above whatever was around me, didn’t need to concentrate so much on being thankful. Gradually, the threatening vortex came back. One day I was sad and depressed that I couldn’t be a reunion that my friends were at, 5,000 miles away. My friend (who calls herself my pancake turner because she reaches into the corners of my soul, flips over and exposes whatever hides there) said, “Anita, you HAVE to give thanks NOW, for THIS. If you don’t, you’ll become a bitter, miserable person.”

I burst into tears, and said I don’t want to be bitter and miserable, and she repeated that I have to be thankful now and here. So I took baby steps to feebly give thanks again. Every night. I didn’t know that it was an Oprah Winfrey thing to do. I only knew that some nights I waited for a long time before I could come up with something to write, but the exercise kept me sane and focused on good things.

I’m learning to never say never, but this one thing I plan to never do: never stop writing my thanks journal. In the last year or so, I’ve noticed other people are promoting the idea too. And today, I saw an extension of the idea here. (Go read it today because tomorrow you have to pay to access the archives.) The article was good, but missed the point of giving thanks to God, the giver of all gifts.

At the end of the day, it’s great to come up with a list of things to be thankful for, but the best thing is that there’s Someone to say “thanks” to.

Love’s Strength

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It came to me when I was reading John 10–that this Jesus is big enough and good enough to trust because He sacrificed a lot. I am the Good Shepherd; the Good Shepherd gives His life for the sheep.

Giving His life is sacrifice, and proves His love. The lines from Ugo Bassi come to mind: Love’s strength standeth in love’s sacrifice/And he who suffereth most hath most to give.

It is (relatively) easy to act as if we love someone. One proof of love is in its sacrifice. But I Corinthians 13 says I could sacrifice, give away my belongings or give up my life, without love. And I have seen selfishness masquerading as love.

So what is love? Is it only sacrifice? Jesus must have expected the question, because He explained the difference between Love and Apparent Love: the hired man runs away because he doesn’t care about the sheep, but the shepherd stays and offers his life.

Love doesn’t run away, doesn’t detour conflict, doesn’t look for an easy escape when things get scary. Paul defined love as suffering long–quite the opposite from running away. Christ’s sacrifice and His tenacity prove His love. God sacrificed, gave up, risked endlessly, at incredible cost.

My only reasonable response is worship: love, surrender, sacrifice. The proof of my love for Him is when I am finished with meeting God as if at a drive-through window and ordering super-sized pleasures. Instead, I must meet Him an altar (the place of sacrifice) acknowledging His love, and pledging mine. And I know that I can never out-love Him.

My Commander in Chief Weeps about War

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Recently a friend and I were talking about reading the Bible, and we wondered what we’d think about it if we’d only now read it for the first time. Would we find all the doctrinal points that every church holds so dearly? Would it make sense to us, and would we be persuaded that it is Truth?

So these questions are often in the back of my mind when I read my daily portion in the book I wrote about here. And very recently, while reading through John, the light clicked on in my brain, and I thought to myself, Yes! This Jesus is a man I would follow and I would believe what He says. If I would have heard Him speak and interact with people, I would definitely have been part of the crowd that followed Him.

There was something fresh and liberating in coming to that conclusion, acknowledging that this decision of following Christ is part mystery, part wistfulness, part staunch, glad faith.

Then another friend was telling something about the political shenanigans in her country. I listened because I like to hear people tell me their perspectives about politics even though I never follow the news about it. Then she asked, “So what do you tell people when they ask why you don’t vote?”

My answer went something like this: I have become acquainted with wonderful person of Christ, and He is my hero and I am following Him. He lived in very unstable political times, and He had lots of chances to start His own kingdom/political party but He didn’t. He said He was calling people to the Kingdom of Heaven. This is a place where Love dwells, not war or violence or deceit or pride and one-up-manship. I don’t have a lot of answers on all the details, but I just know that His kingdom is where I want to put my allegiance and time and interest and energy.

Then this morning I read several blogs that extolled the armed forces because of today being Memorial Day in the US, and I wanted to weep. How can violence bring peace? How can killing be laudable? I believe that there are soldiers in the military with soft hearts who want to follow Truth. But they’re part of a ghastly machine and support a kingdom that opposes the one Jesus leads.

He has won me by His love, not His power, and thus He demonstrates that Love, not guns or bombs, is the most powerful force in the world. I follow Him. Falteringly, feebly, but convinced that He is the one who deserves my allegiance. I do this because I have heard His voice in the Gospels (it IS good news) and His is not the voice of a smooth-talking politician but of a healer whose face is streaked with tears.

A Re-read

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Books are like friends. You get attached to them, and keep going back to the ones who tell you things you need to know.

On Sunday, four of us took a picnic out to the cliffs to enjoy the sea and the sunshine. We watched a sailboat sit for awhile for lack of wind, and it reminded me of Sheldon and Davy Vanauken’s fanciful plans for their “Grey Goose.” Together, my sister and I recounted for our friends the gist of the story of A Severe Mercy which was fun because she remembered details I’d forgotten.

I know some people who think the story is about two spoiled children. Maybe it is, but I still liked it from the first time I read it, fresh out of high school. Our discussion on Sunday inspired me to go back to it again for the umpteenth time, and now I’m enjoying it again. There’s nothing like revisiting words that delighted you before. This time, I can understand how it could be seen as a spoiled child’s story, but it is still a powerful account of love, faith, and grief, beautifully told. I don’t mind admitting that Sheldon’s way with words completely charms me.

Back at age fifteen or sixteen or so, I didn’t know what he meant when he said that beauty has an ache, a pang. I couldn’t follow all the British terms from their time in Oxford and friendship with C.S.Lewis. The years have increased my understanding and experience, and now I comprehend more of what he says. “Severe Mercy” was Lewis’ phrase in a letter between the two men, referring to the grief that deepened Sheldon’s faith and love for God.

Vanauken’s second book, Under the Mercy recounts more of his professor days in Lynchburg, VA after Davy died, and shares some papers he wrote in those days. I’ve frequently gone back to the chapter on “The Bachelor” because he writes so eloquently of the historical place in society and the dignity of the single person. He writes about feminism and political protests in DC, and eventually of his “crossing the English Channel” and becoming a Catholic. The second book is good, but doesn’t carry the immediacy of the first.

This is an excerpt from A Severe Mercy that has become part of my world-view:

…we have not always been or will not always be purely temporal creatures…we were created for eternity. Not only are we harried by time, we seem unable, despite a thousand generations, even to get used to. We are always amazed at it–how fast it goes, how slowly it goes, how much of it is gone. Where, we cry, has the time gone? We aren’t adapted to it, not at home in it. If that is so, it may appear as proof, or at least a powerful suggestion, that eternity exists and is our home.

Pentecost

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This morning I woke up earlier than necessary, and obeyed the nudge to take a long walk and talk to God about a lot of my friends who were on my mind. Last night on the phone, I told one of them that I don’t understand how it works or helps, but I WILL pray for her.

God and I have this frequent discussion and we had it again this morning. It goes something like this:
Me: I don’t understand why talking to You about these people changes anything. Do You just beam them a shot of courage or strength or hope or inspiration or whatever it is that they need, when I ask You?
Him: I’m not telling you what I do or what I give them or how I answer. I’m just asking that you talk to Me.
Me: Sometimes when I’m feeling unsettled, peace comes to me in gentle ripples and washes over me. Is that because someone was praying for me?
Him: Maybe.
Me: And when I ask You for things on my behalf or others’, You never make me feel guilty or selfish. It’s as if You like hearing from me.
Him: I do.
Me: And then I feel better, calmer, more loved. Is that what prayer is about?
Him: Maybe.
Me: And it seems that when I bring neediness and brokeness to You, that is an act of worship or praise because it’s acknowledging that I can’t fix this, but You can, and I think You like hearing that.
Him: I do!
Me: Maybe it’s ok that I don’t understand how prayer works because You don’t want it to become formulaic, and You know how fond I am of solutions and plans to reduce problems.
Him: You’re getting close…

Then at church, the first hymn was a prayer and the 2nd verse was one of my very favourites: Oh, bring our dearest friends to God; remember those we love. Fit them on earth for Thy abode; fit them for joys above.
And the next hymn sang: Father-like, He tends and spares us; well our feeble frame He knows. In His hands He gently spares us, rescues us from all our foes…

In Sunday school, the ladies shared prayer needs and I was asked to pray. As earlier in the morning, it was the same verbalizing of neediness, the same thankfulness/worship for His strength and perfect wisdom. Tears dripped off my cheeks despite (maybe because of?) the confidence and gratitude deep in my spirit.

Pentecost. Why does the powerful, infinite Creator inhabit His dusty created? Why does the Spirit fill and guide and intercede on our behalf with groanings that can’t be put into words? It must be because of a love that is larger than anything anyone can know.

I’m learning that part of prayer is acknowledging that love, and that’s what changes me when I pray.

That there be no Bird-Brained Women in our Streets

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It was a good speech, heartfelt and honest, in which a pastor spoke about the demands of pastoring and leading. He read an excerpt from a troubled young woman who was sharing her story. She told of her pastor and his wife meeting her to talk. The young woman quickly changed and avoided a subject that her pastor brought up. She wrote that the man realized what the girl was doing, but “the bird-brained wife didn’t know what happened.”

That sentence arrested me and made me angry enough that I couldn’t concentrate much on the rest of the talk. In my interaction with young women, hearing their stories, and seeing how many fall through the cracks, I am angry if an older woman cannot follow a young woman’s conversation well enough to see when she is carefully avoiding talking about needs to be talked about.

Granted, the girl may have misread the wife. Maybe the lady was tabling the issue, intending to bring it up again at a more opportune time. I hope she was.

But I say to anyone who will listen–especially women!–Life consists of far more than the space around the house and garden, the computer and shopping mall. There are bigger priorities to hold than comfort and pleasure, peers and reputation. Among the greater priorities should be young women who are fragile, tentative, searching. When these young women are neglected at the cost of pursuing lesser things, and/or taught the same values the older ones hold, the results are ugly and tragic. This is what makes me angry. And all of us are responsible, not only pastors’ wives.

(While I know that anger is not a good place to work from, it can give the impetus to work toward changing whatever triggers the anger. When God keeps anger from poisoning and embittering me, it is part of His miracle of redeeming the things I’m angry at.)

Bird-brained is not so much about intelligence but about “looking at life with raised eyebrows,” asking questions, taking interest in people and ideas, acknowledging that I am not the center of the world. (My gifted friend, Jewel, writes about this kind of intentional living more eloquently in this blog post.)

As for me, I have a complex about my own lack of academic intelligence; all my family members can out-wit me and reason and argue more logically than I. I wish I had a higher IQ, but I am not holding up intelligence as the answer to the world’s ills. What I am saying is that we need an alertness, an awareness, a constant sense of curiosity and inquisitiveness in order to expand our world and offer ourselves and what we have to the ones coming along beside us. This is more than intellectual prowess; it is about a Spirit-led sensitivity to what others are feeling and needing.

Is that too much to dream for?

Honey Drops

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It’s been a lightening-swift week. And nearly every day, I got another story about drops of honey. Oh, it was lovely.

I asked for stories in my last post for several reasons, and one was because I hate the way bad news makes the headlines, but good stories are too dull, I guess, for the world to hear about. And I think that’s a dreadful thing, and something to counter-act.

I have two happy stories about the past week. On Thurs. evening I was one of eleven ladies at my house, gathered around the fire in the sitting room. We asked each other the very personal questions of favorite and least-favorite foods, and introduced each other to the group that way. Surprising, the strong feelings that a food discussion brings! Then we settled into the kitchen and watched two of us do cooking demonstrations: stuffed courgette, and stuffed peppers. Yum! Then of course there was tea and dessert around the fire. When I asked about their worst food disaster, it brought out lots of stories about food and guests and funny food stories. We laughed til we had tears, and it was a most lovely, relaxing, fun evening. Great big drops of honey!

On Sat. a van load of us were in the West, headed for the harbour village of Portmagee. We boarded a boat and 45 min. later stepped off on Skellig Michael. It was beyond words. We climbed nearly 700 steps to the top, stopping now and then to look and wonder at the sea, sun, and lack of wind. There were hundreds of puffin’s burrows, and I stooped to look into several and a colorful bill and beady eye met mine. The skipper told me on the way out that when you’re on the island, you’re without distractions and as close to heaven as you can get. I know now what he meant. I didn’t spend much time at the very tip-top of the rock because we needed to get down and meet the boat again, but also because it made me weak in the knees. The island was surprisingly green, and there were mounds and carpets of wild flowers clinging to the rocks. I wanted to spend the whole day there, but the boat was waiting after we explored for about 2 hours.

Last year, the best day of my year was when we went paragliding in Interlocken, Switzerland. This year, the best day was when we were way above the water, absorbing the vista of sea, birds, and sunshine.