The Irish Times

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Since I’m n ot a full-time shop keeper anymore, I’m not missing the endless conversations about the weather.  And I’m not missing the newspapers, headlines, and dreary news. Maybe I’m the proverbial ostrich with the head in the sand, but I don’t like bad news. It is always my gripe that news is so subjective, and the media releases only what sells. I do like to know some of what’s going on but I still have the childish fantasy of producing a paper that has only good news in it.

However, I do miss the Saturday ritual of reading the Irish Times weekend magazine. Roisin Ingle is back, with her fresh, spunky, honest words. She has been a journalist for years, left the paper, and recently came back to her weekly spot in the magazine.  She’s my age, has published one book, angsts openly about whatever she thinks will catch people’s attention. Some of her pieces are disgusting, but I still like her for several reasons. For one, she is human, honestly so. For another, I feel she is a good commentary on what life is like for the thirty-somethings in Ireland. It’s not all bad news. But a lot of it is, which is sad, because they believed in the Celtic Tiger which has expired now.

Her last article really got my attention. It made me sad and burdened, but for different reasons than the person to whom she was writing. I’m still drafting an answer to her in my head, though I may prob. never send it to her.

The Irish Times is a Protestant-owned paper, which provides an interesting dynamic in a Catholic country. I like the arts and human interest pieces. And our Very Favourite part of the paper: the crossword. I’ve done crosswords in other magazines and books, but the Times’ is the best. My mom and sister do the puzzle every day, being more brainy than I–but even they don’t do the cryptic option.

I like that the Times is on-line now. That means I can access it anywhere I go. Several weeks ago I was talking with my sister who lives in the US. It was a Saturday, and suddenly in the conversation, she said “Hey, did you read Roisin Ingle’s piece this morning–isn’t it funny?!” I’m not a news junky, and quite like being free from computers for awhile. But I do like that kind of connection with my sister across the globe–we can still read the same things.

My Favourite Christmas Poem

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Years ago I found this poem somewhere and added it to my poetry collection book. I didn’t know who wrote it, but it spoke deeply to my heart, as I discovered how God ‘comes down His own secret stairs’ to me.

Much later, I found one of the verses as I was reading George MacDonald’s “The Lady’s Confession.” It was like meeting an old friend, and then getting to know the friend’s parents as well.

That Holy Thing

They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cams’t, a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or why Thou wilt not heed,
But come down Thine own secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer all my need–
Yea, every bygone prayer. –George MacDonald

Then on the bottom of the page in my book is this:

About God’s plan: “The whole thing narrows and narrows, until it comes down to a little point, small as the point of a spear–a Jewish girl at her prayers.” –C.S. Lewis

Hear Ye!

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Please indulge me and go to the Oasis Chorale link. Browse around the site, listen to the sound clips (which are a terrible tease) and if you fancy some wonderful, delightful, talented chorale music, order the new CD.  Knowing most of the choir members and counting them as dear friends adds to my enjoyment of the CD. But even if they were strangers, I would love the music. The repertoire is wonderful, and the singers and conductor are all very gifted people.  May the wonder and beauty of choral music go on!

What I’m thinking about alot right now

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Reading II Tim. 2 lately, it struck me that ‘teach’ is mentioned twice in the chapter. There is something about teaching, passing on instruction, that Paul valued and urged Timothy to engage in it. Then elsewhere there is specific instruction that older women should teach the younger. Because teaching is mentioned more than once, it deserves attention.

This is an issue to me for several reasons. My Amish/Mennonite background is very practical, very hands-on, very useful. This is wonderful for many reasons. But I think we are not doing so well at teaching life concepts and spiritual truths so that we can effectively keep on doing and working and being practical in fleshing out our deeper spiritual beliefs.

There is a reason that the Mormon young people meet at 5 every morning to study and be instructed. There is a reason that the Puritans (and others) learned the catechism. There is a reason we prioritize Christian education for children. There is more power in teaching/learning/studying than some of want to think, or than we have been accustomed to thinking.

What to do with that? I don’t know. I’m only a budding TEFL teacher. And a writer of one book. And preparing to teach a young women’s class at Calvary Bible School for 6 wks, starting in Feb.

But I think there is something powerful behind the instruction to teach others about the faith that is precious to us. I prob. tend to swing to the extreme of thinking that more knowledge is more power, that more information is better than less information, that studying and reading is better than playing or putting in time. I know that education is not the answer to the world’s ills. But I think a better-informed heart can make wiser life decisions. This is what I want for myself, and for those I love, and for those coming after me. I don’t know where it will take me, but I care very much about God’s people becoming better trained, better equipped to do His business.

A Disclaimer

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Maybe I should say clearly, after my last post’s mention of whitened teeth and plucked eyebrows, that I think many ladies who do these things are beautiful–dazzling and striking, actually. It’s just that it’s not me, so I’m not going to do it.

I do think, now and then, how nice it would be if grey hair would not be taboo in this world. And how free young women could be if they wouldn’t feel pressured to fit into size 6 or 8 clothes. I’m not advocating a lifestyle of eating carelessly and not exercising and being conscious of weight/health issues. But what is beauty?

I’m happy with the 4 grey hairs that usually hide under my dark brown hair. I like salt and pepper hair. (Maybe mine will be coffee and cream hair.) I cannot relate to the panic that women feel about their greying hair. But I do understand some of the neurosis about skin, weight, those beauty issues. But is that what beauty is? I don’t know everything about it, but I don’t think that’s what it’s about.

I think part of beauty is about being at rest and being graceful in the frame given to us–while respecting and acknowledging that this frame is a gift and on loan. Maybe beauty is being conscious of and valuing both the heart and the frame we have. So why did I just eat that piece of chocolate? Well, I was hungry…

The best stage of writing a book

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The most fun of writing a book is right now: getting feedback. The other parts are not fun, but this is. I love getting emails and surprise letters in the post, from old and new friends. And so far their feedback is always super gracious and kind, and it makes me feel the sun on my back. Which is very nice after having spent 4 yrs wondering how this combination of words between 2 covers will connect with readers.

I’m honored to hear from readers, and their takes on various points of the book. Sometimes they re-tell it in better words than mine. I like to hear their own stories, their journeys of the heart. It heartens me to see again that we are ALL made of the same stuff, no matter our ages or experiences.

One letter said she doesn’t even know how I look, but she’ll share her heart with me anyhow. That kind of trust is a gift. And although I have always eschewed photos of myself on the internet, and still do, I’ll say here that in case anyone wonders how I look, the words cool, stylish, tall, and slender have never fit me. But my smile is big and real, and my (green/brown) eyes show everything I’m feeling. Unlike many young women of this day, I will probably never succumb to whitening my teeth nor the pain and time of plucking my eyebrows into a pencil-thin line. Even though that makes me un-cool and un-stylish, it doesn’t really seem to be an issue with my friends who seem to treat me like I’m ok anyhow. For which I’m immensely  grateful.

But back to writing a book. When people tell me they’d like to write a book, I always tell them what Elizabeth Elliot said about it: Don’t do it if you can get out of it. But having done it in obedience to God’s  clear instruction, I really am thankful for this stage of getting nice feedback. And maybe it’s better if not everyone knows how I look!

Are gifts for seasons?

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The message Sunday was on I Cor. 12, one of my pet subjects:spiritual gifts for the benefit of the body.  The sermon also covered another of my pet theories: how our strengths become our weaknesses.

Anyhow, I seem to have had the gift of words/writing, but I can’t write anymore. Emails, cards, and letters, yes, but nothing formal or inspirational. The muses haven’t visited me for ever so long, and I wonder why. Maybe the gift was for a season. What is next? I don’t know.

I hugely admire “A Slice of Infinity” from Ravi Zacharias’s ministry (the link is at the right). They, especially Jill Caratinni, have an incredible, gifted, intelligent way with words and deep concepts. But these days, I can’t even read them; the amazing words and concepts don’t even register. Maybe it’s because of being on prescription drugs and the resulting fuzzy brain.  But it makes it feel more impossible than ever that I will be able to communicate in high-brow ways. But that’s ok. Gifts are for the body’s benefit. Maybe the body will benefit best if I read/write simple stuff. So I’m off to email now!

The Value of a Person

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Some years ago, I read a mission newsletter and saw that a girl some years younger than me was a midwife and had delivered her 300th baby. I remember the pang it gave me, of admiring her and feeling that I wasn’t doing anything that noble or laudable. Some time later, I got to meet this girl and found her to be a kindred spirit, a lovely person, and very down to earth and a servant heart.

Then this week I heard from a friend in Central American who is a ‘mom’ to 6 orphans, some of them physically or mentally handicapped. I cannot imagine the huge demands this puts on her, and know that I could NEVER do that, and I’m sooooo proud of her.

All my life, I’ve looked up to people who I think have done wonderful, amazing things with their talents. I’m in awe of them, and think that somehow they breathe some other air than us mere mortals. Then when I get to know them, I find them to be normal people who simply do the next thing ahead of them.

Looking at life from a recliner for the last several weeks makes me think about the worth of a person, and that our value is NOT in what we DO. It is hard for me to switch gears and believe that I am as much value when I sit and give my body time to heal as when I’m rushing around doing a lot of work. And I must value others who seem not to do the amazing, laudable things that I admire, because most likely they too are using their gifts in simple, hidden ways, but are no less amazing or admirable.

update

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Below is the letter I sent to a bunch of people this week. Because of a relapse today, and the effects of narcotics for the pain, I will write no more for now.
Dear Friends and Relations,
This update should’ve been set a couple days ago already, but my sitting-up-right moments have been scarce, so here goes.
Last Wed. I went to Dublin for an MRI. After doing that (which wasn’t scary or claustrophobic at all), there were 2 nurses waiting for me who said “We’re keeping you!” It was hard to be ok with being incarcerated in a hospital when I was feeling fine and wanted rather to go out shopping. Plus, I was miffed to be on the geriatric floor. BUT it was a bed that I needed, and these things are scarce at this hospital, so I was grateful to have one.
The next morn. they trundled me (in a wobbley, rickety hospital bed) to Interventional Radiology. I lay in the prep room and sniffed deep and long, grinning in the simple pleasure of clean air. It smelled like soap and coffee, and was absolutely wonderful. Having spent the night with old people made me grateful for simple pleasures.
The IR consultant, the senior dr who I’d met 6 wks ago and who was in charge of the procedure, came to say the MRI showed 7 or 8 tumors (I’d thought there were only 2), but that the job was straightforward and he expected no problems. He said that was his job, and all I needed to do was deal with the reprecussions: pain. I passed it off, because I thought I could handle pain.
The procedure is an amazing feat of science. They go into the right femoral artery at the top of the leg, go up to the aorta, down to the left femoral artery, and shoot in little pellets that stop the blood flow to the tumors. On the way back out, they inject more pellets on the right side, clamp the hole they made in the artery, and that’s it. No stiches even. There was only a local anesthetic, but they gave a sedative that made me drowsy, so I watched the action a little bit but slept for most of it. I saw stuff move on the computer screen they were working off of, but of course it didn’t make sense to me. At one point I said I feel something on my lower left side, and he said that’s about where they were working. It was surreal! The actual procedure took around an hour.
By the time they put me back on the rattley bed, I was whimpering. They whizzed me back up to the old ladies’ ward, and for the next 12 hrs I groaned and moaned and cried. I think the meds should’ve stayed on top of the pain more than they did. BUT it’s over, and I survived. The pain comes from the tumors dying (cell death) which tells us that the procedure was effective. The drs and nurses were all wonderful. I cannot fault them; they know what they’re doing, and their patient care is terrific but they’re locked into an inefficient, bumbling medical system.
I came home Fri. I’ve been holding the recliner down by day and sleeping long nights. Food is a drudgery. So is sitting in a chair. But I can stand up straight now! I’m so tired of feeling wretched and slow, but hope to be nearly normal in another week.
I wonder what I’m supposed to learn in all of this. In the past months, I asked God several times to take the tumors away, and He didn’t. There was a reason for that. Maybe He wanted me to know in a real way how real and close and sufficient He is, because that’s what I learned–that He doesn’t always give answers or solutions, but He gives His presence.
In the hours when the pain was suffocating me, I felt an amazing sense of being surrounded and cared for–not alone, like I’d thought I might. And lines from Amy Carmichael’s poem on pain came to me–Thy servant, Lord, hath nothing in the house…I who know pain’s extremeties so well–have I not felt the sourge, the thorn, the nail?…Thy songbird shall have a braver song to sing.
If you’ve read this far, you’ve done well! Back in June, when I’d gone to the dr. and she said she found 2 palpable masses and was quite worried, she sent me to the hospital and the xrays were inconclusive and I had to wait a week for an ultrasound. I came home that 1st day and took a walk down our road to clear my head and it came to me that I can’t do this alone. So I decided to tell a few friends, and ask for an annointing. ‘A few friends’ mushroomed into many because of course I had to tell everyone. I’m overwhelmed at people’s care and love and support in these months. It humbles me and makes me feel rich indeed. ‘Thank you’ is not enough, but thank you anyhow.
with a braver song to sing,
Anita

Transposition, in CS Lewis’ definition

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I think Paula Rinehart is prob. the wisest and simplest contemporary writers for Christian women. I’m reading her Better than My Dreams and keep underlining and nodding and sometimes crying as I read. I particularly loved this part:

“I wold not for a moment imply that all stories come out neatly packaged. Lots of loose strings in our lives get tied into happier endings past any horizon we can see. God is great, and God is good as the child’s prayer says–but sometimes His greatness and His goodness come together much farther down the road than we would hope.

CS Lewis claims that the problem is one of transposition, which is an interesting word he explained this way: The sovereignty and goodness of God is like a symphony that fills the largest concert hall with the most beautiful music imagineable. Only you and I are not in that room. Rather, we are listening to the music through a grainy radio at the kitchen table, trying to follow the melody through the static.