Nigerian Chronicles a chronicling

My Nigerian parables site is up and posting. Check me out over there http://nigerian-parables.blogspot.com/

waiting

Singing to the tune of “Oh, Tannenbaum.”...

Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man.
The Nigerians are busy being Nigerian. But could you please return my passport.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Come quickly now, oh, FedEx man.
Since the Nigerians are being Nigerian, I think I’ll be Nigerian too. Tomorrow, today, whenever we get around to it.
Oh, FedEx man. Oh, FedEx man. Where are you now, oh, FedEx man?

I once lived in a rental house with lots and lots of roommates. And then one day we discovered we could no longer bear to take a shower in our only bathroom because the hot water pipe had completely clogged up. We made several phone calls into the main office over the next 2 or 3 months and continued to shower under the frigid spray, except for myself. I don’t shower. Finally, we could again not bear it any longer...that is, everyone but myself...and so we made up this cute little song about the broken shower and how we didn’t know which was worse, the stench of our mingled odors or the frigid spray. We sang it into the machine of our absentee landlord in full part harmony. Soon thereafter, a workman showed up at the house to replace the clogged hot water pipe. He was well rewarded.

Perhaps I should make up a little song about a broken sewing machine that needs a motor. Perhaps, I could swing by Switzerland enroute to Nigeria and pick up a motor or two for the others who are waiting too. Perhaps, it might grab the manufacturer’s attention if I sang it on the radio: a sorrowful song of a severed relationship, of oily tears as she sits alone at night upon the workman’s bench, waiting for new innards.

If one should die at the hands of another #2

The accidental death

Nine years ago my sister died in a car accident that resulted from the traffic mistake made by one of her best college friends. They were on their way to Target to develop her film and were in conversation as he took a left hand turn at a red light. Oncoming traffic hit his car. My sister died soon thereafter from the injuries she sustained. The following day, when I went to the morgue to pick up her “personal effects” I discovered the roll of film that was in her pocket along with her driver’s license. The license was bent around the dented film barrel.

We were all walking around in a state of shock that week. There were random emotional outbursts about weird things like breakfast not being ready. Anger at all the too many people at the house. I remember getting to the funeral home early for the reviewal after a few days of fasting and praying and pouring over my poem I was writing for the next morning. Once I got up too fast, and nearly passed out, while the funeral director stood poised to catch me. But the image that remains in everyone’s memory is the moment Joanna’s college choir ended their moving melody and a tangibly expectant and reverent silence grabbed the attention of every soul. Not a sound was made as Joanna’s friend, who was in the accident with her, entered the room. "He's the one!" No one said it but everyone thought it. The crowd parted for him as he walked up to her coffin alone. There was a pregnant pause. Then, my brother and I, as though queued by some invisible force, emerged from the throng of those watching, to embrace him on either side as we stood together looking down at her cold body with tears streaming down our faces.

This was only the setting scene in our journey to experiencing shared grief with all who experienced loss in the accidental death of my sister. It was only afterward, when we were told back the story of that night, that we realized the powerful message we had enacted. I only remember feeling as though I was elevated slightly out of my body as it moved around, interacting with those there. Some slipping in and out, refusing to look at the body. Others there to support and observe. Yet others, touching and embracing.

if one should die at the hands of another #1

There is a storyline of response and justice that plays in the minds of people who experience wrongful death to someone close to them. The principles and restorative justice of non-resistance is more than doing nothing in these critical moments. It also takes rigorous preparatory exercise. I would like to imagine/relate some of those storylines.

God's GPS

A few months ago a few major freeways were shut down. My friend, who was trying to get to my house, called me to direct her. She is notoriously bad at navigating but as I found out she was even worse at taking direction from someone. I couldn’t imagine a worse combination. It would ensure one to be perpetually lost.

She told me the address of where she was as I pulled out my map. She sounded timid, lost and confused. So I began by attempting to orient her and build her confidence in trusting the direction I was giving her. I pointed out landmarks I knew she would see at the corner of University and 37th. I directed her east. I told her she would drive pass the capital building and she was wowed by my knowledge. But then I sensed she was getting impatient and confused and I asked her again where she was and figured out that she had taken a turn off to the right when I had asked her to go straight on one street the whole way. I asked her to turn around but she kept going on the wrong street. I asked her where she was at again and if she recognized any of the streets she was seeing. “No, she wailed. I’m scared. I want to go home.” I could tell she wasn’t going to turn around and fulfill the original directions but knew she could get to my place via another route. So, I told her to continue along the route she had chosen and scrambled to accommodate directing her, as before to a location she recognized. She was delighted when she found a landmark she recognized and eventually made her way to her destination.

This is the exact picture of God, leading us along the path of life. He tries to generate our confidence in him. He shows us where to go. He “fixes” the directions when we in our confusion take a turn where we were directed not to.

Isn’t this the picture of us also? We wander around on paths we do not know. We are mostly perpetually lost because we’re bad at navigating and bad at taking direction. Our whim often determines where we will go. Then when we check back with God, in our fear and confusion, it is not because he gave us bad direction, it is because we didn’t listen well and are now confused about the continued direction he is giving us to accommodate our wandering.

a small success

They finally did it! After too many meetings, grueling hours, and various unmentionable difficulties with public conduct, we have the a current webpage for the council I served on. You can check it out at the link below. You will see your's truly pictured there with another Bethel alumnus, if you know who to look for. How weird is that?

Kudos to the current president for getting this up and running after all these years of various attempts. He does deserve the credit for it, for as I discovered, even though this was a board of peers, hierarchical leadership is the prevailing ethos.

http://www.paynephalen.org/

traveling to Nigeria

So, you've noticed, I'm blogging again. I'm sort of in a crunch between projects and trips and stuff and thought I would leave the blogging alone for a while. But if you are a friend, don't let the appearance of busyness deter you from personal contact. I will be in Nigeria for two weeks in January. I thought I would not keep up with blogging during that time and during preparation but circumstances forced a different decision. The shots I got on Tuesday, all 6 of them, have altered my sleeping patterns. I was told by a friend, one shot would give you especially vivid dreams. I was kind of excited about that, especially since the movies that have been coming out in the last couple of year have been crap. But instead of having dreams. I am wide awake at 4:30 am without the hope of sleeping one more wink till the morning. So, instead of being upset and fighting it, I am blogging, writing and reading. Also, I have decided to blog while in Africa. Several folks have done it. I think it will be possible. I believe it will be necessary, based on the mixed reviews folks have had about my going. I think I know of only one person who has gone into the type of setting and under the type of circumstances I'll be going and he was fine. I'll be more then fine as well and I wish to bring everyone else along on that fine-ness.

"with no place to lay his head"

There was a sight I saw in Guatemala when I was there a few years ago, as I looked out over the countryside from my perch high in the hills. I had gone with the usual suspects: a ministry team who would spend the day teaching local pastors. Walking along a worn path along the highway was an old woman with a load on her back, walking with a man and a child. She looked up at me as I stood in the most elaborate restaurant conference room in the area. Somehow I knew she and many like her had spent the rainy night sleeping under a tree. I did not feel sorry for her, for she had a good rest and was continuing on her way in peace. I looked out at her and desired to have what she had.

In the US, I don’t know if it is exactly illegal to rest wherever one finds a place comfortable enough. I just know that good citizens and often the police will weary themselves with questions at the least and harassment at the most, if one decides to do any sort of lengthy resting on property they do not own. I must say I have learned quickly the full implications of stranger caught in the cross-hairs of capitalist exchange. The hostile exchange sits oddly in one’s soul. I felt guilty for simply being. Then I felt an indignant responsive yet primal need to live, rise up inside from out of nowhere.

Since then I have developed this bad habit of attempting to sleep wherever I can. I used to brainstorm with my friend Greg, where all those places might be. On the livingroom floor. In my car. In the bed of my truck, with my truck parked various places. Once when my house was filled with single women and they kept coming back from a year, or several months overseas and they had taken up every nook and cranny in my house I decided I would sleep on a high shelf on my porch. I endured a summer and a winter there. My friend Greg was much more adventurous. He slept with the homeless folks. He thought about sleeping in the space just wide enough for a human, in the median on 35W. You would just dodge traffic late at night when it was sparse and then in the morning when you rouse yourself, you would persuade morning rush hour traffic to let you back across.

Now, whenever I find it pleasing to my budget to sleep in my car instead of like a more expensive accommodation. I have a particular modus operandi. I pick a neighborhood. A semi quiet one where people leave their car on the street. I visit a gas station or a restaurant before I go there. I do the usual at the restaurant or gas station. Brush teeth. Get into pajamas. Switch from contacts to glasses. I go out to my car and arrange everything for the night. I get out a dark sheet or sleeping bag for the back seat. Dark is better because it is less eye catching. I crack a window: street side or sidewalk side depending on whether it’s a more patrols on the street or a more pedestrians on the sidewalk kind of neighborhood. I get to the intended location. I park. I talk on my cell phone and scope my surroundings to loose any onlookers or suspicious folks. When all is clear, I dive into the back seat for a good night. The next morning is about choosing your moment dive into the drivers seat to drive away to find a gas station or breakfast place or park to use their facilities.

This can be done in virtually any major city. I have found the neighborhoods with high Latino density to be the most friendly. In San Diego, I stopped at a 7 eleven to use the facilities, late at night. I was turned away. I tried again at an obviously latino bar and restaurant and grille. I was welcomed at the door by a woman behind a counter, her hands in a bowl of masa. To my question she smiled and responded, “alla, a lado derecha, miha.” Music was pouring out the back room. I went to see what was happening. A band was playing last call. The man at the door let me through to enjoy. And the bouncer danced with a lady who knew him and asked.

Now lets not all rush out and do this or maybe lets...
One certainly encounters the environment much more tangibly. And I have never been caught and harassed for doing this.

lesson from the ants

The sun was climbing higher in the sky as I ate my breakfast: a bag of dried fruit and nuts. I watched the ants as I was filled with warmth, food and peace. I looked across the barren terrain. The sandy basin to my back with nothing but prickly sparse vegetation. The rugged badlands to the east, where nothing grew. Hills and valleys of rocks like the one I sat upon. Nothing but lifeless barrenness as far as the eye could see. Yet the ants were busily at work around me. A tiny piece of fruit dropped from my hand into the path of an unexpecting ant. My curiosity was piqued. I watched intently to observe how a little ant would respond to a freak accident of consequential gain. It was the only piece of sticky fruit available as far as my eye could see. But for the ant... It paused. Briefly. Then it walked around the piece of fruit as though an object was obstructing its path to better things.

I heard the Lord say to me. You are this ant. Learn to recognize my blessings, which come as though from nowhere.

seeking peace in desert places

 
I went to the desert for peace. I found that the noise was in my head. I went to the desert to pray and then I didn’t know what to say to God. I went to the desert to be alone but somehow everyone came with me. I went to the desert to rest but carried a heavier load than ever before in my life.
Deserts are the living metaphor for life. The journey is long and tedious. The nights are cold. The days are hot. The briars and thorns argue with your intent. The barren landscape mirrors the wretched parts of the empty soul, the thirsty church, the wretched state of humankind.
If you go to the desert, go to encounter wonder and terror.

So the photo is my evidence that it happened. That is my shadow against the setting sun. I pitched my tent beside a range of rock hills to the east of the basin I crossed. The sun fell behind the mountains by 5 and everything was pitch black by 6. Sweat stung the scratches and gashes I received in an encounter with a thorn bush. I washed them clean and left the thorns for removal by the morning sun. I tried to read. But I was afraid. I tried to sleep to forget the fear but the fear prevailed. I tossed and turned. The quiet nothingness contrasted with the noise and worries I brought with in my head, till the helicopters started droning away in the distance and the cold chilled me to the bone. The stars hung into my face. Cassiopeia and Andromeda beckoned me to wonder but I was too cold to be good company. The coyote’s song brought the dawn to comfort and soothe. I frantically climbed the hill of rocks that shadowed my abode from the rising sun. I sat down to contemplate the lessons given by ants. Peace and fullness flooded me to the pit of my soul as I soaked in the morning sun.

deserts and scholars

 


So I'm off to some desert wandering and scholar stalking.
I'll be back in a week.

interpreting mystery

The past series of image related posts have plumbed deeply from the depths of the mystery of God’s intimate and personal presence as well as his intensely beautiful connective character in the posited, ever being renewed creation. His word is pervasive in reality just as the word of an image sketched. Personal, communal and divine are but x to the third in a math of infinite dimensions. The power of the mystery entices and entrances.

Yet this may all be too mysterious to appreciate. My sister got a bit of a commentary and told me she would have missed most of it without the commentary. I struggle to express the mystery clearly enough to entice but allowing it its own character. In the hopes to not destroy the mystery, I make a tentative attempt toward description.

The parable of the adult in an infant seat is a personal message. It is an individual. It is also the church. It is also the Christ. All have wounds. All have scars. All have been self-inflicted. All have been rejected and unesteemed. All have put on the vestiges of infants. All are called by the same name. All exist in the tension between already-not yet.

Revelation. What is the meaning of Revelation. The images from John on Patmos, who can find the end of it? One attempts a historical contextual interpretation. One a futurist prophesy. Others stand in line. Who is right? Who has the epistemological sense of the times? Who can plumb the depths of this mystery? Perhaps there is no mystery and we must strip it down to its bare boned science. We could survey our congregations like "It matters not how it is revealed." This is perhaps security of control. Or perhaps we should bask in the rays of its eternal sustainance. We could be drawn to the banquet. Commune with the cook. Perhaps this is security of another sort.

Your life changed ours. Your death calls us to life, eternal.

In memory of the death of my beloved sister,

The story of Joanna who died at age 22 was the tragedy of our lives. She was young. She was beautiful. She was dynamic and relational. And if that wasn’t enough, she was also feisty and passionate about living out the Spirit of Christ’s compassion into our lives. She was beginning her senior year at Crown College. After attending a week of spiritual enrichment meetings, she was riding with a friend, when they were in a traffic accident that took her life.

Your life to mine was full and vibrant.
Your death was like a dooms day whisper.
I longed to embrace the dreams of life with you.
But another voice spoke more insistently

You forgave one who had wronged you. You tasted the freedom of it before you died. You partook in the divine calling on earth, before your soul joined with the one who sacrificed and gave for you. Sacrifice. Forgiveness. It is etched in our memories like your last words to us. We forgave too. We continue to forgive today. Forgiveness, love and courage to live boldly in the beauty born of ashes. Lord, grant us this grace. This is the hope we live for. This is the love we are transformed by.

When we buried you body
Our tears were for our lost dreams of life with you
When we visit your grave today
Our tears remember the life we once lived with you

God called us to greater things through your life and your death. Even though we wish you could have stayed and called us to the redemptive life, your absence has done so also. Tragedy calls out the worst or the best in us. In the end, we, your family, hope to live out the best.

more than your cup of Joe

So, I thought I’d get myself to a strong cup of Joe this morning after last night’s wrestling match with God. I stopped in at the local Caribou for the small dark roast. I think I’ll need it today. However, my sleepy stupor got more than it bargained for. I noticed the one barista’s long white and black falls and I thought, “When did
Caribou let its workers go Goth?” Then I saw the little old lady barista beside her and then remembered, “Oh, it’s Halloween!” I could barely restrain myself from giggling as the little old lady took my order, then handed me my coffee with the old lady, shaky hand tremors. She had put on the whole nine yards: granny shoes, a granny purse with beaded handles, plastic bead necklace in gaudy colors, white hair protruding from under a night cap, and the most outdated outfit you could find. I wonder if she’ll have to drop the shaky hands, duck waddle, granny act when the line at the cash register gets too long.

I waited till I got back to my car before I let out a belly laugh.

By the way wrestling matches with God are good things. If you don’t have them. I do highly recommend them. Life shines brighter if you have them. Life gets put into perspective. Take for example our friend Jacob, son of Issac. He wrestled with God all night one night. The next day he went out to meet his estranged brother. He organized his servants, wives, children and cattle in such a way to appease his brother but also so they had the best chances at surviving a battle. He expected to be killed by his own brother. In the natural course of things, that would likely have happened. But Jacob wrestled with God the night before. What was the wrestling match all about?

squash soup

Sauté:
1-2 Onions
Garlic
2 hot banana peppers
Olive oil

Add flour to sauted veggies till oil is dried up.


Add water and bring to a boil till the following veggies are just soft.

2 cut up, pealed and softened squash
Cinnamon
Orange juice
Zest of orange
Celery
Vegetable seasoning
Soy sauce
Hot pepper to taste

the anguish of the Christ

He came unto his own and his own received him not. He was rejected. He was despised. They threw him out of the temple. Yet his words were gold. They were salvation itself. They were the words of the wisdom of the ages.

He was confined to the vestiges of encumbered humanity. He emptied himself of who he was, pouring out his majesty into the likeness of us. He took the seat of infants in the corridors of our planet. He was subjected to the constraints of existence among us. He was marginalized. He was infantized. We did not see him for who he really was.

He inflicted upon himself the pain of our existence. His hands and arms bore the deep wounds of our grief. His words of love to us, he carved, in the wounds on his own body. He sacrificed himself. He continues to bear our pain.

Rise up oh, Savior of the world! Let your kingdom come. Let your will be done. Throw off the bondages of our vestige. Be our Christ. Be our hope. Recreate your creation. Rise above our rejection of you. Rise above our human infancy. By your wounds we are healed. Reign in your glory. Stand on the stage of our hearts. Speak your words of truth into our souls. May we suffer with you the pain of all humanity. My we return to infancy with you, so that we can grow again into your new kingdom, which shall have no end.

the banquet feast revealed

The church of Christ is like those who came to a banquet feast. In reverence and all orderliness they sat down to dine. The feasting hall was beautifully decorated and the candle light set the mood. Conversation was pleasant and light as everyone waited to be served. The evening wore on and on and the banqueters continued to wait patiently.

Except for one banqueter who couldn’t sit still and insisted on sitting on her heals. She was abrupt and rude, asking when the food would be served. The banqueters responded with an embarrassed silence. “Perhaps she will tire of asking if we ignore her,” they thought to themselves. Yet the rude one persisted, asking again, “Aren’t we going to eat?” Finally she went to help herself to the feast in the raw. She handed the food she had gathered, to the one who could cook it and make it into sustainable sustenance.

Yet despite her rudeness, this banqueter was the only one who ate and she ate heartily. The others starved and did so silently.

rejoice with me

Just a bit of news to rejoice about. Peacefullady, who frequents my blog, has given birth to a beautiful son, Issac. He was born yesterday. Photos are on her Zanga site.

it matters not how it is revealed...

If you are new here at parables or even if you are an old reader that has been following for quite some time, you might find the things I connect a bit odd. However, my friends will tell you that I follow the mystery and I sit and wonder and ponder a lot.

Reveal is a survey that is out there. It reveals some things many people have known for quite some time. But more importantly it reveals some things about the modern evangelical church to people who hear it best through systems and measures. Yet there is this story I can tell that says the same thing. I call it the parable of the banquet and you may read it below. You may also watch the explanation of the survey results here. Choose your form of revelation.

the banquet

I was seated at a table at the banquet. Again, I was dilly-dallying around in my chair like a kid. The lights were low. There was candlelight and everything was richly decorated and beautiful. Conversation was at a low hum while everyone was waiting for the food. The food was in the next room: buffet style. We waited and waited…then we waited some more! I grew tired of the waiting and asked my dinner companions when we were going to eat. Nobody responded. They simply continued to wait. Finally, I grew tired of waiting and got up to help myself to the buffet. I was handed a plastic bag with which to gather my food. The food was artistically arranged but it was all in the raw: onions pulled up by the stalks and laid on the table, potatoes with dirt still on them, celery with root and stalk. I was to gather my food then give it to the cook so he could cook it.

This is from an earlier post. I thought it appropriate to repost it.

the happy bride's anguish

I was at a gathering of sorts—sort of a cross between an academic conference and a church gathering. Noise and people were everywhere. They were milling about in the large lecture hall of an academic building. There were 2 or 3 main speakers or guest presenters but I wasn’t much able to hear them on account of the noise and the number of people milling about and talking.

Outside this hub room, I came into what seemed to be a hallway. It also was busy with people passing through. I saw an old friend. She was restrained in a highchair for toddlers. I went over to greet her and noticed in horror that she had carved up her arms with a heavy pocket knife. There were wounds everywhere. It was as if she had carved words/messages into her arms. Some had scabbed over and others were open deep cuts and yet oozing. “What are you doing?” I cried in horror as I tried to cover her arms with my hands in a gesture of healing. Her face responded repeatedly alternating between jolly humor and deep anguish. I ignored her happy face and her joking, expressing my grief over her scars and wounds. Deep grief and anguish emerged.

You who bear the name of Christ, you who would speak his words to others, you who would bless and serve others--you are restrained to infant chairs far beyond your years. Your maturity, oh church, has been stunted to the stage of a toddler. The pain of your wounds have not been healed. Your face cannot express the hurt that you have experienced. You wear only your Sunday happy face. Yet the pain remains, expressed in scars and deep wounds written on the arms that you would use to love and serve others. Your blessing and your help, oh bride of Christ, is scarred. Why then is your face still happy, happy, happy? Why, oh you who suffers with Christ, do you not weep for your anguish is great and your self mutilation is horrendous?

Rise up oversized believer! Break out of your infant chair. Do not be content with your toddler’s diet and the wounds in your soul. Grieve with Christ on his way to Calvary. Be healed by the great physician. Confess your sins to one another, so that your healing may come. Walk into your place in the kingdom. Stand on the platforms of the world. Speak forth the words of God with boldness in the lecture halls of the world. Do not be content any longer to remain sidelined in the hallways and corridors of life, restrained to infant chairs. Who has told you, oh daughter of Israel, that this is your lot? Who has told you that you should not weep and groan for the pain of your past? Do you not notice that your good deeds bear the fruit of your own pain? Do you not hear the great physician’s voice? Rise up, oh you who bear the name of Christ! Be healed. Speak forth his glory. But remember from whence came your healing.

from Matthew 9

1 Jesus stepped into a boat, crossed over and came to his own town. 2 Some men brought to him a paralytic, lying on a mat. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, "Take heart, son; your sins are forgiven." 3 At this, some of the teachers of the law said to themselves, "This fellow is blaspheming!" 4 Knowing their thoughts, Jesus said, "Why do you entertain evil thoughts in your hearts? 5 Which is easier: to say, 'Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, 'Get up and walk'? 6 But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins..." Then he said to the paralytic, "Get up, take your mat and go home." 7 And the man got up and went home. 8 When the crowd saw this, they were filled with awe; and they praised God, who had given such authority to men.

the unintended healing

Have you ever wondered about those stories where people get healed in some supposedly miraculous way? I have. Then you hear stories about how it’s a set-up and all that. People come away from the big event relapsing from their healing or whatever. It makes you think, maybe they were never healed in the first place. Yeah, I’ve wondered also. Then I found myself in the middle of an unintended healing.

The world is full of men who have been damaged by women and have taken into their souls this destruction and in response have hated women. My soul bears the mark of the rebound effect. I don’t know exactly how all of it transpired. I only know vaguely the incidents in which I was damaged. I hold no animosity toward my abusers but I can say what they did to me was wrong.

There are also the systems of oppression that I run into time and time again in my own culture as well as others’. Maybe I was super sensitive and it effected me more than it would have another. However it happened, the effects were with me. There were physical symptoms. Symptoms that had odd symbolic character connections to the issue. There were times I went deaf or dumb. Whenever a crass joke with misogynous character was spoken in my presence, I would either not be able to hear it or I would loose my ability to respond or speak. I didn’t exactly know what was the matter with me or exactly what the symptoms were but I knew things could be better in my soul.

Then, I found a group of believers who said they would pray and discern with me. As I prayed with them about the scars on my soul, it was as if the scales dropped from my lips. My jaw was unhinged. I felt set free. But isn’t this interesting, that misogyny, oppression of women, hatred of woman turns into an oppressive silencing of the woman. In the weeks thereafter, I noticed a physical change in my lips. Before, I had never really seen their natural color. I’d always battled with chapped lips, in the summer and in the winter. It didn’t matter how much water I drank or how much Chap Stick I used, they were always bleeding or peeling. But now, suddenly, they were perfect. I habitually ran my nail across them to check for loose edges and there simply were none. It was completely unbelievable. I doubted and decided to dehydrate myself and test this unintended “healing.” After a week of diet coke and coffee my lips did get a bit chapped but not anything like before. I thanked the Lord and decided to embrace my healing.

I was so excited I took a pictures for proof.

This is not to say that I haven’t struggled with chapped lips since then. I have. Currently, I having a terrible time with them. The healing was instant but it is also progressing and relapsing. I had to choose into it in moments of doubt. Oddly enough, I had the worst case of chapped bleeding lips after a friend confessed a secret affair to me and vented to me about the anger and hatred she had for her partner. 1. Praying for God’s healing of my own soul and praying for the forgiveness and healing for a couple that had fallen into destructive relational habits became one and the same. I had never imagined the effects would be written on my lips. I had never thought that my lips would be the barometer. My mouth which would speak God’s blessing and truth into the world of chaos and negativity. How oddly symbolic that the marks of this sin would muzzle the mouth.

1. If you are reading this and you just felt a stabbing in the gutt because you think I’m talking about you, I assure you, I am not. There are a number of people that could fit this confession in my life over the past year and those of you who read this—this is not you. But if you feel stabbing guilt…Confess your sin. Grieve it. And if you already have, Christ declares you forgiven and I declare you forgiven also. Walk in your forgiveness.

thanks to my readers

Thanks to all you readers that have taken a personal interest in me and what I write here. I appreciate that very much. I’ve enjoyed your emails. These have been redemptive relational experiences in cybertic medium.

Who chooses the things over which they sweat?

choice is a luxury, friends. Be careful with it. Be very careful.

get out of my bus...

In Seminary we studied leadership, going through various models put together by researchers who studied successful businesses, secular and faith based materials aiming at discovering how to lead more successfully. One image that was used was the bus model. Good leaders put the right people on the bus and get the wrong people off. I was disturbed by this analogy for numerous reasons. I was also told that it is essential to mentor the promising if a leader was to pass on his/her legacy. I've always struggled with this advice because I read in the New Testament how Jesus did not choose those that would have fit into the promising category. In fact, I think he may have scraped the bottom of the barrel. And then there is the beauty of the kingdom of God being brought to those that are rejected and the last being first and Isaiah 53 and all that stuff. How does one take that seriously?

Kicking people off the bus evokes in me images of the “wrong people” standing beside the road. Are they the lame the crippled the mentally ill that can’t contribute to the bus’ destination? Or perhaps they are just ordinary people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Does this mean they don’t get to go to wherever it is the bus is going.

The analogy is too narrow. But I fear it mirrors the reality of the scope of most leaders and theorists as well.

So I put out a challenging analogy, just to reveal my own narrowness and inept attempt at expounding on leadership.

The barn raising image. Successful leadership is like a barn raising. The entire community is involved, irrespective of age, talent or disability. What matters is that you are born and that you are a participant in this community. Various “leaders” emerge based on talent and experience in construction. The youth and younger are mentored on-site, on the job. The lunch committee feeds the community. Children laugh and play and do mischief, turning the event into a social gathering. Many hands make the work lighter, as they say. I’ve also seen my father come home from these work day, rejuvenated, with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

Get out of my bus...and into my barn. Sung to the tune of “Get out of My Dreams” (and into my car). No thank you,...mister Amishman...I like my bus...I very, very...like my...charter bus casino. I feel included while it lasts.

the fight is passionate...

On occasion some of my girlfriends have had the bad taste and desperation to use me as a conduit to get themselves a date or two with the male friends I’ve had. These realizations came as a surprise to me. Maybe I’m naïve to this reality, but truly, I think I prefer to be naïve in these cases. Mostly, I’ve just trusted people to be honest and to hold my best interest in sway with their own if not higher than their own. The cruel reality is many people would sell their grandmother into prostitution if it meant that they could secure a few moments of happiness for themselves. I have contemplated what it might mean to live in such a world, where there are such easy sales on essential relationships.

One thing has come to me. Friendship. Amistad. Brotherhood. Sisterhood. These are the answers. These are abundant and giving and one cannot have too many partners in these types of relationships if one is willing. These relationships may evoke jealousy among its participants. I’ve seen this too, yet generally the explosions are a bit smaller and not as permanently destructive as romantic relationships. While I, admittedly, have often hidden behind friendships with men, I have also benefited profoundly from them. I would say I have benefited more than many of my own sex. Men understand things, do things and describe things in ways I am challenged by. Because I like to partner up things and fit people and pieces together, I delight in the particular contributions men make to the whole. But in order to do this well, I would near kill myself should I be banished to working closely with only one man and relate to the rest of the world through him. The stereotypical image of a Muslim woman’s world would drive me mad. This aspect of my own culture of origin drove me mad. Yet in this culture of the “free,” I find many women and men choosing to see the other sex only through the eyes of the possibility of ultimate copulation. I figured out, with one girlfriend, that she was strangely and violently repulsed by one portion of available males she encountered. The remaining portion she dated or had some sort of sexual relationship with. Another woman struggled with placing a man who was not her husband into sexual partner possibility category, when he was clearly blessing her in a father-to-daughter relationship.

As for my one friend who would have sold me up the river for a fling with my male friend, well, she got married to another. And guess what, I’m still his friend. And the blessing is that I get to share with him in his joys and sorrows. I was invited to the wedding. I celebrated their children with them. But she can’t. She lit the wrong fire and it went bang.

It was painful to find out that she intended to deceive me and snatch away from me something I held with an open hand. It is the parable of the gift given but stolen a moment before it is offered. We have spoken, my friend and I. We have both wept over this passing on of betrayal. We have forgiven. Yet all the more, I have resolved to make the pursuit of brotherhood and sisterhood my highest banner. But how can one fly such a banner in a world that has no category for brother or for sister? Comrades! Come! Fight on! He who called us his friends bids us come and join him.

calibration

I was working the graveyard shift at a job in a manufacturing company soon after I graduated from college. Every night I was required to run a machine that would coat glass with various chemicals. The machine was a robot of sorts with an arm that would pick up the round circles of glass and place them at various stations along the conveyer. The problem with the machine was that it wasn’t calibrated to place the glass plates in exactly the right position and so the operator, me, would have to take off the guards and tip the glass into the right position before the machine could continue its process. I put in several requests to have the machine calibrated, to no avail. Eventually I gave up and one night the inevitable happened. I had taken all the protective guards off so that I could easily tip each glass into place. It was 2 am and I was a bit groggy. Unthinkingly, I reached under the machine arm to tip the glass in, when suddenly I realized the clearance between the arm and the table wasn’t enough to accommodate my arm. The strong arm of the robot had securely pinched my arm to the solid surface of the counter. I was securely stuck.

When we are young and impressionable our parents or our parent calibrates us to a particular rhythm. Generally, they can calibrate us to nearly any system of being. Later as we mature, we get knocked about and loose our calibration. Or sometimes we’re landed into a situation where the earlier calibration won’t serve us well anymore. So, we need to be recalibrated.

I often think of cross-cultural translating as recalibrating myself to a new way of being. The hope is that I will be able to keep the old calibration settings intact for those times when I return to the other culture. I think of it as rewiring my switches. So that when someone flips a certain switch, it can evoke a reaction of a. b. or c. depending upon my context. I enjoy the complexity of this.

Yet there are times when I loose my calibration a little because of negligence. Sometimes I run into folks who serve as my calibrators and it ends up a little off. Whatever the case, the machine still does its job despite its little calibration problem. All I need to do is take the protective guards off and tip the glass into place and all is well for quite some time. Until some night or groggy morning makes me a little careless and I make a false move. Suddenly, I’m immobilized under the heavy arm of the system I a trying to work with against its own laws.

As for what happened at the factory...

I looked around frantically for options. There was a window to and adjacent room that my only co-worker went to occasionally. But he would enter only every 2 hours for a duration of 15 seconds tops. I looked at the clock and decided I would yell his name only every 10 seconds as he would be the only one who could possibly hear me through the thick walls of the clean room lab. If he didn’t hear me, I would be stuck there until 6 am when the day crew came in for their shift. There was also another window that faced the main production floor. Yet few people walked past it. But I began taking off my shoes so that I could throw them at the window with my free arm, should a person walk past. There I was, pinched to the chemical counter for an hour before my co-worker heard me as he entered the adjacent room for the 15 seconds. My arm was completely numb by the time he came to rescue me. I will never forget the look on his face as he entered the room. He turned white as I immediately began giving him orders on what buttons to push to get the arm to raise. He was so flustered that he shut off the machine and it would have taken 5 minutes for it to start up again. In the end, he simply lifted the arm a few millimeters with his upper body strength and I yanked my arm out.

I returned to work the next evening to operate a calibrated machine.

remembering Alminda

I’ll always remember Alminda, a fierce looking, weathered, strong Christian woman who was originally from Haiti. She raised a family of 12 there. I met her at a conference I was scoping out. She too was pretty skeptical of this conference and its rock-concert style but somehow she was there. While there we both also met this interesting and refreshingly weird guy who had traveled from Texas. He was in his 50s. He was a jolly, white haired fellow, who wore his pants up too high, held in place by rainbow suspenders. He had the energy of a hyperactive teenager and wasn’t embarrassed to walk up to anyone and tell them their life story...Yes, you heard me right, he told them “everything they ever did.” John 4:29. The crazy thing was that he was always right. So, he walked up to this hardened, skeptical Haitian woman and told her all she had been through. It became a turning point in her life. I watched him do this to several other people. It was amazing. He blessed people in ways they couldn’t describe. He told them their secrets and then told them what God was saying to them. Then he disappeared.

Nobody gave him a prize even though he was better than Benny Hinn. Nobody lauded him. Nobody put him on the main stage. And it seemed to me that if they would have—he would have been ruined and he wouldn’t have been able to do what he did with much success.

Yet Alminda stayed in my life after the conference. She lived in an apartment she had no income to pay for. I would on occasion drive her places. She was a very perceptive lady. And she spent a lot of time in prayer. Her whole life was a life of prayer. On occasion she would tell me her stories. While she lived in Haiti and was raising her family, she would go to church any time the doors were opened. Outside of that she prayed. There for a time, every Saturday she would pray for the Sunday service. Every Saturday, God would reveal to her the exact message that was going to be preached on Sunday. She would then go to her pastor’s house and tell him what God had revealed to her. Repeatedly, it was the exact sermon he had prepared for that coming Sunday.

She talked about the effects this had on the young, sometimes insecure pastor. Needless to say he was a little freaked out. We would then talk about ways to not get tripped up in the insecurities (our own or another’s) but to instead live in and project a message of God’s ever present love and closeness to others. He is the water. I am the conduit. He is the potter. I am the clay.

do unto others...

I was once at a festival walking down the street with a friend, when she suddenly blurted out, “All these people look really stupid. I mean look at them. Their hair. Their clothes. Don’t you think so?”

I don’t really remember how I got out of that one but not much time later she blurted out the next few lines. “I wonder what people think of us?” she said in a pensive tone. I think they think we look weird and stupid,” she continued as though she was encountering a new realization.

At that point I gaped at her a bit. She was a smart woman and I was surprised she had no realization of her own projection. I had to think to my self later—quite often we are blind to our own participation in things we have cognitive knowledge above.

...as you would have them be to you.

leadership: consensus style or hierarchical style

I was once challenged by my mentor, “Leadership is real. It’s in nature. It happens everywhere. Some lead and others follow.” He was referring to strong leadership of a more hierarchical nature. Leaders are champions, in his mind. Yet this was why I asked him to mentor me. He was a challenge and a perceived threat to my way of thinking. I didn’t like his style much. It was so institutional. So top down. A friend of mine and I joked around about his strong style. We called him the general. It’s not surprising, since he was in the marines before he took this desk job. But, I reasoned, this is how half the world works, I would do well to learn to interact with it and learn to love the people who operate in these styles of leadership and being.

So I rose to the challenge and began looking around in nature for non-hierarchical leadership. Geese flying south is non-hierarchical or, rather, a sharing of leadership. All able geese take their turn at the helm. And all have a common understanding of destination/ “the goal”. This is just one example of a distribution of power/responsibility leadership style. Its opposite extreme is the hierarchical leadership. Various cultures seem to pick their place on the continuum but I would argue there are elements of both in every culture. There doesn’t seem to be much information or research on leadership styles within other cultures, however, the differences are observed within our own culture in dialogs about gender specific leadership styles.. One style is stereotypically attributed to the feminine and the later the masculine. I would prefer to refer to the differences as consensus vs. hierarchy leaderships styles. There is a leadership theorist, Mary Parker Follett who popularizes a distribution of power management style. Circular theory of power is the theory upon which she bases her consensus style of leadership. It turns the “power-over” of hierarchy leadership into “power with.” You can read about it here. Thanks to a new friend, Mr. Kriss who is doing his dissertation on her leadership style.

Some questions to respond to.
Which style is more Christ-like: hierarchy or consensus? Is this even a good question? Are there ways to make either style Christ centered? What are the pitfalls (sins) of either style? Are there any other sites out there that address these questions? Has anyone seen any great consensus leadership in practice?

Deuteronomy 10:14

Behold, the heaven and the heaven of heavens is the LORD'S thy God, the earth also, with all that therein is.

more cake

So I couldn't stay away from the cake making endevours since that first big attempt with my sister's wedding cake. Everything since then was a cake walk by comparison. These are the latest two birthday cakes.
 

 

forgivness first

There is a principle in popular psychology that I have often disagreed with. The principle assumes forgiveness is reached after a lot of work and a lot of expressed anger and hurt. The principle is mentioned in the article entitled “Forgiveness First.”

"Thousands were burned at the stake or decapitated or tortured in other ways until they died," Dr. Kraybill said. "When the martyrs were dying, they would offer prayers out loud, begging God to forgive their executioners."

Their belief that they should immediately forgive anyone who harms them is in stark contrast to popular ideas, Dr. Kraybill said. While many Americans see forgiveness as the end of a long emotional process, the Amish believe it's the start. They understand that they may feel angry and depressed, but they do not believe they should let painful feelings dictate their conduct toward others.

One of the primary reasons “working through” hurt and grief via bold expressions of anger and wishing harm upon the one who has done you wrong is that it is very simply practice in unforgiveness. It proclaims the making of a person who has been sinned against into an object of wrath toward his persecutors. Bold expressions of hate which pour out of hurt are formative for the persecutor and the persecuted. It turns the identity of the persecuted into yet another persecutor. It isn’t just venting. It isn’t just an expression of hurt. It is the start of a practice in unforgiveness.

Forgiveness begins with bold expressions of grace, before they are actualized. Christ did not secure the forgiveness of his particular persecutors before he declared it. He was yet alive when he cried, “Father forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.” The Creator did not declare there was light after it already came to be. As co-creators with Christ, should we not take up our responsibility of co-creation in his kingdom.

the meek shall inherit the earth

I’ve often read this and wondered how and where this has ever occurred. I have seen the meek steamrolled, taken advantage of, anything but inheriting the earth. Quite frankly it’s rather maddening and puts the lines between your eyes on a pensive evening at home alone.

Last year after the Nickel Mines shooting was publicized worldwide. I saw a little bit of how “the meek inherits the earth” might be true. I remember being in the check-out line at the local gas station, a dirty unkempt corner between downtown, the interstate and my neighborhood. My eyes scanned the magazine rack and I stopped in my tracks. There on the cover of People were my people. What were they doing on there? I felt the shock run through my body. It would have been just as shocking to see my mother’s face on there—a place reserved for the faces of vanity of the most worldly sort. But it wasn’t even their faces depicted there. It was the backs of two teen girls walking together across a field.

It makes one wonder, why where the laws of the universe altered for this moment.

Since the incident, “the meek inherit the earth has become even more evident, at least from what is reported in the silent almost hidden stories. Atheism turned into hope for faith for one in the global audience. Read the article here. Among others in the audience were an Iranian delegation and leaders from the World Council of Churches. That is just crazy to the little Beachy girl inside me, who is accustomed to being forgotten and ignored by the world.

what to do about Walmart

I’ve been on the verge of doing a post on why Amish and Conservative Mennonites don’t have the same sentiments toward Walmart, as compared to upper middle class folks. According to popular uppre middle class knowledge, Walmart exploits its workers, it monopolizes communities, robbing the poor so that tax dollars have to fill in the gaps.

Some folks are shocked to see the scene depicted above. Some find it ironic. Yet in many places, where there is a high population density of Amish, Walmart caters to the Amish community, and yes Amish and Conservative Mennonites shop there. I’ve even been in places where Mennonites have referred to WalMart as the Mennonite store. Dorcas Smucker, a conservative Mennonite writer, approaches the question from a comparative consumer’s perspective, pointing out how other companies exploit their own consumers, with scandalous advertising themes and prices in addition to doing everything that WalMart has done. Hmm.

So Walmart exploits their own workers by not providing affordable health care to its workers and their families. If you were to tell an Amish woman that this is a reason she shouldn’t support Walmart by shopping there, she would respond by noting that she has never had any health insurance nor has her family nor has any of her predecessors. “How is that exploitation?” she would wonder.

Walmart also underpays its employees. To this an Amish man would ask, “How much do they get paid?” The response is usually minimum wage, which is generally twice as much or three times as much as an Amish man would get paid. And the Amish man would humbly tell you so too, with a confused look on his face.

Walmart also exploits foreign workers who make very little profit off of their labor. Smucker rightly notes and we know this too—who doesn’t? I know of only a few fair trade organizations and products. There simply aren’t any alternatives.

It seems to me that as we look at this exchange, we encounter a phenomenon that often happens cross-culturally. Judgments don’t translate directly. Sometimes they’re entirely irrelevant. Sometimes they expose even greater injustices that have been ignored. Walmart might be the giant that becomes the object of a lot of stone throwing. But I think they are simply a representation of what we ultimately hate about ourselves and the system we’ve become entangled in.

serving soup

We served each other bad soup at the Lord’s supper. We would have served it to our neighbors. Nobody was willing. Self-love kept us from it. And we poisoned only ourselves. The covenant we had made to our neighbors remained unfulfilled that supper night. In a strange coincidence we alone were poisoned. The neighbors were spared. Yet the fact remains, our kitchen is contaminated. What to do with future batches of soup from it? Do we call the health inspectors to inspect our kitchen? Do we reason that we are too busy cooking when they knock? Do we shut down our own kitchen or do we wait for incrimination or disaster to discontinue our services. Do we cover the stench of rotting soup with sweet spices making due with what we can with what we’ve got? Do we reason that grace will cover our stench? Do we shut down our kitchen or will it be shut down for us?

celebrations in summer

 

... in the country

 
 

Summer picnics in the home town community. Adults chatter. Kids pitter patter. And everyone has a good time.

 

Jungle gyms for kids.
Can this girl defy gravity with her skirts. Absolutely! Hanging up-side-down is a childhood necesity. No skirts left behind.

 
 

Volleyball games for youth and the benches for the mothers babies and the wanna be youths.

... in the city

 

 

Neighborhood block parties in the heart of the city have a little different feel to them. Tons of kids. Off course! The adults seem to invite all their relatives too.

 
 

This is the favorite activity in our island's block parties. The blow-up bouncy pens for the tons of kids that show up. The neighbor kids who moved away are now, well, very nearly hansom young men. They didn't want to miss out. It's strange that I used to swing them around by their ankles and now I have to look up to make eye contact. And that looks like a very neatly trimmed beard he's sporting. Oh, my goodness! How they've grown. But nobody's too old to get knocked around in the bouncy pen reserved for the rough stuff. A few adults braved the "fighting pen" for the teen boys and the girls who could handle it. I only sustained a finger jam as the ref, the instigator, and the one who it was most fun to take out. Our block parties are the best!

stolen gifts

There was once a rich man who went to a feast. At this feast he ate and drank with many friends. Two young men in particular spoke with him about their troubles. “Well,” the rich man said, “I have plenty of riches. I can help you obtain for yourselves a better situation.”

So, he promised to meet with them soon. Meanwhile, the two men went home and spoke to each other saying, “This our friend has a lot of riches. We will feel guilty, if we continue to be his friend so that we can rob him of his riches.”

Yet because they were poor and because they were desperate, they decided to proceed with their plotting.

So, the rich man invited them to his home one day. Before they came he set out a certain portion of money for each of them. While they were eating and drinking in his sitting room, the rich man got up to answer the door. The two men then discovered the stacks of money, took it and ran out the back door.

When the rich man returned to his sitting room and found his friends gone with the money, he ran after them. He caught one of them by the coat. Greatly troubled, he cried, “What have you done?”

“We were poor and desperate,” said the young man.

“But I would have given you the money and so much more had you been my friend and not my deceiver and robber.”

The young man hung his head in shame.

“Come, turn from your stealing. You are forgiven, but come back to my house to continue feasting with me in my sitting room. Do what it takes to make your conscience clean before me, then come to share a greater gift with me.” said the rich man.

“I have stolen from you but I am desperate!” cried the young man. “I do not know how to make this right to you.” He turned, clutched the stolen wad in his pocket and fled.

The rich man looked after him sorrowfully and said to the people who had gathered to observe, “Great is the shame of those who steal the very thing that would be given them. Yet their depravity becomes fatal if they cannot accept the greater gift they are offered. They serve themselves to their own sentence. Would they not have been much richer in money and life had they accepted my gift?” He went home and grieved silently in his empty sitting room.

meat counter boy

A little vignette of a meat counter boy for your entertainment, since I’ve mentioned singleness and marriage and have had a weekend full of it.

Today I saw you again, meat counter boy. Yes, I saw you again as you stumbled all over yourself and asked me what I wanted and offered a sample of everything in your case. Yes, I heard you trying to serve me as I was interrupted by my friends, who just walked in and had to chat for what seemed way too long in front of your meat counter. Just hang on a second, while I juggle some decisions here. I know it seems like a painful eternity when I stand in front of your counter. I’ll take a half pound of roast beef. And yes, that will be all.

Oh, hello, there you are again outside the door on a smoke break. How convenient to take one now that I am exiting. This will never do. You know I don’t accept smokers, as boyfriends, you know. But you don’t know that yet. I could be your friend but I’m not sure you’d put up with the bother of being mine. Yes, goodnight and have a good weekend. I link my arm through my friends and we proceed deliberately toward home.

(time passes...I’m looking into my fridge.)

I need some meat for lunches this week. Drat! I really like the stuff the meat counter boy has. The quality and prices are the best but there is the matter of the meat counter boy. What to do? I refuse to pick an alternative meat counter on behalf of the bumbling boy. That would be quite cowardly. Well, today is the day perhaps. Perhaps he will cut to the chase, make and offer and I can turn him down kindly. But NO. I stand in front of his meat counter as he asks me my name and cuts me some meat. Now he becomes a meat counter boy with a name but a meat counter boy none-the-less. He may be the president of some prestigious club otherwise but that doesn’t matter much to me. I think the cover of this book is true to its contents and the answer is no.

Oh, there you are again, smoking a cigarette. What a coincidence? How incredibly awkward. What do I do? Maybe next time I’ll put on the bonnet, since the veil doesn’t show up so distinctly. No, that’s a cop out. Perhaps he just needs another week to cough up some courage. Patience, I tell myself, patience. I grit my teeth. I get that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m gonna have to say no again.

(time passes...I stand in front of the meat counter. Today is the day, I have determined.)

Hi, “XXXX” I say his name. I smile and try to look encouraging. “He needs a bit of fuel for the asking, right?!” Would you like to go for a drink sometime he asks. “Well, I don’t really drink,” I say. I do coffee though and such. I know I say this as I stand in a liquor store with a meat counter but well, I like the meat here mostly, I think to myself. “So, do you live around here,” I ask. I tell him I do. A bit of small talk and nothing more. Have a nice day etc. etc. Whew! We did it! The offer and the kind turn down. Now, I just have to remember his name for a time or two more. But we’re over the hump and all can return to normalcy.

(time passes...I’m looking at a pot of soup)

“It needs beef.” I say to myself. Where do I get the beef? You got it! Meat counter boy. Hope he’s adjusted to normalcy. I hope he figured it out. I hope I don’t get begging or something like that. A second turn-down would have to be more direct, I think. What if he asks me to coffee? Oh, that would be painful!...but manageable. I don’t have a chance to consider my options before I nearly collide with him as he was headed for the door behind me, that is…until he sees me and like a deer caught in the headlights, stops then turns heel and retreats to the back room behind the counter. I feel the awkwardness reach a new peak and wish for supernatural translevitation. I wait and wait, as no one serves me. It feels like an eternity, before he emerges again, perhaps a bit more composed, I don’t notice. He asks what I want and gives it to me. I flee, wondering if this will ever pass. I hate this feeling. I hate this feeling. I want to say no. I have to say no. But he wants me to say yes. He’s a nice person, I’m sure. He’s got good courage. That’s commendable. I wish I could fall out of attraction with me for him but I can’t. How awkward. How very, very awkward. I hope this passes soon.

It did pass and now my meat counter boy is again, merely that, a meat counter boy to me. Hopefully he is someone else’s dearest.

*Sigh*

retreating commentary

I went on a short trip to a women’s retreat this past weekend. I went to spend time with my mother, who was also going. I went to reconnect with my roots and do a bit of dappling in ethnography. I went to spend time with old friends who I grew up with in our little Beachy Amish community in rural Minnesota. And as often is the case, God quietly speaks, I went for that too. Our main speaker also grew up in the same community and her keynote topic was on trusting in God. I came away with some surprising realizations. For one, I didn’t expect to experience culture shock but I did. Yes, my own culture gave me culture shock! When my mom asked me if I enjoyed myself, I told her, I felt out of place on the inside. I was drawn into conversations I hadn’t participated in for a very long time. My explanation to my mom was, “I guess I don’t think about all the things that a typical Mennonite woman thinks of. I think I would be more at home at a Seminary, where they talked about theology, systems, strategy, programming and all that.”

For one, I could not identify at all with the woman who struggled with fear, nor the one who desired to get married because she wanted the security of someone else making the decisions. I did identify with the woman I observed who was managing the retreat. I overheard her say, “I am not meek and mild…”and a bit more commentary on how God had gifted her with leadership. Somehow she seemed to manage a balance between her beautifully strong personality and submission to her husband, the latter being a Amish Mennonite pillar and the first being not common at all. The stereotype is that strong women cannot be submissive and are generally feminist and tend to trample on men and “wear the pants.” This is certainly a stereotype and it is false.

The surprising encounters:

Wow, the men in the kitchen and the all male wait staff (young and old) were all volunteers and it looked like they wanted to do what they were doing, which was serving a large crowd of women, cutting no corners on the pampering and frills. There was candlelight. There was tea in fancy teacups. This is wonderful!

It’s not a great wonder that marriage works in these Mennonite women’s communities, given the amount of thought and humility these women put into their relationships with their husband. One woman gave a punitive example of a woman who judged her husband’s wishes to be “strange ideas” when he asked her to not run the dryer when she was not in the house. She admitted to not obeying his wishes when he was not around. She was chided by her sister in Christ: if you do not acknowledge your husband’s wishes in the little things, how can you possibly negotiate the big things? In the world I live in now, I am not accustomed to this sort of attention to the “little sins”.

The teaching is specific, applicable and not afraid to mess with people’s lives, instead remaining in the safety of the conceptual.

Another challenge that was put out to the women was to trust God and to have confidence in your husband. That in itself will make a successful marriage. One needs to trust God that if you husband blows it in a decision he makes, God is big enough to pick up the pieces. A few examples were given. A woman told a story of her husband who was working a business deal of his. She gave him some advice. He decided not to take it. Later, it became obvious that her husband should have taken her advice. Upon hearing the story, a young woman asked, “but did the fact that your husband’s disregard for your advice interfere with the harmony of your relationship.” The old woman chuckled. “I can tell, you are still young,” she said. “I know I can’t change my husband,” she said.

The older woman did not ridicule her husband for making a bad choice but rather used the situation to suffer with him in the consequences. In the end, that which could have brought division and self-loathing and destruction to the husband’s confidence actually worked a good they both desired, companionship and togetherness that only shared suffering can bring to a unit of two or more.

In my mind's eye, I held up something I've obsessed about. I felt it dissipate. My attachment to it released.

I would venture to guess, if the husband lived by the same principles with respect to his wife, generally the results would work toward the same end.

These Mennonite women mostly have no idea how to translate the principles of “a marriage that works” to a world riddled with feminism, entitlement, domestic abuse and misogyny. However, once when I brought a non-Mennonite woman to this sort of teaching, she said it was the best she had heard. What the non-Mennonite fears is becoming subservient to violence and a doormat to evil. Sometimes the language used in one context translates negatively to the other context. It would be valuable to have a dialogue.

Unwavering faith in God to work out the details of one life and longings is not mere talk here. It is the reality of these women’s lives and (surprise) God is faithful. Many of these women “have no options” with respect to the mainstream culture’s standards. They don’t often pour themselves into high profile careers and education. To even go as far as I did in my most recent post “needing a little help” is close to ladder climbing. To pursue desires and goals in sheer self determination, often is not the image of the virtuous Mennonite woman. Instead she waits, prays and is faithful to everything she has in front of her presently and trusts God to expand her circle of influence. I think we would all do well to have a bit more of the virtuous Mennonite woman’s spirit.

It’s no wonder there are desperate singles. As often and as central as the topic of marriage and singleness is mentioned, it surprises me no longer that young un-married women get desperate. Old maids are sort of an undesired class of their own, even though the community tries to teach and exemplify inclusion of the un-married.

The car-ride banter and commentary was enough to substantiate this assertion.
We all started off at 4 am, in a 16 passenger van. Everyone but me was wide awake and “cackling like a bunch of chickens,” as they described themselves.

A group of old maids were discussing how big of an age difference would be acceptable. It was decided that 15 years would be okay. Some time later one of them was married to a widower 18 years her senior.

I’ve often wondered why it’s generally more okay for the man to be significantly older than the woman but not vice versa. I was once turned down because I was 3 years older than the guy. I laughed at the comedy of it all, because I look like I’m at least 5 years younger than I am, if not more. My mom is 5 years older than my dad and I have an aunt who is 11 years older than her husband. So, my family has nixed the norm of the man being older than the woman. Generally, it makes more sense to have the woman be older, with respect to comparative life expectancy of males and females. Unless of course men die early so that women can experience a few years of freedom before they die.

Once a widower was dating around a bit. He met a widow that he had an interest in. But he wanted to know if she knew how to operate a catheter. I suppose the moral of that story is, when you get older your deal-breakers change.

An old maid was tired of having people ask her if she was married or who her husband was. So, she decided a snappy come-back was appropriate. The next time someone asked who her husband was she responded, “Well you see his wife hasn’t died yet.”

Another old maid was in a similar situation and she also responded to this inquiry. “Well,” she said, “My husband is Checkie Nix nutz and he died when he was an infant.

"Checkie" is the Penn. Dutch way to say Jake, which is a common name. The “ch” sound is used to pronounce the Js. My grandma did it all the time. Jerry became Cherry. It’s a little confusing when someone calls a grown man Cherry. Nix nutz is a word often used to describe a child’s careless play or something that amounts to no useful good.

needing a little help

Now I’m going to feel really stupid if nobody responds to this post, so please feel especially free to contribute to the comments section.

writing
A professor from my leadership department urged me to write articles to sell to journals or something of that nature. He wasn’t able to give me much more specific direction. I’ve also thought of writing pocket sized works on themes in Anabaptist theology. Something that would not be like the “green monster” as Millard Erickson’s Christian Theology was nicknamed in the not so recent past by seminary students. It would be small and modestly priced—my aim is reform not profit. Where does one begin and who do you talk to? What themes would I pursue and what contributors would I include? I think I need a coach. These are mostly focus questions. I know I need a bit of help with focus. I swear I’ve developed ADHD over the past few years and it doesn’t do anything for my focus. How does one develop such a thing this late in life—I do have a very reasonable explanation, which I am certain nobody wants to hear.

work
I am also thinking of starting a business of sorts. I have some grand ideas for what I want it to look like eventually. But it includes vast fields of knowledge I know nothing about, like creating and maintaining a website and accounting. I also need to know folks in the design and textile industry. I want to create an organizational structure that supports a local community and has a decentralized and localized leadership. It would distribute or exchange local handcrafted items or clothing, connecting artesian, vendor and consumer in a personal way. Has anyone heard of something like this or know of an organization that works in this way. I’m sure it’s out there. I just haven’t run into it yet.

I also need to know how and where to begin moonlighting as an instructor to gain experience. The subject would be theological; unless you see other themes I would be good at in this chaos I call my blog. I know it involves developing a lesson plan. But it also involves selling myself, which I’m really terrible at, thanks to my humble upbringing. For the Amish and conservative Mennonites an entire strand of DNA has been genetically altered to ensure that no one bring undue attention to oneself in a prideful way. This makes a resume...ah, well, substandard in mainstream terms. But how do I start and where? I’ve already spoken numerous times in classes on pacifism mostly and to special interest topics relating to pillars in the Amish-Mennonite tradition but this hasn't given me many leads or other opportunities.

a child’s place in the kingdom

I tend to think there is a bit of sense in the statement, your theology isn’t worth anything if it can’t be understood by a child.

A few weeks ago, a 5 year old was put under my care. I was in charge of putting her to bed and all that good stuff. Like any child, there’s the bedtime story begging. She had a book of her own which involved a story of some questionable ethics and wanted it read again. I hesitated when I suddenly realized what a golden opportunity I had. Instead, I suggested something new and pulled out a Bible story book of my own childhood. She was enthused. It had tons of pictures in it. And we paged through, trying to pick what story to read based on the pictures. She spotted a picture that enthralled her of white robed people, lined up on a golden stair, with palms in their hands and smiling faces. She asked me what it was a picture of. I paused a bit too long as I thought about how people lined up on a golden stair really wasn’t heaven to me. I responded by saying, “Well, someone was imagining what heaven looks like when they drew this picture. See, there is Jesus and everybody wants to be with him.”
“I don’t want to go to heaven,” she said.
“Why don’t you want to go to heaven?”
“I’m afraid my mommy will die.”
How can anyone describe heaven as a desirable place to a child who is afraid of death because it means separation from her mom?
“Well, we are all going to die some day, even me, even you. But heaven is like a big party. And little by little people go to the big party. And people keep talking about the party. And more and more people you know start going there, until almost everyone you know is at the party. Then you think to yourself, I want to go there too, because everyone I know is there. That’s what heaven is like and that’s how we all come to want to be there.”

I showed her the picture of my beautiful sister. I told her we used to sleep together in this very bed, as I tucked her in. I told her that my sister had died and because she loved Jesus she had gone to be with him. I told her how I too wanted to be with Jesus more than ever now because she was with him. But in my heart I understood, humanly speaking, how Jesus must seem kinda greedy.

I don’t know how well I did in my little theological discussion about heaven and death, with a 5 year old but it dawned on me then. Children are some of the best theological critics a person could ask for. Is it any wonder that Luther was a renown theologian? He taught his students at the breakfast table along with his children. Certainly, there was room for dialog and there were children there to crosscheck the theology. It may be one point in the direction of success. But I do think it a significant one. I vowed never to refuse a child a story because it was equally as formative, personally.

How would you describe heaven to a 5 year old?
What would you draw if you drew heaven for a 5 year old?

Beachy-Amish parables and comics

An amazingly serious parable found here, written by the Holiness Beachy boy, who seems to otherwise be full of sarcastic fun and games. It’s got just the right amount of familiarity, with the story line moving with the flow of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Yet the deviations startle and surprise, as does the harsh punishment. It is truly a very Beachy parable, as it casts its particular points of evaluation on those who would call themselves Christian and finds them wanting.

You should also check out the satire in the remaining posts on his blog. I highly recommend, the comics on the exploits of SuperBeachy the Amish-Mennonite Superhero. The satire pokes fun at all that is sacred and serious in the Beachy world. Marriage and music. The later being the topic of great tension within the Beachy world—the question of what music is most Godly. Certainly, rock-n-roll is of the devil to those who don’t allow even one musical instrument to cross the thresholds of their churches. Even now it is likely that the evils of rock-n-roll are still being denounced from the pulpit, leaving congregants in wide-eyed fear, while the rest of the world has moved on. And so it is, in the world of SuperBeachy in Episode 2. He is summoned for help when a youth group has found themselves slipping under the control of the likes of the spirit of RockAcapella*. Only the materialized spirit of Menno Simon himself—could it be?—come back from the dead to sing the Lobliet (“Ohh-oh-oh-oh-ohh. Gott vater…”) could save this youth group. Very funny! It leaves you wondering how the author of this comic, if he is truly Beachy, how has he come to see Spiderman?

*RockAppella is the term thrown at those deviant youth who added percussion (of the non-instrumental sort) to their A ccapella songs. Technically, it was all still a ccapella, but had all the flair of PuffDaddy’s spitting, bomping percussion man.

the widow

The story—it was so strange, I hardly believe it myself. It took place in the world between worlds. Perhaps, somewhere in heaven but to my soul it was as hot as hell. Or maybe it took place in hell, but heaven sustained me. I was embraced but hated, loved but sinned against. I loved in return but was rejected. I told the truth but it became a lie. I defended evil and sinned against another. The good seemed evil and evil seemed good.

I had traveled all day. I had started out on the subway, with masses of pushing people, making my way to the edge of the city. I suppressed the wide-eyed stories of people getting robbed there. “They come up to you and take everything and run, they even grab the earrings out of your ears.” I fingered my fake hoops. Costume jewelry. The micro moved along smoothly across extraordinarily beautiful, rugged country, beauty that took your breath away, while the small screened television squeaked out an American movie with translation in white words along the bottom. My head ached from stress and exhaustion. I tried to nap but couldn’t. I tried to pray instead, making out the signs as we traveled.

We arrived at the transfer station. I read the signs. I looked around. I bought flavored water in a bag, drinking it with a straw. I bought another ticket for a smaller, dustier bus. The bus driver spoke to me. I responded. Rural folks got on the bus, carrying bags of groceries and bought goods. I got on the bus. The bus driver offered me a single red rose. I thanked him. I sat in the window seat. I fingered the thorn on the rose. I rearranged my veil about my face, watching in rapt attention. I’d never seen anything quite like it. School kids in uniforms got on the bus and got off again. We arrived at the pueblito: everyone got off. The hot dusty air took your breath away.

Late that night, exhausted from walking the dusty streets, I walked along a road leading to the country. My feet tired and dusty. I hugged my veil about myself as the cool of the night was beginning to chill. Others walked the road with me but one woman with her daughter walked near me. She greeted me. I responded. The compassion in her voice drew me to trust her. She asked me what I was doing. I said I was looking for someone. She stopped at a house to inquire. She invited me to her home. I went with her. Her home was on the far edge of town, down next to a gully. Her home, a large room of peeling paint and cement, with a dirt floor. The stove stood outside along with washtubs and towels hanging in the trees. The donkey was tied to a tree. We sat at her table. I asked who she was. I thought she might be an angel, God's compassion to me. We spoke of faith. Our hearts connected. The TV blared obscenities at us, while I read through her Bible study materials. Her nieces, daughter and other children slept or watched TV in the gigantic bed positioned next to the kitchen table. We spoke way into the night and were startled at the lateness of the hour. She wrapped her shawl about herself, accompanying me to my lodging place in the pitch black of night. I fell asleep, comforted, welcomed, received, listened to—accompanied.

The night was pitch black but our hearts had been warmed. The good wore dusty feet and evil wore a beautiful coat. Right was right and wrong was wrong but for a moment, as the grand charlatan was silenced for a moment. I was sustained by a poor widow, who walked with me along a dusty road one night and became my friend.

I think I love my in-laws: contrary to popular expectation

So a lot of my siblings have been getting married recently. One per summer for the past 3 summers. Frankly, I have enjoyed the new editions—the spouses. It adds a new dynamic to family. It puts an added dimension of mystery to family get-togethers in the who is this person? I can't wait to see how this package unwraps. Like the times when we all get to my parents for some family gathering at 11 pm or later. And for some reason everyone else has decided to arrive at that hour or later. It only takes two in the kitchen at midnight to start us off. Then the rest of us get home at a ridiculous hour and find others in the kitchen to join and laugh with and talk to. But first, every new arrival must open the fridge door to see what delights wait inside to be devoured. The gathering gets quite boisterous as the kitchen meeting grows. Then, Mom generally comes to investigate, with sleepy eyes and her hair in an upheaval. It’s fun to add new people to that midnight get-together in the kitchen, where everyone is too happy to see each other to think about sleep.

There is the addition of my oldest brother’s wife, who’s instant excitement and fun-loving nature adds to the positive dimension of every gathering. There is the charisma and take charge input of my sister’s husband. Then there is the kind, helpful, supportive and giving goodwill of my other two sister’s-in-law. Who ever characterized in-laws as out-laws is quite distracted from the intent of marriage to the family unit. One must be inclined to delight in the new editions. One must envision how the new edition’s strengths will contribute toward a more positive whole.

I think I love my in-laws.