unveiling my consciousness

For too long I’ve pulled a protective veil over the mechanism within me that observes how people perceive me or receive me prima fascia. I’ve assumed the majority have a pretty low estimation of me, because that was the way it was the last I checked: grade school, high school and junior high. I was ridiculed hated and even spat upon. Yet what is surprising, especially for those who know me, know I exude self-confidence. And my mother tells me I always have. Upon my entrance to Seminary, my giftings profile test placed self-confidence third from the top. Quite frankly, I don’t know how that happened but obviously, my self-concept is not easily affected by people’s perceptions of me. Formal evaluations are different but I’ve learned to recognize when the veil comes down and others’ voices come to me like sounds under-water. I remember vaguely the first day of college. I was headed to class with my bright blue and pink backpack from Wal-Mart. The fact that I was quite conspicuous in my full-sized bonnet and long-dress, dimly penetrated my veiled consciousness. A deathly silence followed me as I walked down a noisy hall jammed with college students. The whispering—imagined, real—I’m not sure. I only remember walking more purposefully and erect, fixing my gaze on some invisible horizon and lifting my chin a notch, while consciously pulling a heavy curtain more securely around my consciousness. I arrived at my class late. The professor was already lecturing. I scanned the lecture hall for a chair. There weren’t any visible from the door. The lecture stopped. Everyone looked at me. After a silence the professor asked if he could help me. “Is there a seat somewhere?” I asked. “This is your class?” he asked. “Is this Computer 101?” I asked. I didn’t realize the effect of this apparent visual oxy-moron: Amish-Mennonite girl takes a computer class. At the end of the day, I went home. I opened my calculus book and promptly fell into an exhausted sleep that wasn’t even penetrated by my mother calling me to supper.

Recently though, God has been doing something with me. It’s like he’s pulling the curtain back. My reaction to the others’ response to me is quite vivid compared to the previous deadened sensitivity. Sometimes I feel an internal shock, wonder, curiosity, bewilderment, amazement, or even a low level terror to think that I might impact anyone at all. Some people respond to me with a tell-tale nervousness. I’m bewildered by that. Some have flinched—mostly, professors who I’m pointedly requesting something of. I didn’t know I was that scary. Some people seem drawn like a magnet. Some have even said so (as I tried stopping up my ears). Others seem curious or intrigued. That’s just weird to me! I told my friend of 20 some years about my observations. She just laughed at me and said, “Why are you so shocked? Of, course people aren’t going to treat you as though you’re in Jr. High—because nobody’s in Jr. High anymore. That happened 15+ years ago.”

Mostly, I am sobered by the call to respond responsibly and initiate relationships with others and to live and interact with them in such a way as to call them to a higher level of worship. As the church, this is our highest call to each other. As for getting stared at, like that wake of silence I left in college—as the t-shirt I saw says—“Okay, I’m cute. Now quite staring.”. . . No, actually, I’m finding some pretty creative ways of dealing with that.

when to kiss and when to refrain...

So, I kiss Latinos on the cheek and embrace them and touch them when I am with them, without a second thought. I kiss and shake hands with the Greek Orthodox folks I encounter. I link arms with my Vietnamese friend as we walk down the street. I expect a Latino man to lend me his arm in various situations. Hugging, kissing and touching gets people all involved in each others’ personal space and can be a bit weird, when one suddenly lands in the situation, when coming from a background where the personal boundary bubble is much larger in circumference.

Sometimes I still run into things that make me internally uncomfortable within the plethora of subcultures I find all around me. Early on, I learned to shut off my “freak-out” mechanism when I ran into those uncomfortable/puzzling social situations, so that I had time to gather context and understanding on how to respond or participate. I sometimes wonder if I’ve even done permanent damage to my “freak-out” mechanism. So, someday, as I get grabbed from behind and pulled into a van, I’ll be looking for a larger context to this sort of behavior/situation—later, my face will be plastered on missing persons’ billboards. My sister has voiced something of the same sentiment, “nothing, surprises me anymore,” she’s told me.

To put a bit of order to boundary expectations, I’ve been developing, if you will, a sort of sliding boundary scale based on what I observe as normative in various contexts. Not to say that I’ve got it down perfect—not at all. For instance, there was once a time when I misjudged a married man to be Latino—his name sounded Latino. So, I greeted him with more expression and touching than your white mainstream greeting. Later, I was shocked to notice he was checking me out. Then, I figured out that he was African, not Latino. Ooops!

But it is as I have been thinking about these odd socio-cultural things that have challenged and stretched my Amish-Mennonite core, I’ve also been thinking about what might challenge or even rattle those who are not from my upbringing. And I’ve landed on the perfect Amish Mennonite tradition which I practiced all the time in my community: the Holy Kiss. Like a perfect Protestant there is always scriptural mandate for everything that is done in daily life. Paul hereby commands us in I Cor 16:20, Rom 16:16 etc. “to greet one another with a holy kiss.” And…well, that is what we did. Brothers in the church greeted other brothers in the church and sisters greeted other sisters in the church—yup, that meant kissing another person right on the smacker. And yes, one could hear the smacking. And yes, I did it often. It happened at every meeting and it was a sign of obedience to the scriptures, pious dedication, love of your brother/sister. The youth occasionally balked and whispered derogatory things about the tastelessness of this weird tradition. But the more mature were sincere in appreciating their sign of affection for their brother or sister in Christ.Given the overload of unfamiliar situations I have thus far had to weather, reprocess and adjust to over the years. I think I would secretly gloat if ever I had the opportunity to observe a non-Mennonite being suddenly greeted with the holy kiss or even to have them unexpectedly observe the practice.

responsibility

There are traditional categories of responsibility and nontraditional categories of responsibility. The traditional categories are what I would call the lower forms of responsibility. They answer the questions of “who did it?” Who is responsible for this mess? Who is the bad steward? The questions come in a form nobody wants to answer, if you are Minnesota nice. Yet the nontraditional categories of responsibility take on a higher form. As Christians, those of us who are lead by Christ…who exemplified the form of redemptive responsibility we are to take…took responsibility for that which was justifiably the fault of another.
At the end of the day, everyone could be responsible. Of those in key positions in the cosmic drama—some are better suited to be responsible.

daily life in the kingdom

An interpretation of--what good thing must I do...

In the kingdom of God—we are to preparing rooms for guests and when they arrive we are to be demonstrating the best kind of hospitality to them, for the guests are those who are being wooed into the kingdom. Our spiritual progeny (the son) are the keepers of God’s household. Yet, our spiritual sons and daughters’ provision is somewhat lacking. In this parable the son stewards his household, providing well for the pastor, bringing in his aging mother (those who are parents in the faith). Yet the spaces that have been assigned to the mother are unsuitable for her wellbeing and she is given other provisional space. The son’s office, which he is to share with his mother, is too cold. She is not given space suitable to work alongside him in the kingdom of God. Thus, she avoids working at all. Her bed is old and in a guest’s room. The elderly in the faith are not given suitable space to rest. They begin to long for the luxuries that will give them provisional, material comfort for their aches and pains. They take up the spaces the guests are to be occupying. They, the pastor and the rest of us in God’s household continuously run into the dead-end hallway, in our futile efforts to pursue wealth and material well-being. The household of God is being managed poorly with respect to the elderly and those who are to be guests in the kingdom.

On the other hand there is anticipation of these guests, which have not yet arrived. The pastor has been given a good, pleasant and modest space to work. The geraniums are a sign of life, vitality and cheer but also the abundant hope for unexpected wealth as well as the hope for unexpected recognition. The pastor and our spiritual parents in God’s household recognize the futility of pursuing wealth and prosperity in the household of God. The elderly hear the voice of God which offers them healing for crippled legs and a path to walk upon instead of silver and gold.

Now here is a question for my readers...

Who is the steward, managing God's house?

I got book tagged

1. One book that changed your life:
Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard.

I must say though it wasn’t the book that changed my life, it was a very specific act of grace from God that changed my life and the book was there to put words to that grace.

2. One book you've read more than once:
Ann Likes Red.

I don’t read books twice. But in my childhood I “read” this one incessantly, before I could read. Otherwise my chemistry and physics textbooks—I’ve read those more than once.

3. One book you'd want on a desert island:
The scriptures, with apocrypha in their original language.

4. One book that made you laugh:
The books I read, don’t usually make me laugh.

5. One book that made you cry:
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving or The Martyrs Mirror

6. One book you wish had been written:
A two part book named Friendship: A historical survey of exceptional friendships and a guide to nurturing lasting friendships.

I am ecstatic that my seminary is offering a course on spiritual friendship.

7. One book you wish had never been written:
Home Fires by some uneducated soul who didn’t know how to write.

I was 13 and my mom bought the book for me for Christmas from a conservative Mennonite publishing house. I felt bad because we were poor and she had sacrificed a lot to get the book for me but by the 3rd chapter I couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, even I could write better than this author—the story-line is all confused.” It was a formative moment. I decided I wouldn’t publish, unless it was good, reeeeally good.

8. One book you're currently reading:
Umm. I’ve always turned my books over so the title is not visible because I always get a reaction from people about the sort of thing I’m currently reading. Why would I turn the books over, now, broadcasting their titles over a public blog? I think there are close to 20 of them.

9. One book you've been meaning to read:
All the books above, that are turned over, that I need to finish reading.

10. Now tag 1person:
I tag Jesus—as in el Cristo.

what good thing must I do...Matt 19:16-22

As I went to sleep, I was praying about my distressed financial situation. The Lord came to me in a dream telling me I had not yet given up all and that I was to move into someone else’s home so as to alleviate the financial stress. In my dream I obeyed, moving into an older house that at times seemed to be my son’s home and at times it wasn’t. It was a small house. I would live upstairs sharing my son’s office space but would sleep downstairs. There seemed to be an urgency to prepare the rest of the guest rooms for visitors we were expecting. There was one room in particular, the upstairs sewing room that was problematic. The room was quite messy and my son was attempting to install draperies to cover the messiness of the sewing area. Contrary to his typical patient nature he was quite short tempered about the project. My living situation in the house was also a bit patched together. Since my son’s office was too cold to live in, even though it was my living space, I stayed away. My current bed was too old but was temporarily set up in a guest room, until such a time when I would get a new one which would be placed in my bedroom. I had also hoped for a Jacuzzi bathtub to ease my aching back but there was none.

There was my pastor who worked in the upstairs living area under one of the slanted ceilings. He loved it. The place was pleasantly cluttered and not at all professionally decorated. There were potted geraniums everywhere. Yet, down the hall from him there was a wall that led nowhere. It was a bit mysterious—as though it lead somewhere and something existed behind it. I kept absentmindedly walking into it. Finally, one day, I said to my pastor, “When will I stop trying to make a door where none exists? This wall is a dead-end.” We both laughed when he said, “Yes, I know what you mean. I keep doing the same thing.”

Then I heard the Lord recite scripture to me, “Silver and gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.” Acts 3:6

The other day my good friend and I were talking about poverty and how the scriptures seem to indicate that kingdom living nececitates a rejection of worldly comforts. She then told me this dream. Since I thought it quite profound, I am posting it here for your benefit.

the unholy trinity

rebellion in place of positive vision
individualism or self-centeredness
false sense of entitlement and superiority

these three will salt the soil of revival

beachy humor?!!

I think I might have confused some of my readers by claiming Amish Mennonites have a creative sense of humor. A friend pointed out a blob to me the other day http://beachycomplex.blogspot.com/ which some might find very humorous—others might simply be lost, or just haven’t been blessed with a good sense of humor. We should feel sorry for the latter two categories of folks.

Their lacking can be explained via the following phenomenon:

The particle-like character of their observer’s eye-ball alters the observeds’ behavior in the quantum environment. So, if you don’t see the humor in this here blog, this quantum phenomenon is occurring. One cannot accurately catch both position and momentum of the satire. You see, lipstick, facial piercings and such are so jarring to the Beachy eye (like white legs), that one can no longer emit humor waves. Likewise, wide brimmed hats and pleated aprons have the same effect. Too Amish as well as too liberal, enacts this phenomenon. Yes, I know what you are thinking. This is not a case of the emperor’s new clothes because I am Amish Mennonite and I cannot lie or pretend anything—If I ever did not tell the literal truth, you would see me blushing through my profile picture.

By the way—I don’t know what these young punks are doing using satire. There is no Deutsch wort for satire—it simply doesn’t exist. I’m certain that the only explanation is mutation. These folks are the new mutants—Beachy mutants. Ach schantlich!

And if that all isn’t bad enough—they stole my quote. They stole the quote, where I’m quoting someone’s quote.

Actually, I like "the draft" the best--although I should not say so, because by now that Holiness Beachy Boy has got a swelled head and isn't so holy anymore.

virginia

I have been again plunged back into the thick of Amish-Mennonite culture of late—pleasant recollections, stark realizations of things I have forgotten, things I now appreciate that I once railed against and the things I forgot I hated. (For those who don’t know, the TC, where I’ve lived, is quite thin for A-M culture.) It’s like coming home. Or actually more like detox but in a liberating sort of way.

I’ve been in Virginia visiting my sister.

. . . I forgot to bring socks and everyone wears dark socks for church. I watched people start, do a double take and then a quick avert—the culprit, my white legs.

. . . I marveled at the level of clean. Every morning I looked for hair, dirt—anything—in the most readily dirty place I could think of, the corner behind the toilet and the part of the sink behind the faucet. But nada! For 4 days I lived in a dorm-like situation with 16 girls and a common kitchen. It was like dorm room living, except it was like living with 16 girls trained to be cooks and cleaning ladies. I never thought the lack of slime and grime would give me such culture shock.

. . . My hair is as long but trimmed—yet ridiculously short compared to the never-cut hair of some that hangs to the backs of some girls’ knees.

. . . The sermons are great! No intellectual treatises on some concept five shades removed from practical reality. Those are great too—but I like to hold intellect and practicality in sway. Nope, here we’ve got for you here, true practical instruction for daily living given like pistols, shooting strait from the hip. It’s actually quite refreshing. “Tithing isn’t optional,” the preacher said. “God tells us we are to give generously.” I needed to be told my diet coke habit wastes my money and is unhealthy. I was even at a wedding where the pastor all but gave personal marriage counseling—delivered quite tactfully, with lots of humor. Here dude, step on my other toes too.

My sister, my cousin and I biked DC along the Potomac. It was a great activity for those cut from the same cloth. We’ve all inherited my grandma’s full throttle energy level, it seems. It was also a pleasant freedom to be wearing a more in your face barrier for the English—billowing skirts and large white headcoverings. People sure looked at us. One guy even bothered to tell us he had just seen some Amish and pointed us in their direction. And yes, billowing skirts and bikes work just fine together.

The humor and the creative entertainment was enough to make my sides ache. I had forgotten about the antics—the constant “war” of trickery and pranks Mennonite youth played on each other. I was shocked at how often everyone used the f word or engaged in it, given our recent debate on modern parables. I suppose some things just don’t translate—one needs to experience them. Go here and scroll down to brothers and sisters

So, here it is, the f word, fully enacted—admittedly there is a spectrum of definition for fighting.

I think they ganged up on the one girl pinned her to the ground then threw her in the shower--grunting, scratching and shreeking the whole way.

a smart man

I’m required to be at an out of the routine meeting tonight along with about 17 other people. The secretary notified us that he would not make it to this mandatory meeting. He submitted his apologies with the following message: “it is my wedding anniversary today-tonight, so in the interest of preserving my marriage, I will be absent.”

breaking the family tradition

Last year after my first and only bad break-up, I decided it was positively unhealthy the way my family has approached the topic of love, romance and getting married. We NEVER talk about it EVER. My parents NEVER encouraged or discouraged possible partners by name, reputation or even character. If the topic should come up, however, it was vehemently shut down by usually more than one person in no more than 30 seconds.

One scenario went something like this:

Mom, sister4, sister5, and sister6 are in the kitchen. For some unknown reason, the forbidden topic comes up. Talking about sister3, who has a kind and caring demeanor to everyone, including the most unlovely folks. Someone asks in a bit of a worried tone, “What if somebody who was kind-of an ichy guy started pursuing sister3 and asked her to marry him? Do you think she would just say ‘yes’ because she felt sorry for him?” Thoughtfully, sister4 responds, “You know sister3 is sort of a softy but I think when it comes down to it, I think she would say, “no.” Sister5 chimes in, “But you know, sister6 here, would marry the ichy guy.” Sister6 turns around swiftly and purposefully toward sister5, winds up, giving her a solid, meaningful kick to the buttocks, exclaiming vehemently, “I am NOT getting married.” The conversation is over as sister5 nurses her wounds.

Mostly though, the forbidden topic only got to its 3rd sentence before there were loud protests from several siblings, “Enough, already.” “We are not getting married.” As one of the eldest, I am largely responsible for the beginning of this, “I am not getting married” trend. I now see the error of my ways in that it has created in my own life and in the lives of my siblings: (1) a lack of reflectiveness on the topic of future mate (possibly making us more susceptible to responding positively to the sharks that are out there), (2) cutting ourselves off from possibly helpful sibling insight, and shared knowledge, (3) a not-on-the-radar attitude about getting married.

But slowly, some of us have been secretly deviating from this family tradition. *shock* *horror* This weekend brother3 is getting married. Last year my oldest brother got married. I have declared a stop to the gag order on this topic with my sisters. I will declare a stop to the gag order on this topic on my blog too. (I’m sure you are all waiting with baited breath, now.) Actually, I don’t have a specific adgenda with respect to love, romance and getting married. I suppose, I am using this as a demonstration of how to change habits that catch us in a rut and eventually harm us.

Kepler--the planetary musician

Kepler attempted to interrelate notes on the musical scale to the geometry of the solar system. Geometry—the mind of God—aesthetics of music—he saw it all as varied expressions of the same life substance. Planets orbits hummed intelligible tones as they progressed in their orbits. He arrived at the 3rd law of planetary motion, while attempting to fit orbits into the musical scale. He began with the hypothesis that orbital paths were circular—yet when he could no longer deny the evidence that they were elliptical, his understanding of God changed as well. This was one of the more inspiring bits of information I read while skimming The Cosmic Mystique, a book I happened upon at the library the other day—I don’t really recommend the book BTW.

I find this very gratifying because while I was struggling through my chemistry courses, the concepts I was learning were very much informing my understanding of the religious, shall we say. I often see the connectedness of life. I see interconnectedness and similarity more readily than I see difference. Viruses are an image of how evil infiltrates the kingdom of God. It’s an aggressive evil. It takes over like a Nazi. Parasites are a different sort of evil. They are like the little foxes that destroy the vine. The Heisenberg principle—numerous theologians love the Heisenberg. Fission. Fusion. The possibilities are endless. Keep checking back for descriptions of scientific principles…but look beneath them to find other meaning there.

wheel chair stranger

I was sitting next to the curb in downtown Minneapolis, listening to some music in the CD player of my car, with a friend—windows open, hot breeze blowin. When I saw sorriest sight I’ve ever seen. A shirtless, wheelchair bound, old guy, with his leg in a brace, sticking strait out the front. He tried to shout at us above the music to get our attention. He asked if we could help him and if we had change. I told him I had car wash tokens and gum. He took the gum, and asked for change again. I asked him if he took a credit card. That cracked him up and he went on his way. Next time I should try the “rise and walk” healing evangelist routine.

IT three and library lurkers

I’m headed out to Virginia to visit my sister, on AmTrac. I have become weary of the airport and all its security checks and hurry up and wait routines. I’m sitting next to 3 IT guys who came to the TC to an IT conference: Eric, Matt and Dave. They’ve warned me about the dining car Nazis and likened the reservation sign-up, waiting line, and service to preparing for the execution chamber. The dining car reservation announcement that just came over the loud speaker did sound a little severe—bringing on a fresh volley of sarcastic humor.

Mostly, I’ve slept in a huddled ball next to the window, drooling a stream onto my pillow, as though it’s the last sleep I’ll ever have. I’m reading a book on being and non-being—A comparative treatise of thought between Barth and Tillich’s philosophy on the matter. I woke up every now and again to lengthy discussions on how to build a program and monitoring system, which will track the progress of employees and their various client assignments. Maybe I should work on the book I’m editing, “Science and Religion.”

On the second leg of the trip I am sitting next to two ladies, incidentally they too keep the world organized, both are librarians. The one who sat next to me is a reference librarian in the Library of Congress. The other worked in various places but is German and has extensive knowledge of all sorts of random facts. Again, I overhear extensive conversation on how to catalogue various pieces and on what is rare and valuable. Somehow they’ve even obtained the collection of children’s books from the last Czar of Russia.

we all OR us and them

A few years ago I showed up for a neighborhood meeting, which happened to be the annual elections for the district council. I got elected and now, recently I was nominated to chair the neighborhood action committee. Which means it is my responsibility to see that we engage at least some of the 31,000 very diverse people in crime prevention or community building programs. Now this wasn’t because I distinguished myself in any amazing way—rather, I was accidentally at a key meeting. Yet, by far it’s the best opportunity I’ve had to try out my leadership wings.

Mostly, it means I got to sit through boring and convoluted meetings in which I didn’t understand half the acronyms, nor the process for about a year and now that I’m sort of catching on, I’m in charge. Those who know me know I am never involved in politics—and this community volunteer thing is like the first step in the running for office direction. Being born and raised without any politics on the radar at all—I knew nearly nothing of city governance by strangers, having in its place communal governance and guidance by family and elders. So, I often run into realizations about how different of a concept of neighborhood I hold.

Tonight, I was at a meeting where this difference was very stark. We were being instructed about the procedures of citizen’s arrest. Good information. Yet I was a bit taken aback. My prima fascia reaction to a possible crime is not 911, it is inserting yourself into the situation and taking personal responsibility for its resolution. Developing a relationship with the “possible” perpetrator or neighborhood problem. Social pressure to do the “right” thing, based on relationships.

I live this out even in my neighborhood. Likely, the most “scary” story was of our neighborhood sex offender—that was before we knew he was a sex offender. He was the “uncle” to the “problem family” in our neighborhood. Because we were on very familiar terms with the neighbors, he came with the family. And the family was in and out of our house all the time. He too came over sometimes. He was flirtatious--and nothing gets my goat faster. I tried to piss him off so he wouldn't like me too much. My roommate went out with him a few times. I didn’t approve but I didn't want to deal with the drama of a confrontation. That’s all easy to say, now that we know: he was apprehended for kidnapping and raping a woman about two years ago. Later, our roommate told us she had been at his house and watched TV with him, on his bed. Yikes! The Lord was with her!

While, I believe in taking responsibility for the social and moral well-being of one’s neighbor. I have put myself and others in danger—those in my intentional community who bought into my vision. As I have demonstrated, I didn’t follow through on my own vision. I didn’t warn my roomate. I cowered under the pressure of her most probable response. In this crazy world of mix between seeing the other as one of us OR them the bad guys and us the good guys: I suppose we could lock all the doors, turned on the air and let our cars take us to the social circles of our choices. But would we be any safer with the results of our own choices?

is this Che(ish) enough?

A friend gave me a good idea. He said he'd buy me a hat (barre?--I have no idea how to spell it) if I would model it for our photographer buddy Oleg. Somehow, they think I'm some rabble rousing revolutionary. I like the revolution idea and purposful deviance has always been my motto. So I think this doctored image of myself (thanks to Photoshop) can be my signature. The spirit of peace revolution. Long live the revolution!  

animal hospital exposed

One of the issues I’ve run into, while in community and church is demonstrated by my parable Animal Hospital. I’ve seen the issue everywhere, so it isn’t just exclusive to the community of faith. It seems to be, at least in part, brought on by the ignorance of over-specialization: a trend in the modern world that has been creating a very particular intelligence vacuum.

The message of animal hospital is: don’t “surgically alter” the intrinsic components of how God created you or your people group and even more importantly, don’t let others—institutions, individuals, governments—convince you to do violence to your self in the name of their agendas and good will—no matter how well intentioned and well reputed they are. Doing any sort of cross-cultural leaping requires that one understands these dynamics well—and is sensitive to that which he/she attempts to “change” in the other culture. There are times when cultures do serious core damage to the structural integrity and beauty of another culture in the name of good will.

But more basically, this happens, cultural differences aside. It most often includes differences that one hasn’t been taught to recognize and place into context. This is where overspecialization is to blame. Specialization is great when it comes to expertise on the details, however, if not held in sway by context and a robust understanding of connectivity to broader themes, specialization is futile. Within the church, the specialization backlash was created by custom crafted programs designed to meet the specific “needs” and life-stages of the congregants: toddlers, teens, singles, single-agains, dad’s of teens groups, women’s prayer brunch, therapy groups etc. The over-specialization and categorization by its very structure is unfriendly to that which is different and outside the said categories. It breeds a mentality of order with no demonstrative elements of transcending and integrating. This is nothing new. But things become dangerous when over-specialized experts are given authority and entrusted with the fixing of people--when valid difference is taken for a malidy.

http://modern-parables.blogspot.com/2006/06/animal-hospital.html

There is a classic written by H. G. Wells, The Country of the Blind, has the same sort of message.

http://www.classicreader.com/read.php/sid.6/bookid.165/

tribute to Joanna

my soul was empty
my heart ached
sobs wretched my little body
I dreamed you had died
leaving me behind

yet the morning light cracked my teary eyes
only to find you in my embrace, body and breath
because your face was peaceful
because your face was sweet
I did not wake you to tell you I loved you

in life we held you so tightly
in this life that is death
for life is but walking death
and only death births eternal life

though I miss you
though I hold you tightly
though I believe in Lazarus
I will not wake you to tell you I love you

and because I love you
I give you to whom you long for
your Creator, your father, your lover, your friend
he alone is your shepherd
in Him you shall have no want

we who are cloaked in darkness
we who’s substance is merely a dream
we give you to your bridegroom
who has veiled you in joy, peace and understanding
he has robed you in His life
he has received you to himself
for he alone desired you for his bride

we deliver you
from this veil of darkness
from this shadow of death
from this world of dreams

we who held you so tightly
we unclasp our fading arms

we release you
to the arms that will draw you close
to the lips that will kiss you with breath
to the passionate love that will sustain you

we give you to LIFE
we give you to Christ
on this your wedding day

At times funerals are fertile fields to sow new seeds—to speak truths into listening ears and open hearts—to change old patterns and bring in new ones. I remember having a profound sense of humility and purpose come over me as I wrote the words of this poem before my sister’s funeral. I spoke them with prophetic proclamation, across a pulpit no woman had ever spoken across before. I felt as though the Spirit had engulfed me and I was no longer speaking. Death would not have the last word! I collapsed afterwards. Every bit of strength was used up. Today, women mourners read their poems. They also take their turn at turning the soil into the grave. Denominational divisions are set aside as each speaks of a common hope. Death is a time to rethink participation in life.

a time to mourn

So I’m taking a bit of a hiatus from my exuberant freedom to fully enter into some incredible moments of mouning and grief of this past week. My mother called today to tell me about a school mate who has also committed suicide, after killing his girlfriend and unborn child. I mourned the little deaths we choose to live in. For my birthday, I attended the funeral of another young man from my home church community, who took his life. Both young men, about the same age, will be buried in the same cemetery—out in the sticks, where the breeze caries whiffs the neighbor’s pig barn. Those who greeted me with Happy Birthday were answered with a stream of tears. Yet I laughed and cried when I was celebrated by a Ghanaian pastor who grabbed his guitar and sang happy birthday to me. I remember feeling the same way on my eleventh birthday when I attended my grandfather’s funeral. I felt sufficiently celebrated when the neighbor lady gave me a bag of m&ns.

I’ve become quite familiar with death. It has a very particular aura. I once stood at its door, yet turned back only to watch my sister step through. Why her and not me? The week of mourning no longer brings tears about her, only stark memories. I had cursed the bright blue sky for mocking me, the day she died. I did not see its baby blue tone till my spirit laid her to rest, 6 months later. We kept on referring to it as “the wedding, I mean the funeral,” throughout the exhausting week of numbing decisions and preparation. Who’s going to comb her hair? Who’s going to pick up her “personal effects?”

Now, I talk to my oldest friends about dying. I look into the eyes of a dear friend who fades visibly week by week. I tell another that I wish to be with her when she passes from this life to the next. It is a sacred moment meant to shared.