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.

death

They rolled the casket to the alter in the largest country church they could find. Mom, Dad and two sisters followed close behind. The mourners kept a deafening silence. An occasional muffled sob. Twenty three is too young to decide it’s over. What sorrow? What absolute madness? What darkness must have overcome this budding light?

Weep my sister for this is your brother. Wail! All you mothers. This is your son. Fathers, this is the pride of your life. This is your future. Death has visited us cruelly, yet again. One more has walked into its chilling embrace. What shame. What guilt. What utter despair.

The mourners sit. And the words are proclaimed in harmonious song…

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

What? Dare we believe? Can we see beyond this darkness?

He did. He looked into the darkness with narrowed eyes. He spoke to it with measured words.

Oh, death where is your sting? Oh grave, where is your victory? This is not the end. This is not the final say.

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

perfectly, as God made me

There are times I am amazed at how many people claim me into their ethnicity. I am particularly filled with glee and satisfaction when yet another “different” ethnic group claims me. A week ago I scored yet another ethnic group: Greek or maybe more particularly Greek Orthodox. The lady who I had introduced myself to didn’t ask if I was Greek, she simply said, “Now, you are Greek Orthodox (as opposed to the others I was with).” Along with this versatile complexion, comes a sort of internal mechanism that tunes me into the mannerisms and habits of the culture group around me subconsciously. My accent changes slightly. I bow slightly when greeting my Hmong neighbor. I wow my Japanese friend with my “polite” table manners—polite according to the Japanese—I have no conscious knowledge of Japanese graces. I speak softly to two other Hmong neighbors and I start talking black to my other black neighbors—and stop abruptly as I realize, oops, some people take offense to that.

Long black hair is my most versatile feature. Olive toned skin blends me into a majority of the 10-40 window nations. My dark browns place me almost anywhere. I tend to assimilate into most people groups and situations—if that is my intended purpose. Challenging and reforming is my other intent once I have infiltrated. Appearance is only a tool toward that end. The character, Mystique, in the x-men trilogy, is my characteristic character. (That she is in close relationship to Destiny, in the comic series, is interesting). I also find an affinity to Vin Diesel, because, ethnically, he’s a little hard to place. If I wouldn’t be a Christian, I think I would pursue employment as an information thief, spy or an infiltrator of some sort. I would have to learn how to lie though.

I have been all of the following: African American, Cuban, Columbian, Mexican, any type of Latin American—that is the lighter skin toned mix of Latin American. I have been Italian, Middle Eastern, a light mix of Indian, Spanish, Gypsy, Italian, Greek. I am rarely identified as German which is what I am 100%.

Actually, my brother also has a lot of the same features and coloring I do. He was searched and interrogated to the nth degree when he traveled to Israel. They thought he was Palestinian with his black hair and prominent 5 o’clock shadow.

as I lay on your grave

I went to lay on your grave today.
I imagined we were young again
put down for our afternoon naps
tickling, talking, silliness
till at last we fell asleep

Now you are asleep
and I am awake
the cold marble stone
cools my cheek
the burr oaks wave at us
against the baby blue sky

Death, why have you fallen in love with youth
so many babies here
too many youth in their prime
rest together
with my sister dearest

now again
the ground will be broken for you
oh, death
as another of your young lovers
succumbs to your wiles

Please pray for the community of my childhood--for the family--for a fellow blogger. http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/07/no-words-for-this.html

a graduation high?

So it’s like I’ve emerged from a deep dark tunnel and now I’m out in the light. It’s summer! I love where I live. I love life! And I wake up early to indulge in it. I hardly recognize myself anymore. Gone is the woeful Cassandra, with her worried brow and heavy heart. Yipper skipper here I come—I think I’ll take a run and a swim instead of an afternoon nap. I’m still an introvert but now I flit from here, there and everywhere—from one social sphere to another. A Bulgarian and a Hispanic friend’s wedding shower. A date with a high school friend. A heartful conversation with her husband. A movie with an ad-hoc group of Seminarians and such. Home to my parents. Off to the church of my childhood. An accidental encounter and deep conversation with an armchair theologian from my parents’ other church. Teaching a new Ugandan friend how to drive my car. Praying with my Peruvian friend. Meeting all her Peruvian friends and going out on the town till 2 am. Two new friends from Oleg’s circle of friends. Socializing with the other directors on my district board. Dinner with the newest director from the Native American Family Center. Hanging out with blorge and Chris and friends. New people from other house churches I’m attempting to connect. Thought projects. Books to read. Home improvement projects. Cooking and cleaning. Gardening. It’s a riot. It’s insane as compared to a year ago. I love it! I love life! I can barely sleep anymore. I don’t know where all the energy comes from. I go to bed late and I wake up at the crack of dawn. At first I thought it was a graduation high but it’s not subsiding much. My sister-in-law asked me if I’m in love. Yeah, I’m in love. I’m in love with life. And I’m rejoicing in this season of praise.
Hallelujah!

on revolution—reform your spirit first

It is of absolute necessity to live with internal joyful, exuberance for life while in the same breath, in firm resolve, standing against, or confronting, all that is wrong in the world. Our confrontations should be short, firm and strategic. As though the vivacious stream of consciousness was suddenly interrupted by a sobering message, only to draw us back into a fuller joy. No one should dwell endlessly in the despair of all that has gone amiss. Mourning and retreat are but seasons—paths back to joyful, vivacious life.

Or one could incite revolution out of anger—you will need to correctly direct the angry masses into desired end.

forgetting Zion

Psalms 137
1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. 2 There on the poplars we hung our harps, 3 for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" 4 How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?

I memorized this passage when I was not more than 10. I remember the images of expatriated people, mourning on riverbanks, caught in my mind. I pitied their sadness. I too was sad for them. Recently, I ran into a song—a take off this psalm. I love its depressive mood. I love that it is sung in a low base rumble. I’ve played it a million times. It grips the soul of this expatriate. The poetry, the imagery, the subtle message--absolutely amazing!

By the Rivers Dark

By Leonard Cohen

By the rivers dark
I wandered on.
I lived my life
In Babylon.

And I did forget
My holy song:
And I had no strength
In Babylon.

By the rivers dark
Where I could not see
Who was waiting there
Who was hunting me.

And he cut my lip
And he cut my heart.
So I could not drink
From the river dark.

And he covered me,
And I saw within,
My lawless heart
And my wedding ring,

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark
I panicked on.
I belonged at last
To Babylon.

Then he struck my heart
With a deadly force,
And he said, ‘This heart:
It is not yours.’

And he gave the wind
My wedding ring;
And he circled us
With everything.

By the rivers dark,
In a wounded dawn,
I live my life
In Babylon.

Though I take my song
From a withered limb,
Both song and tree,
They sing for him.

Be the truth unsaid
And the blessing gone,
If I forget
My Babylon.

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark,
Where it all goes on;
By the rivers dark
In Babylon.

reader poll

What would you like to hear about?
At any given time there are numerous diverse categories of topics cooking in my brain that I could blog about/record for future usefulness.

parables—typically of the church.
parabolic message revealed—would you like to give my commentary of the message of my parables posted, with the certain understanding that my expressed message is not exhaustive.
encounters—these are stories of my adventures in strategically or accidentally wandering into the hub of the life and reality of “the other”—the alien, the poor, the rich and strangers. I have not written about these much because these encounters are very sacred to me because of the people they involve. I don’t want to exploit them for an interesting story. I would like to find a way of doing that.
reform and revolution—This is a topic that has always been close to my heart. I would like to write about strategy and principles, as well as character. I have been aiming at this target with my parables but parables are supposed to be provocative at an emotional level. This approach would bring out the scientist and the Cassandra in me.
formative principles—I have a number of principles I live by or would like to live by in greater fullness, which I am on one hand attempting to process and crystallize into a succinct theological expression but on the other hand is inseparably married to strategic action and ultimately leads to impact my “lived in world” by perpetuating the spirit of this Christian principle
stories of self and home—I throw these in to let people see my humanness. I believe it important to be touchably human and real.
scripture—I would like to express what I find fascinating in scripture.
dreams--Some people say dreams don't matter. Some place them in a closed category of the subversive human consciousness. To some, they are just fun or terrifying. What happens when they are true? Why are there so many people secretly hoping for meaning to be spoken into their dreams?

depressed about the state of the church

Every once in a while I get really depressed about the state of the church. Everything seems wrong. Some people attempt solutions to the ongoing cycle of sin passed from person to person, generation to generation, class to class, yet ultimately, if one is to be real with him/herself, we all contribute to the brokenness and perpetuate more, except for by the grace of God, which seems far too absent. In these times, I find great comfort in reading Ezekiel 34, reading myself into the bad shepherd character, for I too am that bad shepherd. I also understand Christ’s role in redeeming the bad shepherd. However, I am comforted by the fact that God himself will shepherd his sheep…despite me…despite the church.

Ezekiel 34

…'This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Woe to the shepherds of Israel who only take care of themselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? 3 You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. 4 You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. 5 So they were scattered because there was no shepherd, and when they were scattered they became food for all the wild animals. 6 My sheep wandered over all the mountains and on every high hill. They were scattered over the whole earth, and no one searched or looked for them.

…10 This is what the Sovereign Lord says: I am against the shepherds and will hold them accountable for my flock. I will remove them from tending the flock so that the shepherds can no longer feed themselves. I will rescue my flock from their mouths, and it will no longer be food for them. 11 "'For this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. 12 As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness. 13 I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I will pasture them on the … 15 I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down, declares the Sovereign Lord. 16 I will search for the lost and bring back the strays. I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak, but the sleek and the strong I will destroy. I will shepherd the flock with justice.

17 "'As for you, my flock, this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I will judge between one sheep and another, and between rams and goats. 18 Is it not enough for you to feed on the good pasture? Must you also trample the rest of your pasture with your feet? Is it not enough for you to drink clear water? Must you also muddy the rest with your feet? 19 Must my flock feed on what you have trampled and drink what you have muddied with your feet? 20 "'Therefore this is what the Sovereign Lord says to them: See, I myself will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep.

animal hospital

I went to visit the most famous animal hospital. And no stranger sight did I behold! I was enticed to come and observe the healing it boasted of. “All diseases treated for free!” I had never heard of such generosity and success. Yet through the door I did walk to visit with the recovering patients. They were tired but happy—happy their surgery was a success. I spoke with the goat, whose beard and horns had been removed. He eyed himself in the mirror, pleased at his transformation. The camel too was on the mend. His back held an elegant curve. “Hump removal surgery,” he said, “It’s quite the thing.” The llama was next. I’ve been much too arrogant he said, “They shortened my neck to just the right size. And enlarged my head to fit my body size.” The cow was next and she was a sight to behold. They took her udder and erased her spots, narrowed her nose and shortened her tongue. “They’ve freed me from my bondage to humans,” she said. “No more will I be milked for what I’m worth.”

The surgery rooms were labeled by types: cosmetic surgery, structural surgery, and heart surgery. The waiting lists were long at the first. Few dared the second. And the third had no waiting at all. Our areas of specialization are very particular, I was told. The bookkeeping department was overworked and understaffed. Documents, patient records, analysis notes and x-rays lay in large stacks everywhere, waiting to be filed. Yet these administrative and periferal issues were negligible in comparison to the successful surgeries.

The surgeries were the success story. The public relations department was the best of its kind. What more could one ask for in a hospital?

at home

I went home to my parents this past weekend. Friday night we’re sitting around chatting (remember, no TV). The following are some snippets of the conversation.

The topic of my parents’ 34th anniversary having been yesterday came up. Most of us had forgotten and were giving each other the oops face, while the smoothest talker was covering for the rest of us. “So, Mom and Dad what special thing did you do for your anniversary?” My mom’s quick response was, “nix. Mia, hen haut schafed (Nothing. We worked hard).” Well, did you forget?” we asked. “No!”my dad said gruffly, “After 34 years, how could you forget?”

…Well then, I suppose German peasant culture would be the extreme opposite of the celebratory Hispanic culture I’ve come to be a part of. (Friends: Please note, we children were shocked at our parents’ response…shocked but not without understanding. Rarely, did my parent have the luxury of engaging in so called "celebratory activities").

One thing I have to explain before telling the next anicdote is how sometimes especially the women’s traditional attire becomes cumbersome on the farm. Occasionally, the white head coverings are pinned to our hair didn’t stay on. Once, my father was hauling manure out of the calf barn when he happened upon a covering, in the manure. Wonder what happened there? ...We’ve left our skirts behind in barbed wire fences, burned our butts on the hot tin roof we were sliding down and gotten cockaburrs in unthinkable places. Despite the occasional inconveniences of our way of life, we were better for the wear and we did wear our “bonnets” religiously, all the time. After all, obedience to God was more important than any inconvenience encountered. And since wearing the covering is a constant sign of God’s authority and protection over us, to go without was practically unchristian. So, there were often debates about whether the worldly people who didn’t wear a covering were not Christian or if only those who rejected this teaching were in essence taking off their salvation.

Mom is telling the stories of her summer lawnmowing adventures. They have a big farm site that they keep mowed and groomed to picture perfection. So Mom had been mowing under some low hanging trees, when she discovered…

“That you had lost her head in the branches a few trees back,” I said.

“No, I lost my covering.” Mom said.

“So, when I doubled back, I picked my covering out of the tree and put it on again.”

“Well, did the tree become a Christian?” my sister asked.

“Yeah, Mom, it became a Christian and then you came back around and took its salvation away again.”

stranger encounters: Henry

I’m gonna start telling my stranger encounter stories. I don’t know what has been goin on but I seem to have been runnin into the most interesting strangers recently. Perhaps, it’s because it’s spring. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally pulled my head out of my books long enough to actually see the world I walk in. Or perhaps it is as the law enforcement people at the community meeting said last night, there is just a lot of loitering going on in the East Side this summer, linked to increased housing foreclosures, rising unemployment etc. Anyway...here's to a summer of waking up and looking into the eyes of the stranger beside you.

A homeless man introduced himself to me and offered me a cigarette last Sunday morning. I had walked to the park for some fresh air and solitude. It was early. I couldn’t sleep due to the adrenaline high from the previous day. I was sitting in the grass next to the manmade babbling brook as the sun levitated off the horizon.

He had been standing next to his bicycle weighed down with an awkwardly large garbage bag of essentials, I suppose. He came over to where I was sitting under a tree and asked if my name was Brenda. He asked if I knew of an Amy, Greta, Rachel or Rebecca. I told him, “no.” He asked me if I was native American. I said, “no.” He was drinking water out of a reused orange juice bottle filled with dill pickle spears. He wore a construction helmet and gloves with the fingers cut off. He was courteous but had an instructive tone in his voice as he told me about my neighborhood, the name of which he got off the t-shirt I was wearing. He told me about the Ford Plant… “Now let me tell you something about their product: wasteless, wireless, smokeless, paperless, engineless, fruitless, potless, workless…” By then a middle aged blue collar had taken it upon himself to walk by and interrupt. “You are a no good piece of (expletive), he said, addressing the homeless guy. “I know what you are up to,” he insisted. The two men start to argue loudly, each attempting to out talk the other. The early morning risers start to stare our direction. I tell the blue collar, “Thank you and I’m fine, however, I would rather enjoy the morning without arguing and I was holding my own.” The blue collar seemed satisfied and moved on.

I ask the homeless man what he will be doing today. He told me he’ll be hanging out a bit longer until the churches open up. I thanked him for the good conversation and walked back home. He was pleasant. He was generous: he offered me a cigarette. He asked me what I wanted for breakfast, although all we could pursue was an imaginative wish feast. I asked him his name. His name was Henry.

the artist

When I was young and tender, they brought me into a room of solid white walls. They said they loved me and were going to paint beauty and happiness for me. They gave me toys to play with and then they brought in the best artist money could afford. He silently began to paint the white walls in brilliant colors: sunsets, mountains, banquets full of rich food and drink, beautiful horses and dogs and cats. They must have bought this man’s soul because he stayed with me all day and all night painting scene after delightful scene. As I got older I began to talk to the artist, I asked him to paint me another horse, a black one please. He even let me help paint when I wanted to. He told me I was a budding artist. I smiled and I was proud. Then one day he painted a window on the wall. In the window he painted a dirty street with naked children and crumbling shacks. I stood back in reverence and shock as he painted the scene in the window with tears flowing down his cheeks. Suddenly, they came back. They saw what he had done and were very angry. They made him erase the window but it left a hole in the wall. I wondered why they were angry. I wondered why my artist cried. I asked him to paint me more pictures like the window. So at night he did. He painted pictures of war and famine. He would cry and I would sob. Yet before morning we would erase them, leaving another hole in the wall. Eventually, there were so many holes in the wall, we couldn’t see the sunsets and the mountains and the banquets or pets without also seeing the holes in the wall.

Then one day I asked the artist, why he had painted all these pictures. For the first time in my life, he spoke. He told me of the place he was born. He was the naked child in the dirty street. He was the soldier. He was the hunger stricken alien. He had sold himself to make my life a beautiful picture. I cried and I sobbed. I ranted and I raged. And in my anger I tore that room to shreds and set it on fire. Now I live in the dirty streets the artist once painted for me. The naked children play and fight in the streets outside my door. The bombs wake me up at night. I barely eat because of the famine. “They” are gone now. They never even visit. I never liked them for deceiving me anyway. The artist. I don’t know where he is either. He too surely was in on the plot. But every day I laugh as I remember. I am no longer a child. Now, I sit in the dirt and hang pretty pictures on the mud walls of a different room. No more am I deceived as I sit in the doorway of my hut overlooking a dusty, war torn, infested street. I laugh and tell stories like the artist did. Some come by to listen. Others pay me no mind. Mostly, I am happy with my walls of mud.

I would like some feedback on this parable.
Who is the artist to you? Who are "they"? What is the moral of this parable? What does it say to you about yourself/others?

my brother?...my enemy?

I’ve been reading some of Thomas Merton
Here’s an excerpt from No Man is an Island

Compassion teaches me that my brother and I are one. That if I love my brother, then my love benefits my own life as well, and if I hate my brother and seek to destroy him, I seek to destroy myself also. The desire to attack another with an ingot of red hot iron: I have to pick up the incandescent metal and burn my own hand while burning the other. Hate itself is the seed of death in my own heart, while it seeks the death of the other. Love is the seed of life in my own heart when it seeks the good of the other…
Violence rests on the assumption that the enemy and I are entirely different: the enemy is evil and I am good. The enemy must be destroyed but I must be saved. But love sees things differently. It sees that even the enemy sufferes from the same sorrows and limitations that I do. That we both have the same harmless human life. And that death is the same for both of us. Then love may perhaps show me that my brother is not really my enemy and that war is both his enemy and mine. War is our enemy. Then peace becomes possible.

living in the hood

I miss my “problem” neighbors.

About 4 years ago a large family from Chicago moved into the rental ½ block away. They told us everyone was getting shot in Chicago, so they had to get out to make a new start. My house church’s mission was based on Matthew 22: 37-40: love God and love your neighbor. We made an attempt at living this out, most literally. Then last winter, these neighbors had to move because the condition of their house was such that there was either no gas, electricity or running water—one or two of the three…I forget which. They are a large family. Ages ranging from 27 to 5 but then there were always cousins who were over, cousins, “aunts,” “uncles” and grandma…oh, boy!. Grandma was a trip! Even though there were the occasional cop call at their house all hours of the night and elaborate stories of domestic violence and stabbings, I miss them. Here’s what I miss about them.

1. I miss waking up some Saturday morning to my doorbell being pushed about a million times in a row.

2. I miss sitting on my doorstep cuddling with 2 or 3 kids, listening to animated story telling.

3. I miss little Derrick’s comedies and sassy story telling. As a four year old he was already a ham.

4. I miss watching these kids roll anything with wheels at top speed, down the street with the steep hill right by my house. One summer they even used a cooler till its wheels fell off.

5. I love it how my brother was the ultimate consultant of moral behavior. Most usually they asked him about whether or not certain items they had found were free for the taking. Once they even busted me for burning things in my back yard. “Are you supposed to be setting things on fire in your back yard? Does Tim know you are doing this?”

6. I miss having them ask me to water my flowers. And then sending them home drenched.

7. I miss coming home from work and having the entire four block area erupt in children screaming my name and running at me as I pulled up to my house.

8. I miss handing out apples and bananas and drinks of water.

9. I (almost) miss the steady stream of “uncles” who came over with the kids to sweet talk, smooth talk, or whatever… I liked the challenge of trying to outwit them and finding buttons to push.

10. I miss the sisters and brothers and their families who came to visit both our neighbors, as well as us. They expected us to show up at the gatherings at their house too and were mad at us when we got too busy.

11. I miss learning how to talk like a sassy black girl from the hood.

12. I loved having little companions for every home improvement project I embarked upon.

13. I liked the strait talking, no pretense, lifestyle and demeanor.

14. I loved the million and one questions the kids asked. Why don’t you make such and such your boyfriend? Why do white people not have babies? Why are you always working? Why do I have to wash my hands? Can you fix my bike? Can you put air in my tires? Can I have a ride in your truck? It’s my birthday. Can I have a birthday present? When are we going to have another party? Can I have a ride up the street to my friend’s house? Can I come into your house? Can I help you clean your house?

you think. I think. they think.

Descartes: I think, therefore I am.
Menno: We think, therefore we are.
me: I think of you, therefore you are.
devious thought: I wonder what would happen to you if I never thought about you? The government should paten this. Oops, did I say that out loud? People with guns are busting through the doors right now. Idiots! They don’t get it! Lock me up and I am. Forget about me and I dissipate.

little things I enjoy immensely about Spring.

1. sitting in a drenching rain, with upturned face
2. playing in the dirt—i.e. gardening
3. walking barefoot through grass
4. not wearing/washing socks for three to four months
5. napping in the sun
6. cutting lettuce and green onion out of my garden and eating it immediately
7. reading outside in a lawn chair
8. wearing less layers (until they turn on the air)
9. happy people everywhere
10. waking up to the sun on my face (instead of to an alarm clock)

looking for Peter

I'm looking for the ever disappearing Peter who has frequented this blog. I now finally have here written a response to the e-mail you sent. Yet I cannot send it to you and I am guessing you might not desire that I post it. Could you resurrect yourself so that I can send it through?

Pocahontas World turned Pollyanna

I was attempting to find some cheap entertainment this past week and in my movie rental process landed on a movie on a famous mythical story that I thought would perhaps provide me with some historical conquest action and inspirational cross-cultural overtones or depressing subjugation. The New World is none of that. It is perhaps the worst movie I have ever seen (the part of it that I did see, before ejecting the disc). It has no plot or semblance of a storyline. All it has is two hours of mystical maiden dancing and staring into Colin Farrell’s haunting, “love-struck”, dreamy eyes, which sacrilegiously reminds one of the white evangelical stereotype of Jesus. I recommend instead to my readers the following Brawnyman ad because it is of the same ilk as this movie and it takes much less time to watch it.
http://www.brawnyman.com/innocentescapes

The things I love about my job.

I am an administrative assistant to professors.

1. My supervisor is a reluctant supervisor. Thus, I determine the how and the wherefores of my daily grind.

2. The faculty I work for are always grateful and think I’m amazing when I know stuff they don’t know or help them with things they have difficulty with such as technology.

3. Professors naturally have distinct, unique and much more free-spirited personalities, making it much more interesting to work with them, giving me the same freedom as well.

4. The strange imbalance between being the student of these professors and then also herding them like kittens is completely uncomfortable and hilarious. I was once placed in a situation where I was the “instructor” at mandatory faculty meeting, presenting a newly created web based organizational tool. Essentially, I was telling them what they needed to do and in what time frame.

5. The biggest perk of my job is that I get handed projects that I have no idea how to accomplish but I get to go figure it out and then complete the task. Once, I had to process all the data and compile the schedule for a big national meeting for a professor who was also the president of the organization which organized its annual meeting. I had a space of about a month in which to learn how to use Access, enter all the data into it and get it to spit out the report which was the schedule for the annual meeting. Today, I got handed a book to edit and put into copy-ready status, for publication. I was telling the professor that I have never really done such a thing. I watched him react in a start but I am guessing he doesn’t have too many alternatives.

It makes me giggle to think that I got this job through reference of a friend who worked here, who knew I couldn’t type worth a darn and my computer savvy was minimal. But I certainly know how to type now.

a dream of a house…and a loose interpretational guide

Why I have come to give credence to dreams.
I used to be too logical to give credence to dreams, yet when my theology of God-the pusher-forward-of-creation changed to God the compeller and caller to his creation from the future, the pusher from the past the inside, outside and all around compulsion to life and vitality—I changed my mind and life. For if God compels us to move in a particular way. If he calls us and all his creation forward into his destiny, even the atoms under our fingernails are going to sense the call. Thus, it is no surprise that even our dreams will compel us to move, speaking to our spirits. Sometimes I’ve detected a multiplicity of relevance and description in dreams and parables. Such as the one below, it seems directly pertinent to a specific church/worship situation. It is also relevant to a movement currently happening with church/worship in our own socio-cultural context. The images simply switch point of application. I would even go so far as to say it applies to a global church/worship reality.

There were two houses on a small hill, connected by a walkway/screened in mud-room. Further down the sloping hill, were numerous adults, who were teenagers, playing with fire and explosive devices. The particular devices they had consisted of a square shaped piece of clay upon which they spit their chewing gum. The combination of clay and chewing gum was explosive and dangerous to those who were handling it. None-the-less the teen-adults were handling the explosives and standing perilously close to the fires that came out from these explosive mechanisms. Older individuals stood back much further from the fires.
Up at the house closest to the fires, the members of the household were de-cluttering and giving away a variety of board-games, which were piled onto their coffee-table. Upon entrance into the house, the narrator became interested in one of those games: the battleship board-game. Upon inspection of a game, she received a message in a phone call from an elderly leader from the other house, indicating that the battle call on the board-game was to put on the armor of God. Ephesians 6:11

house: place of worship
walkway–mud-room: the path of unification between the two houses is dirty and muddy, rendering all those who traversed by means of the walkway, with dirty feet.
dirty feet: soiled interaction/ “walk”
hill: the place of worship
teenage-adults: adults with developmental status of a teenager or adult with childlike qualities
older individuals: people/representatives of structures who are older, more matured, aged
fire: holy spirit, purging fire/damaging fire
square shaped piece of clay: a rendition of the Biblical meaning of potter(God) and clay (us/the church)
The clay piece represents traditional church
gum: the “new” clay
the clay/gum combination: explosive, symbolic of the old and the new mixing, resulting in the Holy Spirit’s work to purge or to destroy
the explosives/teenager combination: warning of peril to those who are not mature and are attempting to handle the fire of God
act of de-cluttering: throwing off excess baggage/old structures
coffee table: the table of meeting/fellowship
coffee table as opposed to a banquet table: indicated the table of fellowship and sustenance is small and limited in it menu/spiritual sustenance
board games: representative of the prepackaged systems of logic and social and spiritual interaction and strategy that “houses” generally use
The instruction to put on the armor: God’s directional call to specify use of a particular “board game” for purposeful strategy, in this situation. Spiritual warfare.

composure

A 26-year-old Iraqi man is brought to the emergency room of a county hospital by a co-worker, since he had been complaining of chest pain while at work. While waiting, the nurse checks his blood pressure and pulse, which are 150/98 mmHg and 110 beats per minute, respectively. She tells the man he should remove his shirt and lie down; he seems a bit nervous but complies. As she places cardiac monitor electrodes on his chest and begins connecting the monitor cables, she notices dime-size scars on his chest. The man breaks into a sweat and begins to tremble. Suddenly, he sits up suddenly and pulls off the electrodes, shouting, “No! No!” He grabs his shirt and runs out of the room. He attemps to compose himself, approaches his co-worker, telling him the doctor asked him to go home and rest. He attempts a calm, quick exit. The nurse and the ER security try to catch up with him to restrain him and reason with him. But reason and restraint aren’t enough.

Sometimes I read about victims of torture and feel like sobbing. The composed world of work and leisure mock the terror that was once poured into their body, soul and spirit. Their stories are not just their stories. They come to me as a parable of my own story. I too have walked into the emergency room under obligation of my employer—my means of survival and daily sustenance. My palms are sweaty. My heart is racing. I warn myself that I will be sent to the doctor for a more severe diagnosis if I don’t manage to fake normal. I wear my calm stoic face as I try to tell my heart to quit racing. I tell myself everything will be fine. My emotions refuse to comply. I search the nurse’s eyes. I hope and pray and plead for an ounce of understanding as she reads the results. Yet she purses her lips moving deftly onto the next procedure. The walls begin to spin. I don’t remember what happened next but it involved me and something I’d rather not talk about. I try to compose myself and approach my co-worker to go home. I can’t lie to her, so I say nothing. My shame increases as I see her skeptical look. The security guard and the nurse try to reason with me. I try to tell them my soul isn’t listening to reason right now. I can tell they don't understand.

longing

He wraps himself in spasticsybron as often as the moon changes. His face of tattered masks cover that which is beneath. His pixed words are twisted and tormented, inviting but terrifying. His spirit speaks as one I long for. Yet his eyes turn yellow. Life pulses in his veins, black and red. His deaths and resurrections are feigned. Oh, Lord, that you would bring forth the lion heart, the cloak of courage, the crown of glory. Lord, why do I wait in vain torment of heart and soul for this one? Why do I long so for this soul? Why does it hold onto the darkness so tenaciously?

site maintenance

Yo peeps!
Would those of you currently engaged in deleting your comments, please stop. I hate cleaning up after the mess it leaves. Additionally, it indicates a lack of being reflective, which means that I'll be inclined not to take your comments as seriously.

And, yes Peter, you are one of the persons this post is directed at. (True to my earlier promise to you, I am now posting something specially for you and indicating that to you so there are no ambiguities. Any other "insinuations" "detected" in previous posts are your imagination.) I have a very active life outside of my internet interactions. Thanks very much.

brothers and sisters in Christ

Blorge and I were i-messing the other day about various types of bonding relationships people can have. I as usual was bemoaning the lack of options mainstream culture offers for intimate and fulfilling types of relationships. Earlier I had mentioned how much I enjoyed C.S. Lewis’ commentary on his relationship with his wife after she died. He referred to her as his mother, his sister, his companion, his friend and mistress. He seemed to suggest strongly, if one could not at some point truly call his wife sister, he would be missing a deeply important aspect of relationship with one’s wife. We were discussing the concept of true brother sister relationships in the church and my own relationship with my brothers, who I had many fist fights with but loved them deeply and still do. Sibling rivalry is to be expected especially if one cares. Indifference would be the worst form of hate.

blorge: The culture says that the most intimate relationship you can have is with your spouse. Other cultures have thought differently (in the Ancient Roman world, it was with your blood brothers and sisters).

me: The culture knows nothing. (but it demands compliance at every turn)

But yeah, maybe I'm spitting into the wind in trying to initiate and maintain brother in Christ relationships

blorge: there's also the question of expectations. What does a brother mean to you? What does it mean to the English?

I wouldn't want to get into a fist-fight with you!

me: Cummon. It would be fun.

And then after it’s over--we would be better friends

blorge: it would be horrible

me: lol

blorge: it would be horrible, and damaging, and scarring, and I don’t think I'd ever see you the same way again.

I'm not kidding.

me: Seeing images of me pummeling blorge...(tears and laughing)... People are staring

blorge: at me?

me: At me, cause I’m laughing so hard (into my computer none-the-less)

blorge: that's great!

me: No, just at the oddity of this conversation

blorge: sometimes laughter is the only thing that makes me feel normal

this conversation may be odd to others, but I don't think it's odd to us

maybe that's a sign of our brotherhood/sisterhood.

me: What a fight would mean/symbolize is that we have overwhelming feelings for each other enough to get bent out of shape about.

blorge: no it would symbolize you taking advantage of me.

me: but then in the end--we are still family--we still own each other.

blorge: it would be violating it would be like some guy hissing at you and then wolf-whisteling

me: No!! you need to accept this as my act of love toward you

blorge: then accept some guy grabbing your *ahem* as his act of love toward you!

me: You don't know what love is if you don't

blorge: neither does he?

...the conversation falls appart in fits of laughter. The message communicates better than I had ever intended.

strawberries...a labor of love

Strawberry Patches are very labor intensive. Once you stake out a plot of land for a strawberry patch and purchase the starter plants, one has to determine where the rows of plants and the walkways for the harvesters should go. The starters are planted in the spring and by late summer to early fall there are at least 3-4 runners coming off of each plant. These must be guided into their rows so they don’t put down their roots into the walkways of the harvesters the next season. If the runners are allowed to put down root wherever they would, the harvesters will damage the plants, which spring up from the runners as well as the fruit from them. If no order is placed upon the patch the entire patch will be so over grown with strawberry plants and berries and weeds, the harvesters will not be able to harvest without trampling on the fruit for not being able to see the fruit hidden under the leaves, which serve as shade from the hot summer sun. Also, in the fall of that same year the farmer must put bedding under and around the plant, to protect the plant from the winter’s cold and to protect the fruit from becoming laden with dirt and mud during the rains throughout the following spring and summer. Now, the straw bedding is incredibly important to the strawberry—so important that the name of the berry was named after the type of bedding used for the plant. No other, fruit has been named after the bedding it takes. The bedding is about as essential as the fruit itself, for without it, there is no fruit, or there is unusable fruit.

However, straw bedding is sort of a catch twenty-two. If in the fall the farmer should happen to bed the patch with straw that happens to be from a weedy grain field, the whole patch will be choked up in weeds the following spring. Yet weedy straw that one buys from the market cannot be distinguished from non-weedy straw. The farmer has to either grow his own grain or treat the straw he purchases to kill the weed-seed before he lays it down as bedding for his strawberry patch. Yet even as great care is taken to keep weeds from choking the strawberry patch, it is very difficult to keep ahead of the weeds. My father was a strawberry farmer and has had numerous fields. Every single one of the fields he gave up on where due to the uncontrollable weed problem, which was complicated by the strawberry runners going everywhere. He couldn’t even keep up with the weeds by putting his wife and 10 children to work in them to root them out.

Once the rows are established and the runners have populated the number of plants sufficiently. It takes either 1 or 2 years after planting the starters to sufficiently populate an organized strawberry patch. During these 1-2 years the farmer does not allow the plants to produce berries. Thus he plucks off the flowers from every plant that blooms so the plant’s energy can be given to establishing a stable and well-rooted plant. The plants will then bear fruit for two to three years. Every year, much care must be given to bed the plants and keep them free of weeds. In my area of Minnesota there are numerous u-pick patches, there are very few patches for commercial use. The reasons u-pick patches are so popular is because (1) the people prefer the quality of the fruit grown and raised locally. Typically, those who buy u-pick berries never purchase them at the supermarket. They harvest during strawberry season and preserve their harvest, for use throughout the coming year. (2) The harvest process is kept manageable by u-pick patches. Since the berries ripen only during the month of June, the farmer would not be able to keep up with the harvesting unless he hired migrant workers. There are no harvesters invented for picking berries. They must all be picked by hand. The fruit is too tender and fragile to invent a machine that would take sufficient care in its handling. (3) The price of the fruit is kept affordable for the local people if they come to pick the berries themselves. (4) The farmer and then more efficiently focus on keeping the patch clean and organized for the people.

concerning plant rotation

Every 2-3 years, 4 years maximum, the farmer must rotate his plants. The best way to do that is to in the late summer when the plants are putting down their runners, rather than directing them in the rows of 3 and four and 1 yr. old plants, they are directed to root down in the patch’s walkways. The aim is to make the walkways into planted rows and then to till under the rows of old plants and make them into walkways. Before one can till under the old plants the new plants must be firmly established and even then the wiry runner lines hang tenaciously to the mother plants. Those runners need to be cut before the old plants are tilled under.

considering the pests that come to drink of the fruit before its time

In the spring of every year the patch must be fumigated just as the plants are about to bloom. There is a particular insect or bug, which enjoys the nectar of the flower. It bites the flower, and in the process stunts the development of the fruit, severely deforming the shape of the mature berry. We called these berries nubbies, separating them from the rest of the berries that were for sale, because they had a large undeveloped spot on them. Because we were frugal, we cleaned and ate the good part of the nubbied berries, but the nubbies were unpleasant to clean because it took extra work to cut out the nub.

concerning the manner in which the berries ripen

Strawberries ripen according to a particular pattern. First, a very large berry ripens. The first berries off of a plant are the cream of the crop. Everyone enjoys them immensely because they are the first-fruit of the season. They are also the largest berry of the season. The next to ripen are two more berries a little larger than half the size of the berry before it. The next berries are four, which are a little larger than half the size of the two previous berries. Finally, if there are any more ripening berries there will be eight, which are a little larger than half the size of the four. Usually, however, the plant terminates its production after the set of four.

warm, sunny, spring days

Nothing is better and more enjoyable than warm sunny spring Sundays. It doesn't matter what else is happening in life, the energy and happiness of everyone out walking and enjoying a warm sunny day after a cold winter is the most calming and liberating feeling in the world.

blog promotion

I grew up in the same community Dorcas Schmucker did. I understand, in context, most everything she writes about. Her blog often gives me a sense of being known via shared memory. And I relax and laugh hysterically sometimes when I read the observations she makes and the ordinary stories she tells. I especially like the Deutsch comments she and her readers banter with back and forth.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/

One very poingnant observation she makes …

"The worst thing about this Amish baggage of mine is that it makes it so hard to discern if this kind of behavior is actually wrong or just embarrassing."

For context—read the following.

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2005_04_24_dorcassmucker_archive.html

interpretation

Sometimes in my writing I like to play with the communication mechanism and medium. This is likely why it is a good thing that my readers usually are not relatives. Often my topics are spin-offs of topics that have entered my sphere through conversations with friends, acquaintances and incidents I run into. I’ve done my best to make this blog a smattering of random thoughts not directed by any one influence. The most well-organized thoughts make the cut. The one’s I find most intriguing make the cut. And then sometimes I try to experiment with medium and method. For instance, my latest parable I entitle love and marriage. The theme is really loose. I leave it up to the reader to determine the moral of the parable. The complete opposite of what I used to do. Although I say it, I am very detached from what it means. I know there is meaning somewhere but I don’t own it or want to find it and nail it in place with strong direct words. The topic itself is a line of thoughts removed from some conversations I’ve had with numerous people recently on marriage and who one should marry. I’m thinking of doing another “parable” where I just describe an object. I'm not sure how it will work but it will be intresting.

This is all a long way from where I used to be, laying things out in black and white, chronologically, rationally everything only having one meaning and one interpretation. I almost die of boredom thinking about how not interesting that was. I was trying to make the artist in me into a scientist. Maybe this new sort of expresion works. Maybe it doesn’t. It’s an experiment.

An aquaintance Dorcus Schmucker touches on the same topic.
http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006/04/misunderstood.html
(I especially like Arlene's comment,
Du aums ding!!!! Ich bin bat en brilla fa dich)

http://dorcassmucker.blogspot.com/2006_03_19_dorcassmucker_archive.html

child wisdom on love and marriage

There is wisdom to be derived from stupid childhood banter I used to hear.

Suzie: (dramatically) I love chocolate chip cookies and I love to eat them with milk! And I love picnics and butterflies and lemonade and ice tea.
Suzie’s bratty kid sister: (in a nasally voice) Well, if you love them why don’t you marry them?

the drama that shapes us

Having managed a household for the past number of years and rented rooms out to numerous people, mostly single women, I’ve had my share of “household disasters.” Sometimes, the issues that have cropped up with the stove, the refrigerator and even the air quality have been dramatized to hilariously spectacular levels and their solutions were just as dramatic. I don’t think this is just a female thing because my brother was also involved in some of the more grandiose solutions usually. Like the time when he was going to build a frame of 2x4s to pin the washer to the floor so it wouldn’t sound like a helicopter all the time. The solution was a matter of simple balance.

Then there was the time when our old fridge was leaking water. I went shopping for a new one. I spent a weekend installing it, because the hole in the wall had to be cut larger for the new one to fit. We swapped everything from the old fridge to the new one and there was still water everywhere. We began to look more closely, and the conversation went sort of like this, “Hey, what’s this plastic water jug doing in the fridge inside a plastic bag?” “Oh, that’s mine. I put it in a plastic bag because the jug had a leak in it.” I laughed my head off and then I wanted to cry. Needless to say, I learned very quickly that one should not assume the problem and its solution are ever identified properly.

Then one time a new roommate was moving in who was allergic to absolutely everything, especially cats. There hadn’t been any cats at the house for 4 years, however, she was reacting to something. “It’s got to be the carpet!” everyone decided. We’ve got to tear out the carpet, hire someone to clean the air ducts and then shut all the windows and run the air conditioner/purifier. I was about to despair at the magnificent costs and work which all of this required and the vacation I would have to give up for it. However, I determined that we should wait a few days, purify the air with portable air purifiers and see if that does the trick. In a few days, it was determined that the allergic girl had the flu.

I look back on all the good times and the crazy times and realize they have formed me. I’ve always had a sense of group interpersonal expression and the need for balance within it. So, when there is “crisis”—when everyone is freaking out and being emotional, I feel internally compelled to keep my cool and be the voice of reason in those moments. And as I say that, I get flashbacks of injuries my siblings have incurred upon themselves. One Saturday morning my younger brother was using the skill saw outside. Suddenly he came screaming, crying and limping into the house. He was trying to hold shut a gaping wound he had just cut deeply into his upper thigh. The look of it sent a chill of terror through my whole body. I allowed myself one grimace before I had to kick into overdrive because I took one look at my mother who was wringing her hands and decided that wasn’t helpful. On the other hand, I do have my drama queen moments but I usually choose those to not overlap with other crises that others are involved in.

I have lived in settings where there was constant crisis all the time. So, I’ve become quite immune to needing to react. When others have crisis demonstrations, where the justifiability of it yet needs to be determined, I decide whether I can spare the energy for an emotional reaction or if calm collectedness or ignoring the perceived crisis is the better option.

For those who don’t know what I’m talking about because you are always giving dramatic performances. Get off my blog! You make me tired….you…you energy vampire!


Clarifier: This entry was written a while ago, when I was weighed down by too much drama in my life. An extrovert would have done okay but I am an INFP and need my quiet time in order to function well. INFPs don’t like conflict either. Yet they will walk through conflict in order to defend principles and causes they believe in. My message here is not that I hate dramatic people. I find them very lovable. One of my closest girlfriends is a drama queen. We’ve been friends and also roommates 3 times. Her Mom is an alcoholic and a drug addict. The drama never quits with her mom. And she is her mother’s daughter and the drama never quits with her either. Yet she calls me her sister. I love her. We’ve had to work it out. It wasn’t always easy but we were honest with each other.

waiting for the resurrection

Yesterday was Easter. I went home to visit my parents. My mom had some organizational tasks for me to complete. I was already in a fowl mood when I got home. It didn’t help that nobody knows where my sister’s last journal went. Nor that my mother always tells me when we talk about the journal that she wishes we would throw it away because of certain things written there-in.

She wrote about the million and one men who were constantly pursuing her. She was beautiful. She had perfect, delicate, facial features and a gentle humble heart. Her personality was much softer than mine but she was feisty and fiery too. She wrote about how it troubled her deeply that old men pursued her and couples would have arguments that somehow rested blamed on her. She wrote about her men problems. The rest of us sisters no longer talk about the men problems.

Lots of things are different now.

My younger sisters didn’t come home. We used to believe that Jesus died, so others could live—now some of us have other constructed variations of that. We don’t read the stories of the martyrs. My sister used to be alive. We, my sister and I, used to talk about what it means to live a passionate faith-filled integritous life. Now her silence speaks from the grave. We put her clothes on the pile for the garage sale or in the throw-away pile. We sat like docile lambs in a new church who’s martyrs wear fatigues, apparently.

I didn’t stay at church to hear more about the new martyrs. I ran, then walked home, in my flowery spring dress and sandals. It was about 8 miles. It was just beginning to rain, then it stopped. The wind was gusty. Two wolf-like dogs came out to chase me and bark at me. I stared them down. A burly bare-chested man appeared at the door of the house to yell at them. Really, the dogs were more afraid. I mourned. I cried. I screamed into the wind.

Easter is about death and resurrection. I’m still waiting for the resurrection. Easter is not over for me yet.

to love

Loving people is the hardest thing in the world. Loving them in the right way is even harder than the hardest thing in the world. Loving them when they are assholes is like dying a million times over.

the face of knowing

In the most recent phase of my journey through this pilgrim land, I have been enamored by symbol in all its epistemological glory. The first class I took in Seminary was Epistemology. We never talked about symbol. And we mostly talked about foundationalism and the virtues of truth derivations from logical categories. My anxt was piqued against the authority everyone seemed to ascribe to all things logical and calculatable. So I wrote a paper on the epistemological value of the mystical. Symbol, parable and, yes, even mystical experience, have drawn me in steadily, ever since. Logical arguments moving precisely from point a to b have their own effect but there is nothing that delivers a smarting slap in the face, as does a well-placed parable or image laden with meaning. Nor can anything leave one in such profound amazement. What is even better is if one can tell a story and it has multiple meanings—the more multiple the meanings, the more genius the parable. This is in large part why I have fallen in love with the scriptures all over again. Before, scripture was God’s operation manual to humankind. Now I read and everything has layers of meaning in some of the most fantastic artistic expression. The prophets took symbol and parable to the nth degree. Many lived their parabolic message. My intrigue and amazement always begins and ends with them because they are actually quite shocking in their presentation. I love it! Take Hosea, who lived a life with an unfaithful wife to exemplify the relationship God had with Israel, who was as unfaithful as Gomar. Ahijah the prophet anoints Jeroboam as the king over ten tribes of Israel by taking off his new coat and tearing it into 12 pieces and giving 10 to him. Christ’s parables were in your face. John’s visions on the Island of Patmos are divine. In my own life, images and visions have transformed entire paradigms for me in an instant. At other times in my life, I have been inexplicably compelled to communicate in symbol. When my sister treated me hatefully, I felt as though dying by knife stabbings would be akin to what was occurring. I thought to give her a knife and demand that she stab me instead. I could probably still send her a knife. When I discovered my so-called boyfriend had a wife and child, I sent him a white rose (her name was Rosalie) and a lollypop along with the things he requested. I don’t think it a coincidence that I was vomiting violently for a day after encountering the truth. Vomiting is symbolic. Gifts are symbolic. Self-mutilation is symbolic. Unfaithfulness is symbolic first, actual later. Viruses are a particular symbol of evil. A totally free gift is an act of altruistic love.

Then! If you look closely enough, a harmonic symphony can be discerned when one looks at the movement of the hand, the gift offered there, the word off the tip of the tongue, the glint in the eye, the patterned step on the path and its rain drenched/sun scorched brick. Dissonance evokes its discordant lurching. Harmony sings its melodious dance.

all secrets have one destiny

florida moments

while waiting at the terminal…

I was drinking a fruit smoothy I brought along: brand name, Naked. I set it down on the coffee table, while we were waiting at our gate. My mom looks at it, turns it around, so the label was facing the wall, not the lobby, saying in Deutsch, we don’t want people to see that.” “Es sagt nackich.” (It says naked). Somehow it is much more schantlich (embarrassing and shocking) to say the word in English than to say its direct translation in German.

while waiting at the terminal…

Mom: What are you doing on your computer?

me: I’m writing.

Mom: For your blob?

me: (…after rolling on the floor, sides heaving with laughter, tears streaming from my eyes, everyone looking at us strangely.) ..., “Mom, it’s not a blob, it’s a blog.

my aunt: So what degree will you have now that you are done with, whatever it is that you have? What letters will you be able to put behind your name?

me: I’ll have a Masters of Arts in Theology. And I don’t know what letters that puts behind my name. I just know that I need to go to school for 4 more years to get my doctorate and then I can put Ph. D. behind my name.

my aunt: Oh, really! Then you should go to school for it, if that’s all it takes to become a doctor. We need a doctor to take care of us once we get old!

me: Well, I wouldn't be able to be that sort of doctor. It would be called something more like a Doctorate in Theology.

my aunt: That's not a real doctor!

The moral of the last two stories: No matter how “educated” or “advanced” one becomes, there will always be people who don’t recognize the “particular specialness” of the categories. And that is a good thing.

what does a professor name his pet?

Augustine.
or
Augie, for short.

Or perhaps the question is, What does a theological professor name his pet dog?

Isn't that just geeky.

formative memories

I remember the voiced worries of my mother when there was only hot milk soup to eat. My father’s cows gave the milk and butter but where were the crackers going to come from. Grandma gave fabric for dresses but often the pieces weren’t quite big enough for me. Mom pieced things together like a puzzle in a decorative design, so no one would know she had run out of fabric. That got us by until the church banned pieced designs on all women’s clothing. The house was cold during the winter, heated only by a solitary wood stove in our living room. If you stood next to the window you could feel the howling wind from a Minnesota winter. My dad stacked straw bales around the house to help insulate us from the cold. One winter some kind soul gave us earmuffs and mittens enough for everyone. I treasured mine, guarded them with my life for years. Loosing things was a careless abuse of the grace through which we received them. I shared a double bed with two other sisters. And later shared the small room with three sisters as they became too big to sleep in their cribs in my parents’ room. My three brothers slept in the third bedroom on a set of bunked beds. I hated everything about the house I grew up in. I was glad to help tear it down. I had not a moment of privacy in that house. Someone was always involved with what I was doing. I tried writing a journal one time. Its pages were found and I never wrote again. I decided to keep my memories and reflections to myself. I developed a coded system to record the events and important happenings.

Sometimes I still feel like I live back then. I pray for the material things I need rather than buy them. I check the price on everything. I only pretend money doesn’t matter when I go out with my friends. I secretly wish we could just make a meal at my house—it tastes better anyway. Sometimes when my roommate is gone I let the thermostat drop to 40. I save things like a packrat. I’m afraid some day I’ll have even less than I do now. I remember the helpless fear that hung over my head during those formative years.

the best mom I ever had

Today is my mom’s birthday. I’m going home with a dozen of roses. And I can’t wait. I’m really excited because I love my mom and I wanna put that happy look on her face. I like seeing the happy look. I know that look. I love that look. It’s the look that only a humble, practical, conservative, always giving housewife displays when you do something outlandish and lavish for her. Pleased. Elated at some level too deep inside to uncover. Embarrassed. Maybe I should sing her a song too. Once, for valentine’s day my sister bought my mom a singing valentine. Roses along with a serenade by an exuberant, expressive African American friend, singing some love song. My mom did only what any other Amish-Mennonite housewife would have done. She blushed 7 different shades of pink.

I love the way my mom is so practical. Everything has a simple solution. And it usually involves hard work and dedication. After all, that’s how she raised 10 kids. I love how she listens to and accepts anyone. Literally, anyone. She even sat on the phone talking to the mentally altered lady who had just swindled her daughter out of $200, until the lady was done talking. She loves her husband even though his “disorganization” gives her nightmares. Her organization puts anyone to shame. Each item in the entire house has its place. My mom is talented. She knows how to be inventive and frugal. She’s busy from dawn till dusk, always doing something, making something, talking about something. She enjoys the simple things in life. She’ll go to bat for her children any day. And she isn’t afraid to take a bat to any one of them either…er, well, maybe not a bat. That would have broken bones. In fact, we had her over the barrel sometimes too. Once my brother was getting punished for something he did and was howling much louder than was necessary, leaving her with the impression that the lesson was learned. She put the stick back into its place and my brother ran off out of sight to laugh his head off about the little trick he had played. She’s sincere. She’s true. She’s so trusting. She trusts me. She believes in me. And I want to protect her from the world that would take her for a ride in a heartbeat. Don’t mess with my momma!

weekends without homework

Last weekend I was at gathering of overly witty intellectuals.

My friend Oleg does these gatherings and always an eclectic crowd shows up. I find myself pulling out my most cultured vocabulary and reaching into the dusty corners of my mind to interact with the plethora of folk that show up. This time my favorite guest was Ari, who told me he has been painting genesis for the past x (significant number) of years. I think he’s got a book out too. He’s also from the southern part of Germany, which makes his low German much more comprehendible, to me.

http://olegvolk.livejournal.com/

But here is a link to the matchmaker’s site. He likes guns or something more than likes. I don’t pay attention to that bit so much being a pacifist and all. Makes me wonder how I ever met him…oh, but that would be the camera bit of him. Whatever it is, he likes shooting it. He has shot me and once it appeared as though he was going to shoot me but as you might find the shot was only a shoot. I'm on his site somewhere--good luck finding me. Oh, and he likes to be matchmaker…friends, new relatives, and yes, marriageables.

forgetting her

You carry her inside
she beckons to me there
I reach out to touch Her
but you are there

I must ask before I touch
words fly through my mind
I pick at them carefully
they form in my throat

the picture I see in your eyes
makes me swallow
the words fall into my stomach
they torment me there

My own picture passes before me
it becomes my nightmare
I chose you for this pain
I should have chosen myself

I want to tell you I’m sorry
I want to take your guilt
I want to take your picture
I want to show you mine

I reach for you
but you step aside
you look at me
but I avert my eyes

you have chosen your pain
I have chosen mine
we forget about Her
and simply remember our pain

I wrote this poem soon after my sister died. I just found it again today. I wrote it about the weird triangulation that happens between the deceased's remaining family and the deceased's friends who are specifically her's.

the day he slept at my feet

He came to my door often, this oversized over-exuberant St. Bernard. The exuberance coursed through his body in every drop of excited blood. Tense tendons trembling. The air around him bounced with eagerness. He stood there with ears lifted, eyes alert, toy in his mouth, as though begging to play. His sheer size overwhelmed my doorway. His eager energy filled my house. Yet only an occasional tremble could be seen in his brow. And an underemphasized wag.

I would invite him in and he would respond immediately, moving quickly with each eager step. I was in constant anticipation of the exuberant leap, which would level me and put us nose to nose, licking and slobbering everywhere. Ugh! I feared the moment. I anticipated it every time. I braced myself for it. Yet it never came.

One day, however, I detected the slightest invitation. The Bernard inclined his head to my hand. I scratched his ears and patted his head. He rolled over and I rubbed his belly. I checked his eyes and he was sound asleep, paws hanging in mid-air. The eagerness and energy abated into a restful calm. Eyes closed. Ears fallen. Toy forgotten.

guilt

Many nowadays do not understand the place of guilt in modern day protestant churches. Confession is rare and not understood by those who bear the name of Christ. Yikes!!! Other less-Christian models of dealing with the human condition of guilt have taken center stage in Christian churches today. Oddly enough, the secular world has barfed out something that looks like a confessional on www.postsecret.com. I’m not surprised. This secular confessional, demonstrated by its popularity, is providing a therapy not otherwise available. Here people embrace their guilt and reveal their secrets.

The problem with psychotherapy today is that it often attempts to alleviate guilt in the human person by justifying it with reason and circumstance. It does not face guilt head on with courage and with faith. It does not know faith. Unfortunately, the culture is such that most church’s “small groups” fall into or are intentionally formed therapy groups after the psychotherapy model not after the Christ model of accepting the unacceptable.

In Paul Tillich’s “The Courage to Be” he talks about the human person’s need to accept acceptance in its relation to human guilt. This is the foundational story of Christian faith. God embraces us. He welcomes us. He brings us into his “household” as adopted daughters and sons even though we are guilty and do not deserve this acceptance. Guilt and condemnation in Tillich’s schema is category of existential anxiety. The other categories consist of fate and death and emptiness and meaninglessness—all of which lead to pathological anxiety and are expressed in the human body as neurosis, if taken to its natural end. In the reformation evidence of the manner in which the anxiety of guilt was addressed is reflected in such phrases as “forgiveness of sins” and “justification through faith”. Our reformer forefathers overcame their anxiety of guilt by owning their guilt and embracing the acceptance, which accepted them in their guilt even as though their guilt was non-existent. This is the Christian’s salvation. This is the Christian’s encounter with God. The person who attempts to convince a person, expressing his/her guilt, that he/she is not guilty is doing his friend a great disservice. While the friend’s guilt anxiety is rationally alleviated, the spirit suspects otherwise and the nagging suspicion of being unacceptable drags on and on and on. Yet the friend is best a friend and becomes a brother if he faces his friend’s anxiety of guilt, staring into its ugly face, declaring it unacceptable, terrible and worthy of the punishment of eternal separation from himself. Yet in this moment of anxiety on the precipice of eternal separation, he makes a movement of grace. He embraces his guilty friend as though he were not guilty, giving him the courage to believe he is accepted despite his unacceptableness, inciting him to walk in the “courage to be” above the anxiety of guilt. He then is transformed by the acceptance, rising above the particular behaviors which feed into his guilt bank.