citizen of a country without borders

flowers in snow

2012-01-31T17:40:00.000-08:00

life brims with the friction of contrast

breathe it in

all ripping and sweet

'way deep down to the very place

where your lungs end

possibilities

2012-01-17T03:08:00.000-08:00

"Seriously, you're going to want to make a lot. We have Mr. Skinny Bottomless Pit over here, plus the other six of us guys."

Oh, well. Leftovers aren't a curse. I fried up the huge chunk of hamburg and started dumping in sauces and spices. The kitchen was crammed with guys beatboxing while they washed plates (because, inexplicably, the dishwasher hadn't been run earlier) and setting out taco fixings. I hadn't expected their help with dinner, but that's what always amazes me about the teens I work with. Once "everybody cool", they are so quick to operate as a cohesive force. Perhaps because they lose so much of their identities in their many transitions to different environments, they morph into a strong group identity. Their alliances are strong and deep, as is their joy in just being together. Dinner was happening, so everybody was there.

Everybody except P. He had been in his room since I arrived on shift, and that had been hours ago. He can be pretty quiet sometimes and I didn't want to be too intrusive, so I didn't press the issue. We yelled for him before we ate, but he didn't show.

All that massive lot of food was consumed in 20 minutes flat, with Mr. Skinny Bottomless Pit doing a very convincing taco-attacking-his-face (with his "fourth-OK-maybe-fifth" taco) and gasping, "Believe me, bro! Don't eat 'em! They're disgusting! You don't want them! It's just they all want ME!" We were loading the dishwasher and washing pans when P. descended and started cooking his own dinner without a word to anyone. The other guys gave him a respectful berth and retreated to the basement to watch the football game.

"You need anything?" I asked when the others had gone. He kept his back turned and replied with a slight shake of his head.

He didn't exchange a word with anyone for hours longer. I was told, "Hey, I think P. punched something. Check out his hand." On a scale of one to ten, whatever he was feeling must have been about a 14, because he's the guy who smiles and says, "Hey, man. It's not solving anything" when his peers glorify their wins over rivals in street fights.

I found him in the kitchen and asked him if he wanted anything for his hand. As I bandaged his split knuckles, he started talking. Frustration tensed his ever-quiet tone. "I'm tired of being here, being in state custody with a judge deciding where I live. I want to go home, but my caseworker is talking about recommending I go home and that scares me. I look back on that life and know home isn't good for me. I know I'll..." He turned his brimmed eyes to the ceiling.

I could bandage his hand. I couldn't say words that could magically produce an easier reality for his 17-year-old self. Intelligence, artistic ability, maturity, and a wonderful personality... he has so much. With a stable group of people to fall back on for applause and support for life, the sky really and truly would be the limit for him. Instead, he faces these wrenching decisions alone, with the fact looming that, no matter which decision he makes, he will have to build his future from the ground up. Alone.

And so I fumbled with words that told him he has what it takes to make good choices for himself. That I've never been anything but impressed with him and know he will be alright someday. "Hey, I don't know if it means anything to you, but I'll pray for you."

He joined the crew in watching football and protested, laughing, when the others wanted to start a movie. "I don't care about the game, I just want to keep making fun of the cheerleaders' crazy hair!" Oh, it was just good to have him back again.

If the past year has taught me anything, it is this: redemption burgeons faster than the realization of our own worst nightmares. It fills to capacity the holes bored by loss and leaps splashing over the tops of the heaps of debris thrown above surface. Nothing is beyond the reach of its cleansing. Nothing can't be remade into such vibrance that it stretches the imagination to entertain the possibility that the unwrecked could have been more beautiful.

God's vivacious mercy so undeniable in my heart and in my family gives me hope.

Hope for the teens I work with.
Hope for the child soldiers in Uganda.
Hope for the mother of a former student of mine who is battling cancer after losing her husband.
Hope for the starving in every country.
Hope for those caught in the unending cycle of crime.
Hope for peace.

Hope in a God Who, now, today, is working toward the final restoration of all that sin and brokenness steals from us all.

Emmanuel.
God with us.
With.
Us.
Redemption is here.

And He calls us to have a hand in the healing He is bringing today.
Here's to the possibilities of this year...
the possibilities of today.

first thoughts for Advent

2011-12-01T11:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes God shows up in the expected places.

In the written Word or through His servants.

Still, He seeps in through the corners of the world.

In a tree by the river into whose bark one whispers secrets.

Into the hungry eyes of a homeless woman holding her contented child.

Into the unmarried womb of a virgin, to take form as the illegitimate Son of Man.

With His presence He sparks mystery in the ordinary, dignity in suffering sacrifice,

and endows dignity and glory to shame.

[this tiny stone starts mental avalanches from my kitchen windowsill when i wash dishes]

at last, another decor/DIY post

2011-11-30T20:34:00.000-08:00

As much as I love the riot of color Fall brings, the profusion of textures... I didn't do much decorating this year. Just a few tiny pumpkins... real pumpkins, of course (why have plastic when you can have the real thing that you can compost instead of sending to the landfill?) scattered through my apartment.

On bookshelves...

...and the thrifted secretary I refurbished last summer that now serves as extra storage in the dining room

...and on the other book case in the living room. Which, in the event you're interested, is also a testament to the fact that thrift stores are sources of good things. A few of you had asked for tips on buying thrifted furniture, so here are my few tips:

Nothing upholstered, unless I plan on re-upholstering it. They do get steam-cleaned, but besides the thought of creepy-crawlies, sometimes it harbors smokey, musty odors.
Wait for the good stuff. If it's not solid wood and it's not sturdy, it's not worth it. The cool thing is that you can often get really solid stuff for only a few dollars, but if it's not what you're looking for... come back another day. :)
Use your imagination. My favorite finds have been pieces I modified and used for other purposed. For instance, the bookcase above was a sort of cabinet with awkward, flimsy sliding doors. All I did was pop them off. :) Oh, and I found an old piano bench that I use for my coffee table. Unexpected pieces add character and interest to a room... and you won't pay tons of money.
Craigslist is your friend. The window on the bookcase I got free. Oh, and this isn't a decor item, but my espresso/latte/coffee maker was also a Craigslist find. New for $30. Happiness.
Get things that you like. Your rooms will reflect your unique personality instead of looking like you bought the whole room pre-made from Sears.

The Mary and Jesus statue I found this summer while antiquing with my older sister, Abby. I've been wanting a Mary statue for a while because she's a hero of mine. I hadn't been able to find one of her with the Child, which is too intrinsic to her story to exempt. So I was more than happy at this find... and thrilled that it was only five dollars. :)

This Celtic cross is almost my favorite, most meaningful possession. I got it in Ireland this summer. The symbol of the cross is pretty huge to me, and all the hand carving on this one... I picked it up and could not put it down.

In other DIY/decor recent stuff, remember the awesome thrift-store lamp I spray-painted this summer?

Well, I was racking my brain for a way to use the same paint to accent the other end table and splash a little more red/orange in the living room. One afternoon, I was doing something completely unrelated when this idea excited me to the point that I ran outside immediately with a glass soda bottle and painted it. My neighbors must sometimes wonder if I've inhaled too many fumes.

Brass and gold accents might be the newest trend in decorating, but I'm not a fan. I liked the detail of the (thrifted!) picture frame, but so far it has escaped a therapy session with Dr. Spray Paint because I haven't decided on a color. Ivory is my go-to color, but I'm afraid there would be too much ivory going on in this arrangement...

I like simplicity. And tiny pumpkins.

Ladies in Waiting, an addendum

2011-11-22T01:45:00.000-08:00

When my friend Julie read "Ladies in Waiting", she told me she didn't like it. "Well, I like what you're saying," she explained, "but it doesn't sound like you in the YOU sense."

Julie and I have been close friends since we were fifteen years old. "Close friends" doesn't begin to capture the adventures of sleeping in a tree house and checking on lambing ewes, afternoons spent drawing and telling stories in preparation for teaching Summer Bible School together, and long walks through the woods, taking deep breaths and just reveling in sheer beauty. "Close friends" doesn't begin to describe what it is to have someone in my life who knows the narrative of my life, either having witnessed it or learning it from long talks. Julie knows me, and when she calls my bluff on something, I listen. Because she's usually right. And she isn't afraid to push me to be the best "me".

So, for over a year, an addendum to "Ladies in Waiting" has been brewing. Simmering and bubbling in the back of my head while God uses life to teach me a lot of things. Here are a few of them, and you might find it helpful to see them through "what I wasn't saying" and "what I was saying" in "Ladies in Waiting".

What I wasn't saying:

I wasn't promoting feminism. While it IS my opinion that the feminist movement sprung from a very real need for change, I don't think it is the change we were all looking for.

My biggest reason for this conclusion is the hard edges that form around my heart when I start to live as though I am self-sufficient. Just because you CAN do (almost) everything for yourself doesn't mean you should. I'm guessing this isn't gender-specific, but I only know the female side... and how I lose some of my softness with people and lose touch of the magic I find daily when I start to think and act as though I am enough for myself. You don't need to be helpless to need help. Helplessness is, of course, the polar opposite of tough self-sufficiency, and neither are healthy or honest ways to live.

It is true that strength does not equal toughness. I'm afraid that I react a little to the whole environment fostered by Christian women's ministries and books. You can get the feeling that, to be a REAL godly woman, you need exude some sort of sweet, golden aura and have only one facet to your personality. That most likely isn't what the authors and speakers are trying to create (she adds, hurriedly). I love decorating my house, and I find that the spaces in which I feel most "me" are the ones that combine unexpected textures. Vintage lace on the rough wooden apple crate I upended for an end table. Dried grass heads in an embossed green-glass jar on my kitchen windowsill. I wonder if beauty in a woman should not be of the same sort, contrasting-but-complementing textures of unexpected softness and grit.

This is something I continually learn. One of "my" teen girls used to have seemingly no appreciation for other people's feelings. Obviously, her own had been trampled to the point where she couldn't see past them, but she would get up in the morning and respond to my "good morning, sunshine!" with "don't start with me!" For the longest time, I faked immunity to her negativity. To some extent, that was necessary.... But yesterday she cussed me out the minute I woke her up. Maybe it was my sore throat and a head that felt uncomfortably inflated, or maybe it was the fact that her and my relationship has come miles and miles, but her words stung. Instead of ignoring it, I just stood and looked at her for a few seconds. I wasn't intending to guilt-trip her, but I'm sure my hurt leaped to my face. "I'm sorry I upset you," I finally said, "but it would be a lot easier for me to hear you if you found a nicer way to say it." An hour later, she sidled up to me. "I'm sorry for flipping out on you." I had to blink rapidly before I replied, because I have never heard her apologize to anyone before. I wonder, would she have thought to apologize if I hadn't let her see that she hurt me? I doubt it. And I think this might be one of the gifts women offer. If we are honest about what hurts us, we bring a softness and awareness to our world. Hopefully it goes without saying that I don't mean we should wallow in our feelings all the time and never let anything roll off. I actually will advocate a "Christian woman" book on this topic: Strong Women; Soft Hearts, by Paula Rinehart.

What I was saying:

Learn. Think. Adventure.

I don't know what that means for you. I don't know the aching and the exuberance that fuels your dreams. But don't be afraid to try things that might not be culturally expected of you. Have courage in following the great adventure God has laid before your feet, in all the twisty, learning paths He lets you choose. I don't know the ways He will chip away and add to the sculpture of your person along the way, but one of my biggest changes has been my confidence. Today, I found a two-year-old list of "things about me". One of the idiosyncrasies I had listed was "I love people once I know them. Until then, they scare me." I laughed aloud because, while I sometimes have to remind myself to initiate conversation with someone I want to get to know, I would never think to describe my current self that way. Forging some new and at-first-daunting territory by myself with my job and school has really changed me. I am much more confident, and I love the change God has made in me.

Maybe it's not so much WHAT we do as HOW we do it. A lot of people view feminism as wrong in putting women "in a man's world". Maybe that's not the problem. Maybe the problem is women thinking we need to act less feminine in order to gain equality. Don't be afraid to be a woman.

I remember a lot about the years I helped my dad in the barn, but the cow I remember most distinctly was #257. Oddly, I never named her. The number became as endearing as any name, I guess. She was a stunning heifer. Tall, long- and deep-bodied, good leg and foot angle, straight top line... even her face was the dairy cow ideal: long and narrow. (Sorry, I'm a geek. My dad is an excellent, self-taught cattle judge. He was always trying to breed the perfect Holstein, and he got pretty close.) We got #257 right before she calved the first time, and she was wild as a deer. For her first milking after she calved, Dad waited until the general confusion of all the other bovines finding their stalls had passed to let her in the barn and gave her the length of the entire milking to adjust to being tied in a stall before we attempted to milk her. When Dad squatted beside her to put on her milker, she shot straight up into the air. Levitated. Kicked with all four feet at once. I've never seen the like before or since. We tried the usual restraints for "kicker cows", but nothing worked. Finally even Dad's patience frayed and broke. So I asked if I could try. He agreed. I went on with milking the last few cows to give #257 time to calm down. When her eyes had resumed their natural place inside her head, I stood across the gutter from her, as far as I could get to her right, out of hoof range. I put my hand lightly on her flank and kept it there while she lunged and kicked. Finally, she was still... except for her hide, which was moving up and down and from side to side all around my hand... the way cows can to shoo flies. Talking to her in a low voice, I waited until her flank stopped shivering. I looked her in her one rolled eye as I slowly slid my hand along her side, stepping into her stall with slow movements. With each progression, I stopped and waited for her to calm if she started to shake or kick. After I worked my hand down under her belly, she let me wash her udder. With extreme care to not let any sharp vacuum sounds escape the milker, I pressed my head into the web of skin between her leg and belly... to make kicking harder, just in case she changed her mind and decided to rearrange my face with her hoof... and put the milker on! I crouched beside her for a while, stroking her belly and telling her how wonderful she was. She never took her eye off me. Dad came to see if I was alive, and he just shook his head and grinned. After that, #257 was the calmest milker we had. She never even got into bad moods and whapped you across the face with her tail when you exited her stall. So maybe I was doing a "man's job". But I did it the way my girl instincts told me to. And it worked.

One of my friends, whom I consider one of my "unbiological brothers", gave me some wise advice. "Don't try to prove anything." So learn and talk about things that interest you. In "Ladies in Waiting", I already talked about why I think this is important. But we need to engage on an intellectual level because we enjoy it, not because we have to prove that girls can think. That is one attitude that is edifying to no one. Really.

My friend also told me not to be afraid to give of myself in traditionally female ways. He agreed that women need to be given a bigger voice in our cultural setting, but he said that maybe the change won't be as threatening to the cultural equilibrium if we females celebrate being female in the expected ways. "Kierkegaard doesn't sit well on an empty stomach," he said. I laughed, but I got his point. So cook meals when you get the chance. Make your living space your definition of "beautiful". Invite as many people as possible to share both. Love on kids. If you're anything like me, these things make your soul leap to life just as much as a theological debate. Celebrate it.

But please don't, as my dad says, "view marriage as the only thing that will bring you satisfaction and piddle around, waiting until a guy rescues you from your boring life". You have many talents. Develop them, and God will use them for His glory. Single or married. I promise.

redemption songs

2011-11-21T21:21:00.000-08:00

Just because some of you watch my blog specifically for updated art (hi, Mindy!), here is "Redemption Songs". That is, a very bad capturing thereof. The photo makes it look warped... and the colors lack a lot of their depth... and we won't mention detail. Oh, well. Feel free to come visit me and see it in person, if your heart desires. As far as specifics go, it is acrylic paint on an 18x24" canvas. As far as history goes, I undertook it for my semester project in Russian Culture. We were supposed to find a person or object to use as a basis for a metaphor of the Russian poet, Alexander Pushkin, and present a visual of our metaphor to the class. Most fun project ever, let me assert.

I chose Bob Marley as a basis for my metaphor because both Marley and Pushkin used art (music and poetry, respectively) as a catalyst for political and social change in their countries. Their art endures today as symbolic of their cultures because it is timeless in its emotional, human appeal. I aspire. Oh, I aspire. :)

I'd explicate further, but the inhibition is also the reason for lack of posts lately. Back to homework I go...

war, peace, and art

2011-11-14T03:12:00.000-08:00

Hunger and war. Both sufferings disturb me. I knew they often walk hand-in-hand, but until recently I didn't realize how closely related they are.

In my World Geography class, we are studying Africa. Her countries' imports, exports, and economic disparities. Africa... Uganda, especially... and her people have been heavy like a rock in the bottom of my heart for the last five years or so. The violence, the starving children, and the unspeakably terrible things the people endure and die from. If I could have one wish, it would be for their healing.

[Amazing photo by my good friend, Barbara Lapp.]

Until now, I hadn't done much study on the reasons the ugliness exists. The horn of Africa is definitely the most afflicted with starvation, but it wasn't always this way. Poor farming methods weigh in, too, but a huge reason for starvation is war. I didn't know this, but Somalia used to produce enough food for her people and have excess to export. Now, her people are among the world's most desperate for food.

"What happened?" my professor asked.

I wished I couldn't guess the answer, but I could. "War."

He nodded. "Every Somali owns a machine gun, but no one owns a plow."

Of all the possible remedies that crowd my head and make me wonder what my part to play in this orchestra, the throbbing beat of this verse is a recurring theme:

"And [God] will judge between many peoples

And render decisions for mighty, distant nations.

Then they will hammer their swords into plowshares

And their spears into pruning hooks;

Nation will not lift up sword against nation,

And never again will they train for war."

-Micah 4:3 NASB

If it grieves us, how much more anguish must it bring our Father to see His children kill each other as their children die of hunger? It's senseless. Senseless! Horrible and terrible. I don't have all the answers, but I know a renewal of thought is desperately needed. And more possible than we might see.

[source]

If I had to choose just one, this sculpture would be my favorite piece of art in the world. It gives me goosebumps and makes my heart thump.

What makes my heart beat even faster is this: God invites us to engage in this vast renewal. He gives us disturbance, a vision, and hands to mold small changes every day. Changes that replace violence with peace.

Maybe someday I'll be able to go to Uganda or Somalia. But today I am here. And so, today, I will work for peace. Here. Now.

still He breathes

2011-10-31T01:41:00.000-07:00

we can be soldiers
in a holy army

or

we can be children
in the house of God

and

we can see enemies
where we should see

that

a threat returned
is no love at all

still

Love lets us choose
and misunderstand

and

speak death in our
religious fervor

but

still He breathes His
words of beckoning

and

hopes we will
discover a today

where

peace wears smiles
and open hands

instead

of

fists and
frowns and
guns

simply complex

2011-10-22T00:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it is good to have hashing sessions with friends.

About what Jesus meant when He told His followers to "make disciples".
And how we are doing that.
And how we are not doing that.
And how are we supposed to know what parts of our culture are worth holding onto in that endeavor.
And how are we supposed to be willing to give up some traditions or patterns of thinking that inhibit us in making disciples?

About what Jesus meant when He said that He, in fact, IS God.
And then proceeded to act very differently than the God everyone expected.
And what that means about the nature of God.
And what that means about the way we view history.
And what that means about the way we see and treat broken people.

Sometimes it is also good to stop all that discussion and complexity and just burst out:

"You know? I'm pretty madly in love with Jesus."

[I am. I really am.]

a winner and a discovery

2011-10-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

... And entry #5 is...

Andrea Esh!

Congratulations, Andrea! If it's OK with you, I'll bring "Little Miss Kenya" along when I'm in your area next weekend and deliver her to your door. :)

Thank you all for participating. I wish I could give you the joy of giving the money TO the family! I am having way too much fun facilitating this! I'll post a total amount donated later... a few dear people contacted me and said they would like to give later.

Fun fact: the http://www.random.org/ site I've always used for giveaways is based at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland! I'm not sure why I never noticed that before, but it made me feel all affectionate toward the site. Because I was THERE! On Trinity's stunning campus. Here is proof:

Trinity's campus is stunning...

I would feel like I could aspire to be the female C.S. Lewis if I studied in these buildings...

Or, at the very least, Jane Austen.

So that was my little happy discovery just now.

Someday I hope to go back to Ireland. You know how all those Irish ballads like "Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore" are all mournful and speak of the land like a long-lost lover or family member? I loved the songs, but thought they were just a bit melodramatic. They aren't. I get it now.

Also, someday, I will post pictures of my idyllic sojourn in Ireland this summer... and of Gideon & Esther's wedding, for those of you who have been so patiently waiting.

last week's happenings

2011-10-16T04:22:00.000-07:00

Some funny things happened last week. At least, I thought they were funny. You might not agree, and I am quite fine with that because people groan at my jokes just as often as they laugh. I'm fine with that, too. Because I think the groaners are almost the best. But, back to the happenings. Here are a few of them:

I met Steve. And Steve died. Steve the rat, that is. This story is not intended to cast my workplace in a bad light, as the maintenance guys do a super job of fixing everything from door hinges to plumbing malfunctions. A rat showing up at work is merely indicative of our northwest-PA locale. Northwest PA has wildlife. Fact. So, there I was, sitting at the staff desk. My girls had a few hours left to sleep when I saw a movement in my peripheral vision. I told myself that I was seeing things because I was tired, but I looked to my left to assure myself this was the case. There sat an upright high-top Converse shoe, and another lying on its side. One of the girls must have forgotten to put them away. So that must be what I had seen, and I imagined they had moved. So I thought. No sooner had I looked back at my work on the desk, than something moved again. Roughly three inches from my left foot. It was about the size of my foot. Plus a tail. (The maintenance guy said later, "Oh, so it was just a baby! Maybe about six weeks old." Funny. Very funny.) I don't scream. Very easily, that is. Alright, I screamed. And shot back in the rolling chair and to my feet before I thought. Mercifully, that chair is on wheels because the results could have been dire otherwise. In psychology class I learned that reflexes originate in the spinal cord because you might die in the milliseconds it takes for neurons to transfer signals to the brain. I guess my body thought I was about to die, because I am positive that signal never reached cognition. Poor Steve shot away across the room so fast that I heard his toenails catching the carpet. I sat down very quietly, hoping he would venture out again because I had never seen a rat before. He must have been quite emotionally scarred, because it was a good hour before I heard rustling and crackling sounds under the baseboard heater across the room. I turned inaudibly and could see his little feet sticking down to the floor behind the heater guard. Soon he stuck his head out and popped out. Rats must have jointed ribs or other mobile parts that biologists have overlooked, because they can flatten themselves so much that pancakes would be jealous if they could. He was so big that the heater guard flattened his ears when he poked his head out, which he did slowly enough that his perfectly round ears boinged up together and silhouetted themselves against the white heater. (I admit that I moved just enough to make him pull his head back in the first time so that I could watch his round ears boing up again.) Then he ran around for a little while I watched him, rather entranced. I think I might like a rat for a pet, but rats should not be permitted to run about living rooms whenever they please. Then I had a crazy thought: what would happen if I had my dad's 2/70 and shot the rat from across the room (a 2/70 is a deer rifle, if that gives you any clue about the absurd things I think and find hilarity to increase with absurdity)? Would there be any wall left? Would I be fired? (Bad pun. Groan here, if you please.) [Epilogue: I did not kill Steve. The maintenance guys did. I also didn't find out that his name was Steve until after it was too late to greet him politely by name. Two days later, my co-worker asked me, "So, have you seen Steve lately?"]
My geography professor in formed us that Brazil dumps excess coffee into the ocean to stabilize the global coffee prices, not to keep the fish awake.
The co-worker that named Steve (the rat) looks exactly like The Edge did twenty-five years ago. I asked him if he's ever heard that he looks like The Edge, and he replied, "What kind of name is that?" Of course, I felt obligated to educate him and he said that the only reason he would get an education is so that he can be called "doctor". "Or captain," he said. "Actually, I think I want to be called 'captain' more than I want to be called 'doctor'." Captain? As in a boat captain? "Yeah," he said, "the only problem is that I get seasick. So I'll be far inland and my crew will call me and say, 'Captain? Where are we supposed to go?' And I will say, 'I have no clue where you are. But can you call me 'Captain' again?'"
Bekah called me and said, "Hannah and I are bored. May we make an apple crisp and bring it to you?" If you need an example of a rhetorical question, please reread the previous sentence. See, last year, Bekah, Amanda, and I all lived together. And, as the weather got colder and the leaves ignited with color, we all started making our favorite fall foods with regularity. Manda made the most bestest caramel corn ever, I made lentils in every form imaginable (and convinced the unnamed skeptics among us that lentils taste as good as they are healthy... I felt so accomplished), and Bekah made killer apple crisps. So Bekah had the phenomenal, wonderful idea that she should continue tradition and make an apple crisp for me this year. I was so excited that I cleaned my house in an hour. And lit pumpkin spice and vanilla candles, listened to music, and felt all festive. Then Bekah called me and said that she had another idea, as the hour was getting a little late for school teachers like her and she has an hour drive to my house. What if we met roughly halfway, in Conneaut Lake? Awesome and random. So we met in the parking lot down by the lights over the docks and the dark water and I jumped into their car armed with a spoon. Apple crisp was consumed and terrible jokes were told and we only stopped laughing to talk and take bites. Well, I took bites. Bekah and Hannah decided en route that they weren't hungry. That anti-climax only added to the randomness of the venture, and some anti-climaxes are quite delicious for some of us.
One of my girls was still awake when I arrived at work. She was understandably upset because her home visit had been cancelled at the last minute. We talked for about forty minutes and finally were able to laugh in spite of it all. "Life, huh?" I said wryly. She replied, "It's like a freeway." When I managed to stop laughing (the type of laughter that comes after a rather honest, emotional, and "wish-I-could-freeze-the-moment" type of talk), I asked her how in the world life is like a freeway. Her reply? "Everyone is flying along, all together, but in their own cars. And some people are really bad drivers and you have to keep swerving to avoid getting hit by them and you end up on the rumble strips for a little. But you have to keep focused on where you want to be and how to get there." Amazing. She's 15. And that funny and wise.

about fear, courage, and love

2011-10-14T05:32:00.000-07:00

I must have been about 17, and I was milking cows. The bull had followed the cows into the holding area, and for some reason a group of cows thought it was much cooler to hang out with the bull in the back of the holding area than come into the barn.

Dad was doing the feeding, so it would have only made sense for me to go out and herd the cows in. But it was much easier to casually yell for Dad than step inside a concrete-and-metal enclosure with about 2,000 pounds of brute force.

Instead of doing the scary job for me, Dad handed me the manure scraper. Basically a metal blade on a wooden handle, like a hoe, only flat. "Show him the scraper and let him know you're boss. And remember that, if he would charge you, you have the strength to stop him. You plunge the end of the scraper into his nose, and he will stop long enough for you to get away. So don't be afraid. If you're afraid, he will know it."

Somehow, I made my barn boots walk into the pen. The wooden handle of the scraper felt comforting to my hands. I used it every day. I knew its weight. Its length. Its balance. I tried to believe that I could stop the bull if I needed to. But my legs were trembly inside my boots and my voice was a little warbly when I called to the cows, hoping I wouldn't have to get too close to the bull before the cows got the message.

They didn't. And the bull turned his head and regarded me with one unblinking, baleful, bloodshot eye. Almost imperceptibly, his head dropped lower and lower until his chin neared the concrete. His front hooves made tiny scraping sounds.

And I found myself slipping back through the metal bars, the scraper trailing me.

Dad vaulted into the holding area with an amused, "this-is-how-it's-done" grin on his face. He hit the concrete running at top speed toward the bull, waving his empty hands above his head and emitting his signature wildcat scream.

The bull's head snapped up and this time it was his back feet making scuffling sounds as he backed himself into the corner. Knowing the time had come and the time was now, the cows disbanded and headed obediently for the milking area.

That's one of the many things I learned from my dad: don't run away from things because you are afraid.

Now my dad is facing things much scarier than Holstein bulls, and I see him doing it with a different kind of courage. This courage admits qualms. Asks for advice. It mourns. And yet still it runs into unfamiliar territory, propelled by love.

This new kind of courage inspires me even more than the impressive bull-intimidating stuff. Because it is a result of looking your worst fears in the face and not running away for this reason:

"I am convinced that neither death,

nor life,

nor angels,

nor principalities,

nor things present,

nor things to come,

nor powers,

nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing,

will be able to separate us from the love of God,

which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

[Romans 8:38]

If the worst thing you can imagine happens to you, and even in that, you can go to God and find your core unshaken because you are secure in His love for you... really, what is left to fear? I see this kind of courage in my dad. The solidness that comes from finding the very core-est core of your identity to be safe in God's love for you... and simply accepting God's acceptance of you.

When big, scary stuff happens (with the exception of rabid animals and glaring bulls), I tend to be very matter-of-fact. If you can't change what is happening, look at your options. Figure it out. Everything's going to be fine. Your heart can stretch to absorb this and keep on trucking. I feel genuinely calm and a little dauntless.

For a day. Or a month. And then I feel all fluttery inside. Tumultuous and a little bit insecure and panicky. And it doesn't make sense to me because I thought I was fine, you know? I thought I could take this on. Yesterday, I was feeling like that. And I was trying to just power through and it wasn't working too well.

I must admit that it was mid-afternoon until I thought, "Maybe I should talk to God about this."

There is a prayer by Richard J. Foster that I sometimes pray when I don't know what else to say:

"Abba Father
Abba Father
Abba Father
Abba, my Abba!"

And, after calling on Him and throwing the entire weight of myself into His hands, I knew what I needed... to center myself in His love. Security, calm, and courage replaced my muddle.

I am beloved.

My Abba's cherished possession.

And nothing can separate me from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus. My Lord.

That gives me the courage to face things... and not run away.

a fundraiser art giveaway!

2011-10-04T18:41:00.000-07:00

When tragedy strikes, more than emotions are stretched to the breaking point. The dollar cost of recovery can push previously financially stable families to the brink of need. That's exactly what is happening to a family I know well. To protect their dignity and privacy, I can't tell you any more details... But I want to do something to help.

So, I have an idea.

Do you want a chance to win an original piece of my artwork?

"Little Miss Kenya"

Original, done with brown marker on white paper, matted, framed, and hung with a wire gallery hanger.

Little Miss Kenya came to life on paper as I was thinking about the many children in our world who know suffering. During wars and natural disasters, it is the children who suffer most. Homelessness and parental neglect forces children to fend for themselves and care for others when they should be being nurtured and protected.

Yet children are incredibly resilient. Just a few days ago, I met a girl whom I used to teach in Kid's Club. I remember crying over her, asking my friends to help me pray for her, and yet feeling so much despair because her situation seemed hopeless. Now, three years later, her home situation seems to be the same. And yet she makes bright eye contact, has a curly head of thick hair when before she was almost bald because she tore her hair out, and was poised and polite in public, when before she literally hissed and growled more than she talked. Also, just recently, I got a phone call from one of my girls from work who has been discharged. She doesn't have much of a support system, and yet she's doing well in school and making plans for college.

In children lives some of the deepest tragedy and the most dauntless hope. "Little Miss Kenya" is a celebration of that hope... and a reminder that a child is utterly priceless. A riveting miracle.

Do you want a shot at owning "Little Miss Kenya"? Do you want to help a family in need?

If so, do these three things:

1) Comment on this post, making sure to include your name.

2) Email me at becisms@gmail.com. I will reply with my address.

3) Send me a check for whatever amount you want to contribute.

I will give your gift to the family and will enter your name into a drawing for "Little Miss Kenya". On Wednesday, Oct. 19, I will randomly choose a winner from those of you whose donation I receive on or before Oct. 19. And yes, I will mail it internationally if someone from... say, Germany, Ireland, Poland, Kenya, or Australia wins. ;) Wow, I know people in some pretty incredible places!

Spread the word! Every time you share this post, whether on Facebook, Twitter, your blog, etc., please comment on this post again to increase your chances. :)

Thank you all for making this little endeavor a success. Stay tuned for a winner and a total amount of money raised on October 19!

r is for...

2011-10-03T01:08:00.000-07:00

When I was about five years old, the younger brother of one of my little buddies was attacked by a rabid fox. The rest of the children on the playground went screaming like sirens up to the top of the sliding board, and his very pregnant mother outran all the men who ran to pull the biting fox off his poor face. She did this with her bare hands and I guess the fox saw, through his delusional fog, the maternal rage in her eyes. Because he took flight into the woods and took up residence in my very vivid imagination.

For years, I scrutinized my pets' behavior and checked their eyes for glazed expressions. When my cat "Milky", named for his affinity for the substance... forget about my vivid imagination... attacked our new Cocker Spaniel, I was terrified Milky was rabid and about to go stark raving mad. Milky was actually suffering from a condition commonly known as jealousy. Tragically, he never recovered. He must have decided that he could tolerate wearing doll bonnets, but that to share the affections of the Yoder family with a darling, perpetually smiling dog was beyond his capacity. He left without ceremony. I was heartbroken, but at least he didn't have rabies.

I hadn't consciously thought about these memories until two weeks ago.

I'd parked my car beside the sidewalk in front of my house and was standing on the porch, unlocking the front door. Across the street, my neighbor was sitting on her porch. This scenario happens several times a day on our street. With several variations. Today I was not standing in the middle of the street and talking to my neighbor before going inside. I was on my porch because she was talking on the phone. It's crazy, how the "what if's" of a close call stand out in retrospect.

As I turned the key in the lock, two very animate objects hurtled around the corner of my porch. The neighborhood feral tomcat, chased by... a coon?

My brain started flashing info in freeze frames. Click. Click. Click.

A coon.

In broad daylight.

In town.

Chasing a cat.

Dee started screaming into the unsuspecting ear on the other end of her phone conversation, "THERE'S THAT RABID COON! I TOOOOLD THAT *@&%# GAME COMMISSIONER I SAW ONE!"

The frenzied tomcat dove underneath my car, fangs bared. I tell you, that cat has fangs. And very expressive eyes. If utterlyterrified would be found in a dictionary, it would be beside a picture on Mr. Tomcat trying to keep a tire between himself and the coon. The coon, relentless as a windup toy that never needs rewound, nipped him. Mr. Tomcat catapulted from under my car, and off they hurtled through the backyards across the street.

While Dee called the Game Commissioner to yell and cuss, I locked my door against a wave of phobic panic. I did not know I had a phobia.

"Phobia," I said to the antique blue coffee pot on the doily in the center of my dining room table. I said it with the same vocal inflections as my Psych professor had used only two days before. "A phobia in an UNREASONABLE fear, sometimes based on a legitimate concern. Usually formed sometime in childhood (Oh, right. The rabid fox.) and might lie dormant for years."

I know what this is. It's a phobia. I know what caused it. So therefore I can be all logical about leaving for work after dark. Right?

Yeah, that didn't work so beautifully.

I confess that I ran the few feet from porch to car while seeing phantom coons zooming toward me in my peripheral vision, unlocked the car door and leaped into the driver's seat, muttering "please-God-please-don't-let-a-coon-be-under-the-car-waiting-to-bite-my-legs", slammed the door, hit the lock... then sat unblinking, holding my breath to stifle the rising panic that a coon had unlocked my car, gotten inside, locked the doors again, and was lurking in the back seat, biding his time to dive bomb my head the moment I relaxed.

Pretty sure I have a phobia. Also pretty sure phobias aren't afraid of logic.

So I called Julie later that day, and she screamed with laughter at me. That helped. Really, it did.

For the record, that coon met his end several blocks away. He was chasing animals and kids were screaming into their houses, and the police were called. This brings us to the moral of this story. If you live too far away for your dad to come to the rescue with... say, a 2/70... and you live within city limits, where such methods of animal control will get you canned, do not call the game commission. They will promise to come the following day and set a box trap. Call the police. They will arrive in minutes and euthanize the crazy creature.

Also for the record, the game commissioner did set a trap. In my back yard. The following morning, another very ill coon was in the trap. I really hope this is the end of the saga and I'm trying tell myself that there probably isn't an entire army of rabid coons in my back yard. I'm also trying to tell myself that the feral cats who were seen being bitten by the coons will go off somewhere and die quietly.

Because I like animals, really. Love them. Until they contract the R-word.

the adventure begins

2011-09-30T05:03:00.000-07:00

Raising the lid of the trunk that contains my sweaters, sweatshirts, and scarves, I first felt delight. Cold weather means layering colors and textures and more creativity with clothes.

Rummaging around, delight faded a little and I started thinking things like this: "I wore these last year, and some the three years before that. They still look new, but I am tired of them."

Tired of them? Why? And thus began a week of the question rattling around my brain until it settled into a deep introspection.

Why do I want new things? New things make me feel more confident, I suppose. Well, that's rather nauseating, when I admit it to myself. I look to mere fibers for proof that I am capable of living my life well... when my me-ness wasn't made by me and therefore I'm not even responsible for the entirety of my existence? Well, that just grosses me out.

Especially when I think of many people who are lucky to have two sets of clothes. I say I care about poverty, slave labor in the clothing industry, and living a sustainable and eco-friendly lifestyle. I do care about those things. Hugely. But I'm an artist. How things look is a big deal to me. So I justify having a whole trunk full of sweaters because I got them on sale or at thrift stores.

Please understand that I do believe that God wants us to enjoy life and His good gifts. Wearing pretty clothes reminds me that God created beauty and loves it even more than I do. But I know that I can use this truth as an excuse to indulge myself.

I feel God calling me to a beauty in dress that is content. Aware of need and injustice. And knows beyond cognition that He is the source of my identity and confidence.

So, for the next six months, I'm not going to buy any clothes. The adventure begins. Anyone want to join me?

the spice of life

2011-09-27T02:00:00.000-07:00

To balance my school and work schedule, I've been working a few days a week at the off-campus boy's group home. This means that I am only on my usual unit three or so days a week. I miss my girls, but suffice it to say that four boys instead of eleven girls is a huge drop in stress level.

I love the challenge of building relationships with my girls, but both the highs and lows are pretty intense... and they switch with unpredictable frequency. I think guys in general are just more chill than girls.

Yesterday morning, two of them were watching "Hillbilly Handfishin'" while waiting for the bus. T. said to P., "Dude. We should do that." And P. replied, "I can't be a hillbilly. I'm Asian." They gave about two grunts of laughter.

After they left, I laughed and laughed. Yep, I'm a girl.

When a new girl arrives, it takes days or weeks of talking to her, trying to draw her out and showing her I care before she's cool with me. With guys, I don't feel that pressure. I'm just here and not much talk happens between "time to get up, you guys!" and "have a good day at school!" But they must be starting to feel more comfortable with me because P., who was awake when I arrived, came downstairs to show me the drawing he had just finished. I was so honored, and he really has talent. I love meeting other artists and believe there is incredible power in teens, especially urban teens who don't have much familial support, expressing themselves through art.

I hope I didn't fuss over it too much. Ha. Yeah, I'm a girl.

And I love being a girl. I'd miss feeling maternal and feminine.

But I'm glad I can be maternal and feminine and still like watching football, still be invigorated by a good theological or political debate, and miss going hunting and doing farm work with my dad.

I'm glad God likes variety. So do I.

Learning Russian letters

2011-09-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

My Russian Culture prof is...

well...

words rather fail me...

but the closest matches would be

unpredictable,

imaginative,

and

outrageously funny.

Today we were starting to learn the Russian alphabet. He warned us that we will need to spend a lot of time rehearsing the sounds and symbols on our own because they will be on the test. "You will spend many hours," he said. ""Not like 22 hours, because that would kill you. But very many."

After shouting the sounds back at him while he wrote the letters on the board for half an hour (and yes, shouting because he won't accept anything less), he squinted his eyes all up into crinkly slits. Looking at each of us carefully, he consoled us, "Learning letters can make you crazy, but there are medications for that."

It was even funnier in his Polish accent.

goodbye, summer...

2011-09-19T15:53:00.000-07:00

goodbye, flowers. both inside

... and outside.

goodbye local fruit...

... and long breakfasts on the porch.

goodbye, idyllic afternoons spent lying on the ground with nothing to do but...

... watch clouds charge by like horses in slow motion through the blue sky behind green leaves.

goodbye, sandy toes and weekly trips to Presque Isle.

goodbye, sweet summer

and oh,

welcome, fall!

Rainy Evening

2011-09-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

Living on a cobbled street is always charming.

On rainy evenings, it's mystical and romantic.

something good

2011-09-10T05:16:00.000-07:00

I should be working ahead on Algebra homework because I have a Psych exam on Thursday and I really and truly don't want to have to worry about my least favorite class while I study. Notice that I didn't use words like "hideous" and "malevolent" to describe Algebra. This is proof that my extremely right-brained mind is learning how to think in stringent procedures again... after not doing much math for seven years. Thank God. But instead of solving equations, I am reading blogs and starting to process all that has happened in the past two weeks.

For the sake of privacy I will not say much here, but I think it's ok to admit that our families are broken. Maybe this is just in "plain", Mennonite circles, but the term "broken home" is often used to describe families whose parents are separated. I am choosing to not feel shame. I believe that every family is broken, just like every person is broken. Some types of "broken" are more visible than others. Even healthy, loving individuals and families can hurt each other and take each other for granted. This is something my closest friends have told me repeatedly since my mom left, and I feel it to be true.

When brokenness shows itself in nightmarish proportions, everything about life can feel wrong. It can be hard to imagine this, but

{made by me, so copy and paste if you like without fear of the copyright police}

Whether today's brokenness is job frustration, misunderstandings between people, sickness of someone you love, or grief over losing someone, all of us have our dark places. But please know this with certainty:

Something good is going to happen.

Every day.

Something good.

Something that proves that the world isn't completely hideous and that your life hasn't run into a gray cul-de-sac with the exit blocked by a toppled building. The world is hideous, but it is also beautiful. Look for the orange poppies under the tree on the east side of your cul-de-sac. They are there, and you will find them if you have eyes to see.

How do I know?

Because I know God to be a nurturing god of healing and redemption. Every time I get trapped in gray cul-de-sacs, I see Him working. Preserving. Healing. Making GOOD out of broken. He is the source of GOOD and WHOLE, and He is always here. I see him in my dad's care of his girls, my sisters' and my closer bond, the misty sunrises every morning, and (tonight!) a free concert of Chopin and Schubert's masterpieces.

Because something good is always going to happen, I can feel blows that break me and still say

I will extol the LORD at all times;
his praise will always be on my lips.

I will glory in the LORD;
let the afflicted hear and rejoice.

Glorify the LORD with me;
let us exalt his name together.

I sought the LORD, and he answered me;
he delivered me from all my fears.

Those who look to him are radiant;
their faces are never covered with shame.

This poor man called, and the LORD heard him;
he saved him out of all his troubles.

The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him,
and he delivers them.

Taste and see that the LORD is good;
blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.

Fear the LORD, you his holy people,
for those who fear him lack nothing.

The lions may grow weak and hungry,
but those who seek the LORD lack no good thing.

Psalm 34:1-10

on & on

2011-09-05T05:48:00.000-07:00

Driving 11 hours in one day is crazy, especially when you get caught in a doozy of a storm on the way back. But I hunched over the steering wheel with poor Ebony's wipers on full speed and kept plunging along at 35 MPH while other cars stopped underneath overpasses to escape the liquid blizzard. Ebony's headlights were walled in only a few feet ahead, and Ebony and I crept along through the deluge, completely unrepentant of our insanity. I got to spend 5 hours with my dad and ALL my sisters. It was so worth the crazy hours. I really can't describe the way my heart shifts toward them, so all I will say is that blood runs thicker than anything else and that family pain and trauma only deepen real love.

Plus, the water battle was epic. After a free-for-all, we played "drip, drip, drench", a very wet version of "duck, duck, goose". Mad fun. A few people (coughKelsey) (coughCandace) thought we were playing "drench, drench, drown", but no casualties were reported.

I was feeling rather morose at leaving them and plugging along in a submarine across the state to go to work. The submarine wasn't even yellow. And there definitely was no sky of blue or sea of green. But I arrived at work.

My moroseness was shortlived because three of my girls were still awake. We joked around for a little, then I told them "goodnight" and started working at the desk. After a while, M. called me over. "You OK, Becky? Cuz you look like you been crying or something." Is it possible that this is the same girl who once yelled "f*** you, Becky!" at me several times in rapid succession after a serious battle of the wills (over a tiny little rule)?

"Yeah, I'm OK," I said. But I sat down and we talked about how much our parents' decisions can hurt us sometimes and yet how it is possible to keep your head above water and walk upstream, hanging tightly to your own choices.

"Becky, I look up to you. Like, for REAL, for real. You're just a really nice person and I want to be like you." And M. told me that she knows I truly care about her and that's why she has no trouble anymore with doing what I ask of her.

I think I gaped like a freshwater bass a lot during that conversation. I think of my job in terms of how I can give to THEM. But oh, they made my night a lot better tonight. Completely and totally warmed me down to the tips of my green shoes (from Ireland, I might mention. They are quite fairyesque and I sorta like them a lot.).

Then M. said, "I will pray for you!" And A. and C. said, "I will, too!"

After a pause, M. said quietly, "I need you to pray for me, too." She told the three of us things she wants to change and that she knows she needs God's help to accomplish.

So I told them how much I love them and how awesome they are, then I asked if they wanted to pray together before they went to sleep. I'm always hesitant to ask, or even talk overtly about God. Maybe I shouldn't be. But I get so tired of the "cram God down people's throats" thing. It makes me cringe when I see God presented like cod liver oil. I try to focus on loving like Jesus and living like Him. He knows I sure don't do it perfectly, but usually He is merciful enough to give me moments to talk about how much HE loves all of us.

But they jumped out of bed and said, "Yes! We was going to aks." So we prayed together. Just sat at the feet of a Father Who loves His beautiful, broken children. Then they ran to me and hugged me goodnight. Suffice it to say that hugs from teens mean a lot.

Life is hard. Life is good. And, after I get some sleep, I will be ready to take another step.

"On and on and on we pray
That we can break into a brighter day
Nothing worth anything
Ever goes down easy

On and on and on we go
I don't understand this winding road
Nothing worth anything
Ever goes down easy

Goes down easy"
-Mat Kearney

A Prayer for Humility

2011-08-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

Lord,

For my focus on myself,
Give me a clear vision of You.

Grant me deep, true love for others
Instead of using others to make myself feel loved.

As I give You my plans, abilities, and aspirations,
Refine them and direct my passions with Yours.

And when I begin to excuse my selfishness,
Be merciful and bring me to repentance

That I may cast away my sin with distaste
And live again in the radiant light of Your Presence.

Amen.

a fun reminder

2011-08-27T05:25:00.000-07:00

I was walking down the sidewalk, my head in overdrive with things to be accomplished within the next few hours and days. I hate when I get like that. All tense and only semi-conscious to the world around me.

"Hey!"

I looked to see who had yelled, and a middle-aged African American guy waved from across the street.

"Yo sure are pretty!" His smile took up half his face, and he kept bobbing his head respectfully.

I waved my thanks and walked on, smiling and relaxed.

And I remembered the words God had dropped into my thoughts earlier: "in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15).

Beauty. Quietness. Confidence. Strength.

They're linked, somehow.

Linked, and the result of finding deep rest in God.

Trusting that He sees.

He knows.

And He is capable.

wishes and dreams

2011-08-20T05:01:00.000-07:00

This is one of those weeks in which I walk around with my mouth in a comical twist, caught halfway between laughter and tears. I've always said that I could never be a foster mom; I was sure I couldn't survive the constant loving and letting go, especially when the letting go means sending them into an environment you wouldn't choose for them.

Pretty sure God looked ahead to what I'm doing now and chuckled quietly. Anyone who works in human services, especially in a residential setting, is subjected to high volumes of love and loss, pride in "their" kids' accomplishments, and sickening fear while watching them make really hurtful choices. Saying possibly permanent good-byes to (I'm guessing here) 90 teens in a year takes an emotional toll. Because of confidentiality laws, I am not allowed to contact my girls once they leave, not for three years or until they turn 18. They are allowed to contact me through the agency, which happens infrequently. When it does happen, sometimes it's at 3:00 AM and they are out on the street, partying, and you can hear the hunger for stability and love in their voices. And I wish they would still be here, where I could make sure they are safe from the person who is following them and freaking them out. I could share my crackers and cheese with them when they wake from bad dreams and send them back to bed with a hug and an extra blanket to keep them warm.

Not long ago, several of my girls watched a scary movie right before they went to bed. Bad idea. This has resulted in some severe insomnia and sleeping in the living room before. These girls have lived through shootings and seen some pretty crazy spiritual activity; I have no idea why they watch things that will trigger their own worst fears. Especially before they go to bed. But I did find out later that, while they were watching the movie, M. said, "Maybe we shouldn't watch this at night." And J. replied, "It's OK. Becky works tonight. She can come in here and rebuke the devil." When K. told me, I laughed (I could just HEAR her say, "and reBUKE da DEBbil"), felt extremely honored, and remembered the time I prayed with two of them and invited the Presence of God into their fear and into their room, asking Him to help them feel safe enough to sleep. Immediately, they had.

This time, three of them lay on their mattresses just inside their doorways so they could see each other and talk quietly. With their lights on. Until 4 AM. Because it was a weekend, the time thing was no biggie to me. I asked them if they wanted me to pray with them, and J. said, "When we was all trying to go to bed, I said a prayer and we all said 'amen'. So I think we're good." Oh, mercy. They make me laugh so hard sometimes. Finally, all but J. fell asleep. She literally raised herself, has fought on the streets since she was 9, and is tougher than I will ever be, but she asked me to check her room every 5 minutes to make sure she was still alright. An hour later, she had fallen into a light sleep. When I stuck my head quietly through her open doorway, she bolted straight up in bed, her irises dwarfed by the whites of her eyes. She saw it was only me, and slumped with relief, panting.

"You poor girl!" was all I could say past the rushing of warmth that pressed on my heart. I sat on the edge of her bed, put one arm around her, and said, "God, J. is scared. Please help her to feel safe. Help her to feel how much You love her. Protect her. Thank You for her." The rigidity left her body, and she leaned against me. I held her tight and swallowed hard because she is not very affectionate and not at all demonstrative. The moment was sacred. She lay down, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and I tucked it in around her shoulders. "Sweet dreams," I whispered, then ran out to the staff desk and rummaged blindly for the Kleenex box through the tears of the blinding realization that this, in all probability, might be the first time she had ever been tucked in. I wished I could make up for the years of putting herself to bed, never getting what comes naturally to me because I received it; a little rough-housing while getting ready for bed, reading a story all snuggled in a rocking chair, saying prayers, then being tucked into bed with a goodnight kiss. Peace. Safety.

Five minutes later, she was breathing deeply. Fast asleep, with a little smile on her relaxed face. I probably could have turned the light off without her noticing, but I left it on because she had asked. I wished I could freeze that moment. Keep her safe. Keep HER. Forever.

I can't.

Within the past week, four of my girls were discharged. Three of them within 24 hours. All four are close enough to me to feel like family. One of them has been here for the length of my employment, over a year. That's rare. I tell them I am proud of them. They have changed so much, worked so hard to learn to control their behaviors so the judge will deem them stable enough for discharge. And they are. But only two of the four are returning to stable environments. One is going to another group home, to yet another group of people who won't even know her after another year has passed. One is 18, no longer in state custody, and ready to try to live on her own. I wonder who will be there for them when they are afraid. I know how easily they could end back up on the street, vulnerable to all manner of pain and harm. I know how easily they could be put in jail in a few years for following crowds that get them into fights and drugs. I will miss them.

I love them, but I have to let them go. Let them try their wings. Trust God to protect them and heal them when they crash into walls. When they fall.

Fly high, little birds.

And God will take care of me, too. He always does. I laugh. I cry. I love and let go. I will forever carry the imprints of their faces in my heart, but the process of releasing them to their own choices teaches me to love like the Father loves. Like the Father loves them. And me.

When I arrived at work this morning, a note was scribbled on the white board in the living room. From Dae Dae*, who left yesterday afternoon.

"Dae Dae* is going to miss everyone (meaning Jaye*, Nehna*, and Becky). Keep ya'll heads up high, lovely gurls! :) "

Fly high, dear little bird.

*Variant spellings and nicknames used to protect identities.

FBCS Class of '11

2011-08-16T23:46:00.000-07:00

Nights are cooler, skies are more brilliant, and summer is slipping away.

Fall can mean only one thing for this incredible group of people. High school is truly a chapter closed. I wonder if they will feel a bit wistful. But I know they will remember the accomplishment, excitement, and the promise of a wide open future that they felt on their graduation last spring. Mine was the fun of capturing their energy, their maturity, their love for each other, and their desperation to live for God.

So... to the FBCS Class of '11...

You are loved, believed in,

talented and full of some crazy potential.

Keep celebrating this truth: God will finish the good work He has begun in you

and is applauding your accomplishments along the way.

Spending one evening with you bolstered my faith in the Kingdom of God that is here, alive,

and at work transforming our world. Thank you!

Affirmation

2011-08-15T08:40:00.000-07:00

I clearly remember where I was when Anna told me. I had gone to visit her in the calm of her home, surrounded by the energy, noise, and sometimes violence of Lancaster City. Rocking her daughter as I sat on the couch, she asked, "Do you know what most people think of you?"

"I have no idea." But, inaudibly, I added, "They most likely see how deeply I question myself and probably think my life is falling apart at the fringes most of the time."

"They think Becca has it all together. I have heard countless people talk about how confident and knowledgeable you are." She looked at me dead on as I gaped at her.

That moment is so clear to me, years later, because it was the first time that I realized other people might see me differently than I see myself. I realized that sometimes I need to be honest and vulnerable about my fears and battles because... people can't read me as well as I thought they could.

Maybe I inherited it. Maybe I learned it. But this natural inclination to carry one's self with confidence despite internal questions is both a blessing and a curse.

Pros:

- When working in social services, especially with teens, sometimes you have to appear calm while, inside, you're crouched like a cat, ready for anything. Sometimes you have to make a rather large judgment call and follow through with it, even though you might be terribly afraid that you just made the wrong decision. I know that this ability to appear genuinely calm and confident has served me well. My co-workers have told me so. No matter what your work, there are often people in your care who need to rely on your strength. Even when you're just as scared as everyone else. Maybe even more so, because you know the implications of your responsibility. I'm not saying we should be walking oaks, impenetrable, or dishonest about our weaknesses and fears. But you get my point... before this develops into a study on what strength is or is not.

- Face it. Sometimes life is really hard and you wonder why on earth you're even here. Maybe this reservation of dignity is plain old pride, but I don't think the whole world needs to know when these times occur. I have an inner circle of friends who know Becca's weakest moments and most vulnerable side, which is a treasure I wouldn't trade for all of Buckingham Palace. But most of the world needs my head and dignity in plain sight. I do wonder if this inclination a wild result of all the stoic German in my ancestry mixed with the grit of the Scotch, French Canadian, Irish, and Native Americans who color my blood. (Mom says this eclectic mix is why we kids are prone to some rather odd adventures at times. Like riding in a car trunk for over an hour. Yes, that was me. At 20 years old. But I won't be starting stories here.) At any rate, sometimes you just have to [wo]man up and keep going. It's part of living in a broken world, and I think God redeems this as a strength we wouldn't know or need if the world was as He intended.

Cons:

- Pretence. Sometimes weakness is required for redemption. It's hard to lay aside dignity and ask for help. Yet the moments that build trust in community are the ones in which everyone stops pretending they are fine. That they don't need. In fact, the truest connections are often centered around need. For further reading on that subject, check out my friend Josh's post. Be sure to read the comments, too, which are more entertaining if, as is my utter privilege, you know the commentators.

- People tend to assume you don't need affirmation if you look and act as if you don't need it. It is true that pretty girls often wonder whether they ARE pretty because everyone assumes they already know and don't need to be told. People who seem (and, most of the time, ARE) fairly confident in both their capacities and the Presence of God to sustain them in situations beyond their experience and skill level are rarely affirmed.

And we need affirmation. All of us. I have heard so many talented, competent, beautiful (or handsome, as the gender requires), and visionary people admit that they deeply question themselves. They wonder whether they are truly making a difference, whether they truly do have what it takes, whether they are attractive, or whether they actually are a good man or woman. Because no one ever tells them. This starvation is tragic.

So... when you're starving for affirmation, I'm sorry that someone might not notice. It feels so wrong to have to ask for it, but remember that only God sees your insides. And that your emotions can be invisible even to your doctor who, if he wants to, CAN see your insides. Maybe you need to let your dignity crack a little. Maybe you need to find some people with whom you can be vulnerable enough to let your biggest questions about yourself take the form of words. Maybe no one knows you need it.

And don't forget that the same is true of most everyone else. Give affirmation to people who don't ask for it. Realize when you are viewing someone as above the need for reassurance and look for ways to tell them that they are seen, valued, applauded, and loved. In your work, home, friendships, neighborhood, and church, foster an environment in which people don't need to ask for affirmation in order to receive it.

Now, just for fun, here is a list of some of the affirmations I have received lately. Please don't mistake this as a brag list. It is, rather, a tribute to the many people who speak words to me that I cup in my heart long afterward because I was wondering the opposite and needed to hear them. It humbles me to realize that, for most of these, I didn't even ask.

Carla: "You're just an incredible person." This came at a moment when I was feeling rather small in comparison to all life was asking of me at the moment.

One of my teen girls at work, as I arrived for my shift: "Becky, you getting so skinny!" I didn't notice, but what woman doesn't love to hear that?

Tatianna, a German girl I met in Ireland: "I've been watching you and wanting to meet you because you fascinate me. You remind me of a character from Pride and Prejudice." She said she wasn't sure which Bennet I resemble, but did assure me that it was one of the eldest. This is a vast relief, you will understand if you've read the book.

My dear friend Sharon sent me an incredible email yesterday: "hey, i hope you are feeling loved and significant. (cuz you really are) seriously, of all the friends i have, you are doing some of the bravest and unconventionalest stuff. I am proud of you -i know it probably doesn't feel very shiny most of the time, and that it is mostly very "daily", but be cheered :) I think God is happy about you." I was a rather extremely shy, cautious, and introverted child, and sometimes I look at the things I want to accomplish and just want to find a nice, cozy stump in a large forest in which to hide. She didn't know it, but this was one of those days.

My supervisor at work: "Some rather nice compliments were paid you at a hiring interview. Two unit supervisors used you as a model for how the prospective employee should relate to this kids. I thought you should know." Um, wow?! I try to do my job well... and see it as less of a job and more of a challenge of loving my girls well, and loving them the way Jesus does... but I do in fact wonder if I am truly doing it well.

Bekah: "You're going to be a great mom someday. Your kids will be lucky to have you." I see parenting as the highest, truest test of a person's character and love. And, though I hope to do it well someday, don't all of us wonder if we genuinely have what it takes?

Carla's 3-year-old son: "I love Miss Becca." And I wasn't even present at the time or had just done something to deserve it. Carla told me about it later. Unless they are made to believe lies for a long period of time, kids see through disguises pretty stinkin' fast. That's why I treasure this affirmation highly.

When I started making the list, I started thinking of more and more people who have deeply affirmed me. So please don't feel left out if you're reading this and you're one of those people. Thank you. Your belief in me and your loving me help me become a better, truer version of myself. You really and truly enable me to live and love with confidence and sincerity.

Let this list inspire you to affirm the people in your life. Make a point of one-a-day, and let it become an unconscious habit.

after an hour of solitude

2011-08-11T02:30:00.000-07:00

Beauty is freed through rest, and rest contained in trust.

...to do justice, to love kindness...

2011-08-09T12:35:00.000-07:00

In "What does the Lord require of us?", I gave a gut reaction to the grief I see caused by the current justice system and gave a few reasons I am opposed to it.

I see the "trail 'em, nail 'em, and jail 'em" (kudos to Clair Kauffman for the great phrase) method as detrimental to all the individuals involved and far less than the healing God wants to grow in the community.
"Trail 'em, nail 'em, and jail 'em" is ineffective. It only reinforces a pattern of violence and estrangement that results in more crime and repeat offenders.

In this post, I hope to sketch the story of my interest in restorative justice, a synopsis of what restorative justice, hereafter called RJ, is, and a few models I have witnessed as effective. A lot of meat for one bite. Brace yourself, and I'll try to keep it light.

Prior to the 8th grade, I hadn't given the judicial system much thought. There were good guys and bad guys. But this was the spring before Timothy McVeigh was executed. My teacher told us the charges against McVeigh for the Oklahoma City bombing. He showed us the pictures of the dead children being carried out of the basement of the building, where there had been a daycare, and that image is still seared inside my eyes. Mr. Jay, as we called him, mourned those children and the others who died in the blast, but his reaction to the grief wasn't the anger and hatred I expected to see. He also showed us a picture of McVeigh's face and asked us to pray for him. Mr. Jay didn't tell us what McVeigh "deserved". He didn't ask big, theological questions. He only showed us that he cared about McVeigh, despite what he had done. He helped us see a person... a person whom God loved.

(It was only later that I discovered McVeigh was protesting the rather insane government force in the Waco, Texas incident and, having had served time in the army, said a few things like this: "Bombing the Murrah Federal Building was morally and strategically equivalent to the U.S. hitting a government building in Serbia, Iraq, or other nations." He had seen the inside of the judicial system on a national level and, concluding that the system was pretty messed up, thought his obligation was to expose it by using the same methods. Please understand that I am in no way glorifying or sanctioning Mr. McVeigh's actions. I only find his actions more tragic since he was trying to say something worth saying, but did it in a way that served up more horror.)

After the school year ended and the date set for McVeigh's execution approached, I became more and more disturbed. Most people said that he deserved to die because he had killed. Intellectually, I almost agreed, but on June 11, 2001 I walked our half-mile lane to the mailbox with a heavy heart and sense of nausea I could neither shake nor explain. I was disgusted and felt guilty, the way I had in second grade when my teacher had made a public spectacle of humiliating a classmate for a wrong-doing, as if we "good kids" should take increased pride in our goodness at our classmate's expense.

Living on the seamier side of Lancaster City at 20 years old taught me a lot about the judicial system. I saw how much harder and more broken my neighbor boy was after "doing time". I very quickly caught the "us vs. them" subculture created by a system that only focuses on the breaking of state laws and avoiding the enforcers of those laws. Witnessing several incidents of police racism and undue violence further clarified how this rift in society widens. When my neighbor across the street was jailed for dealing drugs, I saw the wide, dark eyes of his young siblings that I had often heard scream with laughter as he had slung them over his shoulder and had carried down the street with fingers outstretched and smiles that would have been blinding if they hadn't been upside-down. I wondered how the pain of losing the only adult male figure in their lives would affect them. Sure, accountability was needed. Just as surely, this sort of punishment was only creating more pain. Did "justice" equal more pain? Should administering "justice" desensitize its administrators and make them act power-hungry?

When I voiced these questions, Clair and Anna handed me a LAVORP newsletter. I read stories of healing for victims and testimonies of offenders that, for the first time in their lives, had to opportunity to face the people they hurt... how they made amends... how they were changed. It was my first introduction to Restorative Justice, and I was hooked. It was a cleansing wind in the confusion and chaos I saw.

So I met with the founder of LAVORP. And he told me stories of what happened when victims and offenders met in sessions facilitated by LAVORP volunteers, meetings where they saw each others faces. Victims voiced their loss and pain. Offenders had the opportunity to SEE the pain they caused. Questions were asked and answered: Who was hurt? Why were they hurt? Whose obligations were these? How could things be made right?

Instead of crime being defined as a violation of the law and state, is was seen as a violation of people, relationships, and community trust.

Rather than violations creating guilt, they created obligations.

Instead of justice requiring the state to determine the blame (guilt) and impose pain (punishment), justice involved the victims, offenders, and community members in an effort to put things right.

In place of a focus on the offenders getting what they deserve was a focus on the victim's needs and the offender's responsibility to repair the harm. [Based on a list from Howard Zehr's "Little Book of Restorative Justice"]

After years of being privately funded, the state recently recognized the staggering amount of dollars LAVORP is saving them in a virtually non-existent repeat offender rate and is offering partial funding. What really excites me is that people are seeing that Jesus' ways of seeing and treating people... underserving, broken people... actually WORK. In fact, through working with some juvenile probation teens in a residential treatment facility, I learned last year that all of Pennsylvania's juvenile probation cases are being integrated with a RJ-based BARJ (Balanced And Restorative Justice) program. Already some programs like LAVORP are taking on adult cases, even murder cases. I pray that, in time, this model will affect how violence and crime is handled on a national and international level.

LAVORP's program follows the RJ model pioneered by Howard Zehr and is part of a landscape of change. Through my contact with LAVORP and my reading of books like

The Little Book of Restorative Justice, by Howard Zehr

and, for a more in-depth sociological and theological look at both the argument for RJ and how the concept can be implemented in schools and homes as well as state organizations,

Changing Paradigms, by Paul Redekop,

I learned that justice and mercy are not mutually exclusive. When Jesus told His followers to love their enemies and turn the other cheek, He was equipping us with the vision we need to bring about healed relationships. And, not surprisingly, it works. In my five years of working with urban teens on both personal and professional levels, I have come to know some teens who are hurt and hardened to the point where they think nothing of utilizing violence. And I will tell you that, over time, all of them respond to love and very few of them have ever had the opportunity to make amends for their actions. They have only been taken from their families, sent to progressively more restrictive facilities, and left alone by people who should stay with them for life. And yet, they still respond to fairness and care... to justice for both the sins done by them and against them. Justice, as defined by the God about whom was said,

³ “A bruised reed He will not break
And a dimly burning wick He will not extinguish;
He will faithfully bring forth justice.
⁴ “He will not be disheartened or crushed
Until He has established justice in the earth;
And the coastlands will wait expectantly for His law.” -Isaiah 42

Do I think there is never an occasion to restrain or restrict those who pose a continuing threat to others? No. But those occasions should be focused on rehabilitation and restoring relationships rather than dehumanizing and enhancing rifts.

I could tell so many stories... those I have both seen and heard. Perhaps another time. For now, I hope I provided you with a few resources and questions to pique your interest and get you thinking about a better way.. and about what the Lord requires of you...

Micah 6:6-8

⁶ With what shall I come to the LORD
And bow myself before the God on high?
Shall I come to Him with burnt offerings,
With yearling calves?
⁷ Does the LORD take delight in thousands of rams,
In ten thousand rivers of oil?
Shall I present my firstborn for my rebellious acts,
The fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
⁸ He has told you, O man, what is good;
And what does the LORD require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?

not the promised post...

2011-07-31T12:59:00.000-07:00

...but this is a post, nonetheless.

the sun came up this morning, turned the air a liquid gold and pearl-tipped each dewy blade of grass. i was listening to the high kings and seeing in my head happy memories of ireland. yes, Ireland. i was really and truly there. and i thought to myself... what a wonderful world.

i also thought to myself... i feel like writing again. in the last few months, so much has happened, beautiful and painful, that i only wanted to be quiet and feel the deep, slow cosmic shift of roots stretching and new flowers budding, another layer of maturity and redemption being added to the person that is me.

i almost decided to give up this blog for good, but you people kept adding yourselves as followers. and commenting. and emailing me questions about things i was thinking and whether i'd write about them... and wondering whether i was going to post pictures of the high school graduation i photographed and the two weddings in which i was fortunate enough to be cast as candid photographer. so, thank you. i'll keep writing, now that words are crowding my head again.

next time, i WILL finish the restorative justice series.

and then will commence a deluge of pictures and stories... and more irish roses (like the darling above).

What does the Lord require of us?

2011-06-06T20:06:00.000-07:00

Bin Laden is dead.

John Edwards' affair has been exposed.

Casey Anthony is fighting for her life in court.

And Nancy Grace keeps talking louder and faster and we all look on, glad for scapegoats.

As long as we can call them monsters and label them as evil, we don't have to look inside and face the darkness of our own hearts. As long as we can talk about how awful their deeds are, we feel safe from eyes that might see the hateful, disloyal, and selfish thoughts in our own heads.

And, while a judicial system is in place that responds to death with death, degeneration will continue. In sanctioning violence done in a socially acceptable manner, we create a society in which violence and death are permissible if deemed necessary.

"Necessary" to a street kid means jumping someone who verbally slighted their cousin.

"Necessary" to a drug dealer means shooting the enforcement officer who is the opposition in the game of making a quick dollar.

"Necessary" to Bin Laden's family and sympathizers might be retaliation.

Is any of it necessary? All this continued pain, fear, and hatred in search an elusive idea called "justice"?

How is justice served in this old, broken model? Is any unity restored to the families and communities affected? Is any healing brought to the victims? Is any chance of change offered the offenders?

In the present judicial system, crimes are seen as offences against the state, the breaking of intangible things called laws... rather than a wounding of the community. The victims have no voice for their devastation. The offender has no opportunity to face the people his actions hurt and no avenue toward righting their wrongs. Instead, he is removed from the community, reinforcing the isolation, anger, and hurt that most likely contributed to the offence.

And it isn't working. Take a look at these numbers from the Bureau of Justice Statistics:

The rearrest rate for property offenders, drug offenders, and public-order offenders increased significantly from 1983 to 1994. During that time, the rearrest rate increased:

- from 68.1% to 73.8% for property offenders

- from 50.4% to 66.7% for drug offenders

- from 54.6% to 62.2% for public-order offenders

What does the Lord require of us?

Maybe change will be conceived when we can look at offenders and see someone just like ourselves.

Next time... the story of my introduction to resorative justice.

What Dryers and Vacation Have in Common

2011-05-28T02:37:00.000-07:00

Inside the door of the dryer at work is a fabulous sticker. "Dryer must be exhausted outdoors." Of course it it referring to the hose disappearing into the wall, but a great mental picture of the dryer running a mile on metal legs under a blazing sun makes me snort with laughter every time I heave wet clothes into its cavernous mouth.

People have been asking me why I stopped blogging. The answer is this: I was in a funk. This sort of funk felt a little bit cozy. Just quietly feeling and living without any words to put to it. It also felt a mite exhausted and in need of being, like the dryer, exhausted outdoors.

A reunion of the Fab Five cured me.

Huge changes have charged at us at a dizzying speed since we were celebrating sweet sixteen, but our friendship has been a grounding constant. Just BEING together is refreshing, but being together in Ocean City was idyllic. Since Julie's wee wittle one just arrived, she opted out... but we stopped and saw her anyhow. :)

Upon arriving at our motel, we immediately unpacked and otherwise got organized. True sign we might be grown up. Janelle's darling Katie, with her smiles and bottles and diapers, was another good indication.

That's me with Janelle and Katie at Dumser's restaurant. If you're ever in Ocean City, go directly to Dumser's and order an orange ice cream soda. You can thank me later.

We discussed everything from abortion to how cool gummy monkeys look when held up against the sun and blue sky while lying on the beach. (Alright, that was mostly me. Bessie just laughed at me and kept writing her husband's name in the sand.)

We adventured about town, ate so well that my gut actually protruded a little by the end, and did some serious relaxing on the beach and boardwalk. As someone said, it wouldn't have been nearly as much fun if we lived like that all the time. But we're a pretty ambitious lot and, as a result, enjoyed it immensely.

With three vacation days and one shift being the campus gopher... a few hours on Shelter, then a few on the boys' unit while they woke up, then back to Shelter because their male staff was very unused to girls who are freaking out because of tiny bug bites on their arms and "not having ANYTHING to wear!!" (yes, teen girls are pretty much universally the same), then to another unit to do med pass because they didn't have any med-trained staff on the unit... I wasn't on "my" unit for four days. They were as glad to see me as I was them. My 17-year-old yelled, "Becky! I missed you so freakin' much!" and hugged me. Twice.

In the dull roar of a unit of 13 girls, four of whom are new and needed extra attention to get through the morning, two of my 13-year-olds were not doing their chores. My reminder was met with some attitude from D. I was like, "what's with you?" and she said, "Well, you been gone for so long!" Accusation and vulnerability interchanged in her tone and I realized she needed some reassurance.

"I know. And I missed you guys!"

P. interrupted with, "D., why you talking like that to Becky? It's BECKY."

D. waved her off. "You don't understand. Becky LOVE me, like."
"I sure do! Very much." I replied.

And that must have been what she needed to hear because she jumped off the table where she'd been sitting and proceeded to have an incredible morning... as responsible and respectful as you please.

It's so good to have energy for this again!

opening shop!

2011-05-09T10:12:00.000-07:00

My etsy shop is up and running! I have more projects that are nearing completion and should be posted soon, so check back... Also, if you want prints of art pieces that are listed as originals (or vice versa), let me know!

Here are two new additions:

This is all so vulnerable and exciting...

the joys of spray paint and of sisters

2011-05-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

This is the story of a lamp. After having no luck finding a lamp at the thrift stores I haunt, I bought a rather ugly one at Big Lots for $15. Seriously, it was so ugly that I didn't even take a picture of it. But the shape was partially interesting and I thought that, with a new shade and a few coats of spray paint, it would be fine. Then, a week later, I found this sweetie at Salvation Army.

The price? $3

I returned the ugly steplamp to Big Lots, very glad that I hadn't had time to tackle that project. Now I hope I learned that good things really do come to those who wait. :)

I'm infatuated with diversity in decor. Rustic with ornate and modern lines paired with more natural elements. After some primer and Painter's Touch spray paint in "paprika", here she is:

This is an end table beside the couch, and I wanted something that would match the red-orange in the artwork above the couch.

And yes, the fat birds migrated from the coffee table to the end table.

This was another thrift store find. I loved the design, but the imitation milk glass had ugly gray hair lines through it.

Spray paint means it won't be used for food again, but how cute will it be when filled with white peonies? For now, pussywillows suffice. :)

I used to use basic, neutral colors... I think spring has intoxicated me with bold accents of COLOR.

Those forsythias were a cool reminder that God really does care about "insignificant" details. I had wanted some, and Carla (without knowing I had) gave me a huge armful. You're a wonderful neighbor, Carla!

A week ago, I was with my darling sisters.

In fact, I got to spend time with all of them but Abby, my older sister. After spending two days giving swing rides, playing games, reading Tolkien aloud, going shopping, and making breakfasts (of which Kelsey, the youngest, said she had "many feedings") and curling up together on the couch to watch movies like "Horton Hears a Who"... I literally cried when I pulled out of the driveway and started the long trek home. The hardest part of growing up and following dreams is being apart from those you love most.

Good Friday reflections

2011-04-22T14:26:00.000-07:00

Isaiah 53:4&5

Surely our griefs He Himself bore,
         And our sorrows He carried;
         Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,
         Smitten of God, and afflicted.
    But He was pierced through for our transgressions,
         He was crushed for our iniquities;
         The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him,
         And by His scourging we are healed.

His wounds.

His Love.

We are healed.

We are known.

I'm a bit wordless. A bit overwhelmed. I really can't wrap my head or heart around the depth, patience, and ferocity of God's love for us all.

Sometimes loving people takes a mad lot of emotional strength. Watching as they make choices that hurt themselves... being pushed away when they seem to want rejection instead of love... Loving even then hurts like lead clogging the bottom of your heart and drains you of emotional vibrance.

If my love is weak and imperfect in comparison to God's, how does He survive, loving every single person in the whole world so passionately?

He watches us sabotage ourselves, hurt ourselves and others, and settle for the cheap version of His good intentions. And still He stays engaged, returning even when we shun Him.

I might have grasped a tiny corner of his strength. My heart is moved to trust and adoration.

worth waiting for

2011-04-14T18:20:00.000-07:00

Spring! Finally!

And it is so immensely worth waiting for.

I can hardly sleep these days. But it's not because of the office chair rolling around on the other side of my ceiling. I've been in Majorly Creative Mode, and my head goes right on creating when the rest of me tries to sleep. It's not a curse, really. Ideas turn into things like this:

These pins are made from an antique, handmade lace doily. I'm opening a shop on Etsy within the next week or two, and you'll be able to buy these and other upcycled goodies there, as well as prints of some of my artwork. I'm excited... hope you find the shop worth waiting for. :)

Curls and Kindness

2011-04-13T05:04:00.000-07:00

"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." -Aesop "The Lion and the Mouse"

I found this picture in the deep, dark archives of the past few years. I think Kelsey was two years old. Carol was lying on the couch with a headache, so Kelsey was "reading" to her. I came upon them and am glad I had a camera within reach. Those chubby little hands and curls just melt me.

Add a little sweetness to someone's day...

When all is said...

2011-04-09T04:34:00.000-07:00

Words.

They're so intangible, thinner than the wisp of curl from a blown-out candle.

But, set out into the center of silence, they seem to take on a life of their own. Even as we form them, they form us.

Perhaps this phenomenon is partially limited to females, but I noticed that when my girls are angry, they talk about fighting the person first. And they do it loudly, as if volume can cover fear and insecurity. The bluffing has a curious effect on everyone present. The bluffer becomes more infatuated with the sense of empowerment they feel, while the witnesses quickly move into survival mode. Everything goes downhill from there. No one feels safe, not even the person trumpeting away.

Of course, my professional duty in this scenario is to "de-escalate the client", but, reaching further, I really and truly hate the emotional damage this stuff inflicts on my girls. They have lived most of their lives on edge, in survival mode. They shouldn't have to. Especially not here. My heart for them all is that they feel safe and loved.

So I am trying to teach my girls this: what we say MATTERS. It has weight we might not intend.

Someone says, "Imma punch her/him." Instead of ignoring it as normal ghetto conversation, I'm learning to ask, "Are you seriously making a threat? Should I report what you just said?"

Then this ensues:

"BECKY! We just TALKING!"

"But did you hear yourself? What did you say?"

"Oh..."

This scenario happens a lot, too:

"What the *&%@#?"

"Hey, you're not trash. So stop talking trash, huh?"

These scenarios happen often, but I love the looks of realization that result. I love how their demeanor and the atmosphere gradually softens, as if we all knew all along that words are important... and someone saying so allows us to be our truer selves.

When all is said and done, more is said than done. And power for hurt is always equal to power for good.

For instance:

"Becky, why you always smilin' at us?" J. rarely causes problems, but she's one of the few that seems to have a built-in resistance to interaction with staff. I was surprised she initiated conversation at all.

"Because I love you guys."

"Aw... we love you, too."

Just a few words, but I hold them in my heart and treasure the quiet acknowledgment that lingers between us because of them.

Signed, sealed, and caffeinated

2011-04-08T03:43:00.000-07:00

Everything that happens at work gets logged. Most of the time, we keep it pretty professional.

6:10 AM: Becca goes to cafe for elixir of life

Some mornings are just like that.

dancing again

2011-04-04T13:51:00.000-07:00

feet dancing on the ground
mossy and heaving with life
arms outstretched and face to the sky
low, smooth, and strangely tangible

i laughed in exultation and
hugged the nearest tree and
thanked God for the strange, most glorious
gift of life

Being Small

2011-03-31T19:52:00.000-07:00

G.K. Chesterton says in Orthodoxy that "humility is necessary to the enjoyment of anything." We need to make ourselves smaller than the object, moment, or person we're experiencing in order to truly soak it up. Otherwise, we just trample it, like a galumphing elephant does a shrub, and move on in pursuit of the next big thing. Something about the picture of making myself small really got through to me and I've been thinking about it a lot. It takes a conscious effort sometimes, but I feel all the corners and cracks and enter into things more. It's so easy to feel entitled, you know? But when I'm small, I don't feel entitled. I feel awed. And alive.

Living room decor... and other progress

2011-03-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

Monday was my day off, and I suddenly was desperate to do something fun WITH someone. And so I called Bekah and we went shopping in Holmes County, Ohio. I needed new veils and was itching to spend a very long time drooling over antiques. At it turned out, antiques weren't the only thing I drooled over. If you've never had a black raspberry fry pie from Der Dutchman's, you have yet to taste all that is right about the world.

But, back to the antiques... before I start getting graphic about the finer points of fry pies.

I fell in love with this piano bench. Its worn, green velvet pad, simple-but-elegant lines, and worn finish... surprisingly, I have no impulse to refinish it. I looked apprehensively at the price tag, but what I saw made me say, "You coming home wid me, baby!"

So I happily carried both a bench and a drawing around the antique mall until closing time chased us out. Because of the quality of the ink and hairline scribbles that wouldn't reproduce well, I think this darling is an original pen-and-ink portrayal of a bridge and canal lock. Maybe the fact that the architecture of the bridge is similar to that of the Eiffel Tower caught my eye, but the longer I looked at it, the more I was entranced. It's an exquisite work, gallery-wrapped and everything.

But I shivered when I wondered if, after I'm no more than a small pile of dust, my drawings will end up in a pile of odds and ends in a shop somewhere, priced for five dollars with no one to love or understand them.

Mercy. Maybe that's why people carve statues out of stuff more durable than paper. And maybe my drawings will be adopted and loved like I do this one.

Instead of using nails to hang stuff on my apartment's newly-painted walls, I started using adhesive strips.

It sports a different mirror than the one I originally hung, but this collage on the living room wall is the drawing's new home. Forget fancy adhesive strips. I used nails. If/when I move again, I'll putty the holes and paint over them.

So there.

This door leads from the living room to the dining room. Nine-foot ceilings and wide, original trim... helLO, gorgeous!

Doesn't the piano bench make the perfect coffee table? Yup, I think so too.

And, semi-facing the couch is this corner of the full bay window... with its bookcase I've outgrown. So I keep stashing books in odd places because I haven't seen a tall book-case that is both affordable and won't dominate the entire room.

Maybe bleached burlap and an old window frame are a bit too casual for the feel of the rest of the living room's decor, but who cares? Not me... at least until I recover from spring fever. And I know, the pink and purple flowers on the lamp don't exactly compliment the sage and orange theme.. but I love lighting just the base of the hurricane lamp in the evenings, making the room all cozy and dusky. Plus, my dad gave it to me. Sentimental? Who, me? Unabashedly.

I found this sturdy wooden serving tray at a thrift store a year ago, but I never posted the before and after, so here ya be.

Before:

After:

It's amazing what paint can do. Sorry about the spin-off, Campbell's.

The fabulous serving bowl was a house-warming gift from Carla... which makes it even more perfect.

Vintage magazines just rock. The layouts and pictures are fascinating in their difference from modern ones. Plus, I just like old stuff. Fair enough? A Time magazine from 1947, published just seven months before the world lost the gift of Gandhi.

But it was Martin Luther King, Jr., not Gandhi, who said,

"If I knew the world would end tomorrow, I would go out and plant a tree."

So would I.

And a peony bush.

And heirloom tomatoes.

For now, though, I'm holding off on the tree.

beauty

2011-03-20T21:44:00.000-07:00

"beauty is not caused. it is." -emily dickinson

new green growy things

2011-03-18T03:08:00.000-07:00

The very air is heavy with life. Breathing it in sends energy searing to your fingertips.

After a beautiful but loooong winter, buried under (barely miniature) mountain ranges of snow, green growy things are everywhere.

Feast your eyes, people.

This is my indoor peace lily who, after four years of living with me, has decided she is ready to bloom.

These are the snowdrops that came up in my flowerbed before the last snowfall and lived to tell the tale.

And THIS is the happily unsightly corner of my living room. I wish I had a grow light, but a sunny window works, too. A very blissful hour was spent yesterday by a very happy Becca planting seeds outside in the sun. Barefoot. If the magic of earth, seed, sun, and water works, I'll have a peony, calla lillies, baby's breath, poppies, daisies, heirloom tomatoes, peppers, oregano, parsley, and basil to transplant in a month. Is it weird to love little plants? Alright, then I'm weird. Every little green shoot just rivets me in its miracle, like watching a calf being born and stand, all knock-kneed.

My shamrock has recovered from her starved existance under Wal-Mart's flourescent lights just in time for St. Paddy's Day.

Speaking of shamrocks and all things Irish, I HAVE A TICKET TO IRELAND! My un-biological bro, Gideon, and his Irish darling are getting married in July, and I really and truly am going!

Lucky me.

Green Pastures

2011-03-07T09:26:00.000-08:00

The past few weeks have been intense, for lack of a better word. Loving broken people comes with a price sometimes.

When she told me she was pregnant again, hope surged into my heart. Before, she only told me she had been pregnant after the question of whether to bring a little life into her own young, single one had been terminated. This time, she looked at baby clothes and we read baby name books. We cried and dreamed. I loved the little life inside her almost as much as I love her. I asked some of my closest friends to join me in praying for both her and her baby's lives... they both seemed fragile and a bit precarious. Instead of just praying, one newly-married friend and her husband offered to take the baby as their own, whether temporarily or permanently, whichever she wanted. I made sure she ate nutritious food, stroked her hair and held her when she dizzy and sick, and assured her she was not alone with this child. Every ounce of my hope, fear, and love I poured into begging prayer.

But still she chose.

And the baby is gone.

This grief is a twin valley. One for the little person I loved but will never hold; a life that will never be lived. Another for her. This baby seemed to be a chance at redemption, a tug toward taking responsibility for her actions. She seemed to miss the wonder and awe of nurturing the beginning of a whole little person inside herself. Instead of a growing love, she had a pressing question. It seems she's had to turn off a part of her soul, and I hardly recognize the shell of a girl she's become.

When the ceiling of life falls in, nothing is sacred from the havoc, dust, and exposure. Every day, questions you never dreamed you'd ask fly up through the holes at God.

But even in valleys, God opens His hands and provides green pastures. New friends, exercise and rain, a surprise visit from my dad, colorful lollipops to send to my sisters, and moments that renew hopes I had almost forgotten, moments that make me feel young and dauntless.

Summer will come again, with its sunshine, rest, bare feet, and pure joy.

P.S. Anna, I found this picture on my phone and it made me resolve to visit you and your hammock sometime this summer. :)

The Black Eyed Peas - Where Is The Love?

2011-03-01T15:32:00.000-08:00

If I tried to give a sort of intro to this song, I would have to tell enough stories to fill a book... of so many teens who add to the violence because they've never been loved; of police throwing my 60-year-old neighbor woman in the ghetto to the sidewalk and handcuffing her because they were arresting her son and she was crying and frantically begging them in Spanish not to take him, and she didn't understand their English order to step back, of watching a fight from my third-floor window and begging God to fill the street with peace as a woman screamed for the blows to stop hurting her man and my tears fell to the sidewalk far below, of one of my most feared and violent girls hugging me instead of shaking my offered hand when she left and we both knew this was goodbye forever. Oops. Was that a book? Here's the song: (oh, but first scroll to the end of the page and turn off the music player. Is that thing annoying? I kinda' like it, but if it's a pain I'll delete it.)

Wednesday morning meditations

2011-02-23T05:42:00.000-08:00

All around us we observe a pregnant creation. The difficult times of pain throughout the world are simply birth pangs. But it's not only around us; it's within us. The Spirit of God is arousing us within. We're also feeling the birth pangs. These sterile and barren bodies of ours are yearning for full deliverance. That is why waiting does not diminish us, any more than waiting diminishes a pregnant mother. We are enlarged in the waiting. We, of course, don't see what is enlarging us. But the longer we wait, the larger we become, and the more joyful our expectancy.

Romans 8: 22 - 25 The Message

i wish

2011-02-18T03:47:00.000-08:00

i wish i had a field
a whole field of poppies
red and orange and pink
and grass - green, green grass
for them to float above
and i'd twirl around
around and around
in them and my bare feet
hands to the sky, all full of the sun
and luffly clouds

i wish i had a field
a great big field
all full to the brim with poppies

How do I love these?

2011-02-14T03:14:00.000-08:00

Let me count the ways.

I love the Valentine my little sister Kelsey gave me. She's so sweet, she makes lollipops taste bland. I think she's one of most adorable girls alive, and of course I am completely objective in this matter.

The amount of support and love my church family has given me recently just melts my heart. Almost literally. (OK, don't think about that too hard.) Participating in Communion with them last evening was refreshing, validating, and profoundly moving for me. I love them, too.

I love the voice I heard when I answered the phone at work two days ago. Danika (name changed to protect her identity, of course) successfully completed this program a few months ago and was discharged. We both cried a little when I told her good-bye. I love all of my girls and am sad to see them go, but when Danika left, I honestly felt like I lost a child of my own. I've been wondering if being back at home is going well for her, but, due to privacy laws, can't contact her. She honestly got up at six o'clock a.m. to call me because she thought "I miss Becky, so Imma call her". Hearing that she's doing well in school and getting along well with her mom thrilled me to the tips of my toes. I've been smiling all week.

I love my youngest girl at work. I tease her that we should install a treadmill on the unit so she can run off some of her energy, because a lot of the time it gets her in trouble. But goodness, she is darling. A few mornings ago, she came dancing out the hall, slipped this heart-shaped chocolate into my hand, hugged my head because I was sitting down and she was standing up, and ran off without explanation.

With all my heart. That's how I love these.

Keep calm and carry on

2011-02-10T03:33:00.000-08:00

This has been my week's mantra.

"Sometimes," Anne Lamott says, "we just need to breathe."

So I take a few minutes to read design blogs,

eat animal crackers,

and drink milk.

But still I hope to move within the next week.

Or maybe two.

Blood runs thicker

2011-02-06T02:09:00.000-08:00

My favorite thing about the past week was most definitely

having two of my not-so-little-anymore sisters visit me.

I may live clear across the state from them.

My life may be full of other responsibilities and people.

And I do love my life

And the people in it

But the fact remains that

Blood runs thicker than anything else.

Deconstruction [still] Underway

2011-02-04T03:33:00.000-08:00

"The scary thing about God is not that He gets His own way, but that He lets us have ours." -Vincent Beiler

Vincent stood and said this after a sermon on Jonah. I've been thinking about it ever since.

Choice, sin, and all such things we so easily misunderstand. So easily we cast God as an egotistic tyrant who makes rules He knows we'll break so He can punish us for them!

I think Tolkien was saying the same thing as Vincent in a scene with Gandalf and Bilbo. Gandalf sees Bilbo's almost innocent infatuation with the Ring of Power, and advises Bilbo to leave the Ring behind when he sets out on his last adventure.

Bilbo, just like Gollum when the Ring began to consume him, body and mind, hisses, "Why shouldn't I keep it? It's mine! It came to me!"

Gandalf stands to an intimidating height and bellows, "I am not trying to rob you!" Then, more gently, "I am trying to help you."

It's because God knows how quickly we serve and ruin ourselves, how willingly we choose our own destruction, that He tells us how to live. Yet He loves us enough to still let us choose.

Amazing. I am in awe... especially when I know a little bit of the heartbreak He must feel when we sin and face our consequences. It's shattering. And still He waits and loves.

All this to say that my view of God is still being deconstructed.

A Thousand Colorful Balloons

2011-01-24T03:56:00.000-08:00

Two friends and I had been talking for hours. Trivial things, mostly. Laughter split the conversation often as we thoroughly enjoyed each other's humor. I'm not sure when the tide changed, but instead of bouncing into tidal pools, it drew away from the shore. Out to the quiet deeps.

Out poured stories long tucked away. All of us consider each other to be stable, vibrant women, but as we talked, we discovered that we all had something else in common. Teen depression.

Our triggering circumstances were all different, but we all had been there. I thank God we all lived to tell about it.

Her beautiful eyes lowered at she told us that the only reason she didn't collide head-on with a semi was the fact she had a passenger.

She showed us the scars on her lovely arms and legs. Scars, now almost gone, where she had sliced her skin to ribbons when her heart couldn't take the pain.

And I relived how I'd lie in bed and the darkness seemed to take form and mock me and I'd remember the rope I had seen coiled on the shed beam.

Those were dark, lonely years. And all three of us were alone in our confusion, pain, and fear.

We are better now. To say "I thank God" is so cliche, but only a thousand colorful balloons released to the sky could better articulate my gratefulness. I love being alive. I can't comprehend not being alive and present in today. Now, instead of the future seeming long and bleak, it suddenly looks too short to do and experience everything I hope. And I can't imagine my life without my friends. It's a thought too horrible to entertain.

I share our stories because I believe there is power and healing in the telling. I hope that someone will say "Me, too!" and know they are not alone or somehow tainted.

I also share our stories because our experiences are far too common. One in six teens self-harms. About 60% of teens have thought about putting an end to life. Odds are, you know a few of them. They might appear self-confident and happy, but be there for them. You don't know whose life you might be saving.

Questions about Love

2011-01-18T14:22:00.000-08:00

Mary, when you'd held your Son,

Nourished Him with your love,

And, awestruck, watched His growth,

How could you love so fiercely

And give Him freely?

Behold, it was very good.

2011-01-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

"This is a sad moment," I said to my co-worker, forlornly holding up my apple core, gnawed to the seeds. "This was a good apple. Now it's gone."

He's the type of co-worker who understands why getting all sentimental over an apple's demise is funny. Or maybe he's just polite. Either way, he laughed.

I do think I was partly serious, though. It WAS a good apple, and I would have happily continued biting, chewing, and swallowing for an hour... had the apple permitted.

This giveaway was great fun. I checked my blog far more often than necessary in happy expectation of more comments. Thank you all for participating! Reading your comments was rather like opening gifts, and I smiled a lot.

Yup, this giveaway was fun. Now it's over. And I really underestimated how hard it would be to only give ONE book away instead of one book to EVERYONE who entered.

I managed to master my sentimentality long enough to push the fateful "generate" button, and this is what it said:

And then the confetti flew.

Metaphorically speaking.

Comment #6 was written by Rebekah Miller. Congratulations, Rebekah! I'm all excited for you because you're a fellow artist and I know you'll love the layout and art of the book just as much as the words. Miraculously, I have your email address... I'm sending you a message to ensure you have mine and can email your mailing address to me. I'll send your delicious book as soon as I know where to send it.

Thanks again, everyone! I have the best friends and readers, and no one can convince me otherwise.

Meanwhile, my yearning for an everlasting apple ebbs in the presence of robust, steaming coffee.

Why I blog... and a Giveaway

2011-01-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

I started this blog for two purposes:

1) Writing helps me process things. Having a blog gives me a think space where people can give me feedback on what I'm thinking. That keeps me thinking. Hopefully, my humble cogitations benefit my readers in some way as well.

2) Mine is the privilege of knowing many people. I like giving them occasional snapshots of what and how I am doing.

Usually, my posts are free-writes, the results of recent ponderings pounded out in one sitting with little (or no) editing. I never imagined... and still can hardly believe... that so many people would be interested in the thinkings and adventures of me.

But, as someone once said, numbers don't lie. In 2010, my blog received 16,314 visits, more than doubling the amount of visits it received per month from January to December. I know a lot of people, but there is no way I know all of you. So, both to thank you for reading and to find out a little about you, I have an idea.

Let's have a giveaway.

Some blog giveaways are for the purpose of gaining more readers, so the authors make rules about posting links to facebook and stuff before you enter. But my only intentions are already listed above, so there is only one requirement: Leave a comment if you want to be entered. Say something about yourself if you want to get acquainted a little. If you want to remain all incognito and stuff, just say something like "I want a shot at winning the book." Or something like that.

Book??

Yes, I said "book".

This one, to be precise:

Drops like Stars, by Rob Bell. I love my copy far too much to give it up, but I found a few copies for a wonderful price at Ollies. I hurriedly snatched up all the ones I could afford and clutched them to my heart. No, I'm not exaggerating. This book speaks to me so much that I just had to get one for a few of my friends. In fact, a few are enroute to some pretty amazing people as I write. If you don't get one, it's not because I don't love you... it's because, even though they were marked down, they still weren't dirt cheap and I just paid rent on my house and all that. You know what I mean. I hate money.

But back to the giveaway.

Here's what I said about the book when I was given mine:

Visually, artistically, the book is a treat. It gives wings to the soul-words it contains like notes to lyrics.

There's really no way to give you a synopsis of "Drops Like Stars", but these segments give you a little peak:

"Jesus doesn't give the story [of the prodigal son] the proper Hollywood ending

we've all come to expect...

...Some elder brothers never join the party.

Some fathers never throw one.

Some brothers never come back.

Some things never get resolved.

Lots of parties are missing somebody.

And when we try to resolve things

too quickly or pretend that everyone

is there when they aren't or offer hollow,

superficial explanations... it's not honest

and it's not right and it's not real.

It's not how life is.

----

If we went to the ballet and

everybody in the audience was

wearing snorkels or the musicians

were all red-haired banjo players

with no teeth or instead of being

handed a program we were handed

a squirrel, we would immediately

begin asking,

What is this?

But our real question would be,

Where is this? Where do we

put this? How do we place it?

Because our standard reference

points - the usual insulators -

wouldn't be there to guide us.

That's what happens when we suffer. We had things well planned out.

We knew what meant what. We had all our boxes properly organized

and labeled. But all that was disrupted when we began to suffer.

So there's "out of the box", which is often merely a variation of the same thing.

And then there are those who think and feel and live and create from a different place.

They've had their boxes smashed and their insulators dismantled until

they had no other option

but to imagine a totally new tomorrow."

That's just an introduction to a fascinating compilation of honesty, humor, photography, and quotes line this one by Abraham Joshua Heschel:

"Above all, remember that the meaning of life is to live it as if it were a work of art.

You're not a machine.

When you're young, start working on this great work of art called your own existence."

So thank you for reading my blog. Do you want a shot at winning Drops like Stars? Just comment on this post, telling me so.

The giveaway will be open for a week. Next Friday, I'll enter the comment numbers into a random number generator, and post the winner. Be sure to check back next Friday!

peace & love to all,
becca

Discovering a dragon

2011-01-05T02:54:00.000-08:00

Snow zoomed at the windshield, like sprays of a silent firework in the headlights. The car heater blasted away gallantly. Nothing stood between me, the white roads, and an hour of quiet. Quiet, except for an audio book.

I thought I had time-warped when I pulled into my driveway, but the clock glared in outrage at the suggestion. I had only a few minutes in which to change for work, but I wanted to keep driving. Because Eragon, a sturdy country boy, was just about to discover that the large gem he had mysteriously found in the feared mountain, The Spine, was not a stone at all...

In this age of Cd's and MP3's, I only have a cassette player in my car. I haven't driven much further than town limits for the past few weeks, and the tapes are due at the library. The unrest of being yanked prematurely from a great story has haunted me until, yesterday, I bought the book.

With characters and style vaguely reminiscent of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Madeleine L'Engle, Christopher Paolini writes a captivating story all his own. It's a coming-of-age tale of the gifting of a power for good that puts Eragon in jeopardy of the Empire's wrath.

I recommend it, and Eragon is still raising a dragon in secrecy. Something tells me I just might need the whole trilogy. Farewell, I think it's almost meal-time for a baby dragon...

Derek Webb on judgment

2011-01-03T04:47:00.000-08:00

This quote by Derek Webb encapsulates my ponderings and discomfort of the past year. I hope it challenges and motivates you.

"I felt a lot of people around me drawing lines in the sand, and that year I decided: I don't want to draw lines and have to be on one side or the other, but if someone's going to push me to one or the other side of the line, I'm going to stand on the side of those being judged because that's where I feel Jesus meets people."

-Derek Webb

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

2010-12-24T18:29:00.000-08:00

A month ago, I saw a Gospel sign that made me stop longer than necessary at the intersection and stare at it. I almost took back everything I've ever said about Gospel signs. I almost cried at the warm wind of change from the usual portrayal of God as a god who threatens and frightens people into a relationship with Him. This is what it said:

The almighty God was born a baby, grew up in a poor town, and became a homeless healer. God stood at the foot of a sycamore, looked up at cheating, lying, thieving Zacchaeus and didn't proclaim his faults to the crowd or command Zacchaeus to fall at His feet and confess. Instead, He said, "I'm going to have lunch with you." He dignified Zacchaeus in front of the very people who had reason to hate him. He loved him. And that's what made Zacchaeus right his wrongs and give half of his assets to the poor.

I suspect it is because we are created in the image of the One who is Love that we respond best to love. He knows us well enough to know that love is the only thing that can really heal and change us. That's why He came to be like us, to speak with lips like ours, so that we can't escape the Good News.

We are seen. We are loved. We are not alone.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I wish you all a day of celebration, peace, deep joy, and awe at the gift of Jesus.

Bits of Festivity

2010-12-21T01:46:00.000-08:00

Advent is nearing its end.

The waiting and preparations are almost over.

I still have some baking to do, but everything else is ready.

The gifts are wrapped and ribboned.

Place de la Concorde (a.k.a., our house) has been ready and waiting for almost a month.

Every celebration necessitates a prepared venue, and Jesus's birthday is no exception.

I'm human. I need symbolism and tangible reminders.

Preparing our house... and living in a prepared house... shape my experience and my heart almost as much as giving gifts.

But the blatant materialism and commercial bowing to the almighty dollar leave a metallic taste in my mouth,

not to mention huge heaps in our landfills.

So I try to

use things I have,

use nothing artificial that should be real,

be creative in using things that are as free as the air.

Here's a festive tour of Place de la Concorde:

Amanda made this swag from tree-trimmings and hung it on our front door.

Our first Christmas tree as a household. We named him Joshua... for two reasons. One, in honor of the boy named Yeshua whose birth brought everlasting hope to the world. Two... well, a certain band produced a certain great album named Joshua Tree...

Our Joshua tree has quite a story. We three shivered through the cold, looking at tree after tree. Finally we picked one up and lugged it with us. Then we saw Joshua, looking as though he knew we'd come. We set the other tree smartly on its stump and struggled with Joshua to our mode of transportation - my car. Ebony's pain job isn't the greatest, so I didn't mind if Joshua scratched her a little when we tied him on the roof. What else do you do when you don't have a truck? That was my reasoning. Bekah said she felt she had no pride left. Manda kept saying we were crazy. But people in other cars kept pulling alongside us at stoplights, laughing, and giving thumbs-up to the great green thing that dangled its head over the windshield.

I bet Joshua never dreamed he'd make so many people smile.

We each got a special ornament to mark the year. The peace dove is mine...

I'm sure the star that guided the wise men was unparalleled in beauty,

but I think ours is a pretty good replica.

My nativity set has survived three years of active admiration by second-graders and is very happy to be repaired, reassembled, and surrounded by green tree-trimmings. I talked about this scene last post, so I won't elaborate more than to say that some of the moments of deepest worship and awe I've experienced this season have occurred while watching this Nativity in the soft lights Joshua bears.

These fat birds are so endearing. At least, I think they are. Opinions are always subject to diversity.

When I was teaching school, I used gift money from my kids to buy this set of angels... and they've become sort of a Christmas tradition for me. I love unpacking them and smiling at the gift each one bears. This year, they grace our table with their presence.

Bekah's mom got a bag of the pine cones in South Carolina and gave them to us. They're huge and so perfect.

Even our chalkboard was festive for a while. At the moment, she bears a reminder of upcoming bills. A chalkboard of many personalities she is.

JoAnn Fabrics had these letters on sale. And (of course) I had a coupon, so I paid fifty cents a piece. The greens I clipped off a bush in our yard. This is the view while washing dishes.

Greens from a bush, a pine cone from Laurie, and cookie-cutters we already had...

Free decor + fresh decor = good decor, in my book.

I updated the coal scuttle and branches outside the back door with bush-greens, pine cones, and ribbon and lights I already had.

Our decor might not compare to this beautiful home, but I'm content. It's simple. Comfortable. It fits us.

The guests we've had seem to like it, too.

Speaking of guests... my family hopes to come visit me next week! Some of them have never been here, and I've missed them terribly.

I have to work Christmas morning, so going there isn't possible. I felt rather melancholy about working, then coming home to an empty house when my friends have gone to their families... until I became ashamed of myself. Some of my kids can't go home for Christmas and one has no home. It's OK for me to have to work. I'm planning a Christmas morning surprise for them. That makes me so excited, I feel like a kid on, well, Christmas morning.

At least I have family. And I will get to spend time with them and watch my sisters' faces as they open their gifts from me. Besides, isn't sacrifice what Christmas is all about?

Beautiful Thorns

2010-12-16T11:09:00.000-08:00

Behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that I will raise unto David a righteous Branch, and a King shall reign and prosper, and shall execute judgment and justice in the earth.
Jeremiah 23:5

We decorated for Christmas early this year, but I still haven't tired of the bits of festivity tucked around the house. In fact, I'm sitting on the couch at the moment, watching my Nativity set as if I expect the shepherd to gasp in wonder. It's a riveting, peaceful scene... the stable and inhabitants surrounded by evergreen branches and flanked by a candle. The tallest wise man's head no longer lands in the greens at his feet without warning, but the donkey is facing the wrong way and the shepherd is just slightly leaning. I must not have visited the stable since the last time little visitors did.

One of my earliest Christmas memories is opening little cardboard windows in an Advent calender Mom put up every year. The scene on the calendar depicted the Nativity. It was beautiful and mystical to my young eyes, all the animals gazing with wide, soft eyes at the clean, peaceful baby sleeping in glowing hay. And the barn was as clean as a Marriott. I especially remember the face of the cow - eloquent, docile, and radiant with benevolence. Idealistic, sentimental me loved that cozy scene.

After a few years, that glowy feeling was threatened by a manger in someone's yard. A cross hovered over it, casting a long shadow. I hated it. I just wanted to focus on the holly-berry feeling of Jesus as an adorable baby, surrounded by shepherds, angels, Joseph, and Mary... and that benevolent cow. When Good Friday came, I'd deal with Jesus' suffering. At the moment, I wanted to be innocent.

But not all cows are benevolent. Some, like the one who stepped and pivoted on my foot, are oblivious to the knowledge of their sheer mass and the cracking of bones in a small thing under their hoof... Oblivious, in fact, to anything outside their chewing mouths. Some are downright MALEVOLENT, like the one who, without any provocation, threw her weight on me, crushing me between her settling bulk and the stanchion bar until I could barely gasp for air. Don't get me wrong. I love cows and have many memories of leaning my head against sleek, warm sides on cold mornings. Most of my cows had large, deep, liquid eyes and loved to be scratched around their horns. But not all cows are like that. If cows did indeed witness Jesus' birth, some might have kept their heads buried in their mangers. Some might have had to be shooed away to prevent their hurting the little King. And no barn (no matter how attentive the farmer) is ever clean. Half an hour after a stall is mucked out, it's duly re-baptized. True story. Babies are not born plump and clean, either.

Despite how much we romanticize the story of His coming, Jesus' birth was messy - just like His death. Dirt, pain, blood, and tears characterized both. Contrary to how I felt at age five, the kinship of the two happenings does not tarnish either. He came to suffer... like and for us. That is WHY His birth is so beautiful.

Entering into pain is HOW He brings justice to suffering people. Doesn't He call us to do the same?

One of my favorite examples of justice being done for the oppressed occurred during Hitler's ethnic cleansing endeavor. I couldn't find dates and places for this story, so I'll just try to relate it as I heard it recorded by an eye-witness.

****

A modest town populated by people of modest means was disrupted by the entry and occupation of Nazi soldiers. Gradually, the townspeople grew to accept their presence and went about their days as normally as possible.

A priest also lived in this town, a personage of fearsome proportions to the then-small narrator. He towered above most men. His frame was large, but he was thin. Dark robes hung from his wide shoulders, cavernous against his thin sides. His eyes, set deep above marked cheekbones, burned with such intensity that they seemed to penetrate one's very thoughts.

The soldiers' activities grew increasingly bizarre until, one day, the small boy stood on the sidewalk and watched as soldiers, heavily armed, marched down the street, herding Jewish people into a small pen. An enclosed truck stood waiting nearby. The pen became more and more crowded with quietly terrified families. Passers-by averted their eyes and scuttled fearfully past.

News must have reached the large ears of the priest. Down the sidewalk he marched with long, angry steps. Without words and without fear, the priest confronted the soldiers guarding the entrance of the pen. Eyes blazing, he pushed the guards and their guns aside and stepped into the enclosure. Inside, he turned and fixed those eyes momentarily on the eyes of each guard.

"If you take them, you must take me. They are my Brothers and Sisters."

Stunned, the guards looked from the priest to the faces of the people with whom he stood to the eyes of the people who had finally stopped walking and really looked.

Maybe for the first time, those soldiers really looked, too. And they were embarrassed at what they saw. Something about the priest's willingness to claim the suffering of others as his own so moved them that they stepped back. They broke orders, forfeiting their own lives.

"Go," they commanded the captives. "Quickly! Hide. And then get out of town."

Justice was executed in the earth.

And thorns do not ruin a picture.

Wondering around Town (and thoughts on Advent)

2010-12-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

I wonder... where does time go?

Now is now, and it's easy to accept it soon being yesterday. Perhaps someday today's now will be a long time ago, but not for many misty years. So we think. My sister Candace spent a week with me. During the 5.5 hour drive from Lancaster, she wanted to log some driving time for her license. It's a strange feeling, this flying down the road while telling the person behind the wheel stories of when they were born.

When began a snowfall of epic proportions, Candace and I went wandering around town, wondering at how all my favorite haunts were being transformed. I love the first snow, the dusty glitter that sticks to every intricate detail.

Christmas trees for sale along Market St.

I love this town's shabby grandeur...

And the fact that it's home to the best coffee shop ever.

Reading a book while drinking phenomenal coffee... surrounded by art and the warmth of human company... thinking to the beat of live music by local musicians... it feeds the soul, I'm telling you.

This church reminds me of a stately woman, beautiful and awe-inspiring, no matter what the season.

This church, I'm convinced, burst from the ground of its own accord, having been erected by fauns in Narnia.

I wonder what it is about bare branches... especially when all the tiny twigs are highlighted with snow. I wonder if there is a scientific explanation to how staring at them seems to hit "reset" on a hurried me.

See what I mean? Market House is even more inviting

under that lithe, living lace.

I used to imagine that little gnomes in pointy caps with bells on the tips of their pointy shoes made icicles with their shiny ice-picks.

I still like to wonder if I was right.

I wonder how the leaves that remain on trees feel at the coming of snow. Are they triumphant at having remained tenacious, or do they mourn being unable to lie at rest on the ground, being silently blanketed to sleep?

When awe leaves me wordless, I resort to quotes. Lately I've been pondering this one by C.S. Lewis:

"We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with God. God walks everywhere incognito. And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate. The real labour is to remember, to attend. In fact, to come awake. Still more, to remain awake."

With Advent underway, I've been thinking a lot about hope.

Like the generations who waited for the Messiah's arrival,

we wait for Him to come again.

We wait for many things, and hope enables us to really live in the waiting.

Hope is not a blissful denial of the present, eyes fixated on an expected end. It is an embracing of the reality of today's messiness while expecting a brighter tomorrow.

We shrink from pain and bleakness, but in estranging our hearts from walking their valleys we forfeit the full ecstasy of our hopes realized.

Whether in the Advent story or in this chapter of our lives, we need not rush too fast to the end, where everything is resolved. Beauty can be found in dissonance. Embrace it with this reassurance: we are not here alone.

The Tale of the Great Snow

2010-12-08T15:05:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a darling house in a darling town,

there lived three girls.

The girls loved all seasons, but could not wait until winter.

"Because," they said, "what is more enchanting than snow?"

Finally, winter came.

Snow began to fall, sifting silently from the sky.

The sky was white and low, the air was thick with snowflakes,

and the ground grew as white and clean as a new handkerchief.

The snow poured down for a whole week, piling higher

and higher.

It blanketed their roof.

It buried their porch.

It covered their flowerbeds.

It made their driveway disappear.

For several days, the girls dug out their cars with their hands and feet

when they went to work

and plowed into the snow as best as their cars could when they came home...

...because, you see, they had no snow shovel.

Finally, the day came when the snow was too deep to plow into with their cars.

They went to the store to buy a shovel.

When they got home, they could not park in the driveway.

They could not park on the road.

The snowplows would hit their cars.

And then the girls had an idea.

A terribly wonderful idea.

The neighbor man wasn't home.

He hadn't been, for weeks and weeks.

He wouldn't be back for more weeks and weeks.

His friend keept his driveway open, but they did not know why.

No one ever used it.

"We can park in his driveway!" they said.

Just for a few hours, until we can park in ours.

And so they did.

They went into the house to warm themselves and change into

Snow-Shoveling Clothes.

When they came back outside, this is what they saw.

Signs! Two signs.

One in front of each car.

"This is not good!" the girls declared (once they had stopped laughing).

"We do not want to bother our neighbor's friend!"

So they started shoveling, and guess what they found?

Their driveway was still there, under all that snow!

And so, they put their cars where they belonged.

Ebony (which was Becca's car) was very relieved to be where she belonged.

But already the snow had begun to cover her again.

Art & Lisa [iii]

2010-12-04T03:09:00.000-08:00

I don't pretend to be of remotely the same caliber as Daryl Musser Photography, the pro photographers at Art & Lisa's wedding. But I had so much fun that I bet the sun was jealous. Candid photography is exquisite because I get to follow my friends around all day, seeing, capturing, and being a part of almost everything. It's a fun challenge to look for angles and moments not being caught by the first shooters and documenting things as I see them without the pressure of trying to be perfect. :)

Just a little FYI, if you're getting married and looking for a photographer, I highly recommend Daryl Musser and his wife. I've followed their blog and admired their work for years, but neither their blog nor their facebook page wholly conveys the joy of working with them. They were professional and helpful, humble and admiring, funny and warmly human. I was especially impressed with their sensitivity to the bride and groom's relationship dynamic... they were all about capturing who Art and Lisa ARE.

Aaaand, here is the final run-down of a few of my favorite shots:

A little quiet interaction between poses...

Lisa's brother-in-law, Stephen, was holding the light screen one moment and the next...

My, my! What big EARS you have!

Another angle of a shot the Mussers' were taking...

Soon before the guests arrived at the church, Art was spotted wandering about with Lisa's bouquet, looking rather pleased with himself...

Pillar candles, red ribbon, and a mirror made a simple, beautiful bridal table. The smoothies were courtesy of Lisa's superbridesmaid friend, Susan, who whipped them up sometime between the ceremony and reception.

The photo table also had objects Art and Lisa had saved during significant moments in their story. A few I recognized and laughed at how much proverbial water has gone under the proverbial bridge. For instance, the jar of maple syrup I bought at Market House for Lisa when we were both at FB... a token of an inside joke involving her sappiness. :)

While waiting to enter the reception, Art was sitting in a very typical attitude. He saw me coming with the camera and said, "Yup, my job is done now." :)

Happily ever-after, Art and Lisa. I love you guys.

Art & Lisa [ii]

2010-11-30T12:45:00.000-08:00

Lisa is one of those rare people who is completely at home in her own skin. She's always been one of my go-to friends, the kind that you call when you just feel mixed-up and lost and need to be told you're alright. And that you can be comfortable in your skin, too.

In our five years of being friends, we've talked a mad lot. Identity, self-worth, theology, and the persecuted church. And guys. Shocking, I know. ;) In five years, we've both been asked by guys to whom we couldn't say "yes" and not asked by guys to whom we wouldn't have said "no". I still haven't figured out which is worse, but I know for a fact that Lisa's stuffed bear may have saved my hands a terrible fate. When I'd start pounding the floor, she'd throw me the bear. "Pound him; he's USED to it!"

Art just is the "big brother" type of guy that would tell me, "You're thinking too hard. Stop it; you're going to hurt yourself." :)

They both care hugely about other people.

Together, they're an amazing couple. Who but Art and Lisa would spend their Valentine's date delivering roses to their single friends?

Their wedding was just like them.

When Art gave his speech, he said that no person, no couple, is self-made. He said they are grateful for all the people who love them, and we all clapped because we all knew that the same was true about them... that even their wedding day was all about being with the people they love.

Mine was the honor of being candid photographer. Here are a few glimpses:

The church. Lisa liked it because the sanctuary was short and wide. The benches hugged the altar, so everyone could be fairly close to them.

Lisa's family is the close, loyal sort. The grandchildren are universally adored. When Kendall and Ginger arrived at the rehearsal with their mini crowd, this little guy steamed across the floor to Lisa with his arms outstretched like wings.

He must have been able to release her at some point, because here is the same guy with his grandpa who's talking to Art's youngest brother.

Their new Uncle Art is somewhat of a natural himself.

This shot is blurry because I tried to shoot without flash, but I love it. During the prayer that commenced rehearsal, Lisa's nephew looks a bit protective. And loved.

The lighting in the sanctuary was far less than ideal, but a lot of you have said you want to see shots of the families, so here goes. :)

Art and his parents.

Art and Lisa's parents.

How is it possible that I know so many talented people? The vocalists were phenomenal. Even during rehearsal, the music melted your insides and made you want to take off your shoes.

The bridal party's posture eeks out some of the reverence and sheer beauty of the music at that moment.

They didn't want to "practice" their vows. The words were tucked away and kept for the next day. Instead, they ad-libbed creative substitutes.

A happy, hand-swinging recessional. :)

The morning of the wedding was clear and frosty.

Both of them were so real, so relaxed, so present. They felt every moment without thought of the next.

The sufficiently dashing bridal party.

Art got a gem... and he knows it.

The adorable girls...

...held handwarmers with their bouquets in formal pictures and over their noses in candid ones.

The sisterhood endures...

We three have come a long from eating red jello during nightly rants in the Faith Builders dorm.

We're different, but still very much the same.

I like that about us.

Art & Lisa [iii] coming later...

Art & Lisa [i]

2010-11-22T18:32:00.000-08:00

"All I want is a room somewhere,
Far away from the cold night air,
With one enormous chair.
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

Lots of chocolate for me to eat.
Lots of coal makin' lots of 'eat.
Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet.
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

Oh, so loverly sittin' absobloominlutely still.
I would never budge 'till spring
Crept over the windowsill.

Someone's 'ead restin' on my knee,
Warm an' tender as 'e can be,
Who takes good care of me.

Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?
Loverly, loverly, loverly, loverly."

-Eliza (My Fair Lady)

Lisa and Art had a loverly wedding.

I've never actually cried at a ceremony before,

but the thickets and meadows of their story only make it more miraculous.

Art cried too, so there. :)

More candid shots of this loverly couple later!

Day 7

2010-11-21T04:41:00.000-08:00

"We can do no great things; only small things with great love." -Mother Teresa

This jazz band was playing on the sidewalk in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Playing their hearts out, for free, so people could dance down the sidewalk.

Day 6

2010-11-20T10:01:00.000-08:00

Earth's crammed with heaven

And every common bush afire with God;

And only he who sees takes off his shoes--

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Photo taken on Sam & Mattie's farm... several springs ago.

Day 5

2010-11-19T03:22:00.000-08:00

"Behold my servant,
whom I uphold, my chosen,
in whom my soul delights;
I have put my Spirit upon him,
he will bring forth justice to the nations.
He will not cry or lift up his voice,
or make it heard in the street;
a bruised reed will he not break,
and a dimly burning wick he will not quench;
he will faithfully bring forth justice.
He will not fail or be discouraged
till he has established justice
in the earth;
and the coastlands wait for his law."

Isaiah 42:1-4

This passage... and the season of Christmas... has become warmer and more precious since I've begun to understand what God's justice is: quiet instead of forceful, patient instead of judicial, healing instead of destroying.

It's getting colder, naked tree branches fringe the sky, Christmas music is constantly playing in our house, and Market House has evergreens and bows on their windows... I wonder if our expectant waiting and preparation for Christmas is anything like the excitement and patience of the people who waited for the birth of our Savior.

Day 4

2010-11-18T02:07:00.000-08:00

A Franciscan Benediction

May God bless us with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our hearts.

May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.

Amen.

Day 3

2010-11-17T01:43:00.000-08:00

Hard times can eat away at a person's identity. The things and people dearest to you shape you, and when you lose them, you start to wonder who you are. It's a good thing, a purification. But it also feels as though you just lost your anchor.

A few years ago, when I had "lost an anchor", I got this text from a friend who knew what was going on:

"You are God's treasured possession."

Something about the image those words invoke still changes me... and tells me who I am.

Anna, thanks for giving me today's "sticky words".

Day 2

2010-11-16T10:56:00.000-08:00

The prayer of St. Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

Sticky words week

2010-11-15T13:25:00.000-08:00

Some poems and passages stick to the sides of your soul like good, whole-wheat bread "sticks to your ribs". Months and even years after you first read them, they roll about in your brain and make their way down into your heart.

This week, I plan to introduce to you some of my favorite "sticky" pieces. One every day.

Martin Luther starts us off:

"No man is so high or may rise so high

that he need not fear becoming the lowliest.

Conversely, no one has fallen, or may fall,

so deeply as to preclude all hope of becoming the highest.

By saying: 'The first shall be last'

Christ takes all presumption away from you and forbids you

to exalt yourself above any prostitute,

even though you were Abraham, David, Peter, or Paul.

But by saying: 'The last shall be first' He guards you

against all despair and forbids you to cast yourself

under the feet of any saint, even though

you were Pilate, Heord, Sodom and Gomorrah."

At LAST!

2010-11-13T10:27:00.000-08:00

This letter flew through the mail slot a few minutes ago, necessitating a few celebratory shrieks.

This is the start of a dream-come-true! I start next fall, and four years after THAT, I hope to hold a BA in Psychology.

Whether I'm serving people professionally or unofficially, I hope to be doing so for the rest of my life. I want to understand people better, so it's my hope this study equips me to do just that.

The Earth is Flat

2010-11-10T02:45:00.000-08:00

"The first shall be last and the last shall be first." That's what Jesus said, and I thought I understood it. He means, in His eyes, His Kingdom, we're all equal - every breathing one of us.

I have no problem being equal with the people society considers to be "last" because of the rung they occupy on the socioeconomic ladder. No problem. They're beautiful. As a general rule, they're unassuming and patient, slow-dancing with the hours, rather than sprint through them, not noticing even the sidewalk. They know the underside of life and stand more firmly on the ground.

Somehow, though, I have a blind spot in this whole equality idea when it comes to people like politicians. This one, for example. He often pops in and bolts out of the coffee shop I haunt when I want to read, watch people (in a philosophical, non-creepy sort of way, please conclude), and drown any yawn in a deep, warm mocha. I've watched him do his pop-and-bolt routine, grabbing a coffee to go while talking incessantly to the Bluetooth on his ear. Even his Bluetooth is modern and shiny - one of those sleek, rectangular sorts. No time for silence or conversation with the people in front of his face as his shiny shoes take him in for his coffee and back out to his expensive mirror-on-wheels SUV so fast that his perfectly-matched tie would be streaming over his shoulder, were it not designer-pinned fast. Senseless wasting of Earth's resources, constantly chasing power and control... I have more than once rolled my internal eyes. Not my visible ones, of course, but I guess God saw just as well. And He knew better than I that I felt myself more righteous than this guy I assumed thought he was "first".

I was positive I had a few quarters somewhere in my book tote, but (thanks to a law passed by a guy named Murphy) I stood at the parking meter, fishing in vain. Before I saw him, I heard Mr. Politics coming down the sidewalk. He was telling some remote person precisely what was going to happen in the following election, how it was all going to fall in their favor. I was happily elbow-deep in my search for a quarter. He remote-started his chromy chariot from across the parking lot. As he reached both it and me, he asked his invisible colleague to please excuse him for a second.

"Ma'am, I have one in my vehicle," he said to me. And he did. He also retraced his steps to bring it to me. I thanked him... surprised, warmed, and completely humbled.

Sometimes altars of repentance and sanctification very closely resemble parking meters. Maybe Jesus says the earth is flat after all and no one stands above or below another. I hope I remember this. I also hope Mr. Politics' coffee was exceptionally stellar.

Starry Knight

2010-11-06T18:34:00.000-07:00

These nights are "clear and cold," as my dad would say.

Winter stars are icier, more remote, than summer stars. Icier and more remote, but more exquisite. Instead of a soft, comfortable sort of beauty, they're like Tolkien's Galadriel. Beautiful in a breath-taking, awe-inspiring... almost frightening sort of way.

I like night. All the colors laid to rest in the care of greys and blacks, the world is simpler. Closer. Both more and less secure because of what the eye cannot see. It's in the night that streetlights are as comforting as my striped mittens. It's the darkness that makes Orion my warrior and fields mine for imagining. It's also the knowledge of my lack of sight that makes me want light. Value it.

Making plans for the future makes me wonder where, who, and what I'll be in ten years. If the next ten hold half as much as the last five, only God knows. Five years ago, I was a painfully shy youngster, moving to Lancaster to teach school. I never anticipated the smooth deeps and frothy rapids ahead. Like darkness, lack of foresight is a blessed curse.

Some of my gypsy-girl wanderings have bade me "bon voyage" with riches I wouldn't trade for any sort of shiny metal... some have left me out in the dark and cold. All have left me with the comfort that

Light shines in the darkness for the upright (Psalm 112:4a)

and this is the same Light that madman John talked about... that Light that shines in darkness.

His name is Jesus. My Knight in Shining Armor. That radiance will guide me through the next ten years as it has the last five.

Where, who, what? Who knows? Here's to the adventure through the darkness that only accentuates Light!

Kombucha project

2010-11-05T03:38:00.000-07:00

Kombucha, the "mother" of all drinks.

My first gallon is brewing!

I've been literally craving kombucha, and Anna was kind enough to send me a "mother", or "scoby", to get me started. You can see the mother near the top of the jar in the picture... it's a white-ish, rubbery sort of mushroom thing. Like yeast, it's a living organism. Here's how you put her to work:

1. Get a mother. You can either get one from someone who already brews kombucha, or buy a bottle of raw (unpasteurized) kombucha from a health food store. Take the lid off the bottle and let it set in a warm place out of direct sunlight until a film forms on the top. This is your mother.

2. Brew 1 gal. black tea. I used 5 tea bags. Stir in 1 cup of sugar until dissolved. Let tea cool until almost room temperature. If the tea is too hot, it will kill your poor mother.

3. Pour into a glass container. Metal or plastic will disrupt the brewing process. Truth be told, I went to Wal-mart and bought a gallon jar of Kosher Dill pickles, just so I could have the jar. We have a whole gallon of huge pickles to eat. Any help, anyone? ;)

4. Put the mother into the tea. Fasten a piece of porous fabric over the jar and put the jar in a warm place out of direct sunlight. We have forced-air heating, so my jar has taken up residence on a floor heater.

5. Let the mother work her magic for 2 weeks. She will "eat" the sugar and release tons of healthy enzymes into the tea. Once the brewing process is complete, it will taste something like carbonated apple cider.

6. Once the 2 weeks are up and/or you're satisfied with the taste, remove the mother, cap the tea, and refrigerate it. You'll notice that the mother has grown another layer. This is a new mother... or her baby, depending upon how enthralled you are by this point. Peel the layer off and either discard the old mother or use both mothers to start two jars.

The enzymes kombucha contains boost a healthy immune system and aid in digestion, much as do the enzymes in unprocessed yogurt. I can attest to that fact. Last winter, I was sick in bed with the swine flu, and kombucha was the only thing I could keep down. Although I can't prove this, kombucha is thought to prevent cancer. Take that with a grain of scoby.

In a few weeks, if anyone needs a mother, let me know! Cheers!

Here is a more in-depth, scientific report on the benefits of kombucha, FYI.

Recent Living-Room Scene

2010-11-02T10:29:00.000-07:00

Bekah: "I need a pen [as in the writing instrument]."
Me: "Well, you could pretend you're sitting in one. The living room walls are the edges of the pen."
Bekah: [after a long look] "Well, how will I get out?"
Me: "The door?"
Bekah: "A hole-punch, a hole-punch! Oh, my KINGDOM for a pole-hunch. What the world is a pole-hunch?"
Me: [having regained speech] "I'd get you a pen, but that would mean I'd have to sit up."
Me: [managing to leave the couch, walking out of the living room] "I just love U2 (the band). I'm sorry, but I do."
Me: [re-entering the living room, from the doorway throwing the pen like a dart. dart neatly misses Bekah's mouth because she ducks. it hits her above the heart.]
Bekah: "Hey, watch it! I'm going to need that someday. Maybe not now, but someday it might be nice."
Me: "We really should record our conversations when we're in these moods. We say some pretty priceless things."
Bekah: "Maybe we only think they are funny because we are in these moods."
Me: "No, I bet anyone with a sense of humor remotely close to ours would appreciate it."

And so we re-constructed the conversation for your evaluation. Word-for-word.

Prayer for Mission

2010-11-01T02:29:00.000-07:00

This beautiful, simple prayer from The Daily Office both rested and disquieted me this morning:

Lord Jesus Christ,

you stretched out your arms of love

on the hard wood of the cross

that everyone might come within

the reach of your saving embrace:

So clothe us in your Spirit

that we,

reaching forth our hands in love,

may bring those

who do not know you

to the knowledge and love of you;

for the honor of your Name.

Amen.

This one's a freebie.

2010-10-30T00:39:00.000-07:00

Rather insignificant thoughts based on a rather mundane and unpleasant experience:
i wish apples wouldn't rot
i try not to get too upsot
when, reaching for a fruit i thought
was nice and firm, and find it not
the same shape as the thing i bought
i try not to get too upsot
but i wish apples wouldn't rot

To those who do not know me in person, I do apologize. Most likely, I should also apologize to those of you who do... but perhaps you're better prepared to understand why I found writing poetry over an oozing fruit mightily funny. If not, take heart. More monumental mysteries await discovery.

bound

2010-10-27T11:55:00.000-07:00

out the window
the house across the street
went sliding past

a leaf
flaming yellow
fell up instead of down

everything's wrong
for a moment
i couldn't stop it

until my head
stopped spinning
and i was still sitting on the couch

a deep breath
focusing eyes
stopping thoughts

i wish that's all
it took for me
to put your world back to rights

the chasms behind your eyes
your voice gone husky
your smile you wish was real

that's what makes me never sleep
spend hours forbidding them to touch you
trying to buy you with my tears

and yet you go willingly
knowing your fate
drawn, in fascinated horror

how can i teach you
to love yourself
half as much as i do?

how can i turn to rubble
walls a hammer
passes through, not penetrating?

i tell you all the time
i wish i could save you
but i can't

you decide for yourself
i can't decide for you
my hands are bound

Oh, the things I learn

2010-10-24T05:02:00.000-07:00

Kids' club is in full swing. I love the sisters who bounce into my car every week, all talking at once and each making sure her sisters all have buckled themselves properly. As much as I love my girls at work, being with eager, happy kids is invigorating.

I love the honest questions and answers. During prayer time, Megan requested prayer for her cat. He has finally succumbed to cancer. Not sure how to pray for a dead cat, I asked God to help Megan not to feel too sad when she misses her cat. "But you didn't pray for my cat!" Megan persisted. I really didn't know how to pray for dead cats, but instead of admitting it, I asked her if she wanted to talk to God about her cat. Promptly, she did. "God, I hope Fluffy is doing OK. Are you taking care of him? Tell him I miss him. But tell him I do NOT miss him peeing on the couch." Megan knows how to pray for dead cats. Now I do, too.

Last week, a table-full of girls sat relatively quietly during the story about Jesus calling the twelve disciples. I have been aware of my coming at lessons like a steam-roller, driving the moral (weee-weee-weee-weeee) all the way home. Reading the story and asking Jesus to teach me how to teach, I realized He wasn't marching up to people and saying "Follow me (because-you're-doing-it-wrong-and-you-really-need-to-pay-close-attention-so-you-know-how-to-walk-correctly)". When Philip brought Nathanael to Jesus, He said, "I saw you before you came, while you were still under the fig tree." He didn't take him to task for dissing Jesus' hometown and doubting Jesus' validity because He came from Nazareth. He let Nathanael know he was seen, wanted, before he saw Jesus. He proclaimed Nathanael a true and honest man and told him he'd see better things than foresight if he followed. Things seem more in focus for me. Instead of stressing over making sure they understand good bevaviors, my job is to present Jesus and tell them how He's teaching me to follow Him.

For an activity, we traced our feet (because we're trying to be followers, duh) onto pieces of paper and colored them. I thought perhaps these 9+ girls would declare this silly and juvenile, but they kicked off their shoes with abandon and traced each others' feet. The part that made me get emotional was this: a girl who was in my class three years ago when I helped with club while at FB has made tremendous, tremendous progress. It used to be impossible to get her to enter into activities. She'd sit, seething, when she wasn't running out of the building or inflicting injury to the person naive enough to get too close. When given craft materials, she'd grab the darkest colors possible and vehemently scribble her paper beyond recognition. Now? She's asking me to have her help me during class. She was the first one to grab her foot-tracing buddy and tear off both her shoes and socks. Her finished picture looks like a piece of modern art... intricate design and... bright, happy colors.

Dear girls. How fortunate am I to spend a few hours with them every week? Very fortunate, that's what. Even when they tell impossible stories such as mistakenly carving their pet instead of a pumpkin.

Love is...

2010-10-22T08:52:00.000-07:00

How can we be sure of anything

the tide changes.

The wind that made the grain wave gently yesterday

blows down the trees tomorrow.

And the sea sends sailors crashing on the rocks,

as easily as it guides them safely home.

I love the sea

but it doesn’t make me less afraid of it

I love you

but I’m not always sure of what you are

or how you feel.

-Rod McKuen

Vulnerable, frightening, and painful. That's what love can be.

But love is also the friend who wakes up when you come shivering home from work early, nauseated and feverish. Love is the warmth of the two blankets she covers you with and the nourishment of the chicken bone both soup she makes you before going back to bed herself.

Thanks, Bekah. You're an angel.

Chalkboard Challenge

2010-10-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

Every ounce of work I put into making my chalkboard has been given back to me sevenfold.

She's just grateful like that.

Right now, she's been challenging me a lot.

That's a high calling.

And it's only a basic requirement.

I'm still learning.

No, I'm being taught.

There is a difference.

Part of a Reflection

2010-10-17T05:01:00.000-07:00

I find it intriguing how, as I fall more in love with God, I fall more in love with people. I love their faces, their hands, the way they are made, and how they move.

One of my favorite exercises is to take mental photographs of people I meet. Frozen for a moment, in black and white, I notice them more. I feel them, as I feel pieces of art as I walk through a gallery. The little lady, her vintage shawl pulled close to her wrinkled face, patiently turned in the direction her bus will approach. The powerful man, sun rippling off the waves of his dark muscles as he walks down the sidewalk, the fist of his tiny son clenched on one of his long fingers. The intent, dirty face of the culvert-layer, shadowed by his hard hat. The group of laughing college kids, nearly perfect in their youthfulness, but furtively deciphering where they fit in the dynamic. The woman, alone at her table in the coffee shop, loudly informing the hapless recipient of her phone call the unfairness of the traffic citation she received. The man with a grungy plastic bag sitting on the bench at the corner of the park... his blank yet searching eyes.

In each person, I see their Maker's regal reflection.

In each person, I see myself.

I might be developing a frail grasp of what it means to be a part of this reflection. In a large sense, individually, we are broader, deeper, larger, and more textured because of our being in relationship with God and people. To some extent, we comprise each other, help each other find ourselves, and find ourselves in each other. Just as our the relationship of our Maker's personality is nearly impossible to dissect, without people we almost cease to be ourselves.

In losing relationship with someone, we face the fear that, irretrievably, a part of us ceases to exist.

Fitness check

2010-10-16T05:18:00.000-07:00

Oh, mercy. I looked up strength ratios.

Optimal leg strength is:

•Male athletes 2 × "Body Weight" = weight able to bench

•Female athletes 1.5 × "Body Weight" = weight able to bench

Optimal arm strength is:

•Male athletes 1.25 × "Body Weight" = weight able to bench

•Female athletes 0.8 × "Body Weight" = weight able to bench

Leg strength is right on... arm? Not so much.

I wonder... is this indicative of... or the reason for... my being a runner?

I'm going with the reason thing.

For now, at least.