Ladies in Waiting, an addendum

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.

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

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?

Discovering a dragon

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...



What I Did On My Days Off

After working nine consecutive days, having two days off was utter bliss. I slept, slept, and slept some more. In between all those beautiful sleeps, I did the following:

Amanda (my dear friend who just moved into Place de la Concorde, as I've dubbed our house, making Three instead of Two), Bekah, and I went to the fair. Forgive me if I wax sentimental, but walking through the cow barns was my favorite part. My lungs felt as if they'd been suffocating for lack of dairy air. I breathed deeply, patted cows, and just generally reveled in the sight of so many beautiful animals. My dad is a genius when it comes to dairying and is a self-taught cattle judge so good that he won a judging contest once. From him I learned what I know about cattle genetics and the marks of a good cow. Here's a little-known Becca fact: for as long as I can remember, I read my dad's "bull books" from Select Sires and picked out which bull I'd like to breed with each cow in our herd to balance her weak points. For fun. Until I was seventeen years old. What else do you expect from a girl raised in a family that goes to cow sales for family entertainment? Suffice it to say that there were some lovely bovines at the fair, and I enjoyed them more fully thanks to my dad. The horses, of course, were my second-favorite of the animals. Cupping the nose of a prize-winning Arabian in your hand is quite thrilling, as was the draft horse judging. Oh, and the pigs! I so wanted to take a baby squealer home with me! They are so comical and their mini snouts so perfect. I restrained myself, however. I doubt city ordinances would allow a pig in my backyard. We held a 7-foot boa, ate sausage sandwiches and ice cream, I won a T-shirt in a dart-throwing game, Amanda won an adorable mug in a coin-tossing game (to add to our epic collection of mugs), and Bekah gave me a bite of a deep-fried Snickers bar (it was good, but one bite sufficed). Oh, and I bought one of those super-comfy Indian blankets. The fair was lovely.

I've been reading The Children of Hurin and The Legend of Sigurd & Gudrun, both excerpts from the (I think) twelve-volume set of Tolkien's "History of Middle-Earth". Fascinating history bits and genealogies. Did you know the elf-lord Elrond of Rivendell had a tiny bit of human in his ancestry? Also, Elrond and Galadriel, the elf-queen of Lothlorien had a common ancestor. Of course, being so immersed in Middle-Earth lore, watching the Lord of the Rings Trilogy was perfectly natural. Good thing Bekah and Amanda love it as much as I do. Such fun to laugh, clench your fists, shout agonized advice to Frodo, and quote favorite quotes together!

In the evening air that smacked invigoratingly of fall, Bekah and I dug a flower-bed home for the birdbath. I most satisfiedly mixed good compost into the soil around the white echinacea and pink tea rose bush. I'll have to post pictures of the result later.

My days off were quite tolerable, indeed.

This entire post is for those of you who want to know what I actually DO with myself. If, perchance, you've read this far.

Tolkien and the Gospel, or "Adventure"

I think we all reach points in our stories when it seems like we've reached the end. Nothing seems to be turning out the way it should, and we don't see much reason to go on. The problem is, the book isn't over. Somehow, we have to keep living, going from page to page.

It's hard. So hard that you being to understand that you can't do it much longer. Only you don't seem to have much choice.

If only you knew how it all would end, you could live this page. But that's the problem: you don't know. And every page of every day, the words your feet scratch seem to be the same as the page before. You guess the next page will be the same.

I've been there, and I began to understand something: my story isn't my own. I'm a character in a meta narrative, an epic that was begun before the ages. Rather than focusing on whether or not my end will be the one of my choice, I only have to see what my part is on this page. In that realization, I found something: adventure.

J.R.R. Tolkien, master of human story-telling, says it well. It's the scene where Frodo and Sam are nearing Mount Doom in the evil wasteland of Mordor, near the end of their weary quest to destroy the One Ring. But you know this, right? If you don't, I beg you to end your deprivation and read the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I don’t like anything here at all,’ said Frodo, ‘step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid.’


‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Sam. ‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have just landed in them usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?’

‘I wonder,’ said Frodo. ‘But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’

It's true. Life isn't for wimps. That doesn't mean we have to just buck up and deal with things, pretending we don't care or it doesn't hurt. Neither should we have to pretend that because God knows what's going on, this must be His Divine Doing and we shouldn't question. Being characters who only see today, it's not only fine, but necessary, to be honest. To cry as well as laugh, to question as well as believe. Meanwhile, we keep writing. With hope and an abiding sense of excitement. Because we know the Author. And we know that He is weaving together, with threads of Redemption and Mercy, the imperfect parts we all play... and that, somehow, when the Author ends the chapter titled "Time", it will all come out right.

The most admired of lives were lived by those who kept going, not avoiding hardship, because they knew. They were part of something bigger. A grand adventure.

A Celebration of Life

Laverne and Julie's wedding... the words that describe it are the words that describe them as people:

refreshing,

unpretentious,

beautiful,

emotional,

radiant,

holy.

Their day was a vibrant celebration of their love for each other infused with a tangible love for the people in their lives.

Mine was the immense privilege of being candid photographer. Julie told me she wanted me to capture "the faces of me and my loved ones laughing, crying, and otherwise showing emotion", which meant I got a backstage pass to the most tender moments of the day. I tell you, at times I felt like I was treading on holy ground. :) To say that, just by being, they blessed me, is an understatement.

Here are a few of the blog-rated shots I can't help but share:

Pre-processional happy jitters with the bridesmaids.

Ready to walk the aisle with her proud papa.

Husband and wife! Tearful hugs with her parents. Notice Laverne? He couldn't let go of her one minute. They could both be hugging different people, but at least one arm was always around Julie. Too cute.

Flowers from the bride's mother's garden and river rocks made the perfect reception deco`r.

This was SO them. :) Bare feet.

Upon arriving at the reception site, guests were greeted and served meadow tea by the couple who, by this time, looked as if they'd never stop smiling.

Music. That was another thing. The ceremony music, done by a full choir of Laverne & Julie's friends, was stunningly splendid. The music continued as the reception festivities opened with songs by Julie's siblings and one of Laverne's brothers.

Thankful moments.

Lots of laughter.

This was another "so typical" thing: instead of having the bridal table served, Laverne and Julie went through the buffet line with the guests. Aren't they great?

Simply delicious food.

... and lots of time for the people they love.

It was one of those days which left no one in doubt of the fact that what Laverne and Julie have is real, life-giving, and good. One of the things that struck me the most was their gratitude for the people in their lives. They don't pretend to be self-made. Living out of that gratitude, they bless others at amazing depths.

The table containing gifts for the people who had a part in the wedding attracted much attention. Laverne and Julie gave books as gifts, books that perfectly fit each person. 

 As if being a part of their day wasn't gift enough, Laverne and Julie gave me this book:

"Drops Like Stars, a few thoughts on creativity and suffering", by Rob Bell.

I couldn't believe it! I've wanted the book for over a year! The really cool thing? They didn't know I've wanted it, they just thought it fit me. Laverne said that they thought of getting some more copies for other people who had part in the wedding, but decided that I was the only one getting one. I was speechless.

Visually, artistically, the book is a treat. It gives wings to the soul-words it contains like notes to lyrics. If you ever find the book for sale (which, to be clear, mine is not), clutch it to your chest and don't let go until it's legally yours! Let the clerk scan the bar code through your clenched fingers!

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."

horticulture therapy. and a book.

You know what?

I'm a believer.

In Jesus Christ, most definitely,

but also in the therapeutic value of the world He gave us.

For me, nothing calms, focuses, and comforts me more than growing things and making my space in the world productive and beautiful.

Here are some of the results:

My heirloom Pink Brandywine tomatoes are doing splendidly. Call me weird, but there is just something about raising plants from seed that makes them much more endearing. :) You're wondering about the black plastic in the background? I'm raising cucumbers for a local horticulture program's annual pickling project. Due to a lack of a more organic mulch to control the weeds where (hopefully) the vines will sprawl... plastic! Because the previous tenants didn't use the garden, weeds are prolific. Hopefully all the nasty black plastic will smother them and next year will be easier. Meanwhile, I hoe away at the rest of the soil. Oh, and the marigolds? One of my mom's gardening tricks is to plant marigolds between tomatoes. The marigolds act as a natural pest-repellent. It works, too. The Japanese beetles have been massacring my poor daisies, but my tomatoes don't have a spot.  

I'll spare your eyes the trauma of a "before" picture of the front of my house. (Actually, I forgot to take one. But it's most definitely a mercy.) Grass grew right up to the steps, around the bushes... For one thing, it made the house look like a cracker box sitting on the ground. Not properly established, if you know what I mean. For another thing, mowing was a bear... and not a cute little panda, either. No matter how hard one tried to shove the mower under and around the bushes or into the crannies around the steps, a lush fringe of green remained. To top it off, the level of the grass being significantly higher than the walks, a nice long "skinned" strip graced the edge, like a bad haircut caused by a ridge in the skull. 

Using concrete blocks, bricks, and rocks I found at various locations on the property, I built a little retaining wall and proceeded to remove sod, a rewarding but monotonous process. My one hope is that all the earthworms I severed in the digging will happily grow into separate organisms and live happily ever after. The little dots of color are actually salvia, delphiniums, tickseed, moonflowers, and daisies. Once they mature, life will be more colorful. Meanwhile, my house looks happier... and I smile every time I pull into the driveway.

This was another Difficult to Mow area, which someone had partially remedied by laying an almost solid cover of flat rocks. "Almost" is key here. Grass had come up between the rocks, so I removed a few (both grass clumps and rocks) and planted hostas I brought with me from Lancaster. Thanks, Kathy! 

On the porch is my potted herb garden. The black pot in the distance contains my newest endeavor. I admired a friend's tea rose bush this morning, and she promptly cut a sweet rose for me. I read that honey can be used as an organic rooting hormone, and I hope the article was right. I wounded the bottom of the cutting, smeared it in honey, removed the lower leaves, immersed six inches of the cutting in loose potting soil, and inverted a container over the leafed, exposed end. The Rosebush Project has begun, adding to my family of growy things. :)

I wonder if Thomas More would hold that my pleasure in gardening is the release of an inner need? He (I'm sorry, the character he created to speak for him) maintains that the only real pleasures are the absence of discomfort and the the release of inner needs. Maybe I'm not enough of a narcissist, because I'm pretty sure some of my pleasures are a bit external, gifts I receive from beings and objects outside myself. Although it is possible I have an inner need to commune with said beings and objects. Hmm. More has some interesting things to say about asceticism, wealth, and ego, too.  If you've never read "Utopia", do. Sociology with a side of tongue-in-cheek humor at its best.

current loves

After three weeks of either working or being in training classes six days a week, having yesterday and today off was utter bliss. As a result, my yard looks as though someone actually lives in this place. Mowing the grass was an adventure in itself. The grass was about three inches too long for my most awesome reel mower to be much help, so I hauled the "normal" mower out of the garage. After a moment of begging God to make it start, I yanked the start cord. It promptly stopped dead at half length and repeated to do so occasionally, surprisingly, my arm remained attached to my shoulder even at the point where I glanced at the driveway, fully expecting to see it lying there. Maybe the mower needed more oil. It did. Nothing to do but swallow my pride, walk into Advance Auto, and politely inquire, "What type of oil do you think my mower needs?" But wait, it gets better. Obviously, the mower engine is of a rather delicate sort. If I took more than a half swath and pushed any faster than a snail's pace, it died. And so, every few minutes, I was hauling away at that ol' starter cord again. I think I'll get the blades of my reel mower sharpened next week.


An errand to the Post Office resulted in these great finds at the next-door thrift store:

I'm always on the lookout for good kids' books. I don't know why; I just like them. Besides, I don't want my house to be completely boring when little people come to visit. "Black Cat" is beautiful. It won the Coretta Scott King Award for non-violent social justice. It says a lot in just a few poetic words and modified photographs that are almost abstract. Stunning. I won't do reviews of all the others, but if you ever see them, snatch them up! :) I was especially happy with "Little Women" and "The Hundred and One Dalmatians (unabridged)"... favorites from my early adolescence... and I could NOT believe my eyes when I saw "A Wrinkle in Time"! I started reading a friend's copy nearly a year ago and never finished it. You know that feeling? Like being caught in midair mid-bungee jump? Always wondering what happened? Anyhow, it's been on my "buy the next time I place an Amazon order" ever since. Amazon sure can't beat fifty cents. :D 

Speaking of happy things, my back door makes me smile every time I come home:

The white peony bush in my backyard is absolutely breathtaking... what is more luxurious than bedside flowers?

A little girl from the "Shelter" unit sat beside me at the staff meeting on Thursday. She's at Bethesda only temporarily, so she wasn't at school with the rest of the kids. I haven't worked down on Shelter yet, but she took to me quickly... too quickly. Beautiful little her. She drew this picture of me:

(I don't think I'm breaking HIPPA by posting this; she wrote her nickname.) Halfway through the meeting, I looked down at her to see her staring at me intently. I smiled at her, and she sighed and laid her head on my shoulder. How can a person smile and cry simultaneously? 

I love my job.

Wait, did I say that before? ;)

It's by far the hardest job I've ever done, but by far the most rewarding. Some mornings I come home, thinking, "I can't believe I get paid to do this!" Other mornings, I stagger home, utterly exhausted both physically and emotionally, and think, "I better get paid for that!" :) 

John, I'm going to take your suggestion and give a little run-down of what Bethesda is and what I do. :)

"Bethesda Children’s Home, Lutheran Social Services is a Christian ministry that provides superior Behavioral Health Services to children, youth, and families." That's their mission statement. Most of our clients come from Philadelphia, sent here by court-order due to circumstances and conditions making foster placement not the ideal option. We are not a "secure", or "lockdown", facility. However, we are regulated enough that we are required to not let clients out of our sight for more than twenty minutes, day or night. Based upon their needs, an I.S.P. (Individual Service Plan) is developed for each client, and the clients are integrated into routines for each segment of the day to establish good habits and provide a secure atmosphere. As clients complete routines well and complete the four levels of social and psychological treatment, they can graduate from the program and go home... If they have a home. Some don't. One of the clients kinda tears my heart. He's smart, funny, good-looking, likable, and not doing well in the program. He has no incentive to do so because he has nowhere to go after he leaves. The thing I love about Bethesda is that it is designed to empower its clients to do well in life, no matter what their circumstances are. These kids are survivors of the saddest of situations, and, even sadder, their circumstances are not likely to change unless they change themselves. It seems cruel, to tell that to adolescents... but it's stark reality. I can't imagine being in some of their shoes, waiting for the state to tell me where I'm going to live next.

I've learned a lot from my co-workers and trainers about loving these kids well while being hard-nosed enough to not let them push you around. It really is my prayer that Jesus will make His love known to them through me... and that it would change their lives.

What do I do? My official title is "Child Care Counselor". I'm working 3rd shift, which means I do bed checks every 20 min., file papers, and other legalities until it's time to wake the kids, get them through their morning routines, and take them to school. No, it doesn't always go like clockwork. :) Each unit is comprised of up to sixteen 'tweens and teens, and a lot can happen in a morning. On the whole, though, I love what I do. 

Please pray for me... I still have a lot to learn, and the job is pretty high-pressure sometimes. My greatest desire is that God uses me to speak Truth to these kids... in all its relevancy.

Trying to Follow

A misty rain veiled the city this evening. A spring rain. A running rain.

I couldn't resist.

All the tension of waiting all day for the call that hasn't come. All the questions I've been asking that haven't seemed answered. All the frustration of waiting and silence drained through the soles of my running shoes.

"Howdy, mum! Off for your run?"

"Yessir! It's beautiful!"

He laughed from his porch. Laugh as big as his white smile in stunning contrast to his skin.

"Sorry." He returned to his phone conversation. "Dat was my neighbor. I tol' you about my neighbors, Clair and Anna? She's their sister."

I smiled as I ran on. Because I am proud to be his neighbor. Because I've never been able to convince the whole block I'm not related to Clairs'... and because I love belonging to the "family" that does make me their "sister".

Reverently through the paths of bejeweled trees and flowers of the park, stopping to kiss a dogwood bloom. The cross-shaped white blooms with rusty edges and rough-crowned centers. The azalea bush an unspeakable hue, rain-dropped and lit by a watery sun. The persimmon tree's new baby leaves.

On down to the river, with its river-otter mudslides and my favorite tree, all newly green.

Back to the road, for the pure joy of running. Of feeling more alive than I had all day, hunched over a computer.

Running.

All the hopes, frustrations, dreams, and fears of late solidified into a question a friend asked me once. "What do you want to be the sum of your life?"

My answer came back to me: "I want a lot of people to know they are loved."

I want to run with that news, to follow the trail left by the greatest Lover... to glory in the immensity of His wake. I want to teach others to run... for the sheer joy of it.

It's too big for me. I can't master the pace. About the time I think I do, I take my eyes off my feet and see I'm far behind. I don't have this loving this down pat. I am less and less confident in my ability to do it myself, much less teach others.

At the end of my street, I waved to a lady I often see as I drive by but never have talked to. She yelled something about diabetes, and I crossed the street to talk to her. How lonely does one have to be to tell one's complete medical history to a complete stranger? When I made my leave, she said, "Thanks for talking to me!" I thanked her as well, and felt my face as lit as hers. In her lined and toothless face, her waist-length iron and white hair, her wide, faded blue eyes, I saw Jesus.

I've been asking Him to teach me to follow, to teach me to love. Begging Him to show His face. He did. In the beauty of people, in the beauty of nature. I saw Him.

And now I'm wondering if making disciples is as much about being taught as it is about teaching... receiving as much as giving.

A quote by Shane Hipps in "Flickering Pixels" has been niggling the interior of my cranium since I read it. "We are called to make disciples, not believers."

Good thing, too. Because the I've found the whole "making believers" thing to be a fine line between ethnocentric bigotry and total irrelevancy.

In the left-brained, logical, sequential thinking formed by the written culture following the printing press, Christianity became a set of doctrines to be embraced mentally. Hence, fundamental evangelical churches. Fulfilling the Great Commission involved dispersing written words.

Now? Who cares what you think in your head? With the advent of technology, our thinking patterns are reverting back to the visual, right-brained mode. Somewhat similar to the culture in which the stories of Scripture were told both verbally and through stained-glass windows and paintings, it's less important to us (culturally speaking) if someone believes in predestination or believes in hell. It's irrelevant to now, to today's triumph and tragedy. Trying to argue someone into the Kingdom is like "trying to nail jello to a wall" (S.H.). It seems as though the only way we, as followers of Jesus, are able to tell the Good News is by getting involved and getting dirty. Loving.

I'm glad. Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that's what Jesus was trying to show us how to live the whole time He was here.

So before this post evolves into a full-fledged book review (which would hardly be coherent due to the hour), I'd like to thank all of you for reading the mosaic that is my blog. I keep meeting people I barely know who tell me they read this site. Your telling me that my writing encourages you humbles and blesses me. I'd like to hear from some of you, either by commenting on this page, emailing, or, better yet, telling me in person (if possible)... where have you seen Jesus? How is He teaching you to love? I'd love to hear it because I have an astonishing amount to learn.

Peace always...

leavings, happenings, & readings

Ladies and gents, this is me and five of the most amazing girls in the whole wide world without end, forever and ever, amen. (Front row: Rose Mary, April, me, Lisa. Back row: Emily, Amy.) I couldn't have asked for a better mentoring group. The sad thing is that it feels that we're just getting to the good part, and the year is over. These girls have seen me act super goofy. They have seen me cry. They have taught me so much about God's unconditional love for me as they loved me through some of the most difficult months of my life. They have entrusted me with their dreams and sorrows. I love you, dear girls!





And here's to Dorm 3! ("Whaaat? Dooooorm THREE!") Leann, Joanne, Emily, me, and Ruth Anna... I have no clue what like at FB would have been without Sunday morning "coffee party, coffee party, COFFEE PARTY!" and late-night talks and pedicures! Shoot, I hate saying good-bye! Can you honestly imagine what it will be like after Jesus returns to heal the earth? Can you imagine never having to let go again? A huge part of me wants to just hold onto the next week and not let go, but time is too intangible to restrain. (That's probably a mercy, actually.)





After this crazy week, we'll be on choir tour. Yay! Happiness!





After choir tour, I'll have to say good-bye to almost everyone and stay at FB. Suffice it to say that is not going to be fun. After a lonely week here (in which I plan to visit one last time the haunts around here in which I'll leave pieces of my soul), I'll move back to my dear Lancaster city! (And the ghetto girl in me does a "yeh-yeh, yeah!") I can't wait to spend time wid kids on my block and be back with my youth group!


In the course of this past week my family has experienced a significant growth, three new members being welcomed with open arms. My family of books, to be specific. After displaying a monumental show of discipline in the abstaining from the procuring of books for three entire months (I'm sorry about the glare in your eyes; that would just be my halo), I bought The Shack and Surprised by Hope. I'd borrowed and read The Shack this past winter, but I want to read it again. It's a phenomenal look at humanity, God, suffering, and love. I keenly identified with Mack's misconceptions about God. It's a beautiful and deeply moving book. Surprised by Hope, by N.T Wright is a refreshing and renewing look at the reality of the Kingdom of God in the earth today and the incredible implications the resurrection of Jesus has for both humans and the rest of God's good creation. Parts of the book were assigned readings for Melvin Lehman's "Kingdom of God" class I took during Winter Term, and the excerpts I devoured far from satiated my appetite. ;) The reality of Redemption and the part we as Kingdom citizens are invited to play excites me and energizes me. Wright is incredibly insightful, and I can't wait to read the book from fore to aft. And, today, Irene gave those of us in her mentoring group The Incredible Journey of Edward Tulane. Ruth Anna read an excerpt from it to us girls one evening. It's the story of how Edward Tulane, an entirely self-absorbed china rabbit, learned how to return love. Technically, it could be a kids' book, but I was extremely touched by the calamities (such as being snatched from the little girl that dearly loved him, stripped of all his clothes, excepting his hat, and being thrown into the ocean where he would have drowned had he been able to do so before a fisherman rescued him, only to be later buried in trash and hung by his ears) that befell Edward to open his selfish heart. After he had finally learned to love and experienced the pain that loving and losing entails (not even the hint of a pun here, of course), he determined never to love again. A china doll told him he might as well jump off the shelf on which he was sitting in the doll store if he was determined to live such a hollow existence. "Someone will come for you," she said. Once Edward began to hope, someone did... and it was the person he never dared imagine would come.

groggy

I remember, as a preschooler, mentally picturing a slimy green frog with goggling eyes and a swollen throat when I heard the word "groggy". I knew the actual meaning of the word, but it sounded so much like "froggy" that I couldn't help imagining one.

This morning, I feel groggy. And, what's more, a slimy green frog with goggling eyes and a swollen throat personifies quite well this grogginess. Here's a word to the wise: when you already have a head cold, do not (I repeat, do NOT!) start reading The Shack for the first time as a way to unwind before you go to bed! You will not unwind. :) Sleep fled and my hands and eyes were adhered to the book. Entirely robbed of free will, I remained mesmerized until hours after I should have been asleep. (I won't divulge the exact hour; that might prove to be far too useful information.) A book hasn't been able to exert quite this strong a power over me since I first read Uncle Tom's Cabin years ago.

Once I finally became partially conscious of my surroundings again, I (with no little difficulty) dropped the book to the floor beside my bed and proceeded to lie in great alertness for quite some time. Highly unusual for me. I could see with clarity so many happenings in my own life that caused me to carry a Great Sadness. I suddenly had permission to grieve, permission to release the dark guilt that accompanied the doubt of God's presence and love.

Suffice it to say that I highly recommend reading The Shack. I do not recommend doing so when sleep is necessary for the battling of a cold. Doing so will result in your feeling like a frog.