For Any Eyes

The Art of the Handwritten Note

2012-01-08T08:41:00.000-08:00

This last week brought me several handwritten notes from people. Two were thank-you notes from the same good friend, one for a few small gifts when I drew his name for a Christmas party, and one for recently inviting his family over for an impromptu dinner at our home. Thank-you notes came from the other friends we had invited, as well.

It has seemed to me in the last few years that the world is losing its awareness about how important it is to write a thank-you note. I have sought out and given a number of gifts in recent years, and while there are some e-mailed thank-yous, a Facebook thank-you or two, and a few spoken thank-yous (rarely a handwritten note), some gifts are not even acknowledged. I have to ask, "Did you get the package I sent you?" I have also seen my parents take the time to give gifts that haven't been acknowledged to them.

A horrible realization has settled into my consciousness: I have been just as thoughtless on the receiving end as I have felt others to be in receiving the gifts I have given. The unacknowledged gift, the quick e-mail or a "TY" text message does not characterize the gracious person I would like to be. This weekend, with several handwritten notes arriving in the mail, I find myself acknowledging my lack of graciousness and resolving that I will change my ways. Each note in the past week arrived with specific and kindly thoughts of me, the writer's personality visible in the uniqueness of their handwriting. I have appreciated each one.

If you are a gift-giver whom I have slighted with my carelessness, I apologize.

Quite unexpectedly, I also got a card this weekend from a colleague who reports to one of my direct reports at another campus of our university. There is nothing in the relationship or the timing that would benefit her in taking the time to send a card with a handwritten note. She was just thinking of me, for some reason, and took the time to send an affirmation.

"Just in case there isn't sunshine where you are," she wrote, "I thought I would try and send you some. However, I suspect that you are a ray of sunshine wherever you go. Thank you for being our voice, for going to all those meetings, for working with all those 'men' and making this a special place to work. I know it's not easy but we appreciate you and all you do so much."

In the afternoon of a day that began for me with a tense and contentious meeting followed by other difficult problems to solve, getting this handwritten note was a smile from her...and from God. It's something that would have taken me only five or ten minutes to do, but it did far more than five or ten minutes' worth of good in my life.

I want to do the same for others.

And then there was another card in the same batch of mail. This one came from one of Husband's first students of over 30 years ago, long before I was in his life. She still looks up to Husband, having never been able to make the switch to using his first name even though she's well into adulthood. She open-heartedly welcomed me as I came into his life.

I had forgotten a conversation she and I had after church last week, one in which I expressed some things that are weighing on my heart these days. But she had not. She thought of me midweek and took the time to write a note of appreciation and encouragement. "You're in my thoughts and prayers," she wrote. "The Lord is with you and will give you the strength you need." My losses are small compared to her losses this past year, so the note was all the more precious.

Several years ago I resolved to write a note of appreciation or caring to someone each day during my worship time. The resolution was broken within a month, as so many people's resolutions are. But the art of the handwritten note remains one that "warms the cockles of the heart," as my mom would say. And I am resolved that I will do that better this year--writing thank-you notes, writing notes of appreciation, and writing notes of encouragement. It's not all that difficult to warm the cockles of someone's heart, and it makes the world a more loving place.

Special Name

2011-12-21T13:29:00.000-08:00

[I'm blogging this as preparation for doing the Children's Story at church this weekend.]

Have you ever thought very much about your name? Do you know where your name came from? My names came from my two Dutch grandmothers: Rena, and Maria. But no one ever called me Rena Maria, because I was born with red hair and my dad called me Ginger--which means "red"--even though that name wasn't on my birth certificate or my school records or my passport. My name has been Ginger ever since. And I like red. A lot.

For a long, long time I didn't meet anyone else with a name like mine, a name that means "Red." But now there are some right here in this church!

Many years ago, when I was a little girl and we were on vacation in California, my mom took a job to earn some extra money. There was a doctor's office in Hollywood that needed a doctor for a while, and they signed my mom up to treat patients there. I don't remember how long she worked at that office, because my brother and I weren't paying much attention. We were busy sitting in Grandma's back room watching episodes of Gilligan's Island.

So my mom worked in this office and saw a lot of people right here in America who were poor and sick and needed help. And she saw some that were really different from the people she usually treated in her doctor's office. Some were rich, or getting rich. "There are some people with really strange names," she told us.

"What really strange names do they have?" we asked Mama.

"Well, a celebrity brought his kids in," she told us, "and the little girl's name was Moon Unit."

"Moon Unit!" we exclaimed.

"Yes," she said. "And another actor called her kid Bus Stop."

"What???" we exclaimed. "Why?"

"That's what I was wondering," Mama said. "Even if you shorten them to nicknames, Moon and Bus aren't very great names. I think the kids at school will tease them."

We laughed and laughed about those names: Moon Unit... and Bus Stop. And now I know that Moon Unit is a fairly well-known actress, musician and author. People call her "Moon." She named her daughter "Mathilda."

I've known some other children with different names. I taught Morning Star and Field Stream in the Philippines. And I met Blessed in Africa. He's a good pianist.

A long, long time ago, way before Blessed and Morning Star and Field Stream and Moon Unit were born--and even before I was born--an angel came to Joseph and said, "You are to get married to Mary, because she is going to have a baby boy who is God's Son, and you are to call him 'Jesus.'

There are some names that sound a little bit like "Jesus," --like Joshua and Josiah--but I don't see anyone else named "Jesus" in the Bible before Jesus was born on this earth.

What does the name "Jesus" mean? It means "God rescues," or "God saves."

Jesus showed us that God will rescue us from our sin and our trouble. He was God's promise, and He was God, keeping His promise to us.

He came to rescue me. And he rescues you, too. And that ... means his name--Jesus--is good news!

Facing the Unexpected

2011-12-21T12:05:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged for a while. That is due in part to the busy-ness of the season, and due in part to a recent and unexpected diagnosis for a very dear family member. I'm now processing the implications of this, reading up on the disease, and helping with the "taxi service" duties. The latter--spending more time with a loved one--is a pleasure. Work has been allowed to take too much of my time; this is a reminder of how precious time is, and how time should be spent on those who are precious to us.

Fifty

2011-12-08T06:33:00.001-08:00

Well, the day of celebration was momentous and memorable! It started with a card and gift from Husband when I arrived at the breakfast table. There were a dozen gorgeous red roses from Husband at the office, and a bunch of purple and mylar balloons from my administrative assistant, and "fifty" confetti decorating my committee table.

And then there were cards ... oh my, the cards! A big basket of them, full of cards from colleagues. I figured that by the time all was said and done, well over a hundred people had birthday'd me with cards, e-mails, and dropping by to greet me during the day. (Add to that several hundred greetings on Facebook from people I've known around the world over the years, and it felt like a very special day.)

It was all a product of the scheming of my administrative assistant, Claudia, and my husband. Here I am with Claudia, who is the most excellent administrative assistant in the world. And no, you can't have her. She's also my friend, and we are pretty much agreed that where I go in this life, she goes!

Here's another look at that cake, which was really beautiful.

I had seen on my schedule a two-hour meeting with my associate about accreditation. I'd thought to myself, "That's suspicious. There's no way Scott and I can discuss accreditation for two hours!" But one knows not to ask about these things when it's one's special day.

Sure enough, at 1:00 the cake showed up and people began to arrive, creating a steady stream for the next two hours of well-wishers. Most of them were older than I, so I razzed them for advice regarding life after fifty. It was a delightfully fun, social time, and so enjoyable to be talking about non-work things with people that I'm usually all-business with.

From the last committee--and yes, I did work for about five hours out of the day--I joined Husband and my parents for a dinner in the Marcus Whitman Hotel restaurant downtown.

The Marcus Whitman is the grand old dame of hotels in our part of the state. There's a stateliness to her, and the staff there make sure the food is good and the atmosphere genteel. I really enjoy it.

As we walked into the lobby we saw that there was a silent auction and gingerbread house showing underway. The place was even more festive and twinkly for the time of year.

It was the loveliest birthday ever. Seriously. It could not be topped. I decided that while I will have more birthdays, Lord willing, there is no need for more big celebrations. I think I shall settle down to my fifties now and enjoy them.

There are good things to making a fuss about a rite of passage. This one was just right.

The Last Day of the Forties

2011-12-05T05:26:00.001-08:00

Me, on the last day of 49

[Warning: Self-focused reflective post ahead.]

This is my last morning of being in my forties. It's a very odd feeling. I've been thinking about tomorrow's birthday for quite some time, and I'm not used to the idea yet. I have a feeling I won't get used to it, at least for a few years. In the decades leading up to fifty, one doesn't spend much time imagining what it might be like to become that age. My own parents turned fifty when I was away at boarding school; other than wishing them the usual birthday greetings, it was a non-event. So I don't quite know how to do this.

As Husband and I discussed the impending milestone yesterday, he commented that fifty is harder than forty because you can imagine yourself being twice as old as forty, but it's much harder to imagine doubling your age at fifty. You have to recognize by then that you've probably lived more than half your life. Somewhere along the way you peaked your journey upward to halfway without knowing it.

Fifty is beyond what you can stretch "young" to mean. Fifty is just fifteen short years from the traditional retirement age, although plenty of people are working past sixty-five now. Fifty is where you have to either fight your age in your body or accept it. I've always promised myself I'd accept it graciously--I mean the gray hair, the wrinkles, the saggy-ness. I find that at almost-fifty it's more important to me to live healthfully, so I won't settle for physical decline just yet. Resistance to entropy is the name of the game, and that takes some strategic effort. More exercise, better nutrition, looking out for my own emotional health--I'm being better to myself as I approach fifty.

I once thought I'd be spiritually settled by fifty. But I'm not. I still have questions, doubts still cross my mind, and I still think about taking a vacation from religion the way it's been organized around me all my life. I dream of living more simply, meaningfully and dependently with God, without all the traditions and arguments around me. I've had some surprising spiritual realizations in ramping up to fifty, and I'm still processing them. They are too personal to talk about yet, but they feel like God's special birthday gift to me. My spiritual life gets more precious and personal as time passes. Whether that can be done within my religious community is something I'm on a journey to discover, because I love my religious community. Warts and all, they are some of the finest, most interesting, fully human people on the face of this planet. They are my family. You can leave your family but you can never totally shuck them off. So far I see little point in dragging them around like a carcass behind me. They are still alive.

On this last day before fifty, I will do the things I usually do. I will meet with an accreditation team that has come on campus to evaluate one of our programs. I will meet with faculty in their follow-up appointments to promotion decisions. I will meet with the leadership team of the area I oversee for our weekly confab. I will talk with a chair about reconfiguring a couple of his academic programs. I will tour some problem spots on campus with our master planning committee, and I will welcome the graduate students at their annual Christmas reception. This has been the stuff of my forties.

My twenties were spent primarily in preparation for, and my first six years of teaching. My thirties were spent primarily as a college professor. My forties have been spent as a college administrator. I'm curious about the decade of my fifties. I think there will be some other change in this decade. Or maybe not. In any case, I find myself thankful for the flavor and lessons of each decade so far, and looking forward--not to the age, but the experiences of the decade to come.

And I won't end this without reviewing love life. I am, after all, a woman. I'm glad to have the unsure, unfulfilling dates of my twenties behind me. I loved the independence and security of my single thirties, despite the moments of longing for companionship. The married days, children and grandchildren of my forties have flown by fast and furious, and they have been a blessing beyond anything I've experienced so far. My forties have been full of laughter, love, and a deepening of my ability to be a contributing and committed family member.

And so I pray to live well, in this last day of my forties. And I pray that God will continue to do His good work in me as I peer through the doorway of tomorrow.

Hands On Children's Museum

2011-12-02T20:00:00.000-08:00

My travel guru is a website called TripAdvisor.com. I have used the site many, many times to find good, affordable lodging and things to do when I'm in a new town. While in Olympia last week, I looked up "things to do," and found that the #2 rated activity was a visit to the Hands On Children's Museum, right near the capitol building. Since the first ranked activity was walking a boardwalk at a wildlife refuge, and since it was raining, we went for Activity #2.

The Hands On Children's Museum was the perfect place for spending a rainy afternoon with Granddaughter #2.There were a number of rooms with various tactile discovery activities for parents, grandparents and even great-grandparents to enjoy with their little descendants.

As we went started by hanging up our coats, I was amused to see the above sight over the coat hanger rail. This museum knows how to prepare for little kids!

This "sand" was very fine, slightly tacky, and clumped together very nicely. I would love to have a sandbox with that kind of sand at home. It just feels fun to play with.

In the most complicated gadget corner, you can find just the sort of thing that would intrigue a mechanical engineer and his family. And that's who we were there with, so some quality time was spent figuring it out.

The point is to get these colored balls to go up through the tubes.

Holding the red button down, I believe, is what eventually makes it happen.

Also in that corner are some pipe configurations to be arranged for the balls to go through. You can end up with quite a nice Rube Goldberg setup, if you put it together well. Fun for everyone!

The museum folk have considerately provided many nice places for kids to rest, or for the old folks to sit for a while as the kids discover and play.

They also provide special exhibits, like this spot to pet the cavies, which are the largest rodent that exists, if I understood the museum personnel correctly.

And there are places to get important work done, like scooping corn kernels into plastic ice cube trays or funnels. They have thought of everything at this museum. There was nothing that would mess up the clothes, and precautions taken (like the deep bin, in this case) to keep from getting little bits all over the floor.

Up at the front of the museum is a children's theater, where everything is make-believe.

What a lovely ticket-seller they had there!

I'm not sure if kids really get the idea that this is a microphone; perhaps the older ones do. The dress-up bin of costumes is chock full of wardrobe options. And there's a "sound board" with lots of options that allow you to push buttons bringing forth the sound effects of thunder, clapping, etc. We watched a couple of boys of about 10 years of age having a great time onstage, improvising a story as they went.

Over in the science section you can do rubbings of animal etchings and look at big slides under the microscope to observe little tiny things.

And you can climb up in a treehouse and look out at family members waiting outside Even petite mommies fit in there.

Over in another make-believe section, there's a lot more to be done. You can "plant" and harvest crops of nutritious plastic vegetables and fruit...

...or go grocery shopping and check out at a little plastic till.

Over in an adjacent area, you can build and oversee a train system on a huge table, or be a medical person or patient in a clinic, or do crafty things. By this time, if you've started on the other side of the museum, you might be getting quite tired...

...at which which point it's time for Daddy to pick up the kid, and the family to gather for a photo. Note that the ages range from 2 to 85, and a good time was had by all!

Granddaughter #2

2011-12-01T21:50:00.000-08:00

We spent Thanksgiving break with a number of relatives, as I've mentioned in an earlier post or two. But one of the best treats was getting more acquainted with Granddaughter #2, who came north with her parents to celebrate thankfulness with us. The purpose of this post is to simply give you the opportunity to ooh and aah over her incredible cuteness. Ready? Here we go!

With her mommy, who holds a special place in my heart, and her Grampa, who holds a very, very special place in my heart and life! It's always such fun to observe three generations together in one place.

Jenga with Mommy!

Off for a walk with the family on a chilly Olympia morning. Baby doll came along for company.

Love those baby blues!

Hangin' out with her daddy. I can already see in her the studied approach to new things, similar to her parents' analytic gifts.

Say cheese for Oma! Kinda makes you drool, doesn't it?

Love this little family! Granddaughter #2 is expecting a brother or sister next spring. Life is going to change!

This little chair has been in the family since the 1950s.

Snuggle with Grampa? You betcha.

Come on, Oma! Why so many pictures? Come read a book.

Grampa and Oma got to hold her hands on a long car ride to visit family friends.

Look! I got two straws in my drink!

Hangin' with Oma! Aren't you lucky we don't live where the Grands are? That's all this blog would be about!

Olympia Walk

2011-11-29T06:35:00.000-08:00

Husband and I traveled to the capitol of our state for Thanksgiving weekend with extended family. "Extended" is a good descriptor; there were over 40 people crammed into Brother-in-law's house with new little faces to be met and a few friends thrown in for good measure. And, of course, there was feasting a-plenty.

But before all the decadence, Husband and I took a long walk in the morning from our rented lodgings around the downtown area and waterfront at Olympia. So come along with us.

Right around the corner from our rented apartment we passed the community garden, which included assorted vegetables, restful garden decorations, and a little chicken farm. It was charming.

As long-time readers of this blog will know well, we get very excited when we see a sculpture with which we can interact. This young girl in front of some health-related state government building provided a lovely opportunity.

Down the way we were amused to find that this lucky chair had been named "Chair of the Month." I wonder what fine behavior earned it that honor?

Reaching the waterfront was an exciting moment for inlanders like us. It never fails to thrill me when I can get back to a place where there is a goodly body of ocean water. It's like an old friend for this island girl.

As you can see from the map, though, we were nowhere near oceanfront. Note the "You are here" red dot, way down at the bottom of the Puget Sound.

Statues aren't the only inanimate objects with which we interact. Husband couldn't resist doing the Samson act when we reached this pier. Somewhere under those layers are muscles...big, impressive ones, of course!

I was delighted to look down off the end of the pier and see jellies plying the waters. It's not easy to get a picture of these ephemeral creatures. Photo editing software helps them show up more clearly.

By this point in our walk Husband was feeling very cold. I was feeling playful. The two states of mind don't always mix happily. Check out the facial expressions.

There were huge long strings of geese flying over. And yes, unlike some of the silly groups we see on the east side of the state, these were actually headed south!

Headed back toward the downtown, we found these two happy beings near the farmer's market. We couldn't resist doubling the number of happy beings.

Living in a rural area, we tend to forget about some of the "oddities" one sees in a more urban environment. ("Oddities," of course, just refers to something not typically seen. Not meant to be pejorative.) As best as we could tell, this one was an impressive wall mural celebrating the work done by labor unions and other similar advocacy organizations.

You know those stations in touristy stores where you find key chains, mugs, and suchlike with people's names on them? Well, I can never find mine. I don't have a Ginger mug, Ginger keychain, or Ginger anything. So it was kind of fun, as a tourist, to find that Olympia has a Ginger Street. How magnanimous of them.

While this town didn't serve up a lot of good weather over the weekend--it was raining by the time we arrived back at the apartment from our long walk--there were a lot of beautiful fall colors to be seen, and interesting architecture. I'm quite fond of big stone buildings such as this one on their main street, which is called "Capitol Street."

And my final shot: a lovely, colorful Japanese maple a few doors down from where we stayed. A crisp autumn day is an incomparable treat. But a soggy autumn day isn't too bad if you have some lovely colors.

Driving Impaired

2011-11-24T06:45:00.001-08:00

Wallula Gap. Photo from Wikipedia.

Yesterday we drove across Washington state to Olympia to celebrate Thanksgiving with a large gathering of family from Husband's side of the tribe. As we were coming over Nine Mile Hill at about 1:00 in the afternoon, heading down into the valley that leads to Wallula Gap, I noticed that the white Chevy pickup in front of me was weaving a bit. Then he drifted over toward the middle line, suddenly swerving back just before he would have sideswiped a vehicle coming up the hill.

"We could have been in an accident!" Husband exclaimed. He was right. I couldn't have stopped our car in time to miss a wreck. I slowed down and put a more cautious distance between me White Chevy and kept an eye on him. He continued to weave in his lane, going a steady sixty-five miles an hour on the two-lane road. Occasionally he'd actually cross the middle line or the outside line for a moment.

Husband took my cell phone and called the Washington State Patrol. They didn't want to hear it. "Call 9-1-1," the lady said. So we called 9-1-1 and gave them White Chevy's Oregon license plate number and described the situation. "Okay. We have one other call to take care of first," they said. By now we were passing the Wallula paper mill, and the road widened to two lanes. I didn't much want to pass the guy. What if he drifted into me as I went by? I pulled up closer in the passing lane to assess what he was likely to do.

Wallula Paper Mill

And then I could see (with my super-duper long distance vision that always picks up information that I'm not supposed to see, like what others have written on their papers or computer screens) in his driver's side rear view mirror that White Chevy Driver was looking down for chunks of time. Looking down?

He was TEXTING!!! The bum!!! Somehow it seems more egregious when someone is of sound mind and doing something that impairs their driving, than when they've been drinking too much and drive badly because they can't make good judgments in the moment. I know it's a hair's width of difference, but I think there's a higher degree of stupidity with the texting driver. When he nearly sideswiped the oncoming car and jerked himself back into his lane, he should have promptly set aside his phone and given himself a good verbal thrashing.

Husband and talked about it. We have texted while driving. We rarely do it any more, our consciousness having been raised about the dangers of driving impaired due to inattention. And now we have Exhibit One: White Chevy Man. We and the oncoming driver could have been toast because he was being a Stupid-head.

Lesson learned.

Postscript: Stupid-head turned off the highway before we reached Crazy Mary gas station (don't we live in a place with cool names?). So unfortunately he didn't get the pleasure of a little chat with a representative of the Washington State Patrol. Bummer.

Missing

2011-11-22T20:58:00.001-08:00

Seen on the wall by Husband's office door. I'm sure I'd recognize Timmy in a jiffy.

It's horrible when you lose something. A lady I know has been searching for a lost key for the last three weeks. My mom searches for her hearing aids pretty much on a daily basis. I have been searching for receipts I was sure I'd tucked away, but yesterday I had to turn in the dreaded "missing receipts" form to Accounting. It's no fun when something's lost.

I don't think you get very far in life before you're missing something or someone. You might miss your mama. You might miss your childhood home or friends. You might miss someone you love who has died. You might miss your good health. You might miss someone who has abandoned you, cut you off, or refused to try to understand you. You might miss having a better memory. You might miss an easier life, or a job you liked better, or a spouse being as attentive as they were in the beginning.

Jesus told several stories about things that were lost: A lost sheep, a lost coin, a lost son. Each story reminds us that those that are lost often don't know that they're lost, and that God is the great Finder and Rejoicer. No more missing. No more loss. It's a picture I'm fond of. Very fond indeed.

A Few Musings on Faddishness and Uniqueness

2011-11-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

I met this gorgeous fellow at the Columbia Gorge Discovery Center

Have you noticed that people tend to go through fads with kitchens and small children? I've been somewhat intrigued by following them over the years since just after college, when I started noticing them.

First there were baskets and fake ivy. Just about any kitchen I walked into in the 1980s featured lots of baskets cluttering the tops of the kitchen cabinets or hutches, with fake ivy trailing across or down. Around that time, pop-out bay windows over the kitchen sinks became popular, sporting little cacti or potted herbs in them. Then it was the era of barnyard animals on the kitchen hand towels and potholders: ducks, cows, chickens and roosters and suchlike. And now? Now we're into the chrome-and-glass era. Appliances sport the brushed chrome of the sixties, and kitchen cabinets with clear or rippled glass doors are in, again reminiscent of the industrial look.

Another faddish target of decor is the nursery. I haven't kept track of these particular fads for as long, considering I've just acquired grandchildren in the last ten years. But along with the princesses, cars, and teddy bears, I've noticed the Noah's Ark nursery era, and the Jungle Animals in Sage-and-Brown nursery era. And now we seem to be into the Owls and Fat 70's-Style Flowers nursery era. [Just for the record, I think owls and bright, fat 70's flowers are cute.]

Sometimes I think it would be fun to do something counter-cultural, like maybe decorate a nursery (not that I will ever have the opportunity) like Gilligan's Island with a thatched roof over the crib and a bamboo rocker. Or like a Tibetan monastery, or a Namibian desert. Or in the kitchen it might be fun to cook everything in a wok, or install a bright red refrigerator in place of our white one. By the way, how come I can't find good electric woks these days? They used to be a hot gift item. I need one.

It's funny, isn't it, how we are sometimes driven to do the "in thing," and at other times we individuate with the intent that no one else in the world could possibly be like us--although it's very unlikely that any person is truly going to find uniqueness. What is this push-pull of the community versus the hermit in our minds? Sometimes I think there will always be a bit of the teenager left in us, looking for a tribe while simultaneously wondering who I might be if I were standing out on a mountaintop all alone.

Reading at the Table

2011-11-20T09:15:00.001-08:00

It's Sunday morning, and I've just finished observing a long-treasured leisurely Sunday morning tradition at my house: sitting at the breakfast table with the newspaper, a cup of coffee and my breakfast.

I am glad that my mom never fussed at us for reading at the table. The only meal we had as a whole family each week was Saturday lunch after church, and of course the books didn't come to the table for that one. But the rest of the week, reading was just fine. My mom loves to read so much, she probably didn't want to give it up in order to model socially acceptable etiquette for us. So we never learned that reading at the table would be against the rules in most families. And thankfully, Husband isn't a traditionalist, either, so I haven't had to shape up my errant ways.

When my brother and I were kids, reading was best coupled with a bowlful of Lucky Charms or a couple of tomato sandwiches for breakfast, or a plate of fried rice or rice noodles and veggies for lunch. The most highly-prized reading material was a big fat book called 1003 Jokes, Toasts and Stories, if I remember the title correctly. On Sundays it was the newspaper, with both of us kids grabbing to see who could get the funnies first. And while the meal menus have changed over the years, I still use mealtimes to catch up on magazines and book reading.

I know that all the dieting advice says you shouldn't read or watch TV while you're eating a meal. But so far the habit of reading at the table has me still firmly clutched in its grasp. It's like sitting down to share the meal with a variety of interesting friends, both old and new. What a rich experience! I'm always learning something during my mealtimes. And I have a sneaking suspicion that this is the happy habit of a lifetime.

A Foray Into Florida

2011-11-19T20:09:00.001-08:00

All photos by me

Life's been busy since the school year started for us. First I had to get the school year underway, and then I was busy training for and walking the Hood River Half Marathon--which ties, I'd say, with the North Olympic Discovery Half Marathon for the most beautiful course. And then we had a delightful visit from my brother and his 18-month old twins. And then I was off to Florida for meetings and a conference of chief academic administrators.

Whew.

And the destination, to be exact, was St. Petersburg Beach.

I was excited about this trip because I've never been to the west coast of Florida before. My [vast] experience with Florida has been confined to Orlando-ish regions. The beach sounded great to me!

I decided to stay at the hotel where the meetings were held--the Tradewinds Resort. To keep down expenses I shared a suite with two other colleagues, one from Alberta, Canada, and one from the Napa valley in California. We had a rollicking good time, them being English teachers by discipline. When hanging out with other women who enjoy Hyacinth Bucket (I mean, "Boo-KAY"), there is no other option but a rollicking good time.

Walks on the beach, of course, were a must, as were visits to restaurants serving ethnic food. In my remote corner of Washington state, the only ethnic options are Mexican, Chinese and Thai. While at St. Petersburg Beach I got to go out for dinners at Greek, Thai and Indian. Heavenly!

The meetings themselves were very good. I reconnected with an old classmate from Harvard Institute for Educational Management; he and I have made it a yearly appointment to get together for coffee at these meetings. Our shared context of Christian higher education bonded us as classmates at Harvard, and we've been able to swap encouragement over time. This time it was bittersweet; he was just named the new president of a college in Ohio, so he will be moving into a different set of duties and meetings now.

Nevertheless, there were other connections to be made, ideas to be swapped, and people to meet. Meetings like this are good because you hear the latest and you realize that everyone is dealing with the same challenges you have at your school. There's something to be said for shared misery as well as shared triumphs.

On the next-to-last day of meetings, my two suite-mates and I decided to skip the afternoon workshops and get some culture. So off we went to discover the Salvador Dali museum in St. Petersburg. (For those who, like me, are unaware, St. Petersburg is the bigger city, and St. Petersburg Beach is the smaller town strung out along what is basically a long sandbar that's built up across the bay from St. Petersburg.)

The Dali museum is of lovely modern architecture, looking like a cube dropped into a bubble. In the picture above, not one of those triangular window panes is exactly the same dimensions as any other.

The spiral staircase in the atrium of the museum goes up three stories. The place is beautifully laid out, with lines to please the eye wherever you look. Architect Yann Weymouth, in my opinion, was brilliant in designing the building. The staircase, for example, was designed to resemble a string of DNA, a scientific phenomenon that intrigued Dali and showed up in his art.

Photographs are not allowed in the galleries, so you'll have to make do with pictures from the atrium and outside the museum. But the paintings are interesting, and in some cases gruesome. In my opinion, artists are typically an unusual and often tortured bunch of people who are inordinately self-absorbed, and it shows in their work. We took the recorded guided tours (a player and headphones for each person), which was very helpful in explaining the life and work of the artist, and what was being portrayed in the paintings. I'm a bit too culture-poor to pick up on the meanings myself, were I to just stand back and look.

Of course one of Dali's most famous paintings is the one called "The Persistence of Memory," which depicts wilted clock faces in a barren landscape. In the garden, looking at a depiction of one of those clocks on a twisted garden bench, we three administrators decided we must demonstrate just what administration does to a good woman!

One of the lovely things about visiting Florida in November is that the weather is pleasant and the flowers still blooming. The days were not too hot and the nights not too cool. And best of all were the palm trees. They always delight my soul.

And it's always fun to try something you've never done before when you're visiting a new-to-you city. Joy from Canada joined me in going for our first ever Segway tour, this one of St. Petersburg. Once we got a bit of training in the parking lot, we were off to see the town, the pier and the palm gardens. These are wonderful devices, these segways. I highly recommend--should you be where such a tour is offered--that you give it a whirl.

Despite the busy days in meetings, and the busy evenings networking with colleagues from across the country, my foray into Florida was a lovely break from the daily grind of committees, personnel issues to solve, and tasks to be done. It seems quite surreal, a couple of weeks later when it's below freezing with snow flurries outside. It was very good.

To paraphrase Hycinth Bucket in summary, "It's been a fun day, but we must press on."

The Poppy Dishes

2011-11-18T16:20:00.000-08:00

Now that the Lad has moved out of our home for the last time, his second college degree being finished, Husband and I have been talking about getting new dishes to replace our well-worn, chipped ones. It has been an exciting thought, seeking out something new and more colorful than the beige dishes with the green lines on the rims.

When I was in the City an hour away last month, I dropped by Pier 1 Imports and found some gorgeous dishes with the theme of red poppies. They took my fancy immediately. I love red poppies. They make me think of the times I've spent in Europe in the summer. And I loved the warm colors of the golden background, the lovely flower-shaped dessert bowls and serving dishes. They were made in China, of course, but that was okay. We use lots of things made in China.

Being the careful sort, and considering the dishes were priced at $800-plus-some for a set of 10, we decided to wait and think it over. You don't want to jump at a purchase of that magnitude. We drove home without buying, thought about the dishes for a week, and still liked them just as much.

So we drove by the City on our way back from walking a half marathon one Sunday in Hood River, Oregon, and paid for the expensive 10-place setting of poppy dishes, complete with red square dishes, flowered square dishes, square bowls, mugs, and flower serving dishes. We lugged those heavy ceramic dishes home in surprisingly good cheer, considering we'd just spent a wad of money.

A couple of evenings later I unpacked a few of the dishes for their maiden voyage, serving pumpkin soup with croissants, cheese and tomatoes. My parents were happy to come up the hill to be present for the event. The meal was delicious . . . even more delicious, I'm certain, than it would have been on any other dishes in the whole world. I was looking forward to many happy years eating off our red poppy dishes.

And then I filled the sink with soapy water and proceeded with the dish washing.

It was then that I noticed a sight that made my heart sink: Water had seeped in under the glaze at the seams of the bowls. The longer they soaked in the dish water, the higher the moisture soaked up from the base, darkening the ceramic of the dishes. I looked at the plates. The same thing had happened, spreading out from the square foot where it sits on the table. None of the set seemed to be water-tight.

Feeling sad, I took the whole set back to Pier 1 Imports later that week, a round-trip that wiped out a whole evening as I drove to the City, got my full refund (plus one penny, because it just happened that way when they figured it), and drove home. But more than the disappointment over lost time was the disappointment over a happy "find" gone wrong.

Sometimes we just don't get what we think we're getting. It's that kind of thing that makes you feel rather half-hearted for a while.

Yard Sale Culture

2011-10-09T19:35:00.000-07:00

Garage sale. Ours. The last one.

There is an American (maybe Canadian, too; I've not checked) cultural tradition that I've not yet gotten to know very well: the time-honored tradition of the yard/garage sale. We held one today, and it's been a reminder to me. I consider myself to be fairly adept at slipping in and out of cultures, taking on the customs and mannerisms in a shorter time than most. This yard sale culture is one that I would have to get used to.

I've been told that our little town is the capital of yard sales. To me that equates with saying, "This is a town where people go crazy over buying each other's junk." Probably not what we'd want to highlight about our little spot on this earth.

While it's quite possible that I saw my first yard sale in this town, the first yard sale I remember was in southern California some 20 years ago. We were planning to take the eighth graders on their Washington D.C. history trip, and the class was very large. Flying from Ontario, California to Washington D.C. is expensive, and not all the families could afford it. The room mothers devised a plan for fundraising so as to avoid pointing out the "haves" and the "have-nots." Families would confidentially pay whatever they could to the school office, and everyone was expected to chip in and help raise the funds to cover the rest of the tickets and expenses, whether they had paid full fee or not. It seemed like a good plan.

One of the early fundraisers was an all-school yard sale.

Consider the magnitude of it all! The families of 350 students were invited to bring items to the school for the yard sale, which was to begin at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday. The donations stacked up quickly, the mothers and fathers got to work sorting and organizing, and the day of opportunity dawned bright and clear. I arrived at the school at six o'clock, and there were already cars lining the street, and people waiting for the gate to open. Naïve as I was, I was shocked. People lined up waiting to get in at a yard sale? At 6 a.m.? WHY???

Some kind soul explained to me that there are people who go yard sale hopping as a hobby. Later I found out that die-hard yard sale shoppers pick up deals which they can later resell on eBay. I get the distinct feeling that there's a whole commercial subculture out there within the world of yard sales.

And not only a commercial subculture, but the world of yard sales is also characterized by a social subculture that can get ugly. That morning in California, people waiting at the school gate rushed in the minute the gate was opened and started frantically picking through the items on the tables, eager to get first picks. They were recognizably analogous to hungry vultures. The tables which had supported tidy piles of clothing and items, were soon a mess of clothing and knickknacks flung hither and thither in a mad scramble to find the desirable items, the good deals. I observed a distinct and distressing dearth of dignity.

Fast forward to today. Tending our own little yard sale this morning, I found myself bemused by the kinds of people who came by and what they wanted. These are not the people of my usual university milieu. Three Latina women drove up in three separate cars, dressed to the nines, seeming to know each other as they picked through the stuff, their voices shrill with adrenaline. They tried to bargain me down to half price on everything. For some items I was negotiable, and for others, not.

An older, casually dressed couple came by, very friendly and folksy as they looked at the various things and bought a few. Shortly after they left I noticed that several things were gone which they had expressed interest in, but had not paid for. Blast it!

Two older women came by. One bargained for a broken suitcase I had set out there, and for Husband's old posters in inexpensive frames. I had agreed to a dollar for a poster. The woman handed me the money for the suitcase and an extra dollar for the poster, and then proceeded to load all four posters into the suitcase. And here is where I admit to being too timid to run a yard sale; I didn't stop her. (Sorry, Husband.)

Several people came by and seemed to pick out one or two random things within a minute or two, pay for them and leave. It was almost like they were determined to get something, anything, and left happy for having accomplished that. I was mystified, really. I could see no logic to what sold and what didn't. People bought scratched toilet seats but not low-priced, working stereo equipment and speakers. People bought old unattractive throw rugs, but not books. A lady bought a completely outdated analog TV and ignored a video player and DVD player. Someone purchased a little plastic-and-wood storage unit, but not a nice oak bookcase. People left with broken suitcases and ignored a brand-new chocolate fountain. A couple trotted off with an old vacuum cleaner (full dust bag still inside), and ignored a colorful, well-constructed nylon kite and string.

Let's face it, yard sales are not my strong suit. My priorities come from a different world, I guess. I made $80 off a morning of tending the yard sale and ended up with a new acquaintance in the lovely elderly Doris who lives up the street from us. But I also ended up abidingly angry at a couple of thieves who nipped off with unpaid-for loot, and have reached evening with a vague sense that I entered a third-world marketplace somewhere and got snookered.

I think next time I'll copy a page from my good friend Lois, who has sworn off yard sales, load up my stuff in my trusty SUV and take it to the community service center a half mile from here. The volunteers there will sell it under watchful circumstances, and the proceeds will go for a good cause. Yep. I'm done. I'm probably cultured enough without adding the yard-sale culture to my little collection of cultures in this life.

Happy 400th, King James Version

2011-10-03T10:13:00.000-07:00

Yours truly sits at the KJV after reading 1 Kings 1-6

We are living in 2011, the 400th birthday of the King James Version of the English Bible. At our university we are celebrating this milestone by reading through the KJV Bible from Genesis to Revelation, finishing on October 22. Various individuals and departments have signed up to read aloud in a little chapel off our main sanctuary on campus. Adults are reading, and children are reading. Faculty and students and community members are reading. We're reading in the early morning and late at night. Sometimes someone is there listening; most of the time the chapel is empty save for the reader.

I did my reading this morning, first thing. I sat down at the table on the platform below Art faculty Martha Mason's painting of Jesus on the cross and faced the large Bible on the table stand in front of me. To the left were two bottles of water and a small notebook where we are to sign in and record the chapters read. The Bible lay open to the first chapter I was to read, the black ribbon marker in place.

It was strange, putting my vocal chords to the reading of Scripture in an empty room. I haven't typically read aloud to myself, except once when I wanted to hear the whole book of Winnie the Pooh read with a British accent. (I'm quite capable of "going British" of the occasion presents itself.) I briefly considered the British accent again in honour of King James, but decided against it. This needed to be me, my voice, my usual American accent. And so I started in, the lilt of the words filling the little resonant chapel.

There was something quite wonderful about returning to the wording we used when I was a child. The sentences, for the most part, flowed easily. I got David through his oldest son's insurrection and his own death. I got Solomon through his revenge on his father's enemies, his reception of God's promise of wisdom, and his incident in judging two women in their quarrel over a baby. And I got Solomon's temple built and nearly finished. It was up to Scott, who was following me, to get it done and dedicate it.

It didn't matter about the thee's and thou's, the wither's and whence's (I know those apostrophes don't belong there, but it's hard to make those words plural without them.). The stories flowed along in their old English rhythms, poetic and fluid, as integral to my childhood as those old hymns I love deeply. I had a lovely time. Hearing my own voice reading the stories re-tacked them to the walls of my heart from whence some of them had slipped at least kitty-corner.

I need to read aloud from the Bible more often. Not just a verse or a passage or even a chapter, but chapter after chapter, to get the flow of the story with those "bifocal lenses" that Frazee describes: up close and into the details of the story, and long distance where you can see the interweaving of the story of God with the story of men and women doing everyday things. Yes, I recommend it.

Flogged in the Synagogues

2011-09-30T06:09:00.000-07:00

"You will be handed over to the local councils and flogged in the synagogues." Mark 13:9

[Just a reminder that this blog is my own, and does not represent my organization or the denomination it serves. We do, however, have a valued history of vigorous discussion and differences of opinion within my church, and it is in that spirit that I write this.]

There is a dynamic that has entered at the leadership level of my denomination that I am watching with some interest and concern. Every five years a new leader of the denomination--note that I am not using the term "church," as that should refer to the people, not the organization--is elected. We got a new leader a little over a year ago, and he entered in a blaze, his first sermon, pointed and heavy with personal agenda, beamed out all over the world and uploaded to the internet for reference.

The new leader started off by preaching that, among other things, we need to get back to the historic beliefs, that we must not look to anyone from another denomination, let alone any other faith tradition, for ideas and speakers. Furthermore, he stated, we should "stay away from non-biblical spiritual disciplines or methods of spiritual formation that are rooted in mysticism such as contemplative prayer, centering prayer, and the emerging church movement in which they are promoted." The watchword was to pray for "revival and reformation."

"While we understand that worship services and cultures vary throughout the world, don't go backwards into confusing pagan settings where music and worship become so focused on emotion and experience that you lose the central focus on the Word of God," he said. And he went on to admonish us that we must all believe in a "biblical record of creation which took place recently; in six literal, consecutive, contiguous 24 hour days."

Since that noted beginning, which was actually applauded by some people I know, the new leader's speeches and actions have indicated that he sees himself as a guardian of the orthodoxy of the denomination--orthodoxy, of course, in the particular flavor that he deems to be the truth. This is a denomination which has officially avoided a creed, and which gives lip service to believing in "present truth," the idea that we can study and learn together over time, that we can let go of old understandings when it becomes clear that they are not representative of truth as biblically grounded.

I have found myself listening to this agenda, having long considered myself a conservative Christian (please do not read that term to denote anything political), and feeling marginalized, frustrated and worried for my denomination. It seems to me that a sort of "flogging in the synagogue" is on its way. Are we promulgating conspiracy theories about the insidious beliefs of fellow believers in our own denomination and hauling them in for a flogging before we throw them out and slam the door behind them? Jesus warned his disciples that their belief in him--remember, they still considered themselves Jews--would get them flogged in their own synagogues.

In fact, I see a "flogging in the synagogue" has already begun, further fueled by the leader's call to hold each other accountable. People even more conservative than I are taking up ideological arms and going after those who may not believe as they do about spiritual formation, about origins and age of the earth, about the nature of biblical inspiration, and so on. The assumption seems to be that we all know in detail (or can find out from the sanctioned denominational leaders and institutes) what set of beliefs constitute the gold standard. That has not surprisingly unleashed an effort for Member A to hold Member B accountable to Member A's interpretations of God. It doesn't take much to spot the inherent dangers.

For most readers of my blog, even the short list of issues at the beginning of the last paragraph will drive them nuts. And rightfully so. Why are these crazy people arguing over things like this when people are dying of starvation, people are homeless and desperate, people are killing each other in senseless wars, people are trafficking women and children into sexual slavery, people are creating child soldiers and making them commit heinous acts of violence? Who cares whether you pray in some different style from me, when there is a suffering world to be helped with whatever small things I can do to make a difference? What good is God, you ask, if his children are spending their time arguing among themselves and beating each other up on the playground?

I ask those questions, too.

It makes me deeply sad that some leaders of my church are focusing on arguing the old laws and traditions (and there's something to be said for old laws and traditions), tithing the mint and cumin (so to speak), and fretting over whether they are going to follow the current version of Rabbi Hillel or Rabbi Shammai. I have tried to look as benevolently as possible on this new leader, to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the proof is in the pudding. The "floggings in the synagogue," so to speak, are a sign of a church that is turning in on itself.

So why do I stay? I stay because my local church family is not like that. Because my local area church leadership is not like that. Because I have traveled and met church family around the world, and they aren't paying any attention to the issues that we argue over in North America. They are loving Jesus and one another, reaching out to help others, alleviating suffering, coming alongside people to help them to a better life. I can stay signed in for that. My church needs me to stay signed in for that.

Your Intentions Are Good

2011-09-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

Quote by Augusten Burroughs

"You are a person with a sincere heart and, well, I hear people say your intentions are good."

When I first heard someone make a comment like this, it made me vaguely and abidingly uneasy, but I couldn't pin down why. A number of times now, I've heard it said by people of other people. It finally dawned on me recently: No one wants to be known by others for good intentions alone.

While good intentions signify that a person is not evil, they don't signify that a person is competent. In fact, if someone has to compliment you on your good intentions, chances are that they have a quibble with your actual actions. A big quibble. They think you're incompetent or stupid or unreasonable. They're just being too nicey-nicey or passive aggressive to name it to you, or to the person with whom they're speaking.

In my current opinion, telling someone else that "my intentions are good" is highly preferable to someone else saying to me, "Your intentions are good." The former is a reassurance. The latter is at best a condescending pat on the head, and at worst, a slap-down.

That's what I'm thinkin'.

The Flashpoint

2011-09-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Image found here

The chief priests and the whole Sanhedrin were looking for evidence against Jesus so that they could put him to death, but they did not find any. Many testified falsely against him, but their statements did not agree. Then some stood up and gave this false testimony against him: “We heard him say, ‘I will destroy this temple made with human hands and in three days will build another, not made with hands.’” Yet even then their testimony did not agree. Mark 14:55-59

What were they looking for? What had made them so upset that they dragged this teacher to the high priest's place at night and tried him in a kangaroo court? Why were they so fearful and angry that they were willing to kill a man who had a significant following and had done no harm to anyone?

He had threatened the temple.

Seriously?

Consider that there is, in most tribes, a flashpoint: something symbolic that you can't touch or threaten without making them fiercely angry, without it possibly resulting in violence. With conservative Muslims, it's the prophet. With Americans, it might be the flag. With the men of the dorm at my university, it's the Omicron Pi Sigma seal set into the floor of the lobby. (It was one of our low points, one year, when a young squirrely upstart dared to jump up and down on it, taunting, and the dorm men nabbed him and shaved his head.)

In actuality, Jesus had said while standing in the temple courts, "Destroy this temple, and I will raise it again in three days." But the temple was their flashpoint. Put the words "destroy" and "temple" in the same sentence, and the leaders of this tribe saw red.

Jesus would have known that. So why did he say it? Because there was something bigger than their icon, something all-important. God. Bigger than a landmark, bigger than a place of worship, bigger than celebrity, bigger than the fundamental beliefs of any religion. Love God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, with all your strength (and your neighbor as yourself, by the way).

So let's say that Jesus showed up today and named the flashpoint for Christians? What if he wanted us to know that God is bigger than our attachment to some icon? What "icon" would he name?

In my tribe the flashpoint would be the Bible, with all our associated traditions and rules. What if Jesus said, "Your Bible is transitory. Your traditions aren't important. All that matters is that you love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength"? I think that would raise a notable ruckus. But I think the record shows he said exactly that when asked, "What is the greatest commandment?"

More and more, I want to know what it means to live by that one rule, nothing else: Love. God.

[And for this, I hope to not be stoned.]

What Makes You Crazy?

2011-09-24T20:30:00.000-07:00

I attended a seminar this past week on coaching abrasive leaders in the workplace. It was amazing. Eye-opening. Exciting. But that's not what I'm wanting to talk about at the moment.

During the seminar, our instructor asked us to come back the next day prepared to share what makes us just go crazy. Makes us so furious that we'd lose it, either figuratively or literally. Something that would have us seeing red and could interrupt our ability to work with a client.

It didn't take me long to identify my hot button. I can survive a variety of ugly behaviors in my classroom, in my family, in my acquaintances, and in my job. People attack, people hold grudges, people label, people criticize, people self-serve at the expense of others, people disengage rather than working through an issue, people mistreat. None of these are easy. But one thing that is guaranteed to make me crazy--although not screaming, object-throwing crazy--is lying.

Thinking about it the other night, I tried to pin down why I get so angry when someone lies. Was some great wrong done to me as a child in which someone lied? I can't remember any. Did a close friend betray me by lying? Acquaintances, yes. Close friend, no. Did I ever fall in love with someone who lied to me? No.

But I do remember instances when I've felt horribly upset about someone lying. For example, after I moved on from my vice principal job in southern California, my former colleague told me that the young man who was cleaning the school office had gone in and messed with the records on my desk. He was in my class, he was friendly with me around the school, I liked him greatly after having him in my class for most of the six years I taught there ... and at the same time he was pulling and destroying referral slips for himself and his friends so that they wouldn't get in trouble. I felt angry and betrayed, finding out about it.

That one was significant. But for some reason, it goes to extremes with me. Even having someone say to me on the phone, "I'm calling from across town" as a prank just as they ring the doorbell, makes me crazy. Don't lie to me. Don't.

I think it boils down to this for me: I want to know that the earth will not shift underneath my feet. Do me the favor of always being truthful with me, and I will trust you. No matter what comes up between us, I must know that you are telling the truth to the very best of your ability. We can work through it together if we have at least enough goodwill to be honest with one another. If not, well, we have nothing to discuss, because discussion is a sham when it's based on false pretenses.

Is there something that makes you crazy, the thing you can't stand, more than anything else? Care to share?

P.S. Here is a fascinating blog on the topic of lying that I follow. "Eyes" endeavors to educate her blog readers about how to spot that someone is lying.

A Walk Along the River

2011-09-06T09:04:00.000-07:00

My friend Betty, who lives in and old stone house in the south of France, was over for a visit last year. I drove down the Columbia River Gorge to where she was staying in Mosier, Oregon. Betty's husband, Jean-Yves, is an avid windsurfer, and that's what brings him to Mosier. That stretch from Hood River to Mosier to The Dalles is prime windsurfing riverfront, as the wind often whooshes through the Gorge at a rate sufficient to raise some energetic white caps on the river.

Those are windurfers down there on the river, in case you didn't notice.

We had been sitting around and talking, and someone suggested going for a walk. Betty and her hosts took us to the Historic Columbia River Highway State Trail, which starts on the edge of Mosier and goes all the way to Hood River. And that's how I got acquainted with the trail, and brought Husband to meet it when we had a spare hour on one of the four trips I took through the area this summer.

The layers of rock are so clear; this is a great place for amateur geologists.

The trail is in a beautiful region where you can see the layers of earth created by the volcanic activity of the Cascade Mountains.

Looking east

The trail goes high above the "new" highway which follows the gorge at the river's edge.

There's actually a house on the other side of that island in the river, with a little pier. That's the kind of place that would have caught my fancy and imagination for all kinds of stories when I was a kid.

Notice the VERY long train in this photo, typical of what you'll see as you're enjoying the sights along the river

On the north (or "Washington") side of the river, as well as the south side, railways fight the highways for space along the river. And in fact, that is what has caused the need for tunnels on both sides of the river.

Husband wanted to run through the tunnels, just for fun.

The sign at the start of the trail reads thus: "The rugged landscape of the Columbia River Gorge posed significant obstacles to the design and construction of the Historic Columbia River Highway. Here, between Hood River and Mosier, a right-of-way conflict with the railroad forced engineer John A. Elliott to to locate the road away from the river and to design tunnels through steep basalt cliffs.

And yes, there IS light at the end of the tunnel!

"The 17-foot-wide Mosier Twin Tunnels easily accommodated two-way traffic by Model T's. But as automobiles became larger, accidents were common--despite widening to 20 feet. Although signals eventually regulated one-way traffic, waiting vehicles were vulnerable to falling rock from the bluffs above.

He waits for me to catch up.

"With construction of a water grade thoroughfare in the 1950s, the tunnels were closed and filled. Thanks to the efforts of Oregon's Senator Mark O. Hatfield, restoration of these famous tunnels as part of a hiking and bicycling path began in 1995."

The tunnels, two in a row referred to as the "Twin Tunnels," were finished in 1921. In that same year, a couple of travelers (Sadilek and Marvin) got caught in a blizzard and took refuge in the tunnels, which were also closed by an avalanche, and were snowbound from November 19 to 27, when they were rescued. It must have been a long, long eight days in there.

Watch your head!

Speaking of rockfalls and avalanches, the west end of the tunnels has a long section that runs under a concrete roof held up by sturdy concrete pillars, as the rock falls from the cliffs above are dangerous to hikers and cyclists. Once you emerge from that section, you're still going to want to keep an eye on the cliffs; the divots in the paving and rocks on the road are testament to the continuing saga of rocks that are pried off by water, ice, rain, winds and gravity.

It seems like there's a beautiful place anywhere you find a long and winding road.

If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend the trail for a good walk or bike ride. While I've not gotten to walk the whole length of it from Mosier to Hood River (or vice versa) I intend to do that one of these days. As always, the Gorge does not disappoint!

I'm Not Leaving

2011-09-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading I'm Not Leaving, by Carl Wilkens. Carl (he was a senior the year I was a freshman in college) was the only American to stay in Rwanda throughout the genocide of 1994. This book tells of his experience, of the choices he and others made, of the strange situations where the killers had moments of helping him to save those who they were out to kill. The story is riveting, excellently told. He is helped in retelling his story by the fact that he recorded cassette tapes of his stories for his wife while he lived through the horror, thinking that he might not make it out alive.

The book assumes that you have some understanding of the basic story of the Rwandan genocide. I found it helpful to come to the reading of it having watched two movies: Hotel Rwanda, and 100 Days. Both are extremely sobering, but as we've been reminded by those who have survived Hitler's genocide, if we do not tell the stories and remember, the world is more likely to repeat such atrocities.

If you'd like to get a taste of Carl telling his story--a pleasure I've had on several occasions--have a look at this video.

Carl's humanitarian work has been recognized by several awards, including the Dignitas Humana Award (2004) and the Medal of Valor from the Simon Wiesenthal Center (2005). He now travels for his nonprofit organization, World Outside My Shoes, speaking to schools and organizations in a effort to inspire and equip people to stand up against genocide, racism and intolerance.

Fierce Jesus

2011-08-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

Christ Cleansing the Temple, by Bernardino Mei (1655)

I've been mulling over this one for a while:

On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple courts and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, “Is it not written: ‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’” Mark 11:15-17

We believers love to love all kinds of pictures of Jesus: Jesus the shepherd, Jesus the healer, Jesus the teacher, Jesus the friend of children, Jesus the forgiver. Some people even like to picture Jesus the sufferer; after all, there are paintings of Jesus the sufferer in a hundred thousand churches.

But in this story we see Jesus the fierce champion, the bouncer of skanky swindlers in the temple courts, the wielder of a whip, the one who with gritted teeth berates those who desecrate God's house, the man who throws tables aside and glares down anyone who tries to carry their merchandise out with them. A fierce Jesus? Could it be?

It could.

Jesus was also fierce in his defense of the woman who had been caught in adultery. He was fierce in the way he nailed people who looked good and religious on the outside, but who were nit-picking, controlling, self-righteous critics on the inside. He was fierce towards those who took advantage of the poor, the weak, the defenseless. He wasn't afraid to call a spade, a spade, when it came to outing people who pulled others down into spiritual bankruptcy with them. Tie them to a rock and throw them into the sea, he said.

"Fierce" is not so winsome? Don't you believe it for a moment. Anyone who has needed a champion, a defender, a protector, a righteous judge who will storm in to their aid, ... anyone who has felt vulnerable and defenseless against power and violence in their time of need ... that's the kind of person who loves a fierce Jesus. After he threw the swindlers and moneychangers out of the temple, the courts rang with the voices of the little children, with the hosannas of people who had found a savior, of people who wanted to learn what Jesus had to teach them. For them, the fierce Jesus was a relief, a comfort, a savior from the awfulness of being one down. Or two down, or a hundred.

The fierce Jesus. The Jesus of flashing eyes, steel-hard voice, no-nonsense commands that must be obeyed. We may not often think or speak of Him that way. But perhaps we should.

Twinkle, Twinkle

2011-08-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

This evening I heard the most unexpected sounds coming out of our family room. The strains (and I mean "strains") of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star were wafting through the house. It was Husband, practicing after just one quick lesson from the young university student he hired to teach the elementary strings students this year. I was impressed.

It reminded me of people I've known who picked up on a new musical instrument when they were older. Lana took harp lessons in her 60's. June learned to sing--and I mean operatic singing--in her 30's. And my dad taught himself guitar in his 40's.

People who are gutsy enough to learn a new instrument when they are yay-old should be applauded. Yep. Applauded.

P.S. To be clear, Husband has no intention of someday playing in the university orchestra or the valley symphony. He's just practicing to play for the elementary school students at their assembly on Friday. He does have a point, but I don't recall what it is.

A Delectable Harvest

2011-08-28T19:08:00.000-07:00

Some years I don't get my tomato garden planted, and then I weep and wail through the summer at not having done it when I meant to.

This year, I got it done after paying someone to rototill the patch of weeds. Above, you see our harvest. There is nothing--nothing--better than open-face sandwiches made with fresh tomatoes from one's own garden in the summer! What joy!

For the Lord your God will bless you in all your harvest and in all the work of your hands, and your joy will be complete. Deut. 16:15

Rosario Beach

2011-08-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

I never turn down an opportunity to travel the six hours to be at our university's marine biology research station on the Puget Sound. This most recent visit for an alumni gathering was no exception. We sang together as the sun set on Friday evening, and listened to an encouraging devotional talk by the university president.

I had brought along with me a new student from Shanghai, China. We went for a walk along the stony beach after sunset, looked for fluorescence in the water by the pier, and gazed out over the quiet bay. It's the kind of place where you feel closer to God.

In the day time, it's just as beautiful. What a place for Biology students to spend their summer doing research and taking classes! The place was bought for $53,000 in the 1950s, when a biology professor put his own savings on it as a down payment. The college board nearly sacked him for that, and at one point the president said to him, "Ernest, I think you just bought yourself a beach resort." But eventually they ante-d up, and we still have that beautiful place with cabins, classrooms, a dining hall, a chapel and many little cabins on 100 acres. What a blessing!

I walked down the pier to meet Jim the Summer Director who had agreed to take us out for a boat ride to Deception Pass, and there were all these little jellies floating past the pier. "Aequorea Victoria," Jim the Summer Director said. I took dozens of pictures, trying to capture their beautiful translucence. This was one of the few that turned out well.

The station at night, as seen from the beach. As always, I was terribly reluctant to leave for the drive home. But I'll be back!

"Hosanna": a Cry of Faith

2011-08-24T05:30:00.000-07:00

Many people spread their cloaks on the road, while others spread branches they had cut in the fields.

Those who went ahead and those who followed shouted,

“Hosanna!”
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!”
“Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
~~Mark 11:8-10

When Jesus entered the city of Jerusalem on a donkey, people were waving palm branches and shouting the word, "Hosanna!" I always thought that was a word like, "Hallelujah!" or "Hip-hip, Hurray!" But it's not. If you look it up, it means, "Save, I pray!" or "Help!!!"

What on earth?! Why would people, even the little children, usher a new leader into town with joyful shouts of "Save us!" or "Help us!"?

Upon reflecting about it for a while, it occurred to me that the word "Hosanna" is a word of faith, like very few other words are. It started as a plea for help, a cry for a savior. But it became a shout of triumph because of the faith of people who utter the word, "Hosanna." They're confident that when they cry out to be saved, God will save them, whether through a person or through some supernatural act.

If you're so very sure that your cry for help will be answered, then "Hosanna" doesn't need to be a plea anymore. It would be wonderful to have that kind of faith on a daily basis, the faith that takes a plea for help and turns it, with faith, into a triumphal declaration.

Unions and Reunions

2011-08-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

This weekend my brother traveled from California, and I from Washington to attend a wedding in Worthington, Ohio. It's been 30 years since we saw our friend Johnny, who was getting married. We grew up with him on Penang island in Malaysia, going to the same church and hanging out together in the same youth group.

It was a beautiful wedding, and fun to watch our old bachelor friend tie the knot with his bride. He met her in Ohio, but she grew up just a few miles from the school he attended in Penang. Who knew?! She had that gracious "Penang girl" affect. It was lovely to see them looking so happy.

But we didn't just fly across country for the wedding. It was an occasion for a number of us who grew up together to have a reunion, complete with delicious Penang food, lots of joking and laughing and heckling, and catching up on what the others are doing now. Most of us came sans spouses (to save money, lah!), which provided even more time and focus on each other.

My brother and I were the only Caucasians in the group who had grown up together in Penang. As such, we stood out like sore thumbs. Jokes have flown under this photo on Facebook about how our mom fed us Miracle-Gro. But then, we were always taller and more conspicuous as kids growing up with these friends. The point is, we're all family, and the cameraderie we had with our childhood friends can't be duplicated anywhere else. May was gracious and elegant, as always; Viola was saying affirming things to all of us, as always; Edward was heckling the groom about kissing his bride; that's so very Edward; Sam was throwing off witty comments left and right, and then chortling as he always does. My brother and I found ourselves switching back into "Penang English," which amused those around us. "Don' make fun of me, lah. I grow up in Pee-nang just li' you, wat!"

It's a good thing, having reunions. It's worth the cost of flying across the country, even though I miss these people more acutely again for a while. Union and reunion: It's a little preview of how I imagine heaven will be.

Whose Dream?

2011-08-18T09:34:00.000-07:00

Photo found on the web

Then James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came to him. “Teacher,” they said, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask.”
“What do you want me to do for you?” he asked.
They replied, “Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory.”
“You don’t know what you are asking,” Jesus said. “Can you drink the cup I drink or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?”
“We can,” they answered.
Jesus said to them, “You will drink the cup I drink and be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with, but to sit at my right or left is not for me to grant. These places belong to those for whom they have been prepared.”

Mark 10:35-40, Emphasis supplied

I was reading the above passage the other day and marveling: What hubris these two guys showed, coming and asking Jesus to agree that He'd give them whatever they asked for! They hadn't even told Him yet what they wanted. What did they think He was, a genie in a bottle?

And then it struck me: I ask God all the time to help me achieve my dreams. All the time. "Please do this for my family member. Please do that for me. Please change this flawed quality in me (like, overnight). Please do such-and-such for the organization for which I work. Please do so-and-so for my friend." It's all about what I dream to be best for me and those people and things I care about.

Shouldn't I instead be asking God, "How can I help You achieve YOUR dreams?

It's not about my dreams, I realized--rather late in life, I'm sorry to say--, it's about God's.

Well, that sounds nice. But you have to keep reading.

Jesus asked if they could drink the cup he had to drink, and that was no blithe question. I have noticed that when you live a life of trying to follow Jesus, and you keep at it, sooner or later there's some kind of bitter cup you have to drink. And I mean bitter. Heart-wrenching, disappointing, painful. Why that is, I don't know. I can only testify at this point in life that there is always some great Good that emerges from such an experience. Sometimes, it's way down the road, with a long and excruciating wait. But perhaps that great Good contributes in an inexplicable way to God realizing His dreams for me or for His purposes in the situation where I am.

I grew up reading books about heroes. My heroes were Bible characters, pioneers, missionaries, and the fathers and mothers of the United States as a country. They were people who successfully met challenges and surmounted obstacles and ended up with satisfying, all-loose-ends-tied-up lives that were meaningful and left a legacy. As a child I wanted to become one of those. In my heart there was a dream that I would live a book-worthy story, leave a memorable legacy. That desire has persisted throughout my life, along with the feeling that I was a part of something much bigger than me, a story that was being written about God in the long run. I wanted to be a worthy character.

Reading this passage and meditating on its message for me, I realized that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter about the book-worthy story. It doesn't matter about the memorable legacy. I don't need to care about being a character on the great stage of the universe, even if--in some invisible way--I am. What really matters is that question: God, how can I help You make Your dream come true?

The Mirror and the Perpetual Shock of Aging

2011-08-03T07:19:00.000-07:00

Photos found here

Lord willing, I'll turn fifty years old later this year. And I am, as do many people, coming to some understandings about age as I consider the approaching milestone. One of these understandings is the realization that older people live in a state of perpetual shock about their age.

If you are an older reader, you'll know right away what I mean. You look in the mirror, and your eyes see the 20-something "you." You're generally the same person, only a bit wiser and more experienced. You know yourself better than ever, and yet one incident in a day can take you right back to the grade school or young adult "you." It could be a put-down, a passing comment, or someone who shuns you and leaves you feeling just like that left-out kid on the playground. How is it, when your mind is still accustomed to being in your twenties or younger, that your body is becoming padded, your skin saggy and spotted, and your hair thinner? You learn to not see that unless forced to do so.

We tend to look in the mirror and see ourselves as we were in young adulthood.

I have watched people of retirement age who are loathe to give up their careers and quit, feeling in their minds that they are still the capable, young, up-to-date professionals they once were. And they are often much wiser and still up-to-date, but their energy may have waned and they aren't as sharp at keeping up with details or knowing their own limits. (Once a chemist, always a chemist, and don't limit me to the chemistry of preparing my coffee in the morning.) There is something about productivity and being needed that reassures us of our value, and our minds work hard to stretch that out even longer than we can actually produce. It's essential to our identity and will to live.

We tend to look in the mirror and see ourselves as we were in young adulthood.

Because I watch people with my intuition always twanging--I walk around, as a friend once put it, like I have a satellite dish on my head compared to his rabbit ears with a bit of tin foil to help pick up signals (and young people wouldn't even understand that metaphor)--I see a lot of poignant moments.

There's the little old lady who still sashays up after church with a little spring in her step and sway of the hips to greet the handsome preacher. There's the old guy who twinkles his eyes and flirts with the young schoolteacher, quite harmlessly, and it makes him feel happy and young. There's the sixty year old guy who's still talking smack with his buddies on the golf course, jockeying like a young stud for the best swing or the hole in one. There's the woman who expresses shock as her children are graduating and marrying, wondering aloud how on earth this happened. She's still only 23 in her head.

We tend to look in the mirror and see ourselves as we were in young adulthood.

When I started my college professor career, I was 32 years old. In those days, some people mistook me for being a college student. My young scholars appreciated my youth, enjoyed hanging out with me, and would invite me to join them for their social activities. Over the years, aided by a change of location and job description within academia, that has waned. Not only have I experienced the shift with a twinge of loss, but I have watched other young college teachers face the realization that their students don't see them as young and charming anymore. You can see it in the eyes of a student who gives off verbal and non-verbal signals that you are middle-aged and less interesting, or even worse, that you are their antagonist. At best, you become less of a buddy, more of a seasoned and [hopefully] wise sage to them.

And yet, in your head, you consider yourself the same fun-loving social person that past students responded to as an older sibling or equal competitor on the basketball court. How did you get here? How did your status with them change, while you remained the same?

We tend to look in the mirror and see ourselves as we were in young adulthood.

I've begun to see people as timeless, in a sense. Within the aging body and mind, that hopeful young person is still there. The personality, the insecurities, the need for social affirmation, the interest in career, the desire to be contributing members of their families, social organizations and churches... it's all still there. Don't let the balding head, scraggly hair, wrinkling skin or dissipating physical abilities fool you. They are not simply "The Geriatrics," as I once heard a young person refer to an older couple. They can still listen to our stories (probably better than younger people), provide worthwhile opinions, share their expertise and help in the lives of the young 'uns.

There is good reason that those who are on the far side of whatever-decade-you-deem-as-"old" deserve respect, curiosity and genuine attention as valued members of the human family. In the mirror of their minds, they're still young adults. Despite the benefits of youth, I think there are a lot of young and not-so-young people who miss out by not understanding that. Perhaps we could exercise some double vision, look at an older person and see the person they see in the mirror, and communicate with that lively person inside them. Seems to me like remembering that could be an enriching experience for all of us.

Thoughts on Languages, Signs and God

2011-07-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

The Pharisees came and began to question Jesus. To test him, they asked him for a sign from heaven. He sighed deeply and said, “Why does this generation ask for a sign? Truly I tell you, no sign will be given to it.” Mark 8:11-12

Our modern world thinks in the language of Science. In the language of Science, you propose a theory and then test it. In Science, you collect data. In Science, you're looking for proof, amassing evidence. When something is true, there will be signs that it's true, clues to buttress a theory you're working on. Eventually you stack up so many clues or evidences or signs indicating that something is true, that you start referring to it as a "fact" or a "law." In Science, concepts can be expressed in little bits and tidy packages, often with diagrams and mathematics. That's the language of Science.

There are other languages for speaking of ourselves and the universe around us, however. These other languages are, in my opinion, other "ways of knowing." Belenky, Clinchy, Goldberger and Tarule wrote a book that I heard a lot about during my doctoral studies, called Women's Ways of Knowing. The researchers noted that women don't only know something because they theorize and test a theory, but they also know based on intuition, context and connectedness. There are signs, but their knowing is strongly connected to gut feeling, intuition, and emotion. There is evidence, but it doesn't come in tidy packages; instead, a "way of knowing" is all about concepts being interconnected, interwoven, integrated.

There's another language or way of knowing, which I would call "Superstition." Superstition is a language of fear, because the speaker of Superstition sees evidences of threat in their world. Don't do this thing, because then a bad thing will happen. Or do this other thing so you can keep the evil away from your door. If something happened to you, it's because the Universe is angry with you for breaching some rule or whim of the gods which may or may not have an explanation. You had better make amends, and fast, or worse will come to happen. People who speak Superstition walk around with a fearful eye looking, looking for warnings, for threats, for dangers. They often give away their power to psychics, omens, charms and strategies designed to bring good luck. As there is much fear in our world, there are also a great many people speaking the language of Superstition, whether they would identify it as thus, or not.

And then there's the language of Faith. As with Superstition, Faith is speaks with belief in the unseen. Unlike Superstition, Faith is not a language of fear. It is a language of hope, of expectation, of surety in face of an absence of hard proof. But Faith isn't simply based on make-believe. There is always some evidence or sign that functions as the fertilizer of Faith. Oddly enough, this evidence becomes clear, much of the time, after the crucial moment, and is identifiable only as the basis for the next conversation in Faith. Nevertheless, one doesn't just pick up this language out of thin air. There are signs, clues, and evidences ... but not enough of them for the language of Faith and the language of Science to become one and the same.

While Science spoken fluently doesn't take leaps to conclusions, Faith spoken with conviction, does. It takes leaps, sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes by sheer force of will, based on some sort of evidence. Interestingly enough, if proof were to show up, it would no longer be the language of Faith.

In the above-referenced story of the Pharisees questioning Jesus, they were speaking the language of Science. They wanted proof that he was who he said he was. There were theories floating out there that he was the Promised One. They wanted clear clues, evidences, and signs. The irony was that there were signs all around them, yet they didn't connect the dots. The stories go like this, in order starting in Mark 7: (1) Jesus heals a girl of a demon in Tyre, (2) Jesus heals a blind and mute man, (3) Jesus feeds four thousand people with seven loaves and a few fish, (4) the Pharisees ask him to perform a sign from heaven for them (5) Jesus heals a blind man at Bethsaida.

Okay, you tell me: where in that short narrative was Jesus not giving evidence that he had some kind of connection with the Divine? Does it not strike you as a bit nutty that religious leaders show up in the middle of all that, asking him to do a hat trick from Heaven?

Herein, I think, lies the issue: Some people either have forgotten the language of Faith, or they never have learned it.

I see people who are naturally drawn to Faith, seeing God's work all around them, picking up on clues and evidences of Divinity--not proof in the language of Science, but evidences in the language of Faith. Other people seem to have no interest in Faith. They demand that God, if He is to be taken seriously, prove His existence in some foolproof (a punny adjective indeed) way, beyond the shadow of a doubt, so that it can be measured, photographed, chemically tested, DNA-mapped, and recorded in the annals of Science. It doesn't matter if evidences come before and after their demands delivered to God in the language of Science; they do not see them. They are effectively monolingual in their set of tools for dealing with the Big Questions of the universe.

It is not my intent to make fun of people who are either disinterested, or who insist on understanding God in the language of Science. Obviously I prefer to approach the whole topic through the language of Faith on this blog. Having said that, I respect those who address the world through the language of Science, and I use a whole lot of the language of Science in my real, day-to-day activities and conversations. I just think it's pitifully narrow to expect and require the whole world to know and speak of everything in the universe using one language at all times. I would prefer that people were multilingual, to stretch my analogy. We need to do good Science; we need to do good Faith. We need not be shocked or offended when people come along who can use more than one language.

In this case, I think the researchers who wrote Women's Ways of Knowing are on to something; there is other ways to know ourselves and the world around us. The authors of that book proposed that those ways are gender-related, but I think there is far more diversity than that. I've suggested here that the Big Questions of the universe (Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I here?) can be discussed through the languages of Science, or Superstition, or Faith. It's possible that there are more languages by which to approach the Big Questions. I'm still musing upon the whole thing.

My point is that in any language we speak of these things, we are fallible humans unlikely to find the things that are invisible to us, just as the Pharisees were oblivious to the evidences all around them. I am grateful for the language of Faith, for its richness and its puzzlements, for the ways in which it speaks to the deep in me as none of the other languages do. I suppose that's why I write about Faith so much. Because, unlike the language of Science, the language of Faith invites me to make those leaps based on little evidences, affirms an inner knowing, points out what I wouldn't otherwise see, satisfies my need for hope and rest, and connects me to both the human and the Divine.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for. Heb. 11:1-2

Myth and Physicality

2011-07-25T09:12:00.000-07:00

"Without Purse or Scrip" by Liz Lemon Swindle

Have you considered the flesh-and-blood Jesus lately?

Mark chapter 1: Jesus took the hand of Simon's mother-in-law and helped her up. Jesus reached out his hand and touched a man with leprosy.

Mark chapter 2: Jesus walked along the lake. He ate dinner at Levi's house.

Mark chapter 3: Jesus was jostled by crowds. He climbed a mountain. His eyes scanned the faces of those sitting around him.

Mark chapter 4: Jesus got into a boat and sat in it out on the lake. He slept on a cushion in the stern of the boat. He got up in the middle of a storm and rebuked the elements.

Mark chapter 5: Jesus felt power go out of him. He looked around the crowd, trying to see who had touched his clothes. He took a little girl's lifeless hand in his own hand, telling her to get up.

Mark chapter 6: Jesus laid his hands on sick people, healing them. He looked up to heaven when he gave thanks for bread. He broke bread and divided fish, handing out the pieces to be passed along to five thousand people. He walked on the lake. He climbed into the boat at the end of his walk on water.

Mark chapter 7: Jesus walked miles and miles to Tyre and Sidon. He put his fingers in a deaf man's ears. He spit and touched the tongue of the man, who also couldn't talk. He looked up to heaven and sighed ... sighed ... deeply.

And he spoke, and taught, and prayed.

"Lord, I Believe," by Liz Lemon Swindle

I am reading through the gospel of Mark in my morning devotions. I've only finished the first seven chapters, but over and over I notice indications of the physicality of Jesus. He touches. He climbs. He talks. He eats. He sighs. He looks, and looks, and looks again.

Visiting Israel when I was eighteen years old, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of amazement that it all really existed. The holy land was not a myth, like Hansel and Gretel or Aesop's fables or Cinderella. Here were the places I had heard about and read about since I was too young to speak, here were the hills that Jesus had looked at, the lake he crossed so many times, the river in which he was baptized. It was all real. It was all physical. Jesus existed here, in this place, nearly 2000 years before I arrived on this piece of earth.

Again, reading the book of Mark, I'm struck by the physicality of the text. As one of my Bible study group friends pointed out last week, it's the details of the story that remind you that it wasn't a myth. It really happened. No one makes up stories with this kind of detail, no one else has fabricated a man who delivers anything like this collection of teachings. It comes alive all over again as you visualize it: you watch Jesus pick up the lifeless hand of a little girl; you hold your breath watching him look around and scan the faces of the crowd for the telltale expression of the one who touched his clothing; you hear the rocks roll under his footfalls as he walks the dusty paths; you see his chest heave with a big, full-lung sigh and his face turned up toward heaven before he tells the deaf man's ears to "be opened."

Children around the age of five or six are concerned about what is make-believe and what is real. Is that a real story? Is Santa Claus real? Are angels real? In some way, I think, we continue to negotiate that question throughout our lives. I admit that I do, reading these old familiar stories and looking for the real flesh-and-blood Jesus. The story doesn't amount to a hill of beans unless you settle the question of his physicality, his real 3-D existence in a very real world inhabited by you and me.

"No Man Knoweth the Hour" by Liz Lemon Swindle

A Maine Event, Part 4

2011-07-19T05:29:00.000-07:00

Lunch on the terrace at Bar Harbor Inn, Maine

A visit to Mount Desert Island requires that a significant amount of time be spent in Bar Harbor, the town on the east side of the island. Originally called "Eden," it befits its name. The town is a lovely little place with lots of touristy shops containing everything from art to trinkets to hiking gear. The main shopping streets, Main Street and Cottage Street, are situated like a big "L" rather than a grid. The town slopes down to a lovely harbor named Frenchman's Bay.

Overlooking the bay is the grand Bar Harbor Inn, providing an outdoor terrace restaurant, marked by the yellow umbrellas, and the indoor Reading Room Restaurant, overlooking the bay through the big windows above the terrace restaurant. The food, as mentioned before, is delicious at both restaurants.

Down in front of the hotel is the Margaret Todd, a schooner which bears tourists and wedding parties off on a sail a couple of times a day. We didn't take a cruise, but we got lots of nice pictures of her.

There are several piers from which lobstermen (is that the right word? "Lobsterpeople"?) leave for their night's work, kayaking tours noodle about and then depart, and harbor tours and ferries leave. Sitting by the water and watching all the comings and goings is a lovely pastime.

The town has its own set of quirks, including this entryway to the Diner Taxi Restaurant. We didn't eat there, but were intrigued by the perspective down a little alleyway to the diner.

On Independence Day we arrived too late in town to find parking quickly--we underestimated the crowds attending the event--and thus caught only the tail end of the July 4 parade. But people seemed to be in fine fettle, the shops were open, and a fair was fairing at the park with--among other activities and booths--Rotary members serving up a 20-something dollar lobster feed for lunch. Being a Rotarian and a vegetarian, I was at a bit of a quandary, and ended up bypassing the event for edible fare more to my tastes.

One thing that struck me as I walked around the town of Bar Harbor was that it must be the most dog-friendly town in the city. There were dogs everywhere, typically on leashes, but getting underfoot, making their way between people on crowded sidewalks, and generally irritating me, a "cat person." Store owners provided water bowls out by their doors for dogs, and there was even a store solely selling various "stuff for dogs," most of it quite unnecessary in my opinion. I wondered, Do dog owners have a tour book that tells them which towns are dedicated to their pets? Are there towns that invite dog owners to bring their pooches along with them? Someone seemed to have put out the word on this one!

The town of Bar Harbor, canines notwithstanding, was indeed a lovely place full of beautiful buildings and interesting things to look at. Our vacation wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable without our visits there.

A Maine Event, Part 3

2011-07-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

One of the delights of Maine was all the good food we found there, even though they're all about lobster, and we're vegetarians. So get your salivary glands going; for this installation, we're taking a tour of the food we found in Maine!

We start with flatbread at the "Fresh" restaurant, featuring locally grown foods, in Camden, Maine. Husband was happy with his order.

I ordered a mixed veggies and goat cheese dish. Other than the asparagus being a wee bit woody, it was delicious.

Okay, so this was not a restaurant offering. We bought groceries on the way to our cabin, and blueberry peanut butter toast was just the thing I craved, the evening we arrived. There was something about those blue Crate and Barrel dishes at the cabin that made everything look delicious, and gourmet.

Again, from our cabin fare: shredded wheat, bananas and blueberries makes a great way to start the day as you sit in a chair and look out over a calm sea with a sailboat glistening in the sunshine out there.

Our cabin featured carpenter ants, diligently chewing away near the front door and leaving little things that looked like wood shavings. We told the landlady, and she was on it in a trice. She called in the pest control folk, and sent us off for the day with a promise to pay for a meal out. After a vigorous hike, we did go to the "2 Cats" restaurant in Bar Harbor, well reputed for good food. My order was poached eggs on polenta with spicy potatoes and spinach. They brought that with a nasturtium.

Husband ordered scrambled eggs with feta, a biscuit with strawberry butter, and spicy potatoes. Again, the nasturtium came along for the fun. It was a pretty good brunch.

But our best food was at the Bar Harbor Inn. I didn't get a photo of our first meal there, which was a lunch out on the lawn overlooking Frenchman Bay. They served us delicious mozzarella and tomato on foccacia sandwiches. They were heavenly!

Then, for our anniversary dinner we went back, and ordered the wild mushroom ravioli with grilled artichokes and a lovely sauce. Aren't the stripey raviolis interesting? It was delicious.

But I save the best for last. The blueberry pie at the Bar Harbor Inn was the best thing EVER!!! I had been off sugar for over a year, but it was worth breaking that sugar fast for this pie. We think that Mainers mistakenly call them blueberries, as they look and taste like our huckleberries from the Northwest. Whatever the name, those berries were delectable. I am thankful for taste buds!

A Maine Event, Part 2

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

One of the loveliest things about our visit to Mount Desert Island was hiking nearly every day in Acadia National Park. There are so many different trails, so many landscapes to see, that you can have a great variety of views.

The views along the coast are the most popular, especially along the Otter Point trail that goes along the east side of the island. There were so many people lollygagging along that trail that it was actually irritating to walk it, because they got in the way of real hikers (i.e. us). But the views were spectacular.

And part of the beauty is spotting sailboats out catching the wind. Despite the overcast skies, the weather was warm enough to be just right for hiking.

Along the southern coast, the fog made it look cold, the way I experience beaches in Oregon and Washington. But it wasn't. You wouldn't want a jacket of any kind on a hike through this fog. Very interesting.

Occasionally we'd come to a bog with a plank trail laid over it. This one was kind of fun, and there were gorgeous blue flag irises growing out of that very green area.

I was particularly amused by people who brought out their camp chairs, some of them with a little built-on shade, set them up on the rocks so they could read a book out by the sea. What a lovely way to spend an afternoon! I wished for our own camp chairs, but they were safely back in our garage at home.

One of the trails I enjoyed the most was the time we took a carriage path around Eagle Lake. These paths were built by Roosevelt when he was annoyed with cars clogging up the roads in Acadia National Park, and making the air stinky. He had the sandy carriage roads built to accommodate horses and buggies; they still do that, but they also accommodate walkers and bicyclists.

There are miles and miles of carriage roads through the park, in a system that includes beautiful stone bridges. They are a great deal more comfortable than hiking the rocky paths, which we did for a little while, thinking we would hike right along the water's edge. Not a good idea. These are not like the smooth, groomed paths through the forest on this side of the country. We found ourselves watching our footing and stepping on rocks, looking for the next blue paint marker to assure that we were still headed the right direction. It was a happy moment when we rejoined the carriage path.

The nature views are wonderful along the paths. There are ponds with beaver lodges, deer, eagles, squirrels ... it's delightful. The beavers were probably taking a nap in their comfy beds at this one, as they didn't show up while I was watching.

Here's Eagle Lake, which we walked around on carriage roads. It's about a six-mile walk.

And at the end of the walk, we enjoyed watching the kayakers getting started. Earlier we'd seen a couple of teenage girls come crashing up the hill from the lake to the carriage road. They said their kayak had turned over and they'd swum to shore. They were planning to meet up with their mom, whose kayak had also capsized. They heard her calling and wheeled around and crashed back down through the forest to meet her.

Our last hike was another six-mile walk along a fire road that passed by Hodgdon Pond and Long Pond. While we didn't try out kayaks on this trip, they were in full view pretty much any time we were near water, and I hope to give that a try sometime in the future. For now, hiking was good for the soul, and Mount Desert Island is the perfect place to do it.

A Maine Event, Part 1

2011-07-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, Husband I took our honeymoon to Maine.

"Why Maine?" you ask?

Well, because we wanted to somewhere that neither of us had seen. I have traveled the world a great deal, and he has traveled all over the United States. But neither of us had spent time in Maine, if you don't count the road trip when his parents drove the boys across a bridge to Maine, and then turned around, just so they could say they'd been there.

We enjoyed Maine so much during our honeymoon trip, we promised each other we'd return for our 10th anniversary. So we did.

One of the most delightful things on this trip was The Barnacle. That's where we stayed for a week on Mount Desert Island, about a 20-minute drive across the island from Bar Harbor, with Acadia National Park lying between the Barnacle and Bar Harbor.

The Barnacle is a 70-year old family-owned cabin looking out from the "quiet side" of Mount Desert Island, near an area called "Pretty Marsh." I found it after an extensive search online, looking for something we could afford, something the right size (there are a lot of bigger dwellings for rent on the island), and something that would be close to the waterfront.

The Barnacle has a lovely big glass door that rolls back so that your sitting area flows from indoors right out onto the deck and the outdoors.

"I know you're going to want a door like this at our house, now," Husband said. He's right. Not that it would work, but... wow. It was lovely!

The place had a nice woodsy smell, rustic enough to feel vacation-y, and up-to-date enough to have everything you needed, including a fully-stocked kitchen with all the pots and dishes and tools you could hope for, to a washer and dryer off the bathroom.

And the view over the water? Oh my! It was lovely.

The nice thing about the quiet side of the island is that you also get the sunsets. The weather was perfect, and the sunsets went right along with that.

The Barnacle was just what the doctor ordered.

Bye Bye, Ocean

2011-07-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

We recently spent a week on Mount Desert Island, in Maine, in celebration of the 10th anniversary of our honeymoon, which was in Maine. One afternoon I was walking past a little beach near the pier of Bar Harbor, and looked down from the walkway on a mother standing by the water with her young child. She walked over to the child and said, "It's time to go now." Then she picked her young one up and said, "Time to go. Bye bye, ocean! Bye bye, ocean!" in that singsong voice many of us use with young children.

What is it about us, I wondered, that we invite children to say farewell to inanimate objects? What is it with the "bye bye" when it's not another human being, when it doesn't care if you're leaving or not? I voiced my musings to Husband.

"It's a friendly signal to the child that it's time to leave," Husband said. "They know that 'bye bye' means we're going now."

I've been thinking about that leave-taking phrase ever since.

Rhonda and Benji, in a photo I took in 1984

When I was a college student, I got to know a couple of sweet kids, the children of friends from my parents' church. Rhonda and Benji were happy-hearted, loving, enjoyable children who spent hours around us. We eventually lost touch with them, but I heard a wisps of updates on their doings. Rhonda became an engineer, got married and had children, and Benji also married. I also heard that he'd been diagnosed with a degenerative disease. Both of them reconnected with me on Facebook in recent years. It was fun to see their photos and read updates on their lives, although there were worrisome updates on hospital stays for Ben.

Two days ago Ben's mom posted news that he was back in the hospital, and it was now evident that this would be his last stay. There were statements of hope for eternity from family members surrounding him, and sadness, such sadness. This morning came the news from Ben's mom: "My boy, my precious boy whom I loved very much passed away last night. Oh Ben -- I would gladly have died in your place. How I will miss you."

My heart aches for them in their leave-taking. "Time to go now. Bye bye, ocean." Good night, Ben.

‎"Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." Rev. 21:3-4

Unremarkable

2011-07-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

What extraordinary thing to do you see in this picture?

Jesus left there and went to his hometown, accompanied by his disciples. When the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. “Where did this man get these things?” they asked. “What’s this wisdom that has been given him, that he even does miracles! Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t this Mary’s son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas and Simon? Aren’t his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him.

Jesus said to them, “Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor.” He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them. And he was amazed at their lack of faith.

Mark 6:1-6

I wonder about Jesus's family and townspeople. Jesus had lived in Nazareth for thirty-ish years. His siblings and neighbors had watched him grow up, interacted with him, seen how he related to people. Did nothing at all pop out to them? Is it possible that he actually came across during those years as a very ordinary person, with the usual plausible idiosyncrasies? Is it possible that he was an unremarkable carpenter until the age of 30, when he suddenly packed up shop and left for the Jordan River where John was preaching, and started doing all kinds of out-of-character things? One scholar comments that “his normalcy was their biggest obstacle.” Could he have gone overnight from being “normal” to being very unusual?

It is hard for me to believe that a person—let alone Almighty God, for that matter—would be unremarkable for thirty years and then suddenly become a completely different person. I could imagine that something new could start happening, that he could have begun healing and teaching when he hadn't been doing that before. But I can’t imagine someone completely changing character at the age of thirty unless they got a really hard knock on the head. We have no record of such a thing happening to Jesus … which leads me to believe that someone quite remarkable lived there among them for thirty years, and they simply didn’t see it.

I once watched a ridiculous movie [sorry, but that’s what it was—quite thoroughly nutty] with my husband. The movie-makers claimed that when the Niña, Pinta and Santa Maria arrived on the horizon in sight of the Americas—the islands of the Caribbean, actually—the native people couldn’t see the ships coming, and thus were surprised by their conquerors. The narrator of the documentary reasoned that the local people had never seen a ship before, and therefore had no mental construct by which to understand what they were seeing. Therefore, they just couldn’t physically perceive it with their eyes and brain. The horizon, for them, was empty.

While the idea of the natives not being able to see the Spanish ships right in front of them doesn’t sail straight with me, I do think there are times when we don’t “see” remarkable things right in front of us:

Sometimes you’re looking for something that’s missing, and in the familiar, cluttered context of everything else around it, you can be looking straight at it and not see it.

Sometimes a person leaves their family behind, only to deeply regret it later as they have some insightful experience and come to understand their family in a different context.

Sometimes a parent doesn’t realize they have a gifted child until someone else makes an observation about their child’s unusual, shiny talent.

Sometimes we let days pass while attending to unimportant things, only to wish later, from a different perspective, that we had those days back so that we could live them better.

Could the brothers and sisters of Jesus, and the townspeople around him, not see him as unusual, displaying in their midst a character that was truly remarkable? Could it be that Jesus discussed fear and faith—two of his oft-repeated themes—in conversations with them and they never heard the significance of it, never understood how divinely important those themes were? Could it be that they were so accustomed to him that they had no mental construct to interpret the beauty and divinity in his perspective? How is it that they thought him unremarkable?

Because “unremarkable,” even unbelievers would likely agree, would not have been the right adjective to describe Jesus. Not then, and not now.

Hiking at Project Patch Family Conference Center

2011-06-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

Wood art made by Robbie, who works at the conference center

One of the delightful things at the family conference center near Goldendale is the land and wildlife around it. We had heard about a tall waterfall on the property, and wanted to go see it. A guy named Garry has worked there for the past six years, helping with the building of the conference center. They told us Garry knows “everything” about the property, and he seemed happy to take us on a hike to see the waterfall and property. My colleague Glenn joined us for the hike, rounding out our pleasant little group.

I invite you to come along, too.

First we pass the cabin where Husband and I stayed. It’s a lovely and simple little place with a bedroom, bathroom, and front room with kitchenette and sitting area.

The dirt road slopes down behind the lodge on its way to the creek.

From the lodge you can see Mount Adams, capped by clouds for about half the time we were staying at the retreat center. There was a lot of snow last winter, and it's still wrapped around the shoulders of the mountain. Husband climbed the mountain in his younger days, and tells a harrowing story of glissading down the mountainside on his way down, scaring him spitless. Apparently it’s the typical way for climbers to get down quickly and "easily."

Down by the creek, I spotted a ponderosa pine and stopped to sniff the crack in the bark. Sure enough, there was the lovely scent of vanilla. Depending on the tree and the crack you sniff, you can catch a whiff of vanilla or caramel.

The bark of the ponderosa pine is made up of puzzle-like pieces, which give the trunk a wonderful, textured look.

Glenn spotted a gall on a young oak. This is made when a wasp secretes a chemical into the oak and then lays its eggs. The tree creates this big gall around the eggs, and after two years or more, they hatch out. What an odd thing!

Walking downstream, we came to a picnic area that Garry has built, named Tupper Park. In the evening our group walked down the hill to have evening worship by the campfire, followed by a time of enthusiastic S’mores-making by the kids and helpful adults.

By the park is a bridge over the creek, which we crossed later as we took a different route back to the lodge.

At one point on the trail, the men stopped, looking up at the hill. What were they looking at, I wondered?

A deer! Do you see it? It seemed as interested in the guys as they were in the deer.

I love the summer wildflowers, especially the ones that are deep colors, as this cornflower is.

This year, the rains having been so prevalent throughout the spring, there are lovely wildflowers everywhere. This columbine was found in the woods not too far from the creek.

And then we got to the waterfall! It’s 56-feet high, and we looked down on it from above.

The guys stopped to discuss how the waterfall came to be, prompted by Garry’s question: How did it carve out that bowl into which it falls on its way to the Little Klickitat River?

Down the way from the falls, the stream joins the Little Klickitat River with its smaller falls, which are not easily accessible.

Finally, we took a different route back through grasses that shoved their little pointy noses into our shoes and refused to back out without much persuasion once we were back. Having gotten hot and sweaty and simply wanting to get back to "camp," this was the last photo I took on the way back from a truly delightful hike. How blessed people are who get to live here at the family conference center year-round!

A Golfing Tale

2011-06-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

Inside the lodge at Project Patch Family Conference Center

Every year the President takes my colleagues and me on a team-building retreat. This year it was decided that we would go to a brand-new family retreat center near Goldendale, Washington. The purpose of the center is to bring in families that are starting to get into troubled waters, and to put them through experiences together that help them learn to interact in more constructive ways. But the center is also available for other retreats and seminars. We were the second group to use these beautiful new facilities.

After dinner on Sunday evening, we visited the Goldendale Observatory. That experience was its own creator of one-liners ("...and that's why we can proudly display the IDA logo"), for which you really had to be there to get it. But the touristy activities weren't done yet. The next morning, we set off as a group to play 9 holes of golf at the local Country Club.

Now, I must confess that I have never in my life gone golfing. My game is mini-golf, not the regular sort where you thwack the ball across a mile to the next green. I was dubious, but wisely recognized that this was an important bonding opportunity with colleagues that I must not miss. Besides, there were children going, and it was going to be easy as we played "best ball," which means that everyone in a foursome hits the ball, and then the whole group moves to where the best ball has landed for their second hit. I ought to be able to handle that, right?

We started with young Nick teeing off. His form looked pretty good for a kid going into 1st grade this fall.

Katie, a junior high student, looked pretty good, as well.

Then I teed off--there's no picture of that one--and I'd be blazingly optimistic to say that it went more than 15 yards in the direction of the green. I couldn't even see the green, it was so far away.

Now there were experienced and adroit golfers among us. Specifically, my boss has the game down pat. Don't let the ball in front of him fool you. He was just doing a practice swing.

We wandered along from hole to hole, with me hitting my ball hither and yon, but neither hither nor yon in ways that led my group onto the green. Had it been solely up to me, every one would have been a par in 10. It was getting hot. The sprinklers came on and we had to walk through them. My water bottle fell into the bottom of the golf bag, and I didn't want to let anyone know I'd lost it. It's not elegant to turn your golf bag upside down and shake everything out. To add insult to injury, I dragged my bag of clubs on wheels across the green, not realizing that golfers would think me gauche and rude. We stopped to let group after group play through; otherwise, we would have had a whole string of angry retirees behind us, waiting and waiting and waiting.

On this ninth hole I asked my colleague, Glenn, to record my prowess on camera. I was looking across those weeds at a large pond between me and the final green. Let me just admit right up front that I was mighty relieved that we were finally at the end of our game after spending nearly four hours on the golf course.

I predicted that I would just throw away a golf ball, trying to hit it across that pond. None of my hits had done much better than my first. And take a gander at that form! I really should have respected myself as a mini-golfer and stayed away from the big boys' game.

This was my first hit, and as you can see, it rolled about two feet. They made me try again. Sure enough, off it flew, about 10 yards away and down into the bullrushes.

Luckily, Mrs. President is an intrepid woman. She waded into the bullrushes and swished about in there for a minute or so, coming up triumphantly with my little white orb, neither of them seeming the worse for the wear.

And so ended my career as a big game golfer. I shall not go again, except as a caddy for someone who golfs really, really fast. After all, one must be humble enough to recognize one's weaknesses, and re-employ oneself in more useful ways.

Secrets and Disclosure

2011-06-26T08:30:00.000-07:00

On display in my sister-in-law's window in Seattle

He said to them, "Do you bring in a lamp to put it under a bowl or a bed? Instead, don't you put it on its stand? For whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open. If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear." Mark 4:21-23

There have been a number of stories in the news in the past few years about situations in which someone had a secret, and it became public knowledge. Several of those were politicians who have had a mistress on the side, a "love child" (shouldn't a child born in a loving marriage also be able to lay claim to that moniker?), or a habit of sending unseemly photos of themselves to others. In addition, there are high-profile people who have secretly been bilking others of money or property in some form or another. In all of these stories, the culprits tried to deny their secret as it came to light, then were shamed, and innocent people have suffered great pain because of their actions.

I have come to believe that while there are some people who don't carry secrets, there are not families without secrets. We as humans are too fallible, too self-serving, too fractured to not possess family stories that we wish to hide from others. In most cases family members know of the secrets, but don't share those things publicly.

And that is probably wise. The principle behind not displaying everything for anyone to see is the same principle that causes us to clothe ourselves, to guard the privacy of our diaries and journals, and to close the door when we enter our bedrooms. Some things are simply ... well ... private knowledge.

Nevertheless, as one of our pastors pointed out recently, secrets should not remain completely undisclosed. For the sake of our own health and growth, for the sake of our own freedom, we need to make confession. "I don't think we have to be transparent with everyone," said the pastor, "we just need to be transparent with someone." Whether that sharing is with a trusted friend, a counselor, or the person we've hurt, we should not bear a burden of a secret alone.

There is good reason to confess. Jesus pointed out that "whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open." In the long run, nothing stays hidden forever. Secondly, we need to be free of our secrets in order to be healthy. "There's a correlation," said our pastor, between light and healing. When we confess our sins and bring them out into the light, they lose their power." While confession may not make a person feel better, it should provide a sense of freedom.

This would seem quite straightforward, but the topic can become complex. Complex in what way? Here's an example:

I found out some years after leaving a vice-principal job that a student office worker was sneaking into records on my desk and changing them so as to advantage himself and his friends. I felt so betrayed and hurt by the abuse of my trust and high esteem of the student, it really has done no good for me at all. If the student had come and told me himself about it, making contrite confession, I would have forgiven, but I think it would have still left me disappointed in him. Depending on how his motivation came across, I might have still thought less of him for his action.

There are, of course, other kinds of betrayals that hurt much worse than the one I described. Must these sins be confessed to the person who was betrayed, if that person doesn't know about it? I am convinced that they must be confessed to someone. But I am not yet convinced that one needs to confess directly to the person who would most be harmed by the betrayal.

For example, should a person confess to a spouse one indiscretion or affair from many years ago? Depending on the circumstances, if the betrayed spouse is likely to never, ever find out about it, is it necessary to confess to him or her? (I'm picking out the most egregious betrayal I can think of, as the example.) I've had conversations that have made me wonder if it's best to leave someone unenlightened as to a dishonest act against them. I'd be interested in what my readers think.

In any case, I do believe that someday all things will be disclosed, that there is a judgment day, and thus there is reason for at least one kind of confession, for freeing oneself of the burden and opening the heart to grace and growth. As the pastor said, "Keeping secrets takes all the energy you would need to reach out and find healing." Yep. A lot of us need to reach out and find healing. I'm just grateful that it's there to be found.

Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin. Psalm 32:5

Blossoms on Birch

2011-06-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

Want to walk to work with me? I often take Birch on the way to work, because there's not much traffic on that street. And the nicest thing to do in the summer is to enjoy the flowers in the yards along the way. So I'll take you along with me, as I walked to work today.

We start with roses, which thrive in our valley. I wish you could smell them. I don't stop to sniff them on Birch, but Husband and I always stop by a yard on the corner of 12th and Larch and smell every single rose we can reach, as they're planted all along one side of the yard there. It's amazing, the variety of scents that roses produce.

I've loved sweet peas ever since an elderly colleague used to bring me bouquets of them from his yard in northern California. They made my office smell wonderful!

Not sure what this is, but the blue is pretty.

I think this flower is related to the onion. At least it looks similar.

More roses, these being a bit past their prime.

I'm not fond of wire fences, but these gorgeous pink roses prettied up this particular fence.

The beginnings of grapes near our town's fire station, which backs up to Birch Street.

Pansies are some of the happiest flowers around, in my opinion. I enjoy these in their blue ceramic container.

I need someone to tell me how to grow petunias so they don't get to looking long and scraggly. The blossoms at this stage are so lush...

Roses along a wrought-iron fence? Nice design!

This blossom was on a tree. I'm not sure what it is...

I love alyssum. I planted it in my first garden in southern California many years ago, and it makes such a nice ground cover.

And, at the far end of Birch was this nice triangular flower. Again, I don't know the name.

And that's it; we've reached 4th Street, it's time to hang a left, and I'm just 2 blocks from work now! Glad you could come along on a walk with me during yet another week that is busy, with stresses so heavy that I haven't had time to blog. I'll get back to something other than pictures soon...

Stupid is Not Funny

2011-06-10T07:30:00.000-07:00

Cultures change with every generation. Older folk invariably get irritated at the fashions, language and values of the next generation, and by the time we're two generations down, there truly is a noticeable gap. I experienced that from the youth perspective, and now I'm experiencing it from the "oldie" side.

One of the most puzzling things to me is what the next generation considers funny. To be sure, there are younger people who share my sense of humor, and that is gratifying. But more and more I'm seeing a humor I don't understand: the perspective of younger ones that "stupid is funny."

I'll admit, when I first read a list of the Darwin Awards, I found the list funny, in a shocked sort of way. These awards are given to "commemorate individuals who protect our gene pool by making the ultimate sacrifice of their own lives. Darwin Award winners eliminate themselves in an extraordinarily idiotic manner, thereby improving our species' chances of long-term survival." The criteria are as follows:

Nominee must be dead or rendered sterile
Astoundingly stupid judgment
Cause of one's own demise
Capable of sound judgment
The event must be verified

The humor quickly wore off, and the Darwin Awards simply became--in my opinion--one more chance for people to look with disdain on one another, following the "stupid is funny" line of humor.

Some of the oldest "stupid is funny" humor that I remember came from the Three Stooges short movies. I also have noticed it with America's Funniest Home Videos, which has been on air for a whopping 21 years. The producers seem to offer a preponderance of video clips of people doing thoughtless things, getting hit where it hurts most (with gratuitous replays in slow motion), and hurting themselves in various other ways. And people think this is funny? Add to that the reality cop shows that show people making pitifully stupid and sad choices, and getting caught on tape. I've watched people laughing at those. And now YouTube provides a whole new collection of "stupid is funny" clips that people share around.

I suppose that one explanation for the "stupid is funny" phenomenon is that people are unsure of their own value. So when they see someone else do something that causes pain, something they have the good sense not to do, they laugh out of relief because they are reassured that they didn't, as my pastor put it, "fall out of the Stupid Tree and hit every branch on the way down." But I surely do wish they could progress past that type of humor to something more sophisticated and less hurtful. This world could use a whole lot of non-painful humor.

My Backyard Disney Rant

2011-06-07T07:22:00.000-07:00

Go ahead, call me a curmudgeon.

I caught a bit of the most obnoxious HGTV program ever, last night, and that's saying something, because I love watching HGTV. This one was a new program featuring backyard makeovers by Disney imagineers.

Please understand that I'm really glad that the world has had Disneyland, Disney movies, and Disney stories. I'm glad that there's a "happiest place on earth" where you can put your imagination to work and have a great time with your family (at the cost of your next two months' grocery bill, an amount with which you could feed an orphanage full of kids in India).

But in your backyard? With fake stations and a little train that your family can ride around in, stopping at your mother-in-law's house next door? You've got to be kidding!

For me this symbolizes one of the things that has gotten Americans in trouble, and continues to get them in trouble: the feeling that you can have everything, that if you believe it you'll receive it, that everyone can have a palace, a swimming pool and the latest fashions regardless of income level. Everyone gets lucky in this country, everyone can act like a princess or a rock star, and we all can have, buy, play and indulge without having to pay the piper.

Somehow we've got to deal with reality. Budgets are limited, rainy days do come and you need to save for them, what you put into your body affects your quality of life, you can't get something for nothing, dreams for the most part don't come true (thank goodness), risky behaviors will eventually get you in trouble, you do need to get a job and go to work for a number of hours each week, lies will always come back to bite you in the butt, believing in yourself is not the Greatest Good in life, getting awards and titles is not a measure of your worth, true love requires strength and hard choices, and you do have a moral obligation to help those who are poorer than you.

The sooner our children learn those things in our homes and in our backyards, the better off they'll be.

Sabbath Evening in the Valley

2011-06-06T06:49:00.000-07:00

This weekend Husband suddenly suggested that we head out for a car tour of our valley in the "sweet light" of the evening. He didn't have to ask me twice! I grabbed the "big camera," our more complicated one, and off we went. (Jayne, here are some of those photos you were hoping for.)

There has been much rain this spring, and it's made for a beautiful, green start to the summer. The peas were blooming and the wheat is still green. By the end of the tour, which finished at Whitman Mission's monument on the hill, I had a whopping case of hay fever--my first such experience--and a set of lovely photos.

Come along and enjoy the tour with us. I shall simply post the rest without further commentary.

Crowded Out

2011-06-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

After a few days, Jesus returned to Capernaum, and word got around that he was back home. A crowd gathered, jamming the entrance so no one could get in or out. He was teaching the Word. They brought a paraplegic to him, carried by four men. When they weren't able to get in because of the crowd, they removed part of the roof and lowered the paraplegic on his stretcher. Impressed by their bold belief, Jesus said to the paraplegic, "Son, I forgive your sins."
Mark 2:1-5 (Message)

Crowded out. A guy who wanted with all his heart to get to Jesus, and whose friends wanted him to get to Jesus, couldn't get close.

Who were these people who weren't letting the paraplegic get anywhere close? Based on my reading of the gospels, it's clear that there were looky-loos. There were people who wanted status in the new kingdom. There were people who wanted to listen for themselves, and not miss a word. And there were people who wanted to discredit Jesus to the others who were there.

There are people today who are crowded out just as effectively as the paraplegic was crowded out. They have no problem with Jesus, and might like to know him if it weren't for the people crowded around Him. Those people crowded close around Jesus block out others, both the needy who know their need, and the needy who don't know it. Who are these people blocking the way?

Some of them are looky-loos, the ones who peer, and shove, and chatter, and are curious, and think they know what's going on, but manage to just get in the way. They're not bought in to the whole thing of believing in Jesus, but they aren't bought out of it either. They're filling up space, distracting each other, and crowding out the needy ones.

Some of them are looking for status. Their goal is to be able to say, "I sit at the right hand of the Messiah." They use church structure to gain importance for themselves, as did the teachers of the law who crowded near Jesus. They set up rules to denote who is in and who is out ... and of course, they're "in." The men are in, the women are out. The thin are in, the fat are out. The straight people are in, the gays are out. The teetotalers are in, the wine drinkers are out. The tithers are in, the nongivers are out. The polished ones are in, the frumpy ones are out. The literal Bible-readers are in, the ones who believe in inspiration of ideas are out. Or vice versa. Those who grasp at status are crowding out people who need to get close to Jesus.

Some want to listen for themselves, and not miss a word. This is a worthy objective, is it not? But they are so focused on their own spiritual needs that they aren't looking around and inviting others to get close to Jesus, too. They are crowding out people who would get close if they were invited and a path was cleared.

And finally, there are people crowding in who want to discredit Jesus. Their questions are hard, their voices are loud, their vocabulary is impressive, and there's a sneer in their words. They intend to stay close enough to discourage the uneducated, provincial and foolish folk who believe rather than thinking critically, to put it simplistically. They are going to make sure that Jesus does not go unchallenged. And they are crowding out people who need to get close to Jesus.

The encouraging, hopeful part of this story? The paraplegic had some amazingly creative, dedicated friends. And they got him to Jesus.

That's all.

The One You Missed

2011-06-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

Our early morning Friday prayer group was kneeling in a circle on the stage of the chapel, sharing prayer requests. Chaplain Paddy looked down at his son, kneeling beside him. "Aidan has a spelling bee today," he said.

"Who will pray for Aidan?" asked the day's coordinator.

"I remember the word I missed in the spelling bee," said Kara. "It was 'ninety.'"

"I got out on 'monstrous,'" said Bob.

"Mine was 'inception,'" said Dave.

After a good chuckle over the memories, we were back to sharing prayer requests.

It struck me like a brick: Have you noticed that the one you missed stays in your head forever? There is something about our public mistakes that burn their own special brand into the hides of our memories. Spelling bees offer, for some children, a moment of triumph. But for most others, they are a reminder that "you are just one of the many, the imperfect, those unable to win. Ever."

Monstrous.

Why is "the one you missed" the one that gets your attention, the one that carries the gravitas of the moment and the memory into forever?

Northwest Folklife 2011, Part 2

2011-05-31T05:55:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about the music, specifically, at Northwest Folklife. They had everything from polished bands on the stage, to little kids with a hat out on the sidewalk, singing their hearts out or playing tiny cellos and violins, to hick country folk bands made up of grubby-looking folk with a puppy in the guitar case, to one-man-bands. The guy above was one of the latter, with wings attached to his rig.

In addition to his violin, he had a coconut-clapper, a tambourine, a cymbal, and all of those attached via leashes to his ankles so that each step would activate his percussion as he danced an played. Ingenious!

I enjoyed this Native American group who were playing drums and chanting for their dancer. It was beautiful.

We were just positioned to watch a group of jugglers at a performing patio when we heard, behind us, a marimba group start up. I had never heard marimbas that deep and resonant before, and the beat drew us like a siren.

It was a group of student players from about middle school through high school age, called Nya Muziwa, and their music (Zimbabwean) was energetic and almost hypnotic. Here's a clip (all my clips are too short, as my camera doesn't have enough memory for big files, plus they take too long to upload):

The nice thing about the music at Folklife is that people move. Everyone. Toes are tapping, people swaying, kids hopping. It doesn't matter what age you are.

This lady was twirling and swaying, lovely in her colorful outfit and peaceful of face. You watch a person like this and kind of hope you'll be a little bit like that when you're her age. I would love to hear the story of her life. You can see her on the left-hand side of this short clip of the group she was listening to, singing "Love, love, love, Chicky Love":

One thing we saw a lot of was accordions. Are they coming into vogue? I commented to my sister-in-law that it might be time for me to pull out our father-in-law's accordion from under the piano and warm it up! (Thank you, Daddy, for the accordion you gave me way back when. Maybe that will still pay off.)

Another instrument we saw a lot of was washboards. And the players were expert, playing them with a metal finger-protectors and a fork or spoon.

Then there were the washtub string bass players. The amazing thing was that these were all being played by young people. Apparently there are plenty of young people around Seattle who are not focused on developing the next heavy metal garage band--unless you count a washtub as heavy metal!

This chap was playing his jug. I couldn't see just what the jug had been used to hold, but it sounded great in the band.

Even the facial hair and expressions went with what I might expect with a hillbilly band, my experiences with hillbillies being sadly limited to TV depictions, you understand.

Except that for hilbillies, the face piercings, hair colors and clothes were sometimes a bit surprising.

Is it just me, or is this guy's nose a little bit difficult to look at?

Oh, and there were a number of guys in skirts at Folklife. Most of them were kilts down to the knee, but the one in this picture went with the longer version. Being rather fond of skirts myself, I can understand why they would enjoy them.

Finally, this one-man-band playing his digeridoo and his tin pans was intriguing. I'll leave you with a little clip of his music:

Northwest Folklife 2011, Part 1

2011-05-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

This weekend I traveled to Seattle to give out university scholarships at a high school graduation. It was perfect timing, as Seattle was celebrating their annual Northwest Folklife event.

According to the event's website, "Northwest Folklife creates opportunities for individuals and communities of the Pacific Northwest to celebrate, share and sustain the vitality of folk, ethnic and traditional arts for present and future generations." It is indeed an event that draws thousands of people of all ages for good food, good folk music, good arts, and good street performances.

Here, for example, is how the group pictured above sounds:

Folklife takes place in the Seattle Center area, in the shadow of the Space Needle, the most recognizable landmark of the area. The Needle was, by the way, designed by an alumnus of our university's School of Engineering. Yep, we're mighty proud of him.

Another well-loved centerpiece of the area is the International Fountain, set in a big bowl in the hillside. It's so fun to watch the kids (and wannabe kids) running in and out of the water. All around the circumference of this huge square were craft booths, food booths and street performers.

It was crowded at the festival, as you can see, looking down just one of the pedestrian streets. There's a fun atmosphere in the air, with everyone enjoying the variety of delights to the senses.

This guy was amazing, painting the simple mehndi flawlessly, freehand, onto his young customer's hand.

The broom maker in his boiled felt hat was a jolly fellow. I wondered how well his brooms work, but wasn't inclined to purchase one to find out!

My sister-in-law, who came along with me, spotted this rather attractive hat. We took a photo to share with my nephew, who is given to wearing cool and unusual garb when he performs with his band. He declared it "steampunk," which I'd never heard of before, and said he'd never wear anything like that. They're trying hard to be different, he said.

Me? I still thought it an attractive hat.

There were plenty of leather workers at the fair selling all kinds of creative hats and sandals and boots. The strappy leather sandals (like "Jesus sandals") caught my eye, but they were far too expensive for my pocketbook. Not complaining, you understand. I would probably charge similar prices if I had made such fine sandals.

A face painter was hard at work in about every block, as evidenced by all the decorated faces we saw around us. Watching this painter work, I was struck by how adroitly she mixed the colors right on her palette so that when she put the brush strokes on her pretty client's face, they came out with the stripes and shading already in them!

There was a Bulgarian beer drinkers' group there, enjoying the oom-pah of a little brass group. I thought they looked festive as well as classic.

Less classic was this young fair-goer who crossed our path several times in her dolly outfit with the pink platform boots and striking strawberry patch hair. I thought she looked like a lot of fun.

In fact there were a lot of people there who looked like a lot of fun, with piercings, tattoos, dreadlocks, and all manner of unusual garb. I wanted to get acquainted with them; our little town offers no such thing as this diversity, and I feel a bit impoverished, considering that.

This guy had to be a lot of fun for the kids. I was particularly enchanted by his palm tree. I wonder what a guy like this does for his day job? It wouldn't surprise me a bit if it turned out he's an engineer for Boeing.

(to be continued)

Alley Iris

2011-05-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

The other morning I went for a walk, returning via an alley that leads to our street. Why the alley? Well, one reason is that the backs of houses are kind of a friendly place, where the personalities show up more. But the other reason is that there are a lot of irises planted along one house's back fence, and they are in full bloom.

I first remember encountering real irises when I was 19 years old, in the first springtime I had ever experienced in my life. Walking around my college town, it was amazing to see these gorgeous big flowers in all hues and designs, perfuming the air.

The name "iris" comes from the Greek word for "rainbow," which makes sense, as there are around 300 kinds of irises, of every color, so I have read. Apparently irises are found in both perfumes and medicines, as well as being used for aromatherapy. And the rhizomes are given to babies as something to gnaw on, to help them get through teething. (Do not try this unless under medical supervision.)

One type of iris, Wikipedia notes, is effective against lymph sarcoma and some other kinds of cancers.

I have long been fond of the irises in Vincent van Gogh's paintings. It was a bit surprised when I found out, after seeing one of his originals in California, and then spotting another in Paris, that he painted many versions of his irises. It does seem odd to see them flourishing on umbrellas and bookbags.

Another piece of trivia about irises: they are the basis for the fleur-de-lis on various things French. Additionally, they are the state flower of Tennessee.

I really should get around to planting some irises in our own yard. In the meantime, the irises in the alley and the blue and purple irises planted by our neighbors along our shared property line will do the trick.

A Cameo Appearance, Part 2

2011-05-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

The mansion sits on a hill overlooking a curved, fairly narrow valley as the road approaches the bend where the Columbia River flows into the first part of the Gorge. You can't see the Columbia River from the bed and breakfast, but you can see the Walla Walla River flowing lazily through the valley, the riparian zone protected on either side of it.

The mansion was built as a home for a family with seven children, but things got hung up along the way, and the shell of it sat unfinished for about ten years. Finally, the owners got things squared away and pursued their dream of making it into a bed and breakfast. It's surrounded by orchards of 175,000 trees, all planted and the irrigation installed by the innkeepers, who were alfalfa farmers in a past life. They have now sold the orchards off, preferring to stick to one job.

One of the very first things I did, upon arriving and settling in, was to head for the poolside, where I settled into a deck chair (while Husband took a nap) and read for awhile, peering across my feet at the waterfall. It was so peaceful and warm and relaxing out there, I could have stayed right there for days!

Above the pool, built into the hillside, was a jacuzzi. You just don't have time to try out everything if you're at the mansion for only one day, so we didn't get to test the jacuzzi out. Several other couples came emerged to enjoy the poolside ambiance, and they seemed to share the happy, quiet atmosphere of the place.

Across the valley, over the top of the apple orchard, we could see the farm with the red barn, a bit of the river, and the highway snaking by as it comes off Nine Mile Hill.

After our filling supper, Husband and I decided an evening walk was in order. We noticed that the orchard was on the waning side of apple blossom time, but there were still a few hardy souls hanging in there.

The skies at the mansion are typical for eastern Washington: always changing, with the light and clouds playing hide-and-seek through the afternoon and evening. It may not be Montana, but it's still big sky country!

We climbed the hill through the orchards, looking for a view of the Columbia River, but only caught a little glimpse of it. So we walked "through the gloaming" back to the mansion, which was now lit up to greet the evening.

Here you can see the suites from the back of the mansion, two on each level and one up under the eaves. Ours was on the bottom right, under the kitchen. The noise of cooking and washing up was clearly audible, but not particularly bothersome to us.

The next morning after breakfast, Husband and I took off for a hike before driving home. We walked through apple orchards, and uphill through vineyards ...

...through the typical drylands of the eastern side of this state, with its red and green and gold grasses, and down again past a cherry orchard ...

...passing a congregation of smudge pots, now quiet in the warming air of spring.

We made only a cameo appearance at the B&B, essentially. Just one day. I'm glad we went.

A Cameo Appearance, Part 1

2011-05-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, we were feeling in need of a getaway. I had heard about and met the innkeepers of a bed and breakfast about 25 minutes' drive from home. It's a huge mansion on a hill overlooking a valley through which we drive on the way to the Big City. We'd almost made reservations once, and then backed off because of the price. But this time Husband suggested we take the plunge and go experience the place.

The B&B has seven suites, each decorated according to a regional theme: French, German, Greek, Spanish, and so on. After quite some deliberation on my part--Husband didn't care which one we stayed in--we reserved the Greek suite.

An aubergine color with crisp white trim, the suite was lovely. Its french doors opened out to the patio around the pool, into which a waterfall spilled over massive volcanic boulders. A tour of the room showed that the innkeepers had thought of every detail, from a set of steps to help us climb up onto the high carved canopied bed, to the soaps made right there at the B&B, to the inviting whirlpool bath. (I don't want to break the spell here, but I should probably mention that the whirlpool engine was so enthusiastic, there was water all over the marble floor when we were done sitting in the bath.)

The tough thing for me was that it was so lovely inside, but also so lovely outside. How do you decide what to do? How do you choose a place to hang out in a limited amount of time? It would have been much easier if it had been rotten weather outdoors, and we could've sat in our wingback chairs and watched one of the many videos (none rated worse than PG) from the mansion's video library.

Or we could've left our suite and sat in the huge leather armchairs of the in-home theater, watching the video on the huge screen with surround sound. Or we could've played chess by the spiral staircase leading up to the chef's dining room. Or played the piano. Or made popcorn. Or listened to music and taken a nap. And so on.

As I said, every detail was thought of for our comfort. There were truffles under the dome of the cheese dish on the bedside table.

The toilet paper was pleated and folded with the mansion insignia on the sticker holding it in place. And yes, it was indeed the softest of toilet paper available! And the shower--a lovely marble-lined shower with a rain shower. Luxurious!

Meals at the mansion are significant events. We sat at a table by a window overlooking the valley, just off the kitchen. I could watch Chef Penny working in her kitchen. Her salads were scrumptious! Being teetotalers, I got a bottle of lovely Washington apple cider to go with my meal. It wasn't as fizzy as Martinelli's, and it was sweet and delicious.

My entree was a vegetarian-style pasta with all manner of vegetables and feta cheese.

Husband had rice with a vegetable topping that included asparagus, which is just starting into harvest in these parts, and chunky mashed potatoes. Once you count in the delicious fresh, warm artisan bread and dipping oil, we were so full that dessert was an impossibility.

The next morning the innkeepers dropped off fresh coffee and Danishes straight out of the oven on a tray at our bedroom door. An hour later, breakfast was served upstairs, beginning with a fruit-and-nut cup and fresh squeezed orange juice.

Following that opening salvo, along came the quiche with sausages, vegetarian for us. I think I've never had a more delicious vegetable quiche in my life, flavored wonderfully in a cornmeal crust and topped with tomato and fresh basil.

So now you've seen the inside. My next post will take you along with us to see the rest of the story...outside the mansion!

My Bright Idea

2011-05-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'll be out walking, or in the shower, or doing something other than sitting and thinking, and I'll get a bright idea. Like, an idea so bright that it will change the world! It will shine as a moment of genius! It will transform society... or at least my blog or workplace!

I work it over, I frame it in words, I picture myself writing it down and blogging it, or if it has to do with my work, enacting it. Of course the publicizing of this brilliant idea will be met with the enthusiastic applause of my readers, my colleagues, my direct reports, and/or the world at large.

And then I get home, or finish my shower and get dried off and dressed, or finish washing the dishes or vacuuming, or come in from the garden and get cleaned up... and I find my idea has either completely lost its luster, or disappeared.

It's so disappointing.

How can an idea that looks so stupendously beautiful and shimmering, look so uninspiring just a little while later? Or how can it just go "poof" and disappear, as though it discovered on its own that it had no importance or relevance for revolutionizing humankind?

Something really must be done about this.

Worth More

2011-05-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Photo found on the internet

As I walked my favorite walk this morning along the path beside Garrison Creek, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a little blob on the pathway. I had stepped past it, but it then registered with my brain as looking like one of those specimens that I used to watch my mom dissect when she was doing her work as a pathologist. Hmm, I thought, and turned to look more closely at the tissue on the ground.

It was a little naked baby bird lying spread-eagled on its back, tiny wing projections out to each side, head back and beak pointed up, the opposite direction from its tail. Dead.

I felt so sad for this tiny lump of tissue and bone, for the loss, for the unrealized potential, for the life gone. Gone. Is not the loss of life the greatest tragedy?

Then the song started up in my head, going around and around, singing with the childish voice of my memory from church:

God sees the little sparrow fall,

It meets His tender view;

If God so loves the little birds,

I know He loves me, too.

He loves me, too, He loves me, too,

I know He loves me, too;

Because He loves the little things,

I know He loves me, too.

Getting home, I looked up the words of Jesus, because phrases from Him had joined the refrain in my head:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?

Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.

And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.

So don’t be afraid;

you are worth more than many sparrows.

Matthew 10:29-31

This little bird I had found? God already knew about it. And cared. And me, walking this creekside path this morning, thinking about my own concerns and worries? He cares for me, too. He even sees me as "worth more than many sparrows."

He knows all about the losses and hurts in my own life. He is saddened by those, far more than I was saddened over the death a tiny just-hatched, helpless little bird. Jesus said my Father is awfully fond of me. Jesus said my Father knows me in a deeply personal, "down-to-my hairs knowing" that I can't even begin to fathom. He cares that way about you, too.

I'd say that's good news.

Mattering

2011-05-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

Photo found on the internet

The remnant of Jacob will be in the midst of many peoples

like dew from the Lord, like showers on the grass,

which do not wait for anyone or depend on man.

Micah 5:7

People want to matter. And I mean that in two ways: having value to others, and continuing on into the future in some kind of three-dimensional existence. They don't want to be like the dew that appears and then evaporates.

The best way to consider this thesis, I believe, is to consider the implications if it's untrue. What would happen if we don't matter?

Can a person live with any degree of satisfaction if they don't have value to others except as another living, moving human in the world? Can you move through your days interacting, eating, sleeping, working, and be cared for only by yourself, and caring only for yourself? I suppose you can do it for some time, but I think there's a wish for more.

We want someone to value our existence, and to miss it when it's gone. We want another person to feel some kind of need for our presence, to feel that their world is a better place because we are here. If I didn't matter to someone else, wouldn't my life lose a level of complexity and meaning that would place me more at the level of an animal? I think most people want to attain something more than that in their lives. I believe that, deep down, many of us can't philosophically sign on to the concept that we are just another form of evolved life. We live as though we are something more. We matter more, in all kinds of ways.

Another way in which I use the word "matter" refers to substance, what we are made of in flesh, blood and bone. As people get older, they want to pass on some tangible substance of themselves to the future. Often that is through the production of children, but it is more than that. It's in one's substance plus the embodiment of personality and values in that substance. We want to be present in this world, in some personally identifiable form, after our flesh and blood and bone are gone. We want our matter to continue.

I don't think that every single person on the face of this earth necessarily cares about this, but I believe that those who don't care are few.

I used to think that, as an unmarried, childless woman, there wasn't much chance of passing on my matter. I would not have children of my own; no DNA of mine would continue into the future. In some ways that is a sad thing. I had resigned myself to passing on my spirit instead of my DNA, doing that through my work as a teacher and mentor. I found myself amused, intrigued and deeply satisfied when I would see a student pick up one of my phrases or mannerisms and make it their own. They would return to share with me, unwittingly, some way in which they were embodying what I value and passing it on to the next generation. I was not just "dew on the grass," as the prophet Micah describes people who are here and then gone. I could continue in some manner of flesh, blood and bone into the future. This is deeply meaningful.

We do not want to end. We don't want to evaporate in the heat of the sun. We want to matter...into the future.

The landscape of life has changed since I was unmarried with no children in my family of origin. Children have now appeared in that family, displaying a connection to my own DNA in visible ways. It is odd and rather shocking to look into little faces and see myself there, even though they are not my own children. I see in them my matter, in the sense of "matter" as a noun. But for several reasons they are out of reach of my interaction, influence and presence. So I don't know if any of what matters to me will reach them.

Instead, I matter in other ways, ways that have been unexpected and deeply meaningful. I have stepdaughters who each display bits of me, who remember and retell some of the stories and beliefs they have picked up from me. I know they will pass parts of me on to their children along with their parents' DNA. My grandchildren will use some of my vocabulary and phrases. They will value some of the things that I hold dear. My girls have given me such a gift. I can't express how satisfying and endearing that is to me, that they have chosen to make me matter.

I matter. Would that every person could be so blessed.

A Chilling Effect, Part II

2011-05-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

Found on the internet

I suppose it doesn't work this way for everyone, but critique, sarcasm, cynicism and even argument create a chilling effect on my soul. Why I happen to have been born with such tender sensibilities, I don't know. Perhaps there was some "mortal wound" to my psyche in my childhood, although I can't pinpoint anything. I suspect that I am not alone in this, as I've discovered I'm not alone in much of anything in the world. The truth is, my hope and joy in life can be easily chilled.

It happens if I get up in the morning and one of the first things I hear is someone grumping or pointing out problems. It happens when I go to work and someone else is in a mood to argue or counter everything I might say, regardless of how unimportant it might be. It happens when my soul is reveling in something it has found beautiful, and someone nearby points out the flaws.

The truth is, I know the world is flawed. I know there are sixty-hundred ways of looking at something, not all of which are mine and not all of which are starry-eyed. I know that there are plenty of things in the world that are ugly, untruthful, flawed, vicious, and horrible. I know that not every scientist, author and artist is logical, solidly-founded or supremely talented.

But often there are moments of beauty, deep understanding, and meaning in things that are flawed, and I want to find those moments and meanings. I want to walk into my day with hope. I want people to recognize value in one another, in one another's thoughts and expressions. I want them to recognize that in me. And when they don't see it in others, I expect them to also devalue my thoughts, my contributions, my well-intentioned albeit flawed efforts.

I know it sounds silly for an academic to say this, but here goes: If you can sit in a group of people, or in a virtual group of people online, and fling off a sharp comment or criticism about someone and/or what they produce as their offering to the world, you have just sapped the love. You have shown yourself unable to see the beauty in what they do, and by extension you have warned me that you will do the same to me. That is its own kind of violence. It kills my wish to speak up, to create, to share a thought that I find meaningful. And the world might miss something beautiful as a result.

That's what it means to have a chilling effect.

Perhaps some soul-searching would be in order as we replay our comments, our arguments, our critiques through the ears and hearts of others. It's not a mortal sin to seek the beauty in those around us, and let the moment of critique pass by, unremarked upon.

A Chilling Effect, Part I

2011-05-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

Icicles on our eaves a few winters ago; photo by Husband

I started reading the book, Captivating, a couple of weeks ago after one of the young women in my Bible study group recommended it.

As a side note, when a whole bunch of people are doing something, or when someone particularly strongly recommends a course of action to me, my knee-jerk reaction is to avoid it. Everyone's reading The Purpose Driven Life? Fine, but no thanks. Loads of people are going to see a Lord of the Rings movie? I'll pass. You say I would be good friends with Jimmy? Pardon me if I get squinty-eyed and suspicious, and ask what's wrong with him. The only reason I read The Shack was because I read it before people became generally aware of the book, when husband asked me to read it to him on a long drive down the Columbia River Gorge. So the Wild at Heart and Captivating trends blew right on by me, by choice, while other people were picking up these books. But when Laura suggested it as a resource for our next study topic, I thought I should get acquainted with it.

I happened to be leaving on a trip to Canada for a weekend speaking appointment, so I buzzed by the local Christian bookstore and picked up a copy the day before I left. I started reading on the plane, and by the time I arrived home on Sunday, I had read, underlined, and starred (as in drawing stars in the margins) my way through a respectable chunk of the book.

I found myself deeply, profoundly moved. Not just moved, but also feeling deeply sad in ways I could only partially explain. I cried as I talked to my husband about it after arriving back at home.

I finished the book bit by bit over the past two weeks, reading the last page yesterday. Thinking that I would write a review of it here, I went first to Amazon.com this morning to see how the readers reviewed the book there, and clicked on the one-star reviews.

The critique was sharp. Point by point they dismantled the book: bad writing, "twirly," not biblical, too many references to movies, warped theology, and so on. Although I actually agreed with some of the critique because it mirrored my own reservations, I was taken aback. I found that the emotional good that had been brought to me by the book, the quiet word of the Spirit in my soul as I read some things that really spoke to me, was being sapped away, dulled and tarnished by the criticism.

And I was fearful. Fearful of the chilling effect of the criticism, sarcasm, and cynicism expressed in the opinions of others. I saw my little light of hope flickering and trying to stay alive. It wasn't about the book, really. Of course it's flawed. It was about what started to happen in me, a little shift in perspective, as I read the book. I so desperately don't want to lose that perspective under the pressure of my own long-gelled habits of mind, let alone the devaluing critique of others.

Complimented

2011-05-12T20:30:00.000-07:00

I hope you can remember the compliments in your life. I am blessed to remember quite a few that have been granted to me:

“Suay!” (“Pretty!” in Thai)

~From strangers when I was a little pre-school kid growing up in Thailand, typically said as they pinched my cheeks.

“You have such poise in the classroom!”

~From my regional supervisor, during my first year of teaching.

“Ginger, you’re an angel.”

~My co-teacher for the sixth grade, after I created a bulletin board for his room, reducing his long to-do list by one line.

“If you have water, she will walk on it.”

~From my dissertation committee chair, recommending me for my first college teaching job.

“You’re, like, a peacemaker!”

~One of my college students in northern California.

“You’re a sturdy woman.”

“You have a good head on your shoulders and a heart to match.”

“You’re beautiful, and I love you.”

~Just a sampling of the many from my husband.

“Miss K is my hero.”

~One of my former 3rd graders on her MySpace page.

“She cares, she shares…”

~One of my students in his class evaluation comments about me last term.

“If you only knew how fondly you were thought of, you would have yourself carried around in a silken tent upon the shoulders of very strong trustworthy men (now where you are going to find them is the next area for discussion).”

~My friend Annie, in a message on Facebook the other day.

Everyone appreciates being complimented. It’s like toasty sunshine on the face after winter. It’s like having an itch scratched on your back when you’re in bed at the end of a long day. It’s like a smooth, sweet swallow of cocoa while sitting in front of a fire on a cold autumn evening. It’s like the warm, pleased smile on the face of God while looking upon your heart.

I like to believe that everyone gives some occasion, be it who they are or what they do, that is worth a compliment. I don’t think we look for that occasion as consistently as we should. If we were to love one another as we are loved, we would affirm each other much, much more often.

Most of my friends are very well educated. If you’ve been educated through college, and even more through graduate school, you’ve been taught to be a critical thinker. While “critical thinker” usually means a “smart, discerning thinker,” I also have seen—especially with some of those who teach critical thinking--that it means just plain “critical.” Judgmental. Analytical in ways that point out the flaws. Persnickety. And fault-finding, persnickety people do not hand out compliments easily.

I’m sad about that. If we could put together the analytical thinking with a heart of kindness and gentleness, our compliments would be absolutely amazing. None of this bland or meaningless stuff like, “I like the way you are sitting and building with your blocks at work time,” or “Keep up the good work.” A really good compliment is going to be specific, sincere and personalized. A really good compliment is going to point out something the person does or is, that goes above and beyond what you normally expect. If you can use vivid words that paint a picture (like deserving to be carried around in a silken tent on the shoulders of strong men, for example), you should do so. Unusual and vivid word pictures—poise, walking on water, angel, sturdy—make it more likely that the person you are gifting with a compliment will remember it in a time when they need a smile or a pat on the back.

My goal, having been blessed by Annie’s compliment this week, is to dish out more compliments of that caliber.

So do you care to share with me: what are some memorable compliments you have received?

A Garden Tour

2011-05-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

It's finally May, the weather is warm and the garden is calling for us to give it something to do. So we are obliging. I thought you might like a tour of some of the growing things in our garden--intentional works of today plus the things that blossom year after year and gladden my heart.

We'll start with the herb pots on the upstairs deck, conveniently just outside the kitchen. We're looking at curly parsley--as opposed to Italian parsley, which is absolutely heavenly in this can't-stop-eating-it-dish! My curly parsley will be good in tabbouleh, one of the specialties made by our Lebanese neighbor Antoinette, who lives across the road.

Then there's the cilantro, which is wonderful in this cabbage salad, which we've taken to eating often lately:

1 head of cabbage, chopped

1 bunch of cilantro without stems, chopped

1 bunch chopped green onions

3/4 c. pine nuts (they're horribly expensive; you could substitute toasted chopped walnuts)

Juice of 1 lime

Salt to taste

Extra-light olive oil

Sauté pine nuts in extra-light olive oil until lightly browned. Sprinkle pine nuts with salt to taste. Combine all ingredients and drizzle with extra-light olive oil. Squeeze the juice of a fresh lime over all.

Oh, my! It's so delicious!

I love regular sweet basil, but I couldn't find any of those plants for sale today, so we'll go with the more exotic sorts. This is Thai basil, which will be yummy in the curries I make. When you crush a leaf and sniff it, it gives off a nice licorice odor.

And here's some spicy globe basil, which I have read is good in pasta or in a chickpea-feta salad. Sounds delicious!

My crop of dill will be wonderful mixed into a sour cream & cucumber salad. Or I can throw it into some potato salad, which I think is best when it contains eggs and fresh dill. Yum!

I do so love rosemary potatoes, roasted in the oven with a bit of olive oil and salt. Rosemary always reminds me of eating delicious food at the Culinary Institute restaurant in the Napa valley. The herb gardens outside that great stone edifice smelled wonderfully of rosemary.

I've also been busy this morning in the terraced garden on the west side of our house. Here's the unassuming yellow squash, as it looks today. It's a vegetable we love to sauté with zucchini, onions and mushrooms and roll with a bit of sour cream and toasted sunflower seeds in a flour tortilla for a scrumptious summer lunch.

And then there's eggplant. I planted two of these, because I don't know how many eggplants (eggplant fruits? gourds? squash?) one plant can produce. Eggplant parmesan is always a hit. I would love to try making a vegetarian moussaka sometime, too.

And then there are cucumbers. My husband isn't a fan of them, but I think cucumbers and tomatoes are the epitome of how summer tastes. I'd eat fresh cucumber spears just plain. And they're also delicious the way I've eaten them in Finland, on a rye cracker with a bit of swiss cheese and thin slices of red bell pepper. Mmmm. My mouth is watering!

Edibles aren't the only thing in our garden. The air is perfumey with the scent of lilacs right now. There are two gargantuan white-pink lilac bushes just below the deck (the one where all the pots of herbs are). The flowers don't last long once cut, so I just leave them on the bushes and prop the back doors and windows open to invite the smell of spring in.

Our dogwood tree is pretty modest, just a spindly white-blossomed thing near the backyard shed. But the flowers are wonderfully photogenic.

Not satisfied with the pink-white lilac, we also planted this lovely variegated purple-and-white version by the back fence.

And finally, I'll say goodbye to you at the front door, where the bleeding hearts are putting on quite a show this year. I do love these plants, which thrive on the shady north side of the house.

Thanks for coming on my garden tour. Now it's your turn! What's growing at your place?

Tunnel Vision

2011-05-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

I have noticed that some people can only sing one note. Some people can only see one thing. Some people have no array of interests, no broad selection of tools at their fingertips, no wide number of topics they can talk about, and no flexibility to take "No" for an answer.

Some people have tunnel vision.

Take, for example, the faculty member who relates everything in every committee to inadequate compensation. You could be talking about the blue sky, and he would remark that it would be bluer if the compensation were fixed so that he was paid $20,000 more. (Seriously. He doesn't see the problem in referring to how it will affect him personally.) Even when enrollment is down and budget cuts underway, this poor chap continues to beat the drum that the pay structure must be fixed. Now. I find myself wondering if he imagines that we tied him down and threatened him with waterboarding if he didn't sign his contract.

Another guy advocates a scheme whereby investors will make a load of money off of Washington state dollars if they will just buy solar panels for $15,000 apiece and sign into a "green plan" for the next eight years. He urges everyone around him to sign on to the plan, although the funding is so complicated, people remark that they still don't understand it after hearing about it three times. He continues to present to whoever will put him on the agenda. This, even though the state is cutting dollars to schools so severely that teachers at the local elementary school must use their own money to buy supplies for their classrooms. The funding for green energy may well dry up any minute, but we're repeatedly encouraged to invest in his project, even after saying we're not in favor of it. This is not to say that solar panels or green energy are not a good idea.

A professor who teaches a particular skill in our college always includes social issues in her upper division courses, even though the skill she's teaching has nothing to do with social issues. Women's rights are always a topic of assigned reading and discussion, as are racial issues. Students get frustrated, writing on their class evaluations, "Just quit using this class as a bully pulpit and teach [the subject] already, please!" Thus far nothing has changed. If the students weren't also learning the skill, the issue would immediately become one of continued employment, rather than advice to change her approach.

"Tunnel vision people" are inflexible and frustrating. Their ability to sing only one note causes people around them to disbelieve their credibility, to tune them out, to actually dislike them. Sometimes you just have this horrible urge to yell, "Shut up and stop it already! You've wasted my time long enough!"

The issue is that, with each of these people, they have good motives at heart. It is a good thing to make sure that people are paid a fair wage, and can support their families. It is a good thing to tap into green energy where and when we can. It is a good thing to take care of social justice issues, to treat others as valuable human beings regardless of gender, race, and so on. The problem arises when you try to accomplish your objectives by using just one method.

I admire those who are flexible enough to choose a different route to achieve their worthy objectives when one is not working well. Are you hitting resistance? Why? Could you bring others to your cause in other ways they can feel good about? Could you even adjust your cause a little bit so that it satisfies your concerns and at the same time becomes attractive to others? Is it possible to sing different notes and still produce the kind of music you hoped for? Can you step out of the tunnel and see a broader landscape? Could you try a different perspective and actually find a solution when you are at cross purposes with someone you value?

I have been mulling over tunnel vision lately, not only because of these case studies, but also because I've noticed that aging tends to make tunnel vision more likely, and I don't want to become an old person who is narrow and frustrating. Just as frustrating as the younger people I described above. Somehow I have gotten the idea that if I think about this while I'm younger and more open, I can plan in ways that will prevent tunnel vision as I age.

Or might there be some tunnel vision I need to address right now? Hmmm.

Introducing Phoebe

2011-05-01T09:47:00.000-07:00

Meet Phoebe

When I was in college, my brother and I combined our money, $1000 each, and bought a used Honda Civic to share. Being honors students and learning all about Greek mythology, which had not been in our curriculum until then, we named our little blue-and-gray set of wheels Socrates. That car was beautifully dependable, even after the heating and air conditioning eventually failed. He just kept trucking along those Washington state roads. Socrates eventually was handed off to another family member, and I never did hear of his demise.

In the meantime, my mom had given me her white VW Rabbit, a car that we named Mephistopheles. Meph took me from college to two years of teaching on the Oregon coast, and then down to California. There, he got me dependably along the freeways to and from my classes for my masters degree, and then to and from the school where I was hired to teach. I eventually sold him off to a classmate from my graduate studies, a principal who could care for Meph's increasing coughs and burps.

That was when I bought Alexa the Honda Civic, my first brand new car. She was a delight! I drove that car over 110,000 miles, many of them to supervise student teachers as I taught in Northern California. Other than getting her brakes redone a time or two because of the hilly driving, she never needed much care besides her oil, gas, windshield wiper blades and windshield washing fluid refills.

Caleb

Just a couple of months before I got married, I sold Alexa to a couple of college lads, brothers who were buying their first car. And I bought Caleb the Honda CRV, naming him for his name's meaning--Bold--because I was just going into a new phase of life: new marriage, new home, new job, new town.

Caleb had 4-wheel drive, a mercifully helpful feature in this north country where the roads can get icy and the snow is challenging at least a time or two each winter. I've always been safe when the sturdy little Caleb was carrying me to my destination. When I stepped into my current job, which provided the benefit of driving a college vehicle, I sold Caleb to them and kept driving him as my car.

Over time Caleb's gotten chips in his windshield and paint from rock-flinging semi trucks, a cyclist ran into the driver's side door and bent it a bit off its alignment, and the rubber around the doors has deteriorated, resulting in worse and worse road noise. At 75,000 miles we administrators are supposed to trade out cars, making sure that we're driving cars with higher reliability. After carrying me on countless trips to Portland, Seattle, Spokane, and even Montana, Caleb had racked up nearly 83,000 miles, and it was time.

Enter Phoebe, the Toyota Highlander. Her name means "bright," or "bright moon," depending on what source I consult with. She came to me a couple of weeks ago, used with 23,000 miles on her, and it's a pleasure to drive her (although I still need to get comfortable with parallel parking a bigger vehicle). Her name is found both in the Bible and in Greek mythology, which continues the tradition I've built up over time. She had plenty of leg room, and that ever-important 4-wheel drive for the winters. Other than Socrates, Phoebe is the first car I've owned that isn't white. I like her dark grey-green color. But of course it has rained dust twice in the 2 weeks I've had her, and that's more noticeable on a grey-green car than on a white one. Such are the hazards of living in an agricultural valley.

Who knows what new places Phoebe will take me. I look forward to finding out!

Terrified By God

2011-04-26T07:30:00.000-07:00

Look! The Lord is coming from his dwelling place; he comes down and treads the high places of the earth. The mountains melt beneath him and the valleys split apart, like wax before the fire, like water rushing down a slope. Micah 1:3-4

Jewish prophets were adept and colorful in describing the enveloping hugeness, the terrifying power of the God of the universe. When God comes the earth explodes, splits, melts, and liquefies. The things we think of as huge and immovable--mountains, for example--melt beneath God. God is like a consuming fire, like an overwhelming flood, like a bone-rattling earthquake.

When I picture what the prophets describe as the coming of God, I feel for a moment the terror I felt when I was a tiny girl and saw my dad coming my way with "that look" on his face. The steely-stern look said I was in some kind of trouble, but since I was a child new to the world, I didn't know what would happen. Fear welled up and overtook my whole body. How is it that God can so terrify us (and that we in turn can so terrify our children)?

Is it a good thing to be terrified by God? Can we truly love someone who frightens us?

I grew up in a country where people were at times terrified by the spirits, but they also considered themselves clever and able to trick the spirits. It was an odd mix of powerlessness and game-playing. In the writings of the Hebrew prophets I don't see this paradox. God stays constant and is not a trickster, nor can we pull a fast one on Him.

So, what does it mean to have a God so huge, so powerful, so overwhelming that the very elements would be overcome by his coming? And how do we reconcile these pictures with the friendly, harmless and toothless God that our current society likes to imagine?

Easter Meditations: Heaven Owns the Open Tomb

2011-04-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. Matt. 28:2-3

When I move something and then sit on it, I establish ownership. It's a signal of it being mine, my territory. It's a hands-on-hips warning: "Don't you mess with this or with me!" When the angel sat on the stone, this was the message: Heaven owns the open tomb!

The seal on the stone couldn't shut God in ... or out. And in truth, nothing can, except the simple power of choice, your choice for you, my choice for me. That stone can stay rolled across the doorway of our hearts, no angel owning it, death still sealed inside, unrevived.

But the real tomb over there in Israel, the one where the body of Jesus was laid after his death on the cross? Nothing could keep the stone rolled across the entrance. No soldiers, no seal, no power of death.

Heaven owns the open tomb. Hallelujah!

Easter Meditations: Ironies

2011-04-22T07:20:00.000-07:00

James Tissot, What Our Savior Saw From the Cross

When they had crucified him, they divided up his clothes by casting lots. And sitting down, they kept watch over him there. Matt. 27:35-36

There are ironies all through the story of Jesus's life, but they come one right on the heels of another during those last few days and through the crucifixion and resurrection.

The disciples who were close to him deserted him. How ironic. The man who vowed to follow him to death disowned him. How ironic. A governor who had full power over the religious leaders bowed to their wishes, recognizing fully that they wanted this man dead simply because they envied him. How ironic. The friend who betrayed him threw away the money he received for his act, and committed suicide. How ironic.

And now, yet another irony: the soldiers in charge of his torture and death sat down to keep watch over Jesus, when just the night before his own disciples had not been able to stay awake to keep watch with him.

How incongruent we are, we weak and fickle human beings! Our lives and our actions are so full of ironies.

Easter Meditations: Striking at Truth

2011-04-21T06:30:00.000-07:00

The Crowning With Thorns, by Michael D. O'Brien

The high priest said to him, “I charge you under oath by the living God: Tell us if you are the Messiah, the Son of God.”

“You have said so,” Jesus replied. “But I say to all of you: From now on you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven.”

Then the high priest tore his clothes and said, “He has spoken blasphemy! Why do we need any more witnesses? Look, now you have heard the blasphemy. What do you think?”

“He is worthy of death,” they answered.

Then they spit in his face and struck him with their fists. Others slapped him and said, “Prophesy to us, Messiah. Who hit you?” Matt. 26:63-68

Such a horrific, dramatic and sad scene. People didn't realize that they were slapping God in human form. The needless cruelty, the bullying, the sarcasm ... how much to people direct that in God's direction still today?

It doesn't occur to them that he may have been telling the truth.

What if he was what he said he was? What if those who say angry things about God, who strike out at Him, who are sarcastic about Him will see Jesus, as he described it, sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming in the clouds of heaven? What then?

The unimaginable has happened in all of our lives in some form. Things we never thought would happen to us, have come to be. Why not this? It seems to me that we should be at least somewhat circumspect, somewhat respectful of the fact that that He could have been telling the truth.

The implications of that call for silence, and sober consideration.

Easter Meditations: When Jesus Went Silent

2011-04-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

Jesus Condemned by Michael D. O'Brian

Finally two came forward and declared, “This fellow said, ‘I am able to destroy the temple of God and rebuild it in three days.’”

Then the high priest stood up and said to Jesus, “Are you not going to answer? What is this testimony that these men are bringing against you?” But Jesus remained silent. Matthew 26:60-63

Why did Jesus go silent at this point of His story? Earlier in the evening He was willing to speak as He pointed out thuggish behavior, but now in face of accusations He remained silent. Why?

Perhaps it was because the accusations, as we see them recorded here, were ludicrous and beside the point. If they thought He was simply human flesh and blood, they had no need to fear when they heard him say that he could destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days. Who cares? No one could do that. These would be the words of a crazy man.

The accusers of Jesus were off base, asking the wrong questions, paying attention to the wrong issues. Why should He answer?

How can we know the mind of the Divine? A lot of us throw accusations and questions at God, demands that make sense to us: How can You allow evil? How do I know that You exist? Prove it! Why should I believe claims about God made by churches with all their rules and differences from each other, their man-made traditions and their power grabs? You come across as coercive and ugly; what do you have to say about that? Why did you allow such-and-such to happen to me or my family? Why would I want anything to do with You?

Could it be that God remains silent in face of our questions and thinly-veiled accusations because somewhere we've missed the real issues? Could it be that our important, heart-wrenching questions are beside the point? How can we know the mind of the Divine?

I suspect that God remains silent until we ask the questions that really matter. I suspect that even then, the answers, in both their timing and content, will be a surprise. I'm willing to stick around and wait for the answers not yet heard. Hopefully I'll notice them when they come. Sometimes He whispers.

Sleep Walking

2011-04-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

Millais, The Somnambulist, 1871

When I was a child I read about sleepwalking. I don't recall the specifics. It was always a device used in some story plot, and was seen as a funny thing, a phenomenon that usually got the sleepwalker into trouble. The picture painted in these stories (and in a few TV scenes) was of someone walking along in a stupor, arms outstretched.

This past Friday night, I went sleepwalking for the first time in my life. I hope it was the last time. It was rather scary.

We were visiting our kids in southern California. I've had a bad cough which gets much worse at night time, particularly once I've gone to bed. I suppose there's something about lying horizontal that irritates the lungs. I ended up hacking as if to cough my lungs inside out, and it was most tiring and distressing. Cough drops can help, as can cough medicine, although neither of those was a total remedy.

Having run out of cough medicine, I dropped by a pharmacy before traveling south and bought two kinds of cough medicine--daytime and nighttime. I reasoned that the daytime stuff might have something in it that keeps a person awake, so I needed the nighttime one to let me sleep. I completely missed the rationale that the nighttime one might make a person overly dozey, which is why they produce a daytime version.

It was hard to wake up. And one night, off I went with no knowledge or recollection of the event. I walked out of the guestroom where Husband and I were sleeping, down the hall, and through our daughter and son-in-law's bedroom, ending up at their restroom, which I had no prior recollection of ever visiting before. I became vaguely aware when I discovered that their flush handle worked differently than most--it's a button rather than a lever--and then more aware as I walked out and looked into their dark room, seeing their bed across the room. Where was I? I stood there, trying to figure it out, fighting my way through a dense fog.

And slowly it dawned on me where I was. And embarrassment set in as Daughter said, "Ginger, are you okay? What are you looking for?"

Later they told me that they'd woken as I walked through their room, and she had said to him, "Where is she going?"

Argh.

And that, dear readers, is the last time I will ever take nighttime cough medicine.

Easter Meditations: Following at a Distance

2011-04-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

Art found here

But Peter followed him at a distance, right up to the courtyard of the high priest. He entered and sat down with the guards to see the outcome. Matt. 26:58

I believe there are plenty of people still following Jesus at a distance, waiting to see the outcome.

Is Jesus for real? Everyone makes their own assumptions about Him, and from some perspectives there's not yet a whole lot of proof in the pudding. At what point do I know that He is what Christians claim Him to be? Why would I want to lay it all on the line if it looks like things aren't going to work out the way I would expect them to, if He is who He says He is? Would I recognize the moment at which He has made the case for me to put all my eggs in His basket, so to speak? Things aren't looking too good for Him at this point, so I think I'll just follow at a distance, keep an eye on things, you know?

If I read the story correctly, this is not the time to draw conclusions about a person. Some might wander off, disappointed. Or they might, like Peter, find that an irresistible case has been made, might find their hearts broken, might become a powerfully loving and persuasive advocate for following Jesus up close.

I have been discouraged in the past by seeing loved ones, friends or students following at a distance, even wandering out of earshot at times. I have personally wandered off out of earshot and out of sight of what is happening up close to Jesus. As my colleague one floor down from my office has reminded me, "The story isn't over yet." Stick around. Watch what happens. You may be surprised.

The story isn't complete until the words "The End" roll down the screen.

Easter Meditations: Pointing Out Thuggery

2011-04-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

The Arrest of Christ (Ilya Repin, 1886)

In that hour Jesus said to the crowd, “Am I leading a rebellion, that you have come out with swords and clubs to capture me? Every day I sat in the temple courts teaching, and you did not arrest me. But this has all taken place that the writings of the prophets might be fulfilled.”

Matt. 26:55-56

I like the fact that Jesus pointed out thuggery. He didn't use his power to flatten them, but He did point out what was really going on, what was wrong with this scenario.

There are times when injustice should be pointed out. We tend to do that today as a precursor to forcing unethical behaviors to stop, and I think there's a place for that. While Jesus didn't use power or force to stop unethical or immoral behavior, but He also didn't let it pass without notice. That gives me hope, as a person who wants bullying (in its broader sense) to be addressed.

There is too much thuggery going on in this world. People use power for their own gain. Some of the rest of us simply go along with the exercise of force, physical or otherwise, because we are fearful and/or cowardly. We have ways of convincing ourselves that this is okay, that we are joining a cause that should be joined. We find reasons that make it psychologically acceptable.

Don't get me wrong; the fact that someone is hurt by an action doesn't necessarily make it unjust or classify it as thuggery. The world is not perfect, and people will get hurt. They will find their space limited, their jobs closed out, their perks removed, or their ideology out of favor with the majority vote. These are the results of living on a planet where the resources are not big enough to meet the demand, and where we simply disagree with one another.

But we always have humane methods available to us for addressing issues, versus brutal, punishing ways. Thuggery is found in the attitude with which the person or persons with power carry out their aims. It includes a lack of process, an attitude of coercion, and an absence of empathy for the individual whose world is being limited by what is happening. At its worst, it delights, even finds glee, in being forceful and punitive.

In the midst of the maddened crowd in Gethsemane, Jesus took a moment to point out what would have been a sane and humane approach. At that point, anyone listening could have changed course. It seems we, too, could at least endeavor to do that for one another, even in the "small thuggish moments" of life.

Easter Meditations: Betrayal

2011-04-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

Sculpture by Subirachs at the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain (found on internet)

While he was still speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, arrived. With him was a large crowd armed with swords and clubs, sent from the chief priests and the elders of the people. Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: “The one I kiss is the man; arrest him.” Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, “Greetings, Rabbi!” and kissed him.

Jesus replied, “Do what you came for, friend.”

Then the men stepped forward, seized Jesus and arrested him.

Matt. 26:47-50

A kiss. Such an intimate greeting gets used as a signal of betrayal. I think that is always how betrayal feels; the more physically or emotionally intimate, the sharper the sense of pain when the betrayal happens. Betrayal does not only mean the loss of someone we value. We also lose a bit of ourselves.

As soon as we feel the threat of betrayal, we tend to shut down, to protect our selves from being completely annihilated by the betrayer. But notice what Jesus did. Judas greeted Jesus as "Rabbi," or "Teacher," and yet Jesus responded by calling Judas "Friend," which emphasizes even further how awful the betrayal was.

This world is not good to us, and we are not good to each other. I would be surprised if anyone reading this has never felt betrayed by someone they love. We live on that kind of planet. But we know that we have a God who also feels betrayal deeply--not only the betrayal of Judas on that night long ago, but the ways in which we daily betray His intimate love and sustenance of us.

Let us meditate on this, and be humbled.