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Category Archives: ancient path

new life

April 17, 2011

I haven’t had much to say this winter. Let’s just say I’ve been dormant – as in a deep sleep. Or perhaps alive - but not actively growing. My faith has remained steadfast, I have been putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward in that faith alone as storm winds continue to buffet. Recently an unexpected and serious diagnosis is handed down to my mom – the only parent,grandparent remaining after a year of many family deaths. As painful as it is, I recognize that it does not shake my faith, nor does it strangle the tender bud of fresh hope that has lately appeared.

I trudge to my cabin in a downpour, enjoying the rain and the mud, inhaling the woodsy smells. I pause to examine countless green buds on a branch – the sign that new life is about to explode. This life has been there all the while, of course. Throughout the harsh winter, life has been coursing deep within – no matter how naked the branches or how seemingly dead the tree.

I see myself in this branch and a song rises in my heart – a song that I wrote in a prayer meeting many years ago while meditating on scripture:

Arise my love and come with me

The winter has past and the rains have gone

Arise my love, my beautiful one

The season of singing has come

I am ready for a new season of fruitfulness, but I do not ask to leave this wilderness or this dark night. I ask only that I can sing from the depths of a satisfied soul, no matter what my circumstances, rejoicing in the abundant life coursing deep within me.

Photo credit: Springing to Life by Steph P, Canada

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chant the beauty of the good

June 8, 2010

It’s been awhile, I know. Over the past many weeks I’ve completely unplugged, disappearing from this blog, Facebook, Twitter, and all but the most essential email exchanges. It has not been some idealistic attempt to get back to nature. This time I haven’t been chilling in my cozy, woodsy cabin listening to the birds and the sounds of squirrels scampering and chipmunks chattering.

Not even close. I’ve been listening to alarms clanging and machines whooshing and the varied and sundry bells and whistles warning that something is wrong, very wrong. And not just in Boston.

The good news is that my brother-in-law Jay has made it out of ICU after 58 days, and is now on his 6th day out of many to come in an acute rehab facility. He’s still on a few of the machines that kept him alive in ICU – such as the ventilator, dialysis, feeding tube. But so many of the machines are now gone and the process begins to – painfully and slowly but surely – wean him off of the remaining devices and get him back onto his feet.

But not long after returning from Boston to get back to work and to life here in Cleveland, my phone rings in the wee hours of the morning. No one wants the phone to ring this early – you just assume can only be bad news. The ambulance is already at my dad’s house and within minutes, we’re out the door and turning what is normally a 40 minute drive into a 20 minute dash.

Dad is quickly moved from the ER to ICU at Medina General, where we hear terms we have grown all too familiar with in the last couple of months. We’ve also learned how to interpret numbers on a monitor and we don’t like what we see. Dad’s heart beats erratically and far too fast, his blood pressure is far too low – along with his oxygen. The doctor and nurse ask about a living will and about intubation. In front of my mom and dad they say that he is on the “cusp”. That he may bounce back or things may “go south very quickly”. They arrange to have him immediately transported to the Cleveland Clinic, telling us that it is his best chance of survival. They also tell us to call the family.

As they prepare to transport him, Dad is very alert – alert enough to ask Ken to cook the mass of chicken and ribs defrosting in the refrigerator. He apologizes for ruining the family cookout planned for that day before he’s rolled out the door. We were looking forward to some family fun because the two days previous had been painful due to the fact that Dad’s brother died.

While living in Thailand with his wife, my Uncle Ed suddenly got sick and was quickly unable to communicate or move. Because of the language barrier with his wife, we could never understand exactly what was going on with Uncle Ed, until his wife called to say – He is dead. Phone calls started flying between Medina and Ireland and Thailand and back again as the stunned siblings tried to get information and comfort one another. My father simply closed his eyes at the news. Two days later he was in an ambulance heading to ICU. My theory is that he simply imploded.

This last week-plus has been filled with more frightening reports, terrifying events, clanging alarms, and doctors, doctors and more doctors. Dad is tired, but still his amazing, strong, compassionate self . Each day when I kiss him hello, his first question is about Jay and my sister-in-law, Kathy who is with him in Boston. His next question is always about Ken’s dad in Texas – who has just recently been admitted to hospice – and of course about how Ken is holding up through all this. He doesn’t focus on himself. He wants to see pictures of his great grandbabies and maintains his wonderful sense of humor. He loves the nurses and hates the hospital food – which gives him lots of material. Dad always finds the good, even when it’s buried under mounds of difficulty.

Perhaps it is because we are dealing with multiple crises and have a 360 degree view of the entire landscape, but I admit, it’s been difficult to maintain my sense of humor and sunny disposition lately. It’s just not coming easily or naturally during this challenging season. As I’ve said before, I often have to purposefully dig for the treasure of each day, buried under what seems to be an endless amount of frightening news, bad reports, amidst the clanging of alarms and jangling of my nerves.

I recently stumbled on a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote lately that suits my season – one that I keep repeating to myself:

Don’t waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good.

I have been rolling these words around in my mouth and mind for days, thinking about what it means.

I chant the beauty of the good when I sit on Dad’s hospital bed showing him a video of Poppy helping Nana plant flowers.
I chant the beauty of the good with with each picture of Poppy that Leanne or Jacob send me as we laugh over her latest antics.
I chant the beauty of the good, when I call Kathy in Boston to laugh together on the phone or when I collapse in tears in the comforting arms of my friend, Kimmi.
I chant the beauty of the good when I help Hana study for her final exams, rejoicing in the fact that she made it to the end of her school year – something that last fall we did not think possible.

I chant the beauty of the good when I look into the face of God in silence, knowing that He is close. So very close to me and to all those I love. I chant the beauty of the good when I read, or quote to myself, the unchanging words of scripture:

The LORD hears his people when they call to him for help. He rescues them from all their troubles.The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those who are crushed in spirit. The righteous face many troubles, but the LORD rescues them from each and every one. – Psalm 34-17-19

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. – Psalm 46:1-3

…the LORD who created you says: “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you go through deep waters and great trouble, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown! When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you. For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. – Isaiah 43:1-3

Have you never heard or understood? Don’t you know that the LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth? He never grows faint or weary. No one can measure the depths of his understanding. He gives power to those who are tired and worn out; he offers strength to the weak. Even youths will become exhausted, and young men will give up. But those who wait on the LORD will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles.They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint. - Isaiah 40:28-31

And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them. – Romans 8:28

And He says “My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me.- 2 Corinthians 12:9

Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you. - 1 Peter 5:7

Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. If you do this, you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. And now, dear brothers and sisters, let me say one more thing as I close this letter. Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. – Philippians 4:6-8

And when I cling to the words of Jesus, the One I love and follow, I chant the beauty of the good:

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world. – John 16:33

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light . – Matthew 11: 28-31

Even before I finish this post, I receive text messages from Boston. Jay is in distress and is even now being transported back to the hospital and the intensive care unit. I send out urgent prayer requests and think about what I consider urgent and what I don’t consider urgent during this season. I find it hard to care about things that have no eternal value.

My phone dings again; another text message just now comes in now from Texas and a Wadenpfuhl aunt is en route to the hospital via ambulance.

Now my phone rings -( my ring tone is a fave Joni Mitchell song. I am on a lonely road and I am traveling traveling traveling traveling/ Looking for something what could it be?)

It’s my brother calling from the hospital. The doctors seem to have figured it out and barring any setbacks, dad will soon head to a rehab facility near his home to get his legs back under him.

I chant the beauty of the good.

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long journey on an ever-changing sea

April 15, 2010

For several months, I have been daily following the blog of a 16-year-old Australian named Jessica Watson. First thing in the morning, last thing at night and several times each day, I check for her latest post, eager for news – always hoping that news is good. Since October of last year, this young girl has been sailing around the globe on a small sailboat called Ella’s Pink Lady – non-stop and alone. And since January, I’ve been tracking her perilous journey – every storm, every doldrum, every freezing night and stunning sunset, every knock-down and broken piece of equipment, every twinge of loneliness.

I am fascinated by the act itself . I think back to Ferdinand Magellan - the explorer who set out with 5 ships and a crew of over 200 men to circumnavigate the globe in the early 1500′s. The journey was completed 3 years later with only one ship and 19 men remaining. (Even Magellan himself didn’t make the distance. He was killed in the Philippines while trying to convert locals to Christianity.) And there are other famous names like Drake and Cook – but now it’s being done in a 30 foot sailboat by a 16 year old girl.

Two 16 year old girls, actually.

There’s an American girl name Abby Sunderland out there now as well. She started her journey from Mexico and has just recently rounded Cape Horn on her 40 foot sailboat, Wild Eyes. And not to be left out, a 38 year old man named Alessandro di Benedetto is circumnavigating the globe in an even tinier 20 foot sailboat. I read with amazement his accounts of petting dolphins and seals, of listening to whales breathe nearby, of dodging icebergs.Last week his mast broke in a violent storm and first reports had him stopping in Chile for repairs, but he simply built another mast out of whatever he had onboard and is even now closing in on treacherous Cape Horn with his jury-rigged mast.

These adventurers all have smart, sharp on-shore teams behind them – people with knowledge of the sea, of weather patterns, of navigation – but they are the ones out alone out there for months on end, fighting the daily battles – sometimes for forward progress, other-times simply for survival.

I’m surprised that I find all of this fascinating. I’m no sailor, though I have a deep love for the sea. Perhaps crossing the Atlantic by boat twice before the age of 7 left a deep impression on me. But looking at this all metaphorically – which I admit I’m prone to do – I do know why I find it inspiring.

Storms come and they go. Doldrums come and they go. The sea, winds and waves are ever changing – the key is learning to navigate whatever is thrown at you. A knock-down is not the end, – if you’re prepared and know how to get back up. And no matter how much support I might have – and I have wonderful friends who are much smarter than me - it still comes down to me riding out the storms, daily choosing faith over doubt, courage over fear, joy over despair.

It helps that I know and walk with the One who tames the wind and the waves, who sets the boundaries in place – the only One who can. Even when He’s asleep in my boat- and lately it feels like He’s been in a deep, deep slumber, I still have the promise of His words. When we started this journey together He said “let’s go over to the other side of the lake” – so I know He has plans to get me there, regardless of what rogue wave may slam me broadside or turn me upside down, disorienting me for a day or two.

These words may seem simplistic, and even trite. They usually do – until a storm actually hits. Or in my case lately , a series of storms.

Jessica, Abby and Alessandro’s journeys will all come to an end at various times in the weeks/months ahead. Jessica is only a few short weeks from home – though she’s currently fighting lightning storms and wicked seas in the Great Australian Bight. The latest storm knocked her down, tore her mainsail and flooded her cabin. But she’s up again and moving forward with her typical positive attitude. Abby and Alessandro still have a ways to go, but all of them want to accomplish the same thing. They want to conquer the storms, the winds, the waves – and themselves – and at the end, sail into safe harbor and hear the words Well Done.

As do I.

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A Great Silence

April 12, 2010

Lately I’ve been mostly silent. Out of words – oftentimes out of thoughts. I’m used to taking the hard times in stride – one disappointment, grief or loss at a time. But these days they come too quickly, each hard on the heels of the one before. I barely catch my breath when a new day dawns and knocks the wind clear out of me.

And I hate watching those I love hurt. Several times in the last few months I have helplessly listened to my husband cry himself to sleep – over a mom lost, a dad sick, a daughter. Then a few days back, the phone rings and his brother now lies fighting for his life in a Boston hospital. A mystery illness that comes out of nowhere – a suddenly. The kind that knocks your feet out from under you and beats you bloody. The doctors are puzzled; the brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, friends – and his father – are stunned, fearful, angry, grieved. Again.

I pray mostly without words, because my heart is numb – and words are simply not enough. I sink into the great silence that is God. Aimlessly, I thumb through a book and stumble on a Walter Rauschenbusch poem from 1918 – and, gratefully,

I find words.

The Little Gate to God

In the castle of my soul
Is a little postern gate,
Whereat, when I enter,
I am in the presence of God.
In a moment, in the turning of a thought,
I am where God is.
This is a fact.
This world of ours has length and breadth,
A superficial and horizontal world.
When I am with God,
I look deep down and high up,
And all is changed.
The world of men is mad of jangling noises,
with God it is a great silence.
But that silence is a melody
Sweet as the contentment of love,
Thrilling as a touch of flame.
In this world my days are few
And full of trouble.
I strive and have not;
I seek and find not;
I ask and learn not.
Its joys are so fleeting,
Its pains are so enduring.
I am in doubt if life be worth living.
When I enter into God,
all life has a meaning
Without asking, I know;
My desires are even now fulfilled,
My fever is gone
In the great quiet of God.
My troubles are but pebbles on the road,
My joys are like the everlasting hills,
So it is when I step through the gate of prayer
From time into eternity.
When I am in the consciousness of God
Those whom I love
Have a mystic value.
They shine, as if a light were glowing within them.
Even those who frown on me
And love me not
Seem part of a great scheme of good.
(Or else they seem like stray bumble bees
Buzzing at a window,
Headed the wrong way, yet seeking the light.)
So it is when my soul steps through the postern gate
Into the presence of God.
Big things become small, and small things become great.
The near becomes far, and the future is near.
The lowly and despised is shot through with glory,
And most of human power and greatness
Seems as full of infernal iniquities
As a carcass is full of maggots.
God is the substance of all revolutions;
When I am in him, I am in the Kingdom of God
And the Fatherland of my soul.
Is it strange that I love God?
And when I come back through the gate,
Do you wonder that I carry memories with me.
And my eyes are hot with unshed tears for what I see.
And I feel like a stranger and a homeless man
where the poor are wasted for gain,
Where rivers run red,
And where God’s sunlight is darkened by lies?
May God’s sunlight shine again. Thy kingdom come, God!

Walter Rauschenbusch
Theologian and Pastor
1918

Photo Credit: Silence by Tory Byrne, USA

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jailed missionaries in Haiti

February 10, 2010

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I’ve been following this story with more than a casual interest and my emotions are engaged on several levels. First and foremost, I worry about the children and the parents who felt the need to give them away in order to save them. I wept when I read the stark commentary from one of these parents a few days back. She said “This is our culture. We often give our children to others to raise, so they will have a better chance at life.” Others may give one child away to finance the feeding of the other 6. These children are called restavecs – no more than child-slaves in the household of a better-off family.

I’ve seen this in Africa. I’ve had many conversations with grown women who, though they nonchanlantly tell their stories, have obviously never emotionally recovered from being given away as children. Most of them spent their childhoods tending cows, hauling water, watching younger children, cooking, washing clothes – and so had no opportunity to go to school. And when the sun set in the village, most of them were molested.

cow-boy

Then there are the cow-boys of Malawi. Little boys taken far from their homes to tend cattle as slaves in another village. This is illegal in Malawi now, but I’m told that when government officials enter a village to inspect, they simply hide the boys until they leave. The law is nearly impossible to enforce in the villages where traditional authorities and cultural practices reign.

As I’ve read similar stories in Haiti, the frustration of the aid workers and doctors is palpable. Their hands are tied and they know it. But the 10 jailed missionaries shook off those ties.

I’ve been surprised at how emotional I’ve been about this event. I don’t even know where to start – but let me start here: I won’t impugn their motives. I understand the heart that took them to Haiti and respect their courage to wade into the carnage and try to make a difference. But even as we press against the things in the culture that victimize innocents, we must respect that nation’s laws at all times. The bible clearly states that we must respect those in authority – and any remnant of a colonial mindset that sets itself up as the law is arrogant.

As someone who has spent many long days and years in Madagascar running after some important little piece of paper – what we call “zee leetle paper” – I do understand the frustration. You need “zee leetle paper”. You go to social welfare and social welfare tells you to go to the ministry of whatever and the ministry of whatever sends you to the ministry of whatsit and 10 hours later there is still no leetle paper. But you don’t run around their laws unless you want to be their guest for a couple of decades. It’s called respect.

We tried to adopt a little boy from Madagascar some years back. For several years, we supported him in an orphanage run by a pastor and wife – who assured us he was an orphan and that they would help us gather his paperwork. We personally sent monthly funds and large sums to procure a birth certificate – but no such certificate ever materialized. To make a long story short, on a final trip when I thought I was in the last stages of the process, a mother emerged. He was not an orphan – something the pastor knew all along. The mother didn’t want her son back, however – she just wanted money.

michael-in-kens-jacket

At that moment I had to make a decision that broke my heart. I told her to take her son back to the village. The little boy was inconsolable, as were my husband and I, but there was simply no way around this. This woman wanted to sell her son. In that split second, I knew I had to trust God with his young life. I could not violate child trafficking laws to try to save him myself. It wasn’t an easy decision but I still know it was the right one.

Which brings me to the jailed group’s leader – Laura Silsby. She is being villified in the press and now we’re told the group has turned against her, passing notes through the bars about her controlling nature and how she deceived them. I don’t know about any of that – but I can’t help but wonder why we always eat our own. Quote scripture all you want and sing Amazing Grace until you’re hoarse, but Jesus said they’ll know we are Christians by our love for each other.

On the other hand, I would call on Laura Silsby to act in love towards the team entrusted to her. Stand up and take full responsibility for your actions and ask for the immediate release of your team members. They trusted your judgment in an unfamiliar culture. They trusted your decisions and your word. These decisions – no matter how good the motive – have led them smack into this tense situation, causing fear among their loved ones. Speak up, Laura, it’s the price of leadership and also the price of love.

Photo Credits: Haitian Child by lauri koski; Cow Boy by Patsala, a young village boy in Malawi who participated in an Ancient Path photography project.

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wise words from Mother Teresa

February 8, 2010

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I’m cleaning out my files – always an unpleasant task for myriad reasons. For a start, it makes me nervous to find things I dropped through the cracks months ago. I also get depressed thinking about things I wish I had done differently. And then there are the things I don’t know how to act on or I’m trying to forget. That’s why I buried it in a file drawer in the first place. And trust me, buried is the right word.

I am however, turning over a new leaf, as they say. (I have to. I lost the old one.)

Before that can happen, I need to sift through these piles of papers, just to make sure I’m not throwing out anything important, like my passport or the only existing copy of whatever. While I would rather set the whole mess on fire and move on, I’m old enough to know that this doesn’t work – in life or filing. I have to face the music.

So it’s late afternoon and the vultures are circling, the dark clouds descending and I’m muttering to myself something about quitting when suddenly, a wrinkled photocopy falls into my lap – words from Mother Teresa, tucked between an old Christmas script and handwritten notes from a Madagascar trip. Don’t ask why these three items would be in the same file. It might have something to do with the color blue, I don’t remember.

But I don’t believe in coincidences. I think God meant for me to see these words today – words spoken by a woman who is my personal hero – to remind me, to center me.

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish,ulterior motives; be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God.

It was never between you and them anyway.

It’s between me and God.

What I do, I do for God, because of God, with God, in full sight of God – no matter how it turns out.

I also remind myself that I am often part of the problem – unreasonable, illogical and self-centered etc etc. But forgiving myself wouldn’t be out of line.

On the contrary, it would be healing.

I swat feebly at the vultures. I’m not dead yet. I blow fresh breath to scatter the dark clouds and tape the graying paper to my wall. It’s between me and God – which is both comforting and terrifying. But I won’t quit today.

Now back to my files. Where did I tuck those matches?

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God with us

December 7, 2009

bird-on-snowy-branch

Driving into the city last night, I saw the controversial billboard I’ve heard talk of:
Don’t believe in God? You’re not alone.

Paid for by an athiest group in Colorado, these messages are meant to “let non-believers, free-thinkers and atheists know that they are not alone, especially in a country like ours that is predominantly Christian.”

When I spotted the billboard, I was on my way to an hour-long radio interview on the topic of grief – something I’ve learned a bit about in the last few years. My first thought was not outrage at the boldness of the group launching such a campaign at Christmas. This is the USA, where freedom of expression is cherished and protected.

A rabbi once told me how much it hurt him and others in the Jewish community to hear the US called a Christian nation. Are we not citizens of this nation? he asked. The muslims and buddhists would ask the same question. No matter how the nation was founded, we are still that melting pot of myriad nationalities and the diverse forms of faith that accompany them. While I am a devout Christ follower, I thank God that I live in a nation that guarantees freedom of worship, as well as expression. And this includes the right to worship yourself instead of a deity, if you so choose.

No, my first thought when I saw the billboard was more personal, than political. I can’t imagine going through the death of a loved one without the unfailing love of the One who is close to the broken-hearted. I can’t imagine nursing a beloved father through a horrific cancer battle without the comfort of the One who never changes, never forsakes us, never leaves us alone.

During this time of advent, I frequently reflect on the meaning of the name Emmanuel – God with us. God with us means he takes our suffering personally, walking with us every step of the way.

Working through a particularly painful time in my past, I once asked God, where were you? The answer I found in scripture and heard deep in my heart was – I was right there, weeping with you. It was enough, and it is enough, to know that He is right here, walking with me through each day, no matter what comes my way.

God with us means we’re never alone.

God with us does not mean we will never suffer loss, disappointment or grief. Jesus himself said “in this world you will have trouble, but have courage, for I have overcome the world.” But it does mean that God will infuse each struggle with meaning, purpose, hope and promise, redeeming all things in the end. He is making all things new.
People like those who created the billboard campaign can’t imagine why we cling to what they see as a crutch or an opiate to dull the pain of living in this world. As for me, I can’t imagine living without faith in a merciful, sovereign God or without hope in a world bigger than what I can see with my natural eyes.

Photo credit: Snow Bird by Marina Garcia, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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giving thanks

November 21, 2009

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I’m back from Africa in time for the Thanksgiving holiday – always a harder time of year to cope with “re-entry”. I still remember melting down in the cereal aisle of a grocery store on my November return from Madagascar a decade ago.

It’s Thanksgiving eve and I’m hunting down pumpkin pie ingredients under screaming fluorescent lights when – without warning – my two worldviews collide in a very public-and messy-manner. The bright faces on the cereal boxes suddenly morph into the faces of dying children I have just left and I begin to sob incoherently about injustice and Lucky Charms. My husband has to carry me from the store.

Malaria may have had something to do with that particlar episode – but even after all these years, I still find it difficult to traverse back and forth between such starkly different worlds. It has, however, taught me to be grateful for even the smallest things – and to find meaning in each day.

girl_water

For instance, I’m so grateful for clean water flowing from a tap inside my house. I don’t have to haul water on my head, back and forth from a dirty river or a deep well in a neighboring village – or suck on dirty tree roots for my moisture. I’m grateful that I don’t have to chop firewood each time I want to cook even the smallest meal. I’m grateful that I have meals – even a simple bowl of soup and something as insignificant as a dash of salt.

I’m grateful for a warm bed and a house that keeps snakes out and won’t fall down when the rains come.The children have told me how frightening it is to find huge snakes curled up next to them in the middle of the night. Pythons, no less. (A little mouse would be welcome in their houses. Well, actually it would be breakfast.) I’m grateful for soap, a hot shower and a clean towel, for books, music, art, beauty and a 1969 VW that still runs.

I know the US economy has taken a hit. We’ve had difficult times ourselves and are one of those families without health insurance – but I’m so grateful that we make more than a dollar a day, like 65% of all Malawians. (And no, you can’t feed and clothe a family on that – even in the Malawian economy.) I’m grateful that I’ve never had to send my children to bed hungry or choose which ones would go to school and which would go to work in a sweat shop.

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I’m grateful that we’ve never been driven into refugee camps through war and violence – like so many African families. As I think of the increasing violence in Darfur – or in Congo – I’m grateful for the peace in our nation and for the military men and women and their families who give up their lives to keep it that way. When I think of the corrupt and brutal dictators who stand with their boots on the necks of the poor, chopping off the limbs of innocent children, I thank God for democracy – that works better here than anywhere else in the world.

Our parents are all battling illness, and that has been painful to watch – yet I am so grateful for the skilled and compassionate professionals whose care beats back the cancer. And I’m grateful to God who allows us to enjoy our loved ones for yet another day. I’ve just left a country where people are stacked two to a bed – and under the beds – on teeming hospital wards. Where life-saving surgeries are canceled because the national blood bank is dry, where people die of liver cancer with no more than tylenol to ease the pain. Yes, I’m grateful. I’m grateful for a husband who treats me with loving respect, for the opportunities my children have had, for the health and well-being of my beautiful granddaughter.

But I’m also grateful for the songs of the African widows who never give up, for the woman with AIDS who radiates joy as she talks about the goodness of God, the skeletal orphan child who clings to me, laughing, singing, hugging, still hoping, still believing in life and the love of God. These are my teachers.

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And there is one teacher in particular that I think of every Thanksgiving – let me take you back a few years…

I’m in Madagascar. Since arriving I have preached nine times in 3 days, trudged up and down mountainsides, stood helplessly, surrounded by starving street children and heard more horror stories than I could possibly digest. I’m tired, sick with fever, rapidly sliding into a bad attitude and I’m getting ready to preach again – on love, no less. I’m praying for strength, shivering as the cold concrete floor chills my very bones, when the pastor begins to lead us in the simple worship song:

Give thanks with a grateful heart
Give thanks to the Holy One
Give thanks for He has given Jesus Christ, His son
And now let weak say “I am strong”
Let the poor say “I am rich”
Because of what the Lord has done for us

And out of the corner of my eye, I see her – a woman who looks to be in her 60s or 70s but is probably younger than me. She’s wearing a head wrap, a ragged shirt and simple cloth tied around her waist; she is barefoot on the cold concrete floor. As she sings wholeheartedly, head thrown back and arms extended, the tears roll down her wrinkled face, soaking her shirt. I learned in that moment how to give thanks with a grateful heart – and have never forgotten. That doesn’t mean I always remember to be grateful – but when I take time to reflect, God takes me back to this humble teacher who still instructs my heart each time I think of her.

I’ll be thinking of her on Monday morning when I have a dentist appointment. I’m even grateful for this – which is nothing short of miraculous. I’m grateful for my dear friend who gives of himself and his talents to care for me and my family in this way. I’m grateful for his skilled, compassionate staff who coax me into the office and into the chair. I’m grateful for sterile instruments, novocaine and antibiotics. An oh yes – let’s not forget the gift of nitrous oxide. (PS – Just meet me in the parking lot with the tank on high and then hit me on the head with something heavy. I’ll be grateful to you.)

But enough from me. What are you grateful for?

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barefoot travels

September 23, 2009

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I was in Washington D.C. last month for a couple of days – supposedly just doing the tourist thing with Ken and Hana – though we’re not really the touristy types. We head immediately for the Holocaust Memorial Museum where we have a little delay getting in since the man directly in front of me is packing a full-sized machete in his pants. The guards are on it immediately. They just lost a comrade in June when a lunatic rifle-wielding white supremacist entered the museum and shot Officer Stephen Tyrone Jones dead – and they’re not messing around.

We eventually get in, but I can’t write about it. I bought the huge official museum book and read it cover to cover – I can’t count the number of books I’ve read on the Holocaust – but I still can’t write about it. I’ve been to Yad Vashem in Israel and haven’t written about that experience either. I will one day, but I just don’t have words yet – except to say go see and hear for yourself.

Bear witness.

We head to the National Museum of the American Indian – which after the Holocaust memorial is a bit like stabbing yourself repeatedly with a shard of broken glass. It’s all too much to take in. And definitely impossible to write about until I have begun to take it in. One thing I did walk away with was a sense of awe at the artistic talent inherent in all humankind created in the image of Creator God.

We need to create art. We need beauty. It’s in the DNA of every people group.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote that “earth is crammed with heaven and every common bush afire with God, but only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries.”

For me, D.C. is a barefoot experience from start to finish – crammed with thin places, where the veil between heaven and earth stretches beautifully and terribly taut. God is everywhere.

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There is the stooped Chinese woman fighting the wind to hang her garish red and gold banner protesting something or other in China. Just as she gets one corner tied tight, another collapses – and on and on it goes. I watch for some time, transfixed by her tenacity and the traditional music squawking from her tiny boom box. No one is paying attention, the world is hurrying by, but she has something to say and she will say it – whether anyone listens or not. (yes, God – I caught that….)

The sound of live jazz drifts out of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden as we pass by, so we drift in to see what’s happening. Teeming with young professionals picnicking on blankets and carrying large pitchers of overpriced Sangria to friends seated around the large fountain, it is obviously the place to be after work on a hot summer’s Friday night. I notice how well-heeled everyone is and suddenly feel self-conscious in my sorry, well-traveled crocs.

We edge close to the band (an excellent band whose name escapes me at the moment) and I’m just beginning to forget my cracked and crusty crocs and enjoy the scene when I see him. There are at least a thousand people here, but now all I can see is the sole homeless man, grasping his plastic bags, making himself small behind a stone column whenever a guard glances his way. When it starts to drizzle, the man takes a flimsy poncho out of one of his many bags – the cling-wrappy disposable kind of poncho. He sticks his head through what looks like a crinkled bag with arm holes.

He isn’t strong and shifts his weight constantly to take the strain off his back. When he spies a sliver of space between two women on a stone bench by the band, he makes himself visible and gestures feebly – silently asking if he can sit next to them. At first, they pretend not to see him, but as he inches towards them, they instinctively curl their bodies inward, creating enough space for his frail, thin frame.

And there he sits – among the elite of Washington – gripping all his worldly possessions under his grimy poncho. He closes his eyes and his body moves to the rhythms, the emotions changing on his face with each featured instrument, each riff, each exhilarating ride. Here is a man who can see and has clearly taken off his shoes, drinking in the sheer mad beauty of sound. I wonder where he’ll sleep tonight. I wonder if he’ll still hear the music in his dreams. I wonder if he even notices the masses around him plucking blackberries.

We move on to two white-haired men weeping openly at the Viet Nam Memorial wall, tracing the names of their long -dead friends with shaky fingers. What they have seen they can never forget and I can not even begin to imagine. But I can hear God breathing at this wall. There are angels here.

It starts to rain heavily, sending all visitors scurrying – except for us, of course, and one limping man who looks to be in his early 60′s. Wearing a ragged veteran’s hat and shirt, I hear his dog tags clatter as he passes by. Having just slipped on the wet walkway, and worrying that he might take a tumble on the slick surface, I catch up to him and grab his elbow, cautioning him to take care.

Don’t worry about me, he says with a smile. He stops and makes a sweeping gesture toward the wall – I live here. I spend every day of my life here with my friends.

He asks me where I hail from and when I tell him Ohio, he rattles off these words:

Panel 23W Line 112. Her name was First Lieutenant Sharon Lane and that’s where you can find her name on the wall. She was from Canton, Ohio - the only woman actually killed by enemy fire in Nam. She was hit in the neck by shrapnel at Chu Lai as she was bending over a young Vietnamese girl, pressing a wound to keep her from bleeding to death. 1st Lt. Lane was decorated for bravery and there is a statue of her in Canton. Go there. Go see it.

As this man continues to talk, both of us oblivious to the rain, I realize that over the years he has memorized this wall – not just the names, but the panel and line numbers. He tells me that he spends every day here to honor the fallen, so that they will never be forgotten. I can see that he’s not well, his arms and legs are swollen, his skin mottled, his eyes glazed. He didn’t survive the war either. There are different ways to die – some are quicker than others.

He walks away and I stare at my soaked shoes. I tend to see more clearly in the rain. This man makes me ashamed at how little thought I have given to the intimate price of war – each precious life represented not only on this snaking black wall but at the Korean War memorial, the WWII memorial, in the daily news coming out of Afghanistan and Iraq. Each life cut short – but their stories living on tortuously in the minds of those who love them, those who trace their names on aging marble or finger photos until the corners curl.

namwall

I think of the price of one human life to God – and what the price of one human life should mean to me. Whether it’s a fallen soldier, a holocaust survivor, or another nameless, faceless genocide victim in Darfur.

Thin places always make me think. They teach me to see differently – and they are everywhere, every day, for those who can bear to look.

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early morning questions

September 2, 2009

irishruins I wake long before the alarm and stare out the window into the darkness. Nowhere near dawn yet. I pray silently for awhile, before rising to make tea. The illuminated globe on the bookshelf, a gift from my father, emits a soft amber light – but not enough to prevent me whacking my leg on the hickory rocker. I scroll through the albums on my ipod til i find my favorite monk music. There is something comforting in the sound of a group of monks singing in unison – and in Latin. I like that I can’t understand a word; so many thoughts are beyond words in the wee hours of the morning. Music that makes way for mystery is helpful when I’m praying, meditating, thinking, writing. (For anything that requires my brain as well as my soul I usually listen to Ancient Path CDs, Gregorian chants or orchestral music.)

In Florence, Italy, I once ate lunch with a group of monks who, as a rule, dined in silence. Some friends in Florence take us to the the abbey to hear the monks and nuns sing their noon prayers and the abbot kindly invites us to lunch. I awkwardly slip him the Ancient Path CD, Come to the Waters, as a gift and immediately feel like an idiot. Do monks even listen to CDs? How do I know what monks do? I’m a Belfast protestant – though admittedly, not a very good one.

He lays my fears to rest, making a beeline for a small boombox tucked away on a corner table. The acoustics in the stone-walled room suit the music perfectly, as do the surroundings – men dressed in simple blue serge robes, wooden bowls of steaming brown rice, clay pitchers of cool water, baskets of fresh fruit. We pray and begin the meal with our music filling the room and the courtyard. The food is delicious but the large lump in my throat makes swallowing difficult. I’m overwhelmed by this unexpected gift, this life moment – the beauty, the simplicity, the music, not to mention the Giotto fresco on the wall.

This is what I want. I want stark simplicity, beauty, set-apartness, other-ness, single-mindedness.

I want to get up in the morning and have one thing that I wear every day. I did try that for a season, getting rid of all my clothes except for 2 black cotton Chinese jackets and black pants, one black suit for speaking engagements or Sundays, a sweater and pjs. I emptied my closets and I loved it. My friends understood, but most people thought I’d lost my mind – and it became, well, complicated. It became the opposite of simple.

Hana wakes up and stumbles to the kitchen, fumbling with the cereal box. The music changes to a track from Come to the Waters. We sit at our amish-made table and read these words from Oswald Chambers:

“Our Lord’s teaching was always anti-self-realization. His purpose is not the development of a person – His purpose is to make a person exactly like Himself, and the Son of God is characterized by self-expenditure. If we believe in Jesus, it is not what we gain but what He pours through us that really counts.”

He recounts the story of Mary of Bethany anointing Jesus with costly oil and says “Our Lord is filled with overflowing joy whenever He sees any of us doing what Mary did – not being bound by a particular set of rules, but being totally surrendered to Him.”

What rules have I allowed myself to be bound by, I wonder? How much have I compromised over the years in order to fit in – not necessarily to the world culture, but to the church culture? How often have I stayed silent when I should have spoken out – or vice versa? How surrendered am I, really?

All good questions that demand an honest answer.

Hana has one comment on this morning’s reading: doesn’t the bible say that we’re crucified with Christ, and now He lives through us? So it shouldn’t be about us anyway, right? He should be pouring Himself out through us all the time and we should just get out of the way, right?

Right. Isn’t it time for you to go to school?

To purchase Come to the Waters or any other Ancient Path CDs click here

photo credit:Clonmacnoise by http://www.briongloid.net