Spiritual Life

Made from Scratch

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A paradox of overseas life means that scarcity ushers in luxury.  Our first years abroad I rejoiced over every “find” in the food department.  Cheese, sour cream, and milk products illicited flurries of communication via cellphone to team mates.  Did you know such and such a place has such and such an import product from home?  Special feasts came from such finds.  Months of doing without dairy products ended up being better for me by all but eliminating some painful stomach problems.  That didn’t stop me from gorging on sour cream enchiladas when appropriate, meaning, whenever someone served them.

Over time the scarcity changed our daily lives dramatically.  Where Bisquick does not exist pancakes transform themselves slowly into whole grain, made from scratch morsels of deliciousness.  My kids grow up oddly spoiled because the price of cereal is highway robbery.  Eggs and bacon become the economic alternative.  Homemade granola serves as cereal.  Nothing pops open to eject 8 cinnamon rolls to be eaten in minutes.  Cinnamon rolls become a much anticipated treat that delivers all that cinnamon rolls should deliver when made from scratch.

Along the way I stopped feeling sorry for us, made from scratch is way better.  Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoy mac n cheese from a box and there are plenty of times when a baking mix is just the thing on a Saturday morning after a busy week.  I still cost it out when I see bag of pre-shredded cheese to see if I can justify avoiding the task of cheese shredding myself.  And, I rejoiced when IKEA sold premade cookie dough.  From scratch still tastes better though.

Spiritual life seems similar to me.  There’s no shortcut to maturity just as there is no real shortcut to good cinnamon rolls.  The road to maturity like good cooking is a recipe, time, quality input, and a result of trial and error.  Most of my best creations in the kitchen meant that I risked too.  I tried and sometimes…maybe even often… failed.  I gain maturity in much the same way.  More lessons got learned when it didn’t go so well.  Sometimes I’m so afraid of making mistakes that I’m afraid to risk.  I pull out a recipe of life and think “Hmmmm…I’ll try that no gossip thing another day…seems pretty hard.”

I’m realizing that risking is the path to maturity.  Taking God at His word and stepping out is the path.    Maybe that’s another way of thinking about faith…taking a risk with God.  Do I want my life to taste like Bisquick pancakes?  No.  Made from scratch, please!

Not My Dad

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I grew up in church. Every Sunday church let out and the narthex (who came up with that word?) swarmed with people. A very forest of legs to my pint sized perspective. Legs, legs, and more legs. I remember latching on to a leg one time only to have it jerk away unexpectedly. I look up and lo and behold, the face that is attached to that leg is not in any way familiar. Wrong Dad!

Isn’t that the way it is in life, though? Overwhelmed by the tall trees and feeling lost I grasp the nearest thing that seems familiar, that promises belonging, that makes me feel safe. But, like a child I don’t look up to see who it belongs to. When it jerks away and doesn’t provide what I thought it would I finally look up and realize, hmm, that’s not my Dad.

The alternative is wandering around in the forest longer, turning my head to look up, and risking. Faith is risky but it’s riskier when I haven’t lingered and pondered in the forest. When I’ve latched onto an intuition of who God is but not onto God.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for. There’s probably a lot of things I’m sure of that I shouldn’t be. And a lot more things to ponder in the forest than I do. Some are deep, some are shallow. Where do dinosaurs fit into creation? Why does God say yes to prayers for impossible parking spaces?

So, I endeavor to ponder more in the forest these days hoping for more glimpses of the face of God.

Losing Face

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Living in a culture of face wears on me.  Once I became aware of the importance of keeping face and giving face I felt pressure to remember and consider face.  In America we’d say its something like keeping up appearances or giving and receiving respect.  Really it’s just plain old pride.  I thought back to all the times I’d unknowingly lost face or caused someone else to lose face.  The effect paralyzed my relationships for a time.  Every step in the culture felt fraught with the danger of my unintentionally building a wall with someone because of face.

Last weekend I attended a wedding.  Half the dining room sat family and friends of the bride and groom’s parents.  The other half sat the Christian friends.  When it came time to toast the bride and groom the split down the middle became even more evident than the level of wine in the wine bottles.  One side belted out maxims and sayings of the culture that reflect nothing personal.  Prosperity!  Long life!  The other half bared their heart of appreciation for the individuals promising their lives together.  My heart heard and my eye saw the split open like a chasm.  Strong v. Soft.  Closed v. Open.  Tough v. Tender

I also saw the tears of the strong, closed, tough side when their soft, open, and tender children spoke face-losing words of love to their parents.  Hugs welled up from deep places in the soul that could no longer be held back.  I hear Asian families do not generally hug.  They rarely if ever say “I love you.”  Tears sprung from the eyes of tough men with crew cuts, bellowing voices, and cigarettes.  Had they lost face?  Not to me.  I pray their wall of face will begin to crumble with this first crack.

The fear of face passed through my heart to some extent a while ago.  The wedding gave me new encouragement not to believe that people want more than anything to maintain face.  I don’t think they really do.  I don’t think I do either because I have my face I like to keep too.  It’s not unique to Asian culture.  I think I (and others) really want love and our faces get in the way.

I respect my friends who step into soft, open, and tender in this culture.  It’s terrifying.  Their lead I endeavor follow.

Lifting Weights

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We set off on a new family activity a few weeks ago.  Hiking.  I hiked 5 years ago in the California redwoods for a few hours with the other adult in our family, my husband.  I remember enjoying that hike more than I’d ever enjoyed a hike before.  Rustling wind.  Crunching pine needles.  Sunlight streaming through thick branches.  A rest from the clamor of life.  A time when our family could enjoy a hike together seemed so distant I don’t think the idea even crossed my mind!

Our family hike consisted of a 10 minute walk up the street to a rugged trailhead.  Trash and broken concrete provided the ruggedness.  We folded up the stroller and walked up steps for 15 minutes to a pagoda that stands at the top.  The children, having known nothing like hiking through redwoods in California, felt a great sense of accomplishment.  At the top we ate peanut butter jelly sandwiches made with bakery fresh bread, Lays potato chips, and crisp apples.  As I finished up someone else’s apple my eye caught a rock with wire wrapped around it.  A weight for weightlifting.

Some things I carry in life look like these weights.  They’re ugly, the thin handle cuts into the hand, it knocks against my body and scrapes up my shins.  It’s unpleasant, a weight I would choose not to carry.  But, in my heart of hearts, I know it’s the weight that is making me strong and fit in all the spiritually right ways.  I’d choose to carry one of those rubber coated ones with smooth sides if I had a choice.  But, it doesn’t seem I have a choice in these things.

I wonder if this weight is not unlike the thorn in the flesh Paul talks of, a weight that I’d rather be taken from me.  One that keeps me humble by the sheer pain of it.

Faith and Footballs

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The doorbell rang.  A package!  A big package arrived at our doorstep.  An unexpected package!  I called my husband at work, “Come home! We got a package!”  The kids and I mused about the contents.  Something amazing for sure!

We waited in anticipation as the box opened revealing…a full-sized football complete with a stand.  We love football but we sighed and laughed at ourselves in disappointment.  It wasn’t as cool as our imagination imagined it to be.  You see, it is a full-sized football with a stand but it is a wooden full-sized football with a stand.

The thought of a hail Mary thrown by a 6-year-old inside our living room sent the wooden football to my husband’s desk at his office.  It sits on his desk bringing smiles to the Americans that come through from time to time.   Something pretty to look at but completely useless…laughable.

My “faith” is not unsimilar at times, a pretty wooden football for looking at but completely hurtful when I try to use it, as though faith can be used.  Strong, solid, and hard.  Unforgiving.

Real faith is made of my skin ready to be shed for others as He shed it for me.  Am I putting my skin into relationships?  It’s painful but I’m trusting it’s the pain that leads to life.

Smells

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I made the mistake of parking next to our trash dump. I’d pulled in late and all my regular spaces were taken. The dump spaces stood vacant and for a very good reason. Years of half-rotted trash juice fermented into fully rotted trash juice. The stench fills nose, inches its way to the tear ducts before it reaches down the throat and grasps the gag reflex. Merely squeezing your nose does no good. The brief walk from the car stuck to my shoes. They smelled for days.

Smell holds the strongest memories. We learned this at our last debrief. Be aware that you might be brought to emotional tears during transition based purely on a familiar smell they told us. I don’t really like to be brought to tears without some preparation so this bit of information lodged in my brain. My heart whispered, “this is true.” Each child I’ve associated with the smell of the particular lotion I used around the time of their birth. My second child is pink grapefruit. Every time I smell pink grapefruit I’m transported to a small house with a blue swivel chair and late night feedings. Every time.

It really irks me that when I put on perfume my brain blocks it from my senses within five minutes. Everyone else smells it but me, and I really like my perfume! Sometimes I wonder what my personal odor is to others. And, before you make a funny, I’m talking about those fragrance verses in the Bible! Did that joke I thought so funny poke a tender spot? Does that expression on my face, the one I must wear a lot because a deep groove between my eyebrows says so, what does that say about me? About my worries, cares, concerns? What did my, ahem, loud voice tell my children the other day?

I guess my question is this, am I living out Christ’s love such that I’m turning hearts to notice His fragrance or my not so great one? Ironically, whether I’m reflecting Him or not, I’ll still smell like death to someone. My desire to please people doesn’t like this truth. I don’t want to smell like death…ever! But the death that leads to life is worth the turned heads and the comments…and maybe the jokes.

Clay Cannons

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I read an article about an old man who took to throwing bricks at cars that sped through a cross walk.   After the brick hit their cars, the drivers slowed but then sped on without stopping.  The police arrested the old man and then released him without charging him.  The people rejoiced.  The old man served justice in the form of a clay cannon.

I followed the story and remember that the man tried to take legal measures to bring safety to his neighborhood and failed.  He took justice into his own hands.  Confucian respect for old age and the government’s fear of a mob shrouded the old man in a strong layer of protection.  So, breaking the law achieved justice and everyone knew it.

Living in a country where breaking the law is a way to justice blows my mind.  The absurdity of it all!  Growing up in a country where the symbol of the court is a blindfolded woman holding a scale means that I am ill-equipped to deal with how unfair life is in Asia.  I desire almost daily to take justice into my own hands because it’s just not happening like it should.

And, it’s not.  I still don’t know what to do with all the injustice I see every day.  I get angry, I grieve, I feel powerless.  I have it good.  I really don’t experience my fair share of it.  I’m usually treated with kid gloves being a respected foreigner.

I long for that day, though, I long for that day when justice will prevail.  I long for that day when old men need not launch clay cannons at cars to keep their grandkids safe.

The Inevitable Fall

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I hate falling.  All of the sudden I’m looking at the world from the sidewalk in pain and embarrassment.  I hurt!  Everything I held I rediscover in new and unexpected locations.  I snatch my pride from the pavement along with my possessions.  Did anyone see?  I sure hope not!

Thankfully I don’t fall that much anymore but each fall I do take is more painful.  My kids fall all the time.  The degree of their surprise increases with their age.  Now they even blame their nearest sibling to cover the slip as if they can’t believe their coordination could fail them so miserably!  It can’t be me so it must be you!

It’s not like falling down is a moral failure or a reflection of intelligence so why is it so stinkin’ embarrassing!?  I guess if someone falls because they’re drunk it does say a whole lot of something.  But most of the time its a misjudged distance or wet polished granite in high traffic areas, which I could write a lengthy blog about.

Why do I still get so supremely shocked when I fall and knock my soul against the pavement of life?  It’s not like God doesn’t tell us it’ll happen.  He does!  Why when I find myself looking up at the world from a different perspective do I rush to gather my wits and my pride and look around to see if someone noticed?  Why am I surprised?  He is not surprised.

The promises in Psalms comfort me.  I have a hand to hold.  I will not be hurled headlong.  The wise will rise up over and over and over.  I know I hold the hand.  I hope I’m wise!

If childishness is blaming the nearest sibling for my fall, maybe becoming childlike means falling and getting up without such surprise and embarrassment?  I really don’t want to practice this principle but it seems falling is inevitable.

The Jump

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A thrillingly daring jump from a swing resulted in one of my more embarrassing childhood moments.  The jump culminated in triumph yet my shorts did not accompany me in my victory.  I looked up and saw them hanging from the swing!  Nothing shocks the mind quite like realizing one’s exposed their undergarments.  I clutched my torn shorts around my waist for the mile walk home.

Exposure evokes two responses.  Well, probably not only two but today I’m reminded of just two.  Fear and hope.  Either I know I’m doing wrong and I hide from and fear exposure.  Or, I practice truth and I seek, actually seek, exposure.  “Why, oh why would I want to be exposed?” my soul screams out as visions of annual check ups complete with fluorescent lighting flash through my mind.

But something resonates with John’s words.  For meaning.  I love the word my Bible uses…wrought.   Something beautiful created with skill and diligence and forethought in the depth of a skilled craftsman’s workshop.  Wrought in God.  To see my life’s work emerge from the mist of the everyday as having been wrought in God.

Ok!  Now I actually want to be exposed!  I want the sharp light of God and I want to see how He’s creating something beautiful and with purpose because it sure is hard for me to see sometimes.  Meaning!  My life wrought in Him?  Sounds like something I need to know on those days that feel more like a wet lump of clay spinning on an untended potter’s wheel.

It feels good to be inspired to come before God like this.  To be exposed in my misdeeds feels a little more frightening.  But, a close read makes me think John is talking about God exposing my misdeeds and my deeds–the whole package–when He shines the light on my life.  Somehow, He takes it all and wroughts something with purpose.  I don’t know how but I’m willing to come.

Giving, Receiving, Sharing

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My daughter cried calling me to her bedside.  Pain.  I needed to do something and NOW!  She fully expected me to take it away immediately.  I could not and we both cuddled our broken hearts together.

So many times I hear heartbreaking stories of betrayal, abuse, disappointment and sadness over a cup of coffee and I struggle.  I want to take it—take the pain away—but I can’t.  They can’t give it either.  It’s their pain.

The community of The Giver  has one “Receiver of Memory”.   (see Eliminating Pain, my previous post on The Giver)  The community names the new Receiver of Memory and he goes to his mentor and asks what to call him.  “The Giver,” he answers.  So transpires days of Giving and Receiving memory.  The Giver gives memories and, once he gives them, he loses them.  The Receiver accepts the memories which become increasingly unbearable to hold alone.  Telling of emotion becomes actually feeling emotion.  True relationship between the Giver and the Receiver reveals all others as sorry manufactured counterfeits.  The status quo becomes unsustainable.

I want a Receiver of Memory!  Being free of painful memories would be so nice!  To share that deep pain and…poof… it’s gone!   But pain leads to wisdom.  So wisdom goes with the pain.  Do I want that cost?  To become increasingly foolish as I’m increasingly pain-free?

My daughter’s heart cry that I take her pain is impossible but can I share it?  Bear the weight of it together?  What about the friend in deep pain.  I can’t take it.  Can I share it?  For so long I felt discouraged at my helplessness in the face of deep pain.  I’m beginning to experience the freedom of sharing.

I love the ending of the Giver.  Spoiler Alert!  The Receiver escapes and in the final moments approaches a family by a fireplace.  Music is heard in the distance,the evidence that his old mentor is blasting the status quo and sharing his pain and also his most beloved memory, music.