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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.

Tres Leches Cake

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Tres Leches Cake.  Start salivating.  I’ve never tasted it so I don’t know what I’m missing.  I can’t salivate along with you.  I know just enough about it to know its going to serve as an awesome analogy in a talk I’m preparing.  The topic?  Delving deeper into your personal testimony.

It goes like this, the dry cake is our life.  The gospel is the sweet mixture of milks and sugars I hear get poured over the cake.  Time is what it takes to make a Tres Leches cake good to eat.  Eat it too soon, it’s not so good.  I don’t know what happens if you eat it too late.  I need to research that.  Wait.  Analogies only go so far, I remind myself.  Anyway, the cake by itself is not so tasty.  It’s dry and crumbly and not very sweet the online reviewers say.  But, when the tres leches pours over the cake it becomes a delectable treat…after about 4 hours or a day.

Isn’t spiritual life like a Tres Leches Cake?  So many times I’ve talked about my spiritual life like I’m talking about this cake.  It’s great!  I hear its awesome.  Other people say its to die for!  I’m just sure its good…because other people say so.  It has to be good.  It garnered a full 5 stars.  I stand at a distance because…what if I hate it?  A soggy cake?  Come on people!

Look at my life, I used to think, it’s pretty good.  What do I have to complain about?  My parents aren’t divorced, I trusted Christ young, I never got into drugs or alcohol.  I lived a very, very tame college life.   I have no red-letter mark on my story that says “Counseling Needed And Now!”.  Actually, I’ll have to ask my friends about that.   My life, for a long time, prevented that good Tres Leches from seeping in.  I didn’t put much of the Tres Leches on the cake, it didn’t seep down very far.  I didn’t think I needed as much because my cake looked kind of pretty on the outside but it was just as dry and crumbly as anyone else’s.

Then, I looked a little deeper, I poured a little more of the good stuff on.  I let it sink a little deeper down into those places that don’t make the public testimony.  I call them the “lower-case letter” hurts that don’t really get pulled out and looked at much.  The good stuff sank a little deeper.  The cake got a bit more tender.  When do I get angry?  Why do I get angry?  When am I speechless?  Why am I worried?  The cake got soggy and cried a little bit.  I served it up on a platter with shaking hands when I spoke more and more from my heart and not from the reviews I read or the knowledge I knew.

So, does the cake taste good?  I don’t know.  I’m sure it does sometimes but I know there’s some areas that don’t have the good stuff yet.  Those are the areas I don’t want people to taste, yet, I know I need others to tell me when the cake needs a little more Tres Leches in a particular quadrant.  Who wants dry, crumbly, unsweetened cake?  It’s a crime!

Now, I’m going to go figure out how to make a real Tres Leches cake.  I hear it’s really good.

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.

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.

Raising a Captive

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Sometimes I think strange “what if” thoughts.   Ideas like if my daughter got captured by an invading army and hauled away to a distant country as an orphan…how would she deal with that?  Sounds like the start of a great Christian historical fiction novel that ends with the boy getting a girl and a ride off into the sunset on a camel.

Who’s to say captivity might not be in the future for my sons either?  The last time we read the story of Joseph an eerie quiet descended on their bedroom as they paid close attention.  I strongly suspect that one, maybe both, of my sons identify way too much with a desire to sell their brother to a band of traders on their way to Africa.

But seriously, what would a girl have to know to be an Esther or what does a boy need to know to be a Joseph?  Or a Daniel?  Or a Nehemiah?  What did their mothers teach them?  What can I pass on to my kids that would give them what they needed to thrive in captivity…real captivity?

So, lately, I’m thinking more and more about whether I know enough of God.  Do I know the true God…the God who allows captivity and works in captivity?  What do I need to know about Him to thrive even in captivity myself?

The things that come to mind comprise the following:  It’s never all lost.  God is always working.  God is not limited to only work in leaders that profess the same faith I do.  God is surprising.  God allows captivity but doesn’t expect me to obey the laws of my captors when they are against His law.  God makes a way when I go before the ones in power with a request close to His heart.  God isn’t bound to spare my life yet He loves me still.  God expects me to serve Him wholeheartedly in my work even if its the lowest of the low.

Right now the lowest of the low is really not that low.  For that I am thankful but there’s still a lot of room to live my life wholeheartedly for Him alone.

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.

Watching the10K

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Watching the 10,000 meter Olympic race becomes a teachable moment when watched with your mom.  My kids learned this Saturday morning.  After 2 laps they all stirred having decided the Japanese team would win for sure.  Then transpired a long conversation, 20 laps long, of race strategy.   “Don’t be too sure”, I urged.  I threw out definitions of pacing.  The kids stuck around just to prove me wrong.  The Japanese would win.

The Japanese women finished near the back with looks of agony and streaming sweat.  The first place finisher blazed across the finish line with a huge smile having cruised to a strong lead in the last 5 laps.  A 10,000 meter race elicited shouts and exclamations from the kids.

Sticking around gave me 20 laps to verbally ruminate on the spiritual analogies of racing, cheating, finishing, pacing.  That’s what mom’s do, beat a lesson to death, and so I did that because that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Towards the end of the beating I realized I needed to see the 10k for myself.  For my walk with my Lord.  My race.  The reminder to give it my all and plan for a whole lot of laps.  I needed to feed my desire to finish strong and blaze across the line.