occasional chords

Sea chanty. To be sung in Bloggers' Harbor.

2011-08-11T19:13:00.000-07:00

Sea Chanty , 2011.
(Inspired in part by a recent, very-decent, read, Against the Machine, by Lee Siegel.)

Travelers in the blogosphere,
Oh, tell me what we're doing here...
Are we treading seas of introspection,
Or sailing strong in some direction ?
Does your being blogborne turn a profit?
Are you as worthwhile if you're off it?

Do you find yourself disoriented
By tides of 'thought' that we've invented ?
Wave on wave on chattering wave,
We call our self-expression 'brave,'
And sail on link to link to go where
Everyone has been – it's nowhere.

Round and round past slightest switches
Of the same old themes and pitches;
What we think's a glorious ocean
Is just a whirlpool set in motion;
And we the rubber duckies swelling
On the waves of what they're selling.

Jump in quick and make your name in
The 'uniqueness' game we're all the same in.
Publicize your style and choice
In hopes a name may buy your voice.
If you hoist a flag that's hip,
And reference every other ship...

Did you start out to share what's true
And find the hearers shaping you?

Though all the world be sponsored, hosted,
Please know: you're more than what you've posted.
You're called to journey farther, longer
You're called to oceans wider, stronger

...Than “today's most read” could ever reach,
...Than “new for you” will ever teach.
The depths of minds and thoughts that haunt them
Can't be turned on just when you want them.
To sail to realms of tested treasure
Takes time, takes patience, wind and weather.

And in the waiting, courage forms
And perseverance in the storms;

A sailor's wisdom built with time,
May sing the world a mariner's rime.
....Or may find his joy in sailing so
'The world' may never need to know.

February 17 in new York.

2011-02-19T11:24:00.000-08:00

whispers of summer in the 60degree breeze.
I remember you! I remember you, Bronx of July, of June.
You left
but you return.
You return!

I, new to changing seasons (whole seasons, longer stories than I ever knew,
each
so separate from the others),
I marvel that the place of last year's story
ever comes back.

The blue, blue sky,
the echo of laughter of source and cause unknown
rebounding off apartment buildings --
we're outside again! ..
the stifling snowhush lifted,
and the kids call out again.

It is, today,
a February's temporary reprieve,
a warning that this setting we've complained about
for months,
this grim gray cave we ride the subway through,
that wets our boots and buries cars and holds us all inside,
it's heard the knell,
has numbered days.

drip
drop
drip drop,
if you listen, you will hear the passings of a dying world;
if you have anything to do
before it falls,
best get it done -- a new world waits,
is peeking in from stage's wings
while snow dissolves.

Prepare the new!
We shall reset and start again
on a new scene.

This says the breeze today on the platform
over 183rd and Jerome.

Blessed, blessed, blessed and so blessed.

2011-01-30T07:48:00.000-08:00

“Never allow your heart to deceive you, saying: ‘the Word of God cannot be done on earth as it is in heaven.’ … Don’t pray anything less than the Word of God. Don’t pray anything that is less than the size of God Himself.” ...thus, slowly, thoughtfully said Dr. Pravin Moudgill. (Or, as he asks that we call him, Pravin Uncle.) And he meant it. I do not know quite how to convey to you how much I saw the Word of God treasured, used, reflected on, revered and BELIEVED in word and in deed over the past week.

being the wordsmith, and not the photographer, I haven't visual snippets to share with you yet. But I can tell you that the Spirit of God is alive and well and has many very good homes inside the believers of India. True devotion is whole-life devotion; true belief in the Word of God is complete and unconditional belief.

I praise God for the men and women I have met this week who have shown me the heart of Jesus. In the time they have taken to speak to my heart, in the hospitality they have shown and the stories they have shared, they have been Family, in the truest, the eternal, sense.
My thanks to Wycliffe India. My thanks to our Father.

smallworld.

2010-11-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

wondering.

2010-10-25T20:25:00.000-07:00

" This is how we know what love is:
Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. "

"We love because he first loved us."

so we give ourselves away, in emulation of Him.
so we seek to love those who do not love us back, to be lights of grace against darkness,
to go the extra mile, to turn the other cheek.
driven and empowered by His Spirit only, we endure and we keep loving. His love is more than enough to show us how.

May I ask you , how low are our expectations to be
of being loved and graced and cared for in return? By human beings?
It's easier on the heart to have low ones.
what is your will on this, oh Lord?

is it possible to have no expectations? Neither here nor there, neither high nor low? To just never think or feel about people's love
at all?

I don't know.

yet : ...How deep the Father's love for us ... will be my song and focus. Because it is eternally and infinitely true, unplombable, enough to drink and bathe and believe in and learn for
all my life. ( and evermore. )))))))

trash-o-pology, the profane and the sacred, the clean and the dirty.

2010-09-28T21:39:00.000-07:00

The words in quotes below are from an interview with the NYC Department of Sanitation's Anthropologist in Residence. (They have one! This amazes me.)
They gave me a ticket once. For putting the wrong kind of container in one of my recycling bags. I must say, I did not think this conducive to encouraging recycling among the public. Easier to throw the recyclables all in a concealing black garbage bag with the rest of the trash than to be caught recycling wrongly in the required clear bags.
(I still recycle. But I get help. And look at the very in-depth explanatory poster frequently.)

" The anthropologist Mary Douglas is famous for writing about dirt as a shifting category for everything that is out of place: shoes on the floor aren’t dirty, but shoes on the dinner table are; it isn’t dirty to have cooking utensils in the kitchen, but it is to have them in your bedsheets. She sees what counts as dirt as a gateway to the bigger systems that judgments like this are caught up in, and a way to figure out how commonsense judgments become that way.

RN: Well, her argument is partly that you can understand the entire cosmos of a culture by looking at its definitions of dirty and clean, and acceptable versus unacceptable, the profane and the sacred. You can start with something as humble as dirt and read it out to an entire worldview.

As a scholar, you can start anywhere. And that’s the beauty and the challenge, the frustration and the terror and the lifetime obsession of a scholarly bent. I start with this set of questions because I just can’t figure it out.

The goal of a scholar is to reveal things that otherwise might never be seen or studied or considered or understood or debated. But that’s an infinite list! It’s also in many ways the job of an artist, to show us things about ourselves. The scholarship of anthropology sometimes gets trapped in its own lofty language…. If I can help illuminate some facet of us as a species that makes culture, as a species that tells stories, as a species that plays in ways that connect us to each other, then I’ve done my job. My entry point is through things we decide are no longer worth keeping. ... "

The world recognizes that sacred-profane is a division we humans see and name. The world thinks this is subjective, that we make it up. And so many societies have made up so many rules about this. About what is holy and what is not.
Interesting. Because there is a real holy and not.
And it is not subjective. HE is not subjective.
This makes me want to go back and read all of God's words on holiness in the Pentateuch again.
And to ask questions about what is considered holy and what is considered profane, and why,
in the cultures I encounter.

photo from artist Nicole Fournier, here.

How can I tell ...

2010-08-03T17:58:00.000-07:00

How can I tell you of the Lord's goodness to me?

I prayed for years for a deeper throbbing of the Gospel in my spirit, in my mind and heart. I prayed for community, for people to walk with and work with. I prayed for people to learn from. People wiser than I in faithfulness to and application of the Truth, of the Word.

And as God developed new passions in my heart, I prayed for those to be answered and used and channeled for His glory.
Refugees and immigrants. Urban settings. Muslim people. People with disabilities. Children. People living on the streets, whether full-time or just all day. The poor -- not only economically poor, but poor in family, in love, attention, and in truth.

This story stars a Father who knows the perfect moment to give His daughter good gifts. Who knows just the rhythm in which to unveil them, just the order, just the way.

I said 'help, I can't.' and He gave me school in a way I could dive into, in a subject I could love, in a form I could afford.

I said 'brokenness,' and He gave me work with the physically and mentally 'broken.' But only after He had broken me, too.
And there He showed me the beauty of the very small and simple. Of touching hands, of washing hair. And there He showed me that it is the purity of the offering, not the appearance of the offering, where its beauty, where its value, lies.

I said 'community,' and He gave me friends over the years and the miles,
and then He gave me an organization that echoed that cry. I went to Rio.

He gave me people to serve, and work in which to thrive. He gave me a tongue that spoke a language it had not known, and a heart full of prayer and of love. He gave me grace, so much grace. He listened to my cries and complaints and quibblings and questions for days upon days upon years upon years. He sent me people who loved me. He gave me a family full of sweet patience and steady nourishment. He sent me people who listened, and people to love. And people to laugh with.

"Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.
For you, O LORD, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the LORD in the land of the living. ...
How can I repay the Lord for all His goodness to me?" Psalm 116:7-9, 11.

I came back. I said 'work.' And He gave me a job. But it was more. For all those years I'd said "Gospel," for all those prayers I'd prayed "Body," for all those passions I'd gained and surrendered,
He gave me a city. He gave me a block. He gave me a Body.

And I didn't see it. For ten months I walked in darkness, every day. I woke early, and walked, frozen, frustrated and fearful, to a narrow room without windows to feel futile and exhausted and beaten, nine hours every day. And then walked home and cried, and microwaved something,

... and started again. I read Spurgeon. Hoped against hope.
How hard it all seemed. Not just difficult, but hard. Closed, like the heavy metal door of a bank safe. Peoples' lives, peoples' hearts. Possibility. Was this wisdom? Was this life? Had I been on vacation all the years that had come before? Been a child?

S l o w l y , I started to see that the teaching I sat under was something special. I was hearing Christ, again and again. I was seeing Him treasured above all things. I was seeing the Gospel valued, loved as solid food, the solid food, not milk. When we sang, we sang to Him. And we reveled in what He has done. .......

And finally, came spring. And I cried with the first leaf.
Things were still hard. But there were seedlings, stirring under the soil of my soul.

"Bring joy to your servant,
for to you, O Lord,
I lift up my soul.
You are forgiving and good, O Lord,
abounding in love to all who call to you.
Hear my prayer, O LORD;
listen to my cry for mercy" Psalm 86:4-6.

Spring was stirring in the world. And I saw it in: New Jersey. Can you imagine? Keswick Campground. I saw people loving people. I saw Acts 2 being studied and pursued. I saw lives so intertwined by years of loving Christ together. Generations blessing other generations. And I knew, if it was only to see this, to know it existed, it would have been worth the year of fight. The year of fear.

"Give me a sign of your goodness,that my enemies may see it and be put to shame,
for you, O LORD, have helped me and comforted me" Psalm 86:17.

I saw a church. Without a building. With a Lord. With a center. And I loved it. I remember looking into the woods and wondering,
would I go from here alone, back onto my own road, away,
or would I get to stay, walking with these people...

And then He took me far away.

He said it was to practice being, walking, with Him. I couldn't reject that. And so I went. Fighting opposition all the way. Fighting lies from the master liar. So much fear. I put my love for my new home on the altar. My new sisters. The teaching I wanted to guide and steady me. On the altar. Moving forward.

My plane landed in Rio, and I felt like I'd gone back in time. Like I had opened up a memory book long closed, and stepped inside. But God had newness for me there.
He'd brought me broken, and I had to share that. Had to disappoint people. Share the truth with them, because the truth hadn't changed. "I'm open," I said. "But I need to tell you that I've struggled. That I'm called elsewhere, and don't know when." And there was grace. And there were signs. And wonders--it was all right. The one who died for me was with me. Should I have been surprised? Parakletos. You came into the court with me, arm on my shoulders. You cared for me when I was weak and sickly, ladling broth into my mouth. No self-by-bootstraps here. You came.

I loved my life. I loved those women and children. More than words could ever say. I loved Jucelia, who wears a flower and listens closely--and stabs people in rage when she is drunk, bedeviled. And I loved Bruce, whose twisted leg won't stop him from doing swift-chop capoeira in the streets. Whose smile lights up the world.

I was alone. You met me. Hundreds of bus rides.
And you gave friendship.
I was so sad. And You mourned with me. You still do. The train tracks, clustered crack addicts crowded over trash dump flames. Nearly toothless twentysomethings with swollen bellies and farmed-out children, sprawled on sidewalks, boldly begging, and surprised by conversation.
You mourned with me. You still do.

"Confuse the wicked, O Lord, confound their speech,
for I see violence and strife in the city.
Day and night they prowl about on its walls; malice and abuse are within it.
Destructive forces are at work in the city;
threats and lies never leave its streets" Psalm 55:9-11.

What greater joy is there, what greater life, than speaking truth and showing love to people lost? What higher honor than to sit down on a dirty blanket, to be welcomed into someone's place, and say "Repent. It's free. Redemption's near. And has been purchased, by blood not yours. Come near. Come near." What greater pain than holding a child raised in sin and squalor, singing, praying, whispering,
and letting go?

... I didn't have to make a choice, make a decision, to stay or go. I can't explain it. But it was made. I didn't have to weigh, evaluate. I knew. I'm going home. I'm going back, and settling. It's not to do with value or with need. It is a story, that You're writing, and I'll follow, where You've put the answered prayer.

And home you took me. Just last week. Could there have been a greater overflow
of perfect goodness? Could there? How can I tell you
what the Lord has done for me? ? ??

"How great is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you, which you bestow in the sight of men on those who take refuge in you" Psalm 31:19.

I prayed, you see, don't take these opportunities from me. Don't take these open lives, don't take these eyes, these hearts. Put roads into homes and lives, oh Lord, in my new home.

And do you know what my God did? Last week, I sat on a sidewalk beside a busy basketball court and heard a man, a brother, rap, freestyle, my heart. Your heart, Lord. Your call to those 'too busy' to stop and listen. He wasn't phased. Your Word declares that many will not hear. I saw him keep declaring. I saw some stop and listen. I ached for the similarity to the Rio streets. And sat to talk to littler ones,girl, boy, I'd never met. Before I knew what'd happened, I was answering their questions about You, Lord. "Is it true that God is coming back?" And standing at their apartment doors, meeting, or just waiting for, parents who passed them over to us, to complete strangers, for the evening. And I watched these children flourish in our yard, among Your people. I held them as they watched the Gospel acted out, and taught them a Jesus song. I saw them come alive. And knew
You'd answered Your daughter's prayers.

I have a home. I have a church to call these children to. I have a family in Christ to ask for help, to watch in action. I have a Body to be just one small but treasured part of.
I have teachers and examples who point me back, over and over, to Your cross, Your feet, Your Word.
I have sisters to laugh with and to seek with and to pray with and to learn from.
I have a neighborhood full of people. Full of people. Refugees who come and sing in the backyard and share their lives. Lost ones whose homes You've opened up through wonders to us.
The suffering's like a skin upon the ground. My soul, don't ever doubt that He is Lord of night and morning. However long the night, how could you ever doubt again His mercy, love and purpose. ??

"I will exalt you, my God the King; I will praise your name for ever and ever. Every day I will praise you and extol your name for ever and ever. Great is the LORD and most worthy of praise; his greatness no one can fathom" Psalm 145:1-3.

Oh, His abundant goodness! Did you know,
He loves you this much, too?
Did you know
He did not spare His son?
What else
would He withhold?

How can I tell you what the Lord has done for me? I could shout it from the rooftops. I could sing it from the stage. I could call it on the corners. .... I will praise the Lord at all times. He has been so good to me.

Streams of mercy... that I want to share with you.

2010-07-10T11:49:00.000-07:00

Sweet small town of happy respite: Waxahachie. Did you know places like this still existed? I did not. And I’m so glad they do.

Sunflowers and skies heavy with coming rain; let's go to the fireworks..!

June was hotter than July is turning out to be. Is this normal?

We walk to farmer’s market on a Saturday; ten or twelve little booths along the small town square. Courthouse clock chimes nine. Book sale at the old historic library. We ooh and aah over old children's books, and wonder what the research-on-the-internet generation will miss by not having illustrated encyclopedias through which to flip and be transported...

We walk, and that means we get to have our vision bathed in green green green; the trees are blossoming , looks like…a Pennsylvania May. Cooler weather makes me see things I might normally not see…

It’s nice to chat with the man who grew the tomatoes you are buying. He tells us about 300 varieties of lavender, and going to the Texas lavender festival. “We had lavender and lemonade,” he says, and his grandson gets a bag out for tomatoes…

I see three people I know at one intersection of the 4th of July parade. But you don’t need to know anyone to have someone to say hello to. Everybody chats, and smiles. Two trailers full of World War 2 veterans ride by. We stand and clap.

Making a pillow cover from an old shirt... I find I have a lot of mending and projects piled up from years of busyness and coming and going…I'm not really capable of most of them, but it's delightful to try. And to get help. ...

An outing to the Vintage Market down in Forreston – it’s the only store there, really. John talks about old jazz, and Barbra talks about old clothes, and they knock twenty dollars off the price of whatever you are buying… and send you off with three CDs of great old music.

Comforting and being comforted. I think they know us at the Starbucks by now. By face if not by name. Iced coffee. Hazelnut…
I made a layer cake that slumped, but was delicious. Pineapple. !

'Bright Star' and 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' and many episodes of M*A*S*H. Writing thank you notes…

A wonderful book (Peace Like a River). Octavius Winslow.
Ballet beneath the stars on the grass in Fort Worth.
Dear friends. Sad soccer games. Bemoan the results with friends across the globe on Skype. This is the glory of the World Cup.

Parents, grandparents. Loving them. Sharing a few stories. Mostly being here together, now.

Looking back and looking forward. Photos of Jacare and tears for the streets. Plans for the Bronx, and great mysteries, too. Hurting and praying, trusting and hoping.

And packing lots of boxes. Because who knows when you might need this book or blanket?

These four weeks have been very different from the last four months. Those months were, too, sweet. For blessing comes in many colors.
They interplay and fade and grow, take turns in a human life. , no one less real than the others.

I won’t be staying here—it’s not my call-place; that makes it, really, all the dearer now. The Wood between the Worlds, you know,
is a world itself, too.
( Remember Aunt Beast in A Wrinkle in Time? And the planet Ixchel? (no, I didn’t remember the planet’s name on my own. I had to look it up.) )

I’ll just say thank you.
Thank you family, thank you friends. Thank you, Lord, for places that, for a time, are pitchers full of sweetness and reminders of tangible good. What grace it is that pours them out, for a while. faint echoes of great things to come. Call for songs of loudest praise.

Pena pena penissima...

2010-07-02T20:07:00.001-07:00

just
unbelievable.

all that yellow and green .
all those weeks of preparation .

did you watch? it was painful.

A conversation with Vinicius.

2010-06-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

"They woke us up there in the square and gave us three options.
They said we could have an arm cut off, go to jail, or be beaten.
I had to work later, so I said they should beat me."

He's barefoot, limping, and bruised. He's about 18. Skinny. He lives on the streets, sleeps on the streets. His girlfriend just had a baby. A beautiful baby boy.
"Vinicius, do you guys know which ones are 'good cops' and which are 'bad'?"
"All police are the same to me. One who's good one day can turn bad the next day. And one who's bad might be fine another time. Some of them come in talking. But some of them come in beating... They're all the same to me."

-- ( do a google image search of "dormindo rua" to see what millions and millions of Brazilians see every day. )-

observe-and-absorb.

2010-06-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

bought a drawing (not of this particular painting) on Sunday afternoon, by this man, an artist on the streets of Santa Teresa, here in Rio. He had such in-depth, interesting explanations of all his pictures and the symbolism in them... thought you might like to see.
This one is called 'Invasion.'

More gunshots yesterday, in the favela across the street this time, not ours. Pray for mothers and children.

sweeping it under the rug. ... ?

2010-05-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

In the neighborhood. (watch the video.)

So, these train tracks are one of the saddest sights of my everyday in Rio. I cross them daily to leave or enter my neighborhood. And as the reporter says in the video, these crack users are children, women, pregnant women, men... all kinds. Yesterday, a tall man lying on the sidewalk just outside the favela entrance, with a big stuffed Pooh bear by his feet... comfort? I see dozens of bodies on sidewalks, every day. I look at their faces to see if they are people I know, kids I have hugged. They usually aren't. There are just so many. ...

The reporter also says that the spread of addiction is moving much faster than the government's efforts to deal with it. Only four shelters for addicts in the city. Users are rounded up, brought in to the police station, and let go again. What's the point?

And,

ladies and gentlemen,

the world is coming to Rio.

2014, World Cup. 2016, summer Olympics. What's to be done?

There are rumors among the street people here in Rio (and I must say, their rumors about the government’s dealings with them have a way of proving true, or close to true)

that a giant prison is being constructed on the nearby island of Ilha Grande, a tremendous ‘shelter’ where all the ‘harvested’ street dwellers and crack addicts will be thrown over the years and months approaching the World Cup and Olympics. All of them together. All of them away from the eyes of the world and the media, on an island accessible only by boat and plane.

Imagine all the ‘crackheads’ without their crack, all the street kids tossed in with the adults, with the dealers, kingpins with petty criminals…if this place is real, it will be a hell on earth for those inside. Who would agree to work at such a place? What kind of help will be offered the inmates? … Please, when you see any features on the upcoming World Cup or Olympics, write to local, national and international newspapers, magazines, and websites, urging them to investigate Rio’s preparations. It doesn't have to be a long, complicated letter. Just ask what's going on. Ask them to do their jobs. Don’t let these things go on under the table.

Don’t let them be done violently and at the last minute. The bodies I see on the sidewalks…these people are lost. And, yes, they are criminals. But they are people. The world's arrival here could be an opportunity for well-planned change. For hope, at least for a few caught in the ditch of crack addiction, wandering the streets. Do whatcha can. Please, write, and

pray.

All you servants of the LORD, who minister by night in the house of the LORD . ...

2010-04-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

there are times when
dirty feet
make me weep and weep and
why,

in a 'Marvelous City'
and in a week full of goingscomings goings again,

Why, after a hundred--more--poignant faces touch
my heart and meet my eyes;
Why, with a thousand other stings to feel,

Why is it only feet I see --

hardened, tar-stained, brownandblack ;

cut up and sticking out from skinny legs tucked in
to dirty t-shirt or under lintmade blanket.
?
and why are they walking

in this world
along a path I can't remove them from. ?

your feet are haunting me.
I'm awake, I'm asleep, they are before mind's eye, before
my eyes.

I can't stop crying for your feet.

****************************************************************************

Há vezes quando
pés sujos
são suficientes pra me fazer chorar, chorar e
por que, numa Cidade Maravilhosa,
e numa semana cheia de idavoltaidavolta ida de novo,
Por que depois de ver cem -- mais -- rostos tão inesqueciveis
que tocou meu coração,
por que com milhões de outros arguilhões pra sentir...
Por que só vejo pés,

pés duros, manchado de pinche, marrom-e-preto...
machucado,
e ligado as pernas magrinhas,
pernas apertadamente escondidas numa camisa suja
ou em baixo de uma corbetura cinza. ?
Por que estão andando neste mundo

pelo um caminho do que não posso os tirar .

Seus pés estão me assombrando.
Estou acordada, estou dormindo, eles estão diantes
dos olhos meus.
Não consigo parar de chorar
para teus pés.

Perspetivo Trans-Cultural.

2010-03-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

The vision-clearing benefits of ignorance.

Undistracted by the many mixing colors of accent, dress, contextual clues,
All focus pointed, piercing, in

to Heart.

The work of simply understanding
Crowds out other clues and colors,

till all that’s there is Soul-- a soul,

Regenerate

Or not.

In step with its dear maker

Or apart.

And that is all you see.
And you know not where you stand in this strange world, How you, the alien, look through those dark eyes,
But you do know what you’re there to do. And you know what is still true,
And so that’s what you say. And so that’s what you do. And watch Him work,
That’s all.

You miss your language. Miss the colors. Nuanced. Funny. Intricate filigree weavings and pretty details.

But you know you’ll also miss the blunt, bright colors that your simple-d eyes see here.

And you pray to keep the tautness , the intentness, the constancy of focus, simple story : Lord and creatures, lost and found. You’re ready to tell it, to all who’ll hear. To all who’ll hear.

Get ready, urban hipster. Get ready, vagabond or doctor. It does not matter how you speak, or dress, or look at me. It does not matter where we are. I know, by the grace grace grace of God, Whom you need , Who’s seeking you.

And will fulfill my Father’s wish to speak that out to you, in love and truth.

where to stay. This... is very important.

2010-03-04T13:03:00.000-08:00

To be at rest in thankfulness, and nothing else. Thankfulness for my salvation, resting in my utter inability to pay, my utter poverty, and His utter grace and utter love.
Does it sound simple?

It seems that I am wired to worry, analyze and reconsider. I don’t think that’s what I’m doing, but it is. This constant haze, mist, of ‘what, then, am I to do?’ hangs, drips, inside my head. To see the mist dispersed and sit instead inside the pool of ‘It is finished. He has done it.’ … takes surrender. Means surrender. Takes stopping my planning – for ministry, for relationships, for cooking, for writing, for a moment – even a moment – and, instead, accepting as ALL-sufficient the gift of righteousness
in Christ. I long, oh, Lord, to live in thankfulness instead of in Attempting. Perhaps not attempting to earn pardon or favor, but a constant consciousness of attempting to see you right, to hear you well, to act optimally, and questioning if I have succeeded. If I am, even now, succeeding. How is it…we can know that salvation is free, and then be eaten up by acidic worry that we are not accepting it and living it correctly? Or enough.

There are so many books that, meaning well perhaps, tell us what to do, how to do it better, within our faith. So few about the object of our faith. ! The object, Christ, who is our hope.
So few reveling in the Gospel itself. Each author, speaker, Christian, staring at one tree trunk, intently, nose-to-bark, not seeing the green greatness of the forest in which they dwell secure. We ‘move on’ from the ‘basics’ of what’s been done for us to ‘more advanced’ spiritual food: What WE can do. We sing about how much we love Him but forget to sing what He has done for us, and who He is, then wonder if more guitars would help us feel more.
We are children blindly ignoring the lavish gifts of shelter, food, love and family, sure that our game in the front yard is far more important than the dinner waiting for us inside; we play and play out there, play hard until we’re starving, dead, exhausted. We refuse to go in, and lie in the mud outdoors. Home is ‘basic.’ We’ve seen it once before.

Maybe it is my own toxic, inborn pair of perfectionist’s glasses that causes me to see in so many stories of ‘great saints’ this admonishing finger, waving, pointing, saying ‘and are you? And are you?’ … Words that put faith on a scale of weak-to-strong and walks with Christ on a gradient of ‘right-to-wrong.’

I have been freed by the knowledge that I was chosen in Christ before the foundations of the earth,
so far, far, far apart from anything I did or could ever do, or not do, think or not think. All that so pale next to the great and glittering GLORY of His choosing … choosing even me.
I have been freed by the completeness of His work in Jesus Christ. The beauty of a Gospel no man, no power, can change or take away.
I’ve been so privileged to hear that Gospel preached again and again, to see it loved and dwelt within. Pressed into me by hearing and example.

Lord, help me to stop, to stop and push away the garment of worry and analysis in favor of the garment of righteousness. When that garment, YOURS, is really on me, it’s all-consuming. It leaves no space for thinking
about myself.
Lord, guide me gently, or push me flat-out, into Thankful-ness so I’m immersed in it completely, grinning, drenched, welling up with fullness, secure. Every day. Please. Please.
I can’t do this, get there. With You, nothing is impossible.

“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
my hope comes from him.
He alone is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
My salvation and my honor depend on God;
he is my mighty rock, my refuge.”
Psalm 62:5-7

midnight.

2010-02-20T14:28:00.000-08:00

Boy in the dirt
One bright light overhead
Your mama~s in the bar a few doors down.
You're digging holes.
You're digging holes.

Nearly midnight, here you are,
You and a friend in a pothole in the road.
Your sister's in your mama's lap, where angry words fly back and forth
Over empty cups.
What are you building?
What are you building?
What are you building that she will never see?

Precious boy, I'll scoop you up...
But you're not mine. You are not mine.
10 steps from my gate...
Lord,
what are you building that I will never see?

soon going.

2010-02-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

Surreal, fast-coming,
sudden jump-of-worlds !
...... I do better right now when I try
to be fast-moving, too, to match it.

Up and doing,
not still and thinking.

Oh, God,
no way for me to make this good;
but You, You, God, do wonders.
!

A rousing illustration, for a rainy day.

2010-01-28T11:06:00.000-08:00

Obeying, suffering, and rising as the Representative, the Surety, the Head of His Church, may we not say, that what He did was not so much His own act, as that of the Church in Him?
He obeyed not for Himself, nor for Himself did He die and rise again, but for His "body, the Church." His resurrection, therefore, was as much His Church's entire release, discharge, and justification, as it was His own.
Then was the glorious sentence of acquittal passed, then transpired the great act of justification. The emerging of the Redeemer from the grave was the emerging of the redeemed from all condemnation. His release from the cold grasp of the destroyer was their release from the iron hand of the law. "He was taken from prison and from judgment," and as He passed out of the court of God's justice, and from the prison-house of death, the Church, purchased with His blood, passed out with Him, legally and fully discharged, exclaiming, as the last barrier yielded and the last fetter broke, "Who is he that condemns? It is Christ who died; yes, rather, who has risen again!" Precious Redeemer! what surpassing glory beams forth from your emptied sepulcher!

from Octavius Winslow's Morning Thoughts . Can you see yourself
running out of the courtroom,
away from the prison?

Can you see all of us, the Church, together?

It's finished. It's finished! May this bring you hope today
whatever dark and trying circumstance might otherwise stake claim on your vision and priority.

dear one,
No matter what you fear,
Christ's work is true.

grace yet unseen, but so certainly there.

2010-01-15T12:52:00.000-08:00

[ from Octavius Winslow, Morning Thoughts] :

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Matthew 6:34.

It is a matter of much practical importance, that you take heed not to anticipate or to forestall the promised grace. For every possible circumstance in which you may be placed, the fullness of Christ and the supplies of the covenant are provided. That provision is only meted out as the occasions for whose history it was provided occur. Beware of creating trouble by ante-dating it. Seen through the mist, the advancing object may appear gigantic in size, and terrific in appearance; and yet the trouble you so much dread may never come; or coming, it will assuredly bring with it the "word spoken in due season." In the case of every child of God, calamity never comes alone; it invariably brings Jesus with it.

**********************************************************
He will be more than enough. He always is.

He already knows just how He will be enough in the days to come.

My future housemate, my Jacqueline , has a really wonderful, thought-provoking post up on her blog. Use Google translator, if need be, to read it, even though its translation won't capture the depths of wisdom to which God's led Jac. :)

She writes about the people cited by God as sources of joy to Him, people He holds up as examples in the Word -- Daniel, Job, Noah, David, Abraham, Mary... these Biblical saints all endured times of such suffering. And she contrasts this to the televised 'saints' of today, with all their 'health and wealth.' Their goal is to attract millions of peoples' eyes. The Biblically God-pleasing goal is to seek only His approval. This will look very different from what impresses the world.
God humbled Himself, took on shame, became low, on a cross -- because of this, we don't have to be an eternal source of shame and sadness to Him. He can even be pleased with us! And the path to pleasing Him is the path of faith in Him, and in what He's done.

That faith is so often perfected and made real in lives through suffering.

How rich God has made my life in relationships. Jac, you are evidence to me of His future grace. May we walk the path of Biblical saint-hood, not the world's version.

Amen.

happy new year !

2010-01-01T17:04:00.001-08:00

it happened that I spent some of the last hours
of 2009
reflecting on a book by Henri Nouwen.

I was asked to read it and write reflections,
and it's been suggested that I post those reflections, make them findable as part of the Henri Nouwen discussion at large. . . so here it is, my response to Can You Drink the Cup? I'm posting this critique, too, as a statement of hope and of intent : that this year, God's people stand up firmly in the Gospel, in the hope of Christ alone.
A new year, an eternal message; a message that we continue to dwell in and press to make heard: our call is to be the aroma of Christ, to the perishing and to the chosen.

: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

I've long been blessed and enriched by many of Henri Nouwen's insights about living with disability and vulnerability, and about life in real community. I was blessed by these again in Can You Drink the Cup?, but I find myself troubled by how much Nouwen emphasizes self-knowledge, self-acceptance and acceptance of joy and sorrow without emphasizing the glorious joy to be found in the work that Christ alone has accomplished for us. Some of what Nouwen says in this work is right and helpful, but without the foundational truth we possess as Christians bought and covered by Christ's blood, his words are lacking in the substance and power found only in the Gospel. I realize now that I've often read Nouwen assuming that he shares in holding to that truth. This time, I stood back and realized that the path Nouwen promotes is lacking some very critical emphases of the Way which Christ and the Bible espouse.

The context in which “the cup” appears in Scripture (Matthew 20) concludes that the Son of Man came not to be served by us – not just that we might copy Him by drinking the cup – but to serve! Only Christ had to drink of the cup of dereliction, of God-forsakenness, the cup of the wrath of God. The cup spoken of is the cup of servanthood and of costly suffering, not a general image of “the mixed joys and sorrows of life,” as Nouwen has portrayed it. Nouwen does affirm that the cup includes suffering, but overall, he puts far too much emphasis on us, on our work, going inward to find God there, and far too little on the work that Christ has done! "Holding, lifting, and drinking” the cup have far more to do, Scripturally, with what Christ has done than with what we should do – and while we should certainly seek to follow our Lord and Master, I believe we will do it rightly if we are looking at Him and living in dramatic gratitude for HIS drinking the cup.

"We can choose to drink the cup of our life with the deep conviction that by drinking it we will find our true freedom. Thus, we will discover that the cup of sorrow and joy we are drinking is the cup of salvation” (90), says Nouwen. This is a dangerously incorrect statement. Drinking “the cup of our life” is not drinking “the cup of salvation.” If “living my life to the full” and accepting joy and sorrow mingled in my life are the way to salvation, then there is no real need for Christ at all. This is not the Biblical message. “For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified...My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power” (1 Corinthians 2:2,4,5).

I still really appreciate Nouwen's words about weakness and the deep value of people with severe disabilities. I love the stories he shares about friends with what the world deems 'handicaps'-- the way that bravery, vulnerability, silliness, love can transform life, can show Christ, can teach and bless every one of us. I love Nouwen's appreciation for what he has learned from the work of caregiving, the intimacy of spending day in and day out caring for another person's needs, and finding that one's own needs are somehow met in the process of loving. I believe we can learn much about Christ and the heart of God through these labors, through these experiences of love and relationship.

I also am taught and edified by Nouwen's reflections on intimacy and vulnerability: “Nothing is sweet or easy about community. Community is a fellowship of people who do not hide their joys and sorrows but make them visible to each other in a gesture of hope” (63). I agree wholeheartedly with this as a statement about the Body of Christ, the Church, and agree that it's Christlike and Christ-reflective to be vulnerable and honest with one another, to see one another's flaws and struggles, to share in them in Christ. I just wish Nouwen would refer to Scripture and to the Head of the Body more in his advocacy of vulnerability and community; without the saving work of Christ and His powerful life in us now, we may be very open and sharing, but we will be just a bunch of vulnerable, hope-less people, sharing our way straight into the grave.

I'm thankful for Nouwen's affirmation that the long walk of saying yes to following Christ will often feel hard, feel sorrowful. This book affirms that there is something more important than 'easy' and 'hard,' that there is mixture in “the cup.” I'm thankful, too, for the encouragement that the apparent prestige or lowliness of a given person are no indicators whatsoever of whether that person is being obedient, here and now, to the voice of Christ in her life.

I'm glad Nouwen wrote of his experience embracing the joy and the suffering of life; I am taught by his encouragement to seek the joy amidst the sorrow, and to hope for the day when we will taste the joy in full. I wish for Nouwen and his readers the joy that comes from looking at the finished work of Christ on the cross, and the glory of the resurrected Life that alone brings us life. Without this, we have no hope at the end of our own 'cup.' I don't believe it is for us to say “It is finished,” as Nouwen suggests (p.110), at the end of our lives; Christ has said it, and He meant it, once for all—it is His to say, not mine. I get to live my small part, my life, within the joy of that—that finished work.

Because He drank the cup, I can ask Him for the grace and strength to drink my own...but His is the one that ultimately matters. I would rather focus, as I believe Christ intended, not on whether I can drink 'the cup of life,' but on the glorious truth that He drank the cup (hallelujah! !) that I might be reconciled to God. This is my joy amidst all life's suffering.

Happy new year!

A., you're missed, you're missed!

2009-12-21T15:09:00.000-08:00

here's to a sweet two weeks for you in the Bronx...

Merry Christmas, one and all!

gutsy guilt.

2009-12-09T13:49:00.000-08:00

To the fallen saint, who knows the darkness is self-inflicted and feels the futility of looking for hope from a frowning Judge, the Bible gives a shocking example of gutsy guilt. It pictures God’s failed prophet beneath a righteous frown, bearing his chastisement with broken-hearted boldness. "Rejoice not over me, O my enemy; when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me. I will bear the indignation of the Lord because I have sinned against him, until he pleads my cause and executes judgment for me. He will bring me out to the light" (Micah 7:8-9).

This is courageous contrition. Gutsy guilt. The saint has fallen. The darkness of God’s indignation is on him. He does not blow it off, but waits. And he throws in the face of his accuser the confidence that his indignant Judge will plead his cause and execute justice for (not against) him. This is the application of justification to the fallen saint. Broken-hearted, gutsy guilt.

(john piper. here.)

The Bills We Post.

2009-12-07T14:00:00.000-08:00

James Thurber, in 'Let Your Mind Alone' :
"I remember that, as a boy of eight, I thought 'Post No Bills' meant that the walls on which it appeared belonged to one Post No Bill, a man of the same heroic proportions as Buffalo Bill. Some suspicious-minded investigator cleared this up for me, and a part of the glamour of life was gone."

*******************************************
The other day, I was Christmas-cleaning -- a good and healthy thing for one to do, scrubbing things all day, aerating dingy corners and swiping layers of yuck off baseboard after baseboard. A song came on, one from a little animated film, a song that once swept me up in childish transport, and I suddenly realized that now, by a series of quite delightful events and encounters, it happens that I actually know the person behind one of the voices in that song. She is very famous, as a voice, and it's an honor to know her, and she is most marvelous... and, funnily enough, I know her.

My worlds of higher-than-me myth and daily meetings have intertwined. The untouchable world of movies and music and swirling story that shaped my imaginings as a child... now I actually know people from it.

Starstruckness is long-dispelled from a mind that's been called to more important things and harsh realities; still, still it curled a brainstring and made me laugh in incredulity to think 'I know that voice! I know that woman.'

When do we make this transition? When do we have to step out of the role of rider-of-winged-Pegasus ( , soaring in the realms of sweep-you-up mythology, ) and into the realm of practical adulthood? Some people never do. Never start thinking critically about what comes out, about what they see: some stay immersed in roleplaying universes for decades, bleary-eyed dwarves occasionally forced to emerge into the bright lights of grocery stores and bookshops, returning as soon as possible to wield invisible swords in dark caverns of computerlight. Some of us wanted very much to become critical thinkers, s t r a i n e d our brains again and again to try to be un-enchanted, when we were children. I remember trying. Trying to understand "People made this!" Watching behind-the-scenes bits and being almost hurt to see how inorganic 'creative' atmospheres could really be. How very unlike the familial story-birthings I thought they were.

I wanted to be free from the spells movie magazines would seek to cast, wanted to be able to look at the truth of things. I'd practice. I'd try to make myself awake. And one bright day, I guess, it must have worked. I don't think it was by my own doing. But I find that I now realize that I will never live in the world of 'White Christmas,' though as I child I took the film somehow as an intimation of things to come--the world ahead, the United States, adulthood, something. ...

Not all I've met had to make this trip. It seems that some always saw stories, films and music as trinkets, as side-items. Take-'em-or-leave-'em. But for those of us with imaginations tuned to some particular height of frequency, it's a jolt we have to trip through.

I've been thinking about this off and on lately, just in sudden clips of nostalgia, wonderment -- I watched 'Finian's Rainbow' with a dear friend who'd never seen it before; I didn't envy her being an adult when she got to see it for the first time. If I'd waited till adulthood, the ochres of those hillsides would not be an indelible part of my mind's eye, my heart's palette.

And I wondered, when does it end, the viewing of things with such intensity? You remember every line of the illustrations in that book you had as a child. The particular blue of that elephant, the richness of the fruit on that painted table. You can recall, if you try for just a moment, every expression on the villains' faces in that old movie, or every look of warmth between Big Bird and the little Chinese girl in that television special. (so dear!)

We wander, as children, unwittingly, under the illusion that something in the world -- not everything, but something -- is as it should be. That someone is in charge of all the decisions. It is the misted perspective that says that people, Some People, know exactly what they're doing, that there are some sort of all-wise, brilliant Shapers, unfallen adults, somewhere in the world ... Even storefront signs, I was thinking the other day... we look at them as children and think, 'that store is supposed to be there. This is the way the world is. Someone wiser than I decided that.' Someone wiser than I.
Now, granted, there are so many wiser than I (especially in the area of setting up stores). But the strange, unspoken certainty of a child that everyone was doing things The Best Possible Way, doing them in the way that I was supposed to learn... is well-dispelled.

How does this happen in other cultures ? It would be interesting to know which realms of life make appearances in this transition from fullbodied trust to hopeful skepticism. Is it an innocent trust in how your village is ordered? Or in your father's stories?
It's a little scary to realize you're part of the adults now, to realize that there's no stable How-it's-Supposed-to-be, but only an invitation to come participate in forming what Is.

(Ah, but we who know the One who created things as they were supposed to be, who made things good, who made good things....

we know that there is a How-it's-Supposed-to-be. Here in this world, it may not show up everywhere yet; it may not be all around us, in every facet of life's aesthetics and organization. But we can go to the Book and see, see and hear, so much about the How-it's-Supposed-to-be.

And we, we're being made how we're supposed to be, every day a little more. )

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. --2Corinthians4:17-18.

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will. --Romans12:2.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. The myths that helped shape my dictionary definitions of beautiful, exciting, love, adventure, fearful... these old garments served a purpose, for a time. As they've been put aside, as they've grown shabby, threadbare, right before my eyes, the Story of all Stories has welled up big and loud all inside me. By the grace of its Author, who wrote Himself on my heart!

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." What! the whole of it vanity? O favoured monarch, is there nothing in all thy wealth? Nothing in that wide dominion reaching from the river even to the sea? Nothing in Palmyra's glorious palaces? Nothing in the house of the forest of Lebanon? In all thy music and dancing, and wine and luxury, is there nothing? 'Nothing,' he says, 'but weariness of spirit.' ... if you roam the world around, you will see no sights like a sight of the Saviour's face." (Charles Spurgeon. dec. 2's evening.)

No, the pattern for perfect is not to be found in the fabric this world generates. The real stars, the real authorities, the real to-be-trusted are all in Christ. All the shimmering hints of glory in the myths are not to be compared with the golden, glorious Lamb at the center of the throne.

Never again will they thirst
who come make their home in him. !

***********************************************

Just found and am looking forward to reading: The Christian Imagination

Interested in (books): The Power of Words and the Wonder of God ; The Beauty of the Infinite: The Aesthetics of Christian Truth; The Children's Culture Reader; Children's Films: History, Ideology, Pedagogy, Theory ; Media and the Make-Believe Worlds of Children; The Gutenberg Elegies ...

But probably won't get to them all, not yet, or to all the ruminations on 'media ecology' (happy gift of a term to twine some things together... ) I'd like to undertake. So enough to say, for now,

take very seriously the responsibility you have to any child you meet; they are in the midst of a delicate process; they are soft clay, developing film, canvases-in-progress.... pray for the children. The media are vanity by their own power. The True message is anything but, and what joy to redeem the media a bit by melding them with most perfect message, as wisely as we're enabled to do.

read it.

2009-12-07T13:57:00.001-08:00

insanity and spiritual songs.

shout-out to E.

2009-11-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

Looking back with dear roommate E., we compiled a list of 'gifts from New York' over the past year... not all of them done together, and I'm sure we forgot some things but:

Danielson Family, Cryptacize, Dan Zimmerman -- our first outing together, and it was a doozy.
Shakespeare in the Parking Lot (Henry V)
Gypsy
The 39 Steps
Irena's Vow
Mary Poppins
The Phantom of the Opera
Wicked
The Wizard of Oz
The Marriage of Figaro (opera)
Romeo & Juliet (ballet)
voice lessons with Someone Famous.
African film festival
The Earth Room
Sara Groves (twice!)
MOMA (we loved it. Free Friday nights.)
walking the Brooklyn Bridge and the GW Bridge
The Met, many times.
The New York Symphony Orchestra (no, not the Phil.)
Brazilian Day!! (with Lili!)
Museum of the Moving Image
Museum of Folk Art
The Big Apple Circus, at Lincoln Center
Jake Armerding
'It Might Get Loud' -- the movie.
Empire State Building
Statue of Liberty
Ellis Island
'little' things--puppets, jazz, breakdancing, in the subway or at the park. And just wandering neighborhoods together.
High Line Park
Carnegie Hall's high school choir-fest (Jessye Norman spoke!)

we probably forgot a few things. "Dirt Cheap in NYC" books gave us plenty to try for.

But the greatest gifts I got in New York City
were the Eagle's Nest I landed in,
and the Household of Faith that turned into home.
And, E., you.
I am so happy for you in what's ahead.
For you, the first video ever embedded in this blog. Ready? Here we go :

notes from the wood between the worlds. 1.

2009-11-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

I've thought much about my tendency to want to see something TRIUMPHED over. Something utterly completed, all won.It's not all bad, this tendency. It's a seed of hope for the ultimate triumph, I think,
which is Christ's -- which will indeed come!! Until then,
We will not eliminate injustice in this world. It won't be done.
But we can interrupt its patterns.
We can participate in interrupting patterns of injustice,
speaking the Gospel all the while--the news that our only real and LASTING hope is reconciliation with God through Christ.
And we've food to feast on, every day, as we walk. The most delicious.

" The ordinances of the LORD are sure
and altogether righteous.
They are more precious than gold,
than much pure gold;
they are sweeter than honey,
than honey from the comb."

Last night, I saw a change in eyes that look mostly asleep,
even when they're open.
I saw them snap awake as my grandfather sang Spanish songs he learned
long before I did. I saw him sing out the memories that have lasted,
the ones that were strong enough, important enough.
When people get old, and have less control over what they can show,
I think (sometimes, anyway) you get to see what's really fed them and sustained them.
The deep bass notes of the melody of their lives.

I'm so proud of my grandpa. His bass (and base-) line is prayer. His bass line is Scripture, is speaking the solid hope of Christ,
and his bass line is music that sings that hope into a world-weary spirit. I pray these are the things I'll sing out, too, when everything else I can do and say and be busy about fades away...
and long before.

"No hay Dios tan grande como Tu,
No lo hay, no lo hay..."
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, is laid for your faith in His excellent Word...
The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I'll never, no never, no never forsake."

revelators.

2009-10-04T22:02:00.000-07:00

"The man who comes to a right belief about God is relieved of ten thousand temporal problems." (A.W. Tozer)... Never doubt that the Gospel proudly preached will prove 'relevant' to the problems of those you preach to.
What we believe about God affects the gait with which we walk, the expression on our face, the rhythm of our every moment, and every moment makes up every day.
I know my gait is not yet fully in step, in rhythm, with the Gospel. With the truth about how God sees me and what He has done for me. Adopted! Chosen before the foundations of the world! I do not embrace all the freedom that is mine. Do you find that as you get older, you do not seem to find your magic niche, as you thought might happen, but rather you see more and more your weakness and limitation?

I was thinking recently about how we are revelators. We are people who reveal. Reveal our God through the cracks in our vessel-ness. Reveal the Kingdom of God here on earth. We do not build it, or make it, or spread it. God does. We reveal it. It's coming. And it's here.

The Olympics are coming to Rio! (RiOlympics?)
Please pray that this will be a vehicle of blessing for the poor. Please pray that this will be a chance to give a voice to the poor. How wonderful it would be to be able to reveal a bit of the Kingdom to the watching world, by the grace of God. Pray for the street people who fear the police. Pray for the police who think 'cleaning up' means pushing around. Pray for administrators on every level, that they would use their power wisely. Pray for favela-dwellers and leaders and their relationships with both druglords and the government. Pray against corruption. Pray for Word Made Flesh in Rio, that we would read the times wisely and take opportunities to step in to glorify our God. I'll live in this city. But I don't understand it yet. Pray for inspiration, and a way I cannot see. God is mighty. God is Sovereign. May His people pray!!

Poverty, the Cantalamessa book-- I did end up having some issues with it, a few points on which I'd diverge from the author's theology and interpretation of Scripture. But. One thing I liked: the way he tied together material poverty and spiritual humility, as they're presented in the Bible: "two contrasting categories of people...on the one hand, the rich-powerful-satiated-wise, on the other, the poor-humble-hungry-small." Material wealth is often used as a symbol of self-satisfaction, putting your faith in temporary things. Poverty is often used as a symbol for humility. This doesn't mean every rich person is really lost, or that every poor person is humble. By any means. But there is a mysterious way in which these things very often weave together on this earth,
and our God is a beautiful writer.
He knows how to evoke truth with imagery, and how to weave stories together to reveal truths deeper than any simple maxim could express. (Though He includes nice simple maxims once in awhile too... )
Scripture is unplombable -- there's always going to be more to see in there!

Sometimes people -- like Israel -- are brought to humble contrition and dependence by being brought physically, materially low. Made poor.
Material poverty can be a powerful gateway to a deep understanding that we are indeed completely dependent. We are debtors indeed. Saved by grace alone, and created to show the glory of His grace.
May all we who are poor, however we are poor, come to seek refuge in the name of the Lord. Salvation belongs to our God, and unto the Lamb.

I've been noticing ways that spiritual and material are very tightly interwoven lately.
Like the miracle of feeding the 5,000, and the declaration "I am the bread of life... I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in you." He who gives physical bread and physical life is also the only Source of unending Life. Life and life -- spiritual and physical, capital and lowercase -- they're not as separable as we think, in the end.
Like the new heavens and the new earth.

Reveal the character of God today -- only He can do this in You. You're not building the character, you're not inventing the character. But if He is in you, as people peel back layers, He is what they will see. May this be true of our persons, our work, our homes and our friendships.
The supernatural is penetrating the 'natural' every day; the spiritual is touching and transforming the physical; submit the material to the Lord of All. Watch Him work.

what spheres of thought we enter.

2009-09-19T13:48:00.000-07:00

Come in, come in! I'm reading again! Can you believe it? It's such a strange thing to do, entering other peoples' minds and being hit by truth, and having your thoughts twisted and reshaped

through words on paper.

Books recently read:

1. St. Francis. Chesterton's tribute. "St. Francis is not a proper person to be patronised with merely 'pretty' stories. There are any number of them; but they are too often used so as to be a sort of sentimental sediment of the mediaeval world, isntead of being, as the saint emphatically is, a challenge to the modern world." This is a good book. A rambly book. Chesterton wanders. I like to follow him, though. Good words on seeing the world 'upside down,' i.e., losing all self-worship and living in total gratitude...

The “fool of God” is, it turns out, the servant who gets to know her (his) Master’s business – the one who gets to know the secret of what is truly valuable, and what is not.

To cast off all that hinders. To stand on our heads and see all history and all present and all future as Christ-centered, Christ-preserved and Christ-directed. There is none beside Him.

2. O Ye Jigs and Juleps! Silliness sweet. Chomped up in one lazy morning. Thank you, Heidi. Revive us again, Selah and Amen.

3. Pictures from an Expedition. More froth, but this time chosen to remind me of a landscape. I miss the West. And I bought this book at Wall Drug (South Dakota's #2 attraction).

And... books now in progress:

1. My first Moltmann. I'm enjoying it. Lots of gem-sentences. Like: "The true front on which the liberation of Christ takes place does not run between soul and body or between persons and structures, but between the powers of the world...and the powers of the Spirit and of the [redeemed! Kingdom!] future. ...in every sphere of life, the powers of the coming new creation are in conflict with the powers of a world structure which leads to death."

by Raniero Cantalamessa. Humbly written, wise, incisive by its simplicity. so far, a treasure.

3. I wasn't drawn to this when it was bestselling (is it still?), and it's still not the kind I run to naturally, but I am enjoying it more than I thought that I would. Reading it for a discussion group, which makes me chew on it harder, and appreciating the simplicity and clarity of its arguments. God gives reason and is most reasonable... but I do hope we're all still willing to admit our reason can never swallow His. Ours isn't big enough yet, and never will be. Good words from Keller: Self-aggrandizement is at the foundation of so much of the misery of the world. It is the reason that the powerful and the rich are indifferent to the plight of the poor. It is the reason for most of the violence, crime and warfare in the world. It is at the heart of most cases of family disintegration. We hide from ourselves our self-centered capacity for acats of evil, but situations arise that act as a 'potion' and out they come" (p.82). Also appreciate his exposition of how concern for 'social justice,' improving the world, bettering lives, etc. is ultimately groundless and meaningless apart from a Scriptural worldview which sees an ultimate Restoration, sees Justice ultimately done by the only Just One, sees a future beyond death! Resurrection is not only proof of Christ's identity as Son of God, but also the seed of our hope. Firstfruits!

4. This one I read every day. Or catch up with when I've slacked off. Wonderful. Wonderful! C.H.S. is a poet and a preacher, a theologian who speaks in image-words and draws me in as few 'devotional writers' have ever done. Today's was about the 'two pillars,' the two halves of an arch, equally indispensable: (1)a life of godliness and (2)the faith that must be the root of it. Light and heat both proceeding from the sun...do you picture a hot and fiery arch when you read this? Something about it...

And finally,

a plug for a book I read over and over and all the time. I think you'll love it.

p.s. I went to the Museum of Modern Art last night. (Free Fridays!) It was fantastical.

I want to go to junk shops and collect all manner of strange materials to speak about the world in objects.

(on the left, Giacometti's Palace at 4 a.m. ... he said it was about "a period of six months passed in the presence of a woman who, concentrating all life in herself, transported my every moment into a state of enchantment. We constructed a fantastical palace in the night—a very fragile palace of matches. At the least false movement a whole section would collapse. We always began it again."

we always began it again. do you think they really sat up nights building toothpick houses? or is he speaking about the fragile nature of relationships and the dreams they're built around? )

57th Street, and so on.

2009-08-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

I just want to write.

Alison Krauss is singing “restless” on the stereo, and there’s a tree growing taller than a five story building just outside the window,
and I am thinking about goodbyes, and aching from it a little—goodbyes to come, and seasons passing.

This morning, I thought of how my friends’ and my situations have changed so over the past year or two, how we are no longer people who would meet anymore, perhaps.
But in God’s providence we did. We did meet. And now we are diverse adults, with lives I never dreamed for us.

Today we drove around Manhattan (a wild and ridiculous thing to do) and I knew that I love to ride around observing. That this is my favorite place to be. In a car, watching. Thinking, with music on, perhaps, to help me enter. Synthesizing and streaming in and streaming out, watching and wondering and wanting to write the stories and beauties of each person that I see.
To see how they are woven and to worship with them the Holy Weaver who can intricately draw their story into the wonder-world that is His Kingdom of Right-ness and Worth and Meaning, through Jesus. Through Jesus.

How they need Him. Skinny girl in latest leggings and chunky heels wandering through the retail forest;
tall and weathered black man in chalkdusty boots and floppy hat who works so hard. And has a Southern accent (when did you come here? Why? The looks of you make me want to do manual labor. You look solid and strong and smart--like a father. I hope you are one. I hope you’re a good one, poured through by God. )

Nesting-doll-shaped Korean woman in the tight grape-purple dress, lilting, limping down the street with a smile on your face. Where are you going, I wonder?..
Boys on skateboards in the park; are your parents rich? Or do you come from somewhere else in this strange city to fly on wealthy concrete? I wonder if you know Him—do you know Him at all?

Smoking businessman in lavender shirt and mauveish tie. You match the Gucci window displays behind you, and you look unhappy. You’re slim and young, and here you are, in building-canyons…Do you want out? Do you know the world out there? Did you come here looking for something? Do you not believe the lie anymore that tallness makes a place more worthwhile, that crowdedness and higher price tags make you feel powerful if you’re involved? You drop your cigarette and take three steps at once back into an unlabeled glass office building.

Someone Important is having his photo taken. He looks like a caricature of a 1950s mogul-man, with horn-rimmed round glasses and the sharpest suit. He is short, nearly bald, but with hair long in the back, and glossy. He looks Italian, and very seriously proud of himself. And very silly as he stands posing Noble for the cameraman. A young guy holds the bronze reflector screen. They wait while our car is in the way. They look at us. We look at them. Big buildings all around us. In a magazine this will look Very Important. Central. Influential. Who is this man, and how is this enough for him? I’d laugh if I were him.

Dear people. Dear people. And there are people even right below, down in the subway tunnels. Living there. Did you know? I want to meet them.

Reality doesn’t fit inside my words at all. It’s bigger; sometimes I picture it dark and swirling, like blood. Not gruesome, but alive and inexplicable and unexpected. I try to teach myself that I’m not taming life by putting it in words. Why do I want to write so much?

Whom do you stop and talk to, when you love everyone? Where do you go, and what do you do? How do you pick one place and way? Praying for those I see is like food. I need it.

I’m going : to Brazil.

We went on a road trip, did you know? My Emilia-friend and I. It was just wonderful. Thanks for having us.

Roads, roads, roads, roads. Even when you stop, there are roads you're going down, just vertical maybe, instead of horizontal. Deeper instead of farther. Like oil wells.

4th of July weekend, 2009.

2009-07-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

I rode five hours on a train yesterday with a most remarkable woman.
I doubt you have met anyone more remarkable than she.
I bless God for the blessing
Of serving her,
Of knowing her,
Of loving her
And watching her love Him.

Reading Psalms to you, K. C., is one of the highest privileges I have known.
Knowing your friendship and getting your hugs are some of the most unexpected blessings my life has been seasoned with.

She cannot speak with her mouth; she cannot walk with her feet.

We spent Thursday in the hospital.
“People make assumptions,” I said after the doctor left the room – he did not speak to her; only to me.
“Like about Jesus,” she said back. She speaks by spelling things out with her finger,
one letter at a time on a laminated sheet of alphabet letters and commonly used words. I make guesses to save her the effort of moving her finger more… the guesses are not always right. She puts up with a lot.

"Someday all the masks will come off," I say. She spells out:

Soon.

When she sleeps, she is perfectly still, as she can never be while she’s awake.
And as she lays there I see all her afflictions as garments;
Garments that are put on her when she wakes,
Garments that the world sees wrongly and judges foolishly.
I know, I said to her, that God loves you so unspeakably much;
There is just no way that He would give such a trial to any one of His people that He did not make
Beautifully strong; and if He has given me trials, much slighter, to refine me and draw me closer – and I know He has – then how close He must want you, K. How refined you will be.

“Jewels in the crown!” were my last words to her, as they drove her away in a van from the train station. Her patience, her forgiving, her laughing through the hardest and most awkward of situations… her faith in His Word, in His promises. When I see a crowned head most blindingly bright approaching me in heaven,
I will know that it is K.,
And she will be walking, and talking, and praising God with all her might,
With all the might that He has given her.

****************************************************
Tonight, I’m back in the Bronx. The bewildering Bronx,
Where I cannot stay now,
But I can’t understand leaving.

Monday: a road trip! The grandest and most far-ranging I’ve had since childhood! Hurrah! And it’s with a prayer partner, a knowledge-thirster, a dear friend who’ll help me grow and be renewed. That’s a blessing I’ve dreamed of for a long time. Pray for us? Thank you.
Whole lot of packing
Going on.

The last day of Kindergarten.

2009-06-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

(our room .. in october.) (parachuting .. in april.) (i wish i could show you more. their beauty, the small ones. but their faces are not mine to share.) I have no pictures of the last day, except in my mind.

Today I am home with strep throat; I was supposed to be there setting up for tonight's big graduation. Adding to the strangeness of a season's end

is my m.i.a.-ness today from the last hustle-bustle.

But it allows me to stop and see,

to try to understand that it happened, and it's done,

and to pray for the effects of the love poured out to ripple on and on and on,

in me,

in them, and outward.

"Who stole the alphabet?" my F. murmured low yesterday, looking upward.

I'd taken down the beautiful handmade paper picture-alphabet that dear Lizbeth crafted for me back in August. Passed it on to another teacher for use next year. That alphabet was a coveted item.

We started the day with Bible review. We looked at our four-column chart (1-before Abraham; 2-the age of Israel pre-Christ; 3-Christ's life on earth; 4-after Christ's life on earth till His second coming and the full restoration of His Kingdom) and sang songs that we'd learned for key parts of it. "God of Wonders." "Generations." "Baby Jesus." "I Come Running to You." "Worthy is the Lamb." "He Reigns." They remember a lot. "Why are you standing there looking up into the sky?" my little A. kept repeating. She remembers the ascension lesson best. They all blew their imaginary trumpets again, imagining the real Last Day. "Someone's coming..." we whispered, remembering the promises that preceded Jesus' birth.

I'm thankful for how God guided us through our Bible-study.

I hope that above all, the atonement and the invitation to relationship with the great Giver of Himself

are what stick.

They visited first grade the other day for an hour. I popped in to drop off a latecomer, and ever-eager-on-the-edge-of-flipping-out-with-excitement J. bounced in his chair. "We're in first grade!" he gushed. Skip a beat. His expression changes instantly to concern. "Do we get to go back?"

Darlings. What is ahead for them? We had a special thing going. They didn't really know it. But I pray for beauty to thrive and blossom in their hearts. The last day, and J. and J.-girl bring me tiny green leaves while we're in the park. "Can we put this in the Beautiful Box?"

Tonight, we say goodbye. Me, possibly in sign language, due to throat swelling. It hasn't hit me yet how much I love them and how finished our season together is.

It's been hard. Every day. I don't know how to explain it if you haven't felt it. The hurt and the frustration and the exhaustion. The apparent fruitlessness and the self-doubt and second-guessing. The disobedience. Teachers are Amazing People. Amazing people, they are. And I'm not speaking of myself, for I am walking to something else. Please go commend a teacher. Please pray for a teacher. Please go into an urban school and offer to pray, and to help.

God is faithful. God is sovereign--trust Him to redeem. There's a wideness in God's mercy beyond man's imagining. And when something is worth the pain, it doesn't mean the pain goes away.

that's a year of Kindergarten in a nutshell.

Glory to God in the highest! Amen.

...two...one.

2009-06-09T18:21:00.001-07:00

Two left...

And my parents are here for a day. My father has long talks with M. about Sasquatch, a mutual interest. They look at pictures online. Footprints and blurry long-distance views and hypothetical sketches. M. is delighted. He gives my dad his last Oreo. This is big.

We've been reading some stories from 'Tales of the Kingdom' at naptime. Today's was 'The Baker Who Loved Bread.' Kind of inaptly named, but a really vivid story about denying shelter, bread and love to those in need -- and this really being denial of all this to the King Himself. Wounding the King Himself when you wound a stranger.

I had forgotten all about 'Tales of the Kingdom.' Until I saw the books again, and all kinds of memories came shooting back. The strange, almost gruesome pictures. The smell of the pages. The realism of the stories. A little disjointed, but all making a beautiful sense, too, somehow.

My parents read them aloud to us when I was very small. And I remember leafing through the books myself...

'The Apprentice Juggler' is a favorite. 'A Girl Called Dirty' is a powerful one too, especially if you ache for anyone struggling against God. (And she is all of us.)

The metaphors are resonant. I think you might like them.

I'm so tired. The fuel seems to be totally drained from me. Sinus infectionishness not helpful...

My children. My children. Your children. Your children, oh Lord.

One left.

"The process of living seems to consist in coming to realize truths so ancient and simple that, if stated, they sound like barren platitudes. They cannot sound otherwise to those who have not had the relevant experience..." (C.S. Lewis.)

It's family field day! But there are thunderstorms. The sky turns green as I stand outside for morning traffic duty, and suddenly it feels like night. Lighted windows call 'welcome' as they do in the dusk-time... but it is 7:45 in the morning...

So: no trip to the park. We have field day at school. Taking turns in the gym, computer lab, etc. Most kids don't show up. Of those who do, about half have parents with them. It's a strange day. Isn't it funny how the end of something can turn out to have so different a character than what it's had all along? This isn't how school's felt at all, for nine long months. Nine months of building routine, of following the rhythm, of keeping them carefully penned in with invisible fences... and then you say goodbye in a whirlwind of totally-different-ness. Who are we? What have we been through?

There is the feeling

of losing one's children.

Not like the real thing, I know. And there are so many reasons it's good that this is ending. But the feeling comes nevertheless,

because I love them. What a strange season this is.

"In looking back, it would be wrong to deny that we have been in the Slough of Despond, and have crept along the Valley of Humiliation, but it would be equally wicked to forget that we have been through them safely and profitably; we have not remained in them, thanks to our Almighty Helper and Leader...The deeper our troubles, the louder our thanks to God, who has led us through all, and preserved us until now. Our griefs cannot mar the melody of our praise, we reckon them to be the bass part of our life's song, 'He Hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad.'"

(Charles Spurgeon.)

a lot of catching up to do...

2009-06-08T18:34:00.000-07:00

but then again, I rarely feel 'caught up' these days. Today I realized you could tell me it was February, April, or June, and I would really, truly believe you, so out of it do I feel at given moments of a day. So much like a long dream does a school year feel to teacher-me. The days blur together, full of little logistics; events of September and December can feel like they happened only last week; events of yesterday can be a total blur, undiscernible, hazy and out of reach.

There are two more school days left. Two! If I keep saying it, will I believe it. Two! Plus graduation evening. I am in a whirl within. What's going on? The promise of freedom from what's chewed at me for months and months and months... the promise is dangling there, but I'm not sure whether to snatch it, to stare at it, or to just walk right through it. Or hit myself over the head with it to make it real.

Highlights from the last many days of not-blogging:

Thursday, May 28: The Best Day of School Ever.

I took my kids to Central Park. I felt like their mom instead of their teacher. Away from the closing-in walls, and the eyes and ears of more organized and systematic people. It was how education should be. They climbed trees! For the first time! (Then Central Park people came and told them this was not allowed. But we had a good solid thirty minutes of tree climbing first!) The Ross Pinetum is a wondrous place.

To address their humanity, to get to see them as people, small people, instead of a cluster that needs managing. Blessing.

J. found himself rather stuck in his tree at one point. "You'll just have to live there until your legs grow long enough to climb down, then," I said. "We shall bring you a pillow and some snacks, and when you're thirteen, you can come back down again." The story-making in this vein continued for some minutes.

One chaperoning mother looked at me like I was marble-less.

Another laughed and enjoyed the look on J.'s face. He seemed to be mulling over the merits of the plan.

J. also made it his mission today to pet every single dog we passed. You pass a lot of dogs in Central Park. And on the way to Central Park from the train. And on the way back to the train from Central Park. Once he learned the etiquette of the thing -- asking "may I pet your dog?" he was the charmingest little pet-petter the West side has ever known. This made me happy.

The aforementioned chaperoning mother once again seemed ill-at-ease with my management (or lack thereof) of J.'s life.

Another J., my J-girl, fell off a stone wall she was balancing on and cut her lip rather badly. This was sad and pretty gory. She wailed. We bought an ice cream sandwich. After cleaning her up in the bathroom. I hand-fed it to her on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "You can go home and tell your family about how you cried so loudly, they could hear you all the way in Haiti!" I tell her. She smiles through her pout.

We found dandelions. Lots. Talked about seed-spread. Walked through a tunnel within which two gentlemen with saxophones were playing The Pink Panther Theme -- just for us.

We saw the Bethesda Fountain and terrace together. What a place to be with my wee ones.

They learned the word 'bark' today as it applies to trees. They did not know the word 'bark.'

J.girl would ask me when she saw an open patch of grass, "Can I roll in it?"

(I had promised them we'd be climbing, running, rolling in grass and open spaces.) "Of course! Go for it." "We can roll, guys!" she'd call out, as if this was the greatest thing ever to be allowed.

We didn't make it where I planned for us to make it within the park, but I didn't care a bit. They were out, they were free, we were exploring, we were touching living, growing things. They climbed rocks. They can run. ALL. Day. And THIS is what I'm having to keep cooped up in the white-brick bowling alley we call my classroom? No wonder we go wacky back at school.

Treasures

in rooms of clay.

the following Monday...

D. remembers that he hit me in the leg with something last Friday. "So," he asks eagerly, "Are you blue?" I check for the bruise he's hoping to see. "Nope. Sorry, bud."

I praise God for the transformation in my floppy, funny F. He is so proud now of how quickly he does his work, a different boy from the F. of October, who spent every moment calling out for attention from the rest of the class and completely ignoring me. I welcome my F. to school with a giant, running-start hug, and his grin delights my heart. He's in his own world, this boyling. And I love it.

Tuesday...

J. has taken to saying "...and paint the walls" at the end of all my directions. It does make me smile. Every morning we stop outside the classroom and I ask what we should do when we get inside. "Line up our bookbags, hang up our coats, and stand on our spot," replies the dutiful child of the day. J. is chomping at the bit to add his bit:

"...and paint the walls."

Today we made a mural (on paper, not directly on the walls -- sorry, J.) of a bakery window. i've been wanting to do this for a long time now. Bakery windows are magical things.

This week we are talking about seeds being planted in the soil of our hearts. Today as I told the parable of the sower, I had to stop and pray over them even AS they were in the very act of ignoring the Word of God, choosing instead to play with some piece of lint from the carpet, to mess with each others' hair, to squabble over position... oh, God. We are so blind. They are so blind. Open their hearts, Lord. Only You can. If today all they got was that I'm desperate to see You do this, and that You can, that's enough. That's enough.

Wednesday...

This one goes out to a certain remarkable friend who suddenly appeared at the top of the 1 train stairs at 207th Street this afternoon.

This one goes out to our Mel from Arizona. She suddenly appeared here in my uptown world, and the world is better for it.

We started learning the 'tongue song' today. It's more of a chant really. It involves clicking your tongue first, in a certain rhythm... then "The tongue (clap clap) is like (clap clap) a bit or a rudder. The tongue (clap clap) will steer the way that you go.... Are you spouting clean or dirty water? You're sprouting the fruit of the seed that you sow..." there's more. That's all I went for today. They like clicking their tongues. This is a subject we've long needed to talk about. I love the Biblical metaphors of clean and dirty water, of tongues bearing fruit. Of the power of this tiny muscle -- the power of death and life. The kids resonate with this. I'm thankful.

Thursday:

We started today with an orchestra moment. Each child picked something in the room to make 'music' with, and then beat it along to the Tongue Song. This was nice.

Today I was pleasantly surprised

by my troops, my dears. It just takes me aback whenever we can do any activity without an extreme amount of reprimanding, redirecting, etc. Today I put them in their reading partners and asked them to read a book together...

and they did it. They did it! I can't tell you how quietly flabbergasted I was. They must be growing up.

We also measured stuff. Measurement is my favorite Kindergarten math unit, I think. Just because they like it.

I started showing them 'Follow That Bird' today. We never watch movies. I think this is the second one all year. I'm excited. "One of my favorites," I say. "Don't talk! I want to hear it!" This seems to work. This is a really well-made kids' movie. It holds their attention. It keeps moving. They're in suspense... I love this movie. It's full of vivid atmospheres, almost-tasteable and -touchable memories. Waylon Jennings in a turkey truck. Two farm kids on an easy-going day. Haystacks and car chases and a big map. It's wonderful. I've always wanted my kiddos to see it.

My urban kiddos who resonate so naturally with Sesame Street itself, the location. I love old Sesame Street. It looked kind of dirty. There's a kind of run-down family clinic in view in several scenes of the movie; everything's a bit grubby... and beautiful. Lit up by the friendships and the love of life all around it.

I wondered today

how much of my passion for urban redemption and relationship

is rooted in old Sesame Street. Is it what I'm looking for? Is it why?

I guess I'll never know.

He works in mysterious ways. He plants so many things in our hearts.

Tonight I saw the dramatization of an extremely remarkable story. Irena's Vow. It's on Broadway. If you're in New York, go see it.

Friday.

Today was my little O.'s last day. My first goodbye.

Today we planted pumpkin seeds in bags of soil. Each child with his own bag, and each child had to speak a kindness, plant a beautiful 'seed' verbally to another while planting the actual seed in that person's bag o' dirt. There's just nothing more exciting, apparently, than a bag of dirt

when you are five or six years old.

"Run for your LIFE, Big Bird!!!" cried my F., who was in such suspense he could not keep his seat during the second half of Follow That Bird today. I grinned.

They SQUABBLED today. It drove me Berzerk. Tense. It's senseless. Pointless. ENDLESS !

Today I was reminded about the waters of Meribah, where Moses struck the rock... will I strike the rock? Cry out "You rebels!"? Or can I believe that serving the sinners, speaking truth faithfully to them, is enough

for You to work through

in their lives ?

God, give me a faith in Your sovereignty

that is as unshakeable as YourSelf.

11. Spillorama

2009-05-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

At lunchtime today, everything that could be spilled was spilled. Icees. My iced coffee. (Yes, I find myself suddenly becoming overly reliant on sugary liquid fuels.). Milk. "Emer-gen-cy. Emer-gen-cy," D. walks around reciting like a robot. The rest are going nuts all around me for different reasons. "Please, please, D., stop," I plead. I command. Ah, but it's his robot-call for help that actually gets someone from the outside world to pop her head in and ask if she can call for a maintenance man for us. "Oh, yes, please!" say I, weary of sending Kindergarteners on treks to the bathroom for more and more paper towels, having exhausted our classroom supply.

It was rough today. I just feel spent.
But here's a blessing: they're reading! When I think back to many of them not knowing their alphabet,
and now see all but two reading simple sentences and books well,
and one of those is on his way. The other needs some extra love and care and time.
...
I think: this is a neat thing. They are reading. I hope they love it. If not yet, then someday.

This week, we're talking about the sheep and the goats; "I was hungry and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me in..." how to wait for Jesus well. How to thank Him with our lives.

12. A Tuesday.

2009-05-29T14:09:00.001-07:00

After a holiday weekend, coming in like a sleepwalker,
except not, because aren't sleepwalkers rather energetic? To walk in your sleep, that takes some determination and excessive get-up-and-go.
I was out of gas.

Fuel of choice:
Today, when I told him I had to go to the eye doctor after school and therefore could not do 'Insectos' (tutoring in the alphabet using insect names) with him after school, M. declared, "I can check them." He looks in my eyes briefly. "They are fine. They look great!" Hours later, it is apparently still on his mind. Out of the blue: "I have an idea." "What's your idea, M.?" "I can check your eyes for you, very fast, and then you will not have to go to the doctor, and we can do insectos, very fast, before my mom comes!" He announces this like it's the perfect solution. Eureka!

13.

2009-05-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

Today, the restoration of the Crumpled Kingdom. I unveiled a copy of the Kingdom drawn on new, uncrumpled green paper. "How did you fix it??" they ask incredulously. We talk about all things made new and restored. We review all the truths heard this week. Trumpets. Judgment. Covered in His blood, His righteousness. Dead rising. Redeemed taken up in the clouds. Worship forever. And then we watched a clip of things changing rapidly, miraculously. Just a tiny, tiny, imperfect idea of restoration. But they were awakened to wonder. This was good. We made little 'trumpet' necklacesn with tiny bells, paper clips and string to serve as a reminder: "So then, you must also be ready." Tell someone else! The King is coming back.

My hope this week
must be in
what I have been preaching to them.
They are, again, so disobedient. So hard-hearted toward learning
and toward authority. So selfish.

It hurts, it aches, it stings, it wears
to be angry. At the small ones and their disrespect. At their parents. At the world that is pushing them into its image. At the opportunities they are missing
every day,
by choice.
(God, forgive me for where the anger is too much. God who angers PERFECTLY, RIGHTEOUSLY, help me live with this.) You KNOW this anger. You feel it and You speak about it. And You answer it.

"The earth dries up and withers, the world languishes and withers,
the exalted of the earth languish.
The earth is defiled by its people;
they have disobeyed the laws,
violated the statutes
and broken the everlasting covenant.
Therefore a curse consumes the earth; its people must bear their guilt."
(Isaiah 24:4-6a)

In a trumpet blast,
in a coming King,
in a righteous Judge who makes all things right,
God, ignite my hope.

"In that day the LORD will punish
the powers in the heavens above
and the kings on the earth below.
They will be herded together
like prisoners bound in a dungeon...
(and "...if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea..." Matt. 18:6)
The moon will be abashed, the sun ashamed; for the LORD Almighty will reign on Mount Zion and in Jerusalem, and before its elders, gloriously."
(Isaiah 24:21-22a)

For now,
You are a refuge, in driving heat and wind. A tower in which we shelter.
But one day, we'll feast on a mountain,
wide open.
Ruthless rebellion silenced at last.

"...as heat is reduced by the shadow of a cloud, so the song of the ruthless is stilled.

On this mountain the LORD Almighty will prepare
a feast of rich foods for all peoples...
On this mountain he will destroy the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;
he will swallow up death forever.
The Sovereign LORD will wipe away the tears from all faces;
he will remove the disgrace of his people from all the earth.
The LORD has spoken."
(Isaiah 25:5b-8)

God give your people -- give me -- the power to endure.
And to endure a-shouting,
shouting out Your praise,
declaring all Your Word.

14: "Smell my bookbag. It smells like fish."

2009-05-24T08:23:00.000-07:00

The above is the quote of the day. Spoken in all sincerity and with a bit of a confused grimace by my sweet S. in morning assembly, just as we were supposed to be standing to attention and looking forward.

This morning we spoke of worshiping forever. With people from every tribe, language, nation. We spoke praise in the four languages of our classroom. We learned the rest of 'Worthy is the Lamb' and talked about the sacrificial lambs of Old Testament Israel, and our own dear Lamb who spilled His blood.

And then,
it was another very rough day. Kids in the office. Me aching inside.

15: A Crumpled Classroom.

2009-05-24T08:15:00.000-07:00

We spoke this morning about the last judgment. A day both terrible and wonderful at the same time. The All-Knowing Judge on the throne.
We have a behavior system in our class, the classic green-yellow-red cards thing. You start on green in the morning, then change your card when you disobey, and there are consequences for changed colors. As we spoke about the Great and Terrible Day, I revealed their card-holder, with every card flipped to red. Gasps. This is very important to them, the color they are on.
Every one of us is utterly 'red' in His sight.
(I'm glad I don't have any kids who are denying that they're sinners. That's a good thing. Every one agreed they do wrong.)
We should tremble at the idea of judgment, at the knowledge that every deed will be revealed. We talked about those deeds.
And then we witnessed the wonder
of being covered by the 'green' of Jesus. The only perfect, truly 'green' one covers our red card with His perfect righteousness. And God sees green. We talked about how to know this will be true of us.

And then the rest of the day began.
They were HORRENDOUS. ALL DAY. To a level I've not experienced for a week or two now. I cried a little once I'd dropped them off at their outside class. So did my aide.
They seem
impenetrable.
Fortresses against learning.
Battlements against obedience.
Every. Word. ignored.
Every action unspeakably wild, cruel, disrespectful, or immature.
Why, oh why, are there Kindergarteners who know the F-word? Lord, save us.
And why do they look for evil in everything?
Oh how they need the clothing of Christ.
Oh how I need the clothing of Christ.
God, forgive me for when my heart gives up on these children.

I long for them to be more inquisitive. More articulate,
as I KNOW children their age can be.

Wild lumps of disobedience and foul thoughts -- is this all they want to be? All they will let themselves be? God STOP their self-destructive behavior.
God, get me through this with some glimmer of hope.

16 left.

2009-05-24T08:09:00.000-07:00

Two days that feel like coasting... they just...went by. That's rather amazing.
Today we made badges to point people to our King, to remind ourselves of the call to be part of the true Kingdom, while we're here in the crumples. "To the King!" they wrote, and glued their little construction paper crowns on green circles, then slapped them on their shirts with masking tape. Hurrah! In the twinkling of an eye, we heard today. With a trumpet blast, we heard today! We made our own trumpet noises. And dreamed of a sound the whole world can hear. Be ready, be ready, be ready....

At naptime today, i heard a sudden trumpeting from the carpet zone. I trip-toe over chairs and feet to get to F., who's sprawled among the beanbags. "I'm glad you're trumpeting," I tell him, "and we might hear God's trumpet any time now. But naptime is not the right time for YOU to make your own trumpeting sound. Please wait till we're outside." He wants me to make him a trumpet. I improvise with yellow construction paper. Human trumpets just don't last. We need the real one.

17. (19 lived and written.: The Crumpled Kingdom.

2009-05-24T08:01:00.000-07:00

Monday. I'm to be blessed by what I'm teaching them in Bible this week. We are looking at the world through the True Paradigm of the King and His Kingdom. And then we are celebrating the coming return of the King. A celebration with a warning. "So then, you must also be ready, for the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect Him."

We start with a beautiful Kingdom. Beauty sketched in simple symbols with pastels on green construction paper. Stick figures. A river of fish. A yellow sun. A flower. And then, the Kingdom is crumpled. All disfigured and vandalized by our rebellion, by the actions of our now-filthy hearts. Oh how the King of this Crumpled Kingdom is saddened. But He still speaks. And a few still turn their ears to hear. From within the crumples, their ears incline to the Creator-King. And then, one day, He sends His Son, His representative, His beloved, Himself, into the midst of it all. Down into the crumpled kingdom. Incline your ears, Kingdom-people, King-followers. Are they open? Do you hear? The King Himself is here. . .

And here, here He took upon Himself the punishment, the payment, for the terrible vandalism we have done to the King's beautiful work. The terrible pain we have caused the great King's heart. So now the Kingdom is among us. within us. The Kingdom is here.

And today, after the Son has returned to His Father, and left the gift with us, left Himself in His Spirit, we who still long for the King wait for the Kingdom to be restored in full. In FULL.
We live, dear children, in the last chapter of a story. The story of the Kingdom. And we're waiting for the King to keep His promise
to come back.

"To the King!" we holler together.
And we pray to be big-eared people. Listening for the voice of the King
here among the crumples.

18 (or eighteen! we meet in the middle.)

2009-05-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

First, a note unrelated to Kindergarten. Watch the ballet which I was quite delighted to enjoy at Lincoln Center this evening! It's going to be filmed and aired live on PBS, as 'Live from Lincoln Center,' next Thursday, May 21. Romeo and Juliet, by the New York City Ballet. Beautiful. Prokofiev. The brilliant simplicity of good pantomime. And people who fly without cables or wings. That's a wonder.

Today I felt better... and realized at the end of the day that it's because I didn't really teach a lesson today at all. Chapel time, gym, and standardized testing ate up the morning, and a birthday party ate up the afternoon. So other than a 'math race' center at free time, leading the testing process, teaching a review Bible lesson this morning (summing up Saul/Paul and the idea of people changed by the Gospel then going out and sharing it with others), and reading a story, I was off-duty. Not trying to orchestrate some raucous activity followed by workbook pages in the effort to cram material into their brains. It was a relief. And I was better able to be firm-handed in discipline because of it.

rant (skippable): I think teachers, at least in environments like ours, need a constant in-room Disciplinarian, so as to be able to actually focus on teaching. Imagine having to stop in the middle of every sentence you say to insert a child's name, a 'look up here, please,' a 'please sit on your bottom,' or an 'excuse me; please don't talk on top of my voice.' Every sentence you say. And it's a different kid virtually every time. Oh help oh help oh help.

May i mention that teaching makes you a little bit delusional? Tonight at Lincoln Center, a giant, glittery theater full of people, of elegantly-clad strangers, I realized that part of me really believed it completely possible and sensible to stand up and teacher-speak to the whole theater. Like the whole world is my Kindergarten class, and it is my endless duty to lead and shepherd everyone in it. (What strange things are happening to my brain?)

The birthday cake was good. And a potentially-rocky after-school parent meeting went fine.

Lord, forgive; Lord, redeem; Lord, renew; Lord, restore. Amen,

amen.

19. (or seventeen.): A Tired Pirate.

2009-05-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

The highlight of today: impromptu piracy. I gave J. his own "center" at free time -- supplied him with construction paper, ribbon, scissors, glue, paper bags, popsicle sticks, and said he could lead the kids who came to his center in whatever endeavor he could dream up.
He rolled paper into a cone and was delighted to discover he'd made a telescope! When told it could also be a megaphone (in not so many words), he was adamant: No. It's a telescope. For "doing like this: Arr." (finger used as hook-hand.) Tie a ribbon around the bottom and you have an elegant piratescope. I inadvertently mentioned the word 'eye patch' and suddenly found myself commissioned to make eyepatches out of paper bags and string. I'm not the craftiest of individuals, but that almost makes it funnier, really. Two kids wandering around with eye patches, taking them very seriously, asking me to repair them when the string fell off, etc. "Ar," say they. I try to channel the pirate mood to help motivate them to clean up. The colored blocks are all over the floor. Each pirate is assigned a color of block as their own 'treasure.' Who can collect most? This works for some of them for quite some time. Let's say it's developing good visual discrimination skills.

Also enjoyed the 'Splotch Collage' activity today. For our 'morning work,' I commissioned them to make a splotch. Any shape, in their Explorer notebooks. Station 1: crayons, 2: markers, 3: patterned papers and scraps to glue in mosaic-style -- or any-other-style. They made some quality splotches. And really got into it. We put them all together in a collage at the end. I wish this were all I did. Splotches and such.

These highlights make things sound rather peachy. Pirates and artistic adventures...
but honestly,
today I was mad. Mad at them. For their apparent inability or unwillingness to ever obey a request/order/direction the first time they are asked. For their sabotaging learning activities by yelling, by having conversations with one another instead of listening to directions; for making me constantly have to address them, one by one by one by one by one, over and over and over and over again. And then they complain that something is 'boring.' It started raining during recess today. They had to come in. Music practicers were using their indoor recess area. They had to sit and watch. This put them in a foul mood in the afternoon.
I'm tired of hearing my own voice saying obnoxious teacher things.
I ended the day sitting them down and praying over them, for our willingness and ability to learn and obey. I warned them that tomorrow would be serious business. Follow directions the first time, or 'change your card.' A red card means you leave the room. Period.
Do you know how often I have resolved to be merciless this year? So many times.
I wondered today if I will be a bad mother. Inconsistent, too weak... not on top of enough things.
I am so tired of loving such disrespectful children.

20. (Or sixteen.): small wonders

2009-05-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

Standardized testing today involved a story about a factory. Seven kids at once: "Like Willy Wonka!" Thanks to Mr. Wonka, they all got the test question right.

Last night, the incredibly apt and tender gift of a sunset seen from the top of the Empire State Building. Perspective. Thank You.
Interesting, as always, though, how physical size is no indicator whatsoever of true impact, importance, weight, power. 13 tiny children, far off in the haze, down in the labyrinths of the Lego-city,
but one, just one of them, could change so much
of the world.
And one can make me a crazy person.
And one cannot be dreamed up by the human mind or formed by human hands.
"Poems are made by fools like me... but only God can make..." a small person. Wonder as great as the distant galaxies and the pink sky layers behind the setting sun.

Today they drove me batty. They do. Not. Listen. To a single direction given. Every. Single. Direction. Must be repeated. Fifteen times. Batty. (oh, Lord, help me to face them, and not snap into pieces, again tomorrow.)

Today's charming quote, from my floppy F., on what he wants to be when he grows up. "I'm going to do.... the whole world! Paint the whole world rainbows."
G., on the other hand, has very concrete expectations of the future. When she grows up? "A laptop. I'm going to have a laptop." She also thinks she can speak Chinese. In fact, she thinks she was born in China. She tells her mother this frequently. Her mother throws up her hands. What can you do? I consider this one of the great legacies to her of her year in Kindergarten, and expect to hear of her missionary journeys to Asia
someday.

21 [remaining] (or fifteen [since starting blog-commitment].): Punctuated. ! ? , "

2009-05-13T14:39:00.000-07:00

(the explanation of the numbers in the title is a shout-out to one M. McD. You know who you are...)

A quote from today... My M. whispered in my ear while I led an animal-clue-game center at free time... with no real context, no warning, just a sudden approach and whisper, "You know, you can be nice to the monster. [pause] They have feelings too." Shared as a profound piece of discovered information, not really as relevant-to-the-moment advice.
"That's true! Hey, where did you hear that?" I reply, quite delighted.
Shrugs. "I just knew it."
This child makes me very happy.

Decided to try a punctuation lesson today. Went better than expected. A little more advanced content than standard for Kindergarten. But I tend to go with my instincts as to what they will be capable of, and what's important in our classroom probably doesn't always match up to the 'standards of standards' standards. As evidenced by a question on the standardized testing we took today: "Which of these things is valuable because it is hard to find? Silver, grass, or sand? Mark under the picture of something that is valuable because it is hard to find."
Half of my kids marked grass. And I was very, very proud of them. (and a little saddened by the rarity of grass in their lives. But mostly proud. Valuable is often in the heart of the beholder...)

As for punctuation, I read them a bit of our latest readaloud, 'The Great Glass Elevator,' as if it were totally unpunctuated, and with no expression. Then read it properly. They enjoyed this. Wanted me to keep doing it. This made me glad. I think they get the point of punctuation now. They went on (as 'Quentin Questioner,' 'Emily Exclaimer,' and 'Pamela/Peter Period') to try out the expressive effects of different punctuation marks at the end of some sample sentences.
J-girl called an exclamation point an "excited point" this afternoon. Hurrah!

Also got to tell the story of the time I found a snake in my bedroom (in Texas) three times over. They like this story.

and yes, I am still, disciplinarily, losing my mind.
But I think I'm blessed these days with more of an ability to keep the mind-losing in a different compartment from the love-ing, and from the being-happy-to-be-alive, parts of my emotions and actions.
Every blessing you pour out
I'll turn back to praise.

22. (or fourteen.) no specifics today...

2009-05-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

...only this from Charles Spurgeon, which I shared--with some vocabulary modifications--with the childers this morning (emphasis mine):

"My soul, I charge thee, lay up thy treasure in the only secure cabinet; store thy jewels where thou canst never lose them. Put thine all in Christ; set all thine affections on His person, all thy hope in His merit, all thy trust in His efficacious blood, all thy joy in His presence...Remember that all the flowers in the world's garden fade by turns, and the day cometh when nothing will be left but the black, cold earth. Death's black extinguisher must soon put out thy candle. Oh! how sweet to have sunlight when the candle is gone! The dark flood must soon roll between thee and all thou hast; then wed thine heart to Him who will never leave thee..."

Amen.

23. (or thirteen.): respite.

2009-05-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

A concert today. Children dressed to the nines. Suddenly their parents whisk them away and you're left with only five, and
the whole world feels different.
What's my job, again?
Every moment
radically changed by the sudden shift in dynamic...

we hung out,
we napped,
we went to the park. I played tag and pushed swings. We held hands all the way there and sang "Glory, glory, hallelujah, He reigns." (They like the part about the powers of darkness trembling "at
what they've just heard." They are delighted that Satan shakes in his boots because we praise God.)

Hallelujah.

24. (twelve.): how long, o Lord?

2009-05-07T16:28:00.000-07:00

" Confuse the wicked, O Lord, confound their speech,
for I see violence and strife in the city . . .
Destructive forces are at work in the city;
threats and lies never leave its streets.
... God, who is enthroned forever,
will hear them and afflict them—
men who never change their ways
and have no fear of God.

... Cast your cares on the LORD
and he will sustain you;
he will never let the righteous fall... as for me, I trust in you. "
[portions of Psalm 55.]

Rough. Rough.
And it's interesting how it seems to come in epidemics, in waves. Other teachers with shellshocked expressions at the end of the day, too. Just like me. I could have cried in front of them today. The children, that is. So frustrated with their rudeness and total disobedience today. Unbelievable.
Or is it? Psalm 55 knew them before I did. We have been suffering the pain of wickedness for millennia. Millennia.
Destructive forces at work in the way they're being raised. Or not being raised. The expectations not being placed on them.

You will judge those who reject You. I pray that my children won't be those. But if they are... May I give You the pain of seeing them sin, Lord? Of being the very object of their rudeness, disregard, and arrogance?
You healed and faced every form of sin's distortion, Lord; Spurgeon reminded me of this this morning. Every form of sickness. Every color of harm that sin does. The particular 'diseases' of each child in my care. Oh, Father. I cannot bear it all. You do. You did. Please help me cast it out. Please call them to repent. In Your time, Lord. In Your time...
meanwhile. I had to send three out today. It feels sometimes
like I just can't take it anymore.
Oh how I need You.

Oh how hard it can be to remember You fully during the day.
But I've never known You fully. There's so much more of You yet to know, yet to know.
And I must trust that You're revealing more through even this.

Okay, here it is: the question of the day. It's worth the wait, really. The same lad who's been asking after my future sons and daughters today asked, during afternoon math time, out of the blue: "God didn't give you a man yet?"
as if I should have picked one up with my lunch today. . .
[My dear Visiting Friend says tomorrow will be bring-your-teacher-a-husband day for teacher appreciation week. Mercy!]

I did love, today, the sound of three of them giggling uncontrollably. Silly geese.
sigh.
Your Kingdom come
Your Kingdom come!
Your Kingdom, come.

25. (eleven.): how do you type a bellow?

2009-05-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

Highlight of the day: as part of teacher appreciation week, the parent association sent the word out that today was 'bring something sweet for your teacher' day. Much chocolate brought. But I liked the creativity of flan. He called it 'cake.' And made rules for me about who could have some. I also liked the one who didn't bring anything in but made the effort to handcraft a very large construction paper cookie for me at free time. He was excited about it. And he's not normally a crafter. This blessed me. I stuck a magnet on the back and shall save and display it forever. Or for as long as a construction paper cookie lasts.

question of the day (from flan-boy) : "When are you going to get a son or a daughter?"
My response... "Well, God has to give me a husband first, bud..."
Keep that in mind. It will make tomorrow's question of the day funnier.

They were really awful today. Really disobedient. It was hard.
Went to a forum tonight about police-community relations. A really neat idea being started here in the Bronx by New York Faith and Justice. Thought about the parallels between police work and teacher-work. The strangeness of occupying a job where anger is a daily hazard. A constant experience. The unhealth of such a thing. The difficulty of explaining it to anyone who doesn't work in such a rhythm. Constant disciplining, reprimanding, consequence-ing. I ached with it today. Hurt with it. It hammered at my innards, pummeled to get out. I couldn't stand to say the same thing to them one... more... time.... Oh Lord, grant Your Truly Unique wisdom to us, to we who need so much to miraculously balance righteous anger with forgiveness and mercy. How do we do it, Lord? We are not You.

Surrendering to Your sovereignty; You are the ultimate judge. You WILL judge. I think the key lies in there.

26. (ten.) : In which the visitor arrives.

2009-05-07T15:58:00.000-07:00

This day was made brighter by the knowledge
that a dear friend would appear in it at some point,
unexpected and out of place,
a sunbeam-alien, she suddenly walked into pre-K concert practice.
Our visitor has come! And she will bless this week with her fresh perspective
and prodigious artistic gifts. I told the gang that she's the one who painted our classroom walls. Painted our tree. Our teepee. Our house. Our leaves. Our treasure box. Our lamp. All the mural-ificence we are blessed by on a daily basis.
They were impressed. "How did you become an artist?" "You're a good painter."
She's here, she's here! Hurrah, she's here!

As I was explaining why math is my least favorite thing to teach the small folk, she uttered the quote of the day: "Yeah. I think math is the thing I hate most in the entire world...besides sin." "Math and sin," we have repeated occasionally since. "Math and sin."

My favorite blessing of the day (it makes a big difference to have something you're really excited to share with them... and this one, God blessed with attentiveness on their parts): "church trees."

Months ago, I heard somewhere (I think in a sermon at my remarkable church here) this fact that I mentally filed away under the label "the secret of the trees:" that if a tree has good roots, then the wind that comes against it actually makes those roots stronger.
This is worth chewing on for some time.

I jotted it down to share with the kiddos when we got to the Church age in our journey through Scripture. And we got there this week. We're talking about "go into all the world," the basic concept of the disciples going, telling, and God's family then expanding. The global Church. The idea of the good news. And our responsibility to share it.

The idea appeared in me to make 'Church trees' together, out of paper bags. When they stand on their own, rootless, they can be blown right over. But put the bag on your hand, with your arm as the root, and there's no toppling it. We drew faces on the trees on the bag and glued green felt scraps on for leaves, mosaic-style. Very simple. What touched me was how responsive they were to the idea of the secret of the trees. To my statement that our roots are the fact of the crucifixion, the atonement, and the resurrection. "We know that we know that we know that we know," said we about those truths. And those are our roots. God whispered as I spoke, "Tell them that this is why you teach them the Gospel over and over and over. To give them strong roots, so they won't be easily toppled." I told them.
We talked about the persecution of the Church. How it will fall over if it does not cling to the Truth about who Jesus is. How we may be whipped, spit on, stoned, jailed, scolded, mocked, but when we know that we know that we know that He is Lord, then those winds only make our roots stronger. They got this metaphor. To a degree that I didn't expect them to get it. Thank you, Lord, for the "smallest" ideas. Plant these seeds in their hearts to stay. To grow. To take root. amen.

27. (nine.) Kookaroaches.

2009-05-04T16:59:00.000-07:00

A tough one.
What have I to say? I'm sorry. Not much. They were so disobedient today.
One good moment, at least -- we were talking about good news this morning, in the context of sharing the wonderful news of Jesus... and my M., who is back at last after a week of allergy absence said "I have some good news and some bad news. You want the bad news or the good news first?" He is unstoppable once he gets a gleam in his eye. The words roll out like water down a cliff. "The good news is there are no more kookaroaches in the bathroom." (that's exactly how he pronounces it.) "That is good news," say I, rather tickled. "The bad news..." he says, building up to it... "is that the kookaroaches are in your room!" He's delighted with himself. From here on, there is rather a fixation in the discussion on clean bathrooms as good news.
I'm glad M.'s back.

28. (eight) : "I Miss My Ant."

2009-05-01T10:51:00.000-07:00

F., at naptime, spoken low to me with the air of imparting a universal truth: “Did you know what the number of the day is? The number of the day is 18.” I assume he is talking about the date, since we talk about that frequently in Kindergarten. The date is, in fact, not the 18th, but I’m interested in his thought process. “Really?” I say. “And the letter of the day is B.” “How do you know?” I ask. “It’s on the Sesame Street,” says he. Of course it is. First it takes me three days to hear about the swine flu, and now I’m out of the loop on this too. So in case you were wondering: 18. B. Now you know.

I take them outside this morning for a little fresh air, and after a few races back and forth in the street, I discover that their latest obsession is ant-finding. It’s surprisingly difficult. This is New York City. I must confess, it’s a little pathetic to see them clustered around the slimmest sliver of semi-earth, just a line of dust between the sidewalk and the side of the school building, really, peering down in an intense search for the tiniest sign of life. For any living thing. Five heads clustered around one black dot that may or may not be an actual ant. J.-girl is the ant-hunt champion, with a grand total of two today. She lets her ant crawl along her arm as other girls run and scream in mock terror. “Wait for it, wait for it,” she says.

I go ant-hunting but have no success. I tell them that when I was little I made a twiddlebug house out of a milk carton. I want them to do it too. I want to do that with my own children someday. O. finds an ant and clutches it in his fist. “It’s his house,” he says in his sweet little voice. “He likes it.” I make them find a new outdoor home for their ants before they can come back inside. “I miss my ant,” says O. back in the classroom. He says it about seven times. It tickles me to hear it.

This morning, they each made a second windsock, this time as a gift for a friend or family member who needs to hear about Jesus. I asked who they’d give it to, and so many instantly knew. “My dad. Because he doesn’t believe in God, and he needs to hear about Jesus, and I haven’t told him about Jesus.” “My sister, because she doesn’t know about God.” “My brother, because he comes to church, but after the singing, he leaves early.” “My brother, because he doesn’t know nothing about God.” “My mom.” One writes “Papi” on his windsock. I’ve met most of the people they’re speaking of. And I know some of the stories behind it all. These kids are perceptive. We pray for those who will receive our gifts. We pray for boldness, for the Holy Spirit’s help in telling His story. Oh how I pray that all this really sinks into them. That it’s not just pious activity or empty words. How I need help to learn to surrender and trust in the Lord’s redeeming power.

Market Day 2. Notable additions today include artificial flowers, bananas, (uncooked) rice by the cup, and little green votive candles from Ikea. “I brought candles,” J. said to me earlier in the day. He pointed to the various warnings in multiple languages on the bag. You’ve seen stuff from Ikea. You know what I mean. “You have to listen to the rules,” he said. “This is from Europe?” he asks me. “Yes!” I reply. “Actually, they are!” “My mom said that,” he affirms. I love the resourcefulness of that mom. The letter says your child has to bring something from Europe (at least in spirit), and you think Ikea! Delightful.

My floppy, funny F. has a very loose tooth. He thinks he should go home because of it. “Can I go to the office?” “Nope. But I can try to pull it out for you.” He agrees. I try. He tries. It’s not quite ready. It’s at that can-be-twisted-almost-all-the-way-around stage, but has a strong root. I remember the feeling of loose teeth so vividly. On our way out the classroom door to go downstairs for market day, F. calls to me in his special, spacey way: “If my teeth fall out, can we sell them?” “Sure,” I reply before I really know what I’m saying (this happens frequently, me speaking before I really know what I’m saying. Teachers have to speak a lot.) “Yessss!” he exults. I can’t wait till he brings ‘em in.

As a closing activity for market week, I bring up the idea once more of thinking about where things we buy come from. I start checking shirt labels again and announcing their places of manufacture. I can’t see my own shirt label, so I decide to check my shoes. (China.) Wouldn’t you know it, before long, every Kindergartener in both Kindergarten classes (the other class has by this time come out to sit with us in the afterschool waiting area) is crowding around me with a musky black sneaker in hand. “What about mine?” “What about mine?” “Where do mine come from?” All but one pair are China-made. (The exception is Indonesia.) I can only imagine how tired parents will be by the end of the weekend of having every label in their houses checked by their Kinder-consumer-reporters. Whatever message got across about ethical trade practices, I can at least be sure that curiosity about where stuff comes from has been firmly instilled.
And I
have smelled
a lot of Kindergarten feet.

29. (seven.)

2009-05-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

Today we made windsocks. This I love. It’s so easy, too. Some ribbon for the tails, construction paper for the cylinder-body, some string and tape for the handle… everyone wrote “and you will be my witnesses…to the ends of the earth” on the papers before rolling them into ‘sockses.’… and then we wooshed out the door to go proclaim the message of Jesus to the world, by the power of the Holy Spirit.

We ran with the windsocks a little first. Up and down the sidewalk. Red, yellow, purple, pink, green construction paper…blue and yellow tails. “God made the world!” we call out to the neighborhood. “People messed it up! I sinned! God came into the world and He died for me! Hallelujah! He’s alive!” No door can stop the Spirit. No window can stop the Spirit. No man can stop the Spirit. We hear the story of Peter and John healing the crippled man at the Beautiful gate by the Spirit’s power… how surprised the officials were; those who thought they’d rid the world of Jesus were shocked to find He’d come back in an unimaginable, unprecedented, unstoppable way. In every one of His people. The Spirit of God! … I wonder what the kiddos will remember from all of this.

Our first ‘market day’ today. I lay out one of those classic parachutes that gym and preschool teachers use for wacky and magical games with children (games that degenerate into wild chaos. I know this because I decided to use our extra time at the end of the market to use the parachute for its original purpose. Won’t be trying that again anytime soon.). Each color-space on the parachute will be a market stall. We set up shop. I ‘sell’ apples. A. sells an Ecuador t-shirt, a vase from Chile, and a drum of unknown origin (good job, A.’s parents! You actually read the letter about our activity. Thanks for that.). A2 sells her Barbie dolls and a stuffed pig. J. sells pictures gathered from our classroom. S. sells various and sundry objects gathered from our Pretend Center.

I kick it off by juggling my apples and calling out ‘Apples for sale! Come buy my apples!’ and… bam. Our market is off and running. Watch the trading instincts of humankind whir into action. Soon we’re wheeling and dealing like pros, and our market really is bustling with activity. I start with two designated shoppers at a time, but before I know it, everybody’s in, and the sellers are even selling to one another. How proud they all are of their purchases.

And today, the question. It’s an all-year question. How do you deal with righteous anger? I don’t want to feel angry. I don’t want to act angry. But darn it, they make me angry sometimes! The perpetual, repeated disrespect. I know they hear me the first time I give them a direction. Sometimes I ask them what I’ve said, just to be sure. They heard. Am I just hurt that they treat me like dirt or like a machine there for their entertainment, to be ignored whenever what comes out of my mouth doesn’t suit their purposes of the moment? I don’t know how to bear this happening all day, day after day; how to repeat myself so much. “A firm hand at first,” some would say. “You’ll prevent it from becoming a problem.” I want to answer back: Have you tried?

I want to show mercy. I seek to show mercy. Love. Grace under pressure. To model the courtesy and politeness I want so much for them to catch. But how do you...

How much God bears from us. How much God bears from me. How perfect His balance of righteous anger and merciful patience. How do I, I as a human, limited and fallible and oh, so LIMITED, die daily for my children, yet also firmly rebuke them and train them in ‘right from wrong?’ Age old question, right? With 13 children, it’s an intense one. It never stops.

30. (six.) : What thread weaves ... all this ... together ?

2009-05-01T09:36:00.000-07:00

Lots of short peoples’ tears wept into my shirt today. Various little accidents, injuries, disappointments. Also extremely red allergy-eyes and a vomit incident. (Not both from the same kid.)

My favorite words of today: “Holy Spirit, please help the lady who got the hole in her head. For she can live, and her family can live…” This from J. the reluctant saint. Who, I would also add for background, is the most “I am not a morning person” kindergartener I have ever seen. Grumpy like an old man, I tell ya. Reticent, silent. Not awake. Cracks me up. We’ve been learning about the day of Pentecost, about the Holy Spirit. I’ve told them about the Trinity. But I hadn’t told them, really, that they could pray to the Spirit. So it blessed my heart that J. did.
His prayer was for the subject of a rather gruesome neighborhood story related by J.-girl about an elderly woman who fell and is now in the hospital.

“We need to have a talk,” says I, I says. It is a moment of rather intense frustration. “It is your job to make sure that your brain is getting exercise when you are at school. Can I open your head and pour things into your brain?” “No,” comes the fascinated response. “Even when it is someone else’s turn to talk or to read,” I go on with this somber lecture, “you can be getting smarter. If you are playing and talking instead of trying to read along and exercising your brain, then you are missing a chance for your brain to grow, and to get stronger. You can be getting ready for first grade. But it is your job to do it! I can’t make you learn what I am teaching you. I am trying my very best, but it is your job to catch it. Don’t let it walk by you.”
How many times do you have to say this to five and six year olds for it to have any effect whatsoever? A million? A trillion? Lately the title of a book I own, I Won’t Learn From You, keeps coming to mind. It’s been my goal to make learning feel like a breeze. Feel like fun. Feel like games. Delight. And yet sometimes I wonder if my doing this has made them totally clueless that they have a responsibility and an accountability in this process.

For our social studies unit on markets around the world, we practiced bargaining today. Hilarious. “Hmm. 20’s a little steep,” I say. “I’ll give you ten, though.” Kindergarten minds (most of them) are not real swift with the number-relationships. “How about… two,” says the seller. I draw the numbers in order vertically to try to clarify the process. Mostly it’s just fun to hear them haggle. Even more fun with nonsensical numbers, really. A couple of them don’t bargain with me at all. They accept my lower price without countering. The wheeler-dealers among the group call out in frustration. “Oh, man! She didn’t even do anything!” they moan. I bargain for a guitar, a seashell, a horse and some chocolates. The former two real, the latter two imaginary. I got the horse for a dollar, the chocolates for fifty, the seashell for ten, and the guitar for two. The Kinder-economy.

Note to all Kindergarten teachers and would-be Kindergarten folk: Telling your class that they have to be a “secret Kindergarten class” as they walk in line behind you actually works!! Keep turning around dramatically to see if they’re still there. Exclaiming “I don’t even know there’s anyone behind me!” is also helpful. As is “I can definitely tell that ____ is behind me, but everyone else is being so secret!” I’ve tried “We have to be as quiet as spies” before, and that works pretty well, but my dramatic gang can get overzealous with the tiptoeing and dodging about. I wish I’d known about “secret Kindergarten class” in September. Although maybe it wouldn’t work for a whole year. Few things do. . . .

31. (five.)

2009-04-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

35 works of art,
continued.

(Some works of art
are harder to walk through than others.)

Elements of today's installation:

teaching on Pentecost. Enjoyed telling the story. For most, their first exposure to any teaching about the Holy Spirit... the idea of the 'wind', the 'breath,' of God, blowing where He will. The fulfillment of Jesus' promise to be with us always, to the end of the age, and His promise to empower us to be His witnesses -- to the ends of the earth. Can be seen as a reversal of Babel, or at least as the inclusion of all nations in God's plan, His desire to have all peoples hear the message, meaning and merciful offering of Jesus.
I made a lot of blowing-of-a-mighty-wind-into-the-room sounds this morning.

They drew pictures in little "windows" that open -- symbolic of the wind, the Spirit knowing no boundaries, the opening up of the message... pictures of the story we'd heard. G. was determined to draw people of many nations inside. "How do you make Chinese?" she asks. I think at first that she means writing in Chinese. But she clarifies by frustratedly pointing to her eyes. "Like Chinese in the eyes," says she. She wants to know how to draw a person who looks ethnically Chinese. We work on it. She is pleased. She goes on to declare her determination to draw someone from Chile. I give her my 'Children of the World' UNICEF book to peruse. She is satisfied.

J.'s people are "all from Turkey." M.'s picture includes God in the background, with a (pink) crown on. "He is there. He is invisible, but He is watching it all." M. asks. "Tongues, like this?" He holds his own tongue with his fingers. "Yep. They appeared to be tongues of fire," I say. He draws an orange U-shape with a line down the middle. The classic tongue drawing. Like a Mister Potato-Head tongue. Above the tongue, he writes two letter 'Z's.' "Zzzz," he says. "For sleeping." I am confused. "Because they are sleeping on their heads," he explains when I ask about it. Aha! He listens well. He heard me say as I read the story from Scripture, "tongues of fire resting on the heads..."... I like the sleeping orange potato-head tongue with crowned God in the background.

J-girl's picture has many heads, all saying "God loves you" or just "God" in speech bubbles. I like this. The Spirit comes for the purpose of empowering us to spread the Word. She got that. A's picture has the wind, the fire, and someone with "1, 2, 3" in their speech bubble. "They're speaking Chinese!" she says. I beam. Because I know she is so proud of remembering how to count to three in Chinese (we learned it from a dear Chinese friend who visited our class last fall.). Pentecost begun. To be continued tomorrow. Holy Spirit, enable me.
Deep frustration at what they have not learned. What just bounces off the walls of their brains, no matter how many times I've tried to get it in there. Stuff they should know by now. Stuff they should know to graduate Kindergarten. They are so resistant!! How long it takes us to get through a simple task that should, according to curriculum, be easy for them by now. ARGH. A generation and a culture that it is very, very, very hard to teach. How do you pour water into a vessel that has a lid on it??
Market week. I'm teaching about how the world shops and trades this week. Trying to tie together all the continents we've learned about as well as our math lessons on money, plus hoping to instill an economic conscience/awareness. We acted out a supply chain, with motions for each actor. From a garment shop worker (a little girl) in India (and her family), to her boss, to the shipper/middleperson in their country, to the middleperson in the U.S. who seeks out the lowest-priced manufacturer, to the 'big boss' of the selling corporation in the U.S. Plus the cashier at his store, for good measure and connection to our daily lives. And finally, an American consumer. The big boss starts with all the money. A rectangle o' construction paper. He tears it up, piece by piece, to pay the players -- or they pay one another...

First we acted it out with greed in full sway. The girl in India ends up with virtually nothing. Her boss takes as much advantage of her powerlessness as possible. The 'big boss' ends up pretty well off. The American consumer buys a shirt that says 'made in India.' Then we switched it up. American consumers wrote to the big boss and asked him to make sure the products he sells are made with fair conditions for workers. He thinks about and decides to give it a try. His ethical stipulations are passed down the line until the garment shop boss in India has to either comply or lose business. He complies. The little girl has fairer conditions and a better life for her family. The American consumer buys a shirt that says 'made under fair trade conditions in India.' Tomorrow we'll talk about child labor. And then the more nitty-gritty of bargaining and buying and selling directly.

We're also reading "Market," by Ted Lewin. A good picture book about different outdoor markets around the world. Then we'll have our own little market days on Wednesday and Thursday. Bringing in stuff to 'sell.' I haven't thought out all the logistics of how to make that fun and non-disastrous yet. Sigh. Sometimes I just hope these things come to me in the moment, or just a few minutes before. Today's lesson did. I was fairly happy with the attention they paid and how into it they got. They were proud of the roles they played. When J. was the 'big boss,' he came to the end and wanted to give all his money to the girl in India. I was proud of him.

I must say, I feel rather like a hypocrite. I try to avoid being a consumer, period. But I know that I don't know the background of much of what I do own. Well. Teach a lesson, wake yourself up.
In all of this, in all of this, it is a fight. A fight for their attention. To get them to sit up, face you, look up, wake up, get engaged. 'Come on, please!', you think. 'If you'd only give me a minute, just a minute, just listen long enough for me to catch you. It's good stuff! You will be caught! Just please, for one second, stop playing with the lint on the floor, whispering to the person next to you, fussing about position..."

31.

32. Or: Four.

2009-04-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

Some highlights:

A discussion of the weather this morning results in a split vote between "partly cloudy" and "sunny." There are two clouds in the sky!" the ardent defenders of p.c. assert. The two clouds in question were very small, streaks of cirrus against a brilliant and otherwise cloudless blue.
Sunny takes it by two votes, but the sunny faction graciously asks that "partly cloudy" be put up on the weather board, too. I am impressed with their diplomacy.

A worship and prayer session is our follow-up to the Ascension story this week. Just like the disciples returned to their quarters to pray and praise God after they saw Jesus ascend, we took our cardboard disciples off the wall where they stood under our cotton ball clouds. "Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven."
We sang the chorus to 'He Reigns' --
"It's all God's children singing glory, glory, hallelujah, He reigns... It's all God's children singing glory, glory, hallelujah, He reigns.
And all the powers of darkness tremble at what they've just heard.
For all the powers of darkness can't drown out a single word....:
It's all God's children singing glory, glory, hallelujah, He reigns..."
They sing with gusto. They hold their cardboard disciples. We worship with the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us.

Later in the day: Two boys come up to me beaming with pride: "He asked me to open the refrigerator for him, because he needed help, and I did it." "And I said thank you!"
I love that this was report-worthy.

Next came: Friday, parent-teacher conferences. A strange step into the world of 'what if'. what if the day didn't start so early... what if we talked more to one another... everything changes, then suddenly: Wham. Back to the routine. A bit like waking up and then being slammed back into the strange and heavy dream you were having before... but I'm thankful. The meetings I did have went well. The folk who were not able to come... I hope I get a chance to talk to when I have the kind of energy that is rare on full days of teaching.

Friday evening: Sara Groves, in person, and the amazing kids and staff of New City Church bless me richly. With memories, hope, and rest in Christ. In Almighty God. Thank You.

33. or: Three.

2009-04-22T19:07:00.000-07:00

Pieces of
today.

---A practice evacuation (or Tsunami Drill) walk. Entire school. Buddied up -- big kids with little ones. Up the block. Halfway across the bridge. U-turn. Back to school. When was the last time you had a tsunami drill? It felt like a merry parade.---

---They colored Picasso's 'Three Musicians.' Tomorrow they'll attempt their own cubist-ish portraits of one another. Thankful for their interest, I am, I am.
---

---"How do people get powers?"
this the deep, whispered naptime question of the day from my Wheels-Always-Turning J.-boy. He got up in the dark and walked around his table to come ask me this where I was sitting.

Me: What kind of powers do you mean?
J: You know, like doing stuff with your eyes, or flying. Superhero powers like that. How do people get those?
Me: Well...not all the powers you see in stories and movies are real. Birds are made to fly, but people weren't -- but it's fun to pretend! And God can do all those things when He chooses to... And hey, you have powers, you know.
J: Like what?
Me: Thinking power, talking power, walking power...
J (scornfully, a little disappointed): Those aren't powers.
Me: Ah, but I bet if a carrot looked at you, he'd say to himself, "I wish I had the super powers he has! Walking power, talking power...those are amazing super powers!"
J: Oh! (dawning realization of perspective making a difference).... But carrots have powers too. Like talking to their carrot friends. The other carrots.
Me: Interesting point. Have a seat now, bud. It's rest time...

Many interesting things about the dialogue above. Not least of which is why I would choose to use a carrot as the example of a less-powerful creature, as opposed to a thinking being, like a dog, say, or a mouse. A carrot.

I think you step rather far into the realm of the hallucinatory

when you live in reactive stream-of-consciousness performance day after day after day. ---
and that
is all
for now.

34. Or Two.

2009-04-21T16:49:00.000-07:00

35 Works of Art. in process.

Learned more about the ascension of Christ through teaching it. We talked about how the disciples would feel. I thought about the promises -- "WAIT FOR THE GIFT THAT WAS PROMISED" and "I WILL BE WITH YOU ALWAYS" -- bookending the event. The question asked by the disciples just before -- "now, Lord? Restoring the kingdom now?" And the answer: "It's not for you to know the day or the hour...but you will be empowered to be witnesses to me. To all you've seen." (paraphrase. excuse me.)
And I see that I ask the same: now, Lord, now? Won't you come back now? Won't you fix all this madness now?
And the answer is still: You will be empowered to be my witness.
That's it. And lo, He is with me always
even to the very end of the age.
The kidlings made 'disciples.' Cardboard ones. The point was to put an expression on 'your' disciple's face. How did he feel at the ascension of Jesus? "He's amazed," said one. "I would be nervous," said another. One drew a smile right on top of a frown. Mixed emotions.
and ours change, too, over our years of encountering the promise from a God we can no longer touch with our hands.

They cracked up at today's chapter of 'Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.' I was yelling nonsense words at the top of my voice as Willy Wonka pretended to be a martian. That was nice.
Ah, but the headache was beginning then.
How is it that a headache can override so many little positives in a day to make it all feel too much? They are, after all, so loud. What kind of fool tries to play alphabet Bingo ("Sound-O") for a station during playtime? (this kind.)

We put on our 'color eyes' this afternoon. Put on your orange eyes. What do you see around us that's orange? Purple eyes. What do you see? We talked about warm colors and cool colors. And then colored a page of each. That was nice. I think I need to teach some vague, loosely monitored and defined Sensory Experience and Imagination class.

A friendly New York City policeman happened by during their recess, as I was out among my small people, and as J. was coming up to me tearfully to tattle on people not letting him play, or poking him... I forget all the details. But said policeman said "Who?" J. repeats the names of the offenders, as if NYC cop will of course know whom he is talking about. Policeman: "Point them out to me." I was too tired by this point in the day to play this out to its full potential. Wish I had. My thanks to that policeman for the moment.

incapacitated by the day. tasks after school that should have taken ten minutes took forty-five. Mind sloooooowed. Like moving through molasses. Fuzzy molasses. Blurry molasses. What?

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five. One.

2009-04-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

35 Works of Art.
(the last child-peopled 35 days of Kindergarten; God bless them all.)

Installation (or installment) #1. Or #35 if you prefer to count backward. Which I think I do.

The plan: With notes on the realization thereof in red.

1. Welcome back from spring break. Review rules. Hope that this has some effect.
Rules review may have had some minimal effect. One kid went to Disney World over the break. I was very excited about this. Our class still struggles with calling out, which escalates into chatting at volumes so high so as to make the teacher inaudible. The teacher being: me. I do get tired of addressing this. How does one retain one's sanity addressing this again...and again...and again... ?
2. Calendar and Bible time. Bible: Review Easter, talk about the appearances of Jesus to His disciples after resurrection. ("Peace be with you," said He; loving the doubter Thomas; forgiving the unfaithful Peter; fellowship a priority; the beginnings of the Church -- "As the Father has sent me, I am sending you...") How did you celebrate Easter? Sing our latest song -- "It Was a Great Thing." Pray together.
Discussion took too long for singing to take place. But it was good talk. Surprising how many kids said they did nothing to celebrate Easter. General exclamations by all when Thomas put his hands on Jesus' wounds. I was proud of my roly-poly (in speech and body) G. when she turned to the memory verse of 3 weeks ago on the wall behind her and recited it with gusto: "For we know that our old sinful selves were crucified with Christ so that sin might lose its power in our lives. Romans 6:6." I tried to bring up limited atonement today. Those God has called into His family are those Christ died for. J.'s closing prayer included "and bless our food." Bless the boy. He's like a fifty-five year old boxer who's just been brought into a church for the first time and is trying to reverence the sacred.
3. Math: telling time. Reviewing parts of a clock. Workbook pages for basic 'o'clock' times. Playing with small demo clocks and giant clock hands and numbers on the carpet.
Surprisingly smooth. Every blessing You pour out, I'll turn back to praise.
4. Phonics: introducing lots of short 'e' words. Game played with the chart of words. Teams have Readers, Artists (to illustrate the word), Rhymers and Sentence-Makers. Work through different words as a team.
A liiiiittle chaotic. Hoping that we can repeat this and have it go much more smoothly now that they know how it works. One team was smooth and smart and open-eared. The other was wacky, didn't listen to each other, all over the place. The talking over my voice and instructions was starting to get to me by this point.
5. Their elective; lunch; free time (help! this needs more structure in order to avoid yelling, violence and chaos. We'll see what happens today. Maybe I'll give them more specific tasks). Story time (Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator) and nap. Recess.
The Great Glass Elevator is wacky. Way off from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 60s political commentary (we're in chapter 4), puns that go way over a 5-year-old's head... I'm thinking I may need to hop over some bits in this readaloud. We got through today's chapter, but I may lose 'em if it keeps up this way. I think we all miss the chocolate and the wild machinery. Free time: we made birds by gluing fragments of tissue paper onto self-designed 'bird-shapes.' The normally unartistically-inclined J. got into how the tissue paper loses its color on the white paper when wet. I loved how his eyes gleamed when I told him it looked like he'd found the color of sunshine and captured it on paper. This made me glad.
6. I take the other Kindergarten class today -- art focus this week. Color! Rainbow day. We'll learn the chorus of "Look to the Rainbow", meet Roy G. Biv, and make rainbows with pastels, on mural paper, etc.
Messy. Fine. Didn't get to the song. They talked over me too much. But it's always good to see kids paint. I hope these parents aren't prissy about pastels all over white uniform shirts, etc. Blue paint in one kid's hair, on another's face, and all over several hands.

After school: tutoring one special lad on alphabet and sounds. He has a unique way of looking at the world. Quotes of the day from this dear alien: "I am an artist. I have art power stronger than other people." and "When I was a baby, I was good all day."

Lingering sense: Thankfulness for a day that did not sock me in the face, after a very rough morning, rough getting up, facing situation, fighting fear, inertia and other things. Hopefulness. Desire to not let the day keep talking to me negatively once school's over -- hoping to learn to let it go. Hoping the emotional frustration with being talked over will stay at a low-grade, keeping-it-in-perspective level. 35. There it was. There it is. Committed to the Lord of it. Gone and done,
and the color of sunshine on a very gray and rainy day.

Tonight I feel

2009-03-29T19:42:00.000-07:00

...like a lost boy who's just realized that everyone else grew up.

a love as deep as hell, a love as strong as death.

2009-02-28T10:00:00.000-08:00

from Charles Spurgeon. About our God:
"If He could grow weary of me, he would have been tired of me long before now. If He had not loved me with a love as deep as hell, and as strong as death, He would have turned from me long ago."
___________________________________________________

The mystery of God a man who bled, was whipped, who sweated and smelled and hung and whose consciousness faded into death;
A five-year-old girl watched a film of this happening yesterday and said, with small fists clenched and worry all over her face,
"Come on, God -- fight!"
And I said that He could have,
but He didn't, and why? For you, little one. For me.

Do you think He is tired of you?
He planned from before time to endure this for you. Outside time as He stands, it is still His very nature -- it will never stop being His heart, His heartbeat
...to do this for you.

It is a strange story. It is a real and living Lord we serve
when we say "Lord, Lord,"
when we say "I believe in God,"
when we say "Jesus loves you,"
it is a God who was tangible flesh, as touchable as your own hands are now. A historical reality
and a mystical reality, prophesied from the beginning of time, and known even before;
a Lamb to take your place,
a Love great enough to know what was coming and take it on anyway.
All true loves you see here on earth
are born of that love. are created in His image.

It is strange to us, this story, because
all that we clutter up the world with
tries to busy us away from the central elements of the story we see all around us:

Love, hurt, rejection and forgiveness. Justice, cruelty, help and Home. Life the gift and Death the anomaly. How it all comes together in His work, in His Word.
Sing to Him who authored the Story.
Trust in Him who authors it still.
Redeem, Lord Jesus. Come soon, Lord Jesus. Teach and forgive and consume us, dear God
on a cross.

Communion two.

2009-02-08T13:40:00.001-08:00

Today I see the vine-juice that speaks to us of His blood -- not only speaks, but enters us, engage our senses: taste, touch, sight, and smell --
and a flash comes to me
of This Blood as the center of the universe. The Story at the Center of ALL THAT IS. I see a man on a cross.
A man in pain, blood pouring from his hands and brow,
A reconciling gift, my hope and home.
Friend on the streets, draw near and know this love.
Small sinner in a classroom, draw near and see this truth.
Lonely dweller of the great gray city, draw near and stand inside the waterfall of His so-welcoming grace.
God, increase my understanding of it all.

Communion.

2009-01-25T15:23:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I saw my black-red blood
Flow out through narrow pipes to fill clear tubes.
So quick, so dark, so essential;
so mysterious -- to be allowed to see it so
exposed (!).

Today, I drink the cup,
Your blood.
I taste the bitter resolution.
And the color strikes me deep,
Echoing the flow that today I cannot see,
behind my skin
still running.

And I lift my hands in praise of how
You unify the Seen and Known,
the Now and Then. Of how
You honor the tangible.

You became the tangible.

Your blood,
poured out for me.I take, I taste,
again, again, this
Bitter beauty. Brightest mercy.
Washed without
By what runs within.
Washed within
By what flowed out.

Blood-giver,
Take all mine.

waiting. is active.

2009-01-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

"I love you, gentlest of Ways,
Who ripened us as we wrestled with you."
(Rilke.) I love this because
He must be strong
to be a wrestler. Gentlest of ways, and mightier than that gentleness reveals.
Oh God, be OUR God. Be MY God. You are. You say it. The God who is protector, provider, who, for reasons we can never fathom, chooses to look out for our best interest.

You don't have to be erased. There is much in you that should be,
of course.
But He loves you. He loves you.

Looking back at old musings, scribblings, pourings-out of my mental and emotional adventures... I see how much the same I seem to stay,
always trying to Figure Things Out, so often sure that I am wrong for being what I am,
and crying out for more of God. . .

I find things in the old writings. And so,
since I have not much to say, or ability to say it, in these present days,
I think maybe I will put up some things from Ago. And see what stands forward and what fades, what is relevant in this season and what has not changed...and what has,
and where God has taken one person
in a few years of being and walking.

1. December 20, 2006. DFW Airport.

When I open my eyes
or turn around
or return from a walk through the far-off lands of 'E12,' 'E17' and 'E38'...
the lady in black jacket and baggy black pants with red racing stripe
has changed again, into a youngish Hispanic woman,
dark-haired, olive-skinned,
slouched and bored,
sloshing a newspaper around.
And then back again,
into a bulky old woman, grey-white hair slipping out of a wavy knot,
slouched and bored,
sloshing a newspaper around.
Same black jacket, same baggy pants, same chair, same shoes.
Airport agents,
presumably preventing people from slipping in where they shouldn't.

Grey-haired lady sometimes jumps into conversations of passing dazed families, to use her superknowledge, saying,
"No, it's right out here."
Sometimes they believe her.
Sometimes not.

Today I'm like this: in the restroom, in a line with two other women, a third washing her hands,
I had to stop myself from saying
"Hello, friends."

Because we are friends, we could be friends, we are compatriots and passers-by in the lifestream.
And there are times, so many, when I nearly say it, nearly welcome in with open arms
all the people
,many faces,
all I could have known,
that come across me.
Every face is a friend I love and want to help.

But what do I say to them that they will want
or understand...?

The Holy Spirit leads.
Today I know it, deep and sure and happily contented.

........

Salesmen,
salesmen,
always salesmen.
'field.' 'constituency.' 'consistency.' 'tractor.' 'see ya up there.' 'take care.' 'reservation.' 'take the job.' 'stupid if he doesn't.' 'knows the system.'

....

Television news voices are abhorrent. abhorrible. awful and horrible. terrible and sharp, false and vapid. sticky and meaningless. thoughtless and perky ...

Oblomov gave up on finding real bright light in the world through his own experience, through true and vocal and beautiful love, person-to-person... Quiet, news voices! Quiet!

"Relax." "Go wild." "Enjoy." "Indulge." Why do they throw imperatives at us? Why are they commanding me? Does that work better on people? Do we have some innate tendency to want to obey
such imperatives?
...

Bags make us all walk funnily.
Hunched or imbalanced, hulking or limping, panting and stopping.
What is all this we're carrying? What we 'need' to feel okay... are we meant to carry bags?
..............................
Minneapolis airport. same day.

in a chair.
coming off a red-faced conversation
on a plane
two tight seats and sporadic eye contact,
a middle-aged man all at sea in midair.
How do you help him?
a divorced man who talks about looking for someone...
you know Jesus would complete him
in a whole new way.
He drops hidden questions about your relationship status
and you get embarrassed for him
and rush past them.

I said JESUS
but it was hard to break through my own guard against his loneliness and his intentions...
a little boy who's grown too old for me to help easily ...
Lord, I'm sorry if I missed things I should have said
or ways I should have said...
did I come off as not as passionate about You -- as proud of You -- as I really am?
Or was I contextualizing for him, trying not to use Christian-ese?
Father, forgive me -- and now, Father, I pray for this person,
for revival and powerful, beautiful witness to enter his life.
Off he goes. I let those hours go,
sweeping off to You.

Thirsty for beautiful music.
crazy awful news voices are back again.
(how is 'celebrities caught doing ridiculous things' NEWS?)

Where am I going, again? Oh, yes. Saskatchewan...

You know
I scan the people for a kindred spirit
I imagine someone who would just sit down next to me, and we'd say
"It's you!"
and "Isn't it all...insane
,and full of color
, and full of life ?"
and it would be home.
That's You, though,
That's You.
.....
"CNN sends you best wishes for 2007."
What does that mean? Nothing. They don't know any of us;
and what are 'best wishes' -- and of what good?
A world in need of prayer.

Shall I go wash my hands, just for fun? Sure.
My seat will be taken. But I have hours to go before I fly
Yes, hours to go before I fly.

November here.

2008-11-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

" I said to the LORD, 'You are my Lord,
apart from you I have no good thing. " (Psalm 16.2)

Dear folk out there. (Are you?)

My mother wrote to me
that God has all the gifts I don't
and will supply where I lack.

I was trying to keep Him out
of a world where I didn't want to be;

I believed He was terribly disappointed
with whatever I was and am.

Rilke wrote: "I love you, gentlest of ways,
who ripened us as we wrestled with you."

I don't know how this is going to happen,
I don't know how.
But I love the little people,
and somehow, yes, must train and shape them for a classroom life,
(though what I want is to take them out running in fields, where your feet get caught in mud, and your fingers grip the grass, and your eyes see only God-made things for miles and miles and miles.)

I am so weary, and changed by the weariness.

I wrote yesterday a small, imperfect song. well, two and some bits. Here
is one, because I don't know
what else
to say. :

Fire of holiness,
Are you neat and mild,
Are you stoic and sensible
Or raging and wild ?

In the sweetest sense, You're wild,
all the beautiful I have ever known.
Vaster than my mind can reach
wider than my vision's field.

Deeper is Your loveliness and juster is Your justice,
Sweeter is Your sweetness than a word can hold. ....

From your fire I draw mildness,
In your fire it is found.
In what appears to me as wildness,
Peace and steadiness resound...

Deeper is Your loveliness and just-er is Your justice,
Sweeter is Your sweetness than a word can hold.

Part of fire, yes, their calmness; part of fire, my heart's cry.
Do your work to shape me, change me --
only You know who am I.

Holiness higher than all our words,
Not 'calm' or 'lively,'
but both, and more,
Teach which,
and when,
and what
to be
to me, walking here bound in by either and or.

Deeper is Your loveliness and juster is Your justice,
Sweeter is Your sweetness than a word can hold.

Job. (In both senses of the word?)

2008-10-23T14:14:00.000-07:00

"Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm. He said:
'Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge?....'"

It is I, Lord. I have darkened your counsel with words without knowledge.

"Brace yourself like a man; I will question you,

and you shall answer me.

Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?

Tell me, if you understand.

Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!

Who stretched a measuring line across it?

On what were its footings set,

or who laid its cornerstone--

while the morning stars sang together

and all the angels shouted for joy?... "

"No human being can withstand the effulgence of kabod [Hebrew. glory. weight]... Moses' request to see the kabod Yahweh is denied. He is told to cover his face while the glory passes, watching only as God departs. "I will make all my splendor [kabod] pass before you," says Yahweh, "and in your presence I will pronounce my name.... You canot see my face, for no one sees me and still lives" (Brennan Manning, quoting from Exodus 33, in Ruthless Trust, p.53).

"The manifestations of kabod -- the magnalia Dei--continue in an ever-expanding cosmos. Small wonder that ninety-four years ago the eminent biographer Canon Sheehan envisioned heaven as 'The never-ending unlocking of the inner chambers of God'" (Ruthless Trust, p.51).

A God with infinite chambers to unlock, a God of infinite beauty and wisdom and power and knowledge and understanding,
this God have I been questioning, as the way that I thought life and walking with Him should work
has been stripped away from me.

(I still don't understand.
I may not be happy with it.)
But I can be joyful in it
and persevere , if He will strengthen me,
and I can trust that He is still who He says He is,
that somehow that DOES incorporate Him loving me
and Him being all things beautiful.
I may not feel it
or see it,
but I can trust it.

Forgive me, Lord, for forgetting Your glory
, Your transcendent-ness

I know that you can do all things;
no plan of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, 'Who is this that obscures my counsel without knowledge?'
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know.

Melanie's assignment.

2008-10-14T18:08:00.000-07:00

Dear friends. I'm not up to writing much about the details of here right now. But I shall speak praise for a sweet weekend, a weekend away in the fall, a remembering that there are other ways of life out there, and a reminder of my passion for weakness. Strange passion? Don't know.

But at any rate, here I am, being forced to live it out in unexpected, in washing-over, in exhausting, constant ways, day in, day out.

I love my friend Melanie. And she did this on her blog. So I will too. To remember beautiful and silly things. To fly a little. To reach out and touch her hand. Pardon the poor formatting. Here we gooooo...... off to neverland -------

Pictures of:

1. the age you will be on your next birthday

2. a place to which you'd like to travel

3. your favorite place

4. Your favorite person (persons.)

5. Your favorite food

6. Your favorite animal

7. The town in which you were born

8. The name of a past pet

9. The first name of a past love

10. Your favorite color

11. Your first name

12. Your middle name

13. Your last name

to train up a child...

2008-09-18T18:53:00.000-07:00

Have you got any thoughts on discipline, love,
and the balance between them?
And how they should appear in the definition of childhood,
and whether obedience and boundaries
must be taught and learned before grace can be understood or received?

I'm tired of 'being consistent,' of catching every 'misbehavior' in order to remain in control,
of having to stifle their silliness in order to maintain .... order.

oh how i hope it's not a horrible, harsh environment for them.
oh how i never wanted to be part of making such a place for children
oh how i miss just loving and being with.
I see the reasons for what I'm doing.
I know everyone in their lives can't be 'the fun one.' And for now, I don't get to be.
But I miss it.

Words? Thoughts? Helps?

I have been given visions of each of them individually as a deep man or woman of God
someday ;
I pray that somehow, in spite of me, and in spite of the groupness of it all, I will get to be a part of shaping them
in that direction.
I pray that they will flourish
and grow
and choose
and blossom
in that direction.

Day 3. And Abraham.

2008-09-08T16:35:00.000-07:00

" So how do we fit what we know of Abraham, our first father in the faith, into this new way of looking at things? If Abraham, by what he did for God, got God to approve him, he could certainly have taken credit for it. But the story we're given is a God-story, not an Abraham-story. What we read in Scripture is, "Abraham entered into what God was doing for him, and that was the turning point. He trusted God to set him right instead of trying to be right on his own." If you're a hard worker and do a good job, you deserve your pay; we don't call your wages a gift. But if you see that the job is too big for you, that it's something only God can do, and you trust him to do it—you could never do it for yourself no matter how hard and long you worked—well, that trusting-him-to-do-it is what gets you set right with God, by God. Sheer gift. "

Romans 4:1-5 in The Message. Thanks, Mom.

I sat in the park on the way home tonight,
and wrote, to God, before coming home and reading these verses from my mother,
something strangely parallel. :
That though I have trouble seeing anymore how I could one day be useful or apt in any way, in any thing, in any place...
it couldn't matter less. Because this is not about me. This whole
Life thing.
My job is to have eyes on Him, and to stay close to Him, and to follow after Him and worship Him. Not to look at myself.
I will not focus on my inabilities OR on my abilities, if there be any,
no, because I will not focus on me.
(Forgive me, Lord. For I have focused on me. )

This job is too big for me, by far. This job is so different from where my mind naturally and usually wants to go.
We will not be the Academically Best Kindergarten Class ever (unless that's the miracle You want to work). I will not be the Most Organized and Naturally-Gifted-at-Devising-Perfect-Smooth-Systems Teacher Lady ever. But I will love Jesus. And I will try hard. And then I will stop, and surrender. And I will trust Him to work miracles through and despite and within me.
Amen.

"It's better to have cold," (food, that is) said husky-voiced, matter-of-fact, bundle-of-energy, mini-Julio-Iglesias kindergartener Michael, "because when it's hot, everybody can win you." He means that if you have hot food, as I do at lunch time, you will always lose the food-eating race (which I engage him in to try to get him to finish his sandwich) to those who have cold food. "That's true," I said. "Good point." It's fun to see them draw conclusions and make logical pronouncements based on the ridiculous things you do each day.
You never know
what's going to stick.

How funny. How strange. Day 1 of Kindergarten.

2008-09-03T17:25:00.000-07:00

You know things like "The First Day of School,"
so mythologized,
so anticipated,
so... almost hallowed in the halls of life experience and life stories?

I feel like I just gave a bunch of children a fake one.
A fake First Day of School.

I feel this way because it's me who made it all, and I know myself.
I don't feel Official like the teachers of my youth felt to me.
I feel like they can see through me, the little ones,
that I am just a Person,
not a Teacher.
But so it is.

Today was.... chaotic.
Five of my children were absent. And this led me to discover that one had been moved to pre-K just the day before, and I hadn't been told yet.

School lunches arrived in our classroom 50 minutes late. I tried to fill time while they moaned about being starving. I asked if they knew what 'whining' meant and taught them the valuable fact that complaining to the air does not make things come any faster. I read them a story. We played the 'raise your hand if...' game. Finally we got up and played. And then the lunches came.

When we went down to recess, another class was in the play area. We waited again.
When we went to the bathroom, other classes were already in the bathroom.

Some children brought ten tons of supplies that I had to dig out of their backpacks. There is no storage space in my classroom. Some children brought no supplies.
I can't really remember which were which. A more Effective Person would have made an instant checklist.

I began to wonder if a gift for teaching, in the elementary and middle school levels at least, is really a gift for winning attention and for effective crowd control. Neither of these do I have naturally.

My favorite part of today was when we prayed for my friend Wesley, who lives on the streets of Rio de Janeiro. We looked at his picture and at a picture he finger-painted for me, of the concrete arches of Rio under which we Word Made Flesh folk met with the people of the streets.
"Please give him a bed," said Jemimah.
"Please give him a lot of people and a lot of money so he can buy food and a lot of love," said Julia.
"Thank you for..." and Daniel proceeded to recount all the things he could remember that we'd done today.

Please pray that the need for behavior-molding and crowd control and correction
would not take over;
that by the miracles of them learning to pay attention,
and me becoming a better attention-getter and keeper,
we will have the space for me to really look deeply at them and love them,
and deal with them as the individuals that they are,
to love as Christ loves
each member of
my motley band.

Being a one-on-one sort of person
May be the reason I've felt so ill-suited to all of this. To teaching.
Please pray that that gift would be used somehow even in the midst of all this.
And that all this
wouldn't drown out that gift
by drowning me in discipline routines
and details.

Here is our room (now with two largeish carpets and with names on the door, not in the photographs :-) ). Thank you, brilliant Liz, for making it so.
They knocked on the door of the Crazy House today, and called to the people inside whom we cannot see... tomorrow we put the first bird on what I've decided is, among other things, a Birthday Tree.

i live in the bronx.

2008-08-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

This city,

New York City,

makes me cry.

The forms upon forms upon forms of lostness and Christlessness,

the hard faces, the weight that seems to press down on every pair of shoulders. Weight weight weight weight weight. . .

like everyone has all the bills they owe and all the family and job responsibilities and all the anger and loneliness and resentment and hardship of a lifetime

hardened into a mask

which they wear all day long,

and no longer know how to take off.

Today I was down at the bottom of Manhattan,

and in the middle, and here in the Bronx. Today I walked a lot. And took long subway rides. And carried heavy groceries.

And how strange this place is. Unlike any other, in the way it feels to me.

And there is noise

and there are a thousand different worldviews

all clashing into a cloud of chaos

until the only value left that everyone believes in

is survival,

is: not physically hurting someone else;

and, maybe, if you're rich enough, environmentalism.

May I tell you?

This is a hard place to be poor.

and this is a hard place to be alone.

Was Rio like this? And I just didn't feel it,

because I was surrounded so closely and supportively

by a community that shouted out "KINGDOM" and refused to be hopeless

and was determined to see the world in light of God's promises

and character?

(Did I not feel it also

because it was 'foreign'?

Because of the layer of outsider's perspective that a different language adds? The alien-planetness that gives me the privilege of contemplation and analysis ...

Because of the hundreds of little words and conversations I missed

that here, I hear without trying?

And because I was not plugged into, aware of, the mass media culture there, hearing the messages people there hear...? )

Which way is the truth?

Rio was -- is -- a city full of violence, full of problems, darkness, spiritual oppression,

of course.

But I did not feel there

like I feel here.

Please pray for this city. Please come to this city

and help to transform it with the salt and light of Jesus.

Please pray that it does not step on me and squash me,

that it does not form for me a mask

as well;

that I do not lose

(most precious, precious) Hope.

I am in a job now. this is hard for me. i have been privileged to live a contemplative, fairly intuitive and improvisational day-to-day life these past years.

A life of being out and about,

walking around,

talking to people,

thinking about culture.

Praying a lot.

No human standards to live up to, few deadlines, loose schedules.

No spirit of competition;

a feeling of freedom

and joy. Easy to trust that God was everywhere and that He would fulfill His plans; all I had to do was listen

and obey...

I loved it.

I think that I thought

my crumbling-all-to-pieces days were maybe, just maybe,

behind me...

then this.

A job that is very structured

With people who seem to have, and enjoy, "Right way, Wrong way" labels for all things -- or at least "Better way, ineffective way"--

People who are very different parts of the Body than I. And sometimes I find that I've begun to fear that Jesus sees everything their way -- that it's right

and I'm so wrong. This systematic way of looking

and living,

the extreme busy-ness

I confess

I long for freedom.

I do not want to lose my belief that God loves and uses the foolish things.

I am not a person who is about

Achievement.

I tried, long ago, to be one of those people,

to keep up with those people. And I did.

And I was an empty shell,

and there was no depth to the world,

and no depth to God in my spirit.

Why would You take me back into such a land, oh Lord?

I do not understand.

And after giving and showing me a life that fit my heart

so well.

Please don't let me stop believing in that life's existence

and its reality and value.

Here, I am broken down to childlikeness,

not impressive in any way. Impressing no one,

by any stretch of the imagination.

not shining Jesus the way I know I want to,

and quietly ashamed

that so much could 'backslide' so soon

and so completely.

But You, O Lord, are my strength and my song.

But You, O Lord, are still You, and still died for me.

But You, O Lord, have lost none of Your strength, Your impressiveness, and Your power.

Whatever I once had

was completely by Your grace,

a gift for a time -- a miraculous work completely of God.

Whatever is gone now

is Yours to have, and to restore in Your time.

I am not in my element.

I have become last.

I need You to do this job

through me.

I need You to do this job through me.

I am humbled to the ground

I don't know how to get up

Please bless this place through me somehow

Please bless this place, these people.

Please bless and form these children somehow.

I do not know this place. I do not know what You want to do here.

Do it

please.

Break me down,

even those things that I thought You wanted and approved of in me,

those things I thought were permanent now, and to be joys longlasting.

If You want to take them down, and take them away,

they are Yours.

May I ask for them back

someday?

I do, Lord, I do long for happiness. For joy.

Give me, please, joy that sings louder than the suffering

, even though the suffering can still be heard.

Somehow.

I talked to you

years ago,

and months ago,

and weeks ago,

about becoming poor. About experiencing the life that so many live.

i think it is happening. I did not think I would have to be so alone.

But poverty is often loneliness.

I did not think I would have to do something so scary and so oppressive to me.

But poverty is often in scary and oppressive circumstances, and leads to having to take scary and oppressive jobs.

I loved our life in poverty in Brazil. Because we were together -- our team. Our small band

of 'new friars' .

I believe You call to loving community. I believe it's a good gift, and Your ideal for us.

I can't wait to work in it fully

again.

But for now you seem to have This Other in mind for me. Do Your will, oh Lord. Pull me through, oh Lord. Prove Yourself God in the midst of it all, oh Lord.

And please. Please wipe away the shame coloring my heart, shame for not handling this with a grin on my face and great hope pouring out of my mouth; shame for not being strong here;

did I think I was impervious? Super Transition Woman, able to leap between sin-struck cultures in a single bound, smiling all the while, never feeling, never broken ?

i am small and i am human

and i can't do this.

AND YOU CAN.

moment by moment,

carry me. and help me to trust

in Your love.

Can you, friends, help me to love this city?

Talk back. and pray. and come, please come.

Subsequent Travels. 1.

2008-07-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

Washington, D.C.

Yes, but where am I?

Struggling.

Caught up in waves of feeling, and permeated by so much questioning that I feel I am becoming a Walking Question.

Lovely city. Remarkable place. Blank slate of the 'write-on-me' nation. Nest of idealists (and den of those who've lost their ideals but kept their power.) and planners and do-ers and talkers. Museum-land. Which makes me happy as a clam.

But here I am, all at sea, missing a Rio-lifestyle that is not validated by what's all around me. I have no expertise. I have no title or profession. I have no Project or Plan. I cannot claim to be an expert even in what I've lived in the last four months. Not even close.

So where do I belong? Not wanting 'professionalism', if it means focus on business over people, if it means no room to breathe, if it means putting Jesus in a box and pretending we know what we're doing. But feeling accused. By an efficient world,
of being lazy
or naive
or 'unrealistic.'

It's a private battle, one of constant petty skirmishes in my heart and head -- there's no loud external opposition, no earthshattering news to report to you, or stories to tell.

I don't want to be stupid. Don't want to be a baby clamoring for my own way, or a coward or a sluggard trying to evade the sharpness of the competitive world. Even 'charity' is competitive in such a world, it seems. . . But. But I cannot live well like this. I cannot enter this fray. Not now. My heart cries and thirsts and aches for a life with room in it. Room to live out love and listen to the Spirit, room to be 'unprofessional,' free from a title and possessions. This is not for everyone. Job titles, and organization, and professionalism, and possessions are not evil. But I cannot survive them
yet. Maybe someday. But for now I have to accept grace and believe that the thirst in me is part of my call. Is how I'm being called.

Called to be part of a brotherandsisterhood of broken people who claim no other titles and who enter into lives with poor people knowing only that their call is to listen and to love: to listen to both God and the people. To love both God and the people. To listen to and love one another. And trusting that 'the work' will flow out of that if God wills it.

There is this title of a book I've never read that bounces around my brain so frequently.
'Brothers, We Are Not Professionals.'

As I war with shame
and try to discern the Holy Voice;
As I wander a city alone,
meet a country,
settle in the land of notknowing for awhile;

I long for your prayers, and, I confess, for some validation

that a call to a life like I had in Rio
Is valid. Is good. Is acceptable. Might even be useful.
Above all, I want to be obedient -- even if it takes me into what smells to me of misery.
So pray openness in my heart, and joy in my days,
And above all, closeness to Him.

You see, I know nothing but Jesus.
( And suddenly I remember

that that's okay. )

We are in a battle.

2008-06-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

Don't forget. Please don't forget.

You live on a small planet where suffering is woven through all around you.

Don't forget. Please don't forget.

I can walk around filtering out the colors of light I prefer not to see.

I can leave "activism" to the "extreme people" and sacrifice to the missionaries.

Or I can recognize the radical call that it is to be Christ's. To be loved.

And live a life of compassion.

It's short, this life. Home's coming.

Meanwhile, I want to show pieces of it here,

and I want to clear out that which would distract me from the ultimate Beauty.

And that which would distract me from the imperfection of the war zone in which we dwell

for a time.

There is love. There is beauty. There is Beethoven's 5th, and there are twinkling lights, and there is the sweetness of real companionship. There is rest. Thank you, dear and tender Lord, for all your artworks.

But dear ones, there is war, as well. May the beauty and the love be our weapons in the battle;

may we leave our baby-comforts and walk out to meet those with no comfort at all.

We are loved, so loved, by our Maker and Purchaser. He came in and sat with us.

Let's go out and sit with them. And fight for the beauty

they don't even know they have.

Please help me stay clean, streamlined and simple. Please help me live love, and please help me know Jesus.

I'll help you too,

if you want.

Pedra Lisa.

2008-05-07T15:29:00.000-07:00

Up top,

at city's peak,

in a small square church

all white tile

white plaster

white stools within,

high ceilings, and windows framing

spectacular views

of the city beautiful, the city surreal,

the city extreme;

up top

in this white room

strange levels of possibility emerge .

a dream-laboratory

where smile elicits smile

and innocent questions rise from yet-innocent hearts;

a nether-room where one sees

how life on a steep city hillside

in the simplest of conditions

could be -- (can be) -- Beautiful.

sunlight through a window casting perfect faces with pale orange,

whispers passed through the same window

and a boy passes rocks in for the teacher.

clean slate,

world apart.

Jesus is there.

up top

at city's peak.

Rio.

2008-03-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

mountains and sea and a Jesus in the distance
and a Jesus right with me -- the real one.
long, slow bus rides and a mind working in a language not its own,
a mind wrapping itself around a rhythm it's just meeting,
trying to pour into it, trying to speak out through it,
sometimes finding a way to flow,
and sometimes resisting with the stubborn outward push of a strong-willed child.

City I live in and hardly know.
It's the details
that catch me
and stick.

for: is there anything in this world
more absorbing and worth delighting in
than one child?
All these wild, precious wonderworks of art
running around on two legs.
I could get lost in the face of one.
(what is a city when there are these marvels to be known?)
In the blessed tenderness found in secret pockets,
in barely hidden pools
uniquely configured in each dear one,
like deep and beautiful networks of
lavish caverns
barely discovered
, in each little treasureperson.
is there any easier place to get lost
than in close-faced conversation with a child?
Where am I? I hardly know
except that I am in her eyes
and hearing her newly-minted mind pour out
like water and music.

Will I know this city,
understand its reasons and rhythms, patterns and purpose ?
i thought i would. But now I'm wondering
if what I'll know of it
is
her
and him
and her and her
and him
and him
and they will be
my Rio.

book.

2008-02-14T12:46:00.000-08:00

read (please.) !

a treat

2008-02-05T16:49:00.000-08:00

http://www.ubu.com/sound/komar.html

The above link will take you to something that made me laugh long and hard. And makes me laugh just thinking of parts of it now: The "scientifically" engineered most-wanted-song and least-wanted-song. I assume we're talking about in-America here. Just listen. All the way through. Then come back and tell me about your delight.

This seems like an odd thing to post about less than 48 hours before I leave the country. But when is it ever a bad time to spread a little happiness?

Maybe I'll get to post here while I'm in Brazil... or maybe I'll just have to stick to the email updates. If you want them, and you haven't gotten the first one, you should email me.

I'm well. This is going to be good. As all life in Him is, it will be good, truly and deeply and for the long haul.

And this one's for Bonnie: a picture from our week of joy last month. A week that will be a mental reservoir of sweetness for years to come.

a day in the current life

2008-01-18T17:13:00.000-08:00

woke up around 8:30 and donned all green (easiest thing to do when dressing quickly).
ate a bowl of cereal and headed off to take care of a bunch o' kiddos at church during their moms' Bible study. Josh and Heather came along today. Makes it much quicker, more fun, and easier.
Wacky times with tots. Lego rocketships, squid drawn with crayons, a four-year-old who reports that his brothers are ghost-hunters who live in the church. He was a little delirious with his own energy and laughter at the time.
Back home at noon for a lunch of leftover deliciousness made by Heather. spinach noodle casserole with broccoli and cheese. And a bit o' cold salmon. Eating while watching the rest of the old version of Around the World in 80 Days (begun late last night).
Josh and Heather head out for work. I eat too much chocolate.
Melissa calls. Delightful.
Write an email to new Brazil teammates;
am sufficiently motivated and convicted to actually sit down and do some Portuguese lessons with ye olde tape player. Hours spent thusly. Eu vou ficar ate as duas. Voce vai sair agora? Nao, nao vou. Eu estou com fome. (I'm going to stay until two o'clock. Are you going to leave now? No, I'm not. I'm hungry!) This kind of stuff seems useful, but when I sit down to email my Brazilian friend, I find I still lack the skills to say the simple things I want to say to her. But by golly, I can ask her her name and tell her when I'm leaving. I can even ask her if she's married and if she wants to go out with 'that young man.' My tapes say they're how diplomats learn to speak fluently. Apparently diplomats have slightly different priorities than I do.
Motivational snack: chai in soy milk. Yum.
Dinner time around 7. Delicious HEB (Texas grocery store) tortillas and taco cheese, with delicious HEB chipotle salsa. Kate's classic comfort dinner.
Time for email. They're piling up a bit.
And it occurs to me I haven't put anything on the blog for quite awhile. So here we are.

Childcare jobs, Portuguese learning, random trip preparations (leaving Feb. 7), time with J&H, phone calls with friends, email, reading, old movies. This is the present, and really, it's very nice. Not a permanent kind of life, but a lovely interim life. Thanks for praying, you who are. I feel I'm being cradled by the Master. Treated tenderly and whisper-sung to, and given grace. harsher reality lies ahead. Big things. Much thought and vivid experience. Yet unless I make myself afraid, I feel... ready. Not prepared. Who could be? But ready because it's right and I am carried in the hand of an all-knowing, encompassing-all-time Abba.

So I'll just thank Him for the soft times
and ask Him that my brain would not be so mushy by the time they're over that I'll be useless for the real stuff.
How kind He is being; I can hardly believe it. (But how can I not??)

Recently read: A Severe Mercy, by Sheldon VanAuken; The Thief Lord, by Cornelia Funke.
Currently reading: Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire, by Jim Cymbala; Less Than Two Dollars a Day, by Kent A. Van Til; Return of the Prodigal Son, by Henri Nouwen; numerous other things.
New listens: Gotta Serve Somebody--The Gospel Songs of Bob Dylan; The Builder and the Architect (Sandra McCracken).
Classic listening: Billy Elliott soundtrack; Doc & Dawg; The Inkspots; Tom Waits ('You got to come on up to the house...")
Recent watchings: The Pirates of Penzance (with Kevin Kline, Rex Smith. FanTAStic.); Alien; Damsel in Distress (Fred Astaire. Lovely. Funny.); bits of Ken Burns' The Civil War (could watch his documentaries forever.)

This post is really...

2007-12-11T15:00:00.000-08:00

an unabashed plug for Mars Hill Audio Journal. Visit their site; click around. Subscribe if you can! You'll love it. Give it as a Christmas gift!!

I'm just so glad it exists. I'll never catch up with all the past issues I haven't heard, and will lose track of the ones to come...but every time I get to hear even a few minutes of it, I think: 'now THIS is valuable.'

in my life today --
sweet stirrings of feeling that are somehow glimpses of Beauty to come someday. How good it is to know the Author of Beauty, and to love Him, and to know He will make all things.... indescribable. unutterable and glorious.

my last exam is tomorrow!
a graduate; can it be? it's an ambiguous label for a distance ed student.
Praying for the framework I've been given to endure; for the exploration to continue, within the safe knowledge of His sovereignty; what a glorious place to be. (May this joyfulness in anticipation continue!...)
I love Jesus.
I want everyone to!

friends are far away. undertaking big adventures. bless them.

Celebration is just around the corner.... an exuberant party full of lights and Norwegian food and music and people from around the world, and old friends and dear family. in Florida!
What a wonderful way to end the year ... and begin so much more.

If I were to put a picture in this post, it would be a misty amalgamation of golden trumpets and glowing Christmas trees, of exultation and peaceful contemplation somehow perfectly melded. No picture can quite do it. Use your imagination.

Merry, blessed, happy Christmas, dear friends.

Road things.

2007-11-16T16:51:00.000-08:00

The road is
a balm of soothing rest made mandatory,
a wave of perspective washing over me slowly,
a siren song that pulls my self from settling ever .

Fall trees painted with a wash of burnt and dusty fire-shades
line the roads and hills
and slowly wash my mind, too, with their colors
sweeping, sweeping, sweeping --- hours, hours, hours ,
of giving in to a rhythm of rest and disconnection from
settled spots,
closing in to-do lists
and tidying one's own cocoon.

Instead, we drift out free,
floating across other peoples' worlds .
Peace
(whispers.)

I love the Natchez Trace Parkway.

And now, five things:

First, because long car rides are the time to really absorb and meet music, three road musics:

1. Gling-Glo , a Bjork album. Jazz. How did I not know about this? I haven't been as delighted by a voice since I-don't-know-when. Be amazed.

2. Cassadaga, the Bright Eyes album. I recommend listening to this when fully awake, in daylight, so as to appreciate it as a whole and a piece of musical literature. The way lyrics and music meld on this album is ethereal, surprising, near perfect. The lyrics need the music, and the music needs the words, and they feed and edify one another. And this man writes incredibly. In each song, there are about fifty brilliant phrases that would build whole songs on their own for most of us. But he keeps them flowing and flowing .

3. On a very different note. The song "So Not My Baby" from Josh Turner's new album, "Everything is Fine." You have to have some classic country on a roadtrip through Mississippi, Alabama and Tennessee. And oh man. Maybe it's just me, but there is something ridiculously catchy about this chorus. It soothes the psyche in some odd physiological way. This goes on repeat. I danced with a three-year-old to it (sung by me) last night. I think she approved.

4. is a film. 'Once Upon a Time in the West.' Seen it? I hadn't. So good. Not sure I can describe it well. Epic; but quiet. But full of sound. Not a happy world, but you still don't want to leave it. One of those movies where you linger in the special features so you won't have to step back out.

5. The most delicious chocolate item (possibly; I'm always willing to keep looking) on the face of the earth: Lindt Lindor Extra Dark Truffles.

let's have a happy post!

2007-11-02T16:53:00.000-07:00

pondered: is anything i like not tinged with a touch of melancholy? of bittersweetness...? i even prefer dark chocolate.

Maybe Muppets. And tickling darling little children. And maybe 1980s Disney World. That's pure raucous happy-ness. Robots and purple plastic and rainbow colored souvenirs.

Still learning to "go with joy" am I.

Still stumbling very clumsily to true realization of facts like: "I don't know what's best to do for the world." i.e., "I don't know how to fix the world."

You'd think that one would've been obvious.

I guess it's one of those things you have to make the journey to, to really understand. To really understand what a big and hard and necessary thing it is to trust God to know how to run the world.

outside of that, what hope have we? Lord orchestrate all our little wee efforts

into a grand and glorious symphony. A riotously colored rag quilt sewn together with golden thread.

Lord, place me in that tapestry. Somewhere. Somehow.

If You don't know best, then no one knows anything.

Hey guys, I'm going with Word Made Flesh! To Rio! In February. For four months of learning learning learning.

After all: You gotta start somewhere. Somewhere to start asking the questions. Somewhere to start walking the walk that will last the rest of my life.

And to continue the walk with the Most Patient of Walkers, Leaders--Lord.

I'm so thankful for this open door. It looks beautiful.

Your prayers: incredibly appreciated.

in now.

2007-10-20T14:23:00.001-07:00

strange pieces.

good chipotle salsa

old Henry Mancini music punctuated by funny disco sounds

poems by C.S. Lewis. brilliance.

things to read for class that I can't seem to dive into;

organic applesauce that tastes strangely spiked. maybe it's past its prime.

boy scouts selling expensive popcorn.

too many disparate and drifting thoughts that i've followed too far and then had to come back from.

a vague and massive confusion, manifesting itself as a tremendous, frustratingly un-dissect-able BLAH.

the 'where to?' and 'what to do?' questions--the big ones--lurking in my peripheral vision,

All The Time.

alone in the house.

looking for joy-- by pushing against the great pale BLAH, hoping to push hard enough to break through it. pushing by generating words. pushing with words.

we'll come through.

meanwhile, thanks for stopping by. i'm hazy, and hence wary of speaking;

but hazy people need human-touch too.

We'll just sit in His love.

Happy Sukkoth!

2007-09-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

Whether you celebrate the holiday (starting Thursday) or not, watch Ushpizin this week or next, in celebration of the Festival of Shelters, of temporary dwellings, of booths. A happy festival (Deut. 16:13-14); a time of remembering we are uprootable, we are moved according to God's will, we are guests on this earth. A reminder of the great works of God, of the exodus from Egypt and God's 'calling out' of His people.
Build a fort in your backyard! On your balcony!

and do, do find this movie, please.
it's beautiful!
have you seen it?

temporary dwellings...
remember the shantytown-dwellers this week, too, loved ones.
those who are constantly aware of the precariousness of life here.
May Jesus sweep through the 'slums.' And remain there. May we, representing Him, go and sit with their residents. For the long haul.
A God of hope can make every place beautiful.
He is present!

recent comings, recent thinkings.

2007-08-26T21:27:00.000-07:00

" But I do not say stay well. I do not care if they stay well or ill. And nothing goes well with me. I am tired and lonely. Oh my husband, why did we leave the land of our people? There is not much there, but it is better than here. There is not much food there, but it is shared by all together. If all are poor, it is not so bad to be poor. And it is pleasant by the river, and while you wash your clothes the water runs over the stones, and the wind cools you.
Two weeks from today, that is the day of the moving. Come my husband, let us get the planks and the tins and the sacks and the poles. I do not like the place where we are. "

(Cry the Beloved Country. Alan Paton.)

the following poem is by Naomi Shihab Nye. from the book Come With Me: poems for a journey.

MAD
I got mad at my mother
so I flew to the moon.
I could still see our house
so little in the distance
with its pointed roof.
My mother stood in the front yard
like a pin dot
searching for me.
She looked left and right for me.
She looked deep and far.
Then I whistled and she tipped her head.
It gets cold at night on the moon.
My mother sent up a silver thread
for me to slide down on.
She knows me so well.
She knows I like silver.

[that poem is supposed to be shaped like a moon. i can't get it to line up that way here.]
do you think, with me, that those last lines speak rather powerfully about love? do they help remind you what it feels like to be really, quite and completely, loved? oh, I hope so.

I must tell you
that Alan Paton's book (Cry, the Beloved Country)
is a wonderwork! I'd not read it since high school. And it is a favorite,
not for fanciness or word-dancing, but for being so very complete. Such a whole. A whole story. It fits together perfectly. And it is so simple. Subtle about saying its say. You hardly know what themes you've been hit with until you're done with the whole book. (or maybe I'm just slow) but suddenly you see that there have been grand weavings done through all the small things,
and you've experienced something miraculous,
this interweaving of story into one big meal of redemption.
A son given; and then people may step outside of their own limited spheres, must take off their blinders, come together. And a new son, who is a hope.
Broken situations, big and small, national and local and very personal, all redeemed via suffering.
: "lovely beyond all singing of it."

if anyone's there reading this, can I ask you: What reminds you of what it feels like to be truly loved?

radiant pieces, pieces that glow.

2007-08-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

I have this file, called 'Catching Written Bits,' in which I hammer out with my fingers, and mull over, and treasure special pieces of things I have read. Words I have met. And do you know, it's high time I scattered and spread the joy of them, time we shared the profundity captured in sentences crafted by sharp spirits; these nuggets are so valuable and precious,
and so now this treasure is to be yours too!

Here is today's,
from The Greater Trumps, by Charles Williams ; a simple start ,
a good example of small paragraphs becoming wide windows all of a sudden.
I've bolded my favorite bit, but all of it contributes and matters.

“She would not go to bed, certainly not, but hot drinks—yes; and a hot bath—yes; and a complete change—yes. Drinks and baths and changes were exquisite delights in themselves; part of an existence in which one beauty was always providing a reason and a place for an entirely opposite beauty. As society for solitude, and walking for sitting down, and one dress for another, and emotions for intellect, and snowstorms for hot drinks, and in general movement for repose, repose for movement, and even one movement for another, so highly complex was the admirable order of the created universe.”

isn't that a lovely way to look at change? and at the simple changes that fill this day? one beauty exchanged for another,
again and again.
One of my favorite songs says :
"All the days of my struggle,
I will wait for my change,
I will wait for my change to come."

We are being changed -- "And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory..."

We will be changed .
one loveliness for another, for a better and truer,
is the story of the world
do you think?

( image from artist Olafur Eliasson's exhibit, Minding the World. )

free!

2007-08-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

the me is like a leech
that squiggles and screeches and screaks
p u l l i n g and p u l l i n g

oh the chipper, golden glory of even glimpsing
FreedomFromMe,
a life lived new-ly

-- Let's begin!

the summer.

2007-07-18T11:22:00.001-07:00

it was beautiful.

(see)

thank you.

and thank You.

glorious day

2007-05-18T09:09:00.000-07:00

well, kids, I'm off to camp again ( ! )
and to Phoenix. . . because guess who's gettin' married?
another semester beautiful and complete, and it's a wonder , and so many beautiful days lie ahead in my Father's world
--and challenges and confusions and befuddlements but all within His hand
, with a hold on His rope and with His assurance that holiness will triumph. His, that is, and Him.
Hurrah (!)
and have a glorious summer
and I will see you in awhile
and hallelujah first loud, then quiet and with a smile. goodbye!

uncovering the story.

2007-04-19T13:16:00.000-07:00

Step with me into this issue for a minute. Where did "third world" countries come from? Why are they "third world?" Do we think about this much?

The following bits are from David Christian’s crazycomprehensive (not perfect) book Maps of Time (pp.434-437). Come into the story for a moment.
You see, Britain was at the center of a powerful network of interchange, and so its Industrial Revolution caused a global chain-reaction…:

*****************************
“Germany and the United States had also pioneered two new, multicellular forms of industrial organization: the national corporation, which vertically integrated tasks previously shared by many separate enterprises, from the production of raw materials to manufacture, wholesaling, and retailing; and the multidivisional corporation, which horizontally integrated what had previously been different sectors of production.
… As productivity rose in the industrialized hub region and the prices of goods such as British machine-made textiles fell, producers in other regions found their livelihood undermined by European imports. In entering global markets, small producers found themselves competing with large corporations using the most up-to-date technologies, and in the long run there was no doubt as to who would lose that competition. Wherever they had the power to do so, as in India and Pakistan, European powers accelerated such processes by juggling with tariff barriers or by forcing weaker powers and colonies to accept European exports…Even China’s once self-sufficient economy buckled as the pull of the Atlantic economies warped the topology of international trade…
The transformations of the late nineteenth century created a world divided between those that did and those that did not have industrial economies. The same processes that enriched the societies of the Atlantic seaboard ruined much of the rest of the world; and the gradients of inequality within nations, which had widened so spectacularly with the decline of the traditional peasantry, now became gradients between regions and nations. . . The twentieth-century term the third world could have made no sense in 1750, when today’s third world countries accounted for almost 75 percent of global industrial production. By the late twentieth century, they counted for less than 15 percent.
…As traditional rulers outside the industrializing core became aware of their vulnerability, they began to wonder if they would have to industrialize the lands they ruled. But how? …Matching the rates of innovation of the North Atlantic hub region meant changing political systems and cultural attitudes as well as economic structures in order to create well-integrated capitalist societies.” In other words, cultures to whom individualist, competitive economies were not necessarily indigenous or natural were squeezed into the race for 'first world'-ness.

*****************************

I don’t want to forget that all these developments affected many Westerners badly, too!... those pulled into long, monotonous lives of factory and mining work, those who were more victims than instigators of all this change. And the structure continues to adversely affect many Westerners; we aren’t all directly responsible for the system. I think of all the small producers-- though today, I think the Internet and other communication tools are putting more power back in those hands, which is great…

Nor do I think that all innovation and invention is bad, or that we should have all stayed on subsistence level, not developed vaccines, not tried to make new things, discover new things, etc. But you can see the ugly vein of greed running unmistakably through what happened, though people hid their greed behind words like ‘progress’ and ‘innovation’ and ‘rights’ to buy and sell, etc. … This is humankind, lording things over one another, stepping on one another for power… and, I hasten to add, making unintended mistakes, running into unforeseen consequences.

So. The love of money is the root of all evil. Not money, but the love of it. And the love does not make up all of evil by itself, but is the root of it all. What a world we’ve come to.
And now we use the term “third world” to look down on and pity those whom our own massive economies have essentially used and held down. ‘What’s the matter with them?’ the assumption behind the term runs. ‘Why couldn’t they keep up? Poor things. Guess we better give them our pocket change.’

I think, I really think, that the Internet can be a huge part of getting power to live and market and work humanely back in the hands of the ‘unincorporated.’ As well as a huge part of the networking process, the way that the West comes to realize what we are and to see the spot others are in—and so this connecting tool can enable us to see and reach out to one another in cool new ways. Lord willing. Lord willing. Oh, Lord, this time let us use the tools for Your glory by using them in love. This time let us not charge ahead for our own gain and luxury without thought for the ripples that tsunami into the rest of the world. We may not all have been directly responsible for how things came to be as they are. But we are responsible for now and for tomorrow. ( Is this so much to ask? )

"Frankly, Mister Shankly" just started playing. Oh Western society. Speaking of the bizarre fruits of Western society, I've got to post on Industrial musicals soon. Amaaaazing stuff.

On a different but related note, I've been convicted about making people into abstractions and theories lately. There is real lostness in the world. And it's person-by-person; it's in each face. And I know, I am reminded by every real encounter with a real person, that it is impossible for me to change even one of these millions of hearts in my own power. Thank God, thank God, He is the God of impossibilities.
Would you like to see faces instead of grand theories? Oh, please, go read these stories and rejoice in Word Made Flesh.

are you out there? dialogue with me. what do you think?

so faithful.

2007-04-11T15:13:00.000-07:00

His faithfulness
is shown in glorious color
to a self-centered, self-seeking and self-promoting ninny.
Harsh though it may be to see the grime and gunk and filth in me,
It is real,
and to see it makes His saving work,
His faithful love,
His unspeakable grace clearer and more beautiful to me.

I wish I were hiking today,
I must admit.

I spent my Easter in Tucson, Arizona, a bit of a leap away from the original plan of Texas' Guadalupe Mountains. Such an unexpected present
;I do love a dash of spontaneity.
you see, we woke up Saturday in a tent covered in snow, my two friends and I,
and so with numb fingers we clumsily packed it up
And we drove till the weather map turned from blue to yellow.

One foot in front of the other,
One foot in front of the other,
One foot in front of the other.
Sunday after a church service attended in a 'happy hiker' tshirt and dusty running shoes,
we headed up the mountain to Douglas Springs.

I feel
cleaned up
cleaned out.
Five days with two people who are not impressed by what the world tries to impress with.
Five days of quiet, simple conversation,
Not so much profound
As clear--
like a stream you can see the bottom of,
no hidden motives clouding the water.
And the days were peppered with simple prayers.

Pressing into a desert landscape, surrounded by saguaro, I find once again,
as I can only learn in this way,
that there is Beauty in simply pressing on.

Seeing the web of streets and houses and stocked superstores from the mountains,
it looked like a toy town, where Playskool people
buzz back and forth,
round and round
and round.

There is something about a sweaty t-shirt
and a sun- and wind-burnished face
and the pleasant, unavoidable prospect of simple tasks -
finding water,
making dinner,
washing dishes.
I think I would be a more beautiful person if I lived in a tent all the time.
I'm looking into it.

This weekend,
God showed me again what Grace is:
knowing I am n o t h i n g but what He lets me be,
what He empowers me to be;
it is all by His gifting.
This is Easter. This is grace:
as I am beaten with the fact, over and over, simply by observing my own thoughts, that I am low, humiliatingly shallow, selfish, petty, undedicated, clumsy, ...
even as this is happening, at the same time-- the same time --
I am being showered with good and special
-- and detailed --
gifts,
coming purely of love.

One foot in front of the other,
One foot in front of the other...
The simplicity is like good food for my spirit.

The journey is simple, really,
Because He provides it all--
We just walk in Him.
Grace, grace, increasing grace--
Stir up my song of Hallelujah! , all my life.

Pare me down however You will,
however You want to.
Anything You have to do
to get me back to "Thank You"
and a quiet spirit.
He's always been faithful to me. He's always been faithful--to me!

birdwatching soft and sweet and sunny

2007-03-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

"For the Lord's word is plain and binding:
"Do not worry about your life."

Fretful anxiety is forbidden for the believer, and it is needless.

If you have a Father in heaven to care for you,

are you not put to shame by every little bird

that sits upon the bough and sings,

though it has not two grains of barley in all the world?"

--Charles Spurgeon.
(beautiful art by Liz Vile; Ididn'taskandhopeit'sokaytowhiskaway)

how alien and how fetterless they are,

and traveling always traveling

; an invisible community whose chirps we get used to

when all the while they've something to teach.

(p.s. look at this nice picture by nikki mcclure, who I don't know.)

LET NO ONE DECEIVE YOU WITH EMPTY WORDS.

2007-01-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

Jeremiah tell me about the fire
That burns up in your bones
I want to know
I want to know more now (1)

Lord, obssess me with You.

“ ‘…Now Wilhelm, I’m trying to do you some good. I want to tell you, don’t marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it’s adultery.’

When Wilhelm heard this he had, in spite of himself, to admit that there was a great deal in Tamkin’s words. Yes, thought Wilhelm, suffering is the only kind of life they are sure they can have, and if they quit suffering they’re afraid they’ll have nothing. He knows it. This time the faker knows what he’s talking about. ” (2)

I was looking to myself
And I forgot the power of God
I was standing with a sparkler in my hand
While I stood so proud and profound You went and burned the whole place down
Now that’s a fire
...I was dwelling on my hopelessness and doubt
With the slightest invitation You came with total detonation
Now that’s a fire (1)

(3)

“It is for us Christians, then…to do these two things: first, to learn to be receptive of life before plunging into activity, to learn to be possessed of life, of truth, of love, to be possessed by God; then secondly, to learn to face the squalors of life as they come to us—and we do not grow into the light by trying to escape the darkness but by meeting it—with courage and tranquility, as we shall then be enabled to do…” (4)

( "If we don't start in the face of impossibilities, when do we start?" (5) )

I was warming my hands by this little light of mine
but now I know it’s time
time to come in from the cold
Fight fire with fire, come fan the flame
come stir up these coals in my soul, in my soul (1)

'No amount of falls will really undo us if we keep on picking ourselves up each time. We shall of course be very muddy & tattered children by the time we reach home. But the baths are all ready, the towels put out, & the clean clothes in the airing cupboard. The only fatal thing is to lose one's temper & give it up. It is when we notice the dirt that God is most present in us: it is the very sign of his presence.' -C.S. Lewis

"YOU WERE TAUGHT TO PUT AWAY YOUR FORMER WAY OF LIFE, YOUR OLD SELF, CORRUPT AND DELUDED BY ITS LUSTS, AND TO BE RENEWED IN THE SPIRIT OF YOUR MINDS... LET NO ONE DECEIVE YOU WITH EMPTY WORDS..."
letter to the Ephesians, 4:22a, 5:6a

Lord, obssess me with You.

(1) 'Jeremiah' on the Sara Groves album The Other Side of Something.
(2) From Seize the Day, by Saul Bellow
(3) Andy Goldsworthy's work Rowan Leaves with Hole
(4) From an article by British Dominican priest Father Gerald Vann, written in the 1950s and printed in Image Magazine No. 52, Winter 2007 issue.
(5) from Ken Pike, pioneering linguist and Bible translator.

happy Christmas, one and all.

2006-12-21T15:46:00.000-08:00

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

('When I am Among the Trees' written by Mary Oliver. and sent to me by liz-dear.)

May God bless you with peace, rest, refreshment, assurance of His love, and the joy of sharing it.

The New World

2006-11-24T21:31:00.000-08:00

I just saw an amazing film.
The New World, directed by Terrence Malick.
It is a masterpiece and a moving poem. And I am very glad I've seen it.

shall we go for a ramble?

2006-11-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

this image stops me and makes me look:

A wanderer is man from his birth
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time.

-Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) from ‘The Future’ (I found it in ‘Off the Beaten Path,’ an anthology illustrated by Laura Stoddart)

Yesterday while studying I took note of the songs that came randomly upon my mp3-er, and thought, You know, a playlist, randomly generated, can speak. how? I think sometimes it is God using the mechanism. And sometimes it is one's own mind, drawing a common thread of conversation out of all the intentions poured into each work by each artist.

Yesterday I got Keith Green ("You"), as I was reading about Acts and the early ekklesia, God's assembly, God's body of people on the run sharing the Story, the happy news. And I bubbled up with joy at the thought of joining them, of getting out there...and it's all right outside my front door.
Then there was Lauryn Hill...Just Like Water
and I read this quote in some class reading: "he here glimpsed a life which had found the inward victory and peace to which he was a stranger." It was about Saul-who-became-Paul. . .
"cleaning me, He's purging me, and moving me around."
He is, He is.
Recently I have been gracefully yanked back to the center of the world, back to the cross and the resurrection, back to the core of what makes a 'Christ-ian'. What a joy to be a baby Christian over and over, in the sense of rediscovering the Most Important. Am I living in such a way that really demonstrates that I believe I am forgiven, ingrafted, loved, free, rescued?
this is the voyage.
I can't tell you how HAPPY it made me to recover a Simplicity, a single focus to direct my life on. Thank you, Lord. I like it when things are simple.

so then there was "Somewhere," an instrumental version, from West Side Story.

I keep hearing car doors close and thinking it's family members. One of these times it will be.

The Blue Danube Waltz. I fell in deeplike with Straussmusic while watching treetops dance to it in the wind, out the top half of a shuttered window on California Street in Huntington Beach, California.

Azure Ray came on. 'How You Remember.' Followed by Bing Crosby with 'Any Bonds Today?' Noooot so connected.

'One of the Fairest Portions of the Globe' from the soundtrack of a Lewis and Clark documentary. A voice says, "It seemed as if these scenes of visionary enchantment would never come to an end."

I'm going to L'Arche in January. This is good. I will be happy to live, to have community, to serve and learn. I don't know a lot of specifics; they don't interest me right now, the logistical things people ask me about. I keep saying we'll jump and we'll see. that's from a movie, and not an art-y one. but a goodun.

I believe I like Mindy Smith's music. Do you? She has a new album out. I haven't had time to listen to it intentionally yet, but there is a ridiculously catchy song on it that says "What if the world stopped turning, what if the sun stopped burning..." oh, do listen to it. I think you'll like it.

The song "the beautiful briny sea" from Bedknobs and Broomsticks came on. That song is full of the most delightful words. "serene...through the bubbly blue and green...Far from the frenzy of the frantic world above, two beneath the blue...could even fall in love." Shimmery, shiny, bobbing, bubbly.

Do you like the look of a dark room with a lit closet? I like to turn all the lights out at dusk time except for the one in the closet. It makes it seem like a secret warm fort. Isn't there a poem--is it by Emily Dickinson, or Robert Frost? I'm a little ashamed not to know off the top of the head--about looking into a lighted window or door from a dark street. Catching a glimpse of the life inside.

"I Just Want to Praise You," a recording of Melanie and me singing it in the old Stable at Capernwray, came on. How grateful I am for this girl. Mel, listen to that track if you have it handy. It made me think back on our friendness and say thank You, thank You, thank You.

well, now I shall tell you what I'm reading, because I did some of that this morning and wanted to share so much of what I took.
-Saul Bellow’s Seize the Day ...have you read anything by him? This is my first, sort of an accidental purchase, and his writing thus far (just started the book) is so insightful. I keep bracketing and underlining things because they just have to be responded to.
-John Piper’s The Passion of Jesus Christ, 50 reasons why Jesus came to die. This has been on my shelf for years; got it for free at a church. And it was for this time. I am very thankful for it right now.
-Laura Stoddart’s anthology of travel quotes, Off the Beaten Path. Her drawings make me smile.
-Too slowly, I am reading Jean Vanier’s Our Journey Home. Why am I taking it in such small chunks? Not sure.
-In pieces, as part of my course, I'm reading Mission in Acts and the Perspectives Reader ...I highly, highly, highly (does it make sense to repeat that three times. Really high) recommend them both.

I'm volatile these days. Pits suck me in quickly and easily. And then I'm extra grateful for sudden upsweeps that renew my perspective and remind me what joy is. (That seems to be the easiest thing for me to forget.)

Delighted in: rarebird and the many pretty rabbit trails down which it takes one. Tell me what you find.
Thinking about... forts and childhood.
Today I want to: break from school till tomorrow… make shirts, tidy my room, go for a walk, write.
How kind He is. Wonder where we’ll go.

goodmorning

2006-10-09T10:01:00.000-07:00

God is love, but it is obedience that forges, focuses, and incarnates that love into a mission.
-Samuel H. Moffett

so many ways to love
in so many cultures
from so many points of view
and what is loving here
may not be loving there.

so what is love?

["This is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His son in an atoning sacrifice for our sins."]

don't know where I'm going;
the world is big and I am small,
and there are so many who need to hear.
Am I equipped to tell them?
I don't feel that way. So often I feel that I've lost the story, that the message and the motivation
have slipped through my fingers--my mind loses its grip so quickly and so easily.

But there is a Spirit,
a Great Interpreter, so I can come, little child that I am, and offer my self for His use.
and there is a Great Message
made for all the peoples of the world--
those who see the world so very, very differently than I do
and those who share some of my little perspectives.

Lord, help me to see through their eyes,
Help me to understand your story.

But more than that, help me to invite people into your reign.
To invite them home. And that home is now, that reign is now.

God loved; Jesus obeyed. So love poured out onto this ball, onto these strange and beautiful beings with eyes and ears and smiles and hands...

From Moffett again:
"He loves the world, but he goes to the cross because he obeys: "Not my will, but thine, be done" (Luke 22:42)."

2006-09-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

"Answers we learn before making the questions our own are easily forgotten."
-Bernard Adeney, Strange Virtues.

wandering in the hazy
land
of questions,
where everything is blurry,

and all I know is that the land is carried in Holy Hands.

sunrise

2006-09-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

here comes the sun...
the light is peeking ... or maybe I'm peeking at the light.
Life is now,
life is alive
and I am in it.
thank you, Mel.
you're right...eternity is forever. sounds obvious, right?
and He knows it all. those two facts are enough for me tonight.

Hello, again, Jesus.

oh what a dollar bought today.

2006-09-02T19:35:00.000-07:00

“Agatha, hand me the clothes…. We’ll send them up to be washed by the clouds and dried by the wind.”

While helping at a friend’s garage sale this morning, I discovered in the $1 box an old videotape of something my family is always on the hunt for: The Electric Grandmother. We scan thrift stores, we check ebay, it’s just sort of a vague constant awareness, this hunt.
So this morning, there was rejoicing in the Van Wynen collective consciousness.

Tonight we watched it, my parents and I. And I can’t really put in words what it did to me. I haven’t cried so much at a movie for years. The Electric Grandmother, folks.
I had no specific memory of the movie that I could call up independently; we looked for it, but I didn’t remember what it was. It was buried deep in my memory, in the part I can’t reach anymore. The furthest, darkest corner of the trunk.

When the first strains of the song came up, and the silhouette of the grandmother rocking behind the translucent colored screen, and the old man’s voice calling “Grandma…”
I gasped. My heart held its breath. “I remember this,” I kept whispering. “I remember.”
The pieces of the heart falling from the sky; the eerie chorus of grandma voices, repeating “Tom, Timothy, Agathaaaaa…”… the grandmother factory, with its floating shadows, eye-color selection kaleidoscope, voice-receiving gramophone….then, “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, but some morning you’ll wake up and get a surprise…” and there she was—the sarcophagus dropped by the helicopter, so incredibly vivid and creepy and tender in my memory. Every outfit on the children, every look on their faces, was stored somewhere deep in the part of my child’s brain where I stored up information about how people work and what faces mean. It’s all still in me, I just didn’t know it.

Laundry on a kite string, lullabies, that deeply disturbing scene of grandma all plugged in in the basement, the muffin with ‘Holy Toledo, it’s flying!’ on a slip of paper baked inside. The car accident scene—“Not like mommy, please not like mommy…” and then the children suddenly growing up as they ran toward grandma. This is when I started to cry. The storage room full of grandmothers all reminiscing and pondering, decades later—“Sometimes I forget the difference between loving people and paying attention to people. There is a difference, isn’t there?” … and finally, her return to the house and the elderly children. “Grandma, brush my hair!” (At this point, I can’t stop crying.) And so it ends.

My childhood is deep inside me, buried and unreachable; we just kept moving and I have almost no touchstones. My family has grown up and changed, and I with it, and the scenery has changed and on we have gone. This movie tonight…it touched a place inside me that is never, ever touched. I was suddenly six years old, sitting on a wood floor in an apartment in Brazil with my brother, staring up at the electric grandmother. The whole world changed around me and I was a child again—really a child, fully a child. I haven’t felt that since it ended. It was a wonderful time, a happy time—I had forgotten how happy—and it has been a lost time.

Last week I heard my father reading something aloud, and a shiver washed over me—I saw myself sitting on the carpet at his feet as he read the Chronicles of Narnia aloud to my brother and me before bed. The memory lasted a split second, but I wanted to hold onto it. These piercing tastes of my childhood are so rare, so very, very rare. Such a goldfish I am, with a long-term memory like a sieve…the present is good, the past of more than 6 or 7 years ago is vanished…. But no… it’s there, it’s in there somewhere. It just takes an electric grandmother to bring it up, up, up to the surface.

Thank you, Jesus, for my childhood. Thank you so much for my childhood.

How deep, lasting, often subliminal, are the impressions and lessons of childhood. This is why I feel the weight, the importance of time spent with children, whether they will remember me or not. My words and actions, the environment they are in, the things they see and hear and touch, are more vivid and tremendous to them than we can possibly imagine with our adultness. So BIG is the room, so sharp the details. So deep the memory.

Go to a garage sale, see if it changes your life.

nothing less. offline for awhile.

2006-07-18T14:38:00.000-07:00

"God, of Your goodness give me Yourself,
for You are enough for me,
and I can ask for nothing which is less
which can pay you full worship.
And if I ask anything which is less,
always I am in want,
but only in You do I have everything."

Julian of Norwich.

...time to go again...

2006-05-17T11:26:00.000-07:00

see you in six weeks.
after the work of love,
a wedding,
and a road trip.

how i love movement. oh dear. i may never stop.