The Halls of the Rich and Famous

This morning my husband and I went to a worship service that consisted of a concert of sacred music. We were glad for the opportunity to check out yet another church, as we newcomers to the community have not yet found a church home. What we noticed first of all as we entered the foyer of the church was that after the greeters smiled and handed us the church bulletin, very few people looked friendly. I sat down next to a young immigrant woman and her mother, smiled and nodded at her. She didn't have much to say. Maybe she struggles with English, I thought.
A few moments into the service, the pastor invited congregants to greet one another. This is perhaps the American church practice that I find the most difficult. It seems artificial somehow, to try to say hello to people that I don't know.
The musicians soon began singing and it was wonderful to hear them again. The church people sat silently, not smiling at their remarks (that really were quite entertaining) or giving them much facial feedback. I commented on this to Sam. We both came from traditions in which the church rings with loud "Amen!"s or clapping after special musical numbers, or comments that ring true to the listeners. It was almost as still as death in this church today.
Various musicians took the microphone, introducing the numbers they would sing next, trying to make comments that would connect meaningfully with the hearers. I hoped they could see my smiling face and hear my bold Amen! from time to time. It was clear that they also noticed the lackluster atmosphere in the church.
At the end of the service Sam and I approached them and thanked them all round for such a wonderful musical experience that they had provided. They looked relieved and happy to hear what we had to say.

On the way home in the car, Sam and I recalled the two years that we lived in the Midwest. We attended a tiny country church whose attendence on a good day might be 35 people. With a congregation that size, most of whose members were related, it was impossible to attend and sit impassively through the entire service. For one thing, we were conscripted into service every week. Sam used to lead congregational singing and I played the piano to accompany the hymns. I even preached a sermon once, and Sam collected the offering. Together, we taught the youth class at the church, consisting of seven kids, aged 13 - 24. One week each month we cooked breakfast for them at the church. It would become a favorite event for all of us. The boys would shyly volunteer to wash up the dishes or help me carry platters to the tables in the fellowship hall area of the church. And sitting over plates of steaming waffles or scrambled eggs, they would tell us of their challenges and ask our advice about various things. Brady wanted to become a chef, and proudly shared recipes with us that he had recently tried out on his family. We established that "Lacey isn't a dork. She's quiet. It hurts people to be made fun of, did you know that?"

The week I sang "His Eye is on the Sparrow" during the service, everyone cried. It had been sung at the funeral of a much beloved relative (of almost all of them) only a year before.

Music presented a special challenge. I remember cringing the first time I listened to the special music presented by Mary, the resident accordian player. She proudly played through about 10 verses without variation of any kind, sitting on the organ bench, facing the front of the church. A thundering "Amen!" followed and she returned to her seat, triumphant. She played the organ the same way she played the accordian: one finger playing the melody and one finger playing a single bass note. She taught the pianist to play the same way and visitors were visibly surprised by this awkward, obtuse music. When Mary died suddenly a month later, people remarked more than once how much they missed her music. Strange thing was, I missed her, too.

Because most of the church members lived in the same region, went to school together, met during the week for meals, or worked together, there was little from the week that did not slip into church services. One week, Mardell was opening the service from the podium by welcoming everyone and providing some general welcoming remarks. Half way through, someone came in whom she hadn't seen in weeks. A discussion ensued between the two, until both were caught up with the other's most recent circumstances. Then Mardell launched back into her welcoming remarks.

One Saturday half-way through the service, a man staggered down the center aisle, completely sloshed at 11:30 in the morning. One of the deacons walked in behind him. Another stepped out of his pew and both sat directly behind him, while he slipped into the pew next to his shocked wife. She had served him divorce papers that week and apparently, he hadn't taken it well. He sat, leaning into her, his arm around her shoulders. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, and her daughter pressed closer to her on the other side. Later that day, just before the church potluck, I happened to go out the front door to get something from my car. A group of men were huddled out on landing of the church. The man was surrounded by six or seven male church members, arms around him, praying for him as he wept. I couldn't help but hear their rough, farmer voices, awkwardly but warmly encouraging him. "Lee, I had me some rough times, too, but the Lord loves you and will pull you through this. You'll see."

After worshipping with these folks for a year and a half, praying with them, eating in their homes, teaching their children, listening to their stories of everyday challenges, I began missing them when I was away for more than a week. They were not sophisticated, nor were they wealthy or educated. But they had soul and they loved one another. Most of all, they loved me--the one who was probably the least like anyone else there. I was accepted just like I was someone's cousin or sister and they showed me they cared about me, week after week. Sometimes I would be given a bag of apples from someone's tree, or a recipe for something like "Yvette's Date Bars." Other weeks, a teenager would give me a handmade card. Or the 94-year-old patriarch of the congregation would call me aside and whistling through his crooked front teeth, ask when I would sing again, and couldn't I sing "There isssss a Green Hill Far Away" for him next time?

I remember that when I first went to this little country church, I complained bitterly about how out of place I felt and I magnified every unfamiliar thing that occurred. However, my Midwest church entered worship wholeheartedly. Coming together was the high point of the week for them. Church was a place where they could contemplate something greater and more transcendent than anything they had on this earth. The same can be said of other churches I've attended since that time. Tommy, the Irish farmer from Wicklow, standing by the pulpit and bellowing out "The Love of God" without accompaniament, after explaining that he loves that song so much that he sings it "behind the cows" every day. The ex-con man in the Midwest whose accent is so thick that to my ear, his tearful, heartfelt testimony in church sounds like a man gargling. The Kenyans, each of whom greet the church and receive a shouted response, "Happy Day!" Our Pacific Northwest church, whose members sat transfixed with delight, as the majestic organ postlude filled the building. These people love church, love God, and their Christian brothers and sisters. It shows.

This what I missed during our service today. Parishioners of this church are for the most part, quite wealthy and sophisticated. There are lots of designer suits and luxury cars here. Church is just one more thing to fit into an already busy schedule. It appears to be an inconvenience for some. There isn't that enormous gap between what they have now on this earth, and what they feel they need, here or hereafter. It shows.

There is a time and place for everything. The world varies from one region to the next, from one culture to another. People express themselves differently according to socioeconomic status, ethnicity, regional norms, etc. We will probably become accustomed to congregations in this region. It will at some point, become apparent to us how people here express wonder, spiritual delight, warmth, because surely it must be felt.
I wonder how it all looks to God.

The silvery god

I found this last night in my (light) reading before I went to sleep. It is from the works of Josephus--The Antiquities of the Jews, Book 19, chapter 8.

2 Now when Agrippa had reigned three years over all Judea, he came to the city Cesarea, which was formerly called Strato's Tower; and there he exhibited shows in honor of Caesar, upon his being informed that there was a certain festival celebrated to make vows for his safety. At which festival a great multitude was gotten together of the principal persons, and such as were of dignity through his province. On the second day of which shows he put on a garment made wholly of silver, and of a contexture truly wonderful, and came into the theater early in the morning; at which time the silver of his garment being illuminated by the fresh reflection of the sun's rays upon it, shone out after a surprising manner, and was so resplendent as to spread a horror over those that looked intently upon him; and presently his flatterers cried out, one from one place, and another from another, (though not for his good,) that he was a god; and they added, "Be thou merciful to us; for although we have hitherto reverenced thee only as a man, yet shall we henceforth own thee as superior to mortal nature." Upon this the king did neither rebuke them, nor reject their impious flattery. But as he presently afterward looked up, he saw an owl sitting on a certain rope over his head, and immediately understood that this bird was the messenger of ill tidings, as it had once been the messenger of good tidings to him; and fell into the deepest sorrow. A severe pain also arose in his belly, and began in a most violent manner. He therefore looked upon his friends, and said, "I, whom you call a god, am commanded presently to depart this life; while Providence thus reproves the lying words you just now said to me; and I, who was by you called immortal, am immediately to be hurried away by death. But I am bound to accept of what Providence allots, as it pleases God; for we have by no means lived ill, but in a splendid and happy manner." When he said this, his pain was become violent. Accordingly he was carried into the palace, and the rumor went abroad every where, that he would certainly die in a little time. But the multitude presently sat in sackcloth, with their wives and children, after the law of their country, and besought God for the king's recovery. All places were also full of mourning and lamentation. Now the king rested in a high chamber, and as he saw them below lying prostrate on the ground, he could not himself forbear weeping. And when he had been quite worn out by the pain in his belly for five days, he departed this life, being in the fifty-fourth year of his age, and in the seventh year of his reign...

This was an interesting finding, since it corroborates the Biblical account of the death of Herod in Acts 12:

20And Herod was highly displeased with them of Tyre and Sidon: but they came with one accord to him, and, having made Blastus the king's chamberlain their friend, desired peace; because their country was nourished by the king's country.
21And upon a set day Herod, arrayed in royal apparel, sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto them.
22And the people gave a shout, saying, It is the voice of a god, and not of a man.
23And immediately the angel of the Lord smote him, because he gave not God the glory: and he was eaten of worms, and gave up the ghost.

What I set out to say in this entry is that the account by Josephus supports the Biblical account of Herod's death. I was delighted to find that in my reading. Where this story takes me however, is to quite another place, even though there are many things that this story bring to mind. Here is just one of them:

Author and holocaust survivor, Corrie ten Boom, was once feted on a Christian television show similar to the popular program, This is Your Life. As the host told of one story after another of how Corrie bore up under horrible abuse in the camps, and then spent the rest of her life teaching forgiveness, the audience jumped to their feet in applause. Corrie looked a bit bewildered for a moment, then began to smile broadly, looking first at the audience and then up at the ceiling. This went on for the duration of her standing ovation. As she sat down, the host asked her to explain what she was doing, as everyone had noticed her glances and smiles as they clapped. She said something similar to this:
"When people give me flowers and say thank you, I just pass them along to God. He gets the flowers and it makes Him happy--and me happy, that I can give them to Him as a gift. So I was giving the flowers to God."
Her words had a profound impact on me, the 20 years ago that I saw this television show.

I train students how to be therapists. I am the silent face on the other side of the one-way mirror, watching as students stumble, freeze up, blurt out non sequitors, and turn to the mirror mouthing the words "Help!" Some do, although a large number of students have natural ability and good intuition and will make terrific therapists. Every now and then a student comes through who seem to "fancy their lemon drops," (as my British friend says of her lah-de-dah acquaintances) and conduct themselves as deities at whose feet the masses of humanity should bow and with tear-dimmed eyes, hungrily accept the crumbs of their wisdom, without which their starving souls should soon succumb. Oh my goodness...

As I work with these students to get a more realistic view of their role and abilities in such situations, this story of being like a god comes to my mind. In fact, as I work with the students and I see them looking to me as though I'm some sort of omniscient being, I have to stop myself and be sure that I have a realistic view of my role and abilities. I grew up being told that parents stand in the place of God to their children. It's true. But so do lots of other people. We as humans, attribute incredible authority and power to individuals whom we admire or who have certain characteristics. It feels good to be a guru. For some of us, it feels good just to know what we're talking about for a change. But the message is the same: Give God the flowers.

Dessert

"I've eaten too much..."
"Me, too." I shifted around in the booth, hoping my food would settle so I could feel more comfortable. "I shouldn't have eaten so much bread and dipping oil."
Sam gave me a twinkly eyed grin. "Yeah."
We had dinner at the Macaroni Grill tonight for the first time. The food was good and we had an animated, humorous conversation.

Sam was particularly pleasurable to look at. He's been absolutely dashing as he goes off to work and I told him so as we walked into the restaurant tonight. He beamed at me a bit shyly but with real pleasure.

The waitress popped over to the table. "How was the food?"
"Terrific!" we chorused in unison.
"And will you be having dessert tonight?"
Sam shot a glance at me. "I'll be having my dessert at home."
"Oh... will that be takeout then?" She began scribbling something on her pad.
"No," Sam said rather deliberately. "I already have my dessert right here." He reached over and patted my hand.
"Oh my goodness!" the waitress chirped. "You're two love birds!"
We smiled and I almost floated out of the restaurant holding Sam's hand. After a kiss in the parking lot, we headed home. There was a young couple getting into a white car next to ours who were left staring at us as we drove away. We hadn't done anything unseemly, we just love each other and love being together.

How can people recognize what love or sweetness is if all they see is illicit, self-serving expressions that have nothing to do with the other person and all to do with what they get out of a situation? That is what television and romance novels would have us believe.

I was taken by surprise by Sam's comment tonight (delightfully so) but I hope that somewhere there are people who saw a middle-aged couple who love one another and whose flirtation and warmth serve as an encouragement to them on their own relationship journey.

Contagion

There are times when those close to us say and do things that are outright mortifying. There are acts committed, words said, or interactions with other people that we sometimes shrink away from, trying to distance ourselves as quickly as possible. We feel implicated in foul play somehow because of how close we are to the individual who commits these gaffes.

I have an acquaintance whose husband turns into a mean-spirited, antagonistic heckler when he makes calls to his doctor's offices. She always goes in the other room where she can't hear the phone call because it's almost painful to hear the conversation. The man she loves, who whispers tenderness into her ear, who does sweet things like wears cologne just for her, can turn into a real pain in the neck on the phone. He raises his voice in a rant, threatens, and is belligerant from the outset, challenging office receptionists by assuming that they are duplicitous and incompetent.

Another woman acquaintance literally cringes when she rides with her husband in the car. He swears, flips off other drivers, and lunges in and out of traffic, squealing his wheels in anger. Not only does she not feel safe, she abhors his behavior and would rather be anywhere but with him when he is like that.

One man I know takes his wife out to restaurants, knowing that she will create a scene if any portion of her meal isn't up to her impossible culinary standards. She has been known to throw her plate on the floor and be escorted from eateries by the manager.

There have been times in my life when I felt that my identity was determined by the behavior of those around me. People who behaved differently than I did; whose values were vastly different from mine; whose manner of interacting with others was nothing like mine. I have struggled to know how to best be with such people while being true to what is right for me. Is it best to acknowledge the difference, or downplay it? Is it wise to try to make some demonstration of your own way of doing things in order to point out the difference, or will that only make you appear to feel superior? If the behavior around you is intolerable, but you love the individuals, is it best to absent yourself? Is it a good thing to talk to that person about troublesome aspects of their behavior, or is it better to limit your exposure to such persons?

When I was growing up I was surrounded by people who seemed to define me. I think this is typical for most kids--we are defined by our parents, classmates, friends, siblings. People used to come up to me and tell me jokes that other family members appreciated, but that I found obnoxious. I was given things or told things that applied to someone else, but that didn't fit me in any reasonable way. I got confused with someone else. Perhaps it was the right message but the wrong person. This happens often to lots of people. It's always surprising when it happens to me.

I've been thinking about this, as Sam has been working out all the details of our internet service during prolonged phone calls. I love him, and our business interactions are as different as day and night. I cringe and dodge the study where he is holding forth with some unfortunate internet consultant on a nightly basis.
I work with some individuals whose interpersonal skills are less than acceptable. Because we are both members of the same administrative team, I am sometimes implicated by association.

There are lots of ways to think about this and deal with it. What has been helpful to me over the years is the Bible verse that says, But the words that come out of your mouth come from your heart. And they are what make you unfit to worship God. (Matthew 15:18).

Contagion is a concern that many of us face day in and day out. Learning how to be gracious in balancing what one is and isn't, in the face of behavior from a vastly different perspective, is a continual challenge. I hope I learn to do it gracefully and in a way that supports the good in other people.

Barbara Needs

Some time ago I was challenged by another blogger to state the top eight items listed under a Google search entitled, "Barbara needs..." Here they are with my comments:
1. Barbara needs to blog. Indeed I do. It's very hard for me to find time to be consistent with my blog. Point well taken.
2. Barbara needs a good swift kick. I'm sure that's true at times, although there are probably more productive ways to get my attention.
3. Barbara needs a miracle. This has been on my mind lately, thinking about the cost of real estate in Southern California!
4. Barbara needs to lose weight. Oh yeah...about 40 pounds!
5. Barbara needs to tread carefully. My new job has made me a moving target for a number of interesting politically-motivated acts by individuals in my professional circle. Indeed, I need to watch every step and rehearse every public comment.
6. Barbara needs help to find sheet music. The suggested music was "Sail On" by the Commodores. Ick. I'd love to find some new sheet music but it would be even better to have time to play music any more!
7. Barbara needs a patient and committed family who can provide a structured and supportive environment. That would be a good thing! Support I have. Structure is quite another thing!
And my favorite one:
8. Barbara needs to go and retire. I'm looking forward to it!

All things new

It is now exactly one month ago that we moved to the Southwest. I lived in this town for 18 years before moving away for graduate school, so in many respects it is like coming back home to be here.

Tonight I made a run to Trader Joe's (the most wonderful grocery store ever) in an adjacent town. It was a nostalgic experience to drive down those streets again and pull up in a place that feels so familiar and has many happy associations. On the way home I felt like meandering down some side streets. On the south side of town there is an open air amphitheater where a concert series takes place every summer. I drove slowly around the "Bowl," thinking back to the July 4th celebrations of the past, the crowds, and the special secret parking place where I could always find space for my little car.

There's a small park next to the Bowl and across the street, several very small homes that were once probably guest cottages. They can't be more than about 600 square feet. I pulled up in front of one of them and turned off the engine. I used to have a boyfriend who lived in this house and I learned many things about life, relationships, and myself. I ended that relationship and he died of AIDS six months later. It was shocking and painful, to say the least. As I reflected on my experience with him I braced myself for a flood of regret, anger, distress, or indignation. But as I sat in my car under the tree, there was none of that. There was only a respectful inner silence for what was, and satisfaction for my actions before, during, and after he died.

It's interesting to be back here again. I was single for the entire 18 years I lived here. It's a place where lots of single people live, albeit, decreasing in number as they get to my age. I didn't date a great deal, but I did have several significant relationships. I frequently drive by the home that a former fiance' and I bought 22 years ago. The only feelings about him and that house are mild curiosity about what it looks like inside now, and gratefulness that I never married him.
As I drive home after work, if I look up on the hill I can see the home of my very first boyfriend. He was the most fun and interesting boyfriend I ever had. I remember him warmly and with a smile. But again, grateful that I never got more involved with him.

It seems that when we become Christians and give our hearts to God, we look back on our experience in life B.C. --before Christ. We look back at what we did, where we went, who we were close to, and what was valuable to us--and we relive in a sense, all that came before. But with Christ, all things are new and we are new creatures (2 Corinthians 5:17). Even though we may have to reap what we have sown, there is no room for hopelessness over what was or could have been. By the grace of God we are what we are, and hopefully, His grace to us has not been for nothing (1 Corinthians 15:10). What has gone before makes us what we are today.

Not everyone has the luxury of having few regrets as they look back. Life is hard and not for the faint-hearted. I drove home with gratefulness tonight, that my years before--whether painful, thought-provoking, exciting, growth-producing--leaves me with a sense of contentment. It feels for me that my life has come full circle and I am back home, at peace with all that has brought me to where I am today. Thank God for His grace to me.

My favorite teacher

Sam is a remarkable father. (And yes, this is Sam--kind of. Stepdaughter #3 is standing behind him, providing the hair. And no, those are not his own teeth!) As a new stepmother three years ago, I was scared half to death of the prospect before me: three teenagers who have a great mother, who did not know what to make of me, and who viewed me as someone who took their father away (out of state). So I looked to Sam to help me know how to be a parent.

I was quickly alarmed by the fact that my dear husband turned into someone I didn't even know when he was with the girls. It's true that they were acting up the first few visits we had from them, but Sam the dad wasn't Sam the husband and I was awfully confused. I remember lying in bed the first night the girls came to see us, and weeping my heart out. I had only been married a few months and my peaceful, laid back husband had suddenly turned into this imperative-issuing, high-strung, LOUD man. It was a far cry from the tender, soft-spoken, egalitarian person I thought I had married. I thought to myself that I couldn't have possibly made a mistake this significant--how could I ever have known he was like this before? And I held my grief and loss of a happy future with a peaceful husband to my bosom and wept as though the world had ended.

When Sam came to bed, he found me congested with bloodshot eyes. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that I thought I'd made a mistake in marrying him, but I did tell him that I couldn't recognize him anymore when he was with the girls. He was merely doing the dad thing, and since I had no corollary as a mother, it was all very foreign and frightening to me. That was a long, tough night. He didn't say a lot, but listened to me choking out my heartbreak for quite some time. He finally turned over and went to sleep, while angst and I continued on for several hours.

That was three years ago. He has mellowed, the girls have adjusted to us both, and I'm more used to the parent role. I've observed so many parents act just like him, and he's not such a stranger as a father anymore. I hear myself say things like, "Because I said so!" and "Don't even think it..."
I hear them say things to him like: "You're so corny, dad!" "Oh, puh-leeze!" "Geez, what a dork!" "Oh, daddeeee!" And amazingly enough, the girls seem to love him more with every visit. Now we live in the same region and we see them often. They keep coming back--with eagerness--to see him (and me, by default). He dances with them, sermonizes, hugs them, tells horrible puns, lays on their bed and talks with them, and sings to them while they roll their eyes. And when he tells them they're beautiful or listens to their latest student nurse stories, he beams and so do they.

Thank you for being such a good teacher, Pappi.
I married one good father.

Soaring without wings

St. Mary's church in Krakow, Poland

When I was 15 years old I was invited to travel with a youth orchestra as their mezzo soprano soloist. It was a dream come true for many reasons. I wanted to get out of the small rural New York hollow where I lived because there were no opportunities for artistic expression or development there. It was a place where there were more cows than people. I also lived with two frustrated musicians whose sad stories about what they wanted to accomplish musically had always been a disappointment to them. I didn't want that to happen to me. Traveling to Europe, the seat of Anglo culture, was very exciting to me. But most of all, the prospect of being able to sing was thrilling. If my voice could meld with strings and woodwinds to create something beautiful, I would even be content to lie down and die--so badly did I want to sing. It wasn't about being seen or identified with the music. Many were the times I said that I'd be happy to sing from under a drape or high up in a balcony so no one could see me--only let me sing freely and express all that is within me.
It was a one-month tour to Poland as guests of the country in a kind of artistic exchange experience. Concerts were scheduled in many of the larger cathedrals and a few concert halls.

The first concert took place in St. Mary's in Krakow. One memorable moment was when our orchestra was ushered in the back of the church toward the steep staircase to the balcony. As mass had already started and we arrived late, we had to traipse through the silent worshipers on the back aisle of the church. Each of us picked up a packet of music, music stand, or instruments, and hoisted up our long concert dresses to get up the stairs. I picked up two french horns in cases and following on the heels on the soprano, Hope, crept toward the stairs, gaping at the architecture. Unfortunately, I was looking up at the flying buttresses when Hope, paused and dropped into a dramatic and graceful genuflection as she passed the altar. Of course, we both landed in a heap with me on her back, horns skidding across the stone floor. Yes, I do know what it feels like to be "country come to town"!

As we assembled up in the right side of the balcony around the organ, I was told that our fearless conductor had negotiated with the then communist watchdogs who forbade us to perform religious music. "Oh," she had remonstrated, "These are just musical classics." And they had backed down. What I didn't realize was that these people had not heard sacred music with the exception of plainsong chant during mass for up to 30 years.

We started out that concert with Hope and I singing "Wir eilen mit Schwachen" from Bach's Cantata No. 78, accompanied by organ and oboe, with cello continuo. We stood as close to the balcony rail as we could, so our voices could soar out over the congregation. I looked down from what seemed to be miles above the worshipers to see a sea of bodies huddled together in pews, all looking downward. Many wore dark kerchiefs over their heads and seemed bowed down in a depressing way. We could see very few faces since we were so high up and a bit behind them. The entire cathedral seemed dark and a bit frightening. We had heard that there were communist "bugs" amongst our interpreters who would report us if we were seen talking to anyone. Neither could we give anyone anything. We were being watched, and having grown up with all the hype about communists, I was very anxious. I assumed the people down below were as intimidated by the regime as I was. And how dare anyone forbid sacred music? It was unthinkable to me.

But then the organ began the introduction with the cello happily sawing out the motif that sounds like running feet. It is such a cheerful piece and just the day before Hope and I had sung it over and over for nearly an hour in an old church hall while the harpsichordist twanged along with us. Now here we were, getting to sing it for people. We launched out into the music, disappearing into the lyrics:

Wir Eilen Mit Schwachen

du Emsigen Schritten

O Jesu, O Meister,

zu helfen, zu dir.

As we paused at the coda, I suddenly realized that I could see faces of the people below us. They weren't looking at us. They were leaning back in their seats and with eyes closed, like cats in the sun, they were basking in the music. Some had tears running down their faces. Others wept openly. Many looked as though they were enjoying a private audience with God, through their closed eyes. It was as though they could also be free for a few minutes, even if only in their minds. Hope and I sang our hearts out, sitting down breathless at the end of our duet.

At the end of the concert, the entire place erupted in spontaneous, uncontrolled applause. We had to leave quickly because of our schedule, and rushed from the place. People stood outside the church leaning toward us, unable to say anything in English, but their faces said more than they could have articulated. Some reached out and touched our hands or arms.

This was an immensely formative experience for me. I realized that there is power in making music---power to heal, to liberate, to bridge gaps in language and culture. And I suddenly wanted to be present, seen, and part of the music. It was something that I could give, and for a girl who despaired of ever having anything to give to anyone else, this was a miracle.

That day both the hearers and I were free--them from the communist restrictions that threatened to control even their minds, and me from the mundane circumstances that threatened hope. The hearers soared in their hearts toward God. My hope and joy soared further than ever before. And for a short time, we all reached upward and outward in what felt to be a magical hour. I hope that in the hereafter I might meet some of these Poles and thank them for teaching me how to soar without wings.

Revisions

There is something very exciting about submitting an article for publication. For weeks or months, the effort to find just the right word, just the right phrase, has consumed the writer's mind. Friends or colleagues read the paper and comment about what makes sense and what could be strengthened by writing it a different way. Eager to make the paper most readable and clear, the writer hastens to make the changes. This sometimes involves changing the direction of the main thought or adding large explanatory sections to it.
After all the writing, the magic day comes when all the words are on the page. Then the grueling day long task of formatting it to APA standards begins: hanging indents for the reference page; block style paragraph for the abstract; correct referencing in the body of the paper, and appropriate levels of headings. All of this must be done before it can be sent to the publisher. When it is completed, it seems a miracle to even hold such a precious document, or to contain it on one's hard drive. But there it is.
It is very exciting to then submit such an article for publication and heave a sigh of relief as it sails off into cyberspace (if electronically submitted) or via the postal service. The thought of the article in print is like the image of wearing pearls--really lovely, flattering, and something that enhances anyone at all.

What typically happens, is that these literary darlings are returned full of battle scars. Editors are known for tearing such things to shreds, and since articles are by blind review (they don't tell you who is making the editorial comments), they often are rather direct, critical, and challenging to the ego. I have received such letters. After my stomach, which feels as though it is dropping into my ankles, stops lunging, I often ponder how I could have ever made it through a rigorous doctoral program and still be as shortsighted as these letters indicate I am.

This evening I received such a letter. However, it is a second request for revisions. The first letter shocked me, since I felt the paper had real merit. Of course I would think this--it was my "baby" and no one else has written on this topic in the way that I have. But four people had very strong opinions about the way I wrote it. Because it was so overwhelming to try to rework, I procrastinated for several months, not so much as looking at it. When I finally got to it again, the week-long angst I experienced over that set of revisions still did not produce something that would get past the reviewers.

I don't think that very many people know what it is like to go through this process. People who get published are very patient and persistent. It helps if they can write, but some are as dry as the Sahara and still get published.

Any road, I'm going to have to burrow back into that miserable manuscript in the next couple weeks and try to make all the requested changes. We're not talking about minor things here--my methods section (the way the study was performed) isn't up to par. There was no method, but when I said that in the first version, they wouldn't stand for such a paper to be in their journal. So then I said there was a method in the second version and they didn't like it. Now there's a bind. I could fabricate a method, or say it has nothing to do with data collection and is purely an observation or clinical idea of mine. And that wouldn't be what they're looking for, either.

Well, that's the issue tonight. Some things can't be good enough until they're gone over and over and over and over. It reminds me of the Bible verse that says, "The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong..." (Ecclesiastes 9:11). Persistence is a quality that I prize--one that has served me well. I have worked very hard in many areas of my life to gain a host of things. I will slug it out with these editors until I get this article in print, too. What I wonder is this: am I willing to work hard and go to great lengths to make strides in my spiritual life: in terms of Bible study, character building, Christian disciplines? The question is one we all have to answer.

Pliz do not touch

This picture from here.

For the last four days I've been in Minneapolis visiting Kenyan Christians. There are over 15,000 Kenyans in Minnesota, which strikes me as an odd place for Africans to settle. As one pastor told me, "It is a very welcoming place for us. And there are jobs here."
Kenyans typically do not have mental health therapists in their country, nor do they use them, according to the Kenyan I spoke with. It is not consistent with the culture to share family or personal concerns with strangers, even highly trained ones. These concerns are discussed with an elder, auntie, or uncle. So it was with some misgivings that I accepted an invitation to speak to a group of Kenyans about family and mental health issues.
It ended up being a four-day cultural immersion program. I learned how to make ugali, a white cornmeal mush that has no mush to it whatsoever. It is a stiff, unwieldy lump that looks like overcooked Cream of Wheat made with insufficient water. It is to be broken apart with one's fingers (of the right hand, I was told) before scooping up vegetables and meat with it. Apparently a woman must be able to cook it before she can marry. She must prepare it for her future in-laws and if it is unacceptable they send her back to her parents to learn how to cook. The fact that I had demonstrated to the women that I could cook it was included in my formal introductions several times. This was met with murmurs of approval and loud, happy exclaimations!

I had the privilege of staying with a Kenyan couple over the weekend. It was quickly apparent that they were intent on feeding me all I could eat. They explained that thin people are considered neglected. A full-bodied individual is evidence of being well cared for. I fit right into that! At one meal I kept cleaning my plate, only to have more food offered to me. I was under the impression that I would insult them if I didn't continue packing it in, so I was nearly ready to explode by the time someone explained to me that I should leave food on my plate--a no-no in my background! I tasted "tea" consisting of boiled vanilla Silk soy milk with a dash of chocolate cocoa and teaspoon of brown sugar in it. It was remarkably good and I was given a huge cup of it about 9:30 or 10:00 each night. I slept like a baby, although all I could think about during the day was that I should be out hiking to use up all the calories I was consuming!
One woman ground her own spices together in the blender, making the most aromatic rice spice I've ever smelled. She sent me home with a huge container of it, admonishing me to "come back when you need more, okeh?"

On Friday evening I was presented with two kangas. These are the traditional Kenyan dresses composed of an ankle-length wrap-around skirt that is tied at the waist over which a long tunic hangs from the shoulders. The tunic has brightly colored machine embroidery. There is no significance to the colors per se, but each is matched to the complexion of the wearer. I was given a beautiful brown and white kanga, and a lovely light blue one with navy and white embroidery. Even the men remarked about how lovely they were on me. I think it was the idea that a White American woman would be interested in fitting into their culture. I felt rather exotic in my kangas, even if I looked very boxy in them. The head wraps were like tourniquets around my brain and when I got tired of them and took them off, my hair stood up like a rooster tail. I tried to explain that my hair lacks the texture of their hair, and they tied it very creatively about my slick hair. It stayed put, but I don't know how!

The hall where I spoke was full of silk flower arrangements around the podium. They were wrapped with white lace tablecloths. One bore the sign, "Pliz do not touch." The talks went well and I had a terrific time learning the Kenyan culture. I enjoyed every single individual I met and have great respect for the hurdles these folks must overcome when they enter this country.

On Saturday afternoon, I was taken to a gathering of people who were sitting with a woman whose mother had died in the motherland that week. As we drove into the driveway my hostess told me to be prepared to give a speech and say a prayer. With this responsibility looming over me, I entered a sweltering house packed with about 50 people, all sitting around a woman who was silently weeping and obviously grief stricken. After I was recognized by the man leading out, I was introduced and given permission to speak. It was a time when I measured every single word. After offering a prayer for the family of the deceased woman, we left. On the way out, we were detained by the huge platters of home-made Kenyan doughnuts, fruit, and cold drinks. As we were leaving we could hear voices singing African songs of hope and comfort.

As I leave this experience, I still hear their voices. People pay big bucks to have the opportunity to listen to lovely Swahili music--I heard it all weekend, sung with vigor, hope, and abandon. As I remember their rich, energetic voices, I feel a sort of smallness and humbleness that only comes from recognizing the brotherhood and sisterhood of all humanity. While we are immersed in our own cultural ways, hundreds of other worlds exist--ways of behaving, eating, speaking, thinking--all of which I know nothing about. It is comforting to me in an odd sort of way. I'm still savoring it today.

Patriotic Prayers

Today, as I think of all the men and women who have fought wars on our behalf, my mind goes to those relatives who have served this country well. The brother of my great, great grandfather, Dr. Henry Noble Couden, was a corporal in the Union Army during the Civil War. He later studied theology and at the age of 53 became the chaplain of the House of Representatives. Known as the "Blind Chaplain," he opened sessions in the House from 1895 to 1921 and officiated at the funerals of many notable statemen and their families. He died one year after he retired, at the age of 80.

At the sinking of the Titanic, he prayed:
We thank Thee that though in the ordinary circumstances of life selfishness and greed seem to be in the ascendancy, yet in times of distress and peril, then it is that the nobility of soul, the Godlike in man, asserts itself and makes heroes.

On January 5, 1911, he gave the following prayer at the beginning of House proceedings:

Eternal and overliving God, our heavenly Father, once more in the ceaseless flow of time Thou hast brought us to the beginning of a new year, rich in the material, intellectual, moral, and spiritual wealth of all the past. Help us, we beseech Thee, with high resolves to face the future without fear, for as Thou hast been in our past so shalt Thou be in our future, a very present help in every need. And grant that our failures may be stepping- stones to a brighter future, that, passing on, we shall leave to coming generations a better Government, a better world. ... And Thine be the praise forever. Amen.

On January 7, 1912, he opened House proceedings with this prayer:

Infinite Spirit, our God and our Father, who holdest in Thy heart the secret of life and the mystery of death, Thou knowest the beginning and the end.

Behold! we know not anything;
We can but trust that good shall fall.
At last - far off - at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

We bless Thee, O Father, for the profound faith, sublime hope, and imperishable love - qualities of soul which inspire the great thoughts, the heroic deeds, and bind us together into families and friendships which shall live on forever. We are met by a common impulse, a natural desire to record on the pages of history the rounded-out character and splendid achievements of a faithful public servant, that his example may be an inspiration to us and those who shall come after us to emulate his virtues [Senator Elkin of West Virginia, recently deceased]. Let the everlasting arms be about the confiding and stricken wife, his children, and friends drawn to him by a loving and genial nature, that we may look forward with bright anticipations to a reunion in some fairer clime where changes never come. And blessing and honor and praise be Thine. In the spirit of the Master. Amen.

And finally, a July 4 prayer, 1918:

Our Father in Heaven, the inspiration of every generous impulse, every high and noble aspiration, we thank Thee from our heart of hearts for the "Spirit of '76," which gave to us the immortal Declaration of Independence, which led on to victory and the formation of our Glorious Republic, which has not only been the wonder but the admiration of the world. We thank Thee for the day which will be celebrated with more than usual interest throughout the length and breadth of the land. The native born and the naturalized citizen will vie with each other in making it memorable.
For the first time in its history it will be celebrated by our sister nations, who are engaged with us in fighting for the same principles for which our forefather fought, in a world-wide war for humanity, liberty, justice, and equal rights for all mankind.
May it furnish new inspiration to us and our allies, which will bring victory to their arms; then an everlasting peace; to the glory and honor of Thy Holy Name. Amen.
Accessed from http://www.american.edu/heintze/Prayers.htm

New Clothes Day

I just love the first day of a new job. It reminds me of the first day of school. Sam was rushing about this morning, ironing his new shirt, new pants, and slipping into his new socks and shoes. I was so intrigued by watching him that I gave very little thought to what I threw on. However, Sam made up for both of us in the looks department this morning. He looked rather executive in spite of himself.
When I got to work, I passed along all the piecemeal office furniture to someone else and immediately ordered an entire suite for myself (on someone else's dime--which was most gratifying!) I went to a staff meeting first thing and to my great surprise, discovered that one of my students is someone that I asked out on a date about 15 years ago! He hadn't forgotten and gave me quite a nice introduction to the rest of the group, for which I am very grateful.
I'm taking the place of someone who was much loved and who for political reasons, was asked to step down. So any positive endorsement of my ability is quite welcome.
So what does one do with a large empty office, holding only a file cabinet and a chair? Not much. It will be a lovely slow beginning until my furniture gets here. I only have to go through the vexation of reading my beeper instructions and trying to figure out how to use it.
Sam came home looking triumphant and still very executive. Beginnings are so interesting.

Worse yet

Last night I discovered that there is something much, much worse than having the air conditioning go out. It's having a skunk in the back yard, and a migraine PLUS no air conditioning.
Lord help me...