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...

My soapbox

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!!!!!!!"

That is what we've been hearing a lot of in our house for the last week. The World Cup soccer games have held Sam's attention, and he's been watching the Spanish language television channel coverage. The announcers are so much more interesting and animated than the American sports commentators. I usually pick up a new Spanish word or two as I walk through the livingroom.
Watching sports (particularly golf--oh help!) has never been something I've had patience for. But soccer is one sport that I understand and appreciate since I played it for awhile in middle school.

What I really love about watching the World Cup series is the crowd reactions in the stands. Soccer is not a spectator sport for European audiences. They actively encourage the players by robust singing, clapping, and shouting. As the plays get closer to the goal, the intensity of the crowd increases until there is a deafening roar coming from the grandstands. Involvement is the name of their game, even if it is from the stands. I just love the solidarity and support that spills out onto the streets after games (sans the fights, riots, and general destruction that can occur).

As I was watching the games this morning, it occurred to me that for many people, life is only a spectator sport--and one that they watch with quiet despair. People often do anything but examine their own lives, or build their own dreams. It is far easier to be the spectator while someone else does the work. We hover about our televisions every night, cheering on people who are racing around the world, or who must drink cow bile to win a million dollars, or who are gambling for big bucks. We even cheer for actors who make men and women appear to be idiotic, inept, insensitive, and clueless in every way. We watch murders and crimes of all kinds, silently cheering for the good guy and hoping that right wins in the end.
Or, if it's not television, we read romance novels about impossible sexual exploits that if truly happened, would put nature on its ear. Grand relationships birthed from a furtive glance, a heaving (visible, voluptuous) breast, and communication that even cavemen would find insufficient.

Meanwhile, life in the real world passes us by. Many people can talk with you about the plot of the series, "Lost" but can't talk about anything substantive about their own life, their thoughts, hopes, dreams. We know who the American Idol is and what Simon Cowle's comments were about him, but few people know the height and breadth of their own emotional terrain. We know what Tom Cruise's religious beliefs are, but do we know our own with any measure of certainty? We watch people do a slow verbal and emotional striptease on shows like Oprah and Dr. Phil, but have we ever looked at the issues in ourselves that the guests of these shows share with the world?

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul? (Matthew 16:26).

Soulfulness is hard to come by for people who live their lives through the experience of other people. Their souls become neglected, lonely, melancholy starvelings that are kept hidden away because they're not as exciting or romantic as what we can watch or read about elsewhere. God forbid that life becomes a spectator sport for anyone!

Hot

(Found at school.discovery.com/ clipart/clip/hotstuff.html)

When I was invited to move to the Southwest, I knew it would be very hot down here. It was the one thing that I dreaded most--the pollution, gangs, crime, huge population, earthquakes, fires, mudslides, and smog notwithstanding. I get really cranky when it's hot outside because I was made for life in Minnesota or the Adirondacks. It was 101 degrees Farenheit today. Nothing could lure me outside, and I stayed in, grateful for air conditioning.

Late this afternoon the gardener came to work in the yard. Using a leaf blower, he blew clouds of dust into the air around the back of the house, clearing long accumulated refuse into one place. A few minutes later, the air coming out of our air vents started getting considerably warmer. Soon it was 82 degrees in the house and we were getting lethargic and very uncomfortable. Of course, the air and refrigeration people are backlogged and we don't know when they'll get to us. So here we sit with fans whirring and the house temperature in the 80s.

It is at times like this that I wonder how the pioneers ever survived life in the West without the conveniences of modern life. They lived in adobe homes, close to the ground, with large verandas and palm trees planted as close to the homes as possible in order to provide shade. The heat must have been atrocious. All I can think of is how horrible it would have been to be pregnant or be ill in the summer.

Our night air is mercifully cooler than the day, for which we are eternally grateful! We will open up the house tonight, blow out the hot air with fans and then close everything up in the morning--curtains and blinds drawn, fans whirring all day. Perhaps the repairmen can get here in the next couple days. I think we will visit our friends across town tomorrow...