Why I Love Living In China :: A Book. A New Year

I just finished reading The City of Tranquil Light by Bo Caldwell. It’s a novel about an American couple serving as missionaries in inland China during the early 20^th century. It’s a somewhat prosaic story about their love, longevity, loss, and the lessons they learned as well as the difficult things that still remained a mystery for them at the end of their lives. In many ways the story is far removed from the China of today and the way we experience life here. But there was a spirit about it that was compelling, or at least had hints of a camaraderie in it to me… like that red silk thread that adoption families talk about, an invisible connection that ties them to their son or daughter in an inexplicable but very real way.

It made me think about the powerful influence of Time in our lives. How it can bind you in a slow, rhythmic way over days and months and years to a place, or a people. To many people, there may be very little on the face of living in China that is attractive. To the naked eye, comparing it to other places in the world, this city is dirty, polluted, frustrating and difficult. In many ways the stories and lives around us are maddening, sometimes horrifying, or just plain depressing. For all appearances, it's not a great place to raise kids. And I read all of this in The City of Tranquil Light too, though to a much greater degree. Life was so different back then, far harder, far more isolating and much more physically demanding. The sacrifices were incredible and seemed never to let up.  Yet in time, as the years swept over them like the dust storms that covered the land, this ordinary couple was molded by those long stretches of time, and the shape of those years gave form to love. The hardships and people, the relationships and experiences shaped their growing love like a baby that forms slowly in the womb and one day you look upon it’s face, seeing with your eyes what has all these months been blossoming by it’s taking from your own flesh and blood.

Time gives birth to love it seems. As does hardship. And weaving in and out of these two is every relationship, great and small that you make along the way. Relationships on every level are the ribbon of light that brings a wonder of luminescence to the fabric of time and hardship. It’s the part of life that keeps you keeping on, and that sometimes makes you feel as though all the world is breaking apart. In the book, it’s the relationships that make it hardest to leave China in the end. And though my family is not leaving, as I read it I felt the pull that is always there for us, the tension that rides under the surface of emotions almost all the time: the people we love and “lose” every day in a sense because we are not a part of their lives anymore, living way over on the other side of the world, but at the same time growing ever more grateful and attached to the people we have the gift of knowing here.

Sometimes I wonder if it makes any sense that we give up knowing cousins and aunties and uncles and grandparents, so that we can instead share life with the young woman, the student, the couple. These are things I can’t weigh in the balance. I can’t see what the worth of anything really is. And I have to put it all in the hands of my Lord who feels the weight of things correctly, and simply asks me to keep seeing with eyes of faith.

It is the start of another Lunar New Year today, chu yi the first day of the first month, and the most important holiday of the year. Everywhere are fireworks and families gathering. Red chinese lanterns are strung along the streets and in windows. The doors are covered with traditional banners declaring good fortune and well wishes over the household for the coming year. It is another mysterious sort of gift to me, this sharing in a tradition that is not ours by birth or rite. We are foreign to it and at most take part in a surface sort of way. But this too was something that struck me as I read, how joining in these festivities ties you to a place as well.  And without making too much of it, I think in some small but perhaps important ways, our family has been graced with good things that we otherwise may have missed were we not able to every year celebrate the Chinese New Year.

As is the tradition, on the Eve of the New Year, we made jiaozi, meat filled dumplings representing abundance and good fortune. As I sat with all four of my children and husband at our table, the plate heaped full with steaming, crunchy jiaozi that we all love with an almost improper ferocity, I did indeed feel fortunate. I knew and know that we are blessed.

It is perhaps easiest to look around and see the physical blessings, but as I have been pondering lately from the words of Jesus, as we work not for food that spoils but for food that endures to eternal life, our eyes are ever opened more and more to the unseen realities that our ours in Christ. He who gives the food and the rain and the house and the clothes also gives the joy and faith and love. You can have joy and faith and love without house or clothes. But to have house or clothes without joy and faith and love is no life at all. This is the life that is worth living… and it is a life that is learned over time, through hardship, in the midst of relationship. This is the essence of the good life that the couple in The City of Tranquil Light knew. And in this, and their love for China,  and the slow years that grew them, I feel I too one day may, in some distant way know a part of their story.

Why I Live In China :: Part II

For the first part of the evening, as another man shared, he stared blandly somewhere near his knees. Then someone asked him to pray. He rose up and his voice bellowed forward, melodic and rhythmic and it filled the room in a way his frail frame did not suggest was possible. "His Name is Wonderful!" he repeated several times. And I knew he believed it in a way I have yet to learn.

He has lived in China for more than twice the number of decades I've been alive, and he has seen changes most people will never relate to or understand. He spoke of many of those changes and the testimony of faithfulness of His God whose Name is Wonderful. He has tested that faithfulness through war torn years, change of power, dark and tense years when much of life as we understand it was being undermined and even destroyed, and finally, in prison. 

His Name is Wonderful he said, and this man believed that for that Name it was worth standing in prayer before a building that was being bulldozed to the ground, because it was built for the Name. Bulldoze away, they said, we will rebuild it again. And they did, and again they knocked it down, and again they rebuilt and now it still stands. But stronger than that building is the faith of these men and stronger than their faith is the One they put their faith in. 

One of our white faces stood up to share our thanks, for being able to sit at the feet of these men as they shared their stories and their hearts for their country with us. We feel small, he said. We are humbled. Faith as small as a mustard seed can move a mountain, and though our faith felt so small it is the size of the one we have faith in that really matters. And in that, we were all brothers and sisters, perhaps worlds away in culture, experience, history, age, and maturity, but clinging to the one whose Name is Wonderful in any age or land.

And what did I learn? That perhaps a stripping away of all that seems necessary can be a purifying thing for gathering worshipers. That for some, starting a school that aims to teach from a Logos-Worldview is a frightening and important venture that is vital to the minds and hearts of the next generation, not merely another school option. That old men who look like they are sleeping, are just waiting to stand up and shout Hallelujah. That some people get geeked about rock concerts or celebrity sightings, but this is where I become a hopeless and pathetically adoring fan.

Dear Old Man, I could listen to you sing out "His Name is Wonderful" for the rest of my days, and someday... I will.

land lady

Today my landlady came over to remove *most* of her furniture from the upstairs rooftop. She is somewhat of a mystery to me. Beautiful, with strong, balanced features and long, jet black hair that she usually wears down but today with all the stair climbing and directing movers, she had it pulled up in a knot-twisty thing.

She is nice to me, but you can see there is an edge to her just underneath the surface, so that if I ask a question she feels will put her in a bad position, or if she senses I am trying to get something out of her, she sort of bristles. It's unnerving. I also see the way she handles other people and I know she is one of those infamous "Landladies of Chengdu"types. They are known for being hard to work with. These kind of observations make any meeting with my landlady opportunities for an overall sense of nervousness and anxiety. I pace the floor all morning, mulling over the questions I need to address with her and the issues I am hoping to resolve... how best to approach her? And then I throw it all out the window when I realize I only know about five words to even try to get my point across. And then I just pray a lot and hope for the best.

In recent days, I keep coming back to this phrase:

In the morning you hear my voice, In the morning I prepare a sacrifice for you and watch. ˜Psalm 5:3

It has been a sort of watchword for each day. All three themes are so important:

• He is near, and he hears. 
• I have something to give, and it often costs me. 
• The cost is worth it. If I watch and wait- He always has something He is doing. 

Maybe it seems a stretch to think of a meeting with a landlady as a sacrifice, but for me one kind of sacrifice is each and every one of these "stressor"situations that exacts something from me or causes me to have to lay down my desires on the line, knowing they may not be fulfilled as I wish. There has to be some measure of trust in every one of those moments, believing that the times are not in your hand, but the Hand that holds them is working for your good. Or that what may be asked of you in a single day does yield some sort of fruit if you do it unto Him, even if it is not evident in that span of time that you labored.

All that pretty hair, I wonder what sort of soul lies beneath it. Perhaps there will be a day when it won't be such a mystery, nor a means for a day of prayers.

 

Days of Gray 4 {Lent Begins}

I had these grandiose plans of writing several posts about the practice and growing interest or re-discovery of Lent,especially in  less orthodox circles. But as seems to be happening more often than not lately, my ideas were waylaid by travel and health concerns that needed attending too. If there is no other sign of growth in me than this though, it is enough-- that I am less bothered by my waylaid plans than I used to be.

So Lent began and I was holed up in a hospital room, but grateful still to be there. It's funny how Lent is a season of preparation, but the more that you look forward to it, the more you spend time preparing for this season of preparing! So even though I was alone with my child in a city far from home, with no church to attend and no community arround me to engage with, I was ready to begin.

Today, I want to just share a few simple reasons why I think the practice of Lent, on a personal level, can be so helpful and important. It seems like with most things that really change and affect us, time is needed. That is the first idea behind Lent, or any "season" really. It affords time to think and mull over, to give space in your life and your heart and your soul forthe weight of important things to sink in and root themselves. Often, we come to Easter Sunday and either glide through it unaware of how flippantly we've treated the greatest celebration of our faith, or we try to engage but feel disconnected and rather disappointed in ourselves for our lack of enthusiasm- though outwardly we give lip service to this most "glorious" of days.

I think Lent can be a real remedy to both of those problems. It gives us time to pepare. But more than that, it can be a transforming time in and of itself. Any time you choose to offer yourself in a posture of humility and discipline yourself for the sake of growth, a change is bound to take place.

Traditionally, Lent has included certain disciplines such as self-examination and repentance (which come about through Scripture meditation, and prayer), fasting, prayer, and meditating on specific portions of God's Word. We joke about what we are "giving up" for Lent, but the practice of fasting is a very real and practical way of limiting ourselves in some outward physical way, in order to make room for an inward spiritual humility. I have never been good at fasting. This year, I thought long and hard about some ways (being very pregnant) I could attempt to fast from things that would be meaningful enough to me to help me get in this posture of humility. One way, among a few- is what those empty coffee cups are about up at the top of the post.

Perhaps one of the often missed and significantly important parts of Lent is the action steps that are to be taken as well. It's not just about self denial and increased prayer times. There are disciplines of increased giving, acts of generosity, sacrificial caring for those in need. Often the combination of fasting from something that you spend your resources on can also be turned into ways you can increase your giving to others. This is also not an easy one for me. It takes some thought- and the idea of sacrifice, however noble is not one easily swallowed when it comes right down to it.

But all in all, I think of Lent as like a gift. We are people made for seasons. We don't live our lives on a flat line, we need the troughs and valleys, the ceelbratory times as well as the ordinary . Lent and the Easter Triduum (from Maundy Thursday to Resurrection Sunday) are one of those heightened seasons and in the pattern of Moses, Elijah, and Jesus we can walk a road that leaves our clay pots glowing brighter with the radiance of our Savior.

.........................................

This year, I have thoroughly enjoyed and found helpful the book by Bobby Gross called Living the Christian Year, which gives helpful background to the different seasons and traditions of the church calendar, as well as weekly devotional guides and Scripture readings.

Also:

Bread and Wine : Readings for Lent and Easter 

Lent and Easter Wisdom from Henri J. Nouwen

But to be honest, sometimes too much of a good thing is not a good thing and I try to just read out of onlyone resource per year.

Around the House and in the Heart

Just a few snapshots of some favorite places around the house, where lights warm it up or the Christmas spirit has inspired some special creation.

The weather outside has turned decidedly even grayer, and colder- but I hear it never gets quite cold enough to produce snow. Instead, we who sit below the famous "north-south" line in China have a home without heat, but reside in freezing temperatures. It makes for some interesting months. We are starting to appreciate our super warm slippers we purchased this summer, and our long-johns, and the extra blankets, and mugs of hot anything. And in spite of the fact that at the end of this month most of our expat community will be exiting the country for warmer places or the more familiar faces of their home countries for the long five week break, when we will be holding down the fort here in The Land of Gray and Cold, we are heartily looking forward to the celebration of Christmas and an extended time of rest and togetherness.

In the meantime, we are preparing. It is not always a pretty process. The decorating of our tree had a few bumps and grumbles, and there have been a few full or stressful days with all the activities required of us at school. But as my Man said today after a particularly difficult morning of worship (or attempt to worship), it's not supposed to be easy. I don't know if that is always true, but it is certainly true when you are surrounded by natural elements, whether or nature or flesh, that are always going awry. To prepare your heart for worship, or to worship in the midst of it all, to lift your eyes up and remember with faith that there is hope, there is Presence of a Person, there is meaning for the day here and now, all in middle of the grind of circumstances that truly do wear on you, is not for the faint of heart.

And that is another reason I love Advent. Advent is not about getting your heart all righteous and ready with peacefulness and quiet so that you can have four weeks of heightened worship and spiritual experience. It is the work of longing and groaning, of fighting for hope in a dark world, of choosing faith when you are discouraged, and rejoicing in hope because all is not lost.

 It is also a gift,; both in small aesthetic ways, and mysterious, earth-shattering ways. It is a gift to have a reason for the additions of beauty in lights and candles, greenery and decorations that bring nature and loveliness and things that delight our eyes but somehow warm our hears, into our homes-- especially just as the world outside has so little to offer in its dreary months of winter. It is a gift to have something to look forward to... a celebration... that lifts us out of the ordinary days and makes us think differently, if only for a couple weeks, on things we have known perhaps for years or centuries, but can never fathom the depths of.

No, Advent is not for perfection, not even the perfection of preparation. It is not for the fainthearted, but it is for the weak and weary, and for all those who long to be blessed by the gift of His Coming.

Advent is Here

The weekend has rumbled by us, and it was so good and full.

We had our First Annual Turkey Trot in China, complete with a 5k and 1 mile Tot Trot for the kids, and it was a delight and relief to see it come to fruition after the idea popped in my head a month or so ago.

We had our old upstairs neighbors to visit for the weekend which was a blessing to my entire family and not easy to say goodbye to (they even left a slew of gifts for me to to the 12 Days of Christmas-- how sweet are they?).

We celebrated two major feasts and one major oldest son's birthday, and then finally ended it all today with a party at school which involved me frosting a cake to look like a soccer ball, only to watch it be gobbled up with barely a glance at my intricate work of design. Such is love for your seven year old boy.

Into that weekend bursting full of food and togetherness and 5k sprints, crept the beginning of Advent.

I, for one, need Advent more than ever, or perhaps just differently and in a new way this year. And this is one of the things I do so love about holidays; they are there to heighten our awareness, to raise us up above the common days and enlarge us with celebration and all that comes with it.

We simply cannot live every day in celebration or in festivity, but God must have understood something about us as people- that these special, set-apart times are good and maybe even necessary for our souls. And though the festival days of old have become something shrouded in marketing, consumerism, and a celebration of emotions that barely touches the surface of what we're beholding, we can take hold of it's roots and our traditions, and let the time of Advent anchor our souls and enlarge our hearts. It is a combination of celebration and meditation, festivity and serenity, all centered around the works of God in our midst.

I do not have all my Advent ducks in a row yet. I am already behind. There is no advent wreath on the table, no special decor out, no special calendar ready for readings and little surprises with the children. I am learning to let it go a little and not feel too badly about all this. Sometimes you just can't get everything done, at least on time, and even doing all those things can become trappings. The point is, wreath or no wreath, I can still enter in.

Yesterday, these books came in the mail and I am pretty excited about using them as a tool to help me think on the themes that centuries of Advent celebration have developed. God Is In the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Watch For the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas by an assortment of authors. Two may be too many. I may stick with Bonhoeffer and try the other one next year.

Yesterday I read this quote in the opening pages of Bonhoeffer's book and it spoke to everything that can heighten and yet disappoint during Advent... it was a reminder of what it truly is, and what the importance of thinking on and worshiping in the midst of it all really does. As you read it, remember that Bonhoeffer was in prison as he wrote this, the place he died after being imprisoned for over two years during the reign of Hitler in Nazi Germany. During that time he was engaged to a woman named Maria.

"Life in a prison cell may well be compared to Advent. One waits, hopes, and does this, that, or the other- things that are really of no consequence- the door is shut, and can only be opened from the outside.

[as we wait during Advent] it's still not Christmas, but it's also not the great last Advent, the last coming of Christ. Through all the Advents of our life that we celebrate runs the longing for the last Advent, when the word will be: "See, I am making all things new" (Rev. 21:5).

The Advent season is a season of waiting, but our whole life is an Advent season, that is, a season of waiting for the last Advent, for the time when there will be a new heaven and a new earth."

A Very Good Sick Day

I am sitting here with glands swollen like elephants, a throat that feels like knives are having a slasher party down there, a head that feels like someone is trying to hammer open a melon, and chills (any good word pictures for chills?)

What am I doing on here then, you may wonder.

Well, in spite of my poor wretched body issues (that will of course, fade in time) I am floating on stars. It's not that big of a deal really. You might think we just received our long awaited reference for an adoption (we're not adopting), or a check for a large sum of money. But in fact, all we received was two lovely packages in the mail.

I am not sure why these things encourage me so much. But often for me, it is the little things. Now, my life is not super dramatic (Don't roll your eyes at me. Really. Deep down I know it's not.) and it is pretty much made up of little things. Little events, little victories, little struggles (that I make rather important and all encompassing), little tasks, even little people just now. So it is no surprise to me that just a few small gestures can make me feel like the floodgates have opened.

For instance, the other day, it was sunny out. Sunny. And clear. With blue skies. I felt like I had to look up all day long and just mutter "thank you" over and over again. I couldn't get enough of it. You know what it did for me? It reminded me that even though most of the days will be gray here... there will be days of sun. There will be reprieve. It gave me a glimpse of hope. A little thing, I know-- but it was big to me.

Then there was a day where I didn't cry as I sat praying at our kitchen table, looking over the vast sea of houses and construction cranes jutting the sky like a herd of Brontosaurus. It's great to cry. I'm not against it. But I felt okay, not like I was barely going to make it through the morning. Did my hormones just calm down that morning? Or was it a comfort from a Great Comforter. Maybe both. But anyway, little thing as it was, it too gave me a glimpse of hope.

I've also written a little of how much it has blessed me watching our kids play and be together lately. They still fight and lash out at one another every single day. But there is so much good to see too, and it has encouraged me. It's such a little thing- but it has lifted my spirits.

The Man and I, we are so blessed. But there are plenty of times when we don't bless each other. There are times when, in the midst of a struggle between us, I have felt exasperated and caught in the dead end of a narrow alley-- having no idea where to turn and feeling rather hopeless. But God in his goodness, He has helped us time and time again. He makes me humble when I don't feel one ounce of humility. He sheds light on both our selfish hearts when all we want to do is rage and retaliate. And when that happens, as it did again the other night- I feel hope.

So today, when we received two unexpected and unsolicited packages in the mail, I was lifted high by such a little thing. My mother has always sent packages, and she is a supreme package sender. She sends gifts and thoughtful treats and anything I ask for with regularity. And while I delight in her packages, somehow you expect your mother to do such things. Not that it doesn't make you grateful, or even feel undeserving, but it is just that you are not blown out of the water when she makes the effort time after time. But when someone sends you something who has no sense of obligation (my mother, let me be sure to note, is no obligated gift giver. And she attaches no strings... a post for another time) to do so, it encourages my heart in a whole new and different way.

One package, from my SIL, who is like a sister, was nothing more than a down maternity coat. I have deliberated about whether or not to buy a coat, for this, my last pregnancy (knock on wood. Or call a surgeon). The winters here are bone chilling. Everyone wears down (in our other city, wool was the rage, but here we can only find down). I had half heartedly decided to try and eek it through with bulky sweaters and scarves and perhaps going out less. But then this. A little thing. So thoughtful.

The other package was from an old college friend. We lead similar and yet polar opposite lives on two sides of the globe. She is a mountain girl with four little ones, homeschooling and skiing and living a faithful life as best she can. She was a dear friend and gift while I lived in Jackson, Wyoming back in the first couple years  following high school graduation, and I am blessed by what a gift she continues to be. Encouraging notes, a reminder every now and then that we are comrades in this walk, and now this package which was brimming with goodies and thoughtfulness. I know it is a small thing, but I felt hugged both from her and from on High.

Now I am going to go lay my pathetic little body down for hopefully a bit of rest that will lead to recovery. In the meantime, it seems a very flesh and blood picture to me of the fact that when we are weak, He continues to care for us.

Strong Girl {an essay}

Every morning we lug our three bicycles from the apartment into the elevator, then down the corridor to the glass doors that leave the building. The job of reaching up to press the door release button and then push with a mighty heave against the metal bar that is the door handle has fallen to the youngest, still not quite three, because the rest of us are barreling along with the bikes. Every day her brothers encourage her as they pass her stout little legs holding steady, her back against the glass, “Strong Girl!!” She basks in the glow of the compliment, and sometimes states it herself when they are not around. “Strong Girl!”

I saw a sign the other day, one meant to inspire and be hung on a wall and remind you every day of it’s important truth, “You never know how STRONG you are until being STRONG is the only choice you have.” I wondered about that. What if when you have no other choice but to be strong, you aren’t strong enough? What if you lose control, or give up, or let someone down, or don’t make it through, or break apart? Maybe then you find out you aren’t very strong at all...and then what? But the sign sounded nice, for strong people I guess.

If you have been reading around here at all lately, it probably wouldn't surprise you to learn I've been wondering about being a strong person, a strong girl, a strong woman, and what it looks like. Our society lifts up strong women. We tell ourselves via advertisements and movie scenes and magazine articles that women are meant to be strong, can be strong, should be strong, will be strong. We pat each other on the back for our strength when we show it. Ra ra for strong women.

I’ve wondered about being a strong woman, or person in general and what it can and should mean as a Christian who believes in the dignity of humanity, but the fallenness of our situation because of sin. And I don't feel strong lately. I feel like I can’t be the person I want to be, can’t respond to my circumstances how a strong woman would. It’s in these kinds of moments that it's easy to cling to Biblical passages like “my strength is made perfect in weakness,” or “The Lord delights not in the strength of horses nor the strength of man, but He delights in the man who fears him.”

But then there are those days when I DO feel strong. I feel capable and on top of it all. I see my talents and the ways I’ve been gifted and I sort of bask in the fun of being able to do something well.  On those days I wonder if the clay pot thing doesn’t apply to me anymore… what do I do when I don’t feel like a weak failure of a person? Am I just fooling myself pride with or have I now been disqualified from being able to shine forth the glory of my Maker and Savior, because I’m not weak enough?

One of the most unattractive displays of strength is in an arrogant person. Arrogance must be among the great acts of thievery in the world: the proud and haughty wrenching of credit for something you had nothing to do with. Certainly there are all levels of strength in the human experience. Some have great strength of body and physique, some of intelligence, some of emotional stability and fortuity. Yet none of us arrives at these strengths of our own doing. We do not choose our upbringings, our genetic makeup, nay our every life circumstance. Some have much to work with, some have very little. Whatever strength we have, it must certainly have been endowed to us and not created ex nihilo by our own volition. So arrogance is an entirely misplaced and perverted view of oneself and the God who made all things. Adam, arguably the strongest of all men in mind and body and spirit, was of all men most obviously shaped and molded by God alone.  How silly it would have seemed if in his prowess, he had turned to look upon himself and taken even one ounce of credit.

Perhaps that is why, when one looks at strength in a particular personality of flesh and blood humanity, the ones that seem most attractive to us are those who give the credit where credit is due. It is why we marvel at a man like Eric Liddell and gaze with wonder upon a woman like Joni Erickson Tada. One had the strength to with the speed of horses, but he knew it was a gift from God, and in his strength he shone with the glory of his God, and not himself. Joni has so little bodily strength resulting from her quadriplegia that she cannot do one movement on her own. But she credits her strength of spirit to the God who healed her soul and will one day heal her body, and she too shines with the glory of her God, and not herself.

I know that in my weakness of late, I have both marveled at the beauty of being small before a Mighty God who is near to those in need, and cringed in disgust at how humiliating it can be to feel like a wimp of a person who cannot handle what so many others could. But these words keep splitting into my at times weak, at times strong and able soul, “His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, nor his delight in the legs of a man: the Lord delights in those who fear him, who put their hope in his unfailing love” Psalm 147:10-11.

In the 50^th Psalm the LORD says, “I have no need of a bull from your stall or of goats from your pens, for every animal of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills…the world is mine, and all that is in it. Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats? [as in, do I really need your animal sacrifices??] Sacrifice thank offerings to God, fulfill your vows to the Most High, and call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you and you will honor me.” The point is it all belongs to Him, and comes from Him. But to whom do we lift our eyes? To whom do we give the credit? When we are weak… call upon His name. When we are strong… give glory to His name.

Clay pots we all are, shaped and formed and gifted with the breath of life from the Creator who molds and makes all things for whatever purposes he designs. And the clay of a man like David ran just as thick with the strokes of God when he shouted out strength in the Name of the Almighty at a giant as it did when he lay prostrate with his face to the dirt, a man broken by his sin and failure. In both moments he called out to the one who could save him. In both moments his clay was brittle but out of him shone the burning bright glory of his Maker. He was just a clay pot, housing the treasure of the all-surpassing power of God. And that is what God delights in. He made us. We are not gods. But He reins us in and fills us and lifts us up on wings of strength that make us feel the wind of heaven and all his glory goodness in our faces. It’s a beautiful and ponderous mystery, the way our strong God delights in our weakness because it makes him look good, but all the while he is delighting in making us look good with his goodness.

And my strong girl, you are not a strong girl. You are strong because someone made you strong, and you ought to look up and tell Him how thankful you are and how good he is. You ought to offer every bit of that strength right back to him; basking in Him when you bask in your given strength. Yes, strong girl, you are not a strong girl. You are made of clay and sometimes you will break. And when you break you ought to look straight up into the eyes of the One who made you and ask him to carry you, wait on him to heal you, trust in him to do everything you in your useless broken state cannot do. And you can bask in Him when you bask in your weakness. He absolutely loves it, and you will too.

The Mountains are Good For You

We were away for the past few days on a retreat with all our staff, foreign and national. We drove on a bus to a famous mountain called E Mei Shan. There are mountains surrounding this city of 14 million we live in, but the haze and clouds from both natural and unnatural sources keep us from ever glimpsing them. This weekend was a rare and refreshing retreat into the beauty we know is nearby... but don't often have easy access to.

Our hotel was more of an "inn" with hard beds and meals served that did not, surprisingly, even include drinking water. We were well prepared though (we've been on trips like this before) with lots of fruit, crackers, bread, and even some cinnamon chip scones for breakfast (I did remember the french press and did forget the coffee grounds which left me in a deep state of regret for several hours).

The hike up the first part of the mountain, which is all we with our additional six little legs could undertake, was full of greenery, stunning drops into the river ravine, charming and strappy porters carting touristy paraphanalia up and down the path, hazy but serene views of lakes and bridges, and wooded mountains rolling heavily into the distance.

We stopped for awhile to throw rocks (which turned into boulders) in the water, doing our best to re-arrange the carefully balanced ecosystem of the river, and then trooped back to the trailhead where we stopped for lunch at a little restaurant.

The weekend was simple and refreshing in some ways, challenging and a bit uncomfortable in others.

It is beautiful to sit and worship in two different languages, each sensing the unity in knowing and lifting our faces to the one and same God. 

To lay your eyes upon greenery and the natural wonders of this world feels almost as necessary as drinking a glass of cool water; when you don't have it often enough you begin to feel rather parched and dry.

 It is challenging to sleep five people in three twin beds, but there are strange moments in the early morning with the the little one curled next to you when you think of how blessed you are, and how little you had to fight for the family you have, especially when the woman down the hall may be faced with the choice to keep her baby or her husband- a choice no mother should have to make.

A friend that I barely know prayed words for me this morning, that I would accept this place with the expectation of what God will do here, and would be thankful for the good things we that had there (previous home). Her spirit evidenced such thankfulness, and joyful trust in what He is doing and where He is leading, that I felt embraced and calmed and comforted by it, knowing my own spirit, by the power of the Spirit within me, can and must evidence the same things.

We are home now, kids in bed, a mug of lemon tea in my hands. I am thankful for the mug of coffee that awaits me in the morning, for the clean tiles of my bathroom, for the space of my bed, and more than ever for the security I rest in knowing I am a child of a King. My circumstances, difficult as they may be for me to enjoy at this point, are more the pouting fits a child throws when a parent brings them to the doctor rather than the park to play. I am not a lost child, wandering the streets like an orphan, wondering what my life is about. I am a loved and dearly cared for daughter, who is merely having a little trouble taking what is given from her Father. But we all know, that is just why the Daddy is there for in the first place.

A Retraction of Sorts

I'm about to get all confessional on you.

When I first began to face this transition there was a part of me that knew the challenges we would face, and so I braced myself, even tried to prepare myself mentally for them. I accepted the fact that it would mean saying goodbye and tearfully worked through many of those, even though I knew it would be painful. I knew it meant a span of days and energies poured into packing and sorting, organizing and then undoing it all again once we arrived. I knew that once we got here, the time it would take to feel at home would perhaps be lengthy, and that there would be things I would miss and suffer through the loss of until I found my new way. Always surrounding those thoughts was the assurance that this move was not our idea, and that we were led and cared for in it-- and there was comfort in that.

But there is a battle waging. In spite of all my attempts to prepare myself, to remain positive, to be comforted by the fact that this is the place we are meant to be, I am losing ground.

Normally, I would say that the idea of losing a battle should not be considered a good thing. But, in this instance, I am beginning to wonder if it is in fact the best part of it all. I've been fighting for the wrong things... I can see it in the things I've written in recent posts, in the thoughts that weigh inside my head all day, in the words that more often than not escape from my mouth. I miss the life I had. I am disappointed in what I've been given. So, I've been bemoaning it and fighting to find some way to keep it all.

It may seem to you in this next statement that I am over-spiritualizing something like my hobbies... but I have sensed over the years, at different key points in my life, when I have been pushing too hard for something, for my own way. I feel that right now. In something so small as a "photo challenge" or a project to foster my creativity, at least at this particular time, I have felt a prodding that perhaps I am trying too hard to grasp at something that is not given to me right now.

So, this may seem quite silly, but I am retracting, or cancelling my little "photo essay extravaganza" plan.

This summer I read the book "A Place of Healing" by Joni Erickson Tada. It spoke to me in many ways about my own heart condition, and I know a prayer of mine has been that God would give me a desire for the things He loves and cares about. I don't know all of what this time, this move means for us or for the people around us (God's plans are always much bigger and more complicated than just us), but I am sensing that He is emptying me of some of the things I have cherished. I don't know why- and maybe it is only for a season or maybe it is just me over thinking this move! But I believe He is working and perhaps part of that is by bringing me to a new sense of neediness before Him.

I'm pretty needy and all over the place. We just found out that we are expecting our fourth child in April. This was a complete shock to us, who felt a bit like two overgrown teenagers or something that naively believed some methods of birth control were one hundred percent effective. Shock and disbelief aside, I have been dealing with extreme fatigue in the midst of trying to "find my new way." Even the things I have always felt able and even gifted at doing, are outside the range of my capacities right now. It is almost like I've become completely disabled, or at worst- useless.

Wait, before you get as depressed as I sound-- there is good news. I am extremely thankful, and almost excited in an expectant sort of way. I believe this is God answering the prayers of my heart, and of our hearts as we've prayed over many different things in recent years. We are not the worlds best prayers, so that is not meant as a pat on our backs so much as a testament to the fact that I know God hears, and responds- and that He is compassionate and gracious and gives us much that we need and don't even consistently ask for.

I think he is doing some deep tilling in the soils of the way I think and know Him and live before Him. I am feeling humbled, and hungry for a growth in my faith through the Word of Christ. The study I am going through right now is hitting me in soft and tender spots day after day, and is filling me with hope and clearer vision as I am beginning to see breaches in my faith, weakness in my thinking, points where I need to repent and turn, and the God who brings me out of all those pits.

It sure does feel sort pit-ish around here. I just cannot get it all done. I can't do the things I love to do. I can't even think correctly about it all- I can't have a good attitude.

This weekend I was reminded in a powerful way that we are all of us clay pots. Broken and fragile, not radiant with any form or shape or beauty in and of ourselves. But filled with the knowledge of the glory of Christ, we can shine with his likeness. I think in all my can-nots, perhaps I can learn to see myself as I really am, and am being emptied in order to find healing in the inner places, where the glory of Christ can radiate with an unspeakable beauty, that brings the glory to Him alone. And what heart wouldn't sing with an inside like that?

The Long Losing

Today, on the longest day in history... the day between Good Friday and the Resurrection, the day when death seemed to reign and all was quiet and hopeless, we attend a memorial service with our dear friends for their boy who died here just a few weeks ago.

Do you ever stop the losing?

In that ever present moment, when

if he were here

with those doleful eyes like his dad

and the sun flecked hair like his mama

the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose,

he would be here.

Three weeks older than he was

just three weeks ago.

And when you’re all sitting around the table for dinner,

And his seat is empty.

When the grades come home from school,

But for the first time there is his card,

Incomplete.

And next time, there won’t be a card at all.

Does it stop five years from now,

When he would have been sixteen,

When you imagine his body grown and firmed up,

the muscles sinewy and the hair on his legs coarse and man-like.

His eyes, still doleful like his dad’s

Still the sunflecked hair and freckles

Like his mama.

But he isn’t here, and you are still

Losing him

In these ever present moments,

days and years

That keep passing by without him

Though you still can’t imagine it so.

Do you ever stop the losing?

When it’s the year he would have worn the cap and gown

And you would have said a different goodbye

Sending him off with pride and expectation

And maybe a little sadness and apprehension

Except now you’re closest memories are still

Those of his eleven year old face

Still fresh from boyhood,

The year you lost him

And began the years

of the Losing That Never Stops.

Sister gets married and maybe younger brother next

And all the while you can

Imagine him standing there,

Clasping their shoulders,

Laughing with a teasing smile.

But his smile is lost to you,

To all of you.

Because he is not here

And you always imagined he would be

So you lose him all over again.

Does it ever stop?

Twenty years, thirty years? Fifty?

Do you want it to?

When you held him small and red faced,

Fed him through the night and

Watched him toddle first steps,

Did you think that if you might lose him,

You would rather not have these moments at all?

His life, a gift.

And your life, forever threaded and branded with it.

To stop losing him would be a sort of death to your own soul.

To lose him over and over means

You never stop magnifying the gift he was to you.

But will it ever stop hurting?

Can you endure this, the losing

Of him—your son?

Your precious, God-given

And taken

son?

The Son of Man once said,

If you lose your life for my sake, you will find it.

So maybe in the losing

All is not,

And he,

your doe-eyed, sun-flecked, freckle-faced boy,

 is not

Lost.

The Son of Man once said,

Cast all your burdens on him.

So when the losing grows too great,

Or swells with too many years,

Or even long before then,

May He, who was once lost to his own Father,

Carry the Losing for you.

Good Friday Thoughts On What Looks to Be a Bad Weekend

A repost from the archives... last year at this time I was in Cairo walking the Lenten path to Easter with a group of students on a trip for Model United Nations. This year we are home and tomorrow is the Memorial Service for our dear friend's son who died here just a few weeks ago.

Today I stand in a land where nearly three thousand years ago a bruised and battered nation saw a miraculous deliverance out of a dark and brutal enslavement and into the shining glory of freedom. I walk on sand and look up at a sky that could have seen the same footsteps and felt the gaze of another Foreigner who came to  live and walk among us.

Yesterday was the first of four conference days we came all the way to Cairo to take part in. That means for now, the sightseeing is on hold. The issues being discussed at this conference by hundreds of high schoolers from all over the world are swirling around in my head as I also try to reflect on the significance of today... it is Palm Sunday, the first day of the final week leading up to Easter.

The moon has risen warm and bright, full and luminous like  a freshwater pearl dropped kerplunk in the middle of the deep midnight sky. It is a vivid reminder of the truth that surrounds me: the world is very dark. There is beauty there, the remnants and glimspes of it so wonderful that sometimes you can almost forget the burden of pain that we all live under. But in spite of all that reminds us of joy, we don't escape the reality that this world, and each of our lives, are shadowed, darkened, marred by all that destroys what we long and hope for in life.

I sit in a city full of people living in buildings that are crumbling, crusted with dirt and surrounded by piles of  trash and refuse from its inhabitants. I sit in a lavish hotel with marble floors and bath towels the size of my living room and listen to passionate debates about issues like genocide, human trafficking, violations of treaties, civil wars, and thre rise of nuclear powers. I see the effects of poverty, corruption and human fallenness all around me. The cries for collaboration, peace, and mutual consideration seem to fall dead and silent on the floors of high walled conference rooms. They are necessary talks, but will they truly bring about the "hope for a better tomorrow" that these youth dream of?

As I return every day to the comfort of my hotel room and look out onto the scene of depravation and struggle, knowing its sorrow is known to millions of people in every nation on earth, the darkness can seem to close in. I listen to the heartwrenching issues and feel overwhelmed, hating the small feeling of problems so large and the heavy burden of my small, protected life. It is easy to look out and ask, "Where is He?"

He was here. He came into the darkness but the darkness has not understood it. Nevertheless, He came still. He entered our darkness and broke its power over us. Some can see it  and believe, others cannot or have not. It is a thing of faith- for we are faith creatures. But it will not always be this way.
This is the beauty of the Easter preparation, of enjoying the season of Lent as it leads you through the Word and gives you time to think about all that this great moment in history, the Resurrection, means for us. The world can seem so dark to me, but the Light of the World stepped down into darkness, and madea way for us to be free. This Friday we will remember the darkness that Jesus friends and followers felt as all they had believed and hoped for seemed buried and dead with the broken body in the grave. But in the early light of a Sunday sunrise, the light of Truth will remind us again that though all seems lost, we know for certain who is Victorious, and who is working even now in the midst of all that still remains broken. He is making things new, and He will make all things new when the time is right.

Tomorrow we head back to the conference rooms and delegation proceedings. It will be Monday and the streets outside will be the same as they were today. But I know whom I have believed and I am persuaded that He is able... because He was stronger than the grave, and the death that could not hold him.

May you rejoice in the Light that came, comes, and is coming into your darkness!