El Roi - The One Who Sees

Yesterday, a church member from South Africa gave the sermon. He's been living in Seattle for over a decade and he spoke about something called the "Seattle Freeze", the idea that Seattle natives keep interactions at the surface level. Many who move here say that it is very difficult to make friends because of this widespread attitude. The speaker asked us to consider how Jesus interacted with the community of His time. Jesus saw people and then, He had compassion on them. Mark 5 talks about the unclean woman who touched Jesus' cloak and was healed. Jesus took space to see her, regardless of her social standing, and she left with a testimony of God's healing. He saw Zaccheus in the tree. He saw children, the lame, the high and mighty.

I hope you hear the weight of the word "see" when I write it here. What does it mean for Jesus to take notice of someone? I think it means that He values them and cares about what they're going through. I believe we are called to carry that out, daily, as He empowers us by the Holy Spirit to "see" our community the way He does, and then respond with compassion.

This is a story I wrote this summer about a woman in Beijing, whom I believe the Lord challenged me to "see":

When I lived in Beijing, I had all the adventure of new, strange experiences as well as access to comforts from the western world. In the same afternoon, I could watch a group of elderly men and women practicing tai chi in a park and buy a DVD of a movie that was still playing in American theaters. There was a street where you could eat scorpions or crickets on a stick and shop at an L.L. Bean two doors down. My mom used to ask if she could send me any foods I missed from home, but I always turned her down. In Beijing, most western foods are available to those willing to pay rather high prices for them. Whenever I wanted cold cereal, chocolate chips, muffin mixes, spaghetti sauce, or other comforts, I could go to one of several Jenny Lou’s stores. Jenny Lou’s shelves housed an assortment of European, American, and Canadian products. For a little while, I was hooked on some gingersnap cookies from Sweden. I couldn’t read the box, but I could certainly consume a sizeable amount of cookies on my bus ride. Since church was located a couple of blocks from a Jenny Lou’s, I got in the habit of going there every Sunday. I’d regularly buy whole wheat bagels, a baking mix, and a more expensive luxury like cheddar cheese before heading home. After several months of this ritual, I started avoiding Jenny Lou’s. After church, I’d eat with friends at the Tex-Mex restaurant next door, but then purposely circumvent the store on my way to the bus stop. The bagels weren’t worth the inner unrest I felt.

You see, to go into Jenny Lou’s you have to walk by Aiyi. You can’t miss her. If you walk anywhere within a fifty foot radius of the store, you will hear the coins in her paper cup clinking together as she rhythmically shakes it. Even if you’ve always been the shortest in your group of friends, you will likely tower over Aiyi. It may be because she’s extraordinarily short, or because she is perpetually stooped forward. Or maybe her humble status exaggerates her small stature. It’s hard to say. She’s a woman who blends in with her surroundings, yet demands notice. Your eyes may be tempted to let her fade into a wash of street busyness, but Aiyi won’t let that happen. She grabs pedestrians by the arm and doggedly presents herself to your senses. Aiyi smells like cooking grease. Cooking grease and earth. Tea-colored teeth testifying to years of no dental care smile up at you, her face giving way to a topographical map of wrinkles. A coarse piece of blue cloth serves as a head wrap over wiry salt and pepper strands that just peek out under the edges. You can’t help but wonder if the baggy Mao-era jacket she wears once belonged to a husband. If so, where is he now? At the end of the day, does she go home to him and compare stories over a bowl of steaming noodles or is she already home, on the steps of Jenny Lou’s? You wonder if she has friends who understand her better than you do.

She used to call me “peng you”, the Chinese word for friend. When she reached out, I’d hold her hand, but never without a slight pause in that moment when her rough and gnarled converged with my soft and pampered. Jenny Lou’s workers would look at us skeptically, as if to ask, “How did she dupe that foreigner into taking her inside?” Aiyi had the freedom from me and the natural nerve God gave her to request anything in the store, yet every time, she chose two large containers of just-add-water Ramen noodles. They were too high on the shelf, of course, so Aiyi would hop in place and point until I grabbed them for her. Once, she asked for some Pantene shampoo. Since I couldn’t read characters, I held up the bottles, expecting her to distinguish which one was shampoo and which was conditioner. It turned out that Aiyi couldn’t read either. She opened the bottle, took a deep whiff, and deemed it good.

I had enough money for whatever Aiyi wanted. Still, she required too much of me. Our interactions stirred questions that I didn’t like. Questions that revealed my doubt, my selfishness, and my immaturity. Did she call everyone “peng you” and was that just a ploy to make people compassionate towards her? Does she dirty her face on purpose? Surely she could wash at a public park restroom. Was she even homeless, or was this just a lazy way to make money? The time she asked for Pantene, I wondered why the generic Chinese brand wasn’t good enough for her. So, I avoided Jenny Lou’s. Not because I didn’t have the money to help Aiyi. Not because I stopped wanting whole wheat bagels for breakfast. Not because it was out of the way. I hated feeling obligated to help someone. I wanted it to be a choice; one that allowed me to check a “do good” box on some cosmic to do list. What if I went to Jenny Lou’s and said no to her? Could I do that? That would be genuine to how I felt many times, but somehow being superficially generous was the only adequate action.

There are days when I want to emulate Mother Teresa. To give with abandon, touch the untouchable, and live without barriers. I want to throw off my desire to get credit for what I do. I want to make real, lasting changes in the world. When the rubber meets the road, sometimes the Mother Teresa in me shows up. I hold Aiyi’s hand and look her in the eyes. I tell her “Yesu ai ni” - Jesus loves you. I truly care. Just as often, I’m confronted with my failings. I may not be holding a paper cup of coins, but amidst all of the western comforts at my disposal in Beijing, I am needy. At the end of the day, all I can say is, “Jesus help Aiyi. Jesus help me.”
- - - -
Please note: the photo I used is from an online source. This is not actually the Aiyi I knew.

Jehovah Shammah - The Lord Who Is Present

A dusty, barren landscape surrounded the little rest stop.
Bathrooms on the right, fruit and snacks for purchase on the left,
Heat and humidity on all sides.
I was traveling on an old, brightly painted bus to northern Thailand
Where I was meeting up with people I’d never met to go prayer walking.
It was the most adventuresome thing I’d ever done on my own.
That night, I sat in my bed at a bare-bones hotel and surveyed my room.
A sink, a high row of barred windows, and a door with one of those little slidey latches you usually find on the back of a bathroom stall door.
I was so far from home and the comfy familiar.
And You were there.

When I was nineteen, I was swimming in the ocean and got trapped in a rip tide.
The waves pulled at me and spun me around like a sock in the washing machine,
Each attempt for breath let in equal parts water and air,
I couldn’t keep up the struggle.
As I gave up, a friend grabbed my arm and pulled me to shore.
There are times when anxiety comes like those waves,
Worries and fears assault me until I want to give up.
And You are there.

There is no physical location You can’t go
Nor any emotional state beyond You
Not only that, but there is no place – physical, emotional, high, low, near, far – where You won’t go.
Your death, burial, and resurrection seem to have all imaginable places covered.
You choose to be the God Who Is Present.
You sit with me, hold me, and wash my feet just where I am.
I know that I am never outside Your reach.
What does this name, Jehovah Shammah, say about You, Jesus?
It tells me that You want to be with us
That You are not a respecter of manmade boundaries
That our attempts to withdraw have no control over You
That You love us.

Thank You for being near, Jehovah Shammah.
Today, I choose to recognize Your presence by engaging it; by engaging You.
Amen.

Jehovah Rohi - Part 2 of 2

When I thought about how to write from the Shepherd's point of view, the aspect of a Shepherd that stood out strongly was his voice. Voices are so distinctly connected to a person. Think of how many voices you could probably identify with no other sense cues. President Obama's voice, radio DJs, your family members. I always try to guess which actor or actress is speaking for the character in an animated movie. Voices can evoke feelings. Think of how you feel when you hear your loved one's voice. Voices are powerful. This is my interpretation of Jesus the Shepherd's point of view. (Thanks for reading, Aunt Rene! You encourage me!)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -




My sheep,
I could yell to you,
Or I could whisper.
With sharp commands,
Gentle guidance,
Happy encouragement,
Reprimands.
I could make my voice drown out all other voices.
I could speak over your dreams,
Tell you how I love you,
Teach you with my stores of wisdom,
Amaze you with the supernatural,
The miraculous.

You seem eager to know Me,
Your Shepherd,
But My voice will hold no meaning or strength
Until you accept and know that
This voice belongs to Me.

You know your mother's voice,
You recognize the voice of a predator,
You stop in your tracks at another shepherd's call,
But there is only one voice like mine.

When you allow your heart to know who owns this voice,
That this is the voice of the One who lays down His life for you,
Then

My very breath will calm your trembling heart.

When I speak your name,
Your legs will carry you to my side.

I will not need to yell,
Or repeat myself,
Because you will know Me,
My voice,
Like I know you,
My sheep.

Jehovah Rohi - Part 1 of 2

I want to explore the names of God through writing. Today, I am meditating on Jehovah Rohi, the Lord my Shepherd. For the first installment, I tried to understand this aspect of God from the perspective of the sheep.

- - - - - -

Chomp, munch, chew, chew… swallow
Look up, look back
Chomp, munch, chew, chew… swallow
Look up

Listen

Nothing
Chomp, munch, chew, chew… swallow

If you ask me, there’s no greater life than that of a sheep
Look at me – I’m surrounded on all sides by lush pastures
Each blade of grass beckoning me with a breezy flick of green
I’ve got all the time I need to graze every lovely, delectable patch
Sigh
When I’m full, I head down to the stream for a refreshing drink
And maybe a nap

The only bad part about being a sheep is the constant fear
You never know when a predator will come
Or a storm
Storms are awful
And wet
And scary

We sheep are notorious for getting lost
I guess that’s another downside
One time I got so focused on eating that I ate myself
Right off a cliff
That would’ve been my last mouthful
If a ledge hadn’t been right there to catch me
I wailed and cried out until it got dark
Wouldn’t you know, my Shepherd appeared over the ledge!
He just looked down at me like I was his own child or something
Scooped me up over his shoulders
-which really freaked me out, by the way –
And carried me back to the others
He’d left all of them to find me
Imagine that!

Anyway,
Chomp, munch, chew, chew… swallow
The Shepherd takes us on all these long walks
Big hills, chew… swallow
Rocks and stuff to go around
It’s awful
But I’d never leave him
There’s something about his voice that soothes me
I want to follow him when I hear it
Remember – I get lost, you know
My mama called me a wanderer
But with the Shepherd, I know he’ll always
Keep me with him
His rod and staff are kind of like his voice
They keep me close
So I don’t get away too far
But I’m pretty sure that even if I got away again
Like last time
He’d come for me
He’s my Shepherd, you know
I’m his sheep
We’re supposed to stick together.

Love Your Enemies

“Miss Caldwell, Joey is driving me nuts. I told him to stop and he won’t stop. He’s pretending like he can’t hear me. So, I told him, ‘I’m going to tell the teacher,’ and he said, ‘Go ahead! See if I care!’”

“Hey, this is your chance to practice. How can you treat him kindly?”

“NO WAY. No. Not gonna do it. I’ll just ignore him or something.”

“Come on, Jenny. Think with me. How can you reach out to the person who bothers you the most? Can you compliment him? Say, ‘Hey, Joey! You are really doing great with Math today!’”

“Noooooo! Miss Caldwell, that is SO awkward.”

“Okay. Um, does he need anything right now? Can you help out or something?”

“Well, he doesn’t get how to find the Math game website, but that’s why he was bugging me already.”

“There you go! Seriously. Try helping him. I’ll sit here and watch what happens. This may soften his heart or change your attitude. Just try.”

“Ugh! Okay! I’m taking Becca with me though.”
------------
My students have been struggling to get along lately. It’s become Tattle Fest 2011. They write me post-it notes describing each incident and put them in a basket on my desk. They even tattle in pre-emptive anticipation of being ratted out. “Riley is plotting something against me so I had to shut him out of the game. I didn’t have a choice.”

It made for some frustrating days at school. The kids and I spent a long time discussing our unsettled environment at a recent class meeting. They were too upset to agree on any resolutions. At one point, I offered a suggestion, “You know, there’s a saying that talks about being kind to your enemies…”
“No!” they were adamantly against the idea. We ended the meeting with a goal to come up with more ideas overnight and discuss again the next day.

The next morning, I brought it before the Lord. I felt like He encouraged me with respect to one particular student and also gave me a sense of peace about the rest. When we held our class meeting that morning, out of nowhere, lots of kids suggested something to the effect of being kind to people that bug us. What??? Are these the same kids who almost booed me yesterday? Yep! They were convinced. November should be “Be nice to your enemy” month.

So, it stuck. The above dialogue shows some of the stretching that’s occurring in their precious hearts. And by precious, I mean precious. Not cute, but incredibly valuable. And, honestly, the Jenny / Joey interaction wasn’t a huge “Aha!” moment - at least not outwardly. They didn’t hug or skip around singing songs. Jenny told me helping Joey did nothing for her heart and it was “crazy hard to be nice to him”. I’m not convinced. I know my Lord. I have to believe that some piece of Jenny changed forever because she chose to love her enemy, rather than treat him in a way that felt justified. I choose to believe that my Lord has plans to prosper Jenny and He’s continuing that work with every fraction of an inch she takes toward His truth.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” –Matthew 5:43 – 45

(all names have been changed, except for mine :))

If, When, and Because

Running time is my new quiet time with God. Instead of sitting in a chair to pray, I find that I feel close to Him when I run. I feel like I can bring anything up without fear of offending Him. My body feels a release through working hard physically and my mind and emotions let go with the cold wind and quiet that comes from no headphones, cell phone, or to do list.

On a run last week, I was thinking through some things that I see as obstacles in my life. I wondered what God would have to say about them. I began to try my theories out by speaking them aloud. I started with, "If God is with me, then [demolition of current hardship]." But, that didn't ring true with my spirit. Something was off.

I tried a different angle. "WHEN God is with me, then [WWIII blasts my problems]." Hmmm...still not right. This was feeling like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I needed to try again.

"BECAUSE God is with me, then [total annihilation of all badness everywhere]." YES! That was it! God is not my IF, nor is He my WHEN. God is my BECAUSE. His presence is not in question. The fruit of His presence is mine for the taking. Thank You, Jesus.

Psalm 46:10

"Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

In the past year, I have been battling anxiety. I have physical reactions that are often overwhelming. Recently, Psalm 46:10 became very powerful to me. In the midst of an anxious situation where my heart began accelerating and my breathing became rapid, I actually spoke to my body:

Be still, heart, and know that He is God.

Be still, lungs, and know that He is God.

Be still, racing thoughts, and know that He is God.

Be still.

He is God.

Praise God for healing, one step at a time, as His Word takes hold in every part of my being.

Correspondence From the Ledge

I wrote this poem last month, about one week after my life hit a very low and desperate place. Sometimes I struggle to come to God in those places. Writing poetry helps a lot.



Dear God,
Remember how I used to be?
I used to leap over the hills
Singing all the way.
We had such sweet times,
You and I.
I was happier then
And people admired me.
What am I doing on this cold mountain ledge today?
Why am I fighting the wind,
Clinging to crumbling rock with tired fingers?
I am so tired and afraid.
If only I could go back to those hills.
Right now.
I could do better than I'm doing here.
-Your Brooke

Dear Brooke,
I do remember how you used to be.
Your singing and leaping was sweet indeed.
That was my provision for you
Back then.
Today, my grace has you securely standing on this ledge,
Wind and all.
Tomorrow, we may do something new,
Or we may enjoy this spot a while longer.
Either way, our journey keeps on going.
See, daughter,
Brace yourself for this news -
We aren't going back to the hills.
I'm taking you to places you've never been before.
I've known all along.
Wait until you see - -
It is so awesome further ahead!
But for now,
Release those weary fingers.
Sit with me,
Close to me.
Let's savor the view from here.

-Your God

.

Hello Again

For the past few months, I've met once a week with a small group of women to work through this heinie-kicking book that encouraged us to take risks for God. There's much, much more to tell about that journey, but for now, you should know that that group is the reason I am revisiting this blog. We learned that God asks us to take risks with the gifts He's given us. Writing and teaching are two areas that make me feel absolutely alive - I believe they are indeed gifts from God. I had never considered what it would look like to a risk with either gift. One friend in the group said, "Have you ever thought about writing a blog?"

As it turns out, I have a blog. This very one that you've stumbled upon or purposely sought out today. And, I'm going to write again. I am in a wonderful and difficult season of life now and I expect the posts will reflect that reality. I am letting go of an expectation of perfection or publish-worthy material, so be prepared for work that baffles and bores along with the more inspiring pieces.

If you've read this blog before, you may notice that it has a new title. Psalm 84 is a life passage of sorts. I believe that we are all sojourners, committed to pilgrimage. By God's grace, we make the valleys "a place of springs" and "go from strength to strength". My hope is that what I write here will give you courage to keep going. To commit to your own journey with God, knowing that this will surely mean taking crazy scary risks and, at the end, finding truth. Bless you, my travel buddies. Thanks for reading.

Date Night in Tipton

The latest materialization of the Midwest’s effect on my life is that I now enjoy bowling. Iowa’s winter was so much colder than I’m used to. It prompted a greater need to be creative about getting out of the house. So, Jeremie and I started bowling. It’s a warm, indoor, inexpensive activity that pairs well with friends and beer. What’s not to like?

On one dark, cold date night in early March, our new affinity brought us to the bowling alley in Tipton, IA. It was about a half hour outside Iowa City, in the middle of farmland (well, I should say more farmland – Iowa City is in the middle of farmland itself). We drove the extra distance because Jeremie’s classmate highly recommended the food at the alley’s bar.

We parked in the lot across from the “Take Pride in Your Ride” gas station, walked in, and sat at the bar. The bartender walked us through the menu, which was simple, but there were homemade sauce options that needed to be explained. We dined on sauce slathered burgers, fries, and deep-fried cheese curds. I’m not a fan of ranch dressing, but the bartender was right – the curds came alive when dipped in ranch. Lesson learned: bartenders know things. Don’t ask unnecessary questions when they recommend something.

After we finished eating, Jeremie expressed our interest in bowling. The bartender informed us that it was league night, so we were out of luck until 9:30pm. We’d come all that way, so we decided to hang out and watch the league bowlers. Jeremie got a pint of Busch Lite, the only beer on tap, and we found some seats near the lanes.

I’d never seen bowling like this. Let me paint the scene. There were eight cozy lanes. Above the lanes were colorful handwritten advertisements for Tipton businesses, my favorite of which was “Kramer’s Lawn Ornaments”. One wall was painted with “God Bless America” and listed how many strikes in a row would result in the team winning a free round of beers (separated into men’s and women’s categories). Wall-mounted sound speakers gently played “Eye of the Tiger” while men and women, some in matching shirts, some not, bowled and hand-wrote their scores on overhead projector screens. The players were predominantly males over the age of 50, but our favorite lane included a woman, a young man with Down’s Syndrome, and a one-armed guy. They were seriously kicking butt. On the rare occasion there was a pin left standing, they easily picked up the spare. It was incredible. We sipped Busch Lite and cheered people on. I smiled at the one-armed man’s success and then he messed up the next turn. Jeremie thought the incidents might be related, so I refrained from eye contact from then on. We decided to leave as soon as another favorite bowler got a strike. The words were barely out of our mouths before he got his next strike.

So long, Tipton! Thanks for a great date night!

An Evening of Literature

Iowa City is a UNESCO City of Literature. What that means as UNESCO defines it, is “The panel of experts that evaluated the application of Iowa City recognized this University town’s unique profile as a creative writing and reading centre with impressive history of literary accomplishments. The community’s strategic commitment to literary culture through the diversity of grassroots initiatives, such as the Iowa’s Writers Workshop and the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, was highly regarded as an instructional model and inspiration for other small cities to promote local economic and socio-cultural development through creative industries."

What that means as I define it, is this city is chock-full of opportunity to feed the small voice inside you that’s always wondered what your name would look like on a best-seller list.

One of these rich opportunities happens several times each week at Prairie Lights, the local independent bookstore. The downtown store hosts authors – many of whom graduated from the university’s highly respected Writer’s Workshop. I’ve been meaning to attend one of these book talks and finally went for the first time tonight.

John Reimringer was there presenting Vestments, his novel about a young priest’s struggle between faith and flesh. I mean Mr. Reimringer no disrespect, but I showed up because I’m working on follow through in my life and Prairie Lights was a neglected goal. I hoped Vestments would surprise me and add further value to my evening of goal accomplishment.

I arrived five minutes late and slid into a forest green plastic chair in the back row, far left side, after a thickset man in overalls vacated the chair by placing his heavy brown work jacket in his lap. I smiled gratefully and focused in on the story.

The surface level summary of this experience is: Iowa City is a wonderfully creative town and author talks like this are a delightful way to celebrate and explore that facet of the city. Also, John Reimringer seems to be a good writer, although I may not pursue reading Vestments. Priestly turmoil isn’t an immediate draw.

The more vulnerable layer to all this is: My fairly regular battle with loneliness was hanging out on the fringes of the evening. While I sat next to my overall-ed friend, Loneliness flipped through the latest Barefoot Contessa cookbook. I struggled to remain present. Then, I began to silently pray for the author. Things I don’t think I would have thought of on my own flowed into my prayers. He kept making eye contact with me and I thought, “I wonder if he can sense what I’m doing? Is God telling him, ‘John. I love you and I’m having that girl in the back row do some interceding for you. Yes, her. Next to the overalls.’” It’s also possible that making eye contact with your audience makes for a good author sharing. After praying, I began thinking about the people in the room, why they were there. I thought about how I love making up stories about random strangers’ lives and how someday I should write a book. Then, I was inspired to dedicate more time to writing and consider what God would do with that. Suddenly, I looked at the cookbooks section and Loneliness was nowhere to be found. I glanced at the Sci-Fi section too, just for good measure. No sign of him.

The talk finished, I chatted a bit with Mr. Overalls, and walked home in the sharply cold Iowa air. I walked and I sang. I told the Lord that He is good. He is good. He is good. I thanked Him for bringing me here to this UNESCO City of Literature, where He has good plans – for John Reimringer and for me.

Icy IC

Last night, a snowstorm blew into Iowa City. Since it was the most severe storm I’ve experienced, I am going to go ahead and call it a blizzard. Walking outside, I could imagine how a snow globe town feels when a hyper five year old shakes it up. With the wind howling and snow whipping at our faces, Jeremie, his roommate Dan, and I did what any rational people would do in such a storm – we walked to our favorite pub for a beer.

Akin to the tortoise of “The Tortoise and the Hare” fame, I plodded one step at a time, while Jeremie and Dan energetically dove into deep drifts and helped push struggling cars to safety. About one block from the pub, we turned down a street and were met with a full stream of blowing snow. Jeremie ran ahead to shelter, Dan turned around and walked backwards, and I turned around and stood still. Honestly, who knows what my logic was? Did I think I could wait it out, there in the middle of the street? Like, the storm would sense my stubborn resolve and give up? Jeremie called out to me from the corner, urging me to put my head down and keep moving. I did so, and soon was inside our aptly named hang out, “Sanctuary”, brushing myself off and shedding layers. It seems melodramatic now, but I also went to the bathroom mirror to check my face for signs of frostbite. Turns out, I’m just fine.

The three of us warmed up with pizza and beer and good talk. From time to time, one of us would look out the window, and comment in amazement: “Man, sideways snow!” “It’s coating the windows!” “I’m sure glad I’m not out there!” , ever cognizant of the reality that we indeed had to go back out, unless Sanctuary was open to overnight boarders. Jeremie was ever-joyful at the prospect of re-entering the snowy madness. When it was time to go, he helped me wrap my scarf around my face and tuck it into my hood so only my eyes were showing, and just barely. Jeremie’s black scarf made him look like a ninja. Dan, showing his Alaskan roots, went sans-scarf. As we approached the door, Dan reminded me that it’s all about your attitude. “Yeah!”, Jeremie chimed in. So, I pumped myself up for “an awesome walk home” and “an experience to tell stories about later.” Off we went.

The conditions were just as bad on the way home, if not worse, as the wind was in our faces most of the time, but it was actually pretty awesome. I walked through Iowa City’s Blizzard of 2011 and now you know the story. The End.