Banh Xiao

 

Nguyen took this picture last time he was in Vietnam. It of a girl making the pancakes I keep talking about.

Crash landing

My parents said that they got very depressed when they got back to Newfoundland after the trip to Vietnam.

I was too busy to be depressed, but today, finally, it hit. I just feel... ugh.

Luckily, my drumming class is tonight and I hope it will pick up my spirits.

In the mean time, a couple of stories from the trip:


An afternoon in.

We wanted to stay in the hotel, one lunchtime, because we were all tired and going into the streets in Nha Trang was, in itself, exhausting sometimes. Nguyen went to the lady that made banh xiao, the little rice flour pancakes stuffed with seafood and dipped into fish sauce. A few minutes later he came back with enough for each of us to have 4 of them. And 6 china bowls for the fish sauce. And 6 china plates for the banh xiao. And 6 pairs of chopsticks. And a plastic bag with the liquid sauce in it. And another with the lettuce and cilantro and hot peppers. The lady must have thought he was a little crazy to ask for 24 banh xiao to go, but by this point he was a regular, so she entrusted him with all the gear on his word he would bring it all back, clean. Which he did, of course. (We washed it all in the sink of our hotel room!)

The total cost was less than $5.

Portraits

I never felt comfortable photographing the locals because it felt a little intrusive. But Nguyen had no such hesitation.

One morning he went to the market near our hotel in Saigon and started taking photos of the ladies in the food stalls. They must have thought he was Japanese because of his big camera! So they started joking about him in Vietnamese, saying he should pay them 5000 dong each to take their pictures. He laughed and said, "how about 10,000?" (about 65 cents) They were a little embarrassed he understood them, but told him that tourists often take pictures in the market, but never come back with the photos.

Nguyen came back to hotel and found a photo processor across the street. While we mosied around the neighborhood, the store was making prints from our digital card. A couple of hours later, the kids, Nguyen and I returned to the market and started handing out the pictures. The ladies laughed their heads off! And were so thrilled, too. They fussed over the kids and asked me lots of questions that I didn't understand. Some of the ladies who didn't get pictures were disappointed, so we promised to come back some day and take their pictures, too.

Today's lunch.

I miss the food in Vietnam, so today for lunch I made a little stir fried beef with Chinese broccoli and noodles. It took me about 10 minutes, cost less than a McDonald's lunch and tasted almost as good as the street stall noodles I ate in Nha Trang. Plus, I used less than 3 ounces of beef, so I have plenty for dinner tonight, too.

Screw the South Beach diet.

48 hours and then some

So, jet lag isn't just that you are tired. It's that you wake up at 2 am and can't get back to sleep because your body thinks it is 2pm and wants some good noodles for lunch. Which of course would be impossible to get, even if the restaurants were open, which they are not, because food in the United States just isn't as good.

It is a simple fact that everything we have eaten since coming back has more or less been a disappointment. Even our own home made breakfast today, with eggs which were likely laid a month ago, was terrible.

We got back very late on Wednesday night, exactly 27 hours after we were supposed to, because our 747 jumbo jet to Hong Kong had some unexplained mechanical problem and they ended up canceling our flight on Tuesday morning. United Airlines seemed like they had no clue how to handle the situation. (400 frustrated passengers!) But they eventually sent us off to the swankiest hotel in Sai Gon with meal vouchers and taxi fare and promised to get in touch with us with further instructions.

The New World Hotel is the very one that Bill Clinton stayed in when he visited Viet Nam a few years ago, and happens to be right across the street from the very modest place we stayed for our first two nights in Sai Gon. So it literally felt like the chickens had come home to roost. (And yes, there ARE chickens in downtown Sai Gon, LOL.)

The New World has the most beautiful swimming pool I have ever seen. It is designed so the water is at the exact same level as the tile patio surrounding it. The whole area was filled with tropical plants and chaise lounges, big white umbrellas and beautiful fluffy blue towels. The water was about 85 degrees, which is to say hot as a tub, but since the air on Tuesday was in the high 90s, it was actually refreshing.

The boys wanted to use our 'lost day' for hanging at the pool. Nguyen was on a quest for his last street vendor meals. He had visited the Banh Xiao stall the day before and wanted another go at it. This one, he said, had curry in it, which made the rice flour pancake yellow. It was the size of a dinner plate and stuffed with bean sprouts and shrimp, pork and squid. He took off for the afternoon while the kids and I took naps.

Which is a darn good thing, because United left us a message that we were to get up a 3am and take a cab to the airport for a 5am check in.

So, for the second day in a row we were up WAY before dawn. We got to the airport and all 400 displaced passengers, with our mountains of luggage, were in line trying to find out if we were going to get home today.

United got us seats on Cathay Pacific for the long leg from Hong Kong to San Fransisco. And United could take care of us for the rest of the flights. (4 altogether!)

From the time we got up to the time we got to our front door, we had been traveling for 33 hours. Yesterday I slept until 2:30 pm.

We are home. But oddly, we don't feel like we are home. Our house seems strange to us. Overstuffed with stuff we don't really need. Big. (Which is funny because it has always seemed too small.) It is strangely silent here. The hum of the highway, which used to irritate me no end, is nothing compared to the constant honking of traffic in Viet Nam. At 11pm last night I stepped out of the house and was stunned at how quiet it was.

And the world here, even with it's billboards and signs and cars and traffic and mini malls and STUFF seems, strangely, bare. Where are the street vendors on all the sidewalks? In this neighborhood, where, even, ARE the sidewalks?

The whole time I was in Viet Nam, I felt unable to really say much about it. The experience was so huge in the experiencing of it, it seemed impossible to distance myself enough to really look at it and take it in. I wonder if that will change now that we are back.

Last night we looked at some of the photos and I am very glad we took so many, because truly, I had already forgotten so much.

We are home. Sort of.



Thanks to all for your comments along the way. I finally got a chance to read them this morning and it moves me to know that you all were with me on this amazing journey. I am sure that I will be writing about it more, as I process it.

Rain in Nha Trang

It has been raining since my parents left, but we are still having a great time in Nha Trang. The other night, my new-to-me sister in law took us out to dinner. It just so happened that she chose the place we have been going for coffee and breakfast every morning, so we were already regulars!

It was a great evening. We were joined by her uncle, who works for the train department. This was fortuitous, as Nguyen and I were trying to get 1st class train tickets to Saigon for tomorrow, but discovered that they were sold out. I am a little embarrassed to admit that we took advantage of the connection and let Nguyen's brother ask about securing us seats. The train guy/uncle got on the phone to try and get us tickets.

Dinner wasn't really dinner, but more a series of stunningly delectable appetizers and tons of beer. At first we were fairly moderate, having a round, then another. The Vietnamese drink their beer with ice, but Nguyen and I drink it straight. Luckily it was good and cold. We prefered Saigon to Heineken. The dishes served ranged from very simple (stir fried corn kernals with chili peppers, pork and green onions) to complex (shrimp spring rolls wrapped in a kind of rice paper netting I have never seen before. They were incredible.) We had little clams with garlic and panko breadcrumb topping, cuttlefish steamed and served with soy sauce, stir fried noodles (for the kids... they are now, officially, addicted to them) and, well, beer.

As the evening wore on, I noticed that my lack of Vietnamese seemed less and less important. We were laughing and relaxing and having a grand time. The train guy, it turned out, wasn't a typical lower ranking party guy at all. He was brought up in the South and vehemently opposed the communist government, even trying to escape the country several times. Once, he actually almost made it, but had a change of heart as he realized that he would never see his mother again, so he came back and decided to make the best of it. And he has been very successful. Now he pins his hopes for the future of his country on his children and their generation. And as Vietnam is the fastest growing economy in Asia, I'd say he has reason to be hopeful.

The waitress brought a case of beer and left it at the end of the table. I start splitting beers with Nguyen so that we are only drinking half what my brother in law and the train guy are having. And still, my lightweight husband starts getting pretty plastered. But he says to me that this is a right of passage that he missed because he had to leave the country when he was so young. I laugh and agree to help him stagger back to the hotel later.

"You can put this in your blog," he says. And here it is.

Where are the kids, you ask? For the last couple of nights, they have been invited to spend the night at my in laws. We were happily suprised to find that the boys have a 10 year old cousin who is visiting from Australia with his mom and baby sister. Vincent is a very sweet boy and the kids get along famously. And older cousin Tam watches over all of them. So they are safely off at Pop's house.

The restaurant is beautiful. It is really just a big thatched roof with rust colored columns and a big tile floor. In Vietnam, there is very little distinction between the inside and outdoors. It surprises me that there are no walls at this place. Everything is just wide open. There is a patio with a canvas awning which abuts the sea wall, so we are just feet from the pounding surf. It is one of the few places in Nha Trang that you don't hear the roar of traffic, which is why we have grown to love it for breakfast. And the bathrooms are beautiful! They are housed in a separate building. I told Nguyen that if I ever build a house in Vietnam, I want it to be like those bathrooms. Brown tile floors, ochre yellow walls, a thatched roof and dark wood trim.

Finally, Nguyen says he is ready to go back to the hotel. We survey the damage. A case of beer bottles, several empty plates... big, big, smiles.

And 4 first class train tickets to Saigon.

A down day in Nha Trang

My parents left today, and I confess I am feeling melancholy about it. Their flight leaves Nha Trang in a few minutes and we won't see them again until May.

Noah and I also had a bit of tummy trouble today. Nothing serious, but we just didn't feel up to speed. So we skipped the trip to the aquarium and spent the last couple of hours lying in our room watching Animal Planet on tv. For lunch, Nguyen brought us a couple of loaves of French bread, right from the oven. They were still warm and were a great choice.

This has been an extraordinary trip so far. We have packed our days, and today was no exception. Before they left for the airport, we went with my parents to the Cham temple at the top of the hill in the neighborhood we are in. It is a beautiful place. The towers are from the 9th century and 4 of the 8 of them survive. Originally Hindu, they are now a mixture of Hindu and Buddhist. Inside each tower is a diety, to which pilgrims light incense and leave offerings. 3 of the towers are really small, and one is quite large. I left my shoes at the door of one of the small ones, as requested, and entered. It was filled with incense smoke and the interior walls were black from 11 centuries of smoke. The diety presiding inside was a stone depiction of a woman, I think, who was dressed in actual cloth clothing. The incense sticks were in a package next to a burner filled with sand, so I drew one out and said a little prayer to my God for the safe travel of my parents, and my thanks for such a wonderful, life changing trip. Then I lit the stick and poked it in the sand with the dozens of others.

Outside one of the towers, a trio of Cham musicians were playing. There was a flute player and two drummers playing traditional Cham drums. The drums intriqued me, of course. They are wooden cylinders, about 2 1/2 feet long. The musicians play both ends at once. On one end, they use a stick.... on the other, their hand. During a break, I squatted beside them and peppered them with questions, which Nguyen translated. The drums they were playing were so old they had no idea when they were made. The end they play with sticks is made of buffalo hide. The other end is goatskin. The ropes holding the heads on are also buffalo. The drums sounded beautiful. I asked one of the drummers if he knew of anyone still making these drums and it turned out that his brother does. Unfortunately, the brother lives in the mountains, several days journey away, so there is no way I can buy one. I said I would love to take a lesson from him some day. He said he would teach me to play and then make a recording for me so I could practice. Just like Sidy!

I asked the drummers if the rhythms had dances associated with them. At that, the drummers called over several women who were dressed in traditional highland garb. They began to play a different rhythm and the women danced for us. We were simply thrilled. Like African music, the rhythm changed in the song to indicate a change in dance steps. And like African music, the two drums were playing different rhythms which layered together into a very complex and beautiful piece.

Nguyen took a ton of photos, so as soon as we are home I'll post some of them. Talking with those Cham drummers was really a highlight for me!

But my tummy is still bothering me and my parents left today. I am going to miss them terribly.

Back to Nha Trang

We are packing so much into each day, I am losing all track of time. Perhaps I am going to borrow an idea from my Buddhist friends and 'be here now'.

So, right this very moment I am sitting in a dusty internet cafe near our hotel. It is filled with teenage kids. There is American music playing and lots of cigerette smoke. The keyboard sits on a filthy pull out shelf covered with cigarette burns. My guts are churning a little, so I may have to cut this short! I will say we have been remarkably lucky with regard to our intestinal health. No major problems so far. The food here is great. I have never tasted such fresh seafood in my life, which is ironic considering I am from New England.

This morning we took a boat ride up the river that empties right next to our hotel. It was amazing that after only a few hundred yards, the hustle and bustle of Nha Trang was replaced with the most idyllic countryside. We saw amazing birds of all descriptions, including one with a fantastic irridescent green tail. Tons of various herons and egrets. Water buffalo and cattle grazing by the banks. Very few people, as they must have all been off working.

At one point we passed under a rickety wooden bridge that my husband confessed he rode over on a scooter on his last trip. He said that halfway across, he got scared, but couldn't turn back, so he crossed over. As we passed under it, I realized it was shear madness for him to cross!

This has been an amazing experience. So much has happened. There are simply no words to describe exactly what this has been like.

I tried to go to church in Da Lat on Sunday, even though the only service is at 5am. I was worried I would oversleep, so basically was awake all night. The plan was that I was going to go with my wonderful nephew, Tam. At 4am, I got up and got dressed, trying not to wake my kids. Nguyen was up anyway because he has been waking up that early every day. At 4:30 I went to my nephews room and knocked on the door. I didn't want to knock too loudly because our driver was in there, too. I tried again. No response. He was still asleep! Nguyen offered to walk me to the church, but I didn't want to leave my kids alone in case they woke up. I didn't feel comfortable walking alone at that hour, either, so it turned out that Nguyen went to the service instead. It was one of those lovely little turns of events that don't seem quite accidental in retrospect.

Later that day, I walked up the church with him. It is a beautiful, weather beaten cathedral. There are bright stained glass windows and hand carved stations of the cross all around the nave. I knelt in the front pew to pray, then joined Nguyen back outside. He was chatting with an old man in the yard.

On the steeple of the church, there is a rooster wind vane. All the years he was growing up, Nguyen referred to the church as the chicken church. He was always curious about that weather vane. So he asked the old man about it.

The rooster is the symbol of St. Peter, of course. As I stood there, I was suddenly deeply moved that Peter is symbolized by his failure. His denial of Christ. It reminds me that we are all, well, human. St. Peter, thank you for that.

This coming Sunday, we have arranged for the boys and I to accompany my father in law to his church at the far more civilized (but less monastic) hour of 7:15. I think he is very excited we are going with him!

Tonight we are taking the whole family out to dinner as a thankyou for their great hospitality. And we have all of us, my parents and children and I, agreed that it is imperative that we learn Vietnamese. Already we have picked up quite a bit of the language, but it only serves to show us how much we don't know.

Nguyen just tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that he is going to walk over to watch someone who is weaving a basket boat on the sidewalk a block down the road. We watched, a few days ago, when he and his family (including the ancient mother) were hauling 25 foot bamboo out of the water and onto the shore. They had paddled up river for hours to cut the bamboo, then floated it back downriver to cut and split into thin pieces to use to make baskets. Around here, some of the fishermen use a boat that is actually a shallow, round basket, sealed with resin. The boats are about 5 feet in diameter, and actually weigh a ton, so when they have to move them on the ground, they tip them onto one side and roll them.

My guts have subsided a bit. I still can't access my blog to read comments. I wonder if the government of Vietnam has blocked blogger? I have heard that that sometimes happens in China. In any case, when I get back to the states, I will catch up.

Finally, I have to say I am tremendously grateful for this time with my parents. It turns out we are great traveling companions. We have been very relaxed and have had a wonderful time together. We keep talking as though we are going to do this together again... and I think we might actually do it.

I pray you are all doing well. I miss you guys!

Love,
Rachel

Da Lat

Our days are so full I am finding it difficult to get away and find a computer. Plus, for some reason, I am unable to view the blog, which means I am not able to read any comments. But I CAN create posts, so here I am at 8:10 pm Da Lat time, taking a moment to catch up.

Several days ago, in Nha Trang, we almost decided not to come to Da Lat, my husband's home town, because we heard it was overrun with western tourists and it is a several hour drive. In the end, though, we discovered that if we used the new road, it is only three hours from Nha Trang, so we went ahead and hired a driver to bring us up.

Thank God.

It is one of the most spectacular places I have ever been. The drive through the mountains was utterly stunning. The new road is still cut from the side of the mountain, so it twists and turns along, creeping upward in some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen in my life. You can see for miles, into sweet valley communities at the bases of ancient, rounded, lush green mountains. We drove into the clouds and could only see the white line of the road. We drove along craggy granite and sandy red orange limestone. Everywhere you looked the view was more spectacular then the last one.

Finally we began to drive through high mountain fields bursting with artichokes, coffee, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbages and all kinds of flowers and vegetables. The mountain people (called Hmong in RI... they have a different name here in Viet Nam) have lovely villages high in the mountains. Some have started farming in a more modern way, but many still practice slash and burn agriculture. Their houses, high in the mountains, are built of the local pine and are painted bright, happy colors.

Da Lat itself is a beautiful city. It is true that the tourism has affected it tremendously, with whole neighborhoods torn down to create street after street of small hotels. But get just a block or two away from the main town center and suddenly you are in a quaint, colonial style village. Before the French arrived, Da Lat didn't exist... so here the French influence is still very strong.

Yesterday (it seems longer ago than that) we went to see my husband's childhood home. It has seen better days. My father in law built it some 40 or 50 years ago, and since they left Viet Nam, it has changed hands several times, always through party officials. It has finally ended up a somewhat dilapidated rental unit for college kids. The corrugated steel roof is rusting through and all the paint is being eaten away by mildew. But still, my husband grew up in this home and it was very moving to stand in the very alley he walked up every day to get to his school.

As we stood there, an old man next door walked over to us and smiled.

"Bonjour" he said. I was suprised because we have heard absolutely no French since being here. We excitely replied and told him that Nguyen grew up next door. He lit up when he recognized him, shouted for his daughter and invited us in.

What a lovely visit we had. The old man's daughter was my eldest sister in law's best friend as a child. She asked after everyone and invited us to dinner, but since there were 8 of us, we said it would be too much of an imposition, but promised to come back next time we are in Viet Nam.

Ok. So here are the all important details.

We have completely violated every single food rule our travel doctor gave us.

Raw veggies: couldn't live without 'em.
Ice Cream: Yup, we finally caved and bought the kids packaged cones.
Ice: Only once, with fresh squeezed orange juice. We drank the juice really fast while knocking on wood.
Street vendors: Oh my, yes. Thank goodness for the street vendors. The Pho for dinner tonight was some of the best I have ever had. We sat on plastic stools around tables on the sidewalk and had a great meal for a buck a bowl.
Unpeeled fruit: Strawberries and a whole bunch of fruits we don't know the names of. In most cases we wash them in bottled water. The green mango from the market was peeled by our vendor, with a knife of unknown cleanliness. We dipped the mango in a chili infused salt and assumed it would kill any bad beasties.

Are we tempting fate? Perhaps, but so far only Emmett has had any distress and it might have been a virus he brought from home. It was a 24 hour deal.

We are growing to love this country. And whenever we practice our Vietnamese, we are universally met with great enthusiasm. In fact, we have had such joy at engaging with the Vietnamese people. It has been one of the best parts of this trip.

That's all for now. We are about to open a bottle of Da Lat wine for a nightcap.

All Love,
Rachel

Another Vietnam post

There is so much to talk about I can't even come up with a name for my posts. Do I want to tell about the lunch we had yesterday? We went back to my Father in laws for the second time. The dishes were more or less the same, but the mood was much less formal. More laughing. More relaxed. At one point my Father in law, Pop, put his hand on my leg and I held it for awhile. Unheard of, really, but totally comfortable.

We practiced our paltry Vietnamese while eating a kind of sweet and sour fish soup, stir fried cuttlefish (delicious) and grilled prawns, this time with the shell removed because Chi Leung realized that Americans prefer it that way.

For dinner we found a lovely sort of fusion place across from our hotel. The food was boring compared to the delicacies we have been eating, served with plain old soy sauce instead of the Umami bomb fish sauce combos that my sister in law makes. But it is the only place where we can hear the ocean instead of the constant thrum of motor scooters, so for 750,000 dong (about $60) we had 2 bottles of local wine, 6 or 8 dishes, including shrimp and wild boar, and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label to go.

We went back this morning for coffee and french bread with fried eggs. They were the best eggs I have had in decades. Chickens work hard to scratch out their dinner here, but oh, does it pay off. The yolks were bright orange and stood to attention like sun soldiers on the white plates. We broke open the french bread loaves and stuffed them with the eggs. My husband ate these very sandwiches as a child. One every 12 days because they only had one chicken and had to collect eggs for over a week so that every kid would get a sandwich.

Back at the hotel, we cracked the Johnny Walker and got weepy listening to Nguyen tell us the story of the day he left Vietnam. It is all coming back to him. He has remembered the details all along, but last night described the terror for the first time. It was the first time he had seen the ocean, since he's from the mountains. His first time on a boat. Trying to go from a fishing boat to a huge American ship, in the dark, knowing that some of the people didn't make it because they got crushed between the two vessels. Sea sickness and terror as he watched the church they had spent the night in get bombed as they were pulling off shore.

It is almost impossible to imagine this live and let live people in the midst of a war. Just watching the traffic convinces me that they are essentially a peaceful bunch. I have seen nothing that even remotely hints at hostility, even when there was a minor collision between two motor scooters yesterday, one of which carried a man, his wife and his infant baby. Not even a hostile glance as they pulled apart and went on their way.

It is hard to imagine a war here.

Today, we are off to the market.

The internet connection is so bad I was unable to read your comments... so please know that I am not ignoring you all! I will check in when I can.

All Love,
Rachel

Where to begin?

I am sure I feel a little like my friend Amy did during her trip to India. There is no way to really describe what you are seeing and experiencing. No way to communicate what Vietnam is. I can tell you about the breakfast we ate this morning, in the middle of a sidewalk, on tiny plastic stools, squatting over banh xiao pancakes fried on tiny pans over a charcoal brasier. Or I can tell you about the lunch at my father in laws house, where we were the guests of honor, waited on hand and foot, served exotic and expensive dishes that my sister in law spent the morning preparing. My step mother and I had to work hard not to weep at the kindness and hospitality of it, because we knew that if we did start crying we would embarrass our hosts.

The drive from Saigon (more properly, Sai Gon) was a sort of Asian version of Godard's Le Weekend. We cruised past life on the road. 9 1/2 hours of scene after scene. Cows in front yards. Water buffalo lounging in a muddy puddle. In Sai Gon, slums the likes of which I have never seen before. And God this is a filthy country. Trash everywhere. But every morning the proprietors of the little shops come out to sweep their sidewalks, just in time for the party officials to cruise down the street littering it with leaflets thrown out of the back of a truck blasting martial music, or the local pooches taking their morning crap. (Poor dogs, too. You can tell from the texture of their shit that they aren't eating purina. More like rice and veggies, if they are lucky.)

I have realized over the past few days that in the midst of the sensual overwhelm (sights, smells, and oh, God, the constant, unrelenting noise) I am quite moved that this strange place, In which I am a complete stranger, is my husband's homeland. We are more different than I ever imagined. More different than he ever let on. But the fact that he feels right at home here, where I feel like I have landed on Mars, says it all.

The children are wonderful. They are just totally unselfconcious and interested. Bored, sometimes, when we aren't at the beach. (Which has been most of the time.) Their circadian rhythms have been off since we got here, with the unfortunate side effect that they have been getting up at 3 am and waking me up along with them. This morning they sat on the balcony of our room, overlooking the South China Sea, and watched the sun rise. I tried to get more sleep.

Emmett was sick for a day, throwing up everything he ingested, including rehydration salts. I was worried, but just as I was threatening to take him to the hospital for IV rehydration, he ate a bowl of white rice and drank a bottle of water and is now swimming with his Boppa.

Initially, we checked into a Canadian owned hotel in the midst of the tourist district of Nha Trang. It was loathesome. I felt like I was in the middle of Fort Lauderdale with cyclos. I found out later, after we checked out, that my father actually went back to his room and cried because he had traveled so far only to land in his worst nightmare: a tourist trap. So, we asked Nguyen and his brother to find us better digs. We ended up across the bridge, less than 3 miles, but a world away, in a hotel that doesnt' have any signs in english, with a balcony overlooking the bay and no top sheets. The staff is friendly and happy when we try our Vietnamese out on them. We love the room and the beds. We don't love the canned bitter melon tea in the mini bar. The beach is too filthy for swimming at this end of the bay, but you can walk out the front door of your hotel and are right in the middle of Vietnam with nary a white person in sight. You should see the looks we attract. Frank curiosity, especially since we are traveling with a Vietnamese man. Looks, giggles and mostly huge smiles. We are a parade whenever we walk down a street. (Carefully avoiding the gutter!)

I am overwhelmed in all ways. But wouldn't miss this for the world.

Internet access is cheap, but I have to wait my turn at a cafe, so I am not sure when I can post again.

And I must be perfectly frank that I don't miss anyone from home. I have barely thought about home at all, we are so busy processing what we are experiencing here. I would probably feel differently if I weren't traveling with my kids.

By the way, Peter, as we were driving up the coast, I thought to myself how much you would love this place. Maybe someday you will come here with us.

All Love,
Rachel

We are here!

After 30+ hours of travel time, I am sitting in the lobby of our hotel in Saigon. It is about 7am local time. The flights were uneventful, which is to say a smashing success. I will never forget what it is like to fly over Hudson's Bay and into the endless night of the North Pole.

We are tired, but very energetic. Haven't had breakfast yet, but were awoken to the sound of roosters crowing in the middle of downtown.

Had a little taste of bureaucracy last night when we were told to fill out the same form three times because we hadn't done it EXACTLY the way the 22 year old Immigration Agent wanted. And already some questions about how the venerable grandparents reacted to the amerasian grandkids. The kid/agent inquiring first made sure I couldn't speak Vietnamese before delicately asking the question.

The weather is mild. I'd say about 80 degrees this morning. The Hotel (extravagant at $50 per night for the 4 of us. $35 for my parents) has the best shower I have ever had and a view of an alley.)

It is incredible that yesterday-ish, I was having a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee in an airport in Warwick and today-ish, I am in Ho Chi Minh City, listening to Vietnamese radio and the sound of scooters beeping endlessly.

Love, Love, Love,
Rachel

Hurry up

And wait.

Our flight this morning was canceled yesterday, due to anticipated bad weather in Chicago. Should we be surprised by a snowstorm in February in Chicago? I think not!

So the boys and Nguyen and I went to the Ash Wednesday service last night at Grace and I felt pretty darn penitential, all things considered. I was moved that Nguyen accepted the ashes on his forehead and then wore them to dinner afterwards. We went to a funky Portuguese place in East Providence and ate fish.

Today we get what feels like a free day. We are packed and ready. We have no more major errands to run. I even left a message for my drumming teacher that if he has a spare hour I'd love to have a lesson before we go. We slept late and tidied up a bit and have time to blog about it.

Life is good, even when it is not what we expected.

Tomorrow, God willing, we get on the plane and end up halfway around the world.

It's hard to be a light in the world....

When you are in full scale panic mode.

Which I am.

Right this second.

Between Nguyen harrassing me about about getting the tax stuff together and the fifty THOUSAND things I still need to do before we leave for Vietnam at 4am on Thursday, I am in a more or less constant state of melt down mode.

Which isn't to say that I am screaming or anything. Just. Edgy.

And since I get the trots when I get nervous, I have been spending a bit more time than usual in our lovely 1927 with the 1950's redo pink and black tiled bathroom.

Too much information, I know.

Tonight I am going to my drum class, and hoping that concentrating on a lively African rhythm will set me straight.

And prayer. Lots and lots of prayer. Because it's hard to be a light in the world without God's help, too.

A bit of fluff

Yeah, it's a meme. But it was so funny I had to do it!

Thanks to Marybeth for this one.

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME (first pet, current car): Sophie Mazda
2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME (fave ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe): Chocolate Dansko

3. YOUR NATIVE AMERICAN NAME (favorite color, favorite animal): Purple Rabbit
4. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name, city where you were born): Elizabeth Newport
5. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (the first three letters of your last name, first two of your first name): Ngura
6. SUPERHERO NAME (2nd favorite color, favorite drink): Red Wine

7. NASCAR NAME (the first names of your grandfathers): Albert Lewis
8. STRIPPER NAME ( the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy): Chanel #5 Reeses (That one so doesn't work...)

9. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME (your fifth grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter): Deltradicci Denver
10. SPY NAME (your favorite season/holiday, flower): Autumn Iris
11. CARTOON NAME (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now): Apple Red Sweater
12. HIPPIE NAME (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree): Banana Beech

Dancing in the dark

Well, not quite dancing... but grooving on the elliptical trainer at the gym. The power went out this morning at Planet Fitness, so instead of watching inane stuff on the tv, I was grooving to my Afriki album on the Ipod. (Which I coincidentally brought for the first time because I was bored with the junk they broadcast on the tvs at the gym.)

I have a love/hate relationship to the ipod. On the one hand, it is cool to have your own personal soundtrack as you go about your business. On the other, I think music is meant to be a communal experience. I love listening with others, dancing and singing along. It seems isolating to listen alone.

Working out has been great, thoough. I started a few weeks ago because I wanted to be in better shape for the Big Trip. So every day I have been doing about 20 minutes on the elliptical trainer and then working either my arms or legs on the nautilus machines. (Do they still call them that, I wonder?)

Yup. I am superwoman:

Faster than a lazy water buffalo. More powerful than a kid selling gum on Nha Trang Beach. Able to lift extra large bowls of pho.

The Big Trip

I am thinking it is silly to spin off yet another blog. (Three and counting at this point...) So I will be posting about my big trip to Vietnam here.

First, the particulars:

6 of us are traveling together. My husband, kids, my parents and I are flying from Providence to Chicago, from Chicago to Hong Kong and from Hong Kong to Saigon. (No one, and I mean no one, calls it Ho Chi Minh City!)

The flight between Chicago and Hong Kong is the longest leg, of course. It is just under 16 hours. Oddly, it is the one part of the trip that worries me. (Bad food? Nah! Malaria? Nope. Cockroaches the size of poodles? Pshaw! 16 hours in a confined space? It's enough to scare the crap outa me.)

I have prepared for the long flight by buying an inflatable pillow and packing ambien. Better living through chemistry, I say. I'll probably get some saline for my nose, too. The last long flight I took, my nose hurt like crazy by the end of it.

But oh, we are so excited. We leave in 2 weeks. My father in law is preparing for us. We are beginning to pack. We have our shots, our passports, our visas (very official from the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, complete with a red star in the corner.) We have rehydration salts and immodium. We have water tablets and nalgene bottles. We have 6 bottles of bean sauce for my father in law. We have a box of wine and a phrase book.

We are getting ready.

Confidential to A.F.

Welcome home!

I can't wait to hear about India. Wanna do lunch? I don't have your email!

Love,
Rachel

The evangelist

Suddenly, I am evangelizing.

Not the showing-up-on-your-doorstep-talking-smack-about-the-state-of-the-world kind. Not telling my friends that they are destined to an eternity of hellfire and bad food if they don't mend their ways. Not even Jesus is Lord and until you accept that you are doomed.

Nope. I am just inviting people to visit my church. And they have been. And some have stayed. My son's friend mentioned a couple of weeks ago that they were planning to visit the Baptist church in the neighborhood.

"Really?" I said. "What's your mom's number at work?"

At which point I called her and invited her and the family to come to Grace on Sunday.

"I'll swing by and show you how to get there." I said.

They came, and it turned out that long ago, they had been Episcopalians until their parish closed and they never found another church.

They loved Grace. They joined. The kid is now in the middle school youth group with Noah. The teenager is excited about the mission trip this summer. The parents are going to volunteer to make sandwiches for the homeless. They all went up and took communion for the first time in years.

When I talk about my church, I talk about it with such joy and affection, I think people get interested.

A week ago I had dinner with friends and yesterday one of them showed up for the 10am service at Grace. She is a Unitarian Christian who is, I think, coming to understand that there is an oxymoronic element to that. She is longing for the sacraments. She is longing to hear about Jesus in church. She longs to sing his praises. So there she was. Next week she is coming to Lectio Divina before the service.

I loved my UU church, but interestingly, I never invited any of my friends to come with me. Well, maybe once or twice. A lesbian friend checked it out once, but it was the most dour of services. Doom and gloom, like Lent without the uplifting possibility of redemption. Even the hymns that day were like dirges. One of the problems with a UU church is you really never know what to expect. One week it was a sermon on the redemptive elements of Harry Potter. The next it was a survey of Sufi poets. The next it was a diatribe on how the Catholic church mounted a smear campaign against Mary of Magdala. My friend never came back.

Getting people excited about a church is, admittedly, a little bit of bait and switch. Because it is not that I think that Grace is the be-all of churches. Or that going to church is even the point. It is that something remarkable has been happening there. God is kicking butt. People are experiencing transformation. Redemption. Miracles are occurring. Yesterday a man who has been coming for almost two years took communion for the first time. (Maybe he figured if Nguyen could do it, he could too, LOL.) Grace is a community of people who are earnestly seeking to be in deeper relationship with Jesus. So, by inviting people to our beautiful building with our great choir and sweet, funny priests and friendly parishioners, I am actually inviting them to open a door to God. I figure if I try and get them in the pews, God will do the rest.

So, what are you doing this Sunday?

1 Corinthians

Thank God for the bible. I love reading it. I love studying it. I love living by it.

Lately I have been struggling with myself. I have been obsessing over whether this person is mad at me, or that one thinks I am a jerk. Essentially, I think, it has been a kind of self-centeredness gone berserk. Of course you are cranky because of something I did. Doesn't the whole world, including yours, revolve around me?

So today I was at Bible study with all my dear dear friends and we were reading Corinthians and leave it to Paul to get straight to the point and whack me upside the head.

1 Corinthians 4:3

3 I care very little if I am judged by you or by any human court; indeed, I do not even judge myself. 4 My conscience is clear, but that does not make me innocent. It is the Lord who judges me. 5 Therefore judge nothing before the appointed time; wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men's hearts. At that time each will receive his praise from God.

For me, this means that I need to let God be the one to judge me. Not you. Not my friends. Not myself, even. And I need to be very careful not to judge others.

After bible study, I sat in a pew and prayed for awhile, asking Jesus to let me rest in his peace. In him, I do not fret. I am calm. I am safe. I am free.

Jesus' baptism

Yesterday during Lectio Divina, we were reading Matthew's account of Jesus' baptism. I read first. Inexplicably, about half way through the reading, I choked up. I just started crying.

Next it was my friend's turn to read. I pulled myself together and tried to understand what had caused my reaction. Since there were only two of us, I read the passage a second time. Once again, halfway through, I began to cry. This time I was nearly sobbing. I had to get some tissues to wipe my nose. My makeup was smeared all over my cheeks. My face turned red.

What in the world happened?

The night before my baptism 4 1/2 years ago, I randomly opened the bible and landed on this very passage in Matthew. At the time, I didn't know what baptism meant. I had asked my minister to baptize me as a symbol of my surrender to God... but did not understand the sacramental nature of what I was doing. I don't think my minister had a clue about that either, to be honest. He knew I was earnest. He believed I was genuinely being called to do this thing. But he had no idea what it really was. We sailed past the whole Jesus issue. Being a Unitarian at the time, it didn't occur to me to specifically talk about Jesus at the baptism. It wasn't until days later that I realized that the made-it-up-as-we-went-along baptism had done something totally unexpected: I was baptized by the Holy Spirit. I became a Trinitarian. I became a Christian. And most importantly, I died and was reborn in Christ, Jesus. I died and was reborn.

Which to someone who hasn't experienced it, sounds a bit off the wall. Maybe even frightening. But to me, it was blissful. Scary at times, especially in the weeks following my baptism. But joyful nonetheless.

Yesterday, when reading the passage from Matthew, the feeling that opened the floodgates was gratitude. And a sense of calm and peace and joy, mixed with a bit of longing, too. John was unworthy, and yet Jesus chose him. I am unworthy, and yet I, too, feel I have been chosen to serve God. Mostly what I felt was a kind of calm that only comes with resting in the presence of God.


Mat 3:13

Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to be baptized by John.
Mat 3:14

But John tried to deter him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”
Mat 3:15

Jesus replied, “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness.” Then John consented.
Mat 3:16

As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him.
Mat 3:17

And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.”

Strange

Every once in awhile I feel drawn to purge my old notebooks and diaries. A couple of years ago, I threw out my diary from High School. Today, I was looking at my tattered collection of bad poems and adolescent declarations of love from 9th grade with intention of tossing it. My stuff was positively embarrassing.

But in the midst of the schlocky poems and gushing love letters, I found a type written letter to the parents of a friend:



Oct. 9, 1979

Dear Mr. and Mrs. F_____,

I am a friend and somewhat of a confident of your son G. He seems to feel that your punishments are unfair and he is afraid to talk to you about it.

I realize that this is not my business, but I think that G is really depressed. He constantly mopes about in class and feels that everyone is out to get him, which, needless to say, is totally untrue. I think you should have a talk with him about his feelings.

I know G loves you both very much, but I believe he feels a complete communication block. If you could learn to accept him as he is, rather than ask him to be something he isn't, I am sure you would both be better off.

I left the letter unsigned. Apparently I never sent it. It is such a strange artifact of my life as a prep school kid.

My friend G killed himself 4 years ago and though I am certain that nothing I could have done would have ever changed that, it seems that even as a 9th grader, I could see that something was wrong.

Beloved God,

I pray that my friend G is at peace. I pray, too, for his parents, who even now must be filled with grief. And today I pray for all who suffer from mental illness and depression. Give them strength to seek help, Lord. And be with them in their pain.

Poked

We went to the travel clinic at Miriam hospital for our shots for the Vietnam trip. In a word:

Ouch.

I had the worst of it, with 5 shots. (FIVE!)

I got typhoid, tetanus, measles, hepatitis A and the flu shot. Noah was also pretty bad, with three, including the dreaded tetanus, which makes your arm feel like it has a rock in it for a month.

Emmett handled his shots well, but then fainted afterwards, so we had to apply cold compresses and get him sugared up on ginger ale and lollipops. Nguyen had just 2 because his were still good from the last trip.

I have to say that I am starting to get very excited! We leave in 5 weeks and are starting to get all our ducks in a row. I am designating a spot in the guest room to start piling stuff. We have a long list of things we need for the trip, including deet and sunblock, imodium and electrolyte solution. Ear plugs and sleeping pills. Tee shirts and shorts and sandals. (Especially for me, as they won't have size 10.5 in Vietnam, LOL!)

We are beginning to pull together our itinerary, too, with a planned stop in Mui Ne on the way to Nha Trang.

Just can't wait!

Joy to the world! The Lord is come

Did it work for you? Did you wake up on the 4th Sunday of Advent and suddenly realize that the energy was shifting? It was right around Saturday when I began to see the Light at the end of the darkness.

A plan had been percolating in my head: We'd decorate the tree on Christmas eve. I bought a beautiful wooden Nativity set from Guatemala, complete with three cows, three kings and a baby Jesus as big as a cow. The children would unwrap it and set it on the mantle. My brother, mom and friends Tom and Donna were coming over to eat appetizers and light the 4 Advent candles and the wonderfully cheesy votive candle with the picture of the Holy Family I bought in the Spanish section of the grocery store.

It all went as planned. I cooked appetizers and baked cookies all day. Nguyen took a rare day off and helped clean the house and get ready. He chopped cabbage and carrots and wood ear mushrooms for his famously delicious egg rolls. The kids pulled out the boxes of decorations and spent the day stringing lights and hanging ornaments. In the end we had a tree with colored lights on the bottom, white lights on top, and no ornaments above 5 feet up. It turned out to be the most beautiful tree we have ever had.

I went, alone, the 2:00 service at Grace while Nguyen and the kids finished getting the house ready. It was quiet and beautiful. Fr. Rich preached a wonderful, heartfelt sermon that made me cry.

My plan of all appetizers was a hit! The food was delicious and simple. Before we dug in, I read a prayer I wrote. (Inexplicably, I couldn't find my Book of Common Prayer.)

It was a relaxed, funny, joyful and loving evening.

On Christmas morning, Nguyen got up and said "I feel like going to church." and since I was waiting for my family to come back, he went alone.

When my brother arrived, he asked where Nguyen was.

"At church", I said.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

And suddenly, something shifted for my brother. Later he joked about it, calling Nguyen "Bible Boy" and worrying that my husband will try and evangelize him. In all his bluster, though, I know that he was pondering this new turn of events.

Later, when my mom arrived, we made a fabulous breakfast and had a wonderful conversation about religion, politics and just about everything else you aren't supposed to talk about. As I drove my mother to the airport, she said "that conversation was my Christmas wish. That we would all talk and listen and enjoy each other's company."

Seems like maybe we all got our wishes this year.

Praise to you, Lord Christ. Glory to you, Lord Christ.

Seashells

My father and stepmother have a beautiful tradition for Christmas.

Back when my grandfather was alive, he and my grandmother collected scallop shells on the beach near their cottage in Truro, Massachusetts. Grandpa carefully drilled tiny holes at the top and strung them, in pairs, on florist's wire to use as Christmas tree ornaments. They made dozens and dozens of them.

After both of my grandparents died, my father inherited the scallops. Somehow, he and my stepmother came up with a wonderful tradition. Each year they take a sharpie marker and inscribe the names of friends or relatives who have died during the year. Then they spend an evening putting up all the shells that have accumulated over the years. It is a very moving process. One by one, they read the name and talk about what that person meant to them. Plenty of tears flow. (Usually plenty of scotch, too, I think!)

Last year, in Newfoundland, I was part of this for the first time. I came across the name of my friend Gig, who had died a couple years before, during Holy week. And my granny. And other friends of the family. My mother in law. Even beloved pets.

In the midst of the tears, we had such joy at having known them.

Stymied

I admit it. As a Christian, I have no idea what to do with Christmas. Not the religious piece. That part seems clear enough. We are in the midst of a penitential time of introspection and anticipation. We hear about John the Baptist on Sundays and go to confession. We examine our inner darkness and try to clear the way for the coming light. All that makes sense.

What doesn't make sense is how to do that while the world is screaming at you from every corner to

Have fun!!!!

Buy stuff!!!!

Buy more stuff!!!!

On SALE!!!

Back before I was a Christian, I loved the 'out in the world' version of Christmas. Nguyen and I would listen to sappy big band Christmas albums and go shopping at 2 am at whatever store was open. (Zayre's used to stay open all night in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Remember that, New Englanders?) We'd make hot apple cider and decorate the tree.

Maybe all of this is going to happen on Christmas Eve, from now on. As it is, we have had a tree since the Saturday after Thanksgiving... but haven't done anything more than string a simple string of white lights. No ornaments or star. No wreaths on the house. No lights on the bushes. It just doesn't seem right to be doing all that during Advent.

This is all so new to me, this oddball conjoining of the sacred with the profane. What do you, as a Christian, do with this? Your thoughts and comments are welcome!

On the occasion of a Nor'Easter

Beloved,

When sin knocks at the door
Of my heart
Let me keep it closed, shut tight.

When Joy approaches
I will throw open the door
And invite Him in.

Community

I have been thinking about the ways that God uses community to help us grow as Christians. Increasingly, I am grateful to be a part of a religious community like Grace church.

Being in community with others means that we get to practice being Christians. When difficulties in our own lives arise, we have people who are committed to helping us through them. When we see others in pain, we are called to extend a helping hand to them. It is powerful in both cases.

Nguyen and I have been worried about a congregant at Grace who is battling major health issues. We called his friend last week and invited them to the Wednesday evening Eucharist. They came. When the priest brought communion to my friend in the pew, I was overcome with joy because I felt so sure that he is no longer alone in this struggle. Not only is he bound to Christ with this rite, but all of us are bound together through it. Together, we face his challenges, losses, fears. Together we support him through this painful time.

During Advent, I have been struggling some painful issues of my own. Things that I wanted to hide and keep secret. But gently, God offered me a way to open them up and expose them to the light. He gave me a way out. He gave me a spiritual friend. A Godparent. The sacraments of communion and confession. The words of Thomas A Kempis. A community of people who love me, and whom I love. God gave me all these things to remind me that I never have to struggle alone with my sins and fears.

2 years ago I sat in the Rector of Grace Church's office and told him all the things I disliked about his church. I told him that I was unhappy, but that God was calling me to stay. I confessed that I was none too pleased about it, but that I would stick it out as long as I felt God was asking me to be there.

Yesterday I called him to tell him how grateful I am to be a part of Grace Church's community. Miracles are happening. Love is abounding. Blessings are everywhere. I thanked him for his leadership and his willingness to let the Holy Spirit be in charge.

Miracles are happening.

Thanks be to God.

The Messiah

It is a spectacular experience, seeing The Messiah live for the first time. It is true that I have gone to Messiah sings for the last few years, but this year we scored tickets to the sold out production put on by the Providence Singers and the RI Philharmonic. It was a gorgeous production.

For me, it was almost like seeing David Bowie for the first time. I actually wept a little hearing my favorite pieces performed live. For years now I have been listening to the Bernstein version of The Messiah on a more or less endless loop in my car. I can sing all the words, I know all the music parts, I play bits of it on the piano. So, when the orchestra began playing Sinfonia, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks.

Since my children know the score so well themselves, after years of hearing it in my car, I think I will bring them next time. I am sure they will love it.

Thank you Handel.

Wednesdays at Grace

I have already mentioned that we have a beautiful sung service at Grace on Wednesdays. This week I invited my husband, kids and a friend to join me. They did. The kids were remarkably un-squirmy... even when Noah lost a tooth right in the middle of the homily and started bleeding all over the place. It was a heroic effort, but he got through to the end without distracting everyone around us. (The tooth fairy will pay extra for that, I think!)

But here's the thing: Nguyen took communion. I tried not to make too much of a fuss, but truly, I wanted to blubber like a baby when he came up with us. Afterwards I jokingly asked if he felt a lightening bolt from the blue. No. But it turns out he has been praying every day.

I am so grateful.

Advent is upon us.

I am a couple of days late, but today I went to the church supply place here in town and bought some simple purple votive glasses for an Advent wreath. I placed them on a round glass plate scattered with seashells. The candles themselves are white. It is spare and lovely.

I also picked up another copy of the Imitation of Christ. I think that will be my Advent reading for this year. I loaned out my other copy awhile ago and now would like my friend to keep it.

This morning at bible study, we began with the Advent lessons for next Sunday. I read Isaiah 11 and admit, I couldn't get through it without tears.

A shoot shall come out from the stock of Jesse,
and a branch shall grow out of his roots.
²The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him,
the spirit of wisdom and understanding,
the spirit of counsel and might,
the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
³His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord.

He shall not judge by what his eyes see,
or decide by what his ears hear;
⁴but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,
and decide with equity for the meek of the earth;
he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,
and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.
⁵Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist,
and faithfulness the belt around his loins.

⁶The wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid,
the calf and the lion and the fatling together,
and a little child shall lead them.
⁷The cow and the bear shall graze,
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
⁸The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.
⁹They will not hurt or destroy
on all my holy mountain;
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.

Lord,

For all you are, for all you have given us, and for all you promise, I am thankful.

Simple gifts

My step mother is in awe of how I manage to throw together a simple meal that tastes good. I don't love cooking, so I often seek the path of least resistance. Thanksgiving was a case in point. Instead of turkey, we had standing rib roast. Preparation for that involved copious amounts of salt and pepper, calculating cooking time on the calculator, setting the oven and the putting it in the oven. No basting. No stuffing. No brining. No covering with cheese cloth or other fancy preparations.

To that we added a green salad, grilled asparagus, baked potatoes, creamed onions, beets, a couple of pies. We all did a side dish, so no one had more than one or two things to prepare. It was a cinch. It allowed us time to do what is more important on Thanksgiving. Drink. Ha! And spend time chatting and taking our time tidying the house and decorating together. It was just laid back and relaxed.

My step father and drumming teacher couldn't make it, so we had way too much food, but leftovers are a wonderful thing, too.

I am thankful that we had a wonderful day together. How was your Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving

My parents got in from Newfoundland yesterday. I am so excited they are here. It has been years since we had Thanksgiving together.

I am thankful for so much, this year. Thankful that we are going to Vietnam. Thankful that my mother found a lovely new apartment that she can afford. Thankful I am taking drumming classes. Thankful that my church is a vibrant, loving community. (We had 16 people at Bible study today!?!?!) I am grateful that my children are thriving, and that even in the midst of economic insecurity, Nguyen and I still love each other.

So much.

This Thursday, we are having a small (for us) gathering of 11 people. My father, step mother, mother, former step father, brother, my drumming teacher and my mom's friend. I think I might ask people to share what they are grateful for throughout the meal. And I found a beautiful prayer of Thanksgiving in the Book of Common Prayer that will suit the Muslim, the atheists, agnostics and Christians.

Blessings to all of you, dear readers. I am thankful for you, too.

God's Work

I have been gently, periodically inviting Nguyen to communion since we have been going to Grace. Two or three times he has come to the rail with us. In each case he has crossed his arms in front of his chest to receive a blessing.

Last night I told him about the priest at the Wednesday evening service. He shared as to how he invited his friend to take communion, even before he was baptized. His friend, for a couple of years, took communion. Then one day decided to be baptized.

I did it the other way around. I got baptized first. But at my baptism, I didn't intend for it to be a Christian thing. I did not recite a creed or agree to anything. I just surrendered myself to God and invited him into my life to do whatever work (lots) needed to be done. God took me up on my offer, sent Jesus knocking at my door and within a few days of the big dunk, I was a born again Christian.

My point is this. There are rubrics. There are guidelines and rules about how these things ought to happen. And then there is God's way. Which cannot be contained by the rules.

I was telling this to Nguyen last night because I think he wants, on some level, to take communion... but is afraid that he doesn't 'believe' enough to qualify. That, to me, is like thinking you need to be healed before you can take the medicine that will save you. Jesus was surrounded by doubters for his entire ministry on earth. I'd wager that MOST of his priests in the world have some levels of doubt at some points in their ministries. (correct me if I am wrong, anyone.) So, no. I do not believe that you have to sign a form or know what you are doing or put your thumb print on some cosmic agreement. I believe you simply have to be willing to open your heart to Jesus and let him invite you to the table. You are taking the body and blood of he who has saved the world into your physical self. It will heal you, whether you believe it or not.

Last night at Grace, a mentally ill, ex con homeless man took communion. He is delusional. He often just lies down and falls asleep in the pews. He stuck his finger into liquid pool of wax in the candle burning in front of him and traced a white wax cross on his forehead. During the service he sat muttering to himself. Who knows if this guy has been baptized. Who knows what is going on in his head. But God knows that he needs His love. His mercy. His tenderness. God knows he needs to take Jesus into his life.

I have taken communion three times in a Roman Catholic church. The first two times, I wasn't even a Christian. I didn't know the rules. I was attending church with friends and just walked up and received.

Then, a year ago, at the Christmas eve service in Newfoundland, I went to church with friends and took communion. I know it broke the rules. I'd normally not do such a thing. But the idea of Christmas without it was so unbearable I simply couldn't not do it. I called the priest ahead of time and put him in the incredibly uncomfortable situation of having to tell me yes or no. At the time, it was respect for the church that motivated me to make the call. Now I wonder if really, it is just between me and God. I think next time I'll let the priest off the hook. (He said yes, by the way, even knowing it was against the rules.)

Here's the thing: Is it possible that those times I took communion were the beginning of my conversion? Can it be that the body and blood of God seeped into my soul and began it's work, years before I was to finally accept Jesus? Did God take my hubris (or ignorance) and use it to good? It can't be an accident that I remember, 15 or 20 years later, the exact moments of communion.

I know that you, my readers, have differing opinions on this. Comments are welcome.

I pray for all those who have not yet received. Open their hearts, O Lord.

God Poke

Wow.

How is a good husband a little like Jesus?

He loves you even when you are a jerk.

Last night, after my day of coming face to face with all kinds of major character defects, I shared it all with Nguyen. The good, the bad and the ugly. Stuff that is years in the making. Habits that were formed long before I was a Christian, that have clung tenaciously. I told him all about it. His first reaction was

"Wow, you really are messed up..."

At which point I allowed as to how that might not be the best response when someone is baring their dark souls.

We chuckled.

The gist of the conversation is that even though I am Loved with a capital "L" by God. Even though I have had close encounters with Jesus and the Holy Spirit, I am still spending way too much time and energy seeking approval from people I care about. I am a love junky and need constant, reassuring fixes that everyone Loves. Me. Best.

I gave him lots of examples of how this manifests, which were embarrassing, to say the least. But at the end of the whole thing, he gave me a big hug (which is rather rare for a Vietnamese guy) and told me that, yes, he loves me. Warts (sins?) and all.

He is a good egg.

Darkness descending

We are on Advent's doorstep, and right on cue, my sins have risen to the surface. It is almost comical, really. The other day I was thinking about making a confession for Advent and I honestly could not think of any sins.

So, this morning, a whole raft of them emerged in my drum addled brain. I rushed in late to bible study and of course, Romans 14 and 15 were talking to me. I walked to my car afterwards and laughed out loud at my own hubris. And God's gentle shove. And his mercy. Oh, Lord. His mercy.

Today, I'll spend some time in prayer.

And figure out a time to make my confession.

And look forward to lunch with Fr. P so I can start to figure out what is going on.

Advent approaches and God is right on time. As usual.

Oh, he was some powerful

I woke up with this in my heart today:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

St. Francis

Fasting from Drumming

In an email to a friend, I noted that during Advent I will be forced to fast from drumming classes because my teacher will be in Mali. And, oddly, during Lent I will be in Vietnam visiting my husband's family. So God has a built in balancing act to keep me from going too crazy during the penitential seasons.

Evangelist

My friend is church shopping. She is a lapsed Roman Catholic.

-Come to our Wednesday Eucharist, I said. It is quiet, and lovely. The whole thing is sung. It is in candlelight. Very beautiful.

-Can I take communion? She asked.

-Of course. I replied.

-Even without a confession first?

-Jesus ate with sinners. It's ok. Maybe you can talk about it with him before you come. Then we'll do the corporate confession together.

-Ok.

Lord. The fact that you love us, even in our weakness and sin, blows my mind more than anything else I can imagine.

New Blog Alert!

My cyber alter ego, Rachel, of Swandive fame, has begun a new blog for her God addiction. It is called

God Junky. Like crack, only better.

As one who recently spun off a second blog, I say go go go!

We are all travelers, here, folks. Let's keep each other company for the ride.

What joy

Last night, Grace started a new thing. They offered an evening Eucharist.

It blew my socks off.

Instead of sitting in the huge nave, we gathered in the chancel, in candlelight. We squeezed together in the choir loft and sang the liturgy, the psalm, the hymns. Three priests from outside of Grace are going to rotate this service. Last night was Maria DeCarvalho. She was extraordinary.

Mark Johnson, our very gifted choir director, sang and played the music, which was hauntingly beautiful.

For those of us who are busy busy busy on Sunday mornings, this evening Eucharist is a gift beyond measure. I found myself weeping as I sang.

In the dark church,

In the darkness,

God.

Joy.

All good things

When I became a Christian, I gave up some things.

I gave up my tarot card practice.

I gave up my Unitarian Universalist church.

I left behind the things that belonged in another lifetime. I cleaned house. I gave things away. I began to dismantle what was and look forward to what is.

And in each empty hole, God planted a seed. In each vacant place in my life, God filled me with his love. His gifts have been greater than anything I could have imagined.

Busy Sunday coming up

Worlds colliding is all well and good, but this Sunday there will be a LOT on the agenda.

First, I am singing in the pick up choir.

Second, I am going do some healing prayer during communion.

Third, a few of us are putting together an informal drum circle and playing during coffee hour.

All good things.

I pray, though, that in the midst of it, I remember to lay down at your feet, God, and take a moment or two to remember the lives of those who have passed into your arms. And remember to give you thanks, Oh God, for the blessings in my life.

Two worlds collide...

And it is GOOD!

Fr. Rich has invited my drumming teacher, Sidy Maiga, to start teaching classes at Grace Church in Providence. I am very excited about it. For one thing, I think it is a big deal that we open our doors to folks that otherwise wouldn't know about Grace and what we are doing. It is a wonderful way to reach out to people. It also offers the congregants at Grace another way to spend time together doing something we love. I am hoping that some of the kids who went to Africa will come to the class. It would be powerful for them, I think.

For me, it is exciting because drumming is a kind of prayer for me. It is, as the Malians say, a way to bring people together. There is power in drumming with other people. It breaks through barriers of race, economic status, religious affiliation, social status, even skill. It invites us to play, smile, laugh and love one another.

If you are in RI and would like to find out more about it, visit my other site for more information.

Lord,

You have created all that is beautiful in the world. In everything that brings us together, you are there. In all that is joyful, you are there. Thank you Lord, for the gift of music in my life. It brings me closer to you to make a joyful noise.

The fall light

I walked through the living room today and noticed that the afternoon light has changed. The sun is lower in the sky. It enters the room from a different angle. The trees in the front yard still have a few tenacious leaves clinging to the branches, so the light filtering through is somewhat dappled. It is a clear day. Not one cloud. The sunlight splays across the surface of our maple table, onto the wood floor, onto the yellow ocher wall.

Fall.

An early start

Usually I wait until Advent to pull out my Leonard Bernstein version of the Messiah CD. But since I was feeling crappy last week, I was indulging in the Easter half and it was like drinking a magic potion. I felt cured of what ailed me.

Bernstein created great controversy when he reworked the Messiah. Instead of three sections, he divided it into two: Christmas and Easter. He shuffled some of the arias and choral pieces. He moved the Hallelujah Chorus from Easter to Christmas, which was utterly scandalous to purists. (And the one change I disagree with.)

He also used a completely American cast, including 2 African Americans, which must have been quite forward thinking in the 50s.

I first bought my copy of the CD when I got baptized 4 years ago. Early in my first Advent as a Christian, I went to a 'Messiah Sing' at Providence College with my friend Carmen. I had never heard any of the music other than the Hallelujah Chorus, so it was all new to me. We stood in the Alto section, which isn't really where I sing. (Tenor, if you must know, LOL!) And I had a very hard time following all the lines of music. Plus I don't sight read, so I was bumbling around quite badly.

But oh, the music. What music! There were particular pieces that just blew me away.
"And he shall be called Wonderful. Councilor. Almighty God, the everlasting power, the prince of peace...." I cried during that one. Because he IS wonderful.

The next day I went to Barnes and Noble and lucked into getting Bernstein's version.

It is interesting to me that a Jewish conductor seemed to understand the power of the Jesus story so deeply. I have heard several versions since then, and none, as far as I can tell, have nearly the power that Bernstein brought to it. The Pastoral Symphony, in particular, is one of the most astounding pieces of music I have ever heard. The first time I listened to it, it was like experiencing Christmas and Holy Week, Advent, Lent and Epiphany all at once. There is the tenderness and sweetness of the violins heralding the birth, but just under the surface, the double bass foreshadows the crucifixion. I still weep when I hear it.

By now, having listened to the cds more or less nonstop every Advent and Lent, I can sing the whole score. I know every word, at least of Bernstein's version, which is shorter than the standard productions.

And today, while listening to the Christmas half, I heard a little voice from the back of my car singing along.

Thank you Handel. Thank you Bernstein. Thank you God.

I am already thinking ahead to Advent.

Leaving the mire behind

A great lunch with spiritual director and a day of drumming at my kids' school have both left me feeling happy and grateful and not at all feeling sorry for myself. And no, the laundry is still not done. And yeah, the guy in the pew might have been just a tiny bit out of line. But all is forgiven and processed and it is a beautiful day here in New England... the first day of fall. The leaves are doing their thing and the air is crisp and I am getting a new drum on Monday and all is right with the world.

It shocks me, sometimes, how close to the surface self doubt is. I can fall into it so easily. Which might surprise people because I seem very confident on the surface. But the surface never reveals the depth, does it? It reflects back what is on the outside.

Today, Lord, I am grateful. I am grateful for my director, with whom I have been meeting for 4 years now. (wow!) I am grateful for this beautiful day. I am grateful that yesterday went so well. And I am grateful to not have to be an expert at any of this stuff.

Alleluia.

One other thought: I have been especially grateful at the people God has brought into my life. My Catholic friends may shudder at this, but I am convinced that if God had wanted me to be a Catholic, he would have sent me a Catholic priest instead of an Anglican one.

It's a pity

My spiritual director is coming for lunch tomorrow and all I can say is 'Thank God'. This week I have been tormented by self doubt and self pity.

In church on Sunday, the guy that sits behind us leaned over during the 'Peace' and commented that the kids were dressed pretty casually for church. At least I think that is what he said. I honestly couldn't really hear him. But oh did I take that and make a nice big club to beat myself with. I am a crappy mom. My kids are ragamuffins. They don't have decent clothes because I am too lazy or distracted to sort their laundry. I am too frazzled on a Sunday morning to notice the rips in Noah's pants until we are halfway to church and by then it is too late to turn around for him to change.

And I suck at drumming.

And my husband's business is falling apart and he is afraid to tell me what is going on because I am the.worst.wife.ever.

By the time the priests started blessing the sacraments, I was sobbing. The kids didn't know what had happened.

"Are you ok, Mom?" Noah asked

I tried to pull myself together.

Church is as good a place as any to fall apart. Maybe better than most, in fact, since it is not completely unheard of to weep in the pews for no apparent reason. But I couldn't help feeling that in the middle of my pity party, there was some sin at the bottom of it. Desolation is a construct of my ego and will. It is me being angry about the circumstances in my life and not taking responsibility for the things I have control over and letting God handle the rest. It is me acting like a victim. I said the confession with extra energy on Sunday. First the pity party: Sorry, God, that I am a crappy mother and a bad laundress and an insensitive wife and a shitty drummer. But then the real confession: I am sorry for feeling sorry for myself.

Now where is that laundry basket?

Painting swap

My mother's friend Michelle moved out of state to be with her new boyfriend. She is in her 60's and had lots of stuff. Too much. So she was trying to winnow it down to a manageable amount. She asked my mom if I would be interested in her dining room table.

Sure, I said. I'll take a look at it.

But we were out of town the weekend she moved, so her upstairs neighbor was in charge of letting people into the apartment to get the stuff she'd promised to others. We almost forgot all about it until one night after dinner Nguyen said

Let's go look at the table.

Ok.

We got in the truck, with the kids and headed to Providence.

The table is great. A very old funky maple top with oak legs. It had leaves at one point, but now makes due with a couple pieces of plywood. In it's closed state it is a big square.

The apartment was completely vacant by now, except for a painting leaning against the wall. It's back was facing out, so all we could see was the wooden frame and the back of the canvas. But somehow it looked familiar to me. I walked over and pulled it back from the wall. It was one of my grandmother's paintings. I caught my breath.

My grandmother was a magnificent painter. She went to art school in London in the 30's and had the beginnings of a promising career when she gave it up to have a family. Later, when the children were grown, she began to paint again. She taught art history at the Walnut Hill School in Massachusetts. Her technique was unique in that she never used brushes, instead pressing the paint against the canvas with a palette knife. I always said that a blind person would love her paintings because they could feel the images in the dried oil paint.

I am taking this, I said the neighbor. I can't leave it in an empty apartment.

Oh, she replied. It has been promised to someone. You can't take it.

I am sorry, I said. My grandmother painted this and I can't leave it here. Have the person it was promised to call me. I'll make sure they get it.

The neighbor looked slightly panicked when she realized that I was going to take the painting. I wasn't leaving it. I felt bad, but I wasn't leaving it.

Who is it going to? I asked.

Someone name Pat.

Oh. That's my mom. I'll get it to her.

But even in the empty apartment, I knew I didn't want to give it up. I had never seen it before and I was completely enthralled. It is a long, rectangular painting of a forest floor, with a trillium in the center. I was struck by the fact that the flower wasn't painted in... it's image was created by leaving blank white on the canvas and painting around it. It reminded me of the Japanese style of art, where the empty space is the image.

I brought it home and put it on the wall over the mantle. It looked as though my entire house was designed around it- the colors, the textures and tones. It was like finding an unexpected treasure somewhere. Something so precious, yet so surprising.

When I told my mother about it, she wanted it. She said I had to give it to her. I started to cry. This was my gift from Granny, whom I miss terribly. Ok. I said. You can have it. But let me hang it on my wall for just a little while.

The next day, my mother called me and said I could keep it. She had talked to Michelle and they agreed that I should have it.

I have another painting of Granny's in my guest room that is a favorite of mine, but never really looked like it belonged in my house. How about if I bring it over, I said.

It is stunning on my mother's wall, an explosion of teal and purple and apricot, a copse of trees on a rock in Georgian Bay in a storm. The exact right painting for her.

The exact right one for me.

I miss you Gran. Thanks for the painting.

Prayer

My husband and I have been having some problems with our business over the last year and yesterday some of that stuff came to a head.

So today I talked to my priest, and can I just tell you? I can't imagine what it is like to live life without a community of faith. No, he didn't have any real answers for me. He asked a couple of questions and made a few comments and suggestions, but mostly he listened. And at the end of the call, he offered to pray for us. Which brings me to tears to even think of it. Because there is something so powerful knowing that you are being prayed for. That in the intimacy of someone's relationship with God, in the power of the moment of their connection with everything that is power, you are there.

I pray for my priests, every day, too. I pray for my parish priests and my spiritual director. And my church. It is powerful, offering the people and the community you love to God.

I admit my prayer life has been somewhat half assed in the time I have been a Christian. For some months, I am more or less steady with some kind of daily check in. But whole months have gone by where I was spotty at best. I'd hang my head when my director asked about it, embarrassed to admit that I was inconsistent with it. Because why wouldn't I want to sit with God every day? Why wouldn't I want to listen, pray, speak to him? I don't know. What else matters?

Big Bang

I decided to create a blog for my drumming stuff. I call it the Big Bang, which tickles me since it is an offshoot of the Big Dunk.

The Bang will be more technical stuff about drumming. I hope that other drummers will want to comment or even post. I hope to include stuff about the local drumming scene in RI.

Come visit if you are interested!

Obsessed

My mother says I come by my drumming obsession honestly. Everyone in our family gets obsessed with what they are interested in. She with theater, poetry and writing fiction. My brother with computers, then digital photography. My father with skulls and boats and growing artichokes in Newfoundland. It must be in our blood.

I watch djembe videos on youtube. Some are wonderful. There is a guy from San Fransisco who moved to Bamako, Mali, married a Malian woman and spends all his time documenting Malian drummers on video and posting it on the internet. He sells drums and cds, arranges for radio interviews for his teachers and hosts visiting students from the United States and elsewhere.

I was worried that, being a woman, I wouldn't be able to study in Africa. But then I found out about a group of women from Guinea who travel the world playing djembe. They call themselves the Amazones and they are all magnificent. I love that they are large women... not tiny skinny like most of the male djembe players. I dream of going to West Africa some day and taking classes.

Last night in class we had a big group. 8 of us were playing together. We even had a djun djun player! At one point my teacher had us all playing different parts of the song. All of us playing different rhythms, layered on top of one another. By now I am pretty steady and can hold a beat. I realized that my friend Lucia and I were holding the whole thing together because all the others were new. We were the most experienced in the class, and were the only women.

I want to go see Amazones live.

Crack

Is it just a symptom of getting old, do you think? Or maybe it is because I carry around heavy kitchen tools all the time. Or sling a mahogany Djembe in a bag over my shoulder.

In any case, I woke up with the same crick in my neck that has been there for weeks. Couldn't turn my head to the side. Called and asked my chiropractor if he could fit me in. He could. So I wrapped up a big batch of cranberry almond bark and brought it as a thank you for squeezing me in.

Why I love my chiropractor: He manually adjusts my neck, which means he holds my head and cracks the bones with his bare hands. Then I get manhandled in all kinds of crazy ways while he cracks the bones in my shoulders and upper back.

I found out today that he no longer accepts my insurance, which means I have to find a new bone cracker. Darn.

Can this be Paradise?

Church was way busy this morning: Lectio Divina at 9, wrangling the talent for a stewardship testimonial during announcements, various trips to the bathroom with boy A or boy B. All craziness designed to pull me, kicking and screaming, from the feet of the Beloved, which is where I'd rather be on any given Sunday thank you very much.

But then, as I walked back out to the pew after bathroom break #2, during the latter half of Communion, there was a shift in the music. The choir started a 10th century monastic chant. Gentle. Quiet. Solemn. Beautiful.

I got back to my pew and dropped to my knees and spent the whole piece with my head bowed.

Oh thank you, Lord.

Afterwards I told the choir director that it was my favorite piece of the service.

"Really?!" He said. "Me too.!"

drum nut

Last night I told Nguyen that I had a rhythm beating in my head all day. It's a little like an 'ear worm'. You know, when a song keeps repeating itself in your brain?

This rhythm is one that I have been having trouble playing in class. Each piece of music that we play has 5 or 6 different rhythms. We play each rhythm for awhile and then our teacher, Sidy, plays a transition for us an we are supposed to jump right in with the next one. For some reason, I have a hard time transitioning to the second rhythm in the sequence...

So that rhythm has been banging around in my head for the last couple of days. Here's the funny part: In my head, I am hearing my teacher playing it... not me. My drum has a low, dull voice. His is higher pitched and sharp. Plus, he differentiates very clearly between a slap sound and what is called a tone sound. In my own playing, you can't really hear a difference yet.

So, in my head, all day long, the sound of my teacher playing the second rhythm of Sidiyasa.

One famous drumming teacher (I can't remember who) said that if you can sing a rhythm, you can play it. I wonder if hearing it in an endless loop will help me play it better? I'll tell you next week, LOL.

Camping as spiritual practice

A year ago I knew I was in trouble when, while camping on the Cape during Columbus day weekend, I spent much too much time being cranky and not nearly enough time enjoying the beautiful weather and wonderful setting. I talked about it with my Spiritual Director afterwards. I confessed to it in the confessional box. I apologized to my husband for being a shrew.

I don't know why camping can bring out the worst in me. I so easily veer into control freakishness and impatience. It seems to do this to Nguyen, too. He has a strange alter ego who emerges when we are in the woods. Macho, controlling. Between us it is the clash of the titans.

This weekend was different. We were on our shakedown trip with our new to us pop up camper. We have never had a pop up (pup) before, so there was plenty of opportunity for disputing how things work and what is the best way to set things up and how to pack most efficiently and where things should go in the campground and should we unroll the awning and does it look like rain and no, I don't care for beans, thank you. I even had my period, which is an automatic notch up on the cranky potential factor. And we had our nephew with us, which added to the boy energy, which can, admittedly, leave me needing solitude.

But something has shifted in the year since our last Columbus day weekend. First, the confessions. I think it served to bring home the fact that churlishness is, indeed, a sin. It certainly leaves me ungrateful, which is, in itself, sinful. But it also ruins everyone else's time.

Second, I am working on letting go of control. It is a lifelong habit that has been turned upside down as a Christian. Giving it over to God is the ultimate surrender of personal control... and I think, little by little, it is sinking in.

Finally, I realized that we only had one shot at making this weekend a joy. We can not go back and fix it if we ruin it with bad attitudes. We cannot take back what is spoken, or unspoken, in anger.

The weekend was mixed... wonderful, hot, cold, rainy, good food, bad overpriced food. Exhausting and relaxing. Quiet and noisy. But I think I maintained a pretty even keel throughout. My nephew and kids had a blast.

The pup made it through with only minor damage and wet mattresses from having to fold it up in the pouring rain.

We made it through with mostly good humor and some wonderful memories.