And then there is the part of me that thinks that because I am not handling this well, I am a bad Christian. Because I feel fear, anger, loss, grief, I am not trusting in God.

Forgive me, Lord, if that is so.

I need healing.

3 weeks down

and the recovery is excruciatingly slow. Just yesterday Nguyen and Don were able to get a repair technician in from Maine to look at the CNCs. He diagnosed the problems and made his recommendations. They are having motors rebuilt and circuit boards replaced. All reasonable expenses after a catastrophe like the floods 3 weeks ago. None of which will be covered by the fabled FEMA grants or elusive SBA loans. The good news is that the machines can be repaired. The bad news is that we are going to have to max out our credit, beg, borrow and steal to pay for it.

I feel such a sense of loss and I am not sure what it is, even. Grief.

My poor husband can't sleep without a tv on, so he has been on the sofa in the living room because we don't have one in our room. He had a nightmare that his building was on fire and being vandalized and no one would come to help. No fire trucks, no police. When he told me about it the next morning, I cried because it was actually true.

Every day there are articles in the paper urging businesses to apply for the SBA loans, but they never say that you are likely to get rejected. They never disclose that over 50% of the applicants have been denied. They never say anything about the fact that just getting the app in in the wake of a flood is, in itself, a herculean effort. Today I finally called a reporter from the Projo to tell him to ask the SBA how many of their loans are being denied and why aren't they printing THAT statistic every day?

The shop has been closed for 3 weeks as of today. My husband and his brothers and employees have been in there working, for no pay, every day. I go to my job and leave my problems at the door when I get there. I can't think about it. I can't talk about it. And then I come home and pick up where I left off, trying to get through to unemployment, trying to remember the name of the person who called us the first day and told us she would help, trying to get a new inventory together for the SBA so we can make another run at a loan. Trying to remember that God is in control.

It's a process

I will admit, I have been feeling a sense of anger and frustration about the lack of government support for the flood victims. At every turn we seem to hit a brick wall. Yesterday, it all finally came to a head. I had been trying for days to get the unemployment situation straightened out. I was unable to reach a human being and could not figure out what to do with the conflicting information they had mailed me. It all culminated with a call to Senator Reed's office begging them to help me navigate it all. I also got to speak with the head of the RI SBA, who sounded just as angry as I was.

Last night my father and step mother commented that I had seemed angry for a week. Of course their comment made me angry, LOL. But then I had to admit that it was true.

I think that anger is part of a process. Kind of like Elizabeth Kuebler Ross's stages of dealing with death. And there has been a death of sorts. Maybe we should have known better after watching New Orleans, but I suppose it came as a shock to recognize that despite all the good words and concern from the FEMA people and the SBA people and the RI Dept. of Labor and Training people... at the end, there was going to be nothing. I had to process through the shock and disappointment of that.

But now I am done.

And there are lots of things for which I am very very grateful. Friends and family who have been amazing. Dinner miraculously appearing on our table for days on end. Total strangers showing up to clean the shop for hours and hours. Easter lillies and prayers.

And this trial, which I pray will bring me closer to the trials of my savior. I offer it to you, Jesus.

Nothing

That is exactly what the government is offering us to rebuild our business after the flood. Zero. We were rejected for the SBA loan because our business lost money for the last two years.

Well, duh.

RI is in the midst of the worst recession EVER. The fact that we are still open is a miracle.

I am trying to figure out it if it is someone's best interest for a little business like ours to fail. Is someone in Washington going to benefit from RI's economy collapsing? They are sure acting that way.

In the mean time, Nguyen and I are Gideon. We can be stripped down to absolutely nothing, but if it is God's will for us to succeed, we will... to his glory.

Easter breakfast with Obama

I will admit that as a pro-life Christian, it was a little hard for me to read Obama's Easter breakfast confession of faith and take it seriously. It truly puzzles me how a Christian can also be the most pro-abortion president we have ever had. He said all the right things... but for me, it sounded a little too well rehearsed. He could have been talking about an economic policy, really.

But then, in the middle of my cynicism, I got a poke from the Holy Spirit.

First, who am I to decide who is and isn't a Christian? Did God offer me the right hand seat? Nope. I am just another goofball trying to do my best. My planks, and Obama's may not be of the same wood, but we have in common the fact that there are, in fact, logs in our eyes. Perhaps I should try not to be too quick to point out the splinter in yours.

And second... it occurred to me that for the average secular liberal, hearing that Obama is a man of faith might just open a door for them that had been shut tight in the past. I pray that is so. I pray that through him, God will draw people to himself.

Yes

If you offer to bring me dinner, I am going to say yes.

If you offer me some help cleaning the shop, yes.

If you ask me what you can do to help, I am going to tell you.

This is new for us.

Nguyen and I are used to being the ones who do the helping. We are the ones who cook dinners, rake leaves, shovel snow for the elderly neighbor.

We are the ones to send money to an orphaned child in Mali, or a family member in Vietnam.

I don't say this to toot our own horn. It is just the truth.

But in this crisis, we are learning that if we pray to God for help, he may send it through our friends. And we better be willing to say yes, right?

Jesus was gracious when people gave him gifts. He didn't say 'Oh, I don't deserve that nard... there are people much more deserving, who need it more.'

He just said yes.

So, yes.

Now I know

why it has taken YEARS for New Orleans to get back on her feet.

Because there is nothing.

No federal funding.

No help for businesses.

Nothing.

A homeowner can get a grant up to $30,000 to fix their kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. A homeowner can get a low interest loan at 2.9%.

But a business, the ones who rebuild the houses, the economy, the jobs, the health coverage,

are offered not one single dime to rebuild. Not one dime to put their employees back to work. Not one red cent to start taking orders, or clean the sludge out of their shop, or rebuild their equipment.

Even the paltry $30,000 that a homeowner gets would go a long way towards getting us back on our feet. For that we could buy replacement motors for our machines. We could lease a new space and pay for riggers to move our equipment. We could rent a power washer to clean the crud off our floor.

But congress has allocated exactly nothing except the offer of debt. We can get a 4 or 6% loan that will weigh us down for the next 30 years. We will be in our 70s by then.

Now I know why it has taken YEARS for Louisiana to rebuild. Because her businesses were left high and dry.

After the flood

I really couldn't believe what I was seeing as I walked through my husband's shop yesterday, a day after the water from the Pawtuxet River receded. The water mark on his CNC milling machine was at 38 inches.

Outside, a HAZMAT team was trying to determine if chemicals from a neighbors chemical processing operation had leaked. We had to wait to find out if the whole site was going to be shut down and condemned. It seems that is not the case, though, as the HAZMAT team finally left.

It was dark in the shop, of course. The lights are still off. Everywhere, dark silty mud that smelled of diesel and motor oil and just a hint of sewage waste.

Because the road to get to the shop is still underwater, the only access is through a neighbor's back yard. A sweet elderly woman who has a gate that opens onto the steep embankment across from the building has graciously allowed us to duck through her yard. Yesterday a photographer from the Providence Journal made her way down the embankment with a camera slung over her shoulder to take pictures of the damage.

Strangely, Nguyen and I are not gripped in fear. We are just patiently waiting to see how things unfold. I think that is probably a result of the many people who are holding us in prayer right now. The first calls I made when I finally realized that our business was destroyed were not to FEMA. They were to my spiritual director and my parish priest.

And it is Holy Week, a time when maybe it is right that we get stripped down to our barest essentials. We come face to face with the limits of our faith. Where does it end? Where does the dark pit of unbelief start? Last year, at a friends diagnosis with a pancreatic tumor, I got there very quickly. I wrestled with God for a week until finally, my friend's tumor was diagnosed as benign. And maybe that was God telling me he'd won the match. And I called 'Uncle' and felt the edge of my faith grow more distant. I have longer to go before I careen into the dark.

This year, too, has pushed it back yet farther. Working in a crisis pregnancy center means that my faith is tested every day. Being in the center of a spiritual battle, day after day, requires a rigorous faith. I can't wimp out. I can't fall into despair. And the only way of avoiding it is to offer myself to God everyday. Seek his will. Run to him for protection.

The edge of my faith grows more distant... at least for now. For today. Because really, what is that edge except the point where you let fear take over? That is the blackness on the other side.

For today, in the ruins of our livelihood, in the muck and oil and shit that fills our shop, in the post diluvian black mire,

It is Easter.

don't you think

that it is possible to be gracious and loving even when you disagree with someone? And if that someone is a non-believer, isn't it even more important to love them first, and foremost?

We disagree on some things, it is true. There may even be anger there sometimes. But when I look into your face really carefully, I see that you are a child of God, and I know that Christ loves you. And really, my friend, that is good enough for me.

So, Christians, yes you must speak the truth, but never ever forget that you must do it in love. Because love, at the end of the day, is the most critical piece.

Lent begins

I am giving up some things. I decided to stop drinking alcohol for the duration. And sweets. I am going to read the New Testament. Maybe do a scripture reading at dinner with the family. And we, as a family, are giving up frivolous spending. By the end of Lent I will have a few extra bucks to donate to charity.

Mostly, Lent is a time of recognizing our failings and offering them to God, who seems to receive them with such grace and love, as though they were the most precious gifts we could give him. I lay them at your feet, my sweet Jesus.

You know,

Lord, I have been lifting up some pretty big prayers lately. I have been praying for the people I love. And I have to send up a great big thank you for all the prayers you are answering.

So, today, I pray for my friend who is at a turning point and needs some clarity and conviction that he is on the right path.

And I am praying for my mom, who is struggling with her health insurer over a medication that literally saves her life. I am praying that the issue will be resolved and that she can feel less anxiety and fear, and rage, about it.

And I am praying prayers of thanksgiving for the healings, the miracles I have witnessed lately.

I praise you, Lord. And thank you.

Lent

Every year, I confess on this blog that I love Lent. And frankly, I would be hard pressed to express why, exactly. Perhaps it is the intentionality of it. It intrigues me to choose a fast, a sacrifice, and offer it to God. And lest I think that I am going to someday become some sort of perfect Christian, I always seem to fail at least once or twice during the season. One year I gave up chocolate. Another diet soda. One year Nguyen and I carried the TV to the basement for the duration. The kids were allowed to watch if they were at a friend's house, but in our house we gave it up. I managed to get through the whole season without watching tv until Maundy Thursday, when, between the service at church and the overnight vigil, I stopped in a Chinese restaurant for dinner and sat myself squarely in front of the TV and stayed glued to it for the entire meal. I had, in other words, consciously broken my fast. I had, in some small symbolic way, fallen asleep in Gethsemane. Good thing I had a confession planned for the next day.

I have been spending a lot of time with Evangelical Protestants lately. Most of the women I work with, the board at my organization and most of our donors are Evangelicals. They don't, as a rule, observe the seasons of the church year the way that Episcopalians and Catholics do. I am sure they must find the emphasis on self mortification rather strange, if not downright pharisee-ish. But for me, it has yet to become an empty ritual. For me, it is an invitation to step into the desert with Jesus and lay my heart bare in the glaring sun. My faults and sins will rise to the surface, as they always seem to do. My ego will struggle with surrender. My desire to be perfect will be pitted against the human reality of my imperfection. Spiritual pride will, if I am lucky, be given some time off.

And many many times a day I will cry out to Jesus for help.

I love Lent.

Speaking the language

So, after the burst of reflection on my trip to Mali, I had an epiphany of sorts. It occurred to me that I need to learn Bambara if I want to understand anything about the culture of the Bamana. So, on Friday, I started with Bambara lessons with my friend and drum teacher. And you know what? I am totally excited about it. All day yesterday I was listening to the recording he made for me. I wrote up some flash cards and practiced for a long time, over and over again, trying to get the accent right, the sounds, the rhythm. Like drumming, sort of.

God speaks to us in the language we understand. Shouldn't we try and do the same?

I will be so happy to be able to speak the language of Mali and not just the colonial French.

I should have known better

I somehow thought that being friends with a Malian would help me understand the culture of Mali. Or that because I loved the music and could hum along with Habib Koite or Salif Keita, I would feel at home in West Africa.

I should have known better. My own experience told me that this was not the case.

In Vietnam, standing on the bridge in Nha Trang, not only did I not know Vietnam better for having been married to a Vietnamese for 20 years, it was, in fact, the opposite.

On that bridge, I realized that even after 20 years of marriage, 2 children, countless rolls in the hay and late night conversations, there was a part of my husband that I would never be able to fully understand. And until I was standing there looking at the South China Sea, I didn't even know that part of him existed.

So why did I think that a friendship with a Malian would be a cultural passport to another world? Why did I think that playing a drum, or soaking a goatskin or eating sauce and rice would give me an inside scoop on this other world?

I should have known better. Really.

4 am

We arrived before dawn, after 24 hours of traveling. Shuffling past security, I handed over a scrap of paper with Sidy's father's business address as my contact information. I was waved on by a man in a military shirt and a beret.

A long line to retrieve our luggage. Then, finally, out the door, greeted by young men offering cab rides, cell phone calls, God only knows what else.

Sidy and Ali were in the crowd. No hugs. A brief introduction to Ali. A black Toyota that was big enough to hold our copious lugguge. Lisa and I piled in the back seat.

It turned out to be a remarkably short drive to our house. We pulled up to a big metal gate. Lights were blazing. Sidy shouted for the hired man to open the door. We hauled our things into the courtyard... and then into the house. Sidy showed us our rooms. They were simple, lovely. Mine was in the front of the house. It had a foam mattress on the floor. A sheet. A mosquito net. I also had a bathroom with running cold water. (There was some debate over who got the bathrooms. Sidy, of course, had one. I lucked out and got the other. There was a third, outside, that Rusty used most of the time.

The main room of the house was lit by overhead florescent lights. There was a coffee table, 4 heavy metal lawn chairs with the year 2002 woven into their backs. A little dish rack on the floor with plates, spoons, knives, forks and glasses and cups. A freezer.

We sat in the lawn chairs and Sidy brought out some food. I can't actually remember what it was. We talked about our journey. About Morocco and about Rusty missing the plane because he hadn't gotten his visa in time. I think I might have pulled out the bottle of scotch I had gotten in the Duty Free shop in Casablanca.

And then, finally, we said goodnight and crawled into our mosquito nets and slept until late the next morning.

Travel warnings

The brochures at the travel clinic are clear. Don't eat raw vegetables. Don't drink the tap water. Don't go out without your sunscreen and bug lotion. Don't go out at night. Don't go to nightclubs. Don't rely on ATM machines: there is only one and it doesn't work.

The truth? I did avoid the tap water. I did wear my sunscreen and bug spray.

But I also went to nightclubs and danced until 4am and took cabs home through deserted parts of the city. I ate salads made with fresh lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes and carrots, doused in the best tasting dressing I have ever had.

I followed the ATM machines around the city, laughing every time we found a new one. Evidently the warnings were outdated.

I walked along the street and was greeted by every person I passed. Good morning. How are you? I am fine, and you? All smiles.

Fresh fruit. Melons and bananas and avocados. Bread bought from a guy at the nearby gas station. Baguette folded neatly in half and placed in a dusty black plastic bag. It was the breakfast of champions, with a big mug of coffee.

Mosquito netting, tucked carefully around the edges of the mattress. And retucked. And tucked in yet again as I got up in the night to pee.

The sorry little gecko, found dead under my suitcase. A casualty of the high powered insect spray that Sidy bombed my room with at night.

No one warned me, though, about the broken heart. The sadness I would feel when I left. The sense of loss as I got on the plane home. And the crushing grief when one of my friends died, unexpectedly, a couple months after I got back to the states. No one warned me that I would never be the same again.

I thought I knew

what generosity was.

I thought I had seen it before.

But it wasn't until I was leaving Mali and was given gifts, big and small, from the cook, my friend's mother, my friends,

That I finally understood.

We brought things

that my friends would have wanted.

Things like malaria tablets and high powered insect repellent and cipro for diarrhea.

She can't see you today. She is sick with malaria.

I felt overwhelmed by the fact that I, there for only two weeks, had enough malaria medication to get me safely through my time in Africa, but my Malian friends had no such thing.

I can't get a years worth of malaria tablets for even a single person, never mind the whole extended community of family and friends.

So next time I go back, it will be the same. I will take my medicine each morning

and rely on God to keep my friends healthy.

Call to prayer

Clean. Nose, mouth, ears, hands, feet. The plastic tessolet filled with water sat under the tree in the courtyard and several times a day my religious friends would perform their ablutions before unfurling their plastic prayer mats and laying them on the concrete paving stones to pray.

Then, stand, hands clasped, kneel, forehead to the ground, stand, kneel, hands together, words whispered silently to God.

I told one friend

'I think God smiles when you do that'.

The last time I saw Maze, was on the rooftop courtyard where he and Sidy's friends were recording Sidy's songs. After the recording was finished, Maze took a moment, as darkness descended, to walk off by himself on the other side of the roof. Overhead, the fruit bats were beginning to emerge from the giant mango trees and quietly make their way across the twilit sky. Maze's yellow shirt billowed a bit in the breeze as he turned his back to us, turned towards Mecca, turned his attention, towards God.

Later, saying goodbye for what turned out to be the last time, I remember seeing the yellow of his shirt as I leaned in for a final, formal, kiss on the cheek.

I don't know anything

I noticed that foreigners in Africa liked to assert what they knew as if it were fact. This is how the Africans feel about thus and so, an aid worker would say. This is what they think of this or that, or the other, over there.

We were driving along the streets at night and I noticed, over and over, brightly lit orange signs that simply said 'Orange'.

What is 'orange'? I wondered. Orange Juice? Orange Soda? Orange cigarettes? Candy? Gum? Condoms?

The signs were everywhere.

Finally, I asked Sidy. What is 'Orange'?

It is a cell phone company, he said.

Mali was like that. Most of the time I had no idea what I was looking at.

The connection was lost

I tried to type on the dusty keyboard. The internet cafe was about 4 blocks from our house and I had been meaning to take the short walk so I could reconnect with home, send an email or two, post a brief comment on this blog. But though I managed to negotiate the price and get online, I realized as soon as I started typing that the keyboard was laid out in the French way, with the Q and W and T all in different places.

So even that. Even typing, which comes so naturally to me now, even that was foreign. Required careful, slow, hunt and peck to circumvent the wiring in my brain that said that a 'T' should go there and a 'Q' belonged over here.

I had paid for 30 minutes. I assumed that would be more than enough time, even with the ancient computer on old fashioned dial up. But by the end of the 30 minutes, I had barely managed to type a paragraph or two.

As I was walking back to the house I realized I had nothing to say anyway.

Scenes from Bamako

I was riding in a cab. Sidy, Lisa and Rusty were in the back. I was in the front. The window was open and we were speeding down the main road, passing vendors with vegetables on their heads, kids selling phone cards at stop lights, guys with rusty blue carts upended on the curb waiting for someone to hire them. Green buses zig zagging in and out of traffic. Then the river, spread out clean and beautiful and serene below the bridge. Walled compounds. Beautiful people. Red dust and diesel fumes hanging in the air.

And I thought to myself, I don't understand what I am seeing. I am seeing it, but I can't interpret it. I can't imagine how I would possibly describe what it was like to be there.

Perhaps it is an American thing, to always want to explain things. To analyze them. To make sense or meaning from what you observe or experience.

But I knew at that moment, in the cab, that there was no explaining. All I could do was see.

Heavy

A friend commented today that although she knows I love my job, she also can tell that it weighs heavily on me. She can tell that I am juggling a LOT of balls and am sometimes overwhelmed by it all. And it is true, I do feel the weight of it, even as I try very hard to share the load with Christ Jesus. It is not all mine, Lord. It is not all mine.

And I am even juggling too many balls at church. Today, for example, I facilitated Lectio Divina, lit the Advent candles during the service, read the 2nd lesson, did healing prayer in the Messiah Chapel during communion and had 3 conversations about stewardship during coffee hour. Yesterday I clipped greenery in the pouring rain for two hours so we could use the greens to decorate the church. On Friday afternoon, I rushed Noah through rush hour traffic to get him to Grace for a field trip. And tonight have to go back to Grace again to pick him up from the youth group.

It was a weekend that saw very little in the way of rest and renewal... and that is an issue since I am expending so much energy at my work during the week. I really (really) need some down time. That is absolutely clear to me.

I need to take my dog for a walk. Alone.

Listen Handel's Messiah.

Light some smelly nice candles.

Schedule absolutely NOTHING on my day off.

Make a giant pot of soup to eat all week so I don't have to cook every day.

Read scripture. (Suggestions welcome)

Investigate a silent retreat of some sort. Maybe it is time to visit St. Margret's in Boston.

Pray to Jesus that he give me the strength and courage and perseverance to carry on.

On a happy note: Last year a friend came up to healing prayer one Sunday because he was scheduled for carpel tunnel surgery on his wrists. We prayed over him, laid hands on him and sent him on his way. When he went to the surgeon for the pre-op exam, the surgeon was surprised to discover that he no longer needed it.

Praise God. Thank you, Lord, for the miracle of prayer.

Amen and amen.

God inside

I have been lucky enough to meet people who radiate God's love. You can feel it when you are near them.

When I meet people like that I want to pull up a chair and sit for awhile,

Basking in the flow of God love energy.

Thoughts on the Trinitiy

Some snippets from an ongoing email conversation with a friend:

I am a trinitarian through and through. Frankly, I never really understood Unitarian theology very clearly. It is something about God choosing a guy named Jesus and elevating him to semi-deity status.

To me, that is just not scriptural. John clearly states that the Word was God, was with God, was made flesh and dwelt among us. And that the Word existed before the beginning of time. Also, I don't think there is a place in Unitarian theology for the Holy Spirit. Being something of a charismatic, that just doesn't work for me.

I really don't understand the theology well. And I realize that Jesus himself did not refer to himself on equal par with the Father. But the trinity has been a joyful discovery for me. When I finally became a Christian and began to realize that God himself walked among us, it
changed things for me. I just love the incarnation thing, I guess. I love the spirit thing and the creator thing, too, come to think of it.

To model oneself on the life of Jesus is a fine thing to do, but isn't actually possible to achieve without a supernatural sanctification process going on too. To me, wanting to be a good person isn't enough to overcome our natural tendency to be assholes. I am not sure whether we are born with original sin... or are just subject to inevitable sin, but either way, it seems like there is something in our natures that draws us into separation from God. And while we can do things to try and mitigate that, I think that without God's help, we are incapable of true 'goodness'.

Whether one believes in a supernatural sanctification process is almost beside the point. A life lived in Christ is a life lived in Christ. It is the result of Christ's action in the world even if you don't necessarily recognize it as such.

I believe that where goodness exists, it is necessarily an action of Christ, whether it is recognized or not.

How about you, dear readers.... any thoughts on the trinity? Post them in the comments!

The Jesus prayer

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner....


I breathe this prayer in and out when I am agitated or depressed and the wave of Peace washes over me. Thank you, Jesus, for this breath prayer, for this body prayer, for this heart prayer.

Paper bag

I feel, sometimes, like I am trying to carry too many groceries in a bag that is a little tattered. There are holes. The top is frayed. Stuff pokes out.

And not pretty stuff, either. Not the baguettes and a bottle of wine. Not fruit and cheese.

Nope. What slips out of my ratty old bag is a half eaten bologna sandwich and a banana peel.

(What in God's name is she going on about, you ask.)

I am carrying too much sometimes. Too much at work. Too much in my family. Too much in my church, even. Just too much stuff. And most of it is high quality, good stuff. But what comes tumbling out of my bag when the seams begin to pull apart is the darkness. The isolation. The frustration, the exhaustion.

At least, that is what pours out when you ask me to put the bag down, empty the contents on the table and begin to try and sort through it all.

This morning, I almost couldn't fit it all back inside.

Read James 1

Right now. I'll wait.

.......


There.

Don't you agree that that first chapter is enough for, say, a lifetime of work? I joked in Bible study that I need to put the whole chapter, maybe the whole book, on my fridge.

Thank you, Beloved, for the book of James.

It speaks volumes to me, today.

I want to sell all that I own and give it to the poor. I want to apologize to my husband for speaking out in anger this morning. I want to love my neighbor as myself.

I want to honor you, Lord, not just in word, but in thought and deed as well.

In Jesus' name.

Amen.

Praise God

I planned to go back to bed this morning, to catch up on some sleep before my long, late shift at work, but couldn't because I was too excited about things.

Pray and fast.

Fast and pray.

Pray ceaselessly.

Pray.

And then prayers get answered in ways you could never, ever, predict.

Behold, I will create new heavens and a new earth. The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind. Isaiah 65:17

The 50 million

I was talking to a fellow about CareNet-RI.

"I am pro-abortion" He said.

I didn't respond.

"I was around before Roe v. Wade. People died because of illegal abortions." He continued.

People have died since Roe v. Wade, too, I thought to myself.

50 million of them.

Apple Cranberry Pie

Here's the pie recipe that won Emmett and me third place in the Ledge Farm CSA pie contest today:

Crust:

3 cups white flour, sifted. (We forgot to sift, but no harm done apparently)
2/3 cup lard, cubed
1/3 cup sweet butter, cubed
a generous pinch of salt
9 T ice water

Place flour, salt, butter and lard into the cuisinart and pulse for a couple of seconds until the butter and lard are pea sized and evenly distributed through the flour. Add 9 tablespoons of ice water through the tube and pulse just until the dough begins to form. Empty onto a piece of cling wrap and form into a ball. Wrap and stick in the fridge to chill.

Meanwhile:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Filling:

5 or 6 apples, peeled, cored and sliced.
1 cup cranberries
1/4 cup flour
1/2 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
the zest of about a half lemon
1 t cinnamon
1/2 t allspice
1 t salt

Mix everything in a bowl. Taste. Yum!

Take pie dough out of the fridge and cut into 2 parts, with one part being a bit bigger. Roll that part out on a floured board while the other piece goes back in the fridge. Line a pie plate and dump the fruit on top. Roll out the top crust and place on the pie. Trim edges then crimp with a fork dipped in flour. Put in the oven and back 1 hour until done.

Wood, Skin, Iron

Gentle tree


A drum shell,

A chair,

A cross.

The hide of a goat becomes a wineskin, a drum head, a lash.

Iron, from deep in the earth

Like a root,

a sword, a ring

or the nails that held you up, Lord.

Africa stories

Today, Africa was on my mind.

I listened to the music I recorded while I was there. Immediately I was brought back to that evening on the balcony, with Sidy and Maze and Yacouba and the rest. Maze wearing his yellow shirt and playing his jaunty new, yellow trimmed drum. I could see the bats and smell the night air of Bamako.

My memories of Mali will always be bittersweet for me, I think, now that Maze is dead. It has been 5 months since he died and I am still caught by surprise by grief.

I am dreaming of red dust and prayer trees. I am dreaming of homemade wooden benches and brightly colored tessolets. I hear the sound of the call to prayer and it brings me home, back, there.

As a young adult, I thought my adopted culture was Japanese. The structure and formality and hierarchy beckoned. The control. And the seething emotion just under the surface.

But no. Not Japan. Not formality. In the drum rhythms there is an intricacy and complexity, but it isn't stiff and formal. It is wild, it swings, it beckons and draws you near and if you let it, it seeps into you and animates you like nothing else every will.

I danced to the sabar the other night. I couldn't find the rhythm. It was an otherworldly sound. But the drummer invited me to dance with him and I closed my eyes and let his drum speak to my limbs, my core, my soul. I just gave my body over to the sound of his stick and hand slapping the surface of the drum, whack, and I moved, whack, and my arms flailed wild, whack, and then it was over and I went back to dance on the sidelines.

I have no fear anymore. No fear that I look like a fool or that I can't dance as well as an African. I have no fear. I have learned that from the drum, I think.

And the queens, the Jeli women, in their stunning dresses and big head wraps and their beautiful kind words to me. When they tell me I am family, I believe them, though I don't know their names or how they are connected. Yet, we are family. Yes. I believe it.

And God, who is so big he can hold us all in his love. God, who speaks to me in the sound of the drum and the flight of a giant fruit bat and the song of the call to prayer and the red dusty leaves of the prayer tree.... God is in the midst of it all.

Africa haunted me today.

Out on a limb

Oh, wait,

I am there.

I have stepped out on a limb.

(Can you pray for me, please?)

Fear has left for the night. The door swings closed behind him.

Because Christ has entered the house
And will sit with me for awhile.

I need to remember

in the midst of the busy-ness, to pray. I need to pray to God right now.

Lord. I am sometimes afraid of this path you have called me to walk. I am afraid. Please, Lord, please help me turn that fear over to you. I am not brave, but I am willing. I am not strong, but I am obedient. I am not courageous, but I want to do your will in all things. Is that enough, Lord? Is it enough for me to want to do your will? Do you, then, fill in the blanks? Do you hold my hand in the dark places?

Lord, I wish I were brave for you. I wish I were strong for you. I wish, Lord, that I wasn't afraid.

But I will do it anyway, Lord. I will walk on this path anyway... despite my fears.

In the groove

You know when you feel like you are moving along and suddenly realize that everything is falling into place in an uncanny way? Weird coincidences start happening. Delightful little moments when things come together effortlessly?

Jung called it synchronicity. New age folks might say that they are in harmony with the Universe. For Christians, it is sense that you are being blessed by God and he is dropping little breadcrumbs to keep you on the path.

At CareNet, lately, the breadcrumbs have been falling like Manna. Every day there is some new, wonderful, example of the Holy Spirit joyfully playing with us.

Examples:

On our new Client Service's manager's first day, she was driving to work and noticed a car on a flat bed tow truck in front of her. The license plate was an unusual woman's name. A few minutes later, she came in and discovered that her first client had that same name.

While searching for property for CareNet, my agent and I drove by a beautiful huge victorian house on Broad Street and I said 'That is exactly the kind of place I am looking for for CareNet." The next day my agent found out that the owner of the victorian was listing with her company to lease office space.

There have been dozens of examples of this kind of thing over the last few weeks. At the office, we call them 'God sightings'. They make us feel like we are in the groove. In harmony with the Universe. Blessed.

1000

The Chinese have a dish called 1000 year old eggs. They take a duck or chicken egg, wrap it in clay with lime and ash and bury it in the ground. After awhile, the egg basically cooks from the chemical reaction to the coating. You wash it off, break it open and have a kind of pickled egg that has a totally unique flavor. It doesn't really take 1000 years. Maybe a few weeks. Or months. But it is a long time.

I feel a little like I have aged a 1000 years in the last couple of weeks. Something has shifted since I started my new job. The job is intense... in a way that nothing I have ever done has been. And not in a bad way. In the way that requires us to strip away all our defenses and get right to the core of ourselves. We all sort of feel like we have to do this because the nature of the job is so, well, real. The women who come to see us are real. The interactions between the employees. The reality of what we are doing is never lost on us. We feel a sense of humble gratitude to be actively bringing about the Kingdom every day, even as we are fully aware that it is, indeed, a cross to bear. And bear it we do. We work together beautifully, honestly, gratefully. We start every day with prayer. We stop to pray in the midst of the busy moments. We cling, literally cling, to God.

We feel a sense of the enormity of what is at stake. We respect it. But together we try very hard not to slip into fear. That is where our faith comes together. That is where we bolster each other up. We each, in the last few weeks, have had moments of fear and even despair. But we have been allowed those moments and are supported and lifted by each other's faith every day.

What an amazing experience it is to work in an environment like that. I have never been so grateful for a job in my life. I work with spiritual giants, I am telling you. It is an incredible privilege.

And even when it gets hard, which it has and will, I am fully aware that, like the egg, there is treasure inside.

Updates

Yeah, I am still here.

And I am doing great, actually. Tired most of the time from my hectic new schedule of, oh, say, 3 jobs plus having a pair of kids at home for the summer. Hmm. Make that 5 jobs if you count the kids and my unpaid but very busy job as my drum teacher's business manager.

But it is all good these days.

Here's the latest:

Job 1. Kids. Great. They are about old enough to fend for themselves of an afternoon. Nguyen is only a few blocks away. My mom watches them for one day. And on the days I am not working, I cherish just hanging with them.

Job 2. My client. This has been very rough indeed. I have been unable to keep up a regular schedule for her due to job 3, so I spend a lot of time thinking and praying for her, but feeling very sad about the lack of time. Please, please, keep her in your prayers.

Job 3. The big NEW job. I am having an amazing first couple of weeks at CareNet, RI as the new executive director. And no, it's not the big leather chair, or even the huge office. It is the fact that I get to work at a place where we start the day with.... prayer. How amazing is that? I love the women I work with. I love the clients. And I love the fact that God joins us every day and opens doors we never even knew existed. What IS CareNet, you ask? We are a pregnancy resource center for women facing unplanned pregnancies. We offer women complete information so they can make informed choices about what they are going to do. We offer free everything, from pregnancy tests to limited ultrasounds to parenting classes, childbirth classes, doula support at their birth, mom's groups, post abortion counciling, outreach. It's God's work. No question about it. And it is my great priviledge to have been called to such an important task.

Job 4. Pampered Chef. Not so much. A show here or there... but winding down. I just don't have time for pots and pans these days, even in my own kitchen.

Job 5. Another real joy. I am the business manager for Sidy Maiga, an extremely gifted djembefola and my dear teacher. We are working on a BIG West African party for the end of September and I couldn't be more excited. I have a fabulous dress to wear and will be keeping y'all posted on the particulars. But for now, pencil in the 26th of September and be prepared to DANCE.

Big Love

Even broken, my heart loves big.

I feel like it fills so full it overflows.

Today I am in love with the world. Is it that I can see God in you? Is it that you, too, are so full you are overflowing?

Let's sit together and overflow together.

Because even broken, my heart seems to work.

The new gig

This week I accepted a job as the Executive Director of CareNet, RI. CareNet is a pregnancy resource center that supports women facing unplanned pregnancies. I have been volunteering for them for about 3 years now, teaching childbirth classes. For a brief time in the fall, I also worked there as the volunteer coordinator.

I am excited to be doing this job. CareNet offers critically necessary support to women who are often in a crisis situation. Everything we do is free of charge for the clients, and our services range from free pregnancy testing, peer counciling, limited ultrasound, childbirbirth classes, and parenting support. We also offer post-abortion bible studies.

Please keep us in your prayers.

Every day

When I wake up, it is the first thought that enters my mind. My friend. My loss. My sadness.

And at night, as I am drifting off again, it is the last thought of the day.

Day in and day out.

During the day, if you bump into me at the grocery store, or see me in a drumming class, or chat with me by phone, you may not recognize that something has changed. It's not the brave face, exactly. More like the organic part of me that feels joy and love and is happy to be living in such a beautiful world. That part of me is alive and well and real.

But in the silence of the morning, or the darkness of my room at night, my thoughts turn to Mali. My mind drifts to a dusty red courtyard. I imagine I am there and we are talking. Laughing. Playing. I go over and over the conversations. The moments that I thought were just the beginning turned out to be the end, as well. I hear your rhythms in my head, play them in my heart.

I am having a hard time with this.

Grief, face to face

When my friend Mazé died, I spent a week crying. It was one of the saddest weeks of my life.

And I noticed some things.

People had a hard time dealing with my grief. My mom kept trying to rush me off the phone. Some of my friends didn't want to be near me when I was crying. Others seemed to be having a difficult time understanding why I was so upset since I had only known Mazé for a short time.

The pain came in waves. Sometimes I would be ok. And then, suddenly it would hit me that I was never going to see him again, never play the drum with him again, and I would lose it.

This went on for a full week.

I prayed a lot. Prayed to God for Mazé. Prayed for his children and his fiance. And then I started talking to Mazé. Sometimes in english... sometimes in french. Sometimes a crazy mix of the two.

Then one day I woke up with such joy in my heart. I felt joy for having known him. I felt like I had had great luck to have met him.... so soon before his unexpected and untimely death. I felt an almost manic elation at the realization that God had given me this enormous gift. I spent a week feeling grateful. I began to believe that Mazé himself was praying for me. I knew he wouldn't want me to grieve. And I knew he wouldn't want me to feel alone in my grief. I felt the warmth of his love pouring down on me.

And then it was back. Little by little, the joy began, once again, to recede and the grief crept back in. All this week I have had moments of it. Not the racking sobs of the first week, but the dull ache of loss. The stomach churning pain of it. The moments of remembrance, followed by a sense of such sadness it takes my breath away. I know that when I travel back to Mali, the loss will be even more acute. I can already imagine what it will be like to get off the plane, knowing that there is an empty place on the drumming bench.

I am three weeks in and while it is changing, shifting, elusive, the grief doesn't seem to be going anywhere. And maybe some of my friends and family think I should be over it by now. Moving on.

But I am not.

It isn't over.

I think it is just beginning.

Mazé Kouyaté

My dear friend and teacher, Mazé Kouyaté, died unexpectedly this week in Bamako. We suspect it was a cerebral hemmorhage.

Mazé was a very intuitive and powerful teacher. When I studied with him, he never said a word, or even used facial expressions, but would just demonstrate what he wanted me to do and wait until I got it. I will never forget what a thrill it was when it all finally clicked. I didn't know until afterwards that it was a thrill for him, too!

I came back from Mali with his drum, which was, for me, an extraordinary honor.

And while this is a profound personal loss, I also feel deeply grateful that I got a chance to study with and be friends with this gentle and wonderful man.

Tu me manques, mon cher. Toujours.

Bubbling over...

When I work at Nicole's, I often cook several dishes at once. I feel like a kitchen dervish, chopping here, tasting there, lifting lids on steaming pots and stirring stir fries while the smells of baking things emanate from the oven. I am a culinary mad scientist.

My life is kind of like that, too. Together, the many dishes can sometimes be overwhelming, but each is a labor of love. Each dish is carefully prepared, the ingredients are lovingly chopped, the recipe developed from years of experience, the main components are brought together into delicious and complex relationships which yield tasty results.

Does stuff get burned? Sure, sometimes.

But at the end of the day, my crazy kitchen of a life is a great joy.

Yum.

Surprise surprise

God surprises me.

I never know what to expect from Holy week. And each year it is different.

This year, I did all the same stuff, but the big surprise was that the moment... you know, THE moment, was during the Great Vigil tonight. It was when my priest was singing the beginning of the liturgy, in the darkness, in the candlelight. When suddenly I was overcome with gratitude and love and filled with such joy I could barely contain myself.

Some years, the resurrection sneaks up on me some time between Easter and Pentecost.

This year it came, a few moments early, at the very beginning of the Vigil.

Christ is risen, indeed.

Praise God.

Rokia Traoré - Bowmboï LIVE: Sara (Nonesuch 2004)

My hero.

And so it begins

Day 6 on my new food plan.

I tell you, cooking for my client has helped me a lot. She needs her food to be nutritionally excellent because it is fuel. Plus it has to taste great. So even before I went to the doctor, I was thinking about making some changes to my diet.

The first few days on Weight Watchers were TOUGH. Your body kind of goes into shock when you first start a program. I was cranky and light headed and miserable. But I have been there before, so I know it is temporary.

Since then, I have felt really great physically. Clear headed. More energy.

I must admit I have some fear around this. There have been a couple of times in the past when I lost a large amount of weight and then fell off the wagon and gained it back.

This time, though, there are some different dynamics. For one thing, the health issue has never been the main motivator before. I just want to feel better. I don't want my doctor mentioning "Gastric Bypass" EVER again. I want to be able to dance Dansa without feeling like I am going to pass out. And I want to be able to ride bikes and play my kids while they are still interested in hanging out with me.

Another big difference this time is that I have people praying for me. I know that my Tuesday bible study group and my priest are pulling for me. I know if you are the praying type, you're praying for me. I know I can pray at any moment of any day and God will be there, through thick and thin.

It's funny. I belonged to Overeaters Anonymous for years... and while we often prayed for ourselves, we never actually prayed for each other, at least not formally. I wonder if that would have helped?

In any case, having God in my corner has helped me feel less afraid of this process. I know I am the one who has to do the work... but God is giving me the strength, and more importantly, the courage, to do it.

Backwards body dismorphia

I know people who think they are fat, even when they are thin. They look in a mirror and the image looking back is big, but in reality, they are normal sized.

I am pretty much the exact opposite. My body size is much larger in reality than it is in my head. When I look in the mirror, I see round, yes, but mostly I see myself as a fabulous babe. :-)

It often comes as a shock when I see someone on television who is my size. To me, they look so much fatter than how I see myself. I have a hard time connecting the dots. And I wonder if this is one of the reasons it has been hard for me to maintain a healthier weight.

In any case, this week my doctor has stated, gently but firmly, that my weight is a health issue. He has suggested I should do something about it.

So today, I joined Weight Watchers and hope that I am able, for today at least, to eat a healthier (and smaller) diet.

And maybe it will be cool to have a body that actually reflects my self image.

Prayers answered, questions raised.

My friend's husband does not have pancreatic cancer. The tumor is benign. When I saw him last night I felt like I was seeing Lazarus back from the dead. This week has been hellish for them... the days between finding the tumor and the biopsy.

I have a confession. I did not handle this well.

I have way too much experience with pancreatic cancer for one lifetime. And I love my friends so much it was unbearable to think that they might have to go through it.

I am a woman of great faith, but truly I could not wrap my head or heart around this. Like Jesus at Lazarus' grave... I was weeping, even while there was a tiny part of me that knew I should be trusting God. But frankly, I couldn't see how God could make this right. I petitioned him even as I could taste the terror in my mouth.

Lord, I want to believe. Help thou my unbelief.

And even now, when the crisis has been averted, I wonder about all those whose tumors are NOT benign. My husbands brother suffered horribly... and left a couple of kids and a wife.

The Lenten sun is glaring. I cannot hide. I have found a place of fear that I didn't know I had. God, may your light heal me. I pray.

And thank you, Lord. Thank you.

Prayers

If you are reading this post, I want to ask a favor.

My friend Paul is having a biopsy on Thursday on his pancreas. Over the weekend they found a mass on it.

Please pray that the mass is benign. Pray for him, his beautiful wife and his children. Pray that they will have the strength to deal with whatever is coming.

The dent revisted

So, a friend read my blog post about the dent and called me.

"I want you to get your car fixed" she said. She explained that she felt there was enough abundance in God's world for giving AND car repairs. That it wasn't an either/or proposition.

I was stunned. But not really. I didn't want to accept her offer. But I did. I cried.

Nguyen said 'You know it's not necessary.'

And I said, yeah, I know. But it is a gift and I am really grateful.

So if you see me driving a big SUV today, it is a rental while my Mazda is in the shop getting a new door panel.

Thank you, my friend. And thank you, God, too.

You, yes, You...

The doctor with the yarmulke.

You, beautiful Muslim woman with the head scarf in the produce aisle. Or you,

Monk,

Walking down Westminster street, white rope tied around your waist

Brown hooded back

Black shoes

You

When I see you, I am reminded of how much I love God. And how much I love that you, too, love God.

And it makes me love you.

Yes, you.

Into the desert

Walk with me, will you?

Because we will feel alone, you and I. We will feel like we are standing at the base of Mount Sinai in the Judean hills, with nothing, not a living thing, for miles.

We will forget that Jesus is walking with us. When we feel exposed and naked in the glare of the desert light, when we cannot find a place to hide, we will feel utterly and completely alone.

But we won't be, will we? We will be struggling in the desert with Jesus by our side. We need not wrestle with demons alone.

Take your time. The angels will wait. They will be there when we are finished and welcome us back into the world, to our ministries.

Walk with me, will you?

We need not do this alone.

The most beautiful dent

A few weeks ago, a woman backed her car into the side of my minivan and left a huge dent.

For the first time in 20 years, I filed a claim with my insurance company. A couple of days later, an adjuster came out to the house, assessed the damage, determined that I was not at fault and wrote me a check.

I fully intended to get the car repaired.

I love my car. It is the closest I have ever come to owning a 'new' car. It only had 30,000 miles on it when I bought it 7 years ago. So, I checked out repair facilities and determined that I could get a rental while it was in the shop. I made plans to fix the dent.

Nguyen thought I should take the money and donate it to charity. 'People are hungry. Things are bad. That money could really help someone." he said. I hate it when he gets all charitable. Especially when it is at my expense. Especially when it sheds light on my own lack of generosity.

Yeah, I said, that's all well and good, but what about my car? Am I really going to drive around in a minivan with a big dent in the side? I plan on driving this car into the ground. I want it to look nice while I do.

"Suit yourself." he said. "It's your car."

I made up my mind. I was going to fix the car.

But for some reason, I didn't pick up the phone to make an appointment. I just kept driving with the dent.

And then, on Monday, I was running errands when God suddenly clocked me upside the head.

The money I got for the dent was something like a year's wages in Vietnam or Mali. This money could really do some good for someone. I decided right then and there that I would send some of the money to my father in law in Nha Trang, some of it to my new family in Mali and the rest of it, well, Nguyen and I have a 10 year old mattress that could use replacing....

God shows us the way to live a generous and compassionate life. Apparently I am a slow learner.

From now on, when I see the dent, I won't see ugly, twisted metal and flaked paint. I will see a steaming bowl of rice with peanut sauce. And it will be lovely in my eyes.

Sigh. I just hate it when my husband is right.

Within the liturgy

Today, during his homily, our Rector announced that he is retiring and will be leaving at the end of June.

He said it so matter of factly I almost didn't react at first. His homily was a prelude to our annual meeting, which took place following the service. By the time I really registered what he said, we were on to the Nicene Creed.

As we said the creed, it occurred to me that it was totally appropriate for him to sandwich his announcement in the middle of a service. It put the whole thing in context. Everything of importance in our lives finds context in our life of worship. Our births are celebrated, our baptisms, our funerals and weddings. We participate in a mass for all of it. In times of health crisis, we can be anointed, we bring communion to the housebound and the sick. We cycle through the church year, experiencing ups, downs and in-betweens. The church, the body of Christ, give us a vehicle for experiencing the rhythms of life, a context for understanding the natural ebbs and flows of our lives.

When I first was baptised, it was an experience, in my mind at least, that was wholly centered on me. My husband and mom were on the shore. The minister and I were in the water. We said our bit and then I was submerged. When I participated in my first Episcopal baptism, later that year, I remember feeling a little sorry for the man who was baptised because immediately afterwards, we moved on to the communion and he didn't really seem to have time to process any of what happened.

How foolish I was.

More and more, lately, I am coming to love the way the liturgy invites us to step out of the spotlight and allow ourselves to merge with something bigger, finer, more beautiful than we can imagine.

I think Bob understands this. I think that is one of the reasons he is such a remarkable priest.

I am going to miss him terribly.

Je pleure

Yesterday was the first day I was out and about. I went to the Vietnamese New Year party at my sister in laws.

A couple of people asked about my trip and I couldn't talk about it without crying. I am not sure why. At one point, I was actually suppressing sobs. I was talking to my brother's girlfriend and I could barely hold it together.

Today I had lunch with my drumming teacher. I called him yesterday and asked if we could meet because I wanted to talk to him about the trip. We sat in an Asian restaurant on Angel street, slurping noodles and going over our two weeks in Mali. I cried big silent tears the whole time. I realized that even though we were there together, our experiences were not the same.

I am not sure what the crying is about. It sort of feels like joy sometimes. Other times it is just a sense of being emotionally overwhelmed. I feel raw when I talk about Mali. Open and very very vulnerable.

Me... only different

You know how when you hear your voice recorded it sounds totally foreign and strange? When I catch the sound of my own voice on a recording, I am always mortified to realize that that is how I must sound to others.

But here's something funny:

As I have been listening to the recordings of the drumming in Mali, I have caught a few bits of my own voice speaking French and for some reason, it is far less dorky. And though the French is fairly horribly fractured, in the recordings I realize that I didn't sound that bad while speaking it.

Who knew?

Spectacle Ballet du District de Bamako

Spectacle Ballet du District de Bamako
Video sent by pazonote

Thanks to my friend Bubudi at Djembefola forum! Here's a video of some of my friends from Mali. The second group to perform is the District of Bamako Troupe. My dance teacher is the man in gold with the dreadlocks. My drumming teacher is the soloist.

Complex

Bear with me. I am working this out as I write.

I think when friends say that a relationship or situation is 'complex', it is a code word for something else: Conflicted. Angry. Hurt. Damaging.

I remember having breakfast once with a woman who practices 'polyamory'. In other words, she has multiple relationships going at once. She was a Christian and we were at a conference together and when I discovered that she was living with two sexual partners, I decided to ask her if I could ask her some questions about it. She seemed kind of grateful that I was willing to talk about it with her, so we had breakfast.

In my head, I was trying to figure out how Christianity and polyamory jive. She gave her explanation, which was basically that she believed God created her to have more than one partner. At some point in the conversation, though, she told me that polyamorous relationships can get very 'complex' because your partner might be having a relationship with someone else and that person might be having relationship with your other partner and there might be yet another person waiting in the wings.

And it was at that moment that I felt that all this complexity can't possibly bring you closer to God.

The longer I am a Christian, the more I strive for simplicity in all of my relationships and dealings. If I start to get a sense that a relationship or situation is pulling my attention away from God, I seriously consider whether I need to make some changes. Keeping my eyes on the creator keeps my head clear.

Love God with all your heart and soul and mind.
Love your neighbor as yourself.

It isn't easy... but it sure is simple.

Retreat

I got sick on the way home from Mali and have been in bed nursing a bad cold since I got back.

On many levels this was a major bummer. Obviously there were lots of things that needed to get done. Nguyen's patience was already tried mightily having the two boys for two weeks while I was gallivanting around Bamako. For me, too, being sick was no fun at all. It has been terrible to miss work for yet another week. I missed church on Sunday and felt utterly exhausted by the simplest things.

The last time I was bed ridden was 3 years ago when a mysterious auto immune response to a virus left my left knee blown up like a water balloon. For weeks I was in agonizing pain, with no idea what on earth was wrong with me. The only light in the midst of that dark time was that I had started to read the bible with the intention of finishing it in 3 months. Because of all the down time, I was able to do it, coming to the end of Revelations on Maundy Thursday of that Holy Week.

This time I had no agenda, but there has still been an upside to my enforced downtime. It has given me some time to reflect on and process my experiences in Mali. I have turned over the moments like precious jewels, sifting through rust colored dirt to find them shining forth in my heart. My time in bed this week has been a kind of transition back to my life that I think I am mostly grateful for. I am not sure what it would have been like to just jump back in with both feet.

Tonight I was supposed to go on retreat at the Society of St. Margaret's in Boston. Due to my fragile health and the busy schedule of the rest of the group, we ended up canceling the retreat. And while I would have loved to pray and eat and be silent with the nuns, I think in a way, I have already been on retreat this week.

My Favorite Words

I spoke French in Mali.

My French is 18 years rusty... and was never that good to begin with. On paper, I studied it for 7 years or so. In reality, I never really 'got it'.

So in Mali, a few things came back, but it was painfully frustrating much of time. I would go running to my friend Lisa's dictionary to find that crucial word. The word that would open the whole realm of meaning in a conversation. It turns out, a conversation really can pivot on a single word.

Here were some of the words that I needed to learn:

Pray
Prier

Learn
Apprendre

Teach
Enseigner

I will miss you
Tu me manquerai



I miss you.
Tu me manques.

Nothing gets wasted

My new Malian sister gave me some beaded bracelets as a going away gift. They were tied together with a little scrap of plastic bag.

Each morning, when our housekeeper started a charcoal fire for the tea, she used a bit of black plastic grocery bag as a firestarter. It worked like a charm.

Nothing is wasted in Mali. Not the bags, not the food, scraps of metal or bits of this or that. Everything, it seems, is put to good use.

Mali

I have tried to start this post several times, but get halfway through the first sentence and abandon it.

Maybe it is because there is too much to tell. Maybe because I am still processing. Maybe because I am still grieving a little for having left Bamako.

I cried on the plane ride home. Not because I wasn't happy to be coming home, but because I was overwhelmed at how much joy I felt while I was in Mali. I expected to have a great time. I did not expect that I would experience such miracles. I would be going about my business, enjoying myself, when suddenly, I would be struck by what an absolute miracle was taking place and was inevitably (and embarrassingly) reduced to tears.

It happened in the night club at 2 am when I looked out at a dance floor stuffed to the gills with Africans dancing to 'Obama Obama' by Lil' Wayne.

It happened when I finally figured out that I was in the middle of a surprise birthday party.

It happened in the cab, always in the cab, when I looked out the window and thought about how I would describe what I was seeing and realized I didn't need to describe it... I could just experience it.

It happened when I took Sidy's mom aside to tell her that no matter what, he has family here in the US. And that now I feel I have family in Mali. We just held each other's hands and knew that some kind of miracle had happened to bring us together across oceans and continents and the big wide Niger river.

It happened everytime my teachers washed to prepare for prayer. Nose, ears, eyes, mouth, feet, hands. Then, facing East, the prayers. I imagined God smiling at such devotion. I smiled too.

It happened when the fruit bats came out at dusk. Huge, like winged foxes, silently crossing the darkening sky.

And when I got a rhythm right on the drum and knew that, even though he didn't show it his face, my teacher was thrilled for me.

And when I walked through Sidy's neighborhood in the dark and felt completely at home.

Showing a friend my rosary and explaining how it worked.

Sharing a loaf of french bread and some coffee with my teachers every morning.

It happened when I realized that my teacher's drum fit perfectly into my bag... and that yes, I was bringing it home with me.

Lying in my darkened room, under the mosquito netting, listening to Malian music drifting through the window.

Hundreds of moments which were little miracles, each of them.

I cried on the plane home.

It's a beautiful day in Mali

My posts will remain short because it is so difficult to type using the French keyboard... but I just want to check in and say that life here has been very very good. We are thouroughly enjoying our time. Every day we study dance and drumming, then perhaps go out to some street party to see other drummers and dancers.

My birthday was one of the most extraordinary experiences of my entire life. It started at a nightclub the night before. The place was packed and the music fantastic. Believe it or not, there is a pop song about Obama. We went wild when it came on. I danced like a crazy person.... and was completely suprised when I heard the dj dedicate a song to me from Sidy. We didn't get home until 4 am, but since the next morning was sunday, we were able to sleep in. ( Church didn't seem like an option, Peter... otherwise I would have been up for the feast of epiphany.)

Later in the day, Sidy and Lisa went out to run some errands while Rusty and I hung around the house and relaxed. It was very nice. In the afternoon, Mazze, one of my drum teachers, showed up. I was kind of suprised because it was Sunday, but Rusty and I happily sat down for a short lesson. Then Makan and Ladji arrived on motor bikes. Perhaps they were planning to go out with Sidy later. Then Lassi arrived, and Ali. I saw a cab pull up with Sidy and Lisa. Sidy got out of the car with dinner, so we all went into the house to eat. I was suprised when Lassi moved the bench to the end of the room instead of next to the table. All of a sudden, everyone began to sing bonne anniversaire a vous.... and in walked Sidy carrying a birthday cake. When I turned around, I realized that everyone was here to play for me. They lined up on the bench and began to play the drums, while Ladjie and Lassi danced. It all happened so quickly I was utterly unprepared for the emotions I felt. I was completely overwhelmed by this outpouring of love and couldn't stop weeping, which I am sure must have mortified my dear friends, LOL. Truly the most memorable birthday I have ever had.

Africa is extraordinary. I am sure that the relationships I am building here will be the friendships of a lifetime. Every day I feel such a sense of joy for being here. I am deeply grateful to all of you who have been so supportive of this trip... and for your continued prayers.

Love to all of you, especially the kids. I love you, guys.

A bientot.

Where to begin

Today is day three and I feel like I have been in Africa forever. Except that the keyboard is different, so typing is very slow and laborious.

Food- unbelievable.
Bed- Very comfortable.

Africa- I don't know where to begin. Perhaps there is no way to begin. Except that before I came people said that this would be a life changing experience... and I think it would be more accurate to say it is a life expanding experience. And certainly a life giving one.

Every day we study dance with Ladji Diakite. Then Rusty and I study djembe with Makan Kone while Lisa studies dun dun.

I miss my children and husband, but feel such joy at being here, too. Every day I cry for joy. Sidy makes relentless fun of me for it, as he should.

I can't get over how kind everyone is. It moves me deeply that we have become members of Sidy's family. I even have been given an African name: Tinoyé Maiga. I am named after Sidy's grandmother, which is a great honor.

Mali is beautiful...mostly because the people are beautiful.

My French is improving. Next time I come I will work on my Bambara.

Beautiful.

A few random thoughts before I leave the continent

I am on my way to Mali tomorrow.

We are driving to JFK Airport and parking the car there. Our ride fell through at more or less the last minute and we decided that driving made the most sense. So I got an oil change yesterday, checked the tires and updated the maps on the gps.

In my bags: The usual stuff- underwear, tee shirts, capris, a couple pairs of sandals. Lots of toiletries because I really don't know what, exactly, is available in Mali. Plus some trail mix and granola bars, just in case.

I took my first dose of anti-malaria medication a couple of hours ago and haven't noticed any side effects so far.

I have noticed something about this trip. When I tell people I am going to Africa, they respond with their deepest fears and/or prejudices about it.

People are afraid of it. They are afraid of the diseases, the poverty, the culture. I get lots of comments about my personal safety or health issues. I have even had comments about sexual health issues and not catching AIDS. Uh, I don't think that's an issue. Really.

So there is still something kind of mythological about Africa. It seems to embody people's darkest fears.

Part of it, I am sure, is that the only media attention ever given to Africa is negative. We learn of Somali pirates and cholera outbreaks, dictatorships and malaria, AIDS epidemics and ebola. This drives my drumming teacher crazy, sometimes. He gets frustrated that most Americans think Africans live in jungles and have bones through their noses. (Not that there's anything wrong with that....)

For me, the information I have about Mali is different. It is a place inhabited by people I know and love. I have friends there... and family, of a sort. I listen to the music of Mali and am transported to a place of joy and beauty. I feel like I am reaching back to a distant past and far into the future as I listen to the music of our collective ancestors.

And when I hold a drum, play the skin, smell the remnants of the barnyard the goat lived and died in, I am connected to that past and that future.

Tomorrow I am getting on a plane and I am putting my life and faith in God's hands. He is with me here, in Morocco, in Mali, and everywhere. Forever. I am leaving my preconceptions behind and open my heart and mind to the experience of Mali, first hand.

Allons y.

Our day was a whirlwind, as it always is. But last night we went to Grace for the 10pm mass and it was so quiet and beautiful. We even had incense, which I love. The church was lit by candles, and at the end of the service, we all knelt and sang Silent Night together. It was gorgeous moment of quiet contemplation in the midst of the chaos.

Tonight, we went to the Nguyen family shindig, which is dozens of people hanging together, laughing and chatting. Always there is too much food... and the combinations are amazing: Vietnamese soup, egg rolls, curry chicken wings, and tonight, our Jewish friend from Austria brought home made baklava. We had a new guest tonight... a mathematician from mainland China. We introduced him to rice noodle soup and s'mores, lol. I don't think he quite knew what to make of it.

Every year I think how nice it would be to just stay home and be quiet rather than join the madness at the in-laws. And then we go and I find myself sitting in a room stuffed with children and sisters and brothers in law dozing off on the sofa and grandparents and cousins and relatives of in laws whose names I do not know and I am always grateful that God saw fit to invite me into this family, nearly 20 years ago.

But now, oh Lord, I am tired. Tomorrow, in my family tradition, it is boxing day. A day of rest and renewal and quiet. We will take the kids and the dog for a walk somewhere, and drink cocoa in the afternoon... and nap. Paradise.

Merry Christmas, all.

God has come into the world. Oh Holy Night.

Hot dogs from heaven

We are training our new dog, Ziggy, with hot dogs.

In the old days, of course, training involved a rolled up newspaper and a choke collar, complimented with the occasional milk bone. But the hot dog method involves identifying the behavior you DO want and heavily reinforcing it with tiny bits of cut up hot dogs.

For example, we want the dog to stay out of the kitchen when we are in there cooking. I have taught him to sit quietly at the threshold. As long as he is there, I toss the occasional hot dog bit over his shoulder. He is learning that when he is in the kitchen=no hot dog. When he waits at the door=hot dogs rain down on him like manna from heaven.

God's consolations are like spiritual hot dogs. When we are vaguely on the right path, he showers us with delicious spiritual tidbits. When we get more spiritually mature, perhaps he weans us off the hot dogs, gently, gradually, so we learn to have faith in him even without the spiritual hot dogs.

Mother Teresa is said to have been in a spiritual desert for 50 years. For her entire ministry in Calcutta, not one hot dog. Can you imagine that? She must have been a spiritual giant to be able to devote herself to that ministry without the constant reinforcement of consolations from God. When I heard about that, I was moved to tears. She really must have been a saint to be able to do that.

Today I give thanks to all the spiritual hot dogs God has thrown my way. I am the eager puppy, wiggling with joy at the feet of him whom I adore.

Sit. Stay. Good Girl.

Merry Christmas, my beloved friends.

Witness

My friend John is a new Friend (Quaker) and has witnessed at his meeting a couple of times now.

Today, I had a chance, sort of.

Before church, I overheard the Sunday School teachers lamenting that it was their day to get up and give a short talk about their program. Neither seemed that keen on doing it. They tried to rope an innocent 12 year old bystander into doing it, but she demurred.

I raised my hand like a third grader and cried "Oooo, oooo, let me, let me." At which point they both looked at me like the insane woman that I am and kind of shrugged and said sure.

I didn't prepare. I sat in the pew, knowing that in a short time I'd get up in front of dozens of people and give my little spiel. And suddenly it was time and I said a prayer to the Holy Spirit to please give me the words to say.

And say them I did. Only the priests could see my shaking hands clasped tightly behind me. Everyone else just saw me give my heartfelt witness to why I thought the Sunday School program was one of the most important things we do as a church.

And like a true witness, I can barely remember what I said, except that it had something to do with giving children the precious gift of the bible to help them when they face difficulties and challenges in their lives. With a relationship with God, they will be able to handle anything.

Afterwards, people came up to thank me for my little speech. But really, I can't take credit for it. I just say what pops into my head and hope that at least some of it is at God's nudging.

A delicious...

snow day today. The kids got the day off, even though it didn't start snowing until almost 3pm.

So, I got to sleep in (til 8!) and drink coffee in my jammies. I began, finally, to clean the house in preparation for Christmas. It comforts me to remember that traditionally one isn't supposed to decorate or sing carols until Christmas Eve. This year, we might just follow that tradition.

I made Kale soup with chourico and chicken thighs and white beans. I cleared the mantel, cleaned the kitchen and played with the dog in the yard. The kids had a friend over and had a ball in the snow.

Even Nguyen stuck around the house, putsing around in the garage and tidying the yard.

I felt blessed today, in so many ways. I realized, for example, that all our stress about finances was the reason I went out and found part time jobs. And now I am so very blessed by the relationship I am developing with my client and her husband. It is a gift from God, without a doubt.

My neighbor was over last night helping us out clean up the roofing shingles from our garage and after, when we were chatting, he and I prayed for my client. Such a beautiful thing, standing in the street in front of the garage, holding hands and lifting up prayers to God. Thank you God for bringing us to this place.

Tomorrow my dear friend and drumming teacher is heading out of town. I won't see him again until I get to Mali in January. Because of the storm we couldn't get together, but we spoke on the phone for a long time, talking about our plans for the trip in January and what we are going to do in Africa. It was lovely.

There is about 10 inches of snow outside. It is quiet and white and beautiful.

Thank you, Lord, for this day.

Such a gift as this

For confidentiality reasons, I have not been talking much about my new job. I am a personal helper for a young woman with a chronic, disabling illness called myalgic encephalomylitis. It is a poorly understood disorder that results in a full fledged attack on every system of the body. The disease causes great suffering.

My job is basically to help out around the house. I buy groceries and cook meals. I clean. I do laundry occasionally, scrub the tub, run errands.

The list of my activities can, in no way, even scratch the surface of what this new job has been for me.

It is a sacred thing to prepare a meal for someone. It is holy to be invited into a home, tend to someone's needs, sit by a bed, hold a hand, whisper a prayer.

For a long time I was afraid to ask if I could pray for her. Weeks went by when I would leave and sit in my car to pray because I was afraid of how it would be received. Then one day, finally, God broke open my fear and gave me the courage to ask.

I have been praying every day since. And God has been showering me with consolations when I am with her. I feel his presence so powerfully I can't help but weep.

A couple of months ago, this woman and her husband were strangers. Now we are deeply, intimately connected. It is a great honor and priviledge to be invited into someone's life. I thank God for it every day. I pray, too, for relief for her suffering.

Pray for us all, my dear friends.

Pray for strength and courage and perserverance and love. And for her, please pray for healing.

In Christ's name.

A quick bit of advice before I head off to work....

If you heart tugs you to make that call, do it.

If it occurs to you to give something away, say something kind, or love someone who needs love, don't edit or censor or think it through. Just do it.

If you feel like praying the rosary, or saying a psalm out loud, or sneaking into a dark church and laying on the floor to pray, do it.

Be fearless in your love. Love hugely.


Do it.

Bump

Yesterday I hit another car with my car.

I was pulling into an intersection when someone cut me off. Then the light changed to red. Since my nose was in the intersection, I decided to back up a little and wait for the green light.

I checked my side mirror and there was no car, so I began to back up.

Suddenly

"Beep"

Followed by

Bump.

There was a car behind me after all. I pulled forward a bit, put the car in park and jumped out to assess the damage.

The guy rolled down his window.

"I am so sorry" I said. "I didn't notice you behind me."

"No problem" He replied.

I reassured him there was no damage and he didn't even bother to check it himself. He just kept repeating that it was no problem.

Thanks, dude. That was some good car mojo there. I hope God blesses you for your kindness. And I hope I get my head out of the clouds and onto the road.

Kyrie Eleison

Advent has been a time of darkness for me. Each year since becoming a Christian, I have experienced tremendous spiritual emptiness during Advent. Then, usually around Gaudete Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent, the clouds part a tiny bit and let a fraction of the coming light shine through. My spirits lift, my smile broadens, and I feel slightly more prepared for the coming.

This year, Jesus has seen fit to make his presence known during the dark days of Advent. I have felt his mercy pouring forth. My heart has been ablaze with his love.

Today on the way to bible study at church, I realized that one of the great gifts the Lord has given me is the ability to love without fear. I was awestruck by the miracle of that. By the time I got to church, I was in tears. I think the parking lot attendant was concerned! But I was fine. I was crying for joy.

Last Saturday I went to a funeral for a friend from Grace. He died unexpectedly. The church was filled. People got up and talked about him and how much they loved him and how much they felt loved by him. It occurred to me that it is a great gift to love others. And to be able to love fearlessly is one of Christ's tender mercies.

Kyrie Eleison.

Epiphany

This year my birthday falls on the feast of Epiphany.

I wonder if God has any special epiphanies planned for me?

I will be celebrating my 44th birthday in Africa if all goes as planned.

Maybe I'll find a Catholic church and attend a mass that day.

Sing his praises

One of the many hats I wear is that of an energy work practitioner. I am a certified Reiki master (whatever THAT means, LOL) and have a very tiny little group of clients. Before Reiki, I did hands on healing for family and friends after receiving that gift in a dramatic experience with the Holy Spirit.

Now, once a month I lay hands on people and pray at a healing service at Grace Church.

For a long time, I was shy to incorporate prayer into my Reiki practice. I felt that since that wasn't what I was advertising, I didn't really have the right to do it. So I would pray to myself as I worked on people. In my mind, I would invite Jesus to join me and lay his hands on them too. We would work together, Jesus and I, comforting and soothing my clients, body and soul. But I was too shy to say anything.

No more.

I can't pretend that I am doing just Reiki anymore. What I am doing is prayer. It is Christian healing. I lay my hands in the traditional reiki positions, but I know that what is taking place is much more than the simple shifting of energy.

So, last night, at my Reiki appointment, I asked my client if I could pray for her. She said yes. At the end of the session I laid my hands on her and knelt beside her and said a prayer of thanksgiving and petition.

And you know what? To me, at least, it didn't feel weird or awkward at all. In fact, now it feels weird NOT to pray... because I know damn well that the energy, the power, that my clients feel isn't mine at all. By claiming it as God's, I am able to put the emphasis exactly where it belongs.

Praise to YOU, Lord Christ.

Community

When you go to a big church, it is inevitable that there will be shared joys. Baptisms, births, weddings, recoveries are all part of living in community together.

There are losses, too.

Today, at bible study, I found out that a fellow parishioner at Grace, Roger Ferland, died yesterday. It was a sudden, unexpected loss. He was in his fifties... an OB/Gyn here in Providence.

I met Roger when he and his wife, Kim, first started coming to Grace. We made a meal together for the soup kitchen one Saturday. Then, last month, he preached a sermon in honor of St. Luke. It struck a particular chord for me because the work I have been doing lately is of a kind that I have to rely, every day, on the Grace of God. That was what Roger preached on... God's grace in seemingly hopeless situations. After the service I approached him and thanked him for speaking. I told him about my work at the crisis pregnancy center and asked about his practice. We both allowed as to how the process of birth is especially ripe for God's grace.

I have been struck, lately, by what a blessing it is to be in community with other people. Joy, sorrow, grace and despair are different when they are experienced together with other people of faith. There is such sorrow in loss... but such grace in being able to experience that sorrow with other members of the body of Christ. I cried my way through the bible study this morning, comforted by the presence of God and my friends. Afterward, I sat in the darkened church for awhile, praying.

This weekend I'll go to the funeral at Grace Church. There will be doctors and patients, friends and relatives. And there will be some of us who knelt at the communion rail with Roger and broke bread and were connected to each other through the flesh and blood of him who brings grace to us all.

Rest in peace, Roger.

http://www.gracechurchprovidence.org/Sermon_-_19_October_2008.wss

Oh, happy happy Africa....

It's done. I bought my ticket. I got the shots. I am going to Africa in January. I will be there on my 44th birthday.

What it is not:

It is not a safari. It is not about zebras and elephants. It is not a tourist thing. I won't be on a guided tour with a bunch of other Americans or Europeans, oohing and ahhing over the mud mosque of Dogon or Timbuktu. I might even leave the big camera at home.

What it is:

Experiencing West Africa from the inside. Today, we learned about the personal hygiene. We will eat, sleep, drink, play drums. We will spend time with friends, new and old. We will go to weddings, funerals, circumcision rituals and baptisms. We will be taught how to eat with Muslims and what is considered polite and what is rude. We will dance.

I feel a great sense of privilege and adventure. I feel grateful beyond words at this opportunity. Oh, joy.

Oh, Africa.

Allons y!

Broken

Last Sunday my friend Phil came to drumming class and was excited that his friend Jon was going to join us, but he never showed up. Phil kept trying to reach him, and a couple days later finally talked to a co-worker who told him that Jon had committed suicide. He left 2 children younger than my boys. I have felt sick about it all week.

This morning, I got an email from an old friend I found on facebook. He told me that his younger brother had died by suicide a few years ago. I have been crying about it all day. Nguyen and I were really close to his family when we were in college and first married. In fact, Michael, the older brother, introduced Nguyen and I. We swapped out our volkswagen engine in their garage when they lived in RI. In 1991 we spent New Year's eve in Germany with them. It all came rushing back as I read the email this morning. Even though we haven't been in touch for awhile, you never really stop feeling like you know someone, do you? You never really stop feeling like a member of the family. So to hear about Ben, who was so sweet and gentle, is completely breaking my heart. I am heartbroken for him. I am grief stricken for his parents and his brothers.

God only knows what drives people to this. God only knows.

Lord, it is a broken world. There is so much pain. I pray that you sooth the hearts of those who grieve. Blessed are they that mourn, Lord.

Today Jon and Ben and their families are in my prayers.

Ziggy

We love our new dog! He is a mutt from Newfoundland... and I swear the Newfoundland mutts are the best in the world. Something about that cold, damp climate makes for great temperaments.

When Ziggy got here last Saturday, he was completely untrained. He didn't come when he was called. He wouldn't sit unless you were actually holding a piece of food. He didn't know how to walk on a leash without pulling your arm off. He was, in other words, a complete blank slate.

Luckily, because he was very well loved (if completely undisciplined) by his previous owner, he isn't filled with bizarre little traumas and anxieties. He is just a sweet, lovable goofball.

With our last dog, we used a traditional training method that used negative correction combined with reward to get the behavior you wanted. It was a combination of snapping a choke chain with offering treats. Frankly, it had it's limitations. Sadie, our old dog, was dog aggressive and no amount of leash popping seemed to help her get over that.

So, with Ziggy, we have been trying something new: positive reinforcement only. No corrections with the collar, just using a clicker to identify success and then offering a treat. I have been working with him all week, and in just this short amount of time, he now can walk on a loose leash, he sits on command and is learning to lie down and come when called. It is awesome!

What is so wonderful about this is that it starts to develop a real relationship between the human and the dog. It becomes an issue of communication, rather than punishment. I forces me to think about what behavior I do want, rather than what I don't. For example, he jumps up on people to greet them. I want him to sit.... so when he sits, I reward him with lots of praise and petting. Now, he drops almost immediately because he knows that that is how he gets greeted.

It is interesting to approach a relationship from the positive rather than negative. I bet it works with humans, too!