Summer Rules #4--Gather and Be Gathered

As a corollary to rule #3: eat outside as often as you can, we've been eating an awful lot of food that we picked, grew or otherwise harvested ourselves. For awhile cucumbers were the abundant crop, and we had sliced cucumbers at every meal, along with cucumber juice--so refreshing on those hot days!--and even cucumber sorbet. Then we moved on to green beans--and I tell you, there is nothing like hunting for green beans from inside the teepee to turn your children into green bean fiends (unless it's the honey mustard dip served alongside). And now--it's all tomatoes, all the time. We still haven't convinced either child to actually like eating them, even when spread with mayo, which we thought would surely do the job. But fortunately that doesn't hinder their love of picking them, which is good because I've got big canning plans.

And more than once this summer, while outside harvesting, or tending, or picking off Japanese beetles, or simply trying to understand this particular plot of land and its soil and its sunshine, we've experienced another great gift of living in this place, close to both I-80 and I-90--the gift of being on the way. You see, people drive through here. And when people are driving, they need food. And beds. It hasn't always been convenient, and we sometimes had to shuffle things a bit, but this is when we become so thankful for our daughter's (middle) namesake, Ruth, and what she taught us about hospitality and generosity and remembering what is important. It's a great gift, to be on the way, even when we're not the ones going anywhere. We don't always get it right, and sometimes I may grumble a bit that I had plans, plans to do something important. But lucky for us, the people come anyway, and there is food and laughter and stories and as we gather, we are gathered. We are gathered into the great heart of God, a heart that is ever-loving, ever-serving, ever-open. "He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." Colossians 1:17.

crazy days

Last Wednesday at 10:09 am:

Last Wednesday at 5:56 pm:

I know this isn't really abnormal for spring in the midwest, or many parts of the US, for that matter. It was more fun than anything--waking up to snow, rushing through breakfast in order to get out before it melted, warning my son that there wasn't enough snow for a snowman, being proved wrong. And then, of course, coming out into the blessed sunshine after naps, taking a walk in the suddenly mild weather.
But the day still called to mind one of my favorite compline prayers, a prayer for those of us who live where not only the weather can turn in an instant, but our lives can too.

Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And that is my prayer this day, knowing that many of my friends (and us too) are facing changes both good and bad: new jobs, new homes, new babies, new classes--but also knowing that even good changes can be wearying. May we rest in God's changelessness, friends, knowing we are not alone. May it be so for us. 

right now

Right now, I am :

:: remembering Easter a year ago, spent atop Doi Suthep, a magnificently gold temple outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand, and the fun and beauty we found in clanging the long row of prayer bells.

:: remembering also the Easters of our first married years, spent at a church in Pittsburgh, and particularly the tradition of bringing a bell to the service. These bells were muffled and quiet until after the Easter proclamation, and then were rung with abandon during the first hymn. Especially after the long vigil service, with its readings and darkness and quiet, the wild ringing was such a visceral way to experience Easter, exploding the sanctuary with joy.

:: refraining from stopping my boy from clanging the Easter cookie cutters I hung from the mantel, remembering that he, too, needs tangible ways to express joy and excitement.

:: hoping that our friends do indeed make it onto their flight from South Africa to visit us this week.

:: yearning occasionally for the lightness of our Hong Kong life, a lightness that didn't come from HK as much as from our transience, and a lightness that left more room and time in our lives for experiences, since there was so much less stuff.

:: thankful for the ways our life here is stabilizing and deepening: the little projects around the house, the growth of friendships, the occasional sighting of someone we know around town.

:: dreaming of, and planning for, a garden this summer! full of food to can and otherwise put away for next winter: tomatoes, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, onions, garlic. And a bean tent for fun. And chickens!

:: delighting in the sunshine of this Easter weekend, even if the temperatures didn't quite match the sunshine, and the colors surrounding me everywhere I look.

:: looking forward to leftover grilled lamb sandwiches for lunch.

:: listening to my boy sing sweet, made up lullabies to a new stuffed bunny.

:: wishing a happy Easter Monday to you all!

winter weekend

Digging in the snow, making ice wreaths, knitting in front of the fire, legos, popcorn ... what else should one winter weekend hold?

The weekend has been, and continues to be, lovely, it is true. And I am thankful for the very gifts these days have brought.  But I'm leery of a "today is all there is/seize the day" attitude, because today is not all there is. We live in eternity, but rather than feel panicked by that idea or narrowly focused on some conception of "end times," I feel freed to enjoy this day for what it is; time is made spacious. 

As Ann Voskamp says, "Maybe it isn't so much about carpe diem -- seize the day. Maybe it's about this: God uses the day to seize us. God carpe diems. God seizes the days: God seizes time and uses it as an instrument to transform. God seizes every moment to sculpt souls and shape lives and transform ashes into glory."

God uses every moment. Yes: the beautiful, ice and snow-filled ones, and the harder, headachy, teething, tearful ones. Because those moments were there too, this beautiful weekend. And so, in the variegated, silvery yarn I hold in my lap, in the tears of a child made beautiful in firelight, in the shining of the sun on snow crystals, I catch glimpses of poikilos, that many-colored grace of God, the grace that holds and redeems the gray and brown days as much as the brilliant, light-filled ones. May it be so for us. 

and so it begins ...

We're starting simply this year. Traveling over Thanksgiving meant I was surprised to walk into church on Sunday and find it was already Advent, a season that has become increasingly important to me. So we bought some greens, fashioned a wreath, sang a few songs, and lit that first candle. It was simple, and it felt just right.

I've been reading To Dance with God, by Gertrude Mueller Nelson, a book about incorporating the church's liturgical seasons into home and family life, and she has some profound things to say about Advent. Do you know the story about the origins of the advent wreath, that people took wheels off their carts and wagons and brought them inside, festooning them with light, making a clear statement that this cold, dark time is a different time, a time to turn inward rather than produce? Isn't that amazing? Think what it would mean if took a wheel off our car to use for a wreath ... it would be less a decoration than a discipline, a forced slowing down and simplification.

November was a tough month for us ... a month when the busyness of boarding school life threatened to wash over us, and we both felt like we were drowning. I'm still adjusting, I think, to the absence of Retchel. I knew I was spoiled in Hong Kong, having someone help even a few hours each week with child care, housecleaning and laundry. But knowing you are spoiled doesn't make it any easier to adjust to not being spoiled, and I just keep waiting for someone else to show up and fold the clothes. So we've talked, we've schemed, we devised some systems, and I think we're in a better spot now. Just having a plan does me so much good.

Anyway, in the midst of this, I kept reading about the importance of slowing down even when the pace of life picks up, about mindfulness and breathing. And while it's easy to pass it off as cliche mumbo-jumbo, I am here to tell you that it really does work. Literally slowing down my movements and my words, setting aside that never ending list, focusing on what is in front of me: a boy experiencing his first snow fall, a girl who needs help getting to sleep. Even when I can't slow down any of the outside commitments, physically moving more slowly and tangibly committing to do less each day still helps. My heart and mind stop racing, my breath gets deeper, and things seem manageable. This certainly isn't an "efficiency tip"--how to do more in less time--but I wouldn't be surprised if the final productivity tally was similar to moving through life hurried and rushed. I'm not counting, though.

And I'm not, it goes without saying, going to actually take a wheel off our car ... or our bike or stroller, for that matter. But I am going to move slowly. Be still and know that I am God. And even if that means that all we have for advent is our little wreath and a calendar, that's ok. (and a banner! We're still watching for light.) We don't need an elaborate devotional plan or a Jesse tree or even a Christmas tree just yet. We are keeping company with Mary, who waited and wondered 9 long months, and with all those who are waiting and longing for God to break into this world.

In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength.
May it be so for all of us. 

All Souls' Day

The day dawned bright and clear, the sunshine welcome after many days of rain, though I know it is hardly bright or clear for so very many. Today is All Souls' Day, a day traditionally set apart to commemorate the "faithful departed," the dead. A day to remember and grieve, a day to place them, again, safely into the hands of God.

All day today, I watched my two children, both ill but still vital, still alive, and thought about our faithful departed, the people, now gone, who have shaped our lives. It's a strange thing, and not entirely comfortable, to think about death while watching young children play. The contrasts are stark--and yet it is a contrast that is entirely within the realm of life.

I wanted somehow to observe the day, to mark its passing, as I've wanted to on other feast days. The liturgies and rituals of the church for me hold within them the mystery and otherness of God, and while many people see them as dead and irrelevant, they open me up to awe and wonder and love. Far from doing this out of any sense of obligation or duty, I feel a deep desire to suffuse our home with that same awe and wonder and love, and I'm searching for simple ways to do that.

This year, we took a walk in the next door graveyard. We looked at graves, talked a little about the day and the people we know who have died. I told Finn about his great-grandmother, who died just 6 weeks before his birth, but with whom he shares a birthday, and whose presence was felt at his birth. I told him also about Ruth Ives, from whom Willa got her middle name, a woman who taught us so much about hospitality and great love.

This day also I thought of our friends, observing their first All Souls' Day since their baby boy's death last December. I thought of the pain, still so raw, and I wonder if a day like this offers any comfort. The tragedy for them is that so many of their memories are terrible, filled with pain. There wasn't time to make the joyful memories they wanted, though of course they savor each moment they had.

And it seems to me that if the church and her traditions and rituals can offer anything, what's needed here is to remember forward, a phrase often used by author and radio host Krista Tippet, in reference to Lewis Carroll's white queen: "It's a poor sort of memory," she says, "that only works backwards."

To remember forward, is, I suppose, a kind of faith, an imaginative and creative faith that trusts that God is bigger than and outside of our linear notions of time. A faith that trusts that "in Christ all things hold together."

Liturgically and seasonally, this makes sense. When all around us is brown and dying, we remember forward to spring. In a few weeks' time we will celebrate "Christ the King Sunday," (also called Eternity Sunday), a day that helps us remember, both forward and backward, the eternity of God's kingdom. And then after that will come Advent, when we prepare for the incarnation: "eternity shut in a span." Liturgically, it works, and it satisfies me. But practically?

There is no neat and tidy solution here, and I'm tempted to not even post this, as unfinished as it is. But for as long as life endures, grief will be unfinished, with nothing tidy about it. I worship a God who holds past, present and future all together, in a way I can't understand but nevertheless take comfort in.

How small our span of life, O God, our years from birth till death:
a single beat within the heart, the catching of a breath,
a drop within the ocean's deep, a grain upon the shore, 
a flash of light before we sleep to see the sun no more.
And yet our speck of light is spanned by your infinity;
our tick of time on earth is caught in your eternity.
While suns and stars spin endlessly through depths of cosmic space,
while aeons roll and ages pass, you hold us in your grace.
O Christ you left eternity to plunge in time's swift stream, 
to share the shortness of our span, our mortal lives redeem.
You filled the cross-closed years with love, you loved us to the end
 and touch us with your risen life that ours may time transcend.
--Herman G. Stuempfle Jr.

then and now

Ok, I promised myself that I wasn't going to write any more of these sentimental posts about how achingly sad we are not to be in Hong Kong, while at the same time how achingly happy we are to be here, now. But it's just the truth of where we are right now, folks, so, it's what you get.

Sometimes, when we are helping students plant a peace garden at Matt's school, and Finn is gleefully finding worms and smushing grubs and loudly declaring his love for dirt, Matt and I catch each other's eyes and we both think--this is why we came back. And when we go to the garden and Finn decides to go on a "bean hunt" and I find some tomatoes to make yet more ketchup, again we think--this is why we came back. And when we think that my parents can come for just a weekend visit--no big deal-- and Matt's parents will come soon for a weekend visit--no big deal-- and we'll be spending both Thanksgiving and Christmas with family, again we think, this is why we came back.

But then ... I think about how mid-autumn festival just passed by here with nary a mention, not a lantern in sight, and I think about how fall break is coming up and we'd be deciding where to go this year. Maybe Guilin, or Hanoi, or Japan--all places we didn't get to. And I think about how delicious a bowl of steaming Japanese ramen would be on these chilly nights, or hear Finn ask when we're going to the beach again, or ride a bus again, or see the turtles in Hong Kong park again. Or I think about how much I loved riding the Star Ferry across the harbor at night, admiring all the lights, entering the craziness that is Tsim Sha Tsui and finding a most delicious Indian meal.
I think about how quickly one can make friends in Hong Kong, how quickly our mom's group became a lifeline for me, and how much we all loved having Uncle Tuan over for dinner and a guitar jam. Or I listen to Americans cheer executions in Texas, or boo a gay serviceman ... and I know that these people are not the norm, that they are the crazies and are not taking over our country ... but why oh why do they seem to get so much attention? Or someone asks us where in Japan is Hong Kong or did I feel safe having Willa there... oh, and then I just think what have we done? why did we come back?

The truth is that it's always going to be a mix, isn't it? The heart will never be held in one place only ... and that's what I want. That's how I want to live, that's why we went overseas in the first place, to broaden our hearts. So this all just deepens our resolve to live fully here, to dig in and enjoy all the good things, the gardens and the leaves and the backyard and the house. And yet even as we put down roots, ones we hope will last a long time, to never get complacent or stagnant. To keep stretching ourselves, keep opening ourselves up, and keep planning adventures, whether in our town or around the globe.

Or even just in the leaf pile. 

There he goes

Way back last spring, Matt and Finn witnessed a traffic accident--a pedestrian hit by a car--coming home from the park across the street. It was fairly traumatic, as you might imagine. We tried to strike a balance between using it as a chance to remind him how important “street rules” are, on the one hand, and assuring him that the doctors would help the person get better, that there are always people who will help, on the other. It showed up in his play for quite a long time, enacting stories of a horse who got hit by a truck, or a lost sheep who got hit by a car and then the hero-ambulance-vet comes racing in to save the day. It also showed up in his prayers, frequently thanking God for the ambulance and for the doctors, and praying for the person who got hurt. Sometimes he didn't quite know what to say, and I would suggest some simple but earnest sentence that was almost always rejected. My favorite of his prayers was his tendency to sing, as in this little conversation I wrote down verbatim the night it took place:

Me: Well, we could say, 'God, please help the person who got hurt, that they will be safe and healthy.'

Finn: Or we could sing a song for that person.

Me: We could sing?

Finn: Yeah, a song could be a prayer. Like we sing before meals.

Me: You're right, bud. A song could be a prayer. Do you want to sing?

Finn: Yeah. (very confidently and definitively)

Me: What do you want to sing?

Finn: Jingle Bells.

(and then he began to sing, very quietly, very reverently) Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a (mumble mumble) sleigh-hey!

Amen.

Me: Amen.

Anyway, all this is on my mind because that accident was the first of several incidents that called upon new parenting skills—skills of helping Finn deal with the world beyond our home, a world we can't control. And now, since moving here, those skills are constantly in demand. He has, somewhere in recent months, become a full-fledged kid, and we are constantly negotiating the boundaries between freedom and oversight, between giving him space and keeping him close, between helping him interpret the social situations he encounters and letting him figure it out.

Now we have a yard—can he go out alone if I'm on the porch? What if I'm inside, or upstairs with Willa? How often do we check in? He's fast and confident on his bike, easily able to ride to town. But how far ahead of us do we let him get? We live on a campus where there are lots of faculty kids, who have lots of freedoms. Can he go outside with them after dinner? What if our neighbors are there, two older, responsible, kind girls? Or what if another faculty boy is there, also older, not-so-responsible and not-so-kind?

This was Finn's first week of preschool, a new social world he is entering without us. And although it is a very safe, nurturing environment, and I really have no fears for him, it is still bittersweet to let him go, knowing he'll experience things I might never know about. I'm thankful for his long periods of play at home, time that I can observe and listen in on, getting a sense of what's on his heart. And I'm thankful for our ritual of "thank yous" before bed. Tonight's list? "Thank you for my bike, thank you for xxxx (the not-so-responsible and not-so-kind boy), and thank you for sitting like a pretzel!" (collapsing in giggles) I think we're going to be just fine. 

And now for something completely different ...

Conversations and events lately have converged around the role of technology in our lives, particularly (but not exclusively) the internet. Matt, actually, participated in a panel discussion at his school on this very topic, and you'll get to read his thoughts tomorrow. But first, the practical application of all this ruminating: an approach has emerged for us concerning how we will both monitor ourselves and guide our kids.
And here it is: rather than be too concerned about the role technology is or isn't or should or shouldn't play in our lives, we're choosing to focus on everything else that is good and alive and life-giving--food, family, friendships, the outdoors, solitude, books, music, making things. And to the extent that technology helps or improves our efforts in these areas--fine. Because it's not that technology is bad--it's just that everything else is so good.
This may sound simple--too simple to be writing about--and certainly as our kids grow there will need to be specific guidelines and limits on technology use. But for a guiding principle I find it freeing. As someone who is neither a technie nor a Luddite, it's easy for me to bemoan the increasing role that technology plays in our lives and the unimaginable role it will play for our kids, while at the same time using technology to make that complaint, and using the internet countless times a day to listen to music, check the weather, check headlines, find an address or talk to our family halfway around the world. And as much as I'd like to completely shield our kids and prevent all access, it would be not only hypocritical (and likely impossible) but also unwise. They are, like it or not, members of their generation. They were born in the 21st Century, and we can't just pretend that's not true.
So instead of getting too hung up on this fact of technology's omnipresence, we intend to set some reasonable boundaries that will change as they grow, and then forget about it. By not obsessing over technology--its good or bad side--we can pour our energies into making sure that our kids know the sanctity of solitude, the beauty of a clear night under the stars, the joy of a shared meal, the comfort of long friendships, the mystery of candlelight, the escape of a good book, the satisfaction of making something by hand, the camaraderie of being part of a team, the peace of God. And if they know these things--if they can go for a hike and leave the phone at home, if they can read a book and keep the computer turned off, if they can make something instead of buying it, then I won't worry when they text a friend mere minutes after saying goodbye, or spend hours on facebook or videogames. Because again, most of the problem with technology isn't the technology itself--it's what it replaces and prevents. It's the absence of time for personal reflection, the absence of uninterrupted time together.
And how do we intend to make sure our kids know these things? Live them ourselves. Sherry Turkle quotes surveys on a recent episode of Being where it's the kids who want parents to turn off iphones and blackberries at the table, not the other way around. When Finn tries to shut my laptop, that's a good sign that it's time to turn my attention elsewhere.

Never so far

This year we did something really cool for Chinese New Year: a dinner cruise on an all-teak Chinese junk the night of the fireworks over the harbor. And no, it was not easy for this mama to leave Willa for that long (6+ hours) ... given that she's none too happy about taking milk from a bottle, nor is she very happy in general during the evening hours. But we managed, and she managed, and maybe most importantly, our babysitter managed. (And she's still our babysitter!)

And it was cool. Did I say that already? A beautiful night (just a bit chilly after the sun went down), we got to hang out with friends and enjoy good food, an open bar, and impressive fireworks. Sans children. We met a couple from Canada who had not only heard of Crookston, MN (the tiny town where Matt grew up) but had been there, repeatedly. And then sat next to an architect couple, one of whom is designing an important center here in Hong Kong and the other of whom is from Iran and is willing to talk to Matt's students about an Iranian book they are reading.

Standing under a swinging red lantern on the boat's deck, surveying the skyline and the impossibly huge apartment complexes, I couldn't help but think about how different our life will look one year from now. We don't know exactly where we'll land, but early February will most certainly not see us on a dinner boat cruise, watching Chinese New Year fireworks with people from all over the world. And though we long for what February will bring us--snow, cross-country skiing, sitting in front of a fire--we feel sad too. Yes, yes, I know I've said this repeatedly, but I have a feeling it's going to be a theme these remaining months: excited to go, sad to leave.

Jon Kabat-Zinn, recently interviewed on Speaking of Faith Being, said that mindfulness is a way to slow down time. So that's the goal--to really live each of the moments we have left here and not let the time just pass by. Which is not always easy, given that the moments are so often filled with foot-stamping, toy-throwing, attention-seeking tears (and not just from Finn. Ahem.) And hungry, end-of-the-day tears (and not just from Willa. Ahem. Ahem.) Except then I realize that there isn't much more in-the-moment than the tears of a child ... in fact, I often find myself wishing I could get both of them to see a bigger picture. (I know, I know.)

Jon Kabat-Zinn also says that "living with children is probably the most powerful spiritual practice that anybody could ever be engaged in." He goes on to compare our children to little Zen masters, "parachuted into our lives to push all our buttons and see how we're going to work with the challenges they throw at us." And though I'd be hard-pressed to call Finn a Zen master, I have often remarked at how much I am learning about my own anger and lack of patience through these kids. And then all I can do is rest in the grace that God is the ultimate parent not only to my children, but to me. Full of grace and love not only to my children, but also to me. Ready to give chance after chance, both to my children and to me. And as I seek again to model God's love to my children, I accept it as true for me too.

You are never so far that my love can't find you

You're never so far I can't see your face

We are never so far, let me remind you

We're never so far from our loving place

Greg Brown, Never So Far 

May it be so for all of us, never so far from the people and places that we love, and never so far from the One who loves us.