Homemadeinchina

Days of Gray 3 {Feelin the Love}

2012-02-14T16:45:00.000+08:00

Pink hot chocolate, a little bit of murky sunshine, homemade cards.

Can you feel the love?

Days of Gray 2 {He Who Builds}

2012-02-08T20:45:00.000+08:00

"He turns rivers into a desert,

springs of water into thirsty ground,

a fruitful land into a salty waste...

He turns a desert into pools of water,

a parched land into springs of water.

And there he lets the hungry dwell,

and they establish a city to live in;

Whoever is wise, let him attend to these things;

let them consider the steadfast love of the Lord."

~from Psalm 107

It is that time of year when people start to break their news. Staying. Or going. Last year I was baffled to discover that we would have our own "we are leaving" announcement. I felt guilty and struggled to share it with our close friends-- because I know how hard it can be to be the ones who are staying, holding down the fort, continuing with the work, the vision, whatever it may be

Now here we are, listening to the announcements come out as they do in their yearly cycle. It is a part of living in this place that you brace for, almost trying to steel yourself against. Try as you might, the transience gets to you.

There are good announcements too. The ones you hoped would stay say yes, they are in for two more years. If you are incredibly lucky, you may even get the news that someone you have dreamed of joining you is in fact taking the plunge and will be arriving in the next year (such a thing has happened to us!!). When you are the one who stays, these decisions bolster you beyond words.

I watched my son beg his dad to help him build an airplane; just the simple kind, you know, the one with paper. He knows his dad can do it far better than he and he watches closely, even with a bit of awe or at least admiration as the folds and angles come together in ways he couldn't at this point in his life even dream of. And that thing soars. It crashes too. And it soars.

I love to watch them sit together, and I think of the things I can't put together on my own either: communities and staff morale and ten year plans (that are guaranteed to pan out anyway) and personal vision. It takes a bit of trust and admiration to watch someone else do it, someone bigger than you. Someone who knows just what they're doing and how to make things really soar; who has the crashes all worked out and can even pick those pieces up and make it soar again.

Days of Gray 1 {Rubberbands and Watermelons}

2012-02-04T19:03:00.000+08:00

I began to trust the world again, not to give me what I wanted, for I saw that it could not be trusted to do that, but to give unforeseen goods and pleasures I had not thought to want. ~ "Hannah Coulter" by Wendell Berry

Running at 30 weeks pregnant is no small pleasure for me. Though nearly the entire distance I am fighting with every muscle from the waist down to keep from wetting my pants, the lifting of my somewhat disproportionate body gives me a sense of lightness, mobility, strength, and release-- all of which are rapidly decreasing sensations for most of the day. I feel very much like a ball of rubber bands wound tightly around a watermelon, that slowly elongate themselves as I move down the street. I like to imagine I look like Wonder Woman, sleek and strong in full body spandex with her long hair flowing behind her and maybe a few gold cuffs to impress the bystanders. I know in reality what people see is a tall woman lumbering at a snails pace, often against the flow of pedi-cabs and scooters, wincing as though she wished a bathroom of any kind was near, but with a hint of a smile on her face.

It is funny, the things we find relief in, even joy. The uneven spacing between my children's teeth, seen when they smile or squint their eyes with belly giggles, the look of a newly washed floor and coming home to the scent of lemon and pine as I unload groceries. "What kind of meat is that?" the driver asked me, likely astounded at what looked like enough pounds of chicken to feed a large crowd for a week. It must seem strange to a man who lives in a place where you buy enough meat- if any at all- to supply the meal you are about to prepare, and that is it. He doesn't know the satisfactory feeling of comfort and pleasure it gives me to fill my small freezer, knowing I have prepared adequately for yet another week of meals.

He, the one who made me, who knows my name and walks with me the day long, always giving or taking away, leading or pulling or waiting, is present among all these griefs or joys of mine. There are times when that knowledge is barely a comfort, and I know that this is a fault that lies fully in me. Lately though, I am increasingly open, wide and accepting to His presence, and even purpose in these sorrows of mine-- and the joys he gives with grace, with patient knowing.

A sorrow too-- a world closed off to you, or one that disappoints-- is the surest way to open you up to all that is living outside of you. It is not guaranteed to do this. It can cripple you or shrink you deeper within your own cares and needs and hurts. But if you open yourself up to your sorrow, your disappointment, if you lay it before you like a bruised, even bleeding offering, and if you offer it to someone, to the Only One who can hold it and bear it and ultimately transform it or you, then you can begin to grow into the world that is outside of yourself.

Sometimes, especially of late, it has become so disturbingly clear that I shrink from living for others. I think it will be a life of losing-- what I want, what I hope for, what I simply like, what I believe will make me happy. And when I am faced with a life I think I don't want, it becomes all the more painfully obvious that I am tempted to be unwilling to live with a life I didn't ask for.

But He thunders into that kind of living. Sometimes it is a story, a small pleasure I didn't expect, a powerful word spoken from His Words, or in the quiet of my spirit. I am not sure how He is able to do it at times, those times when I feel so folded into my unwillingness. But He does it. And I find no small joy in the letting go, in the glimpse of the horizon that comes after a long climb up the ridge.

"Not where the flesh delighteth, the feet of Jesus trod." was something Amy Carmichael once wrote, and it seems like a hard word. It is funny to me, hard to understand, how that hard word can be so sweetly releasing. Like a woman running, tightly wound and wincing, yet full of joy.

Days of Gray 2012

2012-02-01T21:57:00.001+08:00

The holidays of both east and west are over and all the festivity has been packed, or swept away. The darkness of early morning no longer holds its promises of the coming light of Advent. Routines are back in place, but the sun still hides from us. These are the long winter days in our corner of the world—the Days of Gray.

Into the cold and colorless sky walks Ash Wednesday, on February 22^nd this year. It is an appropriate name for the opening day of an appropriate season because it begins us on the long march of death. Not just an aimless, depressing march, it is the Lenten walk through death and into Life-- the resurrection of the earth that has been submerged and shut up for so many months, which echoes the celebration of the Resurrected God-man, the Savior of the dying world.

It has been said somewhere by someone that we can endure anything, so long as whatever we endure has meaning. Every year, I enter these months and the challenges I face are different and the same. But if I choose to sit awhile, and let the season have its course, if I enter into the meditations and remembrances of centuries that have passed before me- step by little step the Gray Days can become infused with prismatic depth. So, increasingly the practice of Lent has become vitally important to the yearly rhythm of my mind and soul, and beyond that the practice of seeing through the Gray has become a living necessity.

The seeing for me cannot be merely about finding a photo each day that expresses some hint of color magically found in the bleakness of midwinter weather, or about naming three things I found to enjoy and offer thanks for. But neither can it be a singular Scripture or quote floating rapturously through my mind but untethered to the muddy footprints of my day, the ones I am pounding out in the flesh and bone of hours and minutes. *

Somehow, the two practices of seeing with the eyes and seeing with the soul must connect, weave, wrap their existential and physical arms around each other and whether in harmony or discord- they must meet. They must feed off of and into one another so that they can do what they were always meant to do—keep us whole, keep us healthy with Image-bearing humanity.

This is the daily challenge for me as a person- at once both an earth dweller and heaven-seeker as a floundering Jesus-follower. This is my meager explanation for an artistic little exercise called, Days of Gray. Words and thought and image—it is all combined—and if you like you can try to follow (or join) along as I post bits and pieces here.

*I don't mean to sound pretentious, or high and mighty in some sort of way that says I am a deeper thinker than mere thank-you lists, or posting a photo a day... but more am trying to express that any one of these things alone has not helped me much in the recent year, and I want to leave the boundaries open to include a variety of all of them- which is more the way my mind, and I think most people's minds, works anyway.

Jiu Zhai Gou

2012-01-19T15:36:00.000+08:00

Dear me, it's been nearly a week since we got back and I put up this pic as a preview of the review I planned to write about our trip. I should be on to other things by now. Instead I will just say that this week has been a very very good one and for all the time I could have been sitting and writing or uploading pictures, I am glad I was present elsewhere, even if it was merely talking with my Man or finishing a chapter of Pollyanna to the kids (she sure had that glad game down, she did).

This trip we took to the Min Shan mountains of Sichuan at a stunning and increasingly well known place called Jiu Zhai Gou, was every bit the winter wonderland retreat I was expecting it to be, with a few little hiccups and standard traveling-in-China mishaps.

I had hired a driver with his car to transport the kids and I on the 8 hour drive to the valley, with the plan to meet the Man there where he had been attending a conference for three days. I wasn't too nervous about the drive on my own with the three little ones and thought in passing that this strange calmness seemed somewhat uncharacteristic of me. Well, I certainly had no idea what was in store.

Forty five minutes into our drive, our poor middle guy unleashed all of his breakfast and dinner from the night before into his lap, my hands, and nearly all his half of the backseat. The driver was extremely magnanimous, and the other two children became half-angel for the remainder of the trip, which was almost entirely filled with a sick little boy dry heaving in the front seat. Yes, I considered turning around-- but not until the point when it would have taken us longer to return than to keep going. It was not an easy day, but somehow we made it through without losing our sanity or our spirits.

After a restful evening in a hotel bed, lots of water and some juice, the little man recovered nicely and was ready to dive into snow drifts and snowball fights the next day. We discovered our room did not come with breakfast as we had expected, and as you soon discover when you head to remote places in China (as in, any city with less than 10 million people), the food options for westerners and especially their children are very limited. We were also housed in a small mountain tourist village, that was entirely closed down for the season. Our breakfast came from a small corner grocery (imagine an unheated storage garage with utility shelves and a few plastic crates of apples) and consisted of crackers, imitation hostess cakes without the cream filling, and apples.

The park itself did not disappoint however. Breathtaking heights of snow-covered peaks, their harsh rocky pinnacles thrusting themselves into a pristine blue sky. The valleys were blanketed with tall, stately pines laced with piles of white that glistened in the sunlight (sunlight!!) and sent such a muted quiet over the landscape that you could hear the snowdrifts falling off heavy boughs, and the crunch underneath your feet, and sometimes the thoughts of the person next to you. I stood there, watching my kids melt snow down each others necks and peg their dad with balls formed in their increasingly frigid fingers, and imagined all our friends sunning themselves on the beaches in Thailand, and did not envy them one bit. I love the mountains, always have, and always will and even if my lifestyle and situation has changed and I can't explore them on a pair of skis, or hike them on the weekends, I will soak up their every gift without remorse.

Gazing at aquamarine waters and frozen waterfalls, Tibetan villages and prayer wheels nestled in the banks of the cold, clear river, is not always easy for children. They were troopers for the most part, but the misshappen bus schedule that left us stranded high in the park one day and required a several kilometer hike along the road with cold hands and wet feet was a trying moment for everyone. It was nothing that hot chocolate packs and the reward of a hotel pool (even if it was barely tepid temperatures) couldn't fix however, and for me, even these small inconveniences, along with losing a cell phone and the unpleasant breakfast situation, couldn't outdo the goodness this beautiful place was doing for our nature-sore eyes.

One of the best surprises and provisions of the trip was a local Tibetan restaurant recommended by a contact at the hotel. At first the doors were locked, and I was nearly ready to wring the taxi drivers neck thinking he had dropped us off in the wrong spot, but we soon found the lights were on and we merely had to knock on the door (our cell phone, with the owners number on it, had been lost). The atmosphere was absolutely charming and delightful with a large woodburning stove in the center where you gather to drink hot barley tea and warm your fingers and toes. The food was outstanding and some of the best we have had here to date. The children, even the picky ones, all found several things to love and devour, and no one was disappointed when we returned for a second round the following night.

After the debacle of a road trip that got us to the Park, we decided to change plans and fly everyone home, even though the cost made us dig deeper than we had originally planned. Overall, we were still grateful for the option and arrived home intact, with everyone healthy and happy and with another long, many-legged trip under their belts. I was proud of our little guys and the way they have learned to be flexible with food and travel, accomodations and circumstances, even more-so than their parents sometimes, though I was reminded that often their reactions are grounded in those they see in us.

Back home in the gray, damp, cold weather of the city I am still living a little off of the respite of those beauty-filled days. I am seeing the goodness in our choice to stay in country for this long break though. It has been good for our family, for our marriage, for our rest and need to regroup and gather ourselves for the next few months ahead.

A Preview

2012-01-13T21:36:00.000+08:00

We are back. It was breathtaking. And mind numbing. Traveling in China... always an adventure.

What We've Been Up To

2012-01-09T21:32:00.000+08:00

Did I mention we are on a five week holiday? This time of year is always a bit funny for us and our work because of the two major holidays represented by both East and West that must be celebrated and given the appropriate time off.

There is Christmas, which the Chinese barely turn a head to celebrate, but for us westerners requires a 2 week break from school, and then there is Chinese New Year which is like the mother of all holidays for the Chinese, and which we politely nod our heads to, but for them requires a 2 week break from school as well. Because the Chinese New Year is based on a lunar calendar, it's date fluctuates year to year, where Christmas remains fixed. Sometimes that means we have two weeks off, a month on, then two weeks off again! But this year, the two holidays were so close together that the break got lumped into one big, loooong stretch of time wherein most people returned to their home countries or fled south for warmer temperatures and tropical beaches. We stayed. Here.

Because of a lot of factors, the biggest one being we have usually had one or more kids the age of a traveling-with-you-is-no-fun toddler, we don't usually travel much over our breaks. We rest. We spend time together. We explore our surroundings, spend time with other non-traveling folks, and in general just take the opportunity to recuperate. It has always worked well for us. We have never regretted staying. We've come to really enjoy our breaks, and usually reach the end of them ready to head back into work and the routine of school days feeling refreshed. There was that one year we trekked via train and bus all the way to Inner Mongolia when our boys were 2 and 3.5 and I was 5 months pregnant with Scout. But it was still refreshing, if for no other reason than all that 25 hours of training and days of bumpy bus rides was so well worth the clearest blue skies and fresh, dry air of the Mongolian grasslands. It did us good to spend three weeks in our yurt after a year of concrete and city life.

So here we are, in the middle of our 5 week break, half way through our 5th year in China. Tomorrow the kids and I are leaving on an 8 hour drive to the mountains, a beautiful national park that is increasing every year in tourism and world wide renown. The Man is already there, waiting for us after attending a conference the last few days. He says it's breathtaking. I can't wait to take deep, cold breaths and to soak in what we can, maybe take it with us when we haul ourselves back a few days later to the grey world of our city. I think you can live in perpetual greyness, provided there are moments to stick your head above the clouds now and then.

The past few weeks we have been provided for in many ways, I am coming to see.
~We were invited to the zoo with some friends who used to work there. It provided a wonderful day out, with people, and our kids were enthralled the entire day by Siberian tigers and a Hippopotamus who let you feed him, strange monkeys and rolly polly Panda Bears.

~I was able to take my middle one to see an American doctor, who led us to a Chinese hospital where his hearing was tested and a specialist determined he needs a minor surgery which will very likely solve a longstanding hearing problem we have been unsure how to address. The surgery is scheduled for a few weeks from now, in another city at a hospital we feel much more comfortable with, and I am so excited at the prospect of seeing this little guy able to freely hear and communicate on a level he has struggled to for some time now.

~After a frustrating day at the post office, we received gracious news that a computer item we could not return to the States in time for a refund, was being credited in full to our account without ever having to give the item itself back! I don't mind telling you the excellent customer service award goes to Amazon.

~I've read some old books, some old favorites, and have found they fed my soul right where it was most needing it. It occurred to me today that in all my Advent reading and praying for a sense of His Coming, I have received it in a small and yet wonderfully large way.

Yes, it has been a good break thus far, and a good five and a half years on top of that. I always look forward to fleeing, but there is always goodness in coming back, and in being right here where we are.

All We Had Was Backpacks

2011-12-31T19:58:00.000+08:00

The day after Christmas, we traveled down into the heart of the city to spend a couple hours assembly-line fashion, packing backpacks for a project undertaken by a local Relief Organization that was providing mittens, socks, hats, and school supplies to some of the poorest children in Sichuan province. The day after that, I was lovingly sent off by my husband and children to join a small group that would travel to two schools, and two registered churches in the province, where we would distribute the bags and see some of these communities firsthand.

There were many things about this trip that I was thankful for. The opportunity alone to get out of the city and see the mountain towns and people was enough on its own. Added to that the chance to talk with workers (like our leader, Joy) who are on the ground full time with these people and hear about the issues, concerns, victories, and struggles they are dealing with, as well as hearing the needs and hopes of the local leaders in their cities was something I am rarely able to do, but so thankful for and inspired by.

It was also eye opening on many levels. China is vast and complicated. Many things you hear are true in one place, but not another. So to hear how things are being done, and what the true needs are, was in some ways different than the way things are often presented in media or from decades old realities that are not always the case anymore.

Mostly though, I was just humbled to be in the presence of so many children who treated us as though we were offering them the moon, when all we had brought was simple backpacks with a few necessary items. They lined up to greet us, three thousand strong, and stood in the bitter cold as we bundled out of the bus and were offered hot tea and seats at a long, red table high up on stage. It is the standard practice in China, to do things with grandness and formality far beyond what the occasion may call for, even at a poor school in a rural town. And it is our duty to accept it all with graciousness, and allow them to treat us as honored guests, though I felt more like a sham who should have brought far more to deserve all this attention.

The backpacks mostly went to the poorest of students, and to those who are labeled as China's Left Behind children. These are children who are the victims of a cultural phenomenon of migration by working adults to the cities, where they go from poor rural areas with little opportunity, to be able to provide for their children and parents. Studies estimate that there are about 58 million of these children in China, living with aging grandparents or any family that is able to care for them, and often even being left to board at the schools they attend.

I went into the dorms of some of these children. Plain, unpainted concrete walls, black with mold, and long narrow rooms with no electricity lined on both sides with rustic metal bunkbeds, a simple slab of wood for a mattress and a quilt or two for bedding. This is all they own, besides the pencil and notebook and schoolbooks in their backpack down in the classroom.

We also visited a small woman and her fellowship. The small room, open to the outside was half filled with mostly old men and women, and she cried grateful tears as she told of their Christmas service which had gone so well, and had allowed them to go out on the streets. They sang, offered us more hot water for our freezing hands to hold, and shared with us their burdens and needs that they asked us to join them in remembering. It is remote there. Not many workers want to come. It is hard work, and slow- lonely at times.

The aging group is without a generation to follow it, and the young children are without a generation to parent them. It is a burdensome thing to see.

The church calendar traditionally celebrates Christmas for 12 days. On the fourth day, December 28th, we celebrate the Commemoration of the Holy Innocents, which is to remember the atrocity of Herod as he slaughtered all the two year old's in Bethlehem in an attempt to destroy the threat of the Messiah he had heard about. As I hugged these children who smile at me so willingly, but whose lives I can't imagine, the words of Bobby Gross, as he described the significance of remembering Herod's evil act, came to mind.

" To remember Herod's atrocity is to strip sentimentality from the birth of Christ. On this day we confront the evil in our world, the violence of the powerful against the weak, the sorrow of those who suffer injustice and the very real darkness into which the light shines."

Yes, Christmas is far more than just remembering it as Jesus' Birthday. There are real powers of darkness and suffering going on here. And there is a very real light that has come into the world and is coming again. It is not just a nice analogy.

Just as we shouldn't look at the manger with sentimentality, so we shouldn't view these children in that way either. There are many things about their lives that I am too far away from to understand or make conjectures about. But I am thankful to follow in footsteps of those who are far closer, and do what I can to be a hand or a foot or even just a big stubby toe.

The Unlikely Gift :: Part IV

2011-12-24T07:52:00.000+08:00

Part IV

It was true, the storms were arriving. Gray clouds blanketed every stretch of sky you could see, and the sleet began mid morning, then turned quickly to a driving snow that made driving almost dangerous. Maggie had worked in the morning, and Warren and Bud both had Christmas Eve off, so they were all at home by the time the afternoon rolled around and the snow was really coming down in earnest. It seemed to cheer everyone up, almost making them giddy in a way that rarely happened in their patched together little family.

Maggie had turned on some holiday music, and they sat around half smiling at each other, offering tidbits of conversation while munching pizza Hanna had picked up on the way home from the salon. “Should I make some hot chocolate? Maybe see if there is a Christmas Movie on tonight?” She asked, not quite sure if there would be takers but feeling like she might even be up for it herself. Everyone either nodded or offered to do something and before she knew it, they were laughing over how many scoops made an “adult” hot chocolate, remembering how Hanna used to always try to lessen the kids sugar intake by making something a little more like glorified cocoa water than hot chocolate. As they settled into the living room, Warren with remote in hand, Terry walked in with a big smile on his face.

“Are we… ready to… read?” he asked, his voice halting as he worked to get the words out, and all of them louder than was necessary for their close proximity. A little spittle of drool flowed down his stubbly chin. Warren blinked up at him, “read, Terry?” and suddenly Hanna remembered one of the few small things Mary Ellen had asked her to make sure to do. One was to set a chair in the shower for Terry to use while washing, the other was to take him to his co op if possible, and the third was to do what he had always done with his mother since a little boy, and then with Mary Ellen and Bruce the last couple years, and that was reading the Christmas story straight from the book of Luke.

…………………………………..

The IV drip gave out a rhythmic beep next to Eliza’s bed. It was the only sound in the hospital room where Mary Ellen sat beside her mother in law, gazing at the sleeping woman and out the window, where a steady snowfall blurred the images of streetlights and Christmas Eve traffic, giving them a soft glow of twinkling lights that seemed to Mary Ellen, almost beautiful from where she sat.

Bruce had gone to his sister’s to shower and grab some coffee. He was planning to return around lunch time and said he would pick up something for Mary Ellen to eat.

So far, the morning had been slow and quiet, giving Mary Ellen a lot of time to think. Her mind strayed from all the things she had left undone, or in others hands while they were away, and settled on her children scattered and wandering each in their own way. Their lives weighed on her always, and she felt like the years of hope and prayers on their behalf had grown in her like a lifelong period of gestation, one which she felt should be nearly to the point of a delivery- a giving birth of all that waiting and patience she had borne.

At midmorning, just after the ten o’clock rounds, Eliza woke up. She smiled at Mary Ellen, her eyes moist and breathing shallow. Their hands rested, entwined together on the bed, Mary Ellen’s wrapped around Eliza’s cool, limp fingers in an almost prayerful posture.

“I’m so glad you came,” Eliza spoke softly; her voice had grown weaker in the past 24 hours. The doctors did not think she had too much time left. “My heart is so full of joy when I see you, and I am so thankful for you and Bruce.” Mary Ellen could tell Eliza wanted to say things, even though it labored her, and so she remained quiet to give the woman space for her words.

“I have known you since you were a little girl, and I see you now, a woman who lives to serve and carry the burdens of others. I know you hurt and that you want to see God do something great. I want to tell you that I have seen him work a wonderful thing in your life.” Here she paused for several moments. Eliza’s eyes filled and spilled over, and Mary Ellen felt the surge of emotion well up from deep inside. She wanted a miracle. This was her year. But perhaps she had gripped so fiercely to the present and future that she had forgotten to remember the past, and the scope of all the wonder was woven through her life.

Eliza smiled through her tears, and began again. “I have come to the end of my journey. You know the many things I too have waited for in my life. You have your own waiting to do, and while you do it, don’t lose heart. There is a blessing that comes to she who looks to the hand of her master, and waits upon it for whatever he gives. You have a lot to bear, but like the mother whose name you share, you are highly blessed among women. I hope you can know and believe that. I love you my daughter.”

Later, Mary Ellen sat again in the silent room, with Eliza sleeping and Bruce snoring in a vinyl chair at her side. The sky outside had cleared. Snow covered the sidewalks and rooftops outside, blanketing every surface for a few night hours with its heaven like cleansing. She could see stars blinking in the dark sky, and she felt as though she were nearly being lifted to its heights, as she thought on the words Eliza had spoken over her.

Was this how that young, virgin woman had felt so many centuries ago, bearing the weight of the salvation of the world in her womb, knowing it would both pierce and wash over her life with a wonder she could not fathom. And she had believed. She had waited; for nine months, for thirty-three years, and then until her death when she would have finally seen the face of her Lord in the face of her Son. And she had said, what Mary Ellen knew she too must whisper now with all her heart, leaving it and the timing of miracles all to Him, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be unto me according to your word.”

………………………………………

The words of Luke filled the small family room as Maggie read according to Terry’s instructions and a soft light from the fake fireplace flickered from the center of a faux brick hearth. The snow outside had stopped, and Hanna slipped quietly from her chair near the entryway, slipping out the door to look up at the sky, it’s clearing revealing a blanket of bright stars that couldn’t help but make you feel small and grand all at the same time.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of tingling had settled over her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or scream, hug someone or be alone in her room. This place under the stars, with the snow sparkling like a sea of diamonds at her feet, stretching out across the lawns and down the still untouched streets, seemed somehow the most appropriate. She looked up and wanted to spread her arms out and be transported high into the heavens, like one of those angels in the story just now.

It had struck her like a moment of clarity never before, all of them sitting there listening as Maggie’s voice wandered over the room with a story that was centuries old, yet had always seemed rote and too familiar, but somehow removed to Hanna, that the people in those pages were not very much different than those listening to their story just now. Those shepherds, not the smartest or wealthiest or most sought after in society, were the ones to whom the very servants of the Heavenly King had come to speak to. They were given a place at the manger, when the powerful and wise and learned had all been denied.

And Jesus, the baby who the angel had told Mary would be called the Son of the Most High, and holy… holy, something she had always felt was a word spoken in condescension, in rebuke, and in guilt—as something she couldn’t attain, that Jesus came to a poor little couple, in a dirty little feeding trough. He was holy, but he didn’t care if the place or people he came to were wrecked right through with dirt. He seemed drawn to it, as though he wanted to give them his holiness and not just rub their grime in their faces. She thought of all the dirt in her own life, the weight of worries and failures and mistakes she was always carrying around, and she wanted more than ever to be like one of those shepherds, invited to the manger, spoken to by angels, filled with joy and running through the streets to tell of it.

Merry Christmas Pictures

2011-12-22T20:31:00.000+08:00

We pause now for a commercial break. Tomorrow I'll be back with the fourth and final installment of my little Christmas short story, The Unlikely Gift.

In lieu of Christmas cards (if I had my overseas act together), and even facebook (which I am currently having trouble getting on), we are posting our quick little Shotgun-photo-right-after-church-and-while-everyone-is-hungry-and-self-conscious-of-being-stared-at for a Merry Christmas greeting to all our loved ones.

I still can't believe next year, there will be four of them!!

From our family to yours, we wish you blessings and joy this Christmas

The Unlikely Gift :: Part III

2011-12-21T21:55:00.001+08:00

Part III

The steering wheel was ice cold against Hanna’s bare fingers. Yesterday the temperature had taken yet another dive, but the sky remained as blue as sea of sapphires, and the sunlight glared intensely through the windshield, making her reach for the heat switch and sun visor simultaneously. Terry had been with them three days now, and she was getting used to loading him into the van in the mornings and dropping him off at his co-op where he stayed until a bus brought him home at 4 pm. Mary Ellen had left the van for their use on the day she brought Terry over, saying it was easier for him to get in and out of and they wouldn’t need it while they were gone anyway. The only problem with it was the tape deck, which unlike most vehicles those days, was still installed per Mary Ellen’s usually unusual and antiquated request. She had even paid extra to locate it and have it installed, claiming that her whole listening life was on her tapes, and she wasn’t about to change over to CD’s now or she’d lose 95 percent of her mind. Hanna just shook her head, imagining the car salesman thinking to himself that he was sure she already had.

The radio was broken of course, and so rather than sit in silence for the twenty five minutes to and from the co-op, Hanna resorted to the pile of tapes in the consul. It held the typical Mary Ellen fare: loads of sermons from her favorite preachers, book review sessions from the radio programs she loved, and a few worship tapes. There were two Christmas Music selections and Hanna flipped one of them in, letting the carols and orchestra music fill the van with their timeless sounds, willing them to bring some level of comfort rather than the cynical weariness that so often plagued her.

So far, having Terry had gone okay. Maggie had sounded a little put out when Hanna explained the situation to her, but she had been working extra holiday shifts at the mall where her latest job at a clothing boutique had landed her and hadn’t been around too much to complain. Warren of course, was accommodating. He didn’t like the drooling at the table, or the nonstop chattering that flowed from Terry’s moth regardless of how much food was in it, and he usually left the table early, finishing dinner as quickly as he could, which left Hanna and Bud meandering through their food as Terry talked. Bud had always been slow at meals, and more quiet than most. So Hanna nodded to Terry intermittently and tried not to be discouraged by the situation. Only a week she reminded herself, and if this was the worst of it then she really couldn’t complain.

Warren shooing himself out and Bud mutely chewing his food reminded her a little of dinner at home growing up. Her mother had still felt it her duty to get a meal on the table, never mind who was there or who happened to stay around to eat it together. There was always the feeling of tension, and sullenness, which just made the presence of a “family style” meal and the half empty table seem pathetic and lonely to Hanna. She had always wanted different for her own kids someday. Now sometimes she wondered, if regardless of all her improvements and efforts, the sins of past generations would just keep repeating themselves in some form or another. Her own patched together family rarely ate together, and when they did it was with little conversation and everyone seemed ready to flee off in their own direction.

One time, about a year after she had started attending the Nazarene Church, a mother of one of the AWANA kids had asked if Hanna and the kids wanted to come over for dinner that week. Hanna cringed inwardly at the memory. Nothing had gone wrong, it was just that nothing was wrong, and she had felt messy and sad in the midst of it. Donna was a good mother-- that was easy enough to see. She had four children and they all seemed interested in each other and their surroundings. They were friendly, outgoing, and really listened to their parents. Donna’s husband went to work every day and came home every night, while Donna ran the home. They looked like they cared about one another. Donna always said nice things about her husband, praising his abilities and how much of a godly leader he was. And Hanna was sure that he really was. She had felt light years away from their goodness. Maybe she didn’t want that kind of goodness anyway, she had told herself. But somewhere inside she felt a twinge of envy. Was it for a happy marriage? For children who glowed with potential and purity?

Hanna glanced at Terry in the rearview mirror. He was staring out the window, a slight smile sitting calmly on his face. Was it always there even when he wasn’t thinking about anything in particular? Or was he just more easily cheered by things that to Hanna, meant little and so escaped her notice? Hanna wondered what it had been like to raise a child like Terry, doing just what she was doing now, but with him as a five year old, a ten year old, a teenager. Surely Terry’s mother had endured challenges that Hanna knew nothing about, and surely the woman’s dinner table had looked far different from the one Hanna had visited during her church going years. Mary Ellen had always spoken so highly of Terry’s mother, but she had not made it sound as if it was a life without blemishes. Annie just knew where to turn to, when she was all a mess and at the end of her rope, Mary Ellen would say. Hanna certainly knew there had been countless times when she had felt a mess and at the end of herself. She usually just dusted herself off and picked it all up again, each time chipping a little more off her expectations of what life could be. Maybe you just couldn’t expect a lot of goodness when you had come from a family like hers.

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

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the cheery radio man said storms were headed their way. The sky still looked clear and cold to Hanna, but inwardly she said a little prayer to no one in particular, asking for some blessed snow to whiten up their gray little town. She had let Warren take Terry to the co op the last two days because she had the early shift at the salon. Today it was her turn again though, and the traffic seemed especially bad. Probably all the last minute holiday shopping that would only increase over the next 24 hours. She was getting a little tired of the same Westminster Choir Carols, so Hanna grabbed something from the top of the tape stack and flipped it in. The sound of a man’s voice, resonant and full but not overly powerful, spoke to her as though he were sitting directly across from where she sat driving.

It was a Christmas message of course, not surprising since Mary Ellen stocked her car full of all the seasonal messages she could find in her tape library during the month of December. Hanna wasn’t sure quite what it was that kept her from ejecting the soothing man’s voice from the deck and reverting back to the hundredth time through O Holy Night, but somehow his words caught her attention, and she leaned in as the blinking tail lights in front of her flashed a sea of red.

“The manger scene is no mere gentle picture of a sweet, idyllic memory for humanity to reminisce about. It is the most powerful place on this earth. For here, the King of all Creation stoops to share not just his presence, but his very life with the lowliest of society. Here, kings will fall on their faces and be shamed, beaten, judged. Here is where the powerful are stripped of their power, and the haughty of their pride. God is not too proud to take on our humility, and he does so point blank, with austere simplicity in the reality of the manger moment. He does so, not to bring God down to our level, but in order to ultimately raise a redeemed people back to their God.”

The words were hard to grasp in their entirety. Hanna wanted to push the rewind button and listen again, but instead she kept on. Those words, no mere sweet memory… stoops to share life with the lowliest of society… were not like anything she had ever heard about Christmas, even from Pastor Gordon. She felt some small feeling of hope trickle down inside her, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Whatever it was, the manger this man spoke of sounded more like one she would have liked to be around.

The Unlikely Gift Part II

2011-12-20T06:38:00.000+08:00

The schedule was full today: three cuts and a color before lunch, and two more colors followed by a slew of cuts in the afternoon. She didn’t mind being busy though, it made the day go by quickly, and Mary Ellen was coming in today. Hanna smiled at the thought of her. Mary Ellen was a one of a kind and didn’t really fit into the demographic of the salon’s clientele, or any salon for that matter. Her clothes reminded Hanna of the girls growing up who had attended that funny Baptist church where you couldn’t wear pants, except that Mary Ellen didn’t stick to drab colors; she threw in every pattern of lace or flowery sweater she could find to make her dresses as romantic and whimsical as possible.

The funny part of it all, was that as much as she tried, Hanna couldn’t even do much with the sole reason Mary Ellen had come to her in the first place, and that was to work on her hair. It was hopelessly outdated, but in spite of all her subtle and sometimes outright attempts to get Mary Ellen to change it, the woman was just too desperately attached to the look she had worn for almost thirty-five years now. It sort of befuddled Hanna what led Mary Ellen to come to this salon in the first place, since it was a little more upscale and known for being cutting edge. But come she did, and she was a loyal client, and more than that, a good friend.

The thing about Mary Ellen was that she didn’t seem like she was trying to prove anything. Sure, she dressed like a woman who been through a time warp, but she did it purely because that was exactly what she liked. And it was the same reason she wouldn’t change her hair in spite of all Hanna’s reasoned attempts to get her to do so. Mary Ellen was of sound mind, she just had a mind of her own. Plus, her heart was so full of goodness and giving that Hanna couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

One of the first things Hanna had learned as a hair stylist was that you had to listen to people. They come in and somehow the chair they are sitting in seems to magically transform into a therapists couch, and all their secrets, woes, and every private thought or problem comes flowing out like spilled wine. Usually, you just try to dab the spots, and pick up the glass to send it back on its way. But with Mary Ellen, it had always been different. She didn’t talk too much, except to ask questions, and somehow she turned the tables on Hanna and got her to share the parts of her life that mostly remained hidden in a place like this. Hanna had learned over the years though, that her spilling onto Mary Ellen was not just a mess to be blotted, but was somehow soaked in and accepted. And if Mary Ellen felt stained with what her friend shared, she never showed it. She seemed to cherish whatever Hanna had to offer.

Today Mary Ellen settled right into her chair like she always did, but her face looked a little more pinched than normal. Hanna started running her fingers over the mass of dark but graying curls, fluffing and massaging as she always did while her client warmed up and let her know what she had in mind for that day’s appointment. “How are you today Mary Ellen?” she smiled into the mirrored reflection of her friend. “Are you flying around in your usual holiday whirlwind?” Mary Ellen’s smile looked tired and she closed her eyes a moment, letting the calming effect of the head massage soothe her tenseness.

“I’m doing okay, but to be real honest I’m feeling a bit frustrated right now. Just too many things flying at me, and not really any of them working out. Bruce is working so much with his classes and finals and everything that he can’t be much help. Yesterday we got a call from his sister, who said his mom is not doing well at all and wants us to seriously think about coming up in a few days for the week. She sounded really concerned. Christmas is four days away and I have so many commitments. But she’s mom, you know. And then we have Terry. What am I going to do with Terry? No one will be able to take him over the holiday, and he can’t come up there with us because of his physical therapy appointments. Plus it just stresses him out to be out of routine. But ah, you know, I’m sure something will work out. The Lord knows all this.”

Mary Ellen smiled, but it seemed faint and a little less hopeful than she was trying to sound.

Hanna knew about Terry, but had only met him a couple of times, when she had dropped by Mary Ellen’s house to return a book or drop her off after they met up for coffee on a day Mary Ellen had been without a car. Terry was in his mid-thirties, and mentally handicapped to such a degree that his mind was like that of an 8 year old. Mary Ellen and Bruce had taken him in after his mother, a close friend at their church, had passed away, leaving no plans or money for her handicapped and care-needy son. It had not been an easy decision to take him in, and Hanna knew it hindered Mary Ellen and Bruce quite often in their ability to do some of the things they wanted to. Terry needed daily care and supervision, and it was hard to find willing hands to take him when they needed time off. Usually, Mary Ellen and Bruce just ended up just sending one and leaving the other to stay at home, which meant more often than not, they were separated these days.

Hanna listened as Mary Ellen talked a little of Bruce’s mother and the way she was heading downhill rather quickly. She could tell it was weighing on M, who dearly loved her mother-in-law and had always been close to her. But Hanna couldn’t help her mind wandering to Terry, and the predicament her friend was in. She and Warren still had a full house these days, even though most parents her age were finding their nests empty and sending kids off to college. Maggie had shown waning interest in school much like her mother had and after graduation had struggled to find a job or any motivation for keeping one. Hanna was fed up with it, but she felt responsible in some way too. She wasn’t sure what to do about the girl. And Bud was so quiet, but out of the two of them Hanna sensed there were deep waters that ran under that still and gentle exterior. It didn’t seem to make a difference when it came to school though, and so he too was living at home, working regular shifts at Al’s Garage down in the center of town and hoping to get an apprenticeship.

Hanna wondered how her two kids would handle someone like Terry in their midst. Cora at least, was not going to be home. She was in Minneapolis with her mother for a few weeks. Hanna wondered what Warren would think of her idea, or what any of them would think for that matter. She wasn’t even sure she liked that she was thinking it either.

Christmas, as it was, was always hard on Hanna, with too many bad memories and not enough good ones to release any sort of nostalgic repertoire of good cheer. She wanted it to be nice for her family, but any more they were a sad lot on what was supposed to be such a grand occasion according to the commercials and December movie specials. More often than not, she decorated the tree by herself and was lucky to squeeze in a few batches of gingerbread cookies as means of “holiday preparations.” This year she had hung a wreath on their door, one that had caught her eye at Wal Mart as she hurried through her shopping one night. It wasn’t too bad for a fake wreath, and she liked the red berries that reminded her of what an old farm door in New Hampshire would have on them, or something picturesque like that.

More than anything, Hanna felt confused and disappointed by the whole idea. She had been to enough church programs to know that according to history, Christmas was supposed to be a celebration of the birth of Jesus, but the Nativity Plays and carol sings she had been to all seemed so starchy and removed from reality, especially the ones that proclaimed they were throwing a birthday party for Jesus. Why are we throwing a birthday party for God? If he was God, wasn’t he eternal? And did he really see coming to earth as something he wanted to celebrate with a birthday party every year? It just seemed, somehow trite, compared to all the issues of life and death and salvation stuff that church was supposed to be about. And then there was the simple fact that the whole story seemed so distant from her. Bethlehem and mangers and especially angels visiting people was all so very far away and foreign, and like nothing that had every happened in her life. It was just plain hard and uninspiring to sing Joy to the World when she had struggled so hard to attain the little bit of happiness she had, and even that was often clouded by some issue or another.

She had sort of let all that go though, or at least didn’t think about it as hard as she used to. Yet even with church issues aside, the scurrying around and all the Christmas hype made her feel lonely in a strange sort of way. She wished she could feel as happy and excited about holiday activities as everyone around her seemed to be. Instead, she felt like it was just another reminder of a way of life she couldn’t create and had never really experienced.

So why not have Terry stay with them? It wasn’t like they had some wonderful big tradition he would be imposing on, or a houseful of relatives that would be put out. They could easily keep him in his routine, and he probably wouldn’t feel much of a change outside of the bed he was sleeping in. It would be hard to deal with the drooling, and he talked quite loud because of his hearing aids, and she knew from the things Mary Ellen said that though he was pretty independent for all his disabilities, he was lacking in social boundaries or sensibilities, and sometimes that was a challenge to know how to work with. But her friend was in a bind, and all the times that Mary Ellen had brought her meals, or been a listening, loving shoulder full of good counsel came to her mind and Hanna felt she had no other choice but to offer.

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

It was her year for a miracle. Mary Ellen could feel it, or she just knew how badly she wanted one, and needed one. It was time for God to come through for her, not that he wasn’t always there for her, she would never have thought or said that, but she just needed something miraculous, something extravagant from his hand to encourage her a little. It had been so many long years of trusting, of waiting, of bearing up when things were hard and believing that He was in control, and always looking to find his grace in the small things. Now she wanted something big and demonstrative, something obvious to everyone. This was her year, she almost felt him whispering it to her.

Bruce almost had the car packed, and Mary Ellen finished wiping up the counter, sweeping her eyes over the kitchen to make sure everything was put away and in place before they left for their week trip up to see Bruce’s mother. It was strange to think of not being here for Christmas. Mary Ellen loved Christmas, and she hated being away from home for it. In fact, in all her years with the children and even those following when they had moved away to other parts of the country, she had been able to avoid spending Christmas away from home. Let them come here, she had always said, and when they couldn’t, let them fill the table with those who needed a place to be. It had become their tradition, albeit a rather risky and uncertain one—never knowing who or what was going to show up to grace their Christmas table. But she and Bruce had grown used to it, and Mary Ellen liked the feeling of food between her hands, full of something tangible to give out and nourish the people around her, knowing they had so much need.

A small part of her was grateful for the break. It had almost shocked her when Hanna had called late that evening after seeing her at the salon, saying the family would love to have Terry stay with them over Christmas. In the few hours of phone calls she had made, Mary Ellen had received so many “we just can’t” and “we’ll be out of town” responses from the friends and neighbors she had asked, that she had resigned herself to the fact that it would be her and Terry home alone, while Bruce went on to be with his mom. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to ask Hanna, who always seemed to struggle so around the holidays, and her family didn’t exactly seem the kind to be up for caring for a middle aged handicapped man for a week. But she had sounded so genuine, and willing to help, and Mary Ellen felt that this was in fact, like all things, “provision.”

Terry was moving himself slowly down the stairs, chattering all the way about things they needed to remember, certain clothes of his and particular toiletries and pills. And of course his activity books and puzzles. Mary Ellen, nodded, giving him vocal affirmations as he listed his concerns and reassured him they had everything ready and that he would be fine. Would he be fine? And would she be fine? Leaving home to see a woman who had been the closest thing to a real mother she had ever experienced, and who could at any moment be reaching the end of her life here on earth? Could she handle another loss? Could she walk through another Christmas with so little wonder to sustain her, with nothing but what felt like wasted bones, wasted from service and weariness in trusting. Yes, she needed a miracle this year. Surely He would give her one, or she’d have to resort to performing them herself.

The Unlikely Gift

2011-12-18T21:06:00.000+08:00

Over the next week, in these last few days of preparations and festivity, I will be posting a short Christmas story in four parts. I hope you enjoy!

The Unlikely Gift

Part I

Hanna was sure that the snow would not make it in time for Christmas this year. It rarely did, and it was just another, though perhaps petty, reason why she felt like the whole season was usually such a let-down. The streets of the Midwest suburban town just a few miles outside the City were gray and cold, and seemed barren with an almost hopeless look about them, as though they knew they would have to look this way well into the New Year. Hanna didn’t mind the cold, as long as there was snow to go along with it. But these endless stretches of weeks with the thermometer dipping below forty and no snow in sight almost irritated her, in a way she knew that the weather ought to be entirely unable to do.

Oh well, another Gray Christmas, she smiled to herself in a sort of half amused way, thinking how awful a holiday tune that would make sung over and over on the radio stations that existed solely to belt cheer and good wishes to a land that seemed anything but. Well, at least the sky was clear. And this morning it played faintly with soft swishes of pale gold and pink as she turned the car down the main highway, heading to the large shopping center where the salon was waiting to be opened. A clear sky always brightened things up a bit, even if the sidewalks and store fronts were a little drab looking these days.

Hanna locked up the car, glancing past the metal rooftop to take a last glimpse of watercolor masterpiece strewn above her. Sometimes the beauty of a simple sunrise made her want to keep her gaze straight heavenward. Instead, she headed into the back entrance of the small salon where she had worked for almost 8 years now, switching her attention to more earthly matters, like her reflection staring back through the windows lining the walls where black leather chairs stood cockeyed and facing all directions, vacant and waiting patiently for the stream of dedicated women and occasional men who would come marching in to claim them.

She eyed the deepening lines above her auburn colored eyebrows. They had settled in with permanence, and certainly gave a more aged look to her face, especially with the crow’s feet creeping in at the corners of her eyes, and the skin that was starting to sag a little on her neck. No amount of firming cream would really help, and Hanna remained highly principled in her unwillingness to alter the course of events taking place with her physical appearance through artificial means. But she eyed it all just the same, trying to forget the fact that ninety nine percent of the girls who worked the floor here were in their early twenties and may as well have been light years from worrying about gravity working its wonders on their firm, tight little bodies. Her own middle had thickened a little in recent years, though she still held her shape and worked hard to walk regularly and even fit in a few sets of lunges when she could. But the fact was, everything just hung a little lower than it used to, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do to hide it.

These small signs of aging didn’t bother her to the extent that they did some people though, and that fact didn’t really fit with her line of work, which was entirely about creating an attractive and age-defying outer image. Maybe it was because there were other things that bothered her more, inner things that stuck to you no matter how few or many wrinkles you had. They were the kind of age lines that a life sometimes wrote on your soul, and more than anything, they were the ones she longed to be rid of.

Being the first one in this morning, Hanna started up the coffee, dumping yesterday’s grounds in the bin and cursing as a few clumps flew out and splattered her shoes and pant leg. It was something Warren always did at home, failing to stoop low enough to bang the grounds out, and it irritated her to no end. She would pull the garbage can out to empty it, or clean behind it with the mop and inevitably find a smattering of grounds and dark brown drips littering the floor and can and sometimes even the wall. Just hold it further down in the can when you empty it, she would rant, sometimes inside her head and sometimes letting it burst out loud at him before she could stop herself. She knew she picked on him a lot. And he tried hard, she knew he did, to do the things the way she liked them done.

Warren was steady though, and not easily rocked by her little unreasonable outbursts. It was probably some arrangement on the behalf of Almighty God, though Hanna wasn’t always sure anymore how mightily involved in her life God was, that she had ended up with Warren. He had been married before, and had a daughter about Maggie’s age. He hadn’t seemed daunted, as so many countless men understandably were, by the fact that she had two kids, by two different men, and none of them in the picture. It was true that by the time he met her, she had been a little more stable than those early years right out of high school, when she had seemed to ricochet from one rocky, immature relationship to the next, each leaving it’s mark with another baby on her hands.

Those years seemed far away now. But at times, like with the dreams she’d been having lately, or when she looked at her daughter and saw herself staring right back, they still closed in on her, like a grime she couldn’t quite wipe off. In high school, Hanna had practically lived at the neighbor’s house while her father ranted at her mother next door, and her mother fought back with plates and words and whatever else she could hurl at him. Her younger brother had grown sullen and withdrawn, but with a fire burning deep inside him that burned especially against his father. Her older sister, Rachel, had always been the favored one who could do no wrong, with her long black curls and dimpled, chatty charm, and Hanna had grown up knowing she could not compete and she never really did try.

Escape was mostly what she wanted, and when the first boy came along who showed her some interest, and proved to be a way out for the moment, Hanna grabbed at the chance. A few years later, out of school without a diploma, a toddler and a baby in the backseat, and no place to call home, she began to feel that her way of escaping had trapped her in some other awful nightmare.

Warren knew about all that. He had met her when Maggie and Bud (who had gotten his name from Maggie when he was born—she just barely 17 months old and calling him Buddy, which then shortened to Bud as he got a older) were twelve and ten, and Hanna had just finished up with cosmetology school. She was going to church at that time, at the small Church of the Nazarene just off Elm Street, which was directly across from the third apartment she and the kids had lived in at that time. They had started attending the little church not long after moving into the apartment, when Maggie as an independent little seven year old, had wandered over there one day, playing with a friend from school and wanting to use the small play ground that lined the edge of the simple red brick building. A woman and her children had stopped the girls on their way to the car, asking Maggie where they lived and such and inviting them to an AWANA program they held at the Church on Wednesday evenings. Maggie had lit up at the idea of being out on a school night, and ran home to tell her mother about it and to ask permission to please, please go. Before she knew it, Hanna was roped in to Parent Night and a small Bible Study for young moms and Sunday After Church Potlucks.

Overall, she had really liked those church ladies, and all the people that had come along with them. Pastor Gordon had helped her immensely over the few years she had attended; paying bills when the gas was shut off, giving her counsel about how to deal with the fathers of her children, who crept around now and then looking for something from her or the kids but were never keen on sticking around to be a part of daily life or finances. Pastor had taught her a lot about what it meant to be a Christian and how you should live and what would happen when the world came to an end and all that.

At times she had found the words she soaked in there fascinating. And at other times she had felt so weighed down with it all that her life almost seemed heavier than it was before, as though now the sins of her past were able to be lifted, but with so much effort on her part that she felt as if she might drown in the trying. In the end, she just felt too different, and like she had too far to go to become like any of those women with their nice families and husbands who came home every night. It just wasn’t in her blood, she decided. But she would take from it the good that she could.

After those three or so years with the Nazarene folks, things had settled down for her a bit. She felt she had a better handle on the kind of parent she needed and wanted to be. She knew the things she needed to stay away from to make that happen and she felt ready to be responsible and motivated. She read books on changing your life and finding your worth and determining your goals. She went back to school and made sure Maggie and Bud did their homework and ate something at least slightly more decent than Spaghettios and Mac N’ Cheese. It felt good to grow stronger, and to sense a little more control over the course of her life.

And she had met Warren. He was full of his own scars, and lived a couple towns away with his daughter, Cora who was just a year younger than Maggie. It had not been easy, bringing their two lives together with all the background and mess of three children who had grown up on the whole with only one parent. The first years had been rough between Cora and Hanna, though Maggie and Bud had warmed to Warren almost immediately. He was easy to love and accept: quiet, unassuming, trying to make ends meet working shifts at the Fire station and running a lawn care business during the summer. He demanded little of her kids, and they seemed to sense he was good for her. Cora, however was a tougher nut to crack. She had a lot of fire in her, the anger just simmering below the surface. It was all Hanna could do to grit her teeth and bear the girl’s obvious suffering.

The pot hissed and popped, signaling the coffee was ready, and Hanna held a mug between both hands, waiting for it to warm her fingers that seemed endlessly cold, something her kids had complained about when they were small and she would pull their shirts over their heads as she helped them dress in the morning. It had bothered her for some reason, feeling like if anything, a mother should have warm, comforting hands to hold and pull around you. But hers never were. Poor circulation, she guessed. Or maybe they were just too thin and bony to hold much, including a wedding ring. It was forever falling off and she had already lost a couple. The one she had now was part of a cheap, fake set from Marshall’s. Maybe some people just weren’t made in a way that let them hold on to what was good.

Some things, like cold hands or big mistakes, you just couldn’t shake or change, no matter how many improvements you made or how many books you read. It was like those ladies who came into the salon almost weekly. You could spot their kind from a mile away and smell them as soon as the door opened, in spite of all the shampoos and coloring chemicals that permeated the air. They were usually dressed in trendy clothes, pants and tops that were too tight fitting or low cut for their age. They wanted their hair blonder, or with more highlights, and they were forever heading in from the gym or some class designed to tone and firm and strengthen and help you lose weight all in one shot. The fact was, they may have looked a step up from some of the other middle aged women with kids off to college and too much time on their hands, but they still couldn’t hide the marks that time was making on them. And they almost looked the worse for trying. Some things you just couldn’t shake, and Hanna felt like even with all the goodness of her life with Warren, and the fact that she was not stuck in a bar somewhere drinking away her sorrows each night, she couldn’t rub some of the dirt off her life.

Wonder Baking

2011-12-13T20:25:00.000+08:00

A little Holiday Baking going on around here. Some take the privileges of the Baker very seriously.

On my list of goodies to be made this year:

Sugar Cookies (maybe even with royal icing and serious decorating? we'll see)

Ginger Snaps, of course

Peanut Blossoms, see above... and old standby

Mexican Wedding Cakes, my personal favorite

Tea Ring, just like my Grandma always does it

Peppermint Mochas (times 80... for the staff at school... yikes! but fun)

White Chocolate Dipped Pretzels... for gifts

I think that and maybe lettuce and endamame should do it for our diet of the next couple weeks.

How about you? Are there special things you always make, or are trying new this year?

So far, the making for me has not been too stressful (wait until I get to the Peppermint Mochas) and I am enjoying the pleasure and heightened sense of "something wonderful is happening" that it so easily brings.

I hope you enjoy your times of special making as well!

Powerless

2011-12-08T21:58:00.000+08:00

We were without power all day. I noticed it first in the wee hours of the morning, when Scout scuffled into our room because she was cold, and it continued through a dark breakfast huddled around candles with me smiling in thanks that I happened to have made a batch of Gingersnap muffins the day before. I kept thinking it would soon be over, the lights all snapping back on and water running again, as it often does when these outages occur-- planned and somewhat short as they usually are.

But today was different, a mistake apparently, and so the powerlessness dragged on... into the afternoon, as dishes piled up without a rinse and the laundry waited patiently, the house turning a bit more frigid than normal without the air conditioning units to take the chill off. In the late afternoon, when it appeared there may not be a near and present end, I started to fret a little about all the meat sitting in the now thawing freezer, and the milk and perishables hanging out in an increasingly not so cold refrigerator. The toilets would need flushing soon. We licked the sticky rice residue off Scout's fingers. I found a few more blankets and we cuddled and took turns singing versions of Hark the Herald as we waited for the boys to return home.

And then, just as we all bundled up and left for an evening of dinner out and a shop for warmer coats and shoes, we got a call that the power was finally back on. To do without electricity is a small inconvenience really, and you know that even as you are walking through it, the centuries of people who have lived without power playing through your mind, telling you it shouldn't set you back as much as it does.

Thinking back over it, as little as we accomplished today in the way of cleaning or emails, or preparing food for the family, I am thankful for how little it really ruffled me. Towards the end of the day I was surely starting to wonder if we would have to find temporary shelter in a friends house for no other reason than plumbing purposes, but overall I didn't reach the level of frustration that I can often succumb to. I sat a little more. I read some things that fed and encouraged me. I nearly finished the second in a pair of fingerless gloves. My girl sat on my lap for a whole half an hour... though she tries to do that all day long when she's not running up and down the walls. I watched my three sit and read together in the flickering candlelight, knowing for certain they would all need glasses as a result of it, but cherishing the moment just the same.

And without trying to overdo it, I couldn't help but think of the irony, that as I sat power-less all day long, I had read all through the day of how the powerless are just the kind of people God visits.

"No powerful person dares to approach the manger... for this is where thrones shake, the mighty fall, the prominent perish, because God is with the lowly. Here the rich come to nothing, because God is with the poor and hungry, but the rich and satisfied he sends away empty. Before Mary, the maid, before the manger of Christ, before God in lowliness, the powerful come to naught."

~Dietrich Bonhoeffer from God is in the Manger : Reflections on Advent and Christmas

And Mary said,

"My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant...

His mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud int he thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,

and lifted up the lowly..."

~Luke 1:46-55

The theme for this second week of Advent is "How Long, O Lord?" which is a move away from the hopeful forward look of last week's "Come, Lord Jesus!" And it is right that we lament, looking at the world around us.

"Around us we see greed and drivenness. In the news during these days of "peace on earth, good will to all," the ironies abound: war, poverty, violence, political machinations and disease. Our own vulnerabilities and temptations are heightened as well: loneliness, depression, addiction, materialism. So we groan within ourselves, "How long, O Lord, is life going to be like this? Even as we cry out we remember that evil in the world- and in us- merits God's judgment. His coming will bring fearsome but welcome justice [note: a great talk on judgment and our need for it in an appropriate and well thought out manner by Tim Keller can be found here and here]. But also glory, a glory greater than our current suffering. So we lament the darkness in the world, the sin in ourselves and the judgment that will fall. But we do not succumb to despair. Ours is a hopeful lament as we prepare for the glory to be revealed."

~Bobby Gross from Living the Christian Year: Time to Inhabit the Story of God (chapter on Advent: Week Two)

Yes well, that is what I was thinking on today as the literal, physical, and philosophical world around me was going on and on about powerlessness. Now all is back to normal so tomorrow I will bake cookies and bread and write about Santa Claus and Jingle Bells... but not really.

Around the House and in the Heart

2011-12-04T16:11:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advent is Here

2011-11-29T21:24:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving, Yes Please.

2011-11-23T21:49:00.000+08:00

My camera broke today, so this photo is a reprint from almost one year ago. When it happened, I felt a little panicky at first, thinking of all the upcoming events and how much I delight in photographing them, not to mention the fact that they would not be recorded for all time in visual form. But then it was okay. Did you know that photographs are not the most important thing in the world? And neither is the act of taking them? It's true.

It's "The Big Weekend," starting tomorrow and we are in full swing here- even without the stores and travel and family gatherings. I love celebrating holidays, I truly do-- and more and more I love thinking through them and how they are so needed and good for us-- at least they can be. But they surely are a challenge, especially in this day and age, and even so far away from the hooplah that is American Holiday Time, it is a challenge and a discipline to enter into these celebratory times with care. I've already been given a firm but kind little "talking to" and it helped me see how I was once again getting caught up in the doing and beginning to be a miserable person.

So tonight, while the Man was away and the kids huddled in for a movie since there is no school tomorrow, I chopped vegetables and made a pie crust and thought again, as I have these past several days, over how we have been so provided for. Even when it all throws me for a loop and I kind of spin with accepting all the change, I can see His faithful provision.

It has almost become in vogue to name the little things we are thankful for... physical tangibles like "eyelashes on cheeks" and "golden leaves in the wind" or the cup of tea we enjoyed, the dinner with friends, etc. And all these things are good to notice and call out. But when the physical does little to inspire you, the things unseen become that much more evident and sometimes even important- though it should always be so. I am an avid believer in soaking in the aesthetic beauty and goodness of the gifts God gives in physical ways, but we are spirit too- and when we are ministered to in our spirits, provided for, strengthened, pruned, and carried, I wonder if that means more than all the physical blessings we could count.

I've been reading a couple biographies on women who lived and survived the upheaval of China in the 1950's and 60's and you wonder how they could lift their heads through the ordeal at all, except that they were given strength in their inner being. And in Romans this morning it said that nothing... neither tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, danger, sword, height, depth, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of Christ. It is intangible, untouchable, unswayed by any human form or physical reality.

So this Thanksgiving, I am thinking on the great provisions our family has received. Provisions that have little to do with home or food or clothing or the presence of others, though we daily give thanks for all those things. Each and every one of us are beneficients of the beauty around us- and we do well to name those things. Yet, when the beauty fades, He remains and therein is a provision that will never run dry. "Whoever drinks of the water that I give him will never be thirsty again," He told the perplexed little woman at the well. And I find myself often looking at him with that same confused stare, "Really? Is it really going to be enough? You are really going to be enough?... even without all these things I'm pretty sure I need in order not to thirst?"

And in small, baby steps, the answer is, Yes.

I will thank him when the sun comes out and when the leaves fall like golden sprinkles and my baby kicks and we have enough to eat. But even more than all that I will thank Him that He is enough. That when I run absolutely dry and empty, He sustains me, He blesses me in the innermost places with peace and comfort. He reminds me of His goodness, He convicts me and restores me again, He leads me in right paths and restores needy soul.

May you be blessed in your acts of giving thanks this weekend.

What Autumn Can Do

2011-11-18T13:41:00.000+08:00

The light is dying and with it life itself, so it seems. The sounds of the night are ruling longer. No one is about on the streets or in courtyards where, with the hint of sunrise, groups of crookedly agile—the aging—would normally gather for Tai Chi or some form of exercise. We all huddle longer underneath the covers, our bodies dying a little too it seems, slaked with a need for slumber that is almost imaginary, a psychotic phenomenon, or a chemical one that occurs as a result of less sunshine on the skin, that source of life-giving energy, filtering much needed vitamins to the bloodstream. Yes, the light is necessary for life itself. So as it goes, we seem ready to go too.

In the northern hemisphere, we all prepare for the days that are fast approaching, where light flees and the days grow darker. It is the autumn- where the earth turns into itself and huddles against the coming cold- the season of death.

I have always loved autumn. As a northern girl my body naturally seems to be more accustomed to cool air and the comfort of wool rather than stripped and bare against raging temperatures. In a funny way, my personality seems better suited to it as well: contemplative, melancholy, tending to retreat into the inner sanctums and the struggle against hard questioning rather than light hearted, fast paced, whimsical freshness of summer. When the breeze of autumn hustles drying leaves to the ground, perfumed by the smell of woodsmoke drifting in the air, a sense of sadness inevitably creeps in along with the welcome need for warmth and comfort. It is a paradoxical feeling of joy and pain- a reminiscent grief- that creeps into the bones, the psyche, and it strikes me as being some measure of a true reflection of our life in its fullness, our life as experienced in reality while on this earth. Joy and Pain. Suffering and Longing. The pursuit of happiness and the presence of disappointment. Tinges of both, sometimes steeped fully in one only to be thrust in the next moment to the other.

Is this where the sense of melancholy comes, as the earth starts to retreat, the world dying its yearly death? Is it the reminder of loss, or some great joy, filling us alternately or all at once? Is it some sense of the coming death that blankets us… like a memorial service that readies for burial, we are marched through memories of past years and days. Does autumn always conjure up memory for you, as it does for me? But it is often memory with a sense of longing attached. Perhaps those days are long gone, or the people are, or the dreams that you held then.

The reminder is there whether we want to dwell on it or not: life is marked by death. Perhaps we do well to retreat into that nature inspired reminder as its yearly benediction swells in our wake. . But, why? Last year, as the first buds of spring began to force their way through seemingly lifeless branches, my friend lost her ten year old boy to sudden, unexpected death. Dying entered our world again, just as the season for new life was forcing its way upon us. It almost seemed cruel- a reminder we couldn’t quite grasp at that point on Resurrection Sunday a few short weeks later- that life would reign over death, that death was not the final story. It was difficult then and perhaps will be every year at that time for my friend. So why would entering into the death reflection of autumn be any help to those of us who experience deaths reality over and over again in our daily lives? Yes, why should a season of dying in God’s created world be of any good for us?

As dwellers in the dying season- we enter in, and fight against. We do it naturally in many ways already. We rake up leaves, clean out the garden, stock our shelves, pull out the woolens. We light candles to fend off the dark, and we prepare for the Advent. We accept the dying of the Light of the World, and yet we look ahead- we prepare to walk through it- knowing the same Hope of overcoming, resurrecting, saving Light is on the other side. We accept the scourges of death as a rite of passage that drives reality deep into our existence- but we do not see it as hopeless. Death with all its companions rage against from every side and we cannot escape no matter how we may try. Yet by facing it squarely, looking into its face, we are all the more ready to receive and acknowledge our need to be bought out of it, for a battle to be victorious against its forces. On all planes, physical, emotional, spiritual, we fight through the dark days, like seeds planted deep in the dark and smothering, but life forming loam of the earth.

Each day I set my alarm early. Darkness pervades and the hope of light is still hours away. I push back against feelings of sleepiness, of depression, of discouragement, willing myself to work and thrive and worship in the midst of a lightless world. This is my hope, my vocation as a Child of the One who brings light- who banishes darkness, who entered into it for a time so that in time, my time right now, it holds no power over me or the death scourged and aching earth.

And as I battle by means of early morning rising, warming my home with beauty in the onslaught of dark, cold days, worshiping in the midst of a suffering world, waiting with eyes ever upward, there comes that faithful companion of Longing. Autumn brings it to us, though we may feel it all the year round… that longing for something that stirs with the whirling colors fluttering with their last dance to the ground, piercing us with a cool breeze that wraps us tighter in our memories, in our need for warmth remembered or longed for. Our autumnal compass sends us into reverie, nostalgia, and a part of our soul that reaches out with grasping hands.

We sit there for awhile, preparing for the oncoming dark days of winter, when the landscape huddles and we press our noses against its cold panes of glass, gazing and holding out for the return of the warmth on our skin again, all the while with eager but meager hearts and hands bringing all the light into the world we can from the warmth of the One who dwells within.

~Advent is coming! Looking forward to thinking on things great and small during that time and posting about it here. Join me if you will.

A Wee Bit of Wonderful

2011-11-14T13:54:00.000+08:00

I do not come from "Big Birthday Bash" stock. We celebrate small. We keep it pretty simple. I am not saying this is a virtue in any way. At some point my children may grow frustrated and disappointed by my lack of birthday fervor. They may require counseling or a book on how to deal with childhood deprivation. But for now, they remain happy and content with the little we do, and the lack of pressure or house teeming with screaming, sugar induced children has probably added a few years to my life and a better outlook on my job as a mother.

I do have to say that I take my hat off to, and stand in awe of, and greatly admire (and sometimes wish I was so wired) those who enjoy and pull of such creative and delightful celebrations for their little loved ones.

But back to me, and my mine.

We celebrated with a bit of pink yesterday. She who runs around like a cowboy and wrestles with Big Brother without fear, who builds Lincoln Log houses (having no doll house) and demands that someone play catch with her or let her be goalie, firmly announced that she wanted a pink cake... pink all around if you please.

She also got a doll. A sweet and perfect little handmade doll I had asked my mother to make for Scout since she was turning three and does need some girlie things of her own. Grandma came through and finished a simple little version of this pattern by Wee Wonderfuls. She also made a small line of adorable outfits, half of which we gave her yesterday while the other half waits for Christmas.

I was pretty excited about this gift- this one and only gift (save the dress our out of town guest and old neighbor gave her in the morning, and the few little trinkets of stickers and cards from friends sent over on the plane) but was not sure how much of a liking our little girl would take to her new little girl. Needless to worry- she was soon hugging and peppering her with kisses, talking sweetly to her and tucking her under her arm wherever she went. The following day has seen much of the same. "Sarah," she has been named, and so our celebration of turning 3 has been deemed a small but beautifully simple and meaningful success.

A Good Day Even With Oil For Dinner

2011-11-07T21:21:00.000+08:00

It actually felt like Autumn today. The sky was still sporting its usual shade of grey, but there were breaks in it... breaks that let through splashes of sunlight here and there and twinkled on the few trees that have turned a mustard shade of gold. The air was cool, but sunkissed when not running from the clouds. It smelled like wet leaves, and freshness.

In this teeming mass of a city, nestled down between mountain crests in western China, the clouds get socked in where they can sit for weeks on end. I don't know all of what it takes to haul their masses up and out of the valley but when those powers move, I tell you I lift my head up in sheer wonder and a lot of gratitude. The skin begs to meet the sun and it drinks it in like parched earth.

I love Autumn. It is my favorite season of the year, and in a funny way it sort of reminds me of myself: auburn, freckled, dotted, melancholy, loving the brown earth and subdued colors of decay. I could live in autumn forever. I was so glad to feel a sense of it today, to get just a scent of it in the air and to throw open the doors and windows and wrap my sweater tight around, thinking on Thanksgiving menus and upcoming birthday plans and the good and hard of plugging through these days with little light.

We made it through most of the day, Scout and I, with just a few bumps along the way. She is such a bundle of strong and vivid life forces. She puts as much fervor into hauling herself across a room in rapid speed as she does in vehemently explaining why her proposition should be considered and acquiesced to as she does tearfully apologizing with all the heart she can muster. It is a jumble of emotions for me, her mother as well, feeling at once completely flabbergasted and frustrated and then consumed and overcome by her sweetness and hilarity and perfectly plump, porcelain beauty.

Then she dumped an entire cup of oil into my ready-to-be-served dinner. An entire cup of oil added to a pot or plate of anything (besides the brownie mix that it was intended for) is just plain disgusting. I nearly threw it out until my decidedly more level headed husband suggested that because oil floats to the top, we could attempt to remove as much of it as possible and save our dinner, which is what we did, even though I was sure it wouldn't work.

We then spilled cups of water at the table. This is normal, this is what we do at meals. Every meal. Many times. This is one of the reasons we serve water. Every meal. But somehow, we have not gotten used to it. You would think we would have.

But it felt like Autumn today, and maybe He knows I needed that. There seem to be so many things I bring up to Him lately, telling Him that I need in order for me to go on, or at least go on with a good attitude. Yet, in the absence of much that I think would be good, there are other kinds of goodness going on. Probably things far better than what I imagine would be best. All this gray leads to more love of the light I do think.

Apple Upside Down Muffins

2011-11-04T06:50:00.000+08:00

With Thanksgiving just around the corner and autumn on my mind and in my heart, baking with apples and pumpkin seems to be playing center stage in the kitchen. We've had Pumpkin Cinnamon Chip Scones, pumpkin ginger pancakes, apple crisp, pumpkin pie, and now Apple Upside-Down Muffins.

Apple Upside-Down Muffins

from Country Baking by Gooseberry Patch

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp. nutmeg

1/4 cup plus 3 Tbsp butter, divided

1/2 cup buttermilk*

1 egg, beaten

1 cup apple, peeled, cored and grated

1/3 cup brown sugar, packed

1/2 cup pecans, chopped

Combine flour, baking powder, sugar, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg.

With pastry cutter, cut in 1/4 cup butter. Combine buttermilk and egg and add to flour mixture, along with apple; stir to moisten. Over low heat, melt remaining butter in a small saucepan and stir in brown sugar. Spoon one teaspoon brown sugar mixture into each cup of a greased 12 count muffin tin. Add pecans to each muffin cup. Spoon batter into cups and bake at 375 degrees for about 20 minutes. Remove from pan and serve nut side up. Makes 12 muffins.

*Note: if you don't have buttermilk, you can substitute by adding a little bit of vinegar or lemon juice to regualr milk.

About and Around

2011-10-29T15:15:00.000+08:00

Just some of the doings and the colors of autumn where we are.

Pictures do not include sniffles, honey warmed throats, and the pants that are beginning to feel a bit too tight.

2011-10-22T13:34:00.000+08:00

Mostly what they want is to be held. Tightly. One of them has a sweet smile and clear eyes, but soon his groping hands on your face, your hair, tells you those clear eyes are not working for him. To him I am not a foreigner, or a stranger, but a pair of warm arms, a willing embrace. Does he meet those kinds of arms often?

Another one, she squats outside the glass doors that keep them all in the large room with sparse furnishings and walls chipping with paint. She scoops rice and broth from a bowl listlessly into her mouth, eyeing me as I squat next to her. Her hair is short, face expressionless, but she looks to be fourteen and the little one next to her affirms it when I ask the question. I ask her if she likes to read and she nods. I ask her if she can read and she nods. But later I find out her mind is that of a three year old.

The babies lay, lined in their cribs, bottles propped. They are well clothed, so much so that their little heads glisten with beads of sweat. Some watch me with their eyes. The one I hold has purple lips and fair skin, a heart condition apparently. He is tender, surprisingly, tucking his moist head into my neck, searching my face, gripping my fingers as I hold his little hand.

It is a small place, very meager in supplies but enough to keep the children surviving, if not necessarily thriving. You can't help but wonder what help, what difference it makes to hold and to hug for a few short hours every couple of weeks. I wish they were nearby instead of a couple hours drive.

Do you take the baby home, the one they say will not live... to let his last days be in a home, in your arms, where he will be loved? What do you say to the little one in the corner, on the bucket all day, to let him know he is cared about?

Do not withold good from those who deserve it,

when it is in your power to act.

~Proverbs 3:27

I hold, and whisper prayers. I speak soothing words. He gives grace to the humble (Prov 3:34) Are there any more humble than these? Is there special grace for them? I give so little. They need so much.

Before and After {kitchen}

2011-10-17T14:40:00.000+08:00

Monday morning here, and I bring you another Before and After tour from our lovely apartment.

This is our kitchen, the room with the least natural light, but made up for by amount of space (at least in comparison to what I have had before in China) . What id does receive comes from that tiny window that is actually filtered through the small laundry balcony it looks onto. There is a door on both ends of the kitchen, which also let in a small amount of secondary natural light.

As you can see from the Before picture, the cubboards are a bright, tangerine orange which could work for some people or maybe someone with a more modern sense of taste, but for me were a little too much. So, I covered them with contact paper I had brought back from the States with crossed fingers (knowing I was coming back to orange cupboards but not having seen them yet). The contact paper worked great and I have been so happy with the result.

We had to add a lot of storage, so put in two shelves above the sink as well as two hanging racks for drying dishes, and on the opposite wall, a large white cupboard from a secondhand alley in Qingdao, as well as a utility shelf from IKEA to place our oven, microwave, and baking pans, etc. on. (the oven is a story in itself. It must be plugged directly into a wall outlet to receive enough power, but there are no outlets along the floor- only high near the ceiling, but the cord is short, so it had to be placed high enough on a shelf to reach the outlet. Sheesh. And that outlet was also the only available outlet for the refrigerator, so another cord had to be re-routed along the floor from another way high-up-in-the-sky outlet on the other end of the kitchen. I'd love to talk to the people who wired this place)

The counter tops may come up to my knees, and the water has to be blasted full force (which because of the mismatched size of sink to length of spout, causes of a lot of water sprayage on the pants and counter area...) in order to trip the hot water heater, but even with these small (and they are small) little glitches, I really enjoy this little kitchen. And I have enjoyed making it come to life, or to a place that reflects my sensibilities and tastes a little more and makes me feel at home. Putting it to good use is the best way to do that too, and we do so each and every day.