Carried Along

Jeremiah 10:23
I know, O Lord, that a man's way is not in himself, nor is it in a man who walks to direct his steps.

Winter is Waiting

Winter is waiting
by frost-hemmed glass
or moving softly in our fragile warmth
amid silent majestic scenes
of the fractal bones of patient trees
bristling softly against a blanket of gray-white sky.

It is low light, early evenings;
pears, pumpkins, potatoes,
all things round and hearty;
crispness of stars and crustiness of snow
a mere interlude
in our long retreat.

We will adventure again,
wary and lean in the piercing gaze of spring,
filled and emptied with our sitting,
our gathered sleep.
Oh, how my soul drinks
this waiting.

God is not Impoverished

I admit that I struggled with and sometimes harbored judgment in my heart when I taught school at a wealthy US church.  Down the street, amidst old trailers and chickens in ill-kept yards, the formerly rural community on the marshy shores of a river delta posted their highest hopes for their neighborhood on a sign:  "Welcome to Snowden Community:  Stop the Killing and the Violence."  The locals went to church elsewhere, if at all.  But every Sunday, the church parking lot overflowed with gas-guzzling SUVs which ferried the fashionable elites from opulent homes to immaculate church - or so it seemed to me, barely able to afford an apartment in their town on my teacher's salary.

So I wondered how I would respond years later, coming back from the overseas life into this same community.  Yet after a few days, as the jet lag faded, I began to breathe a sigh of relief - the weight of angst did not descend on my heart, even as I worshipped among the saints in that big building, even when I learned they were preparing to build again.

What comforted me as I met and was ministered to by now-old friends in this place, was the simple knowledge I didn't know I'd gained, that God is not impoverished by their riches.  Sometimes they may be, but He is not.  He owns the cattle on a thousand hills.  Living among cattle and hills, I observed that money from the West is not primarily what the East needs, but I've also seen more clearly how the Father can redeem from real injustice and deep suffering, the kind that lurks behind the cultural veil of tightly woven communities in the East as well as in the West.

I already knew something of the dark underbelly of this beautiful community in the US.  There are deep struggles.  Marriages are torn apart, children's deepest needs are sacrificed to the whims of pleasure-seeking adults, bodies are bared and abused in the quest to satisfy the boastful pride of life.  Some of these struggles are associated with abundance and its attendant temptations.

But I now know first-hand that there are cultural and personal evils on the other side of the ocean, too, and that the Father is able to redeem fully in the midst of the debilitating evils people inflict on one another.  He cures the incurable wounds.  We must grieve the evil in the world, but let's not fail to hold fast to our hope in the Gospel.  No one, by embracing greed in the West or the simple idolatry of the East, can place himself or another beyond the Father's grasp.  And wealth is not a special case:  like misogyny, slavery, extortion and violence, it does not impoverish our Father's wealth or grace.  So I am free, at last, to rejoice in the evidences of His grace in the lives of those calling on Jesus in their beautiful homes, as I do in those who wash the feet of the saints in humbler surroundings.  I gratefully receive blessing from the Spirit in both of them, and I pray that they and I together will be freed more and more from service to the idols of our hearts to worship the true and living God, and to make him known.

Birthright

It was a cold February morning, and I was really glad to have a hot shower.  It wasn't long, but still refreshing.  I'll probably always feel like the water washes away more than it does; always draw a sense of wellbeing from the warmth and the steam.  I'm an American, after all.  It had been five days since I'd bathed, and my husband was coming home from a trip, but still I'm not sure I'd have braved it if the water wasn't hot.

But it was hard to forget that I'd just filled two old oil jugs with drinking water for a friend who lives down the hill, in a smaller house, with a smaller water tank and no hot water heater.  Their water tank would fill in the evening, most likely, but in the meantime they had a lot of day to get through on those 6 liters.  And I was taking a shower.

So many times I explain the discrepancies between my lifestyle here (still not what I was used to, living on about $40,000/year in the US) and that of my neighbors by reasoning, I'm not used to these particular hardships like the locals are.  I hear them say the same things - "You've left your home and come so far to help us.  You should live as comfortably as you can, as close to your own culture as possible."  We foreigners say this to each other, too, and talk about making "wise, sustainable choices" that will allow us to "make it here in the long run;" i.e., not become overwhelmed with the difficulties and go home.

Most of the things we say are true.  It would be easier to burn out quickly if I were living in 2 moldy rooms with my husband and 3 kids, washing all our clothes by hand, eating only local food cooked over gas or fire, and bathing in water heated over the stove, or not at all.   I wouldn't have much time left to serve anyone beyond my home.  But I'm concerned that there seems to have crept into my thinking some idea of a birth right to continue to live at the same level of privilege into which I was born.  I think of the likes of the Crawleys on Downton Abbey, and I wonder if I'd be as kind if they insisted they could brook no departure from their opulence because they were born to it.  I'm not as fond of this reasoning when it comes from those whose standard of living is significantly higher than mine.

I wonder what the long-term effects would be if, by the grace of God, I lived like my neighbors, and didn't burn out?  I wonder how precious this place and culture would be to me over time, and how precious my savior would be?  I wonder what my local friends would think: what explanations would they reach for if I didn't live as comfortably as I could?

This isn't meant to be a conclusion.  I believe that it honors God when my Western brothers and sisters sacrifice and give so that I can have energy and time left over to serve the people on this side of the world - something I wouldn't have nearly as much time for if I were subsistence farming and washing clothes by hand for a family of 5.  Likewise, I am so, so, grateful that my pastor is sitting in his office praying and studying while I grocery shop, cook, clean, and care for my children, so that I can go and be fed on Sunday.  But I do want to settle in my mind that my birthright does not come from the country and status of my birth; it comes from Christ.  And though the circumstances of each life look different, my rights are exactly the same as all those of His brothers and sisters across the world.  And I want to keep these questions of how to live among my less wealthy siblings always open...

Calm

I'm in the US this fall.  In Kentucky.  I can't describe exactly how calming it is to sit in my little apartment at night, knowing that just outside the windows is a hillside covered in tall trees barely beginning to color, grass so green it's almost literally blue, and billows of crisp, clear air all the way up to the autumn stars.  Pumpkins are orange again.  There's lots of space.  We just had a special day of prayer for the Himalayan nation that is still on our hearts, and I could envision those smoky hills and their thousand little points of light in the night.  I love those hills, but at the same time, my heart is quieted by knowing there is a place like this one in the world that for some reason, above all others, feels like home.  

Quiet

There may be some quiet here, from time to time, as things ruminate.  It is by choice.  The words are all still there, but they will not march in lines.  Not today.  But I'm not giving up.  

Today

We have guests in the house.  Kids and adults, from a couple different cultures.  I just spent two full hours of "free time" (we actually had a sitter) in the kitchen.  I enjoyed it.  It was fresh food, good for us, planned to be palatable (I hope) to all the guests.  But I kept thinking, "Isn't there something I should be doing instead?"  I had lots of things in mind; it wasn't that I couldn't think of anything else to do.  And there is always the "order in chowmein" option.  But even that gets expensive with lots of people, and it's greasy.  So greasy.  Mostly white flour and few veggies.  So I cooked.  An hour in the morning and two in the afternoon.  Spinach, eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, fresh onions and garlic and cilantro.  Mixing, kneading.  Milk and cheese.  I didn't have an exact recipe; just the faith that you can't go wrong with what's fresh, a joy in using up three bits of leftover cheeses, and a general desire for eggs and spinach with potatoes.  I keep wondering, what is it that draws me at times to spend every bit of free time in the kitchen, and if I have more, to think, "Maybe I could make dessert"?  Everything is from scratch here, and all the dishes are washed by hand.  Is it a good hobby, or a waste of time?  I think the answer could be either.  I need your wisdom, Father, day by day.  Thank you for the freedom of this day, and please receive my labor as worship.  

Reading this blog is not research

I hear a lot these days about women "researching" for their families.  It usually involves spending lots (LOTS) of time reading on-line.  Articles, studies, blogs.  I love to read, and have spent some time on the internet, too, but I can't help wondering if all this research is helpful.

Of course, there is information gathering - if you've come to the conclusion that you need to grind your own grain, then you probably need to find out what mills are available and how much they cost.  But when it comes to topical reading on the internet, I'll contend that all these studies and articles don't contain as much information as they claim.  Most internet articles are rhetoric, arguments for opinions; often the same ones we already hold.  But even many studies are heavy on opinion - statistical correlations discovered in small to medium samples and interpreted at will, without concern for which way the cause and effect relationships run, or significant effort to mitigate other competing factors.  And even so, I know few moms who actually read studies - they read digestions of them on blogs or in articles, interpretations by those who already held opinions and have been waiting for just such a study to come along.

The allure of trolling for answers on the internet is strong.  Even as the mom of three healthy boys with no known allergies, I still find myself tempted to "research" reasons for this and that - rashes, runny noses, lingering coughs, difficult food preferences, learning struggles, behavioral patterns I don't like, bedwetting.  And I bet I could find some, too.  Is my child vaccine injured?  Is he ADHD?  What's central auditory processing disorder? Does he have some lingering effects from the circumstances of his birth?  Is there some chemical in my home or food or car or soap that makes my child the way he is?

I know that some of these things are very, very real for some kids. But you can go crazy.  I want to know enough to help my boys, but honestly, not every diagnosis is helpful.  Either things are getting worse, or they're getting better.  When my kids are truly sick or are struggling with something serious, as their mom, I usually know - and sooner if my nose isn't in the computer.  But otherwise, in those times of vague worry or simple exasperation, I find that when I turn to reading the internet, things get worse, but when I turn my desperation to praying for and engaging my kids, things get better.  Sometimes I fear all our "researching" is simply the modern version of gossiping and old wives tales.  Are we home "researchers," helpfully pointing out to everyone what they simply must know and can only learn from us, the new generation of busybodies?  Comparatively, how much time do we spend praying and seeking the ancient paths?

Parenting these boys isn't easy, and some days it would be nice to have a label or two to tell me why they're hard; why I should feel ok if I can't do all that is required of me.  But the Father has already told me that His divine power has given me everything I need for life and godliness.  He didn't mention any free passes on parenting difficult kids.  So whenever I can, I'll forego the internet diagnoses and enjoy my boys as they are - healthy and challenging.

Home again

Been travelin'.  It's part of this life.  I've had some good pizza and great coffee, even a bagel.  Took a long shower and spoke lots of English.  Came home late in the night with two little ones and a suitcase full of clothes covered in throw-up and worse... It always feels scary to pack up sick kids and leave the "civilized" world of plastic gloves, biohazard disposal boxes, blood tests and doctor-patient confidentiality.  The hospitals in our city don't have sheets, thermometers, or food.  They give shots and place IVs, but you have to go to the drugstore and buy the syringes first.  They sanitize by sweeping, and the curtains are stained with old blood.  But I have to remember that my hope is not in my culture and it's trappings, even its scientific knowledge.  "The intelligence of the intelligent You will frustrate." Our hope is in God, and our earthly home is here.  Here we rest, and we have friends who help us.  Here we know where to find what we need to live.  This place is a refuge to us now, and I feel I can help them heal here - by God's mercy.  It's good to be home.  

Simple Dreams

Like most Americans, I have had dreams of returning to a simpler life - making do with less, using fewer resources, eating simpler foods.  I knew there would be sacrifices involved, but I suspected that they would be worth it; that there would be joy and peace down that road, as well as the knowledge that I was caring for others and the earth by not consuming more resources and producing more waste than the world can handle.  Then I was given a chance to try it out...

It's been three years and change since our family left middle America and moved to a small town in the foothills of the Himalaya.  We now have lots fewer electrical appliances, though I still run a washing machine, a refrigerator, and a small water heater.  Our usage comes out to just under 400 kWh per month, as opposed to about 960 kWh/month for the average US household.  (We're still a little above the world average usage for households with electricity.)  Our family of five uses between 200 and 250 liters of water per day, which we know because it all comes from the 1000 liter tank on the roof.  By comparison, the average US family of four uses around 1060 liters/day for indoor use.  We sort our garbage into what the neighbor's pig eats, what's biodegradable, and what must be burned.

We eat mostly what's local and seasonal, because that's mostly all there is.  There are no grocery stores in the Western sense; the dry goods shops are walk-ins where you hand your list to the man behind the counter.  On Wednesday and Saturday, our town has a farmers' market.  Most of the produce is organic, and all of it is affordable - as in, fresh-tomatoes-for-50-cents/kilo-in-the-winter affordable.  Recently, I was surprised to find a seller with avocados; I thought they'd gone out of season.  I asked where they came from, and she said, "Oh, very far away."  She paused for effect before naming a town 15 km distant from ours.  I bought a kilo for the late-season price of $2.44.

It's the dream of the simple life, mostly come true.  But I have to admit, I was surprised at the degree of privation I have felt; at how poorly my culture had prepared me to enjoy this life.  There were unexpected consequences to living a more sustainable life.

Using less power means that, among other things, my house sometimes does not feel like a shelter.  It's cold in the winter, hot and buggy in summer, and muggy in monsoon.  Without climate control, it smells like mold.  We get antiquated diseases like chilblains and scabies.  It means that to bake a birthday cake, I bake the two layers in the same pan in turns in my little electric oven.  It means a long, hot shower or bath is an airplane ride away.  It means that shopping is a very physical process, carrying purchases as I walk to a variety of local sellers.  Men often do the shopping for the family; it turns out food is heavy.

Eating "local and seasonal" means, among other things: no more avocado-mango-chicken wraps, because the seasons don't overlap.  Broccoli, about the only veggie my oldest son loves, is available 4 months out of the year.  I have come across strawberries twice, but otherwise we have not seen a berry of any kind in our town since we arrived.  It's meant bidding goodbye to some favorites like  asparagus, kale, butternut squash, tart apples, cantaloupes, and cherries.  Lettuce and zucchini come in about one month/year.  Twice-weekly farmers' market means that, whatever I'm doing those days, I need to head downtown and walk through the stalls.  Otherwise, it's potatoes and cabbage for the duration.  It means re-vamping my meal plans on the fly as I see what's available each week, and there is the occasional market day at the end of monsoon when the choices for green veggies are buggy cabbage, tough beans, or old peas.  It means that when weather or a disease affects a particular crop, we don't import it; we do without.  It means when we eat salsa, salad dressing, tortillas, bagels, yogurt, sausage, ham, ground meat, or frozen veggies, I make them.  Often we eat healthier, fresher food than before, but some days it's just easier to order a greasy plate of chowmein for $1.

But I'm learning.  We're adjusting.  The kids are learning to like what's available.  When mangoes are in, we can afford to eat them every day.  We all love winter's fresh sweet peas, even raw.  The excitement of finding the season's first broccoli or grapes or oranges, and knowing we have months of good eating to look forward to, comes close to making up for the foods we still miss.  We've learned delicious new ways to cook staples like potatoes and okra.  Last winter I learned that there is a small, purple root that tastes a lot like sweet potato available in December and January, and this winter I learned that by starting a few days ahead of time, I can make a cheesecake that satisfies the urge for my favorite dessert.   Some things that still bothered me after 18 months no longer phase me after 3 years.  We have enough blankets on the bed now, and drink hot water, and bathe in the daytime so we don't go to bed chilled.  We've learned how to take advantage of the sun to fight mold.  We enjoy the early morning laundry-hanging routine and know to get it in by 3 so the dew doesn't dampen it.  We love evening fires and the indoor-outdoor lifestyle facilitated by the lack of climate control.  We've learned when to close the windows to keep the mosquitos down.  I don't remember what we spent those other 800 liters of water on; presumably we flushed the toilet a lot more often, but I no longer miss it.  I have the compost bin odor under control and am almost to the point where I don't miss trash pick-up and plastic bags.  Almost.

The point is, it hasn't been easy, and I don't know if I'd have stayed the course if I had a choice.  But this life is livable, and mostly comfortable.  I like it - it will affect the choices I make if we're back in the US someday.  It has left me wondering about our country's chances of making any significant progress in these areas, though, knowing how Americans in general handle - or don't handle - discomfort.  If our national lifestyle isn't sustainable, then at some point change will be thrust upon us.  Here's hoping we'll rally that independent spirit to face it first on our own terms.

Fiction, again...

Recently while staying in another city, I picked up a novel off the shelf where we were staying.  It's by a well-known Christian author and I'd seen it advertised, so I was curious.  That, and I was looking for something to peruse while watching the kids bike endless circles around the cul-de-sac.  (There's no flat land for biking where we live, so they love to practice when we travel.)

The author has sold tons of copies and won several awards.  It was a love story, which I like as much as the next guy.  But it read more like an adolescent fantasy played out in the lives of 30-somethings: a woman facing repercussions from a crime committed against her in the past.  Two men - a (perpetually single) older brother and a would-be lover - selflessly laboring to protect her.  The three main characters struggling mostly with emotions of blaming themselves for each other's pain.  The primary growth was learning to "trust God" by growing in willingness put others at risk (if risk there was - precious little actually happened in the book besides people jumping at shadows) in order to enjoy life.  They were all reported to be in enviable physical condition, but mostly drank coffee and sodas throughout.  I was interested at first to learn that the main characters were extremely wealthy, and thought that would lend itself to some interesting explorations, but it turned out to be merely a plot device to facilitate eating at nice restaurants and flitting around to scenic backdrops in - yes - a private jet.

I guess that's what makes a classic different from a best-seller.  It's nice to lose a few hours to the fantasy of nice clothes and handsome pursuers, but no one is likely to be proud to have enjoyed this book; it doesn't appeal to the higher elements of our nature.  It isn't making a statement based on the culmination of years of thought on, well, anything.  The book's messiest problems clean up better than breakfast at our house.

This became something of a rant.  I'm trying to understand why these books are so popular.  Is this the life people actually want?  Perhaps it's because the thing wrong with protagonist Sara is not her fault, and can be romanticized.  Then there is the element of an older brother's loyal protection.  Unexamined fantasy does get some mileage.

I love fiction, because it can be both so enjoyable and so powerful, and I'm trying to figure out what makes good fiction good.  I've always imagined that really great fiction comes out of truths discovered that take such powerful hold of the writer that the ideas themselves forge stories to test and explore their repercussions in the stark reality of life.  (Tolstoy comes to mind...)  I confess to dreams of one day falling headlong into the grip of a story that has to be told, but so far it hasn't happened.  So I'm happy to keep living these days, and reading fiction.  There is truth to be mined yet.

Three Years In...

On coming to love this place.

Long months I gazed across these hills
The window but a picture framing
Distant beauty, veiled, compelling,
Clear panes nonetheless obscuring;
Glass dividing worlds.

Long days I walked their rocky trails
To feel the chill, the sun's sure rising,
Unsure of rest or meals arriving,
Seasons' slow change still surprising
One who knows not what the signs reveal.

Long nights I heard them sing their mystery
Beneath the specks of light that dot their sides -
Learned early mornings out of doors,
Sandalled feet on earthen kitchen floors,
I'm learning how the year divides.

I know the chores of sunrise and the evening still,
The people and the animals, the flowers and the smells,
The taste of tea with yesterday's milk,
The cheerful conversation's lilt;
I know what the mournful horn betides.

At last the window opens and the breeze bears in
The secrets and the spices of these hills -
Still life like the dawn arising
Rich and moist with all that's living
Riddles with woodsmoke unfurling
Long years still.

Missing

In all the dreams I dreamt of you,
Your features vague, your presence true,
So plain the fellowship we knew,
I felt sure you were dreaming, too.

Birch shadows danced on both our eyes,
The wind that brushed your cheek touched mine
Didn't the warmth of lives entwined
That thrilled my heart, yours also find?

How then do I not hear your voice?
Were you waylayed, deceived, delayed?
Was it some minor, mystic choice
Of yours or mine, our fates betrayed?

Oh nameless, soulless misery
To mourn the one I've never known -
But do you also grieve for me,
Or do I weep alone?

This Overseas Life

It's a double-edged sword.  Sometimes I feel like just living here is an accomplishment.  After all, on the worst, most unproductive day, we're still here.  I'm still making a home and raising my kids in a land where smoke and spices fill the air, cows and goats share the city streets with us, pants for men haven't become universal, and we are surrounded all day by foreign languages that we are beginning to decipher, to use.  And by foreign, I mean languages that send me racing to wikipedia at the first sign of a suspected cognate to trace common ancestors through ancient tongues like Sanskrit and Persian.  Some days it's enough for me just to be making a life here, hearing the storied trains howl through the night, walking to the store past landscapes right out of Kipling.

On other days, I feel the weight of this choice.  My cousins were my favorite playmates when I was young, but I'm happy if my oldest can identify his cousins by name in a picture.  My kids will never know the simplicity of moving through culture like fish in the ocean; there will always be something foreign about them, like an accent that can't be placed, a studied mannerism from the momentary pause to consider - is a handshake here appropriate or offensive?  My parents are strong and energetic, and I see my Mom's tears every time we part; they want to invest the years they have in these children, and know them while they are small.  I'm raising my children without a library.  These things are always in the back of my mind; they get sidelined in the decision process, but they are the stuff of life.

And what I'm buying with this life, is it worth it?  That sort of thinking can keep you up at night.  I'm not here because it's better, or might be.  I'm here because Jesus somehow, through years and doubts, brought me here.  Because He's here, and this place and these people become worth my whole life and more in His love for them.  I'm here because there's fellowship with Him down this road, and He is worth it.  And so the adventure and romance don't have to stand on their own; they are just a bonus.  And the cost, well, it isn't repaid here.  For my part, it's an investment in eternity.  For the part my parents and my kids have to pay, I trust that my obedience to the God who loves them better than I ever could is the best I can offer them.  This is my service, my spiritual act of worship, this overseas life - cows and all.

Fiction

I just read a novel that had no point I could see except to weave a tale.  I thought, beforehand, that I'd enjoy a book like that.  And I did.... but it was like food without enough salt; I kept missing something.  It was a story of a girl who falls in love the summer before starting college, gets pregnant her senior year during a one night stand with someone else, has the baby, and eventually marries the man she was originally in love with (not the baby's father).  Her love story, her decisions about the baby, her struggles to make a life for herself with a baby and to cling to hope that there could be a future for her with the man she loves after she's betrayed him, were fairly well developed and interesting.  But it seemed to be art in imitation of life - or maybe of art.  I felt like the girl's voice didn't mature much during the course of the 7 years the book covers, and that at each stage the background of her life and motives were based mostly on stereotypes:  independence from family in high school, diving into the party scene in college, pursuing excitement (while supporting herself and her baby) after she graduated.

Somehow I've always thought that novelists wrote to play God, or to imitate or honor him; to show what choices lead to what consequences, who wins and who loses, in a world where they have absolute control.  This novel read more like the 5 o'clock news:  there was no meaning; only events.  But the book won several awards, and how I'd like to understand what's behind that.  Perhaps there was more there than I saw...  And if not, how do I feel about a novel written just to entertain?

A place apart...

I wanted to be the urban hermit, but another guy (my age, it seems, but advanced in angst) thought of that one first - about twelve years first.  He spent the name for one adolescent rant.  Well, let him have it.  Here's hoping he's figured everything out since then and didn't need to post more.  All the best, Isaac.

Life is full swing, with kids and cross-cultural living, and it generates more words than I can contain.  This is to be a place to let them out, where they can be lost amidst the torrents of the internet, like my favorite place to be alone - in the midst of a crowd that is too busy to notice.