Intertwined, Uprooted

It is spring here: the height of our gardening season. One recent afternoon saw me out in the garden, collecting sprigs of oregano, leaves of basil, bunches of parsley, and other green goodness for our evening meal.

Last, I headed to collect some mint.

Ours resides in a cement ring, to be raised above the flooding of the rains.

It is high season for mint.

The pot is full and green as I approach it from across the yard.

But mint is not all that grows there this spring.

Clover crowds in, vying for space in the damp warmth.

The clover has been at its work for a while now,

winding vines and runners around those of mint.

Unseen, ignored.

The two are intertwined.

Clearing the clover will take time, patience, effort:

but a necessary task if the mint is to survive, to thrive,

to send deep and spreading roots through its earthen home.

Should the rains arrive while the mint

is weakened by competition

and overcrowding,

it may not survive the onslaught - up to 120 inches of rain - in the space of a few weeks.

This particular clover is serious about gaining the upper hand.

Already, it is flowering, preparing to bear seed.

And so, I begin: painstakingly tracing out and removing

each root, each leaf,

each trailing stem seeking to put roots in yet another part of the pot.

It is tedious work, this uprooting of established weeds.

My legs ache from crouching low over the mess.

The sun beats hot on my back.

Other work beckons from the kitchen.

But this seems important, vital work somehow.

Why do I care today, about mint and weeds?

And then it comes, the soft voice in my mind,

showing me why mint matters on this busy

'company's coming for dinner' afternoon:

Sin -- all sin -- edges into life in the same way as

clover has forced its way into this pot.

It creeps into some unwatched corner -

a tendril from a neighbor,

a seed from a passing friend

- it slips in unnoticed

and makes quick work of spreading roots and seeds,

and destruction.

A little gossip here, a seed of impatience there;

of what importance is a few moments of sloth, or a tendril of unbelief?

Yet soon, sin - or clover - has done its work

and we are far from where we could have been

from where we - and HE - wants us to be.

A friend has come, to aid in clearing the weeds.

The work shared is simpler, less painful,

with tinges of

joy?

Can it be that the painful work of rooting out sin is easier when shared?

The work is done
leaving gaps and scarred dirt where beautiful
yet ugly weeds once grew.

Pulling up sin leaves scars
empty spaces
waiting to be filled.

The weed will return if I am not careful
vigilant
removing each trace of clover's rebirth.

The sin will return if I am not prayerful
vigilant
letting Him root out each attempt of sin to return.


Thank you for the lesson of mint and weeds,
for being the REMARKABLE in the unremarkable of life.


photos from our mint patch

Wounds

I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.

- Augusten Burroughs

This is us, really. In our natural, sinful state. Flaws, sins, shortcomings, insufficiencies. And we try, so dilligently, to hold all these pieces together into something that resembles wholeness; something that will fool others into thinking we "have it all together."

I tried last night - when the dog bit Wonder Boy in the face and he needed three stitches on his nose. He chose me to accompany him to the hospital for the stitches. I would have rather stayed home while Daddy went. It was late and I was so tired, having gotten up at 5:15 for our trip back home after a week away. We walked up to the hospital (a benefit of living here is the surgeon is our neighbor, and the hospital is a 2 minute walk away). We waited while he and the nurse readied the place and the equipment. Wonder Boy was so brave - asking only: "Tell me when he's gonna' stick the needle in."

But me - not so brave. My stomach started churning. I got flushed and dizzy. The doctor/neighbor noticed that I was not doing so well and had a stool fetched, while I squatted on the floor, trying not to faint. He kindly reassured me that I should not be embarrassed: "this is a very normal reaction," he said. But I was embarrassed - believing that having a panic attack / fainting spell while my SON was the one in pain and having stitches somehow made me less of a mom, less of a person. Where do these voices come from? The Enemy, I know, whispers into our weakest moments: "You are garbage. You are not worthy of being a mom. You are a failure for not protecting your child."

I did fail, last night - not by not keeping the dog from biting - that was an accident, and the wounds will heal. I failed to keep the ragged, ugly edges of myself stitched together, despite my good intentions. Most days, I keep things well sewn-up. But I think God writes difficult pages into our stories precisely so that we will be unable to stay in one piece. It is in our brokenness that we cry out: "Save me, Lord, for I am sinking!"

When I called, you answered me;

you increased my strength within me.
Psalm 138:4

And he answers. And we survive, more broken, and yet more healed than before. That is grace.

Letting go

of dreams of a picture postcard life is not easy.  We all have them, I suppose: those mental pictures, reinforced by the idol-images of Better Homes and Gardens, parenting  magazines, or even Today's Christian Woman and (dare I say it?) believers' blogs.  Someone called a brand of this "Mommy-porn":  perfect images of celebrity moms, perfectly fit, in their perfect rooms, cradling perfectly dressed and mannered children. 

But I think it is idolatry.  At least in my own life, these images, ideas, even dreams become idols:  my rooms should look "like this;" my children should behave "like this;" my meals should taste "like this;" my life should be lived in "this way."

Where is authenticity? Where is reality?  Life is a messy, complicated thing.  It is not, can not be picture perfect.  The ugly, the loud, the failure teach by His grace - as surely as do the beautiful, the  peaceful, and the gentle.  To live in the "someday my life will look like this" dreamworld is to miss the tangible evidences of God in TODAY. 

Yet the dreams persist, creep back again and again to tempt and to taunt.  The dream of "perfect" lures me away from being perfected . And still He calls, beckons me to leave my idols and return to Him.  What grace!


Grateful thanks to Ann whose thoughts and prayers led me to think and pray also; who shares the ugly along with the beautiful. And that is real.

Of highlights

47. A patch of blue in a clouded sky.

48. The dull clouds, framing the blue, highlighting its beauty.

Just a thought - when clouds crowd the sky of my day, threatening to obscure His light, do I see only the gray, or do I look for the brightness of his Glory breaking through?

Lord, let me always see the obstructions and encumbrances of this broken world as frames to highlight your grace, opportunities for your beauty to break through.

Photo courtesy of FreeStockPhotos.com

Molding

Seven years worth of half-spent candles fill a bowl to overflowing. Seven winters of occasional warmly-lit dinners; seven advents spent; seven years of occasional electric-less evenings. Candles don't last long here, soon growing gray and dirty - long before they can be used up.

Today, it was time for the red candles to find new life. Red brings great joy to this mommy, so fully half of these old pillars are red. A cutting board and large knife soon reduce the pile to small, ugly chunks. A large old can, a heavy sauce pot, and two or three damp matches are applied to the task, and before long, pieces soften and smooth into a deep red gloss.

Little hands and eyes crowd, eager to see this process. Questions fill the air. String cut and tied to pencils - the dipping begins.
Slowly, 5 small lives (3 homegrown, 2 borrowed) turn bare string into small tapers, ready to be put into service. They will give only a small light, and will burn for but a few moments, but there has been joy in the forming of them.

An hour or two of my time went into candle-molding today; an hour or two of me, invested in child-molding at the same time. This is what it is, parenting: moments gathered together or scattered around, events shared, lessons learned.

With each moment, another layer of wax is added to the candle.

With each moment, another layer of being is added to the child.

The hand holding the candle must be steady, attentive, mindful of the wax and the water - lest the candle become crooked and unusable.

The heart guiding the child must likewise be steady, attentive, and mindful of His Heart - for the child is His child first.

Three small candles, newly formed, are prized in this home tonight.

Three small lives, forming, are prized in heaven tonight. How brightly they will burn and for how long, is know only to Him who formed them.

Use me to mold them well, through your grace and for your service, Father.

Gleaning

She stoops, shuffling through the remains of what, just a few hours before, had been a field of golden-crowned green. Her back bent with toil and age, she retrieves the missed stalks one, maybe two at a time. Her worn hands tell the story of her life: work, hard and long. The end of her sari is drawn over her head, shading her from sun and scorn. Over and over she bends to add a few more grains of rice to the family pot.

When you reap the harvest of your land, moreover, you shall not reap to the very corners of your field nor gather the gleaning of your harvest; you are to leave them for the needy and the alien. I am the LORD your God. Leviticus 23:22

. . . not so in this place where each bundle is carefully cut, wrapped, and counted. Very little is left for the poor, and so many are so poor. And each must earn her keep.

She struggles on, moving from field to field, finding only a few bits left over. Hopeless.

Is this how I approach you, LORD? Tiredly following behind, occasionally gleaning a bit of hope or truth or life?

Do I not realize this truth:

The believer is a favoured gleaner, for he may take home a whole sheaf, if he likes: he may bear away all that he can possibly carry, for all things are freely given him of the Lord. --Charles Spurgeon

I settle for so little. Yet He has said that everything we need is available to us!

Oh, LORD, you have given so much, yet I notice so little. You have provided thoroughly, yet I seem to prefer the scant pickings I happen to find. Help me to embrace my position as a favoured gleaner, that you may receive more glory!


Art: detail of The Gleaners by Millet

Romans 2:4

Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, tolerance and patience, not realizing that God's kindness leads you toward repentance?

May it never be that I take lightly or with contempt His overwhelming mercy towards me.

Just a Thought

I think this is one of the most agonizing lines in all of hymnody, modern or traditional:

It was my sin that held Him there,
until it was accomplished.

From "How Deep the Father's Love for Us" by Stuart Townend. Listen here.

Of giving

One of the strange challenges we face in living in a developing country is what to do with the "stuff" we no longer need. Like any westerner living here, we have an embarrassingly large amount of stuff. And those around us are unbelievably devoid of stuff. They own only one or 2 pieces of clothing. They have no table, no chairs, often not even enough food. Toys are unheard of.

So, it seems, the problem should be easily solved. Simply give our excess (outgrown clothes and toys, for example) to those around us. But the HOW of that is the complicated part.

The area our work covers is home to 7 million people. Probably 75% of them are as poor as I described, or nearly so. So what do we do? Were we to simply walk down the street and hand things out, we would be instantly mobbed. (Actually, that happens whenever we walk down the street). Do we ask local colleagues to get the word out that we have kids clothes available? Then we will have a line stretching from our door for miles. To date, we have tried several approaches, none of them wholly satisfactory.

There is no clearinghouse, such as the Salvation Army or Goodwill with donation boxes strategically placed around the town.

One thing I have been doing is to give clothes to mothers who come to the door asking. Usually the wives of patients in our hospital, several come once or twice a year. Sometimes I will also give them a toy or two. Does this kind of handout really help?

But (thankfully) the numbers for this are low, and the pile of remaining goods stays large. I hate storing (and possibly having things rot while in storage) piles of outgrown clothes, so I have given things to some of the manual laborers we know for them to distribute in their villages. Do they do this or do they sell the clothes and keep the profit? I will never know. Does it really matter anyhow?

One of the regular ladies came to my door last week. I always try to chat a bit with the children, though they usually are pretty frightened of me. While she waited in a chair on the veranda (kept there for unexpected visitors),I pulled out a few girl's outfits (from a bag ready to go to a village) for her daughter. Grabbed 2 shirts - almost outgrown - from Wonder Boy's drawer, and scrounged up a pair of sandals for his bare feet. She asked me for another toy. As we have just returned and most of the toys are still in a box somewhere, I said no. She left without a pleasant word or farewell. I felt a bit like she had come to my house to "go shopping".

I don't need to be thanked, but I also don't like to feel used. Yet I find myself frustrated by my own annoyance at her when I hear the echo of God's voice in Isaiah 53:

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;

and

because he poured out his life unto death,
and was numbered with the transgressors. (NIV)

Of what consequence is my comfort when he gave all for me?

And then tonight, this reminder from Isaiah 58:

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter--
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

It often isn't easy to be "rich" is so poor a place. But it gives me an opportunity to worship God through serving those who come to my door or live in the local villages. May I do so with joy through the grace He gives.

At Last

A beautiful poem I ran across today about love come late in life:


At Last

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close—at last—at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,—
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,—
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,—
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,
Despite my sad and faded face,
And darkened heart, you love me now!

I count no more my wasted tears;
They left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
This blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
May bring to burden heart or brow,—
Strong in the love that came so late,
Our souls shall keep it always now!

Elizabeth Akers Allen

Another month

. . . has passed since I last posted. Many times I have had ideas, observations, thoughts that I wanted to write, but have found myself too busy, or too tired, or too sick, or too something! But today brought blessings too wonderful NOT to write about!

Of course, today is Sunday. That alone is a blessing. A day to rest, a day to worship. For me, it was extra special, as it was my first opportunity to attend our home church since we came back to the US. The rest of the family went last week, while I nursed a nasty sinus infection in bed.

But the most amazing part of today, so far, has been the surprise we woke up to: SNOW!!! Of our 3 children, only The Scholar has even seen snow, and he was only 1 at the time. The 4-5 inches we got was enough to scuff around in, shovel (what joy!) and even sled on. We enjoyed racing down the hill, sometimes more gracefully than others, and landing in the soft snow at the end of the run. We watched our children's wonder as they observed how the snow fell and balanced in strange ways. We laughed with them at the feel of snow, its taste, and the way it chilled them when it worked its way in around their cuffs.I nearly cried over Princess Grace's reaction to the first snow she has ever seen. When I asked what she thought of the snow, she just hugged my leg, rested her head on me, and smiled: too enraptured for words.

What (on earth) could be better than this?

Of Writing and Reading Blogs

While we have been traveling, I found myself unable to post. Sometimes, the internet was just too hard to access. At other times my thoughts were too hard to access. For me, posting is an emotional, even cathartic process. My depression and anxiety, and the medication I take for them, leave my emotions blunted, my true feelings masked. Digging into my thoughts takes time and effort: which travel and chaos tend to prevent. Sometimes, I mourn the loss of my feelings. But I have to remember that I have exchanged them for functioning: for being able to talk to my children without yelling, snapping, or crying in frustration; for being able to get through a day without a 2-hour nap; for being able to be with my loved ones, rather than escaping from them. With this comes a capacity for seeing blessings and feeling joy that previously was lost.

While I have been unable to write on my blogs, I have been able to read other's blogs. Over and over I have been challenged, encouraged, blessed by the thoughts and reflections of others. And for this, I thank you. To Ann V. of Holy Experience, thank you for challenging me to see God where he IS, rather than where I would like to keep him boxed. In one post you have given me weeks worth of stuff to contemplate. Slow down ;-) ! To myfriendConnie at smockity frocks may God bless you for blessing me with things of beauty and practicality. You have reminded me that life in my ugly concrete house mission house need not be ugly. To the whole team at The Common Room, thank you for the ongoing view into what life in a homeschooling family can look like. It keeps me going when homeschool days grow weary. And to Amy at Amy's Humble Musings thank you for great links that have kept this news-thirsty expatriate informed about life and politics in the US. I have been challenged and taught on so many levels. And to the many other blog writers I have read and enjoyed, thank you.

Among the Chaos

I am sitting at the too-high desk in the not-very-clean guest house, making corrections to a project proposal document for Bob. Around me are several stacks of DVDs awaiting checking for quality; half-a-dozen books I have picked up that I would like to read; 5 varied plastic cups and a pitcher of lukewarm water; laundry in various stages of dirty, clean, wet, wrinkled; a roll of toilet paper doubling as Kleenex; an empty diet Pepsi bottle (thanks, Bob); piles of schoolbooks - some open, some closed, some currently being written in; crayons everywhere; a pile of phonics flashcards strewn on the floor; various shopping bags containing groceries, books, and winter clothes; at least 7 pairs of shoes; suitcases and backpacks of various sizes and descriptions; countless matchbox cars; an open packet of laundry soap; and 3 children in various stages of falling off the bed where they are supposed to be working on schoolwork. All of this in a room that is no bigger than 10 x 12.

Isn't life beautiful?

Packing

What is it about packing for a trip that I find so draining? I have never enjoyed travel, which explains why God has placed us on the other side of the globe from our home country. ;-)

Today, I have been packing for a week in our host country's capital. Packing for 5 for a week is a practical challenge - just finding enough t-shirts for the kids that aren't (very) stained can take quite a while. This time, packing means gathering the basics of our homeschool as we can't afford a whole week off right now. It is also challenging because the trip takes 7-8 hours, so we must plan to keep children busy while in the van. Otherwise, boredom grows to petty fighting. Snacks are a big part of that plan.

No matter how easy or difficult the logistics, however, packing unnerves me. I find myself fatigued, grumpy, and worried. The sad part is that I probably could pack much more quickly and forget less if I was not fatigued, grumpy, and worried.

So, the question is, WHY?

I think some, maybe even most, of it stems from my need to be in control. I like things I can control. It is the unknown that I don't like. Piling into a van for an 8 hour trip with 3 kids in a country where toilets are - well - different, is still unpredictable, even after more than 6 years of doing it. Flat tires or other car trouble can lead to hours in a muddy field that doubles as a repair shop, surrounded by hundreds of onlookers, all craning their necks for a peek at the "foreigners." Even slow traffic inevitably leads to excess gawking. I don't tend to savor this process: endurance is all I'm striving for.

So where does that leave me. We are overseas for the foreseeable future, and these trips will always be a necessity. So I must learn to handle this differently. I must find a way to do more than merely survive, be it the trip, or any given day. Is it possible to find grace, even joy in things that in and of myself, I despise? Lord God, give me grace to travel, tomorrow, and always.

Grace in the Moment

Today, I've been noticing hair. I cut all the hair in our family that gets cut. Princess Grace is still awaiting her first trim, and my husband trims the split ends off my hair once or twice a year. But Bob and the boys all visit Sheri's Hair Salon - a.k.a. a chair, scissors and a trimmer in the living room with the carpet rolled back. Pop in a video for the littles and we are on our way.

Since before we were married, I have cut my husband's hair. At first, it was with great trepidation as I did not come from a home-hair cutting family. But after many years, it is routine. While the boys are squirmier, even cutting their hair is no problem these days.

But today, I was looking at Scholar's recently trimmed head and it reminded me that I needed to give the younger son the same attention: Boy Wonder had been busy playing and his golden locks were sweaty and looking wild. A glance at my husband told me that he is only about a week away from another session in the "itchy chair."

Suddenly, in the midst of my practicality, God broke in. The haircut status monitor faded away as I looked, really looked at the beautiful heads that God has placed in my life to care for. Such a small thing - to cut hair for my family - yet how significant that I have them to minister to in this simple way. And how grateful I am for the privilege.

One of the things that is most difficult for me is finding the grace in each moment. The moments whirl away like dust in a wind, but the beauty, the blessing is still there. I just have to stop being practical long enough to see it.