If Everything Were Red

In the evening sunlight yesterdayI think it was my mission school teacher who, when teaching us about chlorophyll, said that it was a good thing that chlorophyll makes things green, because we wouldn't like it if everything were red, which is the true color of leaves.

Hmmm.

He Doesn't Write in Blazing Lightning

Photo from a NASA websiteI have a flip calendar on my desk at work, one of those that you can reuse because it isn't tied to a particular year. It's called "Quiet Getaways: A Daily Journey Toward Peace." It often provides me with a moment to get grounded. Many days it speaks precisely to the need I have for that day.

Today's message, not attributed to any particular speaker or writer, is this:

He doesn't come in the roaring thunder, as we expect. He doesn't write in blazing lightning as it flashes across the clouds, even though we watch for Him there. His voice won't be in the rushing wind or in the pounding rhythm of the waves breaking against the seashore. He simply comes to us in a still small voice.

I think we'd all prefer God's words in blazing lightning, at least when we first consider it. Seeing direction, reassurance, or even our futures written across the sky is an idea that draws many of us. But what kind of god would busy himself or herself with doing that? How would he or she logistically get such messages to all the people on this earth constantly, daily, answering their questions and telling them what they need to know? And for what purpose? Would it make you or me any more obedient, loyal to God, or successful if we saw direction, reassurance or our futures written across the sky?

Furthermore, I suspect that Jesus was right when He indicated to the people that even if he did big miracles, they wouldn't believe. If God wrote in "blazing lightning," would we get used to it? Would we feel coerced into obedience? Would we become rebellious in response to our lives being directed by large, loud messages? Wouldn't such obvious instructions become overpowering?

Isn't it more of a blessing to have it said quietly, internally, and in His timing, despite the risk of us not quieting down enough to hear Him?

"Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believed," He said to the disciple Thomas. (John 20:29) Not blessed because we earn a blessing by believing, but blessed because believing when there is lack of proof naturally brings a paradoxical blessing of its own. It's a blessing that only those who have faith can understand way down deep, in the most tender parts of their souls.

The key is to quiet down enough to receive those subtle messages, whether heard or felt. The key is to let all of your life speak of God's word to you, rather than asking for the whole message to be revealed a particular incident or crisis. The key is, this all takes time--lots of time--and patience.

Quite unlike blazing lightning.

The Firehouse Parade

The parade passes our university's "Gateway to Service"Yesterday I happened to notice, out of the corner of my eye looking through my office window, an amazing little scenario out on College Avenue. A little parade of about ten wagons full of preschool tots was tootling down the street. It was the children from our university preschool out on a "get to know your neighborhood" field trip. With them were several university students who had been in my education class last spring, plus an assortment of parents, grandparents, and their intrepid and much-loved teacher.
The children, I found out, were on their way to the fire station. Since my administrative assistant's husband was pulling one of the wagons, we got a heads-up phone call when they were on their way back to their preschool, and I ran out to take pictures of the little tots in their firefighter hats.
The parade just couldn't have been better, with the cool air, the bright colors, the sunshine backlighting the firefighter helmets, the smiles on the children's faces, and the scents of autumn in the air.

It reminded me of a verse I love from 2 Cor. 2:14, as worded in the Message paraphrase:

In the Messiah, in Christ, God leads us from place to place in one perpetual victory parade. Through us, he brings knowledge of Christ. Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance.

Our Daily Bread

"Our Daily Bread" found here.Every now and then I feel the need to add some other reading to my Bible study in the mornings. Some time ago I found this site for a short daily devotional thought, and it usually has really great snippets.

For example, yesterday there was a heart-rending story about the English hymnwriter, Isaac Watts, here, leading into a thought or two about beauty of character.

And this morning today's writer is telling about a guy who got in trouble for going into the woods to laugh. Leaves you shaking your head at the things that happen around this world.

Drop by and explore the site for a few minutes. You may want to bookmark it.

Sense-ible Ruminations, Part I

"Sense of Smell" tapestry, Musée de ClunyI've been thinking about some of our senses lately, and how they bring us information. Humor me as I share my mental meanderings with you in a series on the senses, both literal and figurative. I really don't know where they'll go, but then when do I ever know where my blog posts will go?

If I had to give up any of my five senses, I think I would want to give up my sense of smell. It's never been that good, and I think it's getting worse as I age.

Of any time in my life when smells have etched memories into my brain, it would be my childhood. I remember the smell of incense in the Thai and Chinese temples and at people's outdoor shrines. I remember the smell of plumeria (frangipani) flowers on the trees in our back yard. I remember the overpowering smell of roses in the air freshener my grandma had in her bathroom. I remember the smell of sweat on my classmates as we came in from playing hard outdoors. I remember loving the smell of a very expensive perfume called "Joy," by Jean Patou, when I was a teenager. I remember the smell of lychees in syrup as the last course in a Chinese multi-course meal at a celebration. I remember the smell of french fried potatoes with mayonnaise sauce at the fish shop near my auntie's apartment in Holland.

All of those are nice smells, but none are such that they would save my life (which, I think, is the acid test as to how important a sense is). I've never been in a fire where the smell of smoke tipped me off, for example.

As I get older, my sense of smell seems to be less acute. I walked through a local public elementary school with a superintendent the other day and couldn't tell if I was smelling mold, or just the after-effects of forty years of sweaty kids traveling through the halls. We called in the mold-checking guys anyhow, to be safe.

Last night I was eating trail mix, and found a little moth, I think, in it. In horror, I handed it over to my husband, who immediately remarked that he could smell weevils in the trail mix. And he proceeded to find a quarter-inch grub happily squeaming along. Ugh. I'm a seasoned missionary kid, so "Ugh" and "Eeuw" are all you're going to get out of me on that one. I did not, for the record, eat any more of the trail mix. But why could I not be blessed with the ability to "smell weevils" like my husband can?

When it comes to seasonings, I know they make food taste better, but I really couldn't tell you, by sniffing, the difference between sage and oregano, thyme and oriental five-spice mix. And remembering the acid test, who cares anyhow? It isn't something that I need to save my life.

My husband, however, is a different story. He has a nose that not only sticks out a little farther than mine (he consented to this picture), but it also smells things much better than my nose does. I can cook just fine, but then I turn the seasoning task over to him because he can tell the difference between thyme and oriental five-spice mix. And he can smell smoke in the air, and when food is going bad in the fridge. He gets me to stop when we're walking up the hill and compare the scents of the roses in the border garden of the house on the corner of Larch and Twelfth Streets. His nose tells him all kinds of things, and he remarks on those things. That's when I start sniffing, trying my best to discern the smells he's perceiving. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.

What I have discovered is that my husband also has a strong figurative sense of smell. Much earlier than I, he can smell trouble when things are going sour between us. I might be upset about something in the moment and react to it without analyzing what's happening. In the meantime, he's backing up the train and saying, "Whoa, we need to talk. We're in danger. I don't want us to get into a destructive cycle where we become distant and angry at each other." I have always taken him seriously at those moments, because he has a nose trained by experience that I've not had. I trust his sense of smell as to when the situation is becoming life-threatening.

Inexperienced though I may be at these sorts of things, I have found my own antennae perking up and my worry-chemicals firing when I hear or read of frustrations in marriages I know of. Someone may gripe in person or on their blog about what a spouse did, and I just go "hmm," and chalk it up to the ups and downs of life. But then someone else speaks or writes about frustrations with their spouse and suddenly my sense of smell picks up sourness, a sense of danger and something that's starting to go bad. I'm not sure they're smelling what I'm smelling. I wish they'd stop and say, "Whoa. Back up the train. We're in danger and need to drop all else and work on this. I've got to help my spouse smell the danger as well, and find some way back into a good relationship."

I've just watched from a distance as yet another marriage I know has soured and then died. For the three kids caught in the mess, it's the end of security and a change in their worldview. I've seen their happy little faces get more and more sober and sad. Having seen the fallout from times when people didn't use their "sense of smell" in these things, I am absolutely, 100% confident that it's not worth it for a couple to simply get used to the sourness and let things continue to rot.

So, could I get along without my sense of smell? Most likely. But without my figurative sense of smell? Never. It's crucial to survival.

Through us, he brings knowledge of Christ. Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation—an aroma redolent with life. (2 Cor. 2:14, Message)

The Rhythm of the Seasons

This afternoon Husband and I went for a walk along Garrison Creek. The leaves are turning color now that it's October, but it's kind of snuck up on us, bit by bit. We're into a few of those autumn days that are nippy in the morning without frost, and then a summery 70 degrees (Fahrenheit) sometime in the afternoon. Come along on our walk with us.

I never noticed the fly when I took the picture (click on the picture to see him more clearly). He was the surprise waiting for me when I downloaded my pictures and was looking at them tonight. It reminded me of those Dutch Jan van Huysum paintings of fruit and flowers, where the ants, flies and moths are painted into the still life, so real you almost think they'd fly or crawl off the painting toward you. Check out the fly on the tulip in this one.

These blackberries didn't get the memo that summer is over.

I don't know what these are, but I think they did get the memo that summer is over, because they are starting to look a bit pinched and wrinkly.

And finally, near the end of our walk, just a block from home, these happy folk were hanging out near a wooden fence, glowing in the evening sunshine.

It's good to take some time to be in awe ... in the autumn.

Why don't you honor me? Why aren't you in awe before me? Yes, me, who made the shorelines to contain the ocean waters. I drew a line in the sand that cannot be crossed. Waves roll in but cannot get through; breakers crash but that's the end of them. But this people—what a people! Uncontrollable, untameable runaways. It never occurs to them to say, 'How can we honor our God with our lives, The God who gives rain in both spring and autumn and maintains the rhythm of the seasons, Who sets aside time each year for harvest and keeps everything running smoothly for us?' Jeremiah 5:20 (Message)

Ten Fours, Good Buddy

Leaf on our bedroom plant, October 2006I've traveled to Maryland and back in the last four days. It's a long ways away. My mind is blank. Therefore I'm going to default to a meme--although a rather interesting one--I saw on my friend Barbara's blog. Filling in the blanks is just the thing for a tired brain. Ready?

Four jobs I've had (other than my career jobs):

• Medical records filing clerk
  
• Piano teacher
  
• Janitor
  
• Organist for a Christian Science church
  

Four movies I could watch over and over:

• The Gods Must Be Crazy
• The Scarlet Pimpernel (Andrews & Seymour version)
• Fiddler on the Roof
  
• Train of Life (French, subtitled)
  

Four TV shows I watch (when I rarely watch):

• Design on a Dime
• Curb Appeal
• Oprah
• News
  

Four places I've lived (my favorites):

• Phuket, Thailand
• Penang, Malaysia
• Singapore
• Napa Valley, California
  

Four favorite foods (click for pictures):

• Thai sticky rice and mangoes
• Tomato sandwiches on Mama's homemade bread (no photo available)
  
• Karjalan piirakka with egg butter (a Finnish specialty)
• Sauteed gnocchi with vegetables (Napa Valley, Pinot Noir restaurant)
  

Four websites I visit daily:

• www.bloglines.com
• my.yahoo.com
• www.google.com
• My university's homepage
  

Four favorite colors:

• fuschia
• chartreuse
• royal blue
• apple red
  

Four places I would love to be right now:

• Mendocino, California
• Phuket, Thailand
• Gleneden Beach, Oregon
• Cozumel, Mexico
  

Four names I've at some time thought I might name my children:

• Cherry
• Sam
• Damaris
• Casey
  

Four reasons I need to turn off the computer:

• I've been up for 20 hours (unless you count snoozes on the cross-country flights)
• This might not be an activity my cousin's kid, Andrew, would consider "something constructive."
• My cat is abusing my laptop, rubbing her gums on the corner of the screen.
• Husband will want me to be awake to hear his stories when he arrives home tomorrow from a conference he went to this week on axiology (look it up).
  

See You Later, Malcolm

Last week I got the unexpected and very sad news that my friend Malcolm had died.

Most of you who read this blog don't know Malcolm, but I bet you would have loved him as we all did, had you met him. This is my opportunity to give a tribute to Malcolm as I knew him, and to let you in on the personality of a fine Christian gentleman and scholar.

I first met Malcolm when I was an undergraduate student at this university where I now work. He was the academic dean, and I was a rather focused, gifted, but not particularly popular or well-known student trying to make my place in life and figure out my future. I don't recall when we first met; it just seems like I always knew him, as long as I knew the school.

Malcolm was tall--maybe 6 feet 3 or so--and had a sonorous voice and particular articulation of words that was all his own. Perhaps he got that from his father, Arthur, who was an immigrant from England. He certainly got his father's ability to tell a good story. I grew up reading books of "Uncle Arthur's" stories, some of which I later learned featured Malcolm and his antics as a child. I doubt I ever had a conversation with Malcolm in which he didn't either tell a story, or solicit a new one out of my brain. Or maybe both.

During my year in Finland between my junior and senior years of college, Malcolm and his wife moved away to northern California where he became president of a sister college. I lost track of him until about ten years later, when I applied for an opening as a faculty member at his school. They decided to interview me, and off I went up I-5 from southern California to see if they'd have me. I remember praying the whole time, "Help me to be just who I am, not fake, so they know who they're hiring. Then if they want me, it'll be a good fit."

They put me through a whole line of interviews, both in the academic department and with administration and the HR folk. I clearly remember the interview with the president. Malcolm's office at that time was in a windowless brick-walled "box" in the basement of the women's dorm, as they'd pulled down an old administration wing and the new administrative offices weren't set up yet. I sat down and he grinned his big friendly grin, sat back in his chair and pulled me easily into conversation as he was so good at doing. And then he popped the question: "What do you do for exercise?"

I was so shocked, I nearly fell off my chair. It's true that I was overweight, but I didn't think that figured into interviews. I was glad to be able to say that I went walking three miles every morning. Malcolm looked satisfied, made some comment about balance in life, and went on with the conversation.

Exercise was important to Malcolm, apparently. A few times I saw his wife Eileen walking home with her grocery bags from the store and offered her a ride up the hill. "Oh no," she said cheerily. "Malcolm says I should get my exercise!"

Quirky, yes. Illegal interview question, probably. But it was also good guidance for me to know that my college president thought a holistic, balanced approach to life was important for his faculty.

One thing that stands out for me above all else is that Malcolm was always in my cheering section. Soon after I arrived as a young, 32-year old faculty member, he invited me to give a worship talk to the college board. I later found out that was a very unusual invitation, and an honor.

Everything I did to enhance life in the college and the church was cheered on. When I'd play the organ for church (the one pictured here), Malcolm and Eileen would come up afterwards to compliment me. When we presented our student teachers to the visiting superintendents, Malcolm complimented me and the other professors on their quality. When I took on the sponsorship of the musical theater club, Malcolm and Eileen attended a performance each year. He'd drop me a note of congratulation and delight afterwards. Whenever he introduced me to others, he never failed to chuckle as he told them of the time I shocked the entire community by running screaming down the aisle of the Fine Arts auditorium, swinging strings of pearls in my role as Frumah Sarah in Fiddler on the Roof (yep, the picture here is really me, back in 1996).

I did get in trouble a few times in connection with the musical theater club. Once was when my students fund-raised money from the local wineries surrounding the college, which didn't fit with our commitment to being a teetotaling bunch of Christians. The second time was when a church member (who had an issue against drama, for some reason) wrote a letter to both me and the president, protesting that we were "teaching our students to tell lies" by having them act in dramas. [Long story; old tradition in our church.] In each case, I either was invited or invited myself to the president's office, and we had a cordial conversation that always felt like he was trusting me to solve the problem, but it was expected that it would be solved, and that I was accountable to him in doing it.

From time to time Malcolm commented to me that I was a future college president. I was tickled pink that he saw me as someone to whom the baton could be passed, and pleased that he would honor me that way. But I didn't really have an interest in it.

As a storyteller, Malcolm became highly interested one day when I told him that during that summer I'd recorded on tape my dad's stories of growing up in World War II Holland. Malcolm was fascinated. "What will you do with them?" he asked. I replied that I intended to write a book for kids or adolescents based on the stories. Malcolm was mightily pleased, and asked about that book every time he saw me thereafter. But I put writing a musical in front of the book project, and then I put getting acquainted with a certain man in front of the book, and then . . . well, then I asked Malcolm to officiate at our wedding and he was delighted to do so. And after that I moved away to be with my new husband, so the book hasn't been written yet. I feel like I still owe it to Malcolm--and my dad--to write it.

As I said, Malcolm officiated at our wedding. In a pre-wedding meeting with us, he asked in straightforward terms if we considered divorce an option. Because if we did, he said, it was a matter of principle to him to not officiate. He was satisfied with our answer. During the ceremony he stood tall and proud at the front of the college church, almost as if he was marrying off his own daughter. With much delight he told our story, as it had plenty of funny twists and turns, and--as I said--Malcolm always loved a good story. He also managed to get a detail or two wrong, so that whenever I watch our wedding DVD, I talk out loud to him over there on the TV screen and correct him.

Just as I left California to join my new husband in the Northwest, Malcolm retired. In the following six years, life for him was a challenge. His beloved wife, Eileen, was diagnosed with a debilitating illness, and gradually the person who had always taken care of him so that he could focus on ministry, teaching and administration became the object of his caretaking. She died last May, just as he was beginning to lose the use of his hands and feet in a rare disease that had struck him. His mind stayed clear and nimble right to the last week of his life, so I'm told.

Just a little over a month ago, on September 2, I got my last e-mail from Malcolm. I'd sent him the picture of our new university sign. He responded, "Your new administration building looks great as does your new sign.... Many important things have happened during your reign ... and I am sure there are more to come. Three cheers!"

So I say goodbye to Malcolm, my mentor, my first college president, my role model in administration, member of my cheering squad, and my friend. My joy is in anticipating that moment I imagine, when I'll be walking somewhere in heaven and hear his sonorous tones (you can sample them, even now, here) ringing out across some beautiful space, "Ginger! Did you ever write that book?" I don't yet know what my answer will be.

Weeds

Click on the photo for a large view of a lovely collection of weeds.There's a place where husband and I go walking about once a week, near a Wal-mart. A huge argument among the citizenry took place about 7 years ago, when the decision was made to build the Wal-mart there. A seasonal stream runs past the site, and there was talk of disrupting the environment and routing that stream through a culvert. People went ballistic. So the developer went to great lengths to protect the stream zone. It now runs alongside the access road, full of wildlife, weeds, and, at some times of the year, woolly aphids. (I had to keep that alliteration going!)

Sometimes, like this morning, my mind feels pretty much like that zone. There are so many weedy thoughts springing up. Some of them bear flowers, and some are prickly thistles. Some just kind of fluff out and blow away, and others settle in and take over even though I don't want them there, seeding fear and choking out the sprouts of unselfishess and caring.

I wish I had a tidy, well-mown and cultivated mind. But I don't. It's a natural riparian zone with various things fluttering through it, one or two building a nest just over there. I suppose you could look at the sun backlighting it and think some of it is beautiful. Or you could focus in one one or two particularly pleasing plants. Or, like some visitors, you could just see it as one big weedy mess.

The best way I've found to tend this multicolored mix is to spend some time in the mornings reading the Bible and journaling my thoughts to God. Over and over that focuses my sight on particular thoughts that make the day beautiful. For example, yesterday there was the reminder in Psalms that life is messy and enemies lurk, but the focus needs to be on praising the Lord in His splendor. I came back to that a couple of times--not as often as I would wish I had--during the day, and it helped to reset my priorities.

And so today I begin all over, returning to Psalms for focus, recalibrating my lenses, pulling out a few weeds and being reminded of where my gaze should be fixed, all through the day.