Walkin' in The Light

My walkin' shoes
That title is meant to be punny. Like, really punny, if you think about it for a while.

I've taken on a new goal: to walk the Portland Marathon in October.

It began when Stepdaughter #2 called to see if her Dad would run the marathon with her--a sort of father-daughter project. Husband and all of his kids have run a number of marathons over the years; I've never done one. As I thought about Husband and Stepdaughter #2 running this one, it slowly sunk in: I want to walk it at the same time.Say WHAT???

Yep. I want to walk the Portland Marathon in October. Even if it takes me the whole 8 hours that the course is open, and then some. Even if I don't get my Finisher shirt because I'm slow and come in too late. Even if others join us all in this venture and they, too, are way ahead of me. I still want to walk it. They can wait for me at the end.

So I've started a regular program of training, based on Jeff Galloway's book, Marathon: You Can Do It! For me it means a one-hour walk on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, a half hour walk on Tuesdays and Thursdays, a Sabbath rest, and then a long walk every Sunday, getting longer each week. Husband is walking with me in addition to going on his runs, which is really nice. I have company, and it's a good time to talk. There's something about walking that loosens my work stories and makes me talk things out in ways that I don't do when we're just around the house together.

Last Sunday we walked 12 kilometers (7.45 miles) for our long walk, starting at 5:30 and getting home about 8:00 a.m. We should have done 15K (9.3 miles) this Sunday, but my training schedule got set aside during a crisis at work this past week, so we did the 12K again. Next Sunday we'll lengthen it to fifteen.

It's a mercy that summer vacation is coming, because it will be easier to keep to a solid training schedule. And with the long daylight hours, we can be up early and done with our walk each morning long before the rest of the day puts its claims on us.

I already like having a goal to shoot for. I've read the Portland Marathon website, visualized what it will be like, and am looking forward to the excitement of it. Getting out there every day to walk is just that much more anticipation. If it lightens me up in the process, that'll be [VERY] nice, but the main thing is just that great goal sitting out there, five months away.The other thing I really am enjoying is the beauty of the early morning walks. All of the nature pictures with this post were taken on the walks, from the horse to the migrant workers in the onion field (notice it's all women, with a guy standing there, watching them work ... Grrrrr.) to the flowers, to the windmills on the hills of Oregon south of us. As we walk, the birds are singing, killdeer chittering anxiously at us, bunnies hopping in the paddock down near Yellowhawk Creek, horses looking interestedly at us as we pass, morning doves cooing from the telephone lines overhead.

Our "long walk" route takes us past varied scenery: out through our neighborhood and onto a country road, past my favorite red barn and fields of rye, along a bend looking down on willows by the ponds below the bluff, and then on down to Frog Hollow Road, which takes us across Yellowhawk Creek. We cross over the creek (which is swollen with runoff right now), pass my friend's house where I played croquet when I was a college student, round the bend where the swallow nests pockmark the bluff, and then walk by the lovely old schoolhouse at Valley Chapel Road, with the overgrown Valley Chapel cemetery on the other side of the road. From there we pass the sweet onion fields and then reach the 12K turning around spot near the house with the fountain out front made of columnar basalt pillars.

Doesn't that sound just lovely?

And the lines of Amy Grant's song--a favorite of mine in my teenage years--sing energetically 'round and 'round through my head:

The sun woke me up real early; it's a beautiful morn',
'Cause I'm goin' down to the river to be reborn.
Now me and Jesus did some heavy talkin' last night,
So I'm goin' down to be dipped and come up
Walkin' in the light.

So I'm goin' down to the river real early this morn'.
Jesus said through Him we can be reborn.
And oh, the joy that's come inside me,
Laughter fills my night and fills my day
With a song of love to guide me
And the happy words you send my way.
Life with you has made me feel the miracle of makin' melodies,
Just a simple wonder when you're walkin' in the light!

Iris off Frog Hollow Road

Rant: Render to Caesar

[Note: Just to make it abundantly clear, this is not a rant against patriotism; it's a rant about where celebrations of patriotism should appropriately take place.]

Then he said to them, "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's." Matthew 22:21

I have a very, very difficult time with displays of patriotism at church. It began, I think, in my young adult years when my dad (born in the Netherlands) protested the United States flag placed at the front of the church they attended in eastern Washington. "I will not bow down to the flag of a nation when I'm praying," he told the pastor.

Having spent most of our lives in other countries, it seemed strange to see a flag in an honored spot at the front of an American church. We would not have expected to see a Malaysian flag at the front of our home church, or a Thai flag at the front of Thai churches when I was a little child. Thailand is a Buddhist country, and Malaysia is an Islamic country; they don't put flags at the front of their temples or mosques, either, last I looked.

My position is this: church and state should be well and truly separated. A church is God's house. I believe that the kind of pseudo-religious fervor many Americans have for their country doesn't have any place in God's house. Venerating the construct we've created about our country--unity, loyalty, purity, freedom--belongs in a place where it doesn't get mixed in with the worship of the God of the Universe. Furthermore, when patriotism takes over the service, it often ends up focusing on the sacrifices of our soldiers, sometimes for just wars and sometimes for selfish imperialism. Again, what does this have to do with the worship of God?

I've not run into this in really obnoxious ways in churches except in one church--the one I visited this weekend. I used to attend this church regularly, but for a variety of reasons including the one I'm ranting about here, I transferred to our university's church. Every Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Veterans Day is difficult to sit through as the leadership of this church presents a program designed to tug on the emotional strings of your patriotism. You take away the message that "We're telling you that our country is the greatest, and God thinks so, too, so that settles it." After September 11, 2001 there were at least three weeks--including Christmas--when we had to stand and pledge allegiance to the United States flag, and sit through patriotic songs while we watched Powerpoint presentations depicting flags, the twin towers, firemen and artists' paintings of Jesus weeping beside the site of the tragedy.

I try to figure out what makes me so angry as I sit through these services. I feel like someone is trying to manipulate me emotionally, something that always irritates me in religious services where this is the clear intent. But it's more than that. I suppose it's also because I grew up in other countries that are also great in their own unique ways.

While I agree that the freedoms in the United States are stronger than most countries in which I've lived, and while I think this is the most generous country on the face of this earth in coming to the rescue when people face great tragedy, I also have seen the "ugly American" face--the one that is aggressive, demanding and flaunts an air of righteous superiority, denigrating people of other countries. It's not pretty. We Americans are just plain old human beings like anyone else, with a government that possesses its own brand of corruption, like anyone else's government. But the thing that pushes me right over the edge is when this "we are best" worship of our country is mixed with religious worship, giving the impression that we have a divine right, that the things of our country are synonymous with the things of the Christian concept of God. (Consider the implications of that for non-Christians in our country....)

My roommate from our Singapore high school used to call me "Benedict Arnold," joking about my lack of patriotism. I probably deserved it at the time. My patriotism has grown significantly as I've lived in the United States now for over 25 years. I'm glad to be an American. I appreciate the societal agreements that make this a free, comfortable place to live, a place that fosters creativity and generosity, that places high value on individuality. I just don't think that my patriotism should be melded with my religious belief. And I fear that, in the long run, this approach of mixing the two in many of our churches will train our children to be just as fundamentalist and politically violent with their religious beliefs as those who shocked our nation in September of 2001.

God and Caesar get different things from us, Jesus said. I think we must be exceedingly careful to keep it that way. When it comes down to our children's hearts and first loyalties, I know where I want those to be given, without question.

Born Blind

Taken at 5:30-ish last Sunday morning
This last week I read in John 9 about a man who was born blind. I can imagine a tiny bit what that might look like.

Back in the olden days, in Malaysia, we used to own a VW van. A handy all-purpose vehicle, it allowed us to transport any number of young people (no seatbelt laws) to and from the mission hospital and the church--the two locations around which our lives revolved--as needed.

Often we would pick up Andrew in the mission hospital parking lot where he'd be standing patiently with his white cane, waiting to be taken to church. Andrew was born to a mother who'd had a sexually transmitted disease. Unfortunately the disease went untreated, and several of her children were affected by it. I was told that somehow it caused them each to go blind because of their contact with the disease as they came through the birth canal.

Andrew never wore dark glasses that I remember. You could see his eyes sunken in, disfigured. But this young man was always pleasant and kind as he would interact with people, despite the fact that his entire life had a different quality than ours. His blindness left him outside the normal social circle of others his age.

I can picture the disciples asking Jesus, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" (John 9:1) I wanted to know why Andrew was blind, and the answer was that at least one of his parents had sinned. The tragedy was compounded by the fact that the disease had not been arrested before more children were born.

The answer Jesus gave surprised me. Essentially he said, "Nobody sinned. This happened so that God's work could be displayed in his life."

What? God intentionally made sure this particular child was born blind, so that His work could be seen? I'll admit straight out, I have a hard time with that. I don't know how to explain it in a way that the rationale isn't disturbing.

We tend, when tragedy strikes, to immediately look for someone to blame. Who did wrong? Was it someone else's fault, or was it the fault of the person hit by the tragedy? Why did this happen? Can we identify someone who will be made to pay for it? And if we identify God as causing the tragedy, what does that do to our worldview?

I've been completely amazed at times in life when I have met people whose lives demonstrate the principle Jesus referenced. Their response in the midst of tragedy is to still care for others around them. While they may seek to understand why, and while they always carry the pain of that tragedy, something happens inside them as they go through the utter darkness of loss. The way in which they respond is to deepen their caring for others in this world. Instead of looking to make someone pay for the tragedy, they end up turning their experience into something that will bless others.

It never ceases to astonish me. I'm drawn to stay around such people, to listen to them, to learn from them. I think it's because I realize that in some way, we are all "born blind," and I crave some understanding of how they have been able, in the midst of all that tragedy, to see the light.

Lilacs

Taken on my walk to workToday, an acrostic poem for you by Elaine Magliaro:

Little-petalled blossoms hang
In soft clusters of
Lavender lace
Adorning spring's greenery,
Catching honeybees with
Sweet perfume.

Hidey-Holes

Moca in her temporary hidey-holeA week or so ago, Moca was delighted to find that we had left an empty box on the carpet. She jumped in and spent a significant chunk of time just sitting there, looking out at the world and feeling cozy. At least, "cozy" is what I assume she was feeling; she was looking very serious. Maybe she was feeling predatory, about to jump out of her cave and attack some unwitting spider crawling across the carpet. You never know.

That made me think of the hidey-holes that I had as a kid. They were places where I could scoot in and feel alone for a while. Some of them had a view of the world, and some didn't. One of them was a little spot in the hibiscus hedge where I would skinny in and then sit quietly, watching the world from behind the hibiscus leaves. The only problem was, my hibiscus hedge hidey-hole (oh, how I love alliteration) was in a spot where no one much went by. On one side the ice-cream man might ride by on his bicycle along Scott Road, or a boy might come by, herding his goats down the road. On the other side, I might see a gardener sweeping up leaves some distance away. Boring.

My dad had a "hidey-hole" of sorts for himself. As a mission doctor, he needed to get away now and then. So he would drive five miles to the swimming club and settle into a chair in the clubhouse, reading a magazine and listening to the ocean waves hitting the rocks below.

If my mom had a "hidey-hole," I don't know where it was. Oh wait! I do! She would go downtown to the dressmaker's hole-in-the-wall shop and spend some time drawing dress designs, which the dressmaker would whip up from scratch from the fabric Mama brought her. It was cool and dark in the dressmaker's shop, and I'm sure it was a nice break from the hustle and bustle of the hospital and delivering babies.

Everyone, I think, needs some sort of hidey-hole. Be it a place where you go to be alone, or something you do to take you away from the usual work-a-day world, you need a mental and physical break on a regular basis, something more than just sleep. Obviously, one of mine is blogging. What's yours?

Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to my dear mama.

I'm thankful for all kinds of things my mama did for me as her daughter, and I'm not quite sure how to name them all. But today I'll settle on being thankful (as I look at this picture from when I was 4 or 5 years old) that she taught me how to enjoy being a woman in traditional ways, and at the same time feel that I could accomplish anything I wanted to do in the world. And she let me freely develop my own personality, a rare gift from a mother--one that can never be appreciated enough by her daughter.

Knowing how the world was when this picture was taken, and how dismissively the world still treats so many women, I find it incredible to look at this picture and reflect on the fact that my mom was a missionary ObGyn doctor, that she read us stories nearly every morning before going to work--stories that taught us good values and built in us a love of literacy, and that she was nurturing in my brother and me a love for Jesus, for service, for adventure, for education, and for seeing the world.

If I could wish anything for this world, it would be that many more children could have mothers like mine.

P.S. So hey, what do you think of my snazzy hairstyle back in the 60's? I called that little fountain of hair on top my "koonky-koonk."

Happy Mothers-In-Israel Day

Dogwoods in our backyardToday is Mothers-In-Israel Day (by my own decree, if you really wanted to know), and I want to pause, as I do yearly, to honor those of you out there who are "Mothers in Israel."

How do you know if that's you? And what is the day all about? Let me explain.

Through the years, Mother's Day has been a bit difficult for me, precisely because it's not been for me. I never gave birth to kids of my own, nor did I adopt kids or become a foster mother. Yet working education I've been a mother to hundreds of kids of all ages...and sometimes to colleagues who needed it.

Whenever Mother's Day came around during my single years, I sat uncomfortably while the mothers in the church stood in response to the pastor's invitation to be honored. Technically, I'm not a mother; people would think it odd if I stood. I always felt lonely at those times, and even for a while into my married life. Stepkids can't be expected to acquire you as a stepmom and suddenly--whoosh--you're getting treated like a second mom. These things take a long time; it would take a long time for me, too, if I were the stepkid.

About a dozen years ago when I was the organist for the Baptist church Napa, California, the elderly pastor asked the mothers to stand and be recognized. But he didn't stop there. He went on to ask all of us who were "Mothers in Israel" to join the rest of the mothers and be recognized. He explained that these were women who gave to the next generation, even though they had not had their own children. I stood then, and a child brought me a flower. I've thought many times since then how much being included that Mother's Day recognition meant to me.

So, to you who have not had children of your own yet give of yourselves to mentor and "mother" in the lives of young people, "Happy Mothers- in-Israel Day!" Thank you so much for all you do.

*In honor of the "Mothers in Israel" who have inspired and/or encouraged me in my own life: Izella, Joy, Olga, Bonnie, Erja, Joanne, Joann, Barbara, Evaline, Mary, Tonya, Marit, Cassie and Lyn.

Who Is Jesus?

Husband was talking with someone recently, and as he told me about the conversation he quoted the other person as mentioning "this delusion that Jesus came down and walked around for thirty years." That startled me. I've read for myself the translation of Josephus, particularly noticing where he talks about Jesus and the fact that Jesus was killed at the instigation of the Jewish leaders. That is historical fact. This man walked on earth.

Despite the historical record that someone named Jesus existed, interacted and "walked around for thirty years," I never feel like I know enough about who he was.

I have noticed that some people are really frustrated with what they've been taught about who Jesus was, or more specifically with the horrible picture their parents or teachers have painted of God and his demands on their lives. Once you mistrust the character of "God," you must mistrust Jesus even if you believe he was a good man, because he clearly connected himself to God. And then if you see the professed followers of Jesus acting like jerks, that tends to intensify disgust toward the One they say they believe in.

For some people, their faith pendulum swings way out to disbelieving and rejecting Jesus. They don't seem to entertain the possibility that they may have been misdirected by people who shape the "Jesus story" for their own ends. Or they may simply have misunderstood what they heard from people who sincerely care about Jesus.

It seems like there are as many concepts of Jesus as there are people. But wait; is that really true?I was mulling over the different ways in which we each see Jesus, when I happened to read this passage in John 7 one morning last week:

On the last and greatest day of the Feast, Jesus stood and said in a loud voice, "If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him." ...

On hearing his words, some of the people said, "Surely this man is the Prophet."

Others said, "He is the Christ."

Still others asked, "How can the Christ come from Galilee? Does not the Scripture say that the Christ will come from David's family and from Bethlehem, the town where David lived?" Thus the people were divided because of Jesus. (John 7:37-43)

I'm no longer so much interested in the question of "Who was Jesus?" What has caught my attention is the question, "Who is Jesus?"

As we see in John 7, in the time of Jesus the people came up with several basic explanations, explanations which persist to this day. Who is Jesus? The multiple choices, as I see it described in these verses, are these:

a) Jesus was a prophet, a good teacher. That's all.

b) Jesus was the Christ, the Savior, which in his time was interpreted to be the savior from the Roman occupation.

c) Jesus came from Galilee, i.e. he was just a man from an inauspicious place who built himself up as someone special, but wasn't.

A good teacher. The Savior. Just a man.

Sound familiar? The beliefs of the people in the time of Jesus sum up the explanations people still offer today. Some eclectic folk think Jesus was a good teacher and name him with the other great teachers of history. Some think he was a mere man who either deliberately misled others, or was deluded about himself. And to some, he is their Savior and Lord.

And then it struck me: I have believed all three explanations at different times, and continue to do so ... not intentionally, but in the reality of my daily behaviors.

What an embarrassing realization. I'd want to say that I always know Jesus as my Savior. But I can think of times when that is not so.

In actuality, I sometimes treat Jesus' teachings as being on par with those of other great teachers. I've been so accustomed to hearing and reading His words over and over, that they take on the ring of a "Plato said," or "Confucius said" or "Martin Luther King Jr. said." In other words, they run through my head as just another set of very wise sayings.

When I think of Jesus as simply another great teacher, there are no streams of living water to be found.

And sometimes, when I'm reading the Bible and journaling, I find myself treating the words of Jesus as those of a man. I think, "Wow, that was a rude thing for him to say," or "Why did he deliberately provoke them like that? He didn't need to say that, " or "That's pretty off-putting, saying that we should eat his body and drink his blood!" I find myself sitting in the seat of a judge or an analyst, picking apart the things he was saying as though I were equipped to critique him. This is not the approach of a disciple.

When I think of Jesus as simply a man, there are no streams of living water to be found.

And then there are times that I believe in Jesus as my Savior. I see that I am thoroughly lost, needing help, unable to save myself from things that are beyond me. I am helpless. I believe in Jesus as the one who has redeemed me and can "pull me out of this miry clay." At those times I am so very grateful, and throw myself and all my worries and problems on Him with the "Kyrie Eleison" cry in my heart--"Lord, Have Mercy!"

This--when I believe that Jesus is the Christ--is when I finally find the streams of living water.

We are such muddled, flawed human beings. As I consider how I waffle among behaviors that demonstrate my instability of faith, I'm disappointed in myself. Then I remember the father who said to Jesus, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief." I remember that He accepted that father's statement. Surely, then, Jesus will accept me even with my unbelieving moments, will He not?

Who is Jesus to you? How do you know that's what you really believe?

And It's All About Taking Time

In considering the issue of time and timing (see previous post), I've also been thinking about the ways we choose to use our time. Very few Christians in our busy world do not struggle to regularly set aside adequate, protected time to meditate and pray. I usually do well during weekdays, and not so well during weekends ... which is ironic considering that is when my time is more likely to be my own.

At early morning worship this past Friday, one of the students chose the hymn "Take Time to Be Holy," during the singing time. As I had just been thinking about time and timing, the words really struck home for me. Taken away from the lulling familiarity of the tune that I've heard ever since I was a little kid, these words convey new depth of meaning and speak much encouragement to me.

Take time to be holy, speak oft with thy Lord;
Abide in Him always, and feed on His Word.
Make friends of God’s children, help those who are weak,
Forgetting in nothing His blessing to seek.

Take time to be holy, the world rushes on;
Spend much time in secret, with Jesus alone.
By looking to Jesus, like Him thou shalt be;
Thy friends in thy conduct His likeness shall see.

Take time to be holy, let Him be thy Guide;
And run not before Him, whatever betide.
In joy or in sorrow, still follow the Lord,
And, looking to Jesus, still trust in His Word.

Take time to be holy, be calm in thy soul,
Each thought and each motive beneath His control.
Thus led by His Spirit to fountains of love,
Thou soon shalt be fitted for service above.

It's All About Timing

The astronomical clock in Prague, Czech RepublicLet me speak to you of timing.

But when the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles was near, Jesus' brothers said to him, "You ought to leave here and go to Judea, so that your disciples may see the miracles you do. No one who wants to become a public figure acts in secret. Since you are doing these things, show yourself to the world."

Jesus told them, "The right time for me has not yet come; for you any time is right. . . . You go to the Feast. I am not yet going up to this Feast, because for me the right time has not yet come." Having said this, he stayed in Galilee. (John 7:2-3, 6, 8-9)

I was mulling over this passage the other morning, and got to thinking about the importance of timing. The brothers of Jesus wanted him to attend the feast because they thought that, with that many people around, he was sure to get pulled into doing miracles. They wanted to see those miracles and how the big crowds would react to them.

Jesus, on the other hand, had an issue with his brothers' timing. It wasn't the right time for him to become a public figure in Jerusalem, with all the religious and political intrigue there. He wasn't going to push things faster than they should be pushed. It was important to wait for his Father's guidance, for the time and the circumstances to be right. There's a certain arc to any really good story, any really good life, and pushing ahead can ruin it all.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. Eccl. 3:1

I remember with clarity a conversation I had with my pastor on a walk in Northern California just about eight years ago this summer. I was telling her, as we walked through those beautiful meadows and woods behind the college where I taught at the time, about this man I was falling in love with. It was my kind of love story: falling in love through letters, meeting and finding out that we just fit, and realizing that this looked like it was actually going to be "it" for me.

The neat thing was that my pastor and I were both long-time single women, and she was about six months ahead of me in falling in love with her man, a good-looking, wonderful pastor from Sacramento. They would make a great team.

I don't remember what I said to draw this comment out of her, but suddenly she said, "Ginger, if you don't mind, I'd like to caution you. Don't move too fast. A good relationship will take time, even when it's the right one. Think of it as giving birth to a child. It takes root, but then there's a gestation period. If you rush it, if you give birth to that child too soon, it may have problems surviving. Just relax and let things take their time and develop fully before you step into marriage."

They were, I think, the words of God to me through her. The following January I played the college church pipe organ for her wedding, and then seven months later she and her husband came to our wedding...a year after our walk together in the woods. We needed that whole year, Husband and I. There's a certain arc to every really good story, and pushing it too fast can jeopardize it.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.

It's wise to wait until the right time has come.

It works that way in other things, too. I was recently with a group interviewing a number of candidates for a certain very important position. We interviewed several candidates of different ages. One very young candidate showed extremely high promise, but the group had reservations about his youth and inexperience. The potential was there, but something else didn't feel as sure.

On impulse, I said, "I wonder if he just hasn't gotten knocked around by life enough yet." Another search committee member later referred back to that statement. For a leadership position, the timing must be right. You can step into it early, but pushing it too early can jeopardize the success of the leader. And there are so few good leaders in this world that you want to give them every chance to succeed, to bring their life experience to understanding people and finding the intrinsic rewards in the role. So the committee selected another applicant.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.

Sometimes we grow impatient. We think we can see the arc of the story that we most desire. We want to do certain things or hold certain positions or have certain experiences in life. And sometimes we are tempted to run ahead of the Father's timing--which is always the right timing. People end up marrying too early. Or they have children too young. Or they take on a career role that doesn't fit and ends up hurting both themselves and their organization. Or they try for some complex goal too early, and crash and burn.

There is a certain arc to every really good story; you need to let it work itself out in its own natural time.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.

Within every large life story, there are little mini-stories going on as well, and each of those needs to develop fully, on time. Whether it's your large story, or a little sub-plot, I offer you this blessing: May you walk in peace, let your current story ripen at the right pace, and bring that story home to its resolution ... in the fullness of time.