The Myth of Subtlety

This is Moca, as she is "hiding" under our bed for a morning nap. It's pretty typical to find her taking a cat nap, thinking that she is tucked away where she can't be found. But there's almost always a foot or a tail still hanging out from under the bed skirt as a clue to us. I truly don't think that's on purpose. I suspect that she's all "id," like a small child.

Which reminds me: I think we often delude ourselves as to our subtlety. It really doesn't matter what appearances you put on, or how delicate you might think you are at dealing with a situation, the truth is always evident, like a tail or a foot hanging out from your secret hiding place. People who have any intuition can see when you don't like them, no matter how nice you are. People know exactly what you want when you're dancing around making a request of them. People will eventually find out when you think you're hiding something away, dark and deep. And I think that, more often than not, people who are on the receiving end of our attempts at subtlety become resentful and are likely to react in passive aggressive ways to the feeling of being excluded, labeled, or manipulated.

Okay, so Moca was not trying to exclude, label or manipulate us. Maybe she wasn't even trying to be subtle. Maybe this is just what happens when your cat gets you thinking deep thoughts on your early morning 3-miler through the strange pre-dawn world out there.

Gussied Up for Learning

The fall term begins today where I work. The morning air suddenly has the distinct 45-degree (7 degrees Celsius) chill of autumn, and the snow level is predicted to descend to 4000 feet (1200 metres) tomorrow or the next day.

Look closely and you'll see that Billy Budd, standing in front of the library, seems dressed to impress the teachers. Let the learning recommence!

Millie

At the end of my bicycle ride to Regency-at-the-Park this afternoon, I found Millie right away. She was sporting her flowerdy hat as she sat in the "bird room" across from the front entrance door (the door that won't open unless you hit a green button on the pillar) watching her budgie chatter away in the white cage. The only other person in the room was a developmentally challenged young woman who didn't say a word.

"My favorite person!" Millie exclaimed. I grinned and wondered if Millie says that to everyone. I've always thought her eyes twinkled more for my husband than for me, though she loves us both. I haven't seen her since Husband and I and my parents sprung her for an afternoon out a few weeks ago.

Millie was once my dad's office nurse. I hear that she was an excellent one. When I'd drop into town for a visit, she'd sometimes be sitting at my parents' dining room table, chatting up a storm with my mother. Later, I took a leave of absence from my work in California to come north to spend time around Husband for three months while we were dating. During those three months I stayed in Millie's home on B Street. She lived simply then, enjoying her newspapers, watching the local religious TV channel, and eating healthful food supplemented with Bragg's Liquid Aminos from a bottle kept in her refrigerator door rack.

Millie's a hospitable, welcoming person. She fussed a bit today that it still hurts where they pulled some of her teeth several weeks ago, and she'd like it if the dentist would make her a bridge. She makes it clear that she'd rather not be living at Regency. She didn't like the Oddfellows Home before this, either. I can't blame her. Who would line up to live in a care home with THAT name???

Millie takes an interest in the people around her, cheerily greeting the family that came through on the way to the courtyard with their mother in a wheelchair. She watches which ones get visitors and told me bits and pieces of information about the people passing by. She didn't recall if her son is in town or on a job in New Jersey; the story was different both times she talked about it this afternoon. But she's certain he hasn't called or come by. Having met her son and having experienced him to be a cheery, engaging person, I wonder if she's correct or if she has simply forgotten.

"Give your mom a hug," Millie said as I put my bicycle helmet on to head home before dark. "She's like a mother to me, and you're like my sister," she added affectionately, twinkling again. I smiled. She and my mother are both in their 80's, with Millie being the older one, as I recall. That's okay. I can always appreciate having a cheery sister who sports a flowerdy hat and declares that I'm her favorite person.

Line Item

Delivering your child to an environment that integrates faith with learning means all the world to some families. For those of us trying to provide that, there are daily reminders to view our work as a highest calling ... none more poignant than the story I heard on Wednesday.

The current economy has been so hard on some of our families. Our student financial aid director was working with a couple who were finding it terribly difficult to pull together their family contribution in getting their child into college with us. But it clearly meant a great deal to them. They were pinning their hopes on us for a strong spiritual future for their child in addition to their successful academic and career future.

When these parents brought in their financial aid worksheet on Tuesday, a line item under the family contribution stated: "Blood Plasma, $3000."

That's right. Mom and Dad will be selling their own plasma weekly for the sake of their child's Christian university education.

When I heard that story, I sat in the meeting and cried. We have been gifted with a sacred trust.

The Storyteller

He's an amazing writer, my friend Skip. Go check out his blog.

A Friend-ly Paean

Masai women chatting, Kenya, 1999Today I write in honor of and gratefulness for friends.

Not the kind of friends who stick by you because they want access to something you have, or the kind that are friendly because you have some leadership position and they see it as politically wise to remain in good relationship with you. Not the kind of friends who hear you say something unwise and take offense--as opposed to the kind who, upon hearing you say something unwise, will assume you didn't really mean that, and will check with you on it. Not the kind of friends who "stink talk" about you when it becomes expedient to them to do so. Not the kind of friends who are constantly on the edge of ruling you out of their circle for any number of reasons.

Now that we've got those kinds of friends out of the way, the finest ones are left! They are the friends who accept you with all your quirks. They believe well of you. Their ears put the best spin on what you say. They brighten up when you walk in the door, consider every time you get together to be a treat, and tell you in all kinds of ways that they care about you. The heartfelt cares of your life are heard with kindness and not passed on. You truly can tell them anything. If you or they chalk up accomplishments or titles, they let those don't come between you, and if you crash and burn, they nurse you back to wellness with sympathy and gentleness.

Recent research on relationships has shown that for Americans, the number of close friendships has diminished. In the early 1980s, the average number of close, can-tell-them-anything friendships per person was about three. In 2006, a person's close friends were reported to be at an average of about two. The number of non-family confidants had dropped even more than the number of family confidants. Researchers worried over the findings; close friendships outside the family provide a "safety net," they said. They also tended to be correlated with higher civic engagement; people with close friends reach out in other ways. Now, they said, they are observing "a trend towards smaller, closer social networks more centered on spouses and partners.” The opportunity to lean on friends for emotional and social balance is diminishing in our country.

I remember the first time I read that we have many casual friends, but only three or so close friends. I had considered myself to have many close friends. But as I think about it, I read the research around the time that I'd just emerged from eight years in boarding schools. These schools are hothouses of building friendships among young people who like to connect. Over the years, those friendships in my life that have persisted--the ones where I can pick up right where I left off and continue to "say anything"--have emerged more clearly and become exceedingly precious. And sure enough, I would now count only two or three of those outside my immediate family.

Back to the research: the findings showed that fully 25% of the people studied had no one with whom they could discuss matters important to them. And so I come full circle to where I began: Today I write in honor of and gratefulness for my friends. And to anyone reading this, I wish you similar blessings in life.

The Leopard's Spots

Click on the picture to see the beauty of this fellow a bit more clearlyI took this photo ten years ago in Kenya, following a week-long speaking appointment at a boarding school for missionary kids. My brother had flown out to join me on safari in Masai Mara game park, and we'd hired a van and driver who knew a great deal about the animals and where they might be found.

On our very first day in the park, the driver drove up under a tree, just below this fellow. The leopard seemed to be feeling pretty mellow, the remains of his antelope breakfast hanging over one of the other branches. I would not, however, want to tangle with him if he were hungry or mad. He's not the "Come, kitty-kitty" that he looks like here.

Reflecting on the picture this morning, it causes me to mull over the difficulty of achieving change in our personal lives. Long ago the prophet Jeremiah observed, "Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots? Neither can you do good who are accustomed to doing evil." Jer. 13:23. The longer I live, the more I see how difficult it is to affect long-term change in my life, whether it be in exercise, eating habits, reactions to other people, patterns of thinking, being stuck wearing styles from 20 years ago, the degree of pessimism or optimism expressed to others, my specific way of washing the dishes, and so on.

Despite the difficulty of change, I keep on trying to conquer most things on that list. Having said that, however, I think that there are significant times when we try to change things that we shouldn't.

I remember saying to a former boss, "I'm trying to do it just like you would." He responded with, "Ginger, don't try to do things as I would. You need to live in your own skin!" What a gift that was! I remember the sudden wash of freedom that ran through me upon hearing his words. You're just right as you are. Learn to live life as yourself, use the strengths that are unique to you and approach each day with your own flavor, the way God made you.

"Live in your own skin." Would that all mentors could express that wisdom to the next generation coming along!

The Nature of an Echo

After all the ridiculous flap about the president's upcoming address to schoolchildren, I took the opportunity to go to Husband's school and watch the address along with the students. I thought I'd share my reflections here.

The school had offered an opt-out to parents who took issue with their children watching the address; they had to send a note with their child if they wanted them to "participate in a different learning activity." As I recall, nine students had been opted out, from the 310 or so total enrolled.

The children filed into the Commons just prior to the start of the address. The younger ones sat on the floor in rows; the older ones brought their chairs with them and sat at the back. About a dozen parents showed up to watch with their children.

I had read the text of the speech at the White House website the day before. I wasn't prepared for the way it would come alive when delivered by Barack Obama and responded to by the students. When the president said, "Many of you are starting school today," our kids groaned or expressed surprise as they talked back to him about their calendar. They were in their third week of school already. When he said they might have preferred to sleep in, several responded with a cheer. When he said he'd had to get up at 4:30 a.m. when he was a kid to study at the kitchen table with his mother before she went to work, there were audible groans of sympathy on his behalf.

As is typical for K-2 kids, their attention was pretty much gone by the 5-minute mark, and they were poking each other and getting gestures from the "come here finger" of their teacher to receive their admonitions to sit still. They did stay rather quiet, despite their wiggles. The older students were much more interested and attentive all the way through, and I could see the import of the words sinking in with them.

Will the words make a difference for the students? Will they turn the non-focused kids into scholars? Who can tell? I think the key is repetition. The president needed to say these things. Parents need to say these things. Teachers need to say these things. We all need to say these things.

The nature of an echo is that the sound hits more surfaces, more times, bouncing with different facets, and that amplifies the effect. That's how these things work.

That's why I'm such a believer in Christian schooling; it's yet one more place to keep the most important echoes repeating.

These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deut. 6:6-9

Simplicity and Complexity

My friend Erja surveys a bog crossing in western Finland"You travel light," Husband observed early in our marriage.

I peered at him, squinty-eyed. It didn't sound like a very complimentary assessment, and it was made more suspicious by the fact that I didn't know how to interpret it.

He went on to explain that I have a talent/propensity (depending on your viewpoint) for simplifying things and moving on. Husband, on the other hand, sees the complexity in every concept and situation, and in fact revels in the beauties of complexity.

The upside of my talent is that I am able to cut things down to a simple concept, ignoring the "yes, buts," and move ahead toward my goal. "Ready. Lights. Action!" could be my motto. The downside of my propensity is that in my simplification of problems or situations, I can ignore small things that mean a great deal to someone, or jump to conclusions before others are ready to accompany me.

The upside of Husband's talent for seeing the complexities is that he is thorough in analyzing problems and concepts, and therefore is more cautious, considering all the nuances before moving forward. The downside of Husband's propensity to see complexities is that he can get bogged down in them, and there are situations in which timing means success or a goal reached.

So here we are, Mrs. Simplification and Mr. Complexity, living and making decisions in the same spaces together. Sometimes it must seem that I'm skipping across the bog on boards laid down to provide a sure footing, while he's in his rubber boots, wading through while gaining an understanding of the entire ecosystem of that bog. When I notice that, I stand in awe ... on my little boards.

Sometimes I wish that people--especially those who I perceive as tending toward hyper-analysis or pessimism--would stop and appreciate the delightful beauty of one of my dramatic, panoramic statements or judgments. And sometimes I think Husband wonders if some of us shallower folk--he would never use that term--will ever see the beauty of all the intricate parts in a multifaceted paradigm he has grasped and expressed with such care and thought.

It's not surprising that the differences can cause each of us to grind our teeth at times; what is surprising is that so little gritting of the teeth actually occurs. I can't speak for Husband, but I can say that Mr. Complexity is good for me. He slows me down, shows me where I should be cautious, and makes me think of the Why. And then I hop back up on those planks (because Mrs. Simplicity simply can't face putting on her rubber boots), perhaps adjust my pathway across the bog, and hopefully walk a better walk.

Behind the Monkey Tails

Picture of monkey tail flowers from Butchart Gardens, Vancouver Island, Canada[I told Husband I was writing a "kind of weird" blog post. I read it to him. He agrees; it's kind of weird.]

Our pack of curious missionary kids used to run all over the mission hospital compound when I was a kid, exploring. That was our favorite thing, exploring. Many of the activities we pursued were twists on the old favorites of kids anywhere, including in North America.

We climbed trees.

We built a clubhouse (albeit from coconut husks and fronds, which doesn't happen just anywhere).

We played with firecracker powder.

We twisted flowers together into bracelets.

We played hide-and-seek in the dark.

We rode our bikes up and down the one-lane paved roads.

We played dodge ball on the patch of grass beside the Third House.

And so on.

But one thing I'll bet most kids don't grow up next to was found right behind the monkey tail bushes: the incinerator. I can still smell it as I remember running up the little rise just below it and above our teacher's apartment house, on our way to climb the rambutan trees.

I don't recall details of how the incinerator was used, if I ever knew them. But I'm quite sure that Things That Were Taken Out of People in surgery or delivery were burned in it, because it gave off a peculiar smell, sort of like burning hair (yep, that's another fun thing we liked to do: light a candle and take a hair and watch it curl up and fizz in the flame). Knowing that our island probably didn't have a really hot-shot garbage disposal system, I'm guessing that bloody bandages were also incinerated, and other similar medically-related waste.

It was just a fact of life, the incinerator behind the monkey tails. I'll bet pretty much everyone has some "monkey tails" hiding something stinky in their lives, something they've gotten quite used to. Or maybe not.

Lessons from the Gardens

I've been in Canada. Well, for a day this week, anyhow. My colleagues and I took the ferry to Sidney, B.C. and spent about five hours in Butchart Gardens, north of Victoria.

There's something amazingly therapeutic and restorative about spending five hours in gardens brimming over with blossoms of all hues and types.

I overheard some other visitors discussing the genius of how these gardens were arranged. The lady observed to her husband that the glory of it was the way the colors were combined, adjacent to one another. Oranges were planted next to purples, reds bloomed next to blues, yellows snuggled up next to pinks, and so on.

The resulting riot of colors, carefully planned, was a delight.

We visited on a day that was mostly cloudy, with cool-ish temperatures. Paradoxically, the colors are brighter when there's a bit of overcast.


And so some analogies to life occurred to me, as they always do if I think about things for long enough. And these are the lessons to be learned, as I brought them back home with me:

1. Contrasts bring out the beauty. It's all a part of "the plan." Get right up next to those who are different than you, and the proximity of both of you will enhance the beauty in both of you.

2. Overcast skies bring out the true colors in living things. Don't be afraid of the overcast. And don't jump into long-term proximal relationships until there has been enough overcast to observe the true colors.

3. Take time to be in the beauty of a garden. There's a reason it was our first home, and it's easier to glimpse "Home" whenever you return to one.