A Good Article

C.S. Lewis at the Movies

Recipe 4 fall fun

4 girls and an easy caramel apple recipe:

1 1/2 Tbsp. butter
1 1/2 c. light brown sugar
6 Tbs. water (we used cream instead, a little more than 6 Tbsp., and were very happy with the results)
some kind of sticks--popsicle works
8-10 apples

Melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the sugar and cream. Stir until it has a smooth consistency. Gently bring to boil, then cover and simmer for 3 minutes, until the pan sides are steamy and the mixture is thin but somewhat sticky. Remove from heat. Pierce the center of each apple with a stick, then swirl in the caramel syrup until coated. Place apples on a greased cookie sheet to harden. Refrigerate for 1-2 hours (okay, ours didn't make it that long).

Have fun!

a deep, profound question, fitting for the time of night

Why, in English, do we say decaffeinated tea? There wasn't ever any coffee in tea. Why don't we say deteinated tea like Italian? Of course, that might sound a little too much like a bomb...

These are the questions we ask ourselves.

Hep Yusef and friends

The pear tree says to the apple tree, "So, how do you like the new branch the farmer grafted in?"

The apple tree responds, "Well, at first I didn't take to it, but now it's starting to grow on me."

Wonderful Grace of Jesus

I find myself having trouble concentrating when I pray sometimes. My mind hops around, lighting on everything imaginable but God, or repeats by rote the words I think I should be saying, while really thinking about something else. And then, after days of answering, “fine,” to inquiries about my state of being, and adding “I guess,” under my breath, I wake up and find that I am not fine. I am discouraged, homesick, disgruntled. And have a nagging feeling that it has to do with my problem with prayer.

I’m afraid to be still.

Being still before the Lord leaves me too vulnerable. I’m too afraid—afraid of seeing God in His perfection, His holiness, even His love, because I know I’ll see myself for what I really am in comparison; and also afraid because I have a sneaking suspicion that I really know what I really am, and I don’t want God to see that.

It’s so easy for me to get out of whack. One wouldn’t think it would be difficult for me to understand the love of God. I grew up in a loving family, surrounded by the best blessings of existence. And yet, I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s a reaction against seeing too much emphasis in my culture on the love of God, without enough teaching on the holiness of God; maybe it’s an increasing realization of my weakness, my failures; maybe it’s the world, the flesh, and the devil working on my Javertian pride that refuses to accept grace. "If only I could be sure God wasn't angry with me," Luther said. I can identify. Even when I know He's not, I feel a little like He should be.

But even as the kindness of God must not be set up to avoid His wrath, neither can His wrath diminish His kindness.

The sermon in church last Sunday was on Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. I love the way John starts off that section: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” His own were men, the preacher pointed out, who had been following him around displaying weakness and failure, not understanding when he taught them the basics over, and over, and over again. But he loved them to the end.

Do you know what his love meant? It meant he washed their feet. And when dear, human Peter refused, he said, no, you have to accept this—if I don’t wash you, you can’t have any part in me. No, not all of you, because you’re clean—just the dirty part.

It’s so hard, letting Jesus wash us. To see him get down and take care of the part that needs it the most, but is the part we’d most like him to avoid.

I think the disciples’ feet got dirty again. I think later that night in the garden, their feet got plenty dirty. I think John went home and looked at his feet, and wrote, “He loved them to the end.”

My church here is having an evangelistic service in the park Sunday, and one of the organizers asked if I could repeat the testimony I gave in church a few months back. I agreed (and then wondered if it would be wrong to pray for rain), so I went to look back at it today. I noticed some things in it that I needed to hear. That I didn’t receive grace in the first place because I deserve it, nor do I continue to receive grace because I deserve it. That when Paul says, “I am the worst of sinners,” he says mercy was shown him to demonstrate Christ’s patience. That His compassion is never used up: it is new every morning.

It’s so easy to get discouraged here. It’s easy to see my weaknesses and failures: times I said the wrong thing, times I should have said something and didn’t, times I was only thinking of myself and having fun and possibly lost the opportunity to win someone as a result. It’s hard to see what God’s doing, when I don’t have many new students, and most of the ones I do have are believers already, and I’ve lost contact with some of my unbelieving friends and don’t see where any of this is headed.

I remember a sermon I listened to saying that discouragement is usually the result of someone taking a responsibility on himself that doesn’t belong to him. And I have to say, Lord, saving people is not my responsibility, it is yours. And Lord—sanctifying me is not my responsibility either. It’s yours.

I heard a story once about a “great Christian man” named Alan in the hospital, confined to a wheelchair. A pastor came to visit him, and asked how he was. “I’m so dirty,” said Alan. “I never knew how dirty I was.” The pastor prayed with him and left, telling one of the nurses in the hall, “Take care of Alan—he’s a special man.” “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “He is special—some of the nurses and I were talking about him. He’s so…pure. I always come away feeling clean after talking with him.”

It’s broken clay jars that light shines through. It’s Moses the murderer standing in the desert saying, “Who am I?” and God saying, that’s not the issue. The point is who I AM.

On my way back on the train tonight, I saw a fresh spray-paint message. Something about love, I didn't see it all--but the part I saw said "love...puts up with everything," (loose translation; word, supporta-did you ever notice that about the word "bear," too--"puts up with," but also "holds up," or even "carries"). Yes, all things. By this we know love--surely he has borne our griefs.

So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us.

In the presence of a Holy God,
There’s new meaning now to grace;
You took all my sins upon yourself,
I can only stand amazed:
Holy, holy, holy God,
How awesome is your name,
Holy, holy, holy God
How majestic is your reign;
And I am changed,
In the presence of a holy God.

Plenteous grace in Thee is found,
Grace to cover all my sin,
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within.

Grace, grace, God’s grace—grace that is greater than all my sin.

I'll never tell anybody what I did, I'll never tell anybody what I did...

Do you know what I did?

So it had been a pretty productive day, and I was feeling decently proud of myself. I had cleaned the house, done my grocery shopping, washed and hung a load of laundry, tried (with uncertain results) to clean the calcium buildup off of my showerhead (anyone have any suggestions?) to get it unplugged, made 3 calls in Italian (to businesses, which counts for bonus points over friends), and been reassured that I was not going to jail for the fact that I hadn't asked to have my heater maintenainced earlier in the year. All in all, not a bad day.

So I was going out to catch the bus to go to church for the evening, and it passed me. No problem. Being the accomplished woman I am, I can run in stiletto-heeled boots when I need to. I caught up to it at the stop. The back doors were open, but I was afraid if I tried for the front, where you're really supposed to get on, I might not make it. Besides, I reasoned to myself, the doors wouldn't shut on me.

Wrong. Evidently they haven't learned about person-sensors on doors here. I got caught halfway through. There was only one thing to do if I was going to avoid being stuck there and dragged along the street by the bus. I squealed. Or maybe it was more of a yelp.

The doors opened, and I extricated myself, sans dignity, and climbed aboard. "In Italy," the bus driver was saying rather loudly at the front, "We get on in the front and get off in the back." The busload of passengers turned to look at me, and I felt it was my turn. "Yes," I whimpered. "I'm sorry?"

He asked if I was hurt. Well, only my pride, but that'll heal. It's always shown a remarkable capacity for regrowth.

smiling to myself at you

I wish I had a camera hidden in my eyes. I could half-blink to focus, blink all the way to take.

I could try a camera, but if I have it then I don't have it ready and if I do have it ready my shot's always half-a-hair too late. Besides, it's the people I want pictures of, and even if it weren't rude to randomly go around taking people's pictures, people change when you point a camera at them.

What I want is that moment in the rose garden. The three women with their backs to me, looking in the shop window, the one on the right with yellow pants. The old man right after them, plaid confusion between his pants and hat and dog. The Japanese girl sitting on the floor against the green wall, hair falling over her shoulders and eyes closing as the language all starts to run together in her ears.

But I don't have a camera in my eyelids, so I must just enjoy the beauty as it goes.

I went to bed too late four nights ago. The pubs had emptied out and the street was still, but I could hear a TV. I listened, thinking it sounded like English. That used to happen to me a lot-- I think my brain was doing oral recognition exercises, trying to convert the Italian into something it could understand. My hopes would rise, only to be dashed against the reality of my lingual mirage.

I got up and went to the window. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it was English--an NBA game. And I know I wouldn't have dreamed NBA. I leaned out the shutters and listened to the whistles and announcers and fans, then smiled and went back to bed.

I went to a bookstore again today, looking for new textbooks. And although 99% of the people inside were Italian, and 95% of the books, I was shocked when I came out to find myself on a street in Italy. Books do that to me. So does music. I was playing the keyboard at church once, and when someone asked me a question, and I responded, it took me a moment to realize I had answered in English.

I think it just goes to show that nonostante il fatto che posso parlare e leggere ed anche pensare tutto il giorno in italiano senza problema, my heart still beats in English. Anytime I feel something, love or sadness or anger or joy, I lose all sense of second language.

I always knew there was a language deeper than thought--but I don't think I realized how deeply it is connected with language. So that language means not only a means of communication, but of feeling. And maybe this is why it's so important to write. Because it's the closest thing I can come to what I'm trying to feel.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I miss you singing songs I've never heard of and wiggling your eyebrows while whistling Andy Griffith and laughing. Love you!