City of Eternal Hope

Wind whipped away our threads
Of words, while laughter settled gentle
Down as rain, unforced;
I could not cling to rain or wind.
My fingers would not find the force
Of beauty clenched.
Open,
Strands of life fly through my hands
While I stand watching at an intersection
Of eternities. We do not see the pattern of the present
Looking forward ignorant of hope, but still
Refuse despair. Hope comes sudden as a rush of spring or
Drop of sun when one has waited on the moon.

Mouth-wide-open-wonder at
Our wait of glory.

Peek-a-boo With the Almighty

Met for coffee with various ladies from Italian class this morning. We were very international: Lebanese, Malaysian, Mexican, American, and of course Italian. (One elderly lady in the coffee shop heard us chatting and cooing at the babies in English and walked over--I expected to admire baby Anna--and said, reprovingly, "One speaks Italian here." We smiled.) Besides Anna, there was Patrizio, a little latin lover-ble whose mother let me hold him for awhile. When he started getting fussy I tried the ancient game of Peek-a-boo, and it worked (When I was first here I bent down in front of the bar and the barista couldn't find me to give me my coffee; when I popped up I think he said boobasettete or something of the kind).

Why do babies smile when seeing the face of a stranger suddenly appear from behind closed hands?

We crave confidence in unseen reality. I love seeing in a baby's face the delight of realizing that where nothing could be seen, there was really, all the time, a person, recognizable and loving.

I sympathize--I get anxious when I can't see the smiling face of God. Is He really there? Does He really know and understand me and have my best interest at heart? I fret and worry. How do I even know myself--if I am truly abandoned to His will as I say I am? The secret is peace.

"Ultimately the secret is perfect abandonment to the will of God in things you cannot control, and perfect obedience to Him in everything that depends on your own volition, so that in all things, in your interior life and in your outward works for God, you desire only one thing, which is the fulfillment of His will.

If you do this, your activity will share the disinterested peace that you are able to find at prayer, and in the simplicity of the things you do men will recognize your peacefulness and give glory to God...For the saint preaches sermons by the way he walks and the way he stands and the way he sits down and the way he picks things up and holds them in his hand."

And the way he waits, expecting to be delighted.

"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?"

I got myself laughed at...

Yesterday I went to the market and asked for "una mazza di broccoli."

The guy serving me grinned--out loud.

"Or do I mean un mazzo?" I asked.

When I got back I looked up my mistake (I had been trying to ask for a "bunch"). At least now I know the word for club, mallet, baseball bat.

But I had my revenge when I looked at the train website in English. Instead of riding in a coach, you can come here and get a seat in a couch.

The current words giving my students the most trouble are attached and attacked--especially since in Italian, the same word is used for both, and the "ch" is always a "k" sound. Successful caused them some chagrin--and me some unintended laughter--today, too.

Fasting gave a bit of trouble. When fast= veloce--what does "ing" have to do with it? But they had their revenge when I said digiuniare instead of digiunare (I think) and once again (my besetting confusion) said something happened next week instead of last.

Italians, in case you have not heard this, give a very important place to food in their culture. This is reflected in the language-- "greedy," or "gluttonous" is the the best equivalent I've found for their common adjective "goloso"; but we still don't use it like they do. Today I explained that we would say "have a sweet tooth," instead of being "goloso di dolci." "I have a salty tooth," one student declared.

Someone told me the other day that a friend who had been living in America made them pancakes. "But we didn't have syrup, so we ate them with Nutella," she said.

They also have a little bit of a hard time believing that there are foods that exist in the world that don't in Italy--try explaining Thanksgiving dinner, and you'll end up having to reassure them that you are quite certain cranberries are not the same as rasberries, nor are pecans walnuts, sweet potatoes gray, or pie, cake. Maybe I'm stubborn--alright, maybe no maybe--but I corrected one student thrice today when she referred to apple cake as "apple pie." "But the dictionary says 'apple pie!'" she replied, equally stubborn. "I don't care what the dictionary says," quoth I. "It is wrong. I have eaten torte di mele, and, although delicious, I can assure you it is not apple pie. I know apple pie. It is American. In fact, it's as American as..."

She also told me her mother cut her hair short when she was young, because she wasn't growing and her mom thought all the nutrition was going to her hair. They laughed, and called it something. "Oh, we say things like that are 'wives' tales,'" I said. "Like the idea that you get cramps if you go swimming after eating, or..." "No, that's true!" they said. I decided not to mention the getting-wet-feet-gives-you-a-cold or air-conditioning-gives-you-neck-cramps-or-diarrhea ideas.

Someone thought I was Italian yesterday, even after talking for a few minutes! Of course, she herself wasn't--but she's been in Italy a while and is married to one. She also told me when I checked her out that I needed to give her a discount of 10%. "Why is that?" I said. "Because I'm your customer!" she replied. Interesting logic.

On the other hand, when I wandered into a different-looking pasticceria the other day (it turned out to be Tunisian. I like Tunisian desserts. They are light almondy exotic-fruit fried-and-covered-in-honey good, that remind one of distant places that probably don't exist, but did once, when one read Lewis or Tolkien) the proprietor spotted me immediately as Unitalian. He guessed French.

At a pizza place the other night I saw a sign for "American pizza." "What is that?" I asked. "It's a really really big pizza," they told me. I grinned. It wasn't that long ago that I bought a slice at a pizzeria because it was actually thick and cut in pie-pieces like American pizza. "Just a minute," the guy said before handing it to me, and quickly ruined the perfect pizza-slice-shape by cutting it into 3 much more manageable triangles. I thanked him anyway.

Nothing in particular

“Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to.” ~The Hobbit, currently being read (by me)

I had a lovely time babysitting (or playing with, whichever you prefer) 10 charges last weekend—ages 2-13; for the Avant team in Genova. I don’t remember particularly a lot of what we did, but we did a lot—I taught the older ones the Virginia Reel, read with the younger ones and paid fake money for cleaning up. And I could feel my imagination coming back to me just by the presence of young minds—I almost believed me when I said we were spies and had to be quiet so the enemies wouldn’t find us. I didn’t realize how deprived of children I’ve been feeling until one of them said, “We haven’t met you for a long time; we love you!” and gave me a kiss. I melted.

But then, one has to come back, and I was tired. And had to go through Milan. I already had bad associations with it—the only other times I’ve been there, I (1) was running to catch the train that left 3 minutes after I arrived, and (2) had just returned from a beautiful week at the Avant Europe conference in Switzerland and was sad to be leaving friends and homesick and getting sick and I sat in the muggy heat and cried. It wasn’t hot and muggy Monday (rainy nasty cold), but I didn’t feel many degrees more cheerful.

And yet, God is good, and is still with me, even when I don’t “feel” like it. And He reminds me of it in verses and books and conversations. He is real and really involved in real life. Even mine.

Things have been going on strike here. The library was last Friday, then the buses and trains Monday; yesterday it was some other group that I don’t know what they do besides marching along the street I need to cross waving red flags and yelling through a loudspeaker that they are opposed to the government and for themselves. I brandished my trusty red umbrella Excalciobrrr and made it through unharmed, only a little further downstream than I intended to be.

Today a little girl I’ve seen before but whose name I forget came in the bookstore—I smiled at her and said, “Ciao!” And she hid at first, but then said, “Ciao, Anna!” She walked up the steps to where I was working and when she went back told her dad I was up there. “Oh, are you happy?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, “She’s my friend!” I melted again.

I wrestled with the key at the publishing house for nearly an hour today, because I couldn’t get it closed. The mailman even stopped to give a hand—and was happy when he opened it until I explained that I was actually trying to close it—maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Eventually I called Michael and he said, “Why don’t you try moving it right to left?” Which I did, and it didn’t work—but when I moved it left to right, it did! Praise God.

The street vendors are out selling hot roasted chestnuts, and candy—a little girl with brown eyes trying to fit a bite of the cotton candy her mother had bought her into her mouth. The street artists are selling crafts; and I stopped and bought a nativity set in a seashell. The clerk at the grocery store this evening said, “I haven’t seen you for a long time!” “No,” I said, “I’ve been too lazy to get out in the cold and rain—and then my bike had a flat tire…and you?” “I’m always here, rain or snow,” she said. “Like the post!” I replied, and then realized we were in Italy. Well, maybe not then.

I hear that the post office close to us had their bancomat bombed a couple of weeks ago and this messed up some of the mail.

And I got an SMS from the questura—at 2 a.m.—saying I have an appointment for fingerprinting December 2nd after applying for my permesso at the end of October. Wow, that was fast!

And I broke the handle on my freezer. Everything I touch…

I think I’ll go to the library now. Assuming it’s not on strike.

Stillgood

In the morning, I wrote bold, courageous words: “We are not strong enough, physically, emotionally, spiritually; but it’s in the darkness of our broken-clay-pot-dead hearts that His light can shine.” But where were all my words by evening?

Nothing was wrong. Maybe it was the weather—just as the bright, early fall days reminded me of the exhilaration of just-arriving this time last year, the colder, darker walk by myself through the center of town made me think I’d traveled back to the time when loneliness and homesickness settled in. I stopped beneath a portico haunted by Michael Buble: Another summer day/ Has come and gone away/ In Paris and Rome/ But I wanna go home;/ May be surrounded by/ A million people I/ Still feel alone/I just wanna go home…

Maybe it was passing a beautiful weekend with fellow-Americans, laughing and talking and feeling free. But one must always come back from the mountains.

Carlo recently asked me why I wasn’t jumping in the middle of a group of young people to talk with them, and said he thought I wanted to leave America, but wasn’t happy when I was gone.

“No, I don’t want to leave, and I am happy while I’m gone,” I said. “But I think I do understand a little better what the Bible means about being strangers in the world now.”

Some of my friends here laughed at me when I told them I had just discovered the library. “But it’s two blocks from your house!” But they can’t understand the way I tip-toe through days and public streets hoping not to do anything wrong. I did know of the library’s existence earlier; but a million fears plagued me—fear of it being for university students only, or of foreigners having to go through extra steps—even banal fear of tripping past all those eyes of the living-statue students lounging elegantly along the wall.

But this morning there was joy. Joy in knowing the pleasure of God in Himself, in His goodness, in me.

Isn’t it a beautiful thing how God lets us speak for Him to each other? One of my favorite times this weekend, in all the time we spent talking about God, was when A was talking about a problem she was having, and I was listening, and thinking how pretty she was, and just told her so. It had no bearing on the subject, but was what she needed to hear at the moment; and what an awesome and humbling thing that He let me speak it. This morning someone said something nice to me that I didn’t even know I needed to hear; but it rang with the echoes of truth, of Someone who knows me better than I know myself.

This God—He is good.

Rinfreshcament

Favorite highlights from the trip last weekend:

- A tractor race in the mountains! They were having a chestnut festival, and one of the events was tractors driving slalom through big round bales. I loved it! Farmers are the same in all the world. Alana, describing it to Lilliana later, said, “They were driving through hay…bales? Is that what you call them?” She can’t help it she’s from San Francisco. =P

- Lilliana trying to make us eat more and more and more all weekend! She gave us cake and cookies for breakfast. And when we went out to try some of the local food that Alana needed to try (crescentine, gnocco fritto, borlenghi), A and I split one of each because we were still so full from lunch. L got one or two of each for herself and then was shocked when they were larger than she expected, but ate them anyway. She also wore a silk nightgown, and reminded me in many ways of Aunt V.

- A and I in our room talking the last night, hearing L in the other room, saying, “PICK UP YOUR PHONE. YOU CAN’T HEAR ME. PICK UP YOUR PHONE.” We laughed so hard we cried. She later explained to us that someone was on webcam but had something disconnected…anyway, it was funny.

- Getting lost in the hills trying to find the town with the castle, then reaching it about twilight and A and I running up the steep hill, poking around the tiny chapel with the lights shining out, looking out across the valley at sunset…

- Driving back down the hill after dark, with all the lights spread out beneath us, singing Christmas carols, which have some wonderful application for missions—He’s come for the whole world!

- In church Sunday morning L playing hymns, improvising magnificently (I had asked if they had someone to play, and she said yes, but didn’t say it was her!). Then that evening me telling her so, and her saying she was nervous to play in front of A and me! We laughed.

- Luciano and his wife, whose name escapes me, two elderly believers who remember WWII. He said they first met when he was standing looking out from a castle (Montecuccolo) and saw her—or saw her white shoes. “Even now, whenever a group of girls walks past, I always say, ‘The cutest one is the one in the white shoes,’ and everyone looks to see who’s wearing them,” he said. He wanted me to take him to Oklahoma with me so he could be a cowboy and ride a horse and eat beans, and said he already had the hat.

- Augusto and Norris, a Venezualan couple we had over for an “American” supper of pancakes and bacon and eggs. “American women are the most beautiful in the world,” she said, “because they have a bottom—not like the Italian women who are all straight up. American women are like the Latin women!” We laughed.

- Laughing hysterically for very little reason, just because we felt free to.

- Staying up late every night talking about God and His goodness.

It was beautiful.

The Birthday of the Sun

No, I’m not bipolar—I wasn’t grumpy yesterday, either, just grumping—quite happily, actually. But today is different.

You know there are some days when the sun is maybe not really shining, and you can’t really think of a reason, but all of a sudden it comes upon you that you sure-as-heaven are happy. And then the sun agrees, and decides to shine, and the wind blows bird-songs and a baby smiles at you and a red shawl walks past. And you know you are madly, irrationally delighted to be alive.

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice! Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand.” [exclamation point and bold added]

Then again, maybe it’s not irrational. Maybe there’s a Reason for joy beyond reason.

grumping

I'm beginning to think flowers for American postal workers may not be such a bad idea.

I mean, I know it's a lot to ask, but I really like it when someone, like, tries to help you find the answer to your question. Of course, if you're paid by how many people you can get served, and it doesn't matter to you whether they're served well or not, I can understand why you're trying to get rid of me after I've stood in line with a number waiting to see you. After all, I'm not your problem.

The thing that makes me mad is that I let them make me feel like I'm an intrusion on their time. Why do I do that? Apologize for the fact that I'm providing them with a job, and not really get my question answered because I've let them make me feel stupid?

Okay, sorry. But my permesso di Soggiorno expired today, and even though I knew I couldn't renew it until it expired (yeah, you heard that right), I still panicked a bit--what if I misunderstood? Could I get kicked out of the country? So I went to the post office, pressed the button that said it was supposed to help people get their permesso renewed, and waited patiently behing P80-P92. I made use of my time, though, and studied the Italian word for "crayon" on the packages for sale. It's...oh, never mind.

So then the woman says to me, no, you need to take this to one of the political parties and they can help you. There's one on Via -----. You know where that is? No? Well, you need to go there. Bye.

So I panicked some more, but remembered that God has provided me with a friend who used to work in a questura and is married to a Carabinieri officer--I called her, and she asked him, and he said I have 60 days. So I'm not panicking now.

And then I went to the Neris' and we made chocolate chip cookies and sushi! What an international meal. The only problem we had was getting the oven to stay lit. And Carlo decided he needed to test the cookies from the different batches to make sure they were all okay. He reminds me of someone else sometimes.

While I'm on things that annoy me: I had a new student Wednesday. I asked her a question, and she looked at me blankly. I repeated it, and she turned to the other girl in the class and said (in Italian), "I can't understand anything she's saying with that pronunciation."

Whoa, I told her--you can complain about my pronunciation if you like, as long as it's in English and you're talking to me. I know I don't speak "English English," and I know I have trouble understanding people from different parts of Italy, but I don't tell them it's their fault for not speaking Italian the way I learned it. Reminds me--I think I read an article once on why the difference between American and British pronunciation? Like, that American was more standard until things changed in Britain, and ours is really older? Or am I making that up?

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!

Don’t do the Don’t-Do

“Do not handle, do not taste, do not touch.” Sound like a sign in the fruit department?

A lot of times Christians seem to think this is the definition of virtue: walking through the aisle of fun things in life wearing handcuffs. We hear about all the things Christians can’t do, the people Christians can’t date, the places Christians can’t go, the words Christians can’t say. We see a lot of people walking around with What Would Jesus Not Do bracelets (well, okay, I made that one up).

We Christians look a lot like everyone else, only with a longer not-to-do list.

This definition of virtue as un-vice shows up in all of our attempts to not-do stuff for God. We pat ourselves on the back for how holy we’re being, complain to God about how difficult it is and how much we’re giving up for him; and then we’re shocked when we do what we don’t want to do—or maybe more honestly, what we wanted to do, but knew we shouldn’t (What?! You mean Christians get pregnant out of wedlock too?!).

STOP NOT-DOING STUFF FOR GOD!

Behold the great lie of the enemy: “nice = not vice!” We think as if vice is the real thing, and we must struggle against it if we want to please God. The truth is vice-versa.

Virtue is not a lack, an absence, or a refraination (okay, so I made that word up); it is a thing in itself— “white is a color, not merely the absence of color,” as Chesterton said. Disease is not a thing in itself; it is an absence of health. Health is the thing (is that Chesterton too?).

Every vice is simply a misuse of virtue, either through excess or shortage. It is a failure to hit the balance of the golden rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you (notice the positive way Christ stated this, not as a negative like other religions), for this sums up the law and the prophets.”

“The commandments…‘you shall not…you shall not…you shall not…you shall not’…are summed up in this word: ‘you shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfilling of the law,” says Paul. (Rom. 13:9,10; Gal. 5:13,14). “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them,” says Christ (Matt. 5:17).

If the law is love, and God is love, does the law = God? The law is an expression of the character of God, His glory. Any time we fall short of keeping the law, we fall short of the character of God; in short, short of virtue.

Virtue, as defined by the dictionary, includes the ideas of “righteousness,” or “rectitude;” the right ordering of loves, I vaguely remember someone calling it. What is the right ordering of loves? Love the Lord your God, with all your heart, and soul, and mind, and strength. Why? Because God is selfish? No. Because it is right to love Him the most, because He is the highest and best and truest and most beautiful; any messing with the order of our loves skews their relationship to one another and leaves us in a vicious downward spiral. Only when we love God the most can we love our neighbor rightly; only when we love God and our neighbor can we fulfill the righteous requirement of the law.

The inverse (or corollary, or whatever you wish) of this principle is that any vice is a failure to love God. This is why we can’t defeat it by just trying to combat the sin; we have to get to the root by dealing with our love for God.

I tried this out this morning. I went for a walk to pray, but kept being distracted by thoughts about my Self.

I struggle with vanity sometimes. I know, some might say, “That’s not vanity, it’s just a mistake!” and some might say, “That statement is fishing for compliments.” Vanity is not always displayed in thinking I am beautiful, but in thinking about my appearance (or intelligence, or niceness, or…) in the wrong way— I can be just as vain when I look in the mirror and say, “Wow, I look ugly today!” as when I say, “Wow, I look good!” The danger lies in the thinking of myself and my own worth by my own standards or those around me, and not with sober judgment. My eyes are not getting past myself and what is visible to what is Real. And any woman (man too, I’m sure, but maybe in different ways) knows how dangerous this is. This is why we have such problems with self-esteem sometimes. Thanks for the warning, proverbist, about beauty being fleeting, but we knew that already.

So, anyway, I went for a walk, but kept getting distracted. “Lord, I just can’t stop thinking about this, but I know I need to, because I know it’s sinful and not pleasing to you,” I said. “And why is it sin?” He asked. “Well…” I said. “I suppose because it’s wanting me to be God and wanting everything to revolve around me instead of you.” Funny how all my sins seem to come back to this. Or not so funny. “But I do want you to be God, I just can’t get rid of myself and my obsession with myself.”

“Leave that to me,” He said. “Now, speaking of beauty, where does it come from? Who made it? Who is the most beautiful?”

“Well, you I guess…” I said, and raised my head. What was it I had read about adoration, the thing we’re supposed to start prayers with? Oh, thinking of it as giving compliments to God. I looked around.

“Wow, Lord,” I said. “What a beautiful day you have made! Look at all those colors! Those butterflies, and those flowers—you really are an amazing artist.” And I meant it.

And then I realized the virtue which vanity derives from: pride. A real, healthy pride in God’s beauty and artistry and goodness. The sense of, “Yeah, well, my Daddy can create a prettier world than your daddy!”

I laughed. And when I got home, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see myself; I saw someone God had made. And it was good.

So this is what we come down to, once again: it’s not about me, it’s about God.

Of course even realizing this doesn’t mean we won’t struggle (sin is not the same as temptation) or have to exercise self-control. But self-control is a fruit of the Spirit, not its fertilizer. So we can boast in our weaknesses (even when they’re temptations to sin), fixing our eyes above, where Christ is seated. Knowing that our weakness can display His perfect power, and we needn’t be afraid. Knowing that we have the promise of the hope of glory. Knowing that someday, someday, we will be like Him.




*acknowledgments: I am indebted to Charles Price, pastor of The People's Church of Toronto and speaker at the recent Avant Europe conference, for the understanding that the character of God is the glory of God. And indebted to the other people for their ideas that I used--probably more than I am aware of, because some of my thoughts don't sound entirely original and I'm sure the originals stated them in a much clearer way. Yes, some of them I know, but don't want to name for fear of being guilty of presumption.

Do the 'do

Before: Somebody help this girl!



After:

Have we met?

Only problem is this 'do has an attitude, and is communicating said attribute to it's wearer...yeah. I look good. ;) Now if only I had someplace to go...

Waterwaterwaterwater...

All the Italians want to know how it compares with "my sea." "My sea?" I say. "Which one would that be? The closest thing that could be called "sea" is about 10 hours drive..."

"10 hours!" they say. "So what do you do when you want to go to the sea?"

I laugh. "Well, it's not something we just wake up in the morning and decide to do..."

In waiting

I knew it, even before I got to the coffee pot this morning. I felt it, even before I could put the nametag “homesick” on it. I found myself reciting lines of Christina Rossetti, Grace Knoll Croll, Erendis Nasard, the Psalmist. And they all sounded very mournful. “Oh, that I had wings of a dove…”

It followed me to work—this walking-the-edge-of-a-knife tension that signifies one of those days when you feel every moment, afraid that the atoms holding you together might give way before you can get home, and you will melt into a puddle of tears and random bits of matter at your feet (which will subsequently cease to be feet, since they will melt too), and feel that you are a Thing which has properly lost all of its Property-ness. And you know, in theory, that you are young and strong and happy and that only makes it worse because none of these facts have communicated themselves to your hands or feet or brain yet. In Girl, we say: chocolate and crying (no cure, but a treatment, at least). In Boy…I don’t speak Boy, but I have a feeling there is no equivalent.

But I reminded myself of a devotional I read recently, which included this sentence: “My desires become material for sacrifice.” I was thankful for this, because it meant that I have something concrete to offer up to God. Instead of just saying, in general, “Yes, Lord, I want to take up my cross and follow you, take my whole life,” I could say specifically, “Look, Lord—I have this pain; this love; this desire for a good thing: I put this on my altar, right now, specifically, because I want to be yours.” And so the pain becomes a reminder of my decision to follow Christ, of His purchase of my holiness, becomes something I have which I can give as an action of love; a reminder of joy.

I wrote Isaiah 40:31 on the board for my first lesson, and we talked our way through the various words. “Tell me what this makes you think of,” I said. “Are you ever tired?” Eliseo, my only young student for the class, shrugged. “I’m in waiting,” he said.

I tried to explain to him that we don’t say that in English. “This is very poetic, has the sense of waiting, expecting, depending on God, seeking His will,” I said. I looked later in the Italian, which says, “hope in.”

We then went on to talk about the use of “shall” as a promise (or a threat, but I don’t think so in this case). It reminded me of something I read, speaking of holding God to His promises. That’s faith, isn’t it? Taking God at His word.

Someone who felt things even more than I do, and who actually had reason to feel things, believed this: “This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in Him.’ The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”

I did remember one way in which we use “in waiting” in English: when we consider something only a matter of time (do you know, I miss the word “expect” in Italian—it only has “wait,” which isn’t always the same), especially with royalty, or champions. “The princesses in waiting,” I saw once as a title for the girlfriends of the Royal Highnesses. I too, am expecting to be royal, but I don't have to anxiously await approval--I already have the promise.

Our citizenship is in heaven, from which we eagerly await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly bodies to be like His glorious body, by the power that enables Him even to subject all things to Himself.

Lord, I will be quiet and wait—not tapping my toes, but firm in the knowledge that you have everything taken care of, knowing that I too will rise up with wings as eagles.