The baby birds are dead.
We came home yesterday to find one lying on the porch. “Don’t look,” the boys told me, and I shielded my eyes as I walked past. We searched online for information (I was looking for the sites that say, “Leave it alone, don’t touch it;” I didn’t want to get involved) and Caleb volunteered to put it back in the nest, since it was still alive. He did, but it was not long until Levi had to boost in another one clinging by its beak. Then they left.
I looked out after a few minutes, and saw a baby bird lying on the porch. I didn’t want to touch it. When I did, it stretched and tried to squirm away from me. It was tiny, not as big as a mouse, with wings that were thin and weak, and I had to talk myself into being brave enough to scoop it onto the glove I held, brushing off some down in the process. It clung to the glove, and I could see that its eyes were closed. As soon as I got it near the nest, a baby inside started squawking, and I withdrew in fear. I didn’t want to put it back and see it thrown out again. So I found a basket, lined it with a paper towel, and hung it up on a nail near the nest. As I was hanging it up, another baby started screaming. I looked over and it was barely hanging on to the outside—I tried to give it a boost, and it tried to hold on to me—and I dropped it. Soon I was kneeling on the porch over a second baby phoebe, wanting to help and feeling like crying and not knowing what to do, praying it would live, talking to it, "Oh, little birdie...". Both of them ended up in the basket, but the mother never came to take care of them. By now they are both dead.
I read an article on the internet later in the afternoon about girls caught in child trafficking. I looked at the pictures a friend posted of her younger brother, who died recently. Three people were killed and many lost their homes in tornadoes the day before. And I sat and cried for two baby birds.
It seemed rather selfish, and melodramatic, like I was caught up in my own feelings, trying to prove my sensitivity. But crying for the phoebes was, in a way, crying for everything that is wrong with the world.
As I knelt over one of the babies, I was reminded of the verse that says, “Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Heavenly Father knowing,” and I was comforted. God knew. He cared.
My dad and I mowed the church cemetery later. I like to make up stories about the people whose names I read on the tombstones. Some of the stories, though, are tragic: one family has 3 little headstones for Adolph, Anna, and Henry, infants, and a larger one for Emma, age 5, who all died within two years of each other. Another headstone I don’t have to make up a story for: it bears the name of my brother, Aaron Michael ----, March 8, 1982—June 16, 1988.
I don’t pretend to understand the problem of evil. But I do know that I can’t be angry with God when I see it; He hates it even more than I do. He cares, and will help me with the pain if I let Him. When I cried over the nestling, God was there, suffering with me. No; I was suffering with Him.
I rode the lawn mower under a mesquite tree, and the thorns grazed my forehead.
Yes. God knows what it’s like to suffer.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 03, 2010
Substitute teaching, take two
Thoughts: it is much improved when I start the day wearing red. It was a definite mistake to wear blue last time. I’m too nice when I wear blue. In red, I don’t feel like being nice. It’s also good for me to have not quite enough coffee before starting. Too much coffee means I smile and talk. Not smiling and not talking are important for the substitute teacher. Not-quite-enough coffee, and I look scary and mean. And scary is important. Must communicate, “I will be your friend, but not your buddy.” God does that with us, right? He doesn’t let us get by with what we want to do because he loves us—even if we all keep trying to surf the net while His back is turned. We have all like sheep gone astray, every one to his own way.
Besides, you learn important things (like “has the bell rung yet?”) by being quiet.
Thoughts for the day are astonishingly forgettable. I almost wouldn’t blame students for resisting being educated, when “education informs the mind and inspires the heart,” or something just as bad.
Someone needs to tell substitutes how long a moment of silence lasts. Or if there will be an announcement.
Most students display a shocking lack of social skills. I wouldn’t even mind if they didn’t respect me as a teacher if they would respect me as a person.
By 9:20, I am sorry I did not have quite enough coffee.
Finding a “self-affirmation quote” to copy is a ridiculous waste of time. Believe me, honey, those students don’t need a whole lot of help with self-affirmation.
I am the only person who can get up and walk around the classroom while I’m reading! I wonder if I am the only one learning anything?
In the afternoon, 3 of 4 students say “Hello” and make eye contact. Shocking. I am probably too friendly as a result.
At break time I see the students who got in trouble because I told their teacher what they did the last time I subbed. I feel their hatred boring into me, and run away as quickly as I can with my cup of coffee. I shouldn’t be so intimidated by high schoolers. I told them I was going to write those things down for the teacher, and I, unlike them, am honest. I’m glad I won’t have to sub for them again.
I wonder if I left my personal notes about subbing on the teacher’s desk?
Besides, you learn important things (like “has the bell rung yet?”) by being quiet.
Thoughts for the day are astonishingly forgettable. I almost wouldn’t blame students for resisting being educated, when “education informs the mind and inspires the heart,” or something just as bad.
Someone needs to tell substitutes how long a moment of silence lasts. Or if there will be an announcement.
Most students display a shocking lack of social skills. I wouldn’t even mind if they didn’t respect me as a teacher if they would respect me as a person.
By 9:20, I am sorry I did not have quite enough coffee.
Finding a “self-affirmation quote” to copy is a ridiculous waste of time. Believe me, honey, those students don’t need a whole lot of help with self-affirmation.
I am the only person who can get up and walk around the classroom while I’m reading! I wonder if I am the only one learning anything?
In the afternoon, 3 of 4 students say “Hello” and make eye contact. Shocking. I am probably too friendly as a result.
At break time I see the students who got in trouble because I told their teacher what they did the last time I subbed. I feel their hatred boring into me, and run away as quickly as I can with my cup of coffee. I shouldn’t be so intimidated by high schoolers. I told them I was going to write those things down for the teacher, and I, unlike them, am honest. I’m glad I won’t have to sub for them again.
I wonder if I left my personal notes about subbing on the teacher’s desk?
Friday, April 30, 2010
Flowers and faith
“How long will I have to put up with your lack of faith?” Jesus asked His disciples this morning while I was reading. Ouch. That hurt. So Jesus expects us to have faith. My defensive soul was stung. “Be strong. Act like men,” Paul said to the Corinthians later on in my reading. That did it.
But I am not a man, I said, so how can I act like one. Don’t you remember Peter called us women weaker vessels?
My thoughts drifted back to a conference where the speaker had mentioned this passage (I like the Italian version better than English; instead of “weaker vessels” it says women are “more delicate vases;” is the fact that I don’t like being called weaker a sign of my sensitive skin?). “Women have more of a problem with fear,” he had told us. I know fear, even if I don’t always admit it. “They need to take it to their husbands and let them help.” The other single girls and I had looked at each other, struggling not to feel bitterly like self-centered old maids upset at being overlooked. But who had been able to help thinking, and what about us?
I wandered into the kitchen. Maybe another chocolate muffin and cup of coffee would give me strength. Two irises stood in a vase, their new home after my mother found them outside with their stems broken. The last few days the wind has reminded us of why it is famous in Oklahoma, and flower petals litter the yard. I leaned over to smell them, their fragrance the perfect match for fragile white petals fringed with lavender.
You are delicate too, I murmured. How do you manage?
Think of the lilies of the field. Your heavenly father knows what they need. How much more will He care for you, oh you of little faith?
I munched my muffin and thought. We are all vessels. Jars of clay. But we have this power in broken vessels to show that it is from God, and not from us. The more delicately fragile I am, the more others can see him shining through my weakness. But first I have to let myself be filled; I have to have faith.
But I am not a man, I said, so how can I act like one. Don’t you remember Peter called us women weaker vessels?
My thoughts drifted back to a conference where the speaker had mentioned this passage (I like the Italian version better than English; instead of “weaker vessels” it says women are “more delicate vases;” is the fact that I don’t like being called weaker a sign of my sensitive skin?). “Women have more of a problem with fear,” he had told us. I know fear, even if I don’t always admit it. “They need to take it to their husbands and let them help.” The other single girls and I had looked at each other, struggling not to feel bitterly like self-centered old maids upset at being overlooked. But who had been able to help thinking, and what about us?
I wandered into the kitchen. Maybe another chocolate muffin and cup of coffee would give me strength. Two irises stood in a vase, their new home after my mother found them outside with their stems broken. The last few days the wind has reminded us of why it is famous in Oklahoma, and flower petals litter the yard. I leaned over to smell them, their fragrance the perfect match for fragile white petals fringed with lavender.
You are delicate too, I murmured. How do you manage?
Think of the lilies of the field. Your heavenly father knows what they need. How much more will He care for you, oh you of little faith?
I munched my muffin and thought. We are all vessels. Jars of clay. But we have this power in broken vessels to show that it is from God, and not from us. The more delicately fragile I am, the more others can see him shining through my weakness. But first I have to let myself be filled; I have to have faith.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Homeward Bound
The summer I was ten I went to a Bible camp at Boiling Springs State Park near Freedom, Oklahoma. Boiling Springs is a green oasis of grass and shade in the red dust of a western Oklahoma July. The next-to-last night of camp, before all the partying and campfires and wondering what the Jr. High kids were doing out late, I sat on the steps of my cabin. Looking up at the security of cottonwoods rustling in the sky I thought morosely that it was all well and good feeling close to God now, but the excitement would fade when I went home and God would return to His distant official status…in fact I could feel it fading already, I thought, poking at my feelings like I did bruised spots to see if they were still tender.
One of the counselors came out of the cabin. “Hey Hannah, whatcha doin’?” she asked. “Oh, just thinking,” I replied. She sat down beside me. “So how are things between you and God these days?” (I found out later that counselors were supposed to discuss “spiritual state” with at least two children during the week. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know at the time, or my oldest-daughter-of-a-preacher-never-had-a-cavity soul would have been crushed at the thought that anyone might imply that things between God and me were less than perfect.) I explained my musings. And then something that was really bothering me: I was afraid I didn’t love God enough.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. “Well, because,” I said, “I’m not very excited about Jesus coming back. I want to grow up and get married and have a family and do things first. It’s not that I don’t want to go to heaven, just not yet.”
“Well,” she said. “I think that’s normal. Just because those are the nicest things we can imagine on earth; and we can’t understand how wonderful heaven will be.” If she did laugh, at least she waited until later to do it.
My Grandaddy died recently. He wasn’t in pain, nothing traumatic; just tired. The last week they told me he wasn’t waking up to eat. “You know how it is when you fall asleep watching a movie?” my mom said. “And you don’t want people waking you up to see the end of it; you know sleep is more important. I think that’s how it is for him right now. There’s just nothing here worth waking up for anymore.”
I haven’t fulfilled all the plans I had that summer when I was ten. My romantic history could be compared unfavorably with Susan Boyle’s. I haven’t written any bestsellers or chart-toppers: I’m doing well to write grocery lists these days. There are many great works of literature of which I am ignorant; many times unaware even of my ignorance. I haven’t read the book I saw the other day titled “1000 foods to taste before you die” but I’m sure if I did I would be disappointed to find out how many I haven’t tried (at least 999).
My calendar’s filling up for the next couple of weeks. I’m living in Italy, but there are still many beautiful places here and in the rest of Europe I’ve heard of and never seen; fourteen days from now I’m going home to the U.S. (I’ve never seen NYC either, which I’ve learned here is synonymous with The Promised Land); next year I’m coming back to Italy for a five-year stint with a church planting team. Well, unless Jesus comes back or I die before then, of course. But there are so many things I want to do with my life first.
And so I go on making mud pies in the slum because I don’t know the meaning of a holiday at the beach.
“I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly,” I always hear with a little bit of a black-man accent, “abundantly” swelling and drawing itself out. “And this is eternal life: that they know you the only God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”
“You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God,” wrote Paul. “When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with Him in glory.”
“What we will be has not yet appeared,” said John, “but we know that when He appears we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is.”
I know something about symbols in the Bible. The lamb that the Israelites sacrificed every year was a symbol of the Perfect One, Jesus, who was to come as a once-and-for all sacrifice. This didn’t mean the lamb was unimportant; but it was important in relation to what was real. The lamb was a symbol to help us recognize the real when it came—it wasn’t the thing itself.
I know marriage is a symbol of the relationship between Christ and the church. But if it’s a symbol, it too is not the real thing, only a picture. It’s the marriage supper of the lamb that’s the thing itself. My home—my life, my dreams—me myself—the things I love here are only preparation for the thing itself.
The Unicorn in The Last Battle sums up what everyone feels when they make it into the new Narnia: “I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this.”
If one of you comes to me 13 days from now and says, “Hannah, stay a little bit longer. Don’t you love your old bike and your apartment? Why would you want to trade that for your car and your house? And you’re getting so good with the language here, even though you still make plenty of mistakes and don’t know words and have an accent and will always be a straniera. Don’t you want to keep on studying it?” I’ll tell you, look, folks, those things are all good and I do love them while I am here. But there’s a plane leaving for America in the morning, and if you want some free advice, don’t get between me and the door.
Because I’m goin’ home.
One of the counselors came out of the cabin. “Hey Hannah, whatcha doin’?” she asked. “Oh, just thinking,” I replied. She sat down beside me. “So how are things between you and God these days?” (I found out later that counselors were supposed to discuss “spiritual state” with at least two children during the week. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know at the time, or my oldest-daughter-of-a-preacher-never-had-a-cavity soul would have been crushed at the thought that anyone might imply that things between God and me were less than perfect.) I explained my musings. And then something that was really bothering me: I was afraid I didn’t love God enough.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. “Well, because,” I said, “I’m not very excited about Jesus coming back. I want to grow up and get married and have a family and do things first. It’s not that I don’t want to go to heaven, just not yet.”
“Well,” she said. “I think that’s normal. Just because those are the nicest things we can imagine on earth; and we can’t understand how wonderful heaven will be.” If she did laugh, at least she waited until later to do it.
My Grandaddy died recently. He wasn’t in pain, nothing traumatic; just tired. The last week they told me he wasn’t waking up to eat. “You know how it is when you fall asleep watching a movie?” my mom said. “And you don’t want people waking you up to see the end of it; you know sleep is more important. I think that’s how it is for him right now. There’s just nothing here worth waking up for anymore.”
I haven’t fulfilled all the plans I had that summer when I was ten. My romantic history could be compared unfavorably with Susan Boyle’s. I haven’t written any bestsellers or chart-toppers: I’m doing well to write grocery lists these days. There are many great works of literature of which I am ignorant; many times unaware even of my ignorance. I haven’t read the book I saw the other day titled “1000 foods to taste before you die” but I’m sure if I did I would be disappointed to find out how many I haven’t tried (at least 999).
My calendar’s filling up for the next couple of weeks. I’m living in Italy, but there are still many beautiful places here and in the rest of Europe I’ve heard of and never seen; fourteen days from now I’m going home to the U.S. (I’ve never seen NYC either, which I’ve learned here is synonymous with The Promised Land); next year I’m coming back to Italy for a five-year stint with a church planting team. Well, unless Jesus comes back or I die before then, of course. But there are so many things I want to do with my life first.
And so I go on making mud pies in the slum because I don’t know the meaning of a holiday at the beach.
“I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly,” I always hear with a little bit of a black-man accent, “abundantly” swelling and drawing itself out. “And this is eternal life: that they know you the only God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.”
“You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God,” wrote Paul. “When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with Him in glory.”
“What we will be has not yet appeared,” said John, “but we know that when He appears we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is.”
I know something about symbols in the Bible. The lamb that the Israelites sacrificed every year was a symbol of the Perfect One, Jesus, who was to come as a once-and-for all sacrifice. This didn’t mean the lamb was unimportant; but it was important in relation to what was real. The lamb was a symbol to help us recognize the real when it came—it wasn’t the thing itself.
I know marriage is a symbol of the relationship between Christ and the church. But if it’s a symbol, it too is not the real thing, only a picture. It’s the marriage supper of the lamb that’s the thing itself. My home—my life, my dreams—me myself—the things I love here are only preparation for the thing itself.
The Unicorn in The Last Battle sums up what everyone feels when they make it into the new Narnia: “I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this.”
If one of you comes to me 13 days from now and says, “Hannah, stay a little bit longer. Don’t you love your old bike and your apartment? Why would you want to trade that for your car and your house? And you’re getting so good with the language here, even though you still make plenty of mistakes and don’t know words and have an accent and will always be a straniera. Don’t you want to keep on studying it?” I’ll tell you, look, folks, those things are all good and I do love them while I am here. But there’s a plane leaving for America in the morning, and if you want some free advice, don’t get between me and the door.
Because I’m goin’ home.
Monday, January 26, 2009
tips of the slongue
and ear.
(spoken) "With all this nog..." (meant either fog or nebbia)
(misheard, as the pastor read Ephesians 4) "Do not be like the Italians, in the foolishness of their thinking..." (so italiani and pagani aren't really that similar--what can I say?)
(spoken) "With all this nog..." (meant either fog or nebbia)
(misheard, as the pastor read Ephesians 4) "Do not be like the Italians, in the foolishness of their thinking..." (so italiani and pagani aren't really that similar--what can I say?)
Monday, December 22, 2008
The life of men
In the beginning,
Was the Word. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. In Him there was life, and the life was the light of men. When I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples, but the Lord will arise upon you, and His glory will be seen upon you. And nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, yet the world did not know Him. He had no form or majesty that we should look at Him, and no beauty that we should desire Him. He came to His own, and His own people did not receive Him. He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces He was despised, and we esteemed Him not.
But to all who did receive Him, who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. And we all, with unveiled faces, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. At one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.
Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For unto us a child is born.
Was the Word. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. In Him there was life, and the life was the light of men. When I sit in darkness, the Lord will be a light to me.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples, but the Lord will arise upon you, and His glory will be seen upon you. And nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, yet the world did not know Him. He had no form or majesty that we should look at Him, and no beauty that we should desire Him. He came to His own, and His own people did not receive Him. He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces He was despised, and we esteemed Him not.
But to all who did receive Him, who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. And we all, with unveiled faces, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. At one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.
Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
For unto us a child is born.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Word became flesh
One of my little friends came in the bookstore again today. While her father and uncle browsed, we played house. She was the mother and I was the daughter, and she told me to play with the cars, but I wanted to play with the train. I tried to get her to stop clunking up and down the stairs, creating vibrations that were perhaps not good for our neighbors, by whispering to her that we had to be secret. The next time she came back, she whispered, “I was secret, but Mario saw me!”
And I nodded and listened as she chattered on to me about her household chores and what I needed to do, marveling at the ease and beauty with which she dropped in the participle “ne” in right spot. I can never get that one right. And I tripped over my words in responding to her—was the mele il or la? But she rolled off masculine and feminine articles left and right without any of the hesitation and consequent vague mumbling I threw in.
For some reason it makes me laugh to hear children one-sixth of my age dropping “ne”s everywhere (I use those when I want to show off), or seriously urging another to be careful, “mi raccomando,” a phrase I can never quite get the gist of. “Arrivo subito,” my friend told me this morning, and I laughed. Does everyone here have to learn Italian?
Children are the most patient teachers. They don’t raise a fuss if you make a mistake, just wait till you’ve figured out what you’re trying to say and move on from there. They take mistakes so matter-of-factly, without the smug little grin even the nicest adults can’t help letting slip every once in awhile when you say something stupid. Children just have a lot less of that self-importance we adults have let grow up around our images. No silly pride.
“Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” said Jesus. He knew.
The word became flesh, and learned to speak.
Can you imagine? The one who spoke the universe into existence, stuttering through the Aramaic equivalent of the difference between “angry” and “hungry”. “Angry,” he would say. “No, dear, ‘hungry,’ Mary would respond, until he finally got it.
I had a “conversation” the other day with certain believers who don’t celebrate Christmas. “Jesus didn’t stay a baby,” they said, “So it’s his death and resurrection that are important for us, not his birth.”
“But it is important!” I argued at my mirror later. “His birth as a human baby is part of his humbling, proof of his love; that God became a man.”
“Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,” this man said.
“He did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing…Therefore, God exalted Him, and gave Him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, on heaven, and on earth, and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father,” says the Scripture.
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given;And the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be calledWonderful Counselor, Mighty God,Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.
He has another name: Immanuel, God is with us. Let us adore him.
And I nodded and listened as she chattered on to me about her household chores and what I needed to do, marveling at the ease and beauty with which she dropped in the participle “ne” in right spot. I can never get that one right. And I tripped over my words in responding to her—was the mele il or la? But she rolled off masculine and feminine articles left and right without any of the hesitation and consequent vague mumbling I threw in.
For some reason it makes me laugh to hear children one-sixth of my age dropping “ne”s everywhere (I use those when I want to show off), or seriously urging another to be careful, “mi raccomando,” a phrase I can never quite get the gist of. “Arrivo subito,” my friend told me this morning, and I laughed. Does everyone here have to learn Italian?
Children are the most patient teachers. They don’t raise a fuss if you make a mistake, just wait till you’ve figured out what you’re trying to say and move on from there. They take mistakes so matter-of-factly, without the smug little grin even the nicest adults can’t help letting slip every once in awhile when you say something stupid. Children just have a lot less of that self-importance we adults have let grow up around our images. No silly pride.
“Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” said Jesus. He knew.
The word became flesh, and learned to speak.
Can you imagine? The one who spoke the universe into existence, stuttering through the Aramaic equivalent of the difference between “angry” and “hungry”. “Angry,” he would say. “No, dear, ‘hungry,’ Mary would respond, until he finally got it.
I had a “conversation” the other day with certain believers who don’t celebrate Christmas. “Jesus didn’t stay a baby,” they said, “So it’s his death and resurrection that are important for us, not his birth.”
“But it is important!” I argued at my mirror later. “His birth as a human baby is part of his humbling, proof of his love; that God became a man.”
“Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven,” this man said.
“He did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing…Therefore, God exalted Him, and gave Him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, on heaven, and on earth, and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father,” says the Scripture.
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given;And the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be calledWonderful Counselor, Mighty God,Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.
He has another name: Immanuel, God is with us. Let us adore him.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
More English Follies
From my dearly beloved students:
(trying to say, "I enjoyed myself") "I am amusing."
Then: "Christmas morning, we discard our presents..." (who knows why the dictionary has both "discard" and "unwrap" for the same word)
(reading the Christmas story in English, and trying to translate to herself in Italian): "Mary kept all these things in her...ear?!!! ("heart" and "ear" are kind of a difficult distinction sometimes.)
(trying to say, "I enjoyed myself") "I am amusing."
Then: "Christmas morning, we discard our presents..." (who knows why the dictionary has both "discard" and "unwrap" for the same word)
(reading the Christmas story in English, and trying to translate to herself in Italian): "Mary kept all these things in her...ear?!!! ("heart" and "ear" are kind of a difficult distinction sometimes.)
Friday, December 12, 2008
between the wishing and the coming true
"Buon compleanno! E tanti auguri per un giorno con molti...surprises," said my temporary-roomie Deborah yesterday morning, while I was still thinking about how to turn off the alarm without reaching out from under the blankets.
"Yes, that's just it!" I said. "How did you know?" (well, maybe that's not exactly what I said to her. But it's what I thought.)
I settled in to read my psalm for the morning, a little fretful in spirit over a plan of mine that wasn't working out exactly as I thought it should.
"Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain," said God's word. "Oooh," said I.
I'd handed him my blueprint, complete with directions: "Okay, God, all you have to do is step A, then step B..." But of the two of us, he is the carpenter. I guess I should learn to hammer nails.
I had two messages on my phone. One was a birthday greeting, the other a verse: "The Lord is not slow to fulfill His promises, as some demand..."
My morning off work I stayed in bed and read fairy tales. I like fairy tales. This one says about another, "What a good thing, for instance, it was that one princess should sleep for a hundred years! Was she not saved from all the plague of young men who were not worthy of her? And did she not come awake exactly at the right moment when the right prince kissed her? For my part, I cannot help wishing a good many girls would sleep till just the same fate overtook them. It would be happier for them, and more agreeable to their friends." She didn't have much choice in the matter, I'll grant you.
Anyway, the princess in this story slept too. She was under a curse that never allowed her to be awake during the day. But at the right time, when the right prince came, she woke up-- and saw the sun. (I think if I had been a princess in a fairy tale, I would have a talk with the prince after we were married and tell him he would have to learn to curb his impulses to go around kissing princesses, no matter how dead and beautiful or old and ugly they looked).
That Psalm talked about sleep, too: "The Lord gives to His beloved, even in their sleep."
Aaah. I am His. His beloved. And while I am sleeping, He's protecting, and building, and preparing gifts, so that when I wake up there will be surprises waiting. Maybe daylight. And I can say, "Just what I've always wanted all my life!" and the readers will laugh.
I think it's bedtime now.
"Yes, that's just it!" I said. "How did you know?" (well, maybe that's not exactly what I said to her. But it's what I thought.)
I settled in to read my psalm for the morning, a little fretful in spirit over a plan of mine that wasn't working out exactly as I thought it should.
"Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain," said God's word. "Oooh," said I.
I'd handed him my blueprint, complete with directions: "Okay, God, all you have to do is step A, then step B..." But of the two of us, he is the carpenter. I guess I should learn to hammer nails.
I had two messages on my phone. One was a birthday greeting, the other a verse: "The Lord is not slow to fulfill His promises, as some demand..."
My morning off work I stayed in bed and read fairy tales. I like fairy tales. This one says about another, "What a good thing, for instance, it was that one princess should sleep for a hundred years! Was she not saved from all the plague of young men who were not worthy of her? And did she not come awake exactly at the right moment when the right prince kissed her? For my part, I cannot help wishing a good many girls would sleep till just the same fate overtook them. It would be happier for them, and more agreeable to their friends." She didn't have much choice in the matter, I'll grant you.
Anyway, the princess in this story slept too. She was under a curse that never allowed her to be awake during the day. But at the right time, when the right prince came, she woke up-- and saw the sun. (I think if I had been a princess in a fairy tale, I would have a talk with the prince after we were married and tell him he would have to learn to curb his impulses to go around kissing princesses, no matter how dead and beautiful or old and ugly they looked).
That Psalm talked about sleep, too: "The Lord gives to His beloved, even in their sleep."
Aaah. I am His. His beloved. And while I am sleeping, He's protecting, and building, and preparing gifts, so that when I wake up there will be surprises waiting. Maybe daylight. And I can say, "Just what I've always wanted all my life!" and the readers will laugh.
I think it's bedtime now.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
He shall reign for ever and ever
I went to the library today, and in a flash of inspiration, looked to see if Handel’s Messiah was available on CD. Happily, it was, so now I am listening to it and the Christmas season has officially started.
Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.
Someone wrote to me the other day, and said they were praying that I would not be especially homesick at this time of the year. God has heard their prayer—I have been feeling wonderfully and happily “Christmasy” for a long time now, and not homesick; just full of joy.
Rejoice greatly, oh Zion, shout, O daughter of Jerusalem, behold, thy king cometh unto thee.
Maybe it started back in November, when I spent a weekend with other Americans and we sang Christmas carols trundling down the mountain in the dark, with the lights of the city spread out before us. I was struck more than ever by the internationalism of Christ’s mission. “Joy to the world! Let earth receive her king! He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glories of His righteousness and wonders of His love!”
For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people: but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee. And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.
Through the end of November, I was impressed with the necessity of waiting on God. “Commit your way to the Lord, trust in Him, and He will act.” Isn’t this, too, what Christmas is about? About waiting, trusting. Then—God acting!
Thus saith the Lord of Hosts: yet once a little while, and I will shake the heavens and the earth, the sea and the dry land, and I will shake all nations, and the desire of the nations shall come.
When I went to St. John of Lateran’s cathedral and St. Peter’s in Rome, I was overwhelmed with sadness. They looked as if each pope had tried to outdo the one who came before him in expensive reminders of themselves to leave to posterity. How different from the One who “did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing.”
Come unto him all ye that labour, that are heavy laden, and he will give you rest. Take his yoke upon you, and learn of him, for he is meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest for your souls.
I decorated my apartment Monday (in about 30 seconds). I have a tree (about 6 inches high—almost as big as the star on top), a stocking, candles—and lights!
Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen above thee.
The city is decorated too—lights over every street in the center. It gets dark before 5 o’clock (yes, we are pretty far north!), so when I walked home from the library this evening, they were shining forth bright and cheery through the rain and darkness.
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
I hadn’t realized how “Christmasy” I was feeling until I went to lunch with some believers recently. I forgot that some of the believers here don’t celebrate Christmas, and politely inquired as to their plans for the holiday. In return, I received a lecture on the facts that we don’t know when Christ was born, God having hidden that time, because for us what is important is his resurrection. I agreed that without the death and resurrection of Christ his birth wouldn’t be important—but since we do have those, I like to celebrate it because it is a reminder of the fulfillment of God’s promises.
And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.
One acquaintance recently said to me, “I can’t bring myself to believe in the idea of a divine entity…”
He was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with suffering.
Another looked at me with the eyes of someone suffering loneliness, despair, depression, more sad than ever at Christmas, more sad in hearing of my joy in the season and not accepting it.
Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow.
I said to someone recently that God gives us salvation, freely, as a gift. “But we have to be worthy of it,” she said.
Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows: he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him. And with his stripes we are healed.
And I marvel at the grace, the patience, the mercy of this God and this love that he has shown us.
Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing. Blessing and honour, glory and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever.
Hallelujah.
Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.
Someone wrote to me the other day, and said they were praying that I would not be especially homesick at this time of the year. God has heard their prayer—I have been feeling wonderfully and happily “Christmasy” for a long time now, and not homesick; just full of joy.
Rejoice greatly, oh Zion, shout, O daughter of Jerusalem, behold, thy king cometh unto thee.
Maybe it started back in November, when I spent a weekend with other Americans and we sang Christmas carols trundling down the mountain in the dark, with the lights of the city spread out before us. I was struck more than ever by the internationalism of Christ’s mission. “Joy to the world! Let earth receive her king! He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glories of His righteousness and wonders of His love!”
For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people: but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee. And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.
Through the end of November, I was impressed with the necessity of waiting on God. “Commit your way to the Lord, trust in Him, and He will act.” Isn’t this, too, what Christmas is about? About waiting, trusting. Then—God acting!
Thus saith the Lord of Hosts: yet once a little while, and I will shake the heavens and the earth, the sea and the dry land, and I will shake all nations, and the desire of the nations shall come.
When I went to St. John of Lateran’s cathedral and St. Peter’s in Rome, I was overwhelmed with sadness. They looked as if each pope had tried to outdo the one who came before him in expensive reminders of themselves to leave to posterity. How different from the One who “did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing.”
Come unto him all ye that labour, that are heavy laden, and he will give you rest. Take his yoke upon you, and learn of him, for he is meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest for your souls.
I decorated my apartment Monday (in about 30 seconds). I have a tree (about 6 inches high—almost as big as the star on top), a stocking, candles—and lights!
Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen above thee.
The city is decorated too—lights over every street in the center. It gets dark before 5 o’clock (yes, we are pretty far north!), so when I walked home from the library this evening, they were shining forth bright and cheery through the rain and darkness.
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
I hadn’t realized how “Christmasy” I was feeling until I went to lunch with some believers recently. I forgot that some of the believers here don’t celebrate Christmas, and politely inquired as to their plans for the holiday. In return, I received a lecture on the facts that we don’t know when Christ was born, God having hidden that time, because for us what is important is his resurrection. I agreed that without the death and resurrection of Christ his birth wouldn’t be important—but since we do have those, I like to celebrate it because it is a reminder of the fulfillment of God’s promises.
And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord has spoken it.
One acquaintance recently said to me, “I can’t bring myself to believe in the idea of a divine entity…”
He was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with suffering.
Another looked at me with the eyes of someone suffering loneliness, despair, depression, more sad than ever at Christmas, more sad in hearing of my joy in the season and not accepting it.
Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow.
I said to someone recently that God gives us salvation, freely, as a gift. “But we have to be worthy of it,” she said.
Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows: he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him. And with his stripes we are healed.
And I marvel at the grace, the patience, the mercy of this God and this love that he has shown us.
Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing. Blessing and honour, glory and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever.
Hallelujah.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
English mishap of the day
By an anonymous student.
"Christmas day, I go to my grossmother's house..."
So what if "grande" and "grosso" are the same.
"Christmas day, I go to my grossmother's house..."
So what if "grande" and "grosso" are the same.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Longing to be
I don’t know if you pay much attention to the English, but I can tell you we have some words that confuse non-native speakers, especially since we can use the same word in completely different ways, especially if we add something little, like a preposition or whatnot.
Do you belong? What a nice phrase. Fitting in, being in the right spot, doing what you were designed to do, filling a niche. But I bet there are times at least when you don’t feel like you belong. When things go from, “everybody loves me, wow I’m special,” to “nobody could care less.”
Have a preposition.
It would help us out a lot if we thought more about belonging “to,” and less about belonging. Because when I know who I belong to, I know that I’m in the right spot, doing the thing I was designed for, fitting. He who made me and bought me will fulfill His purposes for me. I’m thinking not about myself, and what I’m doing—I’m thinking of the owner. And He knows what He’s doing.
I belong here—in this state of belonging to Him.
Do you belong? What a nice phrase. Fitting in, being in the right spot, doing what you were designed to do, filling a niche. But I bet there are times at least when you don’t feel like you belong. When things go from, “everybody loves me, wow I’m special,” to “nobody could care less.”
Have a preposition.
It would help us out a lot if we thought more about belonging “to,” and less about belonging. Because when I know who I belong to, I know that I’m in the right spot, doing the thing I was designed for, fitting. He who made me and bought me will fulfill His purposes for me. I’m thinking not about myself, and what I’m doing—I’m thinking of the owner. And He knows what He’s doing.
I belong here—in this state of belonging to Him.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
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?"
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?"
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, October 31, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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.
- 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.
Friday, October 03, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
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?
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?
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