Happy Independence Day

This morning I woke up not feeling very loudly 4^th-of-Julyish—I have my last language class tonight, so I’m skipping a barbecue with other families, and I’m afraid it’s seemed a lot like a normal day. And I am content with that, since I love my country sometimes loudly, but some days quietly too, keeping it in my heart as a part of me that doesn’t have to set off firecrackers to be there.

I admit, I did shed a tear when my homework for the day included writing a composition on the topic, “What do you miss when you are away from your country?” but it was an indulgence I could not encourage.

I don’t worship my country, as some accuse Americans of doing, but I think it is right to love it, because it is mine. I am thankful for it, as a good gift of God’s. And loving it doesn’t mean not seeing imperfections—sometimes we see more in those we love. But we love anyway, because love is a one-sided affair. It doesn’t have anything to do with the worthiness of the beloved.

Some of my generation eschew patriotism, thinking themselves to be more broad-minded and cosmopolitan. But I’ve found that loving my own place gives me the strength to love others.

C.S. Lewis learned to love more than one place. He writes of a couple of them:

County Down in the holidays and Surrey in the term—it was an excellent contrast. Perhaps, since their beauties were such that not even a fool could force them into competition, this cured me once and for all of the pernicious tendency to compare and to prefer—an operation that does little good even when we are dealing with works of art and endless harm when we are dealing with nature. Total surrender is the first step towards the fruition of either. Shut your mouth; open your eyes and ears. Take in what is there and give no thought to what might have been there or what is somewhere else. That can come later, if it must come at all. (And notice here how the true training for anything whatever that is good always prefigures and, if submitted to, will always help us in, the true training for the Christian life.)

So this afternoon I took his advice, and opened my eyes and ears. I climbed to my favorite spot, a little park on a hill overlooking Verona, still within sound of the river. The river has been brown after all the rain, but today it was green. I sat and listened to the cicadas and the birds I could almost see. I looked at the sunshine on the towers, on the river, on an orange gelato spoon someone had abandoned. And straight across the chasm of baked-earth roofs and cypresses pricking the sky I saw a cross atop the globe. When I am in the right relationship with it, the other follows. I wonder if God had that built and placed in that spot hundreds of years ago because He knew I would need the help now?

I don’t know. But he did place another cross on the earth thousands of years ago because He knew I needed it. Love isn’t about the starting-value of the beloved.

In Which Salad Changes Forms

Or, Why is it so hard to be good on Saturdays?

I woke up Saturday morning with a list of Things to Be Accomplished. They didn’t get done. That’s all. Which means:

On Friday I had been grocery shopping and bought lots of fruits and vegetables, even though I will be going out of town on Tuesday, because they looked so good, and I thought I would have the whole weekend to eat them. But I had forgotten that weekends are allergic to fruits and vegetables. Which means:

It was, oddly enough, a perfect morning for baking, and I had a hankerin’. So I tried what I now call Salad Dressing Muffins and entirely approve. I may as well enjoy having Italian ingredients cheaply available while I do. For anyone interested, I used this recipe, with a few excep-shuns:

1. I reduced the amount of sugar from 1 cup to about ¾ of a cup (and actually used agave syrup for the about ¼ cup, since someone had given me some).

2. I added a small sprinkling of cinnamon, nutmeg, and rosemary (no thyme. I never have thyme)—not sure how much. Just the right amount.

3. I replaced about half the lemon juice with Balsamic Vinegar.

4. I didn’t frost them (since they’re becoming muffins instead of cupcakes, after all), but sprinkled them with rosemary and stuck an almond in the top.

5. Yum! I recommend the frozen batter too.

And then instead of doing any of my reading or writing about Important Things, I finished re-reading Once On a Time, the only imperfection of which is that it ends (but it was complete, so I guess that can’t be an imperfection either). It was satisfying, and so I was sad with the wanting of the satisfaction that won’t end.

The End

suffering produces...hope?

It seems as though I’ve been hearing a lot about suffering lately.

I just finished re-reading (by my own choice, I grant you) Two-Part Invention, the last of the Crosswicks Journals by Madeleine L’Engle, written while her husband was dying of cancer. A friend wrote about her experience with a brain tumor. Last week was the anniversary of the death of my older brother. I received an email from another friend today whose son has been going through chemotherapy, who just had surgery herself, and whose husband is now in the ER. Other friends’ twenty-year old cousin was just diagnosed with cancer. And I listened to yet another sermon on the death of Lazarus.

While I rejoice in seeing the faith displayed in each of these situations, and the strength God has granted to those experiencing them, and even the beauty sharpened into focus by the pain, I can’t help self-centeredly hoping it doesn’t relate to me. What if, I ask. What if God is trying to prepare me to face some great suffering? What if we all have to go through that sometime, and my suffering is lurking in the future, ready to jump out at me…

I don’t want to suffer. I don’t like it. But of course I know I’m a bad Christian if I’m not willing to accept whatever God brings, if I’m not trusting Him.

This sermon helped me to see a little of how God can redeem suffering; that we have hope that not only will God help us to survive it, but that He will use it to glorify Himself.

I don't have to be afraid. Even when I don't see what He's doing, God can use even bad circumstances to empty me of myself, which is to become more like Christ, which is to bring glory to Him. Which is a happy ending.

Death is swallowed up in victory.

Five-minute delay

Trains slide screeching down the track;

Never turn around,

But they all come back.

Let Us Find Our Rest in Thee

Stumbled onto this, from Edmund Spenser’s “Mutabilitie” (doesn’t that spelling make you love it already?)—and yes, I skipped to the end:

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd,

Of that same time when no more Change shall be,

But stedfast rest of all things firmely stayd

Upon the pillours of Eternity,

That is contrayr to Mutabilitie:

For, all that moveth, doth in Change delight:

But thence-forth all shall rest eternally

With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:

O that great Sabbaoth God, graunt me that Sabaoths sight.

The note on the last line says that Spenser confuses (perhaps intentionally) the Hebrew words for rest and armies, hosts.

How nice to know that our rest is in the Lord of Hosts. “The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be still.”

The name of the canto says, “unperfite:” imperfect, unfinished. Which is why, I suppose, we do “in change delight.” We are so far from perfection that we can’t imagine Eternity. But when perfection comes…

The Lord is my Shepherd

The weather finally made up its mind to act like summer, and we have begun to—not bake, because that requires dry heat—but steam, in the sultry humidity that’s only possible in a city on a river on a peninsula. But I enjoy the icy stabs of reality that come with summer when we’ve all melted off some of our superficiality. In the winter we cover up and try to move as quickly as possible from one building to another, lost in individuality, but in summer we unite in our quest to escape.

With every change of season I’m hit with a new wave of homesickness. At least the seasons will be my excuse. Maybe because they remind me of the transitory nature of life, my inability to hold onto moments, people. Maybe because I have memories associated with seasons. Summer is for barbecue and mowing grass and baseball and root beer floats. I don’t have those here.

Although I do have root beer, because one of the families from our team has just arrived and brought me some. Some people have kindly asked me if it’s easier being here with a team. And I think it’s better, but in some ways harder. My nostalgia can’t sink as deep and fester under the surface like it did when I was here alone, but it is pricked more often in seeing families (that aren’t mine), in having our identity in common but not here. I’m not allowed to forget.

I pulled out my hymnbook this morning, and quickly started crying. Those words have comforted and encouraged me so often, and the church that I sang them in has given me so much love. I have found comfort sitting at the piano and playing through the hymns, trying to improvise (I wonder if that’s related to provare, to try). But I don’t (even) have a piano now.

I don’t like admitting to being homesick. It makes me vulnerable, and I don’t like being vulnerable, admitting weakness. I want to be tough, to not need anyone or anything. But only God is self-sufficient, and I ought to know by now that I’m not God.

So I walk through days of twilights

Living in a lack

And always looking back.

The Italian way to say, “I miss…” is more like, “This is missing to me…I am without this…it is lacking in my life.” It is a statement of fact.

This is the problem with my desires. They very quickly go from descriptive to proscriptive, implying that something is wrong because I don’t have what I want. If one takes the word want in its older sense (to lack something necessary) that phrase is incredibly arrogant, as if I am telling God that He has not given me what is necessary for my happiness, and that my happiness is the only thing that matters to me and ought to matter to Him. In other words, He doesn’t know what is good. He isn’t good.

And I am like a baby screaming IwantIwantIwantIwant instead of like “a weaned child with its mother,” quiet, not making demands.

The important thing is not how I feel, but what I do. I don’t think it’s an accident that my Bible reading came from Philippians 3 this morning. “I count all things as loss…in order that I may know Him, and be found in Him.”

I can only be found in Him if I lose myself first.

Nulla mi manchera’. It’s a promise, a statement of hope, a commitment to faith. Nothing will be lacking to me. Nothing will be missing. There is nothing lost.

I shall not want.

Hungry II

Besides trying to grab control away from God, I also worry at times that He’ll forget about me. Those are the days when I’m trying to resist hunger because it’s a whole lot easier to afford not to eat (I’m either practicing up to be a starving writer by being a starving missionary or I practiced up for a career in missions by getting a degree in literature, or both). I spend all my thought time calculating and re-calculating and trying to devise clever schemes for how I can save money (let’s see, if I take napkins from McDonald’s…and plastic forks—ketchup’s no good, since they charge you 20 cents a package here). I wonder how long I can go on surviving like this. What’s worse, I worry about what kind of worrier I’ll be in the future. What if I ever have a family? I can picture myself with a starving husband and children, trying to convince them that cornbread and beans make a viable meal option—five days a week.

But this isn’t living as if God is God. Once again, I’ve tried to pretend to myself that I am, that if I’m just clever enough or twist the numbers in a certain direction, I’ll be okay, and then I can pat myself on the back for being such a good …um, steward. But the whole idea of being a steward is that none of this money is mine to begin with. It’s God’s. He has graciously given me enough to be able to eat right now, and has told me to trust Him tomorrow for tomorrow’s food. How foolish I am to act like He needs my plans for how to save money in order to be able to provide it. Doesn’t He take care of the sparrows of the air and the lilies of the field? Hasn’t He always provided for me before? Isn’t He—God?

Yes. And I am not God, but I am God’s, one of His sheep. Which means not only that I have to give Him control and obey Him, but—I can trust Him to provide for me too. He won’t forget me. So I can eat with thanksgiving.

Mamma mia said there'd be days like this

Flip-flops don’t flip much when the part between the toes breaks. They just sit there on the road and look at you (fruitlessly trying to convince them they want to go along with your feet at the very moment when they have freed themselves forever from bondage) smugly. Flop.

So, since you’re a ten-minute walk from home and trying to get to language class on time and have already tried sticking the between-toe part back into the hole it came out of and it just kept flopping, you pick it up and thank God you like to walk barefoot anyway and are almost to class and do your best to look elegant and nonchalant and not-American, because even if this could happen to anybody the raised eyebrows that lady was muttering probably impute this unfortunate incident to your nationality. I suppose the middle-part (what is it called, anyway?) doesn’t come out of Prada heels.

Have no fear. When I got to class I discovered that I had a safety pin in my purse, which, yes, was enough to hold it together. My Spanish classmate tells me that the name for safety pins in her language is “un-lose-ables.” I’m jealous of Spanish. Only we have musical chairs, and they only have “the chair game,” so there.

Trevor and Rhonda needed to get their codici fiscali today, so we made our way to the agenzia entrate, open 8:30-12:30 M-F, 2:30-4:30 T Th, and didn’t get there until about 4 Thur. It’s the one office where I haven’t ever had to wait long. But the employees were obviously ready for the day to be done. After I explained that we wanted to get numbers for Trevor and Rhonda and their three children (5), the woman at the front desk gave me three numbers. “That will be enough.” So Trevor’s number was called and we ran back to desk number 9 to start his paperwork. Then sure enough—tac! (which is Italian for something happening suddenly) Rhonda’s number was called. No problem—it was at desk number 8. Got her started—tac! The number for the three boys. At desk 7. So Rhonda gave me the passports and I passed them to the agent, who was clearly annoyed (but not necessarily at us). The man running the number system asked if he was ready for a new one. “Does it look like I’m not helping anybody over here?” he asked. “He’s matto,” he told us, and waved his hand expressively. “How do you say ‘matto’ in American?” “Crazy,” I said. “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

So from there we went to the anagrafe, which is where you can get residency after you get a permesso di soggiorno from the questura after you apply for it at the post office. The post office is behind everything, and so everything is behind.

But they needed a residency permit now—we think—to be able to pick up their stuff which is arriving in July, and can’t wait three months at a minimum to get their permessi before applying for residency. So the very kind lady was telling us how once they had applied for the permessi they could apply for residency if they had these other documents, but one of them was one I’d never heard of or seen and she said they should be able to get it when they apply for the permessi but what kind of permessi were they? Religious workers? Hmmm. That might be different then, but we’d have to find out from the questura.

And then I loaned them my internet key, and went to recharge it and found out that I owed 8 euros even though I haven’t been using it (and couldn’t because I didn’t recharge it) because I didn’t deactivate it (which is free, as is reactivating) and so I had to pay 8 euros for that plus 9 euros to use it for a month which comes to 20 euros. How’s that? Math’s not my strong suit, but even I can figure out that 9+8 is less than 20. Ah, but you can only pay in blocks of 5 and 10.

New flip-flops might have to wait.

Fear not

Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

Set me as a seal upon your heart,
I have called you by name, you are mine.
For love is as strong as death.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
Many waters cannot quench love;
And through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
Rivers cannot wash it away.
When you walk through the fire you shall not be burned,
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
And the flame shall not consume you.
The very flame of the Lord.
For I am the Lord your God,
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior.
Because you are precious in my eyes,
If a man offered for love
And honored, and I love you,
all the wealth of his house,
I give men in return for you, peoples in exchange for your life.
He would be utterly despised.
Fear not, for I am with you.

Randomness

- Italians eating at the airport last thing before heading to Germany for a wedding the next day, because (in a sinisterly knowing voice), “Who knows what there will be to eat tomorrow.” Admitting the next day that the breakfast was actually good (although there was too much of it), but the coffee was terrible.

- Here there are people who pretend to be statues in order to get money. I’m not sure why I’m supposed to give them money for pretending to be statues, but there you have it (the first time I saw one I didn’t know what he was. I just knew there wasn’t a statue there the day before. So I went and examined it—I’m sure the person inside was having difficulty not laughing). One man, however, I find more impressive—instead of pretending to be a statue he pretends to be in motion—walking down the street, hair and tie blowing in the breeze—and holds it still. This does mean, though, that when he’s actually walking or standing talking with someone he looks kind of strange.

- We saw a crazy man today. And not any ordinary crazy man. This one was tall, well-dressed, leaning on an umbrella—and, um, growling to himself. He then started to shriek, then switched to singing Pavarotti.

- Speaking of music, I heard “Part of Your World” from “The Little Mermaid” issuing from the apartment next door. Which wouldn’t be strange, except that I had been under the impression that it was two single guys living there. Hm.

- Last night we went to see a performance by the dance schools of the Veronese territory. It was good, but we were amused by the food vendor walking around ahead of time. He was selling chips, beer, pop; later on limoncello and coffee (we could smell that). I tried to imagine that happening at an American dance recital. Maybe people would enjoy it more if it did.

- Saw a t-shirt in the window the other day that said: “Jonk New York/ Born America/ U.S.A. University/ Old Style/Manhattan Zone”. I’m not sure where this English is from or what it was trying to express. Jonk?

Hungry

I looked at the bathroom scales. Or maybe they looked at me first, scaley and seductive. Why not? They whispered. You can just check to make sure you’re in a healthy range. Otherwise you might keep worrying about it. And then you can go away and forget about it. You’re past that whole problem of finding your worth based on your weight. I gave in. The number was in the general range I said I would be satisfied with, and so I intended to leave it there, happy. Soon, though, the nagging started again.

Remember a few weeks back when you weighed three pounds less? You looked and felt a lot better then. You shouldn’t just accept this weight when you know you can lose three pounds.

Alright, I said. I’ll try to eat less, like I was doing three weeks ago. I had been dieting before a friend’s wedding, and kept telling myself that it didn’t matter if I felt hungry all the time, because I’d eat when it was over. Of course that hadn’t kept me from always thinking about food.

Must control my appetite. Not eat every time I think I’m hungry. Then I can lose three pounds and feel attractive and happy again. Bother, I’m hungry already.

“You fill the hungry with good things,” I read. But you also give us hunger. And expect us to exercise self-control. Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with you God, to see which will win out—my hunger (which you sent), or my self-control (MINE). But you’re God, which doesn’t seem fair. You’re in control of the whole universe, can’t I even have control of my own body? By the way, that wasn’t a very funny trick you pulled. That was my muscle. So now I can’t go running. And you know I like to run. It makes me feel so—in control. I bet you did it on purpose.

And then I pray, which means agreeing with God that He is in fact God. And I’m not.

“I urge you therefore, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices.” Offering up control, even of our bodies. Asking to be controlled by the Spirit, who gives self-control, but only as fruit (not fertilizer, as my dad used to say). Relinquishing my desire to exercise control over my life, which always leads to pride or despair, or both. Recognizing that all things are from Him, and through Him, and to Him. How desperately I need the True Food and True Drink.

He can only fill my mouth when I open it.

Overheard

A father to his young daughter: “‘Amare’ vuol’ dire volere bene bene bene benissimo.”

My best attempt at translation: “‘Love’ means to like somebody veryveryverymuchthebest.”

(because “volere bene” (lit. “want well”) means love, but the parent/child/brother/sister/friend kind of love, and “amare” means amorous love).

We need more precise words in English.

Dress to Express

I like clothes (shocking revelation, I know). My siblings have always teased me because I remember events by what I was wearing. One of the great sadnesses of my life was outgrowing my favorite dress ever (it was shiny pink, with a full ruffly skirt that had bells sewn into it which jingled when I walked—I don’t know why they don’t make dresses like that for those of us past fourth birthdays).

One of my great mantras of dress has always been, “Wear exactly what you feel like,” because I’m limited in my forms of artistic expression, but I still feel like I’m accomplishing some when I put together an outfit. And yet I don’t know how many times I’ve been put off of wearing something for fear others might notice, might deride my decision. So I end up wearing something safe.

But lately I’ve been trying to focus more of my life on glorifying God—that is, trying to consciously remember that God is God, and I am not. As I care more about what people think about God (a natural result of remembering that He is God), I find that I care less about what people think about me.

I notice that all the flowers are praising God with different colors. The trees and sky and river are rejoicing together by being trees and sky and river, and I want to be in on it. I wear my big bright orange rose on my hot pink polo shirt as my expression of thanks and praise and joy in God (have you noticed the colors in the biblical accounts of His glory? I’m so glad He loves color, and that I know even from science that there are colors I haven't seen yet).

And I find that, like so much of the Christian life, it is a paradox. The more I submit myself to God, the less I am concerned with my Self and what will make me happy and what others will think of me, and the more of myself I become and am able to express (“to press out,” the exact opposite of impressing). The more I become what God made me to be.

And I don’t really mind if others think I look silly—after all, the God who made me is the same one who made the platypus.

“Clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify the desires of the sinful nature.” Romans 13:14

Anna

I met Anna yesterday. I’d actually met her before, but yesterday was our first time to talk--we’re exchanging conversation to practice our Italian and English.

It didn’t take long to find out that she loves country (pronounced “cow-un-tree”) music and line dancing, and was excited to find out that I really do come from Oklahoma. Her fiancé runs a Wild West show, and she always rides in carrying the American flag at the beginning (of course, she explained, they have to carry the Italian flag and play the Italian national anthem too, but she chose the American one). Her fiancé is very particular about doing things Right, so they watch rodeos (rod-E-os—we mispronounce words we borrow too) on youtube, and Italian children scramble to pull the ribbon off of a goat’s neck. She invited me to come read the Cowboy’s Prayer at the beginning sometime.

She was supposed to get married this year, but they wanted to buy a house too, so that came first, and fixing it up is happening now (so my vocabulary lesson for the day was in the construction field), and the wedding will come next year. She is a little sad that she will be so far away from her family (a 45-minute drive) and her parents won’t be able to babysit for her, but also thinks that with a little space she will have to make decisions on her own and grow instead of always depending on her parents, and will appreciate her family more when she does see them.

She’s never been to an opera, although she was born and raised in Verona, because, you know, you never see the things where you live. And yes, Italy has some beautiful places, but America…America must be visited.

Quietness and Trust

Yesterday God called my attention to some sin in my life. Not the first time that has happened, but it’s never a pleasant experience. The relief of confessing it and knowing I was forgiven was, however, and I was singing and reveling in grace all afternoon, knowing that the weight that had blocked fellowship between me and God was gone, and that now I could look back on the past days of dissatisfaction and know why I was so dark and dry.

Today the feelings were not so sharp, but that is alright, because it is not feelings of God that I worship, but Him, and it is not feelings which He requires of me, but obedience. I look at my past and realize how many times I have committed variations on this sin of living with myself at the center of the world instead of God (that’s what sin is, after all), and am sad that I have repeated it and probably will again. And I look at the patterns of my life that lead to sliding into this state of sinfulness, and I see that it starts with trying to be righteous on my own, which starts when I am not spending time with God in prayer, in His word. And so I determine that this will not happen again, and set to work to kill the flesh in the power of the flesh.

And then I get tired.

I make a cup of coffee, admiring the pattern of blue and yellow flowers on the tiny white cup and saucer. I think the secret of why I like espresso is really the delicacy of the cups.

Jesus said we bear fruit by abiding in Him, our vine. It doesn’t take work to abide, only dependence, which is trust. And I am caught up again in the paradoxes of this Christian life, the fight to be still and let God fight. But I know He wins in the end.

Hope, I recently read, is the future tense of faith. It is trusting God with the future that I can’t do anything about. And my hope of glory is Christ in me. When He appears, I will be like Him, for I will see Him as He is. For now, I can trust.

“In quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” Isaiah 30:5

lo di che han detto addio

I am going away soon, and have been feeling that it must be a little similar to dying. When you get past the pain, the awareness of life it gives you is beautiful. I wouldn't want to live like this always, but it is nice for the moment, and necessary. Probably dying is its own separate thing, and needs its own courage.

When I let go trying to hold onto what will soon be no longer mine, there's a sense in which it's more mine and more beautiful and I'm more aware of it for not trying to cling to it. And I can be grateful for the hours, or moments that are allotted to me as sheerly superfluous grace.

I feel like I'm noticing things more, and am being grateful for them (not just "grateful," but being grateful in an active way). I see people around town and think how silly some of my former dislikes of them were, and am filled with an expansive love for humanity for being so much like me. My old dog is sitting on my feet, snoring, and I love him for it.

It becomes so much easier to tell people you love them, because you know it's the essential thing, but also harder, because you know it will sound trite and not convey what you really mean: that you--love them.

I have felt so much wonder for light, for the sunshine and sky. I feel sometimes as though I had just returned, and was rediscovering the beauty of my home. We've had lovely sunsets lately. "With you is the fountain of life, and in your light we see light."

It must be a little like death. But death is a prerequisite to resurrection.

Prepossessing

Possession, they say, is nine-tenths of the law.
You however are not under law, but under grace,
And grace did not consider equality with God something to be grasped.
You emptied yourself, once or twice
And oh it felt good to get through death to resurrection.
But things pile up. Today you went into the attic
Pulled out a toy and said, “Not this one, God; it’s mine.”
God put you on His lap and explained that nothing’s yours, really,
Since everything is His and He will freely give you all things.
Time for another yard sale! Where everything must go
From mine to thine,
And the sign on you says, “Free.”

The birds

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.

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?

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.