They don't have yellow covers, I promise

What do we gravitate toward when we are tired and want light reading? Novels, of course.

Jim: Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. 758 pages.

Me: The Way We Live Now, by Anthony Trollope. 802 pages.


I have this funny feeling that it might be incurable.

Some larger way/ Where many paths and errands meet...

It occurred to me the other day as I exited the 10 West to take the onramp to the 215 South. People talk about "the intersection of this freeway and that freeway," but it's not really true. Freeways never actually intersect.

They go over each other. Under each other. Parallel to each other. Around each other. They have precisely arranged entrances and exits linking them in an efficient system. But they never actually meet. Intersections are inconvenient and slow us down, and so they are carefully avoided.

Must be a pretty lonely thing to be a freeway.

The younger* members of the family

Our six year old is throwing tantrums. Kassie can keep going at a great pace for a long time on amazingly small amounts of sustenance, but she requires constant attention. We are hoping that one of these days she will settle down and learn some endurance.

Meanwhile, our twenty year old is behaving responsibly. Hwin is reliable and, though she doesn't have the boundless energy and agility of Kassie, gets the job done as expected.

And we aren't even paying for her university education.


*also internally combustive

A toast, rather belated

Not long after my arrival at Biola, wide-eyed as ever a freshman could be, I remember listening in to a conversation about finding husbands (surprised that lofty sophomores would condescend to include me!). Heather commented dreamily, "I think I will know he's the right one when I can talk to him freely without feeling nervous. There aren't very many people I can talk to..."

Joel, thanks for being "the right one." God's richest blessings on you both-- and enjoy your honeymoon!!!

History repeats itself

December 2003: Jim's graduation from Biola. I think this may be the only graduation speech I have ever heard which survives the test of being memorable three and a half years later. Either of us could still tell you, in detail (and sometimes verbatim) what Phil Vischer said. I suspect we are not the only ones. It was a riveting account, not of "you have a bright future and can do anything you want to do for the Kingdom of God," but of what happens when you fail and every wonderful thing you were planning to do for God crashes down around your ears. Vischer had just come through the court case that, for the moment, seemed to have utterly ruined Big Idea, and all he did was tell his story genuinely, humbly-- and hopefully. And we listened.

Last night: Jim gave the charge to "his" seniors as they graduated from PCA. He, too, avoided the cliches of rosy futures and glowing opportunities. He, too, talked about defeat. And he, too, told stories. About the composition of the great hymn "Be Thou My Vision" in Ireland, when it looked like Christianity was about to be crushed between Islam from the south and Vikings from the north. About the triumph of Amroth and Nimrodel, which consists not in a happy ending but in a hope that will not die. And about the ultimate symbol of defeat, the hideous Roman method of criminal execution, which has become the most glorious symbol of victory there ever was. Because our God has hallowed defeat, and death itself died.

The point? Despair without guarantees would leave us sitting in beanbag chairs, sipping Starbucks and playing video games all day long, because who cares?-- defeat is probably imminent. But what we have is hope without guarantees. That is why we live, and love, and laugh, and try, and learn, and face failure. And that is worth hearing on the cusp of adulthood.

An open letter to my husband's high school students

Dear students of P------- C------ Academy,

Though I do not approve, I understand the instincts that go into defacing your classroom. I think. But in the future, will you please make it more interesting to clean up?

What is the point in crumpling up little pieces of blank paper to stuff into the crevices in the wall? You should at least write your secret hopes and dreams on them first. Or perhaps funny limericks. Or even notes labelled "to whoever finds this." But blank? Why?

And if you really want to draw with ballpoint pens on the white wall, then you could at least prove that you are literate high schoolers instead of kindergartners. Anyone can do scribbles. I had a little bit more appreciation for the person who wrote (upside down) various notes to his/her significant other, inviting phone calls, but could you find no other endearing name besides "sexy"?

Then, too, there is the case of the file cabinet. Or more accurately, the two inches of space behind the file cabinet. I'm sure there is something more creative to throw behind a file cabinet than spit wads. But as it was, spit wads far outnumbered coins, marbles, college brochures, mouse pads, potato bug skeletons, or live spiders.

Cleaning your classroom could have been an anthropologist's dream come true. Won't you consider leaving more evidence of your real lives next time?

Sincerely,
your teacher's wife

Myself, I always wondered why we didn't have boyed cheese sandwiches

Or, The Phenomenon of Transposition in Marital Communication

Jim: "Maybe someday we'll have a little girl, and then--"

My inner commentary: "Awww! Jim wants a daughter!" (melts in sappy puddle)

Jim: "--we can cook outside on the patio, maybe do burgers..."

My inner commentary: "Oh..."

Here's to my brother

All my humorous "tips," either for Boot Camp or for Cameroon, seem to have deserted me. So I will just say this: I'm proud to be your sister, and I wish I were going with you (at least to Bamenda)! --Oh, and kill LOTS of mosquitoes.

God be with you, Nat. You'll be in our prayers.

This day in history

One year ago today I stepped off a plane in Philadelphia, full of jet lag, excited, grieving, confused, joyful. Mostly I remember the surreality of it all. The customs officer smiled. The streets were smooth, and unbelievably wide. The sermon that Sunday (in my host family's church in Warrington) was entirely on The Da Vinci Code. I could talk to my family and my fiance on the phone. Restaurants had menus with daunting lists of choices, and all of them reflected what was currently available to order.

I remember the graciousness of the Ungers, and Jim and Fran S., and Naomi N., and Valerie, and Mark and Jen, and Kevin C. (and if I keep thinking about this list it will get longer and longer!), and all the folks at World Team who treated me like family. Granted, at the time I really wanted to go back and see my fiance and my family and my friends in CA, but those five days of debrief were precious anyway. God bless all who work in Member Care (officially and unofficially!).

A momentous occasion

I bought pepper on my last grocery shopping trip.

This is not the "nonperishable foods drive" sort of buying pepper.

This is not the "I promised to contribute a small pepper shaker for each table at the church dinner" sort of buying pepper.

This is not even the "I needed an exotic kind of pepper to try a new recipe" sort of buying pepper.

No, this is, plain and simple, the fact that we ran out of ground black pepper. Which, considering that I come of good solid Biggs stock, is of considerable note. Even more notable is the fact that the replacement I bought contains not one, not five, but eight ounces of pepper.

Lisa, I attribute this entirely to your influence.

Signs (the non-horror film variety)

In huge block letters on the back of an eighteen-wheeler: "ATTEND THE CHURCH OF YOUR CHOICE." (Thank you, I already do. Did you want to tell me to floss my teeth, too?)

Seen on a van, driving around Redlands: "AAA Battery Replacement Service." I didn't know such existed. Finally, someone you can call when your Singing Teddy Bear stops working or your kitchen timer gives that last dying beeeeep.

And my favourite, on a road sign in the mountains: "High Flash Flood Risk Due To Fire."

Always room for one more

They say you can tell a lot about a family by what is on their refrigerator door. Maybe it's true.

Our refrigerator door is, perhaps, motley. Two overworked magnets work together to hold up eight pictures of our family and friends. A third magnet, light on the magnetism part, holds up a drawing of Jim on one knee in front of Sharon, a word bubble enclosing the carefully outlined words

Will
You M-
arry
M
E
?

A beautiful wedding invitation which recently arrived in the mail adds elegance to the collage.

Then there is the grocery list, the list of meals currently in the freezer, and the magnetic clippie holding all the coupons we thought worth saving to see if we could ever use them.

Directly in the middle are two magnetic finger puppets in the likenesses of Karl Marx and Friedrich Nietzsche. They are, I believe, holding hands.

In memory

I see the stained glass, and the afternoon light, and I slow down. This place is not one where I can hurry. I walk past the window that says, in a little scroll at the bottom, "Preaching." Past the one that says "Shepherd." Past the one that says "Healing." Past the one that says "Praying."

The afternoon light shines full through the colours. Jesus Welcoming the Children. This one always reminds me of her. I don't know why, though I think she would have loved it too. No particular reason, no special day, just a reminder.

Light. The sunlight, image of the Light she is seeing, plays upon an image of the Light which, coming into the world, enlightens every man.

May light perpetual shine upon her.

And homeschooling mothers do this ALL day

My first student was learning letters, colours, and numbers. We counted together, and talked about sounds, and put together a picture puzzle, and played a guessing game. She wanted to make a joke and pretend that strawberries were blue. I played along and was shocked.

My last student (three hours later) was learning calculus. We discussed water flowing into a tank at a constant rate but leaking out at an exponentially increasing rate, sprinters covering the same amount of distance when all we had was a graph of each one's velocity changing over time, whether we needed to take a double integral, and how natural logarithms fit into said integral.

Can you say... trying to be flexible? Can you say... exhausted?

Quel convenient!

I find myself at least partially consoled for the long lonely week, early this month, when my husband was on the other side of the country. You see, today he brought home a picture of himself near the Liberty Bell.

Only, the Liberty Bell didn't quite make it into the picture.

The photo shows my husband and the school principal, grinning like tourists, inside a museum-like structure...

...directly under a sign reading "Irreparably Cracked."

Being organised

Have you ever had one of those times where you need to call friends, but don't have their phone number?

So... you call a mutual friend, who doesn't have their phone number either, but directs you to another mutual friend.

But this other mutual friend isn't home, so you go searching on whitepages.com.

And you find one possible entry in the right city, but it only has first initials.

So you decide to call anyway, because the worst thing that could happen is a wrong number.

And it's the right number, and you get ahold of your friends, and then you think... "I'd better write down this number, so I don't have to go looking for it again."

So you flip through your address book, and find the same number already neatly written down in the correct place.

Now tell me truly, hasn't that ever happened to you?

You know you've been tutoring Algebra II too long when...

... you sit at a stoplight, watching a truck make a left turn across the intersection, and think, "Wow, he's describing an exponential function. And the yellow line is the asymptote."

Distinguished guests

I finally read our wedding guest book.

I thought I had read it just after July 22. I apparently hadn't-- at least not thoroughly.

Some entries were standard guest-book entries. These were definitely heartfelt, and made us happy.

many blessings
Congrats!!
We're so happy for you!

Some were creative. These were also heartfelt, and made us laugh.

I'm here (though you knew that)
come work with us in S----!
dude! about time!

There was even one written in Hausa, which I still need to get translated.

Then I got to the end. We appear to have had an incognito wedding guest, though he is not usually the unobtrusive type. The last entry in our guest book reads:

Paul Biya
Congratulations!

Last year and this year: an Easter meditation

I sit where the choir sits, on wooden benches, and sing for the uncontainable joy. Palm fronds wave green and fresh. People around me are dressed in their newest and best in honour of the great feast day. And flowers are everywhere, because flowers are all about hope, and beauty, and... life.

Never mind that last year we sat on rough backless benches, and this year on cushioned pews.
Never mind that last year we sang a rough translation of an English hymn, and this year we sang the Hallelujah chorus.
Never mind that last year, the windows were filled with breeze, insects, and palm fronds, and this year, they were stained glass.

Because He is risen.
And He is risen, indeed.

Let the whole world sing,
Alleluia!

Lenten stories, part II: Why?

My most distinct Lenten memory from last year is the isolation, the constant reminder that I was a stranger in a strange land. My fiance, my family, and my church community were thousands of miles away, and though I was slowly making friends in the village, I often felt useless, laughed at, and practically unable to function in Oroko society. The constant busyness of the year often made it hard for us to set aside "team time" as well, even within our household. The loneliness wasn't constant, nor was it entirely overwhelming-- in fact, I'm sure it was no more than normal for second-year adjustment to a new culture-- but it was there, and it hurt.

I remember pulling out my Bible on Maundy Thursday to reread the story of the Last Supper and Jesus' betrayal and arrest. The disciples all fell asleep while he was praying. "Could you not watch with me one hour?" Then, at sight of the vicious mob, they all left him and ran away. That's when it hit me. On that night, Jesus was alone. It was more real to me than it had ever been before. Knowing my own, infinitesimally small, bit of aloneness, I understood the story better. I even, if one can say such a thing, had a bigger place in my soul for empathy, forging a kinship with Jesus because of some small hint of pain endured. Not always endured patiently... not always endured selflessly... but is there a grace that comes with the fact of endurance anyway? Is that part of what Paul meant when he talked about "the fellowship of his sufferings"?

I somehow found myself not wondering so much if it was all worth it, if anything lasting was going to come of my presence in Bekondo, if I could ever do anything right. There was a grace, if not a salve, in knowing that Jesus had done something in me to bring me closer to him, to change me to make room for knowing him, and that that in itself made the experience worth it-- even if I couldn't see what external difference I was making.

O to know the pow'r of your risen life,
And to know you in your sufferings,
To become like you in your death, my Lord,
So with you to live and never die...

Lenten stories, part I: Involuntary disciplines

Since we took down our Christmas tree today, it must be almost time for a Lenten blog post.

Thanks to Jessica's Lenten Blog Carnival, I've been reflecting lately on Lenten stories. Mostly my own, of course, because those are the ones I know best. As I reflect, I am realising that my stories are mostly about involuntary Lents. The voluntary ones are there every year. But the involuntary fasts are sometimes far more memorable. Perhaps that simply reinforces our dependence on grace... our desire to grow closer to our Saviour is fulfilled by him, with or without our feeble attempts. We are dependent even for our disciplines!

With that in mind, there was that memorable Lent where I gave up reading the Bible.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly for Lent. And I didn't do it on my own; it was a class assignment. The class just happened to be during the spring semester of my senior year in college... right over Lent.

Lent is, of course, about giving up good and lawful things in order to imitate Christ and know Him better. But reading the Bible? That's supposed to be one of those things I take on, right? Because I haven't been doing it enough? Reading is simply a crucial part of both private and public worship in our society. Then, too, as a university student, I sometimes went to the level of the ultra-literate: I brought my Greek and Hebrew Scriptures to church and tried to follow as the English text was read. Perhaps I was a good candidate for a "literacy fast"...

Our class assignment was simple: for each of twelve weeks, replace Bible reading with some kind of devotional method used in oral cultures. Our assigned meditations varied. Nature and what it reveals about its Creator. An early Christian symbol, the dolphin (representing the two natures of Christ). A stained glass window. An icon of the Resurrection. Rembrandt's The Prodigal Son. Listening to Scripture being read. But-- no reading.

Lent reminds us that we are dependent, that grace sustains our lives. The stark simplicity of humbly and hungrily listening as the Scripture was read aloud in church-- without even the ability to follow along in English-- stripped away my illusion of being in control of my interaction with God’s Word. I was helpless, needy, unable to feed myself. I couldn't even look up simple questions during the week-- “What was the context of that verse?” “How did that story end?” Never have I so craved hearing the Scriptures read at church, as when they formed the entire Scriptural “input” into my life each week.

At the same time, I learned (over again) the beauty of worship originally designed for oral cultures. I prayed differently while walking through the park. Liturgical services sprang to life for me... the repetition, the words of the service set to music, the visual "memory aids," the whole-body participation. I saw The Passion of the Christ during this Lent, and its breathtaking iconic imagery overwhelmed me. The timeless truths of Christianity suddenly appeared in new perspectives and in new lights, simply because the veil of my literate interaction with Scripture had been stripped away from the rich world of orality it concealed.

I did go back to reading my Bible, with great relief (and you can breathe a sigh of relief, too... I'm not a heretic after all!). But I didn't forget. The knowledge of my dependence on the written word was humbling. Then, too, there was my dependence on those God called to translate the Bible into English. I suppose you could say the urgency of translation came home to me in a new way... the people who don’t have Scripture in their language can’t read and absorb the Bible even if they are literate. But I also realised the importance of finding and using and preserving the rich oral tradition in such cultures.

"Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen." ~The Book of Common Prayer

At the top of my list...

...of things I like to hear when I take my husband's lesson plans to school because he's sick:

"You know, the kids just think the world of him. He has such a great rapport with them. You heard that the seniors want him to speak at their graduation? That's a huge thing for these kids. They respect him so much. We're so glad he's here."

Yay for my husband, who needs some kind of Anglo-Saxon epithet:

Hear! of Harrington, herald of lore,
Amassing and telling the ancient tales.
Students of apathy sit up and listen.

I've heard you shouldn't analyse your dreams too much...

But what if you're a linguist?

Even after eight months, there are still the dreams where I find myself trying to speak Oroko. And remembering it, too. Only, this morning I said "akasasaka da" when I'm sure I meant "asakaka dida." The former meaning, if I am conjugating correctly, something like "She should not be cutting [that]. Eat." rather than my intended "She wants to eat." Ah, the wonders of CV agglutinative languages... it's so easy to mix up your syllables into other words entirely. (You who read from Manitoba or Bekondo, feel free to be highly amused and correct my inadvertent use of negative imperative prefixes.)

Tohru would be proud. Kyo... not so much.

At any rate, we are very proud of ourselves. We have proved that, even as monocultural monoglots, we can actually make Japanese food.

We have, so far, attempted miso soup, stewed leeks, and onigiri (rice balls). (Those of you who introduced us to Fruits Basket will be laughing at us by now.) We have learned many things, among them the fact that silken tofu can't be stir-fried, and that seaweed tastes like, well, the sea. I have also, incidentally, discovered a delightful little Oriental market that actually sells miso... and whose proprietors can advise you that miso keeps forever as long as you refrigerate it.

Someday, we will have to share this knowledge. Any Fruits Basket fans out there that would travel to Redlands for a Fruits Basket party? We could have a contest for "most creative rice ball"...

Quotations from our (mostly successful) cooking attempts this weekend:

"It's turning green! I think it's really turning green!" "That's a good thing."

"Yeah... it is a little fishy." "Well, it's been swimming with the fishies."

"If nerddom were heaven, we'd be sitting up there seeing the beatific vision of nerddom. With Gene Roddenberry and George Lucas."

"Now is the time we really want to go back and get out the anime DVDs... how did Kyo do that, exactly?"

"Alien onigiri in a dress!"

"Gui lo! You're doing it all wrong!" "Gui lo is Chinese." "Yankee, you're doing it all wrong!"

Talk about the generation gap...

A conversation with an 8-year-old I was tutoring:

"I don't know that word."

"Well, here, what's the first part of the word say?"

"Type."

"Good! What about this second part?"

"Writer."

"So what's the word?"

"Typewriter."

"Great job!"

"I don't know what that is."

Lament

I've been musing lately about lament as a discipline. This train of thought was, I think, started by listening to Fr. Emmanuel Katongole speak in a breakout session at Urbana. His topic was "theology through the lens of AIDS," a personal and uniquely African Christian perspective. He presented the problem of AIDS in Africa as an "interruption on our journey." Not "our" as a collective, but "our" as individuals-- like his own experience of caring for his brother's five orphans and still keeping up with his parish. How does God use "interruptions," and how do we respond to them?

His first answer: lament. We can't do anything worthwhile about AIDS or its victims until we've been willing to lament with them and for them. To allow AIDS to actually be an interruption.

He referenced Jeremiah 31:15/Matthew 2:18 and called this discipline "refusing to be consoled." Consolation, he said, meant things like making ourselves feel better by offering advice, throwing money at the problem, or thinking up quick fixes. Advice and solutions may have a place-- but they mean nothing unless we are allowing ourselves to lament.

I don't think Fr. Katongole ever used the word "discipline," but that's really what it looks like. I think Aegialia really has a point here. We (as a culture, especially) have all sorts of ways of avoiding lament. We don't like it, and we stonewall, criticise, or armchair-policy our way out of it. Or just drown it with noise. I see this in myself often. The opposite is what one of my college professors would have called "sitting." Allowing something to be, and allowing it to be sad. Very, very sad. Maybe it's related to the discipline of silence.

I'm not writing specifically about the AIDS epidemic here, though I could. But Fr. Katongole was right: it's the situations that personally affect me, right now, where I need to learn this discipline: my own "interruptions" due to other people's pain. This is where I need to first refuse to be consoled (though it should not be where I stop). Encouraging someone to seek help may be good, but not till I'm willing to lament. Thinking of analogous situations, where x, y, or z helped, may be good, but not till I'm willing to lament. Offering guidance may be good, but not till I'm willing to lament. The fact is that our beautiful world is broken, and so are the beautiful people in it. The image of God is still here, but it is shattered. Maybe lament is a way of recognising the worth of what we lament-- the beauty that was and will be again, but of which we only see the jagged pieces now. And that is something we do not finish lamenting, though we groan for redemption and know it is coming.

This is pretty rough, so please comment with your thoughts and refinements. More on this to come, especially as I read about Margery Kempe, a 14th century mystic whose spiritual gift seems to have been weeping for those who could not weep for themselves. (The book isn't actually in my hands yet, so the summary is subject to revision... has anyone else read it?)

Six months

As you have probably guessed, I meant to post this yesterday. Half a year since my love and I pledged ourselves to each other for life... half a year since being together finally became the default mode of operation, and separation was no longer normal.

Since we've postponed our celebration to the weekend anyway, I suppose the blog post can be a day late. What with me having to work late 3 days this week, and Jim dealing with review sheets, finals, and grading, there just isn't time to watch the Oresteia before Friday... let alone for dining out.

But it's good. Because that's what we signed up for. The normal, the everyday, the mundane, TOGETHER. Till death do us part.

I love you, Jim!

Linguistic connection

From Tolkien's Silmarillion:

"Elwe Singollo came never again across the sea to Valinor so long as he lived... in after days he became a king renowned, and his people were all the Eldar of Beleriand; the Sindar they were named, the Grey-Elves, the Elves of the Twilight, and King Greymantle was he, Elu Thingol in the tongue of that land."

Elwe Singollo ---> Elu Thingol. Cognates. Quenya ---> Sindarin.

(Context: this is he who married Melian the Maia and stayed in Middle-Earth to rule at Menegroth in the forest of Doriath-- the father of Luthien Tinuviel. He is always called Elwe-- pardon the missing diaeresis-- until his marriage, then he is called Thingol. Maybe this is the reason I never realised before that his name doesn't actually change.)

I know. It is what my husband would call the "deep dark heart of nerddom" that I even post this. But I know there are a few linguistic nerds (or Tolkien nerds) out there who will think it is cool too...

So much for attracting ants

Hundreds of dead ants spotting my trash can are much better than hundreds of live ants crawling over my bathroom. The Raid seems to have discouraged them from making a new invasion, as yet.

And the cause? The spot where these ants chose to congregate? There were dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, but they ignored those. There was a bit of honey leaking out of the honey jar, but the cupboards are ant-free. No, these ants wanted Listerine. When they came in out of the cold, they fled to the bathroom sink and sought the Listerine.

I don't think much of their taste.

Ants. Thoughts Fragmented.

I didn't invite them. I didn't plan to spend my morning trying to get rid of them.

However, I think I am rather more philosophical about this than I would have been, say, four years ago.

Still... ants seem easier to deal with when you have a cement floor. --Not that I'd want a cement floor in this frigid weather.

This reminded me of my favorite missionary quotation from Urbana (from a fellow World Teamer): "The doctor then asked me if I ever felt like I had bugs crawling all over me. I counted to ten, and then I said very calmly, 'I live in the jungle. If I feel like I have bugs crawling on me, I usually do.' "

This one gets the Groaner of the Year

"...and I didn't know how to use the student's graphing calculator. I never had a graphing calculator when I did Algebra II, so I didn't know how to help her use it. Anyway, we got the quadratic function to the point where she could enter the matrix into the calculator, and I pointed her to the right page in her textbook for solving matrices with a graphing calculator, so I hope that helped. It was nerve-wracking, though."

My husband looked at me sympathetically. "Do you know what Nietzsche would say your greatest sin was?"

Blank. "What?"

"Pity. Pity for the higher math."

My husband said, "It must be a girl thing"

I guess so. This idea of Emily's (well, of someone's) intrigued me. So I tried it, and in the process made the humbling discovery that many of my posts don't start with complete sentences. The result is ludicrous, and as Ludicrous is one of the main contributors to this blog, the result gets posted. Sans month headings, because it's funnier that way. (Hey, that was another incomplete sentence.)


For those of you who are shivering in Fresno tule fog, and those of you who are enjoying, or not enjoying, actual snow in other places... here are some warm thoughts. :-)

So it occurred to me last night that "Khalil" sounds awfully Hebrew.

Watching Rachel perform a piano piece for the first time in public! ...may be hazardous to your internet connection. Or 3am, to be more precise.

Conversation with a five-year-old today:

"The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered." as my husband would say-- except that he informs me this favourite phrase is actually (one English version of) Nietzsche's battle cry. One learns many new things during the first month of marriage ...grating orange peel: Walking barefoot can be dangerous.

"This is my interpretive dance of the Anglican Communion in T. S. Eliotesque style."

No wonder I was so cold last night!

It SNOWED! It really really snowed! Right here where we live! In our front yard, there is real snow!!

I don't know how many years it's been since I've seen snow...

Ok, I'm going back outside to enjoy it. (With lots of layers.)

Thought on "A Chance to Die" by Elisabeth Elliot

It is far easier for us to avoid another age's failings than to imitate another age's virtues.

With this post... I coin a word

Lasselanta is one-quarter of the way to 1000 posts. Yes, folks, this is the quartimillipost.

We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto

... as I find myself on my knees by the lowest shelf in the grocery store, minutely examining a bag of pasta for evidence of weevils.

In which I wildly assert my utter ignorance

"Interesting that they call the bad guys the Alliance. Weren't they the bad guys in Star Wars, too?"

"No, in Star Wars they were the good guys. The Rebel Alliance."

"Oh. Okay. But they said something about the Federation, too. Were they the bad guys in Star Wars?"

"No, they were in Star Trek."

"And they were the bad guys?"

"No, they were the good guys too. And actually, I don't think they used the word 'Federation' here. They just call the Alliance soldiers 'Feds.' Like we would talk about the CIA. Because they're part of a central government."

"Oh. Then who were the bad guys in Star Wars and Star Trek?"

Newsworthy

I am no longer the newest blogger in my family. My youngest brother and sister and my husband were all blogging before I was... but there's a new blog on the 'sphere here. I like it. (Especially the profile. Go read the profile.)

Luggage thoughts

Cargo is a funny thing. We in the West have lots of it. We consider funny things cargo, and we do funny things with our cargo.

~I saw a woman on the jetway, deplaning, tucking her baby into a baby carrier. The carrier had a bright pink luggage tag on it that read "Special Handling." This raises many questions. Since I'm sure she didn't check the baby, did she have to check the baby carrier? Or did the airline simply decide they had to label the baby as "special" carryon luggage?

~I realised that Jim and I had approximately the same amount of luggage-- for both of us-- as I had for only myself the last time I flew. Actually, considering the weight of our luggage, we had far less. This was a relief.

~Have you ever watched baggage claims for a long time? I never fail to be amazed by 1) the amount of luggage that goes unclaimed and 2) the amount of people still standing there hopefully when no more bags are coming down the chute. One would think the system would work better than this, as routine as it is.

~If you have an unusual-looking bag, it may be easier to recognise on the baggage claim. It also may provide games for those who have nothing else to do while waiting for their bags. I saw a purple plaid suitcase go by four times before it finally disappeared. It is notable that I played the game with a purple plaid suitcase rather than a black briefcase.

Come to think of it, we in the West even analyse our cargo. Here I stop.

Processing

beep bip beep scriiiiiii... bip bip beeeeeep... tip tap beep bip scriiiii...
[image of blinking hourglass on screen]


Within the last ten eleven twelve days (I've been writing this post for too long)...


My sister got married.

Jim and I spent our first Christmas together.

I spent my first Christmas with my family (including about 20 of my extended family) in three years.

I spent my first Christmas with my in-laws.

We spent about sixteen hours in the car and about fourteen hours in planes or airports.

Jim and I served on a team of World Team exhibitors (note: not exhibitionists, as my husband will insist on saying) at a missions conference of 22,000 people.

I wore a burkha for about an hour. With the veil. Blog post coming soon.

I came down with a sore throat on Saturday and whispered all my communication until the end of the conference.

I re-connected with many people I expected to see and about 8 people I didn't expect to see.

I experienced a total of four takeoffs and four landings, the last one with excruciating ear pain.

I received, started, and finished a biography of Amy Carmichael. Lots of food for thought.



Can I be tired now?

Also...

Happy 2007!

And happy New Year's Day (late)!

And happy to be back in Redlands... oh so happy...

On the eighth day of Christmas...

I honestly meant to post 12 times for the 12 days of Christmas, as I did last year.

Eventually, I will post about why that was an eminently unreasonable goal.

For now, I include an excerpt from one of the most beautiful Christmas short stories I have ever read. Merry Christmas, and the joy of our Saviour incarnate fill you.

'. . . she had got it into her head that Christmas Day was not a birthday like that she had herself last year, but that, in some wonderful way, to her requiring no explanation, the baby Jesus was born every Christmas Day afresh. What became of him afterwards she did not know, and indeed she had never yet thought to ask how it was that he could come to every house in London as well as No. 1, Wimborne Square. Little of a home as another might think it, that house was yet to her the centre of all houses, and the wonder had not yet widened rippling beyond it: into that spot of the pool the eternal gift would fall. . . I believe the centre of her hope was that when the baby came she would beg him on her knees to ask the Lord to chasten her.'

~from The Gifts of the Child Christ by George MacDonald