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