On the Run

On the Run

Seems like my adult life has been on the run. Lots of moving. Lots of sleeping in different beds, eating different foods, different climates, different languages, different, different, different. But what about honest-to-goodness refugees, displaced peoples? These guys know more than change. What does God have to say to them?

Before Jesus was born, his parents had to leave their home village and journey to Bethlehem to register (Matthew 2) for the census. I guess the mail-in survey system wasn’t in place yet. What an exhausting, miserably uncomfortable trip for the very pregnant Mary. Just two teens, on their own for the first time. They leave the shelter of a small community and journey to a huge city. They had no maps, no GPS, no credit cards, little cash. No plane, car, buses or train. Miserable climate and terrain. Rough soldiers, ID checks, no Motel 6.  What must Mary and Joseph have been feeling? 

When they get to Bethlehem, there is not even a place for them to stay -- though, who knows if they can afford to pay anyway. So they’re sent packing to the stable. A baby born in a stable? But that is where the One who spoke the universe into being was born. And there Mary and the baby recovered.

Just when life might have begun to take on some normalcy, three impressive men from exotic places bring astounding gifts to this poverty-stricken king. Had it not been for the pitiful and wonderfully crazy reality of it, it might have seemed like a situational comedy.

Joseph hears from God again. The marvel is that he didn’t question the veracity of the dream. He acted. And because of it, spared the Messiah from Herod’s death-squads hot on their heals. They’re sent to Egypt, an over 75 mile walk, to join thousands of other Jewish refugees. They’re just two teenagers and a new born, in a foreign country, a few spendy-gifts in their sack to tide them over for a while.

Herod is furious and turns to violence. How many little boys were torn from mothers’ arms and killed because of a man’s insane jealousy? But God protected His son, His chosen one. Before Herod realized that the Magi had outwitted him, God sent the little family packing to Egypt. They were not aged wise men but teenagers who believed and obeyed God. 

As an adult, Jesus said, (Matt. 8:20) “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” Jesus was still on the move. The picture doesn’t match “the good life” image we typically cling to.

I find it comforting to know that Jesus understands change, moving, being displaced, a refuge. He’s been there. He lived it. And just as God prepared for Jesus’ needs and protected him, I’m in God’s hands. The place where we lay our heads is not as important as the connection with the One who guards our lives, wherever, even when we’re on the run.

http://www.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/08/24/pakistan.floods/index.html?hpt=T2

My good friend from town hurried to our house. She was quite agitated.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course we’re okay.” I couldn’t imagine why she was so shaken. “What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned for her.
“We thought for sure the guerillas had taken you last night.”
“Guerillas? Last night? What do you mean?”
“What!? You didn’t hear them? No one in town slept! The guerillas were in town. They were blaring on their speakers for hours. There was mortar fire. They were screaming about the evils of the Americans and how no one can trust them. Everyone in town lay awake, trembling in our beds. We were sure you had been taken and we were terrified.”

I caught my breath, my mind racing. The civil war was heating. Two of our colleagues working in other towns had been routed out by leftist guerillas. Because of our citizenship, we were considered “the enemy.” We were the only Americans for many miles. The insurgents burned our colleagues’ homes and car. But last night, they walked past our car twice, once when entering the town, again when they left. They didn’t even leave one of their typical painted messages. And they never came to our house, just a five minute walk down the path. How could it be that we escaped with absolutely no incident?

“We slept peacefully last night,” I assured by friend. I usually tossed sleeplessly whenever there was noise in town -- raucous music, blustery preaching, fireworks. It just did not all add up. My friend was incredulous. “How could you not have heard!?” she wondered aloud.

“I don’t know.” I replied. “I’m glad we slept but how we slept is baffling.”

Since there were no telephones nor internet available at that time, we wrote a letter telling our US prayer team about this incident. A friend in New York wrote us a response, telling us this story:

“One night in June I was reading Psalm 4. When I came to verse eight, I felt an urgent need to pray it for you right then. I wrote your names and the date next to the verse in my Bible. It was the very night the guerrillas attacked and you slept through it all.” We looked up Psalm 4:8.

Psalm 4:8      I will lie down in peace and sleep,
         for you alone, O LORD, will keep me safe.

Was this how prayer worked? No limits? We had asked people to pray for us but had we ever really believed that it made a difference? After this incident, we felt protected by God and by the prayers of His people. We were connected to the All-powerful One and His people scattered all over the globe. And our prayers became less about obligation and more about communication with The God Who Is There.

Thanks God. And help me to remember...

Durian

Where are the truly devoted durian enthusiasts? There are those, particularly southeast Asians whose saliva begins to flow just at the mention of the name of the fruit. Durian. Made you drool! And to you, I beg your pardon for what follows... 

For the uninitiated, durian prompts a totally different response. Let me tell you about my durian experiences...

I was in southeast Asia. “Have you eaten durian?” they asked.

 “No,” I responded.

”Would you like to try some?” 

“Of course! I always like to try new foods.” That is not entirely true. I am usually willing to try new foods. I do not always actually like the experience. 

I continued chatting with some of the group when all of a sudden I smelled stinky feet. I felt embarrassed for whomever it was. Everyone removed their shoes indoors but what a dreadful experience to have everyone know that you were the one with wretchedly smelling feet! Then the smell approached me. With a bit of panic, I realized that the spikey thing in the guy’s hands looked suspiciously like what I had just agreed to taste. Durian. My saliva quit flowing.

Everyone else was excited. This was a party. A durian party. And I was definitely not into celebrating. My senses warned me to leave the room posthaste but my cross-cultural training told me to stay put and stuff it down.  I resolved to “become all things to all men” and when presented with durian decided that I would make myself like it. I bit into it and looked for anything positive I could say. The taste left nothing to recommend itself. The texture grossed me out. Fragrance? Help! I tried. I really tried. But I could think of nothing to say to it’s credit. 

At least five pairs of eyes were fixed on me. With great anticipation they asked, “Do you like it?” I really did not want to offend them. They were great people. I wanted to please them. I knew if I didn’t like it I would fail the test. If Jesus were standing next to me saying “eat” I suppose I would but since the smell of durian was right then the most prominent thing in the room, I simply couldn’t risk being offered another piece. I believe in adapting but this? 

”It’s...no...” I couldn’t do it. I failed.

Several years later a friend in the US asked if I wanted to try durian. Was I hearing right? We were in the US! Was it even legal to import durian? Or did someone actually grow it here??

My sense of failure begged for another chance to prove itself. “Yes. I’ll try it! I have to get used to this stuff.”

Out came the wretchedly smelling stuff, filling the kitchen with the familiar scent of smelly feet.

“We wanted to try something different.” explained my friend. “But when we opened it, we could hardly believe it smelled so bad! I really want it out of my fridge.” I guess so!

So, we each sampled two pieces. I was gaining some sense of accomplishment. It actually was not quite as bad as I remembered. I would not go as far as to say that I actually liked it. Definitely not. But maybe, just maybe I could eat it if my life depended on it -- or it saved someone else’s.

My friend and I were feeling quite victorious when a piece of durian dropped on the floor. Her dog eagerly licked it up and then began to lick our legs. We were horrified! “NO!!” we both exclaimed. The dog was hurried outside. We washed our legs and the floor thoroughly. Several times.

“Maybe I’ll just dispose of the remainder of the durian,” said my friend.

“That is probably safest,” I agreed.

I’d had my desensitization experience. Though I would never seek another durian experience, I thought I could probably live through it if necessary. Just please put the dog out first.

And don’t ever, ever think about manufacturing durian body wash, after-bath splash, after shave or mouthwash! Then again, I wonder if anyone has considered it for some sort of  antiterrorist weapon?

And to those of you who love durian, again, I apologize and “Bon apetit!” 

A Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad, No Good Day

A Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad, No Good Day
(2 Kings 5:1-15)

We don’t know a lot about the young girl. Maybe she was out carrying water for her family, maybe she was washing clothes in a stream, maybe she was shepherding, or maybe she was home. In any case, a normal day turned sour when a band of Arameans swooped down on her, snatched her from her family, home and homeland and carried her off to another country. Where were the human rights advocates then?

Perhaps she was fortunate to not be pressed into outright prostitution. Did they do that back then? In any case, this girl was a lady’s attendant to the wife of the army commander. Perhaps she combed her lady’s hair, or washed her clothes or fanned her. In any case, there was probably a lot of bowing and scraping, one step behind her mistress. Was there any time for self pity? Did she have the luxury of grieving her loss? Was she bitter about her circumstances? Not a word on any of those responses. All we know is that “she served.”

She served. The commander of the army was doubtlessly a commanding person. How this young girl could ever hope to have an influence in this household is mind-boggling. How many of us would scarcely have retained hope let alone said something? But when the master came down with an incurable disease, the situation changed. A young girl with an idea became an asset. If there was any self-pity or bitterness, it doesn’t show. She retained her soul, her identity, her dignity. She served and must have served well because she was respected and even listened to -- something a master usually didn’t do. And when the family she served faced a crisis and was open for some input,  she recognized the opportunity and spoke up. And she did it in an intriguing way that piqued the interest of the commander and the king. She was not the deliverer, but she was an arrow, pointing the way to the deliverer.

This young girl speaks volumes to me. A victim of human trafficking, a slave, her identity swallowed up in that of her mistress. She was no more than a piece of property, “stuff”. In such a situation, how could I have retained hope? Personal dignity? Been compassionate? Feared God? Her response is so opposite of my natural tendencies, I’ve got to think about this some more. We are so into comfort, the good life, “my rights”. This girl had none of that. But she had something infinitely better. I want what she had.

Irises, Hydrangeas and Violets

What's in a name? Well, they asked what I wanted to call this thing, so I had to think of something! So, some of my favorite flowers came to mind.

I love flowers. Passionately. Almost all flowers. But especially lavender flowers, like irises, hydrangeas and violets. Most people around here think violets are weeds. But when the violets blanket the ground making a carpet of violets where Janna should have lawn, I love it. And I love that the moles didn't eat my irises. They ate lots of other stuff, but apparently irises are not so tasty. So, I'll grow irises (and now that a few moles have dug new tunnels, they might find a bit of opposition). And hydrangeas, well, they are wonderful. But so far, I haven't had many on my two bushes. Last year I pruned the bushes at the wrong time and innocently cut off the buds. This year I was most careful to leave the buds on the bushes. So instead of two flowers I had eight. Hmmm...maybe next year I'll figure out how to have thirty-two.
Meanwhile, the weeds are thriving...and they don't all have lavender flowers.

I'd like to add a picture to this but I think this is enough of a first attempt at a blog. I'm technologically exhausted!