Category Archives: Musings

My Dad at 75 years …

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For me, Frank Arthur Peters is a man that brings to mind flashes of hearty laughter at the dinner table, his classic “no no” response, the aviator sunglasses and slung-over camera, the quick quick walk …

It brings to mind intense conversations between him and I — when his earnestness takes over and his worry about me:
1) making sure I paid my credit cards off, 2) follow the Lord, 3) whether or not I know how to change a tire or my oil, or 4) if I’m beating him in ping pong.

It’s the same earnestness I see from the pulpit — especially when he’s preaching in bahasa Indonesia.

And in between these moments of earnestness, I see who I would imagine my dad was as a boy in college: all arms and jokes and sports and adventure. Even his proposal to my mom was a bit of a prank, pretending he dropped the ring in the creek over the bridge railing. My dad lives for a good joke, often repeating it if he thinks we didn’t hear.

For the four of us children, after he led family devotions, playing games with Dad was what we looked forward to in the evening. He always had time for us — even after he had already been at the river with us for our 5 o’clock swim.

Sketches that fill out the portrait of who I see my dad as:

In 2016 — Christmas time, when he took me to play pickle ball with the other retirees in Albany, OR: I thought I’d be able to school these guys. No. This group was competitive. So was my dad. Sweatband around his head. If he would curse, it may be in these moments. I really was no match for this group and I’m sure I brought his game down when we played doubles.

In the mid-90s, when we were on the longest, hottest road trip across Java, Indonesia and we stopped for gas. I was crammed in the back, watching my dad repack the luggage and I was just hammering him with whining. He burst out with a “just shut up for a moment.”

Which stunned me. Like a slap in the face. We were never allowed to say that. To hear my dad say that.

But the fact that I remember that … just says so much about him. Because it’s the only time I remember him saying anything mean to me. And he apologized right after.

In 1991, walking in to my older brother, Jeremy’s hospital room. Tubes and machines seemed to surround his bed. To my 5th grade mind, he was the inanimate object. The machines and tubes were the live beings that clicked, whirred, beeped. He barely moved.

And to the side of his bed sat my dad. Crying — with love and without shame. For the first time in my 10 years that I could remember. My dad crying.

Once in 2011, dad gave me a book: The Writer’s Guidebook. One of the presents that meant the most to me. With the gift of that book, I found a reprieve from a worry that somehow my dad was disappointed in me that I wasn’t a missionary like him. Instead it was a gracious way of encouraging me to follow my passions.

Just a month or so ago, he called me up telling me he read a story I wrote a long time ago and he cried. I laughed — a little embarrassed — but I actually loved it deep down.

More brushstrokes:

▪ Dad butterfly stroking across the Kayan River in Borneo — its swift current pulling him several 100 meters further downstream than where he started.
▪ Holding me on his lap when I was little — on our old rattan rocking chair.
▪ Reading us something he just could not get through, blowing his nose with his handkerchief.
▪ Playing volleyball with his whole heart — he really had no mercy on anyone.
▪ Standing up at the pulpit in his batik shirt, preaching.
▪ Saying over and over again, “here, take a picture of me, just here.” He tours cities like he’ll never visit them again.
▪ Capping giant Pepsi bottles, with his own homemade root beer.
▪ Trying the traditional Dayak dance, his students shrieking with laughter.
▪ On his motorbike, loaded down with suitcases, roaring down the grass airstrip, trying to beat the Cessna 185 before it landed.

Running, riding, moving, moving, moving — always moving. But in the morning, you can find him with his cup of coffee, outside, with his Bible, by the flowers he planted.

He’s lived these 75 years with an intensity that most would find exhausting, helping his extended family members, worrying about the state of the world (and his daughters), every road trip he takes becoming an adventure.

When I hear that someone is 75 years old, the image that comes to mind isn’t my dad. But when you ask me to tell you about someone who has lived a full life, full of love and people who love him. That’s him — through and through.

Happy 75 years Papa — I love you!

The Oldest Thirst

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It’s a surreal feeling — everything shut down while the world is exploding in color and bursting into bloom.

And we in Maryland are not quite on lock down yet and I know it’s barely been a week really. But a week can feel very long when things are shut down, and everyone is trying to scramble to figure out what the hell is going on. Just watch the news … they’re trying to make sense of it all with all kinds of explanations.

We all are supposed to stay away from each other and for the most part, that means a significant time inside. I’m thankful for spring right now and everything inside me is drawn to what is outside: the sunshine, the blossoms — pink, white, variegated — hovering, crowding on the trees.

I’m enjoying it on my own or in groups (spread out!) of a few or less. This last week has given me a bit of time to think — as I move from my dining table (working from home) to crashing on my couch 6 steps away (shortest commute ever).

Families living together obviously can hug each other and stay with each other. But when you live alone, wanting to be careful and keep your distance, the feeling of touch becomes another being all together.

So … admittedly, it’s tempting to answer the texts of “wyd?”,
… and shaving your legs becomes a somewhat tender moment between you and yourself …
… and when my hand brushed the cashier’s accidentally when giving her my card, we both pulled back quickly. No touching! But it was the first time I had had physical contact since Aza washed and cut my hair ten days ago. I hadn’t even thought of that until today.

It’s odd how quickly things become a new normal.

But while virtual dates and happy hours can provide stand-ins for now, I didn’t realize how much seeing a familiar face — that wasn’t just another floating head on my computer — meant to me until last night.

There’s nothing like seeing a loved one in person. I had dinner with a friend (in the park – apart from each other!) and just seeing her full self did me a world of good.

While we walked down the street, we ran into a few neighbors, and seeing them at a distance walking down the street just made my heart so happy. We didn’t hug or give high fives, but we stood in a wide circle talking, making introductions to our friends.

And I didn’t want to leave. I had the biggest smile on my face.

Just typing this, I still do. Call me sentimental or overly dramatic but I’m realizing how physical distance and contact is truly so important and while I’m not an excessively touchy-feely person (nor do I fall on the extreme of “don’t ever touch me”), I do have a new appreciation for those who may be more isolated than normal in regular times.

We have extremely short term memories and it would be easy when this is over to forget what a feeling of isolation can feel like or how our times with our families are precious or all the ways neighbors, customers and small business have stepped up for each other.

Yes, today, we continue to reach out and even more so via text and virtually (don’t forget!) — especially as our own shelter in place may become stronger.

But I’m writing this now to remember it for later: the importance of even just being there for someone — a presence in each other’s lives.

Ending with a poem from Rumi – a gift from a friend:

The Oldest Thirst There Is

“Give us gladness that connects
with the Friend, a taste of the quick.
You that make a cypress strong
and jasmine jasmine.

Give us the inner listening
that is a way in itself
and the oldest thirst there is.

Do not measure it out with a cup.
I am a fish. You are the moon.
You cannot touch me, but your light
fills the ocean where I live.”

“My home was never on the ground…”

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My birthdays aren’t my milestones, it’s all the different times I’ve moved…

So what happens when I stay in one place for ten years? I celebrate… BIG. And I can feel my 18 year old self judging me.

I don’t know what it’s like to grow up in a hometown, to come back to the house that I grew up in. The last time I lived in one of my childhood homes was the Christmas of grade 12. So, after college, I just kept on going – and wouldn’t allow myself to settle down. Once 2 years hit, I’d move, not necessarily on purpose. But force of habit. Nothing was permanent. I was always thinking about the “next thing”.

And, to be honest, I probably was a little proud of that. We’re always told to “bloom where you’re planted”, but I was more of a tumbleweed.

So when I moved to Baltimore in 2009, it was the same thing. Friends would ask me if I was going to buy a house here and my response was always “Well, I would if I was going to be here in the next five years, but I doubt I will be…”

2009

The Joy of Staying
It took me a long time to resign myself to actually being in a place.

But a couple years went by… and I stopped looking to that “next thing”. And I liked it. Was this what it meant to BE someplace?

Suddenly, I could actually say to my friend’s son “I remember when you were “this big”. I could help out a visitor and rattle off place after place for a recommendation. I can tell you what 3 stores were on the corner before that 7-11. I’ve committed to 3 years on our church board (read that: THREE!). I’ve seen a community take shape and am part of those inside jokes that other friend groups always had to explain to me, the newcomer.

I began to carve out a very small history for myself and with others. And I actually saw people leave, while I stayed.

Sometimes, I get a sense here that people found my past wandering life a little strange. But now I’m starting to experience something new.

Those who understood my wanderlust life are starting to find my settled life strange.

I don’t always want to talk about the fact that I grew up in Indonesia. My family doesn’t quite understand why I don’t need to live in Oregon – where my parents retired. I have more ties here in Baltimore now than I do in Oregon. Ten years of ties. When I told my college mentors – world travelers themselves – that I celebrated 10 years, I got a bit of a hesitant ‘congrats’. And truth is, I had to work through some of the expectations of that 18 year old girl who never thought she’d settle down.

But how can a plant grow tall and bloom, if it’s moved every time it tries to root down?

I’m not going to lie. I experience phases of restlessness. In fact, this year has been one (see previous Advent post!). 10 years is daunting for someone who’s moved every two years since college. I visit another city … I have a bad week … I see an old friend … Baltimore seems very very small at times – and maybe I won’t be here next year – But reflecting this last week has made me grateful for this decade, this space, the many people I’ve come across and the many experiences that have happened because I have allowed myself to put down roots.

This may sound strange to both people who have lived in one place all their lives as well as to those who still move or travel, but this milestone is a pretty big deal for me.

So for today, this plant is here … and “I’ve got roots”.

2019

title reference: Alice Merton “No Roots“

Advent: remembered

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On Christmas eve, I ate dinner alone (unexpectedly). But I was fine – really. I had a good time, unexpectedly. Then I cried when I got home. I mean – at this age, you’re not supposed to be alone on Christmas eve, right?

The night represents a little how I’ve felt this December – away from home, holidays in general. I’m some one who has been in Baltimore for nearly 10 years; and yet, here I am eating alone on Christmas eve…

but…making conversation and laughing with:
the bar manager who (feeling sorry for me I’m sure) plied me with free wine and cheesecake, Elda – the mom who’s kids were 45 minutes late and the Italian chef from Venice. That was my Christmas Eve in Baltimore.

But what does that have to do with your reflection on Advent (other than dinner), you ask?

a sidenote (bear with me): I’ve been doing these reflections for awhile. And in reading over my previous blogs, I see that I tend to tip towards the melancholy with just a teensy bit of “comfort and joy”.

The truth is, I worry about writing a blog for the friend who’s had a great year while writing one for the one who’s had the hardest one of his/her life? So I end up leaning more on the melancholy side.

And well, the end of the year just makes one a little more pensive anyway, doesn’t it?

And what they don’t tell you growing up: the highs and lows are just what is part of life – everyone’s life. Kind of like my Christmas dinner.

I’ve had some amazing highs this year (explored Spain with my sister!) and some deep lows (made some regretful mistakes). And what stood out to me in the Christmas story this year was very similar to what stood out to me at Lent this last spring: mercy.

But where’s ‘mercy’ in this story? Where it’s mentioned, it precedes God remembering his promise he made so long ago: that he’ll send salvation to his people. Having mercy on his people waiting in darkness for what I’m sure they felt was WAY too long.

Advent means “coming” and it’s often about the ‘waiting’ of the arrival of a baby, but isn’t it really more about God finally remembering? Remembering his promise after 400 years (well, fulfilling it really).

Anyway – I could get all preachy and application-y here (like how in this age of social media and instant access, we all need validation and need to be heard; or how Jesus’ life and ministry was about remembering the ‘un-remembered’ – ahem – you know, refugees, vulnerable …) but I’m just going to stop and say this:

We all want to be remembered. Known. Cared for. Somehow this resonated with me this December – spending it away from all of my family – and especially on my Christmas eve, being bailed on (There’s the connection to my Christmas Dinner 🙂 ). And this year in general.

Because, it’s good to be remembered.
That’s why the angels sang two thousand years ago.
That’s why a whole caravan journeyed miles and miles from the East following a star.
That’s why poor shepherds RAN to some child’s side, then went out and told everyone.
Because after walking in darkness, feeling forgotten, they were finally remembered!

And well – I’ve felt both forgotten and remembered this year in fairly significant ways. And whether or not, this has been an amazing year or a terrible year, I’m sure you have too.

It’s never really occurred to me that Advent was about more than waiting and more than an arrival. It’s really about God remembering. It’s about a promise kept. And that has brought me ‘comfort and joy’.

Whether or not you celebrate Christmas or follow a different tradition, I hope that you are remembered and treasured and feel it down to your core in the new year.

Happy 2019!

Fear, Grace, Easter

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It’s Easter Sunday, and my Lent didn’t really go as planned, honestly.

I’ve been distracted, let down people, made mistakes I’m not entirely proud of, didn’t pray enough, reflect enough, felt frenetic, worried and anxious. Anyone ever feel like their Lent was like that? Or life in general, really? (for those who don’t observe Lent).

I have learned this from my Lent: I have zero grace for myself. Here’s a moment of vulnerability: there is a depth to beating myself up that I can’t explain. I’m not sure where that comes from (well…).

I think the verse about taking the communion the wrong way always scared the crap out of me in church. Growing up, I was taught that communion was a serious thing. Which is appropriate, sure.

As it passed under my nose, I would take it with trepidation. I’d say a quick nervous prayer “God please forgive me for all my sins – help me not to take this wrongly…”

But I love the prayer we say every week at my Episcopal church after communion – or as they call it there – the Eucharist:

“Loving God, we give you thanks for restoring us in your image and nourishing us with spiritual food in the Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood. Now send us forth a people, forgiven, healed, renewed; that we may proclaim your love to the world and continue in the risen life of Christ our Savior. Amen.”

Seeing communion not just as pardon, but as strength, as renewal. How beautiful.

We (well me really – not sure about others) – tend to see the taking of the bread and wine as a reminder of death and all my sins. But it has zero significance without what happened 3 days later. It’s really a reminder of LIFE. The life given us. Yes – it is about the cross, but it’s also about the empty tomb and how He has given us power, strength, life, freedom.

This is what Lent and Easter is: so much more about the future than it is about the past, about our past.
It’s about hope.
it’s about letting go of all that we’re holding on to.
It’s about grace.

Whether Easter is your thing or not – grace is a powerful thing. It dissolves fear and gives hope.

I have felt this – through (and despite) my distractions and not so calm Lent.  In 2 separate instances, I was reminded of what it felt like to be given this gift. Each of my sisters showed me giant overflowing amounts of grace. I feel all the more grateful and close to them for this. They expressed a tangible example of Easter to me.

Jesus’ gospel wasn’t about mortification, fear and fear-mongering. It was everything the opposite.
It started with Mary at the Advent – “Do not be afraid”. Then all the love and care in between:
feeding the poor, healing the sick
taking the children on his lap
questioning the church leaders of their motives
eating with the outcasts
welcoming everyone
til his death on the cross with him looking down at John asking him to take care of his mother.
And ended at the tomb to both Marys – “Don’t be afraid, he isn’t here. He has risen.”

Grace. Hope. Don’t be afraid.

Advent 2017: the Maji, Journeys and Hope

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Somehow this year, I’ve been thinking a lot about the “Wise Men” or “Magi” and their own short story. I’m not sure why – because it’s about a journey and movement and I’m not going anywhere right now.

Much of my life has been about movement, change, forward motion.  Now I’ve lived in Baltimore almost 9 years (!) and sometimes I don’t feel like I’m moving very much. But I guess even staying can be a type of journey.

So maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about this and the Wise Men’s journeys. I like that there’s this ‘something’ that compels them – together – who knows how many there were – following a star to something that perhaps they weren’t even fully sure of. But they knew it was something special – something good.

So – keeping it simple this year – because honestly – for me it’s too easy to fall into last year’s hopelessness. Outwardly, I’m a happy person. I love life and people and going out. But in my writing and self-reflection, I tend to tip into despair and pessimism and questions. At heart, I’m a cynic – though I strive to be an idealist.

On reflecting on this over this last month, two things (as I see it) coincide with this Maji-Christmas story that keep me going – that (I think) kept them going.

In all journeys, we face deserts and darkness and setbacks. But it’s our companions that help us overcome them. Sure, I’m grateful for the journey and that which makes me stronger (blah blah blah :), but without those that travel with me, I’m not sure I’d keep moving at times. You know who you are.

And I’d love to stop here with that sweet and touching line, but let’s be honest once again. Who among us hasn’t felt completely alone on that road? There have been times that I’ve said “there’s no one there”. (And I know that I’ve also been one to miss a lonely person sitting there beside me.) But an important lesson I’ve had to learn as an adult (and re-learn again and again) that at this age – in our busy lives – it’s okay to say “I need a day”, “I need help”, “I’m struggling” – Because I think we believe no one else is and we have to look and strive the exact same way.

Then there’s that something – that drew the Maji on the journey, what kept them going – that great Hope, following that star – even if at times, it was only the belief that there was still a star hidden behind the clouds.

I love the part of the ‘wise men’ studying the stars (astrology anyone?) and suddenly realizing that God was born as child. And they follow this star to a place –  All this without a voice, without a visitation, without a dream. All because of a star and a belief.

So much trust. And so much certainty to travel that far.

It makes me ask: Are there times like that in my life that needed so much trust and certainty to propel me forward? Big decisions. Or moves really. My move to Baltimore. My continual stay here. Certainly my faith.

This story of the Maji reflects my own story and reminds me to look Beside me and look Up. It’s a story of a journey together with fellow travelers – propelled with a greater purpose and a belief in something beyond ourselves. Maybe even (maybe often) following something that sometimes we’re not always sure what it is, but certain the end will prove the journey.

For me, that’s hope. Not super deep but sometimes, that’s what keeps me from falling off the ledge :).

And just to end – here are a few of my pieces of hope this year: a place I now call ‘home’, seeing my little nephew after a long summer, old friends that re-surface in my life, new friends that I didn’t think I had anything in common with, sisters who I know will drop anything if I called them, a church that cares about the plight of refugees, immigrants and its own community, colleagues and a job that are more than that, a Thanksgiving that refreshed my soul, fellow travelers that always do, a family that draws me home each Christmas and the reason I celebrate every December.

And you. Taking the time to read this.

thoughts on advent. 2016

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I’ve put this annual reflection off, and now it’s Jan 1, 2017. I haven’t wanted to write it because I don’t like to do things for the sake of doing them. I don’t like saying rote things that could be counted as trite, like I haven’t thought about it. Especially to those who are going through pain. I’ve been the recipient of that, and it sucks.

And I’m weary. A lot of people have said that. They have said they are excited to get rid of 2016. But even that makes me weary. I don’t have a lot of hope for 2017.

There’s been quite a few I know who have just been through it. Like you wouldn’t believe. Family members sick, broken relationships, internal turmoil, death … And others  who have been waiting – waiting for jobs, for a change, for health…

And I work for an int’l development agency, and we’re inundated with news of Syria and millions of refugees fleeing. We hear of children trying to cross the border into Texas because of the violence in Central America. And our country is incredibly divided, not to mention our own families at times. And it’s exhausting.

So I want to be careful about saying just words.

As I began this advent, I thought – I’d like to reflect on PEACE. We need peace in us, in our world, all that…isn’t the Christmas story full of peace?

But then I couldn’t find it. Do you know how many times ‘peace’ is mentioned in the Christmas story? Once.

You can’t force a meditation. And truth be told, there wasn’t much peace. Israel was occupied, under another regime.  There’s a lot of waiting. And in that waiting, so much anxiety. So much fear and doubt.

And when I read the part about Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem. It hit home. How tired they must have been. Finally getting there and hearing, ‘no room’. Mary had to have thought (well I personally would have thought) ‘of course, this is just about how I’d expect everything to go based on this year…”

How exhausting it must have been for Mary, both physically and mentally. Was she full of doubts? Doubts that others had certainly placed in her. Fears she herself couldn’t help but have.

And when they did arrive to where they expected to: “No room”, landing in a stable, placing this baby – whom they had been told is the Messiah – in a feeding trough, Joseph must have felt incredibly inadequate as a husband and a father at this moment.

I’m sure the shepherds couldn’t have come at a better time, bursting in shouting ‘where’s the Messiah we’ve heard about?”.

I see both waiting (Simeon, Anna, Israel) and journeys taken (Mary, Joseph, the wise men) in the Christmas story. But the process is the same. The emotions are the same. The inner turmoil and questions still exist whether you are stagnant or wandering.

Were the wise men disappointed to find a baby in the end? How many times did Simeon and Anna ask God, “How long, Oh Lord? How much longer?”

And then Mary and Joseph again having to get up and flee for their child’s life – really holding the destiny of mankind in their hands – leaving a weeping town behind them… because of them.

So often, I tend to get into myself, and my path feels tired, full of doubt, unrelatable. And just when I think I’ve arrived where I wanted to go, it wasn’t what I expected or it’s even scarier than I imagine.
Or I never move.
At all.
And everyone else does.
It can feel incredibly lonely sometimes. And very far from peaceful. And the people I thought I could trust – well, they disappointed me.

So what’s left? What small piece can I take with me as I enter into a new year?

I’d like to be like those shepherds. I’d like to be able and willing to show up in the right moment because I took the opportunity – without hesitation, confirming to a fellow wanderer that they are on the right path. So much of the violence, pain and hatred of 2016 may not have been directed specifically at me or happened to me, but if I can come around and just be some one who says, “I’m here with you”; then I want to be that person.

I’d like to continue on waiting (or moving) despite my fears and doubts. So I have to ask, how could all these people do that? How does anyone? Really there has to be a very deep motivation for either one – greater than all our unmet expectations, disappointments and feelings of inadequacies and loneliness.

The wise men, Shepherds, Joseph, Mary – all had a deep pull, that only a very deep calling could keep them going.  Something – that in the midst of the oppression, fears, doubts, weariness, murderous threats, fleeing, loneliness, trouble – something greater gave them a reason to continue. And continue in what may have seemed to some a bold or scary choice. I want this courage and this passion. This I want to remember and hold on to.

Theirs was a deep hope in the belief that Mary carried the Savior of the world, and that he was called the Prince of Peace.
There. Peace.
Let me again repeat this line from that old Christmas carol: “the hope and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight …”

Advent 2015: interruptions and fear

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Over the last month, what has stood out to me as I meditate on the Christmas story is perhaps a reflection of what this year has been like both globally and personally: the prolific amount of interruptions in the lives of the people in the Christmas story.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Can you imagine the complete change in Elizabeth and Mary’s plans – on both ends of their lives? But they welcomed the (unusual) interruption with a willingness and an anticipation that I doubt I could have.

Then there’s the innkeeper. All the inns in Bethlehem were full (a good problem for them of course), and he could easily turn away this interruption as others had done (that most likely wouldn’t benefit him). But he didn’t, and we remember him as the man who didn’t turn away the Messiah.

Then the shepherds, living their regular daily lives, watching their sheep. Probably frightened out of their wits when an unbelievable amount of angels filled the skies. Sounds story-book really. Still, after the sky emptied, they went to the manger and found Jesus there – just as the angel had said. And from then on: lives interrupted, never to be the same. But they ran to welcome this Messiah everyone had been waiting hundreds of years for.

True, this was about a good interruption, for a hope that brought joy and peace. But it still meant the unknown, a change not planned for, fear, possible rejection, a pause for an indefinite amount of time or a completely new direction. For the wise men, they packed up everything in search of something they weren’t even sure of.

And the list goes on: Simeon, Anna, Mary and Joseph again on their way to Egypt, Herod. oh. wait. Herod. This guy… like them, he was also interrupted and also afraid. And out of his fear, insecurity, jealousy, he reacted in the opposite extreme.

But here’s the crux – where it hits home, because sometimes I’m more like Herod than Mary. No, I’m not killing toddlers, but I have often responded to fear with fear. And that isn’t a solution. It only creates more fear in us and others.

Honestly, most of the interruptions in our lives aren’t the good kind. Most of them don’t promise good news, hope and joy. Most of them do bring fear, the unknown, possible rejection.

When I read the Advent story, I’m also comforted by the amount of times Gabriel has to tell everyone “Don’t be afraid”. Because Mary was. Zechariah was. Joseph was. The Shepherds were. Who wouldn’t be? Who isn’t when it’s the unknown, the unpredictable, the unplanned?

These are the words I cling to in my life. And the fact that they were afraid – even in the face of good news. Like it’s okay.

The thing is -we’re going to be interrupted. By outsiders – like Mary and Joseph did to the innkeeper. Or personally, like Joseph who found himself marrying a pregnant girl (not with his child).

And being afraid is natural.

Maybe that’s why the words of “o little town of Bethlehem” have really caught me this year:

“Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee tonight.”

We’re not alone. I believe there is One who meets our fears, takes our fears, and in the end, changes it to hope. And if you don’t believe in the Christmas story, the essence is still true – we’re not alone and we are – in the end – part of what the Christmas story is also about: hope. Our response to our fears is so key.

It’s finding the willpower, the fight to respond to that fear with “let it be” (Mary), or respond with the right thing to do even though others around you may whisper against you (Joseph), or it inconveniences you (the innkeeper), or you don’t understand it (Zachariah)… Or maybe you make the choice to hurt others (Herod).

I know it’s not profound. I know that this can sound over-simplified. I know I haven’t faced the situations that others have, but I hope that I will not add to their pain by reacting wrongly out of my own. I can only hope (and I know not always, not always will it work out so easily) that I can bring hope for others.

I pray less now

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I’d like to admit something. I got tired of praying. My prayers? They annoyed me.
If you didn’t grow up in the church or are part of a contemporary one now, you may not get what I mean (or totally get what I mean!).

I found myself saying the cliche “I’ll pray for you” and cringing. It became a habit, like a catch phrase for when we have nothing else to say. You know that kind of silence when you’ve heard from your friend about how her dad has cancer or that she just found out she’s lost her job. And it’s a pause. And she’s sniffling. And it’s like a reflexive reaction in your throat to fill any space.. .Nothing..to…say…what … do… aaahh-“I’ll pray for you!”

Or it’s one of those moments when you just want to close the conversation. You’ve heard your friend go on about the issues at home and it’s really just a punctuation compunction flung out… “Hey friend, I-gotta-go, but-I’ll-be-praying-for ya’.”

Yeah…

I honestly believe that words have power. (If you don’t believe me, ask me about the story of how I prayed my brother-in-law into existence…). And I want to mean it when I tell some one that I’ll pray for them and not use it flippantly. And I want to be aware of what I’m praying for like who says “traveling mercies” in real life these days? And why are we asking God to “bless our conversations”?  Like we’re hoping no one will be offended by the mean things we are about to say.

So for awhile, I quit. I quit volunteering to pray before meetings. I quit praying before meals (Was I actually thankful for my meal as I shoved it in my mouth watching Jeopardy?).

And I have to go back to what my grandpa said a long time ago that prayer is about getting to know Christ. It’s a conversation. Not a list, not an aside or a wish or a quick dashed off text “what’s up?”. Not just bubbles that roll off my tongue and float away, empty and unsubstantial.

I know it’s simple. You’d think I’d get it by now. But it’s something I have to remind myself constantly. I have to actually be intentional about. Kind of like how I would want my friends to be with me. How I’d like to be with my friends.

So. I’m trying to pray more honestly now. And I admit, I pray less because of it. Sometimes I don’t pray at all because sometimes I have no clue what to say.

But I don’t want it to speak Christianese. I want to ask myself, ‘do I really mean this?’ “Do I really know what this means?”  “Am I honest in this prayer?”

Telling friends “I’m praying for you.” Well, I don’t mind saying those words, but today I check myself and ask myself, “am I really going to pray for them?”

Sometimes I just say nothing at all but sit with them in silence.

35 and grateful

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I just celebrated my 35th birthday.

Recently I had a friend say to me “I hope you are truly happy”. At first I felt defensive, like “Of COURSE I’m happy – what? Do I not seem happy?” You know … how we do. Step back.

She probably didn’t mean anything by it, but it did make me stop and ask myself.

Am I truly happy? And what does that even mean? And is that something that I should be striving for?

On the one side, I work for a relief and development organization. What if I say ‘no, I’m not happy’? Where on my spectrum of “happiness” would that then place the girls kidnapped by the Boko Haram or those in Nepal who have lost their homes and family members in the earthquake?

I feel embarrassed to claim unhappiness in the light of them.

But – am I lower on the spectrum than my friend who asked me? Which made me wonder – does my life seem like an ‘unhappy’ one to her?

Their expectations
She seems very happy and often, I think, our happiness becomes relative to others’ expectations for us.

What does her life look like? She is married with a son and another child on the way. She lives by her family, in her home state in the town she grew up in. I think she would say she is happy. She is honestly living her dream. And I’m glad she is!

But she is not living my dream.

Elizabeth Gilbert writes about this and has a mantra she says: “Not my dream”. I do not want to live in a small town next to my parents and be a stay at home mom with two kids. I’m not saying anything is wrong with that, but I think that personally I would be unhappy.

So – at this new age of 35 – what does make me happy? Am I living my dream? Is this current dream bringing happiness?

My expectations…
Really, I think when I’m unhappiest is when I tell myself my life didn’t turn out like I expected.

To be honest,  I expected to be in a different place, different stage, different weight!, different experiences (there are some I wouldn’t wish on others).

I can guarantee that’s where my unhappiness most often comes in.

I don’t like the word ‘happy’ though. It’s too transient. It’s emotional. It’s too simple for our lives at this age, honestly. So when I stop and look around me, I wouldn’t trade where I am or what I’ve experienced for what I expected my life to look like.

I’d like to use the word ‘grateful’ – which really stems from contentment. I used to never be content. The grass was always greener where I was before. Or I’d be looking for another place to go – never really present.

But somehow – in Baltimore, the most unlikely place I expected – for the first time in a very long time, I’m content. This is strange to me. I’m not used to that feeling. In fact, it’s unsettling. I wonder if I am actually complacent or apathetic. Don’t I need to be looking to the next thing?

That can become a terrible habit, so this time around, I’m choosing to stay present. I’m enjoying my current job, my current apartment, my current friends, this current city, this current day.  All in all – it feels odd to be good with where I’m at. Is this an age thing or finally learning the ability to live in the present?

Am I happy all the time? No. I have hard days, frustrating days, discouraging interactions, hopeless feelings, sickness, grief, pain, annoyances. But what I value, I do have. And I don’t know why I get to have them.

I have good friends, a strong support system, a family who loves me (and I love them back), a roof over my head, a job where I like my boss and the people we work with. I even have a gym at my work that I can visit at lunch (okay, that makes me happy).

But it’s not my goal. It’s not even in the Bible (if you want to get spiritual). I’ve never read anything that says “Blessed are the happy”. It’s blessed are the merciful, the meek, those who mourn, those who hunger and thirst after righteousness (or ‘justice’). (Those who have it hard? That’s another post )

So – my takeaway to this musing …

First, I should let other people live their dream. I should let them not be bogged down by my expectations of what a ‘good life’ is.

Second, am I ‘truly happy’? Nah. Life is a little too complicated by now. But I’m content.

And I don’t regret any experiences I’ve had or the unexpectedness of my life. It’s made me who I am.

Third, all that helps me be okay on those hard, frustrating days. It helps me not give up. It helps me help others.

It helps me be grateful. I have so much to be grateful for.

I think Anne Morrow Lindberg sums it up when she says:

“Don’t wish me happiness
I don’t expect to be happy all the time…
It’s gotten beyond that somehow.
Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor.
I will need them all.”

I will need them all.