For when they spoke, the world
began.
7 days or a big bang —
Does it matter? The very
act of both:
miraculous:
cells, complexities forming, taking
place, taking
space. Interacting
one with another —
dancing — all in an
infinitesimal
beauty, landing
here today in a cosmic
humanity — able to
swim and crawl and
stand and live and
inevitably, love and
laugh and debate and
hurt but
eventually,
possibly … with all the
grace, to
heal.
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!
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.”
Friend … may I
enter here? And
sit awhile in the
ashes of your
disappointment. You don’t need to
know all the
reasons your
discouragement
overwhelms or
explain away your
disillusionment. I
see you
buried beneath
all
the
thoughts and feelings and lines
you are
hearing yourself
feeding yourself
sobbing yourself to an
unsleep until that moment you once again
beg for tears to
overtake you because
being numb just feels so much
worse. Here — let me
hold your
hand.
You’re brave –
You know that?
It’s not everyone
who can
hold all of
this on
her shoulders – so
strong – and
still be the soft
nest – so
comforting – for her
little boy.
Courage – mother –
you’ll make it.
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…”
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”.
title reference: Alice Merton “No Roots“
Running through each heart
an understanding
between,
brought together somehow,
through resumes and departments
and “skill-sets”,
built on quick two-minute cube conversations,
sudden laughs
small kindnesses
a construction of work history
becoming personal
into
sweet friends and honest
conversations
flowing through
around and in –
into each heart
this beautiful understanding
between
what they’ve called these ‘9-5 hours’.
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!
Once, I traveled to India
through all the over-sensory whirl
of sounds and smells and colors
out to hot fields and small houses
where I met my friend’s mother
who
calmly presided over her
home
(in a language I did not understand).
But I saw that
her eyes spoke compassion;
her laughter, delight;
her wrinkles, strength.
And then_
she turned and
looked at me.
The imaginary lines
I threw out – foolishly,
impulsively – must be reeled back in
Some filament I spun
to create a cloud
hiding the real
picture from view
– unhooked –
by your words of clarity.
I float off into space
looking for another meteorite, planet, satellite, any object … until …
I’ll realize … eventually, finally … the truth
dives in
I’m Venus,
the North Star
I don’t need cobwebs or lifelines
dust motes of broken dreams
I am the Milky Way I can let
you float through
unseen
(uncared)
by me.