Barbies at Communion

My friend Marcus Goodyear recently released his first book of poetry, Barbies at Communion, and today has become "Barbie Friday" for several of us around the blogosphere.

I have to admit, it's a bit of relief imagining Barbie at communion. I've often wondered about her soul over the years.

Barbie was one of my earliest friends, after all. I don't remember how old I was when Barbie came to live with me, but it was certainly when I was still awkward. I remember the ambivalence of my thinking during those years, simultaneously believing that I was the ugliest person I know AND that someday I might grow up to be beautiful AND that I would never marry someone like Ken AND that surely there was a Ken waiting for me. But I didn't see that having anything to do with Barbie.

She has gotten a bad rap over the years for promoting an unhealthy body image and premature sexuality for little girls. Even though Barbie is now a vet, doctor, AND teacher, among other vocations. And there's something shallow and demeaning about the artistic value of many of the Barbie books and movies, cheaply produced to help feed the machine. 

I don't see that as her fault, though. She was very down to earth when we were hanging out together.

My Barbie didn't have a beautiful mansion or speedy convertible, and she certainly didn't wear glittery outfits and sparkly shoes. She lived like I did, except for her occasional "shoebox apartments" I created. And she actually wore what I wore, homemade clothes my mom constructed out of the scraps of material left over from my polyester jumpers or cotton shorts.

Certainly there are power brokers behind the Barbie name, capitalizing on the aspirations of little girls as they hock unrealistically proportioned, supermodel dolls and the accessories to go with her. But when you are the little girl who spends hours brushing her hair, changing her clothes, and whispering secrets to the little doll, the name Barbie means something entirely different.

Marcus' poetry finds the tension between cultural icons and real life spirituality and reminds us that every part of us is open to be changed and influenced when we encounter the Divine.

How Deep the Father's Love: Part 2

Recently, when my dad was hospitalized for a quadruple bypass surgery and recovery, I found myself looking for bigger and better ways to express my love. Afterall, he would do (and had) the same for me.

I visited the hospital as often as I could, called every day, brought gifts, thought of ways to spend time with my dad, made food, but still I had more love than I could express.

But there are others, certain neighbors or coworkers or friends or even family members, that aren't so easy to love, and without even trying very hard, I run out of love before I run out of ways to express it. Loving back is not simple, but loving first-- can feel nearly impossible.

Thinking about love this way sends me directly to Jesus. I can only understand the various shades of love when they are painted onto my heart by Him. Like my dad, Jesus loved me first. He demonstrated his love for me, and calls me to love him back. In response to his love.

But also in response to his love, he also calls me, and equips me, to love others first. To remember how far his love had to reach to grab hold of the unlovable me. And to find the courage to love others this way.

I have a long, long way to go.

--

For more about the Father's love, visit read Part 1.

His Eye is on the Sparrow

It wasn't that unusual to look out my back door to see the neighbor children huddled around something in the yard, pointing. It seems they are always making a discovery, exploring the edges near their fence, or finding new uses for their toys.

But this time, whatever they were looking at was in MY backyard. And on closer examination, I noticed they were throwing little twigs at whatever was there, occasionally backing away with looks of surprise. Apparently, whatever was on the ground beneath their huddle was alive. I decided to see for myself.

As I walked out the door, the oldest of them, who couldn't be more than four or five years old, pointed and said, "It's a bird." And sure enough, there on the ground was a small, chubby bird, rocking back and forth.

"Is it hurt?" I asked, knowing it must be or it would have skedaddled away from a flock of children.

"Yes," the little spokesman said. "It fell from the tree."

"Well, don't touch him," I said. "He might hurt you because he is scared."

By this time, their dad, who had been mowing, came over to check out the action, and confirmed the story. Since he speaks little English, he mimed a bird flying then falling, and said as he pointed up, "He came out of tree."

Then, he told the children to move on or the bird might "peck them." And soon they were off.

I couldn't help but think of my little bird encounter last summer, where a baby chick landed on my fence during flying lessons and was too scared to move for days. He eventually took flight after some encouragement from another bird friend, and when I wrote about the experience here, my friend Peggy took great comfort in the story during her last days on earth. I was honored to be asked by her daughter to read that story at the funeral.

So, when I peaked out the window a little later and didn't see the little bird standing there, I was relieved again. Another bird success story.

The next day, however, when I went out in the yard to mow, I recoiled in sadness as I rounded the corner and nearly ran over the body of the little bird. Apparently I had not been able to see him standing in the yard any longer, because he eventually had laid down to die. And as I put him to rest in a cardboard box, I couldn't help but mourn a little for him. But also for Peggy. I had hoped for another happy ending, another story of courage. 

Instead, I got another death.

But the little bird's death did have a message for me. In a week of good news and bad news, when even though my cancer test results came back good, others are receiving unexpected news -- death news, I am reminded that death doesn't win. If my only hope lies in holding off death for as long as possible, eventually my hope will run out. Someday, I will lose if death is the winner.

But, if my hope is bigger, if my hope involves both sacrifice AND redemption, then I can carry on despite bad news and failing health and discouraging prognoses. And I can rejoice that even though a sparrow may fall, he doesn't fall outside the loving concern of Jesus.

And neither do I.

-- 

"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." - Matthew 10:29-31

Social Media Blitz . . . and a little bit of good news!

I thought it would be worth noting that I am now a "tweeter"! I don't really know what that means, yet, but if you tweet, let me know how you like to use it.

Also, if you would like to receive posts from this blog in your email inbox, I have now activated a "subscription" feature. Just visit Wide Open Spaces (or if you are already here, look in the side bar to the right) and enter your email address in the mini-form.

Hopefully all this new social media will encourage me to write more! (Although I am afraid it could end up being a distraction.)

And, as if all of that news isn't enough, I wanted to officially announce that I am cancer-free for almost two years now.  I just had the most recent series of tests which all came back with no additional sign of cancer. As always, my gratitude to Jesus overwhelms me.

Blessings to you all!

A Body and A Place

Recently, as I reread Wendell Berry's novel, Hannah Coulter, I was transported once again to a place I feel like I know--though it exists only in the imagination of the writer. If you asked me to describe Port William, Kentucky, the fictional town not only of Hannah Coulter but all of Berry's fiction, I could describe it as though I had been there. In fact, I could probably describe it as though you had been there. It's that kind of place, sort of cozy and familiar, with all of the quirks of the place you call home.

What would not surprise you, however, was that my description of this place would be rife with descriptions of the people who inhabit it not just its landmarks. The names wouldn't be familiar, but the people might. At least the kind of people. They are the ones that live in every place and time. You would describe them yourself if you were telling me about a place you had lived.

I love this symbiosis between people and places, at least the ones that matter. Berry is a master at creating the strong bonds of relationships between people and places when he writes. Within the first couple of pages of Hannah Coulter, he writes from the perspective of the title character, "Our story is the story of our place."

My little place in Indianapolis is increasingly taking on the identity of me, and I of it. You would know a few things about me immediately just by stepping onto my property. You would see that I like to garden, and that I am a tidy person. My compost pile might reveal that I care about the environment; the gravel drive would hint that I am not wealthy. My apple trees in the front yard and blueberry bushes in the landscaping might tell you I am industrious; the smiling face in the tree would clue you in that I am creative. 

And You might also correctly assume that I am a person with tree faces and neat raised bed gardens and compost piles on my place if you met me at the store or talked with me in another location away from this place. We are taking on each others qualities, for sure.

But beyond the work I put into this place or the essence of me it acquires, this place grows dearer because of the memories I am building here with people. Gradually, my immediate neighbors are becoming more familiar, but so are my friends who live in the area. They see me mowing when they pass by, I share herbs and lettuce from my garden, we grill out together and sit on the back porch. They notice when I change things and give suggestions when I don't. They share my interest in this place because it's part of their lives, too.

As Berry writes later on in Hannah Coulter, "Love in this world doesn't come out of thin air. It is not something thought up. Like ourselves, it grows out of the ground. It has a body and a place."

Understanding this sensibility of place tied closely to the people of the place helps me understand better the culture shock I experienced when I was in East Asia recently. Aside from the fact that I am a foreigner to that place and was there only briefly, I felt a sense of estrangement that I had not experienced before. I clearly didn't belong.

Though with a little time I could have learned to drive in the traffic and adapt to the temperature and shop with the currency, I still wouldn't have felt like a part of that place. It was more than that.

It was also more than just the spicy food and the awkward toilets and the indecipherable language. More, too, than just my large size, pale skin, and blue eyes. It was the sum of all these things separating me so distinctly from the people that left me feeling like I really didn't know the place.

If I could have stayed there long enough so that people no longer stared at me and I could speak to them in their own language and have drank a cup of tea with them while they told me about their family, then no amount of garbage in the street or bean curd on my plate could have made me feel a stranger.

But without learning the story of the people, I couldn't truly learn the story of their place.

--

In order to bridge this great cultural gap with the people I encountered, I imagined how much of myself I would have to lose to become more approachable. I would need to set aside my tastes, my language, my wealth, my dignity. And as I was making this list, a word popped into my head.

Incarnation.

How truly God understood that Love doesn't "grow out of thin air" but "has a body and a place" when he sent Jesus to earth as one of us to save us from our sins. He came to know this place intimately so that he could know us intimately.

A Long, Long Way from Home

I've been home from my trip to East Asia for just three weeks, but it seems like a lot longer. Probably because when I was there on the other side of the world, it seemed like another place and time altogether.

In many ways, the day to day activities of our trip were barely different from my life in Indianapolis: we got up each day, ate three meals, applied ourselves to the work at hand, enjoyed each others' company. And yet we were living out this normalcy in a place that was so unlike anywhere I had been.

As our plane descended for the final time, the terrain was unlike anything I had seen: the thick air winding through gumdrop mountains. The intricate terracing, making it possible to farm the rugged landscape, created a whimsical patchwork in every shade of green and brown.

Before we even left the airport, we discovered how much of a barrier that language would be as we mimed "lost baggage" to an airport worker who directed us to the appropriate office. Our tri-lingual host arrived just in time to explain in words the attendant could understand what our green and brown luggage looked like. And within hours it was recovered.

Making our way through the airport revealed another barrier we would encounter throughout our trip: being a foreigner was even more foreign in this part of the world. As we walked toward the car, old women and young children walked up very close to me, staring. The men were less conspicuous, snatching glances as they tossed down their cigarettes, but no one ignored us. 

Later, when we were doing some shopping in the city, I discovered another man closely staring AFTER I had already snapped the picture below. 

Within the first couple of days I realized that driving through the maze of streets among mostly unregulated traffic posed the greatest risk of the trip (next to drinking the water), that I had not done enough squats in my lifetime to be prepared for using the bathroom by straddling a hole in the floor, and that all those times I had "played" at using chopsticks at the China Buffet had actually been training for this trip.

I also discovered that having clean air, curbside trash pickup, and a little plot of land to call my own is a privilege, not a right, in this world that most people will never experience.

My trip to East Asia was eye opening and more difficult than I imagined. I felt separated from a people that I had loved from afar by the language of my dreams and the color of my skin. And having to spend a day and night in bed with a fever while my family and friends spent a night and a day not even knowing exactly where I was caused a sense of loneliness I had never experienced before.

But even out of the poverty and polution, there was beauty and dancing. 

The Lord gave us grace to accomplish the work of our hands.

And though in the throes of my jet lag after the return home I wondered if I would ever get on an airplane again, now I am filled with gratitude for the experiences of this trip and the things I learned about God and this small, big world he made.

My trip took me a long, long way from home, but no further from the loving hand of God than my own back door.