California Roll

Poodle Ponderings

Am I like my dog?

It's often pointed out how similar owners are to their pets, but why would that be? My first thought is that we pick animals like ourselves, yet both my dogs have turned out to be quite different creatures in some ways than they appeared to be when we first encountered them.

When we first met our mini-poodle at the Peninsula Humane Society, she was a sad, scared little thing, shrinking away from us, only coming to Collin after much coaxing. She just barely warmed up to me. The poor little things been found on the streets, apparently left to fend for herself and at the mercy of bigger animals.

She spent the first two weeks mainly sleeping, scared of going outside. I thought the PHS observer who described her as "active" had made a huge mistake. My older daughter named our poodle, "Popcorn," but disdained the dog's lack of joy in going for walks--she'd sit down and refuse to walk or try to jump in our arms.

These days Poppy loves her walks and usually only wants up in our arms after walking a mile or more. Our house has become her home and the streets around familiar. She loves to walk and inspect the fresh smells on the sidewalk strip.

Today I determined to take her to an area that our old dog loved, Pulgas Ridge Open Space. After you walk ten minutes up a hill, on a dirt path under oaks, you reach a paved road where dogs can be let off leash. We thought she'd be too scared to venture far from us, so we left the long-lead at home.

Wrong!

When we took off the leash, she at first stayed about nine feet from us. Then she saw a dog and took off down the hill, back the way we'd come and disappeared into the brush.

After a few minutes with no dog in sight, I walked back to make sure she didn't get into trouble. She came to my call and ran for the sausage treat held in my hand. I stooped, intent on following my dog trainer's rules of making her sit before she got the treat. But when I wouldn't give it to her right away, she took off again.

She raced up and down the long, steep hill several times for pure joy of running. She ran as fast,and looked as cute, as the miniature racing pigs you see at a fair!

I again tried luring her with a treat and we went through the same conflicted attraction routine several times--she wanting her favorite food but intent on staying away any restriction or rule enforcement from me. I gave up and a few minutes later Collin walked softly to her and slipped and snapped her leash on.

The point? How a dog can change.

From a scared-dog, wanting just to lounge on the couch or be held in her master's arms, to she'd become an adventurous, active creature. Whereas two months ago Poppy would have insisted on us carrying her for most of this hike, she was confident enough to explore, so confident she wanted to delay returning to us.

What a difference when a dog, and I'd say a person also, feels safe in someone's care and acceptance. She knows she's ours. She knows we'll feed her, comb her, praise her, and pet her.

And other abandoned creatures, children of God who've been abandoned or strayed from him and abused by evil ones, also change when they feel cherished and protected. From a safe place where they've grown to trust, they to can venture out, go explore.

What if . . .

I go through many days just trying to scratch off items on my DO IT NOW list. If I'm lucky, I get of few others tasks done. I blunder through so many days unconscious of God. I feel like an ordinary person living an ordinary day with no significant meaning.

Last week something different happened.

I and my hubby were in New York, first Long Island and then near Albany, on a mission to see our two kids. After enjoying the delights of being with them, we drove out into the hilly countryside of upstate NY, spectacular with fall foliage and lakes, then on to the stupendous Niagra Falls. Two days of fun, just thinking of ourselves and whether we wanted Italian food or steaks for dinner, to read or to walk or talk.

By the third day, I wanted to feel useful, not just caring for myself, but all that awaited me was a plane ride home. The only "fun" to be had was waiting in airport lobbies, with seats tilted backwards and giving me a backache, and period announcements that are hard to understand and interrupt my concentration.

Yet that morning, in my prayer time, I prayed boldly: "God, teach my your ways today. Surprise me with way to help someone in need."

The first flight to Chicago and our three-hour layover were predictable, boring.

When I tried to talk to the woman seated next to me, she answered my get-to-know you questions pointedly brief and refrained from asking me even the simplest question. She soon closed her eyes--a clear signal.

The second flight brought a different story. I shoved my luggage in the compartment over head and discovered that the very slim young woman that I'd noted in the lobby sat in the window seat. I sat down next to her and greeted her.

She smiled with warmth. She was happy to answer my questions. Her home was not in Chicago, nor was she flying home. Rather, she travlled to a relative's funeral in the SF area.

I asked her if her uncle had died at the end of a long illness or more unexpectedly. The latter. "Ahh. I'd like to pray for you and your family."

Her big eyes got big in delight. "Would you?"

I nodded. "I can imagine lots to pray for, but do you have any specific things you'd like to tell me?"

She did indeed and she opened her heart to me. She's a follower of Jesus and she'd be interacting with needy family members who were not. I prayed. She told me that she had prayed about who she'd be sitting with and I was a blessing. She was the same for me. We chuckled.

What if I asked for, looked for, God's surprises every day? What if I believed he has important things for me to say or do each day and tried to find them--followed an impulse to call someone or greet someone I don't know?

Ordinary days could become extra-ordinary ones.

Ecuadorian Effects

A relative reminded me recently that I promised to report on my eldest daughter's trip to Ecuador and never did so. Sitting now in a Holiday Express just ten minutes from her apartment at her NY college, puts me in mind of "Wendy." (renamed for privacy).

This past summer Wendy went on a four week program with International Student Volunteers. First she studie Spanish in Quito while living with an Ecuadorian family along with six other North Americans. She had little prior knowledge of the language, but caught on quickly. A background of French and Latin helped.

Next she traveled to her volunteer assignment set in the cloud forest--something akin to a rain forest, but in high altitude and cooler. A generous, ecologically-minded family has established a nature preserve in the cloud forest to nurture native flora and fauna.

At the preserve Wendy and her ISV team were up before seven AM and at day's end so exhausted that their heads lay on pillows by nine. Wendy became good with a machete--cutting down some banana trees with this tool. She also de-weeded the coffee bushes, played soccer with the nearby villagers, and assisted the ornithalogist in keeping track of native birds. Her favorite day was spent hoeing the corn and coffee plants under a blazing-blue sky and the towering yellow stalks of corn.

Two weeks of adventure tourism followed: jumping off bridges held by a harness and ropes, sleeping in a hut in a rain forest and inducing a giant spider to leave their abode, climbing a volcano to a glacier, mountain biking and hiking. Wendy enjoyed the quieter activities too of touring Quito and days at the warm beach.

After the program ended came another adventure. By herself, Wendy took an airplane back to Quito, found the bus station, bought a ticket to her destination out in the country side and boarded a bus, conducted all in a language she'd only been learning for a month. Her goal? To stay a week with a Wycliffe family who are translating the Bible into Quechua.

That's a whole other story, but it's now near the day's end and a bowl of homemade pumpkin soup is looking me in the face as I sit in Wendy's apartment. My beloved daughter made this from some fresh pumpkin that she de-seeded and cooked herself. Time to eat!

Writing and Sleeping

Like biking in a fog thick as pea-soup, that's how writing has felt to me lately. And getting on that bicycle may lead me to crash into a tree and split my head.

I think it's because I've been diligently reading Sol Stein's book, Growing Your Novel and revising my novel. Doing the two in tandem has made me very aware of how blemished my writing is. When I revisit portions of my novel that have been edited twice, I see them through new eyes after considering Stein's words. Yesterday I labored two hours just to reread what I revised the day before and to revise another eight pages.

Also putting the time into writing a blog post when I still have 160 pages left to revise in my novel seems frivolous. But here I am again - why?

Yesterday I read in Stein's book, a writer is someone who cannot not write. The writer feels hollow an d incomplete if they don't create. (not exact quotes)

Revising is not writing. I do have a hunger to create. And what I put on my blog doesn't have to be perfect for people to want to read it. (Please, if you've enjoyed this blog, let me know! It's been so long since anyone commented.)

And why the pea soup feeling in my brain? Since February I've seldom had 7.5 hours of sleep without interruption. I just got that fact explained through a sleep study - apnea.

When I was diagnosed eight years ago with the same, the doctor lableled it "light." An operation removing my tonsils and uvula remedied it. So I was shocked to hear two weeks ago that I'm waking 22 times in an hour and my apnea is moderate.

No wonder I'm exhausted all the time, and fall asleep even when hearing an outstanding speaker! The other reason for my weariness is this awful virus that keeps hanging on (is it a light case of swine flu?). And apnea increases reflux, which I've also struggled with.

Okay, I did it. I wrote, imperfect as it was. It's only 5:30 am - I'll try to catch a few zzz's beside my husband. Just another thirty minutes could help me feel better.

23 years and the empty nest

We've enjoyed 23 years of marriage, and I really do mean enjoyed! Lots of surprises on the way. The latest has been how hard the transition is to being empty nesters.

We intentionally looked for an activity we could do together, and settled on "Encountering the World of Islam" - a weekly three-hour class with reading and writing requirements.

I do miss so much connecting to my girls on a daily basis.

I'm trying to figure out how and when I can have that with Collin. Collin's void is more about impact. He's trying to find ways to exercise his great nurturing and wisdom-giving abilities outside the home. I'm trying to do some of that also, but I can do it during his work week while he's immersed in the technical world.

So when we're together, we're sometimes at cross purposes.

We had a squabble last weekend that I'm still processing. I am so much more vulnerable and sensitive than usual because of the emptiness at home. And when I express my strong emotions, he sometimes becomes wordless.

I had given a plea for help which I thought was a clear, "I'm drowning!" It came across to him as a "kick in the stomach." Despite twenty-three good years of marriage we are still learning how to express our feelings and desires and respond to each others’ needs.

Why do such things happen? Not only because of male - female differences but our personalities and patterns of response to conflict.

We're fine now, but it's taken seven days to sort this out. Forgiveness comes soon, and understanding follows.

Dogs Carry It Too

Our apricot-colored adorable mini-poodle has habits that are hard to break. Popcorn has had only four weeks with us, but five years with some other owner building up her internal sense of the way things are and will be.

When walking her on leash, nowadays she'll usually rememberthe proper place to pee and poop. But then she'll suddenly squat on the concrete and eliminate before we notice and pull her to the proper place.

Progress is the fact that now she'll eagerly walk on the sidewalk dirt or grass strip--before she loathed it. She's even acting like a proper dog and sniffing trees and grass for places other dogs have marked and adding her own.

What in her past experience made her so undog-like, urinating on concrete, afraid of grass, fearful of us and what we offer? We know little of her history, only that the Humane Society found her on the streets, but we infer much from her behavior.

She's been afraid to come to us sometimes even when we're squatting down and offering a bit of sausage. She'll run enthusiastically towards us, then suddenly stop dead, quivering.

We'll coax her with high pleading voices and she'll elongate her body, stretching out low to get her head near us and then turn tail and run away without the treat.

As she's learned that we are gentle owners who stroke not strike, she shrinks from us much less.

And I'll admit I myself, am like Popcorn with my present Owner. I too carry baggage. I too run away from God when he calls me and offers me delicious food.

I avoid admitting to him or trustworthy friends my anxiety, confusion and need. It's as if I'm pooping on the sidewalk. My neediness is okay when I deposit it in the right place. Put in the wrong place my neediness becomes lazy procrastination, ugly judgment of others, and hated and despair regarding myself.

I want to see my Master for who He really is--not what my past experiences would make me see him to be--gentle and loving, patient and understanding who holds good, good things in his hand for me.

What's Popping at the Parks

Last Tuesday I said a prayer and drove twenty minutes to the San Mateo Humane Society. I'd searched on-line to no avail these past few weeks for a mature dog that wouldn't drop hair all over my home and wouldn't need thirty minutes of brisk exercise a day and wouldn't rip my house or my car apart, as my last rescue dog did.

To my astonishment not just one, but two mini-poodles stood behind the steel bars. I liked them both, but ended up with the older one - five to six years old, if the teeth tell well. After numerous family discussions, we've named her "Popcorn."

Poppy's unorthodox behaviors have lead us to sometimes sigh and say, Or, "What a strange dog." One family member, whose name I won't reveal, has even said, "She's not a real dog."

What shocks us is her refusal to eat and drink. Or, that she sometimes resists going on a walk or, once walking, wants to be carried after one block. Or, when on a walk she doesn't pee. And she doesn't seem to know where to put it when she does have the urge. On the sidewalk--heavens!

But we do love her. She is as adorable and cuddly as she looks in the photo. And she has started to eat some - if we add broth to her kibble. Today, she made her second do-doo in eight days! And--true to form--right on the path in our backyard. Oh, well--at least things are moving along. (Please excuse the mommy talk.)

I love the way she accepts pats from strangers and doesn't demand constant attention from me. She's done a lot of circling up on the couch and snoozing. She's coming when we call now and even following me around.

I suppose the time it's taken for her to start doing the normal dog stuff stems from being exhausted and traumatized. After all, she lived on the streets and then within a cage with three other dogs at the shelter. It takes time to recover and to trust that we're hers for good.

Writing Regardless

On Monday morning I listed five writing tasks I wanted to do. Now, five days later, I haven't looked once at that list.

Instead I've taught English to four Japanese women, wrote blurbs for our church information booklet and made plum jelly. But I know those aren't real reasons.

Despite vowing to write, my core resists it. This resistance is particularly strong after I receive criticism. The child in me whispers, "If I'm not going to get the praise I want, why bother?" So it is that other obligations appear more attractive.

In Breath for the Bones by poet and speaker Luci Shaw, I find a reason to write regardless. When I start writing, I discover things I didn't know, both about myself and God. Writing is a way I connect with God. It doesn't have to be good enough for others--it's just good for me.

Tent Rocks National Monument

These amazing rocks are an hours drive from Santa Fe, New Mexico. After the conference ended (see post below) , a friend drove me to this place of strange, other-worldly beauty. It's about equidistant from Albuquerque and Santa Fe, off of highway 22.

New Mexico

I returned Sunday from eight days in Santa Fe, New Mexico spent at an artists conference for people of faith, called The Glen. The pueblo style architecture of St. John's College, where the Glen is held, adds a wonderful ambience to this annual event. Also a lovely lily pond replete with a water fall and orange, yellow and white carp gave me refuge. Eleven different workshops in the visual arts and writing were offered to participants of many ages and locations,

Last Monday my fellow fifteen writing students sat down at large table. We glanced around, wondering who was who. Could any of these smiling people have gone crazy-mad after husband and baby both died in one weeks time? Who had been a reporter for the SF Chronicle was and had moved from atheism to a commitment to God? Which attractive young woman had a class-mate she didn't know come up to her in a bar to ask her to marry him?

Stories--we all have them, but in this special group we'd read them before showing up for this"spiritual writing class" at the Glen.

Our teacher, Lauren Winner, is a professor at Duke, a historian and author of three published books and numerous essays. I'd read her memoir, GIRL MEETS GOD, some five years ago. When I saw she was teaching this year for at the Glen, I was excited. I thought she'd be a brilliant teacher since she's a brilliant writer, and she was.

Another favorite author of mine, Marilyn Nelson, poet extraordinaire, was also teaching. I wished I could clone myself so as to take two workshops, but at least I was able to enjoy hearing her read her poems. Many of her pieces are narrative stories of Afro-Americans, some slaves, some freed men like George Washington Carver. So hearing her dramatize her work with a southern black accent was captivating.

"I'd read Marilyn's poems before and they didn't connect to me, but hearing them was a totally different thing. I loved it," said the woman next to me in the audience.

When I entered the Glen, none of my classmates knew me, other than the words I'd written. Those fourteen pages were a very personal account of how I've needed to grow and change to support my daughter becoming her own independent person. I confessed ways my orientation towards my self and lack of sensitivity to her has damaged our relationship.

Walking into a group where they knew bad parts of me, without first coming to know and respect me, scared me. But it was worth the risk. A classmate who prayed with me afterwards gave me this message from God, "He's smiling at you. He's proud of the new steps you've taken."

All in all a good week, a very good week.

Still Spring in Sequoia

The rooms of flowers on mountain hillsides of Sequoia National Park shouted springtime to us while we hiked at 6 - 9,000 feet elevation, a contradiction to the heat below. Though the campground sign read, "Full," we saw empty campsites--probably people who'd been scared off by the soaring temperatures and didn't losing their $20 pernight campsite fee. Just one town below the mountains, the thermometer read 108 on Saturday; in the park visitor center, the heat had decreased to a tolerable 100 degrees, but in our campground--at a bit higher elevation and wearing shorts and sandals--we felt comfortable.

A friend had warned us about camping at Sequoia. She'd done so the week before July 4 years previous and considered it a"a slum." Not so for us. We had vacant campsites around us half the time and our neighbors - when we had them -- proved quiet and considerate. I enjoyed chatting with a few. One fellow even offered us some firewood.

The trek to Tokopah Falls was lovely. Six kinds of flowers, a gurgling stream, and towering cliffs to awe our eyes. When you have to walk 1.7 miles, you share the beauty with only a few.

I'm not too old to enjoy camping, but sleep is fragmentary. Sitting up at night in a dark tent while waiting for my reflux to subside is not fun, but it was worth it.The beauty and peace of Sequoia and the joy of hiking and friendship will remain with me.

A Fun Father's Day Song

My 18 year old daughter found this song that I highly recommend:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwNW_vk1pWk&channel=vlogbrothers

In it's humorous way, it reminds me of how we can look at the same thing from two ways - from what's missing or bad about it or from the good impact it has. How we often neglect the latter.

Today I celebrate my own dad's golden qualities: self-restraint, thinking things through, and putting away a sizable amount of money on a school teachers salary while supporting a wife and four children.

I remember one meal time after his participation in or leadership of a faculty meeting. (He was the head of the business dept at a community college for a number of years.) "People wanted to know what I feel." Insert here a disgusted scowl and a reddened face. "It doesn't matter what I feel. We have to think about these things. Our feelings don't matter."

The good side of this was that our impulses to buy more things, own a bigger house, spend more money on vacation were rarely considered for long before a firm, "No." Yet they had money for a college education for any child who desired that.

Children of the depression, my mom and dad were always worried that there wouldn't be enough money at the end. My mom lived seven years after dad died and acted like a ten-year-old with a hundred dollar bill in the candy store. Yet, much remained afterwards. I was surprised at how large my inheritance was.

So today I'm thankful for their thrift, my dad's hard work both at the college and at our home and garden and his propensity to save.

My twenty-year-old daughter has come unwired, for six whole weeks! We said good by to Jenny at SF Airport and she jets off to Quito, Ecuador with stops at LAX and Panama City on the way. She's taking part in a five week ISV (International Student Volunteers program) and then taking a week to visit Wycliffe Bible Translators working with a remote people group. She left behind her cell phone and her lap top. Yikes!

Jenny doesn't know Spanish, but with Latin and French under her belt and her keep aptitude for languages, she should learn fast. Her first week will be spent in language school and living with an Ecuadorian family.

When she was just nine, Jenny traveled to Japan without her parents, accompanied by her seven-year-old sisterm to visit dear Japanese friends. Jenny also traveled alone to France when she was 15 for a three-month stay with a family and studies public high school. She had studied French for only one and half semester at that time. That was a challenge too.

But this is scarier. She's much more on her own, especially for her added on one week to visit the Wycliffe staff.

Today she was nervous about that and whether her luggage will arrive in Quito. (She's had it delayed when she's traveled to college in New York). And from this end it certainly appears daunting that she'll have to figure out by herself how to get on the right bus and get off at the right place and deal with the three hour bus-ride.

So many unknowns, such as how difficult it will be to communicate with bus personnel people or to find the missionary folks once she gets off the bus--nervous-making for her and me. I spent a long time praying for her and yielding her up to God's care this morning and through that had faith to try to strengthen her courage today as well as sympathize.

Just before taking her to the airport, I typed and printed out for her some Bible verses that have helped me in times of combating fear. I assured her I will be asking many people to pray for her. Will you?

A Great Read

Reading Digging to America the second time was even more fun than the first!

I lead a book group discussion of it this week. The questions in the back make it easy, although I do find a few of them from too biased a point of view. I'll add a few of my own queries.

The story: two families arrive at a Baltimore airport late one night, each eager to meet their adopted infant from Korea. One couple is a quintessential American Caucasian couple, the other pair are children of immigrants from Iran. Bitsy, American wife, loves the idea of creating a connection with this other adopting family and their worlds start intertwining. invites the Iranian-American one to their home.

The book is a deft observation of two cultures attraction and clash with each other and the "Immigration Tango--the pull toward assimilation warring wtih the fear of losing one's true self." (Anne Tyler)

It's written from various viewpoint so that we understand and sympathize with both Ziba, the Persian-American adoptive mother, and Bitsy as well as Maryam and Dave, two grandparents whose lives start intersecting also.

I highly recommend this book both for its entertainment value and for the insights into different personalities and cultures. At 270 pages, it's an easy, engaging read. Thanks, Ann for adjusting your style and length to our busy, ADD world.

Going No-where So Fast

Upon returning to my high-tech, urban area after a trip to Oklhahoma, I mentioned it to few people. Several implied that there's nothing there.

Not true. Oklahoma City is a huge city with the largest exhibit of Chihuly's glass sculptures and many more fascinating or beautiful options. We so easily and unconsciously entertain stereotyped ideas of other places. We have much to learn from other places, including Oklahoma.

Also few days after returning, on a visit to a grocery store, I pulled a cart out of its line-up and started turning around. A man, targeted like a missile, just missed me as he flew out of the store with his grocery treasures at 8 AM. An older man come out behind him drawled, "Why you all set on going nowhere so fast for nothing?"

Oklahoma's relaxed pace was a balm. People aren't in a rush. They speak slower and I love the drawl. A waitress where I bought a full but cheap breakfast (eggs, meat, biscuit and gravy) took time to smile and chat with me.

I've been back three weeks and I'm striving to no lapsing into the California rush. I remind myself often that accomplishing my list isn't what gives me worth, security or joy. I gaze at long-stemmed Easter lilies in my garden or the six feet tall shrub ablaze with crimson-pink blossoms. And I smell the roses.

The Best GIft

Mothers Day is already upon us! Just last Sunday I realized that this coming Sunday was it. I had to cancel a ministry team meeting that we'd arranged for that day. Five people and a host had agreed to that meeting and all had forgotten that the first Sunday of May is Mother's Day.

This week commercial outlets have repeatedly reminded anyone else who might have forgotten. Restaurants offer brunches and stores suggest jewelry at reduced prices. In the adverts gift ideas abound, but for this special day I want something cheaper and more expensive.

I crave time and connection with my loved ones.

Just being in someone's presence doesn't ensure we will tune into each other's needs and emotions and communicate respect and care. And with our busy schedule and ambitious hopes to impact this world, we don't always do this. And there's other reasons besides busyness.

Just this week I realized that my pulling away emotionally from a close friend had happened not because of just time and scheduling issues but partly from some unconscious ones: hurt and feeling like when I had spoken my hurt to her she didn't care, didn't change.

That happens in families too. Collin and I have been working on that--on overcoming the tendency to just withdraw in hurt. I think of a mother and daughter pair I know where the young-adult daughter hardly ever emotionally engages with her mother. How much that hurts my dear friend. She'd rather have that emotional engagement than any gift a million dollar could buy.

So on Mother's Day my best gift would not be a gold and black earrings to match my lovely gold with black etched pendant from Japan, though I'd like that.

It's not a brunch with delicious food or seafood at the restaurant overlooking the ocean where Collin and I had our first date. Crowds will make those places full and slow on M-Day. I prefer something more restorative, more close to the needs of my heart.

On Saturday Collin and I will enjoy the predicted balmy weather by hiking amid the wildflowers at Henry Coe State Park. Walking together gives us plenty of opportunities to talk and link our hearts and minds.

On Sunday I'm hoping my 18 year old daughter Sheri will join forces with Collin and cook me one of my favorite meals, a dish that I usually requested for my birthday dinner in my growing up years: Swiss Steak, with potatoes.

Those will be my best gifts.

Strangers into Family

The idea of a family reunion has been strange and unappealing to me until recently. Years ago, in my college days, my parents invited me to one in Montana. I had zero interest. Perhaps if they had explained how gorgeous is that area was or the interesting people who'd be there, I could have been pulled in. I stayed home. Now I regret it.

Last Thursday I boarded a plane to Oklahoma for my first reunion, with relatives from my mother's side. Of the thirty or so who attended, the only ones I knew were my three siblings and a cousin and his wife twenty years, whom I hadn't seen since he was station in Oxnard some twenty-five years ago.

We met in Sayre, a small town two hours west of Oklahoma City. There are no tepees in Sayre as some outsiders have assumed, but only one restaurant adorns its streets. It's a country style one and we ate there the second night. I ordered blackened alligator! It was good--tasted like chicken, but soft like fish. My brother-in-law, of Italian descent, tried the calf fries--breaded and fried cow testicles. He wanted to share, but I drew the limit there.

Each of the four families descended from Grandma had an hour allocated to them to talk about their parents, Grandmother or their own lives. I loved listening the the stories of my Grandmother Davis and her children. A common thread was how hard Grandma and her children had worked as pioneers. I came away with looking at my mother through new eyes and with a new appreciation for her and my kin-folk and feeling like I wanted to meet them again.

New Traditions

Growing up, we had a lavish meal to celebrate Easter. A huge ham and sometimes also a turkey. My mother started cleaning on Thursday and Friday. On Saturday she made the homemade rolls, the jello salad, the homemade pies. She conscripted me as her assistant, willing or not.

When I was younger, making food with my mother was often pleasant, but as I became a twenty-something, I wanted to set my own course. Remembering those feelings gives me the desire to free my kids from these traditional, but not essentially spiritual, ways of celebrating Easter.

So for Easter we had lamb stew with some fresh peas, bought from our trip to the coast. My girls had voted for spending time in nature, rather than having a huge dinner or joining in with others to celebrate.

My husband gave me the wonderful gift of roasting the leg of lamb on Saturday and making Sunday's stew. Both were delicious! And they remind me of how Jesus is called, "The lamb of God." He became the Passover Lamb, which the Jews killed yearly at Passover time to commemorate how God saved their lives when they were slaves in Egypt.

The beach on Easter was foggy and cool, but still fun. I love hearing the waves and seeing with wide expanse of sea and sky. These too reminds me of God's love. Maybe it will become our own family's way of celebrating Easter.

Lateral Connection

I hunger for deep connection with friends and family. I love it when I sense someone grasps my ideas and tracks with me or understands the undercurrent of our conversation, the longings, the disappointments and aches lying beneath the spoken words. I love the comraderie of shared laughter dissipating loneliness.

As I approach Easter, I'm newly aware of how my searching sideways for connection sometimes satisfies me and sometimes fizzles. When I depend on people around me for close connection, often they can't give it. My desires turns into a demand, then anger at another's failure to meet my needs.

But those people are searching too, in the way they need. Probably I fail to give them the understanding and support they crave.

Often when don't see a light of happiness in those living with me. I search for what I've done wrong. Have I failed them in some small way? perhaps unintentional, but which chafes them?

Some humility comes from that line of thinking, but more often craziness. My intuition about what has displeased the other person can be completely wrong. When I make pleasing others a goal, a necessary objective, it leads me away from God into a maze of introspection. Fault-finding and shame are sisters to introspection.

Yesterday as I sat in a special service for Good Friday I heard Jesus telling me to let go, to surrender to him these dear ones and their reactions to me. There is a God and it's not me. (John Ortberg)

I cannot control a person's reaction to me through my warmth and wisdom and trying hard to please.

So for me in this season of life, meditating on the the death of Jesus on the cross means forgiveness for all the ways I try to heal myself.

It means Jesus was broken for my brokenness and stands offering his healing to me.

It means God wants a connection to me so deep and consistent that it constantly meets my desire in me to be seen and known.

It means I can let go of the people (husband, children, friends) who have sometimes met that need for connection and bless them as they go on their way to other tasks and relationships.

I can trust God to meet my connection needs in new ways every day through various means. Even the little birds fluttering their wings in the birdbath bring a message to me.

It means a new and rich life is here today and tomorrow and always for me.

Telling Secrets

I've learned lately about a curious American phenomena, something unfathomable to most Japanese.

Postcards Anonymous is an on-going global art and communications project dedicated to sharing secrets and dilemmas on postcards mailed to the compile in Vermont. He's created whole books out of these and many others are on the web gallery at www.postcardsanonymous.com.

The criteria for a secret is something you've never told anyone else.

When I told my students of English (mostly from Japan, one from Korea), they were astonished. They had no clue as to why someone would want to make their secret public. Why would someone want to expose what they are ashamed of?

I wonder if this urge to share secrets is a purely American phenomena, or something other countries with a western base would share? Do Europeans enjoy sharing secrets? Or is it only us strange Americans? Does the impact of Christianity on our culture have something to do with how we view exposing our failures and embarrassing things?

I think it does. The Bible says, "Confess your sins to each other and pray for one another an dyou will be healed." (James 5:16a)

We believe that if we openly admit to one another our faults or wrong-doing, that we can break free of the cycle. Healing means here not only forgiveness and release from guilt and shame, but the ability to become different people.

Many times I've found that as I open up to another another person what I most fear making known, afterwards I feel God's acceptance. I find courage and wisdom to do differently. AAA and other groups are based on this premise.

Most Americans are not Christians, but they still have woven into the fabric of their being the remnants of these Christian ideas. That's why sharing secrets makes sense to them, although they leave out prayer - what makes deep and lasting change possible --but they still enjoy the feeling of acceptance that sharing secrets brings.

The four Japanese and one Korean in my English class all said they hated sharing secrets. I believe they felt it would lower them in another person's eyes and bring humiliation. "Keeping face" is the highest value, not openness as Americans cherish.

I'm not saying these woman would never share any secrets, but we're talking about when and how. I've have had many close Japanese friends share their secrets with me after mutually caring and helping friendships have formed, in which a basis for trust has been built.

I said in my last post that I would talk in this one about what difference does Easter make. I'd like too, and it does tie into this subject. But this already rather long for a blog post. So I'll say once more, next one!

Three gods on crosses?

My church, Menlo Park Presbyterian (MPPC), is exhibiting artwork of crosses. Various artists in the community have made these beautiful and moving crosses. All are unique interpretations, mostly paintings and photos, one made from metal, one a mosaic and at least one collage. They're wonderful reminders of the deeper meaning of the Easter season

A girl scout came to MPPC this week for her club meeting and asked, "What do these crosses mean? What does this have to do with Easter?"

Her question amazed me and impressed on me that we live in a post-Christian culture. This girl and many others don't know the basic story of why Christians celebrate Easter.

Kids and adults know the bunny and egg and candy traditions. They bring a brief and sweet taste to our mouths, but can't remedy hollowness, loneliness, guilt and meaninglessness reigning inside.

Keeping in mind what people don't know is vital. Especially for those from cultures where the an opposing world view or religion can lead to misunderstandings of Christian symbols and words.

A few years ago a Japanese friend, whom I'll call Isoe-san attended a Presbyterian Church in springtime. In the sanctuary she viewed three men hanging on crosses. She asked me later, "Who are those other two figures? Are they gods like Jesus?"

Her question is logical for a Japanese. In that land the message of Jesus hasn't penetrated far. Both Buddhism and Shintoism are the most commonly held religious views, although actually materialism rules.

Shinto means "the way of the gods, or kami." In this belief system, gods are found in nature. Thus, people acknowledge a god of the cherry blossom or Mt. Fuji or gods of a numerous other remarkable works of nature.

So to Isoe-san looking at three crosses all with men on them, she saw no difference between them. Symbols or art are good, but not enough. Words are needed.

Isoe-san needed to know that the Romans used crosses frequently to execute criminals, or those considered wrong-doers in the eyes of that state. The two men raised up on crosses beside Jesus had been convicted of genuine crimes. One was a robber. They were just "garden variety" (plain) humans.

Jesus had done no wrong. The religious and political leaders of the Jews feared Jesus. They also envied the esteem the population held for him. Some feared that Jesus would instigate a rebellion and bring down the violent, crushing power of the Romans who ruled them at the time. So for various reasons the Jewish leaders framed Jesus and the Romans went along.

But Jesus was not just someone unjustly accused and sentenced, a helpless, tragic figure. He says he voluntarily gave his life. He claimed that he could have called thousands of angels to rescue him if needed, but he didn't because he came with the purpose of dying.

Why would that be? What relevance does Jesus' death have for any modern person today? I'll tackle that next time, in the context of another cultural difference--the reaction of Japanese and Americans to 'secrets' or shame. And I also promise a photo or two of some of these cross art-works.

Each His Own

Helping other people is my passion - whether it be help with their writing, or learning of English or help with emotional or spiritual issues. Sometimes I don't know when to stop trying to help.

I walk away from a conversation with a troubled person person and ponder it while I make dinner, do dishes and when I wake up in the morning. I pray for theperson and wonder if I should write an e-mail about what I didn't have the wisdom to say the day before, but then I decide I'm too busy for that. Yet guilt may linger.

God, how do you want me to view my part in people's growth process? How do I step out of feeling too responsible? How do I leave behind the fear that I said the wrong thing or omitted something very important to say?

Today I felt weary, unable to do what I'd intended to do--to work on my novel. But in taking care of an errand, I saw "Jigsaw Java Cafe" - a newly opened place in Redwood City for doing jigsaw puzzles while having a sip to drink in a bright and friendly atmosphere. On impulse, I went in.

Before, I've said that I could do jigsaw puzzles at home so it would be a waste to pay the $10 fee. Today I needed this place, this array of puzzles in a blue room with cheerful Celtic music. I intuited that using a different part of my brain, unrelated to assessing people's emotions and needs, would refresh me. And it did.

But even better, as I worked on a puzzle I found a wonderful metaphor that releases me from too big a burden of responsibility.

My host suggested which puzzle to do considering my time limits and my limited patience and skill. It was a 5 x 7 inch Santa puzzle carved from wood. It's pieces were quite unique, not at all like the rather uniform pieces of dime store puzzles. I asked, "how do it get started? Is it like a regular puzzle where I should start with the straight edges?"

The host told me that with this puzzle the edge pieces often won't look like edge pieces. Some pieces did have noticeably straight edges and I started with those. Several times I called for help from my host and she point me to a piece I was looking for--often one that I would never have guessed would go in that spot.

Sometimes the host put a piece in for me, but mostly she just supported me. She didn't take over. I was glad when I was done that I could say, "I did it!" At least, mostly.

Everyone has a puzzle to put together, their life. The piece they are given make an interesting or beautiful picture when arranged rightly.

Sometimes people around me will ask for help and then I can suggest or put in a piece for them. Mostly I stand by, watch, perhaps pray. Even when I try to help, my guesses won't always be right, as were true for the host today. But my supportive presence means a lot. Besides, it's not my puzzle.

Each has his/her own puzzle which that individual needs to put together. Whew. It's not mine to do.

The Right Place

Being in the right place helps me to write. I spend Wednesday through Friday at a bare-bones hotel in a ski area, Sierra Summit, outside Fresno, California. If I sat at the hotel desk, I looked into a white wall. I felt hemmed in, constricted and narrow.

So I went downstairs to their restaurant which remained empty between 9 AM and 5 PM on weekdays. There I could see the white sparkling snow stretching out in a large field before reaching the steep slope of the mountains. There I could sit and write or read my draft and reflect on what should come or go.

Unfortunately, my working desk at home is not a "right" place either--clutter lies around me and I view sanded, stained walnut, not gnarled oaks or shimmering snow. But I can still produce good work there.

I enjoy much more sitting in my green, leather easy chair in our living room and typing on my lap top, especially since we got some of Sheri's paintings on the wall. (It took us two months after taking down the Christmas decorations before we did that!)

There in my chair I can look out our big, front window and see branches of our Bougainvillea vine trailing down, and out across out busy front yard and across the street to my neighbors yard. A long view, that's what I need. For companionship, the squirrel hiding his nut in the planter or the sparrows hopping around on bare ground or bringing a bit of yarn or such to their nest-building in the porch rafters.

Another good part about hanging out at that hotel restaurant was having people around me working. I can easily work 2-3 hours without a single conversation and not miss the human companionship, if I can hear people around me talking. And I did hear the lady at the desk complaining about the help or explaining on the phone what an economy room was. That was great! When I wanted more tea, a worker there cheerfully obliged me with hot water. That's why libraries don't appeal to me -- too quiet.

Yes. it was the right place. I skied one hour, and spent ten hours on my novel while there.

Taping up the Critic

Despite the awe in some people's eyes when I tell them I have 500 pages of a novel written, being a writer is not glamorous or thrilling--at least most of the time. And right now it's heartbreaking and confusing, as I'm reading the new draft through.

I've written these 500 pages over seven years time and my writing style has changed markedly. I think for the better. So that means I have a hundred or two hundred pages of writing that needs severe editing. Yuch. Makes my tendonitis starts to act up just thinking about all the mouse clicks.

I do actually enjoy the editing process sometimes, it's just that there SO much to do and it looks to take SO long.

I've got a self-imposed deadline of having this ready to go to an agent by June 1. I'm going to have to be single-minded to make it.

The good news is that it's not so hard to read it as the first time through. Oh, what dread and fear filled me the first time--the doubt and worry that I'd poured tons of time and pounds of money into a waste. The critical voice shouting in my head over every single sentence.

At least this time I know some parts of it, perhaps most of it, is good, maybe very good. I've had that affirmed by other established writers so I repeat their compliments to the critical judge in my head.

The hard part is deciding where to cut whole sections and plot turns, for the sake of brevity. Five hundred pages it long for a first novel and for this generation that steers clear of War and Peace and goes for Jodi Picoult novels and two hour movies.

A New Type of Service

Usually Easter sneaks up on me. Pastel bunnies in Longs announce it to me as I shop for baggies and dishwasher soap.

This year my older daughter asked me in January when Lent started. I didn't know. Then a writing friend mentioned off-handedly that after our next meeting she would attend an Ash Wednesday service as Stanford's Memorial Church. I decided I wanted to join her.

I'm so glad I did.

With stained-glass windows depicting the different stages of Christ's life, what a wonderful place to contemplate the culmination of it. Christ said, "This is what I came for," referring to his death.

The service had a lengthy reading for the congregation to participate in. Something from the church of my youth no long practiced in my Presbyterian church. I enjoyed doing that again.

The service was aimed to help us recognize what we need to repent of and be contemplating in the forty days leading up to Easter, both in sins of what we don't do, especially in regards to the poor or in terms of the oppression and injustice in the societal structures we are a part of) and attitudes we hold and acts we do.

Of what use is Good Friday and Christ's death on the cross if i don't know why I need it? Easter is pale and lifeless without a heartfelt sense of need. Far too often I've tried to cram all my spiritual preparation into one Good Friday or Maundie Thursday service. I'm hungering for much more now. For a longer time to prepare my heart to take in Christ's dying and his resurrection and what that all means.

That can happen if I start with Lent, with Ash Wednesday. I want to go annually to such a service from now on.

I - like all of us I believe - so easily think I'm doing rather well. The anxiety or gult I keenly feel at times is often more about social gaffooes, how I've made others irritated with me. That's far different than realizing my guilt before God.

Is that a bitter pill? No, I find it like dark chocolate, bitter-sweet. AS I realize how broken I am and how much I need God's grace, I run to him. And that is just where I want to be. In his arms.